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spacetickles · 3 years

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Don’t you Squirm, Don’t you Fret, I’m Not Gonna Hurt you... Yet

statement of Jonathan Sims, in situ. On how dreadfully doomed he surely is now.

or in other words, I was challenged to write spooky, unnerving avatar tickles, and I'd like to think I managed pretty well

tw: canon typical clowns, bondage, creepy tickles, mild body horror

word count: 2436

Jon’s day was not going well.

The spotlight he was sitting under was boiling, sending beads of sweat racing down his back, cold and deeply uncomfortable, though with his hands bound above him, Jon had little relief from the feeling. He’d been like this for, well one could hardly tell with no windows and his wristwatch well out of his view. Occasionally he'd catch a glimpse of something moving out in the endless dark of the theatre outside of the view of the stage light, though no one had yet come to check on him.

From somewhere backstage he heard a large metal door swing open, slamming shut with a bang that reverberated through the empty theatre. It was followed by the incessant click of heels on the wood, and two shuffling pairs of footsteps.

“Jooooon~” a call from stage right, Jon's left. In a high reedy voice he knew was the thing that called itself Nikola. She walked out onto the stage, standing unnaturally tall, she adjusted her tophat, smiling far too widely at him, with far too many teeth to be normal. Her porcelain doll style body twisted downward, leveling her face with his, so close he would be able to feel her breath if she had been breathing at all. From this closer he could see the brushstrokes of her face, her glass eyes somehow moving as if they were real, staring directly into his own.

Jon's vision was unfocused and blurry, his glasses having been cracked and slowly sliding down his nose for what could have been minutes or hours, though he could still see as her smile widened further.

“What kind of moisturizer do you use?” she asked, as if this was a regular conversation between coworkers. Had Jon not been gagged he may have said something snarky about the notion, as it was he mostly just managed a strangled noise of confusion.

“Hmm, I thought as much, your skin is atrocious, we just bought a variety!” she gestured behind her to the two men who followed her, if Jon had not known exactly who they were he would have hardly noticed them, as nondescript as they were. One of them held up a drug store bag full of different bottles for him to see, before placing it directly beside the running tape at Jons feet. The bloody things seemed to follow him around, he was sure he had one on him when he was captured, but he could have sworn he saw it smash on the concrete before a bag was placed over his head.

Nikola seemed to notice the tape as he did, with a few sickly pops she leaned down and grabbed it, a look of dismay crossing her painted face.

“It's rude to listen in on others' conversations.” she said, more to the tape than to Jon. She turned back to him suddenly.

“Who listens to these? Is it Elias? HELLO ELIAS! Your Archivist is very rude!-” she continued on, speaking directly to the tape recorder. Jon watched her pace for a while, chattering on in a voice that was not her own. By the time she began to trail off the two men had long left, or at least, Jon could no longer see them. Nikola eventually wandered back in his direction, kicking the bag of lotion by his feet. She stopped, considering the bag before her glass eyes once again rested on him, she turned to the tape once, seeing it still rolling, and placed it gently on a table Jon had not noticed mere moments before.

“I'd nearly forgotten you were here, thank goodness I remembered, if we're ever going to make you into that frock we have plenty of work to do on your skin. Really it is atrocious, have you ever even heard of lotion?” Jon made an indignant noise, really wishing he could interject to defend himself. Nikola tutted once, before continuing,

“I don't even have skin, I'm a collector of the stuff you know, but still even I can keep it in much better condition than yours, and with all these pockmarks too, I suppose you'll be a spotted frock. Ah, well spots are nice I suppose, though there are ways to make these less noticeable you know?” Nikola said, mostly to herself as she began undoing the buttons on Jon's work shirt. Jon writhed, pulling himself backwards as much as he could, shouting through the gag. Nikola smacked him lightly on the shoulder, her plastic hand making a hollow bonk as she did.

“Quit your squirming Archivist. I very well can't fix you up with this on!” she tutted. An extra plastic limb appeared from under her waistcoat, holding Jon firmly by the waist, he jumped, surprised by the sudden contact. It held him firmly in place, and was cool to the touch even through his work shirt. Nikola worked her way down the buttons on Jon’s shirt. Her moulded-on nails scratched every once and a while through the shirt, making Jon writhe, though the hand at his waist kept him from getting too far.

Jon jolted, squirming away with a reignited fervor as the sharper plastic seams around Nikolas hands began to brush against his stomach, sending him shivering with each graze. The minute she was done Jon felt himself relax, glad it was over, until he quickly remembered why she had been undoing his shirt as two frigid, skin lotion covered hands pressed down directly on his sides. The third hand, having since moved away and seemingly slipped back onto Nikolas waistcoat, leaving Jon free to shriek through his gag and move as far away from Nikolas hands as he possibly could. Nikola pulled away, leaving two handprints in lotion on his side.

