#the other half was brown and burnt but the cheese was good | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cybrpwup · 1 year

Text

ɪ’ʟʟ ᴡᴀʟᴋ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜ || ʟᴀʀʀʏ ᴄʀᴏꜰᴛ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ - ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ

Larry x f!reader !

content warnings; Implications of an Abusive Relationship summary; Larry hears noise coming from Sammy & Y/N’s apartment; he investigates. Requested?; No !

Blue = flashback

Afternoon sun seeped in between where the window curtains in his bedroom met, creating a diagonal slash of light across Larry’s face. Eyes closed; light brown eyelashes rested softly on even softer cheeks. Their natural blush toned down in his unconsciousness. Lips relaxed to be parted the tiniest amount, enough to let out small mewls as he slept: more like purring than snoring.

He appeared delicate enough to break with a single glance. Peaceful. Calm. Unproblematic. Unlike when he was awake.

Clattering of cookware and the smell of burnt are both unpleasant things to wake up to. Combine the two, add muttered cursing in his flatmate’s distinct voice, and that would be Larry’s alarm clock.

Ten hours of dead sleep ended abruptly at a SLAM of a kitchen drawer followed with the metal clash of pans and the refrigerator door being opened and shut repeatedly. It was odd. Tanner was usually a quiet presence to have around. Often loud-mouthed but always light on his feet.

Larry groaned and squeezed his eyes tighter, but he was not able to ignore the noise. Rolling twice over, he moved to one side of the bed and dragged himself out from under his duvet. Retying the strings on his pajama bottoms – which had slipped to be sitting precariously on his hips – he scanned his room. Deciding to load his arms up with food wrappers and half-full glasses before leaving.

“Morning,” Tanner called over his shoulder as he pushed a spatula around in a pan in short panic-fueled movements. A light smoke spiraled up into his face.

“Is it?”

“Close enough.” He moved the pan off the stovetop. “Almost half past one.”

Flipping the glasses in his arms upside down and loading them into the dishwasher, Larry smiled to himself. Knowing whatever it was his roommate was making – he would end up eating. It was not that either of them were terrible cooks just that both were impatient and set temperatures higher than should be or was recommended. To be fair, things did come out faster but also often simultaneously burnt in parts and still raw in others.

“Nick wants to know if you wanna be in a video.” Tanner piped up as he pushed his concoction from the pan onto a plate – an identical one next to it.

Larry closed the dishwasher and put the food wrappers in the kitchen bin. He took a bar seat and watched Tanner finish up. “Yeah, sure.”

Tanner slid the spatula and pan he used to cook, into the waiting water of the plugged sink. Taking a plate up in each hand, he moved to take a bar seat and placed in front of Larry a very crispy looking omelet. It was cheese and ham and mushroom.

“Thanks,” Larry mumbled around the fork already shoveling food into his mouth.

It was quiet for a few minutes as both men ate at their respective speeds: Tanner with small quick bites and Larry with large, almost inhuman bites he did not necessarily chew before swallowing.

Omelets were eaten. Plates were cleared and cleaned. It came time for both to go return to their separate sides of the apartment into their separate lives and separate understandings. Larry reached for the handle on his bedroom door.

—

Larry flopped himself onto his bed and started to scroll through his photos with the group. There was not much choice, so he took the least blurry one and posted it to twitter – with a bright filter and a sarcastic caption that took him longer to come up with than he would have liked.

Fifty minutes he spent scrolling through twitter, occasionally checking back to watch the likes on his photo go up and to reply to some of the first commenters. It was mind-numbing in the good and proper sense.

Until he saw it – and it was not his fault, he just happened upon it – and it sent his thoughts into hyperdrive.

A post. A photo. Y/N sitting on her sofa in the dark with the one light source (presumably her television) from behind the camera casting a blue light across her face. One hand clutching the blanket in her lap as the other hand was held up. Jewel-like eyes peering through her fingers and connecting with the camera. A smile playing purposefully on her lips.

If Larry’s thoughts at that moment were put into a blender, they might still have come out making more sense than they did in his head. Eyes. Lips. Blue. Watching? Angelic. Eyes. Fingers. Dancing. Blue. Lips. Taste. Lips. Soft. Photographer. Photographer.

Before he might ask for the app to load more photos, Larry's burst of energy and hectic but classic over-thinking was interrupted. From above him came the sound of muffled shouting. He held his breath, stilled as if a prey animal not wanting to be spotted, and focused an ear to the noise.

There were no words he could pick out, but from what he could tell – or from the details he filled in – it was not a light argument of few words but something that might supersede a genuine scrap.

And it was coming from Y/N's apartment.

As he listened, his imagination wandered. Larry visualized himself, rushing to Y/N's aid and wrapping his thin arms around her in more emotional comfort than physical protection. He saw her turn to him with wet eyes and a red nose before burying her face into his shirt.

It would be uncomfortable – as it is to be around distressed people.

Yet it would be comfortable – as she would fit against him so well.

Again, his imagination wandered. Larry visualized himself as the one shouting at Y/N and growing angrier as she refused his hard-hitting gaze. He saw her turn to him with wet eyes and a red nose before hiccupping out a sob and dashing from the room.

No. That was not right. It was wrong.

He would not— could not do that.

Jolting from the grasps of his own vivid imagination, Larry was sickened with the twisted scene and shocked with himself for conjuring it. What am I doing? He looked to his phone – to the photos, he poured over moments before and recoiled at his actions. He closed twitter and shifted around on the bed: embarrassed to be listening as the shouting from above continued.

He needed an excuse to leave his bedroom, or else he might start thinking again – about it – about her. He did not want to start thinking; he had switched off his feelings and did not want them back.

From above him came the familiar sound of muffled shouting followed with a new sound – the shattering of glass. It was loud enough to hear over his music. Larry pulled his earbuds out and laid still, cocking his head a tad, as he listened.

All couples fight. Larry knew that. First of all, because he was not an idiot. Second of all, because he had gotten into it with all his past partners at some time or another. Now he also knew he was not an aggressive person nor intimidating in most situations. But he had gotten rather angry before – pulsing neck vein kind of angry.

He had shouted and been met with stunned quiet.

He had shouted and been met with shouts of equal anger.

It was never pleasant. It solved nothing, and he regretted it after.

Muffled shouting remained indistinct but grew in volume. Larry closed his eyes tighter; he was weak in the stomach like he was going to be sick and felt lighter like he had been bloodletting. His breathing picked up. He tried to ignore it – the shouting. With rattling hands, he put his earbuds back in and practiced some of that self-talk.

All couples fight. It is normal.

There is nothing to be anxious about.

I am not there. It does not involve me.

There was a second shattering sound from above. An army of nightmare scenarios invaded his head.

He did not know what was happening.

He did not know what was happening and it. was. killing. him.

What if I did nothing and Y/N’s in genuine trouble?

Larry took to his feet in a flash. Slipping his phone in his pocket and snatching his keys off his desk, he stormed out of the bedroom like he was escaping a fire.

“Larry,, where are you going?” Tanner dropped what he was doing, jumped to stand, and near hurdled over the sofa in a race to reach the front door first. In a stern command, he called, “Stop.”

But the younger was not listening. Larry had his hand on the door handle, pulling it open just ten centimetres when Tanner appeared to the side of him and closed it with one hand, trapping him inside.

“Let me go.” He pulled the handle, gaining no more leverage.

“Not until you tell me where you’re going.”

“I—” It was apparent he wanted to get the words out, but before another distorted syllable could be spoken, Larry stopped and turned his eyes up to the ceiling: to the muffled shouting.

Rigid in stance, Tanner scrunched up his forehead; he did not move his gaze from Larry. “No. You have to let it be. You have to—just, don’t get involved.”

After dropping his focus to the floor, and looking to his feet for a short second, Larry pulled his eyes back up – pathetic and pleading. Desperate for something but trapping all possible answers inside. Opening his mouth and closing it again, he appeared liable to spring a leak or deflate entirely. “Please.”

Tanner complied. He removed his hand from the door.

And Larry left the room.

He was the same person in the same hall he had been in a thousand times. Yet. It was different that time. Familiar but wrong – spoiled – a rip-off version of a beloved video game.

Might have been the lights were about dead and not shining as bright. Or the carpeting had not been hoovered recently and was stiffer under his shoes. Or some decoration had been removed from the walls, something large enough that his peripheral recognized it as being absent.

Might have been, but Larry could not be sure.

Weaving around the crumbling blockades of rationality and through the ripped recklessness filter, a spark carrying a thought completed the obstacle course from stem to the front of his brain: You’re not a fighter.

Even if Larry walked straight into Sammy and Y/N battling it out on the floor above, what was he expecting himself to do?

Could he even act logically in such a situation?

When just the thought of it had riled him up so terribly?

Each step Larry walked, the stale air expanded further beyond the physical limits of the hall. Goose pimples bubbled up on the skin of his arms. His own footfalls sounded distant behind his breathless breathing and the ring in his ears.

At reaching the lift doors, the feeling of suffocation broke to little relief. Not broke like a fever, with the hope of good health ahead, broke like snapping a pen in half, leaving it useless. Surely, he would be useless.

His index finger smashed against the call button; the sliding doors opened. Anxious fires died down while worried coals remained warm and present. He needed to know what was happening – not with himself – that was a question he could not answer. But with Y/N. Lovely, Y/N.

DING. Larry cleared the doors and took the hall above his own in quick strides until he stopped outside Sammy and Y/N’s apartment.

Shouts could be heard from behind the door, first from Sammy, “You never remember any of the good things I do!”

Y/N interjected, “I—”

“No. I’m talking. You’re such a depressive bitch to be around – everybody agrees. Oh, go on. Get all teary-eyed. Can’t you see how manipulative that is? Where are you go—? Y/n!”

Larry raised his fist to knock when the handle jumped, and the door was thrown open. Startled, he stood stock-still as Y/N harshly shoulder-checked him. She fled up the hall – opposite the lift – to the door for the stairwell.

Nothing in her hands.

Not even wearing shoes.

“Larry? What are you doing here?” Sammy stepped forward from his hidden spot inside the apartment and into view; his frame took up almost the entire doorway. A reserved but friendly smile stretched across his mouth. His cheeks were not flushed red with heat, and there was not a speck of hostility in his stare.

Neither acting nor looking like he had just been screaming. As if he had flipped a switch, the second Y/N was out of sight; shifted into a new skin entirely.

“Um—I,” Larry babbled as he dragged his focus from the door Y/N had disappeared behind. “I—there was a crash. It was loud, and Tanner thought I better check-up on you two, make sure everyone’s ok.”

Putting his hand on the smaller man’s shoulder, Sammy jostled him a touch. “No worries. That’s actually really cool – very thoughtful. Yeah, when Y/n gets agitated, things can get out of hand fast.”

“Tanner and I, we’ve gotten a good number of noise complaints before, and we’re still here. But I’ll be honest. Keep going like that, and the eviction notice will be slid under your door tomorrow.”

“Good looking out. We got security called on us yesterday. Poor guy had to practically tear Y/n off of me.” Sammy held his hands out and curled his finger in a representation of cat claws. “I don’t expect there to be much noise going forward. She’ll calm down. Best to just leave her alone for a bit.”

Larry was decidedly not going to do that. “I could talk to her.”

“I wouldn’t bother, but I won’t stop you.” Sammy’s face brightened. “Actually. You know what? That might not be a bad idea. Less chance of her causing a scene if she’s with someone. And your type is well good at handling women and the emotional stuff, aren’t you?”

“My type?”

“Oh?” Sammy raised his head. “You’re gay?”

Tanner started, “Well, he’s bi—”

“Yeah.” Larry cut him off. Sometimes it was easier to just be “gay” than to get specific with someone who might not understand or even accept further explanation.

Sammy breathed out an, “Oh.”

“Is that an issue?”

“It’s a relief! Don’t have to be worried about you trying to chat up Y/n.”

“Oh!” Larry forced a smile, “My type right. I got yous.”

“That’ll be perfect. Much better to have you giving Y/n advice than—well, just remind her that you’ve known me long enough to know I’m a good guy and stuff.” Sammy stepped back and wrapped his hand around the door to close it. “Maybe, tell her I’m sorry or something.”

“Got it.” Larry turned and walked up the hall to the stairwell door. He heard Y/N’s whimpers and then jogged up one flight of stairs and found her.

Y/N sat on the edge of the landing with her bare feet planted on the step below. Crying quietly, despite stairwell echo, as she held a hand over her mouth in a bid to suppress each hiccup and each broken noise. Her her head hung low.

Others might have described her as a portrait of lost strength after holding out for so long: a tragedy-struck Venus: an inspirational and poetic muse. Larry would not. He saw nothing analogous to artwork.

Y/N was not a subject to be romanticized in her lowest moments.

She was not a canvas, painted pale with a couple of blue-tinted tears.

She was a person, shuddering while red blotches bloomed across her skin.

“Hey, Y/n. I—uh…heard what happened, and I’m sorry for following you, but I was worried.” His heart gushed with empathy or sympathy – if he had ever bothered to learn the difference, maybe he could tell.

All Larry knew was his core ached with physical pain when he looked at her.

There was no reaction to his words nor his presence. Y/N did not lift her head; Larry ducked to see if he could perhaps catch her eyes, but they were screwed shut. Tears carved rivers down her cheeks. The hand over her mouth remained and was accompanied by her other hand as her sobs reached a new peak. It did not seem she would be speaking anytime soon.

And what was Larry supposed to do? He could not force her to want him there, so he reluctantly turned around and started back down the stairs. While he walked, a voice broke the silence in his head: Y/N’s emotional state and relationship issues are not your responsibility. It is not your job to help pick her up.

True. It was not Larry’s job to be there, and that was reason enough for him to leave without guilt. He was not responsible for her, and that should have stopped him from thinking about it again.

It would have stopped him if he had not lived the life he had.

If he had not known how frustrating – how debilitating it was to feel so helpless. To need others so desperately while also unable to ask for that help.

Leaning on the push bar of the stairwell door two floors down, opening it to his hall, he could see the door to his apartment, and where he knew Tanner would be anxiously waiting for him.

Larry traced his gumline with his tongue. What am I doing?

Spinning around, he took the stairs two at a time back up to Y/N.

True. It was not his job to be there. Larry wanted to be there.

Even if Y/N was not in a position to understand that.

Returning to the landing, he stopped for a breath, unsure how to approach the crying woman, just watching her for a short moment. He sat beside her and planted his feet on the step below. A pair of shoes set next to a pair of bare feet.

When his bottom touched the floor, he felt the full weight of Y/N pushing on him. Her sobbing renewed as her arms wrapped around his neck, and her hands found the back of his shirt with clinging grasps. Larry wrapped his arms around her. Y/N brought her legs in closer and practically pulled herself into his lap.

From how limp and pliable Y/N was as she spilled over him, it was clear there was no anger behind her tears. No rage. No thought that she might start shouting obscenities or stomping her feet. Nothing like that. These were cries of exhaustion. But how she clung onto Larry like she was trying to ground herself, like he was the one real thing in her world at that moment, made him think there was more to it. How she had pacified herself with her hands earlier and how she buried her face in Larry’s chest to similar results. Y/N was frightened. Scared.

Tears formed wet spots on his shirt. Larry tried to keep himself as stable as possible, and he was, for the most part, considering how the woman he held shook like a coke-addicted pomeranian. It was not as uncomfortable as he might have thought. There was no talking, shushing, or humming. Larry and Y/N just sat in their relative quiet for however long it took.

Eventually, the hiccupping slowed.

Stopped. Then it was just them and the quiet.

Larry asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

Y/N’s limbs stiffened, and Larry relaxed his hold to allow her to untangle herself from him; she did. Pulling back, she swung her legs and situated herself to be sitting perpendicular to him. Her puffy, wet eyes hesitantly met his dry ones.

“Is it normal? For couples to fight like us?” Y/N asked somehow able to keep eye contact as she did but not able to raise her voice much above a whisper. “For him to throw things?”

“No.”

“Oh. I’m sorry you had to—”

“You don’t have to apologize. It was scary.” He assumed as he ventured to place his hand lightly on her knee. “If you ever want to talk to someone, I’m here. Whenever you want to drop in, just do it. Seriously. I got lots of free time; I’m basically unemployed.”

“Thank you.” Giggling, Y/N wiped the remaining tears from her cheeks and dropped her hand to her knee – curling her fingers around his hand; she gave a small squeeze. “You’re sweet.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“Have I? Huh. It must be true then.” The words were barely out her mouth when she dropped her newfound smile entirely, and her brows furrowed in seriousness. “I should—it’s time I head back.”

Larry bit his lip, wanting to protest, wanting to scream and shout, but knowing he could not risk starting an argument with her – not now, not about this. “Ok. I’ll walk with you.”

#larry croft #larrycroft x reader #the group chat #the group chat x reader #the groupchat #the group chat podcast #tgc x reader #tgc #isaacwhy #isaacwhy x reader #softwilly #softwilly x reader

115 notes · View notes

p-taryn-dactyl · 1 year

Note

Just saw you had tagged me (sorry haven't been too active on here recently!) But this sounds awesome! What's Mason like? I absolutely love what you've posted about it previously, it sounds absolutely amazing!

characters <3

aaaah! hi! (it’s okay, i understand) thank you so much!! i love mason, creating him was one of the best experiences ever tbh

mason ezz

in the story he was previously in, mason was one of the ‘pillars of the multiverse’ or parts of Aerin Fey’s soul, she’s the mother of the multiverse. he has the ability of geokinesis and can cause extreme damage with earthquakes. together, he and the other pillars fight against the malum, evil beings who strive to destroy the multiverse to create one in their image (I’m particularly fond of this idea - it’s also connected to Dorothea’s in a way)

but back to mason

he's a very tall guy, well compared to me at least. he stands at 6'4" with very much 'big dog energy'. you know, like how big dogs don't know they're big so they act like a small dog and vice versa?

he's absolutely hilarious. his jokes cause friends and company to spew soda out their nose and laugh until their stomach cramps

mason doesn’t believe in chairs. he eats sitting on countertops. once gave his boyfriend and girlfriend a heartattack by eating microwave Mac n’ cheese sitting on top of their island at 3am.

