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winterzsurprise · 2 years

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Loving You Was A Losing Game || Karl Jacobs

Pairing: c!Karl x Gender-Neutral! Reader (It's in the past), c!Quackity x Reader x c!Sapnap

Summary: In all of the universes he has visited, why is the one where you lived peacefully have to be you as his best friends' fiance?

Tags: Universe-traveller! Karl, Coffee Shop Manager!Quackity, Nurse! Sapnap (not specified tho), Polyamorous established relationship, Angst, Us against the world but the world won trope.

Words: 736

Was inspired by the shit ton of Dr. Strange and Christine edits floating around my Tiktok fyp. Might open request soon.

Like always, feel free to give me constructive criticism since I want to better my writing. Other than that, enjoy!

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The doorbell chimed, then came the tinkles that didn’t come from the hanging ornament above the entrance but from someone’s lips that chattered off to their companion.

It was incredible that the aching dullness of his heart stuttered in its rhythm upon hearing your honeyed voice pierce through the calm melody playing on the speaking that drowned the space in its tunes.

“Darling!”

When you smiled, the winter snow that covered his heart thawed to make way for the patches of flowers that bloomed in his chest that withered as fast as it came.

Because there’s no one you could call darling other than the other man behind the counter.

“Mi amor, mi corazon, are you guys going to work already?”

The café branch manager, Quackity, answered as he crossed the distance between the backrooms and the counter to reach over and hug you tight before turning to your companion.

It was shitty of him to forget that there’s another person involved.

But can you blame him? Out of all the universes he had visited...

“Can I get a large coffee with two bagels?”

He didn’t even notice you move in front of him, shocking him back from his thoughts that would’ve dragged him down into an endless void he so desperately tried to erase.

Your voice was the incarnation of every sweet thing that exists in the world. Your kind eyes that glanced at him for a mere second held every star he hand-picked out from the sky from every other universe he has visited.

It was lovely and absolutely stunning, but also hurtful.

Because unlike the other universes he travelled to just to meet you once more, he dared to come to this reality, where your eyes only glimmered whenever you looked at them.

“Sure, can I get this gentleman anything?”

Shaggy pinecone brown hair hidden under the obsidian VANS cap, a fresh bandaid pressed across the bridge of his nose and a fair length of peach fuzz on his jaw and chin.

Fire smoldered deep within his guts when his green eyes practically dribbled in adoration while staring at your ever enthusiastic form beside him

“Nah man, I’m good. I already ate before I left.”

“What name do I put on your cups?”

“Y/N, then he’ll go with—”

“Best Fiance.”

“Put Sapnap please.”

Karl let a smile breakthrough his impassive face, it was ridiculous.

When he started jumping from one universe to another with the same desperation of a grieving lover who wasn’t able to say his goodbyes properly, he saw miscellaneous realities where you took form in miscellaneous ways.

A human, an alien with multiple limbs, a dog, a tailless cat, a mermaid, hell, even a rat.

Even with the odd science of those universes, he stayed beside you. But with every failure, every jump that exhausted his body, mind and soul, he saw the horrors of the world and the cruelty of fate.

“You take proper care of them, alright man? I have some inventory arrangements to do.”

With a pat on the back, the man waved his beloved goodbye before running back to the door behind them.

Out of all millions of worlds and dimensions, your lives never dragged on for long. Your wishes of exchanging the bustling city into a lonesome yet happy lifestyle in a cabin in the woods were never fulfilled.

To see you unable to achieve your dreams crushed his soul, much more when he realises that there is no timeline out there where he’s someone you could call yours.

“I’ll call you guys when it’s done.”

You clung to Sapnap’s coat-covered arm as you moved away from the counter.

Karl has seen many horrors in his immortal life, experienced many heartbreaks from unique events that occurred in his life.

Yet nothing prepared him for the hammering ache that penetrated his heart when he caught the glimmering stones that shone around your finger.

To be precise, two overlapping rings decorated your ring finger.

His eyes followed you both as you left his vision before letting out a shaky exhale. He didn’t even notice his hands gripping tightly on the marble counter that it turned pale with his veins bulked out.

How cruel can the fates be? How can they make a universe where you lived happily and will die with age be the only reality where you can’t be his but for his best friends?

#karl jacobs #karl jacobs x reader #quackity x reader #sapnap x reader #karl jacobs angst #us against the world but the world won trope #dream smp #dream smp fics #mcyt #karl jacobs imagines #sapnap imagines #quackity imagines

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kisakunt · 3 years

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4:46pm; imaushi wakasa

cw: nsfw minors dni, a little gagging, finger fucking, exhibition, yk a little self degradation, short n sweet n very unproofed

“were you saying something?” you hate yourself. you hate yourself, really. you would argue you need to watch your mouth, but your boyfriend appears to already have that covered. warm saliva encompasses his slender fingers, slipping past his hands and onto your chin as a response.

“thought so, pretty.” his lashes point up beautifully from above you when he looks up, back to his peers. he doesn’t apologize, lips impassive as he pretends nothing even happened; as he pretends you’re not leaning back on him, sitting between his legs, with one of his hands gagged in your mouth and the other stuffing your cunt steadily.

this should’ve been routine for you— a little game where you try to get the most emotional reaction out of him you can until he’s escorting the two of you home in an aggravating silence, before he fucks you to the point of tears however he wants; but you didn’t expect him to get you off here.

your skin heats when takeomi clears his throat almost in tune to the squelch that leaves your pussy when imaushi spreads his fingers against your walls. you forget about it shortly after when the bed of his nail lightly scrapes along the velvet of you, and you garble around his knuckles.

you’re humiliated, but more so stupid over the man behind you; brain stuck on the thick knuckles pushing into you, and the worn skin of his palm that presses against your clit with every pump of his fingers. he doesn’t have to tell you for you to know— he never has to tell you for you to know— that you’re a whore for his cock, the pathetic way your mind fuzzes at just his digits a prime example. if you had any self respect you’d tell him to stop, if you had any self respect you wouldn’t have started it at all, if you had any self respect you wouldn’t want his ‘coworkers’ to see the way your cunt sucks around him. your dignity is refused to nothing at his will, and you love it.

“already?” you nod, the drag of his hands in both your mouth and pussy slowing you down. your body is selfish, ass shifting against him to chase for his fingers, thighs trembling over his, screaming for more. and so is your cunt, squeezing around him when his fingertips press against your g-spot, stuttering his movements with a locked grip. you moan horribly onto his other hand, which soon eases itself farther down your throat, stopping when you gag around him lightly. you’re pathetic as you cream onto his fingers, cum trickling along the slick already coating your exposed thighs, orgasm overcoming your body in almost record time.

his lips press onto your bottom lashes, softened by the few dampening tears puddling at your waterline. he removes the hand from your mouth first, wiping it down onto his already derelict pants, before using the pruned fingerprints to dry at your face. he tastes you off of himself on his other fist, leaving you to catch your breath as he laps off the arousal you left on him. he repositions your skirt gently, leaning you back further into him and waiting patiently for his close members to carry on with their discussion, choosing to ignore the hard-ons that tug at their trousers.

“it’s alright, sweet girl.” he brushes against your ear, voice steady and quiet. “but if you ever do that again, i’ll fuck you onto my cock in front of everyone.”

@bajitheestallion here mf why do u tell me to tag u btw i’m just gonna link this i stg

#wakasa x reader #wakasa smut #tokyo revengers smut #imaushi smut #imaushi wakasa smut #tokyo revengers x reader #imaushi wakasa x reader #wakasa imagines #wakasa hcs #tokyo rev smut #ehhh… it’s giving very eh

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tparker48 · 3 years

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Request for Preyslavee

It was about was about an hour after the game as Jordan returned home for a break. Getting out and into the house, he took off his clothes as he walked around the house. Casually walking around as he scratched your bulge from under his crotch. "Really should've thought that of the circumstances before you made a bet against me runt. You know i never lose a game. Can't turn back now" he made his way to the living room as he crashed down onto the sofa. He soon reached inside his briefs as hed plucked around your form. Making sure to surely drag you along his balls as were pulled out.

His shaft would pulse against you as the sack began to fold over you. Its built up sweat soaking into you as the my stopped your path. It took a few tugs, but eventually the folds rolled off you as the cool warm air met your body. Followed by Jordan's nose as it puffs of air ruffled your hair. "Starting to smell like me huh? Good, makes good preperations for our deal. First thing's first.." He lifted you up slightly as he hovered some deodorant in front of you. "You've got pits to tend to. Do a decent job and I might regrow you to your normal size".

"Simple enough" you though to yourself. You made your way over to it as you attempted to grab the side. "Ah ah, i don't think so. You're not tending to them that way" you feel his fingers wrap around you as before your front made contact with the fresh scented surface. You feel your clothes wrinkle as Jordan rubbed you in place over the deodorant as he made sure your body touched every corner of it before lifting you upwards. A little dazed from all the turning, you vision would soon return just in time see the trimmed hair of the underside of his arm. Even with the fresh scent covering, the odor surround the arm pit would begin to overpower it as your form drew closer.

"I'd hold that breath of your if I were you" you hear from above. Your arms were the first to make contact with the pit as they slicked to the side. Leaving partial room as you face collided into the soft skin. The pit would soon begin to cave around you as the fuzzes surface would sandwich your form. Jordan would rotate his shoulder clockwise as the pit inside was still slightly sweaty. Even with the firm pressure inside, your body would move along with his shoulder as the rush of musk filled your nose. Your tried to hold on against the trimmed haired of the pit, but even they would move in place as they slipped through your grasp. It was about 2 minutes as you endured the firm pressure before you were let out. You gave out a sigh of relief as you took in the fresh air, but it soon was short lived as Jordan lifted the other arm and stuffed you between it. Your muffles escaping from arm as he looked at it with a smile.

A couple more minutes went by, before he finally let up. Your face drenched in musk as the your clothes were now damp. You soon looked uo at Jordan as he gave hit pits a firm sniff. "Well, you can't do pit duty for crap. Perhaps another debt is in order. Ass duty" Jordan pulled down the back of his shorts as his ass rounded themselves past the band. Holding you vertically, he firmly began to slide you between them as the heat from between them fumed as air smelled of hot gas. You could help but extend your to their sides as the your holds slid across the inner walls of his ass. As you slid deeper in between, your nose would began to poke into his ass as it slid to the center of his hole. As it brushed along its center, was only then that Jordan stopped pressing and soon sat his entire weight on you. Your head would sink between the ring as you muffled between them. Ut would vibrate the clenching hole of jardan's, but you would only receive a vibrating chuckle in response.

"I've got an itch back there that's been driving me crazy since i left the game. Your gonna tend to it while i make my protein shake" you heard a sudden popping sound from above as Jordan began making his drink. The weight applying mire ontop of you as the hole sinked deeper along your sides. The scent from inside would get stronger as your nose seeped past the rings, but your nostrils still between them as they clenched around it. The sweat from his ss would begin to soak into your clothes as the heat would get stronger.

The sound of shaking from your muffled ears as Jordan shook his protein shake. The hole reacting with the amount of shaking as it sinked deeper. It was getting a little cramped as it started morphing around your head, but the more your pulled against it the hole pull back with equal force. You soon feel the hole overlap your head as it slipped past the ring. The sweat built leaked from all around the muscular walls as you yelled for him to let you up. You'd only hear of him shaking his protein shake as he continued.

Jordan did feel the slight change in pressure as he focused on your form. Moving a finger passed his shorts, he massaged a finger across his hole as he felt for your face. But he couldn't find it, all he found was your neck as he followed along its lengths. Patting around the hole, he gave a smile as he gave out a satifying clench from his hole. "Heh, always thought you'd make a good plug, guess i was right" he rubbed along your neck as he continued shaking his protein shake. This time putting in a lot more force as your head moved along his sweet spots.

Almost 10 minutes past as you stared inside the endless abyss of his hole before the sound of shaking stopped. You soon feel a tug at you legs before you feel yourself being pulled back out. But even then, the hole wouldn't let up, as it pucker in place. It took a couple of tugs, but the last would make progress as your chin was finally visible. Followed by the rest of your. Head as it was squeezed out with a sudden squelch. You were pulled between his cheeks once more, this time your front rubbing along its length before you were pulled out.

"Not bad, bot bad at all. Guess ass duty proved useful. Now i think its time you've had a break" he smirked as he tossed you into the air. Your vision constantly turning before submerged into a goopy surface. As you reached the surface, the walls were encircled around you as Jordan's lips planted on the edge. The sound of slurping following behind it as your body rushed towards it in a wave. Your gaze would soon go dark as you disappeared behind the lips as the sound of liquid echoed around you.

Jordan, would seal his lips shut as he sloshed his tongue around you. Giving firm circle around your body before chuckling again as it rosed it over you and splashed it ontop of you. He tiled his head back as he opened his mouth back up. Gurgling the liquid inside as you rumbled and flowed into you. With a firm gulp, he you and the liquid would decend into his throat as you traveled down for few seconds.

As you landed in his stomach, the flow of the protein would descend into the cramped chamber as you yelled and pounded at the door. "Hey, you can't do this! What about our deal?! You promised to unshrink when we were done".

"Yeah about that shrimp" he said as he belched "you're just too good not to keep. Your pathetic muffles, you sorry self inside my hole. And now, all nice and compacted in my stomach. You were mine the second you wanted that bet"

"What?!"

"Don't worry, I'll let you out...right after this skrimmage match. Coach wants me back at the court" Jordan would begin to walk out the door as he focused on the sloshing going on.

"Hey! No! Let me out of here you cheat!" You pounded at the bellied wall, but only received a firm pound from the outside as you splashed back into the proteined goop inside.

"Pipe down snack, its game time" he gave out repeated pounds into his belly as he listend to the gurgle going on inside. "That's more like it, oh its gonna be a blast when we return. For now, sit with the rest of the protein.

#musk #oral vore

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watermelonlipstick · 3 years

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Septic

This was written as a request for anon, who asked:

I was wondering if I could request one with Dean. The reader's injury gets badly infected and she gets a high fever and they are stuck somewhere and can't go to the hospital (maybe a cabin during a snow storm or something else if you want?). Anyway her condition keeps getting worse and dean is doing everything he can to keep her alive? As for their relationship it's up to you, whether they're dating or hiding their feelings...?

I hope this is something along the lines of what you were thinking. I decided to go with a ‘hiding from Leviathans’ angle because that seemed the closest to canon compliant to me. Thanks in advance for reading; I would love any advice or critiques!!

Title: Septic

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 2124

Summary: Unable to go to a hospital for fear of getting trapped by Leviathans, Dean tries his best to manage the reader’s worsening infection and fever.

Warnings: fever, illness, swearing, implied threat of death, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff (maybe? if you squint)

“Dude, I have a fever, I haven’t been decapitated. Can you stop pacing? Sam’ll be back in a couple days, I’ll take some Tylenol and sleep it off, we’ll be good as new in no time.”

He glared down at you where you laid on Rufus’s couch with flared nostrils. “You’re shivering under every goddamn blanket in this place and it’s been 3 days already. We’re going to a hospital.”

You rolled your eyes at him and tried to hide the way you snuggled deeper into the woolen bundle. “So dramatic. As if we wouldn’t get made walking in the door. And if you’re so worried about me, why don’t you make yourself useful and get me a hot water bottle and some tea?” You tried to give him your most casual smile in reassurance.

Dean appraised you with a hard set to his jaw and a twinge of concern at his eyebrows for a moment before relenting. “Fuck, fine. One more day and if the fever hasn’t broken, then we’re going.” It was only a few steps to the kitchen, and you heard him putting a pot of water on to boil. “You sure I can’t just do coffee? I don’t know how you drink this stuff.”

Like it always did, Dean’s aversion to tea made you laugh. “It’s literally just mint flavored water—you act like you haven’t drunk all kinds of potions and hangover cures.”

“The fact that I have drunk all kinds of potions and hangover cures should show you how gross it is.” He tossed a hot water bottle covered in worn waxed canvas on top of your blankets and you shimmied it under your feet while he got the tea together. After a moment, he set the tea (and a plastic bear full of honey, which made you smile to yourself) on the coffee table next to you. “Can we at least watch something else? These chicks are driving me fucking nuts.”

That made you laugh hard enough to shake loose the blanket corners tucked in under your chin. “You might be able to trick Bobby into thinking you don’t like the Real Housewives, but I’m not buying it for one second.”

He shot you some side eye but didn’t protest, patting your feet in a signal to raise them so he could sit with your legs in his lap. You didn’t remember past the first few minutes of the next episode.

“Hey, come on, you gotta drink something.”

You squinted up at Dean, feeling the sickly stickiness of dried and re-soaked sweat in Dean’s stolen sweatshirt where it bunched around your neck. “You want me to sleep, you want me to wake up, pick a lane, asshole,” you tried to joke, feeling each word like a stab in your, well, stab wound. It took more focus than it should’ve too hold onto Dean’s face where he perched on the coffee table right in front of you.

“You’ve been asleep for 16 hours, Rip Van Winkle. And you’re sweating like a whore in church, gotta rehydrate.”

“Thanks, Nurse Ratched,” you croaked, carefully keeping your face neutral around the throbbing ache in your side as you sat up and accepted the bowl of broth from Dean. When his hands were free, he put the back of his hand to your forehead in a very maternal way that might’ve made you giggle if you weren’t in so much pain.

Dean’s lips pressed into a tight line and he breathed a hard “fuck,” as he sat back. “Lemme see it.”

“If you wanted to get me naked, all you had to do was ask,” you tried to joke.

“No slick shit, I’m serious. The fever’s getting worse.” There wasn’t even a touch of playfulness in his tone, tight chord of anxiety clipping his words.