“What are you squirming about? I really didn’t want to have to restrain you so much for this part! But you leave me little choice Archivist!” She said, dismayed, she snapped her fingers and from outside the view of the spotlight, dozens of hands appeared, all severed at about the forearm and made of a range of material from plastic to wax, they crawled out of the darkness and toward him. Through the gag, Jon cried out in alarm.

Several hands clamped themselves down around his ankles, while others climbed higher to lock themselves to his knees, Jon let out a surprised laugh as they squeezed and froze as they were. With a start Jon realized he could no longer move his legs, even though as far as he had seen none of the hands were attached to the ground in any way. Nikola smiled at him,

“There, now isn’t that better?” She said, chipper as anything. Jon attempted at a muffled “no” but could barely get through glaring at her before she placed her frigid hands back on his sides.

This time, with nowhere else to go, Jon squirmed in place, huffing out barely contained laughs around his gag. Nikola continued, her ball-jointed hands were cold and solid, the small seams where the plastic had been formed scratching lightly down Jon’s sides, forming little paths of lightning down his spine that made him want to scream.

It was only when Nikola trailed her hands in, to rub lotion into his stomach that Jon finally broke. Laughing through the gag, audibly enough to finally catch his captors attention,

Nikola stopped, her head snapping to the side with a gristly pop, before she grinned, wider than before.

“Archivist, I think you’ve neglected to tell me something.” She said, an uncomfortable lilt to her voice, a poor mimicry of something close to teasing. She pulled his gag from his mouth, her nose centimeters from his own,

“Are you ticklish, Archivist?” She cooed, Jon grimaced, attempting to answer with a no, or an explanation, perhaps to get a question out before she replaced the gag. Before he could, Nikola dug her nails into his sides. Jon jumped, barking out a surprised laugh, before quashing it into a little hum he could maybe try and play off.

Nikola jumped and clapped, her joints popping and snapping as she did so in a facsimile of a happy dance. Alright so maybe he wouldn’t be playing this off then.

“Oh you are! This will make this so much more fun!” Nikola giddily danced back up to Jon, looming over him at her full height. He could feel the excitement radiating from her as quickly put more lotion on her hands and proceeded to wiggle her fingers in front of his face. Jon cringed away, making Nikola laugh.

“Ohoho! This is going to be wonderful, Archivist! We're going to have such fun!” she warbled, her tone an off tune sing-song. Jon once again tried to speak but she dug her nails into his sides, and Jon's protests were swallowed with a frantic laugh. Nikola made a giddy noise, leaning in closer to Jon's face, her plastic nose nearly touching his.

“You are in trouble now, Archivist!” she trilled,

“Wait, hold on now-” Jon protested, before Nikola pulled the gag back up and into his mouth. His muffled protests only seemed to spur her on as she dug back in, her hands migrating around his torso, watching his reactions intently. Jon wriggled, held down by the variety of hands at his legs, as Nikola scribbled her nails up and down his sides. His noises of protest interrupted by a yelp every time she strayed a little too close to his ribs

Nikola cooed with every jolt Jon made, enamoured with his reactions, she dragged her nails up his side, grinning wildly when Jon all but squealed as she stopped at his bottom ribs.

“Sensitive here, little Archivist?” she asked, faux sympathy dripping from her tone, scratching the plastic seam of her nails around Jon's lowest rib, sawing the sharpened little edge back and forth. Jon screamed through his gag, cackling through heaving gasps for air. Nikola laughed along with him, stilted and unnatural, but a laugh all the same. She shot her hands upwards suddenly, almost magnetically latching her nails onto one set of Jons upper ribs, just under his arms. Jon wailed through the gag, his laughter quickly falling silent.

Almost as soon as she started, Nikola stopped, her hands stilling, still poised dangerously over the two ribs she had been tormenting. Jon tried to regain his breathing the best he could with what break he could get.

“Perhaps…” Nikola started, goosing her fingers over the spot again, making Jon lurch forward, nearly nose to nose with Nikola

“We should save that spot, hm?” she smiled, wide and white and with oh so many teeth, and she waited.

Jon starred, taking in the ever so slight misplacement of her features, before Nikola frowned, drilling her fingers into Jon's underarms. Jon, for the first time in quite a while, reflexively tried to pull his arms down, easily stopped by the rope holding his arms aloft.

“I asked you a question, Archivist. You have not stopped talking and now you will not answer me, really how rude!” Nikola said, dragging her nails back down, raking them over and over, up and down over Jon's ribs, drawing wild cackles from behind his gag.

