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lit-in-thy-heart · 3 years

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that's right, i'm back with more merlin gif thoughts

today: mithian

more specifically: why she chooses to cling to merlin.

If you look at the shots before and after the attacker in the first gif, you can see that she changes from being in front of Rodor to jumping behind Merlin (she also looks like she's been running from a different direction but we'll gloss over that). Now, Mithian is more than capable of handling herself, but she has been exhausted by the ordeal Morgana has put her through and doesn't have a weapon on her, so it's understandable that she wants to have a bit of security by back-hugging someone else. It also makes more sense that she'd go for Merlin, who is probably not going to actively engage with the enemy, to be more out of harm's way but, at the point of the first gif, Rodor is also a viable option. After all, both he and Merlin have a sword, and both are just as likely not to use it (of course, Rodor does, but Mithian doesn't necessarily know that).

So why does she choose Merlin?

Merlin has miraculously recovered from a serious head injury and has sprinted all the way there. By all accounts, he should also be exhausted. And look at the way he's carrying his sword. It's fwubwubwubwubing all over the place, especially if you compare it to how Rodor holds his. It's pretty clear that Merlim hasn't had much experience in using a sword, even if he did just use one to save Arthur. Merlin, by all accounts, is still recovering, and cannot fight with a sword in combat to save his life. Yet Mithian grabs him and nearly pulls off his jacket in her desperation.

Neither of them are stood in the best position, either. Sure, they're away from close combat, but the way that they're angled (and the way Merlin is holding that sword, it's not a stick) means that they could very easily be caught unaware by a blow on their side. Yet Mithian isn't angling Merlin in a more offensive position, which makes me think that she trusts him, despite never seeing him in combat. And whilst he has been close with her in this episode (very interesting, given their somewhat rocky start in 4×11), trusting someone in most areas doesn't necessarily mean that you trust them in combat.

Does Mithian know that Merlin has magic?

Mithian is shrewd. Extremely shrewd. She manages to pick up that Merlin doesn't particularly like her in 4×11, that Arthur values Merlin's input, and that there is someone else Arthur loves all during her first meeting with them. I don’t think it's much of a stretch to say that, knowing about Merlin's magic or not, she knows that he is her best shot at not getting injured.

Mithian has (presumably) lived in Nemeth all her life. She knows the land, the climate...and earthquakes are not going to be common, not on that scale. So when there's an earthquake and Merlin suddenly appears and Morgana doesn't follow them (Mithian is well aware of how powerful she is and she could probably avoid all of the debris -- I mean, she somehow avoids being crushed to death, so), Mithian is going to be putting some figures together. And even if she doesn't come to the conclusion of magic, she comes to the conclusion of Merlin seemingly has nine lives and some ethereal shit going on.

It's highly likely that the knights were trying to distract her by telling stories on the way and I can guarantee that there is an entire list of dangerous situations they've landed themselves in where Merlin has miraculously escaped unscathed, despite them all losing sight of him at one point and him having no weapon to speak of. Mystical servant who can repel death? I would also be clinging to that like a cliff edge if I was terrified and had no weapon.

Whether Mithian does think Merlin has magic or not, I think the key reason she clings to him is because of that blind trust. Mithian metaphorically clings to Merlim throughout the episode: she directs him to the rock with Morgana's name, constantly tries to tell him things through her face alone, and clearly feels she can lean on him (he helps her sit down when she has an audience with Arthur). There is no given reason for this extent of trust, but that Mithian can be so physically intimate with him after being constantly injured by Morgana definitely shows just how much she does put her faith in him. And that level of trust would definitely bleed into every element, including combat. Her father, Percival, and Arthur are all experienced fighters. But her father is weakened and she doesn't want to add to his load. Arthur and Percival were unable to notice that anything was wrong (aside from her father being missing), whereas Merlin immediately noticed her burn and was very quick to question it (and here I could go into a whole thing where Merlin notices when other people are acting off but nobody notices when he does, thanks @little-ligi for putting that in my head). So not only is Merlin able to repel death, but he is also incredibly perceptive. He is going to notice as soon as an attacker enters his peripheral vision. Mithian trusts him to keep them both safe.

So whilst Mithian may or may not know about Merlin's magic, she definitely knows that he is her best bet of staying alive. And the fact that she pins her life on his back is one of the reasons why I absolutely love them. There are three knights there, yet she chooses Merlin. Because something draws her to him, perhaps she sees a part of herself in him, and she knows that he is significantly more valuable than anyone gives him credit for.

#does this make sense? i hope so #i also have many thoughts about mithian's change in hair colour #but that's explored in one of my camelove2021 fics so i won't dedicate a post to it as well #it honestly amazes me how much trust and support there is between these two given they've had so little interaction #it makes me think that mithian and lance would have got on very well idk specifically why #mithian #merlin #bbc merlin #my gifs #merlin meta #another's sorrow #merlin 5×04 #5×04 #merlin gif thoughts

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wkemeup · 3 years

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The Kid from Queens

summary: Bucky and Y/n take a trip to Queens in search of the boy Bucky saved on the day that changed his life pairings: bucky x reader warnings: none! 🧡 series masterlist / series playlist

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

Bucky sank further into the backseat of the taxi, rubbing his palm against his jeans as he turned to look out the window. He was nervous, more anxious than you'd seen him in months. His eyes were unfocused as he tried to count the windows on the buildings, though they were little more than a blur. You curled up closer to his side, wrapping your arms tightly around his bicep.

“He’ll want to see you, Bucky,” you told him, brushing the hair away from his face. He was tense, firm muscle under your grip. “Did you know he lived so close by?”

Bucky shook his head as the taxi crossed the border into Queens. “It never came up.”

It was a Thursday evening when Bucky overheard one of the older guys down at the VA talking about a kid named Parker. He’d nearly frozen dead in his tracks, enough that his grip pulled you to an abrupt stop in the middle of the lobby, squeezing your hand so tight it began to ache. He was as rigid as you’d seen him the day Rollins stormed in the front door and nearly destroyed everything Bucky had built for himself. Only, this was different.

Bucky didn’t look as though he wanted to retreat, to escape out the back door and run until his feet couldn’t carry him. He was curious, a hitch in his breath, eyes glued to the men as they spoke fondly of a young kid who often hung around the VA in Queens, fixing up the computers with broken tech he’d swiped out of dumpsters and garbage bins.

It took a full five minutes before you could gather his attention again. He was too focused on listening to the men speak amongst themselves as he stood just on the edge of the room at a careful distance. His lips were curved into a frown, but his eyes were a little lost – sunken, sad. The dots were there on the wall, the red tape drawn along the board from Bucky’s time in Afghanistan to the kid he saved on the worst day of his life. You could tell by the stunned look on his face he never once considered the possibility of running into the boy again.

You carefully withdrew Bucky back to the kitchens where you sat him down and forced coffee on him. He was painfully quiet, his mind clearly running through every worst case scenario. While he was distracted and stirring sugar into his mug, you stepped outside to ask whether the men knew more about where Parker was staying.

It was Bucky’s idea to go find the kid, though it took him nearly a month to come around. He battled with himself for weeks about it; pacing along the living room, murmuring to himself about whether anyone from his old unit would even tolerate seeing his face after that day. He’d had enough experience with Rollins to tarnish whatever strand of hope he held onto that Parker might be an exception. Even though he saved the kid’s life, he still blamed himself for the loss of eight of their friends. He wondered if Parker did, too.

“Maybe we should go back,” Bucky started again, his hand quivering a little as you gripped it tightly. Excuses began to pile up, the dozens he’d considered since the moment he stepped into the back of the taxi. Maybe you would have let him back out if it weren’t for the cab rolling up to a steady stop in front of an old, brick townhouse with broken shutters and a baseball bat lying on the stoop.

You quickly paid the driver before slipping out the door, Bucky in tow. He stared up at the apartment for a while before either of you moved. The taxi was long gone, the gentle glow of a sunset just beyond the skyline. You could smell the fresh scent of oregano and garlic wafting from the open window in the living room, giving way to the garlic bread toasting in the oven.

“Bucky? You ready?”

He clenched his jaw, a deep breath filling his lungs as he started to shake his head. Bucky turned away from the door, facing you as you gripped his hand a little tighter.

“I haven’t seen him since it happened,” he admitted, shame seeping into his voice. “I don’t know if he would even—”

“Sergeant Barnes?”

Bucky took a few steps back as he looked up to find Peter standing on the doorstep of the apartment. He seemed to be surprised the boy had recognized him at all. It had almost been two years since they last saw one another, but Bucky had changed significantly from the picture you’d seen on Sam’s desk. His hair was longer now as it hung loose down by his shoulders, a scruff of beard covering his cheeks. He dressed in loose clothing and the absence of a limb in his left sleeve did not go unnoticed. He shifted himself to put his right side forward.

“Peter,” Bucky acknowledged tensely.

Peter bounded down the steps in feather light skips until he stood in front of Bucky. A smile lifted high into his cheeks as he looked Bucky over, a hand swiping through his untamed hair. He started to laugh, almost as if his body couldn’t quite contain the excitement, or maybe it was the nerves. His eyes flickered briefly over to you, though they didn’t last long. His smile didn’t falter for even a second.

But Bucky didn’t say a word. He held his ground, stone as a statue. Peter swallowed, a little nervous now in the silence.

“What can I do for you, sir?” Peter asked, his back straightening and for a brief moment you could imagine what he would look like in a military uniform, in beige camo and forty pounds of equipment on his back. He went from a kid to a man in a matter of seconds.

Bucky cleared his throat. “Just checking in on you.”

Peter’s brow furrowed. It didn’t seem like an answer he was expecting.

“Meant to do this a long time ago,” Bucky exhaled, scratching at the back of his neck, “just wasn’t sure if you’d want to—I mean, after what happened that day—”

“You mean when you carried me seven miles through open terrain while you were bleeding out?”

Bucky froze. You tried not to let the shock manifest on your features. It was the first time you’d even gotten a glimpse of what happened to Bucky on that day outside of his incoherent mumbling in his sleep. You glanced down to find Bucky’s hand trembling ever so slightly and you quickly slipped your fingers against his, giving him an anchor to hold onto.

Peter smiled, though it was softer than before. “Sir, you saved my life. I never got a chance to thank you for that.”

As Bucky looked at Peter, you could tell there was more he wanted to say. Whether it was to argue over how much of that praise he deserved or to remind the kid that he also lost eight others from his unit in the same attack, you weren’t sure. But before Bucky could part his lips, a woman appeared in the doorway of the apartment; long brown hair, wire rimmed glasses, and a wooden spoon stained in marinara in her grip.

“Sauce is getting cold, Peter!” she called, pointing to the kitchen with the end of the spoon.

“Sorry, Aunt May.” Peter grimaced, a flush of pink in his cheeks.

She narrowed her eyes upon Bucky, glancing over the army jacket hung over his shoulders and his last name woven into the emblem over the right chest. Her stance slacked. “Oh my God.”

She raced down the stairs. Before Bucky could get a word in, she threw her arms around his shoulders. He stumbled backwards a few paces, his hand slipping from yours as he stabilized her with a hand to her spine. He was rigid for only a moment, the physical contact of strangers not something he was entirely welcome to, though when you heard her whispering ‘thank you, thank you, thank you,’ as she held onto him, he started to relax.

He brought her nephew home.

“Stay for dinner,” she insisted as she finally released him. “There’s plenty.”

“Oh, I don’t know...” Bucky mumbled, a quick glance at you.

“Your girlfriend is more than welcome, too,” May said, a wink in your direction, before she headed back up the stairs and into the apartment. The smell of garlic bread drifted out into the street and you could practically hear Bucky’s stomach growling.

“I talked to Pietro recently,” Peter offered, a small piece of bait to draw Bucky inside as he began to ascend up the stairs. “He said he saw Rollins in county lockup last week.”

Bucky’s ears perked up, intrigued. Pietro must have been another from their unit and it seemed Bucky wasn’t the only one with a distain for Jack Rollins. He glanced over at you, almost as if asking for permission, and you gave him a smile in return, nudging him towards the door.

“Alright, alright,” Bucky conceded, a slight laugh in his tone. You followed him up the stairs; another stone loose from the baggage chained at his feet.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n

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arhvste · 4 years

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MIYA OSAMU - BUN IN THE OVEN

- summary - working alongside your husband brings moments of domesticity outside your home which you reveal is about to become a little bigger - fluff - x f reader

- an - this was based off of this ask an anon sent in earlier today, i’ve posted atsumu fic that links to this one !! thank you for the idea it was nice to write domestic samu :) this is also for @zumisace because i know you love samu and i love u >:)

“Oi, Samu! Stop flirtin with ya wife right in front’a me and get cookin, I’m starvin!” Atsumu whined as he rested his head against the kitchen prep counter which was currently occupied with countless cooking utensils scattered across the cool metal surface and various ingredients dotted around.

“Yer just jealous I have a gorgeous wife and you don’t” With a smug smile, Osamu wrapped his arm around your waist bringing you in close enough for him to press a quick kiss to your flour dusted cheek.

“Yuck! Not over the food I’m beggin ya!”

You giggled and pulled your husband back in close to you before turning to give a quick smile to his irritated twin.

“Perhaps we should find you a girlfriend Tsumu! I know a few people who I’m sure would be at least willing to go out on a date with you.”

“Yeah, you’d probably have to pay em first!”

You and your husband laughed lightly at the setter’s expense causing him to groan and sit up straight.

“I have plenty of girls linin up for me dont’cha worry bout that!”

Osamu snickered and motioned for his brother to take a tray of freshly prepped onigiri out to the front of the store.

“Yer damn right ya got a line waitin for ya, or more specifically, they’re waitin for ya to bring more food out so get to it.”

Atsumu grumbled but obliged as he slumped off the stool and took the tray with ease out to the front where drooling customers were waiting to pounce on any fresh batch of onigiri they could.

“You’re so mean to him sometimes.” You hummed as you continued to shape the rice into the correct size triangles as Osamu cut seaweed grass into accurate rectangles.

“It’s all outta love darlin.” He offered a warm smile to which you happily returned. “Of course he’s gonna be jealous I have a gorgeous, helpful and amazin wife! Anyone would be jealous.”

You blushed at his words and flicked him lightly leaving small dust prints of flour on his apron. “So gross!” You whined only for him to pull you into his chest and get you to look up at his handsome face.

Despite the fact the Miya brothers were twins, you still couldn’t help but find Osamu significantly more attractive than his older twin. This was even before you’d fallen for the man. There was just something about him that made him more desirable, not intending to offend Atsumu for he definitely wasn’t someone you’d consider unattractive. Perhaps it was his mature and responsible traits or maybe it was his hardworking and determination that drew you in. It didn’t matter either way though. You loved Osamu Miya for everything he was, physical and personal traits all included. He was the man you fell in love with and he was the man who had wanted you to become ‘Mrs Miya’, a title he often liked to refer to you as.

Osamu leaned down and rested his forehead on yours sighing softly. Caressing your cheek with his warm calloused hands, he pulled your face closer to his and pressed a warm and delicate kiss to your lips before securing his hand at the base of your neck while the other found its way around to the small on your back, drawing small circles with his index finger as he tenderly kissed you.

He was always good at catching you in these moments, Osamu never shied away from showing affection towards you whenever you had a second of privacy. The long hours he worked at his restaurants and home office took a toll on your time spent together, only making his levels of clinginess heighten until eventually it would snap and he’d refuse to keep his hands off of you when he’d get to see you again.

When you had suggested helping him in the restaurant he wasn't opposed to the idea at all. He knew he could count on you and that you were more than capable at cooking after being with him for so long. He loved the feel of getting to be domestic with you outside of the warm and loving home the two of you shared.

Finally pulling away, Osamu admired the soft twinkle in your eyes that he always found himself getting lost in.

“God, I’m lucky yer my girl, my favourite, beautiful girl.”

You hummed gently as you wrapped your arms around his small waist.

“Well, I hope you’re ready to potentially let me share the title of your ‘favourite girl’...”

Osamu’s eyebrow quirked in confusion as he muttered a puzzled “huh?” before you pulled one of your arms up to cup his warm cheek.

“I’m pregnant Samu…”

His eyes widened as he searched for any sign of insincerity in your expression. Then again, you weren’t one to pull a joke like this on him in such an atmosphere, you had to be telling the truth.

“Samu?” your voice laced with concern and worry as your husbands mouth stayed shut as he studied your form with soft but shocked eyes.

“Sorry! For real? Like, yer not playin with me are ya?”

“Of course not!”

Osamu felt tears prick in the corners on his eyes and wasted no time grabbing you by the waist and lifting you in the air in pure glee.

“I’m gonna be a dad? Fuck, I love you so so much y/n!” He laughed joyously as you let your own laughter intermix with his own.

Your home was about to become a family home and Osamu couldn’t have been happier. Not only did he marry the woman he loved, but now alongside you, he was going to get to raise a child the two of you had made together. A million different scenarios and questions ran through his mind as he placed you back down and wrapped you in a tight embrace. Would they look more like him or more like you? Were you going to bring your child to work some days or should he take time off. Would his kid be able to tell the difference between him and Atsumu? Would his kid even like onigiri? Oh, who cared? Right now, the most important thing on his mind was how much he loved you and wanted this with you.

Hushed but excited mutters of ‘I love you’ were traded between the two of you as Osamu peppered your face in soft kisses. Absolutely everything was right with the world in that very moment.

“Samu! Yer gotta get out there! Animals I’m tellin ya! Absolute animals out there! It’s like feeding hour at the zoo!”

Well, almost everything was right in the world.

“Comin yer idiot.” Osamu sighed before pulling away from you after you wiped his eyes.

“Thank fuck and- oh! Were ya crying ya little pissbaby?” Atsumu snorted when he saw his brothers slightly reddend eyes.

“Oh please, yer the only pissbaby here with yer stupid corn coloured hair.”

“It’s been toned since highschool actually, Bokkun taught me how to do it so I’d appreciate it if yer acknowledged that.”

“Whatever and besides, ya can call me pissbaby however much ya like but just thought I’d tell ya, I’m the one thats gonna be the dad to a real baby soon so shut yer trap!”

Atsumu’s mouth gaped open as he looked between you and your husband, surprise shown in his expression. You shook your head at the brothers typical bickering and strode over to the two of them grabbing another tray of freshly prepped onigiri to take out to desperate customers.

“I hope we don’t end up with twins.” You muttered as both boys snickered following out behind you as Atsumu bragged back to Osamu that his kid was gonna like ‘Uncle Atsumu’ more than his own father to which Osamu childishly quarreled back.

Nevermind a child, these two were enough for you to handle for now, but you just couldn't wait for your own angel to enter the world and had no worry in the world as you knew they’d have the best dad in the world and a semi-decent uncle.

general taglist → @atsumuwoah @bloody-bella @bbymilkbread @miracleboy420 @doggonudez @atsunakaashi @peteunderoos @tsukishimagizzard @saturnfarie @toffees-main @zumisace @boosyboo9206

#osamu miya #osamu x reader #osamu x you #osamu fic #osamu scenario #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#hq x reader #hq

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janeyseymour · 3 years

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Nobody Loves Me

a prompt from @givethispromptatry: "Nobody loves me -Are you calling me a nobody? "

WC: 1999

Katherine Howard had convinced herself that she was living alone in this world. Not physically- she had five other housemates- but mentally and emotionally. She was brought into this strange world with no one, or so she thought.

In the beginning days of them being brought back to this world, the young woman had finely adapted to the strange ways of the world. She was able to use her cell phone and most of the electronics that surrounded her in an efficient manner (far better than say... Catherine of Aragon and Jane Seymour). She quite liked that she could dress the way she wanted and wasn’t forced to be with men she had never wanted to stand within six feet of. If she so desired, she was able to leave the property that their house was on without much questioning (although we would be lying if the third queen hadn’t once asked her where she was going so late at night). On the other side, she was also able to stay within her room and request that no one bother her by simply closing the door. She didn't much mind the new world that she found herself in- a far different place than she had seen five hundred years before. The only blaring similarity to the former queen? Nobody loved her.

