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whataperfectwasteoftime · 1 year

Text

Spilled Ink

Pairing: Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike x f!reader

Word Count: 7.5k

Summary: Uhhh Marcus Pike as the world's softest tattoo artist that's it that's the fic.

Warnings: Lots of tattoo talk, obviously, which includes needles, tattoo guns, pain, mention of bleeding, etc.; reader is explicitly coded as neurodivergent because I said so; yearning; lots of kissing; Marcus Pike being a goddamn menace and he fucking knows it

A/N: @kedsandtubesocks made a post about Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike (original post HERE) and then I wrote 7.5k words in 12 hours, as one does. All credit for the idea goes to the amazing Erika who entrusted me with this idea and THANK GOD SHE DID because I don't think I could have gotten it out of my stupid brain otherwise. Header pics credit go to Erin @perotovar, who made these with Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike in mind and I'm just WOOFWOOFBARKBARKBARKBARKHOWL. Thanks also to @littlebirdsbookshelf who suffers through HOURS of me sending screenshots every time I write anything. Love you <3

Additional Note on Canon: I am pretending that we never got to see Marcus Pike in short sleeves in the show despite it happening twice. He has full sleeves on both his arms in this fic that he covered up during his time working at the FBI. Because sleeves are hot and I said so.

Masterlist

It’s not unusual, these days, to wander down the sidewalk staring at your phone. Some people are texting. Some people are reading the news–because hey, this is D.C. Others, like you on this brisk morning, are watching the little blue dot on a tiny representation of the city streets, trying to find the address you had typed into the search bar.

A text box pops up, informing you of your arrival, and you finally look up.

No wonder it took you so long to find the place–it’s hardly what you expected at all. You always picture tacky neon signs, bars on the windows, undesirables milling about on the street, smoking cigarettes.

Okay, so you admittedly don’t actually know much about tattoos.

All you know is that you want one–a fact you confessed to a friend over lunch the other week: a conversation that led you here.

“Okay, so get one,” she had said bluntly.

“It’s not all that simple,” you had protested.

“Why?”

“It’s just… it seems like a lot. Mentally. Physically. I’m not sure I have what it takes.”

“They don’t hurt that bad,” your friend had insisted.

“I’m not just talking about that, I’m talking about… y’know, just everything. The noise. New people. Strangers touching me. It just doesn’t seem like something I’ll be able to do.”

“Oh. Ohhh. Because of the… yep. Actually I might have something for you,” she said, taking out her phone and scrolling through that app that drives you crazy–it’s overstimulation in a convenient package–full of noise, chaos, and flashing lights.

She must have seen you pull a face, because she held out her hand placatingly.

“Just finding the name of the place, hang on. It’s a shop right here in DC that went ‘viral’ for this video of a guy with autism who wanted a tattoo to commemorate his dad, but he was only comfortable lying on the floor–so the tattoo artist just… got on the floor with him! It was really cute, and anyway I guess he caters to all sorts of people, so… I dunno. Check it out.”

And here you are. Checking it out.

The words “Government-Issued Ink” are spelled out on large windows, and the punny name–apt for its location not far from the Capitol–makes you snort.

The shop is bright, warm, and inviting–tearing down your outdated preconceptions that tattoo places must always be run-down, dark, and dingy. It’s also empty this early in the morning, save for a lone figure in the back, seated at a well-worn desk, his head pitched forward over his work.

He’s so enveloped in whatever he’s sketching that he must not have heard the light ringing of the bell as you had entered. You watch him for a few moments–taking in the graceful movements of his hand and the way his fingers grasp the pen. He’s dressed in a plain blue button-down dress shirt, which also doesn’t fit your assumed archetype of ‘Tattoo Artist.’ You can’t see his face; his head is leaning forward too much and a few short locks of dark brown hair obscure your view.

Suddenly wondering if you’re being incredibly rude, staring at someone without announcing your presence, you open your mouth to introduce yourself.

“Um.”

While not exactly eloquent, it serves its purpose. The man startles and looks up in surprise.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, jumping to his feet and letting the pen clatter carelessly to the desk. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“That’s okay,” you shake your head rapidly. “I was, um…” You blink a few times, your nerves getting the better of you as the man comes around his desk to approach the front of the store.

“Interested in a walk-in consultation?” he offers, holding out his hands in a gesture that could either be an open invitation or a shrug.

“I don’t know,” you confess quietly. “I was thinking about getting, uh, a tattoo, and I was told this shop was… good. With tattoos. And other stuff.”

“Other stuff?” he chuckles, smiling warmly.

“You know… with people who… might not be good at getting tattoos.”

“What makes you think you aren’t ‘good at getting tattoos?’”

“A hunch,” you shrug, expelling a little huff of laughter through your nose. “I was told to ask for a Marcus Pike?”

The man’s smile widens. “You’re looking at him.”

Oh. You aren’t sure what you expected, but it wasn’t this. Marcus Pike is well-dressed and clean-cut, almost startlingly so. You scan up and down, looking for any sign that this man could possibly be a tattoo artist, but the only evidence you can find is a small black target inked between his thumb and forefinger on his right hand. Don’t… tattoo artists usually have more ink? Of course, with him almost completely covered from head to toe, you obviously can’t create a full picture of Marcus’s skin, but the fact that he wouldn’t look out of place in one of the nearby government buildings still takes you by surprise.

You realize you haven’t said anything in response, but Marcus doesn’t seem to be bothered by your deer-in-headlights stare. Instead, he grins again and steps sideways, extending his arm in a silent invitation to come deeper into the shop.

“Come on in. If you’d like, go ahead and sit wherever you want, and we can talk about it. No pressure,” he promises. “I’m not here to push ink on you like a used car salesman; I’m here to collaborate with you. Figure out what you really want. And, if what you want ends up being ‘nothing,’ I totally support that, too.”

There’s something innate and intrinsic about Marcus Pike that sets you completely at-ease. You cast your eyes around, taking in the eclectic seating in the shop–all mismatched, all different colors, styles, and shapes, but all looking incredibly comfortable and inviting. You settle on a giant turquoise beanbag that seems to swallow you whole when you sink down into it, and Marcus grins and sits down in the bright yellow saucer chair beside it.

“So at the very least, you’re thinking about a tattoo,” Marcus leads. “Can you tell me about that?”

You nod, feeling encouraged by his openness. “Yeah, so… my mom, she passed away a couple of years ago, and it just seemed like I should… memorialize her in some way. Like, in a way that leaves its mark on me like she left a mark on me, and I just couldn’t stop thinking about the idea of getting some kind of permanent art that commemorates her.”

“That’s a great idea,” Marcus says softly. “Lots of people choose to do that after losing a loved one.”

“Yeah, the only problem is that I’m not good with um… noise, or people touching me, or… pain, really,” you confess. “I’m like, the worst candidate for getting a tattoo that exists.”

Marcus chuckles softly and shakes his head. “Personally, I don’t believe that. I think anyone can get a tattoo done if they want it, provided they get it done in a way that feels safe and comfortable.”

“My friend, she uh, recommended your shop because apparently you’ve done some stuff for people with autism and it went viral on TikTok…” you ramble, “and I thought maybe that meant you’d be a good fit for… for me.”

Understanding flickers in Marcus’s expression, and he nods, a small smile spreading across his face. “I hope so,” he says with quiet earnesty.

A beat passes–just a few seconds of silence–but something small and soft and warm settles down between the two of you, and the comforting feeling sinks down into the pit of your stomach and stays there, latent and waiting.

“So, let’s talk design,” Marcus announces. “Do you have anything in mind? Any images or ideas, however vague? I can do anything from replicating designs to building something completely from scratch for you.”

“I like the idea of it being a unique piece,” you tell him.

“I prefer original designs too,” he says. “Not to sound incredibly cheesy, but there’s no one like you, you know? In–In the general sense, of course.” He chuckles sheepishly, looking down at his hands. “I like knowing each person that comes in here leaves with something unique. Something all their own—I’m rambling,” he says quickly, the tips of his ears turning slightly pink. “One thing about me is that I talk too much. Anyway–did you have any ideas you can share with me about what you’d like?”

“I don’t have a good image in my mind,” you confess anxiously. After all, how can he build a design based on the swirling, disjointed images in your brain? “I think I want it to be colorful, like she was. And… I keep getting thoughts about, I dunno, the cyclical nature of life, something corny like that.”

Marcus laughs. “Sometimes the corny stuff is what sticks with us. So, colorful and commenting on the cyclical nature of life,” he lists off on his fingers, still grinning. “Anything else?”

“I’ve looked through your galleries online,” you tell him. “You have a few that look like watercolor paintings, and I really love how they look.”

He nods thoughtfully. “I’m gonna throw out an idea—Feel free to tell me ‘no,’ because I’m just brainstorming here, but I keep thinking about a tree of life. The leaves could easily be done in watercolor and could be any combination of colors you want.” His right hand twitches–as if reaching for a phantom pen–as he speaks, and his gaze seems to be fixed on a spot on the wall, his eyes glimmering with enthusiasm as he starts to speak faster.

“You could have the leaves and the roots connecting on the sides, making a circle, maybe even having her birth date and death date embedded in the roots…” He blinks rapidly a few times, as if dispelling the image from his head. “Anyway. That’s a possibility.”

“I think that’s amazing,” you say softly, watching Marcus with something like amazement in your expression. “Actually… I really like that idea. It sounds… perfect.”

“Oh,” he intones softly, looking at you in surprise as a bright, toothy smile breaks across his face. “Oh. Well then, let’s do it, huh? One final question: where do you envision getting it?”

“I was thinking on my shoulder. Here,” you indicate, pressing your hand to the skin of your upper arm. “That way it’s visible when I want it to be, but easily hidden if for some reason it needs to be.”

“That’s perfect,” Marcus says. “Plus, the circular design will go really well there. Okay. Great. Um, some things to know about the process. We’ll exchange emails, and you can contact me at any time with any questions, concerns, ideas, changes, anything. In the meantime, I’ll get started on a design for you, and I’ll share initial sketches that you can give feedback on before I move to the final stages of the design. It’ll take a couple of weeks, maximum, depending on any changes you ask for. My only request is that you’re always honest with your feedback–don’t tell me you like something when you don’t. I promise, it won’t hurt my feelings.” He grins widely. “After that, you book an appointment on a day that works best for you. I almost always book the whole day for the appointment to factor in time for copious breaks and making sure you feel comfortable. Does that work for you?”

You nod eagerly.

“Last question,” Marcus says. “Is it okay if I get a close-up picture of your upper arm? That way I can make sure it fits the curvature of your arm, it’s the right size, stuff like that.”

“Mhmm,” you nod again, pressing your lips together and trying not to look nervous. Thank god you wore a sleeveless top under your sweater.

“Only if you’re comfortable,” he insists.

“No, no, it’s fine,” you say quickly, removing just the one arm from your outer layer and pulling it aside.

You watch as Marcus grabs a little ‘point-and-shoot’ digital camera from his desk and comes back to your side.

“This is just used for design purposes,” he promises. “I delete them after the design is done.”

“I trust you.”

His resulting expression could light an entire room. “Thank you,” he answers quietly. “Okay. Super close-up, just your arm. Cool?”

“Cool,” you confirm, and you hear the camera click several times.

“Actually,” Marcus says, still staring thoughtfully at your bare shoulder. “Would it be okay if I made a couple of little marks–washable marker, of course–to make sure the dimensions are how you want them?”

Oh. You normally don’t like it when people touch you. You knew it was going to happen eventually, obviously, because how else was he going to get the design onto your skin? But it was something you had planned on working yourself up to, not something you had to do today. On the other hand, something about Marcus’s entire bearing makes you inexplicably ache to be touched by him.

“‘No’ is an acceptable response,” he interrupts your dithering with a quiet reassurance.

And actually, that works to seal the deal for you, and your decision is made in an instant.

“Yes. You can. That’s fine.” And, to your surprise, you mean it.

Marcus seems just as surprised at your answer–his eyebrows shoot upward almost comically at your response.

“Okay,” he says softly. “That’s perfect. Hang on.” He jumps up again to retrieve a black marker–from what was clearly a children’s set of washable markers. He meets your eyes, and again you take in that sincere, earnest, patient look that endeared you to this man from the moment you entered the little shop.

“Is it okay if I touch your arm?” he asks quietly, still watching you carefully as you nod.

“Tell me if that changes,” he murmurs, dropping his gaze to your shoulder again. His touch, when you feel it, is just as warm as you’d imagined. He’s gentle, cautious, and when he speaks again, his voice remains at that same, soft volume and tone. “I’m envisioning being from about here–” he makes a little black dot, “–to here. What do you think?”

You nod. It’s the perfect size–large enough to cover your shoulder but stopping just above the point where the sleeve of a regular t-shirt would hit.

“That’s perfect.”

“Okay, so that’s–” he tsks softly, measuring the distance with his finger, “–about four inches, so that same distance across, and–” he makes two more marks on either side of your shoulder. “About like that. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” you answer, smiling with enthusiasm.

“Great! Let me just…” Marcus draws a few short lines denoting the proposed boundary of your design, and you can’t help the soft giggle that escapes you at the cool tip of the marker on your skin.

“Sorry,” he chuckles. “One more picture?”

At your nod, the camera clicks one last time.

“Like I said, that’ll wash off with soap, no problem,” he promises with a smile. “Thanks for that, makes it easier to scale.” He grabs two business cards off his desk and hands them to you. “Can you write your email on this one for me? And you can keep the other one. Like I said, anything you need, just email me. And uh, barring that, you’ll be hearing from me in a week or so with a rough sketch. Okay?”

You scribble down your email and hand the card back to Marcus before pulling your sweater back over your bare arm. You slip the other card into your purse and rise to your feet. “Thanks,” you say, nodding to him.

“Hey, no–thank you,” Marcus returns. “Thanks for entrusting me with this. I mean it.”

Surprising yourself, you extend your hand toward him, and, when he takes it, you feel enveloped with warmth again.

“Thanks,” repeat, a little bit more breathlessly this time, before turning and hurrying out of the shop before you can embarrass yourself any further.

Your shoulder still tingles from his touch hours later.

Rather than it being a week before you hear from him, you receive an email from Marcus Pike just three days later.

Subject: Initial Sketch

Hello,

Please see attached. It’s just pencil for now, but I made a note of the general blocks of color I was thinking for the leaves. You’ll see what I mean when you open the file. Sorry, I know it’s a pretty rough sketch, I was just excited to get this to you. I look forward to your feedback!

Best regards,

Marcus :)

Eagerly, you open the attachment. First of all, there’s nothing “rough” about the sketch other than the fact that it’s just penciled in. The details are already so intricate, and you find yourself smiling in amazement as you take in the design.

It’s beautiful.

Brackets, each labeled with a different color in Marcus’s neat, tidy handwriting, surround the top of the tree. Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Violet.

At the bottom of the image is another handwritten note: *All the colors will blend together and the result should look like a rainbow.

Tears spring, unbidden, to your eyes, as you feverishly type out your response.

Subject: Re: Initial Sketch

Marcus,

I really don’t know what to say other than it’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect. Made me tear up. Look forward to seeing it in color.

Thanks again!

Not even five minutes go by before your phone vibrates with another email.

Subject: Re: Re: Initial Sketch

I’m sorry if I made you cry! Obviously wasn’t my intention but I’m glad the design evokes emotion :) I’ll move forward with the design as-is and you should hear from me soon with a full-color image.

Marcus :)

You can’t wait. The next week and a half stretches out excruciatingly, but finally, on a Wednesday evening, you receive another email.

