#you can self identify however you want but stop lumping all of us in with women | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

angellesword · 4 years

Text

YOUR EYES TELL | JJK (11)

Summary: You live in a world where people see in black and white. The solution to finally see the colors? It’s simple. You need to meet your soulmate and look at him in the eyes, but what if the person bound to you is already contented with the monochromatic world? What if…Jeongguk, your soulmate, is already in love with someone else?

Alternatively:

“A future without you is a world without color.”

Genre: soulmate au, e2l, slow burn, ANGST, fluff, roommate au

Pairing: Artist!Jungkook x Lawyer!Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

SERIES: CHAPTER 10 | CHAPTER 12

"You don't have to pay me, Guk."

Jeongguk shook his head instantly. Yoongi was being absurd. How could he not pay his older friend?

"I know you have the money, but I can't just take ten thousand dollars from you, hyung." The younger boy pouted his lips.

Yoongi should know by now that Jeongguk hated owing people something.

Debt of gratitude sucked. It couldn't be paid. Ever. Jeongguk didn't want that. He hated sleeping at night thinking that someone out there could manipulate his feelings—this was how he perceived debt of gratitude: a manipulation. It was because he felt like he was bound please the person who helped him. It was as though he needed to act in accordance to the likes of said person.

"Fine." Yoongi shrugged his shoulders as if he didn't care about any of this. "Pay me whenever you want,"

Jeongguk snorted as your voice echoed inside his head. If you were here, you would tell Yoongi that he couldn't just tell his debtor to pay him whenever he wanted. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

Civil obligations like this one was only enforceable for ten years. If Jeongguk couldn't pay within the said period, the obligation would then become a natural one—something that would only be paid out of conscience.

Jeongguk shook his head. Why was he thinking about the stupid law? Why couldn't he stop imagining your pretty smile as you talked about certain provisions? Why was he hesitating to accept his hyung's money?

And most importantly, why didn't he want to leave you now?

Your soulmate loaned thousands of dollars from Yoongi just so he could pay the down payment for the apartment that he wanted buy. He promised himself that he would terminate the lease of contract with you after four months. He just couldn't live with you anymore.

You were supposed to be temporary in his life; however, with the way you were invading his mind even though you weren't around, Jeongguk realized that you were his constant.

You were the only person who could tolerate his bratty attitude. You were the only person who couldn't get mad at him. You were the only person who made him feel special and needy—Jeon Jeongguk needed your attention so much that he felt like had to run.

He didn't know when it started, especially because he believed he was not over Red yet.

Red.

Was Red the reason why Jeongguk wanted to leave you?

This was what you thought while clutching the paper on your chest.

It hurt, but as usual you had to pretend like you were okay.

"Your parents are back in their hotel," said by Jeongguk the moment he entered your apartment.

He was back from the thirty-minute drive.

Your parents were scheduled to fly to Jeju Island tomorrow morning.

"That's good." You discreetly wiped your tears away, trying so hard to make your tone sound enthusiastic.

Your back was facing him since you were afraid to let him see you crying.

You didn't want to pester Jeongguk regarding his plan to leave. You felt like he wouldn't appreciate the drama you would obviously bring.

Jeongguk didn't deserve drama—not when it was clear that he was exhausted. He took care of you these past weeks. The only thing you could do was to give him a damn break even if it meant sleepless night as questions like 'why am I not enough?' clouded your mind.

"Thanks, Jeongguk. Goodnight!" You hastily added, refusing to look at him as you made your way to your room.

"Wait," he stopped you like the way he did earlier today. This time, however, he stopped you by breaking your heart even more.

"C-Can I sleep in your room tonight?" Jeongguk swallowed the lump in his throat; his heart was beating so fast.

You flinched.

How dare he ask something so insensitive?

"Why?" Your lips trembled as you finally found the courage to look at him. It was a wrong move, though. You couldn't do it. You couldn't look at him without tears filling your eyes.

Looking at Jeon Jeongguk made you realize what you could never have: him.

You were grateful he's averting your gaze. Jeongguk couldn't meet your eyes as well. He was embarrassed and afraid. What if you rejected him? He didn't have any reason to cuddle with you tonight. Jimin was right. Your parents were the solution to help you get back on your feet. It was as though they had some kind of power. You didn't look like you needed your soulmate to make you feel better anymore.

You were back to your old self.

Sadly Jeongguk had no idea that you were just pretending. He didn't know that you were forced to be okay once again. He wasn't even aware that he was one of the reasons why you're acting like everything was fine.

"I just want to make sure you're alright," his voice was barely audible.

Jeon Jeongguk was a liar. The truth was you weren't the only one getting used to cuddling with each other. Jeongguk was also craving to embrace you—to listen to your controlled breathing and raging heartbeat.

"Really?" You suddenly huffed, causing Jeongguk to flick his gaze at you.

Your soulmate was a good liar, you were not.

There's a point where pain was too much to handle.

Jeongguk was staring at you with puzzled expression. His mouth went agape upon seeing the tears streaming down your face.

"You want to make sure I'm okay so you can finally leave?"

"What?" He furrowed his brow, clearly not understanding the words you just said. How could he focus on anything when all he could see was your tears?

Jeongguk wanted to wipe your stupid tears, but you weren't letting him.

You took three steps backwards when he tried to reach for your face.

Anger, frustration, and pain. All of these are visible in your eyes. Your thoughts were poisoning your mind—making you imagine what you thought Jeongguk felt.

"You...called my parents b'cause you're t-tired of me, right?" You slurred.

You wanted to run to your room since you knew you couldn't stop speaking your thoughts anymore. This wasn't right. You told yourself you weren't going to make this hard for your soulmate, so why couldn't he do the same thing for you?

Why was he cornering you? Why couldn't he just go away?

And why couldn't you stop the venom in your words?

"You don't want to deal with me anymore. You want to leave but you're guilty. You feel like you are responsible for my pain," this must be it. You kept thinking what triggered his sudden change of behavior. It couldn't be because he finally realized that he liked you too.

No. That couldn't be right. The only plausible explanation for this was because of the guilt he felt. He only started to act like he cared when you told him that he hurt you too.

"That's not true..." But Jeongguk was quick to dismiss the negative thoughts inside your head.

You inhaled deeply. Fresh tears stained your cheeks.

"What's the truth, then?" You picked up the paper that would prove his intention to leave.

It was too late to stop now. You were already acting pathetic in front of him.

"Why didn't you tell me you bought an apartment?" You continued to ask despite knowing the reason.

You didn't. You were imagining things. What you think was different from what Jeongguk felt. Admittedly, his eyes widened. He wasn't expecting you to confront him about this. Hell. You weren't even supposed to find out this way.

Jeongguk was planning to simply sign the contract to terminate your lease agreement with him, leave your apartment in the middle of the night and never come back.

Guess he couldn't do it now, huh?

"I-I," he trailed off instantly. How could he explain this to you when he himself didn't know why he wanted to leave?

Jeongguk wished it was easy to face his emotions. He identified them, but he still didn't know what to do—not even after spending weeks cuddling with you.

He needed to be alone, he needed to figure out what he felt and what this all meant to him on his own.

"Is it me, Gukkie?" You sobbed and your soulmate's heart clenched.

Your back was against the wall, Jeongguk was standing so close to you to the point that he could literally see the tears forming in your eyes.

It broke him more.

"Did I cross the line? Am I being too pushy? Annoying? Hard do deal with?"

Jeongguk could only bite his bottom lip.

You proceeded to list the things your former maids despised about you.

"Is Miri too much too handle? Am I picky with the food? Is it hard to wake me up in the morning?"

Jeongguk avoided your eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

You noticed that he couldn't speak. Why? Was it difficult to admit the truth?

"Or am I not buying you enough things?"

The conflicted boy shook his head vigorously. You did not understand anything.

"Do you need a new laptop? New clothes? Art materials?" You sounded so desperate. "Tell me, Gukkie. I'll do anything you want."

"I don't need you to do anything." He said coldly as he moved away from you.

Pain attacked your chest when you saw indifference dancing in his face.

"You're still leaving me?" You quivered in fear. You were really pathetic. You said to yourself that you wanted him to go away, but the thought of him actually leaving made your stomach turn upside down.

"Yes."

It felt like an arrow shot you in the heart.

How could he not stutter? Was he really decided to leave you?

Jeongguk saw how his answer affected you, so he immediately defended himself.

"I mean it's about right. I told you I'm gonna stay here for a few months. It's over now. I don't want to be your tenant anymore."

"But why!" You whined. This wasn't fair! How could he decide without consulting you first? This was a reciprocal obligation. You deserved to know his reasons.

Jeongguk scowled. He wanted to leave now. It was getting unbearable to see you cry—it was as though his chest was going to explode.

"Do I really need a reason?" His frown deepened. "Can't I just leave because I don't want to be with you anymore?" A lie.

"You're lying." You refused to believe him even if you knew he was telling the truth. This wasn't you. You weren't like this. It was unlike of you to keep pushing Jeongguk. You teased him all the time, but you didn't mean to make him uncomfortable. His happiness was your top priority.

You swore you just wanted to know the truth. You deserved a reasonable explanation. He couldn't just say he didn't want to be with you. If he couldn't love you, then he should at least be able to respect you like a normal person.

"Why would I lie—"

"Because I'm your soulmate!" You cut him off. Your emotions were overflowing.

Why couldn't you just let him go?

"And I love you, Jeongguk." You cried. The table had turned. Just a few breaths ago, he was the one begging to touch you. Right now, however, it was you who was desperately trying to latch on him.

Jeongguk pushed your hand away. He couldn't have you touching him. It would only make it harder for him to leave.

"I love you so please don't leave me—"

"You don't." He cut you off, flinching so hard because of how much he hated your confession. He felt like he was gonna puke.

"I do, Guk. I love you—"

"No!" Jeongguk insisted otherwise. He was being stubborn and it was irritating you.

Who did he think he was to tell you what you felt?

"You don't love me, okay!? You are wrong in all of this!" He took a step back. He was acting as if your touch was going to burn him.

"You are delusional. Too caught up with the idea of soulmate that you failed to see the truth!"

Jeongguk was shaking in frustration. He hated that he had to be mean just to make you understand things—similar to what Red did.

"I can see the truth! I know the truth!" You carried on.

He was the one being blinded here, not you.

"You're just ignoring the signs, Jeongguk. The universe wants us to be together!"

This wasn't a coincidence. You couldn't be wrong—not when he could see colors because of the love you felt for him.

But he used this against you.

"I am not your soulmate." His jaw clenched. "Your eyes can tell."

You stopped breathing.

"Your eyes tell." He repeated.

Your mouth felt dry.

It felt like you had been stabbed straight in the heart.

If he was your soulmate, if he ever loved you—or cared, you would see colors by now.

But no.

You still see in black and white.

Your eyes would not lie because Jeon Jeongguk was right....

Your Eyes Tell.

#jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook x reader #ficswithluv #jungkook enemies to lovers #jungkook x y/n #jungkook x you #bts fic #jungkook roommate au #jungkook fantasy au #jungkook e2l #jungkook friends to lovers #jungkook soulmate #jungkook soulmate au #your eyes tell #jungkook your eyes tell #jungkook sugar baby au #jeon jungkook

754 notes · View notes

hufflautia · 3 years

Text

Among Us

Warning: Suggestive themes as the story progresses, but nothing explicit.

Summary: Hufflepuff and Slytherin are playing Among Us with Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. The grudge Slytherin holds against Gryffindor prevents him from pinpointing the true imposter in their midst.

Emergency meeting!

Slytherin rests his knuckles against the cafeteria table as he leans forward.

“Found Ravenclaw’s body in electrical,” he says solemnly.

Gryffindor narrows his eyes.

“You probably self-reported.”

“Wha—did not!”

He arches an eyebrow. “Then how did you find Raven?”

“I was rerouting power to communications,” Slytherin retorts. His voice is deadly calm but he’s shooting daggers at him from across the table.

HuffPuff has voted. 2 remaining.

“Hold up,” Gryffindor folds his arms while eyeing Slytherin suspiciously, “how did you even know it was Ravenclaw’s body? Did you see her and think ‘Oh, look! It’s Ravenclaw, the innocent person I murdered a few minutes ago. Since no one found her yet, I’m gonna sit here for a bit and stare at her as a creepy person would. Aw geez! I should probably report the body now because someone might catch me’?”

Slytherin scoffs. “That’s not how I talk—”

“Any normal person would’ve seen the body and immediately reported it. They wouldn’t have time to identify who it was—”

“I saw a flash of blue right before I reported,” he interrupts. “Any person with at least one brain cell would’ve known it was Ravenclaw. Besides, she’s the only person who isn’t here right now.”

Gryffindor still looks unconvinced, and Slytherin rolls his eyes.

“What, do you expect me to think it was Hufflepuff’s body? Hufflepuff,” he gestures, “who’s standing next to me right now with a yellow suit?”

Gryffindor opens his mouth to respond when Hufflepuff, who has remained silent until now, speaks up.

“Guys, stop arguing and just vote.”

Slytherin purses his lips and looks like he wants to continue bantering with Gryffindor. He glances at Hufflepuff, who is intently staring at him.

Please, her eyes seem to say.

He swallows his anger, albeit reluctantly, and nods.

Snek has voted. 1 remaining.

Gryffinroar has voted. 0 remaining.

No one was ejected. (Tie)

Slytherin shoots one last withering look at Gryffindor before walking away. Both of them head off in opposite directions, too frustrated with each other to question why Hufflepuff voted so early.

Ghost Ravenclaw watches as they leave the cafeteria.

Y’all stupid, she sighs.

Gryffindor is walking in the hallway leading to Storage. He turns the corner and doesn’t notice Hufflepuff, who’s loosely trailing him. She hurries to catch up with him when she is suddenly pulled into Admin. A hand clamps over her mouth before she could scream, and she struggles against the unknown figure.

“It’s alright, it’s just me!”

She freezes—she knows that voice. They finally release her from their grip, and she spins around.

“Slytherin,” she shouts in a whisper. “What the hell!”

Slytherin suppresses a laugh. He’d probably earn a punch in the arm if he didn’t.

“Did I startle you, my love?”

“Yes,” Hufflepuff glares. “You would be startled too if someone randomly grabbed you from behind.”

“Well, you have nothing to fear,” he pulls her into a hug. “It’s only me.”

Still irked, she stiffly leans into his embrace. However, it only takes a matter of seconds for her to give in, and she wraps her arms around him.

Slytherin draws back far enough to look at her.

“You have to be careful. Gryffindor is probably the imposter, so you should stay with me.”

“Shouldn’t we call a meeting if he’s the imposter?” she says with a frown.

“If we eject him now without any evidence, he’s gonna say we didn’t play fairly. Let’s stay together so we can catch him red-handed if he tries anything.”

Her brows knit together, and she seems hesitant. Slytherin notices, but her reluctance disappears as quickly as it arrives.

“Okay,” she takes his hand. “If you say so.”

He gives her a small smile before leading her to MedBay, where his next task is. After he submits his scan, he turns to face Hufflepuff.

“My last task is in Shields and then I’m finished,” he says. “What about you?”

“I’m already done.”

“Ok, good. C’mon, let’s go before Gryffindor finds us.”

He begins to head out.

“Wait!”

Hufflepuff steps between him and the exit. He stops, surprised.

“Wait,” she says again but calmer this time. “Can we stay here for a bit?”

“What for?”

“...I wanna hang out with you.”

Slytherin looks at her like she grew two heads.

“Why?” he asks.

“Why not,” she pouts. “Is it wrong to wish to spend time with you?”

“Of course not, but now?” he arches an eyebrow. “When we’re so close to winning this thing?”

“I know, I just…”

He stares at her expectantly, waiting.

“...I miss you.”

There is a mixed expression of amusement and confusion on his face.

“You miss me,” he repeats.

“I do. And I know it’s silly because you’re right here, but I feel like we barely get any alone time.”

Slytherin cocks his head.

“I think we get a fair amount of ‘alone time’ every now and then.”

She crosses her arms.

“Not really,” she replies sullenly. “There’s always some sort of interruption. Whether it be homework or Quidditch practice or just anything at all, something always seems to get in the way.”

He frowns. Now that he thinks about it, Hufflepuff makes a good point. When was the last time they were alone with no distractions whatsoever?

“You’re right,” he takes her hands, “and I’m sorry I didn’t realize sooner.”

A smile adorns her lips.

“It’s okay. At least we’re alone now.”

With the tip of her finger, she begins to draw lazy circles on his chest.

“With no one else around,” she drawls. “No interruptions.”

Slytherin can’t hide his grin as he hooks his forearm behind her waist to pull her closer.

“I guess my task can wait.”

Hufflepuff ends up pressed against the wall with Slytherin kissing her like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. She clutches his suit tightly as if she is worried he’ll let go, but he doesn’t. In fact, he isn’t planning on leaving anytime soon.

He bites on her bottom lip and swipes his tongue over to soothe the sting, drawing a whimper from her. He pulls back, feeling a swell of pride when he sees her kiss-swollen lips.

“Do you wanna stop?” he murmurs.

Hufflepuff shakes her head and licks her lips, drawing his attention to them again.

“I want you,” she whispers, brushing her thumb against his cheek. “Please.”

Slytherin smirks. How could he refuse when she asked so nicely?

Slytherin zips up his suit and turns to Hufflepuff, who just finished dressing.

“How are you feeling?” he says, walking towards her. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“Of course not,” she gives him a soft smile, “you could never hurt me.”

“I know,” he snakes an arm around her waist. “Just checking in.”

“Well, I’m perfectly fine, so you have nothing to worry about,” she beams.

Slytherin kisses the bridge of her nose when he feels the outline of something on her back. He scrunches his eyebrows together.

“What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“That thing in your suit.”

Not waiting for a response, he slips his hand through the opening of her unzipped suit and begins feeling around for the object.

Realization strikes her, and she tries to step back.

“It’s nothing—”

But it’s too late because Slytherin’s hand brushes against the handle of the item, and he tilts his head.

“That’s weird,” he says. “It feels like a…”

He pulls it out, and his eyes widen.

“...knife.”

Hufflepuff grabs the knife from him in a hurry and tucks it back into her suit, but there’s no use in trying to hide it. Slytherin has already seen the weapon.

His eyes cloud with confusion. He staggers back when it finally clicks.

“You’re the imposter.”

She gulps, knowing that it’d be useless to try denying it.

“I am,” she says quietly.

Her heart aches—Slytherin looks even more betrayed at the confirmation. She swallows the lump in her throat.

“If you hadn’t stopped me from going after Gryffindor,” she begins, “none of this would’ve happened. Believe me, I didn’t plan for things to go this way. I tried to go after Gryff instead, I even suggested ejecting him! But you wouldn’t let me, you kept…” She bites the inside of her cheek, finding it hard to speak under the scrutiny of his gaze. “...you kept getting in my way.”

“So now it’s me,” he says in an icy voice. “It’s me who will die.”

Hufflepuff winces at his words and droops her head in shame. Slytherin uses her brief lapse of concentration to make a run for the exit. He is startled when the doors lock on their own.

“Even if you manage to make it out, you won’t be able to press the emergency button.”

Slytherin whirls around to face Hufflepuff, who approaches him slowly with a dismal expression.

“I’ve initiated a reactor meltdown. Gryffindor isn’t gonna find you in time. He’s probably too busy trying to fix the sabotage.”

His eyebrows furrow as he soaks in the truth of her words.

“Even then,” she continues, “you need two players to do that.”

Fuck. When did Hufflepuff get so sly? She always had the potential to be crafty, which is what drew Slytherin in when they first met in detention. He soon realized that though she can be sneaky at times, she values kindness above all else, and he finds that to be very endearing. But, in the few instances when she is sneaky, Slytherin wants nothing more than to pull her into an empty classroom and—

Stop! he mentally scolded himself. Why are you thinking about that when Hufflepuff is literally about to kill you right now?! But fuck, is she gonna look hot doing it—

His thoughts freeze when she draws out her knife. He backs away as she walks towards him.

“Let me go,” he pleads. “I can help you win this. We can work together!”

Hufflepuff shakes her head solemnly.

“I know betraying Gryffindor sounds appealing to you. But you love winning even more. Who’s to say you won’t betray me?”

He swallows with difficulty. She knows him too well.

Dread runs through his veins when his back meets the wall. She corners him. Her face scrunches up like she’s racked with guilt for what she’s about to do.

“I have to end this now,” she says, her voice thick. “I’m sorry it had to be this way.”

Slytherin stares into her eyes.

“Would you kill me, my love?” he whispers.

Hufflepuff holds his gaze.

“For victory? Without question.”

Defeat.

HuffPuff was The Imposter.

Play Again?

Inspired by @hogwartslastbraincells’s glorious incorrect quote post!

Check out my masterlist! | Comments and reblogs are appreciated <3 If you prefer to stay anonymous, the anon option for asks is available!

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it! Today’s my birthday, so I decided to post something. I had been meaning to write this for a long time, but I never got around to it until now and I’m quite proud of how it turned out! I like playing Among Us—I get so nervous when I’m the Imposter lmao

Here’s a deleted scene! Warning, it’s pretty nsfw. The scene is after huff is like “hey we’re alone”:

He begins kissing every inch of her exposed skin while unzipping her suit. Her eyes flutter shut when his lips pay special attention to her neck, and she lets out a breathless moan. He suddenly freezes.

“Why’d you stop?” she breathes.

When he doesn’t respond, she opens her eyes to see that he’s staring at her body with a shocked expression—and it isn’t the good kind of shock. She looks down and realizes with horror that the knife she had hidden within her suit is now revealed.

I changed this to what the scene is now because I wanted to keep it lowkey and make it less nsfw. I cut the official scene off with “How can he refuse when she asks so nicely?” so that there’s no explicit content and the gap between that line and the scene afterward suggests that they did the dirty.

Speaking of explicit, I’m gonna write a “bonus” fic that fills in the blank of what happened. It’s litcherally just gonna be smut. So, the beginning of the fic will be similar to that of the deleted scene; the difference is that Slytherin doesn’t find the knife and they simply continue. I lowkey deleted that nsfw scene and created a gap so that I could write a bonus fic that goes in-depth. Didn’t wanna scar anyone who doesn’t wanna read smut so I purposefully left out what happened. Those who do want to see what happened after can read the bonus fic when I post it sometime in the future.

I’m not sure what my schedule for fics will be. I’ll likely be studying for the AP exams, so I might just disappear for a bit. However, I have some ideas for drabbles and ficlets, and those types of fics usually don’t take me very long to write, so I might post them sometime in the future so that I’m not completely inactive.

MEME TIME ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Also, this:

HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY DRAFTS FOR MONTHS LMAO

After seeing the incorrect quotes post and deciding to write a fic inspired by it, I planned on doing the color word thingie that @hogwartslastbraincells had done. I searched up the code for the hogwarts houses colors and tested it out in a draft, and I just left it there for future reference. I can not tell you how relieved I am to finally get rid of the draft after seeing it for so long.

Well, that’s it for me. I don’t have much else to say other than the fact that today ez a happy day for me. Technically, today’s not my birthday because I’m writing this in advance, but the day that you’re reading this—if you’re reading this the day that I post—is indeed my birthday! Not sure what my plans for the day are (well, my family’s plans to be exact), but I’m sure they’ll be fun :D

Thanks for reading! Until next time <3

Tags: @slytherpuff-shenanigans @axieleration @sunnniiee @determinedpines @zenobiagrace @asterinflower @cinnamon-roll-unicorn @mossy-axolotl @dumbbitch11 @hitchhiker-of-the-galaxy @notsowiseravenclaw @arianatorpotterhead @luciferswife16 @walkinganomaly @asunshinepuff @lewispoolerpayton @adreameratdawn @thewitcheswords @oncergleekpotterhead @princessstoopid @stardustzainy @flvrqnce @multi-fandom-nutjob @eunnieah @iamahufflepuff @1hufflepuff @introvertedrae @princessstoopid @jasminedayz @magnoliamermaid @HOPEFUL-HUFFLEPUFF-PEEVES @peanut-in-the-goal @pufflehuff929 @sophiexteresa @da-fox-rangerrr @dawinehouse @shipping-book-keeper @xxavaloraxx @silverhetdanes @im-a-solanum-lycopersicum @elegantcroissantplaidpony @theoriginaljohnwatsonsblog @theoriginalsherlockholmesblog @vickeyunicorn @arianatorpotterhead @hmilkwhoney @simpering-simpleton @grandcyclecreation @sweetinvisiblewriter @marvelenthusiast10 @mvlpksvthisht @qiaopa @beardedhumanoid @jadefox05 @justanotherperson @inkedintothepaper @minty-malfoy @trippy-morgan @fangirlgeekandfreak @boilyourteeth @absentmindeduniverse @colettedelaurel @halfelven1 @happy-puff @coloring-bud @in-love-with-remus-lupin @autumnpleaves @crakencc @flyme--tothemoon @hedgepuffgirl @littleemotionalpanda @pancakes-and-sugar @korra4321 @aquietkindofthunder @qixnsriess @porksoba @thatfann @hellounicorn @i-have-a-bad-feeling @aasa2102 @zuko-28 @annie-mcl @clementines-x @writtenfoxscreams @randomwriter23 @cryingabtwandavision @coolninjavoid @urfaveslytherin @malfoys-demigod @tumlbr-trasher @violayaxley @wolfpack-arts-industries99 @zainieees-stuff @milk-leaves @priii @capt-sparrow @blueberry-9-pancakes @stressy-depressy

136 notes · View notes

whosscruffylooking · 3 years

Text

The Purest Things-A New Home

Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader

a/n: this is a repost considering it didn’t show up in any of the tags yesterday. have i mentioned how much i despise tumblr sometimes :) again, i want to give a special shoutout to @avengersbau for giving me a second set of eyes on this one.

word count: 2k

warnings: canon-typical violence and descriptions of injury.

