#what looking through your old dolls does to a motherfucker
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This post goes out to all the sexy and cool people that also clock in to defend these two girls like it’s their full time job
#what looking through your old dolls does to a motherfucker#ever after high deserves to have a reboot like monster high#ONLY IF THE PEOPLE WORKING ON IT ARE GOOD THOUGH#the last thing I would want to see happen is a ever after high reboot ending up like G2 monster high#nevermore#webtoon nevermore#nevermore webtoon#annabel lee#nevermore annabel lee#annabel lee nevermore#annabel lee whitlock#apple white#ever after high
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Mashirao Ojiro X Tenya's Sister Reader
You always saluted your boyfriend for being able to stick it out and handle staying with you despite your brother's...very very exuberant personality.
"Tenya I'm going to drop-kick you down these stairs with a smile if you ask me one more stupid question." You felt the tic marks appear over your face and legs as they itched to kick that un-caring look from his face. Why doesn't he take your threats seriously? Does he not understand it's a technique not always muscle?
"We both know that's not going to happen. Still rude of you to say but I expect nothing more from you." You gawked at him. To hell with UA's school of conduct and forget his title as Class Representative. He was going to pay Chiyo a visit "I have to make sure that Ojiro has pure intentions with my only little sister!" You face-palmed just done with this same old conversation he has with you on a weekly basis. It used to be every day when he first found out about you two but, now he brought it down to weekly which is progress but you need him to bring it down to once in a while. You never expect him to stop cause he's a big brother and that's what big brothers do. They're over-protective.
"You should know him by now Tenya. You have been in class with this boy for almost a full school year and have been through so much shit with villains and disasters you should know everyone like the back of your hand." He looked at you pushing up his glasses and scrutinizing you. Maybe you were finally getting through to him? Ha, that was wishful thinking.
"That is true that we have been through some shit but we don't hang out he's usually with Shoji, Hagaruke, and Koda while I'm with Midoriya, Todoroki, Uraraka, and Asui. I wish I knew him more but we just don't hang out and I don't want to be awkward and start hanging out with him just because he's dating you. How else can I be a proper older brother?" You rolled your eyes at the older.
"We are only 13 months apart." He shrugged giving you a smug smirk.
"I'm still older." You stuck your tongue out at him.
"I'm the cuter and smarter one though." He sputtered which was satisfying for you. "Besides I guess you're right but you can try to not be so overbearing and overwhelm him you know. If we last he's eventually going to meet our family and you'll definitely be seeing him way more than just in a classroom." He grunted looking off to the side thinking about it as you both walked back towards the dorms. You were lucky to work hard and graduate middle school at the same time as Tenya so you both can apply to UA together. People still found it hard that he was in fact a whole year and one month older but, he always made sure to tell people just in case you tried to lie and say you were the older twin. Such a bum head for that.
"You have a point and for your sake, I'll stop harassing him as much and be a little kinder to him." You looked at him in shock. He actually agreed? Who is this and what has he done with Tenya? He noticed your look grinning at you before ruffling up your hair.
"I'm as stiff as a board but, I can bend a little for my sister." You smiled at him both of you engaging in a debate that somehow by the time you both ended up in the dorm with everyone else already there you were on top of him trying to pull out his hair earning amused and weird looks from people
"YOU WILL ADMIT THAT I AM RIGHT YOU MOTHERFUCKER." You tugged harder as he wrapped an arm around your waist squeezing you to make you stop
"OW-STOP THIS NONSENSE RIGHT NOW BEFORE I SUPLEX YOU INTO THIS COUCH" You started trying to shake him like a rag doll
"I DARE YOU BIOTCHA" Those were the wrong words to say to your brother because he did exactly that. He somehow twisted the two of you around and suplexed you straight into the couch earning a stunned silence before Kaminari wheezed which caused a chain reaction.
"I warned you." He looked at you smirking with his tongue out before heading upstairs leaving you to the mess of class 1-a in the common area.
"What were you guys even arguing about this time?" You turned to block everyone out to look at your soft-spoken boyfriend.
"Mashi!" You fixed yourself allowing him to sit next to you giving you full access to his lap for cuddles. He blushed scarlet but didn't go to move you he simply sat back on the couch. "I can't remember what we were talking about. This kind of thing always happens now it's my turn next to surprise him." Ojiro simply sighed exasperatedly at your shenanigans "Did he bother you much today?" At his sweatdrop, you already knew the answer.
"He's gotten better but it's still...over-whelming whenever he does it." You nodded your head in understanding and were going to say something before you were rudely interrupted.
"GET A FUCKING ROOM YOU DAMN LOVE BIRDS" You turned to Bakugo with a sickeningly sweet smile which made his scowl deepen.
"It's not my fault that you don't have no one to do this with. I can offer some help, in fact, I have the perfect thing to help you with." You pretended to look in your bag before pulling your hand out and giving him the middle finger. At an explosion, you grabbed Mashi's hand not wanting to find out if Kirishima and Kaminari can hold back Bakugou for long. You loved yourself.
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A bit shorter and I find this writing style and length so much more manageable and easier to read.
#anime#fanfic#manga#bnha#mha#fanfiction#quotev#quirks#fluff#x reader#x female reader#Mashirao Ojiro#ojiro x reader#Ojiro x female reader#Mashirao X Female reader#romance#Mashirao Ojiro X Female reader
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Detour, Part 4
Given your previous declaration of your intent to wear his skin, you release a bit of your hold over him to see his reaction. Scott, apparently unfazed, looks to the distance, no doubt planning an escape route. The guy isn’t stupid, so you try to make out his gameplan. You catch the briefest glimpse he takes of the patch of skin where the medallion used to be and you are immediately reminded of the moment of lost control of him in your possession of Alex. ‘Motherfucker. Of course he had a plan’. Despite the risk, you decide to proceed. Scott may have that bod, and his steel will, but that pales in comparison to the years of lust and envy brewing in you. ‘Fuck it, worse case scenario we accidentally give this egomaniac god-like power. What could go wrong? Might as well fuck with him a little’.
You mess with your body’s vocal cords to make sure both your old voice and Alex’s speak. With a unified moan you state “I can’t wait to take a Scottie joyride”.
You say your part to Scott. “You know, even with how much of an asshole you were back then, I always masturbated , every night, to the fantasy of that thick horse dick ravaging me and shuddering inside my little body.” You chuckle. “Who could have known that in just a few short years, we could both be masturbating that thick horse dick together, to the reality of my little body shuddering inside you.”
Alex adds: “I’ve always wondered what it would feel like, moving around in that tower of muscle”. You lick your lips. “Besides, you have some pretty yoked friends, Scott. Well, since we’re gonna be parading your skin around, we have some pretty yoked friends. We can’t wait to use you, to use that thick horse dick of yours, to cum inside them, to inject them with a little Alex. But don’t worry, even when we get sick of wearing you, we’ll never really leave. We’re gonna fill you in so deep, you’ll never fully get us out. You’re gonna be our little Scottie fuck doll till the day you die.”
With Alex still in the driver’s seat, you walk toward your best friend. He makes you rub your chest a little. “The truth is, Scottie, he feels amazing inside me. I love him in here and I know he’s here to sta-ayy” Alex moans a little “God I love being his puppet. I can feel his strings all inside me, worming into me, slipping, writhing, controlling me.” The Alex-y you makes you show Scott your right hand for effect, which starts spasming unnaturally before you make a quick, veined fist. You chuckle at this attempt to scare him into submission but then begin to ponder if it would actually be possible to transform your entire body that way for the possession. You and Alex strip naked. You then start masturbating your shared body right in front of Scott, as he looks away in revulsion at the sight of his corrupted best friend furiously beating his meat. “Thank you for helping me find my soulmate Scott- well, my soul master. I can’t wait for my little strings to become your little strings” he pouts “Cmon Scott. You’re so cute when you’re angry.” “Hate me Scott! Hate your best friend! Hate the faggot from high school that’s inside him! I want you livid when we fill you up. I want you boiling. Your anger really gets me going. When we pilot you around, I’m gonna make you watch. I’m gonna make you watch the new faggot Scott, faggot you corrupting and controlling your own friends!“ When you finally release, you bring a little to your mouth for inspection.
“We taste even better than expected” you say, breathless, half moaning, “here try some.” you scoop up the rest and try to push it to Scott, who quickly turns to the side. It smears his cheek instead.
You lean your face right in front of Scott’s- till your foreheads touch- and run your Alex-y fingers gently through his sweaty hair. You take a deep inhale from you position. Subtle, musky, another scent you just can’t quite place, it’s altogether manly. He smells uniquely Scotty. You can’t wait till you also smell uniquely Scotty. You rest all of your sweaty naked body right on top of Scott, still facing him. He winces slightly at the additional weight.
“Get the fuck off me!”
Scott spits right at your face. You take a little taste. ”MMhmmmmmm, I cant wait to have all that running inside me, even your spit tastes good”. He grimaces in disgust. Using your power to mentally restrain his movements, you grab his neck and give it a squeeze to force his mouth open. You scoop the bit of the Alex cum on his cheek into his now gaping maw with your thumb. You corral the spit on your face earlier into your mouth and mix it with your own, which you spit back right at his mouth. “Here’s a little primer for what we’ll taste like when we become one” you say with a dirty wink. With your powers, you force him to swallow your new “together” potion.
“You were always the grand prize“ you say, while you trace your fingers all over your soon-to-be body. “After I let you sell your friend out, did you really think I’d just leave you after that. This new me, Alex, he was just a little detour. How could I know he’d be this into it,” You run your fingers through your hair, “but, in the end, I have to thank you. We were important little detour because- [moan] he completes me” Alex delicately guides your fingers around Scott’s nipples. You tug on them to bring his sweaty chest to yours and in your dark embrace you whisper seductively in his ear “You’ll complete us too....” Scott shudders and you moan in fake disappointment, “you’re such a greedy little asshole, you know, you can’t keep all that man to yourself. We wanna have fun too. We can’t wait to get inside that Scottie party.”
With your newfound powers, you start liquefying parts of yourself, as scott watches in horror. You start with the arm- naked, pungent, sweaty skin become a noxious, sticky, amorphous mass. It’s a horrific sight, for sure, but it becomes even more horrific to Scott when you will your newly created slime to start moving. You make sure to give him a close up of the wriggling stringy fibers of yourself inside the goo.
At this point, Scott really starts panicking.
“Look man, I’m sorry! I know I shouldn’t have been such a piece of shit to you in High School. Please! Cmon! You already have Alex.” Son of a bitch! You knew it! Of course he still remembers you!
Caught and preoccupied in your transformation, Scott finds the power to push you off him several feet back. Adrenaline, no doubt, but the man is also pure muscle, so it’s no surprise. “Get the fuck off me! Don’t fucking go near me, you creep!”
“Oh Scott”, you moan his name in a mocking tone. “You are such a great friend. Give me a hug”. Slimy tendrils from your body shoot out force Scott back to your sweaty embrace. You shove your pits at his face. “Mmmmphh!” he shouts in disgust and nausea. You take another deep whiff of his sweaty chest and armpits. Intoxicatingly musky, and again, uniquely Scotty. “When I’m inside you, I’m gonna make you stinky like me” you laugh “we’re gonna smell great together. We’re gonna feel great together. And to your friends? We’re gonna taste great together,“ you exhale, as you lick your thick Alex-y lips and smile an out of place angelic smile.
“You’re never gonna fucking take me, asshole!” He shouts.
You ignore him as you continue your little monologue and start slithering in some of your fleshy mass into his mouth. “And don’t worry,” an unholy harmony of your old voice and Alex’s voice says, “We forgive you for high school. Well.... “. You now moan with a mix your old voice and some new borrowed Scott vocals that your parts have already claimed. “You’ll forgive you.” You now lodge his throat full of you as your liquid tendrils greedily rush down his throat. You want to give Scott the complete experience, so more of your slimy tendrils snake through his biceps and pits, around his vascular back and throat and start jamming straight into his asshole. He moans involuntarily as he feels your wriggling mass pass the g-spot into his prime real estate. As odd as it sounds coming out of him, he even sounds alpha when he moans. You make sure to keep this area stimulated, since you can no longer restrain his body mentally. To complete his Alex infestation, you start pumping his cock to loosen a passage for yourself and then feed more slime into his piss slit. This particular action causes his mouth to open even wider than before, which you use to stuff even more slime inside.
Despite the raw pleasure he’s in and despite your mass still continually flowing into him, Scott stands and takes shaky steps toward the door. That iron will always did turn you on. You can’t wait to make it yours. You double your speed, and start writhing and twisting erratically as you continue to flow in. When it becomes clear that he is determined to continue, you start streaming into any entryway you can find. Every orifice, every hole in his body- even some small cuts he had on his arm- are flooded with your liquid. His towering form finally falls to the ground, unconscious from the effort he expended, while the last parts of you slip inside.
When Scott wakes, he immediately straightens up. He’s impossibly full, filled to the brim with you inside him, still squirming, slipping through his body parts rhythmically. A little dribbling of yourself spills out and oozes out of his mouth, but you quickly force it back inside him before he reach for it. He needs to take all of you.
Your future face contorts into one of pain and struggle until it settles in into a scornful, hateful, contempt. ‘How much energy does this guy fucking have?’ you think in panic, as Scott roars and in one fell swoop, flexes all the thick muscles in his body to subjugate your mass. He still looks a little bloated, but the squirming inside him stops. He smirks as feels your powers flow through him. He investigates himself and the new control he has over body parts. He flexes his arms as he starts willing parts of his body to expand and constrict on command. Scott walks up to his mirror. “I told you you couldn’t fucking take me” he says with a smirk. If Alex was a sports car, sleek and smooth, Scott would be a fucking truck, and a massive one at that. The man exudes raw power so it’s no wonder you’re struggling reining him in. Before all hope is fully lost, you feel a spark in you.
“You’re right” Scott’s voice states, unprompted. The squirming and wriggling inside him starts up again and his eyes roll back. “It’s a good thing he took a little detour taking and corrupting my tight piece of ass,” Scott moans uncharacteristically. Scott’s beefy arms start fidgeting uncontrollably “because this...little Alex puppet is... gonna show his best friend how to be a little good meat-suit for his new m-master” he forces through Scott’s vocal cords. Scott’s whole body is now trembling uncontrollably. The writhing inside him has started up again, though this time far more energetic. It was coming from everywhere. He feels his fingers, his legs constrict and relax unnaturally. He screams as his body starts scratching himself everywhere erratically and convulsing, trying to get you out. But you’re in too deep. You’re in his veins, in his muscles, in every fiber of his being. Arms still twitching from the control Alex demands, Scott starts involuntarily pumping his meat. “FUUUUUuuuuCK!!!” he roars in his mix of ecstasy and struggle, before everything in him stops.
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Scott sits, unexpressive, motionless. Then, a bit of movement. The corners of his lips stretch slightly and upward into a deranged smile. You twist his nipples hard and do another uncharacteristic moan in amazement. Goddamn he’s sensitive. Raw ecstasy decorates his face- your face as you begin to explore the rest of you. You reward his body for yielding to you by finishing the job you started earlier and continue pumping his meat. You release in a maelstrom. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. In the midst of your orgasm, you feel your body puff and expand massively, impossibly, taut, as deep inside Scott you integrate the core of your being into him fully. You subjugate your new muscles and skin around yourself and force them to re-constrict around their new owner. Tighter. Tighter. You feel his muscles from inside him as you pull them ever tighter until the invisible barrier between you two tears and his hunky form coalesces into you. The Alex part of you forces Scott to smile through the process of his own takeover. “AAAARRRGGH!” Scott screams in one last shout of defiance as your insides and his finally become one.
Your eyes go wide and start fluttering while you lick yourself clean. ‘mmmmmm fuck’ Of course it tastes fucking amazing, every piece of the new you is amazing. You flex your first of many trademark “he’s the shit-and he knows it-Scotty sneers,” this new face of yours exactly reflecting one you’ve seen a thousand times in high school torment. A face that Alex had never seen until now, on account of being his best friend. Finally, fully, Scott is yours.
Then his vitality hits. Fuck. Pure power!! “MIIINE” You scream with your new vocal cords as you start punching the air with your power. You adopt a boxer’s stance and- left hook. Right hook. Fuck. With each strike you can feel your own force as this new body executes your every whim. “MIIIINE!” Raw testosterone, raw power. Goddamn. You rush over and start punching and slamming your new beefy hands on the floor maniacally, reveling in finally feeling what it must have felt like in high school from the other side. “MIIINE!” This new jock body is limitless. You run a sweaty hand on his dick, and unsurprisingly it hardens instantly on command. You furiously start masturbating again in a frenzy, if only to release some of his pent up power. “Mine.” As Scott, you have ascended. In Scott, you are a god. With this body, with this soul, you can do anything you fucking want.
You piece together an outfit out of the clothes strewn about the apartment: Alex’s dirty used underwear and his old shirt, which fit impossibly tight on you. Alex always did like to keep things a little tighter than they should be- well, he is you, so you do too and now Scott does as well. You slip your new vascular legs through Scott’s skinniest pair of jeans and your new beast arms through his leather jacket. You‘ve always fancied Alex-your scent so you want to make sure you imprint it into this Scott-bod you now have. Then again, people have pretty unique scents. With you inside Scott, you’re fairly certain this new Scott naturally emanates a noxious combination of both their scents. You don’t put any cologne or deodorant on- why would you ever try to diminish this proof of your dominance over their bodies.
You check yourself in the mirror and give your nipples one delightful final little twist, your run your fingers through your hair, and give your new self one hell of a Scottie smile before you step out into the world, a new man henceforth.
-End Part 4-
Whew, what a ride. Hope y’all had fun. Not really sure where else I could take this so this is the final part for now.
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BnHA Chapter 290: It’s Touya Time
Previously on BnHA: Iida and Hadou showed up like a couple of Pennsylvanias and Georgias to bail Shouto out at the last minute. Ochako and Toga had an exceptionally strange fight which consisted of Toga being all “guess what Ochako, I used your quirk to murder someone, how do you feel about that”, and Ochako being all “I do not like that”, to which Toga was all “:(”. There was some doll-stealing and some bookcase-yeeting, and then Toga left in tears because Ochako was all adamant that murder has consequences. Anyway so I have absolutely no idea what Toga is thinking now, but I guess we’ll have some time to stew on it, because we ended the chapter by cutting back to the Iida+Hadou+Shouto VS Afomura battle, which was interrupted by Gigantomachia and the LoV showing up like a bunch of Floridas to ruin everyone’s nice day.
Today on BnHA: Horikoshi hands the mic over to Dabi and is all “take it away, kid.” Over in Room 315 of Musutafu General, Rei is all “may I please watch some TV” and the hospital staff is all “sure”, and so she tunes in just in time to catch Todoroki Touya’s Peabody Award-winning documentary “Number One Hero, Number One Fraud: The Todoroki Enji Story”, which is being broadcast nationwide courtesy of Skeptic and his magic laptop. Meanwhile in Jakku, Dabi is all “I’M TOUYA, BITCHES”, and Shouto and Enji are all, “(゜◇゜ )”, and Dabi is all, “anyway so just to sum it all up, because of how much of a jerk Endeavor was, I am now Evil.” Everyone continues to be all “(ﾟoﾟ)” except for Dabi, who is all “└(˘▾˘┌ )≡ ( ┐˘▾˘)┘≡┗( ˘▾˘)┛≡┏( ˘▾˘)┓≡┗( ˘▾˘)┛” for pretty much the rest of the chapter. Idk. Just let the man have his fun, guys. He’s waited a long time for this.
y’all I have a confession to make. I am technically not spoiled for this chapter thanks to my robustly paranoid system of spoiler-tag-filtering, which is extensive enough that it pretty much will catch whenever someone so much as breathes something even remotely new-chapter-related. that being said, I like to think that I am capable of making basic logical inferences! and so the fact that for the past 36 hours, my dashboard has pretty much nonstop consisted almost entirely of this...
...has led me to conclude that MAYBE, POSSIBLY, PROBABLY, BUT ALSO DEFINITELY, a certain someone is finally going to reveal his ~secret identity~ woop woop. lmao
anyway so everyone, please remember to act surprised though, as we would not want Dabi’s feelings to be hurt at all. he has been planning this moment for the last decade or so and I wouldn’t want him to feel like all of that effort was for naught. so just play along, okay. OH MY, IF IT ISN’T THE LEAGUE OF VILLAINS’ MYSTERIOUS DABI. WHATEVER COULD HIS ARRIVAL POSSIBLY BE HERALDING, I JUST DON’T KNOW
“Dabi’s Dance” lmao. I’m sticking with Touya Time myself. ngl I had this recap title planned out for at least the past year or so. just waiting for that day to finally come
anyway so some people in some building somewhere are all “TURN OFF THE TV IN ROOM 315” and idk. I’m guessing the LoV is hacking the airwaves to livestream the reveal, as predicted
-- oh shit. UHHHHHHHH
did she always have this TV or did she get it just recently?? jfc of all the times for the hospital staff to finally loosen up
um... so that’s... (・＿・；)
well but I mean, she was gonna find out one way or the other at some point though. like you can’t really just keep her locked up and isolated from all news of the outside world forever and ever and ever. granted, this isn’t exactly the ideal way for her to learn this particular bit of information, but it’s not really ideal for anybody else either! EXCEPT DABI, THAT IS. have yourself a day you funky little terrorist
oh shit what is this?? it’s not live???
over in Jakku, a red-faced, sputtering Dabi makes a frantic grab for Skeptic’s laptop. “WAIT, NO, JESUS, NOT THAT TAPE!”
lol. but seriously Dabi are you even wearing a shirt. like I’m not one to slutshame anyone bro, but it’s just, exactly what type of mood were you looking to set here??
anyway so we really are cutting back to Jakku now, and Gigantomachia is all, “MASTERS”! which, I wonder if he really did use the plural? that’s right Machia, both of them in one place now! that sure is convenient for you huh
lol what is this with all this AFO monologuing. you’re really gonna make me read through this when I’m sitting here all sleep-deprived from election week. JUST GET TO THE TOUYAS. WE WERE PROMISED TOUYAS!!
sigh
“tee hee it’s fucking hilarious how goddamn powerful I am now lol”
alas, in spite of myself I do have two serious takeaways from this. one is that AFO is still controlling most of Tomura’s body behind the scenes, which both does and doesn’t bode well for Tomura (like, at least he’s not dying, but the long-term implications of this for his free will and such certainly are not Good). and two is that this confirms that Ujiko did give Tomura at least one powerful mutant quirk, which explains why he was still so deadly and indestructible even when Aizawa was using Erasure on him (since Erasure doesn’t work on mutant quirks, just emitter and transformation ones)
MEANWHILE ON TODAY’S EPISODE OF “TODOROKI SHOUTO’S TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD LIFE”
I like how he doesn’t actually say that he can’t take on Gigantomachia. just that he can’t take on him and Afomura at the same time. that’s confidence, baby. that right there is why you always draft Todoroki Shouto in the first round for your fantasy team
HADOU!!!!
