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creativenicocorner · 8 months

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In honor of Reigen's birthday, I offer this : Sneak Peeks to some mp100 WiPs featuring Reigen!

From Chapped Lips : Was he making healthier choices? Was he being ‘An Adult’. What a word. So easily said in front of Mob and his friends, but if he got right down to it, if Reigen allowed himself to think about it - he didn’t feel like an adult at all.

Most people his age already had a steady income, a house with more than one room, married, and even - which always made him feel shocked - had kids!!!

But how, he’d often think while scrolling through mobbook to really wallow in his self pity mud pile, how did these people have kids When it felt like just last week they were all complaining about exams, gossiping over who cheated on who (and really some of them really shouldn’t be having kids).

Or was that not right either?

Reigen leaned back in his chair, idly playing with the little matchbox. People changed. People grew. Was he?

Reigen looked down at the little matchbook, pulled out a match and struck it, watching the flame bloom.

Had he changed?

He didn’t feel all that different. Same old same old. Or was that thought also a disservice to those around him.

Hypnotized by his thoughts and the how the flame slowly consumed more and more of the match - Reigen didn’t snap out of it until his fingers burned.

Damn. He really should get out more.

On the third ring, Mob answered.

"Hey Mob," went Reigen, then quickly added, before Mob could say anything, "no don’t worry this isn’t for anything short notice.”

He heard Mob settle. "Hello Shishou."

"You, uh, you doing good?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Good! good..."

"Shishou?"

“Just wanted to hear how uh,” why was he having such a hard time spitting it out? Four days in advance isn't short notice! "What's up?" Reigen rubbed his mouth and chin, as if swiping the phantom feeling of threads.

There was a pause on Mob's end, then he said "well the ceiling, perhaps a few pencils that won't fall anytime soon."

Reigen snorted. "Glad to hear you're mastering the art of comedy more and more."

"Thank you, Shishou. But I've always been funny."

"You know what?" Said Reigen, smile in his voice. "You got me there."

"Was there anything else, Shishou? Or did you call only to hear about the ceiling?" Said Mob, though not unkindly.

"Well, next week," started Reigen. There was the sound of commotion from Mob’s end, then laughter. Mob was with his friends.

"Sorry, what was that Shishou?"

Reigen lowered his forehead into his hand, and made his voice sound chipper. “Mind sending Dimple over next chance you get?” Gosh this really could have been a text.

"Oh," said Mob, voice tinted with surprise, "alright. I'll do that."

"Cool beans. Thank you. Have fun Mob!"

"Thank you Shishou, I will."

“Look, don’t tell Serizawa alright?”

Dimple zipped around, demanding an answer as he got more and more in Reigen's face. “Why not?!”

“He’s having fun right now!" Reigen, despite knowing his hands would just pass through Dimple, raised his hands and gently attempted to push Dimple away. Leaning back in the process. "And I don’t want to- look," Reigen ran a hand through his hair, and sighed, "I’d hate for him to think every time he goes off to have fun with his friends or something to worry about me. This isn’t like the train, this isn’t like Roshiuuto.”

“But we don’t know what. this. is!”

“So far? Chapped lips." Reigen shrugged, and gave a crooked smile, "And I’ll figure something out. I always seem to."

Dimple made a face, which was quite easy when usually all he was, was a floating face, but this had a High Def Sneer to it that only Dimple could master. “You are such an idiot. I look forward to seeing you haunt this place when you die.”

“Thank you for your concern. Touching as ever.”

From Refrigerator Problems (a yet to be published fic about Reigen and Teruki) : Teruki looked at him, incredulous to his hairline. “I thought you said you had too much food to deal with? Where did all the food go?!"

“Hm…” Reigen opened the refrigerator, and was greeted by the white/egg shell yellow void of the refrigerator interior, a half empty take out box, and a single light bulb that flickered pathetically to stay on. There was nothing to eat, “rats.”

“Rats?!”

“…yeah" Reigen drawled through his lie, though was it really a lie if someone mistook a dry remark literally? "Big ones."

From Glow Worms or rather: In the Depths of the Safflower Hills :

Serizawa staggered, hand resting against his head. Perhaps he should have accepted the offer of water after all.

Then, quick as the thought, a glass of cold water was was being pressed into his hand. And he was looking up into Reigen’s worried face. And, this Serizawa realized distantly, he was…raising the glass to his lips, the ice clinking over itself in the liquid, cold…very cold - all at once Serizawa’s nostrils flared. The harsh chill of snow and ice. It came clear to his mind. Just as the mental image of blood splattered over fresh snow invaded itself in his mind.

Someone had died. But how long ago?

Last winter?

Or a hundred winters since?

Painted over sliding door depicting a great estate. The Lord and Lady of the estate beneath a paper umbrella, while hunters on horse back fight a pack of wolves.

It hurt Serizawa’s eyes to see. As if the colors were off, or perhaps the brush strokes too…too something he could not quite pin. Not mesmerizing, that wasn’t the word. But something else. It made his headache breach migraine levels.

“You’re not looking so good, big guy,” said Reigen.

Serizawa winced, it was said in Reigen’s usual easy tone, and yet, it felt like a rail spike to his head.

“sorry,” whispered Reigen.

Serizawa managed to mutter a sound that could have been an, ‘it’s okay’. Then he gasped at the feeling of warmth blooming at the base of his neck. It was Reigen’s hand. If he peeked through one eye, he could make out Reigen’s face all the closer.

All the easier for Reigen to gently whisper, “seri, i think you need a break.”

Serizawa shook his head. He tried to unstick his mouth, and, after what felt like eons, Serizawa managed to say, “something is…I think, the entity, or…I don’t know. I feel like, I’m close to…maybe a clue…”

Reigen’s face drew to a hard line, “don’t push yourself.”

“I won’t.”

“You’ll tell me if-”

“yes.” Serizawa gave a weak little smile, “promise.”

Reigen didn’t look happy at all. “All right. I trust your judgment. I’ll…ask the Takeda’s if there’s a room you can lay in? For a little while? Would that help?”

Serizawa nodded, grateful. “Yes.”

A truck horn pulled Reigen from his time on memory lane. Opening his eyes with a gasp, sweating. Reigen grabbed at the handlebars, overcorrecting, and just barely managing to not fall to one side. He skidded the bicycle to a stop. Breath heavy with effort, and panicked surprise.

A lumber truck passed. Driver yelling words Reigen couldn’t process. It took him a while to even process his own hands on the handlebars.

Reigen pinched the bridge of his nose, gathering himself. Grounded himself. He leaned over the handlebars, head hung low. Small before the tall trees, the stones, the stream, and the mountain itself. A Datsueba statue on the side of the road grinned at him.

Why did he feel like crying? Was he crying without realizing? Reigen scrubbed his face with his hand, unsure if the moisture he felt was sweat, or tears, or both. He desperately wanted a cigarette. He wanted to fight someone til exhaustion took him. Or punch something till his knuckles bled.

The Datsueba statue kept grinning. Reigen rested his chin in his arms, looking at it.

When his breathing felt more leveled he said to the Datsueba statue, “please be kind to me in the afterlife.”

Datsueba grinned on.

Then, after convincing himself it was the lack of sleep, the location, the influence of the case, Reigen refilled with determination. He had a schedule to keep, and, if he could help it, wanted to be back at the Gotou house before Serizawa woke up.

With another lollypop, Reigen sped off once more.

#Happy Birthday Reigen!#mp100 #Serirei #Reigen Arataka #Serizawa Katsuya #Dimple #Mob #Kageyama Shigeo #Shigeo Kageyama #Hanazawa Teruki #Teruki Hanazawa #Ekubo #Nico Writes #wip #sneak peeks #progress report

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roamwithahungryheart · 1 year

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I haven’t seen anyone mention it yet and given you catch all the significant wardrobe moments, I was wondering your thoughts on both Ted and Rebecca wearing red in this week’s episode? Given the red string of fate, it seems like an interesting wardrobe choice. This show makes me overanalyze like crazy, so could be nothing!

The use of red in this episode was definitely intentional.

I think by putting Rebecca's outfit specifically against the backdrop of Arsenal, it's a way of pushing it to the back of our minds because hey, Arsenal's team logo is red, it's not that deep, right? HOWEVER!

Starting the episode with Ted wearing red, followed by Ted tripping over the red string (of fate) and Rebecca wearing red at the end of the episode is a narrative choice in terms of fashion & using costume design to convey meaning and character traits. The show's costume designer Jacky Levy has talked about this a little bit - Hannah chooses Rebecca's outfits alongside Jacky, and she's said that 'every choice is deliberate'. When you look at Rebecca's outfits through that lens, it makes them even more interesting!

Looking at Ted & Rebecca's red clothing throughout the show, there's a unifying theme - they both wear red when they're faced with change/challenges. Ted first wore a red polo shirt when he started to struggle with the split from Michelle. In that same episode, Ted & Rebecca walk alongside each other, both wearing red.

Rebecca's wearing red when Ted has his 'white knighting' moment in the pub. It's also worth noting that prior to this, Ted brings her biscuits & chocolate truffles as a thank you gift (which she eats exactly the way Ted suggests, before he has the chance to finish suggesting it) and they have the 'metaphorical St. Bernard' conversation.

Rebecca's red Roland Mouret dress on her date with John Wingsnight (derogatory) is worn underneath a biscuit box pink coat. Thinking about the 'struck by lightning' conversation, make of that what you will 👀

Similarly - although maybe this is a stretch and just a little bit of wishful thinking - Ted & Rebecca both wearing matching shades of red at Ola's on opening night when she receives the matchbook hits a little different after this week's episode.

3x07 gave us a clear indication that rom-communism is alive and well and on its way back to Richmond. Juxtaposing Rebecca's awkward moment meeting Sam's Dad with Simi meeting him closes the book on the connection with Sam. Sure, the Ola's red aprons might be nothing, but in the context of the red string of fate, Sam's Dad's apron strings 'tie' Sam & Simi together at the end of the episode.

Where does that leave Ted & Rebecca? At this point we don't know. But given the amount of times they've mirrored each other, and that ACNE Studios knot ring Rebecca wears to dinner with Keeley (more on that later), there's one more string left to tie this season.

#Ted Lasso #Ted Lasso s3 #Rebecca Welton #Ted x Rebecca #tedbecca #fashion

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sitzfleischh · 1 year

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Ted Lasso Finale Thoughts

Ok starting in point form:

Keeley not ending up with either Roy or Jamie - sure!

Jamie and Roy both regressing on their character development so that they could both do some misogynistic bullshit to hit home why Keeley shouldn't be with either of them 👎

Keeley, Roy, and Jamie still being friends and hanging out together at the community barbecue thing 👍

Actually back on that first point, obviously throuple was not going to happen but tbh I do think it would have been better to EITHER have keeley and roy end up together and show Jamie's character growth through how he handled it, OR have none of them end up together but told from Keeley's perspective, giving us more of an insight to her making the decision to move forward single and figure herself out more, etc.

Rebecca and Keeley starting a women's league 👍

Rebecca selling 49% of the club to the fans 👍

Trent's outfits 👍👍👍

The fact that we never got to hear Trent read from his book 👎

The fact that all they did with their apparently groundbreaking gay plotline was have Trent say some vague shit about becoming who you always were and have Colin kiss his fella with no futher discussion 👎👎👎 (and that they didn't even at least cut to show a Trent reaction when it happened, EXCUSE ME??) 👎

Jane/Beard wedding 👎👎👎 after she SHREDDED HIS PASSPORT 👎👎👎

Vague montage clip of Jamie visiting his dad in (?? rehab ???) 👎

Ted being deeply emotionally empty and having almost no reaction to anything that happened this ep other than being happy when they won 👎👎👎👎👎👎

Rebecca getting together with the Amesterdam guy 🤷 I don't hate it but would have prefered she be a single mom raising a kid with help from her community. Also literally what the fuck was the deal with the green matchbook did it just mean nothing? It was just a matchbook that she got for no reason?? 👎

The overall hetero bullshit "a family is a mummy and a daddy and their white picket fence" vibe that really jumped out this episode 👎👎👎

TED/MICHELLE AMBIGUOUS UN-DIVORCE MOVING BACK TO KANSAS BULLSHIT?????? 👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎

LITERALLY ZERO TED CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT ?? 👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎👎

Unfortunately this show really succumbed to the issues it has always had which is that it is ultimately an Extremely Liberal Fantasy about like... just being nice and cooperating will always win out in the end, oriented in a relatively centrist direction. The places it really shone were when it allowed itself to get a little more complicated but still have an optimistic mindset-- to show peoples' foibles and vulnerabilities and still have hope and compassion for them, to orient itself toward the unknown (and they even gave Ted a line about that but wouldn't commit to it!!!). But the problem with a finale is that they had so much pressure to wrap it all up that they hit way too hard on the easy answers, the liberal fairy tale ending where nobody ever actually has to struggle too hard because the world isn't that bad, is it? Just go home to your wife and kid, it'll be okay. And they did a disservice to their characters by doing so because it negated how genuinely complicated it all was. In this life we do not get easy wins, or clear good guys and bad guys, or straight up and down correct answers, and that's okay. Being in community with other people and allowing each other the grace and room to grow is what helps us make it through that. We are imperfect. Life is imperfect. That's okay. We believe we can be better, can change. We keep going anyway.

I don't actually ship tedtrent or tedbecca but look forward to reading everyone's fix-it fics because I imagine y'all will have some far more interesting things to do with these characters. If anyone just does a full episode rewrite that isn't focused on a ship please send it my way because I will be ON THAT. If I wasn't busy I'd write one myself lmao truly we could have had so much better.

#ted lasso #ted lasso spoilers #anway im... disappointed but ultimately not surprised #my meta #also to be clear I'm saying Liberal in terms of the centrist political orientation #as in Liberal not Leftist

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zawazawanightmares · 2 years

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Alex & Sonic The Hedgehog

You, Alex (Street Fighter), are connected to Sonic The Hedgehog Your partner doesn't mind all ages or 18+ roleplay Your partner has a starter. Type /starter or tap here to see it.

Alex (Street Fighter): /starter

Sonic The Hedgehog: (using Nowykowski's sonic design because world cold and hard but curvy hedgie soft and warm. here u go. https://imgur.com/a/iYOdBB4 )

Alex (Street Fighter): ...What the hell are you supposed to be?

Sonic The Hedgehog: "A hedgehog. Isn't it obvious? And what're you supposed to be? Some kind of luchador?"

Alex (Street Fighter): "Luchador? You freaking rodent, do you see a mask?" Alex snorted.

Sonic The Hedgehog: Sonic's quills bristle. "Rodent, huh? You'll need a mask once this 'rodent' pummels your face in, pal."

Alex (Street Fighter): Alex gave a twisted smirk as he got in a stance, ready for a brawl. "I'd to see you try, lab rat..."

Alex (Street Fighter): *I'd like

Sonic The Hedgehog: Sonic strips away his jacket, letting it fall at his feet. He cracks his knuckles. "You've got ten seconds to back out now, if you're a pussy."

Alex (Street Fighter): "How about you focus on using those ten seconds to brace yourself?" He sneered before dashing for the hedgehog at an inhuman speed...but still a snail's pace to one of Sonic's pace.

Sonic The Hedgehog: Sonic easily sidesteps, avoiding a fist that went flying towards him. He hums, holding his hands behind his back. "Haha, you're too slow!" he taunts.

Alex (Street Fighter): Alex snorted again. Little bugger was faster than he looked...he turned and swung the back of his fist at the hedgehog behind him.

Sonic The Hedgehog: Sonic crouches in time before he could get caught in the path of the brute's fist. He charges up, spindashing into Alex's back in hopes of knocking him off his feet.

Alex (Street Fighter): The blow sent Alex skidding on his face into the dirt. He lifted it up, not seriously hurt but his pride greviously wounded. "Okay..." He spat some gravel out of his mouth. "Now I'm mad..."

Sonic The Hedgehog: Sonic unravels, hopping back up onto his feet, grinning. He puts his hands on his hips, tilting his head. "C'mon, big guy.. teasin' ya is fun 'n all, but I'm getting kinda bored..."

Alex (Street Fighter): "Alright, ya really want the heat, small fry?" He stood back up and picked up a trash can....before emptying the contents all around them. He repeated the process with several more until the two were surrounded in a circle of garbarge.

Sonic The Hedgehog: Sonic blinked, giving the warrior an incredulous look before pinching his nose. "Eugh. What the hell are you doing?"

Alex (Street Fighter): "Ya said you were bored, right? So I'm giving you a handicap..." He took a matchbook out of his pants and struck a match, throwing it on the trash. This resulted in a fire surrounding the two. "There. Nowhere for you to run to now."

Sonic The Hedgehog: The hedgehog watches the match fall into the rubbish, bursting into a ring of flames in a matter of seconds. He could feel the heat surrounding them. He clenches his fist, gulping. He smirks in annoyance. "... well played, hotshot..."

Alex (Street Fighter): "Now...what was that you said about me being too slow?!" He dashed at Sonic again, making sure he was close enough to the edge to limit his options of dodging. He was prepared to give him the grappling of a lifetime.

Sonic The Hedgehog: Sonic braces himself, earning himself a slug to the muzzle. He doubles over, his quills just barely brushing the fire behind him.

Alex (Street Fighter): "Not done with you yet!" He lifted his leg to kick Sonic against the other side of his muzzle. A particularly assholish move, yes, but it also carried the hidden benefit of trying to get him away from the fire.

Sonic The Hedgehog: Sonic grunts, spitting up blood, tainting the ground below. The hedgehog straightens up regardless, glaring at the taller human through his peripheral. If he used another spindash he'd surely knock the other into the flames. Sonic resorts to utilizing his agility to send his fist into Alex's gut when he found an opening. Despite being small, he had considerable strength.

Alex (Street Fighter): Alex definitely felt it and grunted, surprised the rat still had some grit left in him...but he wasn't going to let a golden opportunity like this pass. Instead of moving back, he kept his position and grabbed Sonic's arm, pulling him into a particularly brutal Power Bomb that sent the hedgehog crashing to the concrete on his quills.

Sonic The Hedgehog: Sonic's is hardly able to react, being sent to the ground and getting the wind knocked out of him. He lets out a strained cry, before fury bubbles up in his chest. He pivots, propelling himself back against the crater beneath him, sending the heel of his foot directly into the underside of Alex's jaw.

