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asa-sauce · 4 years

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“i know you don't know me, but...”

❀ asahi azumane x reader

flavor: honey mustard

warnings: none!

a/n: hi! thank you for reading this if you do. this is my first haikyuu!! fanfic. i think i might make a part 2 of this, so let me know if you guys want one! also, request something! give me something to write! and don't worry, the ukai fic will come out tomorrow!!! (ps. reader is 18)

+ after getting kicked out of the house, you find yourself on a bus stop bench, talking to a tall stranger in the rain.

What the hell am I gonna do?

The question ran marathons around your mind, racing faster each time the rain fell heavier.

Just twenty minutes prior, after a heated argument with your mother, you found yourself face to face with the front door. She had kicked you out for something so stupid and minuscule—’forgetting’ to do the dishes.

“If you’re not going to take care of this house, you’re not going to live here,” was one out of the many things she yelled at you.

But it wasn’t your fault dance rehearsal was scheduled an hour earlier than usual on such late notice; you had no choice but to wash the other half of the dishes when you got back. You had hoped that, even with her quick temper and high expectations, she would’ve understood the situation.

Boy, were you wrong.

And now, the bus stop-bench is getting warmer the longer you sit on it. You have your feet up on the bench, knees against your chest and locked up by your arms around them.

The only lucky thing about your situation was you changing. Still, your clothes slowly began to soak up the rain.

The rain to you had always been soothing. You would always get excited when it would rain, and would dedicate wet days to sitting on the couch and looking out. The sound of it falling against the porch plants, the smell of it against concrete, even the mere sight of it had you smiling stupidly.

The rain to you was a time to heal, a time to close your eyes and think, a time to be free of the vices in your life.

But now, as the tiny icicles of rain shatter against the street around you, you can now acknowledge the sadness that the weather was famous for.

What the hell am I going to do? You think again, this time as the first tear falls.

Just twenty feet away, the answer walks down the street. He has his head tilted down, as if he trying to keep the rain out of is face, but forgetting that the umbrella above him is already doing a mighty fine job at that.

Yet he moves with outward steps, restless to get home and eat. He’s in the midst of fantasizing about it now: a bowl of tonkotsu ramen placed angelically in his calloused hands, the little bubbles in the broth dancing around each ingredient; the first bite of noddle and pork coming together in a matrimonial way; his nose teases him with a phantom of the savory smell.

But it’s enough to make him look up and check how far away he is, or more encouragingly, how close he is to fulfilling his food fantasizes. And that’s when, under the outdated light of a single street lamp, he sees you.

Ever the subconscious samaritan, his eyebrows sew themselves together tightly and the corners of his mouth dip down. His feet, full of earnest, slow in concern. HIs intentions shift too, from the glowing bowl of food to fixing the gloomy sight ahead of him.

But what if she gets the wrong idea? Asahi remembers the days--though only two years ago--of high school, where even the teachers were sometimes afraid of him, and when every girl saw his pure-hearted smile an evil delinquent’s grin.

No, that was high school, and this is the adult world. He’s respected now, and believed when he says he’s twenty years old.

“What’s up?” (he goes for, finally approaching her. He tries to make it sound void of any scheme, and he’s thankful it comes out as such.)

You turn your head as fast as the raindrops fell from cloud to concrete, and see the man in front of you. It’s hard to clearly distinguish his features in the dim reservoir of light, but what you do make out is his question, and the gentle tone he speaks in.

“I’m waitin’ for the bus,” You say it so casually, as if it is obvious; as if there are clear, sunny skies for miles around. Your chin returns to its comfy spot between your knees.

You aren’t scared of the stranger’s presence. Really, you invite it. Even if the man kidnaps you, at least you would have a roof over your head.

“I don't think the bus is coming anytime soon,” the man then says after a moment. You look up and turn your head left, then right, as if you are just realizing this now. “Where are you headed?”

You shrug your shoulders slowly, dragging out your uncertainty. You really didn’t know where to go. Well, there was one place that you could go to, but it wasn’t in your best interest.

In the corner of your eye a light from an apartment window turns on, and the silhouette of a man appears. You glance up for a quick moment, then back down.

Like standing next to the sun, you can sense his gaze on you, or rather, you can feel his empathy. It radiates from him like a corona (not the virus) and bursts out in thick flares, emitting a warmth that can never burn you and a light that will never blind you.

You sniffle.

Then, there’s a shuffle. The man takes the satchel resting against his hip and tucks it between his legs. You watch as the leather straps barely touches the micro puddle in the street. Your concern for the strap getting wet distracts you from seeing the man take of his jacket, not noticing that he’s done so until it fills the space between you.

“My place is just at the end of this block,” he began again, jerking his head and elbow out in the certain direction. “You’re going to get hypothermia if you stay out here all night,” then he eyes your trembling form, “and believe me, it’s not fun.”

You look down at yourself, and finally notice that yes, you are shivering.

You take the coat and eagerly, without any propriety your dignity has left to offer, and swing the jacket over your drenched body.

It feels like grasping a hot cup of coffee with cold hands, and the jacket even has the same scent. As you zip up the jacket, the coffee runs down your throat, coating your insides with a feeling of absolute pleasure. It feels safe, something that has recently slipped away.

However, this is a new feeling of security, and you like it better than what it was before.

You gaze up at the man--the light finally floods his face--and you begin to say thank you when he says,

“Do you—I mean, I know you don’t know me, but.... would you like...”

You don’t expect to be stifling a laugh that night, but you do, observing his struggle.

“How about we get you out of this rain, okay?”

You know you shouldn’t accept his offer so easily. Everyone knows the classic “Stranger Danger,” and this situation could turn into a prime example. However, there is an element in that look he gave you—a something that said, Trust Me, Everything Will Be Alright.

And so, you nod your head, take the hand he then offers, and walk with him towards his apartment.

#asahi azumane #asahi x reader #haikyuu asahi #asahi x y/n #asahi x you #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!!#hq!! imagines #hq x reader

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martellthemandalor · 4 years

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Fight or Flight - Part 2

Pairing: Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales x F!Reader

Warnings: langauge, guns, blood, violence, alcohol, angst

Rating: T (teen)

Word Count: 4.2K+

A/N: Part 2!! Here we are after two weeks, which I’m impressed with becuase uni has been kicking my ass lately. Just a PSA that I mildly hate myself for writing this becuase I hate hurting Frankie. Thank you to @mylifeliterally for beta reading this! As always likes are appreciated, reblogs encouraged and comments are adored :)

If you haven’t already, read part 1 here!

Masterlist

GIF credit: @conveniently-available

Staying away from Frankie was working so far, the atmosphere between the two of you softening as your anger faded slowly with the distance. Everyone was happy with this, the boys starting to properly relax again in your presence and your relief at that knew no bounds.

Things were starting to feel like normal again.

Benny’s fight had gone… well you weren’t entirely sure how it had gone, but he was insisting that he had won and that was a good enough cause for celebration in the group.

The old squad had retired to Benny’s favourite haunt, a small Irish themed pub a few streets from the gym. There you were now sat, favourite beverages in hand, talking as if the last god-knows how many years hadn’t passed at all.

Ben had insisted that you weren’t paying for own drinks tonight, overjoyed that your good luck kiss had worked its magic on him. You certainly weren’t complaining, even if you did start to feel a little guilty as the other boys insisted that they pay for a few too.

Fish didn’t say anything to you but you clocked him slip his own contribution into Will’s hand, muttering something to him. Next thing you knew another bottle had been handed to you by the blonde.

A tiny wave of guilt washed over your stomach as you stared at the drink, offering your thanks to Will who simply gave your shoulder a squeeze in return. He knew it wasn’t meant for him.

The feeling quickly washed away though, replaced with that warm fuzz alcohol provided.

While it was true you had planned to lightly flirt with Benny at the start of the evening, you hadn’t expected it to be as enticing as it was to just… keep going. So, you did.

“So Benny, since when I was your good luck charm, hmm?” You queried lightly, nudging him with your elbow.

“You always were Athena, though honestly you’re more of a good looking charm than anything else.” He winked at you. It caused you, Will and Santi to groan in response.

“Come on Ben that was awful, surely you have better lines that from your other good luck charms,” You said.

“Ain’t ever been any other charm but you Ath. You gave us all our luck on missions and it continued into the ring. Wouldn’t want anyone else,” Benny confessed, all the boys nodding their agreement.

The sincerity of his words sent heat flaring to your cheeks. The boys had often joked that you were some kind of blessed, always knowing the best route out of a sticky situation, knowing when shit was about to hit the fan, knowing how to get everyone to safety even if they weren’t with you. You always said it was just paranoia and a lot of experience, but they insisted it was no joking matter how many times it had saved all your skins. All except… once.

“He’s right you know,” A quiet voice caused your head to snap from where you had been staring at your drink. “I know you don’t always believe it, but he’s right. You saved all our asses more times than I can count.”

Frankie. You stared at him, the heat from your cheeks now shifting to blaze a firefight behind your eyes.

“And yet the one time I needed you to save mine, my luck ran out? Is that it?” You snapped.

Frankie shrank under your gaze, refusing to meet your eyes. You watched his hands fidget with his bottle, fingertip skimming the rim. Then, calmly, in a move that you’d never seen before, he placed his hands flat on the table, keeping them still.

“Do you want to do this now?” He asked, his voice low, level, considered. “It’s been killing the guys to find out what happened to us, so do you want to do this now?”

They all were watching you now, four pairs of highly trained eyes bearing into your soul.

“Is that true?” You asked the group. The blaze in you never softening, the bite in your words not held back.

The answering silence told you everything, very clearly.

“You guys want to know what happened, huh? Is your curiosity finally getting the better of you now that we’re both here?” You sniped. It was all of them avoiding your eyes now, heads ducked away from your firing line.

“Hermana, you don’t have to-” Santiago started, cut off abruptly when you threw up a closed fist.

“No, I think it’s time we got it out there. I’m ready to talk. Frankie, honey, do you want to tell them? Or should I?” Fish squared his shoulders somewhat, but still couldn’t look at you. One hand had closed around his bottle again, knuckles white, gripping it so tight it looked as though it could shatter at any moment.

“Fine. Fish left me to die.” You let the words hang. And for a moment, nothing happened. Like the grace period between releasing the trigger on a hand grenade and the moment of devastation. There was silence.

The once light atmosphere instantly thickened as the words hit each of the boys in turn. It felt like smoke had filled the air around your table, swirling around you and choking up the boys before any of them had even thought of a response.

You pushed through.

“It was my last mission, before I was forced out of our company. We were out in the Rainforest, targeting some base camp. Shit went sideways. We all scattered and that was my call. Me and Fish ended up together, you know we always did. I kne- I thought, that he would always have my back.”

It was true. Frankie had always watched your six, more vigilantly than any of the other boys combined. A natural response, you thought, to being hopelessly in love with someone. It had certainly been the case for you. Your usual sharp surveillance turned up to eleven whenever he was near you on a mission.

“But on that day? That day he didn’t. We were being pursued, shots taken on us at every opportunity. I took out three of the guys behind us. Nine shots. Clean kills. No struggle.” You took a breath.

The squad was hyper focused on you, practically unblinking as you conjured the past into their minds. Even Frankie was staring at you now, mouth pressed into a firm line as he forced himself to pay attention.

He owed you that much.

“We’d made it to the hillside, one of our landmarks for tracking the distance back to the rendezvous. Things got real quiet behind us and I thought, stupidly, that we had somehow out maneuvered them. And then the rock-fall happened.” Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment. The memory of the gut wrenching fear so vivid you could practically feel it again, twisting and writhing deep in your belly.

“There were too few and they were too close together to be anything natural. I looked up and there the bastards were. I didn’t even think, just pushed Frankie off the path, down the shallow slope into the undergrowth. I just, wasn’t fast enough for myself I guess.”

You pulled up the left side of your shirt, showing the very obvious bullet wound scar that resided under your ribs. Benny’s mouth fell open, his hand moving towards you, only to swiftly clench into a fist on his thigh.

“I fell. Fell back off the ledge and into the undergrowth with him. Initially it was scrambled calls for med-evac and checking me over and telling me to keep pressure on it. My hearing started to go. Things got distant, but I could make out muffled shouting from above us. Then Fish called into his comm and gave me a look, I had no clue of why he was looking at me that way. Until he left. Left me there, bleeding out on the ground. Dying on the cold, damp earth.”

You cracked then, no longer being able to just play narrator, retelling it from some unfeeling perspective. It was becoming too real, too sharp in your mind as you replayed the event in four-D. You tried to quell the aching urge in your chest to gasp for breath by taking a long swig of your drink.

“I don’t know how long I lay there, in pain and on the verge of giving up, before med-evac showed up and saved me.”

Tears were threatening to roll down your cheeks, your head starting to spin as you battled to keep them at bay.

“Excuse me,” You muttered quietly, flying from the table and into the restroom.

The glass of the mirror was a glacier against your forehead, the smooth edge of the sink below you gliding under your thumbs as you anxiously stroked them across the surface. Your breathing was starting to even out as you used the sensations to ground yourself.

You thought you had been ready to talk about this, especially with the boys. Maybe it was because you had gone about it in a rather hostile way.

That was probably it.

You leant back from the cool glass, watching as your reflection shook her head at you.

“Get yourself together,” You firmly told yourself, “Go out there, apologise and finish the night on a high. Okay?”

The table had gone back to its normally bubbly ambience, the boys talking animatedly amongst themselves.

Your gut did a somersault. They all looked so happy, so carefree, even Frankie was talking happily with them.

You couldn’t stop observing him. The way he smiled and how his shoulders shake slightly when he laughs. His hands were gesticulating wildly when he spoke, the alcohol freeing them from their usual firmly crossed position.

Something flipped in you. The simmering anger that had flowed through your veins at the sight of him evaporated into lingering guilt.

All the tension, everything that had been off about the evening, it had all been your fault.

You took a breath and checked that you still had your phone and wallet in your pocket. You were just going to leave, let the boys have the carefree reunion they deserve.

Shit. Your coat.

Your coat was hanging off the back of the chair that your really didn’t have the stomach to approach right now. You considered making a run for it, just walking past and nabbing it. The problem with that is the boys would instantly notice.

No. Easier to leave it, you can just drop a text to Pope and tell him to drop it at your hotel room later.

You exited the bar quickly, hoping none of the guys saw, and started walking back to your room.

“You left your coat you know.”

Fuck.

Of course Santiago had noticed you slipping away. You stilled, and took a deep breath.

“I- I’m sorry Pope, I just… had to go.”

“You don’t have to apologise, Athena,” Santi spoke softly as he approached you. His arm looped into yours, and as you started walking the two of you fell instantly in step. “It couldn’t have been easy for you to tell us that.”

“No, I do. Not just for unloading that onto you about Frankie, but for being an asshole all evening. I put so much tension-”

“Ath, I promise you that there has been very little tension, things have been great this evening. Anything between you and Fish is between you two alone,” Pope gently squeezed your arm. “Will, Benny and I all knew that things wouldn’t be easy for you two tonight, so I promise you that any ‘tension’ you think you’ve caused was fully anticipated and did not ruin the night.”

The glow of the hotel drew closer with every step and 5 minutes ago the warmth and comfort would’ve been calling to you. Instead, all the warmth and comfort you needed was radiating from your best friend, his words gentle and reassuring in their very nature.

You looked over at him, at the face that had always greeted you on your worse days, and smiled with genuine affection filling your features.

“Thank you, Santiago,” You gave his arm a gentle squeeze, returning the one he had given before. “You always know what to say to me don’t you?”

“I’ve had years of practice, hermana,” He responded kindly.

Pope walked you to the door of your hotel room, even after you insisted that you were more than fine, and left you with a firm hug and a gentle kiss on your cheek. You believed that would be the last you’d see of any of the boys until tomorrow.

Settling in for the night, you were moments away from turning on the TV when a soft rapping at the door was about to prove you wrong.

You padded over to the door and peered through the peephole.

Fuck.

The latch on the door clicked as you opened it for your ex.

“We need to talk.” The words rushed from Frankie’s mouth before you even had chance to take a breath.

Standing for a moment, you studied the man standing patiently in the hallway. His hands were shoved in his pockets, cap pulled low over his face. His stance told you he was nervous, but his eyes betrayed a confidence that you weren’t even sure he realised he had.

“Okay.”

Standing aside, you held the door open and let him slip past you. You shut the door behind him, leaning against it as the lock engaged.

Fish stood in the centre of the room, smoothing down his shirt before taking off his cap and slowly rotating it in his hands. His eyes were steady on your face, waiting for you to make the first move.

The air between you was thick and heavy. The bed suddenly looked like the most inviting place in the room, so you moved to sit on it, positioning yourself at the headboard. You leant forward and patted the space of mattress at your feet, a quiet signal for Frankie to get comfortable.

There was no hesitation his part, swiftly moving to settle cross-legged at the foot of the mattress. Even now, when you both knew that this was going to bare more of your souls to each other than you ever had before, he was still giving you all the space he could.

“Where do you want to start?” You asked, your voice calm and almost, almost, soft.

“You first. Just, tell me everything, whatever you feel or have felt. Me and you, we were… we were never good at that, we repressed and tried to forget. Especially with this and it broke us. So please, please I want to know, I want to understand.” He was almost pleading with you.

Of everything Frankie had ever asked you, this was the most terrifying of them all.

He was patient. Sitting quietly while you gathered your thoughts, he gave no indication of wanting to rush you. He was right. The two of you had never been good at talking out your feelings. You both tended to bottle them up until they exploded in moments of anger or were thrown into sex.

After a few minutes of quiet searching, you finally formulated a script of your thoughts.

“I loved you with everything, Frankie,” You began, taking a deep breath before continuing. “My entire heart and soul, and do you know where it went? With every passing minute after you abandoned me, every second that I lost more and more hope of you circling back to get me, all my love for you bled out.”

Your hands curled into fists on your thighs, the gentle pinch of your nails digging at your palm grounding you from the rise of unbridled emotion. Frankie kept still, attentively listening to your every word.

“My heart shattered away, piece by piece, with every weakening beat and gushed from my wounds. Its out there, somewhere, Frankie. My love for you is stained blood red onto the jungle floor.” Your voice was starting to crack, the tremors in it impossible to ignore.

Frankie’s mouth fell open a little at that. You could see in his face that he was desperate to say something, but he chose to draw himself back, to keep listening to you.

“I thought getting shot hurt, but it was nothing, nothing, compared to the pain of you leaving me to die alone,” You croaked, your throat constricted with the effort of holding back the rolling tears. Tears which were starting to drip down your face regardless.

“You broke me, Frankie. I can’t date, can’t connect with anyone else. Even if I want to I can’t, because I have this constant fear that they will get up and leave me in the dark,” Your breath hitched as the script changed, a dangerous realisation fighting its way to the front line of your thoughts. “And I can’t date them because none of them are you.”

The reaction in Frankie was instant. Choking on air, his eyes frantically searched your face for any sign of a lie. When he found none, you watched as he forced himself to relax, a shaky breath leaving his lungs.

Your own body slumped against the headboard, the admission winding you completely. All your composure was gone. The puppet string that you forced yourself to follow had been severed. There was no room for acting alright anymore. Not tonight. Not with him.

“My turn.”

Frankie shifted on the bed, looking as though he was going to crawl up to you. Instead, he merely turned a little in order to face you head on.

“You deserve to know the truth. I deserve for you to let me do that. Okay?” He was coaxing you, gently.

Even now, after everything, he was still asking your consent.

Your consent to let him talk. Your consent to let him change your memories. Your consent to finally let yourself feel.

“Okay,” You said quietly, a nod accompanying the small sound.

“When you fell beside me, your clothes slowly darkening before my eyes, my first instinct was to call for Med-Evac. I followed our training, trying to stop the bleeding and giving our location over the comms. But, I… they…” Frankie paused for a second, an unsteady hand dragging down his face.

You leant forward, closing the chasm that lay between you and the man you loved just a fraction.

“I heard them shouting above us. Kill all survivors. It wasn’t good enough that they’d shot you, they wanted us, you, dead. I just knew, that if I stayed there, if I called in Medics, if I showed even one sign that either you or I were still alive down there,” He closed his eyes, squeezing them tight for a moment. His fists were closed too, scrunched up in the sheets that lay beneath the two of you.

You shuffled forward. Just a little.

“Dios. (“God”) They would have killed both of us. In those seconds between hearing them and calling off Med-Evac, my mind ran through every single possibility of how I could get you out there alive. I couldn’t lose you. I couldn’t ever lose you, mi petardo.” (“My firecracker”)

You tried to speak, but Frankie cut you off with a shake of his head.

“I made the only decision that I thought could possibly save you. Let them think you were dead. Leave you and make you seem like a lost cause and maybe, just maybe, you would survive this. It was the hardest decision of my entire life. I tried to tell you what I was doing, but I think shock had set in and you couldn’t hear me at all.”

The tears were escaping down his face now, all attempts at staying stoic failing as the tell-tale droplets fell. Your heart constricted at the sight, the urge to fly to him and wipe them away blooming deep in your chest.

“The look in your eyes broke my heart. You were so afraid and I knew you were about to become infinitely more so. Leaving you there was the worst thing I have ever done, in the whole of my life. If I could ever reverse it, if I could ever switch places. I would do in a heartbeat.”

Frankie’s face was glistening, but he made no attempts to wipe away the continuous stream of tears. It drew your attention to the fact that you too were still crying, unregistered droplets falling down your own cheeks.

Fuck. You wanted to reach for him. To pull him safely into your arms and apologise a million times over for how fucking selfish you had been.

The silence was becoming deafening, echoing in the cavern between you, ricocheting back and forth in a plight to be broken.

Then it was like the gaping space between you vanished. A lifeline was strung across, attached to both your hearts as you both opened your mouths and…

“I’m sorry.”

The words were spoken in complete unison. So much more than just an apology, it was an acknowledgment. Of what, you weren’t quite sure yet.

You tried to speak again, but Frankie spoke over you.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you the truth earlier. I should’ve fought harder to see you when you were so set on not seeing me. Not talking to me. I didn’t want to force myself onto you, into your space. I wanted to give you time to heal. But I- I left it too long. It wasn’t much later that I decided the best thing for both of us was to just let you go.”

Frankie’s silent sobbing was becoming more and more physical, deep, shaking breaths starting to wrack his speech. You found your heart starting to shatter all over again.

Fuck giving each other space.

You practically pounced on him, arms and legs wrapping round him as you buried your head in his shoulder. You told yourself it was because you were trying to hide your own tears. In reality you knew it was because right there is where you felt safest.

It was where you always were safest.

It took a moment for Frankie. It was like his brain stopped working for a few seconds. But once it fully registered that it was you in his lap, his arms circled your body, holding you tight to him.

You felt his face nuzzle into your hair, his tears beginning to dampen the soft strands.

“I was wrong, I was so, so wrong,” Frankie sobbed against you.

“No, shhh, no you weren’t,” You hushed, your hand coming up to smooth over his unruly curls. “I was. I was stubborn and hurting and unwilling to listen to anyone.”

“You were hurting because of me,” He murmured.

“No Frankie, I was hurting because of me. It was my decision to push you first, my decision to not let you see me.”