(Quick side note: i hate Mac n cheese)

He/him

very very pansexual and polyamorous

he has steel grey eyes and warm brown skin, with a head full of the most soft curls ever.

If one picture could describe his personality it would be (he’s the grey):

he’s so great at breaking news to people

In my mind, he’s the voice of comfort and reason who is always there for others

I couldn’t really find any face claims that looked like he does in my mind but this is 100% his hair and the other is a good idea of what he looks like:

but here’s the thing about mason

he is what i call a ‘Percy Jackson archetype’

he’s fun and love able, you’re able to relate to him, he uses humor to cover up his pain

but

the second you hurt someone he loves, he turns into a force to be reckoned with

in the story he was originally in, there was a giant battle where one of his friends got hurt and so he created giant hands to crush the enemies army. but one of the other characters, Aerin, gets fatally injured. Aerin is one of the only characters who isn’t afraid of masons powers and he cares for her dearly. While he cradles her dying body in his arms, he lets out a loud scream, breaking the earth into little pieces

that got dark so let’s brighten it up

he’s a terrible cook but he tries, if he makes you something thats how you know he likes you

One time, he tried to make pierce (his bf) a simple chocolate cake. He burnt half the kitchen and somehow the cake exploded

he likes to plan things, dates, going out with friends, schedules, but he’s not so great at carrying them out (he gets that from his mom…me)

he gives the absolute best hugs and is a very tactile person, he shows his affection in touch

Thank you so much for the ask!!! I love Mason so much, he’s an absolute joy to write about and i feel very connected to his character!!

#mason ezz #my writing #write my book with me #my characters #I love him

4 notes · View notes

eulangelo · 2 years

Note

hey do you know a recipe for baked ziti? if so, how do you make it taste good? (ill make necessary substitutions for me and my sister’s many allergies but my sister and i really love baked ziti)

we dont make baked ziti in italy 🥲 the closest i can give u is for pasta al forno, which we usually make with rigatoni

but i guess u could make them with other kinds of pasta too, probably even ziti

so the easiest way to do this is to just boil the pasta but leave it a bit undercooked, then take it out and add the tomato sauce to the pasta. u can use storebought salsa if u want or u can make a super easy good one by just adding olive oil, half an onion (doesnt have to be chopped) and ur seasonings of choice to a pot and then add tomato puree in it, let it cook for 10 mins up to 2 hours (its up to u really, i use this recipe for pizza and 10/15 mins work for me. just take out the onion if u put it whole before adding the sauce to the pasta).

then u throw some of the pasta in a deep oven pan and add mozzarella+parmesan, then add another layer of pasta and more mozzarella and more parmesan, until u run out of ingredients. then u bake it at the higher temp until the cheese is melted and caramelized (but not burnt!!).

my grandma also puts small meatballs in it and chopped bits of bologna (which im not a huge fan of). if u feel like making the meatballs just take some ground meat (possibly a mix of pork/beef, but u do u) and add some egg, breadcrumbs, seasonings etc until the consistency is stable enough to hold its shape, then u make some pretty small meatballs (bite size or even smaller) and fry them in olive oil until brown and cooked through, and then u can add them to the pasta mixture. its a bit more time consuming and takes some efforts but u can make a pretty good baked pasta even without them (or if u find them premade at the store u could use those as well)

tastes even better the day after if u warm it up in the oven imo

#sks

8 notes · View notes

strawberryspence · 3 years

Text

A Dinner and A Future

Fluff | Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: Spencer just wants your first date to be perfect and surprisingly, it goes really well.

Word Count: 3,7k.

Warnings: some cursing, first date nerves, but that's it. just pure mindless fluff.

Writer’s Note: Hello! I've been going through a writing dry spell and the thing that solved it was writing this. I've been seeing a lot of edits on tiktok about Spencer's traumas and I just wanted to give him something simple and happy. I was also listening to Kodaline on repeat while reading this, so yeah it's going be hella sappy. Enjoy! <3

Gif is mine. Lesley Smith-Juniment, you have my heart.

Spencer is nervous.

Wait no, scratch that, nervous is not good enough. He was brimming to the edge with worry and queasiness. What other synonyms does nervous have? Spencer was antsy, anxious, perturbed, uneasy, at this point he can recite the whole thesaurus.

Spencer closes his eyes and takes a deep breathe. He can do this. He has waited for this for a long time and he won’t waste it because of burnt pasta.

Okay, he looks back at the note that David Rossi himself wrote in his own special handwriting.

1. Cook 1 pound pasta until Al Dente. Boy Genius, Al Dente should be firm when bitten. You cook it on a boiling water with salt and oil. SALT AND OIL.

2. While that’s cooking, do nothing. LITERALLY DO NOTHING. Watch it. Do the sauce later. In some miraculous way, if you don’t watch the pasta you’ll burn it.

A grin spreads across Spencer’s face as he puts down the paper and reaches for the fettuccine pasta and dropping it on the boiling water (which he measured with measuring cups he borrowed from JJ)

“Okay, now I wait for it to boil.” Spencer stares at the pasta as it cooks. Did he buy enough parmesan cheese? or enough pecorino cheese? Oh no. He looks over the other side of his counter where all the (complete) ingredients sit and he sighs in relief as if he hasn’t checked it 15 times since he started.

The pasta was still cooking and isn’t going to be firm anytime soon. Spencer ponders if he should just cook the sauce while waiting but he knows he’s going to mess it up if he doesn’t give it his undivided attention.

He looks at the watch on his wrist as it ticks to 5:21. He has one hour, thirty nine minutes and forty six seconds. He still has time before the date. The date with you.

It took him nine months, Derek and Emily annoying him to death to just ask the pretty librarian out, one extensive background research from Penelope, two separate talks of the “You deserve to be happy” advice from JJ and Hotch and one lecture about marriage from Rossi to finally ask you out.

He’s kinda annoyed really because he spent so much time thinking about you and thinking of the perfect way to ask you out but he shows up at the library you work at one day with a cup of coffee in hand and his heart on the other.

You didn’t even hesitate. There was no pause to process what he asked, there was no questions following the embarrassing stumbling of the words, “W-will you go have d-dinner with me? L-like a date... Date?” You immediately said yes with a small hop and the biggest smile on your face.

This date has to be perfect. He asked you to come to his apartment at 7. Spencer would’ve picked you up but he was making you a home made dinner and the date was taking place on the rooftop of you apartment, which Penelope and Derek helped him decorate with lights.

He tries the pasta and when its finally firm to the bite, he takes this as his queue to read the paper again. Of course, he can remember all of the instructions but Rossi still wrote it down and reading it calms his nerves.

3. If its cooked, drain your pasta water but leave a little pasta water on the side. Then you can continue.

4. In a pan on MEDIUM heat (just around 2-3 on the stove setting) cook one pound diced pancetta and 1 cup chopped onions in olive. Put this down and chop chop!

Spencer puts the paper down as he follows the instructions to drain the pasta. After he was done with it he puts the pan on the stove and starts chopping up the ingredients he needs.

Cooking is strangely calming. He never thought he’d find it calming. He always found himself burning stuff. So he sticks to the microwaveable meals and fast foods, even if he knows the statistics about these kinds of food.

After finishing the chopping he reaches over the paper and reads it again.

5. Are you done? Okay. Put the chopped stuff on the pan with olive oil and cook it until the pancetta is browned and onions are soft.

He immediately follows the instructions written. The onion and pancetta create a silent hiss as it hits the pan. As it cook he looks down again.

6. That’s going to take a while, so leave it but stay by its side. I am giving you permission to do two things at once. Dr. Reid, please be mindful of it.

Spencer rolls his eyes before proceeding to #7.

7. Combine the two cheeses. Then divide it in half. Then pour the half into 4 egg YOLKS. Just yolks! The yellow ones! Then beat it lightly until its really combined.

He has already separated the egg yolks from the whites (a job he didn’t think would be that hard but was surprisingly very hard) before he started cooking. He adds the combination of cheeses to the eggs and lightly beats it as he watches the pan of onions and pancetta sizzle.

When done with the egg and cheese combo, he gives the pan a stir before looking back down.

8. Is the egg done? Yes? Good. Is the pancetta and onion good? Yes? Good.

9. Okay, now you put your pasta in the pancetta pan.

10. REMOVE IT FROM THE HEAT! REMOVE IT!

Spencer follows the instructions to the T. He puts the pasta on the pancetta, gives it a stir and immediately removes it from the heat. He sighs in relief. He hasn’t burned anything yet.

11. You haven’t burned anything yet? I am proud of you.

12. Now, pour the egg mixture into the pan and toss the pasta until coated. TOSS IT GENTLY. If you’re scared use tongs.

13. Pour about 1/4 cup of the pasta water I told you to set aside earlier. You don’t have to pour all 1/4 cup, just until you get the creaminess you want.

Spencer reaches over the nearest tongs. He’s not going to toss anything tonight that involves pastas or pans. He’s taking the safe road because he wants everything to be perfect.

14. Add the rest of your cheese! Toss some more and then add salt and pepper as NEEDED!

15. You can serve it with parsley.

16. Now, go take a shower and change into some cleaner clothes.

17. Just be you and have fun, Spencer. Goodluck! :)

Spencer smiles as he puts the paper down and makes the finals touches to the pasta. He starts doing what was instructed and it surprisingly, ends up in the perfect texture. Just like the one he tasted when Rossi had a pasta night.

He was proud of himself as he takes it off the stove and makes sure that all the stoves are turned off. There was this report he read in 2018, that cooking and leaving the stove open was the leading cause of home fires.

He takes the food, puts it into a fancy tupperware (another thing he borrowed from JJ) and puts it in the microwave. He cleans up a little and stuffs the pans and pots to the dishwasher, because you are coming in his apartment even for a second.

He starts getting himself ready for the date with a shower. As the warm water glides through his body he thinks of how funny life could be.

Spencer first meets you in the library. He has not slept well in weeks so instead he opts to go to the library to get some reading done. But as soon as he sits in one of the (surprisingly) comfortable leather chairs, its as if sleep knocks him out. It wasn’t until the closing time that you wake him up and he thinks that you were an angel sent for him. This elicits a giggle from you.

“I am sorry, I am not an angel. I am just the librarian and we’ve been close for over an hour now. I just didn’t want to wake you up. You looked like you really needed that sleep.” Spencer immediately jumps to his feet as he apologizes profusely to the kind librarian, “Oh, it’s okay! Don’t say sorry. I was also reading so I didn’t mind the peace and quiet.”

That’s how Spencer meets you. He comes back a few days later after a case with coffee, croissant and an apology. You immediately become friends and thats how all of this started. Spencer finds himself falling in love with the kind, gorgeous, clever librarian faster than he expected.

Every week after that, Spencer comes to the library with pastries and coffees for his favourite librarian and every week, you welcome Spencer with a warm smile and a new book for him to read. He can read it in one sitting but he reads it in the slowest pace he could so it can last for a week.

Spencer comes out the shower and stares at his closet. Should he go casual or formal? Casual or formal? Its just dinner, he’s chill and casual is the way. He picks one of the few plaid shirts that he has and puts it on with a white shirt underneath. He tries to brush his hair, it sits for a moment before it starts curling again. He cringes but leaves it be.

Spencer proceeds to the kitchen to start packing the food into a wicker basket (that he also borrowed from JJ, he basically borrowed her whole kitchen). He packs the utensils in a table napkin that comes with the basket. The main course for the date was the carbonara, and the dessert was a tiramisu Penelope made.

He reaches over his sofa where the bouquet of paper flowers are. He made it a few nights ago with Penelope’s help. He stayed up to make more of it with old books he found in the BAU.

Because what kind of flowers is the best flowers for librarians? Origami flowers made with old book pages.

He shouldn’t be nervous. You’ve been friends for all the months that he didn’t have enough courage to ask you out. You’ve taken trips to old bookstores together for book hunting. This shouldn’t be different from your other trips.

The pitter patter of rain against his window takes him out of his thoughts.

“Shit! Is it raining!?” Spencer yelps, before opening the closed curtains. Beads of water runs down his windows and if its any other day he would love it. But not tonight, when he planned a rooftop date. He cringes as he thinks of the fairy lights hanged up and the table set up that is probably soaked now.

“Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Think, Spencer, think.” Spencer thinks fast. He finds the extra table cloth that JJ gave him because “Just in case.” He reminds himself to buy her a bottle of wine as a thank you. He places it in his small kitchen table before taking the utensils out of the basket and placing it on the table in a fancy way.

Candles. Does he have candles? Spencer scrambles around his kitchen, like a chicken without its head, looking for candles and he finds it underneath the kitchen sink. He lights some of it up and props it into some glasses (he doesn’t have a candle holder he realizes after lighting it up).

With the lights dimmed down leaving the light from the window and the light from the candles, his dark apartment gives off a romantic, kind of comfortable, vibes. It was kind of perfect because with the books on his shelves and the lighting, it actually has the same vibes a library gives off.

He was ready now, bouquet of paper flowers in hand. He can’t believe how smooth things are going, minus the damn rain. Only thing that’s missing is you.

A knock comes to the door and he instantly opens it. There you were, hair a bit wet and messed up from the rain.

His future was bundled up in a cozy cardigan and a pair of jeans right in front of his eyes and he didn’t even know it.

“Hi.” Spencer smiles.

“Hi.” You smile.

“A little to the right. No. No. Too much right, now give it a little bit to the left.” You sigh, your hand under your chin, “No, no, baby, its crooked.”

“Love, can we do this later? The pancetta is going to burn.” Spencer laughs as he climbs down the ladder with the frame.

“But you said you’ll help me with putting up the frames!” You pout at him, Spencer chuckles before kissing your nose, “I know but you also asked for my famous carbonara and I can’t do both at the same time.”

“Hmmm. I still don’t think you can call it yours when its originally Dave’s.” You follow him to the kitchen, zigzagging through the boxes of books you’ve both barely opened.

“What he doesn’t know, won’t kill him.” He winks at you before giving the pancetta and onions a stir.

“It already smells good, love.” You snake your arms through his waist and lean your head on his back. Spencer lets go of the spatula and spins around to face you.

“Thank you, sweetheart. Go unbox some of the books and I’ll call you when its cooked so we can fix the frames. Okay?” Spencer kisses the top of your head and lets you go.

You walk out of the kitchen to the hallway full of boxes full of books. You chuckle as you open the nearest box and its just full of chemistry books. You push it to the room where Luke, Derek and Spencer has built shelves for all of your books. An olive green couch sits in the corner beside the built in fireplace.

Hmmm. This is your home library but as a former librarian the dewey decimal is calling you. But then again, the books you and Spencer have doesn’t have classifications on them. You began unpacking the chemistry books and placing it on the shelf. You can hear the distinct hiss of the pan and Spencer humming Kodaline’s The One.

You push in another box from the hallway to the room and its another one of Spencer’s, this one full of philosophy books. You start unpacking it to the shelf below the chemistry books before stopping as you pull out a book that doesn't belong with the philosophy books. A smile graces your face as your hands glides unto it. It was the book Spencer bought for you on your first anniversary.

The Peter Pan cover is a bit tattered, it was an older edition he found in your favorite old bookstore. You open the book and Spencer’s messy writing greets you with nostalgia.

“We are most alive when we are in love. Thank you for making me feel alive everyday for the past year. Happy Anniversary, love. I live a full life as I love you fully.”

You smile at the book before hugging it to your chest. You sigh deeply as you looked around the room and how it felt so surreal to be in the new home you share with Spencer.

“Love, I am finish. Come meet me in the hallway!” You leave the book on the shelf as you hear Spencer calling you.

“Are you helping me with the frames?” You clap, excited to finally put up the frames. Spencer smiles as he sees you excited to put up the pictures.

“Yes, okay you need to tell me if they’re straight okay?” He instructs before climbing the ladder.

“To the right, just a bit. Oh! Perfect!” You scramble to reach for another frame as he comes down the ladder to move it, “Here! This one.” He climbs again and you instruct him with directions for the frame again.

After a few more frames, he finally comes down and looks at the frames you asked to be put up.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Spencer smiles down at you and gives your cheek a kiss as he wraps his hands around your waist, “It is. Thank you for framing them.”

The frames comes in different shapes and forms, the biggest one in the middle is the picture of your wedding day. Your wedding took place in a library you immediately fell in love with when looking for places to get married at.

In the picture, you were smiling, your head rested on Spencer's shoulder as he reads a Harry Potter book he found in the kids section. It was a candid moment, both of you running to the back of the shelves to get a moment to yourselves after the wedding and the photographer snapped it before leaving the two of you in peace.

Beside it are pictures with the team on the wedding day, some on thanksgiving, christmas, new year with the BAU team, some with your family, some with Diana and in the corner is a shadow box containing the paper bouquet that Spencer gave you on your first date, the same exact flowers that was in your hands as you walk down the aisle to him.

“So, how's the first six months of officially being a Reid-Y/L/N?” Spencer teases as he lets you go from the back hug to face you and you roll your eyes at him, “Oh very hard. They hear Reid and they immediately expect greatness.”

Spencer laughs, “Same as the last name Y/L/N.” This time your the one who laughs at his statement, “Uhhh. I am not the one with 3 PhDs and 3 BAs.”

“And I am not the one whose a New York Times best selling author.” Spencer laughs even more when he sees your nose crinkles, making his heart dance and swell in glee.

“Hey, let’s dance.” He takes your arms and leaves it on his shoulders as he wraps his arms on your waist.

“We don’t have music, you silly goofy boy.” Spencer rolls his eyes at the endearment used, “I’ll sing.” He hushes you down.

“You make my heart feel like it's summer when the rain is pouring down.” Spencer’s singing voice was soft and sweet in the edges. Most nights you lull him to sleep with your humming to keep the monsters at bay and some days, his better days, he’s the one who sings and these were the days you treasure the most.

“You make my whole world feel so right when it's wrong, that's how I know you are the one... That’s how I know you are the one.” He sways you to the gentle buzz of his voice. You close your eyes as he sings the same song he sings to your ears on the dance floor for you first dance as a married couple.

