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reiderwriter · 10 months

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Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You🃏

Chapter 1 of That's What You Get

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Word count: 5.2k

Summary: After three weeks on a case in Vegas and a particularly draining phone call from your mother, you decide to take Reid up on his offer to show you the sights of Las Vegas. When you wake up the next morning, you realise one of those sights was a 24hour Wedding Parlor, and that you're now Mrs. Reid.

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, loss of memory, marriage (yeah that needs a warning), mommy issues, mentions of emotional abuse, implied sex scene, use of handcuffs in a sexual way, they theorize a possible creampie but I will neither confirm nor deny at this point, talk of contraception, no actual smut though, you guys are gonna have to wait for that. 18+ Minors DNI

A/N: The first chapter is here! Sorry for drawing you in with a silly little premise and then giving you mommy issues, I swear that after this chapter it's not bought up all that much. If you enjoy this chapter, you can sign up to the series taglist here, check out my masterlist and if you want leave a request! :D have fun reading!! ✨

Las Vegas, city of sin and entertainment capital of the world. Population approximately 600,000, home to the most famous casinos in the world, and unluckily for you, your latest unsub.

You’d been in Vegas for three weeks trying to hunt down this specific murderer, but now the case was all wrapped up and you could finally breathe, the weight of the stress you’d been carrying for almost a month now dissolving as you finally finished up the paperwork in the local precinct.

“Thank god that’s over. I cannot wait to be in bed with a good book and an empty head,” you groaned as you met the eyes of Penelope Garcia, your favorite tech analyst in the entire world and absolutely the only one you knew. She’d ended up having to join you on this case because some of the crime scenes just happened to be casinos that weren’t so happy sharing their data, but also didn’t want to be lumped with the warrant from the FBI. She’d been working between their offices and the precinct, and looked just as haggard as you felt.

“Oh, I feel you sister, this free travel experience thing is nice, but I would like to be back at my own perfect little desk hovel ASAP, thank you very much.” The two of you shared a small laugh, and then began collecting your stuff.

“Come on now, baby girl, you’re telling me that you don’t want to hit up the strip while we’re here? See the sights a little?”

“Sweet cheeks, I have been working from the most harrowing of surveillance units all week on that very strip. I have already seen the sights and they were not pretty, and definitely not worth using up my precious vacation time for.”

“Unfortunately Garcia, I don’t think you’ll be needing to use any of that vacation time to stay here,” Hotch announced as he walked in, and every member of your team snapped to attention to hear what he had to say. “I just got off the phone with Quantico, there’s a storm cloud moving in directly in our flight path and we haven’t been cleared for take off. They’re extending our stay by another day.”

“Shit,” you let out a silent curse, and noticed that your other team members didn’t seem all that happy about it either. JJ quickly excused herself from the room to call Will, Garcia let out a faux sob and fell back into her chair, and Rossi had the look of abject Italian disappointment on his face that he usually only got when you talked about your love of pineapple on pizza.

“How’s about that drink now, baby girl?” Derek Morgan teased, but it was half-hearted and you knew it. You were all desperate for bed, and you could only imagine the mistakes you would make if you went drinking now after the month you’d all just survived.

The only member of the team who didn’t seem put out quite yet was Reid, but you chalked that up to the fact that this place was his hometown.

“If you guys do change your mind, I know a bar downtown where you’re 34% less likely to be propositioned, robbed or over-charged.” He smiled over at you, and you couldn’t help but let out a giggle knowing the man was 100% serious.

“Dare I ask how you found that statistic, Reid?” Emily inquired from the other corner.

“One part actually reading the annual crime report, one part personal experience?” Reid replied, and you laughed again, unable to hold it back.

“Count me out, thank you,” you replied, and you could have sworn for a second you saw a flash of disappointment flash over his features, but you didn’t get the chance to question it, because a call was lighting up your phone screen.

You quickly excused yourself and moved to pick up the call from your mother.

“Mom, hey, what’s up?”

“What, I can’t check in on my daughter now for no reason?” you sighed and rubbed your temples, knowing exactly how this phone call was going to go, because it was how the last ten calls home had.

“Yes, mom, of course you can. How are you?”

“Terrible. Cindy’s daughter is getting married, and it’s all she’s talking about now. Can you believe it? The girl was absolutely wild when you were friends with her in high school and now she’s settling down with a lawyer of all people. Someone should warn that young man before he realises what he’s got himself into,” she scoffed on the other end of the line and you did your best to not get worked up. If you got angry it only made her more self-richeous.

“I know, Mom, Jessica sent me an invite, and I’m sure Trevor knows exactly what he’s getting into since they’ve been dating since high school.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know that? You never tell me anything.”

“I’m sorry, Mom, I’m in the middle of a case right now, can I call you back later?” You did your best to escape the conversation before it devolved into something you really didn’t want to talk about, like yourself, and more specifically your love life. But the gorgon had you frozen through the line and you weren’t about to make the mistake of hanging up on her.

“I’m sure your boss could spare you for five minutes, over-working you like he does. You haven’t had the time off to come and visit me since you got that fancy little job of yours, so you can do me this favor at least.”

“Sure, mom.” At times like this, you knew it was best to just let her talk and ride out the wave.

“And I’m sure you don’t even have time to date. Are you taking care of yourself, at least? Making sure you’re at least presentable, I hope? Its like I always say, you could meet your future husband in one of those precincts, you know. Get a big, strong man to take care of you.”

You had to resist the urge to throw your phone. You’d explained to your mother time and time again that you were perfectly content being the big, strong man for yourself, but there was absolutely no getting through to her. You received one of these phone calls everytime one of her friends or coworkers kids announced an engagement, got pregnant or bought a house, three things that she was desperate for you to do, as well. As soon as you saw the instagram post from Jessica you’d been counting down the days, almost thankful for your mothers lack of online presence.

“A crime scene isn’t exactly the most charming of meet cutes, Mom.”

“Well, then what about Virginia? There are some fine men working at the FBI surely. What about that one coworker of yours, what was his name?” Your heart-race increased for a moment, praying she wasn’t about to put a thought in your head that you wouldn’t be able to escape.

“Derek Morgan, was it? Now, that’s a fine young man.” This time you couldn’t stop the startled cry that came from your mouth. Sure, Morgan was an incredibly attractive man, but he’d joked around with you like a brother ever since you’d taken down your first unsub with the team. Your team was your family and your support system on the road, and they had your back on the case, so really, had your mother said anything, you’d have responded with incredulous guffawing. Hotch was like your dad, Rossi a fun Great-Uncle or something. You saw the sister’s you’d never had in JJ and Emily and of course Garcia was your best friend and you shared so many likes and dislikes that you regularly joked about being long-lost twins separated at birth. And Reid was Reid.

“Just give dating some thought, would you at least? The clock is ticking for you, you know.”

“Mom, I’m not even thirty yet. I’m in no rush.”

“That's what your Aunt Linda said, and look at her.” Your Aunt Linda was a perfectly content single woman in her late forties who had a high paying executive job, in NYC of all places, so yeah, you were in no rush at all.

“Listen, Mom, I’ve got to go, Hotch is calling me into the office to talk about some case files. I’ll speak to you later?”

“God, it’s like you don’t even want to talk to your mother for even five minutes. Go on, then, go do your big fancy job. Call me soon.”

“Yeah, Mom, I will.” And with that you finally hung up. Running a hand through your hair you paused for a breath for a second, closing your eyes and letting your hand just grip your hair for a second before releasing your breath for a second.

In the grand scheme of things, you knew that your mom wasn’t all that much to complain about. You and Emily had bonded over your respective mommy issues early in your time on the team, and you knew a lot of the other team members were either lacking some family member or the other, so you were just thankful that she was still around to annoy you, but god did she make it difficult sometimes.

Realising that any second, you’d have one profiler or the other come find you and ask you (with the best of intentions) what was wrong, you plastered a smile on your face and walked back into the office. You didn’t exactly want to relive that call anytime soon.

“Back so soon, Y/N? I thought that was your mom,” Morgan questioned you when you stepped back in.

“Yeah it was. One of my friends from highschool is getting married and you know how she loves to gossip.” You’d learnt early in the profession that you were in that the best way to hide something was to tell the truth about it for as long as you could, and then change the subject.

“Hey, Reid, you still up for a drink at that bar?” You looked hopefully at the man in the corner, and prayed noone would bring up your absolute change in attitude. “I was thinking a glass of wine or two after a successfully closed case couldn’t hurt, right?”

“Yeah, sure. You wanna head back to the hotel first and change, or do you want to go from here? Hotch said we’re free now until 2pm tomorrow.” You could see a questioning look from Morgan to your left, but you kept your vision focused on Reid, quietly thankful for the rest of the teams disinterest.

“Give me five to drop off my badge and gun in my room and freshen up a bit and we can be on our way. If this bar is bad though, Reid, you know I’m never letting you hear the end of it, right?”

“I ran the statistics, there’s only a 14% chance you’ll dislike it.”

“You know what’s scary is, I can’t even tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.”

–x–

Sarcasm or no, you had to admit, the bar he’d taken you to was pretty nice. It was a low-lit bar only a twenty minute taxi ride from your hotel and whilst it wasn’t exactly on the strip, it wasn’t so far out to be inconvenient. The best part about it was that it was lined with bookshelves, and each booth was blocked off by another, making it feel more like a library than a watering hole. You almost forgot you were in Vegas when you stepped in.

“Yeah, this is definitely a Spencer Reid place,” you said as you took the final swig of your wine, the glass you’d ordered on arrival having gone down easier than you’d expected.

“How so?” Spencer said as he returned to your table, carrying the replacement drinks he’d gone to order with him.

“Come on, Spencer. I’ve never seen the inside of your apartment but I’m sure it’s just this place with less furniture and more books.”

“Y/L/N, are you profiling me right now? Because that sounds pretty close to profiling?” Spencer teased and you rolled your eyes at him, grabbing your next drink from him and giving it a stir - the wine was good but at the price per glass you’d decided maybe cocktails were the thing for tonight.

“Besides, you did mention wanting to curl up with a book tonight, so I thought this bar was probably a good fit for you too.”

“Whose profiling who now, Doctor?” It was his turn to roll his eyes, and he took a sip of his drink. You knew he didn’t drink that often, but he seemed pretty open to the idea tonight, and you were absolutely glad for the company.

“Okay, I won’t profile if you don’t, but do you mind me asking you a question, Y/N?”

“Fire away,” you were playing with the stirrer in your cocktail, waiting for him to ask the question but he’d hesitated for a moment before speaking again, causing you to look up directly into his eyes.

“What’s going on with you and your mom? I don’t mean to pry and I didn’t overhear any of your call earlier or anything, but when you came in again you were all tense and you had that strained smile on your face. Then you suddenly changed your mind and decided we should get drinks so, I’m just guessing here, but you could probably do with talking about it, right?”

You let out a groan and let your head hang a bit. Yeah, you were starting to regret taking that role in the team of profilers. But at least Reid was sincere, and you knew his intentions were good. Of all the members of the team, you’d probably have described him as the safest. It was strange to think, considering all the comfort you found in your other friends, but there was just something so reassuring about Reid’s presence, the way most people overlooked him at first, how he could easily fall into his work and how you could see the cogs moving in his head as he made one genius leap to another that just made you think that everything was going to be okay if he was there.

So because it was him, you decided to talk.

“She’s just…She’s just a little much sometimes, you know?” He smiled back a knowing smile, but didn’t try to add anything and encouraged you to keep going.

“She’s been really persistent recently in bothering me about hitting some of lifes big milestones - marriage, kids, you know? And it always leaves me in a panic because though I’m pretty sure I want those things just yet, I don’t want the pressure of having them yet.” You swallowed the bile in your thoat and continued

“Everytime she says something, I feel bad that I don’t have them. And the way she talks about them its like they’re some kind of… of personal failure, that I’m not trying hard enough to catch a man or something, and I just wonder what if she’s right?” You start slow but you feel yourself gaining pace as you begin rambling, by the end you’re left wondering if Reid even caught any of that.

“I’m perfectly content living alone, but what if I’m secretly not, and I end up forty and alone and can’t even get a guy to look at me.”

“I can pretty confidently say that that’s not going to happen, Y/N.” Reid replied when you finally grabbed your drink ready to take another sip.

“How come?”

“You won’t have to put any effort into catching a man, Y/N.” Reid replied.

“You’re saying that because you’re my friend and you care about me Reid, of course you think that.”

“No, I’m saying that as an FBI Profiler that’s noticed the barman, the man on a date in the corner and the group of guys smoking outside the door eye you up since we’ve been here. And considering we’ve been doing paperwork all day, and the only change in your appearance since 8am this morning was the fresh coat of chapstick you put on while we were in the taxi, I’d think you hadn’t really put that much thought into what you look like right now.”

“You’re exaggerating,” and you really believe that, until you turn to look at the guy on the date and see him avert his gaze from you quickly, and you realise there might be something in what he’s saying.

“Okay, but that still doesn’t mean that I need or want to hear those things from my mother.”

“Y/N, take it from me, mother’s can be complicated.”

“God, I feel so stupid talking to you about something so trivial with my mom, I shouldn’t be doing that, we’re here to have fun.”

“Y/N, its okay. I can do the mommy issues talks, I’m perfectly qualified, but…” he trails off and grabs his drink for another sip and you find yourself hanging off his words begging for him to bring you more comfort and spoken caresses.

