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spencersawkward · 3 years

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*concussions and confessions//spencer reid*

summary: a near-death experience encourages Spencer to admit his feelings for his best friend, even at the risk of ruining their relationship.

pairing: Fem!Reader/Spencer

content warnings: oh boy there’s a lot. i’ll start with the nonsexual ones-- choking (again, not sexual), blunt force, violence, some angst. ok time for the fun ones-- unprotected penetrative sex, masturbation, sex dream, oral (male receiving), slight dirty talk, creampie. lmk if there are more that i missed!

word count: 5.4k

A/N: hi omg so i actually combined two requests for this bc i loved the concepts and i didn't wanna do one and not the other. i hope i do both of these justice hehe thanks for sending them! also sorry if the unsub scene sucks-- i don’t usually write that way, so i tried my best.

request(s): omg if you need ideas for baby spence can you do a one shot where he's the girls best friend (she's not in the bau) and they are in love but neither of them admit it and he is really hurt in a case or almost dies or something traumatic and only when he gets back they confess their love... and then have sex 😏 ive been thinking about this concept alot 😌

can’t stop thinking about baby spencer (like s2-s4) & his girl best friend losing their virginity to each other... can you write a one shot on this please?

masterlist

"when are you coming back?" you ask over the line. you're lying on your bed, legs in the air while you talk to your best friend. it's been a long day for you, but a longer day for him. it's always a longer day for him.

"you know that I don't know the answer to that question." Spencer's voice is soft as he attempts to keep quiet. he's two hours ahead and, despite the fact that you're both night owls, the person he's rooming with tonight isn't.

"I know, but there's this Korean film festival that starts tomorrow and I was hoping you would be here to translate for me." you examine your nails while you talk. Spencer lets out a disappointed sigh.

it's only been a few days since he left, but it's been a week since you last saw him and it feels like a long time. whenever he's not at work, you two are joined at the hip. ever since you first met a few years back at a poetry convention in DC, it feels like he's the only person who understands you. which is weird, because you couldn't be more different as individuals.

"you should bring one of your other friends."

"bold of you to assume I have other friends." you joke. Spencer chuckles to himself and your heart flutters. you love his laugh more than anything in the world.

"I thought that was just me." he says.

"oh, it is just you," you reply flatly. "I was trying to make you feel better."

you can practically feel Spencer smiling through the phone. although you tease him pretty frequently, he's sometimes able to get in his own shots. it's what makes your friendship interesting.

"hey," you add before he can say anything more. "how's the case going?"

Spence starts to detail the whole thing, and you listen intently, the timbre and smoothness of his voice comforting you as you slip beneath the covers of your bed. you like the way he enunciates his words, his strange manner of speaking, because it lulls you to sleep.

you know he's talking about horrible things, but something about the sound comforts you deeply. when he's not around, you're wishing you had it bottled up.

he lays out their profile as it stands, and you fall silent. it's getting pretty late and you have to be up early for work tomorrow, so it would be a good idea to get some real rest. plus, Spencer needs to sleep, too-- even though he probably won't.

you remember times when he'd call you at three in the morning, his mind whirring as he played chess against himself and asked if you wanted to hang out so he could teach you how. you hate chess, but of course you said yes; you'd been head over heels with him since your first conversation.

eventually, you feel yourself start to drift off. you don't even really know what he's saying; all of it blends together until you're laying there, one cheek pressed to the pillow and the receiver against the other.

"Y/N?" he says your name abruptly and your eyes, which have been slowly drawing shut this whole time, fly open.

"yeah?"

"go to bed."

"what? no, I'll wait until you're done." you shift.

"I could hear your breathing change."

"then why didn't you just hang up?" you giggle. he goes silent for a moment and you wonder if he cut out, but then he responds.

"I wanted to say goodnight."

it's like a cage of butterflies is unleashed in your stomach. you wrinkle your nose as you get nervous. god, you miss him. things would be so much better if he was back. not like he'd be in your bed even if he was, though.

"then say goodnight." you prod. he lets out an awkward little sound.

"now I can't because you made it weird."

"how did I make it weird?"

"I don't know, you just did." he's so clumsy, your face heats up. you want to keep talking like this until morning.

"goodnight, Spence," the words sound reluctant, but you try to cover it up by teasing him further. "see, was that so bad?"

"oh my god, Y/N--" he tries to sound exasperated.

"no goodnight back?" you raise an eyebrow even though he can't see you right now.

a lengthy silence again. "goodnight."

"that's what I thought." before he can protest, you end the call, settle into the covers. moonlight beams on the walls of your apartment, and you start to think about your best friend. about all the nights spent curled up on his couch with two bowls of popcorn, his ramblings about how much he loves his job and him asking about yours.

he's a great listener. every time you talk, he nods along like he's hanging off every word. it's nice to feel heard that way, to have someone care. and he's fun to hang out with, too. you've met his team before and they all talk about how hard it is to get him to go out, but they don't see the same side of him that you do.

Spencer is nerdy and cute and kind and sensitive. he makes you feel special. he's everything that you've ever wanted in a person. but it's not like it would matter, anyway. he hasn't really shown interest in any girls-- much less you. even if he did, you're scared of ruining the friendship.

the fallout of not having him around at all... it would destroy you. and something, even if it's torturous, is better than nothing.

which is why, as you sit there and remember being around him, your fingertips creep below the comforter. a familiar routine, they move over your stomach, until they reach the waistband of your panties. for a moment, you hesitate. it's wrong. he's your best friend. but he doesn't need to know that this is how you handle the ache he puts between your legs.

as your index finger slides down your slit, you feel the wetness already forming. Spencer's hands, his mouth. the thought of his lips pressed to yours while he fucks you, holding your body like it's delicate.

you don't know exactly how it would feel because you've never had sex, but you want to find out with him. he's never done it, either. you don't care; all you need is to have him inside of you, to see how he looks when he's on the edge.

your mind wanders to the image of him parting your legs and rolling his eyes into the back of his head. the sensation of him filling you up. falling apart.

you slide a finger inside, gasping at the way your walls tighten and your imagination runs wild. that tongue, lapping and making you squirm, your fingers twisted in his soft hair. he's so sweet; his attentiveness would make your legs shake. you want to look into his eyes while he does it.

you add a second finger, curl them and brush over the most sensitive part. the pressure of his hips grinding into yours. your body curves up at the way you start to finger yourself, the other hand stimulating your clit. it's almost overwhelming, the way his name tumbles from your lips over and over.

you've never wanted someone so badly in your life; he belongs in your bloodstream. the sounds he would make in your ear before finally cumming and collapsing on top of you, spent. you want to tire him out and then do it all over again.

you're greedy on the edge, indulging in every single image of him you can conjure up, every dirty thing you'd say. finally, you feel yourself fall, the orgasm intense as you bite back groans of pleasure and work through the high. it's amazing.

you sit there, panting, feeling your heart beat in your chest. some things can't leave your head, they're so sinful. and the worst part is that you don't regret it in the slightest.

...

Spencer can feel his pulse practically leaping against his throat as he makes his way through the empty warehouse. he should have waited for backup; he knows he should have, but it's too late now to go back and change things.

he clutches his gun, pointing it in front of him while his eyes flicker wildly across the space. he's moving between enormous aisles stuffed with crates, not knowing who else is around. they said the unsub brought his newest victim here-- Spencer came first because was closest to the site-- but he hears nothing aside from the uneven rhythm of his own breath.

every step is careful. he's thinking about how close the rest of the team must be. based on their distance from the station, they should arrive within six minutes-- but that doesn't account for the time it takes to put on their bulletproof vests, to get to their cars.

truthfully, he doesn't know if he's going to have to do this on his own. and that scares him the most.

there's no point in worrying. he swallows the lump in his throat and presses his back to one of the crates. there's a scraping noise a ways off that causes him to freeze. because of the echoes of the warehouse, the origin is indiscernible. he doesn't breathe, eyes darting between each of the openings into the aisle.

after a minute of pure silence, he peels himself away and turns to head back out.

and that's when the sound of wood cracking against bone startles him; he hears it before he feels it, but it's obvious when he crumples to the floor. like knife points pressing into his brain at all angles, the shooting agony in his skull.

he starts to clutch at his head, only to be yanked off the ground by a meaty hand and thrown against the side of a crate.

"fucking feds." the guy is enormous. gargantuan. he keeps his arm across Reid's throat, pressing down enough to restrict his airway. but Spencer can't even concentrate on the guy's face further than its rough outlines. his vision is going in and out, fuzzy at the edges from the blow to his head.

he definitely has a concussion.

"I..." he trails off. the huge FBI logo on his vest is a dead giveaway.

"all alone?" the unsub has breath like rotten fish, spits each word into his face. "I won't even need my gun."

Spencer's head lolls to the side and he catches sight of his own weapon lying helplessly a few feet away. there's no way he could get to it in time, even if he got out of this guy's chokehold.

he tries to think of a way to talk himself out of this; after all, their profile said he'd be more susceptible to negotiation, but that's kind of hard to do with someone's forearm slammed against your trachea. he presses harder and Spencer sees stars. his glasses hang almost off the bridge of his nose, centimeters from falling to the floor.

he starts to realize that he's going to die, defenseless and alone, in a warehouse. at the hands of a man who kills women because his Viagra doesn't work. but this doesn't incite the kind of panic Spencer always predicted he'd feel. the lack of oxygen in his brain causes him to go delirious.

he misses home. his mom and his old house, even though things were hard. he misses Y/N, his team members. he wishes his team was here; he should have waited for them. he should have told Y/N how he feels. now she's never going to know.

Reid is so out of it, he doesn't even notice the pressure being relieved from his throat until he collapses on the ground. the unsub falls, too, his cheek smashed by the force of the abandoned wooden plank.

it's hard to tell what's happening until Reid lifts his head to see Morgan standing above him, preparing to handcuff the criminal.

"kid," Spencer never thought he'd be so glad to hear his voice. "what happened?"

...

you practically crash into Spencer's apartment the next evening, flinging your body through the front door with your spare key.

"Spence?" you call out from the entryway. everything still looks the same, but when his colleague, Penelope, called you today to tell you that Reid had gotten a concussion after a run-in with an unsub, you rushed here as soon as you could.

"in here." he calls from his bedroom. you don't hesitate, your feet carrying you there. you've been anxious all day; he didn't call last night or even text like usual. you were on the verge of panicking when Penelope called.

of course, you knew that was the risk with Spencer. he knew the risk, too. his life would always be in the balance when it came to the cases, but he'd gone through so many at this point, you weren't thinking about it. if you did, you wouldn't be able to focus on anything else.

when you walk in, the first thing you see is Spencer laying in bed in his silk pjs. there's a stack of unread books on his bedside table. his glasses sit on top. he's just laying there with his eyes closed.

"oh my god." you mutter, dropping your bag on the floor and walking over. he opens his eyes with a slight smile. there's a purple bruise forming across his throat, light but definitely there.

"hi."

"what the fuck happened?" you ask the question you've been wondering the whole way here.

"he hit me with a plank." Spencer explains, the phrase coming out like he's still confused about it. "I'm fine, just a mild concussion and a bruise because he choked me."

you take a second to assess if he actually means that he's okay, or if he's trying not to worry you. he stares at your expression for a second.

"Y/N, I'm really fine."

"you don't look fine." you gesture to the fact that he's laying in bed.

"my body is sore, but nothing's wrong with me. I just can't look at screens or read." this last part makes him much more melancholy, it seems. you reach down and ruffle his hair playfully.

"sounds like a nightmare."

"it is." he cracks up.

"I'm glad you're okay." you sigh. your heart rate has slowed to a reasonable pace now that you know he's fine. Spencer gives a ghost of a smile, and when he pats the empty spot on the bed beside him, you kick off your shoes and climb over his body to sit down. "so... did you guys get him?"

"the unsub?" he turns his head to look at you. something is in his eyes that you can't read. "yeah, he's in custody. we saved the girl he abducted, too."

"well, aren't you a hero?" you grin, pinching his arm.

"ow!" he flinches. "don't hurt the patient."

"oh, so now you're injured?" you giggle softly. his smile fades a bit, gaze trailing from your face to your legs. it isn't lustful or anything, more like he's taking in your existence. it still makes your heart flutter.

"I wasn't really a hero, anyway," he sighs. "I got knocked down before I even found her."

"oof." you wince.

"yeah, it's sort of embarrassing. I went in by myself and--"

"you went by yourself?" you clarify, turning to face him. of course he did.

"yeah." he avoids your gaze.

"Spencer, I work in a stationery shop and I know you're supposed to wait for backup." you deadpan. he snorts, staring straight ahead at the wall. his hair is flat in the back from where he's been resting it against the headboard.

"he would have hurt her if I had waited." he explains. your heart softens a bit at this. you know Spencer has a problem with saving people; sometimes he doesn't think things through. but you know that it's only because he cares.

you smile gently, appreciating what a beautiful person he is. you don't understand how other people don't see him how you do. your hand reaches for his suddenly, and you find yourself snuggling into his shoulder.

Spencer doesn't usually like touch, but he welcomes this, dropping his own head to rest on top of yours while you both stare at the wall. his silence feels heavy, more than it usually does, and you wonder what he's thinking.

"I'm really glad you're okay, Spencer." your tone is low, like it's a secret.

"you already said that."

"shut up."

"you care about me." he sing-songs with a smile, and you know he means it in a friendly way, but you don't care. it brings warmth to your cheeks.

"whatever. you care about me, too."

he lets out a slight chuckle. "when I started to black out, I thought of you."

your heart leaps, even though the reason is pretty dark. "oh, yeah?"

"mhmm." he hums.

"nobody's ever told me that they thought of me in their last moments of life before." you tease. there are so many things you'd like to say, but know you can't. he smells like himself and coffee beans, his skin warm beneath the silk of his pajamas.

"I'd hope not."

"anything in particular?" you wonder aloud.

"what?" you feel him tense beneath you, and that's how you know there's something he's not telling you.

"were you thinking about anything in particular?"

"someone's full of themselves." he jokes. you smack his arm.

"humor me." more than anything, you want to hear his thoughts. you know you're reaching, but you don't care.

"just..." he pauses, the next words coming out almost too quietly to hear. "things I never got to say to you."

"like?" now you're intrigued.

"no way." he laughs and you groan, turning and realizing that you've both sunk deeper onto the bed and are now practically lying down.

"c'mon," you prod. you've flipped onto your side while you watch him, his eyes directed at the ceiling. "what if you'd actually died?"

Spencer gives you a look, and you wish you could snap a picture of his face. the gentle features, the warmth in his eyes. he stares at you differently than before, and it makes your stomach flip again. "I, um."

you start to trace your index absently down his forearm, where his sleeve has incidentally gotten rolled up. his skin is soft. you know that this isn't a friendly thing to do, but something inside you craves his touch right now. you almost lost him; you can't imagine how horrible that would be.

"I wanted to say that I--" he gulps, muscles in his shoulder tight beneath your cheek. "well, I care about you, and I... I really love you."

it's not the first time he's said it, obviously in a platonic sense. what affects you is that he's acting like it's a big deal.

"I love you too, Spence." you smile softly. his chest rises and falls faster, his face tensed.

"no, I mean--" he turns onto his side, using the action to distract from his own nervousness. he holds your gaze and you forget how to breathe as he speaks. every syllable is serious, but you note his fingers fidgeting at his side. "I'm in love with you."

it's like all the air in the room has been sucked out. you swallow, unsure of how to react at first. you don't believe what you're hearing, simply because it doesn't make sense. you've been friends for a while, now, but Spencer has never made a move to ask you out or acted like he wanted anything more.

your heart swells.

"you're in love with me?" the words even feel surreal on your tongue. he takes it as rejection.

"I shouldn't have said that, I'm sorry." Spencer rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, his expression turning to a cringe. he's about to sit up to hide the red in his cheeks, but you pull him back down by the shoulder.

"not so fast, crazy boy." the corners of your mouth are turning up into a grin. you can't help it; every nerve in your body is alive. Spencer loves you. he feels the same way.

when he sinks back down onto the mattress and sighs, preparing to say something that rescinds the statement to erase any awkwardness, you grab his face and turn it to yours. you don't kiss him, only force him to look.

"I'm in love with you, too."

his eyebrows fly up in surprise. "r-really?"

"yes." you nod.

he takes a second to process this. you see about five different expressions pass over his face, each one reminding you of how earnest he is. and it's absolutely adorable.

"well, that's good, isn't it?" he clarifies. you pretend to think on it.

"I'd say so, yeah."

he smiles. a genuine, rare one that makes your veins feel as if they're full of glitter. you're on Cloud 9.

"can I kiss you?" you ask him quietly. he seems surprised at this, too, like he never thought you'd want that, but then nods eagerly.

you close the gap between you on the bed, holding his jaw in one hand while the other rests on his forearm. your lips meet softly at first. he's cautious, scared of pushing you away. he hasn't kissed many people before. but he's good at it, letting you take the lead.

there's no way to adequately describe kissing Spencer. every bone in your body turns to mush, immediately craving more contact. you slide your tongue across his full bottom lip, and he lets you in. his affection is the most loved you've ever felt. because sure, you haven't had sex, but you've kissed people before.

never like this.

one of his hands goes up to wrap around your forearm tenderly before he shifts to lie on his side. you wrap around each other, turning the kiss into a full-body embrace as you breathe in. you want more. your leg swings over his torso so you can pull yourself closer, and he groans into your mouth when your pelvis presses against his.

the kiss gets more heated, his hands carefully but hungrily traveling down the curve of your waist. you flip so that you're straddling him without breaking any contact.

you don't really think about the way your hips begin to rock against his, your pussy involuntarily working for friction. there are so many happy chemicals in your brain right now, you giggle against his mouth when his body bucks up into yours. he groans.

"Y/N..." he breathes softly. his hands move from your waist to your thighs, afraid to dig his fingertips in.

"what?" you sigh, licking over his bottom lip again. he moans at the way you keep grinding on his erection.

"I wanna--" his eyelashes flutter when he gasps. "I wanna touch you."

"do it." your palm is resting tenderly against his cheek. he responds by finally holding you down, sliding his body up a bit to grind against your center. you whine. "touch whatever you want, Spencer."

his cock twitches in his pants and you push the hem of his shirt up while he uses one hand to massage your tits. the voracious, curious nature of his attention makes you sigh, touching his stomach. he feels perfect beneath you.

soon you're grabbing at each other without any regard for grace. he's so horny, he's pawing at whatever he can while you do the same to him. the kissing gives way to straight panting while you look at each other.

"can I suck your dick?" you whisper. Spencer's eyes widen. you've never seen him nod so fast.

you press your mouth to his one more time before inching down his body, sucking on his clavicle, then his stomach. careful to avoid the purple marks on his neck. he watches you intently, memorizing the details of this moment for later. when you reach the waistband of his pants, you peek up. he strains against the material.

your mouth drops open and you draw your tongue over the clothed bulge, maintaining eye contact. Spencer throws his head back. his voice is high. "oh my god, oh my god."

you smirk, licking it again. he clenches his jaw. "I'm gonna c-cum if you don't--" he tries for words, but he's mewling and moving against your mouth. you pull at his pants, hooking your fingers in his boxers and bringing them down, too.

Spencer bucks into the air when his cock hits his stomach. it's big, precum leaking helplessly out of the tip while he whines. you want him now.

"wow." you smile. he stares at you, tensing his stomach as you wrap your hand around his length. he's trying to keep quiet, but as soon as you spit on it and start to pump him, his head falls back into the pillow.

you draw your tongue up the underside, paying special attention to the veins, reveling in his reactions. he looks like he's ascending to heaven when you start to suck on the first couple inches.

"o-oh, fuck..." he keeps moving his hips off the bed for more, so you sink down further onto him, hollowing your cheeks and moaning. "Y/N..."

you groan in response, feeling yourself get wetter with every sound he makes. you can't believe this is happening, the way he threads his fingers loosely through your hair in an attempt to touch more of you.

he tries to keep his eyes open while you suck, but they squint with pleasure. he's a mess for you, shuddering gently when you take nearly all of him into your mouth.

before he can cum, you pull your mouth off of him with a satisfying pop. Spencer moans.

"was that okay?" you ask carefully. this is the extent of your sexual experience, and you want to do more with him, but you aren't sure how he feels. your best friend stares back at you like you've turned his world upside down.

"y-yeah," he replies. his face is flushed. "definitely okay."

he's throbbing, occasionally twitching against his stomach as he waits for more stimulation. you eye him carefully.

"what do you feel comfortable doing?" your voice is smooth. "we can stop now, if you'd like."

"I--" he chokes on the word. "I don't wanna stop."

"do you want to have sex?" you ask. Spencer bites his lip, whines.

"mhmm."

"I wanna do that, too," you breathe out, straightening up and pulling your shirt over your head, unclasping your bra, before getting to work on your shorts. you know you're practically dripping. he's been more vocal, but you feel like you're going to implode from the desire. "but I need to tell you something."

"what?" he tugs your arm, coaxing you back to him and touching you greedily. you giggle as you kick your shorts and panties off somewhere in the room. both of you move like awkward teenagers.

"I'm a virgin." you say.

Spencer frowns. "really?"

"yeah," you lick your lips. "so you need to be careful."

"o-of course." he blushes, getting nervous again. "you know I'm a virgin too, right?"

"I know." you smile. he returns it sweetly, and the commotion of your bodies slows for a moment. you're so happy, you could cry.

"what?" he breaks the comfortable silence.

"I'm excited," you shrug. he's got his hands on your waist, rubbing his fingertips over your skin. then you remember something. "wait, are you allowed to have sex with your... injury?"

"it's fine." he reaches up and kisses your throat with an urgency.

"did the doctor say that?" your eyes roll while he sucks on your neck. he groans and pulls down on your waist so that your stomach presses against his cock. he ruts.

"second opinion from me." he pants. you tap his cheek playfully, move up his body until your core brushes him. he whimpers when you reach between your bodies and grip his length in your hands.

"you ready?" your voice is low. Spencer squeezes your thighs, eyes moving between your tits and your face.

"yes." he sighs. you position it, slicking him in your pussy while he wraps an arm around your waist and moans for more. your chests are pressed together, looking into each other's eyes while you slide him into you.

you have to go slow, the intrusion causing your jaw to drop. you don't breathe. he's got his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

"Spencer." you whimper, dropping your head onto his chest when he's fully inside of you. his fingers rub patiently over your back.

"are you okay?" his voice is laced with a moan, trying to resist thrusting.

"yeah, just a second." you wiggle a little bit to test the boundaries. it hurts, but it also feels good. your clit is begging for more pressure, so you start to roll your hips. Reid moans loudly.

"Y/N..." he whimpers. "don't stop."

"you want more?" the need in his voice makes you hornier, and you increase the pace, despite the slight pain. you're so wet, he slides in and out without much effort.

"so-- much more." he's gasping, hands on your thighs as he watches your naked body writhe on top of him. he's never been more aroused in his life, spurred on by your scent and form and the tightness that keeps clenching around his cock.

he understands why people love sex so much, now. he wants it every day, wants to fuck you in every position and pleasure you. the sounds you release in his ear, whines and praises, he would do anything for more. walk to the ends of the earth to feel you cum on his cock.

his hand finds your ass, squeezes it.

"this feel good, Spence? fucking your best friend?" you talk dirty and he twitches. you're always so sweet, the words coming out of your mouth for him are going to send the genius into a tailspin.

"mhmm," he holds you down so that he can thrust up. speaking at all is a struggle with the way he's feeling. "perfect."

you start to say something else, but he hits a certain angle and you let out a quiet yelp, hips jumping at the pleasure. "I'm gonna cum."

Spencer gets a rush of relief because it's taking everything in him right now not to absolutely lose it inside your pussy. he's hanging on by a thread. "me, too."

you use your position on top to stimulate yourself. both of you chase your orgasms roughly, the rhythm you created degenerating into clawing excitement.

"cum inside me, Spencer." you beg him. it sounds like you would do anything to feel it, that sensation that you've never experience but have always imagined. and Spencer, his own head foggy with ecstasy, nods and opens his mouth to let out a loud groan.

"Y/N, fuck fuck fuck-- I'm--" he shoots his load inside of you, rutting wildly and letting his head drop onto the pillow while he pants. you can feel it. strange, lovely jolts of his seed spreading. your hands, which have been resting on his shoulders, tighten and you reach your climax. you flutter around him, both of you still moving to ease the intensity of the high.

it's remarkable. you're crying out, having the most mind-blowing orgasm of your life. you never thought your first time would be like this. but you're glad it is, muscles tightening and releasing with the mixture of emotions.

you collapse fully, him still inside.

neither of you speaks. his heartbeat thuds against your ear, and you hold onto him like letting go would be the end of the world. you can't believe you could have lost him. you don't want to think about it.

"sorry I came so fast." Spencer apologizes breathlessly. you can feel his cum dripping down your entrance when he slides out.

"I don't care." you mumble. both of you stay there for a while, his heartbeat changing to a pace that reminds you of genuine excitement. like a hummingbird.

"we can try again, sometime." he offers. you lift your head to rest your chin on his chest. his skin is flushed, pupils dilated, hair messy. such a pretty boy.

"we should try multiple times."

he gives you a cheerful smile, and everything starts to fall into place. you took each other's virginity. "Y/N?"

he likes to say your name, and you love to hear it. "yes?"

"are we dating?" the bluntness of the question makes you giggle. you don't hesitate.

"yeah."

