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holocene-sims · 1 year

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july 7, 2021 1:15 p.m. grant's house

[colm] wait, how do you have this recipe then?

[grant] i literally don't know. i found the note with it when i moved to los angeles before and, uh, it just said "xoxo, your boyfriend" at the bottom. like i know vaguely where it came from but my memory stops there.

[grant] now stop deflecting!

[colm] you first.

[colm] but alright, alright. you know the basic shit about my life, right? single mom, dad out of the picture, three siblings all with different baby daddies, and no other family because they disowned my mother for getting pregnant with me as a teen. the white trash experience. but wait, it gets worse.

[colm] my mom’s oldest brother was kind of still there, but not in any real fashion. more like: “sure, ellen, i suppose your son can sit at the back table at my pub and watch hurley on the television until his sisters are done with their after school activities and can walk them home.”

[colm] bastard. hey, ellen, i know you’re nearly homeless and your nine year old son is reading on the internet at the library how to make macaroni and cheese for dinner for all of you while you're busy waiting tables, but i won’t come over to babysit or nothing.

[colm] still, he let me over in the afternoons and was nice enough to teach me how to pour beers and such when i was the right age to do it, so here i am.

[colm] it’s really the only skill i have. despite my degree in philosophy, i was always a terrible student. i have the worst dyslexia known to man and my other jobs in the past were doing security at an airport and moving furniture. real impressive. so, this is miles better in pay and for my sanity.

[colm] besides, if we’re getting real emotionally squishy here, i was so lonely all the time growing up. nothing’s better for your social life than your mom always out working, no other family around, and having to turn down your friends’ invitations to hang out most of the time because you have to look after your siblings.

[colm] going to my uncle’s place was the least lonely place i ever was because all the old men who came as regulars felt bad for me and would talk to me. mostly about sports, but i like sports, so that was fine. i suppose you could say this place i own makes me feel a little less lonely as well.

[grant] i'm sorry things were so–

[colm] ahh, cut that shit out, it’s fine! i'd rather the man with a mammy who beat him not apologize to me about my childhood. i'm over it. fucking sucks but whatever. at least my guardian wasn’t my biological father. that piece of shit’s in prison for life for murder.

[grant] mur–

[colm] he got in with organized crime because he was broke and out of work. oh, and he was way older than my mom. surprise, surprise. classic stab city in the 90s. he actually tried to murder my mother once after she broke up with him, too. that day's hard to forget.

[grant] man, that sounds pretty bad. like egregiously bad. major childhood trauma bad.

[colm] old ellen’s alive.

[grant] uhhhhh, well, some person out there isn’t.

[colm] people.

[grant] oh.

[grant] oh my god.

[grant] anyway, uh, i was just going to say that i'm sorry you suffered. you deserved to have your needs met and you deserved stability and safety. i know nothing can be done about the past but that’s not a fair way for a child to grow up, even if your mother has reasons and explanations for it. and you don’t have to minimize it on grounds of other people’s experiences. bad is just that: bad. it’s not the sad childhood olympics here.

[colm] i really don’t care. i left all of that behind when i came here to live with shannon. you all are very nice to me. you’re my replacement family. you all mean a lot to me.

[colm] maybe replacement sounds bad...but, ah, well...

[colm] i can't believe i'm telling anyone other than shannon any of this bullshit. i feel absolutely disgusting.

[colm] sometimes when i was younger i'd look at other families and wish i had that. i used to wonder what it was like to have a family, and i suppose i finally understand. and it's nice.

[grant] i'm glad that you know we love you. you are a part of us. you are family. hell, i love you dearly. you're a great friend and a great person and you make shannon happy, which is important.

[grant] do you ever talk to your family? like your biological family?

[colm] yes and no. i invited them to the wedding and clearly you know they came. you were there. the only one i talk to often is molly but it’s because they’re the youngest and, well, the most like me, so i try to steer them away from making the same mistakes as me. that is, please don’t become a delinquent and please tell someone you think something’s wrong with your brain when you think there is.

[colm] my mother just pisses me off. i know she loves me and always has but she tries so much harder to show it now that i'm an adult and i can’t stand it. it’s overbearing. it's like, where was all this affection twenty years ago, ellen? and my other siblings...one’s fine, the other i don’t get along with.

[colm] don’t go apologizing about that either.

[grant] i won’t. but i get it. family relationships are complicated. siblings are difficult sometimes.

[colm] do you have–

[grant] i have two sisters. and yes, i don’t talk about them, like, ever. now continue what you were saying!

[colm] don’t get me wrong, i love all of them. i'd die for them. i might not want to talk to them much but i'm not disloyal or nothing. but because i love them, i reserve the right to admit when they’re obnoxious or what they’ve done wrong. it’s a disservice to all of us to lie and say i'm so happy with them and that we get along swimmingly.

[grant] so...you’re admitting things weren’t great.

[colm] i'm alive and not all the way fucked up. that’s good enough.

[colm] but thank you. i know you mean it. you’re like shannon and you say it because you care, not because you pity me, which is what a lot of others do. i do appreciate it.

#ts4 #the sims 4 #sims 4 #sims 4 story #sims 4 storytelling #simblr #hlcn: everything the stars promised #spoiler alert: colm definitely cares and he definitely does not like to feel sad lmfao #the chronic lying for silliness/to protect himself strikes again!#he can't take anything seriously #but not grant enabling that a little bit by laughing about literal memory loss and trauma jdsfjkdsfkld #also yes i know this was quite a long post just for a side character but i promise you this has a LOT to do with grant #not to spoiler things a bit fjdsfdskfds but grant and colm are very much supposed to be similar to each other #it's the wholeeeeeee point that they have shitty lives but turned out so differently in personality #holocene.docx #holocene.png #hlcn: grant #hlcn: colm

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electric-indigo0913 · 6 days

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I don’t think it’s fair for me to be unloading this emotion on you because I want you to be and feel happy more than anything and I don’t think reading this will be helpful to your mental state either.

I am not doing well. I’ve been crying for almost three days straight now (including Friday and Saturday, before we changed the dynamic. I heard the punky brewster theme song and it broke me). Every time I get a break from it it just keeps creeping back up and it won’t fucking go away. I said I left work early because everyone was pissing me off, which was true, but also because I was so close to crying the entire time and I don’t want to explain shit to people.

I’m so tired and burnt out and drained. And I don’t want you to think that this is a result of you doing what you need to do. This is a direct result of me neglecting myself for six+ years and I think it’s just overflowing in a way that isn’t productive.

I don’t like being alone here. Every single corner is fucking cursed and I have nobody. I think I feel like I’m nobody’s first choice. I’m a second to all of my “friends” here, and I just want to have anybody want me around. I know there are people who do but I’m not there and that cannot be immediately fixed. It’s funny because I wasn’t even Noah’s first choice when he lived here. I thought when he moved out I would be freed and so happy and I am those things, and I’m grateful not to be scared in my own home anymore, but the silence isn’t better, it’s just a reminder of how alone I feel. And when I’m here alone in the quiet I can still hear slamming doors and swearing and anger and it’s not fair that that’s still happening when he moved out over two months ago. The only time I felt peace here is when it was you and me, alone in bed, holding each other closely-and I’ll continue to search for that feeling of safety and peace and love in every corner in my life. Thank you for showing me that feeling can exist.

I feel so misunderstood by everybody up here and none of them are helpful when I go through shit because they don’t know what to say and that’s fair. But I don’t need people to know what to say, I just need them to listen and care at all. It fucked me up that the first person to check on me and say they’re here if I need it was Trey. That made me cry too. It shouldn’t make me cry when somebody gives a fuck. But nobody here has checked on me or asked me how I’m doing in months. It appears that JT may have taken Noah’s “side”. I am not handling that well.

I used to be happy with my job. I used to enjoy what I was doing and feel like I was doing great and now I feel like a fucking ass all the time. I’m walking on eggshells constantly and I’m still not able to do the things my job requires me to do because I don’t know how to do it or I’m not brave enough to do it. Moving on seems scarier but I don’t think I can stay there anymore. Things used to be good. They haven’t been good in so long now.

I think that I’ve said before that my big mistake was waiting until I was at my breaking point to kick that dude out, because now I still have to do all the things I was doing, but now I have to do them alone. And it’s better alone than with him, but that doesn’t make it less lonely. It’s really scary for me to be at the point where I feel like I physically can’t do anything. I can’t do the dishes or fold the laundry. I can’t focus enough to watch a show. I just keep breaking down and lying on the couch and then breaking down again. Not being productive is scary for me. I’m just scared and tired. I’ll probably feel better after I smoke a bunch but even doing that sounds exhausting. I’m just so tired.

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oddaodd · 3 years

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· I Don't Go In For Sweets ·

Request: by a lovely anon "set after the events of season 3. Tommy can't handle the company, he's still grieving and he has to be there for Charlie so Polly tells him she knows a girl from a good family to get married He ends up agreeing (aunt Pol can be very persuasive) but even though he's married, this new girl isn't considered as a wife. He doesn't really make any effort but his "wife" understands, he's a widowed father who lost his first wife only a year ago. However since they are...in this, she wants to make her time as enjoyable as possible for the both of them and for Charlie too. But no matter what Tommy makes it a point of honor to not let her in, to not let her replace Grace so he ignores her, he works more, tries to spend as little as possible in the house. Reader stays patient, it will be alright and Charlie is making her quite busy anyway. One night, Tommy comes home completely drunk and maybe a bit high too, he can't even make it to his office. Thankfully Reader is still awake, she takes care of him and Tommy just...melts at how gentle Reader is, he may be able to keep his distant while sober but it's much harder in his state. He admits to her how he's been feeling and all. Ever since that night, something changed, Tommy feels some comfort, some solace being around her, she accepts him wholly, even his flaws, the bad side of his business and she tries to provide some sort of safe place for when it gets too hard." (I edited the request because it was very long, but I kept all essential parts in there)

Author’s note: I loved loved loved writing this and it ended up being SUPER long, but I’m very happy with how it turned out. As always, I hope you like it and have the loveliest of days!

Warnings: season 3 SPOILERS sort of, but not really, still read at your own risk. Arranged marriage, mentions of alcohol and drugs, angst.

“Thomas, you may not be able to see it, but you’re breaking apart” Polly spoke with a sigh as she lit a cigarette after everyone was dismissed from a family meeting.

Everyone had left Tommy’s office in arrow house rather gaily after receiving their fair compensations for partaking in the whole Russian ordeal, all except Polly, who remained where she sat, wishing for a word with her nephew

Tommy merely scoffed at her concern before lighting his own cigarette and taking a puff “I’ll be alright”

“And Charlie?” Pol pressed knowing Tommy’s mourning was not only affecting him, but Charlie as well. “What about him?”

“He’s fine” He said before turning around to look through the window, ignoring his Aunt’s heavy stare.

“You take too much after your mother” she sighed half angry half sad “she too loved pretending everything was alright and I don’t need to remind you where that lead her”

Tommy sighed deeply, he knew he could fool anyone. Anyone but Polly. “We’ll manage”

“Consider my offer” Polly said standing up and making her way to the door “Y/n is a good girl from a good family” she persuaded before leaving the room.

Tommy sighed at his Aunt’s words, he wasn’t ready to get married again even when he knew the woman he would be marrying was a nice one. He felt like he was spitting on Grace’s grave and he hated himself for even considering the prospect, but he knew a mother figure would be good for Charlie.

He spent the rest of the day pondering about Polly’s suggestion and remembering his own childhood in the shadow of the absent tortured presence that his mother had been. It didn’t take him long to decide he didn’t want that for Charlie, so that same night he phoned Polly.

“I’ll do it” was all he said before hanging up. There was no need for more words, Polly would know exactly what he meant.

Exactly a week later, Tom was standing in the altar of a church that was significantly smaller than the one from his first wedding. The fact that everything about this wedding was so obscenely different from his first did soothe his guilt a bit. And as he stood there he couldn’t keep his mind from traveling to the days leading up to his wedding to Grace. She had made sure everything was perfect and had made an effort to invite every single relative she could think of. She remembered her rambling on an on about fabrics, insisting that everything ought to be perfect when he in all honestly couldn’t care less, he just wanted to marry her.

All his thoughts vanished away with a poof when Y/n came into sight. And what a sight she was. She had insisted on doing her own makeup and on pinning flowers to her hair to compliment her headpiece and her elegant, yet simple white dress flowed almost mystically as her father gave her away. She had never imagined she would be marrying someone she didn’t know, but she wanted to look her best for getting married is not something people do everyday.

When she stood in the altar, she offered her to be husband a smile which he did not return, instead turning his attention to the priest before them. She mirrored his actions, her heart beating violently under her chest as the priest began speaking.

It all felt like a blur, she could swear it had only been a second since her father had given her away and yet, the priest had already uttered the dreaded “you may now kiss the bride”

Tommy barely brushed his lips against hers and soon the sound of everyone clapping invaded her ears. They had a small party afterwards in Y/n’s former house. Her parents had invited pretty much all of their acquaintances while tommy had only invited his close relatives.

When night fell Tommy was more than ready to leave “Are you ready to go?” was one of the few sentences he uttered to his now wife that night.

She again offered him a smile before saying “yeah just let me say goodbye”

The drive to arrow house was tense, although Y/n didn’t know Thomas very well she would tell he was unhappy. She wondered about what to say to him, but couldn’t come up with anything good enough and soon enough they were pulling over in front of Tommy’s stately home.

“Charlie must already be asleep, but I'll introduce you tomorrow” he said opening Y/n’s door for her.

“It’s alright” she said looking at him, not quite knowing what to do next.

“Your parents sent some of your belongings, I've already asked the maids to take them up to your-our room” he said

“Thank you, Thomas” she smiled as she walked into the big house not yet feeling close enough to him to call him Tommy.

His name falling from her lips caused an echo of bittersweet emotions to stir inside him but he masked it perfectly well as she introduced Y/n to the maids that went to the door to take their coats.

“Frances here will show you the way to the room” he said after having made introductions.

“This way, Mrs” Frances politely said.

Y/n began following her but stopped when she didn’t hear Tommy’s footsteps behind her own.

“Are you not coming?” she asked turning to look at him.

“Maybe in a bit” was all he said before he walked away down one of the many spacious hallways of the house.

After Y/n made herself comfortable in the room and changed into her nightgown she took the time to peek around the room like one always does when one is a strange place. After familiarizing herself with it she laid down in the big bed. She was nervous, she knew what happened on wedding nights. A small chuckle stopped at her lips when she recalled the stories her close already married girlfriends told her. If she hadn’t married a complete stranger she too would be looking forward to it.

Her thoughts ended up luring her to sleep after a while despite her nerves and the night went by in a ridiculously fast flash. The next morning she woke up alone and after getting ready she made her way downstairs. Tommy and Charlie were already in the dining room when she entered it.

“good morning” she said

Charlie immediately turned his attention to her, his eyes widening while his dad merely glanced at her while he muttered a “Good morning “ of his own.

Y/n sat down next to Tommy while he cleared his throat “charles, this is Y/n. We got married yesterday so she’ll be living with us from now on”

Charlie merely nodded in understanding before playing around with his food.

A tense air flooded breakfast until Tommy stood up, having barely touched his food and spoke turning to look at Y/n “I have to go now, if you need anything feel free to ask Frances”

“Alright” Y/n replied feeling a bit disappointed, she would love to get to know him, but she already knew it was going to be difficult.

“I have to go too” Charlie announced in a timid voice, interrupting Y/n’s thoughts. Despite her disappointment she understood, maybe he was just shy and his dad just reticent. They had lost a wife and a mother after all.

The first few days after that, Charlie avoided her nearly as much as his father did and Y/n remained in lonely patience until one night Charlie’s cries interrupted her focus on the book that she had just bought. She rushed to his room and called out his name as she entered not knowing if the boy would be comfortable with her or not.

“What is it?” she asked worried as she knelt by his bed.

“I miss my mum” the boy confessed looking at her with teary eyes as he clutched his blanket.

Y/n felt her heart give a small ache at his confession and in an attempt to comfort him she spoke “She’s not really gone, you know?”

“She’s dead” the boy sobbed.

“but people who die, don’t leave us. Not really anyhow” she said hesitantly rubbing his arm. “just because we cant see them doesn’t mean they are not here”

“I miss seeing her” he continued.

“Oh but you can still see her”

“how”

“before you go to bed just think about her, then she’ll visit you in your dreams” Y/n spoke as if she was telling a fairy tale.

“really?” the boy’s eyes widened.

“really” Y/n confirmed “But you have to think really really hard”

“I’ll try” Charlie said having calmed down a bit.

“very well” Y/n said as she stood up, but Charlie’s voice stopped her.

“can you stay till I fall asleep?”

After that night, Charlie hardly left Y/n’s side and she felt much better with his company for she was sure if he wasn’t there keeping her on her toes all day she would fall into a depressive chasm induced by her husband’s absence.

On the rare moments he was home she tried to strike up conversation with him over breakfast or late at night when he came home and she was burdened by insomnia. But Tommy only humored her with a few short responses before excusing himself or turning to face the other side of the bed.

It wasn’t only the fact that he avoided her as much as he could, but he also made it a priority to exclude her at all times. She was never invited into family meetings or night’s at The Garrison so she thought it was a miracle when tommy didn’t oppose to her planning Charlie’s birthday party.

She invited only Tommy’s family which instantly warmed up to her, noticing what a good influence she was and Polly wanted to slap Thomas for the way he had been acting throughout his marriage to Y/n. Almost feeling guilty for getting her into this mess.

When the party ended Tommy shut himself in his office like he often did when he was at home and though he had never given Y/n a reason to believe she was welcome in there of all places, she found herself allowing herself in after putting Charlie to bed.

Tommy looked up as she entered and let out a sigh before turning his attention back to some papers he had been reading.

“I noticed you didn’t have any” she commented not letting his sigh deflate her as she laid a plate with a slice of homemade chocolate cake on his desk. “it’s really good if I may say so myself” she mused sitting down in a chair opposite to his as she dug in with a fork in her own slice.

“I don’t go in for sweets” he stated.

“Not even chocolate?” Y/n tried, but tommy didn’t answer, instead he just shook his head.

“I still think you should try it, it’s not overly sweet, and…”

“is there anything you need?” he interrupted bluntly a bit harsher than he would’ve liked.

His tone caught her off guard and when she couldn’t come up with an answer tommy again turned his attention back to his papers.

“I wish you could let me in” She softly confessed after a few tense seconds.

“Well I wish we hadn’t married but I guess things don’t always go the way we want them to go”

Tommy knew he had crossed a line by the silence that again settled into the room. He looked up at Y/n with her parted lips and misty eyes. They exchanged glances for a second but instead of allowing him to see her like that any longer, she stood up setting her plate on his desk and walked away, only allowing a few tears to drop by when she was out of the room and his sight.

After that she stopped trying to get closer to him. He still loved his late wife and she understood, people in grief never mean what they say after all, but his words stung nonetheless.

She stopped trying to wait for him at night to see if he had gotten home alright and during breakfast she only uttered polite good mornings.

One night however, Y/n was yanked out of a peaceful sleep by a loud crash. She was on her feet in no time and after checking into Charlie’s room to see if he was alright she cautiously ventured downstairs. A few incoherent mumbles filled her ears before her husband came into sight, fumbling with his coat to get it off.

“need help?” she asked earning his attention.

“I’m fine” he said finally taking it off but as he went to take a step to begin walking the floor under him moved and he lost his balance, his knees crashing loudly against the wooden floor.

Y/n offered him a hand and helped him up. He smelled of whiskey and cigarettes, his hands were shaky, consequence of the snow, no doubt. “let’s get you upstairs”

“I can do it on me own” he slurred letting go of her hand.

“stop being so stubborn” she derided, snaking one of her arms around his waist as she helped him upstairs.

Y/n helped him into bed, tookoff his shoes and went to the bathroom to fetch a small towel and some cold water.

She dampened the towel with the cold water before dabing it gently on Tommy’s forehead. His eyes never leaving her face as she did so, making her grow a bit nervous. She continued, trying her best to ignore it until she felt his hand softly caressing her cheek.

“You are beautiful” he rasped.

“Stop it, Thomas” she said feeling her cheeks grow red when she felt a bit sad that he had to be completely drunk to compliment her.

Even in his drunken state he seemed to notice he was making her uncomfortable so he held his tongue until Y/n laid in bed next to him after turning on the lights.

“I’m sorry” he interrupted the silence “For the way I’ve been acting” the whiskey and cocaine making him more vulnerable and open “I guess I was afraid that if I let you in then she would disappear”

He didn’t expect her to answer, but then her voice came in a soft exhausted tone“ I don’t intend to replace her. You don’t need to act all defensive and secretive. Even if it’s not what you wanted, we are married.”

“I Know” was all he said.

Y/n expected him to withdraw more from her after showing himself that vulnerable to her that night but she was wrong. He began arriving home earlier, sometimes even asking if he could come along on the walks she and Charlie so much adored going on. And Y/n finally felt her marriage was going somewhere maybe it wasn’t based on love yet, but it was something.

One day she was at the stables while Charlie was taking a nap. She had always adored horses.