The five other queens had quickly put aside any differences that they had from the past. Katherine didn’t have any outstanding complications with any of the queens, not that she knew of. If she could remember correctly, Anna of Cleves had even said she loved her all those years ago. Her housemates had somehow formed a family dynamic that just didn’t quite make sense to her. She decided early on that she probably never would understand how the other five ex-wives of one man could reconcile and become friends. She never saw herself belonging to the odd little family they had created between them.

She kept her distance. Anytime another woman in the house would offer for her to join them, she declined- telling herself that they didn’t really want her to join in on whatever antics they had planned for that night. They pitied her; she wouldn’t fit in since she was much younger than the rest.

That came to head one day when the third queen insisted that all six of them turn their Saturday into a group day. The thought of spending all day with the five women she had lived in a house with for six months and hadn't spoken more than a few words to alone made her nauseous. Having to talk to one of the others about skipping out on the day was decidedly just as much of a daunting task.

Given that she wasn’t prepared for the blonde’s declaration of a family day, the clever woman knew she couldn’t fake illness. It would be evident that she was trying to get out of the “group bonding time”, as the third queen had stated. So, she did the only thing she could think to do as a last resort of evading having to spend time with the five older women. She went to speak to Jane Seymour in private.

Her heart pounded as she knocked on the door to the grey room, not quite sure how Jane would react. At this point in time, it was a conundrum how the blonde would act. She too was still getting used to the oddities of the new era they found themselves living in and was either warm and light or held onto her heart of stone.

“Come in!” Seymour’s voice floated through the air. The pink haired queen slowly opened the door to reveal herself. It was clear that Jane had expected someone- anyone- other than the lonesome Katherine Howard, her body freezing, dropping the hanger she was holding. “Katherine?”

All the fifth queen could mutter out was a quiet, “Hi,” as she fiddled with the hem of her sleeve, clearly not knowing what she was going to say to convince the third monarch to let her stay home.

“This is a surprise,” the silver queen chuckled as she bent down to pick up the object. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m-” she bit her lip. “I’ll just-” she bit it harder, almost violently enough to draw blood.

“What is it Katherine?” Jane continued on with her laundry, although not before throwing the flustered queen a look of concern. “If you keep gnawing at that lip of yours, you’re going to draw blood.”

“I don’t think I should come out with you all today,” Katherine’s mouth blurted out before her brain could process what she really wanted to say.

The blonde, who had now made her way over to her closet to hang her clothing, turned around and raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I’m just not feeling well,” the younger woman lied through her teeth, and not very convincingly at that. “I don’t want to be a-”

“Were you feeling ill this morning?” Jane set the shirts on her desk before promptly making her way over to the girl still standing in the doorway nervously and resting her hand on the youngest’s forehead. “You don’t feel warm to me? Is it your stomach?”

Katherine mulled over this for a second. Technically, her stomach was bothering her. She nodded.

“Is it cramping?” A shake of the head. “Stabbing pains?” Another no. “Burning?” Again, it was a no. “Nausea?”

The thought of being forced to engage with the five others at once did indeed make her stomach flip, although the pink haired queen knew it wasn’t the nausea the elder queen was thinking of. She shrugged.

“Nerves?” Yes. The fifth queen nodded slowly. Contented that she had pinpointed Katherine’s ill feelings, Jane let out a sigh. “About spending the day with us?”

Katherine looked at her with pleading eyes. “Please don’t make me.” Jane’s gaze softened significantly, for she saw through the pleading and instead saw the fear that held itself in those young eyes of the woman in front of her.

“If you really don’t want to, I suppose you don’t have to. I’m sorry I tried to force it.”

“It’s just-”

“You don’t have to explain yourself Katherine. I understand that it must be really hard to adjust to this world after all that you’ve been thr-” Jane laid a gentle hand on the pink queen’s shoulder, but the way she jumped back would make a bystander think that she had burned her. “I- I’m sorry.”

“That’s just it!” The fifth monarch snapped. “I have adjusted to this world! I understand technology. I understand most of the culture that surrounds us nowadays. I’ve adjusted to the modern times, but there’s one thing that’s never changed! And that’s that nobody loves me! Nobody has ever loved me! It’s all out of pity that anyone shows me any sort of kindness. ‘Oh you poor thing having gone through everything that you’ve been through!’ ‘You’ve been sitting by yourself for some time now, why don’t you come join us?’ It’s all out of pity! Nobody really and truly loves me!”

The blonde’s stature had somewhat deflated, startled at the commotion the teen in front of her had caused, before she adjusted her posture to be standing as tall as she could. With a glint of defiance in her eyes, she cooly questioned, “Are you calling me a nobody?”

“What does that even mean?” Katherine looked at her bewilderedly.

“It means dear-” the pet name slipped off her tongue before she could stop herself. “-that I love you.”

“How could you love me when you barely know me?” It was clear the pink haired queen was growing frustrated.

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong,” Jane smirked. “We’ve lived together for the past six months, and even though you’ve barely spoken a word to any of us: we’ve all come to learn a lot about you, and we’ve all come to love you just the way you are.”

“Prove it. You don’t know a single thing about me.” Katherine crossed her arms in front of her body and gave the silver queen a daring look.

“You, Katherine Howard, like to re-dye your hair when no one else is around. You like to stay stocked up on granola bars because sometimes it’s the only thing you can stomach. You would choose peanut butter over chocolate anyday. You love nature, and you seem to always be at your most peaceful when you’re under the starry sky. You bite your lip when you're nervous, and you often play with your sleeves. You’ve been able to figure out how to make your way through this house silently at night, and-”

“You don’t know that,” the younger queen cut her off.

“I do. Do you know how I know that? During the day, we can all hear you moving around in your room, but once Aragon goes to bed, you’re silent. I’ve used the lavatory after you in the dead of night, and you never once make a noise retreating back to your bedroom. I’ve seen you travel back to your room, granola bars in hand silently at two in the-”

“How on Earth have you-” Katherine began to question her.

“Sometimes I sit in the sitting room and sip tea. You’ve just never noticed me. We know a lot more about you than you think we do. And we love you for it.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Oh but it is. Even though you never speak to us, almost as if you’d rather just blend in with the walls- we know you care about us. We care about you. Not once have we ever considered not caring about you. We’ve only been giving you the space you need to-” Jane was not cut off by words this time, but rather she was cut off by the younger girl flinging herself into the blonde’s arms, almost knocking the wind out of her with a bone crushing hug.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Of course Kat,” the nickname slipped out naturally. “We love you.”

“Thank you,” she let the tears roll down her face freely as she clung to the third queen with everything she had in her. “I love you guys too, and I’m so sorry I haven’t been able to-”

“I won’t hear that you haven’t shown us you love us. You make sure you’re quiet at night when the first one of us goes to bed. We’ve noticed that you spiffy up around the house when the rest of us are out. We’ve discovered that we are almost never out of all of our favorite things, and we’ve all pinpointed that you’re the one replenishing our stashes. You love us, you just show us differently than the rest of us. And that’s okay hun. We love you for it. We love you for you, just the way you are, right now. We just hope that you’ll begin to realize that and let us in a bit more. We care about you.” Jane gently pulled away so she could get a better look at the girl in her arms. “Do you think you can believe that we really and truly do care about you? It’s not a pity, I promise you.”

“I-” Katherine smiled, a bit teary-eyed still. “I- think I can try?”

“That’s all we’re asking,” Jane replied genuinely.

“Do you think I could still join you for today?” She asked hesitantly. After all the fuss she had made, even though the third queen had made it quite clear they would love for her to join them, the fifth queen couldn’t help but feel it would be out of pity.

“We would be delighted to have you join us Kat.”

“I- I kinda like when you call me Kat,” the youngest queen admitted sheepishly. “It’s... like I belong.”

“Kat,” Jane pulled her in close again. “You do belong. You’ll realize it soon enough, love.”

#six fanfiction #six fanfic #six the musical fanfic #six the musical fanfiction #jane seymour six #six jane seymour #six katherine howard #kat howard #katherine howard six

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war--lords · 4 years

Text

NSFW, Female!Reader

The whole ballroom shines golden, more so when you take into account the partygoers inhabiting it as if they are collectively in defiance of the rainclouds starting to form in the cobalt night. Le Comte, the only reason you are attending this ball commemorating some Duke’s something, is once again being swarmed by many charmed men and women of the high elite, and you’ve taken this opportunity to make a beeline for the food.

An hors d'oeuvre rests delicately between your fingertips as you watch the scene from afar:

Your benefactor, and most recently lover, surrounded by some of Paris’s most important people, men and women alike, some of which you recognize from previous parties. He is the picture of patience, replying with only the amount of words necessary to be polite and sociable at the same time. Having lived a long life as a vampire, he surely has the art of small talk mastered, but it is chiefly his poise and graciousness that attracts these people to him—this much you understand, for you are no different than them.

A lady, young and enchanting, extends a gloved arm to him and he gently kisses the back of her hand. It is a common gesture of the time, but you notice the look in her eyes as she looks down at him.

You know what lies in that gaze. Want.

That same not-so-well-concealed desire lingers even when she stares at him as he stands up straight again, as her plush carmine-dyed lips curl into a pleased, meaningful smile. As Comte speaks, she slowly hooks her arm with his, fingers drawing slow, sensual circles through the fabric of his waistcoat as if coaxing him to please, tell me more. She watches his lips form words.

And when he turns to look at her, he smiles. A pleased, meaningful smile.

You start to feel sick in your throat, chest, and stomach. The first you think to do is look away and take deep breaths, as much as your corset permits. Clearly, your emotions have taken too much control, but it’s too late because you feel jealousy sinking its ugly roots at the bottom of your gut. They were just being friendly, you’re sure. After all, etiquette is of utmost importance in the 19th century.

In your head, another voice replies to you—one that sounds like your own. She is being awfully friendly. The look in her eyes and the curl of her lips enter your mind’s eye again, and you cannot deny the purpose that lies behind them. Beautiful and treacherous she, waiting patiently to lure the Comte with her siren song. That sounds like a lovely story, she would probably say. Please don’t stop there.

God, you sigh, feeling as though you are split into two. You find that you are hating everything, and it has been less than ten minutes since the two of you entered the ball. It is undoubtedly going to be a long night.

A long night, you find yourself imagining the woman whispering that into your lover’s ear as she drapes herself atop him, and you grit your teeth. He has lived a long immortal life, much of which you don’t know about. Surely there were many more before you—women, men, all of them pretty and prim and lusting for him all the same? They must have held whatever place you hold in his life, too.

You try to shake the thought away. Have you become that overly-possessive, jealous person? You shake your head to yourself. That would be horrendous, and you would hate yourself for it.

He probably didn’t even notice that you’ve slipped away.

You swallow the doubt down with a flute of champagne, courtesy of a waiter passing by, and you find yourself glancing at the scene again.

The circle of people has significantly reduced in size. They’re laughing together.

At the exact moment you decide to pray to the higher powers to give you the boundless strength you need to get through the ball, a man approaches you, effectively covering the sight of your lover across the room. You recognize the friendly smile he beams at you—he is no stranger, but a son in a family of knightly nobility you have made acquaintance with from the many encounters at various events around the city. He has one flute of champagne in each hand.

“I was going to offer you a drink, Mademoiselle, but I see you’ve gotten a head start.”

You offer him a curtsy and a smile before downing whatever measly amount you have left within your glass, placing it onto a waiter’s empty tray, and taking his in your hand.

“Sir, I can handle one more.”

He guffaws, more than amused, and the two of you fall into a perfectly natural conversation about how life has been—the perfect distraction for your current situation.

You miss a pair of watchful golden eyes from across the room.

He steals glances at you while doing his best to maintain a sociable countenance with boiling blood, still surrounded by three-four people.

It is testing, even for him, because you seem to be engaging in animated conversation with the heir of the house of Monfort, and he said something to make you laugh. Not the polite laugh you reserve for small talk, but a genuine laugh, one that sends you flashing a grin wide enough you have to cover your mouth with a hand.

The grip on his glass of champagne is dangerously strong, and the Mademoiselle that is persistently latched to his arm has undoubtedly interpreted the flex of his arm as a result of his forbearing towards her unsubtle physical approach rather than his ever-rising temper aimed at the Monfort heir. You mentioned that the two of you have been talking more regularly at parties lately, largely because you judge that he has no romantic intentions towards you, but Comte knows better.

The noble of Paris are always planning. He might not want to romance you, but Lord on high knows there is a great chance he wants to bed you. Engage you as a companion. Comte closes his eyes, willing negative visualization away from his mind, but to no avail, for he has already pictured you in the man’s arms, blushing at the suggestions he whispers in your ear...

A gargle of laughs snaps him out of his thoughts. He wishes he could close the distance between the two of you, kindly tell the Monfort heir to look for another woman to ‘make conversation with’, and whisk you back to the mansion for a proper lesson to remind you who you belong to.

Comte quickly realizes that he hasn’t completely outgrown his rashness from his younger days. Taking another sip of champagne, he tastes nothing but the sour of it and decides to wait.

“Is something the matter, cherie?” he asks as soon as the carriage door closes. “You look like something has been bothering you throughout the ball.”

You swallow, quietly cursing his unbelievable insight—or your very easy-to-read countenance—or both. You realize that this is not something you can skirt around, especially with the amount of time you’re taking to come up with an answer, and the coaxing look Comte is giving you clearly means you cannot back away from this. You take a deep breath.

“Please don’t be upset with me,” you finally say, looking down at both your feet pointing at each other like it is the most interesting thing in the world.

If only you have the courage to look at his face instead, you will find that the placid, peaceful mask he wears at the ball is slowly crumbling.

“I, well, I’m not sure how to say this,” you begin, “but there was a woman you were talking to. Earlier at the ball. The one with the maroon dress...?”

Realizing where the conversation is going, Le Comte’s gaze darkens, uninhibited feelings beginning to bubble from the pit of his stomach. “Mademoiselle de la Roche. Continue.”

You are still not looking at him, opting to observe the moving scenery of the city outskirts from the carriage window instead. Even so, you feel the intensity emanating from the person sitting across you. Something about the night sky and the quiet of the outskirts helps you come forth with honesty.

“Well, I thought she was awfully close, and got a little jealous. Not a little,” you quickly correct yourself, smiling sheepishly, “you obviously noticed. I was jealous. I’m sorry, it was childish. I trust you.”

And that is when you meet his eyes, seeing the gold of his iris melted into caramel by his dilated pupils, the way his lips are slightly parted as he looks at you. Your breath hitches in your throat.

The coach lurches forward, and at the same moment, Le Comte uses the momentum to pull you towards him until you are sitting on his lap, chest to chest. You gasp at the sudden sensation of him pressed so tightly against you, and from above the hammering of your rabbit heartbeat, you hear the coachman from the front.

“Terribly sorry, sir! Other carriages are heading into the city, so there’s a bit of a jam here.”

“That’s quite alright,” you hear your lover reply before he quickly draws the curtains. And to you, he whispers. “Keep your voice low.”

You sigh, because the next thing you know he is kissing your mouth with a different kind of fervor, and his hand snakes up to cup your breast from over your dress. Your hands quickly find their way to his shoulder and into his hair as your body responds to the pleasure—sudden, but not entirely unwelcome. He groans into the kiss, muffling the sound, but from the way his teeth bite your lips and his fingers work the ties of your corset, he is growing impatient.

“You are cruel,” he whispers, moving down to your jaw and neck, “Did you not feel Monsieur Monfort’s gaze on your body? This body,” he says, accentuating his words with tugging the front of your corset, allowing your bare breasts to spill out for his eyes to see. His fingers tease you, pressing and circling your nipple, and you bite your lip so as to not make a sound, too stunned to do more than encourage him by stroking his shoulders.

“You’re so oblivious,” he continues while he litters your neck with deep kisses. “Man wants, my sweet, especially one that already has everything, like him.”

“He’s just a friend,” you gasp as he bites the top of your breast, lapping at the skin seconds after as if offering consolation.

“And Mademoiselle de la Rouche is nothing but another social climber.”

“Ngh!”

He finally slips a hard peak into his warm mouth, tongue flicking and toying with it while his hand on its twin mirrors his movements. You melt, all the tension and anger you’ve kept in your blood throughout the ball fading, replaced by an escalating desire. Warmth pools between your spread legs situated on his lap—Comte feels it, and his hand move further south.

“Don’t—”

He stops, unlatching your nipple from his lips to look up at you. The sight knocks the breath out of him.

You’re almost properly topless, save for the remains of the dress hanging helplessly around your frame, your face red and wanton, with parted lips and hooded eyes looking down at him, your naked chest heaving with each hasty intake of air—the very picture of desire.

“Don’t mention another woman’s name while you’re fucking me.”

Whatever remains of his calm is quickly discarded out the metaphorical window as he kisses you again, this time more desperate than the first, like he can’t get enough of your taste. You moan when you part, and he quickly covers your lips again to muffle the sound, hands on your breast and between your thighs. When met with a hot wetness seeping through your underwear, he smiles into the kiss.

“Then it’s only fair for me to erase all of the traces Monfort has left on you, yes?” He leans down again to pleasure your breast, while his finger insistently presses your clit. You throw your head back, a hand against your mouth and the other in his hair, quietly begging him for more. He laps and sucks and nips in a way that is best described as a man starved. His hand slips under your dress, stroking your thigh and playing with the garter, teasing, making you anticipate. The other is still on your clit, relishing the wetness that you’re coated in. His breath is hot on your chest, and even with your eyes closed, you know he’s looking at your face. He always does.

“That man’s eyes were all over you, cherie, did you even notice?” He asks, panting, admiring the work he’s done on your now flushed breast. Moving to the other, he begins again, this time with his fingers pushing your panties aside and sinking into your heat. You let out a ragged breath against your knuckles, willing your voice to never escape your lips, else the coachman finds out. Comte lets out a sigh amidst his ministrations, enjoying the softness of your flesh against his mouth.

“I’m sure he’s fantasized about this,” he says, and the quality of his voice makes it sound like he’s in a daydream, “about taking you home and having his way with you.” You whine at the sensation of a third finger being added into the foray, and the little control you have over your body and mind is now close to snapping.

“I’m a man who has everything, too,” he sighs your name and you resort to gripping the lapels of his coat as the pressure on the bundle of sensitive nerve grows, “and I want more of you, cherie. Come.”

And you do, breaking down silently into a mess from his fingers alone, inside a carriage taking you home. Your lips form mainly his name and other nonsense like oh god and yes while your body quivers at the impact of your orgasm. He watches with glazed eyes, drinking in the scenery that is making his mouth water, his appetite far from whetted. Comte strokes your cheek, waiting for you to come down from your high, observing your breath slowing down.

The first thing you do when you open your eyes is to search for the buckle of his belt. You work on undoing it with urgency, your eyes glinting still with a desire that reflects his, and when he sees you licking your lips and kneeling at the sight of his erect member, he nearly loses his mind.

“Sweetheart—”

“I want it,” you cut him off before he stops you, gently pumping him with your hand. “I want to give you pleasure too, you know,” is the last thing you say before taking the tip of him in your mouth. Le Comte’s hands fly to your hair, uncaring of the mess his fingers make by combing through them, and his head is thrown back, eyes locked on the scene unfolding before him. Every time with you reduces him into a helpless, desperate, hungry man that only wants one thing.

Your lips are slick with his precum, and when you look up at him and chuckle, your breath on him racks shivers up his spine. He watches as he sinks into you again, in and out, your hands caressing where you don’t reach with your mouth. He can’t take his eyes off of you, and with the knot in his stomach ever-tensing, he quietly calls your name like a mantra.

“Stop,” he finally says, feeling too close to release, and you immediately do as you’re told, looking up at him with concern. He resists the urge to groan at the absence of pleasure, but he manages to whisper to you.

“I want to come inside you.”

“Comte—” you sigh as he coaxes you off your knees and on his lap again, this time with the hardness of him pressed against your very core. Before long you’re panting, because he’s brought your hand up in his, kissing your gloved fingers as his other hand slips your panties to the side, allowing him to enter slowly. Your lips fall open at the sensation, and he hurriedly kisses you, unable to quiet his voice at the feel of you around him.