“But what, Reid?” you finally ask, as you realise he’s dragging this out on purpose to tease you a little.

“But how about a distraction instead? Have you ever been in a Las Vegas casino with a man that is banned from gambling in most of them?” He wiggled his eyebrows a little as he asked that and you giggled again, grateful for the reprieve from the serious talk.

“That doesn’t sound all that fun, Spencer.”

“Oh yeah, it’s not, but we could always use those vouchers we got as a token of appreciation earlier in the bars and drink some pretty fancy alcohol?”

“Spencer Reid, you are finally speaking my language.”

“I’m still speaking English Y/N, but if you wanted me to switch to russian or some other language, I could accommodate that depending on your linguistic preference.”

“It was a joke, Spence, now let’s get out of here.”

With that, he stood and dramatically offered you his hand like a gentleman, placing your hand in the crook of his elbow when you took it and guiding you swiftly out of the sweet bar. You were with Spencer, your safe friend, close work colleague and probably the least likely member of the BAU Team to get into trouble in a bar in Vegas. What’s the worst that could happen? You thought, as you took a final step out into the humid night air of Las Vegas.

–X–

The first thing you noticed in the morning was the pounding in your head, and it was pretty much the only thing you noticed for quite some time. When you managed to finally unglue your eyes, the second thing you noticed that this definitely wasn’t your room. The third thing you noticed was the gaping hole in your memories that explained how you possibly could’ve ended up wherever it was that you were. Or really any memories from the night before at all.

Letting out a quick groan you sit up in bed and take stock of your surroundings. Although the layout is different, you quickly recognise the interior matches the hotel you’ve been staying at, so you’re thankful that you’re at least somewhere relatively safe, and most likely in familiar company. The room looks to be neat on the whole, but there’s obvious signs of a drunken escapade strewn everwhere - two champagne flutes and a drained bottle, the contents of your purse spilt onto the chair in the corner, some random balloons in the corner you must have picked up somewhere in a drunken stupor, your clothes discarded in a trail to the bed.

That last one wakes you up a little bit more, and almost embarrassingly, you look down at yourself and see your lack of clothing, pulling the covers of the quilt closer to you as you feel yourself flush.

Fuck.

There’s a shifting in the bed next to you, and you look down in horror to see exactly which member of your team got you so plastered last night. You try to move to see who it is, but theres a tightness around your wrist and you’re pulled right back down into bed. You look down at your arm, and that’s when you realise you’re really screwed.

There, around your wrist and restraining you against the bed, is a set of handcuffs. FBI standard. The insinuation flames your face as you whip around to see which close friend and coworker you maybe - possibly - hooked up with last night, too embarrassed to look at your hand any more.

Luckily, your mystery man shifts again, and you catch sight of the nest of brown curls right before he turns over to see you, so when you finally meet the eye of Doctor Spencer Reid, you don’t scream in surprise.

“Y/N? What are you doi-” he cuts himself off as he lets his eyes trail down your body, quickly noticing your state of undress and pulling himself up into a seated position. He is similarly disrobed and it takes all of your strength to pull your gaze away from his bare chest to look literally anywhere else, your face practically flaming now.

“Spencer, would you mind helping me out over here?” you manage to squeak out quickly, as he does his best to avoid your eyes. “I seem to be a little stuck?”

That draws his attention back to you, and he finally notices the strange position of your arms and the handcuffs keeping you pinned to that spot in the bed.

“Shit, Y/N, I’m so sorry, fuck,” he quickly pulls on the pants he discarded by his side of the bed and scrambles over to you, tripping over once in his haste.

“Do you know where the key is?” you ask as he arrives at your side again, your free hand clutching the sheets over your breasts like your life depended on it.

“If that’s my pair they should be in the safe in the nightstand with my creds, give me a second to look.” After a second, he reaches the aforementioned safe box, pulling it open. He roots around inside it for a few seconds and then he spots something ad you watch the blood drain from his face.

“Spencer, what’s wrong?” you spit out quickly, tongue still heavy, and lips probably still swollen, from the night before, so you trip over the words a little. He pulls out the keys from the draw, and you let out a sigh of relief, but you’re still tense as he reaches back inside the draw and pulls out something else.

“Y/N, there wouldn’t happen to be a ring on that hand would there?” Spencer still isn’t looking at you, still staring intently at whatever else is in his hands. You try to angle your head to look, but between the restraints and the fact that Reid had turned his back to you couldn’t quite see what it was.

“What? No, I don’t wear a ring on this hand-” you cut yourself off abruptly as you look down and see it. There on the fourth finger of your left hand, the one that is still chained to the bed by your partners handcuffs, is a ring. There’s a ring on your ring finger. You just woke up in Las Vegas with no memory, in your coworkers room, naked, with a ring on your ring finger.

Your heart drops to your ass as you snap your head back around to Spencer, who finally works up the courage to look you in the eye.

“I think you should look at this” he stutters out and finally presents you with the other item he pulled out of the draw. Your jaw drops open and the pounding in your head turns into a continuous buzzing as you see yourself presented with a marriage liscence. Pinned to the corner with a paperclip is a polaroid picture, and you recognise yourself and your clothes from the night before, with the addition of a veil and bouquet, your arms slung around Reid’s neck as he pulls you in for what you can assume was a pretty passionate kiss.

“Y/N I think we got married last night.”

For a second you could’ve sworn your heart stopped. This was not happening, not to you, not right now. How stupidly drunk could you have gotten to have actually gone and married someone you weren’t even dating. And considering your current lack of clothing, it was dawning on you that you had probably done a little bit more than what was in that photo.

“Spencer unlock these handcuffs right now, so help me God,” you breathed deep and screwed your eyes shut, hoping that wihtout the distraction of the glaring lights you’d be able to remember some of what you’d done last night, but nothing came to you.

Reid, for what it was worth, got you unlocked quickly. You winced slightly as you pulled your arm away from the position it’d been in for however many hours.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry, I should have undone those last night, I don’t know why I didn’t, I’m usually pretty good at remembering stuff like that.” Reid rambled, running a hand through his hair and pacing slightly at your side of the bed. You pushed yourself up and watched him for a minute, just looking at this man who was now, probably, your husband.

Your husband.

You shook the thought from your head and cut his rambling off quickly.

“You put me in these?” you asked, just desperate for any clarification on any of the events of the last 24 hours, not fully grasping the implications of what you were asking until Reid was looking down at you with a flushed face and a mouth gaping like a fish, struggling to find the words to say.

“This is my hotel room. Those are my handcuffs… I kind of just assumed…” he trailed off the thought and you were right with him, the embarrassment heating your face just as much as it had his. You found it hard to meet his eyes the, and dropped yours to your lap.

“So you don’t remember, either?” You almost sighed in relief at that. If even a genius with an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory was in this state after a night of drinking, then you really couldn’t be blamed for getting so drunk you married your coworker and most likely had some pretty kinky sex with him, remembering absolutely nothing on top of that at all.

“Do you need me to grab you something to wear?” he asked as he looked down at you, letting his gaze trail probably a little bit too low for a little bit too long. You grew heated under his stare, as your body reacted, and you realised how easy it must have been to fall underneath him last night if this was how you were feeling from just one look.

But you pulled yourself out of those thoughts quickly, and it seemed that so did he, as he began grabbing clothes from the floor and handing them to you, turning away as you started getting yourself into a semi-decent state.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” you heard Reid mumble to himself as he made his way around the side of the bed, and in your concern for him, you called out.

“Anything specific those curses were for, Spence? Because I know this isn’t exactly the most ideal situation, but four Spencer Reid swears in a row is a cause for concern.” You tried to joke, hoping to relieve some of the anxiety of your predicament.

“I can’t find…” he started and then dragged a hand over his face, trying to wipe the exhaustion from his eyes. “Y/N, I think we didn’t use protection.” You could see him panicking now, and for a second you thought of joining him too, but you crossed the room and grabbed his arms.

“Spencer, look at me, it’s fine. If we did end up… doing that, I’m on birth control, and we probably have time to grab something extra just to make sure, right?” he looked down at you then and after a moments hesitation, he wrapped his arms around you.

“I’m so sorry about all of this, I’m so stupid for suggesting we go to that casino bar last night, I don’t know what I was thinking. You even said last night that this wasn’t what you wanted for yourself, right now, god I’m an idiot, you don’t deserve this.” He buried his face in your neck and held you tight, and you pulled yours up to his back, rubbing circles into his skin slowly.

“Spencer, listen to me. I can think of noone I would have rather had a shotgun Vegas marriage with, okay? This isn’t your fault, we were both drunk, and I’m sure a Reid who was thinking straight could give me some kind of statistic about inhibitions dropping with a certain amount of alcohol.”

“A study in the United Kingdom found that there was an increase of risky sexual behavior in young people who had participated in binge drinking, including unprotected sex with a new partner and the use of emergency contraceptives and I’m not sure why I’m still talking when that was probably rhetorical, right?” You smiled at his panic, finding him just as endearing as ever, even in this predicament.

“What I’m saying, Spencer, is that we’re going to be okay. This isn’t the first time someone has gotten married in Vegas on a whim. Hell, this isn’t even the first time it’s happened to someone on our team. In a sense, this was a very traditional wedding.”

He groaned into your neck again and you laughed up at him. Sure, you were panicked still, but just having him in your arms there sharing his honest feelings with you instead of bottling it up and leaving you to deal with it on your own in your head too was doing you a world of good, and you found the words you used to reassure him soothing you, too, in turn.

“Here’s what we’re going to do. One, find the nearest pharmacy. Two, find whatever Elvis-inspired love shack wrote that marriage license and figure out if it’s actually legally binding. Three, avoid all of our coworkers until 2pm. How does that sound?”

Reid pulled himself out of your neck then, and you were almost sad at the loss of that warmth near you.

“It sounds like I made the smartest choice of a wife I was ever going to make,” he smiled down at you.

“Oh you got jokes now, Doc? I see.”

“Thought I should let you know all my deep dark secrets now we’re married.” You shared a laugh, and standing there amongst the debris of the night before, despite all the mistakes, you knew you were safe, and that the two of you would always be safe together.

🏷️ @sailortongue @bethanyhaas01 @reidscaffeine @high-functioning-cosplayer @average-sunflower @multifandom-on-the-side @anniewhalelover @prentissesredtanktop @abbyshmaby @academiareid @hugyourlungs @w-windy @babybluecakes @SwaggySagieWagie@reidandhotchsgirl @lover-of-books-and-tea @star0055 @Zaapsite @daddy-dotcom @bluecandycake

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mywritingonlyfans · 4 months

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Cornerstone.// Alex Turner X Reader! (Non-smut)

prompt: Alex used to date your sister, but now that she has passed away, you're the only thing that can keep her alive for him, making him not worried that he might forget her face.

words: 3K.

a/n: I have a habit of revisiting some old fics of mine, as is the case with this one. It helps me improve my vocabulary. I thought it was fair to repost this one in particular, now with Alex.

You vividly recall the first encounter with him.

It happened at the inaugural party of many to come in your life, precisely on your 18th birthday. Given your introverted and reserved nature, your sister, despite the physical resemblance, had a personality that stood in stark contrast to yours. With a two-year age gap, she possessed a demeanor at parties that belied her years. Able to handle drinks effortlessly, her charisma was perfectly suited for celebrations. While you had always imagined her to be that way, having grown accustomed to her returning late on weekend nights, witnessing it firsthand was both fascinating and slightly intimidating. Parrot's Beak, it seemed, was made for her.

Approximately 45 minutes into the party, your gaze landed on Alex, engrossed in conversation with some friends. His adorable cheekbones and striking eyes were prominent, and the effects of the drink had bestowed a lovely, flushed pink hue on his face — almost as if his skin begged to be kissed. The memory of that moment remained etched in your mind, easily replayed without closing your eyes.

Over time, you found yourself mustering the courage to smile at him, occasionally adjusting your hair between shy glances, attempting to present your best self. However, the anticipation and hope in your smile quickly transformed into disappointment as he approached. It soon became evident that his occasional sweet eyes between sips of beer were not directed at you but at your sister. He hadn't even noticed your presence, and then a discomfort sensation enveloped your entire being.

That night, you accepted being an outsider as they walked away to the bathroom, deciding it was best to keep your initial impressions of Alex to yourself. It seemed like the wisest course of action, even after four years of witnessing their relationship and continuing to find him captivating.

"You need to stop calling me," you sighed, running the back of your hand over your eyes. The dawn unfolded around you, and in her absence, you imagined how she would have already roused you, taken the phone from your hands, and playfully sprawled on top of you, eliciting laughter until you both drifted into sleep together. "It's been almost a year now; you need to stop calling me."

"But you always make it better," his inebriated voice resonated in your mind. Oddly, you found solace in listening to him. After spending numerous years making her happy, hearing his voice felt akin to experiencing her broad smile after buying a chocolate cake at the corner coffee bar where you now worked.

"What do I make better, Alex?" You asked, elongating a conversation that felt uneasy.

"Me," he sighed deeply, prompting a mirrored response from you. "I like your voice, especially after you've just woken up. It's so calm and crystal clear." He continued speaking until your voice fractured into a sharp sob, and you attempted to bite your lip to contain yourself. If she were there, a single word from her would have pacified him. But she wasn't, and he was like this because he no longer had her.

