#The Election That Shouldn’t Have Been Called | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ddarker-dreams · 8 months

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Nexus II.

Yandere Blade x F Reader.

Warnings: Descriptions of Blade's body regeneration ability, Blade is just kinda weird idk, some spoilers for his backstory. Word count: 6k.

Nexus index.

The LOTUS-EATER’s maximum capacity tops out at 124. This number takes current fire codes and oxygen generator parameters into account. There are eight Arbiters — including yourself — and fifteen other employees who work The Club floor on rotation. Additionally, some automatons assist with carrying refreshments to clients. Lucky for you, those fellas aren’t on the payroll.

The other twenty-two are, though.

Nona swings her legs back and forth while sitting on the main bar’s countertop, humming a song from an underground band she likes. She’s sent you a link to their discography enough times that you recognize the URL immediately and know not to tap on it.

“Hey, mom, dad, we’re on the news. ‘IPC Places Eris Under Temporary Travel Ban While Investigating Claims of Fraud’. Why didn’t anyone tell me we were doing fraud? Was I not invited to the group chat?” Nona hums.

You glance up from your account book, sigh, then glance back down.

Meanwhile, Lear carries a hefty wooden crate from the back and places it on the floor. The sound of muffled glass clinking together can be heard, along with liquid sloshing.

“You shouldn’t make jokes like that,” he frowns. He shoos her off the counter with a wet rag, to which she takes refuge behind you. He rolls his eyes at her shenanigans, ties up his sandy hair, then gets to cleaning. “People could get the wrong idea. It’d tarnish [First]’s reputation.”

Snickering, she replies, “And casually referring to Our-Lord-And-Savior-The-Exalted-One by her first name wouldn’t?”

He bristles. “You…!”

On instinct, he winds up his arm, wielding the now dirty rag as his ammunition. He pauses when Nona points at you. Seeing that there’s no way to hit his target without you joining the casualties, he huffs, and returns to shining glasses, using excessive force this time.

Nona sticks her tongue out at him. After celebrating her victory, she situates herself on a nearby barstool, stretching her arms out beside your workspace like a content cat preparing to nap.

“You’ve been staring at that silly book forever,” she notes, exasperation coloring her tone. “I know you aren’t reading it, either. Your eyes give you away. So, what’s up?”

You shuffle in your seat. This line of questioning was inevitable as the four moons that hang everlasting in the sky, taking in everything as impartial observers. During instances like this, you envy the marvelous masses, how they can exist peacefully without living. No one asks the moon troubling questions. Or, if they do, they have more pressing issues at hand than their spoken query.

“It’s nothing,” you dismiss.

She blows a tuft of hair from her face. “Hey, Lear.”

“Mm?”

“Did you hear that?”

“Well, yes, I’m only standing a few feet away.”

“Right, right. Let me ask a trickier question then, since that one was obviously way too easy for someone of your intellect. Do you believe her?”

“I…” he swallows thickly. “... Yes?”

Nona throws her arms up. “Gah! I’m surrounded by liars who can’t lie. That’s almost worse than liars who can lie— blegh, hey, did you actually throw a rag at me?”

The rag in question slides down the side of her head and hits the ground with a sad squelch.

“I’ll do it again too. You shouldn’t bother [First]—” Lear abruptly cuts himself off at the last syllable of your name, “The exalted one when she’s trying to concentrate.”

You raise your head and frown. “Lear, I told you. Call me by my name when it’s just us. It feels wrong if you don’t.”

“Seriously? That’s what gets your attention?” Nona laments.

You both elect to ignore her.

“I know, I know. It’s just… what if he comes back?”

Silence descends and clings to the three of you like the suffocating scent of smoke. It’s there again, the uncomfortable, skin-prickling sensation of eyes sticking to you. Amber and sapphire coalesce into one, unspoken plea, forming a disconcerting shade. Nona’s visage betrays nothing, whereas Lear’s concern would be obvious from galaxies away.

You square your shoulders and try to make yourself appear as decisive as you need to sound. “I’ll know when he’s back. He’ll text so I can let him in.”

The two exchange knowing looks. It’s Nona who tries her luck.

“That’s reassuring and all, but, I think the question Lear wanted to ask is why that man’s here in the first place.”

Magenta eyes, rosy iris’, words that drip like venom-coated honey.

When you asked how you should explain Blade’s presence to your staff, she told you she’d hate to abuse her authority, and that you’re free to decide those specifics yourself. You would’ve preferred some guidance or hint at her expectations in such a pivotal situation. It’s easier to avoid a landmine if you know how to best watch your step. The uncharacteristic lack of instructions goes on to birth unease.

“My answer hasn’t changed. He’s here to act as my bodyguard until some concerns are settled.”

Nona’s lips twist to the side. “You never wanted a bodyguard before.”

“I never needed one before.”

A glass shatters violently.

You and Nona snap your head toward the noise’s origin, finding Lear’s face wound tight in pain. You both jump the counter. The remains of crystal shards are strewn across the floor, catching and refracting light. Watching your step, you make your way over to Lear, who is muttering expletives under his breath.

No, that isn’t right, you realize. His lips aren’t moving.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he tries waving off Nona, who is inspecting the hand that held the glass, “Just an accident, s’all.”

The private tumult boiling in his head threatens to overflow, stating loud and clear thoughts no one other than himself should be privy to. You grimace and focus on blocking the intrusive voice out. It’s so resounding, so sharp, that snippets penetrate through and spill their scathing secrets.

‘My fault — should’ve killed — now she’s — because of me…!’

Block it out, block it out, block it out, you chant the mantra incessantly.

Lear’s psyche wishes to illuminate itself to you in its entirety. The spotlights turn on one by one, focusing intently on the visible portion of the stage that any audience member can see. The overlapping beams penetrate the stage’s back curtain, revealing the silhouettes of the backstage crew.

You don’t want to witness these delicate inner workings. It isn’t for your eyes, his thoughts aren’t for your ears. Sins committed in days past grant you a front-row seat and sew your eyes wide open. You haven’t attended this theater in some time, so it brought the show to you.

It requires great effort to struggle against the needle and thread that wants to practice its stitches on you. This pain that feels like your skull is being crushed beneath an anchor could ease away if you were a good audience member who sat still and mute. You resist subservience at the cost of yourself. Eventually, the lights dim. The stage’s back curtain turns opaque. The actors shift their shouts into a normal speaking volume, a whisper, then finally, stop orating altogether.

Your mind’s dictation is decided by you — the ink of Lear’s thoughts expunged.

You’re aware of your physical surroundings again.

Presently, you’re crouching down on the floor. You move your foot back to maintain balance, and there’s a crunch, warning you to tread carefully. You inhale and exhale shakily. At this sign of lucidity, Nona and Lear crowd over you, repeating your name on a loop. You check twice to ensure their mouths are indeed moving and you aren’t hearing what you shouldn’t. Once you dispel your fears, relief embraces you.

This paroxysm has run its course.

Nona’s shoulders slump. “It’s okay, it’s over. She fixed it.”

They both hold their breath until you nod in agreement.

Lear extends his hand to help stand you up, to which Nona swats at it.

“No touching,” she reminds. Sternness doesn’t sound right in her cadence. He considers arguing, only to decide against it. His fingers twitch, go still, then recede.

You have to stand on your own strength.

Neither of them knows what to say in the immediate aftermath — it’s been so long that they’re out of practice. While they think over the best-sounding platitudes, you spare your phone a glance. Several messages mar the screen from an unknown sender. The most recent is time-stamped at five minutes ago.

You grumble a few choice words.

“Mr. Personality is back?” Nona asks.

“Yeah, I’ll handle it,” you close your account book and fold it under your arm. “You both should head home, it’s late. Just let Loopy take care of the glass shards.”

Nona gives a mock salute. After a moment’s consideration, Lear nods.

And so the three of you part ways.

Your fingers blindly grope at the expanse beneath your desk. Finally, you come in contact with a protrusion, then press it. Electricity thrums then turns hushes. For peace of mind, you glide your hand through the air. A holographic keyboard flickers into existence and responds to your vigorous keystrokes. The monitor reads that your noise-canceling software is up to date. It prevents sound waves from escaping a perimeter you’ve set. It’s installed in every room on the second floor, which includes the private rooms in The Lounge, your office, and the bedroom attached to said office.

Ever since Kafka started slinking around, the software’s uptime has increased exponentially.

Unlike Kafka, Blade doesn’t sit across from you or relax on the couch against the silver-colored wall. He stands by the door that leads to the hallway like a statue. He hasn’t so much as uttered a word to you since you let him in, not that you put in much effort to rouse conversation. It isn’t as childish as him ignoring you, either, you swear his eyes haven’t left you for a millisecond.

The keyboard and monitor dissipate at the flick of your wrist.

“I know I said I didn’t have anything major scheduled this week, but the IPC’s new policy changes things,” you start. Still no reaction. Frowning, you continue, “I’ll have to break the house arrest you’ve imposed.”

He doesn’t so much as blink. You thought a little provocation might earn you some material to work with, but you thought wrong.

“Who will be there?” Blade asks.

Instead of experiencing relief that he’s broken his vow of silence, tension coils its barbed limbs around you. It refuses to squeeze or apply any pressure. No, it intentionally denies you that, for it knows pain precedes understanding. A motive, an intention. Any degree of emotion is better than an unknowable void. Frustration, you can soothe, doubt, you can dispel, but total apathy? That’s a nightmare crossed into reality.

“The other two leaders of the quadrants and myself.”

At long last, there's a sign he is indeed a sentient lifeform and not the latest android model. A flash passes over his eyes. Suspicion or disbelief, perhaps.

“Shouldn’t there be four leaders, if the city’s divided into quadrants?”

“That’s a fair assumption. As far back as our records date, the southwestmost quadrant, Arc, has rejected the idea of having any fixed governance. They act however they see fit. It’s where that man who attacked me a few cycles back was sent to, since we look down on involuntary confinement.”

“The prison planet without prisons,” Blade’s wry wording belies his flat tone.

It’s always been a divisive topic, earning scorn and acclaim alike. You’ve had the misfortune of listening to clients regurgitate talking points that were made digestible by popular media, who started the cycle by devouring journal articles they read one paragraph of. They repeat what’s been said thousands of times with the bravado of the original theorist. Normally, you’d consider it more agreeable to bash your head against a wall than speak on the exhausted topic.

So why is it a kindling of intrigue burns by a Stellaron Hunter’s offhand comment?

“What’s this? The wanted criminal isn’t a proponent of prison abolition?”

“Every decision comes at a price,” he says. “Sins should be punished.”

You blink. Sins? Punishment? Is this a textbook case of cognitive dissonance, or another beast entirely?

“What do you consider a sin?”

“Anything that defies the natural order.”

“Such as…?”

The maelstrom that envelops him is potent enough for you to feel it breathing down your neck. Your body prickles all over.

“Defying death.”

“Not inflicting it?”

“No,” Blade’s response is immediate, straight from the heart. “Taking life is permissible. It’s accelerating the inevitable.”

This callous sentiment should chill you — maybe it would, if you heeded the alarm bells ringing in your mind — but fascination triumphs over any deterrent. This isn’t a creed one stumbles into by happenstance, it’s a burden made to order. His preoccupation with death is personal. A necessity.

“Show me what it’s like to die.”

Is this request self-flagellation or redemption?

If you’re ever to fulfill the Synalink you promised, you’ll need to dig deeper.

“There are ‘sins’ committed with altruistic intentions, though.”

“Hah,” he barks out a bitter laugh. “Those… those are the worst kind.”

This is a personal slight he’s grappling with. The shards scattered around him like stardust condense, though the sight they create remains out of focus. It doesn’t have to be a sharp picture for you to discern its immense stature.

Each person’s psyche is distinct in its manifestation. This image is a culmination of everything that defines them. Their core values, history, relationships, culture, ambitions both met and not fully realized; these colors leave an indelible imprint. In truth, this detailed representation is but a single dot amidst an ocean of stars. The mind of a sentient being must be vast if it is capable of ascending to an Aeon’s status. Still, you need something to work with, even if it doesn’t encompass the full scope. A pianist cannot play their instrument if there are no keys.

This scale, this sheer magnitude that towers higher the more you crane your neck up, it’s unlike anything you’ve ever encountered.

“... You’re going to give me a run for my money, Mr. 8.13 billion,” you murmur. “Your head looks like a warzone.”

He leans against the wall with a hmph.

“With all your impending problems, that’s what you choose to focus on?”

“I can multitask.”

“Can you?” He challenges. Sensing your confusion, he elaborates. “You look awful.”

Blade must be irresistible across all genders with that nuanced level of word crafting.

“I appreciate your candidness,” you deadpan.

He shakes his head at your sarcasm. “Don’t act obtuse. Your complexion’s off, your eyes are bloodshot… everything was fine when I left. Must have something to do with your earlier delay, I take it?”

You underestimated his acumen. This would explain why he’s been sizing you up since you opened the door. His sword proficiency isn’t the only threat you should be wary of. You know to be mindful of your presentation when Kafka’s skulking about, you didn’t think he’d need to be treated with a similar caution.

“It’s nothing serious, just your typical mental overexertion. There’s a lot on my plate, you said so yourself.”

“Hm.”

Whether he believes you or not, the conversation is left at that.

Transportation on Eris functions differently than what’s commonly found in other worlds.

Traditional gas-based motors aren’t favored due to the frigid climate. Instead, a gemstone mined in the Nectary by vetted groups is the preferred resource. It contains special thermodynamic properties that can emit immense power under the correct conditions. The gemstones have been altered and assembled in such a way that they function as a railroad for insulated cabins to travel from one station to another. These paths were nicknamed 'nectar guides’ or ’guides’ by the first engineers to embed them in the ground. This is in reference to how the eight main paths lead to Perianth II’s center, built above the Nectary.

The design serves a dual purpose — it optimizes travel and the heat radiating from the ground produces light. The accommodations have outworlders in mind. Your species, the Nymphalians, have long undergone enough natural selection to survive the hostile conditions fine enough. Your species’ eyesight excels in the dark and your physiology resists the cold. Aside from that, your body functions identical to any other humanoid species. The lone visible difference is a thin white ring around most Nymphalians’ iris’. You and Lear display this quality, Nona does not.

The cabin you sit in has a quaint design. There are plush, brown loveseats lining the wall, glowing orange lights in the arched ceiling, and light refreshments atop wooden table stands. It’s split into a common area and a bedroom suite. More enchanting than any ornate embellishment are the expansive windows. You only get to see your quadrant in person during these trips to Perianth II’s center and back.

“You warm enough?” You call over to Blade, who is bundled in extra layers of clothes and wearing an especially dour expression.

He doesn’t dignify your quip with a verbal reply.

This brief jaunt has earned his ire. For someone who’d likely prefer to be anywhere else, he’s taking this guard assignment quite seriously. He explained that taking this straightforward travel route begs for people with nefarious intent to come slithering out. You could see his point, but the matter isn’t up for dispute. Recent cyberattacks have called electronic communication into question. What you’ll be discussing with the others — Chrysus of Ade and Caicias of Mele — is highly sensitive information. The IPC catching any sliver of it could prove disastrous.

“You shouldn’t be by the windows,” Blade eventually says.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a major buzzkill?”

Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t respond.

With some reluctance, you pry yourself away from the glass granting access to the outside world.

“... Just a bit longer?” You try plucking a sympathetic cord he distinctly lacks.

“If you like it so much, why not experience it in the safety of your room where your head is a less visible target?”

“It isn’t possible to perform a Synalink on yourself.”

“Have an underling do it.”

The presumptions air to this suggestion eliminates any grace you may have extended.

“The only other Arbiter capable of performing Synalinks on me was my mother,” you say. “Note the past tense.”

You experience a phantasmal ripple with him as the epicenter. It’s the weakest emotion you’ve inadvertently picked up from him, so you assume it’s nothing of consequence.

“Passing blurs aren’t worth risking your life over.”

You rise to your feet.

“How do you know that?” You challenge, heat rushing to your cheeks. “These homes, these buildings, these streets… they’re either data on my screen or conveyed to me through someone who acts like they’re listing parts in a machine. I have to see it. I have to commit each ‘passing blur’ to memory. Otherwise…”

What have I sacrificed my freedom for?

Blade’s eyebrows furrow.

“Otherwise…” you shake your head. “Forget it.”

During the ensuing silence, your phone buzzes.

You had set it on do not disturb for the upcoming meeting. A few contacts were granted an exception, meaning that this message must be urgent if it went through. You swallow the lump growing in your throat. An exhausted part of yourself reasons that it can wait until the meeting’s conclusion. It wouldn’t do you any good to get worked up beforehand, would it? The message will still be there when it’s finished. Then you’ll be able to commit all your bandwidth to its contents. This reasoning is a tempting mistress cooing at you to come join her in bed. The momentary relief will be as sweet as the aftertaste is bitter.

Responsibility triumphs in the end. After inputting the necessary passcodes, a message four words long scrawls across your screen.

The product is ready.

A simple code had been devised between you and the alchemist entrusted with testing Kafka’s synthetic tonic. The product isn’t ready yet would mean the sly woman bluffed, or at the very least, exaggerated her 70% comparison claim. You’d gladly take either. She’s sewn deceit before, she’d have no trouble doing it again. In case the alternative was true, you prepared another code; the code you just received.

You reread it once. Twice, then thrice. You check if the message came from the right number. It did. You check again.

This frantic fixation consumes you to such a degree, you don’t register the cabin jerking aside. The delay from your reflexes throws your equilibrium off. Squeezing your eyes shut, you brace yourself for an unceremonious rendezvous with the floor. Your right side does come into contact with a hard surface, except it’s sooner than you anticipated. Warmer, too.