“Ma cherie,” he breathes, “as much as you’re mine, I’m yours.”

He begins thrusting and you gasp, because the carriage is suddenly moving again, at first slowly, but then gradually becoming faster. With each bump of the wheels against cobblestone, it rocks, pushing him deeper into you, and you no longer have the control to govern over the sounds coming out of your mouth.

“Ah, ah, ah—”

Comte presses a kiss on your throat before sinking his fangs, a catalyst to the most pleasure the two of you have ever felt in a lifetime. He relishes the taste of you, and the impossibly wet tightness encapsulating him like a velvet glove. You whisper his name, slave to the sensation coursing through your veins, body growing mad with wanting more. He pulses inside you, and knowing that he’s close, presses a finger against your clit and pulls you into a kiss.

Your hands on his chest stay still as you come undone a second time, the first of the night for him, the moans you both spill barely quieted by the kiss. You’re left weak and satisfied, but only until you see the look on his face when you open your eyes. Comte presses his lips against yours one last time as the carriage slows down into a stop. He hooks his arm under your knees, ready to carry you upstairs despite your unkempt state. You let out a small laugh in defeat, hiding your bare chest by pressing yourself as close to him as possible.

Right before the coachman opens the door, he leans down to whisper to you, a scandalous smirk on his lips.

“We’re not done yet.”

#Female reader #le comte #ikemen vampire #comte x reader #reader insert #ikevamp #scenario #imagine #imagines #tw:jealousy #smut #ikevamp smut

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toosicktoocare · 4 years

Note

ayy for the bingo prompts!! Possibly O5 for Jon? :)

Of course!

O5: Trapped in a small space with a fever

Am I going with a trapped in the elevator route? Why yes. Yes, I am.

When the old elevator jerks and rattles to a creaking stop, with the small, dim light flickering overhead, Jon stares, for an extended moment, at the doors as if willing them to tremble and slide open under a narrow, albeit tired, gaze.

Unsurprising, the power of his sharp look does nothing for dated machinery, and he only drags his gaze away when a voice crackles from the small speaker underneath the floor buttons.

“Hello. The elevator is stuck.”

“So it seems,” Jon draws out slowly, annoyingly jabbing at his own call button. He wants to tack on more- that he’ll be late for work, that he’s incredibly busy, and, though he’s not quite desperate to mention, that he’s working around a splitting headache that spreads fire across his face.

“We’re notifying maintenance, but I’m afraid it may be a while.”

Of course, Jon thinks, shoulders sagging. Easy would be the doors sliding open in just minutes, but he can’t recall a single moment in his life that was easy. His being is surrounded with difficulties of varying sizes, and this is yet another to pen into the books.

“Anything we can do for you in the meantime, sir?”

Jon slips his phone from his pocket, once again unsurprised to see a small, red X covering his signal bar. “Phone my work,” he starts, voice cracking slightly, throat stinging more than the night before. “The Magnus Institute. Let them know of my... situation.”

He tunes out the quick chatter that follows, instead sinking to the ground and drawing his knees up to his chest. The elevator’s small, its size fitting for the older apartment building. It’s already too warm, if the heat rolling from his face is any indication. His skin’s practically prickling across the ecompassing heat, and he fumbles out of his cardigan until he’s left tugging on his shirt collar and wondering how to tell when he’s fully suffocating under the pressing heat.

***

“Martin.”

Martin jumps, a small squeak clawing up his throat. He whips around mid-conversation with Tim to see Elias slowly dissecting him through gaze alone.

“Y-yes, sir?” He stutters, swallowing thickly around the lump forming in his throat. His eyes find the floor, a nervous habit, an inability to hold eye contact when backed into a situation such as this.

“It would appear our archivist is... trapped in an elevator in his apartment building. I need you to go and encourage the maintenance crew to work significantly faster as there’s much work to be done.”

Tim chokes back a laugh, masking his amusement through a few fake coughs into his fist. He peers around Martin, arching a single brow.

“Mind if I join him, boss? Do a whole good cop, bad cop routine?”

A flicker of annoyance tugs at Elias’s lips, threatening to give way to a tight frown, and he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Just make it quick, and do not come back here without my archivist.”

***

Jon can’t recall when he started shivering, when the heat heightened and gathered across his face, leaving the rest of his body uncomfortably chilly, but he can’t seem to stop. He wrestles with his cardigan, pulling it back on through jerky movements, and he tugs it tightly around himself, making himself impossibly small and tight in an already small and tight space.

His awareness is fading in and out. He know he hasn’t been in the elevator long. He also knows that he doesn’t feel well at all. His jaw hurts from the persistent chatter of his teeth, and his bones ache in a way that vastly differs from too many hours hunched over at his desk. He doesn’t trust his voice as it feels raw in a way that’s unlike the sensation of speaking into a tape recorder for hours.

Where his awareness lacks is why. Sure he’s familiar with running himself ragged, as Tim and Sasha point out to him far too often, but this feels different. Yet, he can’t concentrate as to why it’s different because his head is a jackhammer that won’t ease.

He drops his forehead atop his bent knees, hissing around the aggravating chill that won’t let up, and he drifts.

***

“Want to bet on how many of these poor blokes he’s yelled at so far?” Tim smiles easily, eyeing the various maintenance crew members who are all working quietly and quickly at the elevator.

“No, Tim, I don’t want to bet on something like that,” Martin groans, frowning, a look that’s plastered itself to his lips and hasn’t let up since leaving the Institute. “Let’s just... let’s ask someone what’s going on.”

When Tim doesn’t reply, Martin turns, brows furrowed, to see that Tim’s wandered off to chat with a woman barking orders right in front of the elevator doors. Shaking his head with a low huff, he quickly walks over to them, catching the two mid-conversation.

“-about an hour now, I suppose. He’s been awfully quiet.”

“Quiet,” Tim spits out, brows raising. “You mean he hasn’t been raising hell this entire time?”

“No,” the woman’s tone drifts as she brings her gaze down to the iPad in her hands. She taps a few buttons until a grainy camera feed fills the screen, showing Jon curled up in a corner.

“Yikes,” Tim mutters under his breath, motioning for Martin to take a look. “He looks rough.”

“He’s been sleeping on and off. He appears quite uncomfortable, though given the circumstance...”

“Can we speak to him?” Martin interrupts, and Tim pulls a sharp gaze to the unfamiliar color coating Martin’s tone, a dark, serious color he’s not used to hearing.

“Martin?”

“Something seems wrong,” Martin elborates. His gut’s twisted with a new presence of anxiety that he couldn’t ignore even if he willingly tried. Jon should be raising hell, a passive, dangerously softspoken hell, and yet... he’s morphed himself into a tight, seemingly unresponsive ball, and that, to Martin, is just all levels of wrong.

“Sure,” the woman motions to the small, worn speaker under the floor buttons on the wall. “Go ahead and take the camera. He’s only been responding to us via shaking or nodding his head as of thirty minutes ago.”

Martin shuffles to the speaker, thumb ghosting over the call button. He spares a glance over his shoulder, meeting Tim’s eyes, sharing a silent, brief conversation, and then he presses the button.

***

“Jon?”

Jon’s dreaming, he decides, the familair voice a distant echo that’s just too far.

“Jon? Can you hear me?”

Frowning, Jon rolls his head toward the voice. It sounds closer yet oddly unattainable.

"Wake up, Jon.”

It’s the last thing Jon wants to do by any means, yet he cracks his eyes open into small slits, opening them wider when he hears a sigh followed by a different voice breathing out a “thank god” from the speaker.

“Jon, it’s Martin and Tim. We’re just outside. How are you doing?”

Jon considers that he should move to press the button next to the speaker so he can tell Martin that he feels dreadful, but his body feels like lead, and he’s sure his legs won’t be able to support him if he tries. He opts, instead, to shake his head with a wince, and he coughs weakly, frowning at the new development.

“Jon, what’s wrong? Can you stand?”

There’s panic in Martin’s voice, his tone far too quick and a tad usteady. Jon shakes his head again and crosses his arms, fingers digging bruises into his skin.

“Are you hurt?”

Martin’s shouting now, alarmed, and Jon winces at the loud crackle that mixes in with his voice. He shakes his head again and points to his forehead, hoping the unspecific gestures will speak what he physically cannot.

“What- Tim, what’re you doing?”

“Boss, does your head hurt?”

Sighing deeply, Jon nods.

“How about the rest of you? Feeling too hot and too cold?”

Frowning, Jon drags a slow gaze around the elevator until he spots the small camera in the corner. He stares at it, brows furrowed, and he nods slowly, noting the sharp hiss and muffled arguing from the speaker.

“Tim, what? How do you-”

“He’s most likely got the flu. It’s been going around the office. I had it a few weeks ago myself, and it’s miserable. I doubt he’s slept properly last night, and who knows when’s the last time he’s had a sip of water. I’m going to move this along.”

Jon’s stomach twists uncomfortably at Tim’s words. He wants to argue; he wants to assure the two that he’s not been stricken with something as mundane as the flu and that he’s perfectly fit to go to work as soon as someone gets him out of this damn box. Yet, he can’t find an ounce of physical energy to feed his wants. He can only curl further into himself, dropping his head back atop his knees, and he’s already drifting once more.

“Just hang on, Jon. We’ll get you out.”

***

It’s another two hours before the elevator rumbles back to life. Jon’s asleep when it happens, but he wakes to two sets of hands hovering over him, crowding him, feeling his forehead, mouths moving far too fast yet too slow to beat around the ringing in his ears.

“-burning up.”

“Yeah, he’s completely out of it. Boss? Jon, you with us?”

Something cold is suddenly being pressed to Jon’s lips, and he welcomes it, his throat bobbing against the cold water. He reaches up to wrap shaking, greedy fingers around the bottle. He takes in big swallows until his lungs quake with a need to cough, and then he sputters around some water and coughs harshly into his fist.

“-shouldn’t go to work like this. I’ll call Elias.”

“Okay, I’m going to take him back up to his flat. Get a read on the fever.”

“Sure. I’ll meet you up there.”

Jon’s suddenly being pulled to his feet, and he moves with the steady grip on his arm. His legs immediately begin to cramp and tremble, and he sways, eyes glassy, unfocused, but then someone’s wrapping an even steadier arm around his waist, and the person is grounded, warm. Jon drops his head to the crook of the person’s neck, shivering, exhausted.

“It’s alright, Jon. We’re here.”

Martin. Jon hums lowly, pressing himself impossibly close to Martin, leeching Martin’s warmth. He can feel the elevator moving around them just as much as he can feel the worried side gaze on him. “I don’t feel well,” he admits, half-faded.

“I know, but we’re going to take care of you.”

Martin’s voice, like his arm, is steady, even, and Jon nods against Martin’s neck. For once, he allows himself to abandon control and place his trust into someone else’s hands, clutching onto the knowledge that Martin and Tim are here and that Martin and Tim will help him.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #sickfic #whump #whumpfic #martin blackwood #tim stoker #jonmartin #jonmartim #tma s1 dynamics #the archivist #elias bouchard

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hargrove-mayfields · 3 years

Text

I Hope That Something Better Comes Along

Today is the third day of HWOL!!! I chose Hurt/Comfort as the prompt! This story is cross posted on my ao3 at ej_writer if ya wanna check it out over there!!!

Word Count: 3,463

Rating: T

Warnings: Repeated Mentions of Domestic Violence + Gun Violence (there is no fighting or anything on screen but the aftermath, both physical and psychological is described explicitly)

The roaring engine of a Camaro z28 the next street over, the sound of keys jingling outside the front door, the stairs creaking under the weight of booted footfalls; Steve knows Billy finally made it.

He’d been expecting him for the last three and a half hours. They were going to go into the city just to find something to do, anything at all to be together and far away from here.

Clearly those plans had changed, but only because Steve knew not to wait up for Billy. If at all possible, he was always the most punctual person. If Steve said be there quarter to five, the doorbell would ring the very second the clock struck 4:45. So once the hands ticked well past midnight, he knew it wasn’t going to happen.

It’s for that same reason that, when Billy pushes open the door to his bedroom, announcing his presence with a quiet, rough little “S’me Stevie.” barely audible even in the silence of the night, he already knows something bad has happened.

Laying on his side, his back is to Billy’s side of the bed. Steve waits for the other boy to get settled, to kick off his shoes and let himself fall back onto the bed, slowly letting out a shaky sigh before he asks, “What happened, B?”

“Forgot I was s’posed to take Max to some school thing today.” Billy’s voice sounds worn out and scratchy and so, so tired.

“Is it bad?” He tries not to sound upset, he knows it only makes Billy feel worse, but he hates this routine more than anything, his boyfriend showing up at any hour of the night all worse for wear.

The worst part is probably how unaffected by it Billy pretends to be. “Haven’t checked.”

A long stretch of silence sits heavy in the room before Steve has the courage to ask, “Can I see you?”

The blankets rustle behind him as Billy, propping himself up on one elbow, reaches over top of Steve to the nightstand. Steve shifts so he’s on his back, and they’re face to face in the pitch darkness.

With a click of the little golden chain, the room is illuminated with a soft yellow glow, enough that they can see each other clearly. It’s a ghastly sight that Steve is met with.

Billy, poor Billy, with dried blood smeared on his chin, in his browline, on his knuckles, bruises and cuts littering his pretty face, turning it swollen and pale. He lets his hand fall from the lamp to rest against Steve’s cheek, his thumb rubbing circles on the smooth skin there.

Being able to see the damage takes Steve’s breath away. He whispers out, “Oh, Billy.”

But Billy can’t look Steve in the eye, his gaze focusing instead on the little hairs at the back of Steve’s neck fanning out across the pillow, on the moles that litter his face and neck, pretty much anywhere that he can to avoid the sympathetic look he’ll find in his eyes.

Because he’s already so weak, with tears already wetting his eyes, he just knows he’ll break if he does.

Steve wraps his arms up around the back of Billy’s neck, tangling his hands in his long hair, and says again, the shocked state his mind is in leaving it unable to come up with any other intelligent thought, “Oh, Billy.”

It’s the tremor in Steve’s quiet voice, the genuine, gentle concern that he finds there that does him in.

Billy sobs dry in his throat before any tears spill over, and lets his arms give out from under him so he’s laying on top of Steve, who wraps his own arms around him that much tighter.

Steve tries to comfort him, presses kisses to the top of his head and whispers little reassurances, “You’re alright baby. I got ya.“ but this is bad, the kind of breakdown that only happens when Billy’s scared, inconsolable.

“He’s g-gonna kill me.” Billy whispers into Steve’s neck.

Steve tries to comfort him, choosing his words carefully to not make him more upset. “No he's not, baby. M’not gonna let that happen.”

“He is. He s-said-“ His words trail off into a whine and a sob in his throat.

And Steve doesn’t like to ask Billy questions when he’s upset, but he can sometimes shut down for so long that it’s necessary to help him. “What’d he say B?”

“Gonna-Gonna replace me.”

“He won’t do that, sweetheart. He just wants to scare you.” Steve like to rationalize when Billy’s like this, prove to him that Neil said these things with specific intent to get him upset.

But Billy isn’t having it, shakes his head and explains, his voice breaking with the effort of stifling his tears. “No. He-he had a gun.”

And that just, takes the air right out of Steve’s lungs. It’s never been that bad before, and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do.

Because what he wants to do is panic, to call the goddamned cops on Neil Hargrove and get his ass put away forever, but for Billy, shaking and crying on top of him, that’s the very last thing he needs to do right now.

He tries to assure him, “You’re safe. He can’t hurt you here,” but Billy’s not listening, his head is somewhere else.

Steve recognizes that place as being in the beginning stages of a panic attack.

They’d dealt with quite a few of those, mostly on nights when something bad like this happened. He thinks he’s pretty in tune with what he’s supposed to do by now, but after they happen Billy’s always downplaying them, pretending like nothings wrong so Steve will stop feeling sorry for him.

“Hey, Bills, are you with me?” Billy’s a crier, so sometimes it’s not a panic attack, and he’ll be okay with just a little bit of TLC.

All he gets in response is a muffled whine against his chest, and that’s how he knows now isn’t one of those times.

Billy can’t speak when he’s panicking, sometimes he still can’t for hours after it’s over either, and that’s usually how Steve can tell if he needs to put a little more careful effort into helping him.

“Okay B, can you sit up for me?” It was better for him not to lay down, he’d told him that his ribs felt like they were cracking with the effort of him trying to catch his breath if he was on his back, so Steve always tried to get him sitting up.

But when he started to panic like this, Billy would basically shut down entirely, stop doing much of anything on his own and become dead weight.

Steve had to do all the work getting him off of him and sitting up against the headboard, and for a second, Billy panics in his hold. Thrashes against the arms holding him up to try to get away from his touch.

Steve lets go of him in a heartbeat, backing up to let Billy sit himself the rest of the way up.

He holds his hands up and apologizes, makes himself as unthreatening as possible. “I’m sorry, Billy, it’s just me. It’s just Steve. You’re okay.”

Billy looks at him and nods as a little acknowledgment, but his eyes go out of focus, and Steve notices him taking too shallow breaths, his cheeks flushing with the effort. “Can you breathe?”

Another shake of his head, followed by a broken off sob.

“Okay, look at me Billy, you’re alright, just gotta breathe for me baby.” He gets a hand behind his back, waiting to see if the touch is okay before rubbing circles as he tells him what to do to keep the panic from getting worse.

“In for five, out for five.” It’s real shaky, barely works to get any air into his lungs, but Billy tries, does it through the tears, choking on the deep breath in just a little. “Good. Again.”

It’s not as deep as it should be, and the breath out gets interrupted by another sob, but it’s working at least a little in the sense that the number of breaths he’s trying to take has slowed down significantly.

“That's it. You’re doing so good, Bills. One more time for me, alright?”

Still not perfect, but he’s not struggling for air anymore, so Steve’ll take what he can get. He lets him stop, because doing the breathing exercises too many times has been known to send Billy into a deeper spiral of thinking he forgot how to breathe and starting the attack all over.

“There, you got it.” He moves the hand he had on Billy’s back up to rest at the base of his neck, still using his fingers to draw comforting circles into his skin.“You did such a good job baby.”

Billy ignores the praise, lets his head fall back against the headboard and closes his eyes. He reaches for Steve’s other hand, grasping it tight as he can when the other boy laces their fingers together.

The tears are finally slowing to a stop, so Steve thinks it’s safe to move on to the next step. “We gotta get you cleaned up. Are you gonna be okay for me to do that?”

“Yeah.” Billy says without moving, his voice all scratchy and weak from sobbing, but Steve’s proud of him for even saying anything.

When Steve lets go of his hand and gets up, Billy goes to do the same, moving down the pillows so he can swing his legs over the side of the bed, but there’s no way Steve is going to make him walk down the steps to the first aid kid after that.

He puts his hand on Billy’s chest to keep him from getting up. “Uh-uh, you’re staying right here. I’ll bring it to you.”

“Don’t need you babyin’ me.” But he doesn’t make any more moves to stand up, just looks down at Steve’s carpet with a look of something like shame on his face.

“I’m taking care of you. It’s different.” He bends down and kisses Billy’s forehead, runs his hand down the back of his hair once. “Stay put, I’ll be right back.”

He hurries down to the kitchen where his mother keeps the band aid kit under the sink, grabbing on his way a couple of wet washcloths, a glass of water with ice cubes from the fridge, and a bottle of Benadryl.

When he gets back to his room, Billy’s where he left him, but he’s got one of Steve’s pillows clutched to his chest and his face buried in it.

Steve announces himself with a knock on the door frame and a “Hey.” so he doesn’t scare Billy, the other boy looking up at him for just a second before letting his gaze fall again.

He sets all of his stuff on the nightstand and grabs his desk chair, wheeling it around to the bed. One of the washcloths goes on the back of Billy’s neck to keep him alert, a trick Steve learned as a squeamish child from his grandma, and he makes him take a Benadryl before he’ll touch him.

“Please tell me if I hurt you.” He says, and waits for Billy to nod his response before he scoots the desk chair closer, so his knees are between Billy’s legs while he tends to the damage.

His face is the worst of it by far, getting worse by the minute with time for the bruises to settle. Steve’s first order of business is wipe all the blood off and figure out how bad it was underneath.

