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gusu-emilu · 3 years

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miscellaneous MDZS/CQL fic recs (AO3)

broken into sections: Character Study (-esque), Wangxian, Jiang Cheng ships, Yi City (or Yi City-adjacent), Humor/Crack, and Other

Character Study (-esque)

Wei Wuxian

my eyes got used to the darkness by @curiosity-killed (M, Sunshot Campaign era, 4.4k): The funny thing, the thing that makes his lips curl in a grin and his hands shake with laughter, is that all these cultivators with their lofty principles and noble ambitions can’t even notice the ghost among them. Sure, they shiver at his presence and flinch from his cold hands, but not one of them puts it together. Lan Wangji chases him with healing music and Nie Mingjue frowns solemnly at his dancing corpses—and he laughs and laughs and laughs because they just don’t get it. Emilu's commentary: CW for mild body horror.

Jiang Cheng

in our respective ways by @veliseraptor (T, Sunshot Campaign era, 5.7k): Jiang Cheng has his golden core back. But he seems to have lost Wei Wuxian.

You Know I've Fallen, but I Know How High by villainais (M, Post-WWX's death, 2.7k): Jiang Cheng loses both of his siblings in Nightless City. Minutes apart. He trudges home to Yunmeng with one body, holds a private funeral with a single coffin, and allows himself to wear his mourning robes for ten days—permits himself not a single day more. He is still too young and inexperienced, an unfledged boy to the cultivation world, and he is rebuilding Lotus Pier on his own. He will not gift the other sect leaders the satisfaction of seeing him vulnerable. Propriety be damned. Hanguang-jun emerges from his seclusion wearing white. He does not stop.

Nie Huaisang

it deepens like a coastal shelf by @wolffyluna (M, Post-WWX's death, 21.6k): When Nie Huaisang meets Mo Xuanyu, he realises two things quickly. One, this kid is so doomed. Two, this kid would be a great unwitting spy in his plans to bring down Jin Guangyao. It would be so easy to get into Mo Xuanyu's confidences, and so easy to get him to tell him anything he needs. ...only thing is, that wouldn't be very good for Mo Xuanyu's life expectancy. But he'll do it anyway, if it helps him avenge his brother. A fic about man handing on misery to man, the parallels and cycles in the relationships between Jin Guangyao and Nie Huaisang and Mo Xuanyu, and the lengths these characters will go to meet their goals and if there are lines they won't cross.

Lan Xichen

an old man in dried mouths by @tenacious-minds (T, Post-Canon, 3.3k): Xichen thinks. The tea had always stained the crockery red. Emilu's commentary: Lan Xichen and Jin Ling talk about Jin Guangyao.

can you be a quiet man? by @basket-of-loquats (Unrated, Post-Canon, 70.7k+) But something inside him snapped at Guanyin Temple-- and Lan Wangji watched it happen, saw the exact moment that Lan Xichen went from broken to shattered, when he buried his sword into Jin Guangyao’s chest, when his sworn brother stared up at him with wide eyes, blood dripping from his mouth, when he pulled himself closer and closer and closer-- When he whispered "Why don’t you die with me?", and Lan Xichen hadn’t argued. Emilu's commentary: Lan Xichen / therapy with a side of Wangxian.

Wen Ning

breathless (but i'll pretend to breathe for you) by swordsainted (T, Burial Mounds Settlement era, 4.1k): Wei Wuxian is silent for a long minute, and then he looks at Wen Ning, something raw and open and hurting behind his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says again, softer this time, and Wen Ning shakes his head, still smiling. “You’ve protected everyone. How could I hate you for that?”

Mo Xuanyu

stand at the pit's mouth by @eldritch-elrics (M, MXY's death, 9.3k): The dreams and regrets of a man on the edge of oblivion. Emilu's commentary: Surrealist/absurdist screenplay.

Wangxian

I would wait for a thousand years by bleuett (T, Immortality Post-Canon, 10.4k): During the worst of winter, a traveler comes to stay at Lan Wangji's inn. He wears a red ribbon in his hair. “Do you see the rabbit?” Wei Ying asks and points at the moon. “That’s the moon rabbit, he helps make Chang’e more immortality elixir. He keeps Chang’e company.” “I do not wish the rabbit for company,” Lan Wangji says tightly. “You are the one I want by my side.” “And I’m here, Lan Zhan. If you go to the moon, I’ll follow you, I’ll always be here now.” Emilu's commentary: Lan Wangji meets Wei Wuxian centuries later and does not remember the past. There is also an excellent podfic by @forgotten-envies

Look Not With The Eyes by Spodumene (G, Post-Canon, 28.1k): Wei Wuxian returns from his travels to join Lan Wangji on a routine night hunt, but when things take an unexpected turn, Wei Wuxian will have to fight for what he's really looking for. Emilu's commentary: Case fic.

All In A Good Time by bigboobedcanuck (E, Post-Canon, 8k): Lan Zhan is struck by a curse that brings him intense physical pain unless he's being touched. He is stoic and tries to hide his suffering. Wei Wuxian is worried and protective. Perhaps they will finally admit their feelings?

Across a Lake of Glass by Zizzani (E, Figure Skating AU, 92.2k+): Each year, Gusu Skating Club runs a camp for only the most elite athletes of each region. This year brings a new skater from the Yunmeng Club who wears skates lined with red and a smile made for war. He skates like a demon. Figure skating au featuring lots of healthy rivalry, pre and post-competition bonding, and an inexplicable fall from grace through the eyes of the media.

Jiang Cheng Ships

Chengqing

display my heart for you to see by @souridealist (M, Post-Canon Wen Qing Lives AU, 5.5k): Jiang Cheng has his own secrets. Some of them are part of the unburied past; some of them are about how long it's been since anyone has touched him.

while I'm in this body by @souridealist (E, Post-Lotus Pier Massacre, 3.9k): For just a few minutes, alone in her office, Wen Qing allows her self-control to slip enough to cry. It's just her luck that that's when Jiang Cheng comes looking for her. Emilu's commentary: Femdom.

Chengning

it may be that it doesn't matter by @wildehacked (T, Post-Canon, 6.6k) “Are you crying?” Jiang Wanyin asks him, and Wen Ning frowns. Pats his cheek with one hand. “No.” Emilu's commentary: Holy Grail of Chengning.

Whatever It Is by morau (E, Post-Canon, 20.5k): It starts, as with a lot of things, with a very poorly thought out prank, courtesy of Wei Wuxian. Emilu's commentary: A LOT of sex and even more emotions lol

won't run away (we're here to stay) by @qi-ling (T, Post-Canon, 3.5k): "Please don't feel any pressure to accept this, and you can take as much time as you need to think about it." It's a set of robes, in shades of deep purple, complete with leather bracers. Cut in a different style than that of the disciples or household staff, closer to the understated robes Wen Ning typically wears. He reaches out to feel the fabric. His deadened nerves can't sense delicate textures well, but even he can tell it's of a quality on par to Wanyin's own wardrobe. This is startling enough coming from Jiang Wanyin, but then Wen Ning notices the belt. In particular, the silver bell in the shape of a lotus affixed to it. Only recognized members of the Jiang sect may wear the clarity bell. Or, Jiang Cheng has an invitation for Wen Ning.

Zhancheng

By Proxy by @veliseraptor (E, Post-WWX's death, 12k): Jiang Cheng and Lan Wangji, looking for comfort in all the wrong places. Emilu's commentary: Hate sex that made me cry

Yi City (or Yi City-adjacent)

Songxuexiao

Heaven Has A Road But No One Walks It by @silvysartfulness (M, Post-Yi City arc Canon Divergence, 123k+): One of the most complex spells of demonic cultivation the world has seen is brought to fruition, and Xiao Xingchen draws his first shaking breaths in over seven years. This, it turns out, is only the start of his problems. Emilu's commentary: Pretty sure everyone already knows about Silvy's happy songxuexiao road trip fic but it has to be here.

Xue Yang & Lan Xichen

Hours On Empty series by @lady-of-the-lotus (M to E, Post-Canon, 57.8k+): AU where Wei Wuxian never came to Yi City and Xue Yang is still running around post-canon disguised as Xiao Xingchen. "Fractured Ice" - Xue Yang whisks a nihilistic Lan Xichen off on a murder roadtrip to raise Xiao Xingchen and Meng Yao from the grave. Because that will solve all of their problems, right? "Control" - "Fractured Ice" retold from Xue Yang's pov. "A Thousand Miles In Its Light" - Alternate ending to "Fractured Ice" and "Control"

Songxiao with Xuexiao Flashbacks

Nothing Beside Remains by @eldritch-elrics (T, Post-Yi City arc Canon Divergence, 21.9k): And Xiao Xingchen is dressed in dark clothing that is not his, and his sight is all of a sudden sharp in a way that it has never been before, and Xue Yang is not here. “He wouldn’t,” he breathes. “No, he wouldn’t do that. He’s too—” “He’s too what?” Wei Wuxian steps a foot closer, face hard-set. “Too cruel? Or too kind?” Or: Xue Yang uses the Sacrifice Summon on Xiao Xingchen. Xiao Xingchen lives with the consequences.

Humor/Crack

The Hangover: A pre-wedding Dramedy series by natcat5 (M, Modern AU, 51.6k): It is not a bachelor party. That was made clear on all the invitations. It is a congratulatory get together for Jin Zixuan, attended by his family, the family of the bride, and the young masters of the other two families in their circle. The gathering is not to go later than midnight, everyone must drink in moderation, and no one is allowed to be hungover tomorrow. Wei Wuxian had promised Yanli, three fingers in the air. Jiang Cheng had rolled his eyes, but promised as well. Saturday morning, Nie Huaisang and Jiang Cheng wake up alone in a hotel room, missing shoes, phones, and almost all their memories of what in the world happened last night. Also missing: Wei Wuxian, brother of the bride, Lan Wangji, esteemed guest, Lan Xichen, esteemed guest, Jin Zixun, cousin of the groom, Jin Guangyao, brother and best-man, Jin Zixuan, THE GROOM, who is due at his bride-to-be's house in six hours. That's plenty of time to find everyone...right?

Jiang Cheng Loves Jar Jar Bombad Mui by @lady-of-the-lotus (G, Post-Canon, 1.7k) Jar Jar Binks washes up on the shores of Lotus Pier. Can he win the lonely Jiang Cheng's proud heart? Neb neb answer is yesa. Emilu's commentary: There's also a podfic by @aowyn. Yes, with a Jar Jar voice.

Other

Nie Huaisang & Wen Ning

By Name by nirejseki (G, Post-Canon, 1.3k): After the traumatic events in the now-collapsed temple, Wen Ning lingered behind and unexpectedly saw Nie Huaisang, the undisputed victor of an all-around terrible evening, sitting on the steps of the temple, looking exhausted and miserable, as if he’d won nothing at all. Wen Ning found himself drifting over to him.

Jiang Yanli & Nie Mingjue

utility by magicites (G, Arranged Marriage AU, 2.3k): Jiang Yanli and Nie Mingjue's wedding is a political one — a gesture of unity between their Sects. A way for her parents to finally get some use out of the plain-faced sham of a cultivator they call a daughter. “Jiang-guniang,” Nie Mingjue says, and the formality in such a setting as intimate as their wedding chambers startles her, “I don’t wish to bed you. Or any other woman, for that matter. It isn’t fair for you to live alone because of my own preferences.” She rests her hand on his arm, cool relief flooding her body like water on a summer afternoon. “If it helps, I don’t feel desire for men,” she whispers.

Jin Guangyao / Nie Huaisang

Pulling Strings by @eldritch-elrics (E, Post-WWX's death, 5k): Nie Huaisang, quite drunk, turns up at Jin Guangyao’s door one night with an unexpected request. Emilu's commentary: Nie Huaisang knows Jin Guangyao killed Nie Mingjue. This interaction is more symbolic than anything else...

#mdzs #cql #the untamed #mdzs fanfiction #cql fanfiction #the untamed fanfiction #mdzs fanfic #cql fanfic #the untamed fanfic #fic recs #emilu talks #emilu creations

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sondrawr · 3 years

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Where Monsters Dwell

“What kind of place is this?” “The kind of place where fairy tales live and monsters dwell.” —Smoke Bitten

Adam Hauptman is intimately acquainted with fear. It was born in a jungle in Vietnam and never quite left him. Even in his happiest moments—of which there were many, especially recently—it lurks in the fringes. Lying in wait.

When he sees Mercy broken on the burnt grass, seemingly dead, he feels that fear claw up his chest and strangle him. He blacks out for god knows how long, his worst fear playing like a feedback loop in his mind. It isn’t until Samuel, still wolf, bites him in the arm that he finally comes to.

That’s how Adam finds himself, naked and half covered in blood, cradling Mercy’s body. His pack huddles around him, worry creasing their faces. He feels the stink of his fear billowing out of him like smoke, choking everyone around him.

“She’s alive, damn it!” Gary finally manages to gasp. He is panting, voice raspy. How long had he been trying to tell him?

Adam reaches down into himself and feels for that thread-thin bond that connects him to his heart’s mate. It’s there, flickering. He grasps it in both hands, wrapping it around his wrist, anchoring himself to sanity. To her.

Mercy survives that night, like she has done so often before. But one day her luck will run out; his fear whispers the words he knows too well. She’s not like Coyote—damn the man—who resurrects like the sun every morning.

Adam hates beyond telling that her unconquerable spirit is wrapped in such an insubstantial thing as human skin and bones.

:::

Adam first met Mercy Thompson in Montana when she was about thirteen years old. He was up on business, Alpha of a New Mexico pack and newly engaged to a blonde, 22-year-old coed named Christy.

Mercy at the time, before the deaths of her foster parents robbed her of childhood, was still all scraped knees and awkward arms of adolescence. Jutting chin and slumped shoulders—defiant and bored.

There was a ghost of a bruise on her face from the accident where she wrapped Bran’s brand new sports car around a tree. He had heard of that incident within hours of it happening, as he suspected most wolves did, even across the ocean. Mercy’s antics were already famous.

She sat on a chair outside Bran’s office, the scuffed toe of her sneaker knocking into a leggy console table nearby. Looking at him sidelong, she had the air of someone waiting their turn at the principal’s office.

When the door finally opened to let him in, he asked, “What did she do this time?” He stepped around Bran to enter the office.

Bran’s mouth pressed flat in an irritated line, while Charles smirked in the corner. He was the one who answered: “Something about chocolate Easter bunnies.”

“She poisoned a group of boys at school,” Bran snapped, closing the door a little too roughly behind Adam.

“Really?” That seemed a bit extreme for the young girl, whose reputation for pranks were mostly harmless, if effective.

“She injected several chocolate Easter bunnies with ipecac,” Charles explained. “And then warned the boys not to steal them, or ‘they would pay.’ They, of course, did not listen. Apparently the boys had been in the habit of stealing the younger kids’ candy for a while.”

Adam laughed despite himself.

“She wants for discipline,” Bran said with a frown.

“Mercy has plenty of discipline,” Charles answered. “It’s the focus of it, that’s the problem. Her interests are too narrow and she has an overdeveloped sense of justice.”

“And her foster father can’t do anything?” asked Adam.

Charles smirked. “If Mercy were a wolf, I wouldn’t be surprised if she outranked him. Any good she does is out of love for Bryan and his mate, not because of fear or intimidation.”

That was, Adam realized, the principle by which Mercy lived her life. It was the driving force of all she did for her family and friends—the pack she forged for herself, not with magic ties but by fierce loyalty and reckless love.