OOOH, TOMURA’S ALL “MAN, THIS GIRL’S WAVE POWERS AND THIS KID’S ICE POWERS ARE A SUPER-STRONG COMBO DAGNABBIT.” YESSS I LIKE THAT, TELL ME MORE ABOUT HOW COOL AND POWERFUL THEY ARE
HOT DAMN LOOK AT THAT
um but not to take away from this exceptionally cool moment or anything, but why is Endeavor dying and shouting “RUN” down there in the corner um
oh
excuse me. not to take away from How Bad This All Is, but!!
just a little, smol, IidaBaku for everyone. Iida, who apparently doesn’t know a damn thing about first aid and is all, “hmm that’s a pretty bad-looking puncture wound he has in his left shoulder there, I think I’ll just let his arm dangle freely like that and I won’t bother taking off his heavy gauntlets either. I mean. he’ll be fine, probably.” smh. at least Shouto probably cauterized the wounds
EXCUSE ME WHAT
TIME FOR MORE OF THAT GOOD OLD FASHIONED SHOUNEN RIDICULOUSNESS I GUESS LMAO. KACCHAN YOU HAVE A HOLE IN YOUR TORSO. THERE IS A HOLE IN YOUR TORSO, AND YOU LOST LIKE FOUR GALLONS OF BLOOD, BUT SURE. “PUT ME DOWN” HE SAYS. FIRST OF ALL, PUTTING ASIDE THE FACT THAT YOU ABSOLUTELY SHOULD NOT BE CONSCIOUS, THE FUCK ARE YOU EVEN GOING TO DO, LIE DOWN AT THEM?? LISTEN, YOU SWEET IDIOT. TAKE HEED, BELOVED DUMBASS!!
ah well. I guess he gets to watch the Touya Show now too then lol
LMAOOOO now Machia’s lifting Tomura carefully in his palm like a broken action figure and Spinner is all “THE FUCK, YOU LOOK LIKE DEATH WARMED OVER”
“oh hey there Spinner. well let’s see, I woke up from my three-month coma and destroyed a city, had my body incinerated, and am currently being possessed by a diabolically evil potato. but please, tell me more about everything you've been through”
AW YISS AND THE FOCUS NOW SHIFTS TO THE TODOROKIS. EVERYTHING IS PROCEEDING EXACTLY AS WE HAVE FORESEEN
Endeavor my dude. it’s as if you want to die here. also holy shit, that bit about his lungs definitely does not bode well for him either
MOTHERFUCKER
GO AHEAD AND SIGN YOUR OWN DEATH CERTIFICATE, WHY DON’T YOU!! FLAGS UPON FLAGS. JESUS CHRIST
meanwhile Dabi’s just waving at ‘em
lmaoooo please oh please Caleb please keep this ‘EYYYYYYY’, it’s fucking perfect kdlshk;hg
AHHHHHHHHHHHHH
(ETA: so as you will see very shortly, I completely missed this detail in my first read-through because I was so anxious to get to the reveal page, but THIS MOTHERFUCKER LITERALLY DOUSED HIMSELF WITH INSTANT HAIR DYE REMOVER THAT HE’S JUST BEEN CARRYING AROUND IN A LITTLE HIP POUCH APPRENTLY SINCE THE BEGINNING OF TIME. MOTHERFUCKER. I HAVE NO WORDS.)
IS THIS THE TIME. IS THIS THE MOMENT?! HERE IT COMES SLKFHS BRACE YERSELVES LADS
EYYYYYYYYYYYY
OKAY EVERYONE JUST LIKE WE PRACTICED!! SURPRISED FACES ON THREE! ONE... TWO... (•̪ o •̪) !! okay how was that
LMAO ENDEAVOR
at least Shouto looks properly stunned. Enji just looks like endeavor.exe just straight up stopped working
meanwhile Deku’s out here trying to do the math on this latest surprise family reveal! first Tomura is related to Nana, and now this. what’s next. who are you related to, Spinner. he rips off his boots to reveal engine legs and declares himself Iida’s long-lost uncle
oh shit Touya
it’s as if a million fanworks suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly jossed. who knew that all this time he was secretly sporting a crop top scar
also, THIRTY?! holy shit son you been busy
la la la two-page spread of Touya casually driving the dagger into Endeavor’s hero career and rocking the foundations of hero society as we know it la la la
la la la!!!
OH IS THAT THE END OF THE STORY THEN
almost got confused for a sec. there’s two monologues happening at once here. Endeavor doesn’t even know that his dirty laundry is being aired out nation-wide as we speak ffffff
btw while I appreciate the close-ups of Enji and Shouto here for sure, ngl I would also really love to see everyone else’s reactions right now. SHOW ME BAKUGOU AND THE LOV YOU COWARDS
is his hair actually turning white all of a sudden?? your hair dye just reacts on command??
(ETA: in all seriousness though, the hell kind of hair dye was he using? all he has to do is pour a bottle of that stuff and not even lather it in and it’s just gone just like that?? what the fuck would have have done if it ever rained lmao.
and this motherfucker just goes and leaves the dye remover in afterwards, too. I have never dyed my hair in my life and even I can tell you that’s probably not a good idea, Dabi.)
is this it. is this the legendary Dabi Dance in action. lmfao
oh hey what the fuck
so you figured you’d just murder your innocent younger brother to get revenge on dad, huh. well that’s nice
is that really all there is to the origin story though?? feels like we’re still missing a huge chunk of it. what was it that finally sent him over the edge? or was the trauma of being created as Endeavor’s perfect little hero tool and then being subsequently rejected by him enough on its own? because I’m still kind of confused on the part where he goes from “abused and discarded by his father” to “killed thirty people and was plotting the murder of his own brother” to tell you the truth
(ETA: lmao the initial fandom reaction to this did not disappoint. listen guys. people can be traumatized and shaped by awful circumstances that are completely out of their control, and grow up to be people they wouldn’t have grown up to be if things had been better, and all of that absolutely sucks, but. it doesn’t mean they get a get-out-of-jail-free card for all of their future actions, either! the tragedy of this situation is that terrible things happened to Touya, and he then went on to do terrible things himself. the tragedy of it is that this is exactly how the cycle of abuse keeps repeating itself on and on and on. maybe one of the people Dabi killed had a child who will now grow up traumatized themselves, and potentially go on to pay it forward themselves when they grow up. the tragedy is that the eye-for-an-eye justice that Touya is seeking out won’t actually make anything better in the end. the tragedy is that we understand why Touya is so angry, but that anger has basically warped him into the gleefully sadistic dancing figure we see in this chapter who has stopped caring about anyone else’s pain or suffering and just wants his own revenge.
anyway. basically what I’m trying to say is that it’s possible for the concepts of “Todoroki Touya was an innocent child and a victim of abuse” and “Dabi is a grown-ass motherfucking adult who killed thirty people and PROBABLY NEEDS TO BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE FOR THAT” to coexist lol. like, y’all wanted your moral grey, well HERE YOU GO lmao, eat up.)
lol but LOOK AT THAT BOY DANCE HIS LITTLE HEART OUT though
Todoroki Touya confirmed not a fan of the Endeavor redemption arc huh. well we all saw this coming lols
anyways here’s a sexy Touya for y’all
you really are the most theatrical bitch I s2g lmao
also for real though, what is happening with his hair? anime team in shambles here. they’re probably just gonna double down and keep it red. too bad though cuz this is a surprisingly good look on him
SO MANY CLOSE-UPS OF THE TODOROKI FACES
friendly reminder that Dabi without a doubt REHEARSED this speech like a thousand fucking times. LET US FALL TOGETHER!! COME DANCE WITH YOUR SON IN HELL. apparently if you fake your own death in middle school you will never mentally age past that point and will remain a permanent chuuni
OH LMAO THAT’S THE END
we really just gonna end on “DANCE WITH YOUR SON IN HELL”, huh. very well then. you know what song to play, Horikoshi. one, two... YOU ARE MY DAD. YOU’RE MY DAD!! BOOGIE WOOGIE WOOGIE
#bnha 290#dabi#todoroki touya#todoroki enji#todoroki shouto#todoroki rei#bakugou katsuki#bnha#boku no hero academia#bnha spoilers#mha spoilers#bnha manga spoilers#makeste reads bnha
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Show Them I’m Yours
A/N: Everyone knows there ain’t no party like a SAMCRO party. Imagine you’re Jax Teller’s girl and you want everyone to know, so he savagely takes you at one of those parties and puts on a hell of a show. (@itsme-autumn suggested that I write this and I was like um hell fucking yes)
Pairing: Jax Teller x F!Reader
Warnings: smut, swearing, dirty talk, sex with an audience (Jax owning your ass and showing off that fact in front of all the Sons – they all get to watch but ONLY JAX can touch), featuring gifs of pretty much everyone
Word Count: ~2.9k
“Excuse me, sir?” you snap, crossing your arms over your chest. Appalled at the audacity of what this stupidly attractive bastard just dared to suggest. “No, I did not fuck up my car on purpose.”
The Prince of Charming smirks at that, hands on his hips, tongue flicking out between his suckable pink lips. “You sure about that, princess? Third time in a week that you’ve come by to get it serviced...”
“Oh, so you’ve been keeping track?” you sass back at him, flattered as fuck that he has, though your pride demands hiding that fact. Of course you’ve been screwing around with your engine all week just to have an excuse to hit up Teller-Morrow and check out his ass, to be honest. But fuck him for calling you out on it. “You’re not even the one who fixes shit. My visits here are not your business, and I’m not your fucking princess.”
His leather-clad shoulders lift up in a shrug, like he couldn’t care less. “Suit yourself. Name’s Jax,” he says with another long drag of his cigarette. “Jax Teller. Knew a stuck-up little bitch like you would be too proud to ask.”
Fucking shit. He knows you well. And hearing him call you a bitch just got you wetter than you would like to admit; you hope to hell that he can’t tell. “Maybe this stuck-up bitch just isn’t fucking interested.”
You flip him off and drive away—your car is really functioning just fine, needless to say—but you’re inevitably back by sex-o’-clock the very next day.
It’s been barely a month since you first moved to Charming, and you’re still not really used to feeling so damn new. It’s honestly alarming, just how shamelessly the men around town gawk at you. Don’t even seem to realize that it’s rude. You’re well aware you’re super cute, but till you moved here, you had never felt so... coveted. So viewed.
Nowhere more so than right here at Teller-Morrow. Home of the infamous biker club known as SAMCRO. The way the crew here always ogles you like heaven’s gift to men is quite a big boost to your ego.
“Know what I think, darlin’?” Jax taunts, sauntering toward your car as you pull in. “I think you know exactly what you’re doing. Know that every man in Charming wants a piece of that sweet ass.”
“Well, Mr. Teller...” you step out of the driver’s seat, standing to face him, close enough to feel his heat. “This ass ain’t up for grabs.”
Jax takes that as a challenge: as an open invitation, as he should. Slowly moves closer, feeding all your deepest hungers—God, he smells so fucking good—then wraps one hand around your back, the other sliding toward your ass... to show you just how wrong you were. “Oh, we’ll see about that.”
Jesus Christ—you want this man to fuck you up against your car, savage and hard, right fucking now... but he has something else in mind. Invites you to a party tonight, at the SAMCRO clubhouse. Who are you to deny?
He approaches his crew, as you drive away, fading from view. All the Sons stand in awe of their President—stunned that he just fucking conquered you.
“Dude, you gonna hit that?” Juice effuses, unable to hide his excitement. “Hot damn...”
Jax Fucking Teller stands tall like the king that he is and has always been, flashing his signature cocky grin. “Hell yeah I am.”
***************
You have no clue what you are about to walk into. Of course you were shameless enough to choose your most provocative outfit: a skimpy excuse for a dress that covers very little of you, paired with your favorite fuck-me-now shoes. Jax had offered to pick you up from where you live, the Prince Charming he is—but as much as you’d kill for a ride on his Harley, you wanted to ride on your own dime, show up at your own time, keep up the illusion that you’re in control of your shit. You’re all decked out and ready to go nice and early, but hold off on heading out yet—figure you should play hard to get, keep the guy waiting a bit.
Your self-restraint lasts for a solid two minutes.
There’s no hope of fighting how desperate you are for his dick. The thong that you’re wearing is made of some thin flimsy lace, so your pussy is leaking all over the place, and the seat of your car is all sticky and slick. That’s real fucking classy, Y/N, you think, quite ashamed of the nasty-ass slut you’re becoming.
By the time you arrive, every cell in your barely-dressed body feels so damn alive at the thought of Jax taking you home once the party is over and railing you all fucking night...
You don’t yet know it then, but waiting till the party is over is not what Jax Teller intends. No, you’re gonna get fucked good and hard long before it all ends.
Parking your car outside, you try and fail to steady your nerves with a long horny sigh as you shut off your engine. Preparing yourself for whatever is coming tonight. Finally stepping out, struggling to pull off a smooth sexy strut as you head toward the clubhouse. All right. Let the party begin.
From the second you walk in, you feel downright soaked in pure sin. All you can see are half-naked strangers slobbering all over each other, bodies pressed together, a blur of sweat-slick skin and old worn-out leather. The place stinks of sex, smoke and liquor, and you couldn’t possibly feel any sicker. Oh God, this is straight up disgusting—fuck this shit, you think, regretting having ever decided to come...
But before you can turn and head straight out the door, you lay eyes on the king, and remember exactly why you had accepted the invitation into his fucking kingdom. And all of a sudden your senses go numb and your slutty ass feels... right at home.
“There you are,” he greets you with a ravenous growl in his voice that resounds over all of the noise. “Now the party’s about to start. Glad that I got you to come, sweetheart.”
The gorgeous motherfucker’s lips curve up into a smirk, as he utters that sinful little word, and it has got to be the hottest fucking thing you’ve ever heard.
“Don’t get too cocky, Jax,” you tease him back, as his piercing blue eyes devour your entire figure, clearly pleased to see that you’re practically naked. “Still gonna have to work at that... I haven’t come just yet.”
He snickers, lustfully biting his lip as he reaches around you to grab at your ass through your dress, rendering you a dripping mess just at the touch of his fingers. “No, but already soaking wet, I bet.”
Oh God, yes... those are the only words that come into your head, a silent gasp for air, as his big strong frame slams you up against the nearest wall and holds you there, one hand upon your ass now as the other tangles roughly in your hair.
“Darlin’, you got any clue just how bad I’ve been wanting to fuck you?” he snarls, breathing heated against your skin, making your pussy clench and your toes curl. “You know, ever since this fine ass came to town... all those times you would come around... Christ, all I’ve wanted to do... is just pin you the fuck down... and show the whole fucking world who you belong to. Claim you as my dirty girl.”
Every word from his mouth has you spiraling down into some sort of sex-drunk submissive daze. Lost in a haze, everything else around you fades... until you realize, in a split second, that you and Jax are the focus of literally everybody’s gaze. Looking over his shoulder at the whole rest of the room, you are beyond surprised to find all fucking eyes on you and him. You feel the blood drain from your face. This seems like honestly too much to take—and yet you can’t deny, something about the spectacle of all of this has got you feeling... well, some kind of way...
“Yeah, they’re all watching, babe,” Jax devilishly taunts, reading your mind, lips on your neck and hands groping your tits and God that feels fucking divine. “Like the attention? Kinky little thing, I know it turns you on. What’d’ya say we fuck in front of them and give ‘em what they want?”
It’s not as if you have a choice, when Jax Teller is talking in that motherfucking mouthwatering voice. At this point you are nothing but his filthy fucking toy.
Now that your fate has been sealed as exactly that, he’s gonna give you the most epic sex you’ve ever fucking had.
Handling you like a damn rag doll, Jax swiftly shifts off of the wall, then throws you down over a pool table conveniently nearby, with your back pressed against the surface as he stands between your open thighs and effortlessly rips your dress to shreds. Strips off your thong next, tattered lace lost in a heap down on the floor between your legs. The look on his breathtakingly beautiful face with every move he makes is just pure fucking sex.
And just like that, here in a room packed full of people most of whom you’ve never met, you are stark fucking naked, legs spread, soaking wet and loving every goddamn minute since apparently you’re seriously fucked up in the head.
Staring straight up into his blazing bright blue eyes, as he so proudly claims you as his prize, you’ve never felt so damn alive. But also dead.
“Mmm, look at that...” he hums, teasing your wet cunt with a cruel flick of his thumb. “Who fucking owns this pretty pussy, hmm? This nice tight ass you got?”
Oh, God—how is it even possible for everything he says and does to be so fucking hot...? Though you can barely speak, needy and weak, you know this bastard has demanded that you answer. So you tell him what is so painfully true. “You do, Jax. All you.”
He growls in pleasure, and you couldn’t possibly get any wetter. You’re officially the property of Jackson Fucking Teller. And he wants to hear you say it, which is just about the hottest fucking thing ever. “Tell ‘em, whore. Tell the whole room who fucking owns you. Wanna hear you tell ‘em who.”
And so you do. The words fall freely from your open mouth. You say it loud and proud. “Jax Fucking Teller owns my ass.”
The room responds with raucous shouts and cheers, resounding in your ears. You barely even notice, though, because now Jax has started stripping off his clothes—everything’s happening so fast—and as you lay eyes on his downright godlike body you are not sure just how much longer your slipping grip on sanity can last. He hasn’t even taken out his cock yet, but the moment that he does... you’re pretty sure you won’t even be conscious anymore.
So you form words, while you still can, beholding this god of a man. “Want you to show ‘em, Jax. Please. Show off how you own me. Fuck me like just what I am, your dirty little whore. Show them I’m yours.”
Jax doesn’t need to be asked twice. Next thing you know his massive cock is finally free, the fucking perfect piece of meat standing so tall and proud and hard between his strong muscular thighs, and he wastes no damn time at all giving exactly what you need. He takes a firm hold of your knees to spread your legs out even wider to receive everything that he has to give... and then he drives his cock inside you in one swift soul-crushing thrust and Jesus Christ, as every fiber of your being dies, you realize that until this moment you had never truly lived.
You barely register anything else that’s happening around you, but on some level you do. It’s even hotter knowing just how much the whole crew is enjoying this amazing fucking view.
“God, that’s so fucking hot...” Juice mutters from his front row spot, stupidly hoping no one else will notice as he scrapes your tattered thong off of the floor and stuffs it quickly in his pocket.
Tig snickers loudly from where he’s standing nearby. “You little pervert. We all saw that.”
Juice points his finger at the guy. “Pervert? Seriously? Talk about the pot calling the kettle black...”
In the meantime, none of that got past the king. Jax doesn’t miss a thing, and he’s possessive of his property, beyond belief. He promptly shoots a sharp glare at the thong thief. “Think you can try and take what’s mine? I’m gonna be needing that back.”
The look on Juice’s face, at that... you cannot help but laugh, and have a little pity. Something about this whole dynamic with the audience around you has restored a little sanity and dignity, and you’re able to string words together, even while you’re still getting completely fucked to pieces by Jax Teller.
“Aw, let him have it, Jax. Poor guy’s just picking up scraps. You’re the one who still owns my whole ass.”
Chiming in with his distinctive accent, Chibs echoes your laugh with an approving clap. “Now would ya look at that. So generous! Jackie Boy, you got yourself there one hell of a lass.”
You smile at him with a playful wink as Jax keeps pushing deeper in, his cock seemingly harder with every thrust, bigger the farther it sinks. “Fuck yeah, he does. You jealous?”
“Aye, as if you have to ask...”
Jax doesn’t like it when you spend more than two seconds with your eyes on anybody else. Although he knows no one’s an actual threat, that fact still doesn’t change how possessive he gets. He takes his hands off of your legs now to powerfully grab your head, keeping your face in place just where he wants it, your gaze fixed on him alone as he keeps fucking you dead.
You can still hear the chorus of indistinct voices:
“Fuck her up!”
“Own that slut!”
“Pound that pussy, Pres!”
And so he does, making you moan and beg him for more, spouting out filth like a two-dollar whore, as his huge monster cock brings you closer and closer to climax. “Fuck yes—Jesus Christ, holy fucking shit—destroy me with that dick—God, you’re so big—fuck, Jax...!”
It feels like you’re about to burst. Happy, for one, seems to want that to happen. He’s more into the action than the words. “Just shut her up and fuck her harder. Till it hurts.”
You didn’t think that it would be humanly possible for Jax to fuck you any harder than he has been, in these past however many fucking minutes... but apparently it is. And the mind-blowing pain that it causes is pure fucking bliss. All of a sudden he picks up the pace, hips ramming into you so hard the table seems about to break, grunting and groaning out with every move he makes and leaning down to suck the screams out of your mouth, drilling deeper into every inch of your body and drowning you in his delicious taste as he devours your face.