"I like you, Al. I genuinely wish you nothing but the best, but I can't do this anymore," you expressed, aware that there was a chance he remained oblivious to the fact that he sought you out because you reminded him of her. "I miss her too, and it's becoming too painful."

With those words, you ended the call, pressing the phone against your chest, fully aware he would call again the next night, and you would pick up. You'd exchange a few words with him, feeling miserable afterward for allowing him to repeat the cycle. Yet, the truth was, the following day, you'd feel a strange sense of contentment—not in a healthy way but in a nostalgic manner that trapped you in a cheerful image of your sister. Whenever she had the chance to describe how wonderful a date with Alex was, you would endure the day.

As you drenched your pillow, the pulsating music from The Rusty Room, coupled with dancing figures, prompted Alex to moisten his lips. His night would unfold like countless others since she departed – he'd drown himself in alcohol, envision her face in someone else, and either find solace in the arms of a new acquaintance or get ousted for being too much, leaving him no choice but to dial your number. On nights when his emotions surged more intensely than before, he would do both. He'd call you, harboring the hope that, upon hearing your voice, you would magically transform into her. Then, he'd share the details of his day, lamenting about how no one in the band seemed to tolerate him anymore, and wait for your reassuring words. Obviously, reality didn't align with his expectations. You were as resilient as she was, which, although beneficial for him to picture her, wasn't what he needed in those moments. Especially because the two of you had never spoken for more than five minutes. Consequently, he had no option but to persist in his search for her.

In the light streaming from the window where she stood gazing out, her hair shimmered like yours, yet somehow it seemed to complement her better.

"Do you think he'll come in the cute blazer?" She asked dreamily, evidently already envisioning the date like a movie. Witnessing her enthusiasm brought a sense of joy to you.

"Yeah, and 'comfortably' smelling of cigarettes," you laughed, mimicking air quotes as you repeated what she had confided to you the night before.

However, her expected laughter never came. In seconds, as soon as she spotted him approaching, she flung the door open and leaped into his arms. Her limbs encircled his neck, and so did her legs. He held her securely, accustomed to this routine, and kissed her head with a broad smile.

"I missed you," he sighed, muffled against her shoulder, embracing her tightly as she nestled into his black blazer. The words carried such weight that you almost believed they hadn't seen each other the day before.

They continued murmuring sweetly under your observant eyes until you realized how awkward it was to linger there. Forcing your legs into motion, you retreated from their line of sight.

"Sis, babe. You want some cake? We’ll bring you some!" She shouted, causing you to glance back at them before truly departing. He waved at you. Apparently, they hadn't even noticed your presence. Even if you declined, she would bring the cake, knowing you'd indulge regardless. You nodded.

"Fine, we're going to deliver some pieces of red velvet," he declared, his focus already back on her face, causing your stomach to flutter with the realization that he remembered your favorite — as inappropriate as that was.

Still absorbing your dry words, he caught sight of her shiny hair and perfect skin bathed in the strong red light. She smiled at him, huddled up in a wicker chair, her eyes at the same level as his as he wandered up for a closer look. It felt like the first time, so he came close and kissed her, stealing all the air from her lungs; the random girl wouldn't mind having another name tonight.

Alex returned home the next morning in his car, swearing he could still smell her scent on his coat, transferring it to his seatbelt as he extended his trip to the next coffee bar just to feel her presence for longer.

"He's all yours today!" Your manager said in mock animation.

His eyes were lazy, his lips rosier than usual trapped in a perfect pout, stubble on his face, and yet he looked like an angel; but smelling of booze and sleep-deprived.

"What do you want?" You asked, observing him up and down; putting on your best character to try to fool him, or yourself. "You need to stop harming yourself like that, Al." You let your eyes dip into his, and what a regret, now your whole body tingled.

"I just want a nice coffee, I need to be alive to work," he raised his hands in redemption, giving you a cute half-smile. His voice as melodic and sweet as on the phone. "I just need to calm my mind down, buttercup."

His whisper ran down your spine, making drops of coffee from the machine splash onto your hand instead of into the cup; your body knew it was wrong, but your mind had liked being called that.

"How's life?! How are things going, huh, after all that, y'know..." He went on while you gave him his usual hot coffee.

In response, you shook your head, looking around you, cursing the place for not being so busy so that you could have more customers.

"Fine, no more talk, buttercup." He sounded low and careful this time. You had to take your eyes off him because you felt like you were going to cry.

No more smiles on his tired face, he straightened his clothing, handing you a crumpled currency. Avoiding his eyes, you took it in your hand, taking his change and writing it out in Letraset for him.

"Thank you," he said, this time without repeating the pet name, since both you and him were now being watched by your manager. Even in front of others, his eyes filled with tears as he looked at your writing; so similar to hers in form, yet so cruel.

“She deserves a better job.” You heard her speak even though you were away from their table. She was in his lap, not in a vulgar way, they were just enjoying each other's presence like that. Couples passing by whispered about how cute they were; you didn't deny it.

“She seems to like it ‘ere. It's super cozy; you love it too,” he said in his husky voice, running a hand through his dark hair. He was right; you didn't hate it there.

“I know, but I think she can do better. I trust her. She has potential; she just needs help.”

You dodged it, even though you knew she only wanted your best. Hearing her talk about it made you feel smaller, and seeing her talk about it to other people—Alex—made it worse.

“And...?” Al pouted, letting her kiss him. His smile grew, face lit up, and for a minute, you thought she wouldn't speak anymore as she focused on his lips.

“I wish you could ask her to do some marketing for the band, like around here and Twitter. She would do fine. You know I wouldn't lie. She likes these things; could be a good try.” She winked at you, and you smiled excitedly. It was a good idea; she knew you well. You loved her.

“That sounds good for the band too; we could have more people listening to us,” Al said in agreement, beaming just as she was. You would be the first person working for them. “That’s wonderful, buttercup.” He added, making her hug him tightly, nearly knocking them off the chair.

Your tongue flicked over your lips, repeating the endearing nickname silently. It was adorable and suited her. Running a hand over your hair, which now had a dark coloration, you wished you hadn't dyed it. Not that that would change anything.

"You shouldn't let him call you the same way he sweetly called her," the manager warned when he saw him leave. Your sister was always around with Alex; they were completely in love with each other and never hid it from anyone. It was evident he had noticed.

"He just needs to heal."

"So do you."

'No, you can't call me the way you used to call her' was marked on his change.

Next night, at Battleship.

Rum had already become a vital elixir to oxygenate his blood. By the 4th shot, his mind swirled with thoughts of you, from the tip of your nose, seemingly tracing him as he spoke, to your conflicting voice when you expressed that you didn't want him around. He craved you.

He glanced around the room, searching for his daily fix of sex for the night but soon changed his mind, taking his cell phone in his hands and punching in your number that he already knew by heart.

"I'm sorry, you're by yourself?" A serene voice awakened him from his trance. The shiny hair and lips drawn in a perfect shape that made him forget about his cell phone.

"Yes, I am," he confirmed, his throat going dry. Every night the same thing, but he still got carried away by a vision trick; given that the reality was way too difficult to face. "All by myself, yeah."

She chuckled at his despair, and even though the sound didn't resemble hers, he decided he could play pretend in his mind. The girl remained silent, planting the image of her in his head as he tightly shut his eyes. For a moment, he swore he couldn't feel his feet anymore, wondering if it might be the effect of being close to her ghost. However, when he spoke it out loud, calling the random girl by another name, all he felt was a pair of hands pushing him back while she cursed him in as many ways as possible. Did the girl say her name to him? He couldn't tell; it wasn't like he cared.

"I need you," tears streamed down your chin, your voice reduced to sobs.

His smile broadened, scratching the affected spot, his body easing as he listened to your voice fill the phone call. You needed him, so you called him, just like every other night.

"A nightmare again?" he asked cautiously, not even needing to inquire about its content; he already knew.

"Yes," you looked tired, as much as he did. "I need you, Al. I can't stop thinkin’--."

"I'm on my way, buttercup."

The shared room still carried her scent; he recognized it as you dispersed the remnants of her perfume across the bed she once slept in. The ambiance shifted in her absence, a palpable change felt by both of you. Strangely, it felt comforting to be there, surrounded by the lingering trace of her false presence.

"You're drunk again," you sighed as his fingers grazed your cheekbone, wiping away some tears. "She wouldn't like that."

He nodded, "she really wouldn't." Alex smiled, observing a shy smile form on your lips.

In the ensuing silence, your movements were sudden. Your arms encircled his waist, compelling him to embrace you tightly. A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he found solace in the fact that you were no longer shedding tears. The absence of words rendered the atmosphere more comfortable, clearing his mind and relaxing his muscles. As you buried your face deeper into his shirt, he let his chin rest on your head, and you sought comfort in the scent that had once clung to her clothes.

“Sis?”

“Huh?” You mumbled in pain.

“C’mere,” she replied before you vomited again. You were seated in the bathroom, facing the toilet—for the third time this week. “You have to promise you won't drink like that again—or I'll have to let our parents know about it.” She pulled you into her arms, her voice shaky with concern.

“I’ll try,” you said, the words sounding funny and somewhat meaningless. She furrowed her brows, uncertain about how to handle the situation. “I promise.” You buried your nose in her sweatshirt, which belonged to him but had been in her possession for a long time. The scent was potent, with lingering traces of cigarettes that infiltrated your mind. It brought a mix of sadness and comfort, akin to having him somehow. She didn't say anything else, just squeezed you.

The weather mirrored your mood—grey and somber. Finding motivation for work was the last thing on your mind today, and on many other days.

"What’re you doin’ outside? Weren't you supposed to be workin’?" Al said, tucking you under his umbrella. His eyebrows turned into an adorable concern.

"I can't work; I'm very sad and sleepless," you imitated your manager's voice, displaying pure irritation.

"Not a good day, I see," he remained in high spirits, even with your angry face as your Uber request was denied on the screen in your hands.

"Wouldn't you go get a coffee?" You deposited your disappointment in him. His face still in a smile, he was never one to be shaken by so little; just like her, in fact so alike to her that it was quite annoying at times. She wouldn't be giving hate to anyone for her bad day.

"There's no point; I only come ‘ere for you." Your mind knew well; it was already used to his tricks, but you still couldn't help but melt.

His words softened your body, and you allowed yourself to look at him. He didn't seem to have had a rough night; his eyes were as intense as she had described the night she met him. "Cornerstone doesn't make any sense without me, I agree with you." His lips spread; you were happy to be the cause of it.

The comfortable silence wrapped around you. He brushed your hair back from your eyes, getting so close he thought you might understand. "Can I get much closer?"

You nodded, feeling the tears blurring your vision. You knew he saw in you a way not to forget her face, but letting him go would hurt more. "Look, I'm really not supposed to – but yes, you can call me anything you want."

taglist: @ohladymoon @indierockgirrl @bloo-wisteria @bellaturner @cosmoschaotic @nikisfwn @andrews-lovr @nela-cutie @alexturnersbbg3 @blackberryblossom @lilmisssweetdreams @alexshotelandcasino @tbhclove @rostarblog @babieswiftie @yourstartreatment @atticssmellgood @aacheinthejaw @mingods @theonlyoneswhoknowsblog @andulina567 @tonyxstanks @picturezonthewall @harrysbestiee @ultragirrl @billyseye @ouroboros311 @viviannagiorgini @turnerside

...

taglist? !forms!

#alex turner x reader #alex turner #arctic monkeys #fanfic #alex turner x you #alex turner smut #alex turner x y/n #alex turner fanfic #alex turner imagine

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okkos-ferrum · 6 months

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gray and sharing screentime with himself

in my current brainrot over a singular character, i decided to compile all the distinctions between gray and graham

looking at a very rough approximation of the screen time gray has throughout the show, the weird thing is that he is himself at the beginning and at the end.

graham takes many actions during s1 and s2 that differ from the gray we meet in the train in s1

Name: from found cut content from the original pilot of cs before netflix, it is carmen who suggests gray as graham's nickname. gray takes it without much care. graham, on the other hand, insists on his full name. seen in s2 ep7, both when carmen meets him up at the cafe and after FALLING FROM A PARAGLIDER. when asked his name during s4 ep3, his va emphasizes graham -- though i could be reading into things. guess brainwashing came along with a hatred with nicknames lol (probably to prevent carmen ever triggering gray's memories)

Life goal: we get gray's interview tape that showed his interest in vile, revealing not only was he a criminal before vile but he primarily "[wants] to be successful". (In cut content, during the detention scene where they all discuss code names, gray refuses sheena's suggestion of power failure because he didn't want to be thought of as a failure). gray joined vile because he didn't want to play within the system, believing he's deserving of success more than others due to his own skills so he's better off cheating the system. in contrast, graham in s1 ep6 declines being carmen's guide due to having to go to work early to fix something. He even declines carmen's payment for his work during s2 ep7, only stopped cuz carmen is good at dramatically disappearing. he is so diligent that within eight months, he was able to work up to be a lighting tech from just starting out as an electrician. meanwhile, he gave up being a junior electrican at the Sydney opera house as a teen due to disatisfaction (idk anything abt australia but isnt being a junior electrcian at the sydney opera house a big deal??)