:::

It has been months since she recovered from her devastating injuries. Injuries that Samuel said at first would be the end of her. Her survival is nothing short of a miracle and, Adam suspects, a bit of Coyote’s magic.

Now night holds new terrors for him. He lays in bed at night just listening to the steady beating of his mate’s fragile, mortal heart. Dreading the day when it would inevitably stop.

:::

Mercy was twenty-three when he next saw her in the middle of a Washington desert. Alone in the world but still causing trouble. The first order of business for his newly arrived pack was eliminating the rogue wolves who were harassing her. Saved without so much as a thank you.

Was it coincidence or conspiracy that brought her to the Tri-Cities when Bran had ordered Adam to move his pack north from New Mexico? Coincidence on her part probably, but definitely not Bran’s, whose machinations were wide reaching and infamous.

That Adam bought the property behind her trailer was pure, ornery spite on his part.

She had marched up to him on the first day of construction and stuck a finger in his chest. “Tell Bran that I don’t need a babysitter,” she told him, eyes flashing. “I’ve done fine for eight years without his help—I’m done with wolves.”

“Good to know,” he answered, because he knew that response would drive her crazy, and turned back toward the construction of his pack house. He imagined her making faces at the back of his head and smiled.

:::

He kisses a line down her body, pausing at the shiny-pink of each new scar. Scars she earned in defense of his pack—in defense of him.

And he knows his love is killing her.

Oh god, would her life be better without him? Yes, the fear—the monster—inside him says. Yessss. We will kill herrrrr.

Panic like bile rises in his throat, and he gulps it down. Beneath him Mercy tenses, sensing his change of mood. He murmurs quietly, nuzzling her, lulling her back into softness underneath him. His lovely Mercy. His mate, for who he would willingly lay down his soul, let alone his body.

Whom he would kill for. Without question.

This. This will be his goodbye, then.

He presses a kiss to her inner knee, to her neck, and then presses into her, drawing a sigh from her lips. With his own he continues his careful ministrations, whispering a benediction against every mark on her skin that dares to be there because of him.

:::

His touch is a disease. His touch is a curse.

He can’t bear lying next to her and not touching her, so he doesn’t. He stays late in his office. He sleeps in the spare guest room. It’s killing him, but every day she’s alive, and it’s worth it.

It’s killing him that she wanders the house with those empty eyes, a line of concern between her brows, the hurt and confusion that clearly marks her face.

But at least she is alive. And soon, it will be over.

:::

Adam’s favorite memory of Mercy—the one he thinks of before he puts the gun to his head—is of her in the wedding dress too fancy for the church reception that his pack and daughter put together. She’s dancing with Jesse, at the heart of the people he loved most in the world, swaying to a country song blasting from the church’s ancient speaker system. And she turns to him and smiles.

He can see it as clear as if it were right in front of him. There was so much love in her face then. How different are those faces, the one from his memory and the one Mercy wears at this moment, when she finally sees him for the monster he is.

But she is not disgusted and horrified, as he feared she would be. She is furious. She throws a barrage of words against him, her unfettered anger like a battering ram.

In the years Adam had known and loved Mercy, he has become intimately acquainted with her many moods. Sneaky, playful, worried, content. They were as familiar to him as the feel of Mercy’s calloused hands in his.

Her white hot rage was something entirely new. And through clenched teeth she seethes a truth so utterly profound, that in that moment it shatters the madness that grips him. He lowers the gun in his hand.

Three simple words they had spoken to each other again and again. Whispered in passion and in play. Promised—sworn.

“You are mine.”

:::

He believes her. And for now, so does the monster.

You are mine.

He follows her home, to bed. And though he can’t make love to her like he wants, he worships her body with oil and hands and mouth.

It isn’t until she is completely sated and asleep when the monster rips through his body again. A monster that he now realizes is the ugly marriage of his own fear and self loathing, and Elizaveta’s death curse.

But instead of hurting his mate like Adam fears, the monster scrabbles out from beneath the covers and huddles in the corner of the room. It sits there watching his mate, the covers rising and falling to the rhythm of her breathing.

Within a few minutes, the even breaths stutter and stop. “Adam?” she calls, voice rough with sleep.

It’s the monster that growls in response, and Adam waits. It didn’t work, he thinks. The monster is still here. Will you finally leave me like you’re supposed to?

And still he remembers her promises: You are mine. You are mine. You are mine.

“For fuck’s sake,” she says sounding annoyed. “Get back to bed. I’m cold.”

Oh, my Mercy.

After a moment, the monster cautiously approaches the bed, and it creaks under the sudden weight. It wraps itself around her, tucking her head under its chin. She draws up the covers over them both, and they settle to sleep.

For the first time in a long time Adam prays. Let this be enough. This love. Let me be enough to keep her safe.

If God is kind and he is lucky, maybe it will be.

Maybe the monster will love her, too.

#mercy thompson #mercyverse #Mercy Thompson fanfic #my writing #sondrawr writes #adam hauptman #mercyverse alphabet series

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dickgraysonisnothereforthis · 4 years

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I Didn’t Mistake Your Finger for the Moon, I Just Chose to Look at You Instead

Tim Drake x Reader Oneshot

The title comes from zen buddhism (maybe chinese? i’m sorry I don’t know), the idea is I am pointing my finger at the moon to show you the moon don’t look at my pointed finger, look where I’m pointing.

Heavily inspired by the play Frankie and Johnnie in the Claire de Lune

***

You can’t believe it’s only 8:30pm, just two hours into the night and you’re already bored out of your skull. Around you, the huge ballroom swirls with sparkling socialites keeping themselves busy by incessantly talking shit and guzzling Bruce Wayne’s alcohol. Everybody has their lips to someone’s ear and a glass in their hand, except for you, which is quite stupid on your part. But that’s why you’re at the bar.

Behind you, the positively charming laughs of the Wayne Gala’s guests dot the conversations that spill out through the room in concentric circles, rippling over each other in waves that ebb and flow right up until they reach you. Then they stop short, leaving you alone and trying to order a drink from a bartender who seems to be too busy to chat you up out of pity.

Not that you’d do anything with her, obviously. But still. Some attention would be nice.

Christ, you were so shit at knowing what to do with yourself at these parties. You’d think you’d have them figured out by now, but no such luck. Your funeral.

“Hey, have you seen Tim?”

You turn to face the speaker and your eyes fall on Dick Grayson, dressed gorgeous in a sharp suit complete with a dark blue bow tie. He looks incredible, but then again, he usually does. And miracle of miracles, the folks around you are now eyeing you up, trying to figure out if it’s worth skydiving into your conversation to get in a word with Bruce Wayne’s heir. Dick does that to people, has the sort of happy, positive demeanor that makes folks want desperately to talk to him, to be part of his group. You’ll probably never get used to it. Or to how beautiful he is.

“Yeah.” Yeah, you know where Tim is. You resist the urge to point across the ballroom, motioning with your chin instead. “He’s over there, schmoozing with some LexCorp folks.”

“Schmoozing? With LexCorp?” Dick’s face takes on a slightly disgusted hue in the light of the chandeliers.

You shrug. “Schmoozing, making thinly veiled threats, planting the seeds for some light corporate espionage, but not the sort anyone can prove. You know Tim.”

Dick chuckles at that. “I guess I do.” He takes a step away from you, then doubles back. “Are you all right, over here? You look a bit...”

“You can say lonely, Dick, it’s okay,” you say with a bit of bite, too many teeth in your voice, but he’s not wrong. “I’m fine, you don’t need to babysit me.”

His eyebrows raise. “Jeez, y/n, I didn’t mean--”

You cut him off. “No, it’s fine Dick, I shouldn’t have said that, I’m sorry.” You press a hand to the bridge of your nose and try to take deep breaths. Starting a fight with your boyfriend’s oldest brother is not exactly on your to-do list for the evening. “I am a bit lonely, but it’s cool, I get Tim back in...” you check your watch, a cheap analogue that clashes something awful with your cheesed-up attire. “Eight in a half minutes. Then he’s mine for at least an hour.”

Dick quirks his lips in a half-smile. “You guys time how long he spends doing W.E. business at these galas? That’s--”

“Adorable? Or just anal?” Try as you might, you can’t keep the cynicism from spreading thick over your tone.

“I was actually going to say very Tim,” he says back warmly. You grin at him, bad mood abandoning you for the moment. “It was his idea. Wouldn’t be much of a date if we didn’t spend any time together.”

Dick laughs again. “No, I suppose it wouldn’t.” Across the room, Tim turns away from the circle of business harpies and shoots you an apologetic smile. Dick must’ve clocked it as well. “Maybe Tim’ll turn knight-in-shining-armor and rescue you,” he suggests.

You wrinkle your nose. “I doubt it. As much as I don’t like it, the business stuff needs to get done.”

Dick eyes Tim’s back. “Yeah, something tells me you’d be the one doing the rescuing.” He clears his throat. “Well, I hate to be rude, but I gotta skip out on you.” Dick’s down-to-earth manner of speaking always surprises you, especially because he manages to get away with it at these swanky events. When you do it everyone seems to look at you sideways. “Need to go find Damian,” Dick explains further. “If he’s not antagonizing your boyfriend, he may be up to something worse.”

You nod in agreement. “Go get ‘em, Tiger.”

He sighs. “Yeah, wish me luck.” And then Dick makes his exit, leaving you with seven and a half minutes to wallow before Tim comes back.

You chide yourself a bit, picking up the Gin and Tonic that the bartender had just placed in front of you. Were you seriously going to wallow in self pity at a gala half of Gotham would kill to attend? With Tim Drake as your date? Hundreds of girls and quite a few boys probably daydream about being in your place, especially after he made the Forbes Thirty under Thirty list last month. Still, his spot on the list doesn’t change the fact that exactly no one at this party, striking Dick and the bartender, has said a single word to you.

You stifle a sigh. It isn’t your fault Gotham’s socialites always prove to be uninterested in Timothy Drake’s thoroughly middle-class girlfriend. They had found you just fascinating when the relationship was new and Tim’s move of dating so far below his class had actually made headlines. But, six months later, your novelty had worn clean off. God, you wished you had someone to talk to. You were feeling so small.

Swallowing a sip of G&T, you think back to your first gala at the Manor. The glitter and glamour of the evening had left you breathless, whereas now it’s making you sick. Some parts of the evening never seem to go stale, though. You still love playing dress up in gorgeous clothes and parading around with your boyfriend, who was also dressed up in gorgeous clothes. Tim usually bought your dresses for these events, since there was no way on the planet you could afford them. You’d gotten used to Tim being stupid rich early in your relationship, and it doesn’t bother you that you can never match him in the money department.

Occasionally, Tim likes to spoil you, although neither of you are too keen on outrageous gifts that are ultimately useless. He tends to avoid getting you things that are overpriced and unnecessary. (Cheap and unnecessary is where you operate. The two of you are currently having a competition over who could get the other the smallest, most useless gift for under two dollars. Your last gift to him had been a yellow plastic shovel that fits in the palm of your hand)

Tim doesn’t like buying expensive, frivolous things on principle, and you don’t like receiving them, also on principle. But if you’re going to attend these galas, you need an expensive dress point-blank, otherwise you’ll stick out like a sore thumb. And you want to attend, you want to be Tim’s girlfriend, public appearances and all. So Tim just has to buy you the dresses, which you secretly love because they’re gorgeous, and you have to accept them, because you can’t attend the gala without them. It’s a neat way for Tim to give you something expensive and make sure you’ll have a need for it. Plus, you know he loves seeing you wear the clothes he’s bought you.

Tonight, however, you’re not wearing one of Tim’s Vera Wang’s or Alexander McQueen’s. You’ve opted instead on something you’d bought yourself, a bridesmaid’s dress you’d worn to a friend’s wedding earlier this year. It just about fits in with everyone else’s attire, and besides, the dress was expensive. You wanted to wear it at least twice. A great plan, except it isn’t as beautiful as some of the other dresses in the room tonight. You’ve recognized more than one from a runway fashion account you follow on Instagram. Nice as your dress may be, it can’t compare with any of those, and every time you see an exceptionally beautiful gown you wonder what you were thinking, wearing a dress like this.

The negative buzzing in your ears dissipates as you catch Tim’s eye again. He’s got the same stupid look on his face he’d worn when he picked you up this evening. Like he’d been punched but he didn’t exactly mind.

“Are you sure you’re my date for tonight?” he’d whispered, after doing a cartoonish double-take at the door of your apartment, because he really is a good boyfriend. “I’m not sure other people will believe it.”

“Of course they will,” you’d scoffed, cheeks glowing at the compliment. “We look good together. You’re pretty stunning yourself.”

He’d look down at his own clothes with a worried expression. “Really?” Following your advice and urging, Tim had stepped out of his comfort zone tonight and was sporting a patterned tux. It’s a dark blue checked with thin black stripes, waistcoat and bow-tie to match. “I think I look like Al Capone.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you look very dapper.” You had taken his hand, then, smiling up at him and leading him out of your apartment. “Charming, even.”

“If Jason’s there he’ll make fun of me. Damian definitely will.”

“They were going to do that anyway. And besides, who cares? I think you look great.”

“I guess you’re the only one that matters.”

“Damn straight.”

He really does look incredible tonight, you think to yourself as you check him out from your position at the bar. Nothing short of beautiful, with the long lines of the tux sitting pretty on his sinuous, willowy limbs and gorgeous frame. His shoulders are holding strong under the fine material of his jacket, and presiding over everything are his sharp cheekbones and even sharper eyes. Which, you note in satisfaction, are now fixed on you as Tim extricates himself from the suits and makes his way to the bar.

“Is this seat taken?” he asks, plopping down next to you and casually hooking a foot around your ankle.

“Nope,” you smile happily, thrilled to be spending time with him again. “I was saving it for you, and as you can see, I had to really fight to keep it free.” You motion around yourself to the people ignoring you.

Tim winces. “I’m sorry, y/n, if I could do anything--”

“Stop, stop,” you wave him silent. “Don’t worry about it. You’re here now, it’s okay,” you reassure him.

“I don’t like that you end up spending so much time alone at these things,” he says, wrapping an arm around you. “If you even think I’m going to let you come to this thing by yourself,” you say, shaking your head. “Some of the other ones, maybe, but if I don’t make an appearance at The Wayne Gala, capital T, W, and G, the public will think I’m out of the picture.”

“Defending your territory, huh?” Tim grins sidelong at you. “Keeping the society pages off my back, more like.” You shift in your seat, sensing an opportunity. “But maybe I am defending my territory, hmm?” You give him an obvious once over, let lust show in your gaze. “Maybe you’re too pretty to let out of my sight.”

He flushes, color overrunning his cheeks and spilling down his neck and making him look even more edible. You let out a breath. “God, Tim, I could just...” you lean over, easily catching his lips with yours. Holding him there for a just a second, you run your tongue quick over his bottom lip and then pull back, spending a few moments just looking at him, with him looking back.

You wait for some of the sparkling energy to fade before you speak again. “It’s important to me that you know I’m here to support you as acting CEO.”

He laughs at that, spell broken. “I know sweetheart.” He turns from you to order a drink. “I’m very proud of you,” you say to his back. He rolls his eyes at you over his shoulder.

The bartender makes the drink inside of twenty seconds, because Tim Drake asked for it, and then your boyfriend spends a few more moments staring at you, taking the glass in his hand and eyeing you over the rim.

