#u might not be the father but you can be my- [gunshot] | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

arachine · 1 year

Text

— what's going on down there?: a dick analysis

ᥫ᭡ featuring :: jake sully, miles quaritch & norm spellman

ᥫ᭡ includes :: their human forms + avatar forms

ᥫ᭡ genre :: mature

ᥫ᭡ content warnings :: talking about dicks obviously, explicit sexual content (?), humor lol

ᥫ᭡ note :: if you know anything about arachine, you know i love a good dick analysis. these posts are intended for comedic purposes only, which means they’re not to be taken seriously.

— jake “ima slut you out” sully

. . . human form .*+!

⟳ length: as we all know, jake’s life on earth was very unfulfilling. he was a man who sacrificed his legs for the fate of the country, only to be disposed of into the unforgiving hands of society, with no way to reap the benefits (or lack thereof) that veterans were promised to receive. and after losing the privilege of mobility, his body changed drastically. he got smaller, his body got weaker, and yet, one thing remained—that dick! jake is a survivor, through and through—his personal motto is: if it ain’t broken, then it’s still working—and boy, he does not disappoint when it comes to the downstairs department. standing tall at 7 inches, is little jake (maybe not so little). when flaccid, his length measures at a solid 5.7 inches. definitely a grower.

⟳ width: a little bit on the skinnier side, but he knows how to use it and that’s all that matters!

⟳ color: i think for the most part, his shaft definitely matches the rest of his body; though, i can see it maybe being slightly a little more darker at the base, like a very light beige. when he’s flaccid, his tip is a pretty pink, almost like a ballet slipper (aka the best pink). turns into an angry red when fully erect!

⟳ extra:

01. groomed?: jake pegs me as the kinda guy who doesn’t really care? i mean, trimming isn’t foreign to him, because he has trimmed it before, and does so when he notices it’s gotten to be too long…but, i don’t think it’s something that he does often. to him, it’s just hair. he’s on his grown man shit, you know?

02. curved?: uhm, yes! you know that one beyoncé lyric? yeah.

03. any veins?: absolutely covered in ‘em

04. how he fucks with it: i’d like to think before his accident, he was a doggy style connoisseur—come on, it’s jake we’re talking about here. can’t nobody tell me otherwise! i just know he had bitches bent over, weaves sweated out, makeup all over the pillows…mans was f-u-c-k-i-n-g okay? fuckingggg.

. . . avatar form .*+!

⟳ length: the masses may attack me, but it’s time i spoke up. the man has a monster schlong. a cooter cat killer, if you will. if you thought his human form was big, shit, you ain’t seen nothing yet! completely flaccid, his cock measures to about 10 inches. when fully hard, he grows an additional three! talk about impressive…

⟳ width: so thick that it basically slaps his thighs when he walks. the man could create a beat with it, get em into the soundcloud business now!

⟳ color: self explanatory tbh, it’s fucking blue. as blue as papa smurf’s ass.

⟳ extra:

01. groomed?: i’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that because he’s an avatar, he grows hair there. even if i’m wrong, i’m right. i don’t give a damn what james cameron says. he’s basically my character at this point, and i will him to have hair damnit! just…the idea of him having a full bush down there, in the wild, all primitive and shit…does something to me. idk. don’t ask me why i’m so nasty, blame my deadbeat father.

02. curved?: is a banana yellow? there’s your answer.

03. any veins?: i might have a brain aneurysm just thinking about it, but yes! god, yes. so many…so, so, so many. ribbed for her pleasure or whatever trojan said.

04. how he fucks with it: is he still the doggy style connoisseur? yes. but now that’s got the strength of 20 men, backshots sound a whole lot like gunshots now. they say every time the mighty toruk makto thrusts into a cunt, a tree falls down or something. so, yes. fucks hard, fucks rough, fucks like he’s on a mission. what’s that one tik tok audio? “rest in peace to all the soldiers that died in the service, i dive in her cervix.” yeah, he lives by that.

— miles “on your knees, cadet!” quaritch

. . . human form .*+!

⟳ length: just gonna cut right to the chase. he’s huge. like pussy splitting huge. i don’t care what anyone says, you can argue with ya friend, you can argue with ya mother, but you cannot argue with me! coming in at a solid 6 when flaccid, quaritch takes the cake for the biggest cock on this list (at least, human form wise). at full length, he measures to about 7.8 inches!

‘booooo’ you say, well, guess what? it’s the truth, and i’m just the messenger. whether you hate him or love him, he’s just that guy.

⟳ width: surprisingly average. but it’s okay, sometimes you can’t have the best of both worlds.

⟳ color: if my memory serves me right, he was pretty tan in the first movie. so, i’m gonna stick with that and say that it’s a pretty tan that transitions into a pale pink. i don’t know if some of you have seen old dick, but their tips get less saturated with age. it’s a phenomenon (not really, the blood flow to the groin is just a lot slower, which can make it appear kind of gre—anyway, i digress!)

⟳ extra:

01. groomed?: this man is a colonel, so he’s all about discipline and keeping things nice and tidy. so, obviously, his hygiene reflects that. i don’t think he goes completely bald, but he does give it a good trim. kind of like a fade…just imagine a patch of grey, prickly hair. yeah.

02. curved?: yes, and since he’s older, it’s probably curved a lot. you could probably hang something on it. maybe a towel, or a lanyard. it’s definitely useful for something!

03. any veins?: god, i don’t know why, but i have it in my head that he’s on steroids. he’s just so buff and strong, and i mean, yeah, he could just be really fit…but he could also be a self-image obsessed freak who takes drugs to be the perfect soldier. the correlation, you ask? well, i just feel like people who take steroids are really veiny, and i feel like his dick would be really, really veiny. so, thus the rant about steroids. steroid dick.

04. how he fucks with it: don’t let his age fool you. he may very well be pushing his late fifties, but he’s still a young man at heart—and he’s definitely got the sex drive to prove it! i can see his favorite position being something like missionary. not so much because he enjoys the intimacy of it (like being face to face), but more so because he’s got a size kink—and definitely a dacryphilia kink. he enjoys seeing his partners cry, whether in pain, or in pleasure, or both! so, when you’re fucking him, don’t expect anything romantic. he just wants to see your pretty little face all teary eyed and pathetic.

. . . avatar form .*+!

⟳ length: so big you can see it from space; that’s how the RDA mfs know they’re close, because they can see the tip protruding from pandora. no, but seriously, it’s still really huge. like maybe 12-14 inches—maximum.

⟳ width: probably twice as thick as a human’s forearm. and god, it’s sooooo heavy. big breeding balls to match.

⟳ color: blue blue blue…like wet fun dip. with just as many stripes as the american flag or whatever.

⟳ extra:

01. groomed?: yes, but the hair is black instead of grey and it’s probably really straight because na’vi hair is straight as fuck.

02. curved?: sir, yes sir.

03. any veins?: what’d i say? steroid dick. but even worse (better) now bc he’s so damn tall, he needs all the blood he can get down there.

04. how he fucks with it: has you in all types of positions. his favorites are anything that shows off his new found strength, so i’m betting on full nelsons and mating presses. just fast, powerful strokes. lives by the motto: can’t stop, won’t stop.

— norm “what’s the sq root of 69?” spellman

. . . human form .*+!

⟳ length: i’m sorry to disappoint the norm fuckers (if there are any), but he’s not that big. when he’s soft, his cock measures to about 4.8 inches, and at most, 6.2 inches when hard.

⟳ width: skinny dick.

⟳ color: dawg he’s so white, it’s like hella pale and the tip is so pink that when he’s aroused, it looks like there’s something wrong.

⟳ extra:

01. groomed?: like jake, i don’t think he really cares.

02. curved?: straight like a pencil

03. any veins?: like two, and they’re really prominent because he’s so fucking pale.

04. how he fucks with it: i don’t think human norm is getting puss, let’s be real.

. . . avatar form .*+!

⟳ length: i am a firm believer in N.W.B.C—nerds with big cocks. it’s just the universe’s way of saying thank you, they just…they just do so much for us, you know? norm may not have been packing down there in his human form, but this was his second chance at redemption. he’s now a proud member of N.W.B.C, sporting an impressive 15 inches. you know that one scene in the first spider-man when pete’s looking at himself in the mirror and he looks inside his briefs? yeah, that was norm when he found out. the man got so excited, he accidentally catapulted a scientist out of pandora’s atmosphere with the weight of his cock. joking.

⟳ width: on the skinnier side but still toe curling, nonetheless.

⟳ color: laffy taffy blue, with little (big) blueberry balls.

⟳ extra:

01. groomed?: no, he’s too busy in the lab and getting na’vi puss.

02. curved?: unfortunately no

03. any veins?: more than before, which he was pleasantly surprised to see.

04. how he fucks with it: norm’s got a big dick, but he acts so shy, like he’s scared of it or something. like stop playing boy and drop them drawls, the fuck? anyway, i think norm’s a sub. he pegs me as the type of guy who likes strong women, women who’ll tell him to shut the fuck up (because he talks so much) and eat their pussies. i guess this makes him a munch. yeah, he’s a munch. ice spice actually wrote that song with him in mind!

#jake sully x reader #jake sully x reader smut #jake sully smut #miles quaritch x reader #miles quaritch x reader smut #miles quaritch smut #avatar x reader #avatar x reader smut #avatar the way of water #avatar the way of water smut #atwow x reader #atwow smut

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tanzmajor · 2 years

Note

can you do "none of that matters anymore" with doc ock? from the prompt list

there are times (when i will need you)

fandom: spider-man

pairing: otto octavius/reader

summary: otto comes home and reader is concerned about the blood that isn't his.

warnings: blood, mentions of doc perhaps comitting murder, doc calls u foolish girl and i swear i fell in love - (gunshots)

authors note: thank you for the request! i had my fun with this bc honestly, we all deserve a lil doc ock covered in blood in our life 😔😔

word count: 1.1k

find this fic on ao3.

It’s not his.

It shouldn’t comfort you. But it does regardless.

You could tell from the way he stumbled into your apartment – grasping at whatever comfort you had lingering in the air in between your own four walls.

It’s a deep red that marks his face, and you notice it right away when he finally catches you in your kitchen.

You bolt up from your seat, your open laptop long forgotten as you meet him halfway, hoping to catch him with your much smaller body – just in the case, you’re wrong. That it’s his own blood that is sticking a few strands of his hair down against his forehead. You try to not think about the fact that it most likely isn’t.

He rasps your name like an unanswered prayer – letting himself be guided by your kind hands and the pull of the actuators attached to his spine. Despite your suspicions about the origin of the blood, you ask him regardless.

“Are you alright?”

You propose the question when you get a better look at his face. His brows are furrowed, and he has that tired look on his face again – the one he wears way too much for your liking.

You make him sit down, how he actually manages to not wreck your kitchen with the actuators in the process is beyond you – but he manages to regardless. He avoids your eyes, and tries to pull his face away and out of your grasp when you reach both of your hands out to take off his sunglasses. As your fingertips grasp around the thin metal of the glasses, a gloved hand grabs a hold of your wrist.

He’s panicking, somewhere deep inside of him. He’s struggling to hide it, whatever he did threatening to tear him apart at the seams.

There’s blood on his gloves too. You feel it. The wetness – the way it feels mixed with the surface of the leather. You shake his hand off with a smooth motion, and remove his sunglasses to place them down onto the table. You’re standing in front of him, only slightly towering him as he looks up at you.

“What happened?”

You try again.

“You don’t want to know.”

He says as if it’s a normal statement. Panic bubbles inside of you as you take a hold of his face – fingers right underneath his chin to tilt his head in different directions – checking for injuries. Your thumb grazes over his cheekbone and you just know that when you take the hand back – it’ll be stained red too.

“Are you hurt? Somewhere?”

You ask softly. He shakes his head. You’re about to reach for his coat – wanting to pull it away from the thick material of his turtle neck when one of the actuators snaps in front of you. The mechanical whirring startles you, and you try to take a step back – but there is one behind you as well.

He hisses at whatever they were telling him – snarling at it as it opens its claw in front of you. It was dangerously close to your face, and you could smell the faint hint of metal and oil that floats around with them. Red light shines into your face – and you’re afraid that it might blind you.

He bares his teeth as he looks to the side – the claw moves to face him. Father looking at his child for a scolding after bad behavior – and the red light highlights the blemishes on his face.

“Leave her the fuck alone. She’s just worried.”

Something shifts in the air when you look at the actuators holding themselves up in the air – and even though your kitchen doesn’t allow them the space to move freely, they still dominate the room. The feeling of being around them twists like a knife inside of you when you notice the same red that’s splotched on his face on the metal of one of the arms.

And yet you refuse to ask any incriminating questions, unsure of how he will react. You want to keep him here. You can’t bear the thought of him hiding again. Running away when it gets too much. Not after everything you’ve put yourself through to keep him here.

He’s always on edge – and no matter how much time you give him, how much space, how much love – there is nothing that you could do to take it all away. The pain always remains. It sits inside of him, underneath his heart, and is slowly burning a hole into him that nothing can fix.

Your hands are up in defense, and you try to take a step away from the actuators – but your attention falls back to Otto in front of you. He reaches out to you, gently grabbing a hold of your bend elbows as he pulls you back into him. Your knee touches his, and you rest your hands on his shoulders.

“What did you do?”

“None of that matters anymore. It’s done.”

He reaches for your face. He’s stroking a gloved hand over the edge of your jawline now, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear as he looks into your face and hopes to find something. A conclusion. A confession. A revelation even.

But the only thing he finds is you, and that’s good enough for him.

He doesn’t like the way they started to talk about you. The actuators. They’re scared of you. Scared of him growing soft because of you. They’re upset that perhaps, he is no longer focused – out of touch. That he’s growing domestic.

But it’s too late, you’ve already slithered your way into his heart and now he’s trying to find a good way to devour you whole. He is going to drown in you and he will do it with open arms.

You have an expression on your face that he can’t read – a mix of confusion, concern, and the slightest tinge of fear. But you’re still there, standing in front of him, your hands on his shoulders and thumbs moving back and forth. Comforting him even if he had just admitted to committing god knows what.

You’re still there and it’s a mistake, but you’re willing to repent during the aftermath.

“Would it be better for you if I leave?”

It was his turn to ask questions now. It’s a rhetorical question – of course, it would be. He’s too dangerous to be around you. You shake your head as an answer.

“Foolish girl.”

He says and tugs your face down to pull you into a kiss that makes it hard for you to remember any of the pros and contras you’ve ever mentally written down about him.

But it’s okay because you’d rather be foolish than be without him.

#doc ock x reader #otto octavius x reader #fanfiction #spider-man: no way home #doc ock #reader insert #tanzmajor speaks

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saintchrollo · 3 years

Note

For the 100 event... I guess chrollo and over thinking (the over thinker can be s/o tho)

hi nonnie i hope ... i hope u like cowboys ... i need to put the gas station romance novels DOWN. also .... i think this counts as yandere right?

noontime (yandere!chrollo x f!reader)

tw: knife(play), guns, arranged marriage (not w chrollo you’ll see its fun), blasphemy, but this is the phantom troupe.