“I didn’t know you liked horses” came Tommy’s smooth voice causing her to jump.

“You never asked” she smiled petting a black horse as he walked closer to her.

“We could go out for a ride, I’m sure Charlie wouldn’t mind letting you borrow his horse” Tommy offered as he too began to pet the horse, his fingers brushing against Y/n’s for a brief second.

“I’d love to, but I am afraid I don’t know how to ride, Tommy” she said, panicking for a second after having called him that. But she rested assured as soon as he spoke again.

“Well that can be fixed” he said opening the door of the stall and guiding the horse outside.

“You mean now?” Y/n asked with a laugh.

“Got something better to do?” he asked walking out of the stable with the horse. Y/n observed tommy as he prepared the horse. She had never seen him so gentle and calm before and she only realized she had been staring when Tommy directed his attention to her to ask her if she was ready.

“I think so” she said going to stand next to the horse wondering how the hell to climb up. But before she had any more time to think she felt Tommy’s hands on her waist giving her a push that allowed her to pull herself up on the animal. It was a good thing she had chosen to wear slacks that day, she thought.

“Goodness this is high” she said nervously looking down at Tommy when he began guiding the horse to move in a slow walk.

“Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall” he promised repressing a mirthful tone at her nervousness.

He guided the horse with her around the property in the crisp evening air and Y/n allowed herself to relax with every step the horse took. Tommy’s presence made her feel safe and protected and she found it increasingly harder to look away from his figure. She wondered if he could feel her eyes on him.

When the sky began turning soft shades of purple and orange the pair returned to the stables. When the time came from Y/n to come down from the horse, tommy helped her again. Y/n began to love the feeling of him touching her and when her feet touched the ground in front of Thomas, he didn’t remove his hands from her waist right away and instead fixed his blue eyes on her, not wanting to stop looking at her.

She too fixed her eyes on Tommy as she felt a silent gasp in the base of her throat. That was the way she would’ve liked him to look at her on their wedding day. Tommy then leaned in, almost as if he were asking for permission before he tenderly pressed his lips to Y/n’s.

@captivatedbycillianmurphy @peakyxtommy @nyotamalfoy @writeroutoftime @babylooneytoonz @slytherinicequeen @lilymurphy03

#tommy shelby request #tommy shelby #tommy shelby angst #tommy shelby fluff #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby one shot #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby request #thomas shelby one shot #thomas shelby fluff #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby angst #peaky blinders angst #peaky blinders request #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders one shot #peaky blinder one shot #peaky blinder imagine

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hockeyboysiguess · 3 years

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three french horns -> three goal horns | n. mackinnon

a/n: and like clockwork, here is fic number three in my 12 days of christmas series! i wrote this one a while ago and i hurt myself re-reading it to proof it, so i hope you all like it! rest of the christmas series linked here.

word count: 4,037

warnings: alcohol, drinking

“Hey, Nate?” you called out from the living room when you heard the back door open, signaling his reappearance in the house after letting the dogs outside.

“Yeah, baby?” he asked as he stomped his boots on the mat, shaking the last bit of the early Denver snow off.

You asked the question you’d been asking him since two weeks after his birthday, the same question you’d been asking a variation of for the three months before his birthday. “Nate, what do you want for Christmas?”

The sound that left Nate’s mouth was barely human, a groan coming from deep within, from the place that never knew what he wanted for any major gift giving holiday of any kind. You tried to be original, get sentimental things, but it was hard to buy for someone who could literally buy anything they ever wanted. Nate didn’t have big, expensive wishes, so if he wanted something, he often just bought it on the spot and you were none-the-wiser until it showed up at his house. This penchant, this bad habit, carried throughout the holiday season; it was a perpetual state of being for Nathan MacKinnon. This meant that items Nate ordered for himself were as likely to show up December 24th as any other day of the year, which was eternally infuriating as a person in his life trying to buy him gifts on the semi-regular basis.

“I don’t know,” he answered you, like he did every other time. “I’ll like it because it’s from you.”

That response was sweet the first, second, and half-sweet the third time he’d used it on you. Now, that response was worn out like an old pair of jeans, with holes in the thighs and the knees hanging together by a thread, absolutely unusable at this point in time really. Yet Nate continued to say it, like that string of seven words didn’t light a fire in your stomach completely unlike the kind crackling under the stockings on the mantle right now.

“Nate,” you groaned, all too similarly to how he had when you asked your question. Spend enough time with a person and you pick up their habits. You and Nate were a completely unoriginal example of that. “You know I hate when you say that.”

Nate rolled his eyes and shrugged, “Well, I don’t really know. A hat trick? But you can’t get me that, I’ve got to get that for me.”

The infamous illusive hat trick. While it wasn’t those dreaded seven words, you were pretty sure you had heard about this hat trick that was alluding him every other day at this point. In all fairness to Nate, the amount of times he had scored twice in the first two periods of a game this season and been held off the scoreboard in the second was absurd. Commentators were joking about it, his teammates were chirping him over not one, not two, but three missed empty netters that would’ve sealed it, even though Nate liked to say those didn’t really count as hat tricks. Greater than all of that, Nate was starting to incredibly frustrated with himself and his performances. You knew Nate was a competitive guy before you even went on your first date with him, but his competitiveness ran deep and honestly you weren’t sure your relationship would work if you were even an ounce more competitive than you were. Nate had to win, he had to achieve his goals. This goal was quite simply just three goals, but it continued to be just out of reach this season and coming up on the holiday season, pushing the halfway mark, Nate was starting to think it might not happen this year.

“You’ll get one, Nate,” you sighed. “You’re so close and you’re too good not to get whatever you put your mind to.”

“I got a good feeling about the game tomorrow,” he replied, sliding up next to you on the couch to throw a Christmas sweater-covered arm around your shoulders. “My good luck charm is going to be there, right?”

Nate wasn’t superstitious in the slightest, but he said he always scored more whenever you came. Statistically, a complete lie, but it made you feel special all the same. He kissed your temple softly as he relaxed into the couch cushions next to you.

“So, what are we watching? Classic or trashy Christmas?”

That question itself somehow encapsulated every single reason you loved Nathan MacKinnon, despite his pension for buying his own Christmas presents, his overly competitive nature, and the difficulty that came with trying to buy him a present. Nate didn’t love Christmas movies; he wasn’t a hater like some people you’d dated before, but you adored them, both classic and trashy alike. Nate jumped on board with whatever you liked, no questions asked. He always said you didn’t sign up to date all of his teammates that walked through the door scrounging for homemade food or the long hours alone, the least he could do was be as supportive of the things you liked as you were about hockey for him. Nate’s support came in casual, steady waves of constantly and consistently showing up, no matter how tired he was, no matter how long the day before had been. He might fall asleep twenty minutes into the movie, but Nate was here and active and present for as long as he could stay awake. He’d cross deserts and move mountains for an hour with you, and some days that’s what it took, but Nate showed up and jumped on board, which made him the easiest person in the world to love in spite of everything else. It made him the only person you wanted to spend this Christmas and every other one in the future with.

The next day, with his last name on your back and a Santa hat on your head, you found yourself in a position that felt all too familiar this season. You were watching the ice with eager eyes among the other wives and girlfriends. Your breath caught in your throat halfway through the first when you saw two seconds after him that there was nothing between Nate and the net but open ice and a goaltender. You slowly stood up, leaning forward as if those all important inches would help you see the ice better. You didn’t miss the puck sailing over the blocker’s side of the goaltender, or the eruption of cheers from everyone around you as the goal horn rang out, hopefully the first of three for Nate this evening. Mel hugged you, as if you had anything to do with Nate scoring. You adjusted your hat, pulling at the fluffy white edge until it sat a little less haphazardly on your head as you cheered.

“Two more, right?” Mel waggled her eyebrows at you and you rolled your eyes.

“For my sake, I hope so,” you laughed.

Going into Christmas break without this elusive hat trick meant the next four days would be spent with Nate’s mind half at the rink, trying to scheme and plan and game his way into a hat trick, as if the part he was missing was anything other than luck. Maybe he didn’t need regular luck though, maybe just a little bit of Christmas would do the trick tonight. Your third beer in, a vain attempt to calm your nerves with alcohol, and five minutes into the second, on the power play, you watched as Nate easily sailed in his second goal of the game from the high slot, causing the ever familiar cheers and the ringing of the Avalanche goal horn to sound out across the arena.

Two down, and hopefully one to go.

“Hatty watch,” one of the other girls sang out from behind you, giving your shoulders a squeeze.

You let out a loud, long breath, causing a wave of laughter to ripple across the other women around you. Mel teased you about it; they all did. Nate’s quest was well known among the group, something they were equally supportive and teasing about.

“He’ll get one,” Mel assured you with a comforting pat to your leg. “He’s too good not to.”

You really thought he had it. You watched as Mikko and Nate peeled off from the defenders caught on an odd change, leading to a two-on-one with a lone opposing forward doing his best, but poor, impersonation of a defensemen. Mikko passed the puck to Nate, which Nate passed back easily and set himself up for the perfect slap shot on the return. The quick passing had sent the other team’s player sprawling over the ice. It was just Nate and the goaltender, who was frantically shifting his eyes from Mikko to Nate, tilting back and forth on the ice. Mikko’s pass was perfect, right on the middle of Nate’s tape and Nate was ready for the pass. It was tracking high glove side, exactly where Nate wanted it to go, right into the back of the net. The goalie was facing Mikko, two key seconds behind the actual action. Except out of nowhere, the Grinch stole Christmas and Nate’s hat trick when the goalie’s glove suddenly appeared in the path the puck was taking and wrapped around the puck, just on the wrong side of the goal line for Nate.

The referee blew the whistle and signaled no goal. Nate’s hands dropped down, stick hanging low. His head tilted up toward the ceiling of the arena and you could practically hear the groan rise from deep in his chest. It was absolute robbery at its finest and the entire arena knew luck wasn’t on Nate’s side that night. You slumped down into your seat, preparing yourself for yet another two goal game and a frustrated Nate waiting for you in the tunnel when it was over. There were another twenty minutes left in the game, but if the first half of the season had taught you anything, third periods weren’t where Nate racked up anything other than wins and assists, both of which he loved, but he just wanted a third goal, just once. Mikko and Gabe each having one already this season, all six goals involving Nate as either the primary or secondary assist, didn’t help either.

“I think you need to pray or something,” Mel told you with a laugh. “Pray to anything and anyone out there at this point.”

You cleared your throat and looked up at the ceiling of the Pepsi arena, “Santa, I know this isn’t how you take requests,” Mel and the girls around you were already laughing, “but please, pretty freaking please, can we just get some Christmas miracle magic vibes in here? It’s all he wants for Christmas. Please and thank you and I hope you have a Merry Christmas.”

“Are you supposed to say amen if you pray to Santa?” someone behind you asked.

“Look I’m not opposed to it,” you sighed. “It just didn’t feel like the right ending when I was asking for a Christmas miracle.”

The girls all laughed and you just stared up at the ceiling. Maybe Santa might grant your unorthodox request delivered via an even more unorthodox method. Maybe you should’ve written him a letter and dropped it into one of those charity red mailboxes at Macy’s. Maybe Nate just wouldn’t be getting the one thing he wanted for Christmas and there was absolutely nothing you could do about it. You knew he was joking when he asked for a hat trick for Christmas, but joking or not, it was the only thing he even sort of mentioned wanting. If sending out a Christmas wish audibly in the middle of the Pepsi arena was what it took, you were more than happy to do it.

You grabbed your fourth and fifth beer together during the intermission, knowing full and well that you didn’t want to miss a second of one of Nate’s shifts in case something good happened. If after all of this time, all of this waiting, all of Nate’s back and forth debating, if you missed his hat trick goal because you were grabbing another beer, you would have to guess that higher powers didn’t exist and the hockey gods loved laughing at you and maybe Christmas wasn’t that magical after all.

The third period was half over when you finished your fourth beer. Your right leg had been bouncing on the concrete since the period started. Nate was getting some good looks, and added another assist to his point tally for the night, but you and everyone knew what he actually wanted tonight. A slashing call with eight minutes to go put the Avalanche back on the power play, and you knew Nate was going to fight to play every bit of those two minutes he could get, which meant you were about to be in for a mentally exhausting two minutes. Mel offered her hand to you, already knowing you would need her to ground you through this.

The first shot on the power play from Mikko ended up in the opposing goaltender’s glove. Nate lined up for the next face-off and you swore you didn’t breathe as soon as the puck left the referee's hand. Nate swept it back easily to a waiting Gabe. You gripped Mel’s hand hard, grateful you both did this for each other often enough that she didn’t mind. Nate slid up through the low slot and you saw the stars aligning as Gabe sent the puck perfectly in Nate’s direction. Nate was already ready for it when it came, the puck on his stick for less than a second. Your eyes went wide and you felt like you were about to break Mel’s hand as the goaltender shrugged his shoulder up to block Nate’s shot, but he came up short and the puck hit the back of the net.

You were screaming as you jumped to your feet, arms wrapping tightly around Mel as someone else hugged you from behind, again like you’d done anything other than practically give yourself a heart attack watching it. Nate was surrounded by his teammates on the ice, earning a swift pat on the top of the head from Gabe. A glance up at the Jumbotron showed you the wide, bright smile on his face, filling with relief and absolute joy. Mel grabbed your hat by the pom pom and chucked it down towards the ice, making you laugh and a smile that rivaled Nate’s come across your face.

“Finally,” you breathed out a sigh of relief as the arena calmed itself, calming you with it.

You plopped back down into your seat, hatless with half a beer and your pride in Nate left to coast you through the next ten minutes. You knew Nate was going to be in a good mood, and you just wanted to get through the next ten minutes of the game to get to him and congratulate him yourself. The score was heavy in favor of the Avs and they weren’t in any danger of losing this game, so you got to drink your beer and let out a long breath you’d been holding since Nate first came home after back to back two goal games in October without a hat trick in sight.

You were practically bouncing on your heels as you waited in the tunnel for him, fingers fussing with the frayed edge of your denim jacket to get out some of your anxious energy. The second he rounded the corner, a wide, gorgeous smile on his face, you ran toward him. Nate wasn’t the type for large public displays of affection, but satisfaction from your incredibly competitive boyfriend was a hell of an influencer and he opened his arms wide for you. You jumped into him and he stumbled a second before catching you easily, one hand guiding your legs around his waist, the other supporting the back of your thighs.

“Congratulations,” you mumbled in his ear as he laughed at your openly shared excitement for him.

“Thanks, baby,” he told you, the smile he was wearing evident in his voice.

“Proud of you always,” you reminded him as you untucked your head from his neck.

You said it after every single game, win or lose, five points or no points, goal or no goal, you told Nate you were proud of him after every single game. The stats sheet didn’t matter to you. You loved him and you saw the grueling work he put in every single day, every single second he was on the ice. You were proud of him no matter what, and it was one of the thousands of reasons he had come to love you for. Your support, your pride in him and the work he put in never wavered. It was steadfast, something hard to come by in a life as crazy as he lived. You were his rock, his home, and he felt it like the gradual, comforting warmth from sitting by the fire on Christmas Eve, when the world seemed a little more good than it actually was, when you told him you were proud of him.

Nate smiled as he pressed a soft, quick kiss to your lips before gently guiding your feet back to the ground. He pulled you in tighter, collapsing you into him as he let out a long breath that had been holding his tension for months, caught in the hollows of his chest, finally working its way out into the open air. It had been haunting him, like a ghastly Halloween hangover that dared to last until Christmas. Thankfully, it was December now and Nate felt lighter and freer than he had in months.

“You got what you wanted for Christmas,” you mumbled into his chest, causing his chest to vibrate with laughter.

“Guess I sort of did, yeah.” He kissed the top of your head softly. “Ready to go home?”

“Ready for four days of you and me time?” you teased him a little.

Despite your teasing, his response was entirely genuine, “Been looking forward to it for weeks now.”

Your smile in response to his words stuck with you the entire way home. Nate loved you in actions, but sometimes it was nice to hear words from him as well. You kicked off your shoes at the front door, just in the knick of time before the dogs could come and greet you both.

“Want me to crack a bottle of wine or champagne?” you asked Nate as he dropped his bag by the front door.

“Champagne,” he told you before dropping a kiss to your temple. “We’re celebrating tonight.”

You slid into the kitchen, dogs hot on your heels, as you made a beeline for the champagne in the fridge. You’d slid it in before you left for the game on the chance Nate finally got his hat trick tonight. You hadn’t wanted to drink warm champagne if that was the case and now, holding the cold bottle of champagne and two flutes, you knew you had made the right decision betting on your boyfriend tonight. He rounded the corner into the kitchen a few moments later, game day suit still on, jacket and tie lost back in your shared bedroom.

“Glad you got yourself what you wanted for Christmas, Nate,” you smiled teasingly at him as you started to fuss with the gold foil over the champagne cork.

“Before you pop that,” he told you, reaching a hand out to place over yours as you worked on the foil covering the cork, “I, um, I have something for you.”

“Nate, it’s December twenty-third,” you sighed, setting the bottle down on the cool stone counter. “Can’t it wait a couple of days?”

Nate smiled softly at you, a smile that seemed to mean he knew more than you in this exact moment, “I’ve actually been holding on to this gift for a long time and I think tonight is the perfect night to give it to you. Are you okay if I blow up Christmas a little bit?”

You sighed again and gave Nate a stern look up and down, but the softness in his blue eyes and the innocence in his lazy smile pulled you in and had you nodding in approval. Your nod caused nerves to dance in Nate’s eyes and his hands to slide into his pockets, fidgeting with their contents. He shifted softly from one foot to the other. His eyes dropped to the floor for a moment to watch his feet move before he slowly lifted his head back up in time with a bounce on his heels.

“Okay, here we go,” he mumbled softly to himself.

He cleared his throat before speaking, “I told you I don’t know what I want for Christmas. Hell, I told you that I didn’t know what I wanted for my birthday and that was back in September. The truth is I’ve known what I’ve actually wanted the whole time. The hat trick was nice and all, but it wasn’t really what I wanted.”

“Whatever it is, you could’ve told me,” you chided him a little.

Your words were met with an anxious smile and more shuffling of his feet across the floor. He shook his head softly and let out a tight breath before continuing.

“The only thing I want for Christmas is something you can give me, but you can get it for me,” he told you softly, his voice shaking as he spoke, the nerves in his eyes and his feet and his hands tightening and constricting his voice resonating in his chest.

Nate slowly pulled a hand out of his pocket before purposefully, and painstakingly slowly, dropping down on one knee in front of you. Your hands flew over your mouth on instinct and your eyes clouded over instantly. Nate smiled softly at your reaction, trying desperately not to let what he hoped your actions meant take over and make him too hopeful of your answer to his question to prevent him from asking it. He carefully opened the small black box in his hand to show you your early Christmas present, a beautiful ring nestled among the black velvet inside.

“For Christmas, I’d like for you to say you’ll be my wife,” he continued slowly and as steadily as he could. “The thing I’m most proud of, of everything I’ve ever done, is being your partner. I love you so much more than I say, but I hope I show it enough that you want to sign up for me forever because it’s just you. It’s just you forever, for every single day, every single holiday, every single moment. I want to spend every single Christmas for the rest of my life with you. So, what do you say? Will you be my wife? Will you make my Christmas wish come true?”

The cliches hung thick in his words, but the emotions behind them, the sentiment was so true you could feel it in the very core of who you were. Nathan MacKinnon saw you, faults and gifts and everything in between and loved you in the steadiest, most true way you had ever known. In the light of the Christmas tree, in the home you built together, with the life you build together palatable around you, Nate was asking you to build the rest of it together. You didn’t have to think about your answer.

“Yes, Nate. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Nerves gave way to relief which even more quickly gave way to joy on Nate’s face as he slowly slid the ring he’d had tucked in the back drawer for months onto your finger where it belonged. Nate let out a long breath at the sight of it finally on your hand before slowly standing up in front of you, his hands reaching out to cup your face gingerly.

“Best early Christmas present ever,” you told him with a wide smile on your face.

He smiled back just as widely and happily as you grinned at him, “Merry Christmas, my future wife.”

#nathan mackinnon #nate mackinnon #nate mack #100% certified canadian beef #nathan mackinnon imagine #nathan mackinnon fanfic #nathan mackinnon fic #nhl fanfic #nhl fanfiction #nhl fic #nhl blurbs #nhl imagine

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dokoni-mo · 3 years

Text

Where Is My Friend || Platonic! Izuku Midoriya x Reader

Summary: You and Izuku walk home together.

SFW // angst to light fluff

Word Count: 1915

WARNINGS: swearing, crying, all might slander, allusions to su*cide, otherwise none

A/N: i hate all might as a teacher. sometimes i just wanna reach through the screen and punch him for the things he tells izuku to do. this is why i made this.

Izuku was late again that day, and this time you were more disappointed than mad.

With each student that passed by you and through the gates, you grew more and more irritated. You were trying to hide your annoyed expression by burying it in your phone, scrolling mindlessly through the various apps you had downloaded. Every now and again, you would check through your messages again, double and triple checking that you hadn't somehow missed a text from Izuku.