The Purest Things Masterlist

gif is not mine! credit goes to @hqtchner

au! october 2007

Bookend: “It’s never too late to become who you want to be. I hope you live a life that you’re proud of, and if you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start over.” — F. Scott Fitzgerald

++++

"I am SSA Hotchner. Welcome to the team Agent Y/L/N," his voice reminds you of the transatlantic accents of Hollywood stars of old. The kind you used to hear in the old black and white movies you would watch as a child.

"It's an honor to be here sir," you stare directly into his brown, soulfully deep eyes.

"J.J., get us started, please," SSA Hotchner suggests.

Sitting down, you look to the screen that displays the frightful footage of bombs detonating in various locations.

"Yesterday, an 81-year-old woman was severely injured when a bomb exploded in the toilet of a women's restroom," J.J. informs.

"Interesting spot to hide a bomb," Agent Prentiss sneers.

Jennifer flips through the slides and shows another bombsight located in a subway station, "Last year a similar bomb that had been attached to a phone box detonated. No outstanding injuries were reported. However, the bombs' similar makeup alerted detectives to dig into other bombings throughout the years. They have positively identified attacks over the past twelve years as perpetrated by the same bomber."

Spencer adds, "His M.O. is similar to George Peter Metesky, better known as the Mad Bomber. He terrorized New York City over a period of 16 years. He planted bombs in theaters, subway stations, libraries, and offices. They were left in phone booths, storage lockers and restrooms."

"Do you think we are looking at a copycat?" Derek questions.

"If we are, we need to stop him soon," declared David.

"He's escalating-becoming bolder and more vicious," you say, scanning the report.

"Tell Boston we can be there by 9:30," Hotch notifies J.J...

++++

"It seems like he's a textbook paranoid schizophrenic. People suffering from this disorder may think that other people are regulating them or plotting against them. They tend to be reclusive, antisocial, and obsessed Hwith hatred for their presumed enemies," you twist a loose string from your shirt around your finger, unwind it, then repeat the process.

It's a nervous tick you developed over the years that has worn down numerous tops before achieving their intended lifespan. You glance at Agent Hotchner, seeking a sign of approval. His eyes meet yours, and he poignantly nods.

Did I say too much? No. Don’t overthink this. They can probably smell fear.

"In his letters left at the bombsights, he uses words like 'broad' and 'chick' to signify women," Dr. Reid chimes in.

"Do you think the unsub is motivated by hostility towards women? "

"It's possible," he continues, "These speech patterns age him significantly, however. Phrases such as these were mainly used in the 30's, 40's, and 50's."

Agent Hotchner begins to delegate tasks before the jet lands, "Morgan and Reid, I want you to head to the bombsights and see if you can't work out the motive. J.J. and Prentiss talk to the victim's families, determine our victimology. Y/L/N, Rossi, and I will head to the precinct and familiarize ourselves with the lay of the land and see if we can't formulate a geographical profile."

++++

At the precinct, you observe Agent Hotchner's ability to singlehandedly transition an entire police force's obligation to under his jurisdiction.

"Captain Moreno, this is SSA David Rossi and SSA Y/F/N Y/L/N," the Unit Chief introduces you.

The captain tilts his head at you, "Aren't you a little young to be in the FBI? How old are you anyway?"

You nail him with a you're-full-of-crap look.

Everyone gets to be young once; your turn is over, old man.

Choosing to take the high road, you say, "I'd like to get my hands on the bombers handwritten notes. There has to be something in those letters that can give us a clue into the who, what, when, and where of this case."

Skeptical of your request, he narrows his eyes and looks to David and Agent Hotchner.

"You hear her," Dave exclaims, "Lead the way!"

Your enigmatic smirk no doubt gives away the great pleasure Dave's gibe brings you.

++++

"Agent Hotchner," you hand him your preliminary geographical profile. With his arms crossed, he intimidatingly peers into your research.

Don't burn a hole in my paperwork; I worked hard on that.

He is impressed by your work, taking in your comprehensive outline of proof that details the unsubs point of origin. For someone so young, your attention to detail puts even his most observant profilers to shame. "How did you come to this conclusion?"

"My family is from Chicago. When I was little, I used to read through my grandfather's old newspapers that he collected throughout the 1950's. On the jet, I knew some of the phrasings that Dr. Reid was using sounded familiar, so I cross-referenced it with some of the particular articles I remember from my childhood and found his wording to be exact iterations of the Chicago Crier."

Without taking his eyes off of the paperwork, he commends you, "Impressive use of your prior knowledge. Often, the information drilled into us through education is lackluster compared to that of real-world experience."

You turn to walk back to your makeshift desk when he calls out to you, "And Y/L/N, call me Hotch."

Your shoulders relax from the tension you hadn't even realized you'd been clinging onto, "Alright. Hotch."

++++

You immediately regretted your decision. In pursuit of the unsub, you had wandered off down an abandoned subway tunnel and cornered him.

"Harold Watts, FBI. Gently place the remote detonator on the ground," You shout. Grappling to keep your gun from slipping between your clammy palms, you grip the weapon tighter.

Ordinary people's first days of work are uneventful; they're given a series of mundane tasks at most. Me? Of course, my first day involves being secluded in a subway tunnel facing down a man decked from head to toe in explosives and wires.

"D-don't come any closer. I have my finger on the trigger! I'm not afraid to die, and I will not hesitate to take you up in flames with me," he stammers.

The stampede of footsteps, no doubt from your colleagues and half of the Boston police force, resonate through the echo chamber you're standing in. Watts spooks and loses his balance. You begin shouting for the people behind you to stand down.

"The tracks are live, one wrong step, and we all blow up. I repeat, stand down!"

Turning your attention back to Watts, you attempt to soothe his irrationality. You slowly return your gun to its holster, raising your hands up in surrender. Hotch yells something unintelligible from behind you, but your focus is on the unsub and trying to prevent any more casualties.

"Harold, let's just talk this through for a couple of minutes. My men behind me will leave us alone. It's you and me now. Before this, you never wanted to hurt yourself. You wanted to be heard. All of your life you felt like you were forced into the shadows, and you began to fester there in your pain and rage."

He tenses up; you have his attention now.

"Those girls who teased you and ripped your masculinity from you needed to be taught a lesson. But you didn't just stop there; you decided to do all women a favor and demonstrate to them the kind of pain they could cause, hoping to prevent them from making the same mistakes. In fact, you helped me to see what I can do better. I never want to make someone feel the way you did."

"Y-you learned that...f-from me?" Harold quietly sobs.

You nod, "Yes! Yes, Harold. And you can still be heard, but not if you die today. I could be your greatest advocate. If we walk out of here right now, think of how famous you could be. Harold, you will never be stuck in the shadows again."

It is crucial to your survival and your teams that you are brave just long enough to analyze the situation and keep your self-control. Panic won't do anyone any good right now.

Your mouth dries as you await Harold's next move. Suddenly, he hunches over, extending the hand gripping the detonator. Pausing for a moment to be sure he isn't making any drastic moves, you promptly hurry to his side and gently pull it from his clutch.

As the police officers and your colleagues rush to your aid, Harold looks up at you with hopeful eyes.

"Make me famous," he murmurs with a grin that churns your stomach.

Hotch ushers you away from the unsub, backing you up against the wall of the tunnel, "You actively defied my orders."

Searching every inch of his face for an accurate reading of his emotions, you are unsure of how to respond.

"I'd like to think it won't happen again," his eyes studying you just as intently.

You swallow hard, aware of the lump in your throat and take a deep breath, "You have my word, Agent Hotchner."

"Good," he affirms, eventually freeing his hold on your arm.

You let out a shaky sigh of relief and relax your spinning head against the wall.

Opening your eyes, you observe your new team tieing up all loose ends. They're safe. You are safe. Despite this first day not being as mundane as others, you wouldn't have it any other way. This feeling is what you signed up for, and it's already fulfilling you in ways you couldn't fathom before stepping inside the BAU office this morning.

++++

Aboard the jet, you tuck your legs underneath you and open up a book to read.

A cup of steaming hot coffee appears on the table in front of you.

Hotch sits across from you with a similar cup and offers you a subtle smile, "Impressive work out there today. I'm sorry your first day of work couldn't be more eventful."

A joke? I didn't take him as the joking kind.

Rolling your eyes, you put on a disappointed tone, "God...if you guys drag your feet like this every day, I might have to consider a transfer."

In a more serious nature, he asks, "How are you feeling?"

"Alright, I guess. You were right, you know, no amount of studying or lectures can truly prepare you for what it's like when you're staring into the eyes of a killer. I've learned the negotiation techniques and memorized the textbook 'put the gun down' speech, but all of that flies out the window when you're in the moment."

"You will find that improvisation at times is the key to success in this job. Just know that this team is a family. You will never face this alone or be at a loss for anything. Your career is in its infancy, but I can tell you have a long and triumphant journey ahead of you. We will do whatever we can to ensure that you are at home here and can use this team as an opportunity to refine your abilities. All I ask in return is that you work with us, not against us. You have nothing to prove. They see your resourcefulness. So do I. You are one of us now."

Some gazes are the promise of protection; his is all that and more. The words "at home" resonate in your mind. You've spent your whole life searching for a home, and here it is, its doors being opened to you. After a lifetime of running from place to place, perhaps this is where you can finally settle down.

"Get some rest," Hotch whispers to you. And with that, you lean your head against the chilled window and shut your eyes.

++++

Tag List 🏷

@chellybear98 @destiny-tsukino @wanniiieeee @sweetiecake180 @vampiracontessa @weexinling @spaghetti-dad187 @hothskies @star-stuff-in-the-cosmos @mac99martin @clairedragonessbaker @cecemariee7302 @halloweenwithreid @megans-txmblr @theoldestguard @purpledragonturtles @chazubagi @frogrrylovebot @agentaaronhotass @obsssedwithjustaboutanything @mcntsee @ssagube @softhetixx @kenzies-mr-j @peachyotps @cat11-2 @prettylittlemoonlight @ravenmoore14 @gubs-boobs @spencerreidsoulmate @totalmess191 @hopelesslylosttheway @britishspidey @kyliesalvatore

230 notes · View notes

alloftheimaginesblog · 4 years

Text

Not Theirs {Steve Harrington x Plus Size Reader}

Plot: You’re getting picked on at school and Steve steps up to defend you.

Character: Steve Harrington x Plus Size Female Identifying Reader

Notes: bullying, low confidence, avoidance of eating, grabbing without consent

Part of my Plus Size Reader x Character series!

Another day, another long day of school was ahead of you. A few years ago you had loved school, you’d loved learning, you’d loved hanging out with friends but as you grew up and as others seemed to get more immature, you’d become somewhat of a target for them to pick on you. At first, it was a comment here or there about your weight. Now, you knew that you weren’t skinny and petite like other girls but you didn’t think anyone would really care? After all, it was your body, not theirs. However, teenage idiot boys and snide girls enjoyed picking on you more and more until what little confidence you had was gone.

You used to quite like the way you looked. You thought all bodies were beautiful, all shapes and sizes and you used to feel good about the way your thighs and tummy looked but recently, due to those comments, you stopped looking in the mirror; you stopped admiring yourself and instead, you started wearing clothes that took attention away from those things you’d once loved.

Once showered and dressed, you made your way to the kitchen. Your mom was making pancakes for you. She knew it was your favourite breakfast and she knew that you’d been going through a bit of a hard time recently (though she didn’t know why) so though she’d make your favourite to cheer you up. A feeling of uneasiness came over you when you sat at the kitchen island to have breakfast. You stared down at the breakfast in front of you as your stomach rumbled. Deep down, you knew you shouldn’t listen to the bullies but the names they called you... It was horrible. Your mind thought about not eating, about losing a bit of weight and maybe they’d leave you alone. You knew it wasn’t healthy, you knew that it would do more damage than good but you just wanted them to leave you alone.

All you wanted was to be good enough, to be pretty enough, to be skinny enough; to be enough. If you were enough, would they leave you alone? If you were skinny, would they stop the jeers and the taunts? Would they ever stop? Honestly, you didn’t know. You didn’t know if they would stop. They knew you were a target so they’d probably always try and shoot you down.

Taking a breath, you pushed the plate away, telling your mom that you weren’t feeling too good so you’d pass on the pancakes. She frowned, knowing something was up but couldn’t question it because you were already halfway out of the door.

You had decided to walk to school, walking was good exercise and if you did it often enough, surely you’d lose something? It was horrible thoughts and you felt like crying as you thought of them but you just wanted them to leave you alone. Your stomach gargled and grumbled, screaming out that it needed food. You rubbed it, hoping that the hunger would die down soon enough. You’d have a small lunch and a small dinner and that would be enough. But that would not be enough, you knew it. You knew that limiting yourself like that was detrimental.

School was busy when you got there, usually you were quite early but because you walked you were bang on time. Quickly, you rushed up the steps to get to your locker. Breathing fast after just running up the steps and walking a lot, you could feel your face hot and sweaty. You just hoped no one would see you.

“Look!” A voice laughed and you felt like bursting into tears then and there, “Here’s the piggy out of breath and sweaty after running for ten seconds!”

You ducked your head, hoping that if you didn’t acknowledge them, they’d leave you alone but instead, the taunts followed you down the halls as quick as you walked. Tears burned in your eyes as you tried to get to your locker.

“Run, piggy!” A girl laughed loudly behind you, “Run!”

“She’s too tired,” a boy snickered, “that running up the front steps really took it out of her.”

Shame burned hot in your cheeks as a lump rose in your throat. If you could get to your locker, throw your things in and get to class you’d be okay. If you tried to ignore them, but ignoring them seemed useless. Their taunts and comments grew louder, their laughter boomed and echoed in the hallways. They knew you were upset and they thrived on that, they loved holding that power over you so they would do more, say more and act out more.

They got braver when you were upset and one took the chance to run up behind you and grab you from behind, spinning you around, pulling your jumper up to reveal your stomach and grabbing at your folds, “Look at all this ugly flab!”

You yelped, shoving out of his grasp and flying to the opposite side of the hall. You couldn’t help the tears now after the violation of your body. You sucked in fast breaths and almost didn’t hear the heavy footsteps and the, “What the fuck, dude?!”

Through blurry vision, you made out that Steve ‘the hair’ Harrington was towering over the group of bullies, “Just a bit of fun, Steve.”

“Does that looks like (y/n)’s had fun? You’ve just grabbed her and violated her without consent. All of you are jerks.”

“C’mon, man, she was asking for it-”

Steve’s hand clenched into a fist and he swung for the boy. He hit the boy square in the jaw, the sound making you jump slightly. The group scattered, “What the fuck?!” Steve hissed as he shook his hand.

“She wasn’t asking for it. She wasn’t asking for you to violate her. She was walking the halls and you were all terrorising her. Scram before I hit you again.” The boy was muttering under his breath about Steve as he got up, rubbing his jaw and rushed away.

You stayed, back pressed against the lockers, breathing heavy as the tears wouldn’t stop falling. Steve came towards you, whole demeanour changing as he stopped in front of you, “Are you okay?” You only managed to shake your head, “I’m gonna get you outta here, okay? Can I touch you?” You nodded, allowing him your consent to wrap an arm around you shoulders and guide you from the school. You let him help you into his car and that’s where you truly just broke down.

Steve let you. He didn’t ask anything of you, he didn’t start the car; he just let you get out all of those emotions. He grabbed his bag that was in the backseat, pulling out tissues and a bottle of water. He placed them beside you for when you were ready. You couldn’t stop crying. You felt dirty; violated. How dare they touch you like that? You felt horrible, your skin crawled and the deep self loathing you felt was awful.

It was a long time later when you managed to calm down enough to talk, “Thank you,” you whispered after taking a long drink of water to hydrate yourself, “You- You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did,” he said, nodding, “Course I had to. You think I’m gonna let them grab you like that and say that stuff to you without stepping in? No way. It’s not gonna happen again, I promise you.”

You looked at him, lip trembling. You and Steve had barely spoken before, you’d maybe spoken a handful of times and that was in class. You didn’t know why he’d stuck up for you, why he’d just punched a boy for you and now he was skipping school with you.

“You know, they’re lying, right?” He said quietly, “What they were saying about you - you’re not ugly, you’re not a pig... They’re the ugly ones.”

You scoffed, looking out of the window to look at the school, “(y/n), I’m being serious, you’re not-”

“Why do you care, Steve?” You snapped, “Why do you care about what they call me, about what they’ve done? We’re not friends!” You really didn’t mean it, you really didn’t mean to be so angry and upset at him. It wasn’t his fault, he didn’t hurt you but he was the only one here so he was getting your anger.

Surprisingly, he wasn’t fazed by the sudden outburst but instead said, “I care because you don’t deserve that. How dare they touch you and violate you like that? How dare they have that much power of you? They bully you every day and you do nothing to anyone. You sit in class, tapping your pen on the desk when you’re thinking and end up throwing the cap off it by accident constantly because you’re too concentrated when you’re doing it and you don’t do anything to anyone-”

“How do you know that?”

Steve rolled his eyes, “Come on, I’ve sat behind you for two years in Geography, I know a little about you even though we’re not friends. Besides, it’s your body, not theirs. They should never hold an opinion on your body, they should never bat an eyelid. You are beautiful.”

The statement caught you off guard, the way he stared deeply into your eyes caught you off guard too. You knew he was telling the truth, “You mean that?”

“Being beautiful isn’t purely outer appearance, it’s everything; personality, manners, whatever else. So what if you’ve got extra weight on your bones? You think that makes you unlovable? You think that makes you ugly? No way in hell,” he scoffed loudly, “the only way you’d be unlovable was if you turned into those bullies.” When he finished, he gave you a curt nod and turned to look out the window, frightened of your reactions. He’d ranted and spoken a lot about you candidly for someone who didn’t really know you but it touched you.

“Thank you,” you said softly, “for defending me, for punching that dick-” Steve laughed, “for letting me cry in your car... Thank you for asking to touch me.”

“No one should ever make you feel that way.”

You looked at each other when your stomach grumbled loudly, once again begging for food. Steve laughed again, “Have you eaten today?” You shook your head, “Wanna go get a burger?”

“I-” you faltered, hands instinctively moving to your stomach. Steve reached out but stopped when he was centimetres away. You looked at him and nodded, allowing him to do what he wanted.

He took your hands gently, “You don’t have to be self conscious about anything in front of me, (y/n),” he murmured, “I find you more attractive than anyone in that school, I think you’re beautiful. Please, don’t hide.” You would’ve cried if you had anymore tears left in you to cry. He spoke to honestly and openly, a real change of pace, “You are enough, more than enough.”

You let your hands rest at your sides and cleared your throat, “So... burgers?” Steve smiled as he started up the car and began talking about something else. You watched the sky from the window as he drove, looking at the clouds in the sky, all those different shapes and sizes and still very much beautiful. You hoped that with Steve’s help, you’d be able to see yourself through his eyes but for now, having him speaking those truths to you was good enough for now.

#steve harrington x reader #one shot #os #plus size reader #steve harrington #steve harrington imagine #stranger things one shot #stranger things os #stranger things #st #plus size reader x steve harrington #plus size series

418 notes · View notes

thisentertaining · 3 years

Text

Avatar: The Last Archivist

The main characters from Avatar: The Last Airbender as different Avatars from The Magnus Archives.

I did 14 characters, one for each entity.

Trigger Warnings: Basically every TMA entity. Specifically mentions of claustrophobia, cannibalism, suicide, manipulation, ect.

____

There is a boy, with eyes like a stormcloud, deep and fathomless. He has arrows tattooed on his head, on his arms. When you ask about them he laughs, and says ‘when I’m upside down’ as though that was all the explanation. He asks if you want to do something fun, a roller coaster, skydiving, a trampoline park. When you agree, it is fun, at first. You close your eyes to protect them from the rushing wind. When you open them again, the ground is gone. There is no down. There is only sky, and you are falling. Beside you he laughs, bright and joyous and childlike, though it can hardly be heard over your screams. His arrows are pointed up, wherever that is. As he cannonballs past you for the 3rd, 8th, 19th, 76th time he says that ‘fear is what makes it fun’. His ‘woops’ cover your sobs.

There is a girl, dressed in blue with loops in her dark brown hair. She watches you with soft, sad eyes and says ‘It’s so sad, isn’t it? Being the last.’ ‘The last what?’ you ask, but you know. ‘The last of your kind. There is no one to teach you how to reach your potential. You’ll never be able to train anyone to be like you. You’re the last.’ ‘I am.’ You say, feeling cold as a painful pressure settles on your chest. It feel like you could drown in your loneliness.

There is a boy, one who looks similar to the girl, who loves meat. Grilled, roasted, stuffed, boiled, hunted, farmed or store bought. Any kind of meat, cooked in any manner, at any time. In the moments where he is not eating meat, he is thinking about it. He eats, and he eats, and he eats, until he is long since the point of caring what the meat is. Who the meat is. As he finishes his plate he looks to you and licks his lips.

There is another boy, pale of skin and gold of eye, with a burn that stretches across his face. “I will capture my prey.” He vows. “And then my honor will be restored.” He hunts, and he tracks, and he follows a prey that can never escape. If you find yourself his prey, you can hide and run and fight, but will sone find his claws surrounding you. However, even as he catches you, his mind is on his next target, for his prey is not what he truly seeks. He will never achieve what he really wants, but still he hunts for it. He knows that the capture is the least thrilling part of the chase.

With him travels an older man, a man who is kindly, portly and always grants a smile. He offers you a cup of tea and a game of Pai Sho, but from your first sip and his first move, he Knows you far better than you know yourself. He gives you tea exactly as you like it, and every move you make he has something to meet it. His words are proverbs and pretty saying, but all touch a part of you that he should not know. He Knows. He Sees.

There is an island in this world, where women with painted faces and fans of blades congregate. Practice. Fight. They learn to use the force of others against themselves. They learn to go for the throat They are more willing to fight than to ask questions. In the water there is a monster that they feed the ships that dare get close. In their hearts there is a monster that they feed the souls of those who survive to reach the land. Tearing them apart until blood and bone can be used to paint warnings on their faces.

There is a boy. He is at home in the woods, living in the trees and filth and gime. He collect people. Children. They build homes in bug-filled trees until they have their own hive infesting the forest. A piece of wheat sticks in his mouth, green-blue and fuzzy with mold. He sees sickness in those that invade his home. He sees corruption in those outside of his hive. He stands at the foot of a dam, working on the logs until rot eats through them, purging the woods of the existing host and giving more room for his parasitic hive to grow.

There is a girl with long white hair. She has a kind smile, and mourning eyes. She tells you ‘You’ve always known that this was your fate.’ And you realize that you did. ‘You were given life for a reason, it makes sense that this would be asked of you.’ It did. What reason did you have to live except for this. You always knew it would come to this. ‘You are doing this for your people. It is your duty. It is a noble sacrifice.” You nod. You take whatever it is she offers you. And you End.

There is a man who is in the dark. He does not see truth, does not see life. He walks in the dark and in doing so imagines himself bigger than he is, and imagines others as smaller. He wishes to spread his darkness, an insipid thing that seems to be a tangible presence in any room he is in. When you are near him, colors leech away to a point that the world seems to exist in black and white and grey, no matter how much light or color you attempt to introduce. If given enough power, he would gladly blot out the light of the moon itself, plunging the night into wholly his domain.

There is a young girl whose feet never leave the ground. In her hair there is a constant layer of dirt and dirt. Her eyes are milky-white, but she never trips and never struggles. You ask her if she needs help and she laughs and laughs and laugh. She seems to grow as she does, until you realize that you are sinking. You are up to your ankles-shins-knees-thighs- in the dirt. She says that she cannot see, but in the ground she is no difference for her or anyone else. She says that one cannot stumble or trip or fall if they cannot move because of the ground’s embrace. She says that strength and sight and title means nothing to the earth. She sinks into the ground with a happy sigh right as the ground meets your eyes. Then you can see no more, and as she said, the earth cares not for your struggles.

