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tonesplash · 3 years

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its thanksgiving get nasty (18+)

pairing: edward cullen x reader

summary: you get bored at thanksgiving dinner. unfortunately for edward you wore sandals

warnings: smut,brief footjob, thanksgiving dinner, edward kind of chokes on corn, reader doesn’t like their family, mild injury, fingering, innappropriate use of vampire speed, technically exhibitionism and public sex?? bad dirty talk, and cousin-shaming, reader is afab and might be described as female im not sure

a/n: i wrote this in 24 hours so any sloppiness is not my fault

masterlist

(c/n)= cousins name

When you told him thanksgiving with your family would be boring, you’d meant it’d be for him, looking forward to his reaction to being on the receiving end of your bloodlines ridiculousness while you’d get dinner and a show. But, as it turns out, your family just so happens to get along with Edward much better than they do with you.

The seating situation is a little unconventional, since because your boyfriend-snatching cousin stole the open seat next to Edward before you even made it back from the bathroom, leaving your only viable option directly opposite of him. On the bright side, you had the option of kicking his leg when he’d said something to embarrass you.

Bless his soul, he’d done his best to bring you into the conversation but apparently, anything you had to say about your relationship had been relayed verbatim to the family group chat you weren't even in by your mother. So, after the third time you’re talked over by the aforementioned horny cousin or some other nosy relative on you’re bored out of your mind.

Everyone had gotten over your piss poor table manners years ago, or were just completely ignoring you at this point because there were no protests when they’d brought the turkey out and you’d stayed slumped low in your seat like a child in church.

Twitter had stopped refreshing ten minutes ago, and when you finally resigned yourself to tuning back into the conversation, your mother was showing Edward your baby pictures again. Idly swinging one bare foot under the table, your bare toe grazes the drape of his dress slacks under the table when you get an idea.

You’d lost a sandal earlier after Edward had pinned it under his shoe in a vain attempt to stop your pinching and dirtying of his slacks with your filthy soles. You scoot a little further forward in your seat to reach out and press your arch flat against his shin.

Edward doesn’t visibly react, just shifts his leg away, leaving yours to slip to the floor until you reach up again to plant your heel on the seat of the chair. The conversation lulls for a moment as everyone says grace, and he uses the opportunity to grab your ankle and send you a warning glare over the top of your phone.

You meet his gaze and boorishly eat a spoon of mashed potatoes, shrugging as if he couldn’t read in your mind exactly what you were about to do.

Your cousin asks about his mom car again and when you roll your eyes Edward flicks the outside of your fibula, sure to bruise, and you crinkle your nose, pinching his marble thigh between your toes as best you can through the material.

“Well my father thought it was necessary for my siblings and I to-”

While he talks, he's soothing the spot he flicked, playing in the stubble leftover from your shoddy shave job this morning, and the absent affection gives you the final motivation to further push your luck. You tease the seam of his left leg with the very tips of your toes, coaxing the unnatural heat of the venom to build in the crotch of his pants, the coolness of the rest of him making it seem even hotter in comparison.

He inhales on a forkful of corn, almost taking it down the wrong pipe, and you fight a smile around the bowl of the spoon as he flawlessly recovers and finishes the thought. You idly wonder if you could be that smooth someday. For now, you press further, pressing a toe against the seam over his cock, stroking up and down as slowly and consistently as you can while stretched under a table because who would’ve thought that footjobs are kind of an athletic feat.

Edward taps insistently at your leg, harder than he normally would, and you have to hold back a laugh at the idea of him splitting the table because he can’t take a little footsie action. You press forward again, arch encompassing his hardness through the fabric, toes curling against his pubic bone when-

“Ho-oly shit!” Searing pain shoots up from your ankle, and you double over, using everything in you not to shout, Edwards dawning mortification going unnoticed as everyone at the table turns to you at your unexpected outburst.

“(Y/n)?” Your mother doesn’t seem that happy to have dinner interrupted, and you clutch your stomach as a quick cover.

“Uh, my bad.” You snicker nervously at the sudden attention, bravado gone. Your face feels red-hot. “I actually need to use the bathroom, I think,” you lick your lips and slide out of your chair. “Lady problems.”

The table erupts in a cacophony of gags and groans as the notion of a menstrual cycle is brought up in casual conversation, and it gives you the perfect cover to retreat to the upstairs bathroom. It takes you a minute to make it up the stairs without causing a scene, and just as soon as you close and lock the door behind you and settle down to weep in peace, he’s there, jiggling the doorknob like it’s a drug bust.

“Let me in.”

You’re apparently taking too long because as soon as your injured foot touches the floor, he forces the lock and slips in, shutting the door a little too fast to pass as human.

“Jesus! Edward, are you trying to lose our deposit?” You lean around him to check for a handprint but he doesn’t respond, wordlessly setting you up on the counter, kneeling to examine your injured ankle, cool fingers soothing to the sore skin. You sit in silence, idly swinging your other leg to distract yourself.

“How'd you make it out?” You can't imagine they’d let the guest of honor go so easily.

“You forgot your bag, I told them I’d just bringing it up to you.” He places your bag next to you as evidence. “Maybe you should start carrying menstrual products for when you actually need them.”

Of course, he breaks your foot and wants to lecture you on responsible uterus care. Edward sighs, taking your foot with the gentlest touch and whispering a kiss into the skin. “It’s only a sprain, but I’m still sorry.”

“S’Okay.” Your face burns, not expecting his guilt. “Serves me right, huh?” You titter, poking his side with your uninjured foot. He swipes it up before you can start again, halfheartedly laughing with you.

“Let me wrap it before you get any more ideas.” You hand him the compression wrap from the medicine cabinet, and he gets to work. The wince you give at the pressure is more reflex than anything, but the anxious expression on his face tells you he wasn't going to let this go easily.

“Y’know…” You poke at him again. The playful contempt in his golden eyes gives you the go-ahead to make your case. “If you’re really feeling torn up about it, seeing you wow my family like that got me a little riled up.”

“Really.” Edward kisses the secured wrapping and releases you, standing to frame you against the counter.

“I’m serious, impressing them isn’t easy, (C/n) is probably shaving in the guest room to steal you from me right now, just thinking about it has got me a little hot under the collar.” You run your hands over his back and through his hair, nuzzling into the crook of his throat.

“You’re laying it on pretty thick, don’t you think?” His hands smooth over your exposed thighs sending a shiver up your spine. You think you've got him, but he's such a tease sometimes you can never really be sure.

“Depends. Is it working?” You still, bracing for some line about ‘responsibility’ and ‘your family waiting for you.’

But then his hands are under your skirt, hooking into the sides of your underwear and pulling them down your thighs, leaving them to free-fall to your feet. You clutch his auburn hair in your fingers at the shock of open-air against your cunt.

“Do you think I could let you go back to that table smelling like this?” His sweet breath washes against your ear as he huffs a soft laugh. “I’d rather not go downstairs and pretend to care about football when I know you’re here, hot and ready for me.”

You can’t resist him any longer, pulling him close and kissing him with the desperation of a woman who needs to be back downstairs before dessert. His thumb teases over your cunt at first, swirling over your swelling clit and teasing your hole before he finds a focus, using the thumb of his free hand to hold your hood back as his slicked fingers grind the bud into a frenzy while he sucks your tongue into his mouth.

It’s all you can do to hold your breath while he touches you, cool fingers building a knot in your belly, smooth and steady as they batter you up into a frenzy. He adjusts his hand, his ring finger pressing into you and bringing a low ache from rushed preparation, but you welcome it, thighs shaking with the effort to stay open for him as your mouth falls open in a shaky gasp. Edward breaks the kiss to let you breathe , seemingly unbothered until-

“(C/n) is coming.”

“Wha-” A particularly deep stroke has you biting your lip as you struggle to concentrate. “What the fuck does she want?”

“She’s going to ask you where I am.” His expression doesn’t match his words, still completely concentrated on ruining you despite the obvious issue.

“And what am I supposed to tell her?!” You hiss back right as she reaches the door. His mouth closes over your pulse point and you don't think you've clenched that hard before in your life.

“Hey (Y/n)? Have you seen Edward?” Her voice is enough of a mood killer that you have to shove your face into his throat to ground yourself in the moment. He adds a second finger, gaining speed, and you pray and hope to any god listening to this that she can't hear the squelches through the door.

“N-no.” You rack your mind for an excuse. His scent is making it harder to concentrate. “I think he went out for a smoke?” Nice one.

“Really? I didn't smell anything on him...” If all your blood flow hadn't been centralized below the waist at this point you'd’ve asked how the hell she knows what he smells like. He's fully abandoned your clit now, leaving it to pulse in the open air while three of his fingers push and pull at your pelvic floor.

“That's cause he unh-” You slap a hand over your mouth to stop the moan before it can be recognized for what it is.“-he vapes!” Edward pulls back from your throat to look at you incredulously, but it's a little hard to be ashamed when he's nearly wrist deep inside you.

“Oh… Well, let him know if you see him that they’re playing charades and I need a partner. You know how it is.”

You forget to reply, too enthralled watching him spit onto his unoccupied fingers and mash the coolness against your clit, causing you to nearly spasm off the counter, losing the sensation as he silently laughs at having to hold you steady. She seemed to have taken your silence as an admission, as you can hear the door at the stoop of the stairs swinging shut after her. Thank God.

“Rub your spot, Sweet, come on, we have to be quick.” He kisses your temple and laughs a bit maniacally at the little whimper that escapes when you bring a hand down to your clit. “Surprisingly, she’s having trouble picturing me in a vape shop.”

You whine around a bitten lip, too far gone to listen to his ribbing. You’re building up to overstimulation with the sloppy way you’re rubbing yourself, and he must feel it too, because in the next second, his fingers are vibrating.

“Come on, (Y/n), don't you want to finish up here and mop the floor with them?” You hadn’t even realized how hazy your vision had gotten until he grabs your chin and levels your lidded eyes with his and says your name again. You nod sluggishly for him, not hearing a word. He laughs again, smiles wide. His teeth are pretty.

“If you cum right now;” The buzzing grows stronger, your free arm spasming under you as you support yourself. “I’ll rub you raw after on the ride home. You just need to come right now and win charades with me.”

The buzzing inside grows too strong, and your vision goes white, pulsing in long pulls around his fingers as hot waves of sensation spread from your head to your toes.

Edward kisses you, soft and slow, swallowing any whimpers tempted to escape as you come down, abandoning the counter to clutch his sleeve as the twitching reduces to a tremor.

“Oh my god.“ You laugh, planting your face into his collar as you catch your breath. “I can't believe you used charades to make me come, I'm never gonna forgive you.”

“I heard the top prize is a ten dollar gift card to…” He squints and checks again. “The Google Play Store.”

“Ew, what could you even do with tha-”

“(Y/N) come help with plates!” Your mother shouts up the stairwell, totally fucking up any release you just had.

“I guess I should run down to the corner store;” Edward smiles, helping you to stand on wobbly legs and smoothing your skirt down. “Don't want to blow your cover.”

“(Y/N)! Plates!”

“Oh my god;” Your eyes may never return from the back of your skull. “Meet you downstairs?”

He kisses you sweetly one last time, pulling you close and wiping the sheen of sweat off of your face.

“Downstairs.”

With that, he heaves himself out of the narrow sill, and you busy yourself cleaning up as fast as you can.

You just catch him hopping off the roof, and coming around to the front yard. He'll hear you no matter the volume, but you still shout the warning;

“Stay away from my cousin!”

#edward cullen x reader #edward cullen imagine #edward cullen #Twilight FanFic #twilight smut #twilight imagines #twilight x reader #twilight x you #the twilight saga #reader insert smut #reader insert fluff #reader #thanksgiving #dinner with parents

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thatbadadvice · 3 years

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Help! I Can't Afford Not To Destroy My Cleaning Lady's Life

Dear Prudence, Slate, 20 September 2021:

Q. Collections department: A few years ago, I hired a cleaning lady. She had a small business, with a few employees working for her. I’d prepay her in batches, and on occasion she’d ask for additional funds due to something unexpected, but she’d always work it off. Then the pandemic hit. Her staff abandoned her, and she had become too unwell to clean herself, so she closed her business, with $1,200 of prepayments from me. I told her back in January she’d need to pay me back, since she could no longer clean, but I wasn’t in a hurry for the money and knocked the repayment down to $1,000. I’d asked her to send me $100 payments and wanted it paid off by the end of the year.

So far, I have only received $500 back and have had to hound her. She comes back with sob stories of getting fired from various delivery and driver services and saying she doesn’t have any money, after agreeing to pay me when she gets her monthly Social Security deposit. This month, after not receiving a payment in August, I have tried contacting her, and this time no answer. I’m tired of hounding her and could live without the cash, but I can’t live with the resentment of getting taken advantage of by her. I have three choices: Let it go, continue to hound her, or give her an ultimatum that I need to be fully paid back by the end of the year, or I’ll take her to court. I feel like I’m working for my money all over again. What should I do?

Dear Collections Department,

The last 18 months have been incredibly difficult; we are living (well, some of us) through an unprecedented global pandemic that has absolutely decimated supply chains and entire industries, forced parents to make terrible no-win decisions about raising and schooling their children, and separated families across the globe. Many of us have lost and will continue to lose friends and loved ones. Others are economically destitute, forced to work long hours for dying wages in a country with a cruel fucking sham of a social safety net.

And then, of course, there's you — COVID's number-one victim. Sure, Zoom funerals suck, but how about some of these entitled chucklefucks try going a year wiping down their own countertops! Wah-wah-wah, you haven't met your grandchildren? Boo-hoo, you had to put off important medical treatments because you didn't want to risk dying alone on a ventilator in the ICU? Bleat about devastating isolation-induced depression all you want, the real issue is that it's been 18 months since somebody came by to personally clean up your filthy shit.

This cleaning lady ~ claims ~ that a deadly airborne pandemic impeded her and her staff's ability to freely enter peoples' homes to spend time indoors with strangers at length. Pretty improbable, if you ask me! I mean, any rube could have smelled that pile of horse manure from a mile away! Here your cleaning lady is, living the life of Riley on a monthly Social Security stipend that likely extends into the high tens of dollars, withholding from you a king's ransom that could be put to good use for any number of things — lining your purebred hamster's cage, wiping your ass, being set on fire and launched into the sun for shits and giggles. The possibilities are endless, except for the possibility that you just let this fucking woman whose whole life has fallen apart just have five hundred goddamned dollars that you wouldn't even look twice at if it grew fucking legs, put on a trench coat, and started blasting Peter Gabriel on a boombox outside your window.

