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mimik-u · 3 years

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Gloves, Ch. 1

Summary: There's a reason that Yellow Diamond doesn't take off her gloves.

A/N: The other day, as a part of my 100-word drabble word series for SU, I fulfilled this prompt, which required me to question what might be beneath Yellow Diamond's gloves. The headcanon I came up with intrigued me, and inspiration to write a seven pt. fic was thus born. Between school and other creative projects, I'm not entirely sure that this one will get updated regularly, but I do have a fairly firm outline in mind, so I hope the wait between chapters won't be too long! Enjoy!

AO3 Link

“Blue?”

“... yes, Pink?”

Though the other Diamond barely looks up from her screen, Pink Diamond can tell that she’s listening from the way that her long chin slightly inclines in her direction.

Good.

Because she has an important question to ask.

Attention is hard won from the likes of Blue and Yellow Diamond, so even half-victories are still victories that have to be capitalized upon with immediacy. Pink lightly hops upwards from her own throne to the arm of Blue’s, floating downwards into an expectant sitting position, happily ignoring the fact that her elder flicks away her screen with a sigh that filters visibly through her nostrils. If Blue was really annoyed, then she’d just have her Pearl usher her to her chambers... but tellingly, the imperial command never quite comes.

Pink takes courage from this implicit sign and forges ahead in a rush of breathless words.

“Why does Yellow wear her gloves all the time?”

It’s an observation that has increasingly captured her attention as the years have marched on with seemingly zero deviation in pattern.

Yellow Diamond never removes her gloves.

Pink wears gloves, too, but they’re nothing like Yellow’s—so stiff and armor-like, as inflexible as their wearer. Plus, she pulls hers off from time to time so she can feel flowers on her fingertips… their soft, delicate petals... those spiny, fragile leaves. Yellow, in stark contrast, never goes anywhere without hers—even when she joins the Diamonds in the pool on extraction cycles, even when she retires to her chambers at the end of a long day. Exceptionless in most things, so intransigent and firm, it’s no great surprise that the elder Diamond adheres to her own chosen mold, but still…

Even Blue Diamond lowers her hooded veil.

Even White Diamond occasionally unpins her cape.

Blue frowns thoughtfully, subtle lines striking themselves beneath her eyes as she peers downwards at Pink. There’s a look of calculation in her gaze, a sense of measurement, as though she’s already weighing how much she can get away with not saying.

“Have you ever asked Yellow about them directly?”

Pink briefly considers lying, but then thinks better of it. While she might get away with an occasional white lie to Yellow, Blue and White are far more discerning in their judgment—White especially.

(Sometimes, she swears that the matriarch can read her mind.)

“... not really,” she bites her lip. “I just assumed it would be rude to ask a Gem about her appearance modifiers...”

“And so you settled upon asking another Gem about someone else’s appearance modifiers,” Blue observes, a certain wryness in the slight tilt of her lips.

“Something like that,” Pink confirms, not entirely abashed. “I just figured that you would know, and that would save me the trouble from having to pester Yellow about them.”

But Blue’s expression recoils to its former solemnity again as she immediately shakes her head, her hair shifting heavily with the movement.”

“Yes... please do not do that, Pink... not unless she brings it up... Yellow—“

But now it’s Blue’s turn to be hesitant; she doesn’t blush, not in the way that Pink blushes—so furiously, all of her emotions scribbled across her face—but her cheeks aren’t as coolly colored as before, taking on a tinge less like her hair and more like the facets of her gem.

“Yellow what?” Pink asks insistently, pressing her momentary advantage. As subtly as she can, she leans forward a little bit on her blue perch, like an organic avian preparing for flight. “Please, pretty please tell me, Blue. I won’t tell Yellow that you told.”

(Probably.)

(Likely.)

(It’s a tossup of probability, really.)

“You’re being facetious, Pink,” Blue admonishes quietly, glancing away. “This is a serious matter that deserves the utmost respect.”

And though Blue is almost always serious, Pink instinctively intuits that Blue has rarely been more serious than in this conversation, which had begun so innocently, with errant curiosity. When she faces Pink again, her expression has returned to its usual placid coolness, but her fingers are interlocked in her lap, woven into a rigid temple that bespeaks far more about her feelings on the situation than the studious coldness of her eyes.

Pink cowers beneath the weight of this silent gesture, leaning backwards on her makeshift seat.

“Sorry, Blue,” she mumbles shamefacedly and hopes that the apology is sufficient. She doesn’t want to go to her chambers for the rest of the cycle. It’s so rare that Blue allows her to accompany her for the day.

Thankfully, though, the other Diamond seems to accept her contrition as sincere, nodding slowly, the ice melting from her eyes in degrees.

Pink can’t help but wonder at these microscopic exchanges, so subtle but undoubtedly there—who knew that gloves could wring such excess of emotion in the nigh emotionless Blue Diamond?

“Yes, well,” she says, each word doled out carefully, with all the air of internal constraint, “I can give you the basics... but as for the rest, you’ll have to wait until Yellow is ready to tell you—if and when that ever is. She doesn’t like to dwell upon the matter... even with me... perhaps even especially with me...”

Blue trails off, an aching concern seemingly troubling her brow. Pink think she’s know why. Of the four Diamonds, Blue and Yellow emerged from the same supernova some hundreds of thousand years ago, sharing atoms and stardust and precious intimacy in a way that has always made Pink feel a little lonely. They’re bound to each other by far more than simple affinity, tangled, intertwined, and enmeshed.

Naturally, any breach between them doesn’t settle right in Blue Diamond’s gem.

Pink forces herself to be patient, to allow the other Diamond to find her words again.

“But that is no matter,” she finally says—rather unconvincingly. “I know enough… I know how it began.”

“And how is that exactly?”

Blue’s arctic gaze settles upon the younger Diamond again, and there’s sadness in her eyes, ancient and unfathomable depth.

It strikes her suddenly, with all the force of blow, how much older than Pink that she is.

That they all are.

White and Yellow and Blue and all the very stars which surround Homeworld in their bright and intangible embrace.

“It begins as we Diamonds all do,” Blue whispers, reaching upwards to glance her fingers across her gem. “As entities with nearly infinite power, inexplicably constrained within the boundaries and volatilities of our emotions…”

Pink’s immediate confusion must show in her face because the other Diamond immediately clarifies, frowning softly.

“Which is to say, think about your own powers, Pink—how, at the height of your emotions, they can inadvertently manifest in strange ways…”

“Like, a few cycles ago”—Pink can’t help but smile—“when I accidentally made those pebbles come to life.”

She’d cried on a few decorative rocks—upset that she couldn’t accompany Yellow to her Jungle Moon colony—and within mere seconds, they were animated with life, growing arms and legs and expressive faces, clumsily moving around on her vanity, knocking things over.

Now, they live in her chambers, parroting the words she says.

“Yes, precisely,” Blue nods approvingly, in that way she only does when Pink manages to get something right. “The general theory—according to White—is that when we Diamonds feel any strong degree of emotion, we generate those emotions into tangible consequences, whether we intend to or otherwise…”

Pink tilts her head curiously. It’s hard to imagine any of her three elders showing a “strong degree of emotion.” In their own ways, each of them—White, Yellow, and Blue—are so meticulous in their chosen facades, bearing their regality on their faces with a modicum of control that they often scold their most junior Diamond for lacking.

But Blue is perceptive in this front, too, her frown slowly shifting into the slightest, most incremental of smiles.

“Constraining yourself, learning to manage your emotions, will come with time and age,” she promises gently. “But it is essential that you learn this lesson sooner rather than later because, well, there are some consequences of our feelings that we can rationally accept, and others…”

“Not so much?” Pink guesses astutely, beginning to have a burgeoning idea of what this entire story must be about.

“Aye,” Blue Diamond affirms with a measured nod of her head. “Aye… Yellow Diamond’s powers are electric, you know. When we were younger Diamonds… when we didn’t have all that much possession over ourselves and our emotions and everything in-between … she couldn’t touch anything without hurting it.”

The finality of the statement bruises the entirety of the throne room with its magnitude. Pink stares upwards at the other Diamond with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“What?”

“You must understand, Pink,” Blue returns emphatically, her voice strained beneath its own quiet urgency. “Yellow then was very much like she is now—stoic, temperamental, quick to action and reaction—but all of these qualities were amplified by her youth and relative impulsivity—and so she was nigh constantly creating her own energy. It pooled in her fingertips. It sparked in her eyes. It electrified her entire body. When she was frustrated, she could barely touch a screen without short-circuiting it. When she was furious, she could destabilize an entire court of innocent gems. Even when she was happy, joyous after conquest or battle or victory… she couldn’t even touch—“

But Blue Diamond stops short, her breath hitching.

It only takes her seconds to recover, to regain at least the semblance of composure across the smooth facets of her face, but Pink isn’t entirely naïve.

She knows that the completion to that self-interrupted sentence must have been me.

“After one especially harrowing incident,” Blue continues, closing her eyes against what appears to be a painful memory, “she tasked a group of Bismuths to forge special gloves for her that would insulate her powers more efficiently. The gloves helped. Absolutely. She could lean her hand against a pillar and not char it to dust… and since then, of course, she has become more… practiced in tempering her emotions, so much so that I have a sneaking suspicion that the gloves are less functional than they are habitual… but still, she wears them…”

Blue doesn’t say anymore, but the implicit completion to her speech needs no articulation to be known.

And she’ll continue to wear them.

Forever.

For time immemorial.

Pink Diamond scarcely knows what to say, how to process this terrible truth, how to feel.

Silence presses upon the cavernous throne room like the weight of a palm sinking downwards and downwards still, and she can’t help but stare downwards at her own gloved hands, wondering if they, too, have the capacity for engendering such violence.

She hopes not.

Stars, how she prays.

“What was the turning point?” She dares to ask when the quietude gets to be too much, the invisible hand too oppressive.

And yet, her own voice is quiet.

Solemn.

Terribly afraid and equally curious.

The oxymoron twists the gem in her stomach. She half-wants to know and half-dreads the answer.

Thankfully, though—(disappointingly?)—Blue Diamond shakes her head firmly, her brow lowered sternly over her eyes.

“That is not my story to tell.”

#bellow diamond #blue diamond #yellow diamond #pink diamond #s: steven universe #mimiku #hisoisoaihdfhidhfiofhsio #do i have time to be writing a seven pt. fic #no #am i doing it anyway #yeah #gloves

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thegoodprincess · 3 years

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Together We Are Apart, but Apart We Are Together | KTH Ch. 6

Author: thegoodprincess

Pairing: Kim Taehyung | Original Female Character

Genre: romance, fantasy, action, forbidden love, human KTH | angel of death OC, supernatural au

Word Count: 2.6k [series, ongoing]

Rating: N/A

Warnings: None

Summary: After admiring a handsome boy from afar, an Angel of Death reluctantly rescues him from his own demise. As a result of going against her better judgment she inadvertently invites him into her world.

Together We Are Apart, but Apart We Are Together

Chapter 6. Name For a Face

“Tigers die and leave their skins; people die and leave their names.” - Japanese Proverb

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While I was awaiting his return, I finished up the remainder of my tea. It had gone a bit cold since it was first poured. Nevertheless, I still drank it, savoring the sweet flavor as it slid down my throat. I decided to lay down on the sofa to rest my sore body. Sinking down into the cushions and staring blankly up at the ceiling, I wondered if I should have went to retrieve the boy’s wallet instead of Malachi. I didn’t want his willingness to help to be misinterpreted as him enabling my own foolish actions. Otherwise he would have been just as much at fault, if we were to find ourselves in the midst of chaos. He had always been eager to assist with whatever trouble I had found myself in, ready to bare the burden with open arms. It sometimes felt like he was too loyal to me, like he was just blindly complying to my wishes. I didn't want him to help me because he felt he had to, but because he wanted to. In turn it made me feel guilty about how I treated Malachi, as if I was exploiting the nature of our friendship.

Lost in the guilt-ridden thoughts of my conscience, it hadn’t even occurred to me that I had closed my eyes. I had fully intended to stay awake until Malachi returned, so I reluctantly opened them. However, I found it to be a struggle to keep them that way. Fatigue was starting to set in as I tried desperately to blink the sleepiness out of my eyes. The calming effect of the rose tea paired with the soothing sound of the logs crackling in the fire created a comfortable ambiance for me to relax to. Eventually my limbs began to feel heavy and my breathing slowed enough for me to finally lose the battle against the Sandman. Just like that, I readily drifted off into the unconscious.

It felt like Malachi was gone for quite some time before I was awoken by a small crashing noise that emanated from in front of the fireplace. Looking drowsily in the direction of the sound, I squinted to faintly make out Malachi readjusting a drying rack I had set close to the fire to dry the boy’s clothes. Through blurred vision I saw him carefully hang the articles back into their positions on the bars, spreading them out to ensure they dried properly.

“That damn thing needs to be moved. Why would she set that cursed thing right there? Stupid human boy and his stupid human clothes. What if I had fallen into the fire and burned my as—,” he whisper-yelled to himself irritated before he realized he had woken me up. “My apologies, I did not mean to wake you.” He bowed his head embarrassed of his crude outburst. I stretched and yawned, feeling the muscles in my back strain from the movement before sitting up. “It’s fine,” I waved my hand with blithe disregard for his unnecessary apology. “How long were you gone? I fell asleep waiting for you.”

“Not long.”

I rubbed the delicate skin around my eyes to get a better view of him. That’s when I took in his whole figure. Looking towards his legs I noticed that his pants were thoroughly soaked all the way up to his shins, from no doubt trudging around in the snow. “Oh my gosh, are you okay? You’re soaked. Here sit in front of the fire to warm up.” I quickly scrambled off the sofa and offered him my seat.

“I can assure you I am quite alright. I am nowhere in the condition you were in earlier tonight.” He assured with a sincere smile while taking a seat next to me. I awkwardly sat back down again.

Suddenly remembering why he left, I anxiously inquired, “Did you find it?”

“Yes.” He simply answered pulling it from his robe. The leather of the wallet was cold and stiff from getting wet. “And it did not take me long, it was just buried deeper than we originally thought. The snow has picked up quite a bit since we last left.” I held the wallet not ready to open it as he continued. “I also disposed of the gun and the patch of ice he fell through, you will be pleased to know it froze back over.”

“That’s good. No evidence. Do you think the old man will report the boy’s involvement.”

“No. I already took care of it.” I furrowed my brows confused. “I took the liberty of tracking him down and wiping his memory.” Malachi explained.

“Oh. Thank you. I didn’t even need to ask.”

“Yes. Well, you are lucky I am the best,” Malachi facetiously boasted. I rolled my eyes.

“What about the gun man?”

“Did I wipe his memory? No, I want him to live with the guilt until it consumes him.” The expression in Malachi’s eyes turned unnervingly dark. “And I doubt he will anonymously report the boy’s death. Not unless he wants to involve himself with the authorities or worse get caught by them. He will probably try to go about living his life as if nothing ever happened.”

“That’s horrible. But it’s good for us, I guess. Less of a mess to clean up. Not that I haven’t already jeopardized enough for us as it is.” I ashamedly spoke looking down at the floor.

“You are too hard on yourself.” He frowned concerned.

“I have to be. I can’t make mistakes. Especially when they effect those I cherish most.” I said looking purposefully at him.

“Ha, even a divine being such as yourself is allowed to make mistakes. And for as long as you allow me, I will always be there by your side to help you fix what is considered broken. Even if that means going against the rules of our nature.”

“Yes, but you said, if the consequences were dire then I was to take respons—,”.

Malachi promptly held a hand up to stop me, “I am well aware of what I said. However, if your actions do not bode well, I will still remain faithful to you, and only you.” He chided. He then took a second to soften his voice before continuing, “Allow me to clarify. It is my choice, and I choose to help you not because I feel it is my duty to do so, but because I want to help you. Why will you not understand that? We are as thick as thieves, even when that means cheating death,” he quipped. And with that he chastely kissed my forehead to put my guilty thoughts at ease.

I decided to steer the conversation away from my self-scrutiny, and brought our attention back to the wallet in my hands, “Did you look in it?” Immediately after the question left my mouth, adrenaline started to surge through my veins. I was well aware of the spike in my heart rate and the perspiration gathering on the nape of my neck.

“No, I thought I would let you do the honors.”

“Oh. Okay.” Nervous, I turned the wallet over in my quivering hands and reveled in the feeling of physically holding the piece of leather. The movement made it hard to undo the snap closure, and my slightly sweaty palms were doing me no favors as they slid against the leathery texture. Finally after a brief struggle I was able to open it.

There inside his wallet were some clear card holders with one containing a card with a small picture of him. Holding it closer to my face I realized it was his driver’s license. To the right of his picture, in printed text was the one thing on my mind that I had been wondering for months, his name. “His name is… Kim Taehyung,” I read aloud smiling. “Taehyung.” I repeated again letting the two syllables roll around in my mouth. I wanted to keep repeating his name like a mantra, giddy with excitement that I finally knew it.

“Well, now that you know the human’s name, I would advise you check on him. Speaking of which, I am surprised to not find you with him now. Why is that?” He eyed me suspiciously.

“I was waiting for you. He’s safe in my bed. I could hear the steady pace of his heartbeat from out hear.” This was a half truth, I also wanted to avoid the temptation of staring at his sleeping form. “You, however, were out there in the snow looking for something I needed, cold and alone. I was worried.” I may have been preoccupied with the probability of the boy’s, no Taehyung’s, life; but that didn’t mean I was any less concerned about Malachi’s wellbeing.

“Ah, so you do care,” he teasingly joked.

“Of course I care about you. You’re my friend.”

“As are you.”

“Thank you.” I sweetly hummed the sentiment for the fifth time tonight.

He nodded as to convey that it wasn’t a problem. “It was my pleasure little bird.” He patted me on the head. “You should check on the boy and get some rest.” He nodded towards my bedroom door.

“I will. I suggest taking a warm bath before bed. Goodnight Malachi.”

“Thank you for the recommendation. Goodnight my dear.” He said as he got up and walked towards the bathroom.

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After Malachi had left to run a bath for himself, I decided to put out the fire. I could instantly feel the temperature of the room drop several degrees. While blowing out the last candle, I looked towards the window. Through the glass I was able to clearly make out the moon. Its light that penetrated from outside was more than enough for Malachi to see when he came out to go to bed. As I made my way over to my bedroom door I counted my steps until I reached it. I walked with one foot directly in front of the other with my arms out to the sides of me, as if I was walking on a balance beam. I know I must have looked somewhat silly, but it was all in an effort to prolong the inevitable, as well as simultaneously calm my nerves. I ultimately didn’t want to seem too eager to see Taehyung. Finally reaching my door I briefly hesitated before turning the knob. I then walked through the threshold and quietly closed the door. Once the lock softly clicked into place, I leaned my head against the wood and took a few slow breaths in order to prepare myself. I didn’t want to look in his direction just yet because I knew once I saw him it would be difficult to look away.

Over on my bedside table was a candle that I wished to light. Using the moonlight, I repeated my odd ritual from earlier, deliberately looking straight at the floor as I made my way over. Except this time I made sure to walk with normal footing. I would have been mortified if I had tripped and potentially disturbed his sleep.

Placing Taehyung’s wallet on the table, I opened the drawer and blindly felt around for a box of matches. After a few failed attempts, I finally grabbed ahold of one. I plucked one match from the container and struck it against the side of the box. Not wanting the flame to go out, I quickly touched it to the tip of the candle wick and flicked the used match to put it out. Almost immediately my senses were flooded with the rich earthy musk of amber and sandalwood. Closing my eyes, I took a brief moment to appreciate the comforting aroma. The candle’s flickering light intimately lit up the small area around my bed causing our shadows to bounce on the wall. I then leisurely turned my head and saw him.

Tucked into my silk sheets, he laid flat on his back with his whole body, from the neck down, hidden under the blankets. I watched him sleep peacefully as I sat on the floor and knelt near the side of my bed. From under the silky blankets, I could make out the subtle yet steady rise and fall of his chest. If I listened close enough I could hear the sound of his soft inhales and exhales. Continuing my gaze upwards, it landed on his neck and the pretty curve of his jaw. From there I was met with the sight of his beautiful face, his expression passive. Slumber had made his features look innocent. The moles that were on his cheek, lip, and under his eye reminded me of the stars that sparsely dusted the sky on a cloudy night. They somewhat reminded me of a constellation and it briefly dawned on me that if I were to connect them, would I be any closer to navigating my zealous yet enigmatic feelings for him.

Against my pillows his head rested delicately. His hair was almost fully dry. A few locks in the front of his head curled around his face, while the rest fell elegantly onto the pillow like a halo. Its golden hues were complimented by the iridescent pearly sheen of my pillow case, and the sight created a picturesque scene worth committing to memory. I couldn’t help but be enamored by him. He looked otherworldly, almost like an angel. He could have very well been one of the ones that I had come across when I visited Heaven from time to time.

Finally able to touch his face in a way that wasn’t correlated to life threatening peril, I gently brushed my knuckles against his cheek and tenderly traced his jawline with my fingertips in curious fascination. Mesmerized by the feeling of the suppleness of his warm to the touch skin, I pondered how I got so lucky as to be this close to him, while also being able to reach out and touch him. It was almost intoxicating. And what was even better, is that now I had his name to go along with his face.

“So your name is Tae-hyung.” I whispered each syllable slowly more to myself than him, dramatically emphasizing the pronunciation of both. I smiled at the new found knowledge. “It suits you.”