This heat is different from what’s produced inside the Nectary’s gemstones. It’s personal, containing the distinct thrum of life. There’s also an aroma. Slightly floral, mostly spices you don’t recognize. Then there’s this steady sound — consistent enough to put a metronome to shame. A slow thump, thump, thump.

“How have you survived this long, clumsy as you are?”

Blade isn’t speaking any louder than he normally would, but you can hear him better.

“Hey, I’m… not… clumsy…?”

It’s only when you open your eyes that you’re able to piece together your current predicament.

Blade’s steadying you by your shoulders and your cheek is pressing against his chest. You always knew he was tall, but having him tower over you this close gives you a new perspective. As does the fact he doesn’t immediately shove you off after breaking your fall. Your body goes stiff enough to rival rigor mortis.

“Accident prone, then.”

This swipe has you desperate to reaffirm your authority. “You should’ve just… let me fall then! Maybe I wanted to, what do you know!”

(It sounded better in your head).

“Are you positive you’re over a century old?”

An equally snarky rebuttal blooms on your tongue, only to immediately wither, turning to ash that coats the ground.

There’s the sound of a dying star, a dirge announcing the end.

What one hears before their name is reduced to an epitaph or an alphabetized list neatly organizing the recently deceased. It’s loud, then it isn’t. Hideous, then hypnotizing. Yellows and oranges and reds swirling in a serpentine motion that mocks you for thinking you ever conquered it. Civilizations can temporarily subdue it, bend it to their will, but it’s not ever truly theirs. The sovereignty of flame is a dynasty everlasting. It may rise, it may fall, but it can’t ever be truly extinguished.

You’re sent flying back with enough power that the air is forced from your lungs. It’s as if an Aeon’s hand had pushed your body aside, dragging you to the edge of the universe. You’re released from the scorching maw and into an icy nothingness.

The planet itself is frozen for a time.

There’s no strength in your body. Your system has been injected with pure, raw adrenaline, causing your limbs to shake and ignore your commands. Your ears are ringing and your eyesight is blurry. Tears cleanse the pollutants from your eyes. A dark swath covers your body, its weight hindering your feeble attempts to move. Determination alone wills you to emerge from this shadowy cocoon.

The ringing fades and all is quiet, save for the crackling of fire.

Then the screaming begins.

You try identifying the source. You think you may have found it, then it starts elsewhere, a different pitch, a different soul lot in lament. Bloodcurdling shrieks rise alongside the thick smoke. You’re being a stretch of buildings that loom imposingly, obsidian spires reaching up to the night sky. The masonry required to maintain their reign basks in the flames. The unusual surplus of light unveils its secrets, from the cracks in the stone to the faded graffiti bored kids left behind.

The ground is uneven, unlike the glossy pavement found in the entertainment district. This dull, grayish-blue soil with the consistency of fine powder exhibits the true nature of Eris’ untreated exterior. It’s cool to the touch and takes pleasure at the chance to stain your fine clothes.

Your wandering mind is brought back upon hearing a sputter nearby. You’re not sure where you are, what you’re doing, or why you’re doing it; but you remember you weren’t alone.

“Blade…” The name comes out as a croak. “Where…?”

You can’t call out to him, it’s like cotton has been stuffed down your esophagus.

There’s movement in the corner of your eye.

You make the mistake of trying to stand. Your arms might’ve begun to heed your commands, but your legs do not. The worst insurrectionists are your ankles. The instant you try putting any weight on them, they collapse as if you were a newborn doe. Recognizing this strategy’s incompetence, you drag yourself over to where you saw movement instead. The coarse ground rubs at and scratches your skin.

Upon closer inspection, your heart stops.

The dark swath — that’s Blade.

He’s in a far worse state than you. His entire backside has been scorched, displaying angry red blisters and split skin just barely hanging on. His right arm is bent in an awkward position, most certainly broken. Then there’s his left arm, or lack of it. Clumps of limp sinew hang where his arm should be joined to his shoulder joint. The force of the impact must’ve blown it off or eviscerated it entirely.

He’s lying on his side, facing away from you. A pool of blood forms beneath him, mixing with the soil. The coupling results in a sickly mauve that creeps and seeps inch by inch.

The fire… it’s coming from the guides, you realize. The cabin has been torn to pieces!

This begs the question: how are you alive?

You should be covered in burns at the very least. Some of your clothes got charred, you think a rib or two might be broken, but you’re living and breathing. There’s a gap in your memory where the previous events should be. You try recalling whatever you can, no matter how seemingly insignificant. You were moved aside as the roaring got louder, and then there was the sound of glass shattering, heat to cold…

Blade must have intervened. Did he use the few seconds before the fire caught up to break the window and toss you out? That can’t be right; you’d have glass entrenched in your skin and burns on whichever side faced the explosion. Surely, with his inhuman reflexes, he could’ve come out relatively unscathed.

Unless he chose to shield you.

You don’t think, you just act. First, by tearing the hem of your long skirt, then second, pressing it against the gaping wound where his shoulder abruptly ends. Gushes of crimson spill through your first makeshift bandage. You throw it aside, rip at your garments again, repeating the process in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding. A Stellaron Hunter must have a robust constitution, right? He was able to act faster than you could think. He can survive this — you just need to stop the bleeding until you can get help. Kafka has to have connections with advanced medical factions.

Tears stream down your face and you sniffle relentlessly. Your hands are caked in soot and blood, the scent of burnt skin and metal clings to your nostrils. Is he going to die? Is he already dead? You can’t bring yourself to check his pulse. How could he be willing to die for you in the short period of time you’ve known one another? He could’ve concocted any excuse for why he failed Kafka’s assignment, you’re certain he’s more indispensable to their cause than you are.

Blade stirs.

You think that it’s your imagination playing tricks on you. A cruel joke to remind you that you make your living off shaping reality for others, temporarily giving them what they want at the price of never truly having it.

Or so is your conviction until he moves again.

You’ve heard of muscles twitching after death to give the false impression of life. However, you’ve never witnessed the phenomenon yourself. Is this how it works? It isn’t sporadic, his right arm is sweeping over the ground, fingers flexing. Much to your astonishment, he pushes himself up with the arm that was contorted into a horrible shape a minute ago. The pain he’s experiencing must be excruciating and yet he merely grunts as he shifts into a sitting position.

“Stop moving,” you rasp out. With your most recent bandage in hand, you go to apply pressure to the left arm socket.

He responds to your fervent desperation in a low, gravelly voice.

“Don’t bother.”

Don’t bother? Is he in a coherent state of mind? If you don’t attend to his gushing wound, he’s at risk of bleeding out. You prepare to ignore his utterance when a strange sight freezes you in place.

A white structure emerges from his raw, mangled arm socket, descending like water pouring from a pitcher. It solidifies and takes the shape of a humerus. Once finished, it goes on to create the radius and ulna. Next are the carpals, metacarpals, then phalanges. Tendons join them together, fibrous muscles envelop the bones. Finally, in the blink of an eye, fresh layers of skin build atop one another in sheets. He clenches and unclenches his newly formed hand.

If defying death is a sin, he is laden in iniquity.

“What hurts?” Blade asks.

You’re too aghast to respond. His body just stitched itself back together without any medical treatment or esoteric healing techniques. Is it possible you’re hallucinating? Can a visual hallucination be this vivid?

He reaches out. Seconds prior to his hand coming into contact with your bare skin, you furiously shake your head, flailing backward and narrowingly avoiding him. His eyes bore down on you like molten magma. He retracts his hand after a drawn-out pause.

“If you can’t speak, point instead.”

Dazedly, you follow his instructions, focusing primarily on your ankles. They’ve swollen since you last checked. The flesh is tender and puffy.

“I’ll carry you,” he says. “Stay still.”

“Wait,” you manage to wheeze out. “This area… residential… have to help…!”

A coughing spell cuts your hoarse plea short.

“That explosion was meant for you. Whoever set it off will want to ensure their job’s success.”

Blade reaches out for you again. You duck to avoid his grasp, despite the pain throbbing in your chest cavity from the hasty movement. The adrenaline must be fading if your brain is doing inventory on the damage you’ve sustained, rather than focusing on survival. Hot waves test your resolution. You grit your teeth. If you make a show of your pain, he’s not going to change his decision.

He speaks your name in a low, warning tone.

Adamant in your refusal, you point to where the cries for help are the loudest.

“It’s not my priority,” he says.

He easily grabs you on his third try and you yelp. The sluggishness of his previous attempts must've been out of consideration for you. His right arm interlocks behind your knees while the left supports your back. You thrash to no avail, his grip remains ironclad. Your struggles amount to nothing but perspiration clinging to your skin and more aches.

The nearest medical unit to this street is at least thirty minutes away, now that the guides are out of order, you think. That isn’t fast enough…! Every second counts!

In your panic, a sacred vow made decades ago is desecrated.

You cup Blade’s face in your shaky hands and stare him straight in the eye.

The previously formed shards come into focus.

It’s monumental, this psyche you’ve barged into without permission. A violation of another’s autonomy. You know this, you condemn yourself for it, yet you press on nevertheless. The previously unknowable architecture that hulks over you is of Xianzhou design. It’s pieced together by bricks as infinite as the stars in the universe, though there is no magnificent shine, only matte stonework.

This structure… is it a garrison? You wonder. Was Blade a member of the… what’s the name of their military again… Cloud Knights?

You’ve had Cloud Knight clients before. Their psyches take the likeness of their favorite, scenic expanse on the Hexafleet, the area that they cared for enough to risk their life. The skies would be blue, clouds fluffy and prolific. A sense of duty and patriotism felt palpable. Occasionally, you’d be made privy to grief’s scent carried on a breeze, perhaps from a loved one’s passing or comrade’s untimely death in battle.

This is a riddle you need to solve swiftly. With a little tampering, you can form a link. It’s immoral, a blight to your personal code, but you’ll leverage enough influence for Blade to stay and help any survivors until help arrives. Whatever consequences arise can be dealt with later.

Even with the heightened mental sensitivity from making direct physical contact, this is proving a challenge. You can see his psyche but you can’t interact with it. It’s like running your hands through vapor. For you to successfully exert enough influence to change a decision he’s dead set on, you’ll need to go deeper. Inside this fortress sits the recesses of his mind, the bottom of an ocean you’re merely skimming the surface of. The intrusion’s necessity twists your gut as if your intenses were being kneaded.

Your incorporeal form flutters to the gates, standing solitary against a leaden backdrop.

The closer you get, you become increasingly aware of a malicious entity permeating behind the doors which strain to contain it. This is the same harrowing presence you felt when he protected you from Alister. Now that you’ve spent more time with Blade, you can discern its essence is different from his, although they’re forcibly intertwined like a rope. Blade emanates this unremittingly morose energy. It’s bleak, unconcentrated.

This substance oozes a need to satiate bottomless bloodlust. It wants to sink its teeth into flesh, lacerate muscles, and slice through bone. Mayhem and viscera are its highest raison d'être. There’s no sensibility, no reasoning with it, it acts in one way then shifts on a whim; chaos inside a splintering bottle.

How is Blade capable of functioning with this slumbering beast ready to wreak havoc at any second?

Steeling your resolve, you prepare to enter.

A seal halts your progress.

Impatience urges you to dispel it. Blade’s psyche is rejecting you, any further delays will give it ample opportunity to flush you out.

The kaleidoscopic seal thrums and wards off your efforts.

Someone put this here, you discern. It’s deliberate.

What perplexes you is that the seal prohibits entry yet does nothing to contain the miasma writhing behind it. Wouldn’t whoever created it intend to keep that salivating beast at bay? It’s well-crafted too, denying your every attempt to eliminate it. Kafka dabbles in mind-altering. Could she have left this here? You know what her aura feels like — calm, confident, cunning — this seal radiates none of her trademarks.

An invisible force hauls you back.

You took too long — Blade’s psyche is expelling the foreign invader.

You blink and you’re back in reality.

Blade is grimacing, the lines on his face highlighted by flickering flame. There’s a pallor to his complexion brought on by the aggressive expulsion his mind pulled off. An act such as that leeches off of one’s vitality. He takes a moment to recompose himself, as do you. Any subsequent attempts to form a link are going to be wrung from a desiccated source. You don’t know how many attempts you have left in you,

“A first offense, I could pardon,” Blade pants out, blood-red hues shining, “A recidivist like yourself, though… can’t go undisciplined.”

Your eyes widen. How did he know your intentions so quickly? You hadn’t so much as moved yet!

There’s a dull discomfort blooming from your nape.

Your eyelids feel heavy and your breathing slows. Black spots float around in your vision. They start small, appearing as if they were polka dots, then grow to be the size of black holes. Your muscles won’t move. The unconscious realm beckons. Its gravitational pull is irresistible, a tide you can’t swim against.

What is this? Your neck… did he strike a nerve…?

“You’ll be fine,” a distant, sonorous voice promises. “Just sleep.”

The sentence has been delivered.

You’re made prisoner to a dreamless slumber.

#blade x reader #yandere blade x reader #honkai star rail x reader #yandere honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #yandere hsr x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #nexus #my stuff

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carolperkinsexgirlfriend · 2 months

Text

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 98

Part 1 Part 97

It’s fucked up, but Steve’s never been happier. He’s not sure how much of it’s the drugs, and how much is the relief, but it sits like a weight on his chest that he never wants to shake off.

There’s a constant stream of visitors. Ms. Byers, who’s taken to cupping her cool hands around his face and kissing his forehead each time. Uncle Wayne, who’s calluses are starting to become as familiar as Edde’s to the skin of Steve’s palms.

Barbara and Carol, attached at the hip in a way he can’t parse. He doesn’t think he was gone that long. How did this happen? But he knows that flirty smile, knows what his best friend’s fingers trailing over Barbara’s shoulders means.

Tommy doesn’t come. It shouldn’t hurt, but – But. Something inside him tightens and contracts. It might just be his heart.

Jonathan and Nancy come together. Jonathan’s bubbling over with apologies, contrite in contrast to Nancy’s fuming.

“You should have called me,” she says, curly hair practically raising with the power of her ire. “I could have helped.”

From his seat by Steve’s side, Eddie huffs and puffs and barely holds back his yell. He doesn’t see the way her fists are curled, can’t see past the veneer of control that hides the worry behind it.

“I was possessed, Nance,” Steve replies, smiling up at her. His face hurts with all the smiling. “I didn’t even know who you were.”

She sputters and stalls while Jonathan stands beside her, shooting worried looks out of the corner of his eyes.

He can almost feel the hole they’d left in his brain. The shape of their outlines at high school parties and in line at the cafeteria. Nancy’s firmly raised hand, Jonathan’s slumped shoulders. It’s filled now.

He wants to fill it with more memories, so many that the bad ones just shake loose.

“Oh, alright,” she huffs, settling down on the other side of the bed, far away from Eddie’s twitching fingers. “But that won’t work as an excuse next time.”

The kids are easy; they come in a pile, stacking against each other in his room’s doorway until Dustin comes pouring in, everyone else after him. They all crowd onto his bed with no regard to his personal space. Even Mike slinks onto the end to sit with sullen shoulders and shining eyes.

They’re like puppies, yapping over each other for his and Eddie’s attention. Will’s planning a new campaign, and his eyes light up when Steve agrees to play.

Chief Hopper comes next with a girl hiding behind his back, clutching onto the hanging lapel of his jacket. Her head peaks out behind him, curls springing wildly from her scalp as she smiles shyly at Steve.

“I know you,” Steve says.

The chief huffs, as the beams, and says her part in their little play, “I found you.”

Steve shuffles up in his bed, not looking as he feels Eddie prop up pillows behind his back. He holds his arms out and open, waiting even as his muscles begin to strain.

She shuffles out from behind Chief Hopper, head down as she climbs onto the edge of his bed, butting her forehead against his chest like a cat. He puts his arms around her, slow as he feels what he’s come to find out are burns of varying degrees. No one will tell him what they’re from, but Carol had looked especially shifty when she’d witnessed the bandages being changed. He elected not to ask.

The girl doesn’t put her own arms around him, just lets her hands settle into her own lap and leans in.

“You really are a supergirl, huh?” Steve asks, reaching his hand up to play with her curls. His splinted finger knocks against her skull once before he holds it back as best he can.

She leans back to beam up at him, eyes alight. “You can call me El”.

They probably both look stupid, smiling at each other, one of them all banged up, the other in what must be Chief Hopper’s cast-offs.

Hopper clears his throat when the silence lingers. He stomps in his clunky work boots over to the seat beside Eddie and sinks down, almost reclining into it despite its straight back. Eddie curls away from him, glaring at the man like he’s got a live grenade.

Or like he’s been searched for drugs before and doesn’t want the fuzz to be sniffing around. Steve laughs, loopy and pleased while they both look at him with the same furrowed brows and worried frowns.

“You alright, kid?” Hopper asks gruffly, reaching out to put his meaty hand on Steve’s shoulder.

Steve winces, feels the bandages pull until Hopper drops his hand.

“Did you know she was real?” Steve asks, reaching out to pull one of El’s bounciest curls atop her head. It all goes straight and taught and then bounces back into place.

Hopper snorts. “Where do you think she’s been living?”

“Oh,” he replies.

His brains clicking in his skull, weighed down by morphine and too much sleep, but when his gaze flickers around the room, he recognizes the awkward grimace on Eddie’s lips.

“You knew,” Steve accuses, finger pointed toward Eddie’s face, to emphasize who he’s accusing. His finger shakes unsteadily until Eddie snatches it out of the air and pops it into his own mouth to bite down. “Ow, what the fuck?”

Eddie’s dimples pop around it as he nibbles into the knuckle one more time before letting go with a suctioning pop. “Don’t be mad, Stevie,” he weedles, looking up at Steve through his lashes with wide, innocent eyes, even as his prominent dimples give away his amusement.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Steve’s slightly damp finger flicks Eddie’s nose until he hisses and snatches Steve’s hand to interlace their fingers with a shrug. “I thought it would be funny.”