You pulled back from his neck, moving to rest your forehead against his. Your hands cupped his face, thumbs sweeping over the rosy apples of his cheeks.

“We… we both made mistakes. We both fucked us up. It’s like you said, neither of us were any good at talking out our feelings. This was just the culmination of that,” You breathed it out, the words fanning over his lips that hovered mere inches away.

“I still love you.”

The words were whispered. Barely audible if not for how close you were. A confession so short, yet still held the weight of a thousand bullets.

“I still love you too.”

The parroted words broke down every single one of the walls that you and he had built up over the years. All the heartache, the hating, the yearning, the supressed loving, it all disintegrated in a moment. None of it mattered right now, not now you both knew you had felt it all together.

“Can I kiss you?” Frankie asked. His now words bolder and more assured.

You nodded, momentarily biting you lip before pressing them to the familiar shape of Frankie.

Everything melted away, the room, the world, the past, all with the gentle brush of his lips against your own. It was unhurried, long presses of lips that slowly turned to languid passing of tongues. Relearning what the other felt like, tasted like.

When you finally broke apart, you spent a few minutes in comfortable silence. Your hands glided over each other’s body in the quiet, using feather-light and comforting touch.

“Can we try again?” You spoke the question with firmly shut eyes, afraid that his answer wouldn’t match the one you were longer for.

You felt his hand your chin, gently tilting your head up and encouraging you to open your eyes.

When you did, you found yourself looking into his dark chocolate orbs. The corners of his eyes crinkled just slightly in a way that let you know the smile he wore was genuine.

“Cariño, I want nothing more. But,” Frankie paused, the smiling falling from his face. He pressed his forehead to yours, rocking his head to the side slightly as he did. “We need to be better. Better for each other. We… we need to learn to talk shit out.”

You brought your hands up to move his head, bringing it down to rest in the crook of your neck, cradling it there.

“We will,” You promised. “We’ll be better. We’ll work this out.”

And as you sat there, holding your world in your arms, you knew that you and he finally had the second chance you didn’t know you had been craving.

TAGLIST

@din-damn-djarin

@phoenixhalliwell

@legili-mens

@jeeperky

@autumnleaves1991-blog

@arabellathorne

#Frankie morales #frankie 'catfish' morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #santiago pope garcia #frankie catfish morales #benny miller #will miller #will ironhead miller #i killed myself a little with this i wont lie

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rhysismydaddy · 4 years

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The Bodyguard pt. 4 (Elorcan)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Surprise at the end ;)

______________________________________________________________

Elide’s leg bounced uncontrollably as she sat at the breakfast table, staring at Lorcan, who just stared back, stern face looking unaffected.

After last night, she felt like things had changed between them. Whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not.

She’d kissed him.

And even though he said it was just the adrenaline and shock, deep in her head, she knew that was bullshit. She’d been attracted to him since the first time she’d seen him. Last night she’d only acted on the impulse.

But he hadn’t kissed her back.

He definitely didn’t seem mad about it, but he sure as hell didn’t react like she would have wished. And ever since, it hadn’t exactly been awkward, but it was sure as hell different.

Especially since she’s seen a different side of him when he’d taken care of her. His usually hard exterior had cracked enough to let her in, and it made her feel a little differently about him. In a really, almost disturbingly good way.

“I think we should get out of the city,” Lorcan said, snapping her out of her train of thought.

“And go where?”

He shrugged, but it didn’t look that casual. “I have a cabin. And it has enough security measures to let us know if someone’s coming.”

“Do you think that’s necessary?”

A dark look crossed his face. “Last time you asked me that, it didn’t end up well for either of us.”

She should’ve known he’d bring that up. Asshole. Even if he was right. “But what about my job?”

“Can’t you take a few days off?”

She could, but she never had before. Her schedule for next week was actually pretty blank and devoid of high-risk clients. Elide sighed. “When do we leave?”

“Twenty minutes.”

Her eyes bugged. “I haven’t even brushed my teeth. Or showered. Or packed!”

Lorcan just took a sip of his coffee. “Nineteen minutes.”

Sprinting to the bathroom, she cursed him soundly and flung herself in the shower. When she finally got packed and ready, she went back out to see him check his watch and shake his head. “That was twenty-three minutes, Elide.”

The way he said her name made her smile, even if he was teasing her. “Not all of us get up at five in the morning, Lorcan.”

He gave her a small smile, and she followed him out to the garage. Unsurprisingly, a jet black vintage sports car was in his spot. “Do you recognize you don’t own anything with color in it?”

Lorcan threw their bags in the back, then got in the driver’s seat. “Yes.”

Shaking her head, she got in the dark car’s dark interior and grinned. After turning on some old rock and buckling their seat belts, they were off.

They drove out of the city quietly, getting through traffic surprisingly well.

“How far away is this place?” she asked as he steered them through the suburbs, grimacing at all the white-picket fences they passed.

“About two hours.”

Oh, gods.

What would they talk about for two hours? The only long conversation they’d had was last night, and it wasn’t exactly cheerful. She turned sideways in her seat, studying his profile, and an idea sparked.

“What’s your favorite color?”

Lorcan shot her a curious glance. “As you pointed out, I don’t own anything with color.”

“Just pick one, then.”

“Gray.” She should’ve seen that coming. A smile tugged at her lips as he sighed and asked, “What’s yours?”

Settling deeper into the warm seat, she replied, “Navy. If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?”

He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like back to my apartment. “Are you going to do this the entire time?”

“Do what?” she asked, using a very innocent voice.

She was surprised he could even talk with how deep his scowl was. “Therapy me.”

“Asking your favorite color and dream destination is not therapy, Mr. Salvaterre. I’d expect you to know that after a week of crashing my appointments.” Elide sighed dramatically. “But, yes. I’m going to do this the entire time. It’s my duty to society to therapy you until you give in and tell me everything about you.”

The scowl deepened, but there was a touch of humor in his steely gaze.

When a large hand bumped Elide’s shoulder, she shot awake, eyes immediately finding Lorcan’s.

“I fell asleep?”

“Mid question.” His lips twitched. “Started drooling everywhere.”

Her cheeks warmed at the teasing note in his voice, so she avoided dignifying that with a response. “Are we here?”

It seemed like a stupid question, but they were currently in the woods with nothing but trees around them. Lorcan nodded. “We have to walk the rest of the way.”

“And why, exactly, do you have this place?”

He shrugged, grabbing their bags and climbing out of the car. “It’s off the grid.”

Eyebrows high on her forehead, she got out, inhaling the smell of the forest around her. She hadn’t realized how long it had been since she’d gotten real fresh air that wasn’t polluted by chemicals and smog from the city.

Lorcan chose not to breathe deeply and enjoy their surroundings. Shock. He just reached and pulled a deep green and brown tarp over his car.

What the hell was this place? And why was he acting like they were going to war?

“You going to be okay to walk there?”

She nodded.

After a year of PT and a few surgeries on her ankle, she walked normally. It still flared up with pain, and she’d probably be sore after hiking through the woods on such uneven ground, but she wasn’t about to make him carry her plus the bags.

Lorcan nodded, too. “It isn’t far.”

About thirty minutes and multiple breaks later, Elide was wondering what the hell far would look like to this man. He strode through the forest, glaring at the plants and greenery around him if they dared to get in his way.

Elide, on the other hand, struggled to keep up and was practically gasping for air as a small, wooden cabin finally came into view.

“Oh, bless all that’s holy,” she cried. “We’re here.”

Lorcan glanced down at her, amusement and a twinge of concern on his face. He wasn’t even sweating, the insufferable bastard. “Are you alright?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” she wheezed.

“Stay here for a minute,” he commanded, then strode towards the house, taking a very specific route.

In fact, they’d done that the entire way here. He’d ordered her not to step certain places, touch certain trees, and a ton of other bizarre things she’d written off as coincidence.

He disappeared inside the house for a minute, then a soft click sounded around her.

“You’re good,” he called out.

Eyes narrowing, she walked up the creaky stairs of the house and inside. It was a little dusty, but everything seemed to be in working condition. “What was that all about?”

“Security measures.”

Vague. Unless... “Oh my gods, are there bombs under the ground?”

He gave her a wolfish smile as he nodded. “And pressure sensors to alert me if there’s anyone out there. And cameras. And trip wires.”

“And I’m guessing all the stairs and floorboards creak.”

He looked a little impressed. “They do. We’re safe here.”

“Seems so.”

“You can have the room upstairs; I’ll stay down here. It’s up and to the right.”

Elide nodded, going up the very creaky stairs to find a small bedroom with furniture somehow even simpler than what he had in his apartment. A bathroom was attached, and she was ridiculously sweaty after their hike, so she got in, happily surprised when the water was clear and hot.

When she’d wasted enough time in there, she got out and put on a large, floppy shirt and leggings.

She went back downstairs to find Lorcan in the kitchen, pulling out cans and preserves and setting them on the counter. “We have enough food for two weeks.”

Two weeks? She couldn’t stay here for two weeks.

She told herself it was because she didn’t want to miss work, not because she didn’t trust herself around her housemate. Two weeks alone with Lorcan, in the middle of nowhere... Elide was sure she’d do something to embarrass herself.

Like kiss him again.

Pushing that thought away, she slid on the leather sofa and pulled her foot in her lap to rub her ankle. It didn’t hurt, but it would be tight as hell tomorrow if she didn’t massage it a little.

Suddenly the couch dipped and Lorcan settled on the opposite side. He looked her over, then waved a hand. Surprised, she swung her leg over and put her feet on his lap.

Elide made a small noise as his thumbs started to massage her ankle, and she blushed as he looked up at her. “Does it hurt?”

She shook her head, suddenly unable to talk with his hands on her.

The memory of their kiss drifted through her mind. He’d been so stoic when she brushed her lips over his, and it had happened so quickly she wondered if she’d made it all up. But afterward, when he’d kissed her scar... that had been anything but stoic.

His dark eyes were on her, and she could tell he was thinking about last night, too. Maybe she wasn’t crazy.

His hands stilled, so she moved to pull her leg back, but he shook his head and held them on his lap. “Elide.”

He’d only said her name, but her breathing started coming faster.

Lorcan leaned closer, and she realized with a start she was moving towards him, too. Their lips touched, just as softly as the first time. “Elide.”

She kissed him again, just the barest brush of her lips against his. “Lorcan.”

And for the first time since she’d met him, he smiled.

It was a big, beautiful smile she doubted anyone saw frequently, and it made her want to kiss him again. So she did.

He leaned forward until she was tucked under him, his big body pressed against hers. And just like the other times he’d been like this, she could feel every part of him against her.

But this time, she felt it with her hands, too.

They drifted over his shoulders, down his back, across his abs. She smiled as the muscles constricted under her touch, and he took the kiss deeper, his tongue coming to meet hers.

She moaned softly into his mouth, hands finding their way into his dark hair and pulling it out of its usual bun, finding it surprisingly soft.

His hands were on her face, cradling her softly, but moved down her shoulders and sides, thumbs barely brushing the sides of her breasts. Elide arched into his touch, but he kept it light, almost teasing.

Until he gripped one of her thighs and pulled it around his hips, settling in between them and pressing himself against her.

A gasp escaped her at how just that little moment of contact had sent tingles over her entire body.

Lorcan kissed across her jaw, down her throat, stopping to suck at certain places. She’d never imagined she’d do anything like this. Had always figured she wasn’t capable of feeling lust after everything that had happened to her.

And now her body was very politely telling her how wrong she’d been.

She was on fire underneath him, burning with something she’d never felt before. Lust was unfurling inside her, and she wanted every part of him.

But as his hands drifted under her t-shirt, fingertips meeting the soft skin of her stomach, she pulled back.

“What’s wrong?” he asked immediately, eyes finding hers.

She looked down, suddenly embarrassed. “I, um.. I have a lot of scars.”

Gripping her chin softly, Lorcan brought her gaze to meet his, and his features were filled with understanding. “So do I.”

It was such a simple statement, but it meant everything to her. He’d been through unspeakable things, just like her. But he wasn’t ashamed. And... she shouldn’t be either.

So she nodded, reached down, and pulled her shirt over her head.

His dark eyes drifted over her, taking in her curves, the plain bra covering them. The scars. His expression never once showed anything but desire.

“You’re beautiful,” he told her softly. “And I’m going to fucking prove it to you.”

She didn’t know what that meant, but figured out his intentions quickly as he leaned down to brush his lips over her shoulder where a thin white scar rested.

He took his time kissing it, then moved down her arm to another imperfection.

And another, then another after that.

Until she couldn’t remember why she hated them, why she’d been embarrassed. He was worshiping them, silently telling her everything she’d ever wanted to hear.

Then his hands slipped behind her back and unhooked her bra, and he worshiped her there, too.

She squirmed underneath him, making an embarrassing amount of noises, but he didn’t seem to mind.

Especially as he reached to pull the waistband of her leggings down just enough to expose the brand.

Just like the night before, Lorcan leaned in and brushed a kiss over the mark.

Then he kissed his way back up to her mouth and whispered, “Beautiful.”

She opened her mouth for him, and his tongue swept in. His hands went back to her waist, thumbs slipping in her leggings to start pulling them down.

He stopped abruptly when a soft clicking noise sounded. Lorcan was on his feet in an instant, stooping to pick a device up off the floor and grimacing.

“Get dressed,” he growled, tossing her bra and shirt on her stomach very romantically.

Elide threw her clothes on, getting up to walk over to where he was looking out the window, device in hand. “What’s wrong?”

His tense shoulders and set jaw told her it wasn’t good, but she wasn’t prepared at all for what she saw as she looked at the screen.

She could make out a dark square with two blue dots--she assumed those represented the two of them in the house--in the middle of the woods. But what she wasn’t ready to see were the multiple red dots surrounding the place.

There were at least fifteen of them, flickering to show they were getting closer.

Lorcan looked down at the device, a cold, dark look coming over his features. “We’ve got company.”

______________________________________________________________

Today, ladies and gentlemen, is a special occassion: it’s @maastrash ‘s birthday! And for her birthday surprise... here’s part 5.

@bamchickawowow @cursebreaker29 @girl-who-reads-the-books @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @studyliketate @over300books @justgiu12 @maastrash @a-bit-of-a-cactus @ladywitchling @sjmships @superspiritfestival @stardelia @keshavomit @illyrianwitchling13 @lord-douglas-the-third @blackjacks-donuts @hufflebird89 @sensitiveillyrian @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @towhateverend17 @empress-ofbloodshed @dottieadot @idontlikekale @se-ono-waise-ilia @tswaney17 @jlinez @wineywitch202 @aesthetics-11 @b00kworm @sleeping-and-books @musicmaam @savemesoon8 @hizqueen4life @maybekindasortaace

#elorcan #elorcan fanfiction #lorcan #lorcan lochan #lorcan salvaterre #elide lochan #elide #elide x lorcan #tog #tog fanfiction #throne of glass #throne of glass fanfiction #sjm #sara j maas

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legumelupin · 3 years

Text

FINE

So with the el*ct*on happening today and the impending doom I feel, I’ve been listening to fine by Mike Shinoda (highly recommend the song and the artist, he’s my fave) on repeat and most of the words are the same verse to verse and chorus to chorus so I wrote this quick little fic to deter my attention and channel my energy into something that wasn’t news media. It’s kind of angsty but it’s a bit hopeful at the end. and everything will be fine for Harry Sirius and Remus. At least in my book it will be canon can suck it.

There’s some mentions of dying but nothing explicit, everyone lives bc no one dies in my book. There’s also some questioning of reality so you have been warned!

Not edited or proofread!!! Please enjoy!!

Tell all the children to lock those doors

I've seen the smoke in the sky before

Gotta be up on my feet when the morning comes

‘Cause this fight we can't ignore

“No, they’re too young to be inducted into the Order, they’re not of age!” Molly Weasley shrieked. “They’re children, this doesn’t concern them!”

“I very much have to disagree with you there, Molly,” Sirius bit out harshly and the woman had the grace to look affronted. Anyone who said that the warning signs of war weren’t there was stupid beyond comprehension. But anyone who said that it didn’t concern the kids was even stupider, especially when it came to Harry Potter.

“Well, they still don’t have to be present for meetings! They have school to worry about!” she retorted and Sirius rolled his eyes, his expression grim and annoyed.

“I remember being in school and worrying that my best friends would be murdered over the summer. I remember being in school and hearing the cries of war and reading about the tragedies in the Prophet so pardon me if I think it’s a load of bollocks to think they aren’t thinking about what’s happening out there. Especially not the kids living here right now,” Sirius shot back, just barely holding in his snarl.

The kitchen fell silent at that. The meeting for the Order had ended some time before leaving Sirius, Remus, Molly and Arthur Weasley, and Tonks for the night. It was a tense meeting to begin with seeing as Snape had shown up for his biweekly report. It was always tense when he came, knowing he was working for the other side and the unending feud between him and Sirius was enough to keep everyone on edge.

“Well, I think I’ll turn in for the night,” Tonks’s voice sliced through silence and Sirius’s expression turned from glaring to slightly less glaring. “Gotta be up early for work and then I have some Order work in the evening so I want to be well-rested, you know?” she continued, sensing the easing tension.

“I think I’ll turn in too,” Sirius grumbled, abruptly standing and pushing past Remus and Molly on his way out. Remus only watched him go, sighing as he heard the pounding of steps and the beginnings of Walburga Black’s screams before her son silenced them with ease.

I feel a chill building up inside

Seeing the sweat filling up my eyes

Tell every friend, enemy in flesh and blood

To send out the battle cry

Sirius woke up the next morning colder than usual which was saying something considering it still felt like he’d never be warm again after escaping Azkaban. He groaned and reached his arm out, expecting to feel the warmth of Remus Lupin but finding the bed to be as cold and empty as he felt.

Panic coursed through him. Where the fuck was Remus? Sirius didn’t remember him coming to bed the night before but he thought that perhaps he was just cleaning up Sirius’s mess (What else is new? he thought bitterly.) and had come up after he’d fallen asleep. But he wasn’t there. And Sirius was cold, no, he was freezing. His throat felt tight and his bed felt too hard. He couldn’t hear Buckbeak’s squawks or chirps and Remus wasn’t there.

He tore off the blanket that was doing nothing and sprinted from the room, as far away as he could and down the stairs. He was expecting his mother to come out of the woodwork and smack him across the head for running in the house. He thought Regulus would be just around the corner waiting to spit at his feet and call him a blood traitor. He thought his father would be standing at the bottom of the steps, wand in hand and ready to cast the Cruciatius.

But none of them came and Sirius was still running through the house and down the stairs. He no longer felt cold because he was sweating and he couldn’t catch his breath.

He was running from Death Eaters and from Inferi. He was running for his life and he didn’t have his wand to defend himself. All he could think was Remus, James, Lily, Harry over and over again. He could’ve sworn he heard someone screaming his name and he knew he’d been found so it was only a matter of time before he was cornered and captured or killed. He had to run.

“SIRIUS!”

Remus’s voice broke through the haze and he skidded to a stop, the cold of the marble seeping back into his marbled feet. He was hot and cold all at the same time and he felt like he was in fifty different places at once all because Remus wasn’t there. But now he’s here and he’s holding onto Sirius and squeezing him tight and putting pressure on his over-sensitized body.

“We have to-! We have- We have to go Moony! James and Lily!” he shouted, starting to struggle against Remus.

“Sirius, stop moving! It’s 1995 and James and Lily are dead! We have to be worried about Harry! Sirius, Padfoot, my love, calm down please!” Remus’s voice pleaded, and what he was saying made perfect sense. He remembers breaking out of Azkaban and he remembers living in Grimmauld Place after giving it to Dumbledore to use for headquarters. Sirius stopped squirming and the pressure of Remus’s hold on him started to unravel the tension and the nerves he’d woken up with.

Twenty minutes later and Remus had yet to let go but Sirius had turned and folded his arm around his Moony and gripped tightly as he sobbed. Remus didn’t have the heart to tell him it hadn’t even crossed midnight yet and he’d only just gone to bed a mere two hours ago. But Sirius was sobbing and mumbling about Harry and how they had to be ready and he how he felt useless and insane. Remus held him tighter.

Fingers stretching out from nowhere

Reaching for my throat

They're hungry for my skin

Teeth wide smiling that they found me

Circling around me

Slowly closing in while you sing

Harry woke up frantically. He was gasping for breath because it felt like someone was squeezing his throat and there was cotton in his mouth. His skin was burning and he felt like there was someone in his room that wasn’t Ron. He knows he’s awake. He knows that’s not possible but he remembered the eerie portrait that stood tall in the room and he remembered hearing it snicker. Irrationally, he thought, Voldemort and his followers had found him finally.

If he moved, they would see him. If he stayed still, he had no way of defending himself or getting away. And there was Ron still. He closed his eyes shut tight and tried to think through the situation rationally, the voice in the back of his head begging him to understand that no one besides Ron and him were in the room. No one else.

He heard the high-pitched laughter that made his skin crawl and those grotesque white hands holding the yew wand, reaching out to touch him. He felt the touch everywhere, on his scar, on his throat, and the gash on his hand. Everything was burning. The jeers of the Death Eaters filled his ears and he sees their masks as they stood around him in a circle in the graveyard. They were all around him, waiting for him to move, waiting for their Master to do something to kill him.

Harry bolted from his bed.

The jeers sounded like they were following him and the laughter was too close to him for it to be comfortable. He left his wand by his bed and out of sight because he didn’t even want to look at it anymore with the looming hearing. But it wouldn’t matter anymore if he was dead.

The jeers turned into shrieks that echoed throughout the house but he didn’t care as long as they were following him and everyone else was safe. He just wanted to be safe too.

“It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real,” the rational part of his brain chanted and Harry didn’t even realize till that moment that he was crying. He slowed down a bit and threw caution to the wind to glance over his shoulder and see who was following him.

No one was there.

His hearing stopped ringing and became sharper and he realized that the shrieks were actually Sirius’s mother and everything he thought he was feeling and seeing was not real. It was all because of that dream but it was the same dream he had almost every night in some variation. He never freaked out like that before.

“Harry?”

He looked towards the voice who called his name, his nerves flaring and he prepared himself to run again because he just couldn’t be sure at this point anymore. But it was just Professor Lupin.

“I’m sorry!” he gasped and the werewolf gave him a concerned looked as he wordless flicked his wand towards the portrait and the shrieks were silenced.

“Sorry about what?” Lupin asked kindly and Harry gulped. He was drenched in sweat.

“Waking you,” he said before his brain even processed it. He was sorry for that sure, but he was also sorry about the portrait and about letting his old professor see him like this.

Lupin waved him off.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he said before turning on his heel and gesturing for Harry to follow him. “Come with him,” he instructed and Harry obliged, wishing desperately to leave the laughter and white hands behind him.

Everything is gonna be fine, fine

Everything is gonna be fine, fine, fine

Fine, fine, fine, fine, fine, fine, fine

Everything will be just fine

Sirius was not eager to let Remus out of his sight but the pounding of feet and the reckless encouragement of his mother’s rage had him concerned as well. The cup of tea steaming in his hands kept him from feeling too cold and his bare feet resting on the old carpet kept from becoming too cold. Remus returned after only a minute or two.

Harry was behind him.

