#over countertop basins

[theoldsports]

SOLUTION.

Art Donaldson x Reader | 5k words

SORRY SERIES LINK.

warnings: pregnancy, implied discussion of abortion, a boy groveling on his knees for his family, there’s a dog (a real one, not just Art), talk about Art’s forced weird athletic borderline disordered eating.

okay, i lied last time. THIS is my best work. this is very out of my brain and i hope you love it. holy shit.

Have you ever sat and listened to a leaky faucet? I mean, really listened?

Steady. Like a heartbeat, if you think about it.

Sometimes, though, if the leak is slow enough, it’s more like the kind of heart rate that sends the nurse with the crash-cart sweeping into the room to shock you out of an AFIB pattern. Or however that worked.

[Y/N] was listening to it. The dripping. The kitchen sink. It hadn’t stopped for days. When it began, it was steady. Now, it was irregular. It started the day Art left

Art had been away at an early season tournament. [Y/N] had an impossible work week, so Art had told her he was happy to go for the better part of the week on his own. They both knew Art really did hate to be alone in situations like that. He had always had one of his people there. His mom, Patrick, [Y/N]; one of them was in his corner at these things. This time, he was truly on his own. Art could not stand to travel alone. He had his team of physios and coaches, but not his family. [Y/N] was going to swing by and surprise him at the end, but her boss had leaned into her for trying to take more days off during release season for the big summer blockbusters. Plus, someone did have to watch the dog.

This context about Art’s being away is important. It’s not that Art was the epitome of a handyman, but he really liked to feel like he was contributing to their home’s ecosystem when a lightbulb went out or a switch needed replacing. The man was incredible with the small things. Yet, [Y/N] sat at the kitchen table with a frown on her face, trying to rough in an outline for an article. With the faucet dripping. If Art were there, or if she was with Art three states over, the faucet wouldn’t be dripping against the porcelain basin.

It wasn’t like the wifi signal was strong enough anywhere else on the property for her to up and move either.

drip drip drip. Said the faucet.

[Y/N] was damn near the point where she was going to run upstairs to the bedroom and get the baseball bat Art kept with the express purpose of running down the stairs in his briefs and cracking up on possible intruders. All she could think about was bringing the wood down against the glass and cheap metal on her kitchen counter.

A new house would have a working sink and a bathroom counter that wasn’t too small and a halfway decent wifi signal.

Instead, [Y/N] set her face down upon the cool blue faux granite countertop. The temperature helped ease the feeling of the hyperbolic corkscrew being driven between her eyes. The dripping kept dripping and [Y/N] wanted to cry.

This agony wasn’t all the sink’s fault, though.

[Y/N] saw on the tennis channel before she even got a call from Art that he’d won that weekend. He still hadn’t called. The lack of a call from made her feel ashamed. Not a soul there to celebrate the success with him. She felt an immense sense of guilt slide across her skin because she wasn’t there to witness that smile he got when he won. Sweaty and angry, but relieved every time. He still got that look when he won. Art was a machine on the court, and a competitor not worth counting out at this point in his career. He still looked surprised and delighted every time he, of all people, hit the winner. [Y/N] loved that look. Art loved how she would celebrate with him after a win, too.

[Y/N] prayed Art made his flight without delay that evening. Selfishly, because she wanted her boy back. Also because Art was mortally terrified of airplanes. Planes made him feel out of control due to lack of trust with the pilot. Without that phone call from him, [Y/N] was scared knowing he was out on his own and that he likely felt anxious enough to give a horse a heart attack. She would have no way of knowing if something had happened between the match end and now.

She did know that the sink was leaking.

She also knew her period was two weeks late.

That, Art couldn’t fix on his own. In fact, it was fairly obvious that the delay was more or less Art’s fault.

[Y/N] hadn’t yet taken a pregnancy test at that time. If she took the time to take one, it would make everything the obvious answer a reality she would have to deal with. She had scares before. Ones that she had never, and would never, tell Art about. She would wait for her delayed—not missed!—period and everything would be fine. Like the other times. It had to be fine.

She checked her phone. It was a blue slidephone with small rhinestone stickers she had applied to the back. Still nothing from Art. He said he would call first right after the match, but he still hadn’t actually called, so maybe it was time to call first. It had been hours since he said he’d ring up. It wasn’t a major concern that Art would blow her off. Ideas of danger and uncertainties flooded her head.

“I’m the one that wants marriage so bad. Not Artie. What if he says no? Or not now…?”

[Y/N] sat on the beach with her back against Patrick’s shins. Art and [Y/N] were completing their first year completely post college. [Y/N] and Patrick were twenty-four and Art was almost twenty-four. His November birthday set him behind.

Patrick’s hands were on her shoulders and his body in a beach chair behind her while they both stared off over ocean as the sun set. “You’re actually stupid if you think he’ll deny you, [Y/N].”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to step on his game, or whatever. The guy is supposed to ask. Isn’t this going to be… emasculating or something?”

“Emasculating for Art? For pretty baby? Yeah, okay,” Patrick teased. [Y/N] threw a fistful of sand at him. “Christ, okay, okay. Cool it.” He spit.

Art had run back up toward to hotel to grab his water bottle, while Patrick and [Y/N] stayed at the dunes. [Y/N] wanted to propose to Art by trip’s end. She thought it would be sweet. Art was extremely forward when it came to her her, but he hadn’t been forward about the whole proposal business. He seemed scared about marriage. [Y/N]he would do it herself.

She was grateful for the time alone with her best friend too. Sitting and doing nothing, or partying. Either was more than welcome. “He’s not going to say no,” Patrick continued. His mouth casually leaned close to her ear. “Because it’s insane how whipped you’ve got him.”

“Don’t say that—“

“He wants to have your babies. Ask him. Trust me, he’ll say yes and he will be all the hell over you.” His fingers worked into [Y/N]’s shoulders, feeling the tension there. He took his hands off of her when Art came running down the beach.

[Y/N] heard a click in the lock. Her head flopped to the left, still pressed against the counter, to glance at the door. Her heart rate increased. She was so tired and the speed of the situation so fast, that she didn’t both moving or attempting to defend herself.

Most fortunately, when the door swung open, it was her Art. The sun was going down behind him. He looked a bit ragged and had a racket bag over one shoulder and two duffels in the other hand. She sat upright sharply on the kitchen barstool. “Pretty baby!”

All Art’s gear hit the floor. The door was left open behind him (taking a big chance that their Labrador mix, Cheese, didn’t run down the stairs and bolt out and away). Art walked toward [Y/N], arms extending. His strong arms pulled [Y/N] in close to his chest. She rested her head against his soft gray t-shirt. Her own arms embraced him back and one of her hands tucked comfortably into the back pocket of his jeans. “[Y/N]… I missed you.” Art said into her hair.

“I missed you… I-I… You didn’t call. How did you get here—“

“Final match actually started on time, so I gambled on moving my flight to the earlier one. I didn’t have time to call if I was taking the early one. I should’ve texted. I got nervous with the-the flight. I’m sorry. Forgive me?”

[Y/N] leaned back to look at him. There was no more welcome sight in the world than Art Donaldson. Irish genetics saw to it that Art was freckled from the spring sun. With shaggy hair boyishly covered by a baseball cap tipping back dangerously, he practically glowed. Even though he looked like shit. His sunglasses were hanging on his shirt. [Y/N/] tilted her head up, signaling for a kiss. Hungrily, Art leaned forward to take as many kisses as he wanted. His lips tasted like spearmint gum. Like always.

Cheese did run downstairs when Art’s hand climbed up the side of [Y/N]’s throat and when her own hand started to squeeze from under the fabric of Art’s back left pants pocket. Art had to pull regretfully away to grab Cheese by the collar and shut the front door.

Delightedly, Art did gteet Cheese with ear-scratches and a belly rub. Art received the customary licks and a tailwags in return. Cheese was always pretty down when the whole family wasn’t together. He walked and played a bit, but when his dad wasn’t around, Cheese kind of deflated. He had spent most of the time laying flat on Art’s side of the bed. It was obvious the dog was grieving the disappearance of his boy.

When Art bent down to pat his beloved Cheese, [Y/N] stood from her chair and bent at the waist. She pulled Art’s hat off and set it on the counter. Gently, she kissed Art on top of the head. With a scratch not unlike the ones he gave to the canine to the back of Art’s neck, the man looked up at her from the ground with a half-smile.

“Congrats, baby,” [Y/N] said. Art cut his eyes curiously from her to the tennis channel on the TV playing in the next room. That had him realizing where she would have gotten the information of his win from so efficiently. “How was the tournament? I’m sorry I couldn’t—“

“Sure, sure, but I bet Cheese here is pretty glad you were home,” Art said and stood up with one final pat to Cheese’s flank. “The whole thing was great. I… I’m kind of surprised I won, if I’m being honest.” Art said, wrapping an arm around [Y/N]’s waist.

Naturally, her hands flattened against his toned chest when he tugged her towards him. “I’m not. You’re fucking good at tennis, Art.”

His ears reddened in embarrassment as he tucked his face into [Y/N]’s neck to hide his face. Art was used to praise and loved it more than anything, no matter where it came from. Every compliment from [Y/N] was worth a hell of a lot more. Art hated thinking about why that was the case. He knew why, though. She had seen he and Patrick play and even then thought Art was good. Art still won the match when it came to [Y/N] and he would never tell her that.

“Hush…” He mumbled into her neck, planting a biting, teasing kiss there. She laughed. He laughed. “I played against an eighteen year old kid yesterday. He played really well,” Art leaned back to look at her again. “You saw, I’m sure,” he indicated the TV with a nod. “He would’ve won this weekend if I hadn’t won that match. Just… I’m twenty-six. Made me feel old.”

“…Glad you won, then.”

“I said if I hadn’t…”

“Well, if you’re sooooo down on your win then congrats on flying home all by yourself like a big boy.” [Y/N] smirked.

“Oh, you’re gonna be like that, huh?” Art withdrew his hands from his wife’s body and put them teasingly on his own hips.

[Y/N] nodded. “Yeah. If you’re old, imagine how I feel.”

“Ancient, probably.”

Art leaned in for another kiss. She pushed him back playfully. “No! You called me old!” [Y/N] laughed.

She leaned one way, then the other to avoid Art’s beautifully wrinkled nose and smiling mouth. “Please? I’m sorry, I’m sorry! You’re-you’re not old!” Art said and attempted to trap her with his arms and give her a kiss.

[Y/N] turned hard over her shoulder and ran up the stairs. Cheese gave a woof from the couch when Art chased after her. Art spent his life chasing after her.

“No! You can’t kiss me! Doghouse! Bad Art! Bad!” [Y/N] accused jokingly. Art jumped up the stairs. He took them two and three at a time.

Art backed her against the bathroom door. Nowhere left to run. His rough hands settled on her hips. “Gotcha. You’re pretty fast for an old lady, y’know. Late for bingo, or—“ Art smirked when he leaned in to kiss her.

[Y/N] shut him up with a kiss. She had missed his stupid boy babbling. His mouth was soft against hers. Art put one of his hands on the wooden door beside her face to hold himself up. The other hand found her belt loop, keeping her body close to his.

“I love you,” Art whispered between kisses. “I love you so much, honey. I missed you.”

[Y/N]’s head leaned back against the door with a soft thud. Her breath caught in her throat. “I love you t—mmh!” Art leaned in for another kiss.

The joy of being Art Donaldson’s wife was that he never got tired of touching her, or being physically close. Sometimes, [Y/N] would look over at him while she was writing, or making dinner, and he would be staring, or slowly extending his hand to her and seeing how long it took for [Y/N] to acknowledge his presence. It never ceased to make her feel beautiful. “Can we…” his fingers danced over the button on her jeans.

“Can we what…?” She asked coyly.

Art blushed, but smirked and lowered his lips by [Y/N] ear. “Can we fuck? Please?” He asked too politely for as dirty as those words were. Like the good midwestern boy that he was.

She tipped her head back further. Art kissed her neck with all the energy he could muster. “Can I not make you dinner first? You-you a cheap whore as well as old now, too?” [Y/N] jeered. Art snorted a laugh. The warm air from the giggle spread over [Y/N]’s skin, causing goosebumps to raise. “I’m never letting you leave home alone again, then.”

Art nodded against her skin, sucking and licking a spot they both new would bruise dark. The sound she let out was absolutely disgusting and Art loved it. “I would prefer to never be let out of your sight, personally.” He said when he pulled away.

“Come on, house boy… We’re havin’ dinner. And you’re gonna eat some bread,” [Y/N] said, pointing a finger at Art’s chest. He started to put up a fight about the ultra-low nonexistent amount of inactive carbs he was eating during the season, but [Y/N] kept chattering. “Stop talking. Your brain doesn’t work right without carbs. Braindead. Come on, dinner.”

“You’re bad for me.”

“I know.” [Y/N] smiled.

Normally, [Y/N] drank a cup of coffee when the pair made dinner. Art knew the pattern. He made her the cup of coffee every time. It sat mostly unfinished that night, though. She found herself heating and reheating it in the microwave as they cooked. She started to space out as he recapped the tournament in full detail, as she requested. If Art noticed, he didn’t let on. [Y/N] noticed, though. Little stood between her and coffee. She didn’t want to drink it. That was violently unusual.

“Hey, I’m gonna go piss. Can you—“

“Watch the sauce?” Art asked, indicating the creamy pesto she had on the stove while Art cleaned and cut vegetables.

“Mhm.” [Y/N] confirmed. Art slid over to take the spoon from her. He placed a hand at the bottom of her back as she walked away. Art fit perfectly into her life. It wasn’t fair how right he was for her.

She went to the upstairs bathroom instead of the downstairs one. She hoped that didn’t set off Art’s sixth sense about the way-things-had-to-be. Once upstairs, [Y/N] wasted no time yanking open the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. It was overflowing, naturally. Makeup, supplements, condoms, hair ties, pill bottles, loose painkillers. It was a disaster. There was also a pregnancy test.

A laughing Art had given it to [Y/N] as a joke the morning after their wedding night and she had hit him hard enough to bruise across the chest. The test sat wrapped and in the box behind the mirror every day since. Just in case.

[Y/N] had officially arrived at just in case.

She gingerly tossed the empty box under the sink so Art wouldn’t see it without looking for it. Then, [Y/N] undid the buttons on her overalls and, well, took the test.

Lacking the time to sit and watch it come back positive or negative, [Y/N] tossed the clean cap on the stick, slid it into the pocket of her overalls, washed her hands and went downstairs like nothing was wrong.

Except she knew something was wrong. Now she felt like she had a loaded gun in her pocket. She was too cautious with her movements due to the fear that the test would slip out of her front right pocket in front of Art.

She was damn near about to step into the pantry and shut the door just to see if the pee stick had one line or two. If he wasn’t already suspicious, that would do it. [Y/N] felt that the anxiety created was easily the worst anxiety she had ever had. Oops.

[Y/N] got quiet. She was talking less and listening more. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but she was a chatterbox. Art would notice her blanched face and wrinkled brow eventually, she worried.

Ever the perceptive bastard, Art did. When he sat beside [Y/N] at the counter to eat a bowl of pasta with more inactive carbs than he had eaten in six months, he kept cutting his eyes at her. His bare foot nudged her ankle. Her dish was relatively untouched. “You good, babe? You’re being weird.”

“I’m not being weird.”

“You are being weird because you’re not being you. I’ve barely asked you how you’re doing with all the excitement. Long day?” Art asked, setting down his fork to drag his hand across the back of her shoulders.

“Yeah, a bit.” [Y/N] said. What she meant to say was I have a pregnancy test and I bet it is positive in my pocket right now and I’m so terrified that I can practically smell my pit stains right now, baby. But she didn’t say that.

Art spun to face her, taking in her expression and demeanor. There was that contemplative knot perched between his eyebrows. The back of his hand landed calmly on [Y/N]’s forehead to check her temperature. “Art…” [Y/N] said, pushing his hand down.

“No, hang on.” Art said firmly. He tried to put his hand back on her face. Instead, not having a clue what it said, [Y/N] reached into her front right pocket and slammed the pregnancy test down between them. Art retracted his hand and flinched back a bit at the sudden movement. The test was face down on the counter.

Art’s eyes cut from the test back to her. His face was suddenly very solemn. “Are you—“

“—I dunno. I didn’t-I couldn’t look. It’s been in my pocket for twenty minutes. No idea.”

“Do you think you are?”

[Y/N] shrugged and looked at her bowl. It looked too green. sick sick sick. drip drip drip said the faucet.

“Do you want to know if you are?” Art asked wide-eyed. “I want to know, personally. Do… Do you?”

Again, [Y/N] shrugged. “If we don’t look, it’s not real.”

“…That’s stupid.” Art shook his head.

“You’re stupid.”

Art sighed. “I’m gonna look. I mean, I’m going to turn it over,” his eyes frantically reached for [Y/N]’s. He grabbed her hand with his to get her attention. “I’m going to look. Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah.” She whispered and it was okay.

And she was pregnant.

Two blue lines stared at them.

“Fuck.” [Y/N] said. She felt both elated and humiliated. She wanted so badly to be a mother. She wanted to cry. How could they keep it? The timing was wrong. She hadn’t agreed to this. The two of them had so many fights about it. She barely understood how this happened. She thought they were being so careful. It didn’t make any sense. Every precaution she could think of had been taken at one point or another.

And the fucking faucet was still dripping. She could hear it. drip drip drip. Over and over.

“Fuck.” She said sliding out of her chair and standing unsteadily. That wasn’t the result one should feel when they get something they have spent so long wanting.

Art ran his hands through his hair. He knew he shouldn’t be smiling when she looked so worried. His face betrayed the wide smile he hoped to hide. That’s exactly what he wanted to see. Fuck.

“Honey… Hey, hey. You’re okay. This is awesome. C’mere.” Art said like he was diffusing a bomb. His arm were wide open to hold her.

“Art…”

“No, uh-uh. Just come here. Please.”

Cautiously, [Y/N] made her way into her favorite pair of arms in the world. “It’s not supposed to be like this.” [Y/N] choked out as Art held her.

“Shh, I know, I know,” Art said calmly. His left hand’s fingers brushed her hair away from her face. “But that’s how it is now. We have to accept that and solve for the next move, right?” It was silent for a while after that. [Y/N]’s arms were tightly wrapped around Art’s shoulders and their bowls of pasta were certainly cold. She felt that she had ruined everything.

She glanced at Art’s face. The small smile betrayed him. “Art… We can’t. Not now.” she had told Art not now so many times that it felt forced and rehearsed. Now that [Y/N] that was actually pregnant, she wanted nothing more than to stay pregnant. The timing was far from good. She had articles that were still very due the next day. She had a husband who very much traveled often for work (who she traveled with too). She had Cheese, who was staring at her weird over the back the couch because he didn’t understand crying.

“What do you mean we can’t?” Art said quietly. “We-We can. We… have. We are… Actively.” He fumbled.

“We can. We did! But… You know now’s not a good time, baby.” [Y/N] countered weakly.

Art’s hands never left [Y/N]’s waist. “Let’s run pros and cons.”

“Pretty baby.” She said accusatorially. Good old analytic Art…

“Let’s run pros and cons.” Art repeated unflinchingly. He sprang up off of his barstool to gather a sharpie and a legal pad from some drawer. Art uncapped the marker harshly with his teeth. Cap between his teeth still, he asked: “Do you want it?” while he found a clean, smooth page.

Before she could respond with her head, [Y/N] responded with her heart. She nodded a yes to him immediately. “Do you?”

Art capped the back end of the marker to free up his mouth. “More than anything ever, I think. It would probably kill me a little bit, actually, if… Yeah. I understand and it’s all up to you, honey, but… Yeah.” His hand created a PRO column and a CON column on the page.

Under PRO, Art added the items he knew would cause no trouble in his blocky capitalized handwriting:

FINALLY START FAMILY

NATURAL/EASY START

SEASON ALMOST OVER

[Y/N] HAS FLEXIBLE HRS

DREAM COME TRUE??

WILL BE GR8 PARENTS

[Y/N] nodded in approval. She couldn’t think of more pros, but Art handed her the marker and she started in on the CON list:

OLYMPICS??

ART’S NEVER HOME

EXPENSIVE

SMOKING/COFFEE

CHEESE JEALOUS?

TOO YOUNG!

Art drew the line at giving up stimulants and assigning the dog human traits and struck both of those off the list with a frown.

Frankly, Art thought the cons list turned out rude.

“I haven’t qualified for the Olympics yet,” he protested. “And if I do, imagine how early on that would be. Before all the hard stuff.”

[Y/N] replied with the thing they both knew was the most real problem. She had waited forever to say it out loud. “No offense… You are never home anymore. You’re busy all the time. Which I get. It’s your job. You’re good at your job. But look how excited the fuckin’ dog got to see you because you were gone so long. You are never here. We can’t put a human in doggy day camp all the time. It would be fucking impossible to raise—“

“I’ll quit,” Art said, wincing. He wouldn’t. [Y/N] felt that this was a bluff. He tried in vain to hide his expression of shame. “I’ll quit tennis.” He said. He wasn’t going to.

“That would worsen the problem. No money.”

“I’ll work at the 7/11. I’ll be a construction worker. I could be a fuckin’ coach. I actually have a degree, y’know, I can use it. I’m more than a racket. I don’t want you to feel alone here. I want to be here for all of it, I can—“

“You know I’m alone here a lot, babe. A lot. You don’t… You’re in a position where you’re unable to help constantly. Because you’re gone. That’s okay. I married you knowing that, right? But a baby, Art? That’s not fair.”

“I’ll bail on a season. I will. I just…” Art stared at her. “Please. I’m begging you. See this kid through with me.”

The sharpie was forgotten on the counter along with dinner. Art’s knees landed on the floor before [Y/N]. Art practically lived on his knees in front of [Y/N]. He gathered [Y/N] hands in his. “Please. It’s your call, but hear me out. Because that thing is part of both us. I don’t want you to hate or resent me or the little stinker forever, but you want it. I know that. Hear me out.” His beautiful two-tone eyes stared up at her.

“Fine. Go ahead.”

“I will give you anything. Please, my world is you. Not tennis; you. I’m telling you, I-I would leave that behind to be anything you need right now. Just ask it. You’re my fucking priority, you got that? I just.. I… Please? I’m not going anywhere.”

“I want to keep it too, but—“

“Then what’s the big deal?” Art asked hopefully.

“It isn’t a good time. It’s too soon.”

Art’s mouth trailed kisses across his wife’s stomach and hips and hands and arms. He let this go on for several minutes. “Please,” Art whimpered pathetically into the skin of her wrist. “Please, please, please. I will do anything, my love. I’m on my knees here,” Art looked up at her through thick lashes. “We can do this. Both of us together. I’ll do whatever you want. You know I will. This can be good for us. I’m really sorry we’re here, but here we are, hon. What time’s going to be the right time? Please. I love you.” Art pleaded desperately.

[Y/N] knew this was going to be a disaster. But she wanted to keep it. What time’s going to be the right time? rung in her ears over and over, like the faucet. They had put so much time into arguing about the time and the place that would be right for a family. Now it was right in front of them. Her hand caressed Art’s face. She loved it when he groveled like that. This time, on his knees and everything. On instinct, he nuzzled his face into her hand and looked up at her through long lashes.

“Will you fix the faucet? It’s been dripping all week.”

“Anything.”

“I’ll… I’ll think about it. I’m going to think about it. The baby.”

“You will?” Art’s teary eyes widened.

“Objectively, this is a terrible fucking idea. We both know that. But if it’s really so terrible, why do I feel, like… happy about it…”

Art’s face lit up. It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no either. [Y/N], honestly, found it very hard to say no to Art. His arms wrapped carefully around her thighs while his head rested against her middle as he knelt. [Y/N] could feel his silver ring through the denim of her overalls. “God, I love you. I love you, [Y/N]. We’re not going to regret this. Holy shit…”

“Love you too. We’re gonna… We’re gonna try, maybe? This doesn’t feel real. Does this feel real? I…”

“It feels like a dream is what it feels like,” Art mumbled into her clothes. “I love you.” Art said, pressing a kiss to her stomach.

“I love you.”

“I’m gonna be a dad…” Art almost wept. “If you, y’know, but… Shit. I’m sorry.” Which part he was apologizing for was unclear.

At that, [Y/N] laughed and tangled her fingers in his curly blonde mop of hair. “Yeah, you’re gonna be a fucking dad, pretty baby.” She smiled.