It’s hard to hold a grudge when El giggles, light and airy as it breathes life into the room.

“He’s got you there, kid,” Hopper replies, reaching out again, this time to ruffle El’s hair.

Steve huffs, “whatever, man,” but his lips are little traitors and they can’t stop from turning up at the corners. “See if I introduce you to the next superhero we meet.”

Eddie squeezes his hand, familiar callouses scraping against Steve’s palm. “You’ll introduce me, Stevie.” he replies. Steve closes his eyes as he feels warm lips on the back of his hand. “You love me too much.”

Steve closes his eyes against the feeling, still smiling even as his healing skin pulls, and his finger feels unwieldy and wrong, and his head aches and floats up toward the ceiling.

Yeah, he really does.

Taglist: @deany-baby @estrellami-1 @altocumulustranslucidus @evillittleguy @carlprocastinator1000 @hallucinatedjosten @goodolefashionedloverboi @newtstabber @lunabyrd @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @manda-panda-monium @disrespectedgoatman @finntheehumaneater @ive-been-bamboozled @harringrieve @grimmfitzz @is-emily-real @dontstealmycake @angeldreamsoffanfic @a-couchpotato @5ammi90 @mac-attack19 @genderless-spoon @kas-eddie-munson @louismeds @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @pansexuality-activated @ellietheasexylibrarian @nebulainajar @mightbeasleep @neonfruitbowl @beth--b @silenzioperso @best-selling-show @v3lv3tf0x @bookworm0690 @paintsplatteredandimperfect @wonderland-girl143-blog @nerdsconquerall @sharingisntkaren @canmargesimpson @bananahoneycomb @rainwaterapothecary @practicallybegging

Part 99

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #my fic #steddie upsidedown au #Well. I wrote something at least!!!

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itsjusthockey · 1 year

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When The Party’s Over - Jack Hughes

I have a problem with writing angst and this is much longer than expected. I'm not sorry.

Big announcement coming soon. Get excited.

I'm needy, so the more love I receive, the more I write. So please follow, comment, repost, and talk to me. I really do cherish this blog and want to be more active

Anyway so yeah, come talk to me. Please, I want to know what you guys think.

Should there be a part two? I don't know

wc: 3,423 (credit to gif maker)(don’t steal my work)

Content warning: Swearing and light NSFW? I don’t know it’s not super explicit but it’s all my first time writing it and I’m not sure

Part 2

Don't you know I'm no good for you?

I've learned to lose you, can't afford to

Jack may not be much of a coffee guy, but he is nothing but a weak man when it comes to his favorite bagel place. It’s a regular part of his routine, a constant thing. He goes before practice, grabs his usual order, and then he’s gone.

Usually, he keeps his head down, Jersey isn’t the biggest place, and he likes to avoid attention on his mornings off. Yet, he lifts his head when his name is called and moves to thank the lady handing him his food and walk out when he quickly scans the room, his eyes stopping when he lands on a familiar face.

You’re sitting at a small table close to the edge of the room, surrounded by notebooks, highlighters, and staring hard at your computer. He takes a mental note of your concentrated state, knowing you’re probably in the zone, but he elects to ignore that fact as he makes his way toward your table.

You jump slightly when he takes a seat across from you, only to relax, just barely, when you see it’s him.

“Jesus, Jack,” You breathe out, “Scared the hell out of me.”

Jack can’t help but let a smirk take over his features, and his heart twinges a bit when you let a breathtaking smile take over your own face.

“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.” He teases. “What’re you doing here?”

You look at him briefly, then gesture vaguely to your coffee and your wide range of studying supplies. “Homework, or at least trying to.”

“Ah, I see.” He smiles again, relishing in the company of your presence; it’s been over a week since he last saw you.

“Anyway,” you scoot your chair closer to the table, “Come here often? Their bagels are great.”

Jack lets out a small laugh. “Yeah, almost every morning. It’s pretty close to my place and the rink.”

Once he finishes, a look of recognition crosses your features. “I knew this area seemed decently familiar.”

Jack nods, and he watches as you scan over the coffee shop, then finally rest your eyes back on him. The eye contact doesn’t last long, though, when your phone begins to buzz on the table, and you sneak a quick glance down. Jack can’t help but notice the slight smile after you read the message, and his heart falls ever so slightly.

You snap your eyes to meet his and place your phone face down on the table, leaning back in your chair. “Not that I don’t love this reunion in the daylight, but don’t you have somewhere to be?”

The question is fair, he does, in fact, have someplace to be, but if he’s honest with himself, the last thing he wants to do is remove himself from this chair across from you.

“Yeah, but being a little late never hurt anyone.”

You snort at his statement, rolling your eyes at him.

“Go to practice, Jack.”

He knows you’re right, he doesn’t want to leave, but with playoffs around the corner, he shouldn’t be here, no matter how much he wants to stay.

“You’re right,” As he gets up, he notices your almost empty coffee cup. “Can I at least get you a refill before I leave?”

You glance at your coffee, contemplate his offer, and shake your head. “I’m okay, Jack. Thanks anyway.”

He nods, grabs his bagel, and turns to leave, but not before he pauses and turns around again. “You busy tonight?”

Your eyes dart back up again, but before you answer, your phone buzzes again, and you glance down. You take a few seconds to read the message before you answer him.

“I’m not sure. I’ll let you know.”

You give him a warm smile, but there is also a hint of awkwardness behind it. He chooses to ignore the possibility of rejection and nods your way one last time, and makes his way out of the shop.

As he exits, he glances back to your table one last time, already seeing you consumed back into your schoolwork, forgetting he was ever there.

Jack knows he’s not the smartest guy in the world, but he’s smart enough to know when he’s fucked. The idea was not to fall in love, which is easier said than done. He couldn’t help it; it came out of nowhere. You’ve been sleeping together for a while, longer than both of you could care to admit. He knows that the arrangement is simple, and it works. You’re not his, he’s not yours.

But fuck, does he want you to be.

Tore my shirt to stop you bleedin’

But nothin' ever stops you leavin'

Jack gently traces his fingers along your skin, relishing in the feel of your curves beneath his touch. He watches in awe of how your body responds to every move he makes, and he can tell you’re close. Your fingers dig hard into his back, your head falls back ever so slightly, and he slows down his movements to the pace he knows drives you crazy.

To get you there, he concentrates. He knows your body like the back of his hand, but he still tries to watch your face for cues, even though you're not meeting his stare. He didn’t notice it right away when you started sleeping together, but now it’s hard to ignore. No matter what he’s doing, you always look away.

He desperately wants to see you, stare deep into your eyes, and show you, somehow, that when you’re beneath him, it's the closest thing to heaven on earth.

Tonight is different for him, and he needs you to look at him, to see him.

He pulls your face gently to look at him, and reaches down to capture your lips in a heated kiss. He makes sure he’s got your attention. Your pupils are blown with bliss, and the soft look goes give him makes him feel like he’s the only person in the world. Before he can stop himself, he presses his forehead to yours and lets himself fall deep into the endless pools of your eyes.

It’s intimate, you both know that, but for a moment, just that moment, you allow yourself to get lost in each other as you meet your highs.

Jack rides it out as long as possible, loving you in every way he knows how and making sure you feel just as good as him. When you both finally come down, your heavy mixed breathing filling the room, reality sinks in.

You’re the first to break, as always, gently pushing him off you. Jack watches silently as you get off the bed, grabbing various scattered clothing items and pulling them on. He watches with a mixture of longing and disdain. He knows you’re going to leave, you always do, but he can’t help but hope this time you’ll stay.

“Stop being a creep.” A playful grin plays on your face as you catch him staring, finishing pulling on your shirt.

He ignores your joke, “Where are you going?”

You shrug your shoulders way too casually.

“Not sure, maybe out?”

His heart sinks, and he doesn’t want to acknowledge the fact that you’re killing him.

“You could stay? It’s pretty late.” He glances at the clock next to his bed.

The dry laugh you bark out makes him cringe.

“And risk running into the next girl? I’m okay, Jack; I’ll see you later.”

With that and a quick check of yourself, you leave. He’s left with his lingering thoughts and regrets. He knows you’re bad for each other, and he knows that this arrangement will eventually kill him, but he can’t seem to get away.

Jack hears the outside door slam, and he’s truly alone. He decides that his best option is to sleep you off, try to forget the way you felt in his arms and the way you make his heart feel like it’s about to burst. He falls back into his bed, staring at the ceiling. The sheets around him smell like the familiar scent of you, and he hates how it’s comforting. He feels himself falling deeper and deeper into himself, and you didn’t even know he was drowning.

He knows it’s best if he just tries to sleep, flush out any thoughts of you. He doesn’t need to think about where you are or who you’re with because you aren’t his, even though he’d do anything to make you love him as much as he loves you.

He thinks about the last comment you made. About another girl. He knows his reputation and the fact that many people think he’s a player. He’s not, though, and he wishes you knew there wasn’t another girl; it’s only you.

Don't you know too much already?

I'll only hurt you if you let me

Jack's eyes are fixed hard on your back, watching almost every move you make across the dimly lit bar. He can tell you’re relaxed, and your head is thrown back, laughing along with your friends. Though he isn’t close enough to hear the laugh that makes him happy and destroys him, his heart clenches anyway. You look like you’re having the best time in the world, and he can’t help but wonder if he’s crossed your mind, even once.

He is nursing a drink that is too watered down for his taste, and his focus is pulled back to you every time he manages to integrate himself back into his teammate's conversation. While he catches a few snippets here and there, he has no idea what the hell they’ve been talking about for the last twenty minutes, and he hopes they don’t notice that his attention has been elsewhere.

He isn’t that lucky, though, because Nico elbows him slightly in the ribs, leaning toward him.

“You okay, Jacky?”

He nods, feeling horrible. “Yeah, sorry.”

He knows he needs to focus, pay attention to the guys, and have a few drinks after a good week. So he tries, his absolute hardest, to keep his eyes off of you.

He lasts about five seconds, and when he looks back toward your table, you’re gone.

He quickly searches the room and sees you making your way toward the bar. It’s honestly embarrassing how fast he moves, and before he can stop himself, he removes himself from his table and makes a beeline toward you.

He reaches you just as you put in your order, throwing the bartender a thousand-watt smile and leaning ever so slightly over the counter. When you finally notice someone beside you and turn to face him, It’s the brief look of unrecognition that practically kills him.

“Jack?” You recover quickly, slipping on a bright smile. “What’re you doing here?”

He stares hard for a second, unsure if you’re messing with him. He knows he’s told you this is his team's favorite bar, but when you’re still waiting for his answer, he clears his throat.

“Uh, it’s the bar closest to the rink,” He hates the sound of his voice. “I’m here with the guys.”

Your eyes flash behind him to his teammates, and a sly smirk takes over your features.

“Well, don’t they look like fun?”

He lets out a light laugh, “They are.”

The bartender interrupts the conversation, setting down your various drinks. You go to hand him your card, but Jack beats you to it.

“It’s on me.” He hands over his Amex before you can protest, and you shoot him a look he can’t decipher.

“You don’t have to buy my drinks, Jack.”

He shrugs his shoulders as if it’s nothing.

You thank him and the bartender as you pick up the drinks.

“Need help?” Jack asks, watching you struggle to get the last glass.

You finally grasp the cup and flash him another smile. “I got it. Thanks again, Jack.”

As quickly as you came, you were gone, heading back to your table where your friend celebrate your arrival as if you’ve been away for years. Jack watches as you all cheers your drinks, and his heart warms a bit when you catch his eye one more time, winking and raising your glass to him ever so slightly.

He nods and heads back to his own table, determined that at the end of the night, he will get to you somehow. He only wants to have you within reach, talking with his teammates or dragging him out to the dance floor. Above all else, he wants you in his arm. So, he texts you, hoping you’ll invite him over and the night will officially begin, and he can be happy. He waits and continues to glance your way.

You never respond.

Call me friend but keep me closer

And I'll call you when the party's over

When Jack's phone buzzes loudly on his nightstand the first time, he ignores it. It’s late, and he has a big game tomorrow. When it buzzes again and continues, signaling an incoming call, he finally shifts his weight and grabs it.

It’s been a week since he saw you at the bar and even longer since you’d texted. You’ve also never called, which causes his heart to beat a little faster than it should. He presses answer.

“Hello?” He asks, hearing some brief static on the other end.

“Jack?”

Your voice sounds small, and he immediately sits up straighter in bed, suddenly wide awake.

“(Y/N)? Are you okay?”

He hears your sigh softly on the other end.

“Honestly,” You hiccup, “No. I’m wasted, and my best friend has my apartment keys, and they all don’t want to leave, but I feel sick, and my phone is almost dead, and I didn’t know who else to call in Jersey, and I-“

You continue rambling, and Jack can hear you softly sniffling in between words, and It takes him less than ten seconds to throw on a shirt, pants, and make a beeline toward his Range Rover keys.

“(Y/N)” He finally interrupts you, “Where are you? I’m coming to get you.”

He doesn’t hear you for a moment, and he thinks for a second that you hung up.

“No.” You suddenly say sternly, as if you just realized you called him. “Fuck, I’m so stupid. I shouldn’t have called you.”

As you finish, Jack can sense the panic starting to rise in your voice, and he knows that you’re falling deeper into your own head, and he has to pull you out before you disappear.

“Hey, don’t say that. But please, send me your location.”

“No.” You repeat, “You have a game tomorrow. You should be asleep.”

Jack's heart skips a beat when you mention his game. He didn’t know you followed his schedule. His mind begins to run a million places, different places, until he grounds himself and remembers the problem at hand.

“(Y/N),” He says it as hard as he can to force you into telling him where you are. “I’m not gonna be able to sleep until I know you’re home safe. Send me your location.”

It’s silent on the other end of the line, and after a moment, his phone lights up with your pinned location.

“Do not move. I’m about fifteen minutes away. Okay?”

“Okay.” You whisper back to him.

What should have been fifteen minutes turns into less than ten as Jack ignores every driver's safety training he’s ever had. He would do anything to be able to teleport to you, but instead, he goes as fast as he can.

When he pulls up to the crowded bar and doesn’t see you outside, he’s instantly filled with worry. His pulse continues to build until he sees you a small distance away from the entrance, sitting on the curb with your head in your hands.

As soon as he parks, rather badly, he bolts out of the car toward you. When he gets within a few feet of your form, your head snaps up. He watches as a mix of emotions crosses your face, and his heart finally does crumple when he sees a tear slide down your cheeks. It takes everything in him not to wipe it away as he kneels in front of you.

“Can you stand?” He asks softly.

You slowly nod, and he takes both your hands, helping you get to your feet. He watches as you wobble a bit too far to the left, and he catches you in his arms.

The second you’re in his hold, you melt into his touch, and he hates the way that he his entire body finally relaxes, knowing you are safe and in his arms.

Jack continues to steady you, feeling the weight of your body against his. He can smell the alcohol on your breath, and you’re way too cold for his liking after sitting outside. He grabs your shoes and phone and begins walking you toward his car. Once you’re there, he gets you into the vehicle, buckles you in, and hands you a bottle of water he’d thankfully grabbed from the fridge.

“There we go,” he says, making sure you’re set.

Your eyes follow him as he climbs into the driver's seat, and once he turns the car on, you break the silence.

“Thank you, Jack.” You whisper, your head falling a bit toward the window.

Jack focuses on the road as he makes his way back toward his apartment. He knows you’re in no state to be brought home alone, and he’d never forgive himself if something happened to you.

“Jack?” You speak again, and he hums. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” He means it. “I’ll always be here when you need me.”

He turns to face you briefly, and he has never seen you look so sad, and it crushes him all over again. He wants to talk to you, figure out what’s going wrong in that beautiful mind of yours, and do anything to fix it. But he knows that this conversation can be had at a later date. Instead, he turns on a radio, and when he steals another glance at your figure, you are asleep.

Jack drives slowly and carefully to his apartment, knowing he has the most precious cargo to him sitting in the passenger seat. When he finally pulls into the parking ramp and turns off the car, you are still dead to the world.

He quickly unbuckles and moves to get you, gently trying to shake you awake.

“Hey, (Y/N),” he whispers, “we’re here.”

You let out a soft groan and rub your eyes. “Can’t I just stay here? It’s so comfy.”

You snuggle deeper into the seat, and Jack thinks he will die. You look so goddamn adorable, and it’s driving him insane that he can’t kiss you.

“Sorry baby,” the nickname slips before he can stop it. “I gotta get you inside.”

He smiles at your pouty face, and he unbuckles your seatbelt. He lifts you out of the car and sets you down for a second, grabbing your things and handing you his keys before scooping you back into his arms.

You softly hum in contentment as your head lolls against his chest. Jack thinks you’ve dozed off again until you open your eyes slightly.

“You're pretty strong," you slur. “Clearly, hockey is good for a person.”

Jack lets out a deep chuckle as you snuggle deeper into his hold, and after a few minutes of struggle to get through doorways without hitting you on something and teamwork to open his door, you’re safe in his apartment.

Twenty minutes later, he’s helped you take off your makeup because he knows your skin care is essential, he’s gotten you water and Advil, and you're wrapped in his clothes and lying beneath his duvet.

As he watches you breathe, gathering a few things to sleep on the couch, he can’t help but feel a sense of protectiveness wash over him. He wants nothing more than to climb next to you, but he’ll resist.

He stares a bit longer when suddenly your eyes peel open.

“You have a staring problem, Jack.”

Your tone is teasing, but his entire body grows hot, and all he wants is to get the hell out of his bedroom. He tries to make his escape, but not before you speak again, and it stops him dead in his tracks.

“You know, I broke my own heart loving you first.”