Poor people are poor on purpose and because of their moral failings, whereas people who would literally never miss $500 but who threaten to take a struggling woman to court to ensure she pays off a meaningless debt at the lowest point in her life and career are good and worthy! It is your cleaning lady who must be taught a lesson about the value of money, and what better instructor than you, a person who deserves all that comes to them in this life, and hopefully also in the next.

#advice #bad advice #dear prudence #covid #pandemic #coronavirus #eat the rich

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ofbardsandmonsters · 3 years

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Fill for square N5 - “pets” for the @stb-bingo ! read it here on ao3

***

Steve texts Tony when he gets home, just to be sure his boyfriend is still out and their apartment is empty. As soon as the affirmative response arrives, he pats the box sitting securely in his passenger seat and jumps out of the car. He only has a short window of time before Tony arrives home from work, and he wants to make this surprise perfect.

He leaves the box for the moment and pops his trunk, hands on his hips as he tries to plan the most efficient way to get all of the bags into the house. Part of him says to just take all of the bags at once, that way he can come back for the box and have everything done in two easy trips. But he can already hear Tony scolding him in the back of his head, so he starts with just a few. It still only takes him three trips, the last allowing him to take the remaining few bags in one hand and heft the huge bag of dog food onto his other shoulder.

Then all that’s left is the box.

Once all of the supplies are spread out on their living room floor, Steve jogs down the front steps of their apartment building and goes for the passenger door. He leans in, carefully picking up the slightly wiggling box on the seat. A little nose pokes out of one of the holes on the side, making him chuckle. Holding the box securely in both arms, he uses a foot to kick the door shut and heads back up the two flights of stairs to their apartment.

Inside, Steve sets the box down on the floor and sits next to it. There’s a soft bark from within the box, and as soon as he opens the flaps, two big ears and a curious little face pop out. He holds out his hand with a grin, and the little french bulldog puppy sniffs it for a second before eagerly bathing it with her tongue. The sensation makes Steve chuckle. He lets her go for a minute before lifting her out of the box and tucking her against his chest. Her tiny body looks even smaller in his large hands.

She’s small enough that he can hold her securely with one hand while he picks up a couple of the bags with the other and carries them into their bedroom. The puppy starts wiggling as they enter the room, excited to explore the space. So Steve sets the bags on the bed and crouches down to gently set her on the floor. He watches her waddle around on her squat little legs, nose to the carpet to sniff the space. The sight makes his heart swell even bigger.

Tony was going to lose it when he sees her.

Steve keeps one eye on the puppy while going through the bags from the pet store. He sets the plush bed in a corner of the room, tucking a soft blanket and one of the plush toys inside. The other toys he leaves in the bag and sets them on the dresser to be scattered around their apartment later.

He finds the newest member of their little family with her paws on the bathtub, staring intently at the porcelain. Steve laughs, scooping her up and carrying her back into the bedroom.

“What’s so fascinating in there, little miss? Are you gonna be a prima donna and enjoy taking long baths like your daddy?”

The puppy gets deposited on the bed, and Steve hopes the height will be a deterrent to her jumping off and getting into anything while he goes to hide her food and treats out of the way in the kitchen so Tony doesn’t seem them the minute he walks in the door. He doesn’t want the surprise to be spoiled too early.

Once he has everything stowed out of sight in the kitchen cabinets, Steve goes back into the bedroom, a pretty collar and bow in his hand. The puppy sits in the middle of their big bed, and she yips at him as soon as she sees him. He sits down next to her, scratching under her chin before tugging her into his lap. She goes without protest, watching his fingers as he unclasps the collar. As he moves to put it around her neck, she nips at his fingers and he winces at the sharp bite of her pointy puppy teeth.

“Easy there, you little hellion. You really are gonna be as bad as Tony, aren’t you?”

Steve figures out how to dodge her teeth fairly quickly, and gets the glittery gold collar clasped without any more bloodshed. The puppy scratches at it a little before ignoring it to tug at the big red bow he attaches next. But she’s easily distracted by one of the toys, just in time for Steve’s phone to chime with a message from Tony. His boyfriend is about twenty minutes out, so he leaves the puppy to chew on the toy and goes into the kitchen to start dinner.

There’s pasta boiling on the stove and Steve is steadily working his way through a small pile of veggies for a salad when he hears Tony’s key in the lock.

“Honey, I’m home!”

Steve snorts, grinning down at the cutting board while carefully working the knife. “In the kitchen!” A few moments later, two arms wrap around his waist and Steve feels the shorter man squish his face in between his shoulder blades. He sets the knife down and covers Tony’s hands with his own. “Welcome home, sweetheart.”

Whatever Tony tries to say is muffled in the back of his shirt, and Steve chuckles before turning around and pressing a kiss into dark curls. “What was that? I didn’t quite catch it.”

Tony huffs, but leans back just enough so he can look up at Steve and speak clearly. “I said, I hate interns. They all stare at me like they’re either terrified of me or completely starstruck. Or both. There’s only one in the entire bunch that actually looks promising.”

The blonde smiles and lets his hands drift down until they’re cupping Tony’s gorgeous backside. “They’re all in awe of your brilliance and your beauty. I thought you liked being admired by the masses.” He takes pleasure in the blush that spreads over Tony’s cheeks and down his neck.

“I need brilliant young minds working for me, Steve, not a bunch of starry eyed fans. Besides, you know the only person I want admiring me is you, hot stuff.”

Steve’s powerless to resist leaning down to steal Tony’s breath away with a kiss after that statement. They kiss for a minute, before the sound of the pasta water starting to boil makes Steve step away and turn to pour the raw noodles into the pan. “Can you go into the bedroom and get my phone off the charger? I wanna check the recipe again.”

“Sure thing, babe.”

He listens as Tony goes down the hall, holding his breath as he waits. He hears the door creak open, and then there’s nothing but silence until…

“S-Steve? What…”

Steve comes around the corner and finds Tony standing in their bedroom doorway, one hand still on the knob as he stares wide-eyed into the room. The puppy is oblivious to both of them, looking tiny in the center of their king sized bed where she’s laying wrapped around the toy Steve had used as a distraction.

The blonde comes up behind Tony and tugs him back against his chest, a mirror of the position they had been in a few minutes ago. He leans down a little to tuck his chin over the brunette’s shoulder. “Surprise, honey.”

Tony’s eyes well up a little with tears, and Steve can feel the way he trembles as his hands come up to clutch Steve’s arms.

“Steve… what is this?”

Steve walks them slowly into the room, and the movement finally catches the puppy’s attention. She abandons the toy and waddles on her short legs towards the edge of the bed, stubby little tail wiggling hard enough that it shakes her whole body. Tony collapses onto the bed and holds out his hands, the tears in his eyes finally spilling over when she comes to him immediately and climbs into his lap. Steve sits next to him and reaches out to scratch behind her ears.

“The one thing you’ve talked about more than anything, the entire time I’ve known you, is how much you always wanted a puppy but Howard always forbade it. So I made a promise to myself that one day when we had a place of our own, that’s the first thing I would get you. I went down to the shelter today, and there was a whole litter of them that had been abandoned. One look, and I knew she was meant for us. Her name is Daisy.”

Tony cradles the puppy in his still shaking hands, and carefully holds her up so they were eye to eye. Steve could see the instant the younger man fell in love, could see it in the brilliant smile that spreads across his face.

“Hello, Daisy. You’re just the prettiest girl in the whole wide world, aren’t you?”

She yips, as if agreeing that she was in fact the prettiest girl. Both men laugh, and Tony pulls her in to cradle her against his chest. He sighs, a soft and content sound that Steve knows well. Mentally, he’s cheering at how well this surprise worked out.

“You know I’m gonna spoil the shit out of her, Steve. This is your one and only warning, and I’m not sorry.”

Steve barks out a laugh, turning his head to press his forehead against Tony’s, eyes closed.

“I know, baby. I knew exactly what I was getting into when I picked her up. And don’t underestimate me. I’m probably going to be just as bad.”

“I love you, Steve.”

“I love you too, honey.”

#stb bingo #stony #stony fic #stevetony

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byorder-fanfic · 4 years

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Finn’s Lost Loves

Summary: Finn’s lost more than anyone else knew because of the war, and every stupid thing his family have done afterwards to keep themselves in charge.

Word count: 2019

Warnings: Mentions war and blood, talks about eating disorder, self harm and self-esteem, and homophobia (only a little bit, period accurate), a lot of toxic masculinity

Author’s note: This is a lot of angst with little bits of fluff and a sad ending. Sorry. It’s basically an overview of Finn’s character, backstory and his relationships with the family that we’ve never gotten to see! It’s based off a piece of prose in my drafts, so if you guys like this, I might post that as well. Hope you enjoy, and please comment, I love hearing your opinions and any constructive criticism you might have xx

Finn loved books. Once upon a time, he really did. He loved the way Tommy did the voices, and Arthur made those wild motions with his hands, and John could always make him laugh as he told him about that thing that happened in the pub last week. He loved how Ada and Polly would tuck him up in bed, place a kiss on his temple and read the letters from the boys. Then they came back, and he didn’t need to read letters. Or books. Or anything really. Soon, he didn’t even go to school. He just wanted to be with his brothers. Now they tell him to piss off more than they beg him to stay. Tommy and Polly scold him for not being able to read off the betting boards, and John makes everyone else laugh when he holds a big volume under Finn’s nose, so that everyone knew that Finn was still illiterate. Finn hates books.

Finn loved Church. He didn’t need Polly to drag him by the heels as he sobbed under the Virgin Mary’s stare like his brothers when he hopped, skipped and a jumped all his way down the road. He always sat by Isaiah, the two boys out-screaming each other in the hymns and seeing who Polly would scold first. He wore the crucifix everyday, and treated his rosary with all the sacred carefulness a six year old could manage. He loved the psalms and Jeremiah’s voice ringing through the streets and the way everyone was always together (even Charlie) on Sunday. Then he had to light candles, praying for his brothers’ safety that was only answered with their damnation as they dragged back blood and French mud into Watery Lane. Now he cries through the paper thin pages of a Bible and his only prayers are that the boys never see his tears. What did he have to cry about after all? He was never a soldier, but he should learn to be a man. Finn hates Church.

Finn loved healing. Ada dragged him along to her nursing classes and soon his only reason to come to Church was to learn how to tie bandages and fix up cuts and bruises. No one noticed his long absences- they either assumed he went to school still, or they were far too busy with the race tracks to care for the whereabouts of their youngest brother. But then he'd slipped up, and he'd never seen his brothers laugh so hard when he proudly told Polly he was going to be a nurse one day. Even his aunt and sister, usually the ones on his side, had to purse their lips together as Arthur roared out: "Hear that, Tom? We got ourselves a Nurse Shelby here! Want a dress and hat to go with it?" He told them all to fuck off and stamped out, but he didn't understand what he said that was so funny. When he asked Isaiah, who had just turned fourteen and starting to see Finn less and less, he just said that being a nurse was a woman's job. He didn't like being laughed at for being a girl, but he didn't know why. He still hoarded textbooks about anatomy and the like under his bed, tracing over the detailed pictures with his skeleton finger as he wished. And wished. And wished. And almost prayed that he could read the little ink words. When he found Arthur with another red line on his neck, he offered him some medicine to cure his big brother's blues, thinking just a bit of Tokyo would keep his brother here with him. No one asked why Finn was sad. Oh well, at least he could protect his brothers now. Finn hates healing. Finn loved food. Always the big eater in the Shelby household, he managed to always have a full stomach despite the poverty that reigned. He was a stickler for sweets, though, and as soon as he mastered the art of sneaking rings and wallets from unsuspecting strangers, he soon graduated to thieving lollipops and boiled sweets and even some toffees that he proudly deposited into his aunt's hand with a toothy grin. But the boys would look into his empty plate and his skinny frame and tell him he'd better watch out, soon he might actually have a shape under those bulky clothes. They always laughed, and he felt himself completely embarrassed at the dinner table. He dumped more sugar than milk into his tea and stole chips when they went to the seaside. He'd always offer to share, wanting to provide for them for once, but they'd tell him he was the one who needed it. He sees his ribs and the little vertebrae of his spine and wonders why can't he just be strong like his brothers. Even though he despises it, he picks up boxing to fill out his form. Maybe training with Isaiah was an extra benefit, but the older boy had long since talked to Finn on the regular, and made a point to laugh at him when he fell onto the floor. So, Finn graduated from second helpings of lunch and too-sweet tea to the sour delights of whiskey and cigarettes. Just like his brothers. Finn hates food. Finn loves his family. He loves Polly, the mother he never had, and will never feel like he does enough to repay her for his entire childhood. Then Michael came back, and soon there wasn't any chore lists on the downstairs table for someone to read out for him, or little check ups throughout the day as she makes sure he's okay. That was when he realised exactly why Polly raised him in her empty arms. He loves Arthur: his eldest brother, who used to lift him up on his shoulders and teach him to draw. Finn still has faded old pictures of galloping stallions (signed in block letters: A.W.S) slipped between the filled out pages of the sketchbooks he hides in his wardrobe. Then Arthur came back, with what everyone calls Flanders Blues, but no one explains, and Finn feels like he's losing his brother everyday when he comes back smelling like a brewery with blood on his fists. Finn loves Tommy. A father figure to him, the kind of man he wants to be when he grows up. But then Greta died and Tommy went to war, and the man who took him horse riding every weekend was gone, and this Tommy was colder. Finn loves John as the best friend he's ever had, always laughing together, giving sometimes useful advice and finding days to just spend time with each other. Despite John's bazillion kids, widowerhood, and then his new wife, he's always had time to spare for his little brother. John was the one who told him what bisexual was when he found Finn sobbing in his room, he was the one that took him to the doctor when he passed out from malnutrition, and he's the one that made him swear to never use razor blades on himself again. Finn loves Ada. He sees why Freddie calls her an angel, and used to love it when she pretended to take Finn to the library when in fact they were both slipping away to a Communist meeting, which would usually end up in Ada and Freddie slipping away and leaving Finn in the trusted supervision of leftist radicals that he happily chatted away to. Ada always took care of him, making sure he was never involved in the business (on either side) and telling him that being a soldier is a life sentence, not an honour. He lives because Ada keeps him safe and sane. Then Ada leaves. Finn hates the Shelby name that everyone screams at him like a condemnation, that invites slurs and hatred that only he gets because he doesn't look like a proper Shelby man. Finn hates his family. Finn loved Isaiah. A childhood crush that brought butterflies to his stomach and blushes to his freckled face. He sketched the boy's face so many times, he knew it by memory. They held hands when they were chased down the streets, laughing and sprinting as their spoils stayed securely in their pockets. But Isaiah was older than him. Soon after adolescence hit the Jesus boy and Peaky Blinders offered him a role, without the constant of Church, the two greatest of friends became almost strangers to one another. But Finn still loved him. He never told anyone, of course. He knew he wasn't a real homosexual, because he most certainly did enjoy holding hands and kissing the cheeks of girls his age (poor boy was flustered to ever do more!) but his heart still belonged to the preacher's boy. With more faithful women in the family than ever before, Finn knew he would be crucified if he ever told anyone. John was the only one who knew, and that was based on the fact he paid more attention to his brother than anyone else combined. He said he should just go for it, but Finn knew Isaiah couldn't be like him. And even if Jeremiah was always the kindest man that Finn ever met, he still didn't trust that the cross on his neck wouldn't shame him or laugh at him for the fact he was completely enamoured with his son. Then Finn got drunk, and when he woke up, his entire family knew exactly how he felt and Isaiah wouldn't look at him in the eye. He ran away to the stables, crying on Uncle Charlie's shoulder who told it would be alright. He made sure to keep an eye on Finn ever since, keeping an eye on his wrists and fists. The incident was soon forgot by everyone but him. Finn couldn't find it in him to hate Isaiah, but he knew he didn't love him any more. Finn has never loved Michael. He thought he could, at first, when he saw the tweed suit and a face more innocent than his. But then Tommy promoted him almost on the spot, and Finn had never at once felt so much rage bubble inside him. Everything he has done for his brothers, every passion he sacrificed, every humiliation he shouldered, just so they could see him as an equal. But no, there are only three Shelby brothers as far as anyone else is concerned, and Finn carries on as errand boy. He ignores all Ada's good advice, and swear that he will make his brothers proud of him one day. So, he puts on the thorn crown of a Peaky cap and wears the waistcoat and wool coat of his brother's likeness, and parades about Small Heath like he actually was apart of the makeshift royal family. Then Finn found Michael and Isaiah kissing in the alleyway. Even though Finn had made a point to announce that his brothers had started giving him more work, Isaiah still fucked off to the pub with Michael every night, devoting his time and attention to only him, and Finn couldn't understand why. Now he did. If Finn had been violent like Arthur, he certainly wouldn't have thought twice about taking the cup on his curls and cutting the smirk off of his cousin. He had stolen his brothers' respect, his surrogate mother's attention, his place in the business, the affections of the one boy Finn had ever loved. He had stolen Finn's everything, and Finn hated him. They both froze and stuttered. Excuses about just being friends, just experimenting, but he saw the way they held each others shaking hands just as he and Isaiah used to hold onto each other as they raced through the streets. "I'm glad you're together." He shocked them both with a forced smile. "You both deserve to be happy." The two were kinder to him after that, almost back to the old friendship he had missed, and Finn knew he didn't hate Michael. Or Isaiah. Or any of his family, really. No, Finn hated himself.