[Y/N]’s next instinct was to say: I have to call Patrick. Then she remembered couldn’t call Patrick.

TAGLIST (ask to join):

@diorrfairy @donaldsonsdarling @muthafuckingstargirl @shysstuff @soberbabes @avylanchce

apologies for tag issues. i’ll dm those it didn’t work for!

#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson imagine #art donaldson x you #art donaldson #challengers movie #challengers #patrick zweig #patrick zweig x reader #sorry series #father art

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[florencemtrash]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Seventeen

Azriel x Day Court Librarian Reader

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warnings: None. Some angst. Some fluff. AHHHHHHHHHH just look at the gif guys

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

“Let me know if I’m hurting you.”

“I will.” 

The wet cloth soothed his burning skin as you carefully cleaned away the smattering of blood dashed over his high, bruised cheekbones like freckles. You were both holding your breaths, only daring to move when your lungs demanded it. Azriel sat on the chair you’d dragged into your bathroom, face level with yours as you leaned down to inspect his face with two fingers tucked beneath his chin. 

Azriel’s fingers twitched at his sides, aching to touch you somewhere. Anywhere. 

“You said you’d tell me if I hurt you.” 

“You’re not hurting me, Y/n.” 

Azriel could have told you that he was well versed with cleaning blood off his body and clothes. He could have reminded you back in the dining room that Feyre and Rhysand stood only ten feet away and could have whisked away his injuries and the bloodstains with a single touch or snap of their fingers. But instead he’d said nothing. He’d let you close your hand around his, fingers dangerously close to his thrumming pulse, and followed you to your bedroom while ignoring the throbbing pain of his cracked ribs. 

Feyre called your bedroom The Wisp after having decorated it with all manner of airy, cream-colored furniture accented with soft browns. Your desk was overrun with neat piles of papers, books, and journals. The windowsill by your bed was dedicated to pre-sleep novels and clusters of lavender tied with twine and left to stand upright in vases fashioned from ink bottles. The scent of old books and parchment paper clung to every surface along with something that smelled clean and entirely like you.

Your bathroom was similarly orderly. Bottles of perfumes, lotions, and oils were laid out on the countertop like little soldiers, catching and scattering the moonlight from the window in a rainbow of color. 

You brushed the cloth over his lips, eyes lingering on the two splits already scabbing over, then down the curve of his jaw to his chin. 

It was reverently quiet here in your bathroom. Nothing but the faint and steady drip from the faucet into the quartz basin and your breathing filling the space. 

Color had been spilled over Azriel’s face like a watercolor painting, equal parts painful and beautiful to look at. Because he was still so, so beautiful looking up at you with those whisky eyes that made your head spin. Those dark curls that hung over his forehead like seafoam waves. Your hands fluttered over the bottles on the countertop before settling on a pale green one that smelled strongly of mint. You smoothed the oil over Azriel’s face, leaving a cool, tingling sensation wherever you touched.

“I’m sorry about Lucien,” You whispered. “And Helion. I never wanted you to get hurt like this.” 

“Don’t apologize.” He smiled sadly. “Cassian was right when he said I had it coming.”

You winced. “How bad was it when you fought Lucien the last time? When you invoked the Blood Duel?”

Azriel didn’t shy away from the question, and his gaze never left yours as you quietly restoppered the bottle. “I was a second away from stabbing him through the heart when Elain stopped us. There are a fair number of scars we both left that fight with, but we did walk away,” He stiffened at the memory, “Barely.” 

“Do you… do you regret it?”

“Yes,” Azriel said quickly. Firmly. “I will regret what I did and what Elain and I did together until the day I die.” His hands flexed by his sides and he dared to lift them up to your hips, anchoring himself with the feeling of you beneath his fingertips. When you didn’t shy away from his touch, he continued on. “I wanted what my brothers had and in my desperation I think Elain and I chose each other because we just wanted to do something. I wanted a mate and proof that I belonged alongside Rhys and Cassian, and Elain wanted to break the rules for the first time in her life. To feel in control. But we never should have done it knowing everyone would get hurt.” 

“Sometimes love is like that,” you murmured, “Messy and hurtful… or so I’ve read.” 

“I didn’t love Elain. I don’t love Elain. At least not romantically.” Not the way that I love you. 

You tried to ignore the flutter of relief in your chest. It didn’t feel like the right time for it. Not with Azriel bruised and hurting before you. You dropped your eyes to the pale green tiles and caught sight of Azriel’s gloved hands. 

“You’re wearing them again.”

Wordlessly you picked up one and gently began tugging the leather off his fingers. One by one. The whole time you kept your eyes on him, tracing the tension in his shoulders and between his eyes as his ruined skin was exposed inch by inch. The air felt foreign on the skin of his palms. The feel of your body so close to his felt exhilarating. 

“I’m so sorry,” Azriel whispered, “I never meant to hurt you in all the ways that I did. What I did—” 

“I know, Azriel.” 

His eyes traced every line of your face, hands shaking. “You’re not a fourth choice. You’re not broken... But I think I might be,” he confessed. The words hung in the air between you two. Words you could wrap around his neck and hang him with. 

He felt every stroke of your fingers over his knuckles. Every flutter of your eyelashes as you looked at him with the faintest tilt of your head. 

“So what?” You breathed out. 

Azriel shook. “Y/n?”

“So what if you’re broken? Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t,” You leaned your forehead against his, noses brushing, “But you’re still Azriel.” You smiled gently at him, eyes fluttering closed as you sighed. “And I think that’s a wonderful thing.” 

Azriel stopped breathing as you brought his hands up to your lips and brushed them over every scarred knuckle. Every touch of yours was sacred. In their sincerity. In their rarity. In their preciousness to him. 

“Do you… do you like me, Azriel?” Your words were nervous and soft. Softer than the finest bed Azriel had ever laid his head down on. Softer than the clouds that turned to rain when he flew through them. Softer than your ink-stained fingertips landing on the sprinting pulse of his neck. 

“Yes,” Azriel murmured, “You can’t even begin to know, Y/n.” 

And then your softness was all around him. It was your lips against his lips, pillowy and tasting faintly of the sweet wine you’d drank at dinner. It was your hands and arms looping around his neck and keeping his head squarely on his shoulders so he could experience this vibrance. It was the feel of your body as he held onto your hips and then flattened his hands against the small of your back, pressing you as close as he dared. River-soaked robes long since forgotten. 

You were like water threatening to slip through his fingertips. 

You hoped you were doing this right. Reading about kissing was very different from the actual thing. Your lips felt too stiff or too fervent. You worried your hands were too greedy as you plunged them into his raven-wing hair and tangled silken strands. But while you lacked experience, Azriel surely seemed to be making up the difference. He held you as close as possible, until it felt more like breathing than kissing. 

Salty tears landed in between your lips until you could both taste their sharp tang on your tongues. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he kept saying over and over in between shaky gulps of air. “Y/n, please believe me. I—” 

You kissed him harder just to make him stop, swallowing his pain as best you could until his breathing evened out. 

“I’ve got you, Az.” You brushed his black waves away from his forehead before kissing him there too. “It wasn’t your fault.” 

Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. 

Azriel’s shadows chanted in his ears. But he made them go silent. 

Another day. 

Let him just hold you like this for now. For as long as you would let him. Here in the stillness with you — the only person who’d ever brought him a real sense of peace and quiet — he felt it was safe to hope again.

The long stream of kisses ended too early for his liking, although he didn’t dislike the sight of your heaving chest and blushing cheeks. He couldn’t quite believe what had just happened, and you seemed to be thinking the same thing as you stood between the walls of his legs, his arms wrapped loosely at your sides and yours dangling off his shoulders. 

You’d kissed him. You’d kissed him. 

You touched your fingertips to your lips, worry in your eyes. “Was it bad? Did I do a bad job? I’ve never—” 

Azriel would have none of that. He tightened his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest and kissing you all over again. You relished in his heat and the faint tickles of shadows that encased you both in darkness, like a veil had been thrown over the room leaving everything gauzy and soft. 

“You, my Y/n,” his lips brushed over the corner of your mouth, trailing down to your neck when he sighed so, so softly, “Are a marvelous kisser.” 

Had you melted into a sack of bones on the floor? It certainly felt like you had. You were blushing uncontrollably, searching for something, anything, to comment on. You thought your heart might just burst out of your chest. 

“You have frosting in your hair.” You plucked the white blobs off his head, feeling the sugar grains crumble between your fingers. 

“I think that was meant to be dessert.”

“I think you might be right.” You tried controlling your breathing when Azriel leaned forward and kissed the bare skin of your shoulder, and failed miserably. “It’s a real shame,” you stammered, “I was looking forward to cake.”

He kissed the center of your chest next and your heart skipped a beat. “I’ll buy you all the cake in the world to make it up to you.” 

“That’s a hefty promise, and a waste of cake.” 

“Do you doubt me?” Azriel asked honestly. You could ask him for moonlight in a bottle, or a dress spun from spider silk, or all the stars in the sky and he’d find a way to make it happen. Some way. Somehow. He’d give you everything that was his to give, and then some. 

“No. I don’t doubt you.”

“Good.”

He couldn’t help himself. He kissed you again, reveling in the faint sighs that he swallowed up and the few that escaped between your locked lips to sing in his ears. You traded kisses for hours on end, slipping them in between conversations and gentle touches. It was an exploration in intimacy that you worried might sweep you away, but Azriel was as he always was — patient and gentle — from the tips of his black hair to his scarred hands to his leather boots. And you loved every inch of him. 

You clung to his shirt, the scent of soap still clinging to his skin after he’d returned from his bath and laid down in bed beside you in cotton instead of leather. 

“Azriel,” You said, your voice thin and tired. The candles burned low casting shadows that flickered and twisted on the wall. But you didn’t pay any mind to shadows any longer, not when you knew they belonged to Azriel as surely as you did. “Stay.”

And who was he to deny you? He held you close, your cheek pressed against his chest. You fell asleep to the sound of his heart, and he fell asleep to the rhythm of your breathing. 

You woke up to the weight of Azriel draped over your body, face pressed against your breasts, arms wrapped around your waist, and the rest of him nestled in between your legs. He grounded you, wings splayed out and bathing in the sunlight that streamed through the windows. 

You were pleasantly surprised that he was still asleep and you took the time to lightly trace his features, weaving your fingers through his hair until he made a sound that had your heart speeding up. Something halfway between a sigh and a groan. 

He was slow and sluggish to wake, eyes blinking languidly as he registered the warm, supple body beneath him. 

You. 

He’d fallen asleep here with you, wrapped up in your scent until the world had faded away into blissful nothingness. He could have been asleep for eight hours or eight years and he would be none the wiser. All he knew is that you were running your fingers through his hair, and he didn’t want you to stop. 

“Hey, you,” You murmured when his whisky eyes fluttered open, eyelashes casting spidery darkness over his cheekbones where his own shadows curled as if still asleep. 

Azriel hummed, burying his face in your chest and sighing with his whole body. His arms rubbed up and down your sides leaving molten heat in their wake. “Please don’t tell me it's morning.” 

“I’m not above lying, Azriel. It’s the middle of the night.” 

His wings shook with quiet laughter, the movement of his body tickling your skin until you were grinning unabashedly. 

“Then why are you awake?” Again, his words were muffled by your skin. 

“Because I’m currently being crushed beneath the weight of an Illyrian warrior.” 

His head shot up in alarm. He was no small male and although he’d spent centuries gaining enough strength for his wings to feel weightless on his back, he knew they were anything but. And you’d let him stay like that all night. It was a miracle you hadn’t suffocated.

Stupid. Stupid. 

“I’m sorry. Gods, I didn’t mean—” He began to slide off of you. But you were laughing. 

“Wait! No! I was joking. I was joking. Come back!” You wrapped your legs around his back, the sudden movement pulling him flush against you in a rush of heat that made him go stone still. 

Mother, help me. He thought to himself, feeling blood travel both up and down his body. 

You guided his head to your chest by the strands of his hair until he was following the curves of your silhouette once again. “I like it when you hold me like this, Azriel,” you confessed. “I don’t feel like I’m going to float away anymore. Does that make any sense?”

“It makes perfect sense,” he whispered. He felt the same way. “You make the world go quiet, Y/n.”

It wasn’t until the clock struck twelve bells and the House’s cooking wafted through the hallways that you and Azriel finally peeled yourselves off one another, shuffling to the bathroom in a cluster of wings and loose night clothes. 

Azriel watched you closely, finding new ways to love you even as you brushed your teeth side by side, bumping hips and smiling at one another shyly. He watched as you brushed your hair and washed your face, stealing kisses that left minty cool tingles on his skin. 

Lucien was noticeably frowning when you and Azriel walked into the dining room, Azriel’s scent still clinging to your skin and yours to his. You’d done nothing more than sleep in the same bed, everyone was looking at you with shit-eating grins like you’d taken Azriel on the living room couch for the whole House to hear. 

“You look well rested, brother,” Cassian noted over the lip of his coffee cup. 

It was the best night of sleep Azriel had gotten in centuries, perhaps in his entire life. 

You wordlessly traded seats with Elain at the table, leaving you and Azriel on one side and Lucien and Elain directly across. When no one was looking, he reached down and pulled your chair closer, pressing his knee against yours beneath the table. Lucien noticed — of course he did — but the blush on your cheeks was so innocent and the love in your gaze so honest that he couldn’t bring himself to make any comment. Although, he did throw a few dangerous looks Azriel’s way, looks that plainly said, If you hurt her, you’re a dead man. 

Azriel only nodded faintly in reply, as if he knew what Lucien had been thinking all along and was in agreement. 

But in the following weeks your brother would come to be grateful that your care for one another was not loud. It wasn’t desperate, groping hands in hallways or sultry looks that heated up crowded rooms and made people uncomfortable. It was reserved smiles and knowing glances when you independently formed the same thought at the same time, eyes latching onto one another until one of you inevitable broke away laughing.

For the first time in his life, Azriel had someone who wanted him back just as fervently, even if it was difficult to believe. 

Azriel always needed to be touching you, whether it be a hand at the small of your back or the press of your shoulders together as you leaned over one of the desks at Cagniv — now that Azriel was allowed inside — with papers strewn about like dove feathers. 

You were no better. You stuck close to his side where shadows lingered and sought him out in every room until you may as well have owned the space within the curve of his wings. 

But things were changing. Koschei loomed taller and taller over the House like an avalanche ready to wipe Velaris off the map. Once again, everyone heard Vassa’s cries at daybreak and nightfall, and when Jurian slipped out of the attic for his own rest, he looked a little thinner and paler each time and no amount of medicine or food you and Lucien brought upstairs seemed to be helping. 

Azriel tried to steal every extra second with you in the mornings. If he had his way, he’d never leave his bedroom again, content to admire the splash of sunlight over your body and your sleepy sighs. But he was still the Shadowsinger and Spymaster of the Night Court and you quickly got accustomed to waking up to an empty bed with only a note on the nightstand. On those days you migrated out of whatever room you’d spent the night in — yours or Azriel’s, although the lines were blurred — often trekking to Cagniv to escape a house where strange, new faces were coming and going with more frequency: ash-pale fae from Winter, a white-haired female from Summer with skin so dark it was almost black, and golden males from Dawn with downy hawk wings. They locked themselves in Rhysand and Feyre’s office where bargains and plans were made in blood and salt. 

Other days you carted your books to Feyre’s studio with Nesta and Ione in tow, perching on a stool while the High Lady crafted life out of brushstrokes like she was the Mother herself. 

Feyre stood at her easel, as she had been every day this last week, with her pencil clenched between her teeth as she ignored the faint aches in her lower back and her wrist. Every line, every detail, was attended to with painstaking precision as she mapped Nesta and the old woman’s faces onto the blank canvas first with graphite, then with a thin wash, then with layers of paint that added dimension and familiarity to the two stoic faces. Feyre didn’t let her passion overtake the more clinical approach she was taking with this piece. This was not the time for free flowing movement and modernism. 

This was all about realism. 

Exactness. 

When the High Lady placed her brush on the muddied water cup beside her, you jumped up. “Is it finished, Feyre?” 

“As finished as it will ever be,” Feyre responded gravely as you took in the sight before you. Three women: Nesta, Ione, and some mixture of the two. Feyre had captured their likeness with incredible precision, using the painting to familiarize herself with their faces and the ways they could be warped and molded.  

You peered over the corner of the canvas to where the two women were standing side by side. Ione lengthened her spine, cane clasped in her hands that you’d never seen her lean on with her full weight. Time had condensed her bones and stolen some of the height from her frame, but none of her sharpness. It was a trait that granted her a strange degree of likeness to Nesta, as if you’d glanced into a future where she’d never turned fae. 

You looked at Feyre, then down to the vials of blood you’d collected from the pair. Already your magic was seeping into the burgundy bottles, testing its boundaries with such an unfamiliar medium as you released any hold you had on it. You looked at the High Lady and nodded. 

It just might work. 

“My brilliant daughter,” Helion praised, kissing you on the top of your head before disappearing in a flash of light. His empty teacup spun on the saucer. 

You felt a familiar flicker of pride grow within you. Helion had spent hours pouring over your notes, your manuscript, and leaning his ear towards your plans. He was in agreement. 

It just might work. 

Lucien slunk out of his room after Helion’s voice disappeared and sank into the abandoned couch with his whetstone and white-bone blade. The ring of metal echoed through the room, melting into the birdsongs that slipped in through the cracked open window and the clatter of sugar spoons against a porcelain plate.  

“You should tell him,” you said again, pushing a teacup over to your brother. It was a common refrain after Helion’s visits. 

Lucien stared at the three cups now strewn across the coffee table. Two empty. One full and untouched. Had Helion noticed the extra one? 

“I’ve had enough of High Lords for a while,” Lucien said as you poured yourself another strong cup, “When this is over, I’m taking Elain, Jurian, and Vassa back to the Human Lands.” His eyes flickered over to you briefly, “You should come live with us. You’d find it interesting how they conduct themselves. You might even learn something.” 

“I’ll visit for a short time, but nothing longer than that.”

“Why not?” You lowered your gaze and blushed, unconsciously tugging your sweater higher up your neck. The sweet marks Azriel’s lips had left on your skin were long gone, but you swore you could still feel them. “You know why.” You murmured softly. 

Your swollen eyes spoke of restless nights without the Shadowsinger’s hands to lull you to sleep. Azriel had gotten into the habit of stroking your cheek while you talked in bed, until the steady brush of skin against skin finally had your eyes closing shut. You missed him. 

“Lucien, I understand that you want nothing to do with Helion or any other High Lord, but… You could be better. I know you could be. You could be the best High Lord of them all, if you’d only be open to it.”

Because that was Lucien’s worst fear, wasn’t it? That a time would come when Helion would leave this world and any hope for a quiet, peaceful existence with Elain would be gone.

“And what if you’re wrong?”

You touched his wrist and the blade stopped its strange singing. “‘It’s often those who think they deserve it least, that deserve it most.’ Pippin Clodshot from—”

“A Duel of Two Faces by Aechtion.”

You reared back in surprise and Lucien grinned, tapping your nose. “I do read, sister.” 

The sarcasm in his voice was laid on so thickly you could only grumble in response. “I wasn’t aware you had two brain cells to rub together, brother.” 

Lucien laughed so heartily and for so long that Elain and Ione stuck their heads out from the kitchen in conern. 

“I thought someone was dying.” Ione rolled her eyes before her grey head disappeared once again. 

You slid further under the covers, burying your face in Azriel’s pillows as the sun finally slipped behind the mountains and shadows raced each other to the Sidra. 

Seven days. 

Seven days of waking up to empty sheets after Azriel had jerked awake halfway through the night, bloodshot eyes searching for something you couldn’t see and that he didn’t tell you about. He’d only kissed your forehead, smoothing back your hair and murmuring something about a task he needed to take care of before shrugging on his leathers. You’d sat in bed, comforter tucked under your arms and over your chest even though you were fully clothed, and watched Azriel move around the room with a practiced air as weapons flashed in the moonlight and disappeared into his bag. 

You knew all the hiding places in his room now — one of the many secrets you’d unearthed — so you didn’t find it at all strange when he captured your lips before dipping his hand beneath the mattress and pulling out a long serrated blade, perfect for sawing rope and wood. 

“Where are you off to this time?” 

Azriel had gone still, taking his time to shake away his thoughts before sweeping a handful of stoppered vials off his desk — sleep potions, draughts for pain and healing, subtle, painless poisons. You would know because you had helped make them. 

“I’ll be back before you know it, Y/n,” He’d whispered, eyes boring into yours with a haunted look that hadn’t left him since that day in the market square. 

Ten days.

Ten days of carrying around a heavy ache that every so often tightened with a feeling you couldn’t name. Almost as if it didn’t belong to you.

You paced back and forth in Azriel’s room, trying to calm a heart that hadn’t stopped racing for the last hour. You’d tried opening, then closing the windows as you curled up beneath the covers of his bed, mountain air blowing the curtains open and chilling your too hot skin. But none of it helped. 

Chasing his scent in the sheets wasn’t enough anymore. 

You tiptoed out of Azriel’s room, copying his silent steps and sticking to familiar shadows as you slipped through the House. Like Lucien, you tended to stay hidden whenever representatives from other Courts visited the River House. They were people Rhysand and Feyre trusted, but that didn’t mean you could erase centuries of wariness from your bones. 

You heard nothing coming from Feyre’s studio, but you knew that if you were to sneak through the layers of air she’d sealed around the space, you’d meet a male carved from molten heat. 

You waited in one of the spare studio rooms for the High Lord of Autumn to leave, eyes peering through the slit between the door and its hinges. If you stared for long enough, you swore you could see the air beside the door rippling with Autumn heat. 

Finally, Eris Vanserra stepped into the hallway in all his striking glory, followed closely behind by Lucien. Violently red hair hovered over a pale, freckled face composed of angular lines — striking but not unkind. You thought he looked like a lit match with his wiry frame wrapped in resplendent browns, reds, and golds that spoke of forest riches. Or maybe he just looked narrow when standing next to Cassian. That was always a possibility.

“Thank you, Eris.” Feyre squeezed his hand reassuringly. She wore similarly decadent clothes. The moonstone and diamond crown perched atop her light brown hair was a rare sight, but Feyre wore it as naturally as she wore her paint splattered overalls. She was an artist and a High Lady in equal measure, and she sacrificed no part of one in favor of the other.  

The newly minted High Lord of Autumn chuckled darkly, eyes flashing like a living flame. You’d heard horrible tales about Beron Vanserra, his cruelty, and his violence. But whatever traits Eris had inherited from his father he’d sloughed off like a second skin. The molting process had been full of its own pains, but as you assessed him now, you saw only the characteristics he shared with Lucien.  

“Don’t thank me yet. Not until my feet have touched the Continent.” 

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” 

Eris tipped his head, a smirk on his face, then disappeared in a flush of woodsmoke. 

Spring, Winter, Summer, Day, Dawn, and now Autumn. The seven courts had slid into an uneasy alliance once more, weary but willing after decades of war. Feyre wasn’t sure how much more Prythian could take if this transformed into another bloodbath. But if the fledgling plan you’d all helped nurse came to fruition, it wouldn’t come to that… at least that’s what Feyre kept telling herself every night so she could sleep. 

The High Lady jolted back when you slipped out from your hiding spot, cast in a halo of cool-toned light from the dying sun. Cassian shared in Feyre’s surprise. They hadn’t heard you come up the stairs or pass by the door. They hadn’t even sensed you until you made your presence known.

Maybe she’s picking it up from Azriel? Feyre said with some amusement. 

Gods help us all. There’s two of them.

“Where’s Azriel?” You looked to the High Lady for an answer, hands held stiff at your sides. You felt that strange anxiety clawing at your throat. It had dripped into your feelings slowly since the morning, growing like a weed until you couldn’t stop clenching your fists. “I haven’t heard from him in days.” 

Feyre felt a familiar coil of guilt settle in her stomach. 

Don’t tell her about this, Fey. Azriel had begged her, his eyes hard and tired before taking off from the back porch towards The Warren. 

He’d made all of them promise not to tell you about that place. About what he did. About what he was doing. But you weren’t a fool. You knew of his reputation as a Shadowsinger and a Spymaster and the work that came with it. You’d traced some of the scars on his body, plucking the stories from his skin whenever he let you, and you woke up when he did from his silent nightmares. The slightest change in his breathing pattern, the barest flinch of his arm wrapped around your waist was all it took for you to open your bleary eyes and shake him awake. 