Morality: most blatantly in his line "but we are the good guys" in s2 ep7 (i think he repeats this again during his interrogation with acme in s4), graham has a sense of morality that gray obviously would lack since he joined vile willingly. gray has no issues with stealing and has had a clear arrogance in his abilities ever since he was a teen. killing doesn't seem to be off the table for him, but he only does so if that compromises his mission. (for example, he gives chase a chance to leave during s4 ep 7, so he def isn't taking any excuse to take a life). graham's main act of "goodness" is risking his own life to save a kid in s4 ep3. while im sure gray is heartless enough to watch a kid die, i dont think he would be as ready to risk himself for a stranger. he likely would be more apathetic and would do so if it has some benefit to him or look the other way -- right after saving the kid, "crackle" steals the nameless kid's wallet with a smile. from his confrontation with carmen in the himalyas, he responds to carmen using his old words as him being an "innocent fool", dimissing whatever he believed then as not his own

crackle is another semi identity we get from gray during the fugue state he enters following regaining his memories from acme. it seems to be just due to how drastic the memories are for graham's mind to handle, the split is very direct, with "crackle" - all of gray's training and criminal instincts - being pretty non verbal (he does i think talk on the phone with vile once) and expresionless (he does have an evil little smile after stealing nameless kid's wallet but thats abt it). it honestly is dropped fast once gray is arrested (had to bolt the moment it faced consequences or whatever lol) but it def was entertaining to watch

overall it is just so odd how gray himself is barely in show and if u were to cut out the graham stuff, gray's arc of reconciling his relationship with carmen is largely unchanged. goes to show how wasted the cool amnesia plot stuff was (tho i like brainwashing angst, but i dont blame anyone for not enjoying it. it takes away a lot of the autonomy gray could've had in actually making his morally gray decisions). it honestly feels like they pumped the break of the brainwashing angst we were getting from gray and give it to carmen for the final arc tbh

#carmen sandiego 2019 #graham calloway #carmen sandiego #cs crackle

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roswellsmokingwoman · 3 months

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(Aziraphale x Crowley) Headlights - Chapter 5

Read Here - NOW COMPLETE!!! Good Omens Human AU with a divorced Crowley and Aziraphale finding love again and getting back together.

Soho, Present Day

Crowley is a coward, plain and simple. And so what if he is? His cowardice brings out Aziraphale’s bravery. After all, it was Aziraphale who called first after three years. It wasn’t that Crowley had been too stubborn to make the first move, and it wasn’t anger that stopped him from dialing the number of the bookshop. Only now, it isn’t the fear of rejection that stops him from proposing.

How does someone propose the second time around? There’s a shortage of articles on the subject of remarrying your once-spouse. He knows Aziraphale too well to doubt that Aziraphale’s expectations grow with each passing day. Because a ring would be too small and my physical heart too impossible, I gave him nothing and nothing was enough. Is that romantic or pitiful? Crowley wonders.

Now, with all of his grand plans, his ability to propose falls short. So, if he can’t take to one knee, he resorts to a course of action he knows Aziraphale will understand. He’s tried his pen at romance and never managed a convincing tale. The one he’s written now, to him is the essence of romance but to others, it must be a maddeningly ineffable tale of two idiots

The binder is thick and heavy between his hands, and he holds it awkwardly like a sandwich, presenting it to Aziraphale the way in which a child presents a drawing to a parent–clumsily, with both pride and embarrassment. Binders are new–he’s never put the pages of a book in a binder, but it’s helped him this time around to have the presentation. It’s a crude approximation of cloth-bound pages he’s used to, but it gives the image of a finished product.

Aziraphale eyes Crowley suspiciously, his brows furrowed. “What’s this?” he asks, but his heart thumps in his chest. Best not to assume , Aziraphale reminds himself. The memory plays over in his mind, and if it is what he thinks it is, then Crowley must be telling him he’s ready. His hand hovers near the binder, too afraid to take it.

Crowley thrusts it out to him. “I want you to read it,” he insists, handing off the binder with its hundreds of pages.

“Is it your book?” Aziraphale whispers.

Crowley nods.

Aziraphale isn’t prepared for this. He desired this so desperately, but he still hadn’t brought himself to buy a ring. He’d looked at several, comparing each to the platinum band with a crimson stone that Crowley once wore. None ever came close to it. You don’t need a ring to ask , Aziraphale tries to tell himself.

“Could we read it together?” Aziraphale asks instead.

Crowley miscalculated. He hadn’t accounted for those moments when Aziraphale chose cowardice, too. And then he would pass off the helm to Crowley, eagerly awaiting his savior. He’s smiling so innocently, the bastard, Crowley stews.

But Crowley agrees and sits down with Aziraphale on the couch, sharing a thin tartan blanket. It’s supposed to be Aziraphale’s reading hour, and the room is already set–a candle with wooden wick flickers, infusing the room with warmth. The lights are dimmed except for those nearest to the couch, for ambience.

Crowley clears his throat, shifting as Aziraphale lays his head on Crowley’s shoulder. He begins reading, inflecting as he’d imagined the pages should be read. Aziraphale smiles, mesmerized by Crowley’s cadence and the gentle rasp of his voice.

He had the patience of Job. The nameless man lives in the dark. It isn’t the kind of dark that eyes can adjust to, forming dim and blurry shapes. The darkness is perfect and impenetrable. The man walks through the void, measuring days on his watch that never stops running, the sole light that reveals nothing in the darkness. He knows time, just as he knows he’s spent one thousand one hundred and eighty-two days here.

And while he doesn’t remember his name, he might as well be called Job because, against reason, he believes the darkness will abate. Job had been left here, all those many days ago, to wait. How and who had left him, he doesn’t know. But he remembers a flit of blond and the smell of a good bookshop. He remembers the pleasant voice of a man, reading from Chaucer at his desk. Job remembers love, vivid and bright, that carries him through the pitch blackness of this place.

“Too bad it won’t be published,” Crowley states wistfully, interrupting the flow of the novel.

“It’s too beautiful not to publish,” Aziraphlae argues. He thumbs over the pages fondly, smiling at Crowley. It’s a smile that Crowley struggles to argue with, blinding and beautiful and sincere.

“It’s you and me,” Crowley reminds him, nevertheless.

“I wasn’t reading Chaucer when we met,” Aziraphale notes. “So is it really?”

“Creative liberties, angel.”

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cabinofimagines · 1 year

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Chapter III; friends

I did not forget about this thing that I started. I just wanted to keep it as something I could upload if I ever couldn't write for a bit and I guess we're finally there!

Mind you, I only have two chapters finished so this won't last long. If anything, I might take a bit of a break from the blog because of the many deadlines I have coming up. See me return around the end of June if all goes right.

Word count: 1.6k Warnings: None!

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-Asnyox

You hadn’t been sure about Nico’s plan. Back in April, he had asked you for help, and after that he disappeared, only showing up to give you a definite date and an approximate where to be. You trusted Nico, or at least you thought that you did. For this plan you had to learn quickly how to heal- you were supposedly going to be a backup if his plan would fail.

Against Nico’s request you had told Will – one of the few campers you were entirely sure you could trust with your life. In the past few months, you had spent almost every minute of the day alongside Will, learning the ways of healing but also mostly finding solace in him. You figured that if you hadn’t told Will, he would have actively hunt you down into the underworld, hence why you entrusted him with your whereabouts for the coming few days. At least, that was the plan because Percy Jackson would turn sixteen in a matter of days and Nico asked you to be the last drop in convincing Percy that he needed to agree with Nico’s plan.

You had only just arrived in the clearing, gaining a small wave from Nico who was seemingly in the middle of a conversation between a nymph and satyr. He was wearing an aviator's jacket, black jeans, and a T-shirt with dancing skeletons on it, like one of those Day of the Dead pictures. His Stygian iron sword hung at his side. You barely made it to his side when a hellhound pounded through the bushes. You stumbled back, instinctively stepping behind Nico as you felt your throat close at the memories of hellhounds hunting you- the memories of your parent getting out a gun-

Nico smiled as the dog laid its head on the ground, ready to receive ear scratches from the son of Hades. You felt like you couldn’t breathe – it was not the first time you had seen Mrs O’Leary around camp, but every time Will had been at your side to calm you down. Gods if only he was here- if only-

“You alright?” Will had noticed your panicked gaze as you passed the arena. He pulled you away and looked behind him, seeing Mrs O’Leary sitting there, “Hey, (Y/n), look at me. Don’t worry, she’s friendly.” Your eyes were out of focus, seeing a different time, seeing your parents face. Will saw that you were not getting out of your stupor and pulled you away from the arena. He made sure Mrs O’Leary was out of sight as he sat you down on the ground.

“Hey, just breathe- Follow my breathing,” he started guiding you and as you slowly came back to your senses you saw the worried eyes of your friend.

“Care to explain, sunshine?” Will squeezed your arm as you sighed and started your story.

“She’s friendly, (Y/n).” Nico said as he glanced at you. You closed your eyes as you breathed in deep, counting to yourself. This was an exercise you learned quickly after encountering Mrs O’Leary a few times at camp. As you felt your heart calm down, you looked at Nico with a tired smile. He cocked his head to the side as to ask if you were fine, and Mrs. O’Leary copied his movement. “I know, sorry.” You softly said and Nico shrugged, going back to scratching her ears.

Looking at your companions in the clearing you saw the shape of the old satyr. His fur was dust-bunny gray, and a spiderweb grew between his horns. The tree nymph was pretty, wearing a purple gossamer dress and having an elfish face – although something in her eyes seemed off. You noticed a boy – Percy Jackson – entering the clearing, just in time for the old satyr that was there to explode.

"Will someone—what is this underworld creature doing in my forest!" He waved his arms and trotted on his hooves as if the grass were hot. "You there, Percy Jackson! Is this your beast?" "Sorry, Leneus," Percy apologized, "That's your name, right?" The satyr rolled his eyes.

"Well, of course I'm Leneus. Don't tell me you've forgotten a member of the Council so quickly. Now, call off your beast!" Lenues retorted, aggressively pointing at Mrs O’Leary. "WOOF!" Mrs. O'Leary said happily. The old satyr gulped. "Make it go away! Juniper, I will not help you under these circumstances!" Juniper turned toward Percy, a hopeful look in her eyes. You felt a bit awkward and left out in the situation, you looked at Nico as he stood up and took in the situation.

"Percy," Juniper sniffled. "I was just asking about Grover. I know something has happened. He wouldn't stay gone this long if he wasn't in trouble. I was hoping that Leneus —" "I told you!" the satyr protested, "You are better off without that traitor."

Juniper stamped her foot. "He is not a traitor! He is the bravest satyr ever, and I want to know where he is!"

"WOOF!" Leneus's knees started knocking. You snorted softly. Sure you are scared of Mrs O’Leary, but seeing this old satyr basically pee his pants because of her did feel good.

"I . . . I will not answer questions with this hellhound sniffing my tail!" Nico looked like he was trying to not crack up. He looked at me and then back at the group.

"I'll walk the dog," he volunteered as he motioned for me to follow him. He whistled, and Mrs. O'Leary bounded after him to the far end of the grove.

You didn’t walk far before Nico stopped and turned to you, letting Mrs. O’Leary bounce around us. “Are you scared of her?” he gestured to the hellhound, and you shuddered. “Well, you know, you were there,” the last bit was more of a whisper, but Nico nodded his head as he beckoned Mrs. O’Leary over. “Here, just,” there was often this hesitation to Nico when he wanted to help you, you noticed, “Just scratch behind her ears,” he carefully grabbed your hand, and you noticed him shivering at the contact. How long had it been since he had been held with love?

You let him guide you towards Mrs. O’Leary, accepting your fate. For some reason you started shaking, and you wanted it to stop, you didn’t want Nico to think that you were weak – too weak to help him. You closed your eyes, and as you felt fur beneath your fingers you released a breath. You heart was racing, and your felt your legs give out.

“Woah!” Nico half heartedly tried to catch you, but as you sat before Mrs. O’Leary, eyes half opened as she appreciatively wagged her gigantic tail. Nico felt his heart beat an extra time as he saw how you deflated in front of Mrs. O’Leary. Why did Nico not like it that you were so scared? Why had he felt the need to make sure that you would be alright?

“You alright?” Nico crouched down next to you, his stygian sword’s handle poking uncomfortably in his side as he put an arm on your shoulder. You slowly nodded, continuing to scratch Mrs. O’Leary’s head.

“Just peachy.” You removed your hand from her head, and she whined a little as you let out a breath of air, “You are just like a normal dog, ey? Sorry for being so scared, some of your family weren’t so nice to me,” you felt as if you would not be able to say another word, so you put your hand back on Mrs. O’Leary’s head and started petting her again.

“That was brave of you,” Nico noted as he stood up again, denying himself the warmth of your touch.

“Thank you,” you told him as you looked up at him, “And Nico, you’re a good friend.” Nico’s face filled itself with confusion. “Where did that come from?” he spluttered out.

“Mm, the fact that you just helped me, and the fact that we are friends.” You smiled at him, hoping it looked genuine after everything you just went through, “Whether you like it or not.” Something crossed Nico’s eyes, but you could not pinpoint what it was.

“Well, before attaching yourself to me, are you sure you want to help? It is dangerous, and I do not want you to do this for the sake of ‘friendship’,” he did the quotation marks around the last word. You found the strength to stand up, ignoring Mrs. O’Leary’s whines at the loss of pets. You knew Nico wouldn’t have asked you to go if he didn’t need any support

“Yes, although I would only endanger my life for friends though, so,” you held out your hand towards the son of Hades, feeling butterflies in your stomach. This was stupid – you would go on this mission for Nico either way, but you wanted him to acknowledge you¸ to acknowledge that he had friends in camp. Nico sighed but grabbed your hand.