Alex (Street Fighter): Alex wasn't expecting that, being pretty sure the force of the suplex would knock the critter out. And he sure as hell didn't brace himself for the heel under his jaw, the sheer power behind the blow launching him into the air.

Sonic The Hedgehog: Sonic's hissed under his breath staggering up to his feet. Alex wouldn't land in their 'arena'. "Shit," he hissed, immediately rushing to the human's aid, despite the flames singing his quills and fur. He manages to catch the hulking mass of muzzle in his stubby arms, skidding out of the fire and promptly losing his grip, falling face-first into the gravel. At least Alex hadn't been burnt.

Alex (Street Fighter): Alex landed painfully, but not burnt, on his back. Rubbing his head, he sat up and looked at Sonic. "You saved me...why?"

Sonic The Hedgehog: Sonic groans, getting onto his knees and rubbing his head. "Because third degree burns aren't fun. And because I'm not that much of an asshole. Dipshit.."

Alex (Street Fighter): "Well shit...now I actually feel bad." With some effort, he stood up again. "Sorry...for calling you a lab rat. And thanks."

Sonic The Hedgehog: Sonic frowns, getting up onto his feet as well, wiping some caked up blood from his muzzle. "Yeah, yeah. Don't have to apolo-- aw, damn!" The hedgehog groaned, tugging on the ripped fabric clinging to his legs. "These were my favorite stockings!"

Alex (Street Fighter): Alex looked down at his stockings. "..." He's not gonna lie, he's beginning to understand less and less about the situation he just got himself into.

Sonic The Hedgehog: Sonic only had himself to blame. He'd instigated the situation, after all. He'd just have to suck it up and buy new ones. "Ugh. Whatever..." He looks up at the taller man, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "... name's Sonic, by the way. No hard feelings?" He offers his hand to Alex.

Alex (Street Fighter): "Mine's Alex...and yeah. I should work on my temper." He shook his hand, his larger one completely dwarfing the hedgehog's.

Sonic The Hedgehog: "Uh.. is your back okay?" Sonic asks, recalling the fact that he had quite literally spindashed into it at 200 miles per hour.

Alex (Street Fighter): "Oh yeah. Don't worry, I've taken worse." Alex recalled his fight with Ryu, where his Hurricane Kick felt like a tornado hitting him in every spot all at once.

Sonic The Hedgehog: Sonic sighs in relief. "Good." He didn't want to be responsible for crippling a man. It just then that a shop owner bursts out from one of the backdoors in the alleyway. Things were still very much on fire. "Oi! Damn hooligans! What the hell do ya think you're doin'?!" Sonic jumps, immediately tugging on the fabric of one of Alex's gloves. "Let's scram!"

Alex (Street Fighter): "If anyone asks, Hibiki did this!" He ran off with Sonic, not intent on having to pay any more fines for destruction of public property.

Sonic The Hedgehog: Sonic would've been out of there in seconds, but he didn't want to leave Alex behind. Once they're far enough, Sonic pauses, listening carefully for any signs that they were still under pursuit. He exhales. "Shit... So, you've got a place to crash in?" he asks.

Alex (Street Fighter): "I do...but I live with two other people." He answered. "Hope you're a charmer."

Sonic The Hedgehog: "Pft. I'm great with people!" Half-true. "Hope you've got some drinks. It's how all good friendships start."

Alex (Street Fighter): "You're telling me...now tell that to Tom." He walked off, expecting the hedgehog to follow.

Sonic The Hedgehog: "I don't guarantee that I won't freak your buddies out, though. I look... different. As you may have already noticed," Sonic hums, walking alongside the burly man. His muzzle hurt like hell, but he'd have time to mend it later.

Alex (Street Fighter): "After what happened to Tom, I'm sure he's got a tolerance for weird stuff." He led him up to a door and knocked. A tall, balding man in shades answered. "Hey Alex. You smell like smoke so I assume you got in another fight..." He looked down at Sonic. "...You a friend?"

Sonic The Hedgehog: Sonic waves, a big smile grazing his blood-stained features. "Something like that!"

Alex (Street Fighter): "Did Alex do that to you?" He asked. "He's not exactly a people person..."

Sonic The Hedgehog: "Just a scuffle. No big a deal..." Sonic shrugs, following Alex inside. He scans the home, deciding that it was cozy enough to hang out in for a while.

Alex (Street Fighter): "Dad, did Alex drink the rest of the cola again?" A red-haired girl walked into the room with a frown...only to stare at Sonic when she spotted him. "..."

Sonic The Hedgehog: Sonic tilts his head, blinking in the girl's direction. He turns to Alex with a small grin. "Aww, she's so cute!" the hedgehog gushed.

Alex (Street Fighter): "Don't get any ideas." Alex warned. "She's tougher than she loo---" "HE'S SO CUTE!" She ran over and picked him up to snuggle him. "How adorable!"

Sonic The Hedgehog: That was unexpected, but not totally unwelcome. Sonic enjoyed attention, period, no matter what kind of attention it was. The hedgehog's quills lower as to not injure the girl as she hugged him. He laughs, a faint purring beginning to rumble in his chest. "Real affectionate, aren't ya?"

Alex (Street Fighter): "Only over cute things like you~!" She purred. She then noticed his stockings. "Oh my gosh! What happened!"

Sonic The Hedgehog: "Oh, that? Uh.. Just got in a little bit of a brawl with this guy over here," he says, pointing a thumb at Alex. "But it's cool. We're cool now. Aren't we?"

Alex (Street Fighter): She scowled at Alex who sighed. "He didn't rough you too badly, did he? He can such a brute sometimes. Say sorry, Alex!" "I said sorry..." He grumbled.

Sonic The Hedgehog: "I'm fine. I kinda roughed him up a little too, so we're both guilty!" Sonic slips out of her arms, sticking his tongue out at Alex playfully. "So. Drinks?"

Alex (Street Fighter): "Alex drunk up all the cola but we have juice and water!" She said with a smile.

Sonic The Hedgehog: "Really? Ah.. got anything stronger?" the hedgehog asks, feeling slightly embarrassed for asking but hey, a guy needed his Brandy after facing off with a hulking hunko!

Alex (Street Fighter): "Beer." Alex answered as the girl pouted. "I didn't touch that for a while, Patricia."

Sonic The Hedgehog: Sonic shrugged. "That works!" he said, waltzing down the hall like he owned the place, eventually spotting a sofa. He kicks off his sneakers, hopping right onto the soft cushions. "Yippee!"

Alex (Street Fighter): "He's acting like he owns the joint..." Alex complained as he sat down. "He's our guest. Since you ruined his clothes, you take care of his shoes. I'll get the beer." said Patricia as she walked off, leaving a grumbling Alex to pick up Sonic's sneakers.

Sonic The Hedgehog: Sonic lifts his gaze, the emerald shard dangling from the earring on his right ear beginning to glow. He presses a hand to his sore muzzle, letting it sit there a moment before the light fades from the gem. "That's better.." The area looked less swollen.

Alex (Street Fighter): "Oh great, you have your own clinic." Alex noted as Patricia came back with a cold can of beer, handing it to Sonic. "Here you go!"

Sonic The Hedgehog: "Hey, it helps! Can't 100% undo any damage, but it'll take care of the worst part," Sonic says, smiling up at Patricia and thanking her for the beer. He cracks it open, taking a gulp. "Ahh, that's good stuff. Do you hurt anywhere, Al? I can do it to ya if you want."

Alex (Street Fighter): "I'm fine." Alex growled. "Don't be a jerk, Alex. He's offering out of kindness. Your back looked pretty scratched up too." She reprimanded.

Sonic The Hedgehog: Sonic scoots over, patting the spot beside him. "Come sit. I know you're in sub-par shape, tough guy."

Alex (Street Fighter): "Better than you..." He sniped before sitting with his back to Sonic, showing off his scratched-up back.

Sonic The Hedgehog: The hedgehog clicks his tongue. "Why're you being so rude all of a sudden?" he snaps, but placing his hands onto Alex's injured back regardless, using the remaining chaos energy in his earring to heal him up somewhat.

Alex (Street Fighter): Alex grunted. "My bad...just not used to relying on others for help, that's all."

Sonic The Hedgehog: The earring's glow fades out. Sonic removes his hands, nodding approvingly once he noted the skin of Alex's back no longer gaping with scratches from their earlier scuffle. "Is that so?" The hedgehog picks up his can of beer, chugging it down easily.

Alex (Street Fighter): "You're not getting my backstory...but thanks. Again." Alex rubbed the back of his neck.

Sonic The Hedgehog: "I don't need it," Sonic replies, licking away some foam from his lips. "And you're welcome. Pal." The hedgehog elbows the man's arm affectionately.

Alex (Street Fighter): "Hmph." Alex grunted. "He's blushing..." Patricia teased. "Am not." Alex immediately countered.

Sonic The Hedgehog: "Heh. Is he? Aww.." The hedgehog snickered, holding out his hand to the redheaded girl. "I'm Sonic, by the way. Thanks for having me."

Alex (Street Fighter): Patricia eagerly shook his hand. "Patricia! And we're lucky to have you!"

Sonic The Hedgehog: "So I'm guessing you guys are siblings then?" Sonic reaches for another can of beer, cracking it open.

Alex (Street Fighter): "Kind of." Alex answered. "Alex and I have been growing up together since Tom brought him in." Patricia clarified.

Sonic The Hedgehog: "I see. Cute little family you've got then, Alex," Sonic hummed. "Make sure you take care of it."

Alex (Street Fighter): "That's what I've been trying to do." Alex nodded.

Sonic The Hedgehog: The hedgehog offers a beer to the man. "Got me drinkin' all on my own. C'mon, dude, that's horrible pal behavior," he joked.

Alex (Street Fighter): Alex took the beer with a smirk. "My bad. Again." He took a swig as Patricia smiled at them both.

You left the chat

#alex #sonic the hedgehog

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pedrito-friskito · 2 years

Text

as the world caves in - javier peña oneshot

summary: shit goes south with escobar and javier feels guilty. you offer to shoulder some of his pain.

warnings: mentions of canon-typical violence, rough sex, emotional javier, fingering, swearing, etc. etc.

a/n: this is heavily inspired/derived from narcos season 2 episode 4. pedro really acted the fuck out of that show but that episode in particular got me, and here we are. (also unreleated to my other javi fic)

| main masterlist | ao3 |

Working as Claudia Messina’s assistant, you learned two things very quickly: Javier Peña was much more than anyone working for the DEA gave him credit for, and Colombia was much more dangerous than you had imagined.

Messina was a hell of a boss, nit-picky with her reports and running you ragged most days, demanding coffee after coffee and copy after copy of files you were still learning the system of, filing cabinets that were taller than you. She kept you on your toes, to say the least, but your hard work didn’t go unnoticed. She wasn’t shy about telling you how good you were, and also wasn’t shy about telling Peña and Murphy that they could learn a thing or two from your discipline.

That had earned an eye-roll from Murphy and a barked laugh from Peña. You tried not to take it personally.

You liked both agents from the get-go. Steve Murphy was easy to talk to, if not a little haunted around the eyes. Javier Peña was a bit brasher, his personality harder to read, but you often noticed the partners sharing the same strained gaze, hunched shoulders, and dropped jaws. You’d read enough reports to know the hell they’d seen thus far, and to know that it was far from over.

There were enough rumours floating around — mainly from the other assistants on the floor — regarding Murphy’s personal life problems and Peña’s penchant for sleeping with his informants, so you were careful to keep things light. You brought them coffee without asking, let them bum cigarettes and matchbooks whenever they ran out, copied whatever they needed and offered to pull files when Messina had thrown them through yet another loop.

“You’re good to us, girlie,” Steve would always say, squeezing your shoulder.

Javier was quieter about it, offering tiny smiles and mumbled thank you’s. It always made you swallow hard when his fingers brushed yours, cigarettes moving between knuckles, bodies too close as he cupped the end of one between his teeth and you struck the match. It felt…dangerous. Like kerosene too close to an open flame. Like it could spontaneously combust at any moment.

So, you tried to keep your distance, when you could. You didn’t treat him any different than Steve, you were civil. You were kind.

And he was…Javier.

You weren’t one to deny attraction, but that was only half of it. He was distracting. With his quietly-delivered quips and his disarmingly intelligent way of speaking when Messina tried to call him out. He was good at what he did, there was no denying that, but it seemed like the dynamic duo that was Peña and Murphy couldn’t catch a break. Javier was methodical, but impulsive when it was warranted. It wasn’t even that you just wanted to good roll in the hay with the man; you wanted to talk to him, to listen to him speak, explain things.

So yes, you had a crush. But that was it, just a crush, a handsome man to be admired from a distance. That was all. You knew better, and the rumours the other girls told you about him were something else. You knew, from what actual information you’d gathered, the few hushed conversations you’d had with him, and the extra details Steve had let slip in the office kitchen that you don’t think he had meant to. You knew there was more to Javier Peña than just that pretty face and that I’m kind of an asshole attitude.

The fact that he was wildly handsome was just a bonus. You were more than a little infatuated with the way his hair curled on more humid days, short locks flipping about the back of his neck, only made worse by the nervous way he ran his fingers through it. And the outfits. The different coloured button-ups, the short sleeves leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination, the form-fitting jeans doing the same, rendering you almost useless. Especially on the days he wore the teal shirt, one too many buttons undone. Or the red, that made his shoulders look ridiculously broad.

The day he wore the black, you had nearly imploded.

He’d run into you in the kitchen one morning, coffees in hand for most of the team, him and Steve included, and you’d almost toppled over when he inched behind you, one palm coming to rest on your hip briefly. Anyone else, and you would have swatted the hand away, barked something less than pleasant and thrown a dirty look.

But Peña? You didn’t have words. Other than, here’s your coffee, and a you’re welcome barely above a whisper.

You shared an apartment with a few of the other office girls, not a far drive from the DEA office. Usually, you carpooled; one of them had a car and you all split the gas. But that first week, Messina kept you late more than once, and after the girls had all grumbled and groaned at you for being two hours late, you’d told them to head home without you if you weren’t out on time. One of them — Louisa, who you shared a room with — was hesitant, telling you repeatedly she didn’t like the thought of you walking home in the dark.

But she’d gone quiet when you showed her the revolver you kept in your purse.

The night was no different than any other late finish. Messina was still cooped up in her office, where you knew she’d stay until morning, poring over piles of files that Murphy and Peña had already combed through. You said goodnight to her, cleaned out the multiple coffee mugs that had piled up over the course of the day, and grabbed your purse. Murphy had left earlier, mumbling something about a date with his wife — you’d shot Javier a raised brow but he’d just shaken his head — and Javier was still hunched over his desk, cigarette smoke clouding around his face, half a pack’s worth of butts piled in his ashtray.

It took you a moment to realize he was asleep.

Folded forward on his desk, head resting on bent arms, face pressed into the crook of his elbow. You surprised a smile as you walked toward him, leaning up on your toes so the clack of your heels wouldn’t wake him. God, he looked so peaceful, those unfairly full lips softly parted, eyes fluttering with dreams. A lit cigarette balanced between his knuckles, the ash nearly down to his fingers.

Carefully as you could, you pulled the cigarette from his hand, stamping it out in the ashtray. He moved slightly, shaking his head in his arms, and softly, you put a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. “Javi.”

He shot up like a rocket, his chair kicked back and toppling over. You stumbled backward, feet getting tangled with the chair and desk behind you, and toppled to the ground, shouting with pain when your elbow hit the edge of the desk and your back collided with the chair leg.

“Fuck!” Javier spat, blinking hard, seeming to come back to himself, realizing where he was, and then seeing you sprawled on the floor. “Shit, mija, you all right?” he asked, and reached for you, fingers curling around your forearm and hauling you back onto your feet. “I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, cupping your sore elbow. “It’s fine. Didn’t want to leave you asleep like that, you’ll kill your neck.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Hah. Didn’t mean to fall asleep, period.”

An awkward silence settled over the pair of you, and it took you a moment to realize his hand was still curled around your forearm. He seemed to realize the same moment you did, releasing you quickly, taking a step back and rubbing the back of his neck.

You let out a little laugh, still cupping your elbow, stepping carefully around his fallen chair as he bent down to fix it. “Well,” you said quietly, nodding once. “I’m heading out. Goodnight, Javi.”

“Goodnight,” he replied, mimicking your nod. You turned to leave, but only reached the doorway before, “Hey, wait a second, mija.”

You turned, the nickname making the hair on the back of your neck stand up. “Yes?”

“You’re not walking, are you?” When you nodded, he shook his head, pulling his jacket off the hook and swinging his keys around his finger. “No, I’ll give you a lift.”

He walked towards you at the door and you started to protest, but he raised a hand, a half-smile on his face. “I’ll be fine.”

“Listen,” he continued, reaching for the door handle and ushering you through it, “I’m glad you have half a brain and carry a piece with you, but it’s gonna make me feel better knowing you’re home safe.” You balk at his words — how does he know? Javier chuckled. “Louisa has a big mouth.”

“Shit,” you mumbled. You’d gone out for drinks with the girls a few weeks previous, and after enough tequila, you hadn’t been shy about telling them how delicious you thought Agent Peña was. What else had she let slip around the office?

If he noticed your blush, he didn’t say anything. “You know how to use it, I’m assuming?” he asked, and you nodded. “Good.”

You were both quiet as you made your way out of the building, towards Javier’s blue truck parked at the curb. He opened the door for you, waited till you were safely sitting before shutting it and walking around to get in the driver’s seat. You gave him directions as he drove, trying your best not to stare at his big hands on the steering wheels.

When you reached your building, Javier started to laugh. “I’m right across the street from you,” he said, pointing to the building on the other side of the road. “Steve and Connie, too.”

“Oh,” you said, running a hand through your hair. “That’s good to know. And glad I didn’t make you go too far out of your way.”

“Not at all,” he replied, and reached over, putting his hand over yours. “Listen, you ever need a ride, just ask, okay? It’s not safe around here for a pretty girl like you to be walking around after dark.” He smirked. “Even if you are carrying.”

You huffed a little laugh, your fingers twitching beneath his. Did he just call you pretty? “Thank you, Javi.” Pulling on the door handle, you slid out of his truck, turning to close the door behind you. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

When the operation moves to the compound, things start to change.