“When we are together, you make me feel like my mind is free and my dreams are reachable hmmm.” Spencer hums as he runs his hands on your back. Your head on his chest and your ear listening to the way his heart is beating for you.

“You know I never ever believed in love, I believed one day that you would come along and free me.” Spencer feels at ease as he sways and sings, knowing that he’ll have you in his arms for the rest of his life.

The song ends but you and Spencer continue to sway to the music of silence.

“Can you believe its been 4 years since our first date?” Spencer asks, in disbelief of how fast time is running when he’s with you. You pull away from his chest so you can face him. You find a small spark in Spencer’s eyes as he thinks fondly of the night.

“Really? 4 years since our first date got rained on and Penelope cried because we broke all her fairy lights?” Spencer laughs before protesting, “Hey! I paid for that!”

"4 years later and I still can't get enough of that damn carbonara." Spence cackles, like an evil villain, "Don't tell Rossi that I stole his recipe for my beautiful partner."

"4 years later and I am still completely in love with you." Spencer smiles as he leans down to place a small kiss on your temple.

"4 years since I almost completely lost my mind because I was so nervous about our date." You roll your eyes, "Love, our first date was perfect. We've had this debate how many times now?"

"19 times." Spencer answers and you pinch his nose before looking around the room that’s still full of unopened boxes, “See. We should probably eat lunch and unpack. Why do we even have so many boxes of books?”

“Honey, you were a librarian and you are a writer. I am a professor and FBI agent that can read 20,000 words per minute.” Spencer answers as he looks around the unpacked house.

You smile fondly at him before standing on your tiptoes a bit to reach him and give him a kiss and he immediately steadies you with his hands. Kissing you was intoxicating and Spencer loves every bit of it. You only pull away when the kiss finally takes away your breathe.

“I love you, Spence.” You smile as you hold his face in your hands, “I love you more, sweetheart.” He smiles at you as you untangle yourself from him.

“Let’s eat your famous carbonara and unpack the rest of our house. It doesn’t really feel like home when all we can see is boxes.” You giggle before dragging him to the kitchen, making Spencer sit on the island as you prepare the pasta he cooked. Spencer watches you as you sing and dance through the kitchen in one of his old cardigans.

He doesn’t say anything but you were wrong. Home is not four walls with unpacked boxes and hundreds of books.

Home was when you showed up bundled in a cardigan, wet from the rain for your first date with him and home is still you, four years later, bundled up in his old cardigans and singing songs that magically fills and heals the crevices of his heart.

the recipe i copied for the famous carbonara!

taglist (if you want to be added, please message me 🥰): @all-tings-diego @shemarmooresfedora @averyhotchner @samuel-de-champagne-problems @bingereid

464 notes · View notes

autumnleaves1991-blog · 3 years

Note

Hey 👋

How are you?

Could I please request a king Arthur prompt when he first starts courting his partner but originally they cant stand him like they think hes too cocky but he worms his way into their heart 🥰

Pairing: King Arthur x F! Reader

Warnings: 18 + for language, a little angst.

Masterlist

The Queen

“Arthur, you could have any girl in the entire realm at your fingertips; why did you have to choose this one?” Wet Stick sighs, watching from under his cloak and cursing his friend for his taste in women. “He couldn’t just pick one of those nice noble ladies; he had to pick a headstrong girl with a chip on her shoulder,” he grumbles to himself.

You locked up the shop behind you and take off home, turning once to wave into the shadows knowing the knight is there watching. He emerges on a large brown horse, coming to walk beside you. “Good Evening, Sir Tristan; how was your day today?” you smile up at him, and he laughs with a shake of his head.

“How do you always know where I am, my Lady?” You reach into your knapsack and pull out a warm cheese roll wrapped in cloth, handing it up to him. “Thank you, ma’am,” he unwraps it and takes a large bite, moaning at the taste. “Is this why he wants to marry you? Because of how delicious your baking is? Honestly, if the King weren’t enamored with you, I’d probably ask you myself,” he laughs.

You groan, pulling your green cloak above your head. “Sir Tristan, how many times must I ask that you call me by my name? I am no lady, just a baker, no one special.”

“The King would disagree.” You cringe and walk a little faster towards the warmth of your cottage. “He thinks you’re the most beautiful maiden in the entire Kingdom, and Arthur always gets what he wants, and that’s you, my lady.” You stop and glare at him; he holds his hands up in defense using your name.

“Why would I want that cocky, overbearing brute of a man to marry me? He can go to hell for all I care.” Tristan doesn’t take offense like other knights because he knows how overbearing his friend can be. It’d been amusing to see Arthur fall for the beautiful, headstrong woman. Every flower ended up in the trash, letter burnt, and request for an audience denied. Arthur was close to giving up on courting the woman, but something was holding him back.

“Have I ever told you what he was like growing up?” You roll your eyes, already dreading the tale that is sure to highlight only the King’s good points.

“No,” you mumble, “but I’m sure it some heroic tale.” He barks out a laugh, and you stop to watch him, “what’s so funny?”

“What do you know about the King? Honestly, tell me,” he jumps down from the horse and grabs the reins walking beside you. “Because if that’s your opinion, then you don’t know him at all.”

You think about all you know about the King and realize with an ache in your belly that you didn’t know much about the King besides the rumors you’d heard. “Well,” you stumble, “he’s arrogant...uhm, he doesn’t care about anyone but himself...and,” you struggle to come up with something else, much to Tristan’s amusement.

“Arthur was raised in a brothel,” you pause, raising a brow, “I’m telling the truth. When his parents were murdered, he floated down the river in a boat and was found by the prostitutes washing their clothes by the river. They took him in and raised him. He, in turn, grew up and protected them. The brothel was one of the only places in all of Londinium that women were treated with respect. If someone got too handsy with one of the girls, Arthur would beat them within an inch of their life before they’d even think to disrespect a woman like that. Then he’d take all their money and give it to the girl.”

“He’s also really smart, smarter than the lot of us, at least. He had coffers hidden in the wall of the brothel behind a bookshelf. He dreamed of getting out and buying himself a piece of land, building a home. The girls would all be taken care of and wouldn’t have to be prostitutes anymore. He was damn close too before we found out he was the born King.” You mull over his words and keep walking closer towards your home.

“How did he feel about becoming the born King?” you ask quietly.

Tristan smiles, rubbing the snout of his horse affectionately. “He hated it. Didn’t want anything to do with the sword or being King. It wasn’t until he saw his friends being attacked, the Black Legs had us surrounded, outnumbered; there was no way we could win the fight. Arthur begged us to run away, that he was what they wanted, he was ready to die for us. Arthur embraced Excalibur and killed them all, saving us. He’s loyal to a fault that one. Then when Back Lack-” he takes a shuddering breath, and you reach out and rub his arm.

“If it’s too painful, you don’t have to say.” He wipes at his eyes with his cloak and smiles at you.

“No, I won’t let his memory fade because it makes me sad to talk about him. Back Lack was our friend, and Vortigern murdered him in front of his son and Arthur. Blue screamed, and I can still hear his wails in my head; Arthur took his son in and has become like a father to him.” You think of the young boy who follows behind the King and smiles.

You reach the door of your cottage and put your hand on the knob, dropping your head to the door with a sigh. “What does he say about me?” you ask, turning to look at the Knight, “I know he’s must have told you why he is trying so hard to court me.”

Tristan smiles, seeing the small crack in your cleverly crafted armor. “While you may not know the King at all, he knows everything about you. I dare say he’s in love with you.”

You search his eyes for any lie and sigh, opening the door and stepping inside. “Wait here for a moment, please,” he nods, and you close the door behind you. Emerging a few moments later in one of your clean dresses and a light blue cloak of fine fabric the King had gifted you, too delicate for you to throw into the trash. “Take me to him, please,” you ask, pulling the cloak over your head.

“Yes, my lady,” Tristan smiles, mounting his horse and reaching a hand out to pull you up behind him. He rides swift to the looming gates of the palace, and the heavy wooden doors creak as they’re pulled open. The hour is late, and there is only a handful of guards around watching you with a curious expression. You slide off the horse and follow closely behind Tristan as he weaves through the labyrinth of hallways before reaching a large door. He knocks out a combination, and Arthur’s voice comes from inside asking you to enter.

Tristan stands back and gives your hand a squeeze, “good luck. I promise he’s worth it.” You smile, trembling, and give him a return squeeze. You watch his back retreat and take a deep breath before turning the handle.

“Did she get home alright, Stick?” You follow his voice, stepping around the chair and looking down at him. He’s writing a letter, the quill moving across the page, a half-full glass of wine on the table to his left. “She didn’t see you, right? You know how much she detests having a guard.”

“She didn’t make it home okay,” you say quietly, but he jumps anyways, looking up at you with wide eyes. “But she did find her way safely to you, my King.” He rises from his chair and stands tall beside you, gazing into your eyes, and for the first time, you see past the facade of the King he’s created and instead see the man, Arthur.

“Are you well, my darling?” he asks, cupping your cheek; you close your eyes and lean into his touch. His smile is bright enough to rival the sun, and you smile back at him just as brightly.

“I learned about you tonight, my King,” he furrows his brow, “Sir Tristan was telling me tales of how you became King.”

He grins, “And what did he tell you?” He pulls away, pouring a second glass of wine and handing it to you. He takes your hand and leads you over to the roaring fire, sitting down in one of the chairs in front of it. You take a sip of the wine and put down the glass, climbing into his lap and putting your head against his shoulder. His hand comes up to wrap around your waist, keeping you snug to his side, putting down his glass of wine, and putting the other hand in your lap.

You roll his fingers between your hands, feeling the callouses from years of fighting coarse against your skin. He leans his head against your own, and you can feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek. “He told me about you growing up in the brothel, how you protected those women, and their honor. He told me how you begged them to leave when the Black Legs came, and only when your friend’s lives were threatened did you finally wield Excalibur.”

You sit up and look him deep in the pools of blue that are his eyes, lowering your voice to almost a whisper. “He also told me about Back Lack and Blue. How you’ve become like a father to him,” you trail off, looking down at his hand in your own, “he said you love me.” You look up and catch the storm in his expression, the showers of tears that threaten to fall as he’s reminded of his lost friend.

You cup his cheek and brush your fingers beneath his eye collected them like diamonds. “He died because of me because I wasn’t able to protect him.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” you whisper. He takes a shuddery breath, and you hold on to him with both hands, keeping his eyes on you. “You did the best you could; you are raising his son. He wouldn’t blame you for what happened.”

He tugs you closer, and your foreheads touch, “he would have liked you,” he gives a watery chuckle. “He’d have loved your baking, the way you stand up for yourself, and call me out on my bullshit.” You laugh, and he leans closer, “Tristan was right.”

“About what?” the ghost of his lips brushes yours, and you gasp at the touch.

“I love you,” you pull back a little, “I love how strong you are, loyal, fierce, and fucking stunning. You are everything I could ever ask for, and I know I came on too strong. I pushed you away when all I wanted was to hold you close like this. From the moment I saw you, spoke to you, the moment you chucked a rolling pin at my head, I knew.”

You cringe at one of the more colorful visits you had with the King. “What? What did you know?”

“That you are much more than a baker.” He nuzzles his nose against your own, and you give a breathless reply, begging him to tell you what you are. His lips touch yours slowly, just barely touching, and your eyes slide closed, moving closer to him when he whispers, “you’re my Queen.”

Taglist: @chicken-ona-stick @agirllovespancakes @ghostwiththemostbitch @the-purity-pen @paintballkid711 @wasicskosgirl @fantasticcopeaglepasta @sarahjkl82-blog @boxdyeblonde @rosiefridayrogersunday @yeah-seems-legit @mimimi-stuff @ladyblogger-margie @memyselfandellasworld @peterhollandkait @itspdameronthings @emmy626 @luv-nd-serenity @randomness501 @littlebopper96 @alexmarie29 @hell-is-my-second-home666 @thisshipwillsail316 @madslorian @no-droids-on-sunday @glixxr @sfr99 @pedro-pastel @we-can-be-himbos @sleep-tight1 @sarhabee @its--fandom--darling @im-an-adult-ish @princess76179 @demoncrypt1066@lunarthoughts @jedi-mando @idreamofboobear @aerolanya @rebelliouscat @veracruz-djarin @marvelprincess1994 @thirstworldproblemss @spacelatinoss @martellthemandalor @kesskirata @waatermelon-sugaar @jitterbugs927 @helga1031 @greeneyedblondie44 @mamacitapascal @oldstuffnewstuff @yespolkadotkitty @heythere-mel @justanotherblonde23 @artsymaddie @anetteaneta @aellynera @lucifer- @houseofthirst @phoenixhalliwell

#King Arthur #King Arthur x Reader #Female Reader #King Arthur Legend of the Sword #Charlie Hunnam #Charlie Hunnam Character Fanfiction

323 notes · View notes

jonkentt · 3 years

Text

we could move in together

or Bucky suffering but make it crack****

Bucky drops onto the couch with a contented sigh. He stretches out, hands behind his head, smirking like he’s truly done something to be proud of. Sam’s coming over for dinner and finally, finally Bucky’s got a plan. They’ve been alternating these datenights dinners and whenever it’s Sam’s turn he cooks. Big batches of stuff he says he wants to make for Sara and the boys if it’s any good. Course, it’s always good. Bucky loves Sam’s cooking. He loves showing up much too early so he can watch Sam cook. Sam gets in fights with pots and pans, curses under his breath whenever he measures something wrong. You’d think everything he made would be a disaster but somehow, no matter how many times Sam swears that internet recipes are the bane of his existence, the food is delicious. Which makes Bucky feel like an asshole for ordering take-out on his turn every single time.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to cook for Sam. Boy, has he tried. But how can he tell if anything’s edible? Nothing compares to Sam’s cooking. So Bucky’ll make something, taste a spoonful, and decide it’s complete shit just in time for Sam to show up. There’s been a couple of close calls when Sam asked why his apartment smelled like pasta if they were eating deli sandwiches. (“It smells burnt in here, Buck.” “Ha! Yeah, I think my neighbor, uh, had some trouble.”) But tonight, Bucky has a plan. He found a recipe that was supposed to be “fool proof” and practiced making it yesterday. Sure it’s a mac-n-cheese casserole but there were several different cheeses in it so… that should count for something. He had a dish waiting to be put it in the oven when Sam arrived.

“I think we got this all tied up, don’t you Alpine?” Bucky says to the rabbit as she makes her way across the room to settle on his feet. Alpine’s favorite place to sit is on Bucky’s feet, which he thinks is adorable. He considers cuddling Alpine on his lap but Sam will be here any minute and he doesn’t need to be covered in bunny hair. Bucky as some class. The self-satisfied grin is still plastered to his face when Sam let’s himself into his apartment.

“Sam! You gotta explain this show to me! TV doesn’t make sense anymore.” His smile falters when he turns to see Sam crossing the room in long strides, some kind of burning intent clear on his face. “Uh—” Sam lands on the couch turned towards him. Bucky is keenly aware of the lack of personal space Sam has left between them. Sam’s knee is practically in his lap. Bucky sits there with his mouth half open, struck by the intensity of Sam’s stare. He doesn’t look angry, so that’s good at least. But what the fuck?

“Did you tell Sarah we were moving in together?”

Bucky blinks. “Wha—”

“At the cookout. Sarah just asked me if we’d found a place yet. What the hell? You can’t just tell my sister that we’re moving in together and not let me know!”

Bucky lets out a startled laugh. “The cookout? That was weeks ago! I’m sure she was just messing with you—”

“So you were joking?” Again, Bucky’s smile slides off his face. What is happening? Sam is not kidding right now. He might very actually be pissed off. But it was a joke? …wasn’t it?

“I…” Bucky trails off. So he’s been daydreaming about living with Sam. But that’s not what Bucky tells himself. He’s just picturing their dinners together at different times of day. Like in the mornings. Sam in pajamas is a quintessential element of these daydreams.

“Were you serious, Bucky? I’m trying to imagine that you wouldn’t just run your mouth off around my sister as a joke.” Sam is pinning him with this intense expression that Bucky can’t figure out and it’s taking all his self control not to squirm.

“I guess… it wasn’t.”

Sam keeps up the laser eyes till Bucky can practically feel two points boring through his skull. Finally, Sam sighs.

“Man…” Sam says, slowly shaking his head. He takes Bucky’s hand and holds it to his chest, just like they had outside Sarah’s house after Bucky confessed an overdue apology. But now, Bucky’s hand is literally against Sam’s chest and he can feel Sam’s heart beating. The thud, thud makes his stomach flip. Bucky stares at their hands. Sam is so close and that’s making him forget how to breathe. Maybe he should be looking somewhere else. Somewhere other than Sam’s hand gripping his. Listening to something other than Sam’s heartbeat. When Bucky meets Sam’s eyes again he regrets it instantly. This is 100x worse than before. This is tender.

“If you’re going to do this, you gotta be sure.” Sam’s voice is warm. His brown eyes are warm. His hand is warm. His chest is— you get the idea. Bucky’s brain still isn’t processing what the hell Sam is talking about. “Cause I won’t have you fuckin’ around with my heart.” Wait- what? “I don’t have the time or the mental space to deal with that. You understand?” Bucky would literally rather be in cryo right now. “Bucky.” The fuck does Sam expect him to say? If he starts moving his lips then words should form eventually.

“I wouldn’t do…” This is a struggle. Sam raises an eyebrow.

“You wouldn’t do what?”

“Fuck around.” It comes out barely a whisper. Sam sighs and Bucky thinks he’s actually going to die.

“What are we talking about, Buck? How you wouldn’t lie to my sister? Or how—”

“Yeah! Sure! I don’t know!” Bucky has class. He swears to god he used to have class. “I wouldn’t lie to Sarah! Yeah, I do want to live with you. It’s kinda the only thing I think about. But I didn’t know how to tell YOU that!” There’s a grin spreading across Sam’s face and it’s making Bucky feel things. “And I wouldn’t fuck around with your heart! That’s literally the last thing I would ever do! Your heart is very important to me and I would…!” Whatever courage he had is disappearing fast. “…take care…” Dear god almighty does Sam have to do that with his face? “…of it.”

