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a-small-writer-in-a-big-world · 2 months

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Pairing: Captain John Price x f!reader

Warnings: smut mdni (18+) it fades to black sorry, established relationship, fluff

Words: 3.4k

Synopsis: You and Price are on leave together...

You are currently reader chapter 1 of Duty Over Heart

October 2023

You were deep into a book when your phone buzzed beside you. It took you only a moment to break out of the spell of your book before you were fully immersed back into the living room of Price’s apartment. You had settled yourself in the corner of the couch, getting cozy against the plush fabric to the point where you had to read a book to keep yourself from dozing off into a nap.

When you picked up your phone you saw that it was Price. You didn’t hesitate to shut your book and answer it, a smile already pulling at your lips.

“Why are you calling me?” You teased, your smile growing wider when you heard him chuckle.

“I missed your voice.” Price said and you rolled your eyes.

“You’ve only been gone for three hours.”

“I’d say that’s long enough after being around you for a week.”

You hummed as if you were trying to sound disinterested but you knew he didn’t buy it. You did have to admit that you were starting to miss him even though he hadn’t been gone for nearly as long as the many times you two had been apart. You tried to be unbothered when he had to go back to base for something right after being put on leave, and usually you were since you knew he’d come back, but this time it got you.

It had only been a week, not even, of being with Price uninterrupted without anything to do with work before Laswell called saying she needed a document from him, one that was only on his work laptop he had left on base.

It wasn't so much as him being gone but the knowledge that once he got back, he’d be stuck in his home office. One document always turned into two and then five, and then he was stuck doing extra reports because the workload needed to be split between him and Laswell. He’d spend most of his break working and you had hoped that this time would be different.

You should’ve learned by now not to get your hopes up.

“Isn't it risky to bring work home with you?” You wondered out loud, your smile now faded as you picked at the fabric of the couch.

“Would you rather me stay on base?” He countered and you sighed.

“No.”

You knew he was overly careful when he brought it home with him. You had never seen a laptop so full of protection before so the likelihood of anyone getting anything out of it was nonexistent but you wished that the risk would deter him from bringing it home.

“It won’t take me long, promise.” He assured you but you had a hard time believing it.

“How far out are you?” You asked to change the subject and got up from the couch.

“About forty minutes.”

You walked into the kitchen and saw that when he’d get back it’d be time for dinner. You wondered if maybe he’d skip the meal with you to get the work done as quickly as possible which made you start pulling out the things you needed to make it.

You might as well make it now if that became the case.

“Good, you’ll be home for dinner.” You placed a skillet on the stove and turned the oven on.

“It’s my turn to make it.” You could hear the frown in his voice and imagined his usual scowl. “Put it away.”

“Are you really going to complain about a hot meal being ready when you get home?”

“Absolutely, now put it away and I’ll make dinner when I get there.”

You snorted from the use of his “captain voice” as you called it but didn’t put the skillet away. Instead you fit your phone snugly between your shoulder and your ear as you began to prepare a favorite meal you both enjoyed.

“Okay.” You lied and you must’ve made enough noise for him to know it as he grumbled to himself.

“You’re lying. Stop that.” He demanded softly and you smiled.

“It’s fine! It might not even be ready by the time you get home so you can help me.”

Price sighed heavily. There wasn’t much he could do since he was forty minutes away and talking to you on the phone. He would have to cut his losses on this one but you knew he didn’t want to and that he would surely find a way to get back at you for it.

“You’ll at least wait for me, yeah?”

“Always.”

You both went silent for a moment, taking in each other's presence even when it was on the other side of a phone. You would’ve been content staying on the phone with him until he got home but you also didn’t want to distract him any further than he already was. You could practically see the far off look he got in his eyes when he had a chance to sit in silence.

“Be careful, okay?” You said softly.

“Always. I’ll be home soon.”

The phone call ended and you set your phone down before you began to cook. You didn’t think about much after the conversion until you had to look at your phone for the recipe and you found yourself staring at the lock screen of your phone.

It was a relatively recent picture of you and Price where you had kissed his cheek just as the picture was taken. You had stared at the picture an embarrassingly amount of times but sometimes you couldn’t help it, especially when you got to thinking about how you got here.

You hadn’t expected to fall in love with him, at least not enough for him to know, but every time you were put on an assignment with him all those years ago you couldn’t help it.

You’re not sure what hooked you, his charm, work ethic, his looks, or literally anything about him, but you didn’t have any regrets for having feelings for him now. It seemed like you became friends with him almost immediately despite him being a lieutenant at the time but neither of you cared about the difference in ranking.

It took only three years after knowing him for you to realize that you loved him more than just friends, more than what was appropriate for your job. Back then you thought it was one sided but Price proved you wrong so quick you wondered how you ever had any doubts.

Since then it was hard for you to remember a time without Price. You had spent every moment speaking to him over the phone and over text before the two of you got together, getting together only meant making the times you were around each other more fulfilling.

It was still relatively recent since you moved in with him. Before the task force had been made you two had to visit each other whenever you wanted to see each other when leave was granted and though neither of you had an issue with it, the task force gave an excuse for you to move closer.

“I think I found an apartment close by.” You had told him and he had given you an incredulous look. “What, you don’t want to see me anymore?”

“I thought you were moving in with me.” He frowned and your heart skipped a beat.

“You didn’t say I could.”

“It’s a given.”

It was unofficial. A paper trail connected to you both could cause issues if someone wanted to snoop around so it was better that you moved in and pretended that you found a place somewhere else.

It had been four years since you moved in and no one had caught on. You couldn’t help but joke how easy it was for the two of you to pretend that there was nothing romantic between you because you had done it for so long.

Though, part of you wished that things would’ve changed when you were brought on the task force. There were different rules yet the secrecy of your relationship stayed the same.

Even if the task force blurred the lines of fraternizing with differently ranked soldiers, a romantic relationship between a lieutenant and a captain was far different than a friendship.

Neither of you were sure if he’d lose his job or his reputation would darken, or if the same would happen to you. You may not have affiliation with your respective militaries, but some things carry over, especially because of how long the two of you had been together.

Next month would mark ten years.

Ten years of love and some hardship. More than ten years of putting your life on the line for the greater good, but the ten years of being with him, loving him, made it more worthwhile.

This would be the first time in your entire relationship the both of you would be home for your anniversary. You always ended up having to celebrate it months after and while those times were special, you were excited to finally have the opportunity to celebrate it on the exact day.

You had no clue what you or Price planned, but you knew he was just as excited about it as you were. Almost every night he was bouncing off ideas with you before bed but neither of you could pick any of the options with how fun or exciting they sounded.

There were so many things you both wanted to do for every anniversary that now that you got the chance to celebrate it on the day, it was hard to choose.

No doubt you’d have the same conversation tonight only to end up nowhere. At the very least you both had the time to think about it without worrying about where the next war criminal or weapons deal was taking place.

The time seemed to flyby as you made dinner, though your mind was occupied for most of it. You were so preoccupied with cooking that you missed the front door opening and the familiar sound of boots hitting the floor.

Price expected you to call out to him like you normally did and was ready to reply but there was nothing. He wasn’t upset however because it meant he wouldn’t have to wait to see you after hearing you.

He set the bag with his laptop down a little unceremoniously. He knew you were a little upset that he had to go and get it because he was also more annoyed about having to get it as well. He thought he had everything finished before the task force was cleared for leave, but he should’ve known better.

He didn’t regret leading the task force but he couldn’t lie and say that the extra paperwork made the job worth it. He’d much prefer to just stay on the field and do his job there then report on intel or file things, especially since the paperwork seemed to get more and more with each mission.

It took up too much of his time. Time he could be using tying up loose ends or finding intel on Makarov or in this case spending time with you.

He huffed and pushed it out of his view. He’d deal with it tomorrow, right now he wanted to be around you.

Price knew what meal you had made from the mouthwatering smell that came from the kitchen, a favorite of you both but one of your comfort foods you ate when you were upset. He’d hoped you would forgive him for it and he was about to apologize to you as he stepped into the kitchen, but froze when he saw you.

Even after almost a decade, sometimes when he saw you he still got that funny feeling in his chest.

You weren’t doing anything other than finishing up dinner but just the sight of you in front of him, doing as you pleased with a content look on your face made him fall in love with you even more.

This happened often. It didn’t matter if you were doing the dishes or laundry, or if you were sitting on the couch reading a book or even just sleeping, he seemed to be completely enamored by you. He had to stop what he was doing just to watch, to drink in the fact that you were in front of him, around him, and at peace.

It didn’t matter how long the two of you were on leave for either. Months from now if he caught you making dinner he’d still find himself staring at you with the same sense of calm and warm heart.

The best part of all of it was the fact that you loved him.

In the past he wouldn’t have believed it if someone had told him he’d be spending leave with you in the same flat and dating you for as long as it’s been. He would’ve said it wishful thinking, he would’ve thought they were just trying to get his hopes up.

Yet now he got to watch you make dinner, the dinner he was supposed to make, in your shared flat and he couldn’t help but smile like an idiot.

“Smells good.” He said and you jumped, whirring around to look at him with your hand over your heart. “Sorry, love.”

“John.” You scolded him softly but reached out for him.

Price pulled you into him immediately and wrapped his arms around you firmly. He didn’t waste time placing a tender kiss on your lips that you reciprocated just as quickly. A smile tugged at his lips when you ran your hand through his beard and when you both pulled away, all you two could do was smile at each other.

You felt a little disheartened. It wasn’t like you wouldn’t see him again but you knew a lot of his time would be taken up with work once more. You were prepared to spend nights alone and almost having to beg for his attention while he poured most of energy into getting the work done.

It was unfortunate that his hard work ethic that got countless war criminals and black market dealers in custody or killed also made him spend most of his time trying to power through work to get it done as soon as possible. He spent most of his life working, on and off the job, and you wondered if it bothered him as much as it did you.

You should be used to it by now. You wished you didn’t get as upset as you did after having been through it for four years now but sometimes it still caught you off guard.

You’d just have to deal with it.

You tried not to let him know how upset you were but you found it hard to look him in the eyes. So instead you just gave him a quick smile and tried to step away from him.

“Do you want to eat first or…” You began but he squeezed your hip and gave you a quick smile.

“It’s tomorrow's problem.” He assured you and you brightened up immediately. “I’ll set the table.”

“Kate’s okay with that?”

“She will be.”

You grinned. You felt a little bad for Kate and you hoped that maybe she would take a break as well, but you were much more relieved that you had Price for at least the rest of the day. You’d prefer to have him for longer but you’d take what you’d get.

He gave you a quick peck on the cheek and before long the two of you sat across from each other eating dinner like nothing happened.

The rest of the evening went by normal despite the hiccup. This time on leave seemed to be easier for the two of you to fall back into civilian life as if neither of you risked your lives nearly every other day. Sometimes leave was hard to get into but this time you and Price seemed to ease into it as if you’d never left it.

Later that night when it was time for bed, you lounged in the comforts of the bed while Price went through his nightly routine in the connecting bathroom. You scrolled on your phone through potential ideas for your anniversary, your current fixation being camping, specifically cabins somewhere that was far from people that it gave enough seclusion for a peaceful uninterrupted weekend.

“What about a cabin?” You called out and he hummed.

“It’d be quiet which means we can be loud.” He teased and you snorted. “I wouldn’t mind it.”

“Me neither.”

“But you liked the beach as well.”

You pursed your lips. It was true that you did find a vacation to the beach for your anniversary an exciting idea. The waves, salt air and warm sun would be the perfect place to relax and enjoy your time with Price…but the cabin would be a nice place too. The beach was expensive but you knew he didn’t have an issue with that and would chide you for suggesting it was too much.

“Dinner somewhere posh, maybe?” Price came into the bedroom and you raised an amused eyebrow.

“And then we could go somewhere nice after. Maybe a day trip?” You suggested and he nodded.

“But that doesn’t feel like enough, eh?”

You sighed. You looked at him and he looked at you, his hands on hips while the two of you stared at each other with slight amusement. The indecisiveness from you both wasn’t too frustrating considering you both understood why neither of you could manage to choose.

There were just so many options, so many things that you never got to do until now, you both wanted to make the most of it.

“We’re never going to choose.” You shook your head and he chuckled as he crawled into bed.

“We could just take the entire month.” He pulled you closer to him and propped himself up on his elbow so he could look at you. “Do all of it.”

“That’s a little overkill.”

“Ten years is a long time, lots to celebrate.”

You put your phone away and looked up at him. You were the only one who got to see his cold blue eyes, the ones that struck fear and respect into others, softened into pools of warmth. The only one who saw him truly relax and the only one who was on the receiving end of the lovesick eyes that he seemed to pull on you every chance he got. You were the only one who could run your fingers through his soft beard that had a few new gray hairs in and the only one who got to feel his lips against yours.

You were the only one who knew him as Captain and John. Your lifelong partner, the love of your life.

“That is a long time.” You mumbled while you ran your fingers through his beard.

Price leaned into your touch as his eyes fluttered shut. He hummed deep within his chest and wrapped his hand around your wrist, rubbing his thumb into your knuckles. His eyes opened when you snaked your hand behind his head and they darkened when you gave him a gentle tug.

He pressed a short kiss to your lips to tease you. He ran his hand down your side and snuck it underneath the shirt you stole from him. He continued to tease you while his hand roamed your soft skin to make you shiver, the rough pads of his fingertips just barely touching your nipples.

“John.” You breathed out a whine and he smiled.

“What do you want, hm?” He trailed featherlike kisses across your neck up to you the shell of your ear as he continued to tease your breasts.

“Want you to touch me…be inside me.”

Price groaned softly and gave you a heated kiss. He palmed your breasts while he rolled on top of you and pinned you underneath him. He didn’t waste any time touching you the way you wanted, sparking fire across your skin and making electricity race through you while he stole every thought from you with each kiss he gave you.

You wrapped your arms around his neck to keep him there even as he made you dizzy. A moan escaped your mouth as he dipped his hand into your panties and spread open your wet folds, gathering your slick on his practiced fingers before he began to play with your clit.

He kissed your neck and you squirmed underneath him, clutching his shirt as pleasure raced through you.

It didn’t really matter if neither of you could choose as long as you were together.

A/n: sorry for the fade to black i'm just not in the mood for full blown smut. we'll have more chances in the future don't worry also sorry this took forever i got depressed lol

Tags: @thriving-n-jiving @writingmysanity @teconkaals @xb14 @misshoneypaper @hers-area @shuttlelauncher81 @mamanmae @sofasoap

#duty over heart #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #price x reader #price x you #john price x reader #john price x you #captain john price #call of duty #captain price x reader #captain price x you

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chirpsythismorning · 11 months

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This is everything the Stranger Things writers have posted publicly about the WGA strike:

TIMELINE

May 3rd:

Stranger Things writer Caitlin Schneiderhan tweets picture from personal Twitter account of sign from the strike that reads 'Pay us or Steve Harrington is toast'

May 6th:

Official Stranger Writers Twitter account makes post on behalf of the Duffers Brothers. They have since pinned this tweet to their profile. "Duffers here. Writing does not stop when filming begins. While we're excited to start production with our amazing cast and crew, it is not possible during this strike. We hope a fair deal is reached soon so we can all get back to work. Until then -- over and out. #wgastrong

Bonus:

May 12th:

Stranger Things writer Kate Trefry posts picture from personal Tumblr account of sign that reads, 'Byler won’t write itself'

As far as I know, the two writers that posted on their personal socials are the only writers from ST that even have personal accounts that are public, whereas the rest of the writers do not.

What does make me take a pause though, is that, while yes they did post these pictures from their personal accounts, which is about as official as it gets, they also cryptically did not include themselves in said pictures...

This just got me thinking about how Stranger Things is quite literally Netflix and vise versa. They are practically one in the same, where one without the other just doesn't make sense.

While this conflict of interest might run deep for many writers out there fearing to speak out against their employer, for us, the consumers, the fans, we as a collective have so much more power than we realize.

In contrast to the writers, streamers can't just fire their consumer base sometime down the line, out of spite for speaking out. Without consumers, neither Stranger Things nor Netflix would be what it is today.

We have the affordance of being able to speak up the loudest of anyone. And so why wouldn't we take advantage of that?

There are so many people out there protesting: writers, actors, others in the industry and even outside of it who are also taking a stand, many who need support so that they can continue to fight in the upcoming days, weeks, months, without being deterred by corporations that are making them feel greedy for demanding a contract that at most, asks that they be paid fairly.

And so I want to encourage anyone that is reading this, but fellow fans of Stranger Things especially, who have so much power in this strike when it comes to getting Netflix's attention, to consider taking the time to do whatever you can individually + with the masses as a community in order to best support the strike.

Follow the Strike! If you're active on various social media already, please be sure to follow the official accounts advocating for the strike via Instagram (@writersguildwest/@wgaeast), via Twitter (@WGAWest/@WGAEast). Engage with posts from folks that are out there daily, many with whom you can find by following tags like #WGAStrong, #WGAStrike and #WritersStrike. Although most fans are not able to join in picketing themselves, we can at least recognize all of those out there's individual efforts and do our best to show that we're paying attention and listening!

Spread the word! Show support any way you can by sharing posts and articles about the strike, or even fun memes to inform others in a more engaging way. This is the official site for the WGA strike if you want to learn more about what’s going on before diving in! And make sure to stay up-to-date here as things continue to unfold!

Donate! The Entertainment Community Fund is endorsed by the WGA for anyone that wants to support those affected by the strike financially. And this thread on Twitter is an incredible resourse, as it provides an ‘easy, one-click, stress-free, accessible-to-all-budgets’ ways you can support folks on the front lines.

Also! Consider donating through this link for the Entertainment Community Fund, where the money donated still goes directly to that fund, this is just an organizing page for Stranger Things fans specifically! By allowing fans to see how much of an impact we make as a collective, in real time, this could encourage even more ST fans to want to contribute. In a best case scenario, if this GoFundMe were to reach impressive proportions of donations from fans, that could lead to news outlets reporting on it, which could allow an opportunity for even more eyes on the strike, while also even more importantly being able to provide financial support to those that need it.

Trend! On social media, use #StrangerFansforWGA to trend or even just to reach other fans also looking to come together to support the strike!

While I know this post probably wont reach anywhere outside of Tumblr, I want to make a point to encourage those of you that are on other platforms to inform fans in those spaces about the strike and what they can do to help!

We might not all agree on everything, but I think we can agree on at least one thing... @Netflix & all major streamers and networks out there, who are still refusing to make a fair deal: PAY YOUR WRITERS!

In the mean time, if you're interested in working on different ideas for initiates we can carry out as a fandom, please reach out to me! I might only one person and I might not have all the answers and solutions, but I do know that with more of us working together, our odds of making an impact are much greater!

Over and out!