You meet his gaze. “What are you thinking?” He presses a finger to his ear. “Going off comms,” he murmurs, then surreptitiously fishes the device out of his ear and stows it in his pocket. If you hadn’t known what to look for you would swear he was just running his fingers through his hair and then brushing some lint off of his suit.

“If I’m honest, I’ve spent the last twenty minutes fantasizing about eating you out.”

...what?

It takes a moment for his words to connect to your brain. Then--

“Tim!” you squawk, eyes darting around to make sure no one had overheard you. “You can’t just say that to me in public!”

His eyes meet yours, he looks unimpressed. Tim never has any patience for your prudishness whenever he brings up sex with other people around. “What can I say? The LexCorp people were boring,” and now he’s the one looking you over, eyes slowly working up and down your form. You shiver under his attention. “That’s a very pretty dress you’re wearing, y/n, I think it would look great bunched up around your hips.”

God, confidence is such an irresistible look on him. Despite your better judgment, you decide to play along. Leaning closer, you let one hand ghost over his crotch, cupping him for half a moment as you say “and how do you think the dress will look on your bedroom floor?”

He gasps when you touch him, then smiles brilliantly, eyes shining. You really, really shouldn’t be encouraging him, but you can’t help it. You love him like this, you love the unrelenting force of his desire. You love how much he wants you.

With Tim, you’ve found that once the idea of sex gets into his head and he sees that you’re game, he’s like a dog with a bone, gnawing and gnawing at you. There’s no stopping him in pursuit to get you into his bed, or car, or the nearest supply closet. And you always find yourself indulging him, because the sex is usually good, but the man himself is even better. You delight in seeing Tim aroused, because as soon as that switch is flipped, the self-control that Tim rigidly keeps in place disappears, and he becomes hypnotically impulsive with his emotions. It took some time for him to get the barriers down, for him to let loose around you, but now he allows himself to be everything all at once. An aroused Tim is playful, awkward, confident, shy, ridiculous, and enthusiastic. You never know what you’re going to get with him, and sometimes he flits from one affect to the other between moments, leaving you breathless.

And you’re more than happy to provide an arena for Tim to let loose, because the only time your boyfriend allows himself to be anything less than perfect is when he’s in your arms. Control rules Tim’s life in the form of some probably unhealthy idolatrous god. As he’s explained to you several times, yes, he actually does need to be this tightly wound, because if he makes a mistake he’ll lose clout at WE. Or he’ll be too slow at night. People will die (he will die.) Insert answer here.

Which is all true, but it doesn’t mean Tim can’t take a fucking break once in a while. And that’s where you come in. Your boyfriend spends his whole life striving for perfection and punishing himself when he doesn’t reach it, but when he’s with you, he can be anything he wants.

And one of the wonderful things about sleeping with Tim is so often you get to see everything he wants. Once he’s finally lost control, once you’ve convinced him to put the walls down, he’s like a kid in a candy store. He can do anything, and so he usually does everything.

“Christ,” he breathes in your ear, head still in your fleeting touch, one arm coming to rest on your back. “I think you’ve given me a semi.”

“That,” you say in a sing-song voice, absolutely delighted, “sounds like a ‘you’ problem.” You turn and pretend to walk away, but Tim catches hold of your arm, reeling you back towards him. “You can’t leave now, y/n,” he pleads, eyes dancing. “People are going to look at my crotch and see I’ve got a hard-on, and I can’t endure Cass making fun of me again. C’mon, y/n,” he pouts at you. “I’m your damsel in distress. Save me from the bullies. Dance with me so no one will see.”

You roll your eyes, but come to stand in front of him nonetheless, letting him lead you to the center for the room with his hands on your waist. This isn’t the first time a gala has bored Tim to sexual frustration. “People will still be able to see your crotch,” you argue. “We’ll just dance really, really close together.” As if to prove his point, he suddenly jerks your hips to his, and you all but fall against him. “The song is too fast for this kind of slow-dancing,” you say into his neck, false protests muffled by his suit.

He leans back to make eye contact with you as the two of you start swaying. “That doesn’t matter. We’re young lovers, y/n,” he reminds you seriously. “They’ll forgive us.”

“Young lovers, hmm?” You’re struck again by his confidence tonight, how alluring it is. It’s rare that he’s this sure of himself, but he wears it so well when he is.

“That’s right.” The two of you are silent for a moment, and you contemplate leaning your head against his chest. “You really do look beautiful in that dress, y/n,” Tim says quietly, all joking gone from his tone.

Your cheeks heat at the compliment. “Thank you.” And then, because you’re immature, too, and because Tim isn’t the only one who can flash his sex drive in public, you impulsively say “I bet you can’t guess what I’m wearing underneath.”

This is probably a mistake, but what the hell. You want your boyfriend just as much as he wants you, maybe more.

Tim doesn’t even wait two full seconds before responding. “See, I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and I bet I can.” You weren’t expecting him to be so quick on the uptake, your mistake for thinking his boredom hadn’t already driven him to tackle this particular problem.

“It’s warm enough out that you’re not wearing any tights or pantyhose, so the suspender sets are out.”

“The suspender sets are out,” you repeat solemnly, already excited by this new game you’re playing. “Well, hang on, maybe I just wore a set without the suspenders.”

Tim is quick to shake his head. “No, you hate doing that, you’d rather just wear separate set altogether. It’s a set without the suspenders.”

You let out a low whistle. “Got me pegged there, detective.” You see an opportunity, and waggle your eyebrows. “Maybe I’ll have you pegged, later.”

He falters in the slow waltz he’s leading you through. “Really not helping with the semi here, y/n” he complains, and he’s right, you can feel it pressing lightly against you. You roll your eyes. “Fine, let’s go back to you guessing what lingerie I’m wearing.”

He nods, only half joking. Tim loves a puzzle. “Thank you. So none of the suspenders.”

“So none of the suspenders,” you repeat again, and offer him a winning smile when he glares at you over it.

Explanatory monologue in full swing, he says “You normally like to match your dress, but this one’s black, which isn’t very helpful.” All of a sudden his attention shifts and comes to rest on your face. “Are you going to tell me if I get it right, or will I just have to wait and see?”

“What would make it better for you, baby?” you ask, voice sultry as you slide your hips against his.

“I have absolutely no idea. Is it the red one?”

“Nope!”

“Damn. I love the red one.”

“I know you do, sweetheart.”

He pouts at you, but quickly perks up again. “Here, hang on, I’m going to risk exposing my erection so I can get a better view of your back,” and suddenly you’re spinning, once, twice, three times, before Tim pulls you back to his chest and dips you as the song ends. You’re panting a bit in surprise, and from your position suspended in his strong arms, you can feel one of his hands pawing around at your hip, smoothing over the fabric of your dress.

He pulls you upright as another song begins, a grimace on his handsome face. You reach up to brush some of his hair out of his eyes. “That was inconclusive,” he mutters.

You glance over his shoulder. “I think Bruce definitely got a good look at what’s going on down south.” Your boyfriend’s father is looking rather pointedly at the ground, a pained look on his face.

“I could barely see the lines of the set through your dress,” Tim complains, and then adds “Bruce’ll get over it. Or he won’t. Whatever,” he says dismissively. “Last week I walked in on Selina blowing him under his desk, so now we’re even. What’s way more important is that I couldn’t see anything, why couldn’t I see anything?”

“Aww, poor baby,” you tease.

“Shut up,” he mumbles, before brightening a bit. “I mean, it wasn’t a total loss. I did get a great view of your ass. It still looks fantastic, by the way.”

“Thanks for the update.”

He keeps going. “I didn’t see the lines, but I did get a good feel of your underwear at your hip.” He plants his tongue between his teeth, eyes closed in concentration as you sway delicately to the new song. “I didn’t feel a strap, so I can rule out some of the thongs.” You hum in agreement, arms coming up to wrap securely around his torso in an extended embrace. “It isn’t either of the black ones, or the nice blue one, is it?”

“No, sweetheart, it’s not.”

“Hn.” He shifts his arms, and you feel his slight hand flitting about at your hip again. He soon gives up, discouraged. “The material of your dress is too thick, I can’t feel anything through it.”

You decide to throw him a bone. “I’ll give you a hint: I’m actually wearing another color besides black, and the set matches it.”

Tim frowns, stepping back from you for a moment to look down at your feet. “Your shoes are black too, what are you talking about?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you want me to ruin it for you?”

“No, let me think,” Tim says, and goes silent, eyes shut. You study him as the actual detective comes out to play. His eyes snap open again, and you clock his gaze going for your throat and ears. No necklace, but you are wearing gold earrings. Tim ignores them and takes your hand in his, examining your rings. He knows you too well to ask whether the set is gold or silver, that isn’t your style. He’s getting much closer with the rings though, and then his sharp exhale is ghosting through your fingers and his eyes are meeting yours again. You give him a proud smile.

“Good solve, Timmy.” He kisses the pad of your index finger. “Nail polish, y/n?”

“Nail polish,” you confirm.

“Why?”

You pretend to think it over, letting your eyes go wide. “Well, I just thought it would look nice, you know? My hand right over the panties, maybe even inside them, if you wanted me to do any of the work on my own.”

His eyes just about bug out of his head at that, and then he shakes his smile back and forth, impressed. Your answering grin is knife sharp. “You’ve got me right where you want me, don’t you, y/n? What am I going to do with you?”

“Anything you want,” you whisper, winding your arms around his neck. “That’s sort of the point. We can get out of here right now.”

“You know I would love, love, to do that,” Tim says, running his hands down your back, “but there’s supposedly a deal going down at 9:30 that I kind of need to be there for.”

“Well, then,” you murmur, “you’ll just have to suffer for another twenty minutes.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” he says drily. The two of you sway in silence for a few minutes before he speaks again. “Hold on, y/n, something just occurred to me.”

“Yes, Tim?”

“Your nail polish is purple, but you don’t own any sets that color. What gives?”

You raise your eyebrows at him. He looks at you for a few moments before his face smooths out again. “You really have it in for me tonight, don’t you? It’s a new set?”

“It’s a new set,” you confirm.

“And I bet you look just stellar in purple,” he says to himself, a desperate edge to his voice.

“You know very well I look good in everything.” You glance downwards. “How are you doing there, Timmy?”

“Fuck off,” he says happily. “Is it lace?”

“Tim, sweetheart, of course it’s lace.”

Your boyfriend groans, then freezes in place. You look at him questioningly. “I’m running a cost/benefit analysis on me skipping out on this deal.”

“Give it to Tam,” you suggest.

“Give it to Tam,” he agrees. “Yeah, alright, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

You let out a delighted laugh, following him in the direction of his old bedroom in the manor. Behind you, you dimly hear the orchestra finish their song. There are a few moments of silence while you make your way to the exit, and then you hear a few forlorn notes on the piano that have you turning around and calling out “Tim!”

“Whoa, y/n, where are you--”

“Tim! Tim it’s Claire de Lune, they’re playing Claire de Lune, we have to stay!” You drag him back to the dance floor.

“But,” he tries to argue, “but y/n, we were going to--”

“Tim.” You stand your ground. “It’s Claire de Lune. Please?”

He mumbles under his breath but takes you back into his arms regardless, like the good boyfriend that he is. You adore the Claire de Lune, and he’s probably reasoned to himself that no amount of arguing or pleading could tear you from the melody spinning lazily through the room.

He’s still going to complain about it, though. “Claire de Lune, huh? I can’t believe I lived to see Twilight cock-blocking me again.”

You poke him in the side. “Some of us first heard Debussy at the Gotham Philharmonic and some of us read about him in Stephanie Meyers’ blockbuster paranormal romance and googled Claire de Lune on the family computer in their Dad’s office, okay? The important thing is we’re both here, and we can both appreciate it, so shut up.”

Tim shuts up. You smile at him, and let your eyes fall closed. The slow melody envelops you like mist and settles on your skin, resting easy in your inner ear. A small part of you anticipates the notes before the pianist actually plays them, and you find yourself nodding when they finally escape from her fingers. Her performance is perfect, she isn’t messing around trying to improve Debussy’s masterwork, just picking her way through it, measure by measure. You take deep, even breaths as a sense of calm permeates your system. Eyes still closed, you let the music relax you, content to wade dreamily in its cool comfort.

After about a minute, Tim clears his throat. “Y/n,” he says gently, “look.” You open your eyes and follow Tim’s pointed finger to one of the floor-length windows, gasping out loud when you see the stunning full moon. It sits in an overcast sky, fog and smog and clouds pressing against it like an embrace. The thin ropey clouds that drift across its slouched figure are reflecting its yellow light and giving it a warm, pearly corona, a halo. You stare at it openly for a few seconds, admiring the bone moon in its sky armchair.

Your attention drifts back to Tim’s finger, arm still hanging loosely in front of you, and then to the man himself. The ballroom lights are low enough that you can imagine the moonlight reflecting off of Tim, too, that he too is catching some of its cotton shine on his face. You’re awfully lucky to be with someone who takes the time to point out a particular moon among of a string of nights with particular moons, and you tell him so. Tim’s smile is quiet, but he presses his forehead to yours, where it stays for the rest of the song.

When it ends Tim leans back to smile at you again. You smile back, feeling filled up with the moon and the music and him. Catching his hand in your own, you start in the direction of the grand staircase that leads up to his old bedroom. Tim stops you by pulling on your arm lightly, before turning and walking towards the doors that will take you outside.

You look at him quizzically. “Can we go to your apartment?” he murmurs. “We’ve been in my world this whole night, now I want to be in yours.”

You smile softly before leaning up to kiss him, quick and light. He squeezes your hand as he leads you through the room, and then suddenly you’re outside, breathing cool, almost autumn air while you wait for Tim to get a car sorted out. You turn your eyes upward to meet the moon again, the ghost of Claire de Lune still drifting through your head.

Tim breaks your reverie by calling your name, and you follow him into the back of a car. After directing the driver to your apartment, Tim hands you an earbud. You put it in your left ear while Tim puts the other in his right, and together you listen to Claire de Lune again as the car makes it’s way through a Gotham that’s soft and shiny with moonlight. Three repetitions of Debussy later you’re standing in front of your apartment, Tim wrapping his arms around you as you fiddle with your keys, unlock your door, and lead him to your bedroom.

Later, after you’re spent twice over and Tim has made good on his fantasy of opening you up with his mouth, Tim shifts in the bed and slides himself around you, lips at your ear.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

You sigh happily. “Mmm.”

“I asked the orchestra to play Clair de Lune.”

You raise yourself up on your elbows at that, leaning over him with a meaningful look into his starry eyes. You’re sure there are stars in yours, too.

“Yeah?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

You lie back down. “Thank you.”

His hand comes up to stroke your hair. “Mmm.”

#tim drake x reader #batboy imagines #tim drake imagine #dc imagine #batboy x reader #kira writes #tim drake

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retvenkos · 4 years

Text

three times // theseus scamander x leta lestrange

Harry Potter: Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald - Theseus Scamander x Leta Lestrange, slight fluff and angst

requested, few changes

A/N: am i writing all the requests that involve kissing scenes to try and (hopefully) figure out how they work? maybe. also, mentions of the holidays (i tried to keep it vague!) because anon asked! i know it’s july, don’t come for me.

Summary: “I know,” Leta whispered, her eyes closing for a half moment, long lashes kissing her golden brown skin, “and I meant what I said. Love can’t change me. But I want to be loved. I want to know what that’s like.”

the three times he told her he loved her, and the one time she agreed;

one, 1916

Spare time was hard to come by, in the thick of battle. Theseus had never known so much chaos, so much fear. He couldn’t help but feel he had made the right decision, disobeying Minister Evermonde’s legislation and joining the war. Even with the help of thousands of wizards, the war did not cease. He wondered, in between air strikes and word form home, if there was ever going to be an end. One day it would come, he supposed, but was it one day after tomorrow or one day after his death?