“good.”

taglist (lmk if you wanna be added/removed!): @reidsconverse @voidsfilm @xoxomgg

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peachiimilquetea · 3 years

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𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐲𝐚 𝐢𝐢𝐝𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬!

im not a bnha blog however i have some things i feel like i just want to scream about! some of these are based on his birth chart too so if you’re into astrology i hope you enjoy that aspect as well!

length: 780 words

tenya loves spicy food

he looks like he wouldn’t be built for it but he’s actually got a pretty high pain tolerance

he adds chili pepper to literally everything

he also has a massive sweet tooth so sometimes when he confiscates peoples snacks in class, he eats them himself later

if you’re one of his closer friends (or his s/o) he’ll share them with you

he spends like $80 a week on honey buns from the vending machine

tenya also has a scorpio moon so i think that like bakugo he loves love/romance HOWEVER instead of romance manga, he reads corny ass wattpad stories as a guilty pleasure

mina made a joke about her wattpad phase once and it led to his demise bc he was too damn curious and he just had to look it up

if you ask him directly about it he will deny it but he’s a voracious reader and can finish like 4 books a week

they’re so bad but they’re so good lmao

he enjoys correcting the writers’ grammar as he reads and complaining about how cliche the plot is but he just cant stop reading

iida is also the only boy in class 1-A that actually takes care of himself lowkey

i think he’s got a better skincare routine than me tbh

it’s simple, yes, but expensive and it works wonders on his skin and on yours

he owns a jade roller. no questions asked

i also see him as the type of person who’s scared of putting in contact lenses BDHSNSVSJSNS

like he’s got so much anxiety around accidentally poking an eye out he just can’t muster up the courage to do it

especially bc his hands are so big for no reason

he does own contacts tho, they literally just sit in his bathroom cabinet

speaking of his sweet tooth again, tenya cannot drink black coffee

i’ve seen some people say that’s his order when the deku-squad goes to starbucks or smth but no i think he gets like 15 pumps of caramel in a grande cup BEHSNSVSAJAN

his attention to detail is impeccable

he’s got a virgo mercury and mars he literally notices EVERYTHING

this makes him a very good gift giver bc he literally remembers everything about you and keeps a mental note

uhhh let’s see what else

tenya is rhythm blind SVDHSNSBAKAKA

he cannot dance to save his own life

lord knows how he fakes his way through all the hero charity galas and stuff his family hosts

he can only do a two step if you count for him

he’s a pretty decent singer tho

very shy about it tho

if you get him under the influence of a substance he will definitely do karaoke and he’ll make everyone look bad bc he’s really good

that’s his leo sun talking fr

he’s also a sneaker head surprisingly

it sounds like it doesn’t make sense HOWEVER hear me out

he runs all the time everywhere for training and stuff, constantly trying to beat his PR

so he goes through running shoes very easily

but he doesn’t want to get the exact same ones every single time so he switches it up

then he fell down the rabbit hole of lifestyle sneakers and here we are

i don’t know if he dresses the part but i don’t think he wears stiff ass polos and dress pants all the time

that makes no sense bc how tf will his big ass calves fit in the pants BDBSJSNSJA

so streetwear actually makes a little bit more sense

just imagine tenya in baggy khaki pants and jordan 1s

and a baggy sweater vest omg

giving very much tyler the creator vibes

i think it fits him tbh

especially as he gets older and figures out what he likes to wear as opposed to what his parents put him in

ALSO tenya is very into the humanities and social sciences

he wouldve gotten into the arts but mans cant draw for his life either

fortunately he can read like hell so he consumes copious amounts of political and philosophical theory for funsies

based iida⁉️⁉️⁉️

also a polyglot maybe?

dont ask me what specific languages but most likely japanese, english, mandarin and spanish

hes one of those people whos like "oh i read an article about that!" whenever you mention something new

but not in a condescending way he just genuinely wants to show you that he relates to whatever you're talking about

he prides himself on being a walking encycloepdia just so he can help everyone

thats all ive got for now but im definitely gonna post more if i can think of any

#peachiileafsfw #[🍑]peachiiwrites #[🍑]peachiimilquetea #tenya iida #tenya iida headcanons #iida fluff #bnha headcanons #bnha iida #tenya x reader #fluff

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homoose · 3 years

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Teach Me Something I Don’t Know: Part IV

Summary: The Halloween parade. Will and JJ are adorable. Anita suggests that Spencer become a classroom volunteer. Reader has a rough week.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, a smidge of angst

Warnings/Includes: none

Word count: 4.4k

a/n: I wish we’d seen more of Will and JJ as parents because I imagine it would be adorable and hilarious. Let’s see if you can guess all of their costumes before the reveal lmao. Your only clue is that Spencer loves keeping with a theme and the brown vest (I literally learned how to make my own shitty gif bc I couldn’t find the right one in the search and I do not understand embedding lmao) makes an appearance.

Series Masterlist

———

“Did you grab the bags?” JJ swept the pleated, platinum braid out of her face as she bent over to zip up her boots.

“No, I thought you did,” Will called, bouncing down the stairs.

“I put them in the car already,” Spencer informed them, popping his head back in the front door. “There was just the one box, right?”

“Yeah, that was it,” Will confirmed. “Shit— where’s Michael’s sword?”

“Should be on the counter,” JJ huffed, standing up and adjusting the bodice of the blue dress.

“Got it.” Will came around the corner of the kitchen, patting his hips where his pockets would be— if he weren’t wearing an adult-sized onesie. “Keys?” Spencer held them up. “All right then, let’s get this show on the road.”

The trio headed to the waiting SUV, Spencer climbing into the backseat as Will and JJ got into the front. Will and JJ chattered on about dinner plans and schedules for the following week, and Spencer smoothed down the brown wool vest layered over his white linen shirt. He’d spent entirely too long putting together the costume over the last week (with a little help from Penelope). He’d scrapped the Spock getup he’d been working on since September— he could always wear that next year. But he’d only get one chance to attend the Room 105 Halloween parade, and once the idea had wormed its way into his brain, he had to make it happen.

“Spence?” JJ’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.

“Hmm?”

“Would you be able to pick Michael up on Monday?”

He ran his hands down his thighs over the mint green cropped trousers. “Sure, as long as we don’t have a case.”

Will smirked at him in the rear view mirror. “How’s Ms. Y/L/N?”

“You’re about to see her yourself, so you can ask,” Spencer replied.

Will laughed, and JJ turned in her seat. “Whoa, coming in hot with the snark. You really do like her.”

Spencer fought and failed to keep the blush from rising, irritation at being teased blooming sharp inside his chest. He tried to shrug as nonchalantly as possible. “She’s a great teacher.”

“That’s not a no,” JJ noted, eyebrows raised.

“She’s Michael’s teacher,” Spencer said, like it meant something.

“Yeah, so?” Will shrugged his shoulders. “You’re his godfather. Technically, you’re not related, so it wouldn’t be breakin’ any rules.”

“Well, it’s not like that, so it doesn’t really matter,” Spencer insisted.

Will hummed and JJ turned back around in her seat. Spencer drummed his fingers on his knees and watched DC roll past through the SUV window. It really wasn’t like that. Y/N was just… very nice. A nice, beautiful, sweet, silly kindergarten teacher that he couldn’t stop thinking about no matter how many books he read or coffees he drank or chess games he played.

Monday was the last day of his sabbatical, and he was even more relieved to be headed back than usual— grateful that he’d have something to occupy his mind other than her. Because his mind was, indeed, occupied. The way her smile beamed like the spotlight on a stage, illuminating whoever happened to be on the receiving end. The way her hands moved in unbound, buoyant illustrations of her thoughts. The way her laugh felt like the first warm sip of tea or the wrap of his favorite scarf. It was getting out of hand, to say the least.

Will pulled into the parking lot, and instantly Spencer’s palms began to sweat. He glanced at the headband on the seat beside him and felt the mortification clawing at his insides. The costume was ridiculous; he was ridiculous. He should have just worn the Spock outfit.

Maybe he could just wait in the car and pretend like he hadn’t been able to make it. Or he could just leave the headband in the car. But then he’d just be in mint green capris with a sweater vest and platform sandals, and she’d have absolutely no idea who he was supposed to be. Then he’d have to explain it, and it would be even worse.

Will parked the car, and he and JJ immediately stepped out. Spencer watched them near the hood of the SUV, enjoying a rare moment of co-parenting without work hovering right out of frame. Will pulled the hood of the onesie up and JJ laughed, brushing her hand over the brown fabric twigs sticking out of the top. He supposed that if Will Lamontagne, Jr. could strut his stuff in adult footie pajamas, his handmade costume was probably all right.

With one last resigned sigh, Spencer slid the headband on. He grabbed the box of Halloween treats, opened the door, and hauled himself out of the vehicle. He pushed the door closed and looked in the reflection of the window, adjusting the headband around his curls and blowing out a breath.

“Ready?” JJ called, peering around the side of the SUV.

“Yeah—yeah,” Spencer agreed. He moved around the vehicle to join them, the three of them walking to find a spot in the crowd of parents standing around the carpool loop.

When they found a suitable spot, Will looked up at him and shook his head. The sandals added three extra inches to Spencer’s height, putting him a good six inches taller than Will. “Those shoes make you look like an actual giant,” Will chuckled. “I know that’s the point, but I feel like even more of a shrimp next to ya now.”

Spencer set the box of candy bags on the ground and would have shoved his hands into his pockets if the linen trousers had any. Before he could respond, JJ pointed to the door of the school, cooing, “Oh my god, look. Remember when the boys were that small?”

The PreK classes came out first, and Spencer could acknowledge that they were very cute, barely out of the toddler stage and holding hands with a line buddy. But he was waiting on a very specific cutie.

He’d barely had the thought when the kindergarten classes started to emerge from the door. He almost didn’t recognize her at first— just an orange blob and green shrubbery. But the converse gave her away.

“How is she so cute?” JJ threaded her arm through Will’s. “Even when she’s dressed as a giant orange blob.”

“It’s a gift,” Will agreed. He glanced up at Spencer. “Right, doc?”

Spencer nodded but didn’t take his eyes off Y/N. “I think so, yeah.” Will grinned and bumped JJ’s shoulder, but Spencer barely even registered his own response.

Thankfully they’d picked a spot near the very end of the loop, so he had plenty of time to get himself together before she was in front of him. While Will and JJ waved at all the tiny superheroes and princesses, he watched Y/N. She was all orange fabric from her shoulders to her knees, with bright orange Chucks to match. On her head was a strange variation on a party hat, bright green ferns sprouting from the tip of the cone and falling into her face. She looked absolutely ridiculous and entirely adorable, and he was in so much trouble.

When the class finally approached the final curve of the loop, Will nudged Spencer and gestured to the box of goodie bags. Spencer crouched down and lifted the box, standing back up to see Y/N laughing at Will and JJ. “Very cute, Lamontagne Family.”

Her gaze traveled across, then up, and then her eyes went wide and her mouth fell open. Spencer wondered if maybe the earth could just open up and swallow him whole.

“Oh my god, are you—?” She stepped forward and ran her hand lightly over the vest, and he didn’t dare breathe. “Are you the BFG?!” Her hand dropped from his torso, and he didn’t have time to be disappointed before her face split into quite possibly the biggest smile he’d seen from her yet.

A tiny Superman shouted, “Ms. Y/L/N, we’re making a gap!”

Y/N came back to herself, gesturing to all three of them. “Don’t go anywhere.” She accepted the offered box of treats from Spencer and then turned to help her class catch up.

Will gave him a look. “It’s not like that, huh?”

“Oh my god, she likes you.” JJ clapped her hands together. “This is amazing.”

“I’m takin’ credit for this,” Will bragged. “I’m a regular ol’ matchmaker.”

Spencer couldn’t even be bothered to attempt a denial. He was still thinking about the feel of her palm on his chest, how it might feel to hold her hand, the way her eyes practically sparkled when she saw his ridiculous headband. He was in so much trouble.

Fifteen minutes later, the classes filed back out into the parking lot for dismissal. Y/N led the class down the sidewalk, grinning at the excitement coursing through her line. As they approached the end of the loop, Y/N caught sight of them and waved. The kids lined up in their normal spot, chatting excitedly about their costumes and candy bags.

“Lord, Ms. Y/L/N, you’re something else,” Will laughed.

“Is it not the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever seen?” She laughed and tapped the green shrubbery hanging in her face. “I have the kids do a little persuasive writing thing every year. They draw a picture and write a sentence about what they think Ms. Y/L/N should be for Halloween, and then we take a vote.”

She waved her hands in that way Spencer loved, the way that was so similar to his own. “Usually the options are pretty tame, you know—ghost, witch, bumblebee. This year was a near tie between runner-up Jojo Siwa and well,” she gestured at herself, “carrot.” Y/N cackled, and the leaves on top of her head shook with the action.

They all laughed along with her, and then JJ added, “The details are truly incredible. Is this an actual plant on your head?”

“I really thought about it,” Y/N laughed, “but no, it’s just fake ferns stuffed into a cardstock funnel.” She gestured at Will and JJ. “But also, excuse me— this family costume is ridiculously cute. Mr. Lamontagne, loving this onesie. Mrs. Jareau, I didn’t even know it was possible to look prettier than you usually do, but here you are. And Michael’s Anna costume?” She held her hands up. “Incredible. Show stopping. I wish I had an aunt Penelope to enlist the help of, because that cape is the actual height of fashion.”

“She helped Spence, too,” JJ prompted, stealing a glance in his direction.

“Oh yeah?” Y/N asked, turning to smile at Spencer.

“We um, 3D printed the ears,” he clarified.

“No way!” She took a step closer to him, peering up at the detail on the headband. He leaned down a little for her to get a closer look. “That is so cool. I’ve never actually seen anything 3D printed up close before— did you design them yourself?”

She met his eyes briefly, and he realized how close they were— close enough that he caught the faintest whiff of sandalwood and cardamom. Of course she even smelled like warmth and home. “Well. I, um— I drew a sort of sketch, I guess. And then Penelope did the software coding. I— I’m not very good with technology, honestly.”

She ran her fingers lightly over the plastic, and he decided she was really trying to kill him. “Yeah, I’m not sure I really understand how it works.”

“Well, first you create a blueprint file of the design you want to print, which you can do through modeling software or three-dimensional scanning. Then you convert the file into an STL file— named for Stereolithography which was the first ever 3D printing process. The STL file is made up of triangular mesh polygons, which is the data that describes the surface of a three-dimensional object. After that, you use a software program to complete the process of slicing— essentially dividing or chopping the 3D model into hundreds or thousands of horizontal layers that the printer can print one at a time to create the 3D object. And then the printer prints each layer until you have your finished product.”

Y/N was quiet, and he pulled back to see her grinning at him. “I thought you said you weren’t very good with technology?”

“I’m not good with using technology,” he clarified.

She nodded. “Gotcha. So you just know everything about it.”

Her joking tone had a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I read a lot.”

“How much is a lot?”

“I can read at a rate of 20,000 words per minute, so… a lot.”

Her eyebrows shot up into the tangle of ferns on her head, and he was just so overwhelmed by how adorable she was. “Well, if I ever have a question about anything, I know who I’m coming to.”

He was sure he was blushing, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care. “I’m happy to answer any and all of your questions.”

She let her gaze travel over the rest of the costume. “Oh my god, the sandals! Man, you really nailed it. I’m very impressed.”

“Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “I thought about being Trunchbull, but I couldn’t find the sweatshirt,” he joked.

She laughed, and he wanted to bottle it up to keep forever. “As much as I would have loved to see your hair in a bun… you’re much too sweet to have been able to pull that off.” She smiled softly at him. “Much more suited to our friend the BFG.”

He rubbed a hand down the back of his neck, and it was only then that he realized Will and JJ had gone to the car. He looked back to Y/N, opening his mouth but unsure of what he was going to say.

“Y/L/N!” He turned his head to see Anita jogging toward them. “Did you—” The giant cardboard box she was wearing knocked into one of the few kindergarteners left in Y/N’s line, nearly sending them to the ground. “Oh my gosh, sorry sweetheart!” She righted the startled child, and Spencer gave her a once over, completely at a loss as to what her costume could be.

“What in the world are you supposed to be?” Y/N asked, choking out a laugh.

Anita looked at her deadpan. “A monopoly piece. Remind me that I’m never participating in team costumes ever again.” She rolled her eyes and gestured at Y/N. “Next year I’m gonna wear an orange t-shirt, call myself a carrot, and be much more comfortable.”

“I’ll have you know this costume was a lot of work,” Y/N remarked, crossing her arms.

“I’m sure it was. You could have put on an orange dress, stuck a green pipe cleaner in your hair, and called it a day, but that’s not the Y/L/N way.” Anita’s eyes slid across to where Spencer stood. “Well, hello, doctor. I have absolutely no idea what you’re supposed to be, but I love everything about it.”

“Spencer’s the BFG,” Y/N said, and Spencer could have sworn she sounded almost proud.

“Ah, Roald Dahl, of course.” Anita smirked. “I see you, Spencer. I see you.” She put her hands on her hips— or rather where her hips would have been if they weren’t covered by a ridiculously large box. “So, when are you going to volunteer?”

“Sorry?” he asked.

“Like, when are you going to volunteer in Y/L/N’s classroom?” She held up her hand, palm down, and made a circular motion between the two of them. “You know, hang out, but professionally.”

“Oh my god, did you need something?” Y/N’s squeaked, eyes wide.

Anita ignored her. “You just have to do a background check, but I’m sure you’ll pass it.”

“Lopez,” Y/N said, staring her down. “Do you need something?”

“Oh, I was just going to ask if you got the email about the PD after school on Tuesday. But this was much more fun.” She winked at Spencer. “Bye, Spencer.”

They both stared after her as she nearly skipped across the grass to the building. Y/N turned to him. “I’m— so sorry.”

He met her eyes and took the leap. “Volunteering could be fun.”

He watched her press her lips together to contain her smile. “It could be.”

He didn’t bother containing his own. “I’ll um— I’ll shoot you an email.”

“I’ll respond to your email.”

…

When he walked in the door, Spencer made a beeline for his desk. He opened his laptop and pulled up his email account, writing as fast as his one-finger typing would allow.

Spencer Reid Re: Volunteering

Hi!

I’m just following up about volunteering. Anita mentioned a form that I needed to fill out? Now that I’ll be back to work, I’ll just need to plan around the BAU schedule. Could you give me a list of days that would work for you?

Really looking forward to seeing you in action.

Spencer

He checked his two other email messages, and then left the browser up while he thumbed through his most recent reading material.

He sat at his desk for the remainder of the afternoon, distractedly perusing his book and glancing at his empty inbox every minute or so. His gaze flew up to the screen at the ding of a new message at 6:30, only to find a promotional email from one of his favorite indie bookstores.

He closed his laptop with a sigh. It was a Friday night. Y/N probably just didn’t check her email on the weekend. He could wait until Monday. He’d see her on Monday.

He limited himself to checking his laptop twice a day on Saturday and Sunday. When Monday rolled around, he checked it in the morning. He leaned back against the leather of his chair, staring at the empty inbox. He had some errands to run, and for the first time in his life, he wished he had a phone that had email on it.

He ran his last-day-of-sabbatical errands and stopped in at his favorite coffee shop for most likely the last midday, sit-down coffee he’d have for a while. Before he realized, it was 2:30. He brought his empty mug to the counter and waved to the barista. Then he walked to the car and prepped his conversation starters.

“Did you get my email? I sent you an email, just wondering if you saw it? Hey— Hello— Hi, I wasn’t sure if you got my email.” He blew out a breath. “Hi. How are you?” He waved his hand. “I’m great. Did you get my email?” He laughed into the empty car. “Ridiculous, Spencer. You’re ridiculous.”

When he pulled into the parking lot, his heart was racing and his palms were slipping against the steering wheel. He pulled around the loop, looking with a furrowed brow at the area where Y/N should be. In her place was a short woman with cropped grey hair. She held a clipboard and looked generally overwhelmed.

Michael sprinted to the car as soon as he saw it. He pulled open the door and let out a world weary sigh. Spencer turned in his seat. “Everything all right?”

“No, everything is terrible,” he huffed dramatically. “Ms. Y/L/N was sick today. Mrs. Franklin was our substitute, and she smells weird.”

Spencer looked through the window at Mrs. Franklin, struggling to keep a few rowdy boys in the line. “I’m sorry, buddy. I’m sure Ms. Y/L/N will be back soon.” He was secretly relieved that he had a potential explanation for the unanswered email.

“I can’t take another day of Mrs. Franklin,” Michael sighed, buckling his seatbelt. “I hope Ms. Y/L/N’s back tomorrow.”

Spencer let out a breath and pulled away from the curb. “Me, too.”

…

JJ huffed out a breath, glaring at the stack of paperwork in front of her. Spencer was nose deep in a book, but he glanced up at the sound. “I can take a few of those if you want,” he offered.

“No, it’s fine,” she sighed. “I’ve really only got six left.”

He looked at his watch. “Each report takes you approximately 37 minutes. With eight minute breaks in between, you’re not going to be out of here until almost 6:00.”

JJ laughed. “I can’t believe I missed out on these scathing performance reviews for thirty days.”

“Suit yourself.” Spencer dropped his gaze back to his reading.

His first week back from sabbatical had been uneventful to say the least. The team had just wrapped a local case, and they’d spent the better part of the week going over consultations and potentials. It was finally Friday, and Spencer was finished with his stack of backlogged reports.

He was finishing the last chapter of the book when JJ dropped a string of quiet curses. He continued reading, waiting for her to ask. She was quiet for another minute.

“I forgot I’m on duty to pick Michael up today.” Spencer looked up at her, slight panic coming over him.

“I really don’t mind finishing your reports,” he offered.

JJ raised her eyebrows. “What, no offering to visit Ms. Y/L/N?”

Spencer closed his book. “I, um. I sent her an email a week ago, and she hasn’t responded.”

“So?”

“So…” Spencer ran a hand through his hair. “That’s weird, right?”

JJ laughed. “You don’t really use email, so I’d imagine your inbox is pretty orderly. But if you use it a lot, it can be easy for messages to get lost.” She looked at him pointedly. “I can almost guarantee that she’s not ignoring you, Spence.”

He sighed. “I guess there’s a quick way to find out.”

...

Spencer drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, watching the door of the school. He glanced at the clock, noting the class was later than they’d ever been. Without really understanding why, he pulled out of the loop and swung back around to park in the lot. He exited the car, and as he rounded the hood, he spotted them.

Y/N was at the front of the line, hands stuffed in the pockets of her jacket and mouth pressed into a thin line. The line behind her was unlike he’d ever seen it. No waving arms, no smiles, no giggles. Twenty small bodies followed behind her with absolute and total solemnity, and he felt uncomfortable just watching them. It would have almost been funny if it wasn’t so dramatically out of character.

The line weaved around the more rambunctious classes, maintaining their grave expressions and quiet pace. They reached their spot on the sidewalk, and Y/N didn’t even have to say anything. Spencer watched as the line took their spots behind her. She held one hand up to acknowledge parents as they pulled up, murmuring stoic goodbyes to students as they headed to their vehicles.

He hung back at the hood of the car until the majority of the class was gone, slowly making his way across the parking lot. Y/N’s line of sight was pointed in his direction, but her eyes were unfocused in the afternoon sun. He could see the moment that she registered his presence, her eyes widening slightly and bottom lip releasing from the place she’d been absentmindedly chewing. She shifted her weight as he closed the final few feet between them.

“Hi.” She held a silent hand up in greeting. He clenched and unclenched his fingers. “Rough day?”

“It’s not always sunshine and rainbows, despite what everyone thinks,” she snapped. She blew out a breath and rolled her eyes up to the perfectly blue sky, mocking her mood. “I’m sorry. Yes, it was a rough day.”

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“You don’t deserve my wrath.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the students. “They didn’t either, but— too late for that.”

He watched as she lowered her head back down, rubbing a hand over her face. He desperately wanted to slay whatever dragons had given her normally brilliant eyes such a grey cast. “You have strong relationships with them, and kids are resilient. I’m sure they know you—”

“Please— don’t.” Her voice was thick, and she looked at him with desperate eyes. “I— I appreciate the thought, but I’m— I’m a frustrated crier.” Her shining irises proved her point. “And I’m just— I’m really just trying to keep it together for the last four minutes of my contract time.” Her words were practically a whisper, and she swallowed thickly and glanced down the line, just Michael and one classmate left, eyes downcast.

“I understand.” Spencer shoved his hands in his pockets to keep them from reaching out and touching her. “I’m sorry. I— I hope your weekend is better than today.”

Michael slowly left the line, murmuring a quiet goodbye to Y/N. Spencer put a hand on his shoulder and steered him toward the car, stealing one last glance at a crushed Y/N.

...

Y/N Y/L/N

Re: Re: Volunteering

Hi,

I meant to respond to this email, and then a bunch of things happened, and then I was out all week.

I don’t know if you even still want to volunteer after this afternoon, but it felt rude to not respond at all.

I’ve attached the background check form to this email in case you’re still interested.

Y/N

1 Attachment: Background Check

—

Hi,

I meant what I said this afternoon. Your students love you, and they know you love them. If my conversation with Michael in the car was any indication, they’re feeling rightfully embarrassed and guilty about their behavior while you were out.

Regardless of what happened today, your relationships with your students are strong enough that they will come to school tomorrow knowing that you still care about them. Children don’t hold onto things nearly as much as adults.

It would be a privilege to volunteer in your classroom, even on the worst day.