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chipper9906 · 3 years

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Heal The Cracks Within My Heart - Chapter 8: Homesick

< - - - Previous Chapter

WARNING: SPOILERS FOR LOKI SEASON 1 EPISODE 6 ‘FOR ALL TIME. ALWAYS.’

Pairings: Loki/Sylvie

Rating: General Audiences

Chapter Word Count: 7,142

Overall Word Count: 72,547

Status: Multi Chapter Fic - In Progress (8/?)

Chapter Preview:

“Is it because you don’t want to hit me?” It takes everything Sylvie has not to physically laugh in his face. “I know we’ve grown a fair bit closer since then, but you seemed to have no trouble doing it in the past. You slammed my face into that… stool thing, remember? Just… think about how annoying you found me then, or… or think about when I accidentally destroyed the TemPad, or -- Oh! How angry you were when I tried to stop you from killing He Who Remains, that was -- Oh wait! A little bit earlier, when I said about falling in love with this other version of you! What would you do if you saw me after catching me flirting with—”

CRACK

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* * *

The morning after was never usually so comfortable for Sylvie.

That was because most of the time… there was no morning after. It didn’t matter how kindly her partner for the evening has treated her, or how clingy they became — whether they knew the Apocalypse was upon them or not. She would never, ever, let herself fall asleep in a strangers bed, or… or couch, or… well, sometimes in an Apocalypse, it’s more of a ‘hook up in this dark alley’ kind of moment, so it wasn’t like she would be getting any sleep there, either.

It was a new experience for her. For a moment, she wasn’t sure why she had awoken with a smile on her face, given that there isn’t usually anything good happening in her life to warrant its presence. But then her sleep-addled mind registered the sensation of arms securely wrapped around her, of warm, bare skin pressed against her own, and the memories of last night came flooding back: clothes haphazardly tossed to the side, slick mouths sliding together, hands exploring toned muscles that danced under each others touch, fingers tangling into long locks as breathy moans are panted against each other's lips, the feel of sweat covered skin as they moved against one another.

She hadn’t realized just how much she wanted this, how much she had been missing. She had only really known the physical side of sex, because… it is a very physical act. But now she knows how different it is when she’s not letting some random stranger be the one to explore her body, but someone she cares for, and someone she knows cares for her in return. No, not just cares for her, but loves her.

She still couldn’t quite believe it, even though Loki had repeated the confession a few times at her request. She had never really considered the possibility of love — both loving someone, and having someone love her back. There had been no room for it in her life, living the way that she did, and she could never look past the mission. It hadn’t seemed to matter what became of her life once she took down the TVA; revenge had been all she knew, and all she ever wanted.

It was strange that now, that want had transitioned from one singular mission to… a person. Actually, when she thought about it… that was greatly oversimplifying things. She wanted more than just Loki, she wanted… a life with him, some sense of normalcy — as normal as normal can be in their life, anyway. Something other than being on the run constantly, or being hunted down, or being the one doing the hunting.

Even now, living in this small slice of domesticity with Loki, she still struggled to see that future. Not just because she’s never lived that kind of life, but because… she couldn’t see an end to this. It had taken all this time to kill one man, and now… they have to kill endless amounts of that same man?

They still had so much to learn about the Multiverse. Even if she could wrap her head around the number of timelines that now exist, and even if they could kill every version of He Who Remains in those timelines… wouldn’t there always be timelines popping up into existence with every small alteration? From one singular timeline, there had been an eruption of other timelines, to which those timelines bred their own timelines, and so on and so on. Killing every version of He Who Remains — or at least, the bad versions — didn’t seem like a job they could just… wrap up and then carry on with their lives. It wasn’t even a job that seemed achievable in their lifetimes. They would have to pass it on to someone else — which then brought up the question of who they would pass such a burden onto, especially when… when all this was on her.

Or… or they’d have to find a way to run things from outside the limits of time. Set up shop in the citadel at the end of time, keeping them from aging so they can do this… endlessly. Never growing old, never able to find a moment of peace. It would make these little moments they found within Apocalypses seem like dream vacations in comparison…

“Should I be worried over whatever you’re worrying about?”

Sylvie startles at the sound of Loki’s voice, shuffling around and glancing up to see him peering down at her with groggy eyes.

The clarity slowly comes back into Loki’s eyes as he wakes up. It was surprisingly easy for Sylvie to lose track of her thoughts when his eyes met hers, still able to picture the way they had looked last night: the blue of his irises all but disappearing as his pupils took over; darkened eyes hungrily taking her in, drinking in every detail and preserving it to memory like he may never get the chance to see her like this again—

“Sylvie?”

“Uh…” Sylvie snaps herself back to the present. “…What makes you think I’m worrying over anything?”

Sylvie feels Loki’s arms shrug around her. “Call it a hunch. Or… call it the fact that you feel so tense, I was wondering if you were about to bolt from the bed.”

Loki’s tone was a joking one, but Sylvie could hear that little tidbit of anxiety hidden in there, too. He genuinely thought that the last part was a possibility, and whilst she knew that wasn’t going to happen, she couldn’t blame Loki for thinking so.

“Nothing, just… overthinking, as usual.” She gives him a small smile, one that he mirrors back at her.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m… just getting used to the feeling of all this, I suppose.”

Loki chuckles in agreement, glancing around at the cozy wooden and stone walls of the Inn that sheltered them from the elements. The single window situated in the wall to the left of them showed views of the snow-covered forest they had come from, the few snowflakes they could see lazily drifting to the ground in no way an indicator of the deathly snowstorm that was supposed to befall this picturesque little village.

Sylvie turns herself around in Loki’s arms until they were face to face. “Aren’t we supposed to be out there saving all the universes?” she asks teasingly, playfully nudging her knee against his.

Loki lets out an odd mixture between a hum and a groan. “We probably should be, yes. Doesn’t mean I want to right this minute, though.”

Loki was much too comfortable right now to do much of anything. He didn’t want this small bubble of peace they were engulfed in to be burst — which it would be. It always is. But if he could just get a few extra minutes of this, then… He’d do whatever good deed the universe… universes —plural — was now apparently expecting of him.

Sylvie apparently agreed with him, seeming in no hurry to escape the comfort of the bed’s plush blankets — or his arms, for that matter.

“How did you end up being the big spoon?” Sylvie asks him, referring to the sleeping position she had woken up in.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Loki was getting strangely offended at the challenge to his role in spooning. “I am the taller one; it makes more sense for me to be the big spoon.”

“Hmm… you didn’t exactly have that kind of mentality last night,” Sylvie’s words land exactly the way she intended, grinning at the flush that steadily made its way across Loki’s face. “The man who clamors for control… actually prefers being dominated.”

“When it’s you,” Loki grumbled.

“Oh? So you’re more… ‘in control’ with other partners?”

“Yes,” Loki asserts, trying to claw back some of his pride. “I usually prefer being the one who dictates the flow of things… leaving my partner at my mercy — and my mercy alone.”

“Mm-Hmm,” Sylvie hums thoughtfully, peering up at Loki through squinted eyes. “So… why did you leave all that to me last night?”

“Because, when I typically take control, I intend for my partner to thoroughly enjoy it,” Loki answers. “With you… I didn’t think you’d like that all that much; losing control, especially when in... in such a vulnerable state. I…”

Loki paused for a moment, frowning in concentration as he tried to find the right words. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but… I think we both know that all of your previous partners have been one-time affairs, have they not? With this, I…”

“Were you… worried you wouldn’t compare?” Sylvie asks.

“What? No—” It was kind of that, but it wasn’t the main point Loki was trying to get across. “—No, it’s…” Loki sighed harshly. “Call me sappy if you’d like, but… I guess a part of me was scared you might see this as another one of those one-time things. I… I didn’t want to do anything that you’re not comfortable with, so I just let you take the reins, because… the last thing I wanted to do was scare you off. I wanted to ensure that this, that our first time with each other, would be one to deposit into your good memories. Because, whilst it might be our first time, I was rather quite hoping that it would be the first of many.”

Oh…

Loki’s eyes dropped down and away from her, and just like that, any pretensions of teasing him any further had flown right out the window. Sylvie lifted up her hand from where it rested against the bed, placing it tenderly across his cheek. Her thumb slowly drifted up and down across the sharp edge of his jaw, drawing his line of sight back to hers.

“First of all? You don’t need to worry about comparing yourself to the others. Not one bit,” Sylvie assures him. “In fact, it doesn’t even compare. None of them do.”

Her words at least seem to be reaching Loki as the truth she intended them to be, the corner of his lips curling up by just the slightest. A part of her wondered if he was playing this as a whole ‘self-conscious lover’ kind of thing so she’d sit here and boost his ego. Then again, she’d probably do the same thing…

“Secondly, I fully intend for this to be a regular occurrence,” Sylvie states like it’s a matter of fact. Loki raises an eyebrow in surprise at the confidence in her voice — but naturally, he doesn’t question it. He’d have to be crazy to question such a thing. “And… okay, so you might have been right—”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Loki asks in disbelief, untangling one of his arms to cup his hand around his ear. “My, my… hearing that might just have felt better than—”

Sylvie shut him up with a swift punch to the arm, glaring at his ear-to-ear grin. “Egotistical bastard…”

“Sorry, sorry -- you were saying?”

Sylvie kept up the glare for a good few seconds more before she continued. “I was just going to say… thank you. Letting me… be the one in charge, it… it helped keep me at ease. And I know you wouldn’t do anything to me, but… bad habits die hard, I guess.”

“It’s okay,” Loki reassured her, lazily drifting his knuckles across the soft skin of her chin. “Having this… it’s already more than I ever thought I’d have. One step at a time, right? These are big changes; I wouldn’t just expect you to jump between them like it they’re no problem.”

“No -- but I’ll still give it my all.” Sylvie surges up to plant a soft kiss on his lips, pulling away before she lets it lead into a repeat of last night that they, unfortunately, didn’t have time for.

Ironic, considering they had two devices in their possession capable of transporting them through time and space.

“But that means you’ve got to start pushing me a little, too. Sometimes I’m going to need some help, someone to nudge me out of my comfort zones, okay? I want to start meeting this other Loki your other partners have had the privilege to meet.”

Loki grins unabashedly at her, raising a hand to his head in a mock salute. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“Good. Now, come on—” Sylvie makes a start to get up, pulling herself out of Loki’s grip. “We should really start getting ready—”

Loki’s arms almost immediately snake back around her, dragging her back towards the warmth of the bed. Loki’s smile was nearly bright enough to match the pure white of the snow-blanketed on the windowsill, placed there not because of his actions, but because of hers. He knew that, if she really didn’t want to be pulled back into the bed, she would have stopped him. The fact that he was able to pull her back into his arms was because she was letting him.

Because she didn’t fancy leaving the bed as much as he didn’t

“Five more minutes?” he offers when she falls back into his chest. He uses his free hand to pull the blankets back around them before she even has a chance to respond to his offer.

“Fine.” Sylvie sounded annoyed, but Loki could hear the pleased undercurrents to her tone. “Just five more minutes.”

Two hours later, Sylvie was perched on the edge of the bed, finishing up tying the laces on her boots. She watched Loki out of the corner of her eye as he crouched by the fireplace, extinguishing the last few stubborn embers that continued to burn despite most of the fire having burnt out during the night.

Sylvie shrugged on the fur coat Loki had created for her — and then later discarded to the ground in his haste last night — reaching into its pockets and pulling out the TemPad. She slides it over her hand, squeezing her hand into a fist as she stares down at the TemPad.

“Would be nice to stay here forever, wouldn’t it?” Loki says wistfully, leaning back from the now-empty fireplace with a bitter-sounding sigh.