Not long after admiring his sleeping form, I began to feel like my conscious reality was fraying around its edges. Walking a few feet on my knees to the end of my bed, I took a cotton blanket slewn messily over the end of the bed post and draped it over my shoulders. In my drowsy state I placed a gentle kiss against Taehyung’s forehead. I then turned to blow out the candle after my rash display of affection, but saw something that I thought was peculiar out of the corner of my eye. For what felt like a split second I could have sworn I had seen a brief flash of very faint light emitting from around his head in the dim candle light. However, I attributed it to being a trick of the light, after all I was exhausted and my blurry tired vision wasn’t the most reliable at this exact moment.

Taking one last longing look at his face in the moonlight after blowing out the candle [as if this would be the last time I saw him], I rested my head against my arm and was lulled to sleep by the rhythm of his calm breathing, hopeful for whatever tomorrow brought us.

#taehyung fanfiction #taehyung fanfic #kim taehyung #taehyung #taehyung x oc #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts supernatural au #bts army #v fanfic #Youtube

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dahniwitchoflight · 5 years

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fucking, god, he called his ship Theseus. Oh god im not ready to face this epilogue stuff in actual visual form oh jeesus

Dirk, Dirk pls. no one can take you seriously now that we can actually SEE your Villain-Sona.

oh god, the second hand embarassment is real.

Alright so there seems to be like, a tinge of Rose existing as her own person, doing things that Dirk dislikes, but its in conversation only, so it seems facetious.

The other true thing though is the narrative is entirely Dirk’s perspective, and Dirk is exactly the kind of person who would absolutely love and believe he was capable of subsuming another person’s soul and idealogy entirely, but we went through this deceit in the epilogues with John and Roxy as well, with John’s unquetionaing hold on reality and what is canon also seeming to have an unconcious warping effect to whatever John thought was important, but Roxy gave a good point of how do you even know you did this and i didn’t choose it or wouldnt have chose it? you dont

So we could see that being repeated here, either as a parallel of that or a subversion, remains to be seen

“ Speaking of which, I think it's time I started undoing some of the more egregious mistakes this story has been subjected to over the years. Yes, I'm talking about that guy. The other orange one. Remember him? Vriska got stalked by him a bit and it was uncomfortable for everyone concerned. Anyway, the point is that he fucked up big time, and I'm here to clean up the horseshit. It's time to get this story back on the rails, back to what it was always supposed to be. I know it, and you've somehow always known it too. There was something else, some other route that Homestuck was meant to take but then didn't, a way that wouldn't've spent so much time dicking around with stuff nobody cares about. Like seriously, why did we all have to sit through talking about everyone's most intimate and private feelings for two hundred thousand fucking words. That would never have happened in Act 1. Where did it all go wrong? “

lol the andrew hussie is peeking through a bit here, so Homestuck2 is gonna be the exact thing I figured a sequel would be, its going to be a sort of retelling of the story, but its gonna flip the importance for certain things in the opposite directions, so right here its saying Homestuck is a story with a layer of importance on the characters themselves and their mindsets and how they lived in the environment they found themselves in, with the lore and the conceit of the story being a huge creation story more of a backdrop than the focus

so Homestuck2 is going to be a more "creation story” focused more on the sburb lore, buts its going to have less of a focus on the characters (perhaps even to the detrimnet? maybe characters will seem strange and out of character? but he kinda already made that feeling i the audience with the epilogues, thats what that intended effect was)

and neither one i think will turn out to better or worse than the others, theres definitely going to be benefit and downsides for both, but its not hard to see that Homestuck1 is the story that Hussie wanted to Tell, and Homestuck2 is how he’s changing it and telling a different story than he originally would have in the first place

not that hes changing Homestucks orignal story at all, but now hes telling a decidedly different one

Thus far, even though I understand Dirk’s basic mindset being “Hussie’s story sucks im gonna tell a BETTER one” and deciding that he alones gets to decide others will is unquestionably villainous train of thought, like why cant we let the characters just decide for themselves what kind of story they wanted to have and be genuine..

I AM dying of curiosity to see what sort of lore and information were going to get out of this, especially with the twist of that sort of focus being brought more into view, it’s a tantalizing glimpse of something very sexy that im into...

WORLDBUILDING :p

The World of Homestuck to me, HAS always been more infinitely exciting and interesting to me than the characters themselves, even though i liked them fine, they werent the reason why i kept reading the story for sure

Anything little thing we get about sburb or the world system out of this im happy with, regardless of what happens to the characters

(Would that be considered a villainous mindset if I was in canon? maybe ^^; good thing im not lol it does give off very “evil mad scientist morally corrupt experiments” kind of vibe lolol)

“ Look, I know what you're all really craving. I've been studying canon—or rather, what's left of it—and I think I've found it. The critical moment, in the wake of which everything started to take a nosedive into the protracted, endless slog of sheer insufferability we got saddled with near the end. This was the single most crucial error in the process that led to the present situation. The day when the story was wrested screaming from the arms of its readers like a bawling infant and carried helplessly away, from then on to be raised according to the whims of a masochistic menace with no thought for you, the common fan. “

I do have to laugh at this though, because your not wrong??? but also, it was inevitable that a story that started out like homestuck and was written like homestuck and ended like homestuck would inevitably turn out the way it did

it was a communal product of the screaming masses that turned into a singular mans story, it was unfortunately going to lose something to everyone, because everyones ideas couldnt all coexist in one canon at the same time (thats what outside of canon is for)

and then Dirk does something I DIDNT expect him to do

“Channelling my full potential as an ascended player of Heart, I expand my consciousness to commune with the boundless force of collective willpower that is the internet. My mind floods with its divine potency, a million formless cries coalescing into a sequence of discrete, formal instructions. It is a maelstrom as chaotic as it is deafening. And yet from this formless, uninterrupted spate of hard, unembellished data, a single suggestion takes form, as if bubbling up from a vast, infinite ocean of possibility. It is a whispered prayer to a compassionate god whose ear attends faithfully the will of his believers.Ok, let's see what you chucklefucks came up with.“

instead of entirely subsuming other’s will like a villain would, he has instead opened up his heart and conciousness to absorb the ideas, suggestions and wills of the masses, he is literally trying to bring back the act1 flavor of homestuck by taking suggestions, be he is ironically doing something no different than hussie did by curating and choosing which one to respond to

hah! he really does think he is the hero of this universe with Hussie as some sort of villain.

So Hussie has probably intentionally curated this idea of himself as “Author Villain” who drives the story seemingly into mud by seeming to reject and upend the audiences expectation rather than curate them and bringing forth the best out,

this happens with the epilogues undoubtedly,

and this environment has gown a character from inside the story to step out and try to “oust” him from this position and instead tell a “good” story one that “everyone” wants, but is in fact detrimental to the story and world that the characters inside it themselves wants, which is was Hussie curated the whims to in the epilogues instead of the audience

So maybe this will be a “good” story, and hit all the marks for what the audience wanted originally, but there is no benevolent force to make sure a happy ending exists for any of the characters inside of it, because what the characters want doesnt matter anymore, only the lore does

#Homestuck 2 #Homestuck #Homesquared

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izanyas · 4 years

Text

Allowance

Written for P5 Writers Zine in like... 2018. I forgot to post it lmao

Rating: T Words: 2,100 Warnings: some internalized lesbophobia

Allowance

It isn't that Makoto can't deal. There isn't much she can't deal with, after all. Losing her father at such a young age and watching her sister grow cold and distant through the years have made the core of her stone-solid, independent, stable. The metaverse may bring out of her every chip in her armor and pour recklessness out of her loosened reserve, but even then, she is in control.

Even then she does not crack.

It is only irritation she feels when Ann insists to accompany her home. It's not as if she didn't see it coming: Ann has not stopped nagging at her since they discovered that Sae has a Palace. They've all been busy preparing for Akechi at the same time as they prepare for Makoto's sister, so Ann has not had much time to actively seek Makoto out, but Makoto knew she could only delay so long.

She tried everything, in her defense. The polite I'm tired and the snapping You should study for tomorrow and the soft and vulnerable, I don't feel like talking, which always leaves her with ants under her skin and makes a voice roar with laughter in her head.

Ann falls for none of them. Ann is tired and pissed off and obviously intends to follow Makoto home no matter what. There is much to say about the way Ryuuji and Yusuke underestimate Ann's capacity for tact; she does not make a scene in front of them or Ren, never, but her eyes on Makoto are glaring.

You're not escaping this time, they say. Futaba takes one look at them and inches closer to Ren reflexively.

Makoto, therefore, is angry.

Nothing else.

"I'm really fine," she says calmly as she pushes open her door.

She tries not very subtly to close it on Ann's face. Ann shoves her foot in before she can do it and forces her way inside, dropping a very quick, "Sorry to bother you," as if she ever feels sorry.

They both still in the entrance after that. Makoto's apartment is as neat and tidy as ever, the kind of tidiness that used to make her pull at the couch's threads till she felt a little like she could breathe again, but there is no noise anywhere. No light coming from the kitchen or the hallway leading to the bedrooms.

Sae isn't home.

Ann sighs in loud relief. She drops her bag in the entrance, kicks off her shoes, and makes herself comfortable on the couch. "You're not fine," she tells Makoto over the back of it. "I can tell."

"You're seeing things," Makoto replies, putting her bag down much more neatly. "Honestly, Ann—"

"No one could be seeing all this about their own sister and be fine, Makoto."

Makoto shivers. Despite the cold, Ann has not grown out of wearing shorts and skirts yet. Her legs are socked up to the thighs, where a thin strip of skin still somehow bears sign of a summer tan. Makoto has to blink and walk away to chase from her mind the sight of that inch of golden skin.

She's parched. Exhaustion weighs deeply on her shoulders, and her own legs feel the ache of running through the Casino even if they did not truly run. She grabs a glass from a cupboard in the kitchen and fills it in the sink, not offering Ann anything to drink.

Ann notices, of course. "You really are angry at me," she says.

"Of course I'm not angry at you," Makoto lies. "Why would I be angry at you?"

"For intruding on your brooding Makoto hours, that's why." Makoto hears her rise from the couch and tiptoe into the kitchen, the weight of her gaze heavy at Makoto's nape. "Well, I'm not leaving," Ann declares.

Makoto's fingers clench around the ice-cold glass. She gulps it down, almost relishing in the faint headache that follows. When she turns around to look at Ann once more, there is no trace of facetiousness on her. It doesn't bode well for Ann's temper or Makoto's current ability to deal with it.

"What do you want me to say?" she asks bluntly.

Ann seems surprised for a second. Before she can speak again, Makoto puts down the glass and comes closer. She's never more aware of their difference in height than when Ann towers over her like this, tall and gangly like Makoto has never been and never will be, graceless yet captivating. Ann blinks at her in confusion.

"What do you need to hear before you go?" Makoto says. "I'm tired, Ann. We've just spent five hours infiltrating a Palace. I need sleep—you need sleep—and whatever you think is wrong with me, it isn't. I'm fine."

Ann contemplates her for a silent moment. When she smiles, it isn't as bright as it usually is. "You even sound like you believe it," she replies, "but how long have I known you now? I remember how you looked when it was that yakuza scum's Palace we were investigating. I'd say you're twice as anxious now as you were then."

"Of course I'm anxious," Makoto says evenly. "There's a lot at stake here."

Her patience grows thinner and thinner; there are urges under her skin, the feel of leather and metal on her body as she punches through a Shadow's heart, the sound of Johanna's wild laughter making her breath turn to fire. She has never wanted to let go so badly outside of the metaverse.

"Makoto," Ann says gently, and the weight of her hand on Makoto's shoulder seems to make her push through the very ground. "There's no one else here. You don't have to be strong around me."

Makoto cracks.

She shoves Ann's hand away too harshly, harshly enough to hurt, but she feels no remorse for it. "What do you want me to say!" she snaps. "What do you want to hear, Ann, that I'm unhappy with this situation? That I'm glad we're all digging around my sister's heart looking for what made her so twisted!? Of course I'm unhappy!"

Ann is holding her own wrist and looking at her with wide eyes, but Makoto can't stop now. She can't apologize or regret.

"She raised me," she says, barely noticing how raw her voice sounds. "Maybe she was distant, and maybe she expects a lot of me, but she raised me. She was there for me after our parents left, she took care of me, she—" she has to breathe to stop the knot in her throat from turning into sobs. "She's the only family I have left," she goes on. "What am I supposed to do now that I know she's corrupted her own heart so much that she grew a Palace and never told me about it?"

Sae has never been one to open up. Perhaps before—before their father died, before she had to turn into a parent for the sake of Makoto, sacrifice her freedom and social life for the sake of her useless baby sister—perhaps then she was less strict. Makoto has half-buried memories of the both of them playing and laughing when Sae's workload was not so terrible, or when she was still a student with more free time. She recalls her big sister playing with dolls like a puppeteer, using weird voices for different roles, putting on a play in Makoto's small bedroom until Makoto laughed herself to tears.

There are tears in her eyes now, but not from any kind of laughter. "Akechi is going to try to kill Ren," she hiccups. She brings her hands to her face and plasters them over her eyes, hoping that the pressure will keep her cries at bay. "We have to make sure he survives—we have to make sure he—Haru's dad," and then a sob breaks her voice as the fear that keeps her awake at night finally comes into words. The anxiety that has her choking on air in her dark bedroom until she thinks she will die. "What if my sister dies too, Ann? What am I supposed to do if I kill her by trying to save her?"

None of them think of the break-ins as an act of charity for those they rob; the people whose hearts they change are scum, the worst that the world has to offer, and they deserve to face punishment. But Makoto has never once managed to think of Sae as guilty.

Ann's arms come around her, too tight and too hurried. "That wasn't our fault," she says, "you know that was Akechi."

"I can't stop thinking about it!" Makoto shouts. "I can't!"

I can't lose my sister too!

Ann's embrace turns firmer. Her face is knocking into the hands that Makoto has kept over her face, and Makoto's elbows must dig painfully into Ann's shoulders, but Ann is relentless. In this as in all things, she refuses to back down.

In the end it is simply easier to accept it. Easier to wrap her own arms around Ann's middle and dig her face into Ann's shoulder, staining her shirt with tears and snot as she shakes and sobs. Makoto has never cried quite so loudly before, she realizes. Not since she was very little. Shame rises in her in the midst of all the fear, yet Ann just shushes her, presses a kiss to her temple and runs long fingers through her hair.

They've never held each other like this before. Makoto cannot stop her heart from beating askew now any more than she could in the past when Ann laughed too brightly or moved in such a way that Makoto's eyes followed the length of her body, the dip of her collarbones, the shape of her legs. Her lips.

She's never thought so lowly of herself for it before.

"She never said anything to me," she repeats into Ann's wet shoulder. "She never told me how she felt. I'm the worst sister in the world."

Ann's voice immediately retorts with words of denial, of comfort, but Makoto does not listen. She doesn't want to be fed lies about her responsibility. If she had cared for her sister better, then Sae would never have become the Phantom Thieves' target.

She never would have become Makoto's target.

Ann doesn't pull away from the hug. As long as Makoto stays, she doesn't move. It must be uncomfortable for her; Makoto knows that at this point it is not just despair keeping her clinging, but for all that she resents herself for it, she can't let go. She doesn't want to let go and go back to ignoring her own feelings.

I'm sorry, Ann, she thinks, burrowing deeper into the girl's embrace. Please let me have this.

Ann's fingers in her hair drag shivers out of her scalp.

She does have to pull away eventually. Even here there are limits to what Makoto can allow herself; she won't pretend to be upset now that her crying has turned to soft breathing and that simple exhaustion has settled inside her languidly. It is with greater effort than ever that she leans out of Ann's arms and looks away from her, sniffling quietly.

She risks a glance in Ann's direction. Ann's eyes are bright too, a single tear track on her flushed cheek shining from eye to lip. She gives Makoto a trembling smile and says, "Your makeup is all smudged."

Makoto goes rigid when Ann's fingers touch her cheek. She stops breathing as they wipe carefully under her eyes and over her cheeks, trying to reign in her immediately blush. "Ann," she says.

But Ann is not listening. For once Makoto is the one who feels trapped under the weight of her eyes.

She doesn't move away as Ann approaches; doesn't pretend not to want it when Ann bends down and puts a kiss over the lowest part of her cheek, right at the corner of her lips. Makoto turns her head aside to meet her fully.

She can feel the hitch in Ann's breathing as if it came from her own throat. Maybe it did, she thinks light-headedly. Makoto closes her eyes and presses further into the kiss, unable to keep her eyes open for fear of Ann's reaction, taking in the softness and proximity for as long as she will be allowed.

She needn't have worried.

It is only a long moment later that they both pull away. Makoto's heart is a chaos in her ribcage, fluttering like a trapped bird, knocking and bruising. She knows her face has grown crimson; she can see, though she will not look higher than Ann's chin, that Ann looks exactly the same.

She forces her mouth open and says, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Ann replies in the same breath. "Don't be sorry."

In her smiling eyes, Makoto finds the very opposite of disgust.

She smiles back.

#p5 #persona 5 #makoann #niijima makoto #takamaki ann #fic: allowance #featured

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indigosprite · 4 years

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LOST FILES 01

“You misunderstood” Mukuro chuckled looking over at the raven haired mans bed. He laid still his chest rising every so often as he breathed a look of tranquility rested on his usually jarring features. To anyone else the man looked to be peacefully resting which was expected in this condition . But to the man who had inflicted it on him most the pain in his body was evident. Stiffly laying there unwilling to contort his lithe figure into those puzzling sleeping positions he usually found comfortable, his breathing was short and hurried like it hurt less to hold it and breathe only once every few moments. Silently he was screaming for help. Hibari Kyoya was a man of remarkable strength , he rarely exhibited feelings of pain which was exactly why his nurses and family failed to see just how bad the situation was. This was as loud as his body would cry for help.

“If Hibari Kyoya dies everyone else will too.” Mukuro declared with a casual smirk. “Mukuro sama!” Kusakabe Warned although he felt the same about his Bosses current predicament. Mukuro turned to face him his eyes narrowing as he tapped his trident against the floor. “With a boss as blunt as Hibari you’ll know that I am not being facetious when I say this. I do not mean i will kill all his doctors. I mean everyone.”

With a third tap he began to dissolve into the air leaving the pair in a terrified silence.

Tsuna stopped in his tracks a knowing smile creeping on to his face as he waited. Seconds later the blue haired man appeared in front of him, he’d gotten good at knowing when the elusive mist guardian was on his way to him. “Mukuro San” the man nodded inviting the man to continue his walk with him, he blocked his path. Mukuros lips curled into a grin “I have no intentions of having a pleasant conversation with you Sawada Tsunayoshi” he spoke truthfully. Tsuna sighed his smile never faltering , he expected nothing less. All his conversations with his Mist guardian were tooth and nail, but above all their interactions never seemed to not benefit him in the end. “I understand.” He replied a stern look in his eyes that was still friendly. He sensed no intent to kill from the man, his presence gave off another aura. One of pure agitation and unrest. He’d worry if it was Gokudera who would act on such feelings then and there but Mukuro prefers to be calculated so these feelings at most were a warning.

“Your cloud guardian, his condition is worsening and you have yet to show any interest in what’s really going on” Mukuro stated. “You’ll hear from his subordinate how displeased I am so I won’t dwell on that.” His red eye glistened. “Tell me Vongola, the Vongola I witnessed cry like a two year old at the thought of his friends being hurt in a battle, why are you so apathetic now. Not that I fault you. People are replaceable after all but I’m curious. When did you become me”. He smiled at the Boss. Tsuna stiffened at the comment just as the man had wanted obviously since his grin turned to one of amusement. “I care about Hibari-San as much as everyone else does. I visit him the most and meet with his doctors personally. We’ve been searching for answers for weeks.” Tsuna snapped “I’ll never be like you Mukuro no matter how many men I have at my fingertips I will never see them as expendables like you. That is why I still have my family.”

A hostile energy began to grow, its presence appeared and disappeared just ask quick. He’d struck a nerve, Ken and chikusa had parted from him a short time ago. A momentary lapse in their relationship , but still the wound was a new one. “But Mukuro....I wonder. When did you start to care about others, when did you become me ?” Tsuna asked turning his earlier statement on him.

“Kufufufu, I admit Kyoya is one of my better sparring partners but as usual my motives have little to do with the others involved. Whatever happened to him, whatever virus he’s deliberately been given was no accident.” Mukuro voice was grim his usual playfulness nowhere to be found. “What do you mean?” Tsuna questioned fearing the answer , Mukuro wasn’t the most trustworthy person when it came down to it. If he had managed to harm hibari just to see tsuna squirm for whatever reason he would never forgive him. He was eerily similar to daemon spade after all and if he ignored primos history with his mist guardian he was bound to repeat it. “It’s no fun if I give you all the answers,” the man smirked “but since it’s in my best interest , I shall.” He agreed lifting a small weight off tsuna’s chest. “When me and that pest went on that mission it felt wrong the entire time. just as you mentioned afterwards, that feeling you had about something going bad you figured it was Hibari falling ill that you were feeling.” Mukuro laid down the framework of his theory.