Despite the closer quarters, you feel more distance between you and the two agents you’ve come to consider your friends. Since that first night, it became more of a habit for Javier to drive you home after a long day cooped up in the office. Even when you got out on time to leave with the other girls, he’d ask you for a copy or a random file before you could follow them out the door, promising you a ride in exchange for the favour.

Being right across the street from them, you’d even gone out a few times. Steve had introduced you to Connie, and while it was plain to see the strain between the couple, you all got on well enough. Javier had even joined for dinner once or twice, always sitting just a little too close and walking you up to your apartment afterwards, to make sure you get home safe, mija.

With the return of Carrillo, your work seems to double overnight. Messina is running you ragged, to the point where you’re half-sure your bloodstream is more caffeine than plasma. Your hands are a mess of paper cuts, your bottom lip chewed to hell, and you’ve gone through more cigarettes in the past few weeks than you usually would in six months. (Granted, Javier still bums one whenever he walks past your desk — part of you wonders if it’s just an excuse for him to stop and chat with you.)

It’s nice, almost, to have your temporary residence a few floors from your desk, to be able to crash in an almost comfortable bed shortly after Messina lets you go for the night. You do miss the rides home with Javier, but as things start to escalate with Escobar and Carrillo, the distance between you feels more palpable, more tangible. And you don’t like it.

Steve still mumbles his thanks when you slide cups of coffee onto their desks partway through the day, but Javier is usually too engrossed in whatever file he’s poring over to notice. He stops asking for cigarettes, stops speaking to you in general, and while you want to call him on it, you don’t know how.

And then finally, that fateful night, there’s a shot at Escobar.

You’re in the room, taking notes for Messina, having scrambled to find the files Steve and Javier had requested before joining them. Your hair stands on end when you hear Pablo Escobar’s voice on the radio, Javier confirming it’s him without a second thought.

“We have to move now,” Carrillo says, glancing at the agents.

“Yeah,” Javier agrees, reaching for his jacket draped over the back of the chair.

“You two are staying here,” Messina interjects, speaking pointedly to Javier and Steve. Your heart sink in your chest. Oh no.

“No,” Javier says immediately, his tone flat. “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“Crosby finds out you went on another raid,” Messina responds, sinking back into her chair, “we all get a ticket home.”

There’s so much tension in the air you think you could cut it with a knife. You clutch your notebook to your chest, watching Javier’s face contort. Shit.

“Crosby doesn’t have to know shit,” Steve says, his voice sterner than you’ve ever heard it. Javier is rocking against the back of the chair, his hands curled around the metal. His fingers are twitching, and you wonder if he’s about to launch it across the room. Escobar is right there.

“It’s not negotiable,” Messina replies, her voice low. She stands again, and you step into her shadow.

“We’ll be in radio contact,” Carrillo promises, and then turns on his heel to leave.

You hear Javier curse under his breath, a Jesus fucking Christ that makes your chest ache. He puts his hands on his hips, Steve crosses his over his chest, pushing his chin into his hand. Messina gestures to you, starts to walk towards the door, and you feel both agents watching you depart. Before you step through the door, you look over your shoulder, lock eyes with Javier.

I’m sorry, you mouth.

He just shakes his head.

Messina has to you take notes as you listen to the ambush unfold. You’re tucked in the corner of the room, three feet from where Javier is yelling into the radio. You flinch with every explosion that sounds, every gunshot that rings out. Your pen falls to the floor at some point, and Javier curses loudly, covering his face with his hands and stepping away from the radio. The microphone swings on its wire, and part of you wishes you could disappear into the shadows.

Escobar had known they were coming. He’d counted on it.

Messina has a look of horror on her face. Steve looks like he could topple over. And Javier…you’ve never seen such a hollow expression on his face, a far-off look in his eyes. He looks guilty.

The pair of them disappear moments later, to go and sift through the aftermath. Javier is gone before you can even breathe a word, and Steve touches your shoulder lightly before he follows his partner. Your feet twitch after them, moving towards the door, and Messina lifts her head, pinning you in place with her watery gaze. “Where do you think you’re going?”

You shrink back against the wall. “Nowhere, ma’am.”

There are reports to file, and you start transcribing your scribbled notes into something legible, but it’s hard. Your fingers are still shaking, the echoes of gunshots and explosions still making your head ache. Carrillo was a harsh man, sure, but no one deserves to go out in that kind of violence. He’s married, you know, with kids. You can’t imagine the phone call his wife will receive. You only pray it’s not Javier to make the call.

Javier returns alone a few hours later, the expression on his face more haunted than you’ve ever seen it, the guilt dripping off of him like he’d gotten caught in the rain. His gaze meets yours for a moment, crossing in front of where you’re still sat at your desk, Messina bent over your notes beside you. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly as he walks past, ignoring your boss when she calls his name.

You last another five minutes of Messina pointing out mistakes in your notes, stacking another report on the pile for you to fill out. He needs somebody. He shouldn’t be left alone, not now. You push back your chair, startling her, and she just stares at you as you flip the file closed, getting to your feet.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her brow going hard. “We’re not done here.”

“He needs to talk to somebody,” you say, pushing the chair back into the desk. “I’ll finish your reports in the morning. They can wait.”

Messina straightens, crosses her arms over her chest. “And what makes you think you should be the one to talk to Peña?”

“He needs a friend,” you reply, your voice surprisingly calm. “With all due respect, ma’am, you are anything but.”

She says nothing more, and you turn on your heel, disappearing in the direction he went, towards the stairs that lead to bunk rooms you’ve all been sleeping in these last weeks. His door is shut when you approach, but you can see light along the bottom. You knock once, softly, and then again, louder. You hear something mumbled from the other side, and it’s all the invitation you need, curling your fingers around the handle and pushing the door open.

His room looks the same as the only you’ve been staying in; military-grade bunks, desks along a back wall, ancient coffee machines and stacks of files. Javier sits at the desk, the lamplight casting shadows along the walls and over him. There’s already a cloud of cigarette smoke swirling around him, an open bottle of whiskey and a full glass on the desk as well. He sits back in the chair, one leg straightened in front of him, an elbow planted on the desktop and his chin in his hand.

You cross the room slowly, your heels clicking on the floor as you come to stand, facing him, perching on the edge of the desk beside the one he’s sat at. He says nothing, those dark eyes just staring up at you. There’s something…pleading about them, and you swallow back the pang in your chest.

“This isn’t your fault, Javier,” you say, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands, resting them on your thighs, your fingers curling around the hem of your dress.

“No?” he asks, and there an almost unkind tone in his voice.

“No,” you repeat. “It’s not your fault.”

His hand curls into a fist at his cheek, and then he reaches for the whiskey, tilting the glass towards you in an almost-toast before he lifts it to his mouth, taking a healthy sip. “I got played.”

“You all got played,” you say, leaning forward slightly. “You had all the information, Centra Spike confirmed it—”

“Stop,” he says, and rubs his fingers across his brow, eyes dropping shut. “Please, just…” He shakes his head, pushing his chin back into his palm. “You know, you come in here, you pretty little thing, you say all the right things, you look at me like I’m not a terrible person, like I didn’t just get a good man killed. Doesn’t make a damn bit of difference.”

The ache in your chest is more violent now, and you stand from where you’re sat on the edge of the desk. You take a step towards him, closing the distance slightly. “It’s not your fault, Javi.”

His eyes shoot open again, this time harder than before, but you can see the shine in them. “Shut up.”

“No,” you say, your voice climbing slightly. “It’s not your fault.”

“Shut up,” he says again, slamming the glass down onto the desk so hard you’re shocked it doesn’t shatter in his hand. “I did this.” He gets up and steps towards you, grabs your face in his hands. You nearly stumble backward, surprised by his sudden closeness. “I’m the guilty man here, and you don’t fucking get that.”

“No!” you say again, reaching out and fisting your hands in the front of his shirt. “This isn’t your fault. This isn’t on you!”

He almost growls, the sound rumbling its way up his throat as he steps closer, pushes his forehead against yours, breathes your air. You stare up at him, watching his eyelids flutter. His hands move up, fingertips pushing into your hair, sifting it between his knuckles. “You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?”

You have whiplash, from how quickly this has changed, from how hot the heat between you has suddenly burned, how easily you can feel yourself giving into his touch. Distance be damned, you can’t get close enough to him now, letting your hands wander further down, hooking into his belt loops.

“Give it to me,” you whisper, the words loaded as anything, making his eyes open again. “The guilt, the pain, whatever you need. Let me have it.” You reach up, curl your hands around his wrists and slowly move his arms down, sighing into him when his palms land on your hips. His forehead is still pressed to yours, and you feel his hot breath fan across your face, smelling of whiskey and cigarettes and desire. He twists the fabric of your dress between his fingers, the hemline dragging higher up your thighs, and you see his gaze dip, pupils blown wide. “Use me, Javi,” you continue, the words surprising even yourself. “I can take it.”

He shakes his head once, and the dread of rejection seeps into your bloodstream. Shit. “You don’t know what you’re asking, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low and half-broken. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“Just for tonight,” you counter, the rejection slinking away into the shadows when you realize he’s still holding you close, still breathing your air. “I can take it. Whatever you need, give it to me. Please.”

The tip of his hawkish nose drags along yours and when he speaks, you can feel his lips brush your own. “I won’t hurt you.”

“I know, Javi,” you reply, nudging his nose, moving your arms up to drape them over his shoulders. “I trust you.”

He wrenches himself away from you then, your dress falling back to your knees, a heady breath falling out of you when he stalks towards the door. That fear creeps in again, but he doesn’t open the door, doesn’t disappear, doesn’t leave you feeling the fool.

Javier locks the door, kicks off his shoes, and returns to you. You toe off your own heels as he closes the distance, and then he’s on you. Big hands sliding around your ribs, lifting you up and against him as his mouth finds yours. He kisses you slow, lips crushed to yours, dragging it out and sucking hard on your lower lip. It’s intoxicating, the way you can taste the whiskey on his tongue, feel how hard he’s straining against his zipper, the strength he’s withholding while he holds you.

Your legs lift around his hips, and he sets you on the desk, sweeping a hand out to move everything out of the way. You keep him close, one hand moving up to twine in his hair, the other curling in the back of his collar. “You tell me,” he whispers against your mouth, the words spoke between kisses, the one arm still around you pulling you to the edge of the desk. He grabs your thigh in one broad hand, skims his palm along it, head dropping to watch it disappear under the skirt of your dress, “if I’m being too rough, okay?”

You nod furiously, your grip on the back of his shirt tightening, and he kisses harder, teeth grazing your lip, tongue invading your mouth. You take everything he gives, sighing into the way he squeezes your waist, the hand beneath your dress moving to your core, fingers dipping beneath the elastic of your underwear. He drinks down the moan you make when his middle and ring fingers stroke along your clit, index and pinky fingers sliding into the curves of your thigh.

“So wet, querida,” he whispers into your mouth, and his hand moves lower, fingers curling into where you’re dripping, the stretch making you throw your head back as white-hot pleasure seeps through you, turning your blood to flame. “Tell me, how long have you wanted this?”

“Since the first time you asked me for a cigarette,” you admit, and it’s the truth. You release his collar, hand snaking down his chest, flicking over the buttons of his shirt, and you cup him through his jeans, grinning against his mouth when his cock jumps into your touch. “How long have you wanted this?”

“Since the first time I saw you,” he says quickly, and crooks his wrist almost harshly, fingers plunging deep, touching nerves you didn’t even know you had. You squeeze him, fingers reaching for the button on his fly, but he bats your hand away, thrusting his fingers again. It makes you keen, head tilting back again, and he presses his mouth to your throat, kissing your pulse, dragging his tongue along it. “You first, baby,” he whispers.

He’s relentless, and talented with his movements, kissing his way across your collar as you start to climb that peak, that coil inside you growing tighter and tighter. He dips his tongue into the hollow of your throat, drags it straight up to your chin, kissing the edge of your jaw as the pleasure overtakes you, spurred quickly by those dark eyes watching you and a sly grin curving that pretty mouth.

Your chest heaves as you start to come down, limbs loose and white sparks clouding your vision. Javi’s still grinning, slowly pulling his hand from you, making you whine with the loss, but it slides into a moan when he lifts his fingers to his mouth, slips them between his lips, licking them clean before he’s grabbing your chin and kissing you rough again.

“Another night,” he tells you, thumb swiping your jawline, “I’ll lay you out on my bed and lick you till you shake, but right now, I need to fuck you, you understand?”

You nod furiously, hands flailing to reach for his waist, yanking his fly open. But before you can slip a hand beneath his waistband, he’s pulling you off the desk by your hips, turning you in his arms and laying a palm flat between your shoulders. You’re quick to catch on, pushing your ass back as you bend over. He growls for real this time, yanking the skirt of your dress up and then your underwear down, letting it pool at your feet while he skims a hand over your bare ass.

His touch is gone, and a second later, the flat of his palm connects with your asscheek, the smack echoing through the room, your skin stinging, and damn it all if you don’t feel yourself get wetter.

There’s the rustling of fabric, and then you can feel his thighs press into the backs of your own, the hair on his legs tickling your flesh. He holds your hip with one hand, kicks your knees apart with his foot, and you bite your lip when you feel the tip of his cock drag through your folds.

“Hands, querida,” he commands, and you’re quick to obey, folding both arms behind your back. He catches your wrists in one hand, long fingers locking you into place. “So good for me.” You can hear the grin in his voice.

Then he pushes into you, the drag of his cock tight but perfect, and you can’t stop yourself from moaning loudly. He sets an immediate pace, hips snapping into your ass hard, every thrust making the desk quake beneath you, metal scraping along the floor. He’s using his grip on you as leverage, yanking you back onto is cock with every thrust he presses into you.

You can feel the power in every thrust, the emotion he doesn’t quite know how to comprehend spurring every movement. His grunts and groans are laced with that same tightness you’d heard earlier, but as he keeps moving, as he lets himself get more lost in your body, it grows looser and looser, the noises freer, lighter.

You’re almost incoherent, hands flexing wide in his grip, but you take it. You take everything he gives, every relentless pound, every smack to your ass. You’ll have a Javier-shaped handprint come morning, and it only makes your body feel hotter. I can take it, you’d promised. And you will.

He releases your wrists after a while, grabbing your waist with both hands, fingers pressing into the flesh of your ass, still keeping his pace, still setting your whole body alight. You curl your fingers around the edge of the desk, holding on for dear life, feeling your eyes roll back as he somehow manages to fuck you deeper, this time his cock seeking out every pleasure-drenched nerve inside you. Everything in you goes deliciously taut again, toes curling and one knee bending upwards until your heel drags along his calf. He spanks you again, this time on the other cheek, and it only makes you cum harder, dropping your face into the desktop and groaning loudly. “Fuck, Javier.”

Everything changes then. His pace slows, he releases your hips, pressing his hands onto the desk on either side of you, leaning over you, caging you in. His hips roll slowly, deeply, the drag of his skin on your making you claw at the desk, groaning into the wood.

You let him keep at it for a while, chewing your lip raw in the process, but then you turn your head, lock your eyes with his, reach one hand back to grip his thigh. “I wanna look at you, Javi,” you murmur, “please.”

In a flash, he’s pulled out of you with a grunt, quickly gathering you up and into his arms, pulling your legs around his waist and returning to his rightful place, angling his hips and slipping back into your drenched heat. Your back arches, chest pressed to his, and he kisses you again, rough and delicious, drinking you down like you’re the whiskey in his glass.

Your shoulders hit the softness of what you assume to be his mattress a moment later, sheets strewn about. It takes you a moment to realize he’s undoing the buttons on your dress, and you reach your own hands up to pull at his shirt, fumbling with the buttonholes until enough are undone that he can reach back and yank the thing over his head, tossing it somewhere out of sight, leaving the board expanse of his golden chest on display for you.

“Gonna rip this fucking thing off you,” he grumbles, struggling with the tie at your waist. You stifle a laugh, both at his tone and the wildness of the situation — the fact that he’s literally inside you, undressing you, touching your body in ways you’ve only dreamed of.

He manages to get the tie undone, and you slither out of the dress best you can, leaving it sprawled on his bed, the fabric wrinkled beneath you, but you don’t care. Javier lets out a strained sigh when he sees your lack of bra beneath, and instantly, he drops his face into your chest, mouthing at your breasts, hips starting up another rhythm, not as fast as before but not as slow as he’d gone either. You cup the back of his neck with one hand, tangle the fingers of your other in his hair again.

You listen, as he fucks into you, listen to the hitch in his breath, the deep groan that rips through his throat when you tighten around him, the stifled gasp he presses into your skin. His hands fist in the sheets, cock twitching deep as he paints the deepest parts of you. He lets his teeth scrape your breast as the pleasure overtakes him, and you hiss, tugging on his hair, yanking his face back up to your so you can kiss him through it, swallowing his moans like he’d swallowed yours, licking into his mouth as his hips continue to stutter.

Spent, he collapses onto you, weight pressing you into the mattress. You don’t move your hands from their places, massaging the back of his neck and sifting his hair through your fingers. He fits his head into the crook of your neck, nosing along the curve of your throat, hot breath fanning across your chest. He’s still inside you, your hips spread wide to accommodate him, muscles stretching. It’s a good burn, his weight making you feel more grounded after you’d just been combing the clouds with the way he’d dragged pleasure through you like a hot knife through butter.

His breath starts to even out, grow slower, and for a moment, you think he’s asleep. You can’t stop moving your fingers through his hair, the silky strands curling around your knuckles. Then he hums, the sound making your chest vibrate, and you freeze.

“Do you want me to go?” you ask, the question half-whispered, and Javier’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowed.

He shakes his head, moving up your body slightly, an arm sliding beneath your shoulder and hand coming to rest at your temple, fingertips tracing your skin. “No, querida,” he whispers, and kisses you once, soft and gentle and full of promise. “I want you to stay.”

—————

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queenxxxsupreme · 3 years

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Hi! Could you write an Arthur Morgan x reader where one of the gang gets lost in a snowstorm and the reader knows how to deal with this weather so she offers to go look? ☺️

A/N: I am so sorry this sort of strayed away from the prompt! Reader and Arthur are the ones who actually ended up getting lost and this takes place just before Colter.... If you don’t like this babe, I have no problem doing another! Also, I’m sorry this took quite a bit! My weekend did not go to plan. I hope you like it! And I’m sorry my hand slipped.... It’s 3.4k words...

***

Arthur cast a glance over his shoulder at you, wanting to make sure you weren’t lagging behind.

