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chaotic-goodsir · 6 months

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For day 2 of this Hatchetverse series thing, here's part of the sequel to You Could Call This Luck that I've been trying and failing to finish. Turns out plotting a thing about time travel with multiple POVs and timelines is hard.

To avoid confusion: in this particular timeline, (most of) the events of the musicals didn't happen. Time Bastard did, though, because we all know Ted can't catch a break.

(Also sorry for the long post - I don't usually post fic like this directly to Tumblr, but since this is unfinished I didn't want to put it on Ao3 just yet)

Pete Lauter sits at the desk in his science classroom at Hatchetfield High School, trying to finish the last of the week's marking. His eyes are dry from staring at his tablet screen, and the hum of the heating units is starting to get on his nerves. His students' lab reports all blend into one after a while - most of them are clearly written by AI. Getting teenagers to write anything as unexciting as a lab report on their own these days is almost impossible. He's not sure why the school still requires it, but then who is he, a mere teacher, to question the relevance of the national curriculum? Only the guy who sees first-hand how badly it works for his students.

Pete doesn't hate his job, most of the time, but it can get exhausting. This particular evening, he's ready to go home, heat up yesterday's leftovers - maybe make a hot chocolate, why not? - and enjoy the Friday-night peace and quiet. Theo will be out somewhere with his friends, and Steph's away on highly-classified work business. It's the perfect time to finally start that sci-fi novel that's been sitting on his bedside table for weeks. He's craving some decent, interesting writing that isn't the work of a teenager or a robot.

Sounds like a plan, he thinks, saving the report he's been working through and switching the tablet to sleep mode. He'll get the last of the marking done on Sunday night. For now it's future-Pete's problem.

He pulls on his jacket - his favourite, the one with the elbow patches that Steph bought for him last Christmas - and is about to pack the tablet away when the screen blinks into life again.

Ruth Fleming's icon (a photo from her honeymoon in Europe, Ruth and her wife smiling in front of a clear blue sky) flashes onto the screen. It's no surprise that she's still at work - drama club starts in an hour, and she has rehearsals to direct. Pete sighs and taps the icon, hoping she isn't about to ask him to help out again.

'Hey Ruth,' he says. 'I was just about to head home - do you need something?'

Ruth sounds a little out of breath, the way she always does when she's anxious.

'Pete, thank god you're still here. You need to come to the north wing staffroom, now. It's your son.'

Pete freezes. 'Theo?'

'Of course it's Theo. Do you have another son? Look, I don't wanna worry you, but he's hurt. You should come quick.'

'What do you mean, hurt?' Pete asks, panic rising. What is Theo even doing in school, on a Friday night? Something stupid and dangerous, clearly, if he's managed to hurt himself.

Pete swings his backpack onto one shoulder, carrying the tablet in his free hand as he rushes out of the room. He doesn't bother to lock the classroom door.

'How badly? Like, ambulance bad?'

'I don't know. I don't think so. But he's talking crazy.'

He's talking, Pete thinks, okay. He feels bad for thinking it, but he's not 100% convinced this isn't just Theo pulling a prank. He wouldn't put it past his son to do this kind of thing for attention. Theo Lauter is a lot of things, but a well-adjusted teenager doesn't seem to be one of them, no matter what Pete and Steph try.

Ruth knows that, of course, and the worry in her voice is making Pete worry too. She'd see through a typical Theo prank pretty easily. Which means this is probably real.

'I'm on my way.' He tells Ruth. 'I'll be five minutes.'

He hangs up and races down the corridor, cutting through the courtyard to get to the North Wing. The staffroom is upstairs, in the English and Languages corridor. When he gets there, the door is wedged open. Ruth is by the sofa, trying to comfort a teenage boy who looks a lot like his son.

But there's no sign of Theo's trademark denim jacket or band t-shirt. This kid is wearing a white shirt, suspenders, and bowtie, all stained with - Pete realises in horror - a concerning amount of blood. Instead of Theo's ponytail, this kid has his hair down, shoulder length, pinned back to keep it out of his face. And this kid is wearing glasses, with a crack across one lens.

Theo has his mother's eyesight. He's never needed glasses in his life.

Either Theo's pranks have reached a whole new level of elaborate, or this is not Pete's son at all. This kid looks more like-

Well, he looks more like him. Like Pete himself, when he was 25 years younger.

Not for the first time, Pete considers that he really needs to move his family out of Hatchetfield. Only in this messed-up town would something like that even be a possibility.

The kid notices him standing in the doorway, and his eyes go wide behind his cracked glasses. Then he says something that disproves neither the actual-time-travel theory nor the Theo-pulling-a-prank one, but spooks Pete either way.

'...Ted?'

Agent Stephanie Lauter is in a highly classified meeting at the PIEP HQ when the smartwatch around her wrist starts to buzz.

She glances at it, annoyed, and sees her husband's icon blinking at her. Pete knows she's busy today. He wouldn't call unless it was something urgent. He's one of the only contacts who can call her through the HQ's high tech digital barrier system.

Maybe it's just an accident. She swipes the icon away. If it's urgent, he'll call back.

She waits for a pause in General Lee's presentation, then raises a hand.

'I'm sorry, sir. My husband is trying to call me - I think it's urgent.'

'Well, you had better take it then,' Lee says, with his characteristic earnestness. No matter the situation, the old General has a way of always seeming that he knows more than anyone else about what's going on. It's a little disconcerting.

He waves towards the door. 'Good luck, Agent Lauter. I hope your family are all safe and well.'

She thanks him, apologises again, and leaves quickly. Outside the meeting room, a security guard in a bulletproof vest watches her pace anxiously up and down the corridor as she returns Pete's call.

'Steph,' he says when he picks up. There's an anxious note in his voice that she does not like the sound of. 'Sorry, I know you're at work. Are you busy right now?'

'It's fine,' she says. 'What's wrong?'

'It's Theo,' Pete says, then pauses. 'Well, no, it's not Theo. At least he says he's not, and I think he's telling the truth. I... I don't really know how to explain this, Steph. It's gonna sound crazy.'

'Breathe, babe,' Steph says, because Pete is talking at about a hundred miles an hour now. 'I work for PIEP. I can cope with crazy.'

'Okay.' Pete says, taking a breath. 'Okay.'

'Is Theo alright?'

'Yeah. At least I hope so. He's at his friends, probably. I'm at school, and there's a kid here that looks like him. Ruth thought it was Theo, and he's covered in blood - not hurt, thank god, just covered in it - so she called me. But it's not. Not Theo, I mean.'

'What? Who is it?'

'I think it's me.'

To anyone else, in any other context, those words wouldn't make sense. Pete is a 41 year old man, and their son is 16. It would be insane to mistake one for the other. Not to mention that Pete is Pete. This kid that's shown up covered in blood can't possibly also be him. One person can't possibly be in two places at once.

But in Hatchetfield, anything is possible. And then, on top of that, there's the Spankoffski Effect.

Steph has often wished she could tell Pete more about the work she does for PIEP. About the data that shows his brother Ted's disappearance, back in 2019, wasn't just an unexplained tragedy but a large-scale temporal incident affecting multiple universes. Pete doesn't even know that there are multiple universes. It would probably break his little nerd heart if he knew she wasn't telling him.

Nor does Pete know about how, the day she told the now-retired General MacNamara that she and Pete were engaged, his congratulations came with a warning:

'By all means, marry a Spankoffski if you wish, Miss Lauter. But a word of advice. I'd strongly suggest you don't take that name, and don't give it to your children.'

When she asked him why, he'd told her that was classified. It wasn't until she graduated from training that she first heard about the Spankoffski Effect, and put two and two together.

In every timeline known to PIEP researchers, something with the power to sever a person from the flow of time itself has an interest in - no, more like an obsession with - Pete's brother, and possibly his entire family.

She's not sure she could tell her husband that part even if she had clearance.

And now Pete's younger self has appeared at the school where he teaches. Steph does not like the sound of that at all.

'You're sure it's not Theo pulling a prank? I wouldn't put it past him.'

'If it is, he deserves an oscar. And this kid has my phone, Steph. From years ago. With my medical alert details, everything. I don't think Theo would go that far.'

Probably not, no, but she wants to be absolutely sure. 'Have you called Theo? Checked where he is?'

'Shit,' Pete says, then catches himself for swearing in front of a student. 'I mean, uh, shoot, no. I should have done that.'

She tries adding Theo to the call they're already on. The line rings out, so she tries again. No answer.

'Steph, if you're calling him, I can't hear it ringing. I don't think this kid has Theo's watch.'

A message appears on Steph's watch screen:

< Fuck off, mom, I'm busy :) >

'Well,' She says, wondering briefly about nature and nurture and whether it's some failure of parenting that turned her son into such a little shit, 'our son just messaged me. Unless he can do that with only his mind, I don't think he's with you.'

'Okay,' Pete says. Then, 'shit.' He doesn't catch himself this time.

Shit is right, Steph thinks. 'Wait there. Keep the kid calm. Stay calm yourself, okay? I'll come to you.'

She doesn't tell him she's planning to bring PIEP agents with her, but he's probably figured that out already.

'Aren't you in DC?'

'Yeah, so you'll have to hold out for a few hours. Anything weird happens - anything else weird - you call me straight away, okay?'

'Okay. Yeah. Love you.'

'Love you too.'

Steph hangs up. She pinches the bridge of her nose with one hand and groans, wondering why she never had the sense to move her family out of Hatchetfield.

Would that have helped, though? If something from the Black and White is after Pete, couldn't it find him anywhere, if it wanted to?

The security guard is staring at her.

'Everything okay, ma'am?'

'Yeah,' she says. 'I'm fine. Just - don't ever marry a Spankoffski, no matter how cute he is.'

The guard blinks, clearly baffled.

'Um... right.'

#hatchetverse #hatchetfield #npmd #time bastard #nightmare time #starkid #tgwdlm #peter spankoffski #stephanie lauter #lautski #t'noy karaxis #ruth fleming

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writefasttalkevenfaster · 3 years

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Take My Hand (Part Three)

Summary: feelings are hurt, mistakes are made, and someone wakes up in the wrong bed (one of three four ??? parts)

Pairings: Rafael Barba x Reader, Sonny Carisi x Reader

Word Count: 6,992

Song: It wasn't right / The way it all went down / Looks like you know that now (closure by taylor swift)

Warnings: T, spoilers for 19x13 (the undiscovered country) and use of some dialogue from that episode, infant death, some swearing, drinking, drunken behavior, so much angst,

A/N: thank you for @bucky-of-the-opera and @laneygthememequeen for letting me bounce ideas off and being such amazing beta readers. and thank you to @qvid-pro-qvo for the support and enthusiasm as i muddled my way through these scenes. And thank you to all of you for reading :)

“Another,” you slam your glass on the table, “please.”

“Are you sure you want another?” the bartender raised an eyebrow at you, the glasses lined around you.

“I asked for another,” you hiss, your voice raising and falling, the sound making the ache in your head sharp, a knife dragging across your forehead from temple to temple.

The drink lands in front of you, "I'm cutting you off," you click your teeth together, your fingers pressed the cool glass, the only thing grounding you, "hey, hey," she snaps her fingers, "did you drive here?"

You scoff, "Who drives in New York?" The remark doesn't come off as biting as you want, words slurring.

The bartender taps on your phone, lying on the counter amongst the glasses, "call someone to pick you up. We're closing. Don't go home by yourself."

You sip at your drink, your throat numb to any burn alcohol could provide you — the thrill gone, only left the bitter depressant you needed to relieve the pain. But there was no amount that could relieve this pain because one word brought it back — Rafael.

A wound that had scabbed over so times could still bleed, and this pain came with no adrenaline to numb it. But nothing could numb this pain — the one searing in your hollow chest, your heart long forlorn the moment you stepped from that office — no, it was earlier. Was it the moment you chose to love him? No, maybe it was the moment you kissed him, sunk into those eyes made for sinking, and you stood at the helm, unwavering. Because, after all, it was your heart to sink.

You loved him — you loved him even when he was completely unloveable in his behavior — your adoration for toleration. You loved him even when you didn't want to — when you knew he didn't deserve it, when you deserved more. You loved him, but you didn't know why.

And you wished you never did.

The bartender snaps her fingers again, "Hey, please call someone because I don't want you leaving here alone."

But you missed him, you scrolled through your contacts, finding his name so easily — his contact picture was of him in the office, sitting beside you on his couch with a mouthful of dumplings, irritated by something Buchanan had said. The next picture on your camera roll if you remembered was him lunging for your phone, and the third was of him kissing you, the taste of soy sauce on his lips.

Was the last time you kissed him the last time? Would it be the last time you touched him? The last time you slept beside him?

Your finger hovered over the call button — it would be easy to call him, to talk to him, to love him. But, your thumb slides right, going back to your contacts, just because it was easy didn't mean it was right.

Tears slid down your face, as you downed the rest of your drink.

But you needed to call someone — someone you trusted.

Sonny did not expect to spend his Thursday night (or was it Friday morning?) like this — not at Forlini’s, not out at 3 AM, and certainly not picking you up.

You weren't exactly clear about much on the phone — between the slurring and the mumbling he was only able to make out the address and "can you pick me up?"

He hurried down the street, sidestepping several burly men, who jeered at him as he passed by, his nerves shot at this point. He had seen at least eight of the men he's passed in lockup, and here you were in the thick of it.

What were you thinking?

He finds the place with ease, stepping into it, finding the bartender wiping up a table by the front. Irritated, she jerks her head towards the bar, "over there, the last drink hit hard, so you might have some trouble getting home, buddy."

His brow wrinkles, "What do you—"

"Sonny!" your voice is high, throwing up your hands in a to-do, as you stumble off the stool, while Sonny barely moves in time to catch you.

“Whoa, whoa, are you okay, counselor?” you pout, sighing loudly, as you gently take his hands off of you, instead intertwining your fingers with his.

“I told you to call me by my name, Sonny,” he clears his throat, feeling his ears burn as you tugged him closer, peering up at him with a wide grin, “or should I start calling you Detective Carisi?” your voice low and teasing, he leans away.

Okay, he bites his lip, stepping away from you.

What had he gotten himself into?

After several minutes of bargaining, bartering, and bribes, he was able to convince you to leave the bar, much to his (and the bartender’s) relief. But then again, the problems kept coming. He pulls you outside, and you’re shivering, your suit jacket clearly not enough. He pulls off his sweatshirt, handing it to you, you open your mouth to protest, but when another strong wind blows through, and you pull it over your shoulders.

He glances away, but his eyes wander back to you — his ears burning at the sight of you in his clothes.

No, no, this was not the time, he chided himself.

“Come on, let’s get you home, sweetheart,” and you pull away from him.

“I can’t go home,” he crosses his arms, struggling to keep his temper even at 2 in the morning, his patience worn away to nothingness in that bar.

“Sweetheart,” you shake your head — now you were just being stubborn, “the bar is closed, you have to go home.”

“No, I can’t go home,” and he sees the tears in your eyes, streaking down your face, and you’re shaking your head, arms crossed, “I can’t, Sonny. Please.”

And his irritation turns to fear — he’s seen this before, too many times, far too many times, a sinking feeling in his gut, “What happened?”

“Sonny—” your voice breaks, it was a blurred line between anger and fear — and he didn’t know what he felt right now — but he knew he was going to lose his mind if you didn’t tell him what was going on right now.

“Did someone do something to you?” you shake your head, “did they touch you—”

“No, Sonny, no,” you wipe your tears away, sniffing, “I just broke up with the guy I was seeing. The one I told you about. It wasn’t working,” you gave a watery chuckle, “it never worked to begin with.”

He says your name, his anger simmering, “I’m—”

You wave him off, before sighing, “I just can’t deal with him right now. And if I go home,” your voice shakes, “he might show up there and I can’t do that. I can’t.”

Sonny feels his heart thump against his chest, reaching for your hand, squeezing it, “Then we won’t.”

He takes you to his place, it doesn’t take long to get to — it takes longer to get you out of the cab, fully asleep on his shoulder by the time they arrive. His arm around you, supporting you, he takes you inside, “You take the bed, okay? I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you mumble, leaning against him as he unlocks the door, hating how he liked the way you felt against him, and he sighs. No, it feels like he does. You were his friend first — anything he felt was irrelevant. He shut the door behind him.

Until it wasn’t. But it wouldn’t be relevant — not tonight.

“Come on,” he helps you to his bedroom, having you sit at the edge of the bed, kneeling as he takes your shoes off for you. He looks up to find you staring at him, eyes glassy, “What’s wrong?”

“You really care about me, don’t you, Sonny?” and he tilts his head.

“Of course I do,” he frowns, “what do you—”

And you kiss him. It’s brief, but in his mind, it feels like forever — your lips were as soft as he thought they would be. He tastes the alcohol on your tongue, but that’s nothing compared to you.

He had never wanted to feel this way.

When did he first feel it?

When you had comforted him about Coles? No, maybe when you asked him to join you for a drink after shadowing? Or maybe it was the moment he saw you in your office, when you told him to call you by your name — when you called him by his.

He pulls away, and you sit, breath hot against his, whispering so quietly he barely hears it even in the silence, “I wish he cared about me the way you did.”

And he supposed it didn’t matter — helping you lay down — because it didn’t mean anything anyway.

Your first memory is regret, followed by pain — in that order — a sharp pain in your head stirs you into consciousness and into terror because, not only were you surely going to die, but in a stranger’s home. A knife would have been kinder than a hangover — when was the last time you had one? Have you ever had one before?

Your stomach lurched — you didn’t need to think about that right now.

You pushed yourself up, mind swimming and muscles screaming, your eyes surely bench pressing a thousand pounds to stay open, what the fuck happened—

The picture on the bedside table came into focus — was that—

It was Sonny with his niece, both their smiling faces staring back at you — almost mocking the situation you had gotten yourself into.

What had you done last night?

You groan softly, as the memories come back to you, as your hand clutches at your forehead, slowly sliding down, — the fight, the bar, the drinking, calling Sonny to get you and— your fingers brush your lips—

Fuck.

You kissed him — you had kissed Sonny. Flashes of it came back — you rocking forward to kiss him, his lips soft against yours, pulling away from you. Tears burned your eyes — congrats, you had somehow managed to blow up your life in so many ways in one night.

You were the worst — the worst.

Was this rock bottom? You didn’t know you could fall so far — to the point where you didn’t recognize yourself — drinking to forget, hurting the people who cared, and throwing it away for someone who didn’t even care.

No more, you wiped your tears away, reaching for your purse, pulling a pen and notepad from your bag, this needed to end.

You deserved more.

You always did.

You walk into your apartment, stepping inside to the sound of someone walking around, and you tense, your phone clenched in your hand, glancing around — and then you hear his voice.

Breathless, he steps out from the kitchen, and he whispers your name in the silence of the morning. His arms around you in a moment, your arms at your sides“I’ve been calling all morning — I came here and you weren’t here, I thought something had—” he breaks off, seemingly able to breath again, but you couldn’t — you never could with him.

“What are you doing here?” you whisper, breaking away from him, taking several steps back.

“What do you mean? I called you — i couldn’t find you—”

“You don’t need to find me — it’s over,” your voice broke, crossing your arms, “leave.”

And his eyes are drawn to your sweatshirt, hanging low on your body, and his eyes narrow, “Were you with someone else?” You blink, realizing you still had Sonny’s sweatshirt on from last night, “were you cheating on—”

“Cheating?” you bark out a laugh, raising your eyebrows, “cheating on who? On what? We’re nothing to each other, Rafael. It was true last night, and it’s true today.”

“This isn’t nothing — we aren’t nothing,” he shakes his head, “what do you want? Do you want a relationship? Tell me, I’ll do it.”

“I want you to leave,” you swallow thickly, “It’s over, Raf, we can’t do this anymore.”

“I’m telling you I’ll do anything—” he whispers your name in the silence of your heart breaking, he steps forward and you step away — the gap between you a chasm, a lake made of your own tears, “I love you.”

You shake your head, tears slipping down your cheeks, “No, no—”

“I do,” he pleads, “I do, mi amor.”

“You love me until you don’t,” you meet his gaze, emerald eyes shiny with tears, “I can’t do that anymore — I need more, I deserve more.”

He wipes his tears with the back of his hand, “This is it?”

“It is,” he steps forward, and you don’t step away this time, his warm cupping your cheek for the last time, your tears rolling over the knuckles of his fingers.

“Can I kiss you goodbye?” he asks — and you squeeze your eyes shut, nodding. His breath is warm against your lips, his touch comforting and familiar. Your lips meet — he feels like home, his arms around your waist, splayed and lingering as if they never wanted to leave — and you didn’t want them to. Your lips part and meet over and over, until you think he’s stolen the very breath from your lungs. Your fingers fisted in his shirt, and you don’t know if you want to push him away or pull him closer.

You pull away — and it takes everything in you, a sob stuck in your throat — your foreheads brushing, and his hands reach for you as you pull away, but you brush past him, “Please go,” your back to him, you don’t watch him leave, instead hearing his footsteps against the floor, the door creaking open, and a pause.

“I’m sorry, mi amor.”

And the door clicks shut, and you sink to the floor, your back to the bottom of your couch, as you cry silently.

You were too.

Sonny wakes up to the sound of a door closing.

He curses under his breath, throwing off his blanket haphazardly. He nearly trips over himself trying to leave his apartment. But his stumbling was not fast enough to catch you — already long disappeared down the stairs of his apartment. He walks back to his room, finding his bed made with wrinkled sheets — the same ones you had kissed him on — a note in your place:

Sonny,

I’m so sorry. I was in a bad place, I wasn’t myself, but it’s no excuse for how I treated you — making you pick me up, take care of me, and kissing you — and everything in between. It was a mistake. I can’t change what I already did, but I’m sorry for everything — and I won’t burden you again like that — ever.

‘It was a mistake.’

Sonny stares at the note — finger brushing against the wet splotch on the paper. And he couldn’t help but think there was another door that closed last night — and he wondered if there would ever be another chance.

There was a sharp knock at Rafael’s door, and Jack McCoy stuck his head in, “Counselor, do you have a minute?” Rafael barely looks up from his work — his late start and no sleep did him no favors, he was already buried in work and you were in motions hearings all morning on top of it.

Not that he wanted to see you anyway — not after this morning.

All night he had waited for you — he called, he texted, he left voicemails — he did everything but send you a fax. You always teased him that his propensity for sending a fax made his age show — and he always replied to that with a kiss and a grin with a promise to show you that with age came experience.

And now he would never kiss you again.

He looked for you too — he spent hours pacing his apartment until he couldn’t take it anymore — and he started to look. He checked with your friends, he looked in at the office, and he finally checked on your place. You had given him a key before — for emergencies — but usually it was for late nights he would crawl in beside you, his arms curled around your middle. And you would lean into his touch, a sigh on your lips, even as you slept.

And now he would never sleep next to you again.

“Rafael?” McCoy asked, and Rafael snapped from his stupor, rubbing his eyes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t sleep well last night,” he leaned back away from his work, clearing his throat, “what was it that you needed from me, Jack?”

“I just wanted to inform you that your A.D.A. has resigned with a week’s notice,” and he blinked, his heart slowly caving in upon itself, “I allowed as such since I figured with the case flow, we should be fine for a week with a man down, but if you need any help, please let me know and I”ll have another A.D.A. assist you.”

He nods, dumbstruck, as Jack turns to go, “Wait, Jack,” he looks back, “was there a reason given?”

He offers a sad and knowing smile, “Needed a change, new opportunities — a need to grow,” he slips his hands into his pockets, “everyone does, son.”

“Of course, thank you.” and there he knew — he knew that you had outgrew him.

And it was his fault.

It doesn’t take long for the news to spread across SVU — and you’re careful to drop by on a day that Sonny won’t be there, shame still lingering in your chest about that night. You knew that you should face him — you knew you should talk to him, but you knew that it would only make things harder. And you didn’t want to do that to him.

But mostly you didn’t want to do it to yourself.

“We’re going to miss you around here, counselor,” Liv squeezes your shoulder, offering you a warm smile.

“Won’t be the same without you — who else is going to get that stick out of Barba’s ass?” Fin asks, and you chuckle, but his name carves another fresh wound into your skin, lingering just as his touch did, “but seriously, you ever need anything—”

“I’ll take you up on that, Fin,”

“Seriously, anything you need,” Amanda smiles, and you nod, biting your lip.

