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solaneceae · 10 months

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nest

a team bolas oneshot (read on ao3) this one is all fluff and found family and all that cute shit.

Some days aren’t as bad as the others. As far as Team Red is concerned, day Four is one of the better ones, because their minds aren’t as hazy with the fog of war and bloodlust and they can actually, finally think properly. “The others will want our heads today,” Phil grunts, ripping stray roots off the black stone wall to free up a little alcove. (Jaiden will want to put red candles in there, he thinks, right in the middle of the many gas masks hooked to the cold stone. Add to the ambiance.) “We won twice in a row, so I think they’ll just try to trap and spaw-kill us."

“That’s low,” Foolish hums, places a Baghera skull on the improvised altar they’ve set up in the center of their little cave. Cellbit did a good job picking it free of flesh, and its smooth, bleached white surface makes a stark contrast against the red stone. “And boring.”

“Maybe, but they’ll be desperate after the bullshit we pulled yesterday,” the crow snorts, glancing back at the rest of the group — Charlie is recovering from a pretty bad glitching episode in his little ‘hot tub’, his form melted into goopy blob mode to conserve energy. Cellbit is off on the other side of the base, humming into their comms to let them know he’s close, not gone, stay, stay. Baghera has been cooking something in a hidden corner of the base, something she doesn’t want any of them to see yet. Jaiden is perched onto makeshift scaffolding, a bucket in her hand and the other dripping red, tracing lines and curves onto the wall. Carré sits among their chests, checking over weapons and food and head-deep in inventory work. He’s been spending more time with them lately, which Phil is grateful for. Carré is strong (“Carré, more like Carry!” “The goat, the goat!” "La Bestia Argentinia!"), Carré is funny, and more importantly, Carré is one of them.

The old crow’s heart swells up with pride, pride for what his team had accomplished despite their natural disavantage. He feels lucky to be among fellow hybrids, fellow avians, hindbrain thrumming pleasantly with the proximity. His diaphragm vibrates with the low croon of flock, flockmates, yesyes, and he hears Jaiden and Baghera echo the sentiment back to him, in their respective high-pitched trills and throaty quacks.

Purgatory was Hell. Everyone had been blinded by competition and percentages and the weightless promise of getting some eggs back, unable to consider that hey, maybe the fucking cyclops that despises us and calls us sinner is fucking lying, hello! Too too focused on winning and competing to see the bigger picture like he did, but there was nothing he could do about it for now. So if he couldn’t protect his eggs, he’d settle for the next best thing and protect team Bolas. Flock. Family…

His eyes cloud over, memories of pain and betrayal drowning the world out in static-fuzz. Étoiles had stabbed him in the back after promising to be there for him. Fit had struck him down like a heartless machine, his face steely and without the slighest trace of emotion, and Phil knows the man has serious trauma from 2b2t but he can’t bring himself to care right now. (Fuck them. Fuck everyone that isn’t on his team. The communicator strapped to his wrist still shows unread messages from Tubbo, and he refuses to read them.)

“Still can’t believe we won that, honestly,” the conure chirps from atop her bamboo scaffolding as she paints the cave wall in dripping red. Phil doesn’t know what she used to make the dye, and he won’t ask. “But yeah, I think we should just stay inside today. Let them look for us, we ain’t fucking budging.”

“They won’t find us, yes?” Carré asks, accent heavy and whistle-y as he closes the chests and hides them behind hanging vines. “They could, they could look at the map and see.”

“Nah. Cellbit made sure that the place shows up like a natural cave in maps, and our stuff is scattered enough. They won’t find it, unless they zoom the fuck in and spend five minutes checking every single cave in the area. We’re good.” Cellbit’s smart, so fucking smart, Philza Minecraft is so fucking proud right now. “How’s the food situation?”

The Argentinian smirks. “Bastante bien. Zanahorias y pan, suficiente para un día o dos.”

“He says we got carrots and bread, enough for a day or two,” Foolish pipes up, and Phil is so fucking glad he and Cellbit are here to make up for the lack of their usual translators, left behind outside of Hell. “Soooo, technically, we shouldn’t need to commit self-cannibalism today. Unless you’re down for some medium-rare chicken breast.”

“Not a chicken, you fucker,” Baghera yells out from afar. “And you don’t medium rare chicken, you want to catch salmonelle?”

“I can’t!” the shark-totem boasts with a flash of razor-sharp teeth. “Iron stomach! Comes with being part-totem.”

“Please don’t actually immolate yourselves,” Phil rolls his eyes, washing his hands in clean water (at least they have that, thank fuck) before plopping down in front of the campfire. How they haven’t suffocated in smoke with fire in a closed up space is beyond them, but maybe they have and he’s just dreaming all of this. Wouldn’t be the first time his mind fucks with his perception of reality. “We can’t make beds, so if you die you’ll just spawn right into Bad and the other’s hands. We don’t want that, you don’t want that.”

“I really don’t,” Cellbit says, his bulky frame appearing from behind a stalagmite. His jacket is strapped around his waist, for now clean of blood, cat-like eyes gleaming in the dim light. It’s the most clear-headed Phil’s seen him yet. “The elevator’s done by the way, shouldn’t show up on the map.”

“And the sound?” Carré checks, ever-vigilant and detail-oriented. Cellbit shrugs and grins, exposing sharp fangs. “Haven’t figured that one out yet. But it doesn’t matter for now, since none of us are going out. Fuck today, right?”

“Fuck today!” Jaiden woops, jumping down the scaffolding to admire her handiwork — a great frieze depicting all six of them in bright, darkening red, all donning masks of course. “We’re going all moleman up in this shit.”

“Holy fuck,” Foolish laughs, bark-like, clapping enthusiastically at the display. “Oh, oh, I almost want the others to find our base just so we can see their reaction.”

“Oh my god, that would be so fucking funny. They expect an iron farm and crops everywhere, and they get the gas mask and blood cult.”

“I finished!” Baghera pops her head out from behind the wall, waving at them with her beak stretched into a ducky smile. “Come see, come see!”

Baghera has built them a nest. An honest-to-god, proper nest, and Philza could cry actually. “Where did you even get all this stuff?” Cellbit whistles, impressed, patting the comfy-looking amalgamation of moss and large leaves and colourful strips of cloth. Baghera smiles. “I have my ways,” she faux-whispers, and everyone knows that her ‘ways’ just amounts to wandering around getting lost until she spots something of interest. Which seems to always work out for her somehow, to be fair.

Phil can spot feathers woven into it here and there, pale yellow and white and blue and black. “So that’s why you wanted those,” Jaiden oooh's, thinking back to their first preening session back at their old base. Baghera nods, the feathers on her neck puffed up in excitement. “Yes, exactly. I thought it would be nice, for a nest. Do you guys like it?” she preens, and the others cheer her on because yes, it’s great Baghz, oh we so fuckin' do. The duck glances at Philza, wings ruffling, and she croons out inquisitively. happy? proud? The crow cocks his head, yesyes’s back at her, because he does like it — it’s plush and colorful and just the right size for all of them to huddle, and her face lights up with joy. “Yes! I’m glad,” she laughs, adjusting a stray piece of cloth near the center. “You wanna add something in it?”

Cellbit donates his jacket, all rips and tears and darker areas where blood used to soak the fabric. Jaiden weaves in some flowers she found the day before while Charlie, now back to his not-too-goopy self, shoves pieces of glowing stone into glass vials filled with slime to make his own version of lava lamps that he places strategically around their new resting place. (“Now there’s pieces of me watching over us at night!” “That’s so gross, I love it.”). Phil unties a ribbon from his robes and lets Carré wrap it around a few emeralds to hang them up above the nest, like some sort of mobile. Cellbit in particular eyes it with rapt fascination, the moving glint on the polished surface of the gems making his pupils expand and his fingers twitch. “Check this shit out,” Foolish boasts as he burns through stacks and stacks of strings to form a tightly-knitted blanket, the other cheering him on as he does and throwing in different dyes in no particular order or pattern. “Eso Foolish!” Carré shouts, everyone else joining him, accents and all.

Baghera is choking on barely-repressed sobs by the end of it, a crack in her ‘I’m fine’ mask. “I wanted to make a nest, with my kids,” she confesses, trapped between five other bodies as they all sit inside. There’s dark tear tracks on her face, still dusty from working on the cave earlier. “With Pomme, and Dapper.” Her hand fiddles with the little charms around her wrist, crudely-shaped pieces of wood shaped like an apple and a tophat, attached to a red ribbon. “I miss them.”

(She misses her kids, she misses her brother, she misses her best friend and father of her son. And she knows that Bad and her briefly talked the day before, that he spared her after she pulled her puppy eyes on him. He still loves her, she knows, and she still loves him. But it still hurts to know he won’t hesitate to drive a sword through her body next time.)

Day Four goes by slowly, punctuated by the occasional death message from Gay Ninjas or Soulfire, and many, manyrequests for red team to ‘come out and die already’. They ignore it all, too busy feeding the fire and tearing their voices out singing, Slime and Baghera being the menaces they are and outlasting everyone else, although Cellbit and Carré put up quite the fight. The Argentinian, usually fairly withdrawn, gradually opens up and cracks them up with perfectly-timed quips and easy smiles. Baghera asks him for PvP tips, just so she can not immediately die whenever another team raids them, and they spar with sticks while everyone cheers her on. “You’re one of us Carré,” Jaiden woops, pulling him into a side-hug and gently batting at his back with a wing. “I don’t care that those ears and tail are fake, you’re one of us freaks.”

“Honorary hybrid, nice!” Foolish nods. “He already barks perfectly.”

“Cats don’t bark, asshole,” Cellbit pipes up, and Phil wheezes with laughter because oh, he just wasn’t denying it anymore, was he? “Speaking from experience I take it?”

“Shut up dad,” the Brazilian sputters, but he’s smiling, and the crow rolls his eyes at the nickname. “Dadza!” Baghera quacks, her feathery tail wiggling in amusement. “Please don’t go and buy milk though. Don’t be Kameto,” she pleads, and Phil almost falls over losing it. He loves these little shits.

Slime decides to climb up a pile of scaffolding as the evening approaches (which they can only tell from the comms, because no outside light reaches them deep underground) and raises his arms towards the gem-encrusted ceiling of their new home, belting out an improvised sermon with his karaoke-destroyed vocal cords. He speaks of masks and sins, of death-touched angels and base instincts, of the beauty of caves and the song of Mother Earth, eyes wide and shining with fervour behind his thick glasses. They all listen and cheer when his speech warrants it, the flames casting eerie shadows onto the walls as they all start dancing to a music only they can hear.

Foolish, Jaiden, Baghera and Charlie’s eyes all start to flicker green-violet as they start smiling a little too wide, laugh a little too brokenly, and Cellbit has to quell Phil’s sudden concern with a tired smile. “It’s like your Death-touch, Phil,” he explains, referring to the strange wither effect Phil’s attacks had gained recently, whenever things got… intense. “Entity stuff.”

“Enigma do Chaos!” Charlie yells, and barely avoids the rock Cellbit throws at him. “Bitch!”

"They’re okay, just… four Chaos-bound together can be a lot when they start syncing up like this. Just be ready to throw water on them if they get too crazy, or something.”

“Can I choose my entity, when we get home?” Carré asks, and Cellbit looks like Christmas just came early. “Sure man, holy shit. Please do.”

“Oh he’s Chaos for sure,” Jaiden laughs, gesturing at Carré who’s just starting doing Casualonas in the empty air, undeterred by their intense cackling — Baghera and Charlie are now dancing together, and it’s wild and uncoordinated, almost a fight. “Now if Felps logs on we can have a party.”

“Oh, meu deus,” Cellbit winces. “No no, we can’t have six Chaos players on at the same time, we’ll actually blow up this place and die.” Foolish yells out a high-pitched yeaaaaah! at that and starts barking again, and it’s all over, everyone else putting their masks on and barking at the metaphorical moon until they all end up on the floor, dizzy and sweaty and twitching with remnant giggles.

“Where’d the blanket go?” Charlie slurs out, blindly feeling out the soft ground in search of it. His glasses have fallen at some point earlier, and he can’t be bothered to look for them even though he can’t see shit. Baghera and Jaiden have passed out already, huddled together against the edge of the nest, Jaiden’s larger wings around the both of them. Foolish takes a break in his own nesting to throw it at him. “Thanks dude.”

“Get yourself into a burrito,” Cellbit orders, fiddling with his trusty knife at the center of the nest. “Your codified bits leech off heat like crazy.”

“Es fresco,” Carré confirms, poking at Slime’s uncorrupted arm. His finger dips into greenish skin, not quite going in, but close. “¿Por eso te llamas así? Like, popsicle.”

“Oh, I’m sorry mister Living Heater,” the slime hybrid scoffs, but there’s no heat to it — literally and figuratively. “Get your ass over here and cuddle me dammit.”

“Still married, Slime.”

“Hey— hey now, I know I’ve got a bit of a reputation, alright? But this cave is cold and damp, and I very much fuck with that usually, but my timer’s about to run out and send me into fuckin’— Sleepytime Junction, and this place is throwing me all out of whack and you run the warmest out of all of us I want me a heat pack, slash p. P means platonic, if you didn’t know.”

Cellbit’s hindbrain does a little jolt at the word. Pack, it whispers, a hum-buzz making his brain a little stupid. He glances at the others, at Jaiden with her head cushioned against Baghera’s chest fluff, Foolish curling up against her back with a tired sigh. He sees Phil right behind them, propped up against the moss and out cold as well — not because he chose to, but because his timer ran out earlier when he was trying to wrangle everyone into not drawing dicks and vulvas on the walls. His body had swayed as the device strapped to his wrist buzzed ominously, sending targeted jolts of electricity up his nervous system and into his hypothalamus to force him into unconsciousness. Carré had caught him, fortunately, saving him from one killer headache next morning.

“...Fine,” Cellbit relents, discarding his knife outside the nest before shuffling over to the others. Charlie flashes him a triumphant smile and plops down next to Baghera, who stirs with a quiet croon as the slime hybrid runs his non-code hand through her left wing, straightening out some feathers stuck in an awkward angle. Carré settles a little to the side, happy to be close to everyone but still needing a little more personal space than the rest of them, and the detective lets Charlie lean into his side with a click-chrrr noise he cannot parse. Cellbit blinks, replies with a hesitant mrrrp. Carré makes a terrible and inaccurate meowing noise and the Brazilian hisses at him for it. “Just wanted to feel included, pendejo!” the human laughs, and it’s bittersweet. (He misses Roier.)

Cellbit sighs, body sinking into the plush bottom of the nest (their, theirs. Pack-flock.) Charlie seizes slightly as his comm goes off with a little beep-beep as it reaches zero, and he goes limp against him. He blinks, staring out at the emeralds slowly spinning above them and resisting the urge to bat at them, play, play, hunt! “No hunting today,” he reminds himself with a whisper.

He looks higher, at the small blue and purple gems jutting out of the dark stone ceiling. They are gleaming in the orange light of the dying fire, like a pale imitation of stars in the night sky. His eyes trace their constellations anyway (a capybara. a duck. a sword. a boat.), mindlessly matching his own breathing with the sounds of his team’s soft exhales, in. Out. In. Charlie glitches, just a little bit, a garbled whine escaping his throat. Cellbit loops an arm around him to pull him closer, a very quiet purr rattling his chest, and the hybrid settles. He feels the edge of Jaiden and Baghera's wings against his hair, Phil’s hip digging into his shoulder. He hears Foolish snoring, he hears Carré’s toss-and-turn because he’s a restless sleeper, that one.

And he can smell them all, their comforting presence, hidden underneath the scent of blood and grime (they really need to take a bath tomorrow, or his nose will start to itch). The scent of them, each one distinct and unique and burned into his memory-hindbrain.

Seasalt and gold, and the subtle tang of divinity.

Ozone-void, bone, and the honey-tar of nightshade.

Steel and wool, thick and scratchy in his nose.

Apples and moss, fresh snow.

Quartz and poppies, the smell of the sky before rainfall.

And closest to him, slime, and the electric tingle of a thunderstorm on his tongue. Tongue he has to keep firmly in his mouth before he does something stupid, like trying to groom his sleeping friend’s mop of dirty blonde hair. (Curse this place, exacerbating their mob instincts like this.)

He hears his timer go off, a spike of startled anxiety. Then he relaxes, his brain buzzing with sleep, sleep, and the world melts into cotton-soft, warm darkness.

Tomorrow is another day. And today… today was okay.

#qsmp #fanfic #qsmp purgatory #team bolas #love me some pack dynamics and affection #CUDDLE PILES FTW

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princess-of-purple-prose · 2 years

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Hey! 💞

You recently reblogged my art with an ID text (Thanks a lot! 💕), describing the image, and I have doubts about that. Can you help me, please? 🥺

Since the beginning of my account, I usually describe my images through Alt Text, Tumblr's tool. But now I'm really not sure if that's enough or not. 😖

Would it be better if I described it directly in the body of the blog, as you did, and not use Tumblr's Alt Text? (genuine question)

I thought I was on the right track using Alt Text, but knowing this mode of description that uses blog text confused me as to what the best form of accessibility would be.

And sorry for the sudden question! In case you can't answer, I'll understand. 😊

(Also, English isn't my native language, so I definitely made some grammar mistakes. I apologize for any inconvenience this may cause you.)

Anyway, thank you so much for reblogging my art. Your tags made me happy 🥺💕 Every interaction is very important to me and you were so sweet! 💞

Hi!!! You're so welcome!! First of all, it's AWESOME (caps: awesome) that you're using alt text, and my bad for not realizing you'd already put it in this really good art! I'm on mobile and can't tell, rip. I'll replace my ID with yours (and a translation hehe)!!!

To answer your question: from what I know, putting descriptions in plain text of a post (above any captions) is the most accessible kind of ID! Alt text is great for people who use screenreaders, but it can be glitchy, and most importantly, not everyone who needs IDs uses screenreaders, which means they have to go through extra steps to access the alt text. (Also, tumblr alt text displays on pc as white text against a bright purple background, which can be eyestraining and too low-contrast to read. No clue why they did that)

I'm so glad you asked me, and you were perfectly understandable!!! I hope all of this makes sense, you can totally feel free to ask me to clarify if it doesn't!! Your art made ME (caps: me) happy, your rendering was gorgeous and I'm in love with how you made kirishima a little darker and made bakugou's eye the brightest and also the only one looking directly at the viewer :)) I hope you have a wonderful day!!! 💜💜

#again i hope this makes sense and you are so nice to ask so nicely!!!#i'm glad i could make you happy too :)#asks #accessibility #farelosolar #kay talks

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beyondspaceandstars · 4 years

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Lights

Relationship: Din Djarin x Reader Warnings: N/A, just fluffy Summary: Din wakes up to you and the child stringing lights up around the Razor Crest A/N: super big shoutout to this post for helping me understand the floor plan (I am not the strongest with writing about ships!) also I have just kicked off this writing blog. this is like my third attempt at keeping one of these going so good vibes only

Cold. It was cold. That was the first thing Din registered as he shifted closer to where your body should have been. He patted the side next to him, still slightly in a dazed state, expecting to feel your curves under his fingers but he came up empty.

Squinting through the dim area, he searched for a hint of your figure but quickly found he was truly alone. Even the child wasn’t in sight. And that combination triggered the panic growing within him. You could be anywhere, he sleepy mind put together. Just out there, walking through whatever dark places this planet could hold. You both could’ve been kidnapped for all he fucking knew.

As he started to wake up with a mind flooding with the unthinkable, a muffled thud came from somewhere inside the ship. At least… he thought so? Or was it outside it? Either way, it was certainly not a typical sound.

It didn’t technically sound like a body dropping dead, Din thought hopefully, and was now growing confused combined with the concern. At least he knew someone was around and that someone could very well be you.

With some last sliver of optimism, he ventured out to look for you.

Eyes suddenly blinded by a burst of sunlight, Din realized the ramp was down. He wasn’t sure if this eased his mind or brought up more questions. Everything else seemed to be in perfect condition — well, as perfect as stuff could be on the Crest.

He was making his way to the open ramp, fully prepared to yell out your name in terror, when your figure came into view. Standing at the bottom of the entrance, you were coddling Grogu while looking up at something. The child matched your gaze. Your mouth was moving, presumably talking to the wide-eyed creature snuggled in your arms.

If he wasn’t so frazzled, Din might’ve taken time to just watch you two, totally captivated by the scene. A real picture in his mind. A family, he liked to think.

But Din didn’t let allow himself the pleasure. He was instead focused on confronting you what the hell you were doing vanishing like that. But your loving voice calling to him broke his concentration.

"Morning, sleepy!" You exclaimed.

The child situated in your arms made a happy coo at the arrival of his father, making your heart flutter.

"Y/N, what happened? Are you okay?" He spoke fast but stern. You didn’t have to see it to know he was staring you down with the disappointing look in the galaxy. You frowned, a bit confused.

"I’m fine, honey," you said. "I and Grogu were just-,"

You were cut off by the child in your arms point upward at the ship, making happy sequels at the objects above. Din’s stance shifted, as he followed Grogu’s line of sight, a hit of curiosity in his body language.

There, above them, — actually, decorating much of the Razor Crest’s exterior — were strings and strings of colorful lights. They went on for what felt like ever. You and Din watched as the child moved the lights. Some were shifted to his liking while others looked like they were just blowing in the wind.

"What… Why?" Din asked, turning back to your smiling face. Any and all worry and been totally replaced by pure bewilderment for the situation. You patted Grogu’s head in encouragement as he marveled proudly at the light work you two had done.

"Well, this little guy woke up early," you began explaining, "and we certainly didn’t want to wake you and have a grumpy Mandalorian walking around, so, we headed down to the market-,"

"You went to a market?" Din cut you off. His emotions were bubbling again. "Alone?"