“You weren’t wrong. You did sense Hibari’s impending condition however it’s not the illness itself you felt while we were at that mission. It was the fact that we were set up but it’s clear now Hibari was being targeted.” He explained

“What do you mean?!” Tsuna ask harshly unable to figure it out for himself. He had a feeling something was off but even when the cloud

guardian fell sick it persisted. Like he was still missing something. “That mission forced you to deploy your two strongest guardians under the guise of us getting the chance to rip that Larone bastards apart. They knew we’d both show up whether you only wanted one of us to go or not at the mere chance of getting to fight the idiots who managed to piss us off on separate occasions. Yet he barely put up a fight or made any attempt to recover what was taken from him. He gave up fighting seriously after managing to land only one direct hit on Kyoya”

His stopped for a moment vividly remembering the fight that ensued between the the four men that day. Mukuro had easily taken out his larone twin while Hibari proceeded to make the other one beg. Mukuro wasn’t in a playing mood that day. But his spirits lifted at the site of Hibari Kyoya being slapped once across the face. The move had been so unexpected and immature that Mukuro couldn’t help but turn into a fit of laughter. In turn it momentarily distracted Hibari his target switching for a moment to the pineapple until the words “pay attention” left the blue haired mans mouth. Then the one direct hit made contact with his shoulder, blood pouring out from the stab wound. After that the man didn’t even bother to really fight hibari off he just accepted the next few blows until his body was limp.

“Why would they target Hibari ? Why not kill him how would they’ even give him a illness” Tsuna began to question. Mukuro smirked “I looked in to that family, their bosses son fell ill a while ago. It’s under wraps I had to posses a very timid maid in order to attain that information. Their worker bees are admirable , but fall short in comparison to the likes of Shoichi and spanner. The Vongola is well connected with the perfect allies. Particularly a green haired acrabaleno who tends to accept your offers more than others.” Mukuro stretched his arms move his head getting tired of standing in the same spot for so long. He began to continue Tsunas walk and the Man followed awaiting the rest of this information. “ by giving a vital Vongola guardian the same illness as his son you were bound to find a cure all he’d have to do was take it from you.” Mukuro finally confessed.

“Why hibari san?”

“Kufufufu, I believe it was intended for both of us, but I wasn’t given my dosage properly since I was particularly violent that day. But by giving it to your strongest guardians it guaranteed you more time to figure out a cure. Our bodies would last longer than that of Yamamoto or Gokudera”

“So I’m being pushed against a wall at somebody else’s will. They’re toying with my guardians.” It wasn’t a question, his voice was calm and held a certain anger that made the other man shiver with excitement. Tsuna was ready to get more serious and a little violent now that he knew what had happened. “Precisely” Mukuro smirked “ah, but Mukuro not to be ungrateful but why did you tell me ? Are you and Hibari San acquaintances of some sort now are you repaying a favor?” Tsuna questioned his ulterior motives. “You insult me sawada. As I mentioned before I didn’t get my dosage properly, but the disease lingers in me nonetheless. And I’d rather have a vaccine before it makes a home in my perfect Vessel.” He said truthfully although a large part of him knew he was in no danger. But he’d be damned if he let Hibari die in such a pathetic way, he’d miss him more than he liked to think. things between the two felt...Intense lately, a mad part of him felt it was fondness even so it made him annoyed.

#it’s old #not edited so the writing is a lil cringe #just getting down somewhere #you can have it #khr #rokudo mukuro #hibari kyoya #sawada tsunayoshi #6918 #mukuro x hibari #my writing

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jemelle · 4 years

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these are ties that bind (3/8)

you can also find this story on ao3!

fandom: criminal minds

rating: t

(chapter) word count: 2,861

masterlist

summary: emily and hotch must pretend to be in a long-term relationship in order to foster carrie. shenanigans and serious conversations alike ensue.

three.

On Monday, Emily took Carrie to her first day of school. Hotch had wanted to come, but he had to take Jack to nursery. Secretly, Emily was pleased to have this moment alone with Carrie. She remembered all too well the feeling of starting a new school, getting used to a whole new set of customs and rituals.

She had called the principal yesterday and received her express assurances that Carrie would be able to start school mid-year. Her credits would transfer over, but Emily knew that wasn’t the difficult part. It was starting classes when everyone else knew each other’s names, when they had silently picked a seating chart and knew who they’d partner with for group projects.

Carrie had insisted on finding the school office by herself, although Emily had offered to come with her. She had suggested (facetiously, knowing Hotch would never tolerate it) that her FBI badge might help smooth things over, which had drawn a much-needed laugh. She had also suggested that Carrie should think about taking some honors classes, but decided to shelve the conversation when she saw the obvious flashbacks her request had caused.

They pulled up in front of the school, an imposing brick building that reminded Emily of the quintessential high school from every teen movie. Students were already streaming into the building, chattering as they went along.

Emily searched for the right words to assure Carrie that she was capable of doing this. She was sure Hotch would have made an eloquent speech, but heartfelt sentiments were never her forte. She settled for flashing Carrie a smile and a thumbs-up.

Carrie smiled back and reached across the console to hug Emily, who reciprocated with only a moment’s hesitation. Two hugs in almost as many days was new territory for Emily, who tended to receive them more on a bimonthly basis, but she had a feeling it might become the new normal.

Emily watched Carrie walk towards the school until she had disappeared through the front doors. The honks of cars behind her informed her that she was holding up the carpool line, but Emily didn’t feel even a little sorry.

By Wednesday, Emily knew the jig was up. JJ had been shooting her and Hotch strange glances all day, looking as if she was trying to resist blurting something out in front of the entire bullpen. As Emily passed by JJ’s office, she felt a hand dart out and grab her wrist. Before she could respond, Emily was pulled into the darkened office.

“What do you want?” She knew, of course, but it was better to let it play out. There was a chance, albeit minuscule, that JJ simply wanted Emily’s help in planning a surprise party for Rossi.

“Is this true?” JJ thrust the paper into Emily’s face. It was the address change form that she had just submitted. Damn. She and Hotch had been hoping the paperwork would pass to Strauss unnoticed, but they should have known JJ was never anything less than thorough.

“Yeah, it is.” She’d answered the question, technically, but they both knew that wasn’t what JJ was really asking.

“But you’re not attracted to men.” Emily had come out to JJ during one of their “girls’ nights,” while Garcia was fetching another round of drinks. JJ had been talking about some guy at the bar who she thought was cute, and Emily had felt something snap in her. She didn’t want to have to hide anymore: she knew JJ would be accepting even if she didn’t fully understand. And so Emily had blurted it out before she really knew what she was doing. JJ, to her credit, had blinked once before asking Emily if there were any girls at the bar she thought were good-looking.

“Thanks, I know.” She hadn’t meant to sound so peeved, and regretted it immediately when she saw a look of hurt flash on JJ’s face.

“I’m just looking out for you.” Some days it felt as though that was JJ’s real job, caring for the team and trying to remind them not to lose sight of the mundane life they were fighting to protect. It was mostly futile, and they all knew it.

“I know,” said Emily, smiling at JJ and reaching out to squeeze one of her hands.

JJ looked horrified as a thought came to her. “Hotch didn’t make you do this, did he?” At that, Emily nearly doubled over with laughter.

“God, no. If anything I forced his hand.” JJ looked confused, and Emily didn’t blame her. Present situation included, there were very few worlds in which Emily would voluntarily ask Hotch to move in with her.

“So, remember when you said you could see me with kids?” JJ nodded, realization beginning to dawn on her face. “Well, Hotch is currently helping me take care of Carrie and neither of our apartments was suitable for two adults, a teenager, and a very energetic toddler.”

“Does he know about…” JJ gestured vaguely at Emily. “...you?” This time, Emily didn’t bother pretending innocence.

“No,” she said. “And I don’t plan on telling him. There’s no reason for me to do so. Even if our marriage is a sham, that doesn’t mean I’m going to cheat on him.” Emily had been firm in that belief since she had hatched this scheme. Hotch was a man who took fidelity seriously, and she couldn’t do that to him, especially after Haley.

JJ clasped her other hand around Emily’s and squeezed. “Don’t get hurt, okay? And if you do, tell me so I can kick his ass into next week.”

Emily grinned. The fierceness of JJ’s love reminded her of how lucky she was to have found her place at the BAU. “Just, please, keep this between us,” she entreated JJ, before walking to Hotch’s office to inform him that they had been made.

Apparently, two year olds don’t usually attend school full-time. Emily had, but Hotch’s horrified look when she told him conveyed to her that this was yet another example of Elizabeth Prentiss’s less than superb parenting. Jack went to preschool three days a week, but the rest of them he spent with either Hotch or Haley.

On Thursday, Hotch was called away to an early morning meeting. The higher-ups were making budget cuts again, and Emily knew he and Strauss would have to fight tooth and nail just to avoid losing a member of the team. Carrie had already decided that she would prefer to take the bus to school, which left just Jack and Emily. She had the day off, courtesy of Hotch, providing no urgent cases arrived. At noon, she was supposed to drive Jack to Haley’s house, but right now they were enjoying a quiet morning together.

As she finished up her paperwork, Emily kept one eye on Jack, who was playing with his extensive dinosaur collection. She sighed when she signed the last form, relieved to be done so early. There was a new sci-fi anthology that she had been meaning to read. Emily shut her eyes, intending on resting them for a brief moment before starting her book, but opened them again when she heard movement beside her. Jack had clambered up on the couch next to her and was staring at her intently.

“Read?” he asked, gesturing at a picture book on the side table. Emily picked it up.

“I don’t know if I’ll be very good at it.” She was still getting used to living with a toddler. So far, she had managed to avert any world-ending cataclysms, but being alone with Jack was an entirely different situation. This time, there was no backup.

“Read,” he insisted, so Emily did. Jack wasn’t shy about informing Emily when she did things wrong. Apparently she read too fast and she didn’t do the voices like his Mommy did. When Emily completed the first book, saying “The End” in what she hoped was an appropriately dramatic tone of voice, Jack pointed to another one. Before she knew it, it was time to take Jack to Haley’s.

She had only met Haley a few times, but Emily harbored an intense dislike for anyone who would hurt Aaron Hotchner. They may not be the best of friends, but watching Hotch’s face fall every time Haley informed him that he would arrive in DC too late to see Jack would make any sane person sympathize. This was only compounded upon actually meeting Jack; he would stay up as late as possible if it meant he could see his father.

Emily strapped Jack into his car seat, struggling briefly with the buckles. She didn’t understand how Hotch could make it look so effortless. As soon as they left the neighborhood, she began blasting Melissa Etheridge, not caring what other people could hear. Her day off, her music.

She turned the music down as they arrived in Haley’s neighborhood. The cookie-cutter houses reminded Emily of her and Hotch’s neighborhood, but this area was much more affluent. Even with a lawyer’s salary, she would bet Hotch and Haley had taken out a large loan to afford to live here.

Haley was already standing on the front porch when they arrived. Emily checked her watch: five minutes early. Good. She looked surprised to see Emily clamber out of the car, though Hotch had already cleared it with her. Emily sent a silent prayer to whatever god was listening as the straps to Jack’s car seat came undone easily. The last thing Hotch needed was to have Emily look incompetent.

Jack refused to walk the two hundred or so feet to Haley, so Emily scooped him up and headed towards the house. When she reached the porch, Emily set him down, and he toddled over to give Haley a hug. She beamed at him, and the wrath clutching Emily’s heart loosened slightly.

“Thank you,” Haley said. Emily smiled thinly at her.

“Hotch will be by to pick him up tomorrow.” Safer to stick to business. It lessened the chance Emily would say something she’d immediately regret. She waved at Jack. “Bye, kiddo. See you soon.”

“Bye, Auntie Emily!” he chirped in response. That was new. She had just been Emily so far, or ‘mily if Jack was especially sleepy. She’d have to check with Hotch that the nickname could stay, but Emily found she quite liked it.

Jack walked through the open door, and though Haley turned to watch him, she didn’t go inside. Emily loitered on the porch, sensing their conversation wasn’t finished. She was right.

“Does he make you happy?” Haley’s voice lacked malice. Emily supposed she was curious; it must have been a long time since Hotch had made Haley happy.

She considered the question. Obviously, there was a right answer, given the pretend nature of their relationship. But as Emily thought about Hotch’s kindness towards her and Carrie, the way he was willing to risk Jack, the best thing in his life, so that Emily could have a chance to care for a child the way he did, she realized it was also the true answer.

“Yes.” Haley headed inside without a response, and Emily couldn’t tell whether she was pleased or irritated. It didn’t bother her either way.

When Emily poked her head into the living room, she saw Carrie sitting calmly on the couch. It was late and she had assumed that Carrie had already gone to bed, but apparently this was not the case. When Carrie noticed her staring, she motioned Emily to sit with her. Emily settled on the ottoman facing Carrie.

“What’s up?” she asked, feeling strangely as though she were the child in this situation, as if Carrie were the one summoning her for an intervention.

“Where’s Hotch?” A neat sidestep, and one that only served to further intrigue Emily.

“Getting ready for bed, I suspect.” Although Emily’s experience living with men was somewhat limited, Hotch took more time in the bathroom than any other man she’d met, although she respected that it meant she didn’t have to see him change.

As if summoned, Hotch emerged, freshly showered and wearing pajamas. He smelled like shaving cream, Emily reflected as he sat down next to her, and something else she couldn’t place. Although she made no move to initiate contact, Emily nevertheless felt more solid with him next to her. Whatever Carrie had to say, they could deal with it, together.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” Carrie started. “For taking me in when no one else would.”

Emily reached out to clasp Carrie’s hands, squeezing them tightly, but it was Hotch who spoke, his voice clear and words familiar. “Carrie, there’s no need to thank us--”

“But you don’t need to pretend anymore.” Emily and Hotch exchanged a look, but it was not a glance between friends (or whatever they were). It was the same look they exchanged when an unsub revealed crucial information during an interrogation. What did Carrie know?

“What?” Emily had learned early how to feign innocence. It had saved her more times than she could count, from escaping the wrath of Elizabeth Prentiss to baiting a suspect to pretending to not be so fucked up when pretty girls hit on her in bars.

Carrie, however, was having none of Emily’s act. “You know what I mean. You expect me to believe that you’re married to a man who you don’t even call by his first name?”

Emily felt again like a chastened child, called out with one hand in the cookie jar. She looked to Hotch for moral support, but he looked as blindsided as she felt. When he turned to face her, she could see mounting rage in the way his body tensed, although his face remained impassive as ever. Then Emily remembered their one rule: don’t lie to Carrie.

“You got us there,” said Hotch. Emily marveled at the way he could switch from angry to personable in a moment, although the glare he first shot Emily made clear that they were going to talk later. “Was it just the names that gave us away?”

Gathering information on their tells, that was smart.

“The names were definitely a giveaway.” Carrie considered them for a moment. Mostly, though, it was the lack of touching. I can see no kissing --maybe you’re just very private people-- but you don’t even hold hands and I’ve only seen you hug once.” She gestured at them. “Even now, you’re sitting with a couple inches between you.”

Right now, Hotch would probably prefer they sat even farther away, Emily thought bitterly.

“But I’m not going to say anything, if that’s what you’re upset about.” With that level of perception and intuition, Carrie would make a grade-A profiler. Not that Emily would wish their lives on anyone.

Emily still didn’t trust herself to speak, so she simply nodded as Hotch spoke again. “Thank you for trusting us.” He checked his watch. “It’s late. Are you going to bed now?”

Callie responded affirmatively and slipped out of the room, leaving Emily and Hotch in stony silence. When Hotch spoke again, his voice contained undisguised anger. “Prentiss, what the hell was that?”

The use of her last name only stoked in her a desire to fight back. Emily might break down crying, but Prentiss wouldn’t. Prentiss wasn’t vulnerable, wouldn’t apologize.

“Don’t yell at me,” she hissed. Hotch stiffened, then softened at the look on Emily’s face.

“I’m sorry. It was out of line for me to speak like that, but what you did was also out of line. We agreed no lying to Carrie.” She couldn’t meet his gaze. Self-loathing welled inside her. How could she have ever thought she was good enough to be a parent when she couldn’t even keep a basic promise?

“Emily?” If she lifted her head there would be no denying the tears in her eyes.

“I tried to. It just… I just…” failed, she finished mentally. Couldn’t deal with the idea that what was maybe my only chance at motherhood could disappear. Although she wasn’t willing to verbalize those thoughts, she still felt she owed it to Hotch to try and explain. “I got scared. And I know you’ve heard this a lot recently, but I’m sorry.”

Hotch didn’t tell her she shouldn’t be sorry. She had messed up, and they both knew it. Now the only question was what he would do. Never trust her again, Emily supposed. Their partnership had seemed so promising, but of course she had ruined it. Outside of work, she could never do anything right.

“Next time, Emily, I just need you to tell me.” After years spent under the thumb of the Catholic Church, finding someone with a true capacity for forgiveness always surprised Emily. Hotch had surprised her again and again.

“I will, Aaron,” she said, trying out the unfamiliar name on her tongue. It still felt a little too strange, not natural enough for casual conversation, but she could work on it. “I won’t let you down.”

It was a tall order to live up to, but Emily had to try.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #emily prentiss #aaron hotchner #queerminal minds #*mine #*fic #these are ties that bind

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freewheelshippin · 4 years

Text

PIRATE pt 1 (ish)

It’s summer!!! I want to think about swashbuckling pirate AU adventures!!! I’m still thinking I might just snippet and snapshot the rest of the ideas I have here so it’s like a big bathtub full of toys I can do whateeeeever I want with, but you know. It’s me. I don’t do a damn thing without 1) slowburn 2) tappin into that Too Much Gene. So here u go, a setup.

Takes place right after the events of Pirates of the Frontier drama CD-- you don’t have to have listened to be able to enjoy my offshoot, but you can read a great translation here and hear the whole thing here if you haven’t and would like to! (I still gotta find a sauce and watch the stageplay of it...but this is not about that!)

Not much by ways of content warnings other than some reference to alcohol. Onwards!

Ikki came back with a smile that awarded Malreaux and the White Devil their first agreement.

“Oi, Cap’n,” Malreaux growled. “Who the hell is she?”

“Our new boatswain!” Ikki said without a shred of doubt in him. “She overheard me trying to recruit someone and said she was looking to join a crew.”

The White Devil clicked his tongue, turned on his heel, and began to stride towards the ship.

“And where the hell do you think you’re going?!” Malreaux barked after him.

“I will let the peasantry sort their problems out,” he said, not bothering to even turn around and acknowledge them. “While I rest in my quarters.”

“Don’t you fucking care who the hell Ikki decided to bring onto the ship?!”

“I do not. Whomever is brought aboard is a new recruit and therefore beneath me. If they intend to be a turncoat, it is simple to kill them where they stand. Good night.”

It was barely sundown.

“Oi! OI! Get back here and deal with your problems like an actual crewmate, you hoity-toity bastard!”

“...So what’s he do on the ship?” the new boatswain asked plainly. “Other than be a pompous ass?”

“Be a pompous pain in the ass,” Malreaux muttered, giving up on getting the pale specter to listen. He crossed his arms, and his expression seemed a few words away from an outright snarl. “The cap recruited him barely two weeks ago,” he said pointedly, glaring a hole in the new recruit.

“Malreaux, calm down, please!” Ikki pleaded. “Don’t worry, he’s not a bad person. He’s already helped us lots, and he cares…just, in his own way.”

Malreaux looked incredulously at his captain, brows knit. “He threatened to throw you and your lucky pendant overboard because you ate some of his fucking macarons.”

“But he didn’t!” Ikki defended. “Because he wants to find the Red Angel, too, you know, and we’re the only other people in the world he can do that with!”

His crewmate sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead where it creased before giving Ikki’s recruit the once-over.

“So who the hell are you?”

“You can call me Maighread,” she replied coolly enough. Malreaux studied her expression, meeting her eye. She held his gaze challengingly, but he couldn’t shake the feeling she was hiding something.

“And what the hell makes you think you’re worthwhile joining us,” he said flatly.

“Well,” she started, shifting her weight. She had an impractically big sword with her, and she began to lean on it. “For starters, Mr. Pompous, Pale, and Pillow Princess is proof positive you’ll all strangle each other at sea if you go much longer without a boatswain.”

Malreaux snorted. “You think you can get him in line, huh.”

“Oh, sure. Ikki tells me he’s a sweet tooth, I’m sure there’s a solution that involves padlocking the galley unless he’s been a good boy and pulled his weight.”

Ikki laughed at that remark. “He’s going to be so dramatic if you do that!”

“He’d shoot off the lock if you did that!” Malreaux barked, though he liked the idea of someone else on the ship who thought of the White Bastard as a problem. “But you still haven’t answered the fucking question about why I should let you on the ship.” Ikki opened his mouth before Malreaux cut him off. “From your mouth! I wanna hear whatever snake oil you fed him myself!”

Ikki sighed. “I’m sorry, he’s just looking out for us.”

“No, no. I get it. Honestly, there’s not much story to tell. I’m a scholar, and I’m on a hunt for rare plants and animals that haven’t been recorded yet.” She opened a pouch on her belt, showing it was stuffed with drawing tools, and handed Malreaux the book strapped at her hip. He took note of the tattoos scaling up her hands and arms as she handed it to him; the images were fearsome and aggressive, but not from any dangerous allegiance he confidently recognized.

“What the hell’s a scholar doing looking for a tiny pirate crew like this, huh? Shouldn’t you have fancy navy escorts?” He flipped through the book. Indeed, they were mostly sketches and notes of flowers, plants, and animals, the pages warped and slightly shimmering from dried-up seaspray.

