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from-a-reckless-writer · 3 years

Note

RE: the tags about being tempted to post a half finished fic and guess the ending, well you are a reckless writer for a reason

this is long overdue, so here have a fic.

It has come to the point that nothing fazes her anymore.

A kidnapping? Been there, done that. It means calling Sam Arias to intimidate the board of members into temporary submission.

An explosion at the office? Just a typical Tuesday. It means relocating to the 23rd floor and sharing the desk with two other interns for 2 months tops.

An assassination attempt? It means bracing herself for at least 3 deliveries of donuts and coffee for the two following weeks that Kara Danvers would be protectively hovering over L-Corp, until her boss snaps and shoos her away back to CatCo.

She’s seen it all, endured it all and she sure as hell is prepared for it all. She’s got three different ironclad statements ready to publish for whatever PR disaster will most likely turn up that week. She’s got contacts from the FBI, DEO, CatCo, Daily Planet, Gotham Gazette-- hell she even has Lillian’s personal cell (just in case the Luthor matriarch ever tries anything y’know? ) and yes, even the number of that 'Mexican place at 5th and Spring, you know the one Kara likes, Jess?'

She’s got two pairs of heels, a raincoat and four sets of outfits neatly folded in a duffel bag, at the back of the office, reserved for any emergency that requires a change of clothes.

The point is, she is an independent Asian-American woman who has worked her ass off for the better part of the decade and has long learned to take no shit from anybody.

Not even stupid superpowered Kryptonians.

See, it takes a lot to be her. It takes unlimited patience to put up with a woman like Lena Luthor, not because she’s a terrible person. Oh no, no, the complete opposite, actually. She is so overwhelmingly kind to a fault, and she doesn’t want nor let anybody see it. It’s infuriating to see sometimes. Okay, fine, she sides with the Krytonian on that one matter. But oh, ho, ho, not today. Today, she’s mad.

She’s livid, actually and it’s all Supergirl’s fault. (and Lena Luthor's too.)

Jess has had her fair share of ‘I-Should-Not-Have-Been-Here’ moments, like that one time she forgot to knock and stumbled unto Lex mid-yell with Lena whose eyes were shimmering but was still keeping a rigid posture.

Or that one time when she thought her boss had long left the office, only to be greeted with quiet sobs and an empty bottle of scotch rolling on the floor. Or that time she happened upon Lena, skirt and sleeves on fire with fumes rising from a green solution.

Apparently, her staff from the lab refused to let her in after three days of their CEO holding herself in isolation with the experiment. Lena had gotten the great idea of smuggling the chemicals to her office instead. Luthors are nothing but determined. Jess still remembers the adrenaline rush of holding a fire extinguisher—as if she were the chosen 5th grader for a school fire drill—and shoving her boss out of the way.

Like she said, nothing fazes her anymore she’s seen it all, except maybe, this one. Yep, definitely this one. This one just made a hot ball of fury unfurl at her very core. This one might just take the cake.

Jess was just going about her day, returned from a hearty lunch and feeling reinvigorated from that dose of sunlight and fresh air. It was a quiet day today, she noticed, which should’ve been a foretelling.

Nothing really is ever quiet. Well, when it comes to L-Corp, at least.

She’s been sitting on her desk for about a good fifteen minutes and finished with screening a few papers from their new contractors, when it occurs to her that the latest blueprints from R&D are still on her desk instead of already being reviewed by her boss.

She grabs the drawing tube and quickly makes for her boss’s private office. They’ve spent enough time with each other that Jess could just come and go as she pleases, instead of having to knock each time. Saves both of their time, that way.

Although, usually, she buzzes through the intercom first to double check, but it was 1:20 P.M and she knows Lena doesn’t have anything scheduled after lunch. So, she pushes the door, confidently strolls in and promptly stops in her tracks.

Jess stops breathing for a moment, blinks once, twice, stares at the scene before her.

Lena Luthor sat atop her work desk; blouse open, eyes closed, cheeks flushed, neck currently being ravaged by Supergirl with legs wrapped around the waist.

She probably should’ve just turned and left while they haven’t seen her yet. That would’ve been the smart decision, right? Yes. Yes, it was so very clearly The Right Decision.

Of course, she doubts she could look Lena in the eye for the next few weeks after that, but at least she wouldn’t know that Jess walked in on them during an er- make-out session? Office tryst? Oh God, she shudders internally. It sounds even worse.

Incident? Yep. Yeah. She’s sticking with incident. Indecent incident sounds more apt really.

She should’ve left. Would have left, if her eyes didn’t just land on the desk—well, more like Miss Luthor’s as- backside—and felt the stirrings of rage make itself known. Because there, underneath Lena’s ass (Backside!! Jess, that’s your boss!) is the squished—probably crumpled—pages of a contract.

A contract they’ve spent 5 months securing!!

Jess decides to do what everyone else would have done in a situation such as this; she clears her throat. Loudly.

Classic move.

Supergirl’s head immediately shoots up and Lena’s eyes snap open.

“Jess!” Supergirl squeaks and she sees the exact moment the realization hits Lena. Her eyes widening at her girlfriend’s exclamation, whips her head to the side, spots Jess, hands scrambling to a panic to close all the buttons of her blouse.

She hears Lena hiss, “Fuck, shit. Oh my God. Shit. How did she even- You have superhearing!!!” as she pushes Supergirl—who lets herself be pushed, stunned by the intrusion, face redder than a tomato.

Lena gets off the desk, fixes herself all the while to futile results. Her hair is tugged down from her usual ponytail, her neck and chest is marked, her lips swollen.

Supergirl's hands twitch at the sides and Jess sees her gulp as blue eyes frantically dart to Lena and her, and then Lena, and then back to her.

Lena finally turns around after those few awkward beats.

"Jess," she begins, clearly trying hard to put on her business bitch persona, but come on, there's a hickey under her jaw for fuck's sake.

"It's not what you-"

Jess doesn’t let her finish, she stomps her way across the office and forcefully puts the drawing tube on the desk. It makes a hollow thump.

“Jess I-”

“Supergirl, do you know how long it takes to finalize a business proposal, pitch it to the board, persuade the board and finally have a contract drawn?”

Supergirl gulps again. Lena’s eyes are wild next to her, she doesn’t like not knowing what the next best move is, Jess knows this all too well.

“Uhhh- no?”

Jesus Christ, you’d think after years of shadowing Cat Grant, she'd had at least learned a thing or two. Then again, if somebody is full on glaring at her after getting caught red-handed, Jess doubts she could answer coherently too.

“That’s right,” Jess says, “You don’t.”

“Jess,” Lena repeats pointedly. She knows that tone. It’s a warning.

“Ms. Luthor.”

A period not a question mark. It’s a challenge.

"I've spent all my evenings working late on that, do you know how many dates I've had to cancel? Just so I can secure a meeting with Qatar and simultaneously sync it with Beijing's time? My boyfriend hasn't seen me in two weeks!” Jess bursts out.

“Two weeks, Supergirl!” She gets close enough to jab a finger to the Girl of Steel’s chest. A feat she will gladly tell all her coworkers later when she’s calmed down enough.

“Not to mention, the 10 other people who worked their ass off trying to make sure that Miss Luthor's presentation is airtight, bulletproof and waterproof!” Lena has the decency to look a little guilty at this point, nothing big though, just a slight tug at her lips, but it was enough for Jess.

“IT TOOK ME 3 FUCKING MINUTES TO PRINT THAT GODDAMN CONTRACT WHICH MIGHT NOT SOUND LONG—” Jess raises a finger in emphasis, “BUT BELIEVE ME WORKING IN L-CORP? A 3 MINUTE DIFFERENCE CAN MEAN AN ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT OR PSYCHOPATH PRESS!”

Supegirl of all people should already know this! For fuck’s sake!

Jess’s chest is heaving. She takes a deep breath, kneads her knuckles to her eyelids, “So, please if you're gonna have sex in the office, please, pleaseeeee clear the desk first. And at least, lock the door.”

She stares them both down, till Lena gives her a solemn nod; cheeks and ears still red. Supergirl squeaks out an, “U-understood, Ma’am.”

“Good. Glad we’ve come to an agreement.” Jess gives them one final nod before finally fulfilling what she came in here to do, “Miss Luthor,” She turns to Lena, “here are the R&D blueprints. Good day, to you Supergirl. I'll be going now. "

When she finally goes home, tells her boyfriend, and wonders aloud if she’ll still have a job the next morning, he tells her she’s such a badass.

And well, Jess can’t disagree with that.

*****

"Did I just- Did I just get yelled at by your secretary?? D-did she just chew us out?"

"She did, and she deserves a raise."

#i call this fic how many commas can i use in one sentence?#i think this is by far the most crack thing ive written #poor jess #in this house we worship and praise jess the secretary and her thrity second cameo in that ONE scene #if u see a typo no u didnt #the reckless writer writes #a supercorp ficlet of sorts

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pengychan · 4 years

Text

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt 21

Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T

[All chapters up are tagged as ‘fake priest au’ on my blog.]

A/N: First off, unlike Ernesto, I gotta give some credit! The song that features in this chapter was written by @eldathe, who has a gift I sorely lack (but whom I'll definitely not murder for it). Also, @lunaescribe wrote the bulk of the scene in which Ernesto and John discuss the scriptures. I only made some minor edits with her permission (watch and learn, Ernesto). Art is by @swanpit, who is a gift as always!

***

“So it… worked? It actually worked?”

“Why the surprise? I told you I could sell it.”

Sofía made a point to cross her arms and look just a little insulted, but she didn’t really put a lot of effort in it: relief was too great. Sure, she had been pretty certain she’d managed to back the gringo into a corner and force him to keep the secret, but she couldn’t entirely discount the chance he’d decide screwing Ernesto over was more important.

“Right, right-- you did a great job,” Héctor replied, laughing a little in sheer glee. “Well, it’s sorted! We’re safe!”

Imelda rolled her eyes. “From the Federales, yes. Not from boredom now that Juan will be the one to say mass.”

“Let’s be honest, Sunday mass was never a party when Padre Edmundo led it, and we somehow survived.”

“Fair enough.”

“Huh, Ernesto? Why the long face?” Héctor spoke up, blinking. Now that he mentioned, Ernesto did rather look like he’d just announced Juan had opted to personally hang him in the plaza first thing after the evening mass.

As a response, Ernesto made a face. “He wants me to study the Bible.”

“Well, there are worse punishments--”

“And learn Latin.”

“... Ah.”

“Oh.”

“My condolences.”

“Would you like me to send a telegram now for the Federales to come pick you up at their earliest convenience?”

Ernesto scoffed. “You know, this is the part where you’re supposed to be telling me Latin is not too bad.”

“But it is,” Héctor said, matter-of-factly.

“What, you’d have me lie to you?” Sofía gasped in moc horror, hand to her mouth. “Me? A nun?”

“... I hate all of you,” Ernesto informed them, only to yelp and laugh when Héctor threw an arm around his shoulders and ruffled his carefully combed hair.

“Ay, don’t be like that. We survived it, and you will too,” he declared. “But I have just the thing that will make you feel better!”

“You managed to sneak in a bottle of tequila?”

“Better - I have an idea for a new song, and I know you’re going to love it.”

“Hah! If I’m left with any free time for music now.”

“Well, Juan is going to be busy, no? Saying mass and confessing and whatnot. He can’t be watching you all the time,” Héctor pointed out, and patted his shoulder. “... It’s good to know you’re safe.”

Ernesto chuckled, reaching up to fix his hair. “We all are.” The rest of the sentence - for now - hung unspoken in the air, but none of them said anything. In the end, it was Héctor to speak.

“Well-- I’ll go looking for Miguel. I need to talk to him. And don’t you think I forgot you also owe him an apology,” he added, jabbing a finger against Ernesto’s chest before he was off... though not without giving Imelda a dreamy smile as he left the room. Ernesto scoffed.

“What, is apologizing is my new job now?” he called out, but none of them bothered to reply.

***

Héctor found Miguel at the stream, throwing flat rocks over the water and trying to make them bounce all the way down to the bridge while Dante jumped in the water over and over again, trying to catch them in mid-air and failing miserably.

The chamaco was breaking the rules in several ways - skipping his laundry duty day, staying out past the time he was allowed to be out, and in a place where he was not supposed to be - but Héctor wasn’t about to give him a lecture now that he had to try and extend the olive branch.

… Oh, who was he kidding, he wouldn’t have given a lecture under any circumstances. He walked up right behind Miguel, grinned, and strummed his guitar with a grito.

“Ayyyyyyy!”

“GAH!”

Miguel jumped a couple of feet up in the air, almost landing in the stream right along with Dante; the only reason why he didn’t was that Héctor reached out to grasp the back of his shirt quickly enough to spare him an unplanned bath.

“Careful, chamaco!” he laughed, pulling him back onto solid ground. “My new song may need a little polishing, but it’s not so bad to jump in the stream over.”

Miguel blinked, taken aback, then grinned. “A new song? What is--” he exclaimed, only to trail off. He made a face, crossing his arms. “I’m still mad at you.”

Héctor sighed. “I know, I know. I’m sorry I didn’t keep my word, Miguel, but it wasn’t a secret I could sit on. I had to make sure Santa Cecilia was not in danger.”

“Ernesto is not dangerous,” Miguel protested, but ay, Héctor would hear the slight hesitation in his voice, notice how quickly he averted his gaze. He frowned.

“Miguel…?”

“I just-- he was really mad that I told you. He yelled at me, hit Dante - I mean, he did growl at him, but…” he bit his lower lip. “He said he should have let me drown the day we met.”

He said what, Héctor thought. I’m going to kick his ass, he thought. With an immense effort, he managed to let neither of those thoughts show.

“He is sorry, and he will apologize,” he said instead. He’d better, or else. “He was under a lot of pressure, and said things he didn’t mean. He-- we were afraid word got out.”

Miguel looked back up at him, alarmed. Héctor, the nuns and everyone else had done their best to shield children from the harsh reality that was the ongoing war outside Santa Cecilia, but any child could tell that would have been bad, bringing the Federales down on Ernesto and Santa Cecilia like wolves on cattle.

“What? But it didn’t, right? It wasn’t me, I told no one else but you, I swear--”

Héctor smiled. “No, it was a false alarm. All is well,” he promised, and strummed the guitar again. “And I have the new song. Want to be the first to hear it, chamaco?”

It had been a while since Héctor had the time to write a new song, even longer since Miguel had been the first to get to hear it, and the thought was clearly enough to chase away the lingering fear and anger. “What is it called?”

“Cómo está tu Padre - it’s about Ernest-- Padre Ernesto and Padre Juan.”

Miguel bit his lower lip. “Padre Ju-- John is not too bad,” he declared.

“Oh?”

“He talked to me. Put in a good word for you when I was mad.”

Well. With how their recent interactions had gone, that was not something Héctor had expected to hear. “Oh. Well then, I suppose I’ll thank him for that.”

“The song isn’t too mean to him, is it?”

Héctor’s smile turned a bit sheepish. “Not excessively. Just some light-hearted fun.”

Miguel seemed thoughtful for a few moments, then he clearly decided it wouldn’t be too bad - or, more likely, that being decent for once was not enough to make up for the huge pain in the neck the gringo had been in the past few days. He perched up on a rock while Dante climbed out of the stream, a rock in his mouth, and flopped in the dirt at Miguel’s feet.

Ah, there was the public. Héctor cleared his throat. “When you're a Man of God, the people come to you to check in on the church…” he spoke, and strummed the guitar before singing.

“As I walk through the plaza, A señora comes my way From her lips falls a question Cómo está tu Padre? Ay, now what do I say? The Church of Santa Cecilia Watches with cynicism An American man hell-bent on Sharing blanco egoisms. Lone, he thinks he's the one! To have Divine Right to bear down on! He'll show dismay When his own way, Can't stay long. Such is life, with Padre-”

***

“John--!”

“Don’t John me. It’s Father Johnson, and you’ve had your break, Ernest. Now, read aloud--”

“It was three hours ago!”

The protest gained Ernesto a single, insufferable arched eyebrow from the gringo sitting across the table. He had his own Bible open, which looked… significantly more beat up than last time Ernesto had seen it.

“Oh, no,” he said flatly. “Three straight hours of study. No man has ever endured such torment.”

“Well, it is more than enough for me!”

“Unsurprising, considering you seem to be barely literate in Spanish--”

“Hey! I can read, write and do maths, for your information--”

“-- But if you are to learn any Latin before the end of days comes--”

“-- And I can read music sheets! Can you read music sheets?”

The gringo sighed and shook his head. “Not that it is relevant, but as a matter of fact, I received piano lessons as a boy,” he said. His expression, like that of a man who sucked on a lemon, made Ernesto suspect they had not gone too well. “Now, I ask you to focus until at least the end of the page.” He pushed the book back towards Ernesto. “Go ahead, translate the next part.”

Holding back a groan, Ernesto looked back down at the page. If he did what he asked, maybe they would be done soon. “All right, so, uh. Pray for us sinners, which is ora pro nobi--”

“Nobis.” Juan - since using his real name got him no leniency, may as well keep calling him that - cut him off for the eleventh time in the past five minutes. “It is nobis. Which case is that?”

“Uhhh… ab… gen...” Ernesto glanced up, trying to gauge his reaction.

All he got was a raised eyebrow. Again. He was more and more tempted to rip those ridiculous stripes of yellow hair off his face. "Think. Nos, nostri or nostrum, nobis. Nominative, genitive…?"

Something clicked in Ernesto’s head. “Oh! Dative! That would be dative, right?”

An approving nod. “Dative plural, correct. Now, what else did you get wrong?”

Ernesto looked back down at the page, trying not to think that if he’d just let him call the Federales he would now be hanging by the neck from a tree and none of this would be his problem anymore. “Peccatoris?” he guessed.

“Exactly. Peccatoris is genitive singular of peccator, first of all, so at least you didn’t entirely make it up. But in the sentence it refers to nobis, which means it must be…?”

Ernesto gave him a blank look. Juan sighed, but did not lose his nerve. “Think of the same sentence in Spanish - ruega por nosotros pecadores. Why not ‘nostros pecadora’?”

“Because nostros is plural and pecadora is singular. And feminine.”

“And what is the issue there?”

Well, that was a dumb question even a kid could answer. “That it’s got to match.” Ernesto frowned, thinking it over, and-- oh. Oh. “Wait. It’s got to match nobis, so-- dative plural as well?”

A nod, something that almost resembled a smile. “Very well,” Juan conceded, and Ernesto grinned. There, that wasn’t too bad, after a-- “And that would be?”

“Huh?”

“Dative plural of peccator. What is it?”

Ah. “Er… peccatorum?

"That’s genitive."

“Peccatores?”

“Nominative. Or accusative, could be either.”

“Uuuugh.” Ernesto let out a groan, and his head dropped on the desk with a distinct thunk. He could almost hear a smirk in Juan’s voice when he spoke again.

“Peccatores, peccatorum, peccatoribus,” he said, taking a cigarette out of the case. “Ora pro nobis peccatoribus. We’ll go through the third declension again before we call it a night.”

“What-- you said this was the last page!”

“I asked you to focus enough to finish it, didn’t say it’d be the last. You clearly need more prac--”

“It’s almost two in the morning!”

“Then we better be quick.”

Forehead still pressed on the desk, Ernesto groaned. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

“Not without a clear conscience, which is to say not until I’ve done my duty,” Juan replied, and pushed a notebook full of notes in front of Ernesto again. “It’s not difficult. You need to memorize it and, with enough practice, it will come naturally. You should have an edge on me there.”

Was he mocking him? Ernesto raised an eyebrow himself. “... Do I now?”

“Spanish is one of the closest languages to Latin, whereas English has different roots. It was difficult for me to pick up Latin at first. You’re doing quite--” he paused, stopping short of saying ‘well’. “... Passably, for someone entirely ignorant.”

“Hey!” Ernesto protested. He may not be a bookworm, or a scholar, but that was going too far.

“It is not meant as an insult. It comes from Latin ignorare, which simply means ‘not to know’--”

Ernesto dropped his head back on the table, and rather wished the Federal Army would come to put him out of his misery sooner rather than later.

***

“So, we’re marching south?”

“Jesus Christ, we have literally just arrived, I was hoping we could rest…”

“We will, I think they said we’re not going for at least another week--”

“Two weeks. If you’re going to eavesdrop, at least do it properly,” a voice suddenly spoke up, causing the gathered soldiers to wince and turn.

“Commander Hernández!”

“We were just, uh, we--”

“I was not eavesdropping, I only… er… walked by, and… sort of… overheard what they were telling you...”

The newly appointed Commander Santiago Hernández waved a hand, clearly unbothered by the very obvious lie, and they all breathed a little more easily that no punishment would be doled out. That was something they appreciated about Hernández, even though they didn’t know him well: he had been one of them until recently, when his actions in Veracruz and his show of loyalty in refusing discharge had gained him a promotion. He was above them, but didn’t flaunt it nearly as much as others would.

“It will be announced soon, so it is no secret,” he was saying. “Our battalion will remain here for a further week or two, in case reinforcements are needed around Mexico City, but it seems unlikely the current standstill will break. Once we receive the all-clear, we finally head south.”

That word - finally - sounded like a sigh of relief, and the men exchanged a few glances. It was no mystery that Commander Hernández had been itching to lead them down south for a good while, growing increasingly frustrated with the skirmishes and changing tactics that kept them in their current position. He was hellbent on finding a deserter who had shot a friend of his and had fled south, which was understandable but… a touch loco, really.

South is a very vague hint to finding a man who had run off months earlier. This Ernesto de la Cruz may have joined the rebels or been killed by them, died in the desert he’d escaped into, be hiding into some hole or even have crossed the border into Guatemala or British Honduras; chances of running into him were slim to none.

But of course, none of them was foolish to say as much aloud in his presence.

“This will be no stroll in the park,” the Commander was going on. “We will need to get through Zapata’s territory to get there, but it is necessary. We cannot let them push their control all the way to Veracruz and cut the country in two. We will have reinforcements for that part.”

“... And after that?”

“After that, the battalion splits. Some units will go towards Yucatán, while I will lead you towards Oaxaca and then down to Chiapas. There are some very active rebel groups in both regions who support Zapatistas, but few enough they can be dealt with. There is belief they have widespread support among the civilian population, and that is what we need to crush.”

If Commander Hernández noticed any of his men shifting uncomfortably, he pretended not to. His voice was cold, his eyes unyielding, the world reduced to friends to fight alongside with and enemies to be destroyed.

No, not friends - comrades. Santiago Hernández had no friends, not anymore. The last he had left were shot dead, by a deserter and by Americans. His fellow soldiers could show him obedience, show him respect and even camaraderie, but there was no one left to show him friendship.

And no one left who could talk reason into him.

***

“Since he rode in with swagger And a crass sort of charm, His unconventional ideas Keep our town safe from harm He draws in crowds To the church, old and young Quick to bestow, He'll make his blessings come We were fatherless, and Hey, presto! We were gifted with Padre-”

“Miguel.”

“-- Huh? No, Ernest-- gah!” Miguel let out a yelp, trying with very little success to hide the guitar behind his back and acutely aware of the fact the small crowd of children who’d been listening to him was dispersing very quickly; out of the corner of the eye, he could see Óscar and Felipe leaping over a fence like thoroughbred horses. Within moments the only ones in the yard were himself and Dante, with Father John towering over them.

… Well, at least he didn’t look too mad. Only rather tired. Miguel was suddenly very glad he’d decided to only sing the part about Ernesto and not the bit about him. Even so, seeing children shrieking and running off when he approached probably was… not very nice. Miguel gave a smile he hoped would come across as charming but that was actually very, very sheepish.

“Hola, Father John,” he said, making sure to pronounce his name as correctly as he could. The priest’s thin lips curled for a moment in something reasonably close to a smile.

“Hola, Miguel. That was… an interesting song.”

“It was just… just a bit of fun.” Miguel shifted a little, hoping he wouldn’t find out about the rest of it, or who had written it. Thankfully, the gingo didn’t prod for more details.

“... I do apologize. It was not my intention to spoil your fun. I am searching for my Bible - I seem to have lost it,” Father John said, letting his gaze wander around the yard, on the low stone wall and the few benches - but there was no sign of a Bible anywhere. “It is quite old and ruined, but it has a sentimental value. Could you spread the word and let me know if you find it?”

Ah. “Of course. I can go look for it. I will now,” Miguel spoke quickly, and turned to leave - but Father John spoke first, causing him to pause.

“... You do miss Father Ernest, I gather,” he said, and well… there was no point in lying there. Ernesto had even apologized to him for snapping, as Héctor said he would, even though he’d offered no explanation, and Miguel had accepted the apology. So all was well now… right?

“We kinda miss him at Mass,” he admitted. “I know you said he’s busy with other things, and-- I like how you say Mass,” Miguel added quickly, hoping he had not noticed how he’d almost dozed off and dropped the incense the previous Sunday. “It’s just-- well-- you know--”

“It’s all right, I understand. I’ll ask him to say Mass this Sunday,” he said calmly, and walked back to the church. As he watched him go, more of Héctor’s song echoed in Miguel’s head.

Like oil and water Their teamwork does seem strained And so I often am questioned Cómo está tu Padre?

***

Father John Johnson lit his next cigarette against his best judgment.

He normally practiced more restraint, even with a vice, especially considering rolling papers and tobacco felt like something immoral to spend his small allowance on in such hard times. That, and it was the last in his tin - which meant that in order to get more he’d have to go on an unpleasant trek up the hill, to the small stand on the edge of town, with the little gruff man who clearly overcharged and quipped about John reminding him of Spaniard colonizers each time.

John’s family was actually of Dutch ancestry - not a drop of Spanish blood as far as he was aware - but it was a fight John had decided not to pick. He’d just take the scathing remark and be content that the man wouldn’t go telling the rest of the town that the gringo priest bought tobacco from him. By far not his most shameful secret, but still one he’d tried to keep hidden.

“And what’s the point of that anymore,” John mused aloud, leaning back against a tree.

As much as he’d tried to avoid the thought, he feared his worse sin would leak to this town sooner or later, due to Ernest’s continued existence here. Granted, the man had all the more reason to keep John’s secret now that his own had been found out, but a slip of the tongue was all it would take.

And if that happened, well, he would no longer have to worry about keeping his smoking habit hidden. Who’d be bothered by a priest having a penchant for foul-smelling habits when it’s common knowledge he has an even stronger penchant for men in his bed? Perhaps Brother Hector would write a song about that, too. The thought terrified him, knotting up his stomach, and yet he couldn’t hold back a bitter laugh before he took another drag.

Such thoughts circling endlessly in his mind were part of the reason for his irresponsible rationing of cigarettes, along with Ernest’s gauche behavior ever since he showed divine and priestly mercy.

That morning’s breakfast had made him nearly reconsider indulging Sister Sophie’s plea for Ernest’s pitiful life. The man had been edging toward familiarity ever since John had given him the gift of mercy allowing him to remain in the parish, so long as he did his best to behave like a real priest so no one else learned his secret - which meant listening when John assigned him scripture to study, so his sermons no longer consisted of him improvising stories he thought he remembered from childhood.

Even so, he regretted allowing Ernest to occasionally say mass to keep people from questioning the change. It took all the restraint in John’s body not to stand up in the middle of mass that day to correct him that Jesus never ‘set a temple on fire for revenge’ and certainly did not ‘condone’ arson in the ‘right situation’. Indeed, John 2:14 was his first assignment for that little mishap.

Clearly, the lesson Ernest had taken from it was not precisely the one John had hoped he would. Instead he seemed quite coy at breakfast declaring loudly to all the sisters and impressionable Hector how reexamining the bible was such a ‘good reminder’ that Jesus simply ‘doesn’t care much if we sin!’.

“He was a bit of a hell-raiser himself! A rebel!”

Each phrase announced with a strongly targeted grin toward John in an obvious attempt to excuse his own behavior, which nearly caused John to flip a table himself. But he had shown restraint, and channeled that anger into what was now his last cigarette, which he would attempt to savor as slowly as possible.

“There you are!”

The voice burst seemingly from nowhere, causing him to yelp. “Lord have mercy!”

John startled, nearly dropping the cigarette and turning to glare up at that man. In response, he just grinned.

“I thought you had better reflexes than that,” Ernest began, the forced friendliness and warmth radiating off him just as strongly as it had during breakfast. He either wanted something from him, perhaps more foul carnal acts - in which case he would be sorely disappointed - or was trying to make sure his little stunt that morning hadn’t cost him John’s silence and mercy.