Sam is smiling like the actual sun. And Bucky is burning to a crisp under a magnifying glass.

Sam leans back with a satisfied “hrmph.” He drops Bucky’s hand and stands up. Bucky involuntarily leans into the empty space like Sam left some kind of gravitational pull. What the fuck just happened? Bucky looks at Alpine. The rabbit is sitting on her hind legs beside him, looking up at him curiously and twitching her nose.

“So what’s for dinner? Take-out again?” If it could reach, Bucky’s jaw would drop to the floor. Sam looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

“That’s it?!!”

“What’s it? You forget to order a pizza or somethin?” Sam takes a few steps toward the kitchen and Bucky jumps off the couch.

“Sam. I hate you.”

“Wow. That hurts, Bucky. I thought my heart was important to you.”

“I—!” Bucky flails his arms around. Sam is grinning in that stupidly adorable irresistible way of his. The situation is hopeless. How is Bucky supposed to think when Sam is being this cute? And now he knows that Bucky wants to live with him? Disastrous. “I made you dinner!”

Sam looks surprised, maybe even a little touched. “Really?”

“Yes, really!” Bucky pushes past him on his way into the kitchen, overly aware of how their shoulders brush. Bucky pulls the casserole out of the fridge and transfers it to the pre-heated oven. Now that he’s not looking at Sam, the thought of meeting his gaze again makes Bucky feel queasy. Instead he decides to lean over the oven and stare at its digital clock. A perfect excuse to avoid those obnoxiously beautiful brown eyes for the next 20 minutes.

“What is it?”

“Casserole.”

Sam laughs. “You realize there’s like a million different kinds of casseroles, right?”

“Macaroni,” Bucky mumbles.

“Sounds promising. You’ve got beer somewhere?” Bucky mumbles some more because how can he admit now that he went searching for Sam’s favorite hard lemonade that’s annoyingly hard to get in New York? He hears Sam open the fridge. Too late. “Oh my god, you found this stuff here?!” The distinct crack of a can opening punctuates Sam’s excitement. “You’re the best, man.”

Bucky could say something snarky. Really, he should at least try. But his ears are burning and so is his face and goddammit why is this happening. Sam’s silent, clearly waiting for a comeback. Bucky starts to sweat. He hears Sam come up behind him. What is breathing? Surely it’s a non-essential function. Then Sam presses himself to Bucky’s back and wraps his perfect hunky arms around his waist. Bucky’s hearts skips at least five beats when he feels Sam’s warm breath on his ear.

“You just gonna stare at the clock then, huh?”

“Ye—“ Bucky clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“Mmm, okay,” Sam hums and rests his chin on Bucky’s shoulder, obviously with no intention of showing mercy.

“What are you doing?” Bucky’s voice is much higher than he cares to admit.

“Staring with you.” Bucky swallows. He can’t do this for another 18 minutes. “You gonna cook for me when we live together?”

WHAT. Bucky’s brain is hot and spinning like a clothes dryer but it’s his thoughts that are tumbling. Yeah, he’s definitely sweating a lot now. Bucky ducks his head, not realizing that would be a terrible idea. Sam drops a kiss on the exposed back of his neck. So this is it then. This is how it ends. Bucky is going to pass out or die or both.

“How much longer can you hold your breath before it becomes a problem?” God, Sam is such a smug asshole. “I don’t wanna scrape you off the kitchen floor before dinner.”

Bucky tries to inhale slowly, but it’s shaky- of fucking course it is. “I really hate you,” is all he can manage to whisper.

“Ya know, that’s funny,” Sam purrs. Literally purrs because he clearly wants Bucky to suffer. “Cause I could swear that you actually have a huge, embarrassing, all-consuming crush on me.”

Fuck right off, Sam Wilson, you perfect fucking prick, is what Bucky thinks. But somehow, unforgivably, what he says is, “You have really beautiful eyes, Sam.”

That startles a laugh out of Sam. “Why thank you, Bucky! But it’s kinda hard to believe you really mean that from the way you’re so adamantly not looking at me.”

“You know I mean it. Always accusing me of having a staring problem.”

“Still… you could convince me.” Sam’s tone is a challenge. Fuck this.

“Sam, if I look at you, I’ll either die or have to kiss you.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Sam chuckles. “You can kiss me, but dying right now would be inconvenient.”

That’s it! Bucky turns on him. “Inconvenient? In- fucking -convenient?!”

“Well, yeah, you didn’t say how long the casserole should be in the oven for.”

“Get out of my apartment!”

“Make me!”

Bucky grabs Sam’s face in both hands and kisses him hungrily. Fuck mac-n-cheese. He’s having Sam for dinner.

#they’re idiots #and this was super fun to write #sambucky fic #bucky barnes fic #back on my gay shit #onlysambucky

36 notes · View notes

keelywolfe · 3 years

Text

FIC: A Waffle Lot of Trouble (baon)

Summary: Edge has learned many things since he began his relationship with Stretch, gone to a variety of places, done so many things. Surely he can endure this travesty. Surely he can survive...the Waffle House.

Tags: Spicyhoney, Established Relationships, Domestic Fluff

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

“Explain to me why we are doing this?”

Edge followed Stretch through the door beneath the glowing sign and the reluctant drag of his boots did not stop his husband’s determined march.

“three reasons,” Stretch said. He did not loosen his hold on Edge’s hand, as if suspicious he might flee if given a chance and Edge couldn’t say he was wrong. “one, because i’m craving horrible unhealthy eats and your cooking, while delicious, doesn’t qualify. two, you’ve never been to a waffle house and it is an experience that everyone should enjoy—”

“Endure.”

“—enjoy,” Stretch insisted stubbornly. “which brings us to the third and most important reason. you love me.”

“I do,” Edge sighed. This wouldn’t be the first occasion that his adoration would take him to strange and sometimes fascinating places for unique meals. They used to do it quite often while they were still dating and Stretch was doing his weekly restaurant reviews for his twitter. Somehow the banquet had dwindled off as he slowly ran out of places in Ebott to review. It was a shame, really, and perhaps he should speak to Stretch about starting up again. There was no reason they couldn’t travel a bit further out of the city so long as proper security measures were taken. It would be enjoyable to find another small hole-in-the-wall or old family business eager to share their signature meal.

From the looks of this place, the food would be better left unsigned.

The booths looked as if they’d been torn straight from an old sitcom, padded red vinyl with the occasional patch attempting, and occasionally failing, to hold the stuffing in. It was a match to the stools lining the long counter, separated by little islands of napkins, condiments, and straws nestled together. The overhead lights were glaringly intense with one in the corner flickering with seizure inducing intensity and in the other corner was a jukebox to complete the scene in searing neon.

If horribly unhealthy food was what Stretch was craving, then he’d found its haven.

“c’mon,” Stretch tugged at his hand to pull him along and Edge’s dragging stride had nothing to do with the cane he was leaning on. His husband led the way to one of the booths, still chattering, “i used to come here all the time before we got together. sometimes when i couldn’t sleep, i’d sneak out and take the late bus out and sit here for half the night, taking up space.”

There were so many horrible things wrong with that statement that Edge couldn’t pick one to start with; the very idea of Stretch alone on the bus after midnight, or him here and equally alone, hanging out with the sort of Human patrons who were eager for cheap, greasy food in the wee hours, or the last indignity, that he’d hidden his excursions from his brother. Anything could have happened and the fact that it didn’t only barely kept Edge’s mouth shut.

Then his teeth ground together for another reason as they halted in front of one of the booths.

The table was the sort of sticky usually reserved for movie theater floors and while Edge tolerated it beneath his shoes, having it beneath his elbows, or worse, beneath Stretch’s bare hands, was entirely unacceptable.

Before he could give voice to one of his many protests, Stretch was already rummaging through his bag, this one with the chemical formula for caffeine boldly on the side. "don't worry, babe, got you covered."

He pulled out a package of disinfecting wipes and busied himself cleaning not only the tabletop, but also the plastic bench seats and even the salt and pepper shakers. Everything on the table got a thorough wipe down and as soon as the seat dried, Edge grudgingly sat. Much as he was relieved that Stretch came prepared, the fact that he knew to be prepared did not instill much faith.

He tried very hard not to think about the state of the kitchen.

Edge picked up one of the freshly wiped down menus to frown at. “You still haven’t explained to me why we needed to come at 3am. We could have come at noon for the lunch special.”

“nah, that’s for soccer moms and octogenarians,” Stretch scoffed. “you come at 3am ‘cause that's when you go to a waffle house, babe! it's a liminal space, a place of transition, where you cross over from one space to the next and—"

“If I’d known we’d be traveling so much I would have worn better shoes.”

“always got jokes, babe,” Stretch snickered. He lowered his voice, leaning in. “but seriously, look around.”

Edge was well familiar with the subtleties involved in a careful awareness of one’s surroundings. Without lifting his head, he looked around the diner. There were only four other customers, all of them with plates already in front of them. One a group of college-age Humans who might have been fashionably dressed up for the club a few hours earlier but now their makeup was running from sweat, their hair fallen and straggly, and simply by looking at them, he had a fair assessment of their current smell. The other person, who looked as if they might have been in prison as recently as last night, was forcefully shoveling what might have been hash browns into his mouth. It was difficult to tell; whatever it was had enough ketchup poured on top to give even Sans a pause and a moment to reconsider. He could very well have been eating shredded napkins beneath that thick layer of red.

None of the Humans paid him and Stretch any mind, so Edge silently wished the man good fortune on his recent parole and returned to looking at the menu while touching it as little as possible.

The door that presumable led to the kitchen swung abruptly open and a harried waitress came through it, coffeepot in hand. She didn’t so much as give them a second glance, only thunked down a pair of heavy white coffee mugs and poured them full to the brim.

“Be back to take your order in a minute,” she said distractedly.

“take your time.” Stretch was already tearing open sugar packets to add to his cup. He took a sip, grimaced, and added several more.

Edge reached for his own cup, already braced for whatever burnt dregs ended up as the primary flavor, when the ancient jukebox suddenly came to life, blaring out a jaunty 50’s style tune about raisins in toast. Edge jerked, cursing softly as he spilled hot coffee over his hand. He hastily stripped off his glove and turned to glare at the jukebox…except there was no one by it. No one else was even looking at the blasted thing.

A light touch on his hand sent him jerking back the other way, to find Stretch holding out a fresh pair of gloves for him with one hand as he continued to peruse the menu with the other.

“Thank you,” Edge sighed out. He dried his stinging hand with a napkin before sliding on the gloves.

"no prob. that happens sometimes," Stretch said absently. "the old waitress here swore the jukebox was haunted. whatcha getting?"

The sudden u-turn from the supernatural to the mundane was nearly enough to add to his whiplash. Edge picked up the menu again with his fingertips, still trying to touch it as little as possible. He doubted if Stretch’s supply of gloves was endless. "If I had blood and flesh, a tetanus shot. Since that isn't an option, I'll settle for the ubiquitous waffles.”

Not that he had any intention of eating anything. He only hoped that pushing it around his plate and perhaps mashing pieces with his fork would suffice. He added a silent prayer that he might be able resist the urge to slap Stretch’s plate away like a poisoned entrée before he carried his husband back out to the safety of their car. It would be a enduring struggle, he was certain.

Sudden shouts rose and Edge jerked again, turning to see that a set of the college-ish humans were engaged in a combination of shrieking and hairpulling, while their companions shouted at them, in encouragement or deterrence, it was difficult to tell.

As quick as it began, it ended, and they all returned to the table, eating their fries and cheese sticks while one held a napkin to their bleeding nose and the other, a glass of ice water against her swelling eye.

“Stretch—” Edge began, low. The best waffles in the world weren’t worth putting his husband anywhere near this sort of danger and certainly not the greasy globs of fried dough that were on offer here.

“hmm?” He turned back to see his husband hadn’t even seemed to notice the brief outbreak of brawling three booths away. Stretch only flipped the menu over and frowned, “dunno, maybe i’ll get the hash brown bowl this time, what do you th—"

He broke off at the sound of shouting from the kitchen, the entire restaurant turning to watch a burly man in an apron storm out, the waitress at his heels. Whatever his complaint, it was difficult to parse around the vigorous swearing, words that might even manage to bring a hint of a blush to his brother’s face.

Might.

What couldn’t be mistaken was his last shout, two clear, concise words. “I quit!”

The gathered assembly watched as the man ripped off his apron and tossed it on the counter, stalking out the front doors and out of their lives.

A long moment of silence, then Stretch grumbled out, “aw, man, not again. why do they always quit in the middle of the night, this is the third time!”

The waitress only stood there, a helpless expression on her weary face. She turned to them, “Sorry, guys, the next cook isn’t in until six.”

“nah, it’s cool,” Stretch sighed and started to get to his feet. “we’ll have to try again another time, babe.”

The waitress began gathering their unused silverware and Edge could hear her miserable sniffle as he followed Stretch towards the door. She was very young, and as terrible as Edge was at guessing Human ages, he suspected if she’d been a Monster, she would have been barely out of stripes. “Don’t suppose either of you cook?”

Edge paused.

In front of him, Stretch also stopped when he realized Edge was no longer following him, the reluctant leash of his hand becoming a stubborn brake. “what are you…” His expression changed, his sockets narrowing. “babe. no.”

Edge said nothing, only looked back at Stretch and watched his growing outrage, “no! you wouldn’t let me work at the haunted house that time! that guy would’ve paid us at the end of the night, we could’ve been their best workers! bet you could’ve gotten a ton of macho men to wet their pants without breaking a sweat!”

“She needs help,” Edge said, quietly. He did not bring up the ending debacle of their haunted house trip that landed them in the parking lot after an unintentional shortcut, a prudent choice when persuading Stretch.

Stretch faltered, looking around him at the waitress. Who was near tears, fruitlessly trying to call someone on her cell phone who wasn’t picking up. He blew out a sharp breath, rolling his pale eye lights, but his faint smile was unmistakable.

“always got to be the hero, don’t you,” Stretch sighed. He jerked a thumb back into the diner. “go ahead, superman, have at it.”

Edge nodded and turned back, walking over to the young waitress determinedly. “Excuse me, miss.”

It was only five o’clock in the morning when the other cook arrived, still bleary-eyed and his hair sticking up in the back. He didn’t ask about the newly shiny cleanliness of the grill, nor the fryers. And the counters. The floor. Even the mysterious dark smudge that forever haunted the smoke hood was gone, but he had no questions. He merely grunted a greeting and took possession of the equally shiny spatula, already reaching for the eggs that were sizzling on the griddle.

Edge removed his spotless apron and hung it on the peg by the door. He gave the kitchen a last satisfied look, then went out the door.

Out in the dining area in a corner booth, his husband was curled up, asleep. His skull sagged back against the worn vinyl padding, his mouth open, and a faint snore escaping on each exhale. An oversized leather jacket was spread over him that was not Edge’s and certainly wasn’t his own, Edge reached for it with a frown, lifting it off him in a jangle of chains and zippers.

“I’ll take that off ya hands.” He turned to see last night’s possible parolee holding out a hand. Wordlessly, Edge handed over the jacket and the Man shrugged into it. “He was shiverin’, didn’t want to bother ya while you was giving Anna a hand. So I kept an eye on ‘im.”

“Thank you,” Edge told him softly. The man gave him a gap-toothed smile.

“Nah, thank you for helpin’ her out,” the man said gruffly, “She’s a good kid, couldn’t afford to the lose the paycheck for the night.”

“Ready to go, daddy?” They turned as the Anna in question, the waitress, came out of the kitchen, coat in hand. Another waitress was already speaking to the other early morning customers, coffee in hand and waffles on order.

“Ready when you are, kid.” The man turned and shuffled to the door, but Anna paused by Edge.

“Thank you,” she said. Tears were brimming in her eyes, unshed. “Thank you so much.”

“It was my pleasure,” he told her, honestly. A few hours of cooking and deep cleaning was soothing to him in its own way, body and soul, and while his leg was beginning to complain, the rest of him felt nothing but deep, almost luxurious peace.

She gave him a happy smile and went after her father.

Edge watched her go, then turned back to Stretch, who was already stirring without the protection of the jacket. “hummzat?” he mumbled out, and when Edge reached out to gently cup his cheekbone in one hand, he learned with drowsy contentment into the touch.

“We can go home now,” Edge told him softly. He did not expect that sleepy look to turn to one of dismay, his sockets going wide.

“but we didn’t get any waffles!” Stretch said, with deep layers of disappointment. It was true; he’d fallen asleep before Edge even figured out the industrial waffle iron.

Edge only shook his head and took a seat on the other side of the booth, “All right then, waffles it is. You were right, you know.”

“hm?” Stretch yawned, “’bout what?”

“I did cross over from one space to the next,” Edge said, solemnly. He kept his expression as straight as a ruler, concealing even the hint of a smile. “A transition, if you will, into a liminal space—”

“i didn’t mean from the dining room to the kitchen,” Stretch grumbled. But he reached out to give Edge’s hand a brief squeeze, his thumb brushing over the ring on his third finger.

“Nevertheless,” Edge picked up a menu, though by now he knew it by heart. “Now. What are you having?”

-finis-

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #by any other name

49 notes · View notes

pixieungerstories · 4 years

Text

The Captive

It was pouring rain and the staff all knew that no one was going out in that to buy a skein of alpaca and a chocolate croissant. Not even if they were made with the good chocolate. “Go home, Ben. It’s been a long day. You work hard and have earned some time off.”

Ben hesitated, “You sure, Elly?”

That was when the power went out. “Well, I am now,” Elaina replied.

In the faint light seeping in through the windows, Ben took off his apron and tossed it into the laundry hamper. He had the lean look of someone who was a tall 98 pound weakling in high school and was now a daily visitor to the gym. He had some muscle mass but would never be the bulky guy he wanted to be. His thick dark brown hair was cropped close in an attempt to keep it from sticking up in odd ways. This was an improvement over his previous cut where he looked like he was wearing a hat made of hair. His cheekbones were sharp. His nose was a long and straight with a hint of the freckles he had as a kid. His eyebrows were not thick but they were expressive. All and all, he looked like someone who, should they need to be described in a single word, the word would be sharp. Or possibly angular.