Fuck if that’s not a one-way ticket straight to subspace.
Although your consciousness is all but gone, you try to stay afloat now as Jax pulls back from the kiss to ask one last question. “Who owns this fucking cunt?”
You couldn’t give less of a shit just how insane you sound right now. You’re honestly just proud that you can speak English somehow. “You own this cunt! You own my whole entire ass! You fucking own me, Jax! You... fucking... unghhhh...”
The whole entire room knows what’s about to happen. And as you come undone, some part of you can hear them jeering, cheering, every one of them so damn proud and supportive of their king...
But for the most part you can only hear and see and feel one thing: Jax Fucking Teller all around you, deep inside you, splitting you right fucking open, filling you up with his white hot cum until it feels as if your whole goddamn existence served the sole purpose of leading up to this one perfect moment, to this epically earth-shattering explosion...
There is no better feeling in the world than being owned by him. You know it now, and so does everybody in this room. Damn did he show them. Just as you had asked. Jax Fucking Teller went off and did that. Showed off ow utterly and undeniably he owns your whole entire fucking ass.
You end up spending just a few more lazy minutes making out, tongues halfway down each other’s throats. “Mmmm, glad that I got you to come, Y/N,” he gloats, again, smirking in smug satisfaction now that the task is finally done.
But the night is still young. So you tell him. “Well, Teller—you should know that your dirty girl has three fuckable holes... and you’ve only fucked one.”
***************
Thank you for reading!!! Writing this was TOO MUCH FUN. Hope you enjoyed it and would love to hear if you did! 🤗❤️
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Once upon a time in a land far, far away there was a beautiful princess. Hated by her influential, evil younger sisters, and banished from her kingdom, she lived in constant terror. A target for ruthless assassins, surrounded by deadly traps and blood-thirsty monsters, she fought for her life. In desperation, she sought the help of a famous witcher, Geralt of Rivia.
Geralt cut down her pursuers with a few graceful swings of his sword. He swirled in the air, his fluid movements both elegant and deadly, blood spilling, screams ringing in her ears. Poisoned apples, arsenic in hot chocolate, arrows suddenly shooting from dark windows of abandoned houses, old ladies turning into gorgons, nothing seemed to faze him. Somehow, he single-handedly chased away the stormy clouds of her fears. With him protecting her, her paralyzing panic dissolved into a warm feeling of trust and safety.
Then, imperceptibly, her reliance on him turned into something more.
One day, as they were hiding in a little cottage at the edge of the forest, she looked at him sharpening his sword. His face appeared soft in the warm glow of the fireplace. She was just about to confess her feelings to him, when a loud knock on the door made her jump.
‘Who is it?’ Geralt asked, his deep, low voice resonating in the silence of the cottage.
‘You know bloody well who the fuck this is. Let me in,’ a sweet, musical voice announced from behind the door. It took him just a few seconds to lose his patience. ‘Geralt?’ He kicked the door with annoyance. ‘You can’t be serious.’
Geralt rolled his eyes and looked at the princess, apologetically. ‘That’s just my… bard. This will only take a moment,’ he said, quietly so the person behind the door wouldn’t hear.
‘Oh, just your bard, you bastard?’ the voice snapped back. ‘I have absolute pitch and can hear you clear as day. Be warned, I’ll make motherfucking sure to take all the time I need, just wait and see.’
Geralt blinked a few times and opened the door.
The princess saw a youngish-looking overdressed man, with messy brown hair, hands on his hips, and pure outrage written all over his face. He looked at Geralt, eyes narrowing, and then looked down, both hands pointing at his destroyed trousers. His knees were covered in dry mud, fabric torn in multiple places. ‘Did you not see me running behind Roach this morning?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Well, I ran. And I slipped. It was quite impressive.’
Geralt didn’t seem convinced. ‘You expect me to believe you didn’t change right away?’
The man flinched, annoyed. ‘I didn’t… for the sake of a dramatic entrance,’ he admitted with a huff.
‘Ah.’
‘Didn’t you see me wave when you were passing through the town?’
‘I did.’
‘And it didn’t occur to you to stop?’
‘I’m working.’
‘Sure. You’re always fucking working these days, as long as that work takes you far, far away from me.’
‘Jaskier, this is not the time.’
‘Of course it’s not, it never fucking is. It’s been weeks.’ He was furious and there was no stopping him.
‘Jaskier-’
‘I know what you’re doing, you know? It’s the oldest trick in the book. I won’t be dismissed like this. I know how this goes. It finally happens… and then the man magically disappears. Poof! I wake up to a fucking cloud of smoke.’
‘Don’t-’
Jaskier was fuming. ‘You fucking coward,’ he seethed.
Geralt stepped back, calm but the first cracks in his composure were beginning to show. ‘Could you just-’
‘No, Geralt. I can’t just, that’s the point.’ He licked his lips, and took a deep breath, attempting to calm down. ‘If I was a fucking stranger, it would be understandable, to an extent. But oh…' He laughed sadly at the thought. ‘I’m so far from a stranger, Geralt. So fucking far.’ He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and rubbed his fingers together, nervously. ‘If you had a grain of respect…’ he continued. ‘Any fucking inkling of what it feels like to be abandoned so you can go be some macho, monster-killing protector of fair maidens.’ He stared at Geralt with suspicion. ‘Are you compensating for something?’
The princess walked up to the door, a bit shaken by the situation. Geralt’s eyes passively followed her before he turned back to Jaskier. ‘I need you to leave,’ he stated simply, and Jaskier seemed hurt, eyes a bit glassy.
Jaskier inhaled sharply, ready to retort but then stopped himself. ‘You know what?’ he said, finally, voice controlled. ‘I don’t care. Stay with fucking…’
‘…Flora,’ she added, shyly.
‘Flora, thank you.’ He looked towards her for a moment and bowed his head a bit before turning back to Geralt. ‘So proper, pretty and nice. She’s…’
‘…a princess,’ she said with some pride, and Jaskier nodded in acknowledgment.
‘Impressive, Geralt, well done. I wish you both all the best. I’m sure Geralt will look extremely attractive with a crown on his head. I can already picture it... the prestige, the class, the elegance.’ Suddenly a thought hit him, and he blinked a few times. ‘Wait… the princess Flora?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your story is all the rage amongst the royals. So much compassion for your banishment.’
‘Really?’ She seemed surprised.
‘Especially in Redenia. They would take you in, no second thoughts. Prince Phillip is desperate to find you. He commissioned multiple ballads about your golden hair and charming smile, so sentimental. Valdo Marx wrote some truly abysmal stanzas about your teeth. Whoever thinks teeth is the right angle?’ Jaskier rolled his eyes.
‘Fucking teeth,’ Geralt muttered under his breath.
‘Right?’ Jaskier turned to Geralt, and both nodded in agreement for a moment.
Then Jaskier turned to her, attentive. ‘There’s no reason for you to keep running. You’re completely fine.’
‘Oh.’
‘What was I saying?’ Jaskier was distracted again. ‘Oh, I found this at the threshold.’ He held out a neatly packaged present with a fancy, silk bow. He was surprised when both Flora and Geralt moved away slightly. ‘It’s just a present, nothing scary. I know some of us have issues accepting nice things but let’s be reasonable about this.’
‘Jaskier, put that down,’ Geralt growled, instantly turning from frustrated to protective. ‘Throw it the fuck away.’
‘Now you care, don’t you?’
‘Put. It. Down.’
Jaskier shook his head, eyes set on Geralt. ‘So invested all of a sudden. Who would have imagined?’ He pulled on the bow, enjoying Geralt’s nervousness.
‘Don’t be a fucking idiot.’ Geralt launched forwards, and grabbed the box. Jaskier pulled back. It split. Something tiny and swift slipped out of the tear and ran up Jaskier’s arm. Before either of them managed to respond, the creature bit Jaskier and disappeared.
‘Fuck, Geralt,’ Jaskier squealed, not a trace of previous annoyance in his voice. He stared down in disbelief. ‘My feet! I can’t feel them! Or move them! I’m… turning into stone?’ he whined, half scared, half offended by the ridiculousness of the predicament.
‘Shit,’ Geralt hissed, frantically looking through the box. He found a letter and read it hastily. ‘Fuck,’ he summarised.
‘What?’
‘It’s one of these curses that needs true love’s kiss to be lifted.’
‘I thought these were just legends,’ he whispered, already contemplating the possibilities.
‘That’s what it says.’
‘Well, fine.’ Jaskier was in no place to argue. He could already feel his knees turning numb. ‘Just do it.’
‘What? Me? Are you joking?’
‘Well, who do you think? I’m sure this will work, relax.’ He gave it a second thought, and suddenly panicked a bit. ‘Does it say if it needs to be reciprocated?’
‘It doesn’t go into that much detail.’
‘Then just do it. I’m not asking for much, am I? I mean… if it’s going to save my life.’
Geralt reluctantly came closer. ‘Just don’t be disappointed if it does nothing,’ he growled, some actual concern in his voice.
‘Yes, sure. Just make it good. You know, in case you never do it again.’
Geralt didn’t give it a second thought.
He grabbed Jaskier and pulled him close as if he weighed nothing, tossing him around like a rag doll. Jaskier held on to him, barely managing to keep his balance, his fingers pulling on Geralt’s shirt. His eyes grew wide as he felt Geralt wrapping his hand around his waist, another supporting his spine and tipping him backwards. Suspended above the ground, he clawed at Geralt’s straining muscles, both uncomfortable and mildly impressed.
Finally, Geralt leaned towards Jaskier and went for it. Sadly, it was no more than a lingering peck, completely impersonal.
Jaskier whacked Geralt’s shoulder a few times, frustrated.
Geralt smiled snidely in response, still not breaking away but keeping his lips pressed together, and the kiss shallow. The moment Jaskier accepted his fate, Geralt deepened it, perhaps too much, surprising him.
Jaskier grunted with disapproval but then, as Geralt turned from playful to passionate, he instantly eased into it, melting into Geralt’s arms, his displeased moans transforming into a satisfied rumble at the back of his throat.
This somehow encouraged Geralt who became surprisingly involved, and then quickly pulled away, shocked by things turning so genuine.
Jaskier was having none of that. He pulled Geralt back and returned the kiss in earnest, clinging on to him with iron determination.
Flora stared, startled, somehow more petrified than Jaskier. She cleared her throat to attract their attention but they ignored her. They were approaching the task with full dedication which had little to do with any princesses or even curses. After a while, they slowed down, both panting, fingers tangled in each other’s hair, faces flushed, hearts racing.
Geralt looked at Jaskier. The image turned borderline hazy and he was surprised by a sudden influx of strong emotions, which he was afraid to give a name to. The most ridiculous, sentimental thoughts passed through his head, and he flinched. ‘Fuck.’ Not again. He blinked a few times but the feeling was not going away.
Then he stared down at Jaskier’s feet. When he looked back up, Geralt appeared as if he fell head first into a dark void. Even his hair was messy as if shaken the moment he hit the rock bottom. ‘Jaskier, fucking shit. Oh, gods.’
Jaskier froze, terrified. Although his legs felt normal now, it could have been an illusion. He spent a few seconds imagining his own slow and painful demise. ‘What?’ he asked, finally, afraid to look down. ‘Did it fail? Am I getting worse?’
‘No. Fuck, no. It worked like a dream.’
‘Oh.’ Jaskier lit up, feeling relieved and finally breathing easy, but then processed Geralt’s response. ‘Oh.’
‘This can’t be true,’ Geralt growled with disbelief.
Jaskier was insulted but also a bit compassionate. Confronting his feelings was such a struggle for Geralt every single time. ‘Facts are facts,’ he shrugged, aiming for casual but his smugness was undeniable. ‘Things could have been much worse, though, right?’
‘Could they?’ Geralt didn’t seem convinced.
‘I’m going to go on a limb here and assume you didn’t really want me to turn into a statue. Am I right, Geralt? You don’t want your best friend in the whole wide world to die, correct?’
Geralt just grunted in response but didn’t seem entirely sure.
Jaskier tossed back his hair, some repressed anger in the movement, but remained undeterred. ‘It was a bit much, let’s admit, such an all or nothing situation, but…’ he was failing to hide his excitement. ‘I mean… At least this brings us some clarity, some much needed clarity, considering, well…’
‘Shut up, Jaskier. Just-’
‘There’s no shame in having some feelings, especially positive ones.’ Jaskier smiled encouragingly but his expression faded as he met Geralt’s vacant eyes.
Geralt massaged his temples with a groan. ‘Maybe this doesn’t really mean anything?’ he asked, trace amounts of hope in his voice.
‘Eeeeh…’ Jaskier was not quite sure how to respond and let out an uncomfortable laugh instead.
When he stopped, the silence was deafening.
‘We could…’ Jaskier started but was unable to continue because this beginning alone made Geralt appear scared for a lack of a better word. ‘No, I don’t mean, ehm.’ He hesitated. ‘I just mean we could ignore the curse and just trust our guts. You know… Was that good for you by any chance? Not to be presumptuous but I had a strong feeling…’
Geralt’s eyes somehow managed to become even more distant. Jaskier swallowed, loudly.
‘This was not what it seemed,’ Geralt announced, angrily.
‘Right, yes, fine, of course. No, sure, I understand. That’s clear too, see?’ Jaskier blabbered on, sweating slightly. ‘We’re doing so well. Clarity all round. So much… clarity.’ His eyes grew wider and he sighed. ‘I might, just… I don’t know. Kill myself now, maybe?’
‘That would defeat the purpose.’
‘Well, yes, it would, wouldn’t it?’ Jaskier nodded eagerly. ‘In that case I can’t, surely. Who would want that kind of sacrifice to go to waste? I have to live so bloody long now, just to compensate… No death for me.’ He shook his head. ‘Killing monsters is one thing but this, I mean, oh boy. Maybe I should…’ he chuckled, unable to stop himself ‘…pay you.’
Geralt laughed despite himself and some of the tension dissolved into the air.
‘Great,’ Jaskier sighed, relieved. ‘We have an answer now. We’re so… great.’ His awkwardness turned into intense sadness all of a sudden, eyes watering slightly.
‘Jaskier?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t… start this again. We’re upsetting her.’
Jaskier stared at Flora for a second as if he was surprised by her very existence. ‘How the fuck is she more important than me? She’s a bloody stranger.’ He turned to her, apologetic. ‘With all due respect, but it is what it is.’
She opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something, but he already turned away from her, upset and focused on Geralt.
‘Could you please acknowledge that something actually happened here? Can you? Can we finally moved pass this fucking… repressive nonsense of yours, and stop tiptoeing around the issue?’
They both turned towards the door for a second, hearing it close behind Flora.
Geralt shook his head and turned back to Jaskier. His eyes softened a bit, and he groaned quietly, annoyed with himself. ‘You will never give up on this, right?’
‘Right,’ Jaskier proclaimed with pride, his chest puffed slightly.
‘Fine,’ he said with a sigh.
Jaskier stared at him in total disbelief. ‘Really?’ he asked, his voice overflowing with anticipation and hope.
Geralt just grunted in agreement, and shrugged his shoulders.
And they lived happily ever after.
*********************************************************************************
Dedicated to @lovelyrita1967 ❤️
Published on OA3 as The Lonely Princess.
Thanks to @booichiboo @ohmybgosh
@variousnoises @valdomarx @ro-the-bard-writer @carmillacarmine @thelastsock @ikeptupwiththejoneses @purpleonionofsex @katesierra @jaskierswolf @geraskierficrecs @ficrecs4me123
#geraskier#geraskier fanfiction#geraskier fanfic#geraskier fic#the witcher#the witcher fanfiction#the witcher fandom#the witcher fanfic#the witcher fic#geralt x jaskier#geralt x dandelion#gerlion#the witcher and the bard#jaskier#julian alfred pankratz#geralt#geralt of rivia#fairy tales#happy ending
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almond: 🌱, 🎍 nick val: 💐, 🌹 nihil: 🐚, 🌎 mozus, even: 🎋, 🌲
DAMMIT SO MANY OF THEM
ALMOND
🌱: If your FO has a canonical voice, what’s your favorite thing about it? If not (and they’re able to speak), how do you imagine them to sound?
Technically he does? And it's a pretty solid voice! But I always think of Nick Valentine's voice when I look at him, so that's nice too. I like how deep it is--it sounds the way you would expect a noir detective's voice to sound.
🎍: Are either of you prone to overworking yourselves? If so, how do you work through it as a pair?
OHO, this motherfucker is always overworking himself. He hasn't had a decent lunch in years because there's always a disturbance or trouble and he's the only one who can solve it. He's the type to fall asleep on his desk because he's staying up late to solve a case. I just put a blanket over him and slip his vanilla flask closed and back into his coat. I think the way you can get him to REALLY take time off is to bring his daughter on vacation with us. Then he has to be there for her instead of worry about the city while he's gone.
NICK VALENTINE
💐: Before getting to know each other better, how did you and your FO act toward each other? Were you strangers? Was it tense, or awkward?
It's the same old story...I saved him from a tight spot down in a vault and he repaid me by helping me find my stolen brother. Gotta admit, I was not expecting him to be a Synth! But I was a fish out of water back then and was more surprised than scared of him. I think he felt like he could relate to me, since we're both 'ghosts from the past', so to speak. And it was nice to have someone who knew what I was talking about when I talked about old world stuff...
🌹: How does your FO react to receiving shows of affection?
I think it depends on what kind it is, and intent? I figure plenty of people try to hit on him while he's working--whether to get him to lower his guard or genuinely because they're grateful he helped them. Or they're just robot fuckers. The reactions to those are wary, flattered-yet-kindly-turning-them-down, and baffled/exasperated, respectively. From me, though, I think he gets pretty flustered and says thank you.
NIHIL
🐚: Which one of you brings the most physical or emotional energy to the relationship? Are there ever times where it’s overwhelming to the other, or are you pretty evenly matched?
I'm chronically fatigued and he's an old man--I think we're on pretty even footing when it comes to physical energy. I get VERY intense with emotions sometimes, and get really invested/wound up in things that I think he wouldn't second guess or worry about. He's gotta remind me to stop trying to read into everything because I'll make myself sick (and have done so before!).
🌎: What would you and your FO wear to a formal event, and what sort of event is it exactly? If your FO is usually dressed up or in a uniform, what would a casual outfit look like on them?
Well...my papal robes, of course...
IN ALL SERIOUSNESS, I think he could rock a t-shirt and khakis, but honestly, I also think he just REALLY likes those robes and that's why he's still wearing them. Depending on if it's an important church dinner or a ritual, though, I'm either in a fancy ballgown with colors to match/complement his, or nothing at all.
MOZUS TREIN
YOU'RE REALLY GONNA OUT ME AS A MOZUSFUCKER ON MAIN??
🎋: What does your FO’s bedroom look like? If their bedroom is ever shown in canon, are there any noticeable differences thanks to you?
I imagine his bedroom looking similar to Lady Tremaine's bedroom from Cinderella, except with more bookcases stuffed to the brim with old tomes on magical history. A desk for writing and studying, perhaps. ...under his bed, he has a box with a few old dolls and toys his daughters outgrew. Sometimes if he's feeling particularly nostalgic, he'll look them over and get misty-eyed.
🌲: What are some small details about your FO that you feel are underappreciated?
THIS MAN IS A FATHER. THIS MAN IS A FATHER. Not only that, this man is a WIDOWER! This man had to shoulder his grief and raised two daughters ON HIS OWN because his wife died!! He loves his daughters very much and says IN CANON that they're his pride and joy, even if they're all grown up now.
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7. what is you favorite sentence/paragraph? read it to us! (asker can choose what fic) (x)
I chose three! One from each of my 'big fics'. No Zombies, Worst Prisoners and Good Boys under the cut:
NO ZOMBIES:
No Zombies was a delight to write. I had pretty much the whole idea from the get-go, (of a returned style AU with Hector coming to spend time with the family in the modern world). I finished it quick - and it's not too long (side-eyeing Good Boy and Worst Prisoner). It was the first fic where I felt like I really "stuck" the landing. I was quite flexible with my original outline, but I still knew where the journey ended. It ended exactly how I wanted it too - happily but with a bitter-sweet note.
The emotional core of this story is how Elena, family matriach, who is so gruff and no-nonsense, who despises Hector in the films, and who has such a warm heart under such a grumpy exterior would slowly soften and come to love Hector, (and how she grows as a person because of this and becomes more comfortable showing love/emotions to her family). It was like a platonic slow-burn as she learns to understand Hector better - which is why this bit is my favourite because it's where she starts to really feel fond of him for the first time:
“Well, I'm just glad I'm a better teacher for him than watching old Ernesto De La Cruz movies.” Héctor had replied with a wry smile. “It's probably because I'm so much more handsome than that butt-chinned, over-the-top ham.”
“Because you're a pointy-chinned, over-the-top ham?” Elena replied, feeling surprising witty. She never made teasing jokes like this normally, but it was so easy with Héctor.
He looked mock-offended. “I'll have you know, my chin is wonderful and I've given it to several of your grandchildren, so there.”
If Elena was a different person, she probably would have pulled Héctor into a warm, laughing hug then. She might have told him seriously that Miguel had always been difficult for her. He felt things so strongly and got so upset and emotional – she'd always struggled with how to help him, how to calm him. Miguel was so happy now. She knew that was because of Héctor.
She might have told Héctor that he was at least six thousand times the musician, eight thousand times the teacher, and ten thousand times the man that Ernesto De La Cruz was.
But Elena was who she was.
Instead she said “Idiot,” and ruffled his stupidly messy hair rather fondly.
She told herself she wasn't warming to the fool musician, but she knew it was a lie.