It’s not the worst he’s seen it by far, but there’s at least a dozen little scratches all over from Neil’s rings, a good portion of them deep enough to need bandaids, and bruises on his jaw and his cheekbone and his temple, already deep and dark.

Most of the blood seems to have been Neil’s, from breaking the skin on his knuckles open again and again as he hit his son.

But Steve notices there’s a few bruises and a split on one of Billy’s own knuckles, and the picture starts to come together.

If he had to guess, he’d say Billy had probably fought back. That he was getting his face beat in and threw a punch to defend himself, and Neil got so pissed off at the threat to his authority that he resorted to drastic measures to get his son back in line.

He sighs and takes Billy’s hand in his own, dragging the damp cloth across it to get the blood, before it could start to stain his skin, off. When he it pulls away the skins all irritated, and Steve brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss there where it was split.

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Billy, and Steve feels his fingers twitch as he fights the urge to pull away from the tenderness.

When he turns the chair to the nightstand to get another butterfly bandage for his knuckles, Billy blurts out, “I love you.”

Steve, admittedly a little taken aback smiles at him, it’s the first time Billy’s ever said it. “I love you too.”

~~~~~~

It doesn’t take long for the medicine in Billy’s system to kick in, and he’s out like a light, snoring heavily like nothing even happened. Steve finds the opposite to be true for him.

He’s too busy worrying about literally everything to be able to sleep. He just doesn’t know, what is he even supposed to do?

The cops aren’t an option, the Hawkins police were less than useless when it came to domestic violence. Steve remembers hearing that Joyce Byers called the police on her husband, and they insisted she was hysterical and over-dramatizing the situation until she ended up in the hospital, and he fleeing the city.

Tommy Hagan’s dad had called 911 on his wife once, and the cops never even showed up to check it out, said they’d file a report and hung up on him. Poor Tommy still had scars from the outburst that could’ve been prevented if anyone had done anything.

For that reason alone, Steve knows he can’t call down to the station with his concerns about Neil. If word got back to the old prick that he’d been snitched on and no arrest was made, he was sure the safety would go off, and Billy’d be just another example, another warning against getting help.

So Steve tries and tries to think of any way he might be able to do something, and there’s only one in particular that stands out in his mind’s eye: to move away. To load their shit in the back of Billy’s car because he had the title, and ditch this sorry town to go far, far away from all their troubles and out of control father.

How exactly he was going to convince him they had to leave though, Steve had no clue. He already knows Billy would say no, emphasized with a resounding fuck you Steve Harrington, because he would have to leave his sister behind, most of his stuff too unless they could sneak back into his house and smuggle it out somehow, and he’d never agree to that.

Leaving had been brought up a few times before, the first being towards the beginning of when they started dating, and they were figuring out each other's boundaries about the future. Billy had made it explicitly clear from the start then that he wasn’t stepping foot off of Hawkins soil unless his sister was coming with him.

Steve knew Billy’d probably take the bullet on purpose if it meant Max was safe, and he couldn’t do that if he had fucked off somewhere to hide from his problems.

But Steve isn’t letting him go back there, he’s made up his mind on that. They’ve gone through far too many rounds of this, this awful fucking game where he’s never sure if Billy will come back to him, or if the next time he’ll see him is in a body bag, and he just won’t do it again.

Because really, how many more turns did they have before the little red button wasn’t clicked in when he pulled the trigger?

He’s tired too of giving in to Billy begging him to go back there every time something like this happened. To check on Max he said, even though they both knew it was deeper than that.

Not that Billy ever told a soul this, but Steve could tell it wasn’t just for Max, in part, it was for her mother too, he felt like he deserved to take the beatings instead of his step-mom and sister. But more than anything, it was because of Neil.

The abuse wasn’t purely physical, and, though Billy pretended like he was too tough to let it get to him, his dad had been in his head for years. Everything he thought had to go through a filter of, would Neil approve of this? Was he going to get his ass kicked if he did this, or was he going to get praised if he did this instead?

After so many years of doing that, it’s completely automatic now. Every single thing he did pandered to what his dad was okay with, what would get him the slightest bit of anything other than hostility from his dad.

And it’s apparent in all of him, the cigarettes he smoked, the car he drove, the way he talked, and got in fights, all of it was just to impress his dad, to meet his expectations for what kind of son he should have.

It’s for the same reasons that he can’t just drop everything and leave. Neil was always droning on about the importance of family, the whole, ‘I may not like you sometimes, but I’ll always love you thing’ and it really got in Billy’s head.

He didn’t think he could leave, no matter how much he wanted to. He thought that bullshit bond of family, whatever the hell that even meant, kept him tied down.

It’s a horrible cycle for Steve to witness, the young son desperate for a fathers approval even after years of torture by his hand, bending over backwards to do everything right and still getting treated the way he did.

He wishes taking him away would solve everything so he could just be safe. He wishes he could get Billy to realize he didn’t have to be a good son for a monster of a father. He wishes they could just be happy.

At some point in the night, Billy, still completely out of it from the antihistamines and not caring at all about personal space, rolls over so his back was to Steve’s chest.

The contact brings Steve back down to earth, as he blinks his bleary eyes, all tired from just staring up at the ceiling instead of sleeping. He squints at the clock on the far wall and realizes he’s spent the last hour doomsday prepping, working himself up over a conversation that he didn’t even know how it would turn out.

Who knows, maybe this time Billy would accept the offer, would happily agree to let Steve take him as far away from the flying of fists and the lies slipping past beer rotted teeth and the press of cool metal against skin as the Camaro would let him.

He runs his fingers through Billy’s hair splayed out across his chest and let’s a long sigh out through his nose. It was funny how it was Billy who could look so peaceful while Steve was fretting over him, but maybe that wasn’t really funny at all, that he was so used to this that he could still relax without all the fears that were keeping the boy beside him awake.

That’s the thought that comforts Steve as he drifts off to sleep, the idea that, if Billy could do it, could face the uncertainty every time he walked back through his own front door, and deal with the pain on every level from what his father did to him, then he could too.

He would bring it up with Billy in the morning, tell him what he’d been thinking about, and he wouldn’t be a pushover this time.

No more reluctantly agreeing to let him go back just to deal with the heartbreaking fallout a few hours later, and no more biting his tongue while Billy pretended he could do it on his own.

Steve was going to save Billy, whether he liked it or not.

#harringrove week of love #harringrove #billy x steve #billy hargrove #steve harrington #this idea has been floating around in my brain and I thought this was a good time to share it #there will most likely be a continuation for this I just didn’t want this getting too long for the event

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koreaweeb · 3 years

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Red Strings - Thirteenth String

@underc0vercryptid-reads @laraplisetski @omegahighendpro @thooo0t @t3sselated @youngestdelacour

TW: SWEARING, VIOLENCE, ABUSE, MENTION OF SUICIDE, MENTION OF SELF-HARM, SEXUAL CONTENT

Walking through the hospital even without her iconic red dress, Kurenai was turning heads. She wore a simple white silk camisole with an oversized turquoise blazer on the outside and matching trousers. Her heels were significantly shorter than usual, only about an inch tall, and she had her hair in a ponytail with two loose strands framing her face.

A simple look, but she caught his eyes.

“Good morning, Chishiya-kun. Coffee?” Honoka asked, trying her best not to take note of how he had his eyes on Kurenai the entire time. Even when she did not look in his direction.

“No thanks.”

“Shuntarou.” Calling his name as she poked her head out from the break room, Kurenai smiled. “Would you like some coffee? I brought my Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee beans.”

With a nod, Chishiya was already walking toward the break room.

Honoka could not help but roll her eyes. What a hypocrite Kurenai was. In front of Honoka, she was always acting innocent and implying that she had no intentions of competing with her for Chishiya but her actions were quite the opposite.

When Honoka suggested sushi for lunch with Chishiya, Kurenai would buy sushi for all the staff. When she offered Chishiya a sandwich once, Kurenai brought in a Michelin star chef just to make one sandwich. And that one time when Chishiya wanted a bottle of water, Kurenai had ten boxes of VOSS delivered to the hospital. Not just the normal VOSS, but the fancy lemon cucumber flavoured sparkling version.

How was this not competing with her?

“You went with a different look today,” Chishiya said, watching as Kurenai was making coffee with their machine.

“Hm? You noticed?” she grinned, though her focus was on the machine. It was different to the one she was used to at home. In theory, this was a lot simpler than the one she had, but she was having difficulty figuring out the mechanics. “It’s not really practical to wear a dress in a hospital.”

“You look good in dresses though.”

He walked up to the machine and reached for the back, turning it on. Someone must have accidentally shut the machine off, though it was entertaining to watch Kurenai struggle with such a simple task.

Once it was turned on, everything else was easy enough and before long, Kurenai had a pot of coffee ready and the aroma filled the entire room. She poured a cup for Chishiya before taking a sip of her own. She hummed with satisfaction, sitting on the sofa.

“Where did you learn to make coffee?”

“Coffee is one of those things I prefer to make myself,” Kurenai said, holding her cup with both hands, looking at the liquid inside. “Ayako-san’s coffee is fine but not quite right. So I took a class, and after some trial and error, found a way to make it that is…” She kissed fingers like an Italian chef would.

Frankly, coffee was not something that Chishiya concerned himself with. If he needed one, he would make one in the break room. Or he would buy a can from the vending machine. If he wanted to indulge a little, he would head to the shopping centre nearby and get himself a Starbucks. He would not, however, spend time learning about coffee beans and how to roast them.

But the coffee Kurenai made was especially good.

“Is that Blue Mountain I smell?”

Disrupting the mood, Ichiro walked into the break room. He poured himself a cup of coffee, taking a sip, and let out a satisfied sigh. Instantly, Kurenai’s mood soured and she was no longer enjoying her morning coffee.

“Good morning, Morita,” she greeted, turning her laptop on. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Well, this is our project,” he said. “You look like a hot secretary today, nice.”

How crude, and classless.

Kurenai had to physically bite her own tongue so she did not blurt out something offensive. As much as she hated Ichiro’s presence, he was on the project. If she got along with him, this would go a lot smoother and that would mean getting rid of him faster.

However, she did not have time nor the chance to say anything as a loud bang could be heard from outside, along with some scufflings and shoutings.

All three of them headed out to see what was going on, only to see a man frantically waving a knife around, shouting something incoherent.

As soon as he read the situation, Chishiya went to grab Kurenai by the arm. He had to get her to safety. Except, he was grabbing at air. In a panic when seeing the knife, Ichiro dove for the nearby ward though in the process, he nudged Kurenai who, caught by surprise, was now standing in front of the knife man.

The man was quick to grab Kurenai, hooking his arm around her neck and had his knife pressed to her throat. “Don’t you dare come closer or I’ll kill her! I’ll do it!”

“Hey! Let her go,” Chishiya said, holding his hands up to show that he was harmless. “Let her go, and we can work this out.” When Chishiya spoke, the man had his knife pointed at him while keeping hold of Kurenai, stepping away from Chishiya. “Do not hurt her.”

“Stop it! Leave her!” Honoka whispered, grabbing Chishiya by the arm to try and get him to hide like everyone else.

He flung her hands away, taking cautious steps toward the man but still keeping a distance. He was trying to think of a way to subdue the man without hurting Kurenai, and so many scenarios were running through his mind. She was too close to the man to get out unscathed.

“You said! You said she wouldn’t die!” the man cried. “Your doctors said they will do their best to keep her alive! Why did she have to die when the punk who hit her didn’t?! Why?!” His knife was back on Kurenai’s throat, cutting into her skin and drawing a little blood.

“Do you know who I am?” Kurenai asked.

“I don’t care who you are! You better bring me to that punk!”

“My name is Chuya Kurenai,” she said, keeping her cool despite the position she was in. “And when I say you do not want to hurt me, you better trust me. Hurting me is not going to bring you anything but misery. If you let me go, however, I can help you. You know the Chuya Group, right? My father is Chuya Atsushi. We have all the money and the power to help you.”

Kurenai’s words were distracting the man as he seemed to be deep in thoughts. Chishiya took the opportunity to grab the hand holding the knife while pulling Kurenai away at the same time. Startled, the man pulled his hand away, slashing Chishiya’s arm in the process. Security was quick to jump in, subduing the man.

“Are you hurt?”

Both Chishiya and Kurenai asked the same question simultaneously.

Chishiya lifted her chin, taking a look at the cut on her neck. Thankfully, it was not a deep cut and she was no longer bleeding. His arm, however, had received quite a cut. His white coat sleeve was dyed red, and only now was Chishiya starting to feel the pain.

How fortunate for them to be in a hospital.

He was brought down to A&E where a nurse stitched him up. Kurenai was waiting outside the curtain, and the moment the nurse walked out, she went in to see Chishiya.

“Hey…”

“Hey,” he smiled.

“How are you?”

“I got six stitches. Probably a scar too. But I’m alr-”

Before he could finish the sentence, Kurenai was hugging him. Her arms were tight around him, like she was making sure he was really there. And while he was rather composed before, Chishiya suddenly felt overwhelmed.

When he saw the knife on Kurenai’s throat, his mind went blank. He could not think straight because fear was all he felt. Not fear for his own life, or of the knife. But fear for Kurenai’s safety.

“Thank you.”

Pulling away from the hug, Kurenai held his face in her hands, stroking her thumb gently against his cheeks. She could not help herself as she was leaning closer until finally their lips met. And before she knew it, Chishiya was kissing back too.

#rs ch 13 #chishiya #chishiya shuntaro #chishiya x oc #aib #alice in borderland #imawa no kuni no arisu #imawa no kuni no alice

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flowerfan2 · 3 years

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Hey friends, I know you’ve probably seen posts go around about how important it is to creators on this site for people to reblog their work. So I am straight up asking you, pretty please, to reblog this post.

This chapter features David and Patrick’s first full-on sexytimes since they got back together (after more than three years apart), and mildly angsty hurt/comfort (not at the same time). I hope you enjoy it!

David x Patrick, 4400 words this chapter, 45k so far. A03. Read from the beginning here. Posts on Fridays.

Chapter 14

It’s Friday, almost two weeks since they arrived in Florida, and four days since David jumped into the pool in an attempt to douse the flames of his surging emotions with chlorinated water. Patrick never did find out exactly what his mother said to David, but it obviously shook something loose in him, gave him some insight into how Patrick was feeling, enough to help David lower some of his defenses and let Patrick in.

Over the past few days, David has been more physical with Patrick, his hands always sliding down Patrick’s arms, touching the small of his back, finding his hand to tug him along. It’s like it used to be, back before they broke up, easy and safe and sure. They haven’t gone any further, still just kissing and being close. And it’s lovely, it is, but Patrick can’t help hoping for more. If David’s ready. Only if David’s ready.

Patrick wants to let David take the lead, this time, given his botched attempt to seduce David the previous week. And he’s really hoping that tonight will be the night.

While David was working today, Patrick went to the store, wanting to put together a dinner that communicated “I’m totally ready and I think you are too, but it’s fine if you’re not.” It’s a big ask for a bouquet of flowers and some pasta.

There’s a part of Patrick’s mind that keeps wishing they could have a bottle of wine, or a few fingers of whiskey, and use the socially acceptable crutch of alcohol to ease the way. But David isn’t drinking, and Patrick not only respects that but knows it’s not a bad idea for himself either. So they are just going to have to man up and deal with their inhibitions. It’s a little bit scary when he thinks about it, how many times he’s used alcohol to avoid worrying about sexual encounters which while consensual, he might not have been thrilled about. This is different, though, and important. And Patrick can do it, even if spaghetti carbonara might not have the same effect as a good merlot.

Later that night, he thinks that he might not have given the carbonara enough credit. David has been attentive, hanging over Patrick’s shoulder while he cooked, snatching bites of bacon out of the pan. They eat at the kitchen island, sideways so that they face each other, knees knocking together. David’s wearing a camel-colored hoodie with sort of layered sleeves that flow down his arms like a waterfall, but they slide back as he lifts swirls of pasta to his mouth, leaving his forearms bare for Patrick’s enjoyment.

Mariah is playing softly in the background, and David has barely finished his last bite of the meal when he’s surging forward, his mouth slanting over Patrick’s, licking into it and kissing until the taste of cream is merging with the taste of David, eager and hungry for Patrick. David’s arms go around Patrick’s shoulders and he stands, moving between Patrick’s legs and bringing their bodies close.

Patrick slides his hands around David’s back, feeling his muscles flex under the thin fabric of his sweater. David hums approval and tilts his head, kissing along Patrick’s jaw and back under his ear. It feels amazing, like Patrick’s entire body is lit up from the inside, and Patrick lets out an appreciative groan.

David pulls back and Patrick winces. He’s gone too far. “Sorry,” Patrick says. “Sorry.”

“No, wait.” David grabs his arms as Patrick tries to turn away to clear their plates, wash the dishes, distract himself from the arousal pulsing through him. “We don’t have to stop,” David says, his eyes bright. “If you don’t want to. But we could relocate.”

They stumble down the hallway and fall into to the bed, somehow still clothed, like they forgot the order the steps are supposed to go in. David grins shyly at Patrick and reaches over to him, unbuttoning his shirt so slowly Patrick thinks he might combust. David helps him shrug it off, then pulls Patrick’s t-shirt off over his head and kisses softly at his collarbone.

Patrick leans back and lets himself enjoy the attention, then slides his hands up under David’s sweater. “Come on, this too.”

David sits up and takes it off, folding it and setting it on the floor. Then, with a sideways look at Patrick, he takes off his jeans and adds them to the pile. Patrick quickly does the same, except that he just throws his off the bed. He doesn’t know how David retains the brain power to care about his clothes at a time like this.

They move together again as they lie down, just their briefs on, still not quite touching. Patrick runs a finger down David’s chest and follows it with his mouth. He remembers this with David, remembers the first time he kissed him here, his chest hair tickling his lips. Patrick lets out a contented sigh, and David wraps his arms around him as he lies back, pulling him over until Patrick’s body is pressing down on him, his hands curled at the sides of David’s head.

Patrick knows how much David likes this. He always said it made him feel grounded, to have Patrick all around him. It was another thing that had been new for Patrick, the heaviness of a man’s body on him, and he had taken a little while to get used to it. But David had never made him feel dumb about it, never made him feel bad, as he learned all the ways that being with David could be so very wonderful and different from what he had experienced before.

They kiss for a while, David’s hands ranging up and down Patrick’s back, caressing his ass and pulling him in firmly against him. Patrick can’t help but whine at the pressure, his hips thrusting forward. “God, David,” he murmurs, and David grins into Patrick’s mouth, loops a leg over Patrick’s calf to snug them even closer together.

Patrick doesn’t want this to end yet, so he flips them over, his ribs twinging in protest, and sits back, straddling David’s legs and smoothing his hands down over his chest. David is wide eyed and panting, hands finding Patrick’s thighs and holding tight. Patrick gets his fingers under the waistband of David’s black briefs, and when David nods in agreement, eases them over David’s straining cock.

“It’s polite to stare,” David had said to him years ago, a smile tucked into his cheek, when Patrick couldn’t help but take a moment to examine and admire the sight in front of him. Patrick does the same now, and then with significantly more grace than the first time he did this, he leans down and takes David in his mouth in one smooth movement.

David groans and grabs at the sheets, barely keeping himself from arching up into Patrick’s mouth. “Oh my god, Patrick, warn a guy.”

Patrick slides off with a pop. “Want me to stop?”

David shakes his head and Patrick sinks back down, loving the weight of David’s cock in his mouth, the feel of it on his tongue. David is making the most wonderful sounds, every oh working Patrick up too. Patrick can feel how close David’s getting, and David knows it too, his hand brushing over Patrick’s hair and cheek. “Wait,” David says, “I’m too - I don’t want to-”

Patrick slurps off of him and sits back, his hands gentling along David’s hips as David sucks in a breath.

“Would you – I’d like you to-” David stutters out, reaching up to pull Patrick down by the back of his neck. He kisses Patrick, licking into him hard and sloppy and dirty. “Fuck me, Patrick,” he whispers into his ear. It’s unfairly sexy, and Patrick has to take a minute to get himself under control before he can even start to contemplate granting David’s request.