But there were some secrets he was still too afraid to reveal, and some secrets he’d buried so deeply he didn’t even know what their monstrous faces looked like anymore. 

“Y/n—” Feyre began.

“I want to know.” You reached for Feyre’s wrist, grasping it so tightly your knuckles paled and Cassian stepped forward. It was a silent reminder that you had the power to take that knowledge from her if you wished. You loved Feyre. You considered her a friend. But the panic wasn’t leaving you. You stared at her desperately, pupils blown wide open. “I need to know he’s alright.” 

Feyre opened her mouth to speak, then froze as Rhysand’s velvety voice entered her mind, strained to the point of breaking.  

Feyre, you need to bring Y/n to The Warren.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

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Author's Note:

85K+ WORDS AND FINALLY THEY'VE FUCKING KISSED HOLY SHIT

I really must applaud you all for your patience because hot DAMN I am FLOORED!!! And yes, yes, I know, I know y'all want Y/n to figure out their mates and I will simply be pleading the fifth and hiding in my room and not telling anyone of you when that will actually happen because I simply cannot! ASFDK;JABSLDFIGUH

*takes a deep breath* Thank you all so much for reading and for your engagement whether that be leaving comments or liking or literally anything because it makes my day and I'm just happy that my passion project/hobby is able to bring people some smidgen of joy because the world really sucks but hey at least we have fanfics

#the shadowsinger and the inkbird #azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #azriel x reader slowburn #azriel x you #azriel x helion's daughter

[pedge-page]

#6 Joel Dealing with Preggo Wife: NOT Hungry

can be read with others in series or standalone

Warnings: fluff, brief puking, Joel being an overreactive sensitive bitch

- - - -

Ever since your fourth date with Joel, where you spent the evening at his apartment, and he made you his homemade empanadas while you two discussed your favorite books and movies, you were hooked. Not just to the man who would eventually be your husband and baby daddy, but to his immaculate cooking as well.

So now, years later with a ring on your finger and both of your and Joel’s belly a little fuller—okay, yours a LOT fuller—you find yourself gawking at him, propped up on the kitchen island in a high chair you took 4 minutes to climb atop, feet swaying in the air, elbows resting on the granite countertop, palms holding your chin with beady heart eyes as Joel finishes plating his hot homemade dish for you.

“Blow on it, babe. It’s hot,” he warns, not too keen on having you burn your tongue again due to your impatience. He holds a fork out as you drag the plate in front of you.

“Yes you are, handsome.”

He shakes his head, not caring that he’s blushing hard. It’s not difficult for him to admit that having you gush over his cooking for years makes him extremely proud, excited, and even more in love with you.

You can’t tell if the gurgling, rumbling summersaults in your middle is the baby kicking or your stomach growling, neither of which bother you in the slightest as you splinter the hot shell, pausing to waft the steam of shredded chicken, glazed onions and corn, a hint of his secret secret secret ingredient (its a touch of sugar—but you don’t want him to know you know), and then—

You stop, fork held in front of your mouth like the Choo Choo train hit the breaks before it could dock with the station. And suddenly something doesn’t feel very pleasant, and your senses are off, strangely, for something that should be glorious and pleasurable consuming you is now —extremely unpleasant, almost—

You drop the fork with a clatter to the plate and b-line straight to the bathroom, barely bending to your knees to the tiled floor as you hurl your stomach into the basin. 

It only lasts for a few seconds, your stomach being relatively empty with no dinner having made its way down there. You wash your hands, and mouth, and then sadly waddle back into the kitchen.

“Um, Joel, I don’t think the baby likes them,” you say meekly, rubbing your hand over your belly who punches your ribcage with dignified agreement.

Joel looks at you, face plain, lips in a thin line with an unreadable expression. He calmly places the pan back on the stove, wiping his hand with the washcloth. The kitchen feels scarily quiet. Joel then puts both hands flat on the counter, holding himself up, gritting his teeth back and forth. He brings his eyes to you, with such a chilling seriousness that it sends you into shivers. 

“And might I ask who’s baby you got growing’ in there then?”

EXCUSE ME?

“Joel what—what the fuck—“

“Cuz no baby o’MINE would EVER dislike my empenadas. So I’ll ask you again, who’s baby do y’got growing inside you?”

“Are you fucking serious. Because the baby doesn’t like your greasy food, I’m suddenly a cheater?”

“I’m just sayin—“

“Fuck off Joel,” you seethe, not sure if you should be trembling in rage or laughter. “The baby. Doesn’t. Like. It. Grow up. The doctor said this could happen.”

Yeah, he was there, he knows, but Jesus, it was more plausible to believe his baby wouldn’t like collard greens or strawberry ice cream, not … his fabulous abuelas homemade receipt of empanadas that his wife has adored ever since she first tried it!

Joel pulls his hands off the counter, wringing them in shame with pouty lips. “M’sorry. That was—that was wrong o’me to way that. I don’t—I know you wouldn’t…”

He struggles to suppress the little sniffle under all that macho, and suddenly you’re paddling over to him, soothingly gliding your hand over the expanse of his muscled back, kissing his massive shoulder. 

“Awww, are you upset your baby doesn’t like them?”

“M’not upset,” he pouts unconvincingly. “Just—what if after you pop the kid, you still don’t like ‘em either? Then who am I gonna cook ‘em for?”

“Tommy?”

“Fuck that man-child. He can make his own shit.”

You giggle into his arm, nuzzling your face into his denim shirt. You inhale the smell of him, the mix of pine, wood and mint, a little bit of sweat, enough that its blocking the nauseating scent of the grease in the air and suddenly you feel a wave of calm wash over you, relaxed in his gentle embrace. 

You smile, carding your fingers through his and bringing his flat hand to the base of your tummy. 

“I promise: this baby is definitely yours. So calm now because Daddy’s scent is here to comfort her.”

Joel’s lips curl into a smile, welcoming the touch of warmth cradled by your rounded belly. “Still think it’s a girl?”

You cup his face, bringing him to you as you plant a loving kiss on the scruffy patch on his peppered cheek.

“I know it.”

- - - -

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[dfortrafalgar]

Chilly

Convincing Law to take a break for one day is like talking to a concrete wall. Good thing you have the personality of a jackhammer.

Law x Fem Reader

Warnings: fluff fluff and more fluff, snow day, domestic bliss, just fun and fluffy all around, snowball fights with the heart pirates, soft law <3

Also posted on AO3

No one even bothered to ask Law if he wanted to join the crew on land and partake in some relaxing winter activities.  Everyone knew what the answer would be: a stern, pensive stare and a quick, firm, “Absolutely not.”  Especially not when the aforementioned winter weather sprung up completely out of nowhere, while the Polar Tang was moored at an unassuming island tucked away behind a seaside cliff.  It was warm and pleasant the day before, so waking up to a deep blanket of snow on land completely ruined Law’s plans.  Heart Pirate Rule #283 (estimates vary), no one could try to change Law’s mind about an activity when his prior commitments were already ruined.

When Law opened the heavy door to his office and stepped into the hallway, he was met with an unsurprising, deathly silence.  Through one of the small portholes in the hull of the submarine, he could spot a few of his crew engaged in a very intense snowball fight.  The captain’s piercing gold eyes locked onto Uni the second he took a rock-filled snowball directly to the face.  With a ‘tsk’ through his teeth, he made his way to the galley for another cup of coffee.  He assumed the entire ship was empty, and was caught by surprise at the sight of you standing at the wash basin in the kitchen with your hands under a steady stream of warm water from the tap.  You glanced over your shoulder at the sound of Law’s footsteps entering the room.

“Hi, baby!” you called.  Law could barely see your face from the angle you were standing at, but he could hear the bright smile that accompanied your words.  “Enjoying the snow day?”

Law learned early in your relationship that it was futile to fight the content grin that crawled over his lips whenever he heard the sound of your voice.  He meandered over to you, planting a chaste kiss into your hair.  “I think you already know the answer to that.”

It was easy to pick up on the gruff tone of his tired voice.  “I’m sorry, Law.  I know it’s annoying for you when things happen so suddenly.”

Your sympathetic words brought mild relief to the stress filling Law’s aching head.  As he started the electric coffee pot on the nearby countertop, he finally glanced over to see your hands under the sink faucet.  A deep gash in the palm of your left hand was slowly leaking blood as you washed it.  The tips of your fingers looked dry.

“What happened?” he immediately questioned, abandoning his coffee and stepping back toward you.  He grabbed a few paper towels from a drawer, reaching over you to turn off the tap and grabbed your hands in his, gently applying pressure to your wound.

You grinned at his actions, but your eyebrows were knit together apologetically.  “It’s nothing major, I was stupid and went outside without gloves on.  I cut my hand on a rock trying to catch a snowball.”

Law’s medical instincts had completely taken over as he sat you down at the galley dining table, locating one of the many first aid boxes that were located around the submarine before returning to your side, kneeling at your feet and beginning to patch up your wound with antiseptic and a gauze wrap.  “Leave it to those idiots to stuff rocks into snowballs.  That’s how people lose their eyes.”  He blew out an annoyed huff through his nostrils.

Your unoccupied hand reached forward to card your fingers through his tangled black locks of hair.  “It’s stupid, but we’re pirates.  Pirates do stupid things sometimes, don’t you think?”

Your boyfriend’s fingers lingered over your bandaged hand, ghosting across your palm before falling to his sides to pack up the first aid bin and return it to its original location.  “I suppose you have a point.”

Silence fell over the two of you as you watched Law move around the galley, ditching the first aid box and returning to the faucet, peering into the sink to make sure there was no residual blood that might have splashed into the basin.  He gave it a quick wipe-down out of precaution, before finally walking back to the electric coffee pot to load the reservoir with ground beans from a large plastic container.  A smile danced over your lips watching his movements, reveling in the domestic bliss that rare moments like this provided.

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” you began.

“You probably know what I’m going to say,” he responded, picking up on your thoughts before they even left your mouth.

You sighed.  “I know.”

Law turned his back to the coffee pot as he waited for the water to boil, leaning back against the counter to face you.  His steely eyes softened at your saddened expression.

“I just think it would be fun to have you join us.  How often do we get days to… I don’t know… have fun?  To relax?”  You knew your words would have little power against the man before you, given how routine-oriented and strict he kept his daily life.  Even in a comfortable, romantic relationship with you, he still kept to his regular way of living, and very little could change that.

“Days like this set back projects by a mile,” Law muttered under his breath.  “It would be a waste of time for me to go outside in the cold and watch my crew lob rocks at each other.”

You bit your lip slightly as your mind raced for any way to convince your beloved to drop his duties for one single day and instead try to enjoy himself in the company of his crew, his friends and family.  “What if I help you later?  What if you delegate tasks later this evening to everyone to lighten your load?  What if–”

“Darling…”

“Law, I’m being serious!  Everyone hates it when you keep yourself cramped in your room hunched over paperwork all day… I hate it!  I don’t like seeing you stressed, and I know delays are frustrating but we’re pirates for crying out loud!  You have the freedom to drop your responsibilities for even a few minutes and relax.”  Your own voice raised ever so slightly in volume.

That word, the ‘F’ word, clearly had an effect on Law, given the way his shoulders stiffened.  The only sound that followed your pleas was the gurgling of the coffee machine on the counter.  His arms were crossed, eyebrows furrowed in thought as he stared back at you.  You held eye contact with his intense glare, not backing down from your request.  The two demons that sat on Law’s shoulder were having an all-out war with each other; one desperately begged for the cold captain to loosen up and enjoy himself, spend time with you and his crew, while the other told him he would be better off in his office, solitary, sipping on bitter coffee and scrawling chicken scratch into his log book.

Your eyes widened by a mere millimeter when you saw Law’s golden irises dart towards the porthole in the galley before instantly going back to you.

“I promise I’ll wear gloves,” you offered, your last remaining ammunition in this fleeting war of the mind.

A smirk cracked onto Law’s lips.  “You win.”

“What?”

“You win.  I’ll come outside with you.”

You launched to your feet, eyes wide with excitement.  “You will?!”

“Yeah.”

Law’s arms were ready to embrace you as you skipped toward him, boots leaving wet puddles across the metal floor in your wake as you threw your arms around his neck, angelic laughter leaving your throat as you thanked him for nothing in particular.  He squeezed your waist and gazed at you as you pulled away, eyes full of nothing but adoration for your happiness at such a miniscule agreement.

“Coffee can wait,” you demanded, linking your unbandaged hand with his and dragging him toward the ladder well to the top deck.  “Let’s go.”

“Wait, wait,” Law tugged on your arm.  “Gloves.”

You grumbled as you dug through a storage container filled with the crew’s seasonal accessories, pushing aside tacky hats and a few pairs of swimming goggles before producing a pair of insulated brown gloves.  They were smudged with dry oil and smelled akin to death, but you pulled them into your hands anyway, taking care to avoid pulling on your bandages.  Law pulled on his own jacket and gloves, changing out his shoes for a pair of heavier boots before following you up the ladder, onto the top deck, and out the main door into the cold, gray afternoon.  He obediently followed your heels as you bounded down the gangway, heavy steps alerting your crewmates to your return.

“Captain!  You’re alive!” Shachi called out, waving his hands in the air.

“How the hell did you manage to convince him to come outside?” Hakugan leaned over to you, exasperated judging by the sound of his voice.

Law had barely stepped foot into the layer of deep snow before he was tackled by a warm stone wall of white fur and an orange boiler suit.  His hands reflexively landed on Bepo’s shoulders, trying to steady the two of them before the human man would topple to the ground.

“Captain!  I’m so happy you’re joining us!  I’m building a snowbear, you need to help me!”  Bepo was rubbing his face into the side of Law’s head, leaving tufts of white fur behind that clung to the man’s black hair and feather-lined coat.

Their tender embrace was interrupted by a thud as a snowball planted itself behind Bepo’s head.  The bear released Law from his vice-like grip and whirled around, not hesitating when he dipped down, scooped a generous mound of snow from the ground, molded it into a ball with his large paws, and reeled his arm back to return fire to the first person he laid eyes on.

Clione was the victim, taking the huge snowball to the groin as it arched through the thin air and landed with precision and a comedic, dense smack.  The blonde doubled over with a pained grunt.

It didn’t take long for the fight to resume in full force, bald spots of snow being left in the ground as greedy hands scooped up larger and larger mounds of the frozen water to chuck at each other.  Law’s eyes gazed between each member of his crew, before landing on Penguin who secretly pulled a rock out from his pocket, shoving it into the snowball he held in his gloved hand.

With a split second flash of blue light and a barely audible whisper from the captain, the snowball previously held by Penguin was now clutched in Law’s hand.  The black-haired man reeled his arm back, throwing all of his energy into launching the snowball across the field toward Penguin, who took the blow to the chest.  The surprise caused him to stumble backwards, falling onto his ass and leaving a plume of snow to puff around him with the impact.  The Heart Pirates watched in awe as a mischievous smirk slowly appeared on Law’s mouth.

“No fair!  You have a devil fruit advantage!” someone’s voice shouted from across the snow-covered field.

“And?  You’ve sailed with me for long enough, use your head.”  

Law leaned down to gather another mound of snow in his hands, eyes landing on you.  As he motioned to lob the object in your direction, another snowball planted against his bicep, halting his movements.  Ikkaku stood opposite him, an equally bright smile on her face as she shouted at you to return fire.  He barely had time to look back at you when he was met with white powder directly to the face.  He blindly threw his own snowball towards where you stood, grinning when he was met with the sound of your surprised yelp.  He wiped the freeze from his face just in time for Ikkaku to awkwardly sprint through the deep snow toward where you lay on the ground, hollering that you were hit.  You tossed a thumbs up into the air before letting your arm fall back down, laughing with Ikkaku over your sorry state.

More snowballs, some containing rocks and some without, continued to pelt against Law, who returned them with enthusiastic movement and a devilish grin.  He tossed a glance over toward you, face flushing when he found his stare returned, a beautiful, relaxed smile dancing over your face.

—

Law yanked a damp towel off of his head, freeing his wet hair to the air of his room.  A shiver went up his spine at the sensation of cold hair against the back of his neck.  The sight made you laugh from where you sat on his bed, bundled in one of his sweatshirts that you had pulled over your knees, leaving only your sock feet visible.

He pulled a pair of ratty sweatpants over his legs before crawling on top of the bed with you, pulling you down by your shoulder into his chest.  “I’m cold because of you,” he complained.

“And now you can be warm because of me!” you replied, voice light and airy as you snaked your arms around his waist and forced one of your legs in between his.  A tangle of limbs lay on his mattress.

Law’s fingers played with the tips of your hair as he stared across his room at nothing.

“Thank you.”  Your voice shook the man from his thoughts.

“Why are you thanking me?”

“Because you came outside with me today.  Everyone had so much fun… it was nice.”

The tenderness of your tone pulled at Law’s heartstrings.  It had never occurred to him until then how much his absence might have affected his crew, affected you, and so negatively at that.  He had never seen his crew laugh as a collective until then, throwing snow before getting tired and resorting to building snow creatures or leaving imprints of their bodies in the plush, white freeze.  Law even left one of his own, directly next to yours.  The two images were connected where your hands would be, to remain there until the snow inevitably melted.

“I should be the one thanking you,” he mumbled into the crown of your head.

You giggled into his neck.  “I love you.”

Law inhaled deeply through his nose, closing his eyes at the sound of your words.  He wrapped his arms tighter around you, thoughts running rampant through his head.  You weren’t expecting a response, he very rarely said those three words back to you, choosing instead to spoil you with his physical affection instead.

“I love you, too.”

#trafalgar d water law x reader #trafalgar d water law #trafalgar law x reader #trafalgar law #law x reader #fem reader #x reader #reader insert #law oneshot

[nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos]

Your Scars Are Mine

Ch. 3

Ch. 1

Ch. 2

LA! Mihawk X AFAB!Reader

Tags: Fluff, Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Mentions of Violence, I guess that's it, I'm bad at this

⚠️ MASSIVE ASS TRIGGER WARNINGS⚠️ : Self-harm, Blood, Implied PTSD

Summary: In the few months that he has known you, Mihawk has noticed the scars on your arm. You've refused to talk about them and skirted around the subject successfully, but a trip to Shells Town throws everything out into the open in a way that neither of you were prepared for.

It didn't matter. Not the any of the questions or their answers. Right now, Mihawk had to find you, to ascertain that you were safe—both from others and your own demons that he doubted you had buried as deeply as you intended to.

He made his way out of the base and through town in long, purposeful strides, scanning around the few storefronts amd vendors he passed to ensure you weren't still shopping for supplies.

And he slowed at the docks, his sharp eyes catching sight of you on the deck of your sloop, pacing.

Crossing and uncrossing your arms.

Clenching and unclenching your fists, mumbling to yourself.

Rushing a hand back through your hair and jumping in alarm when you knocked your tattered old hat from your head.

Tou stopped in your tracks and stared down at where it had landed for several long seconds, still as a statue...before picking it up and tossing it aggressively into the captain's cabin. Mihawk watched you lean your head against the wall next to the door for another long moment, before kicking at it and storming around the corner toward the small kitchen.

You clearly hadn't seen him, but he had seen enough to be more than a little concerned. He swore under his breath and picked up his pace, pushing past a few Marines and civilians, with a sore suspicion of exactly where the vast majority of your scars had come from.

The door to the kitchen was cracked, and Mihawk saw you were leaned over the dish basin on the counter with your back to him.

Saw you, with the sleeve ofnyour white shirt rolled up nearly to your shoulder, draw the razor sharp edge of one of your daggers across your arm, just above your elbow, flinching and drawing in a sharp breath just before he reached you and grabbed your wrist. You cried out in alarm, dropping the dagger right into the empty basin, whirling around and backing into the countertop.

Your eyes locked onto his, wide as saucers, more vulnerable than he had ever seen them. In their depths swirled astonishment, pain, caution—and fear. Bold as you were, you had never once looked at him with fear in your eyes. Even the first time you had ever laid eyes on him, the first time you had approached him, you hadn't shown a single sign of being intimidated, which was not something he could say of many people at all.

But right now, you were like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a wolf, frozen stiff and utterly helpless.

Mihawk remained frozen for some time himself, not at all used to the jumble of thoughts and emotions swirling through his head. He wanted to shout at you, demand to know what the hell you were thinking—to pull you tight enough against him to knock the wind out if you—to down enough wine to forget about this madness, however briefly.

His eyes flickered to the blood still pouring from the fresh wound in your arm, and shook himself mentally, settling for pulling you over to the small, rounded kitchen table by your wrist and pulling out a chair.

"Sit." He was careful to keep his tone level, to keep any sharp edge from piercing through the command. Still, you obeyed wordlessly, lowering your gaze to your knees and folding your hands together in your lap, your shoulders drooping from your stiffened posture into one of utter defeat. Your breathing was short and shallow as it left your lungs, broken by a small hitch in your throat when Mihawk knelt down and grabbed a clean rag from the handle of of a cabinet behind him pressing it against your arm, carefully wiping away the blood..

Another small hitch interrupted your breathing as he glanced under the rag and sighed. It wasn't deep enough to necessarily need stitches, but they would help far more than they would hurt. He lifted your oposite hand and placed it over the rag, subtly slipping your second dagger from your belt and sliding it quietly across the counter behind him. "Keep pressure on it."

Every move he made either caused you to jolt in brief alarm or your breath to catch in your throat. Mihawk kept himself focused on the wound itself for now, simultaneously trying to gain control of his thoughts and shove them away entirely.

To figure out how the hell to address the subject of you slicing open your own arm.

Why exactly you had done it.

What the hell had possessed you to—

No. No, this had to be handled carefully. Handled in a way Mihawk was entirely unaccustomed to handling things.

He pulled the other chair over alongside your own—effectively blocking your path to the door in the process, a precaution he considered necessary—and set down a first aid box he had found tucked away in the back of one of the cabinets and a nearly full bottle of what smelled like strong whiskey. He pulled down the damp rag he had slung over his shoulder, shrugged out of his coat and laid it across the oposite side of the table to avoid getting any blood on it, and sat down, pulling your hand and the blood-drenched rag away from the wound.

It was a clean cut, considering how sharp you kept your daggers, and that alone was good. He pulled the clean damp rag down that he had draped over his shoulder and set to wiping the drying blood away from around it, glancing toward your face. Your eyes were still turned down toward your lap, your hands trembling a little now as you folded them together.

He sighed to himself, shaking his head a little.

What an absolute mess this day had turned out to be.

"Are you angry?"

The sound of your voice very nearly made him jump—he paused with the rag just beneath the shallow gash, his eyes darting back up to your face. Your voice was so quiet he might have thought he imagined it, if not for the way you swallowed and averted your gaze further away, toward the table at your other side.

"No," he said after a moment, keeping his tone level. Calm. "A bit frustrated, perhaps." You bit your lip, and gave a short nod. "And...curious as to why."

You hesitated a moment, still biting your lip. Your hands squeezed together briefly in your lap while his gaze lingered on the subtle shifts in your expression, long enough that you glanced over and your eyes met briefly.

The pain and hopelessness in yours made you look years younger—perhaps like the fourteen year old girl that had witnessed the destruction of her home and the cold-blooded murder of the woman who raised her.

Mihawk turned his gaze back to your arm after a moment.

"How much did Garp tell you?" you asked quietly.

"Far more than I bargained for," he sighed. He paused when you grew tense for a moment, realizing immediately how his words could have been taken. "Not like that," he said lightly, shaking his head. "I simply wasn't expecting anything of that magnitude." You still remained tense as he finished cleaning the wound, and kept the rag pressed to it as he picked up the open bottle of liquor. He decided to steer the topic slightly away, to attempt to ease into the main issue at hand. "I'm honestly curious how you managed to survive escaping into the Grand Line on a dinghy."

You glanced over slightly, not quite meeting his eyes. Your hands shifted in your lap, gripping lightly at the hem ofnyour shorts.

"I was lucky," you said quietly. Shrugged your other shoulder. "I was able to procure enough rations to last for a week. It was a time of year where the waters were relatively calm in that particular part of the Grand Line. I woke up the seventh morning to find a merchant schooner hauling my boat in. They saw it was a Marine boat. Discussed taking me in until I blurted out what happened and they took pity. Let me work as a deckhand for room and board and safe passage. They were bound for Loguetown. I got off there, worked odd jobs around taverns and inns that were as far from Marine territory as possible. Saved up enough Berries to purchase a sloop and sustain a comfortable lifestyle over a couple years and set out on my own."