Remus steered the boy to sit next to his godfather and Sirius suddenly started to feel uncomfortable. He was supposed to be stronger than this and not let Harry know that he was weak and broken. It wasn’t supposed to be this way but yet Harry felt no qualms about it apparently as he insistently shifted closer to the Animagus. They weren’t exactly touching and Sirius could feel the kid’s apprehension about touching him so Sirius initiated it, hoping he wasn’t overstepping.

He shifted his cup to one hand and threw an arm across Harry’s shoulders while pulling him closer to his side. He felt the tension start to ease out the boy’s body. Sirius felt a bit more relaxed as well.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” he murmured, pressing his face gently into the chaos that was Harry’s hair and tried not to think of James and what he’s lost.

Harry shuddered slightly but reveled in the comforting touch of his godfather and focused on the feeling. He left behind the remnants of his dream and leaned further into Sirius’s side, repeating quietly, “Everything’s going to be fine.”

Remus sat on the other side of Sirius placed a firm hand on his shoulder, leaning in to kiss his lover’s cheek softly.

“Everything will be just fine,” he echoed.

Neither of them felt any sort of sleepiness but everything was fine then and everything was going to be fine.

Fine.

#harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #angst #order of the phoenix #sirius black #remus lupin #wolfstar #tw reality questioning

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markswoman · 5 years

Text

sucker | ml

“the hospitals are probably packed.”

mark shakes his head and points his chopsticks at the screen. “no, people usually don't go to the hospital this early in the game. especially if the symptoms are just flu-like.”

it's a game to mark, and that sends a quick shiver down your spine. you spill a bit of leftover noodle soup on your leg.

warnings: implied sex, description of illness, death

You and Mark start out with a stockpile of basic necessities.

You’re lucky—lucky that you’re a bit of a hoarder and keeps everything you have, often buying double or triple-sets of non-perishables.

You had heard about it through the Internet weeks ago, but more than half the news alerts you read don't amount to much of anything, so you ignored it. Mark, on the other hand, the more intuitively proactive, doesn't hear about it until it reaches television weeks later—television, radio, schools, and hospitals.

“You're lucky you didn't take that accelerated med-school program,” you say over a bowl of instant noodles. You’re curled up on the couch together with the evening news flashing through the apartment, a tradition you’d started since moving there about a year ago. Mark arrived home just in time to catch the end of the daily headlines and see the news for himself . “The hospitals are probably packed.”

Mark shakes his head and points his chopsticks at the screen. “No, people usually don't go to the hospital this early in the game. Especially not if the symptoms are just flu-like.”

It's a game to Mark; that sends a quick shiver down your spine. You spill a bit of leftover noodle soup on your leg.

–

You’ve been casually dating since college.

Mark likes to call it 'dating,' and you like to call it 'casually dating,' because you honestly don't spend much time together outside the apartment. “It's a good thing, too,” Mark adds while slipping on a jacket the next morning. “Because if we were out all the time, we'd be hospitalized and dead by now.”

You sigh and tsk and reluctantly swallow the truth in it. The television's been reporting hundreds of hospitalizations in the past couple of hours, and Mark's headed to work to bring back some office supplies and to tell his manager that he'll be out for the rest of the week. You look forward to it. “Your office is probably closed,” you offer, but Mark claims that he'd left his laptop in an unlocked drawer last night and needs it if he wants to work from home.

You’ve been casually dating since college, where you’d met senior year in a Tuesday Music History class required by the core curriculum; as the only two seniors, you and Mark sat with your arms and legs crossed in the back of the classroom taking turns dozing and supposedly listening to the lecture. You found out you lived on the same floor, and after walking in on him in the shower, it'd been pretty much impossible to avoid some sort of social interaction. Or, as you like to call it, 'casually dating.'

Love isn’t mentioned. But you mention it to make Mark squirm, and you don’t expect much of a positive reaction.

You close your email and long-outdated job-hunting windows and refresh the news until Mark comes back; the virus is the front page of every website, making a filling appetizer of the media before attacking the people, and you jump when your phone rings. It's Mark.

“The office is open today, and we're still going strong. So I won't be home for a while.”

“Sure,” you reply, an echo of how you’ve been replying to all of Mark's calls for the past couple of weeks. Months. Years, maybe.

“So,” Mark murmurs, but his sinking tone says that he doesn't have anything to follow up. You stay quiet, pressuring him—or, perhaps just avoiding the farewell. “I'll, I'll call.”

“If anything happens.”

“Yeah.”

Mark's voice sounds a thousand times more strained over the telephone, where you can't see him and the way he prefers to talk with his hands and his face and multiple, “You know what I mean instead of with words. Mark's never been linguistically adept, and you remember your own surprise when Mark had come home with a job offer and a salary a week after graduation.

It isn't just Mark's voice, though; it's the whole conversation. The way of going about mentioning casual afterthoughts; it’s a thousand times more strained over the telephone, where you don't know whether or not Mark's hung up. Mark snores at night but breathes soft during the day, and you, on the other hand, balance the telephone between your ear and your shoulder and huff right into the receiver; Mark used to tease you about the breathy, distorted messages you’d leave on Mark's voicemail. Mark used to tease you about a lot of things.

You hear the familiar voice of the recorded operator, telling you that you better hang up and get the fuck over Mark—or, rather, the harsh beeping that pretty much implies it.

–

Mark's office closes after about two weeks, and you smile with eyebrows arched in, feigning wry but expectant disappointment. You like to think you have decent control over your facial expressions, at least enough to fool Mark.

“Aren't you happy I'm home?”

You eat dinner in the kitchen together that day, you leaning against one counter where Mark stands across from you, the television off for the first time in years after Mark had complained about it. You don't like change, but you like Mark.

“Do you want me to be happy?” You reply.

Mark nods, and maybe it's just the way his lips are pursed around his half-chewed food, nostrils flared for breathing, one chopstick still in his mouth, eyes large and intent, but Mark nods, and you see the Mark you’d fallen in lo—you’d lov— you’d been attracted to three years ago. You mention love to make Mark squirm; Mark doesn't mention it, and you never squirm. Mark doesn't mention it, so you never squirm.

“Sorry, I—”

“No, I'm happy.”

“Don't pretend to be happy,” Mark says, a hint of a whine in his voice, tossing the empty cup into the garbage bin. You laugh at the irony of it and push yourself off the counter. You move to take off Mark's coat—the black one that you bought together after hours of sifting through the extra large coats left on the clearance rack. It looks nice, though.

“Anyone infected at your work?” You ask.

Mark steps out of the sleeves. “Yeah, a few.”

“You're lying.”

Mark would always turn to you when he spoke because he feared a misunderstanding like the plague, pleading you to read his facial expressions. He'd turn away when you would bother him about finishing his paper, or when you would remind him to call his parents, or when he told you he'd never dated before. Mark hasn't lied to you for a while—Mark hasn't spoken to you for a while.

“Okay, a lot of people,” Mark says softly, turning around, and you smile.

“Maybe we should burn all your office clothes. For good measure.”

“I don't think that would help,” Mark says, reaching for a hanger through a quiet but long sigh. His voice goes low again, low and dull, and you take it upon yourself to think that you’ve done something to ruin the moment.

–

The advisory to stay indoors implies a demand to stay indoors after a few weeks. You notice when you’re dragging a few bags of garbage to the curb and the last of the cans on your street have vanished. The garbage smells a lot nicer, at least— You’ve been scraping every container empty to preserve food, though you and Mark are probably a lot better off than most of the people in the complex. The city can't issue a mandatory evacuation because there isn't anywhere to go, really, but about half of the neighbors are in the hospital either as victims or as family members, or, as Mark likes to say, “soon-to-be-victims.”

“You only say that because we're not infected yet,” you said, flipping through an old magazine on the couch. You’re supposed to get new issues weekly, but the postal service hasn't been operating either. “Be sensitive.”

Mark shrugs. “What's the death count?”

“Hundreds of thousands, at least. Stores are empty or closed. Shit's on sale. Economy sucks.”

Mark hasn't touched his office clothes for weeks, white shirts stiff and pressed, hanging to collect dust in the closet. And you kind of like it, hanging up Mark's hoodies and tees in the center of the rack and pushing the slacks off to the side after you do the laundry.

After a moment, Mark murmurs, “Want to go out?”

You look up.

“Like, shopping?”

“Like a date,” you said, your voice sliding into an embarrassingly high range, and Mark laughs.

–

You kiss when you close the front door and Mark tugs both your scarves off. Mark's lips are drier than you remember them being, but they still taste like him, salty in the corners and tinged with the slightest hint of blood, because Mark has a habit of picking at his lips. You drop the groceries to the floor and wrap your arms around Mark's neck, flinching when the cans roll toward the living area, but Mark holds you tight and has you pinned against the door. It's a struggle between Mark and the slightly neurotic side to you, so you end up ducking the last kiss and Mark's lips land somewhere between your nose and your cheek.

“The cans,” you breathe, and Mark blinks, then laughs.

“You don't change.”

Of course I don't, You do. Is what you want to say, but you slip from Mark's arms and into the living room. You’d only ended up buying more groceries and leaving the department stores closed and unguarded with a tense atmosphere lining the streets and doorways—people wanting to leave, to stock up, but being too afraid of the free-range air. Sidewalks had been deserted but felt packed, and with gallons of peanut butter and canned fish, you both rushed back to the apartment with a sort of surreal background chasing you both down every side-street. That, and Mark's sudden urge to kiss you through the obstructing scarves, but you can't say that you don’t appreciate it.

“I don't understand why you insisted on scarves in the middle of May—”

“Protection,” you insist, and Mark leans against the doorway.

“If it's going to get you, it's going to get you. There isn't much you can do to stop it.”

You carry the rest of the groceries to the pantry, which is now being somewhat contained in a pantry-cupboard area, but you want it to overflow again. It would give you some kind of security in a suspended, unprepared world. The last thing you want to do is die of starvation. “Look, I bought a bunch of face masks.”

“Don't tell me we're wearing those around the house.”

You hold your hands protectively over the boxes and hesitate. “Is the disease fatal?”

Mark nods. “Pretty much, yeah.”

It’s easy to be awfully calm about it. Because there isn't anything to shout at, nothing to fight, no antagonist, nowhere to put the blame; you pity the victims and put them in isolation and move on tip-toeing through the rest of the week, wondering who'll be the next to go. Sometimes, you panic to fit in, but there's no one left to imitate. And in an eerily quiet city that used to always be one day ahead of itself, there's not much you can do to effectively panic. Panicking is just part of a mob-mentality lifestyle that loses its attractiveness when there's no mob. You put your hand over Mark's. “Then, no. Let's not wear them.”

Mark doesn't get it and breathes out a sigh of relief, but you don't need him to get it.

–

Police issue a quarantine weeks later, giving the survivors a couple days to stock up before plastering the bright yellow warning tape over every church, grocery store, school, and office building still open—only the hospitals remain in operation, and you imagine a line of the sick, running through houses and city streets and public places, stretchers lying on the grass and nurses falling ill but working until they're on the floor, white-faced and heaving.

You flinch when Mark puts a hand on your shoulder.

“Are we going out again to get the last of the food?”

You sigh and rub your hands together, flipping through the two or three television channels that are still being run by substitute news-casters. “Bad organization on their part. All this is going to do is infect the rest of the city. Think about it, hundreds of people running through restaurants and waiting in food-lines, bringing whatever they can manage back home to their families, who will be in an isolated area with them for the next couple of weeks.”

“So instead of dying in the hospitals, they're—”

“Dying in their homes,” you finish, and Mark nods.

“So we're not going?”

You look up at Mark, whose eyes are wide and, not angry, more determined, eyebrows furrowed and large irises directed straight at you. It's been a while—a Mark that’s attentive and waiting for you with his feet together and rooted in one spot. It's been a while, a Mark who isn't waltzing through your legs and tripping you over spaces between the tiles and slipping through your fingers at every turn of a corner.

“Let's stay,” you say while leaning back into the couch, and Mark sits closer than he has in three years. During dinners, you’d balance your respective meals on opposing armrests and jerk your feet apart whenever they touched. During quarantine, Mark leans against you, your shoulders and arms and legs shared, dipping into the crack between cushions and fatal illnesses, waiting for something and waiting for nothing.

–

The world death toll is in the tens of millions, and you’re lying on the couch with a towel around your body after showering with Mark and having been hoisted up against the glass and fucked hard. Shower sex was something you teased each other on multiple occasions, but you’ve perfected the art, pointing the shower head toward the wall, and cool, smooth glass feels a lot better on your back than any sheets ever have.

You count your sins on one hand and your sayings on the other.

You’re having fucking shower sex when people are dying; your parents called you multiple times, and you haven’t answered. The calls have since stopped coming, and you’ve assumed the phone line went dead. (You’re too afraid to check.)

But what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and part of you regrets that it'd taken a worldwide pandemic to drag Mark home from work and to force what you’d been too suspended, too unprepared to say. And part of you doesn't give a fuck, because it'll kill you both in the end, even with the precautions, even with the face masks and the insulated windows and the empty streets and quarantines.

“You want to go again?” Mark says, rubbing his hair with a towel and motioning at your fingers.

You kick at him, and Mark laughs.

And after that, it just sort of slips out.

“I love you.”

You don’t know who said it first, but suddenly, you can't get enough of it, Mark kneeling in front of the couch so you’re eye-to-eye with each other and cupping your face with large, stiff hands. He kisses you, his breath still hot and a little uneven, and you love it, pulling back just a bit to fill the air between you with more, lost in the time it took you both to realize it.

It's July, and you’re running out of food, and you’re sure you’re going to Hell, lying on the couch and sucking Mark's tongue into your mouth and letting out short whimpers, but it's more than just part of you that doesn't give a fuck anymore—it's half of you, all of you.

–

The symptoms begin with a relentless sore throat and a mild headache that worsens over the course of 72 hours, when they then deteriorate into coughs and sneezes that help spread the virus when it's at its strongest state. Your temperature rises all the while, slowly at first, but steadily—one thermometer reading will never be lower than the last one, which makes for a sort of helplessness, much like the later stages of drowning, only more conscious. More aware. You're more aware. Then comes the blood, out of the nose, the mouth, then in the end, the ears, and most victims will die of some sort of asphyxiation.

You take glass after glass of tap water—in the middle of the night at first, when Mark had still been asleep, but after a while, you think it’s asinine to keep Mark in the dark—it'd be like murder, and you would rather give Mark the chance to leave if he wanted to.

It isn't easy. It isn't easy keeping composed when a little itch in the back of your throat means much more than just that, and you don't know what sort of reaction to expect. And perhaps if you mention it in passing, Mark will only come to understand the gravity of it in bits and pieces, thereby spreading the reaction through the afternoon. So when you’re sitting on the couch and watching reruns of your favorite dramas, you carefully shifted to your own side and Mark to the other, you murmur, “My throat kind of hurts. Want some water?” between standing and sliding toward the kitchen, waiting for a yes or a no or anything, your hands shaking as you pause just before the doorway.

Mark closes his eyes and doesn't reply.

Mark closes his eyes as if he'd been expecting it.

Mark closes his eyes and motions for you to come back to the couch. And it's the gentle flick of his wrist that breaks you, who crawls back, pushing yourself up onto the cushions again. Mark catches you when your hand slips, gripping your forearm so hard it hurts, and it doesn't make your throat feel any better, but mends the little parts of you that had been waiting for redemption.

–

The Internet service providers are on and off, but you go through your cached pages and run through the symptoms with Mark in a quick and curt and stoic, or so you’d like to think, manner, until you can't speak anymore. Which is when Mark, as if he'd been expecting it, guides you over to the bed and pushes you onto it, draping a blanket over you that doesn't quite cover your feet.

“So, this is it, huh?” Mark says, his weight dipping into the mattress.

“I don't know if it's contagious yet or not,” you whisper, and Mark shrugs.

“I'll stay.”

You see a bit of a glimmer in Mark's eyes before you let your own flutter shut, but you’re half conscious through the whole evening, not really delirious or tired or sick, even. Mark stays for hours, occasionally humming and occasionally running his hand through your hair and occasionally speaking to you in a series of ‘remember whens’.

He leaves when the sun starts setting, and you hear some noises in the kitchen, then the sound of the shower turning on—you have to think about that one for a couple moments, never really having heard it from outside the bathroom before; you’ve usually showered together since moving in. And the strange muffled taps blend into one continuous, soothing hum that lulls you into a real sleep.

–

You wake up in the middle of the night with the itch in your throat more of a harsh tear and untangle Mark's fingers from around your waist.

And as you make your way to the kitchen, the blood rushes to your feet, leaving your head half light and half pounding, as if you’d doubted the disease yesterday. In the context of your entire lifespan, the pain will last for a fraction of a second. Mark will have it worse, when you leave. (If you leave.)

Under the fluorescent light, you notice the pantry door open and a bit of a mess on the counter, half-empty trash bags in the corner and stray tissues in the garbage, and through the translucent bags, you see more than tissues—as if on cue, waiting for you—white cloths. Mesh. The face masks, cut up, torn, unusable, boxes destroyed, every single one.

#nct imagines #nct 127 imagines #nct angst #nct 127 angst #mark lee imagines #mark lee #mark lee angst #nct fanfic #mark lee fanfic

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blacktofade · 5 years

Photo

“What the fuck?” Ryan asks, because it’s way too early on a Monday to wrap his mind around what he’s seeing.

Shane looks over, his face pale apart from the blood dripping from his nose, his eyes wide in surprise, and Ryan gets the distinct impression that oversleeping and getting to work twenty minutes late is the best thing he’s done all year.

“Do you know this guy?” Ryan asks, barely sparing a glance at the man whose hand is fisted in the front of Shane’s shirt, keeping him pinned against the painted brick behind.

Shane looks down and briefly shakes his head, which is all Ryan needs to see. There’s a not-so-unexpected protective flare burning bright in his chest and it’s easy to drop his backpack to the ground and take two threatening steps towards where they are.

Getting a better look at the guy, it’s clear he’s young — possibly still in high school or just barely out, but he doesn’t even flinch at Ryan’s approach.

“Can I help you?” Ryan asks, grabbing the guy’s upper arm, the one holding onto Shane.

“He has my wallet,” Shane mumbles and the kid shrugs Ryan’s hand away to draw back his arm and punch Shane square in the jaw. It sounds like it hurts, but it’s clearly not the first hit Shane’s taken today.

Ryan doesn’t pretend to know how to fight someone; all he thinks he knows he learned from TV and movies. He doesn’t even expect any of his so-called moves to work, but when he swipes his foot out, trying to knock the kid’s legs from under him, it actually does send him tumbling to the ground. The guy grunts and there’s a clatter of something metallic that Ryan can’t see because he’s too busy shoving the guy onto his stomach, pulling his arms behind his back.

“Get the fuck off me,” he yelps, wriggling and attempting to throw Ryan off, but Ryan holds him steady.

“Call the cops,” Ryan says, glancing over at Shane, who looks even more surprised now, his mouth hanging open. “Shane.”

Shane blinks and wipes at his chin where the blood is trickling down from his nose. “He has my phone.”

“You piece of — ” Ryan complains, tugging one of the guy’s arms up further behind his back, just because he knows it’ll make his shoulder ache. “Grab it, Shane.”

Shane crouches beside them, hands gently nudging at Ryan’s thigh to get past him to the kid’s pocket. When he pulls back, he’s holding his phone, though the screen is cracked all the way down the front and Ryan thinks that’s probably thanks to his Jackie Chan move.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, though it still turns on when Shane unlocks it with his thumbprint, but then he stands up, moving out of Ryan’s view as he’s connected to 9-1-1 a few moments later.

“You’re gonna regret this,” the kid spits from beneath Ryan, while Shane lists off their location to the dispatcher. “Do you know who I am?”

“You’re starting to sound like Draco Malfoy,” Ryan deadpans and above, Shane laughs, making Ryan look up, just to see the stretch of his smile. Shane winks at him and then thanks the dispatcher before hanging up.

“They’ve got officers a few minutes away,” he says. “They’re heading over.”

The kid starts struggling again in earnest and Ryan shifts his arm just a little bit higher.

“You’re gonna break it!” he yells and Ryan does actually relent because he’s not in the habit of breaking the arms of teenagers.

“What happened?” Ryan asks, looking up again, watching Shane wipe at his nose. It’s still bleeding sluggishly and there’s already a bruise forming under his left eye.

“Went to get coffee down the street,” Shane says, tipping his head towards an overturned cup a few feet away. There’s another in the gutter nearby and it looks like Ryan’s usual iced tea. “Yeah, I got you something too. Figured if you were late, you’d need a pick-me-up.”

“Cute,” the kid grunts under Ryan. “Let. Me. Go.”

“On the way back, I met this clown.”

“You could have taken him,” Ryan says. “He’s like fifteen.”

“I’m seventeen,” the kid spits back predictably, making Ryan laugh.

“He had a knife,” Shane tells him, nodding to a point beside their spilled drinks. There’s an open flip knife laying discarded in a puddle of coffee and Ryan looks up at Shane incredulously.

“What the fuck? Why didn’t you say?”

“How was I supposed to know you were going to attack him?”

“He attacked you first,” Ryan points out, because it should be obvious, but Shane’s expression shifts like it wasn’t, but might now be.

“I had ten bucks in my wallet and was going to cancel all my cards online as soon as I got inside. It wasn’t worth fighting.”

“Do you know how much of a pain in the ass it is to replace a driver’s license?” Ryan retorts. “No one deserves to deal with that. Not even you.”

“You’re getting soft, Bergara,” Shane says, his eyes crinkling. “Thanks for beating up a sixteen year old for me.”

“Seventeen,” the kid insists again and Ryan finds himself laughing as Shane winks again.

It falls quiet between them and even the kid stops struggling in the minute before footsteps begin to grow nearer. There’s a crackle of radios, which means it’s definitely cops, and when Ryan looks over his shoulder, there are two police officers heading their way.

“We can take it from here,” one of them says, carefully handcuffing the kid as Ryan finally pushes himself to his feet again.

There’s dirt on the knees of his pants and he’s sweating under his arms worse than he realized. When he has to hand the other cop his ID, his hands shake from adrenaline.

“Fuck,” Ryan says, leaning against the wall beside Shane, who’s been given a wad of gauze to press under his nose to soak up the blood.

“Remind me not to mess with you,” he jokes and Ryan laughs and lets out a heavy breath.

“I keep warning you about weapons left and right,” Ryan tells him, holding up his fists, but Shane just laughs and gently knocks them away. It falls silent for a moment before Ryan clears his throat. “I really wasn’t planning to do any of that.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“I just — I saw you with the — ” he gestures to Shane’s nose “ — and I don’t know. Guess I saw red.”

“Is this the part where I swoon and call you my hero?”

“I mean, a little swoon might be nice,” he admits and Shane nudges him with his elbow. “He didn’t stab you, right?”

“No,” Shane tells him gently. “He was just trying to shake me down for more money.”

“He should know by now that millennials are the worst to mug — we have nothing.”

"And our friends are scarily protective."

"I'm not sure I'd have done this for everyone," Ryan admits carefully and Shane nods like he knows.

It's probably the adrenaline leaving his body that makes his reactions so slow, but he doesn't expect the way Shane folds down to his level, drawing him into a hug that pushes Ryan's head into his shoulder. He stiffens in momentary shock, but then it feels natural to curl his arms around Shane in return, tucking his face against his neck, which is warm and smells like Shane’s familiar body wash.