GOOD BOY:
My current work. It's another platonic slow-burn, but this time set in the Cobra Kai universe with son and father pair - Robby Keene and Johnny Lawrence. In the show, these two characters have such a dysfunctional relationship that is so full of miscommunications and missed chances, and they genuinely want a better relationship (and it would be so healing for both of them! Do not get me started!) I lean much more into the magical realism in this story, as I turned Robby into a dog (Animal transformation - PIXAR's Brave style), so that he could immediately get the cuddles and easy affection he so clearly needs.... because I have never seen a more touch/affection-starved character aside from Zuko in ATLA.
This also gave Robby a chance to really understand, not only his father, but the other people in his cicrcle. He discovered he had a support network. He got to know he was loved by many. he got to witness the actions people would take as they searched for human-him (not knowing that he'd been turned into a dog). And it gave Johnny a chance to learn how to take care of something, feel needed, and express his love for his son without the weight of their complicated history/his own trauma hanging over him. It was hard to pick a favourite, but I will say the Johnny-stream-of-conciousness chapters are definitely the easiest/most fun to write. One of my favourite bits is in the first one, The queen of ice-cream runaway when Johnny tells Robby about when Laura (his grandmother) found out Shannon was pregnant and she was going to be a grandmother.
It's the first inkling Robby gets that while his father wasn't there for him and he was neglected a lot, Johnny did his best to keep the bad shit from his own childhood away from Robby as his own way of showing care. It hints at the deep and damaging abuse Johnny endured. When he finally had a say with his own kid, he would have done anything to protect Robby from feeling the same. I'd say here is where Robby really begins to warm to his Dad;
Then I told her our chosen name and she said I was a dumbass and Swayze was a terrible middle name, and we had to change it to some shit like Alastair or something. She thought he should have a rich sounding middle name. And I say Mom, Alastair sounds like some lame-ass insurance broker who upskirts his secretary and then cries as he jerks off to the pictures, what else you got? She thought Sebastian, and that was worse! What a pussy name. Sebastian is going to be sitting in the little french patisserie cafe drinking the tiny-ass coffee for dolls and eating the éclair with his prissy finger tips. I already want to kick Sebastian's ass. Who wouldn’t? I’m not going to give my kid a name that is going to get his ass kicked.
And she couldn't talk, cause she named me after Johnny Cash, just cause she liked his music. And she couldn't think of a middle name at the time, so I didn't get one. Thank goodness. I could have ended up Johnny Alastair and had to kick my own ass.
So Swayze stayed.
Then she mentions how she and Sid can help out, so I didn't need to do the two jobs, stupidly long hours thing. And we need the money. I know we need the money. But my whole body froze and I just went No. None of that for little Robby Swayze. ...
... She’s going on about spending Sid’s money on Robby and I just...I can’t. I can't allow it. Cause I knew how he would be, and the way he would treat that kid. So I tell her, no thank you. Not a fucking cent mom. Sid’s not getting to feel like he owns a hair on Robby’s head. That motherfucker can go jump. You thought we needed Sid’s money when I was a kid. You decided it was better for me, and that was your choice. I did not get a vote in that. But this is my kid, and this time it is my call, and I am choosing no. I’m not going to have Sid make my kid feel like he has to apologise for existing every day. I'm not going to have Sid treat my kid the way he treated me. I will never need money that badly. I will never put my kid through that. I'll work myself to the bone doing 20 hour days before that. I'll work on the 40th floor without a harness before that. I will sell my fucking organs before it comes to that. Not a cent mom.
WORST PRISONER:
My 'what if Zuko made friends with the Gaang early on?" AU that then turned into a three-book long saga (and I will return to it, Worst Prisoner readers - Thank you for you patience). It does have evenutal Zutara, but the focus is really on the Gaang + Zuko as a whole, and all the interpersonal relationships. I'd say there is more gen-shipping around Zuko as a central character, as Iroh & Zuko, and Sokka & Zuko are both given equal prominence. in fact, all the friendships and familial relationships were equally important to me. (the book 3 Zuko & Azula stuff is so interesting, but it is ...less funny I guess.)
This fic is such a joy to write, and I really try and balance the humour with the bittersweet/sad parts, and one of the main sources of humor was the Sokka-Aang-Zuko -Katara qudrangle of dumbassery. I love the four of them together in book 1, and so many of their interactions were a hoot to write. But if I'd have to pick a favourite moment, it would be the moment in the deserter chapter in book 1, where they all decide to 'officially' be friends:
“Well, you can figure that out and find someone while I'm up in the Northern Water Tribe. Then when we finish up there, we'll come find you,” Aang offered.
“Really?” Zuko’s eyes were shining optimistically. It was a strange expression for him. Aang was so used to seeing him with a grumpy face.
“Really, I promise,” Aang said, feeling so glad that he could help Zuko go home.
“Yeah, I second that. If this means we won’t have to put up with you chasing us, I am in!” Sokka said. “Sheesh, you could have just asked ages ago!”
“You know, this means I was right,” Aang started to say, feeling very vindicated. The others looked at him curiously. “If we had just talked about friendship in the forest, we could have sorted this out weeks ago!”
“Boo, forest friendship!” Sokka said.
“Don't boo him,” Katara admonished, elbowing her brother.
“I agree with Sokka. There's no way I would have appreciated that speech weeks ago, Aang,” Zuko said.
Sokka smiled at Zuko for saying he agreed with him. It actually wasn't that rare of an occurrence, but it still seemed to surprise Sokka every time.
“See, Aang, forest friendship is bullshit,” Sokka said.
“I didn't say that!” Zuko cut in. “I just meant, maybe … I had to be dragged all over the Earth Kingdom by you guys ... and shot ... and taken to nonsense fortune tellers ... and I had to be forced to eat Sokka's truly terrible and disgusting cooking—”
“Oi!”
“—and I had listen to Aang lecture me about friendship and vegetarianism in the forest just so I could come here.” He looked around at the deserters’ camp site. “I dunno, maybe it was meant to be this way.”
“What are you saying? You want to be forest friends with Aang now?” Sokka asked accusingly.
“I mean, sure. If Aang will have me, we can be friends,” Zuko said, and looked uncertain.
“Yay! I knew you'd want to be my friend,” Aang said, feeling delighted.
He was so happy he had a Fire Nation friend again. Kuzon had been an amazing friend, even though he'd gotten Aang into so many sticky situations. He had already thought Zuko was his friend, but it was nice to make it official. Aang always knew the Fire Nation had good people in it too, and now he had been proven right. He jumped up and gave Zuko a huge hug.
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Mommie Dearest (Ethan x MC)
Summary: After 26 long years, Ethan finally comes face to face with his mother
Author’s Note: I wanted this to be out in time for Mother’s Day, but my writer’s block was like “lmao”, but better late than never, right?
Tags: @fanmantrashcan @ao719 @x-kyne-x @colourmeshy @writinghereandthere @paulfwesley @ramseyandrys @a-i-n-a-a-s-h @perriewinklenerdie @aworldoffandoms @thatcatlady0716 @drakewalker04 @canknot @hatescapsicum @lapisreviewsstuff @senseofduties @badchoicesposts @ethandaddyramsey @the-soot-sprite @chasingrobbie @zodiacsign1 @choices-lurker @miyakokurono @trappedinfandoms @my-heart-beats-for-ya @adrian-motherfucking-raines @riverrune @edith-eggs1 @thatysn @bellcat2010 @theeccentricbibliophile @cecilecontrera @junehiratas @choices-love-affair @openheart12 @kaavyaethanramsey @caseyvalentineramsey @adrex04 @desmaranj @mal-volaris @whatchique @nazario-sayeed @aestheticartwriting @mvalentine @nooruleman @ruinedbypixels
~v~
Ethan Ramsey has never been so nervous in his life. Not when he did interviews for medical school. Not when he met Dr. Banerji. Not even when he finally asked out Naomi for a date.
Walking into an Italian restaurant to meet his mother has him at his peak.
She’s been trying to reach out for months now and he’s been able to rebuff her at every turn, but she’s really kicked it up these past few weeks. It all culminated in her showing up at Edenbrook, in front of his office, telling everyone within a few feet of her that she’s Ethan Ramsey’s mother.
Alan wanted him to reach out at least once, to see if the mother and son could actually make amends. Naveen thought so as well. An hour or so of his time could answer a lot of questions, and maybe help him seek closure.
It wasn’t until Naomi spoke up did he actually agree to give it a shot. She said he deserved answers, he deserved to be heard, and his mother owed it to him more than anything to sit down and face him.
So now he’s here. Coming face to face with Margaret Ramsey for the first time in over two decades. He wants to turn around and run. He wants to hide somewhere. He wants to call Naomi and tell her to come to the restaurant and help him muddle through this dinner. But Ethan doesn’t do any of that, instead he powers through.
She’s sitting at a table right in the middle of the restaurant, casually glancing at a wine menu. A gasp catches in his throat at the sight of her. She’s so much different than he remembers her, his memory only ever able to produce a hazy figure, but she’s still so similar, just older. She’s skinnier than he can recall, more frail. She’s wearing a simple green sweater and jeans, her hair in a bun, with a pair of cubic zirconia earrings, but Ethan can tell this is her version of getting “dolled up”.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been standing, gaping at her like she’s some sort of museum exhibit, but Margaret breaks the trance, staring up at him. A wide grin breaks out on her face and she instantly stands up. “Oh my goodness, I’m so glad you came!”
She reaches out to hug him, but Ethan bristles and takes a step back, recoiling from his mother’s touch as if it’d burn him. Margaret flinches, but she doesn’t make a fuss over it. “Sit, sit!”
Ethan slides into his seat as Margaret does the same. For a long while, they just stare at each other.
Again, Margaret is the first one to break the tension. “I know you said you’d come, but I’m still shocked to see you. I really thought you’d change your mind.”
He did change his mind. Multiple times throughout the day, Ethan went back and forth on this decision, unsure if it was the right one. “Well, I’m here.”
“I’m glad.” Margaret looks him up and down. Gone is the lanky 11 year old she remembered, and there’s a grown man in his place. It feels surreal, the amount of time that’s passed. “You look so good. Parents often wonder what their kids are going to look like but wow, seeing you so grown up is...mind boggling.”
She isn’t some distant aunt or third cousin twice removed he’s seeing at a family reunion, but his mother. His growth wouldn’t be such a shock if she actually stuck around. “A lot changes in 26 years.”
“Touche.”
Tense silence hangs above them like a dark cloud. The only reprieve they get is when a waiter comes to the table to take their drink order. Ethan springs for a bottle of wine, needing alcohol to get through this.
“Your father tells me you’re some sort of hot shot doctor,” Margaret starts. “And you have a whole team of people under you.”
“I do,” Ethan confirms. “It’s a diagnostics team.”
“A what now?”
“Diagnostics. We treat the untreatable. When no one else knows what’s wrong, we step in and get things figured out.”
Margaret oohs at the explanation, smiling. “You sound so fancy. Like Dr. House!”
“Sort of. I’m not addicted to opioids though.”
“My son, the doctor. I always knew you were destined for greatness. You came out of the womb smart and wise beyond your years.”
The anecdote might’ve been nice coming from his dad, but hearing his mom say it makes him shift uncomfortably. She’s a stranger, for Christ’s sake. She doesn’t know a damn thing about him, about his potential for greatness.
Quickly, Ethan lifts his glass to his lips and takes a sip. He exhales slowly, carefully measuring his next thoughts and words. “What are we doing, Margaret?”
The question catches the older woman off guard. “What do you mean? We’re having dinner.”
“Okay, but why? Why are we here? Why now? I’m 37 years old, why did you pop back into my life at this point in time? What do you want?”
“It would’ve been a lot sooner, but you weren’t too receptive to a reconciliation,” Margaret points out.
“So it’s my fault? Is that the angle you really want to go for?”
“No! No, of course not.” Margaret’s eyes shift around the dining room, casually observing her surroundings. She feels anxious now, jittery.
Eventually her gaze reruns to Ethan and she gives him her full attention. “I guess I’m just tired of running. I know I’ve missed out on so much, more than I can ever make up for but, I’m here now. I’m here and I’d love to be in your life again. You asked me what I want, I just want you, in whatever capacity you’ll have me.”
“Why’d you leave in the first place?” Ethan asks. “I thought we were a family, I thought we were happy.”
“Ethan…” she doesn’t want to go down this road. “Can’t we leave that in the past?”
“No.”
“I don’t have an answer.”
Ethan shakes his head. “That’s not good enough. There had to be some reason you left your job, your home, your husband, your child. You left and you never looked back. I deserve an answer, any answer. Witness Protection, alien abduction, anything.”
“I was young,” Margaret says. “I was 19 when I had you, I was still a baby. And we just settled into...monotony and routine, and I felt antsy. I didn’t think I could be a good wife and mother, my heart wasn’t in it. I thought no mother or wife would be better than a crappy one, and you guys would be better off without me in the picture.”
“You have some extremely flawed logic, Margaret.”
She only shrugs in response. “I know, but you weren’t anticipating a perfect answer. So...can we please just try to enjoy this dinner?”
Ethan ponders the question. He is starving, and this is a restaurant he’s been meaning to try. While the company isn’t what he’d usually want, Ethan is sure he can make do.
“We can enjoy dinner.”
Margaret smiles, her eyes crinkling slightly as she does so. “Yay! I hope they have a good chicken marsala because I am starving.”
~v~
By the time they’re finishing appetizers, Ethan has relaxed considerably. Maybe it’s the glass of wine, maybe he’s finally ready to ease up around his mother, but whatever it is, Ethan is grateful.
“Tell me more about your job,” Margaret probes. “I may not know all the medical mumbo jumbo, but I’ve seen E.R. I can kind of follow along. How long have you been in Boston?”
“Since I graduated medical school, 11 years now. I did my internship at Edenbrook, and I never left.”
“Do you like it?”
“I love it.”
“You don’t ever want to be somewhere else? Like Stanford? Or Johns Hopkins?
“They’re great, but no. And I went to Hopkins for medical school, I’ve had my fill of them.” Ethan’s phone vibrates in his pocket. “Excuse me.”
He slips his phone out and looks at the screen. It’s a text message from Naomi.
How are things going?
He quickly sends her a reply.
I think they’re going...ok.
And you know I hate texting.
It takes her less than 10 seconds to respond, his phone beeping multiple times.
Yay!! I’m so glad things are going well!
And you love me, so you’ll deal
Ok, I’ll leave you alone now.
That makes Ethan roll his eyes, but he smiles at the message.
“Talking to someone special?” Margaret asks, gaining his attention.
Ethan’s head snaps up and he looks at his mom. “Huh?”
Margaret points to the phone. “Your face just lit up when you read your messages. Your dad told me that you’re seeing someone. Is that her?”
“Yes.”
“What’s her name?”
Ethan doesn’t know if he’s willing to talk to Margaret about something as precious to him as Naomi. Does she deserve to be privy to his personal life?
He decides to take the leap. “Naomi.”
“Ooh, like the supermodel,” Margaret coos. She raises an eyebrow. “Are...you dating the supermodel?”
“No, I’m not dating Naomi Campbell. Naomi—my Naomi—is a doctor at Edenbrook.”
“How long have you guys been dating?”
“Seven months now.”
“Do you love her?”
“Very much so,” Ethan confesses, not a hint of trepidation in his voice.
“Well what are you doing still being boyfriend and girlfriend? Sounds to me like you should lock things down and marry her.”
Margaret Ramsey is the last person Ethan will ever take relationship advice from. “Naomi and I are perfectly fine with the pace of our relationship. I’m not going to rush anything.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry.” Margaret sighs wistfully. “”I just...I've wasted so much time, and I’ve missed so many moments. And now that I’m back, I’m projecting. It’s misplaced, and I overstepped.”
Ethan softens slightly. “It’s fine, no need to apologize.”
“Besides, there’ll be plenty of time for me to one day see you gg walk down the aisle. I don’t know if your father told you, but I’ve been looking for a place of my own.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes. I got a job at a local grocery store, and I’ve been trying to find something close by, ideally in Boston or close by.”
“Good for you.”
Margaret looks around, unable to meet Ethan’s gaze and she rings her hands together. After staring at the passing waiters and patrons for a while, she turns back to the table, though her eyes remain fixed on the tablecloth. “I’ve been trying my hardest recently to get my life back in order after spending so much time aimlessly flitting around New England. But no one tells you how challenging it is to do that.”
Finally she meets Ethan’s eyes. “In my hunt for a place of my own, I’ve come to realize that it won’t be smooth sailing. My savings is abysmal, and my credit is shot, so passing credit checks is hard and banks want such high down payments on houses and even higher interest rates.”
“I know you’ll probably think I’m ridiculous for bringing this up, and I hate to even mention it, but I just thought if in order for you and I to get on the right track, you’d maybe want to help. I guess it’s safe to assume you’re doing well…”
Ethan sees his mother’s mouth moving, but the rest of her spiel fades out like white noise. This is what she really wanted to meet with him for? Money?
A chill runs through his body, starting at the base of his skull, traveling down the length of his spine, and moving outwards. He feels frozen in place, like he’s being forced to sit in this chair.
Everything is jumbled and he can’t form a coherent thought to save his life.
Whatever it is, he wills it to pass. He doesn’t want to cause a scene in the restaurant, and he doesn’t want to be emotional in front of this woman.
It takes a long time for him to regain control of his person, but when he does, he releases a breath. Margaret is still going on, talking about a loan manager, but he holds up a hand to stop her in her tracks.
“You’re good,” he says. “Like...really good.”
She feigns confusion. “Good at what?”
“Acting. You’re so good at being a grifter, the lies and tall tales come so easily to you. You begged me to meet you, forced my dad to beg, and for what? Because you’re flat broke.” Ethan chuckles humorlessly. “What, did you Google me and dig for my net worth? Find out what type of car I drive? Research how much condos in my neighborhood cost?”
“Ethan, I–”
“Save it!” His tone is so sharp, it makes her flinch. The couple at the table next to them stop talking in order to stare. “I can’t believe I let my guard down around you, even slightly. You’re still the same piece of garbage you were 26 years ago.”
“You know Margaret, I would’ve respected you more if you would’ve been upfront and said you wanted money. Sure, I would’ve still said no, but there was no need for the disingenuous long con. You didn’t have to pull my dad into this, you didn’t need to show up to my job, you didn’t have to pretend to care about making amends, about being a part of my future, any of it.” Ethan hastily stands, pulling out his wallet. Hands trembling and clammy, he pulls out a crisp hundred dollar bill and throws it on the table. “Don’t ever, in your pathetic excuse for a life, reach out to me again.”
Ethan doesn’t bother grabbing his jacket. Instead he just turns around and walks away, ignoring Margaret’s pleas and shouts.
~v~
The drive home is long, silent, and tense, but Ethan makes it without snapping his steering wheel in half or causing a rage induced accident. He’s trying his hardest to remain calm, because who the fuck is Margaret and why does she have the right to get under Ethan fucking Ramsey’s skin? But it’s not working. He can feel all of the emotions simmering under the surface, crackling with a sharp intensity.
He opens the door to his apartment and crosses the threshold. His eyes fall on Naomi, sitting on his couch, curled up in a thick blanket, watching some silly reality show. Jenner’s on her lap, happily watching the show with her as she scratches his ears.
His entrance garners their attention and they look up. Naomi’s eyes widen and she cranes her neck, hoping to get a look at the time on the microwave from her spot on the couch. “Ethan! What are you doing here?”
“I live here, Rookie,” he quips. Ethan kicks off his shoes, leaving them at the door
Naomi rolls her eyes. “Obviously, smartass. I thought you’d still be having dinner with your mom.”
“I don’t have a mom,” Ethan says, his voice taking on an edge she’s not used to. “I had a surrogate who stayed 11 years too long.”
Naomi stands up and walks towards Ethan, who’s heading into the kitchen. She watches as he rinses out a glass and pours himself some scotch. “What happened? I thought things were going well.”
“I thought so too.” Ethan downs the drink in one gulp. “We were doing okay, she asked about my work, she asked about you, about us. And then it all culminated in her asking me for money.”
“What?”
“Yeah, she claims she wants a down payment for a house close by, but who knows if that was the truth. I could cut her a check and she’d be out of the state within an hour.”
Naomi frowns. “Baby, I am so sorry.”
“What is there to be sorry for?” Ethan asks. “Seriously, what? This isn’t your fault. Margaret showed me the type of person she was 26 years ago when she said she was going to the grocery store and she never came back. She showed me who she was when she never once tried to see me. I didn’t hear from her on my birthdays. I didn’t hear from her when I graduated high school, college, medical school, nothing. She wasn’t there when I got my tonsils removed, or when I won the science fair. She disappeared like a thief in the night without a backwards glance and without a shred of remorse. And even tonight, not once did she apologize, she just gave me a shitty excuse about how she thought I was better off without her, and you know what? She was goddamn right. Margaret Ramsey showed her true colors a long time ago, hell, even all those months ago when she stole out of the convenience store.”
“Birthdays, Christmases, 26 Mother’s Days came and went without her. You know what was really fun? Seeing my friends in school have moms that participated in bake sales, and ‘Back to School Nights’ and field trips. It was great having the other parents and classmates take pity on me because I was the motherless child.”
“And she just waltzes back into town thinking, ‘Oh wow the kid I abandoned actually made something of himself. I researched doctor’s salaries in Boston, Google tells me he lives in a multi-million dollar apartment complex, he drives a Mercedes. Maybe I can swoop in and upend his life once more.’” Ethan takes the tumbler in his hand and throws it against the wall. Naomi jumps back, startled by the loud crash. “Fuck her! She’s dead to me.”
Naomi sucks in a deep breath and takes a step closer to Ethan. “You don’t mean that.”
“I absolutely do mean it,” Ethan argues.