A rock to your window pulls you away from where you’re stacking items from your desk by candlelight. The light dances across the room, dragging your silhouette across the walls as you around your bed to open your window. You lean over the windowsill, trying to see where the stone came form. Glancing down, you see none other than Chrollo Lucilfer, the leader of the feared group of bandit’s who made sure everyone referred to them as their proper name of the Phantom Troupe.

Another rock rests in his hand, which he flips and nearly throws before you open the window. His face is illuminated by the oil lamp, warm and artificial flame gracing across the high points, most of his face still in shadow from his hat. He removes it, however, when you lean over the edge of your balcony, looking around to make sure no one was around.

“Beautiful night, isn’t it, princess?” Chrollo asks, stepping closer to the window so he didn’t have to shout.

It’s a new moon tonight, which seems incredibly fitting for your plan. “It is.” And you weren’t lying. The lack of moon made the stars all the brighter, and the air was gentle and cool. “If you damage my windows, my daddy’s not going to be very happy.”

His smile is all teeth. “Oh no, not your father. Are we still on for tomorrow?” Chrollo’s eyes are wide, reflecting starlight.

“Please,” You whisper. “One moment, let me grab my bag.”

Stepping away from the window, you pull a cherrywood box out from under your bed, opening it to reveal velvet insides, where you keep your tarot cards and a crystal ball. You took the cards out and placed them in your bag, which was filled minimally: just a change of clothes for tomorrow, your notebooks so your family couldn’t read about you, and a few knicknacks.

Snapping the bag shut you head back to the window, where Chrollo has moved slightly, more towards the shadows. You notice, now, it’s where he’s tucked away his horse. You whistle, and he snaps his head up, holding his hands out expectantly. Tossing the bag down, he catches it easily and winks at you.

“Tomorrow at noon,” Chrollo promises.

Your heart swells and you nod. “Scare me.”

Chrollo’s smile is all confidence and cunning. He mounts his horse, reins comfortably resting among the knob of the saddle in loose, worn hands. “Careful what you wish for, Miss (Y/N).”

Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods, I got played, I got played, I’m no better than any other girl in this town, You think to yourself. It’s as hot as Hell in the church, the sunlight shining down brutally onto the pulpit. Your dress is soft, the lace scratching against your neck and the veil on your head feels a thousand times heavier than it should be.

The priest has been talking for hours, your knees hurt, and you glance over at Illumi, whose eyes are shut, long lashes brushing over his cheekbones. He wanted this just as little as you did, but marriage wasn’t going to be the end of his free will. You flipped your gaze back up to the priest, before back down, then over to your father, who looked so happy he could cry.

You think you might be sick.

There’s a low rumbling on the ground, and the priest falters, looking around for a moment. Someone in the congregation screams out an earthquake. But the rumblings get louder and there’s the sound of exciting whooping going back and forth and oh the gunshot that rings off and makes multiple people scream nearly brings tears of joy to your eyes.

And you put on the show of the lifetime, letting a panicked scream. You never liked to do things on your own, it was always fun to participate with everyone else. The door to the church slams open, bringing with it a wash of sunlight. Turning, you hold up a hand to block out the sunlight. Three silhouettes stand in the blinding light. A woman and two men, one much shorter than the other.

Someone in the rows of pews stands and cocks a gun, but the silhouette on the right is faster than he is. The man doesn’t even get a chance to scream out before his eyes roll back in his head and he goes to meet his maker.

“We truly don’t want any trouble.” Chrollo’s voice is as smooth as water over fool’s gold, “However, I have no problem adding any more sins to my conscience.”

He strides down the aisle, dressed in black, the lapis lazuli on his ears glinting in the light. He holds a knife in one hand, and takes his hat off with another, always respectful.

“My apologies, Father,” Chrollo directs to the priest. “I’ll make it up, I promise.”

All the old man does is yelp quietly and cower as far from him as possible. You glance over to the side and realize that Illumi is nowhere to be seen. You aren’t surprised, he does love to save himself.

The congregation is completely silent, save for the tears of the wife and mistress of the poor fool who had been killed moments prior. Looking down, you try not to make eye contact with Chrollo. Your plans are thwarted, however, when his knife slides across your jaw, tilting your head up to meet his. When your eyes meet his, he gives you a smile he must have learned from his namesake.

“Aren’t you as pretty as a pearl?” Chrollo whispers. “It’s so rude, don’t you think, that you didn’t do this for me.” His eyes slip over to the empty spot next to you, before back over you, tutting slightly. The whooping and pounding of horse hooves outside hasn’t stopped. “Nonetheless.”

Standing, Chrollo clears his throat. “Now.” He grabs your bicep, rough and unforgiving, pulling you to his chest, slotting his knife under your throat. “I feel like we are smart people here, no? If there are any objects, state them now so my beautiful accomplice with the gun over there can help you.”

For what it’s worth, Pakunoda gives a small nod and clicks her gun again. No one moves from their seats. A pleased hum rumbles through Chrollo’s chest. Backing out slowly, he keeps you close as a shield, as if daring someone to try anything.

And then the wind and the sand whip against your face and the knife isn’t as harsh, Chrollo’s hands ease up, the hatred leaving his touch. He places his hat back upon his head, leaving your veil on the dusty roads to be trampled over.

Smiling at you, Chrollo leans in to kiss you, but you place a hand on his chest, pushing him back.

“I got worried I would need a backup plan, there’s snake venom in my lipstick,” You whisper.

“Oh, (y/n),” Chrollo breathes. “I am crazy for you.”

The rest of the Troupe is there, mounted atop restless horses, most of them restless themselves. Gathering all of the fabric of your dress is quite the effort, but once you have hiked up, Chrollo helps you up onto his horse, then swings up behind you. The horse canters slightly, as Chrollo shifts to look at the most restless member.

“Phinks, would you like to stay behind?” He asks.

“Fuck, yes,” Phinks says, already dismounting. He cracks his knuckles, sliding brass atop them, before heading in. The doors swing open and sounds of screams can be heard on the other side, along with the shaking of fights. The carnage is enough to make you want to avoid your eyes, but you can’t help yourself. The doors slam shut, muffling the sounds once more.

And Uvogin whoops, the sound mirrored back immediately by Shalnark, with a cheery grin atop his face.

“Excellent,” Chrollo says, then leans down to whisper in your ear. “Let’s get you cleaned up and kissable, hm?”

𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒛 𝒐𝒑𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒂 ♥ 𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏

#nonnie #mailbox #chrollo x reader #chrollo lucilfer x reader #hunter x hunter x reader #wild west au #ophelia.fic #ophelia.req #im sorry im bad at writing overthinking i just think that u and chrollo are always on the same wavelength most of the time alkdjfhsldf #anyways i hope u enjoy this nonnie #:')#ophelia.txt #yandere chrollo #📍 for later

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pluckyredhead · 4 years

Text

wip amnesty: super sons fake dating (but different)

So while I was working on It Wouldn’t Be Make Believe (If You Believed In Me), my brain abruptly gave me a completely different Super Sons fake dating scenario, insisted that I write two scenes, and then abandoned me entirely. There is like a 1% chance that I will ever finish this so instead I offer it up to you, my very patient friends. (Don’t worry, I have different Jon/Damian fics planned!)

Also, this completely ignores the Bendis run, because...well, you know why. SIGH.

Damian cast a weary eye over the guests assembled at the gala, the latest tribute of the Gotham elite to their own wealth and frivolity. He wasn’t even sure what this one was ostensibly raising money for, but he had a feeling most of that money had gone into the refreshments and entertainment rather than the intended charitable recipients.

He hated these things, but Father was in space with the Justice League, Richard was undercover, Drake was on Earth-3, and Todd was just generally unsuitable for public consumption. Once again it fell to Damian, as the heir to the Wayne name, to carry the entire family on his shoulders. He usually didn’t mind, except when it took the form of wearing a tuxedo and making small talk with empty-headed socialites.

Maybe the Riddler or someone would show up and try to steal everyone’s jewelry. That would be a pleasing diversion.

He saw Gracie Van Nuyck, daughter of one of the few Gotham families older than the Waynes, making her way over to him and quickly took out his phone. He was meant to be the latest irresponsible Wayne playboy; he could be rude and spend a whole party texting and not talking to anyone as long as he kept a stupid expression on his face.

He already had a few texts from Jon, he saw when he unlocked his phone.

giant kraken attacking honolulu

titans & i r teleporting over

u in?

Damian clicked his tongue.

I know you’re overriding your autocorrected capitalization to irritate me.

And I can’t. I have to attend this gala.

sucks 2 b u 🐟 🐠 🐬

“Damian Wayne.” Gracie had not been put off by his texting - in fact, she had her own phone in her hand. Damian dimly remembered that she’d once told him she was an “influencer.” She had influenced him pretty strongly to get as far away from her as possible, so he supposed she was good at what she did. “Look at you, all dressed up and looking like a snack.”

“Gracie,” he said. “Nice to see you.” He did not attempt to make it convincing, or glance up from his phone more than briefly.

Trust me, I’m aware. Everyone here is an imbecile and none of the hors d'oeuvres are vegetarian.

“Do you like my dress?” Gracie asked, giving a little twirl.

“Lovely.” Damian did not have Richard’s ability to give genuine compliments, or even Father’s ability to fake them well. It didn’t deter Gracie in the slightest.

“I have a proposition for you, you beautiful boy,” she said.

“I’m the same age as you.”

that blows. what about the orderbs?

Damian fought a smile. I also know you know how hors d’oeuvres is pronounced.

😂 😂 😉

“What’s that smile for?” Gracie asked.

Damian forced his facial expression back to neutral. “What’s your proposition?”

She held up her hands like she was illuminating a marquee. “Gotham’s new dream couple: Dacie. Or we could be Gramian, I guess, but that sounds horrible.”

“Excuse me?”

“You and me, joining forces,” she said. “Me and my millions and my beautiful body, you and your millions and your beautiful body...we’d be the toast of the glitterati.”

“You want to date me,” Damian said, flatly, disbelievingly. This was what Father and Richard’s inability to resist a pretty face had brought him to: being literally propositioned at parties by socialites who thought every Wayne was an easy mark.

“I want to date you,” she agreed. “It must be your lucky day. Well, night.”

Damian stared at her for a long moment, just enough to let it become uncomfortable. “No,” he said finally, and turned back to his phone.

once weve kicked this things ass i bet i can bring u some shave ice before it melts

Bring the kraken instead. It can eat everyone here.

“No?” Gracie repeated.

“No, thank you,” Damian said, as a sop to good manners.

He glanced up. She looked bewildered. It might be the first time she’d ever been told no in her life. “Why not?”

“I’m seeing someone,” he said. Totally untrue, but a reason she couldn’t argue with.

Not that she didn’t try. “Oh? Who’s the lucky girl?” she asked, her expression calculating.

Damian raised an eyebrow. “Not sure why you would assume pronouns,” he said, more to wrong foot her than anything else, though it was true that gender didn’t make much difference to him. He disliked most people equally.

Her eyes widened before she recovered herself. “My apologies,” she said. “Do I know...uh, them?”

Damian’s phone buzzed in his hand. It was a selfie of Jon, with Billy and Lian pulling faces behind him and a tentacle snaking through the air above their heads. Idiots. He fought another smile.

Stop taking selfies before you get drowned.

“It’s a long distance relationship,” he said. The last thing he needed was Gracie tracking down Colin or Maya or someone and pestering them.

no its cool we made friends with it

i gave it ur shave ice

sorry

“Oh?” Gracie asked. “Where do they live?”

Out of the corner of his eye Damian could see that she seemed to be on her phone too, so he felt even less bad about ignoring her. “Metropolis,” he said, because it was the first city he thought of. You traitor, he texted Jon.

“Innnteresting,” she said. “Well, it was worth a shot. See you around, hot stuff.” She brushed a kiss in the air near his cheek and sauntered off.

Damian blinked. That had been...relatively painless. Maybe the whole night would go by so quickly and easily.

He checked the time. Three and a half hours to go.

Tt.

Jon had heard the noise before he stepped outside, but he hadn’t really processed it. Metropolis was a noisy city, and if there were no gunshots or cries for help, he had gotten pretty good at tuning it out.

Which was why he was so surprised when he walked out of his apartment building to be confronted with a sea of reporters flashing cameras at him.

“Jon!”

“Jon Kent!”

“Jon, over here!”

His heart stopped. Had they somehow found out he was Superboy? Which meant they knew about Dad, and Mom was probably in danger, and all of his friends, and…

“Jon, long have you and Damian Wayne been dating?”

What?

“Back off, you vultures! Leave him alone!” Uncle Jimmy emerged from the crowd, red-faced and disheveled. He put one hand in front of Jon’s face and the other on his shoulder. “No comment! He has no comment! Come on, Jon, back inside.”

Thoroughly baffled, Jon allowed Uncle Jimmy to steer him back into the building.

“Hey, Frank, don’t let any of them in unless Mr. or Mrs. Lane-Kent says it’s cool, okay?” Uncle Jimmy said to the doorman.

Frank, who Jon had known since they moved here when he was ten, put his imposing frame in front of the door. “Absolutely not,” he said.

“Thanks, Frank,” Jon managed, and waited until he and Jimmy were in the elevator and out of sight of the reporters. “What the heck is going on?”

“You’re a social media sensation, kiddo,” Uncle Jimmy said, and held up his phone to display a picture of Damian wearing a tuxedo and looking elegantly bored. “Apparently Bruce Wayne’s kid told someone called ‘GraceFace’ that he was dating a boy who lived in Metropolis, and she told her three million Instagram followers. A bunch of them found this photo.” He swiped to show a slightly blurry picture of Jon and Damian in Centennial Park, clearly taken on a cell phone by someone moving quickly. Jon remembered that day but hadn’t realized anyone had recognized Damian, though it did happen. “And someone figured out your name.”

“And assumed I’m the boy Damian is dating in Metropolis,” Jon said, putting it together. “Wait. Is he dating someone in Metropolis? Did he mean me? Why would he say we were dating?”

Uncle Jimmy held up a finger. “No, first question before that: how the hell do you know Damian Wayne?”

“Uh.” Jon paused. Uncle Jimmy knew all about him and Dad, since he was basically Dad’s best friend, but not any Gotham secret identities, and Jon was pretty sure both Damian and Mr. Wayne wanted to keep it that way.

Uncle Jimmy’s eyes flicked to the counter that showed what floor they were on. “And before we get to your apartment...any chance you want to give me the exclusive on this saga of young love?”

Jon’s mouth dropped open. “Uncle Jimmy!”

“What? I’m a reporter, it’s in my blood!”

“I’m telling my mom you asked me that.”

“No, please, tell your dad. He can only heat vision me or throw me out the window. Either way it’ll be quick.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m telling Mom.”

#super sons #damian wayne #robin #jon kent #superboy #i write things #i love gracie and she should be canon

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thewhumperinwhite · 4 years

Text

Café: Used Car Lot (2)

I’m not 100% sure this is done, but it is actual whump for once, so up it goes.

Kent has A Bad Time. Sol tries very hard to stick to his principles. Pax plays the role god gave them.