He kissed Elly’s cheek on his way past, “Lock the door behind me, ok?”

She nodded and flipped the open sign to closed When Ben left, she locked the deadbolt and put the security chain in place. Normally at the end of the day, she would wash the kitchen towels, the linen napkins and Ben’s apron.

Straw into Gold was in an old three story house. The kitchen was now a commercial kitchen. The dining room was the cafe. The rest of the house had been opened up to sell wool, yarn, dyeing supplies, spinning wheels and looms. The fireplace was still there in the parlour, still working. There was a circle of arm chairs arranged around it where the knitting groups could meet and not be near the cafe crumbs.

Elly would have to wait for the last of the fire to burn down before going upstairs. She dug out a book and a flashlight before curling up in her favourite chair to read by the window. There was a flash of lightning moments before a crash of thunder rattled the window. She muttered under her breath, but otherwise ignored it.

Twenty minutes later she was scooping ashes into a metal bucket near the fireplace and thirty minutes later she was checking to make sure all the switches were set to off before letting herself through the staff only door to the basement. There was a candle and a box of matches on the top step. She tried to strike a match by feel when George laughed from somewhere below her.

“I could do that for you, you know.”

“Thanks,” she snarked, “but I happen to like having eyebrows.” She made sure the candle was lit before carefully going do the steep and narrow stairs. “How are you doing down here? Any water getting in?”

George yawned hugely, showing off a mouthful of razor sharp teeth. “Nope. That weeping tile you had installed really made a difference. I am warm and dry.”

“It’s getting a bit cold up there, think you could turn up the heat a little?”

George smirked, “Is there any of the boy’s baking left?”

Elly nodded.

George’s scales started to glow faintly, “I think arrangements could be made.”

Elly brought down all the leftover baking, a copper kettle full of water, a lemon ginger tea bag and a fancy cup and saucer that had been her aunt’s favourite before Ina had passed away a few years ago. The cafe used all antique china, but there were still a few special pieces that spent most of their time in the curio cabinet in the corner.

The kettle was set on the floor and George wrapped his tail around it. The floor and walls were all old masonry, so the risk of fire was low. The only furniture down here was a large wingback chair in brown leather, and a small ornate side table in carved from a single piece of dark walnut. The table currently had a camping LED lantern sitting on it. George didn’t like the light it gave, but Elly had put her foot down. She didn’t like the candle smoke.

She munched a slice of chocolate cranberry bread as she tossed baking at George. He caught them out of the air like a dog snapping at treats.

Around a mouthful of brioche, he asked, “Would you sleep down here tonight, Treasure?”

Elly froze, tea cup half way to her mouth. “I told you not to call me that,” she said in a deathly quiet voice.

George’s tail began to twitch in irritation. “And I have repeatedly told you it is a term of endearment.”

Elly shook her head, “I don’t believe you. When I came down here to tell you that Aunt Ina had died, you didn’t even know who I was talking about. I have a name, use it!”

George narrowed his eyes at her. Whatever he was going to say next was cut off by the sound of his tail knocking over the kettle. Elly, jumped out of the chair and backed away from the rapidly spreading puddle of boiling water. She snatched up the lantern and ran up the stairs. George shouted after her, “What’s the point in learning your name when you are just going to be dead in sixty years?”

She slammed the door at the top of the stairs and thundered up the next flight to her apartment on the second and third floor of the house. She paced agitatedly in her much smaller kitchen before using a match to light her stove and setting about making mac and cheese for supper. She still had some roast chicken that she could heat up to go with it, but right now she needed the comfort carbs.

Running a yarn store wasn’t exactly what she was expecting from her life. The store, or at least the property on which the store was built had been in her family for hundreds of years. It had burnt down, under mysterious circumstances in 1912, but had been rebuilt on the original foundations. In all that time, it had always been a wool store. It was the last house in town and always would be. It was built on the corner of a section of farmland that butted up against the town line.

The farm was currently being leased out as pasture. The tenants didn’t actually pay rent. They kept sheep and tended Elly’s flock with their own. The sheep supplied some of the wool for the store, but mostly they kept George fed. No one knew that though. Officially the area was just prone to sheep thieves.

Elly’s family did well. Their crops flourished. Their businesses succeeded. And every generation, one woman in the family would take over the yarn shop.

It was just bad luck that she had been the oldest unmarried girl in the family when Ina had died. It wasn’t even like she was single at the time. She had tried really hard to talk Jeremy into a quickie wedding when Ina got sick, but it hadn’t worked.

Then Ina was gone and her choices were either dump him or wait for the family curse to get rid of him some other way. She walked away from her job, her boyfriend and being one semester away from getting her Masters in Library and Information Sciences.

Her mother had told her it wasn’t that bad. Maybe she could sell off the yarn and turn the shop into a bookstore.

Ha!

Mom had married into the family. She didn’t know what was in the basement. Now Elly was trapped in this house without so much as a dog for company.

She turned off the stove and dumped out her pot of boiling water. Who knew when the power would be back on. There was ice cream in the fridge that needed eating up.

#exophilia #the captive

85 notes · View notes

neerasrealm · 3 years

Note

POLY JANEWORK POLY JANEWORK POLY JANEWORK

THEY LOVE THEIR GF SO MUCH JJSHSHDJDDN

WHATS BETTER THAN TWO LESBIANS??? THREE LESBIANS OF COURSE! Wrote this with a female reader because. y’know. Jane. Also while I was writing this my brain decided this was in the same continuity of the Jason x Reader short I did forever ago??? idk why but it’s there idk dfhdsjf

Enjoy!

You let out a tired sigh as you reach into your pocket and pull out your keys. You stop in front of your apartment and unlock the door before stepping in. The moment you’re inside you’re greeted by the sound of a love song playing on the radio and the smell of sauteed onions and garlic. You take off your coat and hang it up, then drop your keys on the table by the door. You walk down the small hallway.

‘’Hello dear.’’ a soft, loving voice greets you. You look up and smile gently at Jane. She’s wearing a long black blouse with loose sleeves and baggy black pants. Not her usual outfit, but she still looks beautiful with her short black wig and her pale white mask. She’s busy stirring a frying pan. She looks up and over at you, her black eyes staring calmly. You smile a bit.

‘’Hey Jane.’’ you greet tiredly. ‘’How was your day?’’ you tilt your head at her. Jane is...a little odd. She wears a mask to hide her burnt skin, but is still the most gentle and loving woman you know. She speaks softly, gives the best hugs, has an eye for interior design and is an amazing cook. It’s almost a little hard to believe she’s- well- a murderer. Or rather, a murderer that works for an all powerful god. Maybe it’s more accurate to call her an assassin. Regardless, when she’s off the job, Jane is gentle and loving.

‘’It was okay,’’ she murmurs back. ‘’I did a little embroidery, watched a movie with Natalie...I talked on the phone with Jason for a bit.’’

You roll your eyes. ‘’Gossiping as usual.’’ you murmur. She laughs gently.

‘’Maybe a little…’’ you watch her take the pan off the heat and move it aside. She grabs a pack of tortillas from the countertop and lays them out on a baking tray. ‘’How was work, love?’’ she asks as she uses a spoon to grab chicken, peppers and onions from the pan. She deposits some onto each tortilla.

‘’It was okay.’’ you shrug. ‘’Tiring…’’ you look around for a second, then back at Jane, who’s now pouring cheese over the tortillas. ‘’Where’s Nat?’’

‘’In the bathroom.’’ Jane replies calmly as she neatly folds up each tortilla. She sprinkles a little cheese over each one then leans back. ‘’Natalie! Y/n is home!’’ she calls out. You hear muffled crashing and someone cursing in another room, followed by the bathroom door being yanked open. A green and white blur slides down the hall and stops just a few feet in front of you. Natalie, your second girlfriend, a girl who wears almost exclusively flannel and has a clock in her left eye. She’s wearing green flannel over a white t-shirt, along with baggy sweatpants and socks. Her brown hair is half shaved, with the non-shaved side hanging over her other, not-clock eye.

‘’Sup.’’ she greets with a small grin. You stare at her.

‘’What’d you do to your hair?’’ you ask, pointing at her new skrillex cut. She looks up and grins, pointing proudly at the haircut.

‘’Oh, ya like it?’’ she asks. ‘’Did it myself.’’ she tosses her head, her hair swinging out of her green eye slightly. Jane looks at her for a few moments before going back to making enchiladas.

‘’It looks great, sweetheart.’’ she replies calmly.

‘’You...gave yourself a skrillex cut?’’

‘’Uh-huh.’’

‘’...why?’’

Nat shrugs. ‘’I dunno. Thought it’d look cool.’’ she looks at you. ‘’...does it look cool?’’

‘’I mean- duh of course it does,’’ you reply. ‘’Just- you did that on your own? Weren’t you scared of- I dunno, messing it up?’’

Nat waves you off. ‘’Naaaah. It’s fine.’’ she gives you a small grin. ‘’How was work babe?’’

‘’It was fine.’’ you walk past her and sit down on the couch, slipping off your shoes. Nat is quick to follow you and sit down beside you. She leans against you, her head resting on your shoulder. You roll your eyes playfully and wrap an arm around her, pulling her close. She hums and snuggles up against you. You move a bit, laying down, letting her lay on top of you. She smiles wide and closes her eyes as she cuddles up. You let out a quiet, satisfied sigh.

And then Nat squeezes one of your breasts and giggles. ‘’Hehe tiddy…’’

‘’...Natalie I will push you off this couch if you do that again.’’

‘’Pff- okay, sorry.’’ she nuzzles into your neck instead. Jane puts the enchiladas in the oven and sets to work cleaning up the kitchen. Nat eyes her. ‘’Babe, c’mere.’’ she calls Jane turns and looks at her for a moment, tilting her head. Nat shifts on top of you and rolls onto her back. She holds out her arms, her non-verbal way of saying ‘’hugs!’’

Jane turns away from her. ‘’I’ll be over in a bit.’’ she replies calmly. Nat frowns.

‘’Oh c’mooooooon.’’ she whines. Jane shakes her head. Nat looks up at you. ‘’Help me out here.’’ she murmurs. You smirk and sigh, shaking your head. You look up at Jane.

‘’Jane, love,’’ you call out gently. Jane’s head perks up a bit and you smirk more. ‘’Why don’t you come cuddle with us…? I’ve had a long day, and I’m sure you have too…’’ Jane turns and looks at you. You give your best puppy dog eyes and flutter your lashes at her. Nat is, presumably, giving puppy dog eyes too. Or maybe- just puppy dog eye. Jane stares at you both for a long moment before turning away. She sets down her dishcloth, dusts herself off, then walks out of the kitchen. You grin.

‘’Yaaaay!!’’ Nat cheers as Jane walks over to you two. She gently slips off her black pumps and climbs onto the couch. She lays down on top of Nat, squishing you a bit under the weight. Her arms wrap around the both of you and she hums gently. Nat loudly places kisses into the top of her head. Jane laughs.

"Affectionate today, aren't we?"

"How can I not be when I'm stuck between a cute girl and a hot lady?" Nat replies with a grin.

"That's gay." You wheeze quietly.

"Me? Gay? Never." Nat shakes her head. "I'm completely straight, now excuse me while I kiss this woman." While Nat speaks she undoes the buckle on the back of Jane's mask and pulls it off. She quickly moves down and kisses Jane's burnt lips. You laugh again as you watch your two girlfriends quietly makeout.

Jane pulls away from Nat and smiles, her cheeks flushing red. Nat reaches up and caresses her cheek, smiling happily up at her. You soften as you take in her features. Even with her burns, Jane is beautiful, with a small button-nose and soft, smiling lips. Her eyes are a shiny blue colour that stick out brightly against her black clothes and hair. "You're so pretty…" you murmur.

Jane blinks and looks away, smiling a bit. "Thank you love…"

"She means it." Nat pipes up. "You're the most beautiful woman I know, Jane. Don't forget that."

Jane looks down at her and smiles wider. Genuine. She leans down and pecks a kiss onto Nat's forehead, then moves up and kisses your lips. She looks at the two of you for a moment and lets out a fond sigh. "...I won't."

"Good," Nat smiles in satisfaction, then reaches up and grabs Jane's shoulders. "Now c'mere." She yanks her down and hugs her tight. Jane chuckles and wraps her arms around you both.

"I love you guys." You say gently.

"We love ya too, y/n."

"More than anything."

#creepypasta #creepypasta fanfic #creepypasta fanfiction #writing #request #janework #janework x reader #jane the killer #jane arkensaw #jane the killer x reader #clockwork creepypasta #clockwork #natalie oulette #clockwork x reader #ask #frozensriracha #creepypasta x reader

47 notes · View notes

factual-fantasy · 4 years

Note

If they could eat human food, what would they want to try the most? (Not just their favorite just something they’d like to try)

So, not favorite foods, but foods they would like to try if they could eat human food? Like if their Cybertronians bodies were capable of eating Human food what would they want to try? Ohhh this aught to be interesting.

Suburban would want to try black licorice because its seen as being a bad tasting candy, and that would make him curious enough to try it. Miata wants to eat a bowl of salad to see why most Humans hate it so much.

Escort would want to try anything that any of his teammates are too afraid to try. He’s basically everybody’s taste tester, for both Humans and Cybertronians. Although his body is weak by Cybertronian standards, it is incredibly strong compared to Humans. If a Human says they want to try something spicy, but they’re worried its too spicy, Escort will try it first. If he feels anything, to any degree, the Human wont try it. If Escort can feel it, its too hot. If a Cybertronian wants to try some weird food, Escort will eat it first. If he starts having a stroke, it’s not meant to be consumed by their species. The reason why Escort does this is because he really cares about his team and he wants them to have fun, but he doesn’t want anyone to get hurt. If he gets burnt by trying something new, at least someone else can be saved from getting a swollen lip.

Brown Suburban wants to try cotton candy. Its so strange looking and colorful, it doesn’t look like it should be consumed. He’s seen humans eat it before, and it just kind’a.. disappears into their mouths..?? He’s seen kids eat it before and they love it, what do the love about it so much? He’s curious, he wants to try the colorful edible cloud on a stick. U.M.Dragster would want to try live octopus because he’s friggin weird and just wants to experience gross and weird things.

A.T.Dragster wants to try pineapple pizza. Half off the human race would sacrifice their first born for a slice and the other half would kill another's first born for eating a slice. She wants to get to the bottom of this whole fiasco and decide for herself if it really is worthy of being a pizza topping or not. Green Truck hears all this talk about Burgers and how much the humans love them. He’s always wanted to try one but they are much too small for him to eat them in the same way that Humans do. <:/

Vega wants to try ice cream, any kind, mostly because Humans hoot and holler about it being so tasty and cold all the time. He could really use something yummy to help cool him off and make him feel better when he overheats. Red Van wants to try cake because of how pretty it looks. It looks like a food that tastes good. White Truck wants to try spaghetti because it looks really weird, but good at the same time. Someday he plans to try it with it absolutely drenched in pasta sauce and parmesan cheese.

Beluga wants to try pocky sooooo bad. Honda wants to try coffee. I know I know, its a drink. But that’s all she ever really wants to try. She always hears Humans talk about this big energy boost it gives them.. and she could really use a magical drink like that right about now. Ranger? Like.. low key? She wants to try Pufferfish. The forbidden fish. Volvo would want to try pizza to see why humans love this friggin slab of cooked dough, sauce and cheese so much.

Jeepy wants to eat a hand full of M&Ms, Skittles, and reese's pieces all at the same time because the Humans say its “cursed”. He thinks they’re being serious and he low key wants to see what would happen. Bash Buggy would want to try a hand full of Dragon's Breath Chiles, now known as the hottest peppers on Earth. He would want to try it to see how it would feel, because unless you’re horribly sick in some way, nothing Cybertronians put into their digestive tanks are hot or burn them. Thus he’s never experienced something like it before and wants to see what it would feel like.... Big Blue has always wanted to see what raw Human tastes like.

#my respons #transformer ocs

28 notes · View notes

ghost-at-the-masquerade · 3 years

Text

Friends in Low Places

Part 2: Tourist Trap

Rating: PG

Count: 2666

Summary: A few days after the events of Tremors, the trio stops for a bite and tour of a roadside attraction. Or: Juliette makes an excellent choice, and Zeke makes a bad one.

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

“Afraid she’s never gonna be the same after a shock to her suspension like that.” Zeke sighed, patting the side of the truck as he came around. Juliette and Roscoe sat on the tailgate, boxes and bags of their belongings pressed against their backs.

“Is it real bad?” Juliette said through a mouthful of cheese-steak, brows creased.

“Well, it’s not good, but we’ll get by.” He shrugged and leaned past her to grab his own sandwich.

Juliette swung her feet, marveling at the sweeping height of the pines around them. The smell of ceders heavy in the air. They were parked in a gravel lot with nothing but half-rotted blocks of wood to mark the spaces. Back around the bend, toward where they came in, was the little food stand where they had grabbed their lunch; a weather-stained building with just two windows to order from and three friendly, stocky folk tending it. In the other direction was their next destination.

A building made of logs almost black in color, with a steep roof and its name up in gaudy, blood-orange lettering; Twinkle Cove’s House of Terrors. ‘Terrors’ had a dripping effect that had clearly been added later. It might have been a home once, but the windows and doors had since been replaced with dark frosted glass. The inside of the door was plastered with fliers for other local businesses.

Once they were done eating, Zeke led the group to join just one other small party in the lobby, ditching their trash in the can outside. A gust from the AC swept over them at the threshold, making way for the faint smell of dust and taxidermy. Lights over each display cast heavy shadows to hide the seams on the tackier fakes. Floor vents rattled in the corners.

Zeke removed his sunglasses and let them hang from his shirt collar, grinning all the while. Usually he tried not to make comments about Juliette’s stops, not wanting to influence her choices, but he loved this hokey shit and could make no secret of it.