"The Marines wouldn't have bothered you regardless." Your eyes twitched in his direction, then back down to your hands. "As Garp so aptly put it, you'll remain off their radar 'as long as the correct people remain in power and you don't do anything stupid.'"

You scoffed quietly. "Did you tell him he was wasting his pity?"

"No," Mihawk said slowly, pulling the rag away from your arm as he lifted his gaze to look at you. Not yet, he decided. You were still too tense. Too combative. "Frankly, I stared at him like he was speaking another language until he elaborated." The corner of your lips twitched the slightest bit, and your tension eased a little amid a small sigh. He lifted the bottle over, and you glanced over at it. "This is going to—"

"I know," you said. You drew in a deep breath, shifting back in the chair a bit, and held your arm out. "Go ahead."

Mihawk lifted his eyebrows a bit, his eyes lingering on your face briefly. Passing down the length of your arm, the line of scars winding down the limb beneath your newest wound, wondering for a moment exactly how many times you had done this yourself.

Then he tilted the bottle, letting the strong alcohol pour over the inflamed cut. You drew in a sharp breath through your teeth, your eyes snapping shut in a grimace, tensing up and shaking for a moment. You held your other hand out, your eyes still closed, and he handed the bottle off to you, watching you take a deep swig of the amber liquor.

You drew in a deep breath as you set it heavily on the table, and let it out in a shaking sigh, laying your head back against the back of the chair.

Lifted it and took another drink, and he plucked it from your hand as you lowered it this time—too much and you would only succeed in thinning your blood and bleeding all over the damned place again. You didn't question it, letting the bottle slip easily out of your grasp, your hand falling back to your lap as you caught your breath. Mihawk leaned back to set it aside on the counter, keeping his eyes on you. You were a ticking time bomb right now—one wrong move, one wrong word, and you were going to go off. There was no avoiding it.

There wasn't much he could do beyond attempt to lessen the blow—or simply get it over with.

It took only a moment for Mihawk to choose the former. Once you lifted your head, still breathing a bit heavily, he stretched his arm across the back of your chair.

"Did you ever intend to mention you mention you were raised by one of the most notorious pirates in modern history?" he asked.

He was a little surprised when you shook your head no, your head drooping, your chest still rising and falling heavily. "I...try not to think about her much," you replied. The pain seemed to have had something of a sobering affect on you—you spoke a bit louder now, a bit more confidently. You swallowed swallowed, running a hand back over your hair, and you turned your head, leveling your eyes with his.

"My last memory of her is watching a vengeance-crazed Marine Admiral saw her head off of her shoulders with a bowie knife."

For a moment, Mihawk could do nothing but stare in your eyes—not moving, not breathing, absorbing the toneless quality of your quiet words, the pain and anger in your gaze. After a long moment, he lifted his hand and pinched at his temples, shaking his head and drawing in a slow, deep breath. He lifted his other hand to the back of your neck and pulled you in so your forehead rested against his shoulder.

"She wasn't a pirate when I knew her, anyway," you said quietly. "I knew she had been, but she never talked about it. Not around me, at least. I think she was trying to avoid glamorizing it so I wouldn't follow in her footsteps. I probably still would have. At least she's not here to be disappointed in me." You gave a slow sigh, the breath trembling a little as it left your lungs. "Though she likely would be here if I had just done what she said and stayed out of sight."

"Don't do that." He kept his voice low but his tone firm—you weren't doing yourself any favors if your were blaming yourself for something as heinous as that. You drew in a sharp breath, and let it out as another slow, trembling sigh, your shoulders tensing a little again. He lowered his hand, wrapping his arm around them. You had a tendency to bolt any time you started to get the least bit vulnerable, and he had no intention of letting you. Not this time. "And it's not worth hurting yourself over."

"Yes it is," you said sharply. You stil didn't lift your head, but he still tightened his hold around your shoulders, just to be sure. You cleared your throat, but it didn't quite hide the hitch in your breath. "She wouldn't tell me about any of her scars." You swallowed audibly, your voice breaking as you went on in a softer tone. "She...told me they were hers to bear. Not mine. That they were reminders of her regrets and mistakes she made. I...I guess I didn't understand until I got this one." You lifted your hand to your neck, the same place Garp had indicated earlier when Mihawk had asked him about your scars. "Every time I saw it in the mirror all I could see was her. Hear her telling that goddamned Marine son of a bitch that he could do whatever he wanted with her as long as they let me go."

Your breath came in short, controlled bursts, your knuckles white as you gripped at the hem of your shorts.

"I have to remind myself. Any time I lose. Get too confident or let my guard down. Any time I make a mistake." Another deep breath, trying and failing to harden your nerve, still shaking like a leaf. "I have to remind myself that *one* mistake and I could—I could lose everything all over again."

"God dammit..." he muttered under his breath, lifting his hand to your hair and briefly lowering his forehead to the crown of your hair. You had this so deep-seated into your mind, so firmly established that it was like a law to you. A code that you had no choice but to follow, that you had no choice but to suffer for every mistake you made and trap yourself within a web of regret just to keep yourself safe.

Mihawk lifted his head from over yours, and took your face in his hands to lift your head. You swallowed as your eyes met, and for a moment the sight of the tears streaming down your cheeks made him freeze, made his chest ache, his own shoulders tense. You were on the verge of shattering like glass, and he didn't have any choice but to let it happen. He drew in a slow breath, keeping his gaze locked onto yours.

"You agreed," he said slowly, "some time ago, that you belong to me." You swallowed. "Which means that these..." He lowered one hand to your arm, and you tensed the same way you always did when his fingertips brushed across the column of scars extending down your soft skin, "...are not just yours. And that you're hurting more than just yourself— Don't," he added firmly when you clenched your eyes shut, your breath hitching, and you opened them again after a moment. "You learn from mistakes you've made and move on. You don't trap yourself inside them and live in misery." Your gaze fell from his as you bit down hard on your bottom lip, openly flinching when a whimper left you. "I personally have trouble believing that was what your grandmother intended for you when she gave her life to ensure you kept yours."

That was it—that was the straw that broke you. Your head fell, your eyes clenched shut, a torrent of tears falling from them. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you against him again, lowering his head over yours as your arms wrapped around his ribs so tightly that it was almost painful. You sobbed into crook of his neck like a child, broken apologies scattered between the sharp hitches in your breath, and he remained silent. Kept his own breathing slow and steady, cradling your head against his shoulder, letting you spill your heart in a way your solitary lifestyle had never allowed you to before.

Letting you calm down on your own terms, your tension slowly, slowly giving way until you were all but limp against him. Your breathing slowed until there was only an occasional hitch in your breath. It felt like hours had passed even though daylight still poured through the open door behind Mihawk,, casting his shadow over you while he combed his fingers through your hair.

"You won't be doing this again." You gave a small nod in agreement, not lifting your head.

"N...no stitches." He lifted his head a little at your quiet words, your voice hoarse. "This one has to scar." You sniffed, lifting your head finally and meeting his eyes. "I have to remember it so I never do it again."

He glanced down at the cut a couple inches above your elbow, and sighed. "Fine." He shifted his gaze back to your bloodshot eyes, and lifted his hand to rest it against your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears still clinging to your skin. "Fine. But never again."

You swallowed.

Nodded shortly, your eyes remaining firmly on his as you repeated the words back, your voice quiet, trembling, but unquestionable in its intensity.

"Never."

#opla #one piece fanfiction #dracule mihawk #fanfic #mihawk one piece #mihawk opla #fluff #one piece headcanons #mihawk x reader #smut

[mycryptidisqueererthanyours]

[Redacted] Hanahaki AU

Hunched over the sink, [Redacted’s] body trembled as familiar pain blazed through him, before being overwhelmed by familiar nausea. Familiar tears streamed down his face, as he ducked his head and retched. He seized and writhed as he threw up, vomit and blood pooling in the sink, clinging to skin in a way that made him want to claw it off. 

‘Angel,’ he croaked, voice reverent almost as if he were in prayer. But they couldn’t hear him here. And, even if they could, what could they do? Hold his hair back? ‘They could love me. They could love me like I love them,’ he whispered to the empty room, with its cold, empty countertops.

After being sick a few more times and finally being reasonably certain that he wasn’t going to be again, they peered into the basin below. Although he already knew what to expect, his doctors always advised him to confirm before doing anything else. Sure enough, hidden amongst his filth, stained white petals shone through. 

Despite their beauty, what they symbolised or - rather - who, he couldn’t help but breathe out a pained swear. Almost entire Brugmansia Arborea or angel’s trumpet blooms were coagulated in the sink, baptised in ugly shades of browns and reds. He had tainted them, as he always did. 

He reached up to open the mirrored medicine cabinet but his reflection gave him pause. God, he looked like shit, covered in assorted bodily fluids, eyes haggard and hair ill-kept. He needed a shower, badly. He tranced a hand over the scar on his chest, like it could in any way quell the lingering pain. It never did. 

Especially with how fully formed the flowers were, they might have to crack open his ribs and clear out his lungs again within the year and he’d barely recovered from the previous round of surgery. 

[Redacted] knew how unusually severe their case was. How - no matter how many times they operated on him - they just couldn’t fully eradicate the roots that were so deeply enshrined in his flesh, how it only ever seemed to progress faster each time, how their beautiful petals secreted sweet poison but he would sooner die than give up on his Angel.

His Angel would reciprocate in time. He’d make sure of it.

They opened the cabinet and grabbed a new needle. He checked the packaging for the dosage of physostigmine, as he always did in case it had magically changed in his sleep (it hadn’t), before peeling the needle open and filling it. Finally, with ill-deserved tenderness, he lined the needle up with his arm and gritted his teeth. 

This part always hurt. 

@14dayswithyou because I think I saw somewhere where they said they like being @ ed but I can remove it if that’s what they’d prefer

#first post #hello would you like some pain with that pain #why am i doing this #because i can #suffer #ren 14dwy #ren 14 days with you #redacted 14dwy #redacted 14 days with you #angst #hanahaki au #I was going to write a full fic where Angel fell in love with [Redacted] curing their symptoms but i got lazy #sorry #so feel free to imagine them riding [Redacted's] motorbike arms wrapped around him and just thinking 'I love you' #fanfiction because I'm too lazy to come up with more of my own original characters #I have too many already running amok in my brain as is #14dwy #14 days with you

[bts-0t-7]

So What? | MYG | Chapter 12

Pair: Hybrid Cat Yoongi x F Reader 

Summary: Running from a past that foreshadows him, Yoongi is adamant about ever turning back to his human counterpart form, in hopes that nobody would recognise him and take him away. You worked at a cafe with your best friend. As a more-than-normal day seemed to go by, you discovered something amidst your housing block. Perhaps - just perhaps, the nighttime is where the angels arrive. 

Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hybrid, non-idol au

Warnings: Contains explicit language, abuse

Chapter Warnings: Explicit Language 

WC: 2K

Taglist: @bearr02 @svnbangtansworld @vintageoldfashion @rkivemaar @bontensbabygirl @codeinebelle @ldysmfrst @idkjustlovingbts

A/N: Seokjin is too smart for his own good in this chapter, sir is piecing everything together without piecing! Jin is literally giving advice - older brother advice. Hehehehhee… DO NOT COME FOR ME AT THE END OF THE CHAPTER PLEASE - 

< Prev. Series Masterlist. Next > 

Seokjin knew talking to you now would be useless so all he did was listen intently to any abnormalities in the bathroom and when you were finally done, he carefully dried your hair.

“Let’s go to bed.” You refused to move. Seokjin turned back to you. “Are you hungry?” You nodded. “Okay, I have some leftover dinner, let’s go eat.”

You trudged behind him as the both of you walked out to the kitchen. Seokjin took an extra set of utensils and some rice, placing it in front of you. “Let’s eat. Dinner today is braised pork made by - obviously yours truly - and kimchi.” Jin ruffled your hair. “Not much, but just enough.” 

You nodded and dug in. As Jin watched you eat, it reminded him of how you were in your middle school days when people bullied you for not being just like them. You constantly came over - not caring for the long distance between your school and his home - and cried to him. Back then, you were young, and couldn’t understand why Eomma*1 and Appa*2 aren’t there, having to live in the dormitory instead of come home to Oppa*3. As you grew older, you understood, learning to stand strong by yourself as well. 

However, dongsaeng*4 is still dongsaeng. You were still his little sister and he still had a responsibility over you no matter how old you were. It hurts to see you in pain. Seokjin no longer had the appetite to eat, he just watched you gobble down the food, eyes rimming with a new wave of unshed tears. 

Once you were done, he picked up the dishes and placed them in the sink, leading you back to the bedroom. 

“Oppa, I’ll was the dishes -” 

Seokjin was quick to stop you with a soft hold on your shoulders. “Oppa will do the dishes tomorrow morning. Let’s go to bed now.” Seokjin could see the hesitancy in your eyes. So he said, “Oppa is tireddd,” he whined. “Would you cuddle with your, big brother?”

You sighed and nodded, losing the battle between mind and body. 

You woke up to a wave of pounding headaches. Your face felt puffy and your eyes sore. You sighed, remembering why you ended up in your brother’s home. Slowly, you got out of bed and did your morning routine. Seokjin kept quite a few of your things in his house, knowing that more times than not, you’ll come home with him after work. 

Before Yoongi, you spent more time with your brother than in your own house. So, when you started living on your own, Seokjin had kept a few of your stuff in his house, claiming that you’d need them when you were to come over again. This leads you here now, looking at the bottles of skincare that sit on the countertop of his washroom basin.

Yoongi.

Just his name sends a wave of agony to your heart. He may no longer want you and by the end of today, he will most probably be deemed as a free hybrid. There is no need for you in his life any longer. You felt a fresh wave of tears brimming at your eyelids and you tilted your head back, frantically blinking to stop them from falling. 

You were brought out of your self-wallowing when you heard a knock on the washroom door. “Y/N? You in there?” Soekjin called out. 

You took a deep breath. Your brother didn’t need to know that you were about to break down in his washroom. “Yeah, I’ll be out in a minute.” 

“Okay. Lunch is on the table, come after you’re done!”

“Okay!” You replied back, quickly finishing your routine and putting on your clothes. You’ll put on your makeup after lunch. 

You exited the bedroom with a deep breath. You were going to make it through today like yesterday didn’t happen and cry tomorrow. You were not going to let Yoongi cloud your judgment for the verdict hearing later. And no matter how much he doesn’t want you, if the verdict pleads that Robbison is not guilty, you are going to fight tooth and nail to ensure that Yoongi and the other hybrids get their spot in this cruel world. 

“Y/N, good to see you’re not crying,” Seokjin said with his mouth full of rice. 

“And I see Oppa still talking with his mouth full of food.” You shot back, sending Seokjin into a bellowing laughter. 

“Good one.” 

The both of you ate lunch together in front of the television, letting the narrator for the show fill over the stiffening silence in the house. As you stood over the sink to wash the dishes and Seokjin stood beside you to dry them, he suddenly said, “To a certain extent, I don’t know what happened. But Y/N, it is not healthy to keep emotions stored away like this. It doesn’t matter what society views you as. Perception is key. There is no right from wrong when one views it from a certain perspective.” Seokjin bent down to store the plates in their respective places. “We both know the percentage of winning this case. Are you ready to let Yoongi go? Can you let him go?”

You stared at your brother.

“You always put on this facade when we go out, when you’re with friends, working, studying, I have seen it.” Seokjin sighed and leaned against the counter. “But I’d like to tell you, when you’re home, whether with me or any other person, let it down. It is important to take a break. I literally changed your diapers when you were a baby,” He snickered. “I’ve seen you grow up when Eomma and Appa aren’t here. I’ve been through your odd times with you. I don’t care if you feel the need to hide from others but I hope you won’t hide from me any longer.”

Seokjin was hardly ever so serious. He has always been the more carefree, go-with-the-flow type of person. There were only a handful of times you’ve seen him so serious - many of the times is when you come home from school with a bad report card or when he gets a call from the school stating you skipped class. 

“But Oppa, it hurts, that’s why-”

“Everything hurts, my dear,” Seokjin stated frankly. “In this world, everything hurts. It is only when we grow used to the hurting that we don’t feel the pain any longer. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t there - it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t make you bleed.”

Of course, the course of living and finding meaning will never be easy. It was never easy for a newborn to walk, so it will never be easy for an adult to navigate the world. It takes time, patience, and learning - one step at a time.

And for the second time in the past 24 hours, you crashed into your brother, crying into his hold. 

Seokjin caressed your hair, muttering words of comfort. The both of you ended up cuddling on the couch for the next few hours before rushing out of the house in a fit of laughter when Hosoek called and asked, “Where the fuck are you guys? I said to come two hours early! You’re both really late!” 

The both of you had then sprinted to change and grab everything you could, running down to the car. “And what the hell happened yesterday? Yoongi is a mess!” 

Your heart ached at the thought of Yoongi being hurt, the worry making Hoseok’s berating go right over your head. Worried was probably not the right word in the dictionary to use when you reached the courthouse, spare ten minutes before the verdict hearing begins.

You saw many familiar and unfamiliar ones. As per usual, all the hybrids testifying sat in front of their respective lawyer and owners. You had been squished between Jin and Jimin again, this time Jimin brought Ji-Hyun along. She leaned over her husband’s lap, holding your hand as she comforted, “It’s gonna be okay.” 

Jimin squinted his eyes at you. “The talk did not go well, did it?” 

You shook your head. 

“Yeah, that’s visible. You looked like you cried and ocean and our dearest Yoongi over there,” He pointed to the stands, “Look like a fricking wreck, I’m not even kidding. He looked so horrible when Hoseok came in that I thought he was sick.” 

“Cried himself sick probably,” Ji-Hyun said. “His eyes are red and his tail is constantly tucked between his legs, ears pressed down.”

Right there, you felt bad. Really, really bad. You should’ve just told him after the verdict. You didn’t have time to think of any more ‘what ifs’ when the judge came in, making everybody stand and the air in the room immediately pulsated with anticipation and fear. 

“With L/N Y/N-ssi’s hold over Min Yoongi-ssi, from the court, he is given two choices. One, Min Yoongi-ssi is allowed the title of a free hybrid by the State of Law and Hybrid Assosciation, under the thirteenth segment of the fourth amendment of the Hyrbid Rights Acts, that he is given the free will to do as he wishes and will not be held against him. Two, he is allowed to retain the hold that L/N Y/N-ssi’s over him and remain a taken hybrid.”

Y/N’s heart cracked little by little when she heard the verdict. You knew what was going to happen, Seokjin asked you earlier as well. 

You knew that the court provided him choices but your overthinking brain just thinks of the worst. No, no, you knew you weren’t ready to let him go. Heart cracking at the verdict, you held in your emotions. Seokjin had told you earlier - asked you. 

You so desperately wanted Yoongi to turn around and look at you, even if it’s just the side eye. Whether his eyes are full of hate or nothing at all, you don’t care. You just wanted him to look at you. 

But he didn’t. Not once did he turn around and meet your eyes. After the hearing, he and all the other hybrids left the room, escorted by a group of lawyers and bodyguards. You wanted to go to him, feet moving on their own accord until Hoseok stopped you. “Y/N, you’re not allowed to follow. Only the hybrids and their lawyers.” You started to fuss. 

“Y/N, come,” Seokjin called out to you. 

“They’re just signing some papers, don’t worry. Namjoon will make sure that what he signs is right.” Hoseok tried to calm you. 

You tried to stay strong - you truly tried - but you couldn’t help the tears that started to flow down your cheeks. You couldn’t even give Yoongi a proper goodbye. But would Yoongi even want you to? After the way ‘the talk’ ended last afternoon, all you could do was watch Yoongi’s back grow further and further from you. You turned your head into your brother’s embrace, ignoring looks of sorrow from all others. 

Seokjin carefully leads you out of the courthouse, taking the other exit to ensure that you won’t be bombarded with cameras and microphones in your faces. You weren’t ready to give statements in your state anyway. You were silent throughout the ride home, only telling Seokjin to drop you off at your house. 

It was only when you entered the silence did it fully hit you. Yoongi may be a free hybrid by now, and want nothing to do with you. He could do whatever he wanted and didn’t need you tying him down. You trudged to your bathroom, stripping as you walked in, finally letting yourself cry at the final goodbye you will never give. 

Notes: *1 Eomma refers to mother in Korean. *2 Appa refers to father in Korean.  *3 Oppa refers to an older brother in Korean (female saying). Males call their older brothers ‘hyung’.  *4 Dongsaeng refers to younger siblings in Korean. 

#bts smut #bts angst #bts x reader #bts x you #bts fics #bts au #bts fanfics #bts series #bts imagine #bts scenarios #yoongi smut #yoongi angst #yoongi series #yoongi imagine #yoongi scenarios #yoongi fic #yoongi fanfic #yoongi fluff #yoongi x you #yoongi x oc #yoongi x y/n #min yoongi x reader #yoongi x reader #min yoongi x y/n #min yoongi x you #min yoongi x oc #fic : So What?

[1-800-deactivatednearu]

EMESIS BLUE: The Importance of Colour Coordination before You Go Swangin through Hell

analysis under read more

keep in mind that this features screenshots from the sfm itself and therefore contains . what happened to the tags on this post ??? open at your own discretion

Blu(e)

[I.D.: 2 screenshots of Emesis Blue, in establishing shots of the introductions of Scout and Medic and Spy and Soldier.

In the first, Scout sits on an examination table, and Medic is looking at his teeth. The scene is cast in blue light. (3:20)

In the second, Soldier sits in Spy's car, cigarette lit and revolver drawn as he looks at something past the camera. The door is open behind him, Spy leaning in. the scene is blue with yellow light. (6:04) /end I.D.]

The SFM first establishes the world with not only exclusively BLU mercenaries, but also matching blue lighting. Blue is loyalty and calmness, blue is our status quo, blue is emesis.

Actually, why is the title of this SFM "Throwing Up Blue." Should your medication be doing that ??

[I.D.: Archibald holds a revolver, Spy behind him. Against the wall in front of them are 3 BLU mercenaries with bags over their head. The scene is cast in blue lighting. /end I.D.]

Y'know. Loyalty. Dependability. Nothing a little bit of treason can't do! :)

My belief of blue symbolizing status quo largely comes from Archibald as the BLU civilian model. We come to understand that he represents some sort of authority figure, pulling the strings behind the scenes. They pulled the mercs off death row if only so they don't have to find ethical work, and then introduced respawns to avoid hiring new ones! He pulled whatever happened in the above screenshot with virtually no repercussions! Normal things.

Red

All this about BLU, how's the RED team?

[I.D.: The zombified RED Scout, Heavy, Solder, and Engineer, as seen in the gun stash. (46:57) /end I.D.]

Maybe when the horror is about the respawn machine... it doesn't bring back mercenaries too great...

The RED mercenaries are the 1% that came back wrong from respawn--way more common than it sounds when you consider how much people die in your average game, nevermind 2fort--that come back wrong from the respawn.

At least I'd hope they want us to come to the conclusion that red = respawn.

[I.D.: Red backlit sign reading "RESPAWN" (1:01:46) and the respawn command terminal text in red (1:02:35). /end I.D.]

"Respawn" has stopped looking like a word to me at this point.

Point stands: scary red technology is scary and red.

[I.D.: 2 screenshots. First is of Dell, the engineer in a red suit and greying hair, stands with both hands on a red bar countertop. Behind him is a wall of unlabelled red bottles. (59:49)

Second depicts Medic in the red bathroom of the bar. He stands with both hands on the sink basin, facing a mirror. (1:44:14) /end I.D.]

In both scenes, a character is later revealed to be dead. In both scenes, we also get a The Shining reference!

Didn't watch the movie, can't tell you nothing about what that means.

Red is closely tied with death and the afterlife--the respawn, in all its wretched glory. In all its gory. Sorry. And in their death, they go to red rooms, as if their souls are still trapped in the red light of the respawn.

[I.D.: 2 screenshots. First is of Medic and Soldier, in Archibald's presentation room. Medic is covered in blood and leaning on an open door for support. Soldier holds a shotgun. They both look down on an off-screen zombified Sniper. (1:20:17)

Medic and Soldier again, this time playing Russian Roulette with Spy. Medic, bloodied and holding a revolver under his chin, looks to Soldier. The scene is primarily blue, with a red light cast on Medic. (1:23:14) /end I.D.]

I'm not saying Medic is disproportionately soaked in blood, but. Just look at the guy. Now look at Soldier. (Okay, maybe a little unfair considering how unscathed Soldier is. Physically.)