“It’s going to be pink and raw like every other set of infected stit—”

“Cooperate or don’t, but my bet is there’s no way you can slip out of getting pinned right now.”

“Who knew you were so kinky, Dean?”

He didn’t rise to the teasing at all, the just-this-side-of-friendly banter you normally had, and it made the nervous bile rise a few degrees in your throat. You eased back and slowly flipped down the blankets, immediately started shivering as you pulled up your damp layers to show him your stomach.

It was worse than you’d thought it would be even before he tenderly pulled back the tape to see the injury itself, the gauze a mottled tie-dye of blood and greenish pus. The stitches strained against swollen, angry tissue oozing at the corners, and you looked away to hold onto a little denial that you weren’t completely fucked. “Jesus Christ, kid,” Dean murmured. He reached behind him for a bottle of rubbing alcohol and you didn’t even try to argue, hissing and grabbing his wrist when he poured it over the wound. Dabbing off the worst of the external mess with the moisture, you watched as his mind raced.

You decided to try to grab the reins of the situation before he locked you both into a crazy plan. “Help me up, I want to take a shower. I feel disgusting.”

“Can you even stand?”

You rolled your eyes at him exasperatedly.

“Roll your fucking eyes at me all you want, you look like Marvin the Martian. Can’t believe I let your dumb ass talk me out of taking you to a hospital.”

“I’ve got a much better chance of beating a little infection than I do the combined force of however many Leviathans are looking for us and the full force of the federal government. Now get out of my way if you’re not going to help me up, I need a shower.”

He pushed back the coffee table and watched you stand up, grabbing your arm and waist when you immediately swayed. “Goddamn it, sit back down, I’m getting your shoes.”

“Dean. I am not going to a hospital. Especially not before Sam gets back. Not a negotiation. I just—you’re freaked out, I get it. I just need you to please let me call the play for once.”

His jaw muscles tightened into firm balls and you could see the flare of panic behind his gaze as he flicked between your eyes. Ultimately he didn’t say anything, just giving you a tight nod and offering a hand to guide you up and to the bathroom. When you’d gotten there, he hovered in the doorway as you started to peel off layers, hoping that your leaning on the sink didn’t look as obvious as it felt. “Think I can take it from here, chief,” you offered, hoping he’d take the hint.

“Not adding a head injury to this bullshit stew, sorry.”

“No way, psycho. You’re not watching me shower.”

His face screwed up in a scowl. “I’m not going to watch you shower, I’m just staying in here while you do in case you get dizzy again.”

“Dude—”

“Not a negotiation,” he growled, spinning your words back on you. You held each other’s stubborn gazes for a long beat before you gave in, getting in the tub and yanking the curtain closed with the rest of your clothes on, shucking the rest of them off and dropping them outside the tub behind the plasticized shield and curtain. You turned the water on and held onto the dial for support, hearing Dean’s movement in the bathroom as he sat down on the lidded toilet next to the shower. Laborious as it was, it felt a lot better getting clean. You’d started washing your hair when he started to talk.

“You know what you’re asking me to do, right?”

“Let me take a shower in peace?” You didn’t want to acknowledge the elephant in the room—what was the point?

“If you’re not septic yet you will be in a day or two.”

“By which time Sam will be back and you guys can strong arm some vet into giving me antibiotics like the mafiosos you fancy yourselves to be.”

“Don’t deflect.” It was quiet but firm, and you blinked away the way your vision was starting to fuzz out at the edges. Something about it finally got you to drop the joking, if only for a second.

“I know what I’m asking you to do.” You hoped he could hear the resolution in your voice.

Dean was silent for a long enough beat that you thought maybe he hadn’t heard you, but you heard the roughness in his voice when he finally replied. “Please don’t make me?”

The shower washed away a hot, stupid tear when it shot out of your eye like a kamikaze at his vulnerability. “I can’t be the reason you guys get caught.” You were clean now, but something about the confession-style quality of the shower curtain and the way it was letting both of you say what you really meant held you in the stream of water anyway.

“I’m not—it’s going to fuck me up forever, you know that, right?” It was almost a grunt, the way Dean’s voice strained as he pleaded with you.

“Long as you guys are alive.”

He didn’t respond.

After a long minute you felt your legs start to turn to jello. “You have something out there I can put on?”

You heard him clear his voice, sticky and coarse. “Gimme a second.”

A callused hand shot behind the shower curtain with a towel before Dean’s footsteps got quieter, and you tried your best to dry yourself off without stumbling. Not 15 seconds later, a bundle of clothes came in the same way. You smiled to yourself at your underwear and yoga pants with Dean’s t-shirt; he would’ve had to deliberately go into 2 different bags to get the clothes, no way it was an accidental grab. When you were dressed, you tugged the shower curtain back and didn’t argue when Dean wrapped his arm around your waist to ease you out of the tub, let him guide you back to the couch and fussily rearrange your blankets and pillows before he got out his first aid supplies.

You watched his face as he worked on cleaning the wound again, knowing he just needed to be doing something, that he couldn’t just sit still and hope it got better. You could give him that, sat stock still even when it stung like a bitch and didn’t even tease him when he made you swallow a handful of vitamins as though that would help. Another cup of soup eaten silently and two mugs of tea later, your eyelids were beginning to droop again.

“Tired?” he murmured, messing with the cover of the hot water bottle before ultimately getting up to refill it.

“A little, yeah. Will you, um, will you sit with me?”

Dean mercifully didn’t acknowledge the shake in your voice, nodding gently and sliding himself beneath you on the couch, tucking you under his arm and onto his chest, burrowing you both into the cushions. You reached your hand out of the blankets to place your palm over his heart, feeling the vibrating thrum of his pulse under your fingertips and cheek. His hand shifted so that he was smoothing the drying hair back from your temple, and after a few beats he bent his neck to kiss the crown of your head. The tenderness of it, the giving in to your request, pulled another tear out of your eye that fell straight into the cotton of Dean’ t-shirt underneath you.

He sounded like he’d just woken up, that sleepy-syrupy sandpaper of a long night on his vocal cords. “You know, right? If it was going to be anyone for me, it would’ve been you?”

The weight of it turned the blankets on top of you into a hug. You were nodding into him before you could speak, the tears turning your voice creaky-soft. “Same to you, dummy.” He chuckled once nostalgically at the ribbing, and you felt the rumble of it under you. “Thank you, Dean.”

You felt the tension of the hiccupped breath before Dean got it under control to answer. “I love you, kid.”

“Love you too.” It was the only thing to say, and neither of you had to answer or explain this undercurrent that had never been acknowledged so plainly before, no matter how rock solid it might’ve been for years. You laid there together for a long time, beating of Dean’s heart underneath you something constant to hold onto, warmth off his body better than any hot water bottle. The last thing you remembered before passing out was hearing Sam walk through the front door.

Thanks again for reading! If you liked it, check out my Masterlist or send me a request!

Tags: @sams-sass @vxnderlindes @deanwinchesterswitch @akshi8278 @itsjensenanddean @flannellover67 @weepingwillowphoenix @tj-drinks-tea @whatareyousearchingfordean @winchest09 @winchestergirl2 @samwisethegr8 @nurse-sarahrn @lovers-in-japan-reign-of-love @deanwanddamons @stressedoutkitten @winchestershiresauce @tatted-trina6 @percico-heronstairs @downanddirtydean @queenoftheunderdark @lyarr24 @wonder-cole @that-one-gay-girl @fairlyspnfanfic @treat-winchesterswith-kindness @mimaria420 @jensengirl83 @zooaliaa @superfanficnatural @deangirl93

And as always, if you want to be on my taglist, were on the taglist and changed your handle, or I lost track of it, please let me know!

#dean #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester oneshot #dean winchester angst #dean hurt/comfort #dean winchester hurt/comfort #dean angst #spn angst #spn hurt/comfort #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fic #supernatural #spn #supernatural angst #supernatural hurt/comfort #dean mutual pining #spn mutual pining

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ahatintimepieces · 3 years

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Fabric Hearts

Remember the first part of that build-a-bear au I wrote for @smieska-draws? It’s back! But now the au name makes sense! Imagine!

Luka, known as the Snatcher to most of the mall locals, runs the Kraft-a-Kid while his daughter, Hattie, runs around with her friends. There’s definitely nothing suspicious about Luka. The rumors that he snatches the souls of children and stuffs them into the dolls are completely unfounded. Probably. Most likely. Don’t worry about it, I’m sure it’s fine.

This is, of course, another au that Smieska and I both developed and like to swap ideas for SO send her your love and adulation because I couldn’t have written this without her ;o; <333 Here’s the link to the piece she did for first part if you haven’t seen it yet (which u should because it’s fabulous and incredible). Without further ado, here it is!

Words: 4,131

The door squeaked open as Luka recorded the number of tiny, elastic collars with bright bells in the back.

“Dimitri can’t make it today,” he warned without looking up from his clipboard. His golden gaze flickered up towards the boxes filled with cotton stuffing and he quickly counted them as footsteps approached. “If you get a sudden influx of customers, come grab me.”

“It’s me, Dad,” Hattie’s voice came from right beside him.

“Did I stutter?” He glanced down without missing a beat. She gave him a deadpan stare as he grinned. His sharp canines glinted in the unnaturally bright florescent lights. “Come on, kiddo. How about you help me with my business endeavors instead of frittering away your summer romping around the mall?”

She readjusted the brim of the top hat she made from her millinery lessons at the fabric store. Why his child fixated on hat-making out of everything she could have taken an interest in was beyond him but even he had to admit her royal purple top hat was well crafted.

“I’m going with Belle and the others to get lunch at the food court,” she said, ignoring his jesting. “Can I have money?”

“You know if you had a job you wouldn’t need to be asking me,” he lamented dramatically before wedging the clipboard between his arm and side. He reached for his wallet in the back pocket of his slacks.

“I’m not even twelve.” She blinked up at him with large blue eyes. “There are child labor laws.”

“Excellent.” He nodded, opening his wallet. “Don’t let anyone in the mall convince you otherwise. But,” he slipped out a bill and gave her a pointed look, “if you accept this, you have to do me a favor.”

“I already cleaned the bathrooms last weekend,” she whined.

His grin widened.

“Tough luck, kiddo.” He twisted the bill in the air, watching her nose scrunch as she seriously weighed her options. After a second of letting her think that she was going to have to do her least favorite chore, he extended the bill towards her. “Just bring me back a coffee and I’ll consider us even.”

Relief instantly flooded her features as she took the bill.

“I can do that! Your usual?” She headed towards the door.

“That’ll work,” he said, tucking away his wallet and grabbing the clipboard again.

“Thanks, Dad!” she chirped before moving to open the door.

Just as she reached for it, the door swung open, and she stumbled back. Luka immediately dropped the clipboard and slipped behind her with the speed of shadows dodging the light. She smacked into his legs, and he placed a steadying hand on her shoulder as Alex walked in with wide eyes.

“I’m so sorry, kid! I didn’t see you there.” Alex winced, looking from Hattie to Luka’s hard glare.

“I’m fine!” Hattie promised, giving a bright smile until she placed her hand over Luka’s fingers. She jolted and twisted around. “Dad, are you okay? You’re really warm.”

“It is hot in here.” Alex tugged at their collar, wincing.

“The thermostat dial was probably nudged,” Luka dismissed, pulling away and stooping to grab the clipboard. “I’ll take a look.”

“Should I get you water?” Hattie asked.

“I have water. Now go have fun.” He shooed her towards the door. “The sooner you leave the sooner you can run my errand.”

Hattie hesitated but when he returned to his task of recording inventory, he heard her retreating footsteps.

“Sorry,” Alex muttered as they crossed over to the table for the employees. They dropped their backpack before grabbing the light purple apron with their nametag.

“Let’s just be careful with how forcefully we open doors, hm? I don’t want to deal with any workplace liability cases. They’re a pain.” Luka shot the teen a toothy grin. Glancing back down to the clipboard, he added in a more monotone cadence, “Anyway, Dimitri can’t come today, so once Ember leaves, it’ll just be you and me for the rest of the day. If it gets too crowded on the floor and I’m not around, come find me.”

“Right.” They nodded firmly. While wiping back their bangs and smearing the beads of sweat on their brow, they hurried out. Once the door closed behind them and Luka was alone, he let out a sigh.

The flame that had flared when Hattie nearly got hit crackled noisily in his otherwise empty chest. Luka placed one of his pale hands over the flame and counted out the seconds between metered inhales and exhales. The snap and pop of embers faded and when he glanced towards the thermostat, the temperature in the room lowered back to a comfortable range.

Not that he was bothered by the heat, but he didn’t need his employees passing out.

Ember’s shift ended as he got to counting the unstuffed plush shells. As she hung her apron over the hook, she informed him that two separate groups had just entered the store. Luka nodded, finishing his current count before getting ready to help Alex on the floor.

He brushed back his long, spiky hair into a ponytail. Stray strands the color of soot fluttered against his cheek, and he tucked them behind his ear.

They reflected a warm violet when they caught the light.

With his hair as contained as he could manage, he grabbed his own amethyst apron with the Kraft-a-Kid’s signature logo; a stylized baby goat and parent goat waving a friendly greeting. After draping it over his black suit and making sure it didn’t displace his dark purple tie, he tied the apron with nimble fingers, clawed at the tips. He double-checked that the pocket had extra thread and a compact sewing kit before he clipped on his name tag and headed out into the workshop.

Alex snapped their head up from one of the stuffing stations, looking relieved when they spotted Luka rounding the counter. Alex returned their full attention to the small girl and her mother while Luka smiled at the two teens with a younger child hovering by the bins of unstuffed shells by the entrance.

While he didn’t know them personally, he recognized Brooke and her younger sister Hali, who worked (or in Hali’s case just hovered around in the back when not at daycare) at their uncle’s travel agency, and then Makoto, who worked at the jewelry store. Judging from their uniforms, the teens were probably using their breaks to accompany Hali. Since he often heard good things about their work ethic and Hali’s sweet nature from Mari, he assumed he had an easy session ahead. He waved them over.

Brooke and Makoto shared a nervous look while Hali bounded over with a bright smile.

“Why, hello there!” Luka pasted on his most vibrant customer service smile as he lowered onto the seat by the stuffing station. Cotton and soft fibers filled the glass tank decorated to look like hearty trees and branches climbed around the edges. The machine itself matched the lilac walls and brown and bronze gears that decorated them. The bins and shelves that held the merchandise throughout the store were all structured to look like spools of golden thread.

Holding an unstuffed goat with dark brown fuzz and silver horns, Hali shyly smiled up at Luka as Brooke and Makoto slowly joined.

“I see you’ve picked your new friend!” Luka held out his hands and Hali gingerly lowered the flat goat into his palms. “Before we bring them to life, how stuffed do you want them to be?”

“Um?” Hali tilted her head with a blank expression.

“Do you want them to be firm or squishy?” Luka clarified, fitting the goat around the nozzle and getting his foot ready over the pedal.

“Fiwm, pwease!” Hali declared in a cutesy voice.

“Excellent choice!” Luka set to work, pumping the pedal as he filled out the head of the goat plush. The machine roared to life, blowing air and fluff with the force of a vacuum. Though, his ears perked when he caught Brooke and Makoto in an intense discussion as they remained a couple steps back. What he couldn’t hear over the machine, he pieced together easily enough.

He knew the rumors and could guess what was on their mind when they mentioned the Snatcher and stolen souls.

Luka smirked as he pulled his foot from the pedal and the machine hushed.

“Now it’s time for my favorite part.” He beamed, pulling off the firmly stuffed goat and then reaching for a bucket full of small felt hearts. “The soul ceremony! Go ahead and pick the heart that most resonates with you.”

“If it’s just a heart, why is it called a soul ceremony?” Brooke asked, her voice quivering as she pressed closer to Makoto.

Hali, meanwhile, was completely enraptured with picking out the right fabric heart.

“Hearts, souls, same thing, really,” Luka soothed with a toothy grin, giving the teens a considering look.

Makoto’s gaze flickered down to his fangs. She lifted her chin, trying to project an air of confidence. But her furrowed brows wavered.

“Souws awe heawts?” Hali gasped, looking up with awe.

“Absolutely!” Luka kept his voice cheerful, gesturing to the bucket. “It’s what gives your new friend life! I imagine without one, they would feel pretty empty and hollow.” Keeping his chin tilted down, he lifted his eyes towards the teens and lowered his voice just a touch. “Wouldn’t you feel pretty soulless without a heart?”

The two stiffened.

“Pwobabwy!” Hali chirped, completely unaware of their increasing unease. She dug around the hearts and pursed her lips. “How do woo know which heawt is the best?”

“That’s up to you!” Luka bounced effortlessly back into an upbeat cadence. He pinched a heart with a checkerboard pattern in red and white. “The nice thing about these hearts is that they’re blank slates. They’ll be filled with whatever you put into them. But don’t put in too much!” he added with a chuckle. “Wouldn’t want your new friend to be more you than you!”

Brooke squeaked in fright and his grin stretched.

“I wiwl take this one, then!” Hali held up a solid red heart.

“Great! Hold on to it, now.” Luka placed the tub back down. “First, why don’t you rub the heart on your hair so your little buddy will always have soft fur!”

Hali beamed at that and rubbed the fabric heart on her hair. When she pulled it back down, some of the blond strands followed the heart while the strands too far away stuck up from the lingering static.

“Well done! Now, rub it against your funny bone so your friend has a sense of humor.” Luka tapped his elbow when Hali crinkled her nose for a moment. Her eyes lit up in understanding and once the heart was granted good humor, Luka added, “and why don’t you strike a superhero pose, so that your pal will hold courage.”

Hali giggled as she placed her hands on her hips and preened.

“Fantastic. Lastly, I want you to rub the heart between your palms!” Luka motioned for her to mimic him as he demonstrated. “Now, when it’s nice and warm, give it a clap to start its heartbeat!”