Previous: Teaser 1, Teaser 2, Hospital/Squad Car, Empty Bar, Used Car Lot 1

@whumpitywhumpwhump

TW for: noncon touching, slightly sexualized threats, knives, bad gun safety practices, guilt, mild flashbacks. Oh, also, one unintentional instance of misgendering.

Letting out an undignified “woof!” sort of sound, Sol reaches out to slam the hand that isn’t holding his makeshift bat into the sign to stop himself, forgetting that it’s the hand attached to his broken wrist. He doesn’t even have time to worry about whether anybody will hear the resulting clang because he’s too busy doubling up around his throbbing arm.

“Uh. You okay?” Kent says, struggling to keep a straight face.

Sol shoots him a dirty look. “I’m fine.” Then he leans around the sign to examine their options, feeling an excited grin creep onto his face in spite of himself. Just looking at all these shiny gently-used vehicles is sort of making his heart pound. If only he could get away with taking a bike, instead. That won’t do the two of them much good.

Not— that he’s decided he’s going with Kent. Because he hasn’t. And he probably isn’t. Almost definitely.

“Any preferences?” he says, turning to Kent, who seems a little taken aback by his enthusiasm.

“Uh— I think I’ll let you take this one,” Kent says, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.

Maybe he does have some redeeming qualities, after all.

There are so many to choose from! Sol’s budget hasn’t left him room for even the shittiest of cars since he started living on his own, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t thought about getting one. In fact, the amount of time he’s spent fantasizing about what kind of vehicle he’ll get when he can afford one is— kind of embarrassing. Now, granted, this is a used car lot, so it isn’t like there’s anything really impressive here. And maybe it makes sense to shoot for something sort of inconspicuous, in such a hostile environment. Some sort of nondescript-colored pickup, then, maybe. He cranes his neck above the sea of cars, looking around for something that suits his needs— and maybe a few of his tastes, too, no harm in that.

Kent trails along behind him, curled in a little around his bruised and broken ribs, looking faintly miserable. With the self-justification that he’s doing the kid a favor anyway, Sol chooses to ignore this.

“Ooh!” he says, spotting a flash of red. “Here’s one!”

It’s lovely, Sol thinks, standing back to admire it. The color won’t really help them blend in, necessarily, but it’s big and sturdy enough that if anybody gives them any shit, they can just run the bastards over. Gleefully, Sol tugs the driver’s side door open and climbs up into the front seat, setting his makeshift bat on the passenger’s side.

With a relieved sigh, Kent half-collapses back against the next car over, laying a careful hand over his collarbone. Sol hadn’t really noticed the bruising there, before, but now that it’s soaked, his white t-shirt has gone sort of see-through, and his new contraband coat isn’t buttoned all the way shut. Not that Sol is looking. Necessarily.

Oh, whatever. Sol’s improved mood makes self-denial seem a little pointless. Kid has nice collarbones, bruised or not. Nothin’ wrong with observing that, he figures.

Sol turns back to the car, running both hands reverently down the steering wheel. He passed his driving test ages ago, and hasn’t had much opportunity to drive since then, excluding that one outstanding instance, which Sol can acknowledge went sort of— badly. Still, he’s fairly certain he remembers how to drive.

Pretty certain. Like, sixty, maybe fifty-five percent.

“Say,” he says, with a slightly awkward clearing of his throat, while he feels around under the steering wheel. “I know you don’t have a car, but you do know how to drive, right?”

Kent blinks up at him. He looks kind of dazed. Under his I-get-to-steal-a-car excitement, Sol feels a twinge of worry, which he hastily dismisses, because it isn’t his problem. “Uh— no,” Kent says, his eyes clearing a little as he focuses on Sol’s face. “It never really— seemed important to learn. My dad has, like, three drivers, so—”

Sol rolls his eyes. “Naturally,” he mutters. Then he crows delightedly as he finds the panel and snaps it off easily, leaning around the steering wheel to get a good look, successfully distracted.

He’s grateful Kent sort of made him take the gloves, now. Probably not smart to play around with electricity with his bare hands. Licking his lips, Sol trails his leather-covered fingers along the wires lead from the engine, and pulls them free of the ignition, enjoying the little snap.

Blinking down at the wires, Sol yanks the plastic caps off, exposing a little of each wire, then frowns, chewing at his lip thoughtfully. He misses his lip ring.

For a second, Sol thinks fucking Proux and his fucking dress code and then he thinks of a bloody hand reaching toward him and desperate pleading fading out of glassy eyes and his hand goes numb around the wires.

It’s only for a few seconds, but in that time his vision is entirely filled with Proux, dying, and his own thought a few minutes before then

(I swear to god I could about kill him sometimes)

and that’s why he doesn’t hear Kent’s alarmed cry until it’s too late to do anything much except duck down into the cab.

“Hey!” a man’s voice crows from somewhere Sol can’t see. “There’s somebody else here, man!”

Keeping his head down, Sol scrambles for his makeshift weapon. Have they seen him? Shit!

“Aw, don’t run away!” the voice calls, and is joined by the laughter of at least two other people.

“Shitshitshit,” Sol whispers. He isn’t gonna get caught crouching here like a child avoiding punishment— but if they haven’t seen him, he isn’t gonna get himself killed just because he was too proud to be smart, either.

There’s a sudden, earsplitting bang. Sol, flattening himself against the driver’s seat, has time to think in a panicked, half-hysterical sort of way that this time yesterday he wasn’t so intimately familiar with what a gunshot sounds like.

“Don’t run away, I said,” the man’s voice says, from a lot closer than it was before.

“I’m not,” Kent says softly, his voice admirably steady. He still sounds scared, though. Sol stares down at the fabric of the seat. Concentrates on the fabric of the seat and nothing else. “I’m not moving. Okay?”

“Aww, he’s scared,” a new voice says. It’s a little less cuttingly loud than the first one— through the half-closed car door, Sol can’t even tell if it belongs to a man or a woman. “It’s okay, little birdy. We won’t hurt you. Will we, Harri?”

The other man laughs once, a low, rumbling sound. Sol glances up. He can’t tell how far away they are anymore. Forcing his brain to slow the fuck down and run over the options left to him, he looks up at the half-closed door. It isn’t open very far— he left it open so he could hear Kent, and no further— but they’ll still see him hiding in here if they draw level with Kent. Fuck. Shit.

“‘Course not,” the first voice is saying. “C’mere, why don’t you?”

Sol freezes.

“I— “ Kent’s voice falters badly, but after a second to gather himself he sounds steady again. “I don’t have any problem with you. If this is— your lot, I’ll just— I’ll leave. Alright?”

“Maybe you got a little hearing problem,” the first voice says, friendly on the surface and dangerous underneath. “C’mere, I said.”

His heart in his throat, Sol risks raising his head so he can just see Kent out the window.

Kent catches his eye. Sol freezes down to his marrow. All Kent has to do is acknowledge him, and they’ll both be stuck. Shit. Shit!

Then Kent looks away, and steps carefully in the direction of the entrance to the lot, using the car to support him.

Sol’s immediate rush of gratitude is followed with a flood of shame so heavy he thinks he might throw up. He claps a shaking hand over his mouth.

“There you go,” the first voice says smugly. “Damn, you’re a lot prettier close up. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“It— It’s Kent. Listen, sir, I— “

There’s a crash, and Kent makes a strangled sound. Sol almost presses his hands over his ears, but doesn’t quite allow it.

He’s not Sol’s problem.

“Don’t you tell me to listen, ya little shit. What are you doin’ here?”

“U-uh— I was looking for— uh!” He cuts off with a sharp gasp. Sol swallows hard, and then he forces himself to crawl over to the passenger’s seat, picking up the bat again.

If he’d taken a damn weapon, this wouldn’t have happened.

“Mm?” the man is saying curiously. “Ooh, you don’t like that much, do you?”

Kent makes a sound that is almost a scream.

“Ooh,” the second voice says, sounding interested. “That looks like a pretty nasty break, sunshine. Must hurt.”

Sol’s hand tightens convulsively on the bat. He tries to stop listening to what they’re saying and focus on the sound of their voices. They’re father away, now, and definitely on the driver’s side, somewhere. Sol forces his throbbing right hand to reach for the handle of the passenger’s side door. If he opens it slowly enough—

Kent should have been keeping watch— he was the one not fixing the car.

You have to take care of yourself in this world, because nobody else is gonna do it for you. People who don’t understand that—

“So tell me, sweetheart— you here by yourself?”

“I— y-yes.”

Sol pushes the door open as quickly as he dares and slides out onto the pavement, bat clutched in one white-knuckled hand.

People who don’t understand that—

“Really? You sure?”

There’s plenty of time to get away now, while they’re distracted. It would be stupid to do anything else. Crouching low, Sol leans around the bed of the truck so he can see.

There are three of them— a woman in a long coat who’s leaning against a car with a gun in her hand, looking bored; a person with a long red ponytail and a bright green scarf pulled up over their face, and what looks like a fucking katana slung over their back, and a big burly man in a leather jacket. The man is pinning Kent against a car with his big, thickly-muscled arm across Kent’s chest.

While Sol watches, the big man leans into him, pressing what looks like his full weight against Kent’s broken collarbone. Kent’s cry turns into an awful, choking cough.

“God— y-yes, I’m— I’m sure!”

“Really?”

“N-no one! I’m alone!”

“Hmm.” The big man runs his free hand over his chin, like he’s considering whether to believe Kent or not.

He isn’t Sol’s problem!

The person wearing the sword laughs, although they sound slightly uncomfortable. “Come on, man. I think he’s telling the truth.”

The man turns to look at them, a dangerous light in his eyes, and the scarfed person holds their grounds. Then the man shrugs, and pulls back.

Kent goes to his knees, gasping for breath.

Sol releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Okay. Okay. They’ll leave now. Everything is fine.

He’ll— he’ll still probably leave, though. He isn’t sure he can— imagine going back to Kent, now. Sol tries very hard not to acknowledge the sick guilt lying heavy in his guts.

“Hmm,” the big man says then. “You don’t look much like one of the crazies, sweetheart, but I think we should be sure, don’t you? How bout it, sweets--are you bit?”

“Wh-what?” Kent says weakly, looking up at him like it’s hard to lift his head. “No.”

“Are you telling me the truth, now? We wouldn’t be doing our civic duty if we let one of the crazies go wandering around the city— would we?”

“Harri,” the sword-wearer says in a low voice.

Something metal flashes in the big man’s hand. Sol’s hands tightens on his bat before he can stop them.

The big man lays the knife against Kent’s cheek. Kent is still on his knees, and his eyes when he looks up at the man are cloudy, like he’s fighting to stay awake.

“I— “ he croaks, raising a hand and stopping just short of trying to push the man’s hand away from his face. “I’m not bit, okay? Please, I just— “

“Shut up,” the man says conversationally. He pushes the knife a little harder against Kent’s cheek— the one without the scar. A few drops of blood slide down toward his jaw.

“Harrison,” the sword-wearer says, louder. “That’s enough, okay?”

“You shut up too,” the man says, a trace more irritation in his voice. “I’m the boss, and you do what I say, you got that, you freak?” He brings the knife a little further forward. Blood is flowing down the side of Kent’s face, now, getting watered down by the rain. Kent gasps, just slightly. “If I wanna kill this little shit, then I’m gonna, and there ain’t nothing you can—“

Sol swings the table leg.

There’s a really satisfying crack as it connects with the back of the big man’s skull, and he goes down like a rock, flopping over sideways and leaving behind a very surprised Kent to stare up at Sol, his blue eyes very wide. Blood has started to soak into the collar of his shirt from the cut on his cheek.

“Oh, shit!” the sword-wearer squeaks, leaping back, and they draw their ridiculous weapon with a whisper of metal against leather.

Sol turns toward them, readjusting his grip on the bat. He’d been sort of hoping that it was some sort of cheap imitation blade, but it looks awfully— sharp for that. This— this is the stupidest goddamn thing he’s ever done.

Goddamn, though. Kent really looked surprised.

No going back now, anyway. He readjusts his footing, raising the weapon like he’s standing at home plate. He’s high on more adrenaline than he’s ever felt, and it’s easy to ignore the pain shooting up from his bad wrist.

Both Sol and the sword-wearer jump pretty badly when the gun goes off again, punching a slightly smoking hole in the car window between them.

The sword-wearer, looking annoyed, flicks their eyes back toward the woman. Shit, Sol had forgotten all about her.

“Tell you what, love,” the sword-wearer says icily. “I won’t start this if you won’t.”

For a long moment the woman and the sword-wearer stare each other down. Sol, heart hammering in his ears, half-expects sparks to fly between them.

Then the woman shrugs and slides her pistol into a holster at her hip, and bends to scoop up the bloody lump that’s left of the big man. He’s definitely unconscious, and maybe dead, Sol notes, and he’s allowing himself some self-satisfaction over that one. Even if they’re both still entirely fucked, at least he’s got one really good hit in.

God he’s an idiot. Fuck. Fuck.

The sword-wearer watches the woman carry the much bigger man off, with less difficulty than it seems like she reasonably should be having, and then their eyes flick back to Sol. Sol wishes they weren’t wearing that obnoxious goddamn scarf— he can’t read their face when it’s all covered like that.

“I gotta say,” they say, and dammit, their voice isn’t any help, either. “I’m kind of impressed. It takes some doing to sneak up on me, to say nothing of the lady over there.” They nod in the direction in which the woman has disappeared. “Surprised it took you so long, though.” They tip their head, giving Sol what he can only assume is a considering look. “Seems sort of shitty of you to take so long to rescue your friend, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Sol spits, trying to ignore the guilt that twists immediately in his stomach. “We’re not even really friends.”

“Hmm. Then maybe you’re not an asshole— just an idiot,” they offer cheerfully.

“Wha— fuck you!” Sol raises the bat, leaps forward— swings—

“H-hey— wait!” Kent cries from behind him. “You can’t beat him with just a—”

The sword-wearer dances easily back out of range of Sol’s swing, and Sol’s bat slams into the window of the car next to him, instead, showering both him and Kent with shards of glass. “Shit!” he scrambles to readjust his footing. “You think I don’t know that?” he howls, and swings again. This time the sword-wearer raises their weapon exactly enough to slap Sol’s bat away with the flat of the blade. “Dammit— stop fucking with me!”

Kent is trying to get to his feet, behind him, but he falls back against the car with a cry, and struggles to raise his head to glare at Sol. “St— stop fighting, dammit! Why haven’t you— r-run away already? If you know you can’t win--shit—“ His knees give way and he falls back on his ass again, wincing. “Then just run away, Solemn! What the hell’s wrong with— “

The sword-wearer’s green eyes widen, just for a second. Seeing the opening, Sol lungers forward, and his opponent, startled, stumbles back a step. Then their eyes flash and their sword moves so fast Sol’s eyes lose track of it entirely for a second.

The flat of the blade smacks into Sol’s hand. He hears rather than sees the bat clatter to the ground and slide under a car.

The sword-wearer flicks the blade so that it rests against the side of Sol’s throat, his green eyes unreadable.