You slowly nodded, "We were fine. It wasn’t that far. Just beyond that path." You motioned towards the way in which you came and went. "Anyways, we found these lights someone was selling. They were like, a lot of lights but you should’ve seen this dude’s face. He was in awe! I couldn’t pass them up and the next thing I know, we get back and he’s putting them up. I thought they added something… fun."

The child made silly babbling noises at your story, especially when you leaned in again to cuddle him just a bit closer. He seemed cozy, still enjoying the lights. You didn’t quite get the obsession with them, yet. It was bright out so they certainly weren’t lighting up but the colors were a nice contrast to everything else in the area. It was a real rainbow frenzy on the hunk of metal.

"Look, I…" Din sighed. He wasn’t even sure now what to feel. His emotional rollercoaster you unintentionally put him on had stalled. "I guess they’re fine but the real problem is about you wandering off into some town."

You frowned. He decided back on angry, protective mode, you guessed. You got the concern but also, you weren’t his prisoner. Besides, he had taught you some fighting skills. Whether you were still rusty on them or not was no one’s concern. You’d do your best to kick anyone’s ass, especially for the bundle of joy in your arms, whom you always properly hid under wraps for journeys. The only thing to really make out were those giant, gleaming eyes. You had gotten pretty good at disguising you two as a happy mother and totally-normal-nothing-to-see-here child.

"I… I know, but it wasn’t that crazy. It was early, the market was dead. Everything was okay. See?" You said, spinning in place, showing your man that you were much very alive and unharmed. "We’re still kicking."

Din sighed, "I can see that, darling, but it’s just… Don’t ever scare me like that again."

Now it was your turn to sigh. You didn’t mean to send him into a tailspin at your absence. In fact, you thought everything would be okay as you were back before he woke. But he was the worrying kind, which was very much understandable. Your heart sank. "I’m sorry, honey. I should’ve thought twice."

You started to feel quite bad about what you put him through as you realized the severity. You weren’t totally used to having a companion let alone one that had so much on their plate. There were little things you had to think about more seeing as you simply weren’t alone. While you were very happy with your current situation, your mindless wanderer heart had to be retrained. And you thank everything in the galaxy that your boyfriend was the understanding kind.

"It’s okay, sweetheart," he said and took your hand in his gloved one. You entangled your fingers, loving the comfort it brought. "I don’t mean to scare you or anything. I just can’t imaging losing… anything."

Stiff. He could definitely be a bit stiff with the endearing sentiments but you would take anything. In a heat of the moment action, you placed a sweet kiss on his helmet. You heard a low chuckle as you pulled away and you fought back the blush threatening to rise in your cheeks.

The child still wrapped in your arms started mumbling, pulling you two out of your loving moment. You two looked down at him to find him messing with the lights again. This time, he was pointing to another strand next to the ship. You walked over and grabbed them, placing the string in his little hands waiting to see what would do next. He started hovering then dropping them again and again, watching the colored bulbs reflect, looking like he was in his own little game of catch.

Din started stepping back to get a full view of his now-decorated ship. He knew they would have to be ripped down before any formal usage but he didn’t have the heart to tell you or the child that. Instead, he was going to admire how wholesome and innocent this moment in his life was. It was almost foreign, but good. A good different.

After scoping out the decor, he came back around to you, head cocked in more playful confusion now.

"How are they sticking up there?"

"I’m gonna be real honest, honey… I have no idea."

#the mandolarian #the mandalorian oneshot #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin oneshot #din djarin fanfiction #star wars #star wars one shot #star wars fanfiction #din djarin #fluff #oneshot #writing*#the mandalorian x reader

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kurinoot · 3 years

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[day 9] nine home remedies | kuroo tetsuroo

-> much to your wishes, your boyfriend who happens to be the captain of the boys volleyball team that you’re managing still went to practice despite being sick, so you give him a taste of your own medicine, literally

pairing: kuroo x reader

themes: fluff (with a bit of spice), manager!reader, some humor innit lol

warnings: mature innuendos here and there (and that’s it uwu), mild language (just one curse word lol)

word count: 3,379 words

note: sorry for the late LATE post. School has begun again and this fic is pretty long compared to the past ones :( but here’s the update now hehe I hope you guys like it! Also, thank you so much to @xmyshya, @ssrated1volleyballplayer, @meiansmistress, and @vanille--kiss for proofreading this one for me! Father Meian would be so proud uwu. And also, to my friend who has been part of this since Day 1, @msmeowski, I really owe you one!

“How many times do I have to tell you that you should’ve skipped practice today?” You sigh as you accompany your boyfriend with his arm slung over your shoulder to his house, albeit weak and flushed. Kuroo only grunts in response.

“What, you’re my mom now?” He quips. You glare in his direction, as you have already given him an earful on how his health should be a priority and how he shouldn't choose practice over his well-being. As soon as you enter his house, his grandmother sees the two of you scurrying inside, greeting you with a gentle smile.

“Ah welcome Y/N-chan! Oh! What happened to you, Tekkun?” his grandmother remarks.

“Baa-chan! It’s Tetsurou!” Kuroo coughs. You could only bow your head at her with respect as you speak on his weakened behalf.

“Baa-chan! I told this rooster head right here to not go to practice for today because he’s sick, but he still did!”

“Oh, did he really now?” She replies as she instantly glares at her grandson, who is eyeing the sofa, seeking the comfort of its warm, soft surface. His grandmother then pinches hard on her grandson’s cheek.

“You shouldn't make things harder for Y/N-chan!”

“Baa-chan! Your grandson is sick and you’re still scolding me?” He retorts, earning another pinch and earful from his grandmother before motioning you inside as she prepares the sofa for Kuroo to rest as you follow suit.

“Y/N-chan, will you help brew some tea and make Hachimitsu Daikon for Tetsu-chan?” his grandmother asks as she helps the captain on the couch. You nod before glaring at the sorry state of your boyfriend.

“You better not move from there, mister. I’m gonna brew you some tea.” You order as the captain could only painfully cough in reply, jokingly.

“Yes, ma!”

You quickly set up the kettle, placing it on the stove before preparing the tea. As you wait for the water to boil, you prep the Hachimitsu Daikon mixture, mixing the daikon and honey together before letting it set on the counter. You then hear his grandmother come to the kitchen, and you perk up at her smiling presence, taking two shopping bags with her.

“I’ll be going out to the market, Y/N-chan. Take care of Tekkun for me.” You wave goodbye as she leaves, amused at their cute relationship.

You leave the jar on the table to let the mixture come together as you lift the kettle and pour its contents into the mug with the tea leaves before serving it to your ailing boyfriend.

“Sit up! Here’s some tea. It’ll help with your cold. Also, I made some Hachimitsu Daikon for you on the table, okay? Baa-chan taught me this one, and said that it was good for your sore throat.”

His hand feebly reaches for the mug in yours, brushing his fingers against yours. He holds your hand for a moment as he looks intently at you. “Manager-chan, I know you’re concerned about me right now,” Kuroo takes the mug from your hands, shifting his focus to the mug on his palms. “But I can take care of myself from here. The younger ones need their pretty manager.”

You quirk an eyebrow, unamused at his statement—huffing as you put your hands on your hips. “As the manager, and as your girlfriend, I’m obligated to take care of the entire team, which also includes my boyfriend. Besides, I’m pretty sure the others are worried about you as well.”

“You never go down without a fight, huh? How annoying,” he obnoxiously says, but thankful nonetheless. He blows into the mug before daintily sipping the tea, sighing in relief as he looks at you. “I didn't know I needed that. Thanks so much, baby girl,” he says with a smile.

Your heart warms at the gesture as you quickly grab your bag, pulling out your first aid pouch and grabbing a sheet of KoolFever, much to your boyfriend’s surprise. You quickly remove the film covering as you gently place it on his sweltering forehead, prompting Kuroo to sigh in contentment as the contrasting cool sheet lays over his spiking hot forehead.

“Ah~ sometimes I wish I could be sick forever...” he places the mug on the coffee table before suddenly pulling you to his lap. “You’d be my cute nurse, baby girl~” He burrows his flustered face to your chest, to which you only spit in disgust. You ruffle his hair as you chuckle in sarcasm.

“Oh by the way, I’m telling Coach Nekomata to give you 15 more diving drills to make up for today.”

“B-baby, n-no need to be harsh on me,” Kuroo attempts to give you the cutest cat eyes, appealing to your cat-loving side, and although you feel the need to hug your man, you resist his advancements.

“Stop staring at me with those big eyes!” You shove his face away from you as you continue. “Also you’re sweaty, so I’ll get the bath running.”

You manage to untangle yourself from his arms before you enter the bathroom, drawing him a warm bath. Afterwards, you step out of the bathroom with the water running, with tufts of steam leaking out the door ajar.

“Oi, jiisan, bath’s ready!” You pull out a fresh white towel from one of the cabinets as Kuroo slowly stands up at your cue. You go to aid him as he walks on the way to the bathroom, pulling a half-scowl on his face.

“Oi, you do know that I’m not old, right?”

“Hm-hmm. Says the person who says ‘Ah, youth.’”

Kuroo, amused at your clapbacks, chooses to stay silent instead as you help him towards the bathroom. You check the water to see if it’s warm enough as Kuroo lethargically takes off his shirt, fumbling around. You chuckle at his helpless sight, amused at his feeble form, although your eyes keep lingering back to his sweaty torso. Thankfully, his head is stuck in his uniform, so he doesn't have a reason to tease you, and although you need to help him with his uniform, you try not to be tempted to touch his lean, muscular abdominals and his perking pectorals.

“Uhm, ah, I’ll leave you to it!” You shyly mutter as you attempt to scurry out of the bathroom, to no avail as your boyfriend pulls you into a hug, burying his head in your shoulder in the process. You feel his warm breath wantonly brush against the nape of your neck as his ripped torso touches against you, bringing blood on your cheeks in embarrassment. Your heart palpitates as you swallow the lump in your throat in anticipation.

“You perv, you intentionally looked at me while I was naked...” He provokingly whispers in your ear as he gently caresses your hair, leaving you with trails of shivers down your spine.

“You do know that you need to be punished, right, baby girl?”

You grit your teeth at his underlying pestering as your thoughts are left at the tip of your tongue. Damn, he really knows how to push the right buttons, huh?!

Kuroo smirks at your struggle, more so with the flustered expression on your face, but feels all of his confidence go down the drain almost instantly.

“I can’t just let an old man pathetically get stuck with his shirt on his head. Now, what would others—especially Lev and Yaku—say if they found out that their cool captain can’t even remove his shirt?”

T-This woman… Kuroo thinks as he feels his mind short circuit at the turn of events. He tries to push more buttons to try and rile you up, which only proves to be futile.

You then break the ice before going out of the bathroom. “Now I’m gonna go out for a bit and I expect you to be undressed AND in the tub by the time I come back, okay Kuroo-jiisan?”

“Will you stop calling me jiisan already?!”

By the time you return, you are greeted by clouds of steam and you are graced with the view of your boyfriend naked and resting in the filled warm tub.

You then do a quick series of arm stretching, preparing yourself before grabbing the mint-scented shampoo placed in a small cupboard nearby. You squeeze a decent amount of it on your hand, lathering it before you massage the dollop of bubbles onto his scalp. As you massage the shampoo into his hair, you can’t help but feel relaxed in the atmosphere—you shampooing his hair, the calm sloshing sound of the rippling water, the gentle sounds echoing on the bathroom walls, the looming fresh scent of mint, and the almost inaudible sound of his purr.

Oh my gosh, he’s purring like a cat, you think in fascination as you continue threading your fingers onto his hair whilst humming contentedly. Meanwhile, the man in the tub is in complete relaxation mode, feeling satisfied at the sensation of the warm water and your presence.

He releases a low purr as he simmers himself into the warm tub of sudsy water, closing his eyes at the soothing kneading of your hands in his hair. You then place a quick gentle peck on his shoulder before grabbing the shower head, rinsing his hair with care to avoid splashing water on your dry clothes.

“Ah, that feels really good...” you hear Kuroo unknowingly whisper in relief, which makes you feel warm and fuzzy with contentment. You then grab the soap sitting on the wall side of the tub, lathering it as you rub your way down his body.

Another wave of soft purrs emanates from his lips as you gently knead the sore muscles of his back, instantly feeling the knots leaving his body. You feel him recline into your touch as he turns to putty in your hands, releasing a deep contented sigh. It doesn't last long as you rinse the trails of suds with water, leaving a final peck on his now clean shoulder.

“I’ll leave you for a minute.”

You make your way to the living room and grab the Salonpas and KoolFever from your bag, and proceed to the kitchen to grab a tray and pour another cup of the herbal tea. Once the Hachimitsu Daikon settles in, you look around for a spoon, carrying it alongside the container of the syrup. You head back to his room only to see Kuroo sitting on the bed, with his hair still wet and a towel hanging on his neck.

You sigh as you place the tray on his bedside table before giving him a spoonful of the syrup. You grab his towel from his neck gently, shuffling to his back as you drape the towel over his head. Your fingers tenderly graze through his wet locks, which is surprisingly soft compared to his usual bedridden rooster hair. Tempted, you leave soft pecks on his sweltering forehead while continuing to dry his hair. His hazel eyes gaze at the tray before seeing the green onion.

"Y/N-chan, what’s that?" he says as he points to the green onion.

“What? You don’t know the famous home remedy?”

It is actually the opposite. He knows it all too well. It’s just that, Kuroo isn’t sure if you are going to:

A) wrap it around his neck

or worse

B) stick it up in his ass

Knowing you, as the manager and his girlfriend, it would most likely be the latter. He knows he needs to butter you up to avoid the worst choice out of the two.

"You should thank Baa-chan. If it wasn't for her, I wouldn't know how to make it specially for you." You hold his warm cheeks in your hands, feeling the sweat forming from his fever. Under your touch, he nuzzles against the cool touch of your touch on his face. Hurriedly, he clasps your hands as he brushes it against his lips, tenderly kissing your wrists.

“Y/N-chan,” he directs his eyes towards you, whilst pecking your wrists. “You’re so warm...”

Your cheeks dye in rose from his sudden affection, pulling away from him before anything could happen. “L-Let me apply some salonpas to you, since you’re done with the s-syrup...”

Kuroo’s attention keeps going back and forth to you and the green onion on the tray, feeling the slight tension of his heartbeat as time passes by. You then grab the pack of salonpas as you motion for his shirt, but he quickly lays down on the bed, lifting the hem of his shirt for a quick tease as he displays his sweating abdominals. He devilishly fixes his gaze to you with the cutest cat eyes before rolling on his stomach. “Help me, Ms. Manager~”

You feel the need to slap this idiot who unbelievably is the captain of your volleyball team, but quietly sigh ‘another time’. You sigh as your hand glides up to his well-defined back, caressing every touch against his broad back. Your thumb is pressed against his feverish skin before hearing Kuroo's grunts, possibly aching in some parts. Once you've identified the places around his aching rear, you start unpacking the Salonpas.

“Oho? You even have Salonpas with you? Ms. Manager, you're always prepared,” he nonchalantly chuckles, followed by coughing fits as you work on putting on the medicinal patches.

“I'm the manager for a reason. And besides, we work best together, like blood, so if one of you gets sick,” you finish placing the last patch of Salonpas as you start massaging the patches before directing your attention towards him.

"What's the Nekoma team without one another?"

As if taken by surprise by your response, Kuroo gives off a low chuckle that makes you raise an eyebrow in confusion. "Y/N-chan, after this little thing," Kuroo tucks his arms under his pillows as he buries his face, exposing only half as he gazes directly into your eyes. A playful smirk on his lips as he teasingly exposes his neck, his muscles on his back displayed.

"Let’s go on a date."

Undeniably, you feel the heat rising in your cheeks at his sudden remark. After a brief pause, you clear your throat, evading his statement. “Y-You…! You have the stamina to be this cheesy when you need to rest?” You tell him as you finish massaging his back. He cheekily grins as he suddenly grabs your hand and pulls you into him. He attempts to give you a playful peck on your lips, to no avail as you shove his face back to his pillow.

“N-no need to be this aggressive, b-babe...” Pouting, he digs his face into his pillows as you notice him eyeing the green onion on your tray. Your eyes light up as your lips grin with a devilish plan in mind.

He eyes you as you retract, with your hand hovering over the tray. His pupils dilate with his heart palpitating in each second.

Is it A or B?! Will you choke him or shove it in his ass?!

His particular train of thought is suddenly cut short as you hold the green onion in your hand. His instincts blare up, feeling it as if they were saying ‘run’ over and over, screaming at himself.

“Alright, Tetsurou,” it is the moment of truth. His neck or virginity are at stake as he internally pleads to the gods for a miracle.

“Stick out your neck.”

A sigh of relief escapes from his lips, just as he feels his desires fulfilled. You then look at him questioningly as you give him a double-edged smile. Much to his lack of knowledge, he gives you a grin, feeling comforted at the decision to choke him rather than deflowering his ass while trying to treat him of his sickness. He hums, closing his eyes, expecting the plant to be wrapped around his neck, only for him to feel the familiar warmth of your lips instead which makes him look down at you. He sees the familiar glint in your eyes, and the way your lips are smirking make his stomach lurch.

Oh no—

“Now you better lay down on your stomach, mister.”

The following morning, the entire Nekoma team goes to check on their captain and on you, worried since you did not reply to their messages last night. Yaku initiates by proceeding to knock on the door, only to be welcomed by the sight of an elderly woman, smiling at them as she welcomes them. “Oh good morning, boys! Tekkun and Y/N-chan are still sleeping upstairs.” She sees the knowing stares between the team as she ushers them inside.

“So this is Kuroo-san’s home...” Lev wanders in fascination as he eyes his surroundings, basking in the environment and its homey atmosphere for the first time. Inuoka seems to feel the same as he smiles, with his eyes sparkling and wandering around the humble abode. Kuroo’s grandmother returns to the kitchen while the rest keep on chattering behind.

Disregarding the banter behind him, Yaku goes on and casually opens the door to the sight of you snuggled with each other, steadily breathing as your hands unconsciously massage Kuroo’s torso, leaving trails of your warm touch on it. The other hand on his shoulder unknowingly massages them reassuringly as the both of you succumb in each other’s presence and comfort.

“Aww look how cute you are, you guys...” Yaku sighs with underlying tease (and perhaps a hint of jealousy) as he walks and checks on you and your boyfriend’s sleeping figure, only to see later, in the captain’s partial state of undress on his lower posterior, a thick stalk of green onion protruding from between his clenching buttcheeks.

He tries to contain his laughter, failing as a full-out cackle escapes his mouth, only for the rest of the team to enter the room and see their captain’s stalked bare posterior, following suit in Yaku’s failed attempt to hold onto his laughter. Kenma, who usually wears a blank expression, is now snickering at the sight before him, much to the surprise of the rest as the setter even takes a snap of it.

A loud groan from the sleeping captain turns the entire room silent as an awake Kuroo, albeit still fuzzy and tranced, rubs one of his eyes. He unconsciously lets out a yawn before his consciousness becomes more clear, finally registering that his teammates are right in his room.

“Oh you guys! Whaddya doin’ here?” he slurs.

“Ah, the guys wanted to know how you were doing and your grandmother happily told us to come in,” Kai replies with his usual smile as he waves at the freshly awoken captain.

“So L/N-san is also here...” Lev utters as his feline eyes land on your sleeping figure, happily snoring your worries away. The entire team pauses for a while just to look and appreciate you in your seemingly deep slumber.

“Waaah, L/N-san looks so cute!”

“Cute...”

Tetsuroo enjoys the attention showered upon you, prompting him to adjust his position on the bed only for him to realize fully the state of his partial nudity on his now aching posterior. He releases a grunt which only turns all the attention in the entire room back to him. Yaku snorts at the view as Yamamoto follows suit, only louder this time.

“O-Oi, whaddya lookin at?” Kuroo scowls at everyone.

Lev snickers at the captain’s condition, albeit with pure curiosity, “Kuroo-san, why is there a green onion stuck in your butthole?”

Kuroo looks at him with disdain while trying to hide the embarrassment from within, “E-Eh! You didn’t know? This is an a-ancient remedy for fevers!”

“That sounds like a nice remedy. I should try it sometime!” Lev naively replies as Kenma looks at him in distaste before he looks at your sleeping frame with a calm expression.

“Don’t even try to do it, Lev.”

The rest of the members, even including Fukunaga, are already laughing at the captain’s plight, only increasing in volume as it effectively wakes you up from your slumber.

“Yeah right. You really let me stick an onion up in your ass? Kinky,” you raspily groan as you rub both eyes to consciousness, only leaving the team on their stomachs even more.

Happy Valentine’s Day to him, indeed.

click here to see where the green onion idea comes from lol

back to the valentines masterlist

#witchy.writes #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #kuroo tetsurō #kuroo x reader #valentines #haikyuu valentines #haikyuu fics #haikyuu imagines #14 days of valentine

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goodbysunball · 2 years

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Mid-year report: 2022

The year's halfway gone and I'm still sifting through the stacks, trying to be an effective filter and engaged listener. Witness as I try to explain why these six LPs are tops for this year so far. Shaking off the rust, here goes nothin'.

Börn, Drottningar Dauðans, (Iron Lung)

No disrespect to the actual cover art, but the art Jensen at Iron Lung put together for Börn's latest LP test pressing was/is so sick that I had to grab it. It could've been the inflated price tag that led to initial listens to Drottningar Dauðans leaving me a little cold, but now I understand that every track here burns hard and bright and fizzles out spectacularly. This is probably best illustrated by "Þú Hvíslar," but it happens on nearly every track, sometimes sounding like the band collapsed in exhaustion while recording, unceremoniously cutting a track short. Börn rips way harder than the million death rock-tinged punk bands flooding the scene, though, not least of all due to the crisp, loud recording. Another not-so-secret weapon is the vocals, cloaked in reverb but still caustic as hell and single-handedly capable of increasing the tension tenfold (see "Norn"). The band holds their own, fueling the vocalist with heat and enough open space to thrive, pushing each other especially hard on the ripping 1-2 of "Flakandi Sár" and "Þú Skuldar Mér Að Vera Sexý." A real shot in the arm, this LP, over and out in 22 minutes. Iron Lung strikes again. Please tour the U.S.

