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rennyji · 28 days

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Yesterdays Revelations, Todays Conclusions (Lessons)...

THERES A SECTION TOWARDS THE BOTTOM, SEPARATED FROM THE TOP HALF, BY EQUAL SIGNS, THAT WAS NOT ON TWITTER. PLEASE NOTE.

Random convoluted conversation, in mixed languages of English & Indian, between my mother and me, from 5:45 PM-5:54 PM, on 4/1/24, in kitchen, where moms & my phone present & brain hacking.Shows nonsense that has to be b/c some1 is trying to get me frustrated with basic things.

Lesson of PowderedMix, in cup of water, on kitchen table(from 4/1/24 - mayB b4 12PM/after1PM). I spilled powder randomly, 2x. Was made 2B inattentive.-

-in conjunction w/last tweet, Mom gets on myCase, asking Y I don’t use sink, Y I don’t use counter where she is, Y I didn’t ask her 2 move from sink,& wats wrong w/me 4 spilling powder- all these Why Why Why’s! -was heated conversation necessary over 2 bounty paper towel sheets?-

-regards2lastTweet, POINT: U can’tPlan simple/even big things (where2scoopPowder4drink), U cantAnticipate(powderSpilling), U cantGoOnEverlastingSalvaging(w/Y’s as2Y, onKitchenTable vs sink/Y not askSome1Else2DoIt-escalates). U talk Directly w/voice, by lookingInEye,orGetLost.

Would any of you believe, the people doing the various levels of mind control/mind reading/possession with me, spend hours talking, gently addressing having sex, then harem style lesbian sex, then a girl who I never talked to, but felt heart broken over,-

- in conjunction with previous tweet, over & over, its told 2 me, like military conditioning, “Rachel is dead” like they think I have god like powers & saying it in me,will make it happen. They haunt me repeatedly w/this name. Then they say she attempted suicide over randomness.-

- they tell me while everyone experienced, what they call are my strong emotions, somehow I’m responsible for her attempting Suicide over these stupid kids saying they relayed her inappropriate manner.-

- they tell me, while everyone experienced, what they call are my strong emotions, somehow I’m responsible for Rachel, a girl from 18 years ago, attempting Suicide over these stupid kids saying they relayed her in an inappropriate manner.-

-They tell me I’m Ram & she’s Sita from Hindu love story, in manner of making fun of my dad as owner of something like a 7/11, or me as Apu from Simpsons, or me being a version of Buddha nicknamed “Guru Nobody.”army men tell me I’m a pussy, that they as numerous d*ks RamIn.-

- we all watch tv w/our favorite actors/actresses. They notice I like how Fox News Anchor Kaylie McEnany, who I believe is married w/2 kids. They then tell me, while talking in head as me, 2 condition me thru me, that forget Rachel, whos also prob married now, move w/ Kayleigh. -

- then nonsense about a paycheck/telepathic reality love show or whatever those things are called…I think it’s called The Bachelor…then someone tells me recently, she’s been recruited as to be a female victim of some sort, so it’s not all about the Indian kids getting abused.-

-I was never treated as American citizen;never had rights, privacy, freedom, dignity, of 1. For 18 yrs+, this transpires. These guys doing this, get me in2delusional state & have me write against a possible Unity(United) government& have me in that state, depict self as patriot.-

- I think if you knew my time, inside and out, during the times this phenomena about penises and sex from SUNY University at Albany, and mind control from the U.S. government, transpired, where they give sensation of ball fondling/seizures, you agree with my next tweet:-

-regards2lastTweet, 2 finish thought/2 make it clear, While Ive no problems w/individual Americans, Myself? I am NOT an American. I will never B American. I refuse 2B anAmerican. These people inside me, outside me, are not my people. They claim 2B w/ me? Where?On TV?Delusions?!-

In the words of Christ, whose principles this Satanic country and American military (in their Crusade against the mind) were founded in, “My people are not my blood brothers and sisters, or the mother who shares blood/genes. My people R those who share in my values & practices.”

- in same manner the military or University at Albany makes me make life gestures at my television, which allegedly has a camera, from some of the correlational eye movements and how my chair is positioned, they made me, Renny, f* prostitutes, Rachel suck d*ks of guys arranged,-

- theyre telling me Kayleigh got hooked in another conspiracy associated w/1 of channels she’s aired in. Apparently something was gave her a “conscious stream” like virus in2 herHead. This conscious stream has apparently nullified brain waves, so she’s now like a cat w/o a soul.

- if U were all experiencing a fake conscious stream, it couldB governments way ofSayingThey can hack any1’s head, but they need 2 do it w/virus of a false conscious stream. They claim, only w/that, they can read minds/control them. That’s propaganda sent, when can happen w/o it.

- the fake conscious stream installed to experience emotions or mental upgrades, if any of this is real, was a trick 2 figure out ur brains frequency to read it/control it w/o fake stream, with correct key 2 door..I guess logic is, it happens 2 every1 now-2B paranoid or not…?!-

- the other two women that they keep extrapolating pros and cons in my mind repeatedly, like conditioning or even brain washing, are Paula Reid from CNN and Carlie Shimkus from Fox News. Something thought thru me Carlie had a tear masked over joy and makeup,-

- &Kaylie recd. a harmful upgrade 2 control emotion…So Kalyies married w/ 2-3 kids, Carlie’s either single mom or has single mom & apparently I’m receiving Indian arranged marriage w/ blondes b/c Im depicted as something outside an “Independent.”& Paulas unhappy as a Democrat?!-

- apparently, American theme of big cars, bigMoney, 4 blondes, this is propaganda 2 justify mind control/ reading…”look how he came out of it!” All while hearing conspiracy theories validated from The Why Files, w/Trump preaching Christian Nationalism w/ American Bible version.-

- then, while 7pm EST CNN Primetime was airing, when I went to my main floor, from my bedroom, to get something to eat: Between 7:43 PM and 7:47 PM, on 4/01/2024, My mom comes down and complains I left tv on. I have a complicated setup to turn on and I like sound playing around-

-in conjunction with previous tweet, Between 7:43 PM and 7:47 PM, on 4/01/2024, when my mom asks me why I left the tv on, I flat out say, we have bigger problems than tv raising electricity bill, like mind reading, mind control, &mental illness to worry about.-

-in conjunction with previous tweet, Between 7:43 PM and 7:47 PM, on 4/01/2024, regards2 mom asking me Y I left tv on, I flat out say, we have bigger problems like mind reading, mind control, &mental illness to worry about.-

-regards2last tweet,b/w 7:43 PM-7:47 PM, on4/01/2024, onMomSsking Y TV on, I said, WhenLifeConstantlyIn spotlight,U stopCaring. But mom responds w/utmost seriousness/tone, yeahSure, ur “go-to-excuse”2All Is “mind control.” TV showsLookBack @ me, Y&howCouldParents B outOfLoop…?!-

-regards2lastTweet, My tv shows look back @ me, Y & how could my parents be out of the loop…- does it have something 2 do with a troubled kids show, that put a camera in my tv screen, that the military & University at Albany is using 4 verifying mind control/reading, remotely?!

- so I’ve been in my situation for at least 18 years with no one, even my parents telling me, what goes on, I went numb to what I couldn’t change a while back. But something’s making me feel non matching sensations/anxiety 18 years later. Doesn’t time heal? -

-SUNY Albany ganged up on me on day of my finals, where I had 4 back2back. I went 2 that school 4 an additional semester. & I stayed behind in Albany area, w/o setting foot on campus, 4 a semester after that. Wouldn’t it strike any1 as odd, for random feelings 18 yrs later?-

- on famous people I see on News-legit famous people who no they get attention 4 normalReasons (Anderson, Erin, or Wolf on CNN), they seem calm (ifNothingElse )w/“abrupt” news. If fake conscious stream wasPlanted in ur head, it probably numbed news2mind control w/o need4 18 yrs.-

-if ur in fake conscious stream, where newscastersSeeMe, correlating2myMovements from TV screen onTheirEnd, thatsSourced fromCameraBehindMy TVscreen,this opens door 2 psychic “remote viewing” from 1960s CIA Project Stargate, exploring seeing others thru eyes of pics/vids of them.

Note conversation b/w mother & me, in common area consisting of kitchen, on 4/2/24 between: 10:17 AM-10:20AM (Lesson of “Buuut”this/that) 10:24AM-10:28AM (Lesson of Connotations like with basic words like “Worry”) Note mother’s attitude in voice, head shaking, body language.

- regarding last tweet, I didn’t have phone on me, but moms iPhone (for phone mic listeners) was lying on kitchen counter. For brain hackers remote viewing/mind controlling/brain map ear listeners,U have our ears, brain processing of copy able data, and real time ability2listen.-

- like how many idiots does it take to change a lightbulb when a camera or phone mic or, even more obvious: talking 2 some1 in the structure of law enforcement (after 18 years of snowballing escalation w/wats “already” been witnessed), face to face, human to human, eye to eye.-

- all these extra bells and whistles & trying to make things cool, is American government trying 2 exploit situation w/ everything it wants to do with a stupid brown man(face of their enemy) who’s apparently “lucky” to get such fortunate opportunity in his supposedly sad life-

- while I write things, b*stards in military & SUNY Albany cut off blood flow in various parts 2 body, regardless of headstand/corrective measures, causing constant sedation/weakness, complete lack of wound healing/facial scar healing/balding, pain where a slight stretch hurts-

- so physical torture and obstruction of breathing is induced. If I try to do the Harvard Dr Herbert Relaxation Response, my brothers is forcibly stopped midway b/c it’s supposedly gets in way of mind reading/control.-

- b/c good blood flow apparently contains Chinese CHI, and apparently source of my blessings in this cursed life is the Kama Sutra and something called tantra, Americans constrict my veins 2 being spindly at cost of great pain/discomfort 2 me, out of fear project won’t succeed.-

-so watIs “lesson of buuut this/that”? In life, alwaysA “but” weCanAdd 2OurSentences. “I can,” but cost is this, but I might have to do this, but then I’ll have to worry about that. Take out the “buts” or excuses 4 doing right things & act ethically, or continue being a*ses.-

- so watIs “lesson of connotations vs definitions vs colloquialisms, of basic words like “worry” ”? “Worry as colloquial expression “Don’t worry about it, man.” “Worry” by definition, w/mayB a little cultural connotation is anxiety, which canB extrapolated to excessive concern.-

-“Worry” in terms of cultural connotations/cultural clashes? My mom notices I bought 2 coolLooking sweaters. She decides 2 tell me, w/her 60, me 36, don’t wear everyday. U’ll ruin it. Where the h*ll do I have 2 go amidst confinement? I buy these things 2 feel comfortable @ home.-

- Then this inane topic becomes an intellectual random discussion, where if mom just ignored her idea for my clothing, there would be less irritation. I tell her “don’t worry about what I do” in these matters.-

-4 expressionSake: “don’t worry about it”: mom’s showing concern w/my shirt deteriorating from excessive wear. She defiantly responds w/“I am not worried.”She thinks of word “worry,” as an immigrant, quite literally. Shes thinking probably, something related 2 tears/fear/anxiety.

Prayer is communication w/God. OrchestratorsRestrictAbility 2prayInHead w/stream, whereOnlyThey canTalk. So, I say in a dialect, w/my mouth. Aloud, cuz can’t in head. Non English?2respect sanctityOfPrayer. Orchestrators? “Y he asks God 4 revenge on me? ThenInterrogationOnThat.-

Matthew 6:6-7 “But when U pray, go in2 ur room, close door & pray 2 ur Father, who is unseen. Then ur Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward U. & when U pray, do not keep on babbling like pagans, 4 they think they will be heard b/c of their many words.” ================================================

(WASN'T POSTED ON TWITTER)

"Lesson of the Username and Passwords" took place between 11:10AM-11:20 AM, where my dad, for some reason, prays aloud, about a brand range of things, without a door to close, on the floor, in our living room. His phone is always on him, even if mine wasn't on me or in my pocket. You're clearly hacking his brain, or could at the very least, listen through the mic on his phone. He said quite clearly, casually, (like more American nonsense in this crazy country), "none of us are behaving normally at this time, in his Indian dialect." (Months or years go by, since that comment in our tv room or living room). But what is the lesson from the story? My dad makes random requests of me, from updating a payment option on his automatic payment sites or taking a 5 hr driving class on his behalf. It's never, son! "Can you make me a cup of tea or warm some snacks for me?" It usually borders around: "Can you use the slow printer scanner (instead of the quicker TurboScan Pro App picture taking/scanning method on iPhone 14 pro max), to individually scan the 50 pages from a book I wrote and sold in India, where I was a trophy winner for writing through the Malayalee FOKANA convention. Being the water bearer of the family, the theme of his books, of which I cannot read because of the Indian language and Indian letters, is grief/toil/turmoil/anguish. But back to the point. My father's requests are slow, painful, and tedious. Then when someone raises a better method, or some criticisms, he says in his Indian dialect, "heaven forbid! I should ask my family members for some help with anything" <-Extreme random comments. So with the lesson of the username and passwords? I need to update my dad's payment method for his business' telephone bill's automatic payment, online. There is a username and password. In my thought restricting/blocking/ &inability to recall dilemma, I can't remember my own things or my own day shaping beliefs. If my dad doesn't know this and expects me to keep track of his usernames and passwords, and blames for not knowing them, on top of it all (when he can take the slightest bit of burden to write it in his Notes iPhone App or take advantage of the iPhone Password Manager), it just adds to the frustration of the day. It makes a 10 second online update, into a time consuming process, that he knows nothing about, where I have to update the username, forget the password link, change the password, confirm new account update in his email, and so forth. What's the lesson? Make reasonable requests from others, and take some responsibility for your information and actions by jotting them down or telling someone, so that when he asks someone to help you, there is no having them start from scratch. If you take responsibility, you lessen the responsibility of others. In effect, if you take care of yourself, you then take care of others and the load the they have to carry. In conclusion, you respect and love yourself, whereby you now respect and love others, in their time, and use of their mental energy.

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gduncan969 · 7 months

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The Scourge of Legalism

1 Corinthians 4: 18 - 20 “Some are arrogant, as though I were not coming to you. 19 But I will come to you soon, if the Lord wills, and I will find out not the talk of these arrogant people but their power. 20 For the kingdom of God does not consist in talk but in power.” (RSV)

Romans 14: 13 “Then let us no more pass judgment on one another, but rather decide never to put a stumbling block or hindrance in the way of a brother. 14 I know and am persuaded in the Lord Jesus that nothing is unclean in itself; but it is unclean for any one who thinks it unclean. 15 If your brother is being injured by what you eat, you are no longer walking in love. Do not let what you eat cause the ruin of one for whom Christ died. 16 So do not let your good be spoken of as evil. 17 For the kingdom of God is not food and drink but righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit;”

I have met so many people who were raised in the church and enthusiastically followed the Lord Jesus in their younger years but now want nothing to do with the message of the Gospel because what was once to them “the right way to live” later became a straitjacket of laws to be obeyed and activities to be avoided lest they be accused by their family and fellow believers of wilfully sinning. Failure to meet these “laws” split families and churches right down the middle and the finger-wagging condemnation of their more religious fellow believers caused many to walk away and abandon the faith altogether. My wife remembers well as a teenager sitting in the choir of her local Baptist Church one Sunday morning and having her aunt seated in the row in front turn around and tell her, “I know where you were last night and you should be ashamed to be sitting in the choir this morning!” Her damnable crime: she had attended a party the previous evening run by the youth group at the local Church of Scotland. Perhaps worse still, her own Baptist Church youth group seriously discussed the question: “Can you belong to the Church of Scotland and still be saved?” We were married in that church 58 years ago, just before the minister, who was a godly man, was forced to resign because he was accused of falsifying the financial records and we know several from that church who still refuse to have anything to do with the Gospel. How sad!

The Christian and the Law

Church history is riddled with many similar stories and to its shame it continues to this day. There’s something in our fallen nature that craves power over others because we need it to hide our own failures and an easy way to gain that power is to invent a set of rules and regulations that you have to obey—except if you are the one who makes the rules! That way you can elevate yourself above your peers and show off your faithfulness to the cause by keeping others in line with the latest group-think while condemning those who express a different point of view. Someone once said the perfect church has only one member. The Old Testament of course, is a ready source of do’s and don’t’s that we can hit others with and bring them to heel by accusing them of breaking God’s written laws that must be obeyed. The words of the Bible make a great cudgel to hit others with as you seek relief from your own frustration trying to satisfy its insatiable demands for obedience The tragedy is, however, that no believer in Jesus Christ is called to live according to the law. Paul warns us in Galatians 3: 10 - 13:

For as many as are of the works of the law (i.e. those who demand we follow the law of do’s and don’ts) are under the curse; for it is written, “Cursed is everyone who does not continue in all things which are written in the book of the law, to do them.” 11 But that no one is justified by the law in the sight of God is evident, for “the just shall live by faith.” 12 Yet the law is not of faith, but “the man who does them shall live by them.” 13 Christ has redeemed us from the curse of the law, having become a curse for us (for it is written, “Cursed is everyone who hangs on a tree”), 14 that the blessing of Abraham might come upon the Gentiles in Christ Jesus, that we might receive the promise of the Spirit through faith.”

It couldn’t be clearer that we are NOT required to live by reading all the Bible’s rules and regulations then gritting our teeth in a supreme effort to obey them. We are to walk after the Spirit, not the flesh and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty. Yet many believers think they have to live in obedience to the law and in the guaranteed frustration that results, they lay their intolerable legal burden on others, usually in self-righteous anger because they know they themselves are failing to obey. These kind of “believers” are typically, angry, intolerant and unloving and this kind of thinking is called legalism and its effect on individuals and congregations continues to be devastating.

The Curse of Legalism

The first experts in this kind of behavior were the pharisees whose descendants are alive and well in many churches today. How many unsaved people and former church-goers today simply shrink back in horror at any mention of accepting Christ as Lord and Savior because their experience of the church and its Christians is one of rigid obedience to a long list of do’s and don’ts. I’ve spoken with mature adults who were talented athletes in their youth but could not pursue their talents because their well-meaning, bible-thumping parents would not permit them, saying all sport was a tool of the devil. It reminds me of a scene from the famous movie, “Chariots of Fire” where the Scottish Olympic gold-medalist, Eric Liddell comes out of church one Sunday morning to a soccer ball bouncing down the hill into his hands, followed by two breathless lads who were chasing it. “Can I have my ball back, sir?”, said one of the Lads. “D’ye no ken whit day this is?” Liddell replied with a smile. “Aye, sir, it’s the Sabbath day”, the lad replied. “Then you shouldna be playin fitba’ on the Sabbath”, he added as he handed back the ball. That scene brought a flood of memories back to me because the Scotland I grew up in locked up all the swing parks, closed all the putting greens, swimming pools, locked up all the stores on Sundays so that people would not be tempted to sin and fail to keep the Sabbath Holy. Boy! how things have swung to the opposite extreme today.