“Alright,” he shook your hand harshly, “friends it is.” This time you smiled genuinely. Your moment was quickly disturbed Leneus quickly stomping past the two of you. “Guess it’s showtime, let’s go.” Nico commanded and you followed suit.

#requests #request #solangelo x reader #poly!solangelo #polyamourous #will solace #nico di angelo #xreader #xyou #pjo x reader #x reader #SFU #will solace x reader x nico di angelo #admin asja #coi #cabinofimagines #asja writes #lets see if anyone even notices that i am going to be gone #admin asnyox

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panecitotulipan · 1 year

Text

Eating schedules

Miguel O'Hara/reader

Notes:

I am posting little chunks of a story in disorder. The chronological order list here. It will make sense and join dots once it starts to fill, everytime a new chapter comes out I'll actualize that list (works like in Beyond two souls but is a random y/n fic you found on Tumblr).

You may find fluff, touched starved physical interaction, angst, mentions of anxiety and bad health habits in these writings. I also think is important to point out that there will be no NSFW in any part of the story.

English is not my mother language, sorry if a few things sound off. But don't worry about spanish dialogues, i know those are well written.

The reader knows spanish, i have to admit i thought about they as a mexican person.

Gender neutral narrative, so anyone can be comfortable.

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Gif credit

"You may be useful" the Dorito shaped man said. When he offered you to form part of this, declining wasn't an option, who the hell would say no to travel between universes and work with advanced technology? Definitely not a nerd like you.

Casually chatting with the VR avatar girl and exploring the functioning of the machines was undoubtedly helpful to keep yourself busy when there were no missions assigned.

Once in a while the naps on the extravagant and irregular walls of the control room were comfortable, even though the 'boss' waked you up every time yelling in some kind of frustration tone, he was usually upset at everything and everyone.

As you didn't enjoy going out of this laid, the only times other spider people could see you was while buying food at the cafeteria, rather for you or the boss. Since he spent a lot of time in the same spot as you, the constant interaction was not avoidable at all. Even while your talks, everywhere but the floor was a better place to be standing on, which the 2099 unsurprisingly found annoying. A certain memory came to mind: he cut off your spiderweb, made you fly for a second, and then had lunch with you. All that in a period of 30 minutes approximately, hilarious to put it that way. By that time, you must have spent about' a couple of weeks of joining the society.

┄━═━┄

The 2099 was checking anomalies data in that floating and dramatic platform with the funny AI lady. When he called for you.

–Ah, yeah? I'm right here.– You said as you left yourself fall from the ceiling, already with a thin web that would hold you safely once you reached a level a bit higher than 2099's face.

–I know you're here, you're always here. If you're not on the walls you are hidden in a corner of the ceiling. It's certainly annoying.– O'Hara commented with throaty and toneless voice, then he relocated the conversation. –Did you upload the data i asked?–

–First of all. Why do you have so much problem with me being around in this room? I'm literally not bothering anyone, you yourself said I'm hidden.– You cleared your throat and then continued calmly. –And second, yeah I did, just after you ordered me to.– Supposing that was all, another thread of web came out from your free hand, pretending to swing away. But a tight grip surrounded your wrist, stopping you.

–Can't you stay still for a second? Are you a monkey or something?– The boss sounded a bit angry now.

He made a rough movement, snapping the web and provoking your fall. Hopefully O'Hara did it knowing you wouldn't actually get hurt, hopefully. Falling on your feet was not a big deal. Still very rude though.

Turning around on your toes in his direction, mockery was the chosen answer to deal with the situation.

–Not a monkey, I'm pretty sure I am quite literally more spider like.– Now you were messing with him. It wasn't your fault if he had a bad day, you didn't have to handle his cranky behavior every time he was stressed, which was frequent since tones of spider people joined the last two weeks, they have easily triplicated the number.

The 2099 rolled his eyes and tried to ignore you by talking to the AI. After taking a deep breath, his hand brushed his hair back to place.

–¿Ya comiste hoy?– You randomly asked in an annoyed sigh, getting the Dorito's eyes attention. –I've only seen you drink coffee since yesterday.– It was funny because you have proved that the boss got in a little better mood after having something decent to eat.

–No…no lo sé.– He returned his attention at the multiple screens, somehow avoiding your gaze.

–¿Recuerdas cuándo fue la última vez que comiste?– (Do you remember when was the last time you ate?)

–No.– O'Hara responded dryly. This man lacked self preservation when it came to basic health care routines. What a bonehead.

You left silently, and returned after about 15 minutes with two meals, each one on a hand. You were practical, not that much of a talker.

–Pedí algo nuevo, creo que te puede gustar.– (I bought something new, i think you may like it.) You said while raising his food container.

The 2099 didn't even look at you when a glowing thread stuck to the plastic on your raised hand.

–Hey!– You instantly grabbed the web and let your own container fall, hopefully nothing happened to your food. Most of the time you forgot how strong this man actually was, so when he occured to pull the freaking strand you were violently lifted from the ground as well.

The little flying trip to the platform ended abruptly by crashing towards the Dorito's chest. You grabbed his shoulder, trying to put yourself together.

–Dude, what the hell!– You exclaimed with a taut voice. –Say "gracias" at least.–

–Gracias.– O'Hara said with an ironic smirk. Asshole.

An annoyed growl escaped your mouth, and you let go of his shoulder. After jumping back off the platform you checked the fallen food container, still eatable. So lunch time finally started, not leaving the room at all.

The thought of insisting that O'Hara shouldn't eat while working invaded your mind. That was a bad habit too.

–Ahmm, boss. I'll say it once more, you shouldn't eat while working.– You talked in a ringing tone.

–I need to keep on–

–You'll do better if you recover your energy properly. Don't want to imagine you fainting in the middle of a fight due to malnutrition.– He slightly frowned when you interrupted him. Funny.

–If I go with you and have lunch. Will you shut up and let me do my work?–

–Pretty much so…eh, 60% of possibility.– Your hands moved in the air simulating a balance.

–I guess it is better than nothing.– He mumbled. –Find me a chair on the previous room or something, I'm reaching you.–

You smirked in success.

–Sure thing, Dorito.–

He hated that name, but you left before a possible answer. You grabbed a chair and sat on an edge of the table, careful of not throwing any near artifact. After a minute he appeared and started eating, despite of his efforts to not look starved, this man was eating too fast. When he finished his meal you weren't done with yours, so you offered the rest.

–I am not asking if you want. Come más.– (Eat more.) The boss didn't say anything, and with an vague air of shyness he took your plate and ate what was left.

–You honestly sound like a grandma sometimes.– There was his severe voice again.

–Good. Grandmas are the best.– You proudly declared with a grin on your face.

His smirk was slight and discreet, but noticeable enough to catch your eyes. O'Hara seemed to realize the eyeing, even if he didn't say a word. A moment of silence surrounded you both.

As soon as you caught yourself staring, clearing your throat was your immediate reaction.

–I'm glad you gave yourself a quick break. I will insist once in a while for you to take proper eating schedules.–

–As long as you're not too annoying, it's fine.– 2099 took a deep breath, and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. –You don't have to... pero gracias.– The lasts words were pronounced in a mumble barely perceptible to the ear, but perceptible enough to your ear.

–No hay de qué, jefe.– (It is nothing, boss.)

#miguel o'hara #spiderman #across the spiderverse #spiderman across the spiderverse #writing pacefully #atsv miguel #atsv fanfiction #atsv fic #miguel ohara #miguel x reader #atsv miguel x reader #spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara x gender neutral reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara x reader

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mslanna · 5 months

Text

A Mortifying Ordeal

Raphael manages to get to earth after the Nether Brain exploded and killed Tav. Or so it seems. Because Tav is looking alive and eager at this very strange event where many people dress up as people he knows and even himself. Tav doesn't remember anything though. Something Raphael plans to amend. But is it really Tav without memories or just a lookalike that played the game too often? Time to find out. Started from This Prompt the idea evolved into something longer. Mix between fangirl's dream of being pursued by a romantically determined Raphael and the angst of not being who he want/loves/needs.

A Mortifying Ordeal Chapter 2 now up on AO3

Chapter 1 (formerly I've Known You Only Now)

Lemme tell you that while there's lotsa things you get used to on conventions because we're all off our rockers, especially the cosplayers and I must know because I just stripped out of my Tav cosplay. Anyway, I thought I lucked out when an extremely accurately looking Raphael cosplayer started to follow me around and actually kinda wooed my in the same fashion that sopping wet beast of a devil would in-game.

It's not something you expect but it is definitely appreciated. I didn't put on the easy-access outfit by accident, you know. There's a lot you can be prepared for at cons and damned if I wasn't going to make the most of it. Dude looks like a complete buffet.

What one is not prepared for ever, though, is the dude just, like snapping into devil from. Like, are you serious? But there he stands, wings and all, and me sitting on the bed which puts my head in a very unfortunate place.

Because the fuck? Fuck is going on? And also is fuck still on the table? Which is the least of my problems right now, but still very much on my mind. My jaw is on the floor so it's not as if we couldn't just take it from here. I shake my head because as much as I wanna see them devil cock ridges something is not right here.

"Raphael?" I quack, as if I haven't called him that the whole time. It hits different now, what with the smell of cherries trying to drown out the sulphur. I gag a little. In reality sulphur is not very sexy.

He looks down and man those eyes do you in. Black hole indeed. Pull you straight in and spaghetti your every thought.

"Yes, very observant." The word roll from his lips like velvet gravel.

Not gonna lie it is observant. I met no fewer than five Raphaels today and I don't think any of them would've pulled this stunt. Could've. I shut my mouth and try to stop staring at him. Guy saw my phone gallery. Guy knows I think about sucking him off six times from Tuesday. The fact that he's still standing here is a miracle.

And I don't know what to do. There is no script for this. I can hardly squeak 'sex?' up at him, or can I? I wish he'd stop looking at me as if I hold the answers to his universe. I know nothing. I am more out of my depth than a lugworm in the Mariana Trench.

"Cat got your tongue?" He takes my chin with one hand and damn, he is several degrees hotter than human. In any respect, mind you. I nod into his hand which is kinda nice. He has big hands. He is – well big. Tall. Huge. I swallow. Anyway.

"I don't know what to say," I get out. "Or do."

"What did you intend to do before I changed?"

I bite my lip for honesty. It always hurts in the end so I might just start out in pain. Won't last as long then. I smile, or do my best approximation. Nothing but the truth. Let it end in flames early.

"Dinner," I shrug. "Drinks. Sex."

He doesn't leave. Doesn't laugh. Good signs so far. But he leans back and looks down his impeccable nose at me with a slight scrunch. "Communicating more clearly than ever, I see."

It's one thing peeps like me are supposedly good at. Clear cut information instead of dancing around the subject. Damn, I wanna dance around him all night long. If my stomach wasn't a-rumbling, I'd just have skipped the first two step in the evening's plans.

I rise carefully and manage not to bury my snout right into his crotch and forgo dinner after all. "So, you're still game?"

"I am still here, am I not?"

Not quite an answer but I'll take it. "No offence because your devil form is quite lovely, erm gorgeous, well, anyway, I like it a lot, but you cannot leave the room like that. I don't think."

"Whatever happened in here," he taps a finger against my temple and boy do I swallow because claws, "since you left Faerûn. Your eloquence has certainly suffered."

Should I tell him that it's mostly his vicinity causing this problem? Maybe later. There's such a thing as too much truth. He likes them spicy but nowhere in the game does it say he likes them stupid. Which may just break my back in this. Ah well. Where was I? Apart from staring at him.

"Maybe it'll get better," I suggest. "I'm not reacting well to new things." Unexpected things. Devils turning up on my doorstep and turning out to be actually a devil. And not running from my horny person. I hold out my hand.

He transforms back into his human form in a short burst of hellfire. It licks over my outstretched hand without burning which is a decidedly strange sensation.

"Better?"

"Less suspicious in this world." I'm glad I don't have to decide. Both forms have their appeal, all three have but I'm not sure when a wise moment is to disclose I am also an unapologetic monster fucker.

"Then let us proceed." His smile is scorching. So much charisma, the sheer weight of persuasion. I am weak. Doesn't help he takes my hand because that is also so hot and his skin is so soft and my mind is already in full swing putting those deft digits absolutely everywhere.

"One last thing." My fingers curl around his tightly, just in case he's gonna run now. I don't want him to, but well. "What do you even want with me?" I want to know. "What is your plan?"

"My – agenda is, of course, to rekindle your memories."

Oh. No. Frilly fuck with fangs. He thinks I'm Tav!Tav, like, the real thing. Oh dear. Oh no. Wow. Like, never. I was so very far from the real thing, like so far. I couldn't handle a weapon, not even walk for a day and saving a whole city? Unlikely. Impossible.

"I am – doubtful?" He completely ignores my worries and takes my elbow.

"Understandably so." He guides me towards the door. "Give it time. Give me time."

Hells, I'm done for. He can get all the time I have left. The timbre in his vowels is enough to get me on my knees. Question is if he has the patience to actually spend time with me. How long until the lack of serious Tav memories turns out to be my natural state? Not sure I wanna be around for that realisation.

But – that is for another time. Dinner is waiting and the view is going to be utterly amazing. I sigh and lean against his shoulder. Raphael lets out a small huff but it's appreciation, I'm sure of that. Dude didn't hunt me down all day to play hard to get now. I hope.