Subject: Final Design

Hey there!

Hope you’ve been doing well. Thought you might like to see the final design of your tattoo ;) See attached and let me know if anything needs to be changed. Be critical! Don’t hold anything back! Once we agree on a final piece, we’ll get you on the calendar.

Best regards,

Marcus :)

Your mind skims over the fact that Marcus used a winking-face emoji in your email, because you honestly aren’t equipped to process that right now, and open the attachment instead. This time, you start crying in earnest. It’s perfect. The colors are so vibrant, and they make the tree look as though it’s in a constant state of movement. Your mom’s birth and death dates are entwined seamlessly into the roots themselves, in a way that makes them not readily apparent at first glance, but seeming to just appear out of nowhere upon further inspection.

Subject: Re: Final Design

Marcus,

If I had any critical feedback, I would share it, I promise. But I have nothing. This is everything I’d imagined and more, and it means the world to me.

Thank you so much.

After a few more messages back and forth, you settle on a date one month out.

You can’t wait.

As excited as you’ve been for the past month, when you step foot back into Marcus’s little tattoo parlor, the air of finality makes your body thrum with anxiety.

You’re really doing this.

Marcus is at the back of the shop, busying himself with setting up his workspace when you enter. Today, he’s wearing a dark green henley that looks just as soft as he is, and seems to complement his features even more. As soon as he hears the chimes, his head snaps up, and he grins widely.

“Hey!” he calls out excitedly. “Just getting everything ready. Do you want something to drink before we get started? I’ve got water, juice, soda…” he trails off, waving his hand in the direction of a mini-fridge in the corner.

“I’m okay for now.”

“Sounds good, but when we take a break, you should have some juice or something else with a bit of sugar in it, okay?” You nod, and he continues. “Okay! Where do you want to sit?”

“Don’t I have to sit in the chair over there?” you ask, gesturing to the traditional chair and bench near Marcus’s work table.

“Not at all,” he protests. “The table is mobile, I bring it to wherever you feel comfortable.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly. “I’ll go ahead and sit in the chair, though.” Of all the options, it looks like the easiest–you aren’t entirely sure how Marcus would be able to comfortably tattoo you whilst sitting on a bean bag chair.

“Your choice,” he insists, spreading his hands out in an open and unguarded stance.

You settle in the chair and he sits down on a rolling stool beside you.

“Okay, so I’ve got a stencil of your design here,” Marcus says, holding up a paper with an outline of the tree for you to see. “It’ll transfer onto your skin exactly how you want it to go, and I’ll just trace it. Make sense?”

“Yep,” you nod.

“Before I do that, though, I have to make sure nothing interferes with the design, including tiny little hairs.” He holds up a pink safety razor. “Are you comfortable with me doing this for you?”

At your tentative nod of consent, Marcus leans forward and gently swipes the razor up and down your shoulder until he’s satisfied. His eyes dart between your skin and your face the entire time–making sure you’re still with him. After he’s done, he talks you through the stencil–confirming its location, gently applying it to your shoulder, and then holding up a mirror for you to approve.

“It’s great,” you whisper excitedly.

Marcus returns your smile and begins to absentmindedly roll up his sleeves in preparation to start working–-and the question about tattoos that you’d asked yourself upon first seeing the man is suddenly and unexpectedly answered.

You can’t help the soft sound of surprise that escapes from you when you catch the colorful patchwork of designs on both of his forearms, disappearing under the pushed-up henley and suggesting that they go all the way up.

Marcus catches you staring and grins, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

“I didn’t know,” you say softly. “You keep them covered up.”

“Force of habit,” Marcus shrugs. “I had a desk job for a long time.”

“Doing what?” you ask, curiously. You can’t see the man doing anything but this.

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” he jokes, winking in your direction.

Ignoring how the wink makes your heart stutter in your chest, you bark out a laugh at his answer. “What? Were you like a secret agent or something?” you tease.

“Special Agent,” he corrects, grinning.

“Get out,” you deadpan. “I can’t imagine you as a Fed.”

Marcus shrugs, giving you another one of his boyish, crooked smiles. “Would’ve been fifteen years this year had I not finally seen the writing on the wall and run for the hills a couple of years ago.”

“What made you leave?”

He laughs softly, shaking his head. “That’s a long story. How sensitive are you to noise?” he asks, abruptly changing the subject.

“Uh, I dunno. Kind of depends on the day and the situation,” you shrug.

“Fair. Well, I usually let newcomers listen to what the gun actually sounds like, so there are no surprises. If it’s too loud, I do have noise canceling headphones.”

And miss out on hearing Marcus’s soft-spoken reassurances? No matter how loud the tattoo gun is, you’d rather endure it just to be able to hear him talk.

Marcus turns the instrument on, and the room is filled with a mild buzzing sound. On your worst days, admittedly, it would probably grate upon your nerves, but you’re feeling relaxed, comfortable, and excited about your new tattoo.

“It’s not bad,” you tell him truthfully.

“Perfect,” he grins. “Are you all set to get started?”

Heart rate increasing with pleasant anticipation, you nod giddily.

“I’m obviously gonna be touching your arm a lot,” Marcus says, “so let me know if you need a break from that, the noise, the needle, anything.” Seeing your solemn nod, he continues. “I’m gonna do a little dot right here to let you see how it feels, okay?” He gently touches his index finger to your skin to indicate where.

“Okay.”

The gun turns on again, and Marcus presses it lightly against your skin for just a second before pulling back.

“...That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“I thought it would hurt more,” you confess.

Marcus laughs. “Well, the same feeling over and over again in a small area can start to be pretty uncomfortable. I’ll check in regularly to make sure you’re still doing fine. Good?”

You smile widely. “I’m really excited.”

His smile softens, his gaze becoming warmer and more tender. “I’m glad.”

His other hand gently cradles your arm as Marcus leans in, a look of intense concentration settling over his features as he begins the design. Engrossed in his work, you take the time to study his forearms. They’re a hodgepodge of designs, clearly done at different times and by different artists, but you can see themes throughout. He likes classic styles, you can tell, and in between some of the more traditional works you can see beautiful references to an assortment of famous paintings. A Dali melting clock here. A sunflower clearly inspired by Van Gogh there. On his opposite bicep, you can just barely make out the side of one design that looks like it might be of a Greek statue. Tilting your head, you realize it’s Nike alighting on the bow of a warship, and you inhale sharply. That’s one of your favorite sculptures.

“Still okay?” Marcus asks, glancing up at you with concern in his eyes.

“Sorry.” You shake your head quickly.

“Just checking,” he says softly. “Try to be just a little more still, okay?”

“Sorry,” you repeat, laughing sheepishly.

“Don’t be, you’re doing great.”

You try to fight the way your entire body seems to grow warm at Marcus’s praise, but you can’t stop the way the feeling stampedes through you. You’re being ridiculous, you chastise yourself. He’s doing his job, and you’re getting all moony-eyed.

In order to distract yourself, you continue playing ‘Spot the Famous Artwork’ on Marcus’s sleeves–although, as distractions go, it’s not your best work. You can’t help but focus in on the way his forearm cords with muscle as he holds the tattoo gun, controlling each movement so delicately and precisely, creating a beautiful, intricate design on your shoulder.

After finding a bit of yellow patchwork that's clearly a reference to Gustav Klimt's The Kiss near his right elbow, you break your silence.

“You like art, huh?”

It seems like a stupid thing to say to a fucking tattoo artist of all people, and you immediately kick yourself internally for saying something so obvious.

Marcus glances up, and, seeing how your eyes are focused on his own ink, smiles. “Always have,” he murmurs, returning his gaze to your shoulder. “Some of those are years-old.”

“Is that how you got into being a tattoo artist?” you ask.

“Sort of,” he answers, brow pinched in concentration as he continues working. “I uh, apprenticed for a shop in college to pay the bills before going to Quantico for training.”

“You’re really talented,” you tell him. “I was surprised to find out you haven’t been doing this your whole life.”

Marcus hums his appreciation as he carefully fills in a root.

“Can I ask what made you join the FBI instead of opening your own place after college?”

He huffs a little laugh through his nose. “Parents would have killed me, going to college and then doing nothing with it.”

“Running a small business isn’t exactly doing nothing,” you point out.

“Well, public opinion on tattoos wasn’t what it is now,” Marcus says. “They were scandalized by my apprenticeship, but it paid the bills, so they couldn’t complain too loudly.”

“Was it them who wanted you to join the FBI?”

“Mm, not so much,” he murmurs. “It was more like ‘whatever you want to do, so long as you can make a lucrative career out of it.’ Being an artist wasn’t one of those things, so in lieu of becoming one myself, I decided I wanted to protect them instead.”

You scrunch up your nose. “Protect them how?”

Marcus grins up at you and waggles his eyebrows playfully. “Art crimes,” he answers. “Being an art detective was kind of in the limelight in the early ‘nineties after the famous Gardner Museum theft, and I got swept up in the craze.”

“So you spent the last fifteen-ish years recovering stolen art,” you fill in for him.

“Stolen, forged, looted, illegally traded or smuggled…” Marcus offers, not breaking his concentration again. He wasn’t wrong–the repeated drag of the needle across what felt like the same square centimeter of your skin was starting to wear on you.

“Uh-huh,” you say, forcing the discomfort out of your tone.

Noticing the tightness in your voice immediately, Marcus’s movements stop. “Feeling okay?”

You shrug.

The gun switches off.

“You gotta be honest about how you’re feeling,” he reminds you. “I might be able to create designs based off of customers’ vague descriptions, but that doesn’t make me a mind-reader.”

“It’s a little uncomfortable, but I can endure it,” you insist.

“There’s no need to endure something that’s painful,” Marcus argues with an amused smile. “Even if it involves choosing to repeatedly jamming a needle into your skin.”

You can’t help but laugh, and your heart swells when he joins you.

“C’mere,” he says. “Let me show you something.”

You let him lead you to the other side of the shop, where he stops in front of a large storage cabinet that you'd assumed held various supplies. When he opens it, however, you find that isn’t the case at all.

No, the entire cabinet is filled to the brim with a collection of stuffed animals just as eclectic and varied as the furniture. There's also a couple of shoeboxes filled with every manner of fidget toy you could ever imagine.

"You can grab one, if you want. I know it might feel kind of goofy, but I promise they help with the pain."

"Okay," you breathe. Your gaze lingers first on the IKEA shark, then on a very soft-looking cactus with an adorable grumpy expression, but when your gaze lands on the largest and arguably oddest toy in the collection, your hands can't help but move toward it.

"The big guy, huh?" Marcus laughs, taking the giant squid off of the shelf and placing it in your arms. You have to laugh at how large and ungainly it is; its massive black eyes stare vacantly back at you, but the effect is dopey, rather than menacing.

"Where do you get all of these?" you ask in amazement.

"Most of them are gifts from past clients, including that one," Marcus says, indicating the squid. "But I think he originally came from the Smithsonian. I was told his name is 'Cthulhu, Lord of the Deep.'"

"Thank you," you say in a small, appreciative voice.

"'S'fine," Marcus shrugs. "Feel up to continuing?"

You nod, looking down at your partially-inked shoulder. "Guess you didn't get very far before I had to stop," you remark, somewhat self-deprecatingly.

"It's not a race," your artist says earnestly. "We've got the whole day, and we go at your pace. You're paying me, after all." Another wink in your direction.

"Yeah," you nod, confidence growing again. "Yeah, okay." You plop down in your seat, with Cthulhu in your lap, and Marcus takes his place beside you.

“Gonna turn this back on again,” he announces as the now-familiar buzz fills the room, “and I’m gonna touch your arm–” his fingers wrap warmly and gently around your skin, “–annnd here we go.”

The needle scratches insistently against your skin, but it isn’t so bad–not really, not with the hilarious giant squid on your lap and Marcus’s gentle, soothing voice in your ear. He talks while he works, sometimes asking you questions about your own life–to which he listens intently and always seems to have follow-up questions–and sometimes telling you stories of his own. You discuss art, obviously, but also music, books, movies, and baseball of all things.

You find yourself wondering if he has this type of easy rapport with everyone who comes in, but you assume he must. He might be the most disarming person you’ve ever met, and it’s hardly a stretch to believe he’s like this with everyone. Still, there’s an ugly, jealous part of you that wishes the connection between you was unique, special. That he’s only this warm with you.

Marcus was right–squeezing the stuffed toy on your lap is a perfect distraction from the discomfort of the needle, and before long, the sensation fades into the background. As the time drags on, though, the persistent drone of the tattoo gun causes an ache to creep in and settle between your eyes. You take in a deep breath through your nose, count to three, and exhale slowly through your mouth.

Marcus glances up, watching you for a split-second before cutting power to the gun and stretching his back with a satisfied sigh.

“Break time,” he announces. “Hand’s getting a bit sore.” He shoots you a knowing glance and another one of those crooked smiles. “And you should probably have a little something to drink, maybe a snack.”

“Yeah, thanks,” you say gratefully as he walks over to the little fridge.

“Apple juice?” he asks, holding up a little juice box that looks slightly comical in his large hands. When you nod enthusiastically, he hands it to you.

His fingers brush yours.

If it were anyone else, you’d recoil, but it’s him. It might just be the forced proximity, but…

You’re developing quite the crush on Marcus Pike.

Shoving the thought aside for the moment, you stab the straw into the little hole and take a long sip. Marcus settles down beside you with his own choice–a little can of vegetable juice–and holds it up in a silent ‘cheers.’

Feeling emboldened, you ask the question that’s been burning in your mind since you started.

“So what made you leave the whole ‘helping other artists’ thing behind and start a tattoo business instead?”

Marcus presses his lips together, and for a moment, you fear you’ve crossed a boundary. Just before you’re about to apologize profusely, though, he speaks.

“Have you ever just… woken up one morning, and realized that everything you were working toward, everything you thought you wanted in life… was a lie?”

“I… I don’t know,” you confess quietly, surprised at the emotion behind his words.

“Happened to me,” he laughs softly. “I had moved to DC for what I thought was my dream job, with who I thought was–” he shakes his head, as though dispelling an unpleasant thought. “I had spent my entire life checking boxes: College degree? Check. Well-paying job? Check. House? Check. Check, check check. I spent so much time trying to get ahead, like life was some kind of game to be won. If I said all the right things, did all the right things, if I did everything right… I’d have the life I wanted.”

“What was the life you wanted?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“It was bullshit, is what it was. Saw one too many rom-coms as a kid, I suppose. I thought I was after the picket fence, the dog, the wife and two-point-five kids, that sort of thing. And one morning I woke up, realized that… that relentless pursuit of something I couldn’t even hold–it was all bullshit.”

“So you just… quit?”

“I quit. I wanted to create things again. I wanted to feel inspired. After a bit of uh… frantic soul-searching before I ran out of money entirely, I sold my stupid, too-big condo that I hated and bought this shop instead.”

“Did it work?”

“Well, I’m not bankrupt yet,” Marcus says dryly.

“No, I mean… did you feel inspired again?”

“I did. I do. So very much so,” he says, his voice soft and gentle. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and that comfortable warmth that had settled in between you the first time you had met him… grows. Mutates. Until the warm, tingling feeling feels a lot more like electricity.

An unspoken moment seems to pass through you, but then Marcus clears his throat roughly, setting the empty can aside and standing again, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Wanna keep going?”

Breathlessly, you nod.

In no time at all, you’re settled back in the chair with one of Marcus’s warm, strong, large hands cradling your arm as the other gently wields the tattoo gun. As he starts to fill in and blend the colors, the pain starts to increase, and you worry one of the fuzzy tentacles back and forth in your hand as you grit your teeth.