The clap resounded through the workshop and the teens jolted behind her.

“That should do it,” Luka praised, holding out his palm. Hali handed the heart over, and he slipped it into the goat, tucking it snuggly away in the cotton and fluff.

He then set to filling out the rest of the plush. Once it was stiff and sturdy, he handed it to her, asking if she was content with it. When he received an enthusiastic nod, he took it back and sealed the hole. He snipped the extra thread with the scissors in his apron and then passed the goat back to Hali.

“Here’s your new friend! Be sure to visit our shop in the back! We have plenty of accessories and outfits for the newest member of your family,” Luka recited the same sales pitch as always. “Once you’re ready, head over to an open kiosk so you can fill out the adoption papers. If you need any help, Alex or I will be overjoyed to assist.”

“Thank woo!” Hali hurried over to the accessories, hugging the goat to her chest.

Luka clasped his hands and turned to the teens. When his gaze flickered to the floppy hooded doll in Makoto’s arms, her embrace tightened.

“Ready?” He motioned for her to hand it over so that he could stuff it.

She looked to Brooke, who shrugged with uncertainty. Makoto stepped forward.

Keeping his tone light, he went through the same script as always. He asked if she wanted the doll to be firm or squishy and, in an effort to loosen her up a bit, offered to add any fun sound boxes or scents to the plush. She remained on edge until he asked about the nametag on her uniform as the machine roared to life again. She explained how her boss liked to give everyone themed nicknames and she was saddled with “Makoneko.” When he asked if she appreciated the nickname, she pointedly rolled her eyes as he removed his foot from the machine pedal again. Her shoulders relaxed when he chuckled.

“Your turn to pick a heart,” Luka twittered in an overly cheerful voice as he held out the bucket.

“Do I have to do the ceremony?” Makoto hesitated, plucking the first heart she saw. Rather than scared, her bored expression mirrored that of many teens who wanted to skip the step.

Perfect.

“I wouldn’t recommend it.” He shrugged casually. “What is a heart without a heartbeat? A soul without a person behind the personality?”

“What?” She faltered, shoulders slowly stiffening again as Brooke’s eyes widened.

“I only mean it’ll be a sorry existence for this little friend.” Luka waved the stubby hands of the purple plush toy. “And you get out what you put in.” Her brows dipped in slight confusion, and he smirked. “You have to at least start its heartbeat. You don’t want to bring a ghost home, do you?”

“Just do the ceremony!” Brooke hissed through clenched teeth.

“F-fine,” Makoto said, slowly lifting the heart to her long black locks. “So, hair for soft fur?”

“Does it look like this one has fur?” Luka gestured to the doll with the yellow spiral in its hood. He scoffed, turning up his nose. “Of course not! No. First, why don’t you rub the heart against your belly so that it’s full of laughter.”

“I thought that was the elbow.” Makoto crinkled her nose. Though she rubbed the heart against her stomach, eager to get it over with.

“There is a difference between telling good jokes and laughing at them, kiddo,” Luka offered with a smirk. “Now, how about you jump up and down a few times? I’m sure your friend would love to share some of your energy.”

“What does that mean?” She jolted.

“Just that exercise keeps the heart healthy,” Luka said placidly.

Her eyes narrowed but she eventually gave a sluggish skip.

“Then, rub it against your ear, so it will always listen.” He smiled brightly, being sure to bare his teeth. Once she complied, he clasped his hands together. “I’m sure you know what to do now! Warm it between your palms and then clap to start the heartbeat!”

She let out the breath that she had been holding, relieved it was finally over. She gave a small clap before passing the heart back. He slipped it into the doll.

“Any names in mind for your friend?” Luka prompted as his foot tapped the pedal.

“I don’t know,” she mumbled curtly, purposefully trying to let the whirling air in the stuffing machine drown out her answer.

“How’s this feel?” he asked a few seconds later when the machine hushed again. He pulled the doll from the nozzle and passed it back to her.

“Good.” She returned it after assessing the squishiness.

“If you haven’t got any names, I always thought these particular dolls looked like minions,” he prattled, closing the seam. When she didn’t respond, he continued lightly, “so Minion might be a good name.” He glanced up to meet her gaze and lowered his tone. “You did make sure it’ll listen. It’ll be an obedient little kiddo.”

Her breath hitched.

“Obedient to who?” she challenged, maintaining a fragile glare.

“All done!” Luka snapped upright after snipping the excess thread, pretending he hadn’t heard her question. “Welcome your friend into the world!”

Makoto accepted the doll, her gaze flickering between it and Luka with uncertainty.

“Same as always,” he droned in his peppy, customer service voice. “Browse to your contentment. My daughter recommends the plush purple cherries. You want to keep your buddy happy and fed! Make sure to finalize the adoption and meet Alex or I by the counter.” He glanced over to find the other young girl with her mother already at the cash register. “Looks like it’ll be Alex!”

Makoto nodded numbly as Brooke stepped forward and looped her arm through hers, rescuing Makoto by tugging her away.

“One more thing,” Luka began, keeping his eyes on his clean-up routine. The teens’ footsteps paused as they hovered. Though his smile laced his voice, his enunciation was sharp. “I’m sure the Snatcher doesn’t have to tell you but be sure to treat your new friend as you would yourself. You put your soul into bringing them to life, after all.”

The teens gasped.

“Have a good day, kids.” Laughter laced his voice.

They rushed away as he chuckled.

While he finished cleaning up, Hattie returned with her friends. As soon as she spotted him behind the stuffing machine, she rushed across the tiles decorated to look vaguely like a forest path.

“Here’s your coffee,” she chirped, holding up the cup.

“Any plans for the rest of the day?” he asked, pushing to his feet and picking stray fluff from his apron. Once he was as clean as he was going to get, he accepted the drink. He held it towards his lips, pausing to quirk a brow at young Muriel and Timmy as they passed the stuffing machines to check out all the colorful outfits. Belle, meanwhile, joined Hattie with her azure bow bouncing in her dark coils.

“We’re going to head to the bookstore.” Hattie shrugged. “Tim’s friend is hosting a card game tournament.”

“Remember to be back by six,” he instructed. “Don’t go snacking after four or you’ll spoil your dinner.”

“I know, Dad,” she huffed dramatically.

“Also, Mom says hi, Mr. Kingsley,” Belle pipped in.

“Tell Mari I return the sentiment. Now get your friends to stop loitering.” He turned back towards Hattie and rose his voice so Timmy and Mu could hear. “They scare away customers.”

“Says the Snatcher,” Timmy whispered to Mu.

Luka covered his smirk with the coffee cup. His gaze shifted over Hattie and Belle and he watched as Makoto and Brooke fled the store at a brisk pace. Hali struggled to keep up, but she managed to meet his eyes and offered a cheerful wave.

“Fine,” Hattie sighed. “Come on, guys!”

“I need to stop by Mom’s before we head to the bookstore,” Belle mentioned as she and Hattie turned to leave. “I left my cards with my backpack.”

As the girls left, Luka turned to head back towards the counter, taking a sip of his coffee. He immediately winced.

“Ugh, tepid,” he grumbled as Timmy and Mu ran past, hurrying out to follow Hattie and Belle.

After making sure the kids all had their backs turned and Alex was busy with something on the counter, Luka summoned a gentle ember to his hand. While the flame harmlessly licked the cup, the coffee warmed inside until steam wafted from the hole in the lid. He took a tentative sip and swallowed the scalding liquid.

The flames in his chest crackled and popped, and the knots in his shoulders eased.

He snuffed out the ember in his hand as he lowered the cup. Mist trailed from the lid as the coffee maintained its heat.

“I think you scarred those two for life,” Alex muttered as Luka returned to the counter.

“Which two?” he asked, mind still on Hattie and her friends.

“Brooke and Makoto.” Alex glanced up, shaking their head with a scolding expression.

“I didn’t do anything out of the ordinary,” Luka said calmly. He leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee during his momentary break. “If those hooligans are letting their imaginations run wild, it’s not on my conscience.”

“Uh-huh.” Alex gave him an unimpressed look. “Also, I think we’re running low on the beach ball accessories.”

“I noticed,” Luka muttered, swirling his cup pensively. “Those aren’t particularly popular, and we are getting near the end of the season…”

While they discussed whether they needed to send out an order or if they would make it until the fall selection came out, Hattie rolled on the balls of her feet as she, Timmy, and Mu waited for Belle to return from her mom’s flower shop just across from Kraft-a-Kid. Hattie idly watched all the mallgoers, thoughts blank, but Timmy and Mu had their eyes locked on Kraft-a-Kid, thoughts whirling noisier than the stuffing machines.

“Okay, I’m ready!” Belle announced as she bounced out with her deck of cards.

“Hattie.” Timmy whirled around. “Your dad’s magic!”

“Timmy, he doesn’t steal souls, we’ve been over this,” Hattie whined, crossing her arms.

“If he doesn’t steal souls, then what’s with his coffee?” Mu snapped, nodding her head towards the display window where Luka could be seen leaning against the counter inside the workshop.

Hattie squinted, trying to figure out what was out of place with the steaming coffee cup. After a moment, she turned to Belle, who shrugged.

“It’s hot!” Mu gestured wildly, causing her blond mustache to bob with her movement. “Look at that steam!”

Hattie blinked in disbelief.

“Yeah,” Belle supplied dryly. “Because Hattie ordered it hot.”

“But he said it was tepid!” Timmy argued. “We heard him!”

“He probably thinks it is,” Hattie said, knitting her brows together. “He likes his coffee hot enough to burn his tastebuds.”

“You aren’t getting it!” Mu huffed. “It wasn’t steaming when he said it was cold!”

“Okay, but even if he somehow heated it up, that didn’t have anything to do with stealing souls,” Belle appeased.

“That’s what we mean!” Timmy urged. “If he can use one type of magic, he can use others!”

“I regret the day I told you about those rumors,” Hattie grumbled.

It didn’t matter as much when strangers said it, but instead of laughing with Hattie when she told them that people thought her dad was some kind of heartless, soul-snatching monster, Mu and Timmy had latched onto the conspiracy and ever since refused to let go. She couldn’t talk about new product plushies or designs around them anymore because they would just start a debate about which shell would best hold the souls of children.

“Look can we just get going?” She started walking in the direction of the bookstore and Belle matched her pace. Mu hurried to catch up as Timmy trailed behind, keeping a watchful eye on Kraft-a-Kid.

“Are you sure you haven’t seen anything weird?” Mu insisted. “Heard any screams of children he caught? Seen any dolls move in the corner of your eye?”

“You know he laughs like a cartoon villain?” Timmy added.

“The store is literally called Kraft-a-Kid!” Mu continued. “Open your eyes, Hattie!”

“Kid is just another word for baby goat!” Belle argued. “It’s cute!”

“We aren’t talking about this anymore!” Hattie snapped, tugging down on the brim of her hat. She turned away from them and focused on Belle. “So, what deck are you using? The one with fairy types? Or your cat themed one?”

“Both!” She grinned mischievously as she happily helped to redirect the conversation. “I combined them because I wanted to use all my favorites. How about you?”

“Going with the forest deck.” Hattie glanced up, where her deck was safely tucked away in the hidden compartment she stitched into the top hat.

Timmy and Mu huffed, letting their argument go as they pipped in with talking about their own decks. But it was only a matter of time before they started back on their theories about her dad’s supposed magic. Trying not to deflate too much, she kept her eyes forward. She swallowed her frustration and focused on the upcoming tournament.

Besides, even if her dad did have magic and only used it for heating up coffee, it hardly seemed something a heartless monster would do.

Right?

#a hat in time #ahit snatcher #ahit prince #ahit hat kid #ahit dadtcher #my writing #build-a-bear au #'im gonna take a break'#*proceeds to post exactly one day after the old posting schedule #im still writing lol just gonna be all over the place for a bit #ALSO FINALLY WROTE THIS #ITS BEEN ON MY MIND FOR FOREVER #ITS JUST REALLY FUNNY TO ME TO IMAGINE SNATCHER RUNNING A BUILD A BEAR PLEEEEEEASE #i have one more short thing for this that addresses the heart-shaped hole in the room and then u might find me #ricocheting around other aus like a pinball #anyway that's all for now #thank you so much for reading as always!!!!!#catch ya later!

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professortennant · 3 years

Note

Please write some more ted/rebecca domestic fluff. 😍😍😍

i hope you like ted/rebecca/henry moments

It's Henry's first time visiting when she and Ted are something and it feels like a test of some sort, though Ted would never say that nor put that pressure on her. She loves children, has held Nora in her arms and rubbed the tip of her infant nose with the pad of her finger and promised to protect her, to love her always.

It's the broken promises that haunt her.

She doesn't want to let Henry down, doesn't want to let Ted down.

So she runs to the toy shop at the top of the high street, buys out their selection of dinosaur figurines, a handful of wind-up robots and little techno figures that light up, and a build-your-own robot kit intended to be more educational, she thinks, than functional.

The toys are set up in neat, enticing little lines along her desk and she wonders if it's too late to run up to the store and pick up coloring pencils and art paper, too.

(The previous night Ted had been ecstatic, bouncing around the house and humming softly to himself, stocking their refrigerator with peanut butter and jelly and their cupboards with fruity-flavored cereal. But Rebecca had a brick settling in her stomach, stony-faced and twiddling her thumbs at the table.

Ted squeezed her shoulders, dropped a a quick kiss to the top of her head and nuzzled at her hair a little. "Relax, sweetheart," he drawled, leaning over her shoulder and pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. "He's going to love you as much as I do."

But not even Ted's belief in her could soothe her anxiety.)

And now, there was the frantic pitter-patter of feet just outside her office, Ted's deep voice of, "Henry, wait--", and then there he was: Henry Lasso, nine-years old and bouncing and brimming with enthusiasm.

"Hi, Rebecca!"

Heart thumping in her chest, thoughts of broken promises and a determination to not repeat the past, she stepped forward and knelt precariously in her heels to meet the little boy's eyes. "Hello, Henry."

Ted followed in behind his son and stood in the doorway, eyes soft and bright, watching the interaction. Rebecca felt his gaze like a weighted blanket upon her.

Henry appeared to wilt a little, his confidence dipping as he looked behind him at his father who gave him an encouraging smile. Ted then turned that encouraging smile to Rebecca who felt a surge of strength.

She gestured behind her to the line of toys. "Your dad told me you're into robots? I--"

But she couldn't get the rest of her words out, Henry's eyes lighting up and his little body darting by her to fall to his knees in front of the table, hands reaching eagerly for the T-Rex and light-up robots.

Ted reached down to help her up, steadying her on her feet. She gave him a wry grin. "All that worry for nothing. I just needed to ply him with toys."

He leaned forward, brushed a kiss to her cheek, forehead resting against her temple for a moment. "You didn't need to do anything, hon. Just be yourself."

Still, Rebecca watched the young boy play with the figurines, listened to him make beeping noises and dinosaur roars, and wondered if it was that simple--just be herself when herself hadn't been good enough.

And then--

"Rebecca?" Henry's shy little voice carried across her office and she looked up to meet the little boy's eyes. He held out the build-your-own robot kit to her and bit his lip, looking uncertain. Ted's hand drifted down to her hip, squeezing softly before drifting to her backside, tapping it lightly in encouragement.

She stepped forward, heart in her throat. "Yes?"

Henry held out the kit to her shyly, eyes flicking to his father for a moment, before lifting the kit higher towards her. "Do you wanna build a robot with me?"

Suddenly, her throat felt thick with unshed tears, her chest tight at the sudden whopping feeling of this little person's trust and acceptable. She nodded, cleared her throat, and took the kit from him.

"I would love to, Henry."

ii.

Henry is ten and comes off the plane and into the arrivals area of the airport dead on his feet, eyes bleary and forehead burning up, skin clammy and looking dreadful.

"Dad," he whimpers, falling into Ted's arms and curling up against his chest as best as his ten-year old body can manage. Ted wraps his arms around his son protectively, cradling the body against him, hiking him up higher on his hip and silently asking Rebecca to grab Henry's bags.

She does so immediately, drags the rolling suitcase behind her and falls in step beside them and keeps her hand on the little boy's back, rubbing soothing circles there.

But one look at Ted's worried, panicked expression, the white-knuckled grip on his son, has her hand drifting from Henry to Ted, her hand resting on the small of his back, hooking over his hip and squeezing gently.

"We'll take care of him," she tells him, voice low to mask her own concern. Ted flicks his eyes to hers before cuddling his son closer and picking up the pace.

At home, Ted helps Henry strip out of his clothes, soaked with sweat from his fever and reeking with the sink of ten hours' worth of airplane, and into the tub. Rebecca busies herself with turning down the little twin bed in the spare office they'd turned into Henry's bedroom, brews a strong cup of mint tea and leaves it on the bedside table, along with a cold compress and a thermometer.

Freshly showered and swimming in an oversized AFC Richmond jersey, Henry snuggles down into his bed with a sleepy sigh and a string of coughs.

Ted sits next to him on the edge of the bed, smooths his hair back, rubs his forehead across his son's forehead. Rebecca is touched by the sight of them; doesn't know how she forgets Ted is a father sometimes when caring is ingrained in every bone of his body.

"Okay, bud, we're gonna let you rest up, alright? And when you wake up, you're gonna feel better and we're gonna get dinner."

"'Kay," Henry sighs out, eyes already fluttering closed, cheeks flushed red from fever and travel and a warm bath. Her hands clench at her side and she fights the urge to mimic Ted's movements, to brush her thumb along his cheek and tell him it will be okay. But she's still not sure where, exactly, she fits in.

"You need anything?" Ted asks, voice low and soft and soothing.

"Will you read 'til I sleep? Just for a bit."