“No you don’t. Because if you were truly done with the situation, if you were truly healed, you wouldn’t be so worked up over it.”
Ethan glances at the shards of glass littering his kitchen floor. “No, I think that did it. I think I got it out of my system.”
“I think you should–”
“You know what I think?” Ethan interjects, not giving Naomi the chance to speak. “I think we should move on.” He turns to his girlfriend and takes a step closer, eyes raking over her. “Moving on, hello. I don’t think I greeted you properly.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. I’m sorry I even let thoughts of that woman follow me home.” Ethan surges forward, his hand curling around Naomi’s waist, pulling her closer. He bends slightly, inhaling her scent. Her skin is soft and she smells like coconut. “You smell good.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m sorry I even went to that dinner,” Ethan murmurs. “I could’ve been here and showered with you.”
Naomi can see right through him. He’s deflecting, trying to push his feelings aside. He’s so good at it, bottling everything up, but she doesn’t want that to happen. “Ethan–”
He cuts Naomi off again, this time slanting his mouth over hers, enveloping her in a kiss that threatens to steal the breath straight from her lungs. She scrambles, arms flailing as she tries to hold onto something that will keep her upright. Thankfully Ethan walks them backwards until her back is pressed against the fridge.
His tongue sweeps across her bottom lip before invading her mouth, deepening the kiss. Desperate to touch her, Ethan grips her hip in his hand, reveling in her warmth. Naomi is here. She’s here. She’s real. And she’s not going anywhere.
She breaks the kiss, the urge to inhale too strong to ignore. Her palms rest against his chest, and she can feel just how erratic his heartbeat is. Sparing a glance upward, Naomi’s breath catches in her throat as she sees Ethan looking down at her, tears in his eyes.
“Ethan, talk to me,” Naomi pleads, taking his face in both of her hands. “Don’t shut me out, don’t try to deflect.” Ethan shakes his head, unable to find the words, unable to say them out loud. Naomi sighs. If he won’t start the conversation, she will. “I love you. I love you so much, and I am so sorry. I’m so sorry about your mom. You deserve so much more than she’s ever given you.”
That seems to help push things in the right direction, as Ethan slumps forward and rests all of his weight on her, his false bravado gone
“Why does it s-still matter?” Ethan asks, his voice breaking as the sobs settle in, wracking his body. “Why do I still care so much?”
“Because you’re not the robot you pretend to be.”
“I’m so stupid. I should’ve never agreed to do this.”
“You’re the furthest thing from stupid. You needed to see her for yourself. She owed you answers and closure.”
“I didn’t get it.”
“You did, it just wasn’t pretty. Now you know for certain the type of woman she is.”
But why did he have to throw himself back into the lion’s den in order to find out what he already knew? Now all of the old wounds have come back to surface, open and raw, ripe for picking. He feels like he’s been turned inside out and left for the taking.
“All these y-years later, and she still doesn’t...love m-me,” Ethan cries, fat tears rolling down the apples of his cheeks. “She st-still doesn’t want me. What did I do?”
Standing in front of her isn’t her 37 year old doctor boyfriend, but a heartbroken 11 year old who desperately wants his mom to come home from the “grocery store”. His pain is palpable, and Naomi’s heart aches for him. Ethan was dealt a shitty hand, and he didn’t deserve it at all.
His weight becomes too much for her to bear, and they sink down on the kitchen floor. Ethan buries his head in Naomi’s lap and she just cradles him. She’s never seen Ethan this upset and out of sorts, not when Delores died, and not when Naveen was on the brink of death, so she feels like a fish out of water.
“You didn’t do anything. You’re the child, you can’t carry this burden. Your mother is at fault, and it’s all her doing.”
She doesn’t know what else to say to him. She can tell him that he’s smart, and successful. She can tell him that he’s a wonderful guy, and that he deserves the world, and his mother is a selfish idiot for not seeing what she sees, but she doesn’t know if it will help. All the compliments and platitudes in the world can’t make up for your own mother not wanting anything to do with you.
So she doesn’t say anything. Silence falls between them, the only sound to be heard coming from the television and Jenner occasionally whining from his spot on the couch. Naomi simply strokes his hair and other places she can touch on his body.
They stay in that position for a long time, but the cold tiles of the kitchen floor become too uncomfortable to ignore after a while. Naomi stands up and drags Ethan along with her as they make their way to his bedroom.
Ethan is dead weight and doesn’t offer much help, so Naomi rids him of his clothes by herself, until he’s left in nothing but his boxers. His last bout of energy is used to collapse into bed, where he curls into Naomi’s side, holding her close.
“I’m off tomorrow,” Naomi says, breaking their silence. “I think you should take a personal day. You deserve to get some rest.”
She expects him to argue. He’s Ethan Ramsey, a workaholic, and if anything, he’ll use this as a reason to bury himself further in his work.
But he doesn’t argue. He nods and says, “Okay.”
“I’m sorry if I was too aggressive earlier,” Ethan continues, his voice still soft and quiet. “Yelling, throwing that glass, kissing you like that, it wasn’t appropriate.”
“Apology not needed. But thank you anyway.”
Ethan rolls over and stares at Naomi, analyzing her features. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Naomi kisses his bicep, too lazy to stretch up and kiss his lips. She rolls over and turns off the lamp at his bedside.
It doesn’t take long and she can feel herself getting sleepy, the events of the past hour taking their toll, a heaviness settling in her bones. As she starts to doze off, Ethan calls out for her. “Hey, Naomi?”
“Hmmm?”
“You’re the most important family I have.”
And with that, he falls asleep.
#playchoices#choices: stories you play#open heart#open heart 2#dr. ethan ramsey#ethan ramsey#ethan ramsey x mc
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Reckless (Bianca & Adore) - Candy Cane
A/N: im living in 2015 right now so like. ignore me fsdfsdf but anyways, here’s 2.8k of more incredibly self-indulgent fanfiction. i wrote this as platonic, but if you wanna see anything in here as romantic be my guest!! id like to thank chaoticnachokitten for supporting me and giving me ideas and beta'ing and i just- GAAAHH THANK YOU!! and thanks to everyone else who had such nice words to say abt my last one, it means soooo much 🥺🥺🥺
Summary: Adore and Bianca hang out, but of course things go wrong.
Adore loves hanging out with Bianca. Not only is she her best friend, but she’s the kind of person Adore thought would’ve hated her. But that’s not the case at all, there’s some sort of weird mutual respect and admiration going on between them, and it is fucking awesome.
The young musician knows she can be… a lot sometimes, what with her natural hyperactive toddler personality type, and it amazes her Bianca puts up with her. Especially in moments where Adore knows she shouldn’t be bothering her friend, but decides to anyways because Bianca can be boring sometimes. Moments like this one.
Adore had a gig at one of the clubs, and it ran much later than she had originally anticipated, but that was mostly due to her wanting to stay for Bianca’s set too. Of course, that led to them sharing a few too many drinks together while they stayed to watch some more performers. So when it came time for them to go home, Adore can’t find her keys.
It’s late. Late enough there’s no guarantee Adore’s roommates will be up to let her back into the apartment. The singer immediately turns to her oldest, nearest, dearest friend.
“Oh my God,” Bianca sighs whilst massaging her temples, seeing the next ten hours play out clear as day in front of her.
“Pleaaase can I stay at your place tonight Bia?” Adore asks, using her most pitiful voice and absolute poutiest facial expression.
They’re sat at a table in the back, Adore’s hands perched on Bianca’s knees as she essentially begs. Adore’s too drunk to care.
“Why don’t you call someone to see if they’ll stay up for you?” Bianca retorts like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. To be fair, it probably is. Adore’s still too drunk to realize that though.
“Oh yeah,” she says, knowing she sounds like the world’s dumbest bitch. She fumbles with her phone for a few seconds, poking the screen and the on button for an embarrassing amount of time before turning to Bianca with another sad pouty face, “It’s dead.”
“Of course it’s fucking dead,” Bianca groans, playing it up like she really does mind Adore staying with her for the night. She doesn’t, she probably would never. Adore is like the niece she never had, and she wouldn’t trade that girl for the world.
“Why don’t I just call one of them on mine?” Bianca offers.
Adobe frowns, putting on her thinking face, “…I don’t remember their numbers.”
“I can call Courtney,” Bianca reminds her.
“Oh yeah!”
A few minutes later, they discover they cannot call Courtney. They try calling her twice, and both times are a bust.
She glances down at Adore, and chuckles when she sees the “Bambi eyes”. Even if she weren’t planning on letting the kid stay with her, that would’ve done her in. She hasn’t met a single person that can resist those eyes.
“I’ll be quiet! I promise!” the singer whines.
Bianca makes an exaggerated show of sighing and hemming and hawing, just to tease Adore, then cracks open a wide, amused smile, “Of course you can stay at my place, bitch.”
“Party!” Adore cheers, throwing her arms tightly around Bianca’s neck. It’s all the thanks Bianca needs.
They pay their bills, order a Lyft, and in more time than either would’ve preferred, they make it to Bianca’s huge ass apartment. The pair stumbles inside the building, trying to look as Not Drunk as they can, and failing miserably. It doesn’t matter anyways, it’s almost 3 a.m. meaning there’s not a soul alive there to watch them.
Bianca leads Adore to the elevator, even if it’s pointless because Adore randomly shows up at Bianca’s place at least three times a week. The singer grips Bianca’s hand tightly, giggling and stumbling while the comic practically barks at her to be quieter. They’re lucky it’s a Friday. Well, a Saturday now, Bianca supposes.
The pair climbs up the one flight of stairs to Bianca’s apartment, and then into the apartment itself after Bianca spends a couple minutes fumbling with her keys. The door swings open, and they both fall onto the nearest couch.
They’re breathless with laughter, and then it starts up again when Bianca realizes she hasn’t closed her apartment door yet.
After she locks her apartment back up and turns on some lights, the older woman finds she can’t take her eyes off of Adore. The younger is smiling so freely, and it ignites something inside Bianca. She’s not sure what it is, maybe youthfulness, or freedom, but she loves it.
“B! Oh my God! I have an idea!” Adore suddenly says, sitting up way too fast and clearly making herself dizzy.
“Don’t kill yourself, otherwise I’m the one that has to call 911. You think I want paramedics at my house before the sunrises? Fuck no,” Bianca berates her, but she’s quick to recompose herself when Adore goes all pouty again, “What’s your idea? God knows you only come up with a good one every millennium.”
Adore childishly sticks her tongue out at Bianca, “We should make waffles!”
“How the fuck are we supposed to make waffles? I’m not a cook, I don’t keep that shit in my house.”
Adore screws up her face cutely, clearly trying to think of a solution to her waffle problem. She brightens up again after a minute, looking very proud of herself, “Alyssa! I bet Alyssa has it!”
Bianca rolls her eyes, “You really think I wanna speak to her right now? At three in the goddamn morning?”
“But waffles!” Adore insists.
“Tomorrow,” Bianca promises, “Right now I want to get out of this clown costume and into bed.”
Adore sighs, then tries her best puppy eyes again, “Cuddles?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?” Bianca snorts.
Adore smiles as bright as the sun, then at Bianca’s beckoning she follows her best friend down the hall so they can take off their makeup and get ready for bed. When they’re finally able to snuggle up in bed together, Adore in one of Bianca’s old shirts and pair of leggings, the whole apartment pitch black, and the only sound they could hear was the sound of each other’s breathing.
It’s soothing and warm. They sleep like rocks.
The sun wakes Adore up at way too fucking early though. Her head is pounding, her arm has fallen asleep from Bianca laying on it through the night, and she is really fucking hungry. Adore groans and gently pulls her arm out from under Bianca, then stumbles out of the way too big, way too soft bed to go find something to take care of her headache.
She’s quickly able to find where Bianca keeps those things (the mounted cabinet in the bathroom) because Adore used to spend a ridiculous amount of time at this apartment complaining about her ailments to Bianca, which of course lead Bianca to freely helping Adore out whenever. Bianca would act all cold and exasperated over it, but they both knew it was just a show.
Adore downs two of the pills dry and decides nearly immediately she should go find something to drink. In mere minutes she has a pot of coffee brewing, and simultaneously discovers that it’s only around 9 a.m.. Which is just overall… weird. Adore is almost never up this early, especially after the kind of night she had last night. The events of the night are still pretty fuzzy right now, but she still remembers everything. Mostly. She thinks.
One thing she does remember is a promise. A promise for waffles. Adore grins, an idea formulating in her head. Bianca is always so incredibly nice to her, helping her out and giving her whatever she wants. And sure, it’s not Mother’s Day, but that doesn’t mean Adore can’t show her appreciation for Bianca.
Clearly the woman deserves breakfast in bed. Courtesy of a little help from a next door neighbor (hopefully). The singer quickly grabs Bianca’s key off the counter and heads over to the one person she knows will have just what she wants.
Adore knocks on the door, and it’s only a minute later with an accompanied shout of ‘I’m comin’ hon!’ that the heavy white door is thrown open.
“Oh my goodness it’s Adore Delano!” Alyssa Edwards says excitedly, “Hello, doll!”
“Hi, Alyssa!” Adore smiles, “Um, I have a favor to ask of you?”
~*~
Bianca’s favorite way to wake up is slowly, with the sun streaming in through her bedroom window and having absolutely all the time in the world to get up, check her phone, and get ready for work. This morning is the exact fucking opposite.
First thing that wakes her up is the motherfucking fire alarm, causing her to scramble out of bed at a record speed. Second thing, she’s painfully aware that Adore isn’t in the bed with her. Bianca is halfway through screaming Adore’s name when she bursts out into the main room.
The main room is smokey as all hell. Adore is aiming a fire extinguisher at the counter from the other side of the kitchen. The counter is covered in white foam. Her damn fire alarm won’t shut up.
Bianca’s going to have a hard time explaining this one to the neighbors for sure.
The older woman breathes in slowly, but sharply, “Adore, what the fuck did you do?”
Adore doesn’t say anything. She lets go of the fire extinguisher, and they both wince when it crashes against the kitchen tile. Not for the first time, Bianca is glad that she lives on the first floor.
The two stare at each other, Adore resting boneless against the oven, her expression just screaming shock. She lifts her head to meet Bianca’s eyes.
Pounding on the door, someone starts shouting, “BIANCA?! HOLY GOD, IS EVERYTHING ALRIGHT?”
The woman in question is quick to open her apartment door, but instead of accepting the concern, she barks out, “What do you want?”
“The whole damn building knows your alarms are going off, Bianca!” Alyssa says sharply, shoving her way inside the apartment, “My girls are coming over in two hours! I can’t have my house burning down on me.”
Bianca and Adore share a twin look of surprise. Alyssa’s always been Bianca’s favorite neighbor, that’s no secret, but this is a tightly concealed side of her that neither of them have ever really seen. It’s concern. Worry. But not for herself, for them. Even if it does come off as something else. This is just something not usually associated with her.
“Okay,” Bianca says carefully, “What the fuck is going on.”
“That’s what I want to know,” Alyssa agrees, lips pursed skeptically, “Adore told me y’all were making waffles.”
It’s absurd. The fire alarm is still blaring. Adore has crushed herself into a nook, looking petrified. Bianca is very hungover and her most beloved annoying neighbor is standing in her house at way too early o’clock.
Bianca suddenly realizes that even though there’s no fire, there’s still smoke in her apartment, and she really wants that alarm to shut the fuck up. Also, the smoke is going to stain her expensive shit if she doesn’t get it out.
She starts to open all the windows in the main room, and is grateful when Alyssa comes to help her. They make short work of it, and when she turns around to look at her best friend, she feels scared.
She’s scared that Adore might be hurt. She’s scared that she didn’t do anything to prevent this. But mostly she’s scared that something might be broken between them.
For the first time since walking in, Bianca notices bowls spread across her kitchen counter. Bowls and boxes and whisks… It clicks.
“Okay,” Bianca exhales, “Alyssa, what the fuck did you just say about waffles?”
“Adore came to me a little while ago and asked me if I could lend you two some waffle ingredients,” Alyssa starts slowly, “And I think to myself, ‘Now Alyssa Edwards, as a woman of God it is your duty to love your neighbor and let her make some waffles on this beautiful morning-’”
“Alyssa, you let my dumbass kid do WHAT?! You fucking know she can’t cook! We have had this conversation a hundred times!”
“Well, Adore said to me ‘Bianca and I’ not ‘I’m going to’! I thought you were gonna be helping her!”
“WHY WOULD YOU ASSUME THAT? WHEN HAVE I EVER COOKED?!”
“I’m sorry!” Adore snaps, her voice quivering and tears welling up in her eyes, causing Bianca and Alyssa to turn to her, “I’m so, so sorry- I didn’t mean for this to happen! I just- I just wanted-”
Bianca stares at Adore with shock, not fully comprehending everything happening. Between her hangover and the sheer chaos of the first fifteen minutes of being awake, she’s not entirely sure why Adore is so distressed. Adore starts whispering ‘I’m sorry’ over and over to herself, hugging her knees tight to her chest, tears starting to crawl down her face, and it hits Bianca like a train.
“Alyssa…” Bianca says slowly, but she’s unable to tear her eyes away from Adore.
Adore’s blaming herself completely and totally. And it makes sense, she is the one that started the whole mess. But Bianca can’t stand that look on Adore’s face. She’d much rather put the blame on Alyssa (who can more than handle it) instead of Adore (who is currently having a nervous breakdown).
But Adore isn’t having it.
“No, this is my fault. I’m not- I’m not that stupid, Bianca. I’m not that useless, either. I’m not a kid. I’m not someone you should leave supervision for. I’m fucking twenty-four. Stop treating me like I’m not,” Adore’s words are cold, but her face tells Bianca the musician is falling apart, “Look me in the eye, Bianca.”
She does.
“Yell at me,” Adore says.
She can’t. Bianca doesn’t even want to. She feels like she failed here, because Adore isn’t her kid but God does it feel like it sometimes.
“We’ll replace your stuff, Alyssa,” is what Bianca says instead.
Luckily, the woman accepts that as her cue to go. She gives Bianca a hug and a kiss on the cheek before she leaves, and sends air kisses Adore’s way. Adore gives Alyssa a weak smile.
The door closes. Bianca and Adore lock eyes.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Bianca says. It’s a tired, worried voice. Not at all what Adore was expecting, or even wanted.
“I wanted to surprise you,” Adore answers simply, arms crossed defensively over her chest, “You do so much for me. For everyone. And I know you said last night we’d do it together but I just… I wanted to do something for you.”
That alone melt’s Bianca’s heart. It’s been getting easier and easier lately for Adore, and by extension the rest of their friends, to do that. For a while she thought moving to this city was stupid, and probably the worst decision of her life. But even now, after such a chaotic fucking twenty-five minutes of being awake, Bianca is so happy she’s here.
“Next time, buy me something online,” Bianca says, warm and forgiving, instead of cold and biting like Adore would’ve expected.
The younger practically runs into Bianca’s open arms. The embrace is full of love, and Adore feels that it’s okay. She still blames herself, she’s still stupidly upset, but Bianca… Bianca makes her feel like everything will be okay.
They sit there hugging for a few minutes, then Bianca mutters, “Good thing you knew how to use that extinguisher, I think that’s been hanging there for ten years.”
Adore chuckles wetly, face buried into Bianca’s shoulder, “Yeah… Hey, shouldn’t have all the other alarms gone off too?”
Bianca freezes. Adore is right, all the other fire alarms in the building should’ve had people evacuating.
“I guess the building needs to get that fixed, huh? Maybe you being a walking disaster is a good thing after all, if that had been real, everyone would’ve been fucked.”
“Wow,” Adore whispers, “Maybe our building should get that checked too…? Oh my God. Oh my God.”
“What?!” Bianca asks, pulling away from Adore to see what’s wrong.
“I never went home last night,” Adore says, “I never charged my phone. I never texted my roommates.”
Bianca suddenly doubles over laughing, fully bellied and absolutely batshit crazy, “Good, Courtney doesn’t get nearly enough stress in her life!”
Adore breaks out into a grin, and feels her worries start to melt away. Somehow, Bianca is really fucking good at doing that.
“Alright,” Bianca sighs, looking at the pure mess that is now her kitchen, “Let’s charge our phones and order breakfast.”
And they do.
Neither would’ve spent the hour following that disaster any other way.