Throughout the SFM, Medic becomes less blue, removing his uniform after his first death and then simply becoming so blood soaked he starts sliding from reading as blue to reading as red. He's transitioning! Happy pride!

A Tangent on Red v. Blu

The focus of this tangent is to argue that there is nuance in red and blue, and not necessarily a "good" and "evil" colour.

I feel it is important to not portray one side as good and the other as evil, especially in the case of Medic, especially when what could be read as hallucination sequences are cast in red light. Please do not portray real life mental illnesses as dangerous. Please do not villainise the act of taking medication. Thank you. <3

The inclusion of Scout and Archibald on the same team, as well as Demoman and ... well, the rest of RED, all goes to show that there is no one moral to take away from one colour.

On a more unimportant note, having polarizing, absolute views of morality makes analysis a pain.

[I.D.: Zed and Maynard Conagher. They are cast in both red and blue light, their actual outfit colouration unclear. (25:57) /end I.D.]

Like as seen in here, colour is no measure of morality. They actually move frequently between red and blue lighting! I doubt anyone is in a hurry to even argue that Redmond or Blutarch are the correct one of the two. I don't even know them apart, honestly. This is TF2. The game is about two teams indefinitely fighting stupid wars for stupid prizes.

Black

[I.D.: Nearing the end of Archibald's funeral, when Medic just burst from the coffin and shot Spy. Soldier sits between the coffin and the podium in a wheelchair. There is a red line of blood on the wall. (1:38:50) /end I.D.]

It might be redundant to point this out at a funeral, but here we go anyways: black is the traditional colour of mourning in the West. Would most definitely be wildly inappropriate to walk into a funeral in bright reds and blues.

Which no one would do ever.

After all this time, death as a finality is almost surreal. Soldier got shot, like, three times, and he's still fine! Spy set himself on fire and then rolled directly into sewer water, and he's still fine! (Was. He was still fine.) Medic. You're telling me it took one bullet to the face to kill Spy?

Yea. Lol. Lmao, even.

I feel the most important costume change would actually be Medic's. No white on him, unless you count the way he was drained of all blood in between dying again and coming back again. He's a dead man walking with a score to even. He even hid in a coffin.

[I.D.: Medic standing in the entrance of the bar. He wears a black tie and matching suspenders. (1:43:13) /end i.d.]

We also get to see his outfit change post-hijacking of ambulance. Besides obscuring his time of death--because, seriously, when did this man die??--it further cements the significance of black.

It all lies in effort: if black didn't matter, reuse assets.

He dressed up nice! Would it hurt to also call attention how he looks full of blood? Medic looks alive and well for a dead man.

[I.D.: The black telephones seen throughout the SFM: the telephone in Scout's house when he hears his own voice played back (11:58), Medic holding an unplugged phone with intent to strangle Maynard Conagher (30:18), the round table of skeletons seated in front of black telephones (1:03:18), Pyro answering the phone during their interrogation with Spy (1:06:24), Archibald speaking on a payphone (1:16:30), and Maynard pulling a telephone from under the counter at the bar (1:44:28). /end I.D.]

This is how I realize there is more than one model used for the phones (rotary and touch tone, the latter more commonly appearing)! That's fun! :D

Anyways, the phones highlight a cyclical nature of life and violence and death and life again. No, this isn't poetic, this is just your average game of 2fort.

When we first are introduced to the imagery of phones, we learn about them through ominous recordings of previous dialogue, creating a literal cycle of recording conversations and then replaying them over phone calls, drawing them all to the Conagher Slaughterhouse. (Or just kidnapping them, in Scout's case.)

We actually have an outlier to these black telephones!

[I.D.: Spy and Soldier investigating Medic's office, just as his blue telephone rings (21:03) /end I.D.]

The lighting here is clear enough to definitely tell it's blue. I despise Medic and his interior design choices. This may indicate that the trend is not related to colours as much as it is related to the telephone itself, but I'm not transferring any more image sets again. Headache it be.

Like many of the other telephones seen in this SFM, it's also a touch tone telephone!

But how about after they all enter the Conagher Slaughterhouse? We don't hear many conversations in their entirety, nor do we have the full story to them. It's hard to draw conclusions without context.

Speaking of cycles...

[I.D.: Scout and Medic in Medic's office. The box of VHS tapes is tipped over and scattered across the floor. (4:28) /end I.D.

Scout, as doomed by the narrative!

As much as Medic tried, he was not able to save him, not in the present, not in the future.

The VHS is the only physical proof of a future Medic's failure to protect a past Scout.

M (1931), a VHS that needs to be rewound in order to play. His rotary phone that needs to be spun back and forth in order to enter to dial a number. The replay button of the YouTube video.

It's eternity in there!

#tf2 #emesis blue #my writing #smoking tw #blood tw #gore tw #eye contact tw

[starqueensthings]

Dork Love: Part Two

Ao3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 3

Summary: Life had returned to normal. Despite the budding adoration that had plagued you since meeting him, hopes of any type of relationship with Tech had diminished as time continued to pass, and you’d shifted your attention to the continued demands of owning a successful business. Until a surprise arrives to brighten your day…

Pairing: GN!Reader x Tech (can also read as ND!GN!Reader x ND!Tech if you look hard enough)

POV/Rating/WC: 2nd, all readers welcome, 7594 (I am so sorry lol)

A/N: This is the *slowest* of slow burns… borderline painfully slow, but writing accelerated intimacy feels really off-brand for Tech, especially when it’s a strangers to lovers trope. The man needs time to process! This chapter kinda drags a bit because there’s a lot of scene structure, but all of the seemingly useless details will play a part in chapter 3, I promise. Enjoy!

Thank you to @staycalmandhugaclone for beta reading ❤️

Days, differentiated only by the restful hours between evening and morning, passed underfoot without the appearance of anything even remotely as thrilling as the adventure of the riflescope. Mirroring the return of mundanity, the sun had become a recluse, the warmth of its exquisite majesty virtually smothered by a dark, dense veil of cloud that, despite the persistent bite of a cool wind, refused to shift aside.

This morning saw the clamouring chime of your chrono alarm rouse you from a slumber enriched with renderings of large brown eyes crinkled under the pressure of a shy smile, though the moment that yours fluttered open, unfocussed and narrowed against the jarring intonation that abruptly robbed you of your reverie, the imagery vanished from both thought and memory.

The recurring cool drizzle, falling mercilessly from the grey blanket above, had imbued the road outside of your shop so completely that it now more resembled a path of mirrors, capable of nothing except intensifying the gloom lingering overhead.

The drafty windows of your storefront whistled to the tune of the cold wind as if resolute that no area be free of its subjugate song, and in an effort to retain as much body heat as possible, a steaming cup of caf had found itself a permanent extension of your left hand. Despite the handicap that accompanied a continuously occupied limb, the counter behind your register was nearly barren, laden with only a sporadic collection of tasks left to complete.

Ten cold fingers had oriented themselves in a wreath around the ceramic mug still poised in your clutches, all of them trembling under the duress of your insistent need to sip at the warm pool of caffeine. With lips bunched to one side in a motion that inexplicably corralled your concentration, your eyes scanned the trio of trays scattered across the back counter. The urgency in which they needed to be addressed dwindled as the clock ticked the present into the past, and it was with a mumbled, “I’ll call them tomorrow” that you hastily stacked the containers and stowed them away.

A satisfied sigh poured from your lips and your shoulders squared pridefully of their own volition as you turned and departed the area, offering only a fleeting peek toward the mizzling outside as you passed. Semi-concealed in the shadowed corner beside the refresher, and adorned with an unostentatious sign that read “authorized personnel only”, was a door that separated the retail space from the backroom. On the left side past the threshold, and traversed so frequently over the years by various shoes that the stain itself had worn off the floorboards, was a piteous excuse for a kitchen. A single bank of cupboards anchored a derelict aluminum sink, the deep basin bespeckled with water spots and blotches that refused to dissipate despite countless, vigorous scrubs. The durasteel countertop flanking either side of the vessel still held much of its original integrity, though its formerly reflective surface was now hazy from decades of being scratched, buffed, and rescratched. An unpretentious caf machine found itself perched on the end of the counter nearest to the door, and its repeated call-to-arms as a reinforcement in your battle against early mornings and human fatigue, had seen it begin to look worse for wear, the heating element encrusted and charred in spots, and the glass carafe cracked and hastily repaired with industrial grade glue.

Arranged parade style in the depths of the sink was a legion of used and forgotten mugs, silently awaiting the shower that would free them from the sticky residue of a caf long since devoured. Their appearance wasted no time robbing your shoulders of their gratified posture, and you were reminded, once again, that mental checklists were growing increasingly insufficient in the thralls of your overstimulated mind.

“Wash mugs, water plants.”

Your chilled hands dug their way from one pocket to the next, furtively searching every crevasse and fold of your lab coat for any semblance of a pen; any tool that you could use to ensure the tasks did not continue to slip from the forefront of your mind. A cantillating chant erupted on your lips, repeating the small series of words as you yanked the cap off a red lens marker and hurried to ink a scrawled reminder on the back of your hand.

Your feet guided you thoughtlessly from the room, the familiar cadence taking you back atop the worn footpath and across the narrow hallway to the Mecca of your business: the workshop.

The fabrication lab was a modestly sized and minimally furnished room, and likely appeared to the untrained eye as a recipient unworthy of the several thousand credits that you had funneled into its refurbishment, yet the space had become both your sanctuary and your perdition. Several purchases later, all of them procrastinated in the name of thorough research, saw all new manufacturing equipment installed in the space. Despite your uncle’s repeated claims of their superiority to modern machinery, the equipment he’d bestowed upon you with the purchase of his business had deteriorated at a rate similar to his wizened mind, the tools habitually seizing mid cycle, their mechanics unable to overcome the strain that decades of neglect that had enchained them.

Their sophisticated replacements now encircled the perimeter of the room, meticulously and deliberately placed to maximize functionality in the void of square footage, and their sparkling infancy created a drastic yet welcome contrast to the decrepit cupboards of which they sat atop. But the flame ignited by the potential of efficiency upon their installation, was aglow for only hours before being snuffed completely by an unaccounted for realization: voltage requirements had apparently changed since the previous equipment had been wired. It was now a frustratingly common occurrence for fuses in the electrical panel to blow if you didn’t maintain a hyperfocussed awareness of which machines were cycling simultaneously, the infancy of the equipment now a hindrance, as your role of mechanical babysitter emerged.

The lights overhead buzzed menacingly as you brought them to life, and it was with haste that you added “call electrician” to the tasklist on the back of your hand, but despite the dirty dishes having stolen a portion of your resolve, the tower of orders waiting to be manufactured saw your cold knuckles cracked into action, and your sleeves yanked to your elbows before the flickering bulbs ceased their warning.

With knitted brows, you turned your attention to the counter on the right, hands instantly working to dismantle and sort the acrylic containers into an arrangement with some semblance of priority, while your eyes searched relentlessly for a specific triad of exigent orders; three small pairs of the glasses, the colourful frames fated to remain lens-less for only minutes longer now that the opportunity to initiate their fabrication had finally presented itself. You found your prize in the third tray from the bottom, you gaze quickly unfocussing upon the invoice as the sight of their exotic names launched your mind’s eye into a recollection of that humbling day:

Tarlu, a Twi’lek man from the 22nd level of Coruscant’s underworld had made the trip into your shop several weeks ago, a stunning turquoise chain of clasped hands stumbling in tow behind him; three small children, all of whom appeared at first glance to be a spitting image of their broad shouldered father, though their sparkling, violet eyes, dancing around the foreign corners of your shop, were largely unlike the electric blue of his own. He uttered a cautionary warning to them, a demand for the respect of good behaviour while he ‘spoke to the nice shop owner’, and the half dozen steps that he took away from his children, purposefully orienting his back to them in some semblance of privacy, were not lost on you.

Age and the innate understanding that accompanied life experience had yet to rob the children of their naivety, and innocent shrieks laden with insouciant joy left their mouths as they disobeyed their father’s plea, running amok around the confines of your shop. Their violet eyes blind to the slump in their father’s dejected shoulders; their youthful minds still too ignorant to identify the tension that riddled his brow as he quietly and solemnly confessed his desperation. Their mother was blind, he explained grimly, diagnosed at a young age with a degenerative visual condition called Retinitis Pigmentosa. Her most recent years had seen her vision and her hope recede to nullity, and it had taken every credit left in their savings to purchase a transport ticket and hire a protocol droid to see her safely returned to Ryloth.

Coruscant, he divulged, and its esteemed medical field had offered them a glimmer of hope in the face of impending visual darkness; whispers of a corrective procedure inaccessible to them in the primitive outer rim saw them willingly and enthusiastically uproot themselves… their family… their entire lives. But the usurious capital planet had repudiated them, and the system had swiftly exposed itself as corrupt, only willing to accede to the needs of those whose wallets would support their owners plea’s, shunting all others into the cold embrace of exorbitantly long waitlists.

A grave shift in the children’s behaviour since last seeing their mother had only amplified his despondency; tantrums, repeated condemnations from their school teachers, fights escalated over trivial issues, an increase in their desire for isolation, a rejection of things and experiences that once brought them joy. The intelligent Twi’lek man couldn’t and wouldn’t deny that the fracturing of their family had likely acted as the catalyst for the behavioural decline, though he admittedly couldn’t shake the dread that something else was amiss.

The way your voice shook under the constraints of suppressed emotion offered the truth before your lips had finished somberly wrapping their way around the explanation, and despite every effort to remain professional, your glistening eyes betrayed your composure as you confirmed his suspicions; his children were all showing signs of the same condition that had robbed their mother of her sight and her freedom. “I can’t stop the progression,” you whispered with a quivering chin, “but give me a couple of weeks and I’ll make some glasses that will maximize what vision they have left.”

“I have no desire to linger here.” His tone was that of a man utterly broken, a man whose hopes had been stripped and excoriated within an inch of complete eradication. “Nor do I have the funds to pay you for your services. I will need every available credit to transport us back to Ryloth. The children need their mother, and I need help.”

Despite every cell in your body yearning to ease the father’s dejection, the gift of hope was not one that you were capable of bestowing on him, as the recent past had seen his very soul calloused by the greed of business and politics; you could not promise him that his children would have a future free of obstacle, all of them destined to walk in their mothers footsteps with the unbearable weight of depleting vision on their shoulders, but what you could offer was a helping hand: three free pairs of glasses and the promise to expedite the process to the best of your ability so he could leave the planet that had forsaken him and return home.

It was their tray held firmly in your grip as you marched across the lab toward the lens generator, refusing to deviate your attention to anything and anyone until their needs of this family were satiated…

As if determined to challenge your resolve, the harrowing tinkle of the doorbell saw you halted in your tracks barely two paces from your destination, drenched in the cold realization that, in your haste to recuse yourself to the lab, you’d overlooked the routine task of locking the front door.

“For kriff’s sake…” you grumbled, your eyelids aflutter in frustration as a familiar cool, damp draft whistled through the gaps of the door and raised the fine hairs on your arms. An unceremonious flick of your wrist saw the plastic container tossed onto the counter beside the machine, and an irritable huff sagged your shoulders as you turned on the spot and retreated back toward the door.

“Hello,” you called blindly, summoning the pitiful remnants of your patience from the depths of your soul as you pulled open the door that led back into the retail space, tugging your sleeves back down.

For the second time in as many seconds, you found your steps halted abruptly and another intense wave of gooseflesh erupting across your skin. “Tech!” His name escaped your parted lips drenched in startled disbelief.

A tall, poorly postured figure stood patiently at your counter, and it was the prompt of your voice echoing around the quiet room that had him turn to face your direction. His magnified gaze was alert and twinkling with an unexplained light as it fell upon you, and the ingenuine smile that you’d hitched onto your face at the prospect of an unexpected interruption, lost all sense of insincerity at the sight of the familiar, thick goggles.

“Hello.” His answer came accompanied by a respectful nod, his fingers suspending their dance across the device in his hand to needlessly shift his goggles on the bridge of his nose.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” you admitted, crossing the handful of steps between you and leaning against the counter next to him. “Either of you. Did my fix on the scope not hold up?”

“On the contrary,” he began after a quiet clearing of the throat. “Crosshair remains quite pleased with your repair. The rigidity of his nature does not coincide with being a proponent of change, particularly so with his weaponry. Your repair has ensured his continued satisfaction, indirectly maintaining symbiosis amongst the rest of the squad… for now, anyways.”

The familiarity of his curt, matter-of-fact tone only intensified the smile on your face, forcing you to fleetingly avert your gaze to the floorboards below your feet, eager to minimize the flush rising to your cheeks. Your attraction to him was as enigmatic to you as he was; the simplified truth was, you knew almost nothing about him, other than the fact that he was exceedingly poor sighted without the aid of his goggles, and that he was remarkably well educated to have been brought up by the indurate embrace of combat training and war, and yet you were drawn to him with an unexplained appetence.

“Good, I’m glad,” you answered, leaning onto an elbow. “Your goggles look like they’ve stayed in decent repair since I last saw you, too.”

The departure of his eyes from yours to the void of space over your left shoulder saw you promptly regretting your comment, as the swift flush of his cheeks and the deliberate bob of his Adam's apple exposed the fact that your unintentional scolding of his dirty lenses during your previous conversation had rendered him somewhat embarrassed.

“Ah… yes,” he murmured, the warmth of his eyes only blessing you with a fleeting glance before departing again. “I have since managed to incorporate a routine cleaning into my morning regimen, though despite having extensively researched varying techniques, I can not seem to achieve the same result as yourself.”

Disapproval bathed his every feature, the corners of his lips inverting into a reproachful frown more adorable than any quirky half-smile he’d previously gifted you, and it was with great difficulty and another quick aversion of your eyes that you repressed the chuckle threatening to spill from your lips. Intent on alleviating even a portion of his indignity, you permitted your brows to offer a jesting, egotistical wiggle and uttered, “Well… you won’t.”

His gaze darted back to you instantly, lids narrowing only slightly in befuddlement at the smirk twisting your lips. “Opticians have the magic touch. Hand ‘em over.”

You extended a hand toward him, the eagerness to award him with even a fraction of the same satisfaction that you’d somehow gifted his brother outweighing all else in that moment, but his response to your gesture was as apprehensive as yours was determined. His affronted gaze danced across your awaiting palm, his long fingers fidgeting needlessly around his datapad as he seemingly blinked away a myriad of intrusive thoughts. Reassurances flooded the tip of your tongue, poised to express promises of meticulous care and affirmations that you fully understood how desperately he relied on his goggles, but your lips had barely parted wide enough to permit an intake of breath before the datapad was released of his grip and placed gently atop the counter as his hand reached instead for the strap around his head.

A blend of gratitude and adoration welled inside your chest as your fingers enveloped the rubberized surface of the unexpectedly rigid frame, your pinky fingers hooking themselves securely around the strap lest the staggering weight of his lenses cause the equipment to fall from your clutches. If any apprehension or doubt of your abilities lingered in his exceptional mind, it was seemingly usurped by the need to massage his tired eyes, as he forewent the motion of possessively watching your hands to grind his knuckles against lids clamped tightly closed.

Dismal as it may be, the dwindling daylight meekly cascading in your windows threw into sharp relief the poor condition of his spectacles, and the thoughtless action of retrieving the trusty cleaning cloth in your pocket was halted entirely by the sight of several deep gouges across his lenses, all of which had been previously hidden from your scrutiny by the darkness of the shooting range.

A contemplative hum rumbled past your pursed lips, the rounded edge of your thumbnail trying in vain to scrape away the remnants of a mysterious, encrusted substance from the front surface, achieving nothing but imparting another microscratch to the wide array of others. A scoff of contempt threatened to escape you, scorned by the fact that someone in Tech’s situation, so highly reliant on their eyewear, would be issued such a subpar set of lenses; the material obviously too soft to uphold the demands of his lifestyle, the subjective magnification exacerbated by the poor choice of curvature by whichever ignorant being had manufactured them, the coatings improperly sealed before being thrust into the scrupulous edging process.

‘I bet these are Polycarbonate…’ you thought to yourself with a disdainful roll of your eyes. ‘But only one way to find out.’

Without even a breath of hesitation or an ounce of consideration for his potential reaction, you gripped the goggles tightly in one hand and applied firm pressure around the rim of the right lens with the other. His knuckles fell from his eyes immediately, the ungodly snapping sound of the lens separating from the frame triggering a wave of horror to erupt across his features, but you remained blind his unspoken objection, too deeply enthralled in the abhorrence of his glasses to notice his mouth falling open and his unfocussed eyes widening in terror.

“Did– did you just–?” His stammered query trailed away to an aghast silence, too appalled to finish vocalizing the question that he feared the answer to.

“Hmm?” you hummed innocently, wrenching your rolling eyes away from a series of small pressure cracks in the plastic between your fingers and directing your attention back to him. “Oh! No, they’re not broken!” you hurried to assure him, recognizing the semblance of panic tugging his eyebrows together. “Lenses are manufactured with an angled bevel to permit repeated insertion and removal, as long as you apply the pressure in the correct place.”

He swallowed heavily, his gaze still affixed at the disc-like plastic clutched loosely in your palm. “I just wanted to identify the lens material,” you continued pleadingly, convinced that if you provided a detailed enough explanation for your objectively impulsive action, there may be a chance you could placate his evident fear and surging mistrust. “I’m assuming they’re polycarbonate lenses based on how easily they’re damaged, but without seeing the initial paperwork, the only real way to tell is the sound that the lens makes when tapped against a rigid surface.”

To no avail; periodic blinks over widened eyes robbed of their warmth was the only indication that he hadn’t simply died of fright. “Listen,” you beseeched, gesturing for him to step closer and prepare to witness the presumed madness behind your methods. His gaze reluctantly followed your hand as it began gently tapping the very edge of the lens against the counter top. “Hear how it sounds kind of… tinky and light? Polycarbonate is a fibrous material so it makes a sharper tone compared to resin plastic. Resin is a powdery material, so it makes more of a deep thunk.”

The dramatic expansion of his eyes softened significantly as they watched you extract the orphaned plastic lens that you’d pocketed this morning after finding it astray under the desk, his gaze intent on following your every move as you knocked it rhythmically against the surface to demonstrate the difference.

“That is… fascinating,” he admitted in a mumble, the tension in his shoulders dissipating enough to collect the pieces you were extending out to him.

“Do you have a few minutes?” you asked him, teeth nibbling against the smile threatening to tug at your lips as he immediately turned and began percussing the lenses against the countertop. “I’d like to give them a thorough clean with my favourite solution, but it’s a peroxide blend and needs a good five minutes to neutralize.”

“Thank you, that is very kind of you,” he replied with a nod.

“My pleasure,” you answered with a bashful shrug, another wave of heat surging to your cheeks as his already narrowed and unfocussed eyes shrunk even further under the expanse of his bashful smile. “Would you mind flipping the sign and locking the door for me?”

He followed your gesture to the entryway, the lights of your shop reflecting brightly in the glass door against the dark backdrop of the deepening sky beyond, before nodding and departing the counter, lenses pinched protectively between his long fingers. An empathetic frown tugged at your lips as you watched him fumble to engage the deadbolt, his movements clearly impeded by the lack of depth perception, robbed of him by the removal and disassembly of his glasses. “Just come meet me in the backroom when you’re done,” you called, sending him one last adoring glance before retreating through the threshold to your workshop.

You were granted only a short minute to calm the bounding of your heart against your chest, launched into a fervent dance by Tech’s unexpected appearance, yet despite funneling every effort into stifling the persistent smile on your face, the joy that his visitation had triggered simply refused to be so easily contained. Your confession to him had been truthful, the concept of seeing him again was one that you’d actively avoided entertaining since your introduction, for it was simply too impractical of a hope; he was a soldier living too nomadically to risk establishing relationships of any kind… yet here he was, but why?

The thunk of his boots on the wood floor alerted you of his approach, and you hurried to clear the surging giddiness from your mind with a gentle shake of your head before retrieving the bottle of cleaning solution from the cabinet below the counter.

“My apologies,” he offered as his tall frame filled the expanse of the doorway a moment later. “I did not familiarize myself with your hours of operation prior to arriving. I hope I am not keeping you from any prior endeavours?”

“Not unless you consider several hours of grinding lenses a ‘prior endeavour’.” you chuckled, upturning the bottle until the entirety of its contents drained into the small steel bowl perched in front of you. He folded his arms across his chest in a near perfect impression of his sniper brother, a passively curious expression on his face as he watched you finish formulating your concoction.