Sol stares at him, ears ringing. The blow has made his hand go numb.

“Fucking dumbass,” he mumbles. The sword-wearer blinks.

Careful not to cut himself on the blade, Sol turns his head to look over his shoulder. Kent is staring at him, sprawled in the mud— he clearly kept trying to get up, even after he fell, the idiot.

“If I could’ve just run away and left you, don’t you think I would’ve fucking done it already?” he snaps.

Kent’s eyes widen. “What do you— “

The moment is kind of ruined by the sound of slightly hysterical laughter.

The sword-wielder has to lower their blade so they can bend almost double, clutching their stomach, and positively howling, their laughter full and bright and weirdly child-like for such an ominous katana-wielding maniac.

Sol stares at them, and is horrified to find himself kind of embarrassed. “H-hey— what’s so fucking funny, asshole?”

Shaking their head, they wave a hand apologetically. “I’m— god— I’m sorry,” they say, wiping at their eyes. “It’s just that— th-that was so— aww, you two idiots are so cute!”

Sol bristles, wishing he still had his bat. “I’m— what the hell do you mean, cute?”

“Sol,” Kent says softly, pulling himself up into a sitting position, pain written in every line of his face. “I think ‘cute’ is a couple steps up from ‘dead,’ don’t you?”

“Shut up,” Sol says, and, keeping a wary eye on the enemy— who is still shaking with laughter, the asshole— he squats in front of Kent, wiping at the blood on his face with his sleeve. “This looks pretty deep, man.”

“I—“ Kent is looking very intently at the ground. “I didn’t expect you to— come back,” he says softly.

Sol stops, his hand still raised. He could cup the side of Kent’s face, if he wanted. “Yeah, I didn’t expect me to either,” he says awkwardly, looking away.

“Why did you?” Kent asks, sneaking a peek up at him, and Sol feels a flush stealing into his cheeks.

“I— I mean, I couldn’t, uh— gah!”

The sword-wearer has sheathed their weapon, and pulled the scarf down to expose a badly scarred copper-brown face— and is now openly watching him and Kent like they wish they had some popcorn.

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” they say brightly, waving in a please go on sort of way. Sol bristles.

“Come on,” he snaps, offering Kent a hand up, which Kent takes, and Sol pulls him to his feet, trying to be gentle without looking too much like he’s trying to be gentle. Kent leans heavily against his shoulder, but has the grace to at least look embarrassed about it.

“Okay,” Sol says, turning back to the sword-wearer and taking what he hopes looked like a fighting stance— it wasn’t like he can actually fight without throwing Kent right back on his ass, but it’s the principle of the thing, really— “What the hell’s your deal, man? Why’d you stop? You beat me!”

They wave their hand again, dismissively. They’re wearing black fingerless gloves, and Sol notes, a little dazed, that their nails are painted pink. “Well, of course I did,” they say, not unkindly. “I was a lot better armed, and apparently a hell of a lot more experienced, too. You had absolutely no chance, babe.”

Sol bristled again. Babe, my ass. “Then why didn’t you just fucking kill me, asshole?”

Grinning like a cat that had eaten several mines’ worth or canaries, they get down on their knees, reach under the car, and retrieve Sol’s bat. Sol stares at it, well and truly baffled.

“‘Cause you knew you couldn’t beat me, and you came right at me like a champ anyway, I guess.” They hold out the bat. “It was very romantic.”

Sol stares up at them. He isn’t sure there’s a word for how he’s feeling. Maybe horrified. He moves his lips to protest, but nothing comes out.

The sword-wearer grins over Sol’s shoulder at Kent. “You said your name was Kent, right, hon?” they say, their voice much softer, almost kind.

Kent winces back from it a little, and seems to regret it. “Uh— yeah, that’s right,” he says weakly. “Kent Graves.”

“Very pleased, Kent Graves,” they say cheerfully. “I’m Paxon Field, member of God’s Hammer, at your service, sir!” Then they deflate a little. “Or— former member, now, possibly. What about you, babe?”

“Romantic?” Sol demands, furiously.

“He’s Sol Michaelis,” Kent says blandly.

“So, what— you guys came here to steal a car, then?”

Sol glares at them. “Yeah, we did. What’s it to you?”

For just a second, an unreadable look flashes across their face. Then they’re all cat-smiles again. “Really,” they say cheerfully. “Either of you know how to hotwire a car?”

“Yes,” Sol says haughtily, “we do.”

“Oh, impressive!” Then they bite their scarred lip and tilt their head, so obviously trying to be coy that Sol wonders if they’re serious. “Listen— you couldn’t show me how to do that, could you?”

“What? No!” Sol snaps.

“No?” Paxon says sweetly, pouting. “The way I see it, you owe me for not killing you the second I saw you, right?”

“We don’t owe you a goddamn thing,” Sol growls, and he turns on his heel, letting Kent cling to his arm like a Victorian maiden. “Come on, man, let’s go.”

“Aww, please?” Paxon whines, skipping to keep pace with them. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise!”

“Fuck off!” Annoyed, Sol slows a little so he isn’t dragging Kent along behind him. “There ain’t a thing you have we want, asshole!”

“No?” Paxon switches from a pout to a calculating smirk so fast it’s actually fairly alarming. “You sure? You’re heading out of the city, aren’t you?” they say sweetly.

Sol falters. “So what if we are?”

“The way things are now, it’s probably mighty dangerous out there.”

“Aw, shut up! We can take care of ourselves!”

“Really?” Paxon lets his eyes trail significantly over Kent, who’s really having trouble walking, now, his breath coming in gasps. “You both can?”

Sol glares at him, beginning to feel a little uncertain.

“I’m an excellent driver,” Paxon concludes, still in step with them, and now they look positively smug.

Sol opens his mouth to refuse again— and Kent says weakly in his ear, “Come on, Sol. You think it’s worth trying to stop them, if they want to come with us?”

Sol growls. But— it’s kind of hard to argue with Kent, somehow.

#the café at the end of the world #whump #broken ribs #pressure on a wound #trouble breathing #knives #outnumbered

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lacklusterswirl · 5 years

Text

Thatcher and... ?

Let’s be honest, my title abilities are poor at best lol.

So this is a continuation of a short fic I posted a while back about Thatcher and possible death. This is kind of an aftermath of that fic. (and I know I haven’t posted any fanfic in a while, forgive me, I got reabsorbed in my original stuff.) It’s kinda sad and reminisces a lot but has a happy ending (imo) (1.8k words)

It’s based off of and includes the lyrics of You by Keaton Henson. It’s a really moving (?) song so prepare yourself if you haven’t listened to it already :)

Warnings: (Mentions/implied for all at least) death (of friends/family), dementia, injury, fighting, gun fights, canon typical violence, and mass violence (bartlett u)

If you must wait…

A quick mission. That was all. After a training accident, he was taken off the roster and sent back home to recover. So, Thatcher sat on the couch with his mother’s arms around him as he awaited news. His best friend, brother in arms, was on that squad. They were unbeatable together.

Unbeatable is a strange word, no? It was supposed to mean victorious, impossible to defeat. The image of his friend at the end of the mission with a new medal and a new smile that just said that it went alright. That’s who they were… together. And Thatcher saw what the issue was now. He wasn’t there to prevent his friend from getting shot in the leg, leaving him stranded in enemy territory as his squad was massacred.

Unbeatable.

Yet that very man was still in that casket, arms on his chest, and eyes closed, draped in a flag.

… wait for them here in my arms as I shake.

If you must weep…

The ocean was known for many things. Thatcher sipped on his beer as he rocked with the waves. After the mission, he wasn’t the same. His mother passed, his father didn’t recognize him, and more recently, his wife had left him, saying that she couldn’t take it anymore.

Take what? Surely it must’ve been the money issue. Maybe a personality clash. But it couldn’t have been because of… what did she call it? It couldn’t have been because he was “obsessed.” It was a job – one he took seriously. That was all. He wasn’t obsessed with it, but he couldn’t stop certain flashbacks, certain triggers, certain emotions that refused to leave him alone when he slept at night.

That was all… But that couldn’t be helped.

Right? There was no other option – no other choice for him in his life. He took the chance to leave his home, he took his opportunities; he took what was in front of him like any other human was. And he was human.

… do it right here in my bed as I sleep.

If you must mourn, my love…

He still remembers that day, to this day. He remembers the smoke, the screams, the gunshots, the blood. All of it. It will never leave him, being on par in horror levels with the wars he’s been a part of except those fights were between those who knew why they were there. It was a battle. Not a massacre.

And even though he knows that it went well, that they did all that they could, that only Rainbow could’ve helped, he can’t help but feel a pit in his stomach, one that threatens to – no, does swallow up his thoughts and starts asking what if’s.

What if they cleared faster?

What if they could evacuate earlier?

What if the terrorists were caught before they even entered the US?

What if they could’ve gone into one of the labs and crushed the project before it began?

What if?

And that’s where Sledge found him. Pacing on the roof, and glaring at the stars as though they could’ve prevented it all.

… mourn with the moon and the stars up above.

If you must mourn…

Sledge was a good leader. One that takes his time with all his teammates – not just the weakest – and makes sure that they’re all alright. He is one that understand unity and team cohesion like it was as easy as reciting the alphabet. He knows how to talk and hold a meaningful, helpful conversation like it was as natural as eating or breathing to him.

And know best he does. It’s as clear as the scowl on Thatcher’s face while he’s being dragged to an empty office.

“What’s on yer mind?”

“Nothin’”

“Mike.”

A sigh. “Just a little worried that we’ve seen this before. That’s all.”

…Don’t do it alone.

If you must leave…

The conversation from the night before was not repeated as Thatcher was getting strapped and ready for their next mission. It was not repeated again as he gave his briefing and walked out of the room. And it was definitely not repeated right before the initial attack.

The next thing he remembers is walking into a dark building. Twenty-two kilos of cocaine, ready for sale, and one of those kilos contains a very special message. One crime hidden in another. It was here, in the shadows, where Thatcher could finally forget about his past.

It’s hard to reminisce on the past when your future was in danger.

He has a purpose in life. The same one he’s had since eighteen.

Two shots to the right, and a foot disappeared behind a shelf, though the shadow was still there. That was easy, two steps forward and turn to the right. One shot to end a life.

That was simple. One for one.

Except that the one shot could also mean something else.

There was a spray of gunfire underneath him, and he heard a thud.

“Mute!” Smoke’s voice called out over comms. “He’s down! Under heavy fire, sir!”

From somewhere below, he could hear the sound of one of Smoke’s grenades going off. “In cover! Repeat, Mute is down, and we’re in cover! Requesting immediate back-up… please.”

Without another thought, Thatcher used a breaching charge to jump down a floor and rush in the direction of the fight.

… leave as though fire burns under your feet.

If you must speak…

Rat-tat-tat. Thatcher took down terrorist after terrorist. They weren’t expecting a flank, and he was cutting them down like a razor to hair.

“I’m here, Mute.”

The boy didn’t even turn to look at him. His eyes were glazed and his mouth slightly open, though no sounds came out.

“His gut, we need an evac.” Smoke tossed his last grenade and set it off to buy them some time.

There are four of them in this one building. Sledge’s shadow was coming up form behind them, the hammer giving him away. Evacuating Mute would be a two-person job. If he were any less confident, there would be no chance, but he actually believes. There’s a chance he can clear the floor and cover their evac on his own.

Take out the last two to the right, and one to the left. EMP the soft wall and breach through. Finish the floor. His was empty above anyways, and Sledge should have finished done down below.

“Go…”

“Mike, that’s also not a…” Sledge finally caught on to what he was suggesting.

“Nah, I’m proud of my team. Cliché and all, but I’ve had plenty of good years in my life, but he’s barely started his. Now get him help, and leave the rest to me.”

… Speak every word as though it were unique.

If you must die, sweetheart…

It’s a long fight. One that sapped all strength from his muscles, that softened his bones, that makes his hands tremble, but it’s a fight he takes. It’s down to Thatcher and one other man now. They see each other, know where the other is, and stare at each other with their hands tightening around their respective weapons.

Two gunshots: one pinging off a box, and the other tasting air, muscle, bone, muscle, air and then the wall behind.

One of them falls.

“Mike? MIKE!”

That voice… was it Smoke? Maybe Mute? No, he was unconscious. Probably Sledge, given that he had issues understanding what came next. Or maybe that was just the darkness calling his name.

What was it that Mark kept quoting at him? You die a hero or live long enough to become the villain? Or something like that?

Legends are always remembered. He just hopes he died fast enough.

… die knowing that your life was my life’s best part.

If you must die… remember your life.

There was a soft murmuring that slowly faded into silence. All things pass – even the complete and utter emptiness. Instead of going anywhere, he sits in that dark shell of what he can only assume is his own mind. It’s a welcome rest, and in his mind’s mind, he relives everything. The good, the bad, the really bad, and the atrocities.

There was no sun to tell him how many hours he’s been lying there. Yet in the distance, he swears he could hear his mother’s voice.

You are… You are… All you are… all.

And with that, he’s had it with this place. Wherever he is.

If you must fight…

When he comes to, he’s still on the floor, significantly weaker from before, but still alive. There’s a bullet in his vest, maybe a cracked rib or two, but he’s alive. His pistol was still there. That’s nice. He struggled to get to this hands and knees and crawl to cover. There were voices that definitely did not belong to his teammates. Had they gotten out? Or was he fighting a losing battle just to die as a martyr?

With a shaky hand, he measures everything, considers his strength. He might only have one shot. But that’s all he needs.

One shot, and the last body hits the floor. Then, he returns to that dark shell inside of him. There were worse fates.

… fight with yourself and your thoughts in the night.

If you must work…

Medal of honor, yadda yadda yadda. He couldn’t care less.

What mattered more was that he was hooked up to a machine that was listing out a very important number. That, and a friendly face was staring back at him.

“Do you want me to show you this new game I started? It’s super simple, but it’s very fun and simple to play. You’d love it.”

There was a light in his eyes that wasn’t there before. And from Sledge and Smoke, who stood a little farther behind the kid, they all had the same look. They admired him, and looked up to him. They’ll tell his stories to the legions of new recruits long after he himself has said goodbye to Hereford.

Isn’t this what you work for? For those who will pass on your morals and give you that piece of mind that you left the world slightly better than when you entered it.

… work to leave some part of you on this Earth.

If you must live, darling one…

“Hey, Mike?”

He jerked his head up and towards the sound of the voice. He must’ve been asleep, seeing as Sledge and Smoke had left, leaving Mute behind.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You know… I know you know.”

With that, they shared a chuckle, and Mute gave one last nod before leaving him to fall asleep again.

… just live.

#r6s #rainbow six siege #r6s fanfiction #fanfiction #r6s thatcher #my writing #my story #based off of a song #fanfic #feels bad man #why do i always pick on thatcher

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oldshrewsburyian · 5 years

Note

Garcy + Q please?

I take you at your word, Anon, though I really don’t see how “One Missed Call” could be anything but angsty, as shall become clear. Prompt list here. I… look, since these characters suffer so much in canon, I just wish to reiterate that this angst was Not My Idea (except in its details, for which I take responsibility.)