It doesn’t take long. Patrick had rather optimistically left lube in a nearby drawer, and David opens easily for his fingers. He doesn’t have to stop and check in with David, who is loudly and enthusiastically assuring him of how good he feels every step of the way. Patrick is pathetically grateful that they had the necessary conversation already (neither of them have been with anyone in ages, both tested, both clean) so there’s no need for a condom. When Patrick finally pushes in David is shaking and flushed, demanding and lovely. Soon Patrick starts moving, and David urges him along, hands running up and down Patrick’s back and squeezing his ass in time to his thrusts.

Patrick gets a hand on David’s cock but he’s barely touched it before David is spilling between them, and the agonized pleasure that erupts from David’s throat has Patrick coming a moment later. David tugs at Patrick’s side and his arm, anywhere he can reach, pulling him close until Patrick’s face is tucked into the side of David’s neck.

“Love you,” Patrick pants against David’s chin, drawing in deep gulps of air. “Love you so much.”

“Mmm, love you too.” David slides his hand around the side of Patrick’s head, and he holds him close as he kisses him, again and again until it’s just a touch of his lips, dancing along Patrick’s. Patrick grins into it, happy and overwhelmed in the best possible way.

*****

The weekend is bright and warm, matching the sunshine Patrick can feel pouring out of him whenever he looks at David. They sleep in on Saturday morning, David forgoing his run in favor of rimming Patrick until he forgets his own name, and then lazily cleaning up with a shower that lasts until lunchtime.

They finally get dressed and drag themselves out of the house, going for a walk at a state park where they get lost among the shrubs and palm trees, David pretending to be upset until Patrick pulls him off the path and gives him a quick handjob that leaves them both giggling with naughty delight. At night they engage in the tried and true pastime of fucking around on the couch while ignoring a movie, followed by more sex in bed. By Sunday morning they’re both a little sore, although they muddle through another round of blow jobs just because they can.

As Sunday afternoon comes around, reality starts to set in. Patrick still doesn’t have a job, he still hasn’t done anything about seeing a therapist, he still doesn’t have anything to offer David except his broken-ass self. He finds himself whispering his fears to David while they’re curled up together on a lounge chair by the pool, and David strokes his head and offers reassuring words that segue into self-deprecating tales of David’s own trials and tribulations, finally making Patrick laugh so much he almost falls off the chair.

The next day Patrick is at the kitchen island, laptop open, when David comes out of the office.

“You sent me an email,” David says, his face carefully neutral.

“Yes,” replies Patrick.

“Why are you sending me an email? I’m right here.” David puts a hand on his hip. Patrick wants to grab him and put his own hands there, over David’s soft white sweater, run them down his capri-clad legs, but he’s determined to keep his mind off sex and on business today.

“Did you read it?”

David looks affronted, and possibly nervous. “Just tell me.”

Patrick does stand up then, and put his hands on David – his arms, not his hips, and he gives him a soft, quick kiss. “There’s nothing wrong, David. It’s not a scary email. I was just sending you my revised resume.”

David relaxes in stages, his body moving towards Patrick even as his face remains uncertain. “Are you asking me for a job? Because while I have proven my worth to RMG as far as creative input, I don’t have any hiring authority for any position you would possibly want. Stevie is really the one you should be asking.”

Patrick laughs and rubs David’s arms. “No, I’m not asking you for a job. I wanted you to read over my resume and help me get it ready.”

“Oh.” David blinks and steps away, looking around and then going to the refrigerator where he stares at the bottles of water. “Are you sure?”

“Why not?”

David closes the refrigerator without taking anything out. “I mean, I’m not really good at that kind of thing.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Well,” David says, “you gave me plenty of shit about not knowing how to describe my store, why do you think I’d be any better at describing anything else?”

Patrick laughs. “It’s not at all the same.”

“Fine, I’ll read it over, but… you know who you should ask.”

Patrick doesn’t really think that Johnny is the best one to advise him on how to seem relevant, but he has had a wealth of experience. Still… “I don’t need your dad to know every detail of my lackluster performance over the past few years,” Patrick says.

“My dad? No, oh no, no, that is not what I meant. You need Alexis to look at it.”

Patrick doesn’t much like this idea either, if for different reasons. He goes over to the couch and flops down. David follows and sits close, his hand gliding over Patrick’s shoulder.

“She’d help you,” David says. “You guys are good now, I heard you talking with her the other day, when she called and I was coming out of the shower? She wouldn’t mind.”

“That’s not it,” Patrick says. “Or, it’s not all of it.”

“Then what?”

Patrick sighs. “I have to figure out how to explain what happened with my last job, and why I haven’t done anything since. And why my professional trajectory hasn’t exactly been the most impressive.”

David erupts with laughter, and Patrick glares at him.

“Oh my god, Patrick, have you met her? It’s like you’re describing Alexis’ most marketable skill. There is no one better at turning grocery store lemons into rosemary lemonade cocktails than my sister. I’m calling her right now.”

*****

A few days later Patrick double checks his calendar, grimacing when the entry for his doctor’s appointment shows up that afternoon. He puts it out of his head for most of the day, and is considering skipping it altogether, when David comes into the living room and tilts his head at him curiously.

“Why aren’t you ready to go? Google maps says the doctor’s office is twenty minutes away, and you know you should arrive early in case there are forms to fill out.” David gives him a little wink, probably in acknowledgement of how Patrick feels about filling out forms.

He’s not sure why David thinks he isn’t ready, other than the fact that he’s lounging on the couch like a person with no intention of getting up anytime soon. Patrick looks himself over. He’s wearing gray joggers and a green t-shirt. He’s not not ready. “I’m not going to change clothes to go to the doctor’s office. And there’s plenty of time. No need to kick me out of the house just yet.”

David frowns. “Studies show that doctors treat well-dressed people better. Frankly studies show that everyone treats well-dressed people better.”

“I don’t think this particular casually dressed white guy is in any danger of biased treatment. Plus I’m guessing I won’t be wearing any clothes by the time the doctor sees me.”

“Fine. But I’m changing, doctor’s offices are always chilly and this sweater is too light. I’ll be right out.” David heads off towards the bedroom, and Patrick realizes what this means. David is coming to the doctor’s office with him.

Later, as they pull into the parking lot of the nondescript medical center, Patrick stops David with a hand on his. “I appreciate you driving me over, but you don’t have to come in.”

“Do you not want me to come in?”

“It’s not that, it’s just that you don’t have to.”

David sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and considers Patrick. “What’s going on?”

“What?”

“You wanted me to come to the dentist with you, back when – you know. You always said you hated doctors’ offices, and you felt better when I came with you. Has something changed?” David takes a breath, his eyes going wide. “Is something wrong? Is there something you don’t want me to know?” His hands fly to Patrick’s shoulders, holding tight.

“No, no, there’s nothing wrong. But it’s just a check-up on the state of my ribs, and how this is healing,” he motions to his head wound. “You don’t have to come in if you don’t want to, that’s all.”

David stares at him for a moment, then gets out of the car and leans down to see Patrick when he doesn’t immediately get out. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Patrick walks up to the counter to check in, while David takes a seat in the bland waiting room. Most of the room is done in shades of tan – the walls, the chairs, the curtains keeping out the bright sunshine. He watches David silently judging the fake floral arrangements, and the clashing plastic Christmas tree on the corner table.

The receptionist greets him politely enough. She’s probably wondering why Patrick is here. They probably don’t get many thirty-somethings, at least not without an elderly parent in tow. Certainly Patrick has only ever been here before with his mom.

Patrick has barely sat down next to David when they call his name and he stands back up again. David looks at him inquiringly, but Patrick shakes his head. “I’m good.” It’s one thing to have David come with him, it’s another to need him holding his hand in the examination room. “Why don’t you go get coffee? I think there’s a place in that strip mall we passed.”

David smirks. “Which one?” He’s not wrong, this stretch of road is nothing but strip malls, all with their own Publix supermarket holding down the fort. But David sits back and crosses his legs one over the other. “I’m fine here. Go.”

Patrick follows the nurse and sits in the examining room where he’s told to wait. He finds the little tub of citrusy lip balm in his pocket and puts some on, thinking about David ordering a gross of custom product just because Patrick said it smelled like sunshine. After they broke up. He breathes it in, letting it distract him from the antiseptic odor of the doctor’s office.

The nurse returns, introduces herself, and directs Patrick to strip down to his briefs and wait, again. When she reappears she does the expected weighing and measuring (he’s not sure why this couldn’t have been done before he was mostly naked), and then has him sit on the examining table while she asks him a million questions.

She’s readying a syringe of some type, wrapping an elastic band around his arm and telling him to make a fist, when Patrick suddenly feels the room closing in on him. His vision narrows to the point of the needle in her hand, and he can’t hear anything over a harsh rushing in his ears.

He can’t breathe, everything is dark and his chest is on fire and he can’t breathe, and he doesn’t know what to do, it all hurts and there’s no air, no air anywhere. Then there’s something soft and warm against his face, and a hand rubbing his back.

“Hey, Patrick, you’re okay.” He hears a voice – David – and he holds on, David’s fuzzy black sweater under his fingers, his rumbling chest against his cheek. “You’re okay, just breathe, honey. Try to relax and breathe.”

Patrick doesn’t think it’s possible, but he hangs on to David and listens to his voice, presses his face into his body. He tries to do that breath matching thing but it’s not working, and he thinks madly that David will have to take him to the doctor but then remembers they’re already there, and the pain in his chest and his head threatens to overwhelm him.

“Patrick, can you hear me honey?” David has one hand on Patrick’s cheek, and the warmth of his chest is gone, and Patrick blinks open his eyes to see David looking at him with eyes full of concern. “There you are. Come on, try to take in a deeper breath. You can do it.”

Seeing David right in front of him, present and worried and as beautiful as ever, somehow seems to help, and Patrick sucks in a stuttering breath. “That’s it,” David says, somehow proud. “Another one, now. Slow.” Patrick tries again, and again, in tune to the rhythm of David’s words and the firm pressure of the circles he’s drawing on his back.

Patrick finally feels like there’s air in his lungs, and he lets himself look away from David. He’s still in the same room where the nurse brought him, but now David is sitting on the examining table next to him. He straightens up, David’s hands falling to his waist. He feels shaky and ill.

“How are we doing?” Someone in light blue scrubs pokes their head in the door, and Patrick feels his heart thump against his chest.

“I’m fine.” His voice echoes in his head as he speaks. He’s not convincing anyone.

“Give us another minute, please,” David says firmly, and the door is closed again. Patrick sags down against David and closes his eyes. Now that he can breathe again he’s beyond embarrassed, sweaty and miserable, and yet David is still holding him, stroking his back and running a hand over his head.

“I’m okay, really,” Patrick says a few minutes later.

David pulls back and considers this. Patrick doesn’t know what measure he’s using, but David apparently decides that Patrick isn’t going to expire from lack of oxygen, and his shoulders relax slightly. “Shall we get out of here? There’s a Dairy Queen half a mile away, and they’ve still got the Girl Scout cookie flavors.”

“Is that what the doctor ordered?”

David rolls his eyes. “Ice cream is always necessary after a doctor’s appointment. What, were your parents monsters?”

“You’re telling me Moira took you for ice cream after your doctor’s appointments?”

“Well, someone did.” David squeezes Patrick’s shoulders encouragingly. “Come on, I’ll drive. You can check google for a pizza place. I think you deserve both.”

“David, as much as I like the sound of your plan, they haven’t examined me yet.”

David frowns. “Is it really necessary?”

Patrick wants to say yes, of course, because the doctor he saw in Toronto told him to get checked, just to be sure, in case something isn’t healing right, he always listens to his doctor’s instructions… but what are they going to say? Gee, looks like you’re healing just fine, must be all of that invigorating sex exercise you’ve been getting? Maybe they can just bolt out of here after all.

Just then there’s another knock on the door. The scrubs-clad doctor is tall, with a friendly expression and a head full of curly gray hair, and he waits for their permission before coming into the room. He has a reassuring demeanor, and he doesn’t say a word about David staying in the room, which is just as well because Patrick can tell from David’s quick inhale that challenging him would lead to some rather snippy responses.

The doctor convinces Patrick to let him do a quick exam. Patrick agrees, and David slides off the table but stays close, hovering just next to Patrick. David keeps darting a hand out to touch Patrick, on his shoulder or his arm, and the doctor doesn’t object.

The doctor asks Patrick to stand and go through some movements to assess his range of motion, and Patrick can feel David’s eyes on him as he stretches and bends. It’s all good, he has hardly any pain, and he’s not surprised when the doctor tells him that he’s healing well.

When he’s finished, the doctor looks at the two of them, David with his hand on Patrick’s shoulder again, and nods. “You’re doing just fine, Patrick. And you’re very lucky, to have someone to count on.” A shadow passes over his face. “You remind me of my son. Good luck to you both.”

The doctor then leaves the room, suggesting that Patrick make an appointment to have his ribs x-rayed in the next few weeks.

David turns to Patrick, eyebrows in motion. “What do you think that means? About his son?”

“That I remind him of his son?”

David shakes his head. “That look – ugh, I don’t want to know. But it’s not good.”

Patrick gets dressed while David pretends to read a poster on the wall about cardiovascular health, and then they check out.

“Does the doctor know how you got hurt?” David asks as he slides into the driver’s seat, adjusting the mirrors before he pulls out of the parking lot.

“I don’t know. The nurse didn’t ask.”

“I suppose fractured ribs and a head wound tell their own story.”

They drive in silence, and Patrick wonders what happened to the doctor’s son. If it was something like what happened to him. The comment, along with how accepting the doctor was of David being all over Patrick during the exam, makes him think the answer is yes. It’s a reminder that even while he and David are holed up in their little bubble, taking shelter from reality in their comfortable suburban nest, the world keeps on moving along.

He’s surprised when they pull up to the Dairy Queen, although he really shouldn’t be. David doesn’t joke about dessert. They debate their options for a few minutes with a seriousness he doubts most people would appreciate when considering what candy to swirl into soft serve. Despite the presence of the Thin Mints Blizzard, David decides on one with raspberries and chocolate pieces, and Patrick picks peanut butter cup.

Later that night, curled up safe in bed with David’s arms around him, Patrick thinks back on the doctor’s words. He is very lucky – immensely lucky - to have David to count on now, and the terrible irony is that if Patrick hadn’t been beat up and then fled to Florida to nurse his wounds, he might still be alone.

#David x Patrick #Schitt's Creek #Schitt's Creek fic #David Rose #Patrick Brewer #SC fic

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choccos-aaart · 3 years

Text

Close enough to 10 mintues of “Ms Axel is a Goon”

Screw it. I'm posting it here, too. *NOTE: This is 100% fictitious and not going to happen*

Final Assignment Script Writing, Winter School 2021 ONE-PAGE PITCH

TITLE: Ms Axel is a Goon

GENRE: Action, comedy, sci-fi, family

LOGLINE: In the humid city of Dasmus, Mei Axel is a former goon who's just escaped captivity. Since her escape, she's been trying to better her life with her new found passion for music, but she quickly learns that the entire country wants to trade her name and face for a price.

FORMAT: Full-length animated film

MAJOR AND RECURRING CHARACTERS: Mei Axel – A wanted fugitive. Mid 20s. Despite her physical competence, she's mostly a foolish, plucky girl who steals a guitar one day.

Alicia Vonarb – CEO of a liquor company. Late 30s. The last boss to hire Axel to do her sneaky business work. Confident and vain, but does everything in spite of her mother. Wants to capture Axel because she doesn't want to get ratted out.

Kannie Orma – An old gadgeteer friend of Axel’s. Mid 50s. Also a “lame uncle” sort of figure to Axel. Their friendship must remain secret because his work is also involved with Vonarb.

O. Miho - Axel’s former coworker from when she was working for Vonarb. Early 30s. His current assignment is to capture Axel. Smug and thinks he's funny.

K. Claymont – Axel’s other former coworker. Late 20s. Works together with Miho. A kind man, but only most of the time.

SYNOPSIS: Mei Axel. She's a goon that's been caught and jailed. Eventually enough, she makes a successful escape and ventures outside. Not much happens afterwards other than stealing a guitar, and once discovering that she's got a passion for music, now she aims to live up that dream. But while attempting to live her new life, her face still reads as an incompetent menace to her former friends and foes, as well as to the majority of the country – they all seem to want to trade in her face for a cash reward. Now, aside from escaping the hands of everyone that wants to hand her over to the government, it is now up to Ms Axel to figure out how she is going to be able to pursue her new life goal that heavily conflicts with her current place among her people. This first follows the story of a wanted fugitive who sets off on a quest for redemption which, unfortunately, never works out. The story ends when Axel eventually escapes the country. She finally acknowledges that she can never truly change the way she's perceived, as well as never fully experience the life that she wants. However, she still performs under a low profile, happily living a drifter's lifestyle.

RATIONALE: This is a story about someone whose wrongdoings and nurture had shaped the way that others view them. Our protagonist is Mei Axel who had been built up to become a significantly infamous member of society, but once discovering a part of herself that showed her potential in a more respected position, being a musician, she starts wanting to better herself. A problem with this scenario is that her past actions prevent her from fully achieving that dream. She can relate to audiences who want to change aspects of their past, particularly their mistakes or the wrong ways they've been brought up, but can't.

MARKET: Children ranging from 11-16, particularly those that are interested in scenes that involve action-packed chases and fighting between individuals. The [film] will present itself through retro-futuristic aesthetics in its city setting. Rock is also a prevalent music genre for the soundtrack, which may interest audiences who particularly like the genre.

The Script

EXT. BUILDINGTOP – NIGHT

Axel checks out the guitar from every angle with a grin, having a feel of its neck, strings and body. She sits it on her lap as if to play it.

AXEL

Oh... I hope those lessons never went to waste...

She wobbly plays a C major scale while slightly wincing through every second. She runs over the same scale again, but this time it flows a bit more smoothly. She smiles a little.

MONTAGE OF AXEL PRACTISING GUITAR

- Axel goes over the same scale a couple of times and with every run, her playing gets smoother.

- She then moves on to a different key and practises that scale

- She then moves on to another key and practises that scale

- She plays some chords now, beginning with the I IV V I progression

MONTAGE END

Axel continues strumming. A light turns on from a nearby building.

DWELLER

Who is playing that garbage?!

Axel stops strumming. Silence.

AXEL

(Breathes in)

I'll get the hang of it.

She slings the guitar over her back and runs into the shadows. Eventually, she disappears into the dark.

EXT. MARKETPLACE – DAY

A view of a cranny on a roof between two walls. Axel sleeps there resting her guitar on her lap. Waking up, she yawns and then lazily sits up.

CUT TO:

A view of the market grounds. Axel smugly and excitedly, yet discreetly scurries out of an alley between a bakery and a liquor store, with a paper doughnut bag in one hand and a small bottle of liquor in the other.

She sits by a cafe playing some instrumental reggae rock music through a speaker. Axel hums along to the melody of the soundtrack while tipsily bouncing her finger to the beat. She then quickly strums a few chords for a brief moment, all which clash with the song's key signature, until right on the chorus, where she strums a chord that matches the root note of the song.

AXEL

Ooh, it's a G song. God, why do they always gotta be G songs? (Giggles)

She strums along with the music, landing every chord. Her smile grows and she gradually plays more confidently. She whistles the melody, then proceeds to hum. A TEENAGE BOY chucks a coin in front of her. Axel looks up and grins. She finger guns at him as he skids away to his friends, laughing. Axel stands up and plays more purposefully. The background starts dimming down.

DAYDREAM

Soon the marketplace around her blends into a stage. An abstractly drawn audience watches her perform and cheer her on. The chorus section of the song finishes.

AXEL

(Laughs)

I'm going to be known! I'll make myself the talk of the town! Everybody's gonna love me!

Axel starts strumming along to the background music again. Suddenly, a MAN with a large, muscular build grabs onto her shoulder.

END DAYDREAM

The stage fades back into the marketplace. Axel is still strumming.

MAN

You got that last part wrong.

AXEL

And who are you?

The man bats Axel with a club.

OVER BLACK.

SFX: Walking footsteps.

EXT. DESOLATE CITY AREA – DAY

In an alleyway, the man carries a bag containing Axel's body, also with Axel's guitar strapped around his back. After some time, Axel can be seen moving inside of the bag.

MAN

Huh? Hey. You keep still down there, would you?

Axel still moves inside of the bag.

MAN (CONT'D)

Look, this is goin'a be a long walk. That means you better cooperate with me, you hear that, Girlie? (Pause) You don't want to make me hurt you, now--

Axel falls out of a hole the bag with a shank in one hand and one of her boots on the other.

MAN

What the?!

The man looks behind himself while Axel stands up in front of him, holding her boot in both hands. She sends a finishing blow at the back of man's head and he falls to the floor. Axel cautiously looks at the man for a brief moment.

The man lies motionlessly on the ground. Axel drops her boot and fixes her shank back inside her pocket, then dusts off her hands before then squatting down next to him.

AXEL