#byler #stranger things #strangerfansforwga #wga strike #writers strike #st writers #duffer brothers #twitter #tiktok #reddit #netflix #PAY YOUR WRITERS #I am more than happy to discuss ideas for how we can come together as a fandom to have an impact #things we can do and work together to accomplish #anyone that already has personal initiatives for fans related to the strike please reblog with details if you want and i will share!#i know some fans were donating funds in exchange for artprints with their owrk #stuff like that is wonderful #supporting artists regardless is so important and so anything like that I would love to know about!#also i would not be against getting money for blimp to fly over netflix calling out ted sarandos #blip...#full disclosure i have just donated $29 to the entertainment community fund through the gofundme!#right now we are over halfway to the $500 goal #hoping the gofundme can reach its goal sooner than later #that way the money can be allocated instead of just sitting there #to those that can't donate!? No pressure!!!#this is just meant to be an option for those that want to and are able to at this point in time #a lot of the fandom brings so much value to these spaces #with the time and dedication we all put into supporting the show FOR FREE #I believe we can use that skill to our advantage #and that arguably has just as much value and impact as money

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reiding-writing · 4 months

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could i please request spencer reid comforting reader whos been picking at her lips? Like idk maybe he brings around chapstick for her smth. Tysm!

dermatillomania [ s.r ]

Summary:

Spencer doesn’t want you to hurt yourself. Even unintentionally. So a lot little bit of research later he’s ready to confront you about it.

WARNINGS: dermatillomania (impulsive picking at the skin), mentions of very minor self induced harm, sharing germs??? spencer would be deterred by that i’m sure, well maybe not in this case

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

genre: pretty much straight fluff

wc: 1.5k

masterlist!!

a/n: this marks the my final fic of 2023, currently uploading at 10 past 11 pm so like less than an hour until 2024 (yay??)

i love writing for reid because it allows me to satisfy that nerdy part of my brain that endlessly thirsts for knowledge

Everyone had subconscious habits.

Yours just happened to be more physically harming than some.

You found comfort in the monotonous repetition of peeling away the layers of skin covering your lips, whether it be with your fingernails or your teeth.

It would often leave your skin red and raw, sometimes to the point where they cracked or bled.

It wasn’t usually too bad, but during times where you were over-stressed and under pressure, the small habit of yours became more of a staple of your personality.

You sigh softly as you sit at your desk, head resting in your hands as your eyes pour over the file in front of you.

Paperwork wasn’t exactly stressful when you compare it to the rest of your job, but after the week you’d just returned from it was clear that you needed a break.

Spencer glances up at you from his own desk opposite you, a small frown present on his face.

“Stop that,” His tone is soft and unchastising.

"Hm?" Your eyes flicker upwards towards his, your eyebrows knitted into a small line of clear confusion.

“Your lips. You’re going to scar yourself if you keep pulling at them like that.” Spencer’s words come out even softer than before, a small look of worry in his eyes.

"Oh-"

You pull you hands down from your face, the thumb and forefinger of your left hand that had been tugging at the cracked skin of your lower lip now tucked securely in your right as you clasp them together in your lap in fumbled embarrassment. "Sorry.."

Spencer sighs softly, and takes a brief moment to observe you. The corners of his mouth twitch downwards into a slight frown.“Don’t apologize. I just… I’d hate for you to have permanent scarring.”

You hum softly in response to his caring nature, not meeting his eyes anymore out of the small amount of shame that trickles into the back of your mind, and your tongue runs smoothly over the raw skin on your lip in an attempt at soothing the sting. "Yeah.. thanks,"

Spencer looks away for a few seconds, thinking about your actions. After a beat, he leans over his desk slightly to grab a tube of chapstick from his desk drawer and holds it out to you over the small metal hatched wall of separation between your two desks.

It’s dark blue with no writing or labelling of any kind on it and has very clearly been previously opened.

“Take care of your lips, okay? They’re very important for human expression, phonation, and sensation.”

And to be able to kiss people with.

You hesitate to take the tube from him at first, not because he’d used it, but because it was his, and you knew how much he hated sharing his personal belongings for fear of germ contamination.

“Are you- sure you want to give me this? I can go and get one after work-“ You take the tube from his hand carefully, as though it might explode if you grip it too tightly.

Spencer is slightly relieved to see you take the chapstick, and smiles brightly at you before shaking his head. “It’s fine. You clearly need some form of relief, and I doubt you want to be waiting another six hours.”

He pauses, before adding, “I’d like you to keep it. It’s pure white petroleum, it should solve any soreness or dryness in no time,”

"Thank you.." You give Spencer a grateful smile as you remove the cap and twist the bottom of the tube to extend the chapstick upwards.

You choose not to acknowledge the small dip in the balm from where Spencer had used it on his own lips in the past, fearing the inevitable flush of your cheeks if you thought about the way you were indirectly touching your lips to his for too long.

"I’m- not sure why i can’t just stop, but.. yeah- thanks.." Your half-assed explanation is more of a way for you to distract yourself from your impending emotional implosion rather than a genuine want to explain yourself.

Spencer watches you apply the chapstick, nodding once as he does. “I have some advice on how to stop, if you’d like to hear it.”

You re-cap the tube of chapstick and place it next to the pencil holder on your desk for easy later access, exhaling softly through your nose as your mouth bends into a soft smile. "Alright, have at me,"

“First things first, you should try and figure out what’s causing you to want to peel at your skin.” Spencer dives into full explanation mode once you give him the chair. “Everything has a trigger, and figuring out what yours is is the first step to stopping it,”

You give a understanding nod to Spencer’s suggestion, your mind beginning to scrub your brain for and reasons why you might have the insatiable urge to pull the skin off your lips like you would the meat from a turkey.

“You should also redirect the behaviour. When feeling the urge or the subconscious action towards picking at your skin you should instead reapply a layer of chapstick to your lips instead,” Spencer gestures towards the tube on your desk, just barely visible from his point of view past your pencil holder.

“People with dermatillomania often times don’t realise that they’re engaging in the behaviour, so having somebody who is aware of the situation to redirect your attention is also a good idea.”

He’s obviously referring to himself in this moment, indirectly telling you that he’s willing to be stuck to you like a piece of gum under a shoe until you fully manage to break your habit.

"dermatillomania?" You blink your eyes blankly at him at the unnecessarily complicated term you’d never heard of that Spencer had casually thrown into his sentence.

“It’s the term for excessive skin-picking that causes damage or scarring. That’s what you were doing to your lips just now.” Spencer nods nonchalantly at you like it was common knowledge.

“Oh-“

You can’t say you’re surprised that there’s a term for what you’re experiencing.

You also can’t say that you’re surprised that Spencer knows what it’s called.

Spencer feels the need to explain himself upon your confusion and surprise at the revelation that what you were doing had a proper medical diagnosis.

“I’ve observed you for a while now, and noticed you often picking at your lips.. So I did some research and came across dermatillomania.” There is a tiny bit of embarrassment in his tone.

"You- looked it up for me?"

Spencer Reid had gone out of his way to research something that gave him no personal benefit solely for your wellbeing.

You swear you could melt.

You probably look like you do, physically feeling the pink rise to your cheeks as they heat up in flustered gratitude.

Spencer’s cheeks mirror your own in their soft pink hue, slightly embarrassed to have outed himself to going out of his way to research something on your behalf.

“I did, yes.” He pauses. “I just… well, I didn’t want you to unintentionally do any damage to yourself.”

You let out a soft exhale that could almost constitute as a laugh, pressing your lips together to prevent a smile from breaking out on your face. “Thank you Spencer.. That’s really sweet,”

Spencer nods, diverting his eyes from yours and leaning back in his desk chair to try and look as casual as possible. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve researched countless topics to help the team, this was just one of them.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. But he wasn’t going to tell you that instead of the usual half an hour he would spend learning about something for one of his team mates he’d instead read every single publicly available medical journal on dermatillomania he could possibly find.

He turns his face back down to his work as you do the same, pushing his desk drawer closed now that nothing inside it was any longer needed.

His eyes fixed on the blue tube that rolled to his the front of the drawer as he pushed it closed.

It was identical to the one he had given you in every way.

Except for the fact that the one in his drawer was still brand new.

But you didn’t need to know that.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds x reader #mgg #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fluff #asks 🫶

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eveningepiphany · 1 year

Text

masterlist ✭

hello and welcome to my official masterlist! this will be updated regularly with every new work i post. thank you for all your ongoing support, all my love <3

the list is rather short at the moment, however it will continue to grow over time and we’ll definitely get a few series in here!

feel free to send in requests here

[*] indicates smut

—ONESHOTS (2022)

sick

Y/N is looking after harry when he’s got a bad case of the flu, and even though they’re both just friends, it’s clear they see each other as more than that.

and they were roommates*

when harry and Y/N have gone from longtime best friends to roommates, the lines that have been slowly blurring since their teen years are beginning to disappear altogether.

hotel room*

harry & Y/N are friends but it’s a love hate relationship with so much tension you can hardly breathe. this tension isn’t any better when they get stuck in a hotel room together for the night. and it only has one bed.

mistletoe*

[part one] [part two*]

you’re with the band at anne’s house the week of christmas and harry points out you’re both standing under a mistletoe.

—ONESHOTS (2023)

learn to knock*

not knocking on your door has led to harry walking in on you… with your hand between your legs.

lessons*

sitting on harrys couch, he gets it out of you that you have never intimately touched someone else, and he offers straight up for you to learn off him.

far from sober

[part one] [part two]

you’re incredibly drunk, and when you are it comes with you having an obscene lack of a filter. harry being the sweetheart he is, is trying to get you back into your hotel room in one piece. he was not ready for you to be so touchy.

manbun*

harry and you are about to fuck in the back of his car, and you want his hair out for it. little do you know how much he likes a bit of hair pulling.

butterfly*

you’re on a holiday with your family and family friends— including harry— who hasn’t had a shirt on this whole time and things amp up quickly in your hotel room.

reconnect*

lockdown is tough on both you and harry. you miss the feeling of physical touch so much you start chasing to fill that void in one another.

innocent*

while on the couch, harry ends up with innocent y/n on his lap, and she gets unexpectedly very worked up over his thigh being under her, and he does something about it.

tease*

seeing harry tonguing his guitar last night has you finally admitting the state he puts you in. and that’s never good when you’re a tour photographer. especially now you have photographic evidence of the moment.

go with it

your ex boyfriend— someone you never want to talk to again— is searching for you at a party. trying to do anything to deter him or get away, you spot harry, and a plan comes to fruition.

SERIES—

welcome to the final show

you take a beautiful sign to the final show and have the sweetest interaction with harry. then somehow bump into him in italy 2 days later. leading to an exchange of numbers, and a lot of falling in love.

[part one]

[part two]

[part three]

[part four]*

pirates gold

being a royal, you always knew you were meant to keep your wits about you. despite never fitting into your status, a lapse of your judgement leads you to getting taken captive by a group of pirates, and their captain, Harry.

[part one]

Insatiable*

harry is a prince, natalia is a spy for his court. both of them can’t stand one another, but natalia having to take any direct information she learns about the attempt on his life directly to him seems to put the pair in an interesting dynamic.

[part one]

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles oneshot #fanfiction #masterlist #harry styles fanfiction

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damagedintellect · 2 months

Text

💌 Reading into the palms of isekai bullshit:

Chapter 8 💌

Summary: You were no stranger to isekai bullshit. It’s not like you had a problem with it. The genre took over the anime scene for years now but you try to stay away from thinking about how you would handle the situation. The last time you thought about inserting yourself into your favorite show you wrote a 100k word xReader fic for your favorite characters and you didn’t want to spend all your time consumed by the brainrot again. Never again, you promised yourself that was the last time you’d let the devil on your shoulder win. You clicked on chapter 1 to start the adventure over again but when you opened your eyes and saw Dazai O-FUCKING-samu getting choked by Kunikida you honestly hoped it was a dream.

Notes: Oh boi first I wanted to thank everyone for being patient with me I'm sure if you read my other works you're in the know, and probably sick of hearing about how the last half of 2023 I was pretty much in and out of the hospital but I'm fine now! ...BTW 🍋 in this one

★ Chapters [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [You Are Here] ★

💌 Word count: 3,392 💌 <= Previous Chapter | Next Chapter =>

Three hours, you have been running around for three hours trying to find Dazai. You were hunched over panting, clutching the wall of a building to brace yourself. If only you hadn’t lied to Chuuya then you could get his help. Although if Dazai doesn’t want to be found, maybe Chuuya wouldn’t be able to find him either. The roof, Dazai’s room, Oda’s grave, Lupin, rivers, bridges? You were running out of places to go and places that you knew of. You grit your teeth, Ranpo won’t help you either. Not unless you beg and he feels sorry for you. At this point you were pulling on your hair at your wits end. Where would he go? Or rather maybe you should be asking a different question. Where would be the last place you would look?

You coughed before running back to the dorms. There was no way right? The last place you would expect Dazai to be, would be in your room. It was fairly sound logic. With the kind of person he knows you to be, you probably wouldn’t go back to your room until you either found Dazai or gave up. Sometimes the best hiding spot was in plain sight. Your lungs were burning since before you rounded the corner let alone when you tripped up the stairs. This had been the most cardio you’ve gotten in a long time and this was including the week Q’s ability was let loose. You fumbled with the key and stumbled inside heaving as you fell to your knees trying to close the door behind you. The clattering of bottles could be heard from the entryway. You managed to pull yourself to the main room to see the damage. It looked just as cluttered as Dazai’s room to the point where you were concerned for his liver. It was a mixture of empty sake and whiskey bottles. You might have to get Yosano to pump his stomach. Dazai was curled up into a ball in the corner of the room. He still had half a bottle of whiskey in his hands and his head was in his knees.

You tried your best to catch your breath before trying to navigate through the wreckage that you’re going to have to clean up later. To be completely honest you half expected him to drop off the face of existence for a week. You’re surprised you even found the brunette. You looked around whistling to yourself. People always say something, something Chuuya’s the alcoholic but you're convinced otherwise. You don’t think Dazai even registered your presence when you sat next to him. Gently you pried the bottle from his hands, taking a swig for yourself. It wasn’t your go to hard liquor but after everything you needed a drink. Your head had too many thoughts that needed to be quieted down.

You put the cap back on the bottle and leaned your head on his shoulder putting his hand that once held the whiskey in your own while interlacing your fingers to deter him from running. Although you highly doubt he could in this state, but you never know with anime logic. For all you know he could have just moved all the bottles from his room to make it look like he was far gone. The only real clue you had was the fact he smelled like alcohol and sweat but you weren't much better either.

“You still conscious Dazai?” You take a glance in his direction seeing if he turned his head towards you or anything. He didn’t.

“How’d you know I was here?” His voice was cold and smooth. If you didn’t know any better you would probably think he was sober. It takes roughly thirty minutes for alcohol to take an effect on your body. Although you didn’t know when he started drinking and how much he had. Trying to deduce the situation was harder than you thought. There were too many variables you needed to take in account and nothing could have prepared you for this if it was a trap. You would just have to trust your gut and with all the empty bottles laying around, assuming he did drink them then he had no chance to be sober. It kind of worried you.

“I didn’t. I ran out of places to look and hoped you’d be in the last place I searched.”

Dazai only nodded at your explanation. You sighed leaning over him to use your other hand to grab his face. “Look, I’m not like you, or Ranpo,” you paused briefly grasping at straws “Or even Fyodor. I'm not a genius. I have, one, very specific party trick, for everything else I’ve been taking shots in the dark. I’m not actually eloquent with my words and can’t pull these, “Everything will be okay” monologues out of my ass. So tell me what's actually bothering you so I can fix it and we can move on.”

“No” He had absolutely no hesitation in his answer and it caught you off guard.

“No? What do you mean no?” You studied his eyes but he blankly stared back at you before his eyebrows knit together with uncertainty. Dazai huffed “I don't know.” The tone of his voice made your heart clench.

Dazai looked down at the hand that was still holding his. He slowly tugged his fingers free as he changed the grip you had on him. He sucked in a shaky breath melting into the hand you had on his cheek “It hurts,” Dazai turned, pulling you as close as he could before placing your other hand on his chest, directly over where his heart was “Right here.” Your eyes widen at the gesture, your mind going completely blank. You watched as his expression faltered showing just how uncomfortable he was. Dazai was shaking like a cornered animal.

He was trying his best not to push you away or intentionally say something to hurt you even though he could feel the venomous words dancing on his tongue. He didn't know how to sit with the vulnerability. It didn't even occur to Dazai that he was trembling until you pulled him into a tight hug. He latched onto you like you could disappear at any moment. You honestly didn’t know what to make of this either so you did the same, shifting closer. You closed your eyes listening to his breathing as you rubbed his back. Neither of you had anything else to add for a while and you don’t think you could, even if you did.

The only signal that time had even passed you by was the light from outside. It had faded from its original brightness leaving you two huddled in the dark. At this point you were both gross and sticky with sweat, you should probably take a bath or at least start cleaning up so you can lay your futon out. You carefully pulled away just enough to look at the rest of the room. “I’m not letting you leave but we need to at least move everything out of the way if we plan on sleeping tonight. Do you want to bathe first or?”

Dazai mumbled out his response but you couldn’t understand a word or at least you hoped that you heard him wrong because you could have sworn he said “together?”

When you didn’t answer, he finally turned to look at you, reaffirming your assumption. “Can we bathe together?”

You blushed at the sudden request. He was being serious. “I-uh” you were torn. This wasn’t exactly what you had in mind but you were adults and maybe he just didn’t want to be alone right now? It’s hard to say really when he’s studying you like a hawk, waiting for an answer. You swallowed your embarrassment, worst case scenario you could bathe in your underwear. “We can bathe together,” You stood up to start clearing away the bottles knowing you wouldn’t want to do it after your bath. “But only if the bandages come off because I swear I’m not bathing with a heathen.”

You bolted upright, nearly dropping a bottle when you felt something grab your arm. Dazai was peering down at you with an emotion you couldn’t place “Only if you’re naked too.” It was said firmly and with no room for negotiations. Biting your lip you weigh out your options but given your current circumstance, what did you have to lose? You matched his gaze.

“Okay.” You smiled.

If this is what it took to bring Dazai back to his usual self then so be it. After all, it was only fair. Dazai had done his fair share of laying himself bare. Now it was time to return the favor, albeit in a completely different sense. It didn’t take long to push all the bottles aside and set up your futon. You were amazed Dazai was even standing on his feet. As you grabbed some towels, it occurred to you that Dazai would have nothing to change into afterwards but you didn’t want to leave him to grab something from next door. You guess you would just have to wash his clothes so he had something to sleep in. You turned away to disrobe and surprisingly Dazai did the same. Neither of you said anything as you gathered up his clothes and walked out of the room to put them in the wash. He had a lot of bandages to unravel anyways. You should probably see if you had any for him to use later.