“Fancy navy escorts are a natural disaster with government funding,” she supplied. “You heard about the ones that torched a whole island just for fun? The way I see it, I’d rather trust a small crew headed by a good man to take me to new places we don’t know how to respect yet.”

“And what kinda scholar needs a big dumb sword like that?”

“Family heirloom,” she said flatly. “My dear old departed khun yai meemaw would flood the seas with her tears if he found out I wasn’t taking ole necklopper everywhere for protection,” she continued facetiously.

Malreaux met her eye, still frowning. He tossed her back her book.

“I don’t like her,” he remarked to Ikki as he crossed his arms.

“Why not?” he asked genuinely.

“She seems like bad news.”

“She seems like a good person, and she’s already offered to use her skills to help me find the Red Angel.”

“You ever met a scholar covered in ink like that?” Malreaux replied.

“You’re covered in ink like that,” Maighread shot back.

“Yeah,” he snorted. “And I’m bad news. But we’re short on hands, the captain likes you, and I’m just the cook. We’re ditching you at the next port if I’m not convinced by then,” he said, shouldering the pack of goods he’d bought as he went to board.

Maighread shouldered her sword again. “I’ll be on my best behavior, chef,” she called after him, letting a long sigh of relief out when she thought Malreux was safely out of earshot.

“That went great,” Ikki cheered, patting her heartily on the back.

“...Really,” she said, looking at Ikki disbelievingly.

“Well, why else do you think our crew’s so small? I know he’s kinda rough, but I don’t think I’ve known anyone who’s worked harder to keep me safe. Normally he’s way, way angrier about how annoying someone I want to recruit is or just doesn’t let them onboard to begin with.”

“I’m glad I had you vouching for me, then,” she replied with a tired smile. “So, all that’s left is to fetch dinner and we’re good to depart?”

“Yeah! I ordered ahead of time. Four whole portions of fresh steak, to celebrate our new crewmate with,” Ikki replied with a beaming, infectious smile.

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

Maighread set to work immediately, as promised, but with gusto and ease like her sealegs had been built on this ship. The White Devil was goaded into tasks he complained furiously about but did impeccably, she took plenty on herself, while Ikki and Malreaux redistributed their responsibilities amongst one another. There was less for Malreux to do, in a relieving way, and he could focus more on the meals they relied on to keep spirits high and their bodies alive.

She was talkative at meals, but evasive about any real questions they had about her. She only started conversation with Ikki, and seemed to avoid Malreaux outside of duty. So when she asked Malreaux for a favor at the next port, he was caught off-guard.

“Assuming you don’t still think I’m a disaster waiting to happen.”

“...You earned points just for getting the pale bastard to pull his weight. Figures he’s wicked competent.”

“I won’t lie,” she started, encouraged. “I feel a little bad. Some stuff I assigned him was out of pure pettiness. I just can’t fuckin’ stand how he thinks he can order me around and call me peasant.”

Malreux’s mouth crooked into a smile. He told himself it was because someone else was as sick of that shit as he was, and Ikki was too forgiving, even when he was the one the White Devil was taking most advantage of. “It’s what that fop needs. He can’t keep going around like this, and it pisses me off he’s got all that fancy magic that means we can’t just kick his ass.”

“Oh. What, that rope trick he does?”

Malreaux groaned. “My ribs still hurt from last time.”

“What?” She grinned at him. “You’re serious, he used it on you?”

“Did the captain seriously not tell you how we met that bastard?!” he grunted irascibly.

“Why don’t you tell me all about it later? Sounds like a conversation you can’t have in polite company,” she said with a challenging smile, leaning ever so-slightly-back into the busy port town behind her.

“Shaddup!” Malreaux barked. “You really wanna undo all the good will you earned?”

“Well,” she replied, the smile softening into something more relieved, “it’s nice you admit I’ve earned any to begin with. Lemme earn some more. I got an idea that’ll get us some coin, but we gotta go now.”

“Fine. I can see just what kind of bad news you are that way.” Maighread’s face fell for a half a moment before she stopped herself from giving away anything more.

“Oh, just the worst. Like, fuck you and the boat you rode in on. C’mon.”

They strolled through town. Maighread tucked her sleeves into her bracers despite the heat, hiding away the markings lining her arms, even as townsfolk gave them extra wide berth as Malreaux didn’t bother to hide his.

She took them to a liquor distiller in a back alley, unmarked and unpopular, where she negotiated buying barrels of rum wholesale to age in the ship’s hold. They’d sell them at different ports and spread the word of the distiller, and they’d likewise keep some for the crew to do with whatever they pleased. She looked pointedly at Malreaux as she paid for it with her own money, and he could only snort and gesture to show he got the point.

Malreaux was strong enough to pick one barrel up over each shoulder. He caught out of the corner of his eye that she’d seemed ready to roll hers back to the ship, but she tried to hoist hers up the same way once Malreaux had lifted his up.

“What the hell are you doing,” he growled. “Don’t try and show off if you’re not strong enough.”

“I’m strong enough,” she replied with more venom than he’d seen or frankly expected from her.

“You aren’t if you’re just gonna slow me down.” Malreaux started to walk ahead, back to the ship. She trailed far behind, like he expected, as she insisted on carrying them herself. He met her part-way back after loading them onto the ship and seized one of them off her shoulder.

“What’re you trying to fucking prove?!” he scolded. “You’re the fucking boatswain, who fucking expects you to be freakishly strong like me?”

She snorted, trying to hide how heavily she was breathing. “Oh, yeah, ‘cause the first thing Ikki thought when you met was ‘hm, that guy’s really strong, I better make him my cook!’” She paused. “...ah, shit, nevermind, he might’ve thought that.”

Malreaux, despite himself, laughed. She looked so relieved when he did, and he set the barrel down as he sighed heavily.

“......Look,” he started, despite everything telling him he shouldn’t bother for just another seafarer who’d leave him for dead someday if it suited her. “I’m still not convinced on you, but I’m not gonna kick you out just ‘cuz you don’t lift a barrel like I do.”

“....it’s about my pride, too,” she admitted, but she laid the other barrel on her shoulder down on its side, bracing her foot on it to keep it from rolling away.

“Well.” Malreaux kicked a barrel over to roll himself. “Can’t fault you for having that. Just stop doing stupid shit ‘cause of it, you’re gonna make trouble for me ‘n Ikki.”

Maighread didn’t reply verbally, but the look she gave him was grateful, and she kicked the barrel in front of her gently to get it rolling towards the ship. They didn’t talk outside of practicalities as they loaded the rest of the barrels, but Maighread walked side-by-side with him from then on.

It was as he passed her a handspike for the turnstile that she started a new conversation.

“Can I ask you something?” She notched the first one in, and he tossed her the second one.

“What.”

“Nothing big. I just wanna know how you met Ikki. You two really look out for one another.”

Malreaux hesitated as he took his place opposite her.

“Haul,” he signaled, as he gripped and leaned into the handspike.

“Haul away,” she replied, and they groaned forward, slowly lifting all the barrels off the deck to lower into the hold. “You gonna answer my question or not?”

“I got left behind by my old crew and he picked me up.”

“....like a kid and a stray,” she offered, a touch of apprehension in her voice.

“Exactly like a kid and a stray.”

“I mean...it still sucks to get stuck like that, even if it got you a good captain.”

“No. I dug that hole for myself. I must’ve fought everyone on that crew at least twice over and drawn blood from them at least once. I didn’t know shit about how to be on a crew. It was a long time coming.”

“...huh.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing, I’m just. You’re impressively honest is all.”

Malreaux narrowed his eyes, even if the compliment didn’t feel sour. “Just baring my fangs. I never said I wouldn’t kick you into the sea right after we get all the rum loaded.”

“Heh. I’ll fight you tooth and nail when you inevitably don’t double-cross me.”

“What’s that confidence for? Tch.”

She laughed before they reversed and slowly lowered everything into the hold. Malreaux wanted to dislike how natural these motions felt together, but instead his body just felt lighter.

In the hold, as they untied the lines holding the barrels together, she insisted they take a little sample of the rum. She said it was for comparing the taste later. Malreaux thought it was for making sure it wasn’t water with a shot of piss.

“....He deserves it,” Malreaux admitted after the slight burn of the rum fired the nerves in his tongue until it almost hurt.

“Hm?”

“Ikki. If someone’s going to put their faith and trust in me, I owe them my best. That’s how it works, doesn’t it?”

“It should.” She took the cup from him. “I can promise you I’ll abide by that, too.”

Malreaux steeled his gaze on her. If she was a charlatan, she was a goddamn good one.

#iron maiden & rocka rolla #pirate au #scribblings

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jugpea · 5 years

Text

tough, kid | sp + jb

req: Can you make a Halloween oneshot? With Jughead and Jellybean supposedly going to trick or treat, but something came up with Jughead. So, Jellybean instead drags Sweat Pea with her (BTW, she doesn’t like Sweats at the start), Jughead thinks this is a chance for his Bf and sister to get to know each other and JB gives SW a hard time along the way, while Sweats is trying to get a long with her because she’s his bf’s sister. But at the end of the night JB and SW are close that Jughead is regretful of leaving the two if them together because he knows chaos will erupt A/N: this is unedited, super rough but I had this idea and went with it. Managed to get it done in one sitting (which is actually the first time that’s happened in a long time). enjoy -- and remember, sharing is caring. If you liked this, consider reblogging it for your friends!

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“But he promised he would come with me.”

Sweet Pea wasn’t entirely sure how this became a him problem. A little over a week ago, Jughead promised to make good on his word to go trick-or-treating with Jellybean Halloween night. Unsurprisingly, the duties of being a King called, and he was nowhere to be found. That wasn’t atypical of the teen, but it wasn’t currently working in Sweet Pea’s favour.

“That’s too bad.”

“But dad won’t let me go alone!”

Sweet Pea looked up from his binder, shooting her a dark look. This was the first time the girl had ever made an effort to talk to him. Usually she ignored his presence, which was something he didn’t mind given that he was god awful with kids. Not that Jellybean reminded him of a kid. Sometimes she seemed brighter than half the kids in his class.

“Tough, kid.”

JB gave a humph, leaving him alone in his trailer to sit on one of the logs outside. After listening to her sigh into the quiet for the umpteenth time, he finally swung his legs off the side of his mattress with a low growl and shoved his feet into his boots. Did he really want to go out? No. Would he do it so she’d give him some peace? Reluctantly, yes.

He searched through his small stack of clothing for a pair of black jeans and a plain black shirt. He would be supervising, and didn’t really intend to enjoy it. Shrugging into his leather, he stomped his way out of the trailer and slammed the door.

JB looked up from her place; despite his furrowed brow and blatant annoyance, her cheeks lifted in a smile and she shot upright. “Knew it.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

He waited while she unlocked her bike, following behind her slow pedaling easily with his long stride. The walk to the Northside sucked, but even more so with Jughead’s little sister incessantly chirping up to ask him questions.

“Have you always lived in a trailer?”

“Yes.”

“Me, too.” She lamented, standing to pedal instead of sitting -- it made her feel taller in comparison to his towering frame. “Well, until now.”

He didn’t dignify her with a response, instead chose to shove his hands into the pockets of his jacket and continued forward towards the tracks.

“When did you meet my brother?”

“When he showed up at Southside High.” Formally, at least. Sweet Pea knew about Jughead long before his arrival at Southside.

Growing tired of his uninterest, she sped up and stopped in front of him, nearly tripping him over her rear tire.

“What the f--” he caught himself, bracing a hand on the tire with a deep sigh. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m trying to make conversation.”

Sweet Pea’s nostrils flared the slightest bit, letting his eyes slip closed. “Less talking, more biking.”

Uninterested in arguing, she rolled her eyes and continued home, no longer caring if he fell behind. He would catch up, even if it meant he had to jog. It was a solid twenty minute trek to the Jones’ home, one Sweet Pea made regularly during midnight visits. FP’s ignorance to the teen slipping through his sons window was better left that way, and his bike would only draw attention.

He waited in the living room, pulling his phone out to connect to the WiFi and text his significant other. What business did he have that Sweet Pea wasn’t involved in? There was almost next to nothing that Jughead didn’t include him in. One part because he was Jughead’s second in command, one part because Jughead liked having him there.

After some time, JB came bounding down the stairs in a flurry holding up something in her left hand and some sort of pump in her right. She dropped the pump at his feet, and quickly shoved her legs into the costume.

“Quick,” she panted, pulling it up over her body. “Fill it.”

“Fill it?”

Exasperated, she grabbed the hose belonging to the pump and stuck it inside, using her foot to turn the pump on -- air immediately began rushing in, inflating the costume around her. It wasn’t until the head began filling that Sweet Pea knew exactly what she was going as.

“Are you shitting me?”

“Find better words,” JB chided, but her smile remained intact. “Yes. I’m a T-Rex.”

Momentarily stunned, he watched as the rest of it filled until the plastic was tight and in place; she shut the pump off, carefully trying to keep as much air in as she could while removing the hose.

The only other person that knew he thoroughly enjoyed this stupid costume was Fogarty. Sweet Pea couldn’t help but break into a laugh, watching his boyfriend's little sister parade around the living room with her head bobbing this way and that.

“Oh, Jughead is so gonna be pissed he missed this,” Sweet Pea muttered, holding his phone up while JB posed with a goofy expression.

After they went through a mini photoshoot with JB’s approval of all photos, she then shot him a glare. “Post these anywhere and you’re dead.” He stood stunned as she walked away towards the door, grabbing the polka dotted pillowcase from the staircase. “Sometime this century, old man.”

Sweet Pea fell back into his previous annoyance, “I resent that.”

“I resent you, but here we are.”

They walked the entirety of the Northside; JB continued her questions, Sweet Pea kept himself distracted by people watching. He wasn’t the only teen from Riverdale walking around with a kid, but this kid wasn’t his blood so he did receive a few lingering stares.

It wasn’t until they reached the last house near Fox Forest that they slowed their pace. A group of kids hung around the forest's edge, whispering back and forth to each other. JB recognized them immediately.

“That’s Sammy!” She hissed, immediately diving behind a bush.

Her reaction confused Sweet Pea, leaving him standing upright and relatively alone as she attempted to hide herself. “What in the ever loving fuck are you doing?”

“Language.” She growled, glaring up at him again before she sighed, “Sammy’s in my class.”

Curious, he shoved his hands into his pockets and looked back towards the group, “You got a problem with Sammy?” When she refused to respond, he grabbed the head of the T-Rex and pulled it up until it was visible over the top of the bush.

“Stop!” She pleaded quietly, grabbing it from his hands. “I don’t want him to see me.”

“Why not?”

Jellybean’s features collapsed; Sweet Pea was the last person she wanted to talk to about this. But given that her brother and dad were no better, she figured someone was better than just her diary. “I like him.”

“Oh, I get it,” he nodded, nonchalantly shrugging, “You look stupid so you don’t want him to see you.”

Rolling her eyes, she kicked his shin and folded her arms. After a moment of silence, she looked up at him again and sighed, “Do boys really …” she struggled to find the words, “I mean, if a boy is mean to you does that really mean he likes you? Because Jessie said --”

Sweet Pea was already shaking his head, “If that’s what he does, it’s the wrong way to go about it. And at your age, you shouldn’t be worried about boys.”

“You sound like my dad.” She grumbled.

“Yeah, well,” well nothing. He could only shrug.

“They all laugh at me,” she continued, voice growing quieter with each word. “When he does it, the rest of them laugh. Even the girls.”

In his day, Sweet Pea had been one of those people. It wasn’t something he was proud about, but growing up without much of a parental figure meant he had to learn normal mannerisms himself. It was only when he was fourteen that he realized he was the world's biggest jackass.

JB peered around the leaves, nervous to move with them still lurking in the dark. “Can you help me out of this?”

“What?” He looked down at her, then shook his head, “No. No way. This is the coolest costume we’ve seen all night --”

“You just said I looked stupid!”

Sweet Pea rolled his eyes, “I was being facetious.” When her brows furrowed, he tried again, “Sarcastic.”

“That’s Jughead’s thing.”

The Serpent sighed, glancing back towards the group that was slowly disappearing into the underbrush; as an idea began to form in his mind, he held his hand out towards JB, “Do you have your slingshot?”

“Yeah.” She stated as though it were the most obvious thing. That didn’t surprise him, she hardly went anywhere without it. “Why?”

“Give it to me,” he took it from her hand, scaling the opening to where the children disappeared. He started trekking towards a gathering of trees on the left side, listening to JB following along behind him; when they were concealed inside the darkness, he continued forward until the voices of the group picked up. The closer they ventured, the easier it was to make out the frames.

JB whispered which one was Sammy. He was the shortest out of the group, with dark hair and a mole on his chin. Sweet Pea shook his head, hoping his face didn’t show just how laughable the boy was.

“Get your phone out.” He mused. Then, he reached for a few pebbled on the ground, lining them up with the slingshot before pelletting it forward; it hit the tree just next to the teens, the snap against the bark bringing their attention together. The conversation stopped. They looked around.

“What as that?”

“Shh! Listen.”

Perfect, he thought to himself, lining up another before sending it just above their heads. Now that it was a closer sound, their faces began to fill with worry. They were nervous. Kids still believed that things went bump in the night, that made this all the more fun.

Was he a sick, twisted individual? Yes. But, his boyfriends little brat sister was being bullied and well, Sweet Pea didn’t really care for bullies.

The more he shot at them, the darker their features became. The girls started screaming, taking off in the direction they hoped they came from. It was the boys, however, Sammy in particular, that he wanted to have lose their shit.

And lose their shit they did. It took him ten minutes to get them going, but once they did, JB could still hear them yelling at each other from up the street, and she had gotten the entire thing on recording. Her brother would be so proud.

Jughead didn’t get home until sometime after midnight; FP was passed out on the couch in the living room, JB and Sweet Pea seated at the kitchen table with her pillowcase of candy spread between them; he ate whatever she didn’t like, and thankfully she hated everything sour. They were on their third glass of milk, JB ripping open the last of her mini Twix bars when Jug came to stand at the head of the table, looking between the two of them in confusion. They were in their own bubble, chatting back and forth, sharing knowing glances, giggling deviously about something only the two of them could know about.

A knot began to wind in his stomach. He hadn’t expected Jellybean to actually go ask his boyfriend to supervise her Halloween. He was more surprised that Sweet Pea obviously agreed to go -- if all else failed, he thought for sure he could rely on his boyfriend to keep up his tough guy facade and stay home for the night.

Obviously, he thought wrong. And he was going to pay for that later.

“Am I going blind, or are you two actually sitting in each others presence and … laughing.”

Jellybean looked up at her brother, casting a sideways glance at Sweet Pea before she shrugged, “Dunno. He’s alright I guess.”

“Alright? We kicked ass, kid.”

“Yeah.” She smiled, looking up at her brother again, “We kicked ass!”

“Language!”

“Sorry!”

#jugpea #sweet pea #jellybean jones #jughead jones #jugpea imagine #jugpea fic #riverdale #jughead jones x sweet pea #jellybean jones x sweet pea #this is cute #i like this

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victorineb · 5 years

Text

New instalment of my occasional series, in which Will and Hannibal are cheating scumbags and Alana deserves better. This one contains water guns, Bev Katz, and Hannibal’s entrancing chest hair...

Also on AO3.

***

To be honest, Alana had never expected Jack to go for her suggestion. She’d been pretty certain he was kidding when he asked what she thought he could do to improve team morale now that Will was out of prison and back working with the BAU. So when she’d told him to take them all to the park for a picnic, it had been in the perfectly reasonable belief that he’d take it in the spirit it was intended – one dripping in sarcasm.

She certainly hadn’t expected to be, a week later, attending said picnic with Hannibal on one arm and a huge bowl of potato salad in the other.

“Shall we add our offerings to the feast?” Hannibal asked, nodding at the long, gingham-covered trestle table with what Alana was fairly sure was a note of facetiousness rather less well hidden than usual under his unflappable politeness. He had, of course, not seen the casual setting as a reason to eschew his trademark gastronomic flair, and held in his hand a gigantic woven basket full to the brim with homemade delicacies. Her potato salad looked pretty frumpy by comparison (and Alana knew it was damn good potato salad, actually). She could only imagine how the usual array of barbecue wings and corn salad would fare. She couldn’t even give Hannibal the benefit of the doubt — he’d deliberately set out to win the picnic and she could already feel the smugness radiating off him.

“I wouldn’t want to deprive the crowd of your gourmet glory a moment longer,” she said, resolutely straight-faced. Hannibal didn’t buy it for a second.

“My dear Alana, can you be accusing me of showboating?”

“My dear Hannibal,” she shot back, “can you have the nerve to claim you’re not?”

He smiled at her, the slightly predatory one that made her shiver. “Why Dr Bloom, I believe you see right through me.” He leaned in, close enough to make her wonder if he was about to renege on his usual rule about public displays of affection, but instead simply deposited a kiss on her cheek and relieved her of her bowl, sauntering off to the picnic table with a triumphant swing in his hips.

