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pippytmi · 2 years

Note

For the fake dating thing 11 with whomever you want!

“Do you always get into fist fights on first dates, or am I just lucky?”

There is a bruise already forming on Kara’s jaw, and her hand still has a phantom ache that won’t go away. There might be a touch of blood on the lapel of her shirt, too, but she has been unable to confirm without ready access to a mirror. But it’s this—the firm click of silver six-inch heels against pavement announcing Lena’s arrival—that brings Kara an instant sense of uneasiness.

“It’s kind of in the job description,” Kara shrugs off the rhetorical question. “You know, of being a girlfriend.”

Lena Luthor has an uncanny ability to make Kara feel completely, totally inept in any situation just with a quizzical quirk of an eyebrow and a ruby-red lipsticked frown. Not because she deliberately tries to, but because that’s just the Luthor™ way. Every member of that family seems to have mastered the ability to stare hard enough to make anyone squirm. Even though Kara has known Lena since they were kids—even though they know each other better than anyone else in the world—the effect is the same.

“That might be the most idiotic thing you’ve said all night.” Despite her stoic expression, Lena’s voice is surprisingly soft. “You should have walked away.”

“That would have been worse than not punching Mike Matthews, I think,” Kara says. “Really, I’m ninety-five percent sure I’m supposed to defend your honor, or… whatever the saying is.”

And the strangest thing happens; a glimpse of amusement cracks through Lena’s frown, visible in the ever-so-gentle upturn of the corner of her mouth. “Sorry, did I miss the part where we time traveled a hundred years ago?”

“It’s—you know what I mean,” Kara says. “If I was your real girlfriend everyone would expect me to punch guys in the face for you.”

“Or,” Lena counters, “it might be overkill, since everyone knows you are not inherently a violent person.”

Kara sheepishly tugs at her collar, unable to stop herself from flushing when Lena gazes at her so pointedly. “Does it matter if everyone who meets Mike wants to punch him? Because I’m pretty sure he could make a nun violent.”

“Wow,” Lena says. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say a mean thing about anyone before this.”

“Yeah, well…” Kara grimaces. “Mike Matthews brings it out of me. Or maybe this stuffy party does.” Her hand unconsciously goes back to her jacket, and she has to shrug it off all at once, suddenly feeling constricted in her suit. “I don’t know how you do it.”

Lena must be far more uncomfortable than Kara is, with those high heels and the skintight dress and the overall burden of familial expectations hanging on her shoulders, but she masks it remarkably well. “Practice,” she says—sighs. “And whiskey.”

“Gross,” Kara says, unconsciously crinkling her nose as she works at undoing her tie next. “I’m more of a Capri Sun girl myself.”

A short, stunned laugh emerges before Lena can likely quell it. “Right, how could I forget,” she says, and tilts her head in that curious way she does whenever she has a question she isn’t sure how to ask. But it must pass, because her actual question comes out in the form of: “Is there a reason you’re stripping in full view of the paparazzi?”

“Fan service?” It’s a weak joke, but it makes Lena roll her eyes in that mock-exasperated way that Kara knows would be a laugh out of anyone else. “I just need to cool off, maybe. Then I promise, I’ll be your doting girlfriend for all the cameras again.” She allows a beat before she adds, perhaps unnecessarily, “Without any violence.”

“Yes, I think my mother would very much prefer that.”

Kara laughs, remembering the horrified look on Lillian Luthor’s face with—admittedly—a bit of glee. “Yeah,” she says, “I’m sure she’s thrilled with how tonight is going.”

“Well, she does think it’s all part of a rebellious phase,” Lena muses. “She’s convinced I’m doing this just to spite her.”

Kara has felt the brunt of Lillian’s disapproval back since she first befriended Lena when they were kids, back when they were auditioning for the same movie. Honestly, there is no telling why Lillian has always disliked Kara. Maybe it was because she wasn’t a nepotism baby like all the rest of crowd, or maybe it was because Kara would sneak Lena out of the giant Luthor mansion to go to the movies, or maybe it was because when they were teenagers Kara had wrecked the Porsche (on a dare)...but that disdain has been steadfast ever since they were young, and it’s never once wavered. Everyone knows it. Lena knows it.

Which is why Kara is unable to keep the confusion out of her voice when she says, “Uh. Aren’t you?”

“Aren’t I…what?” Lena repeats, lost.

“Pretending to date me to spite her?” Kara prompts. “You know. Since she hates me?”

Lena’s brow furrows ever-so-slightly. “I didn’t mean dating you,” she says. “I mean dating in general. She thinks it’s a distraction.” She absentmindedly picks at one of the sequins on her dress, a nervous tic that she has never been able to shake. “God, it’s getting cold out here.”

The temperature is just right for Kara, but Lena has always run cold; Kara’s poked fun at her for it once or twice (or for their entire childhood, but who’s keeping track). An unbidden smile, fonder than it has any right to be, inevitably forms. “Well sit down, so you can leech some of my body heat. Besides, you make me tired just looking at you in those heels.”

“Then I’ll be colder,” Lena objects, eyeing the stone of the fountain edge that Kara is currently sitting on. “No way.”

“You’re the most high maintenance fake girlfriend ever,” Kara feigns annoyance. “Here, then. Sit on my lap. And you can put my jacket over your legs.”

It’s hard to exactly tell with the dim lighting of the streetlights, but Lena—blushes? Maybe? And immediately shakes her head. “I’m too heavy.”

“No such thing,” Kara retorts. “I’ll keep stripping if you don’t sit down, Lena. Then your mother will really have a reason to hate me.”

“You are trying to create scandal everywhere you can tonight, aren’t you?” Lena says, but doesn’t move, only crosses her arms and gives Kara an exasperated look. “It would be a hell of a front page.”

“Wow, Lena, if you wanted me naked all you had to do was ask,” Kara says, undoing the first two buttons of her shirt while Lena continues to glare. Then, for fun, she continues up until she hits the top of her bra and Lena’s jaw fully drops in alarm.

“Oh my God, Kara, stop!”

But the ruse works, because as Lena moves forward as if she’s about to button Kara’s shirt back up (or just push her into the fountain), Kara is able to wrap an arm around Lena’s waist and tug her down. Lena yelps in surprise, arms coming up to squeeze around Kara’s neck, and Kara has to hide a grin into the curls that hit her full force in the face.

“Geez, Lena, you’re like an ice cube. Don’t you own a sweater?”

“You asshole,” Lena says, but there is no bite in her voice, only annoyed defeat. “If I get glitter all over you, I’m not going to apologize.”

“I’ll let it slide, this once.” Kara doesn’t mention that there’s nothing in the world that she wouldn’t let Lena get away with. That’s the inevitable truth of being in love with this girl pretty much her whole life—Kara caves first, and she always has. Whether it was what flavor of Gatorade to get from the vending machine, or whether it was who got to sit down in the only remaining chair for a last minute casting call, or whether it was to tag along to Lena’s prom date so the boy wouldn’t try to kiss her, Kara always let Lena call the shots.

Lena exhales; Kara feels the warmth of Lena’s breath against her temple, feels the steady weight of Lena’s body as she shifts on Kara’s lap, feels the rough pattern of Lena’s dress sequins against her fingertips. “You know you’re my best friend, right?” Lena says suddenly.

Those words always make Kara’s heart skip a beat, like they’re right back to being fifteen and nervously holding each other’s sweaty hands while poring over crumpled scripts. “I’d better be,” Kara quips, if only to keep her sappiness at bay, “or I’m returning the BFF necklaces I brought as our first-anniversary gift.”

“I’m serious,” Lena huffs, and her grip around Kara’s neck tightens just a hair. “Will you let me be serious?”

“Okay, okay. One hundred percent seriousness from here on out, I promise.”

For a moment, the only sound is that of cars passing, of the trickle from the water fountain, of the faint music coming from the party. And when Lena speaks at last, it’s quiet. “I know my mom’s not the…easiest person,” she says. “And if pretending to be my girlfriend is going to make you uncomfortable because you have to deal with her, you don’t have to do it.”

“I’ve been dealing with your mother forever, Lena,” Kara says lightly. “She hasn’t been able to scare me off yet, for as much as she’s tried.”

Lena scoffs, but her hand is unmistakably tender as she fiddles with Kara’s shirt collar. “What happened to being serious?”

“I am serious! Do you or do you not remember that time we went to the water park? I swear she cut a hole in my water tube slide. And let’s not even bring up the whole prom incident, because I swear my hip has never been the same since falling out of your window.”

“She didn’t even know that was you.” Lena laughs, and it’s still somewhat hesitant, but just affectionate enough to reflect her feelings about that memory. “That feels like a lifetime ago.”

Kara inhales, shakily, both the sweet scent of Lena’s perfume and some much-needed air. “In a good way or a bad way?”

Lena presses her forehead into Kara’s jaw, her skin still cold enough that it makes Kara sympathetically squeeze her tighter. “Can you just promise to tell me if you don’t feel comfortable?” she asks, and ignores Kara’s question entirely. “Either with my mother, or…just the pretending part with me.”

“I feel plenty comfortable,” Kara tries, but Lena just reiterates,

“Promise me, Kara. I don't want to lose you.”

Something about the urgency in Lena's tone shifts the mood entirely; Kara swallows tightly and nods obligingly. “Okay. I promise. But you have to tell me, too, if anything becomes…I don't know, too much.”

“Fine,” Lena agrees readily.

“No, wait, but listen,” Kara presses. “Being friends is one thing, but dating is another, and—even if it's fake, we're going to have to do couple things. And I don't want it to ruin our friendship.”

“I also don't want to ruin our friendship,” Lena says. “Which is why I brought it up first.”

“Good. Okay. I just wanted to be sure.” Kara awkwardly shifts, all too aware that this might not be the ideal time and place for this conversation. Much less when Lena's still in her lap, clinging to Kara as if afraid to let go. “So on a scale of one to ten, how badly have I messed up the friendship by fighting Mike?”

Lema hums, considering. “That depends on what he said about me.”

“Um, nothing nice,” Kara says haltingly. “I'd rather not repeat it.”

“Then I'll let it slide…this once.” Lena's hands find their way up to Kara's face, fingertips gentle against the bruise on her jaw. “But you are still an idiot.” She thumbs warmly against the apple of Kara's cheek and gazes at Kara from underneath thick mascaraed eyelashes, then whispers, “And you're my favorite.”

“Your favorite idiot?”

“My favorite person.” Suddenly they're seventeen again, and Kara is sitting on Lena's bedroom floor still tugging at her tux because it itches. Suddenly they're seventeen again, and Lena is biting her lip and unable to catch Kara’s eye. Suddenly they’re seventeen again, and Lena is whispering I wanted you to make sure he didn’t kiss me because I want you to be my first kiss.

Kara blinks, mouth opening and closing for a pause, before she has to fall back on a safe feeling—fall right back to humor, so Lena does not comment on the way Kara’s body automatically tenses. “Aw, Lena,” she manages, “that sounded a lot like you like me.”

“I’m just a good actress,” Lena says mock-haughtily, but her eyes are searching as they lock onto Kara’s, expression softening the way no one else ever really sees. To the world she’s always been some cold, aloof superstar, but to Kara she will always be the best friend who wanted her first kiss to be with the person she trusted most in the world.

“Well for the record,” Kara swallows thickly, “you’re my favorite, too.”

There is a split second—a charged, electric second—where Kara swears Lena is going to kiss her. Her eyes are hooded like they’re about to close, and her face sways closer, her hand still resting on Kara’s bruised jaw. But then she sighs, and Kara can feel the distance before she sees it.

“We should go back inside,” Lena says, abruptly stumbling off of Kara's lap. “Sooner or later we'll have to do damage control.”

It takes a beat for Kara to catch up. “Right,” she says, hastening to button up her shirt and follow. “It wouldn't be a Luthor party without damage control.”

“It's the first time you're the cause, though,” Lena throws over her shoulder. “And don't forget your tie!”

“Got it,” Kara calls, undoing her tie entirely and tossing it into the bushes. “Hey, wait up! Come back and hold my hand.”

That makes Lena freeze in place. “What?”

“For—you know, the cameras,” Kara says, shrugging her suit jacket back on. “So we can show a united front.”

Lena gives her an inscrutable look. “You say the weirdest things sometimes,” she says, but she allows Kara to catch up and intertwine their hands together without further complaint.

“How else is everyone supposed to know you're not mad at me?” Kara reminds her. “Or that I'm the best girlfriend you've ever had?”

“I doubt they're going to make that assumption based on hand holding.” But as they climb up the steps to rejoin the gala, the low, golden light illuminates that dimpled smile of Lena's that makes Kara breathless. “What makes you think you're the best, anyway?”

“Just a guess,” Kara says, squeezing Lena's hand as they reach the entrance. “Am I?”

“Let's see if you end tonight without any more fights first,” Lena quips, and while her voice is teasing, her smile grows exponentially tender. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Kara echoes quietly, and allows Lena to lead her right through those double doors knowing that she would follow Lena anywhere.

#prompt was: 'aw that sounded a lot like you like me / im just a good actor'#i rewrote this a million times and finally settled on a childhood friends + celebrity au :)#supercorp #supergirl #i need a fic tag #i miss these two dramatic ''besties'' who just wanna kiss each other on the mouth #lyssa #as always ty for the prompt !! <3

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elenor222 · 3 months

Text

A Kendall Roy (Succession) Series

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: faint mentions of established relationship, sexual tension. All characters are of age. This story is 18+.

part 1

NEW YORK

3.12 AM

Emily stares at the white flushed screen of the newest shitop available in the market. She’s deciphering the flow of the shares today. Her glasses are turning blue with all the big numbers and the emails flowing through the system. There’s an untouched tumbler of souvenir matcha sitting on her desk. Her room’s illuminated a pale white with white lilies on her nightstand and an empty buzz from her phone. Emily rubs her temple, according to the entire finance department of Waystar, the Roys will take the company down with them by a decade. The lavish living and black dog services come with a price. A price they’ve long since forgotten to repay. Emily grunts and bites back her tongue. She looks up at the cerulean walls of her home painted with the same blood as them. Her chestnut eyes gleam, she dreams of Sicily and lush cherries. Bruised corridors and bluer skin. She turns towards the New York sky, cracking her knuckles and wonders how ground hog criminal she must’ve been to witness the corporate red with her own hands.

The next morning, a tall man with pale beach skin and visibly rich eye bags sits with four or five of his advisors and a bunch of younger executives. Emily does not accompany them. She stalls in her own office looking at the sugary buyout. She’s about ninety percent sure that Lawrence, the eldest son’s new venture, will and soon fuck Waystar. She lets out a giddy laugh in her mind and stays put at her cabin, chivalry gleaming in her eyes. Her posture is sleek, not too laid back but neither very professional. Kendall, suited up with cocaine in his back pocket, looks engaged, and rightly denounced, a little too lively.

“This is a merger offer. Not an acquisition. We love what you do.” Kendall appears really passionate about the deal going through. His hands are clammy. He stares right through the upturned eye of the media guy.

“I get it. Of course, someone is always boss. And I don’t think that would be me?”

Kendall’s eyes briefly meet Emily. She’s intensely watching how this playdate plays out. Kendall can’t seem to focus between her glass of white wine at 11 am and that too tight white skirt riding up her thigh. He pretends to fix his tie. Hands imitating her face full of his length. He’s gone. Lilacs and bright Italian skies take over his vision. He’s sucking in another breath. So gone.

Kendall nullifies the rest of the conversation from his head. His eyes juggling between his two memento moris. There seems to a notable disagreement though, Emily senses it before she sees it. Her lip twitches as Lawrence stands up to leave. Kendall abruptly follows, seemingly surprised at the turn of the events. They walk next to each other down the wide corridor that border glass offices with venetian blinds on each side. He’s even wearing those knuckle deep expensive boardroom shoes, Emily peeks. Kendall steals a glance before the elevator door dings. She’s looking back at him with remorse. Soon, Lawrence whispers something inexcusable in his ear and the board sees him visibly loose his composure. He leaves the floor’s eyeshot rattled in fury.

LONDON

10 AM

“It’s inappropriate. It’s a fitness, thing. It’s - it’s basically a heart rate monitor. It’s a fucking abortion.” A broad shoulder man squeals. “is that what you give your 80 year soon to be father in law? To your boss? As a gesture of obeisance? When you’re looking for promotion? Or is that, say, like giving him a colostomy bag and a viagra? The optics are fucking horrible.” He keeps rambling on to the redhead beside him. She takes no notice of the priced-up suit or her satin shirt shining in the harsh auburn sun. Two black Mercedes line up bedside them.

Shiv, instead, is focused on a text.

Shiv: you coming?

Em: maybe :/

“Tom. It’s fine. Yeah, my Dad doesn’t really like things.” She advises him to throw ten to fifteen grand at some posh shop that sells sea shells. She’s staring at her phone with pursed lips.

NEW YORK

1PM

“So, last call guys. We happy?” Kendall frantically looks around his team. Emily sits there looking uninterested at their long faces and sheets of robbery. Jess took an appointment, filing “wife needed for support” for her to be there. Back in the day, rose would’ve tainted her cheeks. Now, she only sits there. Stoic, unimpressed. She knows all too well that this was just another tactic for her to see him win. He’s bitter. And he hopes she knows.

Frank reassures him, ”If the committee play straight, we win. If they don’t, we go legal.”

“And we don’t want to just bump the number another point?” Young Alessandro, the investment banker looks towards Emily almost questioning the authority of her presence.

“You’ve already over ridden your Bali beach numbers. Although, I can give you an extra mil to demonstrate a knuckle fuck to Frank” Emily looks Kendall dead in the eye as if scolding a child. She crosses her legs and sits up straighter. Alessandro witnesses the change in power dynamics.

“You wanna call your Dad?” Alessandro offers.

Kendall looks like someone’s punched him in the nuts but he refuses to react. Emily only juts out her lips. She’s almost on the verge of enacting the scenes from their college days. Kendall gives her a so much so a threating look in response. His eyes dart to her mulberry pink lips. His mind fickle enough, churns him back to those same hot days with Emily on her knees.

“Do I want to call my Dad?” he glares at the board.

“No” he comprehends. “I don’t want to call my Dad.”

“Do you want to call your Dad?” he bites back.

“Does anyone want to call their Dad?” Silence surrounds the cascading white room except the timely tapping of Emily’s jimmy choos.

“Okay. No one wants to talk to thier Dad. So, let’s get in there, buy this fucking company and go top ten, shall we? I’m pushing the bid to 120. Okay?” Emily lets out a sigh in disapproval. Kendall pays no mind to her wandering gaze down his body. She wonders how she can put this in the mad bear’s plate without pissing him off.

1 AM

“What’s the number?” logan’s call disrupts Kendall in the midnight. Kendall did know, there was going to be consequences to raising the bid. He only hoped Emily had flower petaled logans fuck over shoes to bendable China. He dabs his forehead with a white tea cloth to soothe his nerves.

“I’m going to one twenty.” He intakes a sharp breath, eyes blown and sitting upright. he prays that his quaver of tone isn’t detectable. He fists his bedsheet into a stress ball. A minute goes by where you can hear the chaotic New York night pass by. He’s untouchable; how does the teen spirit bubblegum wrath seep in? He speaks further in a fever dream, “Good. Look are we still good for tomorrow? Today?”

“Uh-huh. Yeah.” Logan is tapping away on his mouse. Unfocused eyes cram in all the emails from the week.

“Cos it’s gonna get out there?” Kendall’s eyes twinkle. They perfectly reflect the times square brightness.

“We’ll announce.” Logan rolls his eyes. His right hand is reaching for the will in his drawer.

“Great, so I can pre-floating to like Frank and Emily? If I need to. Cos it’s getting soft-floated.” The line goes dead. Kendall closes his eyes. He’s breathing raggedly. Theres a voice in the back of his head telling him he’s going to fuck it up. He blinks. Hard.

authors note: engagement of any sort is greatly appreciated. will try to update the next part this week itself <3

part 2

#succession #shiv roy #roman roy #kendall roy #tom wambsgans #jeremy strong #sarah snook #succession imagine #x reader #fem reader #kendall roy x reader #kendall roy fanfic

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its-in-the-woods · 5 months

Text

Chapter Two, Life's too Short

Chapter one <- if you missed it.