Spencer

1 Attachment: Background Check - Spencer Reid

—

If I wasn’t already crying, I would be now.

Thanks for that.

No sarcasm intended. Really. Thank you.

—

This might be inappropriate, and if it is, please just pretend like this email doesn’t exist.

I have a favorite cafe in the DuPont circle area, Soho Tea & Coffee. They have an excellent tea drink made with honey and milk that I like to order whenever I’ve had a particularly difficult day.

If you’re up for it, it’s on me.

———

Tags: @spacedikut @uhuhuh @itsametaphorbriansblog @90spumkin @blameitonthenight21 @magenta145 @annesauriol @watermelongubler @ampal98 @rainsong01 @meowiemari @mrsmyaweasley @mggsprettygirl @ceeellewrites @coffeeandendlesswords @daybabyx @joalsglasses @chevyimpala00067 @misshale21 @sapphic-prentiss @danifaithkae @saspencereid @heyitssomegirl101

Permanent tags: @andiebeaword @averyhotchner @pinkdiamond1016 @shadyladyperfection @coffeeandendlesswords @justanothetfangirl @no-honey-no @ajeff855

#spencer x reader #spencer x y/n #spencer x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds self insert #homoose writes #TMSIDK

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emersonfreepress · 3 years

Note

ok ok in the spirit of community, how would the ros fair in a paintball war?

(referring to this ask! like the zombie au post this ended up making me think a lot 😅)

ohh... interesting, interesting... p sure the only paintball wars i’ve really seen were the ones featured in The League, Peep Show, and Community... but let me wrack my lil head...

ok, i ended up coming at this from multiple angles like the zombie au post 😅 always so much to consider in battle environments! and in the spirit of community, I'll stick with the individual player elimination style paintball match. in the woods with other e prep seniors. last one standing wins bragging rights

Gabe

Shooting skill | 6/10 - Experience with shooting and practice with Kile ofc

Stealthiness | 8/10 - He's done a fair amount of sneaking around during his after school activities, is super observant (or just paranoid lol), and naturally light on his feet. Good luck ambushing him.

Strategy | 8/10 - Strike deals. Do favors. Form alliances. Shoot 'em in the back once they’ve outlived their usefulness. ...What? It’s just paintball.

How does he win? | Graciously. Gabe likes winning, and especially via strategic manipulation, so it puts a smile on his face. And he's in a good mood so he treats a bunch of you to ice cream or smth 👀

How does he lose? | Slumps in frustration at being outwitted or taken off-guard, sulks about it for a little while. He's not that sore of a loser but needs time to lick his wounds and stop thinking of the different choices he could have made.

Kile

Shooting | 9 - The most accurate shooter of the cast and easily one of the best shots at E Prep. Lots of practice + talent

Stealth | 10 - They're stupid good at climbing trees and 100% consider that a valid method of ambushing their classmates. People start having flashbacks to 3rd and 4th grade recess and P.E. Scanning the trees. They just start taking people out with such efficiency it quickly starts ruining the game 😂

Strategy | 0? 10?? - “...Strategy? You just stay out of sight and kill 'em all, right?” (immediately scolded by Gabe for word choice 🙄) They really do mainly stay out of sight and pick people off with max stealth, like 😆 they'd be such a terror, people would need to take them out early for anyone else to stand a chance! They spend a lot of the game staking out the most frequented paths in the area and taking out groups quickly, all at once. Then they'll get around to stalking and picking people off one by one. The real fun...

Winner type | Stoic. Likes winning combat but the stakes were non-existent, so... the win is meaningless! this just infuriates the losers more 😅 such disrespect

Loser type | Sucks their teeth and tosses their paintball gun to the ground. "Y'all suck." (they're over it five mins later tho lol)

Jack

Shooting | 3 - This is nothing like shooting light guns... ☹️

Stealth | 5 - Not just due to his size making him an easier target, but homeboy is liable to get distracted by a cute squirrel or some pretty flowers 😂 He's not great at keeping his voice down either so good conversation would make him easy to seek out. He's just out here enjoying a beautiful day 😅

Strategy | 7 - All that movie-watching (and DMing) make him a valuable creative mind for problem-solving, but he needs a cooperative team to be effective. Rescued and recruited by Rupan/Rohan early on in the game ^ ^

Winner type | Disbelief! And everyone’s content and satisfied with him winning. Except Vivian/Vincent, that jealous fool

Loser type | Doesn't mind losing at all! He just hopes he was a good teammate and was glad to have fun ☺️

Jessie

Shooting | 7 - Comes from a family of hunters, girly knows how to shoot.

Stealth | 6 - Familiar enough with woods and stalking prey to be capable of sneaking around. Having too much fun to not giggle and get overly invested in the developing plot of the game. Even more easily distracted by critters and flora than Jack 😅

Strategy | 5 - Oh, she's just here to have fun. She'll go with whatever the person she's teaming up with decides, but can adapt easily enough.

Winner type | Surprised... then elated! Bouncing and happy and it's completely contagious. No hard feelings about a single thing. Convinces Heidi to invite people to the Emerson Estate—it's a hot day and they have a nice pool

Loser type | Same as Jack! Congratulates the winner with a hug because she's sweet like that 🧁

Rain

Shooting | 2 - This... thing is so cumbersome. And ugly. At least it shoots pretty colors.

Stealth | 7 - Small and used to sneaking around different environments and seeking out hiding spots. Their height and frame makes them harder to spot too.

Strategy | 4 - Hide!!! They’re not getting assaulted with paint and pellets!! Especially not after managing to make this ugly jumpsuit look cute?? Waiting it out is perfectly legitimate. Might share snacks if you decide to join them in hiding 😆

Winner type | Falls asleep in an unexpectedly cozy hiding spot and emerges as everyone thought they’d declared the winner. I imagine R and others yelling at them to get their gun while the original winner scrambles to get theirs, just for Rain to win by pure luck of the draw. Won’t stop them bragging about it, though! (I want this spurned runner-up to be Vi bc ofc)

Loser type | "So I can stop holding this thing?" Yawn. "I'm so hungry and bored, we've been at this for hours..."

Rupan/Rohan

Shooting | 4 - Ah, shit. These don't shoot anything like light guns.

Stealth | 7 - They sneak out and around town a lot 😂 They just force themself to be careful about how loud grass and bushes are.

Strategy | 7 - They’re treating this shit like an action movie and banding together a ragtag team of misfits to take down the strongest alliances and players. Savvy enough to reject Gabe’s and Curt’s offers to join, not opposed to strategic backstabs. They're very clearly just as focused on having fun as they are on winning—and playing Predator, which honestly works with Kile runnin around. They even brought war paint and borrowed a tactical vest. Is it mostly packed with snacks and weed? Maybe. Does it prove useful for negotiations? Hell yeah.

Winner type | Raucous celebration, just pure joy and adrenaline ☺️ Celebrates with their team, brags a bit, rubs it into Vi's face, makes fun of Curt, the usual. Then invites allies out to get pizza because it's the obvious next step

Loser type | Mostly disappointed they can't keep playing. They're a little sore about being left out of the action, but soon just start chatting with other marked players about how the game went for them. Plenty entertaining on its own, they want all the details

Vivian/Vincent

Shooting | 5 - They've got a little bit of shooting experience.

Stealth | 4 - They're overly sensitive and hate being in nature. Their skin is sticky, they keep feeling bugs everywhere, they've gotten dirt all over their pants, it's so hot, they keep WALKING into SPIDERWEBS, [flails about, screaming furiously]

Strategy | 8 - They have good ideas, they're just difficult to execute alone, especially since they're getting sunburnt and getting crankier and can't stop swatting at insects 😅 they're one of the first people to figure out that someone's taking out groups from the trees, so they stay solo and try to find a single person to team up with. Really what they need is someone who's a better shot but easy to boss around. They can probably just owe them for an in-school favor...

Winner type | Barely suppressed gloating. Vi somehow finds a way to be an obnoxious winner almost entirely by the look on their face. Once they're in a smaller group, they're passionately discussing the details of the game and happily boasting about their triumphs (while glossing over all of the whining and and slip-ups lol)

Loser type | Booo, such a sore loser. (Especially in the scenario where Rain wins 🤣) If they're outsmarted or outgunned in a clear, transparent way they'll growl and stomp off, then quietly glower and sulk for way too long. If they're double-crossed or beaten in an underhanded way oh lord —they're fighting it to the end. R can't help but get involved either way, reminding them it was a damn game with literally no prize. "C'mon, Vi, chill. You want ice cream? Let's get you ice cream."

Heidi

Shooting | 6 - Some shooting experience.

Stealth | 8 - She's very aware of her surroundings and her body. Perceptive yet quiet. Tactical. All residual traits picked up from her many activities over the years.

Strategy | 9 - Most likely to outsmart everyone. The first one to figure out groups are being targeted from the trees. Goes it alone and only open to trading (unless she sees Curt with Jess in which case she puts a quick pin in her plans to rescue her 😂). She also immediately figures out it's Kile, because ofc it is. Keeps close tabs on what groups are doing, knowing that eventually Kile will come down to ground level to pick off individuals and couples. Predator becomes prey 👀

Winner type | Proud but not boasting. She doesn't need to be. Victory looks good on her, natural and fitting. Thanks everyone for a good game then takes the girls for a long ride in the Cadillac 😎 top down on a bright day, baby

Loser type | Damn. She should have won this. Maybe if she'd... She probably could have... Then she snaps out of it, roped in by the celebratory mood of congratulating the winner. She's over any feelings of frustration or regret after getting to discuss the match with the person that took her out/the winner and there's no hard feelings. If anything this was fun as hell, it should be an annual thing. ☺️

Curt

Shooting | 8 - Some shooting experience and a natural knack for it. Good reflexes.

Stealth | 8 - Curt likes to say he gets along with the woods around these parts. Sneaking around is second nature to him. Really good hearing too. He's an easy target if you manage to seduce him though, having no issue leaving himself vulnerable if it means that kind of fun 😂

Strategy | 7 - Honestly, he's most interested in seeing how long he can get away with using charm and seduction for both protection and double-crossing 😂 Eventually becomes persona non grata and gets all of his ammo stolen by a vengeful mark, barely getting away in the process. Since that jig is up, he finally starts thinking a win might be nice... and so he teams up with the only competent player who would never betray him and also inspires the least vitriol in others: Jessie. What? Is his back-up plan using her as a human shield? No! 😚 Of course not! 👉👈

Winner type | Insufferable and gloating. Rubs it in a lot of people's faces, specifically Heidi, Rupan/Rohan, and any participants who genuinely don't like him. Brags to Gabe (who is completely disinterested in gassing him up 😂), then promises he'll make things up to Jessie (who didn't mind and had fun lol). Then celebrates by asking whoever he's flirting with these days for a quick date—and a ride in the Ferrari. Makes a scene pulling out of the parking lot. Ass.

Loser type | Doesn't care one bit as long as he had fun! And he always finds a way to have fun, it's why he's so carefree 😅

#lovely anon #answered #ROs #scenarios #someone pls confirm that kile is using paint pellets thx #I can totally see myself writing this out as a an actual short story 😂#maybe as a kofi reward whenever I get that set up 🤞🏾#I don't think any of these are incomplete...

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moonbeambucky · 4 years

Text

Hey Neighbor (Part 16)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Word Count: 2694 Warnings: fluff

Summary: You had a plan and then life came along with one of its own. With your future almost derailed you worked hard to get yourself back on track and finally everything seemed to be going right… that is, until your new neighbor moved in.

A/N: Feedback is always appreciated!

PART 15 | HEY NEIGHBOR MASTERLIST

Six weeks. That’s how much notice Bucky gave you until the wedding. You said yes to being his date before you had actually confirmed anything with work. The wedding was on the first Saturday in June but you would need to take off of work that Friday as well.

Technically one day off from Stark Industries wouldn’t be so bad and as predicted you were given the day easily. Unfortunately, you would have to take two days off at Metro-General and you really hoped that would be alright.

You hadn’t taken many days off since you began; a day for when you had food poisoning, another on the day of Wanda’s museum exhibit, but the hospital was a busy place and Elena was notoriously strict. Plus the more days you took off meant the more hours you would have to make up, which meant the longer it would take to fulfill your final requirement before graduating.

Once again, Marya’s words come to mind. Life will not wait for you so you needed to live it in the moment. It’s only two days.

With renewed confidence you knocked on Elena’s door and asked for the days off.

“Vacation?” she wondered.

“It’s for a wedding actually.”

Her dark eyes lit up at your answer. “Oh very nice. Where is it?”

“I’m not sure exactly. Somewhere in Long Island,” you chuckled, explaining that you were asked by a close friend to be his date.

After all these months of working together you realized this was the most personal conversation you’ve ever had with Elena. You had always tried to respect the boundaries of her as your boss but it was surprising as she seemed to open up first, letting down the guard she had carefully built up to protect herself while working in this field. Her approach carried over with her co-workers up until now.

“Mack was a close friend of mine once...” she said, turning the picture frame on her desk around towards you.

The photo showed her in the arms of a medium-brown skinned man with a dark beard and shaved head. Her whole face was smiling as she stared into his eyes and he was looking back at her like she was the only thing that gave meaning to life. Judging by their clothes you realized this was a wedding photo.

“You’re married? Since when?” You may have blurted that out a little bit louder than you expected but it was a bit of a shock considering she doesn’t wear a ring.

“Since I asked him,” she laughed. “Two years now, but we’ve been together for six and friends for a lot longer than that.”

Ahh now you understand what she was implying. “It’s not like that with me and Bucky. Well…” You bit your lip with uncertainty. “I don’t know. We’re friends and we kissed once but he’s dating other people and–”

“Yet he asked you to be his date.” She smirked, giving you a knowing stare.

Elena had given you the days off but part of you wished she didn’t. On the surface, Bucky was just a friend asking another friend for a favor but the more you thought about your history the more conflicted you felt.

From the moment he’s come into your life you’ve felt something towards Bucky. Sure his looks were undeniable but there was so much more about him. The passion he had for music matched what you felt for social work, and you connected, both of you realizing that each field plays an important role in helping people.

The more your friendship grew it felt like you were always meant to be in each other’s lives and you couldn’t imagine life without Bucky since he had become such a huge part of it. But you weren’t anything more than friends. That’s all.

The warm sun shines directly into your eyes as you exit the subway, trying your best to hear Peggy over the increased amount of people on the street. New York was always crowded but warm weather was a magnet that seemed to pull everyone out of their homes, drawing them outdoors to enjoy the beautiful day.

With Wanda on your left the three of you talk plans for Memorial Day weekend; it’s two weeks away and you’re trying to organize something for everyone to do together.

“I’m not sure if Sam has off or not yet but I do have some news,” Wanda said enticingly, biting her lip to contain her excitement. So many thoughts ran through your head as you waited for her to drop the details. “Sam and I are gonna move in together!”

“Oh Wanda, that’s brilliant!” Peggy said, her red painted lips stretching across her face in a beaming smile.

“I’m so happy for you two! When are you moving? And where?” you asked.

“His apartment is bigger so I’m moving there, hopefully by the end of the month but we’ll see. It’s hard with his schedule sometimes but I definitely want to be out as soon as possible.”

You offered assistance to help her pack and Peggy suggested making it a night with girls, with wine as a little motivation. “Yes, perfect!” Wanda agreed.

If only finding a dress for the wedding was as easy as helping Wanda move. You had already made a few trips to the department stores, trying on the perfect dress that fit like a dream and made you look incredible. Unfortunately, it cost more than your rent so it went back on the rack.

Your disappointing trip was made a little better by the promise of your friends to help you which is what you were doing now. One more block to go and you would be at the boutique you’ve never heard of before where Natasha was meeting you.

Opening the doors made you a little concerned. The place looked like it was from another planet. The glossy black ceiling stood in contrast to the bright white walls that were made up of three dimensional geometric tiles.

Silver accented the space from the large framed mirrors that leaned against the walls to the velvet pewter asymmetrically curved couch outside the dressing room. The clothes themselves looked normal at least, dresses of all kinds displayed on racks within silver frames, making them look like they were encased in glass.

Peggy and Wanda spread out to look for dresses, trying to find ones that resembled the overpriced gown you had only taken a selfie of to remember it by. Immediately you were drawn to a rack of flowy pastel colored ones, draping a few different styles over your arm.

In the middle of your search you heard Natasha call your name, and turning around to greet her you didn’t expect to see an unfamiliar face. She stood next to a man that towered over her small frame. A shock of ice blonde hair and matching bleached eyebrows caught your attention first before you moved on to his outfit, a red vest, leather pants and fur coat that seemed to only have one sleeve.

“Y/N, this is Taneleer Tivan, owner of The Tivan Collection,” she whispered the last line in a way as if you were meant to know who he was.

“Oh, it’s nice to meet you,” you said, though his facial expression didn’t change.

Though his eyes were surrounded by a smudge of dark liner you were able to see clearly the way he looked down in disgust at the dresses you held.

“Carina!” he shouted, and a moment later a girl came running forward. She wore a white vinyl dress that looked more like something you expected the store to sell, although her outfit is much more subdued than her boss’s.

She waited in silence with her hands clasped in front of her, in what seemed like a routine she was quite familiar with. “These are all wrong,” Taneleer said to you and suddenly the dresses were being taken out of your hands by his assistant. “I have much better in my collection.”

To your shock Carina was beside you again, ushering you towards a different section of racks that had more appropriate gowns despite neither her or her boss knowing what event you were shopping for. Thinking back, the pastels might have been a bit too casual anyway.

As you perused the new section you found an assortment of beautiful dresses, some absolutely stunning ones that had you worrying about the price. Natasha can certainly afford a lot more than you but glancing down at the tag you were surprised to see how reasonable things were. You took out a few jewel toned ones to try on that caught your eye.

“Y/N, what do you think of these?”

Peggy’s soft voice made you turn around. The first dress she held up was a satin one shoulder gown in black.

“Oh I like the design,” you said, pointing to the ruffles falling from the shoulder.

The next one she held up was a shimmering emerald dress whose classic mermaid style made you feel like you should be going to the Oscars instead of a wedding.

“Peggy, that’s too formal!” Wanda chimed in, huffing as she came over with more than a half dozen sparkly dresses.

She made room on the nearest rack to hang them, excitedly showing each one off to you. The first was a gorgeous sequined dress, rose gold sparkling in the light. It was undeniably beautiful but you had reservations. You were a guest at someone’s wedding and didn’t want to draw too much attention.

“This one is similar but you’ll see the difference,” she added, holding up another rose gold sequined dress, this one with a plunging V-neckline and a low open back.

“Wanda, that’s…” You stopped yourself from saying anything, grimacing uncomfortably at the dress that was so wrong.

“That looks like a slutty prom dress,” Natasha laughed, saying the thoughts you didn’t say aloud.

Wanda scrunched her face at Natasha before continuing with the next set of dresses. They were less eye catching as the others but still in the sparkly realm. You set aside a shimmering off the shoulder dress in turquoise that looked more like the ocean glittering in sunshine. The neckline was still a bit low but the back was more appropriately cut.

Natasha handed you one dress, a stunning red gown of flowing chiffon with a beautifully embellished bodice of lace and beading. The high neck of the dress complimented the tasteful open back design.

“Okay I’m getting overwhelmed. I have to start trying things on.”

With dresses in tow you made your way inside the fitting room and closed the curtain. Natasha sat across from Peggy and Wanda, checking work emails from her phone despite it being Sunday.

“Nat, did you get your wedding dress from here?” Wanda curiously wondered as her eyes roamed the store.

Her lips pursed as she took a deep breath. “I haven’t found a dress yet. I think we might have to push off the wedding again.”

“What was that?” you said, pushing open the curtains.

Peggy’s face lit up with a smile as you stepped out in a purple dress with lace detailing on the bodice. “You look beautiful!”

Your head turned towards the larger mirrors for a second to admire how you looked in the dress before you remembered the muffled conversation you heard through the curtain.

“Wait, Tash, did you say you’re pushing off the wedding again?”

She huffed loudly, leaning over and covering the frustration on her face with her hands. When she finally lifted her head you saw the desperation in her eyes. “I’m ready to say ‘fuck it’ and go to the courthouse.”

With Natasha’s ever increasing workload you’re quite surprised she hasn’t done this already. It doesn’t seem like she and Clint have made any progress since you’ve known them.

“Forget me,” she said, waving her hand as if to push the burdensome thoughts away. “That dress is pretty but there’s no wow factor.”

You looked in the mirror, realizing she was right. The next dress you put on was the red one Natasha picked out and that one definitely wowed but not in a good way. The bodice of the dress had an uneven cut that exposed part of your sides making you feel uncomfortable.

The one shoulder dress Peggy picked out was too tight but even if there was another size you didn’t like the satin. Wanda’s sparkly dress was a maybe but you weren’t completely sold on it yet. After changing in and out of a few more dresses you started to sweat and all you wanted to do was leave.

While hanging the dress you just stepped out of back up you saw there was one more left and your eyes lit up. You don’t remember grabbing this dress but it was meant to be from the moment you slipped it on.

It was a beautiful navy blue gown, with fluttering ruffles down the modest V-neck that also mirrored the back. Compared to some of the others this was a much simpler dress but there was something about it that felt right. It fit like a dream, flattering every part of you while still allowing for movement. Weddings mean dancing and the thought of dancing with Bucky made goosebumps prickle all over your skin.

As you opened the curtain you saw everyone’s jaws drop, their eyes lighting up as you stood in front of them.

“This! This is it!”

“You really think?” you asked, looking over your shoulder to see how it looks from behind.

Peggy nodded her head, “Definitely. It’s perfect.”

“Bucky’s going to love it,” Natasha added.

You rolled your eyes, missing the knowing look the three of them shared. “Guys, this isn’t for Bucky. I want to look good for myself.”

“And you do,” Wanda said, “But he’ll also appreciate how good your ass looks in that, damn!”

Rolling your eyes as they burst out laughing, you admired yourself in the dress a little longer knowing this is the one. You went back into the dressing room with Bucky on your mind. Sure, he might stare at you all night in this dress but the truth is it doesn’t mean much more than that.

Bucky was actively dating and the only reason you’re going with him to the wedding is so he doesn’t spend a weekend with someone he really doesn’t know. Panic washes over you as you worry about the near future. What if he meets someone he really gets along with before the wedding and he resents the fact that he asked you to go. What if he uninvites you? What if–

“Hey I found a really cute clutch to go with the dress,” Wanda said through the curtain.

You finished getting dressed, grabbing the dresses you didn’t want first. Opening the curtain you found Carina waiting beside Wanda, ready to take the dresses from you. You thanked her and took the dress you were buying, holding it up next to the clutch Wanda found. It was glittering gold with a metal trim on the opening.

“Oooh I love it.”

Carina was waiting silently at the register in anticipation of you bringing everything up to pay. As you took care of that Natasha said goodbye to Taneleer, kissing him on both cheeks. You thanked him as well before leaving and his mouth curved into the slightest smile.

Late lunch with the girls went by faster than you expected and you were happy to finally be home, hanging up the dress in your closet. You knew you had shoes that would pair well with it somewhere in your closet, a search meant for another day.

Before bed you decided to text Bucky, even though part of you was hesitant about it. You typed away quickly, sending the text and turning off your phone before he could respond. From the other side of the wall Bucky smiled when he saw a notification with your name.

You: Hope your suit game is good because I just bought my dress and it’s 🔥🔥

He couldn’t wait.

PART 17

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes series

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knickynoo · 4 years

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Doc & Marty Friendship Mega-Post

As anyone who sees my posts knows, one of my favorite things to explore in regards to Back to the Future is Doc & Marty's friendship. There are plenty of examples of great dynamic duos in TV and movies, but these two are by far my #1. I know I’ve said it (many) times before, but I’ll say it again: their friendship is beautiful for so many reasons. So, I decided to put together a huge list compiling my absolute favorite things and moments about these two time-traveling best buds.

(Absolutely gonna need to put this under a cut. Going full-ramble, people.)

THE BED & THE AMP. Listen, I can’t even estimate how many times I’ve seen the first movie, and I never knew that there were two beds in the lab until like, 3 months ago? But it is such a good detail, and definitely one of my favorites. It makes sense too, because obviously there are probably nights Marty is helping out with a project & it gets super late so he just crashes there. But I can also imagine that Doc fully realizes that with Marty’s dysfunctional home life, his friend is gonna need a break from it all every so often. And the amp? Look, I don’t care how it came about. Maybe Marty asked Doc if they could build one. Maybe Doc decided completely on his own to just spend weeks putting the thing together. Either way, it is wonderful. Without any dialogue or backstory needed, these things tell us that Doc’s lab is a safe-haven for Marty. There’s a key right under the mat so he can come and go as he pleases, a bed for him, and a gigantic amp that he can play his music on without fear of being told he’s too loud.

The whole “If you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything,” line. I made a whole post about it, so I won’t go into my thoughts again, but yeah, it gives me feelings. (see post here)

How absolutely thrilled Doc and Marty are to see each other in the twin pines mall scene. (It is honestly one of my favorite moments in the entire trilogy, even though it’s almost a blink and you’ll miss it kind of situation.) In like 5 seconds, there are several things happening in rapid succession that wonderfully establishes their relationship. The warmth in the way Doc says, “Marty!”. The fact that they both immediately reach out to the other for physical contact. The smiles on their faces. This is not just a scientist and his assistant, people. These two need each other and bring genuine joy to the other’s life. I mean, look at them.