#hockey #hockey boys #hockey imagine #hockey x reader #imagine #nhl imagine #nhl x reader #hockey fic #nhl hockey #jack hughes #jack hughes imagine #jack hughes x reader #new jersey #devils hockey #new jersey devils #nico hischier #nj devils #devils vs rangers #original writing

748 notes · View notes

qqueenofhades · 11 months

Note

One of my biggest annoyances is leftists and communists beinging up Biden’s tweets during the 2020 campaign of things he said he would do, and being like “see?? he didn’t deliver on anything and this is why you shouldn’t vote for the Dems again” Like, for all the understanding they seem to have of communist or marxist or whatever theory, the idea that the President is not a king and can’t do whatever he wants without Congress’s approval is lost on them?? He still believes in those things but if Congress won’t pass the legislation what is he supposed to do? EOs won’t solve all our problems.

Yeah. Not even to mention, the claim that "Biden hasn't done/delivered anything!!!" is a big fat lie, as people keep pointing out the things he has done, with a razor-thin House majority (until 2022) and two "Democratic" senators who torpedoed everything and one of whom has now literally left the party (Manchin and Sinema). So while Online Leftists obviously don't understand the difference between "achieving all of his campaign goals" and "achieving some," for the last frikkin time, Biden has done a lot of good things in very bad circumstances!!!!!! Using "he didn't do everything!!!!" as an excuse to not vote and so enable the open and unrepentant fascists is the stupidest fucking thing I have ever heard!!!!

Like. Take the debt deal. As in other things, Biden clearly learned from Obama's mistake (which was believing that the Republicans would ever negotiate in good faith about anything, and/or would reciprocate in kind if Biden made concessions). McCarthy whined for WEEKS that Biden wasn't listening and wasn't talking to him and wasn't entertaining his ridiculous proposals (22% cuts in ALL discretionary/non-military spending, including Social Security, Medicare, etc etc, while preserving the giant Trump tax cuts for the rich.) No matter that a full one-quarter of the national debt ($7.8 trillion of $31 trillion) was racked up under Trump and the debt ceiling involves paying bills that have already been spent. No sir, those Damn Free-Spending Democrats wanted to use your money on icky things like ~social welfare!! It was mean and it was hypocritical and it was blindingly obvious, and Biden just completely ignored it. He didn't try to negotiate in good faith with that, because there was no way it would work. He just let them whine.

Then, when it came down to it, Biden went in and got a deal that preserves pretty much all of the Democrats' major legislative priorities and expansions from the last two years. The only real change is raising the work requirement age for childless adults on SNAP food assistance from 49 to 54, but this has also been accompanied by a corresponding expansion of the definition "homeless" to make more people eligible, some for the first time ever. There's not going to be any major new spending for the next two years, but that wasn't happening anyway since the GOP controls the House and wouldn't agree to anything Biden put in the budget (and plus, none of the money that has already been allocated through the American Rescue Plan and other federal assistance is getting taken away). But more importantly, it raises the debt ceiling for the next TWO years and it won't come up again until after 2024. That is HUGE: the GOP really, REALLY wanted to hold the economy hostage again prior to the next presidential election. But Biden basically went in and told McCarthy to stfu and got what he wanted. Qevin was even forced, after months of "Sleepy Joe" GOP propaganda, to call Biden "very smart and very tough" in the negotiations. Soooo.

Anyway, this is what I mean: this isn't as sexy and/or as utterly fucking useless as spouting lukewarm rebaked "Marxist" propaganda on the Twittermachine about how Biden hasn't done anything, but it's the actual nitty-gritty work of government and flat-out beating the Republicans. They got absolutely shit-all that they wanted, because Biden didn't fall for their same old, same old dirty tricks and disingenuous squealing. He went in, got the job done, and will get way less credit for it than he deserves, from anyone. Dunno about you, but I like that guy. I plan to vote for him again.

#anonymous #ask #politics for ts

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sunlightmurdock · 2 years

Text

Operation Apollo | Jake Seresin x Reader AU | Prologue

Masterlist | Next Chapter

Synopsis: After a threat is made against her life, the President’s grown up daughter gets her security tripled. Her long term detail is about to retire and needs replacing, only — she isn’t the easiest to work with. Ex-Navy and current Secret Service, Jake Seresin is devoted to being the best at everything he does. He isn’t going to let a bratty little girl cost him this job.

Warnings: age gap, power imbalance, enemies to lovers, danger and angst + eventual smut , minors dni, word count: about 4k

…

“Ex-Navy? — A pilot? — I mean… shouldn’t we be looking at someone with a little more ground experience?” Matthew frowns at the file. It’s the middle of the night, he’s sitting behind his desk still in his pyjamas, wishing that this could have waited until morning.

Wishing that he didn’t have to worry about this at all, actually.

“He’s good, Sir,” Matthew is reassured over the loudspeaker of the phone on his desk. “His last role was something similar to this. He has knowledge of what it will take and he’s good at what he does.”

Matthew rests his cheek against his fist, shaking his head softly, “He’s only thirty-four… I’d rather she had someone more experienced.”

“We were looking at candidates that will blend in with her friends a little better.” The man explains.

Matthew sighs and turns the page over. When his daughter was younger, back when Matthew was just a governor, he had told himself that he was doing all of this for you. To make you proud. To better your future. And now he’s here.

Looking through files at three in the morning because your security needs to be increased following a threat made against your life.

You were fifteen when he was elected the first time. Nineteen when he secured his second term.

He wasn’t doing it for you. He knows that. You’re a grown up now, you’re living on the other side of the country and you’re in danger because of him.

Matthew’s brows furrow as he looks over the file one more time. He swallows, nodding his head.

“Fine… sure. They’ll do. But Allen stays. At least a few more weeks.”

The man on the line pauses. Matthew knows that he’s being silently cussed out on the other end of the line but can’t bring himself to care.

Allen is your security detail and has been for the past seven years. He’s an ex-marine with over forty years of service under his belt. Only the best for Matthew’s little girl.

With all these new names coming in, it’ll be upsetting for you — you hates change and you hate having a detail. Allen’s the only one that has stuck the job in the entire seven years since Matthew was elected.

You aren’t going to like this. The least that Matthew can do to make it easier is to have Allen show your new details the ropes before he retires. He was supposed to retire last week, but Matthew just couldn’t let him — not with all of this going on.

He looks down at the file once more and flips it closed as the phone line clicks dead. He sighs tiredly and pushes up from his desk. He leaves the office and begins along the corridor. The curtains are all drawn, given the time of night, behind them sits three inches of bulletproof glasses. Every single window.

This is the place he chose to raise his family. This is the position he put them in. He opens the door to his bedroom just a crack, as to not let the light in and startle his wife. Matthew slips into bed next to her and presses his lips to her shoulder.

Martha stirs slightly and snuggles into her husband’s side. She’s used to calls in the middle of the night by now, she rarely asks at this point. If it’s important enough for her to know, he’ll tell her. Matthew lies awake at his wife’s side.

The information he holds is important. She should know. He should tell her. Their only daughter just had a serious threat made against her. She’s in danger. Matthew closes his eyes and lets out a deep breath. Telling her will just make her worry and worrying never did anyone any good.

Jake gets his orders in the middle of the night. He’s arriving in California by mid-morning. It all happens so quickly that Jake’s still thinking of how good the dinner his mother had made the night before was when he is picked up from their airport.

He was with his last family for three years. This is a big step up - people don’t usually get a chance like this when they have his kind of limited expertise. Jake’s palms sweat, and not because it’s June in Los Angeles. There’s AC blowing in his face that’s damn near chilling, but Jake still finds himself wiping the back of his hand over his brow.

“So you’re ex-navy, huh?” Manny asks. He’s part of the security team, he looks even younger than Jake does. Apparently he’s the same age. Jake has clearly had a tougher thirty-four years than this kid has.

Jake’s sitting in the passenger side of the SUV, being driven towards a house in the hills. He would rather get out and walk than answer this question, tell this story, all over again. He nods curtly.

“Yeah. For a bit before this.” Try eleven years. He enlisted the minute he was eighteen. He hadn’t ever wanted anything as badly as he had wanted to be a pilot.

Manny looks across at him and gestures to himself, “Ex-Marine.”

It isn’t surprising. Lots of vets move towards this kind of thing. Jake’s eyes land on the sign above the highway. He hasn’t been in California for four years now. Even when he was here before, he wasn’t ever anywhere like this. It’s easy enough to pretend that he’s somewhere else.

“Damn, she lives here?” Jake questions, turning the topic quickly away from their respective pasts as Manny turns the car towards a gate. He leans out of the driver’s side and types a passcode. 0000. Jake makes a mental note to get whoever set that fired.

“Mhm. The President bought it as a gift for the First Lady. Was just sitting out here empty.” Manny explains as the gate opens. He adjusts his sunglasses and the car drives on in. Jake looks around the property. He can imagine his sister’s pitch for this place already. Sprawling property in the LA hills with views and blah, blah, blah. He squints slightly.

It’s nice. It’s just not what he was expecting.

He doesn’t know exactly what he was expecting - a safe house sounds a little ridiculous when he thinks about it now - but this place doesn’t look like much of a hideout. Jake wonders if you’re aware of the seriousness of the situation. The gravity of the threat.

“Cool, right?” Manny asks as he stops the car at the top of the driveway. Jake looks across at him, and then back at the house. Jake doesn’t know much about real estate - that’s more his sister’s forte. It’s modern and covered in windows. Not the best place to keep someone who’s supposed to be hiding, he knows that much. He looks up at the house, and the way that each of its windows are all open.

Sure, there’s a fence around the perimeter, but when the passcode for the main gate is four zeroes, Jake’s already starting to doubt the efficiency of this operation. Still, he has been filled in plenty.

Allen O’Malley is running the show. He’s an expert, he has served almost ten presidential families. They talked about him in Jake’s training. Stopped two assassinations back in the nineties. Jake knows better than to come in and pretend he knows all of the ropes on the first day. He usually saves that kind of showing off for the second day.

He swings his duffel bag onto his shoulder and steps out of the car into the heat. He squints, bringing his hand up to shield his eyes as Manny grabs his other bag from the back of the car.

Jake’s features tighten slightly. Manny has the sense to stick his arm out and pass the bag to Jake. It’s a visible difference when Jake has it back in his grasp, his lips quirk up into a polite smile.

“Thanks, I got it.” Jake breathes out.

Manny gives him a nod. He has already made up his mind that Jake isn't going to last long around here if he’s touchy about small things like that. He smiles and shrugs his shoulders anyway, “No problem. But we’re a team around here, we help each other out.”

Jake follows him silently into the house. He looks around at tasteful furniture, long hallways, and hardwood floors. He lets Manny lead the way. Dining room on the right side, formal sitting room on the left. Kitchen just past the dining room, large entertaining space at the back. One bedroom downstairs.

“That’s Allen’s - he likes to be able to hear the door.”

Manny keeps walking through. He leads Jake onto a patio at the back of the house and walks over to the glass railing, leaning onto it with his palms. Jake’s brows furrow slightly as he follows Manny forwards. Sounds like a pool party, not like someone who just got a death threat.

Jake’s body tenses as he grows close enough to be able to see over the railing.

There’s Allen O’Malley. Sitting on the edge of a sun lounger with a phone pressed to his ear. He looks concerned, at least. That’s a good sign. And then there’s Apollo. The target. That’s your code name anyway.

You’re in the pool. Jake barely recognises you. You’ve been mostly out of the limelight for a couple of years now, hasn’t been in the news that much since you father’s last election. Well, not the kind of news that Jake keeps up with anyway. They usually use pictures of you as a kid when they talk about you in the news. America’s sweetheart and that kind of thing.

Jake watches as America’s sweetheart cranes her head back, opens her mouth and readily takes in a less than healthy share of rum.

There’s another girl standing by the edge of the pool pouring it into her mouth. Jake turns his head to look at Manny, frowning, “This is a joke, right?”

There are eight people around the pool, excluding you and Allen.

Jake’s jaw clenches. This is a code red situation. He was called in because this was serious. The big leagues, his chance to prove himself after — after the navy. He looks back at the pool, ignoring the r&b playlist alerting half of the hills that the princess is exactly where they thought she was.

Allen looks up and catches sight of the two young men on the patio. He mumbles something into the receiver and sets the phone down. Jake straightens up. There has to be an explanation for this shit.

“Seresin, good to finally meet ya,” Allen grins as he reaches the top of the stairs. Jake can’t help but notice the slight rattle as the man takes in a breath. He has to be nearing his mid-sixties by this point. Jake glances back towards the girl in the pool and imagines that she has probably given this guy a run for his money. “Folks in D.C. won’t shut up talking about you.”

Jake smiles. Flattery always helps Jake not want to tell someone they’re dogshit at their job. He reaches out and catches Allen’s hand, giving it a firm shake.

“You too, Sir - I’ve heard great things.”

“Come on, I’ll give you a tour of the place. We can talk,” Allen jerks his head and steps towards the front door. Jake does a double take. He has yet to stop sweating at this entire situation. He looks towards the giggling girl in the pool, then back at the man who is supposed to be protecting you.

“Shouldn’t -“ Jake wills himself to not rush into bossing his way around. He exhales. “Should she be out here on her own?”

Allen chuckles knowingly, then shakes his head. He turns towards the house, clearly expecting Jake to follow. Jake turns his neck and looks at Manny.

Manny adjusts his sunglasses, “I’ve got it.”

Jake pauses. There are eight people down by the pool. There’s one of him and he’s nowhere near you. Not close enough to intervene. This isn’t how things are done. Jake considers him lucky. His last placement showed him how things were done. He was the security detail for a congressman. The senior agents there showed him exactly how the job should be done.

Not like this.

Still, Jake has let his ego get the best of him before, and he’s still paying the price for that today. He shrugs his duffel bag closer to his body and follows after Allen.

“I’ll take you up to your room first, let you drop your stuff off.”

Jake can feel his heartbeat in his throat as he tries to keep his mouth shut. He thinks back to the Navy. To basic training. To the cocky kid who learned to shut his mouth once. He can keep it shut now.

Jake’s room is next to yours. That’s good. He feels better with that knowledge. Manny’s going to be right down the hall. Allen’s got downstairs covered. That’s good.

Jake drops his bags onto the bed.

His room has an en-suite and a shared balcony with your room. Jake pushes the sliding door open and steps out onto it. It overlooks the pool. He isn’t interested in that. His shoes are silent on the concrete ground of the balcony as he steps towards your door. His hands nudge out, fingertips grazing over the frame of the door. He brushes the locking mechanism on the outside.

Jake bites his cheek as he takes the lock between his index finger and thumb and pushes at it. It creaks. A little more pressure and he would be able to snap it clean off. He turns to find Allen leaning against the doorframe.

“Shit show, isn’t it?” He mutters.

Jake’s brows raise slightly. He knows better than to agree.

“She’s safe here, I want you to know that.” Allen explains. Jake remains stoic. Allen’s surprised at how accurate the descriptions of Jake were. He’s exactly like they said he would be. Careful. Hiding something.

“I’ve kept her safe since she was fifteen years old,” Allen announces. Jake has no idea how. He glances back down towards the pool at the sound of a scream. You look like you’re having the time of your life. You still haven’t noticed him. “We might not do it like they do in D.C. but she’s a kid, not a president. I’ll run you through it all.”

Jake sits on the chair on the balcony and listens. Allen chain smokes as he runs Jake through the rules. The rattle between each of his breaths tells Jake everything he needs to know. They did things differently in the eighties, Jake tries not to question it. Allen’s tall and foreboding enough. But his shoulders are starting to slouch and his greys take away the edge Jake knows he once had.

Even with everything he has seen so far, Jake likes Allen. Allen’s a Clint Eastwood type of guy, white lines between his wrinkles - he has plenty around his brows and the corners of his eyes. Lots of angry frowning through the years.

It’s a long story, hearing all about the years you’ve spent with Allen watching over you. Allen seems to have it down to an art.

Breakfast she’s not always awake for. You should remind her to have something. Jake frowns.

Lunch she always fixes herself. Dinner I always fix, we usually all eat together.

Jake can’t keep the sour look off of his face. He glances down at the holster on Allen’s hip, and the empty space where his gun should be. When he was put on a private jet at three o’ clock this morning, Jake hadn’t realized he was stepping into an emergency nannying position.

Another scream from behind him. He looks back. It’s nothing.

We get threats like this pretty often. That might be so, but this time they’ve chosen to increase her security - that hasn’t happened since you went off to college. Jake read your file. It’s in his bag.

She gets it. She’s kind of just saying goodbye to her friends. From tonight we’ll be implementing a curfew, house goes into lockdown after ten.

Jake’s lips quirk up in disbelief. He cannot believe what he’s hearing. Allen watches the smirk develop on Jake’s features.

“A curfew?” Jake asks it politely enough, but they both know that he’s mocking the idea. There are people actively planning to hurt you. The house should be on twenty four seven lockdown. He looks back down at the little pool party happening behind him.

“It’s what works for us.” Allen insists calmly, bringing his lighter up to the cigarette between his lips. He lights it and puffs. Jake wonders how the hell this guy passes his physicals.

Jake rests his fist against his temple and listens to the rest. He bites the inside of his cheek and realizes that Allen’s on an incredible salary for the babysitting work he has been doing. They sit upstairs on the balcony for over an hour. Allen smokes maybe five cigarettes in that time.

“So, I’ll leave you to get unpacked. I’ll sit the kid down in a bit and you two can get acquainted.”

Jake waits until he can see Allen by the side of the pool until he feels like he’s actually alone. He considers getting out now. Begging to be reassigned. Saying that it’s too painful to be back here.