“I know, I know,” Marcus soothes quietly. “The color’s the worst part, but you’re being so good for me.”

It helps you to watch him work, so you do. He’s blending in the colors now, and you watch with interest as it starts to take shape. It’s so mesmerizing that you hardly even notice the buzz of the gun or the light sting of the needle anymore.

“And you said you ‘weren’t good at tattoos,’” he teases gently, noticing your obvious interest.

“Did I say that?” you laugh, teasing back.

“I believe your words were, ‘I’m like the worst candidate for getting a tattoo that exists.’” he reminds you. “And look at you now, huh?”

You duck your head at his praise, unable to withstand the intensity and honesty in his gaze.

“Doing okay after all, I guess,” you say with a sheepish smile.

“You’re doing amazing,” Marcus corrects, smiling warmly. “The type of client any artist dreams of.”

You don’t know how to respond to the things this man says to you. Stunned and at a loss for words, you stare awkwardly at your hand where it still wraps around Cthulhu, Lord of the Deep.

“I’m sorry.” The words are soft, concerned. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just meant that your enthusiasm and your curiosity is the stuff that makes me want to be an artist in the first place.”

“Are you saying I inspire you?” you try to tease, but it falls flat.

Just audibly, over the hum of the tattoo gun, you hear his whispered response.

“Yes.”

As Marcus wipes away the last of the stray ink on the purple bit of tree, the tattoo gun suddenly switches off. The silence is almost shocking, and you blink rapidly in confusion.

“Break time?” you ask.

Marcus chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. “It’s all done.”

“It is?” you ask, although you can see the answer for yourself in the large mirrored wall to your right.

“How’s it feel?” he asks.

“My arm kind of aches,” you confess, “but oh my God, Marcus… it’s beautiful.”

It’s his turn to preen under your praise, the tips of his ears blushing pink as he grins back at you.

“I’m glad you like it,” he says softly. “Here, let me give you a little something for the pain.”

He squeezes a glob of light-green cooling gel and coats the angry skin with the barest of touches. “Still okay?” he asks, glancing up at you for confirmation.

After the harshness of the needle, the soft press of his fingers is more soothing than ever, and you have to resist the urge to sigh and melt into his touch.

“Yes,” you whisper.

“You’re going to want to keep this covered for a couple of hours, up to overnight,” Marcus says as he carefully applies a dressing to your shoulder–still softly, but more businesslike than before as he walks you through all of the instructions for care. “Once you take this off tomorrow, you’ll probably see some fluid leaking from it–that’s totally normal. It’s blood, plasma, and extra ink, and it should stop after a few days before it starts to scab over.

“You’ll want to keep it from drying out; I’d recommend scent-free, dye-free lotion if you don’t already have some,” he continues. “Wash it twice a day and put lotion on after. When it starts to scab, I can’t stress this enough: don’t pick the scabs.” He gives you a serious look. “Repeat that back to me.”

“Don’t pick the scabs.”

“If you do, you could cause it to scar, or even pull out the ink. One more time for me,” he prompts, and you get the feeling that this is always the sticking point in his speech.

“Don’t pick the scabs,” you repeat.

“It’ll take three to four months for the lower layers of skin to completely heal,” Marcus tells you. “During that time, keep it out of the sun, keep it hydrated, and you’re in the clear.”

“And don’t pick the scabs,” you say teasingly.

Marcus winks at you. “Exactly. Any other questions for me?”

“No, just… thank you. It’s amazing,” you tell him. “You did such an incredible job.”

“Hard not to, when I have such a beautiful canvas.”

Your eyes dart up, expecting to see a teasing glint in his eyes, but all you can see is heartfelt sincerity. You swallow thickly, and he tracks the movement, his eyes dropping down, then back up to meet your eyes. Is it… not just you? Does he feel it, too? Realization slams through you and threatens to overload all of your systems. Marcus’s lips are parted slightly, and the look in his eyes… it’s desire.

“Marcus…”

“Wait,” he says urgently. “Hang on. Come… come over here for a minute, let me–” he dashes awkwardly over to the till on the counter and gives you your total. Frowning in confusion–he wants to do this now? Interrupting that electric moment that had passed between you?–you dutifully swipe your card and numbly take the receipt.

“Now you’re no longer my client,” Marcus explains softly. “I–sorry–I was about to throw caution to the wind and kiss you, and I didn’t… I didn’t want to be unethical, I–”

“Yes,” you say simply, giving your response to his un-asked question.

It’s all he needs to stride forward, gently take your face in his warm palms, and, seeing no hesitation in your eyes even as he searches your face desperately—presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is as soft and as tender as the man himself, which hardly surprises you. Your eyes slip closed as his lips move against you with aching caution. He’s careful in all things, including this–taking your cues, giving you the lead, letting you feel everything he’s giving you.

All too quickly, he pulls back–but his eyes only sweep your face again, a growing smile on his lips as he sees nothing but want reflected back at him.

When he lowers his lips to yours again, he’s less gentle. One large hand leaves your face too hook around your waist, pulling you closer, closer–and when the proximity causes you to gasp softly, Marcus is ready. His tongue gently slips between your parted lips and you practically melt into him. When your knees buckle, his strong arms are what keep you standing upright, and still–

He can’t seem to stop kissing you.

You break before he does–pulling back to suck in a few shaky, heaving breaths, and he smiles through his own labored breathing.

“I wanted–I–” he begins, before hastily pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth as if he can’t help but do so.

“I’ve thought of you,” he tries again. “I thought of you like this for the last month,” the confession finally spills out. “I wanted to–wanted to kiss you so badly all day, but I couldn’t. Couldn’t let myself.” He kisses you again. “But now,” he promises, whispering the words against your mouth. “Now I’m gonna get my fill.”

To punctuate his statement with one of your own, you slant your head and deepen the kiss, wrapping one hand around Marcus’s neck and pulling him closer still. He makes a soft noise in his throat, and the grip on your waist tightens. You lose yourself completely to the feel of his tongue sliding slowly against yours, until he suddenly pulls back.

“I’m doing this all wrong,” he whispers–although he’s still smiling. “I wanted to ask you out to dinner, first.”

“So ask me,” you say with a giggle.

“Come have dinner with me,” Marcus murmurs, shaking his head in quiet amusement as he steals another gentle kiss. “Right now. Tonight.”

“You might have to open all the doors,” you tease. “My arm hurts.”

Another kiss.

“I’m wounded that you think I wouldn’t open every door regardless.”

“Are you always such a gentleman?” you remark with a wry smile.

Another.

“Well,” Marcus grins wolfishly. He places on last, lingering kiss on your lips and then makes a show of offering his arm. “Not always.”

#marcus pike #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike fanfiction #the mentalist #pedro pascal

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diejager · 9 months

Note

OKOK so if you don’t wanna do this it’s totally FINE!

I grew up without a father, so I always felt like I had to be the protector (I’m not gonna get into full detail,) and it gave me BAD trauma. (I’m a female) How would 141 react to this? Like basically them telling me I don’t have to be tough anymore, I don’t have to hide my emotions from people, I don’t have to be the strong one. Again if you don’t want to do this it’s okay! I’ve just been feeling really down with myself, I’ve been breaking into random crying episodes.

𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶♥︎♥︎

Ah, I see, your father really missed out on something good. I just want to apologise in advance if I got some things terribly wrong. If you need someone to talk to my DMs are open. Love you too🥰

Rest Cw: absent father, trauma, breaking down, tell me if I missed any.

They watched you stumble, stutter around them and grow awkward and self-conscious when they became protective of you, more so than a normal colleague relationship implied. It made your shoulders tense, smile looking more like a wince than the ones they were used to and your mind block out anything that would incur a resurgent memory. It pained to see you so uneasy towards their affection, the love and softness they easily gave you once you pushed through their hardened hearts and shatter the walls they built around themselves.

You were always so strong, going forth without hesitation to do what you had to, the strong-headed operator in their Task Force that always stepped ahead to protect them and yourself. Despite your freely-given affection, you were absent emotionally, dancing on the line of emptiness and loneliness, a lasting impact of an absent parent. You were sometimes odd, mind wandering to different places and coming up with what-ifs situations, blocking ou the world around you - them and the bustling crowd in the Mess hall - or at times, closing your door in their faces, turning your back to them when you seemed to need them the most, never letting them help you quell that heartache and pain.

“Lass,” it was Johnny’s voice, the jovial one of your quirky group, his saddened voice muffled by your closed door, a physical barrier between them and your broken world, “Let us in, would ya?”

If you ignored them long enough, they’d eventually leave you. Most did that, never bothering to put more effort into interacting with you when you tried to ignore them, they wouldn’t bother you much more later.

“Let us help you, ” Kyle, it was him that spoke up after Johnny, a soft thrum in his voice, gentle and reassuring as he gave a small knock on your door. He called out your name - you government one - through it, a little hum following it.

It pained you to shut them out, the cord connecting you to them pulled tightly, ready to snap if you did anything mad. Your face burned, blinking away the tears that clung to your lashes and shuddering, laboured gasps through your mouth. You couldn’t let them see you like this, it would shatter the image you tried so hard to create through blood, sweat and tears, all your hard work would go to waste if you opened the door.

“Please.”

You choked a breath, eyes widening as your mind spun. No one else had the deep and low tone, a rumble-like growl softened to seem harmless, almost vulnerable in sound. You’d never heard Ghost speak so gently —so weak and soft. How could you say no when Ghost had asked so nicely, his pretty please echoing in your mind like a song on repeat.

“You don’t have to let everyone in, sweetheart,” Price had always been a good bargainer, his words throwing the truth into people’s face despite their reluctance to listen. “Just one of us, yeah?”

You guessed having all of them in wouldn’t be too bad, knowing how much of a part you played in their little group of misfits and chaotic bunch. They’ve showed how much they cared for you prior to this, many times in and out of deployment, the drunken moments in a pub or in the solace of the Task Force’s own rec room. Despite your paranoid and fearful mind conjuring up many images and situations, you fond yourself unconsciously moving towards the door, your silent steps growing loud the closer you got to the metal knob. You flicked the lock off, letting it crack open. Light from the hall flooded in, peaking through your opened door, encompassing the towering figure of your Lieutenant, a sentry to your self-proclaimed cell, the protector of your broken mind.

“There you are, luv,” you could see the smile through his eyes, his warm browns showering you in silent affection, “Let me in?”

Letting him in was the hardest, yet easiest thing you’d ever done, welcoming him - another man’s fractured min - into your darkest moments, cheeks wet and lips bitten bloody, choking down your sobs. It couldn’t hurt to let them help, to let Price, Ghost, Kyle and Johnny in.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @dont-mind-me-just-existing-sadly @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @kaelysia @notspiders @velvetsoulweaver @petwifed @aldis-nuts @randominstake

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nickfowlerrr · 2 months

Text

know my name

GIF by falcvns

series masterlist

pairing: soft!dark bucky barnes x single mom! reader

warnings: 18+only. past steve rogers x reader, he is no longer with us, rip 😔🙏🏻. quick mention of lee bodecker.

words: 676

notes: this has been sitting in my docs for a loooong while now. i’m thinking this could be a mini series because i’m not very attached to it atm but we’ll see where this goes!

“Is there anything else I can assist you with, Mr. Barnes?”

Your eyes flick up to meet bright blue ones as the man still stands in front of your desk.

A bit of unease begins to settle over you as he does nothing but stare for a long moment.

his gaze is bordering on penetrative the longer you hold his eye, and the apparent intimacy is just altogether unnerving.

Though, to say he’s the most off putting customer you’ve had today would be a lie.

In fact, he had been rather kind and patient as you’d helped him with his paperwork. A little quiet, but you couldn’t really say much for yourself, either. You never minded the silence, especially these past few months.

It seems the only time you get quiet these days is when you’re at work, or when James is sleeping, though that peace doesn’t come nearly as often as you wished it would.

At the thought of your baby, you break eye contact with Mr. Barnes to glance at the time. Just a few more minutes and you’d be off. As tired as you were these days, even just the thought of that chubby little face, those big gleaming eyes staring back at you with that silly little smile, made you want to get home as soon as you could.

You have been working shorter shifts since you came back to work, part time without worries thanks to the government assistance you’ve been provided along with the help your parent’s have been able to offer.

They wanted you to move back home after everything that happened, but you just couldn’t do it. Nice as it might be to have them around to look after James when you needed, paying for a sitter was well worth it knowing the anxieties and stress you’d be going through had you taken them up on moving back.

The sitter…shit. You needed to stop by the ATM on your way home today to get her money.

You clear your throat softly as you finish stapling his packet of paperwork together, ignoring the fact that he hadn’t responded to your previous question. You smiled at him as you handed the packet over, and only then did his gaze fall from your face.

“If there’s anything else, please don’t hesitate to reach out. My card is stapled right on top so if you need anything,” you trail off as he reads over the information on the business card.

“I will,” he says at last, letting his gaze float from the card, up your chest, and finally back to your eyes, “thank you.”

You feel the heat that flares across your skin from his stare but you do your best to ignore it. Again, he’s not the first one to have done the same exact thing. He was a lot less obvious with it though, especially compared to the sheriff when he’d come in this morning. The man was practically salivating all over you.

You knew this top was a bad idea but it had been your favorite before you’d gotten pregnant and you really didn’t think the difference in the way it hugged you would be that big. Unfortunately you were wrong. Your breasts were beyond full and the v neck cut alone would’ve had them on display enough, but the stressing buttons forced you to undo a few of them before they broke off completely, leaving you in an even deeper v.

Your cardigan had offered enough coverage as you kept it wrapped around you, but you couldn’t work while holding it shut the entire day.

You stood from your swiveling chair, pulling the cardigan close and tight once again as you did.

Mr. Barnes offered you a tired but true smile that you forced yourself to return once again before he turned and made his way to the exit.

You checked the time once more and seeing it was closing, you soon followed behind him, locking the door before you worked to quickly shut down for the day.

#bucky barnes x curvy!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #dark!bucky barnes x curvy!reader #soft dark bucky x reader #soft!dark bucky barnes #soft!dark bucky barnes x curvy!reader #soft dark fic #soft!bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fic

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moonlightspencie · 1 year

Text

Next to You

Description: Trying to ignore the feelings you have for your best friend can cause complications. Especially when you find out what they’d risk for you.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x gn!Reader

Warnings: mentions of cases (typical for cm), fluffff (mutual pining, friends to lovers, the usual)

Word Count: 3.8k

A/N: originally posted on tumblr. then took on a new life on ao3. now it’s back on tumblr.

The last place I ever expected my career to go was working for the government. A stuffy office job was never my style. Luckily, the government job I found myself working was far from a boring life shoved away in a cubicle. Much to the dismay of my family, and to my absolute delight, I got to work pretty much the coolest job I could think of besides being an astronaut.

The elevator doors opened and I stepped out, strolling towards the bullpen. I dropped my stuff at my desk, and went straight for the kitchenette to find Penelope and Derek sitting at the little table near the counter.

“Hey, lovebirds,” I said with a wink.

“Oh, come on. You know you’re my number one,” Penelope answered, throwing a wink back at me.

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Whoa, there. I thought you were my babygirl?”

Pen shrugged with a smirk. “You know I could never give you up.”

I laughed at the pair, grabbing a mug and filling it to the brim with coffee. I sipped at it, just watching them interact, adding in a little quip here and there until I heard JJ.

“Got a case, guys.”