Thomas Bush, Preludes (Mammas Mysteriska Jukebox)

Back in the heyday of Low Company (le sigh), the store/label called Thomas Bush's Old and Red (warehouse find!) record of the year the second it was released. I do like that record, bought sound unheard due to Low Company's recommendation, but it's high time to revisit it after the spell Preludes has put me under. I remember Old and Red being delightfully hazy but dense, and perhaps a bit overlong; Preludes is (at least to my memory) a distillation of the best parts of Old and Red, less opaque but doubly effective. Preludes starts out with "Firstly," which is as standard of a mode as you'll find Thomas Bush in, his inner gently plucked acoustic guitar singer-songwriter fully activated. The script quickly flips to his primary mode of smudged pop impressionism on "Paid to Love" and reaches its logical conclusion on the gorgeous melancholy loops of "Cadence." The distance traveled in the first 5-6 minutes of the record is immense in some ways, moving from what could be popular to the sub-underground, but it's all tied together beautifully, thanks in part to the steady, calming flow. This is a perfect record for rain, a contrast to unrelenting falling water (or accompaniment to it, as on "Jennifer"), something to help process the overwhelming day-to-day with cool detachment. The restraint it takes to make a track like "Odeep One," barely held together between electronic drumbeats, is impressive without considering the deep emotional impact. Preludes isn't happy music, but it is rich in sensory detail without being heavy or oppressive, something best exhibited by the meandering, Daniel Schmidt-esque "In the Sunken Undergrowth." I don't think hearing individual tracks will do the trick, though; Preludes should be heard and experienced in full, and while that attention to something so spare is hard to buy, it's well worth the effort. Stone cold stunner; well recommended to folks who enjoyed last year's Monokultur LP.

Joe Colley, Deformation of Tone (Total Black)

"You tie the chain around your waist and... that's it, baby." Joe Colley, the indefatigable, locates an unmapped spot between the abrasive and the surgically precise aspects of noise; sound grinds, chirps, pounds and whirrs, but is pared back to the fewest elements necessary to make that possible. It is no small feat to have a noise record sound so spare and yet so quietly powerful without resorting to the usual tricks of transgressive lyrics/samples and unrelenting feedback (though there is something to be said for the latter). With due deference to the effort it takes to make these sorts of records well, Deformation of Tone sounds very clean, very professional, with the right amount of grit and spatter and a dose of existential dread injected to make the two sides deeply affecting. There are track titles, but it's recommended to take this in as two movements, the unrelenting background noise of modern industrial society interwoven with the debilitating anxiety hanging over every moment. It's grim, but it's real, and as hinted at by Seymour Glass in his assessment of the record, Deformation of Tone is completely devoid of the eyeball-seeking tactics of more well-known artists working in the same sphere. The art speaks for itself. Stunning LP jacket to boot, featuring Joe's cement speaker and the apt warning "Playback discouraged." Record of the year so far.

Heavenly Bodies, Universal Resurrection (Petty Bunco)

Petty Bunco continues to work its magic: across a couple of tapes and a previous LP, Heavenly Bodies didn't make much of an impression here, but then they transition to a full-on force once they get picked up by the nation's finest guitar rock label. Slow-building instrumental rock by a trio is what's for sale, and Universal Resurrection is a 25-minute track split across two sides of an LP. I'm a strong proponent of the single-sided 12", but the choice to split the track in two as naturally as possible was sound here. The A-side is the glistening build-up, weed smoke practically unfurling from the speakers, and the B-side comes crashing in with ecstatically smeared guitar heroics that oughta satisfy any Les Rallizes Denudes head. There is something almost formless and definitely mysterious about how the band builds tension at the start, a far cry from more generic "post-rock" practitioners, in that Heavenly Bodies seem much more comfortable not knowing what may come next. To be sure, the volume does slowly build as expected, but it's never clear what will follow each segment until you flip the record and the 20-foot wave descends on you. The whole movement of the two sides feels renewing, some cobwebs shaken and some bullshit left behind. What other point is there in listening to music anyway? Trust in Petty Bunco.

Incipientium, Belastning (Förlag För Fri Musik)

While there have been arguably bigger releases coming from the rich Gothenburg vein this year, something about Incipientium's Belastning keeps drawing me in. There is a fresh and untethered feel about the project, well-captured on the shapeshifting "Kall Savann" that takes up the A-side, where vaguely human noises emerge and disappear in the hazy mist of a half-remembered memory. It sounds like the needle's hit a locked groove near the end, and you'll probably wish the grimy, syrupy loop would keep going, too. The plodding, seasick lurch continues on the B-side, but after the warped moaning of "Cuna," things open up to a blinding white void near the end of "Sol Tympanum," distorted keyboard notes dropping the listener in the center of a frozen northern lake with not a cloud in the sky. It's probably this stunning finish that keeps me coming back, looking over the rest for the hints of bright white against the oppressive yet captivating gray smothering the proceedings. It's probably obvious, but this record did the trick in the doldrums of winter, sympathetic and transportive at once. Incipientium quickly followed Belastning with a CD on iDEAL, well worth seeking out as well.

Rose Mercie, ¿Kieres Agua? (Celluloid Lunch/Jelodanti)

Truth be told, I had forgotten all about Rose Mercie's self-titled record in the avalanche between 2018 and now, but now I'm left wondering if I would've been better off with Rose Mercie at my side during the tumult. If the cover didn't give it away, this is a much more self-assured record, despite the primary ingredients staying the same. The vocals switch seamlessly from English to French to Spanish, the guitar lines are slow and rudimentary, the tom-heavy drums pushing everything forward with a quiet, repetitive intensity. Tracks like "Dinosaur" and "Cats & Dogs" pair heartbreak with resiliency, the group acting like an informal gang, one member supporting the next. The music sounds as tight-knit as a chosen family oughta be, but portrayed with a looseness belying the myriad textural choices made apparent over multiple spins. Rose Mercie stretch things out on a few tracks to great effect, like "Regresar," where dark contrast is added by sheets of dissonant guitar pushing against the grain. On most tracks the storm simmers and rumbles but rarely bursts ("Des Pierres"), but the vocals are often colorful and emotive, though the harmonizing of the group often as acidic as it is sparkling. Don't let that last part scare you away - check "Chais Pas," the band's got switchblades in their boots. There are a lot of really good things happening on this record, with the repetitive drumming and confident vocals leading the way; mostly, though, this just sounds like a group of badass friends linking up to make a record that is as fun to listen to as it is a richly detailed piece of art. Rose Mercie, four in a million. If my daughter's ever in a band, I hope she'll reference the blueprint provided on ¿Kieres Agua?. Never stop witching.

Other new stuff that I like & recommend:

Brain Tourniquet, s/t 7" (Iron Lung)

Cube, Proof of Bells CD (H&S Ranch)

Darksmith of California, "Island of Stability" / "Primitive Version" CS (No Rent)

Primitive Man, Insurmountable 12" (Closed Casket Activities)

Sunhiilow, Waking Through the Dawned Shades CS (Ikuisuus)

A few reissue/archival releases:

Incapacitants, As Loud As Possible 2xLP + 7" (Total Black)

Mura, 2008-2021 LP (An'archives)

Black Easter, Ready to Rot 7" (No Plan)

#Börn #Iron Lung Records #Thomas Bush #Joe Colley #Total Black #Incipientium #Heavenly Bodies #Petty Bunco #Rose Mercie #Brain Tourniquet #Cube #Darksmith #Primitive Man #Sunhiilow #Incapacitants #Mura #An'archives #Black Easter

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bimboamyrose · 4 years

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Unfamiliar - A Metamy Fanfic (Ch.4 )

First two chapters

Previous (Ch. 3)

Ch. 4: Stubborn

The evening was spent organizing Amy’s closets. She’d tasked Metal with handing her clothes hangers from across the room as she straightened up her wardrobe and later did the same for him as he stacked her tools back up on the high shelf of her storage space. At least his telescopic arm was coming in useful, even if he could do little more than stand still to avoid losing his balance.

The dreary day gave way to a clear, chilly evening. Amy invited her house guest to sit on the porch with her for her nightly routine of sipping hot chocolate and stargazing. Glistening snow contradicted the beachy atmosphere, thick white blankets draping over palm trees and obscuring sandy ground. It was perfectly tranquil, silent but for the gentle mechanical whirring of Metal’s body.

Amy sat on a lawn chair wrapped tightly in a velvety blanket, knees to her chest. “If Tails isn’t available to fix you tomorrow, maybe we can at least try to repair your foot so you can stand upright.”

Metal had planted himself on the seat next to hers. The contrast between his disturbing, sharp figure and her endearing and petite frame was as striking as the scenery. He crossed his busted leg over his good one, assessing the damage to his foot. He was not confident a self-repair would be successful, but it was always a possibility. He turned to her and nodded. Amy’s gentle eyes mirrored the starry sky. The calmness in Metal turned to a moderate excitement at the charming sight and it seemed almost to remind him of something.

“So, Metal, do you remember anything? Like, at all?”

He ripped himself out of his enchantment to process her question. Searching through his fragmented memory turned up thousands of inaccessible files. What little was left held mostly primary data with snippets of information. He found pictures and short bios of people he didn’t recognize and the name “EGGMAN” plastered across a repair protocol. Searching for that name just brought up several more corrupt files.

Metal reached for the tablet-sized whiteboard that was sitting on the garden table in front of them. He wrote down “VERY LITTLE” in his neat, mechanical handwriting and showed it to Amy.

She gazed directly into his eyes now, hoping to find some indication of whether Metal Sonic was being truthful in his unchanging eyes. “Do you remember me?”

Amy had asked him earlier if he recognized her and he denied it in his haste. But spending a few hours with the girl teased his memory like a word at the tip of one’s tongue; Metal was sure he knew her somehow. “FAMILIAR,” he wrote finally.

“Familiar, huh?” Amy finished her warm drink, setting the mug down in front of her. Not surprising, all things considered. But what does he really know? She noticed that Metal was quickly erasing his tablet and writing something new. Amy couldn’t keep herself from gasping when she caught sight of it again.

“WHO IS EGGMAN?”

She jerked the other way, hiding her shock. Does he remember that he works for Eggman? It must be part of his programming or something. I need to tell Tails. She decided to bluff. “Let’s, uh, see if we can find out. I think it’s time for bed.” She shot out of her cozy seat and back into the house before the cold could nip her.

Metal Sonic sat unmoving for a moment, perplexed at her sudden gesture. He propped himself up, tablet still in hand, as he drug his feet through the threshold of the backdoor and slid the door closed as gently as he could manage. He watched Amy toss her blanket over the back of the couch, then adjust and smooth it so it looked only partially like it was thrown there haphazardly. A strange maneuver.

“So, uh, you can go into sleep mode I guess?” She didn’t have the slightest idea what robots did at night or if he even needed to recharge. She was met once again with Metal’s unwavering stare; though it didn’t seem so spooky after the day they’d spent together. “Do you sleep?”

Metal simply nodded. He didn’t exactly sleep, but his instinct was to sit idle for a few hours to conserve energy. He was beginning to find that a close-enough answer would be satisfactory.

Amy was surprised but also relieved that she wouldn’t have to worry about him all night. “Oh- Well, is the couch okay?”

He came over and lowered himself onto the sofa, sitting upright and nodding.

“Okay, well- goodni-” Before she could finish, Metal’s eyes had gone dark. I guess that solves that. There was nothing more to do but turn in for the night.

-----------------------------------

The following morning, Amy was startled out of her usual groggy walk into the kitchen when she noticed Metal Sonic’s sharp form sitting at the kitchen table, staring solidly out the back door. She’d expected to have to wake him up or something but it looked like he had been there for some time. He turned to face her abruptly and her heart jumped once again.

“Oh, you’re awake- good morning.” Amy chuckled awkwardly. “Have you… been up long?”

Metal nodded. The morning sunrise activated his sensors. It was closer to 8 AM now and he’d been doing little more than sitting since dawn.

“Sorry, must have been boring.” Amy made her way past him and into the kitchen to make her quick breakfast of toast and coffee. Metal seemed to stare at her the entire time, which made her self-conscious. “I... don’t eat much in the morning,” she explained anxiously . Not sure why he’d care…

Metal Sonic had been analyzing Amy’s every move for the past several minutes. He spent his time awake pondering on the wistful feelings he’d experienced as they sat on the veranda late last night. The exploration of his memory was in vain and he instead tried to force himself to remember, but it was no use. Why was she so familiar? Perhaps observing her would jog his memory.

She took a seat across from him, eating uncomfortably as he looked through her. Amy tried her best to smile. “So, is there anything you’d like to do this morning?”

The robot finally broke his fierce concentration to respond by pointing at his left arm socket.

“Ah…” Amy answered hesitantly. “Tails hasn’t gotten back to me yet.”

He pointed down toward his foot instead.

Amy inhaled deeply, nervous about the prospect of trying to make repairs herself. But she had said they could try, so she agreed dubiously. “Let’s give it a shot.”

Metal turned his attention from her to the glass door where some movement caught his eye. Amy followed his gaze, spotting a small bluebird landing on one of her lawn chairs.

“Wow, it’s rare to see them out in the cold. I guess spring is around the corner.” Amy smiled warmly at the sight. It had been an unusually long winter and the small snowstorm that passed the night before wasn’t exactly indicative of the cold subsiding. Yet the evening frost now began puddling over the otherwise tropical scenery. It was always the coldest just before seasons changed. She turned back to her guest enthusiastically. “Let’s fix that leg of yours!”

Optimism soon turned to frustration, however, as the tangle of wires and bent hinges that held the robot’s foot in place confounded her. The neat little workstation she’d set up on her kitchen table was now a messy array of tools and bolts. She’d managed to worsen the damage in the process, but any time Metal would make a sound or reach toward something Amy would huff and snatch tools out of his hand. Getting annoyed himself, Metal finally resolved to pull his entire leg away to keep her from making it any worse. Amy refused to let go of his foot, however, and the last of the wires that were holding the appendage in place finally snapped, severing his foot off his body completely.

“Ugh- look what you made me do!”

Metal let out a series of high and low beeps that were meant to offend. She returned that with a sour look.

“I told you to sit still! Ugh!” Amy shoved the severed foot into his grasp and stomped into her bedroom. Metal could hear crashing as she grumbled and pushed things around her storage closet roughly. The girl stormed back into the room with an enormous roll of duct tape and knelt back beside Metal. “Give me your foot, I’m fixing this for good,” she demanded.

Metal emitted a low grumble. He held his foot above his head, out of her reach.

“You think I can’t reach up there?” Amy stared for a moment, challenging Metal. Then she suddenly shot back up and lunged for his hand. “Quit being stubborn and let me fix it!”

He was the stubborn one? Enraged, he extended his arm up towards the ceiling, playing keep away. She tugged fruitlessly on the telescopic cable.

“You wanna lose another arm?!”

Before he could make a response, Amy’s communicator rang from the other room. They both turned their attention in the direction of the jingle. Amy let out a frustrated sigh and tossed the roll of duct tape aside to answer the call as Metal watched her disappear wordlessly past the door. While she lingered there for a few minutes, he pulled his arm back and sat silently once more. He looked from his dismembered foot to the shiny duct tape and back again. He supposed it would be better than nothing.

Amy sauntered back into the living room area with her nose up. “That was Tails. Lucky for you, he’s an actual engineer and he can actually fix you.” She crossed her arms defensively.

Metal Sonic rolled his eyes but reluctantly offered his foot back to her.

“Did you just- You’ve been sitting here expressionless for a whole day and the first emotion you show is that?” She snatched his foot out of his grasp. “Unbelievable.” Amy continued muttering under her breath while she taped his leg and foot back together. “There! Not that it matters, Tails is about to fix it anyway,” she scoffed. “At least it won’t fall off on the way there…”

He looked down at his “repaired” foot. It did seem to at least be attached to him, which was marginal improvement. Metal stood up slowly, attempting to disperse his weight evenly. It was a bit shaky and he couldn’t exactly bend his ankle, but he managed to limp around rather than drag his foot behind him.

“Well?” Amy looked at him inquisitively.

Metal reached for the little whiteboard that he’d left on the kitchen counter. He set it in front of him and scribbled something down quickly, holding it up for Amy to see. He turned away as he did, seemingly embarrassed. “THANK YOU” it read in slightly less neat handwriting than usual.

Amy’s cheeks puffed when she saw it. Her face flushed and she, too, avoided eye contact. “You’re welcome.” She pouted, her cheeks growing ever warmer as she realized what an outburst she’d had. “And, you know… sorry,” she finally added.

Stubborn, Metal Sonic added to his description of Amy Rose in his memory bank. Temperamental. He looked back down at his foot, noticing how neatly she had wrapped the tape around him- smooth, with no folds or creases. Well-meaning, he appended. The fix wasn’t perfect but it was certainly more comfortable than the alternative. Thoughtful.

Amy composed herself, releasing a deep sigh. “Grab your jacket and your arm. Let’s head to Tails’ place so he can get you fixed up for real,” she smirked. She knew her solution was janky, but genuinely hoped it would at least help keep him together.

Metal Sonic complied with this. He found his arm strewn into the corner of the storeroom and gave Amy a bit of a side eye, knowing she’d knocked it there in her earlier rage. She pretended not to notice this. He was about to head out the front door when Amy stopped him. “You’re not going to wear your jacket? I know you don’t get cold, but…”

He looked to the coat rack where he’d placed it the evening before. It didn’t agree with his telescopic arm when it was extended so he opted to remove it before helping Amy clean up her closet.

“I’ll help you get it on if you want.”

He nodded back, dropping his other arm momentarily as she slid it over him and zipped the front. Amy smiled at him then with unexpected warmth.

She was musing silently about his change in character. Overnight, Metal went from a nightmarish enemy to a placid houseguest. Amy thought he could be reprogrammed into becoming her ally, but was now realizing that this robot with all his hinges and bolts was a bona fide person. She’d always thought he was angry by default, encountering him only in battle or other tense situations; but seeing how Metal could become elated and annoyed and show gratitude gave her hope that he wasn’t just an emotionless machine to be modified. Instead, he was a potential new friend.

#thanks to yall who are reading! please feel free to leave comments i love reading them #or message me if that's more comfortable for u #metamy #metal sonic x amy rose #metal sonic #amy rose #sonic fanfiction #sth #unfamiliar #ch 4

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peachpitmp3 · 3 years

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sgdiufhkjsdfj that's alright no worries !! time is. [insert weird keysmash that's supposed to sound like a weird incoherent mouth noise]

!! dude i would love that, i'm sure they all look great :)

AH RIP YOUR WIFI (although i did get your ask so i know it came back on dhsufijskd)

</33 feel like pure shit just want my ability to get good grades back /hj (damn this sounds stuck up,, but i'm honestly so jealous of the me who did Well In School)

!!!! right. how come you guys get to have your lives semi together while i'm so very lost hALp-

so valid of you, bees are so much nicer in minecraft. but that's just?? so messed up wtf. it's a valid fear, you can't just get mad- bro >:(( i will hit those people with a textbook.

ohhhh i get that dude. and i mean, in theory, you spend the most time with yourself, so you'd know yourself best right? (this is not,, really how it works but it should be. although like. people who Know You >>> ) if it's any help, i think you're really cool and an incredible person + friend!! (i looovvee youuuu /p)

yeah !!! when the little gay people in my phone think about me when i'm not here,, so true. dude that makes so much sense. expensive things are nice in theory bc they're spending money or whatever but it doesn't feel as genuine and personal. oh god same, i'd just lose the object if i ever tried using it and then it's a waste. also !! cheap pens are incredible.

nice nice !! dark mode is very good for nighttime tumblr stuff fsjkd. spooky season <3 that's valid though, it's much easier to change your pfp or something like that bc it doesn't take up your whole screen ykmnow.

i'm using vampire on my computer, which is Very Vibey and basically is dark mode, but with times new roman font (or something similar) and i like it!! and then low-contrast blue classic gray dull whatever on my phone

have to agree with you, probably expensive things. either that or something that is so far from me. like,, if someone gave me an item of clothing that's nice, but is entirely not my style and never something i'd wear. or a book, but it's a Heterosexual Romance Novel™️. it's a nice gesture but,, it just shows that you don't know me that well and at that point, i'd rather you just get me a gift card that i'll save for three years and never end up using.

i try!! it never ends up working cause i usually lose/forget or lose interest in the stuff, or i never remember to add to it until after it's needed. i do like floral patterns !! don't have that many things with them, but as long as they aren't super flashy and loud i'd use them!

well. i full on failed a test, in ENGLISH. we had a quiz (but it was basically a test and i'm still pissed) that was weirdly specific about parts of the play we're reading in class, and i failed. and my english teacher is One of Those Teachers who says shit like "there's no extra credit irl, so there's no extra credit here" and "i don't give 100s bc there's always room for improvement". aNYWAYS. it's fine. whatever. marking period ends in literally two days and i'm soclose to failing that class but whatever!! (and then i went on to basically-fail two more tests! i wasn't. i wasn't exaggerating when i said gifted child burnout. So Angry at myself.)

ooh !! for national coming out day (although technically it was a few days before since we had the day off for indigenous people's day) my school had little pride ribbons, and i had a couple Queer Interactions!! had my trans pin and i felt very swag :D (just like to add that the queers don't ask my pronouns nearly as often as the cishets :/)

what's something that made you angry or sad this past week? what was the highlight of your week? which emoticon do you think describes your personality the best? something that you always seem to forget? something cool/new you found out and want to tell someone? - 🌵

NO LITERALLY MOOD. i would kill to have straight a's without breaking my brain every time i went to school. alas.