Every time, there was nothing.

Your brow furrowed when you checked it for the fifth time, forcing you to let out a silent frustrated sigh.

Izu, are you ready to go?

I'm out front

Are you still coming?

Hellloooo??? Where are you???

You promised, Izuku.

All of these messages, and no reply.

This wasn't a new occurrence. Every single day it was like this, and you would oftentimes just go home alone in silence. Izuku would always call and text to apologize to you afterwards, though.

At first you would pick up the phone. But, it slowly became less and less, to eventually nothing at all.

You were angry for a long time, but it all eventually boiled down into a soft, quiet frustration. You wondered to yourself a lot why you even bothered trying anymore. Those thoughts eventually drifted off into memories of middle school, and that quiet, timid, nerdy boy that you made your best friend.

You wondered where that boy went.

You looked up from your phone and looked at the campus around you. The area was bathed in an orange light, giving everything a warm and cozy glow. It was a beautiful spring afternoon, one that you would unfortunately most likely spend alone. Looking back down at your phone, you checked the time. It was getting somewhat late, and you knew your parents would start to worry about you if you didn't head back soon.

Five more minutes. You would give him five more minutes.

Letting out another sigh through your nose, you continued to scroll through your apps, not paying too close attention to what you were seeing. Every other second, you would peer up at the top of the screen, hoping to see the familiar bar of a notification up there.

None ever came.

A handful of photos and news articles later, and you decided to call it a quits. It had been more than five minutes, and there was still no sign of Izuku. Not one single thing.

Fuck it. You were going home.

Clicking your phone to sleep and putting it in your jacket pocket, you squared your backpack on your shoulders and stepped down the stairs of the front entrance, staring ahead at the gate with a blank expression.

Going to U.A. was you and his dream as kids. You remembered how the two of you would draw pictures of your hero costumes together, how you would spend hours of the phone coming up with the ideal schedule the two of you would have and what classes you would take.

Where did all that go? All those late nights? All those days the two of you got bullied? All those times you would tell Bakugou to fuck off when he was mean to Izuku? All the times Izuku told you to be nicer to Kacchan?

Was it all for nothing?

Were you just a memory now?

Were you not good enough to be his friend anymore?

All because of his new quirk?

It's not fair.

Not fair.

Not fai-

"Y/N!" you heard a voice from behind you shout, along with the rapid tapping of shoes against concrete.

It was him.

You stopped in your tracks and turned around, looking at him with a somewhat surprised expression. His green hair was the usual mess, and he was somewhat sweatier than normal. He ran quickly to catch up with you, breathing heavily once he was by your side.

You looked down at him in silence, your face unchanging.

"I'm-I'm so sorry I'm late!" He exclaimed, getting better control over his breathing, "I-I was just taking off my costume after hero training today and one of the teachers wanted to talk to me after and I-"

"It's getting late." You said, cutting him off, "We should get going."

You started to walk towards the gate again, and Izuku stared at you with a somewhat confused expression.

"Right..." he responded quietly, following by your side.

The two of you walked in silence for a good, long while. Izuku would keep looking at you to try and grab your attention, but you ignored him every time. You kept your gaze trained on your feet on the sidewalk, his red shoes in your peripheral.

You didn't want to talk. You just wanted to go home.

Go home and never talk to anyone again.

Izuku tried giving you one of his bright, warm smiles, but you ignored that too. As much as you didn't want to admit it, Izuku didn't smile the same anymore. There was something always behind his smile, something that you couldn't quite figure out.

The two of you used to share everything together, and now he was doing nothing but keeping secrets from you. You were quick to notice this, and you began to do your own digging.

You were observant, you always had been.

What you saw, you knew no one would believe you, though.

You just kept it to yourself, leaving it to rot deep inside you and plant its seeds of bad.

It was eating you alive, and you were angry.

"It's uhh..." Izuku said next to you, "It's a pretty day outside, isn't it?"

You said nothing and just kept staring down at your feet.

"It was a fun day at school too, huh?"

Nothing.

"What class did you like most?" I really liked Mr. Aizawa's today. I like it when he tells stories about his time at U.A."

Nothing.

"I also really liked All Might's cla-"

"Don't."

Izuku was definitely taken aback by your sudden, harsh response, his smile instantly fading away and his brows arching downwards.

"What... (Y/N), wh-what do you mean-"

You stopped walking abruptly, giving Izuku a glare through your lashes.

"Do not mention that man."

Izuku stopped walking too, looking at you with confusion and a touch of shock.

"You mean All Might? (Y/N), why? I thought you loved him as much as I-"

"I don't fucking love him anymore, Izuku!" you snapped, "But how would you know, huh? HOW?"

"(Y/N), what are you saying?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Izuku!" you threw your backpack off your shoulders, the extra weight only adding to your fury, "Even before we got into this shitty fucking school, you've done nothing but fucking blow me off and ignore me! I try to call, you don't answer. I try to text, you don't answer. I go over to your fucking house looking for you, and you're not there either! Do you have any clue how fucking lonely that makes me feel?! Knowing my best friend, my ONLY friend, wants nothing to do with me?!"

Izuku slid off his backpack too, his expression now more worried than anything, "(Y/N), I wasn't trying to ignore you. I-I just-"

"Just what Izuku. Just where have you been, hm? Tell me."

The green haired boy's gaze fell to the ground.

"I... I can't."

You raised your hands up and let them drop to your sides, a laugh of disbelief bubbling out of your throat.

"Fine, I'll finish it for you. You've been hanging out with fucking All Might, haven't you?"

Izuku's gaze shot back up to you, his eyes wide. He opened his mouth to say something, but you cut him off.

"Ah- don't even goddamn try. I know you have been, Izuku. Do you think I'm fucking stupid? Do you think I'm fucking naieve? I fucking see how you two talk to each other. How you have lunch with him every goddamned fucking day. How he always focuses on you during training. How he keeps you after school."

Izuku just simply looked at you in silence, trying to process what to say.

You felt tears welling up in your eyes, but you decided to continue anyway, "And I know, I know he's been putting shit in your head. Not letting you think for yourself, telling you that it's okay to hurt yourself. How it's noble and honorable to be bedridden for fucking weeks to save people. How you should never prioritize yourself. Well goddamn it it's WRONG Izuku! It's fucking wrong! It's wrong to tell a kid that. It's wrong to take him away from his friends. It's wrong to have fucking favorites!"

You were full on crying now, and probably looked completely out of your goddamned mind.

You didn't care.

"He was my hero too, Izuku!" you continued on, hot tears pouring down your face, "But more importantly you were my hero! You were the only person in that shitty fucking middle school that I could confide in. You were the only friend I had, and that fucking bitch took you from me! Every day I go home and beg for my friend to come back to me. I don't give a single fuck what that old man says, I need my friend back! I'm so tired of it! I'm tired of feeling like nothing, like no one wants to be around me anymore! I'm t-tired, I'm... I...."

Unable to keep yourself together anymore, you fell onto your knees and sat back on your ankles, wiping your face on the back of your hands and wrists as you sobbed.

"I just... I miss you, Izuku."

You broke down again after that, crying there on the ground for a good minute. This was probably embarrassing the hell out of you, but you didn't care anymore. You didn't care about anything anymore. You were certain that Izuku would want nothing to do with you anymore. You just both dissed him and his number one idol.

There was no hope for you and him now.

After sitting there for a good minute bawling your eyes out, Izuku gently knelt down in front of you. You could feel his big, green eyes on your face, but you didn't look up at him. From your blurred vision, you couldn't tell how he was looking at you, but you figured it couldn't be good.

You were wrong.

Suddenly and without warning, you felt two strong arms wrap around your fame, your head being pulled into a chest covered with a uniform shirt and tie. Your cries softening, you were quick to realize who they all belonged to.

Izuku.

"(Y/N)," he said, his voice soft but firm, "I didn't know you felt that way. You are my best friend, too. I didn't mean to forget about you. I was never trying to make you feel that way."

Izuku hugged you tighter, resting his chin on the top of your head.

"From now on, I promise I'll always make time for you. You're my hero too, (Y/N). Without you with me in middle school, I... I would have..."

You didn't need to hear him finish for you to connect the dots.

After along moment of fleeting, renowned silence, you wrapped your arms around the boy, holding him tight against you.

You vowed to yourself then and there, that you would never ever let him go again.

#bnha x reader #bnha x y/n #bnha x you #mha x reader #mha x y/n #mha x you #izuku x y/n #izuku x reader #izuku x you #izuku midoria x reader #izuku midoriya x reader

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prfctparis · 3 years

Text

In a Sweet Sunshower

AO3 Link

summary: He Who Brings Rain and The One Who Shines Bright are siblings. It’s fitting that there’s a sunshower during one of the campaigns when their legions team up.

a/n: a few things about Tatooine Slave Culture in this is borrowed from fialleril here on tumblr, so all rights go to them for that. except for the sunshower thing, i came up with it while driving and wrote this as fast as i could and actually kind of proud of the concept ngl. fun fact! zariza’s name mean ‘gold, brilliantly bright’ in hebrew so obviously it means something similar here in this star wars universe.

There’s an old phenomenon, here on Tatooine – from thousands and thousands of years ago back when this place wasn’t all dirt and sand – where the suns shone high in the sky, and voluminous clouds did little to darken the earth below, and rain fell from them, soaking the life on the ground.

It never lasted long, a few or so minutes at most, but it always happened during the hottest season of the year. It was said to be a beautiful sight to behold. The down pouring rain and the bright shining suns, together. Apparently it looked like liquid gold.

Everyone called it a sunshower. All of the Depur took it as a sign for there to be tricksters coming their way. Some of the Amavikka said that it was a sign of hope from one of the ancient prophets – Ekkreth, or Maru, or Tena, or Ebra – or even Ar-Amu to the slaves.

But most said that during it was when slaves became Free for good.

…We haven’t had rain in ages.

Zariza huffs and grimaces. Every single part of her is sweaty and sticky, and the humidity of this planet’s region might actually end up being the death of her. No, not the droids they fought earlier, or the damn Separatists, or even a stray blaster bolt. But the humidity. She knows that hate isn’t a good thing for a Jedi to feel, but she hates it, through and through. The air feels suffocating – the exact opposite of what it should be – and makes the heat of the sun feel hotter than it actually is.

It’s horrible. She says as much to her Jedi Master.

“Yes, humidity does make what we’re doing harder. Unnecessarily so,” Mace agrees, sounding less annoyed and tired than his padawan but Zariza can hear the edge of the emotions in his voice. He isn’t fairing so well in this weather, either.

At least the battle is over. Now they just have to clean up everything.

The leaders of the planet had asked for clean up help once the fighting had ended and they had verbally agreed to officially join the Republic. Of course the 187th and 501st easily promised they would do so. Neither of the legions have somewhere important to be, except for maybe Coruscant or a High Council meeting, and so here they are. Sweating their asses off in the humid heat that somehow feels like a murder attempt.

“Take a break if you need it, Zariza – I don’t want you overworking yourself in this heat. It could be dangerous,” Mace says after a few more moments. Then to Commander Ponds, “Same goes for all of the one-eighty-seventh, Commander. Take as many breaks as you need.”

Zariza sees Ponds nod out of the corner of her eyes, followed by, “Yes sir, General. Lieutenant Spite and a medic squad are collecting bottles of water and setting up tents for shade. I’ve heard that the five-oh-first are doing the same as they work as well.”

“Good.”

Wiping her brow with the bare skin of her bicep, Zariza is glad that she had the foresight to leave her black cloak and outer tunic on the venator-ship. She now only wears the black boots, leggings, and the sleeveless white under tunic, which is now stained with dirt and a few specks of blood but she could hardly care. The troopers did earlier, though, especially at the beginning of the fight – lack of armor meant danger but Zariza wasn’t about to give herself a heatstroke. She at least still wore the braces for her forearms, and the chest plate that she has since taken off.

One of the troopers – Mayhem, she recognizes the armor – hands her a container of water hardly ten minutes later. She smiles gratefully at him and takes it, taking a few sips, and then hands it back. He caps the container, clips it on his belt, and they both get back to work cleaning broken droid parts and other various debris from the fight. Mayhem never strays too far from her. Zariza might have been annoyed by it if she didn’t know that he’s looking out for her.

On the other side of the large area that had been used a battle field against Seppie droids, are the 501st – her brother included. Like her, he has darker robes than the usual Jedi, and had also foregone the outer tunics because of the planet’s heat before battle started. Zariza won’t be surprised if he’s currently completely shirtless by now – a risk for a sunburn, no doubt, with skin much paler than her own, but that’s his problem. She also knows for a fact that Ahsoka is wearing the tube top outfit she wore constantly before Anakin corralled her into wearing something more covering, a few pieces of armor included, just a month ago.

Hell, even Master Mace Windu is shirtless right now, the weirdness of it be damned. Some troopers have started to disappear regularly, leaving in full gear, only to pop up again with the top half of their blacks and armor gone.

Yeah. Humidity karking sucks.

Needing a break, Zariza leans against a lone tree nearby. She can feel the Living Force flowing through it and focuses on that as she catches her breath. Mayhem spots her and brings her more water without question.

“Thanks,” she sighs, and takes another sip.

Mayhem nods, undoing a second bottle from his belt, right next to where his helmet it clipped. He’s shirtless just like many of his brothers, curly hair frizzy as hell. “You’re welcome, sir,” he says. Once he’s had a few sips of his own, he asks, “How much is left in there?”

She shakes it, and shrugs. “Half, maybe?”

He nods again. “I’ll go back to one of the tents and refill it for you soon.”

She smiles thankfully. “Don’t forget to get yourself some.”

Mayhem chuckles. “Of course not, sir.”

After taking another drink, she hands it back just like before. But she doesn’t move to get back to work just yet. Master Mace nudges her in their bond, asking if she’s okay, and she tiredly pokes back to confirm that she is, all the while eying what’s left of the field to clean up. They’re getting there, but it looks like it will take forever. At least Anakin, Ahsoka, and the 501st are tackling the other half; and they’re getting closer, slowly but surely.

Her eyes flit up to the sky, and she spots grey clouds nearby. But, ugh – they aren’t close enough for them to get rained on.

It causes a frown to tug on her lips. A pout, if she wants to be honest about it.

Mayhem chuckles for a second time, more amused than before. “Finally saw the clouds, huh, verd’ika?”

Another trooper nearby stops and looks as well. A wounded noise escape them. “It’s so close but so damn far,” they say, forlorn. What a Force-damned mood.

“This humidity will be the death of me,” Zariza mumbles.

“That’s not happening on our watch,” they say, firm yet exhausted, the sadness about the clouds suddenly gone.

“Damn straight,” Mayhem agrees.

She can only groan.

Once Zariza has rested for a good few minutes, she stands up straight again, but instead of getting to work, she unties the knot of the yellow bandana at the nape of her neck. The wild, dark waves of her hair are no doubt frizzy and wilder than ever; earlier she was positive that she felt the waves grow in size because of the friz and the humidity, and she honestly doesn’t want to know what she looks like because of it. Quickly, she works on putting her long hair into a nerftail and ties it with the bandana.

What feels like ages later, the planet’s sun is beginning to finally lower in the sky and the 187th has done most of their half of the battle field. Through the bond, Zariza can tell Anakin is close by yet she stays lying on the ground, taking yet another much needed break. The clouds are closer, too. Yet still no rain.

The sound of boots crunching the dry, summer grass as someone walks gets closer and louder, up until the person stops right at Zariza’s head, casting a shadow over her. She blinks and tilts her chin to get a better look at who it is despite already having a pretty good guess. Anakin stands over her, sweaty and shirtless, with red tinting his shoulders, chest, and nose. His dirty blond hair is matted with sweat and it sticks to his forehead and the nape of his neck, a few of the short curls frizzed up, and his face is contorted into a scowl.

“I cannot believe I’m saying this,” he says, “but I miss Tatooine’s dry heat.”

“Agreed,” she grunts.

Anakin huffs and steps to her side. He then sticks out his flesh hand, and Zariza forces herself to sit up so she can grab it. He pulls her to her feet and almost immediately lets go once he’s sure she’s balanced well. The humid heat has made the brother-sister who hug every time they see each other, want to not be touching another body in any way for the foreseeable future.

Anakin runs a hand through his hair, grimaces at the sweat, and wipes it on his pants. Disgusting. “Been drinking enough water?” he asks.

She sighs. “Yep. You?”

“Yep.”

“Ahsoka?”

“Yep.” A beat. “Master Windu?”

She almost says ‘yep’ again, but decides not to. “Yeah, him too. Don’t worry.” She smirks. It’s no secret that before Master Mace took her as his padawan, that Anakin couldn’t stand the man. The feeling might have been mutual, but honestly Zariza doesn’t know and doesn’t care to. For now.

Anakin just rolls his eyes and flips her off, walking off to help Captain Rex and a few more guys of Torrent Company.

Ahsoka comes up to her a second later. The younger teen doesn’t say anything, and neither does Zariza. Usually energetic and happy to get her to know her Master’s little sister better, the heat has zapped the togruta of most of her energy. So in silence, they work together on a particularly large piece of debris, and then immediately head to the nearest tent for some much needed shade. Breaks are becoming more frequent, and Zariza thinks that maybe she will have to stop helping if they don’t finish up cleaning soon.

Anakin is already in the tent, along with Master Mace, Captain Rex, and Commander Ponds by the time the girls get there, and the two padawans wave a short greeting to the men before beelining where other troopers are giving out fresh water.

It’s when one of the Boys In Blue (as the GAR has started calling the 501st) hands them both a fresh container when it happens.

The sound of rain pelting the top of the tent makes everyone freeze. It’s obviously still sunny, but that doesn’t stop Zariza or any of the others to turn to check for themselves. And it is – no clouds directly above them at all – yet the rain is falling down, gradually increasing to a steady downpour. She blinks a few times and inches closer to the edge of the tent, and hardly a second later Anakin is at her side, looking out as well, mouth parted in shock.

“A sunshower,” Anakin whispers.

Zariza numbly nods.

Her mind conjures up a faint memory of being told of a phenomenon from hundreds of thousands of years ago on Tatooine. Of sunshine and rain, together. Of liquid gold. Of tricksters visiting Depur. Of a sign of hope to slaves, or a celebration for the Freed.

It doesn’t look completely like liquid gold like Amu’s tales said, but it was close to it. It’s still beautiful. A stunning phenomenon that neither Anakin nor Zariza believed they would ever get to see.

“They don’t last long,” she finds herself saying.

The Skywalkers turn their heads in unison to look at one another. Matching grins of excitement and mischief form, and without any prompting Zariza is taking off into the rain almost as fast as a blaster bolt, Anakin hot on her heels.

Zariza jumps into an already formed puddle. It’s right next to one of the 501st troopers, Jesse, and it splashes him. Zariza may or may not have used to Froce to make the splash bigger, but that doesn’t exactly matter. Just that there’s a sunshower, that her and her brother are both Free, and there’s a fucking sunshower and it’s amazing!

Jesse lunges at her, wanting to retaliate for getting splashed at, but she slips away easily with loud laughter.

From him, anyway – Anakin catches her a second later with water from a puddle cupped in his hands. He promptly dumps it over her head with laughter of his own, then misses up her hair just for the heck of it.

“Wha– ugh, Anakin!”

“Tag, you’re it!” he shouts, as if they’re eight and twelve again in the Room of a Thousand Fountains instead of sixteen and twenty in the middle of a field post-battle.

Zariza gapes at him, but it quickly turns into grins and she chases after him without a second thought.

It doesn’t take long for Ahsoka to join, or even for the troopers. Within seconds, there’s a large game of tag, troopers splashing in puddles, and almost everyone running in the rain with the sun shining down on them, laughter ringing out into the open and so much Light seeping into the Force that Mace can’t help but shove his Commander into the rain as well.

…Yes, we haven’t had rain in thousands upon thousands of years.

But it is said that one day, when the twin suns shine hotly over Tatooine, that clouds will form once again yet they will not obscure the twins from sight, and a downpour of rain will wash over everyone.

All the slaves will be Free, and Depur will no longer have power over us.

We will have a sunshower once more.

#anakin skywalker #tatooine slave culture #star wars #star wars oc #star wars fanfiction #clone wars oc #mace windu #my writing #oc: zariza #take the fear that i don’t need

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cdyssey · 3 years

Text

Need

Summary: After Nick arrives at the beach house, Frankie escapes to her studio to process her emotions. Post 7x04.

A/N: I've had such Grace and Frankie brain rot these past few days that I figured I should put it to good use and write another fic. It was really fascinating to try Frankie's POV. Lily Tomlin imbues her with a lot of subtle pathos that I totally wish the show would explicitly explore more.

AO3 Link

—

Frankie excuses herself to the studio for dinner, so she can process her very big, astonishingly inappropriate, and entirely overwhelming emotions without resorting to calling Nick a “wavy-haired, Pierce Brosnan wannabe douche canoe.”

As delightful (and totally true) of a turn a phrase that it is, even she knows that saying it aloud would be trespassing a boundary that she’s sworn herself never to cross: Grace is married.

Unhappily married, maybe.

Complicatedly married at the very least.