There is a girl who is an acrobat in the circus. One may assume she would be a stranger, but no. She is quick to introduce herself, to identify herself apart from those she is often lumped with. However, there is something… not right. Her body bends and moves in a way that it Should Not, that the human body Can Not. She twists and flips and bends until her form is completely unidentifiable as one of flesh and blood and bones like yours. Her smile stretches a bit wider than lips should allow. She can make you do things, or make you stop, a few simple pokes and your body will no longer listen to your mind. A few more nudges and your mind will no longer listen to you.

Her friend is a Stranger though. A girl wo dresses plainly, with a face as expressionless as a mannequin and a voice that is as dry and as bland as an uncooked grain of rice. She holds knives sharp enough to flay your skin from your body. Sharp enough to flay your identify from your self. She reacts to little and speaks to less. You may know her name, but she will never allow you to know who she is.

The acrobat and the stranger dance and dangle at the strings of the web. Their friend, a girl of sharp features and a sharper mind. She wields cruelty and knowledge and vulnerability as tools, weapons that allow her to say and do exactly what she needs to make others follow her desires. She will talk to you, and she will lead you. You will follow her without question, without thought, until your feet are stuck fast in spider silk. She can lead anyone into her web with a smile. All but one. She has never dared try to ensnare her Father.

The girl’s father is cruel. He has ambition that supersedes the ability of every man, and does not care for consequences so long as he advances for his personal goals. He will burn through a bush and care not for the wildfire he started behind him so long as he can continue further. If anything, he will delight in having caused it. No one is safe from the destruction. Not his people, whom he destroys without reason and without care. He delights in the anguish they feel and the anguish their demise causes. Not his son, who bears his burn and hunts for an honor never lost. Not the world, which is slowly being burned around him. Not an ember touches his skin. If her were to burn you, he would likely never notice.

Aang – The Vast

Katara – The Lonely

Sokka – The Flesh

Zuko – The Hunt

Iroh – The Eye

Suki/Kyoshi Warriors – The Slaughter

Jet – The Corruption

Yue – The End

Zhao – The Dark

Toph – The Buried

Ty Lee – The Spiral

Mai – The Stranger

Azula – The Web

Ozai – The Desolation

Thanks for reading!!

Yeah, I don’t know either. But if anyone else is a fan of these and wants to make fanart of Martin and Iroh drinking tea together and complaining about loving over-dramatic nerds who do not react normally to acts of love and kindness, you would have my eternal thank.

26 notes · View notes

phantompearlsalt · 3 years

Text

Sour Cherry, Chapter 16

And so the angst continues...for those who enjoyed Chapter 6/the engagement chapter, here is the angsty counterpart! But in all seriousness, I promise it’s not all doom and gloom by the end 😭 Plus the next one will be much more ~spicy~ for those who like those chapters. As always, please let me know what you think as I simply adore your asks, comments, etc.! Do feel free to check this out on AO3 too ❤️

Something shifts in Kuvira after she meets with Suyin in Zaofu. When she returns to the train, almost everything about her looks the same but you instantly notice the added hardness in her eyes. When you look closer, you see that her jaw is clenched tighter than usual.

It doesn’t help that more chaos ensues when Varrick, Zhu Li, and Bolin unsuccessfully attempt to defect from the army. Baatar and two other privates manage to haul them back. Kuvira decides to keep Zhu Li around after an admittedly impressive display of her devotion to the Empire and more importantly, Kuvira.

You try to ignore the twinge in your chest when Bolin is carried away. He had committed a grave mistake, this was true, but you know he is a good man at heart. You only hope he will see the error of his ways and return. However, the more realistic part of your brain knows his departure doesn’t signal a positive outcome.

Varrick is shipped off shortly thereafter and then Kuvira decides to call you, Zhu Li, and Baatar for an impromptu meeting in her office.

You all follow closely behind and you notice the stride in her step is slightly faster now, almost heavier. She won’t express it, much less admit it, but you know the treason is affecting her deeply. Not only had she been shunned yet again by the woman who so carelessly thought of herself as Kuvira’s mother figure but now faced the uncertainty of whether those closest to her actually had the Empire’s best interests at heart.

For a fleeting moment, your stomach feels like it sinks to your feet when you wonder whether Kuvira is questioning your own motives as well.

You step into the train car and hope the conversation starts immediately. It’s wishful thinking.

There is a moment of uncomfortable silence so thick it feels like it’s plunging your feet into the metal flooring. In reality it probably only lasts five seconds, maybe ten, but they drag on like hours, emphasizing just how grim everything really is.

“Zhu Li,” Kuvira starts. The young woman looks up with a convincingly neutral face. As you stand by Baatar’s side across the room, you see the faint quiver in her neck when she swallows.

“Yes, Great Uniter?” she responds. Kuvira takes two steps forward until her chest nearly touches Zhu Li’s. She looks down at her, cold and menacing, before lifting her hand to rest it on the smaller woman’s shoulder. Beside you, Baatar shuffles around on his feet.

“You have proclaimed your allegiance to the Empire and myself admirably. Keep in mind that I haven’t kept you around because you’re indispensable — you aren’t. You do however have one final opportunity to demonstrate the depth of your commitment,” Kuvira explains.

She turns to face you and Baatar. “Suyin is planning to attack me tonight,” she says. You feel the sensation of ice cold water crash down your spine. Obviously, it’s a purely emotional response but a violent tremor rushes through you nonetheless.

You’re about to speak when Baatar jumps in. “There’s no way Mother would do such a thing,” he gasps. “She is stubborn and ignorant, yes, but I can’t believe she would resort to something so...barbaric.”

Anger flashes in Kuvira’s eyes or perhaps it’s distrust. It’s likely both.

“If you know what’s best for you Baatar you will cease to let your emotional attachments cloud your judgement,” she snaps. The man instantly falls back at your side, pressing his back against the metal wall.

“I never once doubted Suyin would turn to violence,” Kuvira continues. “Zaofu is no longer about innovation, about progress. It’s about an outdated system of government that clings to a single woman’s vision of what should be and what shouldn’t. I told Suyin we would take the city by force if she did not relent and she will use that to justify her plans.”

You want to speak so badly, you want to interrupt her and somehow convince everyone that it can’t possibly be true even when the weight in your stomach tells you otherwise. Instead, you try to swallow around the lump in your throat and fail. It feels like it’s expanding, growing wider and denser upon realizing Kuvira’s life is in much more immediate danger than before.

It’s not like you ever acted like she was never in danger — her position invited threats from all angles. But now it’s closer, it’s far too real and when you think about waking up in the morning and realizing Kuvira is no longer there, it makes you sick to your stomach.

So you stay silent. There’s nothing else you can do that wouldn’t exacerbate the already growing tension.

“What are we going to do then?” Baatar asks. His voice wavers, much like you imagine his mind does between his devotion to Kuvira and his deep-seated attachment to his family.

“That’s where Zhu Li comes in,” Kuvira says. At this Zhu Li’s eyes widen, the first indication of any emotion you’ve seen from her during this entire conversation.

“Suyin’s strategy is simple: cut off the head of the snake and all else will fall into place. My tent is easily identifiable — she’ll aim there. She wouldn’t be foolish enough to take this on by herself and there are only two others who have the necessary metalbending abilities to assist her. Wing and Wei.

Therefore, Zhu Li will serve as the pawn. The tent itself is rather dark so there won’t be a great deal of making up to do. You’ll give her the necessary items she’ll need to vaguely resemble my appearance,” she explains, turning to you.

She waits for a response, unmoving but somehow still looking expectant. You can’t find your voice so you simply nod.

“Zhu Li, you won’t be in any legitimate danger,” Kuvira reassures, turning back and marginally softening her expression. “My guards will be outside ready to intervene and I will have additional reinforcements sent to arrest the intruders. All you have to do is stay calm and play your role. Do I make myself clear?”

Zhu Li schools her face back into something indiscernible and she clears her throat. “Affirmative, Great Uniter. I’m grateful for the opportunity to prove myself to you again. I promise I will not lose your trust a second time.”

“I’m sure you won’t, as a second time won’t bode well,” Kuvira responds. She finally removes herself from Zhu Li’s space and walks out of the room, leaving the three of you stunned and disoriented.

You’re the one who finally breaks the stillness by yanking the door open and running towards Kuvira. You shout her name once, twice but she doesn’t turn back. The guards watch with piqued interest which annoys you but not enough to actually care.

Eventually Kuvira stops and you nearly ram into her back. Your hand starts to reach towards her elbow but she tugs it away just enough for it to be out of reach. When you speak again, your words come out shakingly.

“Kuvira I...we can’t do this. We can’t risk it, please. Please, I-I can’t stand the thought of anything happening to you, not when we’ve gotten this far. Your plan is sound, I know it is, but—”

“But what?” Kuvira interrupts. She doesn’t turn around but her shoulders roll backwards and her voice is barely above a growl. “There’s still some fault in it? Are you going to take Baatar’s side now too?”

“This isn’t about sides, Kuvira,” you nearly sob. “I don’t care what Baatar thinks. I care about you and I care about what Suyin could do to you. I swear if she so much as brushes a hand over your head and takes you away from me I won’t...I won’t be able to cope with that. I’ve lost too much already and I don’t regret it. Not for a moment. But you’re the one person I can’t...I just can’t lose. Please. Please, let’s just go and...and we can figure it out later. We don’t need Zaofu.”

Kuvira is still. All you can hear is the roaring of blood in your ears, pounding in your skull with relentless force. Your vision starts to blur around the edges.

“I understand your concern...but this isn’t about Zaofu. This is much bigger than that and I should hope you understand,” Kuvira says quietly. She turns around and she looks at you, aimless, distant.

She makes a move as if to close the gap between you but you see the way she holds herself back. She clasps her hand behind her back and presses her lips into a firm line. “You will stay in Bolin’s former tent. Don’t wait up for me tonight.”

Kuvira doesn’t wait for a response. She walks away and you fear your chest is caving deep into your body, collapsing and splintering until it feels like you’ll be engulfed by your own self.

Beneath the layers of twisted, broken emotion, you wish you actually could be.

---

The buildup to the actual event is intolerably slow. So much so that your body grows sore with the force of holding your limbs tight. Bolin’s tent had been cleared of his meager belongings and though there was nothing there to remind you of him, there was still a faint presence that could be felt.

Even so, it did nothing to assuage the terror swelling in your bones.

The metal walls are thick so it’s nearly impossible to hear anything outside unless it’s especially loud. You don’t expect Suyin to come barging into the encampment with blaring sirens and a horde of soldiers but you aren’t prepared for how the silence will affect you either.

Your mind shifts between believing nothing will actually happen and wondering whether they’ve already taken Kuvira away, or worse…

When it happens though, it feels like every sound and movement is condensed into the span of five seconds.

There’s a faint commotion before the alarm starts blaring and you hear the sound of Kuvira’s tent coming down. Despite her orders to stay inside, you fling yourself off the bed and run. The guards outside shout and follow behind but you can’t stop. You need to get close. Not close enough where you can be seen by Kuvira but enough to see everything unfolding and know she’s alive.

The guards in the mecha suits don’t try to subdue you — clearly they’re just there to make sure no one gets to you either. However, you’d rather anyone take you first before ever considering getting close to Kuvira.

There’s too much distance for you to discern what’s being said but you can see everything in vivid detail. Kuvira was right.

Suyin stands at the center of the tent with her twin sons at her sides, surrounded by what seems to be a dozen mechas and an equal number of privates who bring the tent down. Zhu Li sits upright and you release a bated breath when you see they hadn’t actually harmed her.

The exchange passes quickly. Kuvira walks away, you see the neon glow of electricity that folds over the three Beifongs like sheets of paper, and Kuvira’s shadow becomes solid flesh as she approaches you.

She pauses before her eyes narrow. “I told you to stay inside,” she hisses. The rancor in her voice is unexpected and you don’t know how to react, how to feel. You’re still trying to process what just happened, trying to convince the part of your brain that refuses to believe she’s here that she’s really okay. Your hands hang limply at your sides.

“Go back to the tent. You had nothing to worry about but it seems you couldn’t even believe that,” Kuvira says before walking away. You can’t tell exactly where she goes, you just see her silhouette fade into the shadows.

The guards call your name and inch you towards the tent so you finally make your way back. Your body collapses onto the bed and when you rest your head on the pillow, you feel moisture pooling onto the cool fabric.

To no one’s surprise, you don’t sleep that night.

---

The next day Kuvira fights the Avatar. She never came back to the tent and you didn’t see her all morning.

You feel that same fear grip your heart when Korra goes into the Avatar State and nearly kills Kuvira. Your body goes numb before it thrums with panic and it’s all you can do to not throw yourself past the throngs of soldiers and beg her to stop.

But Korra fails. Kuvira is safe. Opal and Tenzin’s eldest daughter blast Kuvira with a powerful gust of wind that sends her flying onto her back. She’s lifted up by two privates and within moments the army charges forward.

Zaofu falls not long after. Kuvira stakes her claim to the city and then it’s over. Opal manages to flee but the rest of the Beifongs are now locked away. Zaofu has been annexed and all that’s left is Republic City.

Zhu Li is tasked with assisting Baatar in building a spirit cannon that will force President Raiko to yield if he chooses not to do so voluntarily. The army makes it way to the spirit vines and you watch as information is gathered and the plants are harvested.

Everything should feel normal. The army just won. Kuvira certainly seems satisfied.

But something still isn’t right.

Ever since Zaofu, you’ve only caught glimpses of Kuvira in your time alone: when she slides into bed beside you but makes it a point to avoid your touch. Or when you awake in the morning and she’s already dressed, slipping out of the tent without a word or glance in your direction.

These days you find yourself looking down at the metal band around your finger more often, tracing the detailed curves and engravings, and remember the night you accepted Kuvira’s proposal. It doesn’t feel like any period of time has passed...it feels like another world entirely.

Kuvira doesn’t wear a band — it’s not really her style plus it’s inconvenient given the gloves she wears everyday. Nevertheless, she had made it an unspoken ritual to touch your ring at least once during the day, gliding her finger over the design her hands crafted or holding it up to the sun to watch it glint in the light.

It’s not lost on you that she hasn’t done this for a while now.

But that’s not what stops you. It’s the distance hovering inside Kuvira’s eyes.

She carries herself proudly, almost arrogantly, now that they are so close to the end. She nearly preens under the exaltations and praises of her following.

And yet, she’s not entirely there.

You can’t tell if she’s looking for something far away from here or if she’s somewhere else completely in her mind. You try to broach the subject one night but to little avail.

“Kuvira...I...I’m worried about you,” you say, keeping your arms folded over your blanket, resisting the urge to reach over and touch her. It’s been over a week.

Kuvira’s back faces you and she doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound.

“What happened with Suyin —”

“Nothing happened with Suyin,” she snaps. It startles you and you bite your lip to refrain from speaking again. She continues in your place. “We are closer to uniting the Empire than we’ve ever been. Zaofu is under my control — that’s that. There is nothing to dwell on.”

You want to believe she falls asleep soon after but the uneven breathing at your side indicates you both lie awake for the rest of the night.

Things don’t get any better with time. When you’re alone in your tent, or caught up in the neverending stream of paperwork that still needs reviewing and filing, you find yourself chuckling. It’s humorless. Pained.

What was that whole thing about time healing all wounds?

You’ve argued with Kuvira before, both minor altercations and ones that fundamentally influenced how you approached each other. Regardless, you grew from that. Each conflict allowed you to learn more about Kuvira and what she needed from you and she learned the same for you. Even in disputes that felt insurmountable.

Nothing gets better now. At one point, Commander Zhen looks at you questioningly during a morning assembly. People are starting to notice but it’s not like there’s anything you can do.

Time proceeds, paying no mind to these hiccups of little people’s lives that mean nothing in the grand scheme of all that’s to come. Baatar and Zhu Li make great strides in the spirit beam cannon and it seems to be the only thing that brings Kuvira any sense of contentment these days. When she’s not preoccupied with observing the cannon’s construction, she’s quiet. Closed off.

Then the day comes when Kuvira realizes Zhu Li has been plotting to sabotage her plans for the cannon all along. Whatever inkling of hope remained in Kuvira’s eyes up until that point is consumed by something else that’s ruthless and sour.

Then the Beifongs come in and take everyone away. You see Bolin. You make eye contact for a second and you look at each other like strangers.

Everyone manages to scuttle onto Opal’s flying bison and just before they leave, you see Toph Beifong. It’s the first time in weeks you’ve felt anything other than despair and your eyes widen upon seeing the inventor of metalbending standing right before your eyes.

“You give metalbenders a bad name!”

Toph’s voice rings fierce and indignant as she throws the words in Kuvira’s face. No one else says a word. You stand behind Baatar so you can’t see Kuvira’s face but you do see the way her fingers tighten around the metal bars on the deck.

She looks...sad from here. You aren’t sure if she feels sad but for the first time since you joined her army, it’s the first time you’ve seen Kuvira shrink in on herself. It’s not something you see in her body language — she manages to stand upright, seemingly unaffected by the accusation.

It’s the way she stays still when Toph flies away. The way that Toph, the creator of the discipline, diminishes the one thing Kuvira has always known to be her strongest point, the characteristic that people admire her for the most.

This seems to be the breaking point.

That night, Kuvira doesn’t come back to your tent at all. You sit up in bed, staring into the empty room, wondering how on earth this can be salvageable when too much time has passed. The wedge digs deeper, grows wider, and there’s no sign that it will ever leave.

Eventually, you break your gaze to look back down at your finger.

You twist the metal band around, feeling the material slide and tug on your skin. Even since Zaofu, you haven’t thought of removing it.

But now, it feels heavy. Too tight. You slowly slide it off and set it on the bedside table, wondering if you’ll ever put it on again.

The possibility is agonizing so you pull your uniform on, step into your boots, and make your way outside. There are no guards milling about too close-by so you’re able to slip away quickly towards the shadowy mountains.

In a few days time, the army will be in Republic City. You wonder when the president will start evacuating, if at all. You wonder what will come after, when the city inevitably concedes to the Empire and everything is complete.

It’s all that Kuvira’s dreamed of for years now, to see her people reunited and moving into a new era of progress and modernity. She ushered you into this dream, allowed you to see how much was actually possible under her guidance and your knowledge, and you believed it too. You still do.

Everything had once seemed so clearly laid out. The Empire would be one at long last and you would marry Kuvira soon after. You would rule at her side, endeavoring to make life better and more meaningful for your citizens.

How true is that now?

Without the ring on your hand, you feel different. Or rather, you feel like nothing at all. You had expected to feel so many other things but instead you simply exist, feeling totally disconnected from your body, your thoughts, and everything else that breathes and moves around you.

When Kuvira finds you, it’s not surprising. You didn’t leave because you knew she’d follow. Frankly, you almost wish she hadn’t. Her being here now means you have to face reality, to determine exactly where you stand with her.

You’re not ready for that answer.

You turn to face Kuvira because she doesn’t step towards you and before you see the look on her face, you see her hand extended. She isn’t wearing gloves. Cradled in her palm is a familiar silver band. It twinkles in the hazy moonlight before her fingers close over it.

“I didn’t mean…” You start to say but then Kuvira’s face tightens, immediately making you stop.

She seals her eyes shut, swallows hard, and walks towards you.

“You were right,” she whispers. Her voice is hoarse, similar to when she first wakes up in the morning except right now it’s troubled. Hurt.

She sits to your side, never once unfolding the hand that holds your ring and sits upright. “Suyin tried to kill me,” Kuvira whispers and it sounds like disbelief. You wonder how long she has repeated those words, trying to convince herself that they’re true.

What can you say to that? Yes? The woman who took you in when your parents left you for dead, who dared to call you her daughter, had decisively elected to end your life? What good would it do for Kuvira to hear that from your mouth? She already knew this anyway, so what exactly were you right about?

So you stay quiet. You look at the mountains towering over you, feeling the smallest you’ve ever felt.

“She wants me dead,” Kuvira continues. “She forced Korra into the Avatar state. When she escaped, I knew she would stop at nothing to end my Empire even if it meant seeing me lifeless at her feet.”

“Kuvira...” Your voice doesn’t sound like you at all.

She doesn’t move, only stays silent. When you finally decide to look at her, the darkness isn’t enough to obscure the myriad of emotions cascading over her face. You see disbelief, anger, disgust.

The one that lingers: sadness.

“I think I always knew it would come to this, after I left Zaofu,” Kuvira says. “When we came face to face in Republic City after three years, things were just as we had left them when I set off for Ba Sing Se. I think worse even. There was nothing between us anymore and I accepted it.”

“But you couldn’t...you couldn’t have known she would take it this far,” you insist. Kuvira’s jaw tightens and she inhales sharply through her nose.

“But I did,” she says coldly. “You and Baatar were too invested in who you thought Suyin was. You didn’t see her the way I did, the way she discarded me without a second thought when I first left. The moment I returned, I knew what she had planned for me.”

For a moment there’s a pause where you think Kuvira’s going to continue speaking but she doesn’t. Those last few words echo in your ears.

I knew what she had planned for me.

You ignore the conflicting thoughts in your head and listen to your body, reaching towards her instead. You let your hand hover in the air just above her leg and wait for her to respond. She looks at it for a second before she slides her fingers against yours.

Her hand stiffens and you realize this is the first time she’s touched you in weeks.

You sit in silence for a while, letting the angry streams of tears roll down Kuvira’s face. Her breathing grows hard and shallow but it doesn’t break. She looks straight ahead, never once turning to face you, but her hand stays clasped over yours. The other stays clenched around your ring.

“You have the choice, you know,” Kuvira eventually says. You look at her, confused, and her face is stony again, the only hint of any emotion in the wet lines stretched over her cheeks.

“When this is all over, you have a choice. I never want you to think you don’t and I’m sorry if I made you believe that,” she murmurs, finally opening her hand to look at the ring.

There is so much you can say. You know there is so much you have to say but you fear it will come out wrong and you’ll shatter this precarious offering Kuvira makes. So you reach out with your free hand, letting it rest over Kuvira’s fingers entwined with yours, and wait.

She stops breathing for a second before tentatively, almost fearfully breaking your hands apart just enough to press the ring over your finger and slide it down.

You don’t look up at Kuvira but you feel when she leans forward and rests her forehead against yours. Hot tears fall against your wrists and you breathe in. You can’t tell if they’re yours or hers. It doesn’t feel right to break this moment with words that hold little meaning when compared to the weight of Kuvira’s hand in yours.

Instead, you sit with her for most of the night outside, waiting, always waiting for Kuvira for as long as she needs.

#sour cherry #kuvira/reader #kuvira x reader #kuvira legend of korra #kuvira lok #avatar lok #x reader #reader insert #angst #we be puttin kuvira through a LOT huh....

32 notes · View notes

promethes · 3 years

Text

a hasty hazy short story written to sza

Oh shit! You’re dead. What are you going to do next?

Your eyes, you think, have been stretched like taffy and lumped back together again. Not that you can feel them, of course. Of course. You look around. Up. You think. You’re not sure. For now, you know your neck cranes and that’s enough.

You worry you’ve wasted the best of you.

The world (what’s left of it) is hazy and blue. Is this your own personal corner? Is this where we go? Sequestered into a space so vast you worry you’ll never find a place to rest. A space that is somehow smaller even than the cupboard you would squeeze into during childhood games. Then, the pressure was comforting. A wall on each side, the promise of being found. Knowing that you weren’t really hiding. That everyone else was well aware of your little hideaway. The inside was made of wood though the counter placed directly overhead was tiled in green. Your cupboard.

Here, you blink through eons of matter. You can’t even flutter your lashes from the weight. You close your eyes for a moment of peace. Your lids take years to fall.

You used to be silly with your friends at the grocery. Did you know that? Do you remember? Sneaking into the cereal aisle an hour before close. When you were younger and more reckless you’d tear open the boxes looking for grand prizes. You never found one, but by that point, it had become a sport to the four of you. Once you’d tire you’d plop yourselves down on the linoleum that was practically begging for a cleaning. You’d shake your bottoms. Get good and comfortable. The butt of your jeans have traveled further than most and have the dirty tracks to show it.

No one was better at solving those little cereal box puzzles. You would dominate the word search and crush the riddles with ease. Do you think that was your peak, those nights with the flickering lights and the free almost-expired-but-not-quite-yet milk? I don’t think it was your peak. I don’t think your kind has peaks. I think you just build on what came before. What I think doesn’t really matter though.

Looking back now you wonder. Why was there a close? It was a 24-hour store. Maybe no one cared. It was such a small town. They knew everyone’s routine. There really was no reason to have employees working at 4 am when the only people conscious were the first responders and the whisper-quiet man who lived down the street.

You worry you’ve wasted the best of you. I’m not sure I even know what qualifies.

Starting at the beginning, I think, is a waste of time. What is there other than an opening and a cry and a good hard slap on the behind? Maybe if you were born quiet. If you were born to some kind of tragedy. OF some kind of tragedy. No dice. So it’s a waste of time.

Your mind still rests on the memory of your birth. I wonder if it’s because of the novelty of the whole thing; you were never able to access it before. It really was an average becoming. Belly, hospital, push, out. Nothing to it.