He shuts his eyes and breathes slowly, letting everything about Shane calm his restless body. He didn’t plan on saving Shane, but he knew in his gut he couldn’t not save him. He tightens his hold and a hand comes up to rub the back of Ryan’s neck in a comforting, surprisingly tender touch.

“You’re okay,” Shane tells him and Ryan shifts his head.

His lips graze Shane’s skin when he says, “I don’t give a shit about me.”

Shane’s hand pauses and Ryan’s a little perturbed when Shane draws back, but he holds Shane’s gaze when their eyes meet.

“I’m okay, too,” Shane promises, but all Ryan can think about is how things would be if he wasn’t okay. Mostly in the sense that he wouldn’t know what Ryan wants him to know.

He can’t keep blaming the adrenaline, but it’s a hell of a thing and it’s probably one of the few times he can actually use it as an excuse and have Shane believe him. So he doesn’t stop himself from pulling Shane back in, turning his head just enough for their lips to meet in a soft kiss.

Shane’s eyes are still open and it’s awkward to stare at him from so close, so Ryan shuts his own and leans into him, trying his best to silently say it’s your choice and please please please want me in return. And just when he starts to think he should pull back because it’s bordering on uncomfortable, Shane’s hands reach up to cup his face and he returns the kiss with unexpected enthusiasm.

Ryan can think of a thousand other — possibly better — places for them to share their first kiss, but honestly, Ryan doesn’t want to change a thing about it. It’s perfectly them in a weird kind of way.

He curls his hand into the front of Shane’s shirt just as a throat clears from behind Shane, startling them apart. Ryan lets out a nervous laugh and rubs his clammy hands on his pants, and one of the police officers steps up beside them.

“Can we get a statement from you both?” she asks and Ryan wipes his mouth with a swipe of his palm that probably isn’t as casual as he means it to be.

“Yeah, sure,” he replies after a beat, before looking back at Shane. “We’ll talk about this later?”

“Sure,” Shane agrees, but his smile is warm, like there’s nothing at all to worry about now, and it's easy to believe it. Things are definitely much better now that they’re both safe and Shane now knows exactly what Ryan wanted him to know. Ryan returns the smile and lets the officer lead the way.

#shyan #thing wot i wrote #fic #bfu prompts 2019 #lovely anon #answer #bfu

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anxtheroliveinthehouse · 4 years

Note

I saw your requests were open!! Hello!! Can I request a L from death note reader insert (that is if you make up your mind about your feelings on writing them, if you’re not comfortable I completely understand) with a Soulmate AU?

Hello! Thank you for requesting! I’m sorry it took a few days for me to respond but I had finals this week and I was also very ill on the one day I had off ;-;

I thought since you were the first to request and it is the festive season, I might as well do a reader insert. You requested a really broad scenario so I hope you don’t mind me writing this story as the AU but if it had occurred “before” the events of Death Note and as a first meeting (as I imagine it happening). It also turned out really long because I actually loved writing this. It’s a little angsty as well (again I hope you don’t mind). If you’re down for another part to this story with a bit more fluff, I’m fully ready to write (**types aggressively**). Happy Holidays (★^O^★)

Request: 26) Soulmates AU, Reader insert

Anime: Death Note

Character(s): L

Relationship(s): Reader x L

Words: 3227

It had always been a struggle to the train station after your last class on Thursdays. Whether it was your professor running over time or the slow running elevator and crowded stairwells, there was always something that kept you from leaving the building when you should. Or perhaps, as it was in that moment, a torrential rainstorm darkening the once beautiful day in Tokyo. You didn’t mind the rain, however it seemed to always come at inconvenient times. Especially on the days when you were carrying large amounts of your artwork to and from the university.

Your large, black portfolio case- large enough to carry poster boards in- was tucked tightly under your arm in hopes that the copious amount of rain wouldn’t soak through. Your assignments, projects, everything of importance to you and for your classes were inside and with the inconvenient rain, you knew you were screwed. For a second, you stood at the entrance to the art building looking lost at the sight before you: obscuring amounts precipitation, wet cement, dripping gutters, deep puddles.

Of course, you had forgotten your umbrella in your fervor to leave on time that same morning. You didn’t think to check the weather while fighting with your backpack, forcing it to fit all of your supplies. In fact, the only thing extra you left with was a protein bar sticking out between your teeth. Besides, you couldn’t be bothered with carrying on. There was no room in your backpack for a travel-sized one and you didn’t have extra hands to carry everything you need. To even get out the door, you need one hand to close and lock the apartment door and the other to fumble with the ridiculously long case. You certainly couldn’t hold an umbrella while trying to deal with your case, train passes, and eventually keys on your journey back home. Maybe it was for the best that you didn’t even think to bring one. You would have spent too much time struggling with it.

It was only a ten minute walk to the station, and with your light jogging pace you got there sooner. You quickly descended the steps and into shelter from the rain. Surrounding you were the usual for a busy station, people milling about, some running to their desired platforms or destinations, and the walls plastered with advertisements. There were a few that made your stomach knot uncomfortably, even after seeing almost every day for the past year or so. Somehow the message being conveyed wasn’t as happy and cheerful to you as the advertisers were trying to come off as. Get you Soul Mark removed with DermCare Lasers!

You avert your eyes as you pass the smiling men and women in the photos showing off clear skin where presumably their Soul Mark once were. You didn’t understand the purpose of Soul Marks, but you also didn’t understand some people’s obsession with trying to get rid of them. Regardless of the miraculous biological, genetic, statistical, and even religious observation, study and knowledge of Soul Marks, there wasn’t a definite answer to why they existed. Despite being born with a birthmark that you and only one other person in the world carried, it didn’t mean that you weren’t meant to be with them. There were plenty of people who ignored their marks and choose who they wanted to be with. Though, the data clearly showed those who sought for their matches in Soul Marks worked out better in the long run.

You weren’t sure what to think of yours. The mark was definitely a part of you, so you didn’t want to get rid of it. It was a permanent option to get it removed, and a very painful one at that. However, you also didn’t like the idea of a set destiny or fate. Choice was a very important thing to you. There were a lot of things you couldn’t control in life and your mindset was to make that amount as little as possible. The idea of having no control over who it was you were meant to be with by God, the Universe, or even some mathematical mistake was terrifying, no matter who or what was pulling the strings.

The hand around your case’s straps tightened considerably. You were allowed to be angry, you told yourself. Everyone had a different way of coping with the marks. As kids, people were told to ignore the marks until they were old enough to understand. However, the prevailing and ever present culture was already planting the seeds into kids’ minds swaying them to try and find their matches despite the contrary words of parents and elders. In fact, those same parents and elders were often hypocritical. If a child found their match at an early age, there was a lifelong push for the children to marry once they were old enough, essentially grooming them to only expect everlasting love from oftentimes a stranger.

Movies, TV shows, and books often presented these scenarios as desirable. You found them creepy. You didn’t understand the appeal of falling head over heels for someone who you wouldn’t think twice about if you hadn’t seen their mark. In fact, it was a common trope in comedies to see one of the characters remark how unattractive someone was only to find out that very same unattractive person was actually their match. Then, all of the sudden the two characters were madly in love and found each other irresistible. Really, how shallow could they be?

It really didn’t matter. It wasn’t like you were going to find your match anyways.

——————————————————————————–

Somewhere in the absolute chaos that was the Tokyo underground, there was an unexpected delay and so your usual line was cancelled. The closest station to your apartment was more walking and an even longer train ride. You kicked the digital sign announcing the cancellation with fury. Immediately, you regretted your decision as pain flared through your foot. Fellow passengers and general onlookers gave you curious, yet disturbed stares and glances as you grabbed your foot and hopped.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow.”

After the pain subsided enough to let your foot down, you gave another glance at the sign and looked beneath it to the map to see what else you could do. There was a line that took you to a more commercial area near where you lived. It was still going to be a longer walk back home, but the train was coming sooner than the others and was a shorter journey. You also reminded yourself that you could visit one of the many cafes in that neighborhood. It sounded like a really good idea once you realized that you could wait out the storm and not have to walk back in the pouring rain. Not to mention a hot beverage to warm you up. So you raced to the platform and hopped aboard, thinking dreamily about what you wanted to order.

It was on the way up to the cafe, one that sat within a multi-story commercial building, that you noticed a man sitting on the adjacent building’s rooftop in the rain. As you lingered in the landing of the cold, harshly lit, and echoey stairwell, it struck you as bizarre. You stopped to gaze at the man in the rain. Under any other situation, you would have left him be. He obviously didn’t want anyone’s company sitting out in the rain like he was. However, you had a very imaginative mind. It was one of the reasons why you excelled in visual art, but it often ran away with outlandish ideas if you weren’t careful. That was why when you had turned away from the window you saw the man through, you felt a twinge of guilt. What if he needs help? Sick or injured? What if you didn’t help and he died?

You rolled your eyes and huffed. Why were you like this? You turned back around to the door that led to the rooftop and left your portfolio case next to it. You pushed through the door aggressively and made your way over to the man.

He was tucked into what looked like a very uncomfortable position. His knees were drawn up to his chest, his hands cupped them neatly, and his back bowed against the concrete wall that served as a base for the fence that surrounded the rooftop. Through the rain that fell into your eyes and the wind that whipped your hair around so high up, you studied him.

You watched as his eyes adjusted to your feet in front of him. Slowly, they worked their way up to your face. He looked small and empty. His dark eyes showed no expression, his mouth neutral, and his shoulders while hunched didn’t really seem tight with stress. He looked completely okay to you health-wise. Maybe it was his mental health that needed to be checked out.

“Can I help you?” He asked in a quiet and impassive voice.

“I was wondering why you were sitting in the rain?”

He paused for a moment, those dark eyes still burning a hole in you and his equally dark hair plastered around his thin, pale face. He then tilted his head up towards the sky. His eyes flitted shut with the harsh oncoming drops.

“Oh, I hadn’t even noticed.”

Your mouth twisted involuntarily with a lot of different emotions. Confusion and unsettled were the two that seemed to stick out the most.

“Okay, so … Do you need anything?” You asked still trying to be polite.

His mouth opened as if he were about to answer, but he snapped it shut after further consideration. His gaze fell back to your feet and became unfocused.

“No, I don’t believe there is anything pressing that I need at the moment.”

The rain seemed much louder than it had before. The constant drumming was deafening once the man finished his sentence. Your apprehensiveness continued to grow. The urge to take slow steps back to the door was strong, but for whatever reason you fought against it.

“Are you sure?”

He didn’t look up to you and his blank expression never wavered. “Yes, I’m sure.”

You crouched down to his level and matched his stare. Your eyes caught his and at once the world seemed to stop. Something about him made it seem like you and him both had all the time in the world to be sitting there in the rain. It was something about his eyes, you thought. They were too dark and the bags under them were too deep, especially since you guessed he was around your age. Yet, you couldn’t help but think that maybe he had seen and experienced a lot more than you had.

You hold your knees like he did. “You’re going to catch a cold.”

His demeanor changed considerably. It went from cold and robotic to something akin to amusement. His eyes lit up as his attention had been fully won over by something you did. His expression was much like a cat that had set its sights on its prey. You recoiled from its intensity.

“Worried for a stranger, are you?” His mouth opened into a smile. “Very friendly, indeed.”

You felt like you needed to defend yourself, “I was only trying to be nice.”

He hummed in consideration, “Perhaps, but I don’t accept that people are just nice. So if you would let me humor myself, could I try to understand your motivation for coming out here?”

You weren’t sure how to respond to his question, but he began speaking again without an answer.

“I’ll describe the situation from your point of view. If you could, correct me if I’m wrong. A man on the rooftop all alone in the pouring rain. You see him and come rushing to his aid in case he was in need of your help? Because perhaps he was hurt in some manner?”

“Well, yeah?”

He chuckled breathily and brought the tip of his thumb to his lips, “What did you expect in return for helping me?”

“What?”

“You saw a benefit in helping me, what was that benefit?”

“That I get to help another human being?” Your voice was starting to get louder and more tense. “Here, come on. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee at the cafe next door.”

His eyes followed your hand which was outstretched towards him. He was thinking, you could see it somewhat now that he was biting the tip of his thumb. It must have been a habit of his.

Your eyes met his again as he accepted your offer tentatively.

“Friendly, indeed.” He repeated.

When you both stood up, you took in his statue. He was a little taller than you, perhaps more so if he weren’t slouching as much. His shoulders upon further inspection may have been slouched in a way that looked like he was tense. It looked like he was carrying a heavy burden, stupidly reminding you of the ancient Greek story of Atlas, the titan who held up the sky and heavens. However, no sooner than that unnecessary though filled your head, a sudden and heavy weight suddenly crashed upon you as if you had taken over Atlas’ job.

Once that odd man stood and his white long-sleeved shirt was exposed, you could see clearly through the wet material. On his chest was his Soul Mark clear as day. It was very pigmented against his pale skin and stood out even more so with the shirt. You would have maybe looked away if it were anyone else with any other mark. Yet, with your awful luck and this goddamn inconvenient rain, you could clearly see that his mark was the exact same as yours. There was no mistaking it. You’ve spent your whole life staring at your mark, unhappy that it was there, but too used to it to get rid of it. Sometimes you wished you were born without one. Then, you wouldn’t have to deal with the consequences of a chance encounter like this one.

You must have not moved for a long time. He caught you glaring at his mark and glanced down as well. His hand touched the wet shirt, the tips of his fingers dragging over the mark.

“Do you recognize it?” He asked, his voice much softer than before.

You couldn’t lie to him. Your head bobbed unevenly with your jerky nodding, “It’s my match.”

This took him by surprise. His usual wide-eyed stare was wider and curious.

“Interesting,” he murmured, “The probability of meeting you was already slim to none, and considering who I am and what I do …”

Your stomach sank even further. What he was saying sounded like he was probably a serial killer or something.

“Let’s go inside, to the cafe?” He bent down to level his face with yours before walking towards the door.

You dumbly followed, still in shock and really unable to comprehend anything other than your impending doom. It was like everything had narrowed down to a single point in your life, where meeting your match was not merely a coincidence, but a certainty. As much as you tried to struggle against fate and pull away from losing control something so personal as finding your soulmate, it hadn’t really mattered in the end. You still ended up in the most ironic of circumstances, finding the very person who shared the exact same birthmark in a very uncharacteristic move. You thought sarcastically that you shouldn’t help anyone else out of the kindness of your heart ever again.

The door shut heavily behind them in finality. The sound echoed up and down the stairwell. Then, there was an eerie silence. No more rain in the background to blanket and surround you.

You pushed your dripping hair out of your face and locked eyes with him again. “What’s your name?”

You might as well ask. The thing you have been fretting over and having anxiety about was now happening. You had lost the will to care about panicking and being overly blunt.

He looked uncomfortable, “I go by L.”

“L?” Your head fell with disbelief. “Like the letter?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe that’s your real name.”

“It isn’t my real name, no. I just happen to go by it, like a nickname, or an alias.”

You considered him for a moment, “Why?”

“My work.” L tucked his hands in the pockets of jeans. “It’s quite dangerous. I don’t like others knowing my personal information. Of course, you can find a lot about someone with just a name and description of appearance.”

“What do you do for work?”

“I’m a detective. A private detective would probably be a better title, though I often find cases to study and solve without an initial client.”

You looked him up and down again, “How old are you?”

“How old are you?” He countered.

“I’m in university, third year.”

“I’m a little younger than you, a year or so. Depending on your age, you could be young for a third year?”

“I am.”

L had that weird, open-mouthed smile again. “What’s your name, then? Since we’re going to be playing twenty questions?”

You couldn’t help but grin at his sarcastic tone. “My name is [YN].”

“Well, [YN], I’m afraid I can’t accept your offer for coffee.”

You had completely forgotten about what you had said to get L out of the rain. You had gone through a complete cycle of emotions since then and couldn’t be bothered to remember.

“I don’t mind,” You say, “It doesn’t hurt my feelings at all.”

He cocked his head and studied you for a brief moment, “I’m glad to have met you. Regardless of the strange circumstances.”

You felt sick once more, but there was a bit of relief in realizing that L was not what you had expected and he certainly didn’t expect some heartfelt gestures from finding his match.

“I’d like to keep in touch.” L said fumbling around his back pocket, looking for something. “After all, I wouldn’t mind having an artist around.”

“How did you-?”

No sooner than you had uttered those words his eyes dropped to your portfolio case then back up to you. You felt a flush rising in your cheeks and ears. Your portfolio case had your name on it, of course he would have assumed it belonged to you.

“So you’re an artist.” L said. “I’d thought initially you were an architect and that was based on your clothing. However, with more deduction, I was only thirty-seven percent sure.”

“My clothing,” you said jokingly angry, “What about my clothing?”

“Never mind that. You’re case distracted me. It’s quite large. I had thought you were carrying designs for equally large projects.”

“Wow, thanks for noticing my large portfolio case.”

L’s smile grew larger, “I must take my leave. I will keep in touch.”

He began to descend the stairs in an unhurried manner. As reached the first landing, a cell phone went off and you saw, before L turned the corner, that it had been his.

“Hello? Yes, Watari. I’m on my way down, I’ll be out there soon …”

You stopped listening as you knees wobbled under your weight. You fell against the stairs and curled up into a ball. What the hell just happened?

#death note #reader insert #l death note #soulmate #soulmate au #alternate universe #requests #anon asks #reader x l

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duckapus · 5 years

Text

Paper Nicktoons- Prologue

Today…

I’m going to tell you the story of “Star Spirits and Good Wishes.”

Far, far away, beyond the sky, way above the clouds, it’s been said that there’s a haven where Stars live. In this sanctuary of Star Haven there rests a fabled treasure called the Star Rod, one of the Great Wands which have the power to grant all wishes. Using this wondrous Star Rod, the seven revered Star Spirits worked in tandem with other mystical councils across the realms to watch over our peaceful worlds carefully… very carefully.

And then one day…

The elderly Koopa in a purple hat and matching robes, looking ever so out of place in Star Haven, peered out nervously from her hiding place.

Satisfied, she put her magic rod up to her beak, “The coast is clear, your Nastiness. Prepare for transport.”

“Perfect. Everything’s ready on my end, Kammy. Fire away!”

At her master’s bidding, Kammy shot a geometric bolt of Koopa magic at the ground nearby. The bolt exploded into a small mass of multicolored smoke, dissipating to reveal the King of the Koopas, Lord Bowser himself.

The mighty Dragon-koopa inhaled deeply, before declaring, “Ah, I love the smell of stardust in the morning! All right Kammy, let’s go get ourselves a superweapon!”

“Mwehehe! As you command, my Lord!” the old witch cackled, and the duo of dastardly turtles strode towards the Star Temple (people in the Mushroom Kingdom’s world are really uncreative with names).

As they entered the great hall, Bowser grew suspicious, “Weird. A building this important holding such a powerful artifact, but no guards in sight.”

“That’s because we only need one,” called a familiar voice, prompting the villains to turn around.

What they saw was a small yellow star with reddish-brown eyes and a distinctive brown lock of hair drooping to the right. Kammy had no idea who this smug little sprite was, but Bowser would recognize that grim expression on any face.

“Er… hey, Geno! Long time no see, pal! Congrats on the promotion… this is a promotion right?”

“It is, thanks. So, how’s this going to play out, old friend?”

“...Can we skip the Mariachi Guy stand-off and go straight to the shootout?”

Geno responded by forming a replica of his old loaned doll body, gun arms at the ready.

“Thank you. BOOK IT, GRANNY!” the duo leaped to either side of the Star Guardian, narrowly avoiding being riddled with bullets.

The possessed puppet focused on Kammy, figuring she would be the healer of the pair, “Kamek didn’t teach Bowser much in the way of respecting his elders, did he?”

“Do you want to try telling a two ton near-immortal fire-breathing dragon fueled by teenage hormones to be polite?”

“Fair enough.”

It was a testament to Geno’s skill and Kammy’s experience that they could hold such a casual conversation in the middle of a firefight. As it was, Bowser was struggling to find an opening between the shower of bullets and geometric shapes-either through his old party member’s defenses or to his coveted prize. Just as he was about to go into his usual fiery rage, he remembered something.

With little hesitation, the large Koopa retired to his shell, spinning rapidly and obviously towards his enemy. On reflex, Geno easily caught the Koopa King and tossed him over his shoulder down the hall-in the wrong direction, he realized too late.

Now ignoring the elderly Magikoopa (who had been growing increasingly winded as the duel went on), Geno raced to the end of the hall, hoping beyond hope he wasn’t too late.

His wish had failed by a matter of milliseconds.

“GWAHAHAHA!! I’ve done it! Finally, I can take what’s rightfully mine!”

“Not if I have something to say about it!” With that, the Star-turned-toy leaped up to grasp the Star Rod, hoping his desire to save it would outweigh Bowser’s ambition.

Not even close, he realized with a start. Barely enough of his own influence shown through to make a single request for indirect aid. Still, he supposed as he was tossed across the chamber, it’s better than nothing.

Bowser, who had felt the Rod act without him, leered maliciously at his adversary, “what did you do?”

The Star, suddenly feeling much more wooden then celestial, glared defiantly, “wouldn’t you like to know?”

Bowser sneered, smoke puffing from his flared nostrils, before his face morphed into a wicked grin, “You know, I can never remember; are you a Dummy or a Puppet?”

Confused, Geno was about to reply that he was, in fact, a Doll, before noticing that he could no longer move his body. Bowser’s grin widened. “Stand at attention, soldier.”

Unbidden, the Star Guardian complied. It was then that Geno realized; Bowser had just made his first wish.

“Your Cruelness!” Kammy called as she entered the Star Rod’s chamber, “I take it from your evil laughter earlier that we’ve been successful?”

“You bet your best hat we have! Check it- the Mushroom World’s Great Wand and a new minion as a sweet bonus! He doesn’t do much right now other than follow direct orders, but I can work on that later.”

In high spirits, the Koopa King summoned his signature white and green Clown Car, “Get in Geno, we’re blowing this joint in style!”

As his weapon-turned-prison obeyed it’s new master (who was currently ravaging Star Haven and imprisoning the seven Star Spirits), Geno could only pray that Mario and whoever would be called to his aid could find some way to fix his newest mistake.

Now Star Kids may rise to Star Haven to deliver people’s wishes…

But those wishes will not come true.

Meanwhile, in other worlds…

A man walked out to his mailbox as he did every morning, pausing only a moment to glare at his hated next-door neighbor (who cheerfully waved back).

As he looked over the mail (mostly bills, again) one envelope confused him.

“That’s odd, Timmy never gets written invitations!”

…

After a long day of school and Ghost fights, all Danny Fenton wanted to do was flop down in his bed and sleep till… probably midnight, if Skulker was in a good mood. Still, something compelled him to check his Email. The newest message was an invitation to a party in… the what kingdom? Calls to his two best friends confirmed that they’d received invites too.

Still, that begged the question why it was explicitly addressed to Danny Phantom.

…

“Good morning, Gary!” Spongebob called as he prepared for his day. Mr. Krabs had closed up shop while he went on a vacation with his daughter Pearl (as much as he hated to admit that he needed the rest) so the Aquatic fry cook’s schedule was free for the next two weeks. The poor guy must have been really out of it, because he’d agreed to pay Spongebob and Squidward while he was gone.