John inhaled, his voice coming out strained with fragile control. “I have… given you respite, patience, and lessons. I can not fathom a reason you must accost me in private when I have been explicit that unless it is in the parish for lessons we are not to--”

Ernest didn’t seem to be listening: the next moment he was plopping into the grass beside him, leaning on another side of the tree. “I know, I know,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m not going to take up much time, it’s just that you rather rudely ran off at breakfast--”

“You cannot fathom how close I was to strangling you over the nonsense you were spouting, you should count yourself lucky that I left--”

“But,” Ernest cut him off, “you left before I made my point about my, uh, study of scriptures.”

“I’m not grading you,” John replied flatly.

“I am aware. But I think I found something that could bring you, uh…” a vague gesture. “I just think it’d be something you’d like. I don’t think what you-- we are is such a big deal. In case you missed it--”

Missed it - now that was nothing short of an insult, and John’s composure broke. “I’m the real priest, Ermest - what could you possibly teach me that I don’t know about scripture!” he barked. Ernest didn’t even flinch, but lifted a Bible he’d seemingly pulled out of nowhere. Had he kept it hidden under his robes for a dramatic reveal just now?

“What, don’t like to think I can get something you didn’t?” Ernest made a face. “I am pretty smart, if I say so myself. Even you admitted I’m getting the hang of Latin.”

His boldness was coming back each day he awoke to see John had not yet cast him out it seemed. “Pride is a sin,” John muttered, making an effort not to release a slew of profanity he would have to confess to - God knew who to, since he was the only priest in the village. Instead, he pressed the cigarette between his lips and inhaled as though the smoke was oxygen.

Ernest shrugged. “Anyway. I’ll have you know that according to Romans 3:23--”

“Yes, yes. ‘For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God’,” John replied without missing a beat. “I’m well aware. Is this a case to prove why you deserve full forgiveness and a return to--”

“Well, if you shut your mouth and let me finish, maybe you’ll see.”

Oh, John would love to be a pettier man, to make some empty threat about changing his mind to get Ernest on his toes again. But, well… God was watching, and he’s sinned enough lately. Far more than enough.

“Well then,” Ernest was going on. “Since he’s saying we’re all sinners, there’s no reason to feel particularly bad if we--”

“Priest. I’m a priest,” John cut him off again, stressing the words just enough to remind Ernest that he was not one, regardless of the cloth he wore.

“Huh?” He seemed honestly confused. “I know you’re--”

“Do you just keep forgetting priests are on another level of standard than--”

“Cálmese one minute, will you?”

“I am calm!” John snapped. “But if you don’t cease blaspheming, I’ll have you study so much--”

“So anyway,” Ernest barreled on before he could be scolded for the disrespect. “That verse reminded me of one I heard as a boy, and it took some digging to find it, has anyone ever thought of alphabetizing this thing?”

“This thing would be the Holy Bible, it would be appreciated if you showed some respect towards the Word of--”

“Anyway, it was a Psalm,” Ernest continued, clearly having made a habit of not acknowledging John’s attempts at educating him that day. “And it went, ‘for you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made - your works are wonderful’, and so on, right? God made us and all that, and makes no mistakes. You told me - and I’ve watched - you tried everything to avoid these desires, so… why would God make a mistake with you?”

John was silent for a moment; it mirrored a touch too closely to the argument Father Joseph had given him years ago. Shaking off the alarm, he turned his gaze on Ernest’s face for the first time in the conversation. “You have mistaken the Devil’s influence for divine design.”

“Didn’t you tell me you’d felt this way since you were a child - an innocent?”

“I was not that young, I was…” Almost a man, he’d thought then, but looking back now… oh, he truly had been barely more than a child. Something ached in John’s chest and throat, and he swallowed before speaking. “The devil, he… he works in deceitful ways.”

“Me too, you know.”

John scoffed. “Yes, you certainly do work in deceitful ways too, but that is no reason--”

“No, I mean-- being like that. As a boy.”

Ah. John fell silent, and turned back to Ernest. His hands were crossed, and he looked… uncharacteristically uneasy, no longer looking at him. “Even before my… experiences in, uh…” a sigh. “I said it was seminary, but of course that was not it.”

“Where…?”

“In the army. Overall unpleasant.” A bitter chuckle, but he didn’t elaborate. “But well before then, I would look at men. Other boys, really, well before I knew what sodomy was. Like you, correct?”

John had only ever looked that way at one boy when so young, but the memory of Walker Underwood - leaning back on the grass beside him to look up at the stars, talking and laughing, so unaware of John’s reddening skin and uneasy thoughts - still hurt all those years later, and he chose not to remark on that.

“... Correct,” he murmured instead, and Ernest nodded before speaking again.

“And it was not lust exactly, was it? Too young for that. So… why’d God make you like that if his design is divine? Either of us?”

A somewhat smug smirk was emerging on Ernest’s face, like that of a pupil who had turned in an immaculate report despite the teacher’s mediocre expectations. John turned his attention to the grass, his smoking hand lingering in the air as Father Joseph’s kindly voice and words echoed in his head.

Perhaps it is in God’s plan that it remains your cross to bear.

Ah, but Ernest did not think of it as a cross to bear. He accepted it, embraced, revelled in it… and God had not struck him down for it. He’d struck down neither of them.

He was quiet so long that Ernest’s look of confidence began to waver, as though he feared that perhaps he had simply broken him further as opposed to-- ah, was comforting him what he’d meant to do? His way to apologize for his deception? John suspected as much.

The thought sat warmly in his chest, and that feeling in itself should have concerned him, but… he wanted to revel in what comfort that knowledge gave him, if only for a little while.

Without a word, slowly, John’s free hand landed on the one Ernest rested in the grass. A delicate pat, the kind of gratitude a widowed parent shows to the child who thinks they can console them with a false belief the dead will return, knowing full well it is not to be. But the key there was that he... he recognized the attempt.

“You’re dreadfully naive about scripture theory.” John remarked, his voice somber. Before he could pull his hand free Ernest took hold of his index finger, forcing him to linger.

“Either I’m right, or God has messed up a lot of kids in his design.”

The notion God may mess up in any way, shape or form was another blasphemy, but it was probably the point Ernest was clumsily trying to make. So John didn’t rebuke him, nor did he try to pull away from his grasp, which was loose enough for him to be able to do so effortlessly. There was a doubt that may be just a ploy from Ernest’s part to remain in his good graces, or maybe even slither back into his bed, but even so it was difficult not to appreciate the gesture.

Perhaps he means it. Father Joseph surely did.

John gave a single nod, and allowed his hand to be clasped as he finished the remainder of the cigarette - Ernest’s presence no longer quite as stressful as it was before. Then the cigarette was done, he blew out the last of the smoke, and he pulled his hand away.

“We ought to head back--”

“Here,” Ernest said suddenly, pushing the Bible in his hands. John blinked, taken aback, and glanced at him to see he was looking away. What in the world…?

“You know I can quote the Bible in my sleep, don’t you?” he pointed out, just a little offended. “I know exactly which passages you’re quoting. I simply don’t think your simplistic interpretation--”

“No, I mean--” Ernest fidgeted, uncharacteristically uneasy with words. “That’s yours.”

“... I beg your pardon?”

“Your Bible. I, uh, got someone to fix it up. As a, you know. Apology.”

Ah. John looked down at the Bible in his hands, truly focusing on it for the first time. That wasn’t his Bible, it couldn’t be; he’d ruined it slamming it down on the camera, until the spine broke, the leather cover came off and several pages came loose. The one he held in his hands was newly bound, now, with a new cover and all pages firmly in place. Still, when he opened… that was his handwriting at the margin, his notes. His Bible, indeed. So that was where it’d gone.

“I see,” John heard himself saying, his throat a little tighter. He instinctively flipped the pages, searching for-- yes, there it was, right where he’d left it: his father’s letter. Disowning him, telling him he no longer had a son, to never be in touch again, so he wouldn’t taint them. But for the first time, seeing that letter did not fill him with shame. It filled him with anger.

“Didn’t you tell me you’d felt this way since you were a child - an innocent?”

I did nothing. I was a boy, I only thought of kissing another. His own child, cast out over nothing.

“I noticed it looked kind of ruined, and I figured old Raúl could fix it up,” Ernest was saying, seemingly unaware of his thoughts. “He owed me a favor, so--”

“Thank you,” John said, very quietly, and smiled, the restored Bible - his keepsake of Father Joseph, the man who had called him his son despite everything - clutched to his chest. “This means more to me than you’ll ever know. I-- I have no words.”

Ernest smiled back. “Not even in Latin?” he asked.

And, for the first time since the truth had become clear to him, John Johnson laughed.

***

Well, getting Juan’s Bible fixed up hadn’t saved Ernesto from his daily Latin lesson, but at least he’d been allowed to go to sleep at a reasonable enough time, so there was that.

Not that he had hoped to fall asleep soon or easily, because he never did, not when he had to sleep alone. In the dark and the silence, falling asleep to find himself back in the barracks - or in a battlefield, or marching under the sun, or about to gun down civilians - was all too easy. So far, he found that some company was the easiest way to keep all of that away at night.

He’d tried to casually suggest Sofía to spend the night with him, but of course, she’d shrugged him off and said she had plans. She was probably living it up with Sister Antonia right now, who was pretty but, in Ernesto’s opinion, nothing to write home about. Unlike him, of course. He was very much something to write home about. Or to the Archdiocese. Thanks for that, Juan.

Ah, yes. Juan. Asking him for nightly company was now entirely out of the question for obvious reasons, but Ernesto found that the thought of him helped a little just now. Namely, the thought of the look on his face when presented with his fixed-up Bible; the surprise, the smile, the laugh. It had been… nice, to hear that laugh again.

Not that it had been the goal, Ernesto thought, but he was not entirely sure what the goal had actually been. He’d just eyed Juan’s Bible on the table after the gringo left to deal with some confessions, and thought that it looked in terrible shape, like he’d dropped it from a great height. He vaguely remembered Juan telling him that the old Bible was a gift from Father Joseph and very dear to him, much like the crucifix around his neck.

Grabbing it had taken a moment, and the walk to Raúl’s shop only minutes. The man was mostly a leatherworker, but was good at book binding and also the father of a woman finally expecting a child after years of fruitless marriage thanks to Ernesto’s, er, blessing - so he owed him a favor. When he’d returned to pick it up, the Bible looked new and he’d actually flipped through it to check Juan’s notes and make sure it was the same one he had left.

What am I doing?, he’d asked himself then, and he did again now. ‘Getting a book fixed’ was technically the right answer, but why would he bother was another matter entirely. He told himself it was vital he remained on the gringo’s good side, and that also was technically true. So there, that had been it - no motive but self-preservation, as always. End of story.

Ernesto turned to the wall, pulled the covers up to his chin, and closed his eyes. His thoughts did keep drifting back to Juan’s smile, which was annoying, but when he finally fell asleep no soldiers, screams or gunfire disturbed his dreams. All in all, it could be worse.

***

You no longer have a father. I only ever had one son. For both of our sakes, never write again.

For a long time, John stared in silence at Reverend David Johnson’s neat handwriting in the flickering light of the candle barely lighting up his room. He had read that letter every morning upon awakening, and every night upon going to sleep, for well over a decade. A reminder of his sin, of his failure as a son. It hurt, each time, and it hurt him now.

Only that the hurt was different that night, the disdain no longer entirely against himself. The letter was written on Christmas Eve, a brief unfeeling response to a heartfelt plea. Cold. Cruel.

I was a child. I was his child. How could he?

John pressed his lips together, the letter in one hand and his Bible in the other. A father’s rejection, ink more and more faded, and a Father’s gift - now restored. John’s eyes drifted towards the candle and, while he did not burn the letter, he did think about it.

He thought about it for a very long time.

***

“A flying machine! What in God’s name were you two thinking??”

“That we wanted to build a flying machine. It worked pretty well, except for the part where it didn’t fly.”

It took every ounce of Imelda’s patience, plus some she probably borrowed directly from the Almighty, not to grab Felipe by the front of his shirt and shake him hard enough to make his teeth chatter - and if not for the fact he had a broken left arm in a cast, she may not have been able to hold back.

“Maybe we should have picked someplace less high for the first test,” Óscar was conceding, all bruises and skinned elbows but with his bones still all in one piece. “We’ll choose better next time.”

“Next-- there is absolutely not going to be a next time.”

“Yes, yes, that’s what mamá said.”

“Papá as well.”

“So we knew you’d say that, too.”

“But you need not worry, because the next flying machine will actually fly!”

Imelda groaned, reaching up to rub her temples. “Was a broken arm not enough for you?”

“Nope! I still have the other one,” Felipe quipped, flexing the arm in question to show off absolutely non-existent muscle.

Óscar laughed. “And on the bright side, if the Federal Army comes looking for new soldiers, they won’t take him! Huh, maybe I should break my own arm--”

“Don’t say that,” Imelda cut him off, her voice suddenly sharp. It was the sort of thing she’d been having nightmares about. “Not even as a joke.”

“... The arm thing or the army thing?”

“The Federales. Actually, both. But mostly the Federales.” Imelda found she couldn’t entertain the thought even for a moment and something had to show on her face, because both of her brothers stopped smiling at exactly the same moment.

“Hey, we… we didn’t really mean it.”

“We won’t say that again. Promise.”

Imelda sighed and finally nodded, managing a smile. “... Good. And if you want to entirely reassure me, you may also promise you will not keep trying to build flying contraptions and launch yourselves--”

“Oh look, it’s getting late!”

“We should be home in five minutes!”

“We should have been home five minutes ago!”

“Wait a moment--” Imelda began, only to trail off when her brothers took off running in the direction of their home. She sighed, making a mental note to let her mother and father know they should keep all tools under lock and key next time she saw them. Not that she thought it would stop them, but at least it would slow them down. Possibly until Felipe’s arm healed.

Their joke about Federales passing by to pick men to replenish their ranks rang through her mind as she walked back towards the parish, impossible to entirely ignore.

If they took them, I don’t know what I’d do.

Her thoughts turned for a brief moment to the loaded pistol she kept hidden in her room. She paused mid-step, clenching her jaw. No, that wasn’t entirely true, was it?

She knew exactly what she’d do.

***

“He left, didn’t he?”

“Yes, Commander, as you said he would. We watched him take a horse and ride off.”

“Of course. To warn his friends down south of what he heard in the cantina, no doubt.”

Santiago took a swig of his drink before setting down the glass, eyes glued to the map. It had been a grueling business, pushing past Zapata’s forces immediately south of Mexico City, but they had made it and now the battalion had split, leaving him in command of a couple of units… heading for the area where Ernesto de la Cruz had fled, leaving behind Alberto’s body in the smoldering sand.

I’m getting closer, I know I am. It’s only a matter of time.

And he could wait, of course. He could bid his time; being in the army had taught him discipline… something many of his men severely lacked. They were unruly, prone to talk and drink and then to talk even more after a drink… and that small village was full of ears. Thank God, said ears were also very bad at spying without being entirely too obvious.

Sergeant García scowled. “Do you want us to follow him and take him out before he can warn them of our itinerary?”

“No, let him warn them. Let those traitors waste time rallying around San Luz while we take another route right past them.” With some luck, they may even be able to catch them by surprise from behind. He’d come up with another itinerary, and avoid sharing it with anyone who didn’t strictly need to hear it.

“I see. Do you need any further help…?”

“I think I’ll be fine, thank you. You’re dismissed.”

The sergeant left and Santiago focused on the map again, slowly working his way through the glass. There were several alternative routes they could take, but he settled for one that went through some hills and a small village barely marked on the map, the name printed in such tiny letters he had to squint to read it.

Santa Cecilia.

***

A/N: yes, I had to study Latin and had nightmares about it from time to time. But it's cool, they're fading. Ancient Greek, on the other hand, shall haunt me to my grave.

***

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#pixar coco #ernesto de la cruz #hector rivera #miguel rivera #imelda rivera #coco #fake priest au

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cmescapade · 3 years

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Simblr Community Challenge by @amelettes

Rules: Tag some people, and let the community bonding commence!

Tagged by @aniraklova & @simsulate! ty for the tag 🥰

I’ll tag uhh @forgotten-pixels @fataleromeo @theageofsims and whoever would like to do it 🥰

gonna put it under the cut bc im chatty 😭

How long have you been playing the Sims?

On and off since uhh 2004?? My first exposure to the Sims was The Sims: Bustin’ Out for the PS2, where I had a sim named Pepto Bismol.

...it was my favorite commercial ok

How long have you been a Simblr, and why did you become one?

I’ve been a simblr since uhhh December 2017? I wasn’t that active then because I was too busy trying to figure out how everything worked on Tumblr since I never really had one (My really old one in like 2010 or w/e doesn’t count since all I did was reblog things when I remembered I even HAD a tumblr ahahahah)

I became a simblr only because I was told I should have one lmfao 😭 I thought simblr was scary bc ppl come and go all the time and everyone’s so good at editing n shit n all i ever do w my screenshots is redraw a hand every now and again

anyways Pre-Dec 2017 I made poses for myself, friends, and basically anyone who asked because I loved storytelling in The Sims. No one back then ever made poses for children specifically since child rigs in like 2015-2016 were so janky the only way to make them was to pose an adult rig and import it--so I decided that I could put up my random child poses for download in case anyone else was like me and needed them

even tho everything i made back then was.................................. questionable

What type of Simblr are you?

The kind that tries to post sims-related content but fails bc they post pics of their INCREDIBLY HANDSOMe son every other time i mean c’mon u cant blame me for that just look at him

my chonky son, i love,, he smile,

i post gameplay and cc! for my gameplay stuff i’ll post as often as i could, but i’ll usually post cc on like sunday or monday, if i forgot to hit queue LOL

Which generation of Sims do you primarily play?

I prefer playing TS2 and TS4, but TS4 more often as of late. Nothing wrong with TS3, it just constantly runs like ass on my computer and I always forget where I saved my mods lmfao

I don’t post my TS2 screenshots here because they always come out odd or I end up using a 3rd party program to take them, but here’s a gif of Colin & toddler Amy before they became vampires lmao

I also really like the Sims Medieval and ofc Bustin’ Out :))) but I forgot to backup my TSM screenshots when my old drive decided to peace out still kinda sad about that.......................

#tagged #tiny tony #wip #colin la land #amy la land #i was going to fill this w more bad screenshots but ill spare u #also damn i talk 2 much im so sry #1am is PEAK POSTING TIME

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blessed-but-distressed · 4 years

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#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she’s winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. CS AU

***

also on ff.net and ao3

***

Tagging: @katie-dub , @wholockgal , @kat2609 , @whovianlunatic, @optomisticgirl, @ladyciaramiggles, @the-lady-of-misthaven, @emmaswanchoosesyou, @ilovemesomekillianjones, @biancaros3, @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky, @ms-babs-gordon @ab-normality, @andiirivera, @fangirl-till-it-hurts, @onceuponaprincessworld , @natascha-remi-ronin, @kiwistreetswan and whoever else asks me.

***

A/N: Part 2 of 2. Surprise, bitch. Bet you thought you’d seen the last of me!

***

Killian

How do you feel about improv? ES

Trepidatious. KJ

What if I told you some random just gave me last minute tickets to a Jane Austen inspired improv drag show, and I have a spare? ES

Curiosity alone compels me to say yes. Pleasance? KJ

George Square. ES

Thank fuck. I forgot my umbrella. KJ

If Killian had any sense, he'd approach the month of August the same way Robin did every year. Which mostly amounted to renting his house out to a troupe of Hungarian acrobats for extortionate sums of money and taking off for the south of France, thus avoiding the whole sorry spectacle.

A privilege reserved for those not living out of their older brother's spare room. Nor stuck writing Fringe reviews for his ailing periodical.

He thought his latest was his best yet.

Do you value your time? Your money? Your life? Then walk, don't run, as far from this act as you can. No one this incompetent should be wielding chainsaws, let alone juggling them. I may have been the only one-handed man at the preview, but with this shambolic spectacle set to run for the rest of the week, I expect I won't be the last. 0 stars.

Liam had accused him of being deliberately cruel, but he hadn't seen the show firsthand. The phrase 'culpable and reckless conduct' came to mind. His review went up online, unchallenged.

To his great surprise, his favourite show so far had been the improv show Emma had dragged him along to. It had all the subtle snark and invariable romance of Austen's classic novels, with the added benefit of Emma nearly passing out from laughing so hard. That alone would have justified his five star review, but the cherry on the cake had been when the man dressed as the elderley Dowager had picked August out from the crowd, and made him part of the act.

Killian generally condemned the casual cruelty of audience participation. Indeed, he lived in constant fear of it at every show he reviewed. But when it came for a certain novelist, he found his views on the matter suddenly rather... fluid.

Try as he might, he couldn't see what Emma saw in the man. What hidden virtues he possessed that had provoked such a ferocious loyalty. Killian wasn't stupid enough to voice such thoughts, of course, but that hadn't stopped him trying to figure it out.

The opportunity to continue this study was surely the only reason he'd opened an unsolicited DM from the man himself, when he should have been watching a Swedish comedy troupe send up classic films in a series of skits.

We have a mutual friend in need. How's your schedule looking uhhh… now?

Killian looked back to the stage. He couldn't be sure, but he thought the red streamers might signify blood. They were either up to Carrie or Jaws.

Trouble? Killian typed back.

Emma. The next message read.

We're in a bar in Leith and things have gotten a little… messy.

Killian checked the time. Barely past one in the afternoon. And fucking Leith? That didn't bode well. But at the same time, his review of the show was supposed to be online within the hour.

With a growing sense of unease, he typed out his reply. Which pub?

***

Stepping into The Marksman on Duke Street was not unlike stepping back in time. More precisely, to somewhere smack dab in middle of the Thatcher era, when Leith was a byword for deprivation and whatever comes after heroin chic. It was charmless, grimy and depressing, and Killian might've never understood the appeal until he caught the sign in the window. It opened at 6am.

Trying to avoid the abject stares of the locals, Killian found his quarry sat at the end of the bar on mismatching stools. Emma slumped forward, her face hidden, but August turned around swiftly at his approach, the alarm in his eyes quickly giving way to recognition.

"Oh thank god." August swept off his barstool, his relief so palpable that Killian thought he might hug him. He didn't look well. Thoroughly debauched, if one might say so, and in desperate need of a bath.

"Nice place," Killian remarked drily. "A bit off the beaten path…"

August pinched the bridge of his nose, looking weary. Or… wearier. "It's been a long night. And morning." He glanced back to where Emma sat propped by the bar, apparently still completely unaware of his absence, and drew closer, his voice lowering.

"You know that Graham guy?"

Killian couldn't explain it, but something inside his chest caught. Like flint striking steel. "Aye," he growled, not liking where this was headed.

"Married," August supplied, without preamble. "She didn't know. No one knew. She ran into them holding hands in the Tron. Matching wedding bands. The whole bit. So she threw her beer in his face and called it a day, right? But this morning, no, yesterday morning, the wife showed up. At the apartment. Emma's apartment."

Killian's fist clenched by his side.

"Yeeaah. It got pretty heated. Long story short, it's been a day and a half. I don't even remember how we got here. I'm not sure I even know exactly where here is. I have to be on a train at 4 to King's Cross or my publisher is going to sue my ass. Now, I can trust you? To get her home safely? You look at her like you're half a drink away from belting out Jessie's Girl at any given moment. I didn't imagine that, did I?"

Of all the places to grudgingly admit his feelings, not least in confidence to this man he wasn't sure he even liked, The Marksman was not the venue he would have chosen. And yet.

"There's very little I wouldn't do for that woman."

He was caught by surprise when the man launched forward and kissed him on the cheek, more still when he went back for the other cheek. August grinned enormously, grasping Killian by the shoulders. "Welcome to the family! Please don't fuck it up." And then consulting his phone, "I really need to go."

August made short work of the rest of his goodbyes, pulling Emma into fierce hug from behind, whispering something into her ear as he let her go. Then, with a wink in Killian's direction and a kiss blown at the nearest crusty Leither, he picked up his messenger bag and fled onto the street.

Steeling himself after that prologue, Killian turned back to where Emma sat by the bar, unseeing reddened eyes peeking out from under a tangle of blonde hair. He pulled out August's vacated stool, and took a seat.

"Swan," he began, with an imaginary tip of his cap.

"Jones," she replied, her voice flatter than he'd ever heard it.

"Of all the gin joints…"

She grimaced. Though her frown was so pronounced already, it didn't make much of a change. "We don't talk about the gin."

"At least tell me it was the good stuff."

She tried to smile, but the action seemed to cause her pain. "Don't do that. Don't be nice to me right now."

"Why not? You're not the villain in this story."

A small noise escaped her, half laugh, half sob. "Sure feels like it."

"No, that's the supermarket gin talking. We've talked about this. Nothing good ever came from a clear spirit at 35p a measure."

She sank further forward in her seat, her forehead resting against the bar top. "Don't be cute. Please just leave me alone to die," she mumbled.

He couldn't resist tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, making sure she could see him. "I'm not going to do that. I have a duty of care."

"Why? Because you'd have to find someone else to write a column about?"

"No," he replied levelly. "Because you're my best friend."

That had her lifting her head off the bar, albeit wincing as she did so. "I thought Robin was your best friend?"

He tapped his chin. "No, it's definitely you."

She considered that. Though how much of her internal brain processes had survived the pickling process over the last 24 hours, Killian couldn't be certain.

Of course, it was at that moment their bartender appeared, a middle aged woman with an ill-fitting polo shirt and bright green acrylic nails she drummed against the bar top. "Another top up, hen?" She didn't even glance at Killian.

He put his hand over Emma's glass. "Actually, I'm afraid we're on our way out."

Their server didn't much like that, a hand finding her hip. "Well that's up for the lass to decide, no?"

"It's okay, Tracy," Emma said, managing a consoling smile. "He's a friend. Are we all settled up?"

"We are." She gave Killian a cool once over. "Friend, you say? Mind you keep it that way. Looks like nothing but trouble to me. And you still raw after the last one. Liars and cheats, the lot of them."

Killian thought to take offence, but Emma already had him by the arm, pulling him off his stool. "Thanks, Tracy. Can you call me a cab?"

***

Getting her into the cab took some doing, not least because she had to pause twice to throw up in the gutter, and the first guy had driven off. Fair play to him. Thankfully by the time the second cab arrived Emma's stomach had settled, and she spent the drive curled harmlessly against Killian's side.

"Your lassie alright?" the cabbie asked, as Killian half lifted, half dragged her from the backseat out onto the gravel driveway. "You need a hand?"

It was a testament to how preoccupied he was that Killian didn't even stop to consider that might've been a crack about his prosthetic until Emma was already inside and passed out on his bed.

He texted Elsa first. A simple heads up.

There's an unconscious woman in the house. Don't freak out. KJ

It went about as well as you'd expect.

At least he had sisterly back up when he broke the news to Liam that he wasn't getting his review.

Needless to say, by the time Emma raised her groggy head from his pillow, the house was no longer silent, and it was no longer still. Elsa had insisted on rushing home, and boyish shrieks permeated the air, punctuated by the usual crashing and banging.

Killian sat in his one armchair, an ugly monstrosity of purple velvet which had been forbidden from the rest of the house, sipping his tea as she came awake. It took some time. One eyelid slithered open. Then the other. Never both at the same time.

"Do I want to know why someone is screaming in the next room?" Her voice was scratchy, and he motioned towards the glass of water by the bedside.

"Nephews," Killian said by way of explanation, as she crawled forward to grasp the glass in both hands, shaking with the effort.

She took a long draught, surveying her surroundings. He wondered how much she remembered from the last two days, if anything. If she even remembered his arrival at The Marksman, or August's leaving. She examined the ornate cornices, and floating beams. The collection of spent paperbacks stacked by the bed and the shabby, unmatched furniture.

"Your house. Your room?"

"My room," he confirmed. "We have guest rooms, but they're upstairs. And quite frankly, just getting you this far was nightmare enough. You're heavier than you look."

He earned a pillow to the face for that remark. It still smelled of her, which in her current state, wasn't much of a testimonial.

"Shower?" he ventured.

"Please," she said, rolling over until she could place both feet on the floor.

"Second door on the right. Elsa left some things out. Towels. Fancy shampoo. Paracetamol," he added with a waggle of his eyebrows. "Should be a set of clothes too."

She cringed. "Elsa knows I'm here?"

"Sorry. It's a new house rule of theirs. Radical honesty. Elsa knows you're having a rough time of it, and are convalescing. But that is the extent of her knowledge. Whether that remains the case, is entirely up to you."

"Right."