But until the day that they mutually say “I do” to divorce papers, there isn’t enough room for three people in the Skolka marriage, however much that Grace—bless her increasingly unthawing heart—tries to ensure otherwise.

So Frankie lets the newly reunited couple have their dinner alone under the guise of a generosity that she doesn’t exactly feel, and she takes leftover pasta into her studio to moodily pick around the bowl until her fettuccine looks less like fettuccine and more like unevenly perforated confetti.

(Woo fucking hoo.)

After a few minutes of this aggressively unconstructive practice, she places her nearly full bowl on a nearby work table and stretches out across her paint-stained couch, staring at the ceiling and resisting the reactionary urge to light a joint. Mary J might help her feel better for the present moment, but tomorrow morning, she’d still wake up and feel invaded in her own home.

Paradoxically, she’d also feel alone, goddammit.

She pulls her shawl more tightly around her shoulders against an invisible and piercing chill.

Frankie hates feeling lonely.

She spiraled when Grace lived in the penthouse. She nearly self-destructed to fill the gaping void that her roommate, her friend, her practical and beloved soulmate left behind. There was a period where she didn’t wash her clothes and ate a lot of admittedly non-vegan takeout. There were nights when she’d lay awake in her awfully huge bed, staring at the empty space where Sol used to sleep, and have the familiar waking nightmare of spending her final years in forced solitude. She was happy with Jack, and then Jacob—sweet Jacob—came around too, and she did something she still feels fucking ashamed about: she hurt both of them, and she lied when she said that she had just wanted to have some fun.

She knows herself.

Intimately.

She‘d been scared of being alone again, so she tried to hold on to two people who were helping her to stave the awful feeling away. Those men wanted her, and Frankie used them. They wanted her, and she pathologically loves to feel wanted because she sometimes and irrationally fears that she might not be needed.

To be fair to her irrational fears, all the people she’s ever needed and felt needed by have hurt her before.

Sol cheated on her for twenty years.

Her own sons stuck her in a nursing home.

Grace just fucking left her.

She eloped in Vegas like a blushing twenty-one year old bride and just disappeared.

She says it was a mistake; she sat across Frankie in a sunlit restaurant and candidly told her that she didn’t like the person she had become when she married Nick.

And to be completely fair to her, Grace has been adamant about not wanting to leave again—so perhaps she never will—but if her husband is here to stay, it's also a distinct possibility that she’ll never have to make the choice to physically leave to… well… leave.

She can perpetually honeymoon with Nick and still call Frankie home.

It could be a happy ending for Grace… and a fresh new hell for Frankie, who'd just started to feel secure again.

God knows she wants her best friend to be happy, but the big man in the sky must also surely understand that she had hoped that she alone could be enough for Grace, that this unconventional life spent together in the beach house—so crazy, so weird, and so inextricably entangled—would be their shared happily ever after.

But even as she thinks it, the vestiges of her clearly misplaced optimism begin to evade her, dregs now at the bottom of an already drained cup.

She and Grace aren't married.

It’s always been an objective fact.

Tonight, it feels more like an unpleasant reality.

When the door leading into her studio suddenly flies open, Frankie barely has enough time to swipe the back of her hand across her eyes before she sits up to find none other than the lady of the hour.

Her collared shirt popped up stiffly around her neck, a martini glass surgically glued to her right hand, Grace looks quintessentially herself as she walks in, even down to the minutiae of her trademark I'm-angry-at-the-world-and-everyone-in-it expression—brow furrowed and eyes Medusa cold. After all but slamming the door, she stalks over within a few clicks of her practical but unmistakably high heels.

“Well, hello to you, too, Sunshine,” Frankie greets wryly, hoping to hell and back that her face isn’t as red as it feels.

It’s a tall order, though.

Alas, she was gifted (or equally cursed) with an exceptionally expressive face.

“Frankie, this is nonsense,” Grace says bluntly, using her martini glass like a pointer and leveling it straight at her head. “Come back to the house—your house—and have dinner with us.”

It’s the authoritarian nature of the demand that rifles Frankie.

Frankly, it pisses her off.

She’s always been a rebel contrarian.

“And by us, you mean you and your house arrested husband, right?” She returns evenly. She betrays herself by raising a single and devastatingly skeptical brow. “The man with whom you should be having a very emotionally honest conversation with right now about the parameters of your jacked up relationship?”

Grace shifts her weight from heel to heel and glances away a little too quickly for the gesture to be entirely natural. Frankie had blatantly stricken a pulsing nerve, and the guilt of doing so immediately swallows her.

She shouldn’t be so hard on her friend.

(She doesn’t know why it’s permissible to be equally hard on herself.)

“Well, I tried to have that conversation, thank you very much, but then I ended up wanting to claw Nick’s eyes out.” The obvious follow up question must shine in Frankie’s face because sighing infinitesimally through her nostrils, Grace adds, “His attorney argued that my advanced age and apparent capability to croak at any moment were reasons enough to grant Nick leniency. They let him out so he could take care of me—whatever the hell that means.”

Her no-nonsense voice never falters as she delivers the brutal words, but her eyes undermine her, seething with emotion, simply roiling. They tell a story of horror and disgust and searing, absolute betrayal; they’re heavy all over with sadness and the indelicate trappings of all her raw and mercilessly exposed fears.

Frankie understands immediately.

Nick used one of Grace’s deepest insecurities as a get-out-of-jail-free card.

Being eighty-two years old.

But perhaps more accurately, feeling like it.

“Oh, honey,” Frankie melts. She can do nothing else but melt, to be suddenly overcome with fierce, protective, and terrifying love for the woman in front of her. “That fucking bastard.”

Grace immediately laughs, the sound hoarse and watery and a little unhinged all at the exact same time.

“Tell me about it,” she half-smiles and takes the swearing as a rightful invitation to join Frankie on the couch. With a gentle clink, she sets her half-emptied martini glass on the table next to Frankie’s completely full pasta bowl. “I said the exact same thing.”

When she chooses to sit close enough that their shoulders are brushing, Frankie intuitively knows that this is petty defiance against Nick for daring to intrude upon them and the world they've so carefully created together.

She temples Grace’s nearest hand with her own in an attempt to silently communicate that this right here—whatever this is between them—is love.

“So, please”—Grace squeezes her hand back—“please don’t be angry with me… I… I didn’t want this. You know I didn’t want this. I don’t want him to even be here.”

Frankie stares openly at her best friend.

Wide-eyed and hopeful against her self-loathing, self-centered will, she searches her broken face like it's revelatory.

It's stunningly rare that Grace Hanson ever articulates her wants so clearly. Forty years of an emotionally repressive marriage did their number and toll on her. She pedestalized rigid decorum over every conscious desire.

She played by the rules even if they hurt her.

And drank herself to oblivion on many a night to forget the very fact that she was hurt.

To deny herself the honesty she’d somehow convinced herself that she didn’t deserve.

“… you know this is your husband we’re talking about here, right?” It’s a rhetorical question. Frankie's pretty sure that they both fucking know that it’s insane that this conversation—that this entire situation as a whole—is happening.

“I know,” Grace replies firmly. “Believe me, I'm well aware. But you’re… you’re my partner, Frankie, and if I can’t be upfront with you, then I don’t know who else I can turn to.”

The very word partner sends shivers down her spine, and the shivers collect like butterflies in her already churning belly.

It’s just a word, she tells herself.

She scolds.

Grace doesn’t mean anything by it.

It's a label, and Grace doesn't do labels anymore.

“I... I wasn’t mad at you, Grace,” she finally admits. It's easier to do than questioning the extent to which her roommate would give up the world for her, but all the same, her voice is frighteningly weak, a pale imitation of everything Frankie usually projects herself to be: confident, cheerful, unshakeable, unshaken. Suddenly, it hits her that it’s been a very long time since she’s been so openly vulnerable, too. “I'm not even really all that mad at your jailbird husband either. I was just scared, and when I get scared, I skitter like a nervous little bug."

She shuts down.

She spirals.

She tries to put a smile on her face for the people who love her all the same.

And then she lies awake at night, drowning in the sheets of an empty bed.

Thinking about how she should probably tell someone that everything hurts.

But she’s Frankie, and she doesn’t do that.

Grace perpetually convinces herself that she doesn’t deserve honesty; Frankie has come to fear that no one wants her own.

“Were you scared of me?” Grace asks quietly, her grip so tight now that it almost stings.

“Frankie…” She presses when a few heartbeats of silence stagger by, limping painfully on all fours, pronouncing so many unspoken and profound hurts.

“Of losing you, Grace,” she confesses, the words defeated and scraped raw. She forcefully tugs her hand away from Grace's just to temple her own hands together on her lap, to lick her sundry and shining wounds in a private corner. “I was scared of losing you, of being alone again in this big, empty house… and I don’t like being alone.”

She can’t bear to look at Grace as she says it, staring at the paint-flecked floor without ever really seeing it, her eyes burning.

She wishes they’d stop burning but feels the precise moment when they begin to leak anyway.

It’s all so embarrassing.

And childish.

Frankie is an eighty-year old woman, and she shouldn’t be upset over her best friend having a goddamn life.

She should be happy for her, fucking ecstatic.

And yet, she's—

But before she can complete the miserable thought, her body becomes aware of another sensation entirely—warm arms enveloping her from the side and inexorably pulling her in, turning the space that once existed between two bodies—between them—intangible, negligible.

Grace.

Shock turns into realization, and realization transforms into aching, sweeping relief.

It can only be Grace.

Grace’s soft lips pressed to her cheek.

Grace’s fingertips curling into the fabric of her dress.

Grace’s nose against her neck as she slides her sharp chin across her shoulder.

“I’m not leaving you, Frances Bergstein,” she declares. “Whatever happens between me and Nick, in the end, it’s going to be just you and me in this house that is our damn home. I swear that to you. I’d tell you every day just to prove it to you.”

Oh, these words.

These beautiful, tender, and long-needed-to-hear words.

They’re just words, she could tell herself again.

She could lie.

She could convince herself if she had to.

She could conveniently forget that Grace Hanson uses language carefully, that she employs every sentence with scalpel-like precision.

Or... more complicatedly still... Frankie could believe her.

Frankie could blindly accept these words for what they are, as manifest confirmation that she is loved by another—prioritized and cared for and needed.

She could be Grace’s partner and let that incredible word be electrically charged with so many complex and ridiculous and extraordinary ideas, none of which are traditional, and all of which feel true.

She could believe in her even if belief is not simple, even if belief is a product, first and foremost, of trust.

And Grace has certainly lost her trust before, but goddammit, she's earned it so many times, too.

“Oh, God,” Frankie laughs in such a way that it’s stupidly clear that she’s crying as Grace rubs slow circles into her back with her thumb. “This is all messed up. You’re the one with a house arrested, tax evading husband. I should be the one comforting you.”

“The house arrested, tax evading husband doesn’t particularly faze me,” Grace chuckles, her voice low. “Seeing you hurting and upset does. My priorities are remarkably straight.”

“I’m not sure you know the meaning of that word,” she smiles weakly as they slowly and clumsily begin to extricate themselves from their tangled embrace.

It’s hard to find themselves again.

To be apart.

“But I do,” Grace protests, emphatic and indignant and maybe even a few shades righteously pissed. “You’re the person I wanna share this crazy life with at the end of the day and every day. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because every day is an incredibly long time to be with me,” Frankie offers meekly, giving her one more perfect and easily acceptable copout, a neatly packaged excuse.

She can be too much.

She knows this.

“It’s just the right amount of time to be with you,” Grace murmurs, reaching up to brush an errant tear away from Frankie’s cheek, her thumb lingering, her quivering palm. “You’re kind enough to love me, and I’m lucky enough to be loved by you... so let me return the favor, Frankie. Let me be here for you."

And to Grace’s credit in this fleeting moment, she continues to hold Frankie.

It's a promise to never let her go.

#grace and frankie #grace hanson #frankie bergstein #grace x frankie #grace and frankie spoilers #reginianwrites #s: grace and frankie

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xiaomomowrites · 3 years

Text

so mean, xiansheng

Genshin Impact | ZhongChi

Summary: “You still refuse to yield?” Zhongli taunts, digging the ball of his foot into his chest. “After all that, you still persist? You’ve reached for your delusion, you’ve summoned all the weapons in your armory, and now you’ve resorted to crawling away? Frankly, when Tsaritsa had explained to me that she’d send her strongest diplomat my way, I hadn’t expected this level of...incompetence.”

The blunt end of his spear makes contact with his navel, and Childe’s face burns red. Fuck, why does he want it so much lower—

"Pathetic."

Or, Childe figures out Zhongli is Rex Lapis. He challenges him to a fight, anyway.

Find it on Ao3!

This story has nothing to do with the series! I just got the urge to write Zhongli being the badass he is.

A/N: Okay I wrote this immediately after I finished my draft for act VI, so that should definitely be coming very soon! But my evil beta, Peaches, implanted this horrible idea of Zhongli being a little more mean and a little more malicious in my head, and I had no choice by to write it. One of these lines is actually hers, and I just adjusted it a bit, but it really inspired me to write a whole damn fic. Oh, the power she holds.

Let it be known that I did NOT expect this to turn out the way it did. I wanted angst, not sexual tension! But hey, sometimes fics really do write themselves. Thank you, Peaches, for helping me scratch an itch I didn't even know I had. Anyway I hope you enjoy!

Find me on Twitter where I'm very chatty and talk about Genshin too much! -u.n

What the fuck.

In all fairness, Childe didn’t expect to win this fight. He really didn’t. Tartaglia had just pieced together that Zhongli was the Rex Lapis, and he had gotten ahead of himself anyway. Really, challenging a six thousand year old God? Childe has done many, many reckless things, but this has to be his stupidest trick yet. And still, still, he found himself in the Golden House, surrounded by the walls of ebony, and feeling like he was getting swallowed whole by the golden hue of the mora beneath his very feet.

Well, he was on his knees, now.

Childe pants from where he is hunched over. Somewhere in his fight against his precious Xiansheng, Zhongli had managed a good hit to his abdomen with the butt end of his weapon, and he was only mildly aware of the fact that he was bleeding internally. But on the bright side, the dull throbbing kept him from passing out right then and there; every jolt of pain that spread through his core has kept him awake and mildly aware up until this point. Childe grunted and cradled the wound with his left hand, his right one occupied with his bow. It came back stained red. Well, shit. It wasn’t so internal anymore.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Even though he knows he isn’t in immediate danger, and that Zhongli would never actually harm him, Childe’s heart still sinks terrifyingly low into his stomach. Childe whips around and ignores the burst of pain and the pressure building behind his eyelids at the sudden movement. He draws his bow, summons a hydro arrow and gets a clear shot of Zhongli’s ridiculously sexy face and—

The Archon closes the distance by twirling and tossing his polearm forward, disappearing into thin air, and warping right in front of him again in a flash of blinding gold. With a flick of Zhongli’s wrist and the slightest nudge of his spear against Childe’s weapon, the bow goes flying. It clatters somewhere far away from him, skidding until it hits one of Zhongli’s geo pillars. Childe panics slightly, using his feet to try to scoot away while frantically summoning his water blades.

Zhongli is quick, though. He never misses a beat, never leaves an opening, never lets Childe get a single hit in. And, well, maybe Childe could have worded his challenge better. The Harbinger should have known better than to hit him with the classic “hit me with everything you’ve got” because apparently, he didn’t know his own damn limits. And looking at the way the Archon hasn’t even broken a sweat, it would be safe to assume that Zhongli is only exerting maybe half of his energy. Possibly even less.

Childe, on the other hand, was already haggard from the effects of his delusion. He had summoned his stronger form sometime during the fight, reaching for the electricity that crackled within his bones for a boost in strength. Tartaglia had felt confident, then, upon seeing Zhongli looking so tiny from where the Harbinger stood. He had held himself tall and proud in that moment, all strength and lethal lightning surrounding his body. But of course, the Archon did not budge. If anything, Tartaglia remembers him smirking, looking smug from where he had stood. His eyes had flashed a brilliant gold, and the tips of his hair burned a brighter amber. Childe remembers lunging and Zhongli parrying effortlessly, countering his every attack like it was nothing but a mere dance to him. Tartaglia had even kept contact with him! Each swing he sent had touched Zhongli fair and square, but each bludgeoning hit was redirected with ease, and it slid right off the Archon like water off a duck’s back.

It had infuriated the Harbinger to no end.

But then he let his guard down, blinded by his own anger, and Zhongli had met a fist swinging wildly with his own open palm sliding against Tartaglia’s arm. The Archon had formed an invisible wedge that steered Tartaglia off course and away from his vital points. Zhongli had tilted his head slightly to the right then, lunged forward, and took his opponent down in one fell swoop.

Tartaglia didn’t remember much after that. All he remembered was that he was in pain, his joints were croaking pathetically, and he was back in his normal human form. The lingering effects of his delusion danced along his fingertips in the form of purple electricity.

But it doesn’t matter what form he takes, because Zhongli derails his train of thought as the bottom of a boot is suddenly pressed against his chest, forcing him down, and not stopping until he hits the floor. Childe wheezes, the obvious fracture in his ribs making itself known. Those geo pillars getting summoned from hell really did not do the ginger any favors, especially the one that rose up beneath his feet and slammed against his chest, sending him tumbling away and coughing.

“You still refuse to yield?” Zhongli taunts, digging the ball of his foot into his chest. “After all that, you still persist? You’ve reached for your delusion, you’ve summoned all the weapons in your armory, and now you’ve resorted to crawling away? Frankly, when Tsaritsa had explained to me that she’d send her strongest diplomat my way, I hadn’t expected this level of...incompetence.”

The blunt end of his spear makes contact with his navel, and Childe’s face burns red. Fuck, why does he want it so much lower—

Childe whimpers like a wounded animal. Because the worst part is, he’s not even wrong. And Zhongli isn’t even trying to sound mean. He simply is .

“Pathetic.”

Childe’s toes curl at the degradation.

Oh, fuck.

What is going on?!

“Stop,” he pleads. Gods above, please, please keep going, his mind betrays him.

“Oh?” Zhongli taunts, dragging his foot down until it reaches his abdomen. He uses his polearm to nudge Childe’s legs apart a little further and oh he might pass out. He digs his heel into Tartaglia’s stomach, purposely avoiding his injury. Not because he’s being nice, no. He’ll just get to that later. Childe grunts at the contact. “I don’t think you want me to, though.”

Zhongli’s eyes flicker down to Childe’s crotch, and watches with sick satisfaction at the way his hips squirm in anticipation. Zhongli waves his hand and in one motion, the weapon disappears.

“Oh Celestia,” he laughs. He laughs, and Childe’s cock twitches at the sound. It’s empty and hollow, and not at all filled with the usual joy he’s used to hearing. Childe suddenly gets the inexplicable need to swallow it. “You like this?”

Childe opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Barely a squeak, if anything. Oh Tsaritsa, what is wrong with me?

Zhongli moves his foot a little to the left, applies the slightest bit of pressure, and—

“A-Ah-!”

The god smirks. “That’s what I thought.”

Childe croaks, “W-what are you—“

Zhongli stares at him with eyes that somehow became a shade darker, a shade meaner. They were filled with a hunger that was almost inhuman; an aura emitted from him that was otherworldly and frighteningly possessive. It was only in that fraction of a second that Childe was hit with the realization of just who he was looking at. This...this was no simple soldier. This was no flimsy Millelith, that he could dismantle within seconds. This was a whole deity. The oldest Archon, the dragon himself, Morax-

“You know who I am, do you not? Otherwise, you wouldn’t have challenged an innocent consultant to such a grand battle, and in the Golden House, of all places,” Zhongli summons a lone piece of mora and twirls it between his fingers, observing the way the weight felt in his hand. It glimmers faintly in the light. He doesn’t even bother to look at Tartaglia anymore.

“Kings and Gods of all realms have bowed before me,” he states with such nonchalance it makes Childe’s head spin, “whatever made you think you could be an exception?”

Childe chuckles weakly, and finally lets his head hit the floor. His eyes flutter shut in surrender. He supposes that Zhongli is right. Besides, he knows when he’s lost a battle. It was time to end this.

“Alright,” he voices, “I yield.”

“No,” Zhongli states firmly, and much to Childe’s surprise and (reluctant) delight, the Archon drops all of his weight onto him and straddles his torso, pinning his body to the ground. His hands, quick as lighting, pin Childe’s own above his head. Zhongli leans down slowly, condescendingly, until there’s barely a hair’s width between their lips. The Harbinger’s breath hitches.

“You yield when I tell you to.”

#WHOO #childe #tartaglia #genshin impact #genshin #genshin impact fanfiction #zhongli #rex lapis #morax #tartali #zhongchi #childe x zhongli #mean mean zhongli #picking on the mortals smh #childe has a bit of a uhhh degradation kink

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lily-mj-fae · 3 years

Text

Nesta and Elain

I’m going to add now: I recognize my own clear bias towards Elain. And in many ways, this post is in part to defend her, especially since now that fandom has more insight on Nesta, there’s been an increase in hate towards Elain, especially in regards to her interactions with Nesta. Some of these include expecting her to remain in a toxic situation purely because she “owes” Nesta. And so i want to discuss, why that mindset is wrong (which i’ve done a couple times in terms of morally/ethically) because they barely have a relationship anyway. Mostly, i just want to actually describe what we see of them. I’m going to try to stick to mostly just facts of what happens, with some inferences based on text on either side.