Cooper howard/The Ghoul x Lucy Maclean

Post end of season 1

No beta.. I tried to edit 🫠

Ninety five percent written just tweaking

⚠️ Warning ⚠️

There will be canonically typical violence and eventually smut

+18 only

Slow burn sorta kinda

Please be nice this my first fic in almost a decade 🫣

Will eventually post on AO3 once I can get access... or where suggested 🤷🏻‍♂️

They had made it to the outpost. An outpost that was okay with Ghouls anyway. Ghoul's kind wasn't accepted at many places, the whole going feral thing was a bit of an issue. The other issue was that Lucy drew a lot of attention. Even though Lucy had done her damnest to blend in the lack of scars, having all her teeth and most of her fingers was a dead giveaway. She made sure to keep herself close to the Ghoul as he walked into the village. There weren’t many eyes that weren’t looking at them. They made a hell of a sight, a genetically engineered dog, a pre-bomb Ghoul, and Vaultie. Sounded like a lame joke Chet would make back in the vault.

A man stood up and moved towards them as they walked past him. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Trouble. Her brain screamed to turn around. The Ghoul had already moved, his sawed-off pointed directly at the man, men, there were at least four of them. Lucy’s hand went to her gun holster and they paused. She desperately needed to start listening to those instincts.

“I don’t know whatcha boys are thinkin' of doin', but if you don’t wanna new hole in your meat suit I suggest you. Back. The. Fuck. Up.” Ghoul punctuated the last words with a clenched teeth grimace. The man held the gun as if it were an extension of his arm.

The whole place was silent, the scene from when Lucy had originally met the Ghoul played out in her mind. The whole place blasted to pieces in a matter of seconds. She knew the Ghoul had zero reservations about murdering anyone who even looked at him funny.

“We aren’t looking for any trouble” Lucy swallowed, part of her hating that she was always trying to look for solutions that didn’t end in blood.

One of them gave a near-toothless grin. “Just wanted to say hello to such a fine little thing.” His voice made her skin crawl, as the man moved towards her. “Don’t see too many smooth-skinned Vaultdwellers around these parts.”

“I am sure you’d find a better company with us then,” Another man’s eyes roamed over the Ghoul, “Unless you're a Ghoulfcker.”

The Ghoul’s face tightened, and his finger went to the trigger-

“Wait, can we please not. I don’t want company. In fact, I would actually be really flattered if you just left us alone. Because this is going to get ugly fast” Lucy sighed out rubbing the bridge of her nose. The tension in the air could be cut with a knife. Part of her had already resigned to the fact that these men were dead.

The four men looked in between each other and then went to draw. The Ghoul blasted the closest two without a second thought. Lucy had pulled and hit the third, the fourth went to bail and Dogmeat had grabbed his calf. He screamed trying to beat the dog off. Lucy aimed at the same time as the Ghoul and brains went everywhere. A bloody mess, it always ended in a bloody mess.

"Oh for fucksakes. I let the Ghouls in an suddenly everyone's getting blown away." Hollered an older woman from the second story of a building. She was a tall imposing figure with striking red hair streaked with grey. Her clothes where a patchwork of various materials, boot knee high leather of some kind. She looked at the two of them, the only ones left out in the open.

"Well, I will be damned. Is that fuckin Coop?" The women yelled, peering down at the Ghoul.

Coop? That's what the Ghoul's name was, Lucy felt like she had heard that somewhere before. Her mind went over the name a few times trying to place it.

Coop tucked his shotgun back into its holster, a sly grin turning one corner of his lips up. "Guilty as charged, Tracy."

The women came out from a lower door and walked up to them. Her face was lined with sun damage and her eyes were probably green once. But now they are more pastel grey. She poked the Ghoul in the chest with a gnarled finger. He chuckled at her, they clearly had met before.

"I just started letting you radiation suckers back in two days ago. Why the fuck are you shooting up my paying customers?" Tracy gestured to the very dead men. "Who's gonna clean this up now?"

Coop chuckled, patting Tracy on the shoulder. "You and I both know that the roaches, irradiated or not, will have those bodies picked clean by morning."

The woman glowered at him, her hands on her hips. "Supposed you're right, but can we not shoot up anyone else?" She cussed some more and spit something on the ground.

"Well if your customers were more respectful to my companion here I wouldn't have to blow them away."

The woman's eyes narrowed and she looked over at Lucy. Graying eyes or not, the woman looked as if she could read her thoughts.

Lucy immediately extended her hand, "Hi, my name is Lucy. I am so sorry for shooting up the place. They did draw on us first." She left out her last name, something the Ghoul had mentioned. Always keep important information to yourself.

The woman rolled her eyes, waving her hand dismissively. "One less asshole, well guess four. Come on, let's get you two rooms and some grub."

They followed after her, already people were starting to emerge to come to pick over the dead. Lucy tried to not think about the fact they'd probably end up as food for some of the dwellers.

***

Despite Tracy's sour appearance she seemed to be fond of the Ghoul Coop. Happily, giving them both good-sized plates of chicken and something that looked like potatoes? Whatever it was it tasted good and Lucy for the first time in over a week actually ate until she was full.

There was also water. Apparently, the settlement had a spring nearby that they used for drinking water. Tracy was more than happy to tell the tale of how Coop had liberated the well for the settlement.

“Nothing much was left of the raiders once he came through. Got us clean water and a little peace and quiet. Well as much peace as you can in this waste.” The lady said, patting Coop on the arm.“He can be a pretty big pain in the ass most days. But if there are some caps and moonshine in it he's not bad.”

Coop chuckled, “I promise to only darken your doorstep when raiders are about.”

Tracy patted his arm, “Well let me not keep yah. I have a few rooms available. Lots of folks scattered when the brotherhood knight came by.”

“When did he come by?” Lucy asked, her heart beating in her chest. It was the first time she had spoken beside, ‘Yes Ma'am’ and ‘the food is good’

Tracy narrowed her eyes, “Two days ago I'd say. Stole a power core from a few Traders. Bastard. Why? Are you looking for him?”

Coop cleared his throat. “Something like that. He has some information we need.”

Tracy looked between both of them for a moment. Her eyes narrowed as if she was trying to figure out exactly what they were hinting at.

“Mmhm. Well, he was heading east.” She fiddled with an old scar on her hand. “Do you want a room with one or two beds?”

“Two beds.” Both Lucy and Ghoul reply.

*Thank you for reading and all <3 are very appreciated. *

*Chapter three *

#cooper howard x lucy maclean #cooper x lucy #ghoulcy #fanfic #spoilers?

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darsynia · 2 years

Text

Diminished Seventh (ch5)

(Stephen Strange/OC, 'suspicion to lovers,' Animate Objects series)

art found here: duttaayon14008 | gif by @doctorstrangegifsparadise

In this chapter, Stephen's losing the war he's waging not to act on his attraction to Amy. Either she's telling the truth and there's potential for something there, or she's a spy he can tempt into turning double agent...

Length: 3,885

Animate Objects | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

I am quite new, and a wee bit shy about tags and asks, but please feel free to send them anyway! Tags: @starryeyes2000, @raith-way, @arrthurpendragon, @sobeautifullyobsessed, @strangelockd, @cabinofcontentment, @starksbf

A ‘diminished seventh’ chord creates tension that begs to be resolved.

Excerpt:

Once upstairs, the Cloak floated over and settled onto his shoulders as he stepped into their practice room, a cleared-out bedroom with large windows. Amy walked in and made directly for him. Stephen forced himself to stand still as she reached over to adjust his lapels, her expression apologetic. What was it about this woman that she felt absolutely no compunction to touch him at nearly every opportunity? Surely she had to know how intimate such an action was!

“I’d knocked you askew,” she murmured, stepping back.

“Do you do that on purpose?” Stephen found himself asking. “Deliberately turn up the temperature, push boundaries?”

Chapter Five

6 days in

“I looked into the three listings you gave me. One was above a pizza shop I’m certain is a drug front, and the other was in a building known for renting to escort agencies.”

“What about the third one?”

“You don’t want to know about the third one.”

Stephen had only been Sorcerer Supreme for a few months, but he was certain that anyone holding that position would find teaching Amy Cairn a challenge.

It wasn’t that she was a bad student. It was that she was completely unused to not being good at something immediately-- and he completely recognized fate’s irony in that. Instead of the frustration he’d exhibited back when he himself had struggled, Amy’s approach to failure was to deflect and distract. She would start talking about one of the books she was studying, and even though Stephen recognized what she was doing, ninety percent of the time he still got caught up in the discussion. Her insights were always clever and care-focused, something he knew he needed to keep in mind in his new position.

Unfortunately, with her job and his obligations at Kamar Taj, they were hard pressed to get an hour of ‘training’ a day. By the end of the first week with no hint of progress, he noticed that Amy deflected into book talk earlier and earlier into the sessions.

At this rate he would be at her and her relic’s mercy for years.

8 days in

“Before you go-- have you gotten a chance to look at the properties--”

“Yes, ah, let me look at the notes I… Oh.”

“That doesn’t sound like a good ‘oh.’”

“It isn’t. Where are you getting these from? I wouldn’t send an enemy to live in any of these places.”

“Har, har.”

Stephen stood in the high alcove and watched a group training in the courtyard of Kamar Taj. For once, things were going smoothly here and bumpy at the sanctum, but the latter brought less chaos to fewer people, at least. The source of that chaos was part of why he was watching the students instead of heading back to the sanctum for the monthly relic inspection.

Amy remarked yesterday that she wished she had time to stand alongside her fellow ‘postulants,’ the newest of the new learners. Stephen had expressed surprise; he’d felt on display when in that position, annoyed to be a mere blood cell when he was used to repairing the artery itself. Her response was that it would be encouraging to see others achieve something she was striving for-- and that brought him to where he stood now, watching fresh faces at practice.

Sure enough, he saw one or two of them shoot glances sideways and smile when one of their neighbors conjured the shields they were all trying to create.

His old doubts about Amy crept in. They’d been steadily fading after a week and a few days of living in the same building, but it wasn’t hard to conclude that this was as intended. Familiarity always bred trust, that was just human nature, but as his behest, Wong had looked into the lives of her next-door neighbor, the guy’s mother, and the two idiots who’d broken in. There wasn’t a hint of any contact with the mystical, though he supposed that they might have run into an intermediary, someone like Pangorn who knew the Mystic Arts but no longer associated himself with their practices.

Stephen sighed. The more time he spent with Amy, the more he liked her, beyond the physical attraction that had struck him so thoroughly when they’d first met. His mistrust had shifted into a need to find the truth about who she really was, to persuade her to follow the right course of action. Ideally, he would turn her into an ally.

He just wished he knew whether he’d been manipulated into feeling that way.

11 days in

“Just one? I thought spring was the time of year everyone moves?”

“Maybe it is, but not in my price range!”

“Well, you should know you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like-- at least until you reveal your true motives.”

“Never change, Strange.”

“You seem more troubled than usual.”

That was the way Wong greeted him on the last Friday of April, when he showed up to facilitate Stephen’s vision search once again.

“I’m struck by a discrepancy that I can’t parse,” he told Wong as he took off his outer garments in preparation. “Ever since I let Amy inside the sanctum, the number of people loitering outside has cut down by ninety percent.”

“What’s the discrepancy?”

He finished lighting the torches and frowned. “Despite that seemingly clear evidence, I don’t think she’s a spy.”

“You mean you don’t want to think she’s a spy,” Wong said perceptively. “Didn’t you say she never speaks with her family or boss at all from inside the building? That tells me she’s communicating with them elsewhere, not that she isn’t talking to them at all. Suspicious.”

“Or she doesn’t trust me and thinks I’m bugging her room, which I am,” Stephen mused.

“How is her training going?”

He walked into the center of the circular recess and let out a long breath. “Not a spark. She can’t devote enough time to meditation.”

“You like talking to her too much.”

It was true, so he couldn’t really defend himself. “She can’t afford to devote more time, and we can’t afford to let her give up,” Stephen pointed out. “Time is one thing, but she’s got pictures of her brother in that locket. If she’s only talking to him when she’s not at the sanctum, she’s never talking to him in private. Or she’s never talking to him.”

Wong nodded. “That could be it. An emotional block.” He gave Stephen a hard look. “You have to mention it.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. That is none of my business,” Stephen said, throwing his hands out at his sides and shaking them to symbolically release his anxiety about tonight’s session. He didn’t want Wong to know, but he hadn’t had much time to meditate lately either.

When he looked toward the other man to see if he was ready to begin, Wong was walking away from him, toward the door.

“Hey, no need to demonstrate what she’d do if I brought up her brother!” Stephen hollered after the other sorcerer. “Wong!”

“You’re in no state to do this today, and I’m not willing to participate,” Wong said, casting his portal so that it perfectly overlaid the door. Stephen didn’t get over to it in time to walk through himself, and he hadn’t seen its destination. Stephen could cast a portal to his direct location, but knowing the way Wong’s mind worked, something nasty would be waiting for him there, with no sign of Wong himself. He suspected that the decision to leave was meant to force him to think back through their conversation and take wisdom from it.

Stephen walked back over to the circle and stood still, thinking for a while. Over in the corner, the Tsasilli’s restless boundary-testing had started already. As for Amy herself, she was out with friends, as requested. She didn’t know what it was that he did on Friday nights, just that he preferred if she wasn’t in the building.

Deep down, he knew he shouldn’t attempt a vision. Wong had been crystal clear about how difficult it sometimes was to drag him out, and he’d alluded to some kind of magical residue that sounded awful to deal with.

“All right,” Stephen said. “Another opportunity lost.”

14 days in

“These are terrible, I can tell just from the addresses. Just stop. I’m taking over.”

“What?”

“I will find you an apartment. I need you to spend the time you’ve been wasting on apartment listings meditating instead.”

“Wasting? You’re going with wasting, here?”

“Wasting.”

On Sundays, Stephen’s routine was to get up early and escort Amy down to the basement containment to interact with the Tsasilli (he steadfastly refused to call the thing ‘Spike’), then do an hour of instruction, encouragement, and conjuration attempts. He woke up glad it was a Sunday, because he’d decided last Sunday that he’d wear a suit for their interactions today.

The impulse had been fueled by her reaction every time she saw him out of ‘costume,’ as she called it. Amy herself was always in ‘costume;’ she had a seemingly endless combination of vintage clothing that looked variously stunning, gorgeous, and sexy in turns. It had probably taken him as much time to get used to her clothing as she’d taken to see his Kamar Taj garb as everyday wear. Somehow, though, he always felt her eyes on him when he was in anything else. Jeans, slacks, sweatshirt, band tee-- once, memorably, he’d dug out a leather jacket, just to see what she’d do.

Amy’s possibly approving gaze had left him hyper-aware of how she looked that day, because that was the other problem: every single time he dressed down, she managed to dress up. His leather jacket suited him, but her pencil skirt and its distracting slit had Stephen taking a long, cold shower that evening. Possible spy or not, her beauty and quick quips were slowly wearing down his self-control. More than once, he’d found himself fantasizing of kissing her silent, but every time he’d allowed himself to picture it, his imaginary version of Amy reacted differently.

He loved every made-up scenario, if he were honest. Even the ones where she’d slapped him.

Today his plan was simple: distract Amy as much as possible while still demanding that she try to conjure. Along with his possibly-distracting suit, he intended to call her out on the lack of interactions with her family. She obviously cared about her brother, and either there was some conflict that needed to be resolved in order to free her mind for that higher, mystical connection, or she was deliberately limiting her conversations so he couldn’t overhear them. With so much on her mind, Stephen hoped she would slip up and show her talent for the Mystic Arts-- and once she did, he could start his campaign to turn her into a double agent.

He felt a pang, as he buttoned up his crisp white dress shirt. What if the things he found charming about her were all an act? What if she changed, once he got the truth out of her?

Stephen told himself that if the Amy he knew was deceiving him, that meant he didn’t know her at all.

His last thought as he left his bedroom was to hope he could coax an exasperated ‘Stephen’ out of her. The artificial distance she’d constructed when insisting on formal names had turned the desire to hear her speaking his first name again into a fantasy all its own.

In his head, Wong’s voice supplanted that of his conscience, and every word was damning. Stephen had let himself fall too far under his guest’s spell. He was risking the safety of the sanctum by avoiding a direct interrogation.

Most damning was the deepest, most hidden secret of all: he wanted her, even if she was a spy. The mystery he needed to solve was as much forbidden fruit as it was dangerous.

Stephen had left the Cloak in the second floor training room the night before, and today he skipped going there first. There would be no softening his accusations today. Today, he would be cold as--

“Good morning,” Amy said, stepping out of her bedroom. She was pulling on a delicate white sweater over a sundress that was ripped straight out of his daydreams. It clung to her every curve, its deep green fabric distorting slightly at her chest and hips. Stephen could feel his ears growing hot, certain his reaction was visible to her, but he was vindicated when she finally turned in his direction and froze.

Ahh yes, he said to himself. The suit. Excellent.

“Well, it seems that great minds think alike when it comes to dressing up a little today,” she said weakly, clearing her throat as she traced her eyes across his shoulders and down.

“That phrase,” he began, but she groaned, a sound that strayed a little too close to pleasurable for his comfort.

“Don’t! I suppose the whole thing is something like, ‘Great minds think alike, but wise minds choose the lesser-trod path’ or something trite like that, yes?”

“Time is wasting; shall we?” Stephen said.

“Oh, no you don’t! Tell me the whole saying.”

“It’ll be anticlimactic,” he warned.

“Nothing about you is anticlimactic.”

The compliment burned through him, and he needed time to compose himself, so Stephen said, “I’ll tell you downstairs.”

Amy’s delayed response was deliberately sultry. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

It took all of Stephen’s skill as a surgeon to keep his gait steady on the stairs in front of her, but inwardly he was adding that tone to the long list of things he found attractive, things he wanted to replicate.

Wong’s arrival was cutting it close, and Stephen said as much when the sorcerer stepped through a portal seconds before they got to the metal door.

“I got your text ten minutes ago. If you want me to be faster than that, you’re asking me to break the laws of nature themselves.”

Amy turned to make a ‘he’s in a mood’ face from behind Wong’s back as they approached the display case. Stephen didn’t respond (he knew better) and just cast the tandem spell as efficiently as he could, noting that the Tsasilli did not shift its pattern to match Amy’s dress until after they lifted the containment spell. Cloak was clearly intelligent, a problem-solver. Could the Babylonian relic have chosen not to shift its colors early, or was it unable to sense her until the spell’s restrictive magic ceased?

Amy spoke to the thing as she picked it up. It opened abruptly, startling her back into him. He instinctively rested a steadying hand on her upper arm. Her voice was soft and soothing, but Amy was tense under his fingers. She didn’t pull away despite her obvious anxiety, even though he noticed that she trembled a bit as the Tsasilli pulsed closer.

“Fools seldom differ,” he said quietly.

As he should have expected, Amy jerked away from him at the reminder of who exactly was touching her. “Let me guess, that’s about myself and my relic, yes? Matching patterns?”

“So eager to think badly of me, are you? That’s the second half of the saying, not a condemnation of your behavior, though that leaves something to be desired,” he snapped back.

“The two of you either need to kiss or duel, and get all of this bullshit out of your systems,” Wong grumbled.

Stephen clenched his jaw against a flood of forbidden images, and from her new position across the display case from Stephen, Amy’s eyes grew wide. She started to wrestle the Tsasilli away from her chest where it had cradled itself. Stephen watched as the relic’s reluctance to part from her meant it dragged the neckline of her dress with it. Wong still needed to be slapped down, so he tore his eyes away to glare at his fellow sorcerer.

“Not everything is sexual tension. You read too much,” he suggested, and just for good measure, Stephen added, “I can’t duel her until she actually conjures something. I was fulfilling my promise to state the other half.”

“The other half?” Wong asked.

“The other half of the saying. ‘Great minds think alike, but fools seldom differ.’”

“Yet another saying we’ve twisted as a society! Of course it would be a surgeon trying to set things right.” Amy said. The words would have been a compliment if she hadn’t used such a caustic tone. She shivered and pulled her sweater closer across the tight bodice of her dress, eyeing the recessed circle across the room, where he focused his vision-seeking. “Can we go back upstairs? I usually don’t say anything, but I get a really bad feeling down here.”

Stephen nodded and indicated for her to lead the way, noting with an instructor’s mind that he shouldn’t let her statement go. He’d always thought that feeling was a collective one, that this basement vault was separate from the rest of the sanctum not just by its metal door and protective warding, but in essence, too. Hundreds of years’ worth of trauma had been funneled into it.

Wong touched his arm, tilting his head toward Amy, who was in front of them. Stephen understood the unspoken directive: he was going to have to bring up hard truths today. Notwithstanding the possibility of deception, Amy’s emotional block was stunting her training. He nodded reluctantly, and the other man left via portal without another word.

“I’d knocked you askew,” she murmured, stepping back.

“Do you do that on purpose?” Stephen found himself asking. “Deliberately turn up the temperature, push boundaries?”