"Oh," he said, smacking his forehead. He scrabbled around on top of his dresser, before presenting her with a wooden triangle.

She took it automatically, seeming annoyed at herself for doing so. "Uh, thanks?"

"The bathroom door doesn't have a lock on it. Best wedge it under the door. Trust me when I say, you don't want Lachie walking in on you in the altogether. It's stressful for all involved."

"Good tip," she said, with a ghost of a smile.

She edged past him awkwardly to the door, her bare feet silent on the carpet. She'd already slipped into the hallway when her head appeared back around the door.

"Killian?"

"Aye?"

"I'm horrendously hungover so you probably can't tell, but I appreciate, uh…" she waved the wedge around vaguely. "All this."

"Swan?"

"Yeah?"

"I mean this in the nicest possible way, but please do shut up," he said with a wink. "Also, you're taking me out for pancakes after, so don't be too long."

Her eyes narrowed. "Oh, am I just?"

"You are indeed. Best thing for a gin hangover, in my limited experience. And it was very generous of you to offer."

"Very generous," she agreed, dubiously. "And Killian?

"Aye?"

"You're so full of shit. But... I do love pancakes. And one more thing?"

"Hmm?"

She kicked a toe into the carpet, eyes evasive. "You're sort of my best friend, too." Then she disappeared back behind the door, leaving Killian slack jawed.

***

He'd nearly finished two chapters of his book by the time Emma returned from her trip to the bathroom, shower soft and minty fresh.

"Better?" he asked, putting the novel aside.

"Much," she agreed. "Though full disclosure, I think I just used a $300 tube of lotion, and I kinda smell like a baby Porsche."

"The very best kind of Porsche," Killian assured her, offering her his prosthetic to take. "They're terrors once they hit the teenage years. Shall we?"

They crossed Bruntsfield Links just after sunset, the sky still streaked with pink and orange. He'd always loved summers in Scotland, that neverending twilight. It almost made shivering through six months of winter worthwhile. He was so busy admiring the scene, he nearly missed it when Emma detached herself from his arm, stopping in her tracks.

"Emma?"

She was standing entirely still, her eyes shut.

"Are you alright, love?"

Her eyes flickered open, almost surprised to see him still standing there. "Sorry, just… cataloguing."

"Cataloguing," Killian repeated, deadpan.

"Yeah, smartass," she said, walking forward to loop her arm under his again. "Cataloguing. Sometimes I forget, but this-" she indicated the kaleidoscope sky, the green-gold expanse of grass disappearing into the distant smudge that was Arthur's Seat, the group of laughing teenagers nearby trying to finish their mini golf game before they lost the light, "-Sometimes I still have to pinch myself."

She didn't elaborate, and Killian found himself oddly lost for words. He just reached over to squeeze her hand, and led her back towards the city lights.

For the time of year, they got lucky. The line was short, and it wasn't long before they were led to a red vinyl booth, complete with its very own mini jukebox. They both stared at it for a good minute before Emma fished a spare pound out of her pocket, and dropped it onto the table between them. "Your call. I'm going to the bathroom. Anything but Don't Stop Believin'."

Lord help him, but he thought he might love her.

He settled for a less foreboding tune, which morphed into another, then another, before he was fishing out his own coins to keep the party going. If he didn't know her any better, he might've thought she'd done a runner on him. Fortunately, he did know her better. Or at least, he was starting to.

She came back just in time for the guitar solo in The Chain, her I'm-bearing-up smile indicating she was doing nothing of the sort.

"Ruby texted," she explained, taking her seat opposite him. "About twenty times. She wouldn't stop until I FaceTimed her. I miss anything?"

"Just side one of Rumours. And your drink order." He indicated the glass of fizzy orange liquid in front of her.

She wrinkled her nose. "Fanta?"

"Irn-Bru. Best hangover cure there is."

She cast him a doubtful look.

"I'm serious. There's been studies."

"Oh well, if there's been studies." She slid the glass minutely closer, but didn't partake. Instead she watched as Killian lifted his own glass, and made a face.

He lowered his glass. "What?"

"Nothing. Just thinking about how I'm never drinking again. I didn't even know they served beer here."

"They do, but this is Dry Ginger."

She raised an eyebrow. "Ginger ale? You?"

Killian shrugged. "It's something I'm trying. Like a cleanse. But instead of drinking juice and doing yoga, I drink post-mix dry ginger and be less of a twat."

"Sobriety." Emma slapped her hand against the table. "I wish I'd thought of that. But I've barely seen you, when did you decide this?"

"Roughly…" he counted back the days, "43 days ago." When I thought I'd lost your friendship forever. But he didn't have to say it. From the look on her face, she already knew the significance.

"Huh." Emma sat back in her seat, absorbing that. But if she was planning on expanding on that thought, she was saved by the arrival of their waitress, who was all too eager to expound on the daily specials.

By the time they were alone again, Emma had cracked and was halfway through her Irn-Bru.

"I mean, it's not repellent…" she offered, by way of grudging approval.

"Trust me, it works." And then because he felt like they'd danced around it long enough, "So do you want to talk about it?"

She set down her glass, letting her fingers trace along the edge of the table top. "Nope. But somehow I feel like we're going to anyway."

"It was only about eight hours ago you wanted me to leave you to die in Leith's most depressing pub. I feel like it warrants at least a conversation."

She grimaced at the memory. Or perhaps where the memories ought to have been. It was hard for him to be sure.

"I fell in love with a married woman once. If you're worried about my judgement, you needn't be."

He wasn't quite sure where it had come from. This sudden urge to talk about Milah. But it was how they'd always operated, wasn't it? If he wanted Emma to take down her walls, he had to offer up a few bricks from his own. Well, this was more of a boulder, really, but at least he had her attention.

She snorted. "I wasn't in love with Graham."

"So what's the problem?"

"Because," she reasoned, tears springing into her eyes. "It's just so fucking mortifying. To be played for a fool, again. I thought I was smarter than that. I thought I could just, I don't know, flirt with a cute, intelligent guy and feel good about myself for five fucking seconds without it ending with his wife beating down my door demanding to know if I'd fucked her husband!"

She'd gotten a little loud towards the end there, with more than a few wary eyes glancing their way. Killian quickly stood up, and made his way over to her side of the booth, slipping in beside her. It was a tight fit, but it did succeed in sheltering her from most of the stares.

"Alright, so he's a tosser."

Another snort.

"Liam's bookie knows a guy. I could make a few calls?"

She shot him a sideways glance. "Don't tempt me right now. I just feel so stupid. But like, in an angry way."

"You're not stupid for being taken in by him. It's not a weakness to want to see the best in people, Emma. In fact, considering how many people in your life have disappointed you, myself included, I'd say it's pretty bloody brave."

Emma shook her head. "Is it though? I saw red flags. Even from the start he was kind of flaky. I wasn't even sure if I really liked him. It just appealed to my vanity, that he seemed to like me. So don't I deserve this? Just a little?"

"No." Killian wasn't sure where the vehemence came from, but he could feel it, welling up. "No, you don't deserve to be lied to, and dragged into the middle of someone else's messed up marriage without your knowledge or consent. No, you don't deserve being made to feel like the side-piece. You're not the side-piece. You're the heroine. And he's just a fucking wanker. What you deserve..." He looked up to see their server approaching the table, platters piled high with maple syrup topped goodness. He shot Emma a smile. "What you deserve, is pancakes."

***

It would've been remiss of him not to foot the bill, after his earlier declaration about her deserving pancakes, so there'd been a little bit of an argument about that as they wended their way down Clerk Street in the growing darkness. That Emma could argue about not paying for the pancakes he'd goaded her into in the first place, was a testament to the healing powers of Irn-Bru and a triple stack. No truly hungover person would have committed to such a futile battle.

But when they arrived at the beginning of her street, Emma stopped arguing and grabbed a hold of Killian's arm, pulling him up short.

She was shaking her hands out, like she was fighting off an attack of nerves, and Killian was instantly on the defensive. "Swan?"

She stopped when he said her name, plastering on what seemed to him a rather brittle smile. "Hey. Sorry. I'm just wondering, would you do me a favour?"

He had to chuckle at that. "Swan, if the last twelve hours have proven anything, it's that yes, I am available for favours. Unless of course they involve you paying me back for the pancakes. Because I'm afraid I'm rather immovable on that front."

"Great. So umm… Ruby has this theory."

"Ruby has a theory?" he repeated, hoping at some point, things would start making sense. "What manner of… theory?"

"Oh, god this is so stupid," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I'm just going to say it. I'm just going to come right out and say it: I want you to kiss me."

Something very violent was happening inside Killian's chest, a feeling which was neither happiness, nor disappointment, but a crushing combination of the two. He felt hot and cold. He felt light-headed.

"You want-" he started.

Emma's eyes were screwed shut, as if bracing for a blow. Or in this case, the fallout. She already had regrets. And more than that, it had been Ruby's idea. But why would Ruby…?

Of course.

The best way to get over a man, was to get under a new one. Wasn't that the old adage?

It wasn't about him. It wasn't about them.

No, she'd been clear. I want you to kiss me. She'd chosen him. She trusted him to be the one to soothe her wounded pride. Maybe she'd hoped it would be him. Maybe he was just the most convenient option. In any case, the wondering would certainly kill him.

But not as much as going through with it.

He reached out and took her hand, waiting until she opened her eyes. By Christ, people weren't supposed to look so beautiful by yellow street light. It wasn't scientific. And yet.

"No."

Now it was her turn to look like someone had punched her in the stomach.

"Oh." She made to release her hand from his, but he held firm. In fact, he pulled her closer, just a little.

"No, I'm not going to kiss your bruised pride back into place. Because I promise you, it's going to heal just fine on its own. You don't need a kiss from me or anyone to remind you what you're worth. You never have. It's one of my favourite things about you. Understand?"

Her reply was a little choked up when it came. "Got it."

She gravitated closer, her eyes shining, and he felt like he was losing his mind. He was certainly losing his nerve. He settled instead for raising her hand to his lips, brushing a soft kiss across her knuckles.

"That's one for the road."

He released her then, though nearly every part of his was screaming at him to do the opposite. Thankfully, she looked just as shaken as he felt. He nearly twisted his ankle in a gutter trying to put a little distance between them. And then he had one perfect surge of stupid confidence, and turned back to face her. She was still standing under the streetlight where he'd left her, looking oddly incomplete.

"Will you do me a favour, Swan?" he called out.

She held up her hands in a helpless shrug. "Sure."

"When the time is right, ask me again."

Then with his heart hammering a million miles a minute, he turned away and slipped into the adjoining street, and back into the night.

#cs ff #cs au #findemmaswanafriend #the emotional return #been a while...

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selfindulgent-undertalerps · 4 years

Text

Isolated Part 1

A FlawedSunshine roleplay with a prompt that was "Error discovers long-isolated Solar"

@bluepalleteuniverse wanted to be tagged

For some explanation, Solar didn't change his name yet, so he's going to be refered to as Sol

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

Sol is sitting on the ground, curled up. He's alone, been alone for a long long time, he hates it, he's soundlessly crying, his voice not working properly due to screaming.

Error blips into existence his back to Sol and looks around, scowling. He doesn't see Sol yet.

Sol heard something behind him and turned his head to look what it was, when he saw Error, he got a bit shocked and rubbed his eyesockets thinking that he's just imagining him.

A quick check at the code of the AU would show that there's only one person here and it was that way for a long long time.

Error does just that and checks the code. He turns around squinting.

"Well who do we have here?" Error's expression changes to an easy grin with his eyelights glinting sadistically.

Sol just looks at him, unable to say anything, his expressions shift between happiness, confusion, shock and sadness, he slowly stood up.

" Heh you look like you've been through a wringer" Error's grin widens "You're the only one left here aaaand looks like you have been for a while." He looks Sol up and down. "You got a name?"

Sol thinks for a moment trying to think of a way to say his name, finally deciding to write his name in the air, He wrote "Sol"

He's smaller than Error and looks weak.

Error squints at him for a second "...Sol?" Error raises a eyebrow "Ah can't talk, I see... You always been mute?"

Sol shook his head, as in no, he wasn't. Sol is looking at Error, he's a bit scared, but also curious about Error.

Error stared at Sol thoughtfully, "Can you sign?"

"A bit" Sol signed.

"That makes things easier" Error signed back and then out loud "So what happened here?"

"Many things, mostly my brother" His expression changed to sadness.

"How long you've been here, alone?" Error looks around pointedly.

"I don't know exactly, but a few years maybe? I'm not sure"

Error falls silent and he looks at Sol like he's some particularly difficult math problem he has to solve.

"Well look, honestly I'm here to rip this place to shreds. There's enough extra garbage stinking up the Multiverse, don't see the point in leaving a practically dead and empty AU be." He lets his words hang in the air waiting for a reaction.

Solar nodded slightly as in I understand.

Error's grin faltered and he was silent for a moment. He looks away scowling.

"Look I don't usually do this but, it's your lucky day I guess, I'll give ya a choice." He rubs at the back of his neck, still not making eye contact.

"You can come with me, or you can stay here and get destroyed with the rest of this junk. I don't care either way." Error then looks at Sol.

Sol takes a moment to understand what Error said, "I'll come with you" He signed.

Error nods "Alright... Okay." He opens a portal to the Anti-Void and motions for Sol to step through. "Go then, I gotta get this done before the fuckin' ink stain figures out what I'm up to."

Sol hesitantly stepped through the portal and looked around.

"If any dipshit pops in by chance, do me a favor and hide in that giant ass cardboard box over there. Be back in a sec." and with that the portal zips close behind Sol.

About an hour later Error ports back in looking disgruntled with a few paint splats on him.

He jumps visibly when he sees Sol. He puts a hand on his chest and breathes out a relieved sigh. "Fuck I forgot you were here."

Sol is looking at him slightly worried, "Are you okay?"

"I didn't mean to scare you" He signed.

"I'm fine." Error grumbled looking anything but.

"Are you sure? What happened?"

"A shithead showed up and I kicked his ass, that's what" Error snapped.

Sol nodded slightly, "So what's your name?" Sol smiled slightly.

Error was busy looking looking off into middle distance unfocused.

His attention snapped back to Sol suddenly. He pinched his brow "Sorry repeat that, I wasn't looking."

"What's your name?" He's waiting for a reply. Sol is looking at Error with curiosity.

"Ah yeah didn't introduce myself earlier. The name's Error" He eyed Sol warily.

"You have an interesting name" Sol smiled at him.

Error relaxed a little, he was expecting Sol to go for a handshake. "Uhhh thanks right back atcha." Error scratched the back of his skull looking awkward a hint of blue coloring his cheekbones.

"Ok so... now that introductions are outta the way gonna lay down some ground rules." Error leveled a serious gaze at Sol and began listing while counting out on his fingers.

"Don't touch me. Don't touch my shit. Especially don't touch those." He gestured to his strings spread about the Anti-Void. "Don't break my shit. Don't eat my chocolate... And do not!" Error abandons counting and just points a finger at Sol .

"Don't you dare interrupt me when i'm watching Undernovela." Error squints at Sol "You can follow that shit and I might not regret sparing an anomaly for once, capiche?"

Sol nodded.

"K... Good." Error pauses. "Any of the furniture is free game though. The brain teaser puzzles too."

"Okay" Sol looked around, thinking what to do.

Error sighed and flopped into a bean bag chair, his body doing a hard glitch on impact. Error kicked the other chair a small distance away from himself, gesturing for Sol to take it.

He pulled a towel from seemingly out of nowhere and began to blot at paint splats, glancing at Sol intermittently. "So... what exactly happened for you to be left like that back there anyway?"

"You said something about your brother?"

Sol sat down on the chair, "Do you have something to write with and on? I don't know if I could sign it all"

Error nodded and fished a notepad from under his bean bag and tossed it towards Sol. He then pulled a pen from his pocket and tossed that too.

Sol caught the notepad and the pen and began writing, after a while gave the notepad back to Error.

Basically he and his brother had an argument, his brother drank something, got covered by goop, basically ripped Sol' arm off and then went on a killing spree.

His brother took over the throne and was still killing if someone didn't listen to him. Sol was fighting his brother with two friends.

After a while one of the friends left to the other side od the conflict, after more time his brother left the AU with two people.

Sol discovered that the second friend died and took his soul. His friend that stayed, an artist, wanted to leave after the brother and they had an argument about it.

In the end the artist left and Sol was left alone where the rest of the Skeletons either dusted from injuries or themselves.

Error read it and looked up at Sol. "Damn..."

"That's rough, buddy."

Error looks back down at the notepad and back to Sol in confusion "Why can't you talk? You said you were able to talk before."

"Well when I was alone the first few days went kinda okay, but then the loneliness got to me, I started talking to myself, but it didn't really help, then I was screaming just all the time, that damaged my vocal chords, I guess" He's kinda embarassed by this, but his expression is mostly sad.

Error looks sympathetic. He gestures to his own throat "Is it sore? ... Or only if you try to speak?"

"Sore and it hurts more when I try to speak"

Error falls silent for a moment, his expression pensive. Error gets up with a disgruntled sigh and shuffles behind his television set.

Sol can't see what Error's doing but he hears water being poured, the clink of ceramic on glass, and the tell tale beeps of a microwave being used.

Error shuffles back and sets a steaming cup with a tea bag in it and a bottle of honey within reaching distance of Sol and flops back on his bean bag. He looks away from Sol.

"It's uh ginger tea wih a splash of lemon juice. That, and honey usually helps." Error's's got a slight blush.

Sol smiles "Thank you" He added some honey and after the tea cooled down a little bit, he began to drink it, enjoying the warm tea very much.

"No problem" Error said, blush still prevalent on his face.

"Do You have any hobbies?"

Error shrugged "Reading, knitting, solving the teaser puzzles, I'm good with my hands, I make plushies sometimes.."

"Can you show me someday?"

"Yeah." Error nodded "What about you? Hobbies? Interests?"

"Acting mostly"

Error looks interested "Acting?"

"You know, you got a bunch of people that take certain roles and act out scenes, I like to do that, I'm quite good too" Really good if you consider that Sol was the star of his Underground.

Error finishes wiping off the paint and tossed the towel off to the side. "That's pretty cool."

Sol smiled.

Error blushed, and then his expression unfocused for a second before he scowled, blushing harder.

"Something happened?"

Error looked at Sol, "What was that?"

"Did something happen?"

"No!" Error snapped, his face only glowing brighter.

Sol lowered his skull, feeling bad that he asked.

Error's hands shot out in a placating gesture "Aghhh no! Sorry- I just- f-fuck-" Error glitched "S-sorry, I didn't mean to snap. You d-did nothing." Suddenly both his hands smacked into his face and he dragged them down with a groan.

"No worries"

Error sighed and sunk himself further into his bean bag chair. Sol yawned, slightly rubbing his eyesocket.

"You tired?"

Sol nodded.

Error looked around his brows furrowed .

"Shit." He muttered under his breath. "There's a bed over there if you wanna use it."

"Okay" Sol stood up and smiled at Error "Thank you"

Error blushes "No problem"

Sol went to lay down on the bed, he quickly fell asleep.

Error gets up and checks on him and pulls the covers over Sol more. He then flops back on his bean bag and pulls out materials to start knitting a scarf.

#sunspot #sunspot!sans #error #error!sans #undermine #errortale #undertale au #undertale alternate universe #undertale #ut #utau #au #um #et #fanfic #roleplay

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slashnatic · 4 years

Text

TENDER TOUCHES [Vincent Sinclair]

soo this is basically part two of the sinclair brothers with a feminist!s/o, this time for vincent...for some reason i can’t tag who this was originally requested by but whatever. the one for lester will also be coming soon. about the story, i guess the reader is right-handed in this? it’s not actually relevant for the story, but writing this without it being specified was a bit of a struggle, so this is what you get, i hope that’s okay :) i’m also not completely happy with this but uhhh what’s new lol

warning: the reader cuts themself (accidentally!) and blood is mentionend

another warning: IF YOU HAVEN’T NOTICED I FUCKING SUCK AT TITLES AND I’M SORRY

You sat on the stairs outside of the museum, an apple in your left hand, a knife in your right one. You slowly and carefully peeled the brownish skin off the apple. It was mushy, but not rotten. Food, other than cannend goods, was rather scarce in Ambrose and you valued whatever you got. You were careful not to waste anything as you dragged the knife along the fruit. When you heard the door to the wax house open you looked up. Vincent stepped out of the door, looked around and walked over to you when he spotted you. He plopped down next to you, an exhausted sigh leaving his mouth. You observed the raven-haired man with squinted eyes, the sun making it difficult to actually make out his features.

It was a little over a half year ago that you had entered this little town. You had a rough start with the Sinclair brothers, but you could now proudly call yourself a friend of the family, if not even a family member. Lester was sweet, but barely ever attendant. He took care of the roadkill most of the time. The twins on the other hand were around quite often. You had your difficulties with Bo, his more or less faked charming attitude being a bit of an issue, but you and Bo had become friends and you chose to ignore whatever bullshit he came up with, it wasn’t that important. He could be an ass, thinking his charm got him anywhere he wanted, but putting up with this or arguing with him about it wasn’t worth it. And then there was Vincent. Vincent was quiet and reserved, almost cold, but it didn’t take much for you to realize that he was a gentle and kind man behind the mask. The lack of conversation he made, made him seem uninterested in most things, but you knew that wasn’t the truth. Vincent had accepted you here and helped you out quite often now, displaying his kind nature for you to detect. And you knew he did what he did out of kindness, maybe even affection, but you didn’t want his help. You had told him over and over again that his assistance was neither needed nor wanted and yet he kept offering you his help, or rather forced it upon you. You liked Vincent, he had never given you an actual reason to dislike him, but lately you had started to lose your patience and you had gotten angry at him quite a few times the past days.

You were caught up in your thoughts, wondering how to start a conversation with the quiet man, as you hadn’t talked to him since breakfast. You had reached for a plate and couldn’t get it and Vincent had decided to get it for you, angering you as you were convinced you could have gotten it yourself. You weren’t angry at him anymore, but you were wary, not sure what he had in mind as he sat next to you. You were focused on Vincent completely and only noticed your failed attempt to peel the skin off the apple in your hand when you felt a sharp pain in your fingertips. “Fuck,” you cursed, sucking in a breath, surprised by the ache in your hand. You didn’t need to take a closer look at your hand to know that the cut was quite deep. Blood dripped down your fingers, leaving a warm, wet trail down your hand and wrist. You nervously bit your lip as you got up, planning to go over to the house to clean this up and put a band-aid, bandage or whatever you could find over it. Simple. But Vincent seemingly had other plans as he grabbed your wrist, got up while he did and pulled you back to him. “Vincent. Don’t.” Your voice was firm, almost harsh, and yet he didn’t listen. He towered over you as his eyes observed the damage that had been done. With his hand still on your wrist he turned around and dragged you behind him. “Vincent, stop!” He didn’t listen. Of course he didn’t, he never did. Angrily you snatched your arm away, glaring at him. “How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t want that? I don’t want your help. I don’t need your help. I can do this on my fucking own, Vincent!” He only huffed and you swore you could see him roll his eye under the mask. He reached out to you again, grabbing your wrist and forcing you to follow him. “Vincent! Stop!” But Vincent didn’t listen. Yes, he usually didn’t, but he’d leave you alone when he realized you were getting angry. This time was different, he didn’t seem to give a single fuck about your sensitivities. You cursed at him to let you go, but Vincent was stronger, way stronger, and managed to drag you down to the basement, almost completely unbothered by your struggling. By the time you had arrived at his work place you were raging. That was just disrespectful. He had never treated you like that before and this didn’t feel like kindness anymore. He pushed you down onto a chair in front of his work bench and turned around to get what he needed to clean the cut. Once he turned away you jumped up, ready to give him a piece of your mind. “That’s not okay, Vincent. I’m not fucking okay with this! I told you I don’t want you to help me and you keep getting in my way. Believe it or not, I’m very much capable to take care of myself! I don’t need you to do that for me! Actually, I fucking hate when you do this! Just stop!” You didn’t know when you had started screaming and you honestly didn’t care. You had lost your patience a while ago and now you had finally snapped. Sure, you had told him before, but this time you were fuming, you weren’t holding back. And still, Vincent didn’t care. He was completely calm when he turned back around to you and pushed you back on the chair. You were helpless against his strength. He didn’t say a word, didn’t make a sound at all when he took your hand in his, carefully but not all too softly cleaning the cut. When you spoke up again your voice was quiet, but annoyance and anger were still evident in your tone. “Can’t you just accept that? Can’t you just accept that I don’t want this?” He looked up at you with a soft look in his eyes and shook his head. No, he could not accept it. He smiled under the mask, wanting to show you that he didn’t actually mean any harm, but since you couldn’t see it, he looked back down again. His thumb brushed over your hand, his touch soft and tender. He turned his head to the side, searching for the bandage and when he found it, he took it and slowly wrapped it around your fingers.

When he was done the wound was clean and would heal eventually, he was sure about that, but he didn’t let your hand go. He took the other hand and began drawing small circles on the back of both of your hands. Vincent’s fingertips were rough on your skin but his touch was gentle, comforting even. It felt calming and you almost forgot about your anger towards him. Almost. There were many moments like this before, where he hadn’t listened to you and you had been mad at him, but you had always buried your annoyance quite fast. He always managed to make you forgive him, you couldn’t stay mad at him for a long time and you hated it. It was always something different distracting you from your rage. Sometimes it was something as simple as the look in his eyes, sometimes it was no more than knowing he did it out of kindness, sometimes it was simple physical attraction. Vincent didn’t think very highly of himself, his looks being the primary reason, his face above all. You had thought about this often and you had come to the conclusion that Vincent was so focused on his face, so focused on hating his face, or the lack of it, that he never took the time to think about his other features. His toned chest, those strong arms and skilled hands, his whole physique so buff and robust, even the way he walked seemed somewhat powerful, no matter how hunched. Vincent didn’t notice any of those things, you figured, otherwise you couldn’t explain to yourself how he hated himself so much. You pitied him for his self-doubt, admired him for his determination to do whatever felt right to him, kindness being one of those things, although it wasn’t really showing most of the time, and you hated him for what he did too you. A part of you wanted to just be there for him and another part of you wanted to be on your knees for him, doing whatever he asked of you. Yes, you truly hated him for that.

You were once again caught up in your thoughts and were abruptly ripped out of them by his voice. He was chuckling and it almost sounded cocky. Something Vincent wasn’t very often, except when it came to his art maybe. You raised an eyebrow and spoke up, with a frown back on your face. “What?” He shook his head, but you could see the glimmer in his eyes. “What?” Again, he shook his head. You reached out for his mask. You had seen his face before and while he didn’t like for you to see what was under the mask, he accepted it by now. You pulled his waxy disguise off and saw the grin hidden underneath. “Now I really wanna know what’s so funny,” you mumbled, looking down. Vincent shook his head once more and let your hands fall into your lap, laying his own down on your thighs. An unreadable emotion flashed across your face. What was he doing? And more importantly, did he know what he was doing? You subconsciously pressed your thighs together, earning another snicker from him. The glimmer was still in his eyes when you looked up again and this time you held eye contact. His gaze was intense and different. Different than usual. There was something in his eyes, something you couldn’t quite place, that caught your attention, even more than it usually did. It captured you and it didn’t let you go. And when you leaned forward, it was as if someone else took control over your body and your mind. You had sworn to yourself that you would never do this, that you would never let this happen, and yet here you were. The feeling of his lips on yours was strange. Strange in a good way. His lips were mostly soft, only the scarred part felt rough. You didn’t know what you were feeling as he kissed you but you didn’t care. You had given in and it was too late now. Whatever concerns would come to your mind now didn’t matter. Only Vincent mattered now. You felt him move, opened your eyes and slowly slid back a little, already missing the feeling of his lips on yours. He got up completely now, towering over you. He looked into your eyes, searching for some sort of affirmation. You nodded, although you didn’t know what you gave your approval for. Then again, it didn’t really matter. His hands grabbed your hips and lifted you up, only to set you down on the work bench. He moved between your legs and once again seemed to ask for confirmation and again you nodded your head to tell him that he could do whatever he wanted to do. His lips found yours again, more heated this time, longing, needy. His hands were still on your hips and squeezed desperately. You didn’t complain. You wanted to, you truly did. You wanted to tell him that you didn’t want this, that he hadn’t done what you asked of him, that he had completely disregarded your wishes and that you couldn’t forgive him because it pissed you off. And it did piss you off, it really did. Nevertheless, you wanted him, more than ever now. And so you gave in, let him kiss you, let him touch you and let him push you down on the table and hold you there as he kissed down your neck, sucked on the soft skin to leave purple marks and bit down to leave red marks. And you let him claim you in a way you would have never thought you would let happen, but you didn’t regret it. Vincent made sure you would never regret it.