#rpdr fanfiction#adore delano#bianca del rio#alyssa edwards#biadore#gen fic#fluff#angst#fighting#lesbian au#cisgirl au#hurt/comfort#reckless#candy cane#tw fire#concrit welcome
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narcos mexico head cannon list: the men being fathers would include ...
a/n: sorry aboUT THE WHIPLASH I’M GIVING EVERYONE BUT HERE WE GO probs going to keep going back and forth so a “first time” then a “dad au” so let me know who should go next for first time
we see him as a dad in the show so we start to get some understanding of what kind of father he is
the first understanding we get is that he’s for sure a ‘money dad’ where he is absolutely fucking shameless about throwing money at his kids
for example, that birthday party was extra as fuck and that’s what he’s bringing to the table and more
does he throw money at his kids because he’s not with them as much as he would like to? perhaps, but it’s also rooted in this idea that building this empire, it was for them... to be able to provide more than he fucking could’ve imaged previously
also gift giving dad for sure, like he’s the one to pick up gifts from everywhere he goes
i just him bringing back cute and little interesting things for them
don’t know why i get the vibes that he would always get dolls for his daughter; it could be like little porcelain dolls
i could see it being one of two things; either he has porcelain dolls made that look like them and always teasing them because if he had daughters they’d be his muñequitas
or him buying the dolls dressed in regional clothing from wherever he is and they have this little collection of dolls
i just miguel with daughters gives me heart eyes goodbye
but as we have spoken previously his love language is quality time and the stuff he buys are just trying to replace that so once he gets to be with the kids that’s when he truly like shines you know
like as soon as he’s walking through the doors, he’s already getting down on one knee because he already knows the kids are running to jump into his arms
and they’re like ‘papi!!!!!’ and he swoops them up into his and squishes them super hard and is like ‘mis changitos” because they literally hang off of him
and him asking if they behaved for their mom while they were gone as he shoots you this little wink and being like ‘vente amor, te falta besitos, verda’ bebes?’
has a recliner or like a comfy chair in the living room and honestly never gets to sit in it alone and hone’s more than okay with that
as soon as he sits down at least one of them is literally like throwing themselves into their lap and honestly that’s usually when they get their one on one time with their papi
like they curl up in his lap and he just like caresses their head and kisses them and that’s when he like understands his children as individuals and that’s fUCKING BEAUTIFUL
like that scene with abril .... like before he gets stabbed.... but like you know that tnder moment
he lowkey loves reading the kids bedtime stories, like if the kids are struggling with bed time all he has to say is like the more time they take now the less time they’ll have for story time and they are jumping into the bath
they curl up with him in their jammies and stuffed animals as he tells them like these adventure stories i am screaming
more often than not you walk into the room and the kids are sleeping on top of of him and miguel is asleep there with them on their chestsl
you just standing in the background, leaning against the door frame and just shaking your head
miguel is kind of serious by nature so i don’t think he would be like naturally very playful with his kids
he’s the dad who is like sits on the like outdoor furniture like sipping on a drink, sitting back in a chair and watching his kids play out in the backyard
and the kids are like ‘paaaapppiii’ and like trying to call him over to play , kicking balls over to him to try to entice him to come play until like the youngest just goes over and pulls on his hand until he gets up
he’s teasing about him being too old to play now, holding his back but he’s already pushing his sleeves up to go play
starts running after them when they least expect it
also for sure if they’re in the pool, they spend the whole time splashing their dad until he’s forced to jump in with them
going on family trips!! i am !! crying
you go AT THE VERY LEAST like two to three times a year
every once in a while he does the whole thing like pretending he’s not going to be go on the trip with them but insists that they still go
kids are all disappointed, pouty and crying but as soon as they open the door to the hotel room miguel like ‘wow you guys must have takne the long way, i’ve been waiting for you’
kids go crazy every single time still
does the surprise things at school events too but like honestly he would do anything and everything to not have to miss them
even if it’s just him running in right when they’re going to like preform or play
but i’m crying at this image of like he’s taking a phone call at home which he already hates to begin with and takes it outside because he doesn’t want the kids to hear how he’s about to cuss these motherfuckers out
anyways one of the kids sees that miguel is outside frustrated and they run to get one of their favorite stuffies
opening the door quietly, trying to tip toe over to him because they know papi is busy but like handing them the stuffed animal
and miguel gives them a look and them unsuccessfully whispering to miguel like ‘this helps me when i’m frustrated, papi i brought it to help’ and nodding and running inside
probably stands against the like sliding glass door wanting to make sure it’s being used
and miguel just giving this fucking adoring little smile and is holding the stuffy by the arm and walk around with it
HE HAS A PICTURE OF THE KIDS IN HIS WALLET, WHENEVER HE OPENS IT UP HE GIVES THIS LITTLE SMILE, puts everything into perspective you know
whenever he gets worked up about something where he gets his like episodes with his stomach or heart palpatations
tells them he loves them, he’s convinced it’s not enough times though so he calls randomly to talk to them and work that in
and them being like “WE KNOW WE LOVE YOU TOO DADDY” and that just makes eveyrthing right in the world to him
i just miguel is so soft for miguel as a dad trying to provide everything for his kids while still letting them know that he’s there for them and loves them sm i cannot
wow oka y i cry at the idea of tio amado now just imagine my ass when i have to write dad amado i
#narcos mexico imagine#narcos mexico imagines#narcos mexico#miguel angel felix gallardo#miguel angel felix gallardo x reader
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Lucas - Threads
((this post references the events of the fall, a mission in the heartless ffxiv roleplay campaign. quoted sections were written by @way-to-the-future. cw: character death. art credit: papa ibra tall, seamstress of the stars, wool tapestry, 1970s.))
“I admire how much warmth you give. Like a furnace. Like you've got a blaze rolling at your heart, and you let it all out through your skin. I see it in your eyes, the way they glow when the lamplight hits it just right.”
I’ve got nothing but white static in my head when I try to remember the Rovers’ faces, and if that isn’t creepy as fuck, I don’t know what is. I can’t recall a single thing about them. No noses, no mouths, not a sliver of kohl smudged under an eye or a lock of hair curling out from under a helmet. It’s easier to hate them when I can’t see any facets of their identity, but I don’t wanna fall prey to this lazy fallacy, either. There must have been real men under all that armor. One of many, sure, but individuals all -- just like I had been, once upon a time. So why don’t I remember?
My memory is unfortunately selfish and selective. It picks up the threads of the things closest to my heart and weaves the best story it can with the loose ends. So here’s the stupid little details that stuck with me, where more pertinent information might have been written instead:
I can still tell you with absolute clarity the exact gem tones of the light reflecting off of Cheche’s upturned face, when the Allagan facility erupted in spells and gunfire all around us. Sapphire blues, emerald greens, and amethyst purples against her shining black scales at every obsidian facet, like a raven feather catching the light.
I can map with exacting precision the arc of Castor’s white braid when he whipped his head around at the commotion, taking the tactical measure of our situation the way only a forged-in-the-blood knight like him can. Even after turning away from him, I could still feel the bulwark of Castor behind me, a solid presence that I didn’t need to see to be able to sense, like an extension of my arm, a phantom limb.
To turn around and suddenly find them both gone, ushered down a different corridor in all the clusterfuck of our allies splintering when the Rovers betrayed us?
It felt like amputation.
If I could, I would keep them both in my heart, keep them like puppets suspended by vermilion strings that extend from their every joint to the cavernous arches of my beating muscle. With threads that absorb the shock of my mortal body and every twin hammer of blood, so that all my loves can feel is the gentle warmth of my fire, the spark of creation that burns in me to keep them, cradle them, shelter them close and alive.
Keep them, and I guess, in so doing, preserve them exactly as I want them to be. Is that fair? It doesn’t seem so, does it? I may love them, but they aren’t mine. They aren’t toys or dolls; not mine to keep. See, Castor has taught me that to love someone is to swap my puppeteer’s strings for the Spinner’s threads, and let them weave their own way through my story. Cheche has shown me that the beauty in anything -- in anyone -- is that they might evaporate at any moment. But if I let them, they both might even decide, all on their own, to stay with me for as long as they can. A stronger path, freely chosen and written in royal blue and bright fern green, threading in a perfect braid around my brilliant gold.
No, I couldn’t keep them -- and in the moment of amputation, it didn’t fucking matter anyway, because they’d already gone beyond my reach. My heart was alone, but still it burned for them; burned fit to melt straight through the iced Malbolge of all the hells, a judgement which I still believed must have been waiting for me just beyond the next door of this Allagan tomb, to welcome me to the justice that I'm owed for my crimes. This door, or the next door. The next one.
Amputation wouldn’t stop me. Hell wouldn’t stop me. I would have burned through that whole building like a live coal, if that was what it had taken to find the exit and bring us all back home.
“It's hardly poetic, love. I'm just telling you exactly how you are. How anyone could see you. Even if they weren't a poet. Maybe even if they didn't care for you like I do. Just, if they - stopped to watch you.”
I don’t think I’ve mentioned it, but I had a brother once, before I torched the evidence of the life I used to live. Augustin looked so much like me even when we were young, but moreso now than ever before. We have the same bronze eyes, the same nose; I’ve grown into the size of our chin with time. He’s a beefier motherfucker than I am, and he’d always preferred braids, but even still you’d be hard pressed to tell us apart if you stood us back to back. Where do you think is he now?
Does he wonder what’s become of my punk ass? Surely the reports tell the truth about how I left. They wouldn’t keep secrets, not from a... fuck, he’s probably a Centurio now, isn’t he?
Shit... I bet he is. He always wanted to follow Mom’s path, even though every day that passes causes me to doubt her just a little bit more. I’ve learned too much about family not to begin questioning her motives for doing what she did, but I guess that’s neither here nor there.
But it was Augustin who first taught me how to shoot, you know? He took me behind our home and put a gunblade in my hands, adjusting my twiggy little twelve-turn limbs into the approximate shape of proper posture even when the weight of it threatened to topple me over like a top-heavy weed. He drilled firearm etiquette into me until I could recite its tenets by memory. For such a little bitch, he molded me into a decent shot.
I haven’t felt that kind of brotherly guidance in a long time, but I think I felt Augustin’s ghost behind me when I stood shoulder to shoulder with Sister Lux in that facility, fighting our way out.
Do you remember that door, the one I had thought stood between me and the hells? It was really just another hungry bulkhead between us and freedom; a sun and moon puzzle that should have been, might have been harder to solve if I couldn’t feel the juxtaposition of her fire right next to me. Sun and moon. Astral and umbral. It was so simple; this was a test. I had let my aether lay fallow, and in order to progress I had to reach inside and drag all the burning potential straight out of my mouth. Furious, destructive, so obscenely fucking alive.
Hungry, that’s the key word. The door had to feed -- on us. I don’t know how, or why, but somehow she and I put our hands to the door at the same time and knew exactly what to do. It was time for me to shit or get off the proverbial pot, and all she had to do was correct my posture a little bit, just like old times in the backyard with my brother and a weapon I didn’t know how to hold.
I picked up my brass and ruby cudgel, and she told me how to feel the fire of my aether and let it simmer in controlled brilliance, and how to sit back and watch, patient and observant, as an umbral reckoning blazed all the way up into my nose, through my nostrils, eventually bubbling out in an oozing black ichor like tar. Until we were both painted with blood and the door finally gave way after growing fat on our offerings. Freedom, and not a moment too soon.
It’s funny. It’s funny in that way where I have to laugh to keep from considering all of the circumstantial leaps that had to happen to get me there, in that moment, with that exact mentor and the tools available to me. Did you know that I bought my thaumaturge focus the same day -- at the same damn merchant stall -- that I bought the bracelet that Lux still wears? The cudgel was a leap of faith (I thought maybe, someday, I would use it), and the bracelet was a tithe for her attention, but I gotta fucking wonder if that wasn’t the Spinner herself cinching an amethyst purple thread, until two distant ends of a rich black fabric pleated and bunched together, suddenly close, in a moment of coordinated function.
Like this had been the plan all along.
“They treat you differently because of it. Everyone on this ship - they know they can talk to you, Lucas. That you'll hear them.”
I started this mission as an empty vessel, asking everyone I came across to pour their faith into me so that I might taste it and gradually build a competence in teasing apart the flavors of the gods. The truth is that I was searching for the one most likely to offer me forgiveness, or at the very least the god who might hand me a penitence that I felt like I could swallow. I thought I deserved it, you see. That’s how all this started. On bad days, I still do.
Asking about faith isn’t just a window to the spiritual soul -- it’s also a mainline straight into the source of everyone’s irreconcilable fucking damage. Picking your god is a perilous choice, but mostly because it ultimately determines what kind of personality malfunction you’re going to have down the road. I already know why I’m awful: Delusions of grandeur and megalomania, with a curious tendency to self-flagellate. I’m the smartest, most impressive architect you’ll ever meet. I’m the greasiest, grimiest hunk of motor oil in the gutter.
The only way to reach the middle road between glorifying and hating myself, I’ve found, is to count the threads that wrap themselves around my ribs when I recount the conversations that I’ve had on the Salemtaza’s Voyage.
Here’s a taste: I’ve got Caelrin in deep ochre around my midriff where my abs are just starting to take shape. Ignera sits in flaming orange around the hollow of my throat, slapping my hand away every time I try to choke on my own self-loathing. Captain Kharn wraps in garnet around my face, shielding me from unwanted eyes when I don’t feel quite how I should in my skin. W'kana and W'buki in yellow and black, swaddling me so tight around the chest I fear for my next fucking breath. Reinette, a gentle evening blue curling in petals around my fingertips. Rizzo, a shining onyx black stitching up my lungs telling me to breathe, just breathe, don’t stop breathing until it gets easier.
More even than that. Staelufre in neon magenta, Fugetsu in an unknowable shade of grey, Killian in sunset orange, Strelec in obscuring maroon, Hikari in daisy yellow, Camille in cloudy crimson, Jancis in healing olive, Lune in jumpsuit orange, Jeanne in oil-slick purple, Hanako in fresh lavender, even Kat, yeah, even her, in that same royal blue as Castor.
Nathaniel threading in loops around every one of my fingers in a dazzling gold that fades into the electric yellow of potent aethersand.
I could go on. I could list twice as many names and colors as I already have, and I must ask myself: How do I carry them all? How could I possibly hold them all, without attaching them directly to my meat, my bones, this hideous and imprecise flesh that rightly should be cogs and metal? All that thread would just gum up the whole works, wouldn’t it? Maybe it’s better that I am man, then, and not machine.
For all my flaws, I can still stretch my arms and accommodate all these dangling ends.
“They see it in you, in the way you carry yourself. You're curious. Empathetic. You want to understand people, not just love them or hate them or think nothing of them at all.”
Sui tried to warn me about all this, back at the pumpkin patch at Cloudtop. It was raining, weighing down all my sashes on my brand new armor, and Sui had laughed when the skies parted to reveal the sun setting in a field of rose gold and the softest lavender. It seems like she and I can never properly talk if we aren’t both looking at the sky, like this is the only way we can perceive each other. Never head on -- only in the periphery. Or maybe it’s just easier to talk about certain things when you aren’t looking someone in the eye. Maybe it’s that.
She was so startled by the questions I needed to ask her, like she hadn’t thought it was possible that anyone had been watching her reaction to Nathaniel’s speech, like she didn’t think anyone would have noticed that she was upset. Is she so used to passing under the radar?
But I’ll give her credit. Sui tried to warn me that my friends would die. I watched the sunset fizzle out on the horizon from its soft pastels into a creeping ceruleum and a deeper indigo while she told me every horror that had befallen her family before, and what she knew would happen to us again. Sui could feel the same threads of fate starting to twine around our edges, and she wanted me to be prepared. I listened. I let those fibers stitch themselves into my lungs in the golden rose of a cloudless twilight sky.
I just never thought it would come down on us so quickly, and with such brutal force. I’ve never had to pray for another person before, and out of nowhere I found it necessary to summon the script to beg for twelve of my friends’ lives.
The truth is that I never learned how, and I’ve been too afraid to seek the answer. I know how to make wishes; I know how to toss gold coins into a running fountain and watch the sunlight flicker off the scattered mess of them along the bottom of the pool. But I don’t know how to pray.
I know who I would ask. It was Tieve who introduced me to Gridania, and if Sui and I speak most openly under a yawning sky, you might say that Tieve and I communicate best among the trees, under a cathedral of roots. The memory of the hearer’s chapel is stitched in bark brown and moss green bracelets around my wrists, reminding me that while I may have been invited to someone’s sacred space, I have to mind my boundaries, too. I am not the infallible creator of my own conceit, but nor am I outcast from Spoken kindness and community. To know temperance is to know yourself, to dig into the well of your Spoken dignity and grant the same to others.
I still have this embroidered Gridanian sachet of wood chips and herbs that she gave me, telling me it was for luck, and I didn’t know back then how much I would come to rely on Nymeia for hope. That I would need to believe that she’s writing me into a greater tapestry, that I need that grandeur to feel like my dumbass mistakes have meaning and purpose. And even with Tieve beyond my reach, it occurred to me that she might have already given me everything I needed to weave my own prayer. A level head. A god. A talisman.
I’m just fumbling through this. We all are, but I made my own prayer by pulling that sachet out of my pocket and spinning it over and over in my hands as I remembered the names of those our enemies had taken from us. Who better to beg than the god of fate? Keep their lines anchored to me. Keep them in the tapestry. Keep them safe.
“It's the most noble thing about you. It's - It's more than just what you do, it's who you are. It's what I love about you.”
I recite their names:
Aidan, the hound with apologetic eyes who slinks around the edges the crowd until someone notices him, at which point he deflects attention from himself with a self-deprecating joke straight out of my own fucking toolbox. He could be a brother to me, if he let himself be; if he told me the truth about who he is and where he’s been. I can smell it on him. The stench of ceruleum doesn’t fade as quickly as any of us would like, but I wait for him to tell me on his own terms. Aidan weaves around the periphery of my eyelids in a shadowy kohl black.
Izar, the mercurial seer who obscures themselves in riddles like a smug sphinx playing at being a whimsical faerie. They have never passed up the opportunity to toy with me like a blind white kitten with an oversized brown moth, but the teeth of their humor has never once felt like a cage to me. They are kind, and curious, and helpful even as they delight in your confusion. They dangle at my elbow in marble white, furiously tickling my arm like a loose hair caught in a sleeve.
Adhi, the wandering sage of Dalmasca who the gods had to gift with such big fuzzy ears so that she could better capture every single story that ever came her way. I don’t know how to even begin to thank her for what she’s done for me; she’s returned things to me that by all means should have been my birthright but were taken from me before I was even aware that they were being stolen. Her thread spirals in a shell around my ear in an entire spectrum of colors, one for every tale she carries with her.
Still, there’s more: Tieve, the witch of the wolves (mossy green); Percy, the son of a shadow (cobalt blue); Bride, the bashful goldsmith (periwinkle blue); Swozbhar, the towering cook (mint green); Valeriaux, the scarred philanthropist (leather brown); Silya and Livia, the sunniest Fists I’ve ever met (pale pink and soft teal); Farid, the most visibly haunted man I know (muted purple); and Iron Deer, the entrepreneurial engineer (metallic steel) -- all of them familiar faces, all of them colleagues, all of them threaded through the chambers of the same priceless Heart that gives our mission purpose.
The same Heart that we traded away just to get them back.
You know what? Fuck it. I’ll string them all to my own heart. I’ll suspend them all in cocoons deep in the burning hearth of me -- I will fight my way out of this facility that wants desperately to become our tomb -- until those that still live can crawl back out, fragile but alive and free to keep fighting for whatever comes next.
But one of them is gone, beyond the veil and permanently out of my reach. Just like Sui tried to warn me about, and all of Tieve’s lucky charms were not enough to protect me from this single ungentle truth. The Spinner does not stop the march of destruction -- she merely directs it. She cuts the threads of our fallen friends when they begin to fray and weaves new ones in their place; a different color, a fresh fate.
One of them is gone, their thread knotted off in a sudden stop on the tapestry of our story. But who?
Who did we lose?
“I've seen it. I've heard it. I've bloody felt it. Everyone I speak to says the same. Every one of them knows what a great heart you have.”
Percy and I first met at that bonfire by the chocobo stables. I was shivering, fresh off the fucking ship and completely unprepared for the weather, and he stood next to me and promised me everything I could ever possibly want, if only I made a promise in return to be a loyal friend to the Family. I was so desperate for a place to belong, I would have signed anything, done anything -- what had mattered was that he would have me. In this brave new world, I had people looking out for me. A place to call home. Structure. An institutionalized, freshly liberated fuckhead like me desperately needed structure.
So what if it came with a little price? The list of my sins is long, and breaking and entering is pretty far down at the bottom. Bar brawls are inconsequential, when you’ve already essentially aided and abetted war crimes. So, I’m wanted by both House Desrosiers and House Beaumarchais for stealing a thing or two from their daughters’ manse. So fucking what. Percy and I -- There are bonds that can only be forged at three in the morning, sitting on a crows’ perch halfway across the city under the moonlight, doing pre-job surveillance on some fart-sniffing nobles through their window. I’m not saying we kissed. I’m not saying we didn’t, either.
This is what I’m thinking about, when I look down at Percy’s lifeless face, drained of the rosy pink that always sat on his cheeks during those cold-ass stakeouts, huddled together at the shoulders for warmth. If I touched him now, he would be so cold, so unnaturally fucking cold, so I don’t. I can’t bring myself to touch him; to do anything but stare with my mouth half-open and a sob dying somewhere between my sternum and my throat, turning into just another burning pit to fizzle and die in my stomach.
Except it doesn’t have the good sense to die. It turns to steam, turns to pressure, backs up the entire clockwork machine that keeps me chugging along, and it must be vented or else I’m going to fucking explode, but I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. It stutters inside me like a hitched gear. The whine seems to come from my chest, high-pitched, like a kettle about to scream. Is that me? Am I screaming? I don’t know myself. I am not me, in this moment. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know who is on the cot below me, whose silver close-cropped hair sits on this head, whose too-round spectacles reflect the light in the room too thoroughly for me to be able to see if their dead fucking eyes are open or closed. I don’t know which is more terrifying.
I leave. I run. My boots scream against the floor of the ship, clap against the dirt outside, and I don’t stop running until I can drop to my knees and bellow to the impassive clouds. This is my fault. Judgement rings in my head in a cacophony of voices. My fault. My fault he’s dead.
What am I doing here? What have I done?
Percy’s line, cobalt blue, is so cleanly snipped from my fabric that all I can do is finger the empty spot where it might have kept going. Maybe one day we could have found compromise; a future where the three of us could get along without jealousy, without miscommunication or hurt feelings. I’ll never fucking know.
I have always thought of myself in big terms. I am man, I am machine, I am god. I’m the architect of my own form, and I have crafted myself in my own image. Nothing makes me feel more powerful than looking in the mirror and seeing my face look back at me; the face that I sculpted, the body that I shaped. The people that I’ve been in the past are not dead, but rather they have been stitched into my organs. The girl that I was lives in my marrow and feeds my blood, and I am never alone in the cathedral of my body. I am holy. I am enduring. I will move beyond the ghosts at my heels and continue forging a forward path, with those I love woven into the never-ending project that I call my self.