Alana hung back a little, deliberately, all the better to take in the sight of Hannibal in his version of casual summer-wear. It was a rare event that he deemed unsuitable for his signature three-piece suits but apparently an afternoon in the park counted amongst them. And so Alana was treated to the sight of her usually formal boyfriend clad in the fewest layers she’d seen him in outside of the bedroom. Slim, rust-coloured pants sat on his hips, a much lower cut than Alana would ever have expected but one she couldn’t help but appreciate, given the way they framed the doctor’s enviable ass. Above the waist, a simple, crisp white shirt would have made Hannibal almost unrecognisably understated, were it not for the blazer carefully folded over his arm, a steely blue offset by wide windowpane check in the same colour as his pants. A different silhouette than usual but still the same elegant loudness that could belong only to Hannibal, not to mention the same sharp tailoring, precision cut to show his form to its greatest advantage.

“Hate to see him leave, love to watch him walk away?” Bev nudged Alana in the ribs, having snuck up while she was distracted.

“Can you blame me?”

“Mmm, nope. Best view for miles around.”

Behind them, someone made a noise of disgust. Both women turned to see Will skulking in their shadows.

“Got a problem, Graham?” Bev raised both her arms and Alana realised that she was toting two impressive looking water-guns in a genuinely horrible neon green. She trained them on Will, along with a wicked grin. “Cos my little friends here are just itching to take care of some troublemakers.”

“Do it and die, Katz,” Will growled. Probably in jest, Alana thought, though it could be hard to tell with Will these days.

“Big words for a guy in such a skimpy shirt,” Bev drawled. She had a point; Alana could definitely see the outline of a nipple poking through the thin cotton of Will’s tee. Shame he wasn’t in his boxers too – Alana would have pulled the trigger herself if that had been the case. She was only human, after all.

Will crossed his arms over his chest and glared. “Ok, all right, what do I have to do to avoid a soaking?”

Bev considered him for a moment, then flipped one of her guns in the air, grabbed it by the barrel and offered it to Will. “Help me take out Preller and you’ve got immunity.”

Will grinned, the kind of evil expression that explained why he freaked so many people out. “Deal.”

He and Beverly exchanged a handshake, both with a kind of wicked glee all over their faces. Alana was, if she were honest, a little jealous – she used to have that kind of camaraderie with Will. Plus, who said she didn’t like playing with (water) guns?

Then Bev pulled a pistol out of her waistband and offered it to Alana. “You want in, Dr Bloom?”

Alana’s hands itched to take her up on it. Visions of smacking Jack Crawford between the eyes with a well-aimed blast of water swam before her eyes. She was just about to take hold of the gun when a voice called out behind her.

“Alana?”

She glanced over her shoulder to see Hannibal sauntering towards the little group, having divested himself of both food and jacket.

“Sorry Dr Lecter,” Bev chirped, clearly not sorry at all, “I was trying to recruit her to our hunting party.”

Hannibal’s eyes twinkled at this, as he glanced around the group, noting the guns in both Beverly and Will’s hands. “Quite the formidable team you’re putting together, Ms Katz. May I ask what kind of quarry you are targeting?”

“Only the most dangerous game.” Will was staring straight at Hannibal as the words left his mouth, a twist to his lips somewhere between a smirk and a grimace.

“Really?” Hannibal asked, delight etched across his face. “Should I be concerned for my safety?”

Will took a step towards him, coming to stand in the space between Bev and Alana, and raised his gun, pointing it directly at Hannibal’s chest. “Scared, Dr Lecter?”

“Will!” Alana smacked him in the arm. “That’s not funny.”

Hannibal waved a placatory hand, clearly amused by Will’s behaviour. “It’s quite all right, Alana; not being a wicked witch, I believe I won’t dissolve from a little water. Besides,” he said, pointedly looking Will up and down, “I’m curious to see what will happen.”

“You smug bastard,” Will snarled, and opened fire.

An impressively forceful jet of water hit Hannibal square in the chest, creating a wet spot that immediately began to grow and spread as Will strode towards him, pumping hard and maintaining a steady stream right up until his tip was pressed directly against Hannibal. Hannibal, who hadn’t moved a muscle, hadn’t even flinched, just taken everything Will had to give with both arms open. Now he stood, watching Will and being watched back, both men panting at each other as Hannibal dripped onto the ground below, his shirt turned transparent and clinging to his flesh. Will tipped his head to the side and pressed a little harder with his gun, almost as if urging Hannibal to-

“What is your problem, Will?” Alana hissed as she and Bev reached him and wrenched him away from Hannibal. “You had better hope someone has a change of clothes so that he doesn’t have to spend all afternoon soaking wet.”

Once again Hannibal stepped in to defuse her irritation, as if she were still that overeager student he’d taken under his wing. It was just as annoying now as it had been then. “It’s no problem, Alana. I believe there’s an American expression that applies in this particular scenario. What is it…” His eyes seemed to linger a moment too long on Will, who looked like he might start squirting again at a moment’s notice. “Ah yes, ‘sun’s out, guns out,’” he concluded, gleefully. With which, Hannibal began unbuttoning his shirt as a speechless Bev, Will and Alana watched, three sets of eyes following the progress of Hannibal’s deft fingers as they travelled down his placket, revealing flashes of damp skin as they went.

Alana, who was by now very familiar with the sight of Hannibal’s torso in a state of undress, was first to recover and turned to the other two, to gauge their reactions. Bev looked mostly amused, a smirk on her face that suggested she was wondering if she had any ones stashed about her person in order to make it rain something other than water. Will, though. Will wasn’t amused, or embarrassed, or even incredulous. Will was actively staring, his already-wide eyes grown to anime proportions, his posture slightly forward-leaning, as if magnetised by the sight of Hannibal’s flesh. And then, as Hannibal finished unbuttoning and peeled off his shirt to reveal nipples slightly peaked by the cold water, Will made a soft noise that Alana would be hard-pressed to describe as anything other than a whine. He even licked his lips as he did it.

Oh. Oh.

“Will?”

No response.

“Will?” Alana tried again, waving a hand in front of Will’s face. Still nothing.

“WILL!” she yelled, which – aided by Bev delivering a smack to the back of his head – finally did the trick, making Will jump a little and come back to himself.

“What?” he asked, voice slightly strangled, his arms twitching as if to cross over his chest before he thought better of it and let them hang at his sides, fingers drumming on his thighs.

“Were you aware,” Alana began, voice clipped and cold, “that you were staring at my boyfriend’s chest?”

Will’s eyes darted from side to side, an apparent attempt to avoid both Alana’s accusing gaze and the sight of Hannibal’s slick skin. “What? No! I… no I wasn’t. Aware of that. Because I wasn’t doing it. At all.”

Alana raised an eyebrow. “Do you think I’m stupid, Will?”

“No! Of course not. You’re one of-”

“Or blind? Do you think I’m blind, Will?”

“I… no?”

“Ok, then cut the crap. Are you attracted to my boyfriend’s chest?”

“Absolutely not. Under no circumstances. I just…” Will trailed off and Alana had the impression that he was having to try very hard not to take another look at Hannibal.

“Just what?”

“Just… didn’t realise he was so…” His eyes finally lost the battle and snapped back to Hannibal’s torso. “…hairy.” The last word came out on a squeak, causing Will’s cheeks to get even redder, something Alana wouldn’t have thought physically possible. She’d be worried for his brain being starved of oxygen if she didn’t suspect its blood supply had already been diverted elsewhere anyway.

She turned back to Hannibal, almost involuntarily, already wondering how he would spin this awkward situation into something socially acceptable. Instead, she was confronted by her boyfriend staring at her former-almost-lover with a kind of hungry, yearning expression that suggested the last thing he was feeling was awkward. And was he… Was he really…

“Hannibal Lecter are you flexing right now?!” Alana yelled.

Hannibal’s face went briefly blank before he slid on an expression of patronising indulgence, but Bev headed off whatever excuse he was about to come out with. “Definitely. Sucking in his gut too,” she added, clearly torn between disgust for the vanity of men-kind and glee at confirmation that Will and Dr Lecter were hot for each other after all.

“He does not have a gut!”

Three heads turned, in various states of disbelief (and smugness, in Hannibal’s case), towards Will, who looked entirely shocked at the words that had come out of his mouth. “Well, he doesn’t,” he muttered. “Little bit soft in the middle, maybe, but it suits him-” He slapped a hand over his mouth, as if he could trap any other incriminating statements that might fly out of it.

“Why, thank you, Will,” Hannibal purred. “Coming from you, that is praise indeed.”

“Why coming from him?” Alana demanded sharply.

“Well,” Hannibal said, with infuriating deliberateness, “when one’s admirer is blessed with the proportions of the David, it is reassuring to know that one’s own imperfections are not too off-putting.”

Will’s mouth worked as he stared, apparently stunned, at Hannibal. “I- I’m not…”

“My dear Will,” Hannibal said, gliding towards him and raising a hand to cup his cheek, “you are exquisite in every way, you must know-”

At which point he was forced to break off, spluttering, as Bev pulled Alana behind her and then soaked the romantic moment. “Dude, priorities,” she drawled, once she’d finished spraying.

“What the fuck, Katz?” Will yelled, spinning round and spraying droplets everywhere like a wet dog.

“Graham, it is trashy to make out with a guy in front of his girlfriend, come on bud.”

“We weren’t! I wasn’t going to… we weren’t!”

“Weren’t we?” Hannibal purred into Will’s ear from behind, causing Will’s already-rosy blush to deepen into crimson as his hand snaked around his waist. “I must say, I find myself quite disappointed to hear that.”

Bev hefted her gun upwards and pointed it at Hannibal with a threatening expression. “I thought you were supposed to be some classy gentleman,” she said. “Alana, if you don’t dump his admittedly fine ass right now, I’m gonna waterboard the crap out of him.”

Alana watched the exchange with a strange sense of distance, as she realised one very important fact: she did not want one single, solitary part of whatever dumb fucking shit was going on between Will and Hannibal. She stepped around Bev, putting herself in front of the still-dripping Will and Hannibal.

“Ok,” she declared, “since I’m the only grown-up here, I’m making some decisions. Hannibal, we’re breaking up. If you’re very nice I might allow you to continue being my friend in a few weeks. Will, stop lying to yourself. You don’t hate Hannibal, you’re in love with him and you’re not even subtle about it. And,” she continued, poking him in the chest to drive the point home, “if you dare try to deny it after the display you just gave, I’ll… I’ll… I’ll tell Jack you two have been getting it on behind his back. And in his office.”

Will looked utterly horrified at the prospect and even Hannibal gave a small moue of disquiet.

“You wouldn’t,” Will whispered.

“Watch me.” Alana patted his cheek, just hard enough to sting. “Now, since that’s all sorted, I don’t want to look at you assholes any more. I think I could do with a drink.”

“I can help you out there, Doc, my contribution to the potluck was entirely in the form of grain alcohol.” Bev grinned, clearly having the time of her life watching this romantic drama explode right in front of her.

“I…” Will looked all around himself, as if searching for something that would make sense of what had just happened. Eventually, he gave a tiny shrug that still seemed to express total, incredulous helplessness and looked down at Hannibal’s hand, resting firmly on his stomach. “…don’t understand what just happened.”

“That’s ok,” Alana said, “Hannibal does, and he’s just itching to explain it to you.”

“Indeed,” Hannibal said, coming round to Will’s side and taking his hand, “let us find a quiet spot. I believe we need to talk, darling. Thank you, Alana. Miss Katz,” he added, as Bev singularly failed to stifle a snort of laughter at Will’s open-mouthed reaction to darling.

They watched, as Hannibal led a dazed but unresisting Will away from them by the hand. Alana wondered for a brief moment if she’d done the right thing, if either of them was really safe for the other. Then she shrugged and remembered that she really didn’t give a shit.

“Well, damn, looks like I’m out a partner for Preller hunting,” said Bev, and then gave Alana a sly, sidewise look. “Unless you’re up for a little target practice, Doc?”

Once again, she offered Alana the pistol. Alana eyed it, unimpressed, and crossed her arms. “Either I’m an equal partner, or I’m out.”

Bev grinned and switched the pistol for the full-sized shooter Will had discarded. “Atta girl,” she beamed, as Alana grabbed it, “always wanted to see you in action.” Her grin had twisted into a smirk. It was, Alana had to admit, pretty hot.

“Help me take out a hit on Jack after we crush your nerd boys and maybe I’ll show you just how good I am.”

Bev raised a finger to give a lazy salute, her eyes glittering. “Gladly, ma’am.”

A little while later, as she and Bev were hunting for Price and Zeller, who had run like cowards the first time they’d been tracked down, they found Will and Hannibal again. They’d managed to get Will out of his soaked shirt but apparently no further, since Will currently had Hannibal pinned against his car and was furiously making out with him. His hands were, Alana noticed, buried in Hannibal’s chest hair. Then again, Hannibal’s hands were firmly kneading Will’s ass so it looked like everybody got what they wanted. Including Alana, who got her own chance to spray them like a pair of misbehaving cats, secure in the knowledge that Hannibal would either have to get his precious Bentley wet, or allow his skin to make contact with Will’s dog hair covered upholstery.

“Knew you had a bad side,” Bev cackled as they walked away.

“Only when provoked.”

Bev waggled her eyebrows. “I can be extremely provocative, you know.”

Alana bumped their hips together gently and raised an eyebrow of her own. “Promise?”

#hannibal #hannigram #hannibal fic #hannigram fic #alana bloom #beverly katz #alana finds out #my fic

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elsaclack · 5 years

Text

they’re burning all the witches (even if you aren’t one)

read on ao3

“This is a bad idea.”

Despite the roar of the passing trolley and the responding volley of honks from upheld traffic, Jake knows she heard him. Her back is to him and she makes no move to acknowledge him, aside from a slight tilt of her head and a jump of her shoulders in repressed laughter.

“I told you to meet me in the park,” he tries again as he approaches, lowering his voice accordingly. She still hasn’t turned; he’s afforded a rare view of the back of her head, eyes following the waterfall of hair that falls halfway down her back in slow, tantalizing waves. “Why’d you change the location?”

“First of all,” she says coolly, “when have I ever done what you told me to do?”

He barks out a laugh as he drops off the stoop, closing his eyes as the sound echoes back to him off the other side of the underpass. Pedestrians and vehicle traffic intermingle and pass before them; despite his misgivings, he has to admit, this is a much better place to blend in and go unnoticed.

And blending in is the most important thing to Amy Santiago. She’s looking straight ahead but her expression is relaxed, and after a moment of studying her profile, he follows her lead. “Secondly,” she says once he’s focused on the graffiti on the far end of the underpass, “I got a tip that there might be some action here later. I wanted to be early.”

“So punctual,” he says with a smile. “I’m assuming that it’s action we’ll hear about later?”

“Maybe.”

He shakes his head, still smiling, and leans forward to plant his elbows on his knees. “Well, I appreciate you taking time out of your busy schedule to meet with me.”

She snorts. “Your facetiousness is noted,” she says. “And it’s really no trouble - I know it must be bad if you’re asking for my help.”

He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. As always, she’s startlingly accurate. “Double homicide,” he mutters once his laughter is in check. From the corner of his eye, he sees her lean forward, too - if only slightly. “Both vics died from multiple stab wounds, but they were also shot in the head post-mortem. Execution style. Both bullet wounds had gunpowder burns along the edges, so it was extremely close-range.”

Amy clears her throat. “Any evidence?”

“Nothing substantial yet. Labs are still running tests on the bullets, but there were no casings on site, so it’s not likely to get me very far. Every surface in the house was wiped clean, which makes me think it was professional.”

“And the victims - were they related in any way?”

“Husband and wife, though they were apparently estranged and not on speaking terms, according to the neighbors. None of them heard anything, which again makes me think this was a professional job.” He turns his head slightly, peering at her sideways. “Any of this sound familiar to you?”

She narrows her eyes at him, lips pursed, and he could swear the gears turning in her head are visible even from here. “I know of a few people who might fit the bill,” she finally says, calculating eyes darting back to the opposite side of the underpass. “You got any leads?”

“A vendor who was set up across the street that night has given us a composite sketch, but we’re not sure how accurate it is, since he kept contradicting himself. We questioned him, too, but he checks out -”

“We?” Amy repeats.

He drops his head for a moment. “She’s my partner, Santiago,” he says quietly.

“She doesn’t trust me.”

“Can you blame her? Most cops tend not to trust the badass vigilante types.” Amy scoffs, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. “Diaz has helped me cover for you more times than I can count, you know. She may not trust you, but she does respect you.”

“I’m so honored.”

It’s his turn to roll his eyes. “Your facetiousness is noted,” he says in a high-pitched voice, and Amy’s responding glare could wilt the flowers sprouting up from the concrete beneath his feet. “Anyways, we have a composite sketch, but we haven’t released it yet since we haven’t been able to verify -”

“Let me see it.”

He pulls his phone from his pocket without another word, pulling the image up quickly and passing it off to her.

And the moment she seems to fully take it in, the color drains from her face.

“I don’t know him,” she says, all but shoving his phone back. Suddenly she’s edging away from him, leaning as far to the right as she can, attention darting and unfocused on the traffic around them. “Never seen anyone like that.”

“Hey,” he grabs her wrist and she whips back toward him, wrenching her arm from his grasp so quickly he barely registers the movement. “Wait, what’s going on?”

“I told you,” she snarls, “I don’t know him and I can’t help you.”

“Okay, it’s very obvious that you do know him - or know of him, at least - who is he? And why are you so scared of him?”

She’s panicking, like a rabbit caught in a trap, eyes wide and fists clenching and unclenching rapidly. “It’s not - I’m not - just -” a passing pedestrian trips over her foot and she lurches forward blindly, seizing at her ankle. “Just don’t, okay? Don’t pursue this, don’t - don’t.”

“What? Don’t pursue this? Are you serious?” She looks to be in agony, her expression so bald-faced he feels his own chest tingling with anxiety. “You’re the one who quit the Academy so that you could help people without all the stupid rules -”

“Rules aren’t stupid, it’s the bureaucratic red tape that contradicts and negates the rules that are meant to help people that are stupid, and that isn’t the point, Peralta. Please, just - just trust me. This case is so much bigger than you could ever imagine -”

“Tell me his name, Santiago.” he interrupts firmly. She shakes her head, stubborn, and he inches closer. “Tell me why you’re scared of him.”

Her chest is heaving and she’s blinking rapidly, but she’s no longer scrambling to get away from him. “Look, there - there are bad guys, and there are villains. There’s crime, and then there’s evil. He -” she points to Jake’s phone still clutched in his hand “- is pure, unadulterated evil. Everything he stands for, everything he’s involved in, is evil. You need to let this go.”

“I can’t. Because those victims have families and those families deserve answers. And this guy deserves to be brought to justice. Him being evil is all the more reason for me to keep pursuing this. Someone has to bring him down.”

“Not you, Peralta.” she says firmly. “You’re not gonna be able to do this alone.”

“I won’t be alone, I’ll have -”

“Diaz won’t be enough,” she snaps. “He’s cunning and cruel and if he finds out that you’re pursuing him, neither one of you will stand a chance. Please, Jake,” her voice cracks, and he’s paralyzed by the desperation in her eyes. “Don’t pursue this. Drop it. Forget it ever crossed your desk. Please.”

“Okay,” he hears himself say. The desperation has not diminished. “Okay, I’ll drop it. I promise.”

He offers her his pinky, and she stares down at it for a beat. Her chest is heaving slightly with the intensity of her urging, but after a moment she raises her hand and hooks her own pinky around his, squeezing firmly.

Her touch is far warmer than he was expecting.

And it isn’t until she’s walked away, disappeared into the flow of foot traffic, that he realizes that was the first time she’s ever called him by his first name.

His name is Freddy Maliardi.

It took a while - far longer than Jake was hoping - but after cross-referencing a dozen criminal databases nationwide, they get a hit on a mugshot marked as a close match out of California.

He served twelve years for aggravated assault, but that isn’t what interests him - what does interest him are the twelve counts of alleged first degree murder, all of which were dropped during his trial due to insufficient evidence.

Maliardi is thin and sickly-looking in his mugshots, but his eyes are dark and glassy - almost dead.

And despite the fact that it’s just a grainy picture, Jake shivers, Amy’s words still ringing in his ears.

“So Santiago didn’t recognize him?” Rosa asks from the other side of the briefing room.

Jake grunts, feigning focus on finding a free thumbtack to add Maliardi’s mugshot to their steadily-growing evidence board. “He’s pretty average-looking,” he says evenly, “and the composite wasn’t the most accurate compared to the real thing.”

“True, although that doesn’t answer my question.” Her heavy combat boots scuff along the tile floor as she approaches, but he doesn’t look around; she pulls even with him and stops, surveying their evidence board with her arms crossed loosely over her middle. “It’s not solid enough to hold up in court, yet, but it’s a start,” she finally mutters. “Is Santiago working her magic or should we start canvasing the scene?”

He clenches his jaw at the contempt in her tone, but stays quiet. His relationship with Amy has always been a bit of a thorn between himself and Rosa, though she seems to have less of a problem with it now than she did way back at the beginning, when Amy’s “anonymous tips” lead to him solving five cases in the amount of time it took her to solve one. “Let’s start with calling the vendor and asking him to come down to verify that this is who he saw that day,” he says. “No point in canvasing if we’ve got the wrong guy.”

He sees Rosa nod in his peripheral vision, but she remains rooted to the spot. “I’m sorry,” she finally mutters. “I know she’s...helpful.”

“She is,” Jake confirms quietly.

Again, Rosa nods. “Probably best to keep me in the dark, but is it safe to assume that we’re just getting the evidence trail and she’ll deliver this guy in a few days? Or -”

“She’s not helping this time,” Jake interrupts. “She took one look at the composite and freaked out. Said he’s pure evil. She didn’t want anything to do with him.”