"Yeah, bud, of course. Which--"

"Uncle Roy's book," comes the eager response, Henry sounding a little perkier.

Rebecca hides a smile, squeezes Ted's shoulder to keep him in place, and crosses the room to Henry's small but ever-growing bookcase and plucks A Wrinkle in Time off the shelf, returning to the Lasso boys and giving it to Ted.

But then--

"No," Henry says, voice strong and stern. "Can Rebecca do it?" Then, shyly, "She does the voices better."

Ted leans forward to kiss his son's forehead before standing up and handing the book right back to his girlfriend, kissing her softly. "You've been chosen," he teases.

But the words hit her in the chest and settle there, heavy and solid, like a medal around her neck. She takes Ted's place on the edge of Henry's bed, smooths the blanket, and opens the book and begins reading.

Somewhere after she introduces Mrs. Who, Mrs. Whatsit, and Mrs. Which, she feels Henry's hand settle along side hers and his breathing evens out, eyes closed and form asleep.

Gently tucking the bookmark into place, she leans forward and kisses his forehead, still warm with fever, and murmurs, "Sleep well, darling."

Out in the living room, Ted slides his arm along the back of the couch, opening a place for her by his side which she takes gratefully, curling against him and tucking her feet beneath her. His lips find her hairline, his hands find her shoulders, and she lets herself sink into him, exhausted from worry.

"Thank you," she whispers into the silence, her hand sliding across his belly, scratching slightly.

"For what?"

The words are hard to get out but she needs him to know she loves him and his little boy and the opportunity that being with him presents. She clears her throat, turns her head into his shoulder and kisses his shirt-covered chest. "For letting me be a mum," she confesses. "Just for a little while."

Ted exhales harshly before moving quickly, hand lifting her face to his and his mouth finding hers, kissing her deeply, lingering at her lips to kiss her again and again, holding her close.

When he breaks away, he leans his forehead against hers, nuzzles their noses together. "There ain't no one--no one--else I'd rather co-parent with."

Their hands entwine, their fingers tangle, and they settle into the couch and wait for their boy--their boy--to need them, both of them.

iii.

All she can hear from the bathroom is Ted's soothing tone, his 'coach' voice as she's come to think of it--a little performative, a little deeper, a little sterner--and Henry's giggles along with the sound of splashing water. She pushes the bathroom door open and watches her boys--because she knows this now, they are hers--lean over the bathroom sink, safety razors in hand, Ted's voice walking his son through the motions of how to shave. Henry is twelve now and has just enough peach fuzz on his lip and sideburns that Ted had agreed to teach him how to shave.

But she doesn't want to miss out on the fun, doesn't want to miss this moment.

Henry laughs when Rebecca comes in and starts putting shaving cream on her own face, hands rubbing together and lathering the foam over her cheeks and across her lip. “Don’t leave me out, boys.”

“Rebecca, you look like Santa,” Henry laughs, his own face covered in patchy shaving foam.

“Well, I’ll take that as a compliment then. Ho ho ho.” She uses her pointer finger as a faux-razor and wipes the cream from her face in long, clean drags, before leaning in to kiss Ted. It's these casual demonstrations of affection that she cherishes the most, the gestures she thought she'd never get.

“Oh, one sec—“ Ted cups her cheek and wipes a bit of cream off her chin before leaning in to kiss her properly, kiss lingering. “Be done in a bit,” he murmurs against her mouth, kissing her softly again.

Henry pretends to gag into the sink and Rebecca rolls her eyes, drops a kiss to the top of the boy’s head, ruffles his hair affectionately and just barely resists rubbing shaving cream into his hair. “Dinner’s in five,” she calls out over her shoulder, leaving her boys behind in the bathroom.

She turns, watches them a moment longer—her family.

iv.

She never forgets for a moment that Henry is part-Ted. She sees it as he grows older, that boundless energy never quite settling, endless curiosity as he insists on all three of them exploring every nook and cranny of London, wants to know each bit of history that has tread over the cobblestones or sweated into the brickwork.

(She'd spun a bit of a tale, told Henry that London was built on magic, enchantments woven into each alleyway. He'd given her an awestruck look and when Rebecca looked up to give Ted a wink, she'd found his face just as awed, just as enraptured in her tale. Like father, like son.)

They go to museums where he and Ted both press their faces eagerly to display cases and drag her into display halls and beg her to give the suits of armor a voice. It only takes one look at their identical Lasso puppy dog eyes to get her to crack, snap to attention beside a gleaming suit of armor, and put on a rough Cockney accent, saluting her boys, "At your service, sirs!"

It sends them both into a fit of giggles and Henry leans against her side and looks up at her. "You're silly, Rebecca."

She taps his nose and ruffles his hair. "And don't you forget it."

She catches Ted's eyes over the boy's head and the sight of his expression--warm, hungry, and so nakedly, openly affectionate--punches her in the chest, sends her staggering back. She tries to steady herself on Henry's shoulder but he's already gone, the attention span of his father, and bouncing to the next exhibit.

"Don't get too far away from us," she calls after him, sighing when he throws her a thumbs up and scampers away into a pirate and nautical themed room.

And then Ted is there, his arms around her and pulling her in against him, mouth finding hers, kissing her desperately, fiercely. It's more public affection than she's used to from him--usually keeping it to holding hands or an arm slung over her shoulders--and it catches her off guard as she remembers that expression she'd seen earlier.

"What was that for?" she asks breathlessly, steadying herself against him with her hand on his chest, swaying back towards him on instinct wanting more.

"Because you're you," he says simply, tucks a curl of hair behind her ear. "Because you love my son. Because you love me."

Tears spring to her eyes and she reaches up to cup his cheeks in her hands, feels his stubble scrape along her fingertips. "You both are easy to love," she says, voice wavering. She grins and adds, "Annoyingly so, might I add. You melted me."

"Naw, you were already a squishy melty marshmallow," he teases, kissing her softly and slipping his hand into hers and following Henry into the next room.

"I was not," she protests half-heartedly. "They were calling me the ice queen in the bloody papers! I was, y'know, tough."

Ted kisses her temple. "Absolute marshmallow."

Four years ago, her office was relatively barren--filled with stale, lifeless paintings worth too much money, overpriced decorative statues on her surfaces, and a clean, blank glass desk. Nothing too personal, nothing to show who she was.

Now, though. Now.

Now, there are collages of photographs hanging on the wall. Pictures of her at galas and events with Ted on her arm; front pages illustrating AFC Richmond's Cinderella story, Ted surrounded by the team drenched in water holding a shiny trophy aloft; articles featuring her new approach to handling of club ownership and empowering those around her.

Now, along the windowsill facing the pitch there are pictures of her and the team: Sam and Dani on either side of her in some club with shots of tequila in hand, another with Keeley on her back, heels in hand, Rebecca giving her a piggy-back ride, both of them grinning broadly into the camera.

Now, there's a Jurassic Park-themed blanket folded over the back of her office couch where a rapidly growing little boy collapses onto it after running around with the players at training as best as he can and a duffel bag with spare clothes for Ted in her closet next to her coats. Little places in her life carved out for them.

Now, on her desk, is a framed picture of her and Ted, their arms wrapped around each other, kissing softly at the Higgins' vow renewal ceremony, the frame hand-made by Ted out of painted popsicle sticks, little hearts and marshmallows and footballs painted into one corner and Always yours, Ted scribbled in the other corner.

Now, the only other picture on her desk is a hand-drawn picture from Henry of four figures--a mustachioed man, a petite woman with long hair, a young boy, and a tall, blonde woman, all holding hands. The labels are what's important: Dad, Me, Mom, and Mum.

And beneath it all, in blazing, declarative glory: My family.

#ted lasso fic #ted x rebecca #ITS JUST FOUND FAMILY BULLSHIT DONT LOOK AT ME #ted lasso

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thirsty-flygirl · 3 years

Text

Falling for You

Formerly Idiots

Part IV: See You Around

Poe Dameron x f!Reader

AN: Here is my first and favorite series, back with a new title and a few adjustments to make it more reader-friendly.

Warnings: Language for now. 18+ Only.

Tag Requests: @capbrie @jitterbugs927 @1950schick @saays-bitch @wasicskosgirl @brandyllyn

Words: 1335

Part I II III

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

You sighed and kicked your feet back and forth, perched on the edge of your hospital bed while the doctor ran you through a final check.

“Okay, follow my finger,” she said, moving it slowly back and forth in front of your face. Your eyes felt a little like they might fall out of your head, but you weren’t going to tell her that. She gave a satisfied smile and stepped back. “Everything looks good. Just take it easy for the next couple of days and make sure you let me know if anything changes.”

You smiled gratefully and slid off the bed as she walked away. Finding your bearings, you slowly made your way back to your quarters, counting the steps until you could lie back down and rest.

A wave of relief swept through you when you reached your door, followed by the sinking realization that you had no clue where your scan key had wandered off to in the midst of last night’s events.

“Just the woman I was looking for.”

Your head jerked up at the sound of Poe’s voice and a groan escaped you as a wave of pain roared through your skull. Vision black around the edges, you shot a hand out to brace yourself against the wall.

“Ohhhhh, too fast,” you whimpered, your stomach twisting nauseously.

“Shit!” You felt Poe’s arm reach around your waist, holding you up against the firm plane of his chest. “Sweetheart, are you okay?” Even unable to see his face, the evident concern lacing his deep voice made your stomach flip. A short beep and a hiss indicated that somehow Poe had gotten your door open and you kept your eyes closed as you let him help you inside. Once you felt the soft mattress behind your knees you sank down, waiting for the fuzz to clear.

Breathing deeply, you raised your gaze to Poe, noticing the worry on his face. “Hey, I’m sorry about that,” you murmured, afraid that speaking too loud would send you reeling again. You smiled wryly. “I guess I’m not quite a hundred percent yet.”

Poe smiled softly and ran a thumb over your cheekbone. “Sweetheart, you don’t need to apologize. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

You sat quietly for a moment, just enjoying the feeling of his skin against yours, the intimacy of the gesture making your heart skip. As you gazed at him, realization dawned on you.

“Hey, why did you have my key?”

Poe smiled sheepishly and sat next to you on the small bunk. “I grabbed it last night before I left the medbay. I . . . uh . . .,” he trailed off and ran a hand over his face. You waited expectantly for him to finish, stealing a moment to admire his profile. Dark curls falling down across his forehead, long lashes framing those deep brown eyes that made you a little weak in the knees, the curve of his nose and the strong line of his jaw. Even coming off a concussion you could unequivocally state that Poe Dameron was the sexiest, most beautiful man you’d ever seen.

“I took your key last night because I wanted to surprise you. I had it all planned out, I would help you back to your room, and then I could take care of you while you rested . . .there were supposed to be flowers . . .” Poe shrugged and looked at you, disappointment written across his face. “I got hung up in a strategy meeting for our next mission and by the time I got here, you were here, and I nearly made you pass out again, and I’m-”

“–You were there?” Your eyes narrowed slightly as you tried to arrange the events of last night into some semblance of a memory. Bits and pieces swam to the surface, but you had no recollection of Poe in the disjointed mess. “I can’t remember anything at all about last night,” you confessed, “I remember looking at your instrument panel and then I woke up this morning in the medbay.” A horrifying thought washed over you.

“Did I say something stupid? Those drugs were pretty good. . . oh, Maker, what did I do?”

The low light of your room made Poe’s eyes glitter, twin amber pools spreading warmth across your skin, making you melt under his stare.

“You don’t remember anything?”

Disappointment coated Poe’s words. He stood and anxiously crossed the span of your small room, before whirling back to you. “Nothing?”

“I’m sorry for whatever I said or did,” you sighed, feeling embarrassed and, all of a sudden, shy. Your crush on Poe had deepened into something you were loath to name, and it terrified you. The easy flirtation between the two of you was one thing; it was fun and sexy and you loved every second of it, but falling in love? Letting him know the deepest parts of your soul, the parts that you hid, the desires and hopes that lay within your heart? You couldn’t make that jump, despite the tiny voice in your head calling you out loud and clear.

You shrugged self-deprecatingly and offered him a crooked grin. “I apologize for whatever I said, Poe. I swear I didn’t mean any of it.”

His heavy eyebrows drew together, gaze lingering intently on your face. “You didn’t mean it?”

Raising your palms, you laughed softly. “I plead temporary insanity due to head trauma.”

Letting out a huff, Poe’s head dropped to his chest. “Temporary insanity. Of course you didn’t mean it.” He shook his head and raised his gaze to yours, his eyes full of an emotion you couldn’t identify.

A kernel of recognition flickered in your brain, pieces of last night’s events slowly slotting into place. Jessika’s voice. The sharp, jolting pain in your skull. Poe’s arms, holding you close. The worry you heard in his voice, the feeling of his hand holding yours, the moment you admitted—

“Poe,” you whispered, “what did I say to you last night?”

His response was cut off as the comm on his wrist beeped shrilly in the quiet of your quarters. Poe blinked at you, eyes scanning your face for a moment, searching for something in your expression. You rose on shaky legs and took a step toward him. “Poe, I–”

“–I have to go,” he muttered, running a hand through his curls. “I guess I’ll see you around?”

You frowned at his words. “See me around? Poe, are you upset with–”

“–Nope, not at all,” he spoke over you again. “We’re good. You said something . . . just . . . look, I get it. You were out of it last night.” He turned toward the door and struck the panel to open the door much harder than necessary, throwing a terse “bye” over his shoulder before walking out.

You stood in the middle of your small room and watched him go, staring after him with a sinking heart as your door closed. You had seriously fucked something up, you just weren’t quite sure what it was. A shimmery, nebulous memory of admitting to Poe that you wanted to kiss him swam around in your brain, but you couldn’t understand his reaction to your words. He left mad, of that you were certain.

Maybe you’d misread everything? The signals, the flirting, the looks shared over the past weeks? Maybe he didn’t feel the same way you did, and your drugged confession had somehow set him off? You knew Poe had a little bit of a temper, but you stupidly blurting out your attraction to him wouldn’t piss him off like that.

Right?

The entire situation made your head ache again. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, lying back down on your bunk to get some rest. You would figure everything out with Poe when you saw him next. It had to be a misunderstanding. You chuckled to yourself as you drew the thin, rough blanket up to your chin.

At least you hadn’t told him you were falling in love with him.

#poe x reader #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron x f!reader #poe dameron x you #star wars fanfiction #my fic

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ghosttotheparty · 3 years

Text

the concept of permanence and its effects on the heart

AO3 Annie sighs, placing her now empty cup on the counter beside the sink. It’s dark, and the glass shines and glistens.

I’ll wash it tomorrow.

She rests against the counter, tugging the hair tie from her ponytail before tying it up again. The television in the living room is on (the light from it, flashing and shining, lit her way to the kitchen from her bedroom), and she assumes Abed is asleep on the sofa in front of it. It’s playing Inspector Spacetime. Annie recognises the exaggerated English accents, the sound of lasers being shot at tin. The volume is low.

Annie sighs again, closing her eyes and crossing her arms in front of herself, dropping her head.

It’s been quieter since Troy left.

(Abed is quieter since Troy left.)

She rubs her face, standing up straight and turning to leave the kitchen and shut off the tv. But when she looks into the living room, Abed isn’t asleep. He’s sitting up on the sofa, cross-legged with a blanket pulled around his shoulders. He’s holding it tightly, his fingers rubbing the fabric, and his eyes are shining, glazed, like he’s looking through the screen instead of at it. He doesn’t even look like he’s watching it. He looks like he’s just thinking, thinking, thinking, thinking, with the television as background noise, as a distraction.

He looks lonely.

“Hey, Abed,” Annie says gently so she doesn’t startle him, but he startled anyway, looking at her. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Hi,” he responds, almost just whispering. “No, I uh… No.”

“It’s late,” she tells him. It was a little past midnight last she checked as she worked on her forensics essay. “Don’t you think you should go to bed?”

He stares at her, like he’s looking through her, like she’s another screen, before looking away.

“One more episode,” he says.

She pauses, watching as he turns back to the television.

“Hey,” she says after a few seconds. “I haven’t seen Rachel in a while, how’s she doing?”

“We broke up,” he says without hesitating, and she blinks, jerking her chin back in surprise.

“What?”

“Yeah.”

“But…” She shifts on her feet, wondering if she should sit next to him. “I thought you guys were really happy together, I thought you loved each other.”

“We did, it just… sort of fizzled.” He bites his lip, watching the Inspector pull a map out of his pocket, even though it looks too big too fit. “It just felt like we were going through the motions of a relationship. Going through tropes and dates because that’s what we were supposed to do. It didn’t feel like love love.”

“What… What does?”

He sighs, adjusting the blanket.

“It just feels different,” he says. His voice is stronger now. “Better.”

“Abed?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s it feel like to fall in love?”

After a second, he moves on the sofa, shifting closer to the armrest and gesturing subtly beside him. She sits, crossing her legs and facing him. Curious.

“It’s really nice,” he says softly. “It feels like coming home. They’re familiar. And comforting.”

Annie makes a mental note of Abed’s use of they’re, but stays quiet, listening intently.

“They’re safe. Like you can say or do anything and you know they won’t judge you or think you’re weird or want you to stop.” He speaks softly, like he’s forgotten he’s speaking to her, like he’s talking to himself.

“And you trust them,” he continues “Because you know they won’t hurt you. Because you know them and they know you.”

Annie doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t want to interrupt. So she looks away, letting him speak, listening and listening and thinking and thinking.

“And it doesn’t even matter if they don’t feel the same way, or if they don’t know how you feel, or if they could never feel the same way, or…” His voice breaks at never, trembling and snapping like a dry leaf. He shakes his head, furrowing his brows lightly. He’s looking through the screen again.