“Is that what you think that was?” she blinked. Her eyelashes were longer than he remembered-- or was his memory faulty thanks to the number of times he’d forced himself to erase impure thoughts of her? “I never thought about that,” she continued, ignorant of the battle Stephen was waging with himself. “One of the first things they taught me on the front lines of compassionate response was that people are further alienated if you hold yourself distant. They’re wounded, covered in debris, in dirt, in shit, sometimes, and if you can’t bring yourself to touch them, you’re adding to their trauma.” Amy lifted her chin. “I can stop, or… Well, I can try to sto--”

“You don’t have to do that,” he interrupted brusquely. “It is confusing to see you claim that level of compassion, despite little to no connection with your own family.”

Her hand flew to the locket. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Stephen walked slowly toward her, meaning to stand in the center of the room, to demand and command her full attention. “I monitor all communications in the sanctum. You’ve never spoken to anyone in your family during your time here.” Amy opened her mouth to object, but he pressed on. “I know how busy you are, the hours you work. You’re never alone, not unless you’re here.” He pointed down, for emphasis. “You cannot connect with the source of power if you’re gating part of yourself off, whether it’s through deceit or trauma. Surely you know that, after all the reading you’ve been doing?”

“I--”

“It’s time to stop hiding, Miss Cairn.” Stephen had waited until she spoke so he could interrupt again, a tactic he’d learned, ironically enough, from Mordo. Whether she was ignoring some kind of dysfunctional pain in her family or hiding her true loyalties, he intended to force her to confront those facts today.

“I’d say you have no right, but you clearly do, if the interdimensional war I’ve seen hinted at in those books is real,” Amy said with a crooked twist to her lips. “Setting aside your accusation of falsity, are you trying to claim that I can’t forge a connection to the source of mystical power because I’m sad? That the question I asked you weeks ago about being broken was true?”

He cast back, recalling her dismay at the idea of the relic having chosen her out of its knowledge of her heart, not her abilities. Stephen had discounted her words at the time, certain of her spy status.

“It’s true,” he said simply.

“Great!” Amy started pacing, her arms crossed tightly in front of her, jaw set in an unhappy line. “Wouldn’t it be easier to chuck this whole idea and set that damned relic on fire or something?”

Cloak tore itself free of his shoulders to race around in front of him, practically vibrating in dismay.

“All relics are a reservoir of intense magic. That’s not something we’re equipped to do,” he said carefully. “Not to mention it’s a cop-out. Do you think it’s only to protect the sanctum that I’m telling you to face your demons? That if you managed to leave here without any further obligations, they’d fade away and never bother you again?”

As he spoke, Cloak shifted its focus from Stephen to Amy, swooping over to offer a caress over her shoulders before returning to his.

“You’re basing this on what? The fact that you’re magically bugging my room and didn’t catch me talking to my family in two weeks’ time? How very Inspector Gadget of you, I suppose!”

“You’re deflecting,” Stephen noted smugly. “Why haven’t you talked to your brother, if a locket with pictures of him is your most prized possession?”

“You can’t possibly guess, can you? How devoid of human emotions you must be!” Amy shot back.

The hint of wrongness in the back of his mind was quickly covered up by the need to repress his other instinctive reaction to fighting with Amy. He wanted to kiss her, to herd her backwards during one of her (intelligent, incisive, infuriating) tirades until her back was against a wall and then give her tongue something else to do.

Stephen was so distracted by those thoughts that he missed some of what she was actually saying. Frustrated and annoyed by his inability to maintain focus, he burst out with something he’d meant to keep to himself.

“I almost locked all the doors with magic, the other day. You have your sling ring, I figured, you want to go to work? Portal there.” Amy stared at him, mutely betrayed, and he kept going. “That’s what got me to conjure something more than just sparks. The Sorcerer Supreme cast a portal to Mount Everest, took me through, and left me there alone with just my sling ring. I have no intention of doing that to you, but you have to understand what this all looks like from my perspective.” Stephen took a step toward her, and she stepped back, sending a jolt of heat straight to his groin. “Either you’re faking it, hoping to distract me with any number of things so I don’t notice that you’re not trying, or you’re holding onto something unresolved, something that looms so large you can’t get past it to connect with the source of power.”

He stepped forward again, and this time Amy mulishly stayed put. They were close enough that the edges of the Cloak fluttered against the ruffled flare of her dress.

“Which is it?” Stephen pressed. “You’re scheduled for work tomorrow. I’m not letting you leave this room until you conjure a portal, admit you’re a spy, or tell me why you haven’t spoken to your family.”

Next chapter...

#stephen strange #stephen strange fanfiction #stephen strange x oc #doctor strange #doctor strange fanfiction #doctor strange x oc #doctor strange x original character #mcu #mcu fanfiction #mcu fanfic #marvel #marvel fanfic #stephen strange imagine #series: animate objects #ocfairygodmother #fyeahsuperverseocs

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velvetwastaken · 2 years

Note

👀 for the wip wednesday if ur willing

Absolutely! And! I bet I know which wip you'd like a snippet of 😅

Title: Barycentre (very much subject to change)

935 of 25139 words (so far 😭)

A Ganqing ✨SciFi AU✨

Ganyu rounds the last corner to the Bridge, bringing into view what appears to be a mildly agitated young woman. Human, by the looks of her, but that’s not really surprising; well over ninety-five percent of Qixing Spacefleet personel are human. She’s already dressed in standard fatigues in the Morax’s colours and wears a sort of headset over one ear, a tinted purple lens, the same shade as her hair, covering her left eye. She has her hands on her hips and a dangerous set to her brow as she frowns at the access panel which displays a red flashing message: ACCESS DENIED. She glances up at Ganyu as the distance between them closes. They have not yet been formally introduced, but it’s safe to assume that this is the new Chief Engineer.

“Commander Keqing?” asks Ganyu as she gives her a formal salute. Not that she really needs to; even though Commander Keqing is technically higher ranking, Ganyu’s other qualifications and seniority make her own rank somewhat ambiguous—had she taken all the promotions she’d been offered over the years, she’d have long been in the Admirality. But she gets the overwhelming impression that Keqing is more by the book, more rigid, than some others she’s worked with in the past. Better to play it safe.

The Commander turns to fully face her. Ganyu can see her eyes flicker up to the top of her head, resting briefly on her horns, then to her collar, noting the bars indicating her rank. After a slight hesitation, Keqing offers a return salute. “That’s me,” she says. “And you are?”

“Lieutenant Commander Ganyu, lead navigator and pilot aboard the Morax,” says Ganyu. She stands as straight and as tall as she can. Keqing is almost her exact height, a shade shorter perhaps, but her presence is a force all its own. Ganyu has to consciously hold her ground rather than take the few steps back her instincts seem to deem necessary.

“Aah. You’re the one who sealed the Bridge.”

“I am. A standard security measure. I expected to meet you at headquarters where I would have provided you with the override codes. I apologise.”

Keqing’s eyes narrow for a moment, then she blinks and shakes her head. “I understand. I just wanted to run a shipwide diagnostic before cycling the reactors.”

Ganyu is impressed in spite of herself. Keqing has been on duty for all of, what? Twenty minutes? And she’s already hard at work. In all Ganyu’s years serving, that’s something she’s not seen before. “Of course,” she says. “Morax?”

“Yes, Lieutenant Commander Ganyu?” says Morax. Ganyu suppresses a smile at the formality. She can’t remember the last time Morax addressed her so formally.

“Please grant ship-wide access to Commander Keqing. And have the previous Chief Engineer’s logs sent to her comm.”

“Done,” says Morax as the doors to the Bridge glide open with a waft of cool recycled air.

Ganyu gestures for Keqing to lead the way before following her inside. Keqing pauses for a moment just past the threshold, taking in the view. Ganyu is so used to it she hardly notices it anymore, but she watches as Keqing’s expression softens for a split second.

The Morax is an older starship to be sure, but not once has it been neglected. Regular maintenance and upgrades have kept it on par with most of the rest of the Qixing’s fleet, and the Bridge certainly reflects that with its wide shielded windows, smooth gleaming surfaces, state-of-the-art holo projectors, and arrays of delicate instrumentation.

Keqing takes one tentative step, then in the next resumes her confident air as she presses forward to the main command console. Without hesitation she begins calling up infographs and booting up programs, her hands dancing over the keypad before they reach into the holo to rotate an image or swipe through a series of files, quick as lightning. Ganyu continues to observe her for a moment, mesmerised at the speed she’s working before she moves to her own station to check the logs.

“So, that AI,” says Keqing after a few minutes.

Ganyu glances at her over her shoulder. “What about it?”

Keqing pauses in the midst of scrolling through some files, her eyes meeting Ganyu’s. “What’s its purpose, exactly?”

Ganyu furrows her brow. “Um, I’m not sure what you mean. It’s the ship.”

Keqing waves a hand and the holo in front of her vanishes. “It’s the ship? You’re telling me it’s not just some kind of concierge program?”

“Oh, no,” says Ganyu, shaking her head and turning in her seat to face Keqing. “It’s an AI interface for the Morax. It is the Morax, actually.”

“So it’s just this omnipresent… presence? I could just say ‘hey, Morax run a diagnostic on the reactors’ or—”

“Running diagnostic,” cuts in Morax smoothly. “The results will be sent to your personal work station in the Engineering Bay, with a summary forwarded to your comm.”

Keqing stares at Ganyu, her mouth slightly open. Ganyu, for her part, holds a hand over her mouth, trying her best not to laugh. Morax is usually more astute than that. It knows when someone is actually asking for something versus a hypothetical request like Keqing just made. Then again, she was probably going to run those diagnostics later anyway. Perhaps Morax just wanted to save her some time. Or maybe show off, who’s to say?

“Okay,” says Keqing after another moment. “Yeah. I really hate that.”

Ganyu does laugh at that. “You get used to it.”

Keqing shakes her head as she resumes her work. “Not likely,” she mutters.

#answered asks #wip wednesday #this is not edited to my usual standard.... but I'm also only maybe half done writing it 😭😭😭#god help me #strongly influenced by my favourite scifi franchises so if something sounds familiar--no it doesn't lol #fanfiction #my stuff #ganqing #feel free to harass me to finish this faster

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moonunitjackie · 9 days

Text

[sticks w/o stones]

Track 2 | LUNCH by Billie Eilish

“Wow you really like skeeball.”

Niki flinched. “I dunno about that.”

“Look at your score!” Rachel was trailing a full 1000pts behind Niki. “I’m struggling!”

Niki could feel her cheeks heat up. “I bowl a lot.”

“Does that help with skeeball?”

Niki shrugged. “I dunno. I always play this game a lot.”

Rachel giggled. “You’re funny.”

“If you say so, home unit.”

“I do,” Rachel tossed her next and final skeeball. Another miss. “Oh well.”

“Do you wanna play something else?”

“I’m good either way though I am kinda hungry now that ya mention it.”

“Same, fam.”

The barcade’s menu was fairly standard as those things go, but they served Cuban sandwiches which was all Niki cared about. Rachel opted for the jumbo slice of extra cheesy pizza instead.

“So do you, like, have you bowled in a league?” Rachel asked in between her first and second bites.

“Nah,” Niki munched on some of the potato chips that came as a side. “Ty tried to talk me into joining one with him once back in high school but I’m, like, ninety-percent sure he was just joking.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Niki took a bite from her sandwich. Niki had a wiry frame but Rachel was impressed by how quickly Niki could put away food. Half of the sandwich was already gone while Rachel was taking her time with the oversized slice of pizza. “Even if he wasn’t, I’m just not that into bowling to do it competitively.”

“That makes sense.” Rachel said with a slight nod. “Just not the competitive type?”

“Hm.” Niki inhaled another quarter of the sandwich before continuing. “I guess so? Except for Mario Kart. That shit’s intense.”

Rachel giggled, taking a sip of her light beer. “Yeah. I may have broken a controller or two in college cause of that game.”

There was a ghost of a smile on Niki’s lips but it didn’t linger. Rachel was busy sipping her beer and didn’t catch it. “Damn. That much of a sore loser?”

“No, no!” Another giggle. “I just always get fucked up in the last lap, usually by that fucker Luigi.”

“Oh? Who was playin’ him?”

“No one,” Rachel shook her head. A few strands of her brown hair fell loose from the ponytail she put up before eating. “I only ever get Luigi’d when it’s the computer controlling him.”

“Heh.” Niki’s tongue slipped between her teeth briefly. “Sounds like my relationship with Roy. That assholes always goes after me, I swear!”

“I’ll believe it!” Rachel’s smile was hard to miss.

Niki tried not to stare too much or too obviously.

After lunch Rachel & Niki walked between the sprialling labyrinth of arcade cabinets. It was the middle of a Tuesday so there wasn’t much of a crowd. The relative emptiness of the barcade -save for about four or five other people at any given time- gave the whole experience a far more intimate feel, an entire universe of flashing screens and digital sounds just for the two of them, it felt like a…

“Oh hell yeah!”

Rachel was shaken from her reverie by Niki’s mastery of the Initial D game’s drift mechanic.

“Still got it.” Niki leaned back triumphantly in the plastic facsimile of a driver’s bucket seat.

“Is there any game here you’re not good at here?” Rachel’s smile spread to her eyes.

“Pretty much just this and skeeball,” Niki flexed her shoulders; she was beginning to feel the previous week’s worth of work catch up with her. “I used to kick everyone’s ass at this game back in the day.”

“Looks like you still do,” Rachel nodded, impressed.

Niki turned her neck sharply followed by a sickening crunch. Rachel flinched. Niki repeated the maneuver in the opposite direction. Another flinch. Rachel wasn’t a fan of when anyone -even Niki- cracked parts of their body.

“Fuck I think I’m spent for the day.”

With a slow nod Rachel murmured “Sounds like it.”

Niki looked up at Rachel who suddenly realized she was hovering over the smaller girl. Rachel slouched her tense shoulders and took a step and a half back. “I can watch you play something if you wanna keep playing games.”

Rachel gave a polite shake of her head. “No, I think I’m spent too.”

“…fuck!”

Rachel was breathless though not for lack of effort. Niki lay beside her equally straining to breathe. Both of their bodies were weary with pleasure and caked with sweat.

“How are you feeling?”

Rachel looked over at Niki, into the deep dark waters of her eyes. (Fuck, I could get lost in those eyes…) “I feel…amazing. That…was amazing. You’re…”

“Amazing?” Niki’s tongue darted between her teeth teasingly. That same tongue that only minutes ago sent Rachel’s entire body into ecstatic convulsions. Twice. She still felt the occasional aftershock rattle her legs here and there.

“Fuck. Yeah,” was all Rachel could manage.

“Good!” Niki lipped her lips where she still tasted Rachel’s climax lingering. “You were even better.”

Rachel’s already flushed face burned brighter, blushing. A giggle was stuck in the back of her throat. “I haven’t…” Rachel shook her head. She was still dizzy with pleasure and couldn’t think straight.

“Haven’t what?” Niki’s lips curled into a teasing smile.

A whine escaped from Rachel’s lips. “Nevermind.”

“What?” Niki propped herself up on her elbow. The sheet fell leaving her torso exposed. Rachel couldn’t help but stare at Niki’s small but perky breasts, her inviting darkly tinted nipples.

With a weak but satisfied smile Rachel managed “I need to catch my breath first.”

“Oki.” Niki leaned forward, slowly and tenderly pressing her thin -but oh so sweet- lips against Rachel’s fuller, puffier pair. “I’ll go get us some water.” She pulled herself up and moved towards the edge of the bed. Rachel’s arm snaked out, latching onto Niki’s wrist. Niki looked back at Rachel’s blissful face. “Hm?”

“Sorry.” Rachel blushed, again. (Goddammit, those eyes!) “Just, I really don’t want you to leave just yet.”

Niki nodded slightly, slowly. “I understand.” She reached down and unlatched Rachel’s fingers from her wrist. Rachel was too exhausted to protest. “But I’ll be right back.” She smiled -sweetly & comforting- before planting another, deeper kiss on Rachel’s expectant, still-hungry lips. “Then you have me for the rest of the night.”

“Can I have you in the morning, too?”

Niki nodded. “Uh huh.” Another kiss.

“And after?”

“For as long as you want,” Niki kissed Rachel again but this time on her forehead.

“Heard,” Rachel breathlessly grinned, satisfied.

Niki flashed a shining smile with those crooked little fangs Rachel couldn’t get enough of. “Be right back, princess!”

(Princess)

Rachel loved how the word felt in her blissed-out ears. It soothed her racing mind. It wasn’t the word itself Rachel would realize later when her full faculties returned, but the fact the word came from Niki’s talented tongue, her sweet lips. It was a word Rachel later learned belonged to herself and no one else.

She was Niki’s princess.

And Rachel didn’t want to be anything else.

#writing #sticks w/o stones #sticks without stones #lunch #billie eilish

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nooneelsecomesclose17 · 3 months

Text

So I’ve hit a writers block so have a little snippet in the hope it gets me writing again…

By the time they’re on the plane the next day Alex is starving. He’d skipped breakfast while he made sure they had everything and had wrangled both his son and David ready for the off. Henry had suggested leaving David behind with June and Nora, but Alex had reasoned that over the visit he was likely going to need the comfort of his faithful friend, so his things had been packed up alongside theirs. He collapses into the seat, looking gratefully at the sandwich placed in front of him. Henry is beside him, his own food untouched, while Arthur is napping guarded by David and finally he feels like he can breathe.

“Why don’t you try and sleep sweetheart?” He says when Henry pushes his hardly touched plate away. “Everything is in hand, there’s nothing you can do up here.”

“I don’t know if I can. I should call Bea again let her know we’re in the air, check in at the shelter. I feel bad about leaving them in the lurch.”

“You said yourself you don’t have a choice. The shelter is fine, you’ve got good people there and you spoke to Bea. Come on, sleep, just a bit.” It’s probably futile but he kisses his temple, wrapping his arm around him trying to encourage him to relax.

“We need to change…before we land.” Henry tries to get up but Alex holds onto him. “What about Arthur?”

“It’s sorted. Our suits are with our stuff and I packed Arthur the darkest clothes he owns. Anything else we can get in England. Just try and sleep, yeah? I’ll wake you in plenty of time to change and make your calls.”

“You don’t give up do you?”

“I’m Alex, have we met?”

When he’s sure Henry’s sleeping he gets up out of his seat and wanders further up the cabin so he can talk without waking his family. Dragging his phone from his pocket he calls the one person who can usually gives him advice.

“Alejandro, shouldn’t you be halfway over the Atlantic by now?”

“I am. Henry’s sleeping and…”

“You’re freaking out.” He should’ve known she’d get it, she always knew him too well.

“Chances of me getting through this next couple of weeks without burning England to the ground?”

“Oh that’s a big fat zero.”

“That’s what I thought. Any advice?”

“Don’t kill any of them.”

“Gee, Nora, that’s helpful.” He lowers his voice even though he’s at the other end of the cabin and he’s ninety five percent sure Henry’s sleeping. “I don’t know how this is going to go.”

“And you hate that. Look, Henry’s strong.” She was the one he’d talked to when his guilt at being the reason Henry had left his family had got too much and she knew more than the others did about the whole situation.

“Yeah he is, but how much is he supposed to take? They picked away at him until he had no choice anymore. If we’d never got together, I don’t…” He stops. She might know a lot but only he knew just how bad it was for Henry all but alone in the palace after his father died. That’s no one else’s business. “I just don’t want to lose him.”

“Oh Alex, you’re not going to, and those numbers are solid. Trust me. Have I ever set you wrong?”

“Well there was that one taco stand on the campaign in Milwaukee.” He teases, feeling a bit better.

“And here I am trying to help you.”

“Ok, ok.”

“All you can do is be there for him. I’m pretty sure that’s all he needs.” He nods even though she can’t see him and looks over at the two most important people in his life, getting back to his feet when he sees Arthur starting to wake.

“Yeah, thanks. I should go, Arthur’s up and I don’t want him to wake Henry.”

“Sure. I’ll see you soon. I’m representing my grandfather, not that I’m all that much about paying respects to her but that way I get to see the two of you and I can spoil my little peanut.”

“Between you and Pez I don’t know who’s worse. Thanks again Nora.”

When they hang up he settles in with Arthur on his lap, quietly watching a movie while Henry sleeps.

Surprisingly Henry sleeps for most of the flight and Alex spends his time researching royal funerals while Arthur plays once the movie fails to hold his attention. As promised he wakes Henry in time and he joins him back in their seats when he’s finished talking to his sister.

“Bea says she and mum are back at Kensington. Mum doesn’t want to stay at Buckingham.” Despite sleeping he still looks exhausted.

“Doesn’t she have to now she’s Queen?”