“Perhaps I'll just focus here then. Until you give me an answer, Archivist” Nikola dug her nails into Jon's ribs, returning to the upper set, Jon writhed, letting out a short scream before his laughter turned to frantic head-shaking and silent cackles.

“I'm not hearing an answer, Archivist? Shall I just have my fun then?” Nikola teased, an extra hand or two joining in, scratching sharp nails ever so lightly across Jon's hip bones. Interjecting short screams into Jon's silent laughter. Nikola tutted, clawing her hands around Jon's ribs, drawing various screams and muffled pleas with each set. Up and down, over and over.

By the time she was satisfied for now, Jon had long since screamed himself hoarse. He hung limply from where his arms were suspended into the rafters, breathing heavily through his gag, still recovering from Nikola’s fun. He was just distracted enough that he barely heard the tell-tale squeak of hinges as a bright yellow door opened in front of him. Nor did he notice the thing that called itself Michael, that called itself friend, exited said door with a heavy sigh.

“You, Archivist, are lucky I owe Sasha a favor,” the thing that was and was not Michael said, slicing the rope holding Jon aloft with a single swipe of its claw. Jon collapsed, startling Michael, as he scrambled to catch him before he hit the rickety wooden floor and alerted the whole circus of its presence. Another quick slice and the gag around Jon's mouth fell away easily. Leaving Michael with an armful of exhausted Archivists and no hands left to open his door. He sighed again, rapping on the door three times with a twisted knuckle. The door opened slowly, its handle turning a bright fuchsia, contrasting its usual black as what was once and never was, Helen Richardson opened the door to the corridors.

“Hands full, Mike?” Helens grin fell off her face sloppily, still unused to her new form.

“If you call me that I really will shred you,” Michael muttered, feeling Jon bury his head into Michael's jumper as Helen laughed, just a little too out of control. It doubted that would make Jon feel better, considering his jumper was hardly any more normal than Helens laugh, though it tried to make the jumper less static-y and disorienting for the time being, turning it a regular olive green, perhaps the jumpers original colour, but Michael could hardly be expected to remember such a thing.

“Do you think you can manage to find the archives? Or even his flat?” Michael asked, giving Helen a look as he crossed her threshold, his much more refined control over the spiral calming the wild fractals of Helen and his shared domain. Helen stuck out her tongue, letting it curl like a snake before pulling it back.

“Of course I can find the archives!” she said petulantly.

“I'm sure you can,” Michael reassured sarcastically, saying nothing on her ability to navigate the halls and hiking a nearly deliriously exhausted Archivist up his hip, and beginning their trek through the corridors. Glad Jon wouldn't be remembering this with much clarity.

Later, Michael found a tape recorder in his pocket, long since silenced, having captured what it needed to. It delighted in turning every word uttered on it to a static-y mess before returning it to Jon later.

#tickling #tickle fic #tickle community #tma tickles #jonathan sims #nikola orsinov #michael distortion #helen distortion #mag 101 #another twist #canon divergent #this is basically just nintickleswitch’s tickly avatar au #the magnus archives #Michael is their friend because I say so #jon is a competent archivist AU

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space-mermaid-writing · 3 years

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House Arrest [Loki X Reader] Chapter 1

Summary: You are Clint’s 'little' sister and actually a trained Shield agent. But you gave that up a few years ago and became a Chef, because you wanted a normal live. Then one day Natasha shows up at your door and takes you to the Avenger Tower for a while for security reasons.

Tags: Reader is an former Shield Agent, chef!reader, Reader Barton, 2012 Avenger vibes, everything is still alright, Slice of Life, Avengers Family, Loki has a good heart, still the god of mischief, Slow Burn, mention of food and cooking

Read it on AO3

Chapter 1: New Home

It's just before midnight when you finally get off work. You really like your job, but the hours are murder. Being a chef at one of the most expensive five-star restaurants in Philadelphia has its price. You take off your apron, which has hardly any stains from the last few hours on it, and throw it in the wash. The white jacket goes neatly into your locker and is replaced by a cardigan and a scarf. It’s a cool night. With a last good bye to your colleagues, who are still putting the dishes into the dishwashers, you make your way home.

The night is dark, but the streets are lit by lanterns and the windows of closed stores. Even if it had been pitch black, it wouldn't have worried you to have to walk alone through the empty alleys. Last year a guy had tried to rob you and threatened you with a knife. You had given him a broken nose and several stab wounds in the shoulder. After all, you had been trained at Shield. But the poor guy didn’t know that.