But even a god looks puny as shit, crying into the dirt over a fallen friend. I need to feel this. I need how small this makes me, how insignificant I am in this moment. I gotta remember how crippled it makes me feel. This humility -- it needs to be sown into me, too. So I don’t make the same mistake again. It’s the least I can do.
I can’t forget. I won’t forget his face.
“What a precious, precious thing we've gained.”
#FFXIVHeartless#lucas nevin#balmung rp#ffxiv rp#IC post#castor arendt#cheche dotharl#lux lunseer#sui eclair#tieve corwell#percy d'armagnac#adian hawke#izar yunhaai#sage adhi#(and more!)#[S] Lucas: Be the Heir of Blood
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Put On Your Raincoats #20 | Squalid Motels and Desperate Gals, courtesy of Kim Christy
This review contains mild spoilers.
When I first heard of Kim Christy, I knew I had to delve into her work. Here is someone who was involved in the drag scene in the '60s and went on to direct and produce pornography from the '80s onward. She's also a trans woman director (and occasional actress), which is not just unusual in golden age pornography but even mainstream cinema today. Unfortunately, figuring out where to start was a challenge. There's a very good interview with her on the Advocate but which doesn't really delve into her directing work. So I did the highly risky and ill-advised move of scanning through the titles in her filmography and trying to pick out ones with interesting sounding premises. Even this was a challenge, as a lot of her movies sounded like they didn't have a terrible amount of story. (A good many of them also had certain slurs in the title, which are unfortunately common in trans pornography.) So out of the crapshoot of movies I picked, I can't say I really got to the bottom of what makes her work interesting or even gelled to most of them, but hopefully I can convey what makes the ones I did take to interesting.
To start with the most slight, the two Divine Atrocities movies are basically a collection of sex scenes. There's a theme of dominant women running through them, but otherwise there isn't much tying together in terms of staging, aesthetics and the like. The segments have titles like "The Leather Lass Tamer", "Rubber Rampage" and "Ms. Degradation", but truth be told, nothing here is terribly shocking. So there isn't a lot to either of these movies, but if you're watching it for those reasons, they're enjoyable enough. A few of the segments feature trans performers, and I did find that Sulka had a nicely imposing screen presence in her scene, and while Sugar Nicole briefly threatens her partner with her "big black cock", I did like that for the most part the movies don't discern between these scenes and the ones with cisgender performers. In the eyes of Kim Christy, there's room for everyone in this great sexual melange. Also notable is the threesome scene with Janey Robbins, who (after likely reading Dan Savage's column) tells one of her partners, "If you don't find a different way to fuck me, you can forget it, I'll have to find somebody else", and in the first time in the history of civilization, gets mad at her male partner for not climaxing quickly enough. "You always say it'll only take a few minutes. Time is the only thing I can't replace, and it always takes too long."
A bit more substantive narratively but less interesting is Momma's Boy, with a premise that you can guess based on the title. Tantala Ray presides over a brothel set during an indeterminate period, where she presides over her girls and also her son, who mysteriously became a deaf-mute at a certain point of time. Why did her son become a deaf-mute? Will we ever find out? Spoiler: it's incest. Tantala Ray does have a weird enough screen presence to make her parts watchable, but this has none of the charge that, say, Taboo brings to the same material. (It's worth noting that Ray in this movie, looking like a debauched queen of Mardi Gras in one scene, is a camp villain while Kay Parker plays her role straight in the other movie.) As it's shot on video, the movie is not very nice to look at, and the dirt cheap production values make it unclear whether this is supposed to be a period piece. Some of the dialogue is amusing ("Oxford?" "Guess again." "Princeton?" "Try Biloxi Tech, my sweetie."), and there is some old timey music and one of the clients wears an ascot at one point, so it's not a totally squalid affair. (It's classy, see? He's wearing an ascot.) As the son, Jerry Butler does a cringe-inducing lisp, but I did chuckle at his last line.
A bit easier to recommend is True Crimes of Passion, where Janey Robbins plays a private detective (cheekily named B.J. Fondel) who invariably bungles her investigations and winds up in sex scenes with the people she's supposed to be investigating. "Out of the fog and into the smog" begins the overwrought voiceover, which truth be told doesn't compare to the likes of Chandler but I guess the effort is nice. The first case involves her investigating the wife of a minister whom her client suspects of infidelity. Surprise, surprise, it turns out the wife has a girlfriend with whom she has dominant sex. Thanks to Robbins' investigative prowess, she gets found out and forced to join the proceedings and ends up getting her client, a Dan Quayle looking motherfucker in a cowboy hat, captured as well, which leads to an incredible burn.
"The lord will punish you for this."
"The lord already has, he gave me you for a husband."
Also, when Robbins is forced into cunnilingus, she says over narration, "Oh Christ, I'm not even sure I've seen one of these things up close", and yeah, okay, Janey.
The second scene is probably the most notable as it features Christy as a performer. Robbins visits her friend to investigate a death threat against her friend's brother (also Robbins' ex), and the twist can be deduced when you start wondering why a seemingly minor character gets an unusually large amount of screentime. The scene features a trope that likely isn't terribly sensitive by modern standards, but I get the sense from that Advocate interview that Christy isn't too hung up about such things and one must concede that the film is a product of its time and genre (and within that context, there's a lot worse out there). The last scene has Robbins spying on her neighbour in hotel to get some industry secrets, which leads to some really awkward dialogue about champagne and then a threesome involving her client and mark. Like the work of Yasojiru Ozu, this scene breaks the 180-rule, but I guess if this is your thing, you might enjoy it. At the very end, the mark just gives up his secrets to the client. The secrets of male bonding sometimes elude me.
Easily the most accomplished and enjoyable film from Christy that I watched was Squalor Motel. It combines the sexual variety of the other films with a sense of camp and grounds it in a distinct, memorable location. There isn't much more "plot" than the other movies, as it's basically about a motel concierge doing her job over the course of a day, but as it follows her bumping into a variety of (usually horny) guests and finding herself in amusing (and unfailingly sexual) situations, there's enough of a narrative through line that it feels like a "real" movie where the other movies strained for similar effect, and the movie uses a soundtrack of icy synths and jazz that sounds like imitation Angelo Badalamenti to give it all an alluring vibe. I'm gonna make a wager that David Lynch would have liked this movie. Look, I have no idea what his viewing habits are or what sends his motor running, and the thought of him jacking it furiously to this or any movie is not something that brings me pleasure. But this shares some of the campy tone and surface qualities of his works, and I also wanted to leave you all with that image.
Why does the motel have its own house band (to whom people try to listen to while they engage in all kinds of sexual congress)? Why is Jamie Gillis made up like a vampire and trying to sell marital aids? Why does the one guest's blow-up doll turn into a real person (and prove, uh, extremely vocal during their scene)? Why is the owner wearing a pig mask and a tutu while he spies on his guests? Why is everyone laughing at the newlywed? Why is the one scientist with a Hitler mustache and his shrill-voiced assistant conducting experiments (read: having a threesome) with Tantala Ray? And how are most of these things taking place in the mysterious Reptile Room in the middle of the motel? With an extremely winning Colleen Brennan in the lead role (sporting a pair of thick glasses, a Lucille Ball updo, and a big, toothy smile), we'll have a pretty good time finding out. Like a lot of hardcore movies, this is pretty episodic in structure, but its distinct atmosphere gives it a nice sense of momentum as it drifts from scene to scene.
With its nice production design (and the fact that it seems to have actual sets, rather than being shot in what I assume are people's homes like in the other movies), Squalor Motel feels a bit more upscale and lavish than the average porno. While I don't have any budgetary information handy, I do know that the production had an assistant director, Ned Morehead. To what extent he contributed to the movie's DNA I can't say for certain, but the directorial effort of his I watched, also produced by Christy, had many of the same qualities. Desperate Women starts off feeling pretty stylish with its spraypaint style opening credits (although it loses a bit of style when it misspells star Taija Rae's name as "Taja Rea"). Taija Rae plays a reporter who ends up wrongfully convicted for a murder and thrown in brutal women's prison presided over by the sadistic Tantala Ray, who seems to get her jollies from spying on her prisoners as they get it on or abusing them with the help of her dimwitted guard. During such incidents, the guard frequently ends up ejaculating on her uniform as a source of comic relief. (One such scene ends with a shot of a photo of Ronald Reagan.) I must however disclose, without revealing too much about the shameful inner workings of my hopelessly degenerate mind, that the denouement of scene involving Ray, her guard and Sharon Mitchell did not leave me unmoved. Mitchell plays a prisoner who befriends Taija Rae, and it's worth noting that despite being one of the best actresses in classic porn, she's saddled here with an atrocious Hispanic accent and at one point sings a bit of "America" from West Side Story.
By porn standards, this is actually quite well produced and has a relatively sturdy narrative. (I must however note that one scene has a blatant ejaculation-related continuity error.) Women in prison movies tend to be pretty squalid affairs in general, at least in terms of production values, so this doesn't feel too far off from the real thing and offers more explicit versions of the same pleasures, while its sense of humour gives it a nice campy quality. Tantala Ray especially delivers in a pleasingly over the top performance as the teeth-gnashing villain (the camera often frames her severe face in wide angle close ups), and say what you will about Sharon Mitchell's accent, I did like seeing her pop up in here. With all the flamboyance and excitement around her, Taija Rae almost becomes a supporting character in her own movie, although I must confess that I found her character's hopeless naivety pretty cute. ("I didn't wear rubbers, it's sunny out".) With a fun cast, a firm handle on the genre's pleasures and a groovy soundtrack, this is a pretty good time.
#film#movie review#put on your raincoats#divine atrocities#divine atrocities 2#momma's boy#true crimes of passion#squalor motel#desperate women#kim christy#ned morehead
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day five: courting
content warning: language
@omegaverse-sfw-week
In terms of all romantic affairs, Ezekiel was one oblivious motherfucker.
No matter who attempted to court him, they would always give up around the fourth or fifth gift that Ezekiel hadn’t even realized were romantic in nature. Flowers? ‘Oh, thank you, they’re gorgeous!’, and he would proceed to put them on his window sill and not think twice. Chocolate? ‘Thank you so much, your gifts are gracious and appreciated,’ and he would give them out to the staff at the palace without a second thought.
Any suitor that Ezekiel was set with by his parents eventually gave up, because they were trying through all of the conventional courting method, but failed to realize that even though Ezekiel had been educated on the manner of courting, he was a man of words. He was a man of action. Gifts were something he received every single day, and help was something he received at the snap of a finger. These things could not be used to court him, because they had been given to him all his life, so they meant nothing to him. Any biological instinct had been repressed and hammered down for an unearthly persona.
That’s why when Oscar first started sweeping Ezekiel off his feet, Ezekiel was off and running. Never before in his life had a man taken him out in public so freely. Never in his life did he get to go out in plainclothes and dance on the bar and enjoy a live performance that didn’t involve at least one full sized orchestra. Oscar would call him down from his balcony, like in some old fairy tale, and take him off to do something new every week. It was exciting, and it made Ezekiel’s heart pound. This was the language of love that he had heard for so long. But the problem was, Ezekiel didn’t know how to show signs back.
He wanted words from someone else, but had none to give himself. He was tongue-tied when Oscar looked at him with those honey brown eyes and showed him the moon. He was lost for words when Oscar took his hand, rough calloused skin against soft cold skin, and led him off into the night. When Oscar twirled him like a maiden, tripping over the boots and trousers that he was so unused to.
Oscar gave him excitement, new experiences, made his brain melt, heart pound out of his chest, and Ezekiel was wondering to himself if this was what love felt like. They had been going out at night for months before he even acknowledged the possibility.
And of course, the first thing he does when he thinks he might be falling— tell Florence. Tell her of the dates, the live nights, the firecrackers in his chest. He preened his feathers in anticipation for God’s sake. He told her late one night, while they were in his room— in his nest— about the feelings, and the dates, and the butterflies.
And Florence immediately took to laughing— no, cackling at Ezekiel’s situation. She wore herself out after a few moments of giggling, and turned to Ezekiel with a broad grin and joyous, yet mischievous eyes. She cupped Ezekiel’s face in her pale, freckled hands and cooed at him.
“My love, My world, Ezekiel, darling— you are absolutely, annoyingly in love.” She murmured to him, shaking his head with her hands. His feathers ruffled and he shook his head on his own, fixing an askew braid.
“Well, you could have said so simply, no need for all the fuss—” He murmured to himself, immediately cut off by Florence with a squeal.
“Of course there’s need for fuss! You’re in love, darling, it doesn’t happen every day! You must let me meet him, see if he’s good enough for my boy.” She smiled.
“But how do I let him know?” He asked, voice full of concern and slight unease, for fear that he may be reading the situation wrong. “And what will Mother and Father think?”
Florence immediately shook her head. “They won’t know! You don’t tell them anything now and they’re fine, what’s one more thing?” She grinned wide, fangs glinting in the dim light. “I’ll help you show your love to this boy, and should he reject you, we’ll kick him to the curb!” She giggled, and Ezekiel leaned in for a hug.
“Thank you,” he whispered, “you know this means the world to me.”
She didn’t reply, but he felt her giggle in the crook of his neck.
“So when is he coming next?” She pulls away, grabbing a pillow to hug, like girls at a sleepover debating the latest and greatest gossip.
“Two days time. Every Friday evening he comes to the balcony, knocks on the beam thrice, and I’ll jump out. Not a long fall, so it doesn’t really matter. I get in through the servants entrance near the stable.” He explained, motioning with his hands over to his balcony that currently had the curtains closed, meant to block the light in the morning.
“We’ve got to gussy you up! Put you in a pretty dress, pretty collar, and get him a present!” Florence flapped her hands in excitement. She had read all about this in the novels in the back of the palace library.
“I— Alright. I suppose you can doll me up a bit.” A flush spread across Ezekiel’s cheeks, hiding his face in the sleeve of his nightshirt.
Florence’s squeal had to be muffled, lest she wake up the palace.
For the present, Ezekiel thought that Oscar most likely wouldn’t like some bougie jewel, or some awful fruit basket like so many had used for him in the past. So he decided that he would make something. He would string together beads on a spool of thread, braiding the thread for strength before. He spent most of Thursday evening making that bracelet, but it came out just the way he wanted. Not the best, but most definitely homemade. His excitement grew greater by the hour.
By the time Friday rolled around, Ezekiel had to force himself not to smile in excitement as to not arouse suspicion. When he was done with all his lessons, and Florence was done with all her duties, they found themselves in Ezekiel’s room yet again, Florence digging through the back of his closet for something functional yet pretty. Ezekiel had been dressed femininely from birth, but often wore a gifted pair of trousers when he went out with Oscar, so he was excited to dress up for once. He would have to be careful should he choose to wear heels, however.
When Florence finally made up her mind, she let Ezekiel choose from two dresses, both shorter than he was used to as to not get caught up when walking. First was a gorgeous white lace-y number with all the frills you could think of. Second was a more simplistic, yet still white (it was good contrast and it worked with his wings) satin body con dress that hung on his frame nicely. It let his wings be fully exposed, as well as an almost shameful amount of leg. If his mother saw him in this number, she would be scandalized. Ezekiel loved it.
“Where did you get this, Flor?” Ezekiel’s voice was stunned as he spun in the floor-length mirror, hair done up with one or two braid hanging down to frame the sides of his face. His wings were preened and shone in low light, dark skin contrasting gorgeously.
“Don’t ask me the questions, just enjoy it!” She smiled, spinning him around and humming with excitement.
She put highlighter powder on his shoulders, collarbones, the tops of his cheeks and his nose. And lastly, a nice white collar, to cover his neck. He may be dressed like a half-way harlot tonight but he still had his wits about him. And lastly, he put on the bracelet that he was to give Oscar. It clashed awfully with the rest of his outfit, but he would only be wearing it for so long.
And just as he was thinking, he heard it. Three knocks on the short column supporting his balcony. Florence clapped quietly, leading him to the door, and pushing him out, staying covered by the shadow of the curtain.
Now in the open, more arm and leg showing than nearly ever before, with the man he was planning to confess to staring him up and down, he felt vulnerable. He was almost scared for a moment, before he remembered that he did this for a reason, and that Florence was right there and her hard work should not go to waste.
Ezekiel walked his way up to the edge of the balcony, heels clacking against the stone, and he leaned out onto the railing and smiled softly at Oscar. He was dressed in plain clothes, loose black poet blouse and brown pants with those damned brown knee-high boots he was always running around with. His short hair had a middle part, ear length and wavy. It was mussed, as it always was, and his brown eyes reflected the light of the moon. Ezekiel could see his small hybrid ears through his hair, perked up. He was just here, as himself, and Ezekiel thought he was gorgeous.
“You..” Oscar found himself at a loss for words, “you look fuckin’ gorgeous, darlin’.” He swallowed heavily, freaking out on the inside and trying not to show it.
Ezekiel was the same, though he was better at hiding it, as he was better at hiding any emotion. He stepped over the railing, sitting for a moment and taking the heels off so he could jump to the ground. He put them back on, and with them he easily gained a few inches on Oscar. He liked how the man looked up at him.
Ezekiel looked back to smile at Florence, her giant grin only evident if you knew where to look. Then, he turned back to Oscar, fiddling with the gift bracelet, before taking it off and holding it out for Oscar to either take or reject. Ezekiel looked away.
He felt the bracelet being taken out of his hands, and it wasn’t long before the bracelet was replaced by a warm hand, hand that he had felt before, hands that he wanted to feel every day for the rest of his life, and he laughed softly. He laughed. And Oscar stepped closed to him, and closer, until they were nose to nose, Ezekiel’s wings fluttering, Oscar’s puffy tail swishing back and forth, back and forth.
“Can I kiss you?” Oscar asked.
“Yes, please.”
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A Little Brother’s Warning: Ryan Michaelson
This was a request from @burtlederp! Hope it’s what you were looking to read :)
Tagging the Danny crew: @bleeding-demon-teeth, @spiffythespook, @finder-of-rings, @whumpywhumper, @pumpkinthefangirl, @special-spicy-chicken, @whale-whumps
CW: Not much. Some reference to the events of So Broken and Not Broken, so you’ll need to read those before it makes much sense, probably. Discussion of violence.
"The American healthcare system can stop panicking now," Ryan Michaelson announces as he pulls aside the hospital bed's curtain with a flourish and holds up the small, surprisingly heavy black rectangle in his free hand. "The money is here."
Then he pauses, making a face at what he sees.
“You’re definitely not my brother.”
“N-No, thank God,” Nate replies, voice dry as a desert. He’s sitting with his legs hanging off the edge of the bed and still has his jeans on from earlier, although Ryan notes with a lurch in his stomach that he can see dark spatters of blood soaked into them. Instead of a shirt he’s wearing one of those tie-in-the-back hospital gowns, pale blue and printed with tiny little flowers. “We can’t all h-h-have the misfortune.”
“I think you mean the epic good luck, thanks... besides, your weird-ass relationship with my brother would be much creepier.” Ryan recovers easily from the moment of surprise - expecting to see his tall, long-limbed brother and a shock of red hair and instead getting the shorter, more muscular, dark-haired Nate Vandrum.
“In, indeed.” Nate sighs and looks down at his hands. They’re heavily bandaged, the both of them, and Ryan swallows a little. “D-D-Danny is g-getting… he needed st-stitches on one of th-the cuts. He’ll b-b-be back in a bit.”
"And you?"
Nate shrugs. "I c-cut one hand. My b-b-bad hand is b… bruised, m-m-mostly, but I scraped the kn-knuckles, so they wrapped it up, t-too."
Ryan fights a sense of nervousness at walking into a place where Danny should be and finding him not there, shaking that off quickly enough as he pulls up one of those awful hospital chairs, designed to look like they’re padded but it still feels like you’re sitting on bumpy stone nothing anyway.
The last time he was in a hospital, Danny had pneumonia and it had been an absolute nightmare trying to deal with his terrors and trauma while Nate huddled in the waiting room, rubbing his hands together, utterly unable to do a fucking thing until Danny was sedated.
This time, Ryan walked into a room to find Nate Vandrum the patient, sitting perfectly still in a way that unsettles him. It makes him think of those nature documentaries with predators that just lie in wait. Nate is calm, placid even, his green eyes dark and fathomless.
Somehow, Ryan feels even less prepared for this.
He drops into the chair, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “So… on the phone, uh, you said you guys got attacked by someone? You weren’t… super up for giving me details at the time, so…”
Nate rolls his eyes - just barely - and Ryan fights a smile at the simple sign that he’s human. There are days Nate Vandrum feels more like a bit of stone or a robot following his brother around the world. “I w-w-was busy,” He says, not quite flat.
“Are you busy now?” He keeps the irritation out of his voice… but only just.
Nate glances down and over at him, and then sighs. His fingers twitch where they stick out from the bandages and he winces, a little. “I g-g-guess not. Someone… t-triggered Danny, at th-th-the bookstore.”
Ryan nods, slowly, hands folded over his stomach where he slumps gracefully into the chair - or at least does the best he can to slump, as the chair’s hard wooden back and awful pastel padded backing fights him every step of the way. “He triggers a lot. Less often now, and I don’t think at the bookstore in forever…”
“N-No, Michaelson,” Nate says, shaking his head. Ryan looks back up at him, noticing for maybe the first time how tired Nate looks. There are shadows under his eyes, around the bottoms of his cheekbones. He looks older than he is, and Ryan’s mocked him for it relentlessly before even knowing that he shouldn’t, but he can’t see anything to mock in that face right now. “This g-guy… triggered him on p-purpose.”
Ryan feels his heart still, for just a second, before it beats again. “On purpose? What… what do you mean, on purpose?”