You replay the look on your mother’s face when she first rested her eyes on you. She must have seen something in you. It’s the only way to explain that look in her eyes. You still worry that you’ll disappoint her. You worry you’ll let her down. You worry that you’re wasting her worry. You want to succeed. For her.

Personally, I don’t see the point in all this ping-pong worrying. You’re already dead. The story has long since come to a full circle close.

I apologize, screaming here is a difficult task. If you can get in that breath of air (you can do it if you try, though you may struggle quite a bit), letting it back out is another animal to tackle. However, I see you are very determined to do so. Would you like to be provided a microphone to echo it out? If you can only do it once, I’m sure it’d be nice to have that once count. You wonder if you have enough substance left in you to make a wave in your hazy new blue home.

You have all this space pocket for yourself! Enjoy it. Drink it in. Look to your left. To your right. Here, you will find all of our various amenities… just a touch of humor there. We have no amenities. I’ve been at this a while and after the first few I get a little restless. You understand, don’t you? It’s only human nature to crack a few jokes when you’re feeling antsy. Well. I’m not quite sure about that first part. Maybe I should just say nature. No need for another identifier.

Worry worry worry. Do you have any other modes of being?

What is your best, really, when you yourself have embodied so many throughout your life? I think (I know, it doesn’t matter what I think. However, we have all the time in the world, and really it wouldn’t hurt you to hear a little from me. Would you like to hear what I think?).

I think that people are never their best. You worry that you’ve wasted the best of you. I say you do not possess your own best to waste.

You. You have been your mother’s best. Your sister’s best. Your teacher’s best. Your second grade best friend’s best, the one who would bring bright pink bubblegum tape to school to chew up and stick in her hair just below the level of her perfect haircut. You were her best. You people, you go through cherry-picking from each other and build yourselves from the bests of others.

Let go of this thought that you had the power to misplace yourself. You’ve long since gifted that control to others. You are dead. I think your best lives on in someone else.

Oh? So now it matters what I think?

Your mind never seems to empty. From you, I learn why they call reminiscing “reliving”. Does it make it easier? Or is it your own special brand of self-torture? It’s no use doing that here. There is no bargaining.

If time moved faster down here, I think a tear would be making its way down your cheek.

It is a bit of a blessing, this return of mind. You lose your life, but in a way, it comes right back to you.

You walk yourself through your first swing. Looking back, you wonder how you ever made that silly mistake. Now you know that fingers stay interlocked, wrists locks, head stays down as you twist your body back and hold your arms out. It’s all in the technique.

You know you’re reliving the past. That it can’t be changed. That doesn’t stop you from saying a little prayer every time you revisit the way you’d swing down. That split second of letting gravity take over and releasing inhibition. That is our gift to you. It’s so vivid you can almost feel a beat in your chest.

I may have been right when I said your memories were your suffering. The energy you exert avoiding her is astounding. Subconsciously, you know you would give the world and then some to go back. Your will is not strong enough to avoid that. It may be cliche but that doesn’t stop you from replaying her eyes twinkling over and over and over. You watch her crack that smile until it makes you dizzy.

“I am, myself, three selves at least.” You don’t know who wrote that but it rests in your mind in that odd way that thoughts rest in your head these days. You never were one for poetry. You don’t know who wrote that. (I do. It was Mary Oliver.)

At present, you are maybe a quarter of a self. Half at most. Where have you gone? You ask the question as if I have the answer. You worry you’ve wasted the best of you. I worry you’ll never stop.

You live in the past. Don’t you know there is no past here, no future or present? Here, you just are. Is that enough?

If you have wasted the best of you, comfort yourself knowing what you wasted it on. There’d be no use hanging on to it. It’d be of no use to you here. We have no best or worst. Was it really a waste of your best to have it be used in the one life you’re awarded? You may not be one for poetry, but I value word choice. Your use of “waste,” I’m afraid, will not do. If we are to spend Now together, that is my ground rule. I don’t have many. Careful with your words. They are all we have down here.

No, there is no poetry in the afterlife. You worry (again?) that you aren’t well-stocked. You did not take precautions. Made minimal preparation. You have only your mind and me to keep you company.

You forget Mary Oliver rests on your brow. Here. I will give you a bit of a push. Don’t tell, now.

How I linger to admire, admire, admire the things of this world that are kind, and maybe

also troubled – roses in the wind, the sea geese on the steep waves, a love to which there is no reply?

Finally, the world goes dark. You’d almost forgotten the journey your lids were taking. Don’t open your eyes back up just yet. Take a step back. Get some air now. Let yourself rest. You have time.

#the formatting is weird but idc #goooooood night #i know it's bad but i really do not have the energy to think abt it for even one more second #essays #og

12 notes · View notes

seizethesam · 4 years

Text

Ode to an Angel-Chapter 2

Summary: You had been alone in this apocalyptic world since you got seperated from your old group and lost your brother. You were on your way to an old metal factory in the hopes of finding your former group when a herd of walkers dragged you in to the woods. You took refuge in a hut, where you met him. You have got a long road ahead and some reckoning to do. (Set in the end of season 2)

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Female Reader

A/N: Ahh... the second chapter is here... Thank you for your likes and reblogs for the first chapter. This is my first time writing Daryl, and I’m a nervous wreck, I don’t know if I’m doing this right ahaha! This chapter reveals more about the reader and her past! I can’t wait to dive deeper into this journey. Feedback is always appreciated. Please let me know what you like or don’t like about the story.

This chapter’s recommended song is “Because We Have To” by Low Roar.

Spotify Youtube

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 2

Then…

At this point you didn’t even know who to trust, this man could even lead you into a trap for that matter. But you knew that the factory would be somewhere near the area he was showing you.

“Thank you,” you said turning your head to face him.

He got up from his knees as he let out a humming sound as a response.

“Ya gonna need more than just two bullets if ya gonna take tha’ route,” he said putting your gun and knife back on the table and left the cottage, closing the door behind him.

Now…

The time had seemed to come and pass. There was a full moon when you had found the old metal factory, and you haven't seen another since then, which told you that it hadn't been a whole month since the factory.

It was a total failure. There were just dead workers walking around. There was nothing, no sign of settlement, no one… your chances of finding your former group were getting low.

You had checked half of the areas that you thought were their kind of places; remote, large, and safe. You didn't know where else to go anymore. They could even be dead by now. But if there were no place to look for, then you were going to look for them. You owed it to your brother.

However, you did not have the energy anymore, being on the road— on foot, was taking all the power you had in you. It could have been weeks since you’ve ended up alone, wandering around to find a bunch of people...

Moreover, you would most definitely be dead by now if it wasn’t for the man with the crossbow. Yes… a couple of weeks ago when you thought that he was taking half your food, he was actually leaving two of the canned food and an additional bottle of water for you. He did not say anything about it, you didn't know why he did it. He just helped you.

You remembered him looking at you before fumbling with his bag.

When you’d checked the drawers again before leaving the cottage, you’d spotted the mushroom soups and the bottle of water. Maybe he looked at you and saw no threat, just a broken girl. He could’ve easily pitied you.

It’d been two days since your food ran out and the boiled dirty water in your canteen was almost finished. You’d avoided eating frogs or snakes since then, but you were starving. It seemed like your belly was sticking to your spine and your lips were cracked from dehydration.

You were walking through the woods, trying to find the highway, then maybe a car to spend the night. The sun was high up in the sky, the Georgian summer heat working against you, your whole body was covered in sweat. The humidity was making it almost impossible to breath.

You could not bring yourself to lift your feet fully to take a step. At this point, you were just dragging them to keep you standing. When you couldn’t keep on going, you sat next to a large tree, laid your back against its trunk, and closed your eyes.

You were all gathered around the fire. The military camp that you took refuge had been bombed a week ago and you were on the run with your little group and your brother. Neither you nor your brother liked to be around people like them; selfish, loathing, and vulgar.

“More people mean better chance at surviving,” he told you, “We just have to put up with them.” You two moved away from the fire to come near the truck.

“I don’t trust them,” you said pointing your chin towards the group of four.

“I know, me neither…” he reassured you, “we need to stick with them ‘till we’re out of the city,” said he.

When the outbreak happened, you and your brother hit the road for the military camp. They said that it was a safe haven for all people, and it really was— until the government bombed the whole place down. You’d managed to get out with a small group of people. You were with them ever since.

“Okay, but I don’t know how long I can keep up with that asshole’s bullshit,” you said turning your head to the brunette man sitting beside the fire. He was just a few years older than your brother. He had good survivalist skills, but he was a total self-absorbed asshat, who kept ordering people around like he was the one in charge.

“You will have to try, sis, just a little while longer, ” your brother said as he wrapped his strong arms around your shoulders.

You reluctantly opened your eyes. Resting for a few minutes did good for your body. You reached for your canteen to take sip from your little remaining water, wanting to boost your energy just a little more to keep going. As the warm water washed down your throat, you found yourself wanting more but you refused to drink any more.

As you tried to get up from the forest floor and reached to support yourself, your hand connected with something slightly colder and moist. You turned your gaze towards the object and saw a large beige colored mushroom.

You once ate a mushroom that looked just like this one, so you assumed that it was not poisonous. Even if it were, you were too hungry to think on it.

“Hello dinner,” you said smiling to yourself as you reached for the wild plant.

You broke the mushroom from its root with a swift motion. You did not want to waste your matches for cooking. You mostly used the matches to start a fire to boil the dirty puddle water. You blew air onto the large plant to get rid of the excess dirt and soil.

You started to eat with such hunger that the mushroom was gone within minutes. You were far from being full, but it was going to have to do.

You got up from the ground after eating the whole thing. You needed to move forward. The highway was only couple of hours away and you had plenty of time to get there before the sunset.

To your surprise, you did not come across that many of the dead throughout the day. There were couple of stray ones here and there. You didn't even bother to kill them. To be honest, you were still scared to get close. You did not interact with them unless you had to.

After a while of walking, you needed to stop as your stomach started to feel funny. You felt a sudden urge to throw up, but it didn’t happen. You were having hard time figuring out where to step as the trees were all in motion, their branches intentionally blocking your way. You continued walking, but you fell a moment later when the forest floor beneath you began to move. Mushroom…

A second later, a piercing pain shoot through the left side of your waist, a warm red liquid spreading around a spot, marking the fabric of your top. You had just realized that you’d fallen over a piece of wood.

You sat on your knees and removed the piece of wood with a groan. You successfully got up despite the mobile ground and the biting pain on your abdomen.

When you were fully standing you untied your shirt around your waist and pressed it to your wound with one hand. Beads of sweat were crawling down your temples to your chin. Just as you were about to move your feet, you recognized a figure standing in front of you.

It was a male figure, slightly taller than you, broad shoulders, dark greasy hair…

“What the hell are you doing here?” The figure talked. His voice was very familiar.

“What?” that was all you could say, you were in utter shock that the man appeared out of nowhere.

“It isn’t worth it, (Y/N),” now that the he’d talked again, you finally figured out who the figure was.

“Matt?” It was your brother. Your chin trembled as you spoke his name. This wasn’t real. No, it was not.

“What you’re doing…isn’t worth it.” He repeated.

“Yes—yes, it is…” you said. Your voice was hoarse because of the lump in your throat. Tears were threatening to spill.

“Stop chasing something you’re not supposed to, sis,” he spoke so tenderly. You felt a pang of grief inside your chest. Well… at this point your heart was taken out of your chest and was squeezed in someone’s hands. That was what it felt like.

“They killed you—,” your sentenced was cut when he spoke, “It doesn’t matter what they did to me. Be smart,” he urged you, his sharp gaze was piercing through you.

“Matt…” you were going to argue but in the blink of an eye, the figure disappeared. “Matthew!” You shouted after him, but he was long gone, and it wasn’t meant to last. You knew that it was the mushroom. You ran after him anyway, not bothering the pain, but your legs failed to carry your weight as you fell flat o your face.

Dehydration, starvation, and exhaustion all together had tired you. The poisonous mushroom and the blood loss did no good on top of all. The dizziness was unbearable now. Your stomach ached like someone had punched you with full force.

Sleep and it will be all over. A voice inside your head snapped. You struggled to get up, but your surroundings went dark and the last thing you saw was the dying sun on the Georgia horizon.

Your eyes fluttered open just a little as you feel yourself moving. But no, you were not laying on the rough forest ground. Instead, you were being carried. A moment later, your eyes closed again, not allowing you to identify the person carrying you.

Muffled voices raised around you; they were two men; you could tell that one of them was old.

“…your responsibility.” The older voice said.

Your mind immediately went to the sharp pain on your abdomen. You frowned at the aching pain as you opened your eyes.

“Hey, she’s waking up,” the younger man said. He looked like he was in his thirties and had dark wavy hair that he had swept back. His sounded cautious. Next to him was the older man.

“Where the hell am I?” You asked the older them; your voice was croaky from sleep.

“Good morning, my name is Hershel.” The man talked, he was much older than the other man, his hair was whiter than the snow. You did not know these people. The last thing you remembered was the sunset, the pain and a person carrying you in the dark. Maybe you did find what you were looking for all this time. But you had to be smart.

***

Chapter 3

#daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon icons #the walking dead #the walking dead imagine #rick grimes #daryl dixon series

45 notes · View notes

keiththespacekitty · 4 years

Text

"We were supposed to think you were a boy?"

Trans Klance fic.

Tw: dysphoria, fear of rejection, Lance deadnames himself because he feels comfortable to do so.

It had been in his head for a while now- ever since it happened. Keith wasn't the type to get anxious, so the ball in the pit of his stomach was unfamiliar to him. He was pacing around, going for jogs around the castle, punching a punchbag, anything he could to satisfy his fight or flight response long enough to manage to put down some food without nausea rearing its ugly head. The words kept repeating over and over in his head- however benign they may have been, they still filled him with panic.

"We were supposed to think you were a boy?"

It wasn't aimed at him- it was aimed at Pidge. But the idea that she'd kept her agab disclosed and had explicitly been using he/him pronouns, and still was seen as a girl, made Keith feel like everything was futile. The years of confusion and self discovery and finally gaining the confidence to start identifying as he truly felt- they all felt unravelled with that single sentence. It didn't matter who he was or what he did or how he felt. She, she, she. It was like a mantra in Keith's head, a constant intrusive misgendering.

Keith felt sick and trapped. He felt like everybody was waiting for him to reveal he was a girl- that no matter what, that's how they would always see him, like it would have been easier to give up on himself. He didn't want to give up his identity. He was trapped in space and trapped in an awkward void of identity versus perceived identity.

He avoided everyone for the next few days. He couldn't bare it. Couldn't bare knowing everyone saw him as strikingly female. That no matter how much he would bind, no matter how many times he'd stabbed himself with a needle, no matter how much he let some stubble grow or how deep his voice was, all people would see him as was a walking womb- because that's exactly how the world saw women. He was a feminist- of course he was. He wasn't transitioning because he thought ill of womanhood- he was doing it because womanhood simply wasn't his to grow into and he loved himself enough to be honest about his identity.

He knew that people found that hard to understand. He knew people found it hard to accept. He knew that everyone saw him differently, that everyone was waiting to bombard him with personal questions about what's in his pants, if he's had "the surgery" (which one? There's loads), how people like him have sex or kids. Everyone was always waiting like vultures to cross his boundaries and ask him questions and chastise him for "mutilating" his body and "ruining" his beauty and his chances at love.

"We were supposed to think you were a boy?"

Keith couldn't get the words out of his head.

And they weren't even aimed at him.

Pathetic. He thought of himself as pathetic. Lying in his bed with his face pressed into his pillow fighting back tears. This wasn't just pain. This was existential pain. This was his entire identity and he felt like his world was crumbling away. He knew who he was, and he was screaming out, but it wasn't right, his body wasn't right, the way people saw him wasn't right, because it didn't match. It didn't feel like his. Objectively he knew his body was great. It would be amazing on someone else. Except it wasn't on someone else. It was on him and his skin was crawling and writhing with the ghosts of expectations and the tendrils of dysphoria and incongruence that gripped him tightly and made a home under his skin.

He read the Map Woman. Sure, the poem was about a woman, about her origins staying with her, but he could relate. He could relate to feeling like your past was branding you, he could relate to the urge to cover and shed it, but he also knew that it shaped him, painted him- his past was a part of him that he couldn't erase and it was important that he make peace with who he was and where he comes from in order for his skin to settle. He knew that his journey was important, and it was home- his past and his future didn't need to be at odds. They weren't two parallel lives- they were a map of who he was, the experiences that shaped him and his identity- his past and his present would shape his future, where new valleys and roads would embed themselves onto him. His past would remain deep within his bones so that his future could thrive beneath his skin. The old gives way to the new. Identity was a tower. You couldn't take away the deep roots of your past without the top collapsing down. His past, his pain, his journey- was important to him. Even if painful, it was significant because of that pain. He couldn't erase where he came from, when it led him to where he was now.

"We were supposed to think you were a boy?"

Yes.

It was as simple as yes.

Yes, they were supposed to think he was a boy, because he was a boy, and only he got to decide his gender. They didn't get to force him into a box that wasn't his to sit in.

He was allowed to put his foot down. He was allowed to set boundaries. Of course, he understood that people were allowed to be curious and confused, but he was still allowed to define his own identity and have it respected. He was allowed to fight for himself.

It was scary.

Gods, it was so scary. But Keith knew that if he wanted to control his identity, he had to face the source of his insecurity. He had to leave his room.

He found himself on the training deck first- fight or flight, to quell the anxiety. He knew he'd be alone, so he could train safely without his binder trying to suffocate him for his stupidity. He managed to get in a good hour or so of training, before letting his feet carry him to the one place he knew everyone would be- at lunch.

He knew that lunch was the best time to rejoin the group. Hunk would immediately greet him with a "welcome back, buddy," and an extra large helping of food goo, and he could focus on eating and keep his head down and over the next few meals Hunk would gently coax him out of his shell and encourage others to engage too until it was no longer awkward. Hunk was good at understanding Keith's anxiety.

So Keith did his best to work through the deep churning feeling, the unsettling writhing in his gut when the tendrils of anxiety gripped him tight and settled there. He walked in, and avoided eye contact, and sat down at the table. But Hunk didn't welcome him back in a casual tone.

"Keith?"

"Hunk."

Hunk gently set his food in front of him. "I saved you the best bits," he said, but he lingered.

"What?"

"Keith, buddy, we're all worried about you."

"I'm fine," Keith said, but he immediately regretted it. No, he was not fine, and he was screaming out for help inside, trapped behind the prison of his fear.

"Keith, we both know that was a lie here. This isn't you."

"Isolating myself isn't me?"

"Well I mean- fair point. But we all know something's wrong, Keith. And it's okay if you aren't ready to trust us with what yet, but if there's anything that we can do to help or support you through this, we want to know. We're here for you."

The words swirled around in his mind again.

"We were supposed to think you were a boy?"

He couldn't push them away.

"I need you to-... remind me who I am, again," Keith forced out quickly, "I need you to tell me how you see me. I just… I need to know."

"Keith," Hunk began firmly, "what's going on?"

"Nothing, I just-" Keith sighed awkwardly. He wanted to say, he needed to. But his fear stopped him. He sat there, tense, trying to keep his breathing steady and trying to push down the lump in his throat. Keith didn't cry. Not like this. Not for himself. Never for himself. Especially- especially not in front of a crowd.

"Keith, buddy?" Lance was looking at him in a way Keith couldn't recognise- at least, not on Lance's face. Lance looked like he hadn't slept out of concern. Keith had never seen him like this before. He felt guilty for causing it.

"It's just- it's hard," Keith managed. Of course, Lance's face lit up with mischief- he'd always try to lighten the mood.

"It's hard, huh, am I that attractive that my mere presence-"

"I'M NOT SOME GIRL YOU CAN FLIRT WITH, LANCE!"

Keith regretted snapping almost immediately. Lance was shocked, scared even, and Keith hadn't even realised he'd stood up and balled his fists. Lance finally began to stammer out an apology. "I- I'm sorry, I- I won't-"

"Look, I get that you might not wanna be flirted with," Pidge began firmly, "but maybe you could have worded that better."

"I'm not a girl, I'm not like you," Keith practically growled out. He realised too late why Pidge seemed angry- it wasn't because they thought he was a girl. It was because they didn't know. They didn't know he was trans. And Lance was flirting with him anyways. And it sounded like Keith was implying that Lance should only flirt with girls.

"If you don't wanna be flirted with, that's fine, we understand, but if you have a problem with Lance liking guys then get out of my sight!"

"Pidge, that isn't what I-"

The words haunted him yet again.

"We were supposed to think you were a boy?"

But this time Keith felt ready to confront them.

"Pidge, I'm not-"

"Not what?!"

"I'm not homophobic. I- I reacted the way I did because-"

"Because why?"

"Because I didn't realise Lance was gay. So I thought he was flirting with me because he saw me as a girl."

"That doesn't even make any sense!" Pidge countered.

The fear gripped Keith again. He was afraid of hearing those words again.

"We were supposed to think you were a boy?"

But he needed to scream out his truth.

"I'm trans." Keith was met with silence. "That's what I meant by I'm not like you. And that's what I meant when I snapped at Lance. Because I thought he saw me as a girl. And- that's why I've been hiding in my room, since… since you revealed your agab. Because- because Coran said- 'We were supposed to think you were a boy?'. Like- you- you hadn't given us your deadname, Pidge, you hadn't- you hadn't stopped using he/him pronouns. You were outwardly identifying as fully male. And yes, you aren't, and it really was just a disguise for you, so it probably didn't hurt you to be told you weren't very convincing as a boy."

Keith glanced around the room. They were silent, but it seemed to be because they were genuinely listening.

"But it hurt me," Keith continued, "because it felt like those words applied to me too. That- everyone somehow knew, and that everyone was secretly seeing me as female. That people felt like I was just faking it. That in everyone's heads was 'oh that weird girl still thinks we see her as a boy'. That everyone could see right through me. That everyone saw me as a ruse, and an unconvincing one at that. And I'm not. I'm not- I'm not like you, Pidge. I'm not pretending to be a guy to sneak into school. It doesn't fill me with relief to hear people knew how I was born like it did with you. I'm trans. And I'm scared. I'm scared because my agab follows me around and I feel like I can't escape it. I felt like you all saw me as a girl, like you were all waiting for me to come clean. And I couldn't stand it anymore, so… yeah."

He looked around the room again.

"You were supposed to think I was a boy."

Keith finally took a deep breath, attempting to relax his body, but it immediately clenched up again. He felt so stupid. He must have been passing excellently and now he'd just outed himself and now they really would think he was a girl. He took a shaky breath, fighting the tears. He didn't want to cry, not like this. He froze up when Lance stood too.

"Keith, buddy…"

Keith forced out a breath that was threatening to spill tears, but the breath came out all too fast and all too shaky.

"I'm sorry I made you so uncomfortable with my flirting. I guess I- I never felt a need to come out. I mean I know you've seen me flirting with Allura and Nyma and… a lot of alien chicks, but I'm actually bi. I didn't realise that you didn't know I was flirting with you because I'm actually bi and into dudes too. I didn't know that you thought I only liked girls and that you'd think I saw you as a girl, otherwise I would have clarified. I've just always been open about it, you know? I haven't exactly tried to hide it, I just genuinely thought that everybody already knew. And I know that it isn't my fault, before you say that, I know you don't blame me and I know I'm not at fault. I'm just apologising for the way you got hurt."

"Why would you even flirt with me," Keith asked brokenly, "why now?"

"I've kinda been flirting with you since the garrison, Keith," Lance began awkwardly. Keith heard a crunch- Pidge had fucking popcorn for this.

"I didn't know you at the garrison-"

"Taylor."

"What?"

"You remember Taylor, right?"

"I mean yeah, she was always behind me in class with some stupid rivalr- ooohhhh."

"I started transitioning just after you left. So everyone here already knows I'm trans and knows my deadname. I assumed you did too. When I met you again I kinda assumed you'd recognise me so I brought up our rivalry and my name in the hope you'd like. Not call me my deadname not realising I was a guy. Then you didn't recognise me so a part of me was really glad but the other part was kinda disappointed. So yeah… I'm also trans and I may have a teensy crush on you."

"You have a what now?"

"I mean I'm kinda relieved you're trans too because like I was scared that- well I'm sure you understand the fear of dating as a trans person with the whole people seeing you as your agab thing or the very very tiny possibility of someone being attracted to you-"

"Lance."

"What?"

"You said you have a crush on me."

"I very suddenly have training to do-"

Keith grabbed Lance's arm before he could leave, and Lance flamed bright red. Keith wasn't one to confront his feelings, at all, but he was upfront and he wanted answers. "Lance."

"Okay, fine, yes, I happen to think you're very attractive and somehow I like your dumb personality too! I've been trying to flirt with you but you're oblivious and I'm scared and I know you're Keith and you don't feel things other than 'Keith smash face with sword' so I know you don't feel the same about a nobody like me-"

"Shut up, Lance!" Lance immediately shut up. "I don't mean like- don't talk about your feelings. I do want to listen to you and address these insecurities. But I need you to be quiet and I need you to push those aside for a moment because I need you to be direct with me here. When you say you have a crush on me, do you mean from a distance, or do you mean you'd pursue a relationship with me if you thought you had a chance?"