And this whole little scene is even more significant when you take into account the McFly dinner scene that we got directly prior to this. (See my breakdown of that scene here-it was one of my favorites to write) You see Marty go from this still, quiet, solemn shell of himself at dinner to smiling and asking questions and moving all around in excitement and it is FANTASTIC.

This line:

There’s just something kind of warm and familiar about it? The way that Doc says it almost as soon as Marty starts to ask a question & the way he reaches out to briefly grab Marty’s vest in order to further get his attention just seems to convey that this is something Doc is really used to. Like he knows that when Marty is curious about something and excited that a barrage of questions is soon to follow, so Doc’s in the habit of quickly reeling his friend’s focus back in when they have a specific task to accomplish. I don’t know, I just like it a lot.

The fact that Doc doesn’t “dumb” anything down. He rattles off all his scientific jargon, knowing that Marty has the capacity to follow along as best he can and ask questions if he needs clarification (in which case Doc will completely break it down with models or drawings because he’s all about helping Marty to understand). Unlike Strickland, Doc does not see a slacker. He knows Marty just needs to be engaged and that once he is, he’s totally into all this science stuff.

Marty & ‘55 Doc being so comfortable with each other after only a few days. Because Marty of course has to adjust to this younger version of his friend and Doc obviously just met Marty when he showed up at his house, yet there they are...already totally in tune to each other and being the best of buddies.

THE GOODBYE SCENES. See my ramblings here & here. For real though, Marty pulling Doc into that hug & looking absolutely broken with grief is probably one of my favorite movie scenes. Like, of all the movies I’ve seen. Yeah.

Doc traveling back and forth through time to try to pinpoint what went wrong with Marty’s kids so that he can stop it all from happening.

The scene on the roof of Biff’s hotel when Doc is there with the DeLorean as Marty steps off the ledge? And “Nice shot, Doc!” A+

The whole letter-reading scene in part iii. The way that Marty is wandering all over the lab in the background, touching everything and clearly trying to distract himself from the reality that he’s never going to see Doc again once he gets back to 1985. And when Doc is hyped out of his mind to end up as a blacksmith & Marty goes, “Pretty heavy, huh?” trying to smile but it vanishes instantly & there’s that look on his face that so clearly says he is miserable about this whole situation. And then. AND THEN.

THE ENDING OF DOC’S LETTER from part III. “You’ve been a good, kind, and loyal friend to me, and you made a real difference in my life. I will always treasure our relationship and think on you with fond memories, warm feelings, and a special place in my heart.” !!!!!! Honestly, sometimes I just think about the impact Marty must have had on Doc. Really though. Here’s this guy who’s spent most of his life in solitude. He’s super into science & shunned by the community for being a “nutcase” just because he’s a little different and quirky. So he throws himself into his projects, has only his dogs for companionship, and talks to pictures. Then here comes this kid one day who actually takes the time to SEE DOC and appreciate who he is. Who not only accepts him completely, but thinks he’s cool and totally best friend material. Imagine what it was like for Doc to connect with someone after so many years spent alone and looked down on.

The look of awe on Marty’s face during the scene with the telescope, as he realizes how smitten Doc is with Clara. He gives this great expression with his head sort of tilted and there’s this disbelief and wonder in his eyes as he takes in the fact that he’s seeing his best friend in love for the first time.

Just...all the times they risk everything to save the other’s life.

The ease with which they show affection to each other. It’s so natural and refreshing to see. They’re open and honest about their feelings, allow themselves to get emotional, and are totally comfortable with physical closeness in the form of a supportive hand on the arm or a hug.

** I of course have to acknowledge the completely baffling lack of a hug in the parking lot scene at the end of the first movie because...honestly, who was responsible for that? I would like a word with them. You’re telling me that after running all the way to the mall, scared out of his mind at the thought of Doc dying all over again, then the way that Marty just collapses and starts sobbing that he wouldn’t immediately grab Doc after seeing that he’s alive??? I tell myself that when the scene cuts after Doc delivers his line about the letter that there was a hug there**

So, um....yeah. I could go on I’m sure, but these are the main things that came to me when I started thinking about why it is that I enjoy these guys so much. It all goes back to the same theme I’ve mentioned in several posts. There is so much heart to these films, and a lot of it comes from the friendship between Doc and Marty. They’re both misfits in their own way. Doc is isolated from the community and Marty is living in a house devoid of support and healthy role models. They fill in gaps and are a source of safety and love in the other’s life. And I appreciate so much how these funny & exciting time travel movies are able to include such a complex, beautiful friendship between a 17 year old kid and an old scientist.

#ugh i finally did it #this took me weeks #i slowly compiled all the moments that stood out #please ramble about Doc & Marty with me #PLEASE #back to the future #bttf #marty mcfly #doc brown #nikki rambles

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chickensarentcheap · 3 years

Text

Never Gonna Be Alone: Chapter Six

Title: Subway trolls and pancakes

Warnings: none

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y , @innerpaperexpertcloud , @alievans007 , @tragiclyhip

They stop at the closest bodega for a cup of take out coffee and a carton of chocolate milk, then hand in hand navigate the snowy sidewalks on their brief jaunt to the subway. Tanner is excited about their morning out. Words rapidly leaving his lips as all his pent up thoughts come spilling out; sentences running together and often making little to no sense as several different topics messily mix together. But Tyler lets him get it out. Tanner often very quiet and shy and finding himself lost in the chaos of their home; unable to get a word in edgewise at times and then finding himself growing more and more frustrated. It always leads to a meltdown; tears and screaming hyperventilating and sometimes even the odd destructive episode. The latter hasn’t happened in a long time; both his parents and Tanner himself recognizing the triggers and the warning signs and able to calm him down before things escalate that far. It’s been a journey to say the least; learning how to both handle and help a kid like Tanner. Specialists and fellow parents of children with Autism and autistic adults themselves have been extremely helpful; they’ve found the strategies that aid him the best and in turn, help him thrive. Music therapy and appointments disguised as play, sensory items that provide him with the ‘break’ that he needs when overwhelmed, deep pressure applied with hugs and weighted blankets and vests. It’s a whole new world that has been both overwhelming and rewarding. Tanner isn’t the only one that’s being helped. It’s an adjustment for the entire family and everyone has had to make changes and sacrifices. But it’s also been a positive thing. What could have broken a marriage has actually made it stronger; working as a team and discovering just how strong and determined the other is and witnessing what lengths they’ll go to help their family thrive under even the most difficult of circumstances.

Tanner is a gift. An extra special one. In a way that his siblings aren’t. He’s opened their eyes to an entirely different existence, bringing out the depths of their patience and compassion. He’s beautiful and intelligent; the depths of his knowledge and information stored away inside that little brain simply profound. And talented; cooking and baking, drawing, playing the guitar and singing. But he DOES struggle. Anything social is a challenge for him; extreme difficulty in making friends, becoming extremely shy and withdrawn and even scared if a stranger approaches him for even the smallest of chit chat. And his fears and triggers are numerous; thunderstorms, needles, too much noise and conversation going on around him at once, the sudden and sharp clattering of dishes, the seams inside clothes. Things that most people would never even notice, are extremely heightened for him. And while most are easily recognized and identifiable and the entire family goes out of their way to accommodate him when possible, new issues seem to arise every day.

But the subway is one of his favourite places. The dark tunnels don’t faze him, nor does the crowd of people during the more busy times. And when the noises become too much he knows to simply put on a pair of sounds cancelling headphones and then concentrate on something else; whether it be a book he’s brought along of a sketch pad or even games and videos on one of his parents’ phones.

This morning he’s in his glory; kneeling on the seat beside Tyler, nose pressed against the window as he stares out into the darkness. The subway is quiet; people choosing to stay in after the snowstorm or already flooding earlier trains in hopes of beating the masses that will flock to malls and boutiques to complete their Christmas shopping. While extremely advanced intellectually speaking, he’s a lot younger in other ways; social skills and emotional maturity putting him around the level of a five or six year old. The difference is most apparent when he’s with his twin; TJ becoming older and wiser with each passing day while Tanner struggles to get to the level at Declan -or even Brooklyn and Takota- functions at. And he’s much smaller than his older brother as well; gifted with his mother’s height and slender body and some of her petite features. But there’s never any problem recognizing the Rake in him. The facial expressions and mannerisms and that Australian accent that he’s developed; much thicker and stronger than any of his siblings.

“Dad?” Tanner pipes up from beside him, one hand tightly gripping the top of the seat while the other keeps a firm hold on his chocolate milk; stomach pressed against the back of the seat, his father’s arm wrapped tightly around his middle.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think the subway trolls are real? Do you think they exist?”

“Subway trolls??”

“Remember the subway trolls? TJ talked about them during the summer. When we came here to visit Ovi. About how there’s trolls living down here. Do you think it’s true? Do you think there’s really trolls down here?”

“Something tells me that’s something your brother made up: to freak Takota out. He had nightmares for three weeks after that.”

“Everytime we come on the subway, I try looking for trolls. But it’s dark and the train is fast and I can’t really see ANYTHING. But it could be true, yeah? There really could be trolls. They could exist.”

“Trolls aren’t real. It’s just something that people made up. A long time ago. They just exist in movies and books. Like in The Lord of The Rings.”

A look of visible disgust appears on Tanner’s face. “Those are Orcs. NOT trolls.”

“Same thing.”

“No, dad. They’re not. You need to read the books again. Orcs and trolls are NOT the same. I mean, they’ve evil, but orcs aren’t much stronger than humans. Trolls have superhuman strength. Plus, they’re HUGE. Orcs are just the size of normal people. Even mummy knows this stuff.”

“That’s because mummy is a nerd.”

“She’s not a nerd! She’s very smart. In a lot of different things. She even speaks three languages. You only speak one.”

“I speak two. English and profanity.”

“Swearing is NOT a language.”

“You’re right, it’s not. It’s an art form.”

“You do have A LOT of swears in your vocabulary. It’s pretty impressive; that you know that many bad words. You know twenty different ways to say the F word. That’s cool. You’re smart in your way and mumma is smart in hers. Is that why you fell in love with her? ‘Cause of how smart she is?”

“It was one of the reasons.”

“I wanna meet a girl one day. Like mum. Mum is super cute and tiny and really funny. She makes me laugh a lot. And she’s got a really nice, kind smile and pretty eyes.”

“Yeah, she does. She’s pretty special, huh?”

“She is,” Tanner smiles.. “You’re a lucky guy, daddy. She loves you a whole bunch. I see it in her eyes, you know. They get all sparkly and shiny when she sees you. Like yesterday when you got home. As soon as you got out of the cab, her entire face changed. Her cheeks got rosy and she had a huge smile and her eyes were shiny. Like she was going to cry but not crying eyes at the same time. I want to meet a girl like mummy. Then I’d be lucky too.”

“You would,” Tyler agrees. “You’d be the luckiest guy on the face of the earth.”

“I’ll ask mummy about the trolls. When we get home. She might know. She lived here before. Maybe she’s seen one. That would be so freaking awesome.”

“Something tells me that mummy hasn’t seen a subway troll. Something also tells me they don’t exist.”

“Why you say that?”

“Have you ever seen one? I’ve never seen one.”

“Just because we don’t see things, doesn’t mean they don’t exist. I haven’t seen a lot of things, but I know they’re real.”

“That’s a very good point, actually.”

A sudden pout appears on Tanner’s face; entire body stiffening. “I don’t like this part of the ride. It gets really noisy and extra dark here. Can I sit on your lap now? You make me feel safe.”

Nodding, he places the backpack sitting on his lap between his feet. It contains everything the ten year old could need during the time out; headphones, weighted lap pad, various fidget items, an extra sweater that’s a size too small but Tanner enjoys wearing because it’s ‘tight and feels like a hug’. Scooping his son off the seat next to him and settles him on his thighs; Tanner wrapping both arms around his neck and sliding his body forward in order to have that comfort of body against body. And he slips his hand up the back of the little one’s jacket, hoodie, and t-shirt; giving him that press of a warm, soothing palm against his bare skin.

“I don’t like this part, daddy,” Tanner whimpers, and tightens the hold on his dad’s neck. “It’s scary.”

“It’s okay, mate. I got you. You’re fine. Close your eyes; I’ll tell you when it’s over.”

“Alright,” he squeezes his eyes shut as tight as he can. “I trust you.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you. Ever.”

“I know you won’t. But it’s still scary.”

“Nothing to be scared of,” Tyler assures him, and presses his lips to his temple; the end of his nose resting against the side of Tanner’s head as he speaks to him in a low, quiet voice. “Nothing can hurt you. Ever.”

“Not when you’re here. You won’t let anything hurt me.”

“Anything or anyone. You’re alright, mate. Just breathe. It’s almost over. Just a couple more minutes. Why don’t you tell me about some of your dreams? The ones you were writing about? Tell me some of them and I’ll read the rest. I want to hear about them.”

“Okay,” Tanner takes a deep, shaky breath, but keeps his eyes screwed shut as he launches into a recap of one of his many dreams.

Tyler’s not sure how many of these dreams are actually real; they’re vivid and often far beyond Tanner’s level of maturity. And he often wonders if it’s just tales the ten year old has conjured up in his own mind; a very detailed and colourful imagination that is often underused AND under appreciated. But he never questions their validity or ‘tunes out’ when his son is sharing his stories; letting him indulge in that little fantasy world of his where things probably seem a lot easier to handle and cope with. And it gives Tanner a sense of confidence and pride in himself; knowing how well he can both tell a tale and how well received it is by the one person he’s always so eager to please and make proud of him.

Today the dreams are about dragons and sea life. Two very distinct ‘dreams’; the first consisting of Tanner being the brave and noble knight that saves the princess and an entire kingdom from an untimely demise. The second he’s an underwater explorer; making friends with all the marine creatures and building a completely self-sustaining and livable underwater habitat for both humans and sea life. And he sees the way people around them react to both Tanner’s story telling and the gentle and calm way Tyler deals with him; the smiles and the comments about how ‘cute it is’ and even the praises of ‘it’s nice to see a daddy out with the little ones’.

“Is it done yet?” Tanner inquires, as the last of his final tale leaves his lips. “Are we past the scary part?”

“Yup. All done.”

“Good,” he heaves a sigh of relief. “But can I still stay here? Can I still stay on your lap?”

“You can stay there as long as you want, Nug.”

“I love you daddy. Thank you.”

“No worries, mate. I love you too.” He removes the hand from underneath Tanner’s clothing and briefly lays it on the back of his head; placing a kiss to his cheek before wrapping his arm around his waist. Even THAT’s been a learning process; expressing emotion and talking about feelings and showing affection. He’d grown up not being allowed to do any of those things; his father only beating him more savagely if he cried or begged for him to stop or if he cried over the loss of his mother. Meeting and marrying someone that craves both giving and receiving affection had been a real eye opener; showing him just how badly the old man had screwed him up both physically and mentally.

“Nug?”

“Yeah?”

“I gotta ask you something.”

“About what?”

“Mummy.”

“I don’t know what she wants for Christmas. She says ‘nothing’ EVERY year.”

“I already got that all figured out. This is about something else.”

“Okay. What is the something else?”

“When I was gone, did mummy seem sad?”

“Mummy is always sad when you go away. She misses you.”

“But did she seem extra sad, maybe? Did it seem like she was having a hard time with me being gone? A harder time than usual?”

“Maybe a little. I mean, she was really sad. She did cry a few times. And locked herself in the pantry once. But that’s ‘cause Millie was being mean and driving her nuts. I pushed tissues under the door; so mummy could wipe her face and blow her nose. We all get snotty when we cry.”

“I’m glad you help mommy out. Especially when she’s sad. You’ve always been good at that; helping take care of her. What about at night? Anything go on at night? Maybe you were supposed to be sleeping and you heard some things? Maybe mummy really upset and crying hard extra hard or…?”

“I snuggled with her a couple nights. On the couch. Because she said she said she couldn’t sleep and that she was feeling lonely. I went down to get a snack. I know I shouldn’t have; that I’m not allowed downstairs by myself in the middle of the night. I’m sorry, daddy. I was hungry though and mummy wasn’t in your room and I went looking for her. She was eating ice cream out of the container and watching Sex and the City. Are you mad? That I went downstairs by myself?”

“No, mate. I’m not. You went looking for mum, right?”

“Yeah, because I was hungry and I knew she would make me a snack. She always makes me an English muffin. Toasted. With a piece of cheese and two slices of tomato on it. With pepper sprinkled on top. And when I couldn’t find her upstairs, I got worried. So I went looking for her. We had snacks and she let me have some ice cream and then we snuggled on the couch watching Sponge Bob. I stayed up until she fell asleep, and then I went and got the big blanket of your bed and your pillow and took them downstairs and tucked mommy in. Then I went back to bed. Once I knew she was really fast asleep and comfortable. I gave her a goodnight kiss. Three, actually. Two on the lips, one of the forehead. Like you do. You always kiss her on the forehead.”

“You are a good son, Nug. A great son. That loves his mumma very much.”

“She’s the best mummy in the whole world. If I could pick mummies, I’d pick her above everyone else. Because she loves me no matter what. She doesn’t care that I’m different. That my brain doesn’t work like everyone else’s. She just loves me. No questions asked. Just like I love her no matter what. Even when she gets mad and yells. But I don’t like when she cries. It makes my heart hurt.”

“Was she crying a lot? While I was gone? More than she’s ever cried before?”

“I guess. TJ and I could hear her the first couple of nights. Crying in the bedroom. We were going to see if she was okay, but we didn’t want to get in trouble. Takota and Brookie went in though and slept with her. She seemed okay in the morning. She likes when we come in to cuddle. She doesn’t like the big bed all to herself.”

“Did she say anything to you? About me being gone?”

“Not to me. But I heard her talking to Desi. He came over every night to check on her and make sure she didn’t need anything. I heard her saying how worried she was about you. That she was scared something would happen and she’d never see you again. That she’d already almost lost you twice before and that she couldn’t take it a third time. Desi tried to talk her down; told her everything would be okay and that you’d be home before she knew it.”

“That was it? The whole thing you heard?”

“Most of it. She also said that she’s never loved anyone the way that she loves you. That you couldn’t ever possibly understand how much she does. That you saved her. In every way someone can be saved.”

“She said that?”

Tanner nods, then reaches inside Tyler’s jacket and pulls out the wool beanie he’d put in one of the pockets for safe keeping. “Will you help me when my glasses fog up?” he asks, and he yanks the hat down onto his head. “They always fog up when we go out in the cold.”

“I will help you.”

“And over the really high snowbanks?”

“I’m going to toss you in those. Have to call someone to dig you out.”

“Daddy…” he crosses his arms over his chest and stares at him pointedly. “...that’s not very nice.”

“I would never do that to you. TJ, yeah. You? Never.”

“You know…” Tanner scrambles off his lap as the train begins its final approach to their station, then curls all of his fingers around three of his father’s “...if I got to pick daddies, I’d pick you.”

Tyler smiles down at his son. “You would, would you?”

Tanner nods. “In a heartbeat.”

*****

Breakfast is a success. A small diner in Battery Park that Tanner had found online three years ago; spending hours online searching for the best pancake spots in New York City and reading all of the reviews and browsing all the menus. He’s very detail oriented. Choosing places to eat and shop on not just popularity and the items being offered, but on the way the food appears in pictures; a keen eye for attractive colour palettes and neat and tidy -and appealing- presentation. He’d put so much research and time into it that Tyler hadn’t had the heart to tell him that maybe somewhere closer to home would be a better fit; no ‘scary’ trips on the subway meant less crowds and noise and almost assured no sensory meltdowns which in turn, would mean an extremely hard day for Tanner. Once something is ‘set off’, he remains on edge and anxious for hours; the mere stress of his brain going into overload causing him to be destructive and aggressive. The latter is always directed at himself; yanking his hair out, banging his head off walls, scratching himself until he bleeds. And while it’s always a worry that something will spark the behaviour, they’ve become better at recognizing the warning signs; identifying triggers and able to remove him from a situation before it becomes too much for him to bear.

The morning had gone well. Tanner had been talkative and cheerful; uncharacteristically engaging with the waitress and carrying on conversations -albeit brief, as too much chatter and eye contact make him extremely uncomfortable- with fellow diners. He’d only had difficulties twice. Needing his weighted lap pad and some fidget toys when the wait for food was longer than expected, and a flight to his father’s lap when a larger group of diners came in and their voices were needlessly loud and obnoxious. A tight as possible embrace and encouraging and comforting words whispered had quickly soothed him, but he’d still insisted on staying perched on his dad’s thighs while he finished the remains of his breakfast.

After a quick trip to the Cartier store -a little something for mummy as a form of both apology and an excuse to spoil her- and to pick up some novels to read at Tanner’s favourite used book store, they returned home and onto the final ‘event’ of the morning; time spent at the private park. It’s cold and the wind brutal, but Tanner is in his element; loving the way he can ‘crash’ into the snowbank at the bottom of the slide, tend to building his own snowman without interference from his well meaning but way too hyper younger siblings, and time on the swings. And while he has two of his own hanging from the ceiling in his bedroom, he prefers being outside; leaning as far back as he can and staring up at the sky. It’s gray and dreary today, but he’s in his glory; catching snowflakes on his tongue and giggling the entire time.

That laugh -one he’d inherited from his mother- is more than enough to tolerate the frigid temperatures; a hot cup of coffee and the hat and gloves Esme had both nagged him about taking along -and had resorted to shoving into the pockets of his coat before he stepped out the door- enough to stave off the chill. And he’s leaning back against the wrought iron fence and sipping the strong brew -two shots of espresso helping to fight off the lingering exhaustion from jet lag- when the gate to the park swings open. It’s a highly controlled and private area. Only those who live in Gramercy Park have access; given keys when they take up residence. And while he isn’t necessarily worried about the stranger joining them, that old inkling of hyper-vigilance never fails to make an appearance when he spots an unfamiliar face. It’s the years spent on the job; burning bridges and stepping on toes and making a lot of enemies along the way. Revenge is par for the course; dirtbags sticking up for other dirtbags and seeking vengeance for fellow drug lords, rapists, murders, child predators. The list is vast and seemingly endless; he’s gone up against the lowest of the low and somehow lived to tell about.

The worry is always there; that someone will come looking for him and then use his greatest weaknesses to destroy him. It’s why he’s extra careful now; willing to do anything in his power to keep his family safe. Five years ago had been bad enough; if word got back to the wrong people that it was his business employing the mercenaries sent to clean up messes, the result wouldn’t be pretty. Far more devastating and widespread than what happened at the hands of Mahajan and Asif’s remaining people. And while he highly doubts that the woman and child stepping through the gate pose a threat, his brain immediately tends to think of the worst. Especially when one of his children -arguably the most vulnerable of them all- is with him. But he manages a polite smile in the woman’s direction, then shuffles his weight from foot to foot when she approaches; an attempt to keep warm and his discomfort at the idea of having to be social. It was one of the things that sold on him buying the brownstone; no one bothered with him and likewise didn’t seem to give a shit that he mostly stuck to himself.

“It’s amazing how they can stand being out like this,” she comments, as she sidles up next to him.

It’s way too close his own comfort; the sleeve of her fur lined coat brushing against him. He sidesteps; putting just enough space between them to let her know she’s invading his space, yet enough to come across a complete asshole. She’s new to the area; a face he hadn’t seen last Christmas or during the month they’d spent in the Big Apple over the past summer. Tall and slender; shoulder length blond hair sticking the bottom of the black and gray knit beanie and too much make up on her face.

“My daughter LOVES the snow,” she continues, nodding in the direction of the little girl attempting to make conversation with Tanner. It can go either of three ways; Tanner acknowledging her presence and actually speaking in return, completely ignoring her and acting as if she doesn’t even exist, or he’ll be so anxious that he’ll flee to his father’s side for comfort. “It’s why she took moving here so well; used to the weather in Utah I guess. I’m Natalie,” she offered a slender hand encased in a lambskin glove.

“Tyler. You just moved here?”

“Couple weeks ago. Took a job with Goldman Sachs. I’ve always wanted to live here, mind you. A dream going back to my childhood; Central Park, Broadway shoes, shopping at Bergdorfs. A lot of stuff on my to do list. Your accent; you’re a long way from home.”

“Our second place is here. Kids love coming to stay. Especially during the winter. They love having a white Christmas.”

“Must be a change. Going from somewhere hot and sunny to this. Why go from the ocean and the sand to snow and slush? And most of all, why New York City?”

“My wife spent some time here. Fell in love with it. Always wanted to get back. And our oldest lives here. In Queens. He’s in his first year of med school.”

“You have a kid old enough to have done four years of undergrad and is now in med school?”

Tyler nods. There’s no need for specifics. No reason to tell a complete stranger about Ovi and his background and how he’d wound up going from Mumbai to Colorado and then onto Australia. That part of their lives is firmly rooted in the past; Dhaka, Asif, Mahajan Senior. And it’s not something either of them enjoy revisiting. The years have gone by excruciatingly slow; leaving mountains of mental and physical issues behind. “I’ve got grandkids too.”

“Seriously?”

“Two of them. Boy and a girl. Three and eight months.”

“You’re a grandpa?”

“As much as I hate being called that, yeah. I am.”

“Makes you feel old? Being called that?”

“Just thinking about it makes me feel old.” He takes a swig of coffee; watching as Tanner abandons his snowman and his new playmate in favour of returning to the swings. The ten year old is doing better than expected; not growing agitated or anxious when the little girl immediately follows him and once more attempts to make conversation.

“How old is he?”