So there’s a lot of evidence to show, that while the two clearly clung to each other when their family fell, and that there’s obvious love on either side for each other, they do not have a strong relationship. Or a healthy one. Or a good one.

Not only do we have Elain mentioning that no one ever really listens to her (which is obvious it does in fact apply to her family as we see in canon a few times over, I’ll get to that). But you’d have thought that in ACOSF we’d see some kind of fond memories from Nesta about Elain. Some kind of fondness. Something that made us really believed and finally understand why she loved Elain so fiercely she would have ripped apart the world to defend her. Instead, we learn, Nesta has never told anyone she loved them until she said it to Feyre. And we do not see a single happy thought about Elain from Nesta. No happy memories. Nothing. But there was no explanation for WHY she felt so strongly for just Elain. And not a single thing to really support her feeling that way.

We’re led by Feyre to believe that Elain and Nesta are so close. And at first glance, sure, it’s easy to believe. They spend the most time together. They gossip and talk at dinner together. They have the matching iron bracelets (that I believe wasn’t a purchase made by both as Feyre seemed to think, but by Nesta, because Feyre mentions specifically how Elain had spent her money on gifts for her sisters, and I think if Elain had been involved, she would have gotten one for Feyre). Then throughout the series we see how much Nesta is willing to fight to protect Elain. How much she wants to keep Elain away from danger. We see her wanting to do things with Nesta, but not knowing how anymore because she’s becoming more distant. We see Elain even wanting to spend time with Nesta and trying to keep her included in things into ACOFAS.

To me, the illusion fades with that conversation with Lucien in the library. When Elain says that no one really heard her. And when you look at things, it becomes obvious. Most especially with Nesta. Feyre we know already knows little about her sisters. She assumed that Nesta hated her, and that her sisters would be glad to have her gone. And is surprised that Nesta would have gone after her. But with Elain we see this frequently. Elain wants to help Feyre. So she speaks up. Yes, it puts her relationship at risk. And yes, we know that Nesta takes over in an attempt to provide a buffer for Elain should Graysen find out, to maybe save her from the heartbreak of him leaving her for helping any Fae. But it doesn’t change that it was Elain’s decision. Elain’s desire to help. Nesta instead pushed her out of it wherever she could (IE taking over correspondence for them) in the name of protecting her. This is a problem. Because 1) Nesta is sacrificing her own feelings to do what Elain wants, which I think is wrong. Nesta didn’t want to help, and I think she should have stuck to that. Stuck to her own decision. 2) Nesta is preventing Elain from dealing with consequences of her actions (IE, if Graysen found out she was helping the fae). 3) This is disrespecting Elain's agency. She's not letting Elain be herself by constantly interfering 4) she then goes on to belittle Elain for those things, despite it being her decisions and actions to interfere. And we can recognize that her intentions are good all we want, it doesn't make the actions themselves good or even appropriate. Intentions only mean so much. They certainly don't excuse such detrimental behavior.

Now could Elain have fought back? The black and white answer? Yes. But it's not that simple. Elain we know has been belittled from a young age by at least her mother (okay that's an assumption on my part. But with feyre's description of their mother and Nesta's memories, i certainly wouldn't be surprised if she'd said those things to Elain's face). And essentially raised to be pleasant and agreeable. A proper lady. Her confidence in herself doesn't seem very high. Not to mention, she's much quieter than Nesta. Imagine how exhausting it would be to fight your sister on every little thing you wanted to do. And we see this in canon. Every time Elain wants to help, she has to fight Nesta. I don't think this just magically started in acomaf. I'd wager its been going since a minimum of coming to the cottage (It’s part of why I think Elain doesn’t necessarily take up chopping wood when the request is there. i think she attempted once, and Nesta stopped her and wouldn’t let her). I personally think since their mother's death. Elain is also younger than Nesta, and we do have canon evidence of her having at least one memory full of complete adoration. And a respect for the art form and her sister's views on life. So her fighting back, isn’t as easy as fandom wants to think it is.

I also want to bring up someone once mentioning in ACOTAR when Elain and Feyre were talking, and Elain mentions that she feels awful to have her friends over because Nesta makes them uncomfortable, and how that’s so disrespectful of Elain. No it’s not. Elain is allowed to have friends over. And Nesta just glared at them. I’m not saying she had to like them (because I understand why she wouldn’t), but that was rude, and she could have easily been elsewhere, and let Elain have her friends and enjoy time with them. I also read it differently, in that Elain feels awful inviting her friends over because it’s upsetting Nesta too. Which isn’t fair to her either, given that Nesta has at that point begun isolating herself (and while we as readers become aware of why later, Elain has absolutely no idea. And already has said Nesta wouldn’t talk about it. Implying she tried reaching out too), thus leaving Elain feeling very lonely. Overall, Elain here is feeling the way she should. It’s like when you have company over and your parents start yelling at you, or just being anything less than polite and you have to deal with the awkward tension.

Then comes ACOSF. And i know i wasn't the only one hoping to find out more about their relationship. And i’m not the only one who was left disappointed that we still don’t get to understand Nesta’s behavior when it comes to Elain. In fact, if I had only read ACOSF and you had told me that before that, Elain seemed to be Nesta’s favorite sister, I’d call you a liar. I do not get a single ounce that Nest has a loving feeling for Elain in ACOSF. Certainly at the very least, not enough to justify the way she treated Elain vs. Feyre in earlier books. Not to mention, Nesta is under the very immature and inaccurate idea that Elain has chosen Feyre over her. As if it’s black and white. As if Elain can only love her or Feyre. And yes, it’s a sign of her mental illness with depression and trauma. That’s fine. But it still shows a very limited viewpoint. And really only shows a care for herself, no thought of Elain or Elain’s state of mind or even really any empathy for the fact that Nesta was the one causing the rift between them and how that was truly affecting Elain. (Again more trauma response. But my point here is that there is very little empathy towards the sister that we’re told she so vehemently loves).

Now onto the part that I know is my unpopular fandom opinion: Nesta dealing with Elain’s trauma vs Elain dealing with Nesta’s...and how their traumas were very different to deal with in the first place.

My unpopular opinion is that Nesta wasn’t doing anything to actually help Elain. She was doing everything to protect her. But was not interested really in her healing. Nesta isolated Elain, who had previously been social in many ways. We don’t ever see how she fought for Elain to eat or drink or have a will to live. We only hear her say that’s what she did. But fandom does need to stop saying that Nesta was with Elain every second of every day (i have had people say this in arguments. It’s a flat out lie. There’s far more textual evidence that Nesta left Elain alone throughout her trauma than there is that she was by her side constantly. And I don’t say she was never by her side). Because the fact of the matter is that isn’t remotely true. Perhaps of the first few weeks. Before Feyre returned. But after that? We hardly see Nesta with Elain. We instead see her keeping people from interacting with her. Keeping them from giving Elain choices.

And we can shout that she was doing what she thought was best, but it doesn’t change that the effect it had was Elain being isolated and underprepared. Elain had been trying to do her part to help since ACOMAF. And she was being blocked. Elain deserved that chance to go to the high lord’s meeting and share her story (especially since Nesta didn’t want to and wasn’t going to up until the last minute). And Elain should have been offered the same training as Nesta. Especially once they learned she had powers. Instead no one offered to let her help (even though she’d been wanting to help since Feyre first came asking). No one offered to train her. Because Nesta would have had their heads. Saying that it was to keep Elain from doing something she might not have been ready for, plays into the idea that Nesta is protecting Elain from growing. Learning. Protecting her from the consequences. Nesta refused to let anyone really near her beyond the necessities.

Speaking of: Can we please talk about something no one else does? The fact that Nesta just accepts the fact that Elain is mad. That she’s broken. The effect that could have had on her, is so detrimental to Elain’s mental health. The thoughts she was probably already dealing with and then to hear that from her sister? Like she refuses to accept that there could be another answer. And while we might agree and empathize why she would say that, it doesn’t change the effect saying it would have on Elain, who was already struggling heavily to deal with everything that had been thrown at her at once. And even once Elain became Lucid, and they identified the problem, Nesta (and Feyre) continued to try to leave her behind. Again, yes, in the name of protecting Elain. But Nesta never listened to Elain. Never saw that Elain improved upon being involved. That just that action of her wanting to do something, was making her Lucid and back to herself. Instead, Nesta ignored that. Which is why I say she wasn’t focused on Elain’s healing. That and the fact that she’s making assumptions that Elain is fine now.

Elain tried to stay involved with Nesta. No, she didn’t go outside her comfort zone and go into the places Nesta was spending time. But she was trying. I admit, the shot upon Nesta’s arrival is weird. I’m torn between thinking it was a legit, to help relax, or thinking it was something she was pouring as Amren said the comment and decided to drink it instead of giving it to Nesta. (Because yes, it would be easy to say as Amren spoke, elain had been pouring, but even without that, it doesn’t mean things aren’t happening at the same time). When that didn’t work, Elain agreed intervention was necessary. and I just made a whole ass post about why that wasn’t giving up on Nesta like fandom keeps thinking.

And of course, Elain is not perfect here. She has made her mistakes. Though hers are mostly in terms of words. At least the ones I could find textual evidence for when it comes to Elain and Nesta. And mostly done in terms of emotional response.

Now. I did not intend for this post to shit on Nesta. I’m afraid it feels like it has. So I am going to tag it accordingly. But this was more to bring to light the reality that Nesta and Elain aren’t that close. They don’t have a close relationship. They were more security blankets for each other in ACOTAR, and their missing foundation began to show in ACOMAF when Nesta was unaffected by Tamlin’s Glamour and Elain was. I do think there’s a lot of love to be had between them. (Honestly hearing Elain talk about Nesta dancing, and hearing her be happy that Nesta has the Valkyries, even though she feels like she’s been losing Nesta made my heart swell for the amount of love there). But I wanted to point out that their relationship was extremely surface level and nothing deep. That it’s certainly not what fandom acts like it is as they spin this tale of complete and utter evil Elain betraying Nesta and how Nesta has done so much for Elain. Nesta had never even told Elain she loved her. Ever. Which i think is telling about where they really stand.

So let’s please stop acting like Elain owes Nesta everything under the sun because of all the things Nesta did for her. Their relationship was never deep. And while Nesta’s protectiveness stems from a place of love, is actually more detrimental to Elain and her overall growth, than it is good. And Elain has done the things she considered to be best for Nesta, and tried to show love her way. Which is equally unperfect. Because neither of them are perfect.

#elain archeron #anti Nesta Archeron #anti nesta #acosf #acotar

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jetaime-jespere · 3 years

Text

Inopportune

An early Sunday morning conversation with @sweetsecretskeptinside about what could have happened pre and post Milwaukee inspired this little thing. It was meant to be a lot shorter, but you all know brevity isn’t my strength. This is rated M for smut!

As they say, timing is everything.

When Aaron slams the front door shut, he knows his marriage is over. Maybe not officially, but it’s the beginning of the very end.

He purposefully ignored Haley’s final ultimatum, once again choosing this job over his family. And it’s not even the hurt on her face that lingers in his mind as he throws his bag into the front seat, but the fact that he didn’t even hesitate to make the choice he did. The disintegration of their marriage has built over time, an almost natural erosion of the intimacy they’d shared in the early days. What used to be Haley’s proud acknowledgement of the challenges of his job has turned into shades of resentment. It’s a constant ebb and flow of disappointment and hurt, coupled with the challenge of being rendered a single parent not in name, but in practice. Not to mention, the cold slap in the face of her all but confirmed infidelity. That had been the final straw. The worst part is, it isn’t his marriage that he grieves anymore. Grief is reserved for his son, the one whose life will soon change drastically when the inevitable happens and the papers are signed.

Aaron can pinpoint exactly when things finally spiraled past his control, much to his chagrin. The arrival of a certain dark haired agent less than a year ago, with a box in her hands and a smile on her face. They’d met before, in another lifetime, when she was barely an adult, privileged and proud, while he struggled to be one at all, barely making ends meet but worlds happier than he is now. The turning of the tables nearly makes his head spin.

And even though Aaron knows better, he’s driving to Emily’s apartment with his foot on the gas just a little heavier than usual. It’s technically against protocol to get her address from her personnel file, but he doesn’t have to, because what he’d never tell anyone is that he’s taken her home once before. Once, early on, when she needed a ride thanks to a flat tire. Twice, if he counts the time he drove them all home from the bar after New Orleans a few months ago. He’d purposefully saved her for last, and she’d fallen asleep in the front seat after dropping a very tipsy Penelope off. Emily had blushed with embarrassment when he woke her up, her eyes glassy and ringed with exhaustion, insisting that no, she hadn’t fallen asleep, and of course not, when he suggested walking her up to her door. I can walk by myself, she’d said, stumbling on her own two feet towards her building.

There’s another secret he’d never tell a soul. He kissed her once. To be fair, she kissed him back. It had been a mistake, they’re both abundantly aware of that. But San Francisco had been hell, particularly for her - arson is never easy - and he had a front row seat to her more human side that had stayed so carefully hidden since she’d joined the team.

Aaron offered her a drink in his office upon their return, against his better judgement, when he found her in the doorway with her reports in her hands. He doesn’t tell her they’re a few days late. He’ll cut her some slack on this one. She quickly refused the drink, a nervous shake of her head, muttering something about getting home as she passed over the paperwork. “Have a good night, Sir.” The discomfort in her voice is evident, still unsure of how to read him.

“You did well in San Francisco.” It might be one of the first times he’s complimented her work, at least privately. “This wasn’t an easy case, you know.” His voice echoes through his empty office, and he can’t help but wonder how many more of these lonely nights he’ll have, just himself and a wayward custodian for company.

“None of them are,” Emily says somewhat dismissively with a wave of her hand and a nervous laugh. “But thank you.” She looks tired and drained. “I … appreciate that.”

“I was wrong, you know.” It’s about time he told her the truth. She’s more than proved herself at this point. “You are an asset to this team, Emily. Please know that.”

To his surprise, she doesn’t even crack a grin, just stares at him in surprise, waiting for him to say something else.

“And I’m sorry for not acknowledging that until now.”

She nods slowly, her eyes narrowing just enough to tell him she still doesn’t fully trust him. He can’t explain why it bothers him, or the fact he’ll think about it for hours afterward.

“I’ll walk you out.” He doesn’t have to walk her out at all, they both know this, but he does, just a few inches too close to her than he should. It’s the subtle attraction to her he feels that possesses him to do it, and before he can stop himself, right before she steps into the elevator, he wraps a hand around the back of her head and kisses her, quick and chaste, on the lips.

What he didn’t expect was for Emily to reciprocate, a hand slipping around the nape of his neck. Her lips collided against his, deepening the kiss for a moment that felt frozen in time, yet all too brief. And before he can think it through, she’s pulling away, her eyes on the ground as the elevator doors open, then close, with a metronomic chime.

He stares at the closed doors for a full five minutes after she’s gone.

...

They both knew it could never happen again, and it wasn’t spoken of after that. Sometimes, Aaron has to remind himself that it actually did happen, and the fact that he even thinks of it often is another issue entirely.

And all of that aside, Emily Prentiss had surprised him. He’d all but fought against her appointment to the BAU and reluctantly agreed to give her the chance she deserved, and certainly didn’t make it easy for her in the early days and weeks. It’s a twist of irony that Haley was the one who suggested he give her a chance, for the stress of being down an agent had already taken its toll on the team but mostly him. And now, he can’t imagine the BAU without her.

Aaron knew Strauss would have it in for their team after Atlanta, Manhattan, and most recently, Flagstaff. Mistakes had been made, that he wouldn’t deny. But what he didn’t see coming was that Strauss would have gone after Emily, too. Foreign Service Exam my ass, he’d thought when she came to him with the news. He swallows angrily, yet feels an undeniable surge of pride, for she’d beat Erin at her own game by resigning. Another surprise, Aaron thinks as he makes the final turn onto her street. What he’s about to do is a gamble at best and downright stupid at worst, but it doesn’t stop him from taking the five hundred steps through her building, up the stairs, until he’s standing outside her door, his knuckles tapping against the smooth metal.

Emily clearly wasn’t expecting to see him standing there. The shock on her face is evident when she opens the door, her displeasure of him being there, in her home, even more so.

“Can I come in?”

Emily says nothing but lets him through, eyeing him warily as she closes the door behind him. It’s the first time they’ve ever been alone together, besides the kiss he’s spent months trying to forget. He wonders if she remembers it too. The silence is deafening as he takes a quick look around her apartment. The view of the Capitol is impressive, he notes with interest, before turning back to face her.

“The team needs us. They’re working a case in Milwaukee.” Best to keep it simple, he thinks. The fewer questions she asks, the better. “Gideon hasn’t shown up, and don’t tell me you quit or I put in for a transfer.”

“You put in for a transfer?” She asks with disbelief, still tense.

“They’re both still hung up in the system, so technically we’re both in dereliction of duty by not being there.” He keeps his tone even, reminds himself to keep his eyes on hers instead of letting them trail over her body.

“I’m sorry,” she says pointedly. “I can’t go.”

As he expected. “Right. Sorry I barged in.”

“Wait.” Her voice pierces the air, questioning his ulterior motives. “Can I ask - why are you really here?”

There’s the long answer and the short; he knows she’ll soon figure out both, and for a moment, grapples with his words. “I think Strauss came to you and asked for dirt on me.”

Emily stiffens, her teeth biting into her lip as her foot taps against the floor nervously at the accuracy of his statement. There it is, he thinks. He guessed correctly.

“Why would she do that?”

Aaron patiently explains his theory - the culmination of the drama with Gideon and Reid, Strauss’s desire for top leadership at the bureau, and her face twists into a frown when he reaches the final blow. “I think she put you on our team, and expected something in return.

Her reticence tells him everything he needs to know. “And to your credit, you quit. Rather than whisper in her ear.”

“I told you, I hate politics,” she shoots back, her tone full of contempt.

Aaron remembers that conversation well. It was months ago, back when he was all but annoyed by her presence, unable to admit her talent at profiling and maybe that she did belong on their team, as she insisted from day one. He’d been more than dismissive of her, and yet she’d proved herself time and time again. He’d messed up, and now it’s come to a head.

“Come to Milwaukee,” he presses her, his eyes never leaving hers. The way she bites her lip tells him she’s at least considering his request. Her head tips to the side, revealing her neck, and he swallows because his throat suddenly goes dry. “I’ll make you a deal. If your bag isn’t here, packed, I won’t bug you anymore. If it is, I want you on that plane with me. One more case.”

“I already turned in my badge and gun.” She tries to push him off but he sees right through her, unwilling to leave without her.

“That’s just hardware.”

Emily eyes him suspiciously, knowing he’s won, and she silently curses him in her mind because her bag is indeed packed, on the floor in her bedroom just a few feet away. But then something else catches her eye - something she can’t miss.

“Where’s your wedding ring, Aaron?” She asks coolly, taking full notice of his bare left hand.

The use of his first name could be considered insubordination. But, technically, she doesn’t work for him anymore, having given her resignation to Strauss, and the first thing that comes to mind is how much he likes the sound of his name rolling off her lips.

Not the time, he tells himself.

“Is that why you’re taking on this case?” Emily isn’t stupid - she’s seen the signs that things at home weren’t exactly great for him. His distraction around the team, the indifference when a well-intended question about Haley or Jack was all but brushed over. It’s been like that for weeks, and she’s too astute to not have noticed.

“My marriage is over,” he confirms, the confession ringing in the air.

Emily’s eyes widen, her mouth falling open ever so slightly, at a loss for words. She says nothing, just stares at him for a few long moments, blinking in disbelief.

“It’s been over for a long time,” he adds. “But today … I left. There’s a lot to figure out but it’s done. It’s been done.”

“And you came here?” The expression on her face is one he can’t identify but isn’t sure he wants to. There’s anger and confusion, but also intrigue, as if she learned a secret she shouldn’t ever know in the first place. “Why?”

“You belong in Milwaukee. We both do.” Maybe so, but that’s not the only reason he came here today, despite what he tells himself. He knows it, and so does she.

Emily looks indignant. “But that isn't the only reason.” She’s challenging him, calling him out on what he’s denied since that night in her office, maybe even before that. “Don’t lie to me.”

“What are you talking about?” Aaron swallows nervously, doing his damn best to hide the fact that all he wants to do is exactly what he shouldn’t.

She steps towards him defiantly, deliberately invading his personal space. “I think you know.” There are a million reasons why they shouldn’t be doing this, but it’s inevitable.

He takes a step closer, the distance between them all but closed, drawing a ragged breath that matches hers. When their lips meet for the second time he knows there’s no chance of him being able to stop things, and what comes next happens before either of them have a chance to think better of it. Aaron’s hands slide into her hair as he kisses her, pulling gently to expose her neck, and he gives her a moment to breathe as he sucks a bruise right beneath her jaw. Emily’s hands push at his shoulders, an attempt to rid him of his suit jacket, and it falls to the ground in a heap at their feet. But the sudden absence of the confines of the material gives him the leverage he needs to wrap her in his arms, and he does, anchoring her against his chest as he takes her mouth again with his own. It’s dizzying, the scent of her intoxicating as he kisses her, his tongue pushing past her lips, delving into her mouth.