When you walked back in you tried not to look him over but you could feel his eyes roaming your body freely. It was making you self conscious until he said “You’re beautiful.” You nearly got whiplash from how fast your head snapped in his direction. It was jarring to see him without the bandages, numerous scars were scattered on his skin but your eyes were drawn to the faded scar across his chest. The one he acquired while fighting alongside Chuuya at fifteen.

“You're one to talk.” You moved to start the shower. “Don’t you know girls find scars hot.” As you were adjusting the temperature you felt arms wrap around your center. Dazai rested his head on your shoulder. “Hmmm girls maybe but what about beautiful women?”

You turned the shower head to splash him. “Oh, now you're really dripping with good looks.” You laughed teasing him. Dazai looked like a wet cat as you tousled his hair under the warm stream. “Of course I find them hot, silly, I wouldn't have said so otherwise.” You were glad he couldn't see your face that well from his spot on your shoulder. It was one thing to flirt with him in jest, another when you were alone but right now you were both naked in the shower. It kinda made your head spin with how odd the day has been.

As you tried to grab for the soap to start scrubbing off the grime Dazai intercepted your hand. “Allow me.” He said in a low voice. His breath was tickling the shell of your ear. The demand left you frozen as you felt Dazai start feeling up your body with his hands ignoring the luffa hanging from the caddy. Reflexively you squirmed backwards pressing Dazai against you further. You swallowed, there was nowhere to run. Blood rushed to your face. His hands glided over your breasts, brushing your nipples ever so slightly. Dazai made sure they were extra clean before giving them a playful squeeze. You let out a small mewl biting your lip before his hands moved down the rest of your body.

Dazai was intrigued with how far you would let him go, entertained by the soft noises you were making. He kissed your neck as he let one hand drift between your legs. His goal was to clean and tease, but if you begged for it he wouldn't complain. He was thrilled that you didn’t push him away. You had every right to be furious with him but you weren’t. You must really trust him. It makes him feel warm inside.

Dazai was touching you everywhere but the one place you wanted and it was killing you. He never passed through the crease of your folds. It made you take a sharp inhale. This was all so intimate and it was driving you crazy. You were torn, it felt good and you wanted it to go further but you were so tired and dead awake at the same time. The feelings swimming around in your head were all over the place. You decided he’s had enough, it was your turn. Gently you stopped his hands turning around to do the same. Lazily massaging the soap around his body.

Dazai smiled softly as you took the time to kiss every scar within your reach. Your hands stopped on his pelvis. Right now you had so much power. It really depended on what you wanted. Do you get him hard? Maybe suck him off a little and leave him wanting more? Or should you just ignore the area altogether since you’re not sure if you could finish what you start. It was a hard decision but if you wanted to soak in the tub at anypoint tonight you should probably move this along. Instead you forgo the area, handing Dazai the soap as you start washing your hair. If you touched him you probably wouldn’t be able to stop yourself.

When you do finally get the bath running you try not to stare at the brunette but the missed opportunity is all you can think about as you step inside the hot water. Dazai was leaning into your chest because you wanted to make up for what you should have done earlier. You had your arms snaked around his torso holding him to your chest. The job of every big spoon is to make sure their little spoon can feel their love and affection. While the gesture was genuinely supposed to be innocent your thoughts were anything but. You both soak like that for a while letting the hot water relax your sore muscles trying to set those thoughts aside.

As the water started cooling down you started kissing the crook of his neck. The events from earlier were getting the better of you. It wasn't long before your hands traveled downwards, once again resting on his pelvis drawing little circles on the area. Decisions, decisions all of them wrong but you didn’t want to stop. Maybe it was because you were both touch starved and emotionally drained. Dazai hummed tilting his head back over your shoulder giving you more room to kiss his neck. Fuck it you’ve already come this far. You started palming at his member with one hand as the other lazily stroked his chest.

Nothing is hotter than being able to feel Dazai grow hard under your touch. It was hard to pump his length under the water in a meaningful way but you continued to fondle him until he was fully erect, marveling at the thickness in your hands. It was hard to tell how much prep you'd need since you were already turned on but the water was also warping your view of his size. Dazai groaned in your ear gripping your thigh. In this position he was at your mercy and right now your hand was giving him way too much friction. If you stroked him any faster it would be an uncomfortable amount. “C-can I help you?” he practically hissed.

“Be a good boy and dry off while I put your clothes in the dryer.” You gave him a kiss on the lips as you were getting up to grab your towel. You didn't have to look back to see that he was excitedly following orders. You could hear the water start to drain when he pulled the plug. Your heart was racing as you quickly filled the dryer. This was happening, you were doing this. Taking a deep breath you prepared yourself mentally.

The room was still dark. It seemed Dazai didn’t bother turning on any of the lights. You could vaguely see Dazai was already splayed out on the futon waiting for you. “Like what you see?” He gestured to himself slowly trying to entice you further.

“I do,” you giggled “But I think I need a closer look.”

You gracefully crawled next to him, giving him another kiss on the lips. “Oops my eyes were closed” You teased playfully, melting into his lips a second time. Dazai smiled, happily invading your personal space. Hesitantly you let your hands wander bringing him closer to you. Each kiss was making you breathless but you didn’t want to pull away. Not when you could feel Dazai’s hands caressing your sides. The brunette shifted on top of you, nibbling your bottom lip. You gasped letting him deepen the kiss, allowing his tongue to make your headspin. You were so captivated by his lips you didn’t realize Dazai was spreading your legs until he slipped a finger inside you, causing you to moan out unexpectedly at the sensation.

It went in so easy you almost didn’t notice until Dazai’s slender finger brushed just the right area to send a wave of pleasure down your spine. He was quick to add another grinning “Someone must be enjoying themselves. It’s very wet down here, bella.~” Dazai kissed around your jaw and down your neck, lazily fingering your entrance.

You squirm a little at how slow he was moving. If he didn’t get you all worked up in the shower you would be a bit more patient but it’s consumed your thoughts for the entirety of your bath. “Dazai please, I want you.”

He peppered a few more kisses to your chest before pulling back to look at you lovingly. “Already? I haven’t even gotten a taste of you yet.” He mused before swiping his thumb at your clit, causing your breath to hitch. Having Dazai go down on you would feel amazing but you want to feel amazing together.

“Another time, I want you now.”

He was awestruck that someone could want him so badly. Pride swelled in his chest. He really had panicked for nothing. It took Dazai a moment to pull his fingers out and slick himself with what lingered of you, on his skin. He wasn’t joking when he said you were very wet. It was extremely inviting so much so that he was drooling at the thought. Dazai wanted to savor this moment, ogling you as he let himself plunge deeper than his fingers could reach.

You both share a shaky breath. There was no discomfort, only the pleasurable thought of feeling full. Dazai was so warm within your walls it was taking a lot of self control to move, lest he cum prematurely. That would be embarrassing. Dazai shuddered as he pulled out just enough to dive back in. It felt too good to be true and that's saying something. With every thrust you were seeing stars. At this rate you wouldn’t last very long either. You don’t even know when you started moaning his name.

Dazai dipped his lips to your ear and panted “Osamu, call me Osamu.”

Your eyes had been previously wired shut with the intense ecstasy but they snapped open at the request. “O-Osamu~” It felt so foreign on your tongue. You started choking on your words as Dazai rammed into you harder. You were turning into putty, gripping on to whatever you could to ground yourself when Dazai intertwined your fingers with his. It wasn’t long before you both hit your limits.

Dazai slumped on top of you as you both tried to catch your breath. The hot breath on your skin and the post climax bliss had the words falling out of your mouth before your brain registered them. “I love you Osamu. Don't forget that.”

It took a moment for Dazai to respond. The post nut clarity settled his anxieties just enough to come to a conclusion. He was so tired of running away he just might make the mistake of indulging in the moment, disregarding the concern his mind once had.

“I love you too.”

#bsd imagines #bsd x reader #bsd fanfic #dazai osamu x reader #dazai x reader #my bsd brainrot is showing #the BSD isekai au no one asked for #🍋

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discokicks · 9 months

Text

FOX IN THE BOX — ROY KENT.

PART TWO of ACES AT THE WATER’S EDGE.

(series masterlist!) (AO3!) (series playlist!)

pairing: roy kent x fem!reader (no use of y/n!)

summary: back in 2012, you and roy meet for the first time. in 2023, you sign a one-year contract with richmond and have to work with roy for the first time. both go about as well as you’d expect.

word count & rating: 9.6k, R (roy kent says fuck and does fuck!)

chapter warnings: swearing, light sexual innuendos and light references to sex, mentions of alcohol and partying (the olympians get DOWN in olympic village) minor allusions to what happened to reader at west ham, major football talk, roy kent is rich, original character intros and plot (author really likes a plot, woo boy), angst, and of course, fluff.

author’s note: ok wow, thank you for all the love on the first chapter! wildly unexpected but much appreciated. this one’s got a bit more to it— jumping timelines, original characters, lotta soccer/football talk, reader and roy don’t know how to act (in more ways than one). also did crazy research into the 2012 olympics for this, so no one tell me my timeline’s off or i’ll cry. also also, is roy's sister named molly or is that just evidence that i've read too many fics? whatever it is, her name's molly! thank you again for the love and i hope you all enjoy! love you all tons! -mags

LONDON OLYMPICS. (LATE JULY, 2012)

You meet Roy Kent for the first time at midnight, in a rookie’s dorm room in the Olympic Village.

It’s a seemingly unlikely place for a football phenom like him to be. You’d expected all of those guys to choose to be elsewhere, exploiting their home-country advantage to hang out in their posh flats. But there they were, carrying out their team bonding efforts to prepare for their game tomorrow.

Knowing what you know about Roy now, it’s fitting for him to have been there. But in this moment, you’re shocked to see the likes of him in Olympic Village.

It’s a place that’s convinced you that your college career was only good for preparing you for it. And you’re not even talking about the sports aspect of it. You’re talking about the shit-show, chaos-menu of athletes from around the world, acting as though it’s the first week of freshman year.

Despite the fact that alcohol, drugs, and any other traditional party favors are completely off-limits on-premises, it doesn’t seem to deter your fellow Olympians from running the dorms like it’s a frat party. You’re half-convinced you’re going to get a classic ‘who do you know here’ from the trust-fund-looking Australian swimmer you pass getting into your building, but he just sends a heartbreaking smile at you and your teammate as you walk in.

Your team’s fresh off the bus from Glasgow, having just beat France at Hampden Park. It was a hell of a way to open, despite the Opening Ceremony not taking place for another two days. As a younger player who’d proven herself in last year’s World Cup, you were the starting striker in your first Olympic game ever, scoring the second goal of the match and assisting the fourth. The adrenaline of it all hadn’t quite worn off yet.

It’s clear that your teammate’s feeling the same way. Melanie Rivera, your left winger and for all intents and purposes, best friend, is straight-up vibrating. You’d met during World Cup training, where you two had instantly clicked and she’d taken you under her wing to show you the ropes and what it meant to play at this level. Despite this being her second Olympics, the feeling of a win never goes away. Or at least, that’s what she tells you.

The two of you are practically bouncing off the walls as you arrive on your floor, giggling to yourselves about different things that had happened during the game. Your fluent-in-French full-back telling off a French forward when she got too close to your goalie. The mid-game mishap where some French girl’s cleat went flying. The ‘bullshit’ yellow card Mel had received right before the half (Mel knew it was a fair call, she’d totally pushed that girl).

“She was asking for it, though,” Mel insists, collapsing onto your bed as you enter your shared room. “Pulling on my shirt the whole game. I have two rules. Two. Don’t—”

You roll your eyes, having heard these rules a million times. “—touch my goalie, and don’t—”

“—touch my fucking kit,” she finishes, throwing her hands up exasperatedly. Her eyes shut with a huff. “They’re pretty simple. Don’t know why people can’t follow them.”

“Yeah, it’s a travesty,” you reply dryly. Your lip curls into a grimace as you look at her. “You wanna know what my rules are?”

One of Mel’s eyes opens with a knowing smile. “Don’t be sweaty on your bed?”

“Oh, so we do remember,” you say, falsely cheery. The faux smile falls from your face. “Get off. Or at least shower. I want to go to bed and I don’t want to like, smell you.”

Mel rolls off your bed with a dramatic sigh. “Fine,” she relents. “But you can’t go to bed.”

Your expression remains unamused. “And why not?”

“Because the British men’s team is hanging out upstairs,” she states as if the answer’s obvious.

“Right. Of course,” you reply. “So, we’re crashing their team bonding?”

“No,” she says, pointing at you. “Their women’s team crashed. And then Jack texted me to tell us to come up.”

You narrow your eyes at her. “Uh-huh. Is Paige there?”

Mel shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “Maybe.”

“Oh, great,” you say sarcastically. “So, you’re forcing me to stay awake so I can wingman you?”

Mel flops on your bed once more. “Please,” she cries. “Dude, I like her so fucking much. We’ve been texting since the Cup and I don’t know, this year I think I’ve got a chance.”

“Why can’t Jack wingman you? He’s clearly down to set you two up,” you say, sounding a bit whiny. “Also, why are they hanging out here? I thought they’d rent a place or stay at their own houses.”

“They make the rookies stay in the Village their first years. It's for the experience, or whatever,” she answers. That’s brushed to the side quickly. “Also, Jack is a fucking awful wingman. The only type of scoring he’s good at is on the field.” She looks at you expectantly. “And I can’t go up there alone. I’ll look like a loser.”

You gape at her. “You are twenty-seven years old.”

“And I’ll look like a twenty-seven-year-old friendless loser!” When she sees the expression you’re wearing, she tilts on her side. “Say yes or I’ll roll around in your bed.”

You cover your face with your hands, an exhausted laugh echoing into your palms. This clearly is a losing battle, and you decide you’re going to be a good friend tonight. “Fine,” you groan, hearing your bed squeak as she launches herself off of it with a cheer. “An hour. That’s it. And then I’m going to bed and never talking to you again.”

“I can live with that,” she yells, bounding for the shower in your room. “I’ll text Jack that we’ll be up in thirty!”

“You owe me so big!” you reply.

You can hear Mel’s grin when she says, “I love you, too!”

Thirty minutes later, you’re freshly showered and up three floors, standing outside of the rookie’s dorm room. You can hear just how loud it is from outside and you suddenly really feel like you’re back in college again.

It takes Mel a solid three minutes to work up the courage to knock on the door, something that you’re sure would have taken longer if you hadn’t reached out and done it yourself. She scowls at you, but the door opens before she can cuss you out.

Jack Wilson, Tottingham sweeper and three-time Olympian, answers the door with a wide smile. You’d met him a handful of times due to his friendship with Mel and he was just as lovely as everyone had said. There was a charming sort of awkwardness about him despite his status as a professional footballer, but it made him all the more endearing to you.

“Glad you finally decided to show,” he said to you two, opening the door wider for you to enter. “Congrats on the win.”

“Thanks,” Mel said, eyes already scanning the small dorm living room for Paige. “What’s up with the team bonding in the dorms?”

You’re also looking around the room, sending smiles to the handful of girls you recognize. “Game tomorrow. Coach wanted us to do dinner as a team, so we ate in that big hall. And we--” he says, pointing to two guys on the couch, “--wanted to see the Village this year. So here we are.”

Your eyes follow his finger to the men, one of which isn’t familiar. The other, you immediately identify as Roy Kent. And his eyes are on you.

He’s easily recognizable, curly hair a bit more tame and managed than the iconic, half-assed mullet he’d had when he first signed with Chelsea. That ever-present scowl only lifts a little when he sees that you and Mel have arrived, but you honestly can’t see much change in his expression due to his drawn brows.

While you’d relied on Mel for the majority of your connections to this new world of football, she’d never really seemed to hang out with the likes of Roy. From what you’d gathered, despite his rather high status, he was a bit of a recluse. Yes, he went out constantly, and yes (if the tabloids were right), he’d certainly dated around, nobody really seemed to know much about him.

When he’d come up in a team game of ‘Fuck, Marry, Kill’ with famous footballers, Mel had told the group that he was a guy of few words, and of the words he did say, ‘fuck’ seemed to be his favorite. Your friend and teammate Katie O’Connor was ready with a terrible impression of him when she answered with ‘fuck,’ especially after Mel also confirmed that the Gina Gershon news was true.

You try to ignore this as you go over to introduce yourself to them, despite the fact it’s currently setting up camp in your brain. “Nice to meet you guys,” you say to Roy and the other boy on the couch. Jack takes a spot next to you on the floor as you take an empty chair next to the couch. Paige waves at you from her spot when you sit.

Roy nods at you in acknowledgment. “Good showing out there.”

Jack points at you. “Bloody insane goal you had,” he says. “I think I’d break my back if I tried to do a scorpion kick like that. It was fucking class.”

You grin. “Well, lucky for Tottenham, they keep you on the other side,” you say, then quietly add, “Not that it would make a difference.”

You see Roy’s lips twitch up from the corner of your eye, and you bite back a laugh as Jack physically deflates before you. Mel’s heard your comment and runs over to sit on the arm of your chair, which is conveniently close to Paige. “Ooh, is it shit on Tottenham time? Because I haven’t seen your ass in months, so I got a whole list, man.”

As the two of them begin to argue in the way they do, you sit at watch them with a smile. They’d had this type of relationship since you’d met them back at the Cup, when Jack had flown into Germany to see your final games. Despite the loss, those were a wild couple of weeks.

The moment your brain starts to recount them, you can feel a pair of eyes on you. It snaps you out of your haze completely. Especially when you realize that it’s Roy Kent who’s staring at you once more.

You blink at him, slightly confused by the attention. “Hi?”

He nods at you again. He seems to take a moment to evaluate you, and then, “You overthink.”

“W-What?” you ask. The word comes out clunky and confused.

Roy motions to the TV that’s on across the room, one that’s showing highlights from your game. “Out there,” he says. “You overthink.”

The two of you stare at each other for a moment. You, feeling unbelievably out of sorts and unsure of what brought this on, Roy, secure and casual, like he just stated the weather.

Before you can question him, he nods at you for a final time, then stands up. “I’m going home,” he tells the group. “You lot better be fucking ready for the game tomorrow.”

Roy’s out of the room before anyone can say a proper goodbye to him, but no one bats an eye. No questions follow.

Except you, of course. You’ve got a fucking million.

You overthink on the field? Where the fuck had he gotten that from? How had he seen it? While there were some times, yeah, you got a bit in your head, you’d never considered yourself an overthinker. And even if you were, the overthinking produced results, right? You liked to think you were just three steps ahead of everyone else out there. Not an overthinker.

But what made him say that? What had he seen? Was it your hesitation outside the box in the first fifteen that resulted in you losing the ball? Was it the switch you’d made to get to the goal when your right winger had it on the side? Was there a look on your face when you’d taken that free kick in the second half? You were pretty in your head then, but hey, it led to Mel scoring.

Overthinking. Pfft. He didn’t know what he was talking about.

But then again, what the fuck was he talking about?