“The Leonore overture No. 3,” says the radio announcer, “Beethoven’s paean to conjugal love, here in a performance from the Berlin Philharmonic under Von Karajan.” Flynn lets the water out of the sink, and turns to drying the wine glasses. “And now over to the news.”

“In breaking news,” says a woman in the sober tones reserved for still-uncertain tragedy, “Stanford University is on lockdown after a reported shooting…” The glass shatters. “Police have as yet made no arrest.”

He is afraid to move. The shards and fragments of glass around his feet have nothing to do with this. If he moves, if he so much as breathes, he will give time permission to continue. And he is far from sure that he is prepared to do that.

The decision is taken out of his hands: on the kitchen island, his phone starts buzzing. Flynn curses under his breath. He is very aware of his own heartbeat. He picks up the phone. Of course, the texts are not from her. In the Time Team thread, Rufus has written: Saw news on Twitter — update when you can?? To Flynn, he has written: U need me to hack anything? get info? Flynn hesitates, then replies to the latter: Thanks. I’m headed there now. He breathes. He is lightheaded with oxygen, with the consciousness of time. And then he sees her notification.

He gets out of the kitchen as fast as he can. He leaves the glass; it does not seem to matter very much. He laces his shoes and fastens his bicycle helmet with trembling hands. He will not erase the message that he has one missed call, one new voicemail. If… Whatever has happened (is happening, will happen), he needs to be close to her.

Flynn is honked at more than once, as he speeds around corners, pedals with a fury that insists on his right of way. He cannot, he will not delay. Of course, there is nothing for him to do when he gets there. He has switched from repetitive cursing to desperate prayer. He thinks he might have left a bit out of the Our Father. There is always the simplest prayer of all: have mercy upon me, a sinner. It encapsulates everything: yes, this is more than justice; no, I do not deserve it; please. It feels strange, already-dangerous to be asking, when it has always been Lucy who has brought him mercy. Long ago Flynn stopped bothering to wonder whether it was on God’s behalf or her own. But now… now, he begs.

He is surrounded by weeping students, stern police, waiting ambulances. He knows he could get past the security lines. He could probably do it without them noticing, at first. And he’d probably get himself shot for his pains. And there would be no way of finding her, no way of making her safe. His bones and blood still ache to do so. In his pocket, his phone buzzes.

Rufus: No mention Rittenhouse police comms.

Flynn lets out a breath before replying. Thanks. Don’t get arrested.

He paces, the noises of helicopters and walkie-talkies and the distressed, uncertain crowds a distant cacophony, muffled by nearer birdsong, by his own rapid pulse. Finally he gives in. He acknowledges that he has seen the missed call. (She’ll be locked in. She’ll be in a lecture hall, or her office, or a closet. She’ll hate it.) He takes a breath. He presses play.

Hi, it’s me! I don’t need anything, I just… A puff of breath, and (he imagines) her fingers raked through her hair. I think my students have forgotten how to be students over the weekend. I haven’t looked for party hashtags; I don’t want to know. We were talking about transgressive spaces in the early republic today — how can they not find that interesting? He tries not to expect the sound of gunshots. I mean, says Lucy, it’s spies. Speaking of which, I should let you get back to translating for the cabal. Which is probably what you’re doing. Pour me wine tonight, says Lucy, her syllables drawling into indecency. Tell me I’m brilliant, hmm? Love you, genius. Are we doing Russian or French today? Ya lyublyu tebya. Je t’aime. Okay. Love you. Bye.

Flynn sits down on the pavement. He puts his head in his arms. He begs.

“Sir,” says a voice, “sir, you can’t be here.” He looks up. He calculates how long it would take him to flip this man onto his back. “Sir,” says the man, uneasy in his ill-fitting uniform, “we’re going to need this for an evacuation route; you can’t be here.”

Flynn stands up, and he does not stagger in standing. The tone of the crowd has changed; it is expectant; Flynn knows how easily it could change to hysteria. They have seen no arrest. They have seen no blood. They might yet. He stands still, making himself immovable, making himself impassive, a thing not to be drawn into the embraces, the anxiety, the fear.

There have been no audible gunshots since his arrival; he knows too much to find this consoling. Ambulances have gone; if she were on one of them, he would have gotten word. But if (if, if, if…) He cannot bring himself to complete the thought. It fractures into images: Lucy’s face, and her blood. Lucy’s face, and her blood.

The evacuees come shuffling. They come huddled, and silent, and clinging to each other. It is the group on the other side of the barrier that cries, and fills the air with the sound effects of sent messages, and breathes half-profane prayers. Flynn is silent.

He had imagined — he had allowed himself to imagine — shouting her name. He has been calling for her since before they were allies. He has called out to her across history. And now he cannot speak. She is pale, and she is barefoot, and she is (oh merciful God) alive. She has wept, but she is now composed. She has an arm around a student’s shoulders, and her battered briefcase in her other hand. Flynn breathes.

She is almost at the barrier when she sees him. He sees her lips part; he sees her soundless intake of breath. Obediently she follows in the semi-orderly procession, gives her name at the checkpoint. Only briefly does she take her eyes off him, speaking to the woman with the clipboard, reassuring her student. And when she is through, and free, Lucy starts to run. She stumbles a little on the asphalt, but she runs. He steps forward — a little unsteady, now — and opens his arms to her.

“I love you,” says Lucy into his ear. “I love you, I love you.”

“Ya lyublyu tebya vsem serdtsem.” He is overwhelmed by the scent of her hair. “You’re not hurt?”

“No,” says Lucy. “No, I — it wasn’t — we weren’t hurt.” A few tears soak into the fabric of his collar, and he tightens his arms around her. “I might just… cry on you anyway.”

“That’s fine,” says Flynn. “That’s fine, that’s… tout ira bien.” She shivers, and relaxes against him. “Voilà, c'est ça.”

“Can we…” says Lucy after a few minutes; she is still clinging to him. “Can we go home now?”

Flynn presses a kiss to her temple. “Yes,” he says. “Yes.”

#asks and answers #garcy ff #i just write angst and pain #is a tag that i have #why am i so emotionally invested? the answer is probably complicated

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hangjie · 5 years

Text

whatever it takes. (2) [ peter parker ]

PART ONE

summary: it has been five years since thanos wiped out half of the population and since the avengers killed thanos. so, what’s left for you?

warnings: ENDGAME SPOILERS!!! and swearing

word count: 2,254

author’s note: my writing is so bad i swear uGH

i kinda rushed it HUHUHUH IM SORRY i literally don’t know how to write this bc at this point, i started to scream and cry out loud in the cinema

(also, i changed up the end a bit and lets say that peter also aged up HAHAHHAHAHA ;(()

─── • ° *｡✧ ───

i softly groan as i flutter my eyes open, slowly regaining my senses. i hear soft pants and i blink several times before i notice uncle clint in front of me and he was . . . carrying me?

“u-uncle clint?” i look around our surroundings, noticing that the infinity gauntlet is on my lap. i grab the gauntlet and hold it close to me, making sure not to let go of it. the dark lighting of the sewers under the headquarters reflect the water on the ground as uncle clint runs. “what’s going on?”

“no time to talk, squirt,” he says and a loud monstrous growl echoes throughout the sewer. i look over his shoulder and my blood run cold when i see several monstrous animal like creatures chasing after us.

i repeatedly curse under my breath and i start to panic.

uncle clint notices my panic and reaches over his shoulder, grabbing some of his arrows. i look to him with a confused glance when he hands them to me. “stick it in those pipes.” he says, nodding over to the pipes on the sides.

i take deep breaths, feeling my self start to calm down. i nod and uncle clint moves to the side, close enough for me to reach to the pipes and stick the arrows to it, making sure not to drop the gauntlet.

as uncle clint frantically runs, a loud explosion rings behind us, making us fall to the ground and making uncle clint let go of me. i look behind us and see the creatures covered in flames, but the flames didn’t do much since they start to chase after us again.

uncle clint grabs my waist and the gauntlet from my hands. he shouts for me to hold on to him as he shoots up at the ceiling, a thin line of cable wire attaching and pulling us out of the sewers. the creatures follow us up and i pull out my guns, shooting it at them one by one.

when we finally reach the top, one of the creatures jumps up to us, mouth ready to devour us. i reach up and shoot it in the mouth, letting it’s lifeless body drop back to the sewers.

uncle clint sprawls over the floor, panting until nebula approaches us and takes the gauntlet from uncle clint’s hands.

“father,” she speaks into her microphone. “i have the stones.”

holy fuck. this is nebula from the past.

uncle clint and i immediately shoot up and aim our weapons at her, her following our actions. “nebula, stop!” a voice rings out and we turn our attention towards the voice and my eyes nearly pop out of my sockets when i see gamora pointing her gun at nebula.

wait. what the fuck is happening?

uncle clint and i slowly back away until another nebula pops out of the shadows, but this nebula has a melted arm, half of her arm’s exoskeleton visible to the eye. this must be the real nebula.

when past nebula points her gun towards gamora, uncle clint and i immediately rush a few meter away from the scene.

i don’t know what they were saying, but right before i knew it, a loud gunshot rings in my ears and i see past nebula with a hole in her chest. uncle clint immediately grabs the gauntlet and we all rush outside the remains of the headquarters.

when outside, our eyes immediately spot uncle steve, uncle thor, and dad fighting thanos and with a blink of an eye, thanos has dad down and is pushing stormbreaker against uncle thor’s chest.

before i could run and help them, uncle clint blocks my way with his arm. “wait, (y/n). look.” he points to uncle steve who is now fighting thanos with mjolnir in his hand and half of his shield in the other.

i hear uncle clint curse under his breath and i hear him mumble, “damn. i always knew cap was worthy.”

uncle steve gets thrown back by thanos and second by second, uncle steve’s shield gets smaller and smaller. thanos slices uncle steve’s thigh and hits him hard, making him fall down on the ground, but he stands back up, ready to continue fighting, but thanos’ army gather behind him, outnumbering uncle steve by the thousands.

“we’ve got to help him,” nebula says and we all agree, immediately running towards him to fight.

while we were running, several portals open up, making us slow down our tracks and stare in disbelief.

my eyes can’t believe what i was seeing.

out came the portals were all of the avengers, even the fallen who didn’t survive thanos’ snap.

from t’challa, okoye, shuri, and their army, bucky, wanda, the guardians, doctor strange, and even my mom.

my breath hitches in my throat and tears start to pool in my eyes when i see a red and blue figure swing into the battlefield, positioning in the very front.

it’s peter.

my peter.

he’s back.

“avengers!” i hear uncle steve call out. the four of us walk closer as i grab my guns from my waist holster and cock them, ready for battle.

i take a deep breath, millions of thoughts running through my head of the possible outcomes.

what if thanos gets to me first?

what if i don’t survive this war?

what if i die and i won’t get to see peter again?

my eyes softly open and i inhale one last time before uncle steve signals and all of the avengers charge towards thanos and his army.

i shout in anger and run, shooting the creatures that are running towards me.

the battle has begun.

i fight and fight with all my might. i turn towards my front, sides, and back, shooting a bullet through the head and chest of the creatures around me, making sure that none of them get too close to me or hurt me.

one manages to grab my arm, but i quickly aim my gun towards its head and pull the trigger, it’s body dropping to the ground in an instant.

i feel a kick on my torso, making me drop my guns to the ground. they throw a punch, making me fall to my side. i quickly swipe their legs and grab one of my guns, putting a bullet through their head.

i look around for my other gun, but then i feel one of them grab my leg, making me drop back on the ground. several of thanos’ minions gather on top of me and when i pull the trigger, no bullet comes out.

“shit!”

i try to get away and i try to reach for my watch to be able to activate my suit, but they pin me to the ground. i close my eyes and i say a prayer inside my head, silently thanking my family for taking care of me, the avengers for believing in me, for peter who loved me at my best and mostly, at my worst.

i wait patiently for death to come, but i snap my eyes open when the creatures on top of me screech and are being pulled back one by one. they all screech as they are pulled back and are thrown far away from the scene.

when their grip on me loosens, i quickly push the button on my watch and immediately, my body starts to be engulfed with iron and wires. several blasters appear above my head and shoot the remaining creatures off of me and into ashes.

i pick myself off of the ground and tears start to prickle my eyes when the brunette boy i fell in love with over time and watched turn to dust in front of me rushes over towards me.

“(y/n)!” the iron around my face dissolves as peter checks for any injuries, despite being in the middle of a battle and me being in an iron suit.

“holy cow. you will not believe what’s going on. do you remember when we were in space? and i got all dusty? i must’ve passed out cause i woke up and you and mr. stark were gone,” he rambles.

“peter–”

“but doctor strange was there, right? he was like, ‘it’s been five years. come on, they need us!”

“peter, love–”

“and then he started doing the yellow sparkly thing he does all the time-” before peter could finish, i roll my eyes and grab the back of his neck, connecting my lips with his. he freezes in shock at my sudden actions, but he kisses back, nevertheless.

when we pull away, he sighs in content before smiling. his teary eyes are filled with hope, gladness, and relief as he looks down on me. “this is nice,” he says, making me chuckle. “as much as i love our little reunion, there are thousands of people in thanos’ army trying to kill us right now.” he chuckles and moves away from me to fight off the creature approaching us in fast steps.

-----

throughout the fight, peter and i continue to fight side by side and back to back. when one of us seems to be in trouble, the other won’t hesitate to help fight off the annoying bastards.

we continue fighting and fighting until a bright light flashes. i cover my eyes to try to hide the light, but it immediately fades away. one by one, what remained of thanos’ army starts to turn to dust and fade away in the wind.

a smile starts to spread across my face.

we won.

i look towards my left to celebrate our victory until i see my dad sitting on the ground with uncle rhodey, peter, and mom around him as he is slowly dying.

i immediately rush over to him and i kneel beside his weak body and pant, trying to find a way, another way.

“dad? dad? can you hear me?” my hands shake aggressively, too afraid to touch him in case i cause him more pain. “we did it, dad. we won and we brought them back, just like you said,” i say, my voice and heart breaking inside my chest.

dad stares at me with sad eyes. he doesn’t say a word, but his eyes say, ‘yeah. we did, kiddo,’ which makes my heart break even more.

i sniffle and wipe the tears from my cheeks, a sad smile playing on my lips. “look, i made this suit all by myself.” i motion towards my suit. “you inspired me to make this suit,” i say in between sobs. “you are my inspiration and you continue to inspire me everyday, dad.” i take dad’s hand and bring it to my lips, kissing the cold and pale skin.

i feel a pair of arms hug me from behind, tugging me away from dad. i try to break from their grip and i reach out to dad, but they grab my hand and i know the feeling of their hands from anywhere.

peter pulls me close and wraps his arms around me as i cling to him tightly, sobbing into his chest. he rubs my arm up and down in comfort and i can feel his tears dropping on to the top of my head, but i didn’t care.

mom places her hand on top of dad’s hand which is placed around his arc reactor and dad turns to look at me one last time. “(y/n),” he softly calls. peter and i lock eyes and he nods, pulling away from me to let me approach my dad.

i kneel on the other side of dad and he raises his free hand to cup my cheek. i lean against his touch, my tears rolling from his fingers to his wrist. he sadly smiles at me before saying in a raspy voice, “i love you 3,000, kiddo. both you and morgan. don’t forget that.”