#bg3 #bg3 raphael #raphael x tav #bg3 fanfiction #reverse isekai #mel writes fanfic #sleazy second-hand car dealer

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a-scary-lack-of-common-sense · 1 year

Text

[busts out of the ground]

I'M NOT DEAD @jbeetle814 @hattedhellspawn I'M SO SORRY I ABANDONNED YOU GUYS INSIDE MY INBOX FOR A YEAR

I'll tell you everything with pleasure!

Buckle up because this might be a long ride :)

So, let's first establish the basic context of this whole AU; such as background info on what in the actual fresh hell is going on here.

First things first: this AU just kind of co-exists on the sidelines of canon tf2 with its own separate story happening while the OG mercs are off following canon at the same time in New Mexico and stuff. So technically, they both are in the same universe, just, from entirely different perspectives. I guess we can’t even call this an AU at this point but shhhh, we like having fun here.

Okay, so now that we’re clear with that let’s hop onto the actual story of ✨️ ze switcheroo mercs✨️:

BASICALLY, the 'mercs are actually all clones' theory is very much a real thing in my world. Except that the canon RED mercs are the “original mercs”, and literally everybody else are just clones.

Multiple cloned teams of the "original mercs" are scattered worldwide, and the job switcheroo mercs are one of them! Every single cloned teams are controlled by the one and only, you guessed it: Administrator. RED and BLU basically run a massive international chain company at this point, but like, with clones that fight each other to death.

The job switched mercs are one of the few cloned teams that have the least physical differences from the OGs they are supposed to doppelgang, which is surprisingly rarer than you’d expect. Ironically enough, clones rarely ever look exactly the same as the "originals" because of gene mutations (don't trust me on this, I'm not a science person at all), and more often than not a clone is going to pop out blond instead of brunette- or tall instead of short.

PERSONALITY HOWEVER, is a whole different story. My version of clones are "born" with a blank slate for a mind, with only the bare necessary knowledge for, ya know, living (i.e. how to eat, how to speak, how to do their job, yada yada you get the gist). All memories and pasts of the "originals" are wiped clean and you've got yourself a fancy new clone, yayyy.

So because of the obvious lack of everything inside the clones' minds, clones often don't have the same personality as the "originals", and sometimes even differ completely. It's up for them to build experience and form their own identity (as long as they don't end up revolting against Admin or anything, but that's never happened before so it should be okay).

The job switcheroo mercs have been stationed at a base in bumfuck nowhere (think of any country to slap em onto) with another cloned BLU team for approximately 3 2 years now; and all members of each team have formed their own entirely unique identities by now, and guess what that means! They're starting to have thoughts!

In the beginning, no one really cared about the jobs they were assigned with as a clone, but as the years grew they started thinking: “Hey, how about no [breaks the social norms]”. Everyone eventually realized that no one was happy with the jobs they were initially given, so they said fuck you to the system and started passing around their classes like a hot potato to see what sticks. By the end of this whole ordeal, everyone had tried everyone else’s job at least once before they eventually found the one they were satisfied with. TADA, ✨️the job switcheroo mercs were born✨️

Admin didn’t really care about this whole thing because 1) they're technically still doing what they're supposed to be doing, just with different jobs now and 2) she had other, bigger things to worry about, and the most emotion this mini revolt drew from her was: “ew, Miss Pauling, they’re starting to have opinions”

So far the team consists of:

Sniper as Soldier

Scout as Medic

Medic as Engineer

Spy as Demoman

Soldier as Spy

Demoman as Sniper

Heavy as Pyro

Engineer as Heavy

Pyro as Scout

ANYWAYS that’s all I got for now so if u got anymore questions feel free to ask

(Friendly reminder that this AU is a joke that I got way too invested in, and these job switches were made completely on random. AND ALSO literally nothing about this makes sense so let's just fuck around and find out at this point)

#I AM SO SORRY FOR THE EXTREMELY LATE ASKS- THESE ARE LIKE A YEAR OLD OR SMTH #I GIVE YOU ALL 1 FREE PASS TO COME TELL ME OFF IN MY INBOX- I DESERVE IT #also btw- do you guys want me to like- @ you when i answer your asks just to let you know or smth??#tf2 #team fortress two #asks #job switcheroo au #tf2 au #tf2 ocs #world building #job switch mercs #job switcheroo #silly chatters

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jorvikpov · 1 year

Text

The Moorland wind blows slow and steady over the seaside cliffs and through the rising grass, and the brackish water of the southern bay beats in rhythmic waves against the soft, bright shore. Though no moon shines over the ocean tonight, it is not yet pitch dark; the last sunlight is only just disappearing over the northwestern mountains, and the water is still bathed in the deep purple of late twilight. The dim, distant light of stars shimmer upon its surface, coating the waves and ripples in the sort of faint silvery white that one can only catch a glimpse of this far from all the major cities of the world, and every few seconds their light is joined by a faraway lighthouse’s golden glow.

In a grassy green paddock atop the Moorland grounds’ highest hill, a mare—a mother-to-be by the break of dawn—rests deeply and peacefully in the tall grass, her muzzle pressed into her curled up legs and her rounded stomach rising and falling with each slow breath she takes. You, sleepless in a bed harder than your own and staring up at a wooden ceiling that does not stare back at you, feel every one of those breaths: though you cannot see her, her soul is clear as the stars of a cloudless night in your mind’s eye, a speck of light just on the other side of the small Moorland estate—far beyond the dozens of light specks in the pastures and stables by the farmhouse, and yet brighter than all of them combined.

High above the ground, at the approximate level of the third-floor guest bedrooms, tension is strung tight through the cold evening. Under the eyes of only the gentle starlight shining through the window, a young woman burdened with all too much all too early stumbles and falls past the last blurry line between her and being undeniably in love with her best friend; in the next room over, you toss and turn in desperate attempts to rest, bones aching with homesickness and lack of sleep and head spinning and wide awake from the light behind your eyes. The wooden beams and walls of the old farmhouse groan in the ocean wind, more at unease than any other night in recent memory: much like you, they listen, they watch, and they wait.

In the distance, as though carried from over the ocean, you hear a whispered, whistling song on the wind. Perhaps, even, the song is the wind, blowing through roots and leaves and branches and giving a voice to something long thought lost to time, letting that something call you to it (come to me, it says, and I will show you what you seek, so that your tossing and turning may come to an end). Even streaming through the cracked-open window across the room from you, muted by distance and time, it is only almost powerless over you.

When you close your eyes, you see dozens of lights all around you. Focus, and you see only the one atop the hill; let yourself go, and the lights become hundreds, even thousands, invite you to lose yourself among them.

The next time you open your eyes, there will be two little lights atop the hill on the edge of the Moorlands’ property, and intuition will whisper to you in a voice sounding unsettlingly true that you have not found what you are looking for.

Come to me, the wind will sing to you: lose yourself, and you will find what you seek.

#sso #ssoblr #star stable #star stable online #jorvikpov #I'm not entirely sure if putting tidbits of other characters' romance in here is. A good choice. At all #also I think this is the longest jorvikpov ever?#and also oh my god is it hard getting back into writing #thank god I had half of this drafted from before I was sick for a week I don't know how I would've coped otherwise

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lizardperson · 21 hours

Text

come all sufferers

part 9: floating & drifting [on ao3]

fandom: fallout new vegas characters: female courier/original male character rating: m cw: drugs, slavery mention wc: 809 prompts: held captive + barely conscious for @sweetspicybingo

[hurt/comfort bingo masterlist]

---

Gabriel is floating. Drifting. Just hovering approximately a foot or two above his body. A very strange sensation. Not exactly bad, just… strange. Warm and fuzzy. He has the faint notion that he should be in pain right now, for some reason he can't recall, but he’s apparently too far away from his body for that. Odd.

Mika.

A name echoes through his mind, up and down and left and right. Fading slowly, then loudly resurfacing. Up and down and left and right. Fills his whole head right up until nothing else has space.

Mika.

Warm and fuzzy. Familiar. Intimate. Home. She's home. His home. Where is she…

Captured. Something had gone wrong. Somewhere, sometime. It is all so far away. Where is he?

Mika.

So warm and familiar. He just wants to sink into this comfort and never stop. Never. It's okay. Everything is okay. Drifting. Sinking…

A loud bang distracts him from the floating feeling for a moment. More bangs. Voices, shouts. Gunfire? Maybe it isn't real. Only the warmth is real. Only her name is real.

More noise, then a sharp light stinging in his eyes. A door?

A voice. "Mika! He's here!"

Mika.

Warm. Someone in front of him, touching him. A hand on his face, barely noticeable. Home. Her. "Hey, baby." Her voice is so close and yet so far. So soft. He wants to wrap himself in it like a blanket. Home. "Fuck, they really did a number on you." Her warm voice again. Her warm touch.

"Mika," he finally murmurs, barely audible, leaning into her touch. It's okay, she is here now. Home. If only his own body wasn't so far away…

"We'll get you out of here." Her voice again, saying words he doesn't understand. He doesn't need to understand. He doesn't need words. She's here.

Mika.

Her name echoes through his head again, carrying him away, leaving his body behind. Drifting. He doesn't need that anymore. Sinking. He just needs her. Mika. Mika. Mika.

---

Gabriel woke up very disoriented and tried to sit up, but someone held him down gently.

"Easy there, soldier."

He blinked a few times until his eyes finally managed to focus properly, and he recognized the other man. "Gannon…?" Since Mika had befriended the Follower doctor, he had joined them on a handful of their little missions around the area, but it was still unexpected to see him.

"You had quite the assortment of chems in your system, so I would suggest you stay exactly where you are and let the Fixer do its job," Arcade suggested dryly.

"Where…?" Gabriel still felt very woozy and looked around to get his bearings. Night. A makeshift camp with a small fire. And still no idea how he even got here.

A familiar voice pulled him out of his thoughts. "Looks all clear so far, Cass is keeping watch." Mika emerged from the dark. When she saw that Gabriel was awake, she smiled brightly and knelt down beside him. "Hey, handsome. How are you feeling?"

He rubbed his face. A very good question. "I have no idea… What happened?"

"How much do you remember?"

Fragments. His brain felt like it was wrapped in gauze. "The raiders. We were watching them." The same damn group they had been tracking for days now, to put an end to that slavery operation. He vaguely recalled that he and Mika had split up to recon the camp and its surroundings.

"Yeah, and then those assholes snatched you," Mika filled the gaps in his memory. Right, they got the drop on him and somehow knocked him out. He eventually woke up restrained, feeling very much not like himself, probably drugged. Everything else blurred into a strange, dreamlike soup. "Anyway, I figured storming in there alone might not be the smartest move, so I got some backup."

"You came for me," Gabriel stated, almost sounding surprised.

Mika raised an amused eyebrow. "Obviously?! You didn't actually think I'd leave my favorite old man in that dump, right?"

He chuckled. "No. No, I didn't."

"You better," she grinned. "Oh, by the way - while cleaning out that place we found the coordinates for their main hideout. Now we can take them out for good. Finally." She beamed at him, thrilled about the prospect.

"Good." At least something positive came from this whole ordeal.

"But first you get some rest. Arcade said you should be well enough to walk by morning." She smiled at him and gently caressed his cheek for a moment, then moved to get back up. Halfway through, she seemed to change her mind and leaned down again, pressing a long kiss on his lips. "I'm really glad you're okay."

#sweetspicyhc #lizardwriting #fnv au #otp: a 1000 years #fallout #fnv #fallout new vegas

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twofrontteethstillcrooked · 2 years

Text

Suptober, 2 Oct.: Pillow talk

They weren't supposed to do this kinda thing on cases.

deancas, new relationship

It took three seconds to dash from the Impala to the motel room. During this time the pop-up October thunderstorm doused Dean and Cas with approximately 900 gallons of icy rainwater. Ah, autumn. Once Cas performed his angel magic, he and Dean were no longer sopping wet, so Dean had that going for him.

Unfortunately, the motel quilt was the saddest, thinnest piece of fabric he'd paid money to sleep beneath in years, which was saying something. He wouldn't take a black light to this room on a bet: ignorance was the only way to even pretend to be blissful in such a shoddy place. The heater wheezed and clanked and showed no sign of working correctly, and then a bolt of lightning struck something painfully nearby and plunged the entire block into unelectrified darkness – well, except for the disco-seizure flashing created by subsequent lightning.

Trying to balance on his side of the last available mattress in town while his fingers went numb, Dean flinched as the storm rattled the draft window frame like a ghost demanding entrance. He turned over and observed the bed's other, calmer occupant, who hadn't even taken off his trenchcoat.

Fuck it, he thought.

He closed the two inches of distance by scooching over until he had flopped himself mostly atop Cas like a grouchy cat and was rewarded by being enveloped in warmth.

"You could've just said you were cold," Cas murmured, caressing Dean's back.

"Hrrmm," Dean responded, burrowing in like he could live in Cas's chest.

They weren't supposed to do this kinda thing on cases. Or, at least, they hadn't been. Not that it had been a point of discussion or anything. Just, Dean had mostly kept his hands to himself. For four days. Four long, damp, gruesome days. He sighed and pushed his face into the spicy, comforting scent of Cas's throat where his collar was loosened.

He drifted for a while, listening to the storm ebb and flow like a violent sea. Eventually a specific noise roused him.