As Christians, we are NOT required to live according to God’s law! I will repeat that: As Christians, we are NOT required to live according to God’s law! That may sound like heresy to many but I can’t emphasize enough that living that way will kill you and possibly kill many of your Christian friends. It has certainly killed some of mine. We are called to live by FAITH, recognizing that Christ has delivered us from the curse of the law as explained in Galatians Chapter 3 . Read through the rest of this chapter starting at verse 1: “O foolish Galatians! Who has bewitched you..” and you will see how foolish we are to think that we can ever please God by looking up His law and then trying to apply it to our lives. IT WILL NEVER WORK because Christ has already destroyed the works of the law and called us to walk by FAITH in Him, recognizing He has already dealt with the demands of the law through His shed blood. It’s our faith in Jesus that tells us we are living in a way that pleases Him. Most believers are very familiar with Paul’s agonizing statements from Romans 7, especially verses 19 and 24: “For the good that I will to do, I do not do; but the evil I will not to do, that I practice.” (19) and “ “O wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?” (24) but they overlook his other statements in verse 6 “But now we have been delivered from the law, having died to what we were held by, so that we should serve in the newness of the Spirit and not in the oldness of the letter (of the law).” and they fail to read on into Romans 8: “There is therefore now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus, who do not walk according to the flesh, but according to the Spirit. 2 For the law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus has made me free from the law of sin and death”. We are called to walk in the liberty of the Spirit because through Christ we are dead to the law Old Testament Law of do’s and dont’s (Galatians 5:13).

Self Checkup on How You are Living

If you want to know whether you are following the Law of sin and death or the law of liberty in Christ Jesus, check your reaction to the following situation: You are driving along a highway and just ahead of you, you see a parked car with a police officer holding a radar gun pointed towards you. If your eyes immediately jump to your speedometer and your foot automatically jumps off the accelerator to the brake, you are living in fear of the law because you suspect you are speeding and you don’t want a(nother?) ticket but if you are living your life trusting in Jesus to guide you every moment of every day, you simply carry on driving and wave to the police officer knowing that the Holy Spirit within you told you a few minutes beforehand to lift your foot off the pedal because you are going too fast! What a joy it is to be living in a way that makes us unafraid because we know our faith in Him will keep us obedient to the law that He has delivered us from. I’ll be the first to confess I don’t always live that way but the older I get the more I’m learning to lean on Jesus just as the old song says. That’s the antidote to our tendency towards legalism—reminding ourselves that we are following Him, not His Law. The misery and devastation that legalism continues to cause could all so easily be avoided by simply trusting Him to lead us aright.

Where to Find the Balance

Perhaps this all sounds too easy. It isn’t. For many of today’s church-going generation, it’s been very easy to condemn such old fashioned legalism and religious rigidity and use it as an excuse to live with the “live-and-let-live” approach where anything goes and nothing is sinful if it feels good and doesn’t offend anyone. These are those who find the word “sin” more offensive than any four-letter swear-word and who refuse to deal with its consequences in their lives and in the lives of their fellow church-members. They may belong to “user-friendly” churches who preach a feel-good gospel of “if it ain’t fun, then we’re done!” led by liberal preachers who openly welcome all who will come but never challenge those who are living together without marriage, same-sex couples and others living sinful lives while they themselves fail to practice what they preach. They reinterpret the bible to fit their aberrant lifestyles and the devastating result has been the downfall of so many traditional denominations (Catholic, Presbyterian, Anglican, Lutheran, Baptist and many others) that have split wide open based on their interpretation of what constitutes sin. How tragic! Indeed, the result of all this spreads much further into society than the current state of many churches because it is the Church that has held society together these past two millennia, despite a long history of wars and rumors of wars. Jesus Christ is not coming back for a beat-up, bruised, powerless Bride but for one that is “without spot or blemish” (Ephesians 5:27) and He is coming back—soon! The question we must answer is: will we be part of it or will our lot be with those whom Jesus describes in the last days in Luke 13 and Matthew 24 as those who fall away because their love for Him has grown cold and lifeless? As deception and corruption sweeps across the nations at this time and war breaks out in Israel; as floods surge across many nations and countries; and earthquakes destroy thousands of homes and kill many people, let all of us who claim salvation through Christ alone fall on our knees and cry out to God for the greatest revival the world has ever seen and let it begin in me and you and you.

#christianity

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orionsangel86 · 3 years

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SPN Conspiracies - Applying Logic to Chaos

Its been over 2 months now since the Supernatural finale aired. I am still so angry, hurt, and confused by it and I don’t think I will ever get closure unless someone like Andrew Dabb, or Jensen Ackles, actually opens up and gives us an explanation that makes sense.

What annoys me most right now is people trying to gaslight fans into believing that we should accept the narrative we have been given at face value: That the finale was always planned to be that way, that Destiel was never on the cards, that there was no Network interference, that the only changes made were due to covid and were minor at best.

This harmful gaslighting is FALSE.

NO ONE KNOWS THE TRUTH OF WHAT HAPPENED.

Look, I don’t agree with some of the crazier conspiracy theories. I don’t believe that there was some huge campaign among the CW Network execs to remove anything remotely gay out of homophobia. I don’t believe that the finale was changed because of some desire to make it into a Walker promo. I don’t believe that the finale was really bad on purpose in protest by Dabb for not getting to do an ending he truly wanted. I don’t believe that Dabb left us smart fans a bunch of secret messages in the finale to hint that he was on our side all along and that everything was fake.

I do, however, believe that all of these conspiracy theories have some elements in them that are plausible. At least, more plausible than the bullshit narrative mentioned above that some people are pushing in some desperate attempt to defend the Network (which imo is really strange behaviour anyway - why would anyone care about a TV network with a history of terrible behaviour?!?)

We have facts, based on information provided before the covid lockdown, which for some reason, people like Misha have since backpeddled on. So let me try to outline some of the information that makes no sense.

Below the cut I go on a deep dive into the conspiracies and statements I have heard about the SPN finale and try to make some sense of this whole fucked up situation. It gets long.

1. “Cas was never gonna be in the finale”.

False: We have many fan accounts of Misha confirming that he was filming the finale. We have video evidence of Misha confirming he was going back to film the finale after the lockdown. We have confirmation from fans in Misha M&Gs from March that he had about 5 days of filming left.

We also had fan accounts of discussions with Alex Calvert (I think) where he confirmed the final shot of the final episode was all four of them though I would LOVE if someone can find a source for this.

2. Okay, Misha was gonna be in the finale, but only as Jimmy Novak

False: I heavily side eyed Misha when he said this. But I think I can come up with a plausible explanation for it. Per above, Misha was supposed to film for 5 days. This does not align with the half a day he described of filming as Jimmy Novak. My own belief is that after Cas was cut from the finale (for whatever reason we don’t know) someone (probably Jensen Ackles) put up a fight and complained that Misha should be there for the final episode. The writers probably tried to come up with a way to bring Misha back without having to deal with Cas, and pitched the idea of Jimmy Novak being in Heaven. Misha, obviously annoyed about this, turned this stupid pitch down.

3. Destiel was never a thing, never planned, never part of Dabb’s ending. Bobo and Misha pushing the confession was the part of the season that was Wrong.

False: We have a SPN writer on record saying that Castiel’s confession was the first thing written for Season 15 when the writers returned to the writers room. If it wasn’t planned, why was it the first thing written, why does it align so well with the rest of season 15? Look I know some people either a. hate destiel and refuse to see it even if it slaps them in the face, or b. have major heteronormative goggles on, or c. are just homophobes in denial, but 15x18 fits in perfectly with the narrative of season 15. Everything Cas says, everything that happened in that scene was so in character it just works. It fit. If you just rewatch the season whilst applying some critical thinking skills and pay attention to the narrative and character arcs, trust me, the confession fits in with pretty much every other plot point, and character story in the season.

Also: We have known for a while that the network did market research into Destiel, wanting to know if it would go down well or not. They were well aware of its popularity and considering it. Where would this have come from if not pitched by the showrunner? Dabb must have at least been considering it. If you take all of Dabb era into consideration, starting with mid season 11, all the way through the season 12 build up, season 13 grief arc, and then Bobo’s Destiel break up arc in late season 14, early season 15, it is clear that there was some toing and froing on the issue of Destiel, but ultimately, I still believe that Dabb was on board. He wrote 13x01 for christs sake. No way he wasn’t taking it seriously.

4. It’s always been about the brothers. The finale just stays true to what Supernatural is all about.

*rubs temples* Fundamentally FALSE: The show has time and again reasserted the message of “Family don’t end with blood”, as well as the messages of AKF and YANA. Sam and Dean may be at the heart of the show, but a heart can’t exist without a body to support it. Without bones, and lungs, and blood, and muscles, and a BRAIN. The finale abandons the shows core messages. It forces the characters back into their season 1 characterisations and the whole thing becomes hollow and souless. But I’m not here to complain, I’m here to lay down the facts. Dean’s heaven was supposed to be surrounded by loved ones right? We know OG Charlie Bradbury was gonna be in his Heaven, we also know CAS was gonna be in there. So this idea that the finale as it currently stands was how it was meant to be is wrong. Dean was supposed to die and reunite with his found family and loved ones. This alone would have been a far better ending than the one given. Do I think this was solely a covid issue? Fuck no.

The randoms that WERE in the finale are proof alone that they could have got people in and quarantined. We also have several actors on record saying that they WOULD have quarantined for the finale had they been asked to return but they WEREN’T.

Lies have been told. Samantha Ferris and Chad Limberg have confirmed that we have been lied to about the original plans for the finale.

This alone is proof enough that there is more plausibility in some of the conspiracy theories than any bullshit narrative some people are pushing in defence of the barbaric mess of a finale we were given.

So lets address some of the conspiracy theories now:

Conspiracy No.1: The CW Network reviewed Supernatural during the covid break, and due to homophobia, refused any Destiel arc that wasn’t already filmed, shut down any potential reciprocation from Dean, and forced Dabb to change his finale.

I don’t think this is entirely what happened. But I do think it is very strange how there is a such a huge disconnect particularly in Dean’s characterisations between what had come before the lockdown, and what came after. The one fact we have here, and please someone provide a source if you can find it because I know there is one, the finale script was still going through changes up to only 2 weeks before it was filmed. We know that there was some weird editing in 15x18 (which was still in post and uncompleted before lockdown) and we know from Jensen’s own mouth that there was more to the confession scene on Dean’s side that was cut. We also know that this isn’t the first time that Destiel heavy moments have been changed in post - the prayer scene is another big scene that went through a lot of changes and Bobo fought to have his script play out the way he wanted it.

There are certain things that in my own opinions, are basically true of SPN which I have put together from years of keeping one eye on the writers room, the network, and all the various comments made. My opinion is this:

The writers room has always been split on Destiel. Some writers heavily supported making it canon, others did not care, or were against it.

The Network considered it over the course of several years, did market research, green lit it, then changed their minds, possibly several times over the course of Dabb’s era. Destiel was pitched to the Network early in Dabb era.

The crew on set were also split. Some people heavily supported it, and worked to assist the reading, whereas others did not care/did not support it. The same can be said for the editing room.

Bob Singer supported the subtextual homoeroticism, but never supported bringing it into text (this is an opinion, but I think it aligns with everything we know about him.) IMO Bob Singer also supported subtextual homoeroticism between Sam and Dean - the guy is gross is what I’m saying. He isn’t exactly a progressive person.

Fun fact - a while back our old enemy Sera Gamble went on a Twitter rant about writers rooms and the ways a script goes through changes. I don’t think this was in relation to the SPN finale wank but she basically inadvertantly confirmed that the Network can step in and make sweeping changes to a script if they want to and if they decide they don’t like the direction of a story. Sera Gamble confirmed this as a fact.

Now. I’m not saying that this is what the CW did with Destiel. I just think its very strange how pre lockdown, the last thing filmed is a heartfelt homosexual declaration of love between Dean and Cas, and we have a finale script that Misha had not seen, but knew that he was meant to film as Castiel for 5 days (5 days on set is over half of an episode as far as I know). Then all of a sudden, Covid happens, and Cas is cut from the finale completely, a desperate attempt to bring Misha back only as Jimmy Novak takes place, which Misha rightly refuses, leading to a finale which makes zero sense narratively and appears in every way completely and utterly butchered.

The only explanation provided by anyone involved is that Covid meant changes had to happen - but that covid didn’t change the actual story at all.

But this makes no sense because we know that Cas was cut from the finale. This is FACT. Do not let anyone gaslight you into thinking otherwise. Misha was preparing to quaranting to return to set as Cas post Covid, so whatever happened to cut Cas from the finale, it wasn’t Covid.

I’m gonna have to Occum’s Razor this and say that the most logical explanation here is the one that is most likely true. Someone got cold feet with the Destiel story, and to prevent any possible interpretation that included Dean reciprocating, any hints of Destiel were removed from the finale script, including Castiel’s whole appearance.

Now, this isn’t me saying I think that Dabb’s original finale was full of Destiel love confessions and a homosexual kiss or whatever, but I am asking you all to really think about it and ask yourselves WHY Cas would have been totally cut from an episode he was supposed to be in at LEAST half of?

We will probably never know the real reason Cas was cut, but he WAS cut. I’m not saying it was all homophobia, but some fuckery went down.

Conspiracy No. 2: The CW Network changed the finale to make it into a Walker promo because they only cared about raising up Jared and not Jensen and Misha as they were losing them anyway.

I don’t agree with this in terms of the finale being butchered solely to make it into a Walker promo. There are however moments in the finale that are clearly supposed to be Walker Easter Eggs and added to excite fans of Jared/Sam in particular such as Sam’s gratuitous and unnecessary topless scene, as well as the call on the “case in Austin”.

I will take this moment to say something pretty damn controversial though.

*Deep breath*

The fact is, Dean Winchester has been the “lead” character of Supernatural’s narrative for years now, with Sam often being sidelined and not given great storylines himself. Even in Season 15, right up until the finale, I myself felt bad for Sam sometimes because so much of this show has become all about Dean. Jensen Ackles is clearly the better actor when it comes to emotional story arcs, so the emotional heart of the story has most often leant on him.

So you can understand my confusion, when this is turned on its head in the final episode, to make Sam carry all the emotional weight, and have the most lines/screentime, and story resolution (even if his story resolution was just as crappy as Dean’s).

If we pretend that Destiel is not a thing, and ignore Cas’s confession, the story change in the finale from Dean focus to Sam focus is still rather suspicious. Again, I’m not saying I completely approve of or agree to the conspiracy theory that Walker influenced the butchering of the script, but I can believe that perhaps a note went down from the CW to someone like Bob Singer, to emphasise Sam/Jared more than they perhaps would normally, because the CW wanted to shine the spotlight on Jared to raise excitement for Walker.

I can also believe this note might have said something like “we wanna cater to fans of Sam/Jared the most - don’t do anything to piss them off.” but now I am getting into my own conspiracy theories so by all means dismiss this as me being bitter.

Conspiracy No.3: Dabb purposely made it bad, as a secret message to Destiel fans that he had been silenced, by layering meta clues into the episode that he knew fans would notice.

I doubt this one is true. Though some of the theories are quite compelling. The old vampire silent movie theory for instance starts off quite well, but loses me the moment it brings up Urban Dictionary slang.

Sometimes I have just had to accept that Supernatural is a bad show that is sometimes accidentally a masterpiece. However, some writers really did go That Deep with their stories - anything by Ben Edlund or Steve Yockey for instance, their episodes are meta masterpieces with a hundred different layers of beautiful subtextual storytelling and are a joy to analyse. Bobo Berens has certainly done some A+++ work especially now we KNOW that he was working hard all this time to bring Destiel to canon text (so any analysis of Destiel in the subtext in his episodes is very accurate). There have been many other key elements analysed over the years which have been confirmed true. Cas’s death in Season 12, Dean’s time as a demon in season 10, Season 11 ending in unity of dark and light, these were all plot points predicted by meta writers just by analysing the narrative. Sometimes the writers really have been very smart and they do add things to the show to aid us in our meta.

Richard Speight Jr for instance, confirmed that SPN has a visual library that the production team use to give clues and hints in the narrative. Pizza, for example, always means a lie has been told. Whenever Pizza is being eaten or even just mentioned on screen, there is dishonesty in that particular moment.

The beers also have a very specific message and the one thing I can’t let go about the finale, was that Dean was drinking El Sol beer. The beer his dad gave him, that was terrible.

El Sol has been used in the show to indicate something being wrong, a fake reality, or another lie, for the longest time. It is the beer of deception.

The fact that in the final episode of this entire show, Dean is in Heaven, supposedly at peace, and then he gets handed an El Sol beer to drink? Thats a HUGE red flag for any meta writer watching who can read SPNs visual library.

If they had given him the Margiekugel beer of family then it would make sense. Dean is in Heaven, with Bobby, his family, at peace. Margiekugel should have been the beer of choice. But nope. El Sol. Something is wrong.

I don’t know if it was Dabb, or Singer, or some disgruntled ADs and crew members who added these elements into the finale, but their very presence confirms some message of Wrongness.

I could go into a huge rant about Vampire Mimes not making sense and the very glaringly obvious symbolism of cutting out peoples tongues too, but that is high school level film analysis. It’s obvious. It means to silence someone. There is validity in interpreting this as Dabb saying he was silenced. I don’t know how true it is, but i can’t 100% dismiss it, because as I said, this is high school analysis levels of obvious subtextual storytelling.

So in summary, whilst I don’t think that Dabb intentionally went out of his way to sabotage his own script, and leave a breadtrail of secret messages for savvy fans to put together to confirm that he was silenced by an evil network into not getting what he wanted... I do think that there is validity in questioning these odd choices for the finale. Cutting out tongues? Vampire Mimes? El Sol beer?

The evidence is somewhat compelling is all I’m saying. I don’t believe the full conspiracy theories, but as I have said many times before, some fuckery went down.

So What Do I Believe?

That some fuckery went down and whatever company line they are pushing is bullshit.

I believe that the original script included Cas (since thats fact). I believe that the original script probably always had Dean dying on a vampire hunt (due to Jensen’s issues with it and in particular, his sarcastic comments about vampires in the past year or so which in hindsight are hilarious and prove he never really came to terms with Dean’s idiotic death). I believe Dabb’s original script was some less crappy version of what we got, which potentially included showing Jack rescuing Cas from the Empty and resolving the outstanding Empty plot points (potentially this was actually a 15x19 plot since Mark P commented that his final scenes were supposed to be with Jack and Cas), had Cas reunite with Dean in Heaven and had them have a discussion about Cas’s confession. I believe that there was probably a lot of back and forth over how to handle that with some people wanting Dean to obviously reciprocate and others believing they should keep it ambiguous. I believe that Dean and Cas would have reunited with Charlie Bradbury, and Bobby Singer, and possibly others (though if this was the case it must have been very early on since no one ever looped in Sam Ferris, Chad Linberg or any other Roadhouse people).