Except Emily isn’t passive in her response to him, her teeth clashing against his as he explores her mouth with his own. She digs her fingers into his arms, bites at his bottom lip, sweeps her tongue across his teeth, then shifts to press her mouth to his neck as his hands drift down to the hem of her blouse. Aaron pulls away, running his thumb over her lips, cupping her chin in one hand as he looks her over.

He wants to tell her she’s beautiful but he can’t form the right words, just holds her chin in one hand, pushing her hair from her face as he slips a knee between her legs, applying pressure that causes her eyes to roll back just enough that he keeps it there. The moan that escapes and the buckle of her knees are the impetus he needs to lift her up onto the counter, a pile of mail and loose papers falling to the floor along the way.

Aaron gets his hands to the openings of her blouse, pulling too hard as the fabric tears open, falling around her shoulders. It reveals a practical beige lace bra, something he’s almost surprised to see - he had her pegged as someone who only wore red. But he deftly unhooks the back clasp, letting it fall from her shoulders, and her skin flushes scarlet as she’s bared to him. As he already anticipated, she’s as beautiful, if not more so, than he imagined. He’s done that a few times over the last few months. He palms her ribs with gentle hands, much more gentle than his mouth had been just moments before, fingers dipping between the delicate bones and over soft skin. Emily mewls in his ear, her head tipped to the side as he explores her. His fingers smooth over her breasts, paying equal attention to each as he starts to kiss her again, then bends to capture one of her nipples in his mouth. Her hands grip the sides of his head, holding him in place as his teeth scrape and his tongue soothes, a rhythmic pattern of pressure that starts to blur her vision. Aaron’s hands span across the width of her back, his fingers stroking the delicate curve of her spine as Emily arches into his mouth, pressing herself against him.

“Aaron,” she moans, her heart fluttering against his chin, and it sounds like she’s forgotten to breathe this whole time. And when he fully stands, taking her face in his hands again, his eyes darken with lust as he kisses her, lush and full, one more time.

“Back,” he says, pushing her flat until she’s laying on the counter, hair spilling over the edge, her legs hooked over his arms. She perches on her elbows, watching him intensely with hooded eyes as he unbuttons her jeans with a deliberate slowness. His hands are steady as he drags them down over her hips and past her knees. The muscles in her stomach flutter as Aaron repositions her legs on his shoulders, carefully spreading her open to him. Emily’s back arches up even though he hasn’t even touched her as he presses kisses to the insides of her knees.

“Aaron,” she pleads again, needier this time, her eyes dark and her legs trembling on his shoulders, and when he finally touches his tongue to her clit, she doesn’t even try to muffle the sound that comes from the very back of her throat. He does it again and her hips fly up, her fingers sliding through his dark hair, then gripping his head in place. “Fuck,” Emily chokes when his tongue pushes inside of her this time, her hand dragging down her face as he continues to stroke her with his tongue languidly until her moans become constant, a beg for more. Not that she had any doubt, but he’s somehow better at this than she ever imagined.

“You should see yourself like this,” Aaron says darkly, his lips on her knee as he gives her a moment to breathe, still spread out on her counter. “You are beautiful,” he tells her and he means it, pushing her leg higher as his head ducks back between her legs, this time he sucks her clit between his lips and pushes two fingers inside of her, curling up to press against the spot his tongue had found just moments before. Emily comes almost instantly and loudly, nearly sliding right off the counter as she writhes beneath him. Aaron pulls her up to his chest, wrapping an arm around her back as she shudders against him, her skin glazed over with sweat. Emily kisses him, her hands scraping down his back as she tastes herself on his tongue, smiling into his mouth as he groans. Her arms wind around his neck, his fingers dip in the curve of her spine, a soothing comedown coupled with his voice in her ear.

Aaron is still almost fully dressed, and Emily wastes no time with the buttons of his dress shirt, almost forceful in her attempts to divest him of his clothes. “Careful,” he breathes, his hands closing around her wrists. “I only have one shirt.” He helps her get it off the rest of the way, followed by his pants and belt, and he hisses when her hand wraps around the length of him. Her own eyes widen ever so slightly, and the kiss that he presses to her forehead is reassuring as he surveys her kitchen and living room. He doesn’t want to fuck her on a counter, at least not now. “Not here,” he decides, and with more finesse than he anticipated, carefully gets her legs around his waist and lifts her up. “Bedroom?”

A jerk of her head in the general direction guides him to her room, and with her body wrapped around his, he carries her there, carefully depositing her onto her bed before he settles over her.

“Yes?” Aaron rasps, his forehead pressed against hers as her chest rises and falls in a series of breathy pants, her fingers smoothing over his cheek. Emily nods, giving him the permission he asks for, her legs closing around his hips as hovers above, lining himself up against her. The initial press of him inside, coupled with how sensitive she already is, emits a slight whimper from Emily, her eyes fluttering as she adjusts to the stretch of her body around his. It’s a few moments of complete stillness, careful kisses and gentle touches, his body spread over hers. It takes most of his effort to remain still, giving her those few moments.

“God,” Emily breathes a few long seconds later, when he’s fully seated, her eyes locked on his. At her insistence he moves, a series of tentative thrusts that only leave her needing more, her legs tightening around his back to keep him as close as possible. He begins to thrust faster, every drive of his hips pushing her higher and him too.

“You feel amazing, Emily,” he encourages as her hips meet his thrusts, a rhythm that comes almost easily to them both. “So fucking good.” His movements become erratic as he nears the end, but he’s determined for her to go first. “Come for me,” he murmurs into her ear, lifting her legs over his shoulders in one smooth motion. The change of angle nearly sucks the air right out of her lungs. “Come on,” he coaxes one more time with a firm push of his hips. “One more time.”

Emily gasps then curses faintly when she finally clenches around him, Aaron sealing his mouth over hers to stifle the scream that would most definitely be heard by anyone in the apartment next to hers. The sensation of her fluttering around him, moaning his name, her nails scraping down his back are enough for him to follow suit, and he kisses her once more before tipping over the edge too, spilling into her with a groan.

Aaron buries his face in her chest, Emily’s hands hold his head in place, for another few peaceful moments, ones that will soon vanish.

…

When it’s over, Aaron can’t help but feel inordinately guilty. He isn’t exactly sure why, but the voice in the back of his mind tells him he fucked this up, royally. Not because of what might wait for him beyond the confines of her apartment, but because now she’s a part of the mess he’s in, whether she likes it or not. Just add it to the list.

This shouldn’t have happened, he thinks as they search through the pile of clothes on the floor - some his, some hers - and it’s an awkward, side-stepping dance around one another, the first of many.

“You ruined my shirt, you know.” Emily holds up the torn halves of her red blouse, covering herself with her other free hand. Her skin is still flushed, her hair askew, and he wants to tell her she has other things to worry about right now than a torn shirt. Like the rapidly forming bruise on her neck, thanks to his teeth, or the scrapes that undoubtedly mar the smooth skin of her back, because he’d gone a little too far. It’ll be hard to explain that bruise (and any others that might appear) once they get to Milwaukee.

“You mean to tell me you don’t have another one?” Aaron quips, busying himself with fixing his suit jacket, fastening his belt, taking note of his own appearance in the mirror. There’s a small bite mark on his neck that’s easily hidden by his collar, and a few on his shoulders. She’d given as good as she got, clearly.

Yet no one will suspect a thing. As it should be.

Emily scoffs, rolling her eyes as she disappears into her room, grumbling about it being an expensive shirt, but he barely hears her. Instead, the events of the last half hour replay on loop in his mind, one he won’t forget for quite some time. The tension between them hangs in the air even after the bathroom door closes, the sound of the shower permeating his thoughts.

This all just got a hell of a lot more complicated, and it’s just the beginning.

“Don’t we have a plane to catch?” Emily impatiently taps her foot against the floor a half an hour later, dressed in different clothes - a pink shirt and a different pair of jeans. The marks on her neck are covered, he notices. Somehow he still manages to stare at her, despite his best intentions not to. “Or are you just going to sit there thinking about how you just fucked me for the next thirty minutes?”

By the time Aaron has processed what she just said, she’s already halfway out the door of her apartment, and all he can do is follow her to the car.

…

As he expected, Milwaukee is a mess. Strauss’s presence doesn’t make anything easier, and he certainly wasn’t expecting Emily to take matters into her own hands and almost get herself killed at the hands of Joe Smith. But it’s what happens, and less than twenty-four hours after showing up in her apartment, he watches from a safe distance as a paramedic cleans and dresses the wound on her forehead.

“How’s your head?”

“I’ll live,” Emily says with a wince. It doesn’t take a genius to know she’s lying right through her teeth, because she’s clearly in pain, not that she’d ever admit it. “But is it weird I’m glad to be back?”

“I’ll make sure it stays official.” It’s all he can say with the rest of the team hovering close by. He makes a mental note to order her to get medical clearance before she returns to the field as he moves closer to Strauss. She’s clearly ready with a few choice words of her own, having watched them all like hawks as Joe Smith was led away in handcuffs, his son in the back of a police car. There isn’t much to convince themselves this was a win. It’s anything but that - women murdered, a child’s life forever changed. Not at all a win. In fact, it feels like a loss.

As if today couldn’t get any more complicated.

…

Aaron drives her back to her apartment, because once they get back to Quantico, Emily realizes she has no other way of getting home. She’s taking out her phone to call a cab when he’s at her side, a gentle hand pressed to the small of her back with an offer to drive.

It makes her flinch and yet she’s too tired to turn him down; the thought of riding in the backseat of a bumpy cab down 95 makes her stomach churn. So she agrees reluctantly, and sits as far away from him as she can in the passenger seat of his sedan. And history repeats itself once again when she firmly refuses his offer to help her get settled.

Not a chance, she thinks, her mind flashing back to the events of the day before. She’s smart enough to know it’s only a matter of time before it happens again.

...

Emily showers and changes into sweatpants, being careful to avoid irritating the wound on her forehead. It still hurts; she knows it will for a few days, and that doesn’t begin to cover the headache that throbs through her temples. Only when she’s taking another dose of Advil does she hear the knock at the door.

A glance through the peephole makes her blood pressure rise. “What are you doing here?” She sighs tiredly. “You came all the way back to check on me? I told you, I’m fine. I have a headache. I will live.”

“I never left.” Aaron says honestly and simply, shifting from foot to foot outside her door. He feels exposed, scrutinized under her gaze.

“You’ve seriously been waiting outside my door all this time? You don’t think that’s a little … invasive?” She sounds annoyed and rightfully so. He has no right to be there in the first place. Just because they fucked once and kissed twice doesn’t give him those privileges.

His jaw flexes, a hand runs through his hair. “I sat in the car for a little while.” Admitting it sounds a lot worse than he anticipated. In fact, she looks downright annoyed at his revelation. “Can I come in? Please?”

And for the second time she relents with a heavy sigh, letting him past. “Fine. What the hell is going on?”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He stands a little closer than he did before, reaching out with an unsteady hand to touch the gauze pad on her forehead. “I was worried … I am worried.”

“I’ve had concussions before,” she tells him curtly. “This is no different.”

“Then you should know you shouldn’t be alone.”

Emily laughs bitterly, now fully aware of his intentions. “And you think you’re going to stay here? Keep me company?” She waits, her hands on her hips with a shake of her head. “Or are you here because you can’t go back home?”

Aaron opens his mouth to speak, attempting to smooth things over because clearly something has changed since Milwaukee, but she cuts him off again.

“No. I can’t do this. I’m not your rebound until you figure things out.” Her eyes flash with anger, maybe even a touch of regret, which only makes him feel worse about it all. Maybe it should never have happened in the first place.

“There’s nothing to figure out,” he attempts weakly. “That’s not what I -”

“You need to figure things out with your wife, Aaron. What happened between us was a mistake. One we’re equally responsible for. But it cannot happen again.” She folds her arms over her chest, already going for the door to throw him out.

“Emily - “

“Go home, Hotch. I’ll see you tomorrow.” While she wears a brave face, there’s no hiding the disappointment in her eyes, the subtle hurt she undoubtedly feels at knowing all of this was never supposed to happen. Only then does it come to him that maybe, just maybe, she wanted it just as much as he did, and knows it can never be. “And don’t worry. The secret is safe with me.”

He’s about to object - to tell her what he should have already said - when the door slams in his face.

#hotchniss #aaron hotchner x emily prentiss #hotch x prentiss #aaron x emily #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #they're not hopelessly in love here #but it's smutty-ish #season 3 #because you know something happened before milwaukee #mile high club or this #criminal minds fanfiction

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bonktime · 3 years

Text

Weather the Storm

Chapter One - Taken Aback

Ezra (Prospect) x f!reader (no y/n) 1861 Lighthouse au

Written in the third person, so I guess you could say Ezra x OC? but she isn’t physically described or named at any point

Rated: E (just the whole story)

Prologue - Lay of the Land // Masterlist // Chapter Two: Hand Over Fist

Ezra travelled with the tides, let the sea carry him where it willed and never stayed long. The lighthouse keeper was the opposite. Where he moved she stood firm, defying the waves and the tide as if carved from the cliff herself. They’re drawn together, but opposing forces so strong are always destined to cause a storm.

Summary: In search of a place to stay Ezra meets the Lighthouse Keeper. Stuck together for the night by the tide she must quickly work out whether she can trust him enough to let him stay.

Warnings: Language, a lil violence, an even liler bit of sexual tension, some victorian sexism (smut will come)