“Most do but she’s never liked the place. Too big and draughty she says. So they’ll be there when we arrive.” Alex nods, sliding his arm around Henry. “It’s going to be a mess, with the press…”

“No change there then. We’ll manage baby.”

“At least it’s Saturday.” He must look confused because Henry looks up with a smile. “British royalty darling, we don’t do ceremony on Sundays. Sundays are for church. So, it’ll be Monday before we face the hordes.”

#rwrb

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firebirdsdaughter · 5 years

Text

Woooo…

… And other aimless noises!

Time for Ryusoulger episode 5! Subbed! Bc I didn’t have time to watch a raw. ^^;

In no order:

Life is hard when you have to pause every few moments to think about how beautiful Banba is. DX

Aw, Ui’s so anxious. I’d give you a hug if I could, honey!

I am never gonna get used to this goo in the mouth thing. They literally couldn’t have done that any other way?

How long has Touwa known this girl? Like… How did they meet? Banba seemed at least passingly acquainted w/ her, so… Hm.

I know it’s not important that they the specify that the animals being abandoned are black ones, but I’m gonna pretend it’s more foreshadowing bc I’m unstoppable.

Actually, that’s only true in certain capacities.

But seriously, the camera cuts to Banba when she says that. I have these straws and I’m clinging to them. XD

Like, I do understand ‘needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one’ thing, I do. I do also think we’re jumping to it a little quick, which makes me suspect we had a bad experience where a lot of people died bc of something, or something along those lines, and now we’re a little traumatised. And I think we blame ourselves for whatever it was that happened.

Still don’t think they’ve killed anyone. At least, not directly. I’m thinking there might be deaths Banba blames himself for, but that’s a whole other thing.

Crayon just running around downtown is just so hilarious. XD I don’t know why this scene is so funny to me, but it is. ^^

Banba is like ‘no friends! We have dark and troubled pasts!’ Or something or other. That joke kinda fell through.

God, he’s pretty, though. DX

Touwa, using his bratty little sibling powers for good. XD

Oh, yeah. This direct, ‘deal w/ what creates the monsters’ thing hasn’t happened in Sentai in a while, I think?

Touwa joins in the posing, but Banba just stands there like ‘oh, great, dork patrol is here’ for a moment. ^^

Banba wins for least effected by the earthquake, Melto is a close second, w/ Asuna an even closer third.

I really do like how Crayon acts like a bloody cheerleader there. XD

They all get sent flying, and Banba rolls an extra time, just bc he’s so beautiful he can do that.

Oh, Kou. Honey. Honey.

I do note, Banba didn’t argue w/ Touwa phrasing it as ‘help him.’ Though… He may have been thinking of other things at the time.

Well, it cuts away from Banba too quick to see his reaction, but I’m willing to bet he was reaching for Touwa.

Also, Touwa! No, my baby gremlin boy! DX

Banba doesn’t even take the time to finish his transformation, just goes right into ‘get the fuck away from my brother’ mode.

Crayon does the one thing he can do. Gets scolded. Such is life. ^^;

I’m never gonna get over this moment, though. Banba is clearly absolutely frantic, to the degree that we can actually see it on his face, even a bit. For him, that’s gotta be practically a full-fledged panic attack. He puts a lot into hiding his emotions. The fact that this fear is showing means he’s thoroughly terrified.

Also, Touwa giving him an awkward, reassuring little smile there. There might be slight dissension between them in this ep, but he definitely knows Banba cares for and is worried about him, and he’s actively trying to reassure him.

Does kind of make me wonder if there was a moment where Touwa was hurt and Banba freaked out or something…

Okay. Banba’s reaction to Kou saying Tankjoh killed his Master––esp the way it focuses on him off of Kou’s clenched fist… I wanna know my boys’ lore so badly. Touwa seems to be rather regularly shocked (like, the way most people might react to that sort of revelation). But Banba… I dunno, it feels like there’s something more to Banba’s reaction. Like… He looks sad. And even… Sympathetic? Like he’s… Remembering something and/or identifying? Bc Kou goes on a little on how Master Red died protecting him bc he was ‘too weak.’ And his whole break down seemed to be resonating w/ Banba. I’m really curious about the brothers and specifically Banba’s backstory. Bc it’s seeming more and more like something happened that Touwa may not know about that explicitly made Banba see things the way he does. But I’ll ramble more about that later. XD

And when Kou specifically says Red died protecting him, he looks away like that meant something… AUGH. I WANNA KNOW SO BAD! DX

I should also note that he looks absolutely beautiful the whole time, too. <3

How did you see, Tankjoh, he just giggled? I mean, I know what he’s saying, but that’s just bc I have the power of SPOILERS. And also other people doing translations. But mainly, SPOILERS. XD

I appreciate seeing some of what the villains are doing when not fighting the team, and I find it utterly hilarious that they are just chilling in this one random clearing. Is this a special forest/clearing? Are we even gonna have a base? Or is everyone gonna just chill in the clearing?

Maybe they’ll move into a cave at some point.

Yes, I’m very concerned about the nice animal lady being a Minusaur host, but can someone please take that puppy before she drops it?

Banba’s extra intense bc the Minusaur bit Touwa and they don’t know if the bite is gonna do something (it will). Touwa’s safety is one thing he’s not even willing to slightly risk.

So of course Touwa is the only one who can stop him. Definitely at least shades of living emotional crutch, here.

Soon it will start expanding to the rest of the team to and I will LOVE IT.

THE PUPPY!

No, seriously. What did they do w/ the puppy?

I was under the impression that there were multiple animals? Definitely seems like Banba has at least a passing knowledge of her, so they’ve known her for a bit, at least.

Everyone looks very pretty here. ^^

Speaking of pretty… There are still some shots of the brothers from the trailer that are missing… Were they cut? No! Show me smiley Banba in the Tatsui house! DX And also that one where he was sexily leaning on a wall! :(

If you watch Banba, you can totally see the panic steadily rising over the course of the ep. Like he’s managed to get a lid back on it, but he looks concerned when the bite starts glowing, and when Melto remarks about poison, his head snaps around sharply.

I really like the way Touwa sort of… For lack of a better word ‘argues’ w/ Banba here? Bc he notably leads w/ repeated reassurances that he’s fine, so there’s no need to rush things. Like he clearly knows that’s the driving motivation behind his brother’s behaviour right now. He knows his brother cares about him, and that his safety is important to him, so it’s more likely he’ll have better luck dissuading him if he can convince him he’ll be okay. Also, he plays the family angle, bc he presumably knows how much that means to Banba, too. It’s a little low, maybe, but it gets the point across, I think. For whatever reason, Banba’s put on blinders and tunnel visioned himself to the mission. Touwa adores him and follows him, but he doesn’t have the same level of… Well, what I assume is trauma, to have that level of obsessive focus. The best way to pull him out of that is using someone/something else he can focus on––in this case, Touwa, who uses things he knows are important to Banba (himself, aka, family) to try and, basically, again for lack of a better word, empathise again.

I’m very tired, I’m not sure that made sense.

I know I keep saying it, but it definitely seems to be that Banba just had the opposite reaction to trauma than the trio did. They stayed optimistic and sought happiness and new friendships to help deal w/ the pain. He just closed himself off from the world to avoid getting hurt again, and lost faith in others. Touwa was the only person he couldn’t let go off. Literally, living emotional crutch. Touwa is probably the reason Banba never went completely stone cold as a result of whatever happened––he was trying to emulate Banba’s more serious nature, but he’s more social and cheerful.

Might be cool/sweet if there’s an arc/ep where they meet someone (whether related to someone’s past or not) that is a completely stone cold, ruthless monster, and Banba has a ‘I could have turned into that if it hadn’t been for Touwa and you guys’ sort of thing.

In other news, Banba is still so beautiful I still have to pause every few moments just to stare at him. <3

Literally, if I were in this world, and something happened, and Banba––or even just Kishida Tatsuya himself were standing near me? I’d just be throwing myself into his arms. No questions.

Banba is allergic to emotions and proper communication, so he just runs out of the room to obsessively hunt the Minusaur.

But… Even though he’s not very communicative, he takes the time to akd Kou about Master Red. What is the lore here, Toei? GIVE ME THE LORE.

I don’t think he’s really trying to be mean to Kou? Actually, in a weird way, I think this is kind of a sign he respects him a little? I wouldn’t go as far to say ‘fond of’ and maybe ‘respect’ isn’t the right word, either? But it kinda seemed like he was trying to… I dunno, share what he perceives as a hard truth he learned the hard way? And being like, ‘this sucks, but you need to understand it?’ Only he’s Banba and emotions and gentleness are a little hard for him so it comes out really blunt and cruel? But he seems like he’s speaking from some sort of experience?

Also, this is the scene that makes me think that he blames himself for something that happened. Most likely, in the past, he perceives his own (maybe someone else’s, but most likely his) kindness to have caused some sort of traumatising event, which may have involved the deaths of people he cared about (possibly for similar reasons to why the others’ Master’s died––protecting something, be it him and his brother, or something else). Additionally, maybe someone somehow reenforced to him it was his fault, and specifically put it in his head that kindness had caused it?

On another hand, Kou doesn’t seem to be particularly hurt by the words, exactly? Or insulted? Like I feel like in some situations, a character in his place would be loudly arguing that it’s not weakness––something that wouldn’t have been out of place for Kou’s characterisation. Like, he’s upset a bit, you can see that, but… But if anything, to me, at least, he looks actually kind of… Concerned about Banba instead? Maybe he’s squinting in the light/the wind, but… I dunno, I somehow ended up w/ the interpretation that he was worried about why Banba thought that way or something.

We interrupt your regularly scheduled rambling to inform you that Banba is still gorgeous. Please carry on.

Tankjoh be firing his lasers!

Aw, the RyuSouls just want hugs!

I doubt there’s only one of those in the whole city…

I love how Banba just freaking trips the thing. Like, it’s so simple. XD

Melto the mom friend clinches it w/ the important flashback line!

Also, hi AU Hongo! Figured we’d see you again in some way!

PROTECTING IS MY JAM. Please tell me this is gonna be a theme. Bc I need Banba being protective of all his younger sibs in my life. I NEED IT.

I think Banba is the second one to use a personal finishing move? I seem to recall Kou doing it first ep, but none of the others have do it since––yet, at least.

‘You can’t beat me! I can juggle!’

No, wait, that’s not how you juggle.

I LOVE MIRNEEDLE AND HIS HONK.

Also, I see you, cgi car! And tree. And building. And… Oh, forget it. XD

Congrats Kou! You’ve promoted to actually being directly addressed! I’m so proud. ^^

Seriously, though, Banba hasn’t used nary a name nor a colour, nor any label for any of them. Wonder if he’ll give them grumpy nicknames like ‘fool’ or something after this, or if he’ll stick w/ names?

Was… Not expecting sumo.

Does one ever expect sumo, though? … I guess when you go to see sumo.

Banba just one hundred percent takes over the whole fight. XD Boy still needs to figure out how to be a team player.

I find it hilarious how none of the others even tried to join in on announcing the final attack…

Were Tankjoh’s eyes furrowed like that before, or did they make the suit character look angry?

The poison in presumably in his bloodstream why do you need… Never mind. I guess that answers whether we’re taking people to the hospital. Well, taking Rangers.

Naohisa’s doctor friend is now suspicious to me simply by being a mysterious, anonymous ‘doctor friend.’

Apparently, Naohisa has connections, too, which––I don’t know why––is somehow funny to me.

I’m gonna finish this post and realise I’m spelling his name wrong, aren’t I?

Have nay of you ever considered standing in a different spot in the room?

So it sure looked like the Minusaur exploded? Either is just plain jumped into the water, or the poison itself is the Minusaur? *insert shrug emoji*

Banba is just so worried about Touwa here… Like I feel normally he might be a little annoyed at someone apparently questioning his ability (that’s not at all what she was doing, of course, and he did know that, but I feel like he might, under normal circumstances, have been a little ruffled and maybe glared), but here he’s staring down at his brother w/ a little worried frown. Merely affirms that he did destroy it w/out even looking away.

And the fact that a) Touwa’s now showing visible signs of pain and distress, and b) this shouldn’t be happening bc he should have beaten the Minusaur already is what really starts cracking Banba. Right now, Touwa is the most important person to him in the entire world. The possibility of being unable to save him is probably the single most terrifying concept in the whole universe to Banba.

Well, Touwa’s dead. But let’s dance!

Okay, so we know he’s fine.

THERE WILL BE TEARS NEXT WEEKEND. THEY’RE GONNA DO IT.

So, looks like Tankjoh will be exiting, possibly temporarily? And we have the debut of 5 Knights! But before that, everyone gets poisoned and Banba has to learn to play w/ others. Seems Banba and Asuna get effected by the contagious poison first, as they’re listed first in the summary, and a lot of the preview images show Melto and Kou running around together. Looks like Touwa and Banba are having a heart to heart, while dying of poison, probably during the scene the ‘I won’t let you die’ line is from. Bc Banba would possibly be willing to sacrifice himself, but he’d have to die, be incinerated, and then exorcised multiple times before he stopped trying to save Touwa by any means possible. There’s also a preview image that’s either Banba being dumb and trying to fight despite dying of poison, or have been fighting and then just starting to die of poison. I kinda prefer the first, but both are good. And Kou seems to be filling in as concerned little brother. Very excited, and I have a countdown timer on my phone again. XD

That’s all folks! Virtual mango sorbet for anyone who read all that! Or, just, any kind of flavour you want. I might have some digital gelato around here somewhere…

I’m enjoying this series very much. I love the brothers and I really want more lore on them, but I think everyone already knew that. I still hope that it turns out the person who betrayed Banba is now Gaisorg’s user. That would be great drama. ^^ It’s not completely out the window that it was his Master or one of their parents (or maybe those were one and the same), either.

Now I just have to get through the week…

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barry-j-blupjeans · 2 years

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prompts 1 and 28 with the twins pwease? :D ~argonaut--keene

“Is that my shirt?” “You mean our shirt?”

28. “Because I love you.”

The thing about being a lich is that Lup has exactly zero ways to wear any accessories. Any bracelets just fall right through her ding-dang wrist. Forget earrings, she didn't even have ears. And don't even get her started on actual outfits. So really, it shouldn't be a surprise when Lup floated through the wall into the kitchen and found Taako wearing one of her shirts. Actually, it was one of Barry's, which used to be Magnus's, which used to be Magnus's mom's. It was ratty by now, one sleeve held up by several repeated attempts to stitch it shut. The other one was hanging on by literal magic. The enchanted Lup had done was still going strong, at least.

"Is that my shirt?"

"You mean our shirt?" Taako shot back immediately, not even turning to face her. There was a slow stew simmering on the stove. Lup was ninety-five percent sure Taako didn't need to be stirring it, but there he was.

"Well, Barry's shirt," Lup said.

"It doesn't matter who's shirt it was, it's mine now," Taako said. He still hadn't turned away from his stew. The stirring motions were more like Taako was violently mixing. His ears were flattened and even though his tone was like- cheerfully light, like he had just had a really good bath- it was incredibly obvious that it was all a front. Thus the reason why Lup was in here, anyway.

She floated towards the counter, leaning against it. Taako was looking at the stew like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

"Hey," Lup said. "You feeling okay?"

Taako gave her a Look that clearly read what do you think?

"Alright, bad question," Lup said. "What's up?"

Taako gave her the same Look, but with much more feeling behind it.

"I'm not a mind reader, babe," Lup said.

Taako's spoon hit the bottom of the pan with a clank. He pulled it out and slapped it down on the counter. The stew bubbled. After a moment, Taako took a deep breath and set the lid down over the top of the pot in a much calmer fashion. And then, without looking at her, he hopped up on one of the island stools and put his face directly into the counter.

Lup waited. She floated up to the stool next to him and just sat there as he took his hat off, moved it under his face, and let out a little scream into it. Okay, a pretty loud scream. The kitchen door shot open and Magnus broke in, his fists raised. Lup held up a skeletal hand and Magnus paused. Very, very slowly, Magnus backed out of the room and shut the door behind him.

Taako sighed.

"You're supposed to be dead," Taako said at long last. Lup drummed her fingerbones on the counter.

"Yeah," she said. "I am."

"But you're not," Taako said.

"Would you... prefer if I wa-"

"No!" Taako said, sitting up. His hat sprang up slightly from where he had been squishing it. "Of course I don't!"

"Then I, uh," Lup shook her head. "I don't really see the issue here, Taako."

"You're supposed to be dead," Taako repeated. Lup nodded. "And you're not." At her lack of response, he groaned, burying his face in his hands. After a second, he slapped his hands down onto the counter. "I had to bury you, Lup! And you're still here! D'you know how much that's fucking with my emotions??"

"Ah," Lup said. "Uhm. No, I can't say I do. But I imagine it's not great."

"It's not," Taako said. "It's just- you're here. You're alive, kinda. Your soul is alive."

"But it's not me," Lup finished. Taako nodded, sinking back down to put his face on the counter. His cheek squished against it, but he was looking at her this time.

"But it's not you," he said. "You're here but I can't touch you or get a hug or just like, lay on top of you. And I'm glad you're not dead-dead, but it fucking sucks."

"Taako," Lup said. She hesitated for a second, then ran a ghostly hand through his hair. He shivered, but nothing moved. "Why didn't you tell me before? I've been dead for like, weeks now. If you wanted a hug-"

"Because I love you, doofus," Taako said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "And I'm not gonna complain about you not being half dead when you could be fully dead. That's not- ugh. No."

"Taako..."

"And I didn't know if it'd like, fuck you up, to complain about it," Taako said, averting his eyes once more. "Like, you're built on bonds and magic duct tape, I'm not gonna be the one to undo all of that."

"Taako, I'm not gonna fall apart because you shared your feelings with me," Lup said. "Like, yeah, I'm not the most stable I could be, but the bonds that Barry and I are built on- they- they can't just be erased because of an argument or some hurt feelings. You telling me how you feel isn't breaking our bond, Taako. If anything, it's making it stronger."

Taako exhaled, turning his head away from her.

"Well," he said. "I didn't know that."

"I didn't think about it," Lup said. "I'm sorry you thought you couldn't talk to me about it."

"It's fine," Taako said shortly.

"Babe-"

"Seriously," Taako said. He shook his head, sitting himself back up. He still wasn't looking at her, but his shoulders were a little more relaxed. "I'm- I'm a mess, but like, it's fine. It's the apocalypse, y'know? Kinda wears away at you."

"I love you," Lup said. She tried to lay a hand on Taako's shoulder and it just sunk through him. "Whoops."

"I get the point," Taako said, smiling at her. It was strained, it was so obviously strained, but Lup didn't comment on it. Instead, she got up from the stool and said,

"D'you wanna go lay on Magnus instead?"

Taako glanced between her and the kitchen door. After a moment, he shrugged, and got up too, taking his hat with it.

"Might as well," he said, but Lup heard "yes fucking please". "The stew needs time to simmer."

"I'll take care of it," she said.

#lup #taako #taz #taz balance #mine #asks #argonaut--kneene #ise cube writing

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woso-dreamzzz · 10 months

Text

Pernille's Princesse

Hardersson x Child!Reader

Part of The Big Adventures Universe

Summary: A look back at your birth from Pernille's perspective

It was, ultimately, a good idea to visit the Wolfsburg team.

Pernille was feeling terribly bad, all fat and bloated. She feels restless too, which is what actually prompts her to drag her heavily pregnant self to the training grounds to get some fresh air.

She's talking with Nilla Fischer, Magda's national teammate, when it happens. She sucks in as pain flares before something that she's been predicting will happen soon, happens.

"Are you okay?" Fischer asks, having caught the wince.

Pernille grabs her upper arms. "My water just broke," She says plainly," Did you bring your car to practice? I'd appreciate it if you drove me to the hospital."

"Oh..er...yeah, sure."

Pernille keeps a tight hold on her emotions as Nilla bundles her into the car and sets off to the hospital. Mainly, because she knows that after she's made this phone call, she'll have to be the calm one of the pair.

"I'll be there soon," Magda's voice says in greeting, a hint of laughter within it," I'm just about to get on the plane."

"You need to call Emma," Pernille says casually even though she's gritting her teeth and squeezing Nilla's wrist over the gear stick.

"What?"

Pernille thinks that Magda might be a little slow today. "You need to call Emma." Her words are short and sharp and it's all she can do from screaming from pain. "And tell her that you'll be sitting the next few games out. You're busy."

"But I'm not?"

Pernille wants to scream and cry but she's trying to stay strong and not have a breakdown in Nilla's car. It doesn't quite work because she snaps at Magda. "You are! Because I'll be damned if I push your baby out and you run back to England a few days later."