“never.”

dad smiles at me one last time and as mom kisses his forehead, his arc reactor’s vibrant blue light turns to black. i can feel his touch on my cheek become lighter as his lifeless hand drops to his side.

even though we won against thanos and restored the population back, the only thing we are celebrating is my dad’s sacrifice and his victory for defeating his fears.

-----

i take a deep breath, one hand holding the strap on my bag while the other one is intertwined with peters as i glance up at the crowded hallway in front of me.

peter must’ve noticed my uneasiness and raises our hands, kissing the top of my knuckles, making me smile.

“you okay?” he asks, concern written all over his face. i nod my head. “yeah, it’s just,” i sigh deeply. “a lot happened in those 5 years and seeing all these people,” i gesture towards my frantic schoolmates wandering through the hallways of the school. “reminds me of my dad.”

peter looks down in sadness at the mention of dad and he sighs, sadly smiling. “yeah, i miss him too.”

the sound of the bell ringing echoes and people all around us start to make their way to their classrooms.

peter kisses my cheek, a dorky smile playing on his lips. “let’s go to class?” i roll my eyes, chuckling before grabbing the collar of his shirt and pull him in a passionate kiss.

peter smiles into the kiss and when we pull away, we intertwine our hands together before we walk towards our classroom, hearts beating as one.

MASTERLIST

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bethgreeneishopeunseen · 6 years

Note

What state do u think she'll return in? I don't know much about brain injuries; would it be possible for her to have survived with her emotional/intellectual/motor abilities more or less intact? How "normal" could she be health wise? I know its fiction, so they could just say "she's alive and fine!" nd not be practical abt it. But this is such a big storyline thats been speculated on for YEARS. They have to execute it perfectly and be as realistic as they can be with this one.

https://bethgreeneishopeunseen.tumblr.com/tagged/bullet-evidence

https://bethgreeneishopeunseen.tumblr.com/tagged/headshot-%3D-death-my-ass

Hey anon! I think when Beth returns she will return relatively intact, just further scarred and hardened as a survivor. The links above are my tags related to her gunshot wound (GSW). For reference, Beth was shot through the left upper side of her forehead and not from under her chin as most viewers believed. Skybound even tweeted this gif two weeks after Coda aired (x). While the wound is still significant, it’s still survivable as the parts of her resemble for basic function wouldn’t be damaged.

(While Tyreese’s hallucination of Beth was inaccurate as she had an exit wound, which increases her odds, this is a good visual of the actual entry point.) Beth’s wound parallels comic!Andrea’s second facial scar, as Andrea was shot and the bullet skimmed her scalp, cutting a groove into her temple. In the early days of TD, people theorized that something similar happened to Beth. Rather than the bullet going straight through her brain, the bullet instead skimmed the inside of the skull. Such a thing has been observed in wartimes and was used in some Law & Order episode I think.

There are numerous cases in real-life and in fiction in which people suffer headshots and survive. In real-life the people may suffer some mild amnesia or a complete personality gage – Phineas Gage is a famous example. He suffered extensive damage to his to left frontal lobe and became a new person, with a breakdown in impulse control and general behavior throughout the remaining twelve years of his life. (Off-topic but serial killers suffered head injuries as children, indicating a connection between emotional empathy, impulse control, and the ability to feel remorse. Have you noticed yet that I’m a psychology nerd?) From what I’ve read about Phineas Gage his injury was considerably worse than Beth, and he lived during the 19th century. Beth is fictional and was last seen in the only known functioning hospital during the apocalypse. Grady was created for her character, and it was left standing for a reason. In a deleted scene from Coda, Dawn gave Edwards the keys to the medicine cabinet (x). He can make the call. If Beth was cured/immune to the virus (which I think she is), and he was horrified by her “death” and likely felt guilty, then he would want to do something. He would definitely want her body if she were immune for scientific purposes – his research. He could give her the medical treatment she would which would mostly consist of antibiotics and bandages as the bullet wouldn’t need to be removed. Furthermore, Beth had heparin in her system before she was shot. (Tagging @bethgreenewarriorprincess since this is her area of expertise.)

Long ago Christy discovered that Beth’s IV was a giant-ass bag of heparin, a strong blood thinner. Heparin will likely serve dual purposes in Beth’s story going forward: her survival and her role in a cure arc. (If you would like to read more about this theory, check out this tag: x.) In zombie literature, heparin is used as a cure. It’s anticoagulant so it keeps the blood from clotting. In TWD zombie blood is thicker than the living’s, so it’s possible heparin is part of a drug cocktail to fight the virus. Beth was bleeding more than normal in Grady because of this. If you go back and watch the opening of Slabtown, the blood on her bandage from the IV needle is more than what would be expected. Heparin also helps treat those with head trauma:

“Heparin is a low molecular weight anticoagulant; aka a medication that thins the blood. She was given this by IV and at a large dose (the reason for this is yet unexplained but I theorize about that here) that would still be in her body at the time she was shot Heparin is used in many cases of TBI (traumatic brain injury), such as as a head-shot like Beth’s, and it’s felt to result in less progression of injury on brain imaging in studies that have been conducted. (x) The fact that she was given heparin beforehand could very well have been the very thing that saved her.” - bethgreenewarriorprincess (x)

About three weeks passed between 5x08 and 5x10. Some blogs theorized that the music box’s resurrection not only symbolized Beth’s survival but also her waking up from a coma. An injury like hers would justify a coma of that duration, and she would have plenty of time to recover. Several months passed between 5x08 and 7x08 (x), for example. She’s going to be an even bigger character when she returns, and I don’t think that the writers will permanently reduce her abilities. This is arc about building her up, not cutting her down.

In regards to possible symptoms of her injury, there are two major theories. The first is that she has reduced eyesight, possible blindness in one of her eyes. This is based mostly in Daryl’s comments about “nothing worth seeing out there” in Still and the one-eyed dog in Alone. I don’t think this will happen. Daryl’s statement reflected his cynicism and loss of hope, and one of the main themes in Still is that Beth is right, not Daryl the seasoned survivor. Furthermore, Father Gabriel already has an eye injury and it would be excessive to give it to Beth. The second theory is that she will have some form of amnesia. In the comics, when Carl wakes up from his eye injury he can’t remember anything from since before the prison fell. He even forgot that his mother and sister had died. Beth might undergo a similar thing during her journey, forgetting some key details about her past. She would likely remember the skills that Daryl had taught her though as that kind of memory is separate from episodic (personal) memory. This theory would explain why Beth as Boots didn’t reach out to Team Family. If Beth has amnesia, I don’t think it would be long-term or be affecting her when she would eventually reunite with her family. The writers would want to take full advantage of the emotions, and amnesia would reduce that, emphasizing the tragedy more than the relief and celebration.

Now this is totally a crack theory, but I could see the writers giving her an amnesia similar to Capgas Delusion.

“Capgras delusion is a psychiatric disorder in which a person holds a delusion that a friend, spouse, parent, or other close family member (or pet) has been replaced by an identical impostor. The Capgras delusion is classified as a delusional misidentification syndrome, a class of delusional beliefs that involves the misidentification of people, places, or objects.” (x)

youtube

(skip to 1:53)

As Boots, if Beth saw her family she might outright distrust and not believe it when she saw Rick at Alexandria. An amnesia akin to Capgras delusion would be interesting because it echoes the Whisperers, a group that will likely appear in some form this season and have already been foreshadowed. The Whisperers are a large antagonistic group from the comics who wore walker face-masks to move through herds and to camouflage themselves. Gross but affective. Emily’s first project post-TWD even included an egg that connoted the Whisperers and was repeated in season 7 (x).

No matter what happens, I think the missing scenes will help to explain how Beth survived. The Grady set was also built in the studio and included a three-story elevator. Emily was filming into October 2014 when her scenes supposedly wrapped at the end of August (x); she supposedly started filming in mid-June of that year for Slabtown but she a month earlier she was at one missing set (the white houses). There are photographs and statements that confirm all of this. She’s likely filmed material since then too. I think all of that missing footage will be used in another some kind of miniseries/mini movie or flashbacks to explain her journey.

#team delusional #beth greene #bullet evidence #headshot = death my ass #beth was bit #asks #the whisperers

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elesane-blog · 6 years

Text

Big Trouble in Little Elwynn

Elesane’s face beamed with excitement as her horse carried her deeper down the dirt roads of Elwynn forest. Clouds of dust billowed behind her, her white hair fluttering like a comet’s tail through the few sunbeams that dared break through the forest’s canopy. She clutched the reins with a delicate grip and tugged the leather straps to her right. The horse whinnied as it obeyed the command, shifting its weight into the turn. Elwynn’s dusty causeway slowly faded into worn ruts of grass as the road veered into a lonely uphill trail. Overgrowth and twigs slid and snapped against her leather slacks while the trail narrowed down the path. Elle reached her right hand out to the horses neck and soothed the beast. “Not much further now.” She whispered. As the trail leveled the trees gave way to a large clearing at the crown of the hill. Padded dirt and a few sparse cobblestones formed a rudimentary trail that ended at the base of a modest estate. A cobbled chimney rose from the center of a wide shingled roof that drooped from the second story into a stone facade. On the right wing of the home was a tall peak with a large central window, perfect for collecting the first rays of morning sun. Elle tugged back on the reins forcing her horse into a trot and then a full stop as she approached. She kicked her leg over the horse and dismounted leading it to the hitching post near the entrance of the home. She glanced around expectantly growing slightly anxious. “Strange” she thought, “usually...”

Satisfied with the horse’s lodging she quickly made her way to the heavy door at the entryway. She rapped the knocker once... and after waiting a moment, twice....and a third after another minute of waiting. Adrenaline creeped into her veins “that’s strange” she though as the leaned forward pushing her body weight against the door as she turned the steel knob.

“Hello?” She called into the empty home and crained her neck trying to get a glimpse of any movement.

“Hellooooo?” She called out again. As she made her way deeper into the house the floorboards creaked eerily beneath her with every step.

“Hello—“ The hairs on the back of her neck stood up straight. Elle froze in her tracks as her heart crept its way up her throat with freight. She stood at the end of a dark hallway, but a single light illuminated the far-of room and the faint sound of what Elle thought could only be claws against wood could be heard shifting within. She gulped and contorted her hand. Azure and violet sigils spun around her wrists, if whatever was ahead meant her harm, she’d make sure it didn’t live to get the chance.

Elle crept closer breathing in time with each step. The light flickered occasionally each time followed by the frenzied tapping. She held her breath as she took her final step before she crossed the room’s threshold. As her bodyweight shifted to her leading foot the floorboards beneath her gave way to a loud squeak.

It was now or never she though, Elle bounded forward screaming in fear and spell at the ready. The candlestick clattered to the floor as whatever -thing-was holding it jumped in fright. A goatish scream pierced the darkness matching Elle own frenzied howl. She brought her her outstretched palm to the face of the creature arcane magic humming between her thin fingers. She blinked. “A...sheep?” The slack-jawed face of a sheep shone against the violet glow of her readied spell.

“Ellie?” came a voice from the darkness. Elle’s heart nearly jumped out of her throat.

“Dad?” She said, snapping her fingers and illuminating the room in a soft azure light.

As the light ascended to the ceiling a large burly man appeared from the shadows. His hair was short and graying with age and his trimmed beard was short

And neat giving him a distinguished look, that is...if he wasn’t perched on a toilet.

“Oh light, dad!!!” Elle turned her back to her father, her face flushing brightly.

He let out a hearty laugh, “You’re the one that barged in on me, what did ya expect?” He retorted as he waved a hand around in the darkness for toiletries.

“Why don’t ya make yerself at home and I’ll meet ya in the foyer, Ellie.”

She cleared her throat and quickly agreed. Giving a passing glance to the quivering sheep as she made her way back out into the hallway.

“Oh and erm...leave that the light ere’ for a bit.” He added as she turned the corner.

A few moments later Elle found herself waiting patiently on her parent’s leather sofa, a small cup of coffee in now resting between her fingertips. The creaking of the woodwind floorboards followed by the patter of hooves brought her father into view, his tall frame beaming at his daughter. She leaps up to give him a hug, feeling the scratch of his beard against her forehead. “We’ve missed you, Little Witch.” He said as he relented his embrace of his daughter. She smiled up at him.

“So dad, I gotta ask...” she pointed toward the sheep aloofly standing to her father’s side.

“Oh Margie? She’s my number one candle holder all right.”

“No, dad why do you have a sheep?” She sighed.

“Oh we didn’t tell ya?”

“No dad.”

“Well the old hermit up the hill passed away and so yer mother and I decided, what the hell let’s embrace this farming life. I’ve always wanted to be a sheeper.”

“A sheeper? And you you just took his sheep?”

“They were always roamin’ into our property anyway. And yeah, you know those old guys with the cane?”

“Shepherd, dad.”

Elle’s father smirked and continued to ignore her correction.

“Well yer mother and I have been having a hell of a time as sheepers, fending off the Kobolds that have been around. Did ya know your mum is a natural with a musket?” He smiled and seemed to zone out for a moment in thought.

“Kobolds?” Elle prodded.

“Aye, ever since the sheep started squattin’ they’ve been sneaking around the outskirts. Haven’t seen kobolds so bold before. Oh and there’s one more thing, but I think your mother can explain it better.”

“Explain what?” Elle continued. He looked back at her and smiled as he made his way towards the back door and waved for her to follow.

“Well, c’mon she should be out back” his tall frame wavered back and forth with each step. He was older now, but still in good shape Elle thought. As she followed him across a small trail of stepping stones toward an open pasture.

The crackling boom of gunshot ripped through the air and Elle’s father turned back to her, “Found her” he said with a large grin on his face.

A slender woman was propped along a fence that lead down the hillside. Her hair was tied back in a bun accentuating the sharp angles of her cheeks against her silhouette. “That’s right run you bastards” she shouted over the fence her nose still pressed against the barrel of still-smoking musket.

Elle shouted over the field and waved her arms at her mother.

“Ellie!” She shouted back and slung the rifle over her shoulder to and walked across the field to meet her daughter and husband.

She embraced Elle and looked between the two.

“You got your father’s message I take it?”

“Yeah mom of course, you know I would never miss a visit. Plus, you said you needed some help?”

Her mother looked over her shoulder at the field and then to her husband.

“You want to start or should I?” She asked him.

“Go right ahead Millie,” he nodded.

“Well shortly after your father so -generously- adopted a flock of sheep we’ve had kobolds sneaking around the property.”

Elle’s father placed a hand on her shoulder.

“And there’s this thing with the sheep too. As an inexperienced sheeper I’m not sure if it’s normal.”

Her mother sighed

“Charles, can we stop with the sheeper shit?”

“Oh he’s been doing it to you too?” Elle grinned at her mother.

“He thinks he’s funny.” She said rolling her eyes at her husband.