“Could you actually do something for me?” you hold up a bag, “can you give this to Sonny? He lent it to me the other night at the office.”

Amanda frowns, “Don’t you want to tell him goodbye yourself?”

“I will, but I just want to make sure he gets this back first, before I forget,” you lie — and you hope she can’t see through it, see through you, but it feels like everyone can — skin rubbed raw from the last week, red and exposed and fragile, “please?”

“Of course,” she takes it without another word, but you can still feel her watching you as you leave the precinct for the last time, hands in your pockets.

It’s a large change — new job, new place, and new borough. And it takes some time.

You find another job relatively easily — the alumni network at your alma mater and your experience as a prosecutor makes it simple for you to step into place at a boutique defense firm in the Bronx. It’s as natural as a transition as you can hope for.

Your colleagues are kind, guiding, helpful — and your work is different, but familiar — a different view of the same picture with a distinct goal of making the government uphold its burden and to hold the phrase, “innocent until proven guilty” with conviction — and hopefully without a conviction for your clients.

When the news broke, it didn’t take long for you to hear the whispers and it didn’t take long for the whispers to become an outcry.

“Did you hear about the Manhattan A.D.A. on trial?” a first year associate asked another, and you freeze, your head snapping over, blood running cold.

“What happened?”

~~~

“Jack McCoy,”

“Jack, what the hell is going on?” you hissed in your office, shutters shut and door closed, “I just heard that—”

“That Rafael Barba is on trial for murder? You heard right,” a hint of a sigh in the back of his throat, “I had no choice — my hands were tied.” You knew he didn’t — your anger receding, the office can’t be seen giving him any favor. He needed to be treated like anyone else — but he wasn’t just anyone else, was he?

Not to you.

Your mouth was dry, “What happened?”

Jack explained — everything — the parents, the baby, the hospital. Two parents caught between an impossible decision about their child now deemed to be braindead, and a mother who wanted nothing more than her child to be at rest. But she wasn’t the one who did it. Rafael did, against the father’s wishes. And now he was going to trial for murder.

Even as Jack explained, your words kept echoing in your ears — “you’re too busy saving the rest of the world.”

“Does he have representation yet?” your mind raced with images of him in jail, the ostracization, the media outrage, the shame — fuck.

What the hell were you thinking, Rafael?

“Not to my knowledge, but you can’t—”

“I know I can’t,” you scoff, “but I know someone who can and will,” you scrolled through your contacts, finding the one you were looking for, “Is he okay?” you asked softly.

“As well as he can be,” you could almost see Jack frowning, “I don’t wish to see anything happen to him, but no one is above the law, you know that.”

“I know, but I also know him—” and despite everything — the pain, the heartbreak, the anger — you knew he didn’t deserve this, “and I know I can’t let him go to jail.”

“I know,” he warns, sighing, “I want the same result as you, counselor, just tread lightly.”

“I will,” a shay sigh escapes your chest, and you swallow the lump in your throat, trying not to let your voice break, “will he be okay?”

He gives a bitter chuckle, “After this many years of doing this, you would think I could predict what a jury will do — but I don’t know. Juries surprise you and that cuts both ways. And I hope this time it cuts the way we want it to.”

“Thank you Jack, for everything,”

You can almost see him smile, “Of course, anytime.”

And now there was one more phone call you needed to make — the phone only rang twice before he picked up, “Regretting your wrong choice in workplace already? Only after, what, a few weeks? I think that’s a new record in job changes, counselor.”

You snort. Randy Dworkin never changed, did he? “I told you, Randy — your firm is too much of a boys’ club for my taste.”

“But I know you play rough, and this is more a roughhouse than a boys’ club — you’d dominate them all in a moment, and we’d be nothing but your humble servants.”

“And here I thought you saved the theatrics for the courtroom,” you hear him give a small gasp.

“You wound me, counselor. And another thing, if you’re not calling to tell me you’ve changed your mind, then you must be calling for a favor. And as one of your old mentors, let me remind you of an old adage — you catch more flies with honey than vinegar,” you shake your head.

“It’s not exactly a favor,” you pinch the bridge of your nose, “Let me start over — I need you to represent a former colleague of mine.”

“And this is not a favor, how?”

“Because this is a case you’re going to definitely want your name on.”

“If you don’t want to represent me, that’s fine,” Rafael was beginning to regret taking this meeting — even with half the defense attorneys in the city ducking his calls, maybe he would be better off defending himself pro se--

“I don't wanna represent you, I have to represent you. Cases like this wet my whistle, so to speak,” Dworkin explained, sighing, as Rafael raised an eyebrow, “So, what did the little bastard do to you?”

--And he was becoming more sure with every passing second.

“This was a mistake,” but Dworkin waves him back down.

“Okay, okay,” Dworkin backs off, looking all too pleased with himself, “I’ll skip the self-defense angle,” and Rafael found himself reluctantly sitting back down. Randy Dworkin may be smarmy, he may be endlessly irritating, but he was good at his job, better than good — as much as Rafael hated to admit it — and he needed help.

“I’m sorry I wasted your time, Mr. Dworkin,”

“Randy,” he corrects, “And my point is this whole thing is a sick joke. You killed something that nine out of ten doctors would say wasn't alive.”

“And what about the tenth doctor?” and that was the thought that haunted Rafael the most — he knew the smallest chance may be enough to convince a jury — it was enough to convince him he was guilty. No one was above the law, including him, guilty in his own eyes — in the eyes of the same god his mother had raised him to believe in.

And yet here he sat.

“Look, you wanna prove a point, and I wanna prove a point. It's what my nana would call the perfect shidduch,” Rafael raises an eyebrow, growing more weary of this conversation with every second.

“What point do you wanna prove?”

“That the government's power has grown too damn much. That the bigger the government gets, the smaller it leaves the individual. That once the government takes away our right to die, it takes away our right to live,” he looks self-satisfied, leaning back in his seat, “How am I doing so far?

Rafael’s jaw is set, “Well, for defending a murderer, not bad,” and Dworkin raises an eyebrow, shushing him dramatically.

“Let’s keep that self-sacrificial guilt locked up, okay? Save it for your religious leader of choice,” Dworkin leans in closer, “I know you put in calls for defense attorneys — I know you don’t want to go to jail, and I know other people don’t want to see you take the fall for this.”

“Other people?” he raises an eyebrow, and Dworkin seems to bite his tongue in the moment, a flicker of interest crossing his face, “did someone refer this case to you?”

“It’s not exactly a low profile nobody case, Barba — the story is splashed across half the tabloids and all over the news—”

“But you just—”

“Let’s focus on getting you off first,” Dworkin tilts his head, “or did you forget that you’re on trial for murder?”

Rafael wrinkles his brow, the question still nagging at the back of his head — a question mark at the end of a paragraph that lingered like an unspoken taboo he couldn’t place — but, Dworkin was right — right now, he couldn’t waste time.

Time that he really didn’t have.

“You didn’t tell me when I took this case that I was getting in between some doomed office relationship you conveniently failed to disclose before,” you didn’t realize this lunch Randy had invited you to involve an ambush — but you should have — it was Randy Dworkin.

“I didn’t see how that was pertinent,” you shrug, picking at your food, “and it wasn’t a relationship.”

“Puh-tat-o, puh-tat-toe — it’s still a cow if it moos, no?” he snorts, shaking his head, “it’s only pertinent when I almost let it slip that you were the one that referred the case to my attention.”

That gets your attention, head snapping up, “And you?”

“Masterfully avoided the question — I have excellent evasion skills — the fact that I never had a career in the C.I.A. should be criminal,” he looks up from his food, a shit eating grin on his lips, “It wasn’t hard — he has a lot more on his mind right now.”

“I can only imagine,” you murmur, your brow wrinkled as you stabbed a fry with your fork, appetite woefully gone.

“Your face will freeze like that,” and you scoff.

“And yet I’ll still look better than you,” he laughs at that.

“I always told you that you should have come and worked for me out of law school, instead of going to the D.A.’s office,” he wipes his lips with his napkin, “maybe you wouldn’t have fallen for this schmuck—”

You raise an eyebrow, “He’s not—”

“Still supportive? Even after the way he treated you—” and you gape at him, “you know that rumors get around — the community is small and people talk as much as they listen — it’s an incesteous cesspool of heathens,” and he gestures to you and him, “look no further.”

“Speak for yourself,” you grumble, cheeks burning, “I’m sorry what rumors?”

“You don’t need to know, kid,” he shakes his head, “my question is more focused on the present — why do you still care?”

“Because he doesn’t deserve to go down for this—”

“And he probably wouldn’t either way, but why do you care?”

“I don’t know, okay?” you snap, “I wish I did, but I don’t. But despite everything that happened — I don’t want to see him suffer. I don’t want him to go to jail,” your voice cracks ever so slightly, and Randy frowns at you, expression unreadable, “Call me an idiot, but I care — I can’t help it.”

“Most times that’s an asset, counselor,” he leans forward, elbow on the table, “as long as you don’t let anyone take advantage of it — not again.”

“I won’t,” you say softly, as the waiter comes over to hand over the check, helping to pack up the rest of your food to go, “I never thanked you for taking the case.”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” he smiles, handing over the server book, “you’re picking up the check.”

“On the sole count of the indictment, murder in the second degree, we find the defendant, Rafael Barba — not guilty.” the foreman announces, and relief floods Rafael, all the same time that guilt does — the two emotions irrevocably tied — lifting him up and dragging him down — a balloon and an anchor.

Dworkin claps him on the shoulder, “Congratulations, counselor, and you’re welcome. My bill is the mail.”

“Thank you, Randy,” he shakes his hand, “really, I—”

“Spare me the speech, okay? I appreciate it, but I was doing my job, just like you did yours,” he offers him a smile, “and besides there’s someone else you should really be thanking.”

He frowns, “Who?”

Your name leaves his lips, and Rafael blinks, “How the case got referred to me? That’s how,” he hadn’t heard your name in months, and yet the hurt of you leaving still felt fresh — a knife twisted in his gut, even as the flesh around it healed and scarred, the metal still stung the same as the day you left.

Or rather, the day he made you leave.

It was his fault — he knew that now. And maybe that was the point — to drive you away, to push you so far that there was no coming back. Self-destructive — self sacrificial just as Dworkin had called him — except he had sacrificed you instead of him. It should have been him — his fears, his worries, his walls — offered at the alter of your unconditional love.

But he didn’t. He didn’t and he regretted it — but was regret enough?

“Why are you telling me this?” and Dworkin shrugs, grabbing his briefcase with a sigh. When his gaze meets his again, it’s sharp as a jagged rock.

“I don’t know honestly,” he licks his lips, “I still think you’re a schmuck, but I know certain other people don’t think so,” he sticks a hand in his pocket, “and if you do get another chance, don’t screw it up. Otherwise, there won’t be a defense attorney in town who will help you next time you screw up.”

He leaves Rafael standing, dumbstruck.

And what was he to do now — with his future open and empty, what was left and who did he want to share it with?

And there was only one answer to that question.

There was knocking at your door — incessant and irritating that forced you out of bed at 11:00 PM — the one night of week you were able to get to bed early. And part of you only hoped it was a murderer to put you out of your misery — but you knew even the murderers weren’t so polite as to knock. But then again, you could be surprised.

But it wasn’t a murderer — at least in the eyes of a New York jury.

It was someone much worse.

And then it occurred to you — how did he know where you even lived— and then you groan, swearing silently under your breath.

Fuck you, Randy.

You lean back, head leaning back, staring at the ceiling, were you ready for this? Would you ever be ready for this?

You unlock the door, opening it, “What are you doing here?”

“Please, I know I don’t deserve it— I don’t deserve anything from you, but please let me talk,” his voice is soft, and fuck, it hits you in so many ways — his voice, his face, him — it’s overwhelming enough to hear him, but to see him here. It’s too much and not enough all the same — to see him and not touch him.

But he placed this ravine between you, carved it with the shards of your heart, filled it with your tears, and it was his job to scale.

And it wasn’t your job to make it easy.

“You don’t deserve it,” you wanted him to slip on the slippery crags of rock, you wanted him to cut his hands on the sharp edges of your bitterness, “so why should I listen?”

“Because I love you—” and you scoff, “I know I don’t have any right to say that, but please, let me just talk,” and you know he’s not going anywhere, and despite yourself — despite not wanting to give him the chance he had for months and for years — you wanted to know, you wanted him to explain. You grit your teeth, stepping aside, shutting the door behind him, arms crossed.

“You have two minutes,”

He clears his throat, “First, thank you for sending Dworkin my way, I don’t think I would have gotten off—”

“I didn’t let you in to be thanked,” you cut him off, “what do you have to say, Rafael?”

He wavers for a moment, “I love you, mi amor, and I know I don’t get to say that or call you that, but I do, I really do,” his voice breaks, “I know I don’t deserve you — I think I knew that from the start, and maybe that’s why I didn’t treat you right. It’s not an excuse—”

“And yet it sounds like one—”

“I was wrong — I took you for granted, and I will spend the rest of my life making that up to you if you give me the chance,” Rafael steps forward, dropping to one knee and your breath catches in your throat.

No. No. He wasn’t—

“I love you, mi amor — from our first kiss I was lost in you already — so much so that it scared me — afraid if I lost you, I would lose myself too. I know we both put away criminals for a living, but I was never scared of dying — I was scared of losing you.” he shakes his head, “But it doesn’t scare me anymore. It doesn’t scare me because losing you was the worst thing to ever happen to me. And I don’t want to ever lose you again.”

He pulls a ring from his pocket.

Time slows as you stare at it — wondering if you blink that it would disappear from between his fingers. It still somehow glinted in the low light of your dimmers — as shiny as his eyes were as he gazed up at you.

You had dreamed of this moment — far too many times — a time where Rafael would come around, finally see you for who you were, find the worth in you like the way you saw it in him. A sweeping moment where he would be down on one knee, asking for your hand, and it would be simple and perfect — but nothing is ever perfect. And nothing is ever simple.

You cover your mouth, “Wh—”

“Marry me,” he says, whispering your name with the reverence you had always wished he would, “I got the ring from my mom — she already gave us her blessing — she said I was an idiot for letting you in the first place.” he offers a weak smile.

“Raf—”

“Just let me finish, before you make a decision,” he licks his lips, eyes glassy, insistent in his words, as if he was hanging his life on each one, “Come away with me — we can start over, away from politics and baggage — find a place somewhere outside the city. You always said you wanted to open your own practice someday, have a family. We can do that, you and me together,” he builds this perfect life from scratch — and you see it — you saw it before: a house in the suburbs, a picket fence, and a family — you and Rafael, your hands intertwined, together, “We’ll make a home, I’ll find a job without crazy hours, we’ll go on dates, I’ll help you open your own practice. We’ll be together, like before—”

“But we aren’t together, Rafael— we haven’t been for months,”

“I know, I know—”

“No, you don’t,” you step back away from him, scrubbing your hand down your face, ��this isn’t a movie, you can’t break my heart and come back months later telling me you made a mistake.”

“Mi amor—”

“No, no ‘mi amor’ — not when you played with my feelings for years, not when you said no at every turn, not when you dropped my heart like it was glass and crushed it beneath the heel of your shoes,” you spit back, “I called Dworkin because I didn’t want you to go to jail — nothing more, nothing less.”

You hear his heart breaking, “I love you—”

“I don’t,” you don’t let him see the tears falling from your eyes, “I can’t do this again. I can’t uproot my life for someone who could change their mind tomorrow. You had your chance. You lost it.”

“Don’t say that,”

“I did,” you wipe away your tears, you’ve cried enough for him, “it’s over. I don’t know what else will make it clearer to you.”

“Look at me, please, look—” and you whirl on him, and you see him on his knees still — “Tell me you don’t love me — say that you don’t. And I’ll leave.”

“I don’t love you anymore, Rafael,” and you wished that your words were truer than they were — that those words didn’t hurt as much to say as they were to hear. But they did and they were. You wanted to hate him, you hated to have no inch of remorse, but feelings were always two fold — and with anger came passion, with sadness came joy, and with hate came love. And the lines blurred until they were no more. And as much as you wanted to hate him — you knew you didn’t.

But you had to say that you did.

Because you couldn’t do this again for him to change his mind again — your heart couldn’t take that. You didn’t deserve to take that.

And there was nothing left to be said.

He slowly rises from his knees, tucking the ring into his pocket, along with the broken pieces of his heart.

You should let him leave without another word, you should let him leave without having to look at your face, you should let him leave — but a part of you doesn’t want to let go, a part of you doesn’t want to believe this will be the last time you see his face or hear his voice.

But still you ask, “Are you leaving New York?”

He nods, “I am — I can’t stay here.”

“Where are you going?” A part of you wonders if he’ll just ignore you, rush out of the door — let you wonder about his plans, wonder about him — but you know you’ll do that anyway.

You find him softly smiling, unable to quite meet your gaze, and he steps towards you, slowly, allowing you the time and space to step away — but you don’t, you can’t — not when this may be the last time you can touch him — but it was your choice to have this be the last time.

“I don’t know,” he replies, leaning forward slowly to press a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering only a moment, his fingers brushing your cheek, “but you don’t need to worry about that. Goodbye… mi amor.”

“Goodbye, Rafael,” you whisper, unable to watch him leave — not again.

#rafael barba #rafael barba x reader #rafael barba imagines #sonny carisi #sonny carisi x reader #sonny carisi imagines #svu #law and order: svu #svu imagines #svu fanfiction

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quantumlocked310 · 3 years

Text

In the Bed of Love - Chapter 2

Moodboard by the incredible @flowers-in-your-hayr!!

It’s Chapter 2! This one switches POV to Hvitty’s favorite Gorgon.

Summary: Our intrepid Hero Hvitserk, burdened with glorious purpose to prove his godhood, takes the epic journey to slaughter the Gorgons, but stumbles in love along the way.

Warnings (so far): greek mythology inaccuracies, slow burn

Ratings + Word Count: [General - 1,765w]

Series Masterlist (contains extra notes about Greek words and some of the Gods mentioned) Now with more Gods!

Extra Relevant Note: Malakas means Asshole in Greek (according to Google Translate)

++++++++++++

The early dawn is quiet, with dew glistening off the statues in the garden, and you’re the first awake in the house. As usual you walk quietly to the dresser where you get the silk robe gifted to you from Dionysus. Enrobed you walk down to the kitchen where you take a small cup of wine and yesterday’s bread out to the garden for breakfast.

There are a few stumps scattered amongst the statues, and you sit on the one closest to one of your favorite statues. Malakas the goose, who thought himself brave one day as he bit the ankles of your sister, Sten. You and Marmor had collapsed together laughing at the swiftest of you being chased at length by the ornery goose. Sten had yelled and screamed at it, to no avail, before finally giving in and glaring it to stone, and proclaiming his name Malakas.

“Good morning, friend.” You greet the goose and pat it on the head, but notice there’s something different about him today. Inside its mouth is a piece of paper, slightly crumpled, with ink on it. You look at it puzzled, then look around the garden a little, but see no one. After dipping your bread in the wine and taking a bite, you put the cup on the stump and grab the paper. Only to immediately start coughing.

It’s a crude drawing of you standing in offense with your shield. Clearly, the artist has no skill, but it’s obvious the figure is yours both in size and you’re the only one of your sisters who can carry a shield as big as this one. You’re a little flattered, and a little suspicious. The gorgons train together every evening, but this paper wasn’t in the goose’s mouth yesterday.

After finishing the bread and wine, while staring at the drawing, a million thoughts run through your head. Foremost concern for your security, and who could be watching. The gorgons were fearsome creatures, and that attracted idiots who wished to prove themselves against a mighty foe. Hence the many armored statues around you. Then curiosity, and why this person would focus on you. Once your foes reached your gates, they usually focussed on the muscular strength of Marmor, or the svelt speed of Sten, not the chunky bulk of your body made for sturdy defence. It was useful in battle, being underestimated. But it was never an advantage for love.

Sten didn’t care about copulation or partnership, and Marmor had a sometimes-something going on with Haphaestus. You loved your sisters, and you loved your life in the Oikos, but there were days when you wanted what Aphrodite and Eros talked about or what you saw at gatherings with Dionysus. Pleasures within and beyond your dreams were always just out of reach, because you were a gorgon, a monster. The risk of loving you was too great.

Why would anyone find you beautiful enough to put on paper?

The feelings well up inside you, and burst. You crumple the drawing in your fist, a few tears escaping your eyes, and immediately regret what you’ve done. Slowly you stand and smooth the paper back out, then go back inside to place it in the drawer of your bedside table.

You put on your clothes for the day, then put on a chestplate and greaves. It’s decided, you will check the perimeter and see if you can find whoever is spying on the Oikos. On the way out you run into Sten who is weaving in the inner garden.

“I’m doing a perimeter check.”

“Would you like company?” Sten responds absentmindedly.

“I’ll be okay. Keep half an ear out in case another one of Philoctetes’ useless heroes is lurking about.”

“I dunno. The last one was cute. Maybe it’s time we had a mortal as a pet.”

You roll your eyes and counter, “I’ll be sure to mention that if I find one. I’m sure they would be willing to live under threat of getting chopped into tiny bits and fed to our snakes.”

Sten turns her head and raises an eyebrow, “You might be surprised.”

You scoff and turn to go, “I’m never surprised anymore.”

As you walk through the garden to the north side of the Oikos, you try to shake off this strange mood that the drawing has put you in. The edge of the cliff is your first stop, and you center yourself listening to the rushing waters of the Styx below. You see Charon in his ferry and raise a hand. As usual you get the most minute nod in return, and you make your way east along the forest border, taking light steps as Artemis taught you, and tuning into your snakes scenting the air.

Over halfway done, and you haven’t found anything of note. A few of the traps Sten maintains have caught small game, and you cut some of the excess string to tie them together and drape the catch over your shoulders before resetting the traps.

On the last leg of your check your snakes perk up. They sway further West and you follow, keeping your light hunting step, and making sure to draw your sword. You go further into the forest until you can no longer see the bright signal of the Oikos, and then you find it. There is a patch of disturbed leaves and earth where a small fire had been. The ashes are almost completely brushed away, and the leaves spread over to make it blend into the ground. If you did not have your snakes to guide you to the scent you would not have found it. Whoever had camped here knew how to cover their tracks.

Unfortunately, your snakes couldn’t help you track any further. They knew if something was prey, or different, but they didn’t have the skills of hunting dogs. Once you found the spot they had scented, they would not know where to track from there, and your meticulous circles around the ashes yielded no more results.

You huff to yourself and when you finally stop, your stomach gives a mighty growel and you observe the sky. You’ve missed the mid-day meal, and it was past time to start daily training. Marmor is going to be insufferable. In your haste to sate your hunger and get to training you neglect the last leg of the perimeter, much to the luck of the prowling Hvitserk who had no idea how close he came to being discovered.

When you reach the edge of the forest there’s a twang and a zing, and you twist behind the nearest tree, shield on your back, pressed against the bark. You watch the arrow dig into the wood of the tree in front of you.

“What the fuck, Sten?” You shout.

“You’re late!” Replies Marmor.

You groan to yourself then shrug the shield off your back and use its shiny metal to see where your sisters are. Slowly, you pull off your catch for dinner from around your neck, and get ready to throw them at your sisters. Raising your shield in front of your body to deflect Sten’s arrows, you launch the strung together animals over your barrier, then shove forward to put your whole weight behind your shield, in hopes that you will shock Marmor and throw her off her feet.

It works. Marmor’s annoyance has her getting thrown off briefly, and the training session really begins. You block and parry, attacking when you can, but mainly trying to cover your open spots when Sten shoots arrows toward you. You’re late, so they’re both going harder on only you.

But your head isn’t in it. The moves are harder to come into your mind than usual, your footwork not as instinctive as yesterday. An off day all because of some faceless enemy stalking in the trees. Who are you kidding, it could just be a traveller. But the way the ashes were buried has you nervous.

And the drawing. Marmor’s sword clangs against your shield just in time. How could you forget? Were they connected? Could you get away with telling your sisters about the perimeter check but not the drawing? You didn’t think so. Your gut is screaming that they’re connected.

But now your gut is screaming, because Marmor kicked you.

“Fuck you!”