I believe that Sam’s ending probably didn’t change much, but I do feel that initially they were planning on him ending up with Eileen, because it is the only thing that narratively makes sense. Cutting Eileen and giving him a blurry wife is something I won’t ever understand and Jared’s bullshit explanations are quite clearly pulled out of his ass to appease bronly types. I believe the reunion on the bridge would have included Cas and Jack, with a final shot of all four of them together, at peace (as this aligns with Alex’s comments from around a year or so ago that the final shot was all four of them). (I also am not sure it was always supposed to be on a bridge since the foreshadowing in an earlier episode showed Dean, Cas and Sam all in the Roadhouse together).

I believe that script went through countless changes and redrafts, and not even production people or the types that some fandom people claim as their “sources” would even have seen those early scripts, since even Misha never saw it. I believe that these rumours of Dabb never having Cas in his finale and ignoring all Destiel elements likely come from people who only saw later versions, weren’t party to network discussions and felt bitter about the final scripts they did see (being the crappy butchered one that was ultimately filmed). Those “sources” are now spreading rumours to discredit Dabb.

I obviously believe Dabb is a weak ass pushover who either didn’t care enough to fight back, or gave up since he’s been stuck with fucking Bob Singer on his back for years, but I will NEVER believe he didn’t care about the DeanCas love story, because he has been one of the few writers who has championed for it for years. You can’t look back at Dabb’s episodes in earlier seasons and claim he didn’t care. Dabb was a writer whose creative ideas were beaten out of him by an unforgiving Network only concerned about where their future money was coming from. Do I think he gave up too easily? Yes. But I also have one other huge reason for not believing the bullshit about Dabb being this anti-Destiel villain.

Bobo. Because if Bobo truly believed Dabb was gonna fuck that up at the end, I don’t think he would have given us Cas’s love confession to begin with. If he had known it was gonna end like that, I think he would have reconsidered, because had Cas not confessed his love, I don’t think he would have been cut from the finale. Bobo - a gay man, would not have wanted such a horrible message for queer fans being put across in the show he worked so hard on. He started writing that confession scene the day they returned to the writers room. Dabb would have been there, would have seen what he was writing, probably discussed it with him, after all, other episodes were written with the confession in mind. No way was Dabb planning to fuck up the ending knowing what Bobo was giving us. Nope.

Something went very wrong over lockdown. Someone, somewhere up the chain of power caught wind of the confession scene in 15x18, realised that it demanded a resolution which would make Dean Winchester, their protagonist, queer, and pulled the plug. I believe this did not come from a place of homophobia, but of bad business sense.

The CW is constantly trying to win the approval and attention of the one demo group that they seem to fail at getting the most: young straight men. Supernatural was one of their only remaining shows that appeals to young straight men, and Dean Winchester is more often than not the fave character of those young straight men who project onto him. Making Dean Winchester, established Han Solo of Supernatural, queer and in love with his best friend in the finale would have come across as a betrayal to those young straight men. The CW probably feared they would lose that demo group for good, and with a show like Walker starting soon with Jared at the helm, they couldn’t take the risk.

Hence there was probably a whole bunch of back and forth script redrafts with the Network, with Dabb and Singer fighting to make a finale that would appeal to everyone. There was most likely no way that they could bring Cas back without addressing what had already been filmed, because any resolution of that plot would either a. make Dean queer, or b. address it awkwardly by having Dean reject Cas (this storyline would probably have been slammed by critics worse than the finale because it meant addressing it. It might have got the attention of LGBTQ activist groups and caused a bigger shitstorm than what we got). The best option was therefore C. Bury it and Cas, pretend it never happened. Never address it again and distract Dean with other things. Hope that Destiel fans will accept no answer from Dean as ambiguous enough to imagine a future reunion rather than shutting it down with a rejection, and still keep hold of the blissfully ignorant heteronormative straight boys so they can carry over to Walker when it starts.

I also believe (controversially probably) that there was concern that any resolution of Dean and Cas would have overshadowed network darling Jared Padalecki. If Dean and Cas had come together in the finale, with a very clearly textual homosexual reunion, then that would have been all anyone talked about. The reviewers, the critics, the audience, everyone. It would have been nothing but Dean and Cas (and look, if they did think this, they were right, Destiel trending over the US ELECTION.)

So what is the network to do, when they are losing the two stars who would get the most attention from this storyline? The one star they were holding on to and getting his own show, relegated to third place in the finale of the show where he was first on the call sheet? Nope. That’s pretty unacceptable. Even without Walker I can imagine people at all levels side eyeing the Destiel thing over the years. This IS a show about two brothers, and their relationship should be the core relationship, we can’t have one brother pushed aside in the finale to make way for a queer relationship that will get all the attention instead. It was never gonna get approved for this reason ALONE.

At the end of the day, if I look at it from a business perspective, it makes far more sense that the CW shut down Destiel, rather than “oh Dabb never cared and ruined it because he’s an idiot.” The writers cared, and had built on that story over years. But their mistake was leaving any Destiel resolution to the finale. If they had instead gone and got Dean and Cas together in early season 15, then they could have ended it in a way that satisfied everyone. Destiel wouldn’t have threatened pulling focus away from Sam and Dean, and the show could have gone out on a high.

When I lay out all the conspiracy theories, and line them up next to the cold hard facts, the conspiracy theories in some way or another, make more sense. To believe the company line, the narrative we have been fed, is to ignore your own eyes, ears, and memories pre March 2020.

All I’m asking people to do is take a look at the show, the narrative presented in the show, and the information presented above. I’m not telling you to believe what I’ve written here, half of which is just my own opinion. I’m asking you to ask yourselves if it makes sense to you. Because it sure as hell doesn’t make sense to me. I don’t think I’ll ever be satisfied.

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animebw · 2 years

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Reading One Piece: Chapters 764-765

-”All an act.” “LIAR! Your shoulder’s burning!” skdfhsdkhf oh my god I love him

-I’m gonna have to disagree with Corazon’s assessment of his brother. Doflamingo was a rotten kid, sure, but considering the environment he was born into, can you blame him? If anything, it’s a miracle that Corazon and his father didn’t turn out like the rest of the Dragons.

-”And Vergo, the previous Corazon.” Huh... so Corazon isn’t a name, it’s a title? Fascinating.

-Fuckin... we still know so little about what D means, but every answer just raises further questions. If the people of D are “enemies of the gods,” does that mean they used to be some kind of secret society opposed to the Celestial Dragons? Who started their lineage? How is it passed down?

-”I realized I owed you for staying quiet two years ago. So now we’re even.” aaaaaaaaaw

-Shit, Corazon’s working with the Navy? I’m suddenly a lot more conflicted.

-Fucking hell. All this time and not a single doctor even bothers trying to save him. No wonder Corazon’s so furious. He’s just been forcing Law to relive his worst demons over and over again, with nothing to show for it.

-”The pain was all yours, dear boy!” Ow.

-”I mean, I’d hate to lay suspicion on my own brother.” Christ, I can almost taste the rage behind his smile. And Corazon’s about to walk right into his trap.

-And now the pieces are falling into place. Doflamingo wanted his own brother to sacrifice himself to grant him eternal life with the Op Op fruit. But he didn’t know that Corazon already had a devilfruit power, so his plan was doomed from the beginning. So once Law eats the fruit and refuses to use its immortality powers, Doflamingo’s goal was rendered completely unreachable. No wonder he bears such a grudge.

-Listen I know Law’s not gonna die in this flashback but christ almighty this is tense.

-Wow, what an amazing moment. Corazon knows full well how much the government is to blame for all this mess, and he’ll be damned before he ever becomes a true navy man.

-Hahahaha, Corazon’s power in action is great. Silence is such a powerful tool if you know how to use it.

#anime #the anime binge-watcher #tabw #one piece #one piece manga #luffy #monkey d luffy #zoro #zoro roronoa #nami #usopp #sanji #tony tony chopper #chopper #nico robin #franky #brook

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kuroopaisen · 3 years

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tiny love || 12

➵ as tooru’s younger sister, falling in love with iwaizumi hajime is easy. your feelings aren’t ignored, either. this time, you both decided to tell your brother the truth.

warnings: f!reader

wc: 1k

m.list | ch. 11 ↞ ch. 12 ↠ ch. 13

Last time…

“Hey, Oikawa?” Iwaizumi swallowed, his face a tad paler than usual. “We have something to tell you.”

✧ ✧ ✧

“We?” Tooru chuckled, a familiar playful lilt to his voice.

“Hello,” you piped up before he had time to tease Iwaizumi about who ‘we’ might be.

“Ah!” The phone burst with joy, a pleasant tinkle to the way Oikawa called your name.

Your stomach plummeted.

“So, what’s up?” Tooru sighed. “You’re not about to tell me that you need to borrow some money, are you?”

“When have I ever asked you for money?” You grumbled, your free hand teasing the fabric of your pyjama shorts between your fingers. God, it’s too normal; a typical back-and-forth between siblings.

It was a strange contrast to the dread settling in your gut.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Tooru chirped. Blissfully unaware. You were almost envious.

You braved a glance at Iwaizumi. His jaw was taut, his lips pressed thin.

You tightened your grip around his hand, as if you were trying to instil a modicum of strength into him.

“Yeah, well…” Iwaizumi cleared his throat, blinking a little faster than usual.

“You sound so grim,” Tooru chuckles. “Come on then, out with it.”

Iwaizumi’s face turned a shade paler, his jaw taut.

This was hard for him. That much was obvious.

But he was trying.

And it was as hard for him as it was for you.

Everything within you stung, a tempest of nettles and thorns that refused to give you any respite. You’d been doing this – whatever this was, whatever Iwaizumi was ready to call this fondness between you – behind Tooru’s back for so long now.

High school. Years of bitterness. Downplaying just how much you hurt in order to maintain peace. A peace which you’d shattered with your own hands, on your own volition, when you had every opportunity not to.

But what’s done is done. You weren’t about to make the same mistakes you had in high school.

You had to tell him. You had to assert yourself, to show him that you matter too. That Iwaizumi meant something to you. That you meant something to him.

“We’re dating.”

It blurted out of your mouth with all the clumsiness and inelegance of a newborn foal. You just wanted to get it out, to shift the horrible tightness in your chest, to breathe out the burning in your gut.

Deathly silence followed.

It was worse than you’d feared.

Tooru was never silent. Whenever he was, it meant something bad had happened. Stagnation. Rejection. Fury.

Those were the only things that could render Tooru silent.

You wondered if you should fill the space with something else. But, there was nothing to say.

All this tension, all this discontent, stripped naked in two words.

“Is this a joke?” Tooru’s voice was a razor, thin and sharp and cold. “Because it’s not very funny.”

Your brother had never spoken to you like this. You’ve heard him talk about other people in this voice – a certain Kageyama Tobio comes to mind – but the ire had never been directed at you before.

You bit the inside of your cheek.

God, you just wished you wouldn’t take it all so seriously – why did this matter so much? Why was it causing you so much stress? What was wrong with y—

“It’s not,” Iwaizumi said. “She’s telling you the truth.”

He no longer had a ghostly pallor. A familiar crease lined his brow. You realised, not without a hint of irony, that it’s the look he always had in the middle of one of his high school games. That was when his tenacity always shone through the most.

“I asked you to keep an eye on her, not fuck her,” Tooru hissed.

It was like everything you knew gave way beneath you, like the thin ground above a pit in one of those adventure movies.

You weren’t you anymore. You were her. Not a person on your own accord, but something to be coddled, ‘protected’, prevented from making their own decisions.

A grievance.

“That’s out of line!” Iwaizumi’s voice boomed, speckled with rage. “Don’t talk about your sister like that!”

“Don’t tell me how I can or can’t talk about her!” Tooru’s voice was just as sharp, just as blue-hot. “She’s my sister, you, you—”

“I’m right here, Tooru,” you hissed, the corners of your eyes beginning to sting. What were you, a doll? A pet? A cup of fine china that had to be handled with care?

You were an adult, a woman, and Tooru needed to—

“You stay out of this,” he barked.

“No!”

The word scratched against your throat like gravel. You sounded like a petulant child – something you’d told yourself to avoid in this call.

But that was all Tooru saw you as – a child who couldn’t make her own choices. A child that needed to be protected.

The horrible realisation comes to you with an underwhelming mundanity.

Tooru didn’t see you as an individual. Not in the way you wanted him to. You were just his baby sister, silly and stupid and easily misled.

“Don’t talk about me like that!” Everything you wanted to say was gone, no matter how desperately you tried to wrangle them. Any well-thought out defence, or explanation, or appeal to his reason… all of it, gone.

A pressure was building in your head, angry and persistent. You felt like you were going to explode, spluttering out of your seams. It was all slipping away from you too fast, running like water through your hands.

“I don’t want to hear anything out of you!” Tooru yelled. “You should know better than to fuck around with my friends!”

“My feelings matter too!” You shouted back. “You don’t own Hajime—”

“Oh, Hajime?” Tooru scoffed. “Jesus Christ…”

Your pulse pounded in your ears, every inch of your skin burning. This was the worst possible outcome. Nothing could’ve prepared you for this. Nothing at all.

“You don’t get to control who I do and don’t date,” you said, a waver running through your words.

“You know what? I’m not having this conversation.”

“Tooru—”

The end tone blared out its steady march.

He was gone.

It was over before it’d even begun.

The silence enveloped you like a shroud, dank and oppressive and suffocating.

Tooru hadn’t even given you a chance to explain yourself. Not properly. He’d just shouted.

He’d never shouted at you before – not properly. Sure, there were petty fights over meaningless things neither of you could remember, but there’d never been a true falling out.

But there you sat, an ache in your chest that felt wholly unfamiliar. A new kind of aloneness, an isolation wholly different from anything you’d felt before. It wasn’t like getting your heart broken by the boy you had a ridiculously big crush on. It wasn’t like moving to a whole new country, throwing yourself into a perilous unknown.

No, this was a new pain, one you didn’t know how to name. The insurmountable rift had grown even wider. Now there was no chance of reaching him.

Your chest ached with how tight it was, your eyes stung with a startling ferociousness, your head pounded to the rhythm of your racing thoughts—

“Hajime—”

His arms encircled you as you croaked out his name. He pulled you towards him and pressed a firm kiss to your forehead. You let yourself fall against his chest, your cheek coming to rest against the soft cotton of his shirt. He was warm, like he always was. Firm, warm, steady.

He was safe. You were safe.

You let the tears bubble out. You needed it. All that fretting, all that waiting, only for it to turn out like this? Maybe you were just the punching bag in some great cosmic joke. Something so trivial, so human, causing this much strife…

For the first time in your life, you envied all those people out there with distant relationships with their siblings – even the ones who regarded their blood relatives with contempt. At least, then, it wouldn’t feel so much like you were the one holding the knife. Maybe then, you wouldn’t be tearing yourself apart from the inside out over something you shouldn’t even feel guilty about in the first place.

God, this was so stupid. And Hajime… poor Hajime…

Iwaizumi didn’t say anything. But you knew. You knew he would hold good on his promise. He wouldn’t run away this time.

He hadn’t.

Your heart was breaking all over again.

But this time, you weren’t alone.

#iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi hajime x reader #iwaizumi x you #iwaizumi hajime x you #iwaizumi hajime #haikyuu x reader #tiny love #I'M SO DUMB I HAD THIS DOWN AS CH 11 BUT IT'S 12

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boop-le-snoot · 3 years

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BUTT-DIAL? NO, BOOTY CALL | tony stark

explicit, 5,4k words. wrong number text, family shame & wedding drama that isn't even his and a ruined first date. despite the implications of the situation, both reader and tony are very entertained. meet-ugly series, part three.

[no y/n, no "you", no name, no reader description - race/age/body type neutral, she/her pronouns]

💚 masterlist ☀️ taglist & faq 💚

Another sunny day spent wasted in a conference room full of boring, old, conceited chairmen. Tony Stark vehemently refused to commiserate with them, their boring speeches and blunt, straightforward thinking. Sitting through a meeting was like walking on nails barefoot: painful, pointless. Mind-numbing.

His phone beeped loudly and he reached into his pocket, pretending to not see Pepper's disapproving look. Both of them knew he was hoping for a sudden Assemble call - that would surely get him out of the meeting - but as much as he hoped, they never struck at the right time.

Except, this time it wasn't a call for assistance, and neither it was an automated spam message with Pizza Hut promo codes. Tony's eyebrows drew close and his lips upturned as he read and re-read the obvious rant written on his screen, typing up his answer before he managed to resist the morbid curiosity that was fueled by his boredom.

Whoever it was, they were justifiably angry and the whole situation was almost too comical to be true, except he'd known people exactly like the runaway bride, selfish, greedy and stupid. He totally understood the woman's desire to just go and load up on tequila shots somewhere - so he bid her a haste farewell, all the while snickering to himself.

"It's Rogers," Tony offered in the way of explanation to a glaring Pepper, locking his phone away and settling in to continue pretending he was listening as another old, crusty white man offered his input on topics he was too much of a dinosaur to even really know about.

He couldn't stop thinking about the incident over the days, the story making him snort more times than he could count as the memory randomly crossed his mind in the lab, at the coffee pot or during dinner. So when a message came through from that very same number, the smirk snuck up onto his face before he even read its contents.

A brief crash course in memes from Parker had turned out to be more useful than ever. Irritating Rogers with pictures got old very fast, however, in moments Tony got rendered speechless they proved to be the perfect substitute for trying to articulate all his thoughts on the matter.

Celebrity appearance, she said? More likely than one would think. The engineer had nearly doubled over in a fit of laughter when she'd texted him that; obviously, the woman had no clue who she was texting with and he decided to further indulge in his curiosity by asking for her name: Friday did the rest.

A phone number and a name, ten minutes, and all her social media were free for him to stalk. Investigate- uh, observe. With little effort, Tony found both her and her brother, the unlucky groom, and the runaway bride and even her step-dad. On paper, they all looked like average middle-class families. Nothing seemed amiss.

It didn't mean anything, but Tony caught himself thinking about the woman. Perhaps it might have been the mischievous gleem in her eyes that was easily spotted in every picture or perhaps the raunchy sense of humour not much different from his own. Pretty, witty and smart - what's there not to like?

"So that's why you've been going around, smiling like a middle-schooler with a crush," Natasha's voice whisper-shouted in Tony's ear as the spy discreetly peered over his shoulder into his phone. He had the chat pulled up, debating on starting a casual conversation-

"Jesus Christ, Romanoff, somebody needs to put a bell on you," Tony snapped, startled, pressing the button to lock his phone immediately.