The counter to their left was manned by a spindly fellow who reminded Zeke of a harvestman; those tiny, long-legged spiders. Dressed in a clean black suit and cloak, gloves and bowtie a rich sanguine, topped off with too-big silver cufflinks and a swirl in his hair. He acknowledged them with a nod and a flash of pearly-whites.

The three of them split across the room. Juliette went for the counter, its glass case holding an array of trinkets. Gems inset in gargoyle claws, decently realistic rats, wands and supposedly cursed objects.

Zeke himself made a round of the room, looking over the displays that you got for free. A passable piece of taxidermy claiming to be a were-badger, crafted, as far as he could tell, from a honey badger and a red fox. A tuft of brown hair that almost looked burnt, kept behind glass; the plaque described it as a trophy from an encounter with the local woodland witch. Several unsettling mannequins he couldn’t get a good look at, since they were occupying the small family also in the lobby.

Roscoe went to peep down the hallway to the right, which was cornered off with a single strip of velvet rope. When they went to lay a hand on it, the man at the counter tutted and called out in what was surely his stage voice, “Folks if you would just gather here, I’d be glad to sign you up for our grand tour!”

Juliette side-stepped over in front of the register to be first in line, a cheeky smile on her face. The man returned her a smile that crinkled his eyes. Zeke joined her shortly, and it took no time at all the register both parties.

Thus the lot of them gathered in front of the rope divide, the man in charge standing before them with his shoulders braced and hands twisted together. It was hard to tell if the posture was part of the bit, or genuine nerves.

“Hello, hello, I’m your host and owner of all these terrible delights, Terry!” He stumbled over his script with an appreciative laugh when a couple of them cheered. Moving the rope aside, he gathered himself and continued, “Stay close behind me and don’t touch anything you aren’t willing to… get attached to.”

With that and a menacing laugh the tour began. Through the first narrow hallway, with concerningly real cobwebs in its crooks and crannies, past an alcove leading to a bathroom and an office, they took a left-hand turn into a room even darker than the lobby.

As their host briefly explained; “Certain items can be damaged over time in bright lights. No flash photography, of course.”

There were the staples of places like this; traces of Bigfoot and hair of the moth-man, hooves of unicorns even. More interesting was a purple checked hood, dropped by the flatwoods monster - the holes in front lightly singed from the intense light of the creature’s eyes. Surprisingly life-like stone statues of woodland critters, victims of a basilisk. The basilisk itself, even, or a depiction of it.

“Even the corpse is dangerous!” Terry proclaimed, a finger held sternly in the air, “Not suitable for display.”

To his credit, Terry seemed genuinely enthused about each and every piece. But his clear favorite, in the final room, was most impressive of all.

This room was smaller than the others they had passed through, holding only one display. Hidden behind a heavy satin curtain, deep red and lightly dusty. Terry crossed the room with a twirl of his cape, his hands almost seemed to tremble as he reached for the thick braided cord that would pull back the curtain.

“Parents, please hold on to your children.” The party of strangers obliged for the hell of it. Juliette made a point of scooting away from both Zeke and Roscoe.

Terry yanked the cord and revealed a dark, hairy, humanoid figure. Vaguely canine in the face, with great black horns that scraped the ceiling. Hands that weren’t quite hands, but not quite paws either, with jagged, broken claws. Roscoe leaned closer, mouth open slightly. The thing’s fur was as black and fluid as ink, eyes shimmering unnaturally bright for the dimness of the room. Surely, it had to be a sort of projection, but search as the eye might, they could not find the subtle tells.

“The grand prize that no doubt drew you to this place, the lesser demon slain by our very own local monster hunter, Paul Anderson!” Terry shook like an excitable dog.

The younger of the two children there reached out. When their fingertips brushed its bent knee, a single second shattered into a thousand. The beast’s head snapped down, teeth barred in a growl. It staggered forward, knocking over the rope divide. The children shrieked and all seven of the guests scrambled backwards.

Zeke’s hand snapped to his side automatically, instinctively going for his revolver. Thankfully, it was still in the car, so the situation would escalate no further. Terry was absolutely howling with laughter.

He crowed after the little family, who were already back in the previous room, “All in good fun, all in good fun, that’s the one that keeps them coming back!”

Roscoe clutched their heart, despite being blank-faced as ever, aside the raised eyebrows. Juliette tugged at her braid.

Zeke spat out the scare and laughed. “Aw, okay, you got us. That’s pretty damn good. What’s that, animatronic-?”

Terry didn’t even let him finish, moving out of the room, “I’m afraid that’s all there is to see for now! But we always have more attractions coming, if you’d come see us again in the fall…!” His spiel continuing as they returned to the lobby.

With a little distance, everyone was in good spirits about it, though the younger child was a bit huffy in denying that they’d been scared. The family argued briefly over whether to buy anything before ultimately leaving empty-handed. Juliette gently bullied Roscoe into buying her one of the cursed spoons from the display case. Roscoe cast a meaningful glance back at Zeke before taking her outside.

Business concluded, the register rung - an old fashioned thing - and Terry came around the register again. He cast a wary, sideways look at Zeke as he went to set the rope barrier back in place. “Something I can help you with?”

Zeke sidled up next to him with a few casual, swinging steps, put on a sloppy, side-ways kind of smile and a bit of concern on his brow. He clicked his tongue and looked around the lobby as he spoke, “Awfully bold of you to be flauntin’ it like that these days. Pretty neat setup you got going on, though. How’s the monster-hunter involved?”

When he actually turned to look at him, Terry was frozen stiff, breathing in quick, shallow breaths. Zeke held up his hands, any humor dropping from his expression.

“Whoa, whoa, hey, I’m not-” the rest of his words were forced out in a gasp as Zeke threw himself aside. He turned back to find a comically large axe splitting the floor where he had just been standing. His gaze shot up to Terry’s face, wide-eyed, unreadable.

“I didn’t mean it like that!” He held out a hand even as he crawled backwards toward the hall. Terry shook his head rapidly, fists clenched in his cape.

“That’s what they all say!” Shadows shot up to swallow the light from outside, crept up the walls like thousands of spiders to dim the overhead lights. Terry jerked his arm out dramatically, “That’s what all of them said!”

The weight of those words came into focus quickly; the three grotesque mannequins, their horrified faces looking as though they’d been covered in clay, came to flank Terry. Their bases scratched the floorboards, following as he moved into the hall after Zeke.

Zeke did all he could do; scramble to his feet and try to put distance between them. The options for where he could get it were severely limited; continue on down the hall, into the bathroom, or the office. Zeke didn’t fancy being cornered that quickly. He backed away, still holding up a single pacifying hand. The walls cracked and splintered on either side of him, oozing viscous void from their wounds. Lightbulbs screamed, formless things flitted through the edges of his vision.

“Listen, I’m not here to start anything,” Steady words that simply bounced off his pursuer as they made it into the main display room, “It’s not like that, I’m not with those bastards.”

“I won’t be lied to. I won’t be taken that easy.” Terry spat. The jackalope in the case to his left sprung to life, flailing and trying to bite through the glass, dead eyes flashing. Zeke’s eyes flitted around the room for his next move.

The room dimmed further and suddenly silver flashed in Terry’s hand. A simple, smooth blade. Something clicked together in Zeke’s head, but there wasn’t even time for it to form as a whole thought before Terry threw.

Zeke’s arm shot up in defense, but to no avail. A glass display teetered as he staggered back against the wall. Pain coursed through his ribs - far less than it seemed like there should be. Ragged breaths drew through his teeth as he saw but couldn’t feel the blood pooling up under his fingers. Something that sounded like stomping was lost at the edge of his perception, overtaken by static.

Everything in the room distorted and flickered, twisted and turned sickeningly, lights searing bright before settling back into normalcy. And then it was gone; the knife was gone, both flesh and fabric mended. He palpated the spot just to be sure.

His gaze shot back up to where Terry stood shaking, eyes glistening. The mannequins were gone. And over Terry’s shoulder, he could see Roscoe, an indecipherable mess of guilt and pain and concern on their face, their hands laid on his shoulders.

“I’m sorry - I don’t like to do it so quickly.”

“He stabbed me!” Zeke objected to the apology, hand still on the spot where the knife had been.

They couldn’t really disagree, so they just grimaced and tilted their head.

Zeke pushed himself upright. “Can we please just talk now?!”

“Are you going to take me in, then?” Terry’s voice was small. Frightened. He swallowed and said more insistently, “All I can do is scare people, I’m no good to you. Just parlor tricks.”

Zeke did his best to steady his voice, “No, I tried to tell you, it’s not like that.”

But with his only defense disabled, the fear split him anyway. “Then what?! What do you want?!”

Something like guilt made Zeke’s temper flare, “I just - wanted you to know you got fucking caught! That somebody who knows something about conduits is going to see through you if you keep this up!” Zeke turned on his heel, away from the palpable tension in the room.

Terry did nothing to cut it; he stayed stock still, looking at the ground until he finally slipped to his knees. Roscoe backed away a step.

Zeke put a hand over his mouth and sighed through his nose, trying to ignore the tiny adrenaline tremors still coursing through his arms. He turned back with a suspicious squint.

“If it’s all just tricks of light then how did it hurt?”

Terry looked over to the jackalope display, conspicuously fingering the hole where his cuff-link had been, “I mean, objects can be disguised…”

Zeke’s face felt hot. Had he really reacted so dramatically to something so small? Fear had a power all its own.

“The hunter - you asked about the hunter, Anderson,” Terry twisted his hands together, “He- he caught me. And said… said I could use him as part of the story…”

The subtext settled neatly beneath the silence, like dust beneath a sheet.

“You wanted to talk, that’s where I am. He hasn’t imposed much and it’s been good for business. So what do I do?”

Many questions compounded into one. None that Zeke had the answers to.

“What do I do?” He repeated, shoulders drawn in.

Zeke opened his mouth, but all that came out at first was another sigh. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I can’t-” He walked past them into the hall on autopilot. He needed out of this suffocating place.

Roscoe picked up for him, knelt down next to Terry and produced from their vest a light purple business card. “The best we can offer is somewhere to run, if it comes to that.”

Terry took the card like it might come alive and snap at him.

Zeke heard the two continue to talk, softer now, but didn’t tune in to what else was said. Then Roscoe’s hand was on his back, leading him outside.

The light of day was blinding after the all-consuming dark Terry imposed, every bit of metal or particularly bright rock boring into him. Zeke breathed deep the smell of ceder and hot stone as he put his sunglasses back on.

“Coulda gone better.”

Roscoe laughed and put their hands on their knees. “It was not one of your better showings… I’m glad you’re in one piece.”

“Two pieces, but yeah.”

They laughed again as they straightened up, letting their arms hang loose. “But are you okay?”

“Okay as I’m gonna be. Feel kinda stupid.”

“Normal, then.”

Zeke punched their arm, smirking anyway, “Asshole…”

Across the lot, Juliette was hanging out the window, arms crossed on the edge.

Zeke looked to Roscoe, but from the corner of his eye, he could see movement in the lobby. Inside, Terry quickly looked away, the card still in both hands, face drawn. Zeke sighed. “Put it in the Rolodex… I think we’ll be back.”

#Infamous #Infamous 2 #Zeke Dunbar #that's a dumb trans joke toward the end. because I'm trans and dumb

4 notes · View notes

yourdeepestfathoms · 4 years

Text

Beside The Dying Fire (part four)

[DnD AU with the tour!verse]

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Word count: 3397

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

The sloshing of mud was REALLY starting to get on Katherine’s nerves.

After sleeping through most of the day, Katherine and her companions were on the move. But because of the heavy rainfall the roads had been reduced to an ankle-deep mass of mud and slime. The wetness wormed its way into Katherine’s fur shoes, completely ruining them, and she guessed it wasn’t much better for Joan, who couldn’t even wear shoes. Her hooves and the white skin around her feet were a dark brown color, and Katherine wondered if it would be stained that way forever.

The tragedy was still weighing heavily in all of their minds, especially Katherine’s. Everything kept replaying in her mind- the fire, the violence, the screaming, Anne’s death… Anne may have been silly and loud, but she was still her cousin. They grew up together. And now she was gone.

“Kat?”

There was a gentle touch on her shoulder; Katherine turned her head to see Catalina, looking worried. She quickly wiped her eyes with her knuckles.

“Yeah?” Katherine said in her best not-upset voice.

“Are you alright?” Catalina asked.

“Yeah,” Katherine said again, this time slightly weaker.

Catalina frowned and took her hand. “It’s going to be okay.”

Katherine sniffled lightly and nodded.

But nothing felt okay. Not anymore. Her home was burnt to the ground, so many of her friends and family and neighbors were dead, she didn’t even know what happened to her father… And now she was on a mission to stop a war that she didn’t even know how it started.

For nearly the entire day, they walked on in solitude, Katherine and Catalina hand-in-hand, the sounds of the forest and the occasional flitting birds their only other companion. Therefore, it was almost a surprise when they all heard the clip-clop of iron-shod hooves, and the rattle of wheels rising from the road ahead.

Soon, the source of the sound comes into view, a handful of riders leading four heavy, covered, ox-pulled wagons: a merchant caravan.

Katherine got a better look as the distance between her group and the caravan slowly closed. The outriders were clearly ready for danger, clad in vests of boiled leather, swords and maces belted to their hips. A few others sit in the wagons, children mostly wearing sturdy, well-made traveling garb.

At the head of the caravan were a man and a woman, both rippling with tension. Katherine sized them up as they approached, but none of them bore the wolf marking of Henry’s troops. The woman was a hard-faced and dangerous-looking centaur, armed and armored in the same fashion as the outriders, with a wide-brimmed kettle helm on her head and the equine body of a muscular shire. The man, on the other hand, was a rather short air genasi with pastel blue skin and halo of crystals growing from his head.

“Hail, friend!” The genasi shouted, earning a disapproving look from his centaur companion.

Katherine dared to wave back. “Hail to you as well!” She responded. The caravan guards seemed to relax visibly as she did so.

“Well met, girl!” The genasi replied as he halted his caravan before the trio. “We haven't seen a lot of travelers on the roads these last few days. What with the war and all.”

The centaur woman beside the caravan master kept her distance. As far as Katherine could tell, she was entirely preoccupied with scanning the road ahead for threats. Judging by her expression, she seemed less than amused by the momentary stop.

The caravan master extended his hand to Katherine. "I am Gale of Edinburg, this is my caravan, and the centaur next to me is my associate, Gaddison. You must excuse her; she thinks threats are everywhere.”

“They are everywhere,” The centaur replied bitterly, stamping one of her back hooves. She glanced at Katherine’s group and her furry ears pricked up in surprise when she saw Catalina. “You’re pregnant.”

Catalina groaned. “God, is that my entire personality trait now?” Katherine rubbed her shoulder comfortingly, and Catalina crossed her arms and huffed in annoyance.

“I don’t mean to offend you,” Gaddison said. “I’m just impressed to see that you’re out in these conditions, that’s all. War rages everywhere.”

Catalina ruffled the feathers on her head. “I can take care of myself. I’m very strong.”

“She is,” Katherine nodded.

“Well, that’s good,” Gaddison said. Her eyes slid over to Joan, but she didn’t say anything.

“By any chance, do you know what has caused the war?” Katherine asked the caravan master.

Gale blinked a few times. “I do not.” He said. “I don’t think anyone does.” He swung his head to the rest of the caravan, but they all either shrugged or shook their heads.

“I see.” Katherine said.

She and the two caravan masters chat for a little while longer before the wagons take off again in a grinding of wheels, stomping of hooves, and squelching of mud. It wasn’t long before the caravan was just clouds of dust in the distance. Katherine and her companions began their trek once again.

Hours passed. The sun began to set and the last of summer’s humidity weighed thickly in the air. It would be autumn soon, which meant cooler temperatures, but more wind, rain, and snow. Katherine wasn't sure which was worse.

That being said, the sight of a large building up ahead, with brightly lit windows and smoke coming out of its chimneys, and a surrounding village was welcome indeed.

The smell of farm animals and manure floated on the wind, getting stronger and stronger as the trio got near. Bleats and snorts and clucks whisked around the village as they entered. Some people glanced over, mainly at Joan or specifically Catalina’s stomach, but didn’t stop them.

They soon came to a two-story hall accompanied by a row of stables and surrounded by a waist-high stone fence. Sounds of music and laughter spilled out of the open windows, and a bright watchfire burned at the fence's gate, next to a crudely-painted wooden sign of a sleeping creature, hung from an iron post set into the gatepost.

“The Sleeping Dragon Inn,” The sign said to them in bright red letters visible by the light of the watchfire. Katherine and her companions made their way past the fence, through the courtyard, and into the main hall.

The high-ceilinged common room of the Sleeping Dragon In was bright and filled with the stink of spilled ale, roasting meat, and burning wood--all the aromas of civilization. Maybe half the benches in the big room were empty; the rest were filled with merchants, caravan guards, and other travelers, each busy with their own amusements, whether that be food, drink, dice, or song. A few glance over and whisper something to each other, but don’t speak up directly.

Katherine walked up to the bar. Behind it stood the stout, scruffy dwarf innkeeper, idly polishing a bottle of some dark fluid she had never seen before. She asked him for a bed for the night for her and her companions.

In response, the innkeeper rattled off a long list of options and their associated costs, from the expensive and luxurious to the downright squalid but cheap. Katherine ended up purchasing a comfortable private room and plain dinner for fifteen gold.

Katherine and her companions sat down at a booth as they were served a supper of thick brown bread and a bowl of stewed game birds seasoned with a tiny dash of valuable black pepper. Katherine was given a tankard of freshly-brewed ale, while Catalina and Joan were given a simple glass of water.

“Do you think they’d let me have some ale?” Catalina asked Katherine, not at all joking.

“Absolutely not.” Katherine said instantly.

Catalina wrinkled her nose. “Come on! Just one drink!”

“No.” Katherine said again, and Catalina huffed in response.

Katherine looked over at Joan, and saw that she was looking all around the inn. She appeared to be searching for something, but stopped when she noticed that Katherine was watching her. She slumped down in the booth and nibbled on her bread.