"My answer depends on if- on a scale of one to ten; one being a stab in the face and ten being decapitating me and slicing me into cat food sized chunks, how violently will you stab me if I say yes to the second one?"

"Lance…" Keith sighed, and lowered his hand on Lance's arm until he was holding his hand gently. He didn't know what to say- but Keith was impulsive and brash, so he didn't- he grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him as hard as he could. He would have regretted it if he didn't know Lance felt the same way. When he pulled back, Lance was puce across his cheekbones and to the tips of his ears. Keith only registered where he was when he heard the crunch of popcorn from Pidge. And then Keith turned scarlet.

He was suddenly very aware of his surroundings and the audience, and very aware of the fact he'd just kissed Lance. "Gross," Keith protested, "do it again."

"Kiss me yourself you lazy quiznack," Lance protested.

"Well I'm not kissing you again until you kiss me first!"

"Fine! Well I'm not kissing you until you kiss me, whoever caves first owes the other a week of laundry and I haven't done my laundry since we first arrived here!"

"That's gross, Lance," Keith said, "and you're on. I haven't done my laundry in a month."

"Oh quiznack, you guys are gonna be so annoying," Pidge sighed.

"Can we eat now that's all sorted," Hunk asked awkwardly, "because the sooner we eat the sooner I can bake like- a huge cake to celebrate you guys-"

"Hunk, no," Pidge sighed.

"Hunk yes, because love is beautiful and love deserves good food to commemorate it- hey where'd Lance and Keith go?" That was the last thing Keith heard from the kitchen as he pulled Lance towards the training deck.

The words repeated one more time in his head.

"We were supposed to think you were a boy?"

Except this time, they didn't bother him.

113 notes · View notes

okimargarvez · 4 years

Text

REVERSE - 19

Original title: Reverse.

Prompt: Penelope is the new girl on the BAU team and Luke tries to treat her cold.

Warning: A.U., possible OOC.

Genre: drama, romantic, family, friendship.

Characters: Luke Alvez, Penelope Garcia, BAU team, Derek Morgan, O.C. Sam Cooper’ team, Roxy.

Pairing: Garvez.

Note: oneshot 62 in Garvez collection.

Legend: 💑😘👓🔦🐶❗🎲🎈👻🎬🎵.

Song mentioned: Amici per errore, Tiziano Ferro.

Reverse- Masterlist

GARVEZ STORIES

19 # Friends elsewhere, friends by mistake...

Since a while, his life has become an endless series of I shouldn't have. The last bullshit, to be added to the bottom of an endless list, was to accompany JJ to prison. He stayed out, but her expression told him everything he needed to know. She is one of his best friends, of course, not like Chrissie... but she has always been a separate matter. However, he cares a lot about her and cannot bear to see her so destroyed. Like there is nothing they might do to change things. They remained embraced in that shabby courtyard for at least five minutes, amid the astonished looks of the prison guards. And it was as if through that grasp he had absorbed his friend's pain. And not only that. Backing to the base, he ran to the bathroom, where he is still, spewing even his soul. He has cleaned up any trace, but his face is too pale for his usually darker complexion. Hair is wet, pulled back. He made no effort to settle down. He doesn’t expect visits, not there, then. Not she, over all.

Already the ticking of the heels should be a good clue, but his brain today has decided not to work and his intuition too. -Luke, are you okay?- Garcia is standing in front of him, in her white dress with lipsticks and mascara (not low-cut), her flower and pink shrug. Her lost expression.

She had just left the toilets when she heard noises from the corridor, noises that she identified with someone in pain. It wasn't any of her, business but then she had that totally irrational feeling and she understood, she sensed that it was Luke. For this she entered without announcing herself, not even considering the possibility that it was someone else or that he was not alone. -You are in the men's room.- he points out the obvious. But she is trying to recover from that unprecedented and so intimate vision. She has already seen him sad, embittered and above all angry, for example when they returned with Reid handcuffed or during the bail process. She never liked this, though. Those black shadows that she had only caught in passing inside his eyes are now dancing freely. He seems to be sick both physically and emotionally. He is completely down. She forces herself to answer him, rejecting the need to hug him.

She stays where she is, on the threshold, without approaching. -I know, you think they'll arrest me for this?- the joke has no effect, not even a half grimace, absolutely nothing. She swallows, but now she is alone in this mess and can no longer look the other way... if she ever succeeds. -Hey, what happened?- she asks, in a sweet, sad, low, sugary, comforting tone. All in one package. Luke turns away from her, staring at the sink. She ventures to look at him. She doesn’t know that her words were like medicine on his wounds. After an endless pause, realizing that he won't get rid of her so easily, he faces her again.

He shakes his head. -Nothing, absolutely nothing.- his eyes are dull, vague, even if Garcia senses that he hasn't cried. Which is already something, but too little. She doesn’t think that he is one who often allows himself to cry. -Go ahead with your life.- he claims. His tone is nuanced, so empty. He doesn't really try to drive her away.

She understands that he needs a shock, to recover, or at least to break trough it. Away the sweetness, then. Hard way are needed, as with one of her adoptive brothers, who loves to bask in self-pity and watch others solve his problems. -Now don't start talking like a woman, Alvez.- here, a little twinkle in his pupils. -You know perfectly well I won't go away.- she says, showing more convinced than she really is. The time has come to take advantage of the skills learned thanks to the theater course recommended at the group's meetings on the creative elaboration of mourning. -Now you understand how stubborn I can be.- she adds, crossing her arms. Luke sighs and she realizes that he has given up. He runs a hand over his face.

He speaks without looking at her. -At least let's get out of here.- his voice sounds so fragile that only by a miracle Garcia doesn’t hold him against her breast, like a mother with her baby. And he's damn sexy in this moment too. They walk along the corridor at a certain distance, until they reach one of the balconies that face outwards. Even that time of the joke about Roxy, he had chosen the outdoors. Perhaps he finds comfort in the caress of the wind. Or maybe when something like this happens, he becomes claustrophobic.

She gives him plenty of time to open up, but he doesn't get the message. He clings to the balustrade and looks down. -Therefore?- she captures his gaze for two seconds. She approaches. -I am aware that you would prefer to speak to anyone outside of me.- she suddenly feels selfish, wanting to be the savior at all costs. She sighs. -You want that I call someone? Rossi, JJ, Emily, Tara, Walker?- with the last surname she doesn’t tear a chuckle from him by a hair. Without knowing it, she almost followed a precise hierarchical order. She doesn't say the right name, of course. She can't be there. He reads in her face the awareness of not being that person.

But Luke surprises her doubly. -No. Please.- his is almost a moan. She clears the distance by a few more centimeters. He too. It's the only way he has, in this moment, in this state, to make her understand that he doesn't really want her to leave. He needs her, her words, her understanding. Even if he could never admit it verbally, even if he hadn't that lump in his throat.

Garcia, never been a profiler, has guessed the right explanation at first sight. -Is it about Reid's matter?- man doesn’t move. -I haven't received any new messages.- she then adds, not knowing how to proceed. He sighs, realizing that she is much closer than he thought. He scratches his head.

-Yeah.- he says. It’s still a result. -You know he can get visitors now.- a nod of assent; of course, it was she who had made a chart to establish the order of the visits and had placed herself at the bottom, even after Walker (moving him to tears). -JJ went to see how he was. I accompanied her.- it should be enough, but now that he has removed the cap, everything flows towards the drain. -They hit him. He is hurt.- he looks away suddenly, unable to bear the eyes of the woman, who foreshadows the worst.

-Oh God.- she covers her mouth with her hands. -Is it so bad? He's not going to die...- an absurd smile appears on Luke's lips. She doesn't even think for a thousandth of a second that it's for happiness or relief.

He nods. -Yes, he's serious, but I don't know how to answer the other question.- she sees him tremble. She puts her hand close to take his, but then she doesn't. -Prisons are a microcosm in its own right, as he would say.- a sob escapes him. It is almost the coup de grace. Because he can't really imagine him in that context. His mega brain is useless in that place; in fact, it could even be a problem.

He watches her move her fingers on the railing. -But he did not even find a friend?- she asks him, keeping her tone soft, so as not to increase, if she can't decrease, his level of anxiety and stress. Luke's look climbs along the curves of her body until he stops in the eyes.

-Two, according to JJ.- he tries to remember the names she said to him. -One is called Delgado and the other... Shaw, I think.- Garcia lights up like a Christmas tree on Christmas Eve. She would definitely play the shooty star in the crib.

-Shaw?- she repeats that surname, which had no particular meaning for him. -It won't be Calvin Shaw?- he nods, recognizing the name, hearing the voice of the other blonde in his head. He frowns forehead and eyebrows.

-Why, do you know him?- he can't understand what someone like Garcia has to do with a human trash (of the worst kind) like that guy. He didn't know him, but he read his file, furtively, taking advantage of the fact that JJ was driving. It is partly the cause of his nausea. The idea that Reid was bonding with him...

Garcia shakes her head, a cascade of blond curls. -I don’t, but Morgan...- she doesn’t need to specify who she is talking about. If he knows, better for him, otherwise, it is not fundamental information . -I think he took care of his case. If I remember correctly, it was one of us.- Luke nods. -He killed his Russian contact.- he doesn’t hold back, doesn’t choose to add that detail, but his mouth opens and the words come out on their own.

-Yes, and probably his own baby.- she opens her eyes and looks at him in shock. Now she has all the elements to understand why he is so angry, even if he never thought of wanting to become a father, start a family, carry on the name of the Alvez, with discontent of his entire family, especially of his beloved grandmother.

She swallows, he can hear her sucking the air and holding her breath. -God, was she pregnant?- he breaks eye contact. Absurdly he sees Chrissie with her baby bump, her husband Richard with the baby in his arms, when they announced that he would be the godfather, if he wanted to.

He pushes the image away with difficulty, closing his eyelids. -Considering HCG levels, it would seem so.- he is not prepared for her reaction. Garcia punches the balustrade, probably risking to get hurt, at least to break a fingernail.

-What a bastard!- she exclaims. It is the first time he has heard her say a dirty word. -I'll call Derek and ask him to have a chat with this… man.- she reassures him, but her gaze is bad, another novelty. Can she really hate people? Maybe then she's human. -He is the best in this kind of thing.- she says, full of pride for her best friend.

He can just say one word. -Well.- there is no problem, she speaks enough for both. She comes closer an inch, without noticing, or maybe it's him. He has no certainty, nothing in any area.

-And hopefully in the meantime Emily and Fiona will be able to move the bureaucratic waters.- he nods, feeling a flame developing in his chest. He cannot remain indifferent to her way of expressing herself. But then he hears a familiar sound that catches her gaze going towards the bag, towards the cell phone.

-There is a case, there isn’t it?- a flicker of provocation. Garcia willingly takes the blame (actually not hers) for interrupting his opening moment.

But then she reaches out and finally squeezes his hand, hard. -Luke, trust me.- her gaze is equally intense. -We can save Reid.- it sounds like a promise.

But he can't risk evreything. How would he come out in the event of a defeat? He lets go of her hand and shakes his head. -I wish I could believe you.-

TAGS: @martinab26 @thinitta @shyladystudentfan @pegasus-scifichick @paperwalk @inlovewithgarvaz @the-ellen-stuff @astressedwriter @symphonyashley @kofforever @myhollyhanna23 @tootsienoodles @centiaaa @penelopesluke @dumbdraws @onefail-at-atime @reidskitty13@adorarapril @princesstreaclefanfic @glocknade111-blog @magiunific @fallen-novak @dreatine @hopelessdayydreamer @painterofhorizons @racing-against-the-sunset @majo0803 @vickyd-2012 @writing-whats-that @wearejuststars@klngzeewp @heylittlehollywood @kirstenvangsness @blu3crush@futureperfectmedia-blog @jade-cheshire3303 @life-between-pages @tooshorttobeanadult @xxlonelyghostxx @honeydoodles @pennypeabody @alessiapolimeni @londonrosebooklovingwitch @bbyxk @full-on-fangirl @catlynhoss05 @lushmp3

#garvez #criminal minds #cm #penelope garcia #luke alvez #penelope x luke #luke x penelope #garcia x alvez #alvez x garcia #spencer reid #tiziano ferro #amici per errore #a.u.

12 notes · View notes

shytalia · 4 years

Text

A Prince and a Pirate’s Fate - Chapter 2

Summary: When the future King and Queen of the Spade’s Kingdom come of age, a mark appears on their body. Alfred is the kind Prince of Spades, heir to the throne. Arthur is his fated husband, the future Queen. The only problem is, Arthur is one of the most infamous pirates to sail the seas, a wanted man in all four kingdoms, and he violently refuses his place in the castle.

No attempts at capturing him have been successful and he remains on the run, fulfilling his lust for defiance. Alfred, following his nineteenth birthday, decides to take the task of bringing Arthur home into his own hands.

— ♠ — ♠ — ♠ —

Also available on my AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shytalia

— ♠ — ♠ — ♠ —

Chapter Two

— ♠ — ♠ — ♠ —

Arthur found it easy to realize when he was recognized. He had to, after all if he wasn’t aware of his enemies he could be caught off guard easily. So when he caught sight of a young man standing on the beach not too far away watching him, he took interest. The boy’s eyes never left him, even if they seemed a bit spaced out. Everyone else in the town peered, sure, but their curious glances wandered around from the ship, to the different people who unboarded, to where they were going. This boy, however, did not. His gaze was fixed solely on him.

There was an air of familiarity to the lad’s face, but it was one that Arthur couldn’t quite place and that only made him question his intentions further. He didn’t look like a royal guard or a bounty hunter, so who was he and why did he feel he should know him? It didn’t really matter, as long as he didn’t try anything stupid and left him alone, the boy could stare all he wanted. Maybe Arthur was just being paranoid and all that was happening was that the kid just liked what he was seeing. The narcissistic thought put a smirk on Arthur’s face.

Alfred only popped out of his thoughts when he realized his gaze was being returned and the other had a devilish grin on his features. The prince stiffened where he stood, fearful for a moment that that captain had recognized who he was. But, no immediate threat ever came as the Brit simply tore off the eye contact and made his way into a beach side bar instead.

He stood there for a few moments more, strangely frozen in place, then swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. What the hell just happened? There was something taken a hold of him at that moment, seeing the smirk on Arthur’s face and watching him walk away. He couldn’t lie that there was definitely nervousness, he was being looked at by a dangerous criminal, after all. But there was something else, something he could not identify deep in the pit of his stomach that twisted as soon as Arthur was out of sight. It was this feeling that urged Alfred forward to follow him into the bar.

Walking in slowly, the little building was already bustling with life. It was warm, no doubt due to the amount of people in it, and all the talking and laughing that was happening around him. People usually wouldn’t be drinking at this time, it was only just starting to get dark out after all, but he didn’t think the staff minded all the extra coins being tossed their way.

He squeezed past broad shoulders and avoided the busy waitresses carrying drink after drink to enthusiastic customers. His eyes were scanning only for one person, and soon he found him, sitting alone at the bar with a glass in his hand.

Alfred felt that same lump in the throat and his heartbeat quickened at the sight of him. He took a few seconds to raise his courage before managing to make his way over to him, sliding into the empty bar stool beside him.

Arthur didn’t even look over at him.

The air thickened with awkwardness as Alfred thought of what he should say. He fully expected Arthur, the rash and outspoken captain, to spark the conversation. He guessed in hindsight that was pretty stupid, he was the one who walked over to him, after all. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and shook his head when the bartender came over to ask if he was ready to order. The man behind the counter gave a tight frown at the lack of coin, but walked away anyway.

At that, Alfred heard a low chuckle and his head whipped around to its source. Arthur had that grin on his face again and Alfred couldn’t stop himself from staring.

“You come into a bar, but don’t order anything to drink.”

Alfred’s ears prickled at the sound, it was low but to him it drowned out all the other noises in the bar. Arthur had spoken knowingly, it wasn’t a question, and there was a hint of darkness at the edges that the younger man had trouble identifying. But that was the last thing on his mind as he listened to that accent. He had heard that Arthur was from a small island village, off the coast of the Spade Kingdom to the north. Their kingdom was wide and had many dialects in it, but gods, Alfred had never heard one that sweet on the ears before.

“So, then why are you here? If you did not come to a bar to drink, you must have come for something else instead.” Arthur continued, still not looking in his direction but finished his drink with one, swift movement upward. Finally, his gaze turned and he looked directly into Alfred’s eyes with a fire that made the younger man squirm a bit. He was smaller than he was, that was a fact, but the Brit held himself with power. Power that he, even as a royal who was used to seeing other monarchs and lords, had never felt before. This was much different than that. This was more raw and unyielding, like a flame burning in one man hot enough to burn them all if he willed it. Alfred wanted to bask in it.

“You’re really beautiful,” Alfred heard himself say it before he could catch it. He didn’t know what compelled him to, but in the end, it wasn’t a lie.

There was a stiff silence between them again before Arthur spoke.

“Follow me.”

The command was all it took for Alfred to slide off his stool and keep behind the smaller frame that strode before him. He didn’t ask questions as Arthur walked up to a man and handed him a few coins, allowing them to pass and make their way up a set of stairs and eventually to a small room.

For the first time, the warm trance Alfred had been under faltered and his brows furrowed. They were in a bedroom. Why?

He wasn’t left with much time to wonder when Arthur suddenly had him pushed against the wall and forced their lips together. Alfred’s eyes widened at the movement, feeling warm hands grip at every part of him as Arthur’s hands trailed from his shoulders, down to his hips and then his thighs, before making their way back up his body again. He found it hard to keep the pleased sound from escaping his mouth at the feeling, making Arthur only push against him harder and connect their mouths deeper.

The smaller blonde gripped the front of Alfred’s shirt and pulled him so close it almost hurt. It was so intoxicating that the younger man didn’t notice he was being pulled further into the room until he was thrown rather roughly onto the bed. It dazed him for a moment before he felt a body on top of him, staring with wide eyes as Arthur sat himself snugly on his lap and used his hands to push Alfred’s back into the mattress. Again their lips met when the pirate bent down, biting down on the prince’s lower lip so hard he swore he tasted blood from it. Next, he trailed down his chin and to his jaw, leaving Alfred to stare stunned at the ceiling as he drank up the attention.

Again he felt hands roaming his body and instinctively he raised his own to do the same thing, firmly setting his palms against Arthur’s hips and squeezing. This earned the first vocal reaction he had heard out of the other man, and gods did Alfred want to hear more of them.

He grew braver and allowed his hands to move on their own, groping and caressing different parts of the pirate’s lean body. The Brit fit surprisingly comfortably in his grasp, he thought, as he allowed his eyes to close so he could focus on the taste of salt water that lingered on his lips and the tingle of danger on his fingertips as they danced around his form. Subconsciously, one lingered on his upper back, where he knew the spade mark was reported to have been.

He was too preoccupied to notice the subtle movements from Arthur and that absence of one of the hands no longer roaming across his body to notice what was happening. Suddenly, the frame on top of him rose up, causing him to open his eyes once more and his hands fell from their place. When he peered back up at Arthur, he was met with that same smirk, quirking to one side in a self-satisfied way. The more pressing issue, however, was the knife Arthur had pressed carefully against his throat.

“What the fuck do you want from me,” The captain asked, eyes unwavering as they scanned him for any signs of lying. “You know who I am, I can tell. You were gawking at me like an idiot on the beach and yet you followed me into a bar instead of running to get the guards? Not only that, you blatantly left yourself alone with me. You’re really fucking stupid, aren’t you?” He challenged as a dark chuckle exited his throat. “The only question now is, who the hell are you? If you’re not a guard and you’re not here to collect the bounty on my head, just what exactly are you doing following me around like a lost dog?”

It took a while for Alfred to collect his senses, but as he gathered them enough to reply, his ecstasy filled eyes shifted into serious ones. “Arthur,” The name drop made the Brit’s large brows furrow further together. He obviously was not used to being called so casually, even by complete strangers. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

That earned a scoff and another laugh, but the steel upon his throat never faltered. “I’ve heard that one before. You’ll have to come up with something a bit more creative than that, love.” The pet name was patronizing coming out of that cocky smirk. “Are you some sort of scout? I can tell you right now you’re doing a piss poor job of it. I think it’s time for you to look for a different career.”

“I’m not a scout.” Alfred responded quickly. Whatever spell it was Arthur seemed to have him under before was wearing off and his tactical training was coming to the forefront of his mind. He had to be ready in case Arthur actually tried to hurt him. “I’m not a royal guard and I’m not looking for the reward money.” Arthur seemed dissatisfied with these answers, as his smirk was replaced by a more annoyed scowl. He wasn’t sure if he was believed or not, but he continued anyway. “No one sent me here, I came on my own to find you. I don’t want any money or anything like that. I’m just looking for you.”

“Why?” Came the snappy reply, the frown pulling at the captain’s features visibly more ticked off now.

“Because I want to join you!” Alfred blurted out without thinking about it. He watched as the pirate seemed genuinely surprised at that, obviously expecting a more devilish answer. Then, Arthur did something he really did not expect. He started to laugh, really fucking hard.

Finally he could breathe as the knife slipped away from his neck, retreating to be closer to Arthur as he let his laughter echo through the room. Alfred’s face reddened a bit, he didn’t know why the Brit felt the need to laugh at him. Right in his face, no less.

Arthur leaned back, letting himself cackle despite still straddling the man under him as if it were nothing. “Oh my gods, you really had me, lad. Join my crew? Now that IS a new one!” He grinned back down at him after he gained a little more control of himself. “Now, love, why on earth would you want to do that? Shouldn’t a pretty thing like you go be playing nice in the castle? I always heard they only hire handsome faces, I’m sure you’ll settle in nice with that lot.” He laughed again when Alfred’s blush grew a few shades deeper.

Alfred gave an annoyed glare through the embarrassment, but now that he had Arthur distracted, he may as well use it. He wouldn’t have many other chances to do this. “I am from the capital, but I came here to find you.” He grabbed a hold of the wrist that threatened him with the knife, before using his superior strength to push Arthur over so that their roles were reversed. The action took the captain off guard and he let out a surprised yelled when he was suddenly the one on his back. “Arthur, listen. I’ve heard so many stories about you that I couldn’t stand it anymore. It’s all anyone ever talks about in the capital. The new Queen this and The future Queen that. Everyone there wants to finally see the future king and queen together --”

He was cut off by a swift punch to his jaw. He had forgotten to hold down Arthur’s other arm. The prince moved his mouth and thankfully, didn’t think any teeth had been knocked out. He stole a glance back towards Arthur and found him glaring at him like death itself. His eyes darkened and his brows were cast angrily downward, his teeth bared in a snarl so large he thought his face might rip in half.

“How fucking dare you talk to me like that, you little shit!”

Alfred only barely managed to dodge the knife that hurdled towards his face but in the shock of it he failed to dodge the fiery Brit that threw himself at him directly after. They fell off the bed and onto the floor, messily scrambled together from the fall.

“Arthur, hold on--” Alfred pleaded, realizing he had hit a sensitive topic without realizing it. But the captain seemed far from consolable.

“I am not your queen and I will never BE your shiteing queen!” The criminal yelled at his face, eyes burning with fury. He managed a few more blows to the man under him before his wrists were caught to stop the barrage from continuing. “Take your ass back to your cursed castle and tell that sodding prince that he can shove it if he thinks I am ever marrying him. Don’t you pompous bastards ever take the fucking hint? Find some other poor sap to be your damn, royal eye candy” He practically screamed at Alfred, who looked more concerned for Arthur than at his own injuries as he stared up at him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you felt that way!” The royal exclaimed, he really didn’t.

“Of course you didn’t, you git. None of you look at what’s right in front of you. If I wanted to be queen, don’t you think I would’ve gone to the capital by now? Honestly, are you lot that dim in the head?” Arthur managed to pull one of his arms out of Alfred’s grasp long enough to push away from him, causing himself to roll backwards and off him.

Alfred was quick to get up, not about to let this opportunity slip past him. He stood tall before the Brit, but made no move to touch him lest he make him more upset. “Arthur, wait -- I really didn’t mean anything by it. Of course how you feel matters. I’m just trying to understand, why don’t you want to be queen?” He asked. If he could understand then maybe he could help, and if he could help, maybe he could convince him to at least try queendom.

The smaller blonde looked like a wild animal cornered between the walls and Alfred’s large frame. His face spoke of violent retaliation at the first sign of danger. “I will kill every last guard you send my way. I will run your oceans red and paint the sand with their blood. The seas will be my graveyard. Stop sending people to collect me, because each one will only be another man you’ve sent to his death.” His voice was darker than Alfred had ever heard in a person’s voice and his eyes gleamed with truthfulness. Arthur really would do that, he realized. Of course he would, he had been doing it for years already. “I don’t know what stupid tactic they’re trying now by sending some kid to help 'understand' me, but I’m far from moved by the ‘concern’. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll back off and leave me alone.”