"Uhuh," The redhead replied, side-eyeing a snickering Barnes. "Who is she?"

Tony rubbed his face, feeling the beginnings of a blush starting to creep in. He felt like he was caught doing something he wasn't supposed to and the rest of the team acting like children wasn't helping the matter. "I got a butt-dial text about some wedding drama. Some chick's brother's fiance was fucking her own stepdad and ditched the wedding for her old man."

Stunned silence settled briefly into the room as Romanoff's eyes widened and Barnes choked on his orange juice. Serves him right, Tony thought, and continued his coffee-making process in quiet irritation.

"Wait, wait, hold on," Wilson half-laughed half-yelled. "You gotta spill the tea, man, this sounds too good to be true. Stories like that just don't fall into your hands."

With a sigh, he recounted the woman's story and read the texts aloud, silencing his snickering enough to be able to keep a straight face - but not for long, Rogers decided it was the time for another one of his Captain America Is Disappointed In You speeches and Tony himself couldn't even disagree.

Now that he thought about it, he came off as a kind of asshole. She and her family was going through something traumatic and he went and treated it like free entertainment. Which, to be fair, it was, but she didn't deserve to be treated like a circus clown. She actually seemed like a good sister and friend.

"Just text her," Natasha rolled her eyes at him, grabbing the coffee pot out of his frozen hand. "You're not Steve, you can keep a decent conversation via text."

Being compared to Steve and his pre-historic messaging habits really did a number on Tony's ego; the eyeroll he gave Romanoff was truly out of this world, all but teleporting him to his lab where he tried to find a way to approach the woman without coming off as incredibly creepy, as if the fact that he'd stalked her on social media didn't already put him firmly into the weirdo category.

Most likely, Tony would have spent many many days on overthinking before just grabbing one of his suits to make a truly impressive landing on her small balcony downtown; thankfully, fate had intervened and saved him from making another epic mistake. He'd made a note to ask Thor about it sometime, settling down with his tablet and popcorn bowl to watch TV on the team's movie night.

Or, more precisely, Tony settled in to watch the drama unfold as the various members of the team fought tooth and nail for the film that they wanted to watch. He never cared about it much, dozing off halfway through most of them - his teammates had the worst taste in movies - so he didn't bother joining the scuffle except when it was Peter's turn to pick. For obvious reasons.

"If you can't decide I'm gonna have someone else pick a movie," Natasha rolled her eyes, equally fed up with fully grown adults acting like spoiled toddlers.

With a stutter of his breath, Tony's hand reached for his phone as he had an Idea.

Seconds tickled as the "typing..." bubble appeared and disappeared multiple times. She must think he's just a thirsty frat boy; Tony's brow furrowed, but the curiosity was far too strong in him. Something about her vibe, her feisty nature captivated him and kept him thinking about her.

The agreement came as a surprise. In the two minutes the woman had spent thinking up her answer, Tony prepared himself to be rebuffed gently, or, worst case, be called a creep. But no - she agreed, but not before vehemently insisting that if he would end up being a creepy serial killer, she would haunt his ass for the remainder of his life.

Friday couldn't come soon enough. Tony spent most of the day loitering between his lab and the penthouse, glancing at his phone every now and then to make sure she wouldn't cancel on him last minute. The engineer wanted to see the witty, no-filter-having woman in the flesh.

And see her, he did. He'd pulled up in front of the hole-in-the wall Ramen&Bar place Clint had been raving about weeks prior - contrary to popular belief, Tony was perfectly fine with going to places that didn't have Michelin stars - and leaned against the door of his Audi R8, eyes immediately taking note of the figure calmly walking down the street, head tilted down where she was typing up a reply to him.

Tony smirked as she lifted her face up to see him, mouth immediately falling open. The shock was obvious; it lasted mere seconds until her shoulders dropped and she sighed almost... In disappointment. He frowned.

"I jinxed it, didn't I? Here's my celebrity appearance," The laugh was a little nervous and quite sardonic. "Hi, Tony, nice to finally see you."

He smiled, unsure, quipping back easily. "Let's face it, I'm not the worst famous Tony out there." Opening the door of the building for the woman, she stepped in eagerly enough, eyes immediately falling on the bartender and the few dimly lit tables in the back.

"Not by any means," She turned towards him, walking backwards. Tony met her stare; it was just like he'd imagined it to be, curious, mischievous and a little daring. She didn't even attempt to play subtle, raking over him from head to toe. "Not at all, I think," She gave another teasing smile, finally turning around, addressing the bartender and rattling off her order without as much as looking at the menu.

Tony couldn't stop staring. He was aware it was creepy, she was aware of his clever brown eyes barely paying attention to their surroundings or the beer or the food. The woman just quirked an eyebrow every time she caught him. His curiosity couldn't wait any more. "Why aren't you freaking out?" He blurted out, cursing himself out almost immediately after the words left his mouth.

"My almost-sister-in-law was fucking her own stepdad," The woman deadpanned. "I ran out of fucks to give, sorry." She thoughtfully chewed her food, briefly looking to the side. "Not to sound like an asshole, but don't you have enough people fawning over you? Doesn't it get old?"

Tony nodded, choosing to stay silent on the matter besides offering an amicable, "That's valid."

The mischief lit up again in her eyes. "You look taller on TV," She snorted, immediately falling into a fit of laughter at his face full of outrage. He sputtered, muttering something about audacity of some people, which made her only laugh harder. "Here's a pro tip from my 4'11 bestie: when someone calls you short, you snarl at them and say you're fun-sized. She swears by it," The woman remarked conversationally, grinning a two hundred watt smile.

Tony was glad at least someone was enjoying their little... Date. "And you know all about fun, don't you?" He aimed for grumpy; it came out as teasing. His famous smirk made a return appearance as he watched her throat bob.

The atmosphere between them had changed at some point; the same old routine of teasing and dancing around each other, but this time, Tony all but purred in satisfaction, finally meeting someone who was an even match to his wit and charm.

"I do," She replied with that cocky confidence, her devil eyes lighting up, lingering on his face. "Got a problem with that?"

The plate was pushed away, napkin falling into the food carelessly as he gestured for the waiter to bring the check. "As a scientist, I cannot confirm whether a theory is true until I have direct evidence," The bullshit flowed easily from his mouth, but the woman appeared to be amused by it - for a change. "M'fraid I'm gonna need that evidence," His fingers drummed on the table, impatiently, inches away from her hand.

"Of course, Mr. Stark," Her voice dropped, she was fully aware of what she was doing by calling him that. That, and those deep, magnetic eyes made Tony's trousers feel a little too tight for comfort.

His phone rang loudly, dissipating the atmosphere they had created with a shrill noise. Captain Cockblock struck again.

Fumbling fingers, Tony tapped the green icon, shooting an apologetic look to the woman. "Rogers, there better be another alien invasion or I'm revoking your phone privileges," The woman chortled, taking a sip of her beer, trying hard not to seem like she was listening in and failing spectacularly at it. "Today, out of all days? Can't Strange fill in for me?" The engineer palmed his face, running a hand through his neatly done-up hair. It would be covered in soot and sweat in an hour anyways. "Fine, I'll be there in twenty minutes. Romanoff better be hauling Barton's lazy ass out of Bed-Stuy." With a frown, Tony poked the red icon and stuffed the phone back in his pocket, looking for all and all, like an angry adolescent.

The woman, however, didn't indicate any signs of displeasure. Her hand timidly reached out for his, giving it a brief squeeze. "Go, save the world, Mr. Stark," Her smile was sympathetic. They both stood up at the same time, Tony watching her incredulously as the woman untied a scrap of red fabric from around her neck and placed it around his wrist, tying the fabric with a loose but, frankly, pretty knot. "I like that bandanna, would be a shame if you didn't return it," She explained, shrugging her shoulders.

Tony snorted, fondly rolling his eyes, before beelining for the door, activating his Iron Man suit on the way out. Turning around before take off, he noticed her throw a couple of crumpled bills to the server who was too busy ogling him.

He forgot to pay for dinner, Tony realized as he made his way to the other part of the city. Well, fuck, he would definitely have to see her again.

---

An alien invasion during her first good date in ages - scribble, scribble, sigh. She couldn't do much more than that - just as she thought her string of bad luck had ended, the world turned around and flipped her a juicy bird, all but laughing straight in her face. Like that already wasn't enough, oh no, she groused as she spied the debris and random abandoned cars on her way home - it looked like some portion of the battle had been close to her home and only the sheer mental exhaustion that resulted from her life being turned upside down during the last month prevented her from having a full-on freak-out in the middle of the eerily quiet street.

Truly, the fucks she had to give had been expired.

The gloomy mood was interrupted by a cry - for help or of outrage, she didn't know, but the kindness in her, the very values she'd been raised with didn't allow her just to walk by, and with another resigned sigh, she tucked the nice blouse she'd put on for the date under her warm sweater and set off in the direction of the sound, finding the culprit in little under a couple of minutes.

Freeing the trapped civilian wasn't easy but, thankfully, neither it required super-strength or any kind of heavy machinery. The man thanked her and with him in tow, both of them set off to inspect nearby nooks and crannies. Logic won that day - if there's was one person, there could be more.

Hours later, sweaty, sore and bruised, the woman greedily chugged the water bottle someone had passed onto her as the amount of medics and firefighters had finally reached the threshold of when her help wasn't needed anymore. While her date and his colleagues fought whatever nasty that thought NYC was a sandbox battleground for their amusement, the woman found herself helping out with retrieval & evacuation of the civilians that didn't make it out of the neighborhood before the heat of the fight reached it. There were no deaths registered as of then and deep inside, she felt proud, knowing that she had contributed to the statistic at least a little.

Her phone was dying, her body was covered in dirt and scratches from head to toe and the bruises were beginning to ache. Tony's worry-worting was cute but the tiredness overcame her, making her brain sluggish and her demeanor short, so she hastily pocketed the phone, trailing over to the closest man in uniform she could spot.

"Sir?" She addressed him, eyeing the unfamiliar logo on his jacket. "Can I go, please?" She pointed to the yellow tape surrounding the makeshift medical station.

"I'm going to have to see your ID first," He replied apologetically, tapping away on his tablet.

With a sigh, she dug through her purse, giving it to him and using the brief moment of respite to smooth back her hair and dust off her clothing. There was a cloud of concrete and dirt surrounding her.

"I'm afraid I can't let you go just yet, Mr. Stark left strict instructions for you to be picked up by him personally," The agent gave the ID back with a suspicious glint in his eye.

"Oh c'mon," The annoyed whine escaped her lips before she registered it. "It was our first date," She offered to the puzzled agent, only succeeding in making him lean back and inspect her with a raised eyebrow. "Bye," She replied none too kindly, walking off to find a place to sit down.

The time passed in a strange way. The aches and pains and exhaustion made it stop, and if someone would have asked her, she wouldn't know how much of it has passed until her eyes reluctantly cracked open at the sound of a familiar voice, coming to see a pair of expensive shoes covered in dust. At least she wasn't the only one that looked like she'd taken a roll through someone's gritty attic.

"Morning, you Tasmanian Devil," Tony sounded jovial, all things considered.

"Hello to you too, Tin Can," The woman greeted him on par, without missing a beat.

"Now, now," He offered her his hand, which she took gratefully, before pulling her to her feet. "I come with peace offerings. Your building is under quarantine and I've got a perfectly good bed and a shower with thirty settings on it at my place. Whatcha say?"

She only pretended to think about it. Her reply was haste. "I don't make a habit of going into strange dudes' towers but I'll make an exception this once." A shower and a bed sounded heavenly.

Finally getting the chance to look at him, Tony appeared to be unhurt but equally exhausted and dirty. A few scrapes on his face and arms, he was missing his blazer, and had a weary tone to his face. Some parts of his Iron Suit were still on him - like the chest plate - but besides that, he was whole. The red of the bandanna she gave him was equally dirty but still neatly tied around his wrist, just like she left it.

"How's your relationship with heights?" He asked her and all she could do was blink, watching curiously as his body was enveloped by the red and gold, crawling over his skin like a swarm of shiny termites. That was all the warning she got before the metal arms - quite literally - sweeped her off her feet. "Faster this way," She could hear the nonchalant shrug in the metallic voice coming from the helmet. "Now hold on."

Awe and fear culminated inside the woman but the weariness had long since surpassed comfortable levels and all she did was give a weak nod and close her eyes as Tony lifted off, gusts of wind making her skin break out in goosebumps and her hair stand up wildly on her head. During the short trip her eyes fluttered open only once just to close back up immediately - all she saw were clouds, white and fluffy, like marshmallows, and the shining beacons of NYC skyscrapers somewhere far away.

The paralyzing anxiety fully dissipated only when her feet found purchase on the tiled floors, Tony's arms never ceasing to support her swaying frame until the breaths she took were her own and not the result of her fluttering heart and muted panic. "You with me, Wonder Woman?"

"Yes, Weird Science," She mumbled. "Thanks for the heads up," The annoyance had to find a way out and that it did.

"You're welcome," The cocky smirk returned to Tony's face as his suit receded, leaving him barefoot, dirty jeans and a torn tee. He stretched with a sweet groan, gesturing towards the door. "Friday will direct you towards the showers. Feel free to grab a t-shirt from the closet."

The woman nodded, too awestruck by the man and his hospitality, eyes darting all over the tastefully decorated room, the expensive knick-knacks scattered everywhere, the absolutely enormous sloppily made bed. Tony Stark liked to live luxuriously - even the shower was a state of the art technological wonder.

Dirty pants and dusty blouse went flying somewhere in the back of the bathroom as the woman stood up on her tippy toes, reaching for the sky, stretching her sore muscles. The glass wall of the shower had began to fog up from the hot water. The knock went barely noticed by the woman who jumped as Tony's voice startled her out of her daydream.

"Forgot I ran out of towels here..." He trailed off, voice dropping as he spotted her only in her underwear. She turned, responding with a lopsided grin, spying the stack of fluffy grey in his arms, the arc reactor in the middle of his bare chest. He smirked, "Damn. Can I join you?" Giving her what only could be described as a respectful once-over.

Tired as she was, her sense of humour and wit didn't go down for a much needed nap just yet. "I don't know, you tell me. Can you?" Turning back around, the woman made a short show of unclasping her bra and tossing it in the general vicinity of her dirty clothing pile. She'd worn a cute matching set of undies that day and the fact didn't go over Tony's head, she was sure.

The door clicked shut just as she raised her face to the stream of water, feeling calmer with each second, muscles relaxing themselves as the hot stream washed away the dirt and the dust off her body.

"And I thought this evening was ruined," Tony's voice insinuated from behind her. A hand reached for the soap, his body heat scorching compared to the steaming water. He stayed just a few inches away, enough to feel him, enough for her body to respond and crave more. "It's nice to be wrong for a change. Refreshing."

The woman hummed, reaching up to run her fingers through her wet, knotted hair. "First decent evening in ages. I wasn't gonna let some uninvited Predator knock-offs ruin it for me," She was more than a little peeved at the space invaders interrupting her nice date. Tony was a great conversationalist, it was easy to talk to him and he had a brilliant sense of humour. Not to mention the obvious, he was easy on the eyes.

"That's the spirit," The voice was closer now, almost in her ear. Even though her eyes were closed, the woman was aware he was reaching for something, letting him butt her hands out of the way to lather her hair, scrubbing at her scalp meticulously, until the sounds that left her mouth bordered on embarrassing. Once that was done, Tony moved onto her body, running his hands over her back, the outside of her hips. "M'not stepping over, am I?" He asked quietly, touch faltering every time he brushed over a scrape or a bruise.

"No, you're doing great, Tony," It wasn't exactly conventional - sharing a very intimate shower after an interrupted first date, but then again, nothing about this man was conventional and her life had already been turned upside down no less than twice recently. The woman didn't lie, the gentle, caring touch felt soothing.

Arching her back, she lifted her arms to repay him with the same, raking her fingers through his hair, leaning into the shudder that ran throughout his body. It was nice to bask in whatever they had going on, so the motion to face him was almost reluctant. Water droplets stuck to his eyelashes and his eyes were tired but not in a way that suggested he'd kick her out first chance.

Their kiss was sweet, slow, like they already were familiar with each other in a special way. The woman tugged on his lip with her teeth - such was her character - and he pressed closer to her, raising a hand to hold the side of her face. In muted curiosity, she couldn't help but wonder if there ever had been someone that waited for him once his battles were over.

Tony's eyelashes, the very same that had no business being this long on a man, fluttered against her cheek as they stood under the shower, letting water wash away the day.

"I've always wanted to kiss in the rain, like they do in the movies. This is the closest I've gotten," She whispered, gently kneading the arch of his shoulders. "Feels better than it looks, to be honest."

Tony snorted, reaching for the knob to turn it off. "Cheesy," He teased her, wrapping a warm, fluffy towel around her body. Both people made quick work of drying themselves, exiting the fogged up bathroom, making way into the bedroom, padding soft on the carpet and falling down on the bed carelessly.

"I'm the queen of cheesy one-liners," The woman raised her eyebrows, scooting under the sheets next to Tony who opened his arms wide, a smirk on his face. She didn't give him the chance to reply, slotting her lips over his instead and groaning as their heated bodies once again rested against each other.

She ran her hands over Tony's defined pecs, glossing over the arc reactor, raked nails over his tummy, eating up the sighs leaving his mouth at the gesture. He was a beautiful man, she wasn't going to lie to herself. The warmth that settled low in her belly grew, spreading throughout her limbs and temporarily overshadowing the exhaustion.

The engineer, too, was quite excited - his erection poked her hip - and content to be steered to her wishes by the hand in his hair. Groans and sighs left his moist, parted lips as his eagerness bled into his hands, grip firm and steady on the panting woman's hips.

Adrenaline did something to her body, caused it to ache sweetly, a hunger to be satisfied only by a lover's touch. And touch she did; her mouth tasted him, alternating sucking gentle marks onto his throat and nibbling on the skin stretched thinly over his collarbones. Tony's sighs grew in depth and volume with every silent action of worship.

No inch of his body was left untouched, the woman was an all-hands-on-deck kind of lover, happily making her way down until soft lips wrapped around the crown of his cock, making his hips arch into it, hands fisted in the soft white sheets. "You devil," Tony gasped out, limbs turning to jelly, watching the woman all but devour his cock.

She popped off minutely, a trail of sticky saliva running down her chin, sticking to his glistening cock. "The power of Christ compels me?" With a smirk, her tongue trailed from his balls to the very tip, paying extra attention to the frenulum, making Tony shudder and gasp out an embarrassed laugh.

"Uh-uh," Stripped of his usual snark, he was but a man at her mercy.