“Ten. Eleven next month.”

“He’s shy. Or he’s already playing hard to get when it comes to girls.”

“He has Autism. Aspergers. It’s one of the things he struggles with; making friends.”

“I’m sorry, it must be hard. It must be…”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. I mean, look at him. He’s healthy. He’s happy for the most part. He’s beautiful. He’s a good kid. A REALLY good kid. We’re lucky to have him.”

“And are those your only two? The med student and him? Quite the age gap.”

“Actually, I have six more at home.”

Natalie’s eyes widen. “You have eight kids?”

“I do. Well, technically the oldest one isn’t mine. Not by blood. We took him in when he was fifteen. But I do have six more at home.”

“All biological?”

Tyler nods.

“All with the same mother?”

“Every last one of them.”

“I don’t know whether you’re crazy or brave. Or a mix of both.”

“Guess that’s up for debate. It’s a pretty full house.”

“God help the woman who got pregnant SEVEN times.”

“It was actually only five times. We have two sets of twins. Ten and five.”

“Wow,” Natalie laughs. “That’s quite the brood. You don’t see that very often these days; big families like that.”

“Once we started, we couldn’t stop I guess. We were supposed to be done at four, but…”

“Things happened.”

“That’s one way of putting it. You said you just moved here?”

“Number thirty-three. You?”

“Eleven.”

“The one right on the corner? With the two dogs? A shepherd and a…”

“Australian shepherd. Mac and Saju. Two major pains in the ass.”

“They love to stand on the couch. Look out the front window. My daughter always waves to them. She keeps hoping one day they’ll be outside. So she can meet them.”

“They’re standing on the couch because they like to spy on the neighbours. And growl and bark at the squirrels. They’re used to koalas and kangaroos. Not squirrels. They’re not the brightest, but they’re loyal.”

“I walked by the other day and when I saw all the kids out front, I thought it might be a daycare. That was a nanny with them? Cute little thing with dark hair. Didn’t look old enough to be their mom.”

“That IS their mom,” he confirms. “My wife is very tiny and cute. And I agree; she does NOT look old enough to have that many kids.”

“It would be nice to meet some of the other families around here. There aren't many with young kids, so it was a relief to see people at the park. My daughter’s always looking for new friends.”

“Well, she’s got a lot to choose from at our house, that’s for sure. I don’t think the wife would mind if you popped by. She’s the social butterfly. Complete opposite of me.”

“I don’t know, you seem to be holding your own in this conversation. A little gruff at times and straight to the point, but…”

“This is me on my best behaviour. It doesn’t get any better.”

A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “I think it’s perfectly fine how it is.”

Smirking, he downs the remains of his coffee and tosses it in the nearby trash. It’s a line that’s been crossed. Not appreciating little smiles and flirtatious comments and the insistent way she keeps stepping even closer to him; not realizing that he grows more agitated and uncomfortable each time he moves away. It’s annoying; unwanted attention even AFTER you’ve told someone that you’re married. Most women -and some men- seem to take it as a challenge; an extra thrilling chase to land someone that’s declared themselves unavailable. And maybe it’s worked for them before; landing a guy that claims to be happily married and getting him to abandon all his morals and betray the one person he’s supposed to love more than life itself. But that sure as hell ISN’T him. He doesn’t need or want anyone else. Perfectly content to spend the rest of his existence with just one person; happy to wake up to the same face every day, kiss the same lips and make love to the same body , and hear the same voice and laugh.

“Daddy!” Tanner calls as he bounds through the snow; wrapping both arms around one of Tyler’s thighs. “Can we go now? I’m getting cold. And I miss mum.”

“Yeah, we can go. I bet she misses you too.”

“Hey there, cutie.” Natalie smiles, and crouches down to the little boy’s level.

“No,” Tanner shakes his head and slides behind Tyler, hiding himself behind his father’s legs. “Please don’t.”

“He doesn’t like eye contact. Not with people he doesn’t know. Scares him. It’s okay, Nug.” Reaching behind his body, he lays a hand on the back of Tanner’s head and gently pushes; encouraging him to come out of hiding. “Don’t be nervous. I’m right here. Nothing’s going to happen. Just people trying to meet you. Wanting to be friends.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all. Just someone being nice. Can you come on out? At least say hi? There’s nothing to be scared of.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. Come on…” he lifts one leg, allowing Tanner to slip between them. “...can you just say hi? I won’t ask for more than that.”

Tanner nods, both arms once more wrapping around his father’s thigh; body leaning into him, needing that comfort and support. “Hi.”

"I’m not trying to scare you, I promise,” Natalie says. “Just trying to make friends. What’s your name?”

Tanner glances up at his dad. Looking for reassurance. And permission.

“It’s okay. You can tell her.”

He looks back at the woman in front of him. “Tanner.”

“How old are you?”

“Ten. Almost eleven.”

“I hear you have a lot of brothers and sisters.”

He nods. “I have a twin. He’s older than I am. His name’s Tyler. Like daddy.”

“And is he as handsome? As you and daddy?”

“I don’t know. I guess. He’s really tall. And strong. Like daddy. He’s almost taller than mummy already!”

“Well your mum’s pretty tiny,” Tyler reasons, and straightens out Tanner’s scarf and hat; pulling the beanie down over the tops of his ears. “Speaking of mum, want to go see her?”

“Yeah,” Tanner nods enthusiastically. “I wanna see her. I miss her. I want to give her a hug. And her goodies. We got mum her favourites,” he addresses Natalie. “Mummy loves croissants. From a certain place. So daddy and I took the subway to get them. And he got her something really nice. From a really expensive jewellery store. There was lots of sparkly stuff in there. Mummy likes sparkly stuff but never lets daddy buy her any. She says he spoils her too much.”

Natalie smiles. I’m sure your mom deserves to be spoiled.”

“Oh, she definitely does. She’s the best mummy. And the prettiest. She puts up with a lot. Especially from Millie. That’s my oldest sister. She’s a bitch.”

Tyler frowns. “Tanner….”

“I’m just sayin’. Millie is really mean. She’s almost a teenager. That’s why. They get mean at that age. Girls. That’s what daddy says.”

“And on that note,” Tyler chuckles. “I think we should go home. You’re gonna wanna pee soon, aren’t ya.”

“Yeah. And you can’t drop your pants and go in the bushes here. Wayyyy too cold. I got snow in my boot. My sock is wet. I can’t walk in wet socks.”

“You could if you wanted to. It’s like a hundred feet away.”

“Naw. I don’t like it. The feeling. My foot is cold. And wet. My sock is too squishy.”

“You’re demanding.” Scooping Tanner up with one hand, he settles him on his hip, then reaches for the bags he’d hung earlier on the rungs of the fence. “Ready to go? Go and see and mummy?”

“Ready, Freddy. I’m hungry.”

“Me too.”

“You’re ALWAYS hungry. Giants eat a lot. Bye” ! Tanner waves a mitten in farewell in Natalie’s direction. “I like your hat, by the way. I like the panda bear pin on it. It’s sparkly. And I like panda bears.”

“Well, I like your glasses. You’re awful cute, you know that.”

“Cute like daddy, smart like mummy,” Tanner declares, as he curls an arm around his dad’s neck. “Bye new friend!”

“Bye, kiddo. You be good. Although something tells me you always are.”

Tanner giggles. “You’ll change your mind once you get to know me. I can be really annoying.”

“Something tells me you’re more cute than annoying.”

“Just you wait,” he singsongs, and then gives one final wave before being carried out the gate.

#Tyler Rake #Tyler Rake fan fiction #Extraction fan fiction

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omgthatdress · 4 years

Text

How to make Cats a good movie.

I watched Cats, and once I got over the initial horror, I was actually pretty entertained and found myself enjoying the shit out of it. Like god bless it, for as nightmare-inducing as much as it was, Tom Hooper was clearly *committed* to his vision and you gotta give him credit for that. The scenery was actually really beautiful and the cinematography was frequently breathtaking. Like it really did have a lot of elements that really worked for it. But for every bit of genius, there was something terrible that the movie just couldn’t overcome. So let’s dive in.

First of all, you kind of have to understand Cats: the musical. It’s an adaptation of poems that T.S. Elliott of nihilistic lost generation fame wrote for his godchildren about cats. And the poetry is charming af and totally captures the nature of cats and why they’re so lovable. In the in the 1970s, Andrew Lloyd Webber did a shit ton of cocaine and decided to make a musical out of these poems. As a result, Cats has no plot. It’s a bunch of cats singing their songs about who they are and doing a lot of dancing. The thinnest of narrative devices is created with the “jellicle” ball and the deciding of which cat gets to ascend to heaven or some shit. So yeah. Cats is actually pretty controversial among theater nerds, it’s very much a you either love it or hate it thing. Is it stupid? Yes. Is it going to make everyone happy? No. Does it lend itself well to film adaptation? fuck no. I get the feeling that Tom Hooper was really going for deep, meaningful poetic cinema here and trying to make another Les Mis (which was way overly long and ultimately sank under its own sheer weight as a movie and probably is better viewed as a play). I’m operating under the assumption that Hooper was going for ground-breaking cinema that would have made millions and swept up during awards season and cemented him as a legendary director and gone down in movie history, because every little detail of Cats is clearly meant for maximum impact. You kind of need to drop all expectations going into Cats, so once you’re there, you can have fun with it. So how do you make it a good film?

1. The HORRIBLE hyper-realistic cgi human-cat hybrids. YES, it’s a technical marvel, and the CGI artists who made it all deserve a ton of credit for the work they did. And I understand why the actors were kept in their human shapes: live dance is a huge part of what makes Cats work. One of the smart decisions made was hiring theater veterans for the filler roles in the cat chorus, so when you have the choreographed numbers, it’s really spectacular. It’s just the end result was way too uncanny valley and bizarre for any of the film’s good parts to ever rise above it. I think a minimalist approach would have actually worked best. Cat ears and simple costumes with clean lines that show off the dancer’s bodies. Go for the suggestion of cats, and kind of let the viewer’s imagination take over, and showcase the cat’s personality. A huge part of what I enjoyed was hearing the poetry and imagining these cats and how they all relate to cats I’ve known. The dance and the music helped heighten this experience, but hybrids kept reminding me of the joke: what do you get when you cross a human and a cat? An immediate cessation of funding and a stern rebuke from the ethics committee.

2. The schlocky, honestly amateurish attempts at slapstick humor. I’m gonna come out and say it and say that Hooper is pretty deeply entrenched in *dRaMa* and has no sense of how comedy works. There was a lot of added in comedic bits from Rebel Wilson and James Corden, and it was honestly terrible. I mean really, a crotch hit? That kind of lowbrow comedy is so crude and base that it’s actually really hard to pull it off well. Slapstick comedy actually lends itself to the whimsical tone, and slapstick done well can be utterly sublime, but Cats seemed satisfied that fat people falling over is the height of comedy and should be left at that. And a second note on the comedy? Weirdly fat-shame-y. A saw a post about how odd it is to see James Corden, who has been very frank about how he’s struggled with dieting and come to accept that his body is fat and can’t be made not fat, playing this role where fat is added to his body, his CGI vest strains at the buttons, and he’s literally stuffing his face with garbage. The theme of fat people as lazy, stupid, and slovenly carried over from Rebel Wilson’s role, in which she also plays a fat lazy cat who is leaned on heavily for comic relief. I know the role is about a fat cat, and gently laughing at a fat lazy cat who loves to eat is fine, but, speaking as a fat person myself, this felt like a gleeful exploitation of a nasty and cruel stereotype. James Corden and Rebel Wilson are both extraordinarily funny people who happen to be fat, and their comedic gifts were tremendously mis-used here, reducing them to simply two fat bodies to be laughed at.

3. Jennifer Hudson. She’s a talented actress who can sing and emote like a motherfucker. And emote she did. She was clearly GOING for that second Oscar. I really don’t want to call her performance bad. The same level of emotion, tears running and snot flowing, in another movie, would have been devastating (Hello, Viola Davis in Fences). But this isn’t Fences, it’s fucking Cats. You need a level of character depth and development that Cats doesn’t afford to make those tears hit. All the crying and misery was an odd maudlin and over-dramatic break in the fun and whimsy. With a subtler performance and a hint of self-awareness, it could have actually brought in an emotional anchor for this light-as-air film, but Cats doesn’t make any attempt at nuance, and as a result the scenes just hit you out of nowhere like a load of bricks.

4. Francesca Hayward. Okay, before we go anywhere, I want to say that this girl is not un-talented. She’s the principal ballerina of the Royal Ballet, and has a very long list of ballets that she’s lead in. So it makes sense that she’d be hired for a role that’s primarily ballet. This girl is a really really great DANCER. But Cats was clearly trying to make an A-list actress out of her. They tried to make her into Florence Pugh, who has been acting for a while and is blowing up right now because she’s very talented. Like everything about Francesca’s role in the film said “This is a star-making role.” A new song was written just for her to sing as an addendum to Cats’s show-stopping signature song. But the song was just okay, it didn’t carry nearly the emotional weight or all-around beauty of “Memories,” and all in all felt wedged-in and totally unnecessary and really just felt like a grab at that “best original song” Oscar. Francesca’s voice is high, thin, and child-like. It’s not unpleasant, but next to the richness and depth of Jennifer Hudson’s voice, it crumbles, and it’s not the sort of voice that I want to seek out to listen to over and over again. As for her overall performance, she largely keeps the same look of wide-eyed wonder throughout her numerous close-ups, so much so that I found myself thinking of the the MST3K “dull surprise” sketch. But I don’t know if that’s really entirely her fault. There was an attempted romantic storyline with the magic cat, but again, because of the nature of Cats and its lack of real character development or depth, the chemistry fell flat. There really isn’t much of a chance to show off a lot of dramatic range, so to keep going back to her character, it kept reinforcing the one-notedness of her performance. Really, I just kept wanting to see Francesca dance. Ironically, I think they really blew an opportunity trying to make an A-list actress out of her. All she really need to make people want to see more of her is one spectacular dance number, but for some reason, she never really gets that show-stopping moment.

5. Dignity? I guess this goes back to the whole CGI cat thing, but there were a lot of moments when I felt this tremendous wave of second-hand embarrassment hit me on behalf of the talented actors in this film. Watching Gandalf lap up milk from a saucer was a wholly uncomfortable experience, like come on, grant the great Ian McKellan some fucking DIGNITY here. Which goes back to whatI said earlier that a suggestion and interpretation of cats would have worked better than all-out just being a cat. Or it could again just be how much Cats just fails its attempts at comedy. But then again there was no fucking reason at all for Idris Elba to be that fucking NAKED. I guess they were trying to make him sexy? But his sexy smolder and just being Idris Elba wasn’t enough they had to make sure that we all saw his chiseled pecs and thick thighs. And then at the end when he’s dangling off of the rope of a hot air balloon and what’s supposed to be a funny scene, I think, I kept thinking “I’m so sorry this is happening to you, Idris.”

There’s a bunch of other small, nit-picky things that I could go into. Those cockroaches would have worked so much better if they weren’t humans with an extra set of arms. Watching them get eaten was some horror movie shit. Taylor Swift’s Macavity song would have worked a lot better if the cat chorus full of cats we’ve gotten to know had sung it, but instead Taylor Swift is brought in as a new cat we don’t know whose only purpose is to sing the Macavity song? but of course a big oscar-bait movie needs to have that pop star that draws in the people who wouldn’t otherwise see it and making her a part of the cat chorus would have had her performing throughout the whole movie and she would have floundered the way pop stars tend to do when performing musical theater around a bunch of musical theater actors. So I guess I get why she was thrown in.

So.... yeah? Is there anyone else who found themselves enjoying it in spite of everything? I’m glad I have dogs and didn’t have to watch this mess with actual cats around me.

#Cats 2019 #Cats

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notcanoncompliant · 4 years

Text

Flight (And What That Means To You)

Merry Christmas to @darker-soft-starker! <3

@starkersecretsanta

(I read your prompt and my brain took off, totally deviated from the rom-com feel, I hope you still like it!!)

warnings: mild violence, anxiety attack symptoms (kind of)

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The Prompt:

Canon Divergence AU - Tony and Peter are neighbors. Tony is not obscenely rich, just a regular Joe, maybe a cop or something and lives across the hall from Peter's apartment. Peter is still Spider-Man and regularly gets caught by Tony limping back to his apartment bloody and beaten, peter gets stuck to his doorknob and there are a lot of awkward moments etc

And away we go...

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Like many important things, Tony’s life resets with a ‘bang’.

On his back, ears ringing, staring up at inky-grey smoke that eats up whatever view there had been of the stars, he takes ragged half-breaths and wonders if he’s done enough, if this was the right way for him to go. When his vision tunnels and his consciousness begins to recede, he still doesn’t have an answer.

You’re lucky.

It’s what everyone keeps telling him. Lucky he was far enough away from the blast that he didn’t lose any pieces, lucky his vest held up just enough to keep the shrapnel from burying itself in his chest.

Lucky.

He might be, but it’s hard to feel it when he still hurts like there’s a baby grand parked on his ribs. Harder still when he wakes up, over and over and over, with the taste--the grit--of sand and copper in his mouth the echo of too-hot sun on his skin or the stinging, freezing cling of ice water on his face (in his mouth, his eyes, his stomach, his lungs--he can’t, he can’t, pleasenomorehecan’t).

It takes him four days to wake calmly enough he doesn’t bolt upright, doesn’t frantically pull off sensors and yank the drip out of his arm, doesn’t get held back down and sedated.

It takes four days for him to get his hands on a notepad and a pen.

When he does, he draws a metal behemoth shooting into the open sky.

He has no idea what it means, but he feels free.

‘Indefinite medical leave’ should’ve been a punch to the gut, a slap to the face. By the time they’d gotten around to giving him the mandatory psych eval, though (and it had gone as swimmingly as expected), he’d been out of the hospital for three weeks, and well-acclimated to feeling like he’d taken a fist to the stomach.

Before, he might’ve argued, fought, done his best to prove that he could still be an asset to the team, that his mid-forties are practically his prime, god damn it!

He doesn’t, though. None of it seems as important as it used to.

Being taken off the force is the least of his concerns, not when the tug to vent the dreams (visions, almost) onto paper-canvas-something is so strong he shakes with it.

The dreams are wild. Vivid and jarring. He draws bits and pieces of them all.

He’s got the time to do it, now.

Rogers is the first to stop contacting him. Barnes follows suit.

Clint hangs on a little longer, but ultimately stops coming around after the first month.

Rhodey doesn’t feel like a loss, for all that he and Tony have undeniably drifted apart. Rhodey’s got his family; Carol and the kids. He has time for coffee, for a quick chat sometimes. He doesn’t ask after the dreams. Tony doesn’t blame him.

Nat sticks around a little longer. Stops by every couple weeks. Comes in and drinks his crappy instant coffee and looks at whatever he’s working on. Sees him go from pencil sketches to paint.

When she sees his latest piece, she arches a brow at him.

It’s a glove, she says, flatly. The hint of good-natured amusement sparking in her eyes is nice, even if it’s not enough to counteract the rest of her reaction.

She’s a better liar than the others, because she lies with her whole body, her whole self. It’s only because Tony knows where to look does he see the wariness in the way her glance keeps flicking back to the canvas, catching on the bronze shape, on the spots of bright color that contrast so sharply.

The visit ends more quickly than usual (and they were never long to begin with), the redhead gone after a well-crafted excuse and a lingering hug. Tony knows he’ll see her again, but it still feels like a goodbye, of sorts.

He’s not bitter about any of it, doesn’t blame or begrudge his team for not staying; their jobs, their lives didn’t end when Tony took that blast, when a cut-and-dry shipyard raid (as cut and dry as any raid can be) went a little sideways.

And, if he’s being honest, the relative handful of times he’s seen any of them after his retirement (after four months he’s given up calling it ‘leave’, given up assuming he’ll ever even try to come back), there’s something hanging silently over them, dragging between them.

The feeling of distance (and slight relief when they part) is mutual, Tony thinks.

There’s one constant, outside the dreams. One figure flitting in and out of the corners of his days, his nights, his mind.

His neighbor, Peter, is a mystery. A gorgeous, twenty-something, world-weary mystery who’s eyes flicker too sharply over the whole of Tony’s body whenever Tony opens the door to find him standing there at completely ridiculous hours.

(Not that Tony’s got a healthy circadian rhythm to disrupt, anymore).

It feels less like random kindness and more like he’s been assigned security detail, the kid’s greeting and polite inquiry--How are you today, Mr. Stark? (because he can’t get the kid to call him ‘Tony’)--accompanied by eyes moving too sharply over the whole of Tony’s body, checking for damage, before he’s off again to do whatever it is he does.

Tony’s not really sure what to do with it at first, how to respond. He’s not used to being watched over, is typically the one doing the watching, the protecting. It’s especially difficult the first couple of times, because the kid--Peter--always looks a little worse for wear; favoring one or more of his limbs, and at least one visible, fresh bruise, small scrape or cut marring his features.

He does him the courtesy of not asking about them, because Peter doesn’t ask invasive questions and obviously tries very hard not to look past Tony and into the apartment, important concessions to Tony’s privacy. It’s only fair to let Peter have his, feels like an even (if increasingly painful) trade-off.

He also doesn’t want to do anything to risk losing this. He’s glad his ‘detail’ keeps showing up. Keeps existing.

After a while, it becomes routine. Once a day, Peter knocks, Tony opens, and they have their exchange. It’s...a spot of light in Tony’s world, even if it feels sort of heavy.

The lightness is due in part to the way that, regardless of apparent injury or hour of the day, Peter always offers Tony a genuine smile, even if it’s also quick or small or tired.

Sometimes, though, the smiles are more grimace than anything else. There are bands of steel behind those ones, and Tony wonders how (why) this kid got so strong, and why it doesn’t seem like there’s anyone telling him he doesn’t have to be. On those days, Tony thinks about inviting him in, offering to take a look at the injuries; he’s got first aid training and still keeps his own supplies in his place.

(He doesn’t ever offer to drive Peter to the hospital; the option never seems to occur to him until after Peter’s already vanished, down the hall or into his own apartment across from Tony’s.)

There’s something that stops him, something beyond the respect for Peter’s privacy. Something about the faint blush that appears on Peter’s cheeks sometimes during their short conversations, something about the way his own eyes sometimes drift over Peter’s form in return.

He wonders, sometimes, what Peter would think of the paintings.

He's imagined it a few times; showing him, watching him see them. He doesn't know if Peter's into art at all (not that Tony even really is, not in the technical sense), but it wouldn't really matter; Tony's fantasies don't usually revolve around the younger’s critique of his work.

More than anything, he wants to see Peter in his minimalist-but-cluttered space, sitting on his couch or leaning against his kitchen counter, propped against the windowsill, a mug of something hot in his hands and a truly relaxed smile on his face.

Sometimes the fantasies are less innocent, but...something in him just wants to see Peter safe.

“Okay, we need to talk about this.”

They’re standing in Tony’s doorway, another ass-crack-of-dawn ‘status check’, and there’s blood actually trailing down from Peter’s left sleeve, dripping off the kid’s fingers.

Peter fidgets in place. “...About what?”

In spite of his concern, Tony nearly snorts a laugh at the completely terrible evasion.

He reigns it in, arches his brows. “You’re getting you on the carpet.”

The kid shoots a quick glance downwards at his hand, blanching slightly. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s--it’s really nothing, I just--”

“‘Nothing’ is a papercut, Peter,” Tony snaps. “Putting aside the bruises, fat lip, and the fact you’re obviously favoring your right leg, you’re standing here with blood running down your arm. That’s not ‘nothing’.”

He’s tired and frustrated and afraid, finally venting these feelings after weeks of this, weeks of wondering if Peter’s just going to stop showing up, weeks of being on edge between visits even if they come like clockwork because he just can’t lose these moments, he can’t--and he doesn’t realize he’s moved forward into Peter’s space, how close he is until he finishes speaking.

Peter’s staring at him with saucer-wide eyes, a pink stain on his cheeks, his slightly wheezing breath fanning across Tony’s chin.

Tony backs off quickly, hands in the air. “Fuck, I’m sorry--”

“It’s okay,” Peter says, and Tony watches the bob of his throat as he swallows. “You--I’m okay. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I am. You don’t need to worry about me Mr. Stark.”

The determined set of Peter’s jaw is both compelling and frustrating, and Tony just barely manages to muscle back his urge to argue further.

“Just...I’m here,” he says, finally. “If you need to talk. If you need anything. Please.”

Something desperate and pained slashes across Peter’s features, and then it’s gone. The younger man nods, short and tense, turns and disappears into his apartment.

Tony stares at the closed door for another moment, before stepping out and shutting his own door, heading down the hall.

Air. Air will be good.

Air is good. It’s always good. Always helps after the dreams, chills away the sweat, clears his head.

It doesn’t do quite as much, now, when his worries are linked to reality instead of a dreamscape, but it feels good nonetheless.

He stands on the roof of the complex, high up, until the edge of the sky begins to change color. Like he does every time he comes up here, he thinks about his favorite of the dreams, the brief period when his nights were filled with the exhilaration of flight.

He hopes Peter has somewhere like this, that he has something good to return to, his own version of reaching the sky.

"Mr. Stark, I don't feel so good..."

Wind. Reddish puffs of dust in the air, unnaturally colored sky--everything is wrong, everything is ending, failure, failed, no--

"I don't wanna go, please--I don't wanna go!"