The thought of this unknown bomb dropped on you without any sort of answers quickly and completely took over your mind. Criticism about your playing had never bothered you (you were a twenty-five-year-old female soccer player, and you’d had more horrendous coaches than you could count), but this? This was something that literally made you itch. And you weren’t going to be able to scratch it until you knew what the hell he meant.

Before you knew what you were doing, you found yourself practically chasing Roy out of the room, whipping your head around to figure out which way he’d gone. Lucky for you, the dorm’s slow lifts were on your side.

Roy stood by the elevator, checking something on his phone as he waited. He clearly doesn’t hear you coming because he nearly drops it when you ask, “What do you mean I overthink?”

“What the fuck?” And now he’s staring at you like you’re the crazy one.

“I should be asking you that!” you say, then motion back to the direction of the dorm. “You tell me I overthink, stare at me with no follow-up, then leave? Who does that?” You’re way too animated for past midnight, but you don’t care. “Because even if I was an overthinker, which I’m not, that sort of stuff is probably the worst thing you can do. Not leaving on a note like that is like, rule number one.”

Roy’s brows shoot up. “I wasn’t aware there were rules.”

“Yeah, well, there are,” you reply, crossing your arms over your chest. When he continues to just stare at you, you make a face that you hope will cue him to go on. “So, go ahead. Please explain yourself.”

“Explain the overthinking thing?” he asks. “I thought it was pretty fucking simple.”

You roll your eyes. “No, what made you say that? Was it a play I had? Was it something I did? What did you see? I’m just curious as to—”

“You came up the field toward the end of the game,” he says, effectively cutting you off. “And you made a pass to Rivera that led to another pass, then a goal.”

You nod at him, not seeing his point at all. “Yeah? So? It was a great goal by Katie.”

Roy’s expression turns slightly frustrated, as if he’s annoyed that you don’t immediately catch on. “It was a great goal. But the fucking second you saw Rivera next to you, you started thinking ahead,” he tells you. “So far ahead that you didn’t notice how slow and fucking awful your mark was and that you could have had a better goal if you’d stopped thinking.”

There are approximately fifteen seconds of dead air between you two as you attempt to take in what he just said to you. “So, let me get this straight,” you begin. “You’re saying I’m bad because I think too much about teamwork?”

For a moment, you think Roy’s going to slam his head into the elevator door. Instead, he just turns to the buttons and presses them once more. “Fuck’s sake, could these be any fucking slower?”

You’re too far gone at this point to even be offended. “Uh, it doesn’t matter. You started this. You’re not going anywhere until we finish it. Why does me not being a selfish dick make me bad?”

“I didn’t say you were bad. You’re not. Clearly,” he responds. You note a bit of the classic ‘Roy Kent’ anger laced within his words and it makes you snap your mouth shut. “I’m just saying. You’re at your best when you’re not so fucking nice and when you don’t fucking think.”

Unconsciously, your arms cross over your chest. “I’ve got twenty-two years of playing time and about ten coaches that would disagree with that.”

Once more, you see the corner of his mouth slide upward as he glances at you. “If that’s the case, then your coaches were all idiots. They weren’t smart enough to let you loose.”

An unexpected warmth rises to your cheeks. But instead of acknowledging it, you ask, “What, like you’d be a better one?” Before he can respond to that, you’re talking again. “And even if all of that were true, I wouldn’t know how to do that.”

Roy’s brow creases. “Do what?”

“Not… think ahead,” you say. “Or not think at all. That being three steps ahead thing is kind of, well, my thing.” You offer a shrug. “The generous, teamwork thing too. I like that. It’s what makes me good.”

Roy continues to look at you, but says nothing. For a moment, all is quiet as he just… stares, almost as if he can see through you. Like he’s privy to something you’re not, or he’s had some sort of revelation about you. You’re not sure anyone’s ever looked at your this hard. It’s a bit unnerving and you have to fight to not avert your eyes.

Before you can begin to further overthink that (god fucking damn it), he’s holding his phone out to you. You stare down at it blankly.

“You’re showing me your phone,” you state, but it’s almost a question.

Roy rolls his eyes. “Put in your fucking number,” he says.

Your lips purse as you hesitate, but you find yourself reaching out for it. “Is this how you typically do it?” you ask, typing your name into his contacts. “You neg a girl for five minutes straight and then ask her for her number?”

Roy rolls his eyes again, but there’s humor amongst the annoyance this time. “I’m going to text you a time and an address,” he tells you. You hand him his phone back. “Be there on Friday after the Opening Ceremony.”

The elevator had finally arrived in the middle of his sentence and you eye him wearily as he steps in. “Just… show up to this address?” you ask. “Do I get context? Like, what to expect? What am I dressing for?”

“Overthinking,” he reminds you as he presses the button for the lobby. “Just fucking be there.”

Before you can object further or tell him that you were not in fact overthinking, you were just a woman in a foreign city concerned for your safety, he leans forward to stop the doors from closing. He’s got one hand up and has a small smirk on his face.

“And just so we’re crystal fucking clear,” he says. “If I were trying to chat you up, you’d fucking know it.”

Your eyes immediately fix into a glare and the doors close before you can say anything in response. “Asshole,” you mutter to yourself, but you’re already flipping your phone over to see if he’s texted you.

(You won’t know this until much, much later, but Roy Kent let out a loud and regretful ‘fuck!’ as soon as he was five floors down, absolutely cringing at the idea that he used a line like that on someone like you. It plagued him for three years straight.)

PRESENT DAY. (EARLY AUGUST, 2023)

On a day when Roy not only had the strangest interaction of his life with Jamie Tartt in the Boot Room, but he also found out that Trent fucking Crimm would be lingering around all season, he was sure that he was done with surprises at Nelson Road.

That quickly proved to be false, as he soon found that Ted was rounding the team up in the media room for some sort of meeting.

Roy saw Beard as he was leaving the Coaches’ Office and sent a questioning look his way. “Did I miss film on the agenda?”

Beard shook his head. “Nope. Impromptu. We just heard back.”

“Heard back?” Roy asked, watching Beard go to leave the room. “The fuck are you on about?”

Beard smiled at him in the doorway. “We got her,” he said and left with a skip in his step that Roy wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before.

They’d gotten her? Got who?

Then it hit Roy. Oh. You. They’d gotten you.

You’d said yes. You were joining Richmond. He’d helped convince you. Despite everything, despite all that had happened and everything you two had done, you’d said yes. You were willing to work with him. You were now going to be back in his life for worse or for better. And not just back in his life, but a fucking constant in it.

Then that hit Roy. The reality of it all fucking bodyslams him and it makes his heart race. After eight years of cold-turkey no-contact, he was going to be seeing you every day. After everything he’d done. After everything you had done.

Roy realized then that he didn’t exactly consider this feeling. That he was so blindsided by Rebecca’s request and by seeing you that he didn’t even think about this. It had been hard enough to work up the nerve to confront and speak to you once. Would it feel like that all season? Had you considered this?

But then, he remembered you and how you think about every fucking angle of every situation. You definitely had thought about this. And if you were willing to push the discomfort, the awkwardness, the whatever in order to have this job, he supposed he had to be too.

Roy swore under his breath, turning away from his desk to get his head back on straight. The team was waiting for him. He could mope about this in the comfort of his own home later.

He arrived in the room just as the rest of the team was getting in. The boys were buzzing. Between the news of a potential Zava acquisition and the Trent Crimm book development, as well as whatever this was, they couldn’t seem to stop talking. Roy didn’t blame them. It was a lot for one day.

(It’d been a lot for him too. With everyone now knowing about his break-up with Keeley, to fucking Trent Crimm, to you, he was surprised he hadn’t gone outside to scream yet. But he presumed that was coming.)

“Alright fellas, listen up,” Ted said from the front of the room, holding his hand up to get everyone’s attention. The team quieted down after a moment. “I know there’s been a lot of talk going around this week. And I know y’all are excited. But I’ve got some more news.”

“I don’t know if I can take any more,” Dani said, sending a wave of agreement through the group. “It’s hurting my head.”

Ted chuckled. “I know. Mine too. And we’re the ones who have to manage all this,” he said, motioning to Beard and Roy who stood against the wall. “But this is good news.”

Good news? That was something the team could manage.

“So, how many of you are familiar with the Women’s World Cup that happened back in 2015?” he asked, eyes scanning the crowd.

A murmur went through the team. “America won?” Colin offered. “Crazy final game that was.”

Isaac pointed at Roy. “You did some shit for Sky Sports for this Cup, right?”

As the boys began to recall this, Jaan Mas said, “Why they gave you another pundit job after that completely blows my mind.”

“Yes, Roy did do some TV work over here,” Ted answered after the laughter died down. “And yes, America won. But does anyone remember what this Cup started to be called?”

It seemed as though no one had an answer. That is, until Beard cleared his throat said, “The Summer of Fourteen, baby!”

Ted snapped at his best friend. “That’s exactly right, Coach. And despite it being the 2015 Cup, they called it that because of this woman right here.”

Ted had brought up what is perhaps the most iconic photo of you to date. It’s one of the first things to come up if you were to Google yourself, a picture that’s haunted you for the last eight years. It’s from the 2015 quarter-final. You’re mid-penalty kick against China, scowl on your face as your foot collides with the ball, blood dripping down your face from the broken nose you’d received moments before.

(It’s certainly not the most elegant or flattering picture of you that exists, especially when your fellow teammates’ search results yielded photos of them at the ESPYs, but you still think you’ve never looked like more of a badass.)

Ted said your name smoothly as he pointed to you on the screen, annunciating all syllables. “Wildly prolific USA Women's athlete despite her rather short time in the league. And while she was always good, y’know, starting striker since she began and all that—” He chuckled, turning to look at his other coaches, who had knowing smiles on their faces. “—I don’t know. There was something in the water in 2015. Because she just became…”

Ted trailed off, looking for the word. This time, Roy found it before Beard. “A nightmare,” he said, with a suppressed yet fond sort of smile. “She was a fucking nightmare out there.”

“In a good way, of course,” Ted cleared up, earning a nod from Roy. “But, yeah. A nightmare. Wonderful teammate and fantastic playmaker, but man…” Ted trailed off with a low whistle. “We were all glad she played for our neck of the woods.”

Jamie’s hand went up. “Didn’t she just get like, hired and fired by West Ham?”

“Wonderful segue there, Jamie,” Ted said. “Because yes, that is true. She was with West Ham for a couple months. First female coach in the league. Pretty impressive stuff, and it was a pretty big deal. And then something went wrong, and they let her go.” The team made a noise of acknowledgment, all of them having seen it in the news. “And I don’t know what happened, and we probably won’t know what happened, but we knew she was too good to leave the league. Lucky for us, we need a new coach. And she needs a new job.”

There was a wide smile on his face when Sam asked, “So she will be joining Richmond?”

“That she is, Sam,” Ted replied, earning yet another eruption of chatter amongst the group. “She’ll be joining us on Monday. And while I know you fellas will do everything you can to make her feel welcome and will show her the same level of respect that you show us up here—” Ted pointed to his coaches once more, glancing down at the computer in front of him. “—I’m going to show you why she deserves it more than us.”

A YouTube video of your highlights appeared on the big screen, going full-screen as the quick ad ended. Ted stepped back from the computer, sitting down on the stool behind him to watch along with the rest.

Your famous 2012-France-Scorpion-Kick goal just so happens to be the first thing up and Roy’s heart nearly stops. It’d been years since he’d seen this clip and he was immediately transported back to the night you two met. A ghost of a smile unconsciously made its way up his face as he watched your body contort to flip around, and the ball soar into the net. It was a goal of pure and utter instinct. You hadn’t thought about it. You just ran in there like a maniac and knew what to do. That one gets an immediate reaction from the team.

The next one is a play you’d set up in the Quarter-Final New Zealand game, with a bunch of quick passing in the box to confuse and rattle the defense. Melanie Rivera had sent you a world-class assist for an even better goal, one that earns you the title of ‘Fox in the Box’ from the past commentator on screen. The next, an impressive goal scored after an injury you’d had in the Semi-Finals against Canada. Then, and perhaps most famously, your assist to Katie O’Connor from midfield to win the Gold.

And they hadn’t even gotten to the World Cup yet.

The World Cup footage made up the other three-fourths of the video. It was a completely different side of you, one that had thrown caution to the wind, one that had a huge fucking chip on her shoulder, one that was just… insane. In all the best ways and meanings.

Roy’s shock of the day, though, comes after a highlight of you completely blowing past three Colombian defenders. You’d broken the fourth’s ankles with your footwork in the box for a quick goal. Footwork of yours that had been massively improved, Roy noted. And he would know, he’s the one who did it.

Arlo White’s voice filled up the room. “And yet another breakaway goal from USA’s Mean Fourteen!” The clip said. “It’s just remarkable to watch her work this year, don’t you think, Roy?”

Roy felt all eyes on him when he heard his own voice on the speakers. “I don’t know what USA would do without her,” 2015 Roy Kent said. “I’d hate to have her against me.”

It was strange for Roy to hear his own voice mock him like that. And as the team began to cheer for him, he felt a pit form in his stomach. They didn’t even know.

The highlight reel continued for another couple of minutes, and it seemed with each play, the boys became more excited about the prospect of being coached by someone like you. Beard and Ted were evidently just as ecstatic about the development, and Roy knew he had to get on board. Warp his feelings and nerves and whatever else into something resembling his team’s attitude.

After all, he was the reason you were joining.

The lights came up as soon as the video ended, snapping Roy back to reality. Ted smiled at the team. “Alright, fellas. Now, let’s get to work on the welcome party.”

The boys hooped and hollered, each of them getting up to join in whatever Ted had planned. Beard looked over at Roy as the rest filed out.

“You think we’re ready for her?” he asked.

Roy hated the weird fucking sixth sense Beard had when it came to… well, everything. He made Roy feel like he was completely transparent. “We’re ready for her,” he replied.

Though, he wasn’t sure if he was assuring Beard or himself.

PRESENT DAY. (EARLY AUGUST, 2023.)

You sign a one-year coaching contract with AFC Richmond that Monday in Rebecca Walton’s office.

The news broke that you’d been picked up by Richmond on Friday, something that had completely come alive in the press world. Your face was plastered over all of the papers yet again, newscasters seemed to mention your name every time you turned on your TV, and social media was set on fire. Everyone had something to say about this move and the majority of it wasn’t too positive.

You tried to keep your nose out of it, knowing just how much you did not need to see people talking about you like that. The majority of the negativity was from West Ham fans, wishing Richmond ‘luck’ with the likes of you, others wishing you good riddance.

If they knew how happy you were to be out of there, you’re not so sure they’d be as excited to let you go.

Though signings on every level in this league were typically more public affairs, ones with major press conferences and coverage, you’d requested this to be quieter. Just a few statements from the people who mattered and a pen and paper. You’d been in the media a bit too much for your liking over these past couple of months, and if you could get some exclusivity, you’d take it.

Rebecca, thankfully, was more than happy to comply. You’d been in contact with her practically non-stop since you’d called her, and she’d been nothing but lovely to you. Each interaction with her made you feel better about this job, despite the cloud of anxiety that still hung over you.

You’re sitting in a chair opposite Rebecca’s desk when a message from Mel comes through. i always liked richmond better than west ham anyway, she says. paige and i bought shirts and will be at every game.

A photo comes through shortly after of her three-year-old toddler, decked out in a Jamie Tartt jersey. oliver’s already got his!

You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face, fingers tapping against your screen with a quick response. adorable. give him and paige a hug for me. and i’ll be freaking out so bad at every game that i’m gonna need you there anyway, so i’m holding you to that.

you’ll be incredible. knock ‘em dead, kid.

Rebecca re-enters her office before you can respond with a thank you. She’s got Coach Ted Lasso in tow, who could not be grinning brighter at you. The second you see him, you think about everything Nate had told you during your short time at West Ham, and something within you just can’t believe it. The energy of Richmond had been different as soon as you walked through the door. The good kind of different. And their manager appeared to not be an exception.

Ted greets you immediately with an outstretched hand. “It’s so nice to finally meet you,” he says after your introduction. “I gotta tell you, we’re all mighty excited that you’re here.”

“I think I might be more excited,” you reply, and it’s an honest answer. Or at least, you’d been able to shift your nerves about the job into excitement. You’d only anxiety-thrown up once today. You figured that was an accomplishment. “Seriously. Thank you both again for the opportunity.”

“We’re just grateful you said yes,” Rebecca says. You can tell she means it. “The team’s been buzzing all week.”

The nerves return at the mention of the team, but you mentally scream at yourself to get over it. “Well, I’m just excited to get started.”

“Speaking of getting started, we should probably head downstairs,” Ted says to Rebecca. “I wanna show our new coach around a bit before practice gets going.”

“Of course, don’t let me keep you,” Rebecca responds. “I’ve got a couple more things for you to sign before you leave today, so just make sure to stop by. If you have any questions, my door’s always open, or you can ask Leslie, who you met earlier, who’s always wandering around somewhere.” Her smile gets warmer as she puts a hand on your shoulder. “And we really are pleased to have you joining us.”

You wonder for a moment how a woman like her could have ever been married to an asshole like Rupert, but you suppose that’s a story for another day. “Thank you,” you say again, a bit of that anxiety washing away. “I’m happy to be here.”

Ted leads you out of the office, his tour starting from the minute you exit. He offers a bit of insight into himself and his time at Richmond, his past two years working with Rebecca, then launches into what he knows about the history of the place (and you don’t have the heart to tell him that Rebecca had already done that when you’d arrived).

The facility is gorgeous, but it feels a bit more lived-in and welcoming than what you remember about West Ham. Everything there was so manicured and monochromatic and sterile. Nothing about it felt like a place you’d want to work.

Richmond is the opposite. It’s bright and colorful and you can hear people laughing as soon as you step down into the lower level. While your nervousness about the team still lingers, you can feel it easing. You’ll see how long that lasts.

You’re stepping into the Coaches’ Office before you even realize it, mind too occupied with taking in your new surroundings and trying to keep up with Ted’s story. You resent the overwhelming amount of relief you feel when you realize there are only two men in the office, and neither of them are Roy.

One is sitting with his feet crossed up on his desk and a book in his face. The other is writing on a notepad at a separate desk. You’re surprised by the speed at which both of them jump up to greet you as you and Ted enter.

“Alright, Coach, this is Coach Beard,” Ted says, and you meet Beard’s hand for a shake. “He’s one of the guys you’ll be working with this season.”

“Nice to meet you,” Beard says, nodding your way.

“You too,” you reply. Your eyes are drawn to the book he placed down on his desk and you allow yourself to grin. “I love Merlin Sheldrake.” When his brows shoot up in surprise, you shrug. “I’ve got a lot of time in the off-season.”

Beard’s eyes light up. “We’ll get along just fine.”

Your grin grows and you hear Ted’s voice from behind you. “Is that that mushroom book?” he asks. “I don’t think Beard’s ever found someone who reads that stuff too. I guess we’ve now got two Fun-guys in the group.”