Wordcount: 3700

Note: Thanks to @danniburgh who I throw ideas at left right and centre to figure stuff out! Turns out I can’t write short things? Either way I’m glad I decided to chapter this so I didn’t go totally bananas. Next one should be up in a week! Prepare for yearning.

~~~~~~~~~

Spring was doing what spring always did by the sea. Vehemently refusing to start. Sometimes a crack in the clouds let a beat of sun through warming the lighthouse keeper's skin and for just a second teased what could be. But as ever, it shyly retreated back behind the grey.

Unable to rest until dawn broke and tinted the sky pink, she had slept through most of the day. When she finally shook off the exhaustion from work the night before, there had been just enough blue in the sky to make a sailor a pair of trousers, enough to entice her into moving. So, she had thrown on her chemise for some illusion of modesty, not that anyone could see her, and gone for a swim.

Bracing was one word for it, fucking baltic was more appropriate. There was nothing quite like it. The way it made her heart pound, made her gasp as she swam, circling the small island, it made her feel alive. There was always a risk of a current pulling her out, a risk she knew all too well. But she knew the water, knew every dip and whirlpool well enough to recognise when they should be avoided. Keeping an eye on the sun she let the incoming tide tug her gently back to the shoreline. In only a few hours she'd have to ascend the steps and light the light.

From her position in the water, she spotted a figure, wading across the causeway, getting pulled to and fro by the tug of the tides, but determinedly heading for the island. She'd let the captain of The Mistress know her room was available a couple days ago and he hadn't sent trouble her way so far. Even so a jolt of unease struck at the thought of being trapped with the stranger until the sea went out. The little rowing boat wouldn't be much good with the storm that was now threatening to roll in. Cursing quietly to herself and suddenly very grateful she’d thrown on even a thin layer, she struck out towards him.

Clambering inelegantly back into the rocks she stood to watch him. He hadn't seen her yet, too focused on keeping his possessions dry, giving her the opportunity to take him in. From this distance she couldn't see his features but his broad shoulders and lean body were a good sign he had experience with trying work, and she could make out a bright shock of white in the crown of his hair. That was more curious, she wondered if he'd been born with it or if he'd suffered such a fright, it'd left a mark. That seemed like a rude thing to ask on a first meeting so she brushed the question aside and headed towards him, carefully stepping over the rock pools and avoiding slipping on the seaweed.

⧫⧫⧫

The first thing Ezra noticed about the woman heading towards him was the fact she appeared to only be wearing her undergarments. The next was that she was soaking wet from stem to stern. Had he been a better man, he might have looked away. Instead, he blatantly stared, the liquid made the cloth cling to her body, damn near rendering it transparent. As she got close, he watched a droplet make its way down her throat, following it with his eyes, he swallowed thickly.

Up close she could see his coat was clearly well made and had probably been expensive but it was old and in desperate need of being rewaxed. Perhaps it had been a gift? Hopefully it had not been stolen. The thin scar curving across his cheek would probably give fair warning to most, but his eyes were soft and wide. He just spelt trouble for her.

"Shut your gob, the wind'll change and you'll get stuck like that."

At that Ezra closed his mouth quickly and pulled himself together, finally focusing on her face. She was waiting for him to speak, clearly sizing him up "Could you possibly direct me towards the lighthouse keeper?"

She noted his strange accent but couldn't stop rolling her eyes, no one ever expected her. "That depends on who's asking"

"Captain Williams suggested I could find respite here whilst I work his ship."

She frowned at him, “What’s your name?”

“I’m Ezra, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I humbly apologise if I interrupted your swim.” again Ezra felt himself be judged, but apparently, she deemed him enough for now and nodded.

"Come on then or we'll both catch cold" she turned to climb the steps to the cottages with him following behind.

The small kitchen was warm, heated by a small arger, she moved a kettle onto its plate and tossed in a log. With a deep sigh she turned to him, biting the inside of her cheek to stop grinning at his bemused expression. "I'm going to dress; you should get out of your wet clothes too. Don't let the kettle boil dry, I'll make a cuppa, then we can talk." With that she left him dripping in the rough wooden floor.

Ezra decided then that whatever she was, she certainly wasn't grey. But she wasn't colour either, she was something else entirely. Something he couldn't recognise. It stirred something in him, an urge to uncover what lay beneath, like cracking a rock and discovering a beautiful gem. Naturally, it stirred something in his trousers too, but, he reckoned, seeing any woman wet and nearly naked would do that. Ignoring it, he tugged off his boots and trews and pulled on his spares before going to lean on the oven to warm up, feet still bare.

Just as the kettle boiled and he was closing the hot plate she reappeared, rolling her sleeves of her dark blue woolen dress up to the elbow and hanging her soaked chemise over the arger before stretching up to pull a teapot and cups out of a cupboard next to a little window.

"This is quite a place you have here, and what a view.” He looked out the window, reaching up to the wind chime made from sea glass, worn matte from the sand that hung there. He touched the smoothed edges of the glass, it felt rough on his fingers. “I'll wager it’s quite something to awaken and be able to see water on all sides without feeling the rocking of a ship beneath you." As far as Ezra could tell, it was as if he wasn't there. The woman moved around him locating loose tea and milk as if completing a ritual, never one to be discouraged from talking he continued, "Course once you get used to it, I imagine you barely notice it. But for me, having been on the waves themselves for the past weeks, it will be quite an adjustment." He looked at the two cups. "Is your husband not joining us?"

She didn't turn around, "He will not."

"Your father then? Although I am surprised a lovely thing like yourself is not betrothed. Promised perhaps?"

"No." He wasn't sure which question she had answered at first, it dawned slowly that it had in fact been both. He nearly smacked himself in the forehead.

"You wouldn't happen to be the keeper, would you?"

She turned to him then, eyebrows raised "I think perhaps you worked it out the fastest, I once strung a poor young man along for a week before he realised, I lit the light."

Ezra wasn't really one to be shocked by much, and after her appearance on the rocks this wasn't too much of a revelation, so now with her full attention he continued to talk.

"I'd wonder it doesn't get lonely though, on this rock all by oneself would be mighty isolating. Almost no one around for company except the sea and the rocks. Perhaps that's why you rent the room? That or your expenses are far higher than I'd expect" he forced himself to stop as she placed the tea and a biscuit tin on the little table and turned back to glare at him

"Why are you here?" That made him blink, halting his thread of thoughts

"I'm here to rent a room. Did I not make that explicit? I do apologise"

She waved him off "No. I know why you're here. Why are you in this place? Work sure, but work can be found anywhere, especially on the water. Work less dangerous, with better weather. Were you bored and thought it romantic?" She was stepping towards him "Are you desperate?” A step. “Do you like taking risks?" Another step "Are you running from something?" She was right in front of him then, looking up at his face "So, I'll ask again. Why are you here?" For a split-second Ezra felt frozen in her gaze but then she reached around him as grabbed his soggy trousers, turning away to hang them alongside her chemise on the airer.

He blinked and shook himself. "I wanted to see it, to work it. The dead sea. Conquer it in my own way.To continue my own adventure somewhere new." She hummed in response picking up her cup and watching him. "And what of you? All alone on this rock. Seems you're a risk taker yourself. Most people would frown upon a woman welcoming a single man into her home, it implies things. Not to mention anything could happen to you,” He couldn't help himself, his voice lowered, unable to back down from the challenge she'd given him. The implication of his crimes. “Anything at all and no one around to save you."

In a split second she'd moved, pulling a blade, he hadn't even thought to look for, out from a sheath under her apron and had it pressed against his jugular.

"A bit of risk? You needn't worry for me." her steady hand pressed firmly enough the knife nicked into his flesh "But you? You know no one here. If you die no one will notice, no one will care. No one will even think to look for your body, let alone find it." He couldn’t hold back the grin as she stepped back, inspecting the drop of blood on the blade, cup of tea still in hand. "5 shillings a week for the room and food, first payment up front, the rest when you're paid."

Well, this was surprising. Such a spark, truly tough enough to stand against an ocean. "Sounds perfect."

Finally, she cracked the smallest smile and Ezra felt as if the sun had found a fissure in the clouds. "I'll make food, I'm working tonight so it'll be breakfast for me and dinner for you, then you can settle in. When do you start on The Mistress?"

"Two days' time, should be quite an experience." He thought of the heavy clouds.

"Well make sure you don't wake me in the morning tomorrow or your stay will be very short." She wiped the drop of blood off the knife and stowed it away again. Ezra wondered what else was hidden under that apron and why he hadn’t even thought she might have the sense to be armed. He chastised himself.

"Do you man the light alone? It seems prudent you don’t have to remain awake every night."

"5 days to three, I take an extra shift, the other keeper has a house in the mainland so he spends all the time he can there. I expect it won't be long until you're sick of the sight of me."

"Oh, I doubt that, not when you're so full of surprises. Why do you rent the room, with an extra shift surely you don't need the money?”

"I don't get paid that shift," Ezra waited for her to elaborate but she didn’t. "I" she let out a laugh "Mostly I rent the room so I can buy books, something to do whilst I work. Plus, I like the company. Get to meet new people from all over for a few months and I still get to have the whole winter to myself. It's lonely as you said, sure, but I like being alone. I'm good at it."

There was a wildness in Ezra that she couldn't seem to pinpoint. Something about the reckless grin when she's threatened him, the fearlessness. It was what compelled her to let him stay. It drew her in like the pull of the moon. To welcome in such a force of nature, made her doubt her own judgment.

"I'll expect you to help plant and harvest the vegetables when the time comes." As she spoke, she moved around the kitchen throwing together the meal as quickly as she could before the sun began to dip.

Supper was simple, just a stottie with a couple eggs and vegetables. She'll have to go into town soon and see if she could get some meat cuts. But he didn't complain. Just talked continuously, complimented her cooking whilst watching her every move not unlike one might watch an animal in a zoo. It was a little unsettling and it made her feel very glad she was going to be awake all night, not letting herself be vulnerable to him at least for a few more hours.

"Will I need to be expecting guests? Women? Men? Either way I'd rather be warned beforehand." Her upfront way of talking made Ezra chuckle.

"I cannot be sure yet but I'll endeavour to let you know should I be taken by someone. And what of you? Must I prepare for being kept awake in the night by men, women or otherwise?"

She just shrugged, "I doubt it, I'm not the most popular around here at the best of times"

"That wouldn't have anything to do with your working and welcoming in strangers, would it? Are the people here so closed minded?" He smirked at the notion of the scandal that probably followed her.

"Not all of them, just those with power. I am at odds with the vicar because I sleep most Sundays and keep defying the lord's will for me"

"How cruel of you." His tone was laced in so much sarcasm it made her relax a little. At least she wouldn't have to face his judgement and sly glares for a summer.

Still, it was very strange for a woman to hold this job. “I am compelled to ask if you have ever been married?”

A look crossed her face, of pain, and of something else he didn't know. Just there for a flash and then swept away, like writing in the sand. She ignored the question. “Pay up and I'll show you your room, you can get settled and sleep off your journey. I'll imagine you're tired.”

He handed her the coins and followed her through the door and up the rickety staircase. There were two doors, one slightly ajar. The glimpse inside revealed just the end of a bed and a bookshelf but all too quickly, she opened the other door and ushered him in. Inside was cosy, or possibly just small. The bed was heavily laden with blankets which appeared to be handmade, it sat opposite a chest of drawers and a chair.

She crouched to light the fire, “Hopefully you won't need it all season but you definitely will tonight. I don't know how hardy you are against the cold.”

“Not as hardy as you I'd expect. I had the blessing of spending most of the winter months far south, so far south ice couldn't possibly be conceived”

The flame sparked in front of her, flickering around the room. "The sun is setting; I'll leave you to it. If there's an emergency I'll be in the tower. Try to stay quiet tomorrow. I'd like to actually get some sleep."

He opened his mouth to respond but she was already out the door, with a huff he sat down on the bed and opened his satchel to begin unpacking. When he was done, he stripped down, folded his clothes and placed them on the chair and curled underneath the blankets. The orange glow of the fire lit the room as the crash of the waves lulled him to sleep far quicker than usual.

⧫⧫⧫

It turned out the storm's threats had been for naught. The sky didn't break and the rain didn't come. Instead, after winding up the rotation system she enjoyed the peace and quiet, sitting back with a book only needing to move every hour to fill the sock over the paraffin with air. She was reading an old favourite, ‘Pride and Prejudice’. Mr Bennett reminded her of her father, all quick wit and dry humour. It made her laugh even as her heart ached for the loss. He used to say she was too much like Elizabeth for her own good. Hot headed and stubborn and determined, perhaps if he saw her now, he'd disagree. Be made sad by how the world had wearied her, wonder when her ability to find easy joy had gotten misplaced. But it had been dragged out to sea along with him, never to be found.

The night passed quietly and slowly. But every quiet night was a relief, to be bored, by this sea, was a blessing.

⧫⧫⧫

He awoke early, before the sun had even considered peeking over the horizon and stretched. Looking out of the window he saw the ocean was black, just the flash of the lighthouse illuminating it every few seconds. Tugging on his shirt he placed another log on the fire and picked up his leather-bound journal, an intimate document of his travels, reading the last page. Written on the boat in the cold it didn't give the most flattering depiction of the view of the village from the water. He chuckled to himself, light beginning to peek through the thin curtain as he continued to write his tale, it had its highlights. The appearance of the lighthouse keeper was one, approaching nearly naked and wet from the waves made quite the first impression. He wondered vaguely if even his ridiculous vocabulary could do it justice. The spark, the last stand against the sea, that damn near see-through chemise- he sighed to himself, that was going to haunt him.

The front door slammed shut and he heard a short curse, cut off by the sound of the keeper running up the stairs. Incurably curious, he put the journal aside and headed onto the small landing, dressed only in his long cream shirt. She had already disappeared into her room but as he stepped out, he stood directly onto a wet patch on the floor. Looking down he spotted the wet footprints. Clearly, she had striven to swim before he awoke for some discretion.

Unfortunately for her, Ezra's self-control had always run a little thin and there was no stopping him knocking on her door. It cracked open a little, her head poking out, body held to the side hidden behind the door. He grinned as her eyes widened for a second at his state of undress.

"What do you want? I'll make food in a minute"

Her statement was so concise he almost laughed. As if he had any real excuse to bother her. "It appears I have the day to myself, and with your need to rest I find myself in dire need of stimulation," an eyebrow rose at that, "Perchance could I borrow a novel? You implied ownership of quite the collection."

She pursed her lips at him and shut the door. He blinked, not expecting her just to brush him off and stood dumbstruck for a second. It was not often he was so rudely ignored. And then, even more to his surprise the door cracked open and a hand appeared. A hand clasping a book. He continued to blink at it.

"Do you want it or not? You're letting in a terrible draft." So, he took it and the door shut again. Totally baffled, he returned to his room looking at the cover. ‘Pride and Prejudice’, an old favourite.

A short while later a shout alerted Ezra to food and he chatted happily to the keeper who again appeared to be ignoring him as she hunted for bowels and pulled a dish out from the arger where it had been heating.

"I haven't had the pleasure of Jane Austen's writing for quite some time. Not since my book was cruelly stolen from me, along with several other possessions and my bag, just as I arrived in the beautiful port of Genova in northern Italy. Quite a place." He let himself trail off, expecting her to shut down his monologue or continue to ignore him.

Instead, she handed him his food, some fish pie, and sat down. "What's Genova like? I haven't been."

His face cracked into an easy grin as she watched, clearly thrilled to have her participation in the conversation even a little and he continued to talk until she yawned heavily and sloped away to sleep.

⧫⧫⧫

His day was quiet. He read, walked round the island, was delighted to see seals flopping around on the rocks, and wrote. Despite his best efforts, the lighthouse keeper seemed insistent on making herself a central character, even if she'd only been around for a few pages. Something about the woman watching the sea had captured his imagination. He wondered how she came to man the light, why she was alone, why she took him in. She had seemed far too clever to let him stay. Of all people, she should have had the sense to turn him away. Naturally, he was glad she hadn't but even so it was strange. He thought on all the trouble he'd found himself in, often of his own creation. She could very possibly become the worst of it.

⧫⧫⧫

Upstairs she tossed and turned. No idea why she'd let him stay. Maybe the loneliness had finally taken her sense. That evening, they ate together again. He talked seemingly endlessly but smoothly evaded her pointed questions about where he got his accent and why he really wanted to work the North Sea. It was amicable, but also impersonal, both still trying to gage the other well, before they could become totally comfortable. As she left to work, she told him to stay safe on the sea.

When day broke and she descended the stairs, he was gone. She hoped he'd survive.

~~~~~~

Glossary

Taken Aback: A boat facing the wind directly so no sails can catch the wind, basically just a bad pun

Enough blue in the sky to make a sailor a pair of trousers: A teeny tiny amount of blue

Baltic: Geordie phrase meaning freezing cold, I dunno where it comes from, baltic sea maybe?

From stem to stern: from top to bottom of a ship

Arger: Cast iron oven, in this age it would have had a fire in the bottom with two ovens, a hot one above and a cooler to the side along with a stove/hot plate on top.