“Anyway...” he continued. “So’z the sheep are making these strange patters in the pasture out there. We figured our little witch might know something more.

“About the sheep?” Elle looked to her father quizzically.

“Follow me” He said waving an arm beside him.

Charles led his daughter up a small hill further out into the pasture. The rolling landscape of Elwynn stretched on in every direction as forest met the horizon. A few small structures could be seen into the distance, Northshire, Elle thought.

Her father came to a stop near the hill’s apex and pointed out the the flock of sheep below.

“Watch em closely” he said. “Look at the way they move.”

Elle held her hand against her forehead to block the late afternoon sun and peered down at the flock. They seemed normal at first glass, but as she watched the stranger it became. It was as if there was a set pattern the sheep would move. A semi circle into a u-turn sometimes into a beeline for another sheep’s previous spot. Like clockwork they moved in a strange unnatural way. “What do you think?” Her father asked.

“I’m not sure.” She said. “But I think I know someone who might be able to help.”

#warcraft rp #elesane #mywriting #magic #family #mystery roleplay

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agrestenoir · 6 years

Text

fool’s gold 1/? (a miraculous fic)

Title: fool’s gold Characters/Pairings: Adrien/Marinette, Chat Noir/Marinette Rating: General Summary: When Adrien chooses the wrong place to detransform, his secret is revealed to none other than Marinette Dupain-Cheng. He knows he's taking a risk by trusting her, but perhaps it won't be that bad. After all, it means he finally gets to be honest with someone, show off some of the cooler parts about being a superhero, and get to know Marinette a little bit better. So long as Ladybug doesn't find out, thing'll be fine. Oh, what a naive boy.

read on AO3

Adrien Agreste is certain of a few things in his life:

1) He loves being Chat Noir. 2) He loves Ladybug. 3) He wants to know Ladybug’s identity. 4) He wants Ladybug to know his identity. 5) If anyone finds out his identity, other than Ladybug, he can’t be Chat Noir anymore. 6) He loves being Chat Noir. 7) Marinette Dupain-Cheng knows he’s Chat Noir.

The rain is slick against his skin as he runs across the school rooftop, sliding to a stop above the skylight where the thunder rattles the glass in the window frame. Muffling a soft curse, Chat Noir pulls on the rusty handle, claws digging into the metal as he tries to pry the window open without breaking it. It refuses to budge. He’d put more strength into it, but with his Miraculous beeping in warning, he knows he doesn’t have much time before he’ll transform back into Adrien Agreste…

…And then he’ll have a problem.

Deciding to face the consequences later, Chat Noir snaps the handle off—lock and all—before slowly pulling the skylight open and jumping down, slamming it close behind him. He lands in a low squat, resting back on his haunches, as rainwater drips onto the white tiles of the bathroom floor. Lightning paints the walls with streaks of light and shadow, and it takes him a moment to recognize that he hasn’t dropped into the boy’s restroom like he’d planned too.

A light blush dusts his cheeks as he quietly averts his eyes to the side just as his Miraculous gives its final warning. Chat Noir disappears in a flash of green, leaving Adrien Agreste standing in the middle of the deserted girl’s restroom.

Plagg slips out of the ring with a sly smile. “Well, kid,” he says with a low chuckle. “Never thought you had it in you.”

Adrien’s blush deepens, the tips of his ears turning a furious red, as he turns towards the kwami with a flustered gasp. “I wouldn’t—This was supposed to—Come on, Plagg!”

Large green eyes peer up at him eerily from the shadows. “Scream later. Camembert now.”

Adrien huffs to himself and digs into his jean pocket for the last piece of cheese he’s sure he’d stashed on his person before leaving the house. Lunch had been a rushed ordeal entirely—even before the akuma appeared on the local news—as Nathalie had been on his case for missing another piano lesson.

(Though, if he has to be completely honest, Adrien stopped caring about the piano shortly after his mother left. Having a musical outlet had been her idea in the first place, and if she can’t be here to hear him, what’s the point of him continuing?)

Nathalie was calm and spoke in soft tones, but he knows she’s getting frustrated with his antics. It was the second time this week he’d missed the piano lessons due to an akuma-related incident, the fifth this month alone.

He wonders at what point she’ll tell his father instead of making excuses for him.

The point of the matter, however, is that Adrien isn’t sure if he remembered to restock his cheese supply before leaving. Not like it matters in the grand scheme of things, considering he keeps a constant supply in his gym locker, but it’s still a commute from the upstairs girl’s restroom to the bottom level where the locker room is located. Plus, he’d have to listen to Plagg’s complaining the entire way, which isn’t something he’s in mood to deal with, especially after an akuma battle.

When his fingers can’t find any camembert, he tries his other pockets and comes up empty-handed. Damn it.

“Okay, Plagg, let’s head downstairs,” he says, opening his shirt to let his kwami slip inside. “There’s probably some camem—“

“A-Adrien?” The voice is like a gunshot—sudden and loud in the bathroom.

Shoulders tense, eyes wide, Adrien pauses because he knows that voice. He knows that. However, he refuses to turn around and be right—he doesn’t want to believe it. From the sound of harsh breathes behind him, though, he figures he needs to before he sends the stranger into a panic attack. On shaky legs, he turns around careful, slowly, and casts a nervous glance over his shoulder, scanning the shadows of the bathroom with scrutiny.

Just as he expects, Marinette Dupain-Cheng stands in the corner of the girl’s restroom.

“M-Marinette,” he says, hand rubbing the back of his head. He fists the hair at the nape of his neck as panic slowly sets in. “What’re you doing here? I thought you’d be in cl—”

And he prays and prays and prays she hadn’t noticed.

“You’re Chat—”

God has betrayed him.

“No, no—” He’s already shaking his head in protest. “D-Don’t say it!”

“B-But you’re—”

“Nope!” With lightning speed, he bolts across the room and plants his hand over Marinette’s mouth, muffling the rest of her sentence. Eyes wide with panic, Adrien pleads with her to forget what she’s seen.

“Please,” he begs, “please.”

Beneath his hand, Marinette’s jaw goes slack. He takes it as a signal to pull away, but before he can, she’s smacking his hand away from her face.

Her lips part as she says, in equal parts shock and horror, “You’re Chat Noir.”

Well, Adrien decides, he’s dead. Ladybug’s going to kill him.

Adrien Agreste is never one to believe in luck.

He tries not to think about it too much, to be completely honest. Plagg had once tried to explain to him the bare bones of the concept of Ladybug and Chat Noir, two halves of a whole, from Lady Luck to the Black Cat, and their powers of creation and destruction respectively. All he took away from that explanation is that Ladybug is epitome of all good luck in the world while Chat Noir is the incarnation of bad luck.

What more is there to understand?

Basically: Adrien is screwed no matter what he does.

This time, though, his bad luck is causing more problems that it’s probably worth.

Adrien slumps forward over the table, chin resting atop his folded hands as Marinette paces across the front of the deserted classroom they’d slipped into after he frantically cornered her during the Bathroom Incident™. Controlling the situation is the first thought on his mind; preserving his secret and whatever other damage control he has to take part in is of the utmost importance.

“You’re Chat Noir,” she says to the empty air.

“Yes,” Adrien responds, fighting the urge to hide his face in his hands. God, how could he be so stupid to detransform without making sure the place was empty?

As he watches Marinette frantically try to process his secret identity, he tries to reassure himself that things will be alright. It’s Marinette, after all. Bright and wide-eyed Marinette who lives life to the fullest, as if everything she does is a new experience she can’t wait to enjoy, but always so careful and critical when it comes to serious matters. Adrien hopes she realizes the seriousness of the matter that involves keeping her mouth shut and keeping his secret safe.

“You’re Adrien Agreste,” Marinette says.

“Yes,” Adrien responds.

A faraway memory burst to the forefront of his mind, of a rainy day and a black umbrella, where he told a girl he’d just met a few startling truths. Before Françoise Dupont, Adrien had never been to a school outside his home, never had a friend before Chloe Bourgeois, and Marinette was the first person he’d trusted and the first friend he made.

He hopes he wasn’t wrong. He hopes he can trust her. He hopes she’ll keep his secret.

He needs her to.

“You’re Adrien Agreste, and you’re Chat Noir.” It’s clear that Marinette is still processing.

“And some days I’m Jagged Stone,” he tells her, propping his chin atop folded hands. “I figure we might as well hit all my secret identities while we’re at it. Sometimes I moonlight as Dark Owl too when Mr. Damocles is too busy.” His voice turns bitter, but he sweetens it with a smile. “Just thought you should know.”

Marinette’s eyes go wide. “Don’t mess with me.”

Adrien rolls his eyes. “I’m just kidding, I promise.”

“Frankly, I’ll believe anything you tell me right now,” Marinette says, her voice a tad hysterical. Running a hand through her hair, she whirls around the room with a wild laugh. “I mean, you’re Chat Noir, like… Of all people to be him, it’s you.”

“First off, please keep it down.” He pushes himself out of his seat with a frantic glance to the closed door, making sure that no one has picked up on Marinette’s commotion. “I’d like to at least try to keep my secret identity a secret for a little while longer—”

“Yeah?” Marinette crosses her arms against her chest. “And how’s that working out for you so far?”

Anger bubbles in the pit of his stomach, the tips of his ears turning red. “That’s not fair. I would’ve been fine if you hadn’t been there. What the hell were you doing in the bathroom anyway? There was an akuma—you’re supposed to go to the safety zones.”

“I-I was…” This time, it’s Marinette’s turn to be flustered. “I w-was, I… I’m on my period.”

“So? That’s no reason to risk your life in an akuma battle!”

“What would you know? My u-uterus was trying to kill me, of course—wait, wait—why am I even explaining myself to you? You’re the one who jumped into the girl’s bathroom to detransform?” Adrien flushes a bright pink. “Is this what you do with your powers, Adrien? You sneak into girl’s bathrooms and—”

“No, what?!” he cries out, shaking his head. “No, I thought it was the boy’s bathroom!”

“Well it wasn’t the boy’s bathroom!”

“Thank you, Marinette. I think I got that when you saw me.”

“And who’s fault is that?” she presses.

To be honest, Adrien knows there really isn’t much he can do about the situation.

All he knows is that it really isn’t his fault, even if he should’ve checked the bathroom first. He didn’t wake up this morning and ruffle his hair, wondering who he could reveal his true identity to today, and set his sights on Marinette before he’d even pushed the covers back. Plagg can attest to that—Adrien never willingly sets himself up to ruin everything—it just happens.

Bad luck has a tendency to fuck things up sometimes. He doesn’t know why he’s usually the target.

“Look, regardless of what happened, and who’s fault it is, you know my secret.” Adrien steps closer, placing his hands on Marinette’s shoulders. “And I need you to keep it a secret, Marinette.”

She swallows thickly, trembling in his grip. “Why do—?”

“Because it’ll put a lot of people in danger: my family, my friends, Ladybug.” The nightmares that haunt him suddenly flash through his head—still painful and horrifying—the ones he always tries to forget. Closing his eyes, he bows his head. “Please, you’re my friend and I trust you, but… No one can know. You’re not supposed to know. Even Ladybug doesn’t know.”

“Ladybug doesn’t know,” came her sardonic response. “You sure about that?”

Adrien looks up, sees her lips pressed into a resolute expression, eyes distant. “She doesn’t. We swore we’d keep our identities a secret, even from each other. Obviously, I screwed that up—”

“Yes, you did. This is your fault,” Marinette interjects.

“—and now I need to make sure it stays that way. Please.” His eyes are bright and pleading. “Can you please keep this a secret, Marinette? I promise I’ll tell you anything you want to do, but I need you to promise me that you won’t tell anyone I’m a superhero.”

“I’m the only one who knows?” Marinette asks softly.

“Yeah,” he swears. “Unfortunately, it’s one person too much, but yeah, you’re the only one.”

She sighs at his words, seeming to crumble in herself as her shoulders hang heavy. “Okay,” she promises, voice low. “I’ll keep your secret.”

“Okay, okay,” Adrien says with a relieved smile. “Maybe I can get out of here without Ladybug killing me after all.”

“Yeah,” Marinette chimes in, still processing the news. “Maybe you can.

What a stupid boy, Tikki thinks. You’re definitely going to die.

#miraculous ladybug #marichat #adrinette #ml fic #miraculous #my fic #my writing #oh dear this is going to be fun

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professor-hiddles · 6 years

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One and Only pt.2

pairing: peter parker x reader

word count: 3.9k

warnings: super minor mentions of death, post-breakup brooding & again, cute lil peter

pt.1

Your hospital visit was nothing out of the ordinary, the E.R. staff knew you by name at this point. After playing sports your whole life, breaking bones here and there, you’re bound to end up in a hospital at one point or another. The last time you were there, it was a fractured wrist from falling during soccer practice. Your doctor told you to take it easy, but ‘easy’ wasn’t in your vocabulary.

Your doctor, Dr. Collins, decided it would be best if you stayed overnight, just so they could watch for any potential internal bleeding or other complications. This sounded absolutely ridiculous to you, but understandable to your father.

“Honey, its only one night. I’m sure you’ll survive. Anyway, I gotta go, I have to pick up your brother before work. I’m working the night shift today, but call if you need anything, I love you,” your dad said, kissing you on the forehead and walking out. Now, it was just you and your thoughts left in the room.

[P.P.] Hey, Y/N, how’s the hospital?

You smiled at the text, happy that someone actually cared enough to text you.

[Y/N] eh, could have been worse, but nothing I haven’t seen before lol the food still sucks, and my dad left so i’m a little lonely at the moment

[P.P.] What if I told u I was on my way there? I might bring food too if ur nice lol

[Y/N] PLEASE DO I’LL LOVE U FOREVER PETER

Just as you put your phone down, there was a soft knock on your door. Your head snapped up, to find Peter standing there, pizza box and teddy bear in hand. A wide smile formed on your face, and you beckoned for him to come in.

“Peter! You brought food!” You threw an arm around him, careful not to further agitate your already hurting ribcage.

He chuckled, opening the box and handing you a slice. “Thought you might want some company. I was actually on my way up when I texted you, and then I saw the gift shop, and this little guy was just calling my name,” he said, handing you the bear.

“Now I wont be lonely! Also, I don’t think this counts as our date, so I’d be more than willing to go out with you as soon as I’m out of here,” you said, smile still planted on your face.

He smiled, knowing that the both of you subconsciously counted this as a date, but neither cared to admit it. He grabbed your hand, squeezing it a bit.

“That would be awesome, Y/N. So maybe we should start brainstorming? Like ideas for the date, you know?” He almost looked nervous, though you doubted that this was his first actual date. You nodded your head, pulling a piece of paper from your backpack that your dad left. ‘Do some homework, Y/N. Keep your mind on track.’

Even in the hospital you couldn’t catch a break.

“Alright, so, what do you want to do? Movies, dinner, hang out; what style of date do you fancy, Mr. Parker?” You joked, smiling. The gears were turning in his head, trying to think of places he liked.