You glance over at Beard. “Now it's a Fung-us.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Ted’s hand come up to his mouth as he looks over at his best friend. For whatever reason, it’s clear that the two of them are trying to contain their excitement. Before you can question it, Ted places a hand on your shoulder. “Oh, you’ll fit right in here, Ace.”

The nickname catches you off guard. It’s something that you haven’t heard since your playing days, something that the commentators and pundits loved to call you. It was always a compliment when they said it, but something about the way that your new manager says it makes it sound more like a title than a name. Like that’s what you are.

It immediately makes you feel welcome and you can feel yourself warm into their excitement.

The other man in the room, who’s been watching this interaction in amusement, steps forward to hold out his hand to you as well. “Trent Crimm.”

Now, it’s your turn to raise your brows. “You’re the writer who keeps calling me?”

A smile that could also be a cringe appears on his face. “Guilty,” he answers. “Just trying to cover all the bases for the book.”

“I get it,” you tell him. “If you still want a quote, I’d be happy to give you one. But I can’t guarantee it’s going to be clean.”

Trent chuckles. “I’ll take what I can get at this point.”

There’s a moment where you almost question what he means by that, but you brush it off. Especially now that Ted’s started talking again. “Roy's running a little late, but I’ve heard y’all already know each other, so we’re not technically missing an introduction.”

That makes you pause. You’d figured that when Roy had appeared on your doorstep he’d told at least Rebecca about your past, and that the probability he’d told the staff was high too. But exactly how much had he told them? Did they know the basics or did they know everything?

You then realize it’s Roy you’re talking about. There was no way in hell he’d told them anything more than what Ted said. That you knew each other. Maybe that things hadn’t ended smoothly. But that was it.

That, at least, gives you a bit more confidence. Ted turns to you and leads you back into the small, adjoining room you’d walked through, pointing at an almost empty desk. “That’s yours,” he tells you. “Feel free to dress it up with whatever you want, and get yourself unpacked. We’re starting practice in about fifteen minutes and Coach Beard and I gotta set some things up, but I’d like to introduce you to the fellas before you start shadowing. That all sound good?”

You grip the strap of your backpack and nod at him with a smile. “Works for me, Coach.”

Ted grins, patting you on the arm. “Glad to hear it.”

And with that, he returns to his desk, making sure to leave the door open as he leaves.

You plop your backpack on your desk and begin to empty out your things. You grab your laptop first and place it on your desk, followed by a couple of knick-knacks and photos you brought along, ones that never felt at home at your desk at West Ham. There’s a rational piece of you that knows you should stop comparing the two places, but the pettier, more aggressive side of you tells it to fuck off.

(You like to listen to that one when you can these days.)

You’re holding a photo of a baby Oliver dressed in a Women’s USA onesie when you hear someone else walk into the room. You glance over your shoulder and immediately regret it.

Roy Kent is standing in the doorway, staring at you like he completely forgot your signing day was today.

Of course, Roy hadn’t. He’d been pacing around his flat all morning because of it. It was actually why he was late to work. But he hadn’t expected to see you as soon as he walked in. In his office. Now, your office too, he supposed.

The two of you just stared at each other for a moment, much like you did when you saw each other again for the first time last week. However, it appears that you’re both acutely aware of the three sets of eyes that are on you two from the other room.

Like you’re snapping into a scene in a play, Roy’s expression rids itself of all surprise. “Coach,” he says stiffly, nodding at you.

Coach. You suddenly remember your previous conversation. It’ll be professional. Civil. I won’t let there be any issues.

Well, if he won’t let there be any issues, you’re sure as hell not going to give him the satisfaction of causing any.

So, instead, you return his nod. “Coach,” you greet him. As he puts his things on the desk opposite yours, your heart falls into your stomach, “A-Are we…”

“Sharing an office?” he finishes for you. You nod weakly. “Yeah.”

“Oh,” you say, then awkwardly add, “Fun.”

“I’m over the fucking moon,” he deadpans.

You bite your tongue, trying not to retort too quickly to a comment like that. You look away from him and to the keys in his hand and you prepare for the small talk you’re about to force yourself to engage in. “Tough ride in?”

It seems to take him a moment to process the question. The awkwardness of it all lingers. “Something like that,” he answers. However, his gaze is stuck on the picture in your hand. “What the fuck is that?”

Your brows furrow and you glance down. So much for small talk. “This?” You hold up the photo. “Oh, this is, uh, Oliver. Mel and Paige’s son.”

“Fuck off,” Roy says in a way that’s almost inquisitive, though the relief in his voice is palpable. You try to ignore that. “I didn’t know they had a kid.”

You huff a laugh despite yourself, and a bit of weight falls from your shoulders. “You clearly don’t follow Mel on anything,” you reply, then pause. “Oh, wait. I forgot. You don’t do social media.”

“It’s a waste of fucking time,” he says, reaching out to look at the photo. When you hand it to him, he mutters, “I think Rivera would have me blocked if I did, though.”

“Yeah, you’re not wrong,” you say honestly. You take the picture back from him and place it on your desk. Your next question comes out casual, and you can’t help but be proud of how nicely this is all flowing. “Speaking of kids, how’s Phoebe doing? And how’s Molly?”

You’re not expecting the hint of shock on Roy’s face when you turn back to him. It’s as if he can’t believe you’ve remembered his sister’s name, or his niece that you met when she was no more than six months old. You want to slap him upside the head for looking at you like that because, of course, you fucking remember that, but a knock on the door from the other room interrupts your conversation.

Trent’s standing hesitantly in the doorway, notepad in hand. “Sorry to interrupt,” he says, and he appears to be avoiding eye contact with Roy. “But if you were serious about talking, would you be free to do it tomorrow?”

You offer him a warm smile, hoping that’ll contrast Roy’s crossed arms and hard stare directed at him. “Sure thing.”

“No,” Roy immediately says. “You’re not fucking talking to him.”

Confusion takes over. “Why not?” you ask.

“Because no one’s fucking talking to him,” is Roy’s answer, firm, with no room for argument. His eyes never leave Trent. “And don’t try to fucking weasel your way into this team through someone who doesn’t fucking know any better, Crimm. You’re fucking better than that.”

You’re gaping at Roy as Trent nods at you kindly and retreats into the locker room. When you look back into the office to see if you can get some clarity from one of your other new colleagues, you notice that they’re both missing. Ted did say they had to set some things up.

You suppose that just gives you the ability to talk freely to Roy now.

“I’m sorry,” you say, whipping back to Roy who’s already facing his desk. “Has he not been given the O-K to write a book about this team?”

Roy grunts. “He has. But it doesn’t mean we’re fucking talking to him.”

“Well, doesn’t that, like, defeat the purpose of him writing a book?”

“You’re catching on.”

You lean back against your desk, folding your arms to take on Roy’s previous stance. “Oh, I see,” you say in understanding. “This is a Kent Rule.”

He doesn’t have to be facing you for you to know he rolled his eyes. “No, it’s not.”

“Oh, it’s totally a Kent Rule.” You stare at his back as he shifts his shoulders in discomfort. “You hate him, so you’re forcing the team to hate him. Enemy mine is enemy yours? That’s Kent Rule number three, if I’m remembering correctly.”

“It’s a team rule,” he states. “I’m just enforcing it.”

“Right,” you agree, though your voice says differently. “Each person here hates him so much that they allowed him to write a book here.”

Roy shakes his head with a scoff. “Fuck’s sake, I forgot how fucking irritating you were.”

“I’m not being irritating. You’re being evasive.” You only get another grunt in response. Fed up, your frustration at his lack of an explanation starts to seep into your tone. “So, what? I’m just supposed to ice that nice guy out because you say so?”

When Roy finally looks at you, he’s scowling. “He’s not fucking nice,” he says. “And you don’t know anything.”

“I don’t know anything because you won’t tell me,” you argue.

“My word’s not good enough?”

You glare at him. “Your word hasn’t been good enough in eight fucking years.”

Roy shakes his head, almost in disbelief. “Definitely not telling you now.”

“Okay, enough,” you say, scanning the room and the hall to make sure no one’s watching the two of you. You put a hand up before he can retaliate with anything. “Look, if this is gonna work, you have to tell me things, okay? And we can’t argue here. Not here.” You motion to the office around you. “I can’t work with that shit. Alright?”

For a moment, it’s like you can look into Roy’s mind. You watch him appear to recount last week’s talk, just as you did minutes ago. Professional. Civil. No issues.

“Fine,” he finally sighs, knowing you’re right.

“Fine,” you reply. You take a breath. “So, if he sucks and you don’t want me to talk to him, you need to tell me why. You can’t just order me around like I’m one of the guys, especially not in front of people. I’m your equal here, Roy. Whether you like it or not.”

Roy shakes his head. “You’ve always been my equal,” he says, though it’s a bit softer. “You fucking know that.”

His words leave a lump in your throat that you’re not anticipating. “Well, you’re not acting like it.”

His head tilts back, eyes falling shut. His shoulders tense up. Heavy sigh. Dear God, he really doesn’t want to tell you, huh?

And then it hits you. Oh, fuck does it hit you. He doesn’t want to tell you.

And you get why.

Roy’s talking as soon as you open your mouth to apologize for pushing him. “The others don’t know either. I’ll tell you when I tell them,” he offers. “That’s the fucking best you’re getting from me.”

Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, so you offer a nod. “Fine,” you say softly.

The nod is returned. “Fine.”

The conversation feels finished, but there’s still one more thing you want to say. “And can we agree right here that we’re not going to argue in front of anyone? Just like you said?” you ask. “Like, if you want to pick a fight, just like, pull me into the Boot Room or something. This shit can’t affect the way we do our jobs.”

Humor slants Roy’s expression. “Boot Room fights?”

You roll your eyes. “You know what I mean. Not in front of the team.”

“Yeah, I got it,” he says with a nod. “Fine.”

“Fine.”

From the outside of the office, you can hear the team start to file into the locker room from their gym facility, laughing just the same as when you heard them earlier. The alone sound makes you tense up. Roy narrows his eyes at you.

“Speaking of,” he says cautiously. “I think it might be time for your introduction. Hope you like primary school-level art done by grown fucking men.”

That takes you out of your headspace immediately. “I’m sorry, what?”

LONDON OLYMPICS. (LATE JULY, 2012.)

Mabley Green. Friday. 23:30.

Wear some training gear.

I can send a car for you so you know you’re not being murdered.

You’d read the three messages you’d received two days ago from Roy Kent about a million times. While you’d replied to him that his sending a car felt very mafia boss and definitely doesn’t eliminate the murder possibility, you’d still gathered up the courage to dress up in your nicest sweats, escape from the Village after the Opening Ceremony festivities, and meet his driver on the outskirts.

(Of course, you said yes to the driver. Roy Kent was fucking loaded and if he were going to be strange and summon you places, you were going to take his free transportation.)

You’d confirmed your whereabouts and situation approximately thirty-five thousand times to Mel, who had nothing but questions for you.

“Roy Kent. Like Chelsea’s finest, here, there, every fucking where Roy Kent?” That’s the one.

“Is sending a car for you to go to where?” I don’t know, it looks like a soccer field.

“To do what?” Battle Pokemon. I don’t fucking know, Mel. I think he wants to train me.

“Train you or train you?” Why are you saying it like that?

“Because this has to be a weird hook-up thing that famous footballers do, right?” He made it very clear he had no interest. Also, pause. What about me says I’d fuck on a pitch?

“He could bring an air mattress.” Oh my God, I’m leaving.

But as you arrived to this completely empty field, with nobody but your overly friendly driver, Roger to back you up, you couldn’t help but feel a little nervous. This was weird, wasn’t it? You were meeting up with this guy you barely knew at an abandoned location just because he told you that you were an overthinker? Your mother would be absolutely horrified if she knew. You’d broken just about every Stranger Danger rule she’d set.

However, the second that you stepped out of the car to see Roy illuminated by the field lights, standing with his hood up and a bag of footballs thrown over his shoulder, you knew this was legit. And the anxiety washed away. But a few of the nerves stayed.

“Glad you showed,” he greets, turning to walk to the field as you fell into step with him.

You look over at him expectantly. “So, you are coaching me.”

“No, I’m fucking not,” he says. “I just want to get you out of your head.”

You nod in faux agreement. “Right. Because that’s not coaching.”

Roy rolls his eyes. “No, it’s not. It’s called being a nice fucking person.”

“Right,” you say again. “Because Roy Kent is known best for his kindness.”

He turns to you. Something sparks in you when you notice that he appears to be humored by all of this. “You should be thanking me.”

“Of course. I’m sorry,” you apologize, sending him a wide smile as you two make it to the field. “Thank you, Coach.” Roy rolls his eyes again and you chuckle softly. “I’ll thank you when I know for a fact you’re not gonna murder me.”

He watches as you plop yourself down on the pitch to stretch a bit. “If I was going to kill you, I wouldn’t have brought a fucking witness.”

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “Roger could be your Ryan Gosling.”

Roy actually laughs at that one. It’s a sound that you’d never expected to hear, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to hear it again. “I wouldn’t trust him to do that kind of driving. Chatty prick can barely get around London.”

“Hey,” you chide. “He was very nice.”

“He’s fucking incredible. Been with him since my Sunderland days. Still a chatty prick.”

You can’t help but smile at the fondness that’s crept into his voice, but you say nothing about it. You bring your knee to your chest in a stretch and look up at him. “So, what’s the plan here, Coach?”

“Not your coach.”

“Right, sorry. What’s the plan here, Zodiac?”

Roy shakes his head, fighting to keep his lips even. “I want to make a deal with you.”

“A deal?” you ask. “What kind of deal?”

“I’ll train with you until your team's out,” he says. “Whenever our match schedules align, we can figure out a time to do shit until you need to go home.”

Your smile turns cocky. “And if we win?”

He practically snorts. “You’re not going to win.”

“But if we do?”

“Then we’ll train until then,” he replies. “And I’ll give you whatever you fucking want.”

You’re not sure what that entails, but anything you want from Roy fucking Kent? It’s an offer that may be too good to pass up. But still, one question lingers. “In exchange for what?”

“What?” he asks.

You stand, lifting one of your feet from the ground so that you can pull it up behind you in another stretch. “A deal works two ways. Exchanging goods or services and all that,” you tell him. “What’s in it for you?”

Roy shrugs. “I need to train too,” he answers. It's a bit simple, a bit evasive. “That’s what’s in it for me.”

“Oh, c’mon,” you say, “you can’t be serious. You want to train with me just to train?”

“What’s wrong with that?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“Nothing,” you respond, slowly realizing he’s serious. “I guess I just kind of assumed when I heard ‘deal’ that you’d want something in return.”

“Well, that’s all I fucking want,” he tells you. “If I think of anything else you can do for me, I’ll let you know.”

A mix between a scoff and a laugh escapes you. “I’ll be anxiously anticipating your demands.”

He’s turned to his bag of footballs and crouches to grab one, glancing up at you as he rises. “So?” he asks. “Do we have a fucking deal, or what?”

Your foot goes down as you look at him, evaluating him and his offer. You shift your gaze to the field, to the big lights around you, then to the night sky that tells you it’s almost the next day.

You have a game in Glasgow again tomorrow against Colombia. You’re out past curfew and know your team would both kill you and congratulate you if they knew where you were. You have to be on a bus in less than eight hours.

But here’s Roy Kent, standing with you on an abandoned pitch in London, offering to train with you. And what kind of idiot passes that up?

“Deal,” you agree, taking the ball from his hand. “Now, where do we start?”

(mini!) TAGLIST: @tegan8314, @csigeoblue, @confessionsofatotaldramaslut

#roy kent #roy kent x reader #roy kent x you #roy kent fanfiction #ted lasso #aatwe #aces #the one who can't walk up stairs

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deterweek · 1 year

Text

Welcome to the theme announcement for Deter Week 2023.

Same as last year, there are two prompts per day for you to choose from—you can also use both if you’d like to! There is no obligation to complete all seven days; you can totally skip a day if the themes don’t click. Just do as many as you wish.

There are absolutely no restrictions on content (ratings, word count, kinks, if they are romantic or platonic, darkfic, etc.); as long as it’s tagged appropriately, anything goes! There is also no set Free Day, but if you have something to post that doesn’t fit one of the themes, just post it anyway. The aim of this event is to achieve more Deter content, so honestly, GO NUTS.

There are sub-prompts listed below each theme. I wanted to give you a few examples to help spark ideas—they are literally just things that popped into my head when I was thinking about each prompt—but of course, you can totally ignore them.

Here you go:

Day 1 (March 14th) -

"Promise me."

keeping or breaking promises, secrets, deals made, the night of the fire, etc.

Back To School

student/teacher relationships, homeschooling, punishments, back in time, college au, jocks, nerds, power dynamics, help with homework, my hero presentations, moving out, etc.

Day 2 (March 15th) -

Magic

witches/wizards, magicians, historical au, spells, curses, breaking spells/curses, love potions, rituals, witch trails, spells gone wrong, etc.

Dungeons and Dragons

mythical creatures, royalty au, bards, knights in shining armour, fantasy, imprisonment, adventurers, kingdoms in ruin, roleplaying games, etc.

Day 3 (March 16th) -

Vacation

weekends away, long distance relationships, sex on the beach, nights out, visiting family, fake dating, the honeymoon, business trips, pampering, relaxation, fluff, etc.

Spring Time

spring cleaning, hayfever, celebrations, sex pollen, florist au, farming, new beginnings, kid fic, reminiscing, etc.

Day 4 (March 17th) -

Ooh, Kinky

let your kinks run free, bdsm, add another character to their relationship, monsterfuckers unite, sex toys, kink discovery, discussions, under-negotiated kink, cnc, sex clubs, dd/lb, dressing up, spicing things up, etc.

"What have you done?"

suspicion, surprises, assassin au, taking the blame, murder husbands, time travel au, stuck in time, accidental baby acquisition, facing the consequences, gift giving, ah shit moments, etc.

Day 5 (March 18th) -

The Big Screen

going to the movies, first dates, pornstar au, celebrities, rewrite your favourite movie but make it deter, movie quotes, etc.

Heroes and Villains

costume parties, origin stories, superhero au, evil deeds, secret lairs, crime solving, love and hate, lovers to enemies, good turning evil, saving the day, etc.

Day 6 (March 19th) -

Medical

doctors and nurses, surgery, medical kink, roleplay, doctor/patient relationships, a/b/o dynamics, memory loss, disabilities, alternative reasons for peter's coma, hurt/comfort, near death experiences, etc.

"You can't fix it."

angst, broken relationships, breaking up, infidelity, wrongdoings, attempts at diy, who needs the instructions, renovating the hale home, making mistakes, etc.

Day 7 (March 20th) -

Animals

adopting a pet, petplay, visiting the zoo, zookeeper au, stuck in animal form, either of them as a different creature, predator/prey, etc.