“Focus up! What if an idiot hero comes here? You’re not going to win fighting them like this.”

“Oh. My. God. I know!” Your snakes start hissing as they pick up on your anger, and you keep hacking and slashing toward your sister, trying to disarm her even though you know it won’t get you anywhere.

All you want to do is stop and think for a few minutes. Plan your next moves. Figure out who is watching you and why. And why would they draw you? That’s the part that’s gnawing at you the most. There’s a weird fluttery feeling in your chest and you absolutely hate it.

You use your anger to back up your power. Attacking furiously where you would usually stay back and block. You’re reckless and Marmor gets in a few close calls with her sword. You’re trying to block a particularly vicious swing of the sword when you hear Sten call your name, the duck seems to happen in slow motion where you watch the arrow fly just past your brow, and feel the sting of a sword on your thigh. Marmor has pulled her sword down across the top of your shield and you hadn’t pulled your leg back in time.

“First blood!” Sten yells, and Marmor pulls up and stops, only looking a little apologetic.

The wound is just a scratch for you. It stings, and will heal in a few days, but first blood stops the fight.

You rest the edge of your shield on the ground and lean on it just slightly, staring at your sisters. “We have to talk. Inside. It’s not safe out here in sight of the woods.”

“You found something.” Sten remarks. You glare at her. If you’re being watched, you definitely don’t want to be heard.

“Then let’s go eat. You must be hungry, Y/N. You’ve been out all day.” Marmor says, her eyes narrowing and trying to covertly scan the treeline. She walks over and grabs the game you had thrown as a distraction earlier.

Together, you walk back to the Oikos. Quiet and a little sullen. Your sisters don’t like off days any more than you do, and they are anxious to hear what you’ve found.

++++++++++++

If you want to read other stuff I write here’s my masterlist

Taglist: @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie @punkrocknpearls @solinarimoon @artemiseamoon @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom @southernbe @vikingstrash @ritual-unions-gotme @pomegranates-and-blood @mrsalwayswrite @jadelynlace

#hvitserk #hvitserk x reader #hvitserk x you #plus size reader #hvitserk x plus size reader #Hero! Hvitserk x Gorgon!Reader

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kaimelia · 3 years

Note

can you do a prompt where instead of a boy, amelia and links first baby was a girl?

Snapshots

a/n: hi! this was a little disorganized and kind of random...but it’s just a bunch of moments from if they had a girl, and I hope you enjoy it! thank you for the prompt <3

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

"And, do you want to know the sex?" Amelia paused for a moment in thought, her hands resting behind her head as she stared at the ultrasound screen in awe.

"I need to know everything," she whispered, watching as Carina moved the ultrasound wand on her stomach.

"Alright, you're having a baby girl, Amelia."

Amelia's mouth fell into a broad smile, and she covered her open mouth, her eyes watching her daughter move on the screen.

"Oh my god." Carina grinned and removed the probe, wiping it off before hitting a few buttons on the ultrasound machine. "Can I get pictures? Link would love them," Amelia pulled her scrub top down.

"Of course. And, you promise that you'll come in for regular appointments, now?" The neurosurgeon nodded her head.

"I promise."

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

"Hey, Amelia," Link shouted, closing the door to his apartment and dropping his bag in the entranceway.

"In the bedroom!" He grinned and walked down the hallway, stopping in the doorway and staring at his girlfriend. She had her top pulled over to reveal her stomach, and her hand rested on the bottom as she scrolled through her phone. "Hi," she put her phone down and smiled at him.

"How did the ultrasound go?" Amelia sat up on the bed, moving a pillow to support her aching back as Link sat by her feet.

"Everything's perfectly fine," she whispered, reaching out for his hand. "We're having a girl, Link." His face was frozen for a minute as he processed what she said and his mouth soon dropped into a wide 'O'.

"Really? We're having a girl?" Amelia nodded quickly, grinning as she watched him react. "Oh my god, Amelia," Link pulled her into a hug, kissing the side of her head. "We're gonna have a little you," he whispered into her hair, embracing her tighter as he laughed in joy. He held onto her for another moment before pulling back and pressing his lips against hers. "Wait, you're happy about this, right?"

"Yeah, but I also know firsthand what it's like to be a teenage girl. And to parent one," she added, raising her eyebrows. "Plus, girls always hate their moms. She's gonna love you and hate me." Link rolled his eyes at her and kissed her again.

"She's not going to hate you, Amelia."

"Says the one who was never a teenage girl."

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

Amelia locked their hands together and squeezed his, watching as he browsed through the aisles of baby clothes. "Link," she muttered, wrapping her arm on the underside of her stomach, "I'm hungry. Baby's hungry." He turned around and pouted, squeezing her hand in response.

"We have to get some baby stuff, Amelia. Carina said she could come anytime now, and we've barely done anything to prepare." The brunette rolled her eyes as her boyfriend picked up a purple dress adorned with a tutu. "Look at this," he practically squealed, "we can dress her up like a princess all the time!"

"That's for 6-month-olds; it wouldn't fit her for a long time. We need newborn clothes." She dropped his hand and walked over to another aisle, picking up a pack of plain white onesies. "See, like these." He feigned a frown and moved towards her.

"Those aren't fun," he complained. "What about these?"

"Really? 'Daddy's little girl?'" He beamed a toothy smile and dropped the hanger into the cart. "You're just going to spoil her all of the time, aren't you?"

"What else am I supposed to do?"

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

"No dating until she's 18," he muttered, wrapping his arms around Amelia as she leaned against his body.

"18? Why?"

"Because I was a teenage boy, and I don't trust teenage boys." She scoffed, grabbing his hand and placing it on top of her stomach where their daughter was moving.

"And I was a teenage girl, and I know that whatever we tell her, she'll just ignore," Amelia laughed out, smiling as he began to massage lotion into her skin. "Ugh, move, I gotta pee," she lifted his hand away and stood up slowly, waddling towards the bathroom attached to the bedroom. Link set the bottle of lotion down on the bedside table as he waited, adjusting the pillows behind him. "Link!"

"Yeah?" He stood up quickly from the bed, hurrying towards the bathroom. "What is it?"

"My water just broke."

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

"Okay, give me one more push, Amelia." The neurosurgeon groaned loudly and squeezed her boyfriend's hand, causing him to cringe at the feeling. Their faces both relaxed as an ear-piercing noise filled the room, their daughter's first cry. "Dad? Do you want to cut the cord?" Link grinned and kissed Amelia's hand before dropping it, moving to where Carina held the baby. "Right here." He cut the cord, and Carina stood up, placing the crying baby on Amelia's chest. Link returned to his previous position, standing next to Amelia and putting his hand on the side of her head, smoothing down her hair. He kissed her head as she cried joy-filled tears while holding their daughter, her thumb brushing over the baby's tiny red face.

"She's so beautiful," Amelia looked over at Link as she spoke, tears running freely down her face.

"She looks just like you," he whispered, placing his hand over Amelia's. "She's perfect. Absolutely and positively perfect."

"Do you have a name yet?" The couple's eyes met at the doctor's question, and they shared matching grins.

"Charlotte."

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

Amelia groaned as she stood up, and Link immediately came to her side, placing a free hand on the small of her back. "Take it easy," he muttered, shifting their daughter in his arms.

"I'm not dying. I just gave birth." She took his hand as he walked her towards the bathroom, where she washed her face, muttering a complaint about how gross she felt. "I wanna go home. I just want to be in my bed with my blankets, and where I don't have to worry about one of my coworkers wandering in and seeing my postpartum underwear." Link laughed but quickly stopped himself at her stern expression.

"It's been less than a day, Amelia; we're not going home yet." The mother turned back around to see her boyfriend cradling their newborn baby, his grin one of the most genuine things she had ever seen.

"Don't you look happy. No postpartum pain for you." She pushed past him to sit back onto the bed, pulling off her robe and laying back into the pillow, using it to support her back.

"I don't think I'm ever going to put her down," Link confessed, rocking the baby back and forth. "Holding her is the best feeling, ever," he walked towards the bed and sat down on the side.

"Do I not get to hold her?" Link shook his head with a broad smile spread across his face.

"Nope. She's Daddy's little girl." Charlotte let out a small coo. "Oh, I have an idea!" Amelia raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to continue. "You know Scarlett Johansson, right? And how people call her ScarJo?"

"Why is this relevant?"

"We can call her CharJo! Charlotte Josephine, CharJo! Our little superhero," he kissed the baby's forehead.

"You are absolutely ridiculous."

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

"It's no fair. She likes you better, and I'm the one who carried her around for eight and a half months," Amelia groaned, handing the month-old baby to her boyfriend. The baby's eyes stared up at her father, and her fussing calmed almost immediately once placed in his embrace.

"It's because she's already a mini-you, and I doubt you would enjoy being put in a room with yourself forever. You like me; she likes me," he cooed, lifting the baby up and walking towards the window. "Plus, she's a baby; she's bound to like anyone who holds her." The mother shook her head in amusement and wrapped her arms around her boyfriend's waist from behind, resting her head on his back.

"You do give great hugs," she whispered, squeezing his body. "Maybe I get it."

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

"Leave her alone, Link. You can't make her talk," Amelia muttered, pulling a dress over their daughter's head. Link had spent the past few days referring to himself solely as 'Daddy' in hopes of convincing the girl to repeat after him.

"Daddy wants to hear someone say his name!" Charlotte laughed as Link tickled her belly, reaching her arms out to her father. "That's right, Char, say Daddy!" She stared at him in confusion, her tiny eyebrow furrowed together as he attempted to coax her into speaking.

"Mm, sounds like somebody doesn't want to say Daddy!" Amelia sang out, wrapping her daughter up in her arms. "You wanna try saying Mommy, baby?" The seven-month-old stared at her mother with wide eyes. "It's useless. Her first word will probably be something stupid, like 'no' or 'hi.'"

"What was your first word?"

"It was no. Which, Derek always teased me about. He said it was their introduction to who I'd become," Amelia laughed, smiling as Charlotte tugged at her hair. "What was yours?"

"My dad says it was Dadda, and my mom says it was bye. I'm pretty sure it was Dadda; my mom is definitely too stubborn to admit if it was Dadda." He glanced down at his watch and sighed. "I gotta head out; I'll pick up dinner on my way home?" Amelia nodded and kissed him, walking towards the door of their apartment with him.

"Say bye Daddy!" Amelia waved goodbye, and Charlotte mimicked her mother's motion, opening and closing her pudgy hand.

"Bye, Char! Promise you'll record her all day? I don't want to miss her first words," Link pleaded, pulling on his coat. The neurosurgeon nodded, kissing the side of their daughter's head.

"Of course."

"Alright. I'll be home later; I love you!" He twisted the doorknob, waving a final goodbye before closing the door and jogging down the steps of their apartment complex.

"Daddy!" Amelia's eyes grew comically large at the sound of her daughter's voice, glancing over at the girl's outstretched arm, pointing in the direction of where her father had gone.

"Did you just-"She laughed and walked over to the counter, picking up her cellphone and clicking Link's contact. "You're never going to guess what just happened."

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

"Aw, Char, you look adorable," Maggie cooed, adjusting the flower in her niece's hair. "Are you excited?"

"I want Mommy." The aunt frowned, pulling the girl into a hug.

"You can see Mommy soon, honey. Okay, now show me what you're gonna do." Charlotte reached into her basket, pulling out a handful of pink flower petals and tossing them on the floor. "Perfect!" The door opened, and Amelia walked through, Meredith at her side, adjusting the skirt of her dress. "Amelia! You look beautiful!" The brunette grinned, giving a quick twirl in her dress.

"I love this dress, but I'm also already looking forward to getting out of it," she mumbled, walking in front of the mirror. "Will you make sure I don't trip while walking down the aisle?"

"We'll trip with you, so it looks like it was supposed to happen," Meredith shrugged, placing her hand on Amelia's shoulder. "You ready?" The brunette nodded, smiling at her reflection.

"Of course. I think this might be the first time in my life where I don't have any doubts." Charlotte ran towards her mother, wrapping her arms around Amelia's legs through the dress.

"Mommy, I'm bored." Amelia grinned, crouching down to her daughter's height.

"We can go home and cuddle later. But, first? Mommy and Daddy are getting married."

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

"You know, there's hardwood under the carpet; we could just rip it up," Link suggested, watching his wife drag her feet on the carpet in their brand-new house. "Woah there, be careful, Char," he grabbed the girl as she ran by him quickly, her short blonde hair flying by in the neat braids he had made that morning. "You gotta slow down; we don't want you to fall." She grinned at her father and placed her hand over his mouth.

"Go outside!"

"It's yucky outside; you don't want to play out there." He shifted the three-year-old to rest on his hip, wrapping his arm around her tightly. "Plus, it's your nap time." She leaned her head against his shoulder.

"No nap," she protested, looking over to her mother. "Mommy, no nap!" Amelia pouted her lip out and took Charlotte from Link.

"If you nap now, we can get you a treat after going shopping later, okay?" The toddler paused for a moment in thought before nodding eagerly. "And, you can go sleep in your brand new bed!" Link waved goodbye and watched as Amelia carried her up the stairs in the empty house, coming back down a few minutes later. "She said she wants her room to be purple," Amelia relayed, leaning back against the kitchen island.

"Mm, we can grab some paint while we're out later," he stepped towards her, wrapping his arms around his wife's waist, his fingers rolling the hem of her shirt up.

"What are you doing?"

"Charlotte's asleep; this house is practically empty," he whispered against her ear, pulling her shirt over her head.

"I like the way you think."

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

"Hey, I just got a call that Charlotte's in the E.R.; what happened?" Link jogged to catch up with his wife, who was speeding down the hallway.

"I have no idea; maybe she took a spill in daycare or something? Owen just texted me," Amelia muttered, grabbing Link's hand for comfort. "God, this is not what I needed today." She pushed open the door to the staircase and ran down the stairs and through the hallway, entering into the near-empty E.R.

"There's your Mommy," Teddy whispered, running her hand down the girl's hair.

"Mommy!" Charlotte's face was red, her eyes puffy and swollen.

"What happened?" Amelia sat down on the side of the bed and pulled her daughter into her arms, kissing the girl's head.

"Well, Charlotte took a big fall off of the play place in daycare. Everything is fine; she just seems to be a little shaken up." Amelia smiled, feeling slightly guilty as her daughter curled into her body, gripping tightly onto her mother's scrub top. "I'll come back down and send Tom to do a neuro exam later, but she seems to be perfect," Teddy smiled and rubbed Charlotte's knee before leaving and giving the family the room.

"How do you feel, Char?" The girl shrugged at her father.

"I wanna cuddle. Just me, you, and Mommy," she whispered, glancing up at Amelia. "No one else." Link cocked his head to the side and sighed heavily, suddenly understanding what was happening.

"Are you mad at us?"

"I don't want a baby," Charlotte whispered into her mother's shirt, covering her eyes with the fabric. "No baby. Just us." Amelia looked up and locked her gaze with her husband's.

"Char," she whispered, resting her lips on top of the girl's head, "the baby is going to come no matter what. And, I know you might be mad, now, but you'll love the baby when they're here."

"When?"

"In seven months," Link sat down on the foot of the bed, squeezing his daughter's foot and causing her to laugh. "Right before Christmas."

"Is Santa gonna bring the baby?" He nodded his head while chuckling.

"We'll have to see about that. Now, should we see if we can all fit in this hospital bed?"

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

"Are you nervous? To be parenting two kids?" Amelia rolled onto her back, lifting up her shirt to reveal the slight curve of her stomach that had formed.

"Not really," she muttered, running a hand through her hair. "I'm more worried about Charlotte. She's so used to getting all of the attention, I think it might be difficult for her to have a sibling." Link hummed softly and laid down next to her, his hand splaying over her stomach. "Are you?"

"A little. I love her, but she's quite the drama queen. Takes after her mother," he teased, smiling to himself. "And, I love her, and you, and all of the drama."

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

"Charlotte's worried we're gonna love the new baby more than her," Link muttered, shoving a forkful of food into his mouth. Jo raised her eyebrows.

"I still can't get over the fact that you're a Dad. To a real-life, living child who you've managed to not drop on her head. And, you're gonna be a Dad to another kid. You're such a Dad," Jo shook her head.

"Can you be serious for like, three seconds?"

"Fine. I don't think Charlotte has anything to worry about; that little girl has you wrapped around her finger. There have been way too many times when I've come over, and you're wearing a tiara," she sipped her coffee. "But, I'm serious. You're like, the best dad, ever. It's almost disgusting how much you love her. And I think you just need to spend some time making sure that she knows that. Because in her world, all of that love you have for her is normal for a Dad."

"So, you're saying that I love my daughter too much?"

"No, I'm just saying that she's incredibly spoiled with love and affection, like all of the time. Just make her realize that the baby is more love to share."

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

"I wanna cuddle," Charlotte walked into her parent's room, hoisting herself on the bed and crawling in between her parents.

"Mommy needs to sleep," Amelia groaned, shifting the pillow under her head. Link pouted and held his arms out for his daughter, who laid down on his chest.

"Mommy sleeps a lot."

"That's because the baby is coming soon, Char. Mommy needs to rest and make sure that she feels okay so that the baby will be okay." Charlotte shook her head, her blonde hair hitting Link in the face. "Why don't we go cuddle on the couch so that Mommy can sleep?" He stood up, tossing the girl up in the air and catching her again before walking out of the bedroom.

"Why do we have to have baby?" Charlotte asked as she laid into the couch cushions and her father's body.

"Mommy and I love each other, and we love you, and having a baby means that there's just more love for all of us," he whispered, pulling a throw blanket over them. "Plus, babies love attention, cuddles, toys, everything that you love." Her eyelids started to droop, and Link recognized his daughter's tiredness. "You ready to go to bed?"

"Stay here and cuddle," she mumbled, laying her head on his chest.

"Alright. We'll just stay here and cuddle."

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

"Hey, Charlotte," Link kneeled down in the doorway, waving quickly to his parents in the kitchen. "Are you ready to come meet your little brother?"

"A boy?" He grinned and took her hand.

"Yup, you have a little brother. He's at the hospital with Mommy right now, and if you want, I can bring you to go meet him." He waited as she narrowed her eyes in concentration.

"Okay. But only to see Mommy," she held up her arms, grinning as Link lifted her, her head resting on his shoulder.

"Only to see Mommy," he repeated, breathing out a laugh. "Not at all for the baby." Their drive to the hospital was quiet, Charlotte settling back in his arms once they had arrived and walked down the hallways of the hospital. "Now, you have to be super gentle with Mommy and the baby, okay?" She nodded her head as Link pushed open the door to Amelia's room.

"CharJo!" Nico laughed, turning to them as they walked in, bouncing the baby in the arms. "You ready to meet your little sidekick?" She buried her face into Link's chest, causing all of the adults to laugh.

"We're only here to see Mommy," Link relayed, slowly placing Charlotte onto Amelia's lap.

"Alright, I gotta head out; running your service is exhausting," Nico handed the baby to Link, patting his friend's back. "Congrats again, you two." They waved goodbye, and Charlotte curled into her mother.

"You sure you don't wanna hold him?" Amelia asked, brushing back a strand of her daughter's hair. "He doesn't bite. He doesn't even have teeth yet."

"What's his name?" Her voice was soft, and she sat up in her mother's lap, looking over at Link, who was pacing around in small circles.

"His name is Scout. Scout Derek Shepherd-Lincoln," Amelia beamed, kissing her daughter's head. "And he's super cuddly and tiny. Like your baby dolls."

"But, you can't play with him like your baby dolls," Link nudged the girl, leaning down so that she could see her brother.

"He looks ugly."

"Wow, brutal honesty," Link stepped away, shaking his head as he laughed.

"He's not ugly," Amelia poked Charlotte's arm. "That's just how babies look. You looked like that once, Char."

"No."

"No?" Link scoffed, bouncing up and down as Scout fussed.

"I don't like him. Take him back, please." Amelia stifled her own laugh, rubbing her hands up and down her daughter's arms.

"He's here to stay; the little man's not going anywhere." Link moved quicker as Scout began to cry, Charlotte's attention peaking at the sound.

"Why is he crying?"

"He's probably hungry," Link muttered, walking towards his wife. "Here, Char, Mommy has to feed Scout." He lifted Charlotte into his arms, and the girl watched as her brother ate.

"Why is he eating Mommy?" Link chuckled at the concern in her voice.

"That's where he gets food from, from Mommy's body," he whispered, swaying back and forth. "Babies don't eat real food until they're older."

"No mac and cheese for Scout?" He shook his head.

"Nope." They watched as Scout finished eating, and Amelia shifted him, taking a burp cloth Link had pulled out of the hospital bag and throwing it over her shoulder as she gently patted the newborn's back.

"Are you two just gonna stare?" Amelia muttered, folding up the cloth. "Can you take him? I need to stand." Link put Charlotte down and took the baby, resuming his previous pace around the hospital room.

"Can I hold him?" Charlotte's voice was soft as she tugged at her father's pant leg, reaching towards the blanket wrapped around her brother.

"Of course, come sit down," he motioned towards the chair, grinning as she sat down. "Amelia, can you grab a pillow?" The mother nodded, pulling a pillow off the bed and setting it down on Charlotte's lap. "You wanna make sure you keep his head up, okay?" He leaned over, gently placing the baby into his daughter's arms.

"He smells weird," she spoke loudly, staring down at the baby. Link kneeled down in front of her, placing a hand on her knee. "But, I think he's okay." Amelia covered her mouth as she laughed, smirking at her daughter.

"So, it's okay if he comes home with us?" Link asked, unable to stop his grin at the sight of his children.

"Maybe. I wanna think more."

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

"Char, can you go unlock the door, please?" The girl nodded, taking the key from her dad and running up the walkway to their house. Amelia placed her hand on her back, carefully stepping out of the car as Link took the car seat out. "You feeling okay?" She nodded.

"Yeah, just postpartum stuff," Amelia muttered, shutting the car door and walking towards the house. "Thank you, Char."

"Can we go cuddle, pretty please?" The neurosurgeon smiled, taking her daughter's hand and leading her towards the master bedroom.

"Of course. You know we will never say no to cuddles." Link joined them, unbuckling the baby from his carrier and laying him onto Amelia's chest on the bed.

"I think he can stay," Charlotte whispered, watching her brother fall asleep. "I like him." The parents both grinned widely, Link placing a kiss on his daughter's head.

"I'm glad. Because I like you all, too."

#amelia shepherd #amelink #amelia x link #amelink fanfiction #atticus lincoln #grey's anatomy #amelink fanfic #greys abc #greys fanfic #scout lincoln #meredith grey #maggie pierce #my fics

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beewolfwrites · 3 years

Text

And When I am Formulated, Sprawling on a Pin - Chapter Fourteen: Half-Sick of Shadows

Hello again! This is instalment 14 of my Chishiya x OC/reader fic. You’ll also find it over here on AO3 too.

Thanks for all the support so far, and all of the people who have gone through every chapter and liked them. It means so much to see that you’re enjoying this <3

childlikeempress/mercipourleslivres - I have a feeling you’ll get this chapter title :D

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

By the time we made it back to the Beach, Kuina and I were too tired and overwhelmed to bother with the everlasting party. The teenage boy clung to my side, thanking me repeatedly for saving his life. I tried to tell him that there was no need, that anyone would have done the same, but I had to force the words out. It wasn’t true.

In this world, you’re supposed to look out for yourself.

He promised me he’d repay the favour, but I just shook my head and smiled, telling him to survive instead.

I retreated into my room for the rest of the night, and immediately hopped into the shower. The water swirled, washing away the remains of the pinstripe tent, the red water, yellow eyes and leathery skin.

Don’t focus on it. Don’t think about it.

The stained red scrunchie bobbed on the surface of the water as it spun towards the drain.

My legs collapsed beneath me. Sinking to the to the bottom of the shower, I finally wept.

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

The next morning, I awoke with a splitting headache. My eyes were pink from the night before, and my hands stung, irritated from the metal pull of the wire and the weight of the teenage boy. It was tempting to stay in bed and dream away the blood and guts of the Borderlands. But there was something I needed to do.

‘Don’t you want to thank Chishiya?’

Back then, Kuina’s words had been a lifeline, cutting through the fear.

Sitting up in bed, I took the copy of Wuthering Heights out of the bedside drawer, flicking through the pages. It was all in Japanese, meaning it was illegible to me. But there was something else; one of the page corners was turned over. Flipping to it, I found that a line of the text had been underlined in pen.

Did Chishiya do this?

It seemed unlikely, although he could have done it with the intention that I would translate it. It was impossible to tell, since he was such a closed book. But seeing the words acted as a reminder that I still needed to find him anyway.