Half an hour later you arrive at your apartment. It's more functional than nicely furnished, and everything is a bit of a pick 'n' mix. But you don't mind it, because you spend most of your time at work anyway. At home you don't feel such great importance to culinary variety when it comes to your own food. A pizza or French fries with ketchup were always welcome. After all, you've been standing at the stove long enough at work. Tired, you decide to wait until breakfast for your next meal and, after a quick change of clothes, just fall into bed.

Fortunately, the next day is your day off. You make good use of it and sleep in. Afterwards you have an nice brunch with eggs, bacon and toast and after a short shower you go into town to do some errands. The sun is shining warmly from the sky and it's a beautiful spring day. If this holds up until the weekend, maybe you'd visit the weekly market and see what exotic and rare foods you can grab there. You love these little trips, even if you rarely find the time.

About two hours later and with three full shopping bags, you re-enter your apartment. It's on the second floor of a rather nondescript building, but the interior is very modern, with pastel-colored, high walls. You put everything in the kitchen cabinets and then brew yourself a tea/coffee, with which you make yourself comfortable on the couch and turn on the TV. It's time to relax a little. So you zap through the programs, watch the rest of an episode of your favorite series and then decide to watch a reality series, which is not exactly known for its quality but is entertaining. So the noon goes by until suddenly the doorbell rings. You get up to see if it's the mailman or a neighbor with a package. But a look through the peephole shows you that it is neither. Surprised, you open the door "Nat!" Natasha Romanoff is a friend of you and your brother, as well as the godmother of his children. But due to her job you rarely see each other. "Hey," she greets you with a small smile. "Can I come in?" "Sure." You lead her into the living room, where you turn off the TV. "What can I get you? Tea, coffee, milkshake?" "Coffee is fine." You disappear into the kitchen for a moment as she sits down in the armchair. Natasha was a rare visitor. Mostly she came with some news from Clint. You see him even less because he spends what little free time he has mostly with his wife and the two kids. Understandable. You don't hold it against him and try to visit them on holidays or for birthdays at her farm.

It doesn't take long until you return to the Russian woman with a new cup and some pastries and sit down on the couch again. "Well," you ask her curiously. "What do I owe the pleasure?" Natasha reaches for her cup. "It’s rather inconvenience. But first tell me if you’ve observed anything unusual lately." Questioningly, you look at her. "What do you mean?" "Nothing weird? You sure?", she asks. "Tell me what I'm supposed to have seen, please," you prompt her, both impatient and confused. Natasha gets right to the point. "You're being monitored." "By Shield?" "By Hydra." Stunned by this news, you remain silent. Natasha uses this pause to drink her coffee. "Oh, this is really good." But you don't listen to her at all, because various thoughts are circling in your head. And again you try to remember if you have noticed anything: same people you met, vehicles, anything. But you got pretty used to your life and didn't pay attention at these things. "Anyway, I'm here to pick you up. For your own safety it’s best if you stay with us for a while," Natasha finally breaks the silence and you look up. "What could Hydra possibly want from me? I don't know any internal secrets anymore. There are better to kidnap than me." "That's what we're trying to figure out right now." "Well, the danger doesn't seem to be acute", you note. "If they wanted to grab me, I wouldn't be sitting here by now. Thanks, but I decline and prefer to stay here. I have my job and the apartment." And now that you know what's going on, you can pay attention and take the necessary precautions, too. "Thanks for warning me." Natasha, on the other hand, doesn't look like she gives you a choice. "You know Shield has its ways to convince you?", she reminds you, but you shrug. Why would such a large organization bother with a single civilian like you? "What does my dear brother say about this matter?", you ask instead. "He hasn't been informed yet." Ergo, they deliberately leave him out of it so that he can't protest. You know this kind of approach of Shield.

Clint understands and supports you in your civilian life, even though he protested the loudest back when you announced your exit. "How’s he?", you want to know from Natasha, who is now finishing her coffee. "He's alive." That can mean just about anything from being happy and healthy to badly hurt but breathing. Better than being dead, you guess. "He's out in Africa with Steve right now." "Busy, huh?" "As usual." She stands up as a sign that she has nothing more to say for the day, and you walk her to the door, where you bid her farewell. "We'll talk again soon," she promises, but admittedly you have little desire to do so right now. "Sure," you reply and close the door behind her.

Well, that were some news. You put her empty cup in the sink and pause thoughtfully by the window. How could you have missed Hydra's agent, you ask yourself while glancing out. Your new life made you too comfortable. But it also takes up a lot of time and energy. And anyway, you dropped out because you didn't want to be cautiousness all the time anymore. You wanted a normal life with a normal job and normal problems. Away from agents, assassinations and super powers. You didn't want to check every day on your way to work if you were being followed, secretly monitored or if someone else was out to get you. That's why you’ve chosen this life. With a sigh, you sit back down on the couch. The past never leaves you alone, you guess. But tomorrow would be a long day even without these new old worries.