As the animate sea sponge prepared to head outside, he saw that the mail had arrived early today.

“Let’s see… Postcard from Sandy over in Texas, Power bill, Coupons… Oh, what’s this?”

Reading the now-familiar-to-us invitation, the sponge’s square face clearly held back a squee of delight, “I’d better call the guys and see if they can help me get to this ‘Mushroom Kingdom’ place.”

…

“Jimbo! A letter came for you! It looks kinda fancy, too.”

“Coming dad!” Jimmy called down from his room before setting down the ray gun he’d been tinkering with.

“Here ya go, son.” Hugh said as he passed the young prodigy his invitation. Soon after reading it (and checking it over to make sure he’d read it correctly) Jimmy received a call from someone he didn’t quite expect.

“Hi, Spongebob, What’s up?... Wait, You got one too?”

------

Hello everyone, and welcome to a project I’ve been trying to get off the ground for a while. This is a rewrite of Paper Mario, modified to work in written format, make some minor tweaks to keep things fresh(like including Geno), and of course having the cast of Nicktoons Unite join Mario on his journey. I’ll be trying to post a chapter at least once a week, and I’d be happy to answer any questions about it!

#super mario #paper mario #nicktoons unite #bowser #kammy koopa #geno #fairly oddparents #danny phantom #spongebob squarepants #jimmy neutron #fanfic #rewrite au #crossover #long post #i'll add links to the chapters once I have more than one #geno has a turtle-throwing reflex #bowser is smart sometimes #I wrote this chapter over a year ago and was bad at fight scenes

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whirlybirbs · 5 years

Note

PLEASE, GIVE US YRI'S BACK STORY. IS SHE GUNNA STEAL LOKI'S HEART?

◎ ┄ MAGNIFICENT BASTARDS !

one. we learn how you befriended your merry band of thieves. thor & loki anticipate their father’s scorn while you and the boys inspect draupnir and the apparent fact it’s protection money. a moral dilemma arises.paring: pre-everything!loki x rogue!reader, set pre-thor 1.listen to: pirate shanties, probably, it’s a bar brawl!a/n: i full anticipate creating my own story world, okay?

previous chapter ┅ pinterest ┅ ko-fi

Ow.

The tavern table rocks on impact and the lithe frame of an Asgardian is suddenly doused in the warm froth of a hoppy mead as she reels from the kick to the chest. Around her, the bar’s patrons shout with raucous laughter as she rolls away from the gilded, armored hands scrambling for her. She falls from the table with a sturdy oof, before crawling underfoot, trying to duck and dodge the towering, golden royal guards hurtling Old Norse curses her way.

For the full-house of the Wulfshead Tavern, this wasn’t different from any other night. The tavern is on the outskirts of the realm’s capital, and if Odin’s personal hounds weren’t here wetting their appetites, then they were here serving warrants.

Tonight, you’re the unlucky one they’re trying to arrest.

You’re on the run; but, from the looks of it, you’re not getting very far.

You are quick, though, hiking yourself up on top of the tables and bounding around pints of ale and plates of meals as you spot a clearing by the stairs. You bolt, apologies flying from your lips as you balance on your toes and jump, landing a solid footing on the face of an unsuspecting guard in an inopportune place – behind you, the mad scramble has poured over and you yelp, bounding off the guards face up the banister of the stairs.

“Sorry!”

You can hear the commotion of a fall behind you; sure enough, the guards are struggling over their fallen compatriot with a boot shaped dent in his helmet.

It gives you time, though barely enough to slip into the crowd on the upper mezzanine.

Tugging your hood up high and ducking behind a group of Elven mercenaries, the you settle into slouching over a warm pint of abandoned mead and listening in on the trio of bards perched atop the tables in the center of the balcony.

They’re singing, though not well, and the sonnet is struck to the off-tune beat of a lute. The instrument looks incredibly small in the grip of the tattooed Qunari strumming it – his horns tower upwards, knocking the chandelier as he side-steps his Elven counterpart. The sandy-haired elf seems content on being the center of attention, as a cluster of maidens have opted to staring.

You watch as the elf tosses a wink, and the Dwarf beside him tosses back a pint.

The sight is so… odd that you nearly miss the royal guards that have begun to comb through the tavern’s mezzanine.

(It’s rare to see an Qunari, let alone an elf and a dwarf, on the outskirt of the realm’s capital. Odin was a staunch critic of the mingling of blood – he preferred Asgardians, through and through, and didn’t show any shame in his blatant disregard for the other races who’d come to call this realm home.)

It’s the Qunari that begins the crooning tune that gains the patrons’ attention, leaving you to attempt to shift unnoticed by the guards moving ever closer to your position. You needed to get out of here.

“Oh, dear barkeep,” the slate colored giant begins, voice dipping low into a cheerful bellow, “Bossum a plenty!”

“What’s y’name? Jenny?” the Dwarf slurs, shooting the bartender in question a sly look, only to walloped upside the head by the blonde elf beside him. The action raises laughter across the mezzanine, and the guards seem to be distracted for the time being.

You can see a scowl of disgust fleet across the Guard Captain’s face.

“Nevermind her name, you idiot –” the Elf hisses, voice flying into a smooth crescendo, “We come from afar, you see, to sing for your bar! I, your elf-in-waiting –

“– and I, a gentle soul lute-ing–”

“They’re both mighty frustraaaaating.”

The Dwarf is served a look which he easily shrugs off. You smother an amused grin, eyes caught on the trio as the rest of the tavern seems just as equally enraptured. It’s hard not to stare at the comedic timing playing out on the center of the balcony.

“They call us the bastards three!”

“Gods, I have to pee –”

“Oi!”

The lute’s last note is a shrill breakage of a chord at the shout of the royal guard; the Qunari freezes, eyes widening at the sight of the golden armored men encroaching on the performers’ circle. There’s a moment of silence.

And, then, the elf clears his throat.

“Good day, sir,” a gentile bow, “How may we help you?”

“Bastards three, eh?” the guard’s voice echoes in his helmet, “Sounds awfully familiar – sure you’re not them Maleficent Bastards, then?”

“Who? Us? Those… Those… thieves? Psh. No –”

“– It’s actually The Magnificent Bastards, officer.”

The horrified look on the Qunari’s face gives it all away, and the Dwarf is walloped upside the head again by the elf. The red-bearded drunk stumbles, plastered, and falls from the table with a heavy fwop.

The group of guards breaks into cheerful laughter. “Look at that boys! Two warrants served in one night… Lady Sif will be most pleased.”

“Two… warrants?” the elf questions, wringing his hands.

“We’re looking for a woman. This tall,” the guard captain motions with his hands as he turns to address the crowd. His voice bellows across the tavern, “She’s wanted by the crown, one of Gamli’s daughters –”

You freeze, halfway to the stairs.

The name alone raises murmurs across the tavern, and yet no one moves, a bit too enthralled with their gossip and struck up on the code of no snitching. That name, Gamli, is notorious among the rag-tag sort out here. Your chest swells in pride for a moment at the mention of your father and the wide-eyed looks that follow.

After a moment of morally-aforementioned-agreed silence, the captain digs into his pack and musters a small coin purse. Eyes beneath the golden helmet scan the crowd, fist raised. The coin purse jingles.

“There’s a reward for her capture!”

The pride is gone and you’re cursing your father in his grave.

You are so quickly shoved to the front of the circle you nearly topple over – your eyes are wide under the glare of the Captain you’d not-so-kindly kicked in the face. Dirt is smeared across his jaw, brows set in anger. His helmet is dented, scuffed from the impact of her boot.

He scoffs, grabbing you by the upper arm roughly.

“Not so quick now, huh, girl?” he motions behind him, “Gather the three. They’ve got quite the bounty on their heads.”

There’s a beat of a moment then, when, the Bastards Three decide… not today.

The Qunari gives you a look, and before you can even question what he’s doing, you’re being tossed a lute. You wrangle from the grip of the captain, blinking down at the instrument in your grip before you swing hard with two hands, clocking the captain upside the jaw and shattering the instrument.

The tavern is fast to scatter into a massive brawl.

In the midst of it all, you’re ducking and dodging and leaping over tables to try and get out of the fray. You make a break for the stairwell, only to skid to a stop as the roaring Qunari throttles a punch into the face of a guard, knocking him back over the banister and down into the tables below the balcony.

The guard lands flat in the middle of a table, groaning as the tavern erupts into jeers of excitement as two men knock tankards over him.

The Qunari is quick to pluck his Dwarven friend from the clutches of a gaggle of scared working ladies. “Time to go, Taegan!”

You spin, spying the elf making a close on their spot by the stairs; before you can protest, you’re quickly dragged down the flight by the huge hand of the Qunari as guards shout over the fight, trying to grab the quartet.

“Come on!” he shouts, muscling you towards the back exit of the tavern, “Us bastards gotta stick together!”

And that’s how you became so suddenly inducted into the traveling troupe of thieves who called themselves the Magnificent Bastards.

They were an interesting bunch; the Qunari, Jarak, was more of a gentle giant than anything, really. He had a penchant for the lute and story-telling and he very much loved his friends – he got along swimmingly with you, excited to have a more feminine touch around camp. His tent was the biggest, as the Tal-Vosoth’s horns mimicked that of a bull. They were chipped in places, but never failed to make doorways difficult and intimidation easy.

Taegan Cormyth, the resident high-elf, was a bit of an ass. But, you guess it was to be expected from a disgraced noble trying to make his own way. The blonde archer was… a child, really. Aside from being womanizing and stubborn and self-absorbed, the elf had muscled his way into a faux-leadership position which typically led to more trouble than it was worth.

Ogras Dragonbow, the wise (and usually drunk) Dwarf, made it his job to give Taegan a hard time which usually made for a good amount of laughs around the campfire. You liked the Dwarf – and though he hinted at a darker past than the others, you never asked when brought him to this little traveling troupe in the first place.

The whole Wulfshead-Tavern-Incident was a year and a half ago.

Currently, you’re hunched over a single ring of gold as Jarak stokes the fire. To your sides, Ogras and Taegan watch as you plant your hands on your hips and tut.

“S’magic, innit?”

“It is,” Taegan says, eyes never leaving the ring, “Y’think it’s cursed?”

“I doubt it,” you hum, squatting and prodding at it with a stick. You’d previously been wearing it, until the ring suddenly flared up with such a biting sort of heat you’d screeched and leapt from your horse, chucking the ring from your hand and into the undergrowth on the way back to camp.

You’d all then spent an hour combing the bushes to find it, much to everyone’s dismay.

You poke it again.

Nothing.

“Maybe it’s not meant to be worn,” Jarak offers politely, settling in by the fire and beginning to skin the rabbit he’d caught earlier for dinner, “Maybe it’s just for show.”

“Odin commissioned a trophy ring?”

Jarak waves his hand (in turn, waving the filleted rabbit carcass), “I dunno, he’s a king. Isn’t that, like, a king thing?”

“Trophy rings?” Taegan’s face morphs into confusion.

He looks to you for guidance. You simply shrug.

It’s Ogras’ turn to squat and inspect now, and the Dwarf makes a small ‘ah-hah!’ sound after a moment.

“S’got Dwarven runes onnit, i’does,” he croons, moving to muscle one single monocle from the travel pack below his broad, gold cuirasse. It’s comically small in his meaty hands. He holds it up to his eye, laying flat on the ground and eyeing the ring closely, “Says ‘ere it’s name is draupnir.”

By the fire, Jarak lets out a low rumble. “Who names a ring?”

Taegan scoffs. “Kings, apparently.”

“It’s a magic ring,” you remind gently, “Of course it’s got a name.”

“Says ‘smithed by Brokkr & Eitri, a gift to the glorious and all powerful Odin as repayment for your gracious protection to our village and mines. We thank you’.”

Your jaw falls.

Jarak makes a surprised sound. “Woah, woah, woah. Did we steal someone’s protection money?”

“Oof.”

Ogras mimics Taegan’s oof.

“Magic protection money,” you mutter, hands on your hips again.

“Shit.”

“I say we lie.”

Loki watches as his brother drops his head into his hands as they begin to near on the capital’s walls – a top his horse, the God of Mischief spares his brother a side-eye, dark brow quirked as the amble on. The blonde, it seems, is in the midst of a moral dilemma.

Loki’s thankful his threshold is high for those.

Thor is lost in thought and it’s awfully painful to watch – Loki can practically hear the gears in his head turning. Not to say Thor is dim-witted… but, he’s never been the thinker of the family.

“We can’t lie!” Thor finally bellows, tossing a hand as his other grips the reins, “Father will know.”

“Then we tell the truth,” a shrug, “We were robbed along the trail –”

“We can’t do that either!” the blonde cries, giving Loki a pained look from his perch upon his steed, “And since when have you ever been a proponent of telling the truth, Loki?”

Loki presses his hand to his chest, matching Thor’s canter. “Well, it wouldn’t be the whole truth, of course –”

“Father sent us to Svartalfheim to retrieve Brokkr and Eitri’s payment for a reason,” Thor begins, “He wants to trust us, wants to see that we can carry out duties of the crown – And those mean bastards stole draupnir. They stole it.”

“Magnificence Bastards.”

“Whatever.”

Loki’s face falls as the rant continues. He rolls his eyes. “Brother – you are completely neglecting the fact we have the fake. We simply tell father it is the real one. Problem solved.”

Thor pouts.

“Everything will be fine,” Loki breathes, “Just leave it to me.”

It’s not a good idea, but what else could they do?

#magbastards #loki x reader #loki laufeyson imagine #loki imagine #loki x reader imagine #loki laufeyson preference #loki fanfic #loki reader insert #Anonymous

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sophiainspace · 5 years

Text

Fic: he carries the reminders (of every glove that laid him down)

Fandom: DC’s Legends of Tomorrow/The Flash (TV 2014) Characters: Mick Rory/Leonard Snart Words: 1909 - rated T

Summary: He’d rather Snart was pissed off. It’d be easier to handle than kindness.

For @hiverforesteevee. Thank you to @blueelvewithwings for beta reading! Also for the ‘canon divergent’ square of my DCTV bingo. AO3 link in profile

Len’s going to kill him.

Actual murder.

He knows Mick too fucking well. He’s going to take one look at the state he’s in, his cut lip and his two black eyes and what might be a dislocated shoulder, and he’ll know that Mick went out looking for a bar brawl. And then—the murder thing.

The guy didn’t even give him a decent fight. Mick dragged the drunk sleazeball out into the alley behind Saints and Sinners when he started throwing himself at his third unwilling woman of the night, laying it on thick and not taking no for an answer. Bar staff and patrons all looking the other way, like always. But the skeevy little fucker wouldn’t give Mick the satisfaction—just tried to slither away like the snake he was. When the guy finally managed a half-hearted punch, it was laughable. “My old man used to hit harder than that,” Mick cracked, and even then he didn’t take the hint. So Mick just decked him till he fought back.

It got better when the guy’s buddies finally showed up. Taking all three of them down was just the kind of fun he’d been looking for. Especially the big one. “You fuckers took your time.” Mick kicked the scumbag where he was curled up on the ground. “Thought this guy didn’t have any friends to help him out. He sure ain’t worth ‘em.”

Big Guy shrugged, smiling like he’d had to rescue this asshole before. “Left him to suffer alone long enough. Even the shittiest friends deserve better than that.”

Old shadows of Chronos flickered and flared. The laugh Mick had been choking on died in his throat.

He threw another punch.

And another, and... Till he was the last one conscious.

And now he’s stumbling through the slums of Central, trying to figure out if he’s better off disappearing for a night—maybe two—than going home and facing Snart. Who’s never made any secret of how much he hates Mick’s too-frequent habit of drunken brawling.

Sure, the guy’s a hypocrite. Snart might pretend not to, but he loves a good bar fight with Mick at his side. Or he did, once. God, Mick misses those days, when he would glance over at his partner and his eyes were gleaming, as chairs and glasses and people went flying around them. Mick never saw him more alive than that.

But that was before…

Mick kicks a low wall as he passes a run-down apartment building.

These days, a good fight happens when the boss says it does, or not at all.

Under his boot, a brick crumbles away from the wall. Something hot flares inside him, and he nearly lashes out again. Wants to kick the whole fucking thing down, just to see the ruined pile of rubble at his feet.

His foot shakes above the battered little wall. He backs away from all that destruction.

Oh, who’s he kidding? Even before—everything, Len never liked it when Mick got like this.

He can feel it all a little more with every step he takes towards home. He was on an analgesic high when he staggered out of that alley, but now there’s the throbbing shoulder, still wrenched out of its socket. Sharp pain in his hip as he half-drags his leg behind him. Salt and copper in his mouth.

His old bones can’t take this shit anymore.

He pauses outside the anonymous building, picked by the boss for its identical third floor apartment to all the others in the street. He stares up at chipboard-covered windows, black paint peeling off in flakes around them. This row of townhouses was probably in decent shape, once, before it got old and tired. Before it had been through too much to come back from any of it.

The light bulb is out in the hallway again. The ghostly glow of his phone shows 3.20am. Mick’s just wondering if he might get away with it, when—

His partner is leaning in the open door frame, the first promise of disappointment in his eyes.

Mick struggles up the last half flight of stairs to the apartment, his gaze locked with Len’s the whole way. He’s pretty sure the ache in his gut has nothing to do with the six beers he drank tonight.

Len’s world-weary sigh is quietly familiar. When Mick hesitates a few steps from the door, he asks, “You coming in?”

Mick glances away, his eye caught by a shadow moving in the corner. A rat, maybe.

“C’mon, buddy,” Len says, quieter.

Frowning at the loose floorboards around the door, Mick almost doesn’t feel the gentle hand fall on his back as he limps into the apartment. When he does, he freezes. Stumbles against the wall.

“Woah,” Len says, all but catching him as he nearly goes down. “I got you.”

As Len eases his good arm across his shoulders, Mick makes the mistake of looking up at him. Len’s eyes are deep pools swirling with sadness and worry.

Mick’s the one who made him look like that.

He’s quiet as Len leads him to the bathroom, coaxing him down, unresisting, onto the side of the bathtub.

He did this.

He’s quiet as Len dips a cotton ball in iodine, dabbing it lightly on Mick’s split lip.

His fault.

He doesn’t make a sound, other than the silence-shattering crunch, as Len soothes, “Be as quick as I can, buddy,” and pulls Mick’s shoulder back into its socket.

His fucking fault. Again.

He’s still staring at gray floor tiles when Len cups his chin and turns his face to get a better look at the bruising, shaking his head at him. Mick squirms away a little from those eyes, sharp as icicles. “Why do you do this, eh?” Len asks, in the gentlest voice Mick has heard out of him in ages.

Mick’s twitchy fingers almost reach out for a drink that isn’t there.

Dipping another cotton ball in antiseptic, Len murmurs, half to himself, “It’s like you’re looking to get hurt.”

Mick shrugs to cover the flinch.

“Like you think you deserve to.” Len’s focus is back on the cotton ball.

Chronos rumbles in the distance again.

There’s a hand on Mick’s shoulder, and he snaps “Don’t,” a clipped whisper.

“Okay.” Len looks away, goes back to dabbing gently at Mick’s lip. There’s more silence, the air sprung tight with tension, mostly Mick’s. “Where else d’you get hurt?”

He almost doesn’t answer, but his hip gives a twinge, and he gestures reflexively at it. “Doesn’t matter.”

Len dips his head with a signature look, eyebrows raised. He peels Mick’s jeans down around the joint, hands too soft, too tolerant. The skin is purple from waist to mid-thigh. Len whistles, a flicker of cold rage crossing his face. Mick doesn’t think that’s aimed at him, but... “The fuck they do to you?”

Mick shrugs again. He wants to ask who this bleeding heart is and what he’s done with Mick’s partner, but the wisecracking probably won’t go down well. He doesn’t know why Len isn’t railing at him. Yelling at him that he’s a fuck-up. That he ruins everything. That it’s all his fault.

It’s always been his fault.

Meanwhile, Len has turned away, rustling for something else in their well-stocked first aid kit. When he holds it up, Mick shakes his head. “I’ll be fine.”

A narrow-eyed head tilt. “It’s just arnica. Ain’t gonna—”

“I’ll be fine,” he repeats, teeth clamping down. His aching jaw flares.

Len breathes in and out through his nose. He carefully returns the bottle into the box. “Okay.”

Eyes on the bathroom ceiling, on the damp patches creeping in from the corner, Mick sighs. “You’re the only one allowed to keep your bruises, huh?”

When he glances back down, he’s expecting a pissed-off Snart, but there’s nothing but a weird, mournful look in his partner’s eyes. “Okay,” Len says again. Quietly putting the box away, he drifts out of the room.

Mick just sits there, on the side of the bath, for a while.

Half an hour later, he finds Len in the kitchen. Mick steps in behind him and lays his head on his partner’s shoulder. There’s a pan full of bubbling cocoa on the stove, a spoon abandoned on the counter.

“Hey,” Len says. He doesn’t look around.

“That’ll burn if you don’t stir it.”

“Your wisdom is unrivalled.” Picking up the spoon, Len lets his free hand stray behind him, tangling long fingers into Mick’s. He stirs with the other hand, still not looking at Mick. After a quiet moment, he says, “Sorry.”

Mick frowns at the uncanny wrong feeling rattling through him again. “For what? Pretty sure I’m the one who fucked up.”

He can feel the shake of Len’s head against his neck. “For making you think you did. That I’d be mad.”

“Aren’t you?”

The silence hurts.

Eventually, Len nods at the saucepan. “But I get it.”

Mick isn’t sure whether to doubt that. He turns away—and Len pulls him back into position behind him. Mick lets him. Len’s doing that heavy, quiet thing. Usually means he’s got something important to say.

The stove turns off with a click, echoing in the silence. Len’s hand hovers near the pan. “Remember when I walked into that cell on the Waverider?” Mick can hear him swallow. “All but asked you to kill me.”

Mick just listens.

“You know I don’t know what I wanted. Just knew I didn’t want to feel like the world’s biggest fuck-up anymore. Like the world’s worst partner.”

“You weren’t ever that,” Mick murmurs in his ear.

He feels him sigh against him. It sets loose something old and buried, deep in Mick’s chest. Len turns around, holding Mick at arm’s length so he can look him in the eye. “You didn’t fuck up. I get needing it all to... stop.”

The burning in his throat is too much and he turns away, sagging into a wobbly chair. His old bones complain where they scrape harsh edges. “C’mon, Lenny,” he mutters, “don’t do that.”

Len gets a sly half-smile as he sets a mug of cocoa down in front of him. “Sure. Less feeling, more drinking, right?”

Mick squints at his mug. “You saying I can make this Irish?” There’s no mini-marshmallows. He knows just how Mick likes it.

The other chair squeaks against cheap laminate flooring, and course Len’s own mug is piled high with pink fluffy crap. ��If you like.” He sounds fond, just a little indulgent. Getting up and reaching down the bottle from the shelf, he walks around to stand behind Mick, spilling a generous measure of whiskey into his mug.

“Ah,” Mick sighs approvingly.