Kicking back the covers, I got up and dressed, and while I still felt half-dead after the game, I somehow felt more confident approaching Chishiya. When I finally left my room, it was nearly noon, and I had a pretty good idea as to where he would be.

The hotel was mostly quiet as I slipped through the halls, following the same path Kuina had led me just days before. Having memorised every turn, I eventually came to the doors that opened up to the roof. A cold gust of air sent goosebumps across my skin, and rubbing my arms, I spied the hunched figure sitting, one leg bent, near the edge. Just seeing him alive and well was a huge relief.

He didn’t turn or react as I sat beside him. ‘I didn’t see you yesterday. How did your game go?’

There was silence at first, before he spoke, half-teasing. ‘So you’re speaking to me again? I see.’ When he realised the words had no effect on me, he added, ‘Eight of Diamonds – it was nothing.’

For him, it was nothing. Personally, I would have struggled with an Eight of Diamonds. Knowing myself, I’d second-guess every move. Chishiya didn’t elaborate on the game, or even speak at all.

‘Aren’t you going to ask about my game?’

He was idly watching the pool-goers splashing around and having fun, but his expression was apathetic. ‘I already know. Kuina told me everything.’ He glanced briefly at my reddened hands ‘Apparently you saved a boy. It was a stupid move.’

To someone like you, it would be.

‘I disagree. He lived because of it.’

‘And if he dies in his next game, then it was a waste of time,’ Chishiya berated. ‘It’s pointless to risk your life for a stranger.’

I spun around to face him fully, crossing my legs beneath me. ‘Okay,’ I challenged him. ‘What about if it was you down there? You’d want someone to save you.’

The question was shut down immediately. ‘That’s different. I wouldn’t be stupid enough to end up in that situation.’

I pouted. He wasn’t technically wrong. It was hard to picture Chishiya scared and hanging upside down on a tightrope. If anything, he wouldn’t hesitate to cross it. But he did get nervous. That much was clear from the Two of Spades game, when I’d felt his heart thudding as his arms tightened, pulling me into the darkness.

And now, as my eyes traced over his deadened expression and the thin hair that stirred in the breeze like spider’s silk, I couldn’t stop the question from slipping out. ‘And what if it was Kuina?’ I paused, whispering, ‘or me?’

Now I had his attention, as his lips twisted in that cruel, cruel smile that used to make me shudder. ‘Do you really want me to answer that question?’

No.

The answer was already clear, and for some unknown reason, it hurt.

I don’t want you to say it out loud.

I swallowed, instantly regretting bringing the subject up. ‘You were wrong, by the way... about what you said before.’ This prompted him to lift his brows in mock surprise. ‘You did end up in a similar situation. Both in the Tag game… and in the Two of Spades. Your injury… how is it?’

During our argument, it hadn’t been the right time to ask, but better late than never. I unconsciously reached for him, as if trying to make sure he was okay. However, Chishiya’s hand darted out, catching my fingers in a tight squeeze.

‘Don’t.’ His tone was icy, and it was the first time I’d seen him grow so cold.

It hurt, seeing him so reluctant to let me in. But to him it was a moment of weakness, a reminder that he had lost control of a situation, even if only for a second.

‘At least tell me you’re okay.’

‘I’ve already told you it’s nothing.’ He clasped my fingers harder. ‘It shouldn’t matter to you anyway.’

I pulled myself free, rubbing my fingertips where they’d turned white and red. ‘That’s not true. I care, and that makes it relevant to me.’

For just a second, I thought I heard him begin to call me an idiot. But then he stopped. ‘You care too much about things that have nothing to do with you. You should focus on what’s in front of you.’ It was fleeting, the way his eyes washed over the bruises on my ankle.

I see.

It felt nice, knowing that in his own abrasive way, he was telling me to watch out. ‘You know what’s strange? Niragi hasn’t bothered me again. I thought he’d have killed me by now.’

Chishiya sighed. ‘That’d be too easy, and not as much fun.’

So Niragi did have his eye on me, but he was biding his time before coming after me again. It was a wonder he seemed to think that by attacking me, he’d be getting to Chishiya. Their rivalry had nothing to do with me, and Chishiya had all but confirmed moments ago that he wouldn’t even risk his life to save me in a game. Coming after me was pointless.

But that’s not what Niragi thinks.

‘It’s only a matter of time before he tries something again. You should watch your back,’ Chishiya warned. Then his face stretched into that familiar, all-knowing smile. ‘But you didn’t come up here to talk to me about Niragi.’

He already knew. He must’ve been waiting for me to track him down.

Mixed feelings swirled within me; embarrassment that he’d so easily predicted my behaviour, annoyance over the fact that he’d been smugly waiting, and something else I couldn’t identify.

Warmth, perhaps?

No, that wasn’t the right word.

‘I’m sorry.’ The words came out in a whisper. Grimacing, I cleared my throat and spoke up. ‘I want to thank you for the books, but I also want to apologise. Everything you said back then was true.’ The words were hard to admit, even to myself. ‘I’ve been living in a hole all my life and I got too used to it. And now the world seems terrifying. But if I survive here and make it back, I know that nothing my dad does will be scarier than these games. I’ll try and make my own freedom from now on. So, thank you… but also, I’m sorry.’

I waited for a response, some kind of acknowledgement. Anything. Instead, there was a rustle of clothes as he stood and began walking to the door. My heart froze over, and I blinked at the empty space beside me.

Did I say something wrong?

‘Antiseptic ointment and gauze,’ I heard him say, before the roof door swung shut.

I was alone, with nothing but the breeze and the distant laughter from the patio below. Looking down at my reddened hands, I smiled, finally understanding.

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

It had been three days since our conversation on the rooftop, and I had been following Chishiya’s advice, using supplies I’d borrowed from the medical room to treat the irritated skin of my hands. The bruising around my cheek, neck and ankle had faded to a fainter yellowish brown. Kuina kept telling me that we’d find a way of getting back at Niragi for what he did, although I knew she wouldn’t want to do anything drastic without Chishiya’s input; she was just as nervous around Niragi as I was.

I spent all my time pouring over the Japanese language textbook and trying to translate the opening sections of The Metamorphosis. Twice, I’d picked up Wuthering Heights and attempted to make sense of the underlined words. But it was hopeless. There were complex kanji I didn’t know how to pronounce, meaning they were impossible to search in the dictionary I had, and Google was no-go in the Borderlands.

Closing the book yet again, I rubbed my temples, trying to ease the headache brewing after hours spent squinting at different characters.

I should just ask Chishiya.

I hadn’t seen him much since the rooftop, as he was always busy with executive work. And even now, with the late afternoon sun beating through the windows, there was no guarantee he’d be free to talk. But it was worth a shot.

That’s it, I’m going to go ask him.

Pulling on my hoodie, I picked up the copy of Wuthering Heights and left my room. The hallways were pretty quiet around this time, as people were either downstairs enjoying the party while they could, or tucked away in their rooms getting some last-minute sleep before the long evening ahead.

Heading down the hall, I tried to remember where Chishiya’s room was. I had only been there once, after Kuina had given me directions, but at the time I’d been nervous and distracted by the argument that ensued. The hotel was like a maze. No, not a maze – a labyrinth. And his room was hidden somewhere behind one of these identical doors.

I’ll know when I see it.

Rounding a corner… I immediately froze. At the end of the hall, Niragi and his thugs were dragging a man by his bloodied scruff. When the man thrashed wildly in their grip, they stopped to kick him in the ribs and jaw, sending speckles of blood up the wallpaper.

Niragi was a sight. The nail marks down his cheek had scabbed over, and beneath his right eye was a faint purple bruise from where I’d kicked him in the face.

My limbs stiffened in place. I couldn’t move.

And even when his eyes lifted, widening with fury as they locked onto me, I couldn’t move.

He began striding towards me, jaw clenched and hands readying his rifle.

Run, run, run…

As if struck by electricity, I bolted back the way I came, shoving past the occasional person I ran into. Niragi’s footfalls were close behind me. He was following fast, and I could hear his growls.

‘You fucking bitch, get back here!’

The words sounded faint and close at the same time. Everything was close but far away, and my legs had turned to rubber. I spied a familiar looking door and threw myself into it, panting hard as it closed behind me. Outside, Niragi’s footfalls grew closer and closer… then further and further away.

He was gone. At least for now. My relief was cut short when it became clear where I was.

Sitting on the bed with open first-aid kit, gauze held delicately in one hand, Chishiya was completely shirtless. His side was swathed in old bandages, spotted with red. And he was staring at me.

‘Get out.’

#alice in borderland #aib #imawa no kuni no arisu #chishiya #chishiya shuntaro #chishiya x oc #chishiya x reader #chishiya alice in borderland

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galaxxiwrites · 3 years

Note

Heya! =D so you can decide if you wanna do it, but can you do a headcanon reaction of how Akira, Zakuro and Mizuki would react to their darling protecting them like a shield when they noticed that someone was about to try and hurt them and ended up getting badly injured from the hit. Again completely fine if you ignore this request.

Angst? *cracks fingers* Hegg yeah.

warning: these ended up being super long

edit: I forgot to mention, it has mentions of blood and shot!!

prompt: You and your lover were merely enjoying your date together, until you noticed a glint of something hiding in the shadows. It wasn't until you heard a loud bang did your mind register it was a gun. Despite your confusion, your body moves faster than your mind processes anything and you shove your lover away from the bullet's path—unfortunately leaving you to take the bullet in his stead.

Taking a hit (ft. Mizuki, Akira & Zakuro)

Mizuki

Mizuki is stunned. His mouth agape as he stands there, unsure of what to do first.

His mind wrestles with thoughts of getting the bastard who shot you or helping you, but when he sees the pool of blood slowly growing bigger, his body moves by itself.

"Hey...hey...! (Y/n)!"

Mizuki screams and shakes you, but your lack of response makes his heart drop.

He's racing to grab his phone, and his hands were too shaky to properly work the touchpad, but despite the odds he was able to properly pick out Kokuyo from his list of contacts and calls the one man he looks up to.

"Mizuki, what is it? We're in the middle of practice—"

Kokuyo sounded annoyed, but immediately fell silently when he heard Mizuki's sobs.

"Kokuyo...what do I do—?"

Mizuki can't talk properly, but does his best to explain the situation to him.

Kokuyo tells Mizuki to wait there with you while he calls an ambulance. Not like Mizuki had much of a choice anyway, as he didn't want to leave you alone.

The ambulance arrives after what feels like forever, and Mizuki's sobs that finally dried a while ago start up again as he sees you being whisked away into the vehicle on a stretcher.

For the remainder of what happened, it was all a blur to him. All Mizuki remembers was crying in front of the ER while they worked on stabilizing your condition.

After those gruesome hours of worrying, the doctors finally leave the ER. They tell Mizuki they did what they could—and that your chance of survival was 50/50 at best.

Mizuki was about to beat the doctor for not doing a better job of saving you, but Kokuyo stopped him before he could grab the doctor by the collar.

Mizuki asked for a few days off Starless, and even asked Sotetsu to dig up some information on your the attacker.

"Don't worry, (y/n). I'll make sure whoever did this to you is gonna pay."

He says, though not really waiting for a reply. After all, how could a person in deep slumber ever answer back?

Akira

Akira immediately calls the ambulance, and tells them everything despite his shaky voice almost failing him multiple times throughout the duration of the call.

Akira also tells Kokuyo about what happened, and excuses himself time off from Starless until he was assured that you were no longer in critical condition.

He stayed up all night outside of the ER, unable to even sit down despite his feet almost giving out from the fatigue of him pacing back and forth.

"We tried to close the shop as fast as we could. How is (y/n)?"

Takami asks, shocking the daylights out of Akira who was too focused on his thoughts of you to even realize that they arrived.

Akira's voice failed him. All he could was stare blankly back at the doors leading to the ER room, where you were.

Some time after, some doctors and nurses finally left the ER room. The one handling your operation told Team W that your condition has stabilized, and that you should be fine soon.

Finally, Akira was able to calm down. He just dropped to the floor, his whole body trembled as a murmurs of relief could be heard.

Taiga on the other hand, decided to dig up some information. After all, the world now revolved around the internet—it wouldn't be surprising if some wackjob ended up posting whatever schemed they had on their social media, especially if it was a throw away account.

Luckily, this sort of thing was childs play for the tech expert, and after a few hours of searching, was finally able to trace the fake account to its real owner—one of Akira's delusional fans.

The singer is mortified to see the latest post on the person's social media.

"Soon, he'll be mine."

Again, Akira's nerves tensed. Kokuyo smacks Taiga for showing them such information when Akira hasn't rested yet, but the singer thanks his team member. He even commits the person's face to memory, despite his mind feeling light from all the stress and lack of sleep.

In the early morning after her surgery, a nurse was scheduled to come in to monitor on (y/n)'s condition.

Akira stands to greet the nurse, but stops himself when he recognizes the face. This woman was no nurse, it was his fan.

He absentmindedly mumbles the person's social media handle, staring at them wide-eyed in disbelief.

Hearing her name being called out excited the fan.

"Yes! That's me! Don't worry Akira...once I get rid of this pest, we can finally be together. Like how it's supposed to be!"

Akira couldn't fathom the words that came out of this deranged fan's mouth. Without realizing it himself, Akira had his hand clenched into a fist, ready to punch this lunatic and hopefully fix whatever brain wires needed repair.

"Oi, give it a break. Jeez, a man can't even enjoy a smoke break."

Kokuyo came just in time to stop Akira from beating the woman in front of him to death, meanwhile Sin held the woman down. Akira was about to ask how they knew, but Taiga waved his phone to show hom some kind of gps app.

"It's a tracker. I had a feeling she would be making a move, so I decided to track her phone. Sorry not sorry for invading on your privacy, miss stalker fan." The tech master announces proudly.

"Takami's gonna give her over to the police. Meanwhile...you should sleep. Those eyebags don't suite you, pretty boy."

Kokuyo says, before leaving with the rest of Team W to give the two of you some silence—one that Akira desperately needed as he finally dozes off to sleep on your bedside.

Zakuro

Zakuro has a menacing look on his face—it's a smile, but so distorted with pain that he looks like a maniac.

He shakes your limp body and calls out your name.

"O—ya...? (Y/n)...?"

Zakuro's voice cracks as he realized your body remained unmoving. Zakuro's mind is blank— for the first time he's never felt so lost.

It wasn't until he received a text message did his mind finally managed to start working again.

"Good job on luring her out, ×××"

Read the text message from the unknown number. It doesn't take a genius to connect two and two together, after all, no one should have known his real name. You were targeted by Black Card—but why? What did you have to do with any of this?

Zakuro, instead of directly calling the ambulance, texts Qu to do it in his place, as he knew their number two would ask later rather than sooner.

Zakuro hides himself among the crowd, but he feels his heart drop when he sees you out on the stretcher.

He wants to be there with you, at least holding your hand while they take you to the ER. But now was not the time, not when someone from Black Card might still be monitoring his movements.

He returns to Starless, and it was only until Kei asked Zakuro about the source of the bloodstain on his clothes does he realize his garments were soiled—with your blood.

Quite ironic, considering how this is the perfect literature imagery of a person's blood on one's hands. So ironic that Zakuro breaks down into a chuckle.

Team C's singer asks Kei for some time off on Starless. Naturally, Kei can't just give anyone time off, they were employees in an industry that requires one's constant presence to remain relevant.

Kei tells Zakuro that of the latter would explain, then he might consider it.

"(Y/n)...She was shot."

Was all Zakuro utters before taking his leave from the building. All the others who were in close proximity were shocked, not just at what he said but how he said the news. Zakuro sounded absolutely broken, his voice lost all hints of mischief he once had.

Zakuro wished he was able to visit you and give himself some peace of mind that you were going to be alright, but he can't.

He refused to rest, not until he learns everything. About your connection to Black Card, or why you were specifically targeted. He knows it won't be easy, but he's willing to risk it all for you.

"If you bastards think I'd choose my memories over (y/n), then you're dead wrong. All of you are going to regret this."

#thank you for the request!#bsts #blackstar theater starless #bsts headcanons #bsts akira #bsts mizuki #bsts zakuro

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sunshine--temptress · 3 years

Text

Second untitled Sambucky fic aka Claudia sucks at title but she wants to post her fic so please enjoy some Bucky getting "accidentally" high and Sam being the best as always

(Also please note that I started writing this way before Bucky moved to Delacroix and Sam became Cap so yes they are sharing an apartment in NY, it's not relevant to the story anyway)

Now please, enjoy x

***

Sam woke up to the sound of someone breaking into the apartment he shared with Bucky. His eyes flew open when he heard a loud bang, probably the front door crashing into the wall. His first instinct was to grab the gun he kept in the drawer of his bedside table, you could never be too careful. Immediately Sam thought of Bucky, he needed to protect Bucky. Millions of scenarios were running through his head like what if a rogue HYDRA agent found Bucky and came to kidnap him?

Sam carefully opened his bedroom door and padded along the corridor as silently as possible. Their apartment was silent, too silent and whoever had broken into the apartment was probably waiting around the corner to attack. Sam’s heart was hammering in his chest. He realized Bucky had not moved from his bedroom, the door was closed and he could see the light from the night lamp filtering at the bottom of the door. It wasn’t normal, surely all the noises would have woken up Bucky, Sam knew he was a light sleeper if he slept at all. Sam was hit by a wave of nausea at the thought they already got Bucky.

Suddenly Sam heard a giggle, it seemed like it was coming from the kitchen.

What the fuck?

Sam walked in slowly and turned on the light, hoping to surprise anyone who was in the kitchen and keep the upper hand. Sam was prepared for anything, really. He was prepared to fight HYDRA agents but not the sight of Bucky sitting on the kitchen floor, eating chips and giggling for apparently no reason.

“Sam!,” Bucky yelled excitedly when he noticed him, “Why the gun? Are we in danger?” he asked, laughing.

“What the fuck, man? I thought we were being attacked, I thought someone came here to kidnap you,” Sam whispered-shout because the last thing they needed was to wake up one of their neighbors and for them to call the cops.

“I was hungry,” Bucky replied, ignoring Sam’s little rant. He patted the linoleum floor, motioning Sam to join him. Sam rolled his eyes but he locked the gun and put it away before sitting next to Bucky, his back against the cabinets. Sam winced as the cold floor touched his thighs, reminding him he was half-naked. Sam wanted to laugh at how ridiculous the situation was but he was still half-mad at Bucky for making him worry like that.

“Chips?” Bucky offered and Sam reached for the bag. Bucky giggled again when their fingers brushed through the bag. Something was off. Bucky did not giggle. He laughed sometimes but he did not giggle like a teen girl in front of her crush.

“Buck? Are you high?” Sam questioned, “How the hell did that happen? You cannot even get drunk!”

Bucky nodded, “I didn’t know it was possible,” he explained, “so when Leah offered me a “special” brownie I thought I would not feel anything or that it would wear off as quickly as alcohol.”

Sam shook his head and sighed.

“Who is Leah and why did she offer you drugs?”

“She’s a-,” Bucky hesitated, “she’s a friend, she works at the sushi place. Sometimes we meet up after closing and we play board games and talk.”

“You never mentioned her before, and that doesn’t explain how the drug affected you,” Sam said, trying to push away the jealous feeling growing inside of him. Now was not the time.

“I have no idea, I know the serum can make my body process things like alcohol faster but it can also enhance things so I guess drug is one of the things I won’t be doing again. And Leah, she’s just a friend Sam. She doesn’t know about me, about my past. For her, I’m just James, it’s nice you know.”

Yes, Sam knew. He could relate. Sometimes he missed simply being Sam Wilson, not The Falcon, not The Avenger, just Sam.

“Okay, don’t go all emo on me because you’re high, Barnes,” Sam joked and Bucky glared but there was no heat behind it.

“You have really pretty eyes,” Bucky said, changing the subject so fast it almost gave Sam whiplash. Bucky shuffled closer to Sam, his jeans brushing against Sam’s naked thigh.

“Uh, thanks?” Sam replied.

“You’re badass,” Bucky continued, “you never hesitate when there’s a battle, you’re always ready. You barged in here thinking I was being attacked.”

Sam blushed.

“You believe in me, you believe I can be a good person and that my past does not define me and you believe it so much that I almost believe it too.”

Sam opened his mouth but Bucky cut him off.

“No, let me finish, please. I’ve wanted to tell you for a while and never had the courage. You did not hesitate to start searching for me when Steve asked. You hated me and you still did it because you’re a damn good person Sam Wilson. You saved me and I will forever be grateful for it.”

“Told you to not go all emo on me,” Sam joked, trying to not show Bucky how much his words were affecting him, “but, you’re welcome. I’m happy I saved you.”

Bucky put his hand, the metal one, on Sam’s thigh, Sam shivered unsure if it was because of the cold feeling or because Bucky was touching him and his hand was suddenly very close to his dick.

“I’m done spilling all my feelings on you,” laughed Bucky, “your skin is really soft,” Bucky continued, his fingers tracing circles on Sam’s inner thigh.

“How do you know?” Sam asked, nodding toward the vibranium hand.

“The captors in my arm make it feel almost like my regular hand.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam smirked, “you ever tried on-”

“You’re a pervert Sam Wilson, do you often think about me jerking off?”

“No, I don’t,” Sam lied, hoping Bucky wouldn’t notice and call him out. Truth was, Sam probably thought about Bucky naked and sweaty, his skin flushed and moaning with a hand wrapped tightly around his dick more than it was healthy.

“You’re a shit liar, Wilson,” Bucky whispered, his hand sliding higher on Sam’s thigh. If Sam thought Bucky’s hand was close to his dick earlier, it was nothing like now, and Sam bit the inside of his cheek, reminding himself Bucky was high.

“Look at me, Sam,” Bucky pleaded, his voice soft.

Sam swallowed loudly, he turned his head slowly and Bucky’s face was a few centimeters away.

“I really want to kiss you, Sam.”

Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“I- I can’t Buck, I’m sorry.”

In a second Bucky’s hand was off Sam’s thigh and Bucky was storming off the kitchen and despite how fast it happened, Sam had not missed the hurt look in Bucky’s eyes. Bucky’s bedroom door slammed and Sam winced. He felt like an asshole.

Sam got up from the floor and put the bag of chips away. He needed to talk to Bucky, he needed to explain himself. Sam took the gun from the counter and turned off the lights behind him. Once in his room, he put it back in the bedside table drawer and searched for a pair of sweatpants.

Sam knocked gently on Bucky’s bedroom door, calling his name,

“Buck, please, we need to talk. Please, can you open our door, I know you’re not sleeping.”

“There’s nothing to talk about, everything was perfectly clear Sam.”

“No, it’s not, please let me in. I need to see you, I cannot do this through your bedroom door.”

Bucky didn’t say anything and Sam started to walk toward his bedroom, defeated when Bucky opened his door.

“You have five minutes.”

“You’re high-”

“Not so much anymore,” interrupted Bucky, “felt like someone dropped a cold bucket of water on my head ten minutes ago.”

“Let me finish, please. You’re high or were, the point is I really like you Bucky, more than you probably realize, and I really really want to kiss you too. Believe me. But doing this while your judgment is impaired, I cannot do that. Too many people took advantage of you in your life and I won’t be one of these people.”

Bucky blinked but said nothing.

“I said what I needed to say, I’ll go back to my room now.”

Sam turned around and Bucky grabbed his wrist and pulled Sam toward him.

“You’re a good man Sam, too good for me.”

“Believe me when I say it takes me everything to not jump you right now, Buck.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

“I told you Bucky, I can’t but if tomorrow you still feel the same…”

Bucky nodded.

“Sleep with me? Just sleeping, I swear I’ll be good,” Bucky whispered, his lips moving against the shell of Sam’s ear.

“You’re a demon, Barnes,” Sam replied but he followed Bucky inside the bedroom. He laid down and Bucky took the place next to him, wrapping his arms around Sam’s waist. They were asleep in a second.

Sam woke up to the sound of birds singing and the sun hitting him in the face. Bucky’s body was still pressed against his and Sam felt warm and content. He could get used to waking up like that.

“You’re staring,” yawned Sam without opening his eyes. How are you feeling today?”

“Very sober,” answered Bucky leaning over Sam, his hands on each side of Sam’s head. Sam finally opened his eyes and Bucky was a few inches away, looking intensely at Sam. Bucky pushed the comforter away and straddled Sam’s hips and Sam swallowed.

“So? Do you still-”

Bucky nodded and Sam couldn’t wait any longer, he brought his hand up, placing it behind Bucky’s neck. Sam smiled softly and gently pressed his lips against Bucky. They were soft and warm and Bucky moaned when Sam slipped his tongue in his mouth. Bucky moved his hand and put it behind Sam’s head, keeping him as close as he could. Bucky's kisses were intoxicating and better than anything Sam had ever imagined. They kissed until their lips felt raw and their stomachs growled. Bucky laughed into the kiss and let himself fall next to Sam.