He did not know. He couldn’t know, no matter how many Seers predicted ends through the glimpses they saw in crystal balls.

Did they see this destruction in their foresight? Did they see these bodies, broken and bruised? Did they see him, penning letters home in the middle of desolation, his wand at his side just in case, a rifle in his bloody hands? Did the Minister of Magic, in his comfortable office with a large desk, hear their cries as he told wizards to stand by?

Did his friends and family know that he loved them - that he was laying down his life for a better future, a possible tomorrow? Did they know that he was fighting to save them? Merlin, he loved them and hoped that they were safe.

‘No one is innocent in this war, Mum. Not the children pulled into battle, not the men planning the attacks, not even us wizards cowering behind wrongful legislation and poorly crafted excuses. Fear has turned wizards into something terrible. As an Auror, dedicated to the safety of our world (which includes Muggles, whether the Ministry recognizes that or not), I cannot come home. I will see this war to the end. I must.’

Theseus held his family in letters; the flowy cursive of his mother, the neat penmanship of his father, Newt’s messy scrawl, and the occasional word from Leta, her letters small but loud. Their words reminded him of simpler times, days when the world was smaller, hurt was shallower, and suffering was least common.

The war was wrapping everyone in a storm and scattering them on the wind. Where would he be thrown? How would he land? On his own two feet? On his back? His own thoughts threatened to be his undoing, so he clung to those beliefs that he could forge out of the fire.

‘I have to save these men who fight alongside me. I know their stories and their pain. These men aren’t just Muggles, they are my brothers in these trenches. I know you all will understand my bleeding heart, it’s not like it hasn’t gotten me into trouble before, Newt knows that better than anyone.’

There were times his courage left him. When he was stripped of all soul and left as flesh and bone, bleeding from wounds that would never quite heal, some scars in areas that neither medicine nor magic could reach.

Theseus wondered what he would become after this war. How much of him would stay intact if he survived this living hell? Theseus had met men who had been in wars before. They worked with him at the Auror Office, hardened men of the world and yet jumpy and fragile from memories. Would he understand them? Or find himself to be something else completely, so distant from that humane side of himself that he no longer recognized man?

He was being pushed every which way, burned in the fires of war. He had to cling to his love; he must hold onto his principles and beliefs that paled in the face of this destruction.

‘I am sorry to have left without warning, but if Father would have known, he would have stopped me. All of you would have, but none of you would have changed my mind. I love you all too much to stand idly by.

‘I will write again as soon as I can. Don’t worry about me, I’ll manage as I always have. I do not want more days as these ones. I cannot continue to watch them come. I’m sending this to you with a bit of magic as our letters are read and censored by junior officers, but I can only send a few this way. Muggles aren’t completely daft. Stay strong and send Leta my love.

‘Theseus.’

two, 1921

It was dark when he returned home. Hours at the Ministry were long and taxing, enough to steal any and all daylight from his life. By the time he made it home, the rest of the world was fast asleep. Theseus entered quietly, thinking the woman inside to be dreaming, but she sat at the window in dresses of silk, her eyes glassy and sombre.

“Leta” —her name brought a smile to his lips— “I thought you would be asleep.” Theseus addressed her fondly as he set down his suitcase and shedded his coat. He sat across from her on the window seat, squeezing her shoulder as he passed. She allowed him, still lost in the seas of thought. She had been staying with him for the last week while her place was getting renovated, and in the meantime Theseus had gotten to know his friend better than before, recognizing odd behavior more often. “Is everything alright?”

Leta blinked twice, her eyes clearing and color flooding back into her brown cheeks. “Of course,” she said, “I was just...”

“Thinking. As always.”

She smiled, dipping her head in concession. There was something melancholic in the air that settled around her - deep and omnipresent, assailing her against her own volition when she least expected it.

It reminded Theseus of that deep part of himself born from war and strife, hidden from those who passed by. Only with Leta did he bear that side of himself, that sorrow they both knew all too well.

“Are you alright?” She busied herself with fixing her skirts, smoothing out their wrinkles with care.

“Yeah,” Theseus sighed, relaxing into the seat, “I’ve only had to deal with the idiocy in the Auror Office, rather than the entire Ministry, today.”

“So, a calm day, then.”

He nodded, his lips quirking into the smallest of smiles. “And you, Leta? How was Travers?”

“Besides his usual, terrible self?” Theseus scoffed at her comment and she continued, “Being his assistant is simultaneously the best and worst thing you’ve ever convinced me to do.”

“Worse than my convincing you and Newt to set the Erkling in the Hogwarts greenhouses loose?” Theseus raised his eyebrows, his blue eyes mischievous. “They eat children, you know.”

“I should know better than you! The bloody thing bit me! I still have a scar!” Leta held up her arm, pushing back her sleeves to show him a scar on the inside of her forearm, faded from time, but present all the same.

Theseus kissed it better and she swatted his shoulder.

“At least you’re feeling better.” Theseus smiled contentedly, his eyes searching her face for any lingering sorrow he might find. It was always there, if he looked hard enough. He had only ever seen it go away when she was with Newt, talking about the humanity of creatures. There were no monsters, he would always say, only blinkered people.

“What are you thinking about now?”

“Huh?”

Leta was staring at him, her intense eyes alight with something Theseus couldn’t put his finger on. There was always something with Leta that he didn’t understand, something that no doubt came from her shrouded memories. Her own war that no one else knew. He often wondered how he was supposed to reach her when part of her was still lost at sea, turning in tempests he could not locate. He would be damned before he stopped trying, though. That much he knew.

“What’s on your mind, Theseus?”

“You,” he answered honestly. Her lips parted in shock, but her eyebrows furrowed in thought, “and Newt. You two were always quite the pair. I daresay you got along with him better than I did, try as I might.”

Leta sighed, her head shaking slightly, “Newt can love anything. Especially those things worst for him.”

For a moment, Theseus was stunned into silence. He knew she thought little of herself, despite his constant comments to the contrary, but to hear it so plain was something else. The truth was heavy on her shoulders, and only now did he see how far it had dragged her.

“Leta...”

“I’m a monster, Theseus.” Her tone was bitter cold. “You and Newt are too good to see it, but I truly am.”

“I don’t believe it.” Theseus shook his head, his voice firm if not the slightest bit angry when he spoke. “You have your secrets, Leta, but no secret can change who I know you to be.”

Then I’ve fooled you, too—”

“—Then I’ve seen the truth of who you are.” Theseus grabbed her hands, so small and smooth in his own, and looked deep into her teary eyes. “I know what it’s like to be changed into something unrecognizable. I’ve also had to move on, pretending you’re the same when you aren’t. But trust me, Leta, nothing has changed who you are at your core.”

“Theseus, please. There’s so much you don’t know.”

“Then tell me and I’ll love you through it.”

Her breath hitched in a gasp, her mind acutely aware of her hands in his, their sudden proximity, and the fire in his eyes. Theseus did not pull back in fear of his thoughts being spoken aloud. It was time she knew.

If Leta could not love herself, then Theseus would love her until she could.

Theseus had never found someone he couldn’t save.

He had seen so much loss in his life; so much sorrow had riddled the trenches, so much pain had permeated the air, so many people passed in and out of his life, all of them laying down their lives, all of them clinging onto something to believe in. He had chosen love. He clung to it like a chlld clinging to their mother, fearful of what he would be without it. He had learned early on that love saved men. It was those men with someone to go back home to that survived their trench foot and shell shock. It was those wizards with someone to keep safe that passed the Auror training programme. It was those people who loved that made it through this harsh world.

He loved Leta. He would love her until she loved herself. Then he would love her even more.

Leta pulled her hands away from him. “I know what you’re thinking, Theseus, but you can’t save me.”

“At least let me try.”

She shook her head, standing up from the window seat, her silks tumbling from the cushion, falling around her like a waterfall. “Love can’t change me.”

Leta walked out the door, into the night, and Theseus watched her with desperate eyes. He had so much love in his heart, but none of it could save him from being alone.

two, 1924

Theseus came down the stairs of his childhood home and walked into the kitchen, leaning against the island as he watched his mother rolling out cookie dough, chatting with Newt. Holiday music drifted through the air, the voice of the crooner deep and soothing. It reminded him of the happiness of a lifetime ago, when Newt, Leta, and he would sled down the nearby hill all day, only coming inside to steal cookie dough and cocoa, thinking themselves quick enough to not be spotted.

So much had transpired, since; Newt and Leta had grown up, no longer the impressionable kids that used to tag along on his misadventures. They were people in their own right, now, with depths he hadn’t seen. They were older now, not as easily forgiving of his rough nature, not as aware of what happened inside of his head.

Some things never changed, though, and a Scamander Christmas was one of them.

“Theseus.” Newt acknowledged him, his already bent head nodding further downward, his chin almost touching his chest. “These are your favorite, aren’t they?” His younger brother looked down at the cookies their mother was cutting out - gingerbread that would be frosted with a thick buttercream icing. It was always too sweet for Newt, but Theseus would always manage to get the cookie with the thickest layer of frosting.

Theseus was grateful for his attempt at conversation. It wasn’t easy for him and Newt, anymore.

Not since the war. Not since he changed.

“You haven’t been gone so long you’ve forgotten our holiday traditions, have you?” Theseus made sure to keep his tone light, teasing. There couldn’t be any more misunderstandings between the two of them.

“Not exactly, I’ve—”

“—Only been missing for an entire year,” the voice of Leta Lestrange echoed through the Scamander household, and the next moment she was in the kitchen, next to Theseus’ mother, her smile polite but her eyes bright with joy.

Newt let out a strangled sort of laugh, a mixture of surprise and happiness. “Leta, I-I didn’t—”

“That’s what makes it a surprise, Newt.”

“Of course.” The younger Scamander stammered, his eyes anxiously flitting across her face.

“I didn’t know you were coming, Leta.” Theseus finally spoke, saving Newt from his floundering attempt at reconciliation, and grabbing the attention of the young woman. She smiled at him, and the sight of it spread a warmth through his body.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Theseus nodded with a crooked smile of his own, color blooming on his cheeks. His eyes held hers for a long while, and she made no move of looking away. Theseus wondered what had changed inside her. Just a year ago she couldn’t look in his general direction when speaking and now it was common for her to stare at him as though no one else was there. What had changed?

Or, a part of him wondered, what has she resigned herself to?

Newt coughed and he blinked, dispelling the trance he had fallen into. Gathering himself, Theseus walked out of the kitchen and into the living room, where the fire burned bright and solitude surrounded him, leaving him to his thoughts.

It wasn’t long before Leta joined him, her footfall tentative and soft on the carpet. “Is there something wrong?” Her voice was low and without curiosity - almost as though she knew the answer to her question but thought asking to be a necessary formality.

Theseus swallowed. “No.”

She was still approaching, her voice drifting closer to him, like a song. “You can’t lie to me, Theseus. We’re too close for that.”

“Are we?” He turned to look at her, his voice strong with the slightest bit of hope laced in. Leta looked up at him, her eyebrows knit together. “I love you, but you told me I couldn’t.”

“I know,” Leta whispered, her eyes closing for a half moment, long lashes kissing her golden brown skin, “and I meant what I said. Love can’t change me. But I want to be loved. I want to know what that’s like.”

Theseus reached out and grabbed her hand, his calloused fingers brushing over her own. “Let me show you.”

Leta nodded almost imperceptibly, her eyes wide with apprehension, her heart pounding in her chest. His lips met hers in a slow kiss, one hand on the small of her back, the other still intertwined with her own. She tasted sweet against him, like hot chocolate and candy canes.

“I love you.” Theseus whispered it when he pulled away, close enough for her to feel his breath across her lips.

She kissed him again.

#hp #fantastic beasts and where to find them #the crimes of grindelwald #fbawtft #theseus scamander #leta lestrange #theseus scamander x leta lestrange #fic #one shot #imagine #fluff #angst #theseusscamanderoneshot #letalestrangeoneshot

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thewhumperinwhite · 4 years

Text

Café: Used Car Lot (2)

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

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

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

@whumpitywhumpwhump

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe he does have some redeeming qualities, after all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sol freezes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It— It’s Kent. Listen, sir, I— “

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

He’s not Sol’s problem.

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

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

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

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

Kent makes a sound that is almost a scream.

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

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

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

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

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

“I— y-yes.”

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

People who don’t understand that—

“Really? You sure?”

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

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

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

“God— y-yes, I’m— I’m sure!”

“Really?”

“N-no one! I’m alone!”

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

He isn’t Sol’s problem!

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

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

Kent goes to his knees, gasping for breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sol swings the table leg.

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

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

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

Goddamn, though. Kent really looked surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

God he’s an idiot. Fuck. Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kent’s eyes widen. “What do you— “

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I— I mean, I couldn’t, uh— gah!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Romantic?” Sol demands, furiously.

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” Sol says haughtily, “we do.”

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

“What? No!” Sol snaps.

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

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

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

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

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

Sol falters. “So what if we are?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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the-foxes-fangs · 5 years

Note

(that-otome-potato) I was thinking... from your point of view, how would your version of Mitsuhide and his mc handle a huge fight? Like one where she left his palace to go back to Azuchi and wouldn't talk to him? I need to take my mind off of how chapter X ended...

OOoh that’s a good prompt, thank you!

*＊✿❀　❀✿＊*

Her fury was as rare as it was unyielding. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t noticed the icy distance in her eyes until it was too late to assuage it with a simple concession, a kiss, a teasing joke to remind them that even if they didn’t agree they were still on the same side.

They had just secured a fragile alliance, and she had witnessed the visiting warlord beating his page and simply refused to let it go, damn the consequences.

He couldn’t help respecting her sense of justice even when it was as irritating as the noise of a mouse gnawing at a wall, as it was now.

They had gone back and forth, he countered her every suggestion with a list of reasons why the comfort of a single page was far less vital than the peace of an entire region, treating the conversation as if he was discussing tactics and strategy, trying to talk her out of trouble with potential compromises, not paying enough attention to the hard glitter in her eye.

He had then managed to toss a lit taper into what turned out to be a powder keg, asking “little mouse, why do you care so much?”

It would stand in his memory among the most spectacular rhetorical failures of his career.

He saw the mottled red flush rise up her throat at the same time that her eyes turned as hard and sharp, her expression as distant as a snowy mountain peak, and just as cold.

It wasn’t the anger, it was the disappointment with which she looked down on him as she rose stiffly.

“Why don’t you?” She said, voice as as flat and chilly as a frozen lake.

He knew better than to let his frustration add wind to the tempest but his own chest was tight at the sight of her, hands in tight fists at her side, stubbornly refusing to listen, refusing to see the larger picture.

“Perhaps I simply have more important matters to think about than what is, whether you like it or not, a perfectly normal part of the relationship between vassal and lord.” He said, matching the cold in her tone.

“Well don’t let me distract you from such important matters, in that case.” She said, so coldly that it should have withered the flowers on the shelf with frost.

She stood perfectly still for a moment, before she curled her lip in disgust as she turned away. He had expected that she was simply leaving to cool down, had expected that he would find her in the room she had turned into a workshop upon taking residence in his manor, her usual refuge.

Until he saw a glimpse of her, bag in hand, and heard her tell a startled maid she was returning to Azuchi.