Sylvie barely hears him, too preoccupied with running a finger down the singular timeline that glowed up at her. Loki looks over at her silence, standing up from the fireplace and making his way over to her. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers, cocking his head at Sylvie as he comes to a stop in front of her.

“Is it whispering secrets to you that I can’t hear?” he asks teasingly, leaning forward as if trying to listen in closer.

“Oh, definitely.” Sylvie looks up from the TemPad with a sly smile. “It’s telling me every little dirty secret you’ve been trying to hide from me.”

“Ah… I’m afraid I don’t have any,” Loki counters. “At least, none that I’m aware I’m keeping from you.”

“Well, that’s not ominous…” Sylvie returns her gaze to the TemPad, tapping her finger against its surface. Not to input or choose anything, from what Loki could see.

“Are you keeping secrets?” Loki jokes… for the most part.

“None worth telling.”

Now that was ominous, Loki thought.

Loki takes a seat on the edge of the bed next to her, sighing softly as he runs a hand across the top of his head to push his hair back and out of the way. “You going to tell me what you’re thinking about? Is it… something to do with what you were worrying about earlier?”

“No,” Sylvie answers, and it’s the truth. She wasn’t thinking about that — not right now, anyway. “I was… thinking of doing something selfish.”

A beat of tense silence passes between them. Sylvie glances up to see Loki looking rather concerned, his eyes darting between her and the TemPad she held. It was only natural that he was thinking back to the time she last used the TemPad doing something ‘selfish’, resulting in him tumbling back through a Time-Door and nearly ending up imprisoned and potentially reset.

“...And… what exactly is that?” Loki finally gathers up the courage to ask.

“I… I know that we should really get a start on this whole… saving everyone thing…” Sylvie begins, her choice of words getting a hushed snort of laughter from Loki. “But… ever since what Mobius told us, I… I haven’t been able to get them out of my head.”

“Get… who out of your head?”

Sylvie taps at the TemPad, the patterns of squiggly lines atop its surface shifting around until one lone timeline shone up at them. “My family. I know they’re out there now; my past life -- the life I could have lived.”

“You want to see them.” Loki didn’t phrase it as a question.

“I know I probably shouldn’t. I know it… it won’t do me much good, to see everything I missed out on. But… it’s…”

“It’s home,” Loki uttered softly.

“Is it selfish?” she asks him, dropping her hand back down to her lap.

Loki takes in a deep breath through his nose, rocking back slightly. “If it is… I think you’re permitted to be, after everything that’s happened; everything that was taken from you. And besides—” Loki gestures to the TemPad. “—Maybe after we regale them with stories of the terrifying dictator we are courageously facing, we might just sway them into giving us a helping hand. The soldiers of Asgard would certainly be a good acquisition in the coming fight. We’ll need all the help we can get…”

“Kind of sounds like we’re building our own army…” Sylvie notes.

“I suppose… we are,” Loki realizes. “But… not in the traditional way. There’s a difference, fighting using those under your command, than with… fighting alongside allies.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Sylvie says with an awkward shrug of her shoulders. “The only other person I’ve had fight by my side is… you.”

“Well... it won’t be long before we have more allies for you to compare.” Loki stands from the bed, nodding his head towards the TemPad on Sylvie’s hand. “And family is as good a place to start as any.”

A grateful smile hitches at the corner of Sylvie’s lips. She looks down to the TemPad, letting her finger hover over it for a moment before she pressed down on her timeline. The lights of the TemPad pulse with her touch, fading away as the Time Door materializes into existence in front of them.

“Do you… want me to come with you?”

Sylvie whips her head around at his offer, confused as to why it was even a question of whether he was coming with her. She had thought it would be a given by this point.

“I understand if you’d rather not have me there for something like this. That’s not to say I feel particularly comfortable with the thought of you being quite so far out of reach, but… if that’s something you want, then I can stay here with the other TemPad and meet up with you on a different—”

“Loki?”

Loki stops in his ramblings when she says his name, mouth snapping shut at the part-adoration-part-exasperation on her face.

“...Yes?”

“Are you always this much of an idiot the morning after, or is this just a rare occurrence?”

Loki shoots her quite the impressive bitch-face.

“You’re coming with.” Sylvie reinforces this by grabbing hold of his hand, giving it a squeeze as they move towards the shimmering time-door. “Let’s go home.”

“Wait, wait, wait—” Loki splutters urgently, digging his heels into the ground to bring Sylvie to a stop. She does so, looking back at him expectantly. “Just thought I’d check… you did enter a time before the events of Ragnarok, right? Just… you know, to make sure there’s actually a home to go back to…”

* * *

They hadn’t moved an inch since stepping through the Time-Door.

It was quite the juxtaposition: them, stood hidden within the shadows of the forest that sat on the outskirts of the city, whilst the streets of the city itself were bustling with life, crowded with people as they went about their lives.

It was both overwhelming and not enough at the same time. Neither one of them had said a word, greedily taking in every sight of the place they both once called home.

The palace stood proud and tall as always, golden and gleaming in the afternoon’s sun, casting an impressive shadow across the city it sat within. Loki wasn’t too sure if it was just nostalgic memories taking effect, but even the bridge itself seemed to be sparkling just that little bit more than what he remembers.

“Does it live up to your memories?” Loki breaks the silence, somehow finding a way to tear his gaze away to look down to Sylvie.

“I don’t know yet.” Sylvie’s eyes dance across the sights of the city, repeatedly landing back on the palace. “It… it doesn’t feel like I’m home. If anything, it’s more like… this weird sense of Deja-Vu. It feels familiar, and yet… like it’s the first time I’ve stepped foot in this place.

“Well… maybe your memory will be jogged as we take a closer look,” Loki offers, gesturing towards the city. “…That is why we’re here, isn’t it? To see home, see our -- your -- family?”

Sylvie nods, unable to hide the nerves that were on full display. Loki steps in front of her, blocking her view of Asgard as he wraps his hands around the top of her arms. “I won't pretend to know how you’re feeling right now. Our memories of home are different; the way we see our home is different. But I know you want to do this.”

“I do,” Sylvie agrees, a glint of determination in her eyes. “I’m just… I never thought I’d get this, you know? Returning home was never something I thought I could do, because… because there wasn’t a home to return to. And now… I don’t know. I guess I’m worried it won't be the way I’m thinking it’ll be.”

“It probably won't be.” Loki surprises Sylvie with his answer — not at all the reassurance she thought she’d hear from him. “Expectations are almost always impossible to reach. But whatever home ends up being for you… surely it’ll be better than never knowing?”

Sylvie’s eyes drift to the small sliver of the palace she can see past Loki. Somewhere in there, is her family. Her mother, her father, her sister… even herself. She can’t walk away from them. She can’t just… leave them again.

“Okay…” Sylvie modifies her fur coat with a burst of magic, forming a hood that she flips over her head. Loki raises an eyebrow as she hides her face within the shadows of the hood, reminded just a bit too much of the mysterious figure of her that he face to face with back in the RoxxCart. “You should be fine to walk the streets, but I’d rather not risk our people catching sight of two of me if my other self is out there somewhere.”

“Right…” Loki steps back to her side, joining her as they take one last look at the city from this distance. “Do we… do we want to meet the other you?”

“Could be fun,” Sylvie says with the beginnings of a smile. “It’d be interesting to see the type of person I became if… you know — the TVA had never decided to ruin my life.”

“Aren’t you worried?”

Sylvie frowns. “Worried about what?”

“Another version of you out there…” Sylvie could hear the smile in his voice before she saw it on his face, knowing right away he’s about to say something stupid as a joke. “Better hope I don’t go and fall in love with her, too…”

Sylvie slowly turns her head to face him, sporting a bitch-face that looked almost identical to Loki's. She steps up in front of him, wiping the joking smile off his face as she grabs hold of the neckline of his coat, tugging his face closer to hers. Loki swallows nervously, eyes flickering from the eerily calm look in hers to her lips oh so close to his. He wasn’t too sure whether she was trying to terrify him, or turn him on. Either way… both were working.

“I suppose I’d have to get rid of my competition.” Sylvie’s other hand brushes agonizingly slowly up his chest, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake despite the thick clothing he wore. Loki finds himself leaning towards her, eager to close the minuscule gap between their lips. Sylvie jerks her head back before he gets what he wants, forcing him away with a firm push of her hand against his chest and a teasing smile on her face. “Or I suppose I could call you out for the idiot you’re being and leave your dumb-ass behind.”

Sylvie turns around and walks away from him, heading in the direction of the city and leaving a rather stunned-looking Loki behind. Loki stands there watching her retreating form for a moment until coming back to himself, shaking his head as he hurries after her.

“So, just to be clear—” Loki starts as they approach the beginning of the city, emerging from the cover of the trees. “—Making jokes about myself and the other you are strictly off the table?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“On whether you value your jokes over my affection.”

“Consider them off the table,” Loki asserts with a wave of his hand. “In fact, they’re more than just off the table; they’re no longer on this plane of existence, reduced to nothing more than a wisp of a former construct developed from—”

The first impression of the two Loki’s this universe is not entirely familiar with is seen through the eyes of a young Asgardian child, who watched as Sylvie unceremoniously shoved Loki into a stall to shut him up.

“My deepest apologies, I must have tripped over my own feet.” Sylvie bit back a smirk as she continued walking, waiting for Loki to catch up with her after apologizing to the bewildered-looking owner of the stall.

“Sorry, that was a tad bit harsh of me.” Sylvie has the decency to apologize to Loki as he reaches her side with a huff.

“I think I might have landed on a wedge of cheese…” Loki wonders out loud, getting a snort of laughter from Sylvie. “If that man chases us down and demands payment for damages, I’ll pass the bill along to you…”

The people of Asgard were all wrapped up in their personal lives, some making their way through the busy streets as they make their way home, others congregated in small groups that added to the bustling crowds within the center of the city. All around them was the buzz of multiple conversations all occurring at once, muted laughter from their people as they went about their day, all sounds of… life.

Sylvie had lost count of the number of people who had bumped her shoulder as they passed by each other in the crowded streets, tensing up at every touch as she waited for the inevitable moment they would recognize the Princess of Asgard mingling among the common people. Every time, she would pull her hood just that little more over her head, turning her entire body towards Loki as they walked.

Yet… no one seemed to notice. She was just another name-less and face-less person to these people, going about her business the same as they were. Loki’s towering presence next to her was comforting, his hand wrapped securely around hers, appearing as just another couple walking the streets of Asgard.

“They look happy,” Loki points out, referring to the swaths of people they had walked through. “It’s… good. Nice.”

“I’m just glad to see that me not being pruned doesn’t result in the destruction of our home…” Sylvie murmurs quietly, still not wanting to attract too much attention to herself.

Sylvie went to continue forward, only to find herself being pulled to a stop. She glances behind her shoulder, confused to see Loki frozen in place, staring at something to their right. She slowly turns towards the direction he was looking to, immediately laying eyes on what had brought him to a standstill.

It was… her. Not the actual her, but a statue. Its well-polished bronze surface shone brightly as the sun beat down on it, displaying her in a rather impressive looking set of Asgardian Armor. Her metal figure stood proudly, wielding a familiar-looking sword in her hand that she held pointed to the ground, looking out towards the city and its inhabitants.

“Huh.” Is all Loki can think to say. “That’s, um… that’s something.”

“I don’t know whether to take this as a good sign, or… a very bad sign.”

“...Bad as in…?”

“As in, this version of me had a similar hunger for ruling that you did.” Sylvie glowers up at the bronze cast version of herself. She shifts her gaze from the statue to the palace, the golden spires now looming over them, having inched closer and closer to home.

“We don’t know for sure yet,” Loki says. “We can't be sure of anything until we get in there, and… see exactly who it is that sits on the throne.”

* * *

The Palace was as beautiful as she remembered.

She would have dreams of walking these halls, albeit from a much shorter height perspective. Everything was as pristine as usual, still clearly well looked after by those that serve her family. Sylvie was only really able to get a few moments to reminisce before yet another patrol of Einherjar would appear, this now being the fourth time she and Loki have had to duck and hide from their watchful eyes.

“You know, Thor and I did something similar when we snuck out one night.” Loki’s breath tickles the side of her face as he whispers, the two of them hiding behind a marble pillar after waiting for the next set of patrols to pass.

“What for?”

“We were young, and decided that the fading of the sunlight shouldn’t dictate when the fun was to come to an end.”

Sylvie quickly checks to make sure the coast was clear before tugging at Loki’s sleeve to signal for him to move with her. Their footsteps are near-silent as they make their way down the hall, each step careful and deliberate to reduce the amount of noise they make.

“Were you caught?” Sylvie whispers in asking.

“Of course we were caught,” Loki answers. “Two foolish children stood no chance hiding from father's guards. I had only just started learning magic from mother, and to say I wasn’t particularly well-rehearsed in the art of deception and mischief at the time would be an understatement.”

“They realized you had snuck out, then?”

“Realized? They saw us making our escape attempt from a balcony. We weren’t terribly subtle with the way we went about it…”

"I can believe that." Sylvie holds out a hand to stop Loki as they approach a corner. They stand flush against the wall, Loki waiting just behind Sylvie as she cranes her head around the corner, taking a peek at what lies ahead. Or, more in particular, to see just who stood in the way between them and the throne room.

Between her, and..her family.

Or... Her and whatever this other version of herself had become...

"Two guards stationed outside the door," Sylvie whispers over her shoulder to Loki. "We could enchant them, but... I don't see a way we could get close enough to do it before they spot us."

"Hmm... If we can't rely on the element of surprise, then..."

Sylvie glances back over her shoulder, waiting for Loki to finish his sentence. She nearly has a heart attack when, instead of Loki, she comes face to face with one of the Einherjar. Her hand twitches, reaching for her sword, when something in the man's eyes brings her to a stop. There was something... Familiar shining in them. An odd sort of... Glee...

Oh, right, of course... Illusion Casting. What else did she expect from the God of Mischief…?

"Bit of warning next time, Loki," Sylvie grumbles under her breath.

“I did,” Loki counters. “I said ‘we can’t rely on the element of surprise.’ That was my warning I was about to do something.”

Sylvie rolls her eyes with a barely audible sigh, leaning back around the corner to check on the guards. They were still stood ramrod straight in position, attentive eyes staring dead-ahead, as they usually were.

“I could pretend to be escorting you, like I did on Lamentis,” Loki suggests.

“Except the guards would probably be wondering why you’re escorting their Princess,” Sylvie shoots down his idea. “Also, there’s every chance you might be escorting me into the throne room, and in front of… me.”