Sam turned on his side and kissed Bucky again, now that he was allowed to do it he never wanted to stop but their stomachs growled again and Sam sighed.

“How about we make breakfast and then come back here because I am not finished with you,” Bucky said and Sam smiled widely.

“I like the way you think.”

#Sambucky #Winterfalcon #Sam Wilson #Bucky Barnes #TFATWS #The Falcon and the Winter Soldier #Ficlet #My writing

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calliecat93 · 3 years

Text

When I started TNG, the biggest curiosity I had was why Dr. Pulaski was so hated. I heard plenty about why, but at the same time I wanted to see for myself and be able to draw my own conclusions. Well now that I’ve finished S2, I think that I can safely state my opinion and the reasons why she had such a bad reception.

My general opinion is… Pulaski’s fine, but she got an bad start. She’s a very competent doctor who is devoted to her duty. She’s a bit of a smartass, but otherwise a friendly enough person. She’s a VERY much based off a certain CMO form a certain other Star Trek show that came out before this one, but we’ll get to that later. Pulaski honestly had a lot working against her and she just wasn’t able to get over them despite her actress Diana Muldaur (who played Miranda Jones in TOS) doing an excelent acting job. It ultimately ended with Pulaski being dropped all together and Crusher returning in Season 3.

While I understand the hate against Pulaski and can’t say that it’s unwarranted to an extent, I think that a lot of it that I saw was overblown. Now if people disliked the character, that’s fine. Everyone has different tastes and reasons for what they like and dislike and should be free to have and express those thoughts. But a lot of the issues with her that I had were taken care of very early on and she became much better by the end of her tenure. So why do I believe that Pulaski ultimately failed? Well I’ve come up with three explanations based off my own observations from watching the show and what I got from fandom consensus. Now this is all my opinion based on those observations and is not objective fact whatsoever, so take this with a grain of salt. So I believe the reasons that Pulaski failed are:

#1. She Is Essentially a Female Dr. McCoy… Sort Of: Pulaski was clearly heavily based on Dr. McCoy from TOS. She’s an middle-aged, somewhat world-weary doctor. She’s stubborn, grumpy, and doesn’t put up with anyone’s crap. She’s witty and always ready with a biting comment. She has the dedication to her job. She has the bantery relationship with the Science Officer, which we’ll go into that here soon. She is a doctor before she is an officer and that will always be her top priority, even at great risk to herself. She has a zero tolerance towards authority and isn’t afraid to talk back to anyone no matter how much they outrank her. She even outright has a hatred of teleporters that McCoy had. The parallels are all there. It may be why I’m a bit more lenient on her since McCoy is very much my favorite character in TOS and so far all of ST. But I think it is very much the root of the problem.

While Pulaski has several of McCoy’s traits, I think the writers really only understood McCoy on a surface level. They forget to include his compassion, his empathy, his humanism, his loyalty to the captain even when he opposes his actions, all of the things that make McCoy… well, McCoy. I don’t even know if the pacifism is there. Also McCoy had over 70 episodes of TOS and at that point five films (Undiscovered Country hadn’t been made yet). Pulaski had about 20 episodes and her relevance depended on the episode. McCoy had that as well, but he also had more material so we had FAR more time to get to know him. Pulaski didn’t get to have the time to gain that depth or care from the audience. Like… can I imagine Pulaski hypoing someone so that she can be tortured in their stead and it have the same impact that The Empath did? Can I see her counseling and assuring Picard if he’s having doubts like McCoy did for Kirk in The Ultimate Computer (okay tbf that would be Troi’s job but still)? Could I imagine any of the main cast being crushed about Pulaski dying of a terminal illness and choosing to stay on essentially a doomed spaceship with someone she just met and feel as gutted as I did in For the World is Hollow…? Honestly… given time maybe but in the end no. Now could I imagine McCoy risking getting an aging illness to possibly cure a child and others of it ala Unnatural Selection? Yes, albiet I think he’d be smart enough to bring protective equipment with him to be safe. Could I imagine McCoy telling someone like Data they’d be wrong to sit by a woman giving birth because he wasn’t human ala The Child? Hell no. Maybe he would if he was worried it would cause potential distress the one giving birth, but it sure as hell wouldn’t be because they’re an android. But I could imagine that someone who just saw McCoy as ‘grumpy doctor with a bad bedside manner who says witty lines and argues with the logical Vulcan character’ would get that interpretation. Thus why I think that Pulaski may have ended up how she did.

Now mind you I do think it IS a double standard to excuse McCoy’s dickish momemts and flaws, but demonize Pulaski for her’s. It’s like saying a man can be that way because it’s just expected of them and they can be forgiven, but a woman doing so or being assertice is wrong and they are horrible and unforgivable for having these traits or having flaws even if they correct them. That being said I do think that it’s more than that and it all comes down to the fact that TOS and TNG are two different shows with different character dynamics and ways of doing things. TOS mainly followed a Triumvirate (for the most part but that’s a different post entirely), TNG is much more of an ensemble. Pulaski didn’t have a Kirk nor a Spock to bounce off of or either let her traits shine or be kept in check like McCoy did nor did she really develop any unique relations for herself aside from maybe with Troi. We hear about her empathy and humanitarianism, but we don’t really see it on-screen like we did with McCoy. She has his surface level traits, not the deeper ones that the Triumvirate dynamic along his doctor position allowed him to showcase. In other words, Pulaski was put in a series that wasn’t designed for her while McCoy was exactly where he needed to be in order to thrive. It really speaks to how much the TNG writers didn’t really seem to get McCoy or why and how his character worked, which is strange since they got him right when he showed up in the series premiere. But maybe that was due to DeForest Kelley and him absolutely knowing the character he’d played for so long. But yeah they tried to replicate McCoy, and it just didn’t work with TNG’s already established character dynamics nor did they fully get the character that they were trying to recreate. If I want McCoy, I’ll go watch TOS or AOS. I didn’t need Pulaski for that.

#2. Data and Misconstrued Character Dynamics; This is in relation to the first reason and REALLY shows how much the writers didn’t think the dynamics through. We all know how much Spock and McCoy bantered. How they are opposite ends of the spectrum and how their perspective points helped Kirk in making his decisions. Well clealry they wanted to re-create that with Pulaski and Data. Makes sense, Pulaski represents the humanism and Data the logical. But there’s one big, BIG problem with that: Data is NOT Spock. A lot fo people have pointed this out, but here’s the thing about Spock. Despite whatever he may have said, Spock DID have emotions. He kept them suppressed due to the issues in his upbringing and that wasn’t necessarily healthy, but he did have them. And despite speaking in a calm manner, he was also an utter sass bucket, could be rude, and had no issue putting down humanity if he had a point to make. He and McCoy were very much equal in their bantering and yes maybe McCoy could go too far with his insults, but there was always an equal balance and Spock was also perfectly capable of starting/escalating their spats. There were also plenty of moments to show that in spite of it, they were still friends and cared a great deal about each other with probably the best examples of this being The Immunity Syndrome, Bread and Circuses, The Empath, and plenty of moments in others like Miri and For the World is Hollow… Those who have been following me know how much I love the Spock/McCoy dynamic and I could go all day, but the point is it’s a complex relationship that may seem like disdain on the outside, but is so much more when you examine it up close.

Data however? Data is intelligent and the Science Officer with a calm demeanor, but that’s about where the similarity between him and Spock ends. Data is an android. I do not believe that he is emotionless, he just has a different wiring that causes him to feel things differently. He’s never shown disdain towards humanity at least from what I’ve observed thus far. If anything, he actively seeks to understand it and emotions more. He actively has hobbies like Sherlock Holmes. He tries things like sneezing and growing a beard in an effort to understand more. Data is more or less a child with a child-like understanding of things and he doesn’t really understand social cues or things like humor, but he DOES have emotions and feelings. There’s too much on-screen evidence to say otherwise. He just has his own way of processing it. This is what makes Pulaski look so bad. When she calls Data a machine, says he can’t understand, and even purposefully mispronounces his name, she comes across as an outright bully. She is essentially bullying a neurodivergent child. Do I need to explain why that’s awful? Data, while by no means a doormat, isn’t the type to sass back or make any biting comments back like Spock would. There is no balance. There is no equal footing. There are not enough positive interactions outside the banter to show that there is something deeper there at the end of the day like Spock and McCoy did. Heck you can even compare how Pulaski and McCoy talk to Data via McCoy’s guest appearance in Encounter at Farpoint. He DOES make a quip about Vulcans when talking to Data and when Data points out he’s an android not a Vulcan, McCoy mumbles “Just as bad.” But immediately after he gives Data genuine heartfelt advice on treating the Enterprise with care. It’s clear that ultimately it’s McCoy being his usual grumpy self who’d be acting the same way towards anyone else and is otherwise perfectly civil and encouraging to Data. We’ve known him long enough to know this. Pulaski didn’t have that luxury, coming off as condescending towards Data at best and considering that she’s a doctor, it looks especially bad.

Now to be fair this only lasts for about four episodes. Pulaski does start catching herself by her second episode, and stops completely after Unnatural Selection when Data helps her and stays with her after she gets the aging virus. After that she’s MUCH moe civil to him, even defending his choice going against the Prime Directive in Pen Pals and was at his retirement party in The Measure of a Man. But clearly the damage had been done. Data is a very beloved character and by Oulaski’s intro had already been established and well-liked character. Data was treated equally and was valued as far more than just an android among the rest of the crew, Crusher included, so Pulaski coming in a season later and acting that way also didn’t help. The writers did not think through why Spock and McCoy worked and how to try figure out a unique dynamic for Pulaski and Data. Instead they just tried to copy TOS, and it utterly failed. It ruined Pulaski’s chances before she could even really start running. But I do believe that she could have rebounded and as I said, she DID get past it. She did relapse some at the end of the season in Peak Performance to the point I wanna say that maybe it chronologically happened earlier in the season, but even then she felt realized her screw up and apologized. It’s still an improvement from early on. But things just weren’t meant to be, which leads is to…

#3. She Only Lasted One Season/She Replaced Dr. Crusher: I believe that the biggest thing that worked against Pulaski is simple: she was cut after Season 2. Pulaski was created when Gates MacFadden left the show. I’ve seen conflicting reasons as to why, but regardless she left and a CMO was needed. IDK how popular Crusher was, but I had really enjoyed her. She was essentially the mom of the ship which added something different from TOS (wel McCoy was also the mom lets be real XD), had a son onboard which also added something new, was very much capable and devoted to her job, and was a badass when she got to use a phaser. Her being written out sucked, but that’s not necessarily a reason to hate Pulaski. But as I highlighted above, she just didn’t work. They tried to make McCoy, but without the dynamics and depth that let McCoy flourish. TNG is not TOS. Whenever TNG tried replicating TOS like with The Naked Now? It blew up in their faces. The key to a spinoff or reboot is to keep certain themes and tone alive, but to not just replicate what came before. TNG flourished when it began to find it’s own footing, and ultimately lasted four seasons longer than it’s predecessor due to it.

I genuinely believe that Pulaski COULD have developed into her own character and could have found her place the same way that McCoy did. But alas that didn’t happen. People wanted Crusher back, so they managed to get MacFadden to return and thus Crusher was put back in her rightful place. Because of it, Pulaski was just forgotten about. She didn’t get the chance to form her own character. She didn’t the chance to develop further and leave her early days behind. Why? Because she simply wasn’t given the opprotunity to do so. I can’t say it was the wrong choice, but it’s an utter shame because I do believe that Pulaski was on her way to improving. But it was too late. Her bad start with Data, her character not working in the TNG dynamic, and her replacing an already perfectly likeable character who did fit the dynamics all amounted to the character’s abrupt end. And because she didn’t get the chance to develop further and find her own path, her bad reputation has stuck to this very day.

In the end, the whole thing just feels like a waste. Pulaski had potential, but it just didn’t work in the end. I can’t say that I hate her. If anything, I feel bad for her. The writers failed her at the end of the day and by the time they tried correcting their errors, the audience had already made their judgement. It may have been for the best to just drop her and bring Crusher back, but I also hate seeing character potential just so utterly wasted. I hope that if any side material used Pulaski, they were able to find a much better direction for her. I can’t say that I love Pulaski. In a more TOS-like setting maybe she’d have worked better. But in the end I think that Pulaski was a decent character who just had too much working against her and they caused her to crash and burn. Just an unfortunate case all in all.

(Image Source)

#this is all mainly opinion so feel free to ig kre

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tenthgrove · 3 years

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L’Inizio- A La Squadra Backstory Collection

Chapter 2: Dove La Mia Passione Mi Porta (Prosciutto)

Word count: ~3300

Warnings: parental illness, parental death, parental rejection, implied transphobia, drinking

Don Crepuscolo flicks idly through the corner of a book as he sits in his study. His mind filters out the occasional clatter of footsteps on the upper floor of his Neapolitan mansion- the maid, most likely, as well as the visiting capos he permitted a tour of the bedrooms, to get them out of his face for a while until the meeting scheduled later in the afternoon.

The middle-aged don jolts at the sight of the young man in his doorway, having approached the office quiet as a snake with no disturbance to the man’s wavering focus. Crepuscolo collects himself, joyed with recognition of the figure come to see him.

“Maiale! Daughter!” Crepuscolo greets. He opens his arms and beckons the young man to embrace him. Hands folded, he approaches quietly, and seats himself a distance opposite the desk.

“Hello, father,�� Prosciutto speaks apathetically.

“Maiale, my dear, hello! I believe this is the first chance you’ve given me to congratulate you on the excellent results you’ve achieved on your examinations. Truly, I knew in my heart you’d do me proud,” the don praises. Prosciutto glances out the window.

“Yes, a pity your mouth did not agree with you until now,” he utters.

“No matter, no matter! What truly pleases me with your visit is that, well, you’ve simply been away on your- little celebrations so much this last month I’ve barely had any chance to see you! I really must know, what are your arrangements for your future now the necessary grades have been secured?”

Prosciutto takes a deep breath. He pushes a little dirt from under his nails and, after a few more moments, speaks. “As you know, it has always been my intention to go onto university.”

“Yes, yes, you had your eye on a place in Milan, last I checked.”

“No, Florence,” Prosciutto refutes him. “But anyway, I simply intend to go where my passion takes me.” Crepuscolo leans forward. He smiles.

“Practical and so assured, yet with a distinct streak for adaptability and the eclectic. Some things never change, do they Maiale?”

“No father, perhaps not.”

“Clearly. Now be a good girl and answer the question I asked you,” the don demands, gritting his teeth. Staring blankly, Prosciutto uncrosses his legs.

“Well father, the first thing I’m going to do is disown you,” he announces. Crepuscolo stutters in shock. “Disown?! But Maiale! How would you even do such a ludicrous thing?!”

“The normal way,” Prosciutto responds calmly. “I’ve been able to track down a lawyer. The same one who handled Mother’s will, incidentally, and begin the process of removing you as my next of kin and transferring it over to Signora Loreta. I have relinquished you of all obligations to me, and mine to you.”

“Have I taught you nothing, girl?” Crepuscolo snaps. “I am your father. I allowed you to live in this wonderful house, and paid for your tutoring and clothes, and let you live in luxury while half the children in this city wallow in the streets. You will never be free of obligation to me!”

“And as you were doing all that, you also threw your one year old son out into those streets the children wallow in!” Prosciutto retorts, his voice finally beginning to raise. “It is only right you should receive the same level of regard from your children, Don Crepuscolo.”

“But I always treated you well, Maiale!” the father insists. Prosciutto clenches his fists, and scowls.

“You left me alone at my dying mother’s bedside, while you were off in The Caribbean, with a girl half your age! If that doesn’t free me of any and all moral obligation to you, THEN WHAT DOES?!” he shouts. Don Crepuscolo goes quiet, then grips his desk in anger. Prosciutto gives his father a curt nod, and stands up, adjusting his bag over his shoulder. He turns his back on his father.

“You will have no penny of my wealth!” the don yells. Prosciutto turns around. The corner of his mouth flickers into a brief smirk.

“Nor would I ever ask for it. Mother’s lawyer and I had other discussions, regarding the specific terms of her inheritance. As he advised me, the criteria laid out for taking charge of her fortune myself could be fulfilled as simply as presenting my graduation certificate to the relevant parties. Since the clauses regarding my personal, direct inheritance were filed under a separate executer to the rest of her testament, you father, have no role in their fulfilment. My request to the bank is being processed as we speak,” Prosciutto explains. “So, I will make my position very clear. You are a sinking ship, and I do not need, nor intend, to be around when the engine blows. Goodbye, Don Crepuscolo!”

Prosciutto makes his way to the door. As he reaches for the latch, Don Crepuscolo smashes down on his desk.

“MAIALE!”

“Do NOT call me that!” Prosciutto screams. His body goes still, eyes wide. He gathers himself and storms out, grabbing the last of his bags outside the door and sprinting for the mansion’s back exit.

::::::::::::

Prosciutto steps off of the bus and strolls along the concrete pavement, towards the little white cottage at the end of the road. Setting his suitcase down on the porch, he knocks quietly on the door. He receives no response.

“Loreta!” he calls. “Signora? It’s only me! May I come in please?” An eager patter of footsteps approaches him. The door swings open.

“Prosciutto!” The woman greets eagerly. She is younger than she perhaps ought to be, not even a decade older than Prosciutto and with an appearance of perhaps less than that. Her thick, green hair is tied out the way at the back of her head, and Prosciutto notes the impracticality of her pink and brown jumper in the summer sun. “Oh Prosciutto,” she coos, bringing her hands to her mouth in joy. “Your voice, it’s wonderful!”

“Is it?” Prosciutto remarks, startled. “I didn’t think it had changed much yet. Father certainly didn’t notice, not that that’s a bad thing.”

“The don never did pay much attention, did he? Well, it certainly sounds like progress to me, so you should be proud of yourself, Prosci. Now, come in, come in!” she urges him, taking my the wrist and leading him to the house’s small kitchen. “So, tell me what you and your father talked about. I know you were very anxious about seeing him. Did you... take the big step?”

At that moment a young boy bounds in from the hallway, flinging himself at Prosciutto with open arms. “Fra!” the child shouts excitedly. Prosciutto picks him up and holds him.

“Hello Pesci, how are you doing, eh?” Prosciutto greets him. The young boy babbles something incoherently and bites his knuckles. Loreta gives a little laugh and takes her son from his brother’s arms.

“Pesci’s doing great, thank you. He’s settling into the new daycare and making a couple friends,” she announces, putting him down on the ground.

“Wonderful,” Prosciutto remarks with a smile. He leans down to address the child. “Now Pesci, why don’t you go play in your room for a minute. Let your mother and I discuss some business. If you’re good, I’ll take you to the park afterwards,” he promises. Pesci nods and hobbles back to his bedroom. Prosciutto sighs and stands up, turning back to face Loreta.

“Yes, I told my father I don’t want a relationship with him any more,” Prosciutto affirms. “He took it... poorly, but I believe he understands that I can’t be stopped. I shouldn’t be seeing much of him any more.”

“Congratulations. That was very brave of you, Prosciutto, and very good. Hopefully this will make things much easier for you from now on,” Loreta praises him.

“Yes, it very much will. I don’t have to worry about him finding my pills any more, and I’m looking into getting my first surgery before the end of the year.”

“That will be excellent for you! Changing the subject, you’ll have to remind me, my memory’s completely gone! What is it you’re planning on studying?” Loreta enquires.

“Politics, with a little literature on the side,” he answers.

“Politics? Do you plan to work with theory or practice?”

“Theory, god, never practice. If I tried that, father really might send an assassin out for me. I’m hoping to go into journalism, or something of the sort, though eventually I want to veer back into academia. I think it would suit me.”

“Definitely!” Loreta enthuses. “You could do anything you put your mind to Prosci!”

“I can only try. Now, your attention please,” Prosciutto says, whipping out a slip of paper from his pocket and places it down on the table. “I’ve done some maths. With the amount I’m getting from the inheritance, I can up what I’m giving you to 1 million lire a month, all the way up until Pesci turns 19. This is excluding a little extra to help with university costs, as well as some flexibility for you to take more in an emergency, say, if you ever lose your job. What do you think?”

“Prosciutto... I could never take from your mother’s money, it just wouldn’t be right,” Loreta refutes him.

“You were young, Loreta, you didn’t understand what you were doing. Believe me when I say that if my mother were here, she’d forgive you. Besides, father didn’t throw you out as his mistress, he threw you out as his wife. You deserve this money, Loreta, and I’m going to give it to you,” Prosciutto insists.

“It isn’t right,” Loreta repeats sadly. “Horrible thing, what happened to that woman. To just waste away for years on end while your husband prances around with some... girl. I should never benefit from that suffering. If I ever get sick like that, Prosciutto, just pull the plug. Pull the plug.”

Prosciutto sighs.

“If not for you, then take it for Pesci. Regardless of how she felt about you, I know my mother would never approve of any child living in poverty, especially not one I call my brother. Take it for him, please,” he begs her.

“Alright...” Loreta concedes. “I suppose I do really need it. Thank you, Prosciutto, it means a lot to me.”

“It’s what you deserve. Now, you’ve got your money, and I’ve got my freedom, and it’s all thanks to my mother’s will,” Prosciutto begins, pouring out two glasses of brandy from the cabinet. He sits down at the table. “To Signora Crepuscolo, for both our salvations.”

Loreta smiles and raises her glass, before drinking. Pesci returns from the hallway, and she quickly hides the glass and bottle behind her torso.

“What’s the matter darling, are you having fun?” she asks.

“I wanna play with Fra!” the boy insists.

“I suppose we’re done here anyway,” Prosciutto concedes. “Shall we?”

“I’ll just get Pesci’s coat,” Loreta agrees. She hurries off into the hall.

::::::::::::

A mere street away from the young family, a group of youths gather in the abandoned office. The youngest of the boys, a slender young man of 17, with raven hair and a hateful eye looks around the group critically as he shuffles on his feet.

“I’m in the right place aren’t I?” he asks. “Cause right now I feel like I’m either here to play tag or get stabbed, and neither of those is what I was called in for.”

“Depends,” one of the other boys says. “Are you Sorbet?”

“Yeah,” he answers. “Who’s asking?”

“Name’s Matteo, I’m in charge here. I’m the one your pay’s been coming from,” the group’s leader explains. Sorbet looks him up and down and sees a sad, dishonest looking man only a few years older than him. It’s clear this boy isn’t actually where the buck stops rolling in this sad little street gang of theirs, but the fact Sorbet hasn’t been attacked yet tells him the boy’s story is at least close enough to the truth to trust what he’s about to say. He decides to hear him out. “I’ve heard a lot about you. ‘Said you’re good with your fists and better with a gun. Is that true?”

“That’s correct,” Sorbet says with a smirk.

“What is it you do right now? Errands?” Matteo asks.

“Mostly. Though lately I just do whatever’s needed. I guard meet-ups, deal with troublemakers-”

“Yes, that’s what we’re here to talk about,” Matteo interrupts. “Word is, you’re good at it. How would you feel about... maybe doing a little more than beating them up for a change?”

“You want me to kill someone? Done. The pay better be good though,” Sorbet agrees unconcerned.

“Oh, it will be. But what if I wanted you to kill multiple people? What if, you became the guy I call when I want someone killed?” Matteo proposes.

“I’m up for it, but I’d want to know why. Why’s a group like us suddenly need a massive hit list?”

“Opportunity,” Matteo answers. “It’s not that we’ve got a hit list, just that we might be able to afford one at some point in the future. “With Crepuscolo and his lot on his way out, it’s only a matter of time until we can come out of the shadows.”

“Ambitious. What makes you think we’ve got the manpower to usurp them?”

“Maybe we don’t, but we’re hoping whoever does will let us do what we want a little more. You know?”

“Passione, I imagine,” Sorbet surmises. The others nod in agreement.

::::::::::::

It is January of 1989 and Prosciutto is freshly 24. His diploma hangs over the wall of his lounge, above his typewriter and an array of open books. He pours a glass and relaxes, sitting back against the comfortable expanse of his settee. He takes a sip of red wine and flicks through his calender. Loreta will be visiting tomorrow with Pesci, and Prosciutto is looking forward to it very much. Supposedly, Pesci learned to ride his bike the other day, and he’s eager for the two to go out together.