Your horse, a golden palomino you promptly named Butternut, was having some difficulty traversing the deep snow, but with your little words of encouragement and pats on the shoulder and neck, she seemed to be pushing through.

“You alright back there?” He called over his shoulder.

“Just dandy.” You looked up at him, taking your eyes off of Butternut’s mane. Her hair was frozen and collecting snow but you were trying to wipe it away in an attempt to keep her as warm as possible.

“Hopefully we’ll find somethin’ soon.”

“That map Hosea gave us said we should’ve found something nearly thirty minutes ago.” You tucked your hands into the pockets of your coat. “You sure you’re reading it right, Morgan?”

“I know how to read a map.” He grumbled, pulling the map out of his bag to take another look at it.

The two of you had been traveling for well over two hours through the snow in a desperate attempt to find shelter for the gang. They were holed up somewhere just east of Lake Isabella, but you were traveling north along the Spider Gorge.

“This wind is getting too cold, Mr. Morgan. Put your mask up to cover your face.” You pulled the black and white plaid bandana from around your neck up over your nose. You almost sighed in relief at the warmth provided by the thick material.

“M’fine.” He grumbled, his deep baritone almost drowned out by the heavy wind.

“I don’t care if you’re fine right now, Arthur. Within the hour, your nose and lips will suffer from frostbite.”

He said nothing in response to you, blue eyes flickering over the map as his horse continued along the trail.

“Mr. Morgan, don’t make me ask you again. I won’t be so kind.”

“This cold weather sure does make you mean, Ms. Y/L/N.” Arthur pulled his mask up over his nose, glancing over to you as you moved your horse up beside his.

“I’ve seen what this cold weather can do to stubborn fools.”

“I’ve heard that one before.” He muttered, passing you the map. You brought your horse to a stop, so he did the same. “Think we got side tracked from that little establishment Hosea mentioned. If my thoughts and judgement are correct, I’d say we’re about here.” He pointed to the area between the home of a poor woman the gang had just taken in named Sadie Adler and Colter, the abandoned settlement the gang was aiming to lay low in for a short time.

“You think we passed Colter?” You looked over to Arthur.

“Had to have. There ain’t no way we didn’t. We should’ve found it by now.”

“I don’t think it’s that easy to miss a whole town, Arthur.” You looked back at the map, your eyes following Spider Gorge. You’d followed that very creek nearly the entire way north. There was no way you’d missed Colter.

“Hard to tell with these mountains and all this damned snow. Can’t see shit with the wind blowin’ in our faces either.” He grumbled, carefully snapping the reins to make his horse move.

You folded the map up and followed alongside him.

“That’s ‘cause ole Arthur Morgan is used to warm weather. He isn’t used to the beauty of the Grizzlies.”

“And you are?” He cocked a brow at you.

Beneath your mask, you wore a small but proud smile.

“I grew up around Tempest Rim. This weather ain’t new to me, cowboy.”

Your romantic relationship with Arthur was fairly new, so he had yet to learn every detail about your past. He took mentally took note of this detail, reminding himself that he’d have to jot it down in his journal at a later time.

You let out a sigh, pulling him from his thoughts. Your eyes were focused on the mountains to the west where the sun was setting.

“Sun’s goin’ down. We’re loosing daylight. Means it’ll only get colder from here.”

“Can’t turn around now.” Arthur shook his head. “Too long of a trip back to the gang. It would take most of the night.”

“I wasn’t suggesting we give up. But we need shelter of some sort. Somewhere a little warm to rest. And the horses need a break.”

“Well if we keep goin’ this way, all we’re gonna find is Mrs. Adler’s burned down house.” Arthur gestured in the direction you had been going.

“Burned down? What happened to it? I thought you said O’Driscolls just got a hold of her.”

“Micah happened.”

You sighed.

“She did have a barn or two on her property.” Arthur thought out loud. “They shouldn’t have gotten burnt down with the house.”

“You think it’s worth a look?”

“We can go see about that, or we can go back and try to find Colter.”

You didn’t think that you had passed Colter just yet, but you didn’t want to argue with him. Arguing and fighting in such extreme conditions wasn’t ideal, nor did it seem necessary.

“Let’s try Mrs. Adler’s place.”

Arthur nodded, clicking his tongue twice to get his horse moving.

***

The sun had gone down and snow began to fall from the sky.

Arthur was sure that you should’ve reached Sadie Adler’s ranch by now, but he wasn’t sure why it was taking so long.

“Arthur, maybe we should stop and make camp.” Your voice was quiet and uneasy. You didn’t like the idea of making camp out in the open. It was dangerous. Not only were you open to the bitter elements, but to the chance O’Driscolls finding you too.

“We can’t stop yet, pumpkin.” He turned his head to look at you.

You were visibly shivering but you were trying your best to remain strong for him. He needed you to be strong.

“What happened to you bein’ my strong mountain woman?” He teased, slowing his horse down a bit so he could move alongside you. “Don’t tell me this Grizzly weather is gettin’ to you.”

A little smile tugged at your slightly chapped lips.

“Course not. Just-Just worried about Butternut. She ain’t used to this. Blackwater is so much nicer and warmer than up here, and that’s all she’s used to.”

Arthur let go of the reins to his horse with one hand, reaching over to pat your thigh.

“We’ll find somewhere warm for Butternut to stay.”

Your eyes were focused ahead of you so instead of watching Arthur, you were focused on what was waiting for you on the path ahead. The faint outline of what looked like a building made you jolt.

“Arthur, look!”

He looked in the direction you point.

“That don’t look like Mrs. Adler’s barn.”

“It has to be Colter.” You nudged your horse to make her move faster. You were all too eager to get her out of the elements.

“Y/N, hold on a second!” Arthur called after you, but you were already gone. “Damn it, woman.”

You made it into the abandoned town first, eyes flickering around to make sure you were alone. At first glance, you were alone. The place was vacant.

A sudden burst of wind made your horses uneasy and made you grasp the hood on your head, fearing it would fall off.

Arthur came up beside you, carefully inspecting the main street of Colter. He pulled the mask down from his nose.

“I’m gonna put the horses in this old barn.” He gestured to your right. “Just hope it don’t cave in on them in the middle of the night.”

“Arthur.” You scolded him. He grinned, knowing he was only teasing you.

“After that, I’ll make sure we’re the only ones here. You wanna get what we need and go into that building right behind you?”

You nodded and got down from your horse. You got as much as you could from your horse and from Arthur’s, taking what you needed as far as bedding and food, and made your way to the building Arthur talked about.

Unsurprisingly, the house was empty. It consisted of one main room with a large fireplace in the center and three rooms off of the main room.

You put the things in your hands down on the floor near the fireplace. Slipping the knife out of its holster on your hip, you moved to the room to your right.

The floorboards creaked beneath your boots. It was evident no one had been there in a long time. There were cobwebs everywhere. The glass to the windows were broken, but they were boarded up too so that stopped some of the bitter cold air from coming inside.

The room to your right contained a grinding wheel and a workbench. Seeing that nothing would be useful there, you continued to the next room. This room seemed to be a living space of some sort. There was a bed, a dresser, and an end table inside the room.

After searching the dresser and the end table, you went to the final room. It was set up similarly to the other bedroom, except this one had a large bed that was clearly meant for two people.

In the corner of the room closest to the doorway was a small stack of firewood. You immediately became excited over the sight of the wood. Maybe you could start a fire in the fireplace. The very idea of heat almost brought tears to your eyes.

***

Arthur slipped into the house, closing the door behind himself. He looked around, surveying the room.

You were knelt down by the fireplace, trying to start a fire with a matchbook.

“What’re you doin’?” He asked.

“Trying to get us some sorta heat.” You struck the match and put it into the fireplace. “We need some sorta kindling. The wood ain’t gonna light by itself.”

“Where’d you find that wood?”

“In one of the back rooms.” You stood up, passing him the matchbook. “I have a few newspaper articles from a few weeks ago when we were in New Austin. They’re in one of my saddle bags.”

“But ain’t those for your collection?” Arthur watched you as you started for the door.

“Yeah.”

“Pumpkin, you don’t gotta use those newspapers.”

You stopped at the door, your hand on the knob.

“We need the heat, Arthur.”

“I got paper in my journal.” He started to pull his journal out but you were quick to stop him.

“No!” You rushed to his side, stopping him from pulling the journal out of his satchel. “Don’t you dare ruin that new journal, Arthur Morgan. I just bought it for you.”

“I know, but I don’t want you to destroy your newspapers. I know you like to collect all the ones with strange news reportings and those ones from New Austin talk about a bunch of weird things.”

“I’m sure I can find more later on, Arthur.” You kept your hand on his that rested on his satchel. “Do not ruin that journal. Do not tear any papers out. I am using my newspapers so we can have a fire tonight.”

Arthur frowned, shaking his head softly.

“Pumpkin-,”

“Don’t pumpkin me, cowboy.” You cut him off, leaning up on your toes to give his slightly chapped lips a gentle kiss. “If you so much as rip one paper from that journal, you’ll be relying on only the fire’s warmth tonight.”

He sighed, watching you move across the room and slip out of the house.

***

A few minutes later, you return with the newspapers. They’re folded neatly under your arm. In one hand, you hold a bottle of gin and in the other is a bottle of whiskey.

“I figured we could do with a little to drink tonight.” You explained as you set the two bottles of liquor down on the mantle above the fireplace.

“That’s a bit more than a little to drink.” Arthur commented.

“I didn’t know which one you’d want.”

He nodded, standing up from the chair he had been sitting in. He picked the chair up and moved towards the front door. He propped the chair beneath the doorknob and wedged it there so that no one would be able to come in.

You watched him and when he turned around to face you, your eyes met.

“Just wanna make sure we’re safe tonight.”

You nodded.

You knelt down in front of the fire, placing the small stack of newspapers in front of you on the floor.

“If we rip the paper in half and twist it up, it’ll burn better.” You explained, taking the top piece of paper and ripping it in half. It hurt to see the newspaper go, but you knew it wasn’t as important as your life or as Arthur’s. The temperatures were too low to go without a fire through the night.

Arthur knelt down beside you, assisting you with the process of ripping the newspaper up and twisting it. Then the twisted pieces were placed into the fire below and around the pieces of firewood.

You picked up the matchbook from the floor and struck a match. You watched the flame for a few moments, then threw it into the fireplace. The paper caught on fire almost immediately. This would give the wood a chance to heat up and catch flame too.

Arthur’s eyes flickered to you. You were staring into the heat, a little smile adorning your lips. He could see the sadness in your eyes. You really did like collecting newspapers. It was the one thing you enjoyed doing. Everyone at camp knew you liked it too, and sometimes they’d bring you back clippings and papers if they thought you’d enjoy the piece on it.

Arthur took off one of his gloves and slipped his hand around the back of your neck, drawing you in to him. He pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“Your hands are freezin’, Morgan.” You giggled.

He chuckled, letting you go and putting his hands closer to the fire.

“Sorry, pumpkin.”

“I’ll start gettin’ our beds set up.”

“Beds?” He repeated, emphasizing on the s. Arthur looked over his shoulder to watch you go to the bedrolls that were not to far away from him. “We ain’t sharin’?”

“I never said that.”

“You said beds. Our beds.”

“My apologies, Mr. Morgan.” You grinned, looking over to him. “I’ll get our bed set up.”

“Much better, pumpkin. Apology accepted.” He winked at you.

You stood up straight, placing your hands on your hips. Arthur stood up and stepped back from the fire, putting himself a foot or so away from you.

“If we’re gonna share a sleeping area, how should we go about this? One bedroom ain’t gonna fit us both.”

“It will if you squeeze. I’ll suck it in.”

“Suck what in?”

“My gut.” He patted his stomach, a grin playing on his lips. You giggled, rolling your eyes.

“That ain’t the problem. The problem is no matter how much suckin’ in either of us do, we’re too much for one of the bed rolls.”

Arthur looked at the bedrolls then to the fire.

“Well, we can make it work. You get in both ours and I’ll lay on the floor by you holdin’ you. We’ll be by the fire. I don’t need nothin’ but you.”

“Arthur, I’m not doin’ that.” You shook your head.

“What if I want you to?” He tilted his head to the side. “You know how overheated I get sometimes when I’m sleepin. I don’t need a blanket with all these layers I have on right now plus sleepin’ so close to the fire. But you, Miss Y/L/N, I can’t have you gettin’ cold tonight.”

“Oh, I know you wouldn’t let me get cold, Mr. Morgan.” You smiled. “But I can’t take both bedrolls.”

“I beg to differ, pumpkin.” He picked up his bed roll and put it down far enough from the fire that it wasn’t a safety hazard but close enough that you could still feel the heat. Arthur took your bedroll and tucked it into his own, giving you double the bedding.

“Arthur, I don’t like it.”

“Well tough shit. I already told you how I’m sleepin’ tonight. I wanna be able to wrap my arms around you and hold you close.”

You frowned as you looked down at the bedrolls. This would mean that not only would you be the only one with a blanket of some sort tonight, but you’d also be the only one not sleeping directly on the hard and freezing cold floor.

“Arthur, can’t we just try somethin’ else? M’not gonna sleep good knowin’ you’re on the hard floor. And these floorboards are far too creaky and drafty for you to be sleepin’ on them without anything.”

He let out a sigh, glancing around the room.

“Well, we got another option.” His eyes landed on one of the bedrooms. “We could pull a mattress out here and throw the bedrolls over it. That way we ain’t sleepin’ directly on the floor or the old mattress.”

You thought about the idea for a few moments, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

Any other day, you’d pass and sleep on the floor. But it was too cold and you could feel a draft coming from between the floorboards. A mattress could stop that.

“Okay.”

As Arthur left the main room to retrieve a mattress, you moved the bedrolls out of the way. He came back in a few moments later with the smaller of the two mattresses in the house.

He placed it in front of the fire and allowed you to fix the makeshift bed to your liking.

You laid out both bedrolls to cover the mattress and provide protection between you and the old mattress. Then you shed your thick coat knowing you could use it better as a blanket.

“You think we can both squeeze on to that mattress?” Arthur asked, gesturing to the mattress on the floor.

“We’ll find out in the mornin’ when we see if one of us have fallen off.” You grinned a little, settling down on the mattress. It wasn’t luxurious by any means, but it beat riding on horseback all night in the snow. “Make sure you grab those drinks before you get down here, Mr. Morgan.”

He retrieved the gin and whiskey from the mantle, placing them down on the floor by the mattress, then he got down on the mattress behind you. You were sitting facing the fire. This put your back to Arthur, but he didn’t mind.

You took the gin, opened it up, and took a swig. The piney liquor was exactly what you needed. It seemed to fit in well with the atmosphere as you looked at the fire.

“How do you reckon we got lost?” You looked over your shoulder to him, offering him the gin. He took it and drunk from it before answering.

“Think we must’ve gotten off the road at some point. Made it feel like we’d traveled longer or something like that.”

You nodded, looking back to the fire.

“What happened at Blackwater, Arthur?” Your voice lowered and a solemn tone took over.

Arthur didn’t answer you immediately as he leaned back on his elbow. His eyes studied the side of your face, brows drawn together just slightly.

“I don’t know, pumpkin. Wish I did know, but I didn’t have time to ask Dutch or anyone who was there.” He tapped the gin bottle against the side of your arm. You looked down and took it from him.

“You think they’ll be okay when we get back to them?”

“Course they’ll be okay, Y/N.”

“Well, we were gone longer than we were supposed to be. The weather was bad down there by Lake Isabella. Just hope they were able to stay warm.”

Arthur sat up and moved a little closer to you, kissing the side of your cheek once he could reach you.

“They’ll be just fine, pumpkin. They got Dutch and Hosea lookin’ after them. And Javier and Charles are plenty able to make sure everyone’s okay too.”

“What about John?”

“Well…. John’s a different story.” Arthur sighed. “But m’sure John’s okay too. He’s got dumb luck.”

You nodded, knowing Arthur was right.

“We need to sleep.” He reminded you, laying down on the mattress.

You put the bottle of gin down and shifted down to lay next to Arthur.

“You got any more space over there, pumpkin? M’nearly rollin’ off the edge.” He grunted a little, moving around a bit. The springs squeak under his weight. “I can only suck it in so much, Miss Y/L/N.”

You giggled, thankful that he had the ability to lighten the mood.

“Good night, Arthur.”

“Good night, pumpkin.”

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if your name is in italics, it wouldn’t let me tag you :(

#Arthur Morgan x reader #Arthur Morgan x reader fluff #Arthur Morgan fluff #Arthur Morgan #Arthur Morgan asks #Arthur Morgan ask #rdr2 Arthur Morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #kacey answers #rdr2 one shot

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cowpokecorner · 4 years

Text

For Whom The Bell Tolls Part 2 // Micah x Reader (NSFT)

FO: Sorry this took me so long to get done. Been a lot going on personally, and I haven't had a whole lot of motivation to write. Especially considering I wasn't much of a writer before this blog. lol But anyway, as promised, here is Part 2 to my recent Micah x Reader story. Once again, it's a bit long, so I apologize for that as well. ^-^;; This part IS NSFT/NSFW so please read at your own discretion and enjoy~! ^w^ Also, if you haven’t already read it, you can’t find Part 1 here. =========================== After having a quick chat with the saloon owner and exchanging payment, Micah had come to retrieve you and lead you up the stairs to the room the two of you had been given for the night. He fumbled a bit with the key before finally figuring out which way it went and getting the door open. You follow him int, your eyes widening at the sight before you. Your family home wasn't the most lavish place, so seeing a room like this was actually a whole new experience. Micah looked back at you with a raised brow. "Well. You comin' in?" "O-oh! S-sorry..." You stuttered a bit when you realized you were still just standing in the doorway. You quickly stepped in and shut the door behind you. Your surprise was quickly replaced with the butterflies now filling your stomach at the realization that you were actually about to spend the night in a private room with a man you had only just met not even twenty-four hours ago. Micah removed his hat and placed it on the vanity in the corner of the room before taking off his leather jacket and draping it over the chair. He turned to you with a tipsy expression as he pulled out a cigarette and a match. He lit it up and took a long drag, blowing out the smoke and smiling at you. "So uh... Still got n'hour or so til it gets dark. Anythin' y'wanna do b'fore bed~?" You seemed to be a bit startled a bit by his voice, quickly looking to him with a shy smile. "Oh um...well... What'dja have in mind...?" You suddenly felt you were going to regret asking that question. Especially seeing as you just took notice of the fact that there was only one bed.