"What'reyoulookingfor?" he slurred through a yawn.

"Oh, nothing." Cas zipped, or unzipped, something again.

Dean smiled tolerantly, without opening his eyes. "Little raccoon hands."

"What?" Cas sounded deeply confused.

Dean stretched a bit and lifted his head just enough to see his own leather toiletry bag on the bed beside Cas. Cas had been habitually noodling around in Dean's belongings for years now. Dean didn't mind, though he knew Sam found it weird as hell, and it was occasionally helpful to have another memory to tap when something got misplaced. Still.

"Why do you like going through my things so much?" Dean asked, honestly curious.

Even in the dim light Dean could tell he was being looked at with an earnest expression; he wanted to kiss Cas very badly.

"You pack interesting things," Cas said. "Like that silver bullet and vial of holy water in there with your toothpaste, toothbrush, and deodorant."

"Sometimes I gargle with the holy water. Helps me stay minty fresh," Dean said, elated to see Cas have to try to keep from smiling.

"Also two expired condoms," Cas continued. "Those you should probably throw away."

Dean put his head back down, struggling to not blush and failing, and thankful for the room's shadows. "Ah," he said, more hoarsely than intended.

He'd never had condoms expire on his watch. Horrors. What had he even been doing with his life lately.

"We should buy more on the way home," Cas said. His tone was as matter of fact as if he hadn't heard Dean's heart stutter.

Oh yeah. There weren't replacements in any dresser drawer back at the bunker, because they'd used the last two less than a week ago.

Dean mentally high-fived himself. "Solid plan." He cleared his throat. "That reminds me."

"Yes?" Cas shifted to wrap his arms around Dean more securely.

"I mean." Dean found an untucked section of Cas's shirt and slid his fingers under it, rewarded with Cas inhaling sharply. "There are definitely things we could do now anyway. If you wanted."

Cas traced his thumb around the lobe of Dean's ear and Dean made an involuntary gasp, covered quickly by a cough. "That wouldn't go against the rules?" Cas asked.

Dean blinked. Propped himself up again. "What rules." All innocence.

"I'm pretty sure there were rules." Cas held his gaze. The unyielding quality there made Dean's skin prickle with heat, as did Cas's thumb brushing a line down Dean's throat, all of Cas solid and warm beneath him.

"Well," Dean said, lowering his mouth to Cas's, "it'd be more fun breaking them."

#suptober22 #deancas #destiel #fic #suptober #snippetfic #spn

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the-goblin-cat · 1 month

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adelaide hog, brother

Well you know what they say, oink oink

✨- How did you come up with the OC’s name?

Adelaide Weiss? Why. you named her! It's a germanic name meaning "noble natured" chosen due to her being bougie.

🌼 - How old are they? (Or approximate age range)

A little older than Cherise. 16 at the start of the series.

🌺- Do they have any love interest(s)?

She thinks she's too busy for romance but will suddenly have a lot of free time when she meets Mindy.

🍕 - What is their favorite food?

Chicken cacciatore.

💼 - What do they do for a living?

She is a student at the Paris Scholomance as well as the acting head of the Paris chapter of the Hunter's Lodge. Of course western Europe is pretty well clear of monsters, so the latter is very part time.

🎹 🥊- Do they have any hobbies/what do they hate to do?

She does ballet. She doesn't enjoy it but she's very good.

🎯 -What do they do best?

She's best as schmoozing and socializing, closely followed by longarm marksmanship.

❤️ - What is one of your OC’s best memories?

The first time she brought down a beast on the hunt, a wereboar that had gone on a rampage. Her father patted her head. She was seven.

✂️ - What is one of your OC’s worst memories?

Two days before this she had failed to take the shot gainst the wereboar's human form. Her father scolded her harshly.

🧊 - Is their current design the first one?

Yes, she's very new.

🍀 - What originally inspired the OC?

I wanted to create a cast of European characters for Cherise to be familiar with before joining up with the mostly American main cast. She was designed to be Cherise's foil; both aristocratic girls with ties to a secret society, but with very different attitudes, fighting styles, and magics. They both eat something they shouldn't have.

🌂 - What genre do they belong in?

Once again, a political fantasy.

💚 - What is your OC’s gender identity and sexuality?

She's cis, and definitely likes women

🙌 - How many sibling does your OC have?

none

🍎 - What is the OC’s relationship w/their parents like?

She desperately wants her father's approval. He sees her as a tool

🧠 - What do you like most about the OC?

My planned arc breaking down her facade and building her back up

✏️ - How often do you draw/write about the OC?

Only once so far but she is often on my mind.

💎 - Do you ever see yourself killing off the OC?

Probably not. Or maybe I will...

💀 - Does your OC have any phobias?

She doesn't have phobias but embarrassing herself makes her feel physically ill

🍩 -Who is your OC’s arch-nemesis or rival?

Cherise

🎓🍥 - Combining these from now on

like two years go dude

#adelaide weiss #filmverse #ask game

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hippolotamus · 1 year

Text

Seven Sentence Something Sunday

Tagged by @spotsandsocks @alyxmastershipper @ajunerose and @rmd-writes. Thank you loves 🥰 I am both still tweaking my main WIP and avoiding posting more of it for now. So have this thing that started to appear the other day.

Despite his best efforts, Buck isn’t one to relive the past. At least, most of it. Of course he loves thinking about Maddie coming back into his life, about meeting Eddie and Christopher, about the day he walked up the steps to the 118 loft and gained an entire family.

But then there’s darker pieces covered in shadow. Memories that should have been bright and happy and positive, but somehow still became soured. For those, he prefers to accept that life didn’t go as expected — although that aspect always turns out exactly as expected — and cram the memories in a box. An already full container that doesn’t have room for more trauma or self-blame, but he still pushes and jams and heaves to make it all fit.

Since Buck never proactively clears any of it out, he supposes it makes sense that one day he would run out of room. That the bursting edges would let something slip.

Today is supposed to be uneventful. Neutral. Expending only the physical energy necessary to pack literal boxes, and mental energy to decide what isn’t needed anymore. Because today Buck is preparing to move out of his loft. Eddie will be over soon to help. They’re supposed to put on music, throw back a few beers each while they work, and try to not get too distracted making out. Again.

The scrap of paper between Buck’s fingers– a faded receipt from Howie’s Market, dated last Fall – seems to have other plans.

Has it been one year? Already, and only, approximately 365 days since Buck stood in the middle of a grocery store surrounded by his team. Not that they felt like much of one at the time. Twelve months since Eddie called him exhausting and asked if he realized how much Christopher missed him.

The accusation felt like how he imagined being stabbed in the chest would be. Knife twisting before having his heart ripped out. Torn from his body, held in front of him on Eddie’s palm, before being inelegantly shoved back in the gaping hole.

It took months for the ache to ease. Even after Buck went back to work and Eddie forgave him. Not to mention the night Buck was just trying to apologize, but nearly lost his mind trying not to fuck Eddie in his kitchen. That had been an entirely different level of ache and madness.

Tagging @vanillahigh00 @stereopticons @blackandwhiteandrose @shortsighted-owl @elvensorceress @fatedbuddie @alysiswriting @fatedbuddie @heartbeatdiaz @apothecarose @jesuisici33 and last, but never least, darling wife @lizzie-bennetdarcy 😘

consider this your tag if you would also like to share!

#seven sentence sunday #but way more than seven #sorry bwr #hippo writes

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raccoonfallsharder · 2 months

Text

꧁･:☁︎⋆. cicatrix .⋆☁︎:･꧂

chapter five. o'erpine. [new 4/2] ✩

a conflict arises. a series of truths come out. see below for warnings & notes.

“Pearl?” The call is quiet — he’s trying to chew back his annoyance, to make his voice reasonable and maybe even something like penitent, since he knows he probably should be. The lonesome word echoes down into the hold. There’s no response, and he glares into the dark shadows. Did she lock herself in the engine room or something? Or is she just stubbornly refusing to answer? When he sniffs, he’s pretty sure he can pick up on the fragrance of her — soft and clear under the scent of his soap and his shirt. She smells like clean riverways, and — he figures it out then, the memory calling to him out of nowhere — like this kind of cool, honey-sweet water lily he’d noticed carpeting some of the freshwater canals when he was hunting down a bounty on Morag. Noticed is maybe an understatement, because he’d liked them — took big deep breaths of them every time their fragrance hit the air. Wouldn’t have minded swimming in ‘em, if there had been time for luxury. He sighs, and groans, and eases his way down the ladder. “Pearl?” Apologize, he orders himself, and he rolls his eyes as his lip curls in irritation. He’s not sure he can scrape out another m’sorry, but he can at least admit he’s a dickhead. “Look. I know I been a jackass—“

masterlist, notes, & moodboard | chapter five. 'erpine. inspired by mary shelley’s frankenstein; or, the modern prometheus. a freakish little monster visits the high evolutionary’s bride on her wedding night. an adventure of intergalactic proportions ensues. aka raccoons make plans; the universe laughs.

WARNINGS for chapter five: a few descriptions of physical nausea/pre-vomiting. it’s been less than a day since chapter two so we’ve still got a lot of regret to process. descriptions of leftover physical pain and references to some of the rough/hate-sex from chapter two. discussion of non-sexual child abuse and controlling behaviors/manipulation. discussion of pet death and intentionally self-inflicted allergic reactions. brief flashbacks to lylla’s execution.

trying to sprint a lil with three updates this month. i used to write a lot of tragic shit but this is probably the angstiest stuff i've written and there are a lot of departures from my usual approach to writing (so much mental grovelling, so much upfront emotional work - i hope it doesn't end up boring as we continue on). thanks for bearing with me, as always. i am eternally grateful. you can check out the masterlist for an idea of approximately where we're headed in the future (got a few tenative chapter summaries up!)

some explicit statements or references ✩ abbreviated explicit sequences ❤︎ detailed/prolonged explicit sequences ❤︎❤︎

taglist ♡ @evolvingchaoswitch ♡ @glow-autumz ♡ @wren-phoenix ♡ @suicidalshitstick ♡ @pretty-chips

#cicatrix #fanfiction preview #rocket raccoon smut #rocket smut #gotg rocket #rocket raccoon lemons #gotg x oc #rocket raccoon x oc #angst with a happy ending #rocket raccoon #guardians of the galaxy #rocket raccoon fanfiction #gotg fanfiction #rocket gotg #gotg rocket x oc #rocket raccoon fanfic #rocketraccoon #rocket raccoon x original character #oc x rocket raccoon

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punemy-spotted · 2 years

Text

A Worthy Grave - Chapter 2

Chapter 2 - I Was Coming Back For More

Pairing: Federal Agent!Ari Levinson x Witch!Reader

Masterlist; Chapter 1

Warnings: THIS IS STILL A HORROR FIC; Some Amount of Body Horror; Shotgun Use; Gun Use; Gun Mentions; True Crime Elements; Police Procedural Elements; Violence; Murder; Death; Ghosts; Ghouls; Strangulation Mention; Violence Against Women Mention; Flayed Bodies; Serial Killers; Choking; Guts; Witchcraft; Blood; Appalachian Gothic Horror; The Dove is Still Dead: Do Not Eat

PLEASE REMEMBER THAT YOUR CONSUMPTION OF MEDIA IS YOUR OWN RESPONSIBILITY AND IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THE CONTENT THAT IS BEING PRESENTED, PLEASE DO NOT READ

Chapter Summary: The dead don’t care what name you take, long as you’ll give ‘em theirs.

Notes: Doc and Ari’s story continues. As said before, this is a sort of direct sequel to Glory, Amen, so keep that in mind as you read it! As always, I crave feedback so please let me know your thoughts! Have questions about the lore? Let me know about those too! As a reminder, reblogging fics supports authors so please let me know you want more by liking AND reblogging!

All of my work is 18+ Only, Minors DO NOT INTERACT. I do not consent to my work being posted anywhere besides Tumblr or Ao3 and I post my work there myself. Do not copy, translate, or repost any of my content.

Ari Levinson does not dream.

Well.

Not what you’d call dreaming, if you knew.

In fact, it’s not entirely clear if Ari Levinson sleeps.

Sometimes he wakes with the memories of a dream still burning hot on the edges of his consciousness, memories long dead and nightmares he can’t shake, but knows do not belong to him.

As a boy, he imagined himself prowling the streets of New York in the guise of one of those famed stone lions that sat outside the Public Library his father used to take him to, teach him history and keep him out of trouble.

He didn’t do much. Just prowled. Wandered.

Roared, sometimes, when the subway was close and no one heard the cries of a cub seeking to understand the nature of its purpose.

As a man, or some approximation thereof, the woods feel like home under padded feet, the soft squish of damp leaves a far cry from the harsh crunch of twigs he would have heard had he been wearing boots instead of the silky pads of a mountain lion, its sleeping mind unaware that his very alert one had taken up temporary residence inside.

There are lost things here. Souls, wandering blank through the branches, unaware of their own mortality and the cutting of their threads. He sees them, following the same paths they wander, a tangled web of sticky green anguish visible in their wake.

Before, up north, when he was still something akin to a Rookie in woods that sunk their roots into him and carved him up into something approximating a decent investigator and the bane of every other agent he’d been paired with, he dreamed the shades of those woods would eventually find a way out because of course they do, long as they had a name to call themselves and a name to call the thing that took ‘em out of this world.