She nodded towards the conference room as she walked past us. I topped off my mug again, following her to the room with the other two not far behind. We all filed in, taking our seats. Hotch and Spencer showed up a minute after we all got comfortable and JJ started speaking as soon as they hit the room.

Spence took his seat next to me with a tight-lipped grin my direction.

“The bodies of three young women have recently turned up in Portola, California, about an hour from Reno, Nevada.”

She introduced them as she went through the slides of where their bodies were found. Lakes and woods surrounded the area, making it easy to hide them without being traced back to somebody. I grimaced at a close up of the face of one of the victims. No matter how often we had to look at stuff like that, I could never quite force myself into thinking it was normal or just a routine. My discomfort must have been apparent, because Spencer reached up to place a hand on my shoulder for a moment, giving me a little smirk. I reached over to cover his hand with my own for a moment before turning back to give my full attention to the case.

“Any connection between the victims?” Derek asked.

JJ shook her head. “None, besides the fact they’re in their 20s. Different ethnicities, hair colors, lifestyles…”

“Very strange. It’s probably not a personal grudge against somebody then. Any signs of sexual assault or impotence?” Spencer asked.

“No, they didn’t find any evidence of abuse on the victims at all, actually, besides a few minor bruises. Probably from the victims attempting to fight back.”

I furrowed my brow. “So, what did he want with them?”

“That’s what we have to find out, and quickly,” JJ sighed, pulling out some photos of a girl in her 20s and passing them around. “A young woman named Rebecca Stevenson recently went missing in the area, and it’s very likely she was abducted. Her car was found on the side of the road, the keys still in the ignition. I’m willing to bet she was taken by our unsub.”

We all glanced at the photos her parents had sent in, committing her face to memory as well as we could.

“Alright, everyone grab your go-bags. Wheels up in 20,” Hotch concluded.

I huffed out a sigh as I plopped myself down in the seat next to Spencer on the plane. I slouched down, shutting my eyes for a moment.

“Are you alright?” He asked.

I nodded. “Yeah. Just— I have a bad feeling about this one.”

“Let’s just get our job done as well as we can, and hope the rest works out.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

“Usually am.”

I scoffed out a laugh, opening my eyes. “You, Spencer Reid, are one cocky little…”

“It’s Dr. Spencer Reid, actually,” he interrupted.

We both broke out in a fit of laughter.

“You’re ridiculous.” I shook my head, looking up to him.

“We can be ridiculous together.” He nudged my shoulder with a smirk.

“What are you talking about? I’m the normal one.”

He raised a brow.

“Don’t you give me that look.” I joked.

We touched down in a couple of hours, and headed towards the local police precinct. We went through all of the formalities with local officers, explaining the situation and our procedures as much as we could before starting a profile on the unsub.

We ended up needing to take a few hours to sleep before heading to the families of the victims found and Rebecca’s family the next day.

“If we could just have a look at her room…” Spencer started.

“Of course! Whatever you need to be able to find her.”

Rebecca’s mom ushered us through the home, straight to her bedroom.

“She’s been staying here with me. Ever since her father passed…” Her eyes welled with tears. “It’s been hard. For us both. She was— So sweet to come back to stay with me during all of that. I just… Please, whatever you need. Find her.”

I placed a hand on her shoulder. “I promise we will do our best to bring Rebecca home.”

A few tears slipped down her face. “Thank you.”

I nodded, and she turned to leave us in the room. Spencer watched me for a moment.

“Let’s find her.” I nodded, beginning to look around her bedroom. I found a laptop and opened it. “Any ideas about the password, genius?”

He took the computer from me, sitting next to me on her bed. He started making a few guesses, somehow breaking in within a few minutes.

“Got it.”

“Awesome. What do we got?”

“Let’s see.”

He started searching around for any sliver of a clue as to what happened to her. It took several minutes before he found something.

“Uh, she was on a dating site, and had a lot of matches,” he said, searching through some of the messages.

“Think that could be something?”

“Maybe. Can you call Hotch and ask if any of the others were on this site?”

I nodded, dialing him up. We chatted for some time before I was able to hang up. Spencer watched me expectantly.

“They were all on the same site.”

“Okay, let’s find the commonalities.”

We scoured their profiles, finding only one common name: Andrew. But all we knew about him was a first name, age range, and a picture that clearly wasn’t of him. Luckily, we had the worlds best internet stalker on the team. Spencer and I went back to the precinct to meet Derek there, and hopped on the phone with Penelope until we figured out who we were going after. It didn’t take long before she found the most likely candidate.

“Uh… Andrew! Yes, his name is Andrew McClain, I’m sending you all his address now.”

I could almost hear the smile on Penelope’s face at her ability to discover pretty much anything she set her mind to. I would’ve smiled too if it weren’t for the dire circumstances we were working with.

“Thanks sweetheart,” Derek said back before hanging up.

He immediately called Hotch, letting him know what the situation was. The three of us practically ran to the car from the precinct, alerting Emily and JJ of the situation as we went. Derek tore out of the lot, speeding towards our destination as fast as he could go. We met Hotch and the unit chief in front of a mansion.

“No wonder he hid this all so well,” I said under my breath, staring up at the massive place.

“Makes sense why he had girls off of dating sites feeling okay coming over, too. Money can buy a lot of things, and unfortunately love is one of them,” Spencer said, coming to stand next to me. “Or, well, whatever form of affection can be reached through a sense of security.”

“That’s disgusting. Taking advantage of those girls like that.” I shook my head, looking away and towards the team instead. “They never saw it coming.”

“They never do.” Spencer shoved his hands in his pockets, glancing at whatever I seemed to be fixed on instead of the house.

Emily and JJ showed up not too long afterwards, and we all quickly went over the plan. We knew who and what we were looking for, and it seemed like it’d be pretty straightforward. We just hoped that we’d find Rebecca alive.

We snuck in as quietly as we could, tiptoeing around the mansion and checking each and every room and door we could find. I was following Hotch and the unit chief as they opened up the door to a bedroom in a downstairs hallway.

“Damn it,” I heard Hotch before I walked into the small room. He said something else to the chief that I couldn’t quite make out.

My steps slowed and eventually came to a stop in the doorway when I saw her. I really wanted him dead now. I huffed out a harsh breath as more agents walked towards the room Hotch was in, and shoved past them all. I rounded a corner in the maze of a house, getting up the steps to the second floor as quickly and quietly as I could, nearly throwing Spencer off his feet as I reached the top.

“Hey,” he said, though he meant it more as a question.

“They found her downstairs. I’m gonna kill him.”

“Hey, whoa.” He reached out to grab my arm as I tried to move past him. “We’ll get him, but don’t go looking alone.”

I nodded hesitantly as we both moved forward, peeking into each room before we heard a noise coming from a room near the end of the hallway. I stepped up first, gun drawn as Spencer opened the door for me. At first I didn’t see anything, then I heard him and whipped around to the far left corner of the room with Spencer not far from my side.

“What are you doing in my house,” he questioned, moving forward ever-so-slightly.

I pointed my gun at him. “We found Rebecca, Andy. You are one sick—”

“Don’t move!” Spencer interrupted, stepping ahead of me as Andy’s hand slowly came back from where he had attempted to reach in his back pocket. “What do you have?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

I stepped to be right next to Spence. “Whatever it is, Andy, it’s in your best interest to keep your hands where we can see them.”

We heard the footsteps of our team starting to trail up the stairs at the sound of our voices. Then, panic struck Andy’s face and he made a movement that was way too sudden for my liking.

Spencer threw himself in front of me before I even had a chance to react, using his body as a human shield. He threw his arms around me, holding tightly, and all we heard was a faint ‘click’.

I stared up at him, both of our eyes wide in shock. My mouth gaped open as if there were anything I could say in a moment like that. Spencer narrowly escaped death because of a jammed gun. He almost sacrificed himself to save me, and the only thing that stopped him was a faulty weapon.

“Spence” was all I could manage to whisper as we stood there, his arms still tight around me as agents made their way in and out with the unsub.

He unwound himself from me, taking only half a step backwards. His hands found my shoulders.

“Are you okay?”

“Am I…” I scoffed, trailing off. “Spencer. You could have died. What were you thinking?”

He put his hands up defensively.

“I wasn’t going to let you die, Y/N.”

“I don’t want to see you die either!” My voice rose, anger settling in with the sense of terror that still lingered. “Why would you do that?”

“I was protecting you.” He kept his cool, and it almost made me more upset.

“I can’t— What if the gun didn’t jam?”

“That doesn’t matter—“

“That doesn’t matter?! Spencer, you would have died. You would have died protecting me, I couldn’t live with myself.”

“And I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try.”

I felt the tears beginning to fall. “Why would you do that?”

“Oh, oh no. Y/N please don’t cry.” He pulled me in again, stroking my hair and shushing me as he did.

“I couldn’t…”

“It’s okay. I’m here. You’re here, we’re safe. It’s okay.”

He held me for a few minutes before I could compose myself enough to let go, drying my tears. We went back to the precinct after a quick check-up to make sure everyone was alright, and got the hell out of Dodge as quickly as we could. I was grateful we didn’t have to stay much longer.

We got on the plane, and I took my usual spot next to Spencer, though still unsure what to say or do now that he had literally risked his life to save mine. I let the silence sit with us for a while before deciding to say something.

“Why would you do that?” I asked, quietly this time. My anger had gone, and now all that I was left with was worry.

“It was nothing, Y/N. The gun jammed, we’re both okay. You can’t focus on the ‘what if’ here, just try to look at what did happen. Please.” He pleaded with me, looking at me with those sweet, pleading eyes he knew how to use a little too well.

I only sighed, knowing this wasn’t a battle I’d ever win.

“You scared the hell out of me, Spence. I just— I don’t get why you’d do that.”

“I— I’d do anything for you.” He shook his head as he spoke as if it were the obvious thing to say.

It all came crashing down around me at once and I felt like I was walking around in a daze until we got back to the BAU. All the time I had spent trying to convince myself that my feelings would fade was all for naught— I don’t know how I could’ve ever believed that in the first place, even for a second. How couldn’t I love him, or at least feel as attached to him as I did. It was almost laughable to believe that I could have come to any other conclusion, and as much as I deeply and desperately wanted to keep my feelings a secret, something in me knew I couldn’t anymore. It was too much to keep hidden, especially from him. I just wished I had more time.

Practically the whole team had left soon after we got back and had gathered what was needed for a trip back home. It was late afternoon, and Hotch wanted everyone fresh for the next day anyways. But Spencer just had to be there. Of course, he had to be the one person left there when all I wanted was a chance to gather my thoughts completely alone. And of course, he had to speak.

“Hey,” he called from where he stood at his desk, “Come here for a second?”

My feet shuffled over, barely giving me a chance to say whether or not that’s what I even wanted to do.

“Yeah?” I questioned, getting little-by-little closer to him.

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it? You’re being really quiet, that isn’t you.” He looked concerned. I wanted to reach out and touch him. “Was it the case.”

“No, it’s— I’m fine, Spence.” I tried to smile, and I’m certain it looked like a pathetic attempt.

He only raised a brow.

“What?” I sighed.

“You know you can tell me anything, Y/N.” Spencer half smiled with an expectantly raised brow. He stroked my arm gently for a moment before taking a seat in his desk chair.

I breathed in deeply, leaning against the desk where he was.

“I don’t know how to say this,” I almost laughed as I spoke.

He shrugged. “I’m sure whatever it is— it’ll be fine. When has it ever not been?”

I nodded, glancing around as if I would find the courage I needed floating around the room, ready for me to grab hold of. It wasn’t there, though, but I knew I shouldn’t keep him waiting.

“I don’t want to call it love because I’m not convinced that I even know what love is. I will say, though, that I like you Spence. I think about you all the time, and I know nothing is going to come of it. I’ve made peace with that. I made peace with it the moment I really saw you for the first time. When you turned around and smiled at me because neither of us knew what to do on that case in Washington a few months ago. I can play it like a movie in my head. I knew I was screwed, but it’s okay because it has to be.”

“Oh.”

“I couldn’t keep hiding it all. Especially after what happened today, I just couldn’t.”

There was a moment of silence, breath baited as if there were anything left to say. Whatever speck of courage I found while speaking had completely and totally left me. It felt like an eternity before I could speak again.

“I’m sorry. I’m— I should go.”

He nodded, speaking quietly. “Yeah.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat, pushing down all of the feelings that were bubbling up inside of me. I nodded back at him, packing up the things I needed at my desk and making a beeline for the door.

The fresh air hit my face and forced me to breathe for the first time, though now a racing heart and eyes welling with tears were in company too. I blinked quickly to try to rid them, and to adjust to the bright sun. Too much had happened in the past 48 hours and all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry. We couldn’t save Rebecca, Spencer almost got shot, and now he probably wouldn’t speak to me again. I could hardly get home without breaking down, and the floodgates opened as soon as I hit the couch in my apartment.

I had pretty much cried myself dry when I heard a knock at my door. I wiped my eyes the best I could and walked over, slowly peeking around the door as I opened it. My heart sank.

“Spence?”

His eyes were wide, and he just looked at me.

“What are you doing here?”

“Are you okay?” He stared as he took in my reddened eyes and tear-stained cheeks. I wanted to disappear.

“I’m fine, Spencer. What do you need? I’ve had a long day.” I rubbed at my face absentmindedly.

He swallowed. “I, um— Can, could I come in?”

I nodded and he slid past me, practically sprinting to my couch, and taking a seat. I closed the door and went to go sit next to him. I watched him for a moment, but he still didn’t speak.

“Look, Spencer, I’m sorry for—“

“No.” He shook his head.

I stuttered. “Wh— Excuse me?”

“Uh… After you left, after earlier, I-I talked to Morgan.” He stared at me again as if I had any clue what he was talking about.

“Okay?”

“He…” He breathed out hard before composing himself. “I misunderstood. He, quite literally, smacked some sense into me. I didn’t understand what you were saying, I really didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

I furrowed my brow in confusion. “What do you mean? How was what I said hard to understand?”

“Well, when you said the part about knowing nothing would happen. I don’t— I guess I interpreted that as you didn’t want anything to happen.”

“That’s not…”

“No, I know that now. I know,” he said, scrubbing at his face as he looked away from me. “Um… I don’t know how to say this.”

My heart began racing for a different reason.

“I thought you didn’t want me. Like you felt bad that you liked me but didn’t want to be with me. I just…” He shrugged. “I-I guess I kinda screwed it all up.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He looked to me again, a blush creeping onto his face.

He shook his head as if he hadn’t heard correctly. “I ramble.”

I laughed, unable to keep it in at that point. “You think that would stop me? Spencer, I literally never shut up. Why would I hold that against you? I love when you get excited, even when you’re talking my ear off.”

He smiled, a boyish joy taking over. “Really? Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I paused. “Spence, you’re amazing. I’ve always thought so. Not to mention you risked your life for me today.”

“Do you— So, you like me?”

“I pretty much gave you a whole confession earlier.”

He looked away, nodding quickly. “I knew it the first time I saw you.”

“You— What? You knew I liked you?”

His brow raised as he glanced back at me. “No! No, I had no clue. I knew I liked you the first time I saw you. You were really nice to me the first time we talked, and I thought you were beautiful. Plus, you’re so smart and funny and you’ve never been mean to me about how much I talk, especially when I remember something about a case or something that has to do with a case that I think could—”

“Spence,” I whispered, scooting in closer to him on the couch. “As much as I love your rambling, I’d really love if you’d just kiss me already.”

He grinned with a little laugh under his breath, leaning in closer.

“Hey.”

I raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“Before we kiss, can I ask you something?”

I tried not to smile. “One question.”

“Would you want to go out with me?”