Gosh, they really never hired me for nothing, huh... But I ain't into that stuff anymore. Say, can I have my guitar back?

The man does not respond. Axel lifts one of the man's eyelids and learns that he's out cold. Axel sighs with a slight chuckle. She lifts up the man and, with a struggle, unstraps the guitar from his body, before eventually slinging it over her own. Once fitting her boot back on, she then stands up and slowly walks over to the edge of the alley, whistling a chipper tune – the same melody she was playing earlier - on her way there. At the edge of the alleyway, her eyes look up. Then they widen.

INSERT – ELECTRONIC POSTER

containing Axel's mugshot and in large writing, "WANTED". Below is a list of details including Axel's height, approximate age, gender, race and the time and location of where she was last seen, “18:50, Southwest of Dasmus City”. There is also a cash prize.

INSERT – ELECTRONIC POSTER

containing the same contents as the previous poster, except the location which reads, “Southern markets of Dasmus City at 15:47, drunkenly playing a red Phenver brand guitar”.

A view of Axel between the alley's walls. All around are copies of the same two posters, both in electronic and printed forms. A mildly shocked expression crosses her face.

INT. TOILETS – DAY

A view of a row of toilet stalls. None of the stalls' doors are closed, except for the one in the centre. Axel's guitar leans on a nearby wall. Her feet can be seen in the gap between the bottom of the door and the floor. Axel kicks the wall.

AXEL

Damn it! I'm such an idiot! What was I thinking?! Me? A musician? That's just one way to draw attention!

VONARB (O.S)

Axel? Is that you?

AXEL (CONT'D)

I can't b-- (Pause) Ms Vonarb?

Axel immediately opens her stall's door and looks in the direction of ALICIA VONARB'S voice. Vonarb walks towards Axel.

VONARB

And to think I'd meet you here of all places?

AXEL

I never expected to see you here, either.

VONARB

Well, isn't this quite the reunion?

AXEL

Eh. Not really.

VONARB

I'm surprised you got clever enough to get yourself out of prison.

Axel exits her stall.

AXEL

So, is that to say you're impressed with me?

VONARB

Nope. How'd you think I found you here so easily?

AXEL

Easily? That was easy?

VONARB

Anyway... Don't think I came trying to find you for no reason, now.

AXEL

Oh yeah! Coincidentally, I'm a bit short on cash. You don't happen to want to hire me again, don't you?

VONARB

(Laughs)

What? After getting yourself thrown in jail?

AXEL

Oh... (Pause) What are you even here for, anyway?

VONARB

Well. First of all... (Clears throat) Whatever you do, please don't take this the wrong way.

AXEL

Huh?

Silence. The two stare at each other. Axel tilts her head in confusion. Eventually, O MIHO and K CLAYMONT enter the room. Miho holds a taser while Claymont holds a bag.

CLAYMONT

Now, I don't mean to spread any panic or alarm--

AXEL

(Gasps)

You gotta be kidding me!

VONARB

I just said to not take it the wrong way--

AXEL

I knew it! You are as easy to see through as a window! It's 'cause of my “WANTED” sign, isn't it, Vonarb?

VONARB

Wrong!

AXEL

Huh?

VONARB

You see, we're here to keep you away from those authorities. And knowing you, you're probably so incompetent that you'd just wind up stuck in prison again! So, since you're with us, you're going nowhere.

AXEL

What? Why?

VONARB

You're pretty infamous now. And I've got my business to worry about, too. So, if it didn't all add up in that brain of yours, let's just say, I don't want to risk you ratting me out.

AXEL

Yeah, I'm not doing that!

Grabbing her guitar, Axel jumps on the sinks and runs along them. Miho runs to tase her. Axel whacks him with her guitar and then heads right out the door. Claymont follows.

CLAYMONT (O.S)

I got it!

EXT. CITY STREETS – DAY

A view of the front of a pub. There is people scattered everywhere. Suddenly, the door swings right open and Axel sprints outside with her guitar now strapped over her back. She continues along the street. Claymont chases right after.

#OC #Chocco's writing #Characters I may never use again #Chocco's scripts #Uni stuff

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ectonurites · 3 years

Note

a very very genuine question: so its bad to repost art but no one says anything when people repost things from the source material/creator's sketches.....why?like sure everyone who likes it may recognize the style but there are plenty of fan artists i recognize immediately, new or old art, with or without. to me it just feels the same, like either dont repost art or people should be able to repost stuff, i dont see how they can work at the same time. and this isnt me saying people should be allowed to repost and all that bc i do understand the theory of why reposting hurts artists, just that the logic doesnt seem to fit once it extends to famous artists/creators. just bc its official and easily recognizable makes it okay? how does that work? again, there are plenty of fanartists who are easily recognizable and lose no money when people repost their work (bc they posted it for free) and from my own observation, it seems it just, somehow, makes them want to do art less (from what i have read from artists themselves). why do we not consider that when it comes to official creators? wouldnt they also feasibly be less motivated seeing their hard work plastered across the internet for free when thats the sole way they make their income? and its not a system where its solely sticking it to the man bc it hurts the artists income, as well. but if it makes them happy to see people enjoying and sharing their work with others, drawing interest, why isnt it the same with fan artists? people often repost art, not out of malice or intent to claim credit, but bc they enjoy it + want to share it, esp on social media where sharing isnt a feature (instagram, for example) again im not trying to justify reposting, just confused about the contradiction

First of all instagram does have a form of sharing posts- stories. Which yes they are temporary by default, but you can use the highlight feature to collect your favorite things you’ve shared from people right there on your own profile AND it links back to the original post and can permanently be on your profile as long as you keep it there. You can even label them and everything! But then moving on to answering more of your actual questions

To start: this is a very complicated thing. And I feel everyone trying to answer it might have slightly varied opinions.

I personally see a pretty clear distinction between ‘Officially published/released’ works (like comic book [as like you’ve probably seen I frequently post comic panels] or other materials that may have been released in creator guides, official video game art, promotional art for things, etc etc) as opposed to like, personal work and fanart. Because with official works:

There’s usually a source to buy it and you should if you’re referencing it a ton (while I don’t own every comic I’ve ever read I do have a lot and if I did read something first through illegal means [because some comics are just straight up hard to find due to age/being out of print] and enjoyed it I try to seek out a physical copy after if possible)

There is a level of far wider recognition (I know you personally might find fanartists’ styles recognizable but like, things that are in mainstream media.. have just such a higher profile. it’s not really comparable)

If you’re not supporting the official release you’re harming the big company that published it far more than the individual artist (like, the individual artist probably also wouldn’t appreciate it, because it can effect them for sure as well, but they’re not gonna be taking the brunt of the damage unless it was entirely self-published work, which I’d definitely categorize differently from what I’m mainly talking about here.)

Often fanartists/professional artists who aren’t that well known, in addition to wanting to just create work for the sake of it, also want to build their own platform, to have an audience that they interact with. Or like, if they’re offering commissions, a bigger platform puts you in a position where people will actually see the art and want to commission you. When you say reposts of smaller artists’ fanart doesn’t ‘loose them money’ because they didn’t charge to post it, you’re missing the fact that it makes them loose out on proper linked-back-to-them exposure. Especially like, when a repost account on insta or something says ‘ah yes credit to [username] on tumblr’ the vast majority of people who see it aren’t going to then open up a whole different website and look for the artist. Some people might! but if there’s anything i’ve learned from working professionally in arts marketing it’s that people want things that are convenient and directly in front of them. Someone who wants to see more works because they liked one is significantly more likely to click on the username of someone who posted it rather than opening up a browser or a different app and searching a separate name put in the caption.

Then honestly, I do feel weird about reposts of professional artists’ more personal works unless the artist has stated they’re fine with people reposting with credit. It should be about the comfort level of the artist. I think a lot of professional artists who aren’t in a position where they’re as worried about building a platform, because they already have one and might have professional connections/opportunities already lined up, might not really care about reposts especially on a website they don’t use. (Like tumblr. I’m coming at this mostly from a comics artist perspective here, but most professional artists I see are waaaay more active on twitter and instagram than tumblr) If it’s a website they don’t use, it’s not taking away from the platform they had been building there for themselves. And also, some artists really just don’t give a shit, which is their choice they can make with their work! But that’s not a universal thing. One artist being fine with their personal art being reposted =/= all artists being fine with it.

In my own experience as a fanartist, when I see my art reposted without credit, especially when it’s art I’ve also already posted on the same platform... it’s definitely disheartening. Even worse is when the repost gets even more attention than my original post. (something that has happened to me multiple times!) Like, it can get so upsetting! Because it lets me know that someone else was using my art to build their platform and I got exactly zero benefit out of it. Then when it’s reposted with credit it’s a little less annoying, but I still don’t... get much out of it. Especially if it’s an instagram repost and they credit my tumblr not my account on there, since insta captions don’t actually do links unless it’s to other insta accounts. Also with insta for example, I have a 'business’ account set up so I can look at and track popularity of my posts and see how they’re doing as something to keep in mind when considering posting times, etc etc. When other people repost my art there I have no control over it. That sucks a lot! Also, when I quite literally ask people not to repost my art (it is IN! MY! DESCRIPTION!) and they still do, it’s just straight up disrespectful. I asked for a boundary to be respected with my work and people have just completely ignored it. That doesn’t feel good at all.

But, conversely, I’m gonna talk about my more professional irl work for a sec. I’m a graphic designer, so I do things like posters, logos, etc, When I design a poster for a client that is meant to be advertising something, even if it’s got my own original illustration or something as part of it, I know my name isn’t necessarily going to be attached to it the same way as it is with my personal work. I get a credit line somewhere, but that’s in a fine print probably not even on the poster itself at all, but that’s like, part of what I signed up for. I already get paid separately, I am giving permission for my work to be out of my own hands in that way. Professional work for a client is often setup in some way similar to this. I don’t get mad when I walk down the street and see a poster I made up somewhere without it directly ‘linking’/referencing back to me (aside from maybe my signature if it had an illustration), in fact I go ‘OMG ITS THERE ugh wait i see one pixel is off oh noooooo” and then move on with my day. It’s just an entirely different situation because that kind of work has a different arrangement from the start, where you know it’s going to be put in a different type of circulation.

So yeah, my word isn’t god here, but I definitely see official releases as having a different set of permissions based on the fact that they are published in an entirely different situation. And I think reposts of personal art aren’t cool if the artist isn’t okay with them, no matter how big a platform they have. Other people probably approach this with a slightly different perspective, but that’s mine!

#sorry this is long #but also 🤷‍♂️#Anonymous

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maisondenachtai · 4 years

Text

Boss pt 2 (Y’lan Noel x Reader)

Part 1

Late nights were nothing new to you. You were well accustomed to seeing the office clear out and hearing the stark noise of silence punctuated with the sounds of vacuums and the gentle hum of electricity. You knew almost all of the janitors that came up after hours to clean up the office, and knew to give them ten minutes or so, so they could clean up your area without you being in the way.

What you were not used to was another person being in the office with you while you were working late hours. Y’lan Noel, or Y’lan as he kept reminding you, was also grinding gears after hours. You could see him pinning things to a board through the clear windows that gave you an open view of him. He was completely focus on his project, not even noticing you had been staring at him for a least five minutes.

No, you had not been staring. Just observing.

You had observed that when he seemed to get stumped on something, he placed his hands in his pockets and stared at it like he was doing now. You wondered what he was stumped on, you knew whatever it was he would figure out and come out of it amazingly.

Despite your words with him days before, you knew he was a talented editor and writer. Christine had talked about him so much, that he was a star and that he was going places. At the time you hadn’t heard of him, but after researching him and reading a few of his pieces, you saw what she saw and yeah you were impressed. He hadn’t just been handed the job because he was a male, he earned it and deserved it. But of course, you couldn’t tell him that.

You tilted your head a little as he bounced on and off his toes. Whatever had him stumped really was throwing him through a loop. You were just about to smirk and laugh when his head quickly turned and his eyes lit up when they met yours.

“Shit.” You mumbled, focusing again on your computer, typing up a storm as if you had never stopped to stare…observe him.

It was too late though; you heard the wind slightly woosh as he opened up his doors and could hear him make his way over to your area. You continued to type though, willing yourself to pretend that he wasn’t there.

“You’re dedicated.” He said.

You didn’t say anything, only kept typing. Wide leg pants are in-

“…I saw you looking at me. No need to front.” You could hear the smile in his voice.

“I was not staring at you.” You stopped typing, looking up at him. He had settled himself against the wall behind your desk set up, leaning across as if he was a neighbor talking over a fence.

He smirked, “I never said you were staring.”

You rolled your eyes, “I’m busy.”

“I see that. You know since you’re working, you could still be on the clock.”

You shook your head, “This isn’t work. This is a competition. So no, I can’t be on the clock.”

Y’lan shook his head, “It’s work. If you win, your magazine becomes the month’s issue so, it’s work. Doesn’t matter, I clocked you back in hours ago.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.” You folded your arms.

“You don’t have to ask me. I’m your boss. It’s my job.” He smiled and turned around about to go back to his office.

“What’s your angle?” You stopped him in his tracks and he turned around again, walking back over to your area.

“I don’t have an angle.”

You rolled your eyes standing up from your desk. You stretched your neck first, then the rest of your body. When you opened your eyes from stretching, you noticed that Y’lan’s eyes were just coming back up from a long trip down your body. You fought the smirk coming to your lips.

“Of course you have an angle. Everyone does.” You sat back down, leaning back in your chair making a long line for Y’lan to admire with his eyes. “When I first got here, I was angling to become editor in chief in five years. So I sucked up. I’m not proud of it but it got me far. Nancy in graphic design has been flirting with every higher up at every office party, she wants a higher position. That’s her angle. You are being very nice, what do you want from us? What do you want from me?”

Y’lan’s hands were in his pockets again, but he wasn’t bouncing. He stood confident, staring at you like you were a new problem to solve. “I want what every magazine editor wants. A good staff that produces good results. I’ve been at publications where the work environment was hell and the editor was a disgusting human being. You know what that publication is doing now? …Nothing. It shut down two years ago. Bankrupt. Bad work environments leak out. I don’t want that for Black Style.”

You nodded, “That’s commendable. I’m not mad at that.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head a little. “I’m glad I got your approval. …As for you Ms. YLN.”

You leaned forward eyes widening, “As for me what?”

“You asked me what I wanted from you all…and you specifically. I told you what I wanted for the company as a whole. Now I want to tell you want I want from you specifically.” His voice had lowered significantly and it made you draw into him, leaning closer than what was probably appropriate.

His eyes drifted down your face quickly and then back up to your eyes. You gulped a little. “And what is that Mr. Noel.”

He smirked, letting the silence linger for a moment, “I want your respect. Even if you win the competition, I want you to respect me as a peer in the field.”

You let out a small breath, for a moment you imagined that he might say that he wanted you, in the physical sense. You couldn’t deny the fact that Y’lan was quite handsome and had confidence about him that absolutely made you hor-

You could deny it. And you absolutely would.

“Ms. YLN.”

“Yes. Sorry.” You picked at a piece of imaginary lint on your shirt. “Respect is not given it’s earned.” You said, talking down to that imaginary lint that was still stuck to your shirt.

His hand reached out and gripped your chin gently, only pressing upward with the barest of force. You looked up at him all on your own, and found yourself looking at a man with no fear, and the most beautiful smile you had ever seen.

He was over stepping many of the boundaries HR laid out for you all, but honestly...you couldn’t care at this point. “I know.” He was speaking just so you could hear, barely over the sound of the vaccums and the powerful AC in the building. “And I fully expect to earn all of your respect.” He grinned at you and then moved his hand off your face, turning and walking away from you. “Oh, and those are really nice pants.” He shouted back, throwing up a hand in goodbye. “And that is wildly inappropriate!” You shouted back, awaken from your stupor.

He turned around, smirking, “It would be...if I was on the clock. Do you know how bad it looks for a Editor to give himself 4 hours of overtime, especially for something that’s not work related? What kind of Boss do you think I am?” He chuckled, going back into his office and closing the glass door behind him. You grumbled and went back to typing, nails clicking the keyboard harder than before.

“Bastard.”

___________________________________________________________

This looks a little different huh? ...Yeah...I don’t feel like doing all that title stuff. Yall know what this is lol! This has been sitting in my drafts for a month or two? lol.

@chaneajoyyy @wawakanda-btch @blackmissfrizzle @quietpoeticheart @bigsisbria @toni-toni-toni-toni @blvkqueen1 @palmstreesallday @hey-taylor-hey @myakai13 @shinywrites

#y'lan noel x reader #y'lan noel x black reader #y'lan noel #y'lan noel fanfic

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selinakidreams · 3 years

Text

Junk of the Heart

this was inspired by this song and a personal experience that i could have only wished ended like this. side note: i thought kiri would b ideal for a first fic post bc........... i wuv him a lot nd i couldn’t get this scenario out of my head; everytime i hear this song i think of him singing it so there u go <3

paring: gn!reader x kirishima eijirou

band member au! so no quirks

genre: fluff

warnings: none, good ol ushy gushy self indulged romance

Word count: around 3.3k

You were surprised that exhaustion hadn’t taken over your body yet.

The day was a non-stop escapade of the mundane and the irregular; all in the same day, you went in and out of different big cities, to having afternoon coffee followed by going back to the apartment you were staying at to nap, to visiting a local rose garden, to drawing with chalk on the sidewalk of your friend’s house post potluck. You were only visiting for the weekend so your friends were going to make the most of it.

By the end of the night, you somehow found yourselves waiting in line on the side of a cozy neighborhood venue to try and get concert tickets to an already sold out show.

You didn't really know what was going on, not that you minded; the motto for the weekend was “go with the flow”. However, the spontaneity of randomly going to a concert where you don’t know who’s playing has peaked your interest. You’ve never done it before and once the idea had time to marinate in your mind, your heart was set on getting those tickets.

Waiting for 30 minutes for the tickets seemed like nothing until whispers of, “they’re not giving out any more tickets!” And “they’ve officially sold out!” came trickling down the line, causing your heart to falter.

Groups in front of you started leaving and your group moved to take their place. “Did you want to see if we could finesse our way in?” Said one friend. “Doesn’t it seem pointless, though?” Responded the other, yet your group remained in line. You didn’t want to leave, there was something in your gut telling you not to, but you were starting to doubt the probability of actually getting in.

Everything next happened in an instant.

Somehow, you and your friends managed to get up to the window selling the tickets and talk your way into getting in. It didn’t seem like a miracle more along the lines of sheer dumb luck, they just happened to find more tickets- but you didn’t dwell too much on it, you were already inside enjoying the vibrations of the live music moving through you.

Lights were reflecting off of a giant disco ball, bouncing in every which direction, exposing random people in the crowd. The lights on stage only added to the different colors brightening the dark expanse. Bodies swayed close together as the next song started calmly.

You had been off to the side, waiting for your closest friend to come back with the drinks she offered when you guys were first greeted by the bass and guitar. The rest of your friends had gotten lost in the crowd, but you didn’t mind. The scene you were taking in felt surreal. You had never seen complete strangers come together in a way that it made it seem like they’ve known each other for years because of good music.

As your friend made her way through the crowd with two cups in hand when the band announced that it was going to be their last song for the night. You looked up at the members on stage; you had been paying so much attention to the experience as a whole that you hadn’t even seen the band actually playing.

The first person that caught and kept your attention was the man in center stage. Bright red spikey hair with ruby red eyes to match, and a toothy grin. A white electric guitar with a red strap hung on his sizable shoulders. He looked like the physical version of the music he was playing; a plain black fitted t-shirt tucked into his loose blue jeans with holes in the knees. His black converse seemed worn out, like they’ve been on so many adventures, this night on stage being one of them.