Prosciutto feels he deserves a bit of a celebration. His last article, by all early measurements, performed very well, and there’s talk of promoting him among the newspaper agency. If all goes to plan, he might not need to rely on his mother’s inheritance for much longer. Perhaps, he might even be able to buy Loreta a new house. Pesci could use the space now he’s bigger.

Someone knocks at the door frantically. Prosciutto gets up cautiously, conscious of how incredibly late it is for someone to be looking for him. The knock rings out again, louder this time, and Prosciutto reaches for the door of the living room.

There’s a mighty crash, and several footsteps rush into the front room. Prosciutto rushes for the drawer to get his gun, always a good thing to have when you’re the estranged son of a crime boss. He aims it readily as the living room door is bashed open.

Four men, armed to the teeth, spill into the sitting room. They aim their weapons at Prosciutto, held back seemingly only by the warning hand of their leader. The man looks down at the photograph in his hand, and back up at Prosciutto.

“I take it you don’t go by Maiale any more.”

“No, but thanks for checking. Why the hell are you in my house?” Prosciutto demands.

“You are the eldest child of the late Don Crepuscolo, yes?” the man asks. Prosciutto lowers his gun.

“Why do you say late?”

“Your father was executed by order of our boss, yesterday evening. Depending on the course of this conversation, you may or may not be joining him,” the man explains. “Now kindly drop the gun.”

Prosciutto complies.

“We’re from Passione, if you didn’t know,” adds one of his companions. “They said you were a journalist, so I’m surprised you haven’t heard about the war that went on,” he notes.

“I... try to avoid covering stories related to the syndicates,” Prosciutto explains. His heart is hammering at a million miles an hour. This feels surreal, dream-like, but deep down Prosciutto knows it’s very, very real.

“Long story short,” the leader continues. “If you want to survive, it will be in Passione’s debt. Gotta make sure the boss can keep an eye on you after all. Now come on, you and I are going to get into the car. Sorbet, Gelato, go upstairs and take anything of value.”

“What? You’re taking my stuff?” Prosciutto protests. The leader shrugs.

“You got it all from your parents, didn’t you? We own all your parents assets now. That makes it ours.”

As Prosciutto stares dumbstruck, two young men with interlinked arms head up the stairs. His stairs, his house. He stand’s defenceless as the groups leader grabs him by the wrist.

“And by the way, Crepuscolo, we know about your brother. Just in case you were planning on making a run for it at any point.”

Prosciutto Crepuscolo is compliant as he is dragged from his home. Driven away in the backseat of his captor’s car, he watches helplessly as his house is burnt to the ground.

::::::::::::

“My father’s house didn’t last long either,” Prosciutto adds. His audience, consisting of one attentive Risotto Nero, and the passed out body of Gelato over the back of the sofa, remain quiet. “They knocked it down the other year. I’m sure you would have seen the construction work.”

“Yes, I think I recall that,” Risotto answers.

“Now here I am, second-in-command to the brand new assassination squad. Truly I’m honoured,” Prosciutto tuts. He downs another shot of alcohol, and Risotto apprehensively takes the cue to do the same.

“You don’t have any resentment to Sorbet and Gelato for the house?” Risotto asks.

“I can’t really, they didn’t benefit from it. Besides, at the end of the day, this has worked out for me. I don’t think I would have really made it as a journalist,” Prosciutto maintains.

“I wouldn’t agree!”

“Yeah, well you can keep it to yourself. I gotta cope somehow. Honestly though, the one part of this I do regret is my brother. I wish I could have spent more time with him, growing up, but I didn’t want to mix him up in... this.”

“He’s the reason you rejected the role of captain, isn’t he?” Risotto realises.

“Yes,” Prosciutto admits after a pause. “If I were in your role I don’t think I’d be able to make time for him at all.”

“I understand. It’s very noble of you, Prosciutto. To look after him like that.” Risotto judges. Prosciutto tuts.

“Whatever.”

The doorbell rings and Risotto tries to stand up.

“No, no, I’ll get it,” Prosciutto insists. He puts down his glass and heads downstairs to the door. The boy behind it trembles heavily as he looks up at him with pleading eyes. “Pesci?”

“Hi, Fra,” the boy says weakly.

“Pesci what in god’s name are you doing here? I told you not to come to this house for any reason!” Prosciutto admonishes him.

“I’m sorry! I know what you said but- Mum’s still in the hospital and... I really didn’t want to be alone again tonight.”

Prosciutto leans down. His eyes widen with worry.

“Alright, if that’s the case then you can come in,” he permits. Pesci steps forward and falls into his arms. He starts to sob.

“She’s really sick, Fra.”

“I know Pesci, I know. I’m here.”

#la squadra #la squadra di esecuzione #prosciutto #prosciutto jjba #l'inizio

16 notes · View notes

3pirouette · 3 years

Text

Fic: An Experimental Design (4/?)

Title: An Experimental Design

By: TriplePirouette/3Pirouette

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

Distribution: AO3 Anyone else please ask first :)

Story Summary: Sequel to “What Number?”, also prompted from Steggy Bingo Bash Prompts. Takes place about a week after that fic.

A/N: This continues to satisfy the “Science Experiment” prompt from Steggy Bingo Bash. Please stick with me on this. I won't be able to set up a regular posting schedule, but I WILL finish this. It's just going to take some time with some other writing projects happening at the same time and Real Life taking up more of my week.

Chapter 4: Calm

“Powdered eggs or canned hash browns?” Steve asked, holding up the two options he found in the cabinet.

Peggy winced from her seat at the table, hands wound round her steaming cup of tea. “Those are our best bets?”

Steve shrugged. “Unless you’d like tomato soup for breakfast?”

“Hash browns it is.” She sipped her tea, watching Steve work at the stove. It was domestic and simple and it made her long for the war to end all the sooner. “Do you think…” she trailed off, unsure if she should share the sentiment.

“What?” he asked, separating the sliced potatoes into the pan, eyes firmly on his cooking.

“Well, it just seems that in our current state we’re both quite unable to be apart, and whatever is happening with me is likely medical. So, do you think they’ll… discharge me?” He didn’t answer right away, and she hurried to fill the silence, eyes never straying from the steam coming from her mug. “They won’t discharge you, that’s for sure, but I don’t know what they’ll do with me. I’m not all that useful if you’re—”

She hadn’t noticed that he’d moved to crouch next to her until his hand was on top of hers. He waited until she was looking in his eyes. “Doesn’t matter what they want to do. We’re staying together until we figure out how to help you. End of story.”

All Peggy could do was nod.

~*~

“Jesus, how many did you find?” Howard watched the Commandos stack the piles of paper in his lab.

Jones shrugged. “A lot, but all scattered, like they left in a hurry and stuff fell out of files.”

“No discernable order to the pages,” Morita threw in, “and who knows if they’re even relevant. All in German.”

“I can read some of it, but that doesn’t mean I understand it,” Jones chimed in. “We just took everything we found.”

Howard sat at his desk, letting his hand rest on the piles. “Shit.”

~*~

Midmorning found them settled back on the couch, the small radio in the corner playing soft, slow music while Steve tried his hand at a crossword puzzle he’d pulled from his duffel. Peggy, curled up on the opposite end of the couch, was having a bit more luck settling into her novel.

The slow, calm morning was nice: her cooling tea on the table across from her, Steve at her side, her body finally free of the halting shocks that had sent her to her knees over the last month. She had her head back, eyes closed, just enjoying the silence of the room as opposed to the hustle of the battlefield when there was a solid knock on the door.

While the knock on the door startled her, it positively sent Steve into a spiral. He was on his feet before her ears even registered the noise, pulling her up and shoving her into the kitchen, as far away from the door as he could get her.

Despite her initial protests, she quieted at the look on his face. She’d always trusted him; this shouldn’t be any different. Her heart began to pound as she heard him pull out his shield and he moved slowly towards the door. Maybe he heard murmurs she couldn’t, the cocking of a gun, the smell of explosives… there were hundreds of things his enhanced senses could notice before she could.

If Steve was nervous, she was, too.

Peggy wished she’s had the presence of mind to keep her gun closer instead of in the bedside table. She fumbled through the kitchen cabinets, settling for a knife that barely looked like it would cut through butter.

“Who is it?” Steve called to the door, his voice gruff and low, dangerous. Her heart pounded. She couldn’t hear the answer, but Steve spoke again quickly. “Leave them.”

She heard the door open and close a moment later, and she gripped her butter knife tighter. She counted to ten, and when no more noise was forthcoming, she called out. “Steve?”

“It’s fine, you can come out.”

Peggy slowly leaned out of the kitchen doorway, still brandishing her butterknife. Steve had abandoned his shield by the door and was sorting through two paper bags that looked to be filled with groceries, eyes suspicious. “Who was it?”

He looked up, jaw still tight. “Said his name was Jarvis, that Howard had asked him to drop by some essentials.”

Peggy carefully moved forward, reaching in to the bag and pulling out a small loaf of bread. She shrugged and tried to smile. “Better than soup.”

Steve didn’t smile, didn’t laugh. His shoulders were still tense, corded and tight and ready to react. Peggy stepped closer, reaching out slowly. He looked like a caged tiger ready to strike. “Steve?”

As soon as her hand touched his arm, he breathed a sigh of relief and his entire body seemed to relax. “Must still be tired.” He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “I overreacted.”

“I prefer over to under any day,” Peggy tried to reassure him as she stepped closer and he took her in his arms. The hug calmed them both. With each moment of contact Peggy could feel Steve’s pounding heart slow, and though she hadn’t felt any pain, she could feel her anxiety start to relinquish its hold on her. “Though I am a bit worried.” Peggy leaned back, running her hand over his cheek. “That was some reaction.”

Steve shook his head. “I guess I’m more worried than I thought. As soon as I heard that knock, I just felt this rush of…” He turned his head, kissing the palm of her hand as he tried to find the words. When nothing came, he huffed in frustration. “I just felt like I needed you safe.”

A small smile started to bloom on Peggy’s face as she held him tight. “I am safe, Steve. I’m right here, guarded by the best soldier in the world.”

He moved quickly, desperately, taking her lips. Her surprise was fleeting and she responded quickly, but moved to slow his desperation with gentle caresses over his shoulder and tiny pecks of her lips. She pressed him back, walking him to sit on the couch before straddling him gently, his arms moving around her without hesitation.

“Hold me, Steve,” she instructed softly as she laid her head on his shoulder, worry blooming in her again at his desperate touch. “Just hold me and breathe.”

~*~

Howard loomed over the young man helping to translate some of the papers. In four hours, they’d found mostly scraps of nothing: lunch orders, old memos, and barely legible notes. Until the one page. It was the first promising piece of information and boy, was it a piece of information.

“You’re sure that’s what it says? Howard asked, his voice quiet but forceful.

The young soldier nodded. “There isn’t much there, but what is there, I’m sure.”

It was the last page, and only page they seemed to have, of what looked to be a longer, handwritten document. There were only two sentences on it.

“You tell no one, got it?” Howard pointed his finger in the man’s face, “No one.”

The young man didn’t even look slightly intimidated. “Sir, everything I translate or decode is eyes only to me. I can’t talk about it to anyone.”

“Good. Good.” Howard grumbled, taking the paper. “Look for the rest of this, ok?”

He walked away, trying to figure out how to even begin to explain what this could mean to Phillips.

He’d wait. He’d have to wait until he knew more.

He looked down at the paper, quickly folding and shoving it in his pocket it as he moved through the base, not wanting anyone else to even potentially glance at it.

…potential use as live collateral. Feelings of desperation at separation may prove more useful in controlling the asset than current mind control techniques. Potency of the bond may have the unintended side effect of creating a viable breeding program.

Peggy was going to kill him. Literally.

~*~

Peggy was curled into Steve’s side on the couch, dozing lightly. After their initial anxiety had faded and Steve’s desperation calmed, being situated with Peggy in his lap had brought up certain other feelings that neither really wanted to ignore. Despite some kissing and very directed touching, they’d managed to keep to their word and avoid anything Howard might have deemed inappropriate.

Snuggling, Peggy thought, was absolutely appropriate given that she couldn’t remember the last time she had a warm, clean apartment with a comfortable bed and soft sofa. Pillowed on his chest, with Steve’s arm around her, she felt perfectly calm and safe.

His arm squeezed her gently. “I can feel you thinking.”

“Only good thoughts,” she murmured. “Is it possible to take a holiday from war?”

His laugh bounced her on his chest. “I guess you could call this that.”

“Seems it, right?” She didn’t open her eyes, just tried to burrow deeper into his side. “Easy to forget everything going on just for a few minutes.”

He hummed in agreement, tucking her as tight to him as he could, equally to keep them both on the sofa and to have her pressed close to him. He moaned as the phone on the table next to them rang, shrill and disturbing their peace.

He reached up, pulling the receiver down to his ear, knowing only a handful of people knew they were there. “Hello?”

“I’m sending Jarvis with the car to pick you up.” Howard’s voice was tense as he spoke over the tinny line. “We need to talk.”

Steve’s eyes were open immediately; Peggy’s head popped up as she felt his body tense. “Something wrong?”

Steve shifted them to sitting as he held the phone for Peggy to hear, too. “Nothing immediate, but we’ve managed to get a couple of clues, and I think we need to move sooner rather than later.”

“Howard, am I…” Peggy didn’t know what to ask, really, but she felt a knot start to burn tight in her stomach.

“No immediate danger. At least no more than usual.” Howard sighed over the line. “Jarvis will be there in ten, ok?”

The line clicked dead as Howard hung up, leaving Peggy and Steve to stare at one another, the peace of the morning broken.

#Steggy Fic #Steggy Bingo Bash #3P's Fic #Steggy

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a-second-hand-sorrow · 5 years

Text

Paper Rings (Richie Tozier X Reader)

WC: 3952

Warnings: Language, kinda sexual stuff at one point, alcohol, weed, tiny bit of angst at the end but not much

Summary: Y/N and Richie’s relationship through ‘Paper Rings’

A/N: The bitch is back y’all. I apologise for not having written in about 8 billion years, but I’m back. I hope you guys enjoy this, bc I really love it.

The moon is high

Like your friends were the night that we first met

2009

Y/N had never been a fan of parties. Ever since high school she would always be the one to stay home and re-watch her favourite movies instead of going to parties. Unfortunately, now that she had a career in comedy writing she was being dragged to parties left, right and centre, and she hated them all.

“Mulaney, please tell me why I’m coming to this thing? I’m going to miss Seinfeld and you know I live for that shit.” Y/N whined, tugging on the sleeve of John’s jacket while he rolled his eyes.

“They’ve been playing episodes of that show every night since 1989, and you’ve watched each one about three times over, Y/N. I think you can afford to miss one night’s rerun.” John said, causing Y/N to let out a groan of protest.

“It’s about the habits, John. The habits.” Y/N mumbled, and John shook his head like an irritated parent.

“You’re coming with me to this party, Y/N. I’ve heard they’ve got this bigshot comic coming in from LA so just think about that potential opportunity before you complain again.” John said, and Y/N narrowed her eyes before caving, causing her friend to give her a victorious smile.

The pair walked into the crowded club, and Y/N immediately grimaced at the loud music and the overwhelming stench of alcohol and weed. “Real classy joint, huh?” She muttered to John, who simply chuckled in response.

“I’m gonna go get a drink, and I want you to mingle. Have some fun Y/N. Let loose for once!” John said, gripping Y/N’s shoulders. She opened her mouth to protest but John quickly snuck away before she could say anything.

Y/N pouted, trying to navigate her way through the bustling club. Eventually she found her way to a booth where she saw a group of people, including one manwho was strangely familiar to her. She heard him laughing and she found herself beginning to laugh as well as she walked up to the booth.

“Hey sweetheart! You lost?” One of the men at the booth called, and suddenly all of their eyes were directed towards her. Y/N let out a nervous laugh and shook her head, a slight smile on her face.

“My friend ditched me. He told me I needed to mingle and have some fun, his words not mine.” Y/N said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she made brief eye contact with the oddly familiar man. He had a head of wild black hair and was wearing glasses so big they nearly covered his face.

“Well, uh, you can come sit with us if you want.” The man spoke, a kind smile on his face as he looked up at her, and she knew she was done for.

“Sounds good.” Y/N said, laughing lightly as she watched the men scoot along so there was enough room in the booth for her.

“I’m Y/N by the way, in case you were wondering.” Y/N said once she had settled herself next to the very kind, very attractive man in the glasses.

“I’m Richie Tozier, and this is Carol Feeny and Steve Covall.” As soon as Y/N heard his name she smiled, not really thinking as she politely shook hands with Carol and Steve.

“I’m just gonna put it out here now, Steve and I are a bit high so sorry in advance if we do or say anything weird.” Carol said, and Y/N gave her a thumbs up before shooting Richie a confused look. He let out a laugh at her expression, and Y/N felt her stomach fill with butterflies.

“This is like a normal Saturday night for them, I just tagged along because they’re my friends and I don’t want them dying or whatever.” Richie said, raising his voice slightly due to the loud music.

“Glad to know. Well, here’s to getting to know strangers at a wild party.” Y/N said, lifting her drink as Richie did the same. They tapped their glasses together and Y/N couldn’t shake the giddy feeling that washed over her as soon as their eyes met.

Oh yeah, she was well and truly fucked.

Went home and tried to stalk you on the internet

Now I've read all of the books beside your bed

2009

“John Edmund Mulaney, I need your goddamn help.” Y/N said, busting his bedroom door open and pulling the covers off his bed. John groaned, giving the girl a dirty look as she stood in his doorway, a determined look on her face.

“What the hell do you want Y/L/N? It is Sunday morning and I am too hungover to breathe.” John grumbled, rolling over reluctantly as Y/N sat down cross-legged next to him on his bed.

“I met this guy at the party last night and I forgot to online stalk him last night so I need to do it now.” Y/N said, and John sighed as he sat up, rubbing his eyes before turning his attention to Y/N.

“Did you at least get his name?” John said and Y/N nodded eagerly, pulling her phone out of her pocket.

“Yeah, he said his name was Richie Tozier.” Y/N said and John’s eyes widened as he sat up straighter, looking at Y/N with shock.

“Y/N do you have any idea who that is?” John said, and Y/N shook her head, giving him a confused look.

“Remember when I said there was going to be some bigshot comic from LA at the party last night? Well that’s him! Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier! He’s massive right now.” John said, snatching Y/N’s phone and plugging his name into Google as the wheels turned in Y/N’s head.

“Is this him?” John said, pulling up a photo of him to show to Y/N. She nodded, the pieces starting to fall into place. John let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair.

“Y/N how the hell are you a comedy writer who doesn’t know one of the biggest names in comedy right now? Honestly woman.” John said, handing Y/N her phone back. Y/N took it graciously and she immediately found Richie’s social media accounts and followed him on Facebook and Twitter.

“What can I say, I’m ridiculously stupid Johnny. I’ll go make you some breakfast as a thank you for making it very easy to stalk this guy.” Y/N said, ruffling John’s hair before leaving his bedroom with a smile on her face.

For the rest of the day Y/N was deep in Richie’s social media feeds, and it was so bad that she found a photo of his bedside table on Twitter and immediately found and then bought all the books that were on the table so she could read them.

As she was in bed that night watching a video from one of Richie’s specials on YouTube, she saw two notifications pop up on her phone.

Richie Tozier is now friends with you on Facebook

@TrashmouthTozier is following you on Twitter

The wine is cold

Like the shoulder that I gave you in the street

Cat and mouse for a month or two or three

Now I wake up in the night and watch you breathe

2009

“Y/N, John, so good to see you guys! Welcome to Saturday Night Live!” It was Y/N and John’s first day as writers for Saturday Night Live and they were both panicking internally as they were being shown around the studio.

They were shown writing rooms and all the relevant things they needed to know, before their guide told them one final piece of information. “Oh, and the first host you’ll be working with is Richie Tozier. He’ll be here in about 20 minutes to discuss sketch ideas with the team, you guys included. Good luck!”

Upon hearing this crucial fact Y/N’s eyes widened as she turned to John, who instead was sporting a smug look. “Holy shit, did she just say Richie Tozier? As in Richie from that party a few weeks ago Tozier? As in the guy I am so very into but won’t talk to because I get really anxious?” Y/N was rambling, her words and her breathing getting faster and faster as she started to pace back and forth.

“Yes, the very same guy.” John said, sitting down at a table as Y/N continued pacing.

“Fuck! Fuckity fuck fuck fuck! What do I do John? He’s a comic genius and I am just a lowly rat writer.” Y/N said, starting to feel light headed from all the hyperventilation. John sighed, standing up and marching over to his friend. He placed his hands on her shoulders, stopping her in her tracks.

“Y/N, calm down. You just have to keep it professional for now, and then at the after party on Saturday night or the very early hours of Sunday morning you can get piss drunk and hopefully sleep with him.” John said with a straight face, and Y/N let out a huff. She went to respond, but a familiar voice stopped her.

“Hey, I wouldn’t happen to be interrupting something, would I?” At the sound of Richie’s voice Y/N spun around, knocking John’s arms off her shoulders in the process.

“Nope, not at all. You’re all good, Richie.” Y/N said, internally cursing for being so casual with him. Richie just gave John a wave before stepping into the room, closing the door behind him.

“Please, have a seat.” John said, and Richie obliged. As he walked around to the table he passed by Y/N, stopping to whisper something in her ear.

“It’s really good to see you again Y/N. I’ve missed you.”

2015

Y/N felt so comfortable in Richie’s arms, and in her mind there was absolutely nothing like it. They always fell asleep the same way; with Y/N’s head on Richie’s chest, her arm slung across his torso and his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him.

Some nights Y/N would wake up at around one or two in the morning and just watch Richie for a while before going back to sleep. Tonight was one of those nights.

She woke slowly, the warmth of Richie’s body almost lulling her back to sleep as she opened her eyes. She took in a deep breath, shifting slightly so she could gaze at Richie without waking him up.

He always looked so peaceful when he slept. It was something Y/N had noted since the night they first slept together, and she never got tired of seeing her always energetic husband at peace.

Y/N was almost mesmerised by the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and she couldn’t help but lift a hand to his face and gently stroke his cheek. She felt his body stir slightly, and a gentle smile appeared on her face when she heard him let out a little groan.

His eyes opened and he smiled almost immediately when he saw Y/N’s eyes staring back at him. “Y/N, why are you up?” He asked, his voice deep and groggy with sleep.

“Just like watching you sleep, sue me.” Y/N said softly, pecking his lips before resting her forehead against his.

“You’re a creep, wifey dearest. I love it. I love you.” Richie mumbled, kissing Y/N lightly in between his words. Y/N let out a giggle before dropping her head into the crook of his neck.

“I love you too, but you should really get some sleep mister. I’ll still be here when you wake up, don’t worry.” Y/N said, melting a little when Richie’s hand came to rest over hers on his cheek.

“Goodnight Y/N/N.”

“Night Rich.”

Kiss me once 'cause you know I had a long night

Kiss me twice 'cause it's gonna be alright

Three times 'cause I waited my whole life

2011

Y/N had been working on this sketch for about eight hours and had gotten practically nowhere. She was almost tearing her hair out, having gone through at least ten cups of coffee in the last hour alone. Richie was performing somewhere downtown and John was out with his girlfriend, meaning that Y/N was tired and alone in her apartment.

She checked her phone to see that it was now verging on one o’clock, and she groaned loudly, both at the time and her lack of progress. She went to put her phone down before seeing a text from Richie, causing her heart to skip a beat.

Trash Boy: I’m outside with Chinese food, shitty coffee and the potential for a lot of cuddles. Please let me in. I nearly dropped a chow mein writing this.

She let out a relieved laugh, a smile blooming on her face as she raced to the door, pulling it open to reveal her beautiful, wonderful boyfriend. Richie seemed to be drowning in bags so Y/N ushered him in quickly, shutting the door as he unloaded all his bags onto her dining room table.

“Ok, so I’ve got some fried rice and what I think is satay beef, honestly I have no.” Richie’s words were cut off by Y/N grabbing the sides of his face and pulling him into a deep kiss. His hands quickly found her waist while hers found his hair. When they pulled apart they were breathing heavily, and Y/N let out a chuckle when she noticed his glasses had fogged up slightly.

“Not that I’m complaining but was there any reason for that?” Richie asked once he had caught his breath, and Y/N chuckled as her head found its way into the crook of Richie’s neck.

“I’ve had a super long night and then you brought me the food and the coffee even after your show and I just fucking love you so much.” Y/N admitted, and Richie’s eyes widened slightly at the confession. It was the first time either of them had said those words, and it made Y/N look up at her boyfriend with trepidation in her eyes.

“Rich I’m sorry, I hope this isn’t too soon or anything, but I really do love you.” Y/N said, her voice a lot meeker than it was previously. Richie’s look of surprised melted into one of pure adoration, and he simply leaned down and kissed Y/N, long and hard.

“I love you too Y/N, so fucking much.”

I like shiny things, but I'd marry you with paper rings

Uh huh, that's right

Darling, you're the one I want