“What, she’s scared of him?” Jake shrugs, eyes glued to the mugshot. “Why?”

“No idea. But I intend to find out.”

Rosa hovers for another moment, before stepping sideways toward the briefing room doors. “I’ll call the vendor and set up a time for him to come in,” she says, subdued.

Jake nods, jaw clenched, waiting until the doors are closed again. He approaches the evidence board slowly, until the mugshot is just inches from the end of his nose. Maliardi’s cold, dead eyes seem to track his every move.

“I’m sorry, Amy,” he whispers.

For all of her hidden depth and range of emotions, Rosa Diaz has never been one to succumb to terror. Fear in general is not an emotion she has to handle with any regularity; beyond her childhood, she’s hard pressed to pinpoint any one time she’s ever truly felt scared.

Until now.

Fear claws rhythmically up her throat, choking off her airway, and no matter how hard she concentrates on the feeling of her lungs expanding and contracting she can’t shake the feeling of suffocation. The shadows she’s currently shrouded in certainly aren’t helping, but she won’t leave them - she can’t leave them.

Someone may recognize her.

The butt of her gun pressing hard against her palms is the one reassuring lifeline keeping her afloat amidst the shuddering darkness around her, and she grips it as hard as she can as voices approach, crest, and fade from the other end of the alley. She’s been waiting all of two minutes but already it feels like a lifetime - two minutes waiting are two minutes wasted, two minutes she’ll never get back, two minutes more of whatever he’s going through wherever he is -

“Diaz?”

Rosa jumps a foot in the air, nearly whipping her gun out despite the voice’s quiet, gentle tone. Amy Santiago stands ten feet away, hands raised in surrender, eyes wide and uncertain as Rosa heaves for breath. “Jesus Christ,” Rosa snarls, flattening her hand over her hammering heart.

“What’s going on?” Santiago asks slowly, hands still raised. “Where’s Jake?”

And even though adrenaline is still coursing through her veins, Rosa feels her heart squeezing mercilessly at the mention of her partner’s name. “I need your help,” she says quietly.

Somehow, Santiago’s alarm seems to double over. “Where’s Jake?” she repeats, stepping toward her carefully.

“Maliardi,” Rosa says, and even in the faint light she can see how quickly Santiago pales. “We were going to interview a witness to confirm the mugshot was who he saw on the scene, but Peralta got ahead of me ‘cause I had to go back to the car to get his stupid notebook, and by the time I caught up, I - I - they were shoving him into the trunk of a car -”

“How long have they had him?” Santiago’s voice has gone ragged, steely, like the sharpened edge of a serrated blade.

“Twelve hours,” Rosa says hoarsely.

Briefly, Santiago squeezes her eyes shut. “He’s still alive,” she finally says.

Something like relief briefly flares to life, like a match in the pit of a pitch-dark cave. “What makes you - how do you know?”

“Because they’re waiting for me.”

Ice floods through her entire body; without a second thought, Rosa rips her gun out of her jacket and points it directly between Santiago’s eyes.

To her credit, Santiago looks little more than annoyed. “Not like that!” she snaps, but Rosa refuses to lower her gun. “They’re using him to draw me out and force me to intervene. They’ve been trying to get a reaction out of me for months now, but I haven’t directly engaged. They must’ve figured out that Jake - that I -” she stops and presses the heels of her hands against her eyes. “He’s still alive because they’re waiting to kill him in front of me. Because they know that he’s - important to me.”

Slowly, Rosa lowers her gun, surprised at the genuine distress rolling off of her in waves. It’s been obvious for months now that Jake has been nursing a secret, hideously inappropriate crush on the morally-grey vigilante superhero-wannabe standing before her now, but never in a million years did she suspect that that superhero-wannabe would actually return those hideously inappropriate feelings.

“We’re doing everything we can on our end,” Rosa says, and Santiago nods, looking like she’s hanging off of Rosa’s every word. “We’ve put out APBs on Maliardi, the witness, and the car they drove off in, but it’s been hours and we’re no closer to finding them than we were at the very beginning. I know we’ll find him eventually, but I’m afraid - I’m afraid we might not be fast enough.”

“So you called me,” Santiago offers quietly when Rosa does not continue.

“I know you don’t really have any allegiance to me. We don’t have a lot of history, and what little we do have has been...complicated.” Santiago clenches her jaw, but says nothing else. “I know that you’re scared of Maliardi. I know there’s a history there that I don’t know about, that Jake doesn’t even know about, and I know that the idea of going after him alone is - is probably terrifying. I don’t have any right to ask for your help and I won’t pretend like I don’t need it. Because I do. I need your help, so badly. I know that I don’t stand a chance at solving this and saving him before something really bad goes down. He needs you, Amy. You’re the only chance he’s got - that any of us has got. Please, please help him.”

She swallows hard, gaze searching Rosa’s face. “You realize that if I get caught, they’ll kill him, right?” she asks, voice low. “I may be his only chance of getting out of this alive, but that’s only if I can get to him before they catch me. I’m his best chance, but I’m also his biggest liability. Are you sure?”

“Never been more positive of anything in my life,” Rosa answers quickly.

A beat passes, and then Amy nods, expression quickly slipping into a steely mask of grim determination. “Keep your phone on.” she mutters before backing into the shadows and disappearing from sight.

Through the haze of blood and agony, Jake tastes salt water.

He’s certain it’s a psychological by-product of the salty air blowing in through the busted window to the right of where he’s bound, whipping off the surface of the churning sea beyond it. It fades in and out of his senses, much like his consciousness, but it’s never stronger than it is when Maliardi is pounding the unyielding curve of his steel-toed boots into Jake’s ribs.

His hands are shaking where they’re bound behind his back and Jake gasps for air, grunts and moans of pain escaping his chest of their own volition. Maliardi paces back and forth before him, watching, those dark eyes all the more dead-looking now that they’re up-close and personal.

He’s been at this for hours, starting from the moment Jake lurched back to consciousness bound and gagged here on the floor. There are a half-dozen other men loitering around them, in varying degrees of engagement; a couple of them jeer and mock his screams, some snort with laughter, one has yet to look up from his phone.

That one’s the leader, Jake’s sure of it.

They haven’t really talked to him, outside of taunts. It’s been clear to him since hour one that they’re waiting for someone - that torturing him is merely a way to pass the time.

He isn’t sure how much more of this he can take.

Maliardi kicks him again - inches from his groin - and Jake screams, biting down on his gag until he’s positive his teeth have cracked. The other men are laughing again, and Maliardi is grinning, and as the tears clear up from Jake’s vision, he registers that the leader has looked up from his phone for the first time all day.

“Enough,” the leader says, and Maliardi backs off at once, retreating to the far wall and leaning back with his hands folded behind him. “We need him alive until she gets here.”

“We’ve been waiting for hours,” one of the others pipes up timidly. “Shouldn’t she be here by now?”

“Maybe she isn’t coming,” another one says.

“She’ll be here,” the leader says calmly, knowingly.

Jake heaves down as much air as he can get through his nose, staring up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the conversation. It’s hard to track with his own noisy breathing and the pain radiating through his body, but he understands enough to know that he was correct in his suspicion that they’re waiting on someone.

And that the rest of his lifespan can be measured by that mystery woman’s commute to this warehouse.

It does not occur to him that she might just be his saving grace until after the gunfire has already started.

The world is narrow and unforgiving where he’s trapped flailing on his back, but somehow he remains relatively unscathed even as the volley of bullets exploding deeper in the bowels of this room whiz over his head and crack against the wall to his right. Voices, forever ingrained in his memory for all the taunting and jeering and the like, cry out in the kind of finality that sets his teeth on edge, but instinctively he knows that for every heavy thud of a body hitting the floor, he inches closer and closer to freedom.

As quickly as it started, it stops. And once again, he’s left struggling to hear anything over his own noisy breathing.

The footsteps that approach him are quicker and lighter than any other he’s heard all afternoon, and a split-second later his hazy vision is focusing in on Amy Santiago’s desperate, blood-spattered face. “I told you to drop it,” she growls.

Despite her obvious rage, her fingers are exceedingly gentle where they work the gag out of his mouth. He gasps, lungs filling to capacity for the first time in hours, and lets his head fall back, content in knowing that she’s going to keep him safe. “When have I - ever - done what y-you - told me t’do?” he manages to rasp once his jaw has readjusted.

She tries to stay stoic, she really does, but he catches the exasperated smile that cracks through her glare, and it’s like fireflies flickering in the pit of his gut. Briefly, her hands frame his face, and then she’s scanning down the rest of his body, gingerly picking his shirt up away from his torso and examining what bits of skin she can see through the torn material of his jeans. “Nothing fatal,” she murmurs to herself as she gently touches his face again, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. “You definitely need medical attention, but you’re gonna be alright. Your team is on their way right now, they’ll be here so soon.”

He hums out a broken note, eyes closed in relief and at her touch, relishing in the kindness of each gentle caress. “Good,” he mumbles, “I’m really tired.”

“I know you are,” she whispers. “Just rest, Jake. They’ll be here soon.”

Her hands are no longer on his face and he’s panicking, alone, in pain. “Amy!” he yelps, eyes flying open to find his view of the ceiling unobstructed. “Amy!”

She’s there again, face contorted in alarm, hands warm and steady where they press into his chest. “It’s okay, Jake,” she says quickly, “it’s okay, it’s okay, calm down before you hurt yourself -”

“Please,” he gasps, “don’t go, d-don’t leave me -”

She stares, frozen, gaze burning. “I’m sorry, Jake,” she whispers, barely audible over the sirens quickly fading in from somewhere outside. “I have to go, I’m so sorry - I promise I’ll find you, okay? I swear, I will find you.”

He can barely keep his vision focused, so close to the edge of unconsciousness is he; the last thing he sees is her leaning forward, her lips brushing against his forehead, and then -

And then, darkness.

He’s in and out over the next few hours, each foray into consciousness fleeting, but long enough to know that he’s in the hospital under protective custody, both from the officer standing guard outside his closed door and Rosa, who stubbornly refuses to leave his side. Others have filtered in and out, he’s heard their voices distorted through the filter of sleep; he learns from their quiet conversations that every person who was in the warehouse with him earlier is dead.

Including Freddy Maliardi.

And according to Captain Holt, they have absolutely no idea who is responsible. No idea who would mow through a room full of hardened criminals, including the kingpin of the Ianucci crime family, but leave him alive.

Rosa remains a steady fixture at his side even after visiting hours are over, slumped over in sleep when he briefly surfaces around midnight, clearly insistent on keeping vigil.

Which is why it’s so disorienting when she’s suddenly gone around 2 in the morning.

He blinks, trying to make sense of the empty space she seemingly just occupied. His senses are dulled from whatever painkillers are coursing through his veins, but he’s fairly certain he can’t hear any movement in the bathroom; for the first time since he woke up this morning, he’s alone.

At least, he’s alone until he hears the doorknob turning half a moment later.

It’s hard to tell through the darkness, but he’s pretty sure the person easing their way into the room is a woman. Not Rosa, though - her hair seems straight, no errant, wild curls to catch the moonlight spilling through the window on the opposite side of the room. The woman eases her way inside and quietly closes the door, and then pauses. He can feel her gaze on him, even from here.

“Who’s that?” he asks (slurs).

“You’re awake?”

And now that he’s heard his voice, he feels a little silly for asking. “Amy?”

“Hey,” she crosses the distance between them quickly and claims Rosa’s seat, dragging it closer to the edge of the bed. And now that she’s inches away he can see more details through the darkness, like the way her concern seems to be fading with each second that passes or the way she nibbles on her lower lip subconsciously. “Rosa said you’ve been sleeping since you got here yesterday - how d’you feel?”

He hums. “Surprised,” he says after a moment, and her brows raise in an unvoiced question. “Didn’t know I’ve been here a whole day already.”

She nods, gaze drifting down his neck and chest. “You were pretty beat up,” she murmurs. “And you lost a lot of sleep working on the case. You needed it.”

Slowly, he reaches up, catching a lock of her hair between his fingers and gently tugging. “Are you okay?”

He sees her jaw clench as her eyes squeeze shut. “I will be,” she says after a moment, eyes fluttering open again to meet his gaze. “Knowing that you’re okay definitely helps.”

He swallows, letting her hair slip through his fingers, mesmerized at the silky texture. “You saved me,” he says softly.

She bites down on the inside of her cheek, her right hand gently closing over his forearm bent up toward her hair. “You needed me,” she murmurs, and he nods. “I couldn’t just leave you with them.”

He closes his eyes, the memories of the warehouse flashing through his mind, but he quickly banishes them; all that matters is Amy, now, and the slow, steady lines her fingers stroke into the skin of his forearm.

“I can’t stay long,” she whispers, and his eyes pop open again. “Rosa snuck me in, but I only have a few minutes before the other officer comes back -”

“I don’t want you to go,” he says quickly, and she slides her fingers around his forearm again, squeezing in what he thinks might be a reassuring way. “Please, you saved my life, and I - I want you to stay, please stay, please.”

“I can’t,” she breathes. “I’m so sorry, Jake, but I - I can’t. They might figure out it was me, and if I’m here with you when they figure it out then you’ll be in trouble, too -”

“It was self defense,” he argues, aware of the fact that his voice is rising in pitch and cracking from his own desperation. “You didn’t do it for fun, or because it felt good, you did it to protect yourself and to save me -”

“You’re right,” she says quickly, her voice low and soothing. “You’re right, you’re absolutely right. I didn’t do it because it felt good. But, Jake, the thing is...I’d do it over and over and over again if it meant keeping you safe. I’d do whatever it takes to keep you safe. And right now, the best thing I can do for you to keep you safe is to get as far away from you as possible. Right or wrong, I’m responsible for what happened in that warehouse, and I - I refuse to let you and your career be collateral damage for my actions.”

“But I don’t want you to leave,” he all but whimpers.

“It won’t be forever,” she says softly, free hand reaching to gently card through the curls that have fallen against his forehead. “I just need to lay low for a while, until all of this blows over. I promise you, it won’t be for long. And you have my number - if you ever need anything, I’m just a call or a text away. No matter what.”

He bites his tongue, trying and failing to distract himself from the sharp emotions jutting up his throat and welling in his eyes. “This isn’t fair,” he mutters as the first tears fall.

Her smile is melancholic, and it makes his heart ache. “You’re starting to sound like me, now,” she murmurs, thumb brushing over his forehead. “Don’t pull too hard at that thread - they need good cops like you on the force.”

He swallows thickly, fingers still tugging on her hair. Slowly, he increases the pressure, until she acquiesces and bends her spine a little more. She pauses with less than three inches between the ends of their noses, searching, waiting.

He lifts his hand up through her hair to the back of her head, pulling her down to close the distance, meeting her lips in a slow, sweet kiss. The fireflies that ignited in the pit of his gut before are spreading quickly, bursting through every inch of his body, buzzing with excitement and tenderness and affection as her fingers slowly curve around the back of his neck.

She pulls away much too soon, leaving him aching for more. She looks winded when he manages to pry his own eyes open; winded and vulnerable, and maybe, just a little bit hopeful.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” she murmurs, fingers tangling with his as she stands beside his bed.

“Promise?”

A shy smile spreads across her face as her pinky hooks through his and squeezes. “I promise,” she echoes with a nod. “I’ll see you soon.”

He resists the urge to reach for her as she retreats back toward the door, holding his breath until she’s out of the room and the door has clicked shut behind her. He releases it in a long, loud exhale, vision blurry as he stares up at the ceiling.

Rosa makes her way inside a few minutes later, the whites of her eyes visible with the steadily increasing light coming in through the window. “You alright?” she asks, paused at the foot of his bed.

“Yeah,” he grunts, still staring at the ceiling. “Kinda screwed up that she has to go into hiding, now. But I’ll be fine.”

“It’s not fair,” Rosa agrees as she drops into her seat. “She risked a lot to save you, and now it’s like she’s being punished for that. It’s fucked up.”

He turns his head to look at her head-on. “It is fucked up,” he murmurs softly.

She flashes him a half-smile that almost touches her eyes. “So what’re you gonna do now?”

He inhales through his nose, gaze flicking back up to the ceiling. “I’m gonna wait for her,” he says steadily.

Rosa’s quiet for a beat. “It could take years,” she says quietly.

“I know. I don’t care, though. She’s worth the wait.”

“She won’t expect you to wait. Sacrificial lamb complex and all that.”

“I know that, too. That’s part of why I - y’know.” He clears his throat, and Rosa offers him a plastic cup full of half-melted ice chips. “I don’t care how long it takes,” he says, waving his hand in refusal. “She’s worth it. All of it.”

Rosa seems to contemplate it in silence for a while. “I’m starting to agree,” she finally murmurs.

He doesn’t see her again for eight months.

When he does finally spot her, she’s alone, standing still in the midst of a sea of pedestrians, her face like a beacon in the night despite everything that stands between them.

He forgets what he’s doing, why he’s there, who he’s with. His entire world narrows down to her, standing on the sidewalk, less than a block between them.

A slow, hesitant smile begins to spread across her face.

It grows to blinding proportions by the time he actually reaches her.

He wastes no time once his arms are around her, kissing her thoroughly, momentarily forgetting they’re on a sidewalk surrounded by people. She doesn’t seem to care, either - she kisses back enthusiastically, hands curling along the back of his head and neck, respectively, anchoring him to her.

And in an instant, every last ounce of heartache from the last eight months is eradicated.

“Please tell me you’re staying,” he gasps when their lips finally part. “Please say you’re staying.”

“I’m staying,” she breathes, fingers squeezing tighter. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And just like every other promise she’s made to him, she keeps this one, too.

#brooklyn nine nine #brooklyn 99 fanfiction #peraltiago fanfiction #peraltiago #jake x amy #my b99 fics #this wiped me out y'all i hope you enjoy it #THREE FICS IN ONE DAY!!!! NEW RECORD!!!!!!#apparently the secret ingredient for me is sleep deprivation and a LOT of old criminal minds clips #anyways

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thebifrostgiant · 5 years

Text

If You Know Where to Look - Part 8 (2/2)

Summary: in which Loki hunts, and you listen. Thunder rumbles from a distance

Part 1 / Previous

Read on Ao3

Word Count: 2,888

Rating: T (for now)

Pairing: Loki/Reader

Chapter 8: A Crown’s No Cure (cont.)

Strangely, you haven’t seen Loki at all in the time you’ve spent around his intended. It’s not a fact that you resent in the slightest, but you’d prepared yourself mentally for having to spend time uncomfortably in his presence when Ülle wished to be with her groom, and yet you’ve seen no trace of the man since he’d left you in Eir’s halls without so much as a backward glance. It’s somewhat conspicuous, the lack of the young prince, at least to you, although Ülle seems to pay it no mind, for if she’s even noticed his absence, she’s unbothered by it. Which in and of itself is weird, since Ülle is an inherently bothered person, best you can tell.

What’s even more interesting is this one such excursion you’re on, scurrying after the tails of Ülle’s dress, when the prospective princess stops in some quiet corridor to talk to a man you don’t recognize, but must be some sort of guard or warrior judging by his substantial size and metal-plated armor. She smiles at him when she greets him, and you stare, momentarily struck by how delighted she seems, and how much different she looks because of it.

The man grins back, looking a tad confused but no less polite as he raises her hand to deliver a kiss to her knuckles.

“My Lady.” His voice is a soft, deep rumble, and he dips his head to her, red-golden hair swaying aside his bearded face.

She giggles — actually giggles! — looking quite charmed as his whiskered lips brush against her fingers, and tips her head back to blink demurely up at the man, who you won’t deny is quite handsome in a rugged sort of way. But still, you’re not sure which is more shocking, Ülle blushing, or the fact that she’s flirting with someone who isn’t the man she’s promised to.

“You know,” she says, sounding thoughtful and a bit too pleased, as she pointedly looks the man up and down, eyes lingering a beat too long on his muscular chest and exposed, sinewy arms, “You look nothing like your brother.”

And you stiffen where you stand as the words click into place, and you realize abruptly who your mistress is talking too. Then you make yourself scarce, slipping away unnoticed to wait behind a pillar.

In hindsight, it should have been obvious, because he does indeed look very much the way the rumors describe him, from the generous span of his shoulders to his lopsided smile, which looks far too endearing on someone so imposing in stature.

Prince Thor, for his part, begins to look slightly awkward, like he isn’t entirely sure what to do, and he laughs in a way that sounds kind of forced to your ears, but seems not to affect Ülle in the slightest, other than causing her face to light up, if possible, even more.

“We get that a lot,” he says, rocking back on his heels and fidgeting with a leather strap on his arm.

Ülle continues coquetting the crown prince for several long minutes, making his strained small talk seem tremendously funny and engaging, occasionally touching his arm or his hair, despite his increasingly clear discomfort.

You’re not really sure what to do. You could find some way to interrupt, to put an end to what is sure to be the biggest scandal Asgard’s had since Bor married a Jotun, but you’re acutely aware that it’s not exactly your place to do so, both because you’re little more than a glorified errand girl, and because Prince Thor is certainly capable of excusing himself, and yet has chosen to stay his feet. But do you... do you tell someone? You’re not just meant to ignore it, are you?

Caught up in your fretting, you don’t notice when Ülle leaves, but you jerk your head up at the sound of approaching footfalls and realize she is gone just as Prince Loki strides into view.