“Depends on how good this kiss is.”

I started laughing, but was cut short when his lips pressed into mine. His hands grasped my face, pulling me closer. I grabbed his shirt, kissing back with equal fervor. We stayed connected for some time, but it was still shorter than I would have liked: my preferred time would be eternity.

We took a moment to catch our breath, giggling like a couple of kids.

“Was that good enough to date me?” He questioned with a smile.

I ran a hand through his hair, smirking up at him, still practically dazed.

“If I knew it was gonna be that great, I wouldn’t have ever said I’d date you if you did well. Now I think I might have to marry you.”

“Maybe we can try a date first, but I’m open,” he laughed, stroking my cheek. Then his face dropped slightly. “Who’s going to tell the team?”

(EDIT: starting taglists now! let me know if you want to be on any!)

#spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid x you #spencer reid reader insert #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds reader insert #gender neutral reader #luna’s spence fics

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namis-gf · 8 months

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Hii can I get Robin x Reader, where Robin wakes up from a nightmare and reader comforts her? I'd imagine it's set after Enies Lobby

ANON ILY THIS IS SUCH A GOOD REQUEST!!! i was kicking my feet and giggling while writing cause robin is best girl ever and hurt/comfort is my jam

summary: fem!reader and robin sharing a bed for the first time after everything that went down in water 7/enies lobby. for context, reader worked for sir crocodile in alabasta and robin took her along when she boarded the merry (but she was unaware of robin working with the government)

word count: 812 words / 0.8k

cw: none!

there are three beds now, in the girls' cabin on the sunny. you aren't sure if you're relieved or disappointed. the shipwright luffy picked - franky is his name, you think - had done a headcount of every member of the crew before getting to work.

the gulf between each bed feels even larger at night. for the first few nights back at sea, you can hear soft, heart-wrenching noises from across the room. your heart sinks into your stomach from the guilt, making you almost nauseous, but you can't work up the courage to get up and check on her.

robin had lied to you.

yes, you know she'd done it for the greater good. yes, you know she didn't mean any harm by keeping you in the dark. but nico robin has been by your side for as long as you can remember, on the sea and in the scorching sands of alabasta. she was there in your worst and weakest moments, and you cherish her. part of you wishfully thought that she too, felt as though she could confide in you just as equally.

she's crying again tonight. robin has always had issues with sleep, though she used to be much more cryptic and closed off about the origin of the problem. sometimes, back in your homeland, she would crawl into your bed after night-watch. never touching you directly, but her presence was warm and comforting.

you get to your feet and slip past a sleeping nami, heading toward the bed farthest from the door and shrouded in darkness. by the time you attempt to make an awkward approach, she is already awake and silently watching.

"i missed you," you whisper quietly, extending the olive branch.

before you can try and come up with something else to say, two hands brusquely push against your back. the motion sends you falling forwards, a familiar laugh and the scent of flowers awaiting. she pulls you close, your face red red red from embarrassment.

"it was about time you came to check on me," robin hums, an errant hand summoned by the devil fruit's magic combing through your hair. "one would almost think you were angry."

"i'm not angry," you grumble. "i was worried. for a smartypants, you've been making real stupid decisions of late. that new captain must be a bad influence."

"it wasn't stupid," she replies, sounding lost in thought. "i did what i had to do. if it came down to it, i was ready to go."

"that's the fucking problem! you convinced yourself you were ready, and-"

"i wanted to live, yes."

"well thank god," you huff indignantly, rolling over so you can face her properly. "i would've been pissed if you dragged me all this way just to go and die like a loser."

she chuckles again, the sound music to your ears. "what was it, mr. 0 used to say all the time? right, yes. we don't lose."

"and die winners?" you finish the familiar saying, "he was always so full of shit. the hell does that even mean? If you're dead, you lose. game over."

robin's breath seems to be evening out, and the throes of sleep are working to snare you too. but you came here for a reason, and you won't just let her ignore the problem any longer. "what were you dreaming about?"

"oh, i don't know," she says, flippant. if you could make out her face in the dark, you're sure she'd be smiling at your imminent frustration. "i never really remember my dreams."

“ever?" you echo disbelievingly, "that's nuts. just yesterday i woke up from an awful nightmare about the captain trying to boil my hair like spaghetti."

"sounds yummy," she presses close to you, now, and her two real arms circle around your shoulders. "but i'm afraid my dreams are top secret, frontier agent miss thursday."

"don't pull that garbage rank on me! you know i'm worth more than... eleventh," you say the last word with enough distaste that robin starts giggling again.

"no offence," robin says, in the voice that means she's about to be totally mean. "but i think your former rank had more to do with uh- how do i put it- your tendency to dispose of your partners."

“it's not my fault he was a dummy and couldn't defend himself," you argue back, mostly for the fun of it. "i really think they underestimated my grand potential."

"well that's why i took you with me, of course," she soothes, and you laugh a little yourself at the insincerity. "i'm serious though, i sleep better with you around. so you are hereby forbidden to leave."

"aye," you snort, raising a wobbly arm in mock salute. nico robin may be a total mystery, but you were raised persistent. and persist you fucking will, until she lets you into her heart.

#one piece #one piece x reader #nico robin x reader #nico robin #requests open #fem!reader #nico robin x fem!reader #baroque works

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i-am-vita · 10 months

Text

OPLA hot older guys headcanons

Yesterday was the longest working day I've had in a while and my brain decided to affect my concentration and performance by hyperfixated in one thing only: THE AMOUNT OF HOT OLDER GUYS IN OPLA.

(The highlight of the day being @fanaticsnail based her new Mihawk fic on the dream I had the other day. I can´t still thank you enough! ToT)

So now my brain won't let me live in peace without getting these reader-headcanons into the internet in a kind of kill, marry, kiss way but instead we kiss all of them at one point of our life.

👉 Masterlist, More here.

Warning: mention of sex, drinking and general horny thoughts (?) Probably very bad written since english is not my first language XD

So you, my gentle readers, are a semiretired white collar thief, former first mate of the misterious Phantom Pirates, who had to go into hidding to take care of your little niece after your older sister and her marine husband died in a shipwreck 8 years ago.

You're pretty set in giving your niece a comfortable and peacefull life, like her parents had, but she may have other ideas and be more like yourself than her own mother, because at 18yo she escaped home while you was visiting a neighbour island for business.

Now you're on full mama goose mode, searching for your duckling for the East Blue. And may reaquaint with some interesting men of your past.

Lets get a look at them ;)

Mihawk

Current (VERY) interested. Doesn't know if he wants to behead you or fuck you.

You met during a heist at a marine's party going very bad a year ago. Your crew weren't aware of his attendance to the party (the man hardly attends his own warlord reunions), so you had to make a last minute distraction or you would've been discovered. So distracting Dracule Mihawk by heavy flirting with him and stealing his golden cross-knife was the best you could came up with.

You're an excellent knife wielder but your price habilities are in the infiltrate area so slipping away is kind of your thing. Nobody can keep up with you. Except a very pissed off warlord.

After an action packed chase, filled with you getting under his skin and him almost getting you more times than you're comfortable remembering, you considered it was enough time for the crew to had escape the party, so you released his cross and got the hell out of there leaving a very crossed (hah) Mihawk.

Since you semiretired 8ya, you pulled a job with your old crew from time to time and just if it was a very big score, but your reputation precedes you, and Mihawk managed to connect you with the infamous Phantom Pirates with many other thefts along the Grand Line and even inside Marine Bases in all the Blues.

The thing about the Phantom Pirates is that nobody knows who they are or how they look like. Your captain just known as a white masked man, no name but "Captain of the Phantom Pirates" 150,000,000. Your own wanted posters without photo but a ? and the epitet "The Ghost Rose" 80,000,000. Until now. Mihawk saw enough of you to recognize you if he sees you again but decides against informing the government.

You're his to find and deal with ;)

Kuro

The controlling and toxic angry ex we all should have for drama.

You met during your golden years as a first officer of the Phantoms, your crew and his having a brief alliance to work together several times.

You thought you were perfect for each other, both loving your plans and having similar habilities with knives and speed, but his controlling, manipulating, perfectionist and literal bloody tendencies sour the deal pretty soon.

He didn't see you as an equal but another pawn for his plans, apparently the only one good enough by his standards, but still a pawn. So you dumped his presumptuous ass and sailed away to never see each other again.

You didn't feel a little sorry after hearing of his passing.

Now you have tracked your niece to Syrup Village, the home of some old friends of her parents and whose daughter, Kaya, had keep in contact with through the years but haven't seen since before her own parents passed away.

There you came to know that indeed your niece arrived the day prior just in time for her friend's 18th birthday and, after a very eventfull night, she sailed away with a group of Kaya's new friends and saviors that same morning in a new vessel with a ram's head.

The fact they got acquainted with Kuro himself, who turned to be alive and posing as Kaya's buttler for 3 years, paled in comparison to discover this little group has a boy captain set to sail the Grand Line to find the One Piece. And if the witness of the shipyard got it right, already has a big ass marine ship tailing them.

Judging by their route, they were heading to the Sambas Region and there's only one place to dock there...

Bogard

The what-migh-have-been if he wasn't such a workaholic and you hadn't run away from home.

You met back in your previous life when you were a young debutante set by your parents to settle with a respectable marine husband, like your big sister.

He was just promoted to Garp's right hand despite his youth. Being one of the youngest officers with a promising career.

You were indeed charmed by him, but found yourself suffocating by the idea of a future like your sister's. Even after he confessed his plans of sailing the world and not being opposed to his future wife to be a marine too with him.

You did wanted a life of adventure and liberty, but not as a marine. You rejected his proposal and dissapeared days after. Your family came up with the story of you leaving to be an artist and study with the masters in the continent.

Truly nobody had a clue of you for years until you showed up after hearing of your sister's death to take care of your niece, looking like a well put together and wealthy art dealer.

Shanks

The one you ran away with to a life of piracy.

Days after rejecting Bogard and be sent by your parents to some "vacation" to think better of your life choices, you went to hide from your chaperones in a shaddy bar, full of young confidence that you could deal with it.

Plot twist: you did not. You found yourself in the universal female experience of dealing with guys not accepting a no for an answer and had to be rescued by a charming redhead in a straw hat whom you ran away with that same night after you both stole everything you could from those assholes ship and your chaperone's.

After burning out the initial passion, you and Shanks decided that maybe were better as friends, but still sailed together for a while, you learning everything about pirate life from him until you crossed paths with the Phantom Pirates. Captain Erik, being really impressed by you and your knowledge of the upper society, offered you a place in his crew, which you accepted, and kept training you.

Shanks and you remained good friends over the years, even assisting to his legendary drink parties from time to time. Your crew never having any reason to being enemies and even helping his if they needed intel on something.

Didn't expect to be precisely him to give you "parental advice" after you went looking for him when hearing he was in a nearby island, now minus an arm, and confessed you were semi-retired with a child to take care.

No, the child wasn't from him! Why would his crew would thing that?

Buggy

IT-WAS-JUST-ONE-TIME!!!!

But your stupid crew'd never let you live down that.

Surprinsingly, your Captain Erik and Captain Buggy turned to be very good friends. Both with a flair for dramatics and love for certain aesthetics, but yours being happy with working in the shadows, which suited Buggy perfectly.

Every time your crews crossed paths, it was a full carnival for days. And it was in one of those that it happened.

Even if you like and hold very well your alcohol, that time you were really wasted, having just broke up with Kuro. There was no way you'd had jump the clown's bones otherwise. You had standards!

But who'd have thought that the mad jester was such a charmer while drunk? Whispering dirty while still sweet poetry to your ears. Had his eyes always been so pretty? And those arms looked like they might hold you up without effort...

You woke up in his tent with the worst hangover of your life, naked and with a surprinsingly good recollection of the night before.

Of course you took your clothes and ran away to hide in your quarters for the rest of the day.

Fortunately, Buggy hadn't such a detailed memory of the night prior and assumed he passed it with one of the hired women from the local brothel whom the crew invited to the party.

But of course, your captain saw you leaving Buggy's tent and wouldn't stop teasing you for the rest of your life.

That's it, my gentle readers. The headcanons for today and I'm already regreting it because my head is full of more ideas than ever and my job performance so down that I'm considering just dig its grave XD

👉 More here.

#one piece #one piece live action #opla #opla x reader #opla buggy #opla mihawk #opla kuro #opla bogart #opla shanks #x reader #reader insert #fem reader

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noirflms · 1 year

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୧ ˚₊ CONTACT — shidou ryusei

finding out that his contact name in your phone is just his full government name.

he knows it’s stupid to be sad on such a trivial thing but he can’t help but feel like a child who has lost his candy , but finding that his contact name in your phone is just his full government name , that was given to him by his mother at birth and you haven’t even put an emoji next to it , not even a ‘<3’ , and it is heartbreaking to find out.

“ ryu , i’m so sorry baby. ” you tell the man child , his eyes not meeting yours , he has his jaw clenched as his eyes are set on the television that plays ahead of the two of you. your eyes do not leave his face but your hands reach out for the remote and switch it off as you put your face in front of him.

“ oh come on baby , it’s just a contact name. ” you try and this gets him to look at you , his eyes looking into yours and you jut out your bottom lip and look at him , “ but it is my whole government name , not even ryusei or ryu!? ” he hollers and you want to laugh at the way his face contorts into one like an injured puppy.

“ oh baby! i’ll change it , look i’ll write ryu and put a red a heart next to it! ” you reassured the male , as he looks at you opening your phone , pressing the contact list but god forbid his eagle eyes — he saw oliver’s name in your contact list with a emoji , a coloured heart emoji and if knowing you had his phone number as his government name was bad then finding his teammates name with an emoji was devastating.

“ you have oliver’s name with a heart!? and i was saved in your contact with my government name?! ” you almost fall off the couch at his declaration , hand flailing above his head as he looks at you for answers , knowing that at least it was the full name but now seeing an emoji next to his teammates name was heart wrenching.

“ he saved it on his own , love. and i didn’t change your name in my phone since the time we exchanged it for the first time. ” and as if your answer was some sort of prophecy , his world comes to a halt as he looks at you with beady eyes , and you wonder if you had made him malfunction with delivering an answer he wished to know.

but he pulls out his phone and you watch him tap his fingers on the screen , his face emotionless as you watch his fingers do something and then the screen is turned towards you and you catch the contact name — my world it read with several emojis all demarcating love and you knew it was yours in the moment and you felt guilty of not changing it because of your laziness.

“ ryu , that’s so sweet of you. ” you begin pressing a kiss to his cheek as you pull him to your side and it is then he melts in your arms nuzzling his head into shoulder , sighing heavily finding home within the warm hold of yours. “ now you gotta change my name now , this won’t suffice. ” he mutters into your shoulder but you hear him loud and clear , his hold tightening around you as you laugh lightly.

“ i should let you do it. ” you offered and with the speed he looked at you , you think you might regret the decision but it is for the happiness of your dear boyfriend that you let him indulge in this moment , holding in your laughter as he snatches the phone from you hand and editing his contact in your phone ( he even edits oliver’s name — turning it emojiless ).

it is the next time you take full notice of the name he had saved in your phone when he calls you while you were out on dinner with a few office colleagues and you read the name saved — the love of my life and my king ryu with red heart at the beginning and the end and you had never felt the need to laugh at his childishness.

but at least he thinks and is assured you think he is the love of your life and you think so too.

and maybe soon you’ll have a surname to share as well as you chuckle softly and pick up the phone call to hear the voice of the love of your life — and he sounds as jovial as he ever does , enthusiastic as he always is.

shidou ryusei is a man child in my mind , even though he is the demon of football in bllk.