The dead just want names, after all, s’what his grandmother used to tell him, the Pennsylvania Dutch so thick in her voice he sometimes had to ask her to repeat herself four or five times a night.

She was a convert, his grandmother, a branch grafted onto the family tree that turned out to be the very trunk that would hold him together when the dreams started coming, the type of broad-shouldered woman who ran her household with an iron fist.

If she felt any sort of guilt for the curse she’d inflicted on her grandson, she never said, just taught him how to find peace in his wandering — taught him to be safer than her brothers had been, taught him the stories of what would happen if he wandered too far.

But how far is too far here in the pitch dark of night where the woods become a maze and the long-dead mix with the recently deceased, their unsettled souls rotting into something unwelcome in this world and the next; where the specter formerly known as Jane Doe 117 breathes her last breath in an infinite loop, fighting against a killer made entirely of hateful darkness so inscrutable he can barely make out its hands wrapping around its victim’s throat; where the Flayed Doe they found this morning picks its skinless body up from the ground and turns its eyeless gaze to some lighthouse Ari cannot quite make out, dragging itself bloody and broken up the hill to the house that sits atop it.

If a mountain lion could swear, he’d have a few to say, but instead the sound loosed from his feline jaw is the same scream that terrified and fascinated the hikers trying to catch the sunrise the morning prior, the same scream that turned the Flayed Doe from some sick offering to the mountain into a victim to be identified.

There are no hikers around to hear him this time, and no you around to warn, not close enough, not here enough, move, Levinson!

Bad deaths cascade. That’s what they do, a domino effect of destruction that must be stopped before everyone is haunted and — as his grandmother would put it, spitting out the word soft so his non-believing father could not hear — hainted.

Jane Doe 117 died hard. Died fighting for her life. Died demanding justice in her final soundless scream and now he’s getting it, if he has anything to say about it. The Flayed Doe currently slinking its way up the path to your home, soil boiling under its skinless feet as the ground tries to make sense of a thing that should have lain below now wandering up above, died worse, died being turned into some grotesque sideshow, some message not meant for him to interpret.

Won’t stop him from trying though.

Thing about shades is that they move faster than you see them. Slink across the ground slowly and then you blink and there it is — standing on your front porch, staring into your windows, illuminated in the weird light of whatever that bug-repellent lamp you keep out there is.

If you ask him — which he hopes you will not and suspects you will anyway — he will tell you he planned to knock and disappear, planned to be nothing more than a dream because this is nothing more than a dream, planned to avoid the angry horns of your goddamn goat and let whatever body he’d made a temporary home out of dash off into the woods after screaming loud enough to get your attention… and the attention of every dead body in Cocke County, judging by the echo in his ears.

What happens instead, well.

He’s got too much pride to talk about that.

You never agreed with it, your sisters’ tradition of changing their names the moment they were old enough to leave the comfortable nest of your family home. Names have power, after all, and that which your parents so carefully cultivated from the moment you emerged screamin’ and bloody into the world had the kind of power that defined you.

Didn’t help when the dead came knockin’ too.

See, the dead don’t care what name you got — they need you to name them. The dead, they’re selfish, need you to give them your life so they’ll stop trynna demand it from those who don’t got the sight to fight back.

They always found you, the dead, no matter what name you clothed yourself in.

Your momma gave you your second name as well as your first, told you the same thing she told you every time you helped her out in the garden, This mountain will sustain you proper, if you sustain it. So, like any good god-fearin’ daughter of the mountain, you took that copy of your family Bible your daddy once had you illuminate during Sunday School and promised your momma you’d make her proud.

Problem is, you’re tired. You’re bone-tired, strippin’ your workboots off your feet and looking at the stove like it’s personally insulted you and your momma for daring to not have a hot meal cooked already, before deciding that — as much as your momma would’ve scolded you for it — your “emergency” tin of Pillsbury would do just fine for biscuits and jam.

She might’ve thought “air fryers” were all manner of scam put on Earth to keep people from understanding the magic of a good goddamn buttermilk biscuit, but she didn’t just spend the whole damn night listenin’ to Ari Levinson lie unconvincingly through his too-perfect teeth.

Speaking of the Devil, you catch him groaning on your living room couch, lurching awake slowly from the overstuffed cushions you stationed him on for the rest of the night — or what counted for night, when the sun was making itself known by the time you two were done talking.

Or, more specifically, by the time Goatrude was done waiting for you to feed her before she started scavenging your tomatoes.

You sleep alright?

The answer you get is a half-broken groan and the sound of a man struggling to stretch too-tense muscles before he manages his way off the couch and makes a bleary walk to your kitchen, How long was I out?

You… don’t answer. Not immediately, your attention fixed instead on your kitchen window and the space beyond, the wards you’ve embedded into the very bedrock of your land alerting you to a presence hovering at the edge of your property. Stalled.

Waiting.

A wait that does not go unnoticed, an’ while Goatrude marches matter-of-factly towards the attempted incursion to inform whatever-the-hell-it-is to fuck right off, Ari Levinson is pressing in to look over your shoulder an’ you are absolutely not jumping about a foot in the air because you absolutely anticipated him sidling up behind you.

You alright, Doc?

Stupid questions ought to deserve stupid answers.

You can’t say you hate the way he’s lookin’ at you either, bit like a German Shepherd dutifully waitin’ for orders, but if there’s one thing you know you won’t give Ari Levinson anytime soon, it’s fuckin’ orders.

Not to go out there at least, where the unsettled dead are shiftin’.

Fine. Trick of the light. Now. You never answered my question, Levinson.

Bit of false hospitality to cover up the pricklin’ nerves at the back of your neck never hurt nobody, right?

Damn him, though, for bein’ all-too-happy to rib you, just a little, the too-sharp gaze on his face borin’ into you — right through your attempt at mimickin’ your momma’s bright façade. Didn’t take you for bein’ the type to go jumping at shadows, Doc.

If not your momma, your daddy certainly would be proud of you for not throwing the jar of apple butter in your hand at his head.

So what makes you do it?

You sit across from him at your kitchen table, wonderin’ if consuming as much coffee as you have today is good for you, occasionally lettin’ your eyes slide over to the window to see if you can’t catch a glimpse of Goatrude’s eventual return, payin’ no attention at all to his question, not ‘til he says your name at least three more times.

You seeing something I’m not, Doc?

Another beat, which he takes advantage of to snatch another biscuit from the basket you sat ‘tween you both, before you process his questions and snap your attention back to him, Him?

Asked if you were seein’ something I wasn’t — you good?

You’re not, but you don’t admit that you ain’t seen Goatrude return from her jaunt to the edge of your property yet, nor do you admit how nervous that makes you, waving it away instead. You asked somethin’ before that, Levinson, as if that too was somehow not evidence of your distraction.

The thing about the dead — the thing about anythin’ that’s been cut off from the little pulses of electricity keepin’ that sack of meat or plant cells or whatever alive is that the moment the lightning stops, rot sets in. Inevitable entropy, decayin’ matter an’ muscle into somethin’ wrong, somethin’ meant to be consumed by the corpse-eaters of this world, recycled for the next.

But when the dead don’t settle, even after the blood’s gone stagnant in their veins, that rot doesn’t go quiet into its good night. Doesn’t get noticed by the corpse-eaters, plays pretend at bein’ alive for one reason or another, ‘til everythin’ that remains of the body that was is gone.

Everything that is, but the resentment.

Strongest emotion there is, an’ the best thing for rot to latch onto.

Somewhere on the edge of your property, resentment is lurking, pinned in place by a goat braver than she ought to be, waitin’ for you to pick yourself up from the kitchen table and Ari fuckin’ Levinson and his damn questions are startin’ to bore into your brain when you hear the battle cry of a beast both triumphant and callin’, sending you both rocketing to your feet.

You got a gun? He repeats last night’s question in the same half-crazed voice as when he showed up at your door, eyeing you all over again. You almost resent that you can’t scold him for bein’ ridiculous this time.

Lucky for him, you do — got a gun, that is — cuz you might’ve been used to the unsettled dead wanderin’ your land but you’re also not stupid, an’ there’s been too many dead bodies found in these woods for your own comfort.

Unlucky for him, you aren’t lettin’ him touch it.

Stay inside, in a voice that tolerates no arguments but is about to hear ‘em anyway, cutting off his protest while you grab your shotgun and make sure it’s loaded, It ain’t a fuckin’ request, Levinson, you stay here or you’ll see a helluva lot worse than a skinless haint on my front porch. S’for your own damn good.

You know he won’t listen, but at least it’ll buy you time to stalk out to the edge of your property where you can hear Goatrude baying out either victory or warnin’ — you’ll find out when you get there.

The thing at the edge of your property is not…

Is not. Probably never was. Whatever humanity might have lived in that bipedal shell is long gone, leavin’ a mottled mess of corpse wax and cracked bones to attempt to stand before you, eyes lidless and wild as a lipless grin spreads over what passes for its face, Ah. Doc-torrr… It speaks like a thing that has only recently learned the value of a tongue, mouth scarcely breaking its grin as the words stumble past too-sharp teeth, a high buzzing fillin’ your ears, I was hhhoping to ssspeak to yyyou. Yyyou ssseee, I am affflicted with sssomething quite unpleasant—

Yeah, bet you are, you interrupt before it can get too far, readying your shotgun and clickin’ your tongue at Goatrude, watchin’ her trot back to your side before turning your attention to the figure frozen against the tree, Problem is, there ain’t nothin’ good I can do for the likes of you.

The thing’s waxy shell writhes as it faces you, lookin’ like it might just burst into a spray of wax and viscera at any moment, unable to contain its unnatural being in the shape of anythin’ even remotely earthly as it melts and reforms in an endless cycle of sick. Nnnow Doc-torrr, I thhhought we could ssspeak like ssscivilized fffolk. Yyyou dooo hhhelp my kinnnd, yesss?

The dragging syllables feel like your senses are bein’ pulled along with each word, but all you do is rack your gun and hold it proper, knowing your shoulder will hate you in the coming hours but figurin’ that’s a reasonable sacrifice to get this thing as far away from your property as possible — like to the Hell from whence it came — and firing a first an’ only shot right into its chest, leaving a gaping wound where its heart would be, if it had one.

It don’t scream, mostly because it don’t feel pain, merely reeling back as the sound of gunshot echoes in the trees an’ sets your ears to ringing more than you like. The edges of the wound you inflicted flicker, turnin’ the waxy adipocere into somethin’ that might’ve resembled ash if you squinted and tilted your head just right, bits of greyin’ matter flakin’ away as decomposition finally does what it was supposed to do long ago.

You stand there, watchin’ it begin to collapse into a mess of wax and brittle bone, until nothing remains but a pool of slime an’ rot that would soon birth a ring of mushrooms for your goat to feast on, ’Bout the best help I can offer, haint.

What the fuck was that?

You knew Ari Levinson couldn’t stay in your house for long, but you’re rather impressed that he waited as long as he did to come sprinting up behind you… unarmed. What? Couldn’t find a gun?

For once, he’s the serious one, flashin’ you some sort of look of disapproval before turnin’ back to the oilslick slurry seeping into the underbrush, Don’t fuck with me, Doc.

You roll your eyes, shotgun over your shoulder, and turn on your heel back to the house, Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Levinson.

By the time you get Goatrude penned back, rewarded with her favorite treat of pumpkin puree and sunflower seeds, Ari’s near paced a trench in your front room — least, if the amount of times you see him peerin’ out your various windows into the woods beyond is any indication.

You might want to sit down. You keep your tone casual as you eye him, watchin’ the scowl on his face deepen the longer he waits for answers.

You can’t blame him, really, but can he blame you for wanting to avoid the damn subject?

You actually gonna give me an explanation, Doc?

That’s rich, comin’ from you, Levinson. You? Bitter? Perish the thought.

Any other man might’ve bristled at the accusation, might’ve asked you to explain yourself, might’ve started demandin’ apologies or even resorted to violence. You might almost have liked that, liked a chance to throw him out of your home and get him transferred — or fired, you ain’t picky — far away from you and your mountains, ‘cuz who needed a partner anyway?

Ari Levinson, as you are starting to learn — and resent — is not just any other man.

He raises his hands instead, shrugging, and then leans back in his chair, Fine. Fine, you got me — but I’m not the guy who just shot somebody.

Now. Now you shouldn’t snort at that, shouldn’t look like he’s told the funniest joke you’d heard all week — especially ‘cuz laughin’ at Ari Levinson’s jokes just ain’t something you do, thank you very much — but problem is, the gap ‘tween what you should do and what you presently are doin’ is pretty damn wide.

Ari doesn’t take that well, you can tell, but you can’t help it, makin’ a poor show of stifling your smirk before you shrug, Ain’t no body out there, so if you’re thinkin’ ‘bout reportin’ me for firin’ my lawfully owned firearm on my own property, Levinson, m’gonna remind you just what county we’re in.

He isn’t, turns out, judgin’ by the insult painted all over his face, the way he might even look somewhere close to hurt, so you might… relent. Let up. Stop holding him at shotgun length, wonderin’ when he’ll fuck off back up north, rambling on about haints and Lord-knows-what in the woods.

Dammit. Damn you an’ your soft spot for fools.

Fine. Fine — you’re either gonna believe me or you’re gonna sound like the craziest motherfucker in the county.

#ari levinson x reader #ari levinson #ari levinson imagine #chris evans #chris evans imagine #chris evans x reader #chris evans character

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