After they ate, they were shown their room on the second floor, which was, admittedly, a little cramped, but it had four walls, a roof, two cots with a straw mattress, and a bed, which was all they really wanted.

“We’ll go to the market in the morning,” Katherine said. She and Joan had taken the cots, while Catalina got the bed. “We may need to purchase some things before we get moving.”

“Sounds good to me,” Catalina said, and Katherine heard the sheets she was laying on crinkle when she shrugged.

“Alright, let’s all get some rest,” Katherine said. “Goodnight.” She closed her eyes and dreamt of fire for the rest of the night.

------

Colorful flags of different trading companies fluttered in a strong wind above the market square, which was bustling with activity that morning. Though Holm was fundamentally a small town, a fair number of traders bearing mundane goods such as grains, dyes, and cloth were stopped in the square, as did monster hunters and treasure hunters offering hard-to-appraise finds from nearby ruins. The merchants mostly traded from impermanent tents open at one side, but some wander through the crowd and act as their own auctioneers: “Who will give me fifty, fifty for a silver ring from the time of the ancients? Fiftyfiftyfifty thank you fifty-five-fifty-five-fifty-five I have fifty-five…” The air was sweet with the smells of cinnamon and curry spices from the south, and stinky cheese from the north.

Currently, Katherine was in a tent that sold clothing, and was squinting at a big, jaunty lime green hat with a huge feather. By her side, Catalina ran her hands over a golden robe while the shopkeeper eyed her suspiciously, probably wondering how she would fit in the cowl. When Catalina noticed this and the glances her belly was getting, she scowled and stomped over to Katherine.

“I hate it here,” The Aasimar grumbled.

Katherine reached up a hand to massage her friend’s shoulder comfortingly. “I’m sorry, honey,” She said. “I have enough to buy some fresh clothes for all of us. Would you like some?”

Their clothing seemed to finally be fully dried from the perpetual wet of the rain and river, but still bore the stink of smoke and burned flesh. Several people seemed to notice this by the way their noses wrinkled when they would pass by too close by.

“No, it’s okay,” Catalina said, tugging on her black nun’s robes. Her pregnancy was easily seen through them, earning a lot of incredulous and judgemental stares.

“Are you sure?” Katherine asked. “I don’t mind, really.”

Catalina shook her head. “I’m good.”

“Hm.” Katherine said. “Alright.”

Just as they’re about to walk out of the shop, they hear a halfling woman cry, “Thief!!!”

Katherine spun around to see someone in a drab brown cowl brazenly running off with a basket of red apples, leaving a large gap in the offerings of a halfling’s fruit cart. They easily bobbed and weaved around all the townsfolk who try to get in their way. The halfling uselessly shouted, “Thief! Thiieeef!” until she started to lose her voice.

The thief was about to get away when a huge mountain of an orc stepped in their path and they fell backwards. The hood came off, and Katherine hissed underneath her breath.

“Oh, shit,” Catalina said helpfully at her side. “That thief belongs to us!”

Townsfolk rushed to pick up the fallen apples--the “count of five” rule seemed to be an old tradition for judging the edibility of fallen food in Holm. Then they return the fruit to the halfling, because honesty must also have been a tradition in the town.

Two of the town guards show up, but Katherine and Catalina have to step in before they can strong-arm the thieving albino Tiefling away.

“I am so sorry about her,” Katherine said. “We should have kept a better eye on her.”

One of the guards looked Katherine up and down. “This rat belongs to you two?”

“Yes,” Katherine said. “I am so sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Thankfully, the guards took mercy on them and left them with just a warning. Katherine breathed a sigh of relief when they were gone, then gave Joan a stern glare.

“What were you thinking, young lady? Stealing?” She said.

“Sorry,” Joan whispered, her ears drooping. “I-I just thought that we would need some food… Especially Catalina.”

“Rude.” Catalina said. “But fair.”

Katherine sighed again, then knelt down in front of Joan, since the little Tiefling was so short. “Then I can buy some. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

Joan nodded, avoiding eye contact. Katherine ruffled her hair, then stood up straight. A few people were muttering and glaring at Joan, but the whole matter of the thief was quickly forgotten when a man down the street shouted, “Death cloud!”

Katherine blinked, looking around. To the east, she could see a dark purple-and-black cloud on the horizon. The cloud looked big, maybe as big as the town. And judging, by the sudden pandemonium broken out through the market, its appearance was not a good thing.

Immediately, the merchants broke down their tents, and many market patrons hurried into their houses and basements. Shutters snapped shut all down the street. The animal sellers hastily bargained with landowners, then pushed their sheep through storm doors into basements. A baby cried madly despite her mother’s tense reassurances. Some people uprooted flowers as they passed them; they’ll be no good to anybody else soon enough.

“What’s going on?” Catalina shouted over the panic. But the only answer she got was more screaming and yelling.

Joan yelped loudly as someone stomped on her tail. Katherine was shoved into Catalina, and then promptly got her foot trod on. They were all going to be trampled if they didn’t get away soon.

“Oi!” A voice suddenly called out. “Get in here!”

The three of them whirled around to see a man waving from out of his front door. They hurried over and inside the safety of his home.

The house was filled to the brim with artifacts and art. Various geared axles from larger defunct automated artifacts, and some compelling-looking sleek metal cylinders etched with symbols that look very powerful gleamed in the light cast from conjured glass orbs all throughout the rooms. A whole alchemy set, composed of vials, beakers, and burners that laid out across a mahogany desk; a sculpted dragon egg, which was swaddled in some sweaters; a torc of life and death from an old laboratory; some rather fancy clothing on mannequins; an assortment of spare automation parts; and, of course, a shined bookshelf packed full of hefty tomes of magic- all of these things decorated that household that pulsed with magical energy.

Their savior was a young wood elf man, swathed in forest green robes with sparkling gold hems. He had bronze skin that was speckled with blue and pink paint, dark coppery hair, and deep, rich brown eyes. An amber sparrow earring dangled from one of his pointy ears, and he was wielding a hand-carved paintbrush. He hurried around the house, slamming shutters and curtains, but then turned to them with a warm smile after he finished.

“That was close,” He said. “You three must be travelers. Mostly everyone in the area knows about the storms.”

“What was that?” Catalina asked.

“Death Cloud,” The elf said. “It’s been going on for a few years, now. King Henry conjured it over our village after we refused to fight in the war with him. Better than being raided and killed or kidnapped, I suppose.”

Katherine winced internally. So other villages were being terrorized by Henry, too. She wondered what would have happened if Ghent had gotten a Death Cloud instead of being raided.

Would Anne still be alive?

“Anyway, I’m Hans Holbein,” The elf said with an elegant bow. “Who are all of you?”

“Katherine Howard,” Katherine said. “These are Catalina and Joan.”

Hans swept his eyes over the three of them, focusing on Joan. “Stars above,” He murmured. “An albino Tiefling! Wow, I’ve never seen one before! I didn’t even know they existed!”

Joan shuffled her hooves, glancing up at Katherine with an anxious expression. Katherine patted her head comfortingly.

“Hokka, banos,” Came a deep, rumbling voice.

Katherine’s eyes widened as a large stone golem came lumbering out of one of the other rooms. Its rocky grey body was covered in clumps of moss and streaked in green engravings. Its eyes were glowing bright green as it stared down at the trio.

“Hokka, slogeils,” It said.

“Woah,” Catalina said.

“Oh, right!” Hans presented the golem with a grand gesture of his arms. “This is Rocky, my two ton enchanted stone golem!”

“You must have been feeling very creative when naming it,” Joan said.

Katherine felt a jolt, but Hans laughed loudly, clearly not offended.

“You are absolutely right, little one,” Hans said.

Outside, the storm began to pick up. Katherine heard the wind buffeting the house and heavy rain pelt down on the roof. There was also the sizzling of something. Hans ran over to a ladder leading up to a loft and peered through a periscope. He whistled.

“It’s real bad out there,” He said, then looked over at the trio. “Wanna see?”

One-by-one, they each took a look through the periscope.

Katherine watched as the black-and-purple cloud engulfed the entire town, building by building. At the cloud’s touch, flowers withered, trees dropped their leaves, and wooden shutters blackened as though charred. Black raindrops fell against tree trunks and melted the bark in grooves.

Finally, the cloud came for Hans’ building, blocking her view of anything but its own darkness. She quickly stepped back, and Hans retracted the periscope and shuttered the hole.

“Looks like there’s nothing to do but wait,” Hans said. “You all can stay with me until the storm ends. Make yourself at home!”

------

It’s been two days since the Death Cloud rolled into Holm and Katherine had raging cabin fever.

As hospitable as Hans and Rocky were, she hated being cooped up inside when she had a war to stop (even if she didn’t exactly know how to stop it just yet). She read Hans’ wide collection of books, painted, and even tried casting spells, but nothing could get rid of her boredom. She was ready to go back out and continue her adventure. So, on the second day, she approached Hans.

Hans was in a small alchemy room, grinding up some fire salts in a mortar and pestle. Joan was asleep in their bed chambers, curled in a small ball, while Catalina was reading peacefully. Surely they wouldn’t mind Katherine’s plans.

“We need to get going.”

Hans’ ears flicked up and he turned to Katherine with confusion on his face. “But the storm is still going.”

“Hosa, banos. Hosa, rauo’nd.” Rocky interrupted to offer a plate of deviled eggs it prepared itself.

“Thank you,” Katherine said, taking one. “And I know,” She continued. “But we really need to get moving again. We kinda have a mission.”

Hans raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” He put the mortar and pestle down. “I suppose I have something that can help you get through the storm. Come with me.”

Hans took Katherine to his bedroom and presented her a selection of masks and waxed clothes. Katherine ended up choosing a stag mask and fresh fur clothes, Catalina chose a hare mask and padded light armor, and Joan chose a bird mask and grey robes. Hans stuffed the noses of the masks with incense and herbs that he said would protect him from the poisonous fog outside in the storm, then handed them a small, pocket-sized tome of spells.

“Just in case,” He said. “You three be careful out there. And remember me when you’re legends.” He flashed a smile.

“Thank you, Hans. You too, Rocky,” Katherine said, dipping her head. “We won’t forget this.”

“No problem,” Hans said. “Go on, now. Good luck.”

Katherine nodded, opened the door, and then ventured into the Death Cloud with her companions.

#dnd au #six the musical #six the musical au #six the musical fanfic #six the musical fanfiction #six fanfiction #six fanfic #six fic #katherine howard #tour katherine howard #catherine of aragon #tour catherine of aragon #tour joan on the keys #hans holbein the younger #hans holbein #beside the dying fire

18 notes · View notes

marueonmain · 4 years

Text

WINDFLOWER

part nine ~ i’ll walk with you ~

(part one) (part two) (part three) (part four) (part five) (part six) (part seven) (part eight) (part nine)

A/N: I’ve had these scenes in mind since I started writing. Messages/Asks are open. Take time for yourself this week if you can. You’re important.

Summary: George plans a party. Alex hears more noise coming from Sammy & Y/N’s apartment; he investigates.

Pairing: imallexx x reader

Warning: Implications of an Abusive Relationship.

Word Count: 3.9k BLUE TEXT = FLASHBACKS

Afternoon sun seeped in between where the window curtains in his bedroom met, creating a diagonal slash of light across Alex’s face. Eyes closed; light brown eyelashes rested softly on even softer cheeks. Their natural blush toned down in his unconsciousness. Lips relaxed to be parted the tiniest amount, enough to let out small mewls as he slept: more like purring than snoring.

He appeared delicate enough to break with a single glance. Peaceful. Calm. Unproblematic. Unlike when he was awake.

Clattering of cookware and the smell of burnt are both unpleasant things to wake up to. Combine the two, add muttered cursing in his flatmate’s distinct voice, and that would be Alex’s alarm clock.

Ten hours of dead sleep ended abruptly at a SLAM of a kitchen drawer followed with the metal clash of pans and the refrigerator door being opened and shut repeatedly. It was odd. George was usually a quiet presence to have around. Often loud-mouthed but always light on his feet.

Alex groaned and squeezed his eyes tighter, but he was not able to ignore the noise. Rolling twice over, he moved to one side of the bed and dragged himself out from under his duvet. Retying the strings on his pajama bottoms – which had slipped to be sitting precariously on his hips – he scanned his room. Deciding to load his arms up with food wrappers and half-full glasses before leaving.

“Morning,” George called over his shoulder as he pushed a spatula around in a pan in short panic-fueled movements. A light smoke spiraled up into his face.

“Is it?”

“Close enough.” He moved the pan off the hob. “It’s half one.”

Flipping the glasses in his arms upside down and loading them into the dishwasher, Alex smiled to himself. Knowing whatever it was his flatmate was making – he would end up eating. It was not that either of them were terrible cooks just that both were impatient and set temperatures higher than should be or was recommended. To be fair, things did come out faster but also often simultaneously burnt in parts and still raw in others.

“We’re set to host this weekend.” George piped up as he pushed his concoction from the pan onto a plate – an identical one next to it. “How much alcohol do you think we need to stock up? Keeping in mind that Will asked us to keep him accountable after how he crashed last time…”

Alex closed the dishwasher and put the food wrappers in the kitchen bin. He took a bar seat and watched his flatmate finish up. “You invited Becky, right?”

“Right.”

“And she said she’d come? Might as well double it is whatever we got.”

George laughed. He slid the spatula and pan he used to cook, into the waiting water of the plugged sink. Taking a plate up in each hand, he moved to take a bar seat and placed in front of Alex a very crispy looking omelet. It was cheese and ham and mushroom.

“Thanks,” Alex mumbled around the fork already shoveling food into his mouth.

It was quiet for a few minutes as both men ate at their respective speeds: George with small quick bites and Alex with large, almost inhuman bites he did not necessarily chew before swallowing.

Adjusting his glasses, as he had not bothered to mess with his contacts that morning, George piped up with, “James texted me earlier. Aria and him are hitting up a pub or two tonight for a birthday celebration thing. I don’t know. But he wanted us to come along.”

“It’s not James’ birthday.”

“I think it’s for one of Aria’s friends. Reckon he just doesn’t want to be the one guy there.”

“I think I’m going to be busy.”

“Scraping together a video because you’re already late to upload doesn’t count as ‘being busy.’” George chuckled.

Quiet crept back into the conversation, expanding out like a noxious gas and poisoning all the air in the apartment, maybe even the entire floor of the building.

George pitched his voice a smidge lower than usual and started, “It’s ok—”

“Piss. I hate it when you do that. Do we have to?” Shoving a hand through his hair, Alex stepped back from the door, choosing instead to lean on the back of the sofa with arms crossed as he faced his flatmate. Why could we not have a regular morning? Why does he have to go on and ruin it?

“It’s OK to be, you know, lonely.”

Alex scoffed. “How could I be lonely when I got you hovering over me all the time?”

“I meant like romantic-like. There’s no shame in using Tinder and Grindr and that.”

“I’m not lonely.” He almost put the word in air quotes. Almost. “Or if I was, I’m not that desperate – besides, you pretty well ruined my dating ability on Grindr. Why you concerned anyway?”

“You’ve been moping. Acting all far away from things and that.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t mean to be if I am.” It did not take a lot of words for Alex to express the admiration he held for George and his genuine gratitude for the compassion all his mates had shown him. It did not take a lot of words, just a tone he reserved for them and a knowing look. “Don’t always notice it.”

“I do. When you’re not your usual annoying self, chattering on and on about Star Wars and Lord of the Rings for hours, making me want to chop off my ears.”

“And bagging a bird will fix me right up?”

“You don’t need fixing.” George shrugged. “I’m not trying to get sappy or whatever, but the right person comes along; sometimes, you just need to set-up the right conditions for that right person, you know?”

“You get one girlfriend in your whole life, and you’re a relationship expert, is that it?”

“Basically.”

Laughing, Alex pushed himself off the back of the sofa and meandered a couple of steps closer to his bedroom door. Signaling a clear desire to end the conversation – not that George would pick up on even the most obvious body language: what with his watermelon-level social skills.

Unsurprisingly enough, for each step Alex took to distance himself from his flatmate, George took an equal step toward him. His hands came up in front of him in an it’s not all bad type gesture.

“Come out with James and me tonight and have some fun. I’ll even stay out the way if you want to bring a lass back to the flat.” George winked an exaggerated wink.

“I can’t get a pet lizard because of possible diseases, but you’re condoning a one-nighter?”

“Yeah, could do you some good.”

Alex tapped his socked foot against the floor, a rhythm of gentle thumps. Rubbing the back of his neck, he said hesitantly, “I’ll think about it – going out – ask me again later?”

“Alright.” George nodded. Both men resigned from the conversation and moved towards their respective bedrooms.

~LATER~

Alex flashed a smile to the camera. “Don’t forget to leave a like, subscribe if you’re new, and turn notifications on. And I’ll see you guys in the next video. Peace out people and have a good day.”

He stopped the recording. It was the entire rest of his afternoon, but he had finally finished filming himself having another go at Brent Rivera. Drained from even simulated socialization, Alex pushed off from his chair and dumped himself on top of his bed. Sprawled out like a lowercase letter ‘x.’

It took a lot of trial and error over most of his life to learn how essential breaks were to his productivity. Pulling his phone from his pocket and his earbuds from off his side table, he pressed play on his most recently cultivated playlist. Alex let his eyelids flutter closed (without intentions to sleep) and focused on the music: steady. sappy. great vocals.

From above him came the familiar sound of muffled shouting followed with a new sound – the shattering of glass. It was loud enough to hear over his music. Alex pulled his earbuds out and laid still, cocking his head a tad, as he listened.

All couples fight. Alex knew that. First of all, because he was not an idiot. Second of all, because he had gotten into it with all his past partners at some time or another. Now he also knew he was not an aggressive person nor intimidating in most situations. But he had gotten rather angry before – pulsing neck vein kind of angry.

He had shouted and been met with stunned quiet. He had shouted and been met with shouts of equal anger. It was never pleasant. It solved nothing, and he regretted it after.