He nearly rose to follow her, to go out into the street and tell her that he was sorry, to take her hand, but he pressed his lips together into an angry line and sat drumming his fingers on his desk instead. If she wanted to turn this into a match of wills, so be it.

He tossed and turned alone in bed, alternating between anger and regret as he felt the cold space where her body should have been. They rarely fought in earnest, which made him feel even more irritated by how he had allowed something so trivial to come to this. He tried to shake off the guilt he felt at the idea of her alone and probably crying. It had been her choice.

The morning passed as he worked furiously, the entire manor pregnant with tension as the maids and his retainers practically tip-toed around with curious eyes.

Their devotion to each other and the unified front they presented to the world was unusual enough to have been the subject of gossip in its own right, and now she wasn’t even speaking to him.

He rose and took his documents in hand and headed to the castle to make his report to Nobunaga.

She was nowhere to be seen on the way to the Tenshu, which he found irritating in its own right, since it would force him to either go to her with no excuse, or leave things to fester in silence for who knew how long.

He made his report and waited to be dismissed, grumbling inwardly as Nobunaga studied him with calculating curiousity.

“Our chatelaine has returned to her residence here. I expect you can explain this turn of events?” He asked, coldly.

“We had a… minor disagreement, my lord. Too trivial for you to concern yourself with.” Mitsuhide answered glibly.

“I’ll be the judge of what is and isn’t trivial, Mitsuhide.” Nobunaga responded, adding an amused snort. “Have you taken steps to rectify the situation?”

“I feel it might be unwise to act hastily.” Mitsuhide said, keeping his smile carefully fixed in place.

“How unusual it is to see you letting your feelings interfere with your goal.” Nobunaga replied, tapping his fan in the palm of his hand thoughtfully.

“This is hardly analogous to a political negotiation.” He said, eyes narrowed at Nobunaga’s self-satisfied smile.

“Is it not? I see two former allies at odds, each waiting for the other to open negotiations. Of course, if I were you, I would simply give the other side every concession, given that you stand to lose nothing but a little face and gain that which you most want.” Nobunaga replied with a shrug.

“I would gladly do so if the concessions were wholly mine to give.” Mitsuhide countered sharply.

“Is that all?” Nobunaga asked, with a decisive snap of his fan. “I trust your diplomatic skill implicitly. Do whatever you see fit.” He finished, with a gesture of dismissal.

Mitsuhide rose to leave, and paused at the library to write a hasty note, passing it to a maid. He plodded out of the castle to wait impatiently on neutral ground.

He saw her coming at last, walking resolutely toward the tea house, dressed gorgeously for the evening’s celebratory banquet, her proud demeanor adding an unusual touch of stateliness to her beauty that set his pulse racing. She nodded at him and sat beside him.

“This isn’t right.” He said softly, turning ostensibly to adjust her hairpin, to touch her cheek lightly.

The afternoon sun was soft as it felt across her face and he watched her expression begin to thaw.

“No, it isn’t.” She said, fixing him with a penetrating gaze.

“I’d never have guessed you were such a devastating tactician.” He said, offering her an honest smile. “But you know exactly how to turn the tables on me.”

She reached out to take a strand of his hair between her fingers, with a bittersweet smile. “This wasn’t about leverage. I’ve been angry, I’m still a little angry but–” she paused with a sigh.

“I know that we have very different experiences and ideas, but I’ve always believed that we share the same principles. I can’t just stop caring. I won’t.” She finished, a quaver in her voice.

He sighed audibly and reached for her hand. “You wouldn’t be the woman I love if you did.”

She knit her fingers through his and he saw the faint beginning of the gentle smile he knew and loved. “I know it’s not unusual to you, but I just can’t accept it. What’s the use of all this struggling for power if nothing really changes?”

He draped his arm over her shoulders and pulled her closer, kissed her forehead tenderly. “I lose sight of that sometimes and I need you by my side to remind me. Perhaps a bit less forcefully, but I’m aware that I can be…”

She cut him off with a soft laugh. “A condescending jackass?”

“You’ve made your point, my dear.” He replied, dryly.

“Well, I’m a jackass too.” She added. “There’s nothing I hate more than feeling powerless, and I took that out on you.”

She craned her face up to steal a quick kiss with apologetic eyes. He held her chin and bent to kiss her deeply, pleased with the lascivious sigh she gave.

“If you don’t stop we’re never going to make it to the banquet.” She murmured, as she ran her hand down his collar, brushing the bare skin of his chest.

“I’ll have to tease you to twice as much later to make you pay.” He whispered, mouth close to her ear, his blood heating with desire at how her breath caught and how she shivered.

She gave him a hungry glance as he forced himself to draw back, and focused on smoothing her hair and clothes into place. “That had better be a promise.” She said, heat in her lingering gaze.

“A promise, a threat, whichever you find the most distracting.” He shot back with a wink. “I’m afraid we have to part, but do me a favor and tell that page that I’d like to offer him a position.” He added, as they both rose.

“Is that a scheme I hear in your alluring voice?” She asked playfully, backing away from him, but holding on to his hand with her fingertips.

“Why, I can’t believe that you’d accuse me of such a thing!” He answered, feeling the heat rise in his face at her compliment. He strolled toward his manor, turning to wave at her one last time, and put the finishing touches on his plan as he changed into his formal clothes.

He had spoken to Nobunaga just before the banquet formally commenced, and took his place beside the lord whose alliance they were celebrating, pouring him a cup.

“That page of yours seems an unfortunate young man,” he said casually, “he looks rather out of place, and at such an important event.”

The lord scowled and tossed back his drink moodily. “He’s worthless I tell you, an absolutely hopeless idiot, but he’s my wife’s cousin’s son, and I’m stuck with him.”

Mitsuhide filled his cup again and leaned in conspiratorially. “You could leave him in my service.” He said, and offered the man a knowing smile.

“Now there’s an idea.” The lord answered with a tipsy chuckle. “He’d get he deserves, then, the little bastard.”

“But I have no one at all to offer as a replacement. How terribly unfortunate.” Mitsuhide said with exaggerated disappointment.

“You shouldn’t offer favors that you can’t deliver upon, Mitsuhide, but I take responsibility for your caprice, as always.” Nobunaga interjected with lordly disdain from the dais. “As a mark of my favor, I’ll send one of my own pages with you. I have no doubt that a man as beneficent and honorable as you will appreciate his talents.” He finished, leaving no doubt that any abuse would be taken as a direct insult.

“I– I-” the lord stammered, apparently only just realizing that he had been all but directly ordered to take a spy into his service, squirming uncomfortably under the twin smiles of Nobunaga and Mitsuhide. “Thank you, my lord.” He sputtered out at last.

“My lord is eternally wise and generous.” Mitsuhide said, showing the daggers in his smile.

She had been pouring for Hideyoshi, eavesdropping on the conversation, and she looked up to offer him a dazzlingly bright smile that seemed to set the entire world right.

#ikemen sengoku #ikemen sengoku mitsuhide #cybird mitsuhide #you-mass-effect-my-dragon-age #thefoxesfic #ask fic #akechi mitsuhide #sfw

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frasier-crane-style · 5 years

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Now, lest we be accused of favoritism, let’s also ask how the demands of this narrative affect how Thor is characterized.

What does it mean for Thor’s heroism to be defined in opposition to a character who is not a threat or a fallen companion, but a disgrace? What does it mean for Thor’s heroism to be defined, specifically, as being someone who will not sacrifice his honor by consenting to gay sex, but would rather be forced to engage in deadly violence?

After all, if the filmmakers really were after something “different” and “refreshing,” not to mention humorous, wouldn’t it have been fun if it was Thor the one to use his looks and charms to ensnare the Grandmaster? If they wanted to turn the tables on the old Thor so much, why not put HIM in yellow and blue and have him meet the cuddly tentacles? It wouldn’t even be OOC! Didn’t he once put on a dress and pretend to be a woman in actual Norse myth to get his hammer back from Thrym? And talk about different! Talk about refreshing! Talk about respectfully disrespecting what had come before! Talk about brave, and even revolutionary! It would have been a wink to the myth, and absolutely hysterical!

Well, that didn’t happen. The filmmakers considered that making Thor clownishly clumsy and changing his speech pattern was enough of a shakeup, and patted themselves on the back a lot for it. In every other sense, they gave us as old-fashioned a kind of hero as can be. We’re talking the ultra-macho ‘80s here, classic in the sense of (a very shallow understanding of) the ancient Greek archetype. (Put a wig on Mel Gibson and we’re set. Cutting-edge stuff, eh?)

To see what they changed to fit Thor into that mold, let’s take a look at how Thor’s heroism was set up and defined in the previous movies for comparison.

In all cases, Thor’s stubbornness is intrinsic to his heroism. His refusal to give up or give in, even when the odds are against him, because his goal matters, and people are depending on him, and he can make a difference. Surrender is not in his nature, after all.

This is true in Ragnarok as well. But the nature of the challenges he faces and how he goes about it, that’s where the paths diverge. In Thor 1, the challenge he must overcome is, in fact, himself. He must come to terms with his own failings (his arrogance, his narrow viewpoint on the world, his first impulse of resorting to violence to address any problem) and learn how to leverage his true strengths (relationship-building, compassion, faith in others). This learning process is carried out in parallel with the narrative of Loki’s downfall, in which he faces his own challenges but makes the wrong choices because he does not trust others and does not seek help, and instead works himself up to a disastrous conclusion. The nature of Thor’s heroism is thus posited as his stubbornness, applied to improving himself as a social being.

In Avengers 1, despite Thor’s arc being only a small part of the film among many others, the challenge Thor faces is again mostly internal, and we see it clearly: tasked with bringing his wayward brother home and preventing him from wreaking havoc on the comparatively helpless population of Midgard, Thor is confronted with this broken relationship with someone he loves deeply. In the brief scene in which he hesitates to reach for his hammer in the field, we see him struggle with the conflict between two values: protecting the innocent humans, and staying loyal to his beloved brother. Sacrificing either value would be damning; in this case, the narrative pits Thor against the possibility of a no-win situation, and his stubbornness is to refuse to accept that he must choose—instead, he sets himself to the task of staying true to both values, no matter how impossible it seems.

In TDW, the narrative begins with Thor discouraged by Loki’s continued antagonism. Thor has retreated into himself somewhat: he has been shaken by everything that has happened, and as Odin pushes him toward taking on greater responsibility, Thor is reassessing what he actually wants. Thor’s established skill at relationships and constructive leadership is brought to the fore as the Dark Elves attack and Thor gathers the team he needs to enact his plan to defeat them. This includes breaking Loki out of prison and convincing him to help: here, Loki is again the foil to Thor, but as a collaborator and ally. Now, TDW admittedly suffers from all the late edits to the plot; it is hard to make quite as strong arguments here because, well, the movie started out as one thing but by the time we saw it, it had become something else (i.e., it’s a bit of a mess in places). Still, Thor is undeniably the hero of the piece, and his heroism consists of refusal to give in against the tangible threat of the Dark Elves, against the simmering conflict with his brother, and the possibility that their relationship cannot in fact be repaired, and against the notion that he has to become the sort of king that Odin is. If a unified theme exists, it is that Thor’s heroism consists of finding a path that he can be proud of, rather than taking an expedient or expected one that goes against his principles. So it’s not so much about what heroes do so as finding out what Thor will do.

So now, what about Ragnarok? As we’ve already described, the narrative of Ragnarok depicts Thor’s heroism, for the most part, in opposition to Loki’s lack of it. What Thor’s stubbornness resists in the film is the idea of giving in to a depraved tyrant, the idea of cozying up to a madman to save himself from pain or danger. The contrast being set up is between this particular masculine ideal and a queer, cowardly submission.

The methods that Thor uses to meet this ideal fall into line with those values: instead of the softer, empathic, more socially connected Thor of the previous movies, this one brazenly deceives and manipulates his friends (Banner/Hulk) to try to gain their assistance, and he goes into a snit when they refuse (compare to his calmly noble acceptance when Jane & company tell him he’s on his own). This sets the stage for his later stubborn resistance against Hela and her bid to rule Asgard, and it is notable that unlike his previous encounters with enemies, he does not try to reason with her or talk her down; upon his return to Asgard, he opens by insulting and goading her. Because, again, he can’t be seen as compromising with an enemy or giving any quarter, not an inch; not in this version of heroism, without internal conflict, whose only self-doubt comes from fearing he will not be strong enough to defeat his enemy, but never wonders if he is worthy.

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kiruuuuu · 5 years

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Doc/Lion oneshot in which they kiss and make up after a fight. And, uh, other things. (Rating E, utter filth + fluff, ~5.2k words) - written for the ever so wonderful @icezero09 (and welcome back to tumblr!) 💖 Thank you so, so much for commissioning me again :) You’re a joy to write for! Find my commission info here ♥

It’s rare for Lion to hesitate in front of his own damn apartment, keys jangling forlornly in his half-raised hand and a dull, empty feeling in his stomach.

The first time he did so lies a while back and was entirely self-imposed: following one of the most memorable nights in his life (and with his past, this means a lot) as well as a terrifying confession, he announced a trip to the nearest bakery for croissants and fresh coffee, knowing full well he was allowing for an escape. Upon his return, he rested his forehead on the cool, off-white lacquer of his door, hoping to affect reality by repeating a mantra in his mind, over and over again. Please be there still. Please be there still. Please be there still.

When he was greeted by Doc, in his underwear, subtly complaining about his fridge being worryingly empty, he could’ve burst from the pure joy exploding in him.

Another time he wavered because of a question he was about to pose, a question which had occupied his thoughts for weeks by then. The prospect of not being refused was thrilling with how much he wanted to turn his regular visitor into a permanent resident, yet they’d only been together for a few months by then. It might’ve been too early, too much of a commitment to move in together, too much to ask to share their living space. Lion had gotten lucky with his flat, snagged one with large windows, evening sunlight, spacious enough for a dedicated office and both a bathtub and a shower, and picturing Doc becoming a part of it all filled him with giddy anticipation. Regardless, the possibility of being turned down remained and so he gathered his courage in front of the very door which would become their door after a dizzyingly short amount of time.

Right now, he’s also mentally preparing himself for a potentially difficult conversation, though there are entirely too many ways it could go. The backpack dangling off his shoulder is not getting any lighter and neither are the memories of red dust, large tents lined up one after another and helplessness etched into faces. He’d volunteered for the deployment despite knowing it’ll leave him without closure – diseases will always rage on somewhere and their efforts might make a difference in one town, one city, one region, one country, but ultimately it’s like trying to fill up a swimming pool using only a cup. What he needs now is a hug, a little bit of peace and no responsibilities other than buying groceries. He loves his job, it gives him purpose and direction in life, and yet he can’t deny it drains him sometimes until there’s no energy left.

Definitely no energy to continue arguing.

“I’m home!”, he announces into the quiet once he’s discarded his shoes and hung up his jacket, receiving no response. He was looking forward to coming home throughout the entire flight, picturing a warm welcome, an apology, something along those lines and is genuinely annoyed to encounter none of it. The kitchen is empty and so is their bedroom where he drops his backpack onto the mattress he’s missed dearly (among other things), but in the living room he finds Doc in his usual armchair, sipping coffee with a book in his lap and looking up once Lion appears in the doorway.

He’s gorgeous.