The advantage of being a chef is usually that you don't have to get up at the crack of dawn for work. Most Restaurants open at noon, some even in the evening. So does the one where you work. There are preparations to be made before opening time, but you can still sleep through the morning, do some housework, and then head to the restaurant in the sunny afternoon. That's where the trouble starts, though. Just as you're about to open your locker to change your clothes, someone taps you on the shoulder. It's your boss, who hands you a letter. You can tell immediately from his serious expression that something is wrong. And when you open the envelope, you discover your resignation. You look up, perplexed, but you lose out in the following discussion. You don't even get a decent explanation, and that’s what annoys you the most. You're pretty sure your skills aren’t the issue, neither is the way you work. Nor the way you treat your colleagues, with whom you get along very well, even if the tone among cooks is a bit rough. You go back to your apartment, now in a bad mood. It‘s unbelievable! The sunny weather seems like a mockery to you now, and the people you meet along the way are in far too good a mood, in your opinion. It will be hell to find another good job as this was.

Arriving back home you immediately get more bad news: your landlord put a notice on your apartment door. The bathrooms in the building will get completely renovated soon and will be unusable for several weeks. Plus the heavy construction noise during the day. And the water would be turned off. It would be best to find temporary substitute apartment, so they recommend. "Haha...ha..." You laugh dryly and unlock the door. Was that a coincidence? When Natasha had been here yesterday? Probably not. You know Shield's methods and that it’s easy for them to take away your job and your apartment just to get their way. You have two options: either you accept the offer before Shield gets any more stupid ideas, or you run away and try to hide. With a sigh you go into your bedroom and throw a suitcase on the bed, in which you pack clothes, the most important documents and some things from the kitchen you need for work. Not everything fits, so you add a second travel bag. Meanwhile, you think about who you could complain to. Your brother was a favorite target of yours, but he a) had nothing to do with this matter and b) was not in the country. Which’s a shame, because you'd really like to have him by your side right now. If you wanted to complain to Shield directly, Fury would probably be the best person to do it. But you hold too much respect for him to vent your anger to him. Maybe just the next Shield agent who would come to you on this matter would have to step in. You know someone would definitely get back to you. With one last look around your apartment, you leave it and lock the door. Then you shoulder your bag and make your way out.

Just as you're thinking about getting a large coffee from Starbucks down the street, a red sports car pulls up to the side of the road. Natasha at the wheel. "Hmph..." You walk over to her and throw your luggage in the back seat. Then you take a seat in the passenger seat yourself. "Just for the record, I'm not happy with this." "I can see that." She tries to give a sympathetic smile, but you know this is just a job to her. "Well then, off to the Bat Cave, Wayne." "Does that make you Robin?", the Russian asks, driving off. "I guess", you reply snippy, not interested in keeping the conversation going. Fortunately, Natasha wasn't exactly the talkative sort either, so you have some peace and quiet to get your thoughts in order.

It takes you just under two hours to drive from Philadelphia to New York with city traffic slowing you down a bit. Otherwise, you would have arrived earlier at the former Stark Tower. It's been the Avenger Tower for some time now, but that doesn't make much difference, except that Tony Stark seems to be too lazy to put the remaining letters back on it.

Natasha parks in the private underground garage and you take the elevator up to the grand lobby. She tells you about the current residents here. There’s the usual staff, who are of course always present. Of all the Avengers, Bruce Banner is living here permanently. "He actually hardly ever leaves the lab," the Russian explains. "I'm currently living here, too. Every now and then Thor stops by, but mostly he prefers to explore the world. And his brother Loki is here. There have been some...problems with him and he's sort of under supervision here. Tony trusts technology more than Asgard. The owner of the house, by the way, is out visiting an outpost right now." "There are even Avengers outposts?" Natasha nods as she walks you down the halls to the living area. "But don't tell Hydra." "Sure", you promise unfazed. "Speaking of which, if I want to go out to visit someone, do I need a key or how does this work?" "It's better if you stay here in the house for now. It's for your safety, after all." "For how long?", you want to know. The answer is short. "As long as necessary." "So I'm sort of locked in here”, you state. That's typical Shield. As soon as there's any problem, an agent is sent in to put everything in solitary arrest or quarantine. As long as it’s shielded from the rest of the world. Natasha stops in front of a door that is now yours, but doesn't look directly at you, which as much of an answer as you get. "I'll be fine on my own now, thanks," you smile politely but not genuinely at her, and after she assures you that you're free to move around inside the building, you head off with your luggage in your new apartment.