“Because just being with them is enough. Just being around them, just knowing that they’re there is enough. It’s okay if they don’t feel the same because just existing with them is enough. It’s like floating in the middle of the ocean.”

She looks back at him. His eyes are shinier than before. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“It’s so peaceful and welcoming and beautiful, but it… feels dangerous. Like at any second something might pull you under and drown you.”

He’s quiet.

She doesn’t say anything, waiting for him to continue, waiting for him to tell her something that will tell her yes, it’s exactly what you’re thinking, something that will confirm her suspicions about herself and him. But he doesn’t for a while, watching the screen.

“It sucks,” he says, and his voice cracks like he’s trying not to let it shatter. “It sucks, and I hate it.”

“Why?” she whispers. “It sounds beautiful.”

It does. It sounds amazing. And unfamiliar. She doesn’t think she’s ever felt it before, not with Jeff or Rich or Vaughn or any of the guys she liked in high school.

“It is,” he says. “It’s just… You can’t help it. When you fall there’s nothing you can do to catch yourself. You’re paralysed and you just have to hope for the best. Nothing hurts more than falling and just… crashing. Fucking face planting.”

Annie’s eyes widen. She doesn’t hear Abed talk like this often. He blinks and pulls the blanket tighter around himself.

“There’s nothing you can do,” he repeats softly. His voice becomes thick, softened with the tears flooding his eyes that won’t spill over. “Even when you try to ignore it and pretend it’s something different, something normal, it doesn’t change. And even though it sucks, it’s still beautiful and amazing, because you can just… You find them everywhere. They’re in everything that makes you happy, everything beautiful.”

Annie takes a deep breath, looking away, overwhelmed with realisations and realisations.

“And it sucks because it won’t leave you alone. They won’t leave you alone,” he says, and Annie wants to reach out and touch him. But she doesn’t. “Fucking everywhere. Everywhere I look,” he breathes, “he’s right there.”

Annie’s eyes swell, looking at the screen, and the colours blend and blur until her vision is a bleary mess of shifting blues and reds and shadows and light.

It makes sense.

The blanket from the fort, torn apart the day after Troy left, completely demolished while Annie was out, a pile of blankets and pillows and tape and ties and a melted Abed in the middle of it, curled into himself, clutching at the blue blanket, the same one that’s pulled around him right now.

The days and days Abed spent in the apartment, refusing to even get out of bed.

The red sweatshirt he wore for weeks until Annie convinced him to take it off long enough for her to wash it, and the way he cried when he got it back, murmuring that it smelled different.

The nonstop Inspector Spacetime on the television, playing and playing and playing even though it’s clear that Abed’s mind is miles and miles and miles away.

“Abed?” Annie asks softly, because he’s fallen silent and unmoving. He doesn’t respond, but his eyes shift from the television to the floor, still glassy and unfocused. He exhales, like he’s realised what he’s just told her. “Are you... Are you in love with Troy?”

It takes a few seconds, a few silent, empty seconds, and then he takes a deep, shuddering breath and nods so weakly he barely moves at all. And then he crumbles.

The tears finally fall and he leans toward Annie, turning his face into her when she wraps her arms around him, barely even noticing that she’s crying herself.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs when a sob breaks out of him, burying her face in his neck, against the blanket and his skin, trying not to let her voice shake. “That’s okay.”

“I don’t—” Abed chokes, and she shakes her head, hushing.

“It’s okay, Abed, it’s okay.”

He cries.

And cries.

She holds him, murmuring to him and doing her very very best to not let herself break. She��s never seen him like this, or heard him like this, sobbing, and whining and gasping, shivering, moaning, trembling, clutching at the blanket like it’s a lifeline.

When he calms down, he slumps, falling against Annie, between her arms, and she runs a hand through his hair, laying her cheek on his head, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath as his shoulders rise and fall.

“It’s okay,” she whispers after a few minutes of quiet, because she doesn’t know if he’s fallen asleep or not. She’d let him fall asleep, right here in her arms.

He takes a shaky sigh, and then says, “I know.”

She relaxes, leaning against the back of the sofa and lifting her leg to rest it on top of his lap. He lays a hand on her leg, rubbing gently at the fabric of her pajama pants.

“Have you told him?” she asks, and he scoffs.

“How would I?” he says, more than asks. “How would I tell Troy Barnes I’m in love with him? Troy Barnes…” he says, almost wistfully. “Star quarterback and prom king.” His voice cracks.

“You mean Troy Barnes, supreme dork?” Annie says, frustrated. “The same Troy that built a blanket fort across the whole school with you just because? And that got a gluon photo with you at a Spacetime Convention so you guys could be bound together forever?” His hand grips her leg, holding onto her like he’s bracing himself. “That held your hand in the hallways so you wouldn’t have to look up and get overwhelmed or overstimulated? That got you your first stim toy in your favourite color?”

Abed sighs again, nuzzling his face into Annie’s shoulder, and she presses closer.

“He loves you, Abed,” she says gently. “Even if it’s not the same way you love him, it won’t change anything, I promise.”

He’s quiet, and she would think he’s fallen asleep if his fingers weren’t still fiddling with her pants. There’s a little indent in the fuzz, where there’s a smiley face, and he runs his fingertips over it, scratching and rubbing it.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he finally says, so softly she almost doesn’t hear him.

“Of course.”

“The uhm…” He takes a deep shaky breath. “The whole apartment smells like the ocean. Like sea salt. All the time.”

Annie’s heart crumbles like a sandcastle and she exhales.

“That’s beautiful,” she says, because it is. Even though it hurts even her, and she’s never even been in love with Troy.

“I guess.”

“Can I tell you a secret?” she whispers after a quiet minute, because she isn’t sure how much longer she can hold this thing inside of her, this thing she didn’t even know was inside of her, pushed away on a shelf and covered in dust.

“Tell me.”

“I—” She cuts off, taking a sharp breath and biting her lip, wondering how to say it. It takes her longer than she’d like, thinking and thinking until her brows are drawn and her lips are pursed. Abed waits.

“I think I, uhm… I think I’m a lesbian.”

“...Okay.”

Annie squeezes her eyes shut, letting tears cascade down her cheeks.

Okay.

She takes a gasping breath, trying not to let a sob rack her body, and Abed squeezes her leg, pulling at it so she comes closer.

“That’s okay,” he says softly. “I love you, you know.”

The sob finally breaks free as she chokes out, “I know.”

He lets go of her leg and reaches up, holding her hand and then her wrist and just holding her so her arm presses against his neck harder. She tightens her arms around him, crying. Crying and crying.

“I love you too,” she whispers when she stops. “So much.”

He turns his head and presses a kiss to her shoulder.

“It’s been a very emotional night,” he says lightly, and she chuckles tearfully.

“Yeah.”

“Look, it’s us,” Abed says, lifting a hand and pointing at the television. She’d forgotten it was even on, and she looks over Abed’s head to where Geneva and the Inspector are embracing. Annie giggles, hugging Abed tighter and rocking slightly.

“Do you wanna watch with me?” Abed asks gently, like he’s nervous, and Annie almost says no, but fuck it, it’s a Saturday.

“Yeah,” she says.

They readjust, so Annie is laying on his lap, her hands grasping his leg lightly. He carefully places the end of his blanket over her and unties her ponytail so he can run his hands through her hair.

Annie giggles at the show, at the accents and effects, and she feels Abed’s belly move as he giggles with her. She even laughs as she drifts off, until she falls asleep, gripping Abed’s pajama pants.

She doesn’t see the blorgons get knocked over like Dominos (which Abed knows she would have laughed at), or at the way Geneva says “You're a liar!” that sounds more like “lawyer” on account of her over-exaggerated British accent that sounds Australian (which Abed knows she would have laughed at).

She doesn’t feel Abed move as he retracts his hands from her hair and reaches over the armrest to his laptop on the floor.

He opens it to a map, blackish-grey with little red, glowing dots. He looks, watching them.

Him and Annie, side by side. Jeff and Britta and Shirley at home. Pierce in the cemetery. (Almost a comfort really, despite not being able to get the tracker back. Part of him hates to think about what would happen if he saw it move one day, but another part of him thinks it would be quite the adventure. But, though he’d never say it out loud to anyone but Troy, he wouldn’t want to see if move. He’d honestly hate to find out that Pierce faked it (which he wouldn’t put beneath him). He’d hate to hear what Pierce would have to say about… anything, really.)

He zooms out on the map, scrolling until the world spins and he finds the last red dot, floating in the ocean, miles and miles and miles away.

He watches it, until the tv stops and asks if he’s still watching. He ignores it, forgets about it. Annie moves on his lap, turning her head so her face presses against his leg.

He watches the dot like he’s expecting it to travel around the world by the time the sun comes up, by the time he blinks. It doesn’t move.

He closes the tab.

And opens his email.

And a draft.

And then he types.

Troy,

#im gonna fucking ~CRY~#i miss troy #ive had this idea for so long and I fINALLY DID IT #yay #community #trobed #community nbc #community netflic #troy and abed #troy and abed in the morning #troy barnes #abed nadir #annie edison #trobedison #troy and abed and annie

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spookyceph · 3 years

Text

Pull Test

Summary: Shigaraki and Kurogiri meet with the League of Villain's newest candidate.

Rating: Gen Fic, SFW

Relationships: Shigaraki & Magne

Characters: Shigaraki Tomura, Magne, Kurogiri, Giran, mentioned Dabi, mentioned Toga Himiko

Words: 2,732

Warnings: Implied/Referenced transphobia and deadnaming when Magne's background is mentioned, swearing

The manila folder dropped from the air like a dead bird, hitting the bar top with a slap. Tomura jerked back, stool wobbling beneath him, and grit his teeth as he heard the staccato sounds of his fighter taking damage in his game. Recovering balance, he hit the pause button before glaring at the warp gate that swirled into being across the way.

“Another one already?” he snapped the moment the tall figure of his caretaker stepped out of the darkness.

Kurogiri straightened both his tie and metal gorget. “I was quite impressed myself. Giran is proving to be as professional and efficient as advertised.” He motioned to the folder he’d air dropped in. “Shall we consider this new candidate together, Shigaraki Tomura?”

Tomura wasn’t in the mood to consider shit. He hadn’t been hanging around the bar for going on two hours hoping for work to come along. One of his hands strayed to his pocket. He touched the lump that was the jar of salve he’d taken to carrying at all times. The serpentine ridge of a friendship bracelet (I used red, white, and black string so it would match you, Tomura-kun!) had joined it a week ago. Of course, he’d die before admitting to lurking just to catch a glimpse of Dabi. Or that he’d agreed to let Toga show him her favorite otome games as soon as she came back from her shopping trip. He definitelycouldn’t tell the smug old ink splatter to fuck off and let him get back to his goal of a high score—not without having how wrong he’d been about those same two people rubbed in his face.

That left being a responsible leader as the only option.

Tomura growled and set his game aside. He flicked the folder open. “Fine. What’s this new asshole’s name?” Giving in didn’t require him to be gracious about it.

“Ah. About that. I believe there’s a conflicting issue in her files about that point. Her family name is Hikiishi, however, her given one, or both, may require an update.”

A look at the top of the file filled in the blanks. The picture Giran had included showed the candidate flashing a bold smile at the camera. Shoulder-length auburn hair framed prominent cheekbones. Slightly darker fuzz lined her jaw and chin. Tomura couldn’t tell what color her eyes were behind her sunglasses, but they locked with his through lenses and stock paper alike. Hikiishi Kenji, read the first line of information on the page beneath the photo. A police report, by the looks of it.

“I see. Well, for now let’s just call Hikiishi by her alias until she confirms with us.” Tomura skimmed through the info again. “Magne, right? Related to her quirk, I assume.”

The currents of Kurogiri’s mist slowed and relaxed into looser coils. “Correct.”

Tomura frowned. “What? Did you think I’d have some sort of problem with the name thing?”

“After the misunderstanding with Dabi—”

“Dabi and I talked.”

The yellow eyes glowing within the darkness widened. “Did you now?”

Fuck, he wasn’t turning red, was he? Was he? “We’re adults. We worked shit out, okay? Not everybody has a stick up their ass about being polite all the time.” He scooped up his game, more than ready to retreat into something he could control. “When are we expecting Magne?”

“Giran can bring her by tomorrow evening.”

“Fine. Let’s get the stupid meet and greet crap over with.” When only silence followed, Tomura raised his gaze from the screen to glare at Kurogiri. “What?”

The wisps curling from the smoggy bastard’s head looked suspiciously like smiles. “Nothing, Shigaraki Tomura. Nothing at all.”

Taptaptap.

Tomura’s finger rose and fell on the bartop fast enough to give a sewing machine needle a run for its money. The ball of his right foot bounced on the stool’s crossbar in time with it.

Taptaptap.

Giran had promised he’d be there between 9:00 and 10:00. The clock by the door pointed to 9:51.

Taptaptap.

Lots of people would be riding the trains on a Friday night. Or roaming the streets, looking for food and alcohol, karaoke, strangers to stave off loneliness. Heroes would be out in force as a result, watching for any predators stalking the herds of humanity. Tomura didn’t know how to calculate exact probability rates for shit hitting the fan, but he got the sense they were on the higher end under such conditions.

Taptaptap.

Why couldn’t he just run into party members along the way as needed, like in games? Each one would specialize in a skill, forming a well-rounded team. Everyone would follow him to the bitter end because they believed in him and not some ass goblin named Stain. Why they believed in Tomura wouldn’t matter, though money would be a reasonable guess. Idealism didn’t pay much from what he could tell.

Taptap—

“Be calm, Shigaraki Tomura. This meeting will go well.”

He bared teeth at Kurogiri. “There has to be a meeting for it to go a certain way. And I am calm, damn it.”

“So I see.” He finished wiping down the glass he held before setting it on the bar and grabbing another. “My apologies.”

Tomura twisted on the stool to give the smart ass shadow a piece of his overthinking mind.

Knock, knock, knock.

Without missing a beat, Kurogiri stuck his free hand through a small warp gate and turned the handle of the door across the room. He went back to polishing as two figures entered the bar.

For someone who charged such high fees, Giran went out of his way to look cheap and kitschy. Little round tinted lenses pinched to the bridge of his nose. A scrunched scarf like someone’s guts slung around his neck. One front tooth missing in his low-key sleazy smile. The woman following right behind him and surveying her new surroundings made for a more welcome sight. Sunglasses (her and Giran both, for fucks’ sake) hid her eyes just like in her picture, but her lips held a hint of a smile.

The essence of good manners, Kurogiri bowed to their guests. “Good evening. Welcome to our humble home.”

Tomura, to balance the scales, snorted and folded his arms across his chest. “Took you long enough.”

Giran shrugged and twirled his hand, leaving behind a smoke spiral from the tip of the cigarette between his fingers. “Our train was delayed by some prankster threatening to blow up the tracks.”

“Doesn’t sound like a prank.”

“It wouldn’t have been if the lazy bastard hadn’t been trying to pass off children’s clay as plastic explosive. One of the cops noticed the stuff was bright yellow and they rushed him. They didn’t even call in a hero.” The broker shook his head. “What’s this world coming to? People can’t be bothered to find and pay for real weapons anymore. It offends my pride as a businessman.”

Behind Father, Tomura grimaced. His short-lived venture with Stain had indeed moved people to lash out at society. The problem was most of them were fucking morons. He doubted any decent candidates the League managed to net would make up for all the secondhand embarrassment he’d suffered in the past couple of weeks from watching the news.

“Oh, I don’t know,” the woman said, tapping her chin. “I felt kinda bad for the poor guy. He looked like your average office wage-slave. I thought he was going to break down in tears when they hauled him off.”

“Serves him right for cutting corners. No conviction, no integrity these days I tell you.”

She hid a grin behind her hand. “You’re heartless, Giran.”

The broker snorted smoke from his nostrils like an exasperated dragon. “I’m practical.”

“And yet you still haven’t introduced me.”

Posture straightening, Giran tugged at his weirdly anatomical scarf. “Sorry, got sidetracked. Magne, Shigaraki Tomura and Kurogiri of the League of Villains.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Slipping off his stool, Tomura gave her a short bow. The way Kurogiri swayed slightly, as if he’d swoon from shock, made the display worth it.

“I take it I’ve earned my fee?” chimed in Giran.

Kurogiri’s misty form shuddered as he roused himself. “Of course. We’ll hear from you again soon?”

“I’ve got a few candidates lined up.” The broker sketched them a mock salute before turning and closing the door behind him.

“Please, have a seat.” Tomura motioned to the row of barstools beside him.

“Thank you. Don’t mind if I do.”

While Magne approached, he studied her movements. She strode across the hardwood floor, work boots making minimal noise with each step. Grace as well as power. She knew how to use the muscle under her shirt’s rolled up sleeves rather than relying on pure size. Although, that didn’t hurt either—Tomura put her at over ten centimeters his own height at least, and she definitely outclassed him by weight. He wondered whether she had speed to go along with strength. She slid into the next seat over and rested her chin in her hands.

“Would you care for something to drink, Miss Magne?” Kurogiri asked, jumping at the chance to play host.

“Oh, my. So formal. Sure, I’ll have whatever you recommend.”

Tomura waited until a small glass of something amber-colored had been set in front of them both (ginger ale for him) and she’d taken an approving sip before getting things rolling.

“You have quite a record, Magne.” Though he’d already memorized the relevant bits, he flipped open the folder container her information.

She glanced over, shades slipping down her nose as she scanned the first page of the police report. “Twenty-nine attempted murders, huh? Is that what they’re calling those? I’m surprised you guys bothered having me come in after reading that garbage.”

“Why?”