He seemed to be thinking a moment before moving to sit on the bed. He placed the cigarette between his lips to hold there as he opened the nightstand drawer and began looking through it. Not much was inside though. Just a copy of the King James Bible, which Micah promptly tossed aside with a grumble, a couple of matchbooks, and a deck of cards. "Well...we could play a card game, but... Ain't much we can play just the two of us." He blew out some smoke as he sighed softly. He then looked up to you with a slight smirk. You felt your heart skip a beat when he looked at you. He was hinting at something. You knew he was. He wanted something that 'just the two' of you could do together. You bit your lip a bit as you shifted your weight from foot to foot nervously. "Well... Maybe there's somethin' we could play with'em..." "You any good at Poker~?" He chuckled a lowly as he stood and made his way to the small table in the room. He sat down on one side and removed the cigarette from his mouth, letting out more smoke as he placed the cards on the table. "Well uh...not really..." You replied nervously as you took the seat across from him. "I know the basics, but...not much else." "Poker it is then~!" He seemed quite excited about this, a gleam in his eye as he removed the cards from their casing and started shuffling them after replacing his cigarette between his lips. "Got a way ta make it more interestin' too~" "I-interesting...?" You had a feeling you knew where this was going, but you did your best to push the thought out of your mind. "Every round you win, I gotta take a piece a clothin' off, but..." He looked up at you with a devious grin. "Every round I win, you gotta take somethin' off~" You felt your face heat up with blush. He was serious, wasn't he? Were you really about to...? "O-okay, s-sure~" Your voice a bit shaky, but part of you was actually becoming curious about how this man might be in bed. This thought only caused you to blush more. "Well alright then~" He sniffed with a crooked grin. He dealt the cards and the game began. Just as you stated, you weren't all that good at Poker, but you played anyway. Sadly, after only a few hands, you now sat in only your undergarments while Micah was still mostly dressed. He had only lost his boots, neckerchief and gun belt. You could feel your whole body blushing at the situation, his eyes studying you as he laid his cards down. "Looks like I win, Sugarpie~" He had become more comfortable with you now, his nerves seeming to melt away as he even used a special pet name for you. "I-I sup-pose...y-ya do...Mr. B-Bell..." You wrap your arms around yourself to try and cover your mostly bare body. "S-so...what now..." You looked away from him, pretty certain you knew what was coming next. Micah didn't say anything. He just studied you as he stood and slowly walked around the table to where you sat. He looked down at you, the corners of his mouth curling into a grin as he leaned toward you a bit. "Well...s'been a little while since I kept some special comp'ny~" Special company'. You knew what that meant. "O-oh...w-well...um..." You bit your lip nervously, but before you could say another word you found yourself being scooped up from your seat and tossed onto the bed. Micah soon followed, climbing over you to loom there on his hands and knees as he stared down and chuckled lowly. Your heart was pounding in your chest as you looked up at him. His icy blue eyes seemed to be looking right into your soul. You soon found yourself reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck. What had gotten into you? Were you really about to do this? Before you had a chance to even think about saying anything to him though, you suddenly felt his lips against yours. Your eyes widen as his mustache lightly tickles your lip, but you were able to will yourself to relax and melt into the kiss. Your eyes slowly closed as you felt him deepen it, his tongue working it's way into your mouth to taste you. Micah lingered in the kiss for a moment or two before pulling back to catch his breath. He panted softly in time with your heavy ones before chuckling. "Seems like you want this just as much as I do, don'cha darlin'~?" "Well... You made it...hard ta...resist ya..." You huff a bit as you move one of your hands to cup his cheek. "I mean...ya seemed really...disappointed...n' lonely...when I was gonna leave b'fore..." Micah huffed a bit as he slightly furrowed his brows. "I ain't lonely. Don't need much'a anyone 'round." His expression softens once more as he smirks. "I just like havin' a bit a fun now and then~" He quickly grabs both of your hands and pins them by the wrists with one of his above your head before leaning down and placing soft kisses to your neck and collarbones, causing you to gasp a bit. You couldn't help but squirm beneath him at all the physical attention. You managed to bite back a few soft moans before speaking. "W-well..I wasn't p-plannin' on doin' this, but...s-since ya make s-such a comp-pellin' argument~" You moved a knee up to gently press into his crotch. You couldn't do much where he had your hands pinned. Micah quickly put a stop to this too though. He used his other hand to push your leg back down. "Ah-ah-ah~ Don't make me have ta tie ya up, Sugarpie~" His voice was low and smooth as he spoke, sending a shiver down your spine. "M'sure I could find somethin' in here to do so~" "Well...how else d'ya expect me ta please ya then~?" You ask, narrowing your gaze at him in an attempt to look seductive. He grew quiet for a moment, seeming to be lost in thought before a sinister grin came across his lips. He let go of your hands and got off of you, moving to sit on the edge of the bed now. He looked back to you, bringing a hand up to beckon you toward him before gesturing for you to move to the floor. "On your knees, Sweetheart~" His movements and demanding tone sent chills throughout your entire body, but you did as instructed so as not to anger him. Besides, he was making ever part of this night harder and harder to resist. Once settled on your knees between his, you look up at him with a pitiful face and questioned softly. "W-what n-now...M-Mister Bell~?" Micah seemed to beam at you referring to him as 'Mister Bell'. He grinned as he looked down at you, moving a his hands to undo his pants and pull himself out. He gave his member a few strokes before reaching out to lace his fingers through your hair and push your face closer. "I think you know just what t'do, Darlin'~" He chuckled lowly. Your face was hot with blush now as you swallowed hard and looked at the object of desire. He brought a hand up to gently replace his as you stroked him a few times, enticing some soft hums from him. You took a deep breath and closed your eyes, now leaning more forward to carefully take his tip into your mouth. You swirled your tongue around it for a moment before beginning to lightly suck, humming softly to yourself as you did so. Micah closed his eyes as well, leaning his head back and letting out a quiet, breathy moan. He tightened his grip on your hair as he pushed your head further, causing you to take more of him in. As the warmth of your mouth encased him more it caused his moans to become a bit louder, but not too loud as he preferred you to be making the noise rather than himself. You gasped a bit at the tugging of your hair, but oddly enough it only aroused you further. You could feel yourself growing hot all over now, but most especially in your loins. You pushed further to take even more of his length in, now bobbing your head as you sucked and hummed around him. You did your best to run your tongue over every inch of him, making sure to hit all the places that seemed to cause him more pleasure. Micah would only allow this to continue for a few more minutes before abruptly yanking you away by your hair. This drew a slight yelp of pain from you, but he only looked down and chuckled at the hot mess you had become. "Now for the real fun~" He spoke darkly, reaching down now with both hands to pull you to your feet and strip the last of your clothing away. He then pulled you into his lap, his manhood threatening to find its way into you. You panted heavily as you tried to catch your breath, but before you had much time to you found yourself completely nude and in his lap. Eye to eye now, your heart was pounding. His eyes were the most beautiful icy blue, and you felt as though you could stare into them forever. However, your touching moment was interrupted by the sudden presence of his member abruptly entering you. You let out a loud gasp as you clung to him, the pain of your first time being a bit more than you thought it would be. Lucky for you though, the pain didn't last long as it was washed away by the immense pleasure of his throbbing extension inside of you Micah moved his hands to your hips as you wrapped your arms around his neck and clung to him. He huffed and hummed at the tightness of you around him. He gripped your hips firmly and started to bounce you on his lap now, a few groans escaping him as he did so. "Always did like havin' me a virgin~ Nice n' tight~ Feels better that way~" He couldn't help but tease as he fucked you. You were too busy panting and moaning at this point to speak aside from a few curses now and then. You gripped his shirt tightly as you rode him. After a bit longer you managed to get a few words out. "H-hard-der~! F-f-fa-as-ster~!" You practically begged him for it now. Micah grinned, eagerly obliging your demands. "You sure this is your first time, Sugarpie~? Sure seems like ya know what'cha want~ Or maybe you're just naturally a dirty little whore~" Oddly enough, his insults were less insulting and much more...arousing. Before you could even think about it your mouth was spouting off a reply to him. "Y-yes M-Mis-ster B-Bell~ I'm y-your d-d-dirty l-little whore~ A-all y-y-yours~!" "That's right~" He cooed in your ear. The next ten or fifteen minutes continued like this. Micah talking dirty to you as he fucked you, and you just melting further into a puddle of ecstasy in his lap. Soon enough the both of you were steadily approaching your climaxes, however you would cross that line first. You felt a tightness building up inside of you that you just wanted to give release. You had begun to move your hips along with him now, and it only took a few more thrusts before you were a moaning mess in his arms. Your orgasm was intense as your inner walls clamped around him, twitching and pulsing as you rode it out. Micah did his best to last a bit longer, but it was no use. Your orgasm had triggered his own. He bit his lip in an attempt to muffle the growl of a moan that managed to escape him anyway as he let off inside you. He gave a few more rough thrusts before slowing to a stop, panting heavily and holding you close. He only stayed this way for a bit longer before moving you off his lap and laying you down on the bed. He then proceeded to lay down next to you, pulling the blanket over the two of you and draping an arm loosely over you. "Y'know... That was probably some a the best I've had in a long while~" He spoke softly. You found yourself cuddling up to him, nuzzling your face into his chest as you hummed softly. His words were like velvet to your ears. You looked up to him with a warm smile. "Well...I...mostly definitely wouldn't mind doin' it again some time, Mister Bell~" "Good ta hear, Sweetheart~" He cooed softly. "Because I was hopin' ta take ya back with me~" "Take me...back..?" You gave him a curious look as you tilted your head slightly. "Never mind that now. Get'cha some sleep. We'll talk about it in the morning." He sighed softly as he relaxed, letting his eyes slowly close. However, he didn't seem to be asleep. Maybe just resting a bit? But not fully asleep. You, on the other hand, were much too tired to fight sleep at this point. You didn't let the curiosity linger too long before returning your head to his chest and closing your eyes. It was only a matter of minutes before you drifted off to sleep, Micah's hand having found its way to your hair and running through it soothingly. This would definitely be a night to remember.

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lilacmoon83 · 3 years

Text

Lightning in a Bottle

Also on Fanfiction.net and A03

Chapter 25: Point of No Return, Pt 1

Emma and Killian arrived at Felix's apartment and found it fairly normal. Not dirty, but a bit cluttered and lived in. There was the collection of newspaper articles on his kitchen table that got their attention though.

"Obituaries?" Killian asked.

"He said that people were dying before he jumped. For some reason, I think he thought he was causing people to die," Emma replied.

"These seem like accidents though. This woman was electrocuted by a stray power line that fell during a storm," he said.

"That's horrible and gruesome. This guy had a heart attack," she said, confused by all of that.

"Why would he think he killed them?" she asked.

"Dunno...but I think we have to chalk this one up to the fact that perhaps he was disturbed. I think you know better than anyone how hard adjusting to coming back to a world that...moved on," he replied, as they shared a look.

"Yeah…" she agreed, but then something in the articles caught her eye.

"Unless...there is more to this, after all," she said, as she pointed to the woman's shirt.

"The Rabbit Hole?" he asked.

"She was an employee at the Rabbit Hole bar and this guy had his heart attack in the same bar," she realized, as she compared the articles.

"That is a pretty freaky coincidence...but what connection to our victim does this place have?" he asked. Emma picked up the matchbook on the table and showed it to him.

"Seems he was a customer too," she said, as he took it from her.

"Now that is definitely worth checking out," he agreed, as they quickly left the man's abandoned apartment.

~*~

After about an hour of delving into the raw data, David was still trying to make sense of it all. But he was sure he was onto something when he encountered what looked to be medical data. If they were experimenting on the missing passengers, then there would be medical data. He picked up his cell phone and dialed a number, while making sure no one was near.

"Glinda...this is David Nolan," he said.

"Hello David," she answered.

"Listen...I found my way into the data information for the Singularity Project and I'm seeing a lot of medical data...and also some electrical readouts. Does that make any sense to you?" he asked.

"Electrical readouts?" she asked.

"Yes...does that mean anything?" he asked.

"It means they're using my research to try to duplicate the Callings. Electrical impulses to stimulate the brain and produce the Callings," she realized.

"So they can control and weaponize them," he said.

"Most likely," she answered.

"Thanks…I'll get back to you soon," David said, as he hung up the phone and peered up over his cubicle and into his boss' office. He looked a bit stressed, like he was on a deadline or something. Probably too much internet surfing and not enough working. This guy was easier to play than a fiddle. There was only one way to find any locations now.

"Hey...I'm finished if there's anything I can take off your plate," David said, as Doc looked up at him and then at the stack of folders on his desk that seemed to make him nervous.

"Yeah...those you need a higher clearance to enter into the system," Doc said, as he rushed around his office.

"Sorry…I'm running late for a board meeting and was supposed to have all this done," he said.

"Well…if you give me access, I could run an algorithm to get this all entered in a snap. It'd be done by the time you get down to corporate," he offered. Doc paused and looked at him for a moment. He sighed then and gave him his access badge.

"I'm counting on you, Nolan," he said, as he hurried out of his office. David smirked.

"Don't worry...you'll get your algorithm and I'll get the locations I need," David muttered.

~*~

Emma and Killian walked into the Rabbit Hole and approached the bar.

"Can I help you?" the man behind the bar asked. He had an accent, similar to Killian's.

"NYPD...we're here to ask you a few questions about a patron that frequents your establishment," Killian replied, as he flashed his badge.

"Of course...I have quite a few regulars and I'll help if I can. I'm Will Scarlet," he replied.

"Do recognize him?" Emma asked, as she showed him a photo on her phone.

"Oh, that's Felix...he's in here a lot. A bit of a celebrity now. Talked a lot about the plane and how he knew it was going to crash," Will replied.

"Really? Was he always paranoid?" he asked.

"Well...he's always been a bit maladjusted, even before the plane. But when he came back...his paranoia went from the normal nine to off the charts. Started saying that people were dying around him," Will replied.

"Well...he might have been right. Can you tell us about these two," Emma said, as she showed him the newspaper clippings.

"Oh yeah...Amara, that was a horrible accident. She was one of my best bartenders," he said.

"And this man?" Killian asked.

"Oh yeah, Tucker...he had a heart attack right here. I wasn't here, but the paramedics couldn't revive him. Wait...you don't think Felix had anything to do with these deaths, do you?" he asked.

"No…we're just investigating any connections," Emma replied.

"Connections to what?" Will asked.

"I am afraid that Felix committed suicide earlier today. We're just trying to get a grasp of his life," Killian replied.

"He's dead?" Will asked.

"I'm afraid so," Emma replied.

"Bloody hell...that's tragic. He was a very troubled guy though," Will said. Killian nodded.

"Thanks for your help," he said, as they exited the building.

"Sounds like Felix was paranoid and thought the deaths that happened here were his fault," Killian said.

"Or he was having Callings," Emma replied. Killian looked skeptical at that.

"Or maybe this is just all unfortunate coincidence," he reasoned. She rolled her eyes.

"Nothing since I've been back has been coincidence," she replied, as they headed for the car. As they did, a thought struck her. What if that was it? He had been talking about the plane. What if he had told these people about the Callings? If that was true...she realized that both Killian and Margaret could be in danger.

~*~

"I got your call...I'm assuming you found something," Vance said. He looked irritated at being summoned and Gold seemed to be unbothered, as usual.

"I looked through the raw data and found a lot of medical jargon and electrical data. So I called another passenger. Glinda Good," David explained.

"You involved someone else?" Vance hissed.

"Relax...Glinda thinks that whoever has the passengers may be trying to duplicate her research. She is being funded by the Singularity project. She thinks they might be hijacking her research, especially now," David said.

"Why now?" he asked.

"I told her about the electrical data and medical jargon. She thinks they are using her research to experiment on the passengers," David replied.

"Even if they are...this doesn't help us much," Vance said.

"Except that I managed to find a few locations that are being leased by UDS with Singularity as the subsidiary," David said. Gold smirked, as Vance suddenly looked impressed.

"How did you get that information?" he asked.

"My boss is an idiot and spends more time on his fantasy football lineup than doing any work. So I offered to help him out and he gave me his security badge," David replied.

"That is a stupid boss," Gold agreed. Vance sighed.

"We still need more...I can't get a warrant to search this many places on what we have. Plus...this is a lot of ground to cover. We need to get it narrowed down," he said, as thought for a moment.

"Do you think Ms. Good would agree to meet with her funders and wear a wire?" Vance questioned.

"She said she wanted to help in any way she can. I'll call her," David replied, as he dialed her.

"I told you that he was the one...he's the hero in this story," Gold said.

"Shut up," Vance replied irritably, as Gold continued to smirk.

~*~

Olive looked over at her mother, as she looked through the mail. She was trying to act like she was okay, but Olive could tell she was really bothered by that reporter.

"Mom...are you okay?" Olive asked.

"I'm fine, sweetie," Margaret replied. The teen rolled her eyes.

"What's with the eye roll?" she asked.

"Because we both know you're not okay," Olive replied.

"Not okay?" David asked, as he arrived home at that moment.

"No…I'm fine. Really," Margaret replied.

"That reporter that came to her classroom the other day tracked us down at school," Olive told her father.

"Tattle tale…" Margaret muttered.

"Is he following you?" David asked, with an edge in his voice.

"I already warned him that if he didn't leave us alone that my sister-in-law, the cop, would file a restraining order," she promised.

"Who is this guy?" David asked and Olive pulled up a photo on her phone.

"Sidney Glass…" he said, as he started for the door.

"David...wait!" she called, as she ran after him.

"Baby…I'm okay and you just got home and I don't want you to go," she pleaded, as she blocked his path.

"If there is someone stalking my wife...it's something I need to take care of," he said. But she shook her head.

"I warned him and I think he got the message," she said. He sighed.

"I'm going to text this guy's photo to Emma. I think we should file that restraining order anyway," he replied.

"Okay...but I don't want you confronting this man. He's a reporter and you know he'll just write some hit piece if you confront him," she warned. He sighed.

"Which might be exactly what he wants. People are just itching to paint the passengers as dangerous," he realized. She nodded and they hugged, as she rested her head against his chest.

"I get this feeling that they want to take you away from me somehow," she confessed, as she looked into his eyes.

"They're not going to take me," he promised.