Cowboy AU

life of the ranch, homemaking, brokeback mountain au, horseriding, etc.

Please reblog this post, then go ahead and start brainstorming; let your imaginations run wild! If you have any questions about the event or any of the prompts—or if you’d just like to chat to someone about your ideas—don’t hesitate to get in touch.

When the time comes, you can add your works to the Deter Week collection and remember to tag Deter Week 2023 and/or mention @deterweek on your Tumblr posts so I can reblog them.

I am super excited to see what kind of great new content we can all add to the fandom this year.

Happy creating 💛

#deter week #deter week 2023 #deter week themes #teen wolf event #peter hale #derek hale #deter

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batty4steddie · 4 months

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Can I Keep It?

Chapter 1: Have You Ever Been Arrested?

Robin had the night off. Band practice or some shit. Steve was so bored. It had been dead in Family Video all day until finally, finally someone remotely attractive came into the store: Christina Kelly, a blue-eyed, bright blonde-haired Hawkins High cheerleader. On some girls, the uniform looked frumpy, but on her, the shortness of it skirted nicely over her ass. Steve’s eyes roamed up her mile-long tan legs and settled on it. She was drop-dead gorgeous. He licked his lips and continued to watch her browse the shelves for a minute. She must’ve come from practice or a game. Steve remembered her instantly. Hard to forget a face and body like that. Damn, sometimes he really missed high school, even if it was just for the eye candy. Once he got a good, long look, he approached her with a warm smile. He welcomed her to the store and introduced himself. While he remembered her, she didn’t remember him at all. Even after he told her he was on the basketball team, the one she had cheered for all three years they had gone to school together.

Whatever.

The bell above the door tinkled as Eddie swaggered in. It was 6 P.M., and he was fully prepared for the campaign on Friday night, so he figured he would rent a few flicks to watch while he struggled through his trig homework due tomorrow. You know, be a responsible student. Maybe some entertainment with his studies would deter him from giving up and smoking the superb grass Rick had supplied him earlier that week. Eddie had already sampled more than he was technically allotted. It was just too good to keep his sticky fingers out of. Nobody was at the front counter to greet him, but Eddie spotted a tuft of styled brown hair bobbing by one of the shelves and a blonde ponytail with a green scrunchie he recognized as belonging to one of the Hawkins High cheerleaders. Steve was thrilled—not only to have someone to talk to, but he was still trying to find the one, and Christina? She could be it. Smoking hot and unsure of what she was looking for, damn if she hadn’t come to the right place. Steve turned the charm up to eleven by taking the liberty of showing her around the store. The sections of the store were clearly labeled, but he still guided her, asking if she liked comedies, romances, or thrillers. Not pegging her as a horror fan. Eddie rolled his eyes with a smirk. He had half a mind to jump in and yell BOO! to interrupt whatever heterosexual mating ritual was happening between the romance and action movies. Instead, he headed towards the horror section one aisle away from the pair, gaze flitting over the titles. When one caught his interest, he picked up the empty case and turned it over to read the premise.

Night of the Creeps, where alien space slugs turned people into sorority girl-eating zombies? That sounded pretty metal. For every suggestion Steve made, Christina took a video off the shelf to consider it. That made him think that she was totally into him. By his last suggestion, The Legend of Billie Jean, she had an arm full of tapes. He went into a brief synopsis, explaining it was about a brother and sister on the run from the police, which prompted a sly question. He paired it with his most devilish smile.

“Have you ever been arrested? ‘Cause it’s gotta be illegal to look this good.”

The voice of none other than Steve Harrington nearly made Eddie choke on his spit. He hastily reshelved the movie. How had he not recognized that famous hair? Eddie’s fingers clamped onto the top of the shelf as he stealthily peeked over it. He felt a giggle bubbling up in his chest at the schmoozy smile plastered on Steve’s face. The cheerleader backed up a step, expression twisting. “Ew, I have a boyfriend.” She dropped the movies from her arms, shoving past Steve towards the exit. “Creep.”

Eddie covered his grinning mouth with his hand, rings clacking against each other gently. Steve Harrington had zero skill when it came to the babes. Eddie always figured he tossed his hair, and they flocked to him. What a pleasant surprise.

Christina’s reaction was so bad. There wasn’t even a laugh at the fun cheesiness of it. Of course she had a fucking boyfriend. How many times was Steve going to go barking up the wrong tree? He groaned when the tapes hit the floor, and his smile instantly dropped. His concern was more about damage to the tapes that Keith would take out of his pay if they were broken than his bruised ego from Christina calling him a creep. Which hardly was the truth. The bell jingled as the door closed. In the ensuing silence, a giggle finally escaped. Eddie quickly ducked out of view when Steve turned in his direction. He poked his head around the corner before coming out, starting a slow clap. “Wow. That was epic, man.”

Steve was just about to bend down to pick up the tapes when he heard a laugh. The fucking laugh he wanted Christina to laugh. He hissed and flushed briefly with embarrassment, of course, because what was worse than striking out? Having a certified freak witness it. “Yeah, well, I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen a chick on your arm, Eddie. Can’t blame me for trying, man. I’m just not her type.”

Because she had a fucking boyfriend. Steve was beyond annoyed—he was humiliated, and the tapes were still on the floor. He sighed softly and bent down to scoop them up.

“You wouldn’t,” Eddie replied, not missing a beat. “My arm is for me only. I keep all my foxy ladies back at my sweet, sweet bachelor pad.”

From Steve’s bent position over the videotape, a piece of hair had fallen into his eyes as he looked up at Eddie. His brow furrowed, but he didn’t say anything. Just looked completely puzzled by the comment.

He knew Eddie was poor and lived in a trailer at the trailer park, but even he could get chicks to hang out with him there? Or was he keeping some women there against their will? Eddie wouldn’t admit that to him, would he? Even if he was a freak like everybody said.

Steve shook his head and huffed inaudibly. He wasn’t sure if that was the truth, but still, he didn’t like hearing when other people were successful in their romantic pursuits.

The last time Eddie had a chick on his arm was in nineteen-seventy-eight at a Burger King birthday party when Jeremy Jenkins dared Heather Drew to kiss him. She’d tasted like ketchup and strawberry Lip Smacker. Eddie had spent the entire excruciatingly long three-second kiss staring at the cardboard cutout of the king standing behind her. Eddie’s grin widened when he spotted the red on Steve’s cheeks. He held back from further mocking purely for Dustin and the other kids’ sake. According to his little sheep, Steve might as well have hung the fucking moon, but Eddie still saw him for what he was: a bully. Plain and simple. The guy who would call Eddie names in the hallways along with his dumb jock friends. Eddie's back was well acquainted with bruises from being shoved against lockers, and his face had taken many a beating by the dumpsters. It might never have been Steve’s particular fist in his face, and Eddie had never taken anything lying down (fuck no), but he knew Steve’s kind. And he wasn’t a Harrington groupie.

“You could help,” Steve griped when he saw one of the tapes had gone as far as three feet, right where Eddie was standing.

Eddie toed the movie closest to him with his sneaker. Molly Ringwald’s pouty face stared up at him from the cover, which was cracked right down the middle. Eddie crouched on his knees to grab it, his pants pulling uncomfortably tight from the stretch.

While leather looked punk rock as hell, it wasn't the most forgiving fabric, especially when it was actually cheap pleather.

Steve stood up with the tapes and set them on the counter while Eddie picked up the last one.

“Yeah, this one is busted,” Eddie said, popping open the case to reveal an identical crack down the tape, one of the inner reels poking through.

Steve winced. That hurt. “God damn it,” he said softly, coming over to take it from him and looking it over himself. Yeah, it was broken.

“Sorry, Molly, but if it's any consolation, your movie was probably shitty anyway.”

“Actually, it’s a pretty good movie, man. It was really popular, too. We just got it back from being rented for a while. I’m going to get questions about it all week. Who knows when we can get another copy.” Steve walked it over to the trash and threw it away. “I think you might’ve liked it. It isn’t all about her. She’s kinda annoying in it, but there’s a guy, Bender, who kind of has… your fashion sense and disposition.”

Steve chuckled as he discreetly checked out what Eddie was wearing. Eddie’s leather jacket and jewelry were pretty similar to that character’s. Steve returned to the counter and looked over the rest of the tapes. Luckily, they were fine.

Eddie rocked back on his heels in surprise, starting a slow walk around the circumference of the counters as he eyeballed Steve. He hadn’t expected the guy to keep talking to him. Still, here he was, going on about Eddie's fashion sense, his disposition? Was that an insult? Eddie didn’t know what to do with this. Why was previously reigning King Jock giving him the time of day? Why wasn’t he busy admiring his reflection in the window? God, this job must’ve been boring as hell for him to actually do it.

“Were you looking for something specific? Seriously doubt you came to witness me striking out with Christina Kelly. You just got lucky.”

It was kinda funny now. It got Steve smiling and shaking his head at himself.

The store was still empty, and he was still lonely, so he could at least do his job and help Eddie find a movie since that was his reason for coming to the store. “Um…” Eddie crossed his arms. Uncrossed them. “Nothing specific. Something to keep me from faceplanting from boredom into my homework.” Or lighting up and spending the rest of the night floating like ash on the wind.

“Definitely don’t miss homework,” Steve replied while he took the tapes off the counter and started putting them back on the shelves where they belonged. As Eddie continued to walk around, Steve noticed a little jingle from his wallet chain as he paced the store.

“Something spooky, maybe?” Eddie wiggled his fingers with a playful smile to cover his discomfort. This unexpected turn of events piqued his curiosity, so he didn’t mention he had already found a movie.

“Something spooky, huh?” Steve asked with a playful smirk, though he was turned toward the shelves so Eddie couldn’t see it.

Of course the freak was into horror. That wasn't a surprise. Family Video had a stellar horror collection. While the last couple of years had been horrific in Hawkins, Steve still enjoyed the fictional movie version sometimes. Most of the horror movies he had seen triggered his memory in a good way when it came to making weapons and fighting off Demogorgons with them winning. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. We’ve got lots of horror here. Although, if you’re a fan… which is safe to assume?” Steve asked Eddie when he turned back to face him, raising his eyebrows. He knew it was true, so he smiled when Eddie nodded a bit. “Alright, we’ve got Fright Night, Day of the Dead, Return of the Living Dead, A Nightmare on Elm Street two and Friday the 13th, part five.”

Surely, one of those Eddie hadn’t seen. Eddie met Steve back at the horror section, popping his hip against a shelf as Steve read the newest releases. You’ve come to the right place, Steve said. Had he come to the right place, or was he actually in an alternate reality where a jock didn’t tell him to return to the Hellfire he came from? Why did Harrington keep smiling at him?

And why did he smell so good? Was that coconut? He should have smelled like old pizza and dirty gym socks like most guys their age. Eddie knew he was rocking cigarette smoke and not much else, himself. It would be very unchill of him to lean in and get a bigger whiff of that coconutty paradise.

To Steve, horror movies weren’t all that bad. A lot of them were funny and cheesy. Totally entertaining enough that doing homework during them was probably possible.

Horror movies made him adamant that the group stay together and stay put instead of getting involved, but no one ever listened to him. They wanted to go, get involved and split up, which were the worst horror movie tropes. Their lives had become just like the people in every horror movie he’d ever seen. There was no convincing his babysitting crew of that, though, so he took the lead every time. “Vampire, zombie, deranged burn victim with knife fingers, murderous goaltender…” Eddie went through the list. “What flavor monster goes best with trigonometry?” Eddie pinched his chin with his fingers as he pondered it. “I wasn’t too thrilled with the first four Fridays. Not much to those plots. Not nearly enough razzle-dazzle." He graced Steve with jazz hands this time instead of spooky fingers. “Elm Street had a lot more going for it. Maybe I’ll take the sequel. Thoughts? Got a favorite?” If Steve had even watched any of them. Though Eddie was a fan of most things horror - the more outlandish, the better - he didn’t watch them all that often. He didn’t have the patience to sit and focus for a long time without help from his favorite herb. It was good background noise, mostly.

At least with D&D, he was actively participating. He didn’t have to sit still. He could move around, and he got to use his wickedly colorful ideas, feeding off of other people’s imagination and making a story come alive.

Some things, like math homework, were so fucking stifling he wanted to shoot himself.

It was hard for Steve not to notice Eddie’s jazzy hands. His fingers were adorned with a plethora of shiny rings. He was talking animatedly with them about the different movies. The shininess of the rings caught his eye, especially with the extra movements.

Steve hadn’t been into movies before he got this job. (Robin was the one who really got it for him, talking Keith into it somehow.) Back then, he could only name two movies: Animal House and Fast Times. He’d come a long way since then and had a lot of downtime in the store since they were only busy on evenings and weekends.

When he and Robin worked together, they always put a movie on or had one going. They’d gone through most of the horror. He’d entertained Robin to no end when he’d talk back to the TV, putting his hands on his hips and yelling, “No. No, don’t go in there! What are you doing? No!”

Steve looked down at his watch. Still an hour and a half was left of his shift. Also, the closest thing to jewelry he wore was his watch, but Eddie’s rings did seem… dare he say… cool. Maybe he could pull off a ring or two.

“I agree they should’ve stopped with the first Friday.” He didn’t really have a favorite. “They’re all pretty good for what they are, but I think you should go with the sequel, yeah. You already have an idea of the characters, so you don’t have to pay too close attention and can get your homework done.”

While Steve was checking his watch and probably wishing for his shift to be over, Eddie was dragging his heels. He was surprised to find he would’ve been okay hearing Steve talk more about movies. He didn’t sound particularly passionate about horror. It made Eddie wonder what he did like. Probably some predictable slapstick with lots of boobs, like Porky’s.

“Joy,” he replied, thinking of his homework waiting for him and almost letting out a whine.

Steve grabbed the movie off the shelf and headed towards the counter so he could get Eddie checked out.

“Guess that’s that,” Eddie added in a mutter Steve couldn’t hear. Eddie followed him, drumming his hands on the countertop as Steve pulled up his account and started typing away.

It was best that Eddie left before he decided to do something like lean in and smell the guy on purpose this time. While he waited, he sifted through the snack selections, unsettling all the organized displays. He stuck his hand in one of the round glass jars, dislodging the loosest ring from his finger as he rifled through it for a fistful of fizzy candies. The ring fell to the bottom of the jar, unnoticed by Eddie, who slapped the sweets on the counter. He also grabbed a box of Nerds, a bag of Skittles, and a Big Hunk bar on impulse. Steve smiled a bit because usually, it was only bratty kids begging their moms for candy that got it from them. Steve didn’t mind that Eddie was getting more than the movie. When he saw everything he was getting, though, he couldn’t help but judge some of it. Most of it was the real sugary stuff. The Big Hunk bar was the only thing he could get behind.

“These are addicting,” Steve said about the Big Hunk bar. He could feel his mouth starting to water just looking at it.

Likes Big Hunk bars. Eddie filed that information away in his head without really knowing why. It wasn't like he’d need to use it later.

“I'm gonna need a bag,” he informed Steve. These pants did not have usable pockets.

“Of course.” Steve nodded, swallowing his spit as he started bagging everything up.

He wondered if Eddie was high. All this candy made him think that he had the munchies or was going to later. Most of the kids at school got their weed from him, so it wasn’t a stretch.

Ah, he could remember the last time he got caught getting high. His dad had accused him of being on drugs. He could remember just saying he wasn’t and that marijuana wasn’t drugs. That hadn’t gone over well.

Once everything was rung up, Steve told Eddie the amount, took the cash and got him his change. He handed over the bills and coins and pushed the bag of candy and movie toward him. “Enjoy...”

“Thanks, big boy,” Eddie said, grabbing the bag with a tongue click and a wink.

He left the store, mouthing big boy? to himself in a split second of internal embarrassment before he shrugged it off and hopped in his van, taking off down the road towards the trailer park.

Steve’s eyebrows rose and then furrowed. A shiver ran through his body like an electric shock, unsure what that was about or what caused that reaction in him.

Slowly, he realized. Maybe there was a reason he’d never seen a girl on Eddie’s arm.

Steve stood there for a few minutes, perplexed by what had happened, until he snapped out of it and started straightening up the store. There probably wouldn’t be any more customers tonight. While Steve was re-organizing the candy Eddie had disheveled, he saw that one of the jars was low, nearing empty. He grabbed some candy to refill it when something shiny caught his eye.

He reached in and pulled out a large skull ring. Eddie must’ve left it behind by accident.

Only when Eddie was settled in for the night with his homework open, the movie on, and his candy pile rapidly dwindling did he notice one of his rings missing.

“Shit,” he swore, looking at his naked finger where a fanged skull used to be. That one had been his favorite.

He looked around inside the trailer and outside of it with his uncle’s flashlight, but nothing shiny turned up in the beam.

Steve thought about calling Eddie up and letting him know he could come get his ring, but then he put it on and looked it over, smiling. He could totally pull off a ring like this.

He’d try it out for a day or two, then give it to Dustin to give it back to Eddie when he saw him next. They were good friends now, to Steve's dismay. He wasn't jealous of anything.

Eddie didn't seem too bad... for a freak.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #steddiebang23 #steddie fic #fic #writing #vampires #zombies #bats #stranger things #stranger things fic

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drabbles-mc · 1 year

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Last Resort

John Wick & GN!Reader

For Day 13 of @whumpril's 2023 Challenge: support / "I think I need to sit down"

Warnings: 18+, angst, hurt/comfort, blood/injuries

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: My first ever John Wick fic! I have no idea where this idea came from but I couldn't not put it down on paper once it hit me. Hope you enjoy!

John Wick Taglist: @narcolini @ashlingnarcos @garbinge (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

You’d moved around from city to city for years, swapping out one small apartment for the next, without leaving much of a trail behind you to follow. Over the years you’d gotten a knack for finding places that were perfectly unassuming, if anything they would deter people from looking too hard to see who lived there. But you always turned the inside into your own little sanctuary, no matter what the outside of it looked like. No one had ever crossed the threshold to find that out for themselves, though.

After years of being away, you found yourself back in New York once more. You didn’t have a hard and fast rule about going back to the same city more than once, but you’d never felt the urge. However, after you cashed in on your last contract, there was something about the city that seemed to be pulling you back, and so here you were.

Your one-bedroom apartment was far off the beaten path. You kept it dark, but over the last few weeks that you’d been there, you made good headway on making it your home. Never knowing how long you were going to be staying in one spot had never made you sacrifice on making somewhere feel like it was really your own. All the horror that laid outside your door, you’d be damned if you were going to deprive yourself of creature comforts in the one place that was your only safe place to land at the end of the day.

Stretched out on the couch, a blanket draped over you and a book in your lap, you turned another page in the newest novel that you’d picked up along the way. The lamp by the end of your couch cast just enough light for you to be able to read, but not so much that it would draw attention and bleed through the curtains that covered your windows. The glass of red wine on the table was nearly empty, and you were debating back and forth in your head if you were going to get yourself a refill when you hit the end of the chapter that you were on.