Muffled shouting remained indistinct but grew in volume. Alex closed his eyes tighter; he was weak in the stomach like he was going to be sick and felt lighter like he had been bloodletting. His breathing picked up. He tried to ignore it – the shouting. With rattling hands, he put his earbuds back in and practiced some of that self-talk his therapist had once recommended.

All couples fight. It is normal. There is nothing to be anxious about. I am not there. It does not involve me.

There was a second shattering sound from above. An army of nightmare scenarios invaded his head. He did not know what was happening. He did not know what was happening and it. was. killing. him.

What if I did nothing and Y/N’s in genuine trouble?

Alex took to his feet in a flash. Slipping his phone in his pocket and snatching his keys off his desk, he stormed out of the bedroom like he was escaping a fire.

“Al, where are you going?” George dropped what he was doing, jumped to stand, and near hurdled over the sofa in a race to reach the front door first. In a stern command, he called, “Stop.”

But the younger was not listening. Alex had his hand on the door handle, pulling it open just ten centimetres when George appeared to the side of him and closed it with one hand, trapping him inside.

“Let me go.” He pulled the handle, gaining no more leverage.

“Not until you tell me where you’re going.”

“I—” It was apparent he wanted to get the words out, but before another distorted syllable could be spoken, Alex stopped and turned his eyes up to the ceiling: to the muffled shouting.

Rigid in stance, George scrunched up his forehead; he did not move his gaze from Alex. “No. You have to let it be. You have to—just, don’t get involved.”

After dropping his focus to the floor, and looking to his feet for a short second, Alex pulled his eyes back up – pathetic and pleading. Desperate for something but trapping all possible answers inside. Opening his mouth and closing it again, he appeared liable to spring a leak or deflate entirely. “Please.”

George complied. He removed his hand from the door. And Alex left the flat.

He was the same person in the same hall he had been in a thousand times. Yet. It was different that time. Familiar but wrong – spoiled – a rip-off version of a beloved video game.

Might have been, but Alex could not be sure.

Weaving around the crumbling blockades of rationality and through the ripped recklessness filter, a spark carrying a thought ™ completed the obstacle course from stem to the front of his brain: You’re not a fighter. Even if Alex walked straight into Sammy and Y/N battling it out on the floor above, what was he expecting himself to do? Could he even act logically in such a situation? When just the thought of it had riled him up so terribly?

Each step Alex walked, the stale air expanded further beyond the physical limits of the hall. Goose pimples bubbled up on the skin of his arms. His own footfalls sounded distant behind his breathless breathing and the ring in his ears.

DING. Alex cleared the doors and took the hall above his own in quick strides until he stopped outside Sammy and Y/N’s apartment.

Shouts could be heard from behind the door, first from Sammy, “You never remember any of the good things I do!”

Y/N interjected, “I—”

“No. I’m talking. You’re such a depressive bitch to be around – everybody agrees. Oh, go on. Get all teary-eyed. Can’t you see how manipulative that is? Where are you go—? Red!”

Alex raised his fist to knock when the handle jumped, and the door was thrown open. Startled, he stood stock-still as Y/N harshly shoulder-checked him. She fled up the hall – opposite the lift – to the door for the stairwell.

Nothing in her hands. Not even wearing shoes.

“Alex? What are you doing here?” Sammy stepped forward from his hidden spot inside the apartment and into view; his frame took up almost the entire doorway. A reserved but friendly smile stretched across his mouth. His cheeks were not flushed red with heat, and there was not a speck of hostility in his stare.

Neither acting nor looking like he had just been screaming. As if he had flipped a switch, the second Y/N was out of sight; shifted into a new skin entirely.

“Um—I,” Alex babbled as he dragged his focus from the door Y/N had disappeared behind. “I—there was a crash. It was loud, and George thought I better check-up on you two, make sure everyone’s ok.”

Putting his hand on the smaller man’s shoulder, Sammy jostled him a touch. “No worries. That’s actually really cool – very thoughtful. Yeah, when Red gets agitated, things can get out of hand fast.”

“George and I, we’ve gotten a good number of noise complaints before, and we’re still here. But I’ll be honest. Keep going like that, and the eviction notice will be slid under your door tomorrow.”

“Good looking out. We got security called on us yesterday. Poor guy had to practically tear Red off of me.” Sammy held his hands out and curled his finger in a representation of cat claws. “I don’t expect there to be much noise going forward. She’ll calm down. Best to just leave her alone for a bit.”

Alex was decidedly not going to do that. “I could talk to her.”

“My type?”

Alex gritted his teeth at the comment. “Stop.”

“Oh?” Sammy raised his head. “You’re gay?”

George started, “Well, he’s bi—”

“Yeah.” Alex cut him off. Sometimes it was easier to just be “gay” than to get specific with someone who might not understand or even accept further explanation.

Sammy breathed out an, “Oh.”

“Is that an issue?”

“It’s a relief! Don’t have to be worried about you trying to chat up Red.”

“Oh!” Alex forced a smile, “My type right. I got yous.”

“That’ll be perfect. Much better to have you giving Red advice than—well, just remind her that you’ve known me long enough to know I’m a good guy and stuff.” Sammy stepped back and wrapped his hand around the door to close it. “Maybe, tell her I’m sorry or something.”

“Got it.” Alex turned and walked up the hall to the stairwell door. He heard Y/N’s whimpers and then jogged up one flight of stairs and found her.

Others might have described her as a portrait of lost strength after holding out for so long: a tragedy-struck Venus: an inspirational and poetic muse. Alex would not. He saw nothing analogous to artwork.

Y/N was not a subject to be romanticized in her lowest moments. She was not a canvas, painted pale with a couple of blue-tinted tears. She was a person, shuddering while red blotches bloomed across her skin.

“Hey, Red. I—uh…heard what happened, and I’m sorry for following you, but I was worried.” His heart gushed with empathy or sympathy – if he had ever bothered to learn the difference, maybe he could tell.

All Alex knew was his core ached with physical pain when he looked at her.

There was no reaction to his words nor his presence. Y/N did not lift her head; Alex ducked to see if he could perhaps catch her eyes, but they were screwed shut. Tears carved rivers down her cheeks. The hand over her mouth remained and was accompanied by her other hand as her sobs reached a new peak. It did not seem she would be speaking anytime soon.

And what was Alex supposed to do? He could not force her to want him there, so he reluctantly turned around and started back down the stairs. While he walked, a voice broke the silence in his head: Y/N’s emotional state and relationship issues are not your responsibility. It is not your job to help pick her up.

True. It was not Alex’s job to be there, and that was reason enough for him to leave without guilt. He was not responsible for her, and that should have stopped him from thinking about it again. It would have stopped him if he had not lived the life he had. If he had not known how frustrating – how debilitating it was to feel so helpless. To need others so desperately while also unable to ask for that help.

Leaning on the push bar of the stairwell door two floors down, opening it to his hall, he could see the door to his apartment, and where he knew George would be anxiously waiting for him.

Alex traced his gumline with his tongue. What am I doing? Spinning around, he took the stairs two at a time back up to Y/N.

True. It was not his job to be there. Alex wanted to be there. Even if Y/N was not in a position to understand that.

When his bottom touched the floor, he felt the full weight of Y/N pushing on him. Her sobbing renewed as her arms wrapped around his neck, and her hands found the back of his shirt with clinging grasps. Alex wrapped his arms around her. Y/N brought her legs in closer and practically pulled herself into his lap.

From how limp and pliable Y/N was as she spilled over him, it was clear there was no anger behind her tears. No rage. No thought that she might start shouting obscenities or stomping her feet. Nothing like that. These were cries of exhaustion. But how she clung onto Alex like she was trying to ground herself, like he was the one real thing in her world at that moment, made him think there was more to it. How she had pacified herself with her hands earlier and how she buried her face in Alex’s chest to similar results. Y/N was frightened. Scared.

Tears formed wet spots on his shirt. Alex tried to keep himself as stable as possible, and he was, for the most part, considering how the woman he held shook like a coke-addicted pomeranian. It was not as uncomfortable as he might have thought. There was no talking, shushing, or humming. Alex and Y/N just sat in their relative quiet for however long it took.

Eventually, the hiccupping slowed. Stopped. Then it was just them and the quiet.

Alex asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

Y/N’s limbs stiffened, and Alex relaxed his hold to allow her to untangle herself from him; she did. Pulling back, she swung her legs and situated herself to be sitting perpendicular to him. Her puffy, wet eyes hesitantly met his dry ones.

“Is it normal? For couples to fight like us?” Y/N asked somehow able to keep eye contact as she did but not able to raise her voice much above a whisper. “For him to throw things?”

“No.”

“Oh. I’m sorry you had to—”

“Thank you.” Giggling, Y/N wiped the remaining tears from her cheeks and dropped her hand to her knee – curling her fingers around his hand; she gave a small squeeze. “You’re sweet.”

“You’ve said that before.”

Alex bit his lip, wanting to protest, wanting to scream and shout, but knowing he could not risk starting an argument with her – not now, not about this. “Ok. I’ll walk with you.”

Taglist: (message to join!) @angelbabyivy @eboysimp

#imallexx #imallexx imagine #imallexx x reader #alex elmslie #alex elmslie imagine #alex elmslie x reader #eboys #commentary crew #internet sensation #memeulous

77 notes · View notes

junkrxt · 3 years

Photo

NAME: CYREX “JUNKRAT” KAIZEN GOES BY: JUNKRAT, REX, JUNKER. FACECLAIM: BERK ATAN AGE: 29 PRONOUNS: HE/HIM ZONE OF ORIGIN: ZONE 2 STATUS: MECHANIC @ CHQS & CHAOS JUNKER ON THE DL

TRAITS

+ PRECOCIOUS + SHARP WITTED + SLICK

- CHAOTIC - DISORDERLY – TUMULTUOUS

HEADCANONS:

Calloused fingers pick at the wrapping on Rex’s left hand, wet where an unhealed injury lies underneath. A honeyed crimson seeps through the brown-stained brace and the Junker’s stabbing his right thumb into the palm of his hand – stems the flow (so he imagines.) and eases the pain vibrating through his hand as it shakes under irritated tendons. There’s an abundance of cusses slipping from Kaizen’s lips that remind him that it’s his clumsy manner of battling through an uncharted junkpile; sharp is broken metal; like glass at its edges when a hand catches the tip ever so cleanly. He’s surrounded by chaos (that’s how everyone else would see it, at least.) when in fact, it’s an organised catastrophe of scrap and mechanical-potential. He’s sprawled on the roof of a broken vehicle, indented under the weight of the man and his gizmos as he looks at the rising sun above; streams of light reflecting off his steampunk-esque glasses that are strapped to his forehead and shield the rays that have every likelihood to burn his sockets – one of the more horrific of instances for a man who prides on reparations to sustain life.

Black boots thump on the concrete rooftop – Cyrex convinced that his hole-up of a headquarters (the one he doesn’t act like a screwed-on being for.) is on the collapse, every day, something new crops up that he’s tinkering together. Never is anything broken for too long, tarps overhead that form a blockade from overheating, a gentle whir in the background of a refrigerator-like device that he’s storing scraps in. Junkrat is the perfect calibre of a name – though, the tailed creatures that scutter along the floor between overgrown ivy would probably argue against the moniker. Not that Rex sees them as junk, but they’ve got a nice crunch – kind of like bone, some would say. He finds use for that too; perfect sounding alarm for little junk boobytraps that put him on the other end of a Raider’s alert.

Kaizen’s got a favourite rat, she’s called Tess, surname, Tickle.

Distinguished is his attire; braces, ripped, torn and an eyesore of a mechanic in the walls of CHQS. Though unquestionably talented when challenged in the art of techno talk and rather a soloist if it were chalked down to a performance. An old, carcinogenic aroma is distinct enough that it is only outweighed by burnt oil and rubber of the rover’s Rex is known to fasten together; call him a motorhead; will race you to any milestone; all territories and let unforgiving crashes be their end. It’s not obvious with how he behaves that the tinkerer is any gifted in the maintenance department; but he’ll outdo any upgrade with a toothpick and package tape and make it work if that’s the only things available.

BIOGRAPHY

There’s never a need for anything to be fixed if the world remains perfect. Those phrases that cover the ‘if it’s not broken don’t fix it’ never really apply to Amhaven – in Rex’s history, never has.

Never short is the demand for skilled hands; quick fingers that have developed based on a world gone mad.

Goggles on, sparks alight like fireworks spraying directly from the ends of Junkrat’s fingers; he’s constructing. Machinery in brutalised hands and a lazy kind of roll of his head side to side like he’s impatient to finishing this particular project. Always the mechanic, likes to think he’s often the best of them. Anyone else is a lesser – comes to be why he’s always remained fairly isolated, rooted himself in places nobody else dares risk; a building (like most of them in the concrete jungle) on the brink of collapse; perfect headquarters for privacy, to build a retreat from stolen tarps and sticks. Old timber that’s got such rot through it that even woodworm doesn’t want to touch it. Metal, bone and the world at the scrapper’s fingertips; his haven.

Kaizen remembers his early years – sort of, a collection of memories compiled of gathering trinkets and gizmos that he wrestled with concaved vehicles for. Once wore a truck’s steering wheel like it was a new age war accessory – popped out the centre, acted like he was some kind of Havoc (also, a stolen shredded zone one relic of a comic book that he lost in two days to his own fire friendly hands.) Though, it stuck, as did the vision of his first taste in the Junker, Raider clash – he’d never seen a nose pop like a grape til then either, splat; a sound that really buries deep into the core of anyone. Crunch of ivory beneath Ransacker’s boots that had once belonged to his guardians; mentors; parents and fast does Rex learn some things simply cannot be fixed with even the fastest, adroit fingers.

Death’s permanent – no fixing that.

Scrambles away from the wreckage, a slick coating of red that decorates skin and clings like oil to every crevasse. It stains, both physically and mentally and if souls were ever an interest to someone like Junkrat, it probably has a mark there too. If only as a fuel to the man’s vigilance to the way of being a junker; more than just shiny things and scrap metal to be forged and utilised to self-serving purposes, an adaptable lifestyle that Kaizen blossomed into and now – in adulthood, understands rivalry with R&R and all its complications.

Though, the chaos is also welcomed when Cyrex has his gadgets in place like mines on a field. He often watches with botched binoculars in one hand from the rooftop of an abadoned multi-storey, legs swung over the edge with something to snack on in his other hand. It’s like cinema, the way incoming Raiders intend to… raid – so Rex assumes, and there’s just explosions followed by traps that provide all levels of lethality. A kind of wry smile as he throws offchunks of meat into his mouth and chews with amusement as stolen trucks attempt to barrage in and end upturned in a ditch; flames dancing along the dry grass in some mad max-esque carnage.

Friday night entertainment at its finest.

Deserved after a hard working week as recruited mechanic at CHQS – ha.

But yes, he does do that too, snags a spot in the mechanic ranks and enjoys the minimal joyride of liberating labrats whilst he’s maintaining the safety of those traveling between. How he got there – questionable. What isn’t, is how adept he is at doing it. Therefore, the carbuncle that he is in homemade tarp cargos and some form of fabric adoring his torso; a kind of armouring of metal and scrap that seems haphazard in its placement (though entirely logical if Junkrat were to think on it) are certainly, even in Amhaven, not the best of business attire, but it works. The scrapper always remains glad that his only requirement in the building is maintenance; tinkering upgrades that have every kind of ability to be less lackluster, more dangerously eccentric.

Tess Tickle as his right hand lady; lucky charm; never does his tinkering fail.

Until well, sometimes, it does.

And he has to go back and repair it.

Cue the sounds of thunder when he approaches in his jacked rover with enough modifications that would kill half the zone if the vehicle were to explode. Don’t touch it, he’ll probably show you how many uses a screwdriver actually has.

CONNECTIONS

RAMESES "RA" EL AYOUBI | Other half; the Mother to the Rat Pack Collective where Junkrat’s the father. (In Rex’s opinion.) Chaos fuelled duo that has probably been responsible for at least sixty percent of both missing objects and rats that eventually end up in The Collective; living in the shared homebase (the one that’s not on Rex’s rooftop because... Ra says he needs... walls.) within a formerly desolate Chuck ‘E’ Cheese sign. Kaizen’s built a runway for the RPC out of it, a few acquired and repaired neon bulbs very reflective of Z1 in the odd letterings. Yes, Ra and Junkrat (more Junkrat... probably) are this delinquent-like at most times. And yes, they really did argue about walls; their first domestic one could say.

FURTHER DEPTH

Named his rover/machine of a car, Hyena because, sometimes feral; sometimes doesn’t listen; often acts out and well; makes a lot of noise.

Will greet you with a wrench in the shoulder, or a spanner to the stomach. Ultimately depends what he has in his hands when you look at him odd.

Odd does indeed mean just be in his general vicinity.

On a good day, he might grin and look more like he might either kiss you (not that you’d want to) or ask you to race him and Tess Tickle to the meeting room. Yes, the one he definitely should not be in.

Almost always covered in grease, oil, lubricant, some other unidentified roadside substance and excess foodstuffs if not all at the same time.

Don’t mention the smell. He can’t fix that, it’s natural.

Probably replaces most civility with unpleasantries in regards to verbal communication, otherwise, he’s probably throwing peanuts at someone when waiting for something to boot up and he can work on it.

Generally goes by Junkrat due to many obvious traits, also does carry Tess Tickle around in a lil self-made backpack-like cage with a totally safe exercise wheel to keep her entertained during transport if she wants to go out on days.

Yes, he talks to the rats, there’s a whole liberated Rat Pack Collective. Where did they all come from? Don’t worry about it. Ask Ra.

Wears everything out of Mad Max, scraps of brown and dirtied attire that makes him look like a wilderness explorer; totally on brand, absolutely his style, the red stains... don’t recommend asking about those either.

TBA

QUICK LINKS

THREADS

SELF PARAS

MUSINGS

CHQS

#𝕔𝕪𝕣𝕖𝕩 𝕜𝕒𝕚𝕫𝕖𝕟 / 𝕛𝕦𝕟𝕜𝕣𝕒𝕥 #chqs.intro

5 notes · View notes