"But me going off on some reporter probably won't paint a picture of sanity...even if I really want to punch this guy right now," he added. She smiled.

"I'm fine...I promise. It just freaked me out for a minute, but he's not worth it," she said.

"You're right...maybe we both need a little break," he replied.

"You guys should go out...the kid and I'll be fine," Olive suggested, as she headed upstairs. He looked back at his wife.

"What do you say? Date night? And this time a real one and not going to some conference," he said. She smiled.

"That sounds wonderful," she agreed.

~*~

Glinda smiled, as she was led into the doctor's office. She had only met him a few times and he was one of the lead doctor's heading up many projects. If he really was involved in something shady, especially if he was using her research, she definitely wanted to expose him.

"Dr. Goode...it's a pleasure," he said.

"Thank you, Dr. Jenkins and thank you for seeing me on such short notice," she replied.

"Of course...your research is fascinating and you said that you needed to discuss some of the schematics?" he asked.

"Yes…I have been going over my experience on the plane, as you know and would like to propose a few things," she replied, as she quietly slipped her hand beneath the desk and planted the bug for Vance.

"So...what did you want to discuss exactly?" the bespectacled doctor asked, just as his colleague barged in.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but we have an urgent matter to tend to," the man said.

"Ah...I'm afraid I will have to reschedule this meeting, Ms. Goode. Please forgive me," he said, as she rose from her seat.

"Completely understandable, doctor. Have your office call mine," she said, as she made a hasty exit.

"What is it?" Jenkins snapped.

"I think there's been a breach. Someone has been rifling through our data," the assistant reported. Jenkins fumed.

"We cannot afford anymore delays. We have already moved the project to Brooklyn. Another move will lose us weeks more!" he ranted.

"We are close...perhaps we begin again and get the results we need," the assistant suggested.

"Yes...we don't have much choice. Let's proceed, but I want to know where that breach came from," he ordered, as they exited his office.

~*~

"Brooklyn…" Gold said, as he and Vance listened to the audio from the bug that had been planted.

"That's still a lot of ground to cover," he said, as he pressed a button and his assistant walked in.

"I need you to run a search on any facilities registered to the Singularity Project in Brooklyn and expedite it," he said.

"Has it been assigned a case number?" the agent asked. If the military was involved in this...then Vance wanted them to be kept in the dark about his probing.

"I'll take care of that part. Just get me a list asap," he said, as she left.

"Perhaps Mr. Nolan can narrow his search. His boss is a bit dim. I'm sure swiping his badge again wouldn't be so hard," Gold suggested.

"No...they already know there is a breach. It's not going to take them long to trace it back to the UDS accounting firm. He goes in again and he gets caught. Not even I can keep him out of prison for corporate espionage," Vance said.

"Then we had better warn him or he'll do it anyway," Gold replied.

"Now that I agree with. We'll ping his phone and make a surprise visit," he said, as they left the office, but not before his assistant had that list for him.

~*~

She chuckled, as they trekked hand in hand through the park.

"Are you sure this is okay?" he asked.

"Of course it is...Chinese takeout in our favorite park with my husband is much more romantic than some stuffy, fancy restaurant," she replied. They were both dressed up and they had intended to go to a fancy Italian restaurant. However, once they arrived and were waiting for a table, he was attracting a lot of unwanted attention and stares. It was suffocating, so when she suggested a picnic in the car, they had picked up some takeout and enjoyed it together in the car with some music. To be honest, it was better than any restaurant, as far as they were concerned. And now, they were taking a moonlit walk in their favorite park.

"I know, but a husband should be able to take his wife to a nice restaurant without attracting attention," he said.

"It will fade over time. Besides, you know I don't care where we go as long as we're together," she said, as she kissed him tenderly. Unfortunately, they could hear someone approaching and their lips parted.

"Wonderful…" he muttered, as he saw Gold and Vance coming toward them.

"Sorry to interrupt your evening," Vance said.

"Not sorry enough not to do it," David retorted, earning him a nudge from his wife.

"Director Vance...Mr. Gold," she greeted politely.

"Mrs. Nolan...we do apologize for the interruption, but Ms. Goode has come through for us," Vance replied.

"She planted the bug?" David asked with interest. He nodded.

"And they let it slip that they moved the project to Brooklyn," Vance replied.

"That's certainly progress," Margaret said.

"Indeed. We have seven locations tied to UDS in the area. Still too many to search on foot, but it's definitely narrowed it down," Vance replied.

"And if I can get into their files one more time...I might be able to narrow it down even more," David said.

"No...that's too risky. Not even I can help you if you're caught for corporate espionage. They know their data has been searched. They'll eventually figure it out and trace it back to your boss," Vance warned.

"Then how do you suggest we find out which facility is holding the missing passengers?" David asked.

"We've got the bug planted and we'll be listening in," Vance replied.

"Fine...but you better keep us in the loop. Our son's life is in danger here," David said sternly.

"Not to worry, Mr. Nolan...we'll be in touch," Gold assured them, as they left. He sighed and put his arm around her.

"Some date night, huh?" he asked. She kissed his cheek.

"It was still perfect, handsome. Let's get some ice cream and take it home to the kids," she replied. He smiled.

"Yeah...that does sound perfect," he agreed, as they walked back to their car.

#Snowing #SnowxCharming #Charming family #Emma Swan #Henry Mills #Regina Mills #Killian Jones #Manifest #with a Once twist #AU #romance #adventure #drama #family #Lightning in a Bottle

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ratonnhhaketon · 4 years

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I Wanted To Get You Somethin’

Read on Ao3

Arthur sneaks off and gets his darling a birthday gift. A/N: Yes I’m late to the RDR2 party but I have a full fic in the works and I am very excited to share it. It’ll be featuring the oc used here, Catherine Hays!

It was late afternoon, the sun slowly being to creep down to the horizon. Catherine was sat on a crate by the lake’s shore observing the still water. She had decided to use the last hour or so of sunlight to repair some garments that members of the gang had ripped or needed altered. She was just finishing up patching a pair of pants Arthur had ripped while hunting when she heard excited footsteps and a young voice yelling “Aunt Catherine! Aunt Catherine!” approaching her.

She looked up from her work to spot Jack’s messy head of brown hair running towards her. “Aunt Catherine, I made you a present!” His excited voice rang out. He pulled his hands from behind his back and outstretched a flower crown made from dandelions and daisies that grew around camp. “Momma was talkin’ ‘bout your birthday and I wanted to make you a gift ‘cause you always bring me things.”

Catherine accepted the present with a wide smile. “Why thank you, honey. I love it.” She placed the crown on her head, being careful not to let it snag on the pins holding some of her hair out of her eyes. After making sure it wouldn’t fall she leaned down and gave the boy a tight hug. “It’s getting close to dinner time, why don’t you go find your momma.”

“Okay, bye Aunt Catherine!” was all she heard before he ran off in the other direction. Catherine was eager to finish her work before losing all daylight and immediately returned to the garment on her lap.

She was so entranced in her tedious work that she didn’t notice Arthur had returned. He hitched his horse in its usual spot next to Vera, Catherine’s beloved mare, and headed into camp. Dutch stopped him before he had enough time to pinpoint where the woman he was looking for was.

“And where have you been? I thought we were celebrating.” He asked in a low voice.

“We still are,” Arthur said as he rummaged around in his bag for a cigarette and his matchbook. “I rode into town to get her a little something.”

Dutched smirked. “Something for her, or for you?”

Arthur chuckled and took a drag from his cigarette. “No, no. It’s something for just her that I know she’ll appreciate.” He let his eyes wander around camp for a second before settling on the figure by the dock. The pinkish-orange glow from the sun outlined her form beautifully. “Well, I’mma go give it to her and then we can celebrate. Tell Javier to get his guitar ready.” Dutch gave him a nod of agreement before departing.

As Catherine finished securing the last stitch on the garment she heard familiar footsteps approaching her. She held the pants up, giving them a once over to make sure the seams were straight and also covering her face in the process. Calloused hands gently took hold of hers and pushed them down to reveal her features. He gave her a lopsided grin with a cigarette hanging out of it. “Hey darlin’.” He smiled.

She giggled and smiled back at him. “Hi there, sweetheart.”

Arthur plucked the cigarette butt out of his mouth and squashed it into the dirt with his foot. “I know you said not to make a big fuss about your birthday this year, but,” he paused to dig something out of his bag. “I wanted t’get you somethin’.”

He handed her a small white box with a black ribbon tied around it. “Arthur, you-“

He crouched down in front of her to be eye-level and put a hand on her knee to silence her. “Jus’ open it. Please.”

She sighed and pulled the ribbon off the box, setting it on the pile of clothes next to her. Her hands pried the top of the box off and she gasped. It contained a small silver locket with delicate engravings. “Oh, Arthur,” she said with tears welling up in her eyes. “You shouldn’t have spent this much money on me.”

“But I wanted to.” He took one of her hands and rubbed his thumb over the knuckles. “I know how much you love that jewelry store in Saint Denis so I couldn’t pass up buyin’ it for ya.” Arthur took the necklace out of the box and unclasped it. “May I?” He asked with a smile.

Catherine let out a laugh and gathered her auburn hair to hold it above her neck. He reached behind her and fastened it before leaving a light kiss to her jawline, to which she let out a small giggle. “Thank you. I love it.” She cupped his face in her hands and leaned in to plant a sweet kiss on his lips. “And I love you.”

Arthur turned his head to the side slightly and kissed her palm. “I love you too.” After a moment of enjoying each other’s embrace he laced his fingers with hers and pulled her up to her feet. “C’mon, let’s get some dinner.”

As the two approached the campfire Hosea greeted them. “Ah, there's the birthday girl!” He handed them each a bowl of stew and gestured for them to sit down.

Charles sat down with a bottle of beer across from her and popped it open. “So it’s what, 21 this year?” He said with a smile before taking a drink from the bottle.

Catherine laughed in reply but felt Arthur tense beside her at the subtle flirting. She took his hand and rubbed her thumb over the calloused knuckles, to which he automatically relaxed.

Javier sat down on the ground with his guitar as the rest of the gang gathered around the fire. He began strumming the instrument, making sure it was properly tuned before starting to hum in an attempt to pick a song to play. Dutch walked up behind Arthur and Catherine and handed them each a bottle of beer, the tops already having been removed on both of them. “Javier,” He called out amidst the low discussion. “How about a song for the birthday girl over here.”

“Absolutely,” he replied with a smile. He immediately started playing an old song that Catherine had mentioned several times loving. As the rest of the gang began singing along to the tune she rested her head on Arthur’s shoulder and let out a content sigh. It was nights like this that she appreciated the most while being in the gang. Everyone being able to just come together and have a good time, without worrying about money or who they’re going to rob next.

Everything was exactly how it should have been.

#read dead redemption 2 #read dead redemption #rdr2 #arthur morgan #catherine hays #games #text #my posts #myworks #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x original character #arthur morgan x female reader #rdrworks

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arctrooper69 · 1 year

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Til the Last Shot's Fired

A letter from the front lines from a tired soldier.

Part of the "If I Don't Make it Back Alive" clone letter series.

Warnings: Sad/Angsty Jesse

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Hey Sweetheart, I miss you so kriffing much. Don't worry about me. The boys and I are kicking ass and taking names - damn Seppies don't know what hit 'em. Same as we've been doing for months now, but as weird as it sounds, I think the war might actually be over soon. And as weird as it sounds again, I'm glad. The stakes are getting higher and it just feels like this storm is what everything has been leading up to.

I'm writing because I miss you obviously. I dream about you a lot, you know. But a lot has happened and I just wanted to make sure you were okay. A lotta shit went down recently and it got me thinking. You ever feel like you're not as in control of something as you thought you were? We went up against a Sith today. Think like Jedi, but unimaginably evil. He wanted information.....and I tried so kriffing hard....but I gave it up. He ripped the information right outta my kriffing head. My own thoughts....just ripped right out of my mind. I couldn't help it. I betrayed my brothers. My own mind betrayed me. You ever feel as if your own thoughts are against you? Rex says I'm not a traitor, but I feel like one. I thought I had more control than that. I thought I had more discipline. I'm so sorry, babe. I know I said I'd be home by now, but duty calls and like a good soldier does, I've got to answer.

I know you don't wanna hear this, babe, but after what happened I just need to say it. If I don't make it back to you, know that it's not because I didn't try like hell to see you again.

Gods I miss you.

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I'm so kriffing tired, babe. When I close my eyes tonight, I'm gonna think about that night at your place when I last saw you. I wanna remember how your arms felt around me. I wish I could hold you. I wish I could kiss you because right now you are the only thing in the entire Galaxy that would make things seem anywhere close to normal again. I just feel so lost out here without you. I want nothing more than to be back at your place, holding you tight, but hey, you fell for a soldier. I won't fail you, babe. I'll come home soon, I promise. We're heading back to Coruscant soon. I can't wait to see you. I need to feel you in my arms. I need to hold you, touch you, smell that hot fruity perfume you like to wear when you know I'm coming over. I love you! I'll come home, babe. As soon as we've fired off the last shots of this war into the fried Separatist brain circuits, I'll come running. I promise. I love you. Your favorite man, Jesse

If you want to be on my taglist, feel free to send me a message! Also, asks are open! Reblogging is very much encouraged and it makes me do a happy dance every time any of my writing gets reblogged 😂❤️

Edit: If you are on the taglist and did not get a notification, please let me know because Tumblr has been weird about that for some reason.

@zoeykallus @ttzamara @nahoney22 @merkitty49 @viva-la-whump @thrawns-teef-weef @dumpsters-little-matchbook @nekotaetae @ladykatakuri @loverofclones @heyitsaloy @padawancat97 @jambolska-grozdova @flyingkangaroo @melymigo @rain-on-kamino @jiabeewrites @my-own-oracle @dragonrider9905 @queenofspades6 @ordinarylokix @jupitersaturnapollo @queencousland101 @vampirerouge @southernbaguette @staycalmandhugaclone @dalu-grantkylo @dangraccoon @aconstructofamind @blueink-bluesoul @kixs-husband @pb-jellybeans @atomickidsoul @caitnotfound @temmiegailg @skellymom

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chiseler · 4 years

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Glad Rags: Fashion and the Great Depression

Some years ago, in a breathtaking lapse of taste, The New Yorker published a fashion spread that aped iconic photographs of Dust Bowl migrants. I was as appalled as the next right-thinking person by the pouting models in $400 distressed cardigans pretending to thumb rides along desert highways. But if the charge is infatuation with the aesthetics of the Great Depression, I am guilty, guilty, guilty. Throw me in the clink—just so long as it resembles the hoosegow that Barbara Stanwyck saunters around in Ladies They Talk About (1932).

Why was everything, from automats to automobiles, from nightclubs to radios, from skyscrapers to bus stations, from cocktail shakers to the battered hats on homeless men, so elegant in the thirties? Why did bums back then look better than bankers today? Why are the movies and music, the clothes and every aspect of design from typefaces to elevator panels, so intoxicatingly stylish?

The easy answer is that art deco glamour was a form of escapism, a consolation to the down-and-out, and an expression of irrational optimism. Cruise ships, trains, office towers, mechanized restaurants: art deco was all about speed and modernity, the thrill of zooming into the future. (Then why does deco still look modern and alluring, while the space-age design of the sixties just looks dated and silly?) If cynicism was society’s ballast during the Depression, style was the kite-string tugging upward, the flag that kept flying.

It’s not the swells in their glad rags that I admire most, or even the bootleggers in silk shirts, but the wardrobes of working girls. Take the plain, slinky black dress that Stanwyck, as an ambitious office worker in Baby Face, accessorizes with a series of different detachable white collars and cuffs. Those starched cuffs and collars—chic, yet as humble as table-napkins—are perfect, almost poignant symbols of Stanwyck’s determination to better herself with the small means at her disposal. In Golddiggers of 1933, out-of-work chorus girls draw lots for the privilege of wearing a gorgeous, borrowed outfit to an audition. The little hats that hug one side of the head, the soft dresses molded to the hips, the scarf collars and pleated hems, create a look that collapses the two meanings of “smart.” Neither frivolous nor utilitarian, it’s a neat, streamlined look that is still seductive; it signals quiet confidence and also wit, the sort of wisecracking verbal self-defense these girls mastered.

Movies like Baby Face tell their stories largely through their heroines’ clothes and belongings: they climb from cotton frocks to furs, from paper matchbooks to jeweled cigarette cases. (Clothing is no less crucial to the gangster’s rise; tailored shirts and luxurious overcoats are almost the point of his law-breaking.) Like Stanwyck in Baby Face, Joan Blondell in Blondie Johnson starts out in the drab, shapeless clothes of the down-trodden. Alight with anger after her mother dies, denied aid by a sanctimonious government official, she vows to get hold of dough, “and plenty of it.” Next we see her, she’s wearing a snazzy velvet suit that fits like a glove and conning suckers out of ten dollar bills by pretending to be a damsel in distress. She’s willing to bat her eyelashes and exploit her curves, but it’s really her brain she uses to get ahead, rising to become the head of a criminal “corporation,” and fiercely defending her virtue, even while clad in diaphanous pajamas. In Hold Your Man, Clark Gable calls attention to the warmth of the room, trying to talk Jean Harlow into doffing her coat. She complies, but when he suggests she remove her hat as well, she quips, “I’m pretty cool about the head.”

It’s this sense of wit and sass that’s often missing from latter-day reconstructions of the thirties, making people in period pieces appear overly formal. Current actors, looking embalmed in handsome clothes and make-up, fail to capture the way Cagney in his pin-striped suits was always poised on the balls of his feet, ready to crack into a tap dance; or the stunning bodily freedom with which women wore their thin, fluid, backless gowns, somehow never looking unduly exposed. Carole Lombard in shiny satin wide-legged lounging-pajamas and high heels furiously riding an exercise bicycle: there is the deco spirit in a nutshell. I sometimes wonder if it was the sheer delight of wearing such flattering clothes that gave women in thirties movies their unequaled zing.

Their sleek clothes don’t hide the female form the way dresses of the 1920’s did with their dropped waists and bosom-flattening bands. Neither do they exaggerate it with structured undergarments like those abandoned after the first world war and re-introduced after the second. It takes little insight to observe that the times when fashion has been most extreme in its devotion to the hourglass figure have been repressive eras for women, and periods when their clothes were more androgynous have been times when women made strides toward equality. In the early thirties, however, fashions were feminine without being cartoonishly so; they simply revealed the way women really look. The ideal of beauty was slender but not boyishly skinny, effortlessly athletic without gym-workout muscles.