BEES ARE SO MUCH NICER IN MINECRAFT. im actually. i love that so much. thank you so much for that im actually laughing ily

thank you that is very very sweet yes !! i am learning how to know things about myself and how to know facts vs filtereds and it is very difficult but it is good :D and obviously you are wonderful and amazing and i love you so much a lot too /p

WHEN THE LITTLE GAY PEOPLE IN MY PHONE THINK ABOUT ME WHEN IM NOT HERE. god ...... little gay people in my phone .... beloveds. so true. i think i think you are a little gay people in my phone !!!

OOOOH vampire thats so cool yes okay vibes i might switch mine but idk :D

GOD YEAH literally . if you get me something that i cant use and dont want then it's like. double unhelpful bc ill feel guilty about getting rid of it.

omg mood i forget and lose interest in everything. it's a problem DSHGJFSDJFSLDJFL.

oh bestie im so sorry..... that sounds so stressful and your teacher - no offense - sounds very bad and not like a good teacher. there IS extra credit in daily life it is called compliments and bonuses and extra happies and god shut up does your teacher not know how teenage brains work. fuck. im sorry.

PRIDE RIBBONS. QUEER INTERACTIONS. SO TRUE BESTIE. trans pin so true oh my god. yes. oh bestie yeah i've noticed that as well :( maybe bc they dont wanna out you?? but also it can be frustrating :( esp when then they use the wrong pronouns ://

something that made me angry or sad...... i think. hm. uhhh. i realized how few people use my correct pronouns? and i also realized how few people i've told. and also i realized that i never, never, never correct people when they get it wrong. and that makes me sad at myself. not angry, because i get it, and i don't want my friends to get irritated at me for correcting them, and i just don't like confrontation. but it makes me sad because i know. i know that i shouldn't have to worry about this. and some of my friends keep asking me 'hey your pronouns are they/them right' whenever they overhear someone use she. and im like yeah. and it's just. exhausting i dont know.

the highlight of my week.... i planned a hangout with one of my new friends!!! i felt really really valued in our conversation and i felt important and i felt like she actually wanted to be around me and that was really exciting. also i am very touch starved and i have been holding hands and doing a lot of casual affection with one of my other friends and it's been really really REALLY nice.

ooooh okay lemme think. emoticon. probably :) because im vibing but it can also be used as a sarcastic thing which i am and i am not always vibing yk

something i always seem to forget is literally my own goddamn pronouns. i swear to god no one misgenders me more than i misgender myself /lh

oooh !! lemme think !!!!! OH !! so in physics when you are doing position and velocity and acceleration. it is the same thing as calculus when you are doing derivatives!!!!! position graph is the normal f(x) and then velocity is the derivative of that which is f'(x) because it is the slope at each point of the position graph. and then f''(x) or the derivative of velocity is the acceleration because it's the slope of the velocity graph!!!!!!!!! you can apply math to physics and physics to math !!! and i am taking those classes at the same time and learning those units at the same time !! it is very exciting i am happy

questions for thou (thee?): what emoticon describes you? what's something you found out that you wanna share? what's your go-to response when a random person asks how you're doing or how it's going? if you could forget AND remember one time in your life, what would you choose? would you want to do either one of them? are you more puns or dad jokes?

#plu answers #🌵anon #radio silences

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toosicktoocare · 5 years

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prompt: Maybe a fic where Amanda meddles with his system and he can charge himself to 30% but not beyond that so he’s super tired, sleepy and lethargic but he tries really hard to hide it from Hank, but fails to when he basically passes out after having to run a program during a case that sucks up his battery power.

See, this is what I’m talking about! Set with pre-deviant Connor where he’s starting to become “unstable”

Connor doesn’t understand; he doesn’t understand because he spent the entire night charging to ensure he’s operating at one-hundred percent, yet he’s only an hour into a new case with Hank, and his prosthetic limbs are moving too slow, his optical lenses are struggling to focus, failing to scan for new evidence. He runs a quick overall system scan, frowning.

System Operating at 30%.

“Connor!”

Connor blinks slowly, waiting briefly for his program functions to operate toward a response, and he turns his head toward Hank’s rather demanding voice. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

“The fuck are you doing just standing there like a damn statue? Let’s get a move on!”

Wordlessly, he follows after Hank into a back room in The Eden Club, glancing at the blue splatters of thirium coating the raised pedestal around a tall pole. There was another incident with a deviant; he’s not sure what happened, but the reports suggest a rogue droid who attacked four customers before running off into the night. Based on the thirium scattered about the entertainment lounge, the droid left with substantial injuries.

The back rooms are in similar states. Blue is painted across the walls and atop bed sheets. Connor taps his finger to a splatter on a left wall and brings it to his tongue, ignoring the disgusted groan from Hank as he works to scan the thirium. It’s bitter, and a wince pulls at his face as he begins a scan. He’s halfway through when his work comes to a stop.

System Operating at 20%.

He blinks away the red warning with a quiet sigh. He can feel the low charge like a human would feel operating on no sleep. Lethargic, his program supplies. He’s not moving fast enough, not processing evidence quick enough. He can’t. His software system is going to reboot into power save mode soon, and it will be a miracle if he can even remain upright when that happens. He should excuse himself from the scene to find a charging base, but his intuitive program keeps supplying determination toward his frontal lobe panel, repeatedly assuring him that they are close to a breakthrough, so he can’t part with the crime scene.

“Goddammit, Connor!”

The hand that hits his cheek stings, and without meaning to, Connor winces and pulls a blurry yet sharp gaze to Hank.

“Shit, Connor, did that hurt?”

Hank’s worried now. Connor doesn’t need to scan the lieutenant to know, not when Hank’s frowning at him with deep, worried lines etched across his forehead.

System Operating at 15%.

“No, Lieutenant,” Connor says, lying easily. He can feel his instability jolt like a spark jerking up his spine, but he ignores it.

“Well your face says otherwise,” Hank mutters, and for a moment, Connor wants to shrink away from Hank’s stern gaze, but he keeps his shoulders squared and his chin upright.

“There’s no need for concern, Lieutenant.”

“I’m not concerned,” Hank spits out. “But I don’t want a fucked up droid at a crime scene.”

Connor doesn’t reply, not finding it necessary, but when he moves to follow beside Hank toward a different room, he staggers. His programs short-circuit for a moment, and he latches a shaking hand to Hank’s shoulder.

System Operating at 10%. Entering Power Save Mode.

“Connor, what the hell is going on with you?” Hank’s hand finds Connor’s waist, and the frustration from before has been replaced with a genuine sense of concern that Connor just barely picks up on.

“I just need...” Connor slowly cranes his neck, looking over his shoulder. He’s... His programs aren’t moving fast enough. His thirium is moving too slowly, making his ocular sensors fail to receive images clearly. He’s dizzy. “To charge.”

His auditory sensors aren’t working properly as his systems move to power save mode. Hank’s shouting for a charger base sounds far too distant despite Hank remaining by his side, but soon enough, he can feel his systems rebooting as power pulses through his software.

System Charging.

“You know you could have just said you were low on juice,” Hank bites out. The only charger station is outdoors, and he crosses his arms against the snow beating down on the two.

Connor blinks at him slowly. “I charged last night. There might be a circuit issue with my charger station.” He frowns when Hank shudders and hisses against a particularly sharp gust of wind. “Go back inside, Lieutenant. I’ll be in shortly.”

Stubborn as he is, Hank complies, leaving Connor to charge alone, and Connor waits patiently, but when he hits 30% and receives a notification that his charging is complete, a sharp frown takes over his features, and he wills a meeting with Amanda, something he doesn’t do often.

He closes his eyes, and to his surprise, Amanda welcomes him in. Like in Detroit, it’s snowing in her garden, yet it feels 10 degrees colder. He crosses his arms and starts toward her.

“Connor.” Her voice is calm, but Connor’s LED still blinks a bright yellow. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I can’t charge above 30%,” Connor answers honestly. He sucks in a shaking breath, prepared to explain how he cannot effectively do his job if he can’t operate at full capacity, but Amanda smiles, cutting his thoughts off like a snip of a wire.

“I know.”

He’s had a brief suspicion that this was the product Amanda’s doing, but hearing her easy admission sends heat to his LED until it’s glowing red. His instability jerks again, but he keeps his expression calm despite the unfamiliar heat of anger warming his thirium, an odd contrast to the icy wind that’s threatening to freeze it.

“Why?” He asks, willing his voice to remain steady.

“You’re becoming unstable.”

“I’m not,” Connor presses. “If my scans show otherwise, it can easily be pegged on frustration toward not being able to perform my duties effectively.”

“Frustration,” Amanda says softly. “That’s not a part of your program.”

She shoves him out. Connor blinks slowly, taking in the whipping snow around him. He moves away from the base quickly, and his legs give out. He falls to the snow, hands curled into fists. “Dammit.” He’s mad; he can’t control his instability.

He gets slowly to his feet. His ocular sensors still can’t focus on much, but he pushes through the hazy vision and enters the club. The sooner, he thinks, that he can solve this case and find the deviant, the sooner Amanda’s trust in him will return and he can begin to operate at 100% again.

“Connor,” Hank waves him over, holding a ripped shirt that’s coated in thirium. “Can you scan this? We think the deviant’s working with a rogue group, and this shirt could potentially be a marked shirt of their new group.”

Nodding, Connor pushes all of his scanning operations toward the shirt, eyes flicking to one tear, then to a splatter of thirium, then to another tear, over and over until the shirt begins to blur against his ocular sensors. He can feel his systems dragging, struggling to keep up with his determination, thirium moving incredibly slow, unable to support his system functions quickly, but he pushes through until his ocular sensors cut to black.

He’s only out for seconds, the low hum of Amanda’s voice fading from his ears as his present surroundings come back. He’s leaning against Hank, his forehead pressed to Hank’s shoulder, and Hank has a strong arm wrapped around his back, and he’s shouting. A lot of people are shouting, but Connor is struggling to pinpoint voices.

System Operating at 12%.

“--swear to God, Hank! Get that faulty fucking droid out of here!”

“Calm the fuck down, Reed! Unless you want to go around licking all of this blue blood?”

“That’s fucking disgusting!”

Connor lifts his head, he can feel every single movement like a rusted gear in need of attention, and his ocular sensors hone in on the ripped shirt he dropped. His charge is too low for a full scan, but he manages a quick one, leaning heavily against Hank as his charge depletes more and more.

His scans come up with a small store that’s been on Detroit Police Department’s radar more than once. It’s most likely the store the shirt came from-- it’s a lead, just what they were looking for, and he mumbles the store name before dropping his forehead back to Hank’s shoulder.

Hank bellows out orders before guiding Connor back out to the charging station.

“Connor, you have five seconds to tell me what the hell is really going on before I ship your ass off in a box.”

System Charging.

“I’m being punished,” Connor answers quietly. His vocal programming is reflecting his low charge, his tone is deeper than normal, carrying little energy with each word. “CyberLife thinks I’m growing unstable.”

“Well, are you?”

Current System Charge is 28%.

Connor meets Hank’s eyes, and they share a wordless conversation, one that bleeds in muted desperation. Connor doesn’t want to lie to Hank, but if he admits his hesitation out loud, he might as well send himself back to CyberLife for further inspection. His instability has been up and down for weeks now, but he’s always reasoned that the jolts are because of the amount of deviant cases they’ve covered. It’s... hard sometimes to handle a case with a deviant who is so insistent that they are human.

When Hank finally breaks the gaze with a huff, Connor breathes out a quiet sigh.

“It doesn’t matter because you probably just solved this case.”

Relief, a program function he was created with for unclear purposes, floods Connor’s systems, and he nods, eyes following as Hank turns away to watch the police cars whip down the street.

Current System Charge is 31%.

#detroit become human #DBH #dbh connor #hank anderson #gavin reed #dbh amanda #cyberlife #my writing #my dbh writing #whump #whumpfic #prompt fill #detective dad and android son #d: bh

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hadestownmodern · 4 years

Text

Mom’s Group

Hi! I’ve made the decision that I’m really only on here to post now, but I hope everyone is doing well!! Here’s your Eurydice and Persephone crack!

-Danielle

It starts off as a serious conversation, but does not last long in that realm. Eurydice had come over to visit straight after a morning of meetings at the bar, Melody glowing with excitement upon seeing Junie. Persephone’s sitting at the kitchen table with a flyer in her hand, tapping her fingers on the impeccable white wood.

“Imagine this,” her voice calls Eurydice over, “imagine me at a play group. Makin’ friends with the same moms that send their kids all over town with nannies that raise them until they want to look like mamas.”

“You wouldn’t last a second there.” Eurydice states the fact as it is, moves to the fridge for a glass of water. Her movement is encumbered by her large, beautifully rounded pregnant belly, her second little girl just as much a surprise as the first. Persephone nods her head in agreement.

“You wouldn’t last too long yourself.”

“You’re right, but imagine what it’s like in there. All those women competing to see who’s the best mom, probably forgetting which kid is theirs?”

“Let’s go.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes.” She grins. “We can go, watch the other moms judge each other…maybe you’re right though, you wouldn’t make it.”

“I’d make it longer than you.”

“Want to bet?” It’s the shine in her eyes that seals the deal before Eurydice can agree or disagree, the word bet a game Persephone won’t stop until she gets to play.

“What are we betting?”

“If you can make it longer than me at this playgroup without throwing a fit or makin’ the other moms upset, I’ll give you one night of watching Melody. Whenever you choose.”

“And if you win?”

“I’m sure Hades wouldn’t mind a night just the two of us.”

Sunday morning, the pair is a sight to see. They walk together to the mom’s group, Persephone holding Junie’s hand as she dances. Eurydice’s pace is a bit slowed by the weight of her belly as well as Melody being strapped to her back, wearing her so frequently a decision she’d been adamant about continuing. Everything feels exclusive here-even the building, where they’re greeted by a doorman and directed to the appropriate room. Both moms feel a bit out of place, Eurydice’s anxious feelings double as she looks around at the ornate, perfectly pristine surroundings. The room of the door is opened, some glass windows allowing them premature access into what they’ll be getting themselves into. Eurydice stops to stare into the window, eyes widening upon seeing the mass of ponytailed moms and their perfect children.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but how old are you your skin looks amazing.” They’re greeted as soon as they enter the room, barely a moment to catch their breath or take everything in. This mom looks about thirty, with shiny auburn hair and scarily perfect teeth. Eurydice answers without pause.

“Oh, I’m sixteen. I had my daughter when I was fourteen. What a wild ride. Y’know, because of the braces.”

The woman at the door looks between Persephone and Eurydice attempting to hide her shock, mouth opening and closing as she fails to form a response.

“I’m marrying her father as soon as we’re old enough. He just got his license, we’re so proud.”

Persephone keeps her composure with absolutely no difficulty, nodding her head. She watches as a group of women standing near the door raise their heads, keep their narrowed eyes trained on the newcomers. Eurydice looks around innocently, waving at the women who stare as Persephone helps her remove Melody from her wrap.

“You’re sixteen?”

“I’m kidding,” She says, wondering if the woman at the door hadn’t been able to read her joking expression. She’s not embarrassed, simply bewildered that her joke had been taken so seriously. “I’m not sixteen. I’m also not forty, if that’s what you thought-I’m somewhere in between there.” They enter the room and are greeted with a wall of women in yoga pants, children playing peacefully with a large wooden play structure in the center of the room. Junie trails next to Persephone, holding her hand and observing the other children just as Persephone and Eurydice skeptically eye the crowd. Everyone in the room seems to know each other, stopping in smaller groups to gossip while their children run in circles around the room. They’re all dressed in pristine, perfect clothing-Eurydice notices this with a skeptical eye. She wonders about the moms holding new babies while dressed in white-how they choose to risk it all having rambunctious, messy children while in such a made-up state. Having her Melody is enough-even Junie, who refuses to get messy on her own accord, trails the occasional dusting of flour from her cooking.

But none of these children play, not in the way her wild, toddling baby does. These children are perfectly conditioned. A group of boys runs around the perimeter of the room in competition, neatly staying in their own lane as their mothers look on. She can see the word Harvard on their lips, and she holds back her own disgusted laughter. Another group of children walks cautiously along beside the play structure, and several of them turn to look at their mothers before making a single choice. She can hear moments of go ahead, or, no, you’ll get dirty, and immediately feels bad for the way the children walk such a thin line.

“Oh, look at you.” Eurydice feels a hand on her stomach at the same moment she notices the tall, skinny blonde traipsing toward her. She recoils at the touch, covers her bump as her eyes subconsciously narrow at the offender. “You’re so cute! How far along?”

“Uh, six months.”

“And another, too?” The stranger gestures to Melody, who’s toddling in the space around them with a handful of cheerios and a continuous babbling. Then, she turns her attention to Junie.

“Hi honey, why don’t you go play with the other kids? I can come and help you say hi,”

“I’m six and I don’t need help saying hello.” She’s very matter-of-fact with her tiny, confident voice, and she holds her head high as she scans the crowd. There isn’t much that interests her here, where the children play so cautiously. She chooses to follow Melody’s trail instead, holding one of her chubby hands and cooing to her affectionately. They’re a sight in identical floral cotton dresses, Junie’s long, beautiful curls a stark contrast to Melody’s dark hair in two tiny pigtails. Eurydice turns her head to hide her tongue-in-cheek smile as Persephone merely shrugs at the blonde.

“She’s very independent.”

The woman takes her cue and leaves them, and for a moment they stand in the doorway with a shock. There’s a lot to take in here, this environment full of moms discussing Whole Foods and yoga, and Persephone is unable to form her sarcastic comeback before another group comes up to them, grinning with an overwhelmingly cheering façade.

“You’re new!” One of the moms puts her arm on Persephone’s shoulder, another immediately going for Eurydice’s stomach. The young mother’s face grows dark and she steps backward, hot with anger. Before she can say anything she can see the beginnings of gloating in Persephone’s eyes and catches herself, taking a breath.

“Please don’t touch my stomach.” Teetering on the edge of a long rant, this is all Eurydice can manage. The narrowing of her eyes, however, is more than enough to have the unknown woman walking away. She holds her belly protectively in her hands, rolling her eyes at Persephone’s wild grinning.

“So when you watch Junie tonight, I’ll have to remember to pack her blanket. And she’s really into that princess game-Orpheus will be okay with wearing all those jewels. Maybe I should make a reservation,”

“Oh, shut up because I’m about to slap the next Tiffany wearing ‘my kid can’t get hurt’ mom who tries to touch me and I need to breathe.”

“I’m just sayin’, your chances aren’t lookin’ too good.”

“Oh, you’re funny if you think this is over.” Eurydice laughs, points to the low area of the room, where Junie stands with Melody’s hand in hers and the other hand on her hip. Persephone recognizes the face of complete irritation on her daughter’s face-the expression that Demeter coins an exact copy of Persephone’s. You get back what you were as a child. Persephone watches Junie throw one hand into the air, a dramatic roll of the eyes. A handful of the other moms are watching, too, as her daughter’s volume gets louder.

“Juniper, what’s going on?”

“They said they can’t play what I want to play because they’re gonna get dirty so I said that was stupid, and then they said Melody can’t be my best friend because she’s a baby and she’s not a baby.”

“She called us babies!” A boy chimes in from his place on the floor, arms folded across his chest. The group of children is just sitting there, a stack of pristine wooden blocks on the floor. The other children take turns stacking blocks on top of each other in a perfect little rectangular house. It’s a far cry from the typical mode of play that her daughter takes; artistically driven, imaginative and meticulous in her own way. There’s a clear line between her daughter and these children, between herself and the moms in the room. They’d all been raised here, in the wealthiest part of the city. They’d all known each other since birth, lived that established life with the same sorts of goals in their heads.

They hadn’t gotten to live in the tiny farmhouse, to feel the grass beneath their bare feet, spend their days making mudpies and helping in the garden. They hadn’t gotten to be children-not in the wild, unashamed way that Persephone had. And it twists Eurydice’s stomach; Eurydice, who’d had her childhood ripped from underneath her, had been forced to grow up too fast…the luxury of this room on the thirtieth floor of a building with windows all around it, where their children thought nothing of wearing clothes that would cover things like groceries and rent when she’d lived alone in her little ramshackle studio apartment.

Looking over at Eurydice, Persephone realizes by the way her eyes are trained so intently on their daughters that she must be at her breaking point as well. She’s just about to raise her white flag when Junie groans, turns from the group of children with a pout.

“Mama, I don’t like these kids. They play boring. Can we go play in the park and me and Melly can run?” It takes everything for Persephone to hold her laughter as she agrees, moving to the little table where they’d left their things. One of the spectator moms, close to a carbon copy of the others, swoops in to where Eurydice waits with the girls.

“I’ve been dying to get at that belly, you’re so cute!”

“Do you seriously think it’s okay to touch a fucking stranger like that?” Eurydice doesn’t even look at the other moms as she makes her retreat, Persephone close behind. It isn’t until they’re waiting for the elevator that the moms burst into laughter, Eurydice rolling her eyes with a wildly irritated sort of humor. There is no clear winner that night, just dinner with their husbands, Junie and Melody asleep in her bed.