“Right…” Loki mumbled in defeat. “Um… Illusion Casting requires a little bit more tutoring than a basic crash course, so… unless you suddenly become a master at that, too… we’re running out of options.”

Sylvie sighs from frustration, chewing absentmindedly on her bottom lip as she thinks. She takes another glance at the still stoic guards, quickly ducking back behind the corner to avoid being spotted.

“Wait -- I think have a plan!” Loki whispers excitedly, bringing Sylvie’s attention back to him. “You need to punch me in the face.”

Sylvie was sure she hadn’t heard that right. “You… you want me to punch you in the face?”

“Need, not want; big difference between the two.” Loki lets the illusion of the spear in his hand fade away. He grabs Sylvie by the shoulders, maneuvering them around until he was the one standing by the corner, his back to the edge as he places Sylvie directly in front of him. “You need to get me right in the nose -- make me bleed.”

“You still haven’t explained to me what for?”

“To make it believable, of course!” Loki states like that helped explain his plan any further. “You’re going to hit me as hard as you can, and I’m going to be sent flying backward. The guards are going to rush to help me, and that’s when you step in and enchant one of them.”

“And what about the other one? I can’t enchant both at the same time.”

“I’ll enchant him from the ground,” Loki answered with a grin full of confidence. “Then we can just… put them to sleep and store them somewhere for the time being, steal their armor, and waltz right into that throne room.”

“I don’t know…” Sylvie didn’t hold quite the same confidence in Loki’s plan that he did, given that his last few plans have been less than stellar in both execution and their outcomes…

“You have any better ideas?” Loki asked, and he had her there. “Look, I have complete faith that the both of us could… go rush them and subdue them ourselves. But could we do it quietly enough that no one hears us on the other side of the door? This way, we bring the guards to us, and take care of them before anyone knows what’s going on. It’s perfect!”

“I think ‘feasible’ would be a better word than ‘perfect…’”

CRACK

Sylvie’s knuckles land squarely in the center of Loki’s nose, the force of the impact sending Loki crashing into the wall opposite. She winced, both from not meaning to hit him that hard, and because the punch was forceful enough that it had ripped open the skin above her knuckles. Loki’s nose was — as expected — bleeding quite profusely from the hit, made all the worse by the edge of the TemPad on her hand catching him right across the bridge of the nose.

Loki groaned from where he had crumpled down to the ground, and Sylvie had to remind herself to stick to where she was and keep to the plan than go over and help him. She wasn’t too sure whether he was struggling so much to push himself up because it was all part of the act, or… if she had perhaps gone a bit overboard with her punch.

Either way, what mattered was that the plan, miraculously, was working. The guards had sprung into action the second they heard the crash of metal from Loki’s fake armor smashing into the wall, their weapons held tightly in their hands as they marched over to him.

Sylvie waited until their echoing footsteps were upon her before darting out from her hiding spot, grasping onto the closest guard's arm whilst yanking the spear out from his other hand. The man underneath the armor didn’t even get a chance to voice his protests before her magic was flowing into his mind, his face going slack as his eyes pulse with a burst of green light.

Thankfully, Loki was not concussed from the hit, and still had the mental capacity to carry out his part of the plan. His hand had shot out towards the other guard who had come to his aid, wrapping it around his ankle and hoping more than anything that his first time using enchantment on his own on someone that wasn’t Sylvie would work. He squeezes his eyes shut tightly, focusing every little drop of concentration he has towards the task at hand.

Loki’s eyes pop open in surprise when he feels the man’s foot shift under his hold, greeted by the sight of the guard going slack and collapsing to the ground next to him, landing in a less than graceful heap. Seconds later, the guard is joined by his friend as Sylvie releases her hold on the other guard's arm — although Sylvie does at least do the man a kindness and slowly releases her hold so he drops down gently.

“Ow…” Loki groans from the ground, letting his hand flop down the ground as he rolls over onto his back. He raises his hand to his nose, wiping away the excess blood that had congealed around his face, wincing as he brushes across the tenderized skin.

“Gods -- are you okay?” Sylvie hurriedly steps over the unconscious guards, rushing to get to Loki’s side. “I probably shouldn’t have hit you that hard…”

“I said to make me bleed and to hit me as hard as you can…” Loki says, his voice nasally due to the blood blocking his sinuses. “You certainly did as I asked.”

Sylvie grabs hold of one of his arms, helping him get back to his feet. Loki groans as he gets upright, pinching up and down his nose to check for any breakages.

“In my defense, you were doing everything you could to rile me up,” Sylvie says, gently knocking his hands away to check his injury for herself. Loki lets her examine him, surprised by the gentleness of her hands as they brush across his skin, feather-light and delicate as they pass by the area of his nose where the skin had been broken. “And for the record? That wasn’t me hitting you as hard as I could.”

It probably shouldn’t make her feel proud of herself that Loki looked genuinely afraid of her. And… a little bit awed by her. “It wasn’t?”

“Not even close.”

Loki’s nose had long since stopped bleeding by the time they had stealthily moved the guards to an unused room nearby. Whilst he didn’t need to steal the guard's armor given his abilities to cast Illusions, it was much easier to do so than use up most of his focus on keeping the Illusion up and —more importantly — believable.

Sylvie finished up the last of her temporary golden armor, securing the helmet over her head and making sure it fits snugly. It was a little loose given that the man she had taken it from was slightly taller than her, but not so much that anyone would question it. She looked over to Loki as he scooped up the guard's weapons and shields, nodding in appreciation as he passes one of each to her.

“Wait—” Sylvie stops him just as they reach the doors to the throne room. Loki looks to her with a questioning frown, to which she gestures to her own face with a twirl of her hand. “You’ve still got blood all over your face.”

“Oh.” It only takes a small wave of magic washing over him for the blood to be wiped clean like chalk off a chalkboard. Sylvie nods her approval when he looks back to her, turning back with a shaky breath to the door that, just beyond it, held the answers to what was supposed to become of her family.

What was supposed to become of her.

Loki didn’t say a word next to her, which she was infinitely grateful for. He was doing all that she wanted from him, which was… just to be there, standing by her side. He knew how important this was for her. He knew that now, more than ever, she just needed to know he was there for her if she needed him.

And it was rather terrifying just how much she did need him.

“Okay…” Sylvie breathes out, steeling herself for whatever is about to come their way. She just about catches sight of a flicker of a proud smile from Loki out of the corner of her eye as she nods to herself, raising a hand up and placing her palm against the intricately engraved golden doors. Loki’s hand joins her seconds later, her eyes trained on the door under her hand whilst his were focused solely on her, waiting for her to make the first move. Sylvie pushes hard against the solid metal, Loki following suit and joining her as they push against the heavy weight of the doors.

Slowly… the doors open.

Next Chapter - - - >

#sylki #sylki fanfiction #sylki fanfic #pro sylki #loki/sylvie #lovedagger #enchantricks

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yuusaris · 3 years

Text

Tendershipping Week Day 7 - If The Future Is Bright

@tendershippingweek Todays Prompt was - Future.

AO3 link [here]

This isn't my strongest for the week, but it's the second one I ever wrote and I'm facing adult anxieties so it felt good to let them out via one of my OTP's.

If the future is bright

It doesn't shine with that 'end of the tunnel' light

more like a deer in the headlights

sudden red lights

the 'you're dead' lights

as the anglerfish bite

Is this too spicy? Bakura wonders as the curry sauce passes his lips. It’s fine for me, but is he going to-

“I don’t care what he thinks!" Ryou’s voice rises from the other room, hard and tense. "There’s no other reason I can fathom that he wouldn’t.” Ryou sighs, pauses, then continues. “N- yes… No, it’s not. In theory, it’s so when he and his wife come to town, they don’t need to sleep in a hotel, which he does anyway because she doesn’t-” He pauses for a voice Bakura can’t hear. “No, he just never liked Bakura.”

“He doesn’t like how everything’s his fault, so he blames me so he doesn’t blame himself.” Bakura calls into the living room.

Ryou pokes his head into the kitchen when Bakura says that. “Exactly that!” Ryou agrees, then redirects to the phone. “Bakura said - did you hear it?” Another scoff, he presses a button. Bakura hears static through the speaker, murmurings in the background. “Repeat that, Yuugi didn’t hear you.”

“I said he’s a pissant who’d rather think I corrupted you than realize he’s a pissant.” Bakura doesn’t move from the stove, taking a ladle to the curry sauce. He’s interrupted by the beeping rice cooker. He touches a button to keep the rice warm.

“They don’t even use the house,” Ryou takes the empty curry packages with his free hand. “He comes alone and she and her lot haven’t come to Domino in so lo - he said Bakura and I could end our lease to save money, he absolutely would’ve sold - we get our mail delivered here, for goodness sake.”

“No, I get it, I understand how you feel,” Yuugi says over the phone, “if he could let you live alone in an apartment when you were in high school-”

“That’s what I said to him,” Bakura murmurs, as Ryou exclaims “That’s the same thing Bakura said to him!”

“You let Bakura talk to your father?” A more distant voice says. “There’s the problem.”

“Royal peanut gallery can shut his hole.” Ryou gives his arm a harsh tap for that before trashing the wrappers. But he hears the damn Pharaoh’s ‘case in point’ anyway, and at least resigns himself to quietly curse him as he stirs, ladles and pours back into the pot. It runs quicker than he thinks it should.

Atem speaks again, muffled by the distance before he’s beckoned closer. “I said Kaiba had me text Mokuba because he handles the legal department more than Kaiba does, so I did, and Mokuba wants to know, are you two getting a lawyer.”

“This week, likely.” Bakura says, reaching for the -

Right. Ryou tossed the wrapper.

“Tell Mokuba,” Ryou says, “that we started looking as soon as we got the notice to vacate, we’re vetting someone on Monday, and we’ll see if we can afford him.”

“Are you gunna be able to do this and the wedding stuff?”

“Absolutely not, anything ‘wedding’ is delayed indefinitely.” Ryou’s firm, more so than he was when they first got the notice. “We planned for next year, and that’s not happening even if we keep the house. Best case scenario-”

“We wait another… two? Years?” Bakura asks. Did he remember right? They might've said three the other day… he thinks. "Or three?"

“About two or three, yeah,” Ryou switches the phone to his other ear. “And if we lose and need to start renting again, it’ll be even longer.” Ryou says, rubbing his temples. Right, it’s the house or another apartment, and ‘down payments’ and ‘security deposits’ and ‘please let us bring and keep our snake’ deposits, all things Ryou had mentioned before. “None of this was an issue until he heard we got engaged, he’s just doing this-”

“Because you’re engaged, I know.” Yuugi interrupts. “From everything you’ve told me about him, your dad sounds like he doesn’t... he doesn’t want to think you don’t need him,” Bakura nudges Ryou as Yuugi talks, tilts the pot to show him the sauce, “And I think when he sees you with Bakura…” Yuugi trails off, a moment reprieve for Bakura to mouth ‘is that thin?’ Yuugi picks back up, “he remembers he couldn’t catch you when he thought you were falling.”

“So he’s waiting for another fall?” Ryou finishes, watching Bakura ladle again. ‘Little bit’, he mouths back, tapping the sauce with a finger.

“I think he thinks this is another fall,” Yuugi says as Ryou tastes it, mulls it over, then replies ‘cornflour’, pinches two fingers close together, ‘little spicy’. “Everything and anything with Bakura is a fall, and I think it has to do with all the... Ring Spirit stuff - and I’m not saying he’s right,” Yuugi’s voice hardens before either can speak, “-and I’m not trying to convince you guys of anything or put you guys down. I’m saying I think that’s why he fights you, Ryou, tooth and nail, every time, to keep you from totally cutting him off. Like him not being on your college contact list or you leaving the museum-”

“I don’t wanna talk about the museum,” Ryou’s hard words tumble into his own hand. He breathes out, breathes better than he did when the topic last came up.

(Because he loves every artifact, every slab, every world abandoned by time and all the people who were in it. His fathers countless letters drive him mad, but leaving breaks his heart.

“It’s just a job.” He’d said, wet voice teetering on a tightrope only as stable as he could feel - and it was due to go slack. “There’s plenty of museums. I’m fine.”

“Well, I’m making sure you stay that way,” Bakura had snapped, just before Ryou’s father picked up.)

“-or the joint bank account.”

“Thousand yen says he drained that dry when I told him to piss off.” Bakura scoffs, interrupted only by more beeping from the rice cooker. “Ugh, I hear you.” Press another button, keep it warm, grab the flour and -

“Shit!”

-knocks the side of the boiling pot with his arm.

Ryou looks over at Bakura, brow furrowed. “What happened?”

“I’m fine.” He shakes his arm, airs the burn, and when he tastes the sauce after, it’s noticeably blander, not quite right, he added too much. He grabs his own phone to look up a course-correction.

All of his prior searches crop up - they need to call the bank, can’t take the car loan anymore - there will be no dealership visit next week, and there will be no pretty (but used) convertible in the driveway. They still need to look at insurance in case Ryou does leave the museum because he needs his medicine and thinks Bakura might need fucking therapy, no need to search for legal loopholes for-

Bakura pushes his phone away. They hadn’t yet discussed what all this would mean for that off-the-cuff mention of an idea, weeks ago, never touched again.

(“It might be nice someday,” Ryou’d said, “Not anytime soon, but, it’s something I think about.”

“I feel like they wouldn’t think we’re a ‘suitable family environment’.”

“Domino’s a bit particular. We might be able to, with a lot of paperwork and running around.” And Ryou had grabbed Bakura’s phone and just looked, one search, barely fifteen minutes of that whole day. Just a glance at a seed of what’s barely an idea - completely uprooted, regardless.)

Even before, it would’ve taken years to be ready just to apply, much less anything further. Not enough saved, not the right papers, not the right positions, either of them, even if Ryou keeps his job.

The Pharaoh’s telephone game with the Kaiba brothers - notes and mortgages and counsels and judges - is a mess of nonsense in the background. The rice cooker’s going off again, his arm hurts, and the curry’s somehow the blandest it’s ever been even though they must’ve made package-mix curry a dozen times.

It’s fixable. He knows it’s all fixable. That there’s no issue in front of him that there isn’t a solution for. Nothing truly unfixable or overwhelming has happened. He knows this. Stress is nothing he can’t push through. He knows things have been worse. He knows he’s been through worse. He knows he can handle worse.

“Hey.”

There’s a hand on his arm.

Ryou gives him a shake. It lightly dusts the static out of his mind. “I’ve got it from here.”

“It’s almost done.” Bakura doesn’t look.