#vincent sinclair #vincent sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair imagine #house of wax #house of wax imagine #slasher #slasher x reader #slasher imagine #slasher community

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starker-fluff · 4 years

Text

Peter Pan Chapter #3

Trigger Warnings: None actually.

—//—//—

Peter was awoken to a calloused finger tips gently wiping hair out of his eyes. Only noticing the sound of a car engine when it came fo a stop. He was too tired to open his eyes so he just nuzzles against the shoulder his head was on and curled up as best as he could. Sleep sounded nice, sleep sounded good.

“Come on, baby. I gotta pick you up and take you inside.” Tony’s voice sounded at a whisper as his large hands gently positioned Peter to lean against the seat before shuffling out of the car.

“No!” Peter let out a loud whine, his eyes flashing open as he grabbed tightly onto Tony’s arm.

“Sweetheart, it’s ok. I’m just getting out so I can pick you up.” Tony said reassuringly, picking up Peter’s hand to press a kiss to his knuckles. Peter watched attentively as Tony moved out of the car before leaning back into backseat of the car to softly pick Peter up bridle style, pulling the young man close to his chest.

“Such a sweet boy. Go back to sleep. I’m never leaving your side again.” Tony pressed a kiss to Peter’s forehead as the boy turned to his right, nuzzling his face against his husband’s chest and getting comfortable as he let himself relax.

The rest was blurry. Peter just let himself drift off as he was carried inside. Morgan’s little voice came in and out for a few minute. The was the sounds of footsteps and door locks clicking. The only thing he completely remembers was the soft brush of Tony’s thumb of his lips as he was laid down on the bed and how the bed dipped beside him before a pair of arms wrapped around him and pulled him in close. With his head now nestled against Tony’s chest and his body resting in the protective arms of his lover, he fell asleep.

Peter was thankful that when he woke up he was still snuggled to the handsome king he had for a husband. The boy was laying down with his head resting in Tony’s lap, who was busy typing away on a tablet.

“Mmmm.” Peter hummed our, running his finger tips over his lover’s exposed thighs.

“I dreamt of when you first kissed me. You were very romantic. Especially considering you’d just shot someone infront of me.” Peter looked up at older man who huffed with embarrassment.

“It was either him or me. So I decided him.” Tony countered, putting the tablet on a near by nightstand before pulling Peter into a sitting position in his lap.

“Well I’m glad you decided that. I don’t know why I’m suddenly remembering everything... If I do remember why didn’t I just remember everything instantly.” Peter complained, letting his body lean completely against Tony’s body.

“Actually whilst you were asleep, Bruce came in and explained it. Basically, they walled off your memories and we have to trigger your memories. He said to think of it like a switch board. If we hit the right switch the memory will come back. Like with the ring and you remembering the waves.” Tony explained, running his fingers through Peter’s now soft, bouncy curly hair.

“Oh ok. Wel that makes sen-“ Peter started to say, slowly sitting up to look at Tony when Morgan bursted into their room.

“I WAS PROMISED A WAFFLE PICNIC!!!!” Morgan yelled before running out of the room, her little footsteps drumming through the hall as she ran down the stairs.

“W-What?” Peter said through his giggles, holding his side as he tried not to snort as he adorable child.

“Oh my god. How the hell does she remember that and not how to put her dirty clothes in the wash basket?! Two years ago I promised we would have a waffle picnic when we got you back. The two of you are going to make this house a mess again.” Tony chuckled, scooping Peter up to carry him to the closet before siting the boy down on a lounge within their walk-in-wardrobe. “And I’m going to smile when it happens. I love your mess.” He smiled, leaning down to kiss his baby’s cheek.

“For a mob boss you are a big sap.” Peter teased, making Tony roll his eyes.

“I wasn’t always a sap. I used to be tough until you and your cute little butt seduced me and gave me the idea of having a daughter.” Tony changed into a button down shirt and a pair of comfy shorts, meaning there was no business today. He then turned to Peter, offering clothed to him.

“Uhhh. I might take that shirt and those jeans. Thank you.” Peter choose one of Tony’s comfy t-shirts and a pair of stretchy skinny jeans. Tony helped the boy into his clothes before stepping back to admire his sweet husband. Peter stood there, blushing bright red, as Tony bluntly checked him out. The older man stepping forward to run his thumb over Peter’s exposed collar bone.

“I forgot how good you look in my clothes. If it wasn’t for a waffle picnic I think I could of found that switch for our honeymoon memories.” Tony flirted as he winked at the boy. Making Peter as red as a tomato as he let out a little surprised squeak.

“Oh hush. You aren’t innocent. Now. Let’s go before Morgan steals our kneecaps for taking too long.” Tony scooped Peter up into his arms and carried him downstairs to where Morgan was waiting, vibrating with excitement.

—//—//—

Not that much later the happy family sat on the grass by the river that ran by their house. Little Morgan swinging happily on a tire swing that Tony had made for her with Tessa bouncing around her whilst Peter and Tony sat on a tartan blanket being horribly domestic and cheesy because Tony was feeding Peter pieces of his waffle.

“This tastes really good. I missed waffles so much.” Peter hummed happily as he nommed on the piece of syrup drenched waffle in his mouth. Tony just looked at him with a sad puppy look.

“I’m ok, bab. I’m here now and you can give me all the waffles you want.” Peter smiled, cuddling up to Tony’s chest. They were trying to make up for all the lost time with all the soft touches and cuddles.

—//—//—

A few minutes passed and Morgan was back on the blanket munching on waffles as they all flicked through the photo album that Morgan and Tony had made for Peter, Tessa was now laying down and sunbathing in the grass.

“Tessa looks so big now.” Peter said a little upset as he looked between the puppy on the Polaroid and the dog laying beside them.

“I’ve missed so much.” His voice quivered as he clutched the book. The album was full of what he had missed. Things like Morgan’s first day at school, her birthdays, Tony’s birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, funerals. But the thing that hurt the most was that he missed the little things like icecream for dinner, pizza parties, little trips into town with his daughter, cuddles with his husband whilst they watched a movie. Two years of his life were gone and he could never get them back.

“Hey, Peter. Sweetheart, it’s ok. Shhh. It’s ok. I got you.” Tony cooed to him, gently wiping tears from Peter’s eyes. He didn’t even realise he was crying until Tony’s hands were on his face. The young man just jumped into Tony’s lap, hiding his face in Tony’s shoulder and letting himself just sob in the comfort of his husband’s arms.

“Papa?” Morgan said softly, scared for her dad. Even Tessa had gotten up and made her way over to the family, gently muzzling at Peter’s thigh.

“It’s ok honey. Papa’s been away a long time and he’s just upset. It’ll be ok. Oh oh Natasha! Can you play with Morgan for a bit?” Tony was trying to explain to his daughter as Natasha walked down from the driveway. Nodding to Tony before taking Morgan’s hands.

“Why don’t you show me that fairy garden you were talking about yesterday?” Natasha suggested.

“Oh. Yeah ok. Bye Papa. I love you.” Morgan said nervously before leading Natasha off. Tony sat silently, just rubbing Peter’s back and letting him cry. The sobs lasted for a whole hour before Peter let out his final sniffle, hiccuping as he pulled away from Tony slightly. Opening his mouth to speak but he was interrupted.

“No saying sorry. You are allowed to cry, honey. You’ve been through a lot. Do you want have a little nap? I know you get tired.” Tony offered before Peter could go into a spiel about how he was sorry, it seemed to settle the boy.

“Yeah. Can I say out here? It’s warm.” Peter asked quietly, his throat hoarse and sore.

“Of course baby.” Tony slowly laid down, letting Peter resting his head on his chest. He waited until the boy had gotten himself comfy before he ran his fingers through his brunette curls. Part of Peter getting comfortable was sneaky his hand under Tony’s shirt to rest on his waist, holding softly as though he was afraid Tony would leave if he wasn’t holding on to him. Slowly Peter fell asleep in the sun, soaking in the warmth from the sun and from his husband. He was safe, finally.

Tags: @thequeenoffish @itfeelssogoodmrstark @starkly

#starker #starker fluff #happy starker #tony x peter #marvel #mafia au starker #peter pan starker fic #starker moodboard

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epochofbelief · 4 years

Text

Breath Control, Chapter Eleven

An A Court of Mist and Fury College Swim Team AU

All characters belong to SJ Maas!

Feysand and Elriel

Author’s Note: I promise, Rhys and Feyre will talk soon... It’s all about the build-up ;) Alsoooo part of this was Gilmore Girls inspired:)

Enjoyyyy and let me know if you want to be tagged!

MASTERLIST LINK

ELEVEN

~~~Elain~~~

I had dinner with Azriel nearly every night that week. We didn’t go much further than kissing, and at most we spent an hour together every night. Both of us had so much schoolwork to do and he had training on top of it, so our time together was limited even though we made an effort to see each other daily. On Saturday, I was curled up in a blanket on my couch studying for a huge test I had next week. Despite it being four in the afternoon, I hadn’t yet put a bra on or gotten dressed. Or brushed my hair.

I lived for Saturdays like this.

Feyre was supposed to come over for dinner later and it would be the first time I’d seen her since she’d left my house with Rhys over a week ago. I had big plans to pump her for information and figure out exactly what happened between them. Azriel didn’t have an explanation, either. No one did. It seemed like Feyre and Rhys were determined to keep the incident hidden from all of their friends. Az had told me he was pretty sure Mor knew, but wasn’t saying anything out of respect for Feyre.

Not tonight, though. I had two bottles of wine ready in order to grill Feyre for answers.

I stood, my cocoon of blankets falling to the floor around me. I should probably make sure I have supplies to actually make dinner for Feyre and me tonight.

I traipsed into the kitchen directly adjacent to my living room. My apartment was a dream, if I was being honest. I didn’t have a roommate so I had the whole place to myself. The front door opened into a cozy living room furnished with a plush couch and a couple of chairs. It was a fairly open concept plan, so the kitchen and living room were separated by a countertop complete with a few barstools. To the left of the living room was my bedroom and bathroom. Small, but cozy.

I opened the cabinets to stare at my food. It looked like I had rice and beans, so tacos might be a good option for dinner. As I removed the can of beans, a strange rustling issued from the very cabinet I was gazing into. I set the can on the counter and stretched up onto my toes to see what it was--

And came face to face with a rat.

“Arghhhh!”

I stumbled back so fast I landed on my ass in front of the refrigerator. The rat jumped out of the cabinet and onto the floor directly in front of me before it skittered under the dishwasher, disappearing from sight. I didn’t think I’d ever moved faster than I did just then, scrambling out of the kitchen and back onto the couch.

I grabbed my phone and dialed Azriel.

“Hello?”

I gulped down some air before I could speak. “I have a rat problem.”

“A rat problem?” I could already tell he was laughing at me.

“Yes. What the hell do I do.”

He sighed. “I’ll be right over. Text me your address.”

He hung up. I had not intended for him to pack up and come to my place, but if I was being truthful, there was no way I was handling the rat myself. Disgusting creatures.

Twenty minutes later, there was a knock at my door. I tiptoed over to it and flung it open.

“Hey, Elain,” Azriel said slowly.

I had managed to sneak around my apartment, shutting my bedroom and bathroom doors in an effort to keep the rat out. I’d also put a bra on and some mascara, so at least I looked presentable.

“Good to see you’re still alive, considering the deadly rat currently inhabiting your apartment,” he said sarcastically. Sarcastically?

“You think I’m making this up?” I grabbed his jacket and yanked him inside, shutting the door behind him. He stopped just past the threshold as I continued into the living room and resumed my place standing atop the couch. He chuckled as I stood there, turning to face him with my hands on my hips.

“I opened up my kitchen cabinet and the biggest rat I have ever laid eyes on jumped out. I mean, it actually attacked me. That thing has an agenda against me or something. It skittered across my kitchen floor and under the dishwasher. That’s the last I saw of it.”

Azriel looked dubious. “So… There’s actually a rat in here?”

Why couldn’t this guy get it through his head? He’d come over, hadn’t he? “Yes there’s a rat in here! And I need you to get rid of it because I’m certainly not going to! Please?”

He let out a breath and walked past me to the kitchen. “Okay, okay, I’m looking. Do you have any mousetraps or anything?”

I gasped. “You’re not going to kill it, are you? Can’t you just catch it and set it free?”

“What do you want me to catch it with, Elain? And I thought you told me it was evil.”

“Just because it’s evil doesn’t mean it deserves death. I have an empty shoebox and a bucket. Would either of those work?”

“Where are they?”

I clapped my hands, delighted that Azriel wasn’t going to kill the rat, disgusting as it was. “Under the sink! You’re a godsend, Azriel.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, bending down to look under the sink. But I could tell he was pleased.

I jumped from the couch to the chair nearest the bar, then climbed up onto the countertop separating the kitchen from the living room to watch his progress. “You’re doing great,” I said as he pulled the shoebox out from beneath the sink.

“Thanks for the moral support,” he said.

“Anytime.”

I watched him peer under the dishwasher for a bit, shoebox at the ready. I jumped when he banged on the outside of the dishwasher. Then jumped again as the rat skittered out from beneath the dishwasher, aiming for the fridge. Azriel pounced, enclosing the rat within the box in one fell swoop.

He stood, brandishing the box in my direction. I nearly fell backward off the bar. “Get that thing away from me!”

He laughed. “It’s just a harmless little rat.”

“I can hear it ricocheting off the sides of that shoebox. It’s trying to escape. Get it out of here!”

Still laughing, he left the apartment and returned a few minutes later, sans rat and shoebox. Good. I wasn’t going to find a use for the box anyway after a rat had been inside it.

“You can come down off the counter now,” he said, walking toward me.

“There could be more.”

He walked right up to the edge of the bar to where I now sat, my legs hanging over the edge. His arms wrapped around my waist as he came to a stop between my thighs.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” I said, resting my forearms over his shoulders. “Thanks for saving me from the rat.”

“Anytime,” he said, and kissed me. I pulled him closer, my legs wrapping around his waist. His hands moved from my waist, to my breasts, to my hair. I had just as much difficulty keeping my own hands in one place as I stroked the hard muscles of his abs, his chest, his arms. He deftly lifted me off the counter and carried me over to the couch, laying me down gently.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

I merely pulled him down atop me and drew our lips together. I was just starting to consider… other things, when a knock came from the door.

Azriel froze.

“I bet it’s the rat, back for revenge,” he joked, but I could tell he just wanted to continue kissing me.

“Shit,” I said, letting my head fall back against the couch as Azriel shifted into a seated position. “That’s Feyre. She’s here for dinner. She doesn’t know about us yet… Unless you told somebody about us. Which would be fine,” I added, even though we’d had a silent agreement to keep this on the down-low through all of our online communication and week of hanging out.

“Well, unless you want me to climb out the window, I think she’s about to find out.”

“I would never make you climb out the window,” I said as I stood and aimed for the door. Before I opened it, I turned back to him. “What did you mean, earlier, when you asked if there was actually a rat here?”

His eyes widened ever so slightly. “Uhhh… Nothing. I thought there was a rat here the whole time.” His gaze cut to the floor.

“Azriel?”

“Yes?” He still wouldn’t look at me.

I was about to continue my interrogation when another knock, this one a little more insistent, sounded at the door. I let Azriel off the hook and opened the door.

“Hey, Feyre. Long story, but before you come in, I have to tell you. I’m not here alone,” I said in a rush. Feyre’s brows creased.

“You forgot I was coming? Who’s here?”

I opened the door a little wider and Feyre took a step inside.

“Hey, Feyre,” Azriel said weakly.

~~~Feyre~~~

It had been the longest week of my life. I remembered how much I hated living with Ianthe as the week progressed. We had kept our distance from each other the entire month of November. I’d avoided the common areas of the house like the plague, being sure to stay inside my room on my floor of the townhouse at all times while home.

But now that it had been over a month since she’d, you know, betrayed me by making out with my boyfriend in front of the entire swim team, she’d decided amends could now be made.

I wanted no part of it.

She lingered in the living room every night after practice, attempting to cajole me into conversation about swim, or school, or my family. I would usually flip a trite remark at her and move on as quickly as possible, but I was reaching the end of my tether.

And dealing with Ianthe’s tasteless attempts to ‘be friends’ again was just the cherry on top of the horrible week I’d had.

I hadn’t spoken to Rhys since the night when he’d cornered me in the bathroom of the club. The night he’d cheated on me with his ex, whom I had thought he hated! He had kept his distance, too, and I couldn’t decide if that made things better or worse. He hadn’t placed any effort in trying to talk to me, or reconcile, and that only served to make me believe he really was guilty, he really did cheat because he was weak, and had moved on without me. I’d said as much to Mor on Wednesday but she had vehemently argued against that opinion.

“Just talk to him!” she’d exclaimed over dinner that night. “And neither of you will hang with me, Cass, Az and Amren! Things aren’t the same without you guys. And you’re obviously miserable without each other. Won’t you just talk to him? There’s got to be an explanation.”

But I hadn’t, and my week without Rhys and my newfound friends had accomplished at least one good thing. I had thrown myself into my training, needing an outlet for all the emotions warring within me. Should I talk to Rhys? Did I just have horrible taste when it came to men? All those thoughts, whirling around my head, only disappeared when I trained so hard at every practice that I could barely stay awake to study before bed every night.

Coach King had even noticed my newfound motivation. He’d pulled me aside after practice on Friday night and congratulated me for my hard work. He’d even hinted that I might make the travel team next weekend…

Somehow the motivation to work hard, accomplish things in my sport, had returned to me. And now that that was finally going well, I’d started considering changing my major to English or Art or something. Maybe I just needed to take a long break from boys. It made it a lot easier to focus on myself.

But some part of me knew that was a lie. I’d felt so different when I was with Rhys; I knew it was partially due to him that I suddenly felt confident enough to put everything on the line in practice, to even consider switching to a ‘less practical’ major. Even though he’d cheated. Now I knew I could conquer that sort of insult, channel that frustration into productive things that would hopefully make my life better.

I hadn’t seen or explained what had happened between Rhys and me to either of my sisters, but tonight was the night I was planning on telling Elain about my newfound motivation. However, I had not expected Azriel, looking slightly disheveled and embarrassed, to be sitting in her apartment when I arrived.

“Azriel… What are you doing here?” I asked him, even as I shot Elain a look.

She grinned weakly. “Az was just leaving!” She said, grabbing his arm and pulling him off the couch. He acquiesced because Elain definitely wasn’t strong enough to pull Azriel up off anything.

“Az?” I asked her.

Azriel’s cheeks were bright red and he wasn’t making eye contact. I glanced between them. “Is something going on here?”

“Bye Azriel!” Elain said, her voice strained and cheeks equally as pink as Azriel’s.

Azriel grabbed his jacket from where it was laying haphazardly on the floor next to the couch. I shot Elain another look and she didn’t even try to smile. She just pushed him out and slammed it shut.

“Elain Archeron, you bad, bad, girl,” I said, unable to restrain myself.

“Oh shut up,” she said, throwing herself onto the couch and covering her face with her hands.

“You want to tell me how long that’s been going on?”

“Well, if you mean by, how long have I been seeing him, then only a week and a half. If you mean how long I’ve been talking to him… Over two months. We connected on a dating app, and at first it was funny because we were kind of connected through you, even though you two weren’t really close at the time. So we laughed about it and just never stopped texting. Our first real date was last week.”

I grew more and more stunned as Elain explained. She looked at me, obviously finished with details, and I closed my mouth, which had been hanging open.

“Elain, I’m--”

“Don’t you dare ask me if I think I’m ready for this.”

“I wasn’t going to! I’m--I’m so, so happy for you!” I screeched, unable to contain my happiness that Elain had found somebody, whether it be long term or not, after Greyson. That bastard had hurt her and she deserved so much better. And I knew for a fact that Azriel was a good man. I threw myself at Elain, hugging her tight. “Are you happy?”

Elain’s slender arms wrapped around me hesitantly, and she patted me on the back. “I really like him, Feyre. And we’ve only been officially going out for like a week but everything feels so natural with him. I’m not afraid of it. He’s so easy to talk to, and kind, and…”

I pulled back, realizing there was one question I still didn’t know the answer to. “Was he supposed to be here when I arrived?”

She shook her head, standing up to walk into the kitchen. I followed, seating myself at the bar across from her as she pulled out a skillet and some ground beef. “Tacos okay?” She asked, and I nodded. “To answer your question, no, he was not supposed to be here. I called him to come dispose of a rat for me. Wine?”

I nodded and she opened a bottle of red. “So you mean to tell me,” I said slowly, accepting the wineglass she offered, “that you called Azriel over here because you had a rat in your apartment?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Why is that so odd? Azriel acted strange about it too. You know what he asked me? He said, ‘Oh, so is there actually a rat in your apartment?’ What’s that about?”

I rested my forehead on the counter in front of me. “Elain. I’m so glad you’ve found Azriel but you can be so clueless sometimes. He thought you asked him over here to have sex!”

“What? That makes no sense.”

“That’s like, the classic signal. You call your boyfriend, telling him there’s a bat in your attic or a chick on the loose in the house! Then you pretend to look for it, both of you knowing full well there’s not an actual rodent loose in the house. And then you… you know.”

“Oh God. That is so not a thing.” Elain downed half of her glass of wine in a few gulps.

“It’s a thing. I did it with Tamlin. And that’s all I’ll say about that.”

“Do me a favor, Feyre. Never mention this to anyone. And don’t give me any more details about your sex life with Tamlin, either.”

“My lips are sealed on both counts, believe me.”

Elain started browning the taco meat. “So… Speaking of boys.”

“No.”

“Feyre Archeron, so help me, you are going to tell me what happened between you and Rhys. I’m very concerned, here! Even Azriel doesn’t know and he’s one of Rhys’s best friends! Drink your wine and tell me the truth.”

I groaned. But it had to come out sometime, right? Now it was my turn to tell the truth. I had just barged in on Elain and her secret boyfriend.

“Rhys cheated on me last week.”

Elain’s mouth popped open, the taco meat in front of her momentarily forgotten. “He did what.”

For the second time, I explained what had gone down between Rhys and Amarantha in the alleyway outside of the club.

“There’s got to be some sort of explanation,” Elain said.

“That’s what Mor keeps saying. He cheated. End of story. It’s exactly what Tamlin did to me a month ago. I’m not putting up with that.”

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

I slept over at Elain’s that night after she consoled me about Rhys and then told me I didn’t need him. She had mentioned a couple times that maybe there was an explanation that would somehow justify him kissing his ex while I was nearby. I just couldn’t bring myself to buy it. Because if there was an explanation for Rhys cheating... What if there had been an explanation for why Tamlin had cheated? What if I was just getting everything wrong?

When I got back to my house the next day, I realized the door was deadbolted. Which meant I would have to call Ianthe, because she wasn’t answering the door. Shit.

Five fruitless phone calls later, I was still stuck outside. I banged on the door. If it was deadbolted, someone had to be inside.

“Hello? Ianthe! Let me in!”

Nothing. I turned around, surveying the empty street. It was early for a Sunday morning. Most of my friends were probably asleep. I could possibly call Mor, but she lived with Rhys. And I didn’t want to hang out anywhere that I might run into Rhys until Ianthe was able to let me in. I sat down on the steps and starting scrolling through my social media, waiting for a brilliant idea to hit me.

And then I heard the door swing open from behind me. I turned around and came face to face with Tamlin.

“What the hell are you doing inside my house.”

“It’s not just your house, you know,” he said, leaning against the door frame looking smug.

“You know what, I don’t want to think about what you were doing inside my house. Just get out of here,” I said, standing and making to move past him.

“Come on, Feyre. We all know you’re fucking Rhys. I’m not allowed to have a little fun of my own?”

I glared at him. He hadn’t moved and was blocking the only entrance to the house. “I don’t give a fuck what you think I’ve been doing, nor do I care what you have been doing. I do however, demand that you get out of my way and fuck off.”

He raised his hands. “Fine, fine. But I have a feeling we’re going to be seeing a lot more of each other from now on.” His subsequent smile was enough to tell me exactly why I’d be seeing him.

Ianthe was a bitch. And Tamlin was a dick.

I pushed past him and slammed the door shut. Ianthe was in the kitchen, wearing nothing but a robe.

“Feyre! I didn’t expect you back so early.”

I ignored her, dialing Mor as I walked downstairs to my floor of the house. She picked up on the first ring.

“Who is calling me this early on a Sunday.” Mor’s sleepy voice issued from the phone.

“I need a place to stay,” I said. “And I can’t stay in your guest room because, well, you know. And I can’t barge in on Elain because her place is way too small for two people. And I certainly cannot stay here any longer because Ianthe is now fucking my ex boyfriend. So tell me what to do.”

“That bitch,” Mor said. “I don’t know Feyre.” She hesitated. “I don’t think you can get out of your lease until the summer. Just stay with us. Please? Rhys is definitely gonna stay far away from you.”

“You’re only saying that because you want us to reconcile.”

“So what if I do!” Mor exclaimed. “There’s got to be some sort of explanation,” she continued. “And Rhys is at least a more pleasant ex-boyfriend than Tamlin, you’ve got to admit. Just come stay here for the week and see if you can handle it.”

I thought about it. I really did not want to see Rhys. But when I weighed the pros and cons…

Tamlin wouldn’t try to avoid seeing me. He got off on antagonizing me and generally being a dick. Rhys was as reluctant to see me as I was to see him. It might be better that way. And at least I’d have someone on my side with Mor there, instead of it being Ianthe and Tamlin against me in this house.

“Okay,” I agreed. “But only for the week.”

I could sense Mor’s smile through the phone. “Perfect! I’ll pick you up at ten. I’m going back to bed.”

TAGS----------

@aknymph @sleeping-and-books @queen-of-glass @fabfire

#acotar #acomaf #a court of thorns and roses #a court of wings and ruin #acotar au #a court of thorns and roses au #feysand #elriel #sarah j maas #feyre archeron #feysand au #azriel #elain #elain x azriel #feyre x rhysand #acomaf ff #acotar ff #acotar fanfiction #fanfiction

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crystalninjaphoenix · 4 years

Text

Developments & Discoveries

A JSE Fanfic

Alright guys, this are a lot of different scenes in this story, but they really just follow a few “storylines.” But big things happen. First, Chase finds out some good news. Laurens and Schneep talk again, yay! And we learn more about our antagonist, Anti. The fic itself isn’t any longer than my usual ones, but there’s a lot packed in here. Guess I was excited to return to this world, haha. Enjoy, guys :)

You can find the other stories under the pw timeline tag!

Chase woke up at two in the afternoon. Well technically, he was awake at twelve, but lied in bed for another couple hours before actually getting up. “Oh my gooood.” He squeezed his eyes shut and covered them with his hands. Why couldn’t he get up at a normal time lately? At least today he had an excuse because he had the kids over yesterday. Saturdays to Mondays, that was the agreement. And Stacy wasn’t ready to renegotiate it.

They’d talked about that last night, when she came to pick them up. “Chase, I know this isn’t...ideal,” she said in a low voice. “But look around. Your fridge is empty, things are scattered around the house in a mess, and, please correct me if I’m wrong, but I...haven’t heard anything about a job or anything.” She sighed. “It’s not even really up to me, you know. Courts.”

��No, no, I get it,” Chase had replied. “It makes sense.”

“We can work things out once things are more settled.”

Well, now he was lying in bed and feeling bad, which was a step down from lying in a bed feeling tired, so he decided to get up and shower. It had been a while since that happened, and he couldn’t go to his one outing he’d planned today like that. He rolled out of bed, took a quick shower, ate a Pop-Tart for breakfast, and he felt a little better.

It really did make sense to have the kids spend most of their time with their mom. Chase knew he hadn’t exactly been...kept-together recently. And by “recently,” he meant for about the past two years. Sophie and Nick needed a parent who could actually put energy into raising them. He could do that, eventually. If he worked on it. “Positive thoughts, Chasey boy,” he said under his breath. “Be optimistic.”

Okay, that was enough of that for now. He had something to do. But before he did that, he checked his phone for any texts. Marvin sent a video of Luna and Ragamuffin being cute, that was nice. Nothing else. Alright, no more stalling. He grabbed his jacket and cap and headed out to the car.

——————

He stepped into the hospital just as visiting hours were starting. By now he had hospital check-in routines down to muscle memory. He was signing his name on the check-in clipboard when he was interrupted by a loud voice: “Ah, Mr. Brody! Good to see you again.”