I hate accidents except when we went from friends to this

Uh huh, that's right

Darling, you're the one I want

In paper rings, in picture frames, in dirty dreams

Oh, you're the one I want

2015

“Babe, have you seen my good blazer? The grey one!” Richie called out from across the house, causing Y/N to groan in annoyance.

“Rich I told you it was hanging up in your closet next to your wedding suit, and if you tell me you can’t remember which one that is, so help me God you will get my shoe so far up your ass it isn’t funny.” Y/N hollered, putting her earrings in with a little more force than usual.

“Found it, thanks babe!” Richie called back, and Y/N rolled her eyes affectionately as she straightened the skirt of her dress. Tonight was the taping of Richie’s most recent special for Netflix, and he wanted Y/N to be there in the front row.

She looked her outfit over once more before catching a glimpse of the framed photo that sat just outside their bathroom. It was of her and Richie kissing with a disgruntled John next to them, and she gave it a tender look before making her way over to their bedroom, where Richie was trying to psych himself up for the show. Y/N wrapped her arms around his middle from behind, resting her head on his shoulder and pressing a gentle kiss to his neck.

“You nervous Rich?” She asked and he nodded immediately, taking in a deep but shaky breath. Y/N moved so she was now standing in front of him, her arms still resting securely around his waist.

“You shouldn’t be, honestly. You are the funniest man I have ever met, and my best friend is John Mulaney. I have so much confidence that you will go out there and make that stage your bitch, Richie, and I will be sitting there right in the front row, watching it all. I couldn’t be prouder of my amazing husband.” Y/N said, lifting one hand to cup her husband’s cheek. She noticed a tear begin to fall and she gently swiped it away, sending him a genuine smile.

“How did I get so lucky?” Richie said, pulling Y/N into a tight hug. She let out a soft laugh as she hugged him back, rubbing her hands up and down his back.

“Honestly Rich, you could’ve proposed to me with a paper ring and I would’ve said yes, and you know how much I like my shiny stuff.” Y/N said, and Richie burst out laughing, pressing a kiss to his wife’s temple.

“Come on, woman of my dreams. We have somewhere to be.”

In the winter, in the icy outdoor pool

When you jumped in first, I went in too

I'm with you even if it makes me blue

2013

“Welcome to the Christmas extravaganza, Toziers.” John said, ushering Y/N and Richie into the warm house. Every inch of spare space was covered in Christmas decorations, and the scent of gingerbread and mulled wine was thick in the air.

“God this is amazing. I’m assuming Anna was responsible for most of the decoration?” Y/N asked, causing John to pull a rather insulted face that made both Y/N and Richie chuckle.

“I’m hurt, however you would be right there. She’s always been more talented in the design aspect of things. Did you guys want a drink?” John said, and the couple nodded quickly. John laughed to himself as he went to fetch three glasses of mulled wine.

The amount of mulled wine consumed increased greatly over the course of the night, and by about ten o’clock John, Y/N and Richie were well past it. “Hey Y/N, how much do you bet that Richie will jump in the pool?” John asked, and Y/N let out a laugh of disbelief.

“There’s no way in hell he’d do that. It’s fucking freezing, right Rich?” Y/N said, turning to look at her husband. Instead of the shock and repulsion she thought she’d see on his face, Y/N instead saw a look of contemplation and deep thought.

“How much are you offering, Mulaney?” Richie said, and John’s face split into a Cheshire cat grin, much to Y/N’s horror. “I’ll give you fifty if you do it, one hundred if Y/N does it as well.” John said, and Y/N’s eyes went wide as Richie stood straight up, already shedding his jacket and outer shirt.

“Come on Y/N, it’ll be fun!” Richie said, taking his shoes and base shirt off before unbuckling his belt. Y/N let out a whine of protest, watching as her piss drunk husband stumbled towards the freezing outdoor pool.

“Richie, don’t you dare!” Y/N shouted, but it was too late. Richie had already jumped in, and even though she knew she’d regret it, she jumped in too.

Which takes me back

To the color that we painted your brother's wall

Honey, without all the exes, fights, and flaws

We wouldn't be standing here so tall

2010

Painting was hard work, Y/N had come to realise. When her brother said he needed one of the walls in his apartment re-painted, Y/N had volunteered without even thinking, which is what caused her and Richie to be spending a precious Sunday covered in sweat and blue paint.

“I can’t believe that instead of staying at home and fucking each other senseless, we are painting your brother’s feature wall. Fantastic.” Richie grumbled, painting the wall with much more aggression than necessary.

“Easy Tozier. I’m doing this as a favour for my brother, and if you keep complaining there will be no chance of us fucking each other senseless at all today or tonight.” Y/N said sharply, and Richie gave her an annoyed look, sticking his tongue out as a childish gesture of irritation.

The painting took quite a bit of time, with Y/N and Richie leaving the apartment at around four o’clock. When they got home Y/N was straight in the shower, itching to get the paint off of her skin.

“You’d better not be having a shower without me, you minx! Wait for me!”

I want to drive away with you

I want your complications too

I want your dreary Mondays

Wrap your arms around me, baby boy

2016

“Mrs Tozier?” Y/N walked up to the young stagehand who had called her name, a kind smile on her face.

“Please, just call me Y/N honey. What do you need?” She said, gently touching the young girl’s arm.

“Its your husband. He’s really not feeling well, and he asked for me to get you.” Y/N’s face dropped slightly upon hearing that news, but she kept up the smiling front with a little less sincerity than before.

“Where is he?” Y/N asked, and the stagehand lead her through the back corridors of the venues until she came to a fire exit door.

“He’s out there.” The girl said before leaving, and Y/N felt confused as she opened the door, though the confusion turned into concern and worry as soon as she saw Richie. He had clearly just vomited and he was shaking like a leaf.

“Shit, Richie. What happened?” Y/N asked, rushing forward to wrap her arms around the man she loved. His arms snaked around her waist almost instinctively, and she felt him rest his head against her chest.

“I got a call from home… from Derry.” He breathed out, and Y/N felt all her muscles tense up. She knew Richie didn’t talk much about his childhood or his hometown, but from what she gathered it was not a good place, and clearly the phone call must have brought some stuff up in Richie.

“Shit. Are you good, babe?” Y/N asked and Richie let out a shaky breath, lifting his head so he could look up at her.

“I don’t know. I was fine but when I heard Mike tell me he needed me to come back to Derry I just lost it.” Richie said, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket.

“Ok well do you still wanna do the show or not, because you don’t really look that red hot, Rich.” Y/N said with concern evident in her voice.

“No, I’ll still do the show, but we have to go back to Derry as soon as we can after it, ok?” Richie said, an almost pleading tone in his voice. Y/N nodded, kissing the top of his head.

“All of your problems, all of your shit, you can share it with me. For better or worse, right? And if you need it, I will drive away with you at a moment’s notice. I love you Richie Tozier. Always have and always will.” Y/N said, and when she met Richie’s gaze she was almost overwhelmed with the sheer emotion in his eyes.

“I will never love someone as much as I love you, Y/N Tozier. You’re my world. Now let go of me so I can go do some kickass comedy.” Y/N chuckled at Richie’s words and obliged, letting go of her husband.

Though neither one of the couple knew what their trip to Derry would have in stall for them, the sheer love between them was enough for them.

#it #it 2019 #it chapter 2 #richie tozier #richie tozier x reader #richie tozier imagine #bill hader #paper rings #paper rings universe

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winchester-with-wings · 4 years

Text

You’re Not Alone

Sam Winchester x Bella (@dreamingforthosewholost)

A Coronavirus-related story.

@dreamingforthosewholost commissioned me!

Request: Unfortunately someone in my immediate family has caught the coronavirus and me myself I’m feeling kind of ill. I’m going to test for it sometime this week. And I would really appreciate it if you could write this fic! So the request is that Sam Winchester is my boyfriend and he is taking care of me.

Word Count: 2200ish!

Author’s Notes: This was an interesting commission! One of the first ones I’ve gotten in a long while and I really appreciate Bella’s support <3 The title is actually kinda relevant too since it’s been such a prominent message during the pandemic. This is personalized with Bella’s name and physical features. promise it’s more fluff and comfort than anything else.

Triggers: family member is covid positive, Bella is assumed positive too.

Wanna get previews, early access and make exclusive requests? Become a Patron! You can follow my Patreon for free too! Can’t become a patron? Please consider a donation to my Ko-Fi (Tips are appreciated!) Commissions are open too!

Mobile Masterlist / Patreon & Commissions Masterlist / Commissions are Open

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

Sam and Dean Winchester have officially declared 2020 cancelled.

They'd endured plenty of end-of-world scenarios so far…too many really. But usually there was something for them to do. Something that they could do to stop it, fix it, save the world. It's not really a savior complex when history time and time again proved they were truly heroes.

Not that Bella was going to tell them they were bonafide heroes.

Dean, in particular, didn't need the ego boost, and she didn't want Sam to do something stupid out of obligation to deal with the current situation. Because he couldn't.

The coronavirus, Covid-19, was not of the supernatural realm and couldn't be solved by the best hunters in the world. No, the world was sick and the virus had sprouted from nature and humankind's carelessness. Monsters, ghosts, and demons were now the least of their worries. The creatures even seemed to be sitting it out, doing their own part to give humans a break from hunting and hauntings. This meant that Sam and Dean were left with nothing but terrible headlines, of which they could do nothing about. Humankind's own negligence--failure to react, to test, to take precautions--this was on them. And while the Winchester brothers had been known to face human "monsters," a global pandemic was wildly out of their pay-grade and abilities.

And so over the first few weeks, Sam and Dean read the headlines. Scouring them for anything unrelated to the virus. They came up empty, thankfully.

They took the necessary precautions themselves, going to a "big box store" in town for more than just the supplies often acquired at a gas station convenience store. And as much as Dean loved food, he'd never seen the Impala so loaded with groceries…and toilet paper.

"Dean, we don't need two giant packs of toilet paper," Sam had scolded him, sighing. Dean frowned and had followed through with tossing the toiletry into their cart.

For what it's worth though, the bunker had earned this moniker. All supplies Sam and Dean picked up went towards their stockpile, which had been greatly depleted when they'd taken in refugee hunters from another dimension.

"We'll need this eventually," would be Dean's response to Sam's groans of disapproval as countless bags of chips and cases of beer and frozen packages of meat were piled on.

They'd also expected that more hunters in their newly-formed network would seek shelter for the quarantine. But no one came to the bunker. Instead they stayed away, as recommended, you know…because of social distancing.

Castiel visited when he could, but angel radio was overwhelmed with prayers and he couldn't ignore them for long. Cas had cured someone with the OG plague before, this should be nothing.

Bella--another hunter who lived in town--tried to stay away from the brothers. She'd never forgive herself if breaking quarantine meant weakening them; surely there was some Big Boss fight on the horizon.

Bella had not immersed herself into the hunter's life just yet. She'd recently moved back home and it had only been by a chance meeting in the park during a morning jog that she'd met Sam and soon after, her eyes were opened to the world of the supernatural.

Hell, if she hadn't known any better, Bella would've thought Sam was some sort of god, or an angel. Or a soldier, but no. He was a hunter, and the best way to cultivate her relationship with him had been to become a hunter too, although he hadn't been happy about that. How was she supposed to live life like a normal person, going to work at a restaurant when day-to-day life could be plagued by literal demons? It really put things into perspective. Sam Winchester changed Bella's life, and as long as she was with him, it was for the better.

The quarantine brought with it a personal predicament. Stay home with her family, or with Sam and Dean in the bunker? So far, Bella had only spent time at the bunker during the day in the archives, and even more recently had she spent the night there. But the quarantine could mean practically moving in. Who knew how long it would last? If the articles were to be believed, the rising numbers of infected people could mean at least a month stuck inside.

The stay at home order for Kansas went into effect at the end of March. Yet despite this, Bella's job at a restaurant was considered essential.

"Stay with me," Sam asked her, leaning on the trunk of the Impala. Bella was poised between his legs, his hands resting on her lower back. "We won't get sick and neither will you. It's the best way to keep your family healthy," he reasoned as his thumbs traced a pattern along her back. It was a logical suggestion and she was open to considering it. But how her family would handle the quarantine without her still weighed on her. How could she possibly predict how they'd cope with the isolation? She pressed her forehead into the curve of Sam's neck and nuzzled him.

"But where would I sleep?" she murmured. It's not like she had her own room at the bunker. A deep, throaty chuckle reverberated in Sam's chest and his arms coiled around her.

"Oh I think you know the answer to that."

Bella moved into the bunker that night.

----------

She stayed in touch with her family, of course, occasionally dropping off food on the front porch and retreating to her car. Phone calls with her grandmother and video chats with her parents too, but then what she'd dreaded came to pass.

Her grandmother tested positive. Her symptoms were rather mild for someone her age, but that didn't stop Bella from worrying. There was a night after a longer shift at work that she came home to the bunker and broke down and cried while Sam held her.

"They're all at risk now!" she cried. Her grandmother had come to stay with her parents so that she wouldn't be all alone. She was both thankful she hadn't stayed there but also felt guilty that now her family was facing the virus without her.

Dean cooked them all a dinner of comfort food and reassured her that he'd reach out to Cas, asking for a miracle.

Even with the orders in place, Bella felt a flexibility that others may not have because of her essential job. Yes, she dealt with rude people who just couldn't cope with the state of things, but she also had a reason for leaving the bunker and being out on the road. Although no one stopped her or questioned her; these stay-at-home orders weren't enforced very well.

She'd put together a care package for her grandmother and, while wearing gloves and a mask (oh and foggy glasses), and managed to stop by her parent's home. Her grandmother had been fortunate enough to not require hospitalization, but the idea that she might be struggling was overwhelming--enough that Bella was willing to take the risk.

She was young and healthy, confident that she could beat the virus as well if it came to it. Still, she planned to stay a safe distance away and avoid touching things. It broke Bella's heart that she couldn't hug her parents, couldn't hold her grandmother's hand.

"You're going to be okay," was the only reassurance she could conjure up.

--------

Not even two weeks later…

Bella called in sick.

It started with a sore throat. Dean wanted to chalk that up to her snoring.

"I do not snore!" Bella contested. "Sam! Tell him!" His grin was wiped away when called to defend her, and with a serious face, he nodded.

"Yeah Dean, she doesn't snore. I do." Literally behind Bella's back, Sam's eyes widened and he shook his head. "She totally does. So loud." he mouthed to his brother. "Still, just to be safe, babe, you should rest."

Sam went out on a small supply run and when he returned, Bella was laid up in bed, coughing.

"Oh sweetheart," Sam sighed, coming to her bedside. Using the back of his giant hand, he reached out to touch Bella's forehead, gleaming with sweat.

"No, don’t!" She recoiled from his touch. "I think--I think I have it." Saying the name out loud would only make it more real. Sam just smirked and made contact with her skin.

"You're burning up."

"I told you," she said, just before breaking into a fit of coughing.

"We need to get you tested. Come on." Sam scooped Bella into his arms with ease, taking her blanket with them.

He held her hand as he drove her to a testing site in town and held her hand while her sinuses were swabbed. He was wearing a facemask but his reassuring smile reached his hazel eyes; she loved the way they crinkled at the corner when he smiled.

"I should probably stay in another room when we get back," Bella suggested, rather quietly. Was she ashamed? Embarrassed? Or was she just scared? She'd been careful and perhaps even a little cocky that she could handle it, and where did that land her? Sucking wind.

"No. It's fine. I'll crash in another room. I want you to be comfortable." Sam rested his hand on her knee. He looked so good behind the wheel of the impala, such a shame that Dean doesn't let him drive more often. "Besides, your germs are already all over my room."

"I don't want you guys to get sick," Bella mumbled as Sam pulled into the bunker garage.

"Baby, we've already been exposed. We'll be okay. We just need to focus on you getting better now."

Sam opened the passenger door and carried Bella again, despite her complaints.

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

The results didn't take very long to come back positive. But it also wasn't a surprise either.

Cas returned to the bunker and with a touch of his hand, he was able to determine that Sam and Dean were healthy and safe.

"Can you help her?" Sam asked the angel. He sat on the bed next to Bella, brushing her long brown hair away from her face. Once, while she was resting and they were streaming something on Sam's laptop, he'd tried to braid her hair. It hadn't been too successful but it did the trick of pulling her hair away from her face and neck, preventing it from frizzing up more than it already did.

Cas sighed. "I can try but it's taking minor miracles to heal the people in the hospitals. Even still, I can't wipe it out of a person's system completely. It would be suspicious and could hinder man's search for proper treatments and cures. But for Bella, I can try." Cas stepped forward with his hand outstretched. Bella's tired brown eyes suddenly widened and held up a hand.

"W-wait, wait no. Stop," she managed to rasp out. Castiel looked utterly confused. Who would refuse a miracle? "If you can heal people. Make them better. Don't waste it on me."

"What? Baby, it's not a waste," Sam argued.

"No, you don't understand." Bella started coughing. "I'll be okay. But if Cas can do this…can I ask that he visit someone else?" Realization ran across Sam's features.

"Your grandmother." Bella nodded.

"Oh, of course," Cas agreed without further questions. Dean led his friend out of the room, offering to get him your address.

"I'm so sorry, Bella. I should've thought of that too. I'm sorry," Sam said, his face twisted up in guilt. He settled deeper into the bed beside Bella and she shifted so that she rested her head on his chest rather than a pillow.

"It's okay," Bella said, and she really meant it.

"I can't stand seeing someone I care about in pain." Sam seemed to be speaking into the silence filling his bedroom, the room he'd relinquished to Bella. A room he didn't sleep in right now, but spent just about every other waking moment in. Bella winced as she readjusted, snuggling closer to Sam.

"You care about me?" Sam's chuckle reverberated in his chest, muffling the sound of his heartbeat--Bella's favorite lullaby.

"You must be really sick because you sound crazy. Of course I care about you, sweetheart." Sam pressed his lips to the top of her head.

"My body hurts," Bella said a moment later, the pain bringing tears to her eyes.

"What can I do?"

"Just hold me? Maybe get rid of the blanket?" Just moments ago, she'd been shaking, so cold and sweaty. Now it was too much.

"Yeah, okay." Sam slithered out from under Bella. He did as she asked, removing the duvet and then adjusted her position in bed with more pillows. He turned off the light as well, setting up his laptop per their usual lounging routine nowadays.

"Sam?" His giant figure had been lost to the shadows of his room. But hearing the fear in her voice, Sam returned to the bed.

"Hey, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Bella sighed. "But you could still get sick. You shouldn't be here." Sam removed his shirt. Bella blinked and somehow missed out on watching him change into his pajama pants. And then he climbed into the bed.

"I'm not leaving you. I won't leave you alone. So many people are going through this alone but I won't let you, Bella. I'm not going anywhere."

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

Tagging: @abbessolute @book-loving--anime-chick @faithtrustandpixiedust95 @fabinapercabeth4179 @sanya-gryff @softdudebro @thinkwritexpress-official @autoblocked @karazoiel @therealcap @mathle0matle @whoopxd @bookworm4ever99 @geeksareunique @pottxrwolff @ravenhaviland @clockblobber @melaninspice11 @gryffindorable713 @feelmyroarrrr @mrswhozeewhatsis

#my writing #sam winchester #sam winchester fanfic #commission #spn #spn fic #sam winchester fic #sam winchester fluff #covid_19 #coronavirus #comfort fic #fluff

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softforklave · 4 years

Note

for the tua asks: 13, 22, 23, & 29

i would very much like to hear your thoughts!

Thank you so much for the ask! And I am sorry for the late answer, I just saw this when going to bed last night so thought I should sleep on the questions to be able to give you a slightly better version of the one my tired brain managed to come up with yesterday haha. This got super long, I am so sorry!

13 - If you could change one of the siblings’ storylines, who would you pick and what would you change?

I know some people have said this before, so its not very original, but I would change Ben (and Klaus) storyline. I know I can only choose one, but the main problems that I want to change involve both of them sooo (and I also just really wished they wouldn't treat Klaus as purely comedic relief with little to no plot relevance...and give him his powers back please). Most of my complaints could be solved by having 55min eps instead of 45, as I think having more screentime would solve most of the problems. So here we go:

1) I liked that were fighting, but I would like to know why. I wish we could see how all the negativity started (besides assuming they just are fed up with each other because they disagree on...everything), like was there a very specific thing that happened that just was the final straw? Could we please have some build-up? We also see that they care for each other in s2, but I would like to have seen more of it, cause the first time I watched it I didn't really feel it. Now, on my 7th rewatch I can see it more clearly (which is why I always rewatch shows a million times, cause I always notice new things or just pay more attention to background stuff). So what I really want is just more scenes that show more of their relationship so that it is clearer to the audience how their relationship started to deteriorate and some more love. I know it's not always best to show everything, let some stuff happen off-screen, not spell everything out, but... Robert and Justin have mentioned two scenes that they cut, which was Klaus making a heart at Ben and mouthing I love you too or something, and Klaus asking other ghosts if they have seen Ben after Ben passed. And I just wished they didn't cut it. And added some more scenes with Ben and Klaus in San Fran or something, just a little more of them on their own before the fam showed up AND, we were robbed for a final goodby between them and I will forever be mad about it.

2) I love Jill, and I liked the possession actually, it seems like something Ben would do (and I don't mean having sex with Jill, cause I don't think he would have. The way he said “sure, but” felt, for me, more like an awkward no, where you say yes, but it is immediately followed by a clumsy excuse as to why you can't) What I didn't like was the motivation behind it. Ben hasn't talked to his family in years, but what makes him want to be alive again is a girl he hasn't interacted with. I think it was cute that Ben had a crush, but I think Bens's motivation for possessing Klaus should have been to talk to the fam. It makes more sense, as Ben is mad at Klaus for not telling the fam about him, and we had the “I missed you guys so much” scene. I think it would fit better. But Jill is cute and I would love for her to be in the show. Maybe a scene (like the one where Ben is staring at her while she reads in the bus) where Ben sits next to her while she is tending to some flowers or something. Just a cute innocent ghost crush.

3) The last point is the whole going to the light thing. I get that they need Klaus alone and this was the way to get Ben to go, but it was introduced so late, and when it was it felt rushed. Bens' death could have been more impactful if this was a concept that was established for s1. Maybe mention that Klaus feels guilty about holding him back at the start of s2, but preferably in s1.

This is long, sorry! A lot of other people have said this so much better. So yeah, just more scenes with Ben (and Klaus) to elaborate more on the implied stuff and have Bens funeral and going into the light earlier.

22 - Do you think the siblings like their code-names?

I think Luther, Diego, and Allison like their names. Allison's name makes sense and she likes her powers (up until she gets caught rumoring Claire), and while Spaceboy and the Kraken make very little sense, I think they enjoy them. Luther likes space, and Diego still uses his as a boxing alias, and why wouldn't he, he thinks he sounds badass. Though he might have conflicting feelings because of the bad memories from the Academy.

Klaus doesn't like his name, cause I can't imagine him liking anything that has to do with his powers or the academy days. Ben loathes his for the same reason and its such a horrible name for such a sweet boy :(

Five and Vanya? I am not sure. The boy is..... I don't even know, it makes no sense for that to be his name when the majority of the Academy is boys. But if it was I think he would hate it when he is 58, cause he is MAN, not a BOY even if he looks it. But when he was young? Maybe indifferent, I don't think he would be too bothered by an alias. The White Violin is not Vanya's alias officially, but if it was she would love it so much! Its badass, and she get to be a part of the Academy. What's not to love?

23 - What sort of relationship do you think each sibling has with Grace?

This is mostly their relationship with her after they moved out since that's what I have the most thoughts about. I hope that's okay :) This also got waaaaay longer than I thought it would, I apparently have a lot of thoughts on this haha I am very sorry.