Like a small bird, Tomura’s stomach dipped and fluttered when Magne looked at him over the edge of her glasses. Not quite in the same way it did when he caught Dabi watching him from across the room, but close enough to classify the sensation as pleasant. Her irises shone like polished agates, made up of rich layers of browns from a starburst of mahogany around her pupils to flecks of burnished copper. Tomura suddenly understood her hiding them behind lenses. Such a beautiful detail would stick in anyone’s memory.

“Somebody who tried and failed to kill that many people would look pretty incompetent, right?” she replied. “Or like they chickened out at the last second. I don’t enjoy killing. I’ll tell you that up front. But…I didn’t hesitate with the three I did put down, let’s just say that.”

Tomura, a multiple murderer himself, examined the square set of her shoulders, the twist of scorn to her mouth towards her accusers, and found no reason to doubt her. He nodded.

“The so-called attempts were from the robberies you pulled off then?”

“Mostly, though I’m sure a few of the bullies I smacked around exaggerated just to prove what big, strong men they are.” She harumphed and took another sip from her drink.

“And the actual murders?”

Her lips puckered, as if she tasted something more bitter than whatever alcohol Kurogiri had given her. “Personal matters.”

“I see.” Tomura turned the page and ran his finger further down the information. “Your quirk has some unique parameters.”

The lines of Magne’s face eased into a smile. “Oh, the gender thing? A theory really. I haven’t had much opportunity to test it seriously. It might be nothing but my own perception…but I guess that doesn’t make it any less real, does it?” She lifted a hand from her glass and reached halfway toward him. “Care for a demonstration?”

Tomura caught himself drawing away from her, his nails latching onto the sides of his neck. Cowering—great way to display his leadership skills. “What’re you going to do?”

“Oh, just tug on your arm a little. Go ahead and put it down by your side for me.”

Resisting the urge to look to Kurogiri for reassurance, he did as asked. For safety’s sake he curled his fingers into a fist.

Magne smiled. “Ready?”

According to the knot in his stomach, no, but he nodded anyway. His arm jerked and leapt up as if it were tied by a string. Tomura gasped, almost slipping off his seat. Magne caught and steadied him.

“Sorry, honey! Got so excited to show off I put a bit too much oomph into it.” She patted his shoulder as if there weren’t dead, gray hands clutching it.

“’S’alright,” he mumbled. And it was—his skin showed no marks, his muscles and joints registered no pain. He readjusted the delicate hand decorating his wrist. Cold, waxy, and pliant. Nothing like Magne.

“So, can you manipulate people’s movements? Turn them into your puppets?”

She hummed and pushed her sunglasses back into their proper place. “Not really. I can move someone with the proper amount of push versus pull, but it’s such delicate work that they could break free pretty easily. Hold out your arm and I’ll show you what I mean.”

Still making a fist, Tomura followed her suggestion. Magne positioned her hands on either side of his forearm, spread about half a meter apart. Concentration dug a V between her brows. A thrum jolted through Tomura’s bones. He startled at the rush of tingles in his elbow and shoulder but kept his balance. Something like a low electrical current pulsed along his arm, raising its pale little hairs. Eyes wide, he watched as the limb drifted from one side to the other, then up, down—anywhere the poles of Magne’s palms guided it. He could even see, feel his skin being tugged and pressed by her quirk. Taking a deep breath, Tomura drew his fist back. He met some resistance, but didn’t have to put up any real struggle.

“Weird.” He shook his buzzing fingers out. “But kinda nice. Tingly. Like an electrical field.”

Magne tilted her head and smirked. “Oh? That’s a new one. Then again, maybe I’d have heard it before if I used my quirk for something besides bashing jerks.”

What would he have done without Father hiding the fact he blushed at the slightest fucking thing? He’d never get used to talking to people at this rate.

“Your skills would be a great asset to the League, Miss Magne,” Kurogiri said, saving Tomura from having to pretend he could be witty. “I presume Giran discussed the expenses we cover? Upon joining, you would also be welcome to claim a room upstairs, should you wish.”

Magne went still. Even her breathing stopped for a moment. “You’d let me stay here?”

Tomura knew right then he’d never live down being wrong about not letting League members move into the hideout. Kurogiri would never be crass enough to say it out loud, of course. He didn’t have to. Tomura sighed, accepting his fate.

“Two members live here already, including another woman. We can introduce you to them both before you decide.”

Gaze aimed at the ceiling, Magne touched fingers to her pursed lips. “I’ve already made up my mind.” She met Tomura’s eyes, a smile lighting up her face. “Sign me up.”

Well. He had no clue whatso-fucking-ever how they’d convinced her, but results were results. Besides, she hadn’t mentioned Stain once. She deserved free room and board for that alone.

“Ah, wonderful. We’re so delighted to have you, Miss Magne.” Kurogiri steepled his fingers. “Please let me know if you require any assistance in moving your belongings. I can warp them to whichever room you choose.”

A soft laugh huffed out of her. “No need, honey. I travel light these days. Would tomorrow evening be too soon?”

Tomura shrugged. “That’s fine. I’ll make sure Toga and Dabi are around so you can meet them.” Even if he had to staple the latter to a chair to make him comply.

“Sounds like a plan.” Magne raised her glass. “To new friends then?”

There was that word again. Offered with the same ease Toga had shown. And Dabi…he’d never said it maybe but his gift had implied…well, something. Tomura touched his pocket. The weight and shapes of the items inside it. With the same hand, he picked up his own glass and clinked it against Magne’s.

“Sure. I’ll drink to that.”

#big sis magne #bnha magne #mha magne #magne #shigaraki fic #league of villains fanfiction #league of villains fanfic #lov fanfiction #lov #league of villains #fic series #shigaraki tomura #shigaraki #kurogiri #giran #bnha giran

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brandyllyn · 3 years

Text

War makes thieves, and peace hangs them (pt1)

Summary: When Santi needs people for a mission he knows just who to call. But it quickly becomes apparent they’re short one key role - a thief. Preferably one with nice breasts who makes friends easily.

Told from POV of Triple Frontier characters and while it’s an OFC she is never described. Her "name" is a radio handle.

Other chapters... My Masterlist

Word count: 2319. Read it on AO3.

Author’s note: Look, I’ve been itching to write something hella raunchy and while I love my other fics they’re full of soft people being dorks and falling love. This is not that. This is filthy smut basically from the go. The plot (what of it there is) exists solely to allow these people to have sex. Also, Fuck Tom. He’s in this fic for like 90 seconds before I summarily get rid of him.

Rating: R swearing. objectification. drugs (mentioned, not used). gendered slurs. no sex in this chapter.

"It’s a five man job," Santi was saying it for the third time that night but Benny just kept shaking his head at him. Across from Benny, Frankie pushes his ball cap off, tossing his arm over his chair and letting it dangle from two fingers.

"C’mon you guys," Frankie starts to say but is cut off.

"Maybe, but not this five," Will points out.

"You had no right to call in someone else without talking to me," Santi can feel the edge to his voice.

"Am I wrong?"

The question deflates the irritation out of Santi. No, he wasn’t. That was the shitty part. The more they found out about this job the more he realized they were going to need someone with a different skillset than the five of them. "Fine, who is he? How do you know him?"

"We ran into each other in South Africa. Ended up on the same job, different sides," Benny taps a finger against his beer bottle. "A few other, less than legal, follow-ups. They’re the best I know of Santi."

"Yeah," Santi picks his bottle up, draining the last of it. "But all things considered I’m not sure that means much."

Benny rolls his eyes. "Whatever man, they’ll be here tonight. I’ll introduce you and you can make your own decision. Fair?"

Santi nods once and watches as Benny gets up. "I’ll get the next round." The other men waggle their beers and Benny doesn’t even bother counting before heading off the empty outside patio and back into the bar.

It was a quiet night, at a quiet out of the way bar. From their vantage on the patio over the water they can see people as they arrive, but also are surrounded on three sides by water, minimizing eavesdroppers.

"I don’t like it," Tom grumbles and Santi turns to him.

"I feel like we’ve covered that," he points out.

"Some new guy we don’t know? Fuck Pope, this whole thing is already too dangerous," Tom continues.

"What do you want me to do," he hisses. "I’ve come too fucking far to back out-"

He pauses when he hears the door to the patio open, a waitress coming through with a tray of beers. He’d clocked her from the corner of his eye, about eight miles of the longest legs he’s ever seen in his life, bare from tiny denim shorts down to a pair of unlaced combat boots.

Those were odd. Not necessarily what he would have expected. He studies her a bit more closely as she sets the tray of beers down, squatting next to the table to transfer the tray from her shoulder to the table. Tom had already fallen face first into the girl’s cleavage - which was either ample or benefitting greatly from being on display in a bright orange halter top that started somewhere around her rib cage. She returned Tom’s lascivious stare with a wink, brushing her body against the man’s as she stood back up and passed one of the bottles to him.

Santi reached for one but was blocked by her body as she leaned across the table, sliding a bottle to Frankie who rubbed a hand over his mouth and tried in vain to make eye contact with something other than her breasts. Will was silent on receiving his, a half smile on his face as he watched her stretch a bottle to him. Finally she turns to Santi, placing the last beer in front of him and flipping the tray up under her arm.

"Tu amigo pagó," she smiles, gesturing with her chin inside. He glances that way and sees Benny nodding back from the bar, tucking bills into his wallet. "Tienes algo…" she starts to say and he turns back to see her pluck a bit of fuzz off the collar of his shirt. Smiling, she pinches it between her fingers and flicks it over his shoulder. "De nada."

"Gracias," he winks at her and she winks back before flouncing off the patio and back into the bar. Both Frankie and Tom turn around fully in their chairs to watch her - but Santi was perfectly positioned to watch the sway of her ass as she went back inside.

"Hot damn," Tom gives a low whistle.

Santi rolls his eyes, focusing on the beer in front of him. To his left, Frankie is fiddling with a coaster before he suddenly jerks and looks at his hand with suspicion.

"What the fuck?" Frankie snaps. "Where the fuck is my hat?"

"What?" Will asks.

"My hat. My fucking hat." Frankie holds up the coaster and glares at it, then at Santi. "Where is my fucking hat?"

"Did you set it-" Santi starts but Frankie cuts him off.

"I was holding it in my goddamn hand. And now I’m not." Frankie pushes himself back from the table, peering under it.

"What’s got Fish riled up?" Benny asks, sliding into a chair on the other side of the table.

"He’s throwing a fit about his hat," Will fills him in.

"Fuck you, I liked that hat," Frankie grouses, eyes still scanning the floor.

Ben laughs and Frankie shoots him a dirty look. "Ah, I see you’ve met our thief then," Benny says with a satisfied smirk.

"What?" Frankie jerks forward, the legs of his chair hitting the wood of the deck with a thunk.

Santi cocks his head, "You set up a little audition did you?" When Benny nods Santi grins. "The waitress?" Will nods again and gestures to someone inside. A minute later, the woman pulls up a chair next to Ben - wearing Frankie’s hat. He had to admit, she looked cute. He hadn’t gotten a good look at her face before, a little preoccupied with other parts of her, but she was quite stunning.

"You should give Frankie his hat back," Santi tells her in a low voice.

"Nah," Frankie quickly interjects, a little slack-jawed. "You can uh… you can keep it. For a bit." She grins at Frankie and judging from the look on his friend’s face, Santi had an idea of what mental image Frankie would be jerking off to later that night.

"Boys, this is Wildcat," Ben wraps an arm over the woman’s shoulders, "the best thief I’ve ever met. And ours for this mission."

"Neat trick with the hat," Tom says to her breasts.

"Not to burst your bubble Benny," she turns to him, "but I can’t take the job."

"What? Why not?"

She reaches into her top and while Santi would have sworn that you couldn’t fit so much as a tic-tac in there she manages to pull out a small baggie of off-white crystal powder. A flick of her wrist and it lands in the middle of the table. "I don’t deal with this kind of shit."

Santi reaches for it, getting there just before Tom who mutters 'bitch' under his breath. Holding it up for a moment he studies it before hiding it under his palm on the table. "Who’d you take it from?"

"Me," Tom sounds defeated.

"Yeah, like I said, I don’t deal with this kind of shit." She turns to Benny and shrugs, "Sorry babe, you’ll have to find someone else." She gets up, leaning over the table and placing the ball cap back on Frankie’s head and giving it a flirtatious tap. From his angle, Santi can see practically the same view as Frankie, as well as the line of her back and the curve of her ass as she leans over.

She kisses the top of Ben’s head when she stands up, giving Tom a wide berth and going around the table. Santi doesn’t watch her past that, eyes on Tom.

"What the fu-" but he’s interrupted by something shiny dropping onto the table.

"Sorry," her voice was right next to his ear, "forgot this."

It takes Santi a full five seconds to process what he’s seeing. One of his dog tags. He pulls his chain out of his shirt quickly, sees the primary one… and the loose shorter chain hanging empty.

"Son of a-" he turns but she’s at the door already, winking and blowing him a kiss before leaving.

"Pope let me-" Tom starts but Santi turns on him.

"Fucking meth, man? What’s wrong with you?"

"Hey, it’s just a bit to help me keep going," Tom raises his hands, "don’t fucking act like it’s the end of the fucking world."

"You’re out," Santi says it with finality.

"What?"

"Anyone have a problem with that?" Santi looks at the other three men but they all shake their heads.

"Fuck you," Tom spits, "fucking Fish has a coke problem and I don’t see any of you-"

"Hey," Frankie leans forward, pointing a finger at Tom, "you can go fuck yourself."

"Not if I-"

But Santi is on his feet, hands in Tom’s shirt as he walks the man backwards a few steps and shoves him against the low railing on the patio. "I love you man, but I can’t have this shit. It’s too important. Go back to the hotel."

Tom deflates. "It’s just to help man. Just to help."

"I know," he pats Tom on the shoulder. "I know. But you’re gonna have to sit this one out." Santi watches the other man leave. "Go get her back," he tells Ben.

Will swipes the baggie from the table, raising an eyebrow in question and Santi nods. Will quickly turns and tosses it into the lake beyond.

She slid into Tom’s chair without so much as a twitch of her eyebrow that the other man is gone. "Are we trying again?"

Santi sits down to her left. "First tell me how you got my dog tags."

"And my hat," Frankie asks.

"Quick fingers," she says, "two distractions."

"Two?" Frankie asks and she winks at him.

"One. Two." She shrugs each shoulder, making her breasts jiggle with the motion. Frankie blushes and reaches up to cover his face with one hand, pretending to scratch his beard.

"Seriously," Santi grabs her attention again, "how’d you do it?"

She shrugs again, "People don’t watch for the things they should be watching for. You guys… you’re perceptive. Situationally aware. You could probably tell me every weapon within sixty feet of this table." She smiles, "You’ve noticed my hand on your arm, and you’ve noticed my foot against your ankle." He had, was enjoying the feel of her fingers against his skin and her toes rubbing along his sock. "But where is my other hand?"

Santi startles, looking down. Her other hand comes into his line of sight and he sees she’s holding a watch.

"Wait that’s-" Will splutters.

"Son of a bitch," he mutters and hears Ben laugh. He turns on Will, "What were you watching?"

She answers for him, "He’s been watching my mouth." Will coughs but doesn’t deny it. She grins at them both before leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms, waggling her fingers. "Figure out where someone wants their attention to go and you can make them concentrate on anything."

Santi bites his lip before he looks over at Benny. "You trust her?" Ben nods. "Then she’ll do."

"Oh goodie," she snarks, "a dream come true. So what’s the job?"

Santi lowers his voice as he outlines the next few days. She asks good questions and the five of them roughly map out their plans. When they finish, Santi leans back in his chair. "So, we’ll meet in the hotel lobby tomorrow morning, 0600?" Everyone around him nods except for Ben who just curses.

"Fucking hell Pope, you know I hate mornings."

Will rolls his eyes, smacking his brother in the arm, "How the hell did you get through Airborne with an attitude like that?"

"By being a damned good Ranger," Ben grouses back.

"And cheating on the written shit," Frankie mumbles into his beer. Ben shoots him a glower but Frankie just smiles to himself, ignoring the other man.

"Well, if you boys are done," Cat breaks in, "I have a date." For just a split second Santi thought she was looking at him, but he follows her gaze over his shoulder and sees a petite brunette wearing a leather mini-skirt and white tank top crooking a finger their way. Cat winks back at her and rises gracefully from the table, palms flat against it. He couldn’t help but notice her long fingers.

When she gets to the other woman she wraps a hand behind her neck, pulling the brunette into a kiss. Even in heels, the woman was a good three inches shorter than her. The brunette breaks the kiss and leans into her, whispering into her ear. Santi sees her eyebrow go up, a half smile, and then she was looking back at their table and those beautiful legs were coming their way.

"Ben?"

"Yes Cat?" the man answers with a raised eyebrow.

"Can you vouch for your friends?"

Benny doesn’t hesitate before answering, "With my life."

"That’s good to hear," she grins. "Frankie?"

The man’s head whips around. "Yeah?"

"Would you like to come with us?"

Frankie blinks and Santi almost felt sorry for the man. Almost.

"Wha-?"

"Teresa would like for you to come along. And I’m not opposed. So…?"

Frankie’s moment of confusion passes in a heartbeat and then he is shoving his chair back and scrambling to his feet. "Fuck yes."

She laughs, leading him back to the brunette who is grinning. The brunette wraps one arm around Frankie’s waist and the other around Cat’s as they leave. The three men left at the table watch them go in varying stages of disbelief.

"Lucky son of a bitch," Will mutters and Santi can’t help but nod.

"Some thief you found us Ben," Santi says into his beer as he leans back in his chair.

"She’s the best," Ben grins back. Part2

#triple frontier #writing

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thefossilwhale · 3 years

Text

signed the saw

mind blind. button x kent, 1.8k words. inspired by this ask about the ROs helping button manage a panic attack (so, cw for depiction of a panic attack/extreme anxiety). sabrina wiseman is unsurprised to find that undercover work is stressful.