Chase jumped a bit, then turned around. “Oh. Hi, Dr. Emerson.”

The doctor was a tall man with a thick beard. Chase had always thought he looked more like a Viking than one of the city’s best...well, he couldn’t remember what exact field the doctor was a specialist in, all he knew was it had something to do with whatever had gone wrong with Jack. Brains or nerves or something. “So soon, huh?” Dr. Emerson said, chuckling. “No, I understand.”

“Uhhh...” Was Chase missing something? The last time he’d been here was two weeks ago. “O...kay?”

“Well, don’t show too much enthusiasm.” Dr. Emerson raised an eyebrow. “Are you still confused, then?”

“Confused about wh—I mean I am confused, because I don’t know what to be confused about.” That was starting to sound less and less like a word.

“Ah.” Emerson’s smile faltered. “Do you not remember what I told you yesterday?”

“I wasn’t here yesterday,” Chase said, his voice slowly rising as nerves creeped up on him. “What are you talking about?”

Now Emerson looked as baffled as Chase felt. “I...think there’s been some misunderstanding here.”

“Y’know, I’m gonna, uh, go to Jack’s room.” Chase started walking away, down the hall towards the ICU wing. “You can, uh, come with me and tell me what happened yesterday while we go.”

Emerson followed. As the two of them waited at the elevator, he started explaining. “Well, about this time yesterday, you walked in, checked in just like you did, and went up to the room.” The elevator arrived with a ding, and the two of them stepped inside. Chase pressed the button for the third floor and listened as the doctor continued. “Of course, I only assume this part, since you wrote your name on the visitor’s slip. I was already in the room, and that’s when I told you about the change in Jack’s condition—”

“I’m sorry, what?!” Chase shouted.

“My god, man, you can be loud when you want,” Emerson said, taking a step away. “Anyway, yes, his GCS score went up.”

“I...don’t know what that means,” Chase said, staring at him in shock. The elevator dinged again, but he didn’t even step out.

“That’s what you said yesterday,” Emerson said. He made an ‘after you’ gesture, and Chase finally stepped out, now following Emerson as he walked down a familiar hallway. “Then you said you would look it up later, and I left you with Jack.”

“None of this happened,” Chase said, clenching his shaking hands into fists. “This did not happen, I-I was busy all day yesterday.”

“Well, could it have been one of your friends?” Emerson asked. “You do all look similar, don’t you? Though I don’t understand why he’d pretend to be you.”

Chase fell silent. He knew that neither Marvin or JJ would do something like that. But there was someone who might. Anti. In fact, hadn’t Anti done the same thing once before? Pretended to be Marvin visiting the hospital? But why? Jack didn’t have anything to do with any of this. He had no idea what Anti was planning, and that led his mind to the worst case scenarios.

They arrived at Room 309, and Chase reached forward to open the door. “Oh wait,” Dr. Emerson interrupted, placing a hand on the door. “I should probably tell you about the changes. I would have yesterday, but you—or, er, your friend saw first.”

“Okay, so what are theys?” Chase asked. “These changes. What’s a GCS? Is that some sort of fancy brain wave or something?”

Emerson chuckled. “No, it’s not actually anything in the body. GCS stands for Glasgow Coma Scale, it’s a way to describe someone’s level of consciousness after brain trauma. I suppose I’ve been so used to talking about it with others in the department that I forgot I had to explain it.”

“Yes, that would be appreciated,” Chase prompted.

“Well, the GCS measures three factors: eye opening, verbal response, and motor response. Each of these are measured on a scale, and when combined there’s a highest possible score of 15. Mr. McLoughlin’s has recently raised from the lowest possible score, three, to a five.”

“And that’s good,” Chase clarified.

“Yes, it is very good.” Emerson smiled. “I’ll be honest with you, Chase, it’s been over a year, and things weren’t looking good for Jack’s recovery. This is a huge development.”

Chase nodded. “R...right.” He grabbed the doorknob and swung it open, stepping inside.

The room looked the same as ever. Jack looked the same as ever. Chase hesitated, then walked up next to the bed. And then the difference was clear. At the sound of approaching footsteps, Jack opened his eyes.

Chase had to stop and process what he was looking at. His eyes were open. He was looking at him. “I...oh my god.” He covered his mouth with his hand. “Oh my god, Jack?”

“He can’t respond, Chase.” Emerson walked up next to him. “He hasn’t reacted to anything verbally or through motion. Just the eyes, and it’s not spontaneous. Only to sound.”

“Oh.” Chase nodded, slowly lowering his hand. “Can he hear us?”

“Well, we have no way of knowing,” Emerson explained. “It could only be an automatic response, he could be hearing us but not comprehending what we say, or he could be listening to everything.” He paused. “You understand that a GCS score of five is still very low, yes? Anything below an eight is still considered to be a coma.”

“Right...” Chase took another step closer, reaching down to touch Jack’s hand. Still, it was an improvement, and at this point, he’d take any sign of change for the better. It had been so long since he last saw his friend smile...talked to him...perhaps eventually, he’d be able to do that again. But as the hopeful thought arose, it was brought back down by a sinking feeling. He looked over at Emerson. “Hey doc, this is important. I didn’t come to visit yesterday. My friends didn’t either. There’s...” he hesitated. “There’s someone else. He’s been following us, a-and I don’t know what he wants, but it’s most likely not...good.”

Emerson turned pale. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yeah, the police know about this guy.” Even though he hadn’t told them that he thought Anti was stalking them...well, at least they knew he existed. He wasn’t sure if he should tell them, after all, he didn’t have much proof. “So you have to be careful, okay? I-I’ll tell my friends, we need to find a way for you to make sure it’s us and not him...” He looked back down at Jack. Nobody was more vulnerable than someone in a coma.

“I’ll wait outside, we can discuss this later,” Emerson said. “After you’re done here.”

Chase nodded. Emerson left, footsteps retreating, and Chase didn’t turn around as he heard the door shut. He squeezed Jack’s hand tighter. “Sorry you got caught up in this,” he muttered. “I don’t know what he’d want from you. I mean, Anti popped up in our lives after you went through all this. Or, well, JJ knew him.” He pulls over the chair, sitting down. “Yeah, uh, this Anti guy. He’s bad news. He kidnapped Schneep, and like...all those bad things I told you about, that he was accused of, it was actually Anti, and Schneep got framed. I guess it’s easy to scapegoat a guy who can’t even confirm he really saw you.” He paused. “He’s got Jackie too. The police are looking for him, so I guess there’s a better chance of finding Jackie now that they know where he is. Also. The craziest thing about this is that Anti is JJ’s brother.” He laughed dryly. “God, what a coincidence, huh? Maybe fate does exist. And it’s a dick.”

He goes quiet, watching Jack. After a few minutes of silence, his eyes started to close. “Y’know I really do hope you can hear me, and you’re listening,” Chase said. Jack’s eyes automatically opened wide again. “Because then you could tell us what Anti was doing here yesterday. It would be...I guess it would make me feel a bit better, to at least know.” He took a deep breath. “But you know what? It’s gonna be okay. Eventually. It might take a while, and I’ll be honest, right now is kind of sucky, but it’s gonna get better eventually. Y’know what you used to say, positive mental attitude. The viewers are really liking that, by the way. They still miss you, of course, but I’m keeping on. But on the track of positivity, at least Schneep’s first doctor is back, so he’ll be okay, I think. Marvin’s doing good, too. JJ...well, he was freaking out a bit, about Anti...I don’t want to make assumptions, but at best, they didn’t get along, and now he’s here, so it would freak anyone out. But he’s doing a bit better, I think. Yeah. It’s all getting better. Slowly.” He blinked furiously. “For everyone else. That...that’s great.”

For a moment, he thinks he feels Jack’s fingers move. Not like they were squeezing his hand, but a movement nonetheless. He looks down, surprised, but he doesn’t think anything’s changed. Maybe he imagined it. But in any case...“Hah. Y’know I can practically hear you giving me a lecture on self-care. Yeah, I’m trying, bro. Still in a bit of a gray spot. I really am happy that everyone else is doing good, it just kinda sucks when you’re in that gray spot, you know? But I am great and I’ll get through it. Yeah.” He didn’t really believe that, but Marvin had told him that saying positive things about yourself was the first step to believing them. “I just...miss you, Jack. Don’t want anything to happen to you.”

For the rest of the visit, he goes quiet, watching the heart monitor rise and fall. Things were crazy, but it would be fine. It would be.

——————

Dr. Laurens had rescheduled her sessions to be later in the day. Because quite frankly, she wanted to sleep in. And judging by the records Newson had left, the past sessions had gone all over the place in terms of what time they took place, so it wasn’t like she was interrupting a schedule. It was shortly before five o’clock when she met up with Oliver and they headed to Room 1010.

When Laurens opened the door, she saw Schneep was standing up and pacing the length of the back wall. Oliver handed her the paper cup with the medication inside, then went over to stand in the corner and try to attract as little attention as was possible for someone over six feet tall. Laurens nodded encouragingly, and walked forward. “Schneep?” She said, putting a confident tone in her voice. “Are you ready?”

Schneep jumped, and whirled around. Wariness faded away to happiness. “So it is you,” he said. “You are back. Unless this is not real too...”

“No, it’s real,” Laurens said, smiling. “I’m back. Dr. Newson won’t be handling your case anymore.” She’d actually briefly passed Newson when coming in, but hadn’t really stopped to chat. Newson briefly mentioned having an appointment with her lawyer after leaving, but Laurens hadn’t pushed. She already knew about the lawsuit anyway.

“Oh thank god,” Schneep said, relieved. “She was not...helpful.”

“That is the least you could say,” Laurens muttered. “Anyway, before we get started, I need you to...well, there’s this.” She set the paper cup down on the table.

Schneep paled, backing up. “No no no no, I have a clear head, I have energy, I will not—”

“There are no sedatives in this,” Laurens hurried to say. “I promise.” It was messed up that she had to clarify that. “It shouldn’t have that effect, and if it does, please let me know so that I can change it.” Schneep didn’t move any closer. “Dr. Newson had you taking an improper medication with much too high a dosage, so you’ll have to slowly ease off it and onto a medication that should be better.”

Schneep hesitated for a moment longer before stepping forward, picking up the paper cup, and swallowing the pill inside in one gulp. “If this is not...” He trailed off.

“It’ll be fine,” Laurens said reassuringly. “If it isn’t, you have to tell me so I can fix it, okay. Now.” She sat down on the room’s chair. “I think it’s important to give you an update.” She waited for Schneep to sit on the bed before continuing. “So, it appears as though I’ve been misunderstanding your condition. In that you actually have two of them.”

“Oh?” Schneep blinked, genuinely surprised.

“Yes.” Laurens automatically reached for her journal, before remembering that she’d given it to Oliver. He’d told her yesterday that he gave it to Schneep’s friend Chase, and she had yet to ask him for it back. She was now working with some loose sheets of paper, which she spread on the table. “You are aware of your schizoaffective disorder, but now that I know more about what’s happened to you, I believe you also have some post-traumatic stress disorder.”

Schneep paused. “Ah.”

She waited for a stronger reaction, but didn't receive one. “Yes. So that will change our approach from now on.”

“Alright,” Schneep said slowly. “Is there medication for it?”

“We’re still focusing on getting you off the last one,” Laurens explained. “But perhaps I could give you some anti—” Schneep flinched “—anxiety medication later. But it can’t be treated solely with that. You understand that, right?”

Schneep nodded slowly. “What happened to your arm?”

“A-ah...well...” Laurens hesitated. “Obviously I broke it. Dislocated my wrist, too.”

“How?”

“Well...” Laurens hesitated. She didn’t know what effect it would have on Schneep if he knew everything that happened with her and Anti and Jackie. The last thing she wanted right now was to upset him. And besides, she didn’t really want to talk about it anyway. “I’ll tell you some other time, okay? For now, I want to focus on you.” She shuffled her papers. “Schneep...there’s no way to ease into this that won’t alarm you, so I’m just going to say it. Do you know Anti?”

The effect was immediate. Schneep jumped, scooting backwards on the bed. “Do not say the name!”

“Why not?” Laurens asked. “You told me once that this would give him power, right? That giving him attention would make him stronger?”

Schneep nodded, looking significantly paler.

“Well, here’s where things are difficult, Schneep,” she said patiently. “I believe that he’s a major source of trauma for you.” Because why wouldn’t he be? Laurens remembered all the things Jackie had told her about what happened to the two of them, and that would give anyone trauma. “And we need to work that out, yeah? But we can’t do that if we can’t talk about him. So. Here’s what I’m thinking. We’ll be as indirect as possible. I’ll ask you about him, and you can give answers that are as short or as long as you see fit. If at any moment you feel like we are getting...you know, too close to giving him influence, tell me and we will stop. Does that work?”

He didn’t answer for a long time, shaking slightly, eyes darting around as if looking for something. Then he nodded slowly.

“Great.” Again, Laurens wished she had her journal full of notes. It would be a lot easier to reference past events. But she was stuck with this. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you said before that An—sorry, that he makes you hurt people. Am I right?”

Schneep nodded, starting to rock softly.

That made sense with what she knew. “Does he physically take control of you? How does this happen?”

“He...” Schneep’s voice cracked. “He puts...th-thoughts in my head...a-and makes me want...to...”

And that sounded familiar. Laurens made a note of that. “So...you have thoughts about wanting to hurt people, and this is caused by him?” This sounded like some form of intrusive or otherwise unwanted thoughts, and combined with his hallucinations and delusions, he believed Anti to be behind them.

Schneep nodded. “O-or he...he would say—tell me to do something horrible, and if I did—did not do it, he would do so-something worse.”

“But you clearly don’t want to hurt anyone, right?” Laurens asked.

“No!” Schneep protested. “I never—never! I-I may be angry with some people, maybe fight, but the th-things he makes me—” He buried his head in folded arms, taking deep breaths.

“Do you want us to stop?” Laurens asked gently.

He nodded without looking up.

“Schneep.” Laurens leaned forward. She waited until he looked at her before continuing. “You know this is not your fault, right? You’ve said that to me before. Any thoughts, any actions you may have done, it is not your fault.”

“I know that,” Schneep sounded a bit irritated. “I know that, i-it is him, I just—I still worry, I still...feel...”

“I know,” Laurens said softly. “Which is why I’m going to try to give you some ways to deal with this, okay? Some ways to cope.”

“That would be...appreciated,” he muttered.

“Good. Let’s begin.” This would be a good starting point, but that’s what it was, a starting point. Laurens could already see a long path ahead. The main problem here being that Anti wasn’t actually making any of these thoughts appear in Schneep’s head. But that had to come later down the road. There was still a lot to do before that.

——————

“Hey. Wake up.”

Jackie felt something kick his side and he winced, opening his eyes. Anti was standing in front of him, looking down. He stared up at him, tensed, waiting.

“Good,” Anti nodded. “It’s time to eat. Sit up straight.”

Jackie hurried to sit up, the movement making his spine crack. He’d taken to slouching, which probably wasn’t good for his posture when he was tied to a table leg.

Anti huffed, a bit impatient. He kneeled down next to Jackie, reaching around behind him. Jackie stiffened, very deliberately not moving even as he felt the handcuffs unlock. He’d tried to run once before. Schneep had encouraged it, almost demanded that Jackie get out even if it meant leaving him behind. He hadn’t liked it, but he’d listened. And he’d almost made it out of the house. But Anti caught him right at the end, and he hadn’t been happy. Jackie was pretty sure he had some burn scars on his arm from that day. And now, in such close quarters with Anti, who hadn’t left the apartment except for once yesterday, he didn’t want to risk it.

“Alright,” Anti muttered. He’d cuffed Jackie’s right arm to the table leg, letting his left one be free. Now he stood up, grabbing a plate and cup from the table, which he set down on the floor next to Jackie. A sandwich and a glass of milk. It would do. Anti sat down on the nearest chair and pulled out his phone, glancing at Jackie every few seconds. Jackie didn’t respond, just pulled out the gag and started eating. He should hurry.

All was silent for a few minutes. Until: “Wait, what?” Anti sat up straight, eyes scanning his phone again. “That’s—ugh.” He tapped the screen a couple times, then dialed a number and held the phone to his ear. Jackie could hear it ringing from here. The moment the call was picked up, Anti started talking. “Yeah, hi, it’s me. What the fuck?” There were the faint hints of a voice on the other end. “What, did you think I’d just forget your number? No. Now what the fuck is this on the website?” Anti paused. “I think you do know what I’m talking about. I told you, I don’t do repeats.” The voice on the other end sounded angry. “Well if he survived three stab wounds, I’d say he’s earned the right to live. Besides, he hasn’t told anyone, has he? That would’ve been on the news.” Pause. “I don’t do refunds either.”

Jackie couldn’t help but be intrigued. What was he talking about? It sounded like someone hired Anti as some sort of hitman. Was that what he did in his spare time? Or maybe that was his job and this serial killer stuff was just a fun side project for him. Jackie shuddered at the thought of it.

“Well boo-fuckity-hoo for you.” Anti drawled. “Look, I get not wanting loose ends, but I’m done here. I’m busy, I have shit to do, and the cops know about me now.” A long pause as the voice on the other end talked for a while. Anti raised an eyebrow. “Give me two hundred pounds right now and I’ll consider it.” Loud shouting from the other end. “Don’t give me that shit, that’s spare change for you. Tell you what, I’ll check out the guy’s house, too.” Pause. “Yeah, if I decide I want to.” Long pause. “Great. What’s the address again?” Short pause. “No, I didn’t, that would be insane. It was a lot easier to ambush him while he was out. What’s the address.” Another pause. Anti’s eyes suddenly widened. “Wait, really?” The other voice said something angry. “It’s none of your business. But I’m checking my account now, if the number doesn’t go up by two hundred in the next five minutes, I’m not even gonna think about it.” He hung up the call unceremoniously, and started swiping about on the phone screen again.

Well that was...interesting. Jackie stared at Anti as he seemed to wait for something, eyes glued to his phone. After a short while, he grinned, and looked away, immediately seeing Jackie. He glared. “What’re you looking at, hoodie?”

Jackie flinched and looked away, stuffing the last bit of sandwich into his mouth.

“That’s what I thought.” Anti stood up and disappeared through a doorway, into what Jackie assumed was the bedroom area. A few minutes later he returned, wearing a gray hoodie with a backpack slung over his shoulder. He crouched on the floor next to Jackie. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?” He chuckled. “No, of course not.” He grabbed Jackie’s wrist and yanked it around the table leg, causing him to cry out. Click. The handcuffs were back in place. Before Jackie could even process that, Anti was shoving the gag back in his mouth, sudden enough to make him choke a bit. “Of course, if you’re not here when I get back...” Anti didn’t have to finish that sentence.

After a moment of staring into Jackie’s eyes, making sure he got the point, Anti stood up and headed out, slamming the front door behind him.

Jackie flinched, then exhaled slowly, squeezing his eyes shut. Alone. Anti would be back soon, of course, but he’d enjoy this while it lasted. Trying to relax as much as he was able while in this awkward position, he tried to drift away in the relieving silence.

——————

Anti knew this address.

He drove there, parking some ways away and walking the rest of the way. The neighborhood immediately looked familiar, and by the time he reached the address, he knew where he was going, and wasn’t surprised to stop outside the house of Marvin Maher.

Marvin wasn’t someone he was particularly interested in. He knew enough to get a grasp on him...which was admittedly a lot. 28 years old, Irish, currently unemployed, no living relatives aside from his grandmother, has two cats and a snake, and was a practicing Wiccan. Though those were just the facts. In personality, Marvin was stubborn, loud, very visible with his emotions, and had some difficulty in social situations.

And again, though that was a lot, Anti wasn’t particularly interested in him. Not compared to the other one, Chase. Ironic, considering that for all intents and purposes, Chase lived a much less exciting life. He didn’t go anywhere, had an ex-wife and kids, and ran two YouTube channels for “work:” his own channel, BroAverage, and the one that belonged to his coma-bound friend, jacksepticeye. Perhaps it was the fact that he was so ordinary, stuck in this extraordinary situation, that fascinated him.

But he wasn’t here to find out more about Chase. Anti wasn’t usually one to try again on a job, since it increased his chance of being found, and anonymity was his greatest shield. He’d only decided to consider it due to already being known to the police in this city—a fact that he cursed that doctor lady for every day since she escaped. But now, realizing who his target was made this much more interesting.

Anti circled around the house, scouting it. Looking into the rooms, it appeared empty. All the windows were locked pretty securely, as was the front door...but not so much the side door. He twisted the knob and pulled it open. It looked like a chest of drawers had been pressed against the door from the other side, perhaps to prevent it from opening. He chuckled. This door had a spring hinge; it swung both ways. It also didn’t appear to have a functioning lock. Good, he was happy he didn’t have to pick his way inside and risk someone noticing that.

He pushed the chest of drawers to the side and entered the house, finding himself at the end of a hallway with a door to the left and right. Once inside, he carefully pulled the door shut and replaced the drawers; he could find another exit. The hall opened up into a living room. Anti walked down, careful to tread only where the carpet was worn down so his footsteps wouldn’t stand out. The living room was about normal, its main feature being the snake terrarium. He stared at the snake inside for a bit, but it appeared to be asleep. Huh, he didn’t know snakes could be purple. Mentally making a note to look that up later, he noticed another hallway branching off the living room, and was about to head there when something caught his eye.

A turquoise notebook was lying on the coffee table, looking quite out of place with the rest of Marvin’s decorations. Odd. Was that someone else’s? Anti frowned, and idly picked it up, skimming the pages. There was something tucked inside...a plastic keycard? He looked over the handwritten notes, not paying much attention until he saw a familiar name: Schneep.

He immediately started paying attention to this journal. What was this? He flipped back to the beginning, seeing a name written on the inside cover: Dr. Rya Laurens.

That doctor lady. Anti narrowed his eyes. Was this her notebook? Why did Marvin have it? What was in it? Was he mentioned in it anywhere?

He took his backpack off his shoulders and slid the notebook and its keycard inside. And then he looked up, and happened to glance out the window. Luckily he did in time, because he saw people coming up the front path.

Instinct kicked in and he looked around for the nearest exit. The back window. It only had a latch to lock it. Quickly he ran over, threw it open, and jumped outside, closing it behind him. Now in the backyard, he stayed low, backing up.

Once he was pressed against the fence of the house behind this one, Anti dared to straighten just enough to look through the window into the living room. It appeared as though Marvin had come home. He’d also brought a friend, the only one of the group that he didn’t actually know the name of. That annoyed him. But he just hadn’t seen the others with him that often, and looking up Chase and Marvin on social media, this guy didn’t appear in many photos, and the ones he did show up in never mentioned him by name or tagged an account. All he knew about this last friend was that he had a nice mustache and spoke BSL.

He watched as Marvin set a folder down on the coffee table, apparently not noticing the missing notebook. Marvin started talking with his friend, the two of them signing quickly. Anti huffed. God, it had been so long since he’d had to understand sign language. Not since—Anti stiffened, and pushed that thought away.

The point was, now this group would be forcing him to relearn it. He watched the two inside have an animated conversation, picking up the word ‘doctor’ a lot. It didn’t seem like an argument, but it was very...passionate. Expressions changed rapidly. Marvin made a sign, the letter J twice in a row—

Anti froze, staring. Not caring if he was visible.

He had to have imagined that, didn’t he? Marvin couldn’t have just made that sign. But no, he’d seen that, clear as day. But maybe...maybe the sign meant something different in this context. It couldn’t be…

He looked more closely at the friend he didn’t know the name of. This whole group looked similar, looked like him. That was weird, but it didn’t...didn’t mean...

The friend leaned forward, and something silver flashed. A silver disk on a matching chain around his neck. Anti stared at it, and reached up to where he wore a similar disk on a chain. He’d recognize that anywhere. It wasn’t just a silver circle, it was a watch, and he now grabbed his tightly.

Well, it wasn’t his, technically. It was his brother’s.

——————

“So how do names work in sign language, then?” Aneirin asked. “Are you supposed to sign them all out? With letters?”

Jameson picked up his pencil and started writing, showing him the result. Goodness, no, that would take forever. There are these things called name signs, which are unique sign combinations for people. Those are their names.

They were sitting in the living room of Aneirin’s house, legs pulled up onto the old sofa he’d gotten from the side of the road. It was in pretty good condition, for one that had a ‘Free’ sign taped to it. Eighteen and a homeowner would’ve been impressive for anyone else, but Aneirin had sped through the steps to getting it, knowing he needed a place to stay as soon as possible. He was sure that if the realtor knew where he’d gotten the money to pay for it, he never would’ve sold it to him.

“Okay, so what would mine be, then?” Aneirin asked, spreading out along the length of the sofa. “Do I get to choose it?”

Jameson considered this, and Aneirin watched him silently. His little brother was sixteen, and very thin and small, pulling into the corner of the sofa like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. Well, I think I have an idea for what I could call you. You can tell me if you don’t like it. He made the sign for the letter A, and followed it with another sign, curling his hands into fists and rubbing them against each other.

“Well, it depends on what it means,” Aneirin joked.

Jameson chuckled a bit. It’s just the letter A followed by the sign for “brother.”

“Oh.” Aneirin gasped softly. Then a wide smile broke across his face. “Yeah, I like that.” He paused. “Do you have one?”

Yes! I chose one, but no one’s ever used it. He signed the letter J twice.

Aneirin blinked. “That’s it? That’s just...JJ.”

Well it’s my initials, Jameson pointed out. I like the sound of it.

“Okay,” Aneirin said slowly. He copied the sign. “But when would I ever need to call you that? Instead of just saying it.”

You are saying it, just in sign, Jameson wrote. But I thought that, if you can’t talk after a bad seizing, you could use BSL.

“Uh...no, I don’t think so.” Aneirin frowned. “The problem is that after a seizure I’m confused. It’s not that I can’t talk because my muscles don’t work, but cause I don’t know where the fuck I am.”

Oh. Well, think about it, Jameson said. You need to at least learn it to understand me.

“Yeah, I know.” Aneirin smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll be easy.”

——————

“Jamie! Don’t walk away from me!”

Jameson whirled on him. Don’t call me that!

“What? Jamie?” Aneirin blinked. “That’s your name!”

It’s a nickname, Jameson signed furiously. And it’s a childish one.

“Oh, what, I can’t call my little brother a nickname now?” Aneirin scoffed.

That’s not just it! Jameson protested. I’m not a kid, Aneirin! I’m twenty-one years old, I am an adult, and you don’t treat me like it.

“Okay, yes, legally that’s true,” Aneirin said. “But there’s more to being an adult than age. There’s experience. I mean, look at you. You can’t drive, you don’t have a job, you’ve never dated anyone. There’s just a lot that you don’t understand.”

I don’t know how to drive because you never taught me! Jameson stepped up to Aneirin, throwing his hands in his face. I don’t have a job because you won’t let me get one! And you’ve never dated anyone either, so I don’t see how you can say anything about that. And even if you had, you turn away every guy I’m interested in. You go through my messages to make sure I don’t say anything “inappropriate” in my own private messages! I need to live my own life, Aneirin.

“I...” Aneirin was at a loss for words. He couldn’t remember the last time Jameson had gotten this angry, and it was never directed at him. “Look, you’re...twenty-one is still pretty young, and with your condition—”

You’re only two years older than me, Jameson signed sharply. And don’t talk to me about how my disability means I can’t handle most jobs, I’m sick of hearing it from you. You can’t expect me to help you dispose of a body and at the same time say I couldn’t deal with working in an office. And it’s absurd that you involve me in the former in the FIRST PLACE!

Aneirin shook his head silently. What was there to say to this? What was there to say when his little brother was angry with him? With words failing, he fell upon action. And he started crying.

Jameson’s expression, previously so furious, turned to shock. Aneirin didn’t cry. Nothing ever seemed to phase him. The sight was concerning. No no, don’t—it’s okay, it’s fine, Jameson hurried to sign.

“I just—just don’t want anything—I just want you to be safe,” Aneirin gasped, vision blurring with tears. “I’m trying—trying to make sure you’re safe, a-and happy, and...am I failing? Am I a bad brother?”

No, you’re a good brother, Jameson reassured him. You just...made some mistakes.

“I’m just—th-this is dangerous, what I do.” Aneirin looked down, hiding his eyes in his hands. “People could—could come after you, to get to me, and—and I can’t let that happen, Jamie, JJ, I can’t—I’m sorry if you think I’m stifling you or something, I just—”

Hey, it’s fine, it’s fine. Really. I just...had some things to get off my chest. Jameson put his hands on Aneirin’s shoulders reassuringly and smiled.