Nate slumps over a little, shoulders hunching, resting his elbows on his thighs. “His n-n-name-... the guy th-that hurt D-Danny… is C-C-Connor M… Manning. He’s a p-prison guard at… at B-B-... at his p-p-prison.” He swallows, rubs at his face with one hand, and Ryan understands all at once - like cold water washing down his back - just why Nate looks so old sometimes.
It’d age anyone fast, to keep so much locked inside themselves for so long.
“Did he… he drove all this way?” Ryan’s voice drops into something closer to a whisper. “Just to, to get Danny fucked up? Did that-... that motherfucker tell him to?”
There is a rage that stirs in him at the thought, the buried anger that usually only comes out when he’s blackout drunk. He feels it inside him, pressing against the confines of his skin. His left hip starts to warm up oddly, like someone is holding a heating pad to it for too long.
“I d-d-don’t know y-yet. The cops t-t-took him in. Danny was s-s-sitting on a couch, I just… I just w-walked away for a second, Michaelson, it’s… just a second.” There was guilt on Nate’s face and in his voice, and some petty childish little voice in Ryan wanted to snap back you shouldn’t have, what were you thinking but the thing was… that was his mother’s voice. That was how she talked to Danny, about Ryan.
And he’d be damned if he was going to turn into Corrine today.
“I know,” He says instead and his voice is softer than he even meant it to be, and Nate looks up, surprised, to meet his eyes.
Honey-colored eyes (where are you from? Well-meaning people used to ask, and when Ryan would say Northern California, just like you they’d snort and then ask, with an awful subtle emphasis, no, no, where is your family from?) meet the dark, deep green.
Nate looks at him, a little stunned, and then his eyes drop back to his bandaged hands. “H-he, uh. Melody came and g-g-got me-”
“Melody? Oh, the one with pink hair. I like her. She’s an absolute doll. I went on a few dates with her a couple months back, but then, you know, Remy and I started talking more and…” He trails off. Nate’s face hasn’t changed, but somehow… Ryan catches himself anyway. “Sorry. You keep talking. I want to know.”
“Right. I d-d-don’t know what h-happened, and D-Danny’s not talking, or doesn’t kn-know… I’m not s-s-sure which. M-Melody told me Danny had l-left with some… some g-g-guy, and he looked… empty.”
Ryan nods, slowly. It’s his turn to look down at his hands. He knows the exact look Nate is describing - the vacancy in Danny’s face when he’s lost in the woods, every expression an effort laced with terrified resignation. Hunched over, making himself small, covering the parts he thinks will be hurt next. “Good of her to get you,” He offers, and Nate nods slowly.
“Right. I th-thanked her, I just-”
“I’ll thank her, too,” Ryan says, not quite a whisper.
“Good. She c-c-came with me, and we were looking ar, around but I c-c-couldn’t-... I was, was so s-s-sure for a second that I’d l-l-luh…” Nate’s voice began to shake and he puts his hands up over his face, hissing through his teeth at the pain, but he doesn’t drop them, he only presses harder, until he can calm his voice.
Ryan only watches.
“I was s-sure I’d l-lost him,” Nate finally finishes. “That we w-w-wouldn’t find him, that someone had t-t-taken him but without m-me this time, I c-couldn’t be th-there to help h-him survive it…”
Ryan swallows, hard, and sits slowly forward. When he reaches out to put a hand to Nate’s knee, the older man jumps, dropping his hands to stare wide-eyed at Ryan. “Hey. I, uh. I know what it’s like to lose him. I get you.”
Nate nods, very slowly, and then says, “When I f-f-found him, M-Manning was… c-c-cutting his, ah, B-Bram’s name for him into his st-stomach.”
Red.
The heat in his hip again, the bristling, boiling, coiled-up anger that Ryan wants so badly to find some outlet for. He can feel the hissing of it in the back of his mind, the simple fact that he could have ended that asshole that had hurt his brother, if it weren’t for the sense of being constricted, held in, trapped in some way he couldn’t name. By obligation, maybe, by who he was. Even if he deserved it, a Michaelson committing cold-blooded murder… “He was what?”
Nate stares at him. “Cutting h-his… p-puppy name into him. D-Danny was… he was in th-th-the woods. He, he was… Red.”
“That… that motherfucking son of a goddamn bitch.” Ryan takes in a deep, shaking breath, aware as he does that he can hear his own voice like it’s echoing around inside his skull.
There’s a long silence before Nate’s eyes begin to widen. “R-Ryan?”
Ryan can see every detail in his skin, every single pore, the individual black hairs on his head - hints of gray, here and there, just like Danny has a little silver. They said it was from the stress, the trauma, the years of it.
Ryan can feel, he can hear the song of blood rushing through Nate’s veins as his heart speeds up, begins to pound. He’s just so fucking alive, Nathaniel John Vandrum is so alive, and suddenly Ryan thinks that most people are just so small.
So small and so full of rivers of blood and they can lie circles around the green green land but they age fast and die in the end.
Where the fuck did that thought come from?
Nate ducks his head, looks at Ryan through his hair, the way he does when he’s frightened and trying to appease - what Ryan thinks of as his Looking at Denner face. His voice shakes again, and he’s so human. “Ryan, please let go of me-... your, your eyes-”
Ryan blinks and looks down to realize he has his hand closed around Nate’s bad knee so tightly his fingernails are digging in and fuck, he needs to clip them like yesterday, they’re nearly long enough to go right through the heavy denim fabric.
He yanks his hand back quickly. “Shit, Nate, I’m sorry, I… I just-... he was cutting Red into him?”
Nate nods, silent, his eyes moving from Ryan’s face to his hands and back to his face again. There’s a wary nervousness on his face that hadn’t been there before, and he shakes himself all over. “I s-s-saw him and I asked him what he was d-d-doing and th… the next thing I know, I’m b-b-beating the d-d-daylights out of him and D-D-Danny was t-t-telling me to, to stop.”
Ryan considers this, trying to press back his anger. Someone had hurt Danny… again. Life kept kicking his older brother while he was down, again and again, and Ryan only ever stood by and watched, absolutely unable to do a damn thing. He’s been complicit in every single awful thing his mother and father had ever done, he couldn’t help when Danny went missing, he had to stand in a different room while Danny filmed his testimony because it hurt, so badly, to not be able to help.
And now… this.
In this case, he’d been at the gym when Danny was triggered and absconded with, he’d been on a fucking weight machine because it was fucking arms day when some asshole was cutting his brother up, carving that motherfucker’s stupid fucking dog name into him-
“R-R-Ryan… please, your, y-y-your eyes,” Nate says, very low, the soft submissive voice he’d only used once with Ryan before, when Ryan’s hands were about to go around his neck and Nate had started seeing things, hallucinating him as Denner and his stupid dead sister.
Nate, hands bloody and bandaged from beating the shit out of someone who had hurt Danny, is scared of him.
Ryan snaps himself out of it, pressing one hand lightly on his hip. He can’t remember exactly when it started, but he ached there all the time now when he got really, really angry… Maybe just a blood pressure thing.
“Y-your eyes g-glow when you’re ah, angry,” Nate whispers, and Ryan blinks at him. He feels a little worn out, all of a sudden, and slumps back the way he had been before.
“What?” He rubs at his temple with the palm of one hand, a headache starting to inch its way in. Dehydrated, he thinks - he hadn’t had enough water today, and he’d been at the gym when he got the call and probably hasn’t had anything since...
“Y-y-your eyes gl… glowed… You g-g-glow when you’re ah, angry. Just l-like him.”
“No, I don’t.” Ryan frowns, unsettled by the open fear in Nate’s face. Scared of him - and, no matter what he felt about Nate, he didn’t want the older man to be scared of him. “Look, you’re seeing shit, like you said. You had a freakout, you did a really good thing, you’re just coming down from it. Danny sees shit all the fucking time.”
“I’m n-not Danny,” Nate says, but he looks uncertain, now. Second-guessing himself. “I t-t-take my pills, I see Dr. Rosa, I haven’t h-had a visual one s-s-since…”
“Doesn’t mean you won’t have one today. When’s the last time someone actually attacked Danny?”
Nate doesn’t answer, but his green eyes have turned inward, and Ryan sighs, wondering how long he’ll have to sit with his brother’s boyfriend pretending to get along. There’s a long silence punctuated only by the ticking of a clock hanging off the wall over by the hospital room’s TV. Ryan can hear nurses chatting down the hall, the squeaky sound of someone rolling an IV with a bad wheel.
Somewhere, they are sewing his brother up - and Ryan quirks a hint of a bitter smile. “Hey, I should tell you something, Vandrum.”
Nate rakes a hand back through his hair - then hisses at the flash of pain.
Ryan barely hides his laugh. “Oh, no, you won’t have access to your all-time favorite nervous habit. You’re going to be a fucking mess, huh?”
Nate drops his hand, slowly, and glances down at Ryan with that same unsettled expression. Any other day, he’d snap back, have some retort, and they’d both leave feeling like they either won or at least held up their end of things fairly well.
Today…
Ryan eventually sighs. “Hey. Look. Before I’m any more of an asshole than I already am-”
“Too late,” Nate says dryly, miraculously without stuttering through the words.
“Ha ha, you’re hilarious.” Ryan rolls his eyes, and Nate cracks a smile - faint and barely there, but he sees it. Both of them slowly begin to relax. “I wanted to say… um… thanks. For going after him, for… for stopping the guy. For busting the shit out of your already-busted hand to defend my brother. All of it. I’m.. sorry I wasn’t there, to back you up.”
“You’re s-s-sorry you weren’t th-there? On our d-d-date with us?” Nate raises an eyebrow - just the one, all by itself, and it’s a skill Ryan would kill to master.
“... fuck off, you know what I mean. At least you admit you’re dating now, you gave him a ring and still didn’t admit-”
“I l-love him.” Nate cut him off, voice suddenly firm and stronger than it had been before. “Ah. We s-said it today... I l-love him.”
Ryan is silent, staring at him, and then says in a low voice, “Well I should fucking hope so, Vandrum, because otherwise you’ve been mooching off my brother’s total adoration for you for a year now. Why are you telling me something I already know?”
“Y-you knew?”
“Of course I knew. I can read people, my brother best of all, and he was in love with you a long time before I had to look at your fucking face every day while I’m trying to eat breakfast.” Ryan sighs and pulls his credit card back out, fiddles with it. It’s plain black, with the faintest shimmer if you turn it the right way under the light. He’d been so proud of himself when Dad gave him his first card attached to the family account.
What’s… what’s the limit on this, Dad?
The limit is ‘don’t do anything stupid’.
The silence draws out between them, but it’s a little more companionable than it had been before. Finally, Nate shifts around a little, and Ryan glances over at him, then at the TV, playing some kind of mindless house-hunting show. I think the last time I was in a hospital and someone wasn’t watching HGTV I was ten and it was when Danny fell out of the tree.
“Look…” Ryan clears his throat when his voice catches, tries again. “Look. I want to say something to you about this bullshit you have going with my brother. You buying him that ring, and all that.”
Nate looks at him, and something in his jaw sets. “I w-w-won’t apologize for the r-ring, Michaelson. He d-d-deserves something to r, remind him.”
Looking at Nate’s face, Ryan is reminded of the cold, hostile mask he had worn at trial, self-protective, an attempt to keep Abraham Denner from seeing him get upset. Nate had said more than once Denner fed on it, and Ryan had to admit, he did seem to leave every day energized when everyone else was exhausted.
“I’m not asking you to apologize for the ring, jackass. I wanted to say…” He flips the card over, looks at his name printed on the back. “I just… don’t fuck it up.”
“What?” Nate blinks - this is clearly not what he expects to hear.
“Don’t fuck it up. My brother’s whole life, everyone around him wants somebody else more than him… except for me, I guess. He’s my only brother and the only one I want, anyway. But… everybody else. Mom, Dad, his boyfriends in high school and college… everyone decides they want someone else, and they fuck right off, and the universe kicks my brother in the balls once again.”
“M-Michaelson, I don’t intend-”
“Shut up and listen. I get that you two… that you figured each other out or something, up there.” Ryan waves one hand in the air, as though Canada were a mile in the air instead of several hundred miles north. “I get it. But he’s my big brother, and he’s kind of my little brother, too, now, after everything that happened to him…”
He swallows, and leans forward, catching Nate’s eyes and holding them.
“Vandrum, if you fuck this up - if you hurt him, if you add one more kick to the balls for my big and little brother… please trust me that some asshole in an alley is the least of your problems. If you break his heart, I will fucking murder you.”
Nate stares at him, and then starts to laugh, leaning slowly over. He has a low, deep laugh that breaks out of him, as though he works so hard to keep it inside that he’s sort of forgotten the sound. “I h-h-haven’t been given this s-speech since I was, ah, y-y-younger than y-you. And last t-time it was his father, and h-he had a sh, shotgun.”
“I don’t have guns - not on me, anyway - but I do have the amazing superpower of being a little brother who waited four fucking years to see Danny smile again.” Ryan shrugs, holding his hands out with palms to the ceiling in a ‘what can you do’ gesture. “I mean it, Vandrum. Thanks for saving him today, and… for saving him before, too, I guess. But if you fuck up and hurt him, I will definitely make your death slow and painful.”
Nate smiles at him, the scar at one corner of his mouth pulling it just slightly to the side. After a second he holds out one bandaged hand, leaning over, and Ryan meets it - not shaking, he’s too hurt for that. They touch palms, a bare brush of fingers, and call that enough. “Deal.”
“I will murder you.”
“G-Got it.”
“Very, very slowly.”
“Y-Yes, you s-s-said that.”
“With a really confusing murder weapon so the cops never know what killed you.”
“Right.”
They sit there smiling at each other until Danny comes back, pushed in a wheelchair that he looks almost comically too tall to actually sit in.
Ryan turns to look at his brother, relieved just to see the clear blue eyes. The scarring around his face, his neck, his hands and arms… all of it to Ryan is just part of who Danny is, now. He never bats an eyelash at it, it all means Danny lived, that he came home.
Nate Vandrum set a fire - and Nate Vandrum beat a guy half to death in an alleyway - and Ryan had to admit… he was maybe 10% less of an asshole than Ryan told everyone he was.
“Hey, Ryan,” Danny says, with a lopsided smile. “You came to drive us home?”
“I came to pay your medical bills, you doof.” Ryan says, rolling his eyes. Then he looks up at the nurse, flashing her his most brilliant smile. She blushes, just a little, and he reads across her face an easy enough story of how quickly she would give him her number if he asked.
Too bad, he thinks. Remy’s been calling again, and… he’ll skip the opportunity, this time. Maybe next time, though.
“Is there someone from billing I could talk to?” Ryan asks her, and watches her tuck a bit of hair behind her ear with a smile.
“You’re his brother?” She asks, head tilting his slightly.
Ryan laughs. “Yes. I’m Ryan Michaelson. I’m also the money.”
#Daniel michaelson's story#whump#trauma recovery whump#siblings#brothers#original fiction#caretaker#caretakers#recovering whumpee#hospital#medical whump#not really#but still#little brother shenanigans#threatening the boyfriend: a time honored family tradition
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Part 2: After the Auction
Alastor wasnt used to losing.
Not in the sense that he would flip over the board of monopoly if someone had stolen Boardwalk and Park Ave. from right under his nose. Though Husk swore that he would never again count cards when playing with Hazbins no matter how hilarious Alastor's face had been when he handed over the last of his colorful paper money to the feline when he landed on the overpriced blue territories.
No, Al wasn't a sore loser.
But this DrAngler44 was a bad winner if he ever saw one.
"Computer offend you again, babe?"
Alastor had gotten into a habit of playing with Angel's laptop while he went through his hour long nighttime ritual of thoroughly bathing himself, drying and dusting his fur and followed by his face routine and ending by brushing his teeth.
The laptop had been a gag gift from Vaggie, who had found it amusing to see the two old men fumble their way trying to figure out how to use it. After figuring out how to set it up, Angel was the first to master searching for things and using helltube. Alastor was more than happy to call it Angel's laptop if it meant he didnt have to continue embarrassing himself trying to figure the damn thing out.
But then Angel, during their nightly cuddles, mentioned finding a funny sounding video on Helltube that one of his fans uploaded recently. It was a haul of his merchandise, both recent and vintage.
And the vintage items certainly caught Alastor's attention. He scrolled down to the comments, smile widening as he figured out how to torment demons in a way that wouldn't upset Charlie. Angel's delighted face as they watched the doe demon unwrap a limited edition trilogy called "Lady Science".
"Holy shit," cried Angel, accidentally jostling Alastor in his excitement, "Sorry, babe."
Alastor rolled over on to his side but kept a hand buried in Angel's fluff, "It's no problem at all, cher. I take that you are fond of this particular installment of your rather impressive repertoire?"
Nodding, Angel turned down the volume but paid careful attention to the goodies that came in the set. "This one was so much fun to do. The director is an incubus, one of Lady Lilliths personal court now, which is a shame cause I loved working with him so much."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, he gave me artistic control and even let me write this one! It did so well that we did two more. You should really listen to the commentary on that one, it's a hoot!"
"Do all of your picture shows have commentary?"
"Some of them, yeah. Well, the fun ones do." Angel glanced down at his thighs where the bruises were covered by his pajama pants, "Mostly the ones Val ain't got his nasty little talons in which, these days, they're few'n between."
After that conversation, Alastor borrowed a few films from Angel's library and, with Husk's reluctant help found the commentary.
"I'd ask why you're watching porn of your boyfriend banging other guys but quite frankly I dont give a fuck," grumbled Husk as he took a seat next to him.
Alastor paused the video and gave the feline a side glance, "Just what do you think you're doing?"
"What? It's not like I'm going to beat off with you here and I know your virgin ass isnt going to get off to this either."
Eyes and smile sharpening, Alastor said, "My good fellow, the implication that you are going to, as you crassly put it beat off did not go unnoticed. I'm not going to let you watch my beau in the throes of ecstasy."
Husk snorted, "Why not, all of hell has."
"They're not my friends, Husker. Now, go away. I'd hate to cut our friendship short because you lust after my darling."
At this, Husk spat out his beer, "I- I don't, you know what, I'm not drunk enough to unpack that one. You enjoy," he squinted at the title, "Angel in The Baby Sitter."
"I intend to, old sport~"
One film had turned into two and three, five, until Alastor watched well over half of the videos in Angel's collection.
Who knew Angel was so beautiful when he was genuinely happy and having fun without the use of drugs. Ah, he did! But it was still refreshing to see him this happy when at work.
It was so endearing that he couldnt help but want to see more. Unfortunately there were only so many films left in Angel's library and the newer stuff had Valentino written all over it. So once again enlisting Husk's help, Alastor learned how to use the laptop to find where to buy Angel's earlier work.
"You know you can always ask him to get you more...fucking addict." The last part was muttered under his breath so Alastor ignored it.
After all it wasn't an addiction and it was, well, there were worse things to be addicted to than wanting to hear Angel's witty comments and joyous laughter.
"Or you can watch the actual porn with him and have him comment irl." Both men turned to see Cherrie grinning at them, "What? The princess said I could visit with my bestie so long it was in the parlour. Bet she didnt know there were a couple of old horny motherfuckers in here already."
Slamming the laptop shut, Alastor picked it up and made his way out, "What you do with your mother is your business. Now if you excuse me, I have things I need to win."
Angel found out because there was no way his sales suddenly boosting both on the Studio's website and on auction sites went unnoticed by Val who asked him to his office and nervously informed him that all future productions were going to be overseen by the incubus director Angel was so fond of.
That had been a few months ago and Alastor usually always had that air of self satisfaction that he usually attributed to an amazing release but Al wasn't one to do that and his self satisfaction came from securing items lesser demons wanted to get their repulsive hands on.
Those nights always resulted in heated make out sessions and some light petting on Alastor's part and ended in cuddled sleep.
Tonight, however, when Angel stepped out of the bathroom, he found Alastor glaring at the computer screen face void of a smile before carefully and slowly typing with his two index fingers.
Angel covered his mouth to hide his endeared smile, "Computer offend you again, babe?"
"Not the computer," muttered Alastor, his brow furrowed in concentration as he continued to type out his message in the chat of the auctioning website he frequented, "Some imbecile is flaunting the lot I wished to procure."
"Aw, I'm sorry, doll." Walking up behind his disgruntled beau, Angle draped his arms around Alastor's shoulders and rested his chin between his fluffy ears, giggling as they twitched in response, "You know I can just go through the Studion Vault and steal ya whatever you want. Not like Val actually keeps track of my older work anyway."
Alastor stopped typing and glanced up at Angel, "You mean you can find me this beautiful photograph of yourself? And the corresponding body pillow?" He pointed at the images DrAngler44 uploaded, "I loathe the idea of this creature having these photos of you but I admit that it is wholly because I had just the spot for them in my office at the radio tower."
When Angel didn't respond, Alastor frowned and spun around on his chair to tug Angel onto his lap, "Mon ange?"
"I haven't seen these in years," replied Angel, still staring at pictures. "Hells, this was the very first time I ever let my stupid feet be photographed. I had to beg Val to destroy most the of the copies and cut the photo off at the feet. You know there are only like 3 of these, right?" Ignoring the sudden burst of static, he counted off who had the other two copies, Vox has one cause, of course he had to have my feet in his possession and Lucifer has the other one cause Lilith thought I looked cute."
The static grew worse behind him and, now that he thought about it, maybe he shouldn't have brought Vox up. Angel felt Alastor tightened his hold on him, "You ok, baby?"
"Can you help me write my message," gritted out Alastor through his smiling teeth. Angel typed it out much quicker and sent it with Alastor's approval.
Alastor got up and carried his beau to bed where he tucked Angel in much to the spider's protest, "What about you?"
"Oh, I'll be back soon, cher. Vox has something I want."
#radiodust#hazbin hotel alastor#hazbin hotel angst#im just gonna upload this to ao3#eventually#its become something of a fic#panda writes
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