#౨ৎ ⋆˚｡⋆ 𝒔.tamped #i’d love a shidou ryusei please 🙏😩#i’m feral for him 😩😩😫#blue lock #bllk shidou #shidou ryusei #bllk manga #bllk scenarios #bllk imagines #bllk drabbles #shidou x reader #shidou fluff #shidou imagines #shidou ryusei fluff #shidou x y/n #bllk x reader #x reader

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tillystealeaves · 7 months

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Steddie Fic- Part 1: Breakup

I don't know what to title this thing, but it's a 3 part story and this is Part 1. Hope you enjoy!!!!

Or read it on AO3.

Steve stood in the living room, not knowing what to do with himself. Eddie would be here soon. Eddie was working that day, at the music store in the town next to Hawkins (where people didn’t care so much about the Hawkins rumor mill), and his shift ended at 4, which meant Eddie would be getting to Steve’s house by around 4:30 because Steve had invited him over, and it was 4:15 now, so Eddie should be here any minute, and if it was a normal night Steve would probably be pulling something out of the oven but tonight-

Steve stopped himself. He took a breath. He couldn’t allow his mind to go on tangents like that or he was going to word-vomit all over Eddie.

Eddie, who would be arriving any minute.

Steve had thought for a long time about whether he wanted to have this conversation in his house. If he wanted the memories of this to be burned into his mind every time that he walked through his living room. But his house was already full of so many ghosts. Barb sat perpetually at the edge of his pool, his mother cried over a glass of wine at the kitchen counter, and his father was… everywhere. Always telling Steve how everything he did was somehow a stain on the Harrington name.

Besides, the alternative was to do this at Eddie’s house and that… he couldn’t do that. Eddie had been living for less than a year in the new double-wide trailer supplied by the government. His old home, even if it hadn’t been ripped to shreds, would have been forever filled with the ghost of Chrissy. Steve couldn’t make bad memories for Eddie in his new one. (Though he was fairly sure that Eddie wouldn’t be particularly haunted by this conversation anyway.)

And then there was the fact that over the past eight months since the Spring Break from Hell, Eddie’s new trailer had come to mean something to Steve. It felt like… home. Like the way a home should feel, in the way his own never had. It felt lived in, even though it was new. With Wayne’s mug collection and replacement posters tacked up on Eddie’s wall. With music playing or the TV on mute in the living room, coffee brewing in the kitchen because between Eddie’s and Wayne’s work schedule, it was always breakfast time for someone. Steve had felt welcomed there. Safe. Like he belonged. He refused to poison those memories for himself with what was about to happen.

“Stevie?”

Eddie’s voice pulled Steve from his thoughts. He wondered if Eddie had just let himself in or if he’d been knocking for minutes with no answer. Well, Steve figured he could always blame his damaged hearing if Eddie complained about waiting too long.

“Hey Eds.”

Eddie was smiling, warm and easy. Steve tried to freeze the moment in his mind. Sometimes memories were getting lost inside his head- the doctors said it would continue to happen, a side effect of too many head injuries. But Steve swore to himself that he would never let his brain lose this image of Eddie so happy just from arriving at Steve’s house.

Almost as soon as Steve had made a note to remember Eddie’s smile, it vanished. Suddenly, Eddie looked concerned. He approached Steve and put his hands on his shoulders. His long fingered hands, warm, with calluses that that had ghosted over Steve’s arms, his back, his hair- Steve bit the inside of his cheek and pulled himself back into the moment. “What’s up, Steve? You look… less like a ray of sunshine than usual. Something wrong? Is it a migraine?”

Steve stepped back, outside of Eddie’s grip. “No, my head’s fine. I just… can we talk for a minute?”

Eddie sank down on the couch and immediately began fiddling with his rings, his head angled so that his hair was falling in front of his face. “Yeah, of course we can. Um… did I do something wrong?”

His voice sounded so small. Gods, Steve didn’t know if he would be able to do this if Eddie was going to be sad. The whole point was to make Eddie happy- not tonight, of course. Steve knew tonight would sting. But it wouldn’t hurt Eddie. And in the long run, Eddie would be happy. He would be-

“Stevie? You’re sort of scaring me, baby. Did something bad happen? Like, Upside Down bad?”

“No,” Steve answered quickly. He rushed to the couch and sat down, putting his hand reassuringly on Eddie’s knee. (He ignored the voice in his head whispering that this might be the last moment that they touched.) “No, it’s nothing like that. I just-” He had to just do it. He had to put words to what he wanted least in the world, but what he knew was the right thing. “I think we need to stop this thing between us.”

Steve dared to glance up at Eddie, but found that he couldn’t see anything of his expression. His right hand pulled his hair across his face and into his mouth while his left hand fiddled frantically with the rips on his jeans. “Okay.” Eddie’s voice was thick. Was he going to cry? Steve didn’t think this would make him cry. “If that’s what you want, of course, ba- Steve. But is there anything I can do to fix it? I mean, could you maybe tell me what’s not working for you and I can do it better?”

“You didn’t do anything, Eds,” Steve assured him. Eddie had to know that this was absolutely not his fault. It was Steve’s fault, 100%. “It’s just… when two people want different things out of a relationship, someone’s going to end up unhappy. And I don’t want to ever make you unhappy.”

“I’m not unhappy!” Eddie protested. He looked up and even through his hair, Steve could see his eyes were red and wet. Steve looked down at the floor. “Are you unhappy? What am I doing to make you unhappy?”

Steve swallowed past the burning lump in his throat. He really hadn’t expected Eddie to put up a fight. He had expected him to agree, maybe give him a parting hug or maybe say that he was relieved that Steve hadn’t made Eddie have to do this himself. He had hoped that Eddie would say they could still be friends, or at minimum be cool with each other for the sake of the kids. But if this is what Eddie needed from him, he could spell it out.

“You’re not doing anything to make me unhappy. Look, I talked to Robin about this a lot, trying to figure out the best way to handle it. She said I couldn’t keep avoiding it by just wishing that we could stay this way forever. Sometimes, one person in a relationship just expects more out of it than what it is. And if they don’t talk about it, that person is going to get their heart broken. And the other person is going to get sick of them. I don’t want that for us. I don’t want resentment or hurt feelings or- I just think we should stop this where it is. It’s been so great, Eddie.” Steve heard his voice break at that; he hoped Eddie hadn’t noticed. “It’s been really good, but I think we should stop it here before it turns into something bad.”

With his eyes still pointed resolutely at the carpet, Steve could only feel Eddie nod. He heard Eddie take a deep, shaky breath and then felt the couch lift as Eddie stood. “Okay, yeah. Message received. I’ll get out of your hair. Um… bye, Steve.”

Steve didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. Even with his terrible hearing, every step Eddie took towards the door reverberated through his head and his chest and his heart. He stayed motionless, barely breathing, as the front door squeaked open and clicked shut. It was only when the sound of Eddie’s rickety van faded that he fell forward onto the couch- still warm from Eddie’s body- and allowed himself to sob.

Read the next part: Interlude 1

#steddie #stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #breakup #breakup fic #miscommunication

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heymickiemaus · 4 months

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𝗳𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗼𝗺: tmnt 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀: casey jones x (gender neutral) reader 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀: 425 🐭: very subtle nsfw, miniscule. 𝘁𝘄: use of the name "doll", baby boy on his knees 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗱𝗻𝗶 𝗽𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝗺𝘆 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗱 𝗯𝗲𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗴𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗼 𝗿𝗲-𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁/𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗺𝘆 𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗳𝗳 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗱 ʚ🍓ɞ 𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗲

𝗕𝗔𝗦𝗘𝗗 𝗢𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗦.

𝗥𝗘𝗤𝗨𝗘𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗗: Hi I’m shameless trash for mister Casey jones and saw those hcs ya posted about him so If it’s fine can I request a mini fic or something similar with the whole flash him to get him to do chores thing please!

You sighed, watching Casey Jones re-tape his hockey stick. “Did you get distracted again?” You asked, leaning against the entryway.

“Huh?” He asked, looking up with his tape roll in his mouth. He absolutely got distracted again. It didn’t help that you could hear the hockey game playing on the TV. “Oh, my bad, Doll.” He gave a slight sheepish smile, it wasn’t like he had forgotten. He just gets distracted sometimes.

“Should I ca-” he stood, giving you a look that said not to even suggest calling Donnie. “Fine, please, get it done.” You asked, again. After a nod, you walked off, naively believing he would not forget to do his chores again.

It was a couple of hours before you noticed that Casey wasn’t getting his work done. When you checked on him, he was tinkering with something that wasn’t the million other things he was supposed to do. “Arnold Casey Junior,” you let out, making the long haired vigilante sit straight up. At this point you wondered if his ADHD was just making him do the complete opposite because you asked him so many times.

Casey turned to you, his shoulders stiff. No one wanted to scold their partner and no one wanted to be scolded by their partner, let alone using his full government name. You hadn’t meant to do that, you were just getting pissed. If his Negative Opposition wasn’t in full swing before, it certainly was about to be. You felt panicked for a moment, a brief ‘did that just happen’ look shared between the both of you.

Fuck.

Shit.

You did the only thing you could think of, pulling your shirt up between your teeth and pulling your jeans down slightly to show off the natural v cut. You watched as Casey blinked for a moment before his eyes went wide, it was as if you gave him a Christmas present.

You watched Casey drop to his knees in front of you as you put your clothes back in its place. You couldn’t hide the slight smirk that passed your lips as his jaw hung open slightly. “Why did you do that,” he whined. You lifted your hand and cupped his cheek.

“You want to see more?” A nod. A second nod. You rose your brow, the smirk on full display now. “Only good boys get their treats, are you going to be good for me?” You ran your index finger along his chin. He nodded again. “Good,” you bent down to his face, “then finish your chores.”

#casey jones has adhd change my mind #tmnt #gender neutral reader #gender neutral y/n #tmnt imagines #teenage mutant ninja turtles imagines #teenage mutant ninja turtles #fanfic #reader imagine #x reader #casey jones tmnt #casey jones x reader #🐭 mine~

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notyour-valentine · 2 years

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Welcome to Downton, Mr Shelby 3 ~ Tommy Shelby x OC series

[Masterlist] [Taglist] [Series Masterlist]

Summary: Tommy and Charlotte meet again, where they both least expect

Note: Thank you so much for the positive feedback - Tommy has some making up to do, but will he even get to it?

I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other.

Warning: Physical violence. Expect canon conforming tone and mention of violence. I am of age and so my content is created for that intended audience. If you are a minor, please leave. Your media consumption is your own responsibility.

Wordcount: 4881 words

Part 3

[Previously]

Before he had even fully passed the threshold, the scent of potatoes, of boiled vegetables and salty broth filled his nose.

Thomas Shelby would never order soup or stew at a restaurant. He had had his fill in his lifetime, thin, more often than not, and stretched with all sorts of things he’d rather not think of now. But it had been better than nothing and even now there was some comfort to be found in it- simple, honest food to keep your belly full and your limbs warm.

More than many could want.

And these men were more than glad for it.

“Our volunteers prepare and serve the food, which is paid for by our patrons.”

“Patrons?”, he asked, as he followed the steps of the woman past the thick old wooden tables, trying to let his eyes linger on the faces and not the stumps.

Mrs. Wollerston was her name a woman of about fifty, who looked like he imagined every headmistress in history had ever looked, not that he had ever seen one, with thin lips, small eyes and a long black dress.

Officially, it was under the patronage of the church, but they only sported the location.

The rest was done, as always, by uncredited women in the shadows.

Apparently the Anglicans in London were no different than the Catholics in Birmingham when it came to that.

“Oh yes.”, she continued, her large keychain clinking with every step. “We are lucky to have the support of an association of charitable Ladies based in London, who have taken the fundraising upon themselves.”

“No government involvement?”, he wanted to know.

It wasn’t a bad place, no. It was clean and large, if a bit cold, but not too bad.

For the summer.

In winter, the real problems would start.

Mrs. Wollerston shook her head. “No, unfortunately not.”

So they let the men fight for them but don’t feed them after.

He wasn't surprised.

They were a sorry lot, sporting lost limbs, blinded eyes, and burned faces, some wearing little more than rags. One man had a large stick instead of a proper crutch.

And Tommy looked at their faces.

The dead were being praised with words like “We shall remember them” but those that came back, had been forgotten.

Poor bastards, he thought, if they had died for their king he would have treated them with more kindness.

Alive, they were useless, a burden.

Dead, they would have been heroes and a credit to the nation.

“I’ll show myself around.”, he told her and turned away without waiting for a response.

Tommy approached the large table at the back, where volunteers were handing out the food. They seemed to have been served some meat stew and sliced bread.

It wasn’t anything fancy, but it looked decent enough.

From the other side of the long queue, he could see two women coming from the back, one holding a jug of water, the other a cup of tea.

For a split second he thought his mind was playing a trick on him, especially as she now had her back turned, prohibiting him from seeing her face.

But it was still enough.

Her hair was pulled back by a white hairband to keep it out of the way, not unsimilar to the ones the nurses wore. She was wearing an apron over a simple dark green dress.

But her shoes, brown leather shoes looked to be brand new, polished to a shine, with not a single scratch to be seen. Her stockings were real and not drawn on, with not the slightest nick or scratch.

Tommy knew expensive things when he saw them.

Walking back along the queue, he followed her to where the other men were sitting, watching her do their rounds.

By the time he got to hear her voice, there was no doubt.

She wore no jewellery apart from small studs he only saw occasionally when the light hit it, which wasn't rare but fleeting, as she moved around quickly.

“Good day Mr. Hubert.”, she said to the one armed man who sat in the corner of a table-

“G’day.”, he replied.

“Would you like to have a refill on your tea?”

“Yes please.”

She then moved on to a Mr. Verser apparently, who didn’t want tea but told her that the phantom pains in his leg got worse.

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”, she told him, before serving another veteran.

They seemed to like her, or at least liked what they saw.

Perhaps they knew who she was and felt flattered, or perhaps they were relieved that someone actually looked at them, and didn’t shrink away at the sight of their scars.

Her voice, he noted, was just as bright and chirpy as he remembered it, as if she was talking to the handsome Patrick Melbourne and not the scarred Mr Vesper who had lost his cheek and ear to the flames.

Then she saw him and for a split second her eyes widened in alarm, but then the discipline of her class reined in her emotions.

She wouldn’t have made him want to get under her skin more if she tried.

So he did try.

“I don’t have a cup.”, he said, as he approached her, meeting her between two of the wooden tables that sat three men on each side.

“Eva hands them out to the veterans.”, she explained, the essence of chilly politeness and cold professionalism.

“I am a veteran.”, he reminded her, his hands pushed deep in his pockets.

She looked him up and down.

“But I don’t believe you to be a charity case, Mr. Shelby.”

He couldn't argue with that, and very nearly smirked.

When she moved on, he followed.

“What are you doing here?”, he wanted to know, nodding around the room.

It was no place for a lady, at least not the kind of place one would go to look for one.

“Pouring tea, as you can see.", she explained, as she made her way towards the other desk.

“Why?”

She built herself up to her full height and glared at him, her eyes burning in an icy fury.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Shelby. But I’d hate to keep everyone waiting.”

With that, she brushed him off like a piece of dust and walked away, not even bothering to storm off, which irked him more than it should.

He was still watching her when Mrs Wollerston joined him.

“Are you satisfied, Mr. Shelby?”, she wanted to know.

"I am considering a donation to your organisation.", He told her, seeing no need for niceties and games.

Besides, she wanted something from him.