“Arthur, I told you, no one sent me here! I came here on my own.” Alfred tried, but Arthur seemed unmoved.

“Then you’re even dumber than I thought.” With that, the pirate shoved past Alfred and swiftly left the room before he even had a chance to stop him. He guessed he should count himself lucky the angry man only did that instead of trying to attack him again.

Alfred couldn’t believe he messed it up this badly. After he had collected his thoughts, he ran out after Arthur but he had vanished into thin air. The other pirates were still in the bar, by now heavily drunk and even more rambunctious than before. There was no sign of Arthur though so he ran outside only for the same result to disappoint him. He could only assume he went back into the ship, the one place Alfred couldn’t follow.

There was something deeper there than Alfred could see, but the look in Arthur’s eyes told a story that he wanted to read. He was determined to find out the pain behind it and help him, no matter what. He just prayed that The Goddess watched over him, lest his fated husband become his reaper instead.

--- ♠ --- ♠ --- ♠ ---

#hetalia #usuk #aph america #aph england #america #england #pirate england #cardverse #cardverse au #fanfic #fanfiction #aph #my writing #mine #usuk fanfic

19 notes · View notes

flyaway-33 · 5 years

Text

Yesterday-- Part 3

Story summary: Pre-Smile Era. You and Roger are best friends with benefits after having met at a dorm meeting the first night at university. The two of you navigate the newfound freedom of life away from home and learn more about each other and yourselves than you ever expected.

Part 3 Summary: With the stress of finals and the holidays taking a toll on everyone, Roger cracks and you learn something about him that no one else knows. 4.4k words.

Warnings: language, angst.

Disclaimer: This is only a work of fiction and in no way has anything to do with the lives of the real people with these names or anything they have said or shared.

You woke up in Roger’s bed for the millionth time that semester. This time hadn’t been sexual just like many other times hadn’t, just two friends comforting each other through the stress of the approach of your first finals in university. They were going on this week and the workload was taking its toll on both of you, causing tensions to run even higher than they had been between the two of you and your respective roommates. Roger’s had up and moved out after how in a fit of frustrated rage Roger had collected his roommate’s trash and dirty clothes off the floor and piled it all up on his pillow. You’d been there trying your hardest not to laugh as Roger and you sat on his bed, pretending to study as his roommate had come home to discover the prank of retaliation. Roger had acted aloof as though he didn’t know of or even notice the stack of garbage piled on the neighboring bed. Dale, the offending roommate hadn’t said a word, as he was terrified of Roger for no real reason that you were aware of. He’d started slamming shit around, packed his bags and left, returning a few days later for the remainder. You and Roger had been rolling with laughter when the door slammed behind him. Since then you had practically been living with Roger in his dorm room rather than your own, but he was growing distant and you were concerned.

Roger stirred beside you, he was the one against the wall this time, and he rolled over to face it, pretending to be asleep. You sighed heavily. This funk he had been in was starting to make you feel insecure about yourself. Was he sick of you? Did he still want you around? You got up and stretched as you walked over to the dresser, as you had taken over the empty one that had been his roommates, and you pawed around in the top drawer for a pair of pants to slip on over the underwear you’d slept in. You slipped on a worn and comfortable pair of jeans, left your camisole on as your top, and paused to stare at lump under the covers that was Roger.

“Rog,” you sighed after a moment. “I know you’re awake.”

He rolled over and looked up at you with a neutral expression but didn’t speak. He didn’t look happy or sad, he just looked unbelievably tired.

“Do you want me to leave? Its okay if you need some space.”

His blue eyes clouded in surprise and confusion as he studied your expression. “I wouldn’t ever ask you to leave!” His voice was thick and gravelly with sleep and stress.

“Why are you acting like you don’t want to hang out with me any more then?”

“Am I?” He sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Why do you say that?”

“You’re distant, you’re not communicating, or messing with me— nothing!. You’re not acting normal at all, Rog. I’m worried about you.” You crossed your arms in front of your chest and stood beside his bed so your hips rested against the side of it.

He took a shuttering sigh and looked down at his lap. “I guess I’m just under a lot of pressure, okay? Medical school is a lot harder than I thought it would be.”

“Okay. We have a full day of studying today so we’ll put those worries to rest. Go get your shower.” You shooed him out of the bed, taking his spot, and smirked as he begrudgingly grabbed his towel and shower caddy and trudged out of the room. His answer to your concern didn’t satisfy you, but you were certain you would be able to get to the bottom of this, especially since you had ways of pulling answers out of him.

The day of studying was going painfully slow for both of you. You’d started the day by quizzing Roger with his anatomy flash cards, then he’d quizzed you on art styles and famous artists who’d pioneered them. When you got to ancient art history however, you studied alone, simply reading over your notes, but you weren’t taking any of it in and hours ticked by. You eventually resorted to rewriting your notes and copying pages of text to force yourself to read the words on the page, while Roger was busy staring at the pages of a large chemistry book. He began nervously thrumming his fingers on the desk and you glanced over to see that his expression was one of frustration. His brow furrowed and his lips twisted into a deep frown as he tried to take in the information on the page. Normally his subconscious drumming habit didn’t bother you whether it be with his fingers or pencils, but with how much you had to do and how reluctant your brain was to focus already it was grating on your nerves.

“Rog, could you quit that for a bit?” You used a sweet, gentle voice, trying your hardest to tread lightly around him, noticing how tense he was.

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” He stopped for a moment but started right back up barely a minute later. He didn’t realize he was doing it. You let him continue for a few minutes but the nonstop monotone tapping eventually started to make your skin crawl and you weren’t even trying to focus on your notes anymore.

“Roger!” You shouted in frustration, slapping your hands down on the desk.

His reaction shook you to your core.

“Bloody FUCK!” He yelled, leaping to his feet, his desk chair clattering backward behind him as he grasped the cover of his chemistry book and hurled it across the room. You watched in horror as he aimed a violent kick at his waste basket and it also soared across the room, landing with a loud clang, crumpled papers flying in every direction. “I can’t FUCKING DO THIS.” He wailed in anger as he reached out and in one sweep cleared his desk, books, papers, pencils, and all, covering the floor.

“R-Roger!” You cried, jumping to your feet as he aimed another kick at his bed frame, making it slide several inches across the floor. You had never seen him act this way and it scared you to death. “Roger Meddows Taylor.” You said firmly, though your voice shook slightly in fear. “Stop right this second.”

He paused and looked over at you. His usually sweet, innocent baby face was red from anger and every one of his muscles from his neck down were tensed, making him appear much bigger than he really was. He was nearly unrecognizable. The anger faded from his eyes and they momentarily softened as they bore into yours before tears welled up and he squeezed them shut, falling to his knees among the aftermath of his tantrum.

“Roger,” you said again, going to him.

“I’m—I’m so sorry,” he choked out, barely able to form a word. “I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” you sat beside him and put your arm over his shoulders, winding your fingers into his hair and pulling his head down to rest on your shoulder. “Apologize to your room.” It was meant to be a tease but it came out much more deadpan than you intended. You felt him shudder against you and knew it was a silent sob. “Please tell me what’s going on. Something isn’t right. I can tell.” Your other arm snaked around him, holding him tight. His entire body was still tensed and it broke your heart feeling the physical manifestation of his emotions as you clung to him. “Its alright, Rog, just tell me so I can help you.”

“I don’t know,” he breathed hesitantly.

“Oh come on, you can tell me anythi—“

“Its not that, I literally don’t know!” His voice was rising again and he tried pulling away from you, but you pulled back and his tears flowed faster as your hand in his hair kept him pinned down, massaging soothing circles into his head.

“Okay,” you tread carefully, “whats worrying you? Something you can’t get out of your head even if you don’t think it’s it. Be honest. What’s hurting you? Just think.” As someone who suffered from quite a bit of anxiety you could relate to the pain he was feeling and it broke your heart. You had learned to identify your stressors and knew you had to help him get to the bottom of his.

He was silent for a few moments and you let him be, knowing if you were going to get anything out of him you had to be patient. The tears had stopped and it was safe to say the tantrum was over, but you were still wary of upsetting him any more than he already was.

Finally, with his voice breaking slightly, he spoke: “I feel stupid.” You’d expected that, finals were tough on him.

“Okay,” you proceeded with caution, “well first off, Roger you’re one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met. Med school is hard but you’re absolutely killing it without even trying. I wish I had half the natural intellect that you have.”

He let out a heavy sigh and swallowed thickly. “Thanks, but, that’s not the only thing. It’s just the icing on the cake making everything worse ‘cause my self esteem is shit right now…”

“What else?” You gently smoothed his hair down in soothing strokes where your fingers had tousled it when trying to calm him.

“I’m— I’m afraid to go home.”

You hadn’t expected that. “What? Why?”

“It doesn’t matter okay, I—“

“Yes it does matter, Roger. What the hell? Tell me why.”

“I— I don’t want to.”

“Rog, you do not get to make me watch you kick shit around like a child and not tell me what is going on with you.”

He pulled away from you and gave you a look filled with betrayal. He got to his feet and began to pick up the trash that had been strewn all over the floor and replace it into the now dented and battered waste basket, shame coloring his cheeks as he looked anywhere but at you. “I would just rather not talk about it.” He finally said as he put the basket down beside his desk where it belonged. He paced over to the door where his book had landed and gingerly picked it up, smoothing the crinkled pages and closing it carefully. The bed was the final thing to be corrected, and he pushed it back the few inches it had moved so that it was wedged in the corner once more. “I’m sorry.” He sighed as he settled back into his desk chair, still refusing to look at you.

At this point you were getting angry and you jumped to your feet and scooped your stuff off of the spare desk. “Whatever it is you’re going through, Roger, I wish you wouldn’t act like a fucking baby.”

At your words he stiffened and sat unnaturally still and silent, just taking any abuse you were throwing at him. “Grow up.” You spat, turning on your heel and fleeing through the door, instant regret flooding you, but held back by the dam of your pride.

It wasn’t fair of you to act this way just because he didn’t want to share something with you and you knew it, but you were hurt. Since the very first day you’d met, you and Roger shared everything. The good, the bad, the ugly. There was nothing going on in either of your lives that the other didn’t know about full disclosure, and it hurt that he was keeping something from you that had him so upset. You felt like he didn’t trust you anymore and you didn’t understand why.

You stormed up the stairs to your floor and slammed your door behind you upon entry. You felt fine about your first final in the morning so you tossed your books to the floor and fell dramatically onto your bed. Amy looked up from her own book, confused.

“What’s up with you?” She asked.

“Roger’s being a dick.” You grumbled, rolling onto your side and hugging your pink duvet to your chest, wishing it was the soft gray throw blanket that you always stole from Roger that smelled like him. It was his favorite but it was your favorite too.

“Ah, all’s not well in Roger-land. I see. What’s up?” She inched to the edge of her bed, dangling her legs over the side and abandoning her studying to stare at you in interest.

“He just threw the biggest temper tantrum and won’t tell me what’s wrong! I swear he’s an actual toddler.”

“What was he upset about?”

“Finals…” you trailed off as the rest wasn’t yours to share. “Something else was bothering him but he wouldn’t tell me. He cried.”

“Roger Taylor cried??” Amy exclaimed, nearly falling off her bed from the shock of the juicy gossip. You wished you hadn’t told her.

“Yeah. He just wouldn’t tell me what was going on so I called him a baby and left.”

“What the fuck.”

“I know, he was being ridiculous.”

“No I mean what the fuck, your best friend and not to mention one of the cutest boys on campus was reduced to tears and you called him a baby? What the hell, Y/N?!”

You were taken aback by her harshness but you immediately realized that she was completely right and your heart ached from the fact that you had added to whatever internal turmoil he was dealing with. “What should I do?”

“Go apologize and make him feel better.”

You looked at the clock. It was getting late and you had to get to sleep for your final tomorrow. You knew if you went down to Roger’s you’d be up all night. So you shook your head. “Its getting late. I’ll go see him tomorrow on my way out.”

Amy gave you a pointed look before getting under her covers and turning off her lamp. You did the same, wondering if you’d made the right choice. Your heart ached, knowing the state Roger was in just a floor below you, and you knew you had made it much worse.

At the first sound of your alarm you were up and rushing to get ready. You wanted to try to make it down to Roger’s room before he left for his final so that you could apologize. Rushing around you pulled on a pair of overalls with a lime green sweater beneath them and slipped on your go to white converse. Pulling on a large coat and your backpack you rushed out the door, tearing down to his room. You pounded on the door the moment you reached it and pressed your ear against it, straining to hear any movement inside. Nothing. You tried the handle desperately but it was locked and you knew you’d missed him. Head hanging low you continued on to face your first final of the week without seeing him, and as soon as you were finished you ran to the library to wait at the secluded back table at the library that the two of you would often camp out at when you both had a lot of school work. As soon as you sat down you pulled out your notebook and hastily flipped to the page where you and Roger had plotted out your finals week together, your schedule in purple ink and his in blue. A sigh of relief escaped your lips when you noticed that he had a final an hour before yours this morning, so him not being in his room wasn’t because he was trying to avoid you. He had the schedule written in his notebook as well. You had another final in an hour and he was done for the day, so you knew that if he wanted to find you, this is where he would come.

You tried to relax and cracked open your ancient art history textbook, staring blankly at a page on the Archaic Period. Scanning the seemingly never-ending information felt like it was frying your brain, and you knew you were totally unprepared for this exam, and you knew there was no way you could memorize all of this information for every period of art from the start of recorded history to the 19th century. You felt panic rising in your chest as your thoughts began to cycle through all of your concerns: the final, Roger, traveling home, Roger, buying Christmas gifts, Roger. Where was he? He still hadn’t come to find you and you felt horrible.

You dropped your face into your hands and held your breath, trying as hard as you could to suppress the tears that threatened to spill and you choked down the sob trying to force it’s way out of your chest. Your lungs felt tight and you knew you needed to try to breathe but you felt like you couldn’t and knew that you’d cry if you tried. You refused to cry in the library around prying eyes. You sunk down, your arms folding on the table and your head resting in them, hiding, feeling small. Valuable studying time ticked by, and you didn’t know how long you laid like that, but you nearly jumped out of your skin when you felt a hand touch your shoulder.

“Y/N.”

Your eyes met his in surprise and you studied him closely for a moment. His hair was disheveled, eyes red-rimmed, and clothes the same from yesterday. He didn’t look like himself, sitting there across from you.

“Y/N, are you okay?” His voice was gravely and tired, and guilt flooded you knowing that you should be the one asking him that.

“You came,” you breathed, wanting to soak his image in. “God, Roger I am so sorry. I should have never said what I said—“

“It’s alright,” he interrupted you. “I’m alright.”

“I really am sorry.”

“I know.”

“I missed you this morning.” You reached out cautiously to smooth his messy hair. “You haven’t showered.” Not that he stunk or anything, but Mr. “tactile” Roger Taylor rarely if ever skipped his hygiene routine and it was unsettling to see him in this state wearing yesterday’s clothes.

“I’ve had a rough few hours, I didn’t sleep,” he sighed, looking away. “Are you alright?” He asked again, changing the subject and returning his eyes to meet yours. “I saw how you were laying.” He knew you too well.

“I’m fine.”

“I don’t believe you, but okay.” He took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Hey, so after your next final you’re done until Friday, right? Come by my room when you’re finished with it, I’ll get takeout for us.”

“Okay,” you smiled at him genuinely. You just wanted to spend time with him no matter what emotions were running high or what confusion or secrets were overwhelming either of you. You had missed him.

“We can… we can talk, if you still want to know.”

“Of course I still want to know.” Selfish, but you couldn’t help it. At this point you felt like you needed to know or you’d go crazy.

“Okay,” he got to his feet and hesitated, studying you for a moment. “You might want to get going. Good luck, you’re going to do great.” He leaned in and pressed a chaste good luck kiss to your forehead.

“Thank you,” you sighed. Getting to your feet you threw your arms around him for a relaxing, rejuvenating hug, before scooping your books back into your bag and taking off to your next exam, feeling more confident after having seen Roger.

You rushed through your exam, finding it much easier than you expected and you rushed back to the dorm building as soon as you were finished and ran straight to Roger’s door. You didn’t knock and came right in, finding him laying on his back on the bed gazing blankly at the ceiling as the radio played softly beside him on the desk. Across the Universe by The Beatles Floated through the small speaker. Music always relaxed him and he would do this: just sit alone with the radio playing staring into nothing when he needed to decompress. The catatonic state he would sometimes go into when he did so made you uneasy but it always improved his mood so you couldn’t complain. Roger nearly jumped out of his skin when you barged in interrupting his peace, but when he saw who it was a small smile formed on his perfect pink lips. “Hello, darling,” he cooed lightly, seeming much more relaxed than he had over the past several hours.

“Roggie! Where’s the take out you promised?” You jumped onto the bed, letting your backpack land with a heavy thud on the floor.

“By the heater to keep it warm. How do you think you did on your final?” Roger got to his feet and went to pick up the brown take out bag from where it sat on a chair in front of the radiator.

“I actually think I did okay. I knew more than I thought I would.”

“Thats great! I’m glad to hear it.” There was something off about his tone now, it wasn’t as relaxed as it had been mere seconds ago and he seemed to be forcing the cheeriness in his voice as he got the food out and set it on his desk, growing more tense by the second. You jumped up and pulled a chair up to the desk as he settled back on his bed with his noodles and a pair of wooden chopsticks, pushing the food around it the container.

“How are your finals going?” You eyed him carefully , looking for any subtle reactions he may have. Knowing him so well you could read his face like an open book and you could see the weariness returning to his soft blue eyes. “They’re alright. I think I did okay today.”

“That’s good.” The conversation was drier than any conversation you’d ever had with him, it felt foreign and wrong making dumb small talk with someone you were so close to. You sighed, growing impatient with the elephant in the room. “Talk to me, Rog.”

“I am,” he protested, his eyes snapping up to yours.

“You know what I mean.” Staring him down you hoped the concern you felt for him overpowered the frustration showing through your expression. “You don’t keep secrets from me and you’re worrying me.”

“It’s hard to talk about.” His cheeks were growing pink and he returned his hard glare back to the container of noodles he was still stabbing with the chopsticks. Fidgeting was a constant habit of his that always worsened and became destructive when he was nervous: peeling labels off cans and bottles, breaking pen caps, and worsening holes in clothes were just a few of the things you’d seen him do when he was nervous, and it pained you to see how uncomfortable he was.

“Okay,” proceeding with caution, thinking before speaking, being careful with your choice of words: those were ways to coax him into explaining himself. “So, are you afraid to go home because of your grades?”

He shook his head no.

“Someone in your hometown you don’t want to see.”

“Not really.”

“Your parents?”

His eyes met yours briefly at that suggestion but darted away before you could read them.

“Roger, are you afraid of your parents?” Shock was all you felt as you examined him and knew that you’d guessed right.

“I— They—“ he stuttered, searching for how to explain himself. “They’re wonderful, they only want the best for me but at home, stress gets the best of them, I guess. I don’t know how to explain it properly.” He wouldn’t meet your eyes and he continued stabbing his food.

“Do they hurt you, Rog?” You gently placed a hand on his arm as you spoke softly, and he froze under your touch, his eyes glued to the hand that rested on his skin.

“No… Not physically.”

“Please help me understand.”

His eyes finally met yours and you could see that they were glazed with unshed tears, red rimmed bringing out the vibrant blue tones in his irises. Those eyes so full of life and soul looked broken. “They fight. All the damn time and sometimes it gets violent. My dad— he gets mad at me too sometimes, thinks some of the things I do will ruin my future and he lets me hear it.”

“Oh, Rog—“

“I know its normal for parents to fight and for them to ride your ass and want the best for you, but I hate going home, Y/N.”

“Come ‘ere” you got back up onto the bed and pulled him to your chest, holding him tight as though you could keep him safe just by holding him and never letting go. The hurt in his voice and the trembling of his body as he let you into this exclusive, very secret part of his life scared you, knowing these were big emotions and you weren’t sure how you could help him. It was more than you had expected. “Come home with me,” you blurted. “You don’t have to go home, Rog. Come home with me.”

A/N: if you read this please send me a dm or an ask/anon ask. I just want to know if people are reading. Comments & critiques would be a plus, too. I’m still trying to figure out Tumblr and I don’t know if I’m doing something wrong or if my writing just sucks.

#roger taylor fic #roger x reader #queen fic

28 notes · View notes

gramon-my-otp · 5 years

Text

To The End, With You - chapter twelve

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter Synopsis: Russell and Gareth participate in the entrance ritual of the secret gay brotherhood of Britpoplar. The Gallagher brothers prank Damon and Graham in an awful way - which escalated to a surprising revelation between the two friends!

Alternative Universe fanfiction placed in the 1600s.

Words: 2040

Disclaimers: I understand that Blur, Pulp, Oasis, Suede, Elastica and other bands members belong to their own and have their own personality and personal lives. I am aware this is nothing but a work of fiction and the way the characters are represented are fruit of my imagination and do not correspond to their real thoughts and way of life. Fanfiction should not be taken seriously.

(After more than three years, I came back to finish what I have started. Thanks for the giving me motivation @skygramon I can’t do this without you)

Two cloaked individuals sprinted around the borough of Britpoplar at night. They were aware that there were eyes in places they would never imagine. The location chosen for a secret meeting was unfamiliar to them, but the path that led to it was infamous for the grieving memory it sparkled. It was where Simon Gilbert last walked alive - and they were there, the two cloaked men, holding hands. They stopped by the butcher shop, as it was instructed to them. A straight gated iron door opened before them, almost invisible in the corner of the slaughter house. Only then the blokes noticed a flickering light in a window above. A hidden room above the shop. The negotiators had already been waiting. The men entered and the iron gate shut closed. Damon Albarn received the visitors with a knife in hand, pointing at them.

“Identify yourselves”

They removed their own covers completely, revealing to be Damon’s fellow Russell Senior and his young lover, Gareth Coombes. Damon put his blade back and greeted them accordingly. The setting was unsettlingly silent. The glow of candles reflected upon the stairs behind them.

“Up we go”, asked Damon, gesturing with his arms and hands.

The blonde followed the couple climbing the stairs, heading to the bedroom. Another iron gate, and also a door. Anxiety built up in the two lovers hearts. They held their hands tighter, and carried on. On the edge of the bed sat Morrissey and Alex James. He wasn’t happy to be there, but as a member of the society he had to fulfil tasks when required of him. Russell wasn’t expecting to see neither of them there. He would never guess the so much respected librarian was homosexual, and he never cared for a poor lowlife profile such as Alex. He was speechless already. Gaz took a deep breath and gathered the courage to make his question:

“Are those the ones assigned to each one of us?”

“Yes”, answered Damon, behind them. “It was easy finding someone slim, tall, and young as you are for Russell. Believe me, it’s easier to get it done when the person resembles someone you like”.

“So, I have to lie down with fellow Alex, while he has to lie down with Morrissey”, Russell was repeating the obvious. He knew Damon wouldn’t volunteer because they were kind of close. Still, the thought of that passage rite was absurd, but necessary.

“Are you going to stay here and watch us?” - asked Alex, annoyed. “Aren’t we going to have a little privacy?”

“Mr. James… Somebody has to watch the surroundings. Damon had the idea that we leave as a group afterwards, pretending we’re drunk”, Morrissey explained. “I’m sorry this room doesn’t fit your needs, but it’s the only we could find in a hurry. Now, shut your mouth and do what you are supposed to!”

Gaz and Alex were tops, while Russell and Morrissey were bottoms. It was difficult for the couple having to have sex in those conditions, only to be accepted, protected by the community. Proof was necessary, and now they had it. The plan for them to leave in safety proceeded well. They were mistaken by drunkards lost in Britpoplar streets.

The sound of boiling metal and hammers crashing against steel filled the emptiness of the air under the hot midday sun. The Gallagher brothers had been reforming armor pieces for the soldiers for the last few days. Not that they cared for the army. In fact, they didn’t, but gold was gold. The payment was good and they needed it. They constantly thought about what Jarvis Cocker and Brett Anderson said to them. Honestly, they thought they were crazy and being paid for following people was something way over the line. They rarely did the patrols they were supposed to, and never saw anything that called their attention. That day, though, was their lucky day.

“Fuck, I’m bored!”, voiced Liam, dropping his working material. “Tired of doing this and bored!”.

“If you leave the hard work to me again, I will take your gold for meself”, warned Noel.

“You just try it!”, Liam raised his fist toward his brother.

When they were about to throw punches at each other, they noticed movement behind them. They see Damon walking past by with Graham, chatting joyfully. In the midst of the awkward silence between the Gallagher brothers, the two peasants ignored them. In fact, they didn’t even witness the foolish discussion. They were so focused and entertained with each other.

“Let’s fool with them just like we did with that Justin Welch moron last week” - suggested Liam, with pure mischief in his eyes.