“Okay, well there is this one spot, right in the middle of Central Park, there’s a huge-ass rock that I like to lay on and look at the stars, but I get it if its too far for you. I know you sometimes have to watch your brother, so if you want to stay closer to home, I’m sure I could think of somewh—“ You put a hand over his mouth to stop his rambling.

“Peter, that sounds perfect. It really doesn’t matter if its a kind of far, I can always get my neighbor to watch my brother. If it’s somewhere you recommend, I’m sure I’ll love it. Now, when do you want to go?” You chewed on the end of the pen, heart fluttering at the thought of actually going on a date with him.

“How’s Friday? I could swing by around 7? You know, if you feel good enough, with your cracked rib and all.” He chuckled a little under his breath, at the small spider-man pun he made. You didn’t seem to catch it, which was a small relief for him.

You nodded, setting the date in your calendar. “You’ve got yourself a date, now hopefully I can convince my dad to let me go. He’s too protective sometimes, you know?” Peter laughed, thinking of his Aunt May, and how protective she was. His phone then buzzed with an important message from Tony Stark, signaling it was time for him to leave.

“Yeah, I completely understand. Speaking of protective family, I gotta get going. My Aunt May would kill me if she knew I wasn’t at decathlon practice right now,” he said, watching for your reaction. Your face did fall a bit, but you understood why he had to go.

“Don’t miss me too much, Parker. Text me when you get home though, so I know you’re safe, ok?” He nodded his head, giving you a quick hug and a kiss on the head before making his way out.

Once you were alone, you looked at the small bear that he bought for you. You noticed it was dressed like Spider-man, which made you laugh a bit.

“Guess its just me and you now, Spidey. Hope you like ‘How I met Your Mother,’ ‘cause thats what I’m putting on.” Your hand reached for the remote, and you settled into the hospital bed, with a slice of pizza and the bear.

The next morning, you were woken up to doctors and nurses clamoring around your room. You rubbed your eyes, confused as to what was going on. Your father was there, arguing with the doctor, who apparently wanted to keep you there for another night.

“Oh, good, you’re awake. How do you feel? Any pain? Nausea? Vomiting?” The doctor was moving you around, getting your heartbeat, checking the wounded area, looking very frazzled.

“No, I feel absolutely fine. Great, in fact. Why is everyone so antsy? Did something happen while I was sleeping?” You were incredibly confused, no one wanted to tell you anything.

“Sweetpea, this might sound strange, but the doctors told me that somehow, your rib healed itself while you were sleeping. Something that should have taken at least a few weeks to heal, miraculously happened overnight. They want to keep you for further observation, but I don’t want you to be an experiment,” your father had a comforting hand on your shoulder, but your mind was struggling to grasp what had just been told to you.

Your first instinct was to poke the rib, for whatever reason. No pain. Your eyebrows furrowed, more puzzled than ever. How is this possible?

“Your daughter is a medical mystery to us, right now, Mr. Y/L/N. With your permission, we would like to take a blood sample, to see if theres maybe something strange going on within her,” the doctor said to your father, who had a nervous hand running through his hair.

“No. Absolutely not. If she’s healed, then I’m taking her home. She has school, after all,” he said, gathering your things. Dr. Collins was trying to get him to stop for a moment, but your father wasn’t having it.

“Sir, I really don’t think thats the best thing to do right now. If we can figure out what exactly is going on, we could potentially help so many people,” the doctor said, trying to convince him. Your father still refused, he didn’t want them poking and prodding at you, and since you were still a minor, you didn’t have much of a say.

“Like I said, absolutely not. If she want’s to do this when she’s eighteen, thats going to be her decision. But while she’s under my protection, I’m going to have to say no,” He signed the discharge papers, and you were out.

It was a bit irrational, but you knew why your father said no. Your mother died in the same hospital three years ago, after a gunshot to the abdomen. She had lost too much blood, and the doctors couldn’t do anything. Your father blamed the doctors and the hospital, so he was reluctant to even take you for minor injuries.

You decided not to break the awkward silence in the car, so instead you took out your phone and texted Peter.

[Y/N] guess whatttttt

[P.P.] what????

[Y/N] i got discharged!! i still have to go to school though :((

[P.P.] its only 7:30am how are you out so soon?? i was sure they would keep you at least until noon

[P.P.] also yikes @ the school thing

[Y/N] apparently my bones healed overnight its super weird

[Y/N] OMG WAIT AM I A SUPERHERO

[Y/N] SHIT I COULD BE LIKE SPIDERGIRL OR SOMETHING

[Y/N] brb trying to shoot webs rn

[Y/N] catch me as the next member of the avengers bb

[P.P.] im sure spiderman would love to have you as his sidekick

[Y/N] LISTEN BUDDY I AM NOT A SIDEKICK

[Y/N] if either one of us had to be a sidekick its you peter parkour

[P.P.] keep telling yourself that lol

[P.P.] wait did you just call me parkour

[Y/N] yep i did meanie

You slipped your phone into your pocket chuckling when your dad pulled up in front of your house.

“Go take a quick shower and change your clothes, Y/N. I gotta have you at school for third period,” he said, chuckling at your groan.

“Do I have to go? Its not like anyone would miss me, dad,” you said, giving your best puppy dog eyes. He almost fell for it, but shook his head at the last second, telling you that you had to go.

You trudged into the house, dreading going to school. Another groan escaped your lips as you realized that you had practice today, and since your rib was healed, you couldn’t use that as an excuse. You took your sweet time getting ready, much to your fathers chagrin. You were finally dressed and ready to go an hour later, your dad shaking his head, because it shouldn’t take that long for someone to shower and put on a hoodie with sweats.

You rode the whole car ride with your hood up, headphones in. When your dad finally pulled up in front of the school, you left the car reluctantly, backpack hanging off one shoulder.

Your hood was still up, and you sat down in third period physics with a sigh. Formulas littered the board, a barely audible groan escaped, as Peter looked over from the seat next you, chuckling. Your teacher was going on about angular velocity at the moment, but everything went in one ear and out the other.

“You look like hell, spider-girl,” he said, trying to contain a laugh. You shot a glare his way, tightening your hood around your face. You slumped further down in your chair, wishing you were invisible, or sleeping.

“I feel like it too, parkour. I’d rather be back at the hospital being tested, dude. Anything would be better than physics right now,” you said, pouting and turning back to the notes on the board.

The rest of the day went by rather slowly, until you got to practice. You jogged onto the field, greeting the rest of your team and your coach. She told you to take it easy, but you had no intention of actually listening.

The drill that was currently going on was weaving, your favorite. The ball had started at you, and was going smoothly until the two girls with you decided only to pass to each other. This frustrated you, as you knew they just wanted to pity you for being hurt the day prior.

You let out an angry groan, charging after the ball even though it wasn’t your turn. If they don’t want to play fair, we won’t.

You dribbled the ball down the field, people were yelling at you, but you drowned it out. Your team’s goalie looked more than ready to block your shot, but all it took was a fake left and shot right to score on her.

Adrenaline pumped through you as you smiled, walking back up the field. You heard someone cheering for you on the sidelines, surprised to see Peter in the stands. Your smile grew wider, and you waved to him, acknowledging his cheering.

You could have sworn you heard him yell ‘thats my girl’ but you just shook it off, deducing that your ears were playing tricks on you.

“Y/L/N, what the hell was that? You just screwed up that whole drill! Not cool, Y/N,” one of the girls, Casey Jones, said, looking aggravated. You scoffed, ready to fight back, but your coach spoke up for you.

“No, she did exactly what I would have done. You two weren’t passing to her. This drill is about team work, not exclusion. So, if I’m not mistaken, Casey, you and Adriana are the ones who are ‘not cool’. You two can sit on the sidelines and watch until you figure out how to work as a team,” your coach said, earning glares from the two girls as they walked to the side, but ultimately they stopped talking.

“Thanks, coach,” you said, giving her a small, grateful smile. She clapped you on the back, turning away.

“Its no big deal, really. I’m proud of you for taking charge in that drill, you executed that shot perfectly, Y/N, and apparently I’m not the only one who thinks so,” she said, nodding her head toward Peter.

“Oh, we’re not together, coach. Its..complicated,” you said, before taking a sip of your water.

“I saw him with you at the nurse’s office the other day, you two looked pretty cozy. But, if you say its nothing, then I guess I have to believe it. All I’m gonna say is that you could have fooled me,” and with that, your coach turned and walked back onto the field, leaving you standing there, smiling like an idiot.

You looked back over, looking to see if he was still there. He wasn’t in the stands anymore, he was talking to Liz Toomes. Of course, I should have known. Every negative possibility ran through your head in that moment.

You jogged off the field, trying to figure out why Liz was the center of his attention. He had been so flirty with you, even going to the lengths of setting up a date, and you couldn’t help but wonder if his intentions with you were simply platonic. You knew he had a ‘crush’ on Liz last year, he was always staring at her, he even took her to homecoming! It hurt you, you had really thought that he was over her.

Granted, you did have a boyfriend last year, that was the only reason for why Peter went after Liz. Of course, you didn’t know that. He was seeking comfort, since you couldn’t be his at the time.

Your boyfriend had broken up with you over the summer, and it made you sad to say the least. The two of you were in love, or so you thought. He was cheating on you with a girl on your team, forcing you to question the integrity of the whole relationship.

Even when he broke up with you, it was done maliciously, he never wanted you to date anyone else. He decided that it would be best to break your spirit, not just your heart. In turn, you moped around for all of August, barely wanting to go outside.

You barely even got out of bed. Your family had no idea what to do, your brother would try to comfort you, by bringing in little lego creations. Your father bought endless pints of ice cream, it was a wonder how you didn’t weigh 300 pounds by the end of summer. He had never been on the receiving end of a breakup, he had no idea how to get you through it.

He decided it might help to call his old college friend, May Parker. Unfortunately, she couldn’t make it, so she sent Peter instead, knowing that the two of you went to school together (and because he had a crush on you, but he didn’t know that she knew).

Of course, Peter was over the moon that he got to see you, but also heartbroken at the sight of your sadness. He broke things off with Liz that same week, but the two were still friends. He did everything that he could to make you feel better, he even sat through your favorite Disney movies with you.

It was perfect, but only lasted for a few days. You both had obligations, Peter with his Stark Internship, and you with your volunteer work. The two of you didn’t see each other again until school, and that brings us to the current time.

After seeing Peter with Liz, you went to the locker room, muttering under your breath. You slammed your locker closed, the girls around you jumping at the sudden noise. You whispered a quick ‘sorry,’ and left the room. You moved through the halls of your school quickly, hood up trying not to draw any attention to yourself.

It wasn’t unlike you to be seen in the library, its where you went to cool off. You settled into a chair in the back, cracking open the first book you pulled off the shelf, which happened to be 'Norse Myths and Gods: A History.’

You loved reading about mythology and gods from all cultures, it fascinated you to every extent of the word. You opened the book to see weapons and tools, your eyes falling on one, called the Megingjörð. Apparently, it was a belt worn by Thor, God of Thunder, said to double his strengths, but current whereabouts are unknown, if it was even real.

You were shaken out of your concentration when a body plopped down in front of you, causing you to jump a bit. You looked up, eyes falling on the one person you didn’t want to see.

“Norse Gods, huh? You know Tony Stark’s met Thor? Apparently he’s a super cool dude, super buff, too,” Peter said, flipping through the book. You pulled the book out of his hands, eyes focusing back on the page.

Without looking up, you replied flatly, “Thats nice, Peter.”

You saw his face drop from your peripheral vision, and he looked down at his hands.

“Did I do something? Y/N, whats going on?” He asked, barely a whisper. Your heart nearly broke at the sight, he looked genuinely upset.

“No, nothing. Its my fault for thinking that someone would actually want to be with me. But I guess I don’t really deserve to be happy,” you said, trying to focus on the book instead of looking at him. He grabbed your hand, desperately trying to figure out why you would say such a thing.

“Y/N, why would you think that? Did someone say something to you? ‘Cause if they did I’ll beat them up, I swear,” He said, puffing his chest outward, you caught your lips turning upward.

“No one had to say anything, Peter. I saw you talking to Liz earlier, so if you want, you can go talk to her and let me wallow in my pity party,” you took your hand from his, putting your attention back on the page of the book.

He looked around, trying to get a sense of what was going on, and then it clicked. “Y/N, can you look at me please? Are you jealous of Liz?” he said, pushing the book down with a finger.

You huffed, closing the book and looking dead at him. “What do you think?”

“I think that you have absolutely no reason to be jealous. She’s in my calculus class, and needed the notes from todays lesson. And if we’re really talking about deserving things right now, I honestly think you deserve the world. Come on, I have something to show you,” He grabbed your hand, pulling you up. You barely had time to grab your bag off the floor, he was pulling you to the door.

He took you in front of a set of lockers, nothing particularly out of the ordinary. “Okay, you have to promise not to tell anyone about what I’m about to show you. I need you to swear, Y/N,” he was looking you in the eye, holding a pinky out for you to swear on.

You grabbed his pinky with yours, rolling your eyes. “Alright, so whats so special about this set of lockers?”

A grin crossed his features, as he looked from you to the lockers. He bent down, and with seemingly no effort at all, he picked up the set of lockers, pulling out a small bottle.

“Dude, what the hell?! How did you just pick up those lockers? They have to weigh like a thousand pounds!”

He didn’t answer the question, instead just tossing you the bottle of a very sticky substance. “Uh, Peter, I know we’re close and all, but I don’t know if we’re this close.”

Peter looked confused for a moment, before disgust and amusement both appeared on his face at the same time. “Ugh, Y/N, thats so gross. Why would I keep that in a bottle?”

You shrugged, looking between the bottle and the boy in front of you. “So what is it?”

“This, is my Stark Internship. This stuff is the webbing that Spider-man uses. I made it myself,” he said, looking awfully proud of his creation.

“Wait, theres no way. Why would Tony Stark ask a sixteen year old to make Spider-man’s web fluid?” you asked, placing one hand on your hip and looking closely at the bottle.

“It’s a story for another day. Look, I can prove to you that this is the web fluid. Do you trust me?” he said, holding out a hand, which you reluctantly took.

“I guess so, why? How do you plan on proving it?” he again neglected to answer the question, taking the bottle from your hand and pulling you away from the school. You walked with him until the two of you reached an alleyway, your skepticism only growing.

He placed his bag down on the floor, reaching into it. He dug around for a moment, before seemingly landing on what he was looking for. He pulled out a small contraption, it looked like a high tech bracelet of some sort.

“You pulled me all the way out here for a damn bracelet?” you asked, growing frustrated with the boy for the lack of answers you were receiving.

“Just watch, its worth it, I promise.” He said, pulling the gadget onto his wrist. He stepped away from you, aiming his hand at a fire escape that was around three stories high.

“Are you sure this isn’t dangerous, Peter? What if you fall?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest. He shot you a smile, before shooting his web at the fire escape. It brought him up effortlessly, and he landed with such grace that it seemed like he’d done this a million times over.

You stood there, mouth agape, as the realization dawned on you.

Holy shit, Peter Parker is Spider-man.

#peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker #spiderman #avengers #spiderman homecoming #imagine #fanfic #tom holland #mcu #marvel

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