“Then it’ll be finished quickly.” There’s a hand on his burnt arm that presses something cold to the offended area. “Thank you, it looks fantastic.” Ryou says, tone soft. “You should lay down, take care of your arm - we’ll eat in the bedroom.”

He recognizes this, the gentle handling, as though Bakura’s a time-bomb. “It's packaged curry - I’ll be fine.”

“I’m just making sure you stay that way.” Ryou turns Bakura towards him as he speaks, pressing close with a kiss. Ryou’s phone is on the counter. Bakura’s screen hasn’t gone dark yet.

Bakura cups a hand to Ryou’s cheek, presses closer to his body, to his mouth. The severing of his focus from the tension-spiral he’d been teetering towards works, shoulders relaxing, especially as Ryou’s hand slid up his forearm.

The kiss breaks as softly as it started, warm breath against his nose and mouth and foreheads pressed together. “We’ve got 80 days to vacate,” Bakura says, as Ryou hands him the ice for his arm.

“We’ve also got a delicious curry and rice. And soon, we’ll have a nice movie, in our nice bed, and several hours not to talk about any of this, anymore, no matter what, until Monday.” Ryou pats his cheek at every pause.

After a moment of silence, Bakura murmurs, “I really liked that car.”

Ruou sniffs, smiles somberly. “I really liked that museum.”

“Then stay at the-”

“After all this?” Ryou asks, incredulously. Before Bakura can offer to correct the behavior, Ryou says. “All the apologies in the world aren’t worth entertaining the idea of working for my father again.” Ryou leans in for one more kiss, strokes Bakura’s cheek with his thumb. “Get some petroleum jelly and a band-aid, go lay down, pop a movie on. I’ll bring dinner when it’s done.” He turns Bakura aside, taking his place by the stove.

With his position lost, the battle’s already over. Bakura retreats, slowly and backwards, towards the bedroom. “I added too much flour, it’s crap.” He says.

“I’ll figure it out.” Ryou smiles. “Always do.”

Bakura stops. He watches Ryou turn back around, taste the curry again, hears light humming in thought. The ice on his arm is cold, and real - so are the plastic tiles under his feet. He’s in the archway between their kitchen and their living room, a home he hasn’t had in three thousand years. Everything else is hypothetical.

“Always do.” he repeats.

#bakura #yami bakura #thief king bakura #tendershipping #ygo #Bakura: (Hits his own chest) this bad boy can fit So Much Stress in it before it explodes #Ryou: See what we're going to do is Not that.#adulting is good and great but also a lot of Maybe things #things can be easier than you think #but the not knowing for certain #or it not being set in stone right away - even if it is certain - can be really rough #tendershippingweek2021

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brywrites · 4 years

Text

Flight Risk IX

Summary: An answer to the age old CM question, “who’s flying the plane?” And the story of a pilot and a profiler. Part IX: In which a profiler and a pilot try their best not to care, featuring an incredibly tacky hotel.

(Series Masterlist) ( Previous | Next )

----

The case closes. When it’s time to go home, Reid sees her leaning against the wall of the hangar with a book. Their eyes meet. He stops walking, frozen to the ground. And in response, she walks away and disappears into the jet. Neither of them knows what to say. She gives herself over to the sky, he loses himself in paperwork. The jet has never felt so big. Like there are miles between them instead of just mere feet.

Y/N thinks of Peter Pan. “The moment you doubt whether you can fly you cease for ever to be able to do it.” She doesn’t know what they are to each other anymore. Are they still friends? Were they ever at all? Was Arthur right all along? Maybe she simply is made for staying, not with her airplane heart. Hopelessly circling, never quite finding a place to land.

Reid has never had to do this before, to hurt someone in this way. He’s not sure how to reach out to her after putting this distance in place. And so he doesn’t. It doesn’t ease the loneliness. Only Garcia notices the change, when he stops talking about her.

“She told you how she felt, didn’t she?” Penelope asks, her cheerful smile deflating. Reid averts his gaze. The pained look on Garcia’s face mirrors the ache in his chest. “Oh, Reid,” she says. “Do you really still believe that you’re not allowed to be happy?”

“But you looked so happy together,” Yeeqin laments when Y/N tells her what happened. “I just don’t get it.” She and her girlfriend Saoirse offer to key his car, an offer Y/N promptly refuses. They’re both hurting enough as is. And besides, knowing Yeeqin she’d vandalize the wrong car and need someone to bail her out. After the “graffiti incident of 2014,” Y/N has no interest in doing so again.

And so they stay away. Things return to the way they always were – pilots and profilers. Two separate worlds on the same G550 jet. The only exchanges are simply pleasantries or requests from the team to the pilots, but they never come from Reid. Or announcements about takeoff and landing that almost always come from Captain Dobson. On the rare occasions when Y/N’s voice floods into the cabin, he closes his eyes and lets himself imagine that she’s speaking only to him. Sometimes when the agents disembark from the plane, she watches him go from the cockpit window and tries to remember what it was like when they sat so close.

He stops arriving early. She stops reading in the hangar if she’s not on the jet. They both pretend it’s normal. They both pretend it’s possible for them not to care. That it’s easy, that it doesn’t bother them one bit to be apart like this. That it wasn’t better before.

Y/N goes to dinner at Arthur and Malik’s house. Martin and Theresa are there and she runs around the yard with their older children, Carolyn and Benedict, and coos over baby Douglas. They share cocktails and swap stories and it feels so good to be surrounded by her own team, this makeshift family of aviators. She has movie nights in with Yeeqin and goes out with her and Saoirse anytime they invite her along and it’s so nice to be among friends. But then Martin looks at Theresa with all the love in the world and Saoirse falls asleep on Yeeqin’s shoulder in the cab on the way home and it’s acutely apparent to her that something is missing in her life.

Reid distracts himself with work and with books and tells himself that he’s always been just fine this way, with words and obligations instead of laughter over takeout or meetings at coffee shops. But then he discovers Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close in his bottom desk drawer at work, the copy she’d loaned to him and he’d sworn he would remember to give back to her and suddenly he’s trying not to cry in the bullpen and he doesn’t quite know why.

She learns from Arthur, who knew him, that Spencer’s mentor has been killed. And she can see on their next case that he’s hurting. The sadness in his eyes, the exhaustion evident in his slumped posture makes her want to run to him and wrap him in a hug, hold him close like he held her that night on the couch. But she’s not supposed to care about him anymore.

He sees the way she looks back at him as she boards the jet that day, her eyes lingering on him for just a fraction too long, and he thinks that just maybe she’s going to say something to him. But she doesn’t and he’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed. Either way, Gideon’s death seems only to prove his theory – the people he loves get hurt.

When they come home from the bombing case in Indianapolis, he’s drained from a week of mourning and a grueling chess match with Rossi. As Reid stands in the hangar searching for his keys in his bag, he hears, “Doctor Reid,” and turns to see Captain Dobson standing a few feet away.

“Yes?” he asks.

The captain opens his mouth, falters, and then says, “I’m sorry for your loss.” The sentiment is confusing, as he already told Reid this as he boarded the plane three days earlier. But perhaps Dobson has forgotten the conversation. So he thanks the captain and continues on his way.

Y/N and Reid seek solace in their friends, in their books, in the places that make them feel safe. And they try so hard to convince their hearts that they don’t feel anything that they wonder if it was ever even real to begin with. And for a little while, they almost believe it.

But then comes Nashville.

---

“Did you see the picture Martin sent of baby Douglas in his pilot’s cap?” Y/N asks.

“I did,” Arthur says. “It was cute.”

“The cutest thing I’ve ever seen!” she insists. “I wish he could bring the kids by for a visit sometime, I’m sure they’d love to check out the jet. Do you remember being a kid and how they’d let you go visit the flight deck and see how a plane worked? And they’d give you those little plastic pilots wings?”

“Relics of a bygone era,” Arthur sighs. “I’m sure I still have a pair of PanAm Junior Pilot wings stashed in a box somewhere.” The millennium ushered in a new vision of aviation security and sharp pins and strangers in the cockpit simply aren’t considered protocol anymore. “How are we looking?”

Y/N glances at the altimeter and airspeed indicators. “Flying at 46,000 feet. Currently at Mach point nine. Should be about one hour and ten minutes to destination.”

“Let the cabin now we’ve reached out cruising altitude, will you?” Arthur asks. Typically it’s her job to shift the jet into cruise while Arthur makes the announcement, but she nods and takes the speaker.

“Good afternoon passengers, this is your co-pilot speaking. We’ve reached our cruising altitude of 46,000 feet. At this time please feel free to resume using electronic devices and move about the cabin. We expect to be landing in Nashville in about an hour. Skies are clear, should be smooth sailing ahead. In-flight refreshments will not be served, but you’re welcome to help yourselves to anything stocked in the galley.”

A part of her wonders if he thinks of her when he hears her voice. Not that it should matter anymore. Before she can lose herself in her own thoughts, Arthur asks, “Who Framed Roger Rabbit?”

“Lincoln,” she decides after a moment to think. “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?”

Arthur says, “The Terminator,” without missing a beat. The captain is well-versed in cinema, which makes Double Feature one of his favorite in-flight games. The first movie must always be a question, and whoever can come up with the best films in response is declared the winner. Arthur almost always wins, and it’s a challenge to think up films they haven’t already used.

“What’s Eating Gilbert Grape?”

“Hannibal.”

“That’s terrible,” Arthur laughs.

“Dude, Where’s My Car?”

“Brokeback Mountain.”

“Oof, that’s gonna be a long and sad trek to retrieve it,” she sighs. “I’m not prepared for that kind of emotional devastation.” But the game does help to take her mind off of what she’s really feeling. She can lose herself in words and not in wishes. They land GEFF gently on the tarmac in Nashville and when they pull around to the hangar, she doesn’t look out the side window. Y/N stares straight ahead at the horizon. The sky fades from deep royal blue to soft pale periwinkle where the distant skyline rises up to meet it and she loves every single shade in between.

Once the team has departed, she and Arthur walk through the cabin tidying up and making note of anything that needs to be cleaned or restocked prior to takeoff. Arthur won Double Feature (“O Brother Where Art Thou?” “Soylent Green.” “Oh, that is incredibly twisted!”) so it’s her turn to clean the bathroom. Fortunately a short flight like this means it’s fairly clean to begin with. She wipes sanitizes the sink and toilet, empties the paper towel bag, makes sure there’s enough soap and toilet paper. Garbage is deposited in the trash can at the back of the hangar and they return to Geff to grab their own go-bags.

“Listen, Y/L/N,” Arthur says as they lock the cockpit door. “About the IRT job.”

“Arthur,” she cuts him off. “I really don’t want to talk about this right now.” When he looks as though he’s about to protest she adds, “Please. I just want to go to hotel and take a nap and watch whatever silly romcom is on pay per view.”

He nods and says nothing more. They catch a rideshare from the airport together and she stares out the window at the buildings and billboards that line the roads. She already knows what she’s going to do about the offer. She made her decision after her conversation with Spencer. The choice was clear. But she doesn’t want to discuss it yet. She’s not ready.

They step into the lobby of the Graduate Hotel and her mouth falls open. It’s hideous. There’s a fuzzy tapestry – a fuzzy tapestry of a woman with a hat against a pink background that appears to be made out of the same material as a shag rug. The lamps at the concierge desk have hot pink floral patterns on them. A neon installation that looks similar to a vintage gas station sign announces vacancies in bright green and red light. The armchairs are blue velvet and the hanging lights look like tulle skirts. There’s too much happening at once.

“This is the ugliest hotel I’ve ever seen,” she says.

“Well the more affordable ones were nearly full – evidently this is a big weekend for admitted students at Vanderbilt – they had to double up all of the rooms for the team. But the Bureau managed to get us a discount here,” Arthur replies as they stand at the desk waiting for someone to check them in.

“I suppose a bunch of special agents wouldn’t blend in well at a place like this,” she admits. Hopefully they solve the case quickly and she’s not stuck here too long. True to her word she spends the first night relaxing in her room. The bathroom is beautiful – black walls with gold accents and a glass shower. The room itself is another story. The carpet is a rainbow of jewel-toned diamonds in a quilt-like pattern. The walls are pink and white striped, a candelabra sits next to a pink television. White curtains with a vibrant floral pattern line the window and form a hanging behind the bed. The bed, mercifully, has the standard white blankets and white pillows, though there is hot pink chevron quilt draped over the end and an eerie portrait of Dolly Parton stares at her from above the headboard. Y/N shudders.

Penelope Garcia calls her that evening. She’s waiting to hear back from the team and could use some virtual company. “I don’t even know if you’d like this place,” Y/N tells her. “It’s so garishly tacky. Like a sorority girl and her antique-collecting grandmother chose items from their storage closet at random.”

“Oh it can’t be that bad,” Garcia says.

“Penelope, I am ever the optimist. I love quirky, whimsical adventures. But this is something else. The Dolly Parton painting keeps staring at me, I swear!”

“Let me look it up.” There is the sound of fingers frantically typing on a keyboard. “Oh come on now, the lobby is way cute! And the patio? I just – oh. Oh my. Oh those rooms. You’re right. That’s bad. That’s very bad.”

“I told you!”

“That went from cute to crikey very quickly,” she agrees. After takeout for dinner and watching Serendipity, Y/N falls asleep under the unnervingly watchful eye of Dolly. The next day is completely free, and she heads out to explore the city. Wherever she ends up, she tries to take advantage of the adventures available to her. Just blocks from the hotel she discovers Nashville’s Parthenon – a full-scale replica of the Greek temple which hides an art museum inside. She wanders the galleries and stands at the entrance staring up at the pillars holding the roof up. What would it be like to visit the real thing? She wonders how many times the IRT has gone to Greece before. Maybe they’ll end up in Athens sometime this year.

Café Coco is the cutest coffee shop she’s seen in any city, and she grabs tea and a scone before returning to Centennial Park. Beneath the barely blossoming trees she sits and reads Dandelion Wine. It’s beautifully written and full of longing. That longing seeps through the pages and she can feel it in her bones. Nostalgia for times past and places far behind and things that cannot be. Everything that Spencer said it would be. As she reads she tries to imagine which lines would have made him smile or elicited a wistful sigh. Are the parts she loves most the same as the parts he loves most?

Her phone buzzes with a text form Arthur to ask if she wants to get lunch together at the hotel bar, and she shoves the book and her longing back in her bag and walks over to meet him.They step from the tacky lobby into a bar that seems remarkably normal. String lights and chandeliers cast an inviting ambient glow over the wooden tables and chairs. Country music is playing over the speakers. But as they she and Arthur move closer towards an open table, she sees it. The stage.