She can hear Magda's sharp inhale of worried breath. "But...You can't be having her now! She's early!"

"By two days!" Pernille hisses as another contraction hits her. "I'll send you the hospital address. I don't care how you do it but if you miss this, Magda, I will not be happy."

She drops the call when Nilla pulls into an empty parking space, leaping from the car to help get Pernille out.

"Worried mama?" The receptionist lady asks as Nilla flaps about trying to get Pernille seen.

"Worried friend," Pernille replies as she fills in one last form, handing it back over the counter," The other mama is on a plane to get here right now."

The receptionist winces in sympathy and flags down a nurse to take Pernille to her room.

Nilla comes with her but after a few hours and a text from Magda saying she's landed, Pernille kicks their mutual friend out.

"You're hovering and it's stressing me out!" She snaps as another contraction comes through. "Go and wait outside for Magda!"

Nilla leaving gives Pernille time to calm herself, taking in long and soothing breaths as she rubs her stomach. "Come on, princesse. Just stay like you are for a bit longer or I'll have to kill your Morsa."

She doesn't need to worry though because, no sooner has a nurse confirmed that she's only five centimetres, does Magda arrive.

"Am I late?"

Pernille's lying back on the bed, hand still rubbing circles on her stomach. She deadpans," Does it look like you're late?"

Magda relaxes significantly before saying with a hint of laughter," I think I scared Nilla. I left all my luggage with her."

Pernille waves a hand dismissively. "She's got spare keys. The nurse said I'm only five centimetres dilated. We could be here for a few more hours. Have you called Emma yet?"

Magda's guilty face says everything.

"We have time," Pernille says," Call her now and tell her."

She's right, of course, because your grand entrance to the world doesn't happen until early in the morning. It's absolute hell pushing you out and Pernille's ninety percent sure that she's absolutely wrecked Magda's hand from how hard she was clenching it.

She definitely screamed as well and she also doesn't want to think about the fact that the doctor had a view of her the whole time.

"You did it," Magda says as Pernille slumps back against the pillows," She's here."

Pernille can hear you screaming and she smiles, absolutely exhausted. "She's here."

She watches as the doctor passes a bundle wrapped in your baby blanket to Magda.

You've gone quiet and you're absolutely beautiful, Pernille notes, when you're unwrapped and placed on her chest.

You're rooting immediately and Pernille can do little but stare in awe at you.

●～●～●～●～

Getting you home is easy and Pernille makes Magda drag the cradle into the main bedroom, so they can get you easily at night.

"Look at those legs go. You're going to be such a good addition to Sweden when you're older."

Pernille rolls her eyes as she sits up in bed, having taken a power nap. "You mean Denmark. I'm not raising my daughter to wear a Sweden jersey."

"We'll see."

Pernille picks you up and marvels, not for the first time, at how easily you fit into her arms. She moves to the rocking chair and places you in Magda's arms.

You both look so sweet together, so soft and loving that Pernille has to take a picture - immortalising the moment.

"That's getting framed," She says with a grin," I think I'll put it on my bedside table. So I can remember this moment with you and the princesse." She crouches down to make you wear the hood, caressing your cheeks.

"We need to give her a name soon," Magda reminds her but her eyes haven't left you," We can't keep calling her the princesse."

Pernille thinks of the list they made, the one taped up to the fridge door. They had been going back and forth for weeks. She bites her lip as the name she had heard recently comes to mind.

She hums. "I know it wasn't on the list," She says finally," But I like y/n."

Magda repeats it with a smile, looking down at you. "Is that your name? Are you a y/n?"

You kick your legs, slamming them into Magda and Pernille smothers her laugh.

"That's a pretty powerful strike, princesse." Magda looks up at her. "I think she's giving us her approval."

"I think so too. y/n Harder-Eriksson."

"y/n Eriksson-Harder."

Pernille scoffs and rolls her eyes. "We've got another day before the trip to the embassies. We'll argue about her last name later." Her hand ghosts over your head. "What matters right now is princesse has a name now."

"It's a very pretty name."

#woso x reader #pernille harder x reader #pernille harder #magdalena eriksson x reader #magdalena eriksson #hardersson x reader #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso

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softboydrew · 3 years

Text

the graduate

When your boyfriend is a busy and booked actor who basically goes to work on the opposite side of the country, it's common sense that he wouldn't be able to attend small things.

Although, you'd say that graduating university is a most definitely a pretty big deal. Of course you told him about today, right? You're about ninety-five percent sure you told him over FaceTime calls and text messages… but he never really said that he would come or take off work.

Thats okay, you really don't fret over things that are out of your control. You'd find another way to celebrate with him, maybe he'd find the time during the month to come visit you and you'd be able to take him through your old stomping grounds. Maybe you could even go visit him, no big deal, right?

Wrong. The heart shattering reality that you had just received your diploma, that, let's be honest, put you thousands of dollars in debt. All you wanted was to know that you'd be able to walk out of the auditorium to your boyfriend who would shower you in kisses and congratulations. Instead you held your diploma in your hands and walked out into the city sidewalk, the campus you once called home was now something that would only be a memory.

The spring air made you smile lightly as you began making your way through the crowd of graduates and towards the fountain that sat in the middle of the campus park.

An itch of irritation slowly began to sneak in as minutes passed as you felt someone on your heels, you are not a stranger to the New York City tourists who don't know how to walk for the life of them but this presence made your skin prickle. Why were they so close? can't they see that you're wearing heels, so God forgive you if you had to pace yourself a little more than the average sneaker wearer.

"Excuse me!" you snapped, throwing your hands up at your sides before turning towards the person behind you. "Can you not be up my ass?"

Your eyes snapped towards the persons face and you froze once you realized who stood before you. His hands up in defense while his laughter echoed throughout the air between you two, his eyes crinkled at the sides making your heart burst at the seams.

"Woe, woe, woe, I'm walkin' ere!" he laughed making you cover your face with your hands.

He made it.

"What are you doing here?!" you happily whined as your boyfriend immediately wrapped your small frame into his large, muscular one. His chest vibrating as he chuckled.

"You think I'd miss your graduation?" he asked with raised eyebrows. You sighed, resting your chin against his chest while he caressed your back, his large hands felt comforting. They felt like home. "I'm offended." he sighed dramatically.

Throwing your arms around his neck, you couldn't help but let a few tears stream down your cheeks while he rocked you back and forth, his attendance meaning more to you than anyone could ever imagine. Long distance relationships were hard, especially ones where age difference came into play, Drew had a career and you were still attending school- so hours were always thrown off.

"You didn't tell me you were coming!! I can't believe you didn't tell me! I could have made reservations-"

Drew held out his finger motioning for you to pause, your mouth agape as he stepped back from you and held out his phone to show you his screen. "Pietro Nolita reservations are at six." he smiled proudly.

You clapped your hands together excitedly- of course he knew your favorite restaurant even though you've only raved about it once or twice around him. Your dress flowed in the wind as you jumped up and down, grabbing Drew's hands and leaning towards him to finally crash your lips against his. Drew hummed against you causing you to smile and pull away, resting your forehead against his with a smile.

"Congratulations, pretty girl." Drew said, cupping your chin into his hand before pulling you in for another tender kiss.

"Thank you." you whispered once he pulled away and wrapped his arm around you so you could lead him away from the crowded sidewalk.

You sighed in content while resting your head against his shoulder, your eyes scanning up towards the sky as you thanked the God's for gifting you with the most amazing partner you could ever ask for. You didn't even notice him pulling something out of his jacket pocket before he stopped you both mid step.

"I got you a little something, just so you know how proud I am of you and how happy I am that my girl is a graduate." he smiled, bitting his bottom lip while holding out a tiny beige box.

Your eyes raked his face and squealed after taking the box from his hand to open it slowly so he could watch you unwrap the white gift wrap. "Oohh's and ahh's" fell from your mouth as you pulled out the most delicate looking gold necklace.

"Drew..." you gaped, the necklace revealing an authentic heart shaped pearl in the middle. "th- this is so beautiful." you mused looking up at him with loving eyes. His tender glance causing butterflies to erupt in your stomach violently.

"You like it?" he wondered.

"I love it!" you nearly shouted, "Is that even a question?!" you added causing Drew to chuckle.

"Let me put it on you, beautiful." he urged.

Drew took the necklace from your hands and waited for you to turn around, his hands finding your hair and sliding it over your shoulder so he could put it on you with ease. His hands fell to your shoulders after he clasped the necklace around your neck, Drew pulled you against his chest causing your eyes to close in satisfaction as he kissed your jawline lightly.

"I have so much of you in my heart." he whispered in your ear, "So I thought I'd give you my heart even when we're far apart."

Your lips trembled at his words, gripping onto his forearms you turned your head to the side to look up at him to reveal his intense gaze. "You're like a dream." you giggled.

Drew shrugged while turning you to face him, his hands sliding down to your hips casing blush to shadow against your soft cheeks. "What can I say, the ladies love me." he teased.

"Shut up before I 'accidentally' feed you olives at the restaurant!" you poked fun at him, knowing he hates them.

Drew scoffed and bumped his hip into your's- causing you to laugh as he opened his phone to look at the gps so you could head to the restaurant.

taglist: @pogueslandia

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sunforgrace · 4 years

Text

okay I’m finally doing it! I am reccing thee fic I read three days ago:

according to all known laws of life: by sobsicles (E, 29.7k)

Summary:

Cas comes back. It's not exactly the reunion that Dean is expecting.

~~~

Dean stares at him, flummoxed. Cas quite literally poured his heart out to Dean, gave a truly sappy and distressingly romantic speech and everything, then proceeded to give his life so that Dean could live his. And he wants to act like he doesn't want to see Dean, be around him, touch him?

Actually, Dean's ninety-nine percent sure that Cas probably wants to fuck him, and while he has no clue how he feels about that, he's pretty goddamn sure that means Cas doesn't get to act like this and make it authentic.

It feels strangely real, though, as if Cas wants nothing more than to get as far away from him as possible. This is a blatant contradiction. Even someone as weird as Cas doesn't want to get away from the person they have the desire to fuck five ways to Sunday, that they're in love with. That's not how these things work, so Dean isn't buying it.

(yes, that title is a bee movie reference. trust me, it works and it’s hilarious. the author’s mind for that one, I am obsessed.)

my review is looong so I’m sparing you all and putting it under a read through. click through if you want to hear my rambling thoughts on why I think this fic is great or just click through to read it for yourself <3 or just keep scrolling!

the important thing you know about this fic, is that it will leave you going “they are SUCH assholes (affectionate)” and THAT’S why it’s great.

this fic in some ways feels lighter than other 15x20 fix it’s I’ve read, which I enjoy, but it doesn’t shy away from the impact of Cas’ death and where that leaves the characters before he returns, and even after he does. so while there’s a cohesive sense of humor that runs through the fic - even in the beginning - there are moments that starkly remind you that Dean is really not coping, kind of like ice water over the head. there’s one moment that I won’t spoil that made me just think “oh Dean” and also feel slightly concerned over how relatable his way of rationalizing and coping with the circumstance was lmao. this fic does a wonderful job at basically throwing the whole finale out, yet still addressing Dean’s seemingly devil may care cheer in the finale, that brushed off “everything’s fine” attitude (which we have at times seen from Dean before when he’s repressing something in order to cope, like his impending death, just joking about it to diminish how much he’s struggling). this fic does so in a way that we the viewer understand why Dean acts the way he does, what he’s thinking, which I really appreciated since that way of coping is familiar and relatable to me, so this depiction is a great insight into Dean’s character for any part of the audience who doesn’t automatically sort of understand why Dean reacts the way he does to certain things, how his mind rationalizes certain things.

this theme carries through the fic, so while you are going “Dean you’re such an asshole” you can also see why Dean is acting the way he does, the author uses a sort of dramatic irony so that you the reader understand more about why Dean is reacting the way he is than even Dean is, because his brain isn’t ready to face those truths that have been repressed quite yet and it’s made him quite literally sort of incapable of processing through it. it leaves the reader in an interesting place where you’re already two steps ahead of Dean, where the answers that are blank to him are obvious to you, and you can see why Cas is reacting the way he is the further the story progresses, even as this also remains a confusing and tangled thing to Dean. (sidenote: if you’re a cas girl who’s not dean coded/a dean kin, you may enjoy this fic less due to frustration with Dean and anger towards him over how his relationship is being handled with Cas. for me, while I did experience that “you’re SUCH an asshole,” reaction I also really, really understood Dean’s headspace, so I didn’t feel a strong sense of anger at him. if you’re hashtag dean critical just interacting with the show, this fic might be more frustrating than enjoyable for you. the key takeaway, for me, from this fic is that the point of this fic isn’t to lay blame on any one side. Cas seems like The Asshole initially but as the fic progresses you start to understand and empathize with his motivations, and then Dean seems like The Asshole but since we’re given his POV we can understand and even empathize (if you’re me lol) with his motivations, even as he himself doesn’t really understand them beyond gut reactions and impulse. the point is that they’re both assholes (affectionate) but neither is Thee Asshole, they’re just two people working through a shift in their dynamic and how it makes them feel, even when in Dean’s case he doesn’t understand what it is he’s feeling, and needing to work on longstanding communication issues.)

with that, dean kins, I think you will enjoy this fic in particular. it really dives deep into the Dean headspace and explores how his repression manifests and how he works through it. the author uses the metaphor of “white static” in Dean’s brain to describe Dean’s attempts at processing through the situation, which I really appreciated. it’s a sort of physical representation of Dean struggling through years of repression and working at what it is he’s feeling, quite literally bluescreening. Dean also projects a LOT in this fic, without ever being fully conscious of the fact he’s doing it. again, this fic WILL make you go Dean you’re such an asshole (affectionate) but the author explores why Dean reacts the way he does and why there are certain things he doesn’t understand about his reactions, his motivations. I feel like the fic succeeds in making you understand Dean (there is one, singular reference to John Winchester in this fic. it is a gut punch when it comes). and even without exploring Cas’ headspace through his POV, as the picture broadens you can see his motivations and insight into his feelings come through as well, and this fic does really make you feel for Cas. Cas avoids both Dean and the reality of his confession once he returns, shuts Dean down, and Dean doesn’t immediately profess his love to Cas, hasn’t even allowed himself to even think about whether or not he does feel that way. and you understand why. the author does a fantastic job of making you understand where they’re both coming from and how that impacts their perspective on the situation and reactions to it.

this fic is mainly about getting Dean and Cas alone to work through their Issues in a very Dean and Cas way, so other characters naturally take more a back seat to this one, but what we do see of the saileen relationship I adore. especially after the finale we love to see some Eileen appreciation. the author depicts Eileen as “having a mischievous streak a mile wide” which I feel is so perfect for her character and there are some really fun moments or two showing that streak. again, while Sam and Eileen are off doing their own thing for the crux of their fic, I love the Sam moments we get, the author makes sure he doesn’t come across as a one dimensional character, just there to be shipper!sam in a destiel fic. he gets to have his own reactions, emotions, and motivations outside of Dean, which is partially why he’s away for a portion of this fic, he’s going to Eileen because that’s where he wants to be! he gets to be emotionally intuitive and intelligent AND bitchy. and the saileen chemistry is just *chef’s kiss*. though their story isn’t the centre of this fic, you get to see moments that show what they bring out in each other, how they both love one another and come together as partners. also, he compares the destiel relationship to the bee movie which is just. TRUST me it works and it is hilarious the author’s MIND for that one. (there’s also an allusion to lgbt Sam in this fic for my truthers out there). also Jack gets to pop in, though he remains God. I won’t spoil anything but we get a scene at the end that shows Jack’s ascent into godhood doesn’t mean he can’t be with his family.

note: this is not a myth arc fic, but a character exploration fic. I’m someone for who elements like character dynamics and dialogue make a good fic. don’t get me wrong, I do love a good case fic or myth arc, but character pieces are where my heart lies, and this is a Character Piece. the dialogue is snappy and has great flow (it got. physical and audible reactions out of me at certain points), the internal dialogue really gets you into Dean’s headspace and their character voices are amazing, you can feel the characters and hear them through their words. again, while I’ve read and really enjoyed the 15x20 fix it’s that deal with the myth arc, this fic doesn’t explore those aspects as heavily. it’s not about an adventure to rescue Cas from the Empty, or the shifting dynamics of Heaven and Jack’s new godhood, or even the more supernatural elements of supernatural. it’s all about character baybee, and in part that’s probably why I loved it so much.

without getting into spoiler territory, there is a moment towards the end of this fic that I just adore. it makes so much sense to me regarding Dean’s character and is really the culmination of both this fic and the confession scene. the author makes you understand why this needed to happen for them to progress, for Dean to process. it just makes so much sense to me and reading that moment felt like something slotting into place.

TL;DR: the most important thing for you to know about this fic, is it made me go *John Mulaney voice* Dean and Cas are bitches and I like them so much!

note, this fic is rated explicit, though there’s actually very little description/scenes of anything explicit happening, it’s mainly just allusions through dialogue and rising tension throughout the fic.

for those of you for who reading explicit stuff isn’t your jam, I’ve bolded the starting and ending sentences for the one scene where explicit stuff happens instead of just being alluded to so you can skip it, though it’s also a mild scene where they don’t do much more than kiss. (note, after the scene between these bolded lines there is also a mini paragraph that alludes to another explicit scene, but the author doesn’t describe in detail anything that happens and it’s very brief. skip the paragraph starting with “Shower sex is complicated” and move to the next if you want to avoid it):

Dean is very promptly slammed back against the door, Cas' body covering his, and then he's being kissed before he can even suck in a sharp breath.

* * *

"Okay," Dean wheezes, blinking his eyes open and letting his head roll forward. Cas is watching him intently, pupils blown, mouth spit-slick and swollen. He looks—well, he looks really fucking good. "Yeah, this is going to work."

#long post #PHEW im done #anyways stream this fic it IS the moment

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writethelifeyouwant · 3 years

Text

Make Him Look - Ch 2 / 2

Pairing: Cordell Walker x Reader Rating: 18+ Tags: smut, semi-public sex, oral sex (f rec), p in v, praise kink, smidge of dirty talk Word Count: 4k Created for: @walker-bingo - In Vino Veritas | @anyfandomgoesbingo - Jealousy

Part 1 Here

Cordell is a bourbon fan, as you suspected he might be, and the two of you make quick work of your first and then second pours. The more you drink the more completely engrossing he is – though it’s not like he ever needed the help. You’re pretty sure this man could sit here and explain the intricacies of the Texas penal system to you and you would still be enraptured. As it turns out, the theory behind pool shots is just as boring as legal jargon, but you’re still hanging on every word he says as he demonstrates the proper way to hold a cue stick.

“Here, c’mere you try,” he ushers you over to him but you remain perched on the thick wooden border of the table, smiling indulgently at his childlike enthusiasm.

“I’m sure you’re an excellent teacher when your students aren’t genuinely uncoordinated but I promise you, I suck at pool,” you protest, taking another sip of your drink. The liquor runs hot down your throat, stoking the embers that are lazily burning away in your chest, threatening to consume you if they burn too hot.

“I am an excellent teacher,” he grins, leaning his hip against the table and fixing you with an accusing glare. The firm set of his mouth is at odds with the teasing joy sparkling in the different tones of hazel that lace through his eyes. You feel yourself flush under his gaze and try to hide the colour behind another sip of bourbon. “So come here, and let me teach you,” he holds out the cue temptingly and your eyes lock on the way his fingers curl over themselves where he’s handing it to you. You feel yourself flush even hotter, the coals in your chest threatening to burst into flames the longer his eyes stay fixed on yours.

“Fine,” you pluck up your courage and tell yourself that if you embarrass yourself horribly and wind up whacking Cordell with the pool stick instead of the ball, at least you warned him about what he was in for. “I’d probably stand back,” you advise as you take the cue from him, purposefully grasping it a long way away from his hand, and hop off the table to settle into a stance for your shot.

“And how am I supposed to teach you from way back here?” Cordell laughs, exasperated.

“There is a ninety-five percent chance I accidentally hit you with this thing and not the ball,” you wave the stick at him threateningly.

“That means a five percent chance you do hit the ball, I can work with that,” Cordell shrugs genially and saunters up behind you.

“No, it’s a five percent chance I hit you with this on purpose,” you laugh and swat at him but he jumps out of the way before the stick can make contact.

“Woah there, darlin’,” Cordell laughs and catches your wrists in his hands, fingers wrapping warm and firm the whole way around.

“You gonna cuff me, Ranger Walker,” you taunt, pulling playfully against his grasp.

“Why? You break some laws Y/N?” Cordell’s voice drops into a deeper register and you shudder against him involuntarily.

“Oh yeah, I’m a real criminal mastermind,” you assure him with a smirk. “Very dangerous.”

“Might have to do a lot more than cuff you, then,” Cordell smirks and backs you against the edge of the pool table, trapping your hips there with his. Your eyes are locked together in a battle of wills, each daring the other to break first and ruin the moment, and if he inched his face any closer, you knew it was going to wind up being you.

When he's close enough that his hat has tossed your face into shadow beneath its brim, his eyes darting away from yours fleetingly to look at your lips, it occurs to you suddenly that you haven’t checked if Dirk is still watching you two for a while now. You break yourself from this trance and run your gaze around the room in a big circle, seeking him out. It should have been easy to spot him, because as it turns out, there’s barely anyone left in the joint. In the back of your mind you vaguely recall the sound of a bell signalling last orders, but you can’t remember when it rang.

“He’s not here,” you hear Cordell’s voice behind you, and you turn back to face him. He’s even closer to you than you remember him being.

“Oh,” you mumbled, confused. If Dirk’s gone, why are you and Cordell still playing this game? You try to pull away but Cordell keeps you there, wrists wrapped tight, hips pinned tighter. “When did he leave?”

“A while ago,” Cordell breathes, eyes searching yours. You’re even more confused.

“Then why are you still doing this?”

“What?”

“This – us – the whole fake date thing.” Cordell is still unsettlingly close to you, eyes trained on yours. It occurs to you that he must be able to feel your breasts pressing against him every time you take a breath – and you’re breathing quite heavily at the moment.

“The truth?” He’s breathing heavily too, chest heaving against yours. He takes another step closer, drawing your wrists together between you, bringing them close to his lips. You feel the smooth skin of his mouth brush against your fingertips and he exhales sharply, his breath dancing across your hands. His fingers twitch tighter around your wrists.

“No, I want you to lie to me,” you parrot your words from earlier, and a small smile cracks across your face. He chuckles behind your fingers, eyes bright with laughter.

“Y/N,” he breathes, “nothing about tonight has been fake for me.” His eyes hold yours, searching, and you feel drawn into his gaze – like the whiskey warmth of their colour is wrapping you in a thick layer of comfort. It should feel forward. It should feel like a line. But it doesn’t. It feels right.

“You mean you’ve actually been lyin’ to me this whole time?” you tease, just to see if you can make him smile any brighter – you can. A laugh rolls through his body, shaking yours along with it.

“S’pose I have.” He leans closer, eyes steadily watching yours for any sign that this isn’t what you want too. You hold his gaze expectantly, more than ready to finally feel the lips you’d been watching all too hungrily tonight on yours. At the last moment his mouth pulls farther away and he rests his forehead against yours, breathing you in. Your eyelids flutter shut. You can’t keep looking at him while he’s scrutinising you so fiercely. You feel his nose brush against yours and—

“Hey, Walker!”

Cordell jumps back like you’ve electrocuted him, hand rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly. You look around for the source of the noise, and see the bartender waving to get Walker’s attention.

“You closing up tonight man?” he waves a ring of keys at Cordell.

“Uh, yeah, thanks Kev. I’ve got it,” Cordell gives him a perfunctory wave and a tilt of his cowboy hat as Kevin the bartender gives him a short salute in return and makes his way out the door.

As Kevin leaves you take a moment to look around again and see that you and Cordell are the last ones in the bar. Checking your watch, you understand why – it’s well past midnight.

“You uh, you work here?” you stumble through your words, trying to break the awkward tension between you now that you’re alone.

“No, I uh, I know the owner. She lets me stay past closing, if I want,” he rubs the back of his neck again, clearly also feeling the nerves that have settled between you in the air.

A flare of jealousy strikes in your chest at his words, which takes you by surprise, but doesn’t keep the snippy tone from your voice. “She must be a really good friend,” you mumble, glancing up at Cordell before focusing on your fingers wrapped around the pool cue, which

you’re gripping like a lifeline.

“Now, Y/N,” Cordell lets a small grin slip onto his face as he closes in on you once more, “do I detect a hint of jealousy there?”

“Why would I be jealous?” you try to sound nonchalant, but his widening smile tells you that you aren’t succeeding.

“Well, that I can’t answer for you. Because you’re the one I’m here with right now, not her.” Your eyes flick up to his, probing and hopeful, and he meets your stare evenly. “You’re the one I can’t take my eyes off of.” A hand reaches up to your face, his thumb drawing a flush to your skin where it dances lightly over your cheekbone and down, settling gently against your throat. “You’re the one I want to spread across this pool table, the one I want to make cum so many times you see stars,” he almost rasps, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Oh,” you breathe, holding his gaze, and he’s so close you feel like you might start going cross-eyed if you keep staring at him like this. He draws his thumb up and down the front of your throat, not threatening but promising, and fuck, his touch is so hot you’re surprised you haven’t melted beneath him – or burst into flames. You are increasingly aware of the fact that you haven’t actually said anything to his list of intentions and a lump rises in your throat, anxiety pushing against your airwaves. The longer you don’t say anything the worse it gets, awkwardness starting to creep in, and you don’t want that. Fuck, you want him to do exactly what he just said he wanted to. “Okay,” you finally manage to choke out, the sound bursting from your lips.

Cordell raises his eyebrows, dropping his forehead against the top of your head, nose brushing lightly alongside yours. “Okay?” he checks, eyes pleading, and it’s the first time you’ve seen any hint of desperation crack through his calm exterior – you want to see more.

You don’t so much make the conscious decision to close your eyes as feel them slide shut, lashes fluttering down, and you’re so close to Cordell you think he must feel them catch against his cheek. You rock your forehead against his in a shaky nod, and you feel Cordell’s lashes brush through yours as his own eyelids flicker shut, and then the next thing you feel is his mouth on yours, his lips sliding gently to cradle your bottom lip between his.

It’s sweet – and then it’s not. Cordell steals the pool cue from your hands and throws it out of sight, and in the same movement wraps an arm around your waist and hoists you onto the edge of the pool table. Your hands slink around his neck and thread through the hair curling against the nape of his neck under his hat. You aren’t sure why, but you secretly love the fact that he’s still wearing it.

Cordell draws his hands firmly down your sides, fingers catching against the fabric of your top. He runs his palms flat over your hips and drags them down the outsides of your thighs as he pulls himself between them and wraps your legs around his back. You cling onto him, pulling yourself tight to his body and trying to bring as much of you into contact with him as you can manage.

Cordell settles himself into the space between your thighs, slots his hips against yours and grinds filthily. You can feel the bulge growing in his jeans and you hum needily, wanting to feel it closer than through several layers of denim. He rocks into you again, the outline of his cock dragging slow and dirty against your increasingly slick core. The material of your panties slips against you beneath your jeans and you honestly can’t remember the last time you had been this wet. God, Cordell has already brought you to the brink of ruin and you’re still fully clothed.

You whine into his mouth when he thrusts against you again, and you feel him chuckle against your lips.

“Sound so pretty, baby girl,” he groans, tongue still dipping in and out of your mouth. “God, love hearing you. Wanna hear more.” Cordell kisses you rougher, and drags his hands to your chest, groping possessively at your breasts and pulling a moan from your lungs. He obviously likes what he hears, because he doesn’t let up, and soon enough you’re desperate for his hands on your skin and your clothes are becoming increasingly inconvenient. You start to tear into your top to pull it over your head. Cordell quickly takes the hint and unbuttons his shirt, shrugging it down his shoulders and onto the floor to join yours.

You reach out instinctively, needing to run your hands over the expanse of work-tanned skin that’s just been revealed to you. Cordell’s torso is strong, the muscles present but not scarily defined, and you can't resist scratching your nails down the centre of his chest, making him shiver as he closes back in around you. Echoing you, he drags his fingers up your back, nails almost certainly leaving red, trailing marks in their wake, and with a quick movement unclasps your bra and pulls it from your body.

Without hesitation, Cordell ducks down to kiss along his newly exposed prize. He nips and licks and sucks his way over the curve of your breast, pulls a nipple into his mouth and worries it gently between his teeth. Your head falls back and your fingers thread themselves through his hair as another moan escapes your throat and you press forward into his mouth. He switches to the other nipple, teasing it with his tongue before biting down softly and scraping his teeth over the sensitive skin. You try to choke back the whimpers he’s coaxing from you but it’s like you’ve lost autonomy over your vocal chords.

“Nah, no no,” Cordell pulls back, crooked grin on his face. “What did I tell ya? Don’t want you to hide those noises from me baby,” he reaches out to tease your nipple again, making you whimper, as he keeps up eye contact. “Wanna know I’m making you feel good, wanna know what turns you on so much you just can’t control yourself anymore.” Cordell’s expression is beautifully genuine, and that sort of generosity is rare to find in a man these days, so you figure it’s the least you can do to oblige him.

“You,” you gasp, throwing your head back again as he palms your chest in his big, warm hands. “You’re the one turning me on baby.”

“Yeah?” Cordell quirks a brow and then ducks down to start kissing along a line down the centre of your chest, moving towards the fastening on your jeans.

“Yeah,” you pant, watching him move down your body and drop to his knees between your legs. “Isn’t supposed to be me on my knees for you?” you ask breathlessly.

“Man, your ex really did a number on you, huh?” Cordell laughs as he pops the button on your jeans and tucks his thumbs into the waistband, starting to drag them down your legs. “While I’m sure you’d look really pretty with my cock in your mouth, why don’t we save that for next time?” he smirks, finally getting you naked.

“Someone’s confident,” you tease, though you’re sure he has every reason to be based on the things he’s made you feel so far.

“So I better live up to it now,” Cordell raises his eyebrows playfully before ducking his head between your thighs and pressing kisses to the skin he lands on. His hat gets knocked off as he moves himself in closer and places a small peck right above your clit, still teasing. The silk of his lips drags softly over your skin, his warm breath spilling out and tingling against you.

“Shit, please,” you breathe, fingers tangling into his hair and trying to get his mouth where you really wanted it. He must figure he’s teased you enough because the next thing you know his tongue is lapping at your entrance and drawing up to tease around your clit and ohmygod it feels so incredible.

Cordell flicks his tongue against your clit and then sucks it between his lips, alternating until you’re keening against him, and then he slips a finger in against that sweet spot inside you and your hands pull involuntarily at his hair. He laughs against you and the vibrations roll pleasantly against your nerves. Cordell pulls back and licks his lips - probably tasting you there, which should not be as sexy as it is - and gives you a grin that tells you he’s pleased with himself.

“Why’d you stop?” you pout. You’d been getting really close.

“Because I’m impatient,” Cordell grunts, amused, unbuttoning his jeans and pulling out his cock. He groans when he gets himself in his hand, and you can see why – it must have been uncomfortable keeping something that size trapped behind clothes. You feel yourself clench at the sight, desperately wanting to feel him inside of you.

Cordell surges forward and kisses you again, deep and desperate, and this time when he grinds against you you feel the whole length of his cock dragging through the slip of your folds. He lubes himself up using your slick and his spit, and then he’s climbing onto the pool table with you, pushing you onto your back so you’re splayed out across the green felt top. You thread your arms around his neck, pulling him down to kiss you again. His tongue leaves your lips and moves to your neck, laving over your pulse point. You wonder absently if he can tell how fast your heart is beating.

You feel the fat tip of his cock press lightly against your entrance and you moan in preparation, anticipating how amazing it’s going to feel when he’s inside you.

“That’s it baby girl,” Cordell hums low in his throat. “Wanna hear how good you’re feeling, lemme hear you.”

“Oh god please,” you whisper, breath hoarse because you’re trying not to scream at him to fuck you already.

“Yeah, good girl,” Cordell presses a kiss to your throat as he begins to ease himself in.

“Fuck, you’re big,” you whimper, eyes clenched shut as you try to focus on the sensation of him fucking into you for the first time. Then all the sudden you feel nothing, and his weight is gone from above you.

“Shit, was I hurting you?” Cordell is hovering back on his knees, worriedly combing his hands through his hair.

“What? No,” you laugh, a little touched by the concern but mostly annoyed by the fact that Cordell was no longer inside you. “Can you get back down here, please?”

“You’re sure?” Cordell checks again, and now you’re impatient.

“Yes,” you huff, sitting up and dragging him down onto the table so he’s the one on his back, and you move to straddle his lap. “This sure enough for you?” you grin wickedly as you grind your centre over his cock, flushed and hard against his hip.

“Fuck, yeah,” he grunts, getting up on his elbows and reaching between your legs to draw across your clit in lazy circles. You moan under his touch as he slides his fingers between your legs and grabs hold of himself, angling his cock up so you can fit him against your entrance and slide down.

He feels even bigger like this, and you feel like a whore moaning as loud as you are but the sound of Cordell hissing - “shit, so hot baby girl” - knocks those anxieties out of your mind for now. You finally make it to the bottom of his cock and you grind your hips against him, using his body to rub your clit while you fuck him.