He doesn’t seem to see you, fixated as he is on Thor, and you duck further behind the marble column, hoping the loud thudding of your steadily climbing heart rate doesn’t give you away.

“Loki! There you are! Where have you been these past days?” Prince Thor all but yells as he catches sight of his brother, moving forward to intercept him and blocking your sight somewhat. You have to lean out to peer around his shoulders to see Loki’s face, and you hold your breath and mentally ask the Norns for both forgiveness and their blessing.

Loki halts, and frowns for a second, like he’d been cut off from what he was about to say, but he humors Prince Thor anyway.

“I was overseeing a personal matter,” he says smoothly, a note of finality in his voice as he opens his mouth to no doubt change the subject. But Prince Thor, sounding unimpressed, cuts him off again.

“And what matter would this be?”

Prince Loki actually rolls his eyes in a decidedly unprincely manner, irritation coming off of him in waves.

“Did I not just say it was personal?” He huffs. “If you must know, Thor, I was busy finding new homes for some rather unsavory people I’ve recently made the acquaintance of. I do hope they find the dungeons suitably hospitable.”

Prince Thor takes a step backwards, turns slightly and you can see the surprise and worry clear on his face.

“You were dealing with criminals? By yourself? Are you alright? Have they hurt you?” he asks all at once, comically looking his brother over, grabbing his shoulder then removing his hand just as fast as if he might have accidentally jarred a wound and letting it hang uselessly by his side.

Prince Loki puts up with it with a look of long-suffering.

“I’m here aren’t I?” he asks facetiously, “Alive? In one piece?” He cocks his head to the side. “I certainly feel alright, but perhaps I should double check.”

Prince Thor shifts again, and you can’t see his reaction, but you can perfectly well imagine the look of mingled fondness and exasperation.

“And what of you?” Loki asks suddenly, his posture straightening and his tone bleeding into cool amusement. “What business did you have here in this secluded corridor with my lovely future wife?”

“Loki,” Prince Thor begins warily, taking another step back and running his fingers once more along the band of leather on his wrist. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”

And yeah, that is the truth, and you know Prince Thor did nothing untoward moreso than letting himself be pawed at, but he’s not exactly helping himself out by projecting an air of guilt so loudly.

Prince Loki frowns in an exaggeratedly confused way.

“And what did it look like, exactly? I didn’t see. But I did hear a few things that one would be hard-pressed to interpret as anything other than dallying. Are you next going to tell me it wasn’t what it sounded like either?”

“Brother,” Prince Thor tries again, putting his hands up to show his innocence, or perhaps to hold Loki back if necessary. “If you’re worried that I’ll sleep with her- “

“Of course I’m not,” Loki interjects smoothly, a sharpness underneath. “Sif would never forgive you if she found out.”

Surprisingly, Prince Thor snorts, inelegantly, at this, not at all as if reacting to the threat those words sure sounded like. Instead, he shakes his head like they’re sharing a joke. When he speaks, though, he is unquestionably sincere.

“I wouldn’t do that regardless of my devotion to her.”

Loki meets his eyes.

“I don’t doubt that,” he murmurs.

“Good,” says Prince Thor, just as quietly.

“Not that I’d particularly care either way, but I’d prefer to save myself the trouble of that inevitable fallout.”

Wait. He can’t mean-

“What do you mean, Loki?” Prince Thor asks, sounding far more keen than he’d been as of yet.

“You don’t think I’d willing bind myself to that woman if I had a choice, do you?”

Oh. That is what he means.

Prince Thor tugs at one of his braids.

“I’m sure Father- “

“Oh, I’m sure, too,” Loki cuts in tonelessly, a strangely burning look in his eyes. “You’re lucky, Thor.”

And he walks away, leaving Prince Thor staring after his retreating back and the sound of his boots filling the space he left behind.

Then Prince Thor is turning, and your eyes go wide as you scramble back behind the pillar, but you know it’s too late. He stalks over to your erstwhile hiding place and crosses his arms as he glares down at you.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demands, and you falter under his looming presence and loud voice, unable to meet his eyes as shame sinks in.

“I- I- I- “ you stutter, failing to come up with anything to say in your defense. “I’m sorry, my prince, so sorry! It won’t happen again, I swear it!”

You fold your fingers around your sleeve ends to stop them trembling, and then wrap your arms around yourself when that doesn’t work.

Prince Thor is silent for so long, you look up anxiously, hoping doing so isn’t the wrong decision, but needing to have some idea what he’s thinking.

And he does appear to be thinking, if the bemused crease in his brow is anything to go by. Then his startlingly blue eyes land on your scar and something like recognition passes through them, and he relaxes his stance a bit.

“See to it that it doesn’t,” he says, more curt than angry now, and he too leaves, taking the hallway opposite the one Loki had gone down.

And then you’re alone, completely alone, in an unfamiliar corridor of the palace, with no idea which way to go, every fear you had of being lost here rushing back with a vengeance, and additionally, you’re in for a thorough dressing down from Ülle, one you’ve actually earned, on top of the scolding you’d already received from Prince Thor. And you’re still reeling from all that you’ve heard.

But, at least, you don’t have to make any decisions just yet, since it seems Prince Loki knows about his betrothed’s would-be infidelity.

And as you take the hallway to the right, that’s another decision taken care of.

***

You’ve been wandering the halls long enough for true alarm to set in, still without the faintest idea where you are in the palace to even have a frame of reference as to which direction to go in next. The only clue that you might be on the right track that you’ve found so far is the statue of the eight-legged horse, only you’re pretty sure it had been facing the window and down on all fours (eights?) when you’d seen it before, and now it’s the other way around and rearing, and you’re not certain if it’s a different statue altogether or if it somehow moved, because it looks like the same recess as before and-

You breathe, forcing away the panic. You turn around and continue your thus far fruitless search.

You pass several doors that are starting to look a bit familiar, and then one opens and someone lurches out and grabs you.

“There you are!” Ülle hisses out before you can scream, and well, it’s not exactly a relief to see her, but at least things can stop getting worse now. Her nails dig into your shoulder as she hauls you into the room with her and all but throws you forward as she hastily pulls the door shut.

You freeze, seeing unfamiliar faces staring at you from inside this unfamiliar room. You stare back. Your brain has not yet caught up enough to process what exactly is happening, but it appears these people are discussing something severely important, looking as they do as if they’ve been interrupted and eyeing you with clear mistrust. You don’t have long to ponder it before Ülle is shoving you again toward a cart with a jug of some sweet smelling wine and ordering you to serve everyone.

You comply wordlessly, and uneasy conversation trickles back up, sotto voce, as you fill each of the strangers’ goblets with the scarlet liquid. When you finish, you move to stand behind Ülle, hands folded and awaiting further instructions.

“What have you found out about the elder prince, Ülle?” asks a man with hair an almost preternaturally pale grey despite his semblant youth as he leans forward in his seat toward the woman in question.

Another woman, old enough for wrinkles to touch the corners of her eyes, holds up a veiny hand to stave off an answer.

“What of the girl?”

She turns suspicious eyes upon you, and you keep your head down, trying to be inconspicuous.

Ülle laughs and waves a hand.

“Her? She is mute, she does not speak. She will not be a problem,” she says dismissively, and you can’t believe it.

It’s fortunate that your face is downcast, because surely the raw shock on it would have given you away. Mute! As often as your tongue has gotten you into trouble, the idea would be almost laughable if you didn’t astutely know that you were about to hear something critical.

The old woman scrutinizes you for a long moment. You can feel her gaze burning into you, and you let your thoughts and hidden face go blank, just in case.

“Very well. Ülle?”

“Thor is easy,” she says confidently, leaning back and taking a sip of her drink. “He does not feel attracted to me, but he is honor-bound and dutiful to a fault. He will marry me if his father tells him to.”

“And a child?” the man who had spoken before questions.

Ülle grins, all teeth and no real humor.

“Like I said: easy. And what about you, Bǫlverkr? Have you procured a befitting gift for my dear husband?” The poison that drips from those last words indicates that there is no love lost between her and the prince. You wonder what this suddenly terrifying woman would consider befitting. The way she says it makes you fear it could be actual poison.

A different man tosses her a small pouch in reply, and her smile sharpens even more.

“You can deliver it to him without drawing attention or his notice?” the old woman asks Bǫlverkr.

Bǫlverkr nods, looking coolly unconcerned as he twists the stem of his chalice between his fingers, churning the wine within.

“Yep,” he drawls. “The idiot has been searching the forest for something these last few days. Alone. It is no trouble to overpower him and bestow it upon him.”

The first man who had spoken, the one with the ashen hair, raises his eyebrows, disquieted by his fellow caballer’s apparent carelessness.

“Loki is crafty in manner and speech,” he warns. “You would do well not to underestimate him.”

Ülle laughs again at this, a harsh and wholly unpleasant sound.

“The snake only hisses!” she cries, mockingly shrill. “I saw it in his eyes when I first arrived. A fool’s hope, the yearning of a child. His naivety blinds him. He believes himself the only one capable of laying a trap; he will not suspect a trick from without.”

They seem to mull this over, taking sips of their wine and measuring the weight of Ülle’s assurances. Acceptance wins out over doubt, and the old woman turns to Bǫlverkr once more.

“And when the time comes, you will be prepared to make the loss of the golden prince seem like a tragedy?”

“You know me, Siánialik.”

You blanch, and search desperately for something to do with your hands, something to make you look busy and uninterested and not at all scared. You begin clearing up the used goblets and piling them on the cart, biting at the inside of your lip to distract you and help you focus on not giving yourself away.

But you’re lightheaded in the wake of this conspiracy, this treason. Oh, fuck. That’s exactly what this is. You’re now an accomplice to proposed treason. You, now more than ever, don’t know what to do, and you think you’re entitled to be freaking out about it but you can’t right this second since you’re pretending to be an unimportant little umb servant.

“Very good,” the old woman, Siánialik, pronounces. “Vanaheim will have the throne.”

And that seems to be everyone’s cue to rise and make their way from the room, and you begin wiping the table with a rag, trying to move at a normal, unperturbed pace, and Ülle approaches you.

“When you’re finished with that, bring the cart back to the kitchen. I trust you know the way? You won’t get lost again?” she says distractedly, and you shake your head even though you’re not sure she’ll even see it, but you can’t slip up and give a verbal answer now.

As soon as she’s out the door, you let your head sink into your hands, gasping in deep breaths. You give it ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty. And then you bolt from the room and fly in the direction you’d been lost before, hoping that you’ll run into Prince Thor or Loki or anyone at all who can deliver a warning.

Part 9

#loki fic #loki fanfic #loki/reader #loki/you #loki x reader #loki x you #loki odinson x reader #loki odinson x you #loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson x you #loki imagine #loki fandom #if you know where to look #bifrostgiant writes

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tintinwrites · 6 years

Text

eccedentesiast | Poe Dameron x Reader

A/N: This is what I came up with, dear anon! May you enjoy, as well as others! I meant to write this yesterday, but had an early day and was tired, so I hope it’s okay. Set pre-Force Awakens.

Rating: T.

Warning: Poe gets his ass whooped. Mentions of blood.

Word count: Apparently, it’s 1,538 which is long for a drabble but are you really going to complain

Prompt: “Just smile, I really need to see you smile right now.” (as requested by an anon from this list of prompts)

Tags: @fireboltrose7559 (you asked to be tagged in everything, and so you shall be!)

It was no secret that there was at least a little something going on between you and Poe.

Sure, nothing official. It was mostly flirting, with an obvious close bond. Rarely did a day go by without you talking to each other and you had begun to notice an odd fluttering feeling in your belly and tightening in your chest when you saw him.

If one of you was cleaning your ship, the other would soon come along and help, chatting about whatever was new. Old stories would be relayed when it had been too soon after the last time you conversed for anything to be new.

Your care for each other was definitely evident whenever a mission would end successfully and the two of you would embrace. Sometimes there was laughter, sometimes there were proud compliments over the amazing things the other did; there were even a few times you spun around together in your joy. One thing that remained constant was how you still held onto each other for a brief moment after pulling apart, Poe grinning and you smiling sheepishly at the display of affection.

The pure happiness and relief opened up the rest of you, allowing deep emotions to break through.

This mission did the same, if you could call it successful.

It was successful. Your squadron completed what they came to do. Wasn't that the definition of succeeding? Completing your task?

But there was no hug. No elation. There was fear and despondency.

You succeeded at the cost of Poe. Damn it, he was too stubborn, and too sure, and too cocky in the face of danger.

It was an alien that considered themselves aligned with the First Order, terrorizing a planet in their name. He was big, bigger than Poe at least, and the reckless pilot decided to face him head on anyway.

He tried to talk him down and when he realized that wasn't going to work, he resorted to using his blaster.

Which the alien smacked out of his hand with little effort, sending it soaring into a nearby lake. Poe nearly sounded nervous, saying he had to be somewhere, and had a giant hand wrapped around his throat before he could run back to his ship.

He fought valiantly, you intended to tell General Organa when you thought of it. He got several good hits in and at least had the alien dazed.

But he was much worse off.

You had watched this from afar, forcing yourself to stay put as per his orders. Close or not, he was your commander, and you hoped he knew what he was doing. You had tried to come out of the hiding spot that sheltered you and your squadron at one point, needing to help him, only to get a desperate warning look from him. He was facing you, on his belly on the ground, before he was lifted off the ground by an ankle.

You knew you had to defy his orders when he was hit for the dozenth time and collapsed right there in the dirt. You didn't care if you got a penalty when you were back at base, since his opponent was lifting a foot to bring it down on his head.

Poe weakened the alien considerably, but you were the one who took him out. You stood and shot at him with your blaster. Then again. Again.

Again and again, walking closer until he, too, fell to the dirt, not moving.

Poe wasn't moving much either, you noticed when your urgency faded and you looked down at him.

You lost your grip on your blaster, not caring much as you fell to your knees and it landed next to you. "Poe?" You put your hands on his shoulders and shook him carefully. There was so much blood, you had no idea what parts of him were and weren't injured. "Poe. Poe. Poe!"

Adrenaline was leaving, tears gathering in your eyes as you tried to get your friend — was he your friend? Was there a word for the relationship between friends and lovers? — to wake up. It proved fruitless, so you moved to feel for a pulse. You were scared by how hard you had to focus to feel it lightly thumping against your fingertips.

"Medic." You looked over to where the rest of the squadron was, coming out of hiding now, looking at Poe with looks of varying degrees of horror on their faces. "He needs a medic!"

Jessika broke out of her fearful daze first, turning to another pilot, "Get to your ship and tell General Organa we need medical transport. Now!"

You watched the pilot run off before you turned your attention back to Poe. You pulled him into your arms with some effort, managing to get his torso up onto your legs.

You weren't sure how long it was before the medical transport ship arrived, staying on the ground with Jess and Snap kneeling by you, both trying to rouse Poe. It wasn't too long, even though it felt like hours upon hours. Of course it felt like hours, since time was most likely of the essence.

That thought scared you.

The Resistance's medical personnel was trying to pry him from your arms before you realized they needed him and you reluctantly let go. You followed the whole way, though, until you felt someone grab onto your arm as you were about to get on the transport ship.

"Your ship." It was Snap, eyes full of concern and fear.

You hesitated, torn. You could go with Poe to make sure he was okay, but you would have to leave your X-wing on the planet. There was no telling whether or not it would be in good shape once you returned for it.

You looked at a member of the medical team. "Keep him safe." You stepped back, then turned and ran for your ship, hurriedly climbing inside.

The cockpit closed and you fell apart. The tears spilled from your eyes, and your breath hitched from sobs you tried to keep at bay. You allowed yourself as much time to cry as it took for you to force yourself to calm down.

Then you were starting your ship and pulling it up into the air, following the transport ship and the rest of your squadron. You were sure the trip from the base took far less time than the trip back to it.

Your X-wing landed hard, skidding into its designated compartment, the engine barely powering down before you were out, jumping straight to the ground. Pain shot through your legs and you knew they would be sore from the impact later, but you were too busy running for the medical ship to care.

They were taking Poe out in a grav-stretcher, moving quickly to take him into the base while you ran alongside. You wiped your tears away as nurses met you inside, fussing over him, administering something.

The hustle and bustle caused him to stir, eyes half-open as he looked around in confusion.

"Poe!" You pushed between a couple people, grabbing onto his hand.

"What...shit...I..." His eyes widened as much as they could in his state. "Kid...your face..."

You furrowed your brow in confusion before realizing you could feel his blood on your hands from when you'd held him. It must have transferred when you tried to hide your tears. "I'm fine." You squeezed his hand. "It's not mine."

"Then who..." He lifted his head just enough to see himself. He stared for a moment, then let his head fall back against the stretcher. "That's not good."

You could tell he was being facetious, the pain evident in his voice and his gaze. The thought of him being so hurt brought fresh tears that you couldn't even try to hold back.

"Hey...don't...'M fine. See?" His free hand lifted to give you a thumbs up. It fell down heavily.

You pressed your lips together to keep from crying out loud, giving an unconvincing nod.

"Just smile," He was slurring his words and you weren't sure if it was from the pain or whatever they injected him with. "I really need to see you smile right now."

You did your best, offering him a tight, shaky smile. "Commander Dameron, I defied your orders."

"What'd you do?" He started to blink sleepily.

"I left my station. I killed him before he could kill you. What's my penalty?"

"Mmm...gimme your dessert for a week." Now you did smile, letting out a teary laugh. Poe brightened. "There it is."

"You can't come." A nurse had her hand on your shoulder and you realized you were outside of the med bay.

You looked at Poe and he looked at you, and you leaned down to kiss him gently. He returned it slightly, staring up at you when you pulled back.

"What's that for?"

"Incentive for you to come back."

"—penalty revoked." And just like that, he fell unconscious and was taken through the doors to the med bay, his hand leaving yours.

You stood in the corridor, the rest of the squadron and General Organa coming up behind you, hoping he would be okay. Knowing he would be.

You smiled.

#poe dameron imagine #poe dameron x reader #star wars imagine #poe dameron fic #feel free to look at the prompts and send one in!#or make a request of your own #eccedentesiast means faking a smile okay it's a prettier meaning than that look it up if you want #I can re-write this if anon is displeased okay?

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winterskywrites · 5 years

Note

Hi! A prompt of Brainy getting frustrated about not understanding some social ques/phrases, and going to J'onn for advice/support. P.s. Really love your writing!

Querl is completely fluent in English. Not only that, but he is familiar with every dialect of English, and could theoretically communicate with any English-speaking person in the dialect that is most similar to theirs. And that’s only with English; Querl is also fluent in most other Earth languages, and could become fluent in the others if given a week. He prides himself on his ability to learn languages quickly, and the Legion has used it many times for negotiations and missions on planets where Interlac isn’t widely spoken. So theoretically, Querl should have no problem talking to anyone in the twenty-first century.

And yet, of all the things the people around him say, he thinks he understands about half of it.

The problem - one he should have anticipated - is turns of phrase. Querl’s never been particularly good with those. He knows dictionary definitions, and he knows what phrases literally mean, but once figurative meanings start coming into play…

He still doesn’t understand why Mon-El frequently says it’s “raining cats and dogs.” He’s never once seen a cat or a dog rain down from the sky, much less both.

When it comes to things he doesn’t know, Querl’s first reaction is always to learn them. However, in this situation, he’s yet to find a good teacher. Alex tends to throw around idioms without thinking about it, and when Querl asks what they mean, she often struggles to explain them to his satisfaction. And although English isn’t Kara’s first language, she’s become so immersed in it that she also uses phrases without a second thought, and her ability to explain them is even worse than Alex’s.

But, Querl thinks, there’s someone else he can go to, someone who is, by all accounts, an excellent teacher.

“J’onn,” he says when he reaches J’onn’s new office, “I have a query for you.”

“Go ahead,” J’onn says, leaning back on the table. “Is it something to do with Supergirl?”

“No,” Querl admits. “It’s a more… personal matter. I hoped to ask for your help.”

“Of course,” J’onn agrees immediately. “What do you need?”

“I have been having difficulty understanding some of the agents at the DEO,” Querl admits. “There are times when people say things, but apparently they mean something different. Or times when people say things, but their statements are paired with certain gestures or looks, which affect the statement’s meaning. Or times when people say things, but their words have a specific idiomatic meaning that I don’t know.”

“Okay,” J’onn says, frowning slightly. “It sounds like you’re having difficulty with things like body language and idioms.”

“And facetiousness,” Querl adds. “But yes, those are my main difficulties.”

“Well,” J’onn says, “I don’t know how much I can help with sarcasm, but I can teach you some idioms, and I might be able to help with reading body language.”

“Any help would be much appreciated,” Querl says. “It is… frustrating, to not understand what people are saying. Or, sometimes, to say things with a meaning that’s different from what I intend.”

“I understand,” J’onn agrees. “English isn’t my first language. I had a lot of these problems too. But I’m sure you can figure it out, just like I did.”

“I believe I can,” Querl agrees. “With your aid, of course. I can pay you for your efforts, if you’d like.”

J’onn laughs. “You don’t have to pay me, Brainy. We’re friends. Helping each other is what friends do.”

“Indeed,” Querl says with a small smile. “Friends.”