He can't lose him, he can't lose the kid--it's his fault, Tony's fault--he shouldn't have been here, he shouldn't have--

Tony bolts upright, gasping past the taste of dust in the air--gritty on his tongue, in his throat, burning his eyes.

With a clumsy, half-conscious drive, he drags himself up off the couch to the easel, practically throwing the painting of the glove (gauntlet) to the side and slapping a blank canvas up.

He doesn't start this one with a pencil sketch, no swipes of graphite or charcoal. The paint ends up on his bare hands, coating his fingers, and then he's frantically tracing and contouring a face, neck, shoulders, craggy grey rock and more of that reddish dirt--shades of beige and brown, orange and red and blue, grey and black twisting (crumbling) away.

Time is nothing, a non-entity; all Tony knows is the need to touch, to hold, to stop the inevitable--

When it's finished, the energy drains with disorienting suddenness. It's difficult to keep his arms extended, so he doesn't; he pulls them towards himself, hunching over with a sob and burying his trembling, paint-tacky hands in his hair.

The dreams have only ever been abstract; images in a mental blender. Vague human shapes and random objects, landscapes--weird, vivid amalgamations of feelings and colors and sensations. Tasting the dirt, feeling the loss; those things are par for the course.

But none of the people in them have ever had a voice; no one has ever said a word.

He couldn’t make out clear features of the face, even staring head on...but the voice that still rings in his head sounds a lot like Peter’s, and now that the frenzy is over, it’s almost paralyzing.

After an indeterminate number of minutes, the dream fades in the way dreams do, and he uncurls with a heaving sigh and stands, drags himself to the kitchen counter to make coffee.

He's already painted it out, it’s usually enough, but when he sits back down in front of the easel, he feels sick, anxious. His hands are unsteady, knuckles white where he grips the handle of his mug, the liquid inside it rippling slightly.

Patches of the paint are still shiny-wet on the canvas, and part of him wishes it would stay that way, something about the wetness making it seem alive. It's blurred, as though he’s looking at the image from behind frosted glass, but there’s an obvious shape, the body of the owner of that heart-rendingly familiar, rasping voice. It's faceless; a kernel of (relative) normality he clings to, so he can try to convince himself this painting doesn't feel like the manifestation of his greatest failure, of a grave error that doesn't really belong to him but still spreads, aching, behind his ribs.

He's sore everywhere--his shoulders and neck from being hunched over, his arms from being held aloft for far too long. His hands ache, too, and they’re dry, paint cracking and peeling in an ugly neutral blend of the colors he'd smeared on his fingers.

He showers, manages to get the paint out of his hair.

But he can’t watch as the color flecks and melts (disintegrates) from his hands and disappears down the drain.

Every day.

Every day for the last four days.

The dreams and the art are a cycle: he dreams, he draws, he gets a few days respite while he finishes the piece...and then he wakes again from a new nightmare or dreamscape and starts over.

He’d finished the first painting the same day...but he keeps having the same dream. Keeps hearing Peter beg to stay, keeps feeling the body in his hands crumble away to nothing. The taste of dirt in his mouth won’t leave, isn’t touched by coffee or food. He’s got five variations of the same painting piled in the corner of his apartment, and he’d been sure that if he doesn’t do something, he’s going to live the same horror over and over and over.

So he’s doing something.

He’s maybe ending this vicious repetition, but he’s also making up for the way he’s been ending their conversations more quickly, the way he’s been holding back and hiding, pretending he doesn’t see the flicker of hurt on Peter’s face when Tony’s the one who evades, bids farewell and closes the door.

He’s the one knocking, now.

“Mr. St--Tony?”

Seeing Peter like this--standing there in a t-shirt and boxers in the doorway of his apartment, less bruised than normal, looking confused and alive, he looks amazing--blows whatever plans Tony had away, ash on the wind.

He doesn’t think, just sighs Peter’s name and pulls the younger man forward into a tight hug, buries a hand in his hair, presses his face in the softness, too, everything in his head spinning with relief and joy and a painful kind of apology--

--before he notices how stiff Peter’s gone in his arms.

Probably because, in the months since they’ve been doing this, they’ve never actually engaged in physical contact...or had a real conversation beyond the single argument those days ago. Peter doesn’t know about the dreams; he doesn’t know anything, and Tony must seem like he’s having a mental break.

Before he can make himself let go, though, Peter’s arms snap up to wrap around him, tight, so tight it makes Tony’s ribs ache.

It ends too soon, Peter pulling away to stare at him with suddenly wet, red-rimmed eyes and hope so sharp it hurts to look at.

“Are you--do you know? Do you remember?”

Cold trickles down Tony’s spine.

He knows, without a doubt, he should. He should remember, and he doesn’t. It feels like another failure that he can’t say ‘yes’, that he can’t bring himself to answer that hope with something other than tense silence.

His heart breaks when Peter steps back after a few seconds, looking embarrassed and a little panicked.

“Never mind, I’m sorry--”

“Wait, no,” Tony blurts, barely resisting the urge to pull Peter back in. “Don’t--Look, I can’t...I don’t know what you’re talking about, but maybe you could tell me? I just…” He sighs, frustrated at himself, at the feeling that he’s missing something huge and that huge thing is Peter-shaped

“I just need to be around you for a little while,” he finally says. “Is that okay?”

He’s sure he’s going to get a door shut in his face; Peter’s expression is torn, aching, and Tony wouldn’t blame him in the slightest.

But he’s lucky.

“Um, yeah,” Peter says carefully after another long moment, something like resignation coloring his tone. “Come in, please.”

The layout of Peter’s apartment is a mirror of Tony’s, but significantly less cluttered. Pretty minimal, actually, less like a choice in aesthetic and more like he’s only just moved in: a futon and a desk for furnishing, a small microwave and coffee pot on the counter, no pictures on the walls or taped to the fridge.

Tony’s not judging, can’t; he’s never lived particularly extravagantly either, and his studio only looks lived in because of the art supplies taking up a good third of it.

As for the lack of personal touches, of photos, memories...If anything, it makes Tony feel a further sense of closeness, of camaraderie. He doesn’t have pictures up either, not anymore; can’t look at the ones of he and the team, of he and Rhodey through the years. Not since everything changed.

The futon draws his gaze, again, still pulled down flat, like Peter’s just woken up, or had just laid down for bed. Tony stares at the pillow and rumpled, pulled-back comforter, and feels a twist of guilt (not enough to leave, but it’s still there).

“I’m sorry about the mess,” Peter’s saying as he closes the door and moves to stand a little off to the side. “I wasn’t expecting company at...um. Whatever time it is.”

Cracking a joke would be ideal to diffuse the tension, or maybe even giving a generic, polite response (‘it’s fine’, ‘I don’t mind’, or, ‘you have a lovely home, literal man of my dreams’), but when Tony pulls his gaze from the futon, Peter’s lips are curved in a tight smile, his stance awkward, yearning, like he’s trying not to approach Tony, but he wants to.

“Can I touch you again?” Tony asks.

He realizes how it sounds as soon as he’s blurted it out, and as he watches Peter blush, lips parting in silent surprise, he wishes he meant it that way; that he was only trying to finagle his way into further messing up Peter’s bedspread, wanting to touch for a reason so mundane as arousal, instead of out of the powerful desire to reassure himself of Peter’s continued existence.

Before he can apologize or rephrase, he’s got an armful of shaking, but warm and solid, Peter.

Peter’s face--his cheeks, his nose, his lips--are warm, pressing into the bare skin at the junction of Tony’s neck and shoulder, a sensation that takes Tony’s breath away more so than the return of the tight bands of Peter’s arms, one low around Tony’s waist, the other angled up between his shoulder blades.

Fabric tightens across his shoulders and a little at his neck, like Peter’s gripping a handful of his shirt, and Tony feels more than hears the younger speak.

“Yes, please. Touch me.”

Tony swallows thickly and hugs Peter back. The ‘thank you’ is burning in the back of his throat, threatening to spill out...so he lets it. Breathes it strained and hollow into Peter’s hair, the kind of ‘relieved’ that hurts so much worse before it gets better, and Peter shivers in his hold.

It shouldn’t feel so good. It shouldn’t feel better to hold Peter, this virtual stranger, than it does to even think of being near his family, his old friends (his other friends, other; they’re not gone, they’re just...distant--not gone, not gone, not wrong), but it does. It feels right, in a way nothing else seems to feel anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he hears himself say, “I’m so sorry, Peter, I’m sorry…”

He’s sure he’s holding on tight enough now that it has to hurt, but he can’t make himself stop. His hand ends up back in Peter’s hair, fingers twisting into the soft brown curls, his other hand gripping at the back of Peter’s thin, worn t-shirt, and suddenly he needs more. Needs more proof, needs more confirmation that he’s not dreaming, that Peter’s not going to crumble apart in his arms. He’s just not sure how to say it, if he can--

He flinches when he feels Peter shift, feels him nosing at his throat, feels lips parting.

“I miss you,” Peter whispers, ragged and strained, breath warm against Tony’s skin, and it doesn’t make sense, but it does.

The fading bruises on Peter’s skin taste the same as the pale, unblemished places, are just as soft when Tony’s lips and tongue brush over them, and this isn’t what he’d meant to do, but it’s what’s happening now and neither of them appear inclined to stop it.

They should be talking; Tony should be wondering about the question Peter asked when they hugged for the first time. He should be panicking about how Peter apparently knows him enough to mourn him (he’d said ‘I miss you’ the way Tony talks to his mother, like he was talking to a gravestone) even though Tony had definitely never met him before he left the force, before the dreams. Would’ve remembered a face like his (an everything like his, really).

But they’re not talking. Instead, he’s tangled with Peter on the futon, dragging his lips from bloom to bloom of fading green-yellow-purple down Peter’s torso, his scalp tingling with every reflexive tightening of the fingers in his hair, the disbelief and awed arousal on Peter's face as much an aphrodisiac as the taste of his skin, the texture of it under Tony's hands.

Every motion feels like something slotting into place, the restless places in Tony's mind settling a little further, the empty spaces filling with heat and emotions too big for how little he really knows this person--this beautiful, strong, wonderful being.

Tony’s not panicking. He’s not wondering. He still doesn’t know how this is happening, still doesn’t know Peter beyond the last few months, barely knows him now, but nothing has felt this easy, this right, in a long time.

When Peter spills, warm and liquid, over where their hands are wrapped together around their twin hardness, Tony swallows Peter's soft gasp, kisses him and groans Peter's name as he finds his own release.

There are things he needs to say, things he needs to show Peter, the way he knows there are things Peter needs to show him, tell him.

The enormity is there, a strangely relieving weight, blanketing as they sink into each other in soft, post-coital haze.

It's complicated. It’s bigger than the dreams, bigger than anything Tony can fathom.

But when Tony fades, curled together on the futon, Peter's head under his chin and one of Peter’s hands resting on his sternum…

He dreams of flight.

***

#starker #starker secret santa 2019 #tony stark x peter parker #ironspider #nff #tony stark #peter parker #starker fic #multiverse au #canon divergence au

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ears-awake-eyes-opened · 4 years

Text

Something undefinable

(During the 73rd Hunger Games, the Training Center goes into lockdown. Haymitch and Effie, on the verge of a relationship, get stuck together in the penthouse. ❤️💥☀️ — Cinna’s presence in this fic is off-canon, but I adore him so much I just want more of him, you know.)

***

Effie limped from the elevator to the penthouse, regretting her decision to break in a new pair of shoes on day 1 of the Games. The boy from 12 had died quickly, but the girl survived 10 hours before being killed. Effie’s hopes for a victor were dashed. Then there was the press to contend with. She highlighted what she could of the accomplishments of her tributes and conveyed gratitude to the sponsors that she and Haymitch had garnered for the girl. Their support gave her more time in the arena but ultimately didn’t change her fate.

It was a long day to be stuck in uncomfortable footwear.

Even though the sun was setting and her tributes were dead, Effie’s day wasn’t over. As long as deals were being made, she wanted to witness the action and show a favorable presence. How else would she hope to secure an escort position in an inlying district? Not likely with a win from 12, since in 73 years that had only happened twice.

The doors to the penthouse opened, and she hobbled into the living room where Haymitch was sitting side-by-side with the bar cart. His coat, vest, and tie were lying in a pile on the rug. A few buttons of his shirt were unfastened, as were his cuffs. He rolled his sleeves up and opened a bottle of liquor, having already finished the dregs of a first.

“I had to talk to the press alone thanks to YOU, Haymitch!” She chastised him as she eased onto the sofa. The shoes cut into her heels, and she bit her lip to stifle a grimace.

“When the kids stop being alive, my mentor job is done. If you wanna talk to the press, then fine. Those kids will still be just as dead when you’re through.”

Effie winced at the truth and winced again as she unstrapped her shoes and worked them off her feet. The shoes fell to the rug, and she rubbed her strained muscles and tender skin through her stockings.

As amused as Haymitch was with facets of Effie’s vanity, he didn’t like seeing her in pain. “Are you okay?”

She let go of her feet and sat up as if posture alone could keep up a facade. Sometimes it worked, but not today. “It’s just... I’ll be...” Her expression shifted to tears as she shook her head ‘no.’

Haymitch was quite comfortable in his chair, with his feet up on a cluster of coffee tables and a bottle of gin in his hands. He’d planned to drink there until he fell asleep. If Effie had been having a breakdown NEAR him, then he might not have had to move. But, damn it; this girl, who he liked now much more than he didn’t, was at the FAR end of a long couch, and she was failing at trying not to cry.

He rose slowly from the chair, bringing the bottle with him. He sauntered along the curve of the sofa and sat on the coffee table in front of Effie. Setting the gin beside him, he drew her feet onto his lap.

She leaned back against the couch cushions as he worked his thumbs over her stockings. “What are you doing?” she questioned.

“Today sucked, honey. I’m trying to help you feel less like shit.”

She brushed her knuckles along her face to clear the tears, then closed her eyes and enjoyed the sensation of his hands on her. Long turquoise eyelashes pressed to her cheeks. “I can’t stay,” she said unconvincingly. “I’m changing shoes, then going back down.”

“It’s over.”

“Not for everyone. If I make connections, I may eventually be able to escort tributes with better odds in their favor.”

Haymitch paused, then kept massaging. “In a different district.”

She looked at him. “I didn’t expect to get so attached to the children. Then they keep dying, and... I...”

“What? Grew a conscience?”

“Haymitch! That’s not fair. I’ve always known what’s expected; I just didn’t expect the way I’d feel about the same outcome over and over again.”

An alarm sounded, and the doors bolted shut. Effie sat upright, and he let go of her feet.

“Lockdown,” he said casually.

“Of course it’s a lockdown! And if I was downstairs, then I’d know what was happening!” Effie hurried on tender feet to the doors. As she approached, the sensor didn’t trigger them to open.

Haymitch watched her try unsuccessfully to force them. “Or if you were downstairs, then you might be on the periphery of peacekeeper bullets.”

The last lockdown of the Training Center during the Games happened after malfunctioning sensors in a tribute’s clothing rapidly overheated, and he spontaneously combusted on live feed. Snow requested a meeting with the stylist. She fled, then hid in the building when peacekeepers blocked the exits. They had to search for her room by room. Nobody saw her after that.

Effie returned to the living room. “There’s no space for error here. None! How can people who are not detail oriented work under these conditions? Sometimes even I can hardly breathe.”

“You want to breathe? Then take off your corset, sweetheart. It’s not like we’re going anywhere.” He swallowed some gin.

“I was speaking metaphorically!”

“And I’m speaking about actual breathing, which in your case certainly couldn’t hurt.” He held the bottle out to her.

“Fine!” She took a drink. After handing him the bottle, she reached behind her back, unzipped her dress, and loosened laces. Then she reached within, unhooked clasps, pulled her corset out through the back of her dress, and tossed the purple thing on the sofa. She zipped her dress part way up again, just enough, finishing as quickly as she started. “There! I’m breathing. Are you satisfied?”

The whole thing was like a magic trick that Haymitch watched without blinking. In the absence of the corset, he could make out the natural shape of her breasts within her dress. He imagined they’d fit in his mouth like ripe plums. He tried to shake the thought. Satisfied?? That’s definitely not the feeling.

“And my feet are killing me!”

“Sit down and have another drink,” he offered.

She acquiesced, taking the bottle, sinking into the sofa, and propping her feet in his lap again. “You know, there ARE drinking glasses.” With a flourish, she pointed at the bar cart.

Haymitch smirked, “You wanna go get one?” He idly traced the seam of her stockings up her calves.

Something undefinable shifted.

She put the bottle to her lips, suddenly aware that his mouth had been there before hers. They passed it back and forth a few times in silence. The bottle was like a vector for a kiss, for as many kisses as she’d wanted from him, for years, but didn’t plan to take yet.

He traced the seam back down to her heels. She winced again as he touched her there.

“Blisters?”

Glancing at her heels, Effie gasped more at the sight of the runs in her stockings than the rips in her skin.

“Damn!”

“Do you want these off?” he touched an inch above her knee, and waited for her answer.

Yes. She wanted his hands on her thighs. “Yes... but I’m not going to have sex with you.” She whispered it to herself more than to him.

“Honey, I’m not offering.”

“I’m just being perfectly clear.”

He slid his hand up her thigh to the garters, which he unclassped without struggle. She looked surprised.

“It’s not my first time,” he said.

“Nor mine.”

After inching down the stocking, he repeated it all with her other leg. He couldn’t remember ever being so turned on taking off somebody’s clothes.

She handed him the gin in lieu of exchanging flavors with her tongue. He reached for the bottle, but she didn’t let go. She dropped her feet to the floor and urged him to the sofa beside her.

He went willingly. At his turn with the gin, he set the bottle on the table. “What do you want, Effie?”

“I want what’s happening here.”

He traced along her rib cage, hesitated, then circled each of her breasts. So soft. You’re so damn soft. “And what exactly is happening?”

She sighed, “Can I just...” She unhooked the fourth button of his shirt, and he froze.

“I ain’t so pretty without a shirt.”

“I’ve wondered about your body more than anything in my life.” It was a big confession. “And I want to see you.”

“How about a trade?... My shirt for your wig.”

Effie froze this time. “I already took off my corset, and you took off my stockings. How much do you want from me?”

Everything. “Remind me why we’re not going to have sex.”

“Because you told me, ‘Not now. Not like this.’”

“When did I say that?”

“Years ago.”

He remembered the night vaguely.

“WHY did you say that?” she asked.

He could tell her that they’d been drinking or that it was too soon, but what would be the point in half-truths. “I liked you too much. ...I still like you too much.”

“And that’s precisely why this is happening...” She pulled a dozen hairpins and set those on the table. Then she laid the wig beside her corset. She pulled out a dozen more pins, and her hair fell below her ears in messy blonde crimps.

“God... you’re beautiful.” He ran his fingers through her hair and along her scalp, holding back from kissing her. If he kissed her, then he’d be gone.

She unhooked the rest of his buttons and slipped the shirt off his shoulders without asking. He could stop her if he wanted. And maybe part of him wanted to, but he shrugged the shirt off anyway.

She held her breath, tracing each scar on his chest and stomach. She’d wanted this for so long. She’d wanted him just like this. Tears pooled in her eyes, and he misunderstood.

“It’s too much.” he said.

Effie knew she was in love with him, and she was equally annoyed with him for being so obtuse about it.

“It is NOT too much.” She curled against him, drawing her knees into his lap, kissing a scar just above his collarbone, and pressing her palm to the largest one across his stomach. “I’ll kiss every scar.”

“When?” He slipped his hand inside the back of her dress, still partly unzipped, while drawing the zipper down with the other.

“When your answer to the question about why we’re not having sex is NOT because you like me too much.”

“I didn’t say it like that.”

“Not exactly. But you meant it like that.”

He wanted to drown all his fears in that bottle of gin and just fuck her. They’d wave away the Avoxes lurking in the corners, and he’d fuck her on this black leather sofa where children who were dead now had sat just this morning. In the horror of his life, he needed something good. He needed her.

He was about to say it when the alarm sounded again. Claudius Templesmith popped up on every screen in the Training Center, including the one in front of them, announcing the end of the lockdown and a resuming of regular programming and procedures.

The door slid open, and the prep team streamed in on a river of stories about a runaway Gamemaker, being locked together in an elevator, and Flavius threatening to piss in a corner if the lockdown hadn’t ended when it did. As the tale was being told, the hairstylist ran to the nearest bathroom.

Effie disengaged herself from Haymitch with a mix of disappointment about being interrupted and overwhelming chagrin about their relative state of undress, especially hers. How could I have been so careless? She scrambled to collect her wig, corset, stockings, and shoes. “If you’ll all excuse me.” She left the hairpins on the table as she hurried to her room with her dress unzipped.

Haymitch was buzzed from the gin and from being with Effie. He slipped his shirt on, realized it was inside out, took it off and tried again. The second attempt was successful.

“I’m sorry we interrupted your party,” Cinna dropped onto the sofa, “Your lockdown appears to have been more enjoyable than ours.”

“She came up to change her shoes. Then she decided to change... other things. You know. Women. ...DO you know women?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Then maybe you can explain them to me.”

“Cinna, he definitely needs help,” Venia whispered, “You might want to start with a lesson about the idiocy inherent in NOT following the woman he’s in love with when she leaves a room in a state of mortification.”

“Hey! Nobody’s an idiot, and nobody’s in love,” Haymitch protested.

Octavia chimed in, “Scratch what she said. First he needs a lesson in how to recognize when he’s in love.”

“It’s not happening. IN LOVE is a dangerous place to be, and it’s just not happening!” The seriousness of Haymitch’s tone ended the discussion.

“It’s been a long day. I’m going to grab a beer and see what food is in the kitchen before taking off.” The rest of the team followed Cinna’s lead.

Haymitch eventually gathered up the hairpins and dragged himself from the couch to search for Effie. He found her curled up in bed. Her makeup was off, along with everything else except a silk robe. She was the sun going to sleep.

He set the hairpins on her nightstand. She didn’t object to him lying down beside her and telling her a story.

“When I was growing up, there was a meadow in the Seam. In summer, the flowers turned to skeletons and the sun burned the grasses gold.” He ran his fingers through her hair. “...It was the first place I had sex. The day before the Reaping.”

Effie caressed the dark circles beneath his eyes.

“I loved that girl,” he said.

“I know.”

“That’s why she died. ...Because I loved her.”

Effie stroked his temples, holding back tears.

“When I say ‘I like you too much’...” His voice trailed off because he couldn’t say it. He couldn’t acknowledge anything like it. “...I can’t do this, Effie. I can’t fuck around with you and pretend it’s nothing. And that’s how it would have to be. That’s the only way it could be.”

She threaded their fingers together, taking comfort in the fresh memory of his hands on her body and her hands on him.

She’d waited 23 years for him. She could wait a little longer.

#hayffie #hayffie fanfiction #effie x haymitch #haymitch x effie #haymitch abernathy #effie trinket #thg #thg fanfiction #the hunger games #hunger games #cinna #flavius #venia #octavia #73rd hunger games #claudius templesmith #the penthouse #too much #HayffieFics

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ramsayboltonsmuse · 4 years

Text

Yin & Yang

Part 1: Memories

Pairings: Ledger Joker x Reader

Warnings: Violence, Smut, Angst

Summary: Just a tension/smut/angst ridden piece about J x The reader. J goes looking for the reader after losing her years ago, and surprise surprise there is some smut. This is what I did with my Tuesday night y’all. Hope someone out there enjoys this.

Other Parts: Part 2, Part 3 (preview); Ao3 link

You were having that dream again. The one where you’re 10 years old and it’s almost Christmas. The one where you find your family dead.

It’s in an estate, a massive manor house you don’t know well, somewhere outside the Gotham city walls. You’re walking down the grand staircase barefoot, the elegant deep teak wood cold to the touch. Your eyes are caught by the two gigantic floor to ceiling windows framing the doorway at the bottom of the steps and the blizzard of white snow falling heavily on the great front lawn.

But it’s not the snow that grabs your attention, not really. It’s the red that’s interspersed in its banks that grow heavier and heavier by the second. It’s like a painting, like mutilated polka dots, and you can see that the red is spilling out from bodies. From the bodies of the guards on patrol.

And then it’s the staircase that draws your attention back in. A trickle of something wet in the corner of your eye. A tingle at the back of your neck when you’re suddenly aware of how quiet it is. And all at once you’re aware of what’s on the staircase, your snow-captive eyes having missed it before: dead people.

Three bodies stretched out along the stairs, reaching, straining desperately toward the next step, their eyes open and in brutal anguish. You recognize one as a maid, another as a butler and the third as your great aunt, hideous, her mouth forming a post-mortem howl of terror.

And the bodies continue, at the bottom of the steps. An older cousin, another maid, and you cry out as you see your beloved German Shepherd stabbed and lifeless beside the door, a small knife lodged deeply in his side. Adrenaline coursing through you, you run down the rest of the steps and throw your arms over his body, weeping. You lift your head up, tears blurring your vision to see more bodies to the right and left of you.

You stand up and start running through the rooms, seeing aunts and uncles and cousins and even your grandparents, dead, dead, dead. You start calling out, your voice rasping and hopeless for your parents. You run faster and faster through the rooms past dead scullery maids and cooks and guards and your little cousin Timmy, who you just built a snowman with that afternoon. All of them, dead.

Finally you see them, and you start sobbing as the hope is stamped out of your heart violently. Your father is cradling your mother, as if to shelter her from whatever blows were coming. Their blood is wet and spilling out in a circle around them and as you kneel and crawl over to them, your hands and knees become coated with it. You reach out a hand to touch your mother’s face, a small bloody handprint left on her as you collapse next to them.