#Loki #Loki x Reader #House Arrest #Chapter 1 #my writing #Clint #clint barton #hawkeye #loki laufeyson #imagine #chef reader #mcu #marvel

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entities-of-posts · 3 years

Note

I saw that you were doing the entities of dreams, this one is from a while ago, but I remember it well because I wrote it down immediately after I woke up. Sorry this is gonna be a bit long lmaoo.

In the dream, I was attending a university in the states with modern architecture and a variety of courses. The accommodation was provided by the university, so I didn’t have to pay extra for an apartment. By all regards it was pretty good.

One day it was announced there was a change in management. It didn’t seem like too big a change because everything was mostly the same for about a week or so after the change. Then classes began being cancelled, and new, strange mandatory lectures began being implemented.

The lectures were a only little odd at first, they talked about theories about the universe, human psychology, and society. None of the old professors were delivering these lectures, it was all new ones we’d never seen before.

The strangest part was that almost nobody seemed to question this at all.

One day, after all our classes had been replaced by these lectures, we got one that was particularly strange. It was taught by a lanky man with brown hair and eyes that seemed like they belonged to a snake. There were a small group of people sitting to the left of him on chairs, observing the room.

This lecture talked about how the andromeda galaxy was moving closer and sending out “energetic beams” that disrupted the sun. The sun effects human emotion, and controls us on an atomic level. As freaky as this lecture was, the strangest part was yet to come.

The lecturer told everyone to stand up, and everyone did, at exactly the same time, in exactly the same way. When he told them to turn to the left, everyone turned the same distance at the same speed, as if you were controlling a dozen characters with the same controller. Everyone’s eyes looked empty of emotion during this.

I was mimicking their actions during this, to try and hide the fact that I wasn’t effected by this mass suggestion like all of my peers were. So that the people at the front didn’t notice me.

The lecturer instructed everyone to sit down again, and they did. But their eyes still seemed hollow and devoid of emotion as they watched the lecture.

The lecture ended and he told us “if anyone wants to take a more active role in the cause, you can sign up here” gesturing to a folding table with slips of paper and a box with a slit in the top on it.

I decided that this was too out of the ordinary to not investigate. I might have been the only person who could have an opportunity to investigate this. I signed my name on a slip of paper and put it in the box.

The next day, I was taken into a meeting, a ring of chairs were arranged in a nondescript room. One of the people who were observing the room yesterday was at the back of the room, waiting for the last few people who had signed up to sit down.

There weren’t very many of us there, I’d put it at somewhere below 18 people. We were all handed a dossier on a different person. The dossiers contained information about their life, residence, schedule, and what they had done to be targeted like this. They were all dissenters who had raised suspicions about this ‘new management’

We were given a week to get rid of our targets. This was some kind of test to get into this organisation.

I was a bit apprehensive about the idea of murdering someone at first, but I decided that there was definitely something supernatural and likely cult related going on here, if this was the price I had to pay to find the truth, then so be it.

I spent most of the week stalking him to make sure my information was accurate, until I was very confident in what his daily routine was.

On the 6th day, I decided to follow him for his entire day, going completely unnoticed, ducking into stairwells and bathrooms whenever I thought I might be noticed. I followed him back home to his apartment. He always left his door unlocked until he decided he was going to sleep.

I didn’t have a weapon, or any plan, but I was completely confident. Something was telling me that I was absolutely capable of killing him, that I could do this.

I entered his apartment, still unnoticed, and touched him once. At the time I wasn’t sure how but with just one touch I seized control of his entire cardiovascular system and forced his heart to stop beating. An artificial heart attack, indistinguishable from any other.

Once the end of the week passed, I was taken into another meeting. There were far fewer people in this one, not all of the people who had signed up had passed.

The man who gave us the dossiers last time began to explain to us ‘You have all been chosen, not by us but by andromeda. We are all above the average, mundane, human, and it is our right to rule above them. Our purpose is to find the chosen and implement a new social order where the chosen reign superior’

I had seen it, how dull and hollow a regular human was compared to the people that were in this room with me, the chosen. In comparison to us, they were about as sentient as the marionettes they resembled when the lecturer used that mass suggestion.

Interesting! A few different possibilities here. This is of course very reminiscent of the Web, with the puppeting of the students, but this method of killing is very reminiscent of the End, or possibly the Flesh. From another point of view, the feeling that most people around you are mindless and/or subhuman zombies has been known to be a facet of the Lonely. Still, the stated end goal of this cult being to seize global control at the behest of a cosmic power brings us right back around to the Web.