“What is that?” she asks. There’s a bear, a pig, and a fox in a wig atop a stage that says Cross-Eyed Critters. Each holds an instrument. And it’s then that she realizes the music is coming from them. It’s an animatronic band. Their eyes and mouths move as they sing and their fabricated bodies turn and jerk with the beat. “What?” she asks again, completely dumbfounded. “What?”

Arthur too is speechless. Then he shakes his head and says, “It’s nothing a drink or two won’t make more palatable.” She snaps a photo on her phone and texts it to Garcia, who will surely get a kick out of it.

As they sit down, a voice announces a new song over the speakers. A slightly tipsy looking man in a pair of red cowboy boots comes to stand in front of the stage. He has a microphone. The animatronics begin to play the opening notes of a song, and then the man begins to sing. This is not just a bar with an animatronic band, it’s an animatronic karaoke bar. The man in the red boots belts out an uncomfortably off-key version of a Kenny Rogers song –“You’ve got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em, know when to walk away and know when to run!”– with just a little too much bravado.

“I think I’ll need that drink sooner rather than later,” Arthur admits begrudgingly. She has to laugh. This hotel, it seems is full of surprises. But the captain is right. When she receives a spiked cream soda and Arthur has a glass of bourbon and there’s a plate of tacos between them, it’s easier to tune out the karaoke band. She can just enjoy her drink and the light and the stories of Arthur’s first flights with the BAU that have her nearly in tears from laughing so hard. For someone who maintains such a serious demeanor most of the time, he knows how to tell a joke incredibly well. She’s always appreciated that about him.

“Y/N, there is something I wanted to talk with you about,” Arthur says. His tone changes and she knows the time for joking is over. “We need to discuss the IRT offer.” Before he can continue, her phone rings. She glances at the screen. It’s Penelope. Y/N sends it to voicemail. There will be time to discuss the disconcerting robot band later when she’s back in her room. Right now, she needs to focus on Arthur. She knows where this is going and he’s right. She can’t keep putting this off forever. She has to talk about this, and everything that it means.

“I’ve already made my decision,” she begins to say. But her phone begins to ring again, and her heart drops into her stomach. This isn’t about the picture. This is urgent. Arthur must realize it too. His eyes trail down to her phone and she hesitantly picks it up.

“It’s Garcia,” she tells him, before answering. “Hello?”

“Y/N, oh thank goodness you picked up.” The analyst’s voice is a little higher than usual, a little more strained. “It’s Reid. He’s in the hospital.”

#flight risk #fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #imagine #reid x reader #spencer reid x reader

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starlite-writes · 3 years

Text

Auber belongs to @alkalamity, and the Novation species (and Leaf) belong to @packedlunchmeat! C:

Content warnings: gaslighting, emotional/mental manipulation(? better safe that sorry), brief strangulation.

---

It's quiet today.

Angel enjoys quiet. It's a rare thing, but pleasant nonetheless. Today, they're spending the blissful silence sitting on the couch with a book in their lap.

"Angel!"

They shake their head in annoyance at the sound of Auber outside their door.

"It never lasts," Angel mutters under their breath. Still, they don't move to check the door.

There's the sound of fists banging against the wooden door, and then Auber's voice again--

"Angel! Open the door now!"

A sigh as they turn the page.

"So help me God, I will get my keys and open this door myself, Angel. Open up. I need to talk to you."

Angel huffs, simply crossing their legs. "I feel as though that violates some form of landlord law," they call, just loud enough to be heard.

"Quit the smartass comments and open the door!"

Angel doesn't move.

It takes but a moment before the sound of jingling keys meets their ears, and then the door is swinging open. Auber stands in the doorway, two swords in their lower two hands, their key ring in their upper right.

"Hello to you too," Angel greets coolly, hardly sparing them a glance. By now, they know better than to display any kind of concern when greeted by a potential threat. "Picking useless fights again, are we?"

"Well, if you already know, then that makes things a lot easier on my end." Auber steps closer, setting their keys in their pocket and moving the swords to their upper hands.

"Enlighten me," Angel drawls lazily. "What is it I'm supposed to know?"

"That I'm here to start a fight!" Auber points one sword at Angel accusingly. "What's your relationship with Mal?"

Angel barely keeps from smiling. Ah. So that's what this is about. Good going, Mal; you've really made an enemy of the landlord, then.

"Who's Mal?" they ask, keeping their voice even and void of emotion. A simple question with no personal stake--voiced just the same as one might ask the time.

Auber's jaw clenches just slightly. Angel sees it from their peripheral vision.

"Braconid wasp. About yay high." Auber holds up a hand. "Red. Kinda stupid."

Angel licks their finger as they turn the page, still not looking up. "Sorry; doesn't ring any bells."

Auber squints, all four of their eyes narrow and lit with carefully concealed anger. "Angel. Your name is literally listed in his 'person who referred me' section."

"Is it now?" Angel asks, finally standing up as they close their book. They walk to their bookshelf, replacing the book carefully. They turn back towards Auber, leaning against the wall. "How strange. I think you've been scammed, then; I've never referred anyone. I don't have any friends who can afford your prices."

Crack!

Auber swings their sword, the tip of the blade connecting with the wall hardly an inch from their head. Angel doesn't even flinch. Instead, they stare at Auber with an unimpressed expression.

"Stop it," Auber hisses. "I've had enough of the stupid mind games."

"And I've had enough of your tantrum," Angel replies coldly. They turn to glance at the cracks branching around the blade. "I'm not paying to repair this."

"It's your security deposit."

"You did the damage."

Auber pulls the blade out of the wall, and Angel watches in disgust as drywall dust cascades across their newly cleaned floor.

"I don't remember that," Auber says innocently.

"I have cameras," Angel points out. "You've broken in too many times for me not to have them."

"It isn't breaking in if I own the place," Auber fires back.

"It's breaking in if I pay you obscene amounts of money each month to live in said place," Angel hisses, their ears pinning back.

"My prices aren't even that high!" Auber snaps. "Stop changing the subject! I know you're connected to Mal! What's your deal with him, Angel?"

"I literally don't even know who that is!" Angel snarls, digging their heels in further. "I have never met a Mal in my life!"

Auber is losing their composure--Angel can see it eroding away with each word they utter. They're angry.

Good.

"Angel," Auber says, their voice cold. "I know you know him. I'm not looking for a fight with you but I swear to Christ if you keep this up I will kill you where you stand. All I want is a simple answer--what is your connection?"

Angel barely keeps their lips from twitching up into a smile.

"I can't answer that if I don't know the person," they reply, voice equally low and icy.

Auber moves fast--faster than Angel expected. One second they're standing a couple feet away, and the next they're practically pressed against Angel's body, the blade of one sword placed firmly against their throat. Angel's teeth are gritted as they press against the wall behind them instinctively.

"With every gaslighting sentence that leaves that filthy mouth of yours, you get that much closer to dying," Auber warns. "You've already got a blade to your throat. "Do you really want to push this further?"

"You won't kill me," Angel replies, their voice strained even as they say it as if it's a fact they're certain of.

They're not sure at all. Auber currently has an incredibly concerning glint in their eye--something Angel can only describe as mania--and they wouldn't put it past Auber to do something entirely reckless and foolish in a fit of passion.

"Do you want to test that?" Auber whispers.

Angel doesn't, actually, but they hold fast to their pride.

"Tell you what," they say, reaching up and carefully pushing Auber's hand away from their throat. "Take me to his apartment. If it is as you say it is, surely he will be there, or some sign of him will be. Sound fair?"

Auber tilts their head as if thinking about it.

"Fine." They step back. "But I expect a well-thought out apology."

"Only if you really deserve one, asshole," Angel spits in response, rubbing at their throat. Their hand comes away sticky with a small amount of amber blood. "Lead the way, then."

Auber all but throws open the door to Angel's apartment before taking off towards one a few doors down. Angel follows leisurely, upper arms crossed over their chest and lower ones in their pockets.

Auber waits until Angel catches up to unlock the door with one of their keys, throwing it open and turning towards Angel expectantly, like See! I knew you were lying!

Angel peers past them into the empty apartment. "Very convincing empty and desolate apartment you have here."

"What?" Auber turns, and sure enough, the living room is completely clean--suspiciously so. It looks like whomever left did so in a way that suggests they were never there in the first place.

Good. You can listen, then.

Auber turns towards Angel, their expression the definition of furious.

Angel just smiles in response. “Well, I think you owe me an apology.”

“You better tell me where he is,” Auber says, their voice low. “I know you know. It's your job to know.”

“Auber.” Angel gives a tired sigh, their expression painted with practiced exasperation. “I don’t know who you’re talking about. Are you feeling all right? I know things have been stressful for you lately; perhaps the pressure is finally making you crack? I think you may have tried to return to work too quickly.”

Auber’s teeth grit, sharp teeth barely exposed under their curled lip. Despite their clear anger, there’s undoubtedly a waver under it. They’re entertaining the idea.

Excellent.

Amused, Angel wonders how much it will take to make Auber snap completely. Not much, they wager.

Angel leans against the door frame with a small smile. "Well? Should I call Leaf for you? Maybe she can bring you home and--ack!"

Their words cut off in a strangled cry as Auber grabs them by the throat, shoving them against the wall.

"You're such a liar," Auber hisses. "Have you ever spoken a word of truth in your life?"

"Of course, I have," Angel answers, glaring up at their landlord. "Look, I'm sorry I don't have a way to peek into that silly little brain of yours and see whatever you've concocted in your traumatised haze of existence, but--"

Auber squeezes harder, enough to stop Angel breathing for several seconds. They cough and draw in a shaking breath.

"Stop--talking," Auber says through gritted teeth. "Stop. Just…" They let go of Angel, one hand coming up to cover their eyes. "Go."

"What?"

"You heard me." Auber gestures away from the apartment with one of their swords, and Angel flattens themself further against the wall to avoid getting fileted like a fish. "Just go. I'm tired."

Angel's wings twitch. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Auber huffs. "I just really don't want to talk to you anymore. Go home. I'll… call Leaf… or something." Their voice is flat and they genuinely sound tired.

There's a flicker of something like guilt in Angel's chest. Maybe they did push too far this time. Still, they offer nothing by way of apology, turning on their heel and walking away, leaving Auber by Mal's empty apartment.

Alone.

#my writing #gift writing ♡#other's characters #gaslighting #emotional manipulation #strangulation #tw #text #novaverse #oc: angel #oc: novangel #alkalamity #packedlunchmeat

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sarah-sandwich · 3 years

Note

“probably not, no”

or, if that doesn’t work for you, “that’s fair, actually”

,,,,,, giving three words is harder than i thought lmao. good luck with your writing!!!!

Lmao thank you!! I wasn't thinking sequential words but that's what Oliver sent too and honestly I love what you both sent so much??? I ended up using both of your suggestions 😊

That's fair, actually:

“Would you focus?” Michelle snaps. Her box is sorted so she scoops up the paper pile and crams it into the corresponding dumpster. “Don’t think I won’t leave you here.”

Gwen sits back on her heels. “Why are you so grumpy today?”

“Why are you so annoying?” She regrets immediately as a cloud of hurt mars Gwen’s face but she can’t bring herself to take it back or apologize. She’s frustrated, okay? This was supposed to be a quiet easy morning of driving and solitude but Gwen butted in and ruined it. She’s like a toddler, constantly seeking her attention and insisting she keep her entertained and out of trouble. It’s exhausting.

“That’s fair, actually,” Gwen mumbles.

Michelle doesn’t apologize as they finish sorting and depositing the recyclables in silence. She doesn’t apologize during the hour-long drive home. She doesn’t say anything at all until Gwen’s front door closes and she’s finally alone just like she wanted all along.

She drops her forehead to the steering wheel and says, “Dammit, Michelle.”

Probably not, no:

“I need advice.”

“Oh,” Ned says, losing his usual playfulness. “Look, if you’re having second thoughts about Peter and everything then—,”

“What? No, no it’s about my neighbor.” She switches off the burner and turns away from the stove. “What’s going on with Peter?”

“Oh,” Ned says again, this time with relief. “Good. I mean, not good if you’re having problems. Just we finally got to a good spot and it would have sucked if— Not that you’re not allowed to change your mind! Or have feelings or—,”

“Ned, focus. Is Peter okay?”

“That’s what I’m saying, Em. It’s like when a baby finally starts sleeping through the night and you don’t want to do anything to mess it up.”

“So…” She perches on the edge of the red-painted chair ringing the table with its mis-matched brethren. “So he’s doing well?”

“We finished a Lego build in two days last week.”

“Is that… good?”

“The last one we built together took two years.”

Michelle sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Would you say what you mean? I don’t know if it’s a good thing that he’s bingeing Legos with you or if it’s a sign that he’s spinning out. Last time he lost someone on patrol he came home and scrubbed the entire apartment including behind the fridge. Then the next day I came home to him sobbing in the tub wearing his suit.”

“So what’s your point?”

“My point is that what looks good on the surface isn’t necessarily that at its core and Peter is the worst about putting on a show to hide what he’s feeling. You can’t let him use Legos to lure you into a false sense of security.”

“The plural of Lego is just Lego.”

“I don’t give a fuck! Do you honestly think Peter is okay?”

“Probably not, no,” he says miserably. “But I want him to be.”

“Me too.” Her kitchen suddenly feels too big and too small at the same time. Empty, yet stifling. “Keep an eye on him for me?”

“Always.”

“Thanks.”

“Of course.” He takes a deep breath. “So what’s this about your hot neighbor and needing advice?”

She sighs and falls back in the chair. “I never said she was hot.”

#mine #mmp3 #ask games #ned my beloved #sswrites

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theanimesideblog · 3 years

Note

Okay hear me out.... Arsonist's Lullabye with Dabi and a reader who doesn't know how to use their fire quirk and he teaches them

Dabi x Fire Quirk!Gn!Reader: Arsonist’s Lullabye

TW: fire, violence, canon typical violence, dabi talks about killing someone but he doesn’t, possible manga spoiler in the second to last paragraph (?) be warned

Prompt Playlist Event

A/N: this took me FOREVER i rly went overboard ✋😔 i had to cut myself off it was getting too long

When you first started to manifest your quirk, you didn’t realize it. You sat in front of a bonfire for some local festival you couldn’t even remember at this point. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the blaze. It was beautiful. To you, that fire looked alive. It’s dancing form spoke to you, whispers and screams that told you of your power.

After that, you couldn’t look away from any flame. Even the scented candles around your home fascinated you. You swore they talked to you. You asked your mom if she heard the whispers too. She gave you a puzzled look.