Just as you were reaching for the glass to take a sip, you heard noise coming from the hallway. Your apartment was silent most of the time. If your life wasn’t what it so clearly was, you would’ve been the type to have the television or the radio playing at all times. But anything that hindered you being able to perceive possible threats had to go, and so you’ve adjusted to the silence. The only noise you ever heard was what floated up from the streets below. Over time, the quiet chaos that made its way to your ears became soothing in its own way.

The noise that was happening outside your door wasn’t that. It also didn’t sound like your neighbors coming or going from their apartment. You waited, trying to see if the noise was going to subside. The heavy footsteps only got louder, only got closer. Shifting gears, you stopped reaching for your glass of wine and instead moved your hand slightly to the left and reached for the gun that was on the table next to it. Your hand hovered, not yet picking it up in case the footsteps just kept on moving.

Then the knocks came, clearly landing on the old, heavy wood panels of the door to your apartment. Your hand wrapped around the gun now, other hand discarding your book and pulling the blanket off you. Standing up, you slowly started to make your way towards the door, the socks on your feet and your light steps rendering you practically silent.

The cadence of the knocks was familiar. Slow, methodical. You kept count of them in your head, and when they stopped at five, your heart sped up in your chest in a way that it hadn’t in a long time. It wasn’t often that you got a visit from a dead man, after all.

You briefly glanced through the peephole in your door—there was no such thing as being too safe. Plus, it’d been so long and you’d moved so many times, and again the man was apparently dead a few times over, so there was every reason to be skeptical about him finding you. Pressing your eye to the glass, you saw him, and you couldn’t tell if you were surprised or not.

Reaching and undoing all of the locks that went down the side of your door, you took a breath before pulling it open. All the while your gun was still clutched tightly in your hand. People changed too much too often for you to count on familiar history saving you. And, even if you weren’t the type to be cynical about history mattering, you knew that the worst parts of him were also born from that history. There was no such thing as a safe person in your line of work, not even if they were your friend.

He had one hand against the doorframe, that arm acting as the only thing giving him enough support to stay upright. His other hand was pressed hard into his side trying to staunch the bleeding of a wound that you couldn’t see, but the red stain that was growing across his white shirt was impossible to miss.

He looked at you through the mess of hair that was covering most of either side of his face. He was breathing heavily, shoulders taking the brunt of the effort each breath he took. He was covered in dirt, cuts, bruises, and blood. Exactly how you remembered him, for the most part. A little older now, but weren’t you all?

“Long time, no see,” you said, your tone casual in direct opposition to how tense your body was.

You watched as he didn’t say anything in response to that, the two of you simply just standing in your doorway staring at each other. That was another upside to living in the places that you did—someone standing in your doorway on the brink of bleeding out in the hallway wasn’t going to make anyone call the cops or anyone who could actually do anything. Everyone minded their own business, and you returned the favor.

If he’d shown up in good shape, you would’ve been more concerned. Showing up with one foot in the grave meant that he needed you, and that meant that you would be safe, at least from him, for a little while longer. That was something you could work with.

“Wanna come in?” you asked, even though the answer was grossly apparent.

“Yea,” he finally said, that same tired rasp to his voice that there had always been, “please.”

Opening the door a little wider, you motioned for him to come inside. You glanced up and down the hallway to make sure that no one had followed him before shutting the door. Your back was still to him as you redid all of the locks on your door. You could feel him watching you, the way you moved, the way you still kept a tight grip on the gun in your hand. Maybe you had a problem turning away old friends, if you could even call each other that, but you weren’t so stupid to think that that history meant you were safe, or that him being battered made him any less of a threat.

Taking a deep breath, you let your head drop back, looking up at your ceiling for a moment before getting yourself right and turning back around to face him. He was partially hunched over, looking much smaller than he really was because of it.

“Officially burned through all of your other friends, then, John?” you asked as you walked over to him.

He gave a short nod. “Something like that.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Glad I’m at least still a last resort.”

The silence that followed was weighed down with a lot of questions that both of you knew better than to ask. You knew that he wasn’t going to give you any answers, not ones that would really explain much of anything, anyway. You wondered if he even had questions about you. If he knew where you were now, you had to assume that he’d known where you were before, too. Kept tabs all those years. That was quite the feat, if you were being honest and giving credit where it was due.

Much less work had gone into keeping tabs on him. Everyone knew who John Wick was, knew where he was. That was just step one in being able to cover your ass and keep yourself safe. Keep your enemies closer and all that. You hadn’t spared it too much thought once he got out. That was the whole point of getting out. He was just supposed to be John once he completed his impossible task. It lasted longer than you’d thought it would, him being out. But it would’ve been a lie to say that you were surprised when you started hearing chatter about him working again. It was even less of a surprise when the entire underground world started falling apart at the seams once he was.

“Should I even ask what happened?” you said as you stepped past him, walking deeper into your apartment.

“It’s a long story.”

You were waiting for him to actually ask for what he wanted, even though it was obvious. He was so used to the entire world either coming after him, or simply offering up to him whatever he needed. But that had never been how the two of you operated, not even when you were young. If he wanted your help, he could ask for it, especially after all of this time.

When he peeled his gaze up off the floor and actually looked at you, he saw the expression on your face. While age and hardship had changed the both of you, he still knew exactly what that look meant. One glance at the look in your eyes and suddenly he was just young, lost Jardani all over again, a boy in need of a helping hand. And, just like back then, you had more self-assurance than you should have for someone who also didn’t know what they were doing or what they were really in for.

“I need a place to stay,” he finally grit out past the pain that was shooting through his side.

A small smile quirked the ends of your lips. “Always something, huh?”

He gave one nod. “Always something.”

“You can stay, Johnny,” there was a bit of a humorous lilt to your voice as you used the name that hadn’t fallen from your lips in more years than you could even try to count.

He’d disliked the nickname back then, still disliked it now. You were the only one who ever called him that that didn’t immediately come to regret it. Even so, he made his disdain for it known. But for the moment, whatever annoyance he felt because of the nickname was outweighed by the relief of having a place to stay, at least for the night, where no one would be trying to kill him.

“If they find me because of you, though, John,” you warned him with a shake of your head, “I will kill you and keep the contract money for myself and I won’t feel any guilt about it.”

He knew you meant that. No matter how much either of you looked out for the other, if push came to shove it was always going to be about survival, first. He knew that. He respected it. He was the same exact way. That mutual understanding was what had kept the two of you alive for so long when you were younger—always making sure that you were on the same side of a fight or so far away from each other that you weren’t going to have to worry about what you might have to do to the other.

You figured that you had kept him standing in limbo, in agony, long enough. If he was willing to be patient enough to get through all of that, the least you could do was try and stitch him up enough so that he could live to die another day.

“What do you need?” you asked, not quite sure where you were supposed to begin with him.

“I think I need,” he took a small step towards your coffee table, “to sit down.”

You nodded, clearing the end of the small table so that he could take a seat on it. The short breath of relief he let out at being able to sit sounded exceptionally loud in your apartment, although in reality the sound hardly carried beyond the tiny space that passed for your living room. He still had one hand pressed hard against his side, but now the other was gripping his knee, his arm locked straight to keep him sitting somewhat upright.

“Let’s see what we’re working with,” you said.

You almost set your gun down but thought better of it at the last second, tucking it into the back of your waistband instead. You stepped past him, grabbing your glass of wine and finishing off what was left of it in one swig. It was the least you deserved for the mess that you’d just let into your apartment. Apparently now it was a sanctuary for two.

Letting the glass clatter back onto the top of the coffee table, you reached to start helping him take his jacket off. You felt how stiff he was, the hesitation of it. Sighing, you stepped back and looked at him. “You came to me for help, John. If you just wanted to bleed out, you could’ve done that out on the street and saved me the trouble.”

The comment got him to relent. Peeling his hand from his knee, he slipped his arm out of the sleeve. Switching hands that were applying pressure, he let you pull the jacket off of his other arm as well. You tossed the jacket off to the side, hearing how it landed a little heavier than most jackets. Extra weight was the price of not getting pierced by bullets.

“All these years,” you said, a slight scold to your tone, “and you never learned to wear something under the shirt?”

He didn’t have a good argument for that. Or, if he did, he kept it to himself as you continued to help him peel the next layer off. You could see the pain it caused him, trying to peel the white dress shirt off of him. You cringed as well, knowing that it must’ve felt like hell. All those cuts and wounds that were maybe started to clot over being ripped open again as you slipped the shirt back off his shoulders.

For as much as the removal of it hurt, you also knew that there had to be a small wave of relief washing over John, too. Something unique about wounds being able to breathe after being suffocated by fabric and your own unstopped blood-flow.

Sitting in just his slacks and shoes, John was all blood and bruises. Nothing but tattoos, scars, and brands. He was a sight that would’ve been heart wrenching to most, pitiful even in his own way. But you didn’t have that sympathy for him. You didn’t have the fear of him either. His scars and burns and ink didn’t rouse any aversion in you because underneath the layers you were currently cloaked in, you looked almost the exact same way. Two sides of the coin, you and John Wick. Always were. Always would be.

“I’ll get my things,” you told him as you gathered up his jacket and shirt and disappeared off towards your bathroom.

You left his clothes to soak in the bathroom sink while you grabbed your kit, which was more extensive than most, and headed back out to him. All these years and the two of you still ended up like this—one person bloody and one person bandaging. At least you still had each other to fall back on when all else failed. You weren’t sure if that was a silver lining or not.

No stranger to triage, you set about taking care of his worst injuries first. Laid out on your coffee table like your apartment was an operating room, you stitched and cleaned and bandaged like someone who should’ve been paid to do things like that. If John had been anyone else, you would’ve expected payment in some form or another, the gold coins or at the very least a favor owed. More likely, if John had been anyone else you wouldn’t have answered the door, would’ve just shot him through it. But how were you supposed to do that to him?

By the time you were done, you were surprised that he was even still awake. If the exhaustion didn’t get him, you were certain that the blood loss was going to. But of course it didn’t. For all of the mythic stories that surrounded John, not even you could deny that the man just didn’t ever seem to fucking die and stay dead. You admired that about him, but you were never going to tell him that.

Standing up, you stripped your gloves off and loomed over him, inspecting your work while also trying to gauge where he was at. “Think you can stand up?”

Sitting up, he slowly pushed himself up to his feet. He was about to take a step when you saw the quiver in his leg. Before he could go down, you stepped in and hooked your arm around him, bracing him across his back and landing his arm over and across your shoulders. Both of you let out grunts of effort as you tried to make it so that both of you didn’t end up toppled to the floor.

“Stitching you up wasn’t enough?” you said as the two of you slowly started to make your way towards the bathroom. “Gonna make me carry you to the shower too?”

Even if he hadn’t been in the state he was in, he wouldn’t have given you the victory of a laugh. He never had. It was one of the few things that kept you humble. Instead, he continued to lean onto you for support as you half-guided, half-dragged him to your bathroom.

You deposited him onto the closed lid of your toilet as gracefully as you could, which was never graceful enough. He was kind enough to not make you feel any more guilty about it. At least the stitches held. You could feel him watching you as you pulled back the curtain enough to turn the water on, one hand held underneath the stream while you waited for it to warm up. Your eyes were trained on the floor as you waited, but you could hear the sounds of him pushing out of his shoes.

When the water finally got hot enough, you pulled your hand out and wiped it off on your pants. Looking over at John, you raised your eyebrows, a wordless preface to your question. “Need help with this?”

It was a genuine ask, one with no ulterior motives behind it now like it might have a few lifetimes ago. Back when you were both a lot younger and a different kind of reckless, there would’ve been layers to the question. But as it was now, you were just worried that he was going to pass out and crack his head on the edge of your tub.

“I got it,” he answered, sounding weary as ever.

Shaking your head, you said, “Of course you do.” You set a clean towel on the sink counter for him before stepping back towards the bathroom door. “Yell if you need me. Or I’ll at least hear you fall.”

You were pulling the door closed behind you when you heard him say your name. Looking back over your shoulder, you saw him slowly bring himself to his feet. “Thank you,” he said with a nod. “I know what this could cost you.”

If you’d been feeling angry, or cruel, you would’ve said something along the lines of, “And yet you still showed up anyway.” But you didn’t have it in you. There had never been any space in you for anger towards him.

Instead, you said, “The rest of the world wants you dead, Johnny. Not me.”

He nodded, knowing better than anyone how true that was, and the weight of you saying that you were an honest safety net for him. “Thank you.”

Nodding, you told him, “Clean yourself up,” and pulled the door shut.

#whumpril #whumprilday13 #support #whumpril2023 #i think i need to sit down #john wick #john wick fanfiction #john wick x reader #john wick x you #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

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kstewdeux · 11 months

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@inukag-week 2023 | May 29 | Prompt “Love Languages”

Summary: Inuyasha enjoys when someone takes care of him.

Read here or on Ao3

Holding the cup of noodles in hand, Inuyasha sat at the kitchen table and waited semi-patiently for Kagome to arrive back home from school. It was a stupid thing to be excited about - especially considering this was far from the first time - but he knew - for an absolute fact - that Kagome had gotten this particular cup of noodles in this particular flavor for him.

Only for him.

It was sad how happy that made him. How happy all the little things Kagome did made him. She always made sure to bring his favorite things. She was considerate and paid attention to what he liked and what he didn’t. That one time she’d tried out a new shampoo that made him turn green, he noticed that she immediately stopped using it. He never said anything and she still noticed. She only used unscented things since then. Made sure food wasn’t spicy. And Kagome made sure he drank water and that he ate and brushed his hair. Cleaned up every injury no matter how minor.

She did all sorts of things and each little gesture had his heart doing to a flip flop. Kagome somehow made every day better.

And after a week like this, he definitely wanted Kagome to make everything better.

Chewing his bottom lip, he played with the plastic wrap a little and hummed.

“I’m home!” Kagome called out and with a happy little smile, Inuyasha immediately rushed over.

“Oh! You’re here. Were you-“ she abruptly trailed off when the noodle cup was aggressively thrust in her face. Irritation crept into her features.

“Let me guess. You don’t know how to make noodles despite being given step by step instructions?”

A blush bloomed across his nose but he wasn’t deterred. He really needed this. To the point where he was willing to use words.

“I can make the noodles but I like when you do it,” he explained with a dopey little smirk. The cup of noodles was wiggled a little in front of her unimpressed face.

“You are perfectly capable of making your own noodles Inuyasha,” Kagome sighed heavily as she turned around and began heading up to her room. She missed the way Inuyasha’s ears drooped and the way he slowly cradled the noodles against his chest. The surprise then the hurt that played out on his face. From her vantage point in the hallway, however, Mama noticed.

She moved into the kitchen.

“Oh, are you hungry sweetheart?. Let me do that for you,” she offered kindly as she moved to the stove and grabbed the kettle. Inuyasha hesitated for a moment before making his way over.

“No. No I’m not hungry,” he muttered as he placed the noodles on the counter, “Sorry. I didn’t -“

Mama turned around and leaned against the counter. The look she gave him was a little too knowing.

Panic.

“I was just trying to annoy her. I dunno,” Inuyasha lied quickly (poorly) as he shrugged and tried (failed) to project snarky attitude, “I didn’t think she’d be that pissed over it.”

Mama’s face softened and she pushed off to head towards the fridge.

“Well I need to make dinner anyway. Is there anything you‘d like?” she asked in a kind, encouraging tone, “I think I have some steak. Or fish.”

“Steak is the cow meat, right?” Inuyasha asked - his eyes were hopeful. Mama smiled and nodded.

“You liked it that one time, right? When I know you’re coming, I try to buy some. Just in case,” she continued in a warm tone - noting the way shocked awe flashed across his face quicker than he could hide the feeling behind attitude.

“I mean if you have it.”

Mama smiled and opened the fridge. Inuyasha’s eyes flicked to the pickled radishes with an unreadable expression but looked away before Kagome’s mother could notice him staring.

“Kagome cooks a lot, huh?” Inuyasha asked casually as he shadowed the woman back over to the counter. Setting down the various food items, Mama glanced at him. There was something strange in his gaze - understanding maybe? Guilt definitely.

“She used to but she hasn’t in a while,” she offered in a warm, unsuspecting tone as she moved about collecting the knives and cutting board, “I think the last time I saw her cook was when-“

“When she cooked for us,” Inuyasha finished numbly - the lost little look he’d had when Kagome turned him down back full force. His ears drooped and he sighed in a resigned fashion, “Did…did she ever say anything about that?”

Mama paused then slowly placed the cutting board down.

“I don’t understand the question.”

He didn’t seem capable of clarifying as he began breathing a little heavily and glanced towards the stairs.

“Inuyasha?”

Shaking himself, the boy turned back towards her and gave the matriarch a tight lipped smile.

“Just wondering if…if she mentioned doing it again. I liked it,” he offered - both a partial truth and also a complete lie. In terms of the picnic she’d made that day, he was not a fan of the egg dish itself -too salty although the rest of it was okay - but the fact that she’d very obviously cooked the entire meal with him in mind…

That part he very much liked. In fact, thinking about it even now made me very happy.

But she’d been upset. Angry almost. Hurt. In hindsight, nobody really complimented her hard work. Miroku even went so far as to say something to the tune of everyone forcing themselves to eat it. Then came his dumbass talking about pickled radishes being the only good thing and-

Inuyasha swallowed.

No wonder she didn’t want to cook his ramen. Thinking about it now, she hadn’t really helped with cooking since then. Usually Sango or Miroku prepared their food. Kagome brought ramen for him - yeah - and would boil water but that was about it.

He’d ruined something she enjoyed. Something she’d done which had made him very happy. He’d made her sad.

He should fix that. Tell her something nice so she kept doing nice things for him. He wasn’t sure he’d survive if that suddenly stopped. He was far too spoiled at this point.

Before he fully processed what in the seven hells he was doing with his life, he was standing outside her door.

Taking a shaky breath, he raised his hand to knock but the door swung open and a very grumpy Kagome was scowling up at him.

“I am not making your-“

“I like when you make me food."

Kagome's eye twitched.

"Inuyasha, I'm busy right now. I am not going to -"

More panic. Bubbling and churning until bile tickled his throat because she was going to stop doing things for him and he would not survive doing everything on his own. He couldn't go back to how things used to be. He just couldn't.

"How can you be so stupid?! Shit you do makes me happy idiot. You make me happy. Really, really happy. I can't-“

Inuyasha’s confession abruptly cut off and he went rigid.

Oh no. What had he done?

A heartbeat passed then he ran. Practically fell down the stairs. Like the coward he was, he made a stiff beeline for the well and went into hiding. Kinda. Does finding the highest branch in the Sacred Tree and pressing your body against the bark count?

Probably a good plan because shortly after he got situated, Kagome popped her head over the edge of the well and pushed herself up.