In the late, lengthening silence, all that noise starts up again. The pressure in his chest; the vicious drive to lay waste to something. The ache in his fucked-up old bones that can’t even take a beating anymore. And, really—what else is he for?

Then there are arms wrapping around him from behind and the lightest of kisses against his neck. “I got you,” Len whispers into his ear.

And, God, Mick doesn’t fucking deserve him. But he thinks Len would say otherwise.

The most Mick can manage is a gruff, “Yeah. You always do.” He wraps his arms around Len’s where they’re tightening around his middle, and closes his eyes.

And stops fighting.

@dctvbingo

#my fic #dccoldwave #mick rory #leonard snart #hurt/comfort #fist fights (between mick and strangers)#violence #minor injuries #canon divergent #post-legends

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sweet-star-cookie · 4 years

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Signs You May Be Watching a Hallmark Movie + Christmas Edition

Hey all, your friendly neighbourhood aroace here who is Tired of This Shit™ and needs to rant. I have been exposed to far too many of these movies for my own good and I am doing this to maintain my sanity, especially given the rampant Christmas season. For those who may not know, a Hallmark Movie or W (Women’s) Network movie is a general term for the generic schlock they call romance movies played on these eponymous channels, targeted towards middle-aged straight women and they are always terrible from a story / character / everything standpoint. These are genuinely some of the most predictable, generic, cookie-cutter pieces of media that I’ve ever seen and I’ve been itching to rip them apart for years so NOW’S THE TIME. If you genuinely enjoy these movies, ironically or not, I promise I’m not trying to take that away from you with this post, but please understand: you deserve better movies than this, even for passive entertainment. They genuinely make me uncomfortable and this post is to tell you why.

I’ve done my best to make this an exhaustive list, but feel free to add more yourself (lord knows I’m not researching it). ALRIGHT HERE WE GO

The Stale White Bread Main Leads - almost exclusively a white female protagonist who cannot be distinguished from any other generic white woman, usually with medium length blonde or brown hair, an hourglass figure and perfect teeth (only has glasses if she’s supposed to look Smart™, but she can take them off at will) She is a:

- Business Woman™ of two flavours: a struggling small business owner (usually a bakery, especially in the Christmas movies) or a high tier executive in a stuffy city job

- hokey small town woman who is randomly prettier than every other person in this town because the rest of them are 50+ or are decidedly “less attractive” than her so it is clear to the audience that they are not supposed to be after the affections of the equally attractive love interest

- journalist / writer who is lacking in Inspiration™ and just needs someone in her life who can give it to her again ~siiiighhhhhh~ OR - an extremely efficient wedding planner who can make everything work for everyone else but *~Can’t Seem To Find Her Own Prince Charming~* ———

- the love interest is a generic white man who cannot be distinguished from any other generic white man, usually with swept back hair, a chiseled jaw and a punchable face (seriously look it up) He is a:

- well-meaning mild-mannered guy who Just Happens To Bump Into the Protagonist at her business or festival because he’s new in town, sometimes in the form of being the Misunderstood Starving Artist Type™ (and if so he is a painter with a fine arts gallery, no exceptions) OR

- Business Man™ stuck in his dead-end office job, but only if the protagonist is not (though sometimes you get the rare Double Business plot and that is a ride of 75% business meetings during the film’s run time) OR - single dad whose previous wife left him / died, making him a lowkey Sad Boy and he has at least one child from the marriage (see the kids section for more on that plot device) OR - the friend of the groom in the wedding movies who always gets with the wedding planner protag at the end The Sidekick - usually a co-worker or a friend of the protag that somehow appears more often than the others - The only POC characters to appear in these movies (if any appear at all) are exclusively the protag’s supportive friend OR - the quirky (and usually old) townsperson who periodically appears to bring the protag and love interest together in a plot thread thinner than my patience - two flavours of sidekick: laid back and chill compared to the nervous protag but gets to say “I told you so” when the leads end up together, OR the impulsive one who pushes the protag to “chase her dreams” with the love interest - “Come on, live a little!” / “You only live once!” - the first time the protag interacts with the love interest, the sidekick swoops in like a fucking peregrine falcon to call them out on it - “OOOOooooooooh who was that guy????? Do you like him????? Ask him out!!!!!!” - sometimes the love interest has a male sidekick and when he does, either he or the love interest are Chads

- sometimes the male sidekick is an inexplicably old co-worker that tells the leads to “fall in love while they still can” (because he didn’t and regrets it) The Parents - one or both are dead for either the protag or the love interest to give the Tragic Backstory™ - this is usually used as a Bonding Moment at around Act 2 of the movie after the protags know each other well enough, but sometimes comes up on the first date for that first bout of ~Awkward Tension~ OR - both parents are alive and old and are exclusively used to tell the protag that they will find The One™

- the protag has a Look about them after they first meet the love interest, and the parents call them out on it immediately (similar to the sidekick) - the father will tell the protag that she is being too stubborn for not pursuing the love interest, and the wife will chime in to say “just like you were” - sometimes the parents are replaced with grandparents, though usually just one and it’s a grandfather for the female protag or grandmother for the male love interest Kids or Cats - either of these are used as plot devices to periodically bring the two leads together in the background without anyone noticing (seriously none of the characters notice that they are there for this purpose until at least halfway through the movie or later) - if there is a cat, that cat must be held in a person’s arms for at least 50% of the shots with the two leads because GET IT THEY BOTH LIKE CATS THEY’RE DESTINED TO BE TOGETHER YOU GUYS THE CAT IS THERE IT’S GOTTA BE TRUE - that cat will conveniently get lost at least once, leading to one of the leads finding it and bringing it back to the other, or they search for it together - if both of the leads like cats, the previous girlfriend of the love interest (or boyfriend of the protag) conveniently doesn’t like cats (that’s how you know the love interest is legit -wink wink-) - these cats (or dogs even) will inevitably cause mischief that inconveniences both of the leads, but then they make eye contact, laugh about it, and go “Oh, [pet’s name]” - kids exist to do two things in these movies: 1. “innocently” ask if the protag is gonna get together with the love interest after seeing him once, and often will do things throughout the film to make them see each other more 2. show to the protag whether or not the love interest is “a good guy” by being good with kids* * being good with kids is a prerequisite, because all relationships in these movies HAVE to be the lead up marriage + kids guaranteed The Music - flutes are used for added *~Whimsy~* when the two leads are spending time together - All music to denote awkward situations contains exclusively clarinets and harps (you know the ones) - said music flares up when one or both of the leads says their love out loud when they “weren’t supposed to” - sparkle sound effect when the leads touch hands or give each other The Look™ - bonus points if they do the thing where one of them drops something and they both go to pick it up, only to touch hands “by accident”

Other General Shit

- these movies are peak Straight Energy™

- every character and setting in these movies are impossibly saccharine, to the point where they don’t speak or act like real people (almost like a HALLMARK GREETING CARD HAHAH GET IT) - central visual themes exist for incredibly flimsy symbolism, anything from butterflies to rainbows (YES RAINBOWS) - bonus points if the child in the movie is interested in this central theme and it somehow connects to the two leads (example: the daughter of the love interest has butterflies on her walls, and the protag just HAPPENS to be baking butterfly shaped cookies in the next scene) - extra Sad Boy points if a dead character in the movie used to love the central theme before they died (it’s usually a mom or grandma for extra Contrived Sincerity™) - every title of these movies contains “Love” or “Heart” in the title, or involves the central theme in the name - if any of these take place during Valentine’s Day HOLD ON TO YOUR HATS because everything I mention here is amped up by 10 in those ones - if families with children is central at all in the plot, you are guaranteed at least one (1) pregnant woman / expecting father in the movie

- the love interest is introduced almost immediately after the protagonist, and you know who the couple will be by the end of this train wreck by about 5 minutes in

- the camera work focuses on the side eye looks that everyone else gives the two leads when they’re in love but Don’t Know It Yet - obligatory walk in a park / sitting on a bench scene, to establish nostalgia or longing or both - “Huh, that’s weird.” (said after a very obvious romantic advancement is shown, OR when the flimsy symbolism just happens to appear somewhere)

- scenes pause frequently when an awkward moment happens, supplemented by the clarinets farting in the soundtrack - any time the two leads are seen together, there is always ONE PERSON who mistakes them for a married couple (usually a concierge at a hotel or an oblivious friend), to which they awkwardly reply with the following:

- “I’m not looking for marriage right now!” / “we’re just friends!” * *fun fact if you want me to rage instantly, use this line anywhere and I will be out for blood - “I’m fine with being single!” followed by a “suuuuure you are” look from the sidekick or parents* *you know what add this one to the “out for blood” list too

- if there is a restaurant scene the entire staff will retroactively try to make the scene more romantic well before the leads have any feelings for each other - the waiter of the restaurant will side eye both of them like “okay lovebirds” - “he’s just a friend, a boy…. friend, a friend who is a boy. Friend boy.” - “Did I just say that out loud?” - the “act natural” scene where the love interest is coming over and the protag spends too much time messing with her clothes, hair and posture before he arrives - The Misunderstanding™ that usually takes place before or during a party and drives a wedge between the leads for a maximum of 5 minutes - the obligatory “I’m sorry” scene after the misunderstanding, consisting of the love interest standing in front of the protag’s house while she stands on her porch with her arms folded. As he explains himself, he slowly walks closer until they meet and he proposes / professes his love to her, then they kiss as the camera zooms out and fades to credits - if they kiss during a festival scene, you’ve got at least a 50% chance of fireworks going off in the background - Flowers. There are always flowers, given or received.

If the movie takes the Business angle: - the “too busy to live life happily” plot is a prerequisite - every business job is automatically an office job with board meetings, and it is always portrayed as a dull or negative experience - the protagonist is assigned to the hokey small town and travels reluctantly from the city

- her reluctance is punctuated by getting stuck behind a tractor or a bad encounter with the townsfolk that would Only Happen Here - she has a previous relationship with a guy in the city who is Very Clearly An Asshole but she takes the entire movie to realize this

- side eye glances from the locals, especially if the protag is in heels / a blazer / a short skirt

- “you’re not from around here, are you?” - the love interest is, at the start, the only friendly person to the protag

- said asshole boyfriend continues to call her about her business duties, until later in the movie when she decides to ignore him / dump him without so much as a warning - there is usually a conflict of interest between business advancement / capitalism and The Passion For The Job™

- “are you really going to give up all we’ve worked for?” (this is the final straw for the protag to dump the asshole) - literally it’s like “fuck you i’m out” -hangs up-

- obligatory scene where the protag ignores her family / relationship opportunities for a business phone call, paralleled by a scene at the end where she ignores the call instead - eventually she decides to stay in the small town and run a farm / bakery / antique shop with the love interest If the movie takes the Wedding angle: - the protag is ALWAYS too distracted by her wedding planning to think about romance for herself, something that the sidekick / parents will point out ad nauseum - the love interest is ALWAYS the friend or the brother to the groom - there are very rarely bridezillas, usually the protag is insanely good at her job to placate this anyway - there IS, however, the stuck-up mother-in-law who must test the skills of the protag because Reasons - the groom sweats nervously 24/7 (can you blame him really?) - if the bride and groom have any disagreements whatsoever it is always at the cake tasting or the flower / decoration phase - the “everything goes wrong right before the wedding and then it all works out” plot is compulsory - the bride’s dress doesn’t fit, the groom loses the ring, the catering is late, the gang’s all here - the protag has to navigate all friction with the bride, while the love interest does the same with the groom, thus bringing the two leads closer by proxy - whatever relationship issues between the bride and groom resolved by the two leads automatically translates to their own relationship as well - solving this bickering can also lead to a “maybe I was wrong” scene between the two leads directly after if they are fighting at this point too - the bride’s mother or father will give something important to the bride / groom every time, and the protag has to find a way to implement it into the wedding - the protag will always have a “window shopping” scene with the sidekick, and that window will ALWAYS have a wedding dress or ring in it - the day is saved by the love interest coming to the rescue last minute, solidifying the protag’s love for him - during the ceremony, the protag and the love interest have that Knowing Look as the bride and groom are celebrating - if there is a child present at all they will always be the flower girl / ring bearer for the two leads at the end - if the child is a little girl, there is prince / princess imagery all over the damn place - bonus points if the sidekick also hooks up with the only other named character in the entire movie by the end - extra bonus points if the only way you know they hook up is if they give each other a look like “yeah I’d tap that”

BONUS: Signs You May Be Watching a Hallmark Movie - Christmas Edition

- ambiguously placed mistletoe (someone has to kiss that’s just the rules my guys)

- if you don’t hear jingle bells in the entire soundtrack then you’re doing it wrong - either the protag or the love interest are Not in the Christmas Spirit and the other makes them get back into it by the end - “but what about your faaaaaamily” (used when the lead(s) are disillusioned about the holidays, can also lead to Tragic Backstory™) - the “too busy to live life happily” plot is still a prerequisite, but just about the holiday season

- town festivals and Christmas parties - turtleneck sweaters and scarves everywhere, not for the cold weather but for the protag to lift over her face when she’s embarrassed about liking the love interest, and then the sidekick notices and goes “OOOOOOHHHHHH” OR - the protag conveniently leaves the scarf or some other object behind thereby forcing the love interest to return it to her in person - there is always an old man character who either plays Santa at the mall or is an allegory for Santa in relation to the protags

- the leads will go skating, one will be reluctant and one will always fall on their ass immediately - bonus points if they fall on each other, and have a moment of staring into each other’s eyes before they’re like “oh shit” and frantically apologize as they get up - “let me show you how” *~holds hands as the music chimes~*

- if kids are around, the love interest will skate while the protag watches, and him falling on his ass is supposed to convey how he’s an easygoing goofball who can laugh at himself (this is usually used if the protag is the stuffy business woman with a sidekick telling her to lighten up) - obligatory snowball fight followed by hot cocoa scene - the protag and love interest are dressed in red and green respectively for that sweet, sweet Symbolism™ (*~because RED is the colour of PASSION~*) - angel symbolism for a dead parent or a “guardian angel” watching over the protags to make sure they get together by the end - bonus points if either the parents or the sidekick mention this guardian angel multiple times throughout the movie, until the leads kiss and they look lovingly at said symbolism somewhere else in the room at the end - other symbolism in anything from deer to snowflakes (yes really) - the struggling small businesses are almost exclusively bakeries and / or a family business that was owned by one of the leads’ now dead grandmother (insert Grandma’s Famous Cookie Recipe here)

- finding the right Christmas tree or perfect present is used as an allegory for finding The One™

- bonus points if either the protag or love interest awkwardly state the words “how do you know it’s the right one?” in the context of the tree and the other responds with “I’m sure I’ll know, in time” in a different context, and then they look at each other suggestively before the scene ends - house / room decorating montage that features some kind of upbeat Christmas song over it (Jingle Bell Rock, Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree, etc.), and always features the two leads who just happened to end up decorating together, usually with a child accompanying them - the two leads get snowed in and are Forced To Spend The Night Together

- there are still always flowers but because Christmas they’re poinsettias every time ——– - honestly if I can recommend anything go watch the murder mysteries that the Hallmark channel has now (YES THEY EXIST) - seriously they still do the stupid romance and will-they-won’t-they with the two investigators, and then one of the hokey townspeople gets shot or poisoned and the sheer tonal whiplash that causes makes it a fucking riot from there - make a drinking game out of these movies if you want to die instantly

#there you go folks #katie has had enough™#-cracks knuckles- my salt will flow tonight #this is my magnum opus #nothing will top this #text #long post #hallmark movies #really terrible romance movies #my soul just leaves my body whenever i'm in their vicinity

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norcumii · 5 years

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Reviving from the Purge: Judgement

Originally posted 3/31/2015, as an unofficial part of the Through a Mirror Darkly universe.

dogmatix asked for: Break fic: Sith ‘verse - one of the Apprentices dealing with hiding in plain sight: wondering what would happen if they were discovered, keeping their secret from a friend, talking to their Master about it, anything like that.

Yeah, we haven’t talked about this one much. THIS might be of interest, thought. XD Here, have some angst!

* * *

“Well, look who’s back.” Qui-Gon grinned as Plo Koon whipped around. The Kel Dor set down his algae pouch and near tackled him in a hug.

“You’re the one who was out on his first Knight’s assignment! Congratulations on returning in one piece!”

Qui chuckled and thumped the Kel Dor on the back a few times before stepping back. He glanced around the commissary, then grinned. “You have time to share a meal?”

“Of course. I got back a week ago. Not even Master Yoda can interrogate me that long.”

He couldn’t stop a wider grin. “My quarters, or yours, then?”

It was the damnedest thing. Plo shuffled his feet a little, steepling his hands in a gesture that usually indicated a touch of nerves. “Unless you’re going to eat around a breathmask, then it must be yours, I’m afraid.”

Qui-Gon blinked. “You’ve been gone two years, not – that was a sabbatical! They reassigned your rooms?” He bit back a flare of anger, tucking it down to be released – damn. No. Qui-Gon breathed a little deeper, struggling to release his anger into the Force. He was never quite sure he was doing it right, but at least he’d had long practice in hiding his first reaction, and the subsequent confusion he’d been wrestling of late.

Plo looked surprised. “What? No, you misunderstand. I – when I returned, I had the ventilation systems changed.”

He stared. Plo Koon had gone off to Doran to study with the Sages there, learn more about his cultural heritage and whatnot. While Qui had missed his older friend’s presence, they’d spared enough time somehow to exchange a few quick electronic letters. Plo had been undergoing training of all sorts that ran him ragged, while Qui-Gon had finally broken off an amiable enough working partnership with Sinube when the older Knight had taken on a new padawan. Having finished his first, long solo mission, Qui-Gon been delighted to find both he and Plo were both in the Temple at the same time.

Still. It was a bit of a shock to realize that the time away had changed Plo quite so much. Even if it was just that Plo had become acclimatized to Doran’s atmosphere enough to not want to wear his antiox mask –

Well, it was understandable. Just damned strange. “Mine, then. Let me grab a tray.” Plo surprised him again with a graceful nod that was almost a bow, leaving Qui feeling distinctly unsettled as he gathered up his meal on autopilot.

Back at his quarters, he was busy clearing off the tiny table he almost never used, since he preferred taking his commissary tray to the battered sofa on the rare occasions he bothered to eat in his rooms. He was watching Plo a little covertly as the Kel Dor pulled a small vial of some sort from a belt pouch. It was a deft set of maneuvers as Plo neatly pierced his algae pouch, slitting it with some kind of ceremonial hand armor he was wearing. He tapped a precise amount of shimmering flakes from the vial into the food pouch before folding it back together and tucking the vial away.

By the time the table was clear, there was no visible sign that Plo had done anything with his food.

“Vitamin supplements?” Qui asked as they sat, nodding towards the food pouch. Plo froze for a moment, the area underneath his eye lenses coloring maroon.

“Not…really.” At Qui-Gon’s questioning look, Plo sighed and shrugged in resignation. “Spices. I never realized Coruscanti food pouches were so…bland.”

Qui blinked and sat back in his chair, setting his fork down slowly. “Plo Koon.” The Kel Dor’s shoulders hunched a little. “Are you trying to tell me you went off and found out food can be interesting?”

Plo used the Force to scoop up Qui’s fork and lightly clonk him on the head with the handle before returning it to the human’s hand. “Do shut up.”

“I believe the phrase is ‘I told you so,’ and so help me, I did.”

“You were drunk, and –”

“And so were you!” Qui-Gon waved the fork at his friend, grinning hugely. “Second time ever, if you are indeed to be believed, and I’m not certain that you are!”

Plo did the thing where he conveyed rolling his eyes, and for a bit things were almost like normal, back to how they used to be. That lasted through the meal and a bit after, until they migrated to the old sofa. They both went towards their usual ends, but instead of sitting at his end, Plo pulled himself up into a neat lotus. Qui-Gon sat down a little slowly, shaking his head. “You never mentioned Sage Parum was making you change all of your habits.”

“Yes, well, in light if giving up my mask, most of the others were of no significance.”

Qui snorted. “Plo, you’ve told me virtually everything you can about Doran, yet for all that you’ve mentioned your training maybe a time or two. What’s wrong?”

The Kel Dor went quiet, studying his hands for a long moment. Then he sighed. “My friend, much has changed since we last met.”

“Then perhaps if you talked to me about your concerns, we can do something about that, instead of sitting here dancing around the rancor in the room.”

Plo dipped his head into one of those polite nods again, giving a nervous chuckle. “I think you need to pick one verb and stick with it, Qui-Gon.” He took a deep breath, accentuated by his mask. “Master Yoda has…concerns that my studies with the Baran Do might be opening me to the Dark side.”

Qui-Gon froze in place, face still a polite, open facade. His mouth was opening and moving on its own, words sharp and vehement. “That’s absolute shit. Is he stupid?”

Plo held up a placating hand. “It is more complicated than that, Qui. It is quite understandable –”

“No, it is not!” Qui lunged to his feet, pacing across the room with an almost panicked snarl crossing his face. By the time he’d turned back to his friend, the expression was gone, the emotion hidden away, and the reminder that he was prancing about like Dooku in a snit was firmly in mind. “Plo, you’re an excellent Jedi. Your track record in the field is exemplary. Going to your homeworld to study with Force–”

“Qui!” Plo pointed to the sofa, imperious and stubborn in a way the human had never seen. “Please. Sit. I know I can trust you, but this is complicated!” He sighed and slouched back against the arm of the sofa, voice both weary and exasperated. “Please,” he repeated softly. “Sit.”

Qui-Gon stood in place for a long moment, muscles quivering with the impulse to run, to challenge someone or something, and once again he felt that lick of despair and hate as he fought it all back down without showing any emotion. Then he sighed and slumped back down in his seat. “You are not Dark,” he declared, allowing himself to sound fierce for the moment. That could be explained, that was reasonable, and Force help him, Plo would understand that.

Plo would believe that.

“Thank you,” the Kel Dor declared dryly. “I like to think so as well.”

Qui let out a snort of not-quite laughter, biting back the urge to reassure the man again that no, he wasn’t Dark. Qui-Gon couldn’t even begin to imagine his friend as Fallen, though he shied away from trying to visualize it too hard.

Some notions just could not be borne.

Plo stared at his hands for a bit, then sighed and steepled his fingers with slow precision.

Then Qui-Gon’s jaw dropped as flickers of green lighting sparked between the Kel Dor’s hands. He could feel no Darkness in the room, none of the emotion or rage needed to produce Force Lightning. There was merely Plo Koon’s usual balanced presence, a little agitated and sad, but on the even keel most Jedi needed and strove for. Plo separated his hands bit by bit, letting the emerald light sparkle in a cheerful little display of power that would probably have most Jedi reaching for the nearest lightsaber.

He finally dragged his gaze away from Plo’s hands to see the Kel Dor was watching Qui closely, faint concern rippling over his Force presence even as he lowered his hands. “The hells was that?” Qui-Gon gasped, only long practice keeping him still, even as his back muscles nearly locked into place with sympathetic memory and the well-learned need to keep still.

“Not Force lightning,” Plo said, voice quiet and somber. “The name translates fairly well to Emerald Judgement. I swear to you, Qui-Gon, it is not Dark.”

“No shit it’s not Dark,” he muttered, shaking his head and trying to discretely roll his shoulder muscles back into place. He knew Dark, he knew Force lightning, and he well remembered the feel of that power flaring through his body, even as a calm, disdainful voice kept insisting he must. Hold. Still.