“Oh my god,” you whine, fucking yourself harder onto his cock, lifting your hips so he can thrust back into you. “Mm, fuck yeah, so good.”

“Fuck you’re so hot baby girl, love hearing how much you love this,” Cordell groans and his head thumps back on the table as you squeeze around his cock. He sounds a bit like a drunk frat guy, which makes you giggle, but you appreciate the praise and he’s not exactly wrong - you are loving this. The thick slide of him inside you feels just the right side of too much, to the point where you know you’ll feel this tomorrow but you won’t actually be hurting.

You lean down and kiss across Cordell’s chest as you continue to thrust back onto his dick, and the new angle hits something inside you that makes you see stars. You know you make some kind of sound but you don’t think any words are actually intelligible.

“You find a good spot darlin’?” Cordell grins down at you, propped up on his elbows again and holding your head to his chest.

“Mmhmm,” you whimper as you fuck back into him, your clit rubbing against his skin with each stroke and his cock hammering at the nerves inside you. You feel your legs start to shake as you begin to come apart around him. “Oh–” a choked off whine escapes you before every muscle in your body tenses and you freeze up against him until the euphoria bubbles over and everything begins to unravel and then you have no idea what you’re saying, you just know you’re coming harder than you have in a long time.

Cordell cards his fingers through your hair, cradling you against him the whole way through your climax. “There you go baby, good girl. Good girl, let it all go for me,” he groans as you spasm around his cock and cling to his chest. When you draw yourself back to sentience, Cordell is rocking you against his hips, thrusting into you shallowly from below.

“Hey there, darlin’,” he smiles at you and punctuates his words with another little thrust. “That feel good?” He grins wryly, clearly already very aware of the answer.

“Mmhmm,” you sigh lazily, and stretch out to kiss him. His hands wrap around your head and hold you against his lips as he twists his tongue into your mouth, groaning when you slide yours back against it.

“Any objection if I fuck you senseless against this table now?” he checks as he pulls back from the kiss.

“You really are a gentleman, Ranger Walker,” you smirk, but you pull off his lap and roll to the side, planning to let him get on top. He surprises you by jumping down off the table and pulling your ankles after him. When your feet are on the ground he spins you until your front is pressing against the pool surface and your wrists are behind your back, held together in just one of his hands.

“You making fun of an officer of the law, missy?” Cordell teases, nipping at your throat before soothing it with a kiss.

“Maybe if you fucked me into this table like you keep promisin’, I’d shut up,'' you sass back, trying to provoke him. It works. Cordell lines himself back up with your entrance and plunges in in one stroke, making you whine into the felt below your cheek.

“Well, a gentleman should always keep his promises.”

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altariaas · 3 years

Text

your face all made up (living on a screen)

Adrien knows, to some degree, that it’s the important things that are the most important to say out loud, but it would help to know that someone’s actually listening. It would also help if things would stop breaking every time he acknowledged his emotions, too.

i’ve taken a total of three steps into this fandom but sure, let’s skip to season 4 and fall face-first into the Angst™, as it goes. I just think Adrien should get a little raw powers of destruction sneaking out of control in his daily life. as a treat. Post-Rocketear so lots of spoilers etc.

Adrien walks home from the fight against Nino’s akuma with a raging headache, a developing case of massive anxiety, and a purpling bruise the size of a basketball on his shin.

The last one isn’t actually from the akuma. Those injuries got neatly miraculoused away, along with Nino’s heartbroken betrayal. No, the bruise is from Adrien’s incredibly stupid attempt to funnel his tornado of emotions into something concrete by kicking the front gate, only to completely miss and slam his shin into the solid steel rungs instead, sending him stumbling back in a pained fit of trying to think up creative curse words that won’t result in his father murdering him if he overhears.

Metaphorically, of course. Father’s not a murderer, except when it comes to the slow death of Adrien’s social life.

Though he really…can’t entirely blame that on Father, either.

And there comes the developing case of anxiety. Adrien swallows, a feeble attempt to banish the souring feeling in his stomach and the aching tightness in his chest. He wraps his arms around himself, staring up at the mansion and fighting the increasing urge to run. The inside of his cheek stings as he chews at it, already abused from how hard he’d bitten there earlier when Nino had started making…observations. Accusations. Wildly misdirected statements that definitely aren’t any insight to how Nino truly feels about what might be the truest version of Adrien’s slowly splintering self, if he’s going to be dramatic about it.

Overly passionate, Father’s voice echoes hollowly somewhere in the back of his head. Prone to fits of drama, just like his mother.

Spinning abruptly on his heel, Adrien beats a steady path away from the mansion gates and toward…somewhere. Somewhere that won’t make that developing case of anxiety worse, and where no one can witness his fits of drama.

The urge to send the front camera a rude gesture in farewell is violently stifled as Adrien keeps his arms wrapped tightly around himself, like the action will keep everything in neat and perfect and safe from view. He feels more than hears Plagg rustle curiously in his front pocket, but Adrien ignores the action, keeping his eyes fixed ahead.

Then the sharp reminder of how it felt when Ladybug ignored him in favor of Rena Rouge comes back and bites him solidly in the guilty part of his feelings, so Adrien pats his front pocket reassuringly.

“Just taking the long way home,” he murmurs.

Plagg’s eyes are calculating, almost greener than usual as they stare at him, and Adrien feels uncomfortably perceived. Not in the cold, bug-under-a-microscope way he feels sometimes when Father looks at him, but a hot kind of uncomfortable, the way he feels when someone looks right past the Adrien Agreste mask and sees—

What? What do they see? An awkward boy stumbling back against a wall because he never learned what his real self was supposed to look like? Hollow flirting and annoying with a capital a?

Fits of drama, Adrien reminds himself. He shouldn’t take it so close to heart. Not when Nino looked so devastated, so heartbroken. Not when Ladybug’s been giving him uncomfortably clear signs that Nino might’ve been right.

“If you say so, kid,” Plagg finally replies. “But I better get that camembert sooner than later.”

A half-smile tugs at Adrien’s mouth. “Sure, Plagg.”

At least Plagg still wants him around, masks and all. It’s a small comfort, but Adrien clings to it, his arms tightening around himself. Sure, things didn’t go…wonderfully, today, but it’s not all so bad. He got slammed into a van a couple of times, and maybe a couple of busted ribs, but that’s nothing, comparatively. And sure, Father’s finding more flaws in him to coldly evaluate than usual, and Nathalie’s growing paler and sicker by the day, and Ladybug’s either freezing him out bit by bit or starting to forget about him entirely and he isn’t sure which is worse, and his schedule is slipping further and further from manageable by the day and Nino dislikes a side of him so much it sent him straight into an akuma and—

“—kid, stop!”

Adrien’s thoughts cut off abruptly as his foot catches, his sense of balance going horizontal as he stumbles, and proceeds to nearly slam the rest of him face-first into the concrete. Plagg’s sharp warning echoes in his ears as he rights himself with a panicked yelp, hopping once while frantically hoping no one was around to see — whatever that was.

“Kid,” Plagg starts, but he doesn’t finish. He’s left the front pocket, his eyes bright green as he stares at him.

Adrien blinks, shaking the slight sense of vertigo off. “Sorry, sorry, I—”

Huh. What did he do? Rubbing the back of his head, Adrien glances at the street he stumbled over. He frowns.

The culprit is a jagged, snaking tear in the concrete, half a meter deep and the length of Adrien’s arm. He stares at the spiderwebbing cracks that branch out of it, fine grains of crushed concrete already scattering in the slight wind.

Weird, he thinks. He doesn’t remember fighting Nino this far down the street. Lucky Charm should’ve fixed that, even if he did.

“Adrien,” Plagg says, and there’s an uncharacteristically cautious edge in his voice. “What was that?”

Adrien cups a hand around Plagg, running a finger over his head in apology as he draws him out of view again. “Lost in thought, I guess,” he says, ducking his head. “Sorry.”

Plagg doesn’t reply, still staring at him with a look Adrien can’t quite identify. He feels oddly disoriented, like he actually did fall and hit his head, and now it’s spinning in retaliation. Across the street in front of him, the stoplight flickers — red, then orange, then red again. It flickers out entirely, before snapping back to a bright, acidic green. Adrien rubs his eyes.

“Let’s…let’s go home,” Plagg finally says, tucking himself back in Adrien’s shirt pocket. He doesn’t entirely meet Adrien’s eyes as he does, but he curls up against his chest, solid and warm, and it’s almost enough to banish the ache that lies beneath.

“Okay,” he says, softly. “Home, then.”

————

There’s a memory Adrien has, from when he was younger. It’s one he holds tightly to his chest, tattered and frayed as it is.

He was much smaller than he is now — barely six years-old, maybe, and small enough to hide behind the large statues his mother would put funny hats on to make his father laugh. She’d done just that earlier, standing tiptoed on the staircase as she’d slipped a terrible orange bowler hat on the pretty lady Nathalie said was from Greece. Adrien had giggled behind his fingers and his father had laughed, an unfamiliar sound that’s faded in memory now, but a bright and real one nonetheless.

It had been a good day, until mother had come down with a cold during dinner and Adrien had jolted out of sleep from a nightmare about giant, ugly orange hats that snatched up his mother with their ribbon-like fingers and took her away from him forever.

He’d sprinted through the house like the horrible hat monsters from his dream were on his heels, slipping in his socks up to the cracked door of his father’s study.

He hadn’t needed to knock, then, or even schedule a meeting. He’d slid through the doorway and barreled into his father, only to be caught by strong arms and swept into his father’s lap, warm and safe from any monsters that dared to follow him here.

“I’m worried about your mother, too,” his father had said. “But it’s just a cold, you see? Nothing to go slipping and falling down the stairs about.”

He’d received nothing but a sniffle in response.

“Alright.” Fingers had pinched around his nose as his father sighed. “How about we read a story then, until you’re not so frightened? Just you and me.”

The book they’d started that night was about a prince and a planet and a rose, and Adrien still remembers the sound his father’s voice made as it resonated where Adrien’s cheek pressed against his chest, his arms holding tight and warm around him, like nothing bad could slip in from outside and hurt him.

It’s a favorite memory of his, one Adrien finds springing back to mind whenever Father gives him a smile, half-formed and distanced as they are.

Lately, though, it’s a memory that stings to think about. It makes it harder to look Father in the eye, for some reason.

————

“And like, I really can’t say this enough, but I’m so sorry.”

“I told you, Nino, it’s fi—”

“No seriously, dude, I’m really sorry, I—”

“Nino.”

His friend finally jerks out from his puddle of miserable apologies, and Adrien gives him a weary smile. “It’s fine. You didn’t hurt me.”

“I dragged you into the boiler room then got akumatized,” Nino says, distressed. “That’s worse than like, the plot of eight different horror movies.”

“Your head was shaped like a giant blue tear, it wasn’t that scary,” Adrien assures him.

“I am ninety percent sure I remember shoving you to the floor,” Nino moans, not reassured in the least.

Part of Adrien’s mind, the part that sounds a little too much like a spurned cat whom hell hath no fury, or however the saying goes, wants to pipe up with the fact that getting shoved to the floor was five-star treatment compared to what Nino (akuma, Nino’s akuma, that’s important) had proceeded to do to him afterwards.

The bus-slamming thing had hurt.

Not as much as hurting Nino would’ve, though.

So instead, Adrien gives Nino the kindest smile he can, lays a gentle hand on his arm, and says, “As if the akuma gave you the biceps to pull that off.”

“Hey,” Nino knocks their shoulders together, his guilt ridden expression easing just a bit as he gives him a half-hearted grin. “I’m ripped, bro.”

It takes Adrien a moment to reply, too busy fighting the overwhelmingly — traitor — urge to follow the warmth of contact with Nino like a starving animal. He doesn’t need to fight for too long — his brain throws everyone thinks you’re a joke at him just in time for Adrien to hunch his shoulders in and give Nino an awkward little grin of his own.

Maybe his brain’s a traitor too, though, because he doesn’t remember Nino even saying that about Chat Noir.

He thinks.

Hopes.

Actually, his brain can go sit in a corner if it’s going to keep throwing stuff like this at him. Shaking anything and everything knowledge-wise that belongs to Chat Noir from his mind, Adrien turns his attention back to the scribbled game of hangman they’ve been playing on the corner of Nino’s history notes. Group projects are supposed to be fun, anyways, especially with Nino.

“Uh, c,” he guesses.

Nino adds a single c to the blank letter spaces. Adrien squints at the paper, his mouth downturning at the suspiciously familiar arrangement he has so far.

_adia_t, ca_ef_ee, d_ea_y

“Nino,” he says, carefully.

Nino smirks. “Mm-hm.”

“If this has anything to do with perfume ads—”

“Uh-huh?”

“Then I hate you.”

Nino cackles, scribbling in the rest of the rest of the accursed phrase as Max loudly hushes him. Adrien rolls his eyes and huffs, but he’s unable to stop the small smile of amusement. It quickly fades as his words to Nino echo with an uncomfortable emphasis in his head.

You’re being stupid, he tells himself. Adrien pushes away the nagging feeling. Nino knows he’s not serious. He knows Adrien doesn’t actually hate him. Just like Adrien knows Nino didn’t mean it, when he said all that stuff about Chat Noir.

His fingers tighten around his pencil. He’s not supposed to be thinking about that. Nino apologized, to Chat Noir himself, and just because Adrien can’t get the sting out, it doesn’t mean that Nino meant anything genuine by it.

Overly dramatic, Adrien reminds himself. Way too emotional.

The ache in his chest makes itself known again with a pang, and Adrien bites the inside of his cheek, glancing at Nino from the corners of his eyes.

Maybe he should tell Nino he cares about him, just to be sure. The words form in his mind, only to catch abruptly in his throat, thick and cloying. He thinks of how thoughtlessly he’s been able to tell Father he loves him. Thinks of how easy it’s always been to tell Ladybug how much she means to him.

He thinks of how neither of them seem to like meeting him in the eyes, lately.

He swallows the words, opting to smile brightly at Nino instead. It’s probably for the best. Nino’s always been better at picking up on people’s feelings, anyways, and he doesn’t need the kind of nagging assurance Adrien does. And it’s not like Adrien’s had much luck telling people he loves them, lately. Actually, if you look at his track record, he probably hasn’t…had any luck at all.

Adrien shakes his head, shoving the coldness creeping into his chest as far to the corner of his mind as he can, and sketches out enough blank spaces on the paper to spell fake mustaches are the new sexy.

If he can still make Nino laugh, it’s fine. He wouldn’t be laughing if he thought Adrien was annoying and obnoxious.

So see? It’s fine.

————

Adrien thinks about elastics, sometimes. The stretchy, rubber kind that Mme Thurston uses to pull back the longer locks of his hair while she’s doing his makeup, tying it up in a neat little explosion on top of his head that makes him look like a blond weed. She makes it look easy, twisting the little bands around and around, until they’re tight enough to hold his hair in place.

(Adrien’s hair is always easy, of course. Chat Noir’s hair, on the other hand, would probably give Mme Thurston nightmares. Mainly because Adrien has a fun little habit of shaking his head side to side until it’s an unrecognizable blond disaster, but that’s not particularly relevant.)

(Ladybug doesn’t even need to use elastics, opting for the soft strands of ribbon that hold her pigtails in perfect place.)

Adrien doesn’t normally use elastic bands either, but he likes the way they feel when he’s nervous, stretching and rubbery, then snapping perfectly back into place, like he’d never twisted them all out of proportion at all. The way he can hook his fingers in both ends and pull and pull and pull, but they never quite snap.

Felix has a fun trick with those, when they do photoshoots together.

(When they used to.)

He’ll press a little elastic against Adrien’s arm and pull the end back, just far enough, then let it snap back into place, stinging little red marks when it slaps against skin.

“Stop it,” Adrien scowls at him, but the expression wavers. Playful isn’t a word he uses along with Felix very often, but photoshoots are always more entertaining with him, at least. Or they were, until his mother disappears, and family photoshoots grind to an utter and complete halt forever—

—just for now, his father says, until something changes, until that something happens, until that metaphorical other foot that’s always hanging over Adrien’s head finally stomps its way back to earth and demolishes him in the process—

Felix replies by stretching another elastic between his fingers, shooting it toward him this time like a little slingshot. Adrien snags it out of the air, slotting it between his own fingers to fire back. It misses by a miserable meter and a half, because at the time this conversation takes place, he and Ladybug haven’t stayed up all night practicing their aim by trying to hit the left ear of Le Stryge on Notre-Dame.

Felix snorts, snatching the elastic from the floor, and makes a show of placing the band back against Adrien’s wrist. He pulls it back with a meaningful look, like an exasperated teacher. “It’s the bounce back that hurts,” he tells him. “Not the stretching part. When it snaps back to place—” He demonstrates by releasing the band, and Adrien flinches at the tiny sting. “—that’s the part that hurts.”

Four years later, having up close and personally experienced what a shattered ribcage stabbing into your lungs feels like, Adrien wants to correct Felix on tiny little elastic bands and what actually hurts, but the point, he guesses, is that he still remembers what it felt like.

He still thinks about those elastics sometimes, and how far they can be pulled until they snap back into place. How the little rubber band can make it so far, get so close to breaking, only to snap right back to where it started.

(Chat Noir doesn’t use elastics, either.)

————

For all that Adrien will stand by stuffing the worst of his emotions into a box and never thinking about them ever as a perfectly reasonable way to go about handling things —and whatever Plagg says doesn’t count, he’s a kwami who compares emotions to cheese — Adrien really does believe in communication as key.

Living it out is just. Another thing entirely.

But Adrien’s lived his life with a cold mansion’s worth of words left unsaid, so on principle, he really does believe that if something’s important, you should say it. Maybe nobody will really listen to you, or take you seriously, but at least you’ll have said it, and maybe at some point they’ll remember you said it, and it’ll mean something to them.

But maybe that’s what stopping him this time — he just can’t decide if it’s the idea of not being listened to that scares him, or the idea of actually being heard that’s worse.

It’s not like he wants to tell Ladybug he’s upset. It’s not like he even wants to be upset.

It doesn’t change the fact that he is, kind of, a little bit, (a lot) — but again, on principle, Adrien just — he doesn’t like being upset. It’s all uncomfortable and hot and it sits on his chest like a rock, weighing heavier and heavier until he learns to get over it.

It’s only worse when he tries to say something about it, because that never works. Maybe it’s a really sucky side effect of being homeschooled for most of his life, but every time Adrien opens his mouth to tell someone he’s upset with them and here’s why, it always backfires spectacularly. There’s a weird moment where something happens and the other person says their part, and suddenly Adrien’s complaints sound so stupid he wants to crawl in a hole and hide. There’s a dizzying one-eighty and Adrien’s suddenly the one in the wrong, and the other person’s upset at him, and now he’s got to apologize before he makes it worse than he already has.

And granted, most of those other people are just Father (or Father’s tinny voice through the phone), but he’s already enough to beat the lesson in.

Metaphorically, of course. Always — always metaphorically. Adrien’s never doubted otherwise.

“Maybe I’m just that bad at arguing,” he mutters, swiping darkly at his phone screen.

“I dunno,” Nino says, his voice consoling. “I mean, you were pretty good at it when you argued me into watching that one anime the other night.”

Adrien rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t upset with you about that.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Nino winks at him. “Unless your voice going all high-pitched about why Sailor Moon is the peak of animation is your default setting.”

“I wasn’t upset with you, though,” Adrien shakes his head, cutting him off. “I’m never upset with you.”

And he isn’t, really. Not even when Nino tells him, in an admittedly roundabout way, that he’s annoying and irritating and has loose and shady moral commitment to love and all its forms (or something like that).

He means, it stings, but only in the way Felix’s little rubber band snaps do. Not enough to justify picking an argument with Nino. Not to justify upsetting him, and possibly losing the one friend who’s stuck by him through the worst and actually shares stuff with him these days.

Adrien bites down on the inside of his cheek. If he’s not careful with the way his train of thought’s been steering itself lately, he’s going to accidentally show Ladybug how upset he is, and that’s—

Well, the fallout of that will hurt a lot worse than a little elastic band snap.

A lot worse than it already does, so. Back in your corner, resentful thoughts.

“Uh-huh.” There’s a quiet edge of suspicion in Nino’s voice, and Adrien stiffens, suddenly feeling horribly seen. The look Nino’s pinned on him doesn’t help at all, searching and curious and—

Concerned? Upset? Angry?

Adrien doesn’t know. He thinks it’s concern, but he’s also been thinking Ladybug’s been amused with him when she’s apparently just been annoyed, so who knows, really—

Shut up, Adrien tells his subconscious furiously. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

“It’s okay, if you are,” Nino says hesitantly, perhaps having picked up on whatever storm of emotions are slipping through Adrien’s schooled expression. “Upset, I mean. At your old man or me. It’s better to talk to people upfront, y’know? Otherwise…”

Nino’s expression twists in guilt, and Adrien’s lungs feel a little like they’re shriveling up and dying. Or maybe that’s just his chest on the whole, collapsing in on itself and taking Adrien’s ability to breath right with it.

He isn’t upset. He’s not. He doesn’t need to talk to anyone upfront about it, because there’s nothing to talk about in the first place. He’s not going to be overly dramatic about this too, he’s not. He’s just— it’s just—

Is it personal? Was it something he did, that made Ladybug trust everyone else but him? Did he slip up at some point and he just — he can’t remember? She’d told him, she’d promised they were fine after New York, but maybe she’d changed her mind without telling him and decided he needed to figure out on his own where he messed up if he was ever going to be worthy of her trust agai—

“I’ll be — I’ve gotta — restroom,” Adrien stammers, shooting up from his seat and all but sprinting for the doors.

“Wait, Adrien—!”

Nino’s panicked call is lost as Adrien flies down the hall, slipping down the stairs to the bathrooms on the first floor where he’s less likely to be found. He doesn’t feel like he’s going to cry, or anything so humiliating, but there’s an awful crushing sensation in his chest that makes him think he might do something he’ll regret. Or say something, any of the raging thoughts that bang off the insides of his skull with hurt. Something he won’t be able to take back.

Adrien wavers, planting both hands on the edge of the sink and staring at the white porcelain. His breathing sounds odd in the echo of the bathroom, wavering and off-beat. His vision swims traitorously, so he glares up at the mirror instead, only to falter as he catches sight of his reflection.

He looks…not great. Pale skin and bloodshot eyes in the way that’s likely to make Nathalie call a doctor on him. Which would be just fantastically ironic, considering she’s the one who needs a doctor, even if she’s never going to admit it and keep lying to him. Just like Ladybug, all careful smiles and words chosen with forced, casual caution, staring at him with eyes that are a million other places except actually seeing him.

Stop, he tells himself furiously, squeezing his eyes shut. Stop. Ladybug is not Father. Ladybug is Ladybug, his best friend and partner and he trusts her, he trusts her to have her reasons for not telling him. He has to trust her. He does trust her, he—

A sharp cracking sound tears Adrien from his thoughts, and he snaps his head up to find seven of his own disjointed faces staring back at him. He blinks, and suddenly the faces are clinking to the floor, broken fragments of the mirror scattering around his shoes.

His first thought, apart from a bizarre sense of not being entirely in his body, is a well-timed curse word.

Instead, what he gets out is, “Seven years bad luck,” muttered, almost absently, beneath his breath.

Typical. He wonders if moonlighting as a black cat-themed superhero that leans heavily into exaggerated acrobatics counts as crossing one. Like he needs more bad luck, right now.

What he actually needs, is…

Is…

He needs an escape.

From everything, it feels like, but for now, Adrien will settle for an escape from the school bathroom with all the mirrors that just broke.

…somehow.

————

For all that he throws fits of drama about it, the thing is, Adrien has escaped.

He’s made it out of the house, to school. He’s learned physics and grammar and math that Nathalie taught him six months ago, and he’s learned how to play hangman and cut class and tell your friend’s fortune with folded paper. He’s made friends, real friends, and he’s learned how to muffle loud giggles on the phone at night and what kinds of snack food Nino likes and doesn’t like. He’s learned how to pick up on a whole slew of emotions other than disappointment and apathy and mildly reserved approval, and he’s learned how to tell when other people are hurting.

(He’s learned how to tell how he’s hurting, but he’s unlearned that one faster.)

He’s learned the words it takes to voice that Father isn’t always right, learned how to curl his fingers tight enough into his palms that they don’t shake so much anymore, and he’s learned how to stretch like a rubber band against people’s anger, bending without breaking.

(He’s also learned about the perks of night vision and bone density and six different ways to trip someone up with the leather belt you’ve got tied around your waist like a tail, but he can’t credit school for those.)

And he thinks — he thinks he’s come so far, he’s learned so much, he’s so much stronger now—

Then his father’s eyes soften just enough to resemble the eyes of the man who held him close and told him how much he loved him, loves him, who stayed up all night reading Adrien’s favorite book to him and whose lap was the safest, warmest place in the world, and Adrien—

Hates himself. Hates himself as he snaps right back into place, right back into the Adrien who crumbles at Father’s slightest snap of tone. Hates himself so much it stings.

Because it’s so much easier to do that, than it is to hate his father.

————