Thirties dames look sexy on their own terms, not trussed up for male consumption like women of the fifties in their waist-cinching girdles, teetering stilettos and torpedo bras (often filled out with falsies on actresses of the fifties.) Many women in the early thirties wore very little under their clothes, as pre-Code movies prove with their obligatory lingerie shots. One almost feels sorry for pre-Code men faced with gals like Blondell, who in Blonde Crazy allows Cagney to inspect her flimsy underwear but repels his every advance with a slap that sends his head snapping back against his spine.

It is surely no coincidence that the interwar period was perhaps the only time when fashion was dominated, or at least heavily influenced, by women designers. Chanel borrowed from men’s tailoring to make women’s clothes simple, comfortable and sporty, without making them mannish. Madeleine Vionnet pioneered the bias cut, constructing garments so the grain of the fabric ran diagonally across the body, creating that smooth, clinging drape that defines feminine style of the thirties. Stanwyck’s lithe, bold stride wouldn’t be the same without the skirts that show off her beautiful hips and just enough of her killer gams. The jazzy, diagonally-striped ensemble that Claudette Colbert wears in It Happened One Night—something she has apparently purchased with the proceeds from pawning her wrist-watch—is the sartorial equivalent of her cocked eyebrow and throaty, sarcastic delivery.

These are Hollywood movies, of course, in which actresses often wore dresses so tight they couldn’t sit down between shots. But there’s plenty of documentary evidence that ordinary women, while they made have had less perfect figures, had just as much stylistic sass. Inept, small-time criminals Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow might never have become folk heroes if police hadn’t found a roll of undeveloped film in their hideout in Joplin, Missouri in 1932, and if the pictures hadn’t shown Bonnie wearing a snug beret, a skirt and sweater as jazzy as Colbert’s, and standing with her high-heeled foot hiked saucily on the bumper of a Ford V-8.

Or consider the stout matron in Walker Evans’s 1935 photograph of a New Orleans barbershop, sporting a blouse with sizzling concentric stripes, a jaunty black tie and a black hat with a rakish white feather. Men were no slouches either. Evans’s 1936 pictures of street scenes in the “negro quarter” of Vicksburg, Mississippi feature men lounging idly in shirtsleeves, unbuttoned vests and felt hats, each one a fashion plate. Lined up in a row in the wood-frame buildings behind them are hand-painted signs for the Savoy Barber Shop, the New Deal Barber Shop, and the Brother In Law Barber Shop. These men may not have jobs, but at least they have well-trimmed hair.

One can always ask, was there really such an epidemic of elegance in the thirties, or did photographers just seek out images of dignity? In the same way, one can look at the photographs of Robert Frank or the documentary footage of Los Angeles in The Savage Eye (1960) and wonder if there was really an epidemic of ugliness and vulgarity in the late fifties and early sixties, or whether artists just emphasized it. But the question is moot: either way, the images reveal how Americans—or at least their professional observers—saw themselves. Struggling against deprivation and anxiety, they were proud, stoic and stripped to their lean, essential spirit. Prosperous and secure, they were hapless victims of an aesthetic crash. A movie like Murder by Contract (1958), about a hit man killing time in L.A., staying in suffocatingly tacky motel rooms, seems to be the portrait of a man sleepwalking through a society where taste has flatlined.

Fifties style was artlessly boastful; its ideals were plastic mannequins of happiness, innocence and surfeit. This is why when it failed it failed so hideously: the old, the poor, the ugly, the lonely look caught in a pitiless glare, all their shortcomings exposed. The beehive hair, bouffant skirts, school-girl necklines and cat’s-eye glasses made young women look stodgy and matronly, and older women look grotesquely girlish. In the thirties, haute couture expressed sublime hauteur, but it was based on aesthetic principles so sound that even when they trickled down to the cheapest knock-offs and most threadbare hand-me-downs, they still looked good. And so we come to the paradox of men in breadlines, women in migrant camps, whose je-ne-sais-quoi can inspire fashion spreads.

I am haunted by a bit of archival footage from the superb documentary Riding the Rails (1997), which shows a group of teenage hobos gathered on an open flat-car. Their elegance is unforgettable. It’s partly that their ragged clothes are so well-cut—in those days before baggy, one-size-fits-nobody garments—and partly that they’re worn with such an air. One boy wears an overcoat that’s too big for him and a handkerchief knotted on his head; he looks like a Napoleonic soldier retreating from Moscow. Men today who affect newsboy caps tend to wear them as though they were balancing a plate on their heads, but these boys wear their soft caps pulled down low over one eye, making them look at once tough and shy. They also seem, like everyone Dorothea Lange photographed, to stand and move with uncommon, easy grace: idle, but charged with contained energy. Their faces are wary, reticent and disillusioned. In another archival clip, boys sitting around a fire in a hobo jungle respond to a reporter who asks them why they are on the road. “Out here for my health,” one deadpans. “Just riding,” another tersely shrugs.

These are the real-life versions of the characters played by Frankie Darro and the Warners juveniles in Wild Boys of the Road (1933). Several things about that film are startling. One is how the kids dress and act like grown-ups (at a school dance, they wear evening clothes and circle the floor to “The Shadow Waltz”), as opposed to today, when grown-ups dress and act like kids. Another is how quickly and completely two middle-class boys turn into outcasts, panhandlers, embittered scavengers living in a garbage dump. But most startling of all is the way stoicism and dignity are taken for granted, the universal determination not be a burden or feel sorry for oneself. The elderly interviewees in Riding the Rails are candid, matter-of-fact, wry and compassionate. There is more to elegance than dressing well, than being tasteful or—that overused and inelegant word—“classy.” There is an intangible quality, a kind of mental and moral grace. Elegance has spine, but it’s not rigid; it bends but doesn’t break. It is understated; it is reserved. It knows the virtue of holding something back—some strength, some anger, some sense of irony—because there is more than one rainy day.

by Imogen Sara Smith

#The Chiseler #Imogen Sara Smith #Fashion #Great Depression

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soulfood-fics · 5 years

Text

Dearly Beloved Part 1

Happy Spooky Season peeps! I hope everyone's having a great fall. Here’s a little something to keep you occupied while I work on Oreo.

Pairing: Southern!Winston x Black!Reader

Genre: Southern Gothic

Summary: You and Winston are about to get married. His mother, a Voodoo priestess, doesn't approve and will do anything to separate the two of you. Winston loves you too much to let that happen and will go to hell and back (literally) to keep you safe.

Warning: Angst (i think), mentions of blood.

Please let me know if you like it and if I should continue.

Winston wiped the bead of sweat forming on his brow as he worked in the field. The sun had beaten against his skin and the long day had taken its toll on his body. The only thing keeping him going was thoughts of you. His Cher.

He couldn't see you standing on the back porch watching him in the distance. You could see his muscles caught the light as he flexed them.

“I know what you’re thinking, Cher.” Your mother said, standing beside you and staring blankly into the field.

“What mama?”

She knew about you and Winston. After finding the two of you together in his truck a few years ago, she’s been very supportive about your relationship.

“A man that perfect is always too good to be true.” She was looking in Winston's direction as she fanned herself. “Lord knows his mother got no business getting him mixed up in her mess.”

His mother was a notorious priestess, most known for using black magic. Winston wanted nothing to do with her and she blamed you for it. In her eyes, you took her son away from her.

“Mama, She’s still his mother.”

“But you’re about to be his wife. You and that boy can’t hide forever.” After that, she made her way back inside.

Standing out on the porch made the heat and humidity leave a dewy sweat on your skin, your yellow linen dress clung into you. Looking back out, you noticed Winston wasn’t in the far corner of the field anymore. You started scanning over the rest of the land looking for him, only finding grass and the trees scattered around the field. Panic set in when you couldn't find him, worried that the heat had gotten to him.

Coming down from the porch, you began to search over the left stretch of land on your family’s property. That side had a river and a large weeping willow that Winston loved to sit under for shade. Sure enough, he was sitting on the bench he’d built for you under the tree.

There was no breeze, the thick heat made everything seem to stand still. You took the route closest to the river so that your bare feet splashed in the shallow water. With Winston in view, you noticed he was holding something. He played with small object cradled in his hands, then quickly stuffed it in the back pocket of his loose fitted jeans. The disturbed look on his face was replaced with a smile as he watched you, his grin widening as he took you in. Your brown skin welcomed the sun and the reflection of you against the water gave you an angelic glow when you walked closer towards him.

“Hey, lover.” Winston stood, reaching out for your hands, caressing them in his and bringing them up to his lips. Placing gentle kisses on the back of your hands.

“Hi, Winnie.” You were the only person he let call him that.

“You know I love you, right?” Still holding your hands, the same disturbing look returned to his face making you concerned also.

“Of course I do. Winston, what's wrong?”

“It’s nothing for you to worry about, I can handle it. How are you feeling?”

“I'm fine. Winston, what's going on?” As your concern and confusion heightened, you snatched your hand's out of his grasp.

With a heavy sigh, he pulls the object from his back pocket. A small burlap sack wrapped with a red string. He hesitated before opening the bad, pulling the string slowly between his fingers.

“It’s a hex. I found 3 other bags when I fixed the door of the shed and painted the fence.” The look on his face was apologetic as if this was his doing. “These are my mother's bags, I can tell by the string.”

As if the heat had increased, your blood began to boil. Resisting the urge to take the bag and throw it into the river, you empty the contents of the bag into your hand. Outpour several small figures and a piece of paper with your name on it. There was something else in the bag that seemed to be stuck.

“Are these bones?” Horrified of what you've found, you drop everything onto the ground.

“You have to burn the bags to remove the hex.” Winston had become callous to his mother's plots against you. His only concern was protecting you.

He bent down and put all of the bags on the ground, when he stood he handed you a black matchbook. When you lit the match, the flame burned a deep blue as it dropped into the pile. The bags ignited and the growing flames burned from blue into a crimson red. And just as quickly as the fire began, it came to an abrupt stop. Leaving no sign that the blaze even started. No smoke, no scorched fabric. Even the grass underneath seemed to be untouched by the flames.

“Get inside the house and lock all the doors and windows,” Winston mumbled under his breath.

The rigid tone of his words let you know something was wrong. He began to pace around the bags with his jaw clenched, furiously rubbing his head, searching for an answer to what just happened. The man you knew to be doubtless and unshakable was practically trembling as you watched him.

“Winston, what was that?”

“Why are you still standing here?”

The fear showed on his face and in his voice, something you've never seen from him before and it startled you. The urgency of his words made your feet move. Backing away from where he stood you started towards the house. Less than halfway to the back porch, you felt a tearing pain in your chest. As if your heart was being ripped from your chest.

Looking down at your body you noticed red welts forming on your breast. The skin breaking slightly just when the pain in your chest burned the most. Opening your mouth to scream for Winston, you were shocked when nothing came out. The more you struggled to cry out for help, the more pain you felt. When you turned back to where Winston stood, he saw the lines of blood running down your chest.

The pain was too intense and your body gave in before he could reach you. Winston watched your body collapse as he ran. Just as your consciousness slipped away, you heard him call you.

“Cher “.

#dearly beloved #fanfiction #winston duke x reader #winston duke x black!reader #southern winston

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libraryscarf · 5 years

Text

promare 2019 was all *destroys my retinas and eardrums* and i was all “i must immediately make this tender as fuck”

^ ^ ^

until someday ( ao3 )

^ ^ ^

It was midwinter, and Promepolis—a city of devastating extremes—was frozen over. It was a miserable, huddling time for anyone who wasn’t Burnish.

Which, of course, was now everyone. Including Lio.

“D-d-does your landlord know the heater isn’t fucking functional?” he chattered from amidst two comforters, a picnic blanket, four pillows, and a tablecloth.

Galo kicked the radiator twice. It made a sad clunking noise and a single screw clattered to the floor.

“No,” he admitted. “I’m not sure it’s ever actually worked.”

Galo, unable to bear the sight of his boyfriend in so much distress, knelt down to gather the whole shivering bundle into his arms.

“I can be a heater,” he suggested hopefully. Lio gave a derisive sniffle.

“You’re sweaty,” he mumbled, then squawked as Galo hoisted him and the pile of blankets into his arms.

“Would you rather be warm and happy and a little sweaty? Or cold and sad and by yourself?”

Lio grumbled incoherently. It sounded like maybe he had part of a pillow in his mouth.

Galo gently deposited the blankets on the hard couch and began the laborious process of de-burritoing Lio, who had so thoroughly cocooned himself in fabric that it took Galo a solid five minutes to pry him out, rumpled and hissing like a very cold, very pissed-off kitten.

“You barely produce any body heat,” Galo noted, rubbing Lio’s blue hands between his. Lio felt himself sigh, and tucked his head beneath Galo’s chin. Galo’s hands weren’t soft, but they were exceedingly careful as he massaged the sluggish blood back to the ends of Lio’s fingertips.

“I guess having little fire aliens living inside you would made it pretty easy to stay warm,” Galo mused, half to himself.

Lio snorted. The way Galo spoke sometimes—as though every thought in his wonderful, stupid head took a straight shot out his mouth without checking in at Logic Station A or Social Filtration System B. But all Lio said was:

“You’re right.”

Galo, satisfied that Lio’s hands weren’t in danger of frostbite, wrapped his arms around him and snuggled him ruthlessly to his chest. Lio grunted, his wrists trapped at a wrenching angle against Galo’s hard stomach. The air left his lungs with a wheeze.

“But now you have me!” Galo crowed. “Me and my burning soul will keep you w—”

“Ga…lo,” Lio gasped. Galo’s grip on him loosened at once, his expression mortified.

“Shit, sorry. You’re just…so cold. I didn’t want your feet to freeze while I’m working on your hands, so I figured I could. Y’know. Cover all bases.”

Lio’s lips twitched. “No, I get it.”

There was silence for a few moments, except for a quiet rustling as Galo pulled Lio into a more comfortable position against him. Lio nudged his head up, tilting Galo’s chin upward so he could put cold lips to his throat.

“You know what we could do?” he whispered.

He felt Galo’s pulse against his cheek. It was speeding up. A lot.

“Um.” Galo suddenly seemed to be having trouble using his tongue, and Lio chuckled.

“Well,” he said quietly. “That too, I suppose.”

Galo shifted him in his arms, so Lio could prop his elbows on his chest and look him in the eyes.

“We could start a fire.”

Lio could nearly hear the gears in Galo’s brain shriek to a halt. His face went so absolutely white that for a moment Lio thought he might faint. Galo’s jaw worked a few times before he managed to choke out:

“L-Lio! Holy shit, no! We can’t set anything on fire! I’m a firefighter—I can’t be an arsonist!”

Two bright red spots appeared on his horrified face. Lio looked on in silence, taking a measure of cruel delight in Galo’s torment.

“I mean, not that—not that all arsonists are bad,” Galo said quickly. “Like—like you, I mean. And I guess one time I did start a fire, but that was different, way different…and also not really fire…? Wait, no, arson is bad. Really bad. The most bad. But…shit, you really are cold, huh?”

Galo rubbed Lio’s back vigorously, as though through friction alone he could raise his core body temperature. His handsome face was the very picture of conflict. Then, he set his jaw.

“No,” he said firmly, eyes shining with an unbreakable resolve. “Lio, I can’t. Not even if you asked me to.

Then, just as quickly, his expression shifted to betrayal. “But…but Lio!? I thought this was over! I thought…”

He trailed off as Lio, barely holding back his laughter, pointed to their right. Galo’s eyes followed his finger, straight to the wall, and the—

“Oh,” he said, deflating.

“I meant,” Lio said through his giggles. “In there.”

^ ^ ^

As Galo thumped around the kitchen looking for matches, Lio re-wrapped himself in a blanket and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the dusty brick fireplace. The thing looked like it hadn’t been touched in several decades, and given Galo’s living habits, Lio had no reason to think it had seen recent use.

“If you take much longer I might freeze to death,” he called out after a few minutes of waiting. There was a muffled thud, and a yelp as Galo tripped over something in the kitchen.

“Hang on! I can’t find the—oh.”

Galo hurried back, matchbook clutched victoriously in his fist. He looked almost nervous as he handed them to Lio, who raised an eyebrow.

“My firefighter’s soul doesn’t really like using matches,” Galo offered by way of explanation.

“Galo, I’ve seen you use a lighter.”

Galo shrugged, lowering himself to the floor next to Lio. “Different.”

Lio’s lips quirked up, and he struck a match.

Instead of tossing it into the bed of newspaper and firewood, he let the fire tongue its way up the stem of the match. It was no live, infant flame. It was no Promare. But it played at Lio’s fingertips: a bright, lovely kiss of heat that was as familiar as it was foreign.

“Lio...” Galo said nervously.

“I know.”

He set the match against the newspaper, leaning back to watch the flame lick a hungry path up the paper to the firewood. Before long, the blaze was orange and healthy, the heat from its glow prickling at Lio’s frigid skin.

Galo scooted behind him, one leg on either side of Lio’s hips. He wrapped his arms around Lio’s stomach, pulling him snug and tight into his body. Lio grunted as Galo’s heavy head sagged onto his shoulder, face buried in the blanket.

“This’s’n’ce,” Galo mumbled. Lio hummed in agreement, leaning a little deeper into Galo’s arms.

Between the roaring fire and the warm, gentle arms wrapped around him, Lio felt the kernel of ice in his chest slowly begin to melt. It was easy, he thought sleepily, to partake of Galo’s heat. Especially when he had so very much of it, and when he was so willing to share.

^ ^ ^

They woke up at the same time.

Galo had somehow strangled both of his long legs in the blanket. Lio’s arm had gotten under Galo’s back and was numb from shoulder to fingertip. His mouth tasted bitter, and his head was full of soupy fog.

“Whattimezit?” Galo yawned, wiping away the string of drool connecting the corner of his mouth to Lio’s shoulder.

Lio craned his stiff neck to peer out the window. All he could see was dark gray sky. When he looked at the fireplace, there were only embers left. They winked like rubies in a bed of ash.

“Eight?” he guessed.

“Shit.” Galo crushed his face into the back of Lio’s neck. “We went to sleep.”

Lio chuckled. “Yes, you are correct. We did.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Not really.”