"We feel honoured. A war hero like yourself-"

He inhaled sharply as the hair on the back of his neck stood and his shoulder muscles tensed.

"I'd like to talk to some people first to get a better impression of how things work here."

The old woman's eyes widened.

"O-oh.", She mumbled, clearly not liking the sound of that, but what could she do? It was his money after all. "Well, I would recommend-"

"Charlotte Crawley."

"The Lady C-Charlotte?", She asked, utterly baffled now.

"Yes.", He said. "I know her and I'd like to talk to her."

I know she’s a terrible liar.

She swallowed hard and nodded, already on her way to fetch her.

"Actually no.", He said suddenly, "Let her finish. I'll wait."

He wasn't more important than his companions who had taken more serious wounds than he had. Besides, that would give him the time to talk to them too.

And so Tommy Shelby sat down at one of the tables among them.

All too soon the stories came back, the usual questions.

Where were you? Under whom? How did you get it?

He hated talking about France, even thinking about it, but he could talk with the men here.

It was as if they all spoke a language no one else had ever learned.

They understood the things they said and the things they didn't.

But he made sure he wasn't talking when she was anywhere close, same way he did when Ada, Finn or Polly were around.

And he also watched her, her smiles and her chatter, the way she was so bright around them, so caring and unafraid.

If she was working for him and wasted that amount of time, he’d have fired her, but if she was his waitress, he would have tipped her well.

As time passed, the room cleared bit by bit until only a few people remained and the girls started cleaning up.

"Now would be a good time.", He told Mrs. Wollerston.

The woman looked like sour milk in light of his instructions, but she nodded and strode over to Charlotte, telling her to come.

And she did.

With her shift nearly over, her hair was left a lot more untidy than he had seen before.

During the riding weekend she had been perfectly groomed like the rest of the ladies and the horses, but now a few strands had become loose and the stray hairs had freed themselves.

And she was still wearing that apron.

It made her look more homely, more approachable and somehow more vulnerable. Not like a great lady at all.

"You really have waited.", She said. "I am surprised."

"So am I. To see you here."

Charlotte glanced down at her hands, which she held in front of her chest.

"Well I am."

"Why?"

"To help of course.", She said at once. “We owe these men a great debt of gratitude.”

He huffed and pulled out his cigarette case.

Always these words, these fucking words.

He had heard them more times than he could count, and would give less than the dirt under his shoes for them. He had not believed them, not once.

It was not like he didn’t believe she meant what she said, but she couldn’t understand - how could she? How could anyone?

He brought the cigarette to his lips and let it relax the muscles on his back that had tensed without him knowing, and watched her through the smoke like it was some veil.

But was it a veil that hid the world from her that hadn’t been lifted or one that had been placed over him after France?

She stared at him from a mask of unreadable emotion as if her likeness had already been captured by an artist, ready to hang in a family home for all eternity.

She wouldn’t crack, not until he pushed her.

“How did you find this place?”, he wanted to know, tapping his cigarette.

"My aunt is one of the patrons, Lady Rosamund Painswick."

It was one of the names that had been mentioned by Mrs. Wollerston earlier, as if it had some great meaning, but he didn’t care.

"That's her. What about you?"

Charlotte glared at him.

"Are you always this forward?", she demanded to know.

He stared at her for a second.

"Yeah."

She huffed slightly.

"I don’t want to impose, but it can come across as quite inconsiderate."

Maybe I'm forward but you are not. Not a straight answer if a distraction or a change of topic will do.

Her hands gave her away again, only this time they weren’t tapping. Now she was clutching them together tightly to prevent just that. If she had worn dinner gloves, he wouldn’t have seen the thin white lines under her fingers. But her hands were bare now, and there wasn't even a place to hide them.

Her voice, however, sounded unaffected as he lifted her gaze again, after almost half a minute of silence.

“If this is some sort of display of power to make me apologise for our last encounter,”, she said sharply, “I refuse to. I stand by what I said.”

He had expected nothing less.

“However,”, she continued, wringing her hands before pressing it to her chest, touching something under the fabric.

“I was made aware that you are interested in becoming a donor.”

Tommy huffed in approval.

She inhaled sharply and he could see she wasn’t exactly enjoying this conversation my her hands alone.

“I’d hope you wouldn’t let our past differences stand in the way stand in the way of that.”

She glanced down at her hands and smoothed down the apron.

“It wouldn’t.”, he assured her, before letting the silence take over again, not missing the slight breath of relief that went through her.

So it really was important to her.

It was Charlotte who broke the silence, after she had been avoiding to meet his gaze.

“Might I ask why you wanted to see to me of all people?”, she asked impatiently. “Since you have clearly no intention of talking to me.”

That tugged at his lips once more.

Good question indeed.

And one he didn’t have an answer to.

When she realised he wouldn’t have a response, she sighed.

“Well, I hope your visit was enlightening but I do need to to get on.”

He dismissed her with a nod and got up, and taking another drag of his cigarette, watched her walk off.

She looked almost normal now, with a simple dress and an apron, hair that wasn’t perfect, and hands that weren’t hidden in gloves.

Like an ordinary girl.

Tommy Shelby put the cigarette out forcefully and left without another word.

But before he got back to his office, he stopped by the library.

“Ada?”, he shouted, his voice booming across the arched hall.

“Ada, where are you?”

He ignored all the “Shhs!” and outraged shaking of heads as he passed, his footsteps alone louder than any conversation they might have had.

“Are you mad?”, She snapped, crossing her arms over her chest as she saw him, standing on some ladder.

“You can’t just come in here like that!”

“Well I just did, eh.”, Tommy said, offering her a hand as she climbed down.

Ada ignored it.

Well enough.

“I need you to find me anything you can about the Crawley family.”

Ada pursed her lips.

“Tommy - I don’t work for you!”, she reminded him sharply.

“Yeah but you work for the library, so get me the stuff, just like you got me the other ones.”

“That was a favour!”, she hissed, before her features softened. “And a thank you for the house.”

A couple of books and a lot of newspapers for a house, eh?

“Just get it for me.”, he tried.

“Will you at least tell me why? Are they to do with-”

“No.”, he said quickly. “At least not more than any other family.”

Since they all married each other there wasn’t much to go around.

“Crawley family,”, he repeated. “Their title is Earl of Grantham and they have a…castle in Yorkshire. I need to know about them.”

He couldn’t exactly ask May. The last time he had relied on her for that kind of information, it had ended poorly for him, although he couldn’t put that on her.

“Earls?”, Ada gasped. “Seriously, Tommy? What kind of business do you have with an Earl now?”

He didn’t respond to that.

After all, he didn’t know himself yet- he just…had to know.

“So get me the books and get me the newspapers. Alright?”

She stared up at him in disapproval and clicked her tongue.

“Please?”, he asked impatiently.

“Fine. But you’re not taking them to Birmingham. You can look at them at my house.”

He could feel her disapproval as he stormed off, but that didn’t change things.

“What are you upto Tommy?”, she called, but he didn’t answer. He wasn’t even sure himself yet.

He returned to the soup kitchen nearly a week after, but that did not mean his thoughts hadn't wandered there earlier.

Once he had arrived, he immediately scanned the room for the now familiar frame.

And Tommy surprised himself when he realised he was glad to see her. This time it was her that helped carry the trays of those that could no longer balance properly.

If he didn’t know, he wouldn’t have thought she was different to the girl cutting the bread, and the woman handing out tea, or the other one who took the dishes away.

Only he knew now and he wouldn’t forget.

… first mention in 1273 of Sir Ralph de Craule in the service of Edward I…

It was like he was staring history in the face.

… 1539 made Viscounts Downton by Henry VIII….

But she was wearing the same apron, the same cloth on her hair, so one could have thought she was, but she wasn't. She was similar but not the same.

…elevated to Earls of Grantham by King George III in 1772…

As he entered, Mrs. Wollerstons rushed towards him.

“Mr. Shelby, I feared we would have heard the last of you.”, she greeted, sweat on her brow.

“No.”, he said, only slowly turning to look at her.

“Then have you decided?”

“Yes.”

The silence made her quiver and smile nervously.

“I think we should sit down somewhere to discuss the details.”, he said.

“Of course, of course, Mr. Shelby. Follow me.”

As he walked along the lines of tables, he felt a pair of eyes on him. When he reached the small door to the back, he turned and saw her looking at him. And he met her gaze for a moment, and a moment more than she seemed to be comfortable with, as she quickly averted her eyes and hurried along.

Only then, did he enter.

It was a small office, but furnished with a lot more money than would have been necessary. The office chair was leather, the carafe looked like crystal.

As she sat down behind the desk, he took his place in front of it, watching her put down her glasses.

Soon she was telling him about other donors and patrons, the influence of the church and more.

“Would your donation be regular?”, she asked. “Monthly perhaps, or weekly?”

“Perhaps.”

She raised her eyebrow.

“I will pay in cash.”, he finally said. “You’ve got the food sorted but these men also need clothes, shoes and other things like - ah - soap and cigarettes.”

“Oh the church won’t like that.”, she argued.

Tommy fished the cigarette case out of his pocket and put one between his lips.

“I am not the church.”, he said, smoke escaping his lips.

Wollerston's nose wrinkled, but kept her lips firmly shut.

If money talks the world listens, eh?

“I think that would be a possibility.”, she finally said.

“Ah will it?”, Tommy asked, feigning surprise.

“You see, we are usually focussed on providing the men with what they need.”

“And they need cigarettes.”

Her jaw clenched so hard, he thought it might snap.

“I presume arrangements can be made for care packages.”

He stared at her as he took another drag.

“Including cigarettes.”

They stared at each other, but it was her that broke first.

Obviously.

So Tommy took the next step.

“Make a list of content for these care packages including prices. Send it to this address.”

He placed a business card on the table. “We will review the list and make changes. Then you will know the extent and frequency of my donation.”

Mrs. Wollerston’s face was so sour, he was prepared for an amusing lecture when she opened her mouth, but then they heard a crash coming from the hall. And screaming- panicked, half mad, animalistic screaming.

It was a sound, Tommy knew all too well.

The cigarette slipped from his fingers and was forgotten before it hit the ground as he rushed out of the office and into the mayhem in the hall.

A table had been toppled, spreading food, cutlery and broken dishes over the floor.

One chair had snapped a leg and was laying shattered against the wall.

The men had done their best to move away and give him space, their faces white with fear and their eyes wide.

They knew what it was, as did he. There was no soldier in the world who didn’t recognise this.

The man, who was in the middle of it wasn’t particularly tall nor strong, more a wiry build with a fallen face. He was hiding behind the toppled table, screaming on the top of his lungs, his eyes staring a thousand yards away into the distance.

One of the men walked up to him.

“You need to stop that!”

When he touched his shoulder, the man lashed out, tackling him and slamming him against the wall.

And Tommy clicked into action.

He knew what needed to be done. He had done it too many times before.

Coming up right behind, he wrapped his arms around the other man’s shoulders from behind and pulled him up, away from the poor sod who had gotten involved without truly knowing what to do.

The man was thrashing and kicking violently, and he had trouble even holding onto him.

But for now he had to get him away from the other man, as the shrill shrieking rang in his ears.

“Oi,”, Tommy bellowed, his voice cutting through the screams. “What’s his name?”

“Wilkins.”, one responded, sending him in even a madder state.

Trying to control him was like trying to ride a mad horse and Tommy was slowly slipping of the saddle.

“His first name!”, he roared, pushing the man towards the wall, and putting his whole weight into it.

“Harry!”, came from somewhere.

It fucking better be Harry, Tommy thought, trapping him between his body and the wall.

“Harry? Harry, it’s alright!”, he shouted into his ear, his nose brushing against the sweaty, greasy strands of his hair.

“You’re not in France, you’re in England, eh? You’re back.”

He grunted as he caught a kick to his knee and loosened his grip for but a moment. While it wasn’t enough for the man to slip his grip, it was enough for him to bring them both crashing to the ground.

When he landed on top of him, it forced the air from his lungs.

Tommy tried to turn, to get him off of him and to subdue him on the floor, but he was thrashing so violently, it was all he could do not to let go of him. At least this way only he was getting hit and not some other veteran who couldn’t properly defend themselves.

Between his inability to properly breathe from the weight on his chest, his thrashing and the screaming, he didn’t notice until it was too late.

“Stay clear!”, he bellowed at her just as Harry Wilkins caught her with a wild arm to the shoulder, knocking her onto her back. She caught herself with her hands but wasn’t deterred for long.

This time she approached from behind both their heads and not from the side like before.

But it was the same with horses - if one approached them from where they can’t see it always ended badly.

“I said stay clear!”, he roared, but she didn’t listen. Instead she knelt down behind his head and reached forward, taking the man’s face in between her trembling hands.

It was like trying to catch a rabid dog, but she succeeded after a while.

“Hush.”, she told him, clasping the sides of his head. “Hush, Harry.”

Her voice was soft and breathy, and only he and Tommy could hear.

“Hush, Harry. You’re safe. You’re home.”

Harry began to shake his head violently.

“No. No, no, no, no. They’re coming. They’re here. I know it. They’re here soon!”

She has him talking!

That was a good sign if ever there was one. After all mad men couldn’t talk.

“No one’s coming.”, she assured him. “You’re safe. I promise!”

Tommy felt the other man’s thrashing slow down.

“You promise?”, he whispered, shaking violently.

“Of course I promise, Harry. I’m right here and you are safe. We are both safe.”

“We’re safe?”, he asked. “We’re safe?”

“Yes, we are, Harry. You’re safe. I’m safe. And we are home.”

When the sobs came, Tommy let his head fall back onto the cold ground and exhaled, still holding onto the man.

But he too could relax his grip.

Other men came and with her, helped pick him up.

“Come now, it’s alright.”

Another tried to help Tommy up, but he did so himself, walking to the edge of the wall and bracing himself in his knees, one hand resting against the old stone. It was the cold that calmed him.

Fuck, he thought, taking a moment to catch his breath.

It never got easier.

Wiping his brow with his sleeve, he coughed.

Even while he was still facing the wall, he could pinpoint the moment when the realisation of what he did fully hit the man as a flurry of apologies escaped his lips, mixed with hiccups sobs.

“Take him to the back.”, Mrs. Wollerston instructed.

Tommy was surprised to see her get involved, but she put her arm around the man, who left the room sobbing.

The veterans and the volunteers seemed to be in a competition about who was paler, all avoiding eye contact. After all that noise, the silence was deafening.

But then it was Charlotte who spoke up, stepping into the middle of the room with her hands behind her back. Her heels made strange clicking sounds on the floor, echoing through the silent hall.

“Goodness.”, she said, her voice loud and surprisingly confident, even if it was a bit breathless, placing her right hand on her chest. “Why don’t you take a seat again and we will bring you all a cup of tea. I think we'd all fancy a cup.”

With a nod to the other girls they hurried to move the chairs from the toppled table to the others, before helping them sit down.

With the adrenaline still pulsing through his body, rage began to boil in the pit of his stomach.

“You!”, Tommy snarled, storming over to her, his heart still racing.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her back, away from the others. She was having problems keeping up, her shoes scraping on the floor as he dragged her away.

She flinched as he pushed her against the wall.

“That,”, he told her, hissing the words as he glared down at her “was fucking foolish!”

Her eyes widened but she didn’t look shocked. She looked angry now.

“I told you to get back and you didn’t!”

I ordered you.

She was only a foolish little girl and no match for a man that size, let alone in that state.