You tried to look at the other members but your gaze always shifted back to him.

Now with a sweet alcoholic beverage in your hand, you were pulled to the barricade by your very persistent friend. You heard her say something along the lines of, “you look like you’ve witnessed a miracle! We need to get closer!”

Nobody seemed to mind your friend’s pushiness to the front, everyone there was just enjoying the show had to offer.

“Before we get on with our last song of the night,” the red head chuckled at the immediate chant of boo’s that rang out, “we figured we ought to introduce ourselves!” His smile showered over everyone in the crowd. He leaned into the mic stand as his big hand loosely covered the secured mic, “in the back, and away from people where he should be,” a melodic laugh rang out as he looked to his annoyed band mate, “is our drummer, Bakugo Katsuki!” The audience was greeted by an eye roll and a curt wave and gave back an applause. “Next we have our all talented bassist, Jirou Kyouka!” She ran her pick over the strings, you felt the vibrations through your whole body and decided to let out a laugh, joining the others in letting out a loud “wooop!”.

“And on the keyboard, we have the electrifying Kaminari Denk!” A wink and finger guns were shot out and in response, a few girly giggles could be heard throughout the cheering room as well as a few squeals. Kaminari threw his head back and put his hand over his heart.

“And me? I’m Kirishima Eijiro on guitar!” You could hear the swarm of girls that cheered overpowering the crowd as well as thunderous hollers from a few guys,

‘Pretty popular,’ you thought, taking a sip of your drink. Of course he was popular. His smile was contagious, full and bright. You could see the happiness illuminating his eyes, the crinkles by the corner of his eyes showed he truly couldn’t be more content than in this moment.

Bakugo spun his drumsticks and began playing a beat as Kirishima began to talk,“ We had a fuck ton of fun tonight, thank you for having us. We hope you give the same amount of love to the band that hops on the stage next.” he said, the smile never leaving his face. He adjusted the ear piece before finishing with, “But as for us, this song is called Junk of the Heart, let’s go Bakugo!” And just like that, they dove into the song. Kirishima began strumming to Bakugo’s already given beat.

As Kaminari hit the keyboard, the stage lights changed drastically. All of a sudden there was no color on stage or bouncing off the walls, beams of golden light shot out from behind them, giving them the look of angels. The space got significantly darker; you had no choice but to look at the band in front of you.

Backlit and beautiful, it was as if you were actually hearing them for the first time.

“See I notice nothing makes you shatter, no no,

You’re a lover of the wild and a joker of the heart,” Kirishima looked out onto the faces that were close enough to see. He loved seeing how invested people got- to see how music can bring people together and create a bond. It made him feel like he was at the top of the world.

You thought to yourself as you watched him sing into the mic, “He looked so god like, it was ironic that you were looking up at him.”- that was until your gaze was met with his. He stopped the wandering gaze; it seemed as though his eyes got bigger than before, which didn’t seem possible. His eyes were already so round and curious, but making eye contact with you brought a different kind of wideness.

When he sang, “But are you mine?” it seemed like he was asking you.

“I wanna make you happy, I wanna make you feel alive.”

Your body and your mind felt disconnected. You couldn’t decode any messages that were being played through your head, all you could feel was the beat of the bass match up with your heart.

“I wanna make you happy

If you’re a good girl tonight.” He sang to you before looking back at the rest of the crowd. It looked like he had just broke out of a spell.

“Y/n? Y/N? Was he looking at you?? Do you know him?!” Your friend's voice came into light.

And for the first time in the whole day, when the trip’s motto pushed itself into your head, you waved it aside.

You looked at your friend with a determined smile before leaning into her and yelling out over the music, “No, I don’t know him but I sure want to. After the song, I’m going to make it so there’s no way he could possibly forget the girl in the crowd.”

Your friend, stunned at your decisiveness but loyal, slowly began to nod. She reached for your hand and wrapped your pinky in hers, then slowly got back into the groove of the song by spinning you around.

“Let me make you happy, I wanna make you feel alive at night,” Kirishima sang on, grin growing as his eyes wandered back to the spot you were in. Something warm bubbled in his chest.

‘I want to dance with them’ was the first thing he thought when he saw you smiling in the dim lighting, hips swaying with hands in the air, and not a care to be found.

Finishing off the song, the lights faded to black for a second before the room became a tad brighter yet still dark enough to leave the haze of the concert euphoria just a little longer.

Kirishima bolted. At the speed of light, he handed his guitar to a snickering Denki before navigating his way through the maze of the backstage and into the crowd. So many heads to look over and so many gazes to catch, but when he caught yours, everything simply melted away. Time didn’t stand still, yet making his way over to you seemed like it was one of the easiest things that he could do.

“I’m sorry but I really need to hear you say something,” Kirishima said loud enough when he approached you, trying to ignore the intense gaze of the person standing next to you.

You didn’t really know how to respond- to you, everything happened so quickly. You could only tilt your head in response, to which you felt a jab in your ribs.

“Please just say my name. Not Kirishima but please call me by my first name in the next sentence that leaves your lips.” He said with a hint of desperation. It was almost like he was hoping your voice was a song he could listen to on repeat- that your voice was something he could eventually turn into a song.

You took a slow deep breath and let it out, there was a self-put urgency to have the next sentence you say mean something.

“I feel like…” you began to say, and paused when you saw his features change to something you couldn’t quite describe, “... watching you perform on stage is something I could do… more often… Eijirou.”

Something made his eyes twinkle. Maybe it was a trick of the light or maybe you just imagined it, but it made your heart race just a bit faster. When would it reach the finish line?

He let out a breath you didn’t notice he was holding; his chest slightly contracted.

“Just as I thought, your voice is beautiful a-and so are you.” He sighed. “Can we step outside for a second? I promise you it will only be a second. It would be rude for me to take you away from your friend for the rest of the night.” He smiled at your friend for a second. You were a bit stunned; first, the compliment that tugged at your heart a little too hard and now the decency to respect that you came here with your friends. A true kind hearted man.

It took you a second to reply but before an answer could even leave your lips, your friend yanked you towards them. Kirishima’s ever wide eyes grew again but showed no signs of leaving.

“Listen, this is all up to you,” your friend whisper-shouted excitedly in your ear. With impeccable timing, live music started playing.

“Anyway, what I was saying was,” your friend stated a little bit louder so you could hear her over the music, “it’s your choice! If you feel comfortable with hanging out with this dude for the night, do it! This is your trip, do what you want and have fun. Regardless, you know where we are and where we’re staying. Just text me and let me know.” She pulled away, waiting for your response. You smiled and mouthed, ‘I’m gonna go’. She showed her delight by pulling you in and leaving with the final note of, “stay safe,” before disappearing into the mass of bodies, probably to go look for your other friends.

You turned to Kirishima before taking his forearm, noting that it was one of the fittest ones you’ve ever laid hands on, and headed out of the venue.

The temperature drop was a bit of a shock but you held your composure as a wave of goosebumps washed over your body.

You spun around to face the guitarist, only to be greeted with a shyer version of him. It seemed his sheet of confidence went hand in hand with the warmth from inside. As soon as he stepped out, it was instantly ripped away by the cold.

“I- um, well.. may I ask for your name?” He stuttered out, realization hitting you that you never even said your name. You felt your cheeks grow hot before stepping closer to him and whispering your name then taking another step towards him. The nippy air seemed to have the complete opposite effect on you.

At this point, your chest lightly brushed up against his as you looked up at him; his gaze fidgety while yours is sturdy but kind- set eyes flickering from his ruby reds to his plush pink lips.

You chose not to question your boldness as you pushed yourself up to the tips of your toes.

He had approached you with such determination, you might as well match his energy.

With your chest fully pressing into him now, you carefully watched his reaction to see if there were any signs of discomfort before slowly draping your arms around his neck. Even on your toes, he was still a head taller than you.

“Kirishima, what is it that you wanted me to come outside for that you couldn’t do inside?” The teasing whisper dripped from your lips.

It was as if he was visualizing the words you were saying, his sight trained on how your lips moved.

“Can I kiss you?” He matched your whisper, his head already slightly dipping in to ghost his soft lips over yours while his large palms fell to your hips, invoking a ripple of heat to coarse through your body.

It was up to you, the fate of the evening was in your hands. Whatever you wanted to do, Kirishima would do as long as he was with you.

“You can…” you began as you moved to play with his surprisingly soft hair, “walk me to where I’m staying, and maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll let you.” You innocently giggled as you slowly lowered yourself against his broad chest and pulled away completely.

Kirishima’s dazed expression stayed only for a second before he slightly shook himself out of it, a renewed shade of red dusted on his cheeks.

Another giggle escaped from you before whipping out your phone and texting your friend about the newly made plan; red eyes plastered on you and following your every move.

You slid your phone into your back pocket and scooped up Eijirou’s hand, relishing the size difference, and started walking.

The walk held the best kind of conversation: the kind that consisted of everything and nothing at all. You two were taking your time, walking around local parks and goofing off by performing air guitar and dancing around to no music. He talked about how his band started and how he discovered his love for making music. You talked about how you were visiting your friends because they moved away for college and you couldn’t bear to not see them for another few months. At that you saw his open figure slightly deflate.

“So you don’t live around here?” He muttered, unconsciously gripping the energy of the lighthearted conversation downwards, but you stopped it before it could get to the point of no return.

“I’m transferring here.” You said with a promising smile, Kirishima returned the action with a full blown grin. The topic took a turn for the happier as you two chatted about random thoughts and valid opinions.

Inevitably, the time came where it was you two standing in front of your door, spare key in hand with the outside light illuminating the mirroring soft expressions. You stepped closer, recreating the exact actions you did in front of the venue, and this time when he asked to kiss you, your response was nonverbal. You took his lips with yours at first with a peck. The delicate sound of you pulling away only lead to a deeper kiss, one that made his planted palms uproot and wrap you up entirely in his embrace. Your tongue danced with his; The closeness and warmth had you sighing against his mouth. You slightly pulled away, watching a thin trail of saliva leave you two connected before leaning back in for another peck. To that, he loosened his hold without actually letting go.

“Can I see you before you go back?” Kirishima’s voice was breathy and low, a really good combination for him.

“Give me your number and we’ll see.” You replied, trying to compose yourself. He chuckled before fishing out your phone from your back pocket, giving your ass a little squeeze in the process. A squeak instinctively left you as you watched a smirk form at the corner of his lips. You refused to look at Kirishima as you put your thumb on the home button to unlock it, your cheeks were too red.

He added his contact with a red heart next to it, ‘ironic’ you thought.

The goodbye was drawn out; a lot of lazy pushing away and pulling back in, in addition to feverish kisses and roaming hands, but that all came to an end when you finally pushed the key into the lock and twisted it open before quickly shutting it, leaving Eijirou outside begging you to come back out.

“No because soon enough I won’t be able to resist you and I’m going to tell you to come inside and stay the night- which would not be cool to my friends,” you laugh as you hear a huff on the other side of the door.

“You’re right… and I really want your friends to like me…” he trailed off, letting you ponder what he meant for a second.

“Okay can you just open the door one more time please?” So you did. You were greeted by a sweet and soft kiss, reminding you of a dessert that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“Goodnight Eijirou.” You whisper before closing the door gently.

Replaying the gushy romantic events that took place that night, you took it upon yourself to text him to write a song about you- playfully of course. The charming red cherry on top of a perfect Hallmark-movie-type of night.

He ended up taking it seriously,

and performed it at the next live show you went to, a few months after you transferred.

And it was that night, when he bounded through the crowd to find you yet again-

instead of asking to hear your voice, he asked to hear your answer on being his romantic partner.

#fawn daydreams <3 #kirishima x y/n #kirishima x you #kirishima eijiro fluff #kirishima eijiro x reader #kirishima eijirou #bnha x reader #bnha #bnha kirishima #mha #mha kirishima #mha x you #gn!reader #hot chocolate ♥︎

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bestworstcase · 3 years

Note

more than once you've said "the tts fandom can't write x character, or can't write y character," but have you considered that maybe they can write them fine, you've just built up your desired interpretations of these characters? you give off this condescending attitude, like ONLY YOU can write tts characters accurately, ONLY YOU understand them, & any interpretations that don't in some way align with what you think are WRONG. this has become more apparent as you've worked through bitter snow

let’s discuss king frederic, and how he is often characterized in fanworks vs how he is characterized in the show.

now... i think we can all agree that frederic is at best a mediocre father and a not especially good king, that in his worst moments he steps over the line into emotional abuse vis a vis his treatment of rapunzel, and that the avoidant head-in-the-sand approach he takes to the black rock problem in s1 causes widespread pain, unnecessary panic, and does not improve the situation whatsoever.

he is widely disliked in the fandom for very good reason

however! it is difficult, though hardly impossible, to find fic where frederic acts or speaks... like frederic, for one very simple reason: the fandom, by and large, as a group, writes frederic as an angry, abusive man who blows up when he is confronted with the many, many things he does wrong. often this takes the form of a character, or characters, getting up in front of him and rattling off his list of crimes, real or perceived, followed by him basically throwing a tantrum.

canon frederic, to put it bluntly, does not do that.

exhibit a: caine’s confrontation of frederic in before ever after.

caine sets up exactly the scenario that in the average tts fanfic would end with frederic yelling / blustering / furiously denying the accusations, plus she does it while rounding up all his guests and putting them in cage to haul them off and, presumably, kill them somewhere. like. the stakes are life or death and this is an extremely stressful situation for everyone involved.

and this is how that conversation goes down:

FRED: Release my guests immediately!

CAINE: What’s the matter, Fred? Am I ruining your perfect day?

RAPUNZEL: ...The Duchess?

CAINE: Oh, honey. I am no Duchess.

RAPUNZEL: I don’t understand.

CAINE: Of course you wouldn’t, Rapunzel, but try to follow along. This is all your fault.

RAPUNZEL: What?!

CAINE: You see, after your untimely... disappearance, your father locked up every criminal in the kingdom... including a simple petty thief. My father. I saw him thrown into a cage and hauled off like some animal, never to be seen again. So... I thought I’d come back, and return the favor.

[the wagon rolls in]

CAINE: Load ‘em up, boys! Your turn, Your Majesty.

[Frederic moves to shield Rapunzel; Caine snickers.]

CAINE: Oh, come on, you didn’t think we’d leave our prized pig in the pen, did you?

RAPUNZEL: [as Caine’s gang drags Frederic toward the wagon] Dad—

FREDERIC: Rapunzel, stay back.

RAPUNZEL: But—

FREDERIC: No. There’s nothing you can do. As your father and your king, I command you to stay put.

there are two key points that i want to make here, because they diverge significantly from the way frederic is characterized in analogous scenarios in fanfics, like, 90% of the time.

1) fred doesn’t get angry. he doesn’t bluster or yell. he orders caine to release his guests, and when she refuses, he gets quiet. he does not interrupt caine’s rant, he does not even try to deny her accusations, and he doesn’t stomp around escalating the situation even while caine is prancing around waving a sword in his daughter’s face or literally poking him in the chest.

he stays calm.

2) fred’s primary, overriding concern is for rapunzel’s safety, and the safety of his guests. not his own. he does not struggle when caine’s men lead him away. he protests on behalf of his guests, but not himself, and he attempts to physically shield rapunzel from harm before he is dragged away. he doesn’t waste his breath trying to argue with caine, but he does tell rapunzel firmly not to put herself in danger trying to rescue him.

now... there are plenty of ways to interpret why frederic behaves this way, and my personal take is certainly not the only possible one. but the behavior itself, the staying calm in the face of a crisis, while someone is in his face threatening him, his family, and his guests and making pretty charged accusation, is a) objectively playing out on the screen and b) directly at odds with the way frederic most often acts in fanfics.

exhibit b: mood-swapped frederic blows up just like fanon frederic constantly does

and this is the only time we ever see frederic lose his temper like this in the entire series. again, this is not a matter of interpretation: this is just plainly what happens on the screen. when he is in his right mind, frederic is not a “scream accusations, whip out a sword, and impulsively declare war or attack someone because he’s mad” sort of person, and to say that he is really like that, deep down, is just as silly as trying to argue that cass really is a peppy, soft-hearted, affectionate pushover, or that eugene really is too riddled-with self-doubt and anxiety to make any decisions, or that rapunzel really is a grouchy, moody, misanthropic person. the mood potion makes everyone act like fundamentally different versions of themselves; their behavior is, literally, out of character for their normal, not high-off-their-asses-on-a-magical-potion selves.

exhibit c: the angry mob in secrets of the sundrop

like with caine, this confrontation kicks off with a premise that should be pretty familiar to anyone who reads any fic featuring frederic at all, ie everybody is pissed at frederic and there is literally an enraged mob screaming for justice in the throne room. and that goes like this:

[everybody shouting in angry panic]

FREDERIC: People... [raising his voice to be heard] Citizens, please! Listen to me!

[Max rears and whinnies to get everyone’s attention, and the shouting dwindles away.]

FREDERIC: I will not lie to you any longer. Corona is in grave danger. The queen has been taken; over half our royal guard lie wounded; and these black rocks draw ever closer.

[the shouting begins to pick up again]

EUGENE: Uh, sir, hi, yeah—if there’s a ‘but’ in this speech, you probably want to cut to it right now.

FREDERIC: But I look at you, and I don’t just see subjects. I see friends, family; strong, brave individuals who have stood by each other, side-by-side, and have never, ever backed down from a fight! Today, we face a danger like none before. As your king, your friend, and as your brother, I ask you to fight one more time. For Corona!

again, key points:

1) frederic does not deny, bluster, shout down, or otherwise attempt to refute the basic point that he bungled the black rock situation. he did bungle it, and he knows that [this scene is preceded by him spelling out the full extent of his failures to rapunzel and openly admitting guilt]. through his behavior, he demonstrates that he accepts culpability for the situation and implicitly accepts the legitimacy of the crowd’s anger.

2) he raises his voice only so he can be heard above the shouting, and as soon as folks quiet down, he drops to a reasonable volume again. his mood is grim, but he isn’t angry. he projects calm.

3) eugene is nervous about frederic losing control of the crowd and accidentally causing a riot or something; frederic is not.

4) instead of denying the crowd’s anger, frederic tries to reframe the problem for them: yes, things are bad, but they are strong and brave and we can all work together to put things right. he doesn’t shout them down; he seeks to inspire them.

and 5) when frederic says “we face a danger,” he means that. the very next thing he does after giving this speech is go straight to the frontlines to fight in the same battle he’s asking everyone else to join in. he's not asking them to do anything he isn’t willing to do himself.

which... i would argue even more than the caine confrontation in BEA, is diametrically opposed to the way the typical fanon frederic would respond to an angry mob situation, because the typical fanon frederic is a very angry, aggressive man, and that... simply isn’t who frederic is. he’s calm, he’s knows how to work a crowd, he knows how to use his authority to achieve his goals without browbeating or threatening.

even when he does get angry—such as his instinctive reaction to arianna’s kidnapping, when he jumps first to “we will invade old corona”—he doesn’t yell or stomp around or throw tantrum. he gets stiff and rather cold and makes an impulsive judgment call... but then he takes some time to brood by himself, calms down, talks things out with rapunzel, admits his failures, and doesn’t follow through with the impulsive order he made in the heat of the moment.

like... flat out, he is not an angry man.

and it’s frustrating, when i go to read fanfic and frederic is overwhelmingly characterized as this hapless angry shouty abusive person, because it is breathtakingly far removed from how he acts in canon, and i like frederic as a character. i find him very interesting, and it’s not fun to read fics where everything that makes him interesting is taken away and replaced with this sort of one-note Shouty Angry King/Bad Dad Whom Everyone Hates. and that applies, unfortunately, to a very large number of the types of fics i like to read (namely, long canon exploratory or canon divergent fics, etc)

anyway,

i am perfectly happy to read interpretations of the tts characters that do not mesh well, or are even wholly incompatible with, my own.