"It's not very compelling," The predatory stretch of her lips widened as she took mercy on him, giving his cock a few slow tugs with her hand. Her mouth, her hand and his cock were dripping. "Gonna let me do all the legwork, Mr. Stark?" She sat up straighter, inadvertently drawing his eyes to the apex of her thighs where the woman's sex glistened in the dim light, lips swollen and inviting.

It sounded like she was mocking him, teasing him, egging him into a lustful frenzy none of them had the energy for but craved anyway. Tony Stark wasn't the one to back down from a fair challenge so he relented, flipping them over with ease, landing between her spread legs, eyes drawn to the momentary bounce of her breasts. Tony wasted no time in suckling a hard nipple into his mouth, humming in response to her choked-off moan of surprise.

"Tony," Her body arched into his touch, tender skin hot under the callouses on his fingertips.

"Yes, demon, dear?" A lopsided grin and laughter in his eyes preceded the wet stripe Tony licked down to her navel. "Wasn't there something about not telling demons your name? Guess you have power over me now," He trailed off cheekily, soft breaths puffing over her mound.

The woman bit her lip, peering down to rake a hand through Tony's hair, snagging a fistful to gently steer him towards her pussy. Tony's smile was one of satisfaction as he obediently followed her silent order, nosing along the line of her cunt, dipping his tongue to run slow, sloppy lines through the soaked folds.

"Fuck," She mumbled, spreading her legs without shame. "Yeah, right there," Her fingers turned white at the agility of Tony's tongue on her clit. He was swift and relentless in pursuit of the spots that made her moan and clench around nothing. The moisture of her sex soaked his goatee but he couldn't care less.

He growled when she attempted to withdraw, wrapping his muscular arms around her thighs to keep her still for his pleasure, wringing noises that increased in volume with every stroke of his tongue on her sex.

"Tony- please, Tony, I'm gonna-" The warning was brief; her back arched as a broken moan found its way past her moist, parted lips, her pussy spasmed, dripping all over his face and the sheets.

The engineer hid his smile against her thigh, discreetly wiping the obscene amounts of moisture she produced. It wasn't very long until her hands, slightly shaky, were tugging him upwards to meet his face in a rushed, graceless kiss. There was an equal lack of finesse in the glide of his erection along her sex.

"Okay?" He mumbled into her ear, lining himself up with her fluttering cunt.

"Please," She gasped, her hands pushing his hips onto her, eagerly lifting up to accept the sweet intrusion.

There was a quiet stutter in both of their breathing, hearts thudding against their ribs as he finally bottomed out, the thickness of him nestled snugly inside the rippling muscle. The pace he started out was agonizingly slow and inexplicably sweet, neither of them wanting to end their coupling prematurely but not being able to hold back the need that consumed them both.

"Fuck, you're so good to me," Tony's mumbling was overshadowed by the slick sounds coming from the place they were joined. "Gonna fill up this pretty pussy."

The woman keened at the idea, digging her nails into his ass, pulling him further into her.

"You'd like that?" He picked up the pace, blunt tip of his cock catching up with the tail end of her previous orgasm and re-lighting the fire in her belly anew.

"Yeah, Tony, please," No trace of the previous coyness in her voice, the woman was more than ready to beg, murder and steal to feel the man come undone in her arms.

It didn't take long, not with the adrenaline making their blood sing and the chemistry they shared. The brutal pace of Tony's hips quickly grew sloppy and erratic, the tightening of her inner muscles egging him on. He chased his release with deep, powerful thrusts that had the bedsheets rustle pitifully and beads of clear swear drip down his forehead.

As soon as her body arched once more, Tony let go of his control, slotting himself deeply into her spasming heat, cock throbbing as he painted her insides white with his seed, groaning incomprehensible compliments and profanities through his teeth. Chest heaving, the engineer couldn't do much more but let himself carefully fall onto her chest, aftershocks making him twitch when the woman began running a gentle hand through his hair.

"We're doing this again," He decided, still breathless but already a step ahead. She laughed.

Tony Stark taglist: @pilloclock @mikariell95 @letsby @sleep-i-ness @toomanyrobins @mostly-marvel-musings @persephonehemingway @downeyreads @schemefrenzy @lillsxd @slothspaghettiwrites @bluecrazedandbeautiful

#bun writes #tony stark smut #tony stark fluff #tony stark x reader #tony stark x you #tony stark x y/n

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iceeckos12 · 3 years

Note

Prompt: Jongerrymartin but make it noir.

HI PIT. this was probably not what you were expecting, but hope you enjoy *jazz hands* this is current jongerry, pre-jgm

please let me know if i should tag anything!

Martin stared up at the faded gold lettering painted on the door, wiping a clammy palm against the fabric of his trousers. The other gripped his manila folder tightly, refusing to loosen his grip for even a second, not after all the trouble he’d gone through to get it.

Delano & Sims, the words read. Private Detectives.

He’d talked to one of them over the phone yesterday, a man with an achingly posh accent, who’d said to come at precisely fourteen hundred hours and not a moment later. That clipped, dry tone had almost been enough to scare him off, but...no, he needed this too much to run away.

Martin took a deep breath, and knocked.

“Come in,” a voice called, and he pushed inside.

The first thing he noticed were the swirls of cigarette smoke so thick that the weak light overhead glowed a thin silver. His eyes immediately began to water at the intensity of the smell, and he desperately wanted to bury his nose in his collar.

There was an exasperated sigh from one shrouded corner of the room, and then, “Christ—Jon, open the window, would you?”

“Oh, right, sorry,” There was a clatter as the blinds lifted, and then a solid thunk, and suddenly fresh air and natural light was pouring through the open window, throwing the room in stark relief.

“Sorry about that,” the man next to the window said, leaning heavily on a handsome wooden cane. He was just a wisp of a thing, dressed in a sweater vest like he was some sort of professional academic, with salt and pepper grey hair and dark, keen eyes. “Forgot we had someone coming.”

This must be the person I talked to over the phone, Martin realized. Sims.

“Do me a favor and try not to kill our clients, Jon.” He quickly turned to look at Delano—who else could it be?—who was stepping away from the fan now juddering to life, swirling the quickly dissipating smoke. It was almost startling how different the two partners were; where Sims was thin and short, Delano was tall and wiry, with inky black hair and cool, gunmetal eyes. The weathered leather trench coat and chunky boots had obviously seen some better days. “We need all the ones we can get.”

Martin’s face flushed as he was struck by how unfairly attractive these two people were.

“Duly noted,” Sims drawled, limping over to the heavy desk stacked high with papers. He set the cane aside and propped himself against it with a quiet sigh, then gestured toward one of the ratty looking chairs. “Take a seat, Mr. Blackwood.”

Martin shifted uncomfortably. “Oh, I don’t…”

“No need to stand on decorum, not around here.” Delano pointedly plopped into the chair behind the desk, grin wide and toothy. “Jon just likes to pretend that we’re more professional than we actually are.”

“We’re professional,” Sims protested, sounding deeply offended. “Just...unorthodox.”

“Well, alright,” Martin said, and lowered into the surprisingly comfortable chair.

Delano cleared his throat. “Right. So what brings you to us, Mr. Blackwood?”

Martin thought for a moment, not wanting to speak rashly, or to give away anything too personal. “Well, I’ve heard rumors that you two are capable of...discretion, so to speak, and I would prefer that this doesn’t get spread around.”

“Ah.” Sims’ eyes quickly flicked up and down his body, one eyebrow raising. “Out of curiosity, can I ask who referred you to us?”

“Tim Stoker?” Martin shuffled. “He said that you helped him out of a similar bind not too long ago.”

Sims and Delano glanced at each other, their eyebrows doing a complicated little dance, though what information could’ve been conveyed through such a medium, Martin had no clue. They turned to look at him again in unison, expressions very serious.

“When you say similar…” Delano trailed off.

Martin immediately shook his head. “Oh, nothing to do with the Circus. I’m not stupid enough to get involved with them after what happened with Tim and his brother.”

They both relaxed immediately.

“That’s good for you,” Delano told him. “We’ve run afoul of Nikola and her merry band far too many times for comfort. If you’d said you’d gotten on her bad side, I’m afraid we would’ve had to ask you to leave.”

Martin glanced at Sims, who was staring very hard at his feet, then Delano, who was observing him calmly, patiently, the way a bird of prey sights down a mouse. “Oh.”

“Quite,” Sims murmured.

“Anyway,” Delano gave a wide, grandiose gesture. “Please. Why have you come to us?”

The manila folder suddenly felt very, very heavy, and he fiddled with one of the corners, rubbing the material between his fingers. “Well...I work for this, um, this shipping company. I mostly do busywork, administrative tasks, that sort of thing. It’s not very glamorous, but it—it pays really well, despite the company being kind of small.” Martin traced the grain of the paper with one finger. “I think it handles a lot of….specialty items.”

“And the name of this company?” Sims asked, pen poised over the little notebook he’d appeared from seemingly nowhere.

Anxiety plummeted his stomach into his toes. “I’m sorry, but I don’t feel comfortable giving away that information.”

Delano’s eyebrows rose. “Discretion, remember? Besides, we’ll need to know if we’re going to be able to help you.”

“If we decide to help you,” Sims muttered.

Martin took a few fortifying breaths, swallowing the nausea down. “Right,” he murmured. “Right. It’s, um...Tundra shipping company? Run by Mr. Peter Lukas.”

Sims went very, very still, pen poised above his notebook, expression fixed like it’d been molded into his face. Delano loomed forward, the gunmetal of his eyes gleaming like the sun reflecting off of a loaded barrel. “Is that so?”

Martin glanced toward Sims, wondering at his demeanor, then turned back to Delano and nodded. “Yeah. You two—you know him?”

“Do we.” Delano let out a dry chuckle. “Continue.”

“Right.” Martin shook his head. “Well, one day I was doing some bookkeeping, just...routine stuff, you know? But I noticed something off with the numbers, like...really wrong. And I double checked my math several times just to make sure, but…” he swallowed. “I think that someone may be cooking the books, or...or something. I don’t know.

“Anyway, I went back the next day but the numbers had been changed, and—and Mr. Lukas called me into his office and said some really weird stuff that I think may have been a threat? It was hard to tell.” Martin shook his head, biting his lip. “There’s been other stuff, too. Contracts with companies that I know don’t exist, visitors at odd hours. I think something really rotten is going on, but I don’t think that I can handle it myself.”

Delano and Sims shared an unhappy look. Then Sims pushed away from the desk and began to circle the perimeter of the room, his eyebrows furrowing into a thunderstorm on his brow.

“We’d love to finally be able to pin something substantial on the bastard—on Lukas,” Delano said. “But insinuating those types of claims without a shred of evidence...that’s a nonstarter. We’re going to need a little bit more than that.”

“But I do have evidence?” Martin asked, lifting the manila folder. “I took photocopies of the pages, and notated where the discrepancies were.” He wrinkled his nose. “I wasn’t about to just write on official financial records. There’s also some of the weird contracts I was talking about. I kept copies of everything.”

Sims, who’d walked out of sight while Martin had been talking, suddenly appeared behind him, reaching for the folder. “Can I see?”

“Be careful with it, that’s the only copy,” Martin said nervously, but handed it over.

Sims walked back over to the desk, hopped up on the edge, and eagerly tipped the contents of the folder on the space between him and Delano. They quickly sifted through the papers, wordlessly handing things to each other like a seamless, well-oiled machine.

“This is good.” Delano’s voice was almost hushed, almost awed. “This is...really good, actually.”

“But you see why I can’t go to the police with this, right?” Martin twisted his hands fitfully. “You see why I need your help.”

“Of course not,” Sims said dismissively, though there was an eager gleam in his eyes. “The police are so deep in Lukas’ pocket you might as well have kissed your life goodbye if you’d gone to them.”

“Oh.” Martin swallowed, trying and failing to come up with anything more intelligent than that. “Oh.”

Delano drummed his fingers against the desk pensively. “Speaking of, it wouldn’t be a good idea to pursue this recklessly. We appreciate you bringing this to us, but it does put you in a significant amount of danger. Do you have friends or family outside the country you can stay with, Mr. Blackwood?”

“Um…” He had cousins in Poland, he was pretty sure. Whether or not they would take him in was another question entirely. “Possibly.”

Sims reluctantly gathered the papers up and slid them back into the manila folder, before holding it out. “Come back when you’ve got something lined up.”

Martin lifted a quelling hand as he got to his feet. “I’d...prefer you hold onto it, honestly. It’s probably safer with you.”

Sims blinked, then shrugged and set the folder back down. “I see.”

“We’ll be seeing you later, Mr. Blackwood.” Delano’s grin was a sharp, toothy thing. Despite its grimness, Martin found himself inexplicably comforted by it.

“Please,” he corrected before he could help himself. “Call me Martin.”

-0-

“So,” Gerry said, long after Martin had left and the excitement had faded. He filled a glass with some ice, then tipped a finger of whisky over the top. “What do you think?”

“I don’t trust him,” Jon said almost before Gerry had finished talking, accepting the glass with a quiet murmur of thanks. “It’s a bit too good to be true. After years of searching, someone just...emerges with hard evidence of Peter’s wrongdoings?” An incredulous snort. “I don’t think so.”

Gerry propped himself up against the edge of the desk, staring at the dark bags under his partner’s eyes, the cynical curve of his mouth. He looked exhausted. “You never know,” he said mildly, taking a sip of his whiskey sour before continuing. “I think we’re about due for a lucky break.”

“We don’t get lucky breaks. We get fooled into thinking that we have a lucky break, only to get royally fucked later,” Jon snapped, thumping his cane against the ground for emphasis. “You should know that by now.”

Gerry frowned. “Don’t take this out on me.”

Jon metaphorical hackles went up, and for a moment it looked as though he were about to start shouting—but then he abruptly deflated and looked away. “No, you’re right, it’s just…”

Gerry sighed. It was difficult to stay angry at Jon when he bore such a striking resemblance to a kicked puppy. “I get it.”

They fell silent for a moment, sipping their drinks, lost in their respective thoughts.

“Shall we go?” Gerry asked, setting his glass aside.

Jon paused for a moment longer, before letting out a long, gusty sigh and draining what was left in his drink. “Sure.”

The elevator was still broken, so unfortunately they had to take the stairs. While Gerry knew better than to offer any assistance, his heart still clenched at how tight with pain Jon’s jaw had gone by the time they reached the bottom. They stopped for a few seconds to let Jon get his breath back, before continuing toward home.

About a block away from the office, they froze at the sound of pounding footsteps growing unmistakably closer.

“Hear that?” Jon murmured out of the corner of his mouth, the dying light of the sun glinting off the switchblade in his free hand.

“Mmhm,” Gerry hummed, slipping a hand into his pocket.

Martin was very, very lucky that Gerry recognized him as he rounded the corner; otherwise, it was very likely that Jon would’ve run him through. As it was, Martin crashed into them both, gasping frantically for air, cheeks flushed, eyes wide with abject terror.

“Martin?” Jon demanded, shoving the switchblade away. “What the hell are you—”

“They’re after me,” Martin gasped out, scrabbling at Gerry’s coat. “They—I don’t know how they found out, but they, Peter, he—”

“Shit,” Gerry muttered, suddenly becoming aware of the second set of pounding footsteps growing nearer. He took a moment to assess their surroundings, before grabbing Martin’s shoulders and hauling him into the nearby alley. “Martin, hide behind that dumpster. Jon, distraction time.”

Despite the situation, Jon’s eyes lit up with an exhilarated gleam. Gerry had just enough time to fondly think, adrenaline junkie, before Jon tucked his cane over his wrist, twisted his hands in Gerry’s lapels, and shoved him against the wall for a bruising kiss.

Gerry gasped into Jon’s mouth, his hands instinctively falling to cup Jon’s slim hips. He deepened the kiss, humming encouragingly when Jon shoved his jacket over his shoulders, exposing the thin black t-shirt beneath.

Jon was just beginning to press little kisses down the juncture of his jaw and neck when the harsh beam of a torch fell on them. Jon, who’d been a drama queen long before he’d joined am dram in uni, pulled away with a theatrical gasp, his annoyance almost startlingly genuine. Gerry tucked his face out of the way and adjusted his jacket, affecting embarrassment.

“Do you mind?” Jon asked.

“Oh,” the person on the other end of the torch said, sounding distinctly uncomfortable. Gerry tried to peek a look, but the beam was too strong for him to see into the darkness beyond it. “Sorry to disturb you sirs, um...you wouldn’t happen to have seen a person—?”

“No, we haven’t seen a person.” Keeping one hand curled in Gerry’s jacket, Jon took a step back, lifting his chin defiantly. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we were busy.”

“Right,” the person muttered, and then the torchlight abruptly vanished, dropping them once more into the dying light of the sun.

They stood there for a moment, Jon breathing hard, cheeks flushed. Gerry tipped his head back against the wall, letting his eyes flutter shut as his pumping heart slowed.

Then the grip in his collar loosened, and Jon let out a pained groan and sank against the wall. “Fuck.”

“Alright, take it easy,” Gerry murmured. He pressed a kiss against Jon’s hair and rubbed a soothing hand against his back. “You did beautifully.” Then louder, “Martin, you can come out now.”

There was a brief pause, and then a shadow tentatively emerged from behind the dumpster. Martin looked far less rattled than he had when he’d first run around the corner, though there was still a healthy flush to his cheeks. He peered up the alley, wringing his hands. “Are they…”

“For now,” Jon said, grimacing as he dug his knuckles into the tight muscles. “We should leave before they get back.”

Martin’s eyes honed in on him. “Will you be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Jon snapped, straightening. “You should be more worried about yourself. You can’t go home, right?”

The question seemed to remind Martin of the current situation, because his eyes went a little wild again. “No, they...I left to do a bit of shopping, and then came back and, and there they were.”

They fell silent for a moment, considering that.

“Well, there’s nothing for it,” Jon said brusquely. “You’ll have to come home with us.”

“What?” Martin gaped.

Gerry was already nodding. “We don’t have much room, but we can make up the couch for you.”

That only seemed to make Martin all the more aghast. “Wait! Wait, won’t that put you in danger?”

Gerry looked up and met Jon’s gaze.

“We have...a certain degree of protection,” Gerry hazarded delicately. “It won’t do much against the likes of Peter himself, but lesser threats…”

“You’ll be fine,” Jon completed. “Now unless you want to run into them again, we had better get going.”

Martin glanced mutely between them, looking like he wanted nothing more than to argue. Then his shoulders slumped, probably realizing that he had no other choice considering how dire the situation was.

“Alright,” he murmured, defeated. “Let’s go.”