Adrien doesn’t particularly want to go to the photoshoot after school, especially not now that mirrors are literally breaking at the sight of his face, but — and here’s the fits of drama again — like everything else Father’s deigned to want, he doesn’t have much of a choice.

Technically, though, Adrien fantasizes as he fixes his eyes upward so the makeup artist can do her best to hide the darkening circles beneath them (“—really, dear, do you sleep at all these days—”), he could give himself a choice. He could make it fun, too, striking the perfect pose before transforming into Chat Noir right smack in front of the entire studio crew, and then Father would have something truly inspired to review that evening. A perfect snapshot of Adrien cataclysm-ing his merry way out of the studio and out into the gloriously free outside, that’s what.

Except then Adrien would have way too many choices to make, and even less all at once. The identity thing, being one. How to avoid Ladybug murdering him and dancing atop his grave, for another. Not that he thinks Ladybug is capable of murdering anyone, of course—

(—no, that’s solely reserved for him and his powers alone—)

—but he can imagine she’d be angry, were he to stage a reveal that way.

Were he to stage a reveal at all, Adrien thinks sourly, blinking until the stiff feeling of the makeup beneath his eyes fades. His makeup artist’s had to use the thick kind today, the extra-strength stuff that’s going to take forever to wash off. He stifles the urge to swipe at it, trying to relax into the feeling instead. Makeup is familiar, consistent. Sure, it’s technically another lie, but it’s one Adrien’s at least aware of. Makeup, he can see through. He can put it on and take it off himself, exercising some tiny semblance of control over what’s being hidden from the world.

Everything else, though…

“Carefree, my boy, carefree,” Vincent implores, his eyebrows furrowing as Adrien snaps himself back to the present. “You look as if you’re being drowned in mud, not soaring above the clouds.”

Adrien’s cheeks puff up as he blows his breath out, short and frustrated. At least Vincent is every bit as prone to fits of drama as he is, he reminds himself. It’s better to be stuck with someone passionate than someone as open as a brick wall, even if it is just Vincent antagonizing him with a camera again.

“Sorry,” he offers, giving him a weak grin. “I’ll get it this time, promise.”

Vincent doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he rambles about lighting and angles instead of scolding Adrien, which he can’t help but be grateful for. It allows Adrien a moment to let the smile drop, staring at the ground instead of the brightening lights around him.

He toes sullenly at the smooth linoleum of the floor, the solid black of Father’s logo glaring back at him from the side of his sneaker. Maybe he should just get more sleep. Maybe all the ugly tangled emotions in his chest are just residual buildup from being overtired, that’s all. Ladybug mentioned the stress getting to her a little while back, her own eyes bloodshot and exhausted. Adrien’s brilliant solution had been to take her to the movies, which had gone just as brilliantly as every other time he’s tried something like that, which is not very well at all. He’d been worried about her, though, even before she’d thrown him from a roof on accident. Ladybug carries so much on her shoulders, and strong as they are, Adrien knows what it’s like to be strung so tightly that even the slightest extra weight feels like it’ll snap you. He sees the same weight in his own eyes, now, even blinded by the studio lights.

His stomach twists. Ladybug’s eyes aren’t half as bloodshot lately. There’s an easiness to her that wasn’t there before, a lightening of tension, and yes, Adrien’s happy she’s feeling better, he’s nothing but glad that she isn’t so exhausted and worn, but…

But she’d trusted him before, even when she was strung her tightest. And now that there’s relief in her eyes, now that he’s taking a backseat and Ladybug adds more allies to their roster by the day, allies that she knows but he doesn't, allies that Alya and Nino probably know too, just like everything else, now that—

Was he the problem? Was it his fault, that Ladybug’s eyes turned shadowed and her movements wavered? He’s tried, he’s tried to be a rock for her, to be something constant and consistent as Adrien himself wants, but the horrible feeling that he’s not enough is now warring with the awful feeling that he’s the problem in the first place, because — why else? Why else would she shut him out like this? Why else would she decide he’s untrustworthy, after all this time, why—

The lights against his vision suddenly flare painfully bright, so bright Adrien’s forced to stagger back.

Vincent jolts away with a cry, waving his hand frantically as the camera sparks and sputters. Echoed cries of surprise ring throughout the studio as the overhead lights flicker wildly, turning the studio into a frightening mockery of a particularly bad nightclub.

Adrien stumbles again, alarm coursing through his veins like a cold burst of water, and he darts for the intern nearby, who’s fallen over in her scramble to back away from the strobing lights. She’s just taken his hand when the lights go dark, plunging the studio into blackness. Before anyone can react beyond a frightened shriek, the lights snap back on, bright and steady as if nothing’s happened.

Adrien slowly pulls the intern to her feet, staring at the blazing lights as his vision swims, blinking against the sudden onslaught of dark spots in his eyes.

“Is it an akuma?” the intern asks, her eyes wild with fear. “Should we — should we evacuate?”

Adrenaline shoots through Adrien’s veins, his head whipping back and forth as he searches for a spark of purple, for the familiar edge of butterfly’s wings. But there’s nothing out of place, save the sputtering camera Vincent’s fretting over. There’s no sign of garish transformation, no following explosions, no loudly proclaimed demands for miraculous. In fact, if Adrien hadn’t seen it himself, it would appear as if nothing’s ever happened at all.

“It could’ve been the power lines,” someone suggests. “This place is pretty old, you know.”

“With Agreste’s standards?” someone else mutters. “I doubt it.”

“The camera is broken. Unsalvageable,” Vincent announces over the outbreak of murmurs. To his credit, he barely sounds shaken. “It must have been a power failure, or a blown fuse, I suppose. Nothing we can help.”

Vincent’s word is all the rest of the crew needs, and before Adrien can clamber up to inspect the lights himself, he’s being ushered from the studio, another intern furiously muttering about how she refuses to be fired for losing a model to “subpar building inspections” or something along those lines.

Adrien, who is already anticipating Father’s reaction himself, can’t blame her for bailing the moment he’s in the Gorilla’s hands.

————

Adrien is six years and three months old when his father finally finishes reading Le Petite Prince to him, and he comes the closest he ever has to throwing a fit at the ending.

He doesn’t actually throw a fit, of course, because then his father might not read to him ever again. That they finished this book together is already more precious as anything Adrien’s ever owned, and he won’t ruin that with his dramatics.

“Not all stories have the happy endings you want, Adrien,” his father tells him. Adrien feels his arms tighten around his shoulders, where he sits snugly in his father’s lap. “Sometimes you must make the most of what you have.”

Even at a young age, Adrien knows that he has quite a lot. The knowledge only grows as he does, just how much he has from his last name alone. His room alone could rival some people’s homes, Adrien has no right to want for anything.

And yet.

Sometimes, Adrien thinks back to the deep timbre of his father’s voice as he reads about yellow snakes and desert flowers and feels a stinging sense of loss so sharply it takes his breath away.

Other times, though, Adrien thinks about his father choosing to read a story about a boy who could only return home by letting a snake poison him, and wonders what that says about their relationship.

It’s not even Father’s icy tone that hurts anymore, really, Adrien thinks, as he picks at his dinner. Not that he’s likely to hear that tone tonight. Father’s locked himself firmly in his office again, and even Nathalie is nowhere to be seen. It’s quiet enough that Adrien’s gotten away with heating up the cheapest dinner they have in the house, and scouring enough cheese for Plagg that he won’t be complaining for a month.

Well, a day, maybe. Plagg’s a special kind of greedy.

But it’s painstakingly clear that Adrien will be dining alone, tonight. There hasn’t even been a single message fro Nathalie, informing him of all the lessons he’s been falling short in lately. Adrien twists his fork in his hand, setting it down with a weary sigh as dark spots flicker before his eyes again.

At least there won’t be anyone to lecture him, he tells himself, tapping absently on the table. The smooth wood looks immaculate beneath his fingers, the edge of his pinky still a bruised purple from the other evening, when Adrien misjudged the distance from the rooftop to his own window.

Father won’t be able to lecture him about that, either, so it’s a good thing, really. It’s a good thing, that no one will be saying anything to him about the studio mishap earlier, or the darker than usual circles beneath his eyes, or he way he’s been showing up late more often than not to everything. Not about his slipping grades, or the way he keeps forgetting to hide his glare when photoshoots run longer than they’re supposed to.

It’s a good thing, Adrien tells himself, as his fingers clench around the table’s edge. It’s a good thing that he’s alone tonight. Being alone and unseen is much better than the alternative. It’s a good thing, that he can stew in whatever ugly emotions keep threatening to rise to the surface all by himself, where he won’t risk hurting anyone else with them. He can’t mess anything up if no one’s there to see it, so really, it’s a good thing, it’s—

It hits him, all-encompassing and overwhelming all at once.

Unwanted, thick and horrible and choking, the sensation of being traded out and traded off and stepped over, left behind and left out and laughed at in vicious whispers, closed doors and closed expressions and locking him out, like bars sliding down from the ceiling and cutting him off, trapped in place like an animal in the zoo, entertaining for a heartbeat than easily moved past for something better, unwanted and untrusted and alone, alone, alone again—

Adrien buckles and something howls in his ears, his hands burning as his fingers crunch through wood and his vision whites out.

For a heartbeat, Adrien isn’t Adrien — he’s the swelling of flames as fire catches light, he’s the pull of the undertow as it rips across the shore, he’s the blazing burst of lightning against metal, he’s on the edge of a cliff and stepping off—

And then he’s Adrien again, small and shaking and breathing in large, heaving gasps, trying desperately not to throw up all over the table.

“—drien, kid, Adrien, please!”

Adrien tears his hands from the table as if it’s shocked him. Black flecks drift from his fingers as they tremble, and Plagg splits into three as he flits in front of him, six pairs of green eyes staring at him in blazing concern.

“Plagg?” He barely recognizes his own voice, and his throat feels like sandpaper.

“Breathe,” Plagg orders as his image solidifies back to one, more serious than Adrien can remember him sounding. “You gotta breathe, Adrien.”

He does, in stuttering, shaky gasps, because Adrien will do anything Plagg asks him to. He’ll light himself on fire if he wanted, because Plagg is all he’s got.

Plagg is here, and that means more to Adrien than anything else could.

“Breathing,” he finally croaks out. “I’m — breathing, see? S’all good.”

It is most certainly not all good, because Adrien still feels like he got thrown off a building and into a blender, but Plagg almost looks frightened, looking from Adrien to the table to Adrien again, and—

Adrien freezes. The table. The stupidly, enormous, ridiculously expensive, lonely table his family’s supposed to use. The table he definitely, most certainly felt crunch under his hands.

Adrien follows Plagg’s gaze downwards, and suddenly feels like he’s going to throw up again.

“Oh,” he whispers.

Ice coats the inside of his chest, cold and creeping. The sidewalk. The mirrors, the studio camera, and now this.

“Adrien.” Plagg sounds so very serious.

He could explain most of it away. It’d be — it would be easy.

But this?

Adrien stares at the half-decayed table, ashes still flaking from the sides in a way that’s horribly distinctive of his cataclysm. A spiderwebbed path of smoldering destruction, all tracing back to where his fingers had been white-knuckled at the table’s edge.

Something snaps in the chandelier above him, cracking once and fizzling off into sparks.

It feels like something’s snapped in Adrien’s head. Maybe he’s lost it. Maybe he’s finally gone off the edge, and that — that can be his excuse, when Father asks him what, exactly, he did to the table. He can tell Father they’ve both lost it, they’ve both gone mad, and wouldn’t mom think this was all so funny—

A sound like a sob rips itself from his chest, before Adrien can strangle it into submission. He can’t lose it now. He can’t break down, he has to — he has to come up with a way to explain this, he has to find an escape, or Father’s going to be so angry, and so cold, and…and…

Adrien goes still. Like ice, numb and calming, he realizes he doesn’t have to worry about excuses. He doesn’t have to worry about any of that at all. No one’s coming. Not to check on him. The silence of the house is overpowering, the tiny patter of the vaporized table bits as they land on the floor almost thunderous.

“Adrien,” Plagg repeats, softer this time. “I need you to look at me.”

Slowly, he lifts his head, meeting Plagg’s bright green eyes with his own. Something in Plagg’s expression goes tight, a myriad of emotions flickering in his eyes before he schools them back into careful calm.

“Oh, kid.” Plagg’s voice is gentle. It still sounds like a lament.

Adrien tears his gaze away, swallowing. His fingers, still shaking, curl into unsteady fists. They feel odd, almost scalded. Adrien ignores it.

He can hide the table, he tells himself. He can fix the chandelier. No one will notice. He can hide this.

He’s Adrien Agreste.

He can deal with a couple of cracks in his facade.

#ml spoilers #miraculous ladybug #adrien agreste #nino's here as well #he's just not clogging up the fic with his internalizing like adrien is #ml season 4 spoilers #rocketear spoilers #i just have a lot of thoughts about the powers of destruction #and what that could mean potentially #if you weren't cowards mr astruc

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roger-that-cap · 4 years

Text

meet me in the gardens

summary: being the widow of a decently wealthy lord and sitting on a large plot of land automatically meant that you were a candidate for the program that you couldn’t say no to; the hosting. you had to sponsor a knight and keep them in your home for an entire year, which was troublesome enough on its own. but you never expected your knight to be a woman, and you certainly didn’t expect to have a full on illegal love affair with her, either.

knight!natasha x lady!reader

sort of royalty au (there’s social hierarchy and a king and queen and knights and commoners and all that so- yeah it’s a royalty au nvm lmao)

warnings: this is fluff, angst, uh, basically everything but smut and serious angst.

word count: 2.5k, starting off short before we get into this

part one!

also, to the very few people who look for fics up here- i promise i’m alive, sorry for being m.i.a! work and school are bodying me right now

A lot could change within a year.

In a year, one was expected to grow wiser and older, and for you, because you were a woman, prettier. And because you did all three of those things in one year, you were herded off like cattle from your small farm, where the old pig you would soon be forced to call “husband” had seen you in the first place, and carted away to his large estate. You were supposed to be his wife, bear his children, and love him unconditionally even though you knew nothing about him, and he was supposed to do not even half of that for you. He had chosen you purely because your father had an abundance of wheat and animals, and he thought you were nice looking. He would surely never go hungry if he had the owner of a relatively large farm’s daughter with him.

Regardless of his reasoning for wanting to make you his wife, it ended up happening. You cried yourself to sleep the night before, and when you were done consummating the horrid marriage, you cried after he fell asleep, unable to shut your own eyes. That was how you spent your first night at the female counterpart to your lord husband, and as Lady Mirellis.

The marriage was loveless. The only thing you got out of it was a nice roof over your head and some silky clothing that made you feel like you were betraying who you really were. He was a brute and a pig, and he hardly ever spoke to you other than to tell you to get on your back, your knees, or something else as equally vile. You were the lady of his large manor, considered a small castle, but that was all you were. You made friends with the staff around, and that made things just the tiniest bit better. He was still cruel and crude, still insanely aggravating, and getting more and more angry with each month that you weren’t carrying his child.

And then, all of a sudden, he grew ill. And, within a month after he fell ill, he died. And then you were a single woman who had a large estate to her name, and a growing line of suitors who wanted nothing more than to have their last names attached to the great patch of land. You were the lady of the house without a lord, still young and still capable of marriage. After a large fuss over whether or not a young woman from your background was fit to take over, you had inherited everything.

So, yes, a lot could change in a year. And you decided that the changes that took place in that year were ones that you could barely handle.

§§

You knew exactly what the letter with the King’s Seal on it was when it was put into your hand, and you very easily guessed the contents of it.

You supposed that you should have seen it coming. Miraculously, your late husband and lord had gotten out of the Hosting, which could have been seen as treasonous or dishonorable if he had been any less careful. You grew up on a farm, and you had no idea how to go about denying or questioning royal decree, so you weren’t going to. You were going to have to Host, for the first time in your life.

Your family was never important enough to have to do it, so you had no experience with it, other than knowing that a high up lord of a small castle, or big estate, whatever one wanted to call it, was in charge of having a knight in their home while the knight completed his year long training. The training was said to come from within, and the job of the knight was to be a good, honorable guest, and to come back to the castle after their year expired as a new and improved person.

But it was rare that they truly soul searched, you had heard. Mainly because they were ninety nine percent male and thought with their penises more than their brains and hearts. The Hosting was a knight’s last stop before true knighthood, more or less a time that humbled young knights. It was a test of the true intentions of a knight, the true desires of a man who wished for glory and authority.

“For you, Milady.” You grimaced inwardly at the title, the title that you used to have to call the lady that you used to bring barrels of hay to on Sunday mornings. You nodded at the young boy, a smile on your face. He was new, and it was clear that this was his first task that involved him to speak to a “higher up” person.

You patted his head. “Thank you,” you said, and his eyes widened comically before he laughed and ran away, obviously shocked by the way you spoke to him back.

It wasn’t against the law, but it was frowned upon for nobles to speak to servants more than necessary. A noble person was not required to have manners or ask kindly for things, and when they did, it was certainly an out of the ordinary experience. You knew that well enough.

You broke the red seal and took in a deep breath, going to sit at your late husband’s desk (that you of course inherited, as you inherited everything the man had) and finding your name in perfect and Royal handwriting.

Lady Mirellis,

As you know, the time for the selection of The Hosting has come. Your house was not a host during the previous Hosting, therefore, you will be required to sponsor a knight this year. Out of respect for your late husband and all he has done for me, I will choose a knight for you, a knight that I trust. You will be safe with my choice, and the year will flow smoothly. Once again, I am sorry for your loss.

Please expect your knight within the fortnight, Lady Mirellis.

With respect, King Anthony Stark.

§§

Two weeks later, your keep was buzzing. You hated hosting things, even if they were short dinners. And you knew that you were going to hate hosting a person for an entire year. A brand new knight who was full of himself, no less.

King Anthony had given you what he thought was going to be an easy charge for a reason. New knights were known for being rowdy, disgusting, perverted, and authoritative when they shouldn’t have been. No lady should ever have to deal with the crude words or behavior of a man—certainly not. And with you and your poor husband gone, that meant that no one was there to help you.

You appreciated the kindness, but it was obvious that every man thought that women were only an extension of their husbands. If you weren’t able to handle the loud voices and taunting shouts of men and boys, you would have melted or turned to dust by the time you were thirteen years old. If you had survived a man who carted you off and away from your family like you were cattle, you could handle a boy who was staying under your roof.

Nonetheless, your people were busy, and so were you. They were making accommodations to the largest guest room, because it was to be someone’s for an entire year. They were cleaning things that you never thought would be cleaned, washing random sheets and hanging them to dry. And you? You were making the welcoming package.

You had never made one before, but you were trying your hardest. It was more or less a care package to make the knight feel comfortable. It was a starter kit, so that they wouldn’t have to ask for much or seem unfit for knighthood, because it was all about pride. So help anyone above, you wouldn’t be dealing with a knight with a bruised ego.

“Men,” you scoffed out, rolling your eyes as you fluffed the silk pillowcase and folded the top of the woven basket over, closing in everything and tying the top with a bow.

“Y/N,” a woman’s voice called out, and you turned to it with a gentle smile.

Of course it was Wanda. Her and her brother were always by your side, ever since you had arrived at the keep. Pietro was the messenger boy for Lord Mirellis, because he was so fast on his feet. He delivered a message meant to go hundreds of leagues away and came back within days, when it would take others weeks. You liked Pietro a lot. He was a funny man, cheeky, but he knew his boundaries with people, whether they were lowborn or highborn. He had the same amount of respect for everything, and you admired that about him.

Wanda however, was your favorite person in the castle. She was the first kind face that you saw when you walked into the keep. She was the first person to actually ask you if you wanted help being dressed or brushing your hair. She was able to see that you needed help with your corset before you even asked. There were so many trivial things that Wanda did for you that made you so loyal to the friendship you shared, but there was one thing you were sure to never forget.

She had been the one to help you out of bed after a rough consummation night. She was also the only woman who had offered you even a sliver of sympathy, and for that, she was your greatest ally, and on a deeper level, a true friend.

You had barely even seen her for more than five minutes before you woke up in bed by yourself the morning after that horrid night, crying silent tears and feeling sore between your legs. A knock sounded on the door, and instead of her turning away and apologizing for coming in on such an improper moment, she shut the door and asked you if you needed help, without any fear of being scolded. Wanda Maximoff was different. That’s why you liked her so much.

She was standing beside you as you waited, even though waiting for a knight was somewhat improper. You were supposed to wait inside and have them knock on your castle door, and you were to welcome them inside and have a warm dinner ready. That was how it was always supposed to go, but you decided not to do that.

You were standing outside, like the lady you had been forced to become. Your chin was slightly lifted and your hands were at your sides, even though you were desperate to fiddle with your thumbs. You took in a deep breath as you heard the sound of a carriage coming, horses and the chatter of men getting louder with each passing moment.

You would be a liar if you said that you weren’t scared to have a man in your house that you didn’t know. Not only would he be a man, but he would be a man that knew how to do things that most didn’t, such as how to properly wield a sword. You were a woman alone, a widow to a lord, and people had tried things with you before, ever since your husband had died. Most of the time, those things ended up with their hands being cut off as the legal and unyielding punishment for their attempted crimes.

“No one here is going to let a stupid knight hurt you, you know.” Pietro had come out of nowhere, chest puffed out as he looked to his sister for a moment, and then back at you. “Wanda is practically with you every second of every day, and I’m never too far.” It was true. There were guards around, as well, but you were still scared.

“If you don’t like it this year, you can always say no next year.” Wanda offered, but you whined under your breath when you remembered that this was no visit. The man would be living with you for an entire year. “And King Anthony said he would be giving you a man he trusted to sleep under your roof. I trust his word.”

“As do I,” you said quickly, ringing out your hands one last time before the carriage got closer. “I’ll be fine, you two. Thank you.” And they knew just how grateful you were for them.

The carriage was being pulled by two white horses, both looking around carelessly and cluelessly as the coachman pulled them to a stop. “Lady Mirellis,” he said, looking you up and down, clearly judging you for not yielding to tradition. “It is very kind of you to meet us outside.”

“I thought it may be easier to begin the tour early,” you said, remembering at the last moment to school your voice into sounding ladylike. The stark difference between your public voice and the one that you spoke to Wanda and Pietro with always made Wanda smile a bit, and you knew that you would have laughed if you were looking at her. “I don’t want to give my new guest too large of a culture shock. I am not quite sure if he would appreciate being hoarded inside a place he hasn’t seen before.”

The coachman gave you an odd look, almost like he wasn’t understanding what you were saying. Or maybe, why you were saying it. But, he knew that because of your status, your word outweighed his, and he would do as you said. Your heart was beating nearly out of your chest as you watched him climb out of his chair and walk around, and you saw his hand wrap around the handle of the white and gold carriage.

There was a flash of brilliant red. That was all you saw at first, and then you saw shiny armor, glinting in the sun. Your eyes trailed up from the shoes that you knew were crafted specifically for knights, up to the legs and then to the breastplate, which you noticed was curved outwards. Your brows furrowed as your eyes got stuck in that place, and you willed yourself to believe that it was a trick of the eyes. There was a pinch on your arm, and you realized that you had been staring without speaking for much too long. In your embarrassment, your eyes flickered up to meet the man’s, and then, you nearly choked.

The knight was no man at all.

*****

so this is a series! this idea has been cooking up in my head for a while now, and i figured it was finally time to go through with it! i’m really excited about this one, and i’ve already got most of it planned out. i hope you guys liked this!

also- if you would like to be tagged, you are free to ask! (bold of me to assume that any of y’all want a notif for this bye 😭) please interact with this if you liked it, it makes me so happy and motivated to hear from you guys!

#natasha x female reader #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanov fluff #natasha romanov x reader #knight au #marvel au #marvel fanfiction #my fics #natasha romanoff series #knight!natasha #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff x reader

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