He unzips his bag and stares at the contents. He can grab his stuff and start unpacking, or he can zip it back up and hightail it the hell out of here. If he leaves you with these idiots, if you die, it’s going to be all over the news. He’s going to be seeing that headline every day for the rest of his life and knowing that he did nothing to stop it.

Jake takes a deep breath and pulls his shirts from the bag. He moves about unpacking meticulously. He’s been moving around for his entire adult life now, he’s good at this kind of thing.

“Hi.”

Jake’s crouching at the bottom drawer of his dresser, folding shorts away. He turns his head, met with painted toenails and wet legs, dripping on the hardwood floor. Jake’s eyes trail up. He’s in no rush. It takes him a while to meet your eyes.

You’re leaning against his doorframe, arms folded over your chest, still wet from the pool and in a tiny bikini. The news definitely needs to update the pictures it uses.

Jake stands upright and sticks his hand out. “Jake Seresin. Good to meet you.”

You smile as you take his hand. His grip is firm and his hands are warm. You wonder what the hell your father was thinking, sending you this practical underwear model. Jake watches you look him up and down. He pushes his hands into his pockets.

“You enjoy your party?” Jake teases. Waiting to see if you apologise. If you know better. You should, your file says you’re smart. You look like any other spoiled rich bitch to Jake.

You hum and shrug your shoulders, “I’ve been to better.”

His brows raise slightly.

“We’re going out tonight. You should come, see the city.”

Jake stares at you. He hopes that this is a joke, that Allen put you up to this to test him. The look on your face tells him that it isn’t a joke.

It takes Jake a moment to answer. You know you’ve ruffled his feathers already. You cross your arms tighter over your chest. You turn away from him. Knowing that he will follow. Also knowing that the back of the bikini is just as nice to look at as the front.

“You heard what Allen said,” Jake shakes his head as he follows you along the hallway. He glances down and notices the movement of your hips. There’s no way in hell that you aren’t doing that on purpose. Sticking your ass out, swaying your hips side to side slightly with each step. Droplets of water on the small of your back, still wet from the pool. Jake ignores you. “You can’t go out right now.”

You stop walking and round on him abruptly. Most of the other guys would have run right into you with the speed that you just stopped, but Jake stops about a foot away. Quick reflexes. Your lips quirk up and then you’re looking up at him sweetly.

“Look, Jack-“

“Jake.” He corrects you firmly.

It’s like a tennis match. You testing him. Him biting back. You’re pleased enough with his reaction. You were waiting to see if he was that type. A lot of the time, staff are too worried about being disrespectful to correct you. Not him. He isn’t as pliant as most.

“Jake,” You correct yourself, smiling. His poker face is almost as good as his reflexes. You take one step closer to him, he lets it happen and doesn’t show any sign of weakness. Not one crack. Cool as ever. “I’ve been playing this game for a very long time.”

Jake watches you. His brows raise slightly as he waits for you to finish your little speech. He isn’t going to be swayed by a skimpy bikini on his first day. Although he has to admit, he hadn’t been expecting to see so much of the president’s daughter so soon - you’re always dressed pretty conservatively in the magazines.

His eyes don’t falter, locked on yours. What a professional.

“This kind of thing happens all the time,” Your shoulders rise and fall in a soft shrug, Jake notices the way your breasts move with them in his peripheral. His eyes remain locked on yours. He has seen plenty of tits in his life time, and great as they all were - not one pair was worth pissing off the president for. You tilt your head. “Eleven times in seven years, actually. I’m still alive. So, if you need me, I’ll be at the Chateu.”

Jake crosses his arms in front of his hips, holding onto his wrist. He watches you turn away from him and walk over to your closet.

“Are you saying you break your curfew on purpose?” He’s still calm as he asks. Well, calm on the outside. Internally, he’s cursing the shit show that he knows he has just been thrown into the middle of. The moment you disappear into the closet, he closes his eyes and grits his teeth.

Jake was told that Allen was good at his job. That he was just about the only one who had gotten you to behave. Now, Jake realizes, he hadn’t ever gotten you to settle down - he had just taught you how to do it under the radar.

“You know that that curfew’s in place to keep you alive, right?” Jake asks.

Your fingers curl around the doorframe of the closet, you pull forwards just enough to peek your head out. Jake notices the lack of fabric around your neck and realizes that you’re topless but just about hidden.

You grin at him.

“What are you gonna do? - Tell my Daddy on me?”

Allen stands at the kitchen island downstairs with fresh parsley in his hands. He makes eye contact with Manny across the counter. They listen to the sound of raised voices upstairs.

“Fuck.” Manny sighs as he closes the lid to his laptop. Allen grins at him across the counter, dropping the herb onto the chopping board and rubbing his hands together.

“Cough up. You owe me twenty.” Allen chuckles.

Manny shakes his head as he digs into his pocket for his wallet. He really thought that this new guy was going to last longer. He checks the time on his watch before handing Allen a twenty dollar bill.

Under three hours. That’s got to be a record.

There’s arguing for about six minutes before it stops abruptly. Jake comes walking down the stairs about two minutes after that. Manny and Allen pretend not to know that Jake just got himself fired.

“What happened?” Allen asks gently, not looking up from preparing dinner. He hopes that Jake didn’t get too much unpacking done.

Jake shakes his head as he moves to join the two of them at the kitchen island.

“That girl needed a reality check.” Jake explains. Manny presses a hand over his mouth. Jake’s oblivious. “I just told her how it’s going to be from now on. The rules around here have to change — we aren’t her babysitters.”

Manny and Allen nod along silently.

Jake feels confident in what he said. You needed to be set straight, he did that. He’s confident that if you follow his rules, the two of you will get along just fine. Allen’s counting down the minutes.

It’s sixteen minutes before a hidden number is flashing up on Jake’s homescreen, his phone buzzing with each ring. Jake’s brows furrow slightly as he picks up, pressing the phone to his ear.

“Jacob Seresin?”

“Speaking.” Jake answers calmly.

“Please hold for the President.”

Jake’s eyes widen. He glances across at Allen. There’s no way you just told your Dad on him for being mean to you.

…

Tags:

@alanadetigy @thedroneranger @momc95 @basicchelsea @perpetuelledaydreaming @cherrycola27 @mak-32

#jake seresin au #jake seresin smut #jake hangman seresin #Jake Seresin #jake seresin x you #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin imagine #hangman #hangman x reader #hangman x y/n #glen powell #operation apollo

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ayeforscotland · 2 months

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You talk often about how changes that are being made are bad but I rarely see you offering what you consider to be viable alternatives. The internet safety bill won't protect kids in your pinion, so what's the alternative? We can't vote for Labour, the only real opposing party to the Tories in a FPTP system, so what's the alternative? It's fear mongering and finger pointing like this that divides people and gives room to the tories and bigots to push their agendas through. People already feel helpless and you have a platform here that you could use to better inform people, instead of just shaming.

When I criticise the online safety bill - a policy being proposed as a misdirected reaction to a trans girl being murdered - and say political parties should be condemning transphobia within their ranks and in the public sphere, I don’t know how I can be clearer.

We don’t need spyware on children’s phones. We need our politicians to show some social responsibility and stop inflaming the debates with increasing polarising rhetoric. Stop giving the right wing everything they desire.

I challenge the idea that Labour are an opposition to the Tories. They are the same party with a different colour scheme. Calling Labour out for what they are is me using my relatively small platform to get people to engage and think critically about the policies of another party. I’m not issuing instructions, I’m trying to get people to arrive at their own conclusions, and sometimes that’s pointing out that a choice is actually bad. That’s not fear-mongering.

I don’t know how many times I and others have had to clarify that England and the UK in general is not a two party system, even with First Past the Post. I’d rather encourage people to organise with their local Green/LibDem branch and fight an election hard rather than choose to vote labour and change the colour of the curtains.

Because in 5-10 years whenever labour fucks up and the Tories regain political advantage, voters will just wave them back in. Handing this election to labour without making them fight for it gives them carte blanche to do all manners of corrupt shit that they’ve just pulled with the Gaza ceasefire vote.

So I completely reject that calling Labour, who from a policy perspective are lock-step with the Tories, a shit party that people shouldn’t vote for is fear-mongering. It’s calling a spade a spade.

And look if you’ve been here for a while and noticed a change in tone then I get it. You might not like me being more combative, but as I’ve said previously, I’m angrier than I’ve ever been in my political life, and I’m tired of people pretending that Labour will sweep in and reverse 10 years of Tory rule. They will simply choose to continue it.

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female-malice · 9 months

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I want lesbians to be the parents of their children without the government or anyone else trying to get in their way. But isn't a birth certificate more about biology? It would be important for health reasons to know who the biological relative to the baby is, same with the baby's biological sex. Unless I am completely misunderstanding what a birth certificate is and maybe it's more of a government thing than I thought? Now that I think about it, I don't know what a birth certificate for a baby born to a parent and a step parent would look like either.

You are completely misunderstanding what a birth certificate is. A birth certificate is a LEGAL document designating parental rights.

A paternity DNA test is a medical document that shows someone's genetic history.

A birth certificate is a legal document that a child will need every day of their life. A birth certificate designates who is legally responsible for a child's life.

IF YOU PUT A MAN'S NAME ON A LESBIAN FAMILY'S BIRTH CERTIFICATE, YOU ARE GIVING HIM PARENTAL RIGHTS.

Whoever told you birth certificates are about ~biological reality~ is a lesbophobe.

My brother's friend does not legally have a father. His mother did not give his biological father parental rights. She elected not to put his name on the birth certificate. She did not want her shitty ex-boyfriend to have any legal parental relationship with her son. That is her right as a woman.

"Gender critical feminists" want to take this right away from all women because they are blinded by their own lesbophobia.

Please read Letizia's essay more closely.

Don't just open the tab and leave it unread. Here, I'll give you a short section to read right now:

The facts of biology are suddenly forgotten once the so called "non traditional" family is composed of a man and a woman. No government in any country is removing non-biological fathers from birth certificates, even though the man in the birth certificate has no biological relation to the child. On the contrary, most countries have pretty straightforward laws about the recognition of non-biological fathers as long as the couple in question is heterosexual.

I live in a small Italian village, one of those places where secrets don’t exists and your problems are everyone’s problems. The happy nuclear family a few houses down the road couldn’t conceive a child naturally because the husband is sterile. Not the end of the world these days. The Italian law allows IVF to heterosexual couples. The happy nuclear family simply picked a sperm donor, and a beautiful girl was born, she has her mother’s eyes.

The father on the birth certificate is not the donor, however the happy nuclear family didn’t receive a letter from the Italian government telling the husband that he is not the father of his child. No, it only happened to lesbian families in Italy.

So where is your truth now? Your biological reality. Aren't we here to protect children and fight for reality? According to you this man shouldn’t have legal rights on the child his wife birthed. Or does it work differently because their family is approved by the church? Oh but this is different, he has a wife, he is heterosexual, he could have been fertile! Well, I could have been born male. To quote every mamma on the peninsula: if my grandmother had wheels she would have been a bike.

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fishcat480 · 4 months

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Bad Day

Fandom: The Vampire Diaries

Pairing: Damon Salvatore x Plus size! Reader

Warnings: None

Description: You’re having a very bad day when Damon Salvatore decides to make it worse, but then maybe he also makes it much better.

It was one of those fucking days.

You know those days when everything just goes completely, spectacularly wrong?

You shouldn’t have even been surprised. Once you’d woken up and your favorite sweater had had cat puke on it, you should have given up there. But no - you just had to power through and continue your day.

You got a call right after breakfast that your car payment hadn’t gone through, and now you’d have to pay a late fee you couldn’t afford. While running errands, you’d managed to knock over your Starbucks in the middle of the aisle of Target, forcing you to have to buy another coffee. And once back home, you were greeted with a passive aggressive note from your neighboring apartment asking you to close your door “just a tad quieter”.

By the time you had to get ready for work, your ‘fucks to give’ meter was dangerously low.

You quickly tossed on your uniform shirt and broke several traffic laws driving to the Grill, because of course you were late. At a red light, you tossed your messy Y/H/C hair into a ponytail, griping at your reflection as some asshole in a sports car cut you off. Really? Who the hell drove sports cars in Mystic Falls? You’d only ever seen one person do that, and that was Damon Salvatore.

You scanned the license plate. Then you squinted to see inside the drivers seat and swore loudly. Damon fucking Salvatore. And he waggled his pale fingers at you before peeling off at top speed.

He was there at the Grill when you finally clocked in, tossing apologies at your manager and ignoring Matt’s teasing grins as you settled behind the bar and counted up your liquor. The day bartender threw you a goodbye and a sympathetic look.

Once finished your count, you sauntered over to Damon, who was enjoying a scotch on the rocks with a self righteous grin on his face.

“You cut me off.” you said, placing your hands on the bar.

He shrugged. “Did I?”

Damon had been drinking at the bar of the Grill long before you worked there, but somehow after you started you felt as if he was suddenly there all the time. You’d had an easy relationship at first, due to your infamiliarity. He was a flirt, you were determined to make good money. You flirt with Damon, he gives you a twenty on top of his tab. That was how it had always been for you, and for the other bartenders before you.

But something had changed, and you remembered the day that it did almost as well as you remembered Damon’s drink order.

It had been a slow night, with only Damon and his buddy Alaric holding down the fort. Most of the other drink orders came from tables, and those were practically empty too. You elected to pass the time with Damon and Ric, talking about nothing and everything. That quickly nosedived into a pissing contest between the two men and which one could do a handstand when you mentioned offhand that you were able to perform a fancy little trick, and that had been your downfall.

“There’s no way!” Ric was crying, his words slurring out of the side of his mouth. “You prove it right now.”

You folded your arms across your chest and shrugged, your grin too confident. Damon’s eyes were laser focused, and he took a long drag of his scotch, watching you intently.

“Don’t tease us…”he said finally.

You sighed, and cursed yourself.

Normally, you wouldn’t mind showing this particular party trick off for customers. It happened sometimes on raucous nights, when people were coming from or on their way to parties, looking to boost their mood and spend their money. It felt good to do it and see the looks of awe on their faces, sometimes even lust.

But you were feeling very self conscious at the prospect of doing it for Damon Salvatore.

You couldn’t deny he was attractive. His face, yeah, but his swagger was practically debilitating. He had the confidence of a much older man, which was funny considering you were the same age. There weren’t guys your age acting like him, of that you were sure.

It fueled your desire toward him as much as your flirtatious little routine did.

But Damon was always on the arm of the skinniest, hottest girl in the room. He’d chased after Elena Gilbert for a while, and she was less than half your size. There was no way his flirting had anything more to do with you than you wished. He liked to have fun, plain and simple.

Ric was slamming his fists on the table now, demanding you not to leave them hanging.

You mustered up all your courage - they knew what you looked like, you thought. They were asking you to do it.

So you lifted yourself up onto the bar in a much more fluid motion than you might have ever expected from yourself, and in one easy rotation you were doing a handstand.

You could feel the fabric of your shirt rising up, but you ignored it. You carefully started placing the majority of your weight on your left hand.

You could hear Ric and a few customers oohinh and aahing at you, and it spurred you on. You lifted your right hand into the air, and separated your legs a bit. And then you were doing a handstand on one hand.

You held the pose as Ric hollered and cheered, and then easily flipped backwards and onto your feet again before jumping back behind the bar, standing once more on your own two feet.

“Am I drunk or did I just witness cirque de soleil?” Ric asked.

“You’re drunk.” You told him, as you wiped off the spot on the bar where your feet had been. “But you did witness something pretty cool.”

Your eyes flitted over to Damon, curious to see if he had any kind of reaction. What you saw stopped you in your tracks.

His eyes were dark - darker than you’d ever seen them. There was something hungry in their expression, like you were dessert and he had saved plenty of room. His lips were covered by his tongue as it slowly lapped over it, before he closed his mouth and swallowed.

“Let’s do a shot.” Damon decided, reaching out and placing his hand on top of yours. “I’m buying.”

“Shots!” Ric called, and you internally groaned. He definitely did not need another one.

But you were glued into Damon’s atmosphere, and you watched as his thumb stroked along your hand. “You want me to do a shot?” you asked.

“That was hard work you did up there.” He encouraged. “You must be thirsty.”

You flushed, hoping Ric couldn’t see the effect he was having on you. When you glanced over, he was exclaiming happily as a Bruce Springsteen song came on, completely ignoring you. Your blush must have been crimson, and your cheeks felt as if they were on fire.

Damon’s thumb was still marking its path on your skin. You needed to get away fast.

“I’ll get those shots.”

“Sounds good.” Damon said.

“I’ll need my hand to pour them.”

He let out a sound of displeasure, but withdrew his hand from yours and you robotically turned away, pouring three shots of Bulleit bourbon. If your hand was shaking and you spilled one, that was between you and the security camera.

You, Ric and Damon cheersed, tapping your glasses on the bar top before throwing the alcohol back. Ric sputtered and coughed, and you giggled as he tried to compose himself.

“Well that’s me!” he said, standing up and lurching dangerously to the left. “I’m tapping out.” He went to put his card down, but as usual Damon stopped him. He started waving his card in your direction, but you made no move to grab it.

“I don’t even bother running you up a tab anymore. Damon’s always got it covered.” You admired that about Damon. A lot of people thought of him as kind of shitty, but you knew better. He was loaded, and he always spent the majority of that money on other people. Even after Elena had rejected him for good, he still came in and covered her tab from time to time. He’d done it for all of their friends. He’d even done it for Matt - despite their apparently rocky history.

Ric sighed in defeat. “Me and my teacher’s salary are very thankful.”

Once Ric had left, it was you and Damon. Alone.

Never before had you felt so nervous serving him by yourself. Whatever you’d seen in his eyes after your little show had altered the atmosphere between the two of you. It thrilled you and scared you all at once.