“Are you sure?” Aneirin asked, wiping his eyes.

Yes, it’s fine, Jameson signed. We can talk this over later, work things out. I’m sorry for upsetting you.

“It’s alright, JJ,” Anti said, smiling.

——————

It really should’ve been obvious from the start. What were the odds of him running into someone else who looked like him and spoke BSL? But the possibility hadn’t even occurred to Anti. Because for four years now, he’d thought his brother Jamie had been dead.

But he was wrong. Jameson wasn’t dead. Jameson was alive, and friends with Chase and Marvin and probably involved with all this, all Anti’s plans.

Anti backed up, then turned around and jumped over the fence into the house behind Marvin’s. He took off in a run.

——————

The door slammed open, and Jackie startled awake. Anti stormed in, furious. Jackie tried not to cry out when his attention turned towards him, backing up as best as he was able.

“You.” Anti grabbed Jackie by the front of the hoodie and pulled out his gag. “Tell me this. Do you know a man named Jameson Jackson?”

Jameson? Jackie’s heart stopped. What did Anti want with him?

“Answer me!” Anti threw him backwards, and Jackie’s head slammed against the table with a painful crack. “Tell me if you know him or I’ll cut your fingers off one by one.”

“I do, I do,” Jackie gasped. “I know him.”

“How?” Anti demanded. “How do you know him?”

“We—we met him last October,” Jackie explained. “Marvin met him. At the theatre. They started talking, and—and we all met him.”

Anti stared at him a while longer, then suddenly let go, dropping him to the floor. Jackie felt his heart racing. He turned and watched Anti pacing the length of the room.

“Not expecting this,” Anti was muttering. “Unexpected—unexpected variable. Can’t control this. Can’t control for this.” He reached up and grabbed the watch around his neck. “It’ll work. Work around it. Work around—Jamie.” The last word was strong with emotion.

Anti hurried out of the room into the bedroom, slamming the door shut. Jackie flinched. What was Anti planning? It...couldn’t be good for anyone. Especially not Jameson.

Well he couldn’t do anything about it in his current position. He was just worried about surviving. So Jackie tried to put it out of his mind. Yet...there was one thing he couldn’t forget. Had he been imagining it, or had there been tears in Anti’s eyes?

#jacksepticeye #jacksepticeye fanfiction #jacksepticegos #septic egos #septic egos au #chase brody #jackieboy man #antisepticeye #jameson jackson #brigid writes fanfiction #pwtimeline

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my-arlington-academia · 4 years

Note

Hello! Could I get headcanons for the main 10 with a Scholar who likes to leave love letters around for them to find?

Yes! 💗 and thank you for the request ✊ I'm not sure if they're already dating or not? I'm gonna assume they are. (This turned out to be so long! I'm gonna flood the tags again...)

Alistair

- first time you gave him one, it was on his desk

- he tried to read as swiftly as he could, but as he was reading through it, he started getting weird looks from the other students

- not surprising, he was grinning the whole time

- Raquel tried to look over his shoulder

- "Oooohhh~ what's that? A love letter? You're so popular with the ladies haha."

- he immediately hides it and stuffs it in his bag

- "Psh. N-no? It was just uhhh... homework!"

- poor boy sucks at lying

- "Of course, I'm sure everyone smiles like that at homework."

- Alistair keeps on giving you glances during class

- he didn't have the time to read all of it but he did see that you signed it and your handwriting is really recognizable

- afterwards, he quietly reads it in his room

- his heart races at each word

- comes to your room as soon as he finishes reading it

- "Y/N I came here to th- than- uhhh? Yeah! To thank you! Haha..."

- for a hot second he forgot how words work

- is laughing out of nervousness

- after that, you keep giving him more and more letters

- he starts consciously expecting to find one on his desk when he walks in

- is really sad when there's nothing on the desk...

Axel

- he already receives a lot of love letters ("fanmail") so how can you give it to him while making sure that he knows it's yours right away?

- you thought of a silly trick to throw him off guard

- When he's walking through the hallways you call out his name and give him the letter, you tell him that "he dropped this"

- he's surprised so he automatically grabs the letter

- "Oh! Thank you for picking it up for- Wait. I don't think this is mine. Uh...?"

- too late! You ran away immediately

- it takes him a few seconds to understand what you just did

- he's excited! But of course he's not going to read it in the middle of the hallway

- skips the beginning of next class to read it carefully in the cafeteria

- he blushes furiously at how passionate the letter is

- he's persuaded that you could write a beautiful love song

- comes in class 20 minutes late and gets detention from Tadashi but to be honest, he doesn't even care anymore

- When he walks in, he gives you a subtle look but you know what that look means

- you're so embarrassed that you try to ignore him the whole period... until he stealthly throws a paperball on your desk

- you open it, it says "look my way"

- even though you're mortified, you do so anyway

- he waves at you and smirks all knowingly

- ohhhh boy, you look away again

- you hear a stifled laugh, he probably thinks your reaction was really cute

Claire

- she often lends you pretty little boxes with cookies in them

- but when you have to give the box back to her, you get an idea

- you put a love letter in the empty box and give it back to Claire

- she discovers it in the evening when she opens the box, expecting to only find crumbs you left behind

- blinks a few times and closes the box

- opens it again and the letter is still inside

- she thinks "it wasn't a hallucination!"

- reads it really slowly because she has to stop at each sentence to calm herself down

- the next day she gives you the box again with the new cookies she baked yesterday

- runs away as soon as you take the box

- you open it and there's a letter on top of the cookies, it's a response to your letter!

- seems like she was too shy to tell you in person

- to fit the theme of the letter: the cookies are heart-shaped

- you guys keep on exchanging letters through the box and it becomes a habit between the two of you

Ellie

- since she doesn't have a roommate, you slide the letter through the small space under her door

- finds it on the floor when she gets back to her room

- OwO whats dis?

- opens it and reads it super quickly

- she's so giddy that she reads over it multiple times

- sends you text messages with lots of emojis in them

- "Thank youuu 💖💕💗 you sweetheart!!! 💘💝😍😊😘"

- builds a robot to deliver letters between the two of you

- it knocks on the door and if you don't open it to take the letter, it goes back to Ellie

- she teaches you how to use the robot!

- "Don't worry! If someone else snatches the letter away from the robot it'll activate an alarm on my phone! And it's not like we need to sign the letters, we can use codenames!"

- You remind her that she's the only one in the pure and applied sciences department to create cute robots like those

- "Ah whoops... well uh, to be fair everyone already knows that we're dating so... no need to hide it!"

Karolina

- she probably doesn't care much about love letters

- she always thought that it's childish and extremely ridiculous

- that is until you gave her one

- the really first time you gave the letter to her directly or else she wouldn't read it, not knowing that it was from you

- she's all proud of herself while reading it

- she agrees with each statement but still blushes

- "Of course I'm gorgeous! You didn't have to write that part..."

- she's actually a sucker for books, especially from the romance genre

- you make her feel like a heroine from one of those books and she's secretly really happy about it

- but she'll never admit that of course

- after a while she gets inspired and tries to write one herself

- she thinks "I'll show you how it's done!"

- ends up getting really embarrassed at the thought of you reading the letter and doesn't give it to you until the end of the year

Neha

- after multiple attempts you somehow managed to sneak the letter in one of her sketchbooks

- too bad you couldn't see the surprise on her face when she found your letter

- she wanted to work for a few hours and brainstorm ideas for some new outfits

- but her plans went out of the window

- she read it. Put it on the side and started thinking about you during a solid 20 minutes

- wants to thank you but doesn't know how to do it without sounding like a little kid

- decides to send you a text for now, but she'll also write you a letter later

- "Thank you a lot for the letter. I really appreciate it."

- thinks that maybe it's a little bit too cold so she adds a heart emoji at the end

- cringes to herself while sending it

- gets back to work but sometimes she draws your face on the side

- scribbles all over it when she realizes what she's doing

- "This is not professional! If I have to show my sketchbook to someone and they see this, they won't take me seriously..."

- decides to write you a letter first or else she won't be able to focus

Raquel

- This is a hard one

- Raquel always moves from place to place without stop so it's hard to be sneaky with her

- eventually you slip the letter in her bag but you don't know how much time it'll take for her to find it

- like you thought it took her a few days

- when she did, she was very vocal about it

- she ran to you and almost jumped on you

- hugs you and thanks you hundreds of times

- "I love you too!!! You're so sweet Y/N..."

- becomes much more flirty, she was already confident but now it's even worse (or better? 😌)

- puts the letter on the wall of her room and shows it off to Claire

- "Look at that Claire! It seems like my godly charm cannot be stopped."

- Raquel starts carefully checking her bag everyday in hopes of finding another letter from you

- and even when she doesn't find anything, it gets her into a working mood

- "Might as well do my homework I guess..."

- becomes much more responsible with homework now that she checks her bag everyday

- your love literally helped her to get better grades

Tadashi

- This was a risky mission

- you had to sneak into the student council room and leave it on his desk

- they had a meeting this afternoon and Tadashi has been in a bad mood lately

- Well, to be fair he's always done with everybody's BS but this time it was worse than usual

- he finds the letter and gets confused right away

- wants to read it but he's having a meeting

- he's really fidgety the whole time, for some reason he has a feeling that it's from you though he can't explain why

- once everyone leaves the room he opens the letter

- all of his stress dies down, he falls back on his chair and sighs

- goes to find you and brings you to the council room, he makes you sit on his chair

- you tell him that you can't be here but he smiles and answers "Oh? You say that now even though you snuck in earlier to give me a secret love letter of all things?"

- he teases you with endearment and massages your back to thank you

- asks you if you'll write more (because he loved it) and you promise to do so if he promises to take more breaks

Tegan

- Tegan often invites you to play videos games with him (or to marathon some shows/anime/movies/whatever)

- you left the letter behind for him but he didn't catch the drift

- goes to your room to give it back

- "Um... you forgot this, I think..."

- you tell him that it's for him

- "Wait, really? You can just text me, you know? It's quicker and way easier than writing letters."

- oooohhhh boy. He really doesn't get it, you have to spell it out

- "A l-love letter? For me!?"

- "Tegan. We're dating."

- "Oh right! Sorry... I always forget that, it seems like I'm in a dream..."

- reads it in front of you while you're paying close attention to his reactions

- and to no surprise: he's a blushing mess

- you're fully satisfied, all that time was worth it

- he says that he'll repay you with a "love text message" which sounds like he's being lazy, but really knowing how... "unique" his handwriting is, you're glad...

- but it was not just a text message.

- "Sorry, I went a bit overboard 🙏🙏"

- his text has a 23 pages long file attached to it

- he wrote a really really long essay explaining in details why you're "so awesome" and "the best person in the world"

Tyler

- after classes are over, when he's working on a new painting he spends almost all of his time in the art room

- that's when you strike!

- you know he has a habit of sitting in the corner of the room so that's where you leave the letter

- honestly, he was in a slump lately because he felt like he was doing a really half-assed job with his new art piece

- but your letter gave him so much motivation that he finished the painting in a day

- "This is crazy Y/N! Reading your letter gave me the same rush as drinking 5 monster drinks in the span of 2 hours!"

- "Uhhh... Please don't do that?"

- laughs at how worried you look and asks you to write more to give him strength

- you say no at first but he pulls out your letter out of his pocket and starts reading it out loud in the middle of the hallway

- "Ssshhh! People might hear!"

- "Yeah, so? That's kinda the point but if you promise to write me more I'll stop~"

- you know he's just teasing you but it's still so embarrassing...

- in the end you give in out of shame however you have no idea just how much this letter helped him

- whenever he feels down or like he's not good enough he pulls out one of your letters and reads it

- he keeps all of them safe in a box, they're his treasures

#sweet elite #se #main 10 #headcanons #requests #asks #hope you guys like it!

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draftingtides · 4 years

Text

Dogfish

AO3

Words: 1368 Characters: Mike Crew, Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims, assorted s4 characters Relationships: Jon/Mike/Martin Warnings: Jon has a brief meltdown, Mike was buried alive but it’s not described in detail Other Tags: Getting together, Canon divergence, Autistic & ADHD Jon, Autistic Michael Crew, I dont actually plan to finish this so uhhh be warned for that i suppose, This is just a self-indulgent sandbox i wanted to play in Summary: “Why do you need a shovel?” Jon stares at his hands and giggles quietly, if a bit hysterically. “I’m going to dig up a grave.” Martin’s surprised he doesn’t crash the car. “Jon—” “Please don’t,” Jon interrupts. “Just… please.”

When Jon shows up at his flat at three in the morning, crying and hyperventilating, it’s all Martin can do not to bundle him into a hug and hold him until he calms down. As it is, he has to settle for toning down the disdain he’s pretended to hold towards other people since he made up his mind to trick Peter.

“Jon? What are you doing here? It’s three in the morning.”

“Yes, I—I’m sorry, I—I didn’t want to bo-bother you, but I ca-an’t—” His quick, shallow breaths cut him off and what comes after is unintelligible.

“No, stop, I can’t understand a word you’re saying.” Martin opens his door wider and gestures for Jon to come in. Jon obeys, barely looking shocked at all. Martin steers him towards the couch and tells him to stay there.

Martin finds a bottled water in the fridge and returns to the living room. Jon’s elbows are on his knees and his hands are clenched tightly in his hair, and he is rocking back and forth. He doesn’t look up when Martin stands in front of him.

“Jon? I got you some water.”

Jon releases his hands from his hair and holds them out. Martin hands him the water bottle. It’s a good thing he decided to go for the bottle instead of a glass; Jon’s hands are shaking so badly he probably would have just spilled the glass. He still dribbles some down his chin, but he wipes it away with his shirt sleeve.

Martin waits for him to finish the bottle to say, “Better?”

His breathing has evened out, but he exhales deeply before he nods. His tears are beginning to dry on his face, and he wipes those away with his shirt sleeve, to.

Martin wants nothing more than to gently clean his face with a warm washcloth, but he can’t. “Alright. Tell me what you’re doing here.”

When he speaks, his voice is rough. “I… I need a ride.”

“I can’t. Ask someone else.”

Jon flinches. “I can’t. I—they won’t.”

“Who did you ask?”

“Um. Georgie. Basira.”

“That’s it?”

“M-Melanie would sooner kill me. Elias is in jail. Daisy is—Daisy is dead. I d-don’t know anyone else.”

Jon’s lower lip trembles and he bites it like that will make it stop.

Martin sighs heavily and stares at the ceiling. That reaction, at least, is not faked. Doing this could very easily tip Peter off that he’s not as committed to the Lonely as he “should” be, but if this drove Jon to his flat, and in such a state, it’s obviously important.

“You can’t take the tube?”

Jon shakes his head.

Martin sighs again. “Alright.”

Jon stares at him uncomprehendingly. “Al-alright?”

Martin gestures for him to stand. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Oh!” Jon stands quickly as Martin grabs his keys and wallet, then silently follows Martin out to his car.

“So? Where are we going?” Martin asks, his fingers poised to type an address into Google Maps.

“Ah… I don’t think a GPS will be able to find it. I can give you directions.”

Martin raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything.

A few minutes into the drive, Jon lets out a soft, “Oh.”

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s just… I forgot to bring a shovel.”

Martin actually turns his head to look at him before quickly looking back at the road. “Why do you need a shovel?”

Jon stares at his hands and giggles quietly, if a bit hysterically. “I’m going to dig up a grave.”

Martin’s surprised he doesn’t crash the car. “Jon—”

“Please don’t,” Jon interrupts. “Just… please.”

Martin grips the steering wheel tightly and doesn’t say a word.

“Turn left here,” Jon says after a few minutes. “No—Martin, I said left.”

“I know.”

“Then what—”

Martin pulls into the parking lot of a supercentre and parks the car. “Wait here.”

“But—”

Martin leaves the key in the ignition and gets out of the car. When he returns a few minutes later, he has two shovels that he puts in the back seat.

Jon stares at him.

“You’re not going to dig up a grave with your bare hands.”

“Right,” he says quietly. “Thank you.”

The rest of the drive is long. Jon says, “We have to walk from here,” so they park the car, grab the shovels, and walk into the woods.

Jon stops and Martin almost walks into him.

“We’re here,” he says, staring at the ground under his feet. There’s nothing there to indicate it’s a grave—no headstone, no freshly turned earth—but there’s no mistaking the certainty in Jon’s voice.

They start digging. Neither Jon nor Martin are fit for this kind of work, and by the time the sky begins to lighten, their palms are raw and red.

“Jon,” Martin says, “I don’t think there’s anything here.”

Jon stops digging, but he doesn’t look up. “I…”

“We’ve been digging for hours.”

“Martin, I know he’s here. He’s in agony, I can’t just—it’s my fault he’s here in the first place. I have to find him and get him out.”

“Him? Who are you talki—”

The ground shudders ever so slightly, and Martin’s mouth snaps shut.

“Oh my g-d,” Jon says, and he drops to his knees and scrabbles at the dirt with his fingers.

Martin is suddenly very apprehensive that something is about to go wrong.

“Jon—”

A few fingers break through the surface of the dirt.

“Holy shit,” says Martin.

“Martin, help me,” Jon orders.

Martin gets down on his knees and starts digging again.

The arm attached to the hand thrusts out of the dirt, quickly followed by a second arm, and soon enough Jon’s wiping dirt off of a gasping face.

“Mike! Mike, it’s—it’s Jon, it’s Jonathan Sims. Hold on, I have to—” Jon drags a gasping, spluttering Michael Crew out of the ground, dirt cascading from his skin and hair.

Martin drags himself out of the grave—it’s a bit crowded for three people.

Mike makes weak flapping motions with his hands. He leans forward, still making those awful sputtering noises, and dirt falls from his mouth. Jon pounds his back as gently as he can, and even more clumps of dirt fall to the bottom of the grave.

Once it seems Mike's expelled all the dirt he can, Jon says, “Martin, help me get him out.” Jon gently moves one of Mike’s arms over his shoulder to support him. “Mike, I’m going to help you stand, and Martin’s going to pull you out.”

Jon helps Mike upright. Martin kneels at the edge of the grave, loops his arms under Mike’s armpits and heaves up and back. He drags Mike out more than lifts him, but what matters is that he’s out.

He drags Jon out next, stubbornly ignoring the fact that this is the closest they’ve been physically since they hugged before the Unknowing.

Mike is on his hands and knees, head hanging down, looking like he’s trying not to collapse.

“Okay, let’s get him in the car,” Martin says.

Jon helps Mike into the backseat of the car and climbs in after him, leaving Martin to get in the front by himself. Probably better like that, anyway.

Mike stubbornly refuses to put on his seatbelt, though he doesn’t say a word or—as far as Martin knows, at least—use his powers.

“Your flat is too far out of the way,” Martin tells Jon, even though it really isn’t. ��I can either drop you off at the Institute or at my flat, but you can’t stay at mine.”

There’s a whirring sound and the sudden rush of wind from the backseat. Martin peaks in the rearview mirror to see Mike has rolled down the window. He’s looking up at the sky, but the angle is such that he can’t see Mike’s face.

“The Institute is fine,” Jon says. He goes silent, then says, more quietly, “Thank you, Martin.”

“Yeah, well. I’m not going to help you with something like this again, Jon. Don’t expect me to.”

Martin refuses to watch the mirror and see the way Jon shrinks back when he mumbles, “Of—of course. Sorry.”

#jonathan sims #jon sims #mike crew #martin blackwood #jonmike #jonmartin #martin/mike crew #jonmartinmike #tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #starlight starwrite #my post

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frightgothcar · 5 years

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HEY! Hey, you, reading this!!! I fuckin love writing but what I need to be able to write is a little thing called approval!! If you like this please comment and/or reblog!!!!!!!!!!

Area 51 au thingy. Danny/Wes. Songfic? Not really but the whole idea came from this song. V is based off of @its-towarzysz (main)/ @we-all-horny-here (sanders sides sideblog)/ @cockworktower (dp side blog) you should check them out, they make hella good content. Thanks to all my friends who helped me with motivation/proofreading. Tw for Death, Blood, Guns, and Violence. (Tell me if I forgot anything). I love this pairing and the lack of content sparks deep anger in my soul!! :)) Thanks for reading, enjoy!!

EDIT: Posting this on ao3 also @/godcannotdefeatfanfic

September 20th, 10:30 am

Area 51

Wes Weston had nothing to live for. Ever since his Mom had gone out for cigarettes on his 6th birthday and never come back his life had been a constant downward spiral. Maybe that was why he was in the middle of the Nevada desert, preparing to attempt to rush a highly armed government facility with a million other suicidal Millenials.

He fanned his face with his hand. It was over 86 degrees and he was practically melting in his Casper High spirit T-Shirt and blue jeans. He contemplated getting into his pickup truck and blasting the a/c but considering he only had a quarter tank of gas left, and it was a good 20 miles to the nearest gas station, he decided against it. Instead, he got onto his phone and texted his friends for the third time that morning.

Basketball-Boi: where r yall? its hot.

Phurry: we’re just driving in!! Do u see us?

Basketball-Boi: uhhh whats ur car look like

Phurry: the silver one

Basketball: V there are like a million silver ones what kind of car

Phurry: uhh Val says its called a subaru we’re right by a black car

Red_Huntress: They’re standing on the roof and waving. Can you see us now?

Wes looked up from his phone to see a person, about his age, standing on the roof of a silver Subaru, wearing a black band t-shirt and neon green booty shorts. Their long blond ponytail swished around their face as they jumped up and down excitedly. A girl stepped out of the car and began scolding her friend. She was wearing a matching red pair of shorts, there was black lettering on her backside that he couldn’t quite make out. He began waving back, which only excited the blond more. They lept over the brown-skinned girl and bolted towards Wes.

“Ready to fuck some aliens, Basketball-Boi?” They pulled him into a tight embrace.

“I was born ready!” He laughed, “How are you, V?”

“Pretty gay, thanks for asking.”

Wes opened his mouth to speak but V cut him off with an excited shout.

“Oh! That reminds me!” They slipped their arms out of their backpack straps and dug through the mint green bag for a minute before pulling a pair of hot pink shorts, “I wanted us all to match! Made ‘em myself!”

They flipped the shorts around to reveal ‘100% Nasty’ embroidered onto the ass in black. They then turned around to show off their own message, that read ‘Trash Man’.

“I made one for Val too, c’mon, we have to wear them!!”

Wes grabbed the shorts and held them to his hips. “Is this what you needed my measurements for?”

They nodded enthusiastically, “I was gonna make us team jackets, but that’s so cliche.”

“Huh, I mean, don’t get me wrong, these are… great, but are you sure pink is my color?”

V rolled their eyes, “Of course I’m sure, Wes! Just put them on, you’ll see.”

Wes sighed and walked behind his red truck for some privacy, not that there was much of that, the field was crowded with cars. He pulled down his blue jeans, thankful for the breeze on his legs, and pulled on the shorts. They were a perfect fit, clinging to his waist, and resting on his barely existent hips. The feeling of showing so much skin was odd to him, he’d never worn anything that short in public, but the look on V’s face made it all worth it to him. They didn’t laugh like he’d been expecting them to, instead clapping their hands and going on about how relieved they were that the shorts actually fit. He did a quick turn for them, and they nodded in satisfaction.

“I think it’s about time we caught up to Val, did y’all remember to bring soda?”

“Only the finest Mountain Dew the 7/11 could provide, M’lady,” V grinned.

“Than shall we be going, M’lord?” Wes held out his arm.

“Indubitably.” V linked their arm through his and they wandered through the crowd, searching for Valerie’s silver Subaru.

“Wes! V! Over here!” Val called, waving the hand that wasn’t holding a Mountain Dew at her friends. The two of them waved back and jogged toward her.

“Hey Val, long time no see,” Wes grinned as he pulled her into a hug.

“I missed ya, Weston,” Val reached up to ruffle his hair, but Wes dodged, pulling her into a headlock instead.

“Missed ya too, Grey,” He gave her a noogie and released her, leaving her free to jump onto him and boost herself high enough to get revenge.

“Aww, adorable! Old lovebirds rekindling an old flame?” V fluttered their eyelashes at their friends, who immediately recoiled.

“Ew, no! Wes? If I had to pick a guy, maybe. And that’s a hard maybe. I’m too gay for this.” Valerie picked up her can from the hood of her car and took a swig.

“Yeah! She’s like my little sister!”

“Hey, I’m older than you!”

“By like two weeks!”

V broke into laughter, “Cool it lovebirds, I’m only joking.”

Val and Wes rolled their eyes at V, who was now on the ground, rolling with laughter.

“Permission to pour some soda out onto our hilarious friend’s head?” Val asked teasingly.

“Permission granted! Fire at will!” Wes saluted. Val tipped her can enough to sprinkle V with the sticky green drink. They got to their feet, still laughing, and lunged for Val’s can. They knocked it backward, spilling soda all over Val’s shirt.

“EEK,” She squealed, “You’ll pay for this, Trash Man, If it’s the last thing I do!”

She tried to push the can towards V, but they still had a grip on her arm. They tugged the can back and forth for a few seconds before it crumpled under the pressure.

“Shit!” Val swore, letting go of the can and cradling her palm. “I think I cut myself.”

V dropped the can, game of tag forgotten, and crowded next to their friend. Wes joined their huddle.

“I think I have a first aid kit in my truck. How bad is it?” He asked.

Val opened her hand to reveal a small, but deep wound on the side of her palm.

“Shit, I’m so sorry, this is all my fault, if I hadn’t-” V began.

“Naw, it was as much my fault as yours. Anyway, we were having fun, and it’s really just a scratch. Keep focused on those Aliens, Private!” Val reassured them.

“Aye aye, Captain!”

Wes walked back to his truck, ignoring the stares of passerby. He grabbed his first aid kid (thank god for boy scouts) and walked back to Val’s car.

“So,” Wes ripped open a disinfecting wipe with his teeth and got to work cleaning her hand of blood. “How’s your dad?”

“He’s doing-” She drew in a sharp breath as he dabbed along the wound with a clean wipe. “Fine. The new job’s working out great, he’s happier than I’ve seen him in a while.”

Wes nodded and began wrapping her hand in gauze, “I’m glad. He wasn’t himself when you left.”

“It really all did work out for the better, didn’t it,” V smiled and handed Wes a length of medical tape. “Oh! I forgot! Val, show Wes what your ass says!”

She groaned, “Do I have to?”

V scowled, “Of course you have to, it was your idea!”

“I was just joking!”

“Tsk tsk, I think you’ve known me long enough to know that when it comes to cursed content, there are no jokes.”

“C’mon Val, it can’t be worse than ‘100% Nasty’,” Wes smirked.

V gasped dramatically and feigned offense, “You’ve wounded me! I work so hard, and for what, ungrateful friends?”

“Fine, if it’ll make you happy I’ll show him my ass. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She winked at him before turning to show her backside. Black embroidery spelled out ‘Booty Hunter’.

Wes burst out laughing, which quickly turned to hysteric noises only vaguely resembling laughter, squeals, and snorts with shrieking giggles between them. V and Val couldn’t help but join in. The second one of them stopped laughing someone would whisper Booty Hunter and it’d start all over again.

“Okay, okay,” Wes gulped in air, “We- hic -should calm down now.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Val wiped a tear from her eye, “I am the Queen of Calm.”

V got to their feet and dusted themself off. “Totally calm. Calmer than a… something calm.”

“When does the raid start?” Wes pulled out his phone and checked the time. 12:00.

“Around, 12:30ish, we have time.” V waved their hand.

“I dunno, it’s already 12, maybe we should start getting ready.”

“What do you mean it’s already-” V snatched the phone from his hand, “Huh. Time sure flies when you’re having fun.”

“Wait, get ready for what exactly? I mean, we’re here, we’ve got our shorts on, there’s enough Mountain Dew in my car to drown an elephant, what else is there to get ready?” Val questioned.

“Uhhh, I dunno, stretch?” Wes shrugged, “It just feels like we’re forgetting something. What exactly is the plan for this whole thing anyway? Are there gonna be waves? Do we all go at once? This is a pretty poorly organized event.”

Val shrugged, clearly unphased by the lack of organization, “We’ll just go when everyone else starts running. I’m sure the start of gunfire will tell us when.”

“Look, if it’s making you so worried, we can stretch before. I’m sure everything will be fine. Plus, we all get alien Girlfriends, so it’s a win-win!” V put their hand on his arm. Wes smiled thankfully down at them.