but i do expect, as a minimum, characters to behave more or less the way they behave in canon unless there is a clear reason for them to be different. i expect varian to be nerdy and chaotic and a bit of a disaster, for example. i expect adira to be aloof, blunt, and perhaps a touch arrogant. i expect cassandra to be ambitious and frustrated and prone to self-sabotage and envy. i expect lance to be laid back and eugene to be a bit vain. i expect the captain to be gruff and very tight-laced. and i expect frederic to act like a politician who is in control of his feelings but sort of cowardly at heart, because that’s how frederic acts in the show.

i hold myself to these standards too. a ton of my editing process is “hm does this character really talk like this? is this how they would react to this situation?” and then going through and rewatching scenes or whole episodes and trying to find roughly analogous emotional beats or situations to sort of gauge whether i’m hitting the mark or not; it’s very difficult and i work hard on it and do not always succeed... and this does make me a bit picky about characterization in fics i’m reading, yeah, because it’s... always at the forefront of my mind. and then yes i post about it here, because this is the hyperfixation landfill where i dump my tts-adjacent thoughts.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

of course, you’re welcome to unfollow me if you do not enjoy reading what i post. it’s important to curate an online experience that you enjoy! if my general demeanor irritates you, you don’t need to inflict yourself with it.

#thank u for your input anon <3 #Anonymous

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quicksilversquared · 4 years

Text

The Substitute Ladybug: Chapter 4

After Lila takes things too far and Marinette ends up with a broken leg, Paris is going to have to deal with a different superhero arrangement for a bit. Having to share her superhero identity with her parents before Hawkmoth can be defeated isn’t something that Marinette had planned on doing, but- well, it might end up being a bit of a blessing in disguise.

links in the reblog

Having a broken leg sucked.

Really, that shouldn't have been news to her at all, Marinette reflected as she slouched in her desk chair. She had already been dealing with everything that came along with a broken leg for a week and a half now, and the frustration about not being able to move around like normal or do her normal activities had long since set in. The extra planning ahead- how she was going to get from one classroom to another, what she needed to do if she wanted to make a quick (or not-so-quick) trip to the bathroom- was annoying, but not a huge deal. But not being able to go out with her friends like she normally did?

It wasn't something that Marinette had considered, but- well, going out and wandering around the city just wasn't a good idea on a leg that was still fairly early on in the healing process. Maybe her friends could have adjusted what they were going to do on their outing, but...

Well, it still just sounded so tiring. Maybe it was a good idea to make sure that she wasn't just sitting around and not moving as much as she should be, but there was also such thing as too much movement. It would be all too easy to hit that level when she was out with her friends and then be too exhausted to be able to focus on an akuma battle.

So Marinette was stuck at home, knowing full well that her friends were out having fun without her.

She had anticipated the frustration that came with not being able to be a superhero in the way that she was used to. It was easy enough to figure out that the activity where she was super-active would be off the table for the foreseeable future. She had guessed that her leg would make things at school a bit more complex. But Marinette hadn't anticipated how a simple day outing with her friends would suddenly be too much to do.

"I'm sure that you'll be able to hang out with them again soon," Tikki commented from where she was perched on Marinette's shoulder. She had decided to hang out with Marinette for the afternoon, since it would be easy enough for Mrs. Cheng to come up and get her if an akuma attacked. "Your leg will heal up and not hurt so much when you move around, and then you can go out more. And maybe you can just go out with them for part of the day and leave early! It's always an option."

"I suppose." Marinette suspected that that would be easier said than done, honestly. If she was out with Alya and the other girls, she would be having fun and probably want to stay out. Then the exhaustion would creep up on her and she would end up regretting the day, no matter how enjoyable the first part had been. "And I know that I'll be back out there soon, once my leg is better and I can enjoy it, but right now it's just another reminder of what I can't do."

She had found a work-around for her superhero life, a way to be involved without physically being out on the battlefield. But for social outings with her classmates?

She had tried doing the same thing as Adrien always did when his father didn't let him come out, with just video-calling her friends and getting carried along virtually, but that hadn't lasted longer than ten minutes before Marinette had made her excuses and ended the call. Instead of helping, it made her feel worse. Tagging along by camera was just a reminder that she wasn't there with them, and she had found herself constantly craning her neck to try to see what else was going on beyond the camera and feeling thrown off by not being able to see everything. Besides, Alya had been the one holding the phone and she had an annoying habit of waving her hands around unthinkingly when she got animated about something. She could mostly quash that habit during akuma fights, when she was focused on the akuma or on the superheroes, but when she was just out with her friends? The camera went everywhere.

There was a reason why it was usually Nino or Marinette who held the phone when Adrien was video-calling them. And even when it was Nino- well, he wasn't the best at holding the phone still, either.

Oddly enough, Marinette wasn't interested in getting motion sickness from a video call when she was already feeling crummy because of her leg.

Hopefully she would start feeling significantly better soon and could tag along on outings again. Right now, she was just sore and tired so much of the time, and hopping along on her crutches just sometimes seemed like so much of a chore.

Sighing, Marinette turned her attention to her schoolwork. There was really nothing more to work on, though, so she turned her attention to her sketchbook instead. She tried to draw, but all that came out were uninspired doodles. After two full pages of absent, aimless doodles, Marinette pushed her sketchbook to the side and considered her options. What did she want to do?

Or, more accurately, what did she want to do that she could actually do?

Nothing was coming to mind.

"Maybe a change of scenery is all you need!" Tikki suggested. "You could go up to the living room and do something there."

"Or I could go downstairs and help run the counter," Marinette suggested, already liking that idea better. Being upstairs by herself was no fun, and her mom did have a chair by the counter that she could sit in. It would be a nice way to help her parents, after they had been helping her so much with her Ladybug duties. "I think I'll do that, at least for a bit. And maybe I can text the girls and let them know and they can come visit!"

"Ooh, I like that idea!"

Decided, Marinette made her careful way downstairs. The bakery was buzzing- as it usually was at this time on Saturdays, but this seemed even busier than normal- and her mom was busy at the counter. Marinette could see cupcakes in the front kitchen, set out on the table and clearly ready to be decorated when Mrs. Cheng had the time.

She clearly had no time at the moment.

"I'll take the register, Maman," Marinette said, step-hopping up to the counter. "You can decorate."

Mrs. Cheng looked relieved as she stepped back. "You're a lifesaver, Marinette."

For the next forty minutes, Marinette perched on the stool at the counter and rang people up, bagging or boxing up their purchases before sending them on their way. Her mom stepped in to help box things up when the line got too long, but mostly worked away at decorating the cupcakes and cakes that Mr. Dupain brought out for her. It was a good system, and Marinette let out a relieved breath as the last of the line was finally sent away, cheerful and satisfied.

"Good job, sweetheart," Mr. Dupain told her as he bustled past, his arms full of baskets to refill the shelves. "That helped out a bunch."

"It's better than sitting around upstairs," Marinette said cheerfully, taking advantage of the pause to make sure that everything in the cash register was straight and tidy. "I was just floating around and grumbling about being bored."

"Normally you're as busy as a bee, so that must have been a change for you!" Mrs. Cheng laughed. "I suppose it doesn't help that your sewing machine is still upstairs. I can bring it down later, if you want."

Marinette beamed, and then almost immediately remembered everything that she would need to actually be able to use her sewing machine and drooped. "It's- it's probably not worth it. I would need a bunch of my fabric and my thread box and buttons and- and all sorts of things, really, and that would be too much to store downstairs. If I had a specific project in mind, maybe, but..."

"Well, just let me know if you want it for anything," Mrs. Cheng said cheerfully. "It's not a problem to bring thing down." She finished up a cupcake with a flourish and set her piping bag down. "And done! Ahead of schedule, even, since Marinette took over the counter- hello, how can I help- oh! Adrien, dear, how nice to see you!"

Marinette spun back around on her seat and nearly toppled over, saved only by her dad catching her as he passed by. Sure enough, Adrien was in the bakery, looking a bit uncertain of himself as he approached the counter.

"Are you hear for the pastries or for Marinette?" Mrs. Cheng asked cheerfully, wiping her hands off on a damp towel before joining Marinette at the counter. "Or both?"

"I- well, I, uh," Adrien started, and then clearly gave himself a shake. "Er- both, I guess? Fencing finished early and Nathalie gave me permission to hang out with my friends. So I thought that I could maybe come hang out with Marinette, unless you're busy?"

Her parents both beamed. Marinette hoped that she wasn't as red as she felt.

"We're not busy at all," Mrs. Cheng assured him. "Marinette was just hanging out down here because she was bored-"

"And because I wanted to help!" Marinette added on. "I wasn't just bored!"

"-but the rush is over now, so if she wants to go, she's more than free to," Mrs. Cheng continued, as though Marinette hadn't spoken. "It'll probably be a bit boring down here, actually, now that the lunch rush has passed."

Adrien perked up at that, his gaze swinging to Marinette. "So, do you wanna hang out?"

Marinette nodded, unable to keep herself from smiling. Her disappointment from earlier about not being able to hang out with the other girls was gone, because now- well, now she was getting to hang out with one of her friends, too.

"Great!" Mr. Dupain boomed. He bustled around the shop, picking out an assortment of goodies one by one and dropping them into a bakery bag before shoving it into Adrien's arms. "A snack for the two of you. Will you be going upstairs, or out to the park, or...?"

Adrien's eyes flew to Marinette at once, obviously giving her the choice. Marinette didn't have to think about it for long.

"The park might be nice, if there's an open bench," Marinette said. She pushed herself to her feet and hopped over to the sink to wash her hands. Her mom had talked to her before about forgetting to wash her hands after handling money and before eating something, and it wasn't a mistake she was going to make again. "I've been inside too much."

"Even if there's not a bench, I'm sure people would move so that you can sit down," Adrien assured her. He waited for her to make her way around the counter, then led the way towards the door. "And if not- uh, could you sit on the ground if I helped you down and back up? Except no, we don't have a blanket-"

"Oh, we have a picnic blanket in the hallway!" Mrs. Cheng called after them. "You could always put it on the bench, too, if that's where you end up sitting. It would just make things more comfortable."

With that, she dashed into the back. A minute later, she returned with a brightly striped blanket that Marinette recognized from more than a few picnics in the past. Adrien took it with a quick thanks, and then they were back on their way.

As it turned out, all of the benches were very full. Adrien glanced around, then glanced questioningly at Marinette.

"I can sit on the ground," Marinette decided after a moment. It would be more pleasant if she and Adrien got to sit on their own blanket instead of being crammed onto a bench with some random grandparents. "I'll just need to have my leg stretched out."

Adrien nodded, then set out to find the perfect place to set out the blanket. It took a few minutes to pick out a spot that wasn't near playing kids, or near a garbage can, or too close to the noisy street, but finally he got the perfect spot. Marinette held the bakery bag while Adrien meticulously spread the blanket out, and then they took a few minutes to get Marinette comfortably settled.

"It's the perfect day to be in the park, really," Adrien commented as he sat down as well, making sure that he wouldn't jostle Marinette's leg. "I'm glad that we decided to go outside. I've been inside all day, between homework and piano and fencing. And a snack!"

Marinette had to laugh at that as Adrien eagerly tore into a croissant. "Ah, the real reason why you came to see me and not Nino!"

"No, it's just- Nino offers snacks, too!" Adrien protested. "I mean, maybe the snacks are crackers or packaged cookies, but he does offer snacks. I-" He worried his lip, clearly considering his next words. "I overheard yesterday when the other girls were planning to get together and you couldn't join them. And I know how much it sucks to not be able to go out with friends, and I know you hadn't been hanging out with them before as much as usual because of Lila, so when I had the gap in my schedule..." He shrugged, glancing away sheepishly. Marinette felt her heart skip a beat and her cheeks flushed red.

Really, how was she not supposed to be heads-over-heels for him when he said stuff like that? It was so sweet.

"Anyway, I like hanging out with you," Adrien added shyly, picking at his croissant before taking another bite. "So it wasn't a hard choice."

"I'm glad you came over," Marinette told him, finally finding her words even as her cheeks flared even redder. She was sure that she looked like a stop sign by now, but- well, Adrien was always kind enough to overlook that. "I don't know how you manage when your father doesn't let you come out with us. I was about to keel over with boredom."

"You, bored? Whenever I've seen you before, you always seem busy." Adrien polished up his croissant and glanced over at her. "I mean, Class President duties, commissions, your own projects, homework..."

"I've had more down time than usual lately," Marinette admitted. She pulled out a cookie and nibbled at the edge. "And no commissions, so I don't have my sewing things downstairs where I can use them. I suppose I could look ahead and see what duties I might have coming up as Class President and just get it all done ahead of time if I can. Then I can have more free time once my leg is better." She winced. "...in theory."

"Yeah, plans get thrown off really easily with akumas and Hawkmoth around, don't they?" Adrien glanced over the box of goodies, then picked out a cookie for himself. "If you need any help with that stuff, let me know. I think there's a pretty good chance that Nathalie would let me help, since student government stuff is, like, really nice on a resume. Never mind that I wouldn't put it on a resume since it would just be helping you, not doing all of the heavy lifting with the planning like you do, but she might think that it would make me more inclined to maybe run myself in the future."

"Honestly, if you wanted to take Alya's place and run with me, I don't think she would complain," Marinette told him. "She's grumbled more than a few times about paperwork taking away time from the Ladyblog or her time with Nino." Honestly, Alya would jump at the chance to both offload her responsibilities as Vice President and to push Adrien and Marinette together. And- well, as long as Alya didn't then decide to linger in a doorway or by the window and wriggle her eyebrows at Marinette and make her nervous, then Marinette was sure that it would go pretty well.

If Alya decided to make things weird, then- well, then they might have a bit of a rocky start, but they would recover in time. Hopefully.

Adrien laughed. "Tempting, since I'd get to hang out with you more. I'd have to run it past Father and Nathalie first before I could promise anything, of course."

Marinette grinned. Maybe Adrien would forget about it by the time Class President elections rolled around again, or he might decide that he was actually too busy to take on anything else, but- well, it would be nice to daydream about all of the time that she and Adrien would get to spend together if they were working together on the class representative duties.

Maybe paperwork wasn't very romantic, but- well, relationships weren't built entirely on romance, were they? Besides, if it would allow Adrien to come and hang out more...

"So what all is involved in the Class Representative job?" Adrien asked, polishing off his cookie and leaning back on his hands, looking over at Marinette. "Like, planning class parties?"

"Class parties, keeping track of birthdays and whatnot, field trips, helping organize school fundraisers," Marinette told him. She sighed. "Honestly, I don't think all of that is supposed to be my duties. The other representatives don't really do the birthdays or the field trips, that's all on their teachers. I don't know why Ms. Bustier does it differently."

"Maybe she thinks it'll help in the future?" Adrien suggested, but even he didn't sound particularly convinced. "...or maybe she's behind on grading because of akuma attacks and so she's, ah, delegating tasks."

"To her students, who sometimes fall behind on homework because we get extra homework to keep up with the curriculum even with akuma attacks," Marinette sighed. "Naturally."

Adrien made a face. "That- yeah, that's not very fair. But at least that probably means that you'll have less to do if you stay Class Rep next year, right? New school, new teachers, hopefully ones that will organize their own field trips."

"Oh, I hope so." Their schoolwork was only going to get more difficult in lycée, and Marinette already sometimes found herself running short on time because of all of her responsibilities. And- well, she liked being able to help out her classmates as Class President, but it was just so much work sometimes.

"But that's months away still," Adrien added before Marinette could think about it too much. He nudged her good foot with his toe, smiling over at her. "So, what's new? How was the bakery earlier?"

Several hours later, the last of the treats had been polished off and Adrien finally had to leave. He looked startled when Nathalie texted him, apparently not having realized how much time had passed, and then immediately moved to help Marinette up.

He was so careful as he helped her to her feet, making sure that she wouldn't accidentally put any weight on her bad leg. Marinette was sure that she was turning red again as Adrien wrapped his arms around her to lift her up, his cheek and chin pressing into her shoulder because of the way he was holding her. The moment passed once she was on her feet, though, and Adrien made sure that she was steady on her feet before stepping back to a gentlemanly distance and turning his attention to getting the blanket up and folded.

"I'm glad we got to hang out," Adrien told Marinette as they headed back to the bakery. He held the door open for her, letting her through in front of him. His bodyguard's car was already parked in front of the bakery, and Adrien waved to him before ducking in long enough to pass the picnic blanket back to Mrs. Cheng. "See you on Monday?"

"Yeah," Marinette agreed, beaming after him. "See you on Monday."

"I can't believe you were on a date with Adrien and didn't text me and let me know! I could have gotten photos!"

"It wasn't a date, Alya," Marinette said for what felt like the fifth time. Her best friend had come over to work on homework together in the peace of the Dupain-Cheng apartment, since her younger sisters had friends over and the Césaire apartment was currently- well, loud. Her mom had apparently mentioned Adrien having come over the previous day when Alya passed by her, and now Alya wouldn't drop it. "It was two friends hanging out."

"By yourselves, in the park, chatting for hours over fresh pastries! That's totally date material!"

Marinette fixed Alya with a long look. "You do realize that the pastries came from my parents, right? It wasn't like Adrien went out and bought some fancy pastries for the express purpose of eating them with me."

Alya groaned, practically slamming her palms over her face. "Ugh, you two. Fine, fine, it 'wasn't a date', whatever you say. But it sounds so cute! I bet you're going to start dating soon, though! He's obviously interested in you."

Marinette flushed at the thought, wondering if she really was close to getting to date Adrien. He had been really, really sweet during their impromptu picnic, and they had never hung out quite like that before. But Adrien was also just a really nice person, and he had told her that he wanted to come over because he knew what it felt like to not be able to go out with friends. So maybe it wasn't a great idea to start getting too excited and get ahead of herself.

"Either way, I would have loved to get pictures of you two," Alya added on after a moment, homework still forgotten in her backpack on the floor. Whether or not she would actually remember it- the reason why she had come over in the first place- still remained to be seen. "And all of us would have loved to see it-"

Marinette groaned at the idea of all of the other girls spying on her and Adrien hanging out and chatting. That just... well, it sounded stressful, and like something that would absolutely result in her stumbling over her words and feeling off-kilter and uncomfortable.

She was absolutely not going to tell Alya ahead of time next time that Adrien came over to hang out. There was absolutely no way that Marinette wanted people (especially people who weren't her parents) watching her every move when she was alone (or "alone") with Adrien. Every move, every word, every smile and laugh and sharing of cookies would be analyzed and over-analyzed.

She also wasn't going to bring up Adrien's offer to take over Alya's role as Vice President. Alya would definitely read far too much into that.

"Anyway, we missed you on our outing after you had to hang up," Alya added after a minute. "I know it would have been hard for you to keep up and enjoy it as much in person, though. We're trying to figure out something for next time that wouldn't involve walking or standing around, but I don't know when that'll even be yet. Nora's out of town next weekend, so I might be pretty busy with babysitting, and we don't know what the weekend after that will look like."

"If we're too busy, I might be off crutches by the time we go out again," Marinette joked, opening up her notebook. Even if Alya was completely distracted by the news about her and Adrien, she could still try to be productive. "Then there wouldn't be any additional planning needed!"

"Oh, don't exaggerate!" Alya laughed. "We're not that busy. You've still got a ton of time in the cast."

Marinette could only groan. It seemed like the days were inching by in slow motion sometimes. Cast-off day seemed ages away. "Oh gosh. Don't remind me."

"Hey, I'm sure the time will flash by and the cast'll be off before you expect," Alya told her. She grinned, suddenly impish. "And look on the bright side- think about how much attention Adrien's been giving you ever since your leg got broken! Maybe you'll end up wanting to keep the cast on a little longer."

Marinette snorted. Somehow, she really doubted that.

#Miraculous Ladybug #My writing #The Substitute Ladybug #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste

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