#statements #the Web #Cobalt

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watermelonlipstick · 4 years

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Dreams, Chapter 7

If you haven’t read this series before, you might want to start on Chapter 1, or check out the Dreams Masterlist! Here’s the series description:

When Dean dies for good leaving Sam and his girlfriend (the reader) behind, they must figure out how to carry on without him. Alone, reeling, and unsure what to do next, trying to honor Dean’s memory and follow their hearts gets even more complicated when their nightmares become dreams that feel a little too real.

Title: Dreams, Chapter 7

Pairing: (past) Dean Winchester x Reader, (eventual) Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 4184

Summary: Life moves toward normalcy for Sam and the reader, regardless of emotional turmoil.

Warnings: angst, fluff, swearing, s l o w b u r n

A few days later the Kaisers came into the bar for a nightcap and asked you and Sam to come to their house for dinner. You couldn’t think of a reason not to, and honestly thought maybe it would be nice to have something to structure the week around. It had been quiet, just barely beneath solemn while the dust settled and Sam stayed mostly silent while you moved around each other throughout the day. At least at the Kaisers’ Sam would have to talk to you, maybe even sidle up close to you during waking hours to keep up the couples’ charade. A little zap of guilt moved through you as you politely agreed to a time, that the second thought you’d had was about getting closer to Sam under this guise. In any case, the Kaisers were kind, it wouldn’t hurt to have a nice meal with someone else, and if you were going to stay here, it would be a good idea to avoid appearing standoffish. You bought their last drink and were waving after them when Sam came upstairs from changing a keg.

“We’re going to the Kaisers’ for dinner tomorrow,” you offered, trying to keep your voice even and making a point of not staring at Sam too long. It was a challenge; since Sam had kissed you and even more since he’d divulged that longing was part of the tangle of emotions he was feeling, it was on your mind nearly constantly, adding a murky stripe to the ever-present grief.

“Oh, uh, okay.” Sam jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans like he didn’t know what to do with them. “What time?”

“They said 7:30. Don’t let me forget; I think we should bring a bottle of wine or something, so I can grab one tomorrow.”

“Yeah, that works.”

You wanted to drag out the conversation but couldn’t think of any way to that wasn’t cloying or desperate. If this (hopefully temporary) emotional distance was what Sam needed, it was unfair for you to try to take it from him. A quick nod and you returned to washing glasses.

The rest of the shift passed agonizingly slowly. Sam put on a podcast about Jonestown for the drive home.

You’d decided to walk over to the Kaisers’ with Sam the next day, bundled up on top of a presentable sweater that you hadn’t worn in a few years. Biting wind sliced through your jeans and seemed to creep into your coat even as you dug your chin inside the collar like a turtle, and when Sam noticed he threw an arm around you. His side blocked a bit of the wind and he rubbed your shoulder to warm it with friction. The impulse to curl up into his ribs was fierce, but you fought it down to wrap your forearms around the bottle of red wine that looked the fanciest of the midrange bottles at the grocery store. Where seconds before you had been wishing the walk were shorter, now you could’ve stayed out in the ice forever if it meant Sam would allow himself to be close to you again without being asleep. You’d made peace with the want, trying hard to decide that feeling crazy on top of your grief wasn’t helping anyone.

“Ready?” Sam asked with a tentative smile at the doorway. The Kaisers lived in a version of your cabin, in the sense that many of the houses in the area were log-hewn and rustic. However, they were clearly here to stay. Window flowerbeds filled with pinecones for the season and delicately carved shutters framed warm casts of light streaming onto the snow through gauzy ivory curtains, and their door opened to a tiny front porch where yours simply had a small ungraceful cement platform. For a moment, you thought about how comforting it would be to come back here at the end of a shift. It didn’t feel like somewhere as darling as this could have a half-broken boiler that rattled all day or plastic-coated countertops. This was a home and not a hideout.

You gave Sam what you hoped was a reassuring grin and watched as his long finger pressed an old-fashioned doorbell encased in wrought iron.

Mike answered the door. He had on a fuzzy pullover that made him look even more like a teddy bear than he normally did, nubbly wool spanning his belly like fur. He had the kind of rosy full-cheeked smile some jolly men combined with their booming voices to seem like the Ghost of Christmas Present, and a well-groomed beard with two starkly delineated streaks of gray-white dropping straight down from the corners of his mouth. From previous neighborly hugs, you knew he smelled like piney aftershave. He was a little taller than average, and built former-linebacker solid. You would’ve bet anything he was the perfect dad to call to help move you into a college apartment or scare an ex-boyfriend, and the thought of it made you cheerful and sad all at once. The hand not holding the doorknob had a pint of dark beer. “Great, you’re here! Babs, they’re here,” he added over his shoulder, gesturing an arm to welcome you into the home.