Didn’t she know what could have happened? He could have her on her back in no time, could have strangled her or bashed her head in like a melon and there would have been nothing he or anyone else could have done-

Foolish, stupid, naive- She lifted her chin to meet his eyes but at the same time he felt as if she was looking down at him.

“Indeed, I did not.”, she said, “But I’m very grateful for your assistance, Mr. Shelby.”

With that, she freed her arm and walked back to the others, her hands under her apron.

Tommy leaned his back against the wall and lit another cigarette.

Then he dug into his coat pocket and pulled out the refill packet and the matches.

“Oi.”, he called to get their attention, before tossing them both at a table of veterans.

They needed them too and mumbled their thanks.

The talks from before had vanished completely, as had the appetite.

While the volunteers served the veterans, he glanced over at the wreckage, trying to calm his racing heart.

The chair was firewood now, but the table only toppled. The plates were shattered, the food spread. The glasses were done for too, shattered to a thousand pieces. The food was spilled and spoiled, but it wasn’t like water and a mop couldn’t remove the stains of stew and - fuck

“Thank you very much for intervening.”, Mrs. Wollerston said, coming up behind him.

He nodded without sparing her a second chance.

“He alright?”

“He’s shaken.”

That’s a word for it.

“Is he hurt?”, Tommy wanted to know, his eyes never leaving the floor.

“I-I don’t think so.”, she admitted. “A few bruises perhaps.”

Tommy responded with silence, letting smoke escape his lips.

“Any cuts?”, he asked.

“No.”

Tommy nodded and dropped the cigarette to the floor, finishing it off with his shoes, a mere inches from the evidence.

Then he walked back over to Charlotte, who had her right hand on the back of a veteran.

When she saw him, she turned, glancing at him unsure.

Her other hand was in her apron pocket.

“Lady Charlotte,”, he said, making sure to be polite this once. She had earned it.

“I want to apologise for snapping at you earlier.”, he said, stretching out his hand for a handshake.

His left hand.

She glanced at it, then at him, her own hands still concealed.

"Thank you, Mr. Shelby.", She tried, offering him a smile.

He glanced at her and then back at his still outstretched hand, as her eyes widened in the realisation.

“Show me.”

End of Part 3

Part 4

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed and as always I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Taglist

Overall

@lilyrachelcassidy @jyessaminereads @chlorrox @watercolorskyy @books-livre @quarterpastmidnight @lilyevanswhore @polishcrazyone @zablife @just-a-harmless-patato @stevie75 @flyingjosephine-blog @runnning-outof-time @cillmequick @babayaga67

Tommy

@knowledgefulbutterfly @babayaga67 @signorellisantichrist @lespendy @geeksareunique @look-at-the-soul

#peaky blinders #downton abbey #peaky blinders / downton abbey #peaky blinders x downton abbey #peaky blinders downton abbey crossover #peaky blinders imagine #downton abbey imagine #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby x oc #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby x oc #thomas shelby fanfic #tommy shelby fanfic #Welcome to Downton Mr Shelby #wtdms #valentineswritings #downton abbey x peaky blinders #downton abbey / peaky blinders

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kirchefuchs · 1 year

Note

I am in my uniform as I am typing this in my notes but like

Fear.

It's a common emotion triggered by a handful of situations. Gun pointed at you? Fear. The existential dread of knowing that you're about to die at any second? Fear. Just barely escaping the tragic fate of falling down the stairs? Fear. Hearing your mother angrily yell out your full government name in the middle of the night? Fear.

And that got me thinking:

Sure, love is a fantastical emotion, and yes, love is amazing when it comes to sentience and all.. but fear?

Fear is what keeps our minds on the edge of a breakdown. Fear is one of the emotions that can drastically change your heartbeat in a matter of seconds. Fear keeps you stuck in a spiral of acceptance and reluctance — but only when you're sentient enough to feel the effects.

In regards to my previous asks.. what if Pollux gained sentience through fear?

Because an AI like him shouldn't be afraid outside of what he was coded to be scared of. Fear — a natural response — is treated as a scripted entity for The Narrator's sake.

I just got that thought, y'know? What scenario could scare The Narrator so bad that it pulls the Pollux we all know outside of his scripted shell? What situation could force a string of panic out of those lines of code? What can be done to make him fear?

And then, I had a thought.

I remember that condescending Timekeeper screenshot you posted with an ask regarding the oneshot I was making

soooooooooo I'll be using that as reference (if you don't mind) regarding the scenario in which Pollux is naturally terrified. I'll think of a storyline first tho >:]

Toodles :]

— 🅰️non || 05/31/2023

TK? Giving Narry an existential crisis? More likely than you tthink!

Anyways, something like this almost? (Same fic im working on as the TK line you mentioned)

I don't think Narry is necessarily scared of TK per say, but TK definitely has a way of pointing out things about him that he is not ready to process at the moment. And so of course he goes into fight or flight mode about it. Deny everything and run. He'd rather keep everything the same than confront his own emotions. Poor guy.

And now that I think about it, in the fic I'm writing, it is kinda fear in a way that brings Pollux back. Yes it's tied to his affections for Stanley, but he is just so scared about losing his grip on the world around him. So when he's lost his grip on is sense of reality he clings to his world, Stanley, for dear life. The whole idea of it terrifies him, but it's all he can do.

All in all, your idea there is very on brand for him.

*Slaps roof of Luxie* This bad boy can fit so much fear in him!

#the stanley parable #tspud #tsp #ask #tsp narrator #tspud narrator #🅰️non #tspud stanley #tsp stanley #tsp timekeeper #tspud timekeeper #tsp settings person #tspud settings person #tsp 432 #tspud 432 #employee 432 #kirche rambles #fanfic

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sangyeonsmuse · 2 months

Text

BREAK THE WALLS | Kim Hongjoong

Chapter 19 | Finale | Full Chapter List

🀥 Government agent Hongjoong x Rebel Oc

🀥 genre | dystopian society, halazia x geurilla concept , enemies to lovers

🀥 word count | 2k

🀥 Summary | An organization by the name of Sector 1 was well known for their work in the underground, theyve been well known for the recruiting of teens and using them to form an army since the year 2034. Collecting strays for their rebellion against those in higher power. Now the year is 2064 and the organization still runs strong they run like a family, with the new technology theyve found ways of keeping alive those that have been scorned in any past battles theyve had against the government.

When the government sends in 7 of their best men to infiltrate the organization. What will they do when their cover is blown and their true intentions are revealed? Will they join the rebellion or will they continue to let the government pull their strings like the little puppets they once were?

"My boys have returned! And you've brought..........guests." His eyes landed on the unconscious Tahani before landing on Jongho who continued to put up a fight against his restraints.

"San take them to the clear room." At his order San was quick to follow.

"What knowledge do you have for me?" Eden asks as he sits back in his seat. Seonghwa was the one to speak on all of their behalf

"The boy's name is Choi Jongho, head of the organization's recruits, he's the one that prepares them for the occasions and sends them all through some sort of evaluation process. The girl though. Tahani Morgan, she's their weapon, she goes by Hira. She's half human half machine they call her kind cyber dolls down there in the Sector 1. She's Mingyu's most skilled fighter, her prized possession." Hongjoong his chest burned with envy at the way Eden's ears perked up at the mention of Tahani, he was sure Eden knew who she was.

Meanwhile, the five boys flooded Eden's ears with more and more information that they knew wouldnt be enough. Yeosang scrambled to find the microbots he so desperately needed for the girls surgery.

"Hm why dont we go down to the clear room then, i want to see this girl with my own two eyes." Hongjoongs fist coiled at his side, he was pretty sure that the way his nails had been digging into the skin of his palm, he definitely drew some blood.

As the five of them all followed Eden to the elevators all they could do was hope that Yeosang had found the microbots and already given the rest of the organization the green light. When they got to the basement floor they found both Jongho and a still unconscious Tahani in a glass box in the middle of a gray room. Eden took a chair and placed it on the other side of the glass and simply waited for the girl to finally wake. Each of them locked eyes with one another knowing that if she woke and Yeosang hadn't already been out of there, they just might be screwed.

"Wake her." Eden ordered, it seemed to be an order aimed directly at San, who had been standing in the boxes control room. In his head San spoke a silent apology as he sent a shock wave on the lowest setting throughout the glass box, which unfortunately shocked not only Tahani but Jongho as well.

'Why hasn't he just questioned Jongho, why Tahani' Hongjoong thought to himself.

When Tahani woke her eyes were like daggers as they stared not at Eden but to Hongjoong

"I fucking trusted you, every word thar you said i trusted. I swear to god when I get out of this box I will slaughter every single one of you." There was a white glint in the girl's eyes that neither of them had ever seen before. Not even when she first found out that they had been sent by the Alsurians. Furious wasn't enough to describe the look in the girl's eyes. Yeosang needed to move quickly or else this could go bad in more ways than one.

"Tahani Morgan....daughter of Thea and Ezariah Morgan."

"You don't get to say their names. You don't get to say their names with that filthy mouth of yours." Tahani spat back coldly to which Eden simply laughed in amusement.

"You're feisty, compared to your mother i like that." He chuckles before standing and tracing his hand along the box as he moves over to her side. Seonghwas gaze shifted to Hongjoong who he knew by now must have been fuming at the sight before him.

"You know it's not surprising that you would join an organization like Sector 1, just like your parents you can't seem to keep your nose out of a business you play no part in. Now your parents were easy to get rid of but why is it you're still sitting right here before me when you should have been dead the moment that the rural building exploded. Seonghwa tells me those friends of yours have made you some sort of an experiment...is that right?"

"Fuck you and Seonghwa." Was all the girl said as she stared back at him through cold eyes. It hurt Seonghwa to his core to hear the girl say that but he couldn't say anything, no moves were to be made until they got the signal. Eden simply chuckled as he took his seat once again.

"So tell me then Tahani before I dispose of you along with your friend here. Your organization's little plan..when does it begin."

Finally finding her strength the girl stood to her feet and the sound similar to a power surge could be heard as she stood a few inches behind the glass.

"now."

As if it was on cue an alarm sounds throughout the building just as Tahani had brought her hand to the glass and shattered it. Alaurian soldiers came flooding into the room, two of them taking Eden away before the rest charged at Tahani.

"Go. We'll take care of Tahani, you go after Eden." Seonghwa reassures Hongjoong, who glances back to Tahani one last time before leaving the room. As Tahani used all her strength to fight off the lot of them she was confused and quite shocked to say the least when she found all but hongjoong fighting off the alaurian soldiers.

On all sides all seemed to be racing against the clock as they fought off, slashed at and ran bullets through as many soldiers as they could to buy both Mingyu and Juyeon some time. It was the bomb squads job to make sure they got the detnator to Juyeon as soon as possible, without that bomb this entire ambush upon the alarians would fall downhill and theyd be sitting ducks. When the seven of them had finished off the last of the soldiers or what they assumed to be the last of them for now, Tahani instantly charged for Seonghwa but was stopped by Jongho.

"Wait wait, before you decide to rip anyone to shreds they're on our side Tahani...i'm sorry we didn't let you in on our plans but there was no other way we could have gone about it without getting caught." Seconds later even more alaurians burst through the doors leaving Jongho no time to further explain.

Meanwhile while the seven of them fought countless soldiers one after the other, both Hongjoong and Mingyu were on a scramble for time to get to Eden. Hongjoong was the first to find him, a moment he had dreaded for some time now but he already knew was sure to come. Punching and slashing his way past every guard that came his way Hongjoong showed no mercy as he finally had Eden alone without the protection of any guards to hide behind. Without the slightest bit of hesitation he aimed the gun at edens head.

"So this is how it goes, hm? Taken out by my own son?"

"Im not your fucking son."

"Then who am I hongjoong? I raised you, fed you, bathed you, clothe you. I've been there your entire life. The man that taught you everything." Eden responds lightheartedly as if the gun hongjoong held in his hands simply mean nothing.

"Why don't you spare him the bullshit and tell him the truth brother." Mingyu enters the room taking the spot next to hongjoong who was quite surprised to see their leader there, even more to hear him call Eden brother.

"Why don't you tell him how you killed your own sister before you took him in. How you blamed it all on Juyeon and claimed he had killed her because he wanted the seat in this tower to be his own. Tell him how you manipulated him, forced him to believe that anything outside of this tower was dangerous simply because you wanted there to be no way he'd find out the truth. Well your shitty plan surely backfired on you. The one thing you didn't want him to know, he now knows simply because you didn't think your plans through." Mingyu then took the gun from hongjoongs hand and emptied all but one bullet, he was more than sure he wouldn't miss.

"You may have spoiled our plans with the first rebellion but this time youve lost everything. Your ways of working have always left a bitter taste in my mouth." And with that he shot, a bullet running straight through the front of Eden's skull and straight out the back. Mingyu never even spared hongjoong a glance. Through their earpieces everyone tuned in only to hear Juyeons voice for the first time since the second Rebellion was put into motion.

"Everyone clear out. Now." With that both Mingyu and Hongjoong found themselves running through the hallways without looking back. Blood splatter and lifeless corpses decorated the once glorious halls. As they rushed down the stairs they found many others scrambling to make their way out of the building as well. Though Hongjoong was relieved once he made it out, anxiety set in once he realized the others were nowhere to be found.

"Ten seconds until detonation Mingyu has made it out yet." Both Mingyu and Hongjoong glanced at one another before Hongjoongs eyes set back on the entrance of the building. A sigh escaped Mingyu's lips and just as he spoke the words "blow it." Hongjoong spotted every one of them including Tahani closing in on the entrance. As soon as each of them stepped foot from the large building a large explosion sent them all flying in different directions and the building came crashing down. Both Hongjoong and Mingyu let out relieved breaths as they saw the seven of them emerge from the clearing smoke.

"I really fucking hate explosives." Was all Tahani said before being engulfed into a hug by Hongjoong. When he finally released her she delivered a heavy punch to his right arm before glaring at him.

"That's for making me think you switched sides." She spoke angrily, but even though the girl was verymuch serious all hongjoong could do was laugh in response, finding the girls actions cute.

As if the building's explosion was some form of summoning, everyone from the surrounding buildings and homes in the city began to crowd the place and look out at what was once the Alaura tower."

"How much you wanna bet Mingyu gives yet another speech right now?" Jongho asks as he nudged the girl with his elbow.

"I'd be an absolute idiot to bet against that." She responds, earning a laugh on jonghos end. And the chestnut haired male was indeed right.

The G unit all watched in amusement as Mingyu climbed up onto the nearest vehicle and a megaphone was placed into his hand by Leedo.

"When the hell did he get a megaphone." Jongho asks, slightly confused.

"Citizens of Starlight...today starts a new chapter in the book for this city. The all royal alaura empire has now fallen. Over 25 years ago a woman by the name of Kim Younghwan had two sons and one daughter. One of them you knew as Eden. The daughter was the next in line to become heir and protector of the city but Eden, now Eden would never allow that to happen so he made sure to get rid of her, he made sure that he'd be the next in line to take her place. As of today you no longer live under the rule of Eden but the third child of Kim Younghwan, Kim mingyu. Me and my family are known as the Sector. For years we've worked beneath the city waiting, and working for this very moment right here. From today forward we'll renew this city and start anew. I give you my vow that my family and I will rebuild all that my brother has destroyed."

"Wait did any of you know this-" Tahani looks at both Leedo and Jongho who only shook their head in response to the girls question.

"So...Mingyu is the rightful heir of the city..." Tahani spoke

"And related to Eden." Leedo chimes in.

"And I think I might be his nephew." Hongjoong adds on, making all eyes shoot to him.

"Oh this just keeps getting more interesting by the second." San laughs in disbelief

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