#querl dox #brainiac 5 #j'onn j'onzz #martian manhunter #brainy & j'onn #supergirl #my writing #prompt #taki-nee-chan

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kashimos-hajime · 6 years

Text

Social Justice

Request: could you do a peter kavinsky x reader imagine where everyone in the school knows your Peter's, so they don't even dare try hitting on you, except this one guy does it so often that Peter just gets so angry. But instead of yelling at him in a angry manner, Peter confronts him with such sarcasm and calmness that it ends up scaring the guy away? yeah idk? something like that i guess...

A/N: Hope I do you justice, anon!

As always, thank you @teawithbucky for giving this a read over before I let you all read it.

Masterlist and Taglist are in my bio!

Summary: When a new student threatens the power couple of high school, you and Peter Kavinsky firmly put him back in his place with a proper verbal smack down.

Characters: Peter Kavinsky

Wordcount: 1.7k

Rating: T (swearing, one slap, sexual harrassment, strong feminist views because I can’t help myself and I love writing a strong Reader)

You grab your what-was-once-hot coffee and sigh, raking your gaze over the stack of textbooks in your locker. It’s lunch (finally) and you’re exhausted.

“Hey, babe,” Peter greets, sneaking up behind you with his hands on your hips. Not paying him any mind, you cast a doubtful look at the chemistry textbook, wondering if you should study during lunch.

“How was the chem test?” you ask and he plucks the takeaway coffee cup from your hand. He quickly presses a kiss to your neck before taking a sip of your coffee. Making a face, he swallows painfully and you try to stifle a smile.

“It was pretty easy. You should be good to go for tomorrow.” He heads down the hall to throw away the cup as you nod to yourself. That means less work for you. Closing your locker, you smile at your boyfriend. He always has a habit of making you smile even when all you want to do is frown so much that the lines become permanently engraved on your face. Adjusting your backpack, you sneak an arm around his waist as he tosses one around your shoulders, bringing you close.

“Wanna get some subs?” Shrugging, you push open the school doors just as someone calls your name.

“(Y/N)! Hey!” Turning around, you feel Peter’s arm fall away as you spot Thomas Callaway who’d been assigned as your chem partner since the new seating arrangement had taken place. Also a new student, you’d been assigned as his tour guide for his first month. “Hey.”

“Thomas, hey.” Smiling, you brush a piece of hair behind your ear as Peter grabs your free hand, kissing your temple. “Do you need something?”

“Uh, I was wondering if you wanted to come with me to the movies? See the new Shades of Grey movie?” He has a smirk on his face but you, knowing that every Thursday means a chill night with Peter, shake your head.

“Sorry, I have plans.” With one last (not so) apologetic look, you and your boyfriend turn around and he reaches for the door when Thomas calls out again.

“How about lunch? We can ditch the afternoon.”

“I’m gonna get subs with Peter,” you say and Thomas’ eyes go to the taller Peter Kavinsky who has an indifferent expression directed down at him.

“Right. Is that even allowed?”

“As long as you don’t tell,” you say flatly. “Can you find your way to the cafeteria?”

He stutters for a moment, at a loss for words before uttering, “Yeah. Uh, maybe next time?” You shrug and then the two of you turn. Tossing a glance over your shoulder, you offer a forced smile.

“Yeah, next time.”

As the two of you leave the high school, Peter lets go of your hand and resumes the arm around your shoulder.

“Who was that?” he asks, acting disinterested. Knowing he’s only trying to act aloof, you nudge him in the ribs.

“My new chem partner. Play nice for now.”

“If he doesn’t stop flirting with you, I might have to mark my territory,” he mumbles with a hot glare and you laugh, resting your head against his shoulder.

“Don’t worry. I don’t like him either.” He tilts your chin up, pressing a full kiss against your mouth. Pushing back, you wrinkle your nose when he pulls away first. “Come on. We needa get back in time.” Tugging your hand, the two of you start in a run towards the Subway down the block.

As the month goes on, you find yourself more short-tempered and annoyed than a usual first month back. Normally September’s weather makes you all calm and happy, but with Thomas Callaway as your parasite, you find yourself being unable to be anything but.

It started out fine. Little proposals to hang out, to study, and then it became outrageous.

“Hey, good lookin’.”

“If your name came up in ‘Smash or Pass’, I’d full on smash.”

“Your ass in jeans shouldn’t be legal.”

Let’s just say Peter’s temper matched yours whenever the two of you saw him. To say the most popular couple in school is on a warpath is an understatement. Although the both of you are well respected in your own right, everyone knows to stay the fuck away from either of you. Every girl and guy has made a solidarity pact and everyone likes (or respects or fears) both you and Peter too much to so much as glance in the direction of your boobs and his dick.

Callaway just didn’t get the damn fucking memo.

As the date of homecoming approaches, you know that Peter will plan something elaborate to ask you out. Every year you feel the urge to tell him it doesn’t matter. He could ask you while you were in the middle of the exam and you’d still say yes. Not enthusiastically, but you would say yes. Unfortunately for you, that means that Thomas Callaway’s ‘suave’ flirtations doubled in amount.

As you stand at your locker during break, stuffing your notebook into your locker, you feel another presence hover over you.

“Hey, (Y/N).” Mentally preparing yourself, you pay Callaway no mind even when his breath puffs over your ear. “You got a date to homecoming? Because if you don’t...” He clicks his tongue and jabs a thumb towards himself. Rolling your eyes, you pause to calm yourself down before beginning to jam your textbook into your locker a lot harder than God intended.

“As I’ve told you a thousand times, I am going with Peter. I have been dating him since I have met you; that is not going to change, and I don’t want to go with anyone else.”

“Aw, come on. What does he have that I don’t?” Callaway asks, coming closer until his lips brush against your ear. Closing your eyes, you give him a count to three. You know people are staring and whispering, probably at how stupid this new guy is and when you give him two extra seconds and count to five, you’re wondering why you’re so merciful today. “Come on, baby, why don’t you bend over-”

“Woah!” Whirling around, you slap him hard across the face. He stumbles back as you storm up to him, digging a finger hard into his chest. “No. You don’t get to say that. You do not get to come to my locker, into my personal space, and insinuate things I don’t like, even after weeks of me saying no. You may have been able to push around other girls, make them feel uncomfortable, but let me tell you,” you chuckle, “you chose the wrong girl. I am not afraid to stand up to you. I am not afraid to make a scene. You have been sexually harassing me, even when I have calmly, firmly told you no. I have been forced to work with you because the school has told me to do so. You seem to mistake it for interest. I assure you. It is not. I loathe you. I despise you. And don’t think I won’t report you to the goddamn principal. You’re nasty.”

“You wonder what Peter Kavinsky has over you? A sense of what consent is near the top of the list,” you snap. “Leave me alone, Callaway.”

“Bitch,” he spits and you laugh facetiously. So he’s one of those people. “You’re probably one of those sluts who has him wrapped around your finger while you go off blowing all his friends.”

“Oh, don’t be one of those sad, sad guys. Calling me names because I hurt your little fragile ego? Slut-shaming? Really? I hope you grow up before you even think about asking another woman out again.” Slamming your locker closed, you turn to walk away when you see your boyfriend standing there with a slight smile on his face. A crowd has half-formed, students littering the halls in a semi-circle around you but you don’t care.

“You know, that wasn’t smart of you to piss her off like that,” Peter starts dangerously, walking forward and placing himself between you and Callaway. “Mostly because one, she can fucking kick your ass and two, she has a boyfriend who can probably bench press you right now if he wanted to.” Peeking around Peter, you see Callaway stare at you. “You know what else was a genius move of yours? Hitting on a girl who has a boyfriend.” Peter smiles blandly at the shorter guy as he takes a few paces up to him. “I’ve let it go, seeing as how you’re the new guy, but let me make one thing very, very clear. You come near her again outside the classroom again, and I don’t think you’ll like what happens to you, Thomas. You are not worth her time with how you act and what you say. Grow up, dude, seriously.”

Peter genuinely sounds disgusted and disappointed; so deeply so that it makes you chuckle and he glances back at you. He winks and you smirk as he turns back to Callaway.

“Go, man. Why are you still here? You’re just embarrassing yourself.” There’s a long moment where Callaway stares at you then drags his gaze back to Peter.

“Whatever. You’re not worth my time anyways. Skank.” You roll your eyes. What a classic tactic to bid for the last word. Name-calling. Cute.

“Uhm, bitch, you’re walking a fine line.” Peter crosses his arms over his chest and for a moment, there’s a long stare-off. “You’re dismissed, Callaway.” Another tense silence, then Callaway turns pushes through the crowd. “Let him through.”

“Alright guys, showdown is over. Let’s just get back to class,” you announce as Peter finally turns around with that wide smile you know is for you.

“I am so blessed that you’re my girl,” he whispers and you laugh as you wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him. “Honestly, I only wanted to step in for my two-cents but watching you verbally kick his ass was pretty great.”

“Well, now you’re making me blush,” you faux-swoon and he laughs, twirling you around. “Come on. Let’s get to class.” Pulling away, you extend your hand towards him and he takes it, swinging your arms as you walk to history.

“I love you.” Beaming from ear to ear, you feel your neck warm up as you stare at the tiles beneath your shoes.

“I love you, too.”

TAGS: @teawithbucky @shadowsndaisies @meemeehoelland

#to all the boys ive loved before #to all the boys i've loved before #tatbilb #to all the boys i've loved before movie #to all the boys i've loved before fanfiction #to all the boys ive loved before fanfiction #to all the boys i've loved before fanfic #to all the boys ive loved before fanfic #tatbilb fanfiction #tatbilb fanfic #peter kavinsky #peter kavinsky imagine #peter kavinsky x reader #my writing #peter kavinsky fanfiction #peter kavinsky fanfic

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sickandtideeeee · 6 years

Text

By Bast - Chapter One (Erik x reader)

so I tried my best to make a self-imposed deadline. Hopefully this is good!

** also in order for this to make sense, please read the prologue*

“For Bast’s sake, why are you guys so loud?!” Amina hissed loudly, all but drowned out by the music booming out of the overhead speakers almost directly above your table. You noticed out of the corner of your eye a couple turning to give you a dirty look and grimaced, raising your glass to your lips. Across from you, your other two girlfriends paused their raucous laughter for a split second before breaking out into more giggles.

“Please madam, can we not laugh?” Kali said, pushing back her long Senegalese twists, fallen to her face in all her excitement.

“What’s funny?” Amina pressed on your behalf. You personally were unbothered, but Amina, now recently being accepted as a late term Dora Milaje, was a lot more serious about keeping the going-ons of the palace under wraps. You, however, were content to let them talk as much as they wanted, and your friends usually did just that.

“Well…” Kali began, rolling her eyes.

“It’s just that after all the years of Ms. Scientific Revolution here yelling ‘ritual is antithetical to progress’, ‘ritual makes us slaves to habit’, or ‘ritual is overvalued in our culture’, now she’s in the temple bowing like she met her god personally.” Asha chimed in, her deep alcohol-induced blush apparent on her face, pale from albinism. She threw back the rest of her cup, and as she met eyes with Kali again, both immediately both burst out laughing.

You sighed, and Amina, seated by your side, frowned at the two but eased back into her seat, crossing her hands over her chest. She watched your expression with a sympathetic look. You raised an eyebrow back at her, wondering what she was so concerned about.

“What?”

“Did something happen?” she asked.

You shook your head no, but internally acknowledged that something truly had stirred inside you over the months since that night. Although your daily routines were the same, you now found yourself staring too long into the faces of strangers, and praying every night to a goddess you were sure for years never existed for an explanation. You even found yourself now enjoying the weekday mornings you spent tending the Herb Garden with your adoptive father, and had started to spend half-hours meditating in the spiritual compound on the weekends.

Working in the garden was initially a chore you loathed growing up, even more so than the one-on-one spirituality and divination classes Papa Zuri had put you through every weekday. You had all but escaped a true apprenticeship thanks to King T’Chaka, who found that you were better suited for the department of science and technology division, as it was before Shuri revamped it. (Later on, you had found out per Asha that part of the reason you were removed from some of the temple duties was because some of the older medicine women had begun to complain about your irreverence and thought you’d eventually set off some catastrophe if the gods got angry.)

Unfortunately for your adoptive father, the side effect of the dual appointment was your insistence on lobbying him for less discretionary use of the Herb. What he insisted was sacred, you insisted was simply mutated and could be mass produced for common use the same way vibranium was.

Now that you were pretty sure you had been visited by Bast, the Heart-Shaped Herb was no longer simply as a symbol of how the monarchy monopolized an organic resource that could be shared with many. You wanted to know what kings truly saw when they ingested it, and if it felt like anything in your own dream, apparition, whatever you called it.

Kali scoffed, rolling her eyes. “That’s what she says every time. Oh, definitely nothing happened, but all of a sudden, she’s respecting our religion.”

Amina gave her a dirty look, and Kali retorted with a cheeky grin, but her eyes revealed a faint nervous glimmer. Amina was at least six feet tall, with a large, muscular frame, and she looked intimidating with her originally full head of back length freeform locs now freshly shaven and ceremonially tattooed along the sides of her skull. Kali’s 5’1 waifish figure didn’t stand a chance if it truly came to blows.

"Are you really going to start taking the priestess work seriously?” Amina asked, eyebrows raised in curiosity, deciding to disregard Kali’s comment, which overheard could have actually had some serious implications. Religion and spirituality were paramount to most, if not all, of the townspeople, especially considering all the blessings Wakanda had presumably received from Bast. You had too often been protected by the fact that your father was the high priest, such that no one actually believed the rumors that his daughter was everything short of sacrilegious.

That, in addition to having immigrated from the outside, was a recipe for disaster.

You shrugged. “It’s probably too late to become a priestess, but I can at least take the time to learn the rituals for real. Who knows, maybe I could do the one for Prince T’Challa’s coronation.” This last part you shared without looking up, instead focusing on the ice cubes swirling in your glass as you shook it. You knew Amina, who was particularly smitten by the prince, would take the comment as a humble brag no matter how it was intended.

It would likely be a long time until the next ritual combat for king would begin, but the preparation could be good learning.

Amina’s eyes widened in surprise at your response, and clapped her hands together in shock.

“See how she disrespects us!” Kali snorted. “Maybe she’ll crown Prince T’Challa.”

She jumped to her feet, and grabbed Asha by the arm, who had long since tuned out the conversation and by the look of it was busy undressing several men in the club with her eyes. “I beg, let’s go dance. My song is playing and these men in here are… how you say, fiiiiiiiine!”

Mad over You by RunTown was now coming through the speakers, and Kali and Asha went whining off into the crowd. Amina tapped your arm, and when she saw you weren’t about to go anywhere, smiled with understanding and ran off with the other two. You would join them in a few; it was the last night Amina would be able to move freely outside the palace anyway. The second they had disappeared into the crowd you locked eyes with a handsome stranger across the room who flashed a flirty half-smile at you. You smiled back politely and lowered your eyes, but as soon as you realized he was making his way over, Nope went your social anxiety and you threw back the last of your drink before making your escape to the restroom.

A haze was slowly starting to form in your mind as you sat in the bathroom stall, waiting out who-knows-what, until you caught the flash of your communication bead from the corner of your eye. It was a message from Shuri. You opened it.

My father is dead.

___

In less than a week, all mourning rites had come to a close and Prince T’Challa had become King T’Challa in a triumphant show of power over the Jabari tribe. You were amazed at how intensely your entire country could grieve and turn around to form the explosion of vibrant joy that was Challenge Day. But then again, your Wakanda was magical and blessed, and the whole country knew it.

Today, you were escorted into the throne room by one of the King’s guard and presented before your new crowned king. Shuddering as the entryway panels shut loudly behind you, you immediately bowed your head deeply to greet him before being walked closer to the throne. Amina, head now fully shaven showing her full induction into the Adored Ones, stood out proudly from the line of guards posted along the walls of the throne room, and shot you an excited look, eyes twinkling. Unfortunately, the general, Okoye, noticed her lose focus and shot her a disparaging look. Amina quickly faced forward with renewed stern expression. She wears that warrior face well, you thought to yourself.

You looked away from the guard and faced T’Challa, who regarded you warmly. The throne appeared to suit him naturally, fit him like a glove. Yet it was no true surprise as by your recollection, he had been regal from the very first day you met him as a child.

“Come on, you have known me for too long to be doing all of those formalities.” He said, chuckling softly, motioning almost embarrassedly for you to stand up properly as he walked closer to you. He seemed to tower above you more than usual, and you wondered if he had grown taller since the last time he had seen you or if his new title had encouraged him to stand a little more confidently.

“That’s probably true, my King. But customs are customs, right?” You responded, smiling.

“Ah, stop with the King nonsense, Nkiru.” His hand rested softly now on your shoulder, and you found your face growing hot in embarrassment. Not here, not in front of Amina, you thought.

“Would you rather I have your guard destroy me for showing disrespect?” you quipped back with a sassy grin, eyeing Okoye whose lips betrayed a small smirk. You made a dramatic show of raising your hands in surrender, but mostly to shrug his hand off you, and he sighed, amused but exasperated.

You weren’t being facetious, this truly was more comfortable for you. The fact of the matter was that for some unknown reason, you had always felt some emotional distance from him. T’Challa was always Shuri’s older brother to you, and regardless of how aware you were that he was handsome, intelligent and sweet, you had been relatively immune to whatever unconscious charm he had on most girls in his vicinity. Sometimes you suspected that T’Challa realized this and would put the charisma on overdrive. Most likely he just enjoyed being the most eligible bachelor in Wakanda.

Too bad for him that most everyone in the capital knew how he felt about Nakia, princess of River tribe, who had come back from a posting as a War Dog to witness his coronation. You had even overheard a few girls in coffeeshops lamenting his relationship and hoping he had a long-lost brother or cousin or anyone else they could set their affections on.

There was a pause, and for a moment you began to worry about the true reason you had been called so formally. Then you remembered a rumor circulating the gardeners regarding T’Challa storming out of the spiritual compound after talking to Zuri a couple days ago. If this had anything to do with that you knew nothing, and hoped to continue being ignorant.

T’Challa suddenly broke the silence, clearing his throat softly.

“I just wanted to formally thank you for taking care of Shuri that night,” he began. “When…,” he paused for a moment, knowing the next words would be painful. “When my father died, I wasn’t able to be there for her and my mother, and I appreciated knowing that you would be there as her friend to console her.” He smiled again, with the slightest twinge of sadness this time.

“It was my pleasure, Kun-, I mean T’Challa,” you replied. He looked almost relieved that you’d stopped calling him king. Satisfied, he placed his hands behind his back and walked whimsically back to his seat. “I will add that I was pleased to see you at the ritual, even partaking in it.” He chuckled, settling back into his throne. “Imagine my surprise when I woke up from the ancestral plane to see you among those watching me.”

You cocked your head to the side in confusion.

“I’m just saying it was nice, that’s all.” He mused. Okoye now walked up beside you, and declared to the king that there would be an impromptu strategic meeting in a few moments. With that, you prepared to bow out quietly. However, just as you began to make your way towards the exit, a parade of elders seemed to spill into the room, almost spinning you a full 360 as their attendants rushed in and lined the walls.

“What is the meaning of all this?” Nakia’s father, the River tribe elder, exclaimed as he entered the room. Flamboyant as he was, his attendants quickly rushed to place a chair beneath him and he eased into it without looking back, crossing his legs as he sat down. “I will have you know that I, too, have plans and cannot be rushed in to talk about any foolish man that wanders onto our territory.”

T’Challa’s jaw tensed, but he said nothing, allowing the growing commotion to build.

The Merchant tribe elder sucked her teeth as she was accompanied into the room by her own attendants, hands behind her back. The Queen Mother and Shuri came in together, muttering quietly under their breath.

As quickly as the rest of the elders entered the room and were seated, their attendants scurried out of the room. Whatever was going on was serious and private, you guessed. A fan of minding your own business, you attempted the same…

Until you heard the voice again, and your heart skipped a beat as a wave of panic crashed over you.

Stay a little longer.

Your legs were frozen in place before the door, but your interior felt like fire and flames and thunder. Something big was about to happen. The grumble and brouhaha of the assembly had quieted into a low hush and you could feel eyes on you as your back as you, the intruder, stood motionless before the doors to the assembly. But no one said a word. And if they did, you paid them no mind.

You soon could hear a multitude of footsteps on the other side of the entryway, mirroring your own fast heartbeat. You held your breath.

The doors slid open, and you saw him, the literal man of your dreams, in the flesh for the first time. As you matched this new stranger’s features to your recollection, time might as well have stood still. You felt the same cool wind without a source from so long ago blow past you, and then a new wash of that eerie calm. Your heartbeat stabilized, your breathing slowed, your muscles relaxed.

The stranger’s arms were shackled behind him, but those handcuffs may as well have been a fashion accessory. He held his head high, walking with a confident swagger into T’Challa’s presence as if he were giving the Border tribesmen a tour of his very own home. His eyes quickly surveyed the room around you, taking it in and then rested on you.

He gave you the same quizzical look you’d seen before. But just as quickly as it had appeared, it was replaced by a smirk.

“You cute and all, but uh, you gon move out of the way so I can talk to ya King?” he said, voice low, smooth and flat with disinterest.

Like an incantation, your legs seem to unstick from the center of the room, and you ran out of the throne, overcome with a feeling between offense and minor humiliation, to let him do his damage.

Bast would have to help you out with this one.

@syndrlla97 @iwantsomethingeternal @1killmonger

[Prologue][Chapter Two][Chapter Three][Chapter Four][Chapter Five][Chapter Six][Chapter Seven][Chapter Eight]

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