Lio squirmed, twisting himself around to face Galo. They looked at each other like that for a little while, cheeks resting on the blanket, eyelids still heavy. Lio wasn’t quite sure how they ended up kissing, but he welcomed it eagerly. He cupped Galo’s cheek in his palm, fingers splayed wide to hold his face still. He felt Galo sigh into his mouth and echoed it, opening to the shivering hint of Galo’s teeth against his bottom lip.

Galo rolled them over, pulling Lio bodily onto his chest, keeping their mouths firmly connected. Lio tightened his grip on Galo’s jaw, prying it farther open so he could fill Galo’s mouth with his tongue. Galo groaned hoarsely, burying his fingers in Lio’s hair and raking hungrily across his scalp.

When Lio suddenly pulled away from his lips, Galo whined. The weak, needy sound had an almost frightening effect on Lio. He wasn’t used to it. He might never be. He wasn’t used to the way his starving, bruised heart craved Galo closer, closer still, even when they were as close as two people could be without sharing a single skin.

Lio had never needed anything so ferociously, and it terrified him.

Galo felt the tension in Lio’s body and opened his eyes.

“You okay?” He murmured, stroking Lio’s sides with his hot hands. “Cold again?”

Lio didn’t respond, just looked down at him. Galo’s cheeks went pink at the naked, almost savage adoration in Lio’s face. Slowly releasing his grip on Galo’s jaw, Lio traced a thumb across the curve of his chin, catching on his lower lip. He drew his index finger down the bridge of Galo’s nose, softer than breath.

“What are we doing?” he whispered. His fingers played on Galo’s face, stroking his cheeks, the firm angle of his jaw.

Galo’s eyebrows knitted. “Lying down? Well, we were kissing, but…”

Lio’s lips twitched as he smoothed out the wrinkles in Galo’s forehead with soft fingers. Then Galo made a soft noise of comprehension.

“Oh. You meant like…what are we doing.”

Lio felt the air between them change. Galo’s arms tightened around him.

“I don’t know,” Galo said, almost sheepishly. “Do you?”

Lio felt the threat of a smile on his lips before quickly banishing it.

“Yes,” he said firmly. “We’re kissing.”

So they kissed. Ardently, and so entirely without finesse that by the time they separated to gasp for air they nearly laughed at the sight of each other. Lio’s chin was slick with saliva, and Galo’s lips were bitten red, and so swollen he looked like he’d been making out with a beehive. They had rolled across the floor until they bumped into the couch. They lay there, still tangled in the blanket with Lio neatly pinned under Galo’s chest.

“You feel warm now,” Galo said, practically radiating satisfaction. “I told you I’d be a good heater!”

Lio let him bask in his accomplishment. He grunted when Galo happily buried his face in his neck, nuzzling into the curve of his throat like it was home.

What are we doing? his hands asked, re-mapping the comfortable architecture of Galo’s ribs, his strong shoulders.

Is it important? Galo’s replied, pulling Lio’s legs around his waist, slotting them effortlessly into each other’s negative space.

It might be, someday.

Galo’s body answered his.

Then let’s wait until someday, and you can ask again.

If the air was still cold somewhere, far, far outside their shared fire, Lio had long forgotten.

#scarfwrites #galolio #galolio fanfiction #promare #promare spoilers #promare fanfiction #fellas is it g

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quentinsquill · 4 years

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Fic: “Minor Mendings and Mistletoe” (The Magicians)

Minor Mendings and Mistletoe

Fandom: The Magicians

Rating: PG

Word Count: 3,057

Warnings: None

Summary: It’s Christmas at the Physical Kids cottage, and Quentin uncovers a piece of Eliot’s past that his friend forever thought lost. Can he make a connection with his crush and discover the truth about his magical abilities at the same time?

Author’s Notes: This is based on a drawing by @highkingfen that completely inspired me! I thank her for allowing me to write a fic based on her wonderful art. Check that out here, along with a bunch of other original and amazing designs at her Redbubble shop, FillorianQueen! Comments and kudos are magic and as always, enjoy!

Minor Mendings and Mistletoe

By Lexalicious70 (aka QuentinsQuill)

“Do we really have to do this?”

Quentin turned from opening several large cardboard boxes to see Eliot standing at the Physical Kids cottage bar, pouring himself a glass of wine and making a show of looking spectacularly bored.

“Come on, El! It’s Christmas!”

“Well technically, it’s February 15th, at least out in the real world,” Eliot replied. Margo opened one of the boxes and began to unwind several strings of multicolored lights as she scoffed in reply.

“Since when do you worry about life outside of Brakebills?” She asked, and Eliot frowned.

“Since you want to turn our cottage into some kind of cheesy Rankin Bass cartoon?”

“What’s so bad about Christmas?” Quentin asked as he unpacked a large artificial tree. “I like Rankin Bass animation.”

“Oh, you sweet summer child,” Eliot sighed, then narrowed his eyes at Quentin as he opened his mouth to reply. “And don’t you dare compare me to the Grinch!”

“If the green fursuit fits,” Quentin muttered as he slapped dust from the front of his sweater. Eliot downed his wine, refilled his glass, and stepped out from behind the bar.

“By all means, proceed,” he said as he headed for the front door. “Just don’t ask me to participate!”

“Wow,” Quentin sighed as Eliot slammed the door behind him. “Who took a dump in his eggnog?” He asked Margo, who plugged in a string of lights and nodded as they came to life.

“Don’t mind El,” she said. “He’s not the biggest fan of Christmas.”

“How come?” Quentin pulled the legs of the tree stand open. While he’d only been living in the cottage for five months, he’d spent enough time with Margo and Eliot to feel like he’d gotten to know them as friends. Granted, he was a bit scared of one and was crushing hard on the other, but they felt like friends just the same. They had even tried to help him find his magical discipline, but to no avail.

Margo paused to pour herself a glass of wine and then filled one for Quentin as well.

“Without going into detail, El didn’t have the most ideal of childhoods. When you think of Christmas, what comes to mind?”

“I don’t know, uhm . . . snow? Going crosstown to check out the lights in Manhattan? Skating at Rockefeller Center with my dad when I was little?”

“Sounds like stuff right out of a Christmas movie,” Margo nodded. “But El’s parents were less about Christmas fun and more about the religious aspect of it. Lots of praying, lots of church services, and not a lot of decor.”

“That sucks,” Quentin nodded as he constructed the tree and began to fan out the branches. “But he’s an adult now . . . he can celebrate any way he wants!”

“I guess he doesn’t want to. Maybe he’s not okay with the memories it brings up, Q.”

Quentin paused and glanced over at Margo.

“How bad can church be?” He asked. “My dad is a lapsed Protestant so we didn’t really go once I turned like, ten, but . . .” He trailed off at Margo’s pointed expression. “Oh. You mean his parents . . .?”

“It’s not for me to give you details, Quentin,” Margo replied. “But let’s just say that some of the first magic lessons Eliot truly applied himself to was how to repress unpleasant memories.”

Discomfort twitched in Quentin’s stomach and he fell silent to focus on shaping the tree. Most of the cottage occupants had drifted away from the decorating efforts, leaving Margo and Quentin to unpack all the boxes. The ornaments had been collected from previous students who had left them behind and they now filled a cardboard box that used to contain a build-it-yourself desk.

“Damn!” Margo said suddenly from one corner. “Q, do me a favor?”

“What’s up?” Quentin asked as he finished assembling the tree.

“There’s an extension cord thing--one with all the plugs--up in El’s closet, up on the shelf above where he hangs his shirts. Grab it for me, would you?”

“Go in Eliot’s closet? Uhm--”

“Yes, go in his closet! Don’t worry about it, I’m giving you permission.”

Quentin glanced up the stairs. He knew Eliot had gone off somewhere to mope or flirt or whatever he did to avoid Christmas, but closets were personal things and the thought of stepping into that space, full of Eliot’s clothes, his scent, made Quentin’s heart vibrate against his rib cage like a frightened parakeet.

“Quentin! I’m standing on my fucking head over here!” Margo said from the corner.

“All right, okay! I’m going!” Quentin turned and headed up the stairs to Eliot’s room. There were only six people occupying the cottage this semester, so Eliot had only closed his door instead of locking it. Quentin turned the knob, guilt pricking his conscience.

Quit being so jumpy, he told himself. Margo told you to come up here, it’s not a big deal, so just grab the cord and don’t be so stupid!

Stepping into Eliot’s room was, for Quentin, like entering a space full of possibility. He took in the bed with its plum-colored duvet, the nightstand mirror edged with photos of Eliot and Margo, and, to Quentin’s great surprise, one of himself. He stepped closer to examine the image and saw himself asleep on the cottage couch, a Fillory and Further book spread open across his chest. He wore his Brakebill’s shirt, tie, and blazer, but the tie was undone and his hair hung in his eyes.

When the hell did he take this? Quentin asked himself. And why?

The possibilities were too overwhelming to contemplate at that moment so Quentin turned to the closet instead. The doors were tightly closed and Quentin swung them open. They folded aside and the smell of Eliot’s cologne, a mix of ocean water and sandalwood, wafted out, along with the scent of fresh clothing. Quentin glanced around like a guilty child sneaking cookies out of the kitchen before he leaned in to sniff at one of Eliot’s cardigans. It was well-worn, almost on the verge of shabby, but the fabric was softer than a baby’s blanket with repeated washings and Quentin allowed it to touch his cheek a moment before he pulled back and glanced up at the shelf above his head. He murmured a few lines of Arabic and let the magic fill him before he rose into the air, light streaming from his fingertips. He pointed them at the shelf and he saw the extension cord right away, coiled up in one corner. There were also a few dusty-looking hat boxes, a stack of magazines with nude men on the cover, and--

“QUENTIN!” Margo roared from the bottom of the stairs, and Quentin gasped as he lost his focus on the spell and the light sputtered and died. He pitched backward and gave a yelp of dismay as he grabbed the nearest surface--the closet shelf. The thing came free of its braces and Quentin shielded his face as he tumbled to the carpet and the contents of the shelf and the slat itself rained down on him.

“Shit!” He gasped as the slat slammed into his right knee and two of the hat boxes spilled open as they hit the floor. The erotic magazines fluttered down around him like wounded bats and Quentin blushed at the array of nudity scattered there.

“What the fuck are you doing up here?” Margo demanded from the doorway. “What was that--oh, Jesus!” She snapped as saw Quentin laying among the ruins of Eliot’s closet shelf. “Haven’t you ever heard of a stepladder?”

“It’s your fault!” Quentin shot back as he got to his feet. “I was looking for that cord when you screamed at me! It broke my concentration!”

Margo rolled her eyes.

“I swear, you are the most fragile forest-type creature I have ever met!”

“I didn’t say it scared me, I said you broke my concentration!” Quentin began to gather the spilled contents of the hat boxes which, to his surprise, did not contain a single hat. Instead, Quentin found himself picking up jewelry, unopened packs of cigarettes, dozens of matchbooks, and a few items that defied description (at least in Quentin’s realm of experience) but looked personal enough to make him blush again. Margo picked up the shelf slat and replaced it, shoving the ends back into the casters. Quentin stacked the magazines and handed them over, and she gave him an amused look before tucking them back into their proper place. He glanced around to make sure he hadn’t missed anything and spied a smaller, square box that had tumbled almost all the way under the bed. Quentin bent over to pick it up and something inside gave a chiming rattle of broken glass. Margo glanced up.

“What’s that?” She asked, wiping a lock of hair from her eyes, and Quentin bit his lower lip.

“Whatever it is, I think I broke it,” he said. “Shit.” He popped the top open and peered inside to find a white-and-blue Christmas ornament, broken into at least four pieces. The outside was decorated with painted glass and overlaid with glitter. “It’s a Christmas ornament,” Quentin groaned. “Oh shit, Margo . . .”

“Maybe we can fix it, Q, let’s not panic!”

“What do you think he has it for? You told me he doesn’t even like Christmas!”

“Who knows. El can be secretive, even with me.”

“I think I have some clear glue in my--” Quentin censored himself, knowing Margo would give him that mocking smile of hers if she knew he owned a crafting kit, “--in my room. I’ll take in there, see if I can fix it before Eliot gets back.”

“All right, I’ll see what I can do about the tree,” Margo nodded as she left the room. Quentin carried the box into his room and shut the door before he opened his desk and took out a hinged wooden box with a hand-painted dragon on the cover. Inside was a crafting kit with a set of acrylic paints, scissors, rulers, a pencil set, and other crafting items. Quentin pulled a tube of clear glue from the box and went to inspect the ornament again, sliding the pieces from the box with care. It was broken into nearly even sections, almost like one of those chocolate oranges Quentin sometimes got his dad for the holidays, and he fit the edges together carefully. His stomach sank a moment later when he realized several small pieces would be missing, even if he did glue them. He wiped a hand over his mouth.

“Shit! Shit, shit . . . what am I gonna do?” He asked himself, imagining the look of hurt and anger on Eliot’s face when he saw what was obviously an heirloom, broken beyond repair because of his first-year clumsiness. Shame and panic burned in his throat and then his eyes flew open as a sensation began to fill his chest, like he was taking a breath big enough to inflate a bounce house. He’d felt this way his first day at Brakebills, when he’d made the cards fly around the room, but this was different--this was a warm glow that wore a halo of power, and he raised his hands without directing them. He watched, amazed, as his fingers and wrists worked and the broken sections of the ornament rose into the air, spun around each other, and them knitted themselves into place. The metal fastening that fit into the top of the ornament seemed to give a joyous leap before fitting itself in with a small popping noise. Quentin turned his hands, palms up, dark eyes wide and full of wonderment, as the delicate glass bauble set itself into them.

“Holy shit,” Margo’s voice said from the doorway, and he started and turned, holding the ornament to his chest.

“Did you see that, or did I imagine it?” Quentin asked, and Margo grinned.

“I saw it! You found your discipline, Q! The way your hands worked in a spell you couldn’t possibly know yet?”

“But what does it mean?” He asked, and Margo beckoned him.

“Come on . . . I”ll show you.”

Quentin paused long enough to put the ornament back into the box and carried it with him as Margo led him back downstairs, where she took out a leather-bound book.

“This is a listing of all the disciplines and their meanings . . .” She flipped a few pages and then traced a finger down one before she tapped a paragraph with a lacquered nail. “Here! Repairer of small objects.”

Quentin looked over her shoulder.

“That’s it?”

“Small broken objects are attracted to you, especially those that want to be repaired.” She glanced at the box. “I guess that includes Christmas ornaments.”

The cottage door opened a moment later and Margo and Quentin looked up to see Eliot sweep in, along with a gust of cold air. He unwound his dark woolen scarf and then paused, his eyes widening when he saw the box sitting on the coffee table near the Christmas tree.

“What the fuck--what do you think you’re doing with that? DId you go through my closet, Quentin?” He snapped, and Quentin took a step forward.

“El please, don’t be mad, I can explain if you just give me a minute--”

Eliot pulled a gilded pocketwatch from his vest, clicked the face open, and nodded.

“Starting now.”

“We were putting up the tree and-- and well, Margo asked me to get an extension cord from your closet so I used a spell that let me reach it, but uhm--I fell and other stuff fell too, including that box and--and I’m so sorry, I know I messed up but--” He retrieved the box and offered it to Eliot. Eliot snatched it away but then paused as he saw the ornament inside. He stared at it and then staggered a few feet to the couch, where he sat down hard. Quentin gave Margo a worried glance.

“El? What’s wrong? Did I screw it up? I wasn’t exactly in control of the spell, Margo said it’s my discipline--fixing small things, I mean. I’m sorry I broke it . . .”

“You didn’t.”

“Uhm--what?”

“You didn’t break it, Q. It was already broken. It has been, for years . . . ever since I was seven years old.”

“El . . . I don’t understand,” Quentin said, sitting down, and Eliot blinked tears from his eyes.

“When I was seven, my Grandma Dottie lived with us. She was my father’s mother, but infinitely more kind. This ornament belonged to her grandmother, then her mother, and then her. She always waited until the tree was nearly finished and then she’d hang it up. That Christmas, she asked me if I’d like to help her hang it. I was real excited because it seemed like such a big deal--you know how it is when you’re a kid and an adult asks you for help. I picked it up and ran to her--and tripped over an empty box.” Eliot sighed. “The ornament hit the corner of her rocking chair and broke.” He closed his eyes a moment. “I’ll never forget the look on her face. I might as well have slammed her heart into the floor. She tried to act like it was all right, mostly so my father wouldn’t punish me. Not that it stopped him.” Eliot took the ornament from the box, his big, elegant hands cradling it. “She died two months later, of a stroke. Died in her sleep. I helped my father make her coffin.” He held the ornament up to the light. “I hid the pieces in my room for years and then took them with me when I left home. I would try to use my telekinesis on them but they would never mend right. Either they would knit and then fall apart or the glass would bulge in all different directions. I put it in my closet, hoping one day I’d learn magic that would help me fix it.” Eliot looked up at Quentin and smiled. “Or that the right kind of magic would come along. I guess it finally did.”

“Do you want to put it on our tree?” Quentin asked with hesitation, and Eliot shook his head.

“No, Q. I want us to.”

“Us?”

“Yes,” Eliot rose and offered Quentin his free hand. The younger magician blushed, hope rising in his heart, as he and Eliot went over to the tree. Quentin fanned out an empty branch and curved it upward to give the ornament more stability while Eliot slipped a hook into the top of the holder. He hung it while Quentin held the branch steady, and Margo cleared her throat. Eliot glanced over and she tipped her eyes toward the ceiling, where a sprig of mistletoe orbited. Eliot followed her gaze and grinned.

“Looks like we’re standing under the mistletoe, Q.”

Quentin glanced up and his heart quickened its pace.

“Looks that way.”

“Well then. Who am I to stand in the way of holiday tradition?” Eliot bent his head down and claimed Quentin’s lips, causing the younger man to give a short gasp. He gripped Eliot’s forearms as he was kissed for nearly half a minute. When Eliot finally pulled away, Quentin kept a grip on his arms so he wouldn’t fall into the tree. Eliot tugged him into a hug and whispered in his ear.

“Merry Christmas, Quentin Coldwater.”

“Merry Christmas, El,” Quentin smiled as he watched the ornament wink in the glow of the Christmas tree’s lights, a minor mending that meant little to the world outside but repaired and illuminated a room of memories in Eliot’s heart.

THE END

#my fic #Queliot #Christmas fic #The Magicians AU

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