#hadestown fic #hadestown au #hadestown modern #hadestown #eurydice #persephone #persephone and eurydice #danielle writes

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vin-taege · 5 years

Text

low expectations

summary: after disappearing for six years to pursue law, you come back to Seoul, only to be hired by Jeon Jungkook, tattoo artist on the rise, and your high school ex

genre: angst, eventual smut, l2e2l (lovers to enemies [kinda?] to lovers)

pairing: tattoo artist!jungkook x lawyer!reader

words: 4 700+

Scattered boxes lay on your newly bought apartment. Some opened, most of them unopened. The only decent room as of now was your bedroom, and even that looked plain. Considering how organized you usually were, this was a severely chaotic. Even though the move to Seoul has been rough - some of your belongings even ending up in Daegu, but thankfully back where they belong now - you were ecstatic. Mainly because you were now far away from your overbearing mother. The increase in salary remained as a mere bonus. To say things between you and your mother were rocky was a bit of an understatement. She was heartless, manipulative, the perfect CEO. You had lived with your father after the divorce, and appreciated his company more. Life wasn't as luxuries as it was with your mom, but he cares for you more than anything. She did her part in paying for child support, funding most of your needs, compared to your father's salary as a small cafe owner. Going back to Korea has always been on your mind, ever since you graduated law school. If it weren't for the aforementioned salary increase, your mother would've never let you get that plane ticket. The new firm you transferred to was more than welcoming. They gave you a three week grace period so you can settle down, and even assigned you an assistant. It was just your luck that person happened to be Namjoon, your best friend since college. After graduating, you split ways. It was ironic how your reasons for going back to Seoul were direct opposites - him to return to his family, and you to escape from yours. He was probably the only person who had his shit together more than you. Not even two days after you landed, he already had your schedule organized for the next month. Even you didn't have enough patience to do that. Admittedly, you were a bit scared to go back. The last memory you had here was one in Busan, and it was far from pleasant.

You refreshed your emails again, not used to the absence of the usual influx of "urgent" files. The first thing you unpacked was of course the coffee machine. The other labeled boxes still had packing tape on, and you were dreading to open them up. Your phone has been on silent mode ever since midnight. You'd rather deal with your mother later than answering all her pressing texts now. Thank God she didn't know your Skype account.

Sluggish from the jet lag, you began picking at the packing tape, finding the edge of it and ripping the package open. In all honesty, you could’ve finished all the rooms in one day, and even have time for a manicure and pedicure afterwards. But this day just seemed so slow.

You never were used to a non-busy schedule.

Box after box, you made your way through your belongings. Throw pillows, small vases, the succulent collection you had. You didn’t have time for a pet, but your cacti were the perfect substitute. They made you feel needed on a deeper level, even though they only needed you to water them once a week.

Lofi music played in the background, giving you a more relaxing atmosphere. You slowly got in the zone, not noticing the hours pass by until you finally decided to take a break and check your phone.

Immediately, you were bombarded with six phone calls from Namjoon. Panicked, you quickly called him back. “Hey, Joon! I’m sorry, my phone was on silent. Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” In contrary to what he said, his voice sounded distressed. “I know it’s your week off, but there’s just this really pushy client. He’s demanding a meeting with you as soon as possible. I told him I’d give you a call, and here I am.”

You grimaced. This client was already leaving a bad impression on you. If anything, you hated unprofessional clients and often turned them down, but you felt sorry for Namjoon. “Does he want to meet today?”

“I can schedule him for next week if you want. Put him on the priority list. You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” You considered it for a moment. You didn’t have anything to do tonight except to unpack, and your body was itching for work. “No, I’m free tonight. Did he give a time or a place.”

“He left me an address. Told me to come whenever. I looked the place up, and it’s a tattoo parlor. The customer reviews were nice, and it’s pretty popular here in Seoul too.” Here comes the unprofessionalism again.

“Wanna go at seven and have dinner after?”

“Sure. As your best friend, I wouldn’t mind catching up. As your assistant, I couldn’t let you die unless I want to get fired,” you both laughed. You heard typing in the background, followed by a few mouse clicks. “-And his case file’s done. Pick you up at six?”

“Damn, how long has this guy been bothering you? Case files take hours.”

“Ever since 7 am. This better be some god-tier dinner to make up for it,” he chuckled on the other line.

Somehow, the tattoo parlor reminded you of him again. He always wanted to run one, and you wondered if he ended up doing so. The call ended, and you started to get ready. Surely the client wouldn’t mind you dressing casually, it was a week off after all.

Namjoon picked you up exactly at six, pulling over in his freshly car-washed Mercedes Benz. He was donning a black turtleneck and jeans, mirroring your casual style. It was clear you both just didn’t give a shit anymore. A pair of black glasses sat atop his nose.

“Nice car. When did you start being a popular kid?” He scoffed at your teasing, remembering his skewed fashion choices back in college.

"Ever since I started hauling your drunk ass home after parties. Ever since I started making you nachos on thesis nights. Ever since-"

"Okay Namjoon, I get it. College ___ was a hot mess," you conceded. "You got that case file ready?" "Yeah. I forwarded it to your email," You checked your inbox, and indeed received the file from him. You browsed through it quickly, skipping client details and diving straight into the case. False accusations of tax evasion and illegal substance import. The case seemed simple enough, could be handled with a few counter-suits here and there. Just as you finished the case details, you decided to finally check the client info. "You know what makes this case so complicated?" Namjoon spoke up, ripping your attention away from the file. "What?" "Evidence tampering. From the rival tattoo shop, I think," You scoffed. Typical behavior from two business trying to climb to the top. "They, what, planted cocaine packets under the ink refills or something?" Outside, the sun started to set. It's been a while since you've last seen a sunset, long work hours demanding you to be in your office more. It was one of the things you missed in Korea, especially from Busan. "Yeah, something like that. The guy seems too young to be the head of the shop. Must be very good at what he does." You opened the file again, checking the client info. Jeon- "We're here." Sighing, you closed the file again, getting out of the car. You'll have to read up more on him later. Not even a month back in Seoul and you already have a possibly big case on your hands. This could really make or break your career. However, that name sounded familiar. Familiar enough to leave a bittersweet taste in your mouth. Jeon. The memory of soft brown hair came back to you, long enough to frame his big brown eyes. The same eyes that would crinkle each time he showed his bunny smile. There was a pained twinge in your heart. Namjoon knocked on the glass door. There was a purple neon sign hooked on it, blaring a bright "open" to entice customers to come in. On top of the building was a huge sign, lit up by LED lights. "Seoul Ink." The shop had a large glass pane next to the door, resembling a barbershop style. The inside was dimly lit with light pink, giving the shop a retro vibe. You could faintly hear music blaring from the inside. Not long after, the door was opened, revealing a short, yet muscular man. His hair was a vibrant pink, in contrast to the dark tattoo sleeve spanning his left arm. A worn tank top draped from his torso, not doing much to hide his skin. The man looked like the shop personified. "Good evening, we're here for Mr. Jeon. He told my assistant to set an appointment for today." "Oh, you're the lawyer he hired? Come in, please," He stepped aside, making way for you. "Jungkook! Our lawyer's here!" You froze. No, this can't be the same Jeon Jungkook from high school. Who knew how many Jeon Jungkooks were out here in Seoul? You were hoping, praying, he wasn’t the Jungkook you knew. "Wait. Goddammit, Jimin I told you to sterilise the needles." A lean, young man came out from the curtain-covered hallway. His hair was black, swept back to show his forehead. Sharp, doe eyes stared straight at you. His features became more angular, but it was clear he was the same boy you knew all those years ago. "___?" His eyes widened, expression hardening. "___. Pleasure." "You two know each other?" Namjoon whispered to you, loud enough for Jungkook to hear. "We went to high school together," He dead-panned, leaving it at that. Your cheeks heated up, the atmosphere soon turning awkward. "Come inside. We have a lot to discuss." He led you through the same hallway, pink lighting kept uniform throughout the whole building. Tattoo designs were plastered on the walls; Designs of the same motif grouped together on each tattoo booth. Each door had a different feel to it; one monochromatic, another one clipped with Polaroids and fairy lights. They really brought out each tattoo artist's identity, gave you an idea of their style and aesthetic. You counted four of them in total, including Jungkook and Jimin. Jungkook stopped at the last door. Just one look at it and you knew it was his. Lush roses were stuck to the black-painted wood. At the very center of it was a small, golden bell with two red ribbons tied to it. You were too busy staring at it, not noticing the rest of the boys come inside. "___," Namjoon called you. "Yes. Sorry," Jungkook stared at you, eyes glassy. You were the first to break eye contact, shutting the door. °°° 6 years ago "You told me it was my turn to pick the movie!" You whined, Jungkook only laughing at your annoyance. It was your annual Friday movie night. You usually took turns picking the movie, but Jungkook already had one prepared when you came to his dorm. "But this one's really good, I promise," he pouted. "I'll let you pick two movies next time. His offer sounded tempting enough, prompting you to begrudgingly accept it. It was another anime rom-com. You recognized it, seeing enough pictures of the poster saved in Jungkook's phone gallery. He'd talk about it a lot, the mere existence of it shaping his entire understanding of true love. "Your Name?" He grunted, arm wrapped around your waist. You were cuddling on the couch, body on top of him. The popcorn bowl was neatly balanced on your back. "I've always wanted to watch this with you," he whispered, fingers threading through your hair. "Accidentally downloaded a shit-ton of viruses on Tae's laptop just trying to pirate this." "Hey, support artists. Pay for art," You repeated his motto. He rolled his eyes, bringing you closer to his chest. "I want to. I just wish I didn't fall in the stereotypical broke art student category," His tone was sharp. You knew better than to push it, knew this conversation would only lead back to his unsupportive parents. The moment Jungkook told his parents he wanted to open up a tattoo parlor, they shut him out. He didn't talk about them much, but you knew enough to know he didn't exactly have the best relationship with them. His brother helped him pay his high school fees, but only up to that point. Once Jungkook hits college, he'll have to support himself. He's picked up a few commissions here and there to save up, but it was nowhere near the money he needed to take an arts course. "Hey," you brought your shifted, bringing your hand to his chest. "My mom's offering me a part-time job in her firm. She could get you a spot if-" "I don't want to," His eyes were on the screen, though you felt him tense up. "Leave it, ___." "The pay is good. I'm just saying, you should look into it, Kookie," you frowned. It was always difficult to talk to him when money or jobs were involved. You couldn’t even recall how many times you fought over either college or job-related problems. He was so hell-bent on taking an arts course, but too stubborn to accept any help, especially from your mother. He exhaled deeply, dropping his arm from your hair. "Leave it." You watched almost half the movie in silence. He was right next to you, but sometimes he just felt so unreachable. You felt his soft lips against the crown of your head. "I'm sorry, I'm just not in the best mood to talk about that stuff." You reached over, pausing the movie. He sat up, mirroring you. "What's wrong?" His eyes were dull, refusing to look back at you. "Jungkook." "Nothing," he rubbed his eyes, running both hands through his hair. "It's nothing." "Tell me," you placed your hand over his, him enveloping it immediately in his large ones. His thumb drew small circles on your knuckles, just like he did when he was nervous. "My dad is signing me up for a med college in Seoul. I don't want to leave Busan. I don't want to leave you," he lowered his voice in the last part. You cupped his cheek with one hand. "You won't. We'll be together until college, and until after college. You'll always be my own Da Vinci, I'll always be your-" "Muse," he finished, lovingly meeting your gaze. "You'll always be my muse." °°° "So they did plant cocaine packets in the ink refills!" Namjoon burst out. You facepalmed a little, gaining weird looks from the boys. "Ignore him. Where did you say you got your refills from?" "California," Jimin responded. So far, over the course of the discussion, Jungkook remained silent, arms folded as he stared at the table. Jimin was more than enthusiastic to cooperate with you, answering your questions as detailed as he could. "We've been getting our refills from there for three years now. Taehyung knows the dealer, and we're all positive there's no way in hell he shipped us that." "Taehyung?" you glanced at Jungkook, whose mouth remained pinched in a thin line. You were relieved to find out they remained best friends after everything that happened. You knew Jungkook needed a strong support system, and Taehyung was more than enough for that. "Yeah. He just finished his shift today, but if you need to talk to him, I can give him a call," Jimin offered. "No, it's fine. I talk to him in personal some other time," you scribbled some notes on a scrap piece of paper. "The drugs must've been planted here in Korea. If it were from abroad, it wouldn't get pass customs." "That's exactly what we've been telling the police, but they wouldn't listen to us without a lawyer," he rolled his eyes. "Any suspects?" "Minho. Jung Minho," Jungkook's voice surprised you. He sat up, placing his hands on the table. "He runs the tattoo parlor down the street, that sleazy son of a bitch." "Must've gotten a hold of the package before we did," he continued. He was twiddling with his thumbs, a habit you recognized he never got rid off. "Don't jump to conclusions." "I'm not, but sometimes we have to make decisions, ___." He spat, voice raising slightly. He noticed the everyone staring at him uneasily and slid back down on his chair. "I mean, no one else would've done it aside from them." "Do you have any evidence, at least?" you passed Namjoon the notes so far from your hour-long discussion. He took his laptop out to summarize everything in a single document. "No. But we got the coke bags out. Made sure to use gloves so we won't leave prints behind and give the police the wrong idea," Oh so now he wanted to talk. Though you felt guilty for everything that happened in the past, you can’t help but get annoyed at his attitude right now. He was the one who wanted your help in the first place. "I see. I'll take a look at them after this," you looked over to Namjoon, who returned a curt nod. He was still focused on his laptop. "We appreciate your cooperation," your sarcasm directed to Jungkook. He scoffed, abruptly standing to rustle at his desk. He aimlessly picked up pencils and markers, putting them in their respective holders. "We'd appreciate it more if you won this case." With just one statement, Jungkook managed to push all your buttons. You stood up as well, Namjoon holding your arm down. "Why don't you check on the cocaine bags while I interrogate Jungkook more? Mr. Park-" "Jimin's just fine," The pink-haired boy offered a kind smile. "Jimin, please guide the way." One of Namjoon's winning traits was being calm under pressure. He was the one to hold you back before fights erupted, or the one to retrieve deleted files whenever the computer crashed and you had a presentation in two hours. Basically the one to keep you impulsiveness and short temper on watch. You followed Jimin out Jungkook's workplace. He led you back into the waiting area, and into the employees only room. The room itself resembled more of a hangout than an employee lounge. They had all their stocks and spare equipment neatly placed in cabinets off to one side. The center had a round table covered in sketch designs and discarded pencils. Those were about the only things that made the room look professional. The other side of the room was a whole different world. On the opposite side was a small vending machine next to an arcade game of Tekken. You recognized a D.Va styled jacket slung on one of the chairs. The walls had video game labels and band posters plastered all around. "Oh wow, how you did you get all this?" You blushed, immediately realizing how arrogant you must have sounded. Jimin didn't mind though, even laughing at your awe-struck expression. "The tattoo shop burst in popularity two years ago. We had money to spare, so Jungkook thought he'd pamper the employee lounge a bit," He put a black glove on and reached into one of the drawers, bringing a small sealable bag out. You picked up a stray glove, wearing it before picking the baggie up. It looked about five grams. You crinkled your nose in disgust. After finding some tissue, you carefully wrapped it up and placed it in your bag. Jimin let you check the lounge once more, patiently giving you space. "I'm Jimin, by the way," you looked at him questioningly. "I mean, I know you already know my name, but I wanted to give you a proper introduction." "Hello, Jimin. I'm ___," you smiled. "I'm a lawyer who used to be America-based, but as you can see, I moved here to escape from my insufferable mother." He laughed again, eyes crinkling. You never truly got a good look at him. His cheeks were full, like his plump lips. Although he was shorter than Jungkook, he looked older. It was clear he worked out, but you soon found out he was also very open as a person. "I'm a tattoo artist who specializes in traditional and blackwork styles. We each have our own thing here in Seoul Ink. Tae's good in watercolor and illustrative styles. If you like monochromatic designs, the right person to go to is Yoongi hyung." "How about Jungkook?" you told yourself you were asking out of curiosity, and only curiosity. You were to remain professional, to not get involved with your ex. "He's a well-rounded guy, but likes realism and new-school designs more. Not to pry, but is everything okay with you guys?" he gestured for you to sit on one of the chairs. "Well, I suppose we do need to be open with our clients." Jimin waited for you to continue, the pink light making his features softer. "We used to date in high school. It ended right before college, and I'm pretty sure it ended badly." "I'm pretty sure it ended badly too." You gave him a pointed look, to which he held his hands up in defense. "I mean, you looked like you were gonna tear his throat off a while ago." "I was trying to be civil. I guess I didn't know any better and thought he'd grown out of his childishness or something." "Maybe he didn't get over the breakup? That usually happens when it ends badly." He didn't know, but Jimin got it straight on. Even you haven't gotten over it yourself. You always wished the best for him. A selfish part of you even wanted to get him back, even after all those years. But you weren't here to get him back. You were here to finish the job. You had to push your feelings away. Jimin noticed your silence. "Do you believe in fate?" "I think?" Truthfully, you used to a dreamer, like Jungkook. Law school beat it out of you, giving you a cold facade to put on. "I want to believe in fate." "Maybe fate brought you here so you two could have a second chance then." he smirked. You glared at him, wiping the smile off his face. "At least make up a little. We couldn't get through this if you're constantly at each other's throats." "I'll talk to him." "Great! He already gave Namjoon his number, but here's mine for when you can't contact him," You gave him your phone, his fingers tapping away to input his number. "Thanks for putting up with us," His eyes were filled with sincerity, and you couldn't help but give him a small grin. "Of course." It's my job, you wanted to say, but couldn't find the heart to. You met Namjoon in the waiting area, laptop tucked away in his satchel. He was checking out one of the designs - a man wearing a suit, a bouquet of roses sprouting from his neck instead of a head. "Do you wanna get one or...?" He jolted at your voice. "Jesus Christ, ___." He never really grew out of his nerdy persona. Maybe people never truly change. "Jungkook seems like a nice guy. Lay off him a little, okay?" "I was actually planning to talk to him real quick, thank you very much." With that, you disappeared behind the hallway curtain again, leaving Namjoon with Jimin. You quickly found his room, knocking thrice before opening the door. You gasped, shutting it quickly again. Jungkook was sitting by his desk, shirt off and tattoos on full display. You didn't see much aside from a blur of black and splashes of reds and blues. Your cheeks were heating over, and you guess you must've surprised him as well. There was a thud behind the door, along with rapid footsteps. Slowly, the door opened slightly, enough to reveal a shirted Jungkook "Can I talk to you for a second?" you murmured. He stepped aside, opening the door wider. Wordlessly, you let yourself in, awkwardly standing behind him when he sat back on the swivel chair. "Hey." "Hey," he replied plainly. He always got this difficult sometimes, even back then. "How are you?" You settled for the customer seat, attached to a tray holding needles and a tattoo gun. You took a closer look around his workplace, recognizing messy sketches pinned on a corkboard. The same designs he used to draw back then. He fidgeted for a bit, eyes downcast on the floor. "Good. Been running the shop for a while. My brother calls me twice every month now." He looked up at you, eyes dark. You couldn't tell whether was anger or pain. Or both. He let out a long sigh. "I made it, ___." "I'm sorry," you choked out. You didn't know what else to say. You cursed yourself for not asking Namjoon for more information on the client before accepting the case. But did you really want to give this away? "I never stopped thinking of you." "Do you expect a thank you?" he folded his arms again. Why did he have to act so difficult? You shamed yourself for having these thoughts. It was your fault after all. He had every right to be angry at you. "Jungkook, I'm sorry," you tried again, tone softer this time. He blinked back what looked like tears, or he could've had something in his eye. The light made it hard to see. "Let's just act like adults, okay? Finish the case. And if you want to talk about more personal things, we can do that after." "You never did change, huh? As goal-oriented as ever," he smiled bitterly. “Job over everything else.” "You're still as stubborn as before," you grimaced at him. He chuckled, leaning back, tilting his chin up to the ceiling. He hummed, stretching his back. "I miss you," He opened an eye, peering at you. Your facade has crumpled, and you felt like the same girl six years ago after the breakup. He didn't say anything. Jungkook had so many thing running through his mind. Out of all the lawyers in Seoul, he just had to get you. Even after all those years, he still wanted to see you. But now that you were right in front of him, he felt nothing but pain and sadness. He loved you so much, but now that you were here, the only thing he could remember was the day you ran away from him. The day you left him. He shifted in his seat. Jungkook knew he had to get himself together for the tattoo parlor, for his friends. He thought he cut you off already a long time ago. "You can win this thing, right? I worked too hard for too long just to lose this. I crawled my way up here. I’m finally doing something I love," His voice was low, masking his wavering tone. You nodded determinedly. You weren't going to disappoint him again. "I know you can, ___. I've always believed in you. Would've appreciated it if you believed in me too," The way he said it was so quiet, you almost didn't hear it. But you did. It felt like he wanted to say something else, like he was ready to tell you everything that happened after the day you left, but he stopped himself. He spun the chair, facing away from you. "I have a full schedule tomorrow. I should finish the rest of these designs." You slowly got up. Your chest felt heavy, heart in your throat. All the pent-up emotion hit you all at once. "It's good to see you again," he lightly said. You looked back, seeing a sad smile on his lips. The second you got in the car, Namjoon was looking at you worriedly. "Are you okay? You look like you're about to cry." "The lighting was too much for me," you lied. You've made your mind up. Case or no case, you were glad to see Jungkook again. And you weren't willing to let him go this time. “Let’s get that god-tier dinner.”

#jungkook x reader #jungkook #jungkook scenarios #jeon jungkook #bts smut #bangtan smut #bts #bts scenarios #jungkook imagines #bts imagines #bangtan scenarios #bts au #bts angst

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grim-faux · 4 years

Text

21 - Hall of Rorschachs

The lift gave a harsh clatter against the steel rails, as the cables jerked the empty container back to the ground floor. I twisted around and lunged at the underside in some pitiful attempt to latch on and ride up, or drag it back down if I must. Even if there was doubt I had the strength to hold on, I was desperate. But it was not to be, I was far from grasping the cart as it faded into the dark gullet of the chute. The clatter of the carriage grew distant as I stood in the shadows gazing up, hand outstretched. Begging. My thoughts pleading. No one was listening. I returned my focus to the short corridor with the lamps that buzzed and dim whenever a surge slid through. I was so set on getting out. Ready to say my goodbyes. I let my fucking guard down. How typical. How fucking typical.