“How come you never told me you were so flexible?” Damon asked, as you cleaned Ric’s empty glasses. He hadn’t taken his eyes off you, and you were avoiding meeting his gaze like the plague.

You shrugged. “I didn’t realize you had any interest in my level of flexibility.”

“If it’s about you, I’m interested.”

Since when did he say things like that to you? God, and if his words didn’t just send shockwaves straight to your core. Had you stepped into an alternate reality where Damon Salvatore was horny for you? No, that couldn’t be right. He was a flirt, and he was probably still heartbroken over Elena picking his brother.

“Damon.” you said finally, meeting his eyes. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

He frowned. “And why not?”

You gave him a knowing look. “I know you.” He was looking for a rebound, and you wanted more than that.

His frown deepened, and within a few moments Damon had gone from sad to furious. There was something working beneath the surface, and he looked….hurt.

“Well, fuck you very much.”

He stalked out of the bar, and your jaw was on the floor. Never did you ever expect Damon to get mad when rejected. How many girls had said no or called him names or even slapped him while you’d watched, bemused, from your side of the bar? And every time he’d smiled or shaken his head. He’d thought it was funny. So what made you different?

The next time you’d seen him, he’d asked for a drink and didn’t say a word to you other than a hi, bye or check, please.

And then this morning he’d cut you off, as if he somehow knew you were having a shit day and wanted to make it even fucking worse, as only Damon Salvatore could do.

Which sucked, because you’d spent weeks wishing that he would man up and talk to you, and explain why he’d been so hurt that day. You’d spent weeks wanting to have Damon back, cracking jokes and flirting with you and being your best customer.

So you confronted him. It was going to be another slow night, and you more than had the time.

“You cut me off. And you did it on purpose.”

This got his attention. He looked up from his drink, his nostrils flaring.

“I cut you off because you’re not a very good driver.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, come on! I wasn’t even moving!”

“And yet, your inexperience was glaringly evident.” He downed the last of his scotch and shoved the glass toward you. “And I’ll take another whenever you’re ready to work.”

Oh, he had another thing coming if he thought he was going to speak to you like that! You clicked your tongue against the roof of your mouth and moved quickly to pour him a shot - you were on the clock after all, even though you’d much rather leave him hanging - but not the top shelf he was used to. Oh no, you were pouring him the cheap stuff.

You slammed the glass in front of him and slid it over, glaring. He gave as much as he got, giving you a wicked little smile before taking a sip.

And promptly spitting it out.

“What the fuck is that?” He asked, rising to his feet. He grabbed a handful of cocktail napkins and dabbed at what he’d spilled onto his shirt, but the damage was done.

“Oh, sorry, were you looking for something specific? Unless you specify, we typically just give customers the rail.”

You had no issue being bitchy bartender tonight. In fact, it was kind of fun to dish it out. And he deserved it for being a jerk.

“What the hell is your problem?” He yelled. “I cut you off. It happens. I’m kind of an asshole sometimes.”

You groaned in frustration. “What about the whole silent treatment for three weeks? I tell you I don’t want to sleep with you and you act like a child!”

He bristled violently at that, and then looked around for a moment. You weren’t really sure what he was doing until he grabbed Matt by the scruff of his neck and brought him around to your side of the bar.

“Y/N needs a fiver. You’ve got this covered, right?”

Matt sighed, but started cleaning pint glasses. You were about to protest when Damon began dragging you off, and Matt smiled apologetically.

“Just go with it! It’ll be a lot easier!” He tells you, and then he’s gone and you’re being dragged through the back of house and out the back door.

Once outside, Damon released his grip on your arm.

“What the hell are you doing?” You ask, incredulous. “I’ll get written up if I’m gone too long.”

“Look.” Damon says, ignoring your pleas. “You…you hurt my feelings that day, ok? You said something kind of mean, or implied it at least. But…I shouldn’t have handled it like that. I’m working on that stuff.”

“Mean?” You asked. “What did I say that was mean?”

He sighs. “Do I have to spell it out?”

You nodded. “All caps, double spaced, please.”

He laughed despite himself. “You basically implied that I am some womanizing creep that wanted to use you for your body.”

You blinked. And then blinked again.

“Ok, two things… the first: are you NOT a womanizing creep that uses women for their bodies?”

He raised his eyebrows, and his head tilted in thought. “Ok fair point.”

“And the second: that’s not what I meant at ALL.”

He brought a finger up to his mouth and placed the tip on his lower lip. “……you didn’t?”

“No. Damon, what I was trying to say was that I’m not your type, and that you probably just wanted me for a night because you were drunk. Which is great and fine, but that’s just not what I’m looking for. I want a relationship.”

There was confusion in his too-blue eyes, and he took a step toward you, entering your personal space.

“What do you mean you’re not my type?”

Oh lord, this was exactly what you didn’t want to talk about right now. You blew out a steadying breath, choosing your words carefully.

“The girls you date are usually of the same variety….both in looks and in size. So I just figured I wasn’t really your type.”

Damon’s entire face changed. Gone was the confusion and the mock anger, replaced with a quiet rage. He flexed his knuckles, and you involuntarily stepped back. He kind of looked pissed.

“You think I didn’t want to sleep with you because you’re not skinny?”

You struggled to get words out. “I mean, yes? In a way…”

“Are you fucking stupid?”

Did he really want an answer to that? Based on the dangerous look in his eyes, it was probably in your best interest to stay quiet.

He was now fully in your space, standing with you toe to toe. His arms were crossed over his chest, which was absolutely heaving. He was very, very angry and it was kind of turning you on.

“I have been throwing hints at you since the moment you started working here. I tip you double the amount I tip anyone else, I always call you pet names, I’m constantly flirting with you…and you really thought I just wanted one random night of fun because you were warm and available?”

His words were like shockwaves to your system. Now that you were faced with it, you realized that no other bartender had ever said anything good about Damon’s tips. Anytime you were switching shifts, he never called anyone else “darling” or “sweetheart”. He flirted, sure, but you were always different….

“Oh my god….” You said quietly. “Oh my god, I didn’t even realize…”

His hands were on your hips, and your senses were assaulted by him. He smelled good, clean with a hint of spice. His eyes were making you melt with the heat of his gaze. His fingers, too, worked over your skin in delicate little circles, and you knew that given the chance those fingers would drive you wild.

“I do want to sleep with you.” He says, and you sigh but he places a finger on your lips, shushing you.

“I do, and I’m not afraid to say it. I got…overwhelmed when you did that sexy little handstand, and I moved too fast. But what I really want is to take you on a date.”

You tentatively wrapped your arms around his neck, your forehead resting against his. “Yeah?” You ask.

“Yeah.” He breathes.

You don’t answer, just press your lips against his and let yourself drown in him. His lips are like brands against yours, and you can imagine steam coming off you both as your mouths battle for dominance, slotting and slanting over each other again and again until you’re breathless.

“Ok, but if you bring me here for our date there will be actual hell to p-“

He cut you off with another searing kiss. A promise.

So maybe it wasn’t such a bad day after all.

#plus size reader #plus size #plus size reader insert #Damon Salvatore #Damon Salvatore x plus size reader #bartender au #Matt Donovan #Alaric Altman #getting together #miscommunication #tvd #the vampire diaries #tvd fanfiction #fanfiction #plus size fanfiction

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m3nt4llyr4v3d · 1 month

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I loathe Andre Bourgeois

I hate this man so much, I hate his character, I hate how the narrative treats him, I hate how some of the fans treat him

I hate that I’m supposed to completely sympathize with a corrupt politician, but his daughter? The one he had the sole job of raising for most of her life, and obviously didn’t teach her how to act? Yeah, she’s awful, look at how she’s treating her poor father :(.

What’s that? He constantly abused his power? He literally tried to steal from Marinette’s family at some point? Erm, well he never wanted to be a politician in the first place! He had to give up his dreams cause of his awful wife :(. What do you mean he’s still intentionally using underhanded and illegal tactics to put certain laws in place, keep the public on his side, and win elections when he literally just shouldn’t do that? Well he gave up his power, so shut up!

What do you mean his constant abuse of power in his daughter’s name would literally enforce the idea that she can get away with literally anything without repercussions? No, she bullies him! What do you mean he still should’ve not indulged this since she was like, 7? Nah, she just bullied him then too! This makes perfect sense, now he doesn’t have to take a single ounce of responsibility for her parenting! That’s stupid and he should’ve been investigated by CPS literal years ago? Well Chloe’s gone, so the problem’s fixed, right? ————— I genuinely cannot believe of the fans are defending this man. I can get feeling sorry about the treatment he gets from his wife, but some of them literally try to absolve him of any and all parenting mistakes.

“Oh well, Chloe is old enough to know what she’s doing is wrong! It’s not anyone’s responsibility except hers! Everyone tried to reason with her, oh, and the one time he tried to discipline her, she said she’d call her mom! That means that he should literally never try, because she can do that!”

Except he fucking raised her like this. Him taking responsibility for the way he RAISED HER should be, I don’t know, getting her psychiatric help? Maybe actually setting boundaries? Disciplining her and making sure she doesn’t rely on his money or power? And her threatening to call her mom to complain? Do any of you genuinely think her mom is even going to answer that call? And even if you say it’s the threat itself, you should still absolutely be pinning this on Andre: he raised her to complain to him every single time she has any issue and to abuse his power constantly, this is a teaching he reinforced her entire life. She is taught to not take any responsibility and she harasses everyone because of this. She is taught to complain to someone in a higher power to fix/do everything for her. And when he does try, once mind you, to discipline her, she’s obviously not going to stop, she’s not going to reflect, because that’s not how she was taught to act.

Also the ridiculous double standard between people who completely him and not Chloe. Chloe’s mom leaving her and being verbally abusive for all of Paris to see doesn’t excuse Chloe’s actions, but I’m supposed to feel sad for Andre because Audrey is a terrible wife, and I’m just supposed to brush all his actions, including his fucking PARENTING, aside?? Not only that, people are saying that Chloe is old enough to know her actions are wrong therefore she’s not redeemable, but somehow her fucking dad is?? The grownass adult gets more sympathy? Absolutely ridiculous

You genuinely expect me to believe that I’m not supposed to feel anything other than pure vitriol towards Chloe, but sympathy towards that asshat? Get real

#ml salt #andre salt #ml chloe #ml fandom salt #this has honestly been on my mind since collusion #ml critical #ml criticism

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kendrene · 1 year

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"Can you ask me if it hurt when I fell from heaven?"

When Ava says it, half-leant out of her seat and tilted toward Beatrice, what she’s aiming for is smooth. What actually happens is that her elbow, precariously planted on the table in front of them, skids across a patch of unidentifiable liquid (it’s probably beer) and she tumbles straight out of the chair. Right at Beatrice’s feet.

“Uhm.” How is it possible for Beatrice to be this pretty from any and all angles? Is it a skill? Does it come naturally? Ava doesn’t know, but it shouldn’t be allowed. It shouldn’t even be legal. “Did it hurt now?”

“Oh my fucking God, do not encourage her.” A strong set of hands slides under her armpits and Ava is hoisted back onto her seat. “Worst. Pick. Up. Line. Ever.” Mary jabs a finger into her sternum as punctuation for each word. “Like, seriously. Do better.”

“Excuse me, that was a very good pick up line. The best pick up line that ever was.”

“Only if you want your audience’s ears to bleed.”

“Well, clearly, you’re not the target audience, are you?” Ava reaches for the bottle she’d been drinking from, but it’s already empty. She could up her game if Mary gave her pointers. She’s seen old videos of her with Shannon — how easily Mary could make her laugh. Their chemistry was off the fucking charts.

As for her and Beatrice — Ava has no clue where they stand. Sometimes it feels that they’re a spark away from deflagration in the best possible way, but then she’ll say or do something stupid and end up like a character in one of those old cartoons she and Diego were sometimes allowed to watch on VHS on Sunday mornings; lab coat burned to kingdom come and eyebrows singed right off.

“Did you say pick up line?” Beatrice interjects, and there’s an odd lilt to the words, as if something far too big to be contained got stuck inside her throat.

“Christ.” Mary rolls her eyes. “I can’t do this sober.”

“Do? Do what?”

“This— whatever you two have going on, that you’ve not been talking about.” Mary waves a hand in the empty space between them, but her eyes are scanning the bottles strewn all over the table for more booze. There’s probably some rule against drinking in a convent, and Ava is pretty certain Mother Superion would enforce it if she knew how the six of them have been spending their evening, but Mother Superion has been called away to help elect another Pope (do they ever run out of those?), and Camila — the only person with a lick of sense left in the group — forgot to bring any.

“What—” No mistake, this time. Beatrice is trying and failing to swallow. “What do you think we have going on?”

“Don’t ask me — ah!” Mary holds up an unopened bottle of vodka, triumphant. “Ask her.”

“Oh.” Lilith crows from the shadows. “This is going to be good.”

“This is going to be private.” A small riot breaks out at the announcement, but Mary rounds the others up with quick efficiency and herds them for the door. “Come on all of you. No, Camila, you can’t stay and watch. I don’t care about posterity.” Camila argues back something. “Ava can write her own damn warrior nun journal. Yasmine, quit staring or I’ll—”

The rest of the threat is lost down the hallway and it doesn’t take long for their steps to recede.

Everything is quiet. The late evening fills with unspoken undercurrents. There’s a thickness to the air that is not due to the lingering heat of summer. It presses down on them with the beloved weight of a favorite blanket wrapped around the body a bit too tight.

All of a sudden, Ava is stone cold sober. She really really really wishes Mary had left the bottle behind.

“Ava?”

Sounds are supposed to break a prolonged silence, but Bea’s voice, small against the vastness of the night, only enhances it. When Ava dares look, Bea is leaning forward, her cheeks suffused a lovely red as though she’s just sat down after a run. Only one of the overhead lights is still on, and they exist in its tight circle, the darkness beyond alive with the things Ava knows that she already should have said. “Ava, what did Mary mean? What — what does she think is between us?”

Bea wets her lips, and Ava’s gaze is instantly drawn to the motion. Something molten pulses outward from the halo, pooling in her gut. Lower, like the glimpse she inadvertently got of Bea’s tongue somehow directly interlaced with her nerve endings — open flame to tinder — and set everything alight.

She’s faced dozens of demons, held her own against a fallen angel hell bent on world dominion — she’s been to a whole different realm, goddammit — but she doesn’t have the guts to simply bridge the gap and kiss Beatrice again.

With difficulty, Ava drops her eyes to where Bea’s hands are resting. They’re so familiar now. The callouses from training. The array of small scars across the knuckles where flesh has been torn and healed so many times it is pale, almost translucent, against the darker canvas of Beatrice’s sun-kissed skin. Reaching out, Ava takes Bea’s right hand in both of her own, traces from scar to scar with the tip of a finger as if drawing constellations. Under her touch, Beatrice is shaking badly, or maybe it is her.

She doesn’t think it matters.

“Ava?” Beatrice says her name the way she’s said it hundreds of other times. Sweetly, a bit uncertain. More than a little scared. Expectant.

Ava takes one big breath and —

“Iminlovewithyou.”

— she wants to kick herself.

First because she’s never meant to say it now. Second because she’s never meant to rush it out in such a way. Barebones. No preamble. She had given a much better speech when she’d said what she’d supposed where her goodbyes inside of Adriel’s inverted church. That moving line about the warrior nun duty, and Beatrice living her life, all tied neatly together with that final in the next that Ava had managed to force out despite the well of tears inside her. It was all very romantic in a tragic sort of way.

Shit. What if she can be romantic only when she’s dying? That would fucking suck.

But she can’t take it back now. The sentence just burst out of her in a single breath, the same way power blasts from her when she overexerts the halo. And Ava may have made a grab for Beatrice’s hand to have something to hold on to, but now Bea, too, is gripping her fingers tight, and they’re two ships caught in the same storm, fighting not to let the other slip away from sight.

“I love you.” Ava repeats, slower this time. “And I’ve loved you since the Vatican. I’ve loved you since before that, actually. Since I got my stupid foot stuck inside the stupid wall in Mother Superion’s stupid office and you talked me out of it.”

“Ava…”

“And that’s why I’m always acting like a fool. Otherwise I’d have to stop and self-analyze, you know? And then, I’d have to talk to you about it, and what if you don’t love me back? I mean, I know you do, friend-like, but if you didn’t love me love me I think I would be really sad and—” Her shoulders sag. “But I guess the cat is on the table now, uh? It’s okay if you don’t love me, by the way. Like I said, I’m just going to mope for a while but I’ll--”

“Ava, stop.”

“— be okay, you don’t have to worry — oh.” Did Beatrice say stop? “Did you say, stop?”

Crap. Beatrice doesn’t want to hear more of her hastily crafted (held together by a hail mary, a safety pin and hope) love confession. Double crap. Beatrice is smiling, so bright and wide that it reaches all the way to her eyes, crinkling them at the edges.

“You’re smiling.” Ava points out, utterly invested in her role as captain obvious.

“Yes.”

“Is it a good thing?”

“I’d say.”

“Oh.” Beatrice gives her hand a gentle squeeze. “So this means—”

“That I feel the way you feel. And I guess I didn’t say where you could hear for pretty much the same reasons.”

“But you said it? Before, I mean?”

“Yes.” A cloud settles over Beatrice’s face, and Ava regrets asking. “After you went through the portal. It took a while for the others to get to me so I sat there and I said it, over and over.” Beatrice draws in a steadying breath that seems to go on forever. “I was hoping you could hear me.” Her smile returns, but tempered. “So, you see, you’re not the only fool around here.”

“I can hear it now.” Ava’s heart is thumping so hard and fast against her ribcage she wonders whether the halo will have to heal a bruise. “You know, if you wanted to say it.”

Beatrice closes her eyes. Opens them, and an army of Tarasks could march through the refectory this second, Ava would not give them the time of day.