“Do you still have your other lens?” you questioned after submerging the entirety of his goggles into the effervescent, blue liquid.

He gently dropped the loose disc into the tub with its counterparts, stooping comically low to study the bubbling substance, the tip of his nose barely an inch from the surface, and eyes narrowed to nearly full occlusion in an effort to refocus his vision.

“I didn’t mean to scare you when I popped your lens out,” you offered apologetically, leaning casually backward against the counter and watching him. “It does tend to freak people out, I should have warned you.”

He stood and cleared his throat quietly, unfolding his arms in a motion to shift his goggles on his nose, only to remember half way through the gesture that there was nothing presently on his nose to shift, instead justifying the awkward motion with a small scratch of his reddening ear.

“I will admit my knowledge of the Optometric industry to be lacking in comparison to other subjects,” he voiced, turning to lean on the counter beside you. “My brothers and I are subjected to visual testing on Kamino as a subsection of a routine complete sensory examination. My oldest brother has senses heightened to a nearly inhumane degree, and by the time the result of our inspections have been collected for further processing, departing the clinic for the comfort of our barracks is typically his first priority. I have never lingered long enough to expand my limited knowledge of optics and ophthalmic correction.”

“Heightened senses?” you repeated instantly. The snippet of information had been delivered so blithely that it had almost failed to register, yet the implication of the statement could simply not be ignored.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “All clones are genetically modified in the embryonic stage of formation to allow several decidedly ‘desirable’ characteristics to take precedence during growth. Regular clones have an enhanced sense of loyalty, obedience, tenacity, and stamina amongst several other attributes. My squad was the first and only to have our DNA further reconfigured to enhance additional qualities. The aforementioned brother is our leader, and Hunter has senses incomparable to any other being. He perceives every movement, hears every sound, feels minute vibrations, senses lingering energy signatures… As such, he became plagued with recurrent episodes of extreme overstimulation while in the depths of our training, but has established a sense of near-complete autonomy since our convocation.

“My genetic structure was deviated to permit the rapid collection and categorization of data. I am able to perceive much of which the typical mind overlooks, with the subsequent ability to recall information at a moment’s notice. As you may have deduced by my chosen moniker, an interesting and perceptibly correlated mutation has bestowed upon me a particular proclivity with technology and mechanics, and during rare instances where I am not able to direct my thoughts into research or the customization of various equipment, I too can become overstimulated.

“Wrecker is our resident ordnance expert, having extensively studied the science of detonations and their various implementations in warfare, and is both the physically strongest and arguably the most emotionally intelligent member of our squad, though a recent poorly-timed detonation has compromised a large portion of his eyesight and an even larger portion of his mental reasoning skills, a challenge of which we are still shifting to accommodate.

“Crosshair, our youngest brother whom you have met, has a mathematical brain that could rival most modern software. He can process calculations and formulations in mere fractions of a second without the plague of human distraction. Paired with his remarkable eyesight, his mutations have formed him into a marksman of incomparable skill and ability, though at the cost of charisma; he would rather concede his crown than to engage in a lengthy conversation of any topic.”

The effervescent cleaner had long since stilled, only mere remnants of the microbubbles tasked with removing surface grime and grease were still clinging to the rubberized surface of Tech’s submerged goggles. Both thought and speech were robbed of you; unable to fully compute the implication of his explanation, you could only stand there, lips parted to permit shallow breaths from your lungs as your eyes unfocussed on his features.

The information itself was a repulsive dichotomy of fascinating and horrifying. Largely sheltered from the ramifications of the war, your knowledge of the Clones from Kamino was limited to only that with which you had firsthand experience; that they were typically lovely people, barred from extensive interaction with civilians though seemingly drawn toward the dynamic of humanity. The science of genetic manipulation was not one that you’d ever heard of before, and despite finding the notion of it unethical, there was no denying that it was medically captivating.

But layered atop the affronting information was the casual tone in which he delivered it, as if he was merely describing a mildly unusual childhood, or reciting a paragraph that he’d written in the book of his upbringing, and if ever he had shared in your feeling of revulsion, he’d long since learned to mask all evidence of it.

“That’s… wild.”

It wasn’t the correct word… if there even was a correct word, though ‘wild’ suited the horrifying notion more appropriately than anything else that came to mind; it certainly wasn’t tame, or humane.

Hurrying to conceal the conflict ghosting behind your eyes, you turned and retrieved his dismantled goggles from the basin on the counter beside you, gently shaking the excess liquid from the frame before swaddling it in a soft towel. Tech watched you nurture his glasses intently, showing exceedingly more interest in the technique you used to reinsert his lens than he had while discussing the unique dynamics of his family.

“Nothing can remove the scratches unfortunately,” you lamented, wiping away the last of your fingerprints from his lens before handing his goggles back to him. “But they probably haven’t been that clean since you first got them.”

“That is likely an accurate estimation,” he answered, shifting their weight on his nose and attempting to blink away the strain that several, prolonged minutes of blurred vision had imbibed on him.

“Isn’t that an oxymoron?” you chuckled absently, tossing the damp hand towel over your shoulder.

His attention returned to you so urgently that it stilled your hand on the empty bottle of cleaning solution, the dripping container poised in your fingertips mid-way to the trash bin below the counter. You’d seen that look before, and it had adorned you just as urgently then; wide eyes, lips parted, gaping at you as if you’d just uttered the very secret to human existence. It was an expression reminiscent of your first encounter, interrupting you mid-muse about the dislodgement of a focal plane in a riflescope with the sudden intensity of his eyes, and the vulnerability setting your skin alight under his awestruck gaze was no less palpable the second time around.

“What did you say?” he probed, brows furrowing slightly.

Hesitation paused your response, momentarily abashed by the dubious smirk beginning to tug on his lips as his eyes continued to look upon you quizzically.

“Wouldn’t– wouldn’t that be considered an oxymoron?” you repeated tentatively. “I mean… you can’t really have an ‘accurate estimate’. They’re technically opposing ideologies, thus making that an oxymoronic statement…”

All semblances of a smile that had previously blessed his features were instantly outshone by the grin unfolding across his face. The doming of his cheeks under the embrace of a true smile lifted the goggles off the bridge of his nose, and it was quite possibly the most attractive thing you’d ever seen.

“Yes,” he answered, with a reassuring nod. “It is precisely an oxymoronic statement. Excellent catch. I am impressed.”

“Um… thank you,” you muttered, barely able to wrap your own grinning lips around the two measly words as the pounding of your heart nearly deafened you. “Not just a pretty face… I guess…”

“No, you are much more than that.” The deep reddening of his cheeks rivaled only that of your own, and that moment saw both of you equally embarrassed by the comment that had seemingly poured from his mouth without second thought. “I– I surmised your intelligence almost immediately upon gaining your acquaintance,” he continued, the aversion of his eyes entirely negating the welcome shift of his body to face you. “Your practiced recital of the laws of refraction was fluent and precise, and your charitable willingness to assist Crosshair with his problem in combination with the extensive knowledge that you possess of a topic that has always been of intrigue to me, is the reason for my intrusion… not just your attractive features.”

If you hadn’t known it to be completely medically ludicrous, every credit would have left your bank account on a bet that the butterflies in your stomach were rearranging your organs as if they were pieces of furniture. Yet greater than the uncomfortable flap-a-bout happening inside of you, was the sudden and mystifying crave for his touch; an increasingly gnawing desire to feel the solidity of his presence, desperate for the affirmation that his enigma wasn’t just a trick of the mind. A gentle hand, trembling slightly from the spontaneity of his flattery rose into the space between you, palm facing him with softly bent fingers.

He swallowed heavily and cast an apprehensive glance toward your gesture, his hesitancy to mirror your intimate motion swatting violently at the butterflies in your stomach with the paddle of rejection. It felt like years were passing under the disguise of mere seconds on the clock, his eyes darting back and forth between yours as the tips of his fingers fidgeted anxiously against each other. His jaw clenched, once, twice, until… at long last…

The slippery material of his gloves felt strange against your skin; unexpectedly metallic and silky despite the apparent density of the material, yet it accommodated the swell of his knuckles with ease as his fingers interlaced yours.

Had the clock simply stopped now? Had Father Time so easily forsaken his fateful duty, halting the progression of anything and everything else to permit you this quiet moment of delicate connection? Or was it the gentle caress of those stunning brown eyes atop your features that manifested the wistful longing stay in this lingering second for eternity?

Despite the nimble swipes of his thumb along the back of your hand pulling a shiver down your spine, it wasn’t until the lights overhead launched into their menacing flicker that you returned to some illusion of cognition. “So… hang on,” you muttered, pausing to briefly nimble on your bottom lip. “Are you here to hangout with me? Or to learn the laws of refraction?”

“Um… my priority was the former,” he admitted, “Though I would quantify both being a desire of mine.”

“I can do both,” you offered through a giddy grin, relaxing the entanglement of your fingers from his until your hands separated. “You said you have an affinity for mechanics? Maybe you can help me grind some lenses, and I’ll serenade you with facts about the deviation of light waves through a prism with a biconvex curvature.”

The speed of which he mastered the lens manufacturing process quickly eradicated any lingering scrutiny in your mind of the validity of his mutations. It took less than three complete demonstrations to have achieved a near flawless understanding of what each piece of machinery did and how it accomplished its goal. The clock had barely ticked an hour into the past before Tech was independently running lenses through the sealant process, happily chirruping about his fascination with optics; about how he’d always longed for a deeper understanding of differing refractive indices, about how he found it truly remarkable that a minor decrease in curvature on the front of a lens, when paired with the correct backside curvature, could drastically alter the magnification through the lens itself.

Thrice more did he reach for your hand, his fingers long since freed from the protective confines of his gloves and draping themselves around yours with affectionate intention; every fleeting glance he sent your way, every barely-there brush of his arm against yours continued to reinvigorate your enrapturement for each other.

“How’d we do?” you probed him coyly, sneaking a peek at the sparkling, blemish free lens that he held delicately over the ocular of the lensometer. “Prescription accurate?”

You nibbled gently on your bottom lip, teeth only barely containing the knowing smirk tugging at your lips as you held your breath in expectation of his response. “It is precisely correct,” he answered without diverting his attention from the screen in front of him. “Perfectly on axis, with zero induced prismatic effect. It seems I have attuned my lens manufacturing skills quite remarkably, if I may say so.”

The irony of his words threatened to dissolve your feigned complacency; a man so intelligent that he’d achieved a near mastery in optical technologies in record time, unable to determine that the lens clutched between his fingers being so heavily scrutinized by his eyes had been manufactured to his prescription.

“You may,” you permitted slyly, disguising the grin on your face as nothing more than a reaction to your own audacity. He merely offered you a small snort, exchanging the lens in his fingertips for its counterpart. “You know,” you choked out, lungs nearly seizing under the controlled repression of a chuckle. “That last pair of lenses that you made are for yo—”

The admonition so desperately vying to leave your tongue was robbed of its overdue spotlight by a sudden and complete blanket of darkness. The whirring chorus of engines descending into utter silence inducing a stark ringing in your ears more deafening than the hum it replaced, and you hurried to jump down from your seated perch on the counter.

“Kriff,” you grumbled, fingertips obtusely patting around in the darkness to reestablish a bearing of your positioning.

“It appears that we have lost power,” Tech mumbled introspectively from your right, his arm brushing gently against your chest as he stepped away from the equipment.

“Hang on,” you advised through an undignified grunt, bending over carefully to reach for the handle on the drawer situated somewhere in the proximity of your right hip. “I forgot to keep an eye on what machines were cycling together,” you admitted. “The generator and the polisher always… always trip the electrical breakers if… if they cycle at the same time. Maker have mercy, where is the fucking handle?”

A spotlight appeared abruptly on your right hand, illuminating the pair of pliers clutched stupidly in your grasp, the steel handle having felt convincingly similar to the drawer pull you’d been blindly hunting for in the utter blackness of the windowless room.

“Where is the electrical panel located?” Tech asked you, his free hand deftly snapping closed the pouch from which he’d just retracted his flashlight.

“On the wall beside the edger,” you advised, pointing uselessly in the dark toward the culprit across the room.

Visible only as a dark figure sauntering behind a stark beam of light, you watched him cross the room, the grotesque squeak of the panel’s aluminum door indicating through the echoing silence that he’d successfully found the perpetrator. “That is… alarming,” he muttered, triggering a snort of laughter from your nose. “The breakers in this panel are both drastically undersized for the required pull of amperage and… discernibly ancient.”

“I would merit that both of those claims are accurate,” you confirmed glumly, wincing as your fingers knocked dumbly against your nose in their intention to rub your eyes. “Getting an electrician has been on my to-do list for a shamefully long time.”

Several loud, familiar clicks saw the overhead lights flickering back into some illusion of life, and a cacophony of dissonant chimes erupted around the room as each machine simultaneously launched into a reboot cycle. Tech deactivated his flashlight and stowed it deftly away in the pouch strapped to his right thigh while his other hand trailed gently along the series of cobweb-laden breakers.

“I would estimate that the sum of the required amperage for each breaker largely exceeds the allotted amount for the panel in its entirety,” he mused, cringing mildly against the abhorrent squeak of the door as he pushed it closed and latched it. “It will be both a costly and a laborious installation.”

“Glorious,” you sighed, knotting your arms tightly over your chest, anxiety rippling through you at the implication of his conclusion.

“However, the odds that I may be of assistance are in your favour.” He hesitated for only a second before gently wrapping his fingers around your wrists, dismantling the hug that you’d bestowed upon yourself as anxiety began to simmer in your gut. “Commercial electrical panels are of a different mechanical structure than those regulated for areospace,” he continued quietly, lacing his fingers between yours, “but the circuitry should be vastly similar to that of my ship. I would be happy to attempt the installation for you, pending we can locate the correct mater—”

“Tech… Come in…”

A loud chirp and a foreign, husky voice issued from several feet to the left, robbing you of the listful smile that had begun to peel across your face at the reintroduction of his touch. His posture straightened immediately, his body reacting instinctively to the summons echoing from the comlink on his gauntlet, long ago stripped from his hands and buried under the thick blanket of his gloves on the counter.

He flicked his gloves aside impatiently, collecting the rigid plastoid piece and bringing it to hover in front of his mouth. “Sarge,” he addressed, his eyes flickering to you apologetically before adhering themselves intently to the blue light illuminating his chin.

“Where the hell are you? I’ve pinged your datapad a dozen times.”

“Ah,” Tech vocalized awkwardly, left hand absently patting the empty pouch perched on his lower back that typically housed his beloved device when not in use; the device abandoned to a live a solitary existence on the front counter. “My apologies. I… I fear my task of locating a spare condenser valve was hindered by a… um… distraction.”

“Does this ‘distraction’ happen to wear a labcoat?”

The jeering inquiry was bathed in a slithering smoke all too familiar to you, the mild distortion from the vocabulator failing to deplete any of its intensity. The image of Crosshair’s sneering face erupted in your mind as a ringing, potent silence ensued in response to his sardonicism.

Tech’s lips pursed into a thin line, eyes wide and unmoving as if his mind had simply seized under the effort of frantically searching for a plausible excuse that did not entail he divulge the truth of his whereabouts.

“Just get back to the ship… now,” the first, hoarse voice demanded. “We’re overdue on Ithica. Cody’s holding his advance until we get there.”

Tech offered a simple “understood,” before silencing the comlink with a prod of a button, and you met the return of his gaze with a fearful, guilty grimace. All-too thrilled to waste your time in his presence, basking in the joy that walked hand-in-hand with the emergence of his affection for you, time had simply vanished.

“I lament that I must depart so quickly,” he spoke, wiggling his fingers back into his gloves. “I have unknowingly delayed my squad’s departure significantly.” He paused to reaffix the plastoid pieces to the backs of his hands, flexing his joints until satisfied with the comfort of their positioning.

“Don’t worry, I get it,” you reassured him with a meek shrug, meeting him at this position in the doorway. “Thank you for coming to waste your time with me.”

“Time with you is never wasted, darling.” The endearing term embraced you with a warmth so layered that you doubted even the sheets of cold rain cascading from the clouds above could have robbed it from you, your adoration for him only intensified by the brazenness he was now showing in the face of his frenzied departure. “And if it is,” he continued scooping your hand into his, “I will happily do so again when I return… if you would still desire my company.”

Your movements stilled, breath halted in your lungs, lids refusing the innate need to blink lest you miss a fraction of this moment. His eyes attuned to you, soft yet determined, as he gently guided your hand upward, setting your nerves alight with the tender press of his lips to your skin.

“Oh, I will,” you reassured him in barely more than a whisper, the tingles radiating from the spot where he’d adorned your hand with a kiss, rendering you numb to the gentle squeeze that he gave before releasing it.

Budding disappointment forced a slump into your shoulders as he offered you a small nod of salutation and turned toward the door. “Tech!” you interjected, watching his tall figure begin to disappear behind the doorframe. His head poked back through the doorway, cheeks aflush and eyes atwinkle. “Good luck.” It left your lips somewhat meekly, the two words nowhere near expressive enough to convey all the thoughts and reassurances of understanding that you couldn’t verbalize.

He paused, reaching up to pacify his feelings by shifting his goggles on his nose before granting you a smile, the same quirky grin that had stolen the breath from your lungs hours earlier. “The ideology of luck i—”

“Yeah, yeah… an ‘illogical concept’…”

Taglist: @anxiouspineapple99

#the bad batch #tbb #bad batch #bad batch fanfic #tech x gn!reader #tech x reader #tech x you #tbb tech #bad batch tech #starqueenswrittenworks

[pinkiepiebones]

Here's... something?

-

Cleaning the apartment- his! His apartment- was nothing short of therapeutic. 

It was a different sort of cleaning than what he had grown so accustomed to. This time he wasn't stooped over a rusted basin with an improvised washboard, hands and shoulders aching, trying to get blood out of silk or cashmere or whatever the fuck his boss had worn to dinner. Today he was scrubbing down dusty countertops with something lemon-scented. He was wiping grime off windows and cupboard doors. He purchased something called a Swiffer, which was really just a sort of mechanical mop, but it made quick work of the linoleum in his kitchenette and the slightly off-center tiles in the little washroom. He wiped down the walls and faucets and scoured the tub. He installed a new lightbulb in the little ceiling fixture and it shined brightly on the newly cleaned room. It was damn near sparkling in there, and it smelled like a spring meadow.

Robert was tired by the time he finished hanging the brand-new shower curtain. It was pale blue and dotted with a rainbow assortment of flower drawings. It still bore the fold creases from being confined in a plastic sleeve for so long. He stood back in the doorway to admire his work. It was the first time in a long time that anything he did brought a smile to his face. 

He shuffled back to his bed and grabbed a shopping bag a little overstuffed with towels and toiletries. He hadn't been sure what sort of soaps or shampoos to buy for his skin and hair types- there were too fucking many options to choose from- but a very nice lady saw his near-panic in the Health and Beauty section of the local store and helped him make some choices.

Robert gave the tub knobs some twists and the pipes rattled and cold water shot out of the spout. He smiled a little, thankful he hadn't gone with his first idea of stripping and stepping in before checking the water. He held his hand under the stream, flexing his long aching fingers, feeling the warmth start to flow in. He fiddled with the knobs until he found the one that switched the water to the showerhead. Why were there extra knobs, anyway?

Robert stripped and stepped under the spray. Oh, this was nice. So much better than collecting rainwater from a crack in a ceiling or melting snow over a dying fire or jumping fully clothed in a pool- mostly to get the blood and candle wax and glitter off his suit- while his boss went on a blood-sucking bender in the adjacent cult mansion. That cult had a wonderful pool. He remembered hearing music under the water.

Now, there was no music except his laughter. It wasn't a humoured laugh, it was a broken, sobbing sort of laugh, one of pain long pushed aside finally spilling away to relief and peace and disbelief. He gasped and chuckled and felt silly for wanting to wipe away his tears but he fumbled with the curtain and reached for the shopping bag on the floor. Water snaked down his arm and his fingers left little pools on the floor. Oh, well. Robert grabbed a washcloth and rubbed at his face, then realised the full futility of the situation and found the soap and shampoo at the bottom of the bag. A sizable puddle was forming on the tile and he made a mental note to invest in bathroom rugs next.

He scrubbed at his pale skin until it was pink. He briefly thought of all the blood that he'd washed off over the decades and, quietly, he declared aloud, "nope, this is a happy place. I'm not going down that thought path now."

He had become somewhat accustomed to the feel and the smell of his former occupation; it was an odd sensation to suddenly be mindful of how his skin and hair felt. Robert pictured himself as having been in some sort of gore-knitted cocoon for a century. Now, he was breaking out and finding his wings. Or something like that.

Following the directions on the shampoo bottle, Robert lathered, rinsed, and repeated. There was no edict declaring further repetition but he was tempted to because damn it felt good to have his own blunt nails gently scraping his scalp and not pointed claws digging in... 

He rinsed and let his hair fall down over his face and he snickered at how long it was, once the tangles had been worked out. Maybe I need to invest in some hair ties, or scissors. 

Robert shut off the water and squeezed the excess water out of his hair and pulled at the shower curtain- christ, these things like to stick to skin- and stepped, less than gracefully, out of the tub and groped for the shopping bag. He unfurled a brand-new towel, salmon pink, and dried his body, ruffled his hair, and tied the towel about his slender waist. Forgot to buy a robe. Oh, well. God knows I'll be buying more in the coming days...

He wanders out into his apartment, avoiding the lone mirror that came with the place, and collapsed on his bed that was still needing a matching sheet and pillowcase set. He stared at the ceiling. He breathed and listened to the sounds beyond his walls- street noise. Crickets. Murmurs from the floor above. That was it. No voice in his head.

Robert smiled.

Eventually he stood and returned to the bathroom, mopped up the water puddles, hung up his towel, and fetched brand-new bedclothes from the shopping bag.

When was the last time I slept in something besides my suit...

The bedclothes were soft and maybe too warm for the early summer, and the mint green looked nearly bluish next to his pale skin, but he was happy.

Happy.

So that's what that bubbly feeling was.

Robert slept and dreamed.

#renfield #robbie's journal

[bludhavents]

Steal one, lose two

pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

summary: You meet Steve while drunk at a party. One thing leads to another and suddenly you're both shirtless in the front yard.

word count: 4.4k

warnings: legal drinking, mentions of smoking, non-sexual nudity (?), making out, cursing.

The lights were... loud. It felt like you could hear the wind blowing every time they'd flash on and off and then back on again. One glance to the side revealed the hammered senior who was flicking the switch over and over, sending your brain into an intoxicated flurry. Next to you was Robin, shouting and dancing with the crowd as Cameo’s Word Up blasted through the radio at the front of the room. The red solo cup in her hand was full, but she had no regard for it as she threw her hands above her head, dousing the spiked punch down the front of your hair, bleeding down into your makeup and pink shirt.

She didn't even realize, too swept up in her fun to care. You didn't mind, patting her lightly on the shoulder before breaking away and leading yourself to the kitchen. There were plenty of people in there as well-- rummaging through the homeowner's fridge and sitting precariously on their countertops. Only one person was by the sink, though.

Steve Harrington.

You knew he was nice, Robin had plenty of stories that involved him sacrificing his own plans to pick her up or brighten her mood, but still his reputation precedes him. He was attractive, confident, and popular. Or used to be, you weren't sure. But the alcohol coursing through your veins, infiltrating your head and heart and body, gave you the courage to walk up to him.

"S'cuse me," you said, reaching behind him to turn the faucet on. Steve quickly jumped out of the way, apologizing and moving to leave entirely. You paid him no mind, dunking your face directly into the stream of water and rubbing your hands over your skin to wash away the sticky residue of vodka punch.

"Hey, hey." Steve was back next to you, turning the water off. "You alright? Wait-- Y/n?" He tilted his head in confusion. You turned your head, still hunkered over the sink, and sent a wide smile his way. An enamored laugh rang through your ears, and you felt him pulling you up and away from the basin.

"Got some punch on my face," you explained, brain unable to form a complete sentence while looking into his eyes. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he noticed your warm face and shy gaze.

"I see that," he said, amused. "I don't think you need to drown yourself to get it off, though. Here, sit up here, let me help."

He patted to the granite countertop next to the sink, and you obliged, hopping up and sitting down patiently. Next to you, he was searching through the drawers, drunkenly whooping when he found what he was looking for. You cheered with him as he proudly brandished a washcloth from the modern wooden drawer. He smiled down at you before running it under the water.