The ceiling is dotted at long intervals by waning light bulbs, whose dim halos have a way of blurring the hall’s few distinctive features. Sabrina’s eyes have trouble focusing, anyway. There is grey, and there is brown, and there is the black shape of Kent’s shoulder half a stride ahead, leading her around the next corner.

This stretch of hallway was the biggest obstacle when planning the mission. Relatively deserted, with little chance of interruption, but it was at least a few minutes’ trek between point A and point B, and they needed every second.

Right now, they happen to be perfectly on schedule, and Sabrina is grateful for the dead air. She just needs a moment to collect herself, to align her breathing with Kent’s brisk pace down the hallway. One breath for every four steps, following his lead, and she’ll be back to herself by the time they round the next corner—which is coming up now, she realizes, as Kent takes an abrupt left. That’s okay. One more breath, and she’ll be fine.

She steps through the doorway, which she hadn’t noticed Kent opening, and forces herself back to alertness. The room is small. It’s as sparse and poorly lit as the hallway, with no visible evidence of the files that Kim had emphasized were mission critical. Swallowing another spike of panic, Sabrina opens her mouth, but Kent is faster.

“This isn’t the room,” he tells her.

“Okay.” She presses into the wall at her back and takes another breath. “So why are we stopping?”

The tremor in her voice is answer enough, and Kent is kind enough not to acknowledge it as he turns to close the door. “We can do our job in five minutes, if we have to. We can’t do it if you’re not at your best.”

If it were anyone else, she’d bristle at the suggestion and stride back into the hallway at double the pace. But Kent weights practicality at least as heavily as his concern. From his mouth, the words are simple fact: neither of them can afford her distraction, but they’re a good enough team to manage a detour.

Kent meets her eyes briefly, a small smile teasing the corner of his mouth that she can see. She barely registers it before his focus snaps back to the doorway.

His diverted attention is appeasement enough for Sabrina’s pride, and she lets herself sink. Not to the floor, just the few inches it takes for her neck to fall back between her shoulders, cradling the crown of her head against the wall. Her hands, clasped behind her crumpled back, feel cold and sickly on its lukewarm surface. Her eyes are pointed at the ceiling, but they scan aimlessly without seeing. She screws them shut and waits.

This place needs a makeover, says Nick, who had for several minutes been indistinguishable from the thousand other nervous hums in the back of her mind. How many ceiling tiles do you think aren’t stained? Twenty bucks says it’s five or less.

If there were any windows, she knows he would ask her about the weather instead. But his impression of the space is only as good as her own hazy, stuttering glances, and though he tries, there is little among the blank walls and shadows to latch onto. Still, she opens her eyes and looks up.

He must feel her unease resurging as she takes in the room once again, because his next words come in a rush of thought faster than he could ever speak them aloud: Wait, no, I can already tell that won’t help. Don’t humor me, okay? If I’m not helping, I’ll be quiet.

Nick is, of course, physically incapable of producing any noise in his current state, so he does technically keep that promise. But in the past week, Sabrina has come to understand what it means when someone calls her mind “loud.” Her own anxiety is familiar to her, slowly building and fuzzing the edges of her perception, but Nick’s mind has never felt so foreign. It is deafening in its wrongness, its intrusion. He is terrified.

It doesn’t matter whether he voices it; Nick is worried someone will find his sister having a panic attack somewhere they’d kill her for trespassing, and she would be lucky to die on the ugly floor of that boring hallway because it would mean she at least made it out of this room, whose shadows are growing thicker and more tangible until they seem to press against her throat. Her body falters under the weight of two consciousnesses as their respective panics converge. The wall at her back is painful with its rigidness, its press against her spine, its wrinkled and uneven paint.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Sabrina is struck by a sick inevitability. Of course she couldn’t do this, after Nick warned her, after she insisted. Of course her worst mistake would be to play at field agent, and of course she would bring her brother and Kent down with her. If she could think or breathe, she might wonder if Nick felt vindicated by her failure.

“Sabrina?”

Kent’s voice is closer than it should be. She feels him at her right side, between her and the door he’s supposed to be watching.

A hand comes down on her shoulder, gentle as the voice that follows. “Sabrina, look at me.”

She shakes her head, but the scrape of her scalp against the wall is unbearable. She winces and lurches forward. The shaking motion grows tighter, jerking her chin to either side in frantic protest. I can’t open my eyes right now because any visual input will be the straw to break the camel’s brain, and then I’ll really be inconsolable and we’ll either die here, or worse, make it out as failures, is what she wants to tell him, but the words won’t form even in her mind. She screws her eyes shut tighter and finally halts the motion of her chin, holding it angled away from him. Please please please understand.

“Should I not…” He trails off, removing his hand—but it doesn’t go far. When he clears his throat and tries again, she can still feel it just barely hovering above her shoulder. “Is it okay to touch you? Yes or no.”

Sabrina tries to hum her assent, but the flat “hmm” that leaves her nose communicates little. Instead, her left hand escapes from behind her back and reaches for Kent’s wrist. She presses his hand once, firmly, back to her shoulder, where it offers a comforting squeeze, so brief she nearly misses it, before sliding to her forearm. His free hand follows suit, and he pulls her forward off the wall. She only catches herself when her head meets his shoulder.

The darkness as his body shields her eyes is a relief, and the first thought she has in its clarity is to wonder how much of her weight he would bear, if she stopped holding herself upright. Her arms, folded across her stomach, form an awkward barrier between them—one already crossed by the steadying hand he has placed lightly at each elbow, the tilt of her face towards his neck. Leaning against him, with his nose at her ear, she feels the rhythm of his breath, deep and deliberate. It takes a few moments for her own body to match it. After three full breaths shared between them, her mind quiets enough for Nick to resurface.

Okay, Button? His relief is tangible, though she’s not sure how much of it is her own.

She nods—a motion that, in the crook of Kent’s neck, feels embarrassingly like a nuzzle—then answers aloud. “Fine now.”

Mumbled weakly as they were against Kent’s shirt, the words must have been barely audible. Still, his nose dips to her cheek as he nods in acknowledgment, and he takes one step back. Sabrina’s arms slide out of his loose grip to hang at her sides. Studiously avoiding his gaze, she can’t tell what he’s looking at as she turns towards the door.

Kent doesn’t move. She waits, scanning for shadows, before calling softly over her shoulder. “Time to go?”

“If you’re ready,” he says evenly. “We can afford two more minutes, I would guess. It hasn’t been long.”

She hums noncommittally, and Kent steps beside her. Their arms don’t touch, but the space between them is so slight that she would barely have to move if she wanted them to.

Nick?

Don’t you dare, he warns, managing to sound both cheerful and stern. If you try to apologize for what just happened, I’ll start singing the Ghostbusters theme again, and I won’t stop until you’ve thwacked yourself on the head a few times for me.

Apologizing is one thing, Nick, she says. Self-flagellation is a bit harsh.

I agree! So don’t apologize, and I won’t enforce it.

Nick can’t hide a thing from her anymore, and though she knows his lighter mood is genuine, it’s clear how shaken he is. Does he always get that worried, when she has an attack? These circumstances were admittedly exceptional, but how much of that helplessness was her own?

I’m just glad Kent was here, says Nick, nudging those questions into some hidden corner of her mind. He’s all right.

Yes, he is. He’s looking at her, too. She won’t return his gaze, but she feels it on her and thinks he must be gauging whether she’s really recovered. But there is no tension, no intent in the small space between them. Kent is just… looking. Trusting her to watch the door. Thinking something that she’s sure she could never even begin to guess.

“I’m ready,” she tells him, and grabs his hand—knowing that he won’t outwardly react (it’s Kent), but still not looking, just in case. With one tug on his arm, she leads him forward and poises her free hand over the doorknob, waiting on his confirmation.

“Good,” comes his always inscrutable voice in reply. “Let’s go.”

Kent takes the lead again when they return to the hallway, and Sabrina slackens her grip on his hand, slowing her pace just enough that she’ll drop it as he pulls ahead. When his arm stretches uncomfortably behind him, he doesn’t slow down. Instead, he pulls on her hand, with just enough strength that she has to scramble to avoid tripping over her feet. The momentum carries her back to his side.

“Let’s go,” he repeats. His tone is neutral, but he squeezes her hand once as she matches his pace.

A light bulb flickers above them, scattering the shadows. For a moment, the hallway is as indistinct and menacing as when she’d retreated into that room. Kent’s hand is in hers, though, and he doesn’t miss a step. His outline is clear even in the waning light.

They round the next corner.

#oc: sabrina wiseman #sab x kent #my writing #hewwo everyone i hope this is believable as kent and not just some guy!#also i know what you're thinking and YES i made the space as boring as possible so i wouldn't have to describe it #mind blind #i keep writing abt sab having mental breakdowns.... i promise sometimes she is stable #also um! no title bc this is a snippet that turned into a fic on a whim and i just want to post it already <3 #edit: it is several weeks later and i have returned with a title.

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catharrington · 3 years

Text

Strawberry Seeds and Love Potions. (T, 2.4K words)

@harringroveweekoflove day 2: LOVE POTION && MYTHOLOGICAL CREATURES. Also including: witch Robin, post season 3 recovering Billy, flustered but giving it his best Steve, and cat boys. Or cat men? No, cat boys.

***

The coffee mug clicked onto the table with an otherworldly menace. Steve’s brown eyes darted to it, then back up to Robin. He furrowed his brows in a question. But before he could open his mouth, she held up her hand.

“It’s not poison,” she explained.

“Could have fooled me, Robs,” Steve hissed.

“It’s called a potion, dingus. It’s going to help!” She pushed the cup farther down the bar. The diner around them was mostly closed, and Robin was the only waitress in the place. Her peach colored apron brought out the green of her wide, devious eyes.

“Potion... poison... that’s like one letter different,” Steve leaned back in his stool away from the mug.

“Wow, so you know how to spell. What other skills will you showcase, The Amazing Harrington?” Robin’s lips curled up in an evil grin, leaning her body over the bar to dig the insult farther.

Steve just scoffed. Putting his elbow up on the bar and shielding himself as he tried to get back to the open College text book he was supposed to be reading. All the words were rushing together in swirls of black and white. He pushed his thumb into his curved bottom lip to try and force himself to focus, chewed on the pad of it, but he could swear the mug was mocking him.

Could swear he could smell that strawberry pink liquid Robin had poured for him when he ordered a simple black coffee.

“Drink it,” Robin snapped.

“No,” Steve growled.

“Are you going to grow a backbone and actually confess then?” She quirked one brow up.

Her face was so condescending. So smug. Steve hated how much he knew that look, how it made him sort of fond for her.

“I mean,” he sighed. His walls crumbling in defeat. His fingers coming up to join in worrying his bottom lip. “I mean I might?”

“It’s been a year Steve. A year of following him around like a little stray kitten! A year of ‘Oh Billy, I’ll give you a ride!’ ‘Oh Billy, how was physical therapy?’ ‘Oh Billy, pay attention to me!’—“

“I get it, I get it!” Steve turned towards her again to motion with his hand to keep it down. Waving his wide palm around until Robin’s pursed face cracked into a giggle. “Just keep it down, would you?”

And he turns over his shoulder to survey the empty diner before he’s got enough courage to look at her again.

“Yeah, okay. I’ve got a fat, stupid crush on Billy. And I know that I’m the most embarrassing and dumb guy you know. But...,” he trails off. Eyes wandering back down to the coffee cup. “It’s not the same as Nancy Wheeler or even Tammy Thompson. So much can— no, so much has gone wrong. If I... confessed right now, It would just make everything too much for him.”

His fingers nervously tick across the mint green bar. Wishing like hell he could cross them in front of his chest and make a barrier.

Robin takes a step forward. Her own fingers an inch away from his. She twitches like she can’t make up her mind if she wants to grab them. Like someone worrying their bottom lip if they are going to pick the last slice of pie in the diner’s glass container. But she does, reaching out to lay her skinny fingers and their chipping black nail polish over his own.

“Dingus,” she starts lovingly, “you don’t know any of that.”

Steve scoffs, rolls his eyes like he’s going to turn away, but Robin holds his hand tightly.

“You don’t know if it’s too much for him, or what he wants. And you don’t,” Robin took a second before continuing, her breath hitching, “you don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow.”

Hawkins, Indiana is the poster town for unknown tomorrow’s. Steve knows way too well about that. The tunnels crawling with slime and vines that play host to the monsters of the world.

But Billy, he surely knows better than anyone. It’s been a whole year but noone’s going to ever forget what he did. What happened to him under the control of a creature called The Mind Flayer. How Billy used himself like a human shield and died to try to make up for it. Just to come back with an electric jolt to his tattered heart.

They had to stitch new lungs inside his chest. He called himself Zombie Boy now. Called the patchwork scars heavy metal.

Steve just smiled. Nodded his head as he watched Billy climb out the crumbled wreckage of his shell. Climb out a new man, a man Steve caught himself falling head over heels for.

“You’re right, Robs,” Steve exhales.

“Oh, what was that?” Robin giggled, leaning in to hear better.

Steve pushed her away by their joint hands. Wiggling his fingers afterwards as if cursed.

His breath quipped and held tight in his chest as he turned back to the coffee mug. It sat waiting for him. The light red liquid swimming with foam and black seeds at the top. As if no matter how long it sat, it was always freshly prepared.

Steve gripped the handle of the white mug hard. Thought about how quick Billy’s body hit the ground when he died. How quick it all felt to Steve who had to helplessly stand back and watch it all.

He lifted the mug to his lips and drank in desperate, greedy gulps.

And as he finished it and slammed the ceramic back down on the bar, he didn’t immediately feel different. His mouth felt strange, the red juice had a powdery after-taste and much more seeds than his gag reflex was expecting. But as he screwed up his face from the flavor, he didn’t feel changed. Or empowered. Or whatever Robin was trying out with this magic spell.

“I don’t—,” Steve started, but his voice stopped just as it started. His head pounded like a drum was beating right next to his ears.

Doubling over in his stool, he gripped at the sides of his head in a panic. His whole skull felt like it was vibrating. Shifting around even, his scalp moving at the top of his head as if something were to burst out.

Steve grabbed two fist fulls of his hair and groaned through the wave of pain. Burying his chin in his chest to try and stop the noises before they came. It was so painful, but somehow only lasted a second.

As sudden as it came, he felt fine again.

Steve jerked his head up to scream at Robin , when he noticed her eyes wandering to the top of his head.

He followed them with hesitant fingers, slowly running up his now messy head of quaffed brown locks under his fingertips brushed something new.

Giving an undignified yelp, he drew his hand backwards as if burnt. His eyes were wide and pleading with Robin. But she watched him right back with the same face. As if she didn’t make this, as if it wasn’t her poison potion that created this.

Steve timidly touched the new addition to his head again. This time he didn’t finch as his fingertips sank into hair that felt soft as fur. Following it up to a point, and then feeling as it curved inwards to softer peach fuzz.

He could feel something, as his fingers moved, he could feel them as easily as if he were touching the lobes of his ears.

Because he was touching his ears.

A quick glance to a dingy mirror hanging at the back of the bar confirmed it for him. There was a pretty pair of brown cat ears sprung from the top of his head.

“Robin,” he breathed. Unable to fully grasp how he felt. “What was that drink exactly?”

She blinked at him, gathering her thoughts before she cleared her throat. “It’s um, it’s supposed to be a charm. An aid, like-like an enhancer. It said it would bring out the traits that the person you craft the potion for desires the most.”

Then she stopped to laugh, her red lips caught between gaping open or turning up on the corners in a mocking laugh. “I didn’t— wow! I thought worst case scenario would be you’ll turn into an asshole like you were in high school. B-But this?”

Steve looked from her back to the mirror. Wrapping one hand around the pointed triangle of his ear. Pushing it down just to watch it perk back up again.

“I’m... I’m a cat boy?” Steve stutters out a gasping breath.

“Well, more like a cat man, really,” Robin tries to help. “Come on, you’re almost old enough to buy beer.”

“Really helpful, Robs, thanks so much for the curse and now the insults!” He shouts.

Holding up her hands in defense, her smile doesn’t drop. Even in her shoulders Steve can see she’s quivering with laugher.

He feels along the base of his new ears. How the fur is the same color and melts almost perfectly into his own silky hair. How it feels good, actually, to scratch his blunt nails there just like how a house cat would enjoy it.

“This isn’t some trait. Or some, something that Billy would find attractive in me.” Steve groans. “This is some freaky kink!”

Robin finally clasps her hand over her mouth to dam up the waterfall of laugher. It hits against her palm in a muffled, annoying, cruel noise. She shakes her head as if she wanted to argue but couldn’t get past how funny she found it.

“You must have mixed up the wrong stuff, Robin! Put the wrong magical thing in the mixture!” Steve tried to shake his head out to unstick his thoughts.

He runs his hands through his hair as he does when he gets flustered, and now his cat ears bend with the motion so they don’t get tugged on. Folding neatly onto his head before bouncing back up to attention.

It felt so weird, but somehow it didn’t feel very different at all. They acted as if they’ve always been there.

“Yeah, okay, that’s it,” Steve nodded to himself. “You gave me the wrong potion. It’s okay, it happens! Just whip up a new one that’s for reversing cat ears. That’s in your witch book right?”

Robin kept her hand over her mouth and kept shaking her head. She wasn’t replying to anything Steve said. And it was honestly making him more mad than the new ears on top of his head.

“Hey, is it really funny enough for all that?” he mused.

Then Steve looked back up at the mirror. He turned his head side to side to admire the way his ears moved with him. How they were his hair color on the outside then a flushed pink in the very middle. How there were strands of lighter brown between that and those reminded him of how highlighted his hair gets in the summer sun.