“Ava Silva,” Beatrice begins, incredibly steady. “I’m in love with you, too.”

***

“So,” Beatrice asks her later, in what Ava is sure is the best interest of open and healthy communication. “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”

“No.” Ava nuzzles into Bea’s naked shoulder, arm draped loosely around her waist. “Because you were already there to catch me.”

#in liquor veritas #dren writes #avatrice #warrior nun

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orions-athenaeumficlibrary · 11 months

Text

When You're Smiling- Prologue

Pairing: College!Bucky Barnes x F!reader

Synopsis: Throughout your life you have been labeled "boring" because of your quiet, thoughtful nature. For example, you weren't a fan of parties, frats or really anything that required you to be around big groups of people. But after being dragged to a party, you meet someone who seems determined to prove that you have an adventurous side as well.

Chapter Warnings: panic attack, anxiety, drinking, sexual harassment

Word Count: 1.5k

Prologue

“Please Y/n. You don’t even have to stay for that long.” Sitting on the floor of your apartment, you continued to track your eyes over the pages of your textbook. You weren’t really retaining any information, you hadn’t been since your roommate Wanda barged in five minutes ago and began pestering you to go to a frat party with her.

“Seriously, a night out would be good for you. You don’t even have to talk to anyone, but at least leave this apartment. Honestly, it’s getting kinda sad that you just sit here with your books every night-”

“OK.” You cut off her somewhat offensive rambling by roughly slamming your psychology textbook shut. “If you are so concerned about my social life I will, for forty five minutes, go to this party.” Wanda squealed and threw her arms around you.

“Thank you, I promise once you get there you’ll have so much fun!” Your face remained neutral but inside your stomach was beginning to twist itself into a tight knot. There was a reason you didn’t really like parties, of course you wouldn’t judge your friends for going to as many as they could, they just weren't your scene. “-oh, I’m gonna call Nat, she can bring over some tops for you to try, let me grab my phone, I’ll be right back.” You didn’t realize you had zoned out long enough for Wanda to bring your other friend Natasha into the equation. When Wanda left the room you tried to distract yourself from spiraling by watching the rain dance against the window. This is “cozy romance novel reading” weather, not “get wasted with a bunch of randos” weather, you thought to yourself, but then instantly shook your head and brushed your glasses up to rub your eyes. Maybe you were in desperate need of a party. Or not. Because frat parties were the worst. The last one you were at was three years ago during your freshman year: you went in excited to try something new, and ended the night drenched in someone else’s beer, with tears running down your cheeks and mascara staining your face. You didn’t know who spilled beer on you, but the tears and mascara combination was courtesy of having to watch the guy you liked make out with not one, but three girls that night. To top it all off, one of your heels had snapped, forcing you to walk home in 30 degree weather with no shoes. So you weren’t a fan of frat parties, and maybe you shouldn’t base your judgements on one awful experience, but you had never been party type before and that night seemed like a sign from the universe confirming, “you and parties do NOT mix.”

Wanda’s hurried footsteps interrupted the mental storm that had been picking up speed over the time she was absent.

“Ok, Nat is on her way, and she’s bringing options for shirts, and I have this new pair of heels that would look so-”

“No. No heels, sorry Wan.” You said somewhat sheepishly. You hadn’t known Wanda yet when you went through the frat debacle a couple years ago and for some reason you had elected to withhold that story from your two closest friends. You weren’t sure why you hadn’t brought it up, maybe you figured they would stop trying to force you to party every weekend, or maybe they would insist you give it another try. The latter is what you were afraid of, and knowing Nat and Wanda, the former was not likely to happen.

Wanda gave you a curious look, but if she thought something was off she didn’t say anything. Instead, she ran to the door as a buzz sounded on the intercom.

_________________________________________

An hour later, you were dressed in a long sleeved open back top, baggy jeans, and a pair of well loved (extremely dirty) shoes. Wanda and Nat practically dragged you out of your apartment and down the street, laughing and talking animatedly all while you stayed quiet and counted the yellow taxis that rushed past you.

When the three of you finally made it to the party, an inky darkness had settled over the city. The grass beneath your feet was still damp from that afternoon’s rain and you couldn’t help but frown at how humid it had become, dreading how suffocating it was going to be inside the house.

“Do you wanna grab something to drink?” Nat yelled over the bass as you tried to squeeze through the crowded entryway. You were immediately overwhelmed, strobe lights were flashing against the walls, music was shaking the floor and hot, sweaty bodies kept bumping up against you. You closed your eyes in an attempt to somehow center yourself. After a few seconds of futilely waiting for a moment of peace, you let your eyelids flutter open and to your annoyance, Nat and Wanda were no longer standing beside you. You knew it wasn’t their fault, and that they would never intentionally leave you alone, but you couldn’t stop the panic that began rising in your chest from the absence of your two friends. Not knowing what else to do, you shouldered your way through the mass of drunk college students, searching for a quiet place to stand and look for Nat and Wanda. You had scouted out a small, unoccupied alcove under the stairs and made your way to it. Two steps and you would have gotten some reprieve from the chaos, but instead a tall body blocked your path and sharp brown eyes eyed you up and down.

“Haven’t seen you at one of these yet.” His voice was slightly slurred and the mix of alcohol and cheap cologne pouring off of him was almost nauseating. “You lookin’ for someone to spend a little time with?” He asked inching closer and forcing you to press your back against the railing of the staircase. Now your breath was coming much too quick and the familiar numbness sprouting in your fingertips told you that you were on the verge of having a panic attack. You’d been through enough over the past years to recognize when one was coming. You also knew that if you could’t find a calm place to ground yourself in the next few minutes you were going to break down. With your mind in panic mode, you glanced over your shoulder and saw that the staircase you were pinned against led to a seemingly quiet hall. Deciding that was your only option, you shoved the guy’s chest and used his sluggish, drunken state as an opportunity to escape his grasp and head towards the stairs. You jumped over the “Stay Downstairs or Thor Will Kick Your Ass” sign that was haphazardly strung across the bottom entryway and took the stairs two at a time to get to the hall. There were no lights on in the corridor, but the strobes from the party downstairs provided you with enough light to find a doorknob. You desperately pushed on the door, but it was locked, so you ran to the next one, only to find yourself in the same situation. You didn’t notice the faint glow under the third door you tried and you almost cried in relief when the knob turned without any resistance.

You hurried into the room and closed the door, pressing your back against the cool wood and shutting your eyes. Starting at 100, you took a deep breath and exhaled counting backwards by three in your head. In your anxious state, you barely noticed the tears that were rushing down your cheeks. And you really had not noticed that you weren’t alone in this room.

“Uh, is everything- are you ok?” A baritone voice caused your eyes to shoot open as you desperately tried to figure out its source through your blurred vision. Bringing your hands to your eyes you began to furiously wipe away the tears, ignoring the slight burning caused by the friction from your shirt against your skin.

“Hey, whoah, hold on, you're gonna hurt yourself.” The voice said again, this time with more urgency. Suddenly, a pair of warm hands wrapped carefully around your wrists, gently pulling your hands away from your face. You were able to blink back enough tears to make out a head of blonde hair, broad shoulders, and kind blue eyes. The man in front of you continued to coax you down from your panic, and slowly the tears stopped falling while your breaths evened out. As embarrassed as you were that this kind man had to witness your anxiety attack you were grateful for his help. But just as you began to offer your thanks the door was thrown open, and a deep voice shouted over the blaring music downstairs.

“Steve, what the hell are you doing locked away in your-” his words trailed off as his cerulean blue eyes landed on your tear stained face…

Chapter One coming this week!

tags~

@vicmc624 / @sjsmith56

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the-fluff-piece · 1 year

Text

"I just want some f**ing wine"

Sanji x fem!reader modern day AU

for the stressed millenial who just wants to be pampered and loved unconditionally

-> find part 2 here

-> and part 3 here

Check out my other stuff:

My Masterlist - Short and Multichapter stories

Headcanon Masterlist

A warm thanks to @zoros-sheath ,who showed me that AU stories can be hot and fun. Check out her stories!

You have a typical bad date at a good restaurant - which gets crashed (or saved) by the handsome chef that has a thing for you.

This is with a fem!reader in mind. Who is very exhausted and unnerved.

involves fun things like swearing, smoking and alcohol. But no smut. We are not having so much fun 🤨

For additional flavour, check the corresponding moodboard

Your evening was horrible, it even beat your day of totally unnecessary meetings. Sitting opposite Thomas, your blind date for the evening, was a test for your mental health. He went on and about his ex-girlfriend, who, as he told you, was absolutely crazy, stupid, hysterical and he was so over her after almost a year. Yeah buddy, tell yourself that.

And that after he had been so extremely nice on the dating app where you met him. Shame. He was actually good looking and had a stable job, he was funny and smart. And still hung up on his ex for some reason. By now, you knew everything about her. You sipped at your wine, bored out of your mind by the next story about how horrible she was on their last vacation together. At least the wine and food were excellent. Thomas picked the location. Bet he was here with his ex, too. You see a waiter running around and wave with your glass to indicate that you need a refill. He swiftly came by and asked: “The pinot grigio again?”. You just nodded, that wine was tasty. “Or might I recommend the wine our chef has picked to be paired with the main course?”

“No thank you, I'll have more of the pinot.” you insisted. Better stay with what you know.

The waiter, however, came back with another glass as you listened to Thomas now talking bad about other dates he had found on the app. Oh boy, do you think I now feel better than the others? Knowing how you talk about women you dated? You think, only noticing in the last moment that the wine you were brought was red instead of white. “Excuse me”, you call the waiter back. “This isn’t the pinot?”

“Chef’s recommendation, he said it’s on the house”, the waiter informs you with an apologetic smile.

Free booze! “Tell him my thanks”, you say as politely as possible. This evening just got better.

“You know, you shouldn’t drink so much”, Thomas commented on your second glass of wine with a well intended, but ultimately unnerving wink. Yeah, just destroy my happiness, you think as you already feel a bit guilty. You knew you shouldn’t indulge. Just like you should work out regularly, stop smoking and eat more veggies than instant ramen. Since this was your first date in ages with no other currently in sight, you set the glass down and ate something of the incredibly tasty pasta you were served. The sauce was just the right consistency and tasted of fresh herbs, tomatoes and childhood summer evenings. So delicious you actually had to sigh. And it went so perfectly with the wine. Another sip.

“Y/n, what do you think?” Thomas asked, it was all of his monologue you could hear.

“What?”

“I asked what do you think about the elections?” he repeated his question, talking very loud and clearly.

Fuck, politics. It would be wise to know about that before this got serious, but you where exhausted. “Uhm” you eloquently started, “I think elections are important for democracy.”

Thomas turned into the blank face emoji. It looked funny enough. Needing a pick-you-up, you excused yourself and pretended to go to the bathroom. Instead you headed to the small garden of the restaurant to have a secret smoke. The cold wind was refreshing and you took out your zippo. Looking at the childish motif you had to smile– a cute comic reindeer eating ice cream. It was it a moose? Tanuki? Never mind.

Zip, zip

only a few sparks, no flame.

Ok, trusty zippo, don’t leave me hanging.

Zip, zip,zip...nothing.

“Fuck”

The clicking of your futile attempts goes on and on – until finally, the sound of an igniting flame. You shield your cigarette from the wind when you realize it wasn’t yours that actually worked. A flame is held against the tip of your cigarette, you breathe in, igniting it and inhaling the first draft of sweet smoke.

“Oh thank yooouuuuu” you started your sentence well but screwed up at the end, sounding like a screeching car instead of a human. Unprepared to stare into the clearest and most fascinating blue eyes you have ever seen, your cigarette almost fell out of your gaping mouth. The eyes were embedded in a perfect, male face. He was tall, blonde, with a perfectly groomed goatee and creamy-white skin. His blonde hair was expertly styled and fell over one of his eyes. You noticed that the eyebrow that was not covered with a golden lock was bent into an elegant curl. His perfect mouth gave you a warm smile as he said: “You’re welcome, my lady.” He took a draw from his own cigarette. It looked like in ads. If you wouldn’t have been smoking since you were 14, that would have been the time to start.

Unable to resist you looked him up and down. Tall, slender, long legs. He was wearing a fine taylored suit, complete with a west and tie, an ensemble that accentuated his narrow waist and broad shoulders. Trying to act like a normal person you pried your gaze away and politely ignored him. Besides, it was ridiculous to drool over a guy of that calibre. While on a date with another. You tried to stay realistic, your blonde gentleman surely already had a girlfriend. Or two. Probably just as pretty.

Watching your last puff of smoke curl in the night sky, you decided to get back and give this date your sincerest efforts, like a real adult would. You turned to throw the gleaming bud in the trash.

“Whoa” the blonde model man stood far too near to you. When did he move closer? Unable to stop the momentum of your turn, you bumped into his chest.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you there” you blurted out and smiled out of pure embarrassment.

“No worries” he said confidently. “OH MY GOSH YOU’RE SO CUTE” he squeaked, a total contrast to his previous demeanor, staring at your face, visibly blushing.

“Uhm, thank you…?” you said with a clear question mark at the end of your sentence.

“I hope you like the wine I picked for you, my lady” he continued like nothing happened, still smoking.

“Uhm what?” you asked.

“The red wine. Goes with the pasta. A perfect combination. From the look on your face, you enjoyed it” he explained matter of factly, looking all cool and business again. “After my shift, we can drink some more together.”

Was he hitting on you? He must have seen that you were with someone.

“I am actually on a date…” you voice trailed off.

“That’s a date? Looks like a piece of work” he says and chuckles. “I can show you a really good time. I'm Sanji, what's your name?” he said with a bow, clearly courting you now. And getting a bit creepy.

“You know, I gotta go now” you excused yourself and quickly returned inside.

“Wait till you taste my dessert!” he shouted behind you.

What a strange guy, looking like an actor while acting like a total creep. You didn’t get it, a handsome man like that wouldn’t need to be so pushy. A bit of charm and every woman in sight would eat out of his hand. You sat down at the table again, Thomas was scrolling on his phone, barely acknowledging your presence. He wasn’t much but at least you knew what kind of man he was: after a bad breakup he got a little bitter, and judgy. But other than that, he was better than most. Wasn’t that the best you could hope for? Everyone told you that your standards were too high.

Just as your thoughts took a gloomy turn, the waiter sat down a beautifully decorated plate in front of you with a crème brulée and strawberry sauce.

Thomas looked up from his phone to inform the waiter that they didn’t order that. The waiter looked uncomfortable as he answered: “A gift from the kitchen. On the house. For the lady.”

Perplexed, you twisted and turned in your chair until you caught a glimpse of the kitchen entrance, and, unsurprisingly, there stood a tall, handsome man, now with an apron over his fine suit, and winked lewdly at you.

You already drank the wine. Free dessert couldn’t hurt. Besides, shifts in the kitchen ended really late, you would be gone until he was free. You dug in. The crust on the sweet treat was crispy caramel with a vanilla cream underneath. You couldn’t help it, a pronounced “mhmm” escaped your mouth as you savoured every bite. It felt like the most comforting thing in the world, it tasted like coming home after a long day. To a real, cozy home. A feeling you were barely able to enjoy anymore, being too stressed and exhausted to even properly relax. This was your treat after a long week and you ate with your eyes closed.

“You like it?” you heard Sanji's voice in your ear, much to close. Startled, you wanted to jump up but instead just pushed the chair back, falling backwards. The chef caught you casually with one hand and sat the chair back in the floor.

“You’re so beautiful when you enjoy something” he praised you with a husky, soft voice. The dreamy expression on his face was almost too much.

“Excuse me, who are you? Can you believe this guy...?" Thomas spat the words out angrily, looking at the scene with disbelief.

"I cannot believe you can be sitting in front of the cutest Lady in the world and you stare at your phone? Your loss” you heard Sanji say in a taunting voice, suddenly sounding like a street thug.

"I want to talk to the manager" Thomas demanded, standing up.

"Let's everyone just calm down, because there is no problem and nothing" You tried to save the evening while the two men attacked each other with hostile glares. "Thank you for the dessert, it was delicious" you say to Sanji, whose eyes have turned into hearts the moment you adressed him. And turning to Thomas you say "let's just get the cheque and call it a night. It was a nice date, let's do that again some time!" You may not have sounded entirely convincing, but it was enought that both of them backed off, muttering curses.

While splitting the cheque and getting ready ti go, you heard loud noises coming from the kitchen - and lots of cursing.

Sanji

Zeff beat him up really good that night, stupid waiter snitched on him hitting on guests yet again. The restaurant couldn't take one more bad review about him.

But he just couldn't help himself. Watching her face light up as she ate his food was unresistable to him, having a quiet smoke together and watching her suck on the cigarette, blowing out the steam from her perfect lips...he couln't resist.

As Jeff kicked his ass out of the restaurant, ending Sanji's shift early, he decided to call it a day and get home. His feet hurt from standing in the kitchen all day and he was tired from the long hours he worked. Lighting a cigarette, he decided to walk the rest of the way home, he could use a little exercise.

The night air was fresh and the streets empty and quiet. He often walked home alone after work. The loneliness was both soothing after a stressful day, but it also made him painfully aware that no one was beside him, no hand he could hold, no one that would need his jacket to keep warm.

He imagined the girl from the restaurant walking beside him. She looked tired, unnerved when she came in. Nothing special. But when she got the chance to relax, her whole being seemed to change. She enjoyed life's pleasures intensely, fully. And to his eyes, she became a princess. He imagined her with him, grumpy and tired - until Sanji gave her his jacket, put his arm around her and kissed her hair. His head spun a fantasy of her beautiful smile that was just for him - causing him smile in reality. Alone. He swore that if he ever found her again, he would do anything to make her enjoy herself again.