After all, surely no Jedi would scream under that treatment, now would they?

Qui-Gon brushed the memory away with another head shake. “Please, Plo, tell me.”

That finally made Plo relax a little. He sighed and ran a hand over his head, wincing a little as he sent a random little static spark along his skin. “The Baran Do are not Jedi. They do not study the same teachings, nor in the same manner. I had not expected to find that their skills are also more varied. Which reminds me, you and I need to spar some time with staves. I’ve learned some interesting things –”

“Plo.”

The Kel Dor went still for a moment, then sighed. “This is…difficult, Qui. I am sorry. I just…” He placed his hands back together and stared down at them. “I am…different, now, and that is somewhat difficult to accept, even if I am not Dark.”

Ice water began to slither down Qui-Gon’s back, and he shifted position a little to try to hide the quivering muscles under his tunics. “Different?” His voice was a fraction too high, but Plo didn’t seem to notice.

“Not quite Jedi, not quite Baran Do. I’ve credentials as a fully-fledged Sage, for what that is worth.” His chuckle was just a touch bitter. “Not much, I suspect. They think we are violent little bastards, impatient little busybodies that don’t sit and listen to the Force enough to hear what it wants. I was not joking when I told you that I wore out a set of leggings from excess meditation.”

“And here I thought that was a euphemism.”

Plo snorted. “No. Different skills than a Jedi, different philosophies, and though none of them…contradict the Order’s views, they are…not quite as close as I think some might wish for them to be.”

Qui-Gon closed his eyes and sought to channel his emotions. Fuck releasing them, fuck trying to be Jedi, he needed some fucking composure now. “And you wish to follow at least some of those philosophies.”

There was an odd silence from Plo. “I…did mention how none of them contrad–”

“Fuck, Plo! Why?”

He opened his eyes to find Plo watching him, face professionally expressionless. There wasn’t the slightest doubt in Qui-Gon’s mind that it was Sage Koon who dipped his head in a polite nod of recognition. “My apologies, Qui-Gon. I did not think this would upset you, nor have I intended to.”

“Oh just stop,” Qui snapped, holding up a hand. “It’s absolutely not – You haven’t –” He stopped speaking with an exasperated breath, trying somehow to find words. “I think I understand more than you imagine. I –” The words caught in his throat, even after years of friendship, even after the show of trust Plo had granted him by showing him a skill that was rife with political implications and potential difficulties. “I –”

I am still just a new Knight, his mind muttered at him, even as despair settled around him like the old, well-worn cloak it was. No one would ever believe, not even based upon this kind of trust. He closed his eyes for a moment, upraised hand curling into a fist. “I am still your friend.” His voice broke a little. “I do trust you, I merely think you’re a little mad to just – flout the Code like that.”

“I am not flouting it.” Plo’s voice was soft, absurdly gentle. The Kel Dor settled back into his lotus position and shrugged. “I just might not follow it all to the letter.”

Qui’s laugh was hollow. “With thinking like that, you should try politics. Or the Council.”

“What makes you think they’re any different?”

Good. Back on familiar ground. Complaining about the Council, the hoops they had to jump through, the topic of the Baran Do politely abandoned by silent, mutual agreement. A part of Qui-Gon wanted to thank Plo for his bravery, his kindness in sticking out the conversation for another hour and change.

The rest of him was relieved when his friend finally left.

Qui-Gon stood before the closed door, one hand on the latch, the other braced against the door itself. He let his forehead thunk against the door, pounded it with the upraised fist. He started breathing exercises; deep, powerful breaths in a measured but fast rhythm. Then he turned and walked to his bedroom, shoving the closet door open. He opened the simple storage chest tucked into the back. He paused for a moment before pulling out one of the larger boxes inside, one marked with dates from his fifth year as a padawan.

He took the box out to the cooking area, checking on his way to make sure the fire suppression system was still properly disabled. He opened the box and upended it over the sink, sneering at the data pads and flimsiplast that cascaded into the sink. Stepping back, he shrugged and used the Force to lift the box up and over to the sink.

Qui-Gon used the Force to dismantle the box, shredding it as much as he could. The dust and splinters rained down over the detritus of life as a padawan; various notes, reading material and whatnot.

Nothing incriminating, of course. Nothing that was a hair different from that which any padawan to any Jedi in the Temple would have. All of it normal, bland, and lies, lies, lies.

Master Dooku was nothing if not an exemplary Jedi.

Qui-Gon snarled and let out his bottled emotions. Rage over ludicrous near-accusations against his friend. Grief and despair over a perpetually broken, horrible position.

Fury. Hate. Always so much hate for that. Fucking. Bastard!

He snapped out his arm, hand clenched into a claw, and violet-blue electricity exploded forth into the evidence of his past. He kept his Darkness tightly leashed, broiling emotions channeled to mirror the Darkness inwards, where only he could feel it. It rebounded back out, channeled to sear ‘plast to char, datapads sparking and exploding then melting into slag which kept burning.

When everything was gone but for the stink of burning material and Darkness, Qui-Gon lowered his arm. His breathing was still ragged, his blood still churning with emotion. He walked over to the sink with shaking legs, some of his muscles involuntarily twitching. He’d never figured out if it was past damage from having lighting flung at him, or just the trauma of the memory.

He really didn’t give any fucks.

Qui’s hand was mostly steady as he reached out and started the water, washing away the scorch marks from the porcelain. He glared down at the water, eyes burning as shame started to thread its way through the other emotions.

“Emerald Judgement” the Baran Do called their lightning, which was not emotion fueled, not Dark.

Qui-Gon knew Darkness.

His hands were steady as he washed them, clearing away the char still lingering on his fingertips. He dried them meticulously, setting the threadbare towel back on its hook. Then he braced himself on the sink, glaring down as he tried to get his breathing down to Jedi levels of calm.

Qui had to close his eyes against his faint, warped reflection off the wet porcelain, showing the yellow in his irises for all to see, and the thin rim of red surrounding them. Calm. Control. He had to regain control.

He had always wanted to be a Jedi, ever since he had been old enough to understand the concept.

He shoved his emotions back into the corner of his being where they lived and snarled amongst themselves. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he made himself clean up the shards of his life, as he always had since he’d become Dooku’s padawan. Even before he’d known.

His hands clenched tight, and he forced himself to let go, finger by finger.

Was it called Judgement because it would judge one? Did it spare the righteous, the innocent?

He didn’t dare ask. If he did, Plo might offer to show him.

Would it sear a Sith to pieces? Burn him into char?

Maybe if he was lucky, that would finally clean up all the shards of his life.

~end

#star wars #our writing #dogmatix #sithverse #qui gon #plo koon #angst

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morganaspendragonss · 5 years

Text

Closing Time

Pairing: Charlie Bradbury/Jo Harvelle

Rating: Teen and up

Word count: 1700

Tags: Fluff, very mild innuendo, tiny bit of violence, some explicit language

Author’s Note: This is obvious, but to avoid any confusion, ‘Annie’ is Charlie. Written for @spnsafficchallenge

There's a girl who comes into Annie's bar, every two nights, 7 o'clock on the dot. She always chooses the same table (near the back, next to the fire exit, facing the whole room), always orders the same drink (cheapest beer she's got) and never talks to anyone in the bar, save whoever's serving her. She's exactly the kind of person whom everyone else wouldn't look twice at, which means she's also the kind of person Annie notices first.

It's not like she's stalking the girl. It's just... like calls to like, or whatever the saying is. The look on the girl's face is one of someone who's running from something, who's always on high alert because they never know when they're going to need to grab everything and go. Annie gets that.

Even so, it takes a ridiculously long time for Annie to finally get up the courage to talk to her. She's not intimidated by much these days, hasn't been since she was the trembling, 12 year old Celeste Middleton. But there's something about this girl that sets Annie on edge, makes her wary of approaching her. Something that, somehow, both daunts her and excites her.

It's on a Tuesday night, maybe a couple weeks since the girl first showed up in her bar, when Annie just thinks fuck it and decides to at least ask her name. She watches the clock all day, nerves slowly building in her stomach as the seconds drag on. Her co-workers notice her agitated state, and she notices them whispers to each other, glancing sideways and smirking at her the whole time. They've all probably figured out what she's planning; she's been talking about this girl pretty much non-stop since she got here. Annie tries to ignore them, but she's not sure she succeeds.

At 6:30, Annie's hands start shaking, and she almost spills someone's drink as she pours it.

At 6:45, she slips to the staff bathroom, quickly splashing her face and checking herself in the mirror.

By 6:55, she's booted Dale from his spot at the bar, making sure she'll be the first person the girl sees when she walks in.

At 7, Annie's eyes are firmly trained on the door, her hands working automatically as she fixes someone's drink. Her heart leaps when the door swings open, only for it to sink again when there's no flash of blonde hair to greet her. Her fingers drum in time to her heartbeat as the seconds tick by and there's still no sign of her, but she'll come, she has to-

7:01.

Later, Annie's wiping down the tables when Dale comes up to her, smiling sympathetically.

"No sign of your girl?" he asks, but the look on his face tells her he already knows the answer.

Annie shakes her head, refusing to look him in the eyes. She's had sympathy directed at her all her life; she's done with that shit now. "Nah. I thought she might just be late, but... I guess she was busy, or something."

"Aw, that's just too bad," he says, but there's something in his voice that makes Annie look at him properly, her heart leaping in fear when she sees his cruel smirk. She tries to edge around him, but he reaches out and grabs her arm, his grip impossibly strong.

"Don't even try," he warns her, almost conversationally. "You run, and it will be a whole lot messier for you."

Annie stares at him, her brain working in overdrive to figure out a way to get free. She knows how to fight - she learned it the hard way, living on the streets - but instinct tells her that this guy, Dale, or whoever he really is, wouldn't even flinch at anything she could throw at him. Dale smirks at her like he can tell what she's thinking, and suddenly pulls her close to him, his gaze predatory and cruel.

"I've been thinking about doing this since you showed up in this shithole town," he murmurs, his breath tickling her neck.

Annie closes her eyes and waits, praying that whatever Dale is planning, it'll at least be quick. But he never gets the chance; the door suddenly bangs open and a gunshot echoes around the bar, a glass on one of the tables exploding into shards. Dale's grip loosens slightly in shock and Annie takes the opportunity to wrest her arm free, darting away before he can grab her again. She glances around the bar for her saviour, and her breath stops in her throat as she sees who it is.

It's her, Annie's mystery girl, blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, a gun levelled at Dale as she steadily approaches him.

Well, Annie thinks. Mark me down as scared and horny.

The girl's eyes flick over to Annie, then back to Dale. "Get down, Red," she says, and something about that kicks Annie's brain back into gear. She notices the way the girl's finger tightens on the trigger, how Dale looks like he's getting ready for a fight, and she dives down behind a table. At the same moment, Dale lunges forward towards the girl, and Annie goes to shout a warning. Before she can, though, a second shot rings through the bar, and Dale thumps to the floor, a hole in the middle of his forehead.

Annie stares at the body, her brain struggling to catch up with what just happened. She's still staring maybe a minute later, when a shadow falls over her, and she looks up to see the girl standing over her, holding a hand down. Annie takes it and shakily climbs to her feet, pain flaring in her arm as she does so. She looks down and sees a long, shallow cut running down her left arm. She frowns; she doesn't even remember cutting it. Unless... Oh. She'd flung herself directly into the shards from the exploded glass. Figures.

"You okay?" the girl asks, frowning at her in concern.

"Um," Annie says, intelligently. "I- I think so."

"Okay," the girl says, clearly unconvinced. "I'm just gonna deal with, you know, this," she gestures to Dale's body, "and then we'll talk. Think you can sit there for a while without passing out?"

Annie nods mutely, watching with an open mouth as the girl smirks and walks over to the body, giving it a kick for... good measure? She then grabs his arms and starts dragging him outside. It occurs to Annie that she should probably offer help - Dale wasn't a big guy, but even so. But the girl is outside before Annie can move, so she just gets a couple of whiskeys from the bar and sits down to wait.

About thirty minutes and a couple of shots later, the girl saunters back into the bar, flopping down in the seat opposite Annie. Her hair is now loose, flowing freely around her shoulders, and her casual posture is a world away from the highly-trained Wonder Woman Annie had seen earlier. She arches an eyebrow at Annie as she tries to clean up her wound, using the rudimentary First Aid kit she found in the back. Annie flushes deeply and stops what she's doing, avoiding eye contact with the girl. A silence falls between them, and Annie's mind is screaming at her to say something, but her vocal chords have apparently stopped working.

Fortunately, the girl saves her, again. "Nice place you got here," she says casually, folding her arms.

Annie laughs nervously. "It's, um, it's not actually mine. That's just what I say to impress all the girls."

She dares a quick glance up at the girl - if anything, Annie seems to have caught her interest with that comment. She flicks her eyes up and down Annie's body, a curious glint in her eye. Annie blushes and looks away.

"Well, I gotta say," the girl says, leaning forward conspiratorially. "It's definitely working."

Annie's heart skips a beat at that, her mouth opening and closing, but no words come out. She desperately tries to think of something to say - usually she's so good at this - but her brain seems to have stopped working. The girl smirks knowingly and leans back again, pointing to Annie's wound.

"I can help you with that, if you want," she offers. "I've got some supplies back at the motel I'm staying in, and I bet it can beat what you're working with now."

Annie raises her eyebrows, seeing her opportunity. "You're asking me to go home with you when I don't even know your name?" she asked, in what she hopes was a seductive tone.

The girl laughs. "Fair enough." She holds out a hand. "Casey Cronin."

Annie reaches over and shakes her hand. "Annie Tolkien."

Casey rests her arms on the table, looking at Annie knowingly. "You seriously can't expect me to believe that your real name is Annie Tolkien."

Annie copies the gesture. "Casey Cronin?" she challenges.

'Casey' laughs. "Touché." She reaches out her hand again, looking directly at Annie. "Jo Harvelle, nice to meet you..?"

Annie shakes her hand again, unable to contain a small giggle. "Charlie Bradbury," she says. She's been figuring out this new identity for weeks now - no better time to employ it than after her co-worker gets killed and she meets an incredibly hot woman who's apparently excellent at sniffing out bullshit.

"Alright," Jo says, pushing her chair back and standing up. "Wanna come back to my place, Charlie Bradbury?"

Charlie shivers at the glint in Jo's eye, one that promises a little more than First Aid tonight. She stands and nods at Jo. "Absolutely."

They begin to make their way out of the bar, but, at the door, Jo stops and turns. "For the record," she says. "I know you're still lying about your name, but you're too hot for me to care." Then, tossing her hair over her shoulder, she leaves the bar, the door nearly slamming shut in Charlie's face.

She watches Jo's retreating back for a moment, before a smirk spreads over her face and she quickly follows her to her car.

Oh yeah. Tonight is going to be very fun indeed.

Tagging: @sam-winchester-deserves-better

As always, anyone who would liked to be tagged in future fic, please drop me a message!

#spnsc #supernatural #charlie bradbury #jo harvelle #charvelle #charlie x jo #charjo #women of supernatural #wlw fic #spn fanfic #spn #spn wlw #fanfiction #my fanfiction #writing #my writing

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thedaughterofkings · 7 years

Text

ceo of matchmaking

It’s the last day of the @laurahale-appreciation week and today it’s the Dealer’s Choice, and because I can’t resist a chance to remind fandom of Neckz’N’Throats and how there totally should be more Neckz’N’Throats fic, have almost 2k of Neckz’N’Throats fic with matchmaking CEO Laura (and Sterek of course). Happy reading!

Laura loves her job.

She’s one of the youngest CEO’s in the country, possibly even the whole world. She runs one of the most successful werewolf magazine - and yes, some might call Neckz’N’Throats a skin mag, but it really is so much more than that and Laura has worked tirelessly to get it recognised as a respectable piece of journalism. Sure, the name still says it all - they show a lot of necks and throats, tastefully photographed to the maximum enjoyment of their mostly werewolf audience, but Laura takes pains to ensure that the pages of her magazine are not filled with blank faces and dead eyes. Her models are paid adequately, with all the insurances and securities necessary, and if there’s even the slightest hint that someone is not there just because they enjoy being photographed, Laura steps in and tries to figure out an arrangement that’s beneficial to both parties. It has worked well enough so far and has given her a reputation of being a fair and respectful employer that she’s proud of and strives to keep up.

Neckz’N’Throats did start out with just what it says on the tin: vulnerable necks and throats on display, meant to titillate and excite, but Laura has dared to branch out from that. She has introduced models from all kinds of backgrounds, aiming for diversity in all aspects, be it size, colour, or species. Then she started shooting couples - mated ones tend to be more popular, that special connection even shining through the glossy pages of a spread. Her most popular pair so far are Lydia Martin and Jackson Whittemore. Lydia started shooting for Neckz’N’Throats first, her lily white neck ticking every box on most hot blooded werewolves.

Not that Laura would know, being ace has both its advantages and disadvantages when heading a skin mag. On the one hand she still doesn’t quite get what “sexy” is even supposed to mean though she’s fared well enough in that respect by hiring models because of aesthetics and charisma - and employing actual hot blooded werewolves to advise her. On the other hand she is never ever tempted to leer at her employees creepily - and sadly enough that still seems to be a stand alone feature in her profession.

Either way, Laura hires Lydia because she exudes self-confidence and makes it clear right there in her job interview that this is just a way to have fun and earn easy money while she’s working to become the youngest recipient ever of the Field’s Medal. Laura is instantly charmed and her readers are too; Lydia’s editions regularly need to be reprinted because the demand is so high. That only gets worse - or better if you ask Laura and her wallet - when Lydia gets her then boyfriend Jackson to join her. Together they are the two main faces representing Neckz’N’Throats to the public, aside from Laura of course.

Lydia and Jackson are also the two main models in the spread that wins Laura her first Pulitzer Prize - focused on portraying non-traditional mating pairs. The picture of Lydia standing over Jackson, whose neck was clearly on display was perfectly innocent by human standards, but caused an uproar in the were community that Laura didn’t expect to be that strong herself.

It’s not all mated couples and shaking up traditional values (though the pearl clutches don’t read her magazine anyways, so Laura has no qualms about keeping up the shaking up in the future), though, getting to shoot a pair that has only just met and is still figuring out how to interact, still more or less fighting it out for dominance right there on the page can be fun, too, and creates great sales figures, too.

“It’s the thrill of the hunt,” Peter loves to say, smarmy grin firmly in place, and that’s why they don’t let him out of his cave. With his cave being a veritable mansion that pretty young people love to be invited to, Peter sadly doesn’t mind much. And he writes the best articles, Laura has to grudgingly admit. Somehow all that smarm doesn’t translate to the page and the fact that he never leaves his house just adds to the intrigue and helps further the sales of her magazine, so Laura just makes sure he doesn’t act out too much and lets him have his fun otherwise.

She’s more worried about Derek anyways.

Unlike Cora, who is still off finding herself in South America - at least she sends postcards now, Laura would prefer not having to hunt down her wayward sister again, just because she forgot to let any of them know she’s still alive for half a year - Derek works for Neckz’N’Throats, too. Sadly enough not in front of the camera, because Laura knows number of subscriptions would jump up tremendously if he ever appeared on the glossy pages, but behind it. And really, Laura can’t complain, something about Derek’s looks compared with his glower and ‘fuck if I care’ attitude gets the best pictures out of her models. She suspects that it’s a knock to the ego for all of these beautiful, charismatic people that Derek basically comes in, takes his pictures, and leaves again. And so they all try to get a rise out of him by any means possible. But no one has had any success yet, and at the end of each work day Derek disappears into his cave again - a loft in his case, wonderfully light, and airy, and openspaced, but Laura guesses that doesn’t matter if you never have anyone over who can look from the kitchen through the living room straight into your bedroom.

Enter Stiles Stilinski.

Lydia is the one who brings him, more or less forcing Laura to call him in for an interview, despite him having no experience and no portfolio at all. But the moment Stiles comes in through the door, Laura makes a mental note to never doubt Lydia again.

Because Stiles? Is perfect werewolf bait.

He has a long vulnerable neck and he keeps tilting his head back to laugh and it makes even Laura want to bite him - and she hasn’t struggled with her control in years. His doe eyes almost glow beta golden and there’s a twinkle of mischief in them that promises a good time to be had by all. His hair is messy and just the right length to bury your hand in and tug, to tilt his head back further and really put that throat on display. The series of moles that marks his skin is just begging to be licked, and if Laura notices all of that being ace, she doesn’t even want to try imagining what every even slightly male orientated werewolf thinks seeing Stiles.

She’s tempted to hire him on the spot, but as Derek is the one who’ll have to photograph him, he gets the final call. Usually that meeting boils down to a handshake, a hard stare, and either a nod or a shake of the head, and then that’s settled. This time, Derek starts with a wide eyed stare which quickly transforms into a vicious glare that would make anyone sensible duck and run. Stiles just grins though and starts forward towards Derek, all the while saying: “Hi, you must be Derek, Lydia already told me how much of a sourwolf you are!” Laura is already saying goodbye to her dream circulation which she’s sure they could have reached with this guy on the front, but no way is Derek going to agree to shoot him now.

But then Stiles stretches out his hand towards Derek, palm up, so the vulnerable inside of his arm is on display and tilts his head aside in blatant submission. And Laura can see Derek’s nostrils flare and the electric glow of his eyes flashing for just a moment even though he ducks his head to hide it and thinks: “Oh.”

Through it all Stiles remains seemingly oblivious, chattering on about how he admires their stance on werewolf rights and their attempts to clear up old superstitions and preconceptions. He also compliments Derek’s work and how he doesn’t photograph a mere canvas, the outside of a person, but their inner, hidden soul. Derek stares at Stiles with the most obvious hearteyes Laura has ever seen in her life (though given the ratio of eyebrow to rest of face that Derek has, the hearteyes still look rather glowery), and Laura wonders how Stiles doesn’t see the effect he’s having, but he just keeps talking and waving his arms around, spreading his scent and to some extent he has to know what he’s doing, because that greeting was automatic and instinctive, not studied. But on the other hand he seems to be completely oblivious to everything else he’s doing - that is push every single button Derek has in the best way possible.

Eventually Laura can’t bear to watch the awkward flirting - oblivious on the one side, reluctant, but helpless not to, on the other side. So Laura coughs and bites back a smirk when they both startle and blush, obviously having forgotten she’s in the room, too.

“Well?” she asks and Derek clears his throat and finally steps away from Stiles, muttering gruffly: “We’ll be out again in a moment and will let you know our decision then.” Laura can’t help raising her brows in surprise because that is not how they usually do it. But she decides to wait and see what Derek’s plan is and follows him out of the room with a wink and a smile to Stiles, who waves back at her awkwardly and blushes even brighter.

“So what do you say?” Laura asks as soon as the door falls shut behind them, secure in the knowledge that Stiles doesn’t have werewolf hearing. “I think he’d make a great addition to our team - he’s unbonded, so no mate to shoot with him yet, but I think Boyd or Isaac or perhaps even Erica would make a great match for him and produce some great pictures.”