#tma #ask #pitviperofdoom #iceeckos12 writes #my writing #jongerrymartin #noir au

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teenwolffanclub-me · 4 years

Text

Movie Night

(Stiles Stilinski x Reader)

Request: Hey could I have a Stiles × reader where they are watching a horror movie. She enjoys horror movies but u know how Stiles would react while watching one..So she pranks Stiles and he gets mini heart attack and the reader gets into a laughing fit seeing his reaction..Somehow he finds out that she is ticklish and takes matters into his hands... something cute and little long. Thanks

Word count: 2,347

Warnings: so much fluff it’s nauseating

Notes: this is my first ever request so hopefully I did it justice!! I loved this concept so much & if any of you lovely people have something you want me to write for Stiles feel free to send your ideas my way!

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You snuggled up close to Stiles’ side on the couch, pressing play on the remote before setting it onto the coffee table that supported your crossed legs. It was your weekly movie night and you had finally convinced him to watch something scary.

You’d been dying to indulge in your love of horror films since fall began, and with Halloween now just around the corner, you were running out of time. Yes, you could technically watch them whenever you wanted, but it was always so much more satisfying during this time of year.

Sadly, all your friends are babies. Every last one of them had refused your invitations. It wasn’t that you minded watching scary things alone, but seeing other people’s reactions was your favorite part of the experience. Finally, after a couple weeks of almost constant nagging, Stiles begrudgingly agreed.

You were secretly elated that he’d been the one to give in, because he was your movie person. The two of you had kept your weekly date for two years now. It only made sense to do this with him.

His rules were: the lights stay on, you have to warn him before scary parts, and you’d be watching any rom-com of his choosing right after.

You smiled to yourself as the movie started. You’d picked the scariest thing you could find, partially because it’d been so long since you were truly terrified of a film and you missed it, but also because you loved fucking with Stiles. He was already completely freaked out and the title page had barely disappeared.

He sat impossibly still beside you, staring at the screen with wide eyes. He was almost always on edge nowadays, and this whole thing was only exasperating the problem. Although everything on screen seemed peachy now, he knew it would take a turn for the worst when he least expected it.

Things like this always made his anxiety skyrocket. It’s why he tried so hard to avoid this very situation. He was honestly surprised it had taken you this long to force him into watching something other than your usual lighthearted flick.

He’d already faced enough real monsters and demons to supply a lifetime of nightmares. The last thing he wanted was to spend his free time being scared, but he knew how happy it would make you to watch your favorite genre for once. Plus, he figured he owed you after you sat through Never Been Kissed three times in a row. It was only fair that he suffer a little bit too.

Stiles jumped with a quiet gasp when one of the characters popped out to playfully scare their brother, and you chuckled to yourself in amusement. You were going to have a blast watching him freak out at every little thing.

“This is awful.” He breathed from beside you, still stiff as a board. “There is literally nothing worse we could be doing on a Friday night.”

You rolled your eyes at his dramatics. “You mean like getting murdered by a supernatural creature?”

“At least that wouldn’t take two and a half hours.” He grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest in annoyance.

You just smiled and returned your head to its resting place against his shoulder. You guys usually took turns picking a movie, but he’d put a firm “nothing scary” clause in your movie night agreement, so your options were always limited.

Yes, the two of you had actually typed out a document when you started this freshman year.

There were only a few important notes in it. Neither party could cancel under any circumstances—with the exception of a life threatening event—nothing scary, and no one else was invited. Friday nights were for you and Stiles, and the two of you only.

About forty minutes in, you knew there was a particularly bad jump scare coming, so you let your eyes slowly sweep up toward his face. You considered warning him, but decided it would be way more fun to watch his genuine reaction.

When it happened, he spazzed so violently that he launched the bowl of popcorn you’d both been munching on across the room. You erupted into a fit of laugher, clutching at your stomach as you replayed the horrified look on his face over and over in your mind.

“You were supposed to tell me!” Stiles shouted accusingly, his skin growing warm with embarrassment as he shoved himself off the couch to clean up.

He was trying so hard not to let this movie get to him, but the actors were really convincing, and he was scared shitless. Tears were streaming down your face as you finally forced yourself to settle down after a couple of minutes. You wiped your cheeks clean with a sigh, still fighting a few lingering giggles.

“I just couldn’t resist.” You admitted breathily before joining him on the floor to help pick up the remainder of the snack.

Not a single surface in your living room had been spared. It was in the bookshelves on either side of the TV, between the couch cushions, and even floating inside your parents’ fish tank.

By the time you both sat back down, you remembered that something way worse was about to happen. A slow grin pulled at your lips as you came up with a brilliantly evil idea. You leaned forward to grab the plastic bowl off the coffee table and popped to your feet.

“I’m gonna go make some more.” You barely even had time to think about taking a step before Stiles’ hand jerked up to wrap around your wrist.

“Are you out of your freakin’ mind? You can’t leave me alone in here.” He looked up at you with big, pleading eyes, something he knew you couldn’t resist.

The thought of watching this movie by himself for even a few minutes had his heart sputtering in his chest. He knew he wouldn’t last thirty seconds without you. You glanced away from his face, feeling your resolve crumbling at the desperate gleam in his eyes.

You had to go through with this. It was just too good. “Stiles, I’ll be in the next room. You can literally still see me.”

He glanced toward the kitchen, only a few feet away, needing proof despite the fact that he’d been to your house enough times to have the entire floorplan memorized. With a skeptical twitch of his eyes, he let your arm slowly slide out of his hold. You spun on your heel and grinned triumphantly, practically skipping away from him.

You took a few moments to find a new bag of popcorn and place it into the microwave, wanting your excuse to seem believable. After starting it, you turned around just in time to see Stiles peering at you nervously over his shoulder.

It wasn’t that he actually thought something would happen to you in the three minutes it took for the popcorn to cook, but this movie seemed so much worse without you beside him. You quirked an eyebrow expectantly as you braced your hands on the counter, and he hesitated before slowly turning around with a pout.

As soon as Stiles’ back was to you, you dropped into a crouch on the tiled floor, silently crawling toward the kitchen doorway. You leaned around the corner to check on him before continuing.

He scratched at the side of his head and squinted one eye closed when the music on the TV became slow and suspenseful. That sound had literally never come before anything good. His right leg started bouncing anxiously as he silently prayed you would be back before whatever horror was about to happen.

His attention was firmly planted on the screen as he sat on the edge of his seat and fidgeted with his fingers. You made your way out of the kitchen and shuffled quickly toward the back of the couch. Just as you reached it, the microwave went off with a high pitched beep beep beep.

Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin, heart lurching up into his throat at the unexpected noise.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” He muttered to himself, putting a hand to his chest in an effort to calm his ragged breathing.

The microwave went off again a moment later, since no one had opened the door yet, and he turned to look into the kitchen curiously. He wondered what was taking you so long as his eyes flickered over the room. A moment later, his brows furrowed in confusion when he saw that it was now empty.

“Y/N?” He moved up onto his knees and turned so he could see better.

You scurried around to the other end of the couch to avoid being caught and put a hand over your mouth, having way too much fun already as a few giggles threatened to expose you.

“Y/N, this isn’t funny...” Stiles’ voice was laced with panic as he made a move to stand up.

He had no idea what could’ve happened to you only a few feet away, but your lack of response was troubling. His stomach tightened as he peered into the kitchen without actually getting any closer. He was honestly terrified, the chilling music behind him doing nothing to make the situation better.

You knew this was your moment.

“Boo!” You popped up onto your feet with a jerk and wiggled your fingers at him.

Stiles let out a loud scream, his face crumbling in pure horror as he clumsily scrambled as far away from you as possible. He tripped on his own feet and somersaulted over the couch armrest, landing on his ass with a bounce. He stared at you with wide eyes and parted lips, honestly surprised his heart was still beating.

Meanwhile, you were in complete hysterics. You were laughing so hard you had to gasp for breath as you doubled over and rested your hands on the other armrest. Stiles glowered, annoyed with himself for not expecting you to do something like this.

He pursed his lips, eyes twitching as you just kept going and going. After about a minute, he’d had enough. He practically lunged forward and grabbed you around the waist before pulling you onto the couch with him.

You yelped in shock, not expecting the quick move since you’d been too busy cackling at your own success. You settled down and blinked up at Stiles with wide eyes as you now lay beneath him, caged in by his legs on either side of your hips. His lips twitched into a frown and your found yourself glancing down toward them.

“That was so not funny.” He tried to look upset, but he could never actually stay mad at you. Plus, despite being the butt of that joke, it was a tiny bit funny.

“Oh, come on, it—” You suddenly broke into a fit of giggles as one of his hands brushed against your ribs.

His eyes widened in recognition as an idea popped into his head. His lips pulled into a slow, wicked grin. “Wait, are you ticklish?”

You instantly sobered up at his question. You’d gone this long without him finding out about that secret and you did not want him knowing now.

“No.” The word rushed from your lips a little too quickly, your eyes wide with apprehension.

He only gave you a brief moment to prepare before he attacked, both of his hands wrapping around your sides. His fingers wiggled against you quickly and you immediately dissolved into another round of uncontrollable giggling. Your back arched up off the couch in an effort to get away from the overwhelming sensation.

Stiles couldn’t help but smile earnestly down at you. In this moment, you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He decided right then that if your laughter was the only sound he could hear for the rest of his life, he’d still be a happy man.

“Say you’re sorry.” He demanded, watching joyful tears stream down the sides of your face.

Your hands clasped around his as you tried twisting free of his tight hold. “I-I’m so-rry!”

His grin only widened, loving the sight of you squirming beneath him as his fingers continued, unrelenting. “And you’ll never scare me again.”

“I’ll nev-never...scare...you a-again!” You gasped the words out, your stomach starting to ache as your muscles contracted repeatedly.

He stopped as suddenly as he’d started and you sagged against the couch with a heavy sigh of relief. Your heart was racing in your chest and it felt like you’d just done a ridiculous amount of sit-ups. Stiles smirked down at you triumphantly and pushed off the couch before offering a hand so you could pull yourself up.

Once you were both upright, he grabbed the remote and turned the movie off. You pouted a little, knowing there were still about thirty minutes left, but couldn’t even pretend to be surprised. You figured he’d be done after that. He quickly flitted through Netflix until he found what he wanted.

You fell back with a groan as he clicked on one of his favorites: Clueless.

It wasn’t a bad movie. You actually enjoyed it the first five times you two had watched it. By now, though, you must’ve seen the damn thing at least a hundred. You could both quote the whole thing, something he was proud of while you were very much not.

“Payback’s a bitch.” He declared simply before discarding the remote somewhere on the floor.

He leaned down on the couch and opened his arms expectantly. You rolled your eyes at the fact that he’d somehow gotten his way again, but didn’t hesitate to curl into his chest.

You chewed on your bottom lip to hold in a chuckle as the movie started, already plotting next years prank. You knew it would take at least that long to convince him into watching anything even remotely scary again.

You’d have to figure out a way to outdo yourself when the time came, and you were already looking forward to it.

#stiles stilinski #stiles imagine #stiles stilinski x reader #stiles stilinski imagine #stiles x y/n #stiles x reader #spooky #fall vibes #teen wolf #requests #stiles stilinski request #stiles fluff #stiles stilinski fluff

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fuchsiagrasshopper · 3 years

Text

Contending the Flame VI

Author’s Note: Happy Holiday season everyone! Hopefully you are having a better time than I am currently with work and new lockdown restrictions where I live. I already have the next two chapters written, so I plan to upload each within a week of one another. Thanks as always for being awesome!

Vikings Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Word count: 2234

Warnings: Servant dynamic, language.

The coming weeks had slowed as the provisions for the Heathen army continued to dwindle. As the weather closed in around them, so too did the Saxons. Their plight to negotiate for land had gone unheeded by Ivar. Well, it was Ubbe's plan but Hvitserk had gone along with it. Lately, it seemed he was being pulled back and forth between his brothers, his only use being the mediator. He wasn't sure which brother to follow, preferring it better when they all worked in tandem. Right now it was best for him to stay out of their way.

Ivar had returned to how he had been before, after the misfortune with Margrethe. He was terse with the thralls, and he shunned any prolonged company with women. There were moments, either when he was sitting at a table or alone in a corner, a strange look would pass over his face. Hvitserk was sure he was the only one to notice, but he didn't let on about it.

If Ivar wondered about the nun, he never said as such, and Audhild had reported that he hadn't come around inquiring about you. On the surface, it seemed whatever had started between you was over, but Hvitserk didn't think so. You were two boats passing in the night, waiting for the other's signal.

Hvitserk had taken it upon himself to keep watch of the nun. He had told Ubbe from the start not to get involved, but now he had thrown himself in headfirst. You no longer seemed to be a danger to yourself, and Audhild had said that you thrived as a healer, though you spoke very few words. It got Hvitserk curious, and he set out to find you.

Until the battle against the Saxons would start, the healers were not so occupied. Audhild had told him where you could be found. It was a courtyard that was led in by an archway, with bushes of purple flowers. At its heart was a statue of a man who Hvitserk wondered about. Christians had these carved monuments of people everywhere. What great deeds had they accomplished that granted them the honor of being captured in stone?

He quit his thoughts as he spotted the nun hunched over by a bed of flowers. It struck him then that he didn't know your name, and the few words he picked up in English would not get him far

"Mary...erm Sister," He called, trying to recall what you had said when you were first claimed by Ivar.

You stood with abruptness from being startled, your guard up as you recognized him. Your sheared hair was now covered in a sage green scarf, twisted and wrapped not unlike the Sami people. Hvitserk could see a black and blue bruise around your left eye, about the size of a fist. "Sister Mary Catharine, and you don't have to call me that."

He was glad you had answered in his language. Though some of your pronunciation was wrong, they would get by well enough on the gist of things. "Why not?"

"I don't think I am a nun anymore, not in the eyes of God. Just Catharine will do."

As Hvitserk took a step forward, you shifted back. The mistrust hung heavy between you both, and he realized he'd have to go slow in order to gain your favor. He stood firm where he was. "What happened there?"

You gingerly touched the mark on your face he had indicated to, a sad smile forming. "I'm not the discarded whore of the crippled bastard, even if some of your men think so. When one took out his cock and tried to relieve himself on me, I fought back."

Hvitserk was disappointed to hear what had happened, though such behavior was unsurprising. His heart sunk for his brother as well. Some of the men still only thought of Ivar as the lesser son of Ragnar, even after he had proven to be a sharp mind with a fierce heart.

"Do you know who he was?"

The nun shook her head. "No, and I have not seen him again. At least I still have the Lord's mercy."

You made a crossing gesture over your heart that Hvitserk did not understand. He spotted the cloth bandage on your wrist as well. "How's that healing?"

"It's fine," You said as you folded your arms behind your back. "Why does it matter? He didn't send you here, did he?"

The white look of terror on your face was hard to miss. You looked like a hare caught up in a trap. Hvitserk tried to think about the best way to ask his questions in order to get the answers he needed. "My little brother doesn't command me. I just wanted to know why you did it."

"I wanted to spare myself from a worse fate," You said, turning your back to him while you felt at the petals of the flowers. "I didn't want to suffer like the priest."

Hvitserk recalled what an imposing figure Ivar had cut hovering above the Christian man as he poured molten gold down his gullet. "Ivar told you about that?"

"No." You gazed over your shoulder a moment before your eyes flickered down. "I knew he had done something horrible, but it was another slave who told me. She said I should be careful, and that your brother hates all Christians."

Hvitserk took a step towards you without thinking and grabbed you by the shoulders. "What slave?"

"I don't know," You gasped while breaking out of his hold. "She came to clean the room one day. It was the first time I had spoken to anyone else besides Ivar."

"Why would she need to tend to his room when he had you?"

You frowned, seeming to forget your previous grievances for his closeness as you leaned forward. "What do you mean?"

Hvitserk knew from an early age that he was not exceptional. Ubbe is a strong swordsman and scout, Sigurd was musically inclined, and Ivar is a cunning strategist. At best he could survive raids and follow a battle plan, achievements that any of his brothers could do better. But none of them had his gut instincts, and his stomach was wrought with the feeling that a trickster had snuck their way into the camp.

"It's nothing," He said eventually, though not with enough conviction for the nun's liking.

"I don't believe you."

The earnest look on your face would have annoyed him more if not for how undisguised your naivete was. Maybe that was what drew Ivar in.

Hvitserk prepared to say more but was interrupted by a voice calling over his shoulder.

"Brother," Ivar called, followed by the indistinguishable sound of metal steps plodding the ground.

Hvitserk turned, bracing for whatever force Ivar would throw at him. If he was surprised to see the nun, he didn't let on, instead, his face sat stoically as he maneuvered forward with assurance. He was too young to look so miserable.

Ubbe was with him, peering at the girl who had taken refuge from prying eyes behind Hvitserk's back. His was a face easier to read, both tense and curious at the discovery. Hvitserk knew he would be answering questions later.

"She won't sleep with you brother," Ivar inserted with a cold chuckle. "She's chaste."

Hvitserk scowled at Ivar's attempt to maim with petty insults. "That's not what this is. Audhild sent Catherine to tend to an old injury I sustained from my raid with Bjorn," He lied.

"Catherine," Ubbe said. "Is that her name?"

"No, her name is Ólaug," Ivar interrupted before Hvitserk could speak. "Isn't it, Bride of Christ?"

You refused to rise to his idle taunts. You were as still as the Saxon statue, and your eyes never left Hvitserk's back.

"I don't know if it's really her name, but it's as she told me. Now what do you want, Ivar?"

"We are leading this army together, yes?" Though it didn't sound as if he meant that. "The Saxons prepare to attack at dawn, and we need you before going over our plan of countermeasures."

"Right," Hvitserk mumbled, turning back to the nun while nearly knocking you back because of how close you stood beside him. "Audhild will be expecting your return. You should go."

Your eyes grew wide with gratitude and you gave a curt nod. You made certain to keep an arm's breadth away from Ivar as you passed, taking the route around Ubbe instead. Ivar watched you leave over his shoulder, his face filling with scorn as his attention snapped back to Hvitserk.

"What happened to her face?"

"She's a thrall, Ivar. When they disobey, they are punished." His blunt remark had the desired response, as he noticed Ivar's jaw stiffen and grind back and forth. "Forget that for a moment, I think we have a worse problem. There's a spy in our camp working against you little brother."

"What are you talking about?" Ivar sneered, adjusting his stance as his crutch struck the ground.

"I know why she tried to end her life. Another slave told her about what you did to that priest. She didn't let on about it, but I think it was implied to her that she would suffer the same fate, or worse by your hand."

"But I would not have done anything to her," Ivar tried to defend, his face falling into guilt.

"It's not like she would know that, though," said Ubbe. "She's a nun, and sees us as little more than rapists and murderers."

"I was kind to her," Ivar huffed, struggling away from them towards the same flower bush the nun had been eyeing. He pulled on a branch, bringing the blooms close enough to smell.