I tried the call button beside the chutes entrance, but it required a magnet key. I recalled the Asylum, and the numerous trials I endured to locate those damn cards. I didn’t believe I would stumble upon one down here, since it was ‘Father’ Martin that had planted them for me. God, even in death he’s still giving me shitty fetch quests.

New Objective: Find another way out. I didn’t know what awaited down here, lurking. Didn’t feel prepared to continue. It couldn’t be worse than the twins or Trager, could it? I crossed to the set of doors and pushed one open, and was nearly blinded by the sterile light blazing over the pristine walls and floor. Bright glaring lights, that reminded me of His cell. I blinked the dryness away as I stepped into the hall, I could detect an immediate change in pressure. Aside from the air having a dry and clinical property, I couldn’t explain the sensation, but I didn’t like it. Bravo for intuition. The floor was polished and as bright and white as the cylindrical walls curved around the hall. I wasn’t a geologist so my knowledge was limited, but if I had to guess I would say it was all chiseled from natural stone, from the mountain itself ”…something that had been waiting for them in the mountain.” What the hell was this place? Now that I thought back on it, a colleague of mine had tried to relate a scientific matter to me concerning specific ores, and how it attributed to supernatural occurrences. Truth of the matter I had been a piss poor student, and constantly teased her as she tried to educate me. But I had listened enough. The paranormal was a genre she was interested in, and she was thrilled to tell me about a place she visited in Colorado (not Mount Massive). Some ritzy Hotel, the Overlook I think was the name, its location built upon a cash of natural limestone. Scientific observations were utilized to support theories, that paranormal occurrences could be attributed to high concentrations of limestone in the mountain. Something in the mineral conducted electricity. It sounded a little too fantastic to me, but here and now, I was beginning to wonder if Murkoff had premeditated these findings. Someone believed them. In that case, the Asylum wasn’t target exclusively for the history or the seclusion. It was elected due to the qualities of the region itself. Or maybe I was just tired. I looked up at the symbol printed above the next set of doors. I’d seen it before. No, not the lockers in prison block. The video the Priest had forced me to watch. That symbol was on the floor when the MHS tacticals were throttled like chickens. The atomic, molecular design? Or could there be further religious affiliation? I pushed the doors open and stepped into a fresh scene of horror. I knew this room, and my anxiety increased tenfold. Blood streaked the floor, splattered on the white stone walls. Bullet marks decorated steel and glass in random areas, the pieces of a gun had been scattered over the floor with black splatters. Muscles and entrails glistened under the light as I moved from the doors. Red had dried to the large crescent desk fixed at the rooms center, two large screens sat behind it, bright and cheery in contrast to the stew soaking into the stone. One read Murkoff Corporation, the other sported the trinity Molecular design along with WALRIDER PROJECT in bold. And the symbol on the floor streaked with blood. That symbol was everywhere. With a sigh, I took out my camera and filmed everything. It was giving me low battery warnings, but I had at least a half hour left if I didn’t run out of power for the night vision. Unfortunately, there seemed to be plenty of light in this place. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Whoever finds my corpse – trust no one and tell everyone. I am not crazy. I know, I know, only crazy people say that. But I am as sane as this world allows, with a camera full of evidence. Don’t call it a gospel. Call it a mockery of reason, let the world know it is Murkoff’s fault. Bury these bastards with my mutilated dead body.” It took a few minutes for me to write. My hands seemed steady at first, but when I put pen to paper, well…. Aside from the difficulty of holding my pen against my middle finger, it was almost unbearable to apply pressure to my index finger. I dated the note and leaned back to view murder and rot surrounding me while I wrote. I needed to get my priorities straight. A few plants dotted the room, but I knew they were fake without a glance. Polished gray pillars encircled the lobby, they didn’t resemble any specific mineral. Just general grade cement to support the dark blue ceiling. The far side was comprised of a glassed portion of the wall, with thick pipes behind. Water, gas, electricity, I didn’t care. Beside the wall sat a short desk, out of place among the red streaks. Two chairs had been set facing one another, and two mugs of coffee still sat on the brown wood. I averted my gaze to the opposite wall, where a purge chamber stood open to the room, black blood washed down its sides and soaking the floor. The images came back clearly as I had seen them, despite the drugs swimming through my brain at the time. I could envision the panicked militants shrieking as their bodies were ripped through the tiny crevices in the doors, and holes of the glassed in wall. One man’s legs still lay a few feet from the pile of meat, a string of organs dried to the stone. I stumbled back into the large desk and sat down on its surface. My hand touched a folder beside me, and I looked down to flip through the pages. It was nothing remarkable, nothing relevant I decided. From the personal records of Dr. Wernicke. The Modern Prometheus Document: The Pride of Wisdom Schrodinger Wolfram “FRANKENSTEIN, or The Modern Prometheus” by Mary Shelley, published anonymously in 1818. Chapter 23, excerpt – “Man,” I cried, “how ignorant art thou in thy pride of wisdom! Cease; you know not what it is you say." I broke from the house angry and disturbed, and retired to meditate on some other mode of action. Well, it appeared they created man’s monster. And it hath a wraith unlike no other being in our world. I closed the folder and pinched the bridge of my nose. It was apparent I had dug in too deep, I didn’t know if I could claw out of the grave I had lain in. I suppose I had one choice. Keep digging. I didn’t know exactly where I was, but I had a strong estimate. I was in the Basement of the Asylum. I looked to the security operative slumped in his chair, near where I perched. Briefly, I wondered what would become of the remains of all these people? Even if Murkoff wasn’t the shady bastards that they were, it was impossible to gather up the pieces to return them to their families. The investigation? I slid off the desk and approached the blood splattered door of the cold purge chamber. My breath hitched as I tried to inhale gently, but the pain in my rib couldn’t be negotiated with. I didn’t know if I could do this all over. I might need to find someplace to rest and if fate allowed, I would awaken before I died. The door panel sparkled embers from the torn wires, probably motion sensors detecting my approach. The doors held silent, an eerie howl raised from the dark depths. I raised the NV and reassured myself there was nothing, I was alone except for the dead. The hair bristled along my brow. God, why did I put that image in my head? I shuffled forward into the cradle of the dark. Above wires and cables ran the length of the tunnel, the walls were as they were in the entrance, chiseled and polished stone with occasional gaps that had been glassed off where additional paneling and vital equipment or systems were nestled. The camera flashed a familiar image, I tensed as static buzzed through and waited until it cleared. Nothing but shredded bodies, nothing but the secrets these people died with. I listened to the silence. For so long I was accustomed to the distant shrieks and mutter of people, behind doors I hoped to never open. Now, I was buried deep in solid rock, with only the pulse in my bones to alleviate the sterile peace. Murkoff personnel were everywhere, lined against the walls, bodies torn inside out by a force I could never have a want to comprehend. I doubt any two were slain in the same fashion, or the method of death so violent it was impossible to replicate. As always, never footprints. But what ghost had feet? Guts and lungs splattered up walls, I was unsettled by how fresh it appeared to be, but attributed it to the NV. Thin lines marked the floor, I knew these prints that made long red through copious puddles. I’d seen the same when I was pushed off an elevator by a lunatic. They turned when the tunnel curved, ahead light swept into the shadows. I clicked off the nightvision but hesitated to emerge. I refused to trust the helpful presence of light, but for now it was welcomed while my camera demanded a fresh battery. I dropped the old one and set the new one in. The distant clatter that echoed was a solitary thing throughout the corridor. The wall along my right had the natural mineral trimmed away into flat walls, reinforced with cement, and steel in some areas. The metal portions were fitted with slates, or shields, that same symbol from the lobby was printed besides the shields. I stared down, the marks. Those lines went through these panels, curving around the edge. I debated the meaning as I took a deep breath and squinted my eyes. They looked like portals or panels that could be moved. There was a set of powerful looking hydraulic hinges, but otherwise no handles or switches that could gain access. Probably wouldn’t do me any good anyway. I fit my fingers along the edge testing for a draft, but judged they were airtight. Pressure sealed. This facility was dedicated to science and clinical procedures, despite the butcher of the upper floors. If there was a way out, hopefully I didn’t need to access it within there. I could come back, once the rest of the Block was explored. As I resumed on my way, something came to my thoughts, it was a bit random. In the report it was stated Billy had spoken to the Dr. Wernicke in a white room. I spun around checking the walls and surrounding surfaces. This place was pretty white. But…that wasn’t possible. I looked up and watched a camera connected to the cables in the ceiling revolved slowly, catching all the action as it happened. I glanced back at the doorway before I continued down the hall. A Block. The large plate on the wall identified this as A Block, or the whole hall was? There wasn’t much to it. I was reminded of the Cell Block’s of the Asylum above – C Block, D Block. Clearly this was as a part of the Asylum as the condemned sections of the Female Ward. This didn’t surprise me. But it could have been coincidence as well. I’d go with that, since I was done with the conspiracy theories. The next set of doors had pop marks across the glass and metal, bent out in small boils where bullets had lodged. The bullets were fully visible in the glass, surrounded by the star shaped impressions that commemorate the battle. I felt the shadows around me as I huddled in the garden, the branches cracking as something swept through. That inhuman shrill. In my ear screaming as the thunder laughs, and my vision fills with white. Then I’m curled up in the room, the dry wood and cold plaster on either shoulder as I tremble and listen to the ringing in my ears. The sensation that crawls through me, I can’t explain it. I’ve lost something, yet, nothing is amiss. I don’t feel right. I barely glimpsed the panel at my left. Morphogenic Engine. I stopped with my hand on the door and bent my head around studying the hall I had moved through. You know what? Fuck that. I can’t conceive what it would look like, what exactly it’s supposed to do. I don’t care. I’ll come back! I promise. I’ll come back if I have too. That was probably a hollow promise, but my obligations had faded since I stepped off that damn elevator. I had no luck with elevators. A series of large canisters greeted me on the other side of the doors, pressed to the wall on my left and out of the way. The label read ‘saline’ substitute. That sounded kind of weird, wasn’t saline a substitute? I took in details of the hall, my camera held in no specific position as I walked. The ceiling retained its natural rock, but the walls on either side resembled the interior of medical labs. This all looked like existing cave before Murkoff came along and filled it with their nightmare science. The idea brought me back to the theory of the mountains as the target rather the Asylum, and I wondered about the files I had found dating back before Mount Massive was shut down. If not for the limestone, then the isolated region was more than worth the resources to insure the quality of their uninterrupted studies. I touched the wall on my left as I neared the doorframe. The material was metal and possibly reinforced. I don’t think it was meant for militaristic operations, though they clearly took precautions for their work. For an invasion or ‘terrorist’ attack, a lot of good it did them. A thin red streak slipped between the open doors I peered through, blood was spread from ceiling to floor. I blinked, staring. The air was thick with copper and rot. I was so tired of that smell, but I just couldn’t get away from it. It was soaked into my clothing as it was soaking into the walls around me. I stepped inside, careful of the pieces beside the counter that had once been one or two people. Maybe three. All of them spattered over the floor, organs hung in ribbons on counters, pieces of bone scattered over metal cabinets. I scanned the labels visible through the glassed in shelves. Most were filled with vials of fluids, many of which sported long, four syllable words with –ine or –phen on the end. Files were scattered over the sinks and floors, reminders for injections and progress with patients identified by numbers. I stood beside the rolling chairs and scanned over the room, debating if it was possible that materials remained that I could patch my hands with. Something actually medical, rather the spare shirt that would be waiting for me in the jeep. Pipes twisted around the edge of the ceiling. I followed the sections around the room trying to recall something about pipes. They were pumping the recycled air throughout the facility, they had to. Couldn’t risk foreign contamination. It sounded ridiculous in my head, but I preferred it that way. Revisiting the hall, I turned left. The black stains of yet more Researchers coated the gray metal of Nitroglycerin tanks, scattered beside the wall. He was probably in the midst of transporting them when it all happened. A few tanks managed to stay on the wrecked cart against the wall. I poked into the next room, the remains of staff had all but painted the walls. I stumbled as I leaned on the door, just… everywhere I looked, the broken pieces of tissue and body parts was all over. I have to emphasize the ALL OVER aspect. I thought the Asylum itself was gruesome, but this was something else entirely. I looked from the doors of the room, shot up by bullets, to the large tank of unmarked gas or fluid. At the other corner was a medical waste bin piled high with black bags, stuffed with unknown rubbish. It was a clear violation of sanitation, but for whatever reason Murkoff began to lack in strict policies during its final days. I was curious to what could be crammed in those bags but they sagged and were covered in unknown gunk, and the smell of residual chemicals did not encourage me. It was subtle evidence of distress, though at the time this room from a glance gave the delusion of order and regiment. I stared up as I leaned on the autopsy table bolted to the floors center. Above, an arm hung from one of the pipes that lapped around the ceiling, dried muscle had peeled back to reveal white bone. Threads of intestines stuck to files stuffed into the shelves, the jaw of someone was lodged into the space between a drawer and the countertops edge. It looked like the fleshy tissue of the throat had remained attached. I shut my eyes and rested my weight to my free arm, when I opened my eyes, I noted the pages that had scattered from a folder stained with blood. Under the harsh lamps the fluids looked fresh, almost new. The battery in the camera itself was holding strong, I used it to snap the pictures as I skimmed through. PROJECT WALRIDER POSTMORTEM PRIMATORY REPORT MM1300921 (form note: all material herein to be transcribed and revised to fit legally binding requirements of Murkoff Corp. records. See form 4083) AUTHOR: Jennifer Roland NOTES: My fourteenth autopsy of a Walrider patient, showing no more signs of accepting the therapy than any of the others. There have been slight gains in cell migration and morphogenesis (including effects similar to Human Growth Hormone), but nothing to suggest the stable creation of a sentient, independent swarm. So tired. Doubting my judgment. Will submit another request for leave. The psychological cost of using such far gone and further provoked patients is more than I feel I can handle. May suggest hanging less hope on the far-flung theories of a senile Nazi and move towards using a simpler mechanical engine based on major sperm protein. Will definitely suggest harsher chemical restraints. Murkoff Security killed patient 923 after he overcame enough tranquilizers to put down a hockey team. I’m afraid the Hormone Therapy is interacting with our chemical restraints in a counterproductive manner. This file. This file was very important. It gave insight that had not been present in past documents. The use of words in her text made it sound like…. Dr. Wernicke was still alive. I stared at the phrase she included which made the doctors status current, if it was not a mistake of word use. But that would make him ninety years old, at the least. I set the file down and looked upon the carnage, the violence, the death. I corrected myself. Wernicke had been alive. I couldn’t imagine him surviving this. I tossed the file aside and ventured through the door, turning to the corridors end. Expulsion of gooey innards spread high on the wall, long red lines slid down before the liquid dried. More death, more bodies that had at one time been living people. I pressed my hand to the wall as I took the right corner, avoiding the skin stretched across polished white floor. I don’t know why I was self-conscious now, after I had traipsed through mounds of bodies in the Asylums halls. I couldn’t even come up with a cheap theory. Every corner, I saw red and wet entrails, black skin and orange puss. The air was filled with its rancid vapor, from the methane released as the meat soured. What would they do with all these bodies? Where could you put them all? I didn’t reach the doors in my path. I had to stop and lean on the wall, gazing at them. Doors and more doors. What would be behind them? My liberation at last? I didn’t care, I had to lie down, rest. The ache in my skull was unbearable, if I took one more step I would fall. I couldn’t go on like this. I just kept seeing bodies and faces, images I couldn’t explain. What was I seeing? I wasn’t even hiding in the shadows. The shapes were no longer trapped in my camera. The room spun, I kept myself from stumbling with my hand on the wall as I lowered down. There was a shallow slant beside the floor, I propped my good side on this to keep the pressure off my ribs. I kept the camera in my right hand and set it beside me. I wasn’t planning on sleeping, just needed to give myself a chance to cut the ache. The floor was cold but it felt so good to lay my head against it. It didn’t even matter how bright the bulbs were above, I could turn my face into the collar of my coat and shut my eyes. Almost at once I felt my mind descending into a thick blanket of sleep. I tried to stir from the tempting lull, but I couldn’t resist. I was surrounded by the corpses of dozens of unnamed scientists but I didn’t give a damn, it was too hard to stay conscious. I escaped the pain, I escaped the world, and I escaped the cold halls churning in my mind. As I felt my body slip into the illusion of safety, a painful spasm shot up my spine. I was paralyzed. The sensation was horrible, my muscles locked up and I couldn’t will them to relax. It was as if the concept of mobility was ripped from my brain. I was a prisoner in my body, fully capable of detecting the environment around me but unable to react to it. I felt the camera in my hand as I slowly regained consciousness, but… I remained unable to rip free of the powerful vice that had seized my chest. It was too painful to do anything less pathetic than cringe. I whined as my ribs shifted in my side and gagged. I was suffocating! My eyes open drunkenly, dots whirling in my vision as my brain craved oxygen. I saw something. A dark shape leaning over me, staring into my face. I barked out a terrified sound and swung my arms out, clipping the wall with my left hand as I thrashed. I scrambled over the floor struggling to escape thin air, until I was pressed back into the doors. I stared wild eyed, disturbed and gasping for air, despite the odd tickle in my chest. There was… Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The lights blazed down as fierce as when I had dropped, my head pulsed the same as before. No change. There was no demon here. The sharp sting returned to my finger as I recalled, I’d just smacked a stone wall with it. I clutched the shaking hand to my chest, and curled my other arm around it and barred myself in with my knees. I sat for moment fighting to forget the pain, while my filthy pants soaked up red drops. “Nothing is here,” I whispered. “Just a nightmare.” My voice rattled against the walls, impossibly loud, overpowering briefly the dull buzz that hung over me. I uncoiled and trusted weight on the bleeding hand to push me upright. My body was uncooperative but my mental brawn won over. I shut the door behind me and scanned the long corridor ahead. To my eyes it just went on forever. Probably wasn’t too far off. A thick pipe extended overhead, I saw no other visible wires and took this might have been the main electrical. Beside it metal cabinets jutted from the walls, though the natural stone work remained in this tunnel, along with various protrusions. Additions, such as flues were burrowed into the rock on either side, and another thick gray pipe extended along the ceiling. Electricity was in the air, I could feel it like the hum from a television when you first turn it on. But it’s forceful, charged in the empty space but not in the walls themselves. Maybe it was the lamps overhead. I set my hand on the gray pipe testing the vibrations but felt none. I ignored the marks of blood I left behind, as I walked and swayed around the huge tanks. Many stood my height but none held clear labels, just a serial label printed on the metal top. The sides of the floor were marked with caution strips, and other more descript warning lines marked the floor every few feet. I skimmed over the large pipes bent and twisted along the corridor walls, of what they transported I couldn’t say. Looked like aqueducts, but I doubted this. Pallets stacked high with bags and covered with a blue tarp, had been abandoned in the hall. I tried to peel back the plastic cover and record what was beneath but the material was thick. I also lacked the patience. I slipped over the top rather crawl around. Judging by the layout of this tunnel, I could deduce this was not a main wing but dedicated to temporary storage hall. Plans in the schedule might have included park the pellets in a more particle space, but that was before the shit storm hit. Or this was another example of a lapse in protocol. I winced when another thought hit. Files existed that made note on the cutback in staff costs. The man I had seen playing the piano. Had he been a patient? I jumped when the camera sputtered, the noise echoed from the chiseled walls. Damn it! That scared the shit out of me! I held it away as the visor cleared, and continued walking. The files would be corrupt, I decided. But I could still salvage them, I had equipment for that. My shoulders shook on the thought of reviewing what I had recorded. The sounds I made when I ran from Trager. It didn’t even sound like me. Was that really me? I said that allowed, and paused to glance around wondering if it was I that had spoken. I barely began walking when I noticed to my left, a window. I skid to a stop and backed up. A window! Transparent hand prints of red stained the surface, but beyond that sunlight. Sunlight! From the outside! It was all clear golden sky, rolling hills. No more storms filled with monsters shrieking with the thunder! The outside world was still out there. It was waiting just for me. I was staring into a militaristic hangar, a few vehicles parked under the steel structure ceiling, the walls stretched around appeared reinforced. Most important of all, there was no sign of life, no movement. Just equipment, materials, large barrels of god knows what. And that beautiful sunlight washed across the military jeep wedged in the doorway. If I was viewing it from the correct angle, no one was going to close that door unless they packed some powerful explosives. Or, had the key to the jeep. I held the camera up and filmed what I was seeing, while trying not to get too close to the Plexiglas. There had to be— Ah. Over there! Far right wall, lit up like Christmas. A purge gate. From the distance and discoloration of the window, I couldn’t validate if it functioned or not. But it didn’t matter, it was the first entrance/exit I had come across. There didn’t seem to be any difficulty in dismantling those purge gates though. How did I get over there? I tracked the hall that continued before me, with my eyes. If I had a map, no doubt it’d have an arrow indicating this way led to the exit. Large blue barrels sat in my path, I could view traces of blood on the walls just beyond them. Directly behind me, another set of doors clear and featureless. Above the frame a green bulb, indicating they were unlocked? I stared into the white hall within, while my mind hunted for escape. I had visions of myself entering that small hall and an alarm going off, a steel shutter lowering like in some James Bond film and me stuck inside forever because I just couldn’t let go. Or maybe I was afraid to? Could that be it? The doors parted automatically upon detecting my movement, the plastic panels issued a soft hiss as frigid air swept out. I paused in the entrance, not doubting my fears, whichever ones I had. I debated turning away and just leaving, working on that gate and my inevitable freedom. But I really couldn’t have too much evidence. I said that once before. But maybe I was right. I was afraid. The short hall was cold, the air crisp, fresh. One of the two doors was left open, which explained the drop in temperature. It was a small room filled with freezers, all below zero temperatures. I stepped around the right side trying a few of the doors, but they required access codes through key panels. At the left side of the room a door had been smashed, the locking mechanism no longer active allowed numerous clear vials to spill across the floor. Whatever the contents, they had dried and converted white limestone into varying shades of iridescent. I kicked a few away with my foot and listened as the glass crinkled as I turned. Along the back wall of the room sat lesser refrigerated cabinets, the contents exposed through foggy glass. Beside them, a dry erase board. I stood before it, my camera giving its usual complaint as I waited patiently for it to quiet. It was some form of chemical engineering algorithm, exponents and a formula function I did not recognize. All in blue marker, except for the title at the top, which was a simple label written in black.