"Think we need soap?" He quirked his head up, looking at you.

"For what?"

"To get the punch off of your face."

"Oh, no! No soap. Thanks," you answered quickly. Apparently, the drink had been stronger than you'd realized. All of the intoxication seemed to be hitting you now, when you were trying to communicate with a barely-tipsy Steve Harrington who was trying relentlessly to help clean you up.

He soaked one half of the towel under the sink and then brought his hand up to your face, not waiting before going in and rubbing your cheeks. The material was surprisingly smooth, and you closed your eyes as he continued to mop up the alcohol from your face and neck. It took a long time, followed by his free hand tracing back over your skin, stopping at any sticky parts and going back over them with the rag until every inch of skin was dry and normal.

"All done." Steve's grin was lazy, drunken as he looked down at you. "D'you need a shirt? Yours is all red now."

"Oh, yeah. But I have another shirt at home!" You grinned back at him, putting an excited hand on his shoulder. He giggled with you, pulling you off of the counter and holding your hand as he led you through the vacant halls of the large house you were in. It never occurred to you to ask where you were going, but when he stopped in front of a closed door, you found yourself confused.

"Take your shirt off, quick," he instructed, looking at you with wide eyes.

"What?" You whispered back hastily. You felt yourself sober up for a quick second. "Right here? In the middle of the hallway? You're drunk!"

"No, not like that!" His voice dropped to a whisper-yell. "Just take it off and I'll run in and swap it with the chick's in there. Listen, c'mere."

He waved you over to the door and you pressed your ear against it, holding eye contact with him as he did the same. On the other side of the door, you heard a woman moaning loudly, obnoxiously, erotically. Your eyes widened in amusement, and Steve's expression mirrored your own.

"They're having sex! Probably naked! So, her clothes will be on the floor, and I can grab her shirt for you, but we gotta leave your shirt for her to grab when she's done!"

You didn't ask any more questions, just pulled your wet shirt over your head and handed it to Steve, who opened the door to the room and entered.

"What the fuck!" The woman inside shrieked.

"Sorry, shit, wrong room. Carry on!" Steve apologized from inside, and moments later he returned to you with a dry shirt in hand. You took it, about to pull it on before a large man came barreling through the other side of the door.

You and Steve both screamed with delight, taking off running back through the hallways hand-in-hand as the guy chased you back into the party. The shirt was still in your hands, you noticed as the people in the living room stopped singing and went into a shocked silence before cheering loudly. A huge laugh left your chest at the scene, but you continued running with Steve into the yard, the half-naked man chasing you all the way. You were still laughing uncontrollably when Steve pulled the both of you into a bush, slapping a hand over your mouth and pulling you into his chest tightly as the man ran right by you.

"Put the shirt on, it's freezing out here," he hissed as soon as the man went back inside with a huff. Steve's hands left your body and you quickly felt the chill of the outdoors. You rolled out of the bush, Steve stepping out behind you. The shirt was still in your hands, and you held it out in front of you to try and sort out which was the correct way to put it on, only to realize that the clothing in your hand was, in fact, not a shirt.

"Steve!" He looked up, and you realized that he'd been staring at your chest while you weren't paying attention. "This is her skirt, most definitely not a shirt!"

Steve doubled over in laughter, the back of his head laying on the ground as his hands cradled his stomach. You watched with your own wide grin, admiring the lines by his eyes and the way his lips stretched. More than a minute had gone by of him driving himself crazy. Suddenly, the front door flew open, and out came the couple you'd interrupted. They were crashing through the door, her legs hooked around his waist and his hands splayed across her ass as they kissed roughly. He shoved her back up against the wall, and she threw her head back in pleasure as he trailed wet, sloppy kisses down her throat.

"You like getting interrupted like that? Walking out in front of everyone with no pants on, lips on mine so they all know you're mine. My piece of fine, fresh, fabulous ass, baby, all mine!" He spanked her roughly, and Steve rolled over face-first into the ground to stifle the loud laugh that threatened to leave his mouth at that moment. You were barely holding it together, mouth wide open as you watched him carry her away into the street.

"Did he just call her ass fresh and fabulous?" You said, mouth still very much agape. Steve finally laughed again, sitting up to face you and composing himself before jokingly leaning in and grabbing your sides.

"You like-" He erupted into giggles before he could continue. "You like interrupting them like that? Running away from the big scary guy with no shirt on ‘cause I accidentally grabbed the wrong thing? You are one hot, fresh, and delicious pair of boobs, milady!" Steve recited dramatically, tickling your sides furiously and laughing once more as you laughed loudly. The couple was long gone by now, too far gone to hear the two of you mocking them so obnoxiously.

"Steve!" You squealed as he stopped tickling you, ripped his own shirt off of his head, and pulled it over you. "You're gonna be coooold."

"I'm too hot to get cold," he responded, lying next to you in the grass. He was flat on his back, hands tucked behind his head and not-very-subtly flexing his biceps. Your eyes lit up with an idea.

"Get in with me." Steve only stared at you blankly. You had to scoot over to him and lift the hem of the shirt over his head before he understood and giggled, sitting up to pull his own arms through the holes and poking his head out next to you. "Oh, hey there."

"Hi. What are we doing?" He blew lightly on your face, moving the hair out of your mouth. His breath smelled like mangoes and vodka.

"Oh, you know," you stalled. "Staying warm, making good company."

"Good company?" He teased, falling onto his back and dragging you on top of his stomach.

"Hey!" You swatted his hand with yours. "I make great company, thank you very much."

"Right. This is very warm though," he continued to tease, sneaking his hands into the shirt and wrapping them around your back, hugging you tightly. You followed, bringing your hands in and resting them on his shoulders as the two of you laid there for a moment of peaceful silence. His gaze flickered down to your lips, but you didn’t notice. You were already staring at his, leaning in slowly.

“Steve? Y/n? What the hell is happening?” Robin’s slurred words came from the door of the house and you yanked away from Steve instinctively, only to rip his shirt clean in half. You groaned, rolling off of him and onto your back in the grass, half a shirt stuck to your back. Steve was going absolutely insane with Robin, both laughing too hard to breathe. 

“Now neither of us has a shirt!” You began breaking into giggles with them, your words only sending Steve further down his lane of impossible joy. 

“What is even going on right now?” Robin spoke up again, and her hooded eyes made you realize that not only was she drunk, she was high out of her mind. It fueled your laughter, making you sit up and hunch over, clutching your stomach as you giggled incessantly.

“We tried to steal and ended up losing two shirts,” Steve howled. “I got a skirt though!”

“No, we didn’t lose two! We lost one and broke one, but now we have cool matching cardigan thingies!” You insisted, pulling off the fabric that clung to his back only because his skin was sticky with sweat from dancing, much like yours. 

“‘M still so confused.”  Robin threw herself on the ground with you two. She tilted her head all the way back to look up at the sky. “Okay, I wanna go home now. Up, up, pup!”

“Did you just call me ‘pup’?” You asked with a distasteful frown. “You’re never allowed to drink again. That was so weird.”

“You’re the one who I caught sharing a shirt with Steve Harrington in the middle of someone’s front yard.” She had a point. You clamored onto your feet and took a second to find your footing before slinging your arm around Robin’s shoulder as soon as she was up. 

“Bye, Steve!” You cheerily dismissed. He jumped up from his spot and rushed to catch the two of you before you started walking away. 

“Wait! I’m comin’.”

“You’re coming? To my house?” Robin asked incredulously. “Says who?”

“I’m walking you guys home, mothafuckaaaa!” Steve shouted into the night air. He threw an arm around Robin’s waist, noticing how you were struggling to keep her upright on your own. “One of you is basically naked and the other is too crossed to walk straight.”

“You’re half-naked, too,” you pointed out unhelpfully. 

“Is it just me or are you both telling me to go away?” He furrowed his brows. He was definitely sobering up, you could see it in the way his lips grimaced. 

“No, stay!” Robin said. “I’ll getcha a shirt. Both of you sluts.”

“What the fuck?” You called out, letting her go and watching as she began to fall before Steve tightened his grip. You went back to helping her. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Plus, this is your fault. You’re the one who spilled punch all over me.”

“Did not!” She yelled, but the look on her face shifted as she remembered that she very well did douse you in punch. 

“If we keep yelling we’re gonna get the cops called on us,” Steve said. Yeah, definitely sober. “Are either of you even close to sobering up or am I gonna have to be a babysitter?”

“Woman-sitter.” Robin’s voice was raspier than usual. 

“I’m starting to, maybe?” It came out as a question. “It’s too fuckin’ frigid to be drunk. My hair’s still wet and my bra is soaked, too.”

“Frigid.” She snorted, leaning into you and making you trip over your own legs. Luckily, you righted yourself before you could topple over. “Shit, dude! Watch where you’re puttin’ those things.”

“My legs?” You were unimpressed.

“Fuck if I know.”

“Are we close to your house?” Steve asked, shivering.

“No.”

“Yes we are,” you corrected her. “It’s literally the first house around this corner, Buckley.”

“If you say so. You’re so smart. Like a parrot.” Robin patted your back. “Steve, you’re not as smart but you get more bitches. Y/n has noooo bitches.”

“I’m sober now.” You deadpanned. “Robin, I'm going to shove you down the sewer drain if you don’t stop talking.”

“It’s not your fault you get none. It’s just the way the world works,” She excused. You pulled her away from Steve and dragged her to the sewer drain on the other end of the road, holding her by the waist. “Shit, don’t. Y/n, please! I don’t know how to swim.”

“You how to swim, you prick.” You shrugged her back up and led her into her house, pulling up her window slowly before climbing inside her room and flicking the light on. Steve helped Robin get up from the outside, and you caught her to make sure she didn’t fall and wake her parents. He waited outside the window after that and you furrowed your brows, walking over to check on him. “Come on!” You whisper-yelled. 

“Are you sure? I feel like if her parents come in this is going to be a very compromising situation,” he whispered back, gesturing to the both of you half-naked as Robin was undressing herself in the room. You turned around to see what he was referring to and then slapped your hand over your eyes, back to face him again. 

“One sec.” You pulled the curtains and sat Robin on the bed. You pulled a big shirt over her head for her. She let you shimmy a pair of PJ pants on her waist as well before she crawled into her covers. “Don’t go to sleep.” You said, knowing damn well she wasn’t listening. 

Her closet was left open, and you grabbed a shirt for yourself and one for Steve. You put yours on and then helped him into the room, handing the shirt to him as you made your way to her bathroom. The makeup remover and toothbrush were on the counter as usual, and you brought them out, rolling her onto her back and making her open her mouth as you brushed her teeth for her and took off her makeup. She was already fast asleep, too worn out to care. 

“Do you do this often?” He asked softly, motioning to Robin. The shirt was a crop-top on him, and you caught your gaze flickering to his waist before correcting yourself.

“No, she’s not usually a party girl,” you responded with a chuckle. “I’m just doing what I’d want someone to do for me. Gotta make sure she feels alright in the morning so she’ll come shopping with me later.” You threw in the joke to make the conversation feel less pretentious.

“That’s really thoughtful of you.” He stepped closer. 

“Yeah? What can I say?” You shrugged, sparing a glance at Robin. “We should probably get going. I’ve gotta be up at the asscrack of dawn for work.”

Steve snorted, climbing out the window first and offering you his hand as you followed. Neither of you let go as you shut it behind you and continued on your walk down the street. You passed a few driveways in silence before realizing that you had no idea where you were going. A small laugh left your lips, making him smile down at you with confusion in his eyes. 

“What?” he asked.

“Where are we going?” He stopped walking upon the realization. 

“Shit, I have no idea. I don’t even know where we are right now,” he said, sounding stressed. Both of you were freshly sober in the middle of the night with what he saw as no way home. 

“Don’t worry, my house is just a few streets over. You’re welcome to stay if you want,” you assured, turning the both of you around to walk back in the direction you came from. “Obviously you don’t have to, but at least come by and look at the map or something. Can’t be wandering around in the dark.”

“I’m cool staying as long as you’re sure it’s alright,” he responded. You nodded, squeezing his hand. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m on top of the world, Harrington.” You raised your joined hands in the air victoriously. He laughed cheekily, raising his other arm and jumping up in celebration, punching the air and effectively sending you doubling over in laughter. He came down and laughed with you, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you into his side tightly. “How are you feeling?”

“My head hurts a little,” he answered. “I don’t know how, I barely drank anything.”

“Maybe you’re still coming down from the rush of running away from that guy.”

“Shit, you’re probably right.” He played along. “Actually, though, I was pretty fuckin’ scared when we were running. Thought I was about to get laid out in front of everyone.”

You chuckled loudly, throwing your head back. 

“God that would’ve sucked.” You shook your head, leaning it into his chest. “Oh damn, we just met tonight. That’s crazy. Usually it takes me like at least two weeks to open up to someone. I swear I don’t just take my shirt off for randoms.”

“Yeah, I didn’t even think about that. Robin talks about you all the time, I felt like I already knew you.” He shrugged.

“She talks about you all the time, too,” you replied. “Is that how you knew my name?”

“No, we went to school together!” He sounded in disbelief. “Mr. O’Braille’s class senior year, we were in the same class. Are you telling me you forgot about me so easily?”

“No!” You laughed, defending yourself. “I just didn’t know you remembered. We literally never exchanged a single word with each other. Anyway, I’m glad we finally met.”

“Me too, even if it was because you were waterboarding yourself in the sink,” he teased. “Also, we did share more than a single word. You told me my shoe was untied one time in the hallway. Thanks by the way.”

“You’re welcome?” You smiled, tugging on the hem of Robin’s shirt that was riding further up his torso. “Shit, good thing I didn’t let you walk off on your own. Someone would’ve easily snatched you up in a crop top like this one.”

“Looks pretty good, huh?” He pretended to stretch his arms above his head, baiting you by revealing the happy trail up his torso. You slapped his side, shaking your head and sighing softly as he put an arm back around you. 

“Pretty boy for sure,” you answered, trying to sound nonchalant about it. “Alright, this is my place.”

You lead him into the driveway and through the front door, immediately padding up the steps and to your room, tugging him behind you all the way. He had one hand in yours and the other lightly gripping your shirt. There were only three more feet left until you were at your room when your little sister came out of her room, squinting at the both of you in the dark. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” You asked quietly. 

“I just heard you. Who’s that?” She pointed to Steve who waved with a small smile. 

“That’s Steve. He’s staying here because he drank alcohol, so he can’t drive home until the morning,” you explained. He was frozen behind you, waiting patiently, but also wondering if he should leave. “He’s gonna sleep in the guest room. Is that okay with you? If it’s not, I’ll take him to Robin’s house to spend the night.”

“No, it’s fine. G’night.” She turned and shut the door before you could reply. You laughed softly, walking to your door and opening it, pulling Steve in with you. 

“You have a kid?” He asked, surprised. You shook your head quickly, sitting on your bed and taking your shoes off. 

“No, no. She’s my little sister. May as well be my kid, though,” you answered. “Do you have any siblings?”

“No. Just me. I wish I did, though. But it’s probably for the best. Honorary siblings are cool enough for me.”

You hummed. 

“You, uh-- you don’t have to stay in the guest room if you don’t want to. You can stay here with me if you want,” you offered. A cocky smile made its way onto his lips, and you groaned. “Fine, nevermind. To the guest room you go.”

You rose from the bed and put both hands on his chest, pushing him towards the door, but he was laughing, tempting you to do the same. His back quickly hit the door, and the room grew silent when neither of you turned the knob.

“You invite me here just to get me in bed with you?” Steve asked, breath heavy on your face, smile still wide and mischievous. 

Your hand reached for the knob and he grabbed your wrist. That was the last thing that happened before his lips met yours, who knows how, only that it was amazing. It was exciting, starting rough but growing more passionate as his hand fumbled for the lock on the door. You reached behind him, turning it expertly and letting him flip the both of you around so that you were now the one pressed against the wall. His hands grabbed the back of your thighs and you jumped, wrapping your legs around his waist so that he could press himself closer. Your fingers tangled in his hair, gripping it tighter when his hips bucked into your waist. He groaned into your mouth, carrying you away from the door and to the bed. 

When you got there, he gently laid you on your back and was immediately above you, balancing one elbow as he kissed you slowly. His other arm roamed over your side, squeezing lightly where he went. You sighed into the kiss and pulled away for a moment. 

“Steve,” you panted. “This is good, but I’m not ready to go all the way.”

“That’s okay. We can just kiss for now, yeah?” He seemed unbothered by your request. 

“Yes, please.” You pulled him in by the neck, smashing your lips against his. He slowed it down, taking his time as he worked on your mouth which drove you crazy for him. 

It was like that for who knows how long before he ended it with three chaste kisses to your lips. He rolled off of you and onto his back, catching his breath as he stared up at the ceiling with a goofy grin on his lips. You were sure you looked the same, able to feel the heat on your cheeks and through your veins. 

“C’mere,” he said, pulling you into his side. You complied willingly, snuggling into his chest as he pulled your comforter over you. “When do you have to be up for work?”

“5.” Your voice was hoarse. “I work at the cafe off of Harbor and 49.”

“What time does it open?” He asked, raking his hands through your hair. 

“6, but nobody’s ever there until like 10.” You trailed your hand along his exposed midriff. “You can stay here for as long as you want. I take my sister to this daycare/camp thing when I leave for work, and my parents won’t be here tomorrow. Just make sure you leave your number before you go.”

“I most definitely will,” he replied. “Also, I think I’ll swing by the cafe for breakfast. Apparently, Robin is a big fan of the pancakes there.”

“The biggest fan!” You gushed. “She gets them half-off too ‘cause I told the owner she was my sister. You guys should totally come, it’d be nice.”

“Do totally-handsome-hopefully-one-day-boyfriends get a discount, too? Or is that exclusively for fake sisters?” He asked cheekily, making you laugh loudly. 

“You know, I think you’d have to be my actual boyfriend for that to count,” you answered, shifting to face him. “Do you wanna be? My boyfriend?”

“Mhm.” He nodded, trying to hold back his grin as he leaned in and kissed you sweetly. “Wow. Dating and meeting on the first night. I think we’re setting records here, angel.”

“We’re just good like that.” You shrugged, kissing him again. “Alright, time for bed. I’ll hopefully see you at the cafe tomorrow.”

“You will.” He promised, wrapping an arm around your waist and nuzzling his face into your neck as you both fell asleep easily.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve x reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington au #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington

[m4gp13]

Day 2: Soulmates / Games

Supdercalifragilisticexpialidoscious (Al/the eldritch personification of Al's powers) X Ethan

Word count - 2200

@them-awesome-rarepairs

-

“What the fuck kind of game are you playing?” Alabaster demanded of the bathroom mirror. It gleamed under the fluorescent light of the flickering bulb in the ensuite bathroom of his quarters aboard the Princess Andromeda and he gripped the basin of the sink while he waited for its answer. Anyone walking in on him would have assumed he was crazy or going through some classic teenage self-hatred but Al knew what this was. He saw the small smirk quirk up the lips of his reflection, contrasting the pursed frown on his own face. He saw the luminous glint flash in its eyes that he knew was absent in his own. And he heard the voice that would have sounded so foreign spilling from between his lips.

“What ever are you talking about?” the reflection, this strange other Al, said. Its voice was so smooth and its tone so soft. Like a calm surface hiding a riptide below.

“Don’t act coy with me.” Al pointed an accusatory finger at the mirror. His reflection had its hands in its pockets. “You think I haven’t noticed? The odd blank spaces in my memories, blacking out at random only to come to somewhere else hours later, not to mention people talking to me about conversations I have no recollection of participating in!”

“So,” the other Al in the mirror tilted its head to the side as it looked at him like a cat looked at a bird under its paw, “What is it you’re accusing me of exactly?”

Al slammed his fists down on the countertop hard enough to rattle the glasses. “Stop hijacking my body to fuck with my social life!”

“Our body,” it corrected. Its face fractioned into shards between the lines webbing out over the mirror from the crater in its epicentre. Al drew his trembling fist back, ignoring the flecks of blood on his knuckles, and glowered.

“You seem to have a very overinflated sense of your place in this arrangement,” Al spat. “You are not me, okay? You belong to me. I’m the one in charge here.”

A smirk sliced up its face, further distorting the image of himself into an unrecognisable creature formed from jigsaw pieces in the glass. “Then fix the mirror,” it said. Al stilled. “If you’re the one in charge, if I’m simply a resource you call upon and not an entity myself, fix the mirror.”

Al clenched his hands into fists. “Fine,” he bit out. Cracking his knuckles, he extended one hand to the mirror and touched its surface with the tips of his fingers. Magic was a part of him, just like the blood running through his veins or the skeletal scaffolding holding him up. And just like his blood and bones, he owned his magic. It existed to serve him. So why the fuck couldn’t he access it now?

The other Al’s lilting chuckles infuriated him and he found his nails digging into the surface. “Having trouble?” it asked.

“Shut up!”

A knock rapped on the door to his room and Al scampered backwards, almost tripping into the shower behind him. “Al!” someone called from the hallway outside. Not someone. Ethan. Dammit. “Can we talk?”

He opened his mouth to speak but the call of, “Come in!” was not his own words. He clamped his mouth shut before the other Al could fill it with more nonsense. The door clicked open as Ethan entered the room and knew well enough to close it behind him. His eye scanned the room, the sheets lying in a heap on the bed, the paperwork strewn over the surfaces and the piles of clothes dumped on the floor. Al shoved himself out of the bathroom before Ethan could notice the broken mirror, closing the door behind him. So soon after talking to the other Al, he wanted his lieutenant as far away from him as possible but that wasn’t really an option for him. “How can I help you?” he asked, shoving his bloodied hand in his pocket.

Ethan looked over at him with a tight frown. He stood rigid amidst the chaos around him and was a solid block of black and inky plum fabric that stood out starkly against the vibrant patterns and bright greens Al decorated his room with. “I just wanted to figure something out with you,” he said, his tone tightly clipped in a way that made Al’s chest seize up and the other Al sent a fluttering of humour through him. Without a mirror to project the figure onto, its communication with him was entirely internal.

“Figure what out?” he asked. Ethan closed his eye and took a deep breath. When he looked back at Al, he pinned him under some hybrid of his professional lieutenant stare and his exasperated friend look. Al cringed under its weight.

“Whatever’s going on with us,” Ethan said.

“Us?” Al repeated dumbly. His stomach lurched with dread and a sickening rumble of pleasure from the entity made him even more sure of where this was going.

“Yes, us,” Ethan managed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You and I. This.” He motioned a hand between them. “Sometimes when you’re talking with me you act so . . . purposeful and forward and sweet and it’s like we are something but then other times you keep me at arm's length and act so closed off and clinical with me as if we’re just a General and his Lieutenant and that’s all we’ve ever been and all we ever will be but other times you’re being all chummy and pally and we’re bumping shoulders like we’re kids again and I never know which one I’m going to get or why.” He took another deep breath, trying to steady himself after his rambling speech, but Al could see the subtle way his chest trembled. “I just want to know why you’re always so mercurial with me.”

Well, you see, my powers have manifested as a separate consciousness inside my mind and it sometimes likes to fucking possess me, just a quick fyi, he thought to himself, biting the inside of his mouth to suppress a grin he wasn’t sure belonged to him or the other guy. “It’s not something I can easily explain,” he ground out, careful to keep his voice in a firm grip so the other Al couldn’t say something abhorrent enough to hang, draw and quarter the fragile relationship that was left between him and Ethan. After all the damage that thing had already done to it, his fears weren’t unfounded.

“Then try,” Ethan urged him. “Just give me something so I can have some kind of an understanding.”

“I can’t.” It hurt, by the gods did it hurt, to say no to Ethan, even when he wasn’t so desperately pleading for so reasonable a request. But this just wasn’t something Al could tell him. Ethan opened his mouth to speak but Al couldn’t hear him. Not over the other voice filling his head.

Of course you can, the thing inside of him crooned. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind having both of us around. After all, it was my flirting he was so receptive to.

“Shut up!”

“Excuse me?” With a jolt of horror, Al looked up to see Ethan staring at him with his eye wide in stupefied bewilderment.

“No!” He jerked forward a step. “I didn’t mean that!”

“Then what the fuck did you mean?” Al opened his mouth to answer but nothing came out. He didn’t have anything to give. It was a knife in his heart and the dejected look on Ethan’s face twisted it in deeper.