Hvitserk shared a discreet look with Ubbe, communicating the shared thought of Ivar's favor for his former thrall. "Whoever spoke to her probably knew that, and was trying to get her away from you."

"They probably wanted to catch you alone," Ubbe added. "Your life could be in danger."

Ivar scoffed, releasing the branch back with a snap. He pivoted towards them, his movements were aggressive. "I don't have time to worry about one spy. The Gods would never let me die without honor, alone and asleep without renown. Tomorrow we fight the Saxons, and face victory."

Turning back towards the archway of the garden, he began down the same path the nun had departed prior. His stance was rigid, and his grip tight on the crutches. Hvitserk still held his breath on habit, afraid to watch Ivar stumble knowing that he couldn't offer to help him back up.

"Where are you going, Ivar?" Ubbe called.

"To address the army, and I expect you both to join me," He said, never stopping on his way out to even look at them.

When they were alone, Hvitserk could feel Ubbe eyeing him before even turning his way. "What?"

Ubbe chuckled, "You told me not to get involved, yet here you are jumping in headfirst."

"I'm worried. Ivar has been distracted since giving her away to Audhild, and we need him thinking straight if we're going to beat the Saxons together."

"We should have known Ivar would fall in love with the first woman to show him kindness," said Ubbe, looking pensive at the statue that had transfixed Hvitserk earlier.

"You think he loves her?" Hvitserk exclaimed in surprise.

"Well, he's at least fond of her, but with Ivar, it's difficult to tell." Ubbe ran a hand over his face as if to wipe away the stress he was feeling. “What really happened to her face?”

“One of our men was not kind to her. Ivar still does not hold the favor of every warrior in the army, and she is at risk as a result of that. I’ll tell Audhild to keep a closer eye from here on out.”

Ubbe nodded in agreement. “We’ll continue to try when we can as well, but I don’t know what will happen once we finish here. I don’t think Ivar has plans on remaining in York much longer.”

“I know,” Hvitserk said, feeling resentment towards Ivar for all of the misery he was constantly dragging them into. Even if they were to return to Kattegat next, Hvitserk knew it would be to war with Lagertha and Bjorn. He loved Ivar and would follow him to the four corners of the world, but not at the cost of their family and their father’s legacy.

It felt like they were using you as a buffer for their little brother’s madness, but in the days that Ivar had kept you, he had been more agreeable and even happy. Hvitserk held respect for you even if he hated your Christian God, but if it was your freedom measured against the success of their army, then he would have no trouble giving you back to Ivar in chains. Peace in the time of the sons of Ragnar was more important than one nun.

"I hope you know what you're doing, getting involved, brother," said Ubbe, disrupting his train of thought.

Hvitserk approached his older brother and gave him a clap on the shoulder. "Of course I don't, that's why I have you. Now come, let's go speak to our army before Ivar gets any more ideas about leading without us."

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#vikings #ivar x reader #ivar x you #ivar ragnarsson #ivar the boneless x reader #vikings ivar #ivar the boneless #ivar lothbrok #ivar imagine #history vikings #vikings imagine

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sellyoursoulforagoodfic · 3 years

Text

Shelbys at Somme Chapter 15

Thomas X Reader

Word Count: 1950

Summary: Evidence. A little stab in the heart. Two idiots missing the point.

by @adventuresintooblivion

Thomas huffed into the cold night air. The family meeting that Aunt Pol had called ran late. As time ticked on his mind had begun to wander, it wasn’t until Arthur had smacked him with a newspaper that he’d realized he was shaking the table by bouncing his leg.

“So anxious to get out of here are ya?” Aunt Pol raised her eyebrow.

Arthur playfully elbowed him, “He’s just excited to get to that nice warm bed at the Garrison with what’s her face.”

Aunt Pol let her gaze bore through the younger Shelby brother, “Would that be Grace or Y/N?”

“While it’s not any of your business, I’m not sleeping with either of them,” Thomas growled as he shoved Arthur aside. “Why do you have that sour look on your face, Pol?”

She folded her arms, the matter at hand forgotten, “That Grace girl, I don’t trust her.”

John peeked up from a ledger, “You don’t like any girl that comes and tries to take your boys away.”

“That’s not true,” Aunt Pol sniffed.

Thomas rolled his eyes, “So if I asked Y/N to marry me tomorrow you’d be fine with it?”

“As a matter of fact, I won’t be opposed to it.”

Silence fell over the room. It hung heavy in the air as future possibilities began to unfold in the minds of various Shelbys. But Thomas didn’t let himself dream, he wouldn’t.

“Speaking of Y/N, I hope she doesn’t mind if we steal you for a night.” Arthur stood to slap Thomas on the shoulder.

He raised his eyebrow, “What on earth for?”

“Well, John over there has been planning a heist for a long while, and he’s too nervous to bring it up himself.”

“Hey!”

“And we figured you should give it a quick looking over.”

Thomas glanced over at John curiously, “Alright, I’m all ears.”

〜

Grace and Y/N lay against the cold stone for hours. The clock ticked by in that warped way brought along by discomfort. Hours passed in moments, but, more often than not, it slowed to a crawl. Each shift brought a new source of cold waiting eagerly to seep into their bones. Each breath conjured small puffs of steam before their lips.

It wasn’t until morning that boots crunched through the gravel drive outside. Henry shivered against the cold of the morning. While snow refused to fall, ice still formed in the mud outside the Garrison. Fog hung low in the air as it rolled off the Cut, and, quite frankly, Henry found himself wishing for summer.

Distracted, he hurriedly shoved his key into the lock. It gave too easily. At first he didn’t register anything amiss, but soon his tired mind caught up. Something was wrong. The door swung open revealing a gaping hole of darkness that seemed to yawn open in the stark morning light.

He took a deep breath fidgeting with the lock. “Grace? Are you in here?” His voice cracked.

The creak of the grimy wood floor was the only answer. He glanced around quickly, starting when his boot squished in a small muddy footprint. He licked his lips.

“This isn’t funny Grace! You know I like a clean floor.”

All he heard was the soft hiss of the radiator. Finally, he looked around. The scent of stale beer and sweat assaulted his nose, quickly leading him to the source. Several buckets of excess stout still waited to be taken out. A thin film coated the bar, pretty typical for the end of a night. But now?

“This place is too bloody dark,” he said to himself in a singsong voice. He wasn’t sure if it made him feel better, but it helped fill the heavy darkness. He wracked his brain for where he’d put matches. The backroom.

Henry rushed forward, tripping over a chair in his eagerness for light. He felt out wildly for the rough wood. His hand collided with the dense slab with a loud THUD. Shaking the handle, it refused to budge.

“Shit. Again?” He fumbled for his keys

“Henry?”

“Y/N? Is Grace in there with you? She was supposed to lock up and the place is a bloody disaster.”

“Yeah…”

Henry grumbled to himself, “Of course. You girls been in there all night?”

He cycled through several keys, cursing all the while. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the door creaked open. Immediately, Henry was assaulted by cold air.

There he found Grace and Y/N huddled together between kegs. Grace’s blonde hair hung limply, her clothes wrinkled, but what stood out the most were her blue lips and pale skin.

Henry stumbled forward, “Christ, is she ok?”

Y/N shrugged in an attempt to hide a shiver. “Dunno, but we need to get out of here.” She stood on wobbly knees. Henry waved her away when she tried to help and soon both women were upstairs beneath blankets.

“Well, I guess I”ll just have to do without my barmaid today. You two stay up here and warm up. Keep an eye on her, alright?”

Y/N nodded as she absently put a kettle on the stove.

“Do you want me to call Mr. Shelby?” he asked, setting Grace’s bag by the bed, having found it behind the bar.

“No, I’m gonna hop into bed with her, heat her up. Besides, there’s not much he could do. But you might want to get the window downstairs fixed.”

“Window?”

Y/N settled onto the bed, “The one in the backroom. It’d popped off its hinges. We tried to close it, but it wouldn’t budge.”

Henry shook his head. “Damn, alright. If you need anything I’ll be downstairs. And make sure Grace is up and about soon. I… Don’t feel like hiring another girl in this mess.”

“Aww, you like her,” Y/N grinned.

“She works hard and is easy on the eyes,” he waved her off. “You can’t beat that on this side of town.”

“Mhmm. Go, get. If Tommy asks, try not to freak him out.”

The informality earned her a raised eyebrow but only silence answered. After last night she definitely wasn’t going to complain. She readjusted Grace’s blanket, the top of her bag coming into view.

There was a pull, a gravity towards that bag, that little primal part of her brain that needed to uncover secrets. It wasn’t proper. But since when have I been proper? Y/N glanced towards Grace before reaching for the leather handles.

Inside, she found several things that were pretty typical; however, a metal glint caught her attention. She’d already committed to the act of snooping, so she reached in to see. Her heart grew cold as her hand closed around a familiar sensation. She pulled out a small gun.

Y/N’s hand began to shake. She had proposed the idea of Grace working with Inspector Campbell months ago. Gently, she set the gun down before continuing to rifle through the small bag. While the Garrison was in a rough part of town, it didn’t warrant a gun, did it?

It wasn’t long before her hand closed around a small metal object. She already knew what it was before she laid eyes on it, but that didn’t stop her. A badge. Fuck.

Grace shifted beneath the covers. Y/N quickly shoved the badge and gun where she found them. Her heart tried to beat out of her chest as she swung the purse to the foot of the bed, barely preventing it from colliding with the foot post.

Moments after her hand released the straps, the sound of feet pounding up the steps echoed through the hallway. Every instinct inside her told her to recoil, to hide what she’d done. She forced herself to turn toward Grace and not fidget as Thomas stormed into the room. Grace jumped, sleepily rolling towards the door.

“Hey Tommy,” Y/N said as calmly as she could. There’s a gun less than a foot from me.

“Are you two alright?” he asked. “Henry told me what happened.”

She rolled her eyes, “I told him not to freak you out.”

He stared at her like she’d grown a second head, “Is there a nice way to tell someone two people almost froze to death?”

“Eh, you’re just frazzled cause it’s us.” The color drained from his face as he stared down at them. Y/N grimaced. “I’ll try not to hit the nail so much on the head next time.”

Grace slowly sat up, seemingly unaware of what the others were saying. “We got out?”

“Yeah, Henry found us this morning. How’re you feeling?” Y/N reached out to brush her fingers over Grace’s skin. It was still cooler than she’d have liked, but miles better compared to only a few minutes ago.

She instinctively leaned into Y/N’s warm touch, “I can’t believe we survived the night.”

Y/N froze, trying to figure out a way to tell Grace to shut the hell up. She didn’t get the chance to before Thomas closed the distance between them. He leaned forward to investigate Grace’s condition, falling back into that leadership role he found himself in way too often.

In his haste, his elbow pushed into Y/N’s hip, forcing her to scramble onto her feet before she was shoved off the bed. She cast a glare at him before her eyes landed on Grace’s purse.

She’s working for Campbell. The words almost pried themselves from her lips as she watched Thomas fuss over Grace. Then he brushed his thumb over Grace’s lower lip.

“Are you alright, Love?” His voice was soft, tender and sweet. The same voice he’d use under the cover of night when he and Y/N were alone. Except now, it wasn't for her.

She’d known this was happening, and, yet, it didn’t stop the dagger from ripping through her heart. It didn’t save her stomach from dropping through the floor. She whirled around, looking for something, anything, to distract her from what was happening. The teapot had started to scream.

She busied herself with making tea, even though stupidly, most of it consisted of waiting. Y/N found her fingers tapping on the counter, reciting her mother’s words about never stirring steeping tea. Someone cleared their throat, causing her to jump.

“Did you hear me?” Thomas asked.

“No, Shelby I didn’t hear you.”

Thomas frowned. “I’m ‘Shelby’ now?”

Y/N shook her head, finally facing him, “Sorry, what did you say?”

“I was asking if you were alright.”

She glanced at Grace who was looking about the room, “As good as I can be, I guess.”

“Y/N, if this bothers you, all you have to do is say something.” He gestured towards the bed.

“Oh, so I need to ask for your attention now?” Y/N couldn’t keep the venom from her voice.

“You never indicated that-.”

“I never said I didn’t want to. I only said that I wouldn’t be… You know what? Now is not the time for this conversation.” Y/N rubbed her eyes. “We have to talk anyway.”

She paused. Y/N had told Aunt Pol about Grace but she had intentionally kept the information from Thomas. If she told him now it was as good as lying to him. He wouldn’t care that she didn’t have proof before, or that it could’ve gotten an innocent woman killed. His only concern would be her divided loyalties between him and her conscience.

“How about the races? Later this week?” She glanced up at him, hoping his love of horses would win over his curiosity.

He seemed to consider before finally nodding, “Wednesday?”

“Wednesday.”

#thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby imagine #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #peaky blinders imagine #reader insert

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kirboner · 3 years

Text

The Curse of the Blood God

TW: Gore/blood descriptions, attempted suicide mentioned, major character death, swearing (not much).

WORD COUNT: 2,738

This is a mainly c!Technoblade centric along with c!Philza, other DSMP characters are also mentioned :] (if there are any tags I missed please tell me!)

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

Growing up, Technoblade was always surrounded by violence. With violence came death, so the concept of it was never unfamiliar to him. Never jarring, never shocking. It happens to those who are too weak to keep fighting, who make stupid decisions or let their guard down. It happens to those who lose, and Technoblade never loses.

Technoblade never dies.

So, when the tip of his blade pierces through an enemy’s throat, or when their blood spurts against the snow, and they collapse in a heap against the frost- Techno feels nothing. Partially because he doesn’t know them, but mostly because they made a stupid decision and they lost. They challenged The Blade. The Blood God. To Techno, losing a life is like losing a game, a challenge, a bet.

The L’Manburgians that suffered once he spawned the Wither let their guards’ down. The Butcher Army by challenging him had made a stupid decision, and those he challenged and triumphed against were weak. So, they lost a life, or a few.

Maybe that’s why betrayal hurts him so deeply, why the feeling aches in his very core. Someone has to be close to him to betray him, he has to put his trust in them, he has to care about them. For someone to then betray him, to betray The Blade, is a stupid decision on their behalf. However, that’s not the half of why it hurts so much, why the feeling stings and burns and engulfs him. It’s because he made the stupid decision to put his trust in someone traitorous. Yet, regardless of his stupid decisions,

Technoblade never dies.

Techno has few constants in his life, so he tends to gravitate to those he can control. Roasted potatoes and gapples, a royal gown he stole a long time ago that he wears as under-armor, a golden crown. Small things, items he carries with him as he flees location. However, one other thing remains a constant in his life, something he can’t pack in a suitcase or strap to his back- and that’s Phil.

His memories of his life growing up in the Nether are a mix of vivid snippets and utter vagueness that he’s had to piece together through whisper and rumour. He remembers fighting with other Piglin half-breeds in The Pit, uncomfortable nights spent unslept on hard nether rack, fractures and purple bruises left blotched across his torso. Gashes that reopened, scabs that refused to heal. The jeering and hissing crowd that surrounded him, as he was forced to rip apart his opponents; orphans just like himself. Losing their parents was the worst thing that ever happened to them, Technoblade being a close second. He could recall the *clink* of golden nuggets pooling at his feet, quickly soaked in the ever-growing pool of his opponent’s blood- this time a larger Piglin boy who laid face down, iron pickaxe lodged firmly in his spine. The crowd cheering his victories and spurring him on. Shrieking for more.

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD--

How he left- or rather escaped- the Nether falls into the latter category of utter vagueness. Phil had told him he came across The Pit when trading rare spider eyes on the black market, as he heard the value was higher in the Nether due to the specific spiders only existing in the Overworld. However, upon discovering The Pit he had, in his words, “gotten into a bit of a domestic over it with the ringleader,” which Techno suspected to be an understatement. Phil, apparently, had “completely non-violently, and totally consensually” taken himself and the other half-breeds to the Overworld. Techno, again, believed this to be a massive understatement, as Phil and himself to this day could not enter the Nether without a fight of some kind.

‘So, what ever happened to the other orphans?’ He asked, throwing a match on their fireplace. Living in a Tundra, while isolated and peaceful, required near constant temperature adjustment.

‘I spent a while rehousing them all across the Overworld, it took around two months to actually find homes for all of ‘em,’ Phil shifted more firewood closer to the hearth. A spruce log, dark and dense. Techno shifted in place, ‘Uh, what about me?’ He wanted to elaborate more on the question, rather than sound like a small child, but didn’t. Phil chuckled, ‘You were different, Techno,’ to this Techno quirked an eyebrow, ‘Different?’ He probed.

‘Well, let’s see... I did try a couple times to find you a family, y’know?’ Techno frowned, ‘Not because I didn’t like you, but because I was worried about you. I have a pretty dangerous line of work, and I thought you deserved a bit of a more stable life,’ Phil sighed. A beat of silence followed ‘So how well did that plan turn out?’ Techno asked sarcastically, earning a chuckle from Phil. His confidence rebuilt slightly. ‘I wanted you to have a constant in your life, but I also didn’t want you to be unsafe,’ Phil looked at the hearth, crackling quietly. ‘The more time I spent with you, I realized you already had a constant, Techno,’ He looked at the kindling, long charred and crumbling to ash. ‘Violence,’ Phil breathed, barely above a whisper. ‘You needed more than just violence in your life Techno- and trust me, I know I’m not always the best example- but I wanted to be that constant’ Phil continued, ‘And I’m glad I made that decision,’ he smiled.

A silence stretched for a moment, a tight feeling developing in Techno’s chest. He got this feeling whenever Phil said something particularly sappy, though the tightness was never painful. It was a pleasant feeling. It was kind. ‘Even if it means you can’t trade spider eyes on the black market anymore?’ Techno deadpanned, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. ‘Oh trust me, the market value for spider eyes has plummeted since the ‘90s, I was just trying to cut my losses,’ Phil smirked, leaning back on his hands. Techno rolled his eyes, ‘Christ you’re old, man,’ he said fondly.

A constant. Phil was a constant. He had been there to mend his tattered gown, tend to his wounds (now shallower, and fewer and further between). He had fought alongside him, brothers in arms, working together in the fight against tyranny. Phil was a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield, rightfully earning the title as The Angel of Death.