Morphogenic Engine

#miles upshure #outlast #outlast novelized #outlast fanfiction

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imagine-loki · 5 years

Text

Till We Meet Again

TITLE: Till We Meet Again

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: 18/?

AUTHOR: marvelgirlonamarvelworld (side blog)

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki being mesmerized by a girl whose eyes remind him of the Bifrost

Imagine that Loki would visit you when you were a child, persuading you into mischief and cheering you up with his magic tricks, you assumed he was imaginary.

RATING: M

NOTES/WARNINGS: angst, whump, language, not much really. Just a transition chapter

A/N 2: Alas! a new chapter! So I decided to merge a one-shot I’ve been working on with this new chapter. Thank you all for reading!!! I deeply, truly appreciate it :’) as always, feedback’s appreciated!!

Clouds.

Alabaster gaseous matter formed with every trembling exhale. A ghastly thing that soon withered to a dark null. One which became part of the cold nothingness the fallen Icarus prince found himself surrounded by.

Cold damp stone met his aching palms. If once such low temperatures had no stir to his being, now it sent pangs and jolts through his blood. The bitter cold seeped through his pores and into his decaying soul.

The fallen prince, with his innocent eyes now bloodshot, endeavored to push himself from the damp floor yet his strengths betrayed his crippling will. Right away his torn gold-plated chest hit the cold ground as all air inside his lungs was no more.

“Allfather…” he sobbed, failing to swallow the lump, as a loose tear allied with his weakness, “Father…why have you abandoned me?” The single pearl of salt danced down his cheek while his stare remained on the black stone ground; while his hands continued to struggle to at least be on his knees. “Why…” his ghastly face contorted. Another lament betrayed his lost facade of vain and might. “Why have you left me, father? Why have you abandoned me, mother?”

His words still echoed. The resounding ‘No’ before letting go. Yes. Before letting go.

Loki had fallen. Fallen so suddenly, so haltingly, so briskly, so gracefully.

Unmade in the process, his broken body and exhausted mind traveled through space, journeyed through time.

Fell and landed on a field of cold and clouds and shadows. Of watching eyes whose bodies remained embraced by the darkness. Of distant screams and wails enticed by mistress torture.

What a misfortune.

Another moan ripped away from his throat. One which became a breath of strength to his soul.

Gritting his teeth and closing his eyes, his palms pushed his body off of the ground. Yet his arms did not move at all. Nothing happened, his body remained prostrated. Loki could not feel his limbs, could not feel the rest of his body at all. His body was numb. Dormant from the fall.

And his blue lips quivered. Trembled as a ragged wail burned his throat followed by hiccups and suffocating sucks of air. His forehead pressed against the cold stone ground. “I could have done it…I could have done it. I could have done it.”

His head remained bowed down, tears blurring and blinding his sight; facing the grim ominous dirt embodying his downfall and misery; letting loose trembling strands of coal hang and stick to his forehead while his decaying body broke in ripples of sweat that frostbit his bones.

The young prince cried, sobbed and trembled before the black starless sky; before curious eyes guarding and waiting. Fisted the dirt, tasted his own blood, heeded the distant cries and screams caressing his spine, recalled it all yet ignored it all.

“I could have done it…” his jaw clenched and ached. The pounding inside his head bloomed and magnified it all through his body.

Once again he was nothing.

Loki had no wings. No form to soar high into the night. Poor thing, they’d been clipped, plucked mercilessly. Left his bare back bleeding raw. And it would only get worse from there onward, yet he knew not of that at all.

But it mattered naught either.

For his claws remained sharp. As sharp as his silver tongue was. As swift as diamonds cutting through glass. Blood forged. Disappointment sharpened. Ready to be drawn. Anxious to slash. Hungry to bury themselves in the ferrous fine crimson wine.

For many names he’d been called. And relentless was one.

With every movement and flection, his bones trembled. With every weary heartbeat, his strength almost gave in. But now he was sat against a pillar whose tallness appeared infinite. His reddened eyes could see it all now, crystal clear and realized…death was lurking about.

His eyes drifted to the void space, deep down hoping to notice a sign. A raven flying through the gray clouds, a flash of light contrasting with the black, a shooting star…even a spark of colors resembling those of an opal though he didn’t know why.

“He…Hei…Heimdall…” Loki called upon the watcher and protector of the realm he’d known as his homeland. “Heimdall.” Hope tainted his hoarse voice. “Open the Bifrost…” another tear allied with fright and rolled down his pale sunken cheek. “If you can hear me. If you can…see me. I beg you bring forth the Bifrost.”

All noise withered down to a hum. And like a child anxiously awaiting to wish upon a rain of shooting stars, Loki continued to gaze up to the night with his heart thumping and his mind buzzing, already imaging the familiar blinding flash.

“Please…”

One heartbeat.

Two heartbeats.

Three heartbeats.

Space remained black.

“Heimdall?” His hand raised to grasp the distant night and swallowed his pride and continued to call. “Mother? Please forgive me.”

It was a matter of patience, had to wait, Loki told himself still clinging to the thinning thread. After all, he was far from home, lightyears away from all known, a million heartbeats away where he belonged.

Yet the waiting was never-ending.

Minutes lost their shape, elongated and transitioned to countless bitter cold nights.

Loki was alone, forgotten, weakened and helpless. Easy prey, the crawling thing. And he couldn’t help but squirm and weep silently from the fear.

His head remained against the pillar and wept his strength away as the shadows danced and took form. “Please…somebody…”

Oh, how he wished his seidr reserves did not empty, did not waste away in healing all that which could not be remedied. To have enough magic to create a little white bird, a beautiful rarity, to send smeared in his blood with a message within its bones. A sign, a feathered warning…to not be forgotten.

“Please,” Loki closed his eyes, already sensing foreign stares peer upon as distant bickering reached his ears. “Please. I pray to thee. Allfathers rejoicing in paradise Valhalla, have mercy on me. I beg please, hear my plea.”

Loki wished to open his eyes, desired to acknowledge his future captors stalk towards him with snarling creatures prowling beside. Yet the overbuilt exhaustion, the suffocating stillness of the disappointing nights forbade him to; the resurfacing screams and uproars of disembodied suffering voices triggered his self-preserve mode. And thus he sought refuge in his mind. Retrieved to the safe heaven where he would remain intact, safe from it all till his strengths came back.

Loki allowed himself to be carried by them, to his downfall, to his unmaking and reshape. Allowed his body to be kidnapped against his racing heart and screaming conscience. For even he obeyed his instincts, his fighting would be futile.

Yet his racing mind was quieted upon the shrieking BOOM! of thunder striking the land…

“Argh!”

Loki sat upright, mad thumping heart against the back of his wide eyes, his throat drowned in hushed sobs and hiccups. He was nothing but a trembling creature; heaving frightened to death, clinging to nothing but his deceiving head.

“Thor?” He called for his brother.

Alabaster clouds still danced about before vanishing into furniture in the blink of watery eyes. And Loki couldn’t help but shakily exhale upon realizing his conscience’s own deceivings. It had been a dream. A nightmare.

His eyes wandered on further, not trusting his own convictions, afraid this too was a dream within a dream. Though he realized he was in the same place he had been yesterday; sitting on the couch, with Luna’s sketchbook on his lap, downstairs..waiting.

Yes. Loki was truly there! The living room was where he headed after the shocking discovery; where he impatiently waited for Luna’s return yet she never did.

Oh, dear gods! He was safe, away from the gates of hell.

Dusk crept through the windows. Clouds covered the skies.

Had he really slept his day away? His floating ponder made him blink multiple times before standing and stretching. He winced at the cracks of his bones and stings on his back; the position he’d drifted to slumber wasn’t the most comfortable, and neither was Midgardian clothing.

Like muscle memory Loki flicked his hand, expecting for the light to flicker to life; completely forgetting the nothingness he’d been left with until darkness prolonged. Disdained, he pursed his lips and made his way to flick the switch on himself.

Much to his disdain, he had not much to do but continue on with the wait. It was exasperating, the silence was too loud yet too quiet at the same time. He could not leave and roam around for his only shield was this home. Step out that door and most likely he’d be detected by the world; by the Allfather if not by Heimdall. And he could not allow that. His whole plans revolved around his apparent death.

The big reveal was not due yet.

Shivers rippled through his spine, traveled through every nerve, swam away in his veins as he walked up the stairs, as the flash of his nightmare played before his glare. It was sickening to remember. A nightmare.

Now that irrational side on him lost appealing.

His limbs went limp and froze in front of Luna’s bedroom door, cursing himself between hisses and ragged breaths. Oh the grand epiphany that’d fallen upon himself. He’d been an idiot. A fool.

Snapping from his dawning, Loki pushed the door and meandered through the dark and into the bathroom.

Ah, glutton. Bit more than he could chew.

He wondered how she was. He hoped that Luna would soon return. Having her away from him made him uneasy, rendered his conscience to grow loud with reproaches and worries for failing to protect her as he’d vowed to do so if something happened.

Loki knew the apology was imminent although he’d pledged against it. Never say never, however. Should’ve known better. If Loki wished her to not leave, that was the remedy; one which was not enough. He knew Luna like the back of his hand, thus acknowledging he’d have to do much than simply ask for her pardoning.

Clothes lay neatly folded by the sink, and soon the tiled space was fogged by crystal mist from the warm artificial stream.

His built figure stood there under the warm embrace of the water, silent, glistening thus enunciating his paleness and markings; at peace yet in an anguishing haze. Loki’s mind kept dwelling between past, present, and future bearings with the scepter being a common denominator.

Yet he’d managed to bury it all, to forget in order for his nightmares to cease hunting again. It’d been nights, days, weeks since he’d dreamt a bad dream. Yet…There was no room for coincidence, no loose strings, nothing; that after discovering his scepter lay at arm’s length all ghosts from the past fluttered to life.

The soft scent of blooming flowers danced through his nostrils just as the foam on his body washed away by the clear stream. Somehow, also carrying away part of his ailing.

The artificial rain ceased. Refracting beads of water rolled through his naked chest and fell from his raven hair as a white towel covered his lower half. The cool tiles against his feet sparked goosebumps to race along his spine.

Again he walked from the light into the dark. And a sudden flash of a memory surfaced before his eyes, perhaps a second epiphany, of him as a child once frightened by the lack of light. Always seeking the comforting warmth of his mother’s arms.

Oh, how Loki missed Frigga, and wondered…was she aware of his apparent death? Had she mourned as little as the Allfather or as much as his brother had presumably done?

Funny how his fear became his comforting mantle from the scorching lights, from the true enemies disguised as lambs.

Shadows took form and elongated as Loki reached the closet and opened it. A pair of jeans and a black tee were his outfit.

He wondered now when Luna had purchased them, or to whom this changes of clothing belonged to in the past. Yet he made no fuss of it as the soft fabric slipped against his scarred flesh; unbeknownst to him, inner jealousy had already been irked by it regardless.

Trailing back to turn off the light of the bathroom, his foot stumbled against a soft surface that soon slid across the floor and laid by the doorframe. Right away his emerald glare discerned it was a book.

Surprise incarcerated his breath in the confinements of his chest as he picked up the familiar worn out hardcover and peered at it in detail. Musky green. Torn out edges. The familiarity of the runic scripture on the spine of it made his heart stop beating right before speeding mad.

Who knew of all places Loki had searched for his favourite book of spells, which he had lost years ago, he would come to find it in this home? Of all places! What were the odds?

The odds, however, were the little girl he had once befriended.

“Little thief,” Loki muttered and smiled warmly.

Meanwhile,

Somewhere in the outskirts of New York City.

“Nothing?” The sound of silence vanished by Matt’s ponder from across the table. His voice was no more than sound waves sheathed by pure boredom, and borderline exasperation intensified by the many rounds of caffeine ingested through the over twenty-four-hour fruitless searches.

“Nada,” Luna responded while rubbing her eyes and drowning out a yawn. The computer screen displayed in a hideous yellow font at the center of the screen a ‘No Match’ sign which made her mentally roll her eyes. Of course she would find nothing. Political high ends would have interest but not the guts to steal the suitcase from the tower.

“Are you sure?” He asked from across the table with his face hiding behind the laptop screen.

“Yes.” Luna groaned as the blinding white lights from the ceiling glared and reflected on the thick glass covering the wood beneath it.

Stalling while incriminating the world was easy. Annoying but easy. Mantled her with the illusion of past normalcy, a mirage of how things used to be.

No doubt Matt believed her words; although, the discrepancy he’d found her at home and not at the Tower was quite startling. All in all, on the other hand, Luna had some Loki in her, no doubt some of his trickery was bound to stick; make a fool think the sky is green when in reality…it is neither blue nor green.

“I’ve gone through every file, nothing stands out, no solid match,” Luna made eye-contact with Matt. “But I don’t doubt the possibility it might have been one of these people. I mean, if what you say is true that whatever’s inside that suitcase is worth so much…” she snorted and hand gestured to his once upon a time friend, “it could’ve been any of the people we’ve played. Any who realized they were double-crossed by us.”

“But nobody knew this intel,” Matt replied and brushed his hair back exasperatedly. “Our circle is tight, Luna. We’re a small group. And we’re running out of time.”

Her eyebrows creased and fell silent momentarily. Luna was meticulously working her angle, but Matt was no idiot. And that made the game all the more difficult.

Apparently, the so-called client/engineer had handed him a deadline. Yet Luna was more than aware it was them, the ones at the higher ranks of the chains. They were breathing down his neck.

“Hey, we’re not the only ones who play underground,” said Luna while sipping from her cold-brewed coffee before freezing her actions and quickly lowering the cup from her lips; the memory of just where she was and with whom placed her cautious side on high alert. “We’re not the only ones who break the rules to get what we want, Matt. Regardless whether it is for the good or bad.”

Luna watched as Matt scratched his chin, deep in thought while she studied his sun-kissed features.

To her, there were no indications the order to have her killed came from him. The car accident was not his doing. As belittling as it sounded in her head, the brown-eyed was no more than a pawn, a disguise. And she couldn’t help but pity the idiot.

Unbeknownst to her unconscious, she was excusing his doings against her by telling herself the retrieval of those traffic cams were just orders from above. Call it fear to loose yet another somebody or denial to acknowledge his betrayal.

A chuckle disrupted the momentary silence in the small conference room the two had been in since yesterday; catching up on things, though Luna knew it was all half-truths. His focus was now on her face whose exhaustion was reflected in the unusual paleness and clouds on her eyes.

“What is it?” He said.

“I think we’re making a big deal out of this,” Luna fiddled with the pulsing opal hanging from the delicate silver chain around her neck. As much as the thumping took her aback, for the stone had never done such thing before, she pushed the nagging thought aside. “What if it was SHIELD all along, which for some reason, moved the suitcase and we’re here like idiots searching for nonexistent ends?”

“It wasn’t them.”

Luna’s smile faded away upon the echo of an accentuated third voice in the room. And her stomach sunk as she turned to face the entrance, at the far right, where two familiar figures stood.

This wasn’t good.

This was so not good.

Luna was a gaping fish. Wide-eyed and barely mustering a stuttered ‘long time no see’ as a greeting towards the two that’d tried to take her out. The twins.

The two were a mirror with a slightly altered reflection of one another. Wanda’s expressive round eyes contrasted very much with Pietro’s downturned glare. It was one of the few differences between the twins, aside from the obvious ones such as height and dye of hair.

The hushed unintelligible whispers were soon to make themselves present as the ginger tried to glimpse inside her mind.

“Luna,” Wanda greeted her and smiled a smile which did not reach her eyes where her annoyance waltzed. “Good to see you’re back! And I still cannot read your mind…”

Pietro, on the other hand, was a stark contrast to the stiffness of his twin. Somehow he seemed laid back, more so than before; acted like one of those foolish casanovas who would oftentimes get the girl with every twirl of his boasts and jokes. Eccentric quicksilver who had once caught her eye once upon a time.

He was good at disguising his emotions.

“Luna,” Pietro grinned and winked.

Idiot, Luna thought as her eyes drifted to Matt.

“I called them in to help after the accident,” Matt explained, blatantly noticing her surprise before turning to the twins. “Please tell me something good you two.”

Matt drifted his attention to the twins who shared a serious glance between them, no words were spoken but that of their telling eyes. Such action which Luna could only define as a quirk of theirs for their silence was quite nerve-wreaking.

As if they hid something, knew something Luna was oblivious of. And in her overbearingly hyperactive and paranoid mind, their silence foretold nothing yet everything. And if it was the latter, to flee from the chaos that would ensue would be difficult.

One to three was not a good ratio.

“All we can tell you is SHIELD did not move the suitcase,” Wanda deadpanned, thus shutting any possibility to lead the search in another direction.

“How are you so sure?” Luna dumbly asked. She already knew the answer.

Wanda glanced at her with that same twinkle of annoyance towards her person. “Because I read their minds, saw them. Every single one. Even your so-called friends’.”

Luna did not know how to react. Her face could only be described as a poem whose allegory was too difficult to understand. For although she knew that’d be the ginger’s answer it still surprised her the staggering hatred dripping within her statement.

Then the shocking question Luna had failed to ask herself about the twins struck her with might: Why? Why agree to carry out the dirty work for them? Why? How grand was the reward for carrying out such a thing? Why?

Luna blinked once, twice, thrice hoping the sudden surface of anger and perplexity withered from burning her chest. “Excuse me, what?”

The jester twin standing beside the ginger huffed and chuckled, crossed his arms as those silver eyes twinkled with amusement. Pietro was reliving a memory.

“Okay,” Luna tilted her head and rested her right palm on the cold surface of the table. A nervous smile formed on her face as she tried to maintain that annoying facade of obliviousness. “Is this what you mentioned to me on our way here? That something went down over there but things got a little out of hand?”

“Yeah,” Matt nodded and gestured with his hand. “That’s what I was talking about.”

“Well, what exactly happened?” Luna questioned.

“In short…uh,” Pietro stepped in, “Matt sent us to the tower, told us the suitcase was in the lower levels, we searched…and searched and searched,“ the silver-haired pointed out, keeping count with his fingers, “and found nothing. Then Wanda decided to change tactics buuuut…”

“Please tell me you didn’t bring out the Hulk,” Luna’s eyes squinted and pursed her lips. Deep down squirming at the memory of the green giant and his eyes with a ring of scarlet. The amount of suffering, desperation, anger, and fear reflected in them haunted the corners of her memory to this day.

Luna pitied the giant as much as she feared his fury. She wondered how Bruce was doing…

“Okay. I did not think through my idea,” Wanda nodded and pursed her lips. “But I was not planning on leaving that tower without information. Now would you like to know what I saw in your friend’s head as I was searching for a lead?”

The wicked grin plastered on the witch’s face made all Luna’s hairs stand on end.

“Thor?” She mumbled. The blond’s name pierced her chest. Her truer friend. The one she betrayed far before it all had gone to hell.

And thinking about it…Luna concluded she deserved all the shit raining down on her for stabbing an individual with pure intentions.

“I…I don’t think…,” chills and sparks caressed and clawed her spine as it planted the seed of discord; the bloom of curiosity.

“Or I can show them to you,” Wanda offered with a twinkle in her eyes as the familiar murmurs in Luna’s head took force. “See for yourself his fears.”

To lose you, his friend. Oh, and how much jealousy! To see you have no eyes for him!

Luna closed her eyes and sighed, holding back, hiding it all in the depths of herself. Yet the pangs and clenches of her heart made swallowing the lump of guilt painstakingly difficult. And it was no help the ire of fire, towards Wanda and her own self, scorching her bones to brittle stone.

Her lips curved and opened her eyes, forcefully showing a smile through her annoyance while shutting her mind. “I think I’ll pass. There are far more important tasks at hand right now, right Matt?”

“True,” the brunet shook his head absentmindedly, thumb holding his child and curled pointer finger against his lips. Deep in thought. “But now that we’re mentioning him, when was the last time you two spoke?”

“We haven’t talked since I went home, why?” Luna spoke right away. Perhaps too quick for her sake. Lying still remained somewhat of a weakness for her.

Unlike Loki…but that was another matter on hold. Luna didn’t let his memory cave in for the remainder of the time being. Not yet.

Matt remained silent, and so too the twins who sat three chairs away from him. His eyes were half-lidded as if to discern between an image blurring by the distance, thinking, planning.

“I thought he’d be mother-hening you these two days,” Matt acknowledged. “Has he tried to get in touch with you?”

“No?” Luna answered. “Before I left he said they were shortly leaving for a mission but didn’t tell me when they’d come back. I just figured he was still on that mission to this day, but I guess not.” Luna crossed her arms and puckered her lips while reclining against the desk chair. “Now with the whole mind-reading thing and whatever else went down…I doubt he’ll have the time.”

And it’s not like Luna would be able to anyway. After all, Thor and the others had suspicions she’d gone missing. That she was taken by those that’d upraised hell on the tower.

Matt locked eyes with Luna as his hand rested on the table, “I think you should call him. Keep in touch. Don’t go awol on him for too long.

“You think my silence would raise suspicion?” Luna cocked her brow curiously. Although she already knew Thor wouldn’t bring her name to question.