“I don’t know. I think they... I think they sort of suit me?” He shrugged.

Robin dropped her hands and her laugher was louder without it, but she managed to catch her breath to finally reply. “Oh, they suit you alright. You’re a natural at this stuff, Garfield.”

Steve furrowed his eye brows. Cat ears folding down on his head in defense. “I’m not orange,” he hissed back.

Robin opened her mouth with likely more insults and no actual help from the aspiring witch who caused all this mess, when she was interrupted. The bell above the entrance letting out a loud ding.

The front door, painted in matching mint green like the bar, swung open. And like he was summoned, like his ears were simply ringing so much from being talked about he hunted down the source, in walked Billy.

He was wearing a grey hoodie. One of many that he collected once he got discharged out of his hospital. This one Steve was familiar with, because it was his. Handed down with a coat and a couple other winter items as Steve feigned indifference over concern about Billy’s California blood staying warm. An old Hawkins High baseball league logo sitting right in the middle. It’s fading green and orange design still bright enough to make Steve’s breath catch in his throat.

“Hey, Harrington,” Billy greeted. He lifted his big, scarred hand to wipe the hood down from his head. Letting loose the wild mess of short curls that are regrowing on his head.

“Hey, Billy,” Steve croaked out. His voice was awkward. His face, he knew, must be blushing bright red.

He turned to seek help from Robin, but the swinging door that lead into the kitchen was rocking back and forth on its hinges. She must have run away as soon as Billy came in. And Steve was too busy watching his entrance to even notice.

Cursing under his breath, Steve racked his brain with an excuse. Some logical way to explain why he had sprouted two new fluffy ears off his head.

He felt like he was playing a pinball machine in his head. Flashing lights and jingling noises were going off. But nothing was coming to him. He couldn’t find any words to offer at all to Billy.

So he whipped his head to the side, watched as Billy stopped glancing around the empty diner to finally settle on Steve.

And he watches as Billy’s gorgeous, totally unfair pretty blue eyes lift to see the cat ears on his head.

“Woah, Harrington,” Billy exhales like he’s blowing a mouth full of cigarette smoke. “That’s really—,”

“I know, Billy, okay! It’s um, um?” Steve waves his hands around as if that can turn the wheels of his thinking some more. But he can’t think. Not well anyway, when Billy’s standing here looking so handsome, so warm, and so alive right in front of him.

“Yeah, okay, I can totally explain this—,”

Billy cuts him off with a soft chuckle. Just under his breath. Steve closes his mouth quick enough to make his teeth click.

“I don’t know, Steve. Ya don’t have to explain it. It’s kinda cute, actually,” Billy drawls out his words low and soft. And then smiles at him.

A second ticks by. Billy’s boots skid on the tile as he steps even closer. All the way until he’s right next to Steve. Grabbing the back of a stool right next to him.

And Billy hasn’t taken his eyes off Steve’s ears once. And he’s got a little sparkle in them like the first time Billy got a point over him during basket ball practice back in high school. And oh, oh.

“Cute?” Steve parrots back.

“Yeah, super cute,” Billy confesses.

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #harringrove fic #my fic #harringrove fanfic #steve/billy #harringrove moodboard #harringroveweekoflove #harringrove week of love #cat boy Steve #cat boys in my Harringrove week of love? it’s more likely than you think #my moodboards

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chichirichick · 3 years

Text

SoMa Day 7: Blush

Another day of @soulxmakaweek! Soul makes a terrible mistake (with special intervention from Black Star), but at least it leaves them both blushing. Read it on ff.net, ao3, or after the cut!

Convincing himself that the blush that was creeping from his neck to his cheeks to his ears was simply a bit of embarrassment was entirely becoming impossible for Soul. Even with the woeful look on Maka's face, the way her hands were digging against the roots of his hair to brush the now nubbed strands was forcing Soul's color from that slight tan to utterly pink, starting towards a rose-hued red that rivaled his eyes. It was only made worse by the fact that Maka wasn't looking away from it or even really acknowledging it, just rubbing against the fresh shave of his head.

That's right-- shaved. Down to the root. Practically bald. Headbands? Unnecessary. Stealing Maka's clips? A thing of the past. In the nightmarish world he was currently living in, Soul was the absolutely unproud owner of buzz cut courtesy of Black Star's clippers and devious mind. Alright- maybe Soul was not entirely innocent in all of this, having made the common mistake of falling victim to what looked like Black Star's absolute stupidity. Making a bet with Black Star often seemed like a solid plan; that is until the realization hit that while desperately full of himself and rarely the one with a plan, Black Star's bravado was never misplaced.

Black Star was a God, after all.

And this vengeful God had required the ultimate sacrifice- all of Soul's spiky yet silky strands.

"It'll grow back," he grumbled.

That earned Soul nothing more than an epic eye roll. "How did this even happen?" Maka cried mournfully while her fingers continued on their journey as if she could bring it all back with just her touch.

"A bet," Soul replied as the pink definitely disappeared, overpowered by a red glow that was now threatening to burst blood vessels in his ears.

"With who?" That was suffused with the anger that usually accompanied a Maka-chop, and honestly, he was begging for it to free him.

"Guess," he mumbled, hoping to earn himself freedom from her fingers.

Instead, she grasped a little harder, scrambling his brain with a quick shake. "Soul!"

With his hackles raised and all the stubbornness flowing from the flush that her touch was creating, Soul snapped, "Don't see why you care- it's just my hair!"

"It's-" Her lips pressed into a pout as she pushed a huff of air out her nose. "I guess it's-"

"What?" Soul barked.

Those hands instantly moved, and Soul waited with utter certainty for the crack of a book against his skull, but it was two warm palms against his cheeks instead, smooshing them together. "I'll miss it," she murmured, "but I guess you're still handsome."

His jaw was ready to drop, but Maka was holding it in place. Something close to a squeal started in his throat, and Soul barely covered it with a sound somewhere between a choke and a clearing. "Did you just…?"

"What?" Maka's tone was innocent but a dusting of pink had started on her own cheeks.

"You just-" Soul stammered as he grabbed at her wrists to pull her hands away. He instantly found it wasn't her palms that were the hindrance and his voice continued in dips and starts, "Handsome? Me?"

Maka was taking a careful step back, green eyes no longer appraising him as they tried to look busy elsewhere. "You get one compliment- and just to make you feel better about the buzz, that's all!"

He couldn't relent, his fingers steady around her wrists and denying any other step between them. "But you mean it?"

She nodded but still stubbornly refused to look at him again, that pink becoming all too rosy as it flushed down her neck.

"Then…" Soul could barely stop from wiggling her wrists in his hand in utter frustration. Handsome. She said handsome! "What about my regular hair?"

"What about it?" Maka shot back quickly as she fiddled with her wrists in his hands.

"You think that's handsome?" The word half warbled but landed true. He let his eyes drift to the floor, taking at least an ounce of pressure off his chest.

A wobbly but thoughtful hum escaped her. Maka managed to free her hands in his moment of weakness, but instead of a quick escape, her hands went back to his head, fingers sinking in the fuzz. "I liked the headband," she murmured. "Especially the thin black one."

"That one?" Soul balked and continued to tumble into shock as his eyes hit her face, now just as much color spread to her ears as his.

Maka nodded slowly. "But I-" She stuttered, trying to catch herself with a sheepish smile. "I like the way you push it back when you're thinking too hard." Her hand moved to his forehead to mimic the motion.

"So… it's handsome?" he attempted.

"I told you one compliment." She instantly tried to press her lips into a pout but it fizzled under the heat of her cheeks.

"I-" Soul took a deep breath to force his voice to its regular baritone. "I like when you have ribbons in your pigtails."

Any solidity to her expression was gone, mouth gaping slightly as her eyes widened.

"The best is when your hair is down." His hands hovered between them for a moment before reaching up to steal hers away from his head. Tangled together, he brought their hands to his chest, cradling them there. "There, so… compliment for a compliment. OK?"

"OK," she whispered back breathlessly. Maka toyed with her bottom lip between her teeth before she offered, "You're handsome."

He only allowed for a breath before he broke the silence, "And you're beautiful."

To hide the red on her face, Maka pulled their hands down to replace it with her forehead, feeling the tumultuous beat of his heart against her skin. "You mean it?"

"Yeah." Suddenly his chest was rumbling, chuckles vibrating against her face.

Maka still didn't have the nerve to uncover the blush that was holding strong to her cheeks. "What is it?"

"Hindsight's twenty-twenty."

"What's that mean?"

Soul let the laughs ring until he was even more out of breath, just worrying her fingers in his as he gathered up the bravery to continue. "I think I coulda won the bet."

She was tempted to roll her eyes but 'beautiful' was still ringing in her ears, keeping her attitude small. "What was the bet?"

Soul let out a blustering breath. "Gettin' the guts to ask you out. Kinda was supposed to yesterday but, you know…" He finished that sentence with a shrug only for him since Maka was still hiding away. "So, buzz it was."

Maka couldn't help a giggle and his fingers tightened around hers.

"Hey, Maka," he called as he just barely brushed his chin against her hair.

"What?"

"Go out with me?" That still brought a little tremble to his voice but Soul exerted all of his strength for the next, "Not a meister-weapon, a partner-friend thing but a you-me thing."

For a horrifyingly long second, Maka was silent. "Will you grow out your hair again?"

A nervous laugh twittered from his throat. "Well, yeah."

Maka lifted her head, showing him the pink of her cheeks so she could see his. "You really could have won that bet."

#soulxmakaweek #SoMaWeek2021 #Soul Eater #SoMa #blackstaristhecauseofalltrouble

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fandomdancer · 3 years

Text

Too Far

(Trying to be braver and posting work here on Tumblr.

Fandom: The Flash (Arrowverse)

Work in progress. Name edit: Roslyn's friend is named Gilbert (was originally Garrick). May change again.

Summary: Roslyn is having a fight with her best friend Gilbert. The topic is Eobard Thawne. Roslyn can't figure out why Gilbert is so focused on him. Gilbert can't believe Roslyn doesn't see what's right in front of her. And what happens when Gilbert's insulting of Eobard goes too far?)

______________________________________

(c. Fall 2168, Central City High School)

“He’s not the kinda guy you should be wastin’ time with.”

Gilbert stood close enough to her that the hairs on her body stood up and she could smell the detergent his clothes had been washed in. Normally, being cornered by Gilbert Haustveld was something most girls Roslyn’s age would enjoy. But she had the advantage of being his best friend for several years, and so his pouty lips and striking blue eyes did nothing to fuzz her brain or make her forget the argument they were currently having.

She ducked under him and grabbed his arm, dragging him away from the pillar and the group of curious students…a group that included the topic of their current conversation…listening in on them. “I don’t care,” she whispered, “who you think I should hang out with. I’m not part of any group or clique that has preexisting expectations.”

“He makes you look bad,” Gilbert pushed, not bothering to lower his voice.

“Oh please,” she scoffed. “Like anyone at this school cares about the image I portray. I’m a tree-hugger, remember? I don’t influence anyone.”

“He does,” Gilbert said. “He’s influencing you and you don’t even see it.”

Roslyn threw up her hands. "This is going beyond a friendly warning, Gilbert . What's your problem with him, really?"

"His parents had him genetically engineered." The words dripped with disdain as Gilbert spat them out, still uncaring of his volume. Roslyn tried to drag him further away, but he planted his feet. She swore softly and glared at him.

"Who cares?"

"Come on, Rosie, don't be thick. The technology's new enough that most of the plain Janes and Johns can't even consider it. Those that scrape together enough do it to stop their kids from being born brain deficient or from getting sick later on life. But the Thawnes? They not only gave 2.0 over there enhanced intelligence to make sure he wasn't average, but they added a specific look!! They literally engineered their heir to the empire, right down to the color of his hair and that cleft in his chin! You can't tell me that isn't disgusting."

Roslyn struggled not to look in Eobard's direction. "You mean to tell me that your parents, if given the opportunity, wouldn't do the same thing to you?"

"Please! My parents are human. They realize they have to take the responsibility of raising a son to respect and learn their business. They're not going to spend ridiculous amounts of money manufacturing a lifeless Ken doll with the right I.Q. so they don't have to be concerned about the harder parts of being a parent."

"Perhaps they should." Eobard's velvety voice broke into the conversation, making both of them jump and turn, Roslyn with a mortified look on her face and Gilbert with a smirk. "It's highly improbable that someone with your deficiencies will live up to anyone's expectations, parental or romantic."

Roslyn flinched as Gilbert's smug smirk vanished. The students around them 'ooooh'ed, making others turn to look.

"Just what is that supposed to mean, Bardo?" Gilbert sneered.

Eobard stepped gracefully up next to Roslyn, and she felt the heat of his hand hovering near the small of her back. It sent a strange tingle through her body, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from shivering as her skin warmed. A strange look crossed Gilbert’s face, horror and betrayal and anger all mixed into a few micro-expressions that flashed by almost too fast to be seen. It was enough to bring Roslyn’s eyebrows together into a confused furrow. What just happened?

"My I.Q. far outstrips yours, so I'll be sure to use small words," Eobard said softly. "You. Are. A. Moron."

Gilbert swung. Eobard moved swiftly, shoving Roslyn backwards as the boy’s fist flew right past where she had been. It looked as though Eobard’s cheekbone was about to feel the full force of the punch, but the slender boy ducked smoothly, slipping around Gilbert’s other side. When he came back up, his haughty, smug expression had faded to a bone-chilling glare, his eyes sparking with an awakened power and his clenched jaw showing the beginning of bared teeth. Whooping erupted around them as the students circled up, eagerly anticipating the fight.

"Face me!" Eobard still managed to speak in a purr, but now the fury in his voice made the air crackle around them. "You'll see, Haustveld, that I am anything but...lifeless."

Gilbert didn’t hesitate, lunging forward. Eobard braced, his lips pulling apart into a mad grin that sent chills down Roslyn’s spine. She opened her mouth to scream at Gilbert to stop, but in the next instant Eobard had shifted his weight and was twisting sideways as Gilbert barreled straight through where he had been a moment before. The students dodged wildly in every direction to get out of his way, and in the blink of an eye Eobard was beside Roslyn again, his hand now very boldly on the small of her back and his lips by her ear, whispering. “We need to go.”

The feel of his breath on her skin sent a paralyzing wave of goosebumps over her, and when she looked up, his face was much too close to make sense. She pushed her words through, determined to defend Gilbert no matter how deserving he was of Eobard’s insult. “My friend isn’t a moron, Eo. He’s wrong about you but he isn’t---”

The impact cut off her words, Gilbert’s shoulder slamming into her and shoving her aside as he tackled Eobard. Roslyn tried to shift her weight to keep her balance, but her foot came down on a rock and her ankle twisted wildly. With a cry of pain, she fell to the ground, her mind briefly blanking out from the shock and surprise.

Heavy thumps and thuds filled the air nearby, punctuated by grunts and groans of pain. The two boys were tussling only a few feet from her, Gilbert pinning Eobard to the ground and raining blows onto the boy’s chest and head. The students cheered them on, with a few of them shooting Roslyn sympathetic, concerned looks. She struggled to sit up, her ankle throbbing harder with the motion, and she put her hands around it, wishing she could stop the pain.

“How dare you?” Eobard suddenly roared. Roslyn looked over to see both of them looking at her, Eobard with growing rage and Gilbert with a dawning expression of horror.

“Come at me all you want!” Eobard growled before pulling his fist back and smashing it into the side of Gilbert’s face. “But. Don’t. Touch. Her.” Each word was punctuated by a fist, pounding the words home, until Gilbert was scrambling to get off of him and Eobard was rolling and springing to his feet. Before Gilbert could regain his balance Eobard had tackled him, knocking him flat on his back. The smaller boy straddled him, and then brought his fists down. He didn’t punch Gilbert’s face, but rather his stomach, his solar plexus, and his neck. He even boxed his ears, turning the boy beneath him into a choking, writhing mess, too stunned to fight back.

Teachers were now fighting to get between the students, some of whom were too engrossed in the action to register that authorities had arrived. Others started yelling: “Teacher, teacher!” and ran.

“Thawne! Haustveld! Break it up!” Mr. Corio had no hesitation about grabbing Eobard and bodily hauling him off of the coughing Gilbert. Ms. Steinway ran to Roslyn, helping her up. Roslyn allowed the world to sink into a cacophony of sound and swirling images as she tried to master the agony slicing through her ankle up her leg. She managed to look over at Gilbert, who was restrained by Mr. Langley. He was still wheezing for breath, his fists weakly swinging at the air, his brain unwilling to accept that the fight was over. Mr. Corio was restraining Eobard, who was favoring his right foot as blood dripped from his nose and mouth. One of his eyes was beginning to swell closed and a bruise was darkening his cheekbone. But his good eye was locked on Gilbert, and the hatred burning in it was palpable.

“This isn’t over!” he snarled.

“K…kill…you!” Gilbert shouted back, choking on the words.

“Enough!” Mr. Corio yelled, shaking Eobard and making him groan in pain. “Both of you, cool it, now!”

“He sta….-started….started…”

“You started it!” Roslyn shouted, cutting Gilbert off, outraged by his feeble attempt to shift the blame. “You tried to hit me!”

“Not….you! Him!”

“Everyone quiet!” Mr. Langley interjected, his soft voice a surprising entry into the conversation. “We will sort all of this out. Right now, all three of you are going to the nurse’s office and if any of you try anything, all three of you will be suspended. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Mr. Langley,” Roslyn murmured.

“Yeah,” Gilbert breathed.

“Sure,” Eobard said.

#oc: roslyn sherwood #eobard thawne #the flash #the flash fanfiction #fanfiction #work in progress #wip #oc: gilbert haustveld

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