[[MORE]]

Both your parents had heat related quirks. Your mother could produce fire, but only a small flame on the tip of her fingers. Your father could warm anything he touched. They dismissed you having any sort of fire power. With their weak quirks, they believed there was no way you could be powerful.

You proved them wrong when you sneezed and accidentally lit the kitchen table on fire. From there, they were constantly worried about your quirk. You promised never to use your quirk, but your parents would still fret over you.

It was enough to drive anyone mad. In fact, a part of you believed you were evil.

You ran away when you were sixteen. From there, you did odd jobs here and there to make enough money to get an awful apartment. They weren’t the most legal jobs, but you thought you were bad. What did a few more bad deeds do?

At twenty years old, you were a skilled fighter. You had to be since you had no idea how to use your quirk. Not only that, but you were intelligent enough to save your skin more than once. There was rumors that your quirk was “luck” since you always seemed a little too lucky with close calls. After years of this rumor, all your clients believed it.

~*~

You walked down an alley after blending in with the crowd long enough for the pro heroes to lose your scent. You smiled, feeling overjoyed at the weight of your backpack. You thought it was odd that someone had hired you for petty theft of a tech store, but money was money.

You pulled out your phone and called the number your client had given you. You heard another phone ring, before a burnt man walked out of the shadows. You smiled and turned off your phone.

“Finally, I get to meet my client face-to-face.” You said, taking off your backpack. “Got everything ya want here.”

“You’re pretty good at this. Your quirk is luck, right?” The burnt man asked. You winked.

“Something like that.” You said. You didn’t want to let people know you had a fire quirk, but saying you were quirkless would make you an easy target.

The burnt man opened the backpack and smiled before slinging it onto his back.

“We could use someone like you on our team.” The burnt man said.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t do teams.” You said.

“Not even if the League of Villains wanted you?” The burnt man said. Your eyes widened and your smile dropped. “The name’s Dabi. We’re recruiting more people, and you’re one of the villains we want. What do you say?”

“I’m not looking for a team. Besides, what you guys do is above my paygrade. Thanks, though.” You said, backing up slowly. Dabi smiled.

“That’s too bad. But I can’t just let you walk either.” Dabi said. He raised his hand, before fire shot out. You moved out of the fire, narrowly avoiding it.

You mentally cursed. You had to get out of here, or else you’d be killed. You had known of the League and their offers. You had hoped they wouldn’t care about someone like you, but you were wrong.

Your eyes darted around the alleyway, looking for a way out. Unfortunately, there where no ladders and Dabi blocked one of the exits. You only choice was to turn tail and leave, hoping he wouldn’t be able to chase you into the crowd.

Dabi sent another blast of fire towards you. You rolled underneath it, before running towards the entrance of the alleyway. You felt the blast of fire before you saw it. You turned out of the way at the last second, hoping to avoid his blast. Unfortunately, you turned too sharply, causing you to fall to the ground.

You looked back to see Dabi right in front of you.

“Got you now.” He said, pointing his arm at you.

You brought your arms up to cover your face in a last stitch effort. As fire shot out of his hand, fire shot out of your hands and arms. Your flames stopped his from burning you alive. The force caused Dabi to fly back.

You pushed your shock asked and got up, using this opportunity to run away. You couldn’t worry about your secret getting out. You just had to get away.

~*~

After months of constant moving, you were sure that the League wasn’t pursuing you. You settled down on the other side of Japan in a busy city. You changed your name and everything.

You had just settled down when a knock came to your door. You figured it was your shady landlady coming by to ask for rent or something. You opened up the door.

“Ms. Mera, I told you that-“ You cut yourself off when you realized it wasn’t your landlady at the door, but Dabi. You moved to shut the door, but he grabbed it before you could.

“I don’t know who Ms. Mera is, but you and I have some unfinished business. Mind if I come in.” Dabi said, pushing the door open. Not much of a question.

He placed his hand on the small of your back and lead you into your apartment. He gestured to your couch. You sat down and watched as he took at seat on your coffee table.

“How can I help you?” You said.

“You so rudely denied my offer to join the League. So, I am with a different offer in mind.” Dabi said. Your eyebrows scrunched together.

“A-Another?” You said. Dabi nodded.

“I think you’ll find this more agreeable. I’m going to train you and your fire quirk, but only if you join the League afterwards.” Dabi said. You frowned.

“And if I disagree?” You asked. Dabi lit his hand.

“I don’t think you’ll need to worry about your security deposit.” He said.

You didn’t have a lot of options. You could refuse, which would only end in fire. The only reason you got away last time was because you had a secret up your sleeve. Your other option was to accept his offer. Eventually, you could get away. Plus, you might learn some secrets that would get you witness protection.

“I accept your offer.” You said, holding your hand out. Dabi smiled, putting out his hand before shaking yours.

~*~

You and Dabi decided to meet up in an abandoned warehouse on a shady side of town. Most people would ignore any fire coming from it, which was perfect. Neither of you wanted to get caught. You met up underneath the pale moonlight in the warehouse.

“So, I figure there must be a good reason you don’t use your quirk. I really don’t care why, but I need to know if you ever have used it before.” Dabi said. You shook your head. Anytime you had used it, it was an accident or a fluke. “Can you even summon it?” He asked. You shook your head.

“God. This is going to be a lonnnnggg night.” Dabi said, before asking towards you. You stepped back from him.

“Relax. If I wanted to fry you, I would’ve.” He said. You relaxed as he came towards you. He stood behind you, placing his hands on your shoulders.

“Listen, there’s a few things I’ve learned while on this miserable rock. First, all you have is your fire. Second, don’t you ever be afraid of your demons, but always keep them on a leash. It’s good to be a little afraid of your fire so you don’t hurt the people you want to keep alive, but you shouldn’t be afraid of it. It’s yours and it will always be yours. Tame it. Show the world why they should fear you.” Dabi said. You felt a shiver run down your spine. “Now, aim straight ahead. Feel it burning in your heart and release your fire.”

You took a deep breath, trying to coax fire out of you. After a few seconds of concentration, a flame shot foward. Unfortunately, grew much bigger than you meant for it too. You started to panic. Dabi ran his hands down your arms, gripping your wrists.

“Don’t. Be. Afraid.” He growled. You tried to control the flames and your shaking breath. Much to your surprise, you were able to control the flames. Maybe it was because Dabi was here or maybe it was because someone believed you, but that was the first time in a long time you felt like you could control your quirk.

“There you go, sweet thing. Now, focus on the flames. They’re yours. Make them dance.” Dabi said. You focused on slightly expanding the fire, before making it smaller, and then bigger again. You could feel Dabi grinning against your cheek.

“See? You’re a natural.” He said. “Does it hurt?”

“No... should it?” You asked.

“It doesn’t have to, but it could. Be careful. You have to learn your limits. You won’t be able to use fire as much as I can yet. You’re basically like a child in terms of quirk control. We’ll get you better though.” Dabi said. You frowned.

“Why are you being nice? And why do you want to teach me so bad?” You asked. Dabi pulled his hands away. You stopped producing flames and turned around to face him.

“I’m not being nice. I’m teaching you so that if anything happens to me, you’ll take down heroes for me. But don’t worry, doll. I’m not going anywhere yet. Not while Endeavor is still alive.” Dabi said, smiling.

You remembered being sixteen and smelling gasoline on your clothes. You assumed it meant something bad. It didn’t help that you always thought something related to your quirk would ruin you. As Dabi’s arms wrapped around you again, you realized that this would be the thing to ruin you.

#ugh dabi 😍😍#my problematic fave LMAO #sfw #sfw oneshot #mha x reader #mha x you #mha fanfiction #tw fire #tw violence #tw canon typical violence

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dazzlingstarlight · 3 years

Text

25 words for Jubal Valentine

Hi everyone, thanks for sending so many words! Thank you to the anon who asked for some Jubal sentences – all of these 25 words are for Jubal and I hope you like them!

1. Talents

Jubal is surprised when the new SAC asks about his team, and he tells her that Maggie and OA are great partners and Kristen is a highly talented analyst, and Dana stares at him thoughtfully for a long moment before she nods and says, “Okay then, let’s get to work.”

2. Experience

A year later, Jubal repeats the experience with another new SAC, but this time he tells Isobel that Maggie and OA are rock solid together, and while Kristen is green in the field, he has no doubt that she’ll learn fast from her new partner Scola.

3. Hug

It wasn’t an easy search, but it’s a happy reunion when Maggie and OA finally bring two missing children back to 26 Fed, and their parents squeeze them as tightly as they can through tears of joy and relief, and Jubal decides that maybe he should stop by and see his kids tonight and make sure to hug them tight.

4. Enough

There are two suspect photos posted on the screen in the JOC, and Jubal looks over Ian’s shoulder as he combs through their financials, and when he finds a series of simultaneous deposits into each one’s bank account, Jubal gives Ian an approving clap on the shoulder and tells him to call Maggie and OA because it’s enough to bring them in.

5. Secure

Ian is having trouble downloading some security footage and he’s a little surprised when Jubal asks if there’s a secure server with double firewalls and triple encryption, and then Jubal gives him a smug grin and says, “What, you think I don’t pick up any of this stuff from hanging around you guys in the JOC?”

6. Ring

Maggie and OA have been chasing a drug smuggling ring for a couple of weeks, and they think it might help to put someone on the inside, and Jubal tells them he knows a guy and when they ask where they can find him, Jubal says it’s one of his old aliases, so they’re already looking at him.

7. Please

Jubal adjusts the camera and the wire hidden in his shirt, and he hears Scola confirm that the audio and video are loud and clear, and OA asks if he’s ready for this, and Jubal scoffs a little and says, “Please, boys, let me show you once again why the ladies call me Mr. Valentine.”

8. Distraction

Jubal is calm and confident – and maybe even a bit cocky – as he strolls up to the front door, sporting an expensive designer suit with two beautiful women hanging attentively on each arm, and the two guards that block the door can’t take their eyes off Maggie and Kristen which creates just enough of a distraction to let OA and Scola knock them out from behind.

9. Longing

Sometimes when he and Sam are cheering on the bleachers at his son’s soccer games, Jubal thinks that they look like a normal, happy family – and then he thinks that maybe he’s longing for something that just isn’t there anymore.

10. Helpless

As FBI agents, they’re committed to helping people every day, but when it’s one of their own lying in a hospital bed, Jubal hates the way he feels so helpless, and he keeps snapping the elastic band around his hand again and again and again.

11. Affection

Jubal has had just about enough of the CIA agent chattering in his ear, telling him why he can’t send his field agents barging into a suspect’s home, and he finally faces the man and growls enough to make him back off a little: “Okay, sir, I realize there’s never been a whole lot of affection between the FBI and the CIA, but you’re on FBI turf now, and that means we do it our way.”

12. Bond

The elderly man sitting in interrogation has refused to talk for a good hour, and Jubal knows they’re losing valuable time, so he tries a new approach in a gentler tone: “Mr. Carson, I know you don’t want to betray your son because I have a son of my own and I know there’s a bond between a father and his son that shouldn’t ever be broken, but we need your help.”

13. Trust

Mr. Carson’s eyes are glistening with tears, and he shakes his head hopelessly, mumbling over and over that he just doesn’t want his son to get hurt, and Jubal kneels next to him and says, “Sir, I understand that, and that’s why you have to trust that we’ll do everything we can to get your son home safely.”

14. Pair

Whenever Jess LaCroix’s team rolls into town, Jess and Jubal always make an interesting pair as Jess follows his hunches and Jubal follows his facts and somehow they both manage to put the criminal behind bars and get the job done.

15. Reaction

Jubal isn’t sure how Scola is going to react to another partner – Tiffany is the third partner for him in less than a year, now that Kristen has moved on and Emily was only temporary – but he introduces her anyway and Scola is his usual self, shaking her hand and saying “looking forward to working with you” and then getting right back to work again.

16. Anger

It’s the alcohol that made him angry then, when he spent every night so wasted that he couldn’t even stand on his own two feet, and it’s still the alcohol that makes him angry now, for how much he hurt himself and his career and his family.

17. Sweat

When Jubal tries to remember his relationship – or rather, his affair – with Rina, he’s ashamed to admit that all he can remember is a few steamy, sweaty nights in bed – and the strong stench of alcohol.

18. Addiction

While Jubal has worked hard to overcome his addiction, he’s always wary of the little things that make it all too easy to remember the way he used to be, the cases that he should have worked harder on, the cases that he should have been sober for – and the cases where the victims struggled with their own substance abuse and he couldn’t do anything to help them.

19. Beginning

That’s why Jubal is proud to become a sponsor – to be there for someone else from the very beginning – because he’s been through it all and he knows how hard it is to explain to someone who hasn’t, and because he doesn’t want anyone else to make the same choices and he wants to give someone else a second chance.

20. Break

Isobel gives him a disapproving look, and Jubal knows the sting he’s proposing is risky, but he has faith in his field agents’ skill and his analysts’ intel, so when Isobel tells him that the ADIC will make their lives very difficult if things go wrong, Jubal just shakes his head and tells her that this team isn’t going to break.

21. Training

Jubal has been negotiating a hostage situation for hours and when it escalates to the point where there’s imminent danger to the civilians, he makes the hard call to take the shot, and he closes his eyes with a heavy sigh because no training can ever really prepare an agent for endings like this.

22. Bed

His daughter’s grip around his neck is cutting off his air supply, but Jubal can’t complain too much because she’s just so excited to see her father, and he sets her down and tells her to go put on her pajamas, and even though it feels awkward, Jubal still tells Sam thank you for letting him tuck his kids into bed that night.

23. Grief

When Jubal just happens to know a strip club on the East Side because he walks by it on his way to the subway, he doesn’t miss the smirk that Kelly and Elise share and he wonders how much grief they would give him if they knew he accidentally bumped into a woman on the street outside of the club and he’s thinking about asking her out for coffee…maybe.

24. Help

When OA tells Jubal that Maggie will be gone for a few days because she’s getting her sister settled in at the rehab center, Jubal is more than understanding and privately he wishes that someone like Maggie had gotten him that kind of help before it was too late for his own addiction.

25. Morning

Scola and Tiffany fall into the easy routine of bringing morning coffee and pastries to the JOC, and Jubal is grateful to them for fueling his crew because there’s always another new case, and he calls “eyes up!” so their focus is on the screen, and then it’s time to go to work again.

#FBI CBS #Jubal Valentine #thank you everyone for the words #I really liked writing these for Jubal even though I might have a Maggie/OA obsession #FBI fanfic

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