Stottie: Geordie bread bun

~~~~~

Ezra Taglist

@fandom-blackhole

#ezra prospect #ezra prospect 2018 #ezra (prospect)#ezra x reader #ezra x you #ezra x oc #prospect 2018 #ezra prospect x reader #ezra prospect au #ezra prospect victorian au #lighthouse au #prospect 2018 fanfiction #ezra prospect fanfiction #prospect au #prospect 2018 au #pedro pascal

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playlistmusings · 3 years

Text

I am sick of the chase But I'm stupid in love (And there's nothing I can do)

1,571 words

Jude Duarte x Cardan Greenbriar

Response to a prompt from @charrise : “ Do you accept fanfic prompts? Because I got an idea it’s post TWK and Cardan’s wondering why Jude won’t come back and then he begins to reevaluate how he treated Jude in the past? And he realizes he treated Nicasia like a queen and Jude like dirt and he begins to wonder if Jude’s not coming back because of him and he begins to regret how he treated her?”

Cardan was pacing. It was an unfortunate habit he had picked up since becoming king, the actual king that is, one without a meddling seneschal secretly working behind the scenes. It had started at some point while Jude had been held captive by Queen Orlagh, when his days bled together because of repetitive meetings and his nights bled together because of the worry that had filled the pit of his stomach. It felt odd to be alone with his thoughts, usually when things got bad, Cardan made a point to surround himself with people and vices, in an effort to escape his mind. But those days, where all he could think about was Jude and getting her back safely, it felt wrong to surround himself with people he knew she would hate, doing things that would cause her to look at him with disdain. So, he paced.

He had hoped that the habit would be forgotten when he got her back. When he slipped the ring on her finger and proclaimed her his queen, hoping that meant that instead of pacing at night he would hold her body to his and never worry about her safety again. But then she had killed Balekin and Queen Orlagh had demanded a punishment and he had exiled her.

It had been far too long since then, far too long since Cardan had heard her voice or saw her face, and, yet she still filled his mind. He felt like when he was younger, writing Jude, Jude, Jude over and over again on paper before hiding it away in books, as if he could stop his thoughts from controlling him by forcing them onto paper. He had tried that since her exile. Writing long winded prose explaining that she should come back, that she should come home. He had not-so-subtly hinted at the loophole he had left, writing until such time as she is pardoned by the crown with such emphasis on the last word of the phrase, that he knew that lest she had, somehow, never received a single letter, then she had to understand his meaning. So he was forced to assume that she understood his meaning and chose to ignore it, chose to ignore him.

That fact hurt him more than he would admit. Throughout the whole time he had known Jude, he didn’t mind that she hated him, in fact, it usually made it easier for him, knowing that she thought of him at all, even if her thoughts were colored with anger and hatred. This time though, when he had, for once, been trying to help her, when he thought she should finally see through the cruelty and understand he didn’t want to hurt her, he just wanted her. Jude. The High Queen. His queen.

So he paced. And contemplated writing another letter.

Eventually he decided against it, less so because he thought it'd be best not to, but because the sun was slowly moving up in the sky and he knew he only had a few short hours until he’d be forced to go to a meeting and then another and end the evening with a revel. Slipping under the spider silk sheets, Cardan forced thoughts of Jude out of his mind and focused on ignoring the way his bed felt too big and cold and lonely.

-----

Cardan felt his crown tipping precariously off the edge of his head as he sat haphazardly on his throne. He was aware that he should be smiling, laughing, dancing, something other than frowning on his throne, wishing he could get drunk without seeing Jude every time he closed his eyes. To be fair, Jude was usually hidden behind his eyelids, but when he was less than sober, his mind muddy with alcohol and his inhibitions lowered, he found that her face was more vivid, that he could feel the intensity of her glare as if she were right next to him. So he didn’t drink.

He was slightly aware of Locke and Taryn and Nicasia off to his side, walking towards him with drinks in their hands and mischief in their eyes. As they approached the throne, Cardan saw Locke’s eyes catch on a faerie walking past, clearly enamored and lust driven, despite his wife’s presence at his side. It was no surprise that Locke split from the trio, leaving Taryn to wander away pretending that she wasn’t hurt by his actions. So only Nicasia was left to approach his throne, nodding her head in a small acknowledgement of his position before speaking.

“My King, wouldn’t you rather be dancing or doing something more enjoyable than sitting on your throne all alone?”

Cardan could feel a part of himself come to the surface, the other side of him reserved for his school friends and members of the court that reeked of self-importance, yet polite in the way only someone raised from birth to be a part of the gentry could master. The frown slipped from his face as he replied, “Of course, but, alas, a king must make time for his subjects to come to him with their problems.”

Cardan refused to acknowledge that when Jude was seneschal times like these were secretly one of his favorites. He would put on airs while drinking and laughing, all the while knowing Jude would always be by his side, whispering into his ear exactly what he should say and do. Now, it felt like a slap in the face to only have Nicasia by his side, someone he couldn’t banter with or insult or antagonize. The thought shot a painful jolt through his heart. Imagining the rest of his life like this: lonely, boring, sad, and all because of his actions. It was something he was loath to admit, that it was his words that caused Jude to leave, even if a part of him knew that it was a risk when he said those words on the beach, a bigger part of him hoped it wouldn’t be true. And he was wrong, so instead he was left alone with Nicasia and her pretty smiles and flirtatious words, all the while wishing she were someone else.

Something about the moment reminded him of all the revels before this mess, before the bloody coronation and Jude’s secret plot and everything, when him, Nicasia, Locke, and Valerian would walk through these same rooms, demanding respect and hurting those who refused to give it. It almost felt nice to be lost in those memories, of trysts and teenage foolishness, until Jude’s face worked its way into the memories. For every moment of satisfaction he got, there was a memory of Jude’s frown or hate shooting from her eyes, burning into his heart. It was enough for him to mumble some half-hearted apology to the direction of Nicasia as he slipped from the room into the halls that led to his chambers.

His mind felt too full, as he thought through all the times he had antagonized or hurt Jude. Flashes of her face stubbornly refusing to show weakness as he watched Valerian force faerie fruit into her mouth, glimpses of her saving Taryn from drowning in the river, all of it clicking into place in a horrid montage of his misdeeds. What struck him the hardest is that for every memory of the pain he caused Jude, there was Nicasia, standing by his side laughing or smiling, perfectly happy. Even as she toyed with his heart, leaving him for Locke, he had shown Nicasia respect and knew that she would be there as a friend— regardless of how messed up his definition of the word was. It hurt, finally acknowledging that while he only saw the kind gestures, he gave Jude, pricking her so she would stop suffering from the faerie fruit induced madness, offering her an out from his antagonizing, she must only remember the pain that he had caused, all the while treating someone half as deserving of his love and compassion more kindness than her.

It suddenly made sense why she didn’t respond to his letters or come back to him. Because even if he had thought he made his loophole clear, even if he had exaggerated the point in his letters time and time again, Jude was used to seeing the worst parts of him, of being blinded by the pain and unaware of the miniscule efforts he had made to help her.

Every memory stung like an arrow lodging its way into his skin, knowing that all of his actions were horrible, that he was horrible and cruel. Knowing that Jude must think of him as horrible and cruel, and that she was right to believe it. But the realization that right when he had earned her trust, right when Jude had seemed to let go of the memories of Cardan’s cruelty, he had exiled her, had denied her as his queen, in front of Orlagh and Nicasia, struck his heart like a dagger. And now she wasn’t coming back, because of him. Because he was everything she must think him to be, a wicked king, undeserving of love or respect, least of all from her.

So, when he arrived back in his room, thinking of all his regrets, refusing to let himself remember anything but the truth of how he hurt the one woman he would do anything for, he paced.

————

So, I lied, and I wrote this all in one sitting instead of starting my school work. Which means that I am apparently better at getting things written in a timely matter than I thought I was, but I am also apologetic if this isn’t the best because I should probably edit it more, but oh well. Anyways, I hope you liked it and that it was sort of what you had in mind, I feel like I’m not that good at writing angst but I tried my best :) (Title from Killer by Phoebe Bridgers, which side note I feel like is such a Jude and Cardan song but that may just be because I listened to Stranger In The Alps while reading this series oops)

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a-tomb-with-a-view · 3 years

Note

Ahh congrats on 600!!

For the prompt: Reggie and Alex and feeling lonely

Love you! Congrats again

Hi! Thank you so much :))

(Send me an ask with characters/a relationship and a prompt and I’ll write smth)

This is also available on ao3 if that’s where you prefer to read your fics

Reggie’s always felt a little lonely, he thinks.

It’s hard to feel surrounded by love when you’re the only person in the world that knows something.

For some people, maybe the thing they know is worth the loneliness. Something that would be dangerous to share, or that could hurt somebody.

For Reggie, the thing for a long time had been that his parents hated each other, and didn’t love him enough to do something about it.

Maybe that’s not fair.

Bobby would probably say that his parents lost their right to fair the first time his mom slammed something so hard that Reggie had spent the rest of the night crying, and not eaten his dinner.

Bobby understands being lonely, but he doesn’t care about it as much as Reggie. He likes the quiet that fills his house, even if sometimes Reggie thinks he’d like someone to tell him he’s doing a good job, instead of it always being him telling the three of them. Bobby fills the empty spaces in his life by fretting about the three of them and letting Luke climb into his bedroom window in the middle of the night, like neither Alex nor Reggie will notice that Luke’s late to band practice those days even though he’s living in the garage, and always wearing Bobby’s clothes instead of the five layers needed to make his new home comfortable.

Luke understands being lonely a little bit too. He describes it like the hunger pangs he gets sometimes, when the money Bobby’s parents leave doesn’t extend to the food requirement for two boys, but in his chest. He’s always plastering himself against the three of them, and tilting his head up pleadingly until Bobby drops a kiss on his cheek or his nose. Reggie sometimes thinks Luke just hangs around with them because they don’t care enough about societal norms to push him away, because they let him use them to fill the gaps his parents used to fill, but Luke loves too openly and honestly for those thoughts to stick around for long.

Alex is the one that really gets it. He gets the isolation that comes with keeping secrets, hiding rainbow badges and pride bracelets the way Reggie dabbed concealer under his eyes to hide the dark circles from a night spent listening to his parents shouting instead of sleeping, the way Reggie tried to force back flinches at sudden noises. It’s not the same, but it’s close enough.

He describes feeling lonely in a way that resonates with Reggie, something about feeling like his mind and his body are so separate that even when his body is being hugged, it doesn’t feel like he is, sometimes.

He worries at times, when he starts crashing at Bobby’s as well, when Alex comes out, when Reggie’s loneliness doesn’t go away even though he tells his friends about his parents, when Alex starts dating one of Bobby’s friends, with long hair and the kind of arms that seem to be able to shield them all from the shitty parts of their life when he hugs them, that maybe Alex will stop feeling lonely the way Reggie feels it, will stop calling him in the middle of the night to see if he’s up to drive for a bit, to find a field to sit in so they can stare at the stars and feel lonely in an existential way, instead of a way that’s so crushingly personal that sometimes Reggie feels like he’s splintering apart under the weight of it.

It doesn’t happen though, not when Sunset Curve became Julie and the Phantoms, and not when Alex and Willie hit their third anniversary, and not when Reggie decides relationships aren’t really what he’s into, at least not at the minute, and not even now, even though Alex has been living with Willie for a full two months now.

The car is cold, in the way that Reggie always associates with the school run when he was a kid, in a way that sits bone deep and makes him feel like he’ll never be warm again, but there’s something refreshing about it, even if it’s making his ribs ache.

He likes living with Luke and Bobby, he really does, but as bicker-y as they are, the way they’re so visibly in love sometimes hits a little too hard. He’s pretty certain he doesn’t want that, but there’s something about living in such close proximity to unfettered romantic content that makes him feel like he’s missing something without that. The cold is the kind of biting that doesn’t seem to exist in their house, that’s stacked with blankets and space heaters to try and make sure it’s not a space where Reggie is uncomfortable, and he appreciates it more than he knows how to tell them, but the cold makes him feel less surrounded.

Alex nudges his shoulder against Reggie’s. “Wanna get ice cream?”

Reggie glances at him, easing the car into the left lane so they can pull into the service station he knows is coming up. “Allie, it’s four in the morning, and it’s five degrees.”

Alex shrugs. “And you’re wearing basketball shorts, if you gave a fuck about the weather you should’ve made better choices.”

“Oh, so this isn’t do i want ice cream, this is get me ice cream?” Reggie asks, even as he lets the car slow to a holt outside the 24/7 co-op and hands Alex a fiver. The crate of shitty beer on the back seat was Alex’s contribution, and he’s not about to let Alex eat ice cream without him.

Alex grins and opens the door. “Now you’re getting it,” he jokes as he climbs out.

Reggie watches him disappear inside, then swears under his breath and climbs out to follow him in. Standing next to Alex won’t make him feel better than waiting for him in the car, not really, but supermarkets at night are the kind of liminal space that lets Reggie put his feelings aside, even when they’re the kind that are woven into his DNA, and Alex will probably let him hold his hand.

He sidles up to Alex, who doesn’t look surprised at all to see him. He just holds his hand out automatically, without saying anything, and Reggie takes it and lets himself focus on the single point of warmth and the way the light above them is flickering without pattern, until he feels a little bit less like he’s floating a million miles from anyone who speaks his language.

He trips over his laces when Alex drags him towards the freezer section, and although he knows the feeling will return, although he knows as soon as they’re back in the car, driving towards a field to sit in and eat ice cream and drink shitty beer, he’ll feel impossibly distant from anything and everything, but for now he lets himself bathe in the feeling of childish freedom flood through him as Alex cackles maniacally at him falling over, and knocks against him when he manages to stand back up like they’re seven and co conspirators again.

Alex giggles into Reggie’s shoulder and hands him a tub of Mint Choc Chip, and the light near the door flickers out, and he doesn’t quite feel great, but he feels okay. Okay is good enough, at least for now.

Thanks for the ask :))

#jatp #julie and the himbos #julie and the phantoms #julie and the fat ones #reggie jatp #alex jatp #Alex mercer #Reggie Peters #aromantic Reggie Peters #a couple’s besties being besties #jatp fic #jatp fic rec #fic #fic rec #meg writes

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wonderwomanfantasy · 3 years

Text

Today. Tomorrow. Forever.

no one liked the first part but fuck you a part two

part one

Dabi x reader (we’ll get there)

warnings: Drinking, abuse, cannon divergence, swearing, spooky stuff

word count: 2,000 (about)

summary: the longer you stay with these ghosts the less you feel like yourself, as if something else had taken your place.

“Shoto, can we talk?” you asked quietly, as he poked at his bowl of cereal. Everything had seemingly gone back to normal, the only evidence that last night had even happened was the marks left around your throat. He shook his head and you sighed.

“Shoto, we have to talk about last night,” you said. His cheeks went hot with shame.

“I-I’m sorry please don’t be mad,” he pleaded tears filling his eyes. You blanched not knowing how to deal with this.

“No, No I’m not mad Shoto,” you reassured him, he didn’t calm down.

“It’s my fault!” he shouted putting his face in his hands.

“Sweetheart no,” you tried again, then on impulse you added “I won’t leave,” he sniffled and looked up at you.

“You’re going to stay?” he asked.

“Yeah I’m not going anywhere,” you said, reaching out to him, he winced and you didn’t touch him, not completing the action waiting for him to come to you, eventually he did. Giving you his hand to squeeze reasuringly.

“What happened lastnight wasn’t your fault, and it’s not going to scare me away.” you declared patting his soft cheeks dry with a napkin.

“Does that kind of thing happen a lot?” you asked and he nodded. “And did something like that happen and the last nanny got scared away because of it?” you asked and he nodded.

“The last three,”

“Well, Not me, that mean old ghost isn’t anything I haven’t delt with before,” you said in an effort to sooth him.

“He’s not mean- not most of the time anyways,” Shoto defended. “He just gets mad sometimes and it’s scary but he wouldn’t hurt me,” this supprised you, and you couldn’t help but not believe him. Even if this ghost loved him, even if this ghost was family, it could still hurt him.

“Do you know his name?” you asked. Shoto crossed over to you and cupped his hands around your ear before whispering in that loud breathy way children whispered.

“Toya,”

You didn’t plan on doing much that day, both of you too shell shocked for chit chat about books or a trip to the movies but you were saved from having to do any planning by a loud ringing of the door bell.

It made you jump. Anyone who worked at the home just came and went as they pleased, as did Enji, and any pakages came through the back door. You realized this must be the first time you’d heard the door bell rung. Shoto looked equally puzzled.

“Do you want to go see who it is?” you asked and he nodded sticking out his hand for you to take hold of. The two of you went down stares and just as you reached to forer you saw a white haired man about your age being welcomed in.

“Natsuo!” Shoto called out dropping your hand to rush to the man. Natsuo laughed and crouched catching Shoto in his arms and whisking him up in a tight hug.

“Hey kiddo!” he laughed happily than turned to you.

“Sorry for the unannounced visit, If I had had your number I would have called you,” he said, you offered him a tight smile. As bad as you were dealing with children you were even worse with your peers.

“No truoble at all, I’m (y/n) the nanny,” you said taking the hand he offered you and shaking it furmly.

“Natsuo, i’m the older brother,”

You warmed up to Natsuo quickly. It was hard not to like him when Shoto was so clearl thrilled to see him. He seemed like a good guy and you spent the day playing with hot wheeles with the two of them. You even let Shoto stay up passed his bedtime so he could spend somemore time with his brother, and when he was too sleepy to keep his eyes open any longer, Natsuo put him to bed.

“Can I get you a drink before you leave?” you offered.

“I’d love that,” he said. The cook had already left for the day, but you could manage yourself just fine. You poured him a glass of wine, then a glass for yourself, you both stood around the counter drinking and talking in hushed tones together.

“I’m surprised you took the job honestly,” he said, now just taking a quick swig form the wine bottle before passing it to you so you could take a drink too.

“I needed it,” you admitted.

“Still, there are better places to work, better people to work for,” he said bitterly.

“To be fair, I don’t know your father as well as you do,” you siad.

“But you heard the rummors right?”

“Just the ones that this place is haunted.” He scoffed, taking another drink.

“That all is bullshit, I’m talking about what people say about dad,”

“That I haven’t heard,”

“Well they aren’t rummors you know? T’sall true. He beat our mom until she went nuts and killed his own son. Everyone knows he did it too, but he’s got that rich bastard money so all his problems dispeared,” he spat drunkenly. There was an uncomfortable pause after that, you weren’t sure what to say after that, and Natsuo seemd to realized he’s killed the mood.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“It’s okay, can you tell me about your brother?” you asked. Natsuo shrugged.

“He’s a good kid, but you know that, Shoto’s a good kid.”

“Sorry, not Shoto, your other brother,” you pried furhter. He sighed deaply.

“Toya was a mother fucker.” he said stuggling to think of anything else. “But I loved him. He was, mean and a son of a bitch but we were thick as theives growing up, he faught with dad alot, but I loved him.” He told you. It wasn’t much to go on but you guessed you should be glad that you had gotten that much.

“Fuyumi was the smart one she always had her nose in some book but we’d pull her hair to get her to chase us… god I miss her i’should call er,” he mumbled to himself.

“Natsuo do you want me to call you a cab? You probably shouldn’t be driving,”

“That be great, thank you.”

You called the cab. And saw Natsou off. And then you were alone, in this large house that felt so small. You turned off the lights in the house, as much as you hated to do so, and started to make your way upstairs. You gripped the hand rail tightly, and looked down at your feet making sure they landed firmly on the stair each time before you trusted your leg with your weight.

You were drunk, although not as drunk as Natsou and your vision blured slightly around the edges. There was a low groaning sound as the house settled and you stopped for a moment resting your head agains the railing. You were too drunk to deal with any ghosts right now.

“Please don’t” you said softly, hoping in vain that if someone was listening the would grant your plea. You straightend. Getting dizzy from the sudden head rush, and kept marching up the stairs. You felt your way down the hall using the walls as guidance to your room. Your sad room that felt so small.

You needed a shower you decided and stumbled to the bathroom. You took off your shirt, then your pants, then your undergarments. You looked at yourself in the mirror there was another person in the mirror. Ablurry second you. Naked, ecept for your silver locket, thick purple bruises still on your neck.

You could see there were scars running down your chest and arms from the last time you had taken the locket off. But this time is different. You thought. She’s gone, she can’t hurt you anymore. You felt like you were going to throw up, but whether it was the alcohol or the thought of your mother it was hard to tell.

Quickly you turned on the watter and stepped into the shower embracing the ice cold spray. You took a shuddering breath and balled your hands into fists.

You had been devastated when your mother died. Your father had left before you were born and she was all you had. Of course, she was dead, but not gone. It was hard to ignore her screaming and thrashing at her own funeral, demanding that people look at her, see her. But you had to pretend that she wasn’t there. After all, no one else could see her. You had been gifted the locket the next day, and moved in with your Aunt the day after that.

And your mother followed. Sometimes, you talked with her, sometimes you ignored her. Sometimes she kept quiet and let you ignore her, but often she didn’t. It had been horible watching her spirit wither away, litterally loseing pieces of her self day by day. You had just been a child, you hadn’t known any better. You were just scared of losing your mom.

When your mother possessed you, it set her back to normal, at least for a little while, all her peices were there. And she was so happy everytime too, so proud of you. She would smile and tell you how wonderful it was to eat again, to sing and be seen, all the things living people take for granted. It was awful everytime, to be ejected from your body and losing chunks of time and memory, you could still rembebr how empty it all felt.

But it made her so happy, and it ment you wouldn’t have to say goodbye. It became easier and easier for your mom to take over, until she just had to touch your locket to be in control of you while your own contious slipped away. She had started taking over more and more often too.

It was awful, you had just wanted to be in your own body for a single day so you took your locket off.

You flipped the watter from cold to hot, deciding that you had sobered up enough and wanting a bit of comfort. You set the water so hot that it burned, but burned in a good way. You breathed in the steam and watched your fingers prune before finally turning off the shower. You towled off and looked at your self in the mirror again. Just one you this time.

It was late, nearly one in the morning. But you weren’t ready to turn in yet. You slipped on your robe and started padding around the halls. The robe was soft and a deep wine red color. You had never had a robe before, let a lone felt the need to use one, but it had come with the job, provided for you like the soap and the toilet paper.

The house was stil dark, still empty. Quiet and still except for the sound of your foot steps, your wet feet sticking slightly to the hard wood floor and pealing off of it with ever step. It didn’t take long for you to get lost, it never did, but you didn’t mind. You just wandered, deaftly poking the bruises on your neck to feel the sting.

Part of the hall way was illuminated by moonlight streaming through a glass door. You looked out and saw a balcony that you had never seen before. You reached out and touched the door nob. Unlocked.

You opened the door and stepped out into the crisp air night, the cold concrete felt good on your feet as the night breese fluttered your still damp hair. It was a full moon tonight. You could see hundreds of starts above you in the sky, the mansion was so far out from the citty that light polution wasn’t a problem.

The stone parapet was thick enough to sit on, so you did, letting your legs dangle over the edge. It was so far down. You noted, then wondered what floor of the house you were even on. Where exactly where you anyway? You kicked you feet back and forth watching them swing above the courtyard.

And when you looked up, the ghost from last night was there. Standing in the air. He gave you a small two-finger salute. Then he spoke

“Hello there.”

#dabi x reader #toya todoroki #toya todoroki x reader #dabi imagine #my hero academia #my hero acadamy #my hero academia imagine #my hero academia head cannon

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o-w-quinlan · 3 years

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Digimon Adventure: (2020) Final Thoughts

Considering I stopped reviewing this series episode by episode months ago, they’re more positive thoughts than you’d expect, though still not all that positive.

To summarize, this is an entertaining series with plenty of individual good aspects and great episodes that nevertheless leaves me cold as a whole. Much as I enjoyed following it week to week, I can’t say I recommend this series to anyone but hardcore Digimon fans, or hardcore fans of the wider “monster” genre.

Action

It felt appropriate to start with this, considering a focus on action was what the initial interviews promised, and they delivered in spades. It wasn’t perfect or too consistent, there were several times when the Digimon not evolving when they could just broke any tension the fights had, but this series had some of the best fights in any Digimon anime. Anything in the first 3 episodes, Greymon/MetalGreymon vs MetalTyranomon, SkullKnightmon vs Greymon and Garurumon, Mugendramon vs DoneDevimon, Mugendramon vs WarGreymon, Millenniumon vs the dragons, Omegamon vs Abbadomon Core… all of them among the best things the franchise has to offer in terms of action scenes, which after so many series where fights were solved by having a protagonist Digimon evolve and one-shotting the enemy, comes as a breath of fresh air (to be fair, this series also had a lot of that, but it had actual great fights to compensate).

Worldbuilding

Another thing promised in interviews was the use of Digimon from all over the franchise, and not only did they deliver, but they also included plenty of references to the “null canon” to enrich the experience for the most hardcore fans. The series made sure to constantly emphasize the savage nature of the Digital World, bringing back the Tamers worldbuilding of Digimon consuming weaker Digimon in hopes of achieving evolution. Along the way we saw a lot of allies fighting back against this status-quo, from things as overt as Leomon organizing a resistance or Petaldramon protecting weaker Digimon from the all-consuming Entmon, to less dramatic stuff like weak Digimon settling down to live together, or the mere presence of a restaurant where everyone can rest for a while of the hardships of their world.

The biggest flaw here was in how the series handled its antagonists. With very few exceptions, every single enemy Digimon in the series lacked dialog, whereas nearly every single ally Digimon could speak normally, and this disparity cheapened the whole thing, because instead of coming across as “this mentality is normal for this world”, it came across as just your normal “everyone lived together in harmony until the villains attacked”, which is very much not what the series was telling us.

Characterization

That brings us to the next point: the lack of personality for most villains. I joked elsewhere that Minotaurmon from episode 19 was the most compelling villain of the series, and that’s not completely a joke. Almost every single villain of the week was flat, plenty of the “main” villains were lacking in dialog (Algomon in the first few episodes, Nidhoggmon, Millenniumon) or turned mindless halfway through (Devimon, DarkKnightmon). Negamon/Abbadomon in the final episodes managed to benefit from this by being the embodiment of an “instinct”, but in general this meant a mook-of-the-week like Minotaurmon managed to be a highlight among the villains simply by having dialog and non-trivial desires.

But what of the protagonists? The popular opinion is that everyone is far blander than they were in the original series, and I agree. But rather than comparing it with the first series, let’s look at what it had to offer to us. Where in other Digimon series, the backstories and issues of the protagonists and their reactions to what’s going on around them make for most of the drama, in this series the drama comes from the villains trying to destroy everything, and for the most part that means the protagonists only need to be distinct and charming on their own, no necessity to create conflict between them. There is an overall character arc for all of them, though: accepting and interiorizing their new duties towards the world they had ended up stranded on, getting to know and love the Digital World. Was this well done? Not really.

Taichi and Takeru, for example, were so much the embodiment of the stock shonen hero that accepting their place in this new world didn’t really reveal anything about them we hadn’t already seen from their first few appearances.

Jou got stuck as an unfunny punchline 90% of the time, to the point of damaging his few “serious” moments in some of his focus episodes. His development of becoming assertive was compelling in theory, but it got muddled with so many unfunny and uncomfortable hotsprings jokes that the impact was lost.

Hikari started as an even more blatant plot-device “mysterious character” than she was in the original series, before unconvincingly changing to cheerful little girl afterwards (the whiplash between her in episode 33 and her in episode 34 was something else), and only really managing to settle into a compelling character in her last focus episode (58, defending the Digitamas from the Bakemon and SkullBaluchimon, which to be fair is a great episode and probably the best showcase for Hikari as a character in any product or continuity).

Koushiro was mostly fine, although we all remember the several times the series seemed to promise it might do something with him (his uneasiness when his family was mentioned, or that line about having to “face the darkness of his past” in the HerakleKabuterimon episode) that ended up being nothing.

Mimi is the fan-favorite, being charming in nearly all her appearances and having some of the best focus episodes, and it’s mostly deserved. If there’s anything I criticize from her, it’s that her focus episodes don’t really add up to anything.

Yamato was fine, started out as a stock shonen rival before becoming the single most chill “lone wolf” in any Digimon series, probably because of what I said before of the conflict between the protagonists no longer being the source of drama. He gets a slow development of caring only for his brother to starting to care for other Digimon for the sake of Sora and Gabumon to caring about the Digital World just as much as everyone else.

Sora was made fun of by a certain section of the fandom for having the worst focus episodes early on, and I agreed, but having finished the series I can’t get rid of the impression that her focus episodes, while perhaps not that good on their own, when taken as a whole explore her character the best of any other. Yeah, this mostly means exploring her compassion (these are not very multi-dimensional characters), but they deepen and deepen both her impact on the Digimon she saves and how she is impacted in turn by them, moving her away from saving others through her combat prowess to saving others by empathizing with the grief of another caring soul, and by the end I honestly ended up considering her my favorite character (despite none of her episodes making it to my list of favorites).

As for the Digimon… it’s following in the footsteps of other Digimon Adventure products by not really having much of interest for the Digimon themselves except for Tailmon.

Overall, for the most part the main characters were decent, but besides Mimi and ultimately also Sora, I don’t think they’re very memorable. All of them start out promising, but never really improved from that promising start (again, except for Sora).

Pacing

And now we get to the biggest problem of the series: Pacing. I’ve seen it stated elsewhere that this series was more episodic than most (any?) other Digimon series before it, and part of the backlash it got was from not being as serialized as fans expected it to be. This isn’t exactly true. From episode 16 (Eyesmon) to episode 24 (DoneDevimon), this series was as serialized as any other Digimon series has ever been, with nonstop escalation that demanded you keep watching it week after week. Then, from 25 to 35 (Angewomon) or 36 (BlitzGreymon), it pulled slightly back from that never-ending escalation, but was still pretty serialized. It was only afterwards that it became heavily episodic, and by that point it wasn’t expectations set up by previous series that hurt it in the eyes of the fandom, it was expectations set by this series itself in its first half.

Not that the episodes themselves were bad. Honestly, I found myself significantly more entertained by the episodic later half of the series than the serialized first half. Maybe it was because they didn’t feel the need to convince me they were the most exciting, tense thing I had ever seen when they were clearly not (hello, Mamemon episode), or maybe it was that there were more than just endless fights to them, but I normally ended up those episodes entertained and satisfied, whereas with a lot of episodes from Eyesmon to BlitzGreymon, I mostly just felt frustrated after watching them. I agree with the criticism that, when seen as a whole, breaking momentum so hard for so long after months of never-ending escalation wasn’t the right choice, but when seen week after week, I can’t see this change of approach as that bad of a thing.

Conclusion

I think that sums up the series for me. On a weekly basis, it’s pretty entertaining. It’s when seen as a whole that the problems really become clear. There’s been some speculation in the past few weeks of how much the current situation in the world might have impacted the series, but ultimately, I have to judge what actually happened, and I can’t help the impression that this series ultimately left me with nothing of substance after it was all said and done. Like, I enjoyed this more than, say, Appli Monsters, but Appli Monsters have things that stick with you after it’s over. Not so much here, unless you’re a hardcore fan that loves the Omegamon lore this added (which I am, btw; love that Omegamon lore). I don’t think I can recommend this series to anyone who isn’t a hardcore Digimon fan, or at least a hardcore fan of the wider “monster” genre.

One thing I’m grateful to this series for, though, it’s the commercial boost it has given the rest of the franchise. I’m not going to credit it for all the successes it currently has, after all the Card Game would have fell off by now if it wasn’t genuinely well-done and the Vital Bracelet happened because of years of the virtual pet division progressively building up its audience after it had nearly died off, but it’s undeniable they wouldn’t have sold as well without this anime advertising the franchise week after week. Next week, we’ll have the first episode of Digimon Ghost Game, the first time since 2001 that we have a Digimon series being immediately succeeded by another. If that isn’t a sign of how well the franchise is doing right now, I don’t know what is.

Favorite Episodes: 1 (Tokyo Digital Crisis), 6 (The Targeted Kingdom), 12 (Lilimon Blooms), 20 (The Seventh One Awakens), 32 (Soaring Hope), 42 (King of Inventors, Gerbemon), 49 (The God of Evil Descends, Millenniummon), 56 (The Gold Wolf of the Crescent Moon), 58 (Hikari, New Life)

#digimon #Digimon Adventure:#Digimon Adventure 2020

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