“See?” he said. “This is what I’m talking about. This morning you walked me to the mess hall and spent all of breakfast talking to me about weekend plans and what a great job I did during my last quest.” Al cringed to himself while the entity beamed in his chest. “Then later on in the day, you acted like that conversation didn’t happen and swore you had no idea what I was talking about when I brought up the plans you made.” In his pocket, Al’s bloody fist was trembling. He kept his head down and refused to meet Ethan’s gaze. “And now you’re–you’re this!”

“I don’t know what you want from me!” he yelled, fuelled by a sudden surge of desperation.

“Consistency!” Ethan bit back. “Sometimes, I feel like I’m talking to two different people with you!” Al clamped his hands over his mouth to muffle the laughter the entity tried to force out of him. All he did was compress it into a snort that might have gone down worse than a laugh would have. Ethan crossed his arms. “Is this funny to you?”

“No!” he blurted.

“Really?” Ethan demanded. “Because I’m starting to get the feeling that this is all just some game of yours and let me tell you, I am sick of being a player in it!” Ethan turned on his heel to march out of the room.

“Wait!” Al shot forward and just managed to catch Ethan’s wrist in his hands. The other boy whipped around to face him with the fires of the Phlegethon burning his eye but something softened in his gaze. Just as well, Al probably wouldn’t have survived the encounter otherwise. “Please, just hear me out,” he begged when he was sure Ethan wasn’t about to vaporise him.

His rigid demeanour softened and he stepped down from the stance he’d been poised to spring from, nodding his head almost imperceptibly. He made no pool to tug his wrist free.

The other Al watched from within him, humour rippling from its presence as Al struggled to find something to say. “I’ve got a lot going on,” he eventually landed on. “Hecate kid things. I . . . My powers have somewhat been escaping me as of late, and trying to control them is an effort and a half.”

“Right.” Ethan’s shoulders lowered, not quite a slump, but Al was going to take it as a good sign. Ethan knew what his powers were capable of, the distortions of perception and the disregard for reality. He knew the toll they could take sometimes. He knew Al better than pretty much anyone. Better than even the echo of his own soul tormenting him from the inside. It snorted at the accusation.

Al continued his plea. “I know it’s not ideal and I know I’m probably more trouble than I’m worth but just know that I am not doing this on purpose.” He let go of Ethan’s wrist and let his hands fall limp at his sides, palms turned out as if in a meek show of surrender. “I don’t want to hurt you, and I am working on fixing this.”

Ethan sighed gently and gave a shallow nod with his eye half closed. “You should talk to your mother about this,” he murmured, meeting Al’s eyes with a look of genuine remorse.

He let a small smile tug at the corner of his lips. “I will.”

Taking a step back towards the door, Ethan cleared his throat and indicated to Al’s hand. “And you should probably get that checked out.”

Al glanced down and alleviated his confusion when he saw the ruby speckles decorating his knuckles that he forgot he had so recently rammed into a mirror. “Oh, yeah,” he said as an embarrassed flush warmed his face. “I’ll do that too.”

Ethan pursed his lips in a tight smile and gave Al a brief wave before leaving the room.

See? The entity said, immediately wiping the smile off Al’s face in place of a drooping frown. That wasn’t so bad.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Al fell back onto his bed. “Can you not talk,” he groaned, “For a minimum of five fucking minutes?”

You love my chat.

“I really don’t.”

He loves my chat.

If it had a body for Al to look at or another mirror to project itself onto, Al would have been glaring daggers at it. “Leave him out of this.”

I can’t. Al could have sworn he felt it shrug.

“Why the hell not?” he demanded, some of the bite from his voice was reduced thanks to his exhaustion. One could only deal with that thing for so long at a time.

Because we’re the same, it said with a conversational airiness that made Al wish it had a neck for him to strangle. I am you and you are me. Whatever you’re obsessed with, I love it too. We’re soulmates that way.

“Don’t ever call yourself my soulmate ever again.”

One of those ‘ever’s was redundant. Al ignored that part.

Face it, kid, it crooned as if with an audible grin, If you want me to leave him alone, you’ll have to first. It had the nerve to chuckle. And we both know that isn’t going to happen. Its presence curled up in Al’s chest like a python constricting its prey and though he knew this was all in his head, he swore he was struggling to breathe. I have a feeling we’ll be playing this game for a very long time.

-

#pjo #percy jackson #ethan nakamura #alabaster c torrington #alabaster torrington #ethabaster #supercalifragilisticexpialidocious #pjorarepairs2023 #ta discord server besties you know what's up

[minervadashwood]

Scars and Stitches, Chapter 19: Six Pack of Secrets Daryl X PlusSize!Reader (she/her)

Series Masterlist | Daryl x Reader Masterlist

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter Summary: Daryl leads you and Rick to the hunting camp. Word Count: 3,000 Chapter Warnings: Mentions of alcoholism.

Divider by @firefly-graphics.

Eventually Daryl led you and Rick to a single-story cinder block building with a tin roof. It had a small driveway where an old, rusted pickup sat.  From the driveway was a bumpy dirt road that led in the direction opposite from which you came.

“What’s this place?” you asked.

“Huntin’ camp,” Daryl replied. “’s where I found Sophia.”

“I wonder how she found it,” Rick mused, walking up to the building’s modest porch.

“Told ya the kid did good.”

You followed Rick, slinging your crossbow over your shoulders.  “This is the sturdiest hunting camp I’ve ever seen.”

Daryl looked at you, an eyebrow raised in question.

You shrugged. “I grew up in the middle of nowhere. Lots of hunting camps just outside our small town, but they were usually short trailers or wooden shacks.” You grinned conspiratorially. “They were easy to break into. Could always find some beer or cigarettes to later sell at school.”

You saw the hint of a smile playing on Daryl’s lips, forcing you to blush deeply. You’d always been ashamed of your pilfering past, but both then and now, it had served you well.  Plus, it was one of the reasons you were able to get close to Daryl.

Rick cleared his throat, and you realized you and Daryl had been staring into each other’s eyes for much longer than was necessary.

Daryl quickly got back to business.  He and Rick made you wait on the porch while they cleared the building. When they deemed it safe, Daryl came to get you.

He took you by the hand and led you inside. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze before releasing you.

The building smelled of stale beer, which made sense because there were beer cans all over the living room floor and scattered over the tabletops.

The room you walked into was a combination living area and kitchen.  There were two worn couches sitting opposite each other with a coffee table between them. A couple of folding chairs and a card table were in the far corner.  The kitchen had a small wood-burning stove, an old-fashioned refrigerator, a single-basin sink, and small countertop with cabinets beneath it. Off to the left was a hallway that led to two bedrooms and a bathroom. 

The place was sparsely decorated except for a cluster of framed photographs in the hallway. Men in camouflage and orange hats proudly displayed their kills. You recognized two of them; you'd shot one.

You swallowed your guilt. The man had died long before your bolt pierced his skull. You wouldn’t let yourself take the blame for his death.

Rick was putting away his revolver when he sighed. “So, this is where those walkers came from?”

Daryl nodded. “Gonna check outside for signs of more.”

“Need help?” Rick asked.

“Nah.” Daryl huffed, heading back outside.

Rick said, “Well we may as well give the place a good going over to see if there’s anything we can use.”

“Sounds like a plan.”  You shoved all the cans off the card table and set your crossbow on its surface. Then you went to look through the kitchen cabinets.  When you found a box of trash bags, you couldn’t resist bagging up all the beer cans as you searched for useful items.

You were already making plans for this seemingly abandoned building. The wood-burning stove would keep the small place warm in the winter, and the multiple windows would make it easy to keep an eye on your surroundings.  If something ever happened to the farm, your group could come here.  Of if winter came before Hershel let your group inside the house, this place would make a warm shelter.

Despite these far-off plans, more immediate uses came to mind. Maybe Daryl could bring you out here alone, like a little post-apocalyptic mini vacation. You’d love nothing more to hide away with Daryl, for even half a day, to have the privacy of sturdy walls and truly be alone with him.

You’d mostly had the kitchen clean when you risked opening the fridge. You expected maggots and rotten food, but instead you found a six pack of beer and a half bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon.

You’d never actually touched a drop of alcohol—too worried you’d be like your parents—but Daryl and Rick might like what you found.

You continued cleaning up the worst of the mess and set the drinks on the coffee table.

As you worked, rain began pelting the tin roof, creating a soothing sound that reminded you of the trailer you grew up in. Sometimes, the best part of growing up were the nights your parents worked while you and your brother stayed up telling ghost stories during thunderstorms.  No monster the two of you concocted could compare to the ones you already lived with.

God, you missed him.

Thunder sounded in the distance, making you flinch. You jumped again when Daryl threw the door open and stood in the doorway, already soaked to the bone. Water dripped from his hair.  He hadn’t cut it since you’d met him, and now it was so long that it nearly covered his ears, and his bangs were beginning to reach his eyes. It was darker, too, and the rainwater only emphasized these new qualities. It made him appear more rugged and secretive.  However, you knew that, behind those lengthening locks, he was still your Daryl: kind and sweet and wholly yours.

You couldn’t help smiling at his return. Despite the depressing thoughts that had been stewing, you were overjoyed to see him. Besides, all the painful events of your past led you here, and you couldn’t be happier to have Daryl in your life.

With Rick somewhere down the hallway, you reached for Daryl, took his clammy hand in your own, and gave it a gentle tug.  With a furtive glance in down the hallway, Daryl gave in and let you pull him down for a kiss.  You kissed him softly and rested your forehead on his.

You said in a low voice, “You going to let me check your injury, or do I have to seduce you into submission?”

Daryl straightened up and dropped your hand so he could take you by the hip. “When you’re ready, I’m doin’ the seducin.’”

You gave him what you hoped was a flirtatious smile and mimicked his hold on your hip, grabbing his left one. Only you didn’t stop there. Your fingers found their way under his layers of shirts and vest, then you squatted just as you revealed the wound from his “huntin’ accident,” the details of which he still refused to share.

“Woman,” he grumbled.

“Just let me look after you, you big baby.”

He scoffed, but let you tend to him anyway.

You peeled away a corner of the bandage over his stitches to inspect the injury. Gently you trailed your fingertips around the wound, feeling for any lumps or unusual heat. The stitches were still holding tight and showed no signs of breaking.  Everything seemed to be in order, but he still had a long way to go before it healed.

Feeling especially brave, you kissed just beside the wound, and to your delight, his abdominal muscles rippled in response. Someday, you’d litter them in kisses.  For now, however, you covered the wound back up and arranged his clothing as it was before.

As you stood, Daryl was looking at you intensely, his cheeks a deep red. It was hard for you to glean anything from his expression. He seemed hopeful and haunted at the same time.

The clacking of Rick’s cowboy boots sounded on the concrete floor. Daryl instantly drew away from you and turned to close the open door.

==

The thunderstorm continued for some time, so the three of you decided to settle in for a long wait until it was over. You and Daryl sat on one couch while Rick sat on the other. 

Rick stared at the six-pack of beer then smiled at Daryl. “Whaddaya say we make the most of our break?”

“Sounds good to me.”  He glanced at you and arched his brow.

You chewed the inside of your lip. “Do you think the others will get worried?”

Rick sighed. “They might, but it’s not like we can go anywhere. I’m sure they’ll figure we’re waiting out the storm.”

“Okay,” you agreed. 

At your word, Daryl took three cans from the six pack, handed one to Rick, one to you, and kept one for himself.

As the men popped open their cans, you gripped yours and stared at it. In your former life, you kept well away from the vices that had ruined your family, but the world was entirely different now. It’s not like one drink would hurt you. And it was unlikely you’d be able to overindulge after this.

Daryl noticed your indecision and placed his hand on your knee. “You don’t hafta drink if ya don’t wanna.”

You peered up at Daryl. “My parents were alcoholics. I’ve never touched the stuff.”

“Mine, too,” he admitted. “Ya won’t get hooked after one beer, but if don’t wanna it’s okay.”

Just then, Rick finished his first swig and grinned. “Nice to have something besides twice-boiled water for a change. It’s like the bubbles are still dancin’ on my tongue.”

You chuckled. “I’m overthinking this, aren’t I? It’d be a shame to not try it. At least once.”

“Only if you want to,” Daryl said.

With a resolute nod, you popped open your can and took a small sip. It tasted awful. You scrunched your face.

Rick laughed. “It’s better when it’s cold.”

You looked at your friend. “The bubbles are nice.”

Rick held up his can, and the three of you toasted. “To life’s simple pleasures,” he said.

You squared your shoulders and took a longer drink.

*

Daryl watched you as he sipped from his own beer. God, you were cute. It seemed you were as determined to drink a can of beer as you had been to learn about killing walkers.

Fifteen minutes later, you were finishing off your first can, and Rick and Daryl were well into their seconds. 

After draining the last of your beer, you smacked your lips and leaned heavily against Daryl. “Guys, we can’t go anywhere for a while. The room looks fuzzy.”

Daryl suppressed a grin. You were drunk. From one beer. He put his arm around you, lending you his support. You leaned into him and peered up, your pretty eyes hazy and your lips upturned in a goofy smile.

“You’re really sexy. You know that, right?,” you told him.

Daryl flushed all over, but didn’t say anything, not with Rick less than five feet away.

Across the room, Rick chortled.

The noise made you pull away from Daryl and lean forward with your elbows on your knees, slightly wobbly. You gestured vaguely between Daryl and Rick. “I need you two to be friends,” you slurred.  “Look Rick”—hiccup—"Daryl’s a great guy; he’s the best. You ought to trust him more than Shane. Shane’s a dick.”

Rick chuckled. “I do trust Daryl. I let him take care of you, don’t I?”

You waved your hand, sitting back again. Daryl immediately pulled you against him and loped his arm around you.

You went on. “You forgot about me at the quarry. Made me stay in that truck and didn’t come back for me. Daryl did, though.”

You were being silly, but Daryl found it charming. In fact, he was glad Rick had forgotten you that night. It gave Daryl a chance to take care of you instead.

You sighed again and gazed up at Daryl like he created the world. “Sometimes I’m scared of what’d happen to me if you weren’t here.”

Daryl smoothed his hand up and down your arm. He blushed, either from the alcohol or because Rick was watching the two of you. “Ya don’t need to worry ‘bout that,” he murmured. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

You yawned loudly, stretching your limbs every which way then settling down on the couch with your head on Daryl’s lap. “Sleepy, Daryl.”

Daryl smiled fondly down at you.  “Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Kay,” you mumbled, and you were out.

Rick watched both of you, a crooked grin on his face.  “How much did she drink?”

Daryl bit back a chuckle. “Just the one.” 

Rick laughed loudly before he remembered to keep quiet. He mouthed sorry to Daryl.

Daryl said, “Don’t worry, she sleeps like the dead. Whole place could burn to the ground, and she wouldn’t make a peep.”

Rick tried not to smile as he said, “Maybe that’s ‘cause she knows you’re watching over her.”

Daryl rolled his eyes but smiled at you as you slept. Your mouth was hanging open and you were drooling.  He thought it was the cutest fucking thing in the world.

*

Daryl and Rick ended up splitting the last beer and decided to share the whiskey with the others back at the farm.

While you slept, Daryl decided to tell Rick what was so strange about the two walkers he’d tracked here.

“When I found Sophia, those bodies were here. They were dead. Not from bites, neither. No blood. Figured they passed out or died of thirst or somethin’. It don’t make sense.”

Rick’s chest rose and fell, and Daryl squinted at the other man. Rick wasn’t confused, not at all, as if he knew exactly what Daryl was talking about.

Rick leaned forward, holding Daryl’s gaze. “Makes sense if they were already infected.”

“How they get infected if they weren’t bit?”

Rick ran a hand through his hair. “’Cause we’re all infected already. Jenner told me back at the CDC.”

Panic rose in Daryl’s chest. “How?” he demanded.

“Jenner said it was a virus, worldwide. No one knows how it happened or why.”

Daryl grew tense all over.  It sickened him to imagine the parasite in him, at this very moment, lying in wait.  It was in you, too, and it nearly brought him to his knees when he thought about it.  As much as he wanted to protect you from the world, he couldn’t. This was one thing he was unable to save you from.

Why hadn’t Rick said anything? Why keep this a secret?

Rick said, “Feels good to tell someone, honestly. Couldn’t even tell Lori. Afraid everyone would panic, maybe even turn on each other.”

Daryl knew the only person who’d turn on the group was Shane.  Still, Rick’s assessment of widespread panic was accurate. “So, any of us die, we gotta be put down, just like a walker?”

Rick nodded, raking a hand over his face. “Yeah. I’m hopin’ it won’t come to that, though. Hopin’ we’ll be safe for a long, long while.”

Daryl hoped that, too, but life had taught him that most of the time, hope was futile.

Thank you for reading! Please reply or reblog if you enjoyed it. <3

Next Chapter

==========

Tag list: @green-eyedladywrites @haleypearce @phoenixblack89 @takeabreathdeath

Let me know if you want to be added or removed from the tag list.

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x you #twd #twd fanfic #plus size #plus size reader #plus size fanfic #mdop #minerva writes #dd/xm #scars and stitches

[gyarubloodbath]

BUTCHER

character: denji, makima tags:+18, cannibalism, violence synopsis: denji is preparing miss makima for dinner. art by @KRK_1010 on X all edits are mine

the oil in the pan sizzles, splashes on the skin of the guy's hands, piercing with needles while he squints his eyes, — swears, — turns over the burnt meat with a wooden spatula. the room has been stuffy for an hour now, — it makes you sweat, breathing carbon dioxide, compresses, squeezes out all the moisture, dehydrates, — settles on the windows with sticky touches when the snow is crying outside. the smell turns your head, hugs your nose, tickles your nostrils and brains. (the dog broke loose with foam at the mouth.) drool stupidly flows down from his chin and drips onto the old-fashioned carpet.

ᅠ naked and funny, the woman is lying right on his kitchen table. denji cleaned it in a "mutton" way. painfully tied the ankles of the legs with a rope with thick villi and hooked it on a hook, before that he slashed well with a large and sharp knife from the adam's apple, dissecting the arteries, to the red pubis. the same red picture appeared in front of him, ingrained in his eyes, — spraying a powerful stream of blood directly into the cornea, a dark soothing mist enveloping the entire room. the skin revealed the whole world. blood dripped onto the unnecessary rags hastily and hastily spread out under the hanging corpse, completely absorbed into them, falling out from under them in a harmless puddle. at the same time, denji looks at her. the woman's head, with that habitually cloying scythe, rested on the countertop, in a deep plate. a peaceful face hides something. the feeling that she will abruptly open her spiral eyes, smile as usual, wave her hands, whisper something and he will unconditionally obey her whims. for example, it will untie you. but that's not going to happen. it will never happen again.

makima.

with a small knife, denji cut out the woman's internal organs, throwing them into a black bag. he hadn't figured out what he was going to do with them yet, and he didn't really want to think about it. the young brain has read everything, seen and tried a lot. he beats his wrists against his ribs. there is a cacophony of smell in the room: fresh dead meat, nauseating blood and shit that the guy is cleaning out of the rectum right now. he grimaces, resists, and almost vomits. there is a sticky lump in my throat of everything that denji ate today. the fingers are poorly protected by toilet paper, which has already absorbed all the female "juices". no matter how hard he tried, his fingers were still smeared with feces, his hands themselves were up to the elbows in blood, his face was in this disgusting mess of blood, sweat, feces, phosphorus, urine and fat. already accustomed to its taste, smell and appearance, denji does not notice how he inhales its drops with his nose, licks them from his lips. but when blood flows into the nasopharynx, it seems to him that the pressure has risen.

a neat process — is skin removal. with the same knife, he, like a jeweler, grabs the thickest layer of it with the blade. coming into contact with metal, the dermis flies off with a bang into the same bag with organs. he is patient, his work is painstaking and he will be rewarded to match satan's ball.

the scream reverberates through the room when the bird crashes into the window. a little bird's blood, feces and bugs are smeared on the glass, which, in all probability, she carried in her beak or paws. the tense, ephemeral silence immediately resumed, as soon as the feathered bird shook itself off and rushed from the windowsill to the concrete with a black wing. it looks like there's new concrete. by this time, denji had managed to put the meat madness on the floor (previously covered with an unnecessary tablecloth), splashing a basin of blood on the floor. a new cry and a new, mixed mate hissed and flew out like a bird in a window: «b-b-bick...»

and, before proceeding to the complete butchering of the carcass, denji turns the severed head to face himself, soiling the back of his head, hair and bridge of his nose with her blood and everything accompanying it. the neck flies off into the cellophane. «can cook soup from her or fry cutlets…» the guy is now wielding an axe, swinging at the joints of his shins and arms. turning her belly down, the chainsaw man passes over the woman's back, at the level of the sacral spine, dividing the carcass into front and back halves.

we have come to what we started with.

the atmosphere changed dramatically after the massacre. the guy has already put the chopped, well-fried parts of his beloved woman on a plate. the torso remained, covered with oil, special spices, vigorous in both colors and taste, stuck (from the beginning of the anus to the base of the neck) directly on a bare pin. he will still play with it, decide what is better to cook: shish kebab or leave it as it is, or maybe pickle it. the rest of her body continues to roast, boil, and steam… makima's head is peacefully lying directly opposite. previously tenacious, warm and incredible. he tastes the meat clean, without any kneading, sauces, side dishes and vegetables…

delicious.

#chainsaw man #makima #csm

[skyriderwednesday]

Electric Touch

I don’t know why it was I had stopped in front of the basin, staring at myself in the mirror with my arms crossed. I don't know why I had neglected to properly close the bathroom door, nor what possessed Holmes to slip into the room and stand with his long, slender hands upon each side of the basin, placing his lithe form scandalously close behind me. He peered at the reflection of my face in the mirror, studying my eyes, tracing my features, examining me thoroughly, and, I am sure, completely aware of the dastardly effect he had on my heart-rate as his breath grazed my shoulder. “John Watson,” he said in a sinfully low voice, “for the first time in all of our acquaintance and friendship, I find myself entirely unable to read you.” A tingle of electricity ran down my spine at his proximity. I glanced back at him to be sure it wasn’t only the mirror distorting my perception. “And that vexes you?” I asked. “No,” he all but purred. “It intrigues me.” My lips twitched, though into what expression I couldn’t say. “Intrigues you.” Holmes swept his head from one side to the other, to appear over my other shoulder. “You are wondering my intention of being here, but I cannot tell what it was you were thinking before that.” “Neither can I,” I said. Holmes quirked an eyebrow. “I can’t remember what it was I was doing before you came in.” He hummed, examining the countertop. “Perhaps you were brushing your teeth?” I reached for my toothbrush, but, finding the bristles wet, I shook my head. “No, I’ve already done that.” Holmes hummed across the back of my ear, causing the hair on my neck to stand up. “In that case I have no more suggestions.” We made eye contact in the mirror. A spark went between us. Seeking consent with his eyes, Holmes inclined his head and began to kiss up the side of my neck. “Holmes,” I said softly, “when we…” His arm encircled my waist, pulling me back against him. “When we set the terms of our... arrangement, you said you wouldn’t ever kiss me.” He tutted disapprovingly, shaking his head, and pressed a firmer kiss to my jaw. I fought back a moan. “Might not ever,” he said, angling his head to track up to my earlobe. “Subject to change.” I twitched at the experimental venturing, and he retreated to better charted waters, pressing deeply into the flesh of my cheek. “The bone is where I like it,” I could only murmur. Holmes hummed, and I melted as his kisses caressed in kind. Our bliss was shattered by an open palm banging on the bathroom door. “Excuse me,” Mrs Hudson called through it. “One occupant only unless strictly necessary, thank you! You boys may do whatever you like in the rooms you pay for, but not in my bathroom!” We snapped violently into reality. Holmes sprang back as if he had been shocked, and I fumbled for my dressing gown where I had left it draped over the bath. By the time we emerged, the kitchen door - ever ajar - was firmly closed, and we retreated up the stairs, our cheeks burning red.  I drifted awkwardly near the table, deeply embarrassed but still hot with interrupted desire. Behind me, Holmes locked the door. As he had downstairs, he began with his chin over my shoulder. “Do you wish for us to continue?” In the absence of the countertop, his hands came to rest on my hips. “Lord,” I moaned as his arms wrapped around me. “Yes, Holmes.”

#sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes fic #acd holmes #watsholmes #the semi sequel to my 'holmes staring at watson's butt' fic #idk if it comes across that much #but holmes and watson are meant to be queerplatonic here #and holmes is very much sex repulsed aroace #but the spark is there...