“No!” Derek exclaims and Laura has to bite back a laugh because he has walked right into her trap. “What? You don’t like him?” she asks innocently and Derek shakes his head vehemently: “No, I just meant - no couple shoots for him, unless …” and here he descends into barely audible mumbling, though Laura can guess what he’s saying. Still, a prerogative of being the big sister is teasing her younger brother, so she asks sweetly: “Sorry, I didn’t get that?”

“No couple shoots unless they are with me,” Derek bites out and that’s how Stiles Stilinski ends up with a clause in his contract with Neckz’N’Throats that as good as declares him and Derek Hale mates.

Now Derek only needs to actually ask him out.

Laura totally believes in her brother. And while he’s still gathering his courage, she’ll sit back and enjoy the awkward attempts at flirting. They’ll get there eventually. Laura will make sure of it - by scheduling as many couple shoots for the two of them as is necessary. And because Derek obviously can’t take the pictures if he’s in front of the camera, Laura will be so kind and take the time out of her busy schedule to be their photographer. And if she makes them cuddle and kiss then that will be for purely artistic reasons. Obviously.

Laura loves her job.

#lhaw17 #Laura Hale #Sterek #teen wolf #neckz'n'throats #my fic #my Sterek fic #I managed to write something for each day!#okay I combined the first four into one fic but that's also the longest so there's that #yay :DDDDD #happy reading everybody!#I'm actually quite happy with this one :D

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mortyandcarlsbespokesalvage · 4 years

Text

Day 1 Sequence 3

It was the pain that woke Raven. Absent the adrenaline and endorphins generated by life threatening danger, his body had been given time to realize the extent of the beating it had recently taken. His muscles hurt and his arms felt like lead. He could still feel the soreness in his chest from where the Walker Engineer had shoved him. And all that was compounded by untold bruises that he must have sustained when the water carried him away down the drain. He became aware that he was lying down, and tried to sit up, but his body declined to obey.

He tried to take stock of his surroundings. He was dry, at least. That was good. He seemed to be lying on a musty couch in front of a hot electric radiator. He was still in his armor, but his helmet, chest plate, and air tank had been removed. Raven turned his head and spotted them all resting on a chair next to him. For a hot second, he considered putting them on. Almost as soon as the thought formed, his nerves flared fiercely with pain. The armor would make him safer, but his body simply couldn’t take it now. He’d have to go without for the moment. It would probably be fine, he rationalized. If there were any real danger, whoever took his gear off probably wouldn’t have left it within easy reach.

He took inventory. Raven’s body was a mass of aches and pains, but as far as he could tell, nothing was broken. Slowly, he eased himself upright and checked his gear. Even above ground, his radio spat nothing more than static. Optimism still made him want to blame storm interference, but logically, he could admit it was almost definitely broken. His air tank was nearly depleted, he assessed grimly, and his helmet was cracked in at least two places with the largest running across the visor. Considering, it was surprising it was still in one piece. Raven couldn’t begin to tell which close call was responsible for that. Could it be repaired? He felt a pang at the thought of losing a piece of his father’s armor.

The rest of it - the chest plate, wrist and shin guards, etc - were all dented to hell and back. But he was relieved to see that it was nothing that couldn’t be buffed out when he got back to the barracks. He was less optimistic about his right shoulderguard, crumpled where the Walker had grabbed him at the vault door. Still. Let Cortez laugh about his armor now!

Cortez… he hoped the crusty old sweeper would be okay.

Altogether, everything was accounted for, except for his axe. A hot flood of panic and grief swept through Raven at the thought of having lost it. It was like losing his father again in miniature. He was alive, though. His dad always focused on the good, and Raven followed that example as best he could. He was alive, his armor was mostly okay, and he would be able to tell the Sanitation Corps about everything he’d seen. He could not push away the pang of deep grief however. His father’s axe was gone.

Lacking anything else to do, Raven decided to try his luck standing, and then walking. He tested his legs and circled the apartment, examining it as he went. It was cluttered, but Raven could tell there was an order to it. What caught his eye first were the two shelves. They were made of wood, an incongruous display of wealth in such a small space. They hung over a desk covered in stacks of journals and maps, and were full of artifacts.

Raven recognized a few of them - sextants, a record player, a small gyroscope - but there was more he didn’t know. He was curious about the journals, too, but that was a degree of snooping he was uncomfortable with. This person had saved him, after all. It wouldn’t do to be rude.

Besides the desk, and the chairs that circled the radiator, the rest of the living area was dominated by a workbench. The items here were much more familiar to Raven, who’d spent unknowable hours in Abby’s workshop. There were a few tools Raven thought she’d happily break approximately all of the laws to get her hands on. A narrow hall led deeper into the apartment; a bedroom and bathroom, and a dark open door. A closet, Raven assumed. And attached to the living area but a step up was a modest kitchen.

Raven’s stomach gave a thunderous growl at the thought of food. It would probably be a good idea to find his mysterious benefactor now. Before he ate them out of house and home.

There was only one obvious exit from the apartment. It led through a heavy metal door out to the brick walkway along a drainage tunnel which Raven recognized as the same one he had been pulled from. He passed through the entryway and out into the light of day. Raven’s eyes burned in the daylight. It was the first he had seen of the surface in near to 24 hours. As he looked out of the drainage tunnel he saw the expanse of the Emerald Sea spread before him, boats in the distance. It was the first time he had seen the ocean.

It was so much bigger and more open than anything he had experienced. It had the expanse of the chasm beneath the Barrier Wall, but the sky seemed to go on forever. It was so different than the sky he was used to on the surface within the inner ring of the city, framed by the overhanging buildings and elevated crosswalks, and often broken apart by their long shadows. It took Raven’s breath away.

As he stepped blearily out onto the walkway along the seawall, drawn to the waters’ edge, he heard the unmistakable sound of music. Electro-swing unless he was mistaken (Raven preferred the sound of Big Band). It wafted from above and behind, and he came to realize that he stood upon a lower tier of the seawall. A little further down was a stairway leading to the top of the wall. More stairs, he thought bleakly, but he climbed. At the top, Raven took one more look out at the water.

It was an impressive sight, but he had things to do. Raven turned back towards the island and continued following the sound. He saw the coastal road along the seawall stretching into the distance. Across it was the high fenced edge of a massive yard, filled with towering mountains of scrap. As he followed the edge of the fence to the music’s source, he saw signs marking it as Yard 3. He was momentarily hopeful; if he could navigate through the third yard, he could find his way back to the Precinct and the barracks.

This hope quickly faded however. Yard 3 was expansive and Raven had no idea of which of the miles of labyrinthine, junkyard paths would lead him back to the precinct. At last, he came upon the entrance to a smaller gated subdivision of the massive yard. Over the gate was a sign:

“Morty and Carl’s Bespoke Salvage.”

“Hello?” Raven called out warily as he stepped through the gate. The music was coming from somewhere within, but there were stacks piled high on either side of the path, blocking his view of anything beyond them. There was no choice but to follow the path and hope there was a friendly face at the end. He paid careful attention to his surroundings as he ventured into the yard. Raven would be the first to admit he didn’t have an eye for the junk that made up Artisan. Even after a few years as a Trash-man, he struggled to tell scrap from artifact unless someone told him. But even he could see that the quality of the stuff here was more...complete than the usual junk heap.

Just before a turn in the path, Raven heard voices over the music. Well, one voice and a gurgle with inflection. They seemed to be arguing.

“No, I don’t care how easy it would have been to dispose of the body.”

“…”

“He wasn’t dead! Listen, when you’re the one buying the groceries, you can argue about the cost of meat.”

“...”

“Yes I do! For the past three months, which one of us has been going to market? Me, that’s who! Besides, it’s a moot point. He’s wearing Sweeper armor, ergo he is a sweeper. We do not eat Sweepers.”

“…”

“Since always. That’s been a rule since always.”

“Um, hello?” Raven thought it was a testament to how stressful his day had been that a conversation about eating his corpse caused him only mild concern. “Hi there. Uh, I’m Raven, Raven Daniels. Is that your apartment I woke up in?”

An older man sat on a brightly colored folding chair under a large umbrella. Next to him on a folding reclining chair sat a massive, black shelled Rock Lobster. Yes. That was what it was. Just a rock lobster. It was larger than any number of street dogs he had seen in his life, but it was unmistakably a lobster.

The older man did not answer immediately, taking a moment to look over Raven. “I was expecting that you’d come up the stairs.” He gestured a thumb over his shoulder to an open doorway in a box like office behind them. Apparently the door at the end of the dark hallway had not been a closet.

“The name’s Carlos. Carlos Desocrates. This is Morty.” A gurgle came from the crustacean and it raised a clawed arm. Seeming to wave hello.

Carlos Desocrates was shorter than Raven at about 6’ tall, with sharp black hair that bristled out from under a red bandanna that matched his shirt. He thought he could see streaks of gray in Carlos’ hair and stubble. A sharp scar cut from the corner of his jaw up the side of his cheek. His burly arms had tattoos on his copper skin that were incomprehensible to Raven. He was muscular but with a bit of a paunch, and wore a pair of pants and matching vest that seemed to Raven to be entirely made of pockets. A sawed off shotgun and machete were holstered at his hip, which caused Raven some momentary consternation. Raven could not place his age, since he seemed grizzled in a way that was only familiar to him from knowing Chief Hobbs. Raven could not tell if it was age or mileage that he saw on the older man’s weathered face.

“Well, um, thank you for your help. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t gotten me out of the, the seagate? Thing? But I’ve, um, I’ve had a very busy night and I really need to report in. I,uh, I think they might think I’m dead,” Raven said with some surprise. He hadn’t thought of that before. But the fact was his squad had last seen him trapped with a few dozen Walkers. People generally didn’t come back from that alive. He presumed at least. It had been a surprising day. “If you could just tell me how to get back to the Third Precinct, I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Kid. You are about to fall over. Take a seat,” the man said, and pulled another folding chair from behind him. It was more an order than an offer, Raven realized.

“I took the liberty of shelling you of that armor to pump the water out of your lungs. Figured I didn’t know you well enough to take off more than that. This is yours, by the way.”

Carlos reached down and unfolded a long towel on the ground next to his chair. Raven’s heart skipped a beat as Carlos picked up the axe and held it out to him. “Seemed like a good idea to keep this out of reach in case you woke up twitchy. You already soaked my couch, and I don’t need you making any more of a mess than that.”

Raven stared agog at the axe. His axe. His fathers’ axe. The axe he’d thought lost forever. That axe. Raven promptly burst into tears.

Carlos wore an expression half way between compassionate pity and unimpressed disapproval. From somewhere, Morty produced a handkerchief.

“... Anyway.” Carlos coughed, still holding Raven’s axe. Raven took it from him with trembling hands and clutched it close. With a few wet sniffles, he reined in the last of his tears. This had been the longest day, he thought again, and cradled the axe in his lap.

“I’m good now,” Raven said, though his choked up voice belied how light his grip was on his emotions. Carlos made the executive decision to carry on anyway.

“As for getting back to your Precinct, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. South Gate through the wall is sealed and it ain’t gonna open up again until tomorrow morning. Pretty routine after a monster storm like what we had last night. So, you may as well relax and rest up awhile.” Carlos took a long drought from a large flask at his hip, but did not offer Raven any of whatever it contained.

“What? No.” Raven protested. “What about through the third yard? I need to get back as soon as possible.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow. “Kid,” he said flatly. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but you are in no shape to trek through Wrecker territory.” He cocked his head to gesture to Yard 3 in the distance. “ASEC doesn’t take particular care of the outer yard, and the locals ain’t real friendly.”

“I can do it,” Raven insisted. “I have to. I saw something in the pipes, something big. ASEC needs to know about it as soon as possible!”

Carlos stood and leveled a flat, unimpressed look at the young man, then squatted low to bring himself to eye level with Raven and leaned forward. He raised a finger to Raven’s face. Raven stared for a moment cross eyed before Carlos pointed, and proceeded to poke him squarely in the middle of his forehead. Raven immediately lost his balance and toppled backwards, falling out of his chair onto the ground.

“...ow,” Raven mewled in a small, sad voice.

“...” Morty gurgled.

“Fine,” Carlos said, rolling his eyes, but relenting to his crustacean companion. “Kid, why don’t you tell us what’s going on. If it’s actually important and not ‘tHey’rE goNNa firE mE ‘CAuse i diD soMEthinG sTuPID’ important, maybe, MAYBE, we’ll see what we can do about getting a message inland.” Carlos returned to his chair. “So. Indulge us.”

Raven struggled to right himself and the chair, failed, and rolled to sit up on the ground cross legged. He looked at Carlos with watery eyes. “Do you really mean it?”

“We’ll see,” Carlos repeated firmly.

“...” Morty gurgled encouragingly.

Raven recounted the story in as much detail as he could. Finally, Carlos held up a hand and interjected: “Ok, stop. STOP. We get it. You climbed a lot of stairs.”

“But you understand now, right? I have to get back to my Precinct and tell them! If we work fast, we can catch that weird old man, and bring him to justice before anyone else gets hurt!”

Carlos looked decidedly nonplussed. “Justice, huh?

The older man sat thoughtfully for a moment.

“Not to snuff your flare, kiddo. But ASEC has a hurricane to clean up after. That is gonna be priority one. AND if you sealed him off in the deep shafts like you say, then I don’t imagine that they’re gonna drop everything for a manhunt, through the uncharted depths, trying to follow a tram line, that nobody knew existed until this morning, with only your word that this guy is a threat.”

“You don’t think this is important?” Raven asked, feeling inexplicably hurt.

“I think you’re gonna have a hard time convincing the people in charge that you didn’t just hit your head real hard.”

Raven was incensed enough to climb to his feet, though he leaned on his axe to do it. “But he can command Walkers! The whole city could be in danger!”

“Kid. The whole city is always in danger. You’re a Sweeper, you oughta know this. Anyway, there’s a couple hundred more of you taking care of things inside. They can keep a handle on the city until we get lunch. C’mon”

Raven wanted to argue more, but his stomach growled loud enough to drown out the music. The old man was right, he could save the city after lunch… Was it lunchtime? How long had he been unconscious?

They returned to Carlos’ apartment long enough for Raven to put on his armor. It was heavy, and Raven was tender, but he’d rather face exhaustion than risk losing a single piece of it through carelessness. And wearing it felt a lot lighter and less awkward than carrying it. Morty stayed behind to watch the yard and the two men took off along the seaside walkway to the heart of the Southport District.

The neighborhood reminded Raven of his own borough; the bustle of people at work, the market trading, the variety of shops, the sheer camaraderie of people greeting each other and helping one another as they made repairs to their town. It made Raven a touch homesick. Silly of him, he thought, since it hadn’t even been a full 24 hours since he was last home.

Nevertheless, he struggled not to wave when people stared at Carlos and himself. No one knew him here. He’d just be a weirdly friendly Sweeper… above ground… outside the wall… on his way to lunch, following a trip by storm drain to the coast. Reports of that sort of behavior wouldn’t help convince his superiors he wasn’t concussed.

Carlos led him to a restaurant near the water. Above the door hung a sign with a ship’s wheel that read ‘Fortuna’s Tavern’. Raven could smell bread and meat on the air surrounding the building and he very nearly swooned.

“Don’t fall over just yet,” Carlos groused without turning, then opened the door.

The aroma intensified, and was joined by coffee and syrup and was that cinnamon he smelled? Raven nearly knocked over Carlos in his eagerness to get inside. He felt as if he could feel the stares, but his attention was on the display case next to the bar. There were pies and quiches and scones. He was going to eat them all.

“Hey there, Carl,” came a cheerful voice from behind the bar. A pretty woman with gold tanned skin, short, wiry rust colored hair, and a warm smile was wiping down the counter. “I was wondering if you were going to grace us with your presence this morning or if I’d have to send someone to your yard to get you.”

Carlos nodded his head at the woman. “Marie,” he said by way of greeting. “Got work for me?”

“Just a few tow jobs. If you have the time. Which I know you do.” The woman, Marie, smiled winningly at Carlos. Her gold eyes seemed to flash in the light. Raven thought something was striking about them. He could not place it at first, but as he looked closer he could see that the whites of her eyes were slighter, and darker, and her too large irises were a striking, shimmering gold. Something about her sharp gaze, and her wry smile reminded him of Captain Mendoza’s obsidian glare and predatory grin full of too sharp teeth. Carlos glowered at her for a couple heart beats, but even Raven, distracted as he was by hunger, could tell the older man wouldn’t argue. “Glad that’s settled,” Marie said, though as far as Raven could tell nothing had been settled. Who needed a tow? Why did she expect Carlos to do it? Why did Carlos listen to her? Did she serve waffles?

“And who’s this strapping young man you’ve brought to my door?” She rounded on Raven with a smile that made him want to double check his weapons, even without the carnivorous sharpness of his Captain’s grin. “The name’s Marie Fortuna, hon! This is my place. What’s a nice boy like you doing with this curmudgeon?”

Raven opened his mouth to reply, but Carlos cut him off. “This is Raven. Fished him out of the storm drain this morning. He got washed out with the last of the debris from the surge. Listen, I’ve gotta make a few calls. Can you feed this kid? My tab.” He turned to exit, then doubled back to add, “Nothing fancy!”

Marie saluted his departing figure, but agreed to nothing. Raven didn’t even think to say “bye” or ask what constituted fancy until the door was closed. Then, in the sudden quiet, Raven’s stomach gave another aggravated rumble.

“Why don’t you have a seat, kiddo?” Marie’s voice was a good deal gentler than it had been, though Raven hadn’t thought she was brusque before. He pulled up the nearest stool and sat. “Don’t worry about that grump. He’s got more credit here than he lets on. And he’ll be back as soon as he finishes his calls... If he can even make them, that is” she said in a quiet, wry aside. “Anyway, what can I get for ya?”

“... Waffles?”

She hisses through her teeth, an apologetic sound. “No waffles, I’m afraid. The griddle broke yesterday and with the storm damage, no one has time to fix it right now. Pancakes okay?”

“Pancakes are fine,” he said, but he could hear his own disappointment.

It wasn’t just the lack of waffles that had gotten him down, though that was the icing on his sad, fluffy but not crispy cake. With a late but welcome breakfast in reach and no clear course of action beyond it, he’d suddenly felt the weight of everything that had gone wrong. Cortez was hurt, and his gear damaged. He’d discovered that city was in danger, but his credibility was uncertain. Meanwhile, his only help was an old man with a lobster who wanted to eat him. And everyone kept calling him a kid.

“I’m not a kid,” Raven said, sulking into his chest.

“Of course you’re not,” Marie said consolingly. “Are you worried about Carlos? You shouldn’t be. He’s probably just sore about you making him get up early. Strawberry or chocolate, honey?”

“Strawberry, thanks,” said Raven. Marie placed a large glass of strawberry milk in front of him with a twisty straw. A moment later, she slid a ten-stack of fluffy banana pancakes under his nose, a whipped cream smiley face drawn on top and a couple sparklers stuck in the heaping scoop of Neapolitan ice cream on the side. “Thank you, ma’am,” Raven said and dug in. Would this be considered fancy? He tried and failed to restrain himself, then fell upon the breakfast with ravenous hunger. As he ate and drank, he felt a slight tingle, like static in the air around his food. He tasted a spark. Were the sparklers really necessary?

Marie let him eat in peace for a while. She busied herself with the other customers, brewing more coffee, and cleaning the griddle for the next order. Raven watched as she directed several young servers to handle different tables. He caught two of the young women smiling in his direction as he stuffed a forkful of pancake into his mouth, and whispering to one another. He paused and waved sheepishly. When Raven had made a sizeable dent in the pancakes, and slowed his pace enough that she could see him chew before swallowing, she came back to him and asked, “So what’s your story, hon? You look like you’ve got a lot on your mind, and as an official, certified bartender, I can assure you telling me your troubles will make them easier.”

Raven’s eyes flicked from her to his pancakes and back again, considering. At last, he swallowed and began to tell her an abridged story of the morning.

“So, um, as you might’ve guessed, I’m a Sweeper,” he began, and gestured vaguely the armor he was wearing. “My squad was out last night, well, this morning, doing a retrieval from the pipes. There was another team down there, and an excavation crew, and- Anyway. Something happened down there. Something bad. My team went down to help, but we got caught up in it instead. I made it out. I think my team did too. I hope they did,” he said in a quiet aside. “After we got separated, I saw some stuff. Important, the-city-may-be-in-danger stuff,” he said intensely. “I’m the only one who knows about it. But I shouldn’t be. My captain needs to know. The commanders at ASEC definitely need to know. But my radio is broken and the gates are closed and I can’t get in touch with any of them!”

By that point, Raven had nearly worked himself into a frenzy, catching concerned stares from other patrons. But just as quickly he seemed to deflate before Marie’s hawk-like eyes. “I told that old guy about it, but I’m not sure if he believed me. When I said it out loud I guess it sounds unbelievable. The further away I get from it, I’m starting to think ‘maybe I did just hallucinate all that’.” Marie watched as his lower lip trembled a smidge. The smile slid off her face.

“You might be surprised what people will believe, hon. Especially around here.” She laid a hand on top of his. “And don’t you fret about Carlos. If he thought you weren’t worth listening to, he would have taken you to some other bar.” She winked and slid him another strawberry milk. Raven hadn’t even seen her make it. “Don’t let Carlos hear you calling him old though.” She said with a smirk.

Marie kept Raven company in between brewing coffees, making breakfasts, and directing her small squad of servers to attend to the stream of people who came through. Nearly all of them were sailors, or technicians, or machinists of some kind, and they all bore circles under their eyes of varying darkness. Raven wasn’t the only one who’d had a long night, it seemed.

A half hour later, Carlos returned.

Marie handed him a stein of coffee and he sat next to Raven. “Bad news, kid. Lines to the inner ring are down. I couldn’t get through to ASEC. Storm Damage I expect.”

Raven would not be deterred. He pushed back from the bar and stood. “Then I can’t waste time. I need to get back as soon as possible.”

Marie just shook her head and pushed down on his shoulder. “Sit and finish your pancakes, hon.” Raven looked down, surprised to see his stack was less than halfway eaten. He’d missed her sliding more onto his plate. “The City Gate isn’t gonna open until tomorrow for damage assessment. And that’s at the earliest.”

Raven looked between her and Carlos in honest surprise. “Wait,” he said. “You don’t mean to tell me they just leave all of you cut off when storms hit?” When neither of the two contradicted him, his face contorted in a grimace of appalled shock. “That’s terrible! I had no idea.”

Marie just shrugged and snuck a hand pie onto his plate. Raven didn’t even notice when he began to eat it. “Well, it’s not like it’s totally malicious. The Barrier Wall makes it hard to support the outer ring. We take care of each other, though.”

Raven thought of all the friendly people he’d passed on his way to the tavern and found himself agreeing. He’d opened his mouth to ask more questions - he had so many! - when Marie and Carlos both held up hands for silence. At this signal, the whole tavern had gone quiet, the other patrons looking at the pair nervously.

Raven didn’t understand what was happening, but he watched them, too. He saw them look at each other in alarm, then shout, “DOWN!”

Not a moment later, the tavern shook and the air thundered as artillery exploded outside.

---

#arpage #children of the storm #hi carlos!#hi marie!#hi morty!#Raven Daniels #Carlos Desocrates #Marie Fortuna #Morty the Lobster

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