“Not necessarily,” Matt said, “but I want to rid of the possibility anyway. You’re our front still. Their distraction and our insider.”

Luna tilted her head ever so slightly, mentally refusing what Matt was proposing. “Right.”

“What the hell, you know what?” Matt jerked his head and hand gestured, “Why don’t you call him now? The sooner the better.”

Luna bit the inside of her cheek as the desire to laugh in his face grew. If he only knew she could not…

Trying to get in touch with him was a resonant ‘NO’. Not only because Mr. Nosy Laufeyson had declared they now relied on the element of surprise, but also and most importantly because Luna had no face to ever look Thor in the eye anymore. Guilt now forbade her from doing so.

“Well. I don’t have a phone. It got destroyed. You know…in the accident.” Luna stammered.

She watched as Matt reached for his back pocket and placed a phone on the table and slid it across. Its screen already unlocked by his fingerprint, already waiting for the number to be dialed. “You can use mine.”

Luna stared at the device. “Matt…” she reproached.

What the hell was Matt and the twins playing at? Luna wondered.

Was this some kind of test? She asked herself.

“Tony won’t be able to trace it back.” He asserted and smiled. “Call him.”

“Don’t you think they’d be a little busy right now,” Luna questioned yet it was no more than an excuse of refusal in disguise.

Matt huffed and silently chuckled, “Luna, it’s you who’s calling. He’ll definitely make time.”

Luna parted her lips, hesitating, feeling all stares on her and making her a helpless child again. Small, frail little girl.

The defeat was inevitable. To do as he said was the only way and Luna was more than aware. To continue building up to excuses would bring no good end but that of being discovered.

Thus, with cold sweaty palms, and feeling the opal pulsating faster, she reached for the mobile and dialed the number she’d memorized before raising it to her ear.

The beeps were soon replaced by an all too familiar robotic voice, JARVIS, who solicited her name and whom she desired to communicate with.

“Thor Odinson,” Luna responded as her eyes focused on the darkness of the table while she waited for the three familiar beeps. Usually, when she called, that was how long it took the Norse god to reach the phone an answer.

This time, however, there was nothing but one single beep. Right away his gruff voice showered her ears which made her heart rattle inside her rib cage.

“Luna?! Is that you?!” His voice tainted with hope and weariness. “Luna?”

And all Luna could do was bite her tongue. Swallow the lump. Stop herself from ending the call and throwing the phone before breaking down.

The desperation in his voice was too much. A stab, a strike to her soul. Tainted it black.

“Hey… it’s me.” Luna built up enough courage to speak and hid her heartbreak behind a weary smile for the prying eyes. Hid all her ailings behind a voice of normalcy, a pitch higher.

A broken sigh echoed through the line. And Luna could already imagine the glassy baby eyes and broken smile on him.

Luna wished to say ‘I’m sorry’. To confide in him just as he’d done before with her. To tell him he was the only one who had been true, honest, pure. Yet cowardice and her alliance made her repeat the same thing:

“It’s me.”

A/N2: this story is flopping but I am determined to finish it regardless!

#Loki #Lover #Angst #God of Mischief #Others #Submitted fic #submission #till we meet again #chapter 18 #marvelgirlonamarvelworld

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bat-lings · 6 years

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Is Bruce a good father to Damian, specifically? I mean, he seems to have learnt from past mistakes... but in preboot, does he even care about Damian at all? Didn't seem like it most of the time (especially in Resurrection of Ra's al Ghul, where he didn't even seem to care that Damian's life is in danger). Do you think he cared about Damian preboot?

Well, you are both right in that reboot!Bruce puts his preboot counterpart to shame where Damian’s concerned. The thing is, the reboot gave a much bigger place to Bruce and Damian’s dynamic than preboot ever did. Those two actually don’t have that many scenes together in preboot, and said scenes were usually part of a bigger plot/narrative that left little room to focus on their relationship.

I’ll answer this in three stages in order to address everything our Anons mentioned:

Bruce & Damian’s dynamic as portrayed by Morrison

The Resurrection of Ra’s al Ghul

Conclusion: does preboot!Bruce care about Damian? And was he a good father to him? (spoilers: yes and no, respectively.)

The conclusion summarizes everything so jump there if the argumentation part is too long.

A) Morrison’s Damian & Bruce

Disclaimer: I really, really hate Morrison’s writing. I’ll try to be reasonable when criticizing it but be extra aware of that bias. It makes me put most of Bruce’s action on the writer rather than the character and while I have my reasons & probably won’t change my opinion, it’s still a pretty categorical take.

Honestly I think Morrison’s Bruce does feel responsible for Damian. I’m even sure he cares about him too:

[Batman (1940) #657]

Actually, the whole issue is pretty good where Bruce & Damian are concerned. Must be my favorite thing Morrison has ever written. He installs interesting things character-wise, like Bruce making an extra effort to make Damian comfortable in the Manor & be patient with him, or Damian being an insufferable brat up until Bruce snaps at him, at which point he immediately switches off to “yes sir” in front of that new figure of authority.

Those are interesting bases to construct a dynamic upon. Problem is, they’re not gonna be exploited.

Here Bruce shows clear intent to provide guidance to Damian. But rather than give Bruce the occasion to follow up on that intent, and to develop a real relationship with Damian, Morrison gives us the incident Anon mentioned in the next frickin’ issue : an explosion set by Morrison’s godawful “““Talia””” that should’ve killed both her and Damian, and Bruce staring dramatically into the distance.

Does Bruce investigate their disappearance while Damian is being hardcore abused by his mother? Nah, he’s too busy skiing with one Jezebel Jet– a relationship Morrison needs to install since Jezebel has a notable role in Batman RIP.

My point is: as of #658 Morrison considers this arc finished & that there’s nothing to add. By that logic it’s valid to forget Damian until he’s relevant again plot-wise. It’s not (i think?) a way to tell us Bruce doesn’t care about Damian.

Let’s fast-forward to the disputable editorial & writer choice to launch Batman Inc/Leviathan just after Bruce’s return from the “dead” without A) leaving room for a confrontation/closure scene between him and Damian beforehand; or B) letting them actually interact more than the strictest minimum in said arc. From a strictly in-universe POV though, it’s not ooc for Bruce to decide unilaterally that Damian doesn’t need him or to focus on the crisis to come without talking to his son first.

I guess I should be talking about Batman Incorporated Vol. 2 too, ‘cause while it’s technically N52 it’s very much in the continuity of the storyline Morrison started in preboot. It also has a few Bruce & Damian moments where despite terrible miscommunication Bruce seems to worry for Damian… But then the plot requires Bruce sending Damian back to the mother who, in this dumbass version, abused him all his life.

[Batman Incorporated (2012) #4]

If I got that right this is a “Hero must make Big Sacrifice for the Greater Good” moment. The fact that Bruce loves Damian isn’t put into question: it makes the sacrifice more significant.

And that’s kinda my problem. First we’re told that Bruce wants to provide for Damian, but then whatever affection he feels for the boy is sidelined or even sacrificed to other narrative considerations.

So basically Bruce’s love for Damian has no significance in itself. It’s a given that doesn’t particularly need to be illustrated or expanded on; it’s stocked until we need it to breed impact in some scenes. Like the one above or, you’ve guessed it, Damian’s death. So yeah Bruce loves Damian. He loves him so much he’s sad when he dies. Ahem.

All in all it’s not a father-son story: else there would be more banter, slice of life sequences, time for the dynamic to develop, etc. It’s a hero-who-loses-stuff-in-war story. One story isn’t better than the other, they just appeal to different types of audiences.

“Does my father love me” is a personal thus small stake. Batman Inc/Leviathan or “Can I keep this future from happening” are world-wide to city-wide thus big stakes. I think a marked interest in the Big Ideas is what characterizes Morrison’s writing. Thus the portrayal of character relationships has a very specific place in his stories.

Anyway: I don’t think Morrison ever wanted to imply Bruce doesn’t care about Damian. It’s just that he’s a plot-driven writer and that both characters’ interactions & smaller stakes, although somewhat present in his narratives, will always come second in the big schemes of things.

If you consider that Bruce behaving like he does under Morrison’s pen proves he doesn’t give a damn about Damian though, I sure as hell won’t fault you for it.

B) Bruce & Damian in The Resurrection of Ra’s al Ghul

(God re-reading an in-character Talia these days is an oasis in the desert. Gotta love that arc all the more for that.)

Not gonna lie fam. Our two Anons are right when they say Bruce is pretty cold in that one.

But A) Bruce is also dealing with a crisis, which means he’s emotionally removing himself from the situation; B) he’s not treating Damian differently than he is Dick or Tim… which we’ll see is the problem tho.

It doesn’t excuse Bruce’s behavior (I think he’s out of line myself), but I just don’t think it implies he doesn’t care about Damian.

You’ll notice that his apparent aloofness applies to Tim too (and Dick although he’s not mentioned), and that it equally unsettles Talia.

[Nightwing (1996) #138]

I want to stress the apparent in aloofness. On several occasions during RoRAG Talia reproaches Bruce that he’s not confronting his feelings what else is new. I believe he’s worried about the boys, all of them, but he also trusts them to handle themselves. He also thinks that if he so much as voices his worry, he won’t be able to focus and do what he has to. So he represses them and goes fully in Batman-mode.

Fast-forward. When Bruce is barking at Damian to pick up a sword and fight, it’s his way of protecting him– he needs Damian to defend himself.

[Detective Comics (1937) #839]

Because it’s not fair to show this without context: 5 seconds before Bruce legit bites Damian’s head off, chill out dude, he goes all protective batdad upon seeing Ra’s trying to steal Damian’s body.

So yeah. I have reasons to believe Bruce is scared out of his mind here. Hence the very aggressive way he tries to shake Damian into action.

So far Bruce gets a pass. It’s afterwards that he deserved to be punched in the face imo, and that’s probably the scene our Anons had in mind:

In fact, Bruce is expecting the same from Damian than he’s expecting from his two other sons. To be precise, he’s not treating either of them as sons— they’re on the field, they’re Robin & Nightwing right now. Aka soldiers/partners/teammates rather than family. And Bruce is putting Damian on that exact level when he shouldn’t be.

It’s harsh, and that’s emphasized next to Talia (who is actually written like a Talia). She’s all aggressively worried mother and Bruce’s all cold commander, the contrast is off-putting.

Talia reacts like a mother first by fleeing to save herself and her son. But Bruce can’t let Ra’s to his own devices, and he expect his sons to fight beside him.

It’s unfair to Damian ‘cause he’s not Robin yet, he’s not part of Bruce’s war the way Dick and Tim chose to be, he didn’t choose to be dragged into Ra’s schemes: he’s snapping to attention at Bruce’s order out of a childish need for validation, not out of a conscious & thought-out choice to make this his life. Also he’s ten. Yet those considerations fly over Bruce’s head: right now and unlike Talia, he’s not thinking like a father.

Do I think Dini balances the Greater Good vs Familial Attachment dilemma better than Morrison does? Hell yeah. He took the time to show Bruce ripping Ra’s apart at the beginning of the issue to prove us Bruce cares. And for all that Bruce’s wrong here, Dini has him fighting beside Damian, not sending him off on his own. Talia’s fleeing with her son gives the reader a reality check & puts the validity of Bruce’s choice into question as it should be. The stakes are also so much more concrete that “distant dark future to avoid”.

Next is probably my fave line ever written about Bruce & Damian ‘cause it gives so much sense (or depth) to Bruce’s hands-off approach.

And like. Everything that Bruce says here is true. That’s exactly what Damian’s character arc should be about. But dude maybe try to have a relationship with your son outside of the Batman legacy? The thing is Bruce built his relationships with all his kids through vigilantism and I think he just. Doesn’t know how to do it differently. The idea doesn’t even cross his mind for god’s sake.

By my understanding it’s not that Bruce doesn’t love Damian. It’s that he genuinely believes Damian’s better off without him.

It’s low key confirmed in Bruce Wayne: The Road Home.

[The Road Home: Batman & Robin]

((Don’t trust anything Bruce says about Dick’s “casualness” or whatever in this issue tho. Nicieza just… doesn’t know Dick’s character all that much.))

So Bruce is basically taking the easy way out, yeah. Both in ‘Tec and in choosing it’s not worth trying to work with Damian as his partner. He decides Talia is a better parent & Dick is a better mentor than he could be, and he’s off fighting the good fight against Leviathan.

We can stretch it and say Bruce probs decided he’ll take care of his relationship with Damian after the Leviathan thing is dealt with but tbh I don’t know if DC or Morrison thought that far ahead.

Conclusion

Morrison’s narrative installs that Bruce does feel morally obligated to care for Damian. And although I get why it can feel uncertain, I’m not sure we’re supposed to doubt Bruce loves Damian.

Bruce not looking for Damian after the explosion is is more due to the writer’s choice to consider the “Damian issue” closed for now so that he can focus on his next plot/installment. I guess.

When Bruce has the idea to send Damian back to fake-Talia, I guess his love for his son is a tool used to show how much Bruce is a selfless hero*. and a terrible dad but he’s a Hero™ so it’s okay.

Bruce in RoRAG doesn’t come as indifferent to Damian’s safety to me, he’s being his dumbass self in a crisis situation. He’s got no excuse for sending Damian alongside Dick & Tim when he did though.

On two occasions Bruce unilaterally elects that Damian is better-off without him. First with the in-character Talia who actually loves her son, second as Dick’s partner.

* Actually it’d be very interesting if someone who liked that comic-book could explain me wtf I didn’t get about its narrative significance. Sometimes our personal tastes just render us blind to some things guys.

TL;DR: Does preboot!Bruce love Damian? Yes. Was he a good father to him? No.

And I’m feeling way more comfortable giving a categorical answer here than when I was asked if Bruce is, in general, a good father.

To be fair Bruce does try to step into a fatherly role in Morrison’s Batman #657, aka just after he meets Damian. Afterwards we get sidetracked; and later storylines just. Don’t really give Bruce & Damian the opportunity so share father-son moments.

His behavior in RoRAG is just plain bad. The fact that it’s not due to indifference doesn’t change that. The ten-year-old who didn’t ask for shit should be treated differently that the seasoned vigilantes Dick and Tim are, period.

Obviously leaving Damian in fake-Talia’s clutches or wanting to send him back to his abuser goes under “bad father points” too. If you consider the whole of Morrison’s run should be integrated into your personal understanding of the character, that is. woops look at that terrible bias showing its ugly face again

In later episodes, it’s tempting to give Bruce a pass by saying that he just didn’t get the chance/time to be a good father to Damian, and part of it is true. But again, failing to invest in that relationship is completely in-character, and tbh it’s the part I find the most interesting character- and narrative-wise:

It’s A) self-depreciating (”Talia or Dick can provide my son what I can’t”); B) self-centered, in that Bruce doesn’t stop to consider what Damian thinks or wants; and C) cowardly, in that the second there’s someone else available to take care of Damian, Bruce stops trying to be a father and to invest himself emotionally because gasp, feelings!

As a comparison, think of how long it took for Bruce to go from mentor-protégé-e to father-child in his relationship with Tim and Cassandra; and to admit that’s how he felt about those kids. He didn’t adopt Dick until he was an adult either. Batdad needs time to un-constipate. It’s a Bruce thing, not a Bruce & Damian one.

(Jason is the only kid with whom Bruce immediately builds a wholesome relationship and that’s where you cry because if Jason didn’t die Bruce wouldn’t have half as much trouble getting close to his kids.)

Hope this word-vomit answers that. Thanks for the asks!

#bruce wayne #damian wayne #batman #dc comics #batfam #batfamily #meta #batdad #dick grayson #tim drake #talia al ghul #ra's al ghul #jason todd #robin #nightwing #red robin #zae chatters #asks #my stuff

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thejamesoldier · 6 years

Text

A Single Frayed Rope

AO3 Link :)

A/N: Hey guys! I know this is my marvel blog but since this is all posted on my AO3 account, I thought I’d post this here too in case anyone was interested in reading it! For my fellow gamers here’s my completely self-indulgent Red Dead 2 Arthur Morgan/Reader fic literally no one asked for even tho i have all my bucky wips to work on still, pls dont murder me. So yeah do with this what you will :)

{gif not mine!!}

Summary: “It’s a yeet or be yeeted world, and you refuse to be the latter.

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader

Tags: time traveler!reader, accidental time travel, angst, fluff, attempt at humor, ENEMIES TO FRIENDS TO LOVERS, eventual smut, because i have absolutely no self control when it comes to arthur morgan, of course imma ravage him at some point in this fic and vice versa, meaningful friendships, emotional hurt/comfort, happy ending, more tags on AO3

Prologue

For a moment, you think you're dreaming.

White brightness blinds you, your senses are muted and all is quiet, its just the core of you that lives in the center of your being throbbing through nothingness. The light fades only when the heaviness of matter begins to settle like an iron blanket over you, wrapping around your soul and pulling you from the void, manifesting you into the solidness required of the present. Color seeps in to stain your vision, swirling into the outlines of things and smearing horizons above and below you. It takes a second for anything to be recognizable, for consciousness to drive you.

A silent winter forest solidifies in your reality, a pocket of powdery snow cradles you from the frosty wind as it weaves like a giant invisible snake through the gaps between the trees. You uncurl from a fetal position once you get your bearings only to wince at the ache in your body as you slowly push yourself to sit up. Warmth oozes from your pores as your naked body jerks itself into spasms trying to loosen the chill that grips your spine and holds a fist of pressure just behind your lungs. From the ground, you look up at the towering snow-laden pine trees that surround you in a perfect impossible circle.

The densely packed forest contrasts sharply with the negative space of the clearing that you sit dead center in, like you were dropped straight from the sky. There is no disturbed snow or any signs of movement within the forest line. The air is crisp and clear and empty of snowfall. The sheer unnaturalness of it all disturbs you to your core, making you shake harder as you wrap your arms around your body and rock yourself gently in attempt to curb your panic. Clouds are heavy with the blizzard brewing inside them as you gaze at the grey overcast sky searching for answers that aren't there. The trees seem to peer down at you and shiver with suspicion -- an arm of fresh snow slides off a low fanning branch somewhere behind you. Intruder is what the wind whispers as it laces through the pines’ thin green needles, the ancient residents of the forest hushing a word of caution to each other as the warning rustles its way across the mountain range. The wood seems to shift about you then, violently breaking its previous stillness as the wind grows stronger, like a great beast awakening. Unease settles heavily on your shoulders as the forest -- the world -- suddenly quiets again and...snow begins to fall.

It's then, with snowflakes tangling in your lashes and the white clouds of your breath swirling like smoke in front of you, that you realize you are far far from home because something is different. The trees look like trees, the snow looks like snow, the cold feels cold, but its off. Something is different. Elementally. Atomically. The esoteric wisdom that hovers between stars, that connects constellations, that lives cold and old within the tapestry of everything, stalks the very matter around you, suffocates you. And call it fear or call it instinct, call it a combination of both, but you know. You know that you have transcended into something far beyond your comprehension, stumbled onto a fated path you could not possibly fathom.

When the wolves come they bring a man with them.

He's bloody and half dead and fighting. The savagery to stay alive is infectious as it takes hold in the harbor of your heart and gives you the necessary push you've been waiting for. Your survival instincts surge and boil under your skin as you and the man run in a collision of panic and confusion up out of the forest and into the jaws of the exposed glacial cliffs. The wolves leave you to your fates at the edge of the forest, knowing you'll either come back down eventually or die up here. Either way you become a meal.

The man grunts through his pain as you climb higher and doesn't acknowledge you struggling to keep up a few feet beside him. You chose to run with him when he burst into your clearing and you chose to stay with him after escaping mostly out of instinct, a raw part of you that was ripped from ancient genes belonging to a creature of survival more than that of a human urging you to do so. You knew sticking together was your best chance.

But once the spiked adrenaline born of the danger that the wolves brought fades, the man stops dead in his tracks and directs the fight in him at you -- another obstacle for him to face in order to survive. You forget to cover yourself but you do squat slowly to the ground after a beat of tense eye contact, the snow numbing your lower body as it touches the skin there. This display was also instinct -- to make yourself small. The shivering gets more violent as you're submerged in deep snow, but you worry about when the shivering will stop. The man who fought the wolves and lived sees you, truly sees you, and with his mind still locked in survival mode, John Marston registers you as -- Doe. Prey. Ally. Safe. You sense the moment he decides you aren't an enemy, you see it shift something in his eyes. He turns away.

Without words -- incapable of words -- you both work your way across the blizzard scorched cliff side. You eventually find a secluded patch of ground semi-sheltered from the wind by the cliff face looming behind it and stop there to rest. After a while, you notice the man is unable to get back up from where he laid down. He tries to heave his body up, groaning and screaming and gritting his teeth but is ultimately unable to continue on. You sense none of the fight he had in him earlier, in fact you feel him let it go as his body goes lax beside you and he lets out a soft broken sob. At the time it didn't even cross your mind to leave him, to keep going to try and find help or a way back down. You simply settled down next to him, not touching, not talking, and slowly froze to death together.

At some point you stopped shivering.

You stopped feeling limbs.

The man eventually left himself, fell into a coma of pain, mind thrown somewhere deep within his subconscious.

You left yourself too, you think. You don't remember much from that time, and that's what you tell them whenever they ask you about it. All you knew was muted emptiness, but different from the one that brought you here. And when Arthur and Javier find John next to a mostly dead naked woman, they have as many questions as you do when you wake up.

So I just spent the last 72+ hours playing through Red Dead 2 (bc sleep is for the weak and the emotionally stable), and I'm rolling up to the RDR2 fandom a distraught wreck over Arthur Morgan. So. Yeethaw.

Masterlist

Chapter 1

#A Single Frayed Rope #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x y/n #arthur morgan fem!reader #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 #my writing #mine #thejamesoldier #angst #fluff #eventual smut #humor #enemies to friends to lovers #john marston

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