‘Who first started givin’ you that name, anyway?’ Techno asked, swinging his axe down and splitting a spruce log down the middle, watching it splinter and fall in two smaller heaps. The chill of dawn was warmed little by the sun peaking over the horizon, a reminder of the Autumn season soon to come. ‘What name?’ Phil looked at him, confused before shoveling another mound of snow to make room for their new vegetable patch installment. ‘I know you well, mate, but I’m not a mind reader,’ he chuckled. ‘The Angel of Death- who first started callin’ you that?’ Techno elaborated. Phil heaved another shovel-full, ‘God, it’s been a while since someone’s called me that. I reckon it started way back, before the Antarctic Empire,’ he paused for a moment, his shoulders tense. ‘I remember when I was little, I had a pet bird and I used to let it sleep in my bed,’ Eyes downcast, the air seemed to grow chillier. ‘It was the night before my 6th birthday, and I had a dream that I was standing in a cave, the walls covered in this weird writing I couldn’t read and... I could hear a voice whispering to me, but there was no one there,’ Techno heard him suck in a breath before continuing, ‘It said: you are the angel of the men befallen to you, you are the choice you will wish to unchoose. An unvindicated angel, an angel of death.’

Techno’s axe was frozen in place, feeling significantly heavier than before. ‘The bird was dead when I woke up,’ Phil swallowed thickly, before plunging his shovel back into the slush. ‘That’s, uh... heavy stuff, Phil,’ Techno shifted uncomfortably. ‘Well, it was a long time ago now, I don’t really think about it much. It is a bit weird how people started calling me that a while afterwards, though,’ Phil chuckled dryly. Techno blinked, deciding to continue chopping firewood rather than probe the topic. It’s not like he had much of a need to fight now anyways, Techno was perfectly capable and willing to take on the world for Phil.

From then on, time passed by quietly.

The Syndicate was formed, consisting of his fellow anarchists. Small battles were fought, but nothing extreme. Well, at least the ones Phil participated in. Techno’s bloodshed, however, did not slow. He was never one to insert himself into battles he had no stake in, but he found the “stakes” he held in the battles he fought became less about what he gained, and more so existed for the sake of fighting. Time passed, yet Techno never felt the effects of it.

The same could not be said for Phil, nor his peers. As the years passed, Phil seemed significantly older. The timeless winged angel he knew growing up seemed... ancient. As isolated as they originally were in the Tundra, the people he once knew became even further and further away.

The Winter winds of Snowchester became harsher than what Tubbo’s infrastructure could withstand. The damage to the buildings became too severe, Tubbo and Jack resigning to move to a warmer climate. Tommy went with them, unsurprisingly. Ranboo and Niki left the Syndicate to join them.

Eventually the Egg and its cultists seemed to disappear below the surface. The dead bloodvines oozed a mix of light blue and red when cut, any residual whispers too quiet to make out. Sam wasn’t seen outside the prison anymore now, and new visitors were always refused. George and Sapnap allegedly left Eastward towards a mycelium biome, the looming walls of Pandora’s box an apparently unpleasant reminder for them.

More people disappeared; their reasons unknown to Techno. Some set sail across the ocean in search for something new, something untainted. Some died in smaller territorial battles, or over Casino winnings. Others went to the Nether and never came back. Phil could only fly for short periods of time now, and it took a great toll on his body.

‘So, see anything new out there birdman?’ Techno inquired, brewing a potion of Swiftness II. ‘I saw a gravestone I never saw before, near L’Canyon,’ Phil coughed, slowly adjusting himself in his chair. ‘L’Canyon... I don’t remember anyone being buried there. Who’s was it?’ Techno asked, mildly interested. ‘The hedge stone was too eroded, it could’ve been written in Endlish for all I know,’ Phil paused for a moment, ‘You might be able to read it, you have better eyesight than me, mate.’ Techno looked at Phil, surprised. ‘That’ll be a pretty long journey by horse, we’ll have to load up on supplies,’ Techno muttered, adding another cup of Redstone powder into his brewing stand. ‘I’ll fly us,’ Phil smiled as Techno looked dumbfounded at the fragile man before him. He was pale, the feathers on his wings greyed, his face lined and tired. Techno swallowed, ‘Phil, I don’t think--’ ‘C’mon, mate. Just like old times. If we leave now, we’ll have plenty of daylight,’ Phil interrupted, placing a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder. No matter his age, Phil was just as stubborn as always, so despite his better judgement Techno agreed on the trip.

‘I’m still bringing a map, compass and overnight supplies in case we don’t make it before nightfall,’ Techno announced. ‘Of course, mate. I’m stubborn, not crazy-’ Phil was cut off by another fit of coughing. Techno eyed him nervously, ‘You’re sure you can hold my bodyweight, plus supplies?’ He inquired, dubiously. ‘Course, mate. Don’t stress about it,’ Phil reassured.

As anxious as Techno was, he trusted Phil’s judgement in his abilities. Plus, he couldn’t deny the rush he got from being in the sky. The wind flowing through his hair, the air fresh and crisp. He felt like a child again, riding on Phil’s back across the SMP. Soaring to the heavens at unimaginable speeds. He looked down at the pure whiteness that was their home, fading into dense spruce forestry, slowly becoming pure green Plains. Eventually, the green was abrupted by a deep, grey crater.

They landed clunkily, more of a barely controlled fall than a proper landing. ‘You okay, Phil?’ Techno called out, standing up quickly, and wiping grass stains off his gleaming Netherite. Phil was further North of him, lying in a crowd of thistles. His body was contorted at a strange angle, ‘I’m ‘right,’ he called, his face wincing. Panic surged through Techno as he got closer, ‘Phil your bleeding, what the hell happened?’ He yelled, grabbing the medical kit out of his backpack. ‘It’s okay, mate. It was gonna happen soon, anyway,’ another labored breath, ‘Just wanted you to see the sky, one last time,’ He coughed, blood spurting across his chestplate. Techno hastily grabbed disinfecting wipes, Phil winced as his chestplate was removed.

A deep gash spread across Phil’s torso, below his ribs. His upper half impaled on a sharp tree stump shrouded within the thistles, his breath growing more ragged. ‘Phil- fuck. We’ve gotta get you off this thing,’ Techno swallowed, beads of sweat forming at his brow. ‘It’s too deep. The branch’s lodged in my intestines,’ he cringed, ‘at this angle, it’ll rip through my lung if you move me,’ Phil whispered, smiling weakly. He was right, the wood was splintered and lodged firmly in his core. Dark crimson blood leaked out from the gash like treacle, almost black and intense in volume. ‘I can- I’ll get healing potions from the house,’ Techno hyperventilated, wiping the disinfected cloth around the jagged and bloody stump. ‘If that doesn’t work, I’ll find a totem of undying-’ ‘Techno,’ Phil cut him off, placing a hand on his face. He hadn’t realized he had been crying until now. ‘It’s at least a 3 day walk back to the house on foot,’ Phil chuckled weakly, interrupted by a another fit of coughing. ‘Then what can- tell me what to do,’ Techno pleaded, wiping the cloth across the gash again and again as the crimson continued to leak out.

‘Isn’t it painful, watching bleeding only to see more blood?’ Phil sighed, his breathing shallower, ‘It hurts but its undeniable, Techno...’

‘What is?’ Techno rasped, hands shaking.

‘...How good you are at wounding,’ Phil smiled, clasping his hand tightly.

‘Phil, please’ Techno felt sick, his shoulders shaking. ‘It’s okay, Techno. I wanted this. I wanted to see the sky one more time,’ Phil swallowed, ‘-with you,’ His squeeze on Techno’s hand growing feebler. ‘Bury me at the gravestone I told you about,’ Phil’s eyes fluttered slightly. ‘But- I thought that was...’ Techno trailed off.

It wasn’t fair. Phil had never betrayed him. He wasn’t stupid- his decision were always calculated. He was careful, he set traps around their base- he didn’t let his guard down. He wasn’t weak, he was an enemy’s worst nightmare on the battlefield. And yet, despite this, he died. Bleeding out, impaled and contorted near the shattered remains of his late son’s country. Phil died, just like everyone else.

Techno was alone. Phil, his constant, was gone. The other Syndicate members had disappeared, Wilbur died with L’Manburg and Tommy had long considered him an enemy. He was desolate and barren, the air felt cold as he sobbed loudly. His hands beat against the ground as he screamed until his throat grew hoarse. For the first time in his life, Techno ached.

It had been weeks since Phil had passed, Techno felt too sick to eat or drink anything. The freezing nights did little to numb him, blistering days did little to warm him. His muscles did not deteriorate, nor did his legs give out beneath him. Physically, his body was fine.

Back in the Tundra, his poison potions made him feel nauseous, potions of damage stung at his skin. No matter the mob, or the damage he sustained, he would respawn in his bed. The ache in his chest did not subside with time, the loneliness of the base encroaching upon him constantly. Yet, despite his stupid decisions, or letting his guard down around any mob he faced. Despite his weakness...

Technoblade never dies.

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Hi so that was an AU i wrote that got way too long lol. Hope you enjoyed! Likes/RBs appreciated :] <3.

#me talking #technoblade #philza #dsmp #dream smp #dream smp fanfic #fanfiction #immortality AU #the syndicate #i wont tag the other characters just bc theyre barely mentioned and i dont want to flood the tags ;-;

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voiceless-terror · 3 years

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Okay but. Jon saying to Tim "I don't know where to go" when they're all estranged and sad and stuff and Jon's been mauled or something else we all enjoy putting him through. What a dynamic.

Hey there friend! This turned out a lot angstier than I planned, but I hope you like the torture. Just 2k of Jon and Tim season three feelings.

Tim’s pulling out of the Institute’s tiny car park when he sees him.

He heard that Jon had been gallivanting across America from Martin; that’s how he got most of his Jon-related news, lately. Wasn’t like he was going to ask the man himself.

“He was kidnapped, Tim,” Martin furiously whispered to him after Jon’s bout with the Circus. “The least you can do is ask after him.”

“Looks fine to me,” he shrugged callously, turning his chair around as Jon walked into the room. He was walking and talking. That’s more than a lot of people can say.

Jon’s standing there, looking lost and small against the austere backdrop of the Institute. He doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, just staring straight ahead like a lost child. He looks...sick. Hurt. Hunched over, like someone just out of sight is going to hit him. Jon always looks that way, sure, but Tim needs him to be alive and functioning if they’re going to take on the Circus. And what the hell was he wearing? He’s decked out in some sort of baggy flannel button up and torn jeans, a giant green coat over the whole ensemble that makes him look like a vagrant. It angers Tim how tiny and stupid he looks in it.

Against his better judgment, he finds himself pulling over and opening the window, tamping down the concern with annoyance. “What are you still doing here?” he says in his gruffest voice, hoping to spur him into action. Even watching him skitter down the street would be easier than this.

Jon startles, jumping in place with a wince. “O-Oh, hi Tim.” The happiness on his face is at odds with the rest of him. Tim has noticed the way Jon’s eyes light up whenever he so much as glances at him, desperate for any attention or reconciliation he can get. “How are you?” Tim rolls his eyes.

“What,” he repeats, as if talking to someone particularly slow. “Are you doing here?” Jon shuffles his feet and looks down at the pavement. He’s sweaty and twitching, like a junkie looking for his next fix. Probably another spooky side effect of whatever the fuck is going on with him.

��I-I, well- you know I’ve been away,” he begins, ever evasive and stuttering. “I was staying with, with a friend-” Tim didn’t know he had any of those. “-but I don’t think she’d appreciate me showing up like this-” An embarrassed glance down at his clothes and a self-deprecating laugh. “And I’m pretty sure I’ve been evicted, so- to be honest, I don’t know where to go.” He says the last bit with such sadness and open vulnerability that Tim’s not sure whether to hug him or hit him.

His mouth quickly decides for him. “Get in the car.” Why am I doing this? He’s unlocking the door and pushing it open, gesturing roughly.

“W-What?” Jon stumbles a bit as he steps forward, his body eager to follow Tim’s instructions but his mind still hesitant. “I don’t- really, Tim, you don’t need to-”

“What are you going to do, sleep on the street?” You look like you already did, he doesn’t say. “Get in the car. Just stop...standing there.”

Jon quickly but gingerly gets in the car, probably afraid Tim’s going to change his mind. He still might. But Tim pulls away from the institute and onto the road, already on his way. “Thank you,” Jon murmurs. He doesn’t respond, just watches as his arms curl around his torso in a protective manner. Now that he’s closer, he can see the man’s face is flushed, likely with fever. But there’s something odd about the way he carries himself, like he’s about to keel over even while sitting.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks, his voice blunt and sharp. “You look like shit. America didn’t treat you well, then?”

Jon chuckles humorlessly. “More like Daisy,” he says. Tim remembers Martin complaining about the way she had marched him back to the Archives “too roughly,” as if Jon were a piece of fine china that should be handled with care. “There was an incident with er, some stairs. But I’m really just not feeling well, I’m afraid. Probably caught something on the flight.”

“Hang on- did she push you down a stairwell? What the fuck, Jon?” His outrage surprises him and he slams on the brakes too quickly at the next light, jostling Jon in his seat. “Isn’t she supposed to be, I don’t know, babysitting you? For Elias?”

“It was just the last few, and I was kind of dragging my feet-” Jon tries to school his face into calmness, but it’s clear the mention of the woman makes him anxious. “Elias doesn’t really care about that- as long as I get the job done.”

“Stop- why are you defending her?” His hands grip the steering wheel with a painful force as he bites out the words. “Stand up for yourself, for Christ’s sake. You just let everything happen now. You’re not even trying.” There’s years of pain behind the words that Tim can’t hide and he watches as Jon shrinks in on himself, curling further into the passenger seat.

“I’m trying,” Tim hears him whisper. “I am.”

They don’t speak for the rest of the drive.

__________

He doesn’t take the lift up to his apartment as it’s only on the second floor; he swallows down the guilt as Jon struggles. There’s only so much sympathy he can spare. Jon trails behind him as they enter the flat- its dark, and messier than Tim likes to keep it. He hasn’t been one for tidiness these days.

“Sit,” he points at a chair by the kitchen table as he throws his bag on the floor. “I have leftover Pad Thai. That’ll have to do.”

“Oh I’m fine, thank you,” Jon shifts in his chair, uncomfortable. Probably in pain. Tim will give him some paracetamol with his food.

“You’re sick,” Tim’s getting tired of pointing this out. “Hurt. You need to eat something. It’ll make you feel better.”

“I already had a statement-”

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” Tim yells as he slams his hand down on the counter. He’s sick of these strange conversations. Jon will do anything that fucker Bouchard wants him to do, but now he’s being contrary? “Just eat the fucking food, Jon.”

“Okay,” Jon capitulates at the angry tone, eyes looking down at the table. Good and quiet. Tim can work with that.

It only takes a few minutes to heat up the food. When it’s done he slams a bowl in front of Jon along with three pills. Jon had always taken a bit more than the usual dosage; Tim used to fight him over it. He doesn’t anymore. Jon swallows them sans water and pokes at the food with his chopsticks. He’s not going to let Jon up from the table until he eats at least some of the food- he thinks Jon subconsciously knows this.

But Jon isn’t interested in eating right now. Jon wants to talk. Tim can see it in every line of his shaking frame, the buzzing urge to ask a question, to dig. Tim knows what happens when Jon asks questions and he freezes, clenching his jaw in preparation.

As expected, Jon begins to speak. “I’m- I’m worried about you, Tim.” Dear God. “Martin says-”

“Oh, what’s Martin got to say about me, Jon?” He clenches his hands into fists and narrows his eyes at the man across the table. “Go on, then. I’m waiting.”

“He’s worried too!” There’s a bit of fight in Jon’s eyes, his words are sharp and biting. It’s strangely comforting. “He says you’re getting reckless, that- that you’re willing to do ‘whatever it takes’ to stop the Circus and I-”

“I am,” Tim confirms. He’s never made a show of hiding it. “And I thought you would be too.”

This time it’s Jon that slams his hands on the table- it’s a mistake, Tim can see his body shaking and straining with the pain. “Goddamnit Tim, I’m not going to watch you die!”

The temperature drops and Tim finds his breath catching in his throat. He’s thought about dying. He thinks he’s made his peace with it. Go out in a flaming inferno, taking whoever’s in his way down with him. Jon looks devastated at the idea. He doesn’t know why. He thought they were past this.

“Sasha died,” he says, relishing Jon’s flinch. “My brother died. Sometimes, Jon, people die.” His own eyes are stinging but he doesn’t want to give Jon the pleasure of seeing him break. “And there’s nothing we can do about it.”

Jon's body wilts at this, slumping further into his chair in a way that must have been painful. But his eyes burn with a strange, manic fire and his hand reaches across the table, grabs Tim’s own and squeezes with a force he didn’t think Jon was capable of.

“Don’t,” Tim whispers- but he doesn’t pull his hand away, just averts his eyes because he can’t stand to see this broken, shaking mess of a man trying to comfort him.

“I’m so sorry, Tim-” and that’s when he rips his hand away from Jon’s. Apologies were never his forte.

“Don’t be sorry,” he snarls, standing from the table and pushing his chair back with a bang. “Just promise me that when the time comes, you’ll get out of the way and let me do what needs to be done.” His chest heaves with an emotion he’s never been able to put into words- it’s more than grief. It’s fear and pain and uncertainty and emptiness all rolled into one and spilling at the seams. “Please.”

Jon just stares- his face is ashen and there are so many words he wants to say, Tim can feel it.

Instead, he says nothing.

__________

Jon is curled up in Tim’s bed. He tried to refuse it multiple times, but Tim wouldn’t hear of it, practically shoving a pair of pajamas into his hands as he studiously avoided Jon’s eyes.

“The sheets are clean,” he said, the words flat and monotone. “You always liked it when the sheets were clean.”

He did. He remembers a time not so long ago when Tim would laugh as he buried his face in the pillow, relaxed and smiling. “Like a cat!” he teased.

Jon always slept easy in Tim’s bed but tonight rest evades him and it’s not just the pain or the fever. It’s lonely, cold and empty in here. He wonders if Tim is already asleep on the couch.

He’s not. Jon’s standing in the doorway and watching the tenseness in his posture, arms curled into his chest and eyes clenched shut. Tim was always an open sleeper, legs and arms akimbo as he sprawled across whatever surface he laid claim to. He also snores, though he denies it whenever Jon brings it up.

Despite knowing the rest is feigned, he jumps in shock when one arm reaches out in a beckoning gesture. Is he-?

“Don’t think about it,” Tim says in a clipped tone but his arm’s still out and Jon hurries across the floor, hoping this isn’t some sort of fever dream. But Tim settles him against his chest, warm and real and Jon chokes with everything he wants to say and never said, wants to ask him about Sasha and Danny and-

“Stop thinking,” Tim interrupts his musings again, his arm tightening around Jon. “This means nothing. Just go to sleep.”

“Okay,” he whispers hoarsely back, burrowing his head in Tim’s chest. This means nothing. Go to sleep. He listens to Tim’s heartbeat, slow and steady and thrumming with life.

He wonders how long it will stay that way.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27389947

#my writing #tma #the magnus archives #prompts #janekfan #jonathan sims #tim stoker #jontim #angst #this is depressing dont @ me lmao

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