His little fantasy improved his mood and he hummed french chansons all the way back home. His apartment building was old, but charming. It was usually pretty quiet and empty when he left around noon, and dark and deserted when he got back in the middle of the night. He hardly ever met the other inhabitants. That night, one of the flats still had some light in it. He looked up - his cigarette escaped his mouth and fell on the cobblestone of the street.

It was her, no mistake. She leaned out of a window and had one last smoke before bed, he figured. He watched, mesmerized, as her little mouth puffed out tiny clouds.

She lived just next to him, all this time. Fate has brought her to his restaurant tonight, it was meant to be! He stared a few more minutes until she was finished and retreated back inside, switching of the lights.

A tiny flame illuminated Sanji's face as he lit another cigarette. "I'll win your heart, my princess. Just you wait."

Now that you've read the whole thing, let me know in the comments if you liked this slow burn! 👇

I am planning more parts where Sanji tries to win your heart and you get to know him better as a person, there will be hot moments and endearing situations. Please let me know what you would love to read! I srly absolutely need your people's written feedback on this because it's a niche and I am no good writing into the void. Dm, comment, reblog kath cryptic tags....anything.

#one piece sanji #vinsmoke sanji #sanji x reader #sanji x y/n #sanji x you #one piece modern au #blackleg sanji #sanji modern au #one piece x you #one piece fanfiction #sanji fluff #op sanji #op sanji fluff #fluff #the fluff piece

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lunafoster · 11 months

Text

Oh No

AN: So I can’t stop thinking about them *cough* ESC 2023 contestants *cough* and this came out. I’m so sorry.

AN2: yes, I’m from Europe if anyone was wondering; also, excuse my English but it’s not my first language.

Bojan Cvjetićanin x fem!actress!reader

Surprise in the end!

Words: 1500+

Bojan couldn’t wait.

He was ecstatic, unable to keep himself still as he was being driven to the airport in Liverpool.

“Will you stop moving,” Jan sighed, nudging him with his elbow.

“He hasn’t seen her in a month, Jan,” Nace retorted, “of course he’s excited.”

He couldn’t even answer to them as his bandmates continued arguing over if he should or shouldn’t be this nervous about seeing his girlfriend again. After all, he was going to see her today, and that just made him so giddy he couldn’t focus on anything else.

The thing is, she had been away in America, filming a new TV show that would undoubtedly be loved by the public once it was out; so she couldn’t exactly accompany him in his Eurovision journey since him and his friends were elected in Slovenia.

He was so proud of her for making it into another soon-to-be hit show, but he missed her so very much during the last month. It’s true they tried calling each other every chance they had, but the time difference and their busy schedules didn’t let them be part of each other’s lives as much as they were used to.

Bojan couldn’t wait to give her the biggest hug and all the kisses he couldn’t give her when they were apart. He cringed at himself at the thought. That was disgusting.

“Hey!” A clap resounded in the air just millimetres away from his face.

“What?”

“We’re here,” Kris told him, clapping his shoulder.

He looked around. He was the only one left in the van. The Slovene swallowed thickly. Why was he so nervous about meeting her?

He walked out of the vehicle, following the rest of his bandmates inside the airport and wringing his sweaty hands together.

They had all been careful, not saying anything on social media or giving away the fact that she was coming, even if he wanted to scream it at the world. He hadn’t even told any of the new friends he had made because of Eurovision. All of this wasn’t because their relationship was a secret, it couldn’t be further from that, but they didn’t want that much attention at their first meeting in a month. One never knows how he’s going to react.

When he arrived at the correct place with his best friends, he heard Jan asking him:

“Do you know if she’s already landed?”

He shook his head and grabbed his phone, realising he had a message from two minutes ago telling him she had, in fact, landed.

He put his phone away, staring directly at the exit doors the people from her flight would be using.

“I’m taking that stupid grin as a ‘yes, she’s landed’.”

Bojan nodded but didn’t look away, his eyes stinging. He refused to blink, what if he didn’t see her?

Big groups of people started getting out through the doors, Bojan getting more anxious as time passed and she didn’t appear. What if she changed her mind, all this time away from him making her realise she didn’t need him?

He didn’t have time to dwell on it, though. He saw her, carrying her luggage around with tired eyes that changed the second they landed on him.

A big smile spread across her cheeks as she started running towards him, leaving her suitcase near the rest of his bandmates and jumping up. He started chuckling the moment he felt her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, reacting and putting his own hands below her to support her weight on him.

For long moments, they stayed like that, breathing each other in and feeling the warmth of the other’s skin on theirs; ignoring the other men’s cheers and puking sounds.

She was the first to move, removing her head from the junction between his shoulder and neck and smiling up at him with a shine in her eyes.

“Hi!”, she exclaimed.

“Hello,” he smiled back.

She noticed the soft look in his eyes, the small but genuine smile on his lips, it made the butterflies in her belly push against her skin, wanting to be able to touch him and be with him even closer than she was now.

“Are you not going to say anything about the rest of us?” Jure let out, feigning annoyance but with a huge smile on his face.

“I don’t know about that…,” she couldn’t help but match his energy, slowly getting down from her boyfriend’s embrace and going over to the guys, giving each of them a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Why do they get a kiss?” Bojan asked half jokingly half seriously wandering why he couldn’t get one, “I’m your boyfriend! Your boyfriend!”

“Alright, alright… don’t be a big baby, love.”

“No!”

They drowned out the sound of the boys’ whines as they did, in fact, kiss. Bojan couldn’t help but tighten his grasp on her when she started to move away from him, chasing after her lips and giving her another sweet peck before she could escape him.

When he opened his eyes, he saw hers were still closed, a pink flush dusting over her cheeks. She opened her eyes and he saw the entire universe in them. His world.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Jan said, exasperated, “let’s go back to the hotel.”

“And no more kissing,” Kris added, “please.”

The couple laughed at the disgusted faces with which the rest of the group agreed, her taking his hand and following them to the van.

The rest of the day was spent meeting and getting to know the other ESC participants, as her boyfriend and his band had insisted so much in it.

They did leave her luggage in his hotel room first, but right after that they went to meet the band Voyager, and then Alessandra, Vesna, Blanca Paloma, and the rest of them.

She had had fun with all of them and sung a little of their songs with their respective artists, since she had heard them all countless times before.

The only one who she hadn’t met yet was the Finnish contestant, who she was the most curious about. She had to admit she enjoyed the vibe of his song the most (even more than her boyfriend’s, but she wouldn’t admit it to anyone), and he seemed like a great guy whenever Bojan talked about their hang outs.

Apparently, Käärijä had been gone the whole morning, no one knowing where he had gone off to at all. Her boyfriend wanted her to meet him, after all, the Finn had quickly become one of his best friends, sharing his energy and sense of humour.

“Guys!” Alessandra ran to them when they were coming back to the hotel from having lunch outside, “there’s gonna be a party today! The hotel’s throwing it for us!”

“We’ll go for sure, right?” Jure looked at his mates and the girl.

After they all agreed, Alessandra invited them for coffee and they went along with her, chatting about any topic that came to mind.

“What are you gonna wear tonight?” the Norwegian singer asked her.

“I’m not sure, I don’t think I have anything party-appropriate in my suitcase…”

“We’ll see about that, let’s go get it and to my room! I’m gonna make you look amazing!” She said excitedly, taking her hand and leading her upstairs, leaving the boys startled but laughing either way.

When it was time for the party, the girl went back to her boyfriend’s hotel room with the outfit her and Alessandra had come up with. She liked it, as it was comfortable but also dressy enough to wear to a party.

She knocked twice.

Her boyfriend opened the door, a black sweater, black jeans and black boots on.

“Oh no! They made her emo!” She said in English.

“Shut up!” He chuckled, pushing her playfully and fake-glaring at her.

She giggled and pushed him back. They ended up full on laughing in the middle of the hotel’s hallway, earning a few weird glances from people walking by.

When they calmed down enough to start talking normally again, Bojan extended his arm for her to take.

“Shall we go?” He asked in the most British accent he could muster.

“We shall,” she answered.

That’s how they found themselves having dinner with his band mates and the rest of the Eurovision contestants and technicians. Still, the Finn was nowhere to be seen.

“Have you seen Jere today?” ALIKA asked Bojan, a slight worried look in her eyes.

“Not really. I was gonna ask you the same thing, honestly.”

The Estonian singer let out a small sigh, continuing to eat while chatting away with the rest of the people at their table.

“Maybe something happened?” His girlfriend asked him, worried too after learning that no one knew where the guy was.

“We should probably check,” he replied, “when we finish, yeah?”

She nodded, going back to eat and watching her boyfriend do the same.

When the party started, Bojan and her went to the Finnish rapper’s door, knocking but hearing no response.

Giving up after a handful of tries, they went back to the party and tried to forget about it. Surely, they’d see him tomorrow, wouldn’t they?

However, tomorrow quickly turned into today when they caught a glimpse at the bowl-cut black hair and they headed towards Käärijä so that Bojan could properly introduce her to him.

“Jere! Finally man, you disappeared the whole day!”

“We go see Liverpool with my brother,” he said, smiling at the sight of the Slovene.

“That’s great!” Bojan smiled too, “you could’ve said something, though, didn’t answer my texts.”

“Sorry,” his smile turned sheepish.

That’s when he turned to her; the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, smiling at him with her eyes sparkling.

“This is my girlfriend,” his daydreaming got cut off by Bojan speaking.

Oh no.

“Hello,” he greeted, “you are beautiful,” slipped through his lips. He just had to say it, couldn’t hold it in.

Bojan huffed out a small laugh at that.

“Thanks!” She giggled cutely.

Oh no.

“I think you’re pretty cool, too!” She said in a perfect Finnish.

He was fucked.

Part 2

#eurovison song contest #esc 2023 #käärija #bojan cvjetićanin #Bojan Cvjetićanin x reader #ESC x reader #europe #singer #movie star!reader #actress!reader

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redux-iterum · 6 months

Text

Burning Hearts: Epilogue

(AO3 counterpart here.)

Camp was silent, but in the purposefully hushed way, that of a Clan who’d woken up to the pained cries of a queen as she brought her litter into the world and had elected to leave her be until the night. The kits had stopped squealing, busily nursing at Goldenflower’s belly, kneading her with their shut eyes and ears. Brindleface and her kits had fallen asleep quickly after the birthing, and Frostfur was outside guarding the nursery as her own kits drifted off again.

With the sun thankfully dimmed by a cloudy sky, Goldenflower’s eyes were glued to her litter of three: two beautiful little torbie mollies, the stronger pale ginger and brown and the weaker a darker version, and a curious, rotund tabby tom. Somehow, despite everything the matriarch had learned in her studies, he had come out dark brown.

Just like his father.

Was StarClan punishing her for something? What for? Her ignorance? Her blind trust and love? How was this possible otherwise?

Goldenflower repressed a grieving shudder and forced her thoughts to something else—anything else.

Names. They needed names. And she was the only one here to give them.

If Fireheart were here, she could take the opportunity to teach him how to name his own kits when he had them. It could have taken her mind off of everything, to see his excitement when he met his little siblings, and his worry over Cloudkit, who had grown fatter and louder, if that was possible.

But he wasn’t here. She’d have to do this alone.

Some small part of her reminded her that Brindleface and Frostfur could help, but… no. This was for family to do. She had a feeling.

The first molly, the pale one, she regarded with no small amount of affection. She was as big as her brother—bigger, really—and her markings were paired together beautifully, a solid blend of pale ginger and a warm brown with the tabby markings streaking down her body evenly. She was mostly that ginger, though the brown wasn’t giving up its spaces without a fight.

Tawny, maybe, Goldenflower thought. Or Morning. She could be a Morning. But Tawny feels more obvious…

She could come back to that. She had better ideas for the other two.

The weakest, runty and spotted, had more mottled brown and ginger. She was the smallest and the quietest; Goldenflower’s experience warned her to be ready for the worst. She didn’t let that forbid her from naming the kit. She should have a mighty name, something to make up for her size.

Leopard. He would have called you that.

And perhaps she shouldn’t have thought of what he would have wanted, but... how could she not? They’d discussed names before she had retreated into the nursery full-time. He’d loved the idea of a Leopardkit. That had been his favorite one out of all they’d talked about.

He loved you before you were born, she thought, pressing her nose to Leopardkit, who barely twitched in response. I know that was real. No one else has to.

Now, the tom…

Curse her sentimentality, but it was impossible not to think of him. He was a spitting image of his father, big and starkly-striped. He was going to be tall and powerful, she could see already. But perhaps not brutish; even as a newborn, his claws seemed mostly tucked in, barely grazing her stomach when he pushed harder for milk. They were long, still, like his, and his paws were massive.

He wasn’t getting Tiger, obviously. But something close, something fierce and prickly… shame Thornkit had taken that name already.

A name struck her, and she couldn’t think of another. Bramble. Bramble, with long, sharp stripes and long, sharp claws.

It was perfect. She could only pray no one figured out the source.

Drowsily, she returned to the pale molly, going over Tawny and Morning, back and forth, her exhaustion creeping in and tamping down her thoughts until she drifted off, with a vague image in her head of three little kits touching noses with their father, his amber eyes shining with love and pride.

Where was his soul now, she wondered…

---

He runs, paws scrambling for purchase on the rocky slope that borders the road. A shining silhouette blazes ahead of him and he ducks into the forest. Ferns and brush stand still as death as he races through them, mouth open, panting for air he no longer needs, amber eyes wild with fright.

Screams like roars follow him through the woods, light-figures easily keeping pace with him, creeping close to his tail as he stumbles and sprints with every bit of power he can channel to his legs. Whooping yowls and jovial caterwauls rattle his chest with horror.

How could they be chasing me? Were my intentions not noble? Didn’t I do the best for my Clan?

It wasn’t good enough.

His victims, drowned and sliced and crippled and gasping for air, flash in front of his eyes, glaring at him, nearly making him trip and fall as he tries to skid to a stop and dive to the side, away from them, away from their damning eyes.

This is a mistake. He only manages a few more steps before sun-bright figures cut off his path. He jerks sideways again, and backs away from the rounding line of Hunters encircling him. He’s surrounded on all sides by glowing warriors: some apprentices, few leaders—the best of the best, the strongest in life and most righteous in death, the ones who protect the territories from all ghostly dangers.

But…

No, this can’t be right. I’m no danger. Not like this. Not like—

The deputy flails about, scrambling for escape, some explanation, anything to get him out of this. There is none. The Hunters are stronger, larger than him. They hurt to look at, blazing as they do. They say nothing to him. Their eyes burn with rage.

Where is He?

Behind him, a searing light exiles what little darkness was left in the forest, the only sound now of a crackling fire. He is immediately pulled into gazing at the giant; it’d be sacrilege to refuse to acknowledge Him. His eyes squeeze shut—this is worse than looking at the sun—but again, he is forced to open them, eyes tearing up in agony as he looks upon the Endless Watcher.

“You disappoint Me, wraith,” the Lion rumbles, His voice shaking the ground and making the trees tremble. “Potential like yours has not been seen in a long time. You could have been the finest leader in generations, if you loved your Clan like you thought you did.”

The deputy’s mouth opens to no sound; his throat is dry as an autumn leaf.

“Destroying your Clanmates,” a Hunter adds coldly, a strangely familiar golden tom almost as sunny as Horoa Himself. “Ignoring your neighbors, wanting them to fall, though you’d never let yourself acknowledge that…”

“Leaving your own family to expose you,” another Hunter says, dark grey and small (standing taller than the deputy even so). She narrows her eyes that shine too bright for a mortal. “They will not rest easy for a long time. Is that what you wanted? Pain and grief, by your doing?”

The deputy barely manages to croak out, “My Lord, have mercy. Please—”

“Another said that, recently,” a tortoiseshell drawls. “The living didn’t heed him.” Her lip twitches as she dryly looks the deputy up and down, regarding him like the stringy remains of stale prey. “Neither did we.”

“Go peacefully,” the Lion growls, and the ground shakes under the deputy’s feet. “This we will give you. Offer your throat and fade to mist. You will not get anything else.”

The deputy trembles. He looks for any kindness, any empathy in the eyes of his undoing. There is none. Pathetically, kit-like in his huddling, he looks to Horoa again.

“By—” he swallows. “By Your teeth, then. It would be an honor, my Lord. Please…”

The Lion throws back His head with a thundering, hearty chuff. The sound is echoed by His Hunters, who shake their heads and give each other tickled looks, like they’re sharing a private joke. Horoa lowers His head again, gazing down at the deputy, His single eye blinding.

“None from ThunderClan will honor you,” He says. “Neither will I.”

The small dark grey molly bursts forward; her claws streak with light. A snap. A crash. Sparks tear open the mist of his flesh. The storm raging in his throat chokes back his words as it rends him apart.

In the heartbeat of a moment, in an eye amidst his agony, one quiet thought murmurs in her voice.

“They will never know your name, love.”

And then there is silence.

The vapor, split in two even wisps, disperses and fades, absorbed by the clean air of the forest. Horoa waves His tail, smoking at the tip, with satisfaction as His Hunters keep their eyes on the very last misty thread. It dissolves, and nothing remains. The Lion curtly nods, growls a chuff, turns and leaps into a gallop, His Titan-like feet hardly touching the ground. His followers race after Him, cheering again, searching for the next danger to protect the Clans from. Light encompasses them, like the sun is swallowing them up.

As they disappear, the forest’s natural light returns, followed by hesitant shadows. The cackle of flames dies, and birdsong carries on again, somewhat confused as to why it stopped. The woods, just for a bit, are beautifully warm with the echo of the sun’s heat.

The world continues on as if they were never there at all.

#warrior cats #redux iterum #iterum #epilogue #chapter #book two #arc one #burning hearts #and thats the book!#thank you all for reading along

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