“Yeah, that’s probably it. Yall must think I’m being a nitpick-”

“Not at all! You’re probably right, after all, it must be at least a mile to the base from here, and we can’t let cramps keep us from sweet sweet alien romance.” Val propped her leg up on the hood of her car and pressed her head to her knee, “Plus that’ll give us an advantage over the Kyles.”

V nodded and fell into a lunge, “We’ve been training since July for this, can’t let it get away now because we forgot to stretch.”

Wes bent over and touched his toes, “Thanks y’all, you’re really the best friends I could ask for.”

The screech of a megaphone rang out through the valley. A voice came through the static, “Raiders! Get into position, we’re storming the gates in exactly fifteen minutes!”

A cheer broke through the crowd as people began chugging what was left of their sodas and migrating towards the front lines.

“Well, this is it I guess. If I don’t make it out of the raid, put this on my tombstone.” Wes gestured downward, where he was holding his hand in a circle.

“Dammit!” Valerie chuckled as Wes gave her a playful punch in the arm.

“You’ll never take me alive!” V shouted and sprinted forwards as Wes moved towards them.

“On your marks!”

“Wanna bet on that?” Wes shouted back, weaving through the crowd to catch up with them.

“Get set!”

V pushed forward, using their small frame to their advantage, easily losing the taller one in the crowd.

“Raid!”

The mob roared, then began thundering forward, but the deafening sounds of the people were nothing compared to what followed. Thousands of guns began firing at once, hitting everyone and everything in the vicinity. Wes watched with horror as the first wave of people were mowed down right before his eyes. A flash of neon green caught his eye through the carnage. He ran towards his friend, who was standing, paralyzed, next to a few other survivors. He shouted their name, and just as they turned their head another hailstorm of bullets rained down. The first one embedded itself right into V’s chest, right above their heart. Wes sprinted to catch his injured companion, but by the time he got there the life was already draining from their eyes.

“V! V, can you hear me? Don’t go into the light, hold on, ok? You’ve got this, V, answer me!”

He pressed his head to their chest, a weak heartbeat answered him. “It’s gonna be okay. Shhh, you’re okay.”

Something wet dripped down his face, and he realized he was crying.

“...Wes,” V rasped out, then began violently coughing up blood. Little flecks of red peppered Wes’ face like freckles. “Fuck an alien for me, okay? Can you promise me that?”

Their body went limp in his arms.

“V? V! V, wake up, please, that can’t be it, please V, you’re only 17, please!” He shook their corpse, but to no avail. V was gone. He closed his eyes and let out a shuttering breath before standing up, still clutching their body in his arms.

“Second wave! On your marks!” The megaphone blared to life.

The crowd let out another, less confident cheer. After seeing all the carnage most of the raiders were less enthusiastic to ‘see them aliens’. But this time Wes had made up his mind. He was going to make it into that Government facility, and he was gonna burn that motherfucker to the ground.

“Get set!”

He laid his friend on the ground and pressed a kiss to their forehead. If it wasn’t for the massive amount of blood they could’ve been sleeping.

“Go!”

Wes screamed with all the anger he had in him and charged forward. Bullets rained down near him, but this time there were less of them. This time he had a chance. He saw the gate coming closer. He was only 50 feet away, he could make it! He hopped over the fence, ignoring the blaring of sirens, and kept running. He pushed his way into the building, where, surprisingly, there was no security. It looked like they had invested all their soldiers into protecting the outside of the base. His adrenaline rush began to slow down. He dragged his feet down the linoleum hallway, looking at his bloodsoaked hands.

“What the fuck just happened?” He whispered to himself, still shellshocked. A flicker of light caught his eye. Grateful for a distraction, he turned his attention to what looked like a futuristic control panel. The buttons were labeled in some sort of code, their luminescent surfaces grinning up at him.

“Looking for me, Short-Shorts?” A calm voice echoed through the hall. Wes whipped around, ready for a fight.

“Why so on edge, Ginger? Surely I’m not that intimidating.” It purred.

“Who are you?!” Wes shouted. He winced at the echo. Did he really sound that unhinged?

“On your left.”

He turned and found himself face to face with the most beautiful boy he’d ever seen. He looked about his age, maybe 17. His skin was tan, but had a slight blueish tint, as if he’d been without oxygen for a while. Poking from his tuft of pearly white hair was a pair of blur antenna. He had a small build, maybe 5 feet tall at best, but was floating at eye level with Wes. Speaking of his eyes, they were quite possibly the most gorgeous thing about him. He had eyes greener and glowyer (is that even a word? Either way it was true.) than toxic waste, his pupils were like a cat’s, slit down the middle. He was clothed in a baggy black prison jumpsuit. He looked almost alien. Wes realized with a start that he must be an alien.

“Are you done staring?” The boy asked, snapping Wes out of his trance. “It won’t be long before the guards realize you’re in here, and I’d rather get out without a bullet hole.”

“I- I don’t- what are you?” Wes stammered.

“I’m Project Phantom, or Danny if you prefer. What’s your name?”

“I’m… Wes?”

#danny phantom #danny phantom fic #fanfiction #my writing #wes weston #danny phantom au #area 51 au #unidentified flying ship #wes x danny #danny x wes #wes/danny #danny/wes #i dont know what else to tag this #Gayrea 51

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geminislegacy · 4 years

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featuring: lizzie saltzman, hope mikaelson, william flynn, landon kirby. tagging: @ofindcmitability @chosenlonely @frcmashes summary: four teenagers go on a double date, then go back to salvatore to get tipsy and play a magical card game. it ends in a foursome. ( yes, actually. ) hizzie & landwil ensue. warnings: nsfw & ugly formatting.

landon kirby

he can't remember whose idea it had been, but whoever decided the four of them should go on a double date clearly hadn't anticipated the amount of chaos that could unfold. things started out fine; appetizers were ordered, small-talk was made, but somehow star wars gets brought up and suddenly tongs are flying, soup splashes everywhere, and they're kindly being asked to leave. he's still wheezing as they get back to the salvatore school, parking his car in one of the designated spots. it only stalled out once on the way back so he's in decent spirits. he kills the engine, slips the child locks on so no one can escape. he'll salvage this evening if it's the last thing he does. " so that was terrible. " it's blunt, to the point. maybe it would seem a little less funny if he could stop chuckling. " ... but maybe it's not a complete write off. this whole, uh, double date thing. " he clears his throat, drums his hands on the steering wheel. " i think we have monopoly. maybe candyland, but i think that one has pieces missing, so ... "

william flynn

it had been will' s idea. not actually on purpose but rather something accidental brought up and then brought into fruition. he liked hope, loved landon and lizzie. he wanted to get to know hope more, wanted to see how lizzie and landon got along. plus there was also the fact he's never had a outing with friends like this. so yeah he was a bit excited, yes he had some high hopes. he should have not had such high hopes. the night started alright but things... progressed. he hadn't given much thought when landon brought up star wars but lizzie had. tongs went flying and so much soup.... and for the first time in his life will had been asked to leave somewhere. it was kinda thrilling. at least landon was blunt about it. "what's candyland?" he found himself asking. monopoly sounded a bit familiar at least.

hope mikaelson

she thinks it all started with star wars. everything was fine before landon decided to ( endearingly, in her opinion ) bring up star wars. from there, tongs were thrown and soup was spilled. although, the latter was the fault of the fact she thought it was funny to antagonise her boyfriend. she was chewing ice, they were having a friendly argument about a fictional universe, what could go wrong? famous last words that apply, evidently, even to olive garden. they were asked to leave for causing a disturbance, and her boyfriend had shoved breadsticks in her pockets while she chugged down the last of her drink. ( she left the ice, for fear a further fight would break out in the car and kill them all. in her and landon's case, again. ) turning to look at will as her laughter fails to die, " it's a board game. it's basically like snakes and ladders with candy. " that's far from the best, or most accurate description, but it's the one he's getting. turning back to her boyfriend, she suggests, " we could play monopoly. " although, if they were trying to salvage the night, she doesn't think a game famous for ending even the strongest relationships is their best idea.(edited)

lizzie saltzman

this sucks. she can't help but think that it does. the idea was doomed from the start. what good could come out of bringing landon along for anything? a forethought proven to be eerily true later on, when he went on a star wars tangent and flared up lizzie's rage. she might have overreacted ( yes ), but when they got kicked out of the restaurant, it was him she blamed, obviously. now very much sulking ( she's the only one who hasn't laughed one bit ), she makes sure to slam the door of the car on her way out, arms folded over her chest as she takes off toward the school already. " great idea, landon. let's save our bonds from eternal damnation by playing monopoly. " it's a sharp remark, though one that serves its useful purpose. her arm reaches for will's and she intertwines them. it's cold. " luckily for all of you losers, i am a society game expert. josie and i won a packet of enchanted cards at a magical fair once. " and that's when a smile curls her lips.

landon kirby

there are a few questions he wants to ask: first, how will's never heard about candyland ( right, the trauma. don't ask that ) and what exactly a society game is. is it a society game because you play with other people ? is it a brand ? these are questions he has but won't ask, primarily because he thinks he doesn't want to see the look on lizzie's face when he does. while they're civil-ish for the time being, he thinks they're just One Bad Day away from total chaos. he's seen the killing joke, thank you. he has no desire to see that kind of ending. their room is the closest, so he ducks in to grab the game. it's only when he digs it out from under the bed that he blanches; shit. right. he forgot. the only version of monopoly he owns is star wars monopoly. the alarm bells go off in his head and he hastily shoves it back under the bed. " huh. i can't find it. " he straightens, raises a bottle of champagne that was tucked in behind it. he thinks it's his, stolen from the motel when he left. if you can call it stealing, really, when the owner's been MIA for weeks. " so those enchanted cards. " he counters, looking between the rest of them and the booze. " what are the chances you still have those ... ? "(edited)

william flynn

it seemed to always be star wars that set lizzie off. though, funny enough, star wars was what landon seemed to enjoy the most. will saw it right on his face in multiple occasions. he hadn't expected hope to chew ice and he didn't mind it, but then lizzie sent back her fish and it was one thing after another. he just wanted to enjoy his mozzarella sticks in peace. and oddly enough, landon still smelled like those breadsticks. "shoots and ladders... ?" he didn't know that one either, no. he barely knew monopoly. he hadn't seen landon's room before, or hope's too apparently. who knew they shared. briefly he thought of the fact he'd share a room with lizzie one day. he kind of looked forward to that. actually, he looked forward to it a lot. "enchanted cards?" his interest was peeked ( though he did remain holding interest for a board game ). amusement played at his face as lizzie spoke of her expertise. "i wouldn't doubt you." a nod of his head to landon's words, he hoped lizzie still had em. such cards sounded interesting.(edited)

hope mikaelson

it takes one glance at the board game landon is hurriedly shoving their bed to realise what a bad idea it was. " enchanted cards could be fun. " she doesn't have any more tongs to throw at his head but the school is literally filled with deadly weapons. and honestly, even if he'd come back, she doesn't feel like taking that chance today. landon produces a bottle of alcohol, and she doesn't know if that makes things better or worse. ( if anything, for all their sakes, she hopes it's better. ) so begins the trek through to the twins old room, still a little scarred by the fact that she once found lizzie halfway to death in it. ( the floor may be clean but it still makes her feel uneasy. ) somewhere between her fixation on the floor and the search for the long-lost cards, lizzie explains the rules, something about a combination between never have i ever and truth or dare with consequences. ( okay, so it might be for the worst. ) " so, we're basically playing roulette. " with less severe consequences but she thinks the comparison still stands. to her surprise, once they're all sitting down to it, it's actually fun.(edited)

lizzie saltzman

she hopes bottles won't become a recurring theme in her life. ( she thinks as long as she's aware, they won't be. ) hence the slight cringe as landon waves the champagne around. but, at the same time ... these are all people she trusts. yes, even the mop-headed hobbit. underneath his nerdgasmic, stuttering, irritating demeanor, there is a very good person ( hope wouldn't love him otherwise ). so, she decides she wants to have fun. they all deserve it; and she won't be the rain to fall on this parade. a few glasses later and she's already properly ditzy. and laughing even. because, as it turns out, the enchanted cards are fun. it helps them get to know each other better, even if it's little things. and the dares and punishments are just as fun ( except this one time she gets punished by having pepper up her nose for 5 minutes because she skipped on a dare to wear her ugliest clothes for the rest of the night ). it's her turn to pick a card - and she's wheezing as she does this. everything is so ... colorful, and warm, and wonderful. even if the floor feels like it's slippery beneath her and her vision a blur of sensations. " alright, okay, let's see- " a clear of her throat. " never have i ever, uhhh, " a pause, to squint at the text, " ohhhh. kissed someone of the same sex. welp! " she throws her arm in the air and puts down a finger. " been there, done that. no dares for me. yay! "

landon kirby

the more he drinks, the less this game stresses him out. maybe it's the added consequences ( of which, he's never taken well ), or the fact that some of the questions leave him squirming. never have i ever had a sex dream about someone i shouldn't have, for example, leads to a terse whispered comment about ms. frizzle from the magic school bus and no, he does not want to talk about it. so by the time lizzie gets to this particular question, he's a warm kind of tipsy -- his hand having somehow, maybe instinctively, fallen into hope's lap to draw circles on the inside of her thigh. it's comfortable, a word he never thought he'd associate with being in lizzie's presence. it's ... kind of nice. " yay. " he echoes, cracking a smile. " i mean, yay for you. not yay for me. i haven't. " he frowns, motioning for her to hand the card over. better to know what he's in for now, before he has a chance to think too hard on it. he's not in this sinking ship alone; hope and will answer the same. if they go down, they're going together.

" so if you haven't kissed someone of the same sex, " he reads aloud, " ... rectify that immediately or suffer the plague. " he blinks, reads it a second time just to make sure he's understanding it correctly. " uh, i'm betting this is metaphor and not an actual plague. " he says it slowly, uncertain. " not sure it's work the risk though. " he straightens, cheeks flushed ( whether it be from the champagne, or the reality of what this means ) as he clears his throat. " i guess this means, uh, we should probably ... " he makes a wild gesture with his hands, hoping someone else will say what he's struggling to convey.(edited)

william flynn

there is no world in which william flynn didn't partake in alcoholic beverage. it was his bread and butter ( that was the saying right? ). so when landon had the bottle in hand he was by no means rejecting it. " roulette, i know that one." of course he did, of all things, he knew the most dangerous variant. he wondered if any of them would even be surprised by that. he kept his eyes on his fiance as she read out the card ( though he didn't totally understand the rules of the game ). he felt a slight buzz but he was always able to hold his drinks well, so accustomed to them and all. as lizzie read he couldn't help but be interested. past experience was a topic they had yet to breach after all. he chuckled ( a little louder and more full then his usual one, that was the buzz ). "yay." will echoed, a word that sounded weird upon his lips. still, he meant it. good for lizzie. he couldn't say the same applied to himself after all. he had to answer the question too, right? "uh... no. not yet." probably, not ever. given the fact that his ever was set with lizzie saltzman. not that he was against it, he simply was happy with lizzie. "the plague." he repeated dryly. then, landon went on. and will felt for him because what if it WAS the actual fucking plague or some shit? he looked to lizzie ( it didn't need to be spoken out loud because it was obvious the outcome, the only way to avoid the consequences ). a look to determine if she was OKAY with what would possibly be the outcome of this game, that she was alright if he offered landon the only means of escape ( the only means of escape for them ALL technically ).

hope mikaelson

the further the game progresses, the better she feels. sure, it's amusing and ( somewhat ) wholesome teenage fun but she's allowing herself to have it. it's all progress, at least, she hopes. it also might be helpful to her to remember she's always been a lightweight, and that champagne is what made the room spin at fifteen years old. but ... well, irrelevant. ( oh, she's drunk. ) the card comes up, and landon mentions the plague, and her inhibitions lower enough to tip her cup and chime, " yay, " in unison. " but i haven't either. " not for lack of wanting to, but desire has taken a backseat for a long time. she turns to lizzie, and then to landon, and then back to landon. because it seems obvious to her that they aren't going go out and find strangers to kiss ( and because, again, she's drunk ). " i guess it's you and me. " " unless you're still basking in the victory of getting out of this . " she makes a gesture around them, or more specifically, between her and will and landon. as far as she stands, it doesn't have to be anything. good, clean, wholesome fun between hormonal teenagers. what could go wrong? ( so, so many things. )

lizzie saltzman

she doesn't know what to expect out of this question. actually, she's pretty certain she doesn't expect anything ( she's kind of whooing in her little bubble of ditzy joy ). " oh. " for some reason, though, she doesn't expect that. well, she does for will, obviously. but ... oh, well. no point in dwelling on it too much. " we should probably ... what? " she's just poking fun at landon's obvious hesitance. " make use of our numeric advantage and not get infected with the plague? " someone had to say it. her eyes then dart toward hope, pulling a face when she appears to mock lizzie's apparent victory. which means nothing, in hindsight. she's drunk, but not that drunk as to not understand what's going on. her gaze rolls away and now toward will and she reads in his eyes that they're both thinking the same thing; ALL of them are, actually. instead of giving him a reassuring smile, or look, or nod ( as she normally would ), she lifts her hand - and does an OK sign. it feels more ~FUN~. there's agreement on both parties, it seems. " don't worry. i'll save your ass out of this, mikaelson. you're welcome. "

landon kirby

he's glad someone's picked up what he's putting down. it feels ... silly, maybe. he thinks he might be delirious, that the awkward laughter that accompanies his shrug might be a result of said delirium. in truth, he's probably just tipsy; it's happened all of twice, maybe three times — his memory's foggy on that one, so he's not overly familiar with the concept. a quick exchange with hope, silent communication with their eyes ( he knows her, and she him: they're on the same plague-less page ) confirming that — yes, they're doing this. he is ... weirdly nervous. maybe because this is will, his best friend, and maybe partially due to the pressures of knowing eyes are on him. he's suddenly grateful for the mints he'd swiped at the restaurant, having chewed through a handful on the car ride back. he fumbles with where to put his hand for a second, shifting slightly as he steadies it against will's shoulder. he's not sure if he should say something, it's not like there's precedence for this, but decides — fuck it, he'll wing it. he leans in and presses his lips against will's; soft, almost curious ... like wading into the ocean and testing the temperature with your toes. it's nice, he decides. very nice.

william flynn

so hope was the same as him, as was landon, both things were oddly reassuring. it reminded him despite his many setbacks that came from, well, his... past that ultimately some experiences he didn't have... they were normal not to have. something which was appreciated to have knowledge of. lizzie made a joke, a smile hung off his lips at it ( of course he was gonna laugh at her jokes, they were always funny. it was almost remarkable how they always landed so easily. ) lizzie did the OK sign and that meant much of everything. he needed her okay, he needed to make sure this was okay. there was an anxiousness that came about, almost alike when he kissed lizzie the first time but also so utterly different. that had been his first kiss, ever, and it'd been perfect. at least, in his eyes. now this kiss? not his second one, but his second person ever. first boy. only boy he'd ever even consider doing it with, actually. there was no one else that came to mind that he trusted, not a single person. at least, not one that he wasn't related to nor felt like a father to him. landon was a singularity. before he could make a move, landon beat him to it. if lizzie was fireworks then landon was falling snow. not sparks but beauty all the same. soft lips, not intense and passionate but rather safe and warm. his hand slipped up, maybe it was instinct, to touch upon landon's cheek. something to steady him ( because right now, in the midst of all this, how could he remain steady? ).

hope mikaelson

she looks at landon, and he at her, and she realises they agree. they'd rather avoid the plague, if at all possible, and kissing their best friends isn't the worst fate. ( she knows lizzie's pretty, she has eyes. ) she catches her boyfriend lean into will out of the corner of her eye, and she decides that isn't something she particularly wants to see. ( being in agreement and actively watching are different things entirely. ) because she's happy , and she's drunk, and it's lizzie, her next move is easy. all it takes is a few glances over lizzie's face, down to her lips, before she moves forward with a smile still on hers. she decides, remarkably quickly, that she likes it. a lot. lizzie's softer than landon and it makes her forget she's just doing this to avoid the plague. her fingers move to lizzie's neck, inhibitions successfully lowered. it's nice. it makes her feel warmer than just the evidence of alcohol in her bloodstream does. ( she thinks that, in some reviving part of her brain, she's probably kind of always wanted to kiss lizzie. drunk mind, sober thoughts. sue her. )

lizzie saltzman

in normal circumstances, this would have taken a lot more out of her. some fussing, some mussing, and lots of antics that stretch beyond the limit of normality. but, right now ... right now she's just content. that's the word for it. slightly ditzy, slightly less prone to her slight ocd. the one thing that stays: nerves, funnily enough. maybe like this, with all her barriers lowered, she's a lot more aware of her anxieties ( but also very prepared to ignore them ). this is how she hesitates - and doesn't take the first step ( bold moves, saltzman ). but it's lucky, because hope does. and the smile lingering on her face already soothes anything. their lips connect and it's different, and slightly weird, and also safe and comfortable. she feels fingers at the back of her neck and, suddenly, lizzie realizes she's not running away from a dark plague, but kind of ... enjoying this. kind of. an understatement. ( little puberty lizzie saltzman is leaping that hope mikaelson is kissing her. ) they can stop there ( ? ), but ... why? it's an opportunity. might as well make it right ( and since this is hope's first girl kiss, she thinks she wants it memorable ). it's automatic, but her arms move and hands end up by the sides of hope's face - and there's an attempt at a deepening. or, well, how the fanfics put it: some tongue wrestling.

landon kirby

out of the corner of his eye, he detects movement: he thinks hope's the one that moves first, but he doesn't turn his head to look. he's a teenage boy so of course there's appeal to seeing two girls kiss, but he thinks the appeal is significantly less when one of them is your girlfriend. the thought is funny, almost draws a laugh from him -- likely would have, too, if will's hand hadn't come up to brush his cheek. that has him feeling some type of way; like someone's come up from behind him and shoved him full tilt into the water, no easing. it's jarring at first, the flash of emotions - the adjustment, but you adapt. he shifts forward on his knees, a little closer as his hand shifts; it curves against will's neck, fingers tangling in his hair. it's a little awkward, a little uncertainty in his actions, but then his lips part and suddenly the uncertainty is gone. his breath catches slightly, lips pressing a bit more urgently to will's this time. they bump noses when he adjusts the angle but it's a quick recovery; insistent but not demanding. firm but not rough.

william flynn

he heard the sounds behind him, but there's little temptation to see the girl's lip locking. it wasn't jealousy, he trusted lizzie and ( remarkably ) he trusted hope as well. it was rather lack of interest, or to be more accurate, being a bit too consumed with what was going on before his eyes rather then next to him. after all, it wasn't everyday you had your first kiss with a boy, nor with your best friend. he wondered if he moved too fast, if he should have pulled apart with the finish of the kiss ( when did a kiss finish? ) however no. landon shifts and will moved in adjacent. landon's touch upon him wasn't like lizzie, but it didn't mean a bad thing, just something different. thoughts to pull back became lost, rather he felt more swept into the kiss then before. his other hand tucked against landon, a firm grip on him to keep himself upright ( otherwise he might unbalance ). their lips disconnected only for an instant, a memory to breath. and then, he connected them once more.

hope mikaelson

she decides to drown out the sound from across the room early ; almost everything registers deafening to her now, and she doesn't want to lose herself to the rest of her senses. so she decides to lose herself to kissing her best friend instead. ( it's a tug of war she's learning to win. slowly. ) it's different, that's starkly obvious. but it's nice. lizzie's hands shift to the sides of her face and her breath catches. she isn't sure what finds her first. her other hand, pressed palm flat to the floor, moves up to find its way into lizzies hair. if she were any more herself, she probably would have ended this long before she decided she was obsessed with kissing. period. but, honestly, she doesn't care. she briefly backs away, because even if she doesn't ( technically ) need to breathe, she assumes lizzie still does. and then, because the few nagging inches between them are bothering her and her self control is evidently wavering, she presses her lips to hers again. it's a little too hard and a little too fast for the sake of a dare.

lizzie saltzman

somewhere in this room, will and landon are sitting around too. probably caught into their own little CPR session. she knows that, yet at the same doesn't. it's not on her mind; because she's eternally confident in what she and will have, but also because she cannot, for the life of her multitask. she only has space for ONE happening - and she chooses to make that the feeling of hope mikaelson's lips. and it's a very nice feeling. probably because it's hope, who once upon a time was pushing everyone away - and who now is pushing against her ( metaphorically, for now ) in a lip lock. she feels a hand tangled in her hair and it sends some kind of lightning bolt up her spine. when there is break ( that lizzie is thankful for, breathing wise ), she kind of wishes there wasn't. there's some sort of bubble inside of her and it hasn't burst. it probably won't anytime soon either. they're kissing again, suddenly and sort of harder. it's bewildering. somewhat questionable, really. but it's really nice. they're full blown making out now ( not what the card wanted, guys ) and she finds one of her hands traveling to hope's shoulder, clawing at the fabric of her shirt -- subconsciously, of course.

landon kirby

multi-tasking has never been landon's strong suit. he's the kind of person who constantly gets sniped in video games because he's focused on the targets in front of him, his attention unable to divert and check the rest of his surroundings. so to say that he's relatively unaware of what's going on around him would be an understatement. his focus is on will, or more specifically his lips. that being said though, he's tipsy but not drunk; there are dregs of rational thought that pilfer through his consciousness. it's only when he realizes he's curled the fingers of his free hand in the front of will's shirt, half in his lap in a bid to get closer, that he realizes there is a line. there's a line that maybe he shouldn't cross, that maybe they need to re-evaluate before it gets scuffed out completely. .

so he pulls back. he's a little short of breath, a nervous smile on his face as he clears his throat. he doesn't look at the girls; doesn't need to see what, or how, things have gone for them. he reaches for the champagne and takes another drink, practically draining the bottle as he does. a little liquid courage never killed anybody. besides, he's ... curious. a little too curious. ( there's a part of him, a tiny sliver, that thinks this is probably good: healthy. he knows hope is his forever, the love of his life, but they're 19 years old. he's seen skins, okay. he knows people experiment. they try things when they're young, a little stupid, just because. he trusts will -- even trusts lizzie -- so if this is something they all want ... well, maybe there's something to be said about that. ) " what are we doing ? " a question searching for answers as he tugs on his lower lip with his teeth. finally he chances a look at lizzie and hope --- needs to see if they're on the same page ... or at least, the same book.(edited)

william flynn

lizzie saltzman was soul mate. will never gave much thought to attraction to others after her, never need be. yet in this moment... for the first time perhaps ever, he felt it. an attraction to someone who had moppy dark hair rather then flowing blonde. who was a bit shorter rather then the same height. with skin that wasn't soft but warm all the same. it was different then he knew but it wasn't unwelcomed. no, not unwelcomed at all. the way landon pulled him closer... will pushed against the floor below, gaining some leverage and pushing for more. ( he hoped more was okay ). landon pulled back and that nervous smile, while nervous, was oddly assuring. "i'll take one of those." he finds himself speaking as landon reaches for another drink, of course it'd go right through him ( he had a heavy tolerance after all, one that came with so much experience ) still the burn was all too nice upon his throat. landon asked the question and will, despite his own haze that came from fucking hormones and desire--- it was the right question to ask. a question that needed to be asked. "i want.." what did he want? will wasn't even quite sure. so, his eyes fell onto the two girls beside him, hoping to have some guidance dropped to his lap. ( he wanted landon, and he didn't know if that was natural or right or even okay. he didn't know what to do with this ).

hope mikaelson

the periphery awareness of landon and will has long since faded, because lizzie's kissing her harder, and faster, and a little explicitly. ( that, of course, would be the pot calling the kettle black. ) and there isn't a single part of her that wants to complain. lizzie's hand comes to claw at her shoulder, and she leans further into the other girl in response. she's in the process of moving to work her legs around lizzie's waist when her senses don't stop her. ( clearly, they're traitors. like her brain. she's having them both tried for treason when this is over. ) perhaps she's too comfortable with this .... whole arrangement, but she knows that ( drunk or not ) she could only ever do this with someone she trusted. she knows she loves landon, and for the first time her life, she knows he loves her too. she isn't worried about a little harmless ( albeit inappropriate ) making out with her best friend. ( what an odd time for rationality to pull through. ) the only thing that gives her pause is the sound of voices from by them, and she remembers where she is. she uses all of that harrowed tribrid strength behind her to pull herself off lizzie. even if her teeth grazed lizzie's lip before she did so. ( a parting gift, everything's a traitor. )

lizzie saltzman

while she's definitely no stranger to some kissing sessions, including with girls, she can't say she's had the pleasure ( literally ) of mixing the endeavor with the lubricant effects of some alcohol. she's feeling heated, like every movement and gesture does a lot more than what it would do normally. it's the champagne - or maybe it's hope mikaelson, years ago the object of some begrudging affections that lasted a few days. currently, her best friend ... and the one aggressively making out with her. but there's still something left in her brain and senses. she's feeling a wave of uncertainty, maybe even anxiousness, and it successfully blankets the mindless desire. now both hands are on hope's shoulders and she makes an effort to tilt her head backwards ( and away ). they get off each other, but not without the feeling of hope's teeth leaving a lingering mark on her bottom lip ( it stuns her for a moment, makes her feel ... things ). voices are heard and when she whips her head around, she finds landon and will, seemingly looking just as dazed and confused. " uh... " the question is processed a bit too slow and she nervously rubs a hand to the back of her neck. " what... do you want to do? " it's also a question for herself, to be honest. she doesn't look at hope, funnily enough. because she kind of ... thinks she knows what she wants. " because, i mean, it's - it was a first, right? " some aimless hand gestures. " and there are probably others ... " this time, for ALL of them. " so, you know ... " a small pause, then a groan, and she jumps to her feet ( albeit a bit wobbly ) to steal a bottle of champagne and chug some more of it. " ugh, do i have to do all the work here? figure it out yourselves. do what you want. "

spoilers: everyone did what they wanted.