“Do we really have to?” - Noel questioned, uninterested.

“Are you crazy?! Stop being a slackass and let’s go!”- Liam tried to encourage him.

“Alright, alright. They are full of shit anyway…” - Noel got moving then, and Liam went along.

Graham was actually having one of the most exciting afternoons of his life. Listening to Damon nonstop, telling stories of the town and sharing his adventurous experiences. He would either blabber about managing the gay community or how much he liked Justine. Graham couldn’t avoid thinking how big of a hypocrite and selfish Damon was at that matter. What the hell did he want in life? The answer was simple, Albarn wanted the whole world, he wanted everything. However, no man was able to play God, nor he was allowed to be larger than life just for the sake of good fun and self indulgence. Damon’s sins were numerous, as he was endangering both himself and all the people he cared about. Sooner or later, Graham would suffer from some kind of backfire. The blonde one had been spending the whole day with his friend, saying lots of things, but not what he really wanted to say. Coxon was fine whether Damon knew he was attracted to him or not. It was too dangerous to risk it all for an affair. He was more than happy with his friendship.

“Oi, mates! What a pleasure to see ya in this part o’ town!” - Liam came in grinning wide.

Graham froze from his arse up. He was aware of the Gallagher’s reputation.

“What’s wrong, newcomer? Shat your trousers?!?” - Noel already got a grip of the brunette’s shoulder.

If Damon decided to fight them he would surely lose. Graham was nothing but a scaredy cat - there was no way he was going to help out in combat. As Liam sunk his knee deep in Damon’s stomach, Noel punched Graham in the mouth.

“Damon, no!” - uttered Graham.

“I’m okay, Graham. He’s too weak for me…” - Damon could barely talk, and still he mocked the one who bullied him.

The two victims were dragged by their enemies to Britpoplar’s cemetery. It had both fancy tombs for the rich families and some areas to drop poor abandoned chaps. Last time Damon was there he stole Simon Gilbert’s body away, to bury him at his homeplace.

“Right! Let’s play a game!” - Liam held Damon by his hair, almost pulling it from his scalp. They kept climbing the hill on the cemetery until they found the tiniest stone mausoleum. It must have been built for a child, but the funeral never happened. The monument was there for a really long time, and the Gallaghers often took other young men there just to terrorize them, locking them up in the tomb for several hours. They were about to do it with Damon and Graham.

“Liam, I don’t know if they will both fit in! We never tried putting two at once!” - Noel was laughing at his younger brother’s psychotic necessities. He probably participated only for gags.

“Shaddap and help me”

The only way Damon and Graham could coexist in that horrid conditions were positioned against each other, face to face, squeezed in the vault between the stone walls.

“Let’s see how long it will take for them to figure how to get out” - the two friends in trouble overheard the sentence, as the voices from Noel and Liam disappeared with the distance.

It was so tight in there that their rib cages didn’t have enough space to breath. Their legs were nearly intertwined with one another. Graham’s crotch was against Damon’s thigh, as well as the same for the other way round. The whole situation was disturbingly inconvenient, and yet it could get a lot worse.

“Graham, are you okay?” - Asked Damon after noticing his friend’s face twitch. - “Can you breathe?”

Coxon could only nod positively, while a drop of sweat ran down on his forehead. Damon struggled to move his hands and looked all around the stone enclosure.

“That’s what Justin Welch meant with being abused by the Gallaghers! What a bunch of useless cunts! If he got out, we can too!”

Not that Graham was relieved with the idea of being free from that nonsense, but while Damon was slowly searching for a lump, a button, or a handle of any sort in the walls, it was hard not move accidentally against his mate, rubbing himself against Coxon’s body.

“Damon, I am sorry, I am so sorry, I can’t!”

“What are you…? Oh, my… Graham, you…”

That was it. Graham Coxon got a boner, and his stiffness was screaming inside his trousers, trapped between Damon’s thigh and below his own navel. Damon first reaction was to be in shock. Never in his mind he could imagine this chap longing for him, even though Morrissey had suggested so a few days prior. Graham was truly mortified. He refused to open his eyes and wished he was dead only not to hear what Damon had to say. Instead of what was expected, Damon suddenly burst into laughter. Graham discreetly peeked at his giggling face.

“That’s right! Laugh at me! I deserve to be humiliated!” - Coxon cried dramatically.

“Shut your mouth, Gra.” - Damon silenced Graham himself, surprising him with a warm, magisterial, and hopeless kiss. He forced his tongue inside the man’s mouth, relishing on his sweet taste and extreme insecurity.

Graham, at first, got so scared with Damon’s sudden move, that he fought it, refusing to believe that his life had come that - but as soon as Damon’s large tongue made way, his whole body simply swooned. He wanted more, and he didn’t want it to stop - but Damon had a million thoughts in his head. He started it, and he ceased it too.

“We shouldn’t, Graham, you’re my friend.”

“I… I think I am in love with you.”

When they thought they were never gonna leave that wretched tomb, Damon unexpectedly hit his elbow on a piece of the wall and dislocated, making it possible for them to push the stones apart and escape the trap. They literally fell on top of each other when they made it out.

“You don’t want to get involved in this, Graham.” - Damon was referring to joining the gay brotherhood. “I can't let you risk your life over me.”

“But - I am not confused anymore! I know now, I want this, and I want you!” - Graham embraced Albarn, still on the ground.

The blonde one held Coxon’s chin, as if he was about to kiss him again, but then let go. He got up and assisted his confidant afterwards.

“Try to imagine yourself with a maiden or something and get rid of this hard-on you’ve got, We’re going back to the university.”

Eventually, Graham’s erection faded away, but not because he imagined a naked woman - being rejected by Damon in that way had hurt him. He felt as if his feelings had been played with, like a dart game. Damon had hit bullseye, and his heart was now bleeding. Neither him or Albarn could sleep that night. Coxon was just too sad, regretting that he opened his heart to his friend in a moment of fragility. Damon, on the other hand, kept awake because of his guilt. He didn’t want to mess with Graham’s feelings at all. He was still resenting Simon’s death, and believed he couldn’t keep his brothers at the secret community safe. He loved Graham too, still, he wasn’t ready to put his life on the line for the sake of their feelings.

#gramon #fanfiction #to the end with you fic #britpop #I am back

7 notes · View notes

aranea-mechanica · 5 years

Text

Empty Nest Syndrome

Set directly after this particular movie night, in which Swoop was trounced in a smackdown with Soundwave.

Swoop is whisked off to the Tor, thoroughly scolded, expertly repaired, sneakily stuffed full of diluted obtenteum, given a few interesting upgrades, and ultimately snuggled to sleep.

Tarantulas

What now? Getting carefully manhandled by a massive spider is what's happening now, Swoop. As soon as he has the pteranodon securely on his back, Tarantulas is bridging off to the Tor with him in tow.

Swoop

Swoop makes absolutely no attempt to stop this. Unless bleeding on Tarantulas counts as an attempt to deter him. But probably not. Off we go!

Tarantulas

Given that the bleeding isn't exactly a conscious thing, Tarantulas isn't deterred in the slightest. He's been bled on plenty of times before, believe him.

Instantly they're there in the Tor, and Tarantulas is navigating the halls upside-down on the ceiling in a manner eerily reminiscent of his tour with Prowl long ago. Swoop's neatly webbed to Tarantulas's carapace, only swaying beneath him a little along with the rapid patter-patter-patter of arachnoid feet.

There's a stream of muttered hissing to go along with every stride. "You're a brash, egoistic fool with the impulse control of a toddler! At least you have some self-preservation instinct in you, that's fair enough, but why did you have to go and get yourself this mangled before you tapped out? Why?"

Soon enough they're in one of the smaller operating theaters, and Tarantulas plops down onto the floor properly. Without giving Swoop a second to recover, Tarantulas mass-shifts down to extract himself from his webbing, leaving the Dinobot in a heap wherever he lands on the floor. Sizing up again, transforming, then pacing around the room, the spidermech collects tools and materials he thinks he might need.

Swoop

At no point did Swoop consider what step two of Tarantulas spiriting him away would entail. He had simply moved because they were moving. Appearing in the Tor was a bit of a surprise and, despite his downtrodden air, Swoop still looks around at everything streaking past below them with a bit of interest.

Tarantulas suddenly disappearing earned a startled look, but that was about it. It didn't take long to figure out what happened and he didn't have anywhere else to be. Being in a heap worked just fine for him. Although...

His back hurts...

Carefully, the scrawny mech uses what mobility he has to maneuver into a position that lets him keep his wings held carefully aloof.

Tarantulas

Swoop doesn’t exactly have to consider what comes next – he’s a child, after all, and someone else is taking care of him. It just so happens that this child is also a murderous dinosaur.

More loud muttering. "And you're not even RESPONDING to me. Did Soundwave really shell-shock you that much?"

After a bit of organized clattering, Tarantulas strides over to Swoop again and stands over him, his visor squinting keenly to assess the damage. Nothing too awful or life-threatening - thanks, Soundwave - but not exactly a patch-up job either. At least Swoop isn’t being his usual bouncy self and making things difficult to repair, but this just feels... wrong. Definitely wrong.

Tarantulas stands there for another long moment, wondering if Swoop will actually respond in any way.

Swoop

All of Tarantulas' clattering goes fairly unnoticed. Swoop looks over the webbing around him and the room at large. But his movements are stiff and cautious. Twisting on a shredded back isn't the most comfortable of moves.

Tarantulas' looming does eventually draw Swoop's attention. He turns his bright optics up at the spider.

"No."

Tarantulas

Tarantulas nearly does a double-take at that. So flippant. Where does he even get the nerve –

He fluffs. "Then why are you such a Primus-damned slug, a - a lump, a - you're not like this." Briefly Tarantulas stiffens as well, then turns tail and all but stomps out of the room to go acquire a few other materials.

Swoop

In the absence of anything else to do, Swoop turns his attention downward to his mangled hand. There are some small shards of metal from where he bashed the open wound against Soundwave that he can dig out on his own.

Doesn't feel awesome. That's fine.

Tarantulas

Tarantulas doesn't feel awesome either, but it's hardly comparable. He's away for a good minute or two, but when he comes back it's with half a dozen more tools and a haphazard roll of something metal-meshy dragging along behind him.

Tsk. "Stop that, you're going to injure yourself further." Thunk, something falls to the floor, and tink-tink-clank, the tools are set down on the tiered trays hovering around the main medi-berth. "Ratchet may have taught you a thing or two, but hands are tricky business, and I'll not have you severing more lines than I already have to fix. Now, can you stand? On the berth. Up you go."

There's none of his usual faux-politesse in his language, no sir. And unless Swoop says he can't stand, Tarantulas isn't offering any help either.

Swoop

Swoop slowly gets up, wiggling a leg here and there to get the webbing to fall off. Moving while holding his wings in place throws off his normal bouncing gait. But he makes it over to the berth just fine.

"You Spiderbot fix wing?"

Tarantulas

Tarantulas watches every move Swoop makes, this time with a calculating optic. Favoring this side over that, flexing one joint a particular way - they're all indicators, all datapoints he can use in repair. Despite how ruffled and uncomfortable Tarantulas feels right now, he's not about to let that get in the way of his expertise and genius.

A scoff. "Yes, I'll fix both of them - that, and then some. You're quite welcome in advance." Hovering around the berth in a manner that's only slightly threatening, Tarantulas prods and pokes at some of the finer details of Swoop's injuries. The bloodied hand gets particular attention. "...You only lost two digits? I could have sworn I saw more than that lying on the floor. Maybe it was all the energon. Hmph."

A slight twist of Swoop's wrist, and Tarantulas lets him be for a moment. Energon, hm? How much energon did it look like Swoop lost back there, anyhow? What is he even running on right now? There's so much Tarantulas doesn't know, and he hardly has the patience for asking questions aloud.

"Do you have any sort of medical hardline, Swoop?" Tarantulas's own three-fingered hand reaches forward, either to accept a line or connect something somehow.

Swoop

While he is stiff from his injuries, Swoop doesn't come across as nervous or unsettled by Tarantulas' scarce bedside manner. If anything, he looks to be getting settled in on the berth.

The thin Dinobot starts to lay down on his tummy when Tarantulas approaches again.

"Oh. Yah!"

The red bit of plating on his chest slides aside as he awkwardly positions and repositions his gangly limbs to try to find a comfortable way to sprawl out on his side.

Tarantulas

Alright then, Tarantulas's turn to unlatch a panel just under his chest plating and unravel a few thin, snaking cables. It takes half a second of fiddling before he's got the right connector, and the unused cables are retracted again, leaving a single red trail linking their two frames together. Do tell - what medical details can he find?

Swoop

The inside of any one of the Dinobots is an absolute reflection of their creators. Perhaps moreso with the older three, but it wouldn't take a detective of Prowl's capabilities to figure out who made Swoop.

Wheeljack's "fingerprints" are, naturally, all over the Dinobot's hardware. The systems making up the flamethrower that lives in his throat is every bit as excessive as the engineer who designed them. Not to mention the extensive work that goes into a cooling system that prevents this toddler from melting his own processor after extended us. Absolute consideration is paid to making him as light and springy as possible, while also being built to take significant blunt force trauma and bullets. He's got a high pain tolerance and about as tough a hide as they could give him without interfering with his ability to fly.

Swoop's software - and subsequent firewalls - are a product of his more serious creator. Ratchet's "tone of voice" can be found in the design of this medical interface. After all, he's the one who uses it most frequently. It ought to be designed to make his life easier.

Of the available systems - the ones any medic could access without having to go toe-to-toe with Ratchet - there were the standard readouts. Tarantulas could easily get a list of the damaged areas on their severity. After all, if Hoist or First Aid got to Swoop before Ratchet, he wouldn't want to prevent Swoop from working with them. The little Dinobot is hurting and running on empty, but there isn't anything dire.

Sprinkled about, however, are little notes that are meant to be found. The author doesn't identify himself, but the repeated reminders and threats of bodily harm if Swoop fusses with this setting one more goddamn time should give a fair hint.

Tarantulas

If this were any other situation, Tarantulas would be living for the rich inner life packed inside this lanky pteranodon. Right now though, he makes note of Wheeljack's fingerprints and Ratchet's stickynotes and rifles through the rest of the contents with unnerving speed to get at what he wants.

Damage reports indicate, of course, missing fingers, but also moderate electrocution damage, glaring alerts on the differing statuses of his wings, yanked and shredded and stressed as they are. And - hm, Tarantulas had missed this at first - throat damage? He'll have to pay closer attention to Wheeljack's notes about Swoop's flamethrower mechanisms when he tinkers with that.

He's more concerned right now about the energon situation, actually. He knows Swoop doesn't get enough in him, but this is a solid reminder of that fact, one that feels like a punch in the gut. Injuries or no injuries, Tarantulas has found himself in similar pinches with energon levels, and knowing Swoop probably wobbles on the verge of empty like this at crucial times - hmph. Damnit. Let's convert that fretting and worry straight to terseness and scolding.

Yank - out comes the medical line, snapping back into place in Tarantulas's abdomen. His words snap as well. "If I give you a cube or two, will you drink, or will I have to bypass that?"

(Primus, is he ever glad he found that bolt of solar-panel mesh. At least if Swoop's energon levels get truly low again, maybe - yes, if Tarantulas installs the majority of it in Swoop's wings, it should be enough to keep most systems running, right? He can only hope.)

Swoop

Joke's on Tarantulas. Terse scolding is standard operating procedure in Ratchet's medbay. Swoop is unfazed.

"Me Swoop not hungry," he informs the spider factually.

Tarantulas

A brief, cold stare. "Very well." Sounds like Tarantulas will have to finagle a way to IV Swoop, but he isn't concerned about that. Gnawing at him is the juxtaposition of Swoop's internal and external states - he's running on empty but not hungry? Tarantulas trusts he's telling the truth, and that's even more worrisome than lies.

"Can you deactivate pain sensors, or is that something I'll have to do manually? I'll be detaching your wings at the very least, so it's nothing to take lightly." Tarantulas suddenly resolves that he'd rather force Swoop into medical stasis than have him suffer through his own machismo.

Swoop

Swoop rubs his feetsies together as he gets more comfortable on the berth.

"Me Swoop can do it. Me Swoop know how to that."

This isn't his first rodeo, Tarantulas. Or his first maiming.

Tarantulas

Oh no, the feetsies move is cute. Don't make Tarantulas feel soft fuzzies when he's so frustrated at you like this, Swoop.

"You can do it, or you will do it?" There's a difference, clearly.

Swoop

That earns a little smile. Swoop glances up at Tarantulas from under the edge of his helm.

"Will do."

Tarantulas

No more soft fuzzies. Unacceptable. Tarantulas almost has to turn away from the smile, but thankfully he's got enough concerned focus to keep his wits about him.

Time to get down to business, then. Order of priority - wings come last, they'll take the longest. Hand first, it's still bleeding energon on the berth. Maybe neck after that? That way he can sneak some energon (or obtenteum? Yes, diluted obtenteum, definitely) into Swoop early on.

Muttering under his breath, Tarantulas gets to work on stabilizing Swoop's hand against the berth, then picking and prying most of its pieces apart. He's hunched over close enough to keep six optics on the intricate details, but his spider limbs are reaching out blindly and snatching up the equipment he needs nearby.

If Swoop listens close enough, he'll hear an intelligible train of thought in the muttering. Look at these remaining fingers. Clawed, but still painfully blunt. What use is it to have clawed fingers that hardly work as claws. Definitely remedying that. Repairs first, then touchups.

Swoop

Swoop lets Tarantulas move his limbs around however he wants. There is the occasional twitch, of course, but it's his natural inability to hold still. Not pain. He was perfectly numb at this point.

Once the spider is focused on his hand, Swoop slides his other arm underneath his head for a pillow. A few moments pass and he scoots just a hair closer to Tarantulas. His hand is more or less still, but now that his back isn't paining him, Swoop curls up a bit more, looking every bit the child that he is as he watches Tarantulas work on his hand with relaxed optics.

Tarantulas

Precious child that he is, Swoop himself isn't exactly Tarantulas's focus now, so the soft fuzzies can't touch him anymore. Analytical optics intent on medical repairs don't pick up on that sort of thing.

It isn't long before the bleeding's stopped, then cleaned, and the hand's wires and cables and lines are prepped for new parts. That'll come later though, once Tarantulas picks a set of digits to install. For now, cauterizing the wound properly will do just fine.

All the tools are back on the trays again, so Swoop should be able to tell they're on to the next stage. Still focused and muttering, Tarantulas extends his abdominal cable again and hooks into the other's medical line - he needs those specs on Swoop's throat hardware if he wants to keep the flamethrower intact, and therefore keep his own hide intact.

A brief glance over the blueprints gives Tarantulas all he needs to know, but he'll stay connected now just in case. "Hrm... On your stomach, please." Because the back of the neck seems like the most efficient way of getting at things, what with the shredded mess attached to Swoop's back right now.

Swoop

With a chirp of acknowledgement, Swoop rolls onto his belly.

He assumes wrongly that Tarantulas must be thinking about his wings, because Swoop is thinking about his wings. They're the only part of this fight that he couldn't just walk off.

Both his arms come up to make a pillow for his head, which reflexively causes his wings to droop lower. This is an excellent chance to look closer at the new status of his damaged hand.

As the repairs continued, however, his other hand drifts absentmindedly down to fiddle with the medical line. He's not pulling it out or interfering with Tarantulas' ability to do his job. It's just something he's aware of due to his position on his front. And anything that registers in his birdy brain must be touched.

Tarantulas

So long as Swoop's not actually pulling the medical line out, Tarantulas couldn't care less what he's doing. He can still feel him fiddling with it though, as if Swoop were a fly plucking a spider's web. Hah.

Wandering away for a second, Tarantulas extends the line some more so he can grab a glowing cube of obtenteum and quickly dilute it down. Then he's back.

Grumbling, he tries to think of how to stabilize Swoop's neck for repairs. He can't exactly tell the Dinobot to hold still - that's a futile request. He'll just... he'll just hold him where he needs him. That's totally kosher, right? And if he holds Swoop's crest, he has even more leverage for restricting movement. Two spider limbs latch onto the crest arching from Swoop's helm and lock everything into place, then.

"Don't try anything funny," Tarantulas adds. Ironically he's the one doing something sneaky, strategically removing pieces of Swoop's neck so he can begin funneling the obtenteum into him with some equipment he's keeping out of view. Unless Swoop says anything about it, Tarantulas will simply continue with further neck repairs as if nothing else were happening.

Swoop

"Me Swoop always funny," came a murmured reply. Still, he didn't attempt to squirm away. His crest was, fortunately for Tarantulas, a very handy way for his brothers to drag him around or Ratchet to make him look at something. This was standard fair.

Swoop was similarly unperturbed by the feeling of a tube moving down his throat. He was numbed up, distracted by a hundred small noises and touches, and distinctly feeling the post-battle drain of his excitement. The sedate little Dinobot wasn't still - his limbs and digits twitched in little motions to keep him occupied - but there was no suspicious air about him.

Eventually, after far longer than it really should have taken, Swoop lets out a muted chirp and tries to lift his head slightly.

Tarantulas

Tarantulas huffs at Swoop's attempt at humor as he works, though he's just as focused on the neck as he was on his hand before. He doesn't seem to have anything else to say aside from his intermittent muttering - cables are overextended, the casing's dented, I'll have to remove that if I want a chance to replace the one behind it, but - ah! - yes. Much better, much better. Every once in a while his words are punctuated by slight tugs on Swoop's helm, directing his helm and neck in a particular way.

All the while, of course, Swoop's being force-fed diluted obtenteum and apparently seems none the wiser. Well, either that or he's content with his fate, which –

- ah. Slag, Tarantulas must have jinxed it. As soon as Swoop goes to lift his helm, spider limbs are pinning him a tad more aggressively. "Tsk, stop that. I can't have you jeopardizing your repairs." Maybe if he keeps up the force it'll remind Swoop of some sort of dominance and honor code? Isn't that what this fight and its results were all about anyway...?

Finally Tarantulas decides Swoop's had enough and slickly extracts the intubation equipment. There - done and done. A bit more of a hassle than just drinking a cube, but at least he didn't have to fight over it.

A few minutes later he's done with neck repairs as well, all loose wires clipped and metal bits welded into place under the paneling. Wheeljack ought to be pleased with how careful and considerate Tarantulas was to his flamethrower design integrity, he thinks. And yes, he's letting up on the crest now too, once he remembers he doesn't need to pin Swoop's helm down anymore.

Swoop

Under other circumstances, getting pinned would send Swoop into a squirming (and laughing) fit. Thankfully for both of them, Soundwave's recent trouncing made the pterosaur more pliable than usual. Tarantulas would just have to put up with periodic "woe is me" chirps until Swoop was freed.

Pushing himself up onto his elbows, Swoop looks down at his own tummy, touching it with his damaged hand lightly.

"Ew."

Tarantulas

Tarantulas can tune out the chirps well enough - they sound like the beeps of stable medical equipment, almost. He also might subconsciously be patting or petting at Swoop's crest when he makes the silly little sounds, totally not in a comforting way.

Ah, so finally Swoop notices his tanks. Tarantulas squints. "What's 'ew', hm? You're not even three-quarters full, you know."

Swoop

"Me Swoop weigh a billion pound," he states firmly while squirming up to a sit with his legs underneath himself on the berth. "Yuck."

Tarantulas

"Tsk. Hardly. Obtenteum is even less dense than energon - whatever increase in weight you might have isn't that much. I expect your tanks simply aren't accustomed to actually being filled properly anymore. If they ever were."

Tarantulas allows Swoop to sit for now while he prowls the room again, medical line trailing after him. First hand, then throat, now the odds and ends sprinkled around Swoop's frame - he'll need a wider variety of tools and materials for this round.

After returning and emptying his arms, Tarantulas simply gazes down at the pterosaur plopped on his medi-berth. All he can do is chitter and sigh, his vocals strangely muted - almost... gentle. "Let it be for now. The feeling ought to pass soon enough. But - are you experiencing any other undesirable symptoms?"

Swoop

Swoop's hands gravitate over his tank while he watches Tarantulas come and go.

"Me Swoop going to barf for a million years." He isn't.

Tarantulas

Tarantulas stares at him, strangely deadpan. "If you do that, I'll have to repeat the process. Is that what you want?"

Swoop

Swoop's lower lip stuck out the tiniest bit as he shook his head no.

Tarantulas

Nrgh. No warm soft fuzzies, Tarantulas. Remember what a menace this pint-sized Cybertronian usually is.

"Good, thank you, Swoop." Tarantulas can't resist giving a brief helm-pat with a spider limb. "Now - arms, please." A good place to begin as he methodically begins patching Swoop up bit by bit.

Swoop

Swoop tries his best to lean into the pat, but it's gone too fast. Instead, he sits back and holds both arms out in front of himself.