It shouldn’t come as a shock but does nonetheless, two weeks of absence facilitate taking a step back and looking at him in a new light; almost as if he’s seeing him for the first time again. He looks… warm, even inviting, his kind eyes making up for the disapproving curl of his mouth, body relaxed and showing off his sculpted arms in the short-sleeved polo he’s wearing. Even casually, he dresses like he’s been invited to an informal business outing; Lion has never seen him just in sweatpants and supposes this is one of the reasons why Doc always comes across as distinguished. And he’s never wanted anything more than to curl up in his lap, cling to him and never let go.

Doc runs his gaze up and down his body, causing a pleasant tingling and maybe, just maybe he’s in the mood for -

“You look like you need a shower.”

His calm words are ice cubes on Lion’s skin. He’s not wrong, a fourteen hour flight will do that to anyone, but it’s far from what Lion has been hoping to hear. “Yeah”, he snaps without meaning to sound this harsh, “I probably do.”

The argument from before he left continues in his head while he’s basking in the heat of the water drumming down on his skull: he was only doing his job, after all. That’s why he got hired – he’s a professional and refuses to let emotions interfere with his work, and that’s a good thing, isn’t it? He nearly drops the shampoo bottle in agitation and hits his elbow on the cool tiles as he proceeds to weave an impenetrable net of arguments in his mind, counters everything Doc could throw at him effortlessly and recalls the things they spat at each other two weeks ago.

Ultimately, it was his jurisdiction seeing as it was a containment issue, albeit a relatively minor one. He planned on taking the necessary steps while Doc undermined his authority along the way, much to his irritation – maybe he did misdiagnose the boy and paint a picture more grim than reality, yet the scheduled tests would’ve cleared it up without a doubt and brought both the child as well as his mother the deserved peace of mind instead of sending them home from quarantine early. In the grand scheme of things it didn’t matter whether she had urgent appointments to get to and the boy was frightened almost to the point of hysterics, not if their staying overnight would’ve ensured they’re good to go, so Doc was entirely out of line by declaring them safe and allowing them to leave.

Even though they were safe. Lion admits that. Everyone knew, but regulations are there for a reason and why allow for making mistakes when there’s safety procedures which benefit literally everyone and hell, he’s getting worked up again.

He curses under his breath and shuts the water off. It’s about the principle of it all. Doc can’t continue being as lenient as he is and it’s bad enough Six and the others are catering to his bleeding heart, Outbreak being only one of the many examples Lion can think of – if they’d lost some of their best ops going on that frankly idiotic suicide mission to save Macintosh, it would’ve been a disaster. The fact that it happened to work out is irrelevant.

Angrily, he shrugs on one of his nice shirts out of spite, buttoning it while glaring at himself in the mirror. He’s going to show Doc what he’s been missing out on these past weeks. Maybe he should casually drop a few names to make Doc really regret not talking to him while he was in Africa. Well. It’s not like he messaged or called Doc, but again. It’s about the principle of it all.

While dressing fully, he prepares an opening sure to grab Doc’s interest while simultaneously sounding dismissive, ends up stomping into the living room to deliver his short speech and is about three syllables in when he realises Doc isn’t even there anymore.

“… Olivier?”

He turns around to an amused-looking Frenchman in the kitchen, lifting a cup to indicate it’s for Lion and he dares to still look utterly irresistible. Lion pushes away the mental image of just tossing the mug into the sink in favour of tracing Doc’s jaw line with his tongue (but fuck, it’s tempting) and instead blurts out something he doesn’t even mean, something which needs far more context than, well, nothing: “I wish people stopped listening to you all the time.”

Doc’s face turns stony and Lion wants to kick himself. “Or we can fight instead of catching up”, he mutters and slams the coffee onto the counter, causing it to slosh over. “That’s fine too.”

Lion has joined his lover in the kitchen now, brows scrunched together. “I don’t want to fight”, he states lamely.

“No. You just want to rehash an argument for which we found no solution while insisting you’re right. Big difference.”

Alright. Maybe he wants to fight a little, if only to get a rise out of Doc who’s infuriatingly composed still. “I met some of your former colleagues from MSF”, he tactically switches topics to hopefully appease his boyfriend enough in the meantime so he gives in once Lion pushes the previous issue some time later. “Martina says hi.”

“I know. We talk regularly.” Ouch. The cutting quality of the remark is not lost on him: Doc is pissed that he didn’t even let him know whether he arrived safely. “She also tells me you got shot.”

This, at least, he can de-escalate. “I was shot at, but not hit.”

“Martina mentioned blood.”

“It was a graze shot on my side. It’s healed already.”

Doc seems thoroughly unimpressed – not undeservedly, Lion has been known to either downplay or exaggerate his own injuries wildly, though he hasn’t told anyone the real reason. Pretending he was worse off than it appeared ensured a trip to Doc’s office, and acting as if everything was fine surely impressed the Frenchman once he was there. A foolproof system. “If you say so.”

“I say it because it’s true. Were you worried about me?”

Brown eyes turn even darker at the teasing question. “Of course. Every day, Olivier. Just because you behaved like a temperamental child doesn’t mean I didn’t miss you.”

Lion sputters in indignation. “I did not. If anything, you were worse, you broke the fucking vase!”

“Only because you implied the lives of my colleagues are worth less to me than those of civilians.”

“I only did that because you said I care more about rules than I do about humans in general.”

“You also slammed the door and actually stomped your foot. I’m not the immature one here!”

“And yet you sat here and pouted instead of checking up on me despite being worried just because you need to be right -”

“I am right. And now show me your stupid wound!”

“There is no wound, Gustave!”

“We both know you’re lying, come on.”

“Do you really trust me that little?”

“Have you given me enough reason to trust you?”

And that does it. That is it. Lion is seething at this point, all the pent up frustration and worry boiling over as a result of Doc’s consistent nagging, his denial of Lion being right concerning protocols, the silence during the previous weeks and his insistence on being always correct, it’s too much. He snaps.

With one swift motion, he rips his shirt open, presenting his naked torso to his lover, and growls: “Does this look like I’m fucking injured?!”

Doc stills.

And during the brief silence which follows the animalistic gesture, Doc’s eyes are glued to Lion’s chest, sun-tanned and skin smooth with only the faint hint of a scar on his ribs, a mark which will completely fade in months. Around them, torn-off buttons plink and bounce on the floor.

Lion knows what he looks like, knows his lugging around heavy equipment paired with fewer meals and small portions has made his muscles stand out, contoured him flatteringly and harmonises with his slightly bleached auburn hair. He probably smells like sunlight.

Maybe this ended up a little too dramatic.

“You need to fuck me right now”, Doc tells him, tone serious, “we can argue later.”

… or maybe this had just the right kind of flair.

Before he’s even processed the words, Doc’s hands are already pulling on his belt and fuck, getting with the program has never been this seamless. He angrily swats his lover’s hands away to complete the task himself, flinches involuntarily when soft lips latch onto one of his nipples and presses out a groan upon feeling teeth on the sensitive skin. It’s all a little too sudden so he’s only half hard when Doc yanks his trousers down, but watching him sink to his knees without hesitation and lick his way from the base to the tip does wonders to remedy this.

Lion threads his fingers into dark, wavy hair, still reeling from what on earth just happened, is still happening, yet he couldn’t be further from complaining once Doc wraps his glossy lips around the head and flattens his tongue against it. His mouth is hot and wet and Lion feels himself swelling inside the cavern, blood rapidly filling his stiffening shaft while Doc mercilessly sucks him into full hardness. He makes for a beautiful picture like this, more submissive than he usually lets himself be, especially in context, though when he glances up at Lion, there’s still something defiant in his dark gaze.

So that’s how it’s going to be.

His grip tightens and he begins guiding Doc’s movements, pulling him further onto his cock with each bob and causing first a strangled moan and then a warning hum which he disregards entirely. There’s some residual anger still and it bleeds into Lion’s motions, makes them a little rougher than normal. Doc’s tongue is slowly driving him insane with the way its tip seeks out all his most sensitive spots almost out of spite, how it massages the underside, swirls over his slit and curls around the glans, and the sweet pressure of his lover sucking on him only adds to the dizzying mix of stimulation. Not only does it feel mind-blowing, it feels like triumph.

Idly, he debates leaving it at that, interpret this phenomenal blowjob as a concession of defeat from Doc and never bring up their earlier argument again – it would certainly be worth it, Doc always looks so beautiful after he’s swallowed Lion’s come, dazed and proud and like his reading glasses would be askew if he put them on. Doc’s slight resistance might be just for show but Lion relishes it nonetheless, keeps dragging him in while testing out the limits, lets up a little when Doc pinches his thigh after a particularly deep swallow – and then he notices Doc palming himself through his trousers.

He seems to be enjoying this just as much as Lion is.

Inside Doc’s mouth, his cock gives a vicious throb at the sudden surge in desire and earns a helpless moan in return. Lion pictures it briefly, him fucking Doc’s throat while his lover pleasures himself, trapped between focusing on Lion’s dick and his own erection, and his hips involuntarily thrust forward at the mental image. Doc, not expecting it, withdraws while gasping, robs Lion of his delicious wet heat and glares. The hand between his legs, however, is not stopping.

Belatedly, Lion realises this isn’t a submission, if anything it’s an act of war – Doc is taking what he thinks is his, rendering Lion useless in the process. He’s furious but unable to keep his hands off Lion. And if that isn’t the hottest thing he could’ve hoped to encounter today.

“Get up”, he orders hoarsely, throat dry, and doesn’t waste any time undressing his lover as soon as he’s obliged. All his clothes are quickly discarded and tossed somewhere, and with every new bit of skin revealed, Lion’s impatience grows: he wants this man, and he wants him now, wants to show him without a shadow of a doubt how much he desires him… but also make him admit Lion was right.

Doc’s skin is warm under his palms and his tongue slick against Lion’s own. Their making out is almost desperate and not at all befitting a loving reunion after a prolonged absence, but neither of them mind while their lips glide over each other, hands roaming over bodies. Doc moans into his mouth when Lion grabs a handful of his ass, and refuses to break the kiss even as he’s lifted up and set down on the table. His legs wrap around Lion’s hips and he pulls him closer, ankles locked, the gesture possessive but encouraging, and both of them voice their pleasure when their erections rub against each other, Lion’s spit-slicked and Doc’s just as hard now.

“Missed me that much, Gustave?”, he teases in between ravenous kisses and almost loses his balance when Doc’s legs shove him a little in protest.

“Don’t be so smug and get the lube.”

“Why don’t you get it yourself if you want me so much?”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

They glare at each other and it’s tough not to allow the challenging expression to melt into an amused smile over Doc’s visible frustration. He’s clinging to Lion still, resistance clearly written in his features – if it was for him, he’s not going to give up any time soon. The realisation of what he’s going to do next makes Lion’s dick jump in anticipation and he turns out to be right: if Lion has leverage over his lover due to how horny he is, he just needs to level the playing field. And so he lightly sinks his teeth into Lion’s shoulder, grabs his cock and drags the nails of his other hand over Lion’s ribs. The faint pain is transformed into roaring want immediately upon Doc lightly jerking him and holy shit, why have they never had angry sex before?

He curses quietly, whispers Doc’s name and earns a sharp nip to his jaw; if he wants to keep up, he needs to act. Blindly, he reaches behind him and fetches the bottle of olive oil from the counter while thrusting into the unforgiving grip. The feeling is divine, almost as good as Doc’s mouth and he hears himself groan in bliss after his lover has spat into his hand and eased the slide considerably, producing a whole other kind of friction. He’s got something better, though.

As soon as his oiled-up fingers curl around Doc’s thick shaft, the Frenchman pauses. Takes a deep breath. And expels it again with a sound akin to a whine when Lion begins stroking him leisurely, thoroughly enjoying the way his lover relaxes into him before being aware of doing so. And once he notices, it’s back to struggling.

They relentlessly exploit each other’s weakspots, Lion sucking a purple bruise onto Doc’s neck, right below his ear, and Doc massaging his balls, nearly causing his knees to give in, fingertips brush over nipples, lips latch onto sensitive patches of skin, and all the while they’re simultaneously pushing each other away and pressing closer. Breath mingling, they’re becoming one already, pawing and kissing and attempting to dominate. They’re both worse for wear by now and so Doc doesn’t even protest when Lion orders him to lie back and spread his legs. Fingers generously coated in olive oil, Lion runs them over his lover’s entrance teasingly before inserting just one.

And oh.

Doc’s cheeks darken when Lion adds a second finger without hesitation, finding his insides pliant and wet already – or rather still.

“Couldn’t even wait until I’m home”, Lion tuts and watches, full of wonder, as Doc swallows even a third digit easily.

“If you hadn’t given me the silent treatment, you might’ve gotten some photos”, the other Frenchman retaliates through his teeth, though his grimace slips a little when Lion strokes over his prostate. Being this familiar with his body pays off more often than not.

“And if you hadn’t given me the silent treatment, I’d have talked you through it.” Lion’s own dick is rearing to go, pulsing impatiently at the sight of Doc’s hole stretching around his fingers, and yet he resists the temptation to enter him and instead goes back to jerking him with his free hand. Doc looks like he’s going to start drooling any second now, his resistance forgotten in favour of grinding against Lion’s hands. “I would’ve told you that you’re doing so good, that you look beautiful, that you can take even more fingers than that. How much I want you. That you should imagine it’s me pushing inside you.”

He’s putty in Lion’s hands now, was shoved over the threshold by overwhelming need and has turned malleable, soft, desperate. Lion has won, and victory has never felt sweeter than right now: the person with whom he hopes to spend the rest of his life all laid out in front of him, blinking up at him dazedly and with so much love obvious in chocolate brown eyes that Lion’s heart threatens to burst for a moment.

“Please”, Doc says quietly. And Lion doesn’t make him say it twice.

Slicking up his own cock already forces a moan out of his throat, so he doesn’t expect to last long – not with how long he’s had to wait for this, not with how tight the ring of muscle was around his three fingers. It doesn’t matter, he’s sure they’ll be having a second round later. Carefully, he lines up the tip and pushes in with minimal resistance, both of them moaning when the head slips inside, and once he’s fully bottomed out, he takes a moment to revel in familiar feeling of Doc clenching down on him. Oh, how he missed this. How he missed the disbelief written all over Doc’s face when Lion rolls his hips and brushes over his sweet spot, how he missed the filthy sounds they’re producing together, how he missed the feeling of another body against his own.

Once he slams inside the first time, Doc is already incoherent and the half-syllables he manages only convince Lion to not let up, increase force and speed and intensity to make him forget his own name, to make him forget he ever belonged to anyone else. His lover’s crotch is an oily mess but it’s just perfect for him, allowing him to wank him hard and fast, rapidly building pleasure in time with his thrusts – Doc doesn’t suspect anything yet, thighs trembling already from how deep Lion invades him with every motion, from how calloused fingers run over sensitive flesh. He must think Lion impatient or close to the edge but couldn’t be further from the truth. He’s only just started.

When he ceases his ministrations just as Doc’s abs begin to flutter, giving away his impending orgasm, he expects his lover to react with indignation, possibly take matters into his own hands or at the very least glare at him, but when his eyes open, they’re so full of devotion and acceptance that Lion is momentarily floored. Instead of fighting him, Doc tightens his legs and drags him in, turns the hard thrusts rocking his body even more brutal and unforgiving despite panting already, despite squirming away from the overpowering pleasure. He doesn’t protest when Lion massages his dick once more, struggles to hold it with how fiercely it’s twitching, and even when he stops again due to Doc’s mewling nearly reaching peak volume, the man in front of him tolerates the torture.