[ HIZZIE TRANSCRIPT. ]

[ LANDWIL TRANSCRIPT. ]

#* transcripts.#* with → hope.#* with → will.#* with → landon.#merry christmas

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tonystarkficrecs · 5 years

Note

Hey, i hate to bother you again, but have you seen endgame yet? Also do you have any really happy fics?

I have!! I’ll be doing my best to avoid spoiling anything for anyone and I’ll make another post about it, but if/when I rec any fics containing Endgame spoilers, I’ll be using the tags #endgame and #endgame spoilers.

I’m putting the recs under a cut because this list grew really huge really fast (19 fics!!). They’re the happiest, fluffiest ones I can remember reading (and if that’s not enough, check out the fluff tag for more!).

The (Not So) Great Pretender by RayShippouUchiha

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Words: 19,585

Pairing: James “Bucky” Barnes/Tony Stark

Completed: Yes

“What,” Tony says softly but with a great depth of feeling, “the actual fuck just happened?”

“I believe, Sir,” JARVIS pipes up from the phone in his pocket, an unnecessary amount of what sounds like glee in his voice, “that you’ve once again managed to maintain your closely guarded secret identity. Truly your subterfuge skills know no bounds.“

“You’re an asshole J,” Tony mutters back as he reaches up to rub at his temple. He either has a headache coming on or a blood clot. At this point he’s honestly not sure which he’d prefer.

“I did learn from the best, Sir,” JARVIS tells him sunnily.

i babysat god and he stabbed me with a fork by surveycorpsjean

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Words: 11,395

Pairing: Tony Stark/Stephen Strange

Completed: Yes

If these two idiots don’t sort out their shit real soon, Loki is going to stab everyone in this room and then himself.

What I Need I Just Don’t Have by gyzym

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Words: 2,199

Pairing: James Rhodes/Tony Stark

Complete: Yes

If you want this choice position, have a cheery disposition. (Or: Tony needs an assistant. Rhodey needs a break.)

Phil Coulson’s Case Files of the Toasterverse by scifigrl47

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Words: 287,890 (series)

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark (+various other pairings)

Completed: No (most works in series completed)

Short stories from the Toasterverse, because the author gets panicky writing long form stories built around plot and has to finish something in order to function.

Phil has problems with these people. So does the Author.

Late Nights and Bare Bottoms by Shi_Toyu

★ ★ ★ ★

Words: 1,947

Pairing: James “Bucky” Barnes/Tony Stark

Completed: Yes

Tony stared down at the gingerbread cookies that’d been placed on the edge of the work station. It’d been the smell that’d drawn him out of his tunnel vision. He didn’t normally smell gingerbread in the middle of August. He blinked hazily, but the plate of cookies didn’t disappear. They were still warm, too, when he picked one up and bit into it.

God, and delicious. He moaned and stuffed the rest of the cookie into his mouth, already reaching for another one.

“You like them.”

Tony nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of Bucky’s voice, but in a flat tone. The super soldier loomed behind his chair, hair a tangled mess and face completely blank. He was dressed in Clint’s ‘I love to rub my meat’ apron and what appeared to be nothing else.

“Uhhh… yes?”

don’t know why it took me so long to see by goodmorningbeloved

★ ★ ★ ★

Words: 11,209

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark

Completed: Yes

“Oh, watch this,” Natasha says, propping her chin against her knuckles and turning a sweet gaze on him. “Tony, what’s it like dating a superhero?”

Tony bristles in irritation. “We’re not dating,” he snaps. “Captain America probably thinks he can get into anyone’s pants just ‘cause he’s got a mask, costume, and reputation, but not me, buddy. That shield? Gotta be overcompensating for something.” He adds, a bit petulantly, “Oh, and all that blue? Definitely more Steve’s color than his.”

-In which Tony is a genius in all matters except recognizing his boyfriend past a mask.

No, He’s Your Son by orphan_account

★ ★ ★ ★

Words: 1,420

Pairing: Gen (pre Tony Stark/Stephen Strange)

Completed: Yes

peter, on the phone: dad i forgot my homework can you drop it off in the seminar hall it’s empty don’t worry

strange: ok

strange, walking out of a portal into a hall filled with students:

peter, loudly: EVERYONE IN THIS ROOM OWES ME FIVE DOLLARS I TOLD YOU MY DAD WAS A WIZA-

may the fourth by irnan

★ ★ ★ ★

Words: 1,762

Pairing: Gen

Completed: Yes

So there’s this project Tony has been working on since he was ten years old which is only marginally less awesome than the specs for the TARDIS he totally could have built if Fury would’ve just let him had the Tesseract for a couple hours longer.

Peter Parker’s Step-By-Step Guide to Get These Two Dumbasses to Kiss Already by everythingsace

★ ★ ★ ★

Words: 3,781

Pairing: James Rhodes/Tony Stark

Complete: Yes

Rhodes was on the floor, his legs pulled up beside him, and Mr. Stark was kneeling down beside him, asking questions and checking if he was okay.With the biggest heart-eyes he’d ever seen.Peter’s jaw dropped as he stared, his eyes turning to Rhodes, only to realize that he had the doe eyes, too. Not quite as bad and obvious, but holy shit.Holy shit.

Tony Stark is the Alyssa Milano by Akira_of_the_Twilight

★ ★ ★

Words: 1,388

Pairing: Peter Quill/Tony Stark

Complete: Yes

Prompt: Starkquill where somehow Drax was the first one to notice that Tony and Peter were into each other, but he’s been around humans for a while now and he understands that if you tell them things directly they’ll just do the opposite and ruin everything for everyone, so he’s going to get them together using… metaphors

“Kidnapped, enjoys space, likes your music, and can dance,” Drax listed off.

Peter grinned. “Yeah, pretty cool dude. I might actually miss him by the time we get him back to Earth.”

For a man who had been in search of a partner for as long as Drax had known him, Drax was surprised that Peter was unable to see his perfect match right before him.

Earthlings could be quite stupid sometimes.

Rocket Science by marsmaywander and orbingarrow

★ ★ ★ ★

Words: 12,094

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Tony Stark

Completed: Yes

Sleep-deprived and under-caffeinated, grad student Tony falls asleep in a conveniently empty classroom and wakes up in the middle of Bruce’s Physics 101 course. After seeing a groggy Tony fumble a simple question, actual-student Bucky offers to tutor him. In a moment of “oh no; he’s cute” panic, Tony takes him up on it. Now, in addition to his already complicated life, Tony has to figure out the answer to the incredibly messy question: “How do you look like you’re failing the class, when you literally wrote the book?”

i stole the keys to this guy by kellifer_fic

★ ★ ★ ★

Words: 6,007

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark

Completed: Yes

Where it was Nick Fury’s idea, but he didn’t mean it like that.

The Tongues of Men and Angels by copperbadge

★ ★ ★ ★

Words: 2,369

Pairing: Pepper Potts/Tony Stark

Completed: Yes

Extremis has a few unexpected benefits.

Pint-Sized Parker by flyingonfeatherlesswings

★ ★ ★

Words: 3,636

Pairing: Tony Stark/Stephen Strange

Completed: Yes

Tony is called away from a meeting to deal with a now toddler-aged Peter Parker, who went snooping around in Stephen Strange’s spells.

carpool introductions by sapphirestark

★ ★ ★

Words: 2,401

Pairing: Gen

Completed: Yes

“It’s - it’s nice to meet you too, Colonel Rhodes, sir. I’m Peter. Uh, Parker.”

“I heard.” Rhodey smiled. Well, teenage Tony had certainly never been this polite. “Just call me Rhodey, kid.”

“O-okay, Rhodey.” Peter’s timid smile transformed into a grin. Rhodey decided he would definitely rub that in Clint’s face the next time he claimed Rhodey wasn’t good with kids.

“Are you kidding me?” Tony interrupted from the driver’s seat. “He’s Rhodey after two minutes and you’re still calling me ’Mr Stark’?”

Angry Genius White Noise by copperbadge

★ ★ ★

Words: 520

Pairing: Tony Stark/Pepper Potts

Complete: Yes

One of Pepper’s favorite activities after a long day is putting on sci-fi movies and watching Tony dissect their bad science. He’ll happily spend two hours curled up against her and ranting about the flawed central plan in Armageddon and how REALLY, HE HOPES AN ASTEROID HEADS FOR EARTH, HE’LL SHOW HOLLYWOOD HOW TO REALISTICALLY AVOID AN EXTINCTION-LEVEL EVENT, DAMMIT. Pepper finds it oddly relaxing, like angry genius white noise. Add in Bruce, and she could sell tickets.

The More You Know by Nokomis

★ ★ ★

Words: 2,457

Pairing: Gen

Completed: Yes

Peter’s first post-mission Avengers hang out goes about as well as one would expect.

home is where the science is by IntrovertedOwl

★ ★ ★

Words: 2,566

Pairing: Gen

Completed: Yes

Tony wasn’t jealous.

The very idea was ridiculous. Laughable. Absurd.

In fact, he was pleased.

Yes, that’s what he was. Pleased. And a little smug.

But the Best of Men by lusilly

★ ★ ★

Words: 2,113

Pairing: Gen

Completed: Yes

In which Tony introduces a fifteen-year-old boy to Steve, and Steve is touched that Tony would introduce him to his son.

(Except he’s not Tony’s son, he’s the newest Avenger, and Tony’s just completely oblivious to how parental he’s become.)

#fic rec list #fanfic #marvel #avengers #tony stark #fluff #tony/happiness

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novantinuum · 5 years

Text

Crack the Paragon, Chapter 7

Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: General Audiences

Words: 3.4K~

Summary: In another world, he doesn’t have his mother’s sword or shield to hide behind when Bismuth lands her strike. The bubble pops.

Steven falls apart.

Chapter summary: In which actions are louder than words.

First | Last chapter

You can find the AO3 link in the reblogs! (I have to omit it from the original post these days to ensure this will show up in the tags.) If you enjoyed this, I’d greatly appreciate your support over there as well.

Chapter 7: Silenced

“Are you out of your mind??”

"Pearl, please understand, I’ve been wanting this for so long,” you explain softly, the sunset illuminating the face of the pale Gem before you in shades of pink and orange as the waves crash onto shore behind her. “Human life is simply incredible! Never stagnating, always living, and loving, and learning. I want to pass on my gem, to create something new with Greg, someone who can grow! Someone… who can finally be free.”

“But- but Gems can’t have babies!” she sputters, throwing her arms out. “We don’t have the organs for it, or genetic material, o-or—“

You shake your head, enthusiastically cutting her off.

“That’s no problem, I used shapeshifting like Amethyst always does! And believe me,” you say with a conspiratorial chuckle, “you know better than anyone that I’m fully capable of holding this for the next nine months.”

“That’s not my point!”

“Then… what is?”

“My point—! You always do this, Rose!” she shouts, her pale blue eyes growing damp. “You know I try to support you, but I can’t do that if you never talk with me before leaping headfirst into whatever fanciful desire you please, and- and deciding everyone’s future for them!”

“But isn’t that… what I’m doing now?”

“No! You never even asked me how I’d feel,” she says, voice thick. “And that’s your problem.” Tears stream in rivulets down her cheeks, her lithe body quivering. Roughly, she wipes them away, and turns to escape your presence. “You never do!”

“Where did it go??”

The sound of shrill panic abruptly wakes Steven, the precise details of his peculiar dream already beginning to blur into obscurity as his eyes flutter open. A line of half-dried drool, slimy and still warm, extends from the corner of his mouth. His dad is softly snoring next to him, swaddled in his stolen covers like the very image of a sushi roll.

“No, no, no!” Pearl shouts from the kitchen. There’s a dull clap as her hand swipes across the counter. Something light (cloth?) falls to the floor. “This can’t be happening, not now, not again!!”

Yawning, he presses his fingers against the slight ache at his temple and sits up, blinking in confusion at his surroundings. “Wha—?”

For whatever reason, the beach house has devolved into absolute chaos between the time he fell asleep and now. The couch cushions are all askew, one of them flung halfway across the room. Two of the kitchen stools are overturned, and the bath towel they nestled his gem in last night lays in an abandoned heap between them. Dishes from the open cabinets are strewn everywhere on the counters. Meanwhile, the contents of the game shelf by the window— which Pearl normally keeps meticulously organized in alphabetical order— have exploded across the floor with little to no regard to the walking hazard they pose. If her intent was to blow through the place like a one person wrecking ball, then she’s clearly succeeded. No corner of the house is left untouched by her mania. The Gem roughly swings open the fridge, rattling the condiment bottles in the door. After a brief pause to scan through its contents she huffs, and slams it shut again.

Her arms shaking, she grips tufts of wispy peach hair from either side of her head. “Where is it???” she cries, her voice edging towards borderline hysteria.

“Uh, Pearl?” he asks, uneasiness churning in his gut at the sight of his guardian under so much stress. He swings his feet over the edge of his bed. “Pearl! What’s going on? What’s wrong??”

She freezes momentarily upon noticing he’s awake, her cheeks flushing blue.

“O-oh! Thank goodness you’re finally up,” she says, bounding across the room and up the stairs to him in no more than five steps. Her hands grasp his shoulders, a frantic gleam in her pale eyes. “Steven, where’s your gem?! Have you seen it??”

“My… gem?” he mutters, scrunching his nose as he peers up at her. In the fog of his exhausted, sleep deprived mind, for a second he has no idea what on Earth she’s talking about. Where’s his gem? His gem’s at his navel, inlaid flush with his skin like it’s always been, so what is she—

In a flash, snippets of recent memory eclipse everything else that’s at the forefront of his attention, reasserting their place in his psyche.

“Go ahead!” Bismuth snarls, jamming the tip of the breaking point rough against her concave gemstone. “Just do it!”

A sharp cry, his world standing still as a searing pain tears through him from the gem at his core to the very tip of his extremities.

Too damaged to sustain himself, his hard light form poofs into a cloud of smoke. He remembers this from both perspectives, now. And with the memory of the searing pain his other half was in… he wishes he doesn’t. The cracked gemstone hangs in the air for just a moment, morning sunlight glinting off its facets, before plummeting lifeless to the ground.

“—it’s Pink Diamond,” Garnet whispers in horror.

He swallows hard as the burden of the last few hours quickly rears its ugly head, weighing down once more on his shoulders. Oh, right, he thinks, resting his hand atop his stomach, over the unfamiliar facets of his newly flipped gem. Almost dying. That was a thing.

“Yes, your gem, I’ve been looking everywhere for it!” Pearl says, throwing her arms up. She leaps to the ground floor from the lofted level, and with a skip and a flourish so unbefitting of her current state of panic, jabs her pointer finger towards the kitchen counter. “I clearly remember setting it right here when we put you to bed, but now it’s nowhere to be found!”

Her words degrade to incomprehensible mumbling as she continues her fruitless search, this time localized to the space around the fireplace and the bathroom door. Finally understanding what has her in such a tizzy, Steven leaps to his feet and follows her down the stairs. Of course she’s freaking out, she thinks his gemstone disappeared entirely, or walked off, or got stolen! She has no way of knowing what happened on the beach early this morning. No one does. Someone’s gotta tell her, and that someone can only be him. Rushing to his guardian, he gently tugs at her arm.

“Pearl!”

She forces a laugh, the sound of it neurotic and unhinged, as her fumbling fingers remove a small photo of the four of them off its hook on the wall. “Well at least we can say for certain it’s not hiding behind this framed photograph!” she announces, smile stretched just a bit too wide. “Just one less infinite possibility to check…”

“Pearl, listen, you—“

“And it’s not like it could simply roll off the table without a trace, right? Am I right??”

“Please, you don’t have to freak out, ‘cause I—“

“But it’s okay Steven, there’s no need to panic! I know we’ll find it eventually, yes we will, of course we will, how could we—“

“I have it!” he blurts out, grabbing both of her shaking hands. “I have it.”

Held securely in his, her hands fall silent. The panic drains from her in but a breath as she stops to contextualize what he’s just said and what it means, her mouth slipping slightly ajar. Sensing that he’s firmly caught her attention now, he continues, heart hammering in his chest.

“Last night, the gem reformed as me, a-and… we fused back together.”

“You— you’re back to normal,” she says with glassy eyes, voice softer now.

He tugs at the collar of his pajamas. “Well, more or less. There’s a bit of a catch, and I’m pretty sure none of you are gonna like it.”

Her expression is blank with confusion. “Uhhh— a catch?”

“Y’know, it’s probably easier if I just show you,” he reasons with a nervous chuckle, and— sweat beading on his forehead— lifts his nightshirt to reveal his gem.

Pearl kneels down to peer at it straight on, hand balled into a fist at her chin. “Oh!” she says first, brows shooting up on her face. Then, her features narrowing the more and more she looks at the newly exposed facets of his diamond: ”Ohhhh...”

“This is what her gem looked like, isn’t it?” he asks. “Pink’s?”

Her eyes shoot wide open at his query. “I—“

Immediately, her palm clamps tight over her mouth, strangling whatever words she had planned to share.

Steven cringes as he watches her struggle against her orders, a seed of guilt churning deep within. “Oh, right. You can’t… sorry, I forgot. We can talk about something else, if you want!”

She’s thankfully able to pull her hand away before too long. A distant part of him wonders how this gag order works, how it knows in advance what Pearl plans to say, if there’s any loopholes they could possibly find to skirt around it...

“I— I’d appreciate that,” she admits, suddenly looking very tired.

A lopsided smile brightening her face despite her exhaustion, she reaches up to affectionately ruffle his hair. He flashes her a boyish grin as her touch flattens some of his wild curls against his head.

“You know,” she says quietly, glancing at him with such a softness reflected in her pale irises that it almost makes him forget all the stress he’s endured, almost makes him believe nothing’s changed since yesterday, “there may be a lot I can’t talk about, but what I can say is that I’m so glad to see your beautiful smile again.”

“Pearl,” he responds, blushing with half-hearted embarrassment.

“Now let’s clean up this mess before your father wakes up, shall we?” the pale Gem chuckles nervously as she rubs her hands together, glancing between the trashed ground floor of the beach house and the middle aged man miraculously still snoozing away in the loft above.

“Nose-goes on kitchen!” he says hurriedly, tapping his finger against the tip of his nose.

She feeds him a mock gasp, already crossing behind the counter to start returning the plates and glasses to their rightful homes in the cabinet. “Oh, you rascal! How ever will I organize all this by myself?”

Steven gives a soft laugh at this, and then promptly sets himself on tidying duty. First priority is the board games strewn across the floorboards in the corner. He kneels and begins arranging the boxes into piles. From there, he stacks each pile nice and near on the shelf by the window. After straightening the stacks so the box corners line up, he moves to pull open the blinds to let more sunlight in the house. A blissful smile stretches across his face as he pauses his work to bask in the morning glow.

Already feeling a good deal more content about everything in the reminder of daybreak, he turns to Pearl. “Not gonna lie, I’m kinda surprised Dad was able to stay asleep through all our racket.”

“Greg?” she scoffs and rolls her eyes, piling a stack of plates on one of the shelves. “That man sleeps like a rock. Which,” she continues, resting her freed hand against her chin in contemplation, “as an idiom, is actually rather ironic considering that ‘rock’ is common slang for ‘Gem,’ and Gemkind as a whole doesn’t have a biological need for sleep.”

“Well, I think you can blame humans for that one,” he laughs, picking the missing couch cushion off the floor and returning it to its home. “For anyone outside Beach City, rocks don’t actually move!”

Ever so slightly, the edge of her lips turn up. “I suppose that’s true, yes…”

They fall into a fairly comfortable silence for a while after that, as they put the finishing touches on the last nooks and crannies of the beach house that needed attention. Steven makes sure the floor is spotless, every stray pillow, toy, or decorative item returned to its rightful place. Pearl finishes tidying the kitchen, re-organizing the cups on the shelves by color and type. By the end of it he can proudly say the place looks leagues cleaner than it did yesterday. For good measure, Pearl pulls a broom out of her gemstone and sweeps up any debris littering the floor. He helps out by holding the dustpan steady as she brushes the sand and dust bunnies in.

“There!” she proclaims once they’re finished, proudly surveying her roost as she solidly holds the broom with the same level of decorum with which one might hold a rebellion era rampart. “That’s much better, don’t you think?”

The ground nearly shimmers in its cleanliness. Heartily, he gives her a thumbs-up.

“Yeah, looks great!”

With a big yawn, he glances up at his father’s slumbering figure in the loft above, for a moment jealous that he’s not still snoozing away too. Four or five hours (or however long it’s been since he crawled back into bed, he hasn’t checked the clock yet) simply isn’t enough rest for a growing boy. He always tries to aim for eight or nine. Maybe he can bridge that gap now, though? Would it help, he wonders, if he falls back asleep a good twenty minutes after he woke? As he ponders this mystery, he ambles past Pearl, heading directly to the couch.

“Steven,” she says with poorly disguised concern, as she watches him abruptly flop over onto the cushions in his sheer exhaustion. “If you need to talk about what happened, then I—“

“I’m just a little tired, don’t worry about me,” he says, eyes drooping shut as he curls up tighter.

“Don’t wor—“ Pearl cuts herself off suddenly, choked up. She’s at his side in a flash, and he feels the cushion adjust for her weight as she sits herself adjacent. “How can I not worry about you? You went through something no child… no Gem should ever have to experience!”

“But I’m alive,” he points out, eyes cracking open a smidge. “I’m alive, and you guys dealt with Bismuth, a-and we fixed it like we always do, so- so there’s no point in fixating on what could’ve happened, right?”

She rests her hand on his shoulder, her fingers hesitantly shifting over the seam of his pajamas as if she’s suddenly a complete stranger to the art of comforting. Normally he lives for her shows of affection— her occasional head pats, loose side hugs, a hand clasped tight on his arm as she gently leads him through hazardous terrain on missions— but in his mounting desire to be left alone in peace to rest, he bristles under her touch. She doesn’t seem to catch onto the hint, though. Still hidden behind his neutral expression, he grits his teeth.

“I-it’s not a matter of fixation,” she continues, “it’s a matter of unpacking difficult emotions. You have to understand, the state of being cracked, it’s not one that most full Gems are easily able to bounce back from, and I just want to ensure that you’re not—“

“I’m fine, really, I am!” he snaps. “You don’t have to keep fussing about it! And anyways, it’s all over now, isn’t it? So can’t we at least try to move on from this and let things be halfway normal again?!”

Pearl reacts like she’s been physically struck. She yanks her hand back, resting her palms on her knees as she turns her head away. A cautious glance at her face (or at least the half she hasn’t intentionally obscured from his sight) shows one muddled with a blend of melancholy and that sort of silent displeasure he’s long since grown to associate with disappointed parents. He swallows hard, shame settling heavy like the diamond at the pit of his stomach. He went too far.

“Sorry,” he mumbles as he sits upright, cheeks heating up. He stares at his fingers, rhythmically flexing them.

She doesn’t vocally respond to his apology, but her form does grow visibly less tense. It’s a start.

Fully audible through the walls of the house, the tides crash onto shore, gently pulsing in and out. It doesn’t take long before the pace of his heart matches the ocean’s unwavering drumbeat. His naive young mind twitchy under the throes of the unnatural silence, he yearns for some concrete image to latch onto, anything to spirit him away from the present. Not before long, distant threads of memory from the strange dream he woke up from this morning rise to meet his pleas.

Most of the details are fuzzy, indistinct and abstract as one might expect from a dream, but nevertheless just enough specificity remains that he can’t help but wonder if this was more than your run-of-the-mill moonlight fantasy. Frowning pensively, he balls his hand against his chin. The sky was streaked with lines of pink and orange, he remembers. The tides swelled with the same unwavering prowess as they do this morning. He knows he was standing somewhere near the temple, because he clearly saw one of the stone hands half-buried on the sandy shore. A familiar ivory and peach figure stood defiant and distraught before him— no, not him!— before his…

“You always do this, Rose!”

His hands. They were wide, pale, free of the familiar calluses built up from years of plucking strings on his ukulele, they… they weren’t his. This body wasn’t his.

Mom. He was dreaming about his mom. But why, and how? He’s had dreams with her in them before, but they were always different, they were always from his perspective. They were always fluid and nonsensical. This, however… this one felt different, somehow. More tangible.

Almost… real.

“You never even asked me how I’d feel,” Pearl said, voice thick. “And that’s your problem. You never do!”

Realization dawns over him like the glow of the morning sun rising above the horizon. A sudden sickness churns in his stomach. He’s almost horrified, disgusted with his past actions in rudely brushing Pearl off like that.

She just… wants to know how I feel about all this, he thinks, throat constricting as he swallows hard. She wanted to know if I’m okay! But- is she even okay??

Is there more to this dream of his than meets the eye? Is his subconscious trying to tell him something, trying to lead him to take some sort of action? Have they really not asked her that enough?

His fingers drum against his leg as he gathers the nerve to speak again.

“Hey...”

“Yes?” Pearl says quietly, tone clipped. She’s still glancing out the window, turned away from him.

“How are you handling all this? Everything’s suddenly so different, and…” He grips the fabric of his pajama bottoms, his eyes burning hot. “I know you can’t say much about it, but I just wanna make sure you’re doin’ okay too.”

She finally meets his glance, her gaze glassy and wet. Her bottom lip quivers, so subtle he almost doesn’t pick up on it. In all the time he’s lived with her, he's not sure he’s ever seen her so vulnerable, and the sight of it drives a razor sharp point right through his heart. He takes a deep, grounding breath, and continues.

“And I want you to know I don’t blame you for this,” he reassures. “Even if you couldn’t tell us anything, that’s not your fault.”

“Thank you,” she says, her voice breaking.

“If there’s stuff I can do to make things easier, let me know?”

Her ice blue irises skate upwards as she deliberates, desperately grasping for an answer to his open ended question. Steven clasps his hands together in his lap, and simply waits in silent patience. His legs dangle back and forth over the edge of the couch.

Pearl sighs, her long suffering exhaustion evident. “If, in the future, you could avoid asking probing questions about your mother or abo- about my past on Homeworld, that would be a great help.” She presses her thumb and forefinger firm against her forehead, right under her gem. “It’s… painful, suffice it to say, when programming kicks in. And to answer your first question, I’m honestly trying not to think about any of it too much. Like you, it would seem,” she adds with a bit of a mirthful chuckle. “I can’t claim it’s good advice, but that’s where I’m at.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats with a sniffle, leaning into her shoulder.

Tenderly, she wraps her arms around him and nestles her cheek against his mop of curly hair. It’s a blissful comfort, a wordless promise that more than anything else makes him feel safe. Secure.

“So am I,” she whispers, a tear slipping down her cheek.

Notes:

I have a headcanon that Rose took ages to reform after Pearl staged her "shattering," and in the midst of that Pearl had to go into hiding with her gem so the Crystal Gems didn't learn their secret. During that, I imagine she probably lost Rose's gem at least once, and almost had the Gem equivalent of a heart attack. Which is why she's flipping out so much about it happening again, with Steven.

I also hc that Steven doesn't actually upset Pearl too often, out of the three main CGs. When she does get especially upset though, she's the type to give the icy silent treatment.

#su #steven universe #pearl #su fanfiction #su fanart #crack the paragon #my writing stuff

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