Luther) I think Luther and Grace were very close! Not when he was a kid (he was the leader and he had to be strong, and that means no running to mom when Reggie is being awful or when his siblings are being mean), but when everyone else moved out. I like to think that Grace would spoil him as much as she could. She has so much love and attention that used to be stretched for 7, but now Luther gets all of it. After working out she would make him good and super nutritious food and sneak in some cookies every now and then when he was missing his siblings or Reggie was being more of an asshole than usual. Luther would hang out in the kitchen and help her with the food. When Reggie was away, they (and Pogo) would eat dinner in the kitchen where Reggie rarely went (Grace wouldn't eat but she would sit down and enjoy some family time). It would be super informal and they would try to talk (but it's a bit awkward cause Luther doesn't know how to have dinner conversations since they weren't allowed to). After a few tries at small talk, Luther just puts on his favorite music and they eat in comfortable silence.

I also think that Luther tried to commit suicide after the accident and the serum, and Grace would find him, patch him up and comfort him when he was breaking down. She would tell him she was proud of him and that she loves him so much. He will always be her little boy even if he is big. She would keep stroking his hair long after he fell asleep and she would stay with him all night until he gets better and gets shipped to the moon.

Diego) Well, I will pretty much state the obvious, Diego loves her and would spend as much time with her as possible, especially after Klaus started to be high more times than not. They would do everything together. Grace loves all her children, but Diego spent the most time with her, and after moving out he will still check in on her every now and again when something bad happens (Patch breakup, getting kicked out of the police academy). He says he just wants to make sure she is alright, and while it is true, he also likes to see his mom when he is feeling down. She would patch up his clothes and make him some food he could take home cause she worries he is not eating well enough. When he moved out, Grace gave him the knife embroidery (in the boileroom) as a gift.

Allison) I don't think Allison and Grace were super close. While they love each other a lot, they don't spend much time together. When Allison was young she spent a lot of her time with Luther, and she tried to get Reggies' attention and approval (Diego call her Daddys girl so). I think Allison starts to appreciate Grace more when Claire is born. Having one normal kid is hard, she cant imagine having 7 super-powered ones. So after Claire is born she would call Grace and ask for advice and they would bond over being mothers (and maybe she would call every other week just to hear her mom's voice cause she misses her). Grace loves to hear about Claire, though she has never spoked to her. When Allison has to be in Detroit (there was a post about the Academy being in Detroit and I am running with it) she always visits Grace and they have coffee and cake, and Grace is so happy to see the newest pictures of Claire, and hear about how Allison's career is going.

Klaus) Klaus and Grace weren't close when he was a kid and not after moving out. Grace would take care of him when he overdoses or just can't make it to the bed before passing out. She would make sure that there was always water and some food on his bedside table, tuck him in and check in with him every hour to make sure he was okay, and if she had the time she would be there all night. He had a lot of nightmares, so I think she would read to him or sing on bad nights and when Reggie wouldn't notice. Sometimes he would go to her charging station and sit with her when the ghosts were worse than usual. She might be still while charging, but he doesn't want to be alone. Sometimes he would put his head on her lap, and when he woke up it would be to her petting his head. She loves it when Klaus borrows her clothes. The few times she caught him she would gush about her pretty boy, and Klaus loved that. After Klaus fell down the stairs, she moved her heels to the top shelf in her room and made sure that her jewelry was very visible so that he could compensate for heels with more necklaces.

After moving out he would rarely come back, though sometimes he would sneak in during the winter to sleep in his room. She always makes sure that the bed is made and that there is some non-perishable food there for him, and she would leave a sweet and short letter for him that he reads, but stores in a shoebox in the closet before climbing out the window.

Five) Five and Grace are not close either. Before he time traveled she would clean his room and smile fondly over the math on the walls. She would always make sure that she didn't clean anything that he needed. If he was particularly excited and Grace caught him writing stuff, he would ramble on about it and she would just sit there and be proud of her smart boy even if everything he said went over her head. During the apocalypse, he thought about her and he wished he spent more time with her, and he plans to, when he has prevented the apocalypse. He hoped he could still do it after the sibs come back from 63, but now he wont be able to :(

Ben) Grace would read to Ben when he was very young and his tummy hurt. This sparked his interest in reading. She would recommend him books based on what he likes and she would always be happy to talk to him about it. I don't think she has read a lot of books, but maybe she has some version of spark notes in her programming (haha, sorry). Not getting the zipper up on the combat outfit was a common occurrence. She would hug him before missions, cause he always looked so anxious and sad. She promised him that when he got back home there would be cocoa there for him and some mom snuggles, which makes it slightly more bearable for him. She does not like that her sweet boy is covered in blood and looking worse and worse every time he gets home. (Glossing over his death, cause I am not sure how she would react to his death)

Ghost Ben sometimes visits her when Klaus wants some privacy or when they have had a fight, and he would just follow her around the house and talk to her even if she can't respond. Sometimes when he is lucky he visits during Luther, Grace, and Pogo dinner, and he will sit down with them and pretend that they know he is there.

Vanya) Grace and Vanya would be close. When the siblings were on missions, Grace would listen to her play the violin. Sometimes Vanya wouldn't feel up to playing and they would sit in her room and Grace would assure her that she is her very special girl and she is happy that there is someone there to keep her company. Grace is anxious when the kids are on missions, and she channels her robot anxiety into taking care of Vanya and give her her undivided attention. It was Vanya's favorite part of her childhood, as she finally gets to be the center of attention. Vanya does not go back to the Academy before the funeral, and when Grace misses her she would look at the “My life as Number 7″. Not to read it, but she likes to look at the author's picture to remind herself about what she looks like, all grown up.

29 - Give a random headcanon

When Klaus dies and meets God, she says that she needs him so she can pick and choose. I headcanon that it means his presence on earth makes her able to pick the people who come to the afterlife, and therefore she keeps him alive. The reason he dies in the 2019 apocalypse is that everyone on earth is dead, and God has picked the ones she liked, and it's just then that she allowes him to die.

Thank you so much for the ask, it was very fun! I am sorry this is so long, but hopefully I answered okay :)

#uaklauslovesdave #Thank you for the ask!#TUA Ask #tw: suicide attempt

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thanzag · 4 years

Text

someone who’ll set my heart free

the river styx does not wash away the poison that led to zagreus’ most recent failure. thanatos lends a hand.

than/zag sick fic, meg/zag mentioned in passing as something that is happening but otherwise not really relevant for this story.

fic masterlist here

content warning for mention of the concept of vomiting, but no description of it

Normally when Zagreus walks out of the River Styx and back into the House, it’s as if nothing happened. The adrenaline from his escape attempt (failed, again) will have faded, his injuries are healed over, and he’s as good as new. Normally he either walks right past his father to dip into the lounge and say hello to whomever is inside, or he greets Hypnos and Nyx and goes straight to his room. With Achilles being caught up in his own thoughts about Patroclus lately, there’s not a lot of reason to head to the West Hall, most of the time.

Normally, he doesn’t have to drag himself out onto the steps, the tile, as if the pool is trying to suck him back in. Normally his head isn’t pounding, his skin isn’t hot, and the torchlight doesn’t leave terrible auroras burned into his brain. Normally he is able to get his feet beneath him to stand. Normally, standing isn’t even on a list of problems.

The lingering shades, stuck waiting in line, are looking at him. Chattering amongst themselves. He doesn’t have it in him to care. He drags himself a little further out of the pool and groans. Trying to sit up gets him nowhere.

“You don’t look so good down there!” Hypnos enthuses from above him.

Zagreus isn’t sure when he dozed off — it’s been either an hour or an eternity. He drags his heavy eyelids open and tries to speak, though that doesn’t really work out, either. Hypnos looks down at his clipboard before looking at him again. “I mean it, you look terrible. That satyr poison will make you sick, you know!”

“…thanks,” Zagreus eventually drags out. Why does his throat hurt? Hypnos cocks his head to the side, smiling brightly.

“You’re welcome!” He turns to leave, to head back to his post, and —

“Wait!” It hurts to speak. “Can you — help me?” He swallows. “Please?”

Hypnos turns back to him, quilted cloak billowing as he does. He folds his clipboard against his chest. “What do you need help with, Zagreus?”

Surely Hypnos can tell that this isn’t normal for him, right? Zagreus has come out of the river so many times —

“I need help to my room, I think,” he says after a long moment of Hypnos watching him, and the other man brightens again.

“Oh, well why didn’t you say so? I can’t really leave my post, but I’ll get someone!” Maybe Achilles will help him, if he can be drawn from his thoughts.

At least knowing that he’s emotionally invested in someone else will keep his crush from resurfacing. Or maybe Nyx will help him, though her support has always been more from afar.

Hypnos leaves him there, face pressed against the cold tile, and Zagreus tries to keep it together.

“Oh, you are kidding me,” Meg says, drawing him out of his stupor.

“Thank you Miss Megaera!” Hypnos chirps, and then the sound of him walking away echoes in Zagreus’ ears.

“What did you do, Zagreus?” she murmurs, standing high above him. He recognizes the way she’s standing, even though her face is hard to see from down here. The stalwart ‘this is bullshit’ stance she has so often when she’s gatekeeping him from Asphodel. He groans and tries to turn over onto his back to better look at her, and — eugh. That’s a bad idea.

“…dunno. Sick.”

“And you need help getting to your room,” she says flatly, not-asking, and he hopes she’s willing to take pity on him enough to at least help him stand before she ducks out of this one. Hypnos should have asked anyone but her, even Dusa. Or Cerberus. What he and Meg have is great, but it’s not something borne out of care-taking. This is out of her comfort zone. He’s thinking in dizzy circles when the sound of her saying his name draws him back to reality.

“Zagreus.”

“Yeah, sorry.” He mentally shakes his head — if he really does, he might be sick. “Help me up?”

“Don’t be stupid,” she says — not the expected answer, truly — and then she’s kneeling to scoop him up in her arms.

Moving so quickly does make his head throb, and he spends however-long it is that she is carrying him thinking — of course she can carry me. She’s so strong. She always is. I should have known better. But why —?

The darkness of his room settles onto him before he finds a real answer in his mind. She lays him on the bed, on his back, and he can feel her watching him now. He groans without meaning to, but it’s easier to open his eyes in this low light.

She’s standing at the side of the bed, and she’s got her arms crossed like she’s annoyed. If he had the energy to be sardonic with himself, he’d think that of course she is — she’s always annoyed with him. But he doesn’t, and instead he lets his eyes slide off of her and onto the mirror at the other end of the room. It’s easier than looking at her face right now.

“If you’re going to vomit, don’t get it on me,” she bites out, and he shakes his head even though it does, as expected, make it ache more.

“I won’t. Thanks, Meg.”

“Don’t mention it. I’m not your nursemaid. If you need anything, get Dusa. Or anyone else.” Her words are stern but, more briefly than he can comprehend, her cool hand is touching his forehead. And then she’s gone.

Zagreus falls into a fitful sleep sometime after she leaves, feeling hot and cold in turns in a way that has him wrestling the covers on and off of him. He has terrible fever dreams, reliving past escape attempts. Reliving the feeling of being run through with blades and cut down with — whips, and other things.

When he wakes up again, it’s because he can feel someone watching him. He drags his eyes open and turns his head, expecting to see Nyx, maybe, or possibly (very unlikely) Meg back again. But it’s not either of them.

“Than?” His voice is pitiful, but at least he can bear to speak, unlike before.

“These things would only happen to you,” is what Than says, lingering at his bedside. Zagreus thinks he’s come a little closer, though that might just be his faulty vision.

“I’m special that way,” Zagreus says with a smile, distantly aware that that’s not a normal response, or even what he meant to say. He has very suddenly become hot, all over, and he tosses the blankets off of him. He’s sweat-soaked.

Than does come closer, now, and touches his head. His hand is so cool on his skin.

“You’re burning up, Zag.” Than sounds either unimpressed or worried. Right now, he can’t tell.

“Yeah, sounds right,” he agrees. Than’s hand moves from his forehead to his cheek, and Zagreus turns his head minutely to press a weak kiss against his palm.

“You’re incorrigible. What happened to you?”

“Mmmh. Satyrs in the temple,” he answers. Nuzzles into Than’s hand. “I’m cold.”

“You threw your blankets off. Of course you are,” Than says dryly, but he pulls the covers back over him anyway. Zagreus privately mourns the absence of the hand on his face.

“Missed you.”

“I know, Zag. I missed you too.” Even dizzy and addled, Zagreus is aware that this is not — being brushed off. He knows it’s sincere, even though Than is curt as ever.

“Come cuddle?” He feels so terrible.

Than frowns, minutely, and even from that Zagreus knows it’s going to be a no. “I can’t stay. But I’ll bring you Mort, alright?”

He just groans an affirmative, nestling a little further into his blanket cocoon.

Than does leave for a moment, returning with Mort in both hands. He presses the little mouse against Zagreus’ chest, tucking it under the blanket. “There you go.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs. He’s half asleep already, but he doesn’t miss the soft, tentative press of lips to his hot forehead.

He rests again, still fitful. He can’t get comfortable, still sweaty and aching all over, but he does doze. At some point Nyx and Dusa do come through — he thinks someone turns up with an extra blanket, maybe. But it’s easier and more comfortable to just sleep, so he doesn’t put effort into waking.

The next time he does really wake, it’s against his will. Someone is shaking his shoulder, talking to him instead of around him.

“Come on, Zag, sit up.” It’s Than again, and Zagreus is just aware enough to know that it must have been a long time, if Than’s had time to go do work and come back.

He groans but does try to sit up, manages to get an elbow beneath him.

“Whassat?” Than’s holding a corked bottle of glowing liquid.

“I’ve got the antidote. Drink this,” he insists with little preamble, popping the cork out. Zagreus lets Than tip it into his mouth, swallows it down. Almost instantly, he does feel better.

“Than,” he says, swallowing again, licking his lips. He feels refreshed, too. “Thank you.”

“You’re feeling better?” Zagreus blinks slowly, thinking about it.

His head still feels fuzzy, and he’s a little warm. “Probably should rest some more.”

“You must be feeling poorly still to suggest it yourself,” Than says, but he’s smiling that indulgent smile that Zagreus thinks is just for him. “I can stay for a little while, now, if you wanted company.”

“— really?” If he had the energy, he’d be delighted. As it is, he feels warm all over in a way that has nothing to do with his departing fever.

“Yes, really.” Than discards his scythe and sword, leaning them against the wall. He unbuckles his pauldron and leaves it on the floor. And then he’s climbing onto the bed, underneath the blanket, right next to him. “It was hard enough to leave the last time.”

Zagreus turns over and curls against Than’s side, presses his face against his shoulder in lieu of trying to find the right words to say. Than’s arm wraps itself around his back, stroking his spine, and he nuzzles in a little further.

“Glad you’re here,” he does say, and lets himself sleep again.

#thanzag #hades game #thanatos #zagreus #*mine #first and foremost this is entirely borne of the voice line 'i feel sick' in the temple #secondarily i am 100% aware that hypnos is not actually an airhead or an idiot #but i think he is very accustomed to death and particularly zag's dying and his other (frankly) strange habits compared to the rest of the #denizens of the house #and he would absolutely be willing to write off some oddness in the interest of staying out of it #hypnos just wants to go back to his post and doze ok

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capricornus-rex · 4 years

Text

Playing Pretend (3)

Requested by @calkesttiss | Prompt:

Hi! I just watched isi & ossi (rich girl and poor boxer boy AH) on netflix and now i cant stop thinking about cal and fake dating. Do with that what you will 😂

Cal Kestis x Reader

1 | 2 | Next: Part 4 | Masterlist

3 of ?

The next morning, you’ve slept in. The first thing your puffy eyes see was Tazha sitting by your dresser stool and touching every single bottle on the table. You sat up but that still didn’t get her attention.

“Since when have you been here?”

Tazha turned her head to you, she exclaimed as if she was surprised to see you awake.

“Well, good morning, sunshine!”

You lay back to your bed but Tazha prompt stood up, marched towards you and pulled away the blanket from your body.

“Ohhh no, you’ve been asleep for far too long!”

Your eyelids shot up and flicked to Tazha.

“What time is it?”

Tazha snatched up the clock on your nightstand and showed the time right in front of you. You groaned and rubbed the bridge of your nose.

“What’d you do last night?”

She wasn’t expecting you to smile and scoff through your nostrils. Tazha tilted her head in confusion as she studied your expression.

“Crazy night, I’ll tell you more in a bit,”

You stood up to go to the bathroom and wash your face. By the time you came back out to rejoin Tazha, you narrated everything that happened right after your conversation via the holotable ended. She is the only person who knows your nightly escapades. You mentioned your run-in with your new friend.

“Well, it sounds like you two had fun kicking the asses out of those muggers,”

“He was probably judging my fighting techniques. I was still sloppy,”

Tazha stands up from your bedside.

“Come on. Our dads are downstairs, they’re probably working on the party that you told me about. Get dressed.”

The conversation was indistinct but audible from your bedroom in the second floor, both you and Tazha arrived in the living room where her father and yours were discovering over business matters. You didn’t last long in the living room, you dragged Tazha away to the smaller dining hall where you usually make your own food. She sat by the barstool on the center island, watching you rummage and fix up something to eat.

“Why don’t you call one of your cooks to do it for you?”

“No, it’s fine. Not everything I need has to be done by someone else,”

When you settled down on a seat opposite Tazha, she immediately saw the firm expression painted all over your face.

“What have they talked about so far, Tazha?”

“I’ve only heard much,”

“Like what? Start from the very beginning,”

Tazha started off with the part that obviously her family is invited to your father’s party, she got to the better and relevant parts—one of which is that she had picked up a name from their conversation earlier while you were asleep.

“They’ve invited the Ithrels. Your dad said something like sponsor or something,”

“He’s made the Ithrel family his sponsors,” you deduced.

“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing,”

“Just a feeling. Thanks for covering for me, Tazha,”

Today was a busy day for your parents. You were left alone in the dark as you watch them confer with one another and with different people via the living room holotable. As a child, it was something you never understood, it was also the reason why you felt estranged from them—despite giving you what you could ever want and need or both.

Why did they always choose to speak with projections of people through a machine over their own daughter in the flesh who is always watching them from the door?

There was very little interaction between you and your parents. Perhaps the only interaction you’ve had so far from either of them was your mother calling for you to go to the atelier room. When you got there, five people who introduced themselves as designers lined up in front of you. Beside them was a mannequin wearing a dress of their making.

“I had them called here because I want you to pick out a dress for your father’s banquet.”

None of the dresses seemed to impress you. You approached every single one, each designer either smiled at you or stiffened from nervousness—probably because your approval was their prize, a ridiculous competition.

Your fingers felt the fabric of each dress, your hand slid down to the skirts’ lengths, and then you move on to the next dress. They were beautiful indeed. But you’ve no need of them, other girls could’ve felt like royalty for a night in dresses like those. To spite your mother, you twirled to face her and give your verdict.

“Sorry, but I believe I have more than enough dresses for a party like this,”

You crossed your arms. Wrinkles appeared on Yasina’s forehead upon hearing your answer. The designers were just as confused themselves.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mom, there’s so much dresses in my wardrobe that I practically need a warehouse! I think I have enough to choose from in my closet instead of this. Send them back. Have them make a dress for you if that makes you feel any better,”

It all happened so fast for your mother, you walked out and headed for your room, realizing that there isn’t much to do in your own house.

“They’re probably too busy to even care that I’m gone,” you muttered it to yourself with great scorn, lousily tying your hair in a messy ponytail and then proceeded to march out of the house.

You were on your way to downtown again. You put on the hood of your poncho and suddenly you were one of the common faces in the crowd. The destination was your favorite pub, back in the Tipsy Taun-Taun.

The Balosar barkeeper greeted you as soon as you entered.

“You’re early,”

“Whatever, I’m a paying customer.”

“Just sayin’.”

He said he’ll be whipping up a glass of Merenzane Gold for you, but you stopped him there and ordered a glass of Meiloorun Juice instead.

“Aww, so the little princess got a hangover?” the Balosar jeered.

“No, I didn’t!”

The keeper proceeded to make your drink, you searched for a seat; the place is so much quieter in the day than in the night. Nonetheless, you enjoyed it either time of the day. When the drink was ready, Balosar called your name and you stood up from your table. As you were about to reach for the drink, another patron—a Devaronian—snatched it and finished it in a single gulp. It all happened in a flash that you still took a minute to process what he just did.

“That was my drink!”

“Tab’s on you, missy,”

You whipped out your blaster from the flap of your poncho, you clicked the safety and pointed the barrel at his nape. His chuckle sounded more like a grumble.

“Ooh, I’m scared. What’s the little princess gonna do with a big boy’s gun?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, ass-wipe?”

That struck a chord on the hulking Devaronian, he swung his arm and flicked away the blaster from your hand. He raised his arms in a charging attack at you, you dodged soon enough that his clenched fists landed on a table, partially shattering it in the middle; you got your blaster back and attempted to aim the blaster at him, but your hands were trembling so much that the shot merely grazed his waist. He howled in pain but immediately shrugged it off.

You were doing well in dodging the enemy’s blows, swinging his left and right arm alternately which you cleanly ducked from.

“Stay still and let me claw that pretty little face!” he roared.

A large glass bottle shattered on the back of the Devaronian’s head. The impact wasn’t hard enough to render him unconscious, although it stunned him enough to lower his defenses. When he turned around, much to your surprise, it was Cal.

“We gotta stop meeting like this,” he casually said despite the mood of the predicament.

“I strongly agree,”

Once again, you two were a tag team. It was now two against one. Normally, a Devaronian thug could take two humans no problem. But apparently that urban belief betrays the Devaronian. He was bombarded with your kicks, using anything around you as a weapon against him, Cal wasn’t using his lightsaber but his fists and he threw them so hard that you could hear the impact land on the enemy’s cheek.

Cal was the one to deliver the last blow. The Devaronian fell to the floor, the barkeeper leaned over the bar to check the knocked-out patron.

“Yep, he’s out cold, alright!”

“Thanks… again,”

“You’re welcome… again.”

A brief pause between the two of you, and the Balosar is just there standing awkwardly.

“Let me buy you a drink,” you gently tapped Cal on the chest with the back of your hand, then you turned to the Balosar. “The last one isn’t on me, understood?”

You ordered the same drink for the two of you. Like last night, both of you talked over anything that you could think of.

“Where did you learn to fight?” he asked after taking a sip.

You stammered, “Oh, uh… I had a trainer but only for a short while. Then I picked up some more moves by myself—it’s been like that ever since,”

“Hey, there’s room for improvement,”

“Was I sloppy?”

Cal shrugged and avoided the question by chugging all of what’s left of his drink. Your lips pursed a smile. You finished yours as well, you tossed a credit to the barkeeper.

“Follow me,”

“What?”

“Come on!”

Both of you left the bar and Cal followed you to the backstreets one block away from the pub. You scaled the buildings and ended up in the rooftop.

“What are we doing here?”

“I was hoping you’d teach me, since you fight better than I do.”

“It’s gonna take some time,”

“I don’t care,”

Cal saw that there is no other way in getting around with you. You were your own brand of stubborn, but he felt that you got spirit. The rest of the day was spent with Cal training you basic combat moves in case of street fights and cantina brawls like yesterday and today.

“So, where you from around these parts?”

Your fighting stance softened when he asked that question, you knew you had to make up the vaguest possible answer quick.

“Oh… a little far from here,”

“Do you hang around here more often?”

“Yeah,”

He stopped asking questions and continued giving you pointers on how to dodge, take the upper hand, and exploit an enemy’s weakness. The session lasted until dusk, you didn’t even notice the time pass. You hurried to leave the rooftop, leaving a confused Cal watching you run away from his vantage point.

“And there you go again,” he muttered under his breath.

“Boo-woop!”

“Yeah... I guess she’s kinda cute,”

A small smirk curled at the corner of his lip.

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