Lion keeps up the merciless rhythm of his hips, fucks his way towards a well-deserved climax and marvels at the beauty laid out just for him, but it bothers him how… accommodating Doc has become even though he’s nothing if not stubborn. And yet he rewards Lion’s movements with loving gazes, contracts around his shaft to increase the sweet, sweet pressure, and lets endless, blissful noises drop from his lips. Lion can feel Doc’s toes flexing against his back, so he must be hitting just the right spot and he’s so caught up in his own lust, so focused on the erotic sensation of driving into the person he loves, of making both of them feel good, that it takes him embarrassingly long to understand.

He leaves Doc hanging on the edge again and explores his shapely chest with a slick hand, leaving glistening trails on darker skin, but it clicks when his palm travels all the way up, barely brushing against Doc’s throat. Because he tilts his head back, willingly exposing the vulnerable body part. And Lion gets it.

It doesn’t matter that they disagree on certain topics, their views are unlikely to change and so neither of them will budge, but what does matter is that they love each other regardless. That they accept each other the way they are, and even if they might be angry, their passion and commitment remains untouched. This is why Doc is handing himself over so willingly: his trust is unshaken.

And Lion interrupts his motions to lean down and kiss him, channel all the love and faith and desire he feels for this man into the gesture while burying both hands in Doc’s hair, cradling his face. The smile he feels against his mouth tells him that Doc understands, and when Lion starts grinding against him a few seconds later, both of them gasp.

“I missed you so much”, Lion mutters against parted lips and now everything is pouring out of him. “Fuck, I thought of you every free second. You feel so good, Gustave, you have no idea how good you feel. You’re amazing. I love you so much.”

Doc moves against him, eyes open as he clings to the taller man like his life depended on it. “I love you too, Olivier. And you’re so deep -”

“I even dreamt of you. I still can’t believe this is real, sometimes. You look so fucking hot right now, I want to fuck you until you can’t walk.”

This earns him the very first genuine, absolutely brilliant smile ever since he came back. Doc licks his mouth open and plays with his tongue until they’re both breathless and gasping before whispering: “Do it.”

So Lion does.

He pulls out, half drags Doc off the table and turns him around so his feet are (already unsteadily) on the floor, torso resting on the wooden surface with Lion behind him, and slams home in one fluid motion. From there, it’s a veritable mess, a maelstrom of sensation and want, a barrage of stimulation muddling Lion’s perception entirely. He’s vaguely aware of waves of divine pleasure rushing through his entire body with each thrust, notices Doc looking back at him pleadingly over his shoulder, incredulity lining his features and increasing with every strangled sound. It’s pure heaven, skin slapping sharply on skin, his cock rubbing over Doc’s prostate with every thrust, causing him to whimper and writhe and his legs to almost give in, and all the while he insistently drags Doc’s hips to meet him so he can reach as deeply inside as possible.

The fast tempo wrecks them both, sweat is starting to bead up on Doc’s back and Lion’s forehead, both of them completely lost in their own pleasure, in each other, in the feeling connecting them – and when Lion reaches around to jerk Doc in the same unrelenting rhythm as his motions, another hand closes over his own, squeezes it more tightly and demonstrates just how Doc likes it right now. Knowing how much he enjoys the deep and thorough penetration only serves to cloud Lion’s thoughts further and, in contrast, sharply brings his own desire into focus, steadily building up with every time he invades his lover so intimately until he can’t take it anymore.

When he comes, he folds in half and moans unselfconsciously into Doc’s hair, loud groans wrenched from him with every delicious wave of pleasure rolling through him. The relief is immeasurable, rushes through his veins like liquid electricity and has him shuddering violently in time with his small thrusts accompanying the contractions in his lower muscles. He’s barely aware of Doc’s hand speeding up in desperation but suddenly becomes keenly aware of his lover climaxing below him due to the hard clenching around him all of a sudden, the spasms milking him even further and his own moans mixing with Doc’s. They both shiver, prolong each other’s orgasm with minuscule movements and only come down slowly from their intense high, aftershocks making their muscles twitch and cocks throb.

Doc lets out a content sigh which Lion mirrors, but when he pushes against the larger body draped over him, Lion refuses to budge. He’s still coasting on the elating feeling of loving and being loved, of sharing intimacy, and if he doesn’t say it now, he never will.

Lips brushing over warm skin, he murmurs: “I’m sorry. I… rules help me do the right thing and I’m afraid of acting without them. I’ll try to think for myself more instead of blindly relying on general instructions which might not fit the situation exactly.”

His lover huffs a quiet laugh and catches one of his hands in his own, interlaces their fingers to show him he appreciates the apology. “I’m sorry too. I let my feelings interfere with my work which can be dangerous. I’ll try to take a step back and assess situations more objectively.”

It’s such a relief to hear these words that Lion nearly tears up at the realisation that he’s forgiven, that he made a concession only to be graced with one in return, that they’re equals after all, both human and thus flawed in their own way. They’re both wrong if the result is them not speaking to each other, and the insecurity of what their fight might mean for their relationship melts away, leaving behind nothing more than a fuzzy feeling.

This time, when Doc moves, Lion withdraws gingerly and stands up straight, pulling the other man into a tight embrace once he’s turned around. They kiss slowly and sweetly, both of them smiling into it since they can’t help it and when he playfully peppers the side of Doc’s neck in kisses, his lover reacts with a chuckle.

“That was awful”, Doc tells him matter-of-factly. “Let’s never do that again.”

And though Lion has to agree that the past two weeks rank among the worst of his life, he can’t help but clarify: “You don’t mean the angry sex though, right? You looked so incredibly hot, blowing me while furious.”

Doc snorts, visibly embarrassed, and shakes his head slightly. “If you liked that, I… guess we can have a repeat performance. Just without all the nonsense before it.”

“Yeah. I agree.” Lion takes the opportunity to eye up his boyfriend, take in his messy hair, the shimmery smears all over his body, the absolute mess between his legs – and it looks like he did drool on the table after all. “You look like you need a shower.”

The grin spreading on Doc’s face is almost mischievous and has Lion falling for him all over again, not that he’s letting it show just how smitten he really is. “And I do hope you’re going to accompany me, mon amour?”

How could he say no to that? “We have a lot of catching up to do”, he agrees and drops his gaze to see some of his semen running down Doc’s thigh.

Maybe he’ll end up having to shower three times today.

#rainbow six siege #doc #lion #doc/lion #fanfic #commissions #angry doc is my spirit animal #he told his colleague to ask lion about his relationship status #just to hear about how awkwardly he replied #these two are so stubborn

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siliquasquama · 4 years

Text

Elf Storage

This is the first short story I ever told anyone. I think I came up with it for a Boy Scout campfire. But I lost the original document somehow (no idea how, it ought to be on my computer and it isn’t! I am vexed! I am infuriated!), so this is the revised version that I came up with yesterday -- here it is, and enjoy it as you please.

So I used to have a job in this town. I used to be the second-shift front desk clerk for a self-storage facility.

It wasn’t a fancy job but it was a big job, at least I like to think. ‘Cause a lot of people need their stuff stored, right? You know, we’ve all got so much stuff these days – sometimes I wonder where everyone puts it! But my place was one place. And, you know, lots of people have more stuff to store than their apartment can hold – better a self-storage facility than tripping over a bunch of junk to get to the kitchen table, right?

Well anyway. This place, big tall square brick building, not dressed up very fancy. It had a big neon sign out on the top that said “Self Storage.” Big letters lit up in red.

And I’m working at the front desk alone because the only two people who really need to be there are the receptionist, a couple security guards, and the manager. It’s a pretty low-overhead kind of place. Good profit, and I get some of it.

So around about noon one fine cold day this guy comes walking in and he looks homeless. You know how you can tell sometimes, right? Wearing lots of clothes all at once, carrying a big bag of cans, face looking like all the world’s come right down on you, which, to be fair, it has. Well this guy didn’t have a big bag of cans and he wasn’t wearing all his clothing at once, but he did have that look on his face.

And he came up to me and he said, “I would like to store myself, please.”

And I said “Stop yanking my chain.”

And he said, “I’m not trying to yank your chain, I want to store myself.”

And I said, “Either tell me what you actually want to store or stop wasting my time and get out of here.”

And he said, “Look, can I speak to the manager?”

And I rolled my eyes and I went to bring the manager out, and the manager asked the guy if he could pay, and the guy brought out a big old wad of cash. Well that threw me for a loop. Where did this guy get a big old wad of cash if he was homeless? The way he explained it, he had a decent job and all, working at the dollar store and second shift at a fast food joint, but he still just couldn’t afford an apartment in this dumb city, you know how it is, especially since he had to help pay his sister’s medical expenses, and the motels didn’t want him around, and he got kicked out of the Salvation Army Shelter because – well he wasn’t going to explain that at all. So maybe this was a last ditch, you know, a wild shot in the dark. Better than sleeping on the cold street, right?

And I thought well that’s fair, and the manager said well that’s fair, but it’s not like our units have ventilation or anything. And he said he would leave the door open a few inches at the bottom.

I didn’t think the manager was going to go for it, but he did, and the fellow purchased a unit and promised he would pay extra if he was going to bring anyone else in. And by day he would be out and about, doing his work, and by night, before the third-shift clerk came in, he would come back, pay his fee, give me a high five and go to his unit. Never brought anyone else in. Maybe he couldn’t afford it?

We wound up having to explain things to the third-shift clerk and the first-shift clerk, because sometimes Mister Stores-Himself would come in much too late for me, and of course he’d be leaving when I wasn’t there – the first-shift clerk thought it was pretty funny but the third-shift guy took some convincing. Fortunately in this economy, “do it or you’re fired” is pretty convincing. I always felt a little ashamed about that but hey – I’m not the manager. None of this was my decision. I’m just along for the ride and making money.

Well. Things went like that quietly for a while. I wondered if any other homeless folks would follow in his wake, but, you know, we do charge a fee for storage, and we’re not going to give discounts. Got to make money, right?

The first test of that principle came when the neon sign had a letter burn out.

You know how it is with those signs, right? Where you drive up to the store at night and the sign says “HARMACY” or “OOD MART” or “1-HR P O O” because the boss was too cheap to get the sign fixed and who cares anyway. Maybe you’re old enough to remember when the Hollywood sign said “HULLYWO D”? That kind of thing.

So now, as soon as night fell, our facility was called “ELF STORAGE.”

I thought that was kind of funny, like, oh no someone’s going to try to store an elf here. I stopped laughing when a lady came in around 6 PM and asked to store an elf.

So I said, “Come on, lady, I don’t need this kind of crap. I’m here on my feet from 5 to 11 and – ”

And she cut me off like a jerk. “I don’t care about your feet,” she said. “I want to store an elf.”

And I said “Look, you can store any object you want as long as you can pay, but why do you need to tell me the details? Just get out your credit card and stop wasting my time.”

And she said, “This isn’t an object, this is a real elf. The sign says Elf Storage. So I’m storing an elf. Do you want me to sue you for false advertising?”

And I said, “Do you want me to call security?”

And she said, “I want you to call the manager.”

Here we go again! So I brought in the manager and the manager said alright, let’s see this elf, and the lady brought out – must have been from behind her back somehow, I swear I never saw the damn thing before that moment – a living breathing elf.

A fairly tall elf lady, as it was, and I could tell even though her long hair covered her ears, cause she was a foot taller than my annoying customer and she was giving me a look that made me shudder and I was pretty sure her dress was made of actual leaves.

So I turned to the manager, hoping to get some backup for my refusal here, and the manager said, hey, we have to make money. And I said, I think we’re in over our heads. And the manager said, do you want to get paid or not?

That was a good answer, but I still had a burning question on my mind, so I turned to the annoying customer and said, “Why don’t you let the elf here speak for herself?” And that turned out to be a mistake because the elf’s response was a song that sounded like it came out of twenty different people.

And the annoying customer said that this was the elf lady’s request, because now that the sign no longer said self-storage, she couldn’t ask to store herself.

And that was when Mister Store-Himself walked in and put down his fee for the day, and the Elf Lady told him to scram because he was violating the sign. He told her to shove off. They almost started a fistfight until the manager put his foot down very loudly and said it was his facility, by thunder, and he’d accept whatever he wanted to accept.

That was a fair enough answer for the elf lady. She could understand monarchy well enough. And Mister Store-Himself was just glad to avoid being tossed out. So he didn’t put up a fuss.

Money in the till and that was that. The annoying customer purchased a small unit and the elf lady shrank to fit. I could swear she gave me a wink before she closed the door.

Things went like that for a while. Someone would come in wanting to store an elf, and all kinds of them – some thin as a rail and taller than me, some short and squat, some pale, some brown, some golden, some blue, didn’t matter really, they always looked completely different every time any of their doors were opened. And the third-shift guy kept telling me that they looked nothing like human when they crossed through moonlight. I asked him how the hell he was seeing moonlight in the middle of this city and he said he could see the full moon out the windows every night, when the lights flickered out at random times. I asked him how the hell the lights burned out when they were fluorescent track lighting installed last month. He couldn’t explain.

It took some convincing to get him to put up with all this, which is to say the manager threatened to fire him again.

Well, whatever. I didn’t have to deal with it except on the very occasional instance that the lights went off before my shift ended. One time Mister Store-Himself came in at just that moment, and needed help finding his own unit. Wouldn’t have been a problem except that my flashlight wasn’t working, so I had to use the glow from my smartphone and that kept turning off. Slow going. Especially since Mister Store-Himself told me to keep my eyes away from the patches of moonlight, so I’m shuffling around them with my eyes down. Talk about a nightmare. I have no idea how I found the guy’s unit before dawn.

Both me and third-shift guy were envious of the first-shift clerk, or more envious than usual.

That went on for a few months. No more incidents on my end, although Mister Stores-Himself complained to the manager that his unit’s door kept getting shut all the way. Thank heavens the first-shift guy always made sure to check. Otherwise it was a nice time. The building was warmer than you would have expected.

Then the next letter in the sign burned out.

At that point most of the elfs disappeared. They weren’t going to stick around if the sign didn’t say they could. And the manager no longer had a hold on them. Maybe he never really did. Maybe they were just playing with him. Or maybe they were following rules that he didn’t understand. Or maybe they understood what was coming. Whatever it was, the fees for their storage were gone, and the manager was despondent. He made hints that he would have to let us go. No more money. Well, that was going to be a problem, but at least the units were free for other people, right?

Unless some whack-off comes in trying to store an LF. What the heck is an LF? I don’t know. Hopefully nobody knows.

So the very next evening some fellow comes in with a pet carrier in one hand. Big pet carrier, the kind that holds a medium dog or a really big house cat. And oh boy, the sound that comes out of this pet carrier. Snarling like the devil himself. SNARL, GRRR, ROWL, RARR. I can barely hear the guy as he requests to store an Eleff.

I say, “What? You want to store an elephant?”

And he says, “No I don’t think you’re elegant!”

And the manager comes out, grabs the pet carrier, opens the door, sticks his hand in, and suddenly it’s dead quiet.

Alright, so maybe these things shut up if you give them a taste of the long pork. I asked the manager if Mister Stores-Himself is going to like that idea and the manager said, we have to make money.

So now it was my turn to suffer. First-shift clerk had no people coming to store Eleffs; third-shift guy only got them now and then; they all came in on MY shift, and oh my poor eardrums. I had to learn to stick my hand in the pet carrier despite my utter terror.

Whatever these Eleffs were, they were pretty fluffy.