You jolt awake in bed, your heart rate racing. It always takes a moment to come out of these nightmares, and you try to steady your breathing, making note of where you are and grounding yourself in reality. It helps that Copper must have heard you call out in your sleep, and he jumps onto the bed and nuzzles you with his wet nose. You take a deep breath and run your fingers through his soft black and gold fur.

“Hi boy. Don’t worry, I just had a bad dream.” Copper isn’t convinced and curls up close to you, warmth radiating off of him.

It’s okay. It was just a dream. You say to yourself. You look at the clock on your bedside table. 5:00am. You throw yourself back onto your pillow groaning, debating whether or not to try to fall back asleep, but you think better of it and get up.

You clap your hands and your bedroom is immediately illuminated in a warm glow. You look around you at the familiar objects, stacks of books and notebooks strew across the room, further reassuring yourself that it was just a dream and you are perfectly safe. Your large bed, overflowing with countless pillows, an unfortunate obsession of yours, is empty of course except for a very comfortable looking German Shepherd snuggling into the covers.

“Come on Copper.” You say with a gentle smile, and he hops down and trots out after you as you walk down the hall to the kitchen. Your parents had left you the family estate in the country after their tragic passing, but you couldn’t bear to live out alone in the middle of nowhere. Especially considering the last time you had been out in the country.

You elected to buy a small but elegant apartment in the city, preferring the constant noise and knowledge that you were never alone to the emptiness of the family estate, which was carefully kept in mint condition by a caretaker and his family, though you never went out to visit it. You have no need for large spaces, tending not to have many friends or really let anyone in at all. It’s just Copper and you, and that’s fine.

You scratch him behind his ears before turning the coffee maker on. As you wait for your morning dose of caffeine, you sit at the kitchen island and look out through the massive windows overlooking Gotham, watching countless lights from other apartment buildings wink on one by one. You shiver in the cold, a light snow starting to fall outside. You’re really surprised you had the dream again, you can’t remember the last time you had it. Your thoughts start wandering back to that day.

It was so long ago now, that you imagine the details in it are probably not reality. Goodness knows, you couldn’t describe it to the Gotham City police when they finally showed up nearly a day later, having waited for the heavy blizzard to pass to get out to the house. You’re grateful that part of your memory is missing too, not wanting to remember what it must have been like, alone for a full day in a mansion of dead bodies.

When the police had reached you they asked a million questions, not understanding how you survived the slaughter. At first they assumed you had hidden yourself well, but the one part of that horrific incident you did remember proved otherwise. And it left the cops dumbfounded. You remember being in your room alone, lying on the ground and drawing something with such intense concentration, you nearly didn’t hear the door to your room open.

All you remembered was that he was tall, and seemed young, couldn’t have been more than five or six years older than you. You couldn’t recall a single physical feature, only that he smelled of something very strong, like some sort of paint and gunpowder. You had slowly gotten to your knees and looked up at him. You remember being fascinated, though you didn’t know about what, and that he had knelt down and roughly grabbed the picture you had been drawing, staring at it intensely. You didn’t remember being afraid, but you could feel the terrible dark depth and breadth of evil wafting off of him.

Needless to say, that didn’t help the police very much. They started looking for carpenters when you mentioned paint. They had been almost angry with you, the fact that you were the only survivor of a 40 person massacre and had even seen one of the killers (they assumed it must have been a gang to murder that many people) and you couldn’t remember a single useful detail. There had been a kinder, older cop who had hushed them away, yelling at them that you were clearly traumatized. He had given you a blanket, and at least everyone left you alone for a while after that.

Your coffee’s ready. As you pour yourself a cup, you suddenly feel nauseous, without the faintest idea why. It’s like an odd unsettling twisting in your stomach, something like dread. The ominous foreboding seems to spread through you like waves, swirling and crashing inside you until it consumes you entirely. You shiver.

“Okay Copper, now I’m certain I’m going insane. First thing on the to-do list today is find a friend. Any person will do. I need to talk to someone who isn’t a dog.” Copper barks and wags his tail as though in agreement, and you manage a half smile, though the sinking feeling in your gut doesn’t go away.

So no coffee. Maybe a shower then to cool off. You think, walking to your bathroom. The dream must have gotten me worse than usual. You shake your head, again trying to remind yourself of realities. You’re in your twenties, you have a great job at a top tier financial firm (as a side note your stilettos do sound pretty fucking awesome on the marble floors in the office), you’re a badass independent woman who basically raised herself from age 10, your only friend is a dog… okay stop listing realities. You smirk to yourself as you get in the shower.

Minutes later you’re out and quickly combing through your hair before throwing on a pair of black lace panties and an oversized Black Sabbath tee shirt, because fuck it, it’s Sunday, and you don’t need to impress anyone. The sun is coming through the big glass windows and lighting your apartment up in a warm, early morning glow. You start humming to yourself already feeling better after the shower, when you round the corner into the kitchen and notice the coffee is gone.

Fuck.

You freeze. There is no doubt in your mind that someone is in your apartment. You curse yourself for ignoring the feeling before. You’re still debating where to run to, when one of the white swivel chairs where you like to read swivels around to face you.

Who, or what more accurately, that is grinning at you through a malicious smirk that chills you to the bone is someone you’ve seen any number of times on the television.

The Joker is here, in your apartment.

Wearing his quintessential purple trench coat, suit and green vest, his hair a dyed green mess, he is an absolute enigma. His face is covered in white grease paint, making the black cavernous circles around his dark eyes even more terrifying. The color of his eyes are something blacker than black, the color at once pitch darkness and emitting a kaleidoscope of obsidian shadow and variation capable of portraying a vast array of sadistic emotion.

He’s leaning forward in the chair that’s clearly much too small for his domineering broad-shouldered and tall body. From the look of him seated he must be at least 6’3. He’s holding the coffee cup in one hand haphazardly while the other dons a gun, lax in his hand. His smile is painted a viscerally bloody red, a color you have ingrained in your own memory all too well, and it sweeps up his defined cheekbones along his notorious scars to create a cheshire grin.

The Joker casually swirls the gun in his hand, a clear warning for you not to do anything stupid, and throws his legs up onto the coffee table in front of him, crossing them comfortably and leaning back in the chair.

“Nice of you to, uh, pour me a coffee sweetheart-ah.” He enunciates the word and flicks his tongue out over the wishbone scar splitting his lip. “Could have done with some eggs too, but-t we can’t have everything, now can we?”

Compelled by lord only knows what force, you find your legs suddenly walking towards him. You want to scream at yourself to stop moving, but your feet pad toward the chair opposite of him. He watches you as you move with a near predatory glare that would make any sane person pick up and run the other direction.

You reach the chair and sit down, crossing your legs. You have no idea where the confidence comes from, but your voice comes out strong.

“What are you doing in my apartment?”

The Joker eyes you with amusement. Uncrossing his legs from the table, he sits forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. You can almost feel the heat radiating off of his body.

“You, uh, invited me.” He looks you dead in your eyes and you feel unexpectedly exposed. You’ve been successful at keeping people at a distance, but the way The Joker is looking into your eyes it’s like he’s reading every tiny emotion, fear, and desire, some you may not even know yourself.

You feel vulnerable, and you blink away, unable to hold the eye contact. You try to shake off the way he seemed to peel back your protective layers and look into what was underneath it all.

“I most certainly did not.”

You think you see a different emotion cross over his face, something like anger, but more sensitive, almost like heartbreak, but it moves so quickly that you don’t have a chance to catch what it is. The Joker takes a large swallow of the coffee before throwing the ceramic mug onto the ground, breaking it instantly and causing you to jump from the sudden noise.

“Don’t argue with me doll.” His voice is cold and dangerous, and looking at the gun swinging lazily from his hand, you’re reminded of the reality of your current predicament.

You steady yourself from his sudden outburst, taking a small breath, and it dawns on you that you haven’t heard Copper all this time. Your words come out biting and vicious, surprising even yourself.

“What have you done with my dog?” You nearly snarl at him.

The Joker raises an eyebrow and smirks at you, doing nothing to calm the fears that start swirling inside of you, flashes of your lost childhood pet invading your mind.

“Oh, you’re a feisty little thing aren’t ya, bunny.” You bristle as he uses the pet name. “I was hoping you, uh, wouldn’t disappoint-ah.”

“Where’s my dog?” You say again, adamant. “What have you done with my dog!” Your voice raises, bordering on a yell, and the barrel of the gun is against your forehead faster than you can blink.

“Okay, sweetheart-ah, let’s get some things straight-ah. You’re not-t in control here, so let’s get that into your little head nice and clear.” He drawls the last couple of words out in a voice that is deeply dark and makes you think of the big bad wolf, a shiver moving down your spine.

“You get to keep being alive by the sheer grace of, well, me. So you’d better start speaking with some respect-ah. And I mean let’s really use your manners, doll, let’s remember to say ‘yes sir’ and ‘please sir’ and ‘thank you sir’.” The Joker is smiling wickedly at you, his purple gloved hand pressing the barrel of the gun into your skull.

Your lips curl into a defiant scowl, your eyes glaring at him.

“No.”

The blow across your face shocks you, knocking you out of your chair and onto the floor and leaving your head ringing. Without a moment to recover, he’s on top of you, the force of his powerful build crushing you as his free hand encircles your neck, squeezing.

“Bad girl.” He tsks. “And after I’ve been so patient with you.” You start gasping for air, your hands reaching up to wrap around his forearm, trying in vain to pull him off of you. He’s so close now that you feel scorched by the heat radiating off of him, his muscles flexing as he all too easily overpowers you.

Your senses are invaded by the smell of him, like...paint...and...gunpowder. Your hands release his forearm and you stop struggling, memories flooding back like a sink that has been sealed shut for years suddenly turned onto full intensity. The images come flashing back so erratically and powerfully, you can’t even process them.

The manor house your family had rented out for the holidays, large enough to host your entire family, staff and guards for a whole week. How you had staked out in your bedroom when none of your cousins wanted to play with you, not after you had suggested they make anatomically correct snowmen, and they wouldn’t stop calling you ‘weird girl’.

That’s where he had found you, in your bedroom, with a rather unnatural assortment of items around you. Several barbie dolls you had stolen from a younger cousin were stripped naked and tied up in intricate knots hanging from furniture, while others were simply cut up into pieces and scattered around the room.

There was a large history book on medieval torture open to your right and A Clockwork Orange to your left. And there you were, wearing a pretty blue and white flowered dress, tucking a strand of your long hair behind your ear and drawing a picture of a mass murder with colored pencils.

The Joker releases the hold on your neck as he watches the series of memories flash across your eyes, his gaze trained on you intensely. He stands up and watches you as you slowly pull yourself to a seated position, the gaps in your memories filling in all at once. It’s all clear then.

A young Joker standing in your doorway, face painted and smelling like greasepaint and gunpowder, smiling wickedly and brandishing a blood soaked knife as he kicked open the door.

Your eyes narrow and you throw yourself onto your feet, running at him full force as you feel the weight of realization that your family’s murderer is standing in front of you. You don’t know what you expected to do when you reached him, your hands balling into fists, but The Joker easily catches your wrists with a pressure you can't break, backing you up against the glass windows.

“Memories coming back doll?” His voice is gravely and dominant, but there’s a softer edge buried somewhere deeper in it. Your eyes fill with tears and your voice comes out in choked sobs.

“You killed my family!”

His voice is hard as steel when he answers you, leaning closer into you. “Yes.”

“Why!” You don’t know what to think, the memories and emotions overloading you to the point where nothing makes sense anymore.

The Joker smiles at you, and you’re reminded that the person in front of you is a psychopath, incapable of empathy, who kills people just because he wants to.

“Why? Why!” The Joker lets out a hyena cackling laugh, throwing his head back before wrapping his hand around your neck, his thumb pressing into your jaw. “The same reason anyone does anything sweetheart. I did it for fun-ah.”

“You’re sick.” You blurt out, your tears drying up and replacing with anger.

“Well if I’m sick,” The Joker raises his eyebrows at you knowingly, “then you’re, uh, sick too.” He laughs loudly and maniacally, causing you to jump. “Why so serious-ah?” He says brandishing the word. “It’s much too heavy in this room, doll. Whadya say we have a laugh-ah?”

You look at him disgustingly, and you’re made aware of a knife pressing gently into your side, sliding up over your t-shirt until it reaches your mouth, the steel cold against your lips, pressing lightly.

“What is there to laugh about?” You breathe out, heart rate increasing at the knife that could so easily cut into you.

“Well, uh” The Joker leans into your neck and you feel goosebumps break out over your skin. His lips ghost your neck, and you’re aghast that you feel a little ball of warmth move through you as the corded knots of his scars tickle your neck. “I think it’s funny, bunny, that you despise me at the same time you desperately need me.”

“What are you talking about?” You struggle against him, but the hand around your neck only presses harder while his other moves to grab your hip bone hard enough to leave a bruise, caging you in place against the windowed wall.

Fear courses through you as you glance sideways through the glass and remember just how high above the city you are. If he pushed hard enough, he could easily break the window and send you falling to your death.

“Oh, please, babygirl. I knew it the second I saw you. You’re just a little masochist, ain’t-cha?”

You thrash your body against him, but the more he asserts his power over you, the more you can’t help the tingling feeling spreading through you. You should feel disgusted, sickened, that the man who killed your entire family is touching you this way.

But you don’t. The horrid truth is, he’s right. You want him to take you. You need it. All at once, you stop struggling against him, defeated.

He releases you and pats your cheek none too gently.

“That’s my good girl.”

The Joker walks behind the counter and picks something up, carrying over the large bundle and depositing it on one of the chairs. You realize it’s Copper and run over to him, crouching down and running your hands through his fur until you feel a heartbeat.

“He’s alive.” You breathe out a sigh of relief.

“Just knocked out dollface.”

You stand and walk toward The Joker, needing to ask him the question that’s been on your mind for years now.

“Why didn’t you kill me that day?”

The Joker grins and saunters over to you, absently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear when he reaches you.

“Because-ah,” He grabs your arms, pressing into your skin roughly with a force that’s sure to leave bruises. “You’re special. And you’re mine.” The word is definitive, unquestionable, and you’re left wondering if you’re the only one of The Joker’s victims he’s let live.

“It took me a long time to find you. But now that I have, bunny, you won’t be going anywhere.”

Your face softens at that, and you realize it’s because no one has ever looked at you the way he is looking at you now. Like they see you. Not even your parents, who you are remembering more and more clearly as cold and almost fearful of you, desperate for you to ‘just be normal’.

No one has looked at you the way he is now, and you find yourself wanting to be closer to him, nevermind all the warning bells going off in your head that this is likely the most stupid idea you’ve ever had, that this is The Joker.

But you can’t help it, you’re smiling up at him, letting all the overthinking go and basking in this momentary truth that someone wants the actual you. He’s staring into your eyes with a delightful possessiveness as he pulls you to him and plants a row of kisses and bites on your neck, exposed for him in a little show of submission, causing him to growl hungrily against you.

“And dollface,” he whispers in your ear, “You can call me J.”

Your body jolts as he lands a much harsher bite closer to your collarbone, causing you to emit a sound somewhere between a gasp and a mewl.

“J?”

He hums against your skin, sending warm vibrations through you.

“What are you going to call me?”

You feel him break into a smile against your skin, drawing away from his attack on your neck to stare at you, his jet black eyes a myriad of sadistic carnal desires.

You feel the warmth spread through your core as he devours you with his gaze alone. His answer is simple.

“Mine.”

---

Next Part: Part 2

Tag List (if you want to be added just let me know!): @anyatheladyclown

#Heath Ledger Joker #ledger!joker fanfic #ledger!joker imagine #ledger!joker #ledger!joker/reader #ledger!joker fanfiction #ledger!joker x you #ledger!joker x reader #ledger!joker smut

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typicallylatetothefandom · 4 years

Text

Five Nights At Freddy's: Fazbear Frights [Hocus Pocus]

(SCOTT CAWTHON DID NOT MAKE THIS STORY: THIS IS MY STORY)

Anna Vincent. That was the name of a high school girl. She was pale and thin, her dirty blonde hair was usually in a ponytail, and she had vivid blue eyes- not to mention that her outfits usually are comprised of a hoodie, sweatpants, and simple sneakers. Nothing special, but she was never the type of person to really want to stand out- mainly due to her hobby. Specifically her hobby of drawing and designing animatronics for possible pizzeria places and other children's establishments since she wants to be an Imagineer when she gets older, and the reason for this is all due to her father. Her father was a kind soul- albeit a little neglectful, although she can't blame him since he has to run one of the many Freddy Fazbear's in that the United States, and his also being one of the most popular by being the only pizzeria to have, as he puts it, 'special guest characters', where an animatronic that has never been seen before gets put into their own stage in a separate room of the pizzeria- however Anna doesn't remember any of the special guests. Even though when she was little she went to Freddy's a lot, once she got older, her father didn't allow her to. She thinks that it was shortly after she had made her first animatronic ever. She doesn't remember what the animatronic looked like, but she remember the name of it. Her name was Catherine, and that's sadly all she could remember, which made her a bit upset. She remembered how she showed her dad, he grabbed it and said he loved it, and never gave the picture back to her. That day, when she was walking back from school- she decided to go and ask her father

Soon enough, she walked into her house with a light slam of the squeaky door, and she sees her father, dark brown hair and vivid blue eyes like her own, dressed up for something as he had just finished a phone call

"Hey dad" Anna said "I have a small question for you"

Her father turned to her and gave her a smile

"Of course princess, what is it?"

Anna cringed a little. She didn't like when her dad would call her that

"I was just wondering if you remembered my first animatronic I ever designed"

Her dad put a finger and thumb under his chin as he thought for a moment before he sighed

"Sadly no, I'm sorry. But I'm also in a hurry! Someone wants to sell me some new animatronics, but I need to see them all, but he's in another state. I'll be gone for a couple of days at most, and I did try asking him to bring them here, but he's not that reasonable. You know the rules. No staying out after dark, there's some money in case you wanna go to the store to get yourself anything and-"

"Yeah dad, I know" Anna interrupted, still a bit upset that she yet again had to be home alone- but was basically used to it by now

"Good. Thank you for understanding" Her father said, patting her on the head a bit as he walked to the door "I love you" he said

"Love you too, dad" Anna mumbled, crossing her arms a bit as her father left. She was now by herself in the house- no one to supervise her, but instead of doing something any normal kid would do at her age- sneak some alcohol drinking in, stay up all night, and just overall break the normal house rules, Anna wanted to know where the picture was. She looked around for what seemed like days, even if it was just a simple hour or two, for the picture of Catherine. She didn't know why, but she needed to see the picture. It was special to her. But after searching in every room in the house, even her father's workspace that usually had things lost in it, it wasn't there. Not anywhere in the house. Then she thinks about that one certain day, and she realizes that she wasn't at home when she showed the drawing: She was at Freddy's. She gave the drawing to him at Freddy's. How she didn't remember that fact was unknown, but she realizes that she needed to go to her dad's pizzeria in order to find the picture. This itch to find this picture became a never ending rash- but she didn't know why. All she knew is that she NEEDED to find it, and since her dad said it would be a couple of days until he got back, it would be find. She subconsciously misses that place, so it wouldn't be wrong to take her time a bit. She quickly found the keys to Freddy's since her dad left the keys at the house before getting on her bike, putting the keys in her hoodie pocket, and biking towards her location. She knew the route by heart, so it didn't take long for her to get to Freddy's.

Once she got there, she looked at the pizzeria. She took a second to take in the design of the place. The colorful sign that read 'Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria', the yellow and red checkboard line going around the whole building. It looked like just how she remembered it as a little kid, but it was almost.... sinister looking due to the moonlight shining on it. Anna took a deep breath as she stepped inside with a use of the keys. The welcoming sight wasn't interesting from what she could see. Just a cardboard welcome sign of a cartoon Freddy and the cashier for people getting it- the entrance was nothing more then a colorful curtain- but then Anna had realized something. She forgot to bring a flashlight with her. Kind of panicking, she looks around the welcoming area, and strangely enough finds a flashlight underneath the cashier's table. She turned it on, and it thankfully worked. She did question why a flashlight would be here- but then sums it up to in case a blackout were to happen. Here then came the moment of truth.... She turned the light towards the colorful curtain and starts to get nervous. She doesn't know what lies beyond the curtain, but at the same time- she does. It's just been so long, she can't seem to remember the details of the place, as if someone locked away the memories and threw away the key and she was trying to find it. She sighs as she quickly closes her eyes as she runs threw the curtains, tightly holding the flashlight. She nervous opens her eyes and moves around, shining the flashlight at different parts of the area. All of the memories seemingly start to rush back into her head. She remembers wearing the party hats that were on the empty tables, she moves the light to see many arcade machines she played, and then.... She moves her vision towards them. The animatronics on stage. Freddy, Bonnie, and Chica. Although their designs are rather bland in her eyes, she can't deny she used to love them. They did look kind of creepy now since they were off and not singing or talking, but she still remembered how she would sing along to the songs. Anna was unknowingly humming one of the many songs they used to sing to everyone in the restaurant as she continued to walk and look around. She found Foxy in his Pirate's Cove, and although she did enjoy him, he was also kind of creepy in the dark like this. But she knew they wouldn't do anything. They can't get off stage and they're robots, but she did have to be quick. It may have been night time, but she didn't have any sort of clock with her, meaning she didn't know the time, and if another employee found her, she would be in a lot of trouble. She continues to look around and then finds an 'Employees Only', but it didn't look like a backstage door. Instead, it looked almost welcoming, which is her dad's entire thing- to be welcoming. She found it.

She started to go over to the door, but she passed a sign in front of a doorway, and she stopped. She walked back a bit and shined the light over the sign. It was a rather normal looking sign that looked a bit generic except for the cartoony esc font that read

Special Guest Room! The Special Guest Of The Week: Catherine The Cat

Anna felt like she had the read the name a thousand times. Catherine. That was the same name as HER animatronic. The very first one. She couldn't stop herself from investigating, and went into the party room. She looked around, and although the room wasn't as big as the main room, it wasn't the smallest room here. She looked at the very back of the room, and saw a medium stage with an red curtain closed in front of it, making whatever was in the other side impossible to see. She carefully went close to the curtain. She was practically shaking with anticipation. Was this really the one? The animatronic she drew all those years ago? With one very shaky breath, she quickly opened the curtains of the stage and she couldn't believe her eyes

There, standing on stage, was a feminine cat looking animatronic. It's almost clean fur was a dark indigo, which contrasted the pale orange it's snout and stomach were, as well as some highlights on it's ears. It's half closed eyelids were a dark magenta whist it's eyes were a neon green. It wore a candy shaped bowtie- lavender in color as well as a purple vest with lavender heart shaped buttons on it, the vest even having a bit of the upside down v attachment. The tips of its five fingers on each hands were the same color as it's eyelids and even fake plastic lipstick it had on it's fake lips. Finally, to top off the entire design, it wore a purple top hat with a lavender strip on it- complete with holding a long purple wand with both of the end tip being white. The design..... Was Anna's. The memory of the crudely crayon drawn animatronic was in her head, and now it was real and right in front of her. She couldn't believe it. Did her father make this? Did someone else make this? She was happy, but also very much confused about the whole thing. She didn't get why her father didn't show her that he had made Catherine real. Maybe he just forgot?

Suddenly, she heard a cranking noise, causing her to yelp and fall backwards, dropping the flashlight as it continued to shine on Catherine- who was moving. Moving. Why was it moving!? Anna got up as she heard the robot speak

"Hi there! My name is Catherine! I'm a magical cat! What's your name?" The robot asked as she bowed a bit a stared endlessly at Anna

"A-Anna...." She responded, scared

The cat animatronic giggled a bit with a faint metalic noise in her voice "Anna's a nice name"

"Huh? Wait, y-you can, uh, talk to me?" Anna questioned

"Of course I can! It's how I was designed!" Catherine responded, continuing to move with a bit of rust in her movement

Anna didn't know how this was happening, IF it was happening at all. The other animatronics weren't moving, so why was she?