Inuyasha did not like being prey and he especially did not enjoy the predatory way Kagome stalked towards the tree.

She wouldn’t ‘sit’ him from this height, would she? She was a smart girl and clearly already knew where he was.

“Where is the ramen?” she ground out - her hand falling open like she expected the cup to fall from heaven, “Hand it over.”

Oh no. No no no no no…

Not the ramen. Anything but the ramen.

“It’s mine. You got it for me so you can’t take it,” Inuyasha hissed shakily although he made no move to say that to her face. He was very comfortable in his chosen branch and was honestly too mortified to come down. That and he’d left the ramen on the counter with Kagome’s mother. He couldn’t hand it over even if he wanted to.

Letting out a shaky breath, he covertly glanced down and noticed that her expression had gone from pissed to soft. And concerned like she’d put something together and whatever it was broke her heart.

“I am not going to steal the ramen Inuyasha. I want to make it for you. Taking care of you makes me happy,” she sighed wearily, “But would it kill you to say please and, you know, ask nicely? You just pushed it into my face. You didn’t ask.”

Still shaking, Inuyasha elected to remain quiet and silent.

He listened as she sighed heavily.

“Inuyasha, please don’t hide from me,” she murmured - her voice sounding a little pained, “Will you come down? I promise I’m not going to take away something that matters to you. This isn’t a trick.”

Inuyasha was confused by this statement and also terrified. Confused and terrified because his heart knew Kagome would never, ever, ever hurt him and yet his mind had panicked thinking - however briefly - she’d do just that. He expected the worst from her.

Dammit. This was only happening because he’d stupidly admitted he was weak and needed someone to take care of him. Well, needed was the wrong word. He wanted someone to take care of him. People doing things for him made him happy in a way other things simply didn’t.

And now she knew what made him happy. She had power over him. For some unfathomable reason, her knowing gave him the same feeling looking up at an enemy who’d pinned him down did. A spark of despair that he was about to lose everything. A realization that he never, ever had any control and all the effort he put into surviving had been pointless. A little voice whispering how useless he was and how he should’ve seen this coming.

He did this to himself. She’d stopped cooking because of him and his stupid mouth. She didn’t want to take care of him anymore. Didn’t matter that she was taking pity on him in this exact moment because if he let her, this would likely be the last time.

She was going to hurt him like he hurt her. It was only fair.

“Look, I am going to go back now,” Kagome called out in a heartbreakingly gentle tone, “I am going to make some ramen. If you want it, I’ll leave it in the kitchen, okay? I’ll even put a little name tag so no one else will eat it.”

Inuyasha closed his eyes and fought against the impulse to simply go with her now. This could only end badly.

“And I know…” she let out a controlled breath which shook, “I know I got mad but I hope you know that I love you too.”

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Wait, what was that now?

“All I ask is that next time you ask nicely and maybe say please. Thank you would be nice too.”

No, no hold on. Back up because he must’ve missed something. Don’t get him wrong, Kagome loving him back was the best thing ever but when exactly did he say ‘I love you’? He didn’t remember that. Sure it was true but…but…

Swallowing thickly, Inuyasha hesitantly looked down and, to his horror, Kagome was staring right back. She smiled. His eyes widened. A soft disbelieving laugh bubbled over his lips.

Holy shit.

“Hi,” she hummed affectionately - something new, confident and warm swirling in her eyes, “Inuyasha, would you like if I made you some ramen?”

After far too long a pause, he nodded and began stiffly climbing down.

Oh, right.

“Please,” he breathed anxiously once his feet lightly landed on the grass. Kagome smiled that beautiful little smile of hers. Her hand reached out and intertwined their fingers. Her thumb rubbed soft circles against his skin.

“Okay then. Let’s go make you some ramen.”

And that’s exactly what they did.

#inukag week #inukag week 2023 #inukag #Inuyasha #inuyasha x kagome #inuyasha and kagome #kagome #love langauges #acts of service

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ahomeforwisters · 4 months

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ava gift exchange 2023! 🎄🥳

it's here! happy holidays, lulw (@tdlad), hope you're having a good one! this isn't a piece of visual art since i don’t have the tools to create one, so you get a dr. seuss-inspired fic + a part of a fic i might finish later!

due to irl events, i had to rush these a bit, but i hope you enjoy it either way :) have a wonderful winter (or summer, depending on where you are) week, and happy (early) new year! *gives gingerbread cookie*

(prompt: i tried to combine elements from all three, but i focused on “the dark lord with red coat (that tdl in my posts)” specifically—your art is just gorgeous, btw!)

word count: ~1400 for the first one/the dr. suess-y one, ~1320 (and counting?) for the second one/the unfinished one

(and special thanks to @avagiftexchange for hosting this!)

Fic 1: How the Grinch Dark Lord Stole Christmas (or: dark's christmas cake romp)

Every stick in Stick City, near the end of the year, Every stick in Stick City brimmed with holiday cheer…

But! The Dark Lord, who’s not far from here, Who lived in the wintry woods quite near— The Dark Lord held Christmas even more dear!

~-~

The Dark Lord loved Christmas, this is no bluff, And you’d best believe it, he just can’t get enough! Was it because he enjoyed the sound of children laughing clear, Or did he simply have a particular liking for reindeer? Well I’ll tell you his secret, his reason for this: He really, really liked log cakes, they fill him with bliss.

“Christmas awaits, on the very next day, Christmas really is just a day away!”

But, From his perch in the woods, Watching the stars from where he stood, With hungry eyes and vibrant ardor, With the growing desire for Christmas he harbors, (and a craving for frosting he just can’t ignore), The Dark Lord knew: he needed more!

He needed more of all that Christmas had in store! And he will get more, he swore, He’ll claim even more of Christmas, ‘twas his right as a Lord!

But—how? Christmas is already drawing so near, Soon enough, Christmas will practically already be here! He needed more time, and he needed… a plan! A plan to put Christmas in the palm of his hand.

So The Dark Lord schemed, And he schemed, and he schemed, And he conjured a scheme, A terrible scheme!

“A-ha! I’ve got a brilliant idea!”

Dark cackled, a sound from deep in his throat, As he pulled from his closet his most dapper red coat. “They’ll never see me coming, even from the skies, “So long as I craft myself a most clever disguise!”

So he lined his coat with cotton, like Santa’s coat proper, Just as into the room, his friend Chosen entered— “Look, dearest Chosen, I’ve come up with a plan, “A plan to seize Christmas in the palm of my hand!”

Dear Chosen deadpanned, “Why are you talking like that,” And right after, he inquired, what about your silly Santa’s hat?

“No I didn’t—”

“Right here! I believe my night cap is sufficient,” Dark proclaimed, wearing the hat over his ears. “Now I only need a reindeer…”

But around this area, their part of the woods here, This much Dark knew: you wouldn’t find any deer! But was Dark deterred…? No! He said, “If I can’t find a deer, I’ll just make one instead!”

“...What do you think you’re doing with that big red nose.”

…And Dark ended up sticking the nose and antlers on his one last Virabot instead!

And so, with his little red cap on his hollow red head, And his feet firmly planted in his makeshift sled— He took with him a burlap sack, Which he then hoisted upon his back— He yelled, “Onward!” just before he took flight, Off to steal Christmas, he disappeared into the night!

~-~

Back on the ground, Chosen gazed down at the cardboard box—sorry, at the sled—Dark left behind. He stared at the confused Virabot, wearing an antler headband and sporting a red clown nose glued to its face, and sighed. “This is so stupid…”

~-~

A jaunty holiday tune played from an open Chrome window, But not a sound could be heard coming from inside their homes. He was here at last, and at the perfect time, too— They must all be in their beds, dreaming away without a clue! “Now to enact my plan…”

So he climbed down the chimney, one crafted from brick, It wasn’t too tight a fit, for he was literally a stick. Though he did get stuck once, or twice, maybe thrice— And he cursed his head, loudly, for it was massive in size. “Ow—seriously, who makes chimneys this small—”

“Second, is that you?”

Just as Dark managed to extricate himself, finally, Free from the clutches of that dastardly chimney— He came face-to-face with his first obstacle: Little Cindy-Blue Who, carrying fruits in a bowl.

“Wha… Little Cindy-Blue who?”

That’s right! Little Cindy-Blue Who, probably much older than two, Who… was actually awake at this time? But it’s two (a.m.)!

“Oh, no, we don’t actually sleep. Like at all. Except Second, sometimes, but he’s off doing his own thing right now. But uhh, anyways, hi, Dark Lord! What—what’s up? And why are you dressed like…”

And oh, there was a cautious glint in his eyes— He was nervous! But there was no need for such fright, Not if Dark wanted his plan to go without a hitch. So Dark would assure him, and explain his impromptu visit:

“You see, sweet youth—you see, the job of Santy, “Is to stock up your stockings, and fill them aplenty! “So that’s what I’m here for—but not you, my dear, “For this gift’s a surprise, so I can’t have you near.”

And the lie rolled cleanly off The Dark Lord’s tongue, For he was clever, and sure to fool the young. And surely enough, Cindy-Blue Who was nodding, Raring and ready to hurry back to bed a-plodding. You’re right, Santa Dark, he joyfully exclaimed, I’ll head right back to bed now! With a turn and a wave.

“What? But I didn’t say anythi—”

And so, with his burlap sack swinging, And with Cindy-Blue assuaged, standing there beaming— “Hey, don’t—get back here…!” The Dark Lord marched onward, his first obstacle cleared!

…only to find four more, all waiting at the door!

(…crap)

Ahem—what a surprise! The Dark Lord gasped, He can’t believe his eyes, ‘twas something he almost couldn’t grasp— What a sight, that they’d all come to greet him so, How happy they must be, to all rush out and greet him so!

“Hey uhh… what’s he saying?”

‘What’s he saying?’ They’re asking what game he’s playing! They ask why he’s here, and on what he was preying. But! faced with a barrier of four— Now five, as Cindy-Blue Who, panting, adds one more… They all block his path to the far kitchen door, But has this ever stopped The Dark Lord before? No!

“Hey wait, where are you going?” Cindy-Blue called when Dark showed no signs of slowing.

“Why’d you come here all of a sudden?” Said the yellow, placing a hand on his chin.

“The Cindy-blue-what now?” Slowly asked the red fellow.

“And what’s with the getup?” Queried Green, looking him from the toes up.

“Oh, Chosen told me he and Dark recently discovered these popular picture books. And ever since then, Dark’s been narrating everything he does in rhyme.”

“Ah, is that why he’s talking like that?” Yellow asked, eyeing his little Santa’s hat.

“That’s actually kind of impressive,” Remarked Green, who’s usually quite quick to forgive.

“Ooh, try rhyming something with orange!” Red said as Cindy-Blue stood next to Orange.

“Please stop calling me that, I don’t even know what it means,” Groaned Cindy-Blue Who, beside a laughing Green.

“Hey guys, Chosen texted me again just now—apparently Dark is here trying to ‘steal Christmas’ from us—which really just means he wants our log cakes.”

(goddammit Chosen you traitor)

“Wait, that’s it? That’s what that devious plan he was cackling about is?”

“I mean, Blue could always just make another cake. You could’ve just asked if you wanted one.”

“Yeah, and you’re… kind of really bad at sneaking? We could hear you narrating really loudly as soon as you got here.”

“And cursing out Orange’s chimney, too. Geez, that was vulgar…”

“Well,” with a flourish, the orange stick gestures, Towards the kitchen, where Dark had been hoping to plunder. “We’ve got some cake, if you want it. Next time just let us know you’re coming before you tear a portal through our wifi. And maybe keep your visits during the daytime, or at least don’t come crawling down my chimney past midnight…”

What was this? Could it be—no, it simply couldn’t be… But it was! “They’ll stand here and hand Christmas—to me?” For ‘twas the season of giving, of gifts freely given, Of gingerbread, batter, and cakes in the kitchen.

And there Dark stood and pondered, and pondered, and pondered, ‘Til a bright thought struck him! One that filled him with wonder: Could it be, then, that Christmas was not for the taking, But for shared cheer and laughs and all that in the making?

“Oh, for Adobe’s—just sit down and have some log cake.” And, well— ‘Twas simply an offer Dark cannot forsake.

- the end -

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

Fic 2: i don't actually have a name for it yet, but i think i'll call it thaw for now

Christmas. ‘Twas a time of joyous laughter and warm embraces, of fireside affections and wintry escapades. ‘Twas the season of giving, be it presents or sweets or even the simplest of smiles—‘twas a time when even the little things, when given to another, are made infinitely precious.

Christmas. ‘Twas an absolutely perplexing holiday, for a stick such as The Dark Lord—and ‘twas a completely pointless one, too, as far as Dark was concerned.

Yet, when a pair of glittery red envelopes arrived at the doorstep of his and Chosen’s cabin in the woods—and when he opened one of them up to find an invitation inside, filigreed in gold and writ upon with a blue gel pen (in rather shaky handwriting, he noticed)—he didn’t immediately turn it to ash. He regarded it for longer than he normally would’ve, longer than he should’ve, turning it this way and that under the light—‘You’re invited!’, it winked up at him. If he didn’t know better just how sappy the animator’s favorite and his friends can be, he would’ve thought this was some kind of taunt.

(“You’re invited!”? who in their right minds would want to invite The Dark Lord, the outernet’s worst cyber-criminal, to something as mundane—as warm alien pointless—as a holiday gathering?)

While he was still winning gots nose at the gaudy invitation, the only other stick around for miles appeared in his periphery—Chosen picked up an envelope, too, when he saw what Dark was studying at the doorway. Dark almost hadn’t noticed when his fr… when his roommate had snuck up behind him, his pronounced footfalls doing little to breach the chasm between them; it was all he could do to stop himself from launching a fireball at Chosen as soon as the latter reached past him (he hadn’t forgotten how well that’d gone for him the last time…)

Clumsily, fumbling with it once or twice, Chosen peeled at the envelope. His invitation was inked in orange instead of blue, littered with tiny scribbled drawings, and written in much neater script, too. Dark couldn’t catch the rest; Chosen always stood with his feet angled toward him these days, so his invitation turned away from view. That, and he’d moved a few paces away from the doorway—and Dark wasn’t interested anyway, he wasn’t. Pointless, he told himself again, it was such a pointless gesture. It was something he didn’t need—The Dark Lord had better things to do, had more important things to do, than to entertain something as small and banal as a Christmas party—it was a pointless affair, that was all it was.

(and yet.)

And yet. Dark wouldn’t be able to say what possessed him to do it; if it was sheer curiosity, a part of him balking at his own degrading wonder—or if it was when Chosen’s fingers tightened their hold on his invitation, carving minute creases into the paper,

and when the other stick’s eyes crinkled, just barely, in tender longing silent laughter only Dark would recognize—when those eyes finally met his, carrying a question and a spark Dark hadn’t seen in so long—he couldn’t find it within him to say no.

(it was Chosen’s idea, he would say later—it was all his roommate’s fault, the first and last person to extend their hand to him, that he was crashing their little party. he hadn’t wanted this, hadn’t needed it—he didn’t need this, he didn’t.)

~-~

If he was being honest—Dark really didn’t have anything better to do than to attend the party.

Ever since he was blasted to kingdom come by the animator’s favorite, ever since a battered Chosen had found him at the foot of a volcano and hauled his near-corpse all the way back to their cabin—in the months since, he’d seldom left their secluded area in the woods to do anything more than take a short walk. His shoulder still smarted from the hole that’d been blown through it, his skin etched with throbbing green scars all over—he couldn’t travel far beyond the bounds of the woods without wilting, robbed of breath. Needless to say, his heydays of ash and destruction were far behind him.

(and even if all his progress hadn’t been deleted, rendered void when Chosen destroyed the rest of his virabots following the “incident”—these days, looking at the place where he’d once stood tapping away at his computer, believing himself the inheritor of a grander purpose than the one dealt to him by the animator—it left an sour taste in his mouth.)

In his current condition, even petty theft seemed beyond his capabilities. Which was going to be a problem, he realized, when he turned to the back of the invitation and saw the damning first rule of the party written in a bold green: “Come in a costume! No costume, NO ENTRY.”

Well, in the state he was in, he wasn’t going to be pulling any heists anytime soon, not even on cheap outfitters—and he doubted any store would simply let a notorious cyber-criminal waltz into their establishment, even just to look around. That left him with only two options: either go through his own closets, or brave Chosen’s minefield of a room to rifle through his. It wasn’t a hard decision to make.

With practiced ease (and only slightly impeded by his still-healing injuries), Dark picked his way past piles of lightly-charred sweaters, discarded bandages, random knick knacks collecting dust over the years, a self-sustaining tornado of trash—all the way across his roommate’s bedroom to reach the far end where the closets were. While Dark considered his fashion sense to be impeccable, none of his clothes really screamed “festive.” It was all something along the lines of “looks like he could kill you” or “warning: would actually kill you.” Chosen’s taste in clothes, on the other hand, was more… eclectic. There was more variety; he’d probably have a better chance finding something acceptable to wear here than in his own wardrobe.

Dark threw open the leftmost closet, a mahogany behemoth with the price sticker still slapped on the left door, and oh, that was—what even was that? No, those pants were too long, and the pair beside them the wrong shade of green—and oh, that’s garish, why did he even think to nab this? What is this even supposed to be, a mop? Or some kind of shawl? That color is way too bright to ever belong on a shirt, that shirt is a visual safety hazard. And what—why aren’t these socks the same, where’s the other one in the pair? None of these socks are the same—is that a pair of googly eyes—

Dark shut the closet door. He should’ve expected this, really; he’d witnessed the affront to fashion that was Chosen’s wardrobe thousands of times before, whenever they had to disguise themselves to go into the city. The two other closets wouldn’t be much better, he knew, but just as he was turning to head back toward the door—had that box always been there?

Tucked away into the corner of the room was a small cardboard box, a little tattered and stained in several spots from years of disuse but otherwise appearing untouched by the surrounding mess. As an expert at navigating Chosen’s room, Dark knew for certain it hadn’t been there the last time he was here (just over three months ago. he’d been scrounging for one of the aprons he’d left in Chosen’s room; it feels like it’s been forever since then.)

It took only a short hop for Dark to reach it. The next second, he was kneeling down in front of it, carefully lifting the top flaps—and sure, maybe a part of him was prodding at him, telling him whatever was in there was probably stashed away in the corner for a reason, reminding him that things are different now, the space between you and him, it’s different now—but that hadn’t ever stopped Dark before

(aaand that's all i have for this second one for now. i'll probs post the rest on ao3 or something if i finish this, but i'll def let you know!)

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but yeah, anywho, that's all—have a wonderful holiday season! :)

#ava gift exchange #ava gift exchange 2023 #animator vs animation #animation vs minecraft #alan becker #ava tco #ava tdl #avm tsc #avm green #avm blue #avm red #avm yellow #for the first fic i just wanted to write dark being a goof #while the second was more character-studyish #anywho #it's here! gift exchange! :D

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