Tarantulas

Tarantulas notices Swoop leaning in, then watches how willing and trusting he is about opening his arms, and he thinks - if he didn't understand the significance of body language already, he'd be virtually slapped in the face by it now. The mech couldn't be asking for a hug more clearly even if he was shouting.

It only takes a split second for Tarantulas to give in to the warm fuzzies and take that step forward, nearly lifting Swoop off the berth in his many-armed embrace. He's being careful for the damaged wings as best he can, knowing he still has to tend to them, but... well. This isn't what he meant when he asked for 'arms', but this what he wants to do right now, damnit.

Swoop

Swoop involuntarily lets out a squeak when he's all but cocooned in arms. The implications of a spider-hug never occurred to him before this exact moment. Oh well.

Without hesitation, Swoop wraps his arms around the larger mech and rests his helm on soft fluff. There are lots of comments buzzing about his birdy brain. None of them make it to his mouth, however.

Tarantulas

Tarantulas isn't speaking either, so Swoop's in good company. For all the warm fuzzies he's been feeling, there's an equal amount of discomfort too, something about difficulty demonstrating platonic affection. Thankfully Swoop is pretty easy to hug though, so he's trying his best to shut out any awkward uneasiness for now.

It takes a while, but after a long moment Tarantulas pets the back of Swoop's helm, squeezes him, and lets go. He's not looking him in the optics anymore, just gonna grab the tools he needs and start in on miscellaneous repairs right away. If you don't say anything about it, he won't either, Swoop.

Swoop

Fortunately for Tarantulas, platonic affection is this Dinobot's bread and butter. As is overlooking awkwardness. Swoop is content in the hug with only minor rubbing his face against the strange floofy feeling on his cheek.

When the spider lets him go, he doesn't fight it. Instead, he picks at one of the more clearly damaged parts of his arm before holding it up to get fixed.

Tarantulas

Don't think Tarantulas didn't notice the face-rubbing, Swoop. He's used to people fawning over the texture of his fur though, so it's more than acceptable.

Tarantulas is about as focused as he's ever looked as he gets down to business, muttering and tearing apart sections of Swoop's frame in order to patch up both external and internal damage. He doesn't have any problem uttering commands and manhandling Swoop when he needs to, occasionally even swiping at him with a quick smack or two when he gets too fidgety. Apparently the affection of the hug needs to be balanced out somehow.

Overall it doesn't take too long til he's satisfied with his repairs. The Dinobot is as good as new and then some, except for his wings yet, as well as all the superficial scrapes and dents that someone less experienced could take care of instead.

Swoop

Smacks are clearly affectionate and no one can convince anyone who has met Ratchet otherwise. Swoop is perfectly fine with all of this manhandling. Once Tarantulas stands back to take in the repairs, Swoop does the same, looking himself over.

"Him Soundwave hurt Me Swoop wings."

Tarantulas

Tarantulas gives a snort at that. "You don't say. I was saving them for last deliberately, if you must know. I've got a bit of a project in mind for them. How would you feel about installing solar paneling in your wings?"

He makes it sound as if Swoop really has a choice. Hah.

Swoop

Reflexively, Swoop's wings twitch and rise a little as he thinks about them.

"Solar panel is a Snarl thing."

Tarantulas

"Hmm - does that mean you don't want them?" Tarantulas's visor quirks in a question.

Swoop

"Um!" Swoop's optics dart around as he briefly considers the question. "No. Yes? Uhh..." How to words? "Do it." Got it. "Me Swoop and Him Snarl matchy matchy keheh."

Tarantulas

"Very well." Tarantulas looks pleased - it's always nice when someone actually consents to the projects he's settled on. "It'll be a moment while I craft the wings, but you needn't do anything but sit there. Is there anything you need first?"

Swoop

"Need...?" His head cocks in confusion. After a moment, he scooches to the edge of the medical berth. "Watch. Me Swoop want to see."

Tarantulas

Tarantulas just might preen at that; he loves showing off. "You're more than welcome to, hyeh. Feel free to ask any questions that come to mind."

Oh - he still has the medical line attached. He'll remove and retract it a little more gently this time, since he's already got the specs he needs from Swoop's blueprints. Time to start shearing off the right-sized pieces from the bolt of metal fabric he's unrolling on the floor, making careful note of connecting wires and vulnerable edges.

Swoop

Normally, Swoop would make an absolute nuisance out of himself with such an open invitation to get underfoot. There's a lot going on with him right now though. Being physically numb but also absolutely stuffed isn't the best way to make an attentive student out of this birdy boy.

Swoop takes a few tentative steps around while he looks for a perch. There are plenty of options - crates are always a solid choice - but that doesn't give him a great view.

Hmm...

Swoop walks up to the decontamination locker. That works! He reaches up to the edge and pulls himself up to perch on the side. Pull-ups with wrenched wings, however, are not the ideal. Swoop's back makes unhappy noises at the motion. But he's up here all the same now.

Tarantulas

Swoop's clambering only garners some light snickering from Tarantulas. Oh, he understands restlessness and retreating to high places, alright. Wherever Swoop wants to be right now is perfectly fine by him, so long as he doesn't break anything or open any of his fresh welding.

Absentmindedly he lets flow a stream of tips and pointers as he works. "Always err on the side of more, even over preciseness. One can always trim." The paneling makes muffled screeching noises as he confidently cuts through it without laying down guidelines. "And with multi-paneled wings like this, the supports take up room that requires extra clipping - oh, and make sure the integrity of the solar mechanisms isn't compromised."

Several minutes and plenty more pointers later, Tarantulas has all the pieces and outfitting he needs for two Swoop-sized wings. Without ado he leaves it all lying on the floor and strides over to Swoop himself, plucking him off the locker and setting him down on the medi-berth again.

"Wings out behind you, if you please." It's a sing-song voice, vaguely whimsical and definitely in contrast to his earlier terse tones. New projects always put Tarantulas in a good mood, much moreso than simple repairs.

Swoop

Swoop watches with bright optics, chewing on the tips of his claws and making the occasional chirp. It's not an attempt at communicating. He's just a noisy boy.

He lets himself be carried off without complaint, plopping on his butt and fanning his ruined wings out behind himself. They end up with less than symmetrical positioning since, even without feeling how painful they are, Swoop's range of motion has been damaged. Soundwave wasn't playing around back there.

Tarantulas

Chirps and chirrs are the same thing in Tarantulas's book, so he pays them no mind. In fact, he chirrs back from time to time. It's a little eerie how much these two have in common that they're not aware of.

Asymmetry is fine - the wings are coming right off anyhow. Tarantulas is careful to preserve the overall wing frame as he dismantles all the connections, wires and cables and the whole kit and caboodle. Then the wings are on the floor too, and all the flexible bits are extracted and subspaced into Tarantulas's other-dimensional garbage chute. How's it feel to see your disembodied wings getting shredded even more, then repaired and reassembled with shiny new material, Swoop?

Swoop

If Tarantulas thinks this is the first time Swoop has watched over his shoulder as his wings have been taken apart, this scientist has vastly underestimated how much trouble the Dinobots get into when allowed to cut loose on a battle field.

Still. It feels strange. Even if he can't register pain, the change in weight and pressure on his back and shoulders is unsettling. Swoop's natural fidgetiness increases as he becomes more exposed.

As the (admittedly normal) skittishness of being a wingless flyer settled on Swoop, a question manifested.

"Tarantulas." He twists around as much as he's allowed. "Why you fix Me Swoop?"

Tarantulas

That definitely gives Tarantulas pause. Swoop is calling him his real name and positing a question that's clearly just as keen as Bob's was been before, the one about being afraid of himself. It puts Tarantulas oddly on edge, but he keeps working as if nothing were amiss.

"Hyeh. Because you're injured, of course. Why do you ask?"

Swoop

"Cuz," he states definitively. "Lots of medic in Ark. Someone fix Swoop."

Tarantulas

Tarantulas rolls his shoulders and finishes soldering one last wire in place. "I - hm. I happened to be there at the scene and have crucial knowledge of what happened, as well as the expertise to handle the more... invisible aspects of your injuries."

Another moment of silence, then tacked on as an afterthought: "My original function was emergency medical personnel, as a matter of fact." That's right, distract Swoop with key information about your veiled history.

Swoop

There's a very pointed tilt of his head at that explanation. But Tarantulas makes a good call with throwing out an unrelated fact. Swoop's birdy brain flew off with it immediately.

"Tarantulance! Keeheh!"

Yes he is imagining a spider going wee whoo thank you for asking.

Tarantulas

Tarantulas lets out a cross between a snort and a scoff as he stands up, surveying the wings and checking for flaws. "I haven't always been a tarantula, you know. I was hardly constructed in this frame."

Swoop

Once Swoop gets the sense he's free to move - whether that is the case or not - he rolls onto his back to guard his 'naked' backside.

"What frame you construct in?"

Tarantulas

Alright, good. The wings pass Tarantulas's final inspection, so now it's time to start reattaching. But Swoop is - when did he flop backward like that? Tarantulas chitters in disapproval and shoves him back upright on the berth, one hand splayed firmly against the middle of his back. Taptap with a digit - "Lock your spinal strut."

A few seconds into reattachment Tarantulas remembers Swoop asked a question. "Ah - I was a two-wheeler. A motorbike, if you will." Ping - here's an image of his old alt mode. "Believe it or not, I still possess many of my original parts - the frame type isn't too far off from what an arachnid layout requires, hyeh."

Swoop

Swoop makes no attempt to prevent getting shoved around. Back locked, he rolls his neck and then checks the image sent to him. Laughter immediately bubbles out of the thin mech.

"That not look like You Spiderbot AT ALL! Keheh. Me Swoop always a Dinobot! Us built for dinosaur stuff."

Tarantulas

Tarantulas narrowly avoids getting smacked by Swoop's crest - rude! Thank goodness for Swoop he's too busy with the fiddly bits of reattachment to care about retaliating.

"It may not look like me, but that was me for quite some time." Longer than he wanted, frankly, but it was a complicated matter. "Ah yes, you were constructed as such, or so I'm told. There's one thing about that that's always bothered me though - you do know organic dinosaurs never breathed fire, don't you? That's not exactly dinosaur stuff."

One wing down, one to go!

Swoop

Swoop bursts into his first real cackle of the evening.

"DUH! Kahah! Me Swoop know that!"

While Tarantulas is getting the materials for his second wing, Swoop repositions himself on the berth so he can rest his chin on his bent knees.

"Dunno why Wheeeljack and Ratchet do fire for Us. Fun, probably! Cause Them see bones - dinosaur bones in cave! And do a museum before Grimlock, Slag and Sludge."

Tarantulas

It's unexpectedly spark-warming to hear that cackle again. Tarantulas was really starting to worry there, Swoop.

"Fun and a highly effective dual defensive/offensive mechanism, I'd wager." And now the second wing's getting set into place, a little quicker than the first. Everything's easier on the second time around after all.

"...Do you like being a Dinobot? That is - have you ever thought about taking another shape?"

Swoop

Swoop's head whips around, shaking vigorously.

"Never EVER want to be something else! Being Dinobot THE BEST! Me Swoop don't want to Autobot. Me Swoop stay with brothers FOREVER!"

Tarantulas

That garners a laugh. "Autobots aren't the only other sort of mech out there, Swoop. Even if you don't wish to be a Decepticon, you could always drag yourself and your bothers into joining me as a Neutral. That's not even a frame-based suggestion - you hardly have to change frames to switch sides."

Aaaand - "Done!" With a pat on the back, Tarantulas steps away from Swoop and out of the range of his wings. "Go on and reactivate all your sensors, please. Nothing should be amiss now, and you should be receiving input from additional sensors for the solar paneling too."

Swoop

"No no no no," he mutters with a little shake to his head. The pteranodon is clearly gearing up to argue. He has OPINIONS, Tarantulas. Opinions that want out.

But now he's getting directed to his wings. The most important thing in the world.

For a long moment, Swoop looks genuinely perturbed by the fact he cannot handle both these feelings at once. His little brain won't do it. His spark does emotions too big to hold them both.

His wings, of course, win the day. Once he reactivates the sensors, Swoop lets out a happy squeak and a full body squirm. His wings flex, coming as tightly to his frame as they can, then spreading out as wide.

"What Me Swoop do with solar panel stuff?"

Tarantulas

It's OK, Swoop. Tarantulas knows all about emotions that are too big for his spark. He's never had wings before, himself, but he can tell just by watching that Swoop's going through some big rollercoastering right now.

Tarantulas props his hands on his ample, fuzzy hips. "Oh, you don't really have to do anything. I'll cook you up some software should you want to fiddle or install controls, but the current mechanism of it all is very simple and feeds the energy directly into your reserves."

Swoop

"Cool," chirps the kiddo as he runs his fingertips over the new material on his wings. His smile gets a little wider at the slightly different texture. He can't wait to show Snarl.

.......

Realization dawns on Swoop.

"Him Grimlock going to be pissed."

Tarantulas

Tarantulas always gets such a rush when people admire his work, and this time is no different. Well, a little different than when Prowl's the one admiring, but he's proud of himself nonetheless.

Until Swoop mentions Grimlock. It's almost funny how Swoop uses the slang so offhandedly, except the connotations are a bit foreboding. "Pissed howso? At you? At Soundwave? At both?"

Swoop

"Dunno. Yes?" Swoop pushes himself to sit with his legs hanging off the medi-berth. "Soundwave FOR SURE. Him Grimlock doesn't like anyone but Him tell Dinobots what to do."

Tarantulas

Tarantulas sighs harshly. "Grimlock is in for an unpleasant surprise, then. As for you, though..."

If Swoop is repaired and comfortable with his upgrades, then Tarantulas is done now, right? He really should send Swoop on his way. For some reason he isn't inclined to let him go just yet though, and he doesn't know why.

Swoop

Swoop's feet dangle off the berth, swinging back and forth gently, as he looks up at Tarantulas with bright optics and puffed up cheeks.

"Him Grimlock going to punch me in the face."

Tarantulas

Oh, Tarantulas doesn't like the sound of that.

"And what are you going to do?"

Swoop

"Eat Me Swoop teeth probably!"

Tarantulas

No, Tarantulas does not like the sound of that at all. His reluctance to let Swoop leave is only increasing now.

"How rude. And after I just repaired you? Tsk. You'll tell him long-distance, then, to preserve the integrity of your teeth if nothing else."

Swoop

"No no no." He pushes himself off the berth. "Me Swoop need to back to Dinocave. Me Swoop tell Grimlock about Soundwave! Him know what to do."

Tarantulas

Tarantulas instantly grabs Swoop by the shoulders once he's off the berth, pinning him with an aggressive stare and not letting him move another inch. "You can tell him long-distance. He can convey his wonderful insights over comm just as well as in person, I assure you."

Swoop

Swoop grabs Tarantulas' wrists reflexively, but looks more confused than alarmed. "You Spiderbot being weird."

Tarantulas

There's a pang of discomfort in Tarantulas's spark, but he brushes it aside. "No, I'm being reasonable. Do you want to be punched in the face, then?"

Swoop

That earns a bold laugh. "Me Swoop a DINOBOT. Us not afraid of punch."

Tarantulas

Tarantulas shakes Swoop's shoulders with a jerk. "That's not what I asked. Are you really that foolhardy?"

Swoop

Swoop keeps his hold on Tarantulas' wrists, but leans a bit of his weight back away from the other mech and turns his head to look at him sideways. "It no big deal. Stop being a baby."

Tarantulas

Tarantulas scoffs, chittering. "You really are that foolhardy, then. So be it." He gives another shake as he lets go of Swoop, crossing his arms over his own fuzzy chest instead. What can he even do? He can't stop him from going without suffering some kind of downstream consequences for sure. Hrm.

"I'll send you home, but not quite yet."

Swoop

Swoop mimics Tarantulas' pose with his own crossed arms and puffed up chest. See? He can do that too.

Tarantulas

Agh. Well, that just cements Tarantulas's plan now. He's reaching out again, but this time it's to take Swoop's wrist and drag him along out of the operating theater and down the hallway.

Swoop

Swoop squawks but lets himself be dragged along. At first, he's a full arm's length away, but eventually he gets too curious and speeds up to run closer behind Tarantulas. "What you doing?"

Tarantulas

Tarantulas is glad when Swoop starts carrying his own weight, but he says nothing as he quickly navigates the Tor. Finally they're in a close, enclosed room where everything's covered in webbing, from floor to walls to ceiling to furniture. Notably, there's even a hammock made solely of thick ropes of spider silk.

That's where Tarantulas drags Swoop, hoists him up into his arms, and unceremoniously flops the two of them backward into the hammock. It's cuddle pile time now, whether you like it or not.

Swoop

Once they enter the webbed up room, Swoop immediately begins to look around at the various webbed up items in the room. It makes suddenly being off the ground a surprise. He curls up a bit reflexively, which only makes it easier for Tarantulas to bundle the pteranodon up in his many, many arms.

He's confused, Tarantulas, and squirms around trying to push himself up for a moment before twisting to try to see what the larger mech is doing. Is this a fight?

Tarantulas

Tarantulas tugs at Swoop's crest to keep it from smacking his face and fends off whatever limbs are squirming around too much. "Tsk. Hold still." The words are muted though, and the arms snuggling Swoop close to his chest are much gentler than the grasp that'd gotten them there in the first place.

It only takes a few seconds for it to kick in - a subtle wave of protectiveness that he'd barely been suppressing, a twinge in his spark, a flurry of fond and painful memories he thought he'd lost long time ago. No, Swoop definitely isn't Ostaros, but Tarantulas has to transfer his motherly affections somewhere. Currently those affections are manifesting themselves in the form of grooming and intermittent petting.

Swoop

Oh. It's nap time. The grooming is a dead giveaway.

Okay. That makes sense. Fight, repairs, nap pile. Swoop knows this routine. He has no explanation for why Tarantulas is doing it but no reason not to go with it either.

Swoop lets out a sleepy little sigh as he settles in. Once he relaxes, the energy of battle and excitement of repairs drains out of him rapidly. He's out like a light.

Tarantulas

Tarantulas can both hear and feel Swoop slipping off into dreamland, but he doesn't stop grooming or petting just yet. There's still grime and dried energon on the little Dinobot and still emotions to be parsed out in Tarantulas's head, so the two of them aren't going anywhere anytime soon.

Eventually the attentions cease, and Tarantulas settles into a comfortable slouch in the hammock. He's not about to fall asleep, but he's more than willing to let Swoop snuggle up against his chest however long the dear dino-child wants.

#medicalmurdersaurus #(( this happened just before the whole tarantula hawk thing #so just IMAGINE what kind of impact that has #also this is cute af thanks swoop #i'm so sorry if readmores dont work somewhere RIP

19 notes · View notes

tailahjanbash · 6 years

Text

Politics and Jesus?

I’m tired.

I’m tired of the Facebook wars, being forced to pick sides, and biased media.

I’m tired of seeing confederate flags and people talking about minorities like we are an infestation. I’m tired of propaganda and people slapping Jesus or rhetoric on top of their politics in order to justify one side and demonize the other.

I was reading Jeremiah this morning and stumbled across a scripture that I couldn’t quite shake.

“I will be merciful only if you stop your evil thoughts and deeds and start treating each other with justice; only if you stop oppressing the foreigner, the fatherless, or the widows and do not shed innocent blood in this place, and if you do not follow other gods to your own harm, then I will let you live in this place, in the land I gave your ancestors for ever and ever. But look, you are trusting in deceptive words that are worthless.” Jeremiah 7:5-7

I couldn’t help but reflect on the political climate of our nation—especially with the midterms having been so recent.

I’ll be transparent with you—my political views have been clashing with my spiritual beliefs as of late, and it’s been driving me insane.

I concluded that God’s heart was more just than my own. So, I sought The Lord for guidance. The more I did this; the more recognizable faults from both sides became. Instead of resorting to my parents, friends, or celebrities for correct stances, I brought each topic and controversy before the Lord and examined it next to scripture.

I want my beliefs to align with Jesus’—not an imperfect man-made party’s. At the end of the day, don’t politics and social justice boil down to human rights and the way we deal with people?

I do not want to handle human beings through a systematic, polarized structure created by imperfect humans when I have the opportunity to treat people the way Jesus did.

God brought some freshman year biology back to my mind as I began to unpack Jeremiah. I remembered learning about certain sicknesses that would cause the immune system (the system in our body that fights germs and keeps us healthy) to attack itself. This snippet, for the sake of understanding the analogy, is from WomensHealth.gov:

‘Our bodies have an immune system, which is a complex network of special cells and organs that defends the body from germs and other foreign invaders. At the core of the immune system is the ability to tell the difference between self and non-self: what’s you and what’s foreign. A flaw can make the body unable to tell the difference between self and non-self. When this happens, the body makes autoantibodies that attack normal cells by mistake. At the same time, special cells called regulatory T cells fail to do their job of keeping the immune system in line. The result is a misguided attack on your own body. This causes the damage we know as autoimmune disease.’

Our government along with the media, have polarized parties and pitted Democrats and Republicans against each other so much so, that just like those cells, we no longer recognize each other and attack our own body.

The white blood cells believe they are defending the body and protecting it by attacking the other cells, and vice versa. We see this reflected through our divided rhetoric—“Democrats want to take guns away so we can be controlled by the government!” and “Republicans care more about owning guns than the lives of children!”

Injustice is always someone else’s fault.

Both want to fix the issue. Both want to help and protect the people. So where is the disconnect?

Can I voice an unpopular opinion? I travel very often, so just hear me out when I say: I think American culture is extremely prideful in comparison to other nations. I don’t understand extreme patriotism, because my identity and allegiance are not rooted in a piece of land or a flag. I love my home and where I am from, but I know that this is all temporary. Our permanent residence is in heaven and our identity should always be rooted in Jesus.

This issue of pride has blinded us to believe that we couldn’t possibly be the problem. But when the Holy Spirit opened my eyes to the analogy of the auto immune disease, I realized that by placing the foundation of my beliefs upon a political party then sprinkling Jesus on top… I was contributing to the problem.

Pride causes us to be blind to our own faults and internal pain. We point the finger so we feel a false sense of righteousness like the Pharisees. However, in reality, the body is internally attacking and weakening itself in the name of “justice”.

Isn’t it funny how we proudly wave the banner of justice within a man-made political party?

Imma say it louder for the people in the back:

The values expressed are completely made by humans! Imperfect, sinful, selfish, people! And you’re telling me your side has it all figured out? And the other side is close-minded? Oh, the irony.

We forget the author of justice.

The only righteous judge.

The only perfect one.

Justice and truth will never be found apart from God. If you sprinkle Jesus on top of your politics like I did, you might have some truth in there, but then man’s selfish ambition will inevitably rear its ugly head.

Kris Vallotton, a pastor at Bethel Redding, shared this recently regarding Political Spirits:

1) The political spirit always needs an enemy! This spirit is more concerned with winning an election than with solving a problem.

2) The political spirit demonizes anyone who doesn’t agree with them. In other words, we don’t just see them as wrong on an issue, we view them as evil.

3) The political spirit imprisons our minds and reduces us to partisan opinions. This spirit separates people into two categories; winners and losers. In this environment, straw polls replace practical wisdom and success is measured in media bits rather than real solutions.

4) True governance is displaced by political polarization in which, people are expected to support a party rather than legitimate answers. This political spirit replaces national patriotism with loyalty to a party. This attitude creates a culture where we don’t have permission to think for ourselves but it’s “decision by affiliation.”

These characteristics can be found throughout scripture in the old and new testament. We see ungodly rulers like Ahab, Jezebel, and Herod operating in this spirit, blatantly defying the will of God and wreaking havoc upon God’s people.

Now that we have removed the blinders, taken a step back, and identified the problem, let’s move on to the solution.

One way can help this weak and sickly immune system recover, is by having conversations. I think the best way to fall into polarized thinking is to stereotype and generalize people.

Talk to someone that doesn’t have the same skin color as you. Ask your Hispanic friends if they feel safe. Talk to some white boys, see where they’re coming from. Your LGBTQ friends, your Muslim friends and family members. Ask your Black peers about oppression in 2018. Do you see a pattern here? Learning, understanding, and empathy on an individual level.

Jesus was and will always be personal and intentional with us. How can we demonstrate His love if we lump people into categories?

You may not have the platform of a celebrity or a politician, but I believe what you have is better.

You have the ability to individually touch lives, just like Jesus.

You have the ability to love the people who are difficult to love; who disagree with and offend you.

By loving these people, not only are you mending a divide, you are showing them who Jesus is. This creates ripples of life and hope, which impacts people 1,000,000 x more than some biased news report or tweet.

Even if you don’t speak one word about politics or God, you have the ability to let the gospel of love shine and reflect so brightly within you that it leads the lost into His loving arms.

This radical love can only be achieved when the Holy Spirit makes His home in our hearts. It is not a love that is found here on earth; it is a supernatural love that only abides in The Father. I pray that it rests in our hearts today, and we begin to see people the way Jesus does.

**You can read more blog posts, devotionals, and resources by visiting my official site: http://www.thechosengirl.info/

7 notes · View notes