"U-Um, can you tell me you created you....?" Anna decided to ask

"Hmm.... Sorry deary, I don't think I can!" Catherine answered

"Why not?" Anna grabbed her flashlight as she asked the following question

"Because he told me not to" Catherine said as she put one of her fingers over her mouth in a shushing motion

"Well, I designed you technically. I-I made you when I was, like, six" Anna didn't understand why she was talking to Catherine. She was shaking in fear- why wasn't she running? She could've ran. She should've ran. And yet she didn't- instead talking to her like she was an old friend. Did she really think that? WAS Catherine a friend to her? Imaginary? Was she sleeping? She didn't know- but she continued to talk to her. Maybe she could understand why she was talking like she had human thought

"Oh really? Well, isn't that just cute!" Catherine said, waving her wand around. Anna noticed that Catherine's legs never moved when she did move, meaning she probably couldn't get off of the stage- which did sooth Anna's worried feelings a bit

"Y-Yeah, I guess..... How come you can speak to me like this?" Anna asked, wanting more answers

"That's something I can't answer" Catherine answered

"Dammit..." Anna muttered "Look, I'll, uh, be right back Just give me five minutes, I just need to check something" She remembered that her mission was to find the drawing .She did lie about being back in five minutes- she was honestly terrified. She didn't want to speak with her any longer

"Alright!" Catherine said as she turned off, going back into her original pose

Anna quickly left as she went over to the welcoming door and opened it with her keys. She walked in and closed the door behind her as she looked around for a light switch, luckily finding one and switching the dim light on as she turned her flashlight off. The room- like her dad's house work room, was cluttered with papers and machinery such as printers and fax machines, but the main thing that caught her attention were blueprints tacked onto a board. Upon close inspection, the blueprints were for the animatronics in the building- specifically upgrades for them. She looked through the blueprints, and was a bit shocked. The upgrades would make it so the animatronic costumes could be worn as suits to walk around and take pictures with and say hi to the customers.... And it seems some of the special guest animatronics- including Catherine- were the same way. It didn't explain how Catherine could have a full conversation with her, but the fact that with a simple turn of a crank, you could wear the suit? That's just amazing- even she had never thought of something that genius. She didn't even care about the drawing due to this amazing technology she had discovered! Anna spent a while looking at the blue prints and taking mental notes, and after about half an hour passed, she was done observing and trying to keep this information in her head since she didn't have anything to write it on that didn't look important in the room. After she was done, she turned on the flashlight and turned off the dim light in the room before carefully opening the door and sliding out. It was time for her to leave- completely forgetting about Catherine. She started to make her way towards the colorful curtains towards the entrance, when she suddenly heard footsteps. Heavy footsteps. Anna quickly turned around as she looked at what was moving, and what she saw made her blood run cold

There, at the entrance of the Special Guest Room, was Catherine. Standing there- staring her down with practically dead eyes

"You said five minutes, Anna....." Catherine said in an upset tone as the metalic tone almost out shined the usual feminine voice she had "Are you trying to leave?" She turned her head down a bit

Anna, without saying a word, started to run towards the entrance, but Catherine was faster, grabbing at her hoodie. Anna quickly unzipped her hoodie, showing that she wore a tank top underneath, as she dropped the flashlight and slipped out of the hoodie, continuing to run. Catherine ran at her, the heavy footsteps echoing through the empty dining area as Anna tried to grab something- ANYTHING- that could stop Catherine, but she couldn't think fast enough, Catherine grabbing her ankle as she desperately grabbed the curtains near the entrance, ripping them off of the doorway as she screamed for help, trying to grab something to hit the demented robot with. As Anna was screaming, Catherine used her free hand to slowly open her chest, showing that her chest cavity was the right size for Anna

"And with my special magic words..... I will make Anna disappear!" Catherine said in a sinister tone as she grabbed Anna with both hands and pushed her into the chest cavity before her chest closed on it's own. "Hocus Pocus!" Catherine said as she stood there, Anna's screams of pain could be heard- but after a couple of minutes- there was silence, followed by a little bit of blood coming out of Catherine's chest. Catherine grabbed a napkin off of the table and simply wiped the blood off of her chest as she took the curtains and the flashlight, hid them under the table, and went back onto the stage, waiting for the day to come again- so that people would enjoy the special guest of the week at Freddy's

(Hope you liked this story- I know it's not as long as normal Fazbear Frights, but I still enjoyed writing this)

#fnaf #fazbear frights #fanmade fnaf #fanmade #this took forever

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imnotcameraready · 5 years

Text

chivalry is dead (20)

A/N: BIG YEEHAW HOURS TODAY Y’ALL ITS BALL TIME!!!!!!! AND WE CAN’T HAVE A BALL WITHOUT A PRINCE *stars bawling*

costumes will come in another post bc i. got really excited and then drew them all like, last month (most of them, some were finished last night y e e et)

WARNINGS: remus mention, heist details, wound descriptions, sword mention, scar descriptions, threats of violence, thoughts of dying — alright, im pretty sure that's it, but this chapter has thicc details so if i missed anything pls pls pls lmk

Words: 4550

AO3 link!

MASTERPOST! <– look here!! for the longterm warnings!! including sympathetic Deceit and cursing/swearing!

enjoy !!! <3 <3 <3 ,3 <3

Deceit really was right, Patton thought while he looked around at the town. His arm was linked around Logan’s as they walked down one of the town’s side streets, from Dr. Picani’s office, and he was taking the time to admire how intricate all of the architecture had gotten. It was intricate and worn and every building seemed unique now, something that he hadn’t realized was missing during their first pass through.

There were arch ways, bridges between doors on the third floors of buildings. There were seemingly hand-woven canvases shielding some of the streets from the sun and, if Patton squinted hard enough, he could see actual detailed stitching and some stains of age. They passed buildings that had scratches and chisel marks, and Patton could clearly see that it was made from stone bricks that had been painted over. Twice, actually. Once with a very old and faded blue, then with a lighter cream that still let the blue show through in spots where the paint was gone.

He wondered a little what had caused those spots. Was it because you weren’t supposed to layer house paint? The spots were different sizes — how many memories were made here?

Patton stumbled, tripping over his thoughts and heels, and leaned more into Logan’s side.

Logan tugged at his arm. “Don’t ponder too hard, Patton,” his voice was soft, hushed to not draw attention.

They’d figured that the best thing to do was to not think about the world around them. Thinking too much about the world and specifically the things that they would affect about it made their focus wander onto fixing those things. Logan would get a headache, Patton would space out, and Deceit would….well, okay, Deceit hadn’t disclosed how and if he’d been affected. But Patton noticed he’d been sweating like a sinner in church, and how his fist would clench every so often, so it was clear that something was happening with Deceit. He didn’t want to force him to talk; honesty wasn’t Deceit’s strong suit.

The four Romans had agreed that that was the smartest decision; none of them nor all of them together were able to limit the Imagination enough. The Playwright had argued that, had Dragon and Damsel known that it was hurting the other Sides, then they would probably all have a unified thought enough to close up the unused worlds. But that would require discussing the entire matter with them, which, as the Thief pointed out, is “pretty fucking useless where they are now.”

So the focus thing was their current strategy. Patton grinned at Logan. “Thanks for the reminder, Octo-cutie-pie,” he smiled wider as Logan blushed.

“I–I’m–Octopi is the plural for octopus and there is only one of me,” Logan bit his lip, then patted Patton’s hand gently, “Thank you.”

Patton giggled, snuggling against Logan’s side briefly as they kept walking. They hadn’t actually talked about the whole love thing, hadn’t really established boundaries, but that seemed like a problem for tomorrow.

Right now, they were all going across town, invitations in hand, to the ball. And, at the very specific right now, Patton was admiring the Playwright and the Artist’s handiwork. They’d worked together to make everyone’s outfits and he’d be a liar if he said they weren’t handsome and beautiful.

Patton himself was themed after a cat — a grey cat, but a cat nonetheless! His dress had a long train for a tail, made of shimmering silver tulle, the same as his poofy sleeves. The skirt went from his waist to the ground, with a built in flair in his corset at the waist. Like, all of it was sparkling, all three tiers of his skirt, which went from grey to black with an inner layer gradient of blue to grey. His favorite part were his gloves, though. Silver for the most part, but with soft circles on his palms and the tips of all his fingers. His own lil’ toe beans!

Logan’s outfit was one of Patton’s favorites. His was themed after an octopus (“Known for their intelligence,” the Playwright had explained, face bright red as he tied Logan’s necktie into an Eldritch knot) with a dark blue blazer and slacks. He wore a vest that shimmered royal blue, with a white button down underneath. There was a piece of coral in his lapel where a flower would usually go, and his coat tails seemed to spiral in shapes that resembled an octopus’ arms. There were even rhinestone bubble decals on his shoulders, or suckers, if you wanted to interpret it that way. The Artist and the Playwright had a small argument about that.

He was dashing, in summation. Patton leaned his head against Logan’s shoulder. “Who knew the town was so big!” he said.

“That’s actually on purpose,” the Playwright said from behind them, “It’s actually not so big as the castle is small, using the same foreshortening techniques used at the Disney theme parks to make Cinderella’s castle, or Sleeping Beauty’s castle depending on which park you’re at—”

“I think he means how far Picani’s office is from the castle, God Mod,” the Thief responded.

The Thief and Deceit were walking in front, swords drawn on the chance that they ran into any guards, and so that the Thief could critique Deceit’s sword fighting skills. Surprisingly, he’d taken to the weapon, something about it being good to have at his disposal while dealing with the Others. The Thief offered to make him one once this escapade was over.

Or maybe it was an excuse for the Thief to keep touching Deceit’s hand. Because that was happening every so often. A lot more often than would be considered normal.

It wasn’t like Deceit was complaining about the touching. It was more the other way around. The yearning for physical contact was frustrating, but neither of them were going to admit that they wanted to hold hands. Even though they’d confessed to at least caring about each other.

“Oh,” the Playwright hummed.

“Cheer up, butter cup, I love hearin’ bout the forced perspective! The Disney parks are so~o~o fun,” the Bard sang out. “When’s the next time we get to go to California? Are we making a trip down to Anaheim? Can we PLEASE take a trip down to Anaheim!”

One of his arms was looped around the Playwright’s, while the other was looped around the Artist’s. They had settled on outfits that complemented each other’s, pulling from the same red and black color palette.

The Artist was the only of the trio in a suit, though his outfit could be considered the loudest. Buttoned down the middle with a high collar, half of his shirt was a solid black, while the other half was a diamond checkered pattern. All of the accents were gold, and his pants were half solid red and half checkered as well. Tonight, the Artist would be a jester.

An improvement on his self-esteem, the Bard had thought. The Artist had said so, too, saying he’d be dressing like a joke. It...was nice to hear.

The Playwright had also gone with a more light-hearted outfit, pun completely intended. He was dressed as the queen of hearts, with an A-line skirt that skimmed the ground and was almost entirely a replica of the skirt worn by the Queen of Hearts in Disney’s Alice in Wonderland animated movie. His corset had a low scoop neckline with a long heart that stretched down from the neckline to the bottom of the waist. His sleeves were poofy, black with red stripes between.

It was a deck of cards theme between the three of them. Honestly, they took a bit of solace in their three Musketeers situation. The Bard was dressed like a harlequin in a ball-dancing dress. His entire dress was checkered, a stiff corset traded for a looser fit bodice that was sinched at the waist by a thick black belt with a heart clip. Bits of tulle were attached to his wrists, ideal for dancing in, which was perfect for the plan. He and the Playwright had matching heart chokers, too.

As he’d said earlier, “We cute.”

Neither the Artist nor the Playwright had argued, and they had yet to pull away from him holding their arms. Maybe they didn’t hate him.

They didn’t! They were moving beyond all that!

Because they had to get the Child back, and Virgil back, and save the Damsel and they had a plan. Actually, they should run through the plan again, because the Bard had already forgotten most of it.

“Thief?” he called ahead.

“Mhm?”

“Can we run through the, uh,” they had a code word for it, shoot, what was it? Oh! Oh, right, “The waltz again?”

“Great Mona Lisa, Bard, how the fuck did you forget how to waltz?” the Artist groaned. “We’re going to a ball.”

“No, no, no, THE waltz,” the Bard nudged the Artist’s side with his elbow.

The Artist shot him a small confused glare, but realization struck his face quick after. “Oh. Oh, that waltz. Yeah, uh,” he turned to the Playwright, who also seemed confused, then to the front again, “Before we get in, we should go over the waltz again.”

The Thief and Deceit both stopped as well, fingers brushing once again. The Bard saw the motion and chuckled to himself. Sweet Chopin, they needed to just hold hands already. He could envision the love birds flying around their heads.

He felt a smidge bad, though. After all, he was the lucky Roman who got to kiss Patton.

Logan and Patton both turned back to them. Patton let go of Logan, then looked around. They weren’t quite at the castle yet; a side alley, wide enough for all of them to stand in and with ample trees, barrels, and an open door beside it would provide good cover.

“Let’s go over there,” Patton grabbed Logan’s arm again and led them all into the alley.

They grouped up into a small but tight circle, the Thief pulling them together. He was in a suit, and an ironic one at that. Originally his costume was intended for Deceit, but he suggested switching them, so that the Dragon would think he were Deceit while being less suspicious. He was themed after a snake, though the theming was less noticeable than the color palette; there were yellow sequins arranged in scale patterns across his black blazer’s forearms, and his vest was black as well, undershirt yellow, and bowtie black. It looked a little like a snazzed-up version of Deceit’s lawyer suit and, though he’d tell no one, the Thief loved the look.

Deceit had said it looked nice on him, too. The bowtie, specifically, but also the entire outfit, and also the Thief simply looked good — yeah, they were both kind of messes. Gone was the ability to seamlessly flirt, apparently.

Still, it was nice to see Deceit in something other than yellow for a change, too. He was dressed as a peacock, with no blazer but a side-cape that shimmered iridescent purple and green. Part of it had blue and green rhinestones inching up the shoulder, and his vest beneath was teal, while his undershirt was mint green. There were bands on his upper arms, keeping his shirt bunched back, that were dark blue. Even his ascot was an iridescent purple and blue.

They leaned against each other in the huddle. Brown eyes trailed all around the group, meeting similar expressions of steely determination.

They could do this.

“Alright,” the Thief started, “For the first hour, we’re gonna scope out the room and surrounding rooms. Meet wherever the snacks are in pairs, alternating pairs, and spread details. Patton and I will go twice.”

“Because you and I are gonna peel off after the first hour to go get Virgil and the Child,” Patton said, meeting the Thief’s eyes.

The Thief nodded. He looked around at everyone — Deceit and the Bard had both been fairly defensive about that choice, but he argued that they needed people who were good at causing distractions on the floor. Patton would be the best at comforting both Virgil and the Child, and the Thief was the only one who had any inkling of what the inside of the castle looked like.

He continued. “Right. We’re gonna try to get out and—”

“Say, what d’ya think that’d make us?” Patton asked, a tiny grin on his face.

“Oh, no,” Logan groaned, “Not—”

“Cat burglars!” Patton exclaimed with a giggle.

The Bard immediately broke out into a fit of giggles, leaning into Deceit a little as he did so. Deceit just rolled his eyes and patted the Bard’s back, letting him cling to his side.

The Artist stifled some chuckles of his own, and the Playwright grinned. Oh. Oh, no, not the idea grin.

“I think Dragon will be hard pressed to find flaws in our purr-fect plan,” he said, eyes shining as Patton laughed as well. “We’re just gonna have to distract him with our adorable kitty-Pat.”

Logan groaned again, in good humor this time. “I thought you were supposed to be on my side, Playwright,” he grumbled.

The Playwright immediately sobered up, mouth pressing into a line. “Ah, Logan, darling, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Hey, but,” the Bard raised a finger at the Playwright, smile wide and mischievous, “If he catches wind of anything, you, Artist, and I can pull a wild card and deck him.”

That got the Artist and Patton to both laugh aloud, and even Logan smiled a tiny bit at the Playwright, if only to reassure him that his frustration was not directed at him.

The Thief seemed actually annoyed, though. He snapped his fingers in the center of the circle. “C’mon, focus here. Patton and I are going to get Virgil and the Child, then we’re going to come back up to the ball room at the second hour. At that point, Deceit—”

“I’ll be dancing with Dragon and, once you’re back, I’ll be distracting him enough for you to get out,” Deceit waved his hand, also slightly exasperated. He wanted Virgil back immediately and, as the time to pull off their hest approached, he grew more nervous.

“Right. Then, Playwright will take you backstage once everyone else has filed out,” the Playwright nodded to the Thief regarding his involvement, and the Thief looked around the group once more, “All of that sound good? Everyone else, be on the look out for Damsel. We don’t know where he’s gonna be. If he’s out on the ball floor, Logan, you—”

“I will approach him and explain that we are here to get him out,” Logan grimaced, “If he is not on the ball floor….”

“Then I’ll be on standby to head into the dungeons,” the Artist said, smile deflated, brow furrowed in thought.

“Good,” the Thief patted his shoulder, gripping reassuringly, “And if Remus is there, then Bard is going into the dungeons with Patton and I’m staying in the ball room to kick his ass.”

“This all sounds like a plan, Thief,” the Bard said, smiling at him, “Logan, thoughts?”

Logan huffed, frowning at the ground. He’d rolled the details over in his mind a few times, so he’d already worked out some of the issues, such as the irrationality of the original plan’s “jump out the dungeon’s windows, really, how large are the windows, and how do we know it’s not underground.” For right now, it seemed as though the plan were efficacious, but they couldn’t be certain until it was enacted.

But at that point, it’d be too late to change the plan to any degree of impeccability. They would have to wing it. And Logan wasn’t a fan of that.

But what choice did they have?

“It is as detailed and as faultless as we can arrange for it to be currently,” he said.

The Thief’s mouth twitched into a slight grimace, but he nodded all the same. That was as optimistic as he would be. “Once this is all over, we meet at the tree as fast as we all can get there,” the Thief said, casting one more look around, “If we pull this off right, no one’ll be leaving alone. If your partner gets injured, you carry them to the tree.”

“I don’t think….” the Artist said, frowning a tiny bit as his voice trailed off.

The possibility of injury was very high, actually. Death for the Romans, at least. And they didn’t know if the Dragon had injured Virgil or the Child. To be honest, they didn’t know if the Child was alive. Oh, goodness, what if Dragon had killed him?

“It’s gonna work,” the Bard said, “It’s gonna.”

He squeezed the Artist’s arm and gave him a nod. It was going to be okay. Roman was optimistic by nature, and the Artist did crave that sort of positivity.

“It must,” Deceit affirmed none too positively.

“It will,” Patton said, smiling at them all again before clapping, “And break!”

Everyone stood up on instinct. Then, they all shared slight laughs, small smiles.

The Bard leaned over and hugged Deceit with an arm, reciprocated a little. Patton leaned against the Artist, who didn’t hug back, but also didn’t flinch finally.

They were getting somewhere. It was going to be okay.

It was going to be okay.

….Without Virgil, they all felt as though their optimism was naively placed. But that was why they were going to get him back!

Once he was back, Deceit thought, he was never letting go again. If he was back. No, no, once he was back. He was coming back soon.

“Let’s go,” the Thief pulled his mask out from his coat, a black half-face mask covered in yellow sequins arranged like scales.

Everyone shared looks, nodding to each other as they slid on their own masks. Logan, Patton, the Artist, and the Playwright all had special masks that mimicked their glasses prescriptions so they wouldn’t need contacts, too. With faces obscured, they nodded once more, squeezing arms in reassurance and patting backs and giving smiles, and hurried out of the alley.

The Playwright walked at the front of the group, the only one not paired to any Side. He looked up at the sky. A storm had grown, clouds angry and grey above the castle, which was only a few blocks away now. Perhaps it would thunder during the ball.

He wondered vaguely what had caused the sudden shift in weather. During their week alone, it was all sunny skies.

Was it….

No. No, no part of Roman was that desperate, to have gone to Remus. Right? He’d been telling himself that ever since they’d begun this game, but the darker their future seemed, the more he worried about the Duke’s involvement.

The Thief seemed to think it was very real, enough to have a back-up written into the plan. C’est la vie. Such was life, he thought, the show must go on.

They walked quietly for only a few minutes. The closer they got to the castle, the more Imagination inhabitants they saw walking around them, some in pairs, some in groups, some alone. Everyone was in costume, most intricate. Good. This would be good, for coverage. The Thief had been a little worried that the ball would be sparsely attended, but this was good.

It was going to be okay.

They approached the drawbridge. Patton leaned against the Artist, gripping his arm tighter as the wind picked up. The Thief and Deceit were stoic behind them, and Logan and the Bard were simply quiet, though their hands were interlaced tight. It was going to be okay.

A line had formed on the bridge, in front of one man in a suit, perhaps the medieval equivalent of a bouncer. The group shuffled into the line, looking around at the castle, at the moat (“I think it’s filled with alligators,” the Bard murmured to Logan, who shook his head and was about to respond that that didn’t make sense, until an alligator’s maw jumped up and snatched a low-flying bird) and at the sky.

Angry, angry clouds.

It took an excruciatingly long eleven minutes for the Playwright to finally reach the front of the line, but when he did, he immediately grinned. He had to hand it to the Dragon.

“May I see your invitation?” Zac Efron asked, dressed in a black butler’s outfit.

Bless the Imagination’s castings. The Playwright handed over his invitation, and Zac looked over a list in his other hand before handing back the invitation and checking off a name. “You may enter to the ball room,” he motioned to the door.

The Playwright curtsied and hurried in. Behind him was the Artist and Patton, both of whom gasped a little, becau se holy shit, it’s Zac Efron.

The Dragon was really out here casting Thomas’ celebrity crushes as butlers. It was the first thing that the Artist had wholly agreed with the Dragon on, actually. Once they were Roman, they were going to have to look into that as a possibility.

One by one, each entered, walking down a grand hall with a ceiling so high and so vaulted that there seemed to be a sky inside. But, then again, there probably was. This was the Imagination. It looked somewhat like the Great Hall from the Harry Potter movies, this time shining with stars and constellations.

Logan could identify Aries and Pieces. That was actually accurate for the season and hour, so he gave a mental kudos to Roman for his design, then considered if it were his knowledge that had been used to perfect the stars. Well. That was inconsequential, I guess?

The hall was also lined with suits of armor, and bannisters adorned with Roman’s full crest. Though, Deceit noticed while he walked through, the entire crest was outlined in gold and the castle in the center was colored with grey and brown and black. He thought the Dragon was only supposed to be the outer tower and walls. If the Dragon called all of the shots around here, then why was the center tower also colored?

The walk was long, heels clacking against the stone. They turned with the carpet to the left and entered through a pair of double doors that had to be at least two floors high.

Inside was life. The room was massive, stretching almost the size of a football field. There was a stage near the entrance door where there were musicians (with undetailed faces, Deceit noticed) were playing loud enough to echo across the room. The dance floor seemed to take up about half the room.

Farther away from the entrance were some circle tables, arranged around with some citizens already sitting down. Further back were some long tables, food stacked atop them, and even further….

The throne was elevated so the Dragon could see across the hall to the dance floor. The Thief’s fists clenched immediately upon seeing him wearing the Prince’s attire, white uniform a stark contrast to the black he was typically adorned with. It was a jarring difference.

He was taunting them. By Doc Holliday’s pistol, they were gonna take him down.

Beside his throne was a large Ottoman seat, where there was another figure. The Damsel, most likely, though his face was obscured by a sheer red veil and distance. He was wearing a large dress, which had a triple-tiered skirt that seemed to flare out orange, then red, then black. His corset was decorated with red and orange and yellow rhinestones, and raised behind his head. It almost looked like flames.

Burned. The Damsel’s scars were also entirely visible, scabs on his arms angry and red, clearly not fully healed. They weren’t openly bleeding, but the Playwright could tell that they would start bleeding at some point in the night.

His nose scrunched as he examined the pair. They didn’t seem to notice him, the Damsel leaning against the throne’s side and not moving, the Dragon stroking his chin and looking across the hall absently. He had a sword sheathed beside the throne, too, with its handle sticking up in an easily accessible manner.

He was waiting for them, he realized. Of course he was, this was a trap, you fool. You knew this. You’d planned. It was going to be okay.

The Playwright turned back to the group just as the last pair, Logan and the Bard, entered.

“Okay. I am going to move toward the snack table,” he nodded toward the thrones, “Octopus, would you like to join me?”

Logan let go of the Bard, who curtsied and stepped back, and then offered a hand to the Playwright. “It would be my pleasure,” he said, “How about we acquire a table, Hearts?”

The Playwright nodded, then shot the Thief a look. “Snake,” he said, a promise, a warning, “Let’s waltz.”

“Let’s,” the Thief responded, squeezing Deceit’s arm.

The Bard and Patton had already taken each other onto the dance floor, hoping to not be conspicuously waiting in a group by the door way, and the Artist was meandering around — nope, no, he just asked an Imagination citizen to dance. Blending in well.

Operation save Virgil and the Child was a go.

Virgil could hear the faint music from above. He squinted up, then closed his eyes and exhaled. What’d that matter?

His side was throbbing. It seemed that just wrapping a bandage around a wound did fuck all to stop it from hurting, or bleeding, especially if it was just wrapped once and around the front. Virgil would have to remember that for the next time he got stabbed by an evil Dragon, he thought snidely.

He and the Child had relocated themselves to the bed. Pretending to not be panicking was tiring, but luckily for him, the Child had fallen asleep.

He sniffed quietly, rubbing his eye with the butt of his palm. For the past half an hour, ever sine the Child fell asleep, Virgil had been silently crying. And there was no Damsel to conjure him a glass of water or tell him it’d be okay. Because he knew it wasn’t going to be okay.

Even if he didn’t die in the Imagination, he’d be exiting it alone. And that was fine!

The Child snuggled closer to his chest, tiny arms wrapped around him. Virgil sniffed again and hugged him tight.

If he did nothing else, he’d at least protect this Roman.

He wished he’d at least told Roman how he felt.

Maybe he’d never get the chance.

Gosh, this was really fatalistic, even for him. It wasn’t like he was gonna die in the Imagination.

Virgil shielded his eyes with an arm and, as illogical as it was, wished that he could use that one arm motion to block out the sounds of the ball going on above. Shit, he was gonna die in the Imagination.

….Usually that’d freak him out a bit more. Maybe he’d bled out to the point where he was too tired to be worried. And, maybe it was childish, but he really did want to dance with Roman.

taglists!

chivalry taglist: @starlightvirgil @forrestwyrm @daflangstlairde @marshmallow-the-panda @askthesnake @k9cat @patromlogil @theobsessor1 @ninja-wizard101 @fandomsofrandom

general taglist: @jemthebookworm @okay-finne

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