And once you shoved the pet carrier into the unit their snarls were muffled. That worked well enough for a while. Until we got as many of them as we used to have elfs, and all the muffled snarling added up to an ominous sound that had the third-shift guy shaking in his shoes all night. He didn’t wait for the manager to fire him, apparently. Just ran out the door into the night. Or so I was told. I never actually saw him go.

You’d think if he got eaten Mister Stores-Himself would have gone first, but, by the same token, HE had a big steel door to hide behind. And what was he going to do if he didn’t like it? Leave?

I felt a little sick thinking that way about a fellow down on his luck, but it was true. He had to accept whatever this place threw at him, as long as his unit was his own. And the manager would take anything, as long as someone paid the fee. Money. Money money money. Maybe Mister Stores-Himself and the manager were both stuck in their own way. Manager out of greed, Mister Stores-Himself out of desperation. And me? Well, I had an apartment to pay for as well. This place paid well enough that I only had to work one shift. What a rare thing around here. I was stuck as much as anyone else was, unless I wanted to work myself to death at some warehouse package-fulfillment place where I could die and nobody would find me for twenty minutes.

So while these Eleffs were snarling all the livelong night, I was drowning them out with my own snarls about who had enough money to pay our fees, after all. How the hell did they get it and what did they do. Who knew.

Well, that went on for a while, and I wound up picking up the third shift because I was really good at ignoring the noises from the units, and NOBODY was applying for the position. Hey, two wages in my pocket, what’s not to like, right? Oh right, the fact that I had to stay awake from 5 PM until 5 AM. No goddamn way, man. I slept under the front desk.

Until the security guards ratted on me to the manager. Maybe they were mad at me for supposedly accepting all this nonsense. Hey, all I ever did was call the manager!

So I got real mad and I decided to get real sneaky. One night I told the security guards I was leaving the desk to use the bathroom, cover for me alright? And I sneaked up to the seventh floor where the big red sign ran right under the windows. This whole LF thing was going to end right now, dammit. I leaned out the window and whacked the glowing red L real hard.

Admittely it was a long shot, but I was thinking that, if they’re hanging up high, they’re not built to withstand any heavy blows. Well, I can’t say for certain. My idea didn’t work.

What actually happened was that the metal parts holding the sign to the brick were really rusty because Mister We Gotta Make Money never bothered to pay for maintenance on these things. So one smack sent the entire thing right off the wall.

The impact down on the ground sure drowned out whatever snarls were coming from the units. And thank god it sent both security guards running towards it, because they were too distracted to see me coming down the stairs. They were looking up to wonder why the sign had fallen, and down to worry about the massive amounts of glass all over the place.

I didn’t get any more sleep that night. The manager told me to sweep up all the glass. Oh, security guards didn’t have to help, did they? No, they had to protect the precious storage units from the sneak thieves who might have been using the sign as a distraction.

They wound up blaming Mister Stores-Himself because he was…an easy target, to be honest. They knew I’d gone to the bathroom and Mister Stores-Himself couldn’t prove his whereabouts, could he? And he could open his unit’s door from the inside, right? There you go.

The fact that I never revealed the truth when I had the chance to save that guy is not the greatest shame of my life, but it’s up there.

Well. I’d solved my problem, at least. Now we were going to get people trying to store an F. And no more snarls! No more Third shift for me!

Except that by this point, nobody in their right mind would have applied to work for us. I had hoped that Mister No Longer Stores Himself would take the opening that I had left, but maybe he wasn’t going to put up with a place that treated him like crap after pretending to give him a chance. So, welcome to third shift again!

And my assumption about the new customers proved correct. Sort of.

The first guy that came in next evening said, “I want to store an Eff.”

And I said, “Store an F? Maybe you can just paste it to a wall somewhere.”

And he said, “Excuse me? Oh, no no. Spelled E-F-F. Slightly different.”

And I said, “The sign says F not E-F-F. No dice.”

And he said, “I want to talk to the manager.”

I was sorely tempted to go behind the doorway and pretend to be a gruff manager telling him to scram, but the actual manager was there, so, nothing for it.

The manager said it was fine as soon as he could see this “eff”.

And the customer said, “You can’t see it. But! You know it’s there. Here effy effy effy effy.” And suddenly a gentle breeze blew through the room even though the door was closed.

Money in the till and that was that.

Only after the second and third of these things came in did I think to ask where, exactly, these things were being stored. The manager said, wherever. And I said, what do you mean whatever. And he said, you can’t store the wind in a definite place, can you? And I said yes you can, it’s called compressed air. And he said, the point is, we can store as many of these things in here as we want. Infinite customers! We’re no longer limited by space! And I said, compressed air, dumbass, there’s a limit to how much air you can fit in a space. And he said shut up or you’re fired.

Fine. At least this time the security guards weren’t going to venture into the building. At all. They were getting really scared. So I could sleep behind the desk now and fall asleep to the sound of a gentle breeze.

Or with good earplugs, because as we got one customer after another, the wind got louder and louder. I had to sleep with a thick blanket behind the desk because that wind was taking the heat right off me.

Mister manager kept his door closed and pretended not to notice.

But eventually, it was impossible not to notice, especially when I was having trouble standing upright at the desk. If I couldn’t hear a customer say anything then how could we get any more customers? Sign language! Thank goodness everyone knows sign language, right? Right. Right. Lucky me.

At the point that the manager himself could barely get his own door open, he began to have some doubts himself. But, gotta make money, right? And I tried to tell him that this was now impossible. First-shift clerk was long gone. Maybe blown out the window. The manager had to cover that shift himself.

But before he had the chance to figure that all out for himself, I wasn’t going to let him learn for himself, before I had my goddamn revenge. What I did was, instead of communicating the impossibility of the situation to him in sign language, I opened one of the windows, staggered back to the cash drawer, opened it up, and tossed all the cash into the air.

Must have been three thousand dollars that blew out the window with the escape of the Effs.

So NOW it was quiet.

And the manager told me I was fired.

Fine.

As it turned out, I wasn’t going to get any more money out of that place. Now that the remaining customer base had been thoroughly infuriated, they collectively sued the guy to oblivion. He tried to pin the blame on me but I never wound up paying anything because HE counter-sued the customers for creating the whole situation, and the whole thing became a legal tangle. He had to sell his storage facility to a national chain in order to keep paying his legal fees, and then settle.

In the meantime I took a first-shift job at a mattress store and a second-shift job at a nail salon, and those places were at least a little nicer. And I’d picked up enough money from the night shift at the storage place that I could put a down payment on a better apartment than my old place. I tracked down Mister Stores-Himself and offered to make things up to him by letting him pay a quarter of the rent instead of half. And he said, oh no, I don’t think you can put up with me, and I said, what could possibly be the problem? And he said that, before he managed to put on deodorant in the morning he always smelled like the devil himself. He had asked for a unit in a storage facility because he knew he’d be totally alone in the morning.

Well I’d lost my sense of smell in a firecracker accident years ago, so that wouldn’t be a problem. And he said fine and dandy.

So now we’re kind of stuck together, but I’d rather be stuck with him than my old manager. He’s a clever fellow, and bold. He proved that at the start of the whole ordeal.

I wonder why the manager never said anything about the smell. Maybe he was too polite? Nah, can’t be.

It had to be the money. Well, he got what he wanted.

And maybe everyone got what they deserved after all.

#Elf Storage #self storage #neon sign #fun with neon #short story #text #fiction

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ruffoverthinksthings · 7 years

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What are some of Claudine's likes and dislikes? I love how you craft her to be spicy and saucy with her tongue, yet accomplished in her studies and quick on her feet (literally and figuratively).

All that reading of the Bible and being secretary to administrative work, listening in to speechs of a very well-spoken and well-read man, and having to defend her faith and later on seduce and manipulate people paid off dividends.

Likes

Books.

After being forced to read and study the Bible and other (verystrictly curated) books about Christianity over and over again, andbeing denied all manner of literature that ends up on thebarges--either overrun copies of cheap/generic adventure/romancestories, or hardcover copies of serious texts like that of history orphilosophy--Claudine finds herself enjoying finally seeing all the“blasphemous and subversive” material that Frollo has so warnedher will corrupt her mind and turn her away from God.

Philosophy interests her primarily, as she’s always been toldthat there is but One Truth, and that is (the Christianinterpretation of) God, and seeing all the many different ways peopleinterpret the meaning of life, what is our purpose, and the manydifferent explanations as to why we do the things we do interest her.

She develops a great interest in Psychology, especially theconcept of “mental gymnastics” whereby people bend overbackwards, go through hoops, and perform all manner of impressivefeats of reasoning and justification just to defend their beliefs,their choices, and their worldviews.

Of particular interest to her is religious extremism and hypocrisyin Religions of all forms, though for obvious reasons she studiesChristianity first and foremost, and second is the way Auradon’s peoplejustify their unfair and inherently skewed social order.

On a leisurely reading note, she really likes romancenovels, adventure stories, and “slice-of-life” works that showher how relationships are supposed to be, protagonists overcomingoverwhelming odds and their own hang-ups through determination,personal growth, and friendship, and how life is supposed to be whenyou’re lucky enough to be born into a (mostly) well-functioningfamily.

Fashion

Because of the limited materials on the Isle, Maleficent having amonopoly on most supplies, and the Evil Queen taking the lion’sshare of good stuff for herself and Evie, a broke and withoutconnections girl like Claudine was forced to rely on just two fashionstyles:

Highly conservative and simple dresses with long sleeves andskirts, and repurposed linens, and of course

Heavily modified and scandalized school uniforms that theiroriginal owners had outgrown and couldn’t find anyone to hand itdown to

She really rather enjoys the expanded choice she has here inAuradon, access to raw materials and fashion from all over the worldas now she can go to all the Well Intentions branch in Auradon Cityand pick-up all the “pre-loved” items for a pittance, planoutfits in advance without fear of it getting stolen, and justgenerally mix-and-match with more styles, designs, and moods than sheever thought possible

It also helps that Esmeralda bonds with her by doing each others’hair and make-up, making outfits for each other that express thesexuality they’re so comfortable with than hide it like mostAuradonians do, along with assisting the drives for collecting goodsand items for the less fortunate

This is both for the ostracized and forgotten of Auradon, and thepeople of the Isle of the Lost. “True, they could just scavenge itfrom the trash, but it feels so much better to open a box that wasmeant for you specifically.”

Confident and Principled Public Figures

Personal bias: Claudine is a VERY big fan of my interpretation ofElsa in the Descendants universe, modeling herself after her assomeone who is not willing to just let awful systems thrive andquestionable decisions be because “that’s just the way thingsare,” be able to ignore her “Pharisees” without even givingthem the time of day, and she also rather enjoys the fact that theIce Queen is a Mistress of Sick Burns.

After living in a congregation of Yes People that just constantlyexcuse and justify everything in their mind so their fragileworldviews are never shattered, Claudine finds great admiration,respect—and if we’re being totally honest, sexual attraction—topeople that are willing to stand by their beliefs in the face offerocious unpopularity, threats and insults, and have unshakablefaith to one thing:

“The Actual Truth”

In her words, “What can I say? I get wet for someone whorises up and doesn’t back down until you give them a damn goodreason.”

Other people she admires for similar reasons include Queen Tiana,Queen Merida, Mulan, Consort Jasmine, Flynn Rider AKA King EugeneFitzhebert, Queen Rapunzel, King Aladdin, Queen Elena, Queen Belle,Maid Marian, Megara, King Ben, and Jordan

Peopleshe respects, but has something of an intense non-romanticlove-hate-but-mostly-hate relationship with include Sebastian, Zazu,Cogsworth, and Rafiki, all of whom have at some point or another beenher mentors in the art of logic, reasoning, politics, publicspeaking, and philosophy

(“Ifyou’re going to curse like a sailor, at least enunciate your fourletter words properly!” - Cogsworth)

Shehas something of an odd inter-generational friendship with Lumiere,as her premiere sparring partner for “swords and slander” alongwith bonding over his checkered, “not entirely legal” past, andthe fact that, true to the stereotype, is her primary source ofromantic advice

Dislikes

RealityTV

Assomeone who dislikes plasticity, hypocrisy, and shallowness as muchas Claudine, Auradon “Reality TV” REALLY gets on her nerves.While nowhere near as trashy or awful as that of Jersey Shorehere, the point still remains that a lot of this shows areshowing carefully planned, scripted, and highly exaggerated versionsof events being pedaled as “the real, unedited thing.”

Claudinecan see right through the bullshit of the adventures of “The GoodSamaritans” with a quick Google search about all the good thingsthe show has actually done, and whether or not their workstuck after the end of the episode, and it gets even worse when shereads about (and sees for herself) the kind of complacency, lack ofcritical thinking, and shallowness excessive TV watching breeds.

Anddon’t get her started with the replies and the messages sentwhenever she criticizes the shows on Social Media…

Alongsideher fellow 3rd Wave VK Anthony Tremaine, she utterlydespises “the boob tube” and how something so good on paperbecame something so horrible in reality.

SocialMedia in General

Claudinedespises Social Media.

Shehates the careful cultivation of personas and outward looks thatdon’t nearly reflect the ugly realities, the careful cutting andpasting of which elements of your life to show off to others tryingto do the same. She hates the constant emphasis on number of friends,likes, and shares, as if that actually meant any sort of meaningfulachievement. She hates the fact that echo chambers, bias, and trollsare a thing there, constantly getting into arguments that she can’tend with her ultimate, never-fail rebuttal:

Kickingsomeone in the crotch, before flipping the bird at them.

Shehates how it just grows all the insecurities she has about beingostracized and left alone by everyone all over again. She hates thefact that it makes her hyper-aware of her appearance, that it bringsup her self-image issues when someone criticizes her for being toorisque, and she hates the fact that she finds herself constantlycomparing to other, prettier girls, with seemingly more perfectlives, and definitely healthy, happy, and not-abusive-nor-crazyparents and family lives.

Butmost of all, she hates that she can’t quit it.

Shehates the fact that “Outcasts” like her all over Auradon tend toconnect with each other on Social Media and the internet for avariety of reasons. She hates the fact that it’s one of her onlyreal platforms to express her opinion, use the voice that has beenconstantly shushed by her father and the congregation for so manyyears. She hates the fact that this very same thing that helpscultivate the “it’s always sunny and happy in Auradon” is alsothe one thing that is rapidly helping dismantle it as the Outcastsare now finding their voices once more, joining in solidarity withthe VKs to finally make Auradon a paradise for everyone.

Inher words, “I know I’m on Storybook like 16 hours a day,everyday—WHY DO YOU THINK I’M SO PISSED OFF ALL THE TIME?!”

Hypocritesand Opportunists

Thisis the reason she does not get along very well with Audrey, Chad, orher fellow 3VK Richard “Rick” Ratcliffe: they’re incrediblyhypocritical, engaging in mean and cruel behaviour despite seeing andthinking themselves as “Good” people; incredibly keen on jumpingon every last opportunity to better themselves and will flag fromtheir principles as soon as it proves more convenient to switch sides when the going gets tough; or both.

Shehas lived ten years of her life praising and loving a man whoespoused himself as the epitome of Goodness and Righteousness in aland of Sinners and Heathens, and from both personal experience andhearing the other side of the story, learned just how much his actiondoesn’t match his rhetoric, the things he will believe and tellhimself and others in order to justify doing the exact opposite ofwhat it is he’s supposed to be doing.

ThatFrollo was also indirectly responsible for Claudine almost dying in afire doesn’t help.

Inher words, “You can’t do anything with someone that’ll get softand back down at the first sign of trouble, and you don’t wantanything to do with someone that’ll do everything and believeanything just to get their way.”

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