Sam waited for you to go first, shuffling his feet along the doormat in tandem with you as Mike closed the door. You followed Mike’s socked initiative and gently toed your boots off while you handed him the bottle of wine somewhat shyly. For all the years you’d been on your own, there was something so decidedly adult about bringing wine over to the dinner party of a middle-aged couple that felt like those first few meetings of your parents’ friends after college, when you’re not sure whether to call them by their first names or resign yourself to a life of Mr This and Mrs That. Mike seemed to pick up on it, thoughtfully appraising the bottle and squeezing your shoulder, humming about how you didn’t have to bring anything. He clapped Sam on the back and asked him how he was doing before teasing gently about how long his hair had gotten, and you took in the house.

It was bigger than the cabin you were staying in, the staircase to your left suggesting an upstairs that yours didn’t have, but what was far more striking was how warm it felt both in mood and literal temperature. A fire crackled straight through the main room in front of you, surrounded by giant river rock stonework that offset caramelly beige walls. A deep, plush canvas sofa faced the fireplace, flanked by two equally overstuffed armchairs upholstered with burnt sienna stained leather. Quick visual survey gave you a count of 4 throws in the room of various weights and patterns.

The kitchen was over to the right through the dining room. Barbie was wearing an apron covered in piglets and appeared to be basting something in the oven, turning toward you and absentmindedly wiping her hands. Fluffy, soft-looking hair was held back from her face with a pair of no-nonsense tortoiseshell barrettes. “Oh, perfect! I thought I hadn’t left enough time for the roast, but it looks about done. Can I get you two a drink?”

Sam’s soft, encouraging smile was enough to make you feel a little weak in the knees. “Sure! It smells great in here.”

“How about an old fashioned? We’ve been working through a great bottle of bourbon.”

“Works for me,” Sam agreed, and you nodded as well.

A few moments of small talk later, Sam offered to help Barbie with the food. She graciously accepted, giving him some job you knew she could’ve easily done herself as a way to make him feel more comfortable. Mike noticed you looking at the variety of pictures on the wall and started talking about their kids, putting names to each cheerful face. They were a good-looking family, the Kaisers, all big beaming smiles and limbs protectively wrapped around each other over the course of different seasons and major events. You’d had to let go of this idea years ago, long before Dean was gone, but it still made you ache in a nondescript way to see a family so happy and so each others’, not only in the way they loved but also in the way they so obviously belonged. Mike and Barbie were good people, and they deserved this. You tried to focus on the affection in Mike’s face as he talked, asking a few clarifying questions as he went. A few moments later, Sam came up behind you.

“Barbie says we should go sit down.” There was a pinkness to his cheeks and you couldn’t tell if it was the warmth of the kitchen or residual windburn from your walk over.

The table was one of those single-plank, live-edged ones you’d always coveted and knew were far more expensive than they looked. It fit the elevated rustic feel of the Kaisers’ house and the delicious, rib-sticking meal you were eating off of it. As you fawned over the roast and Barbie did the requisite Midwestern dance of ‘oh it’s nothing I’ll give you the recipe’ it was easy to fantasize about belonging somewhere like this, having parents like this, pictures of your cousins and nieces and nephews lining the walls of your childhood home. Indulgent, clearly, even more so than the rich food and smooth liquor, but you couldn’t bring yourself to feel guilty about it.

“So, have you two always worked in the bar industry? That always seemed so fun to me—but I’m too old to do anything like that now,” Barbie asked.

“Oh, come on, you’d be a great bartender,” Sam insisted, always coming down on the exact right spot between flattering and politely flirtatious. “But uh, no. This is the first bar I’ve worked in for more than a few weeks, actually.”

Mike raised his eyebrows in an indication to continue but Sam artfully avoided his gaze. You couldn’t tell what the cue was—how honest was Sam planning on being? An old classic, the technically-true, seemed like the best option. “I worked as a bartender through and a little bit after college.”

“Silly me, I guess I had always thought that’s how you two had met; you seem like such a good team there! How did you meet, then?”

You artfully popped an entire fingerling potato in your mouth to force Sam to take over. “Uh, our, ah, families were friends.” In the sense that Bobby had been like an uncle to you both, maybe. A complete non-answer that sort of encompassed the barebones of the situation if you squinted at it right, but neither Mike nor Barbie seemed to recognize the opacity of it.

“That’s great. I bet your parents were excited then, seeing you get together,” Mike suggested before taking a sip of bourbon. Both you and Sam smiled affirmatively—not together, many of those parents long dead before we had even met—and hoped the moment would pass. “How long has it been, then? Since you got together?”

That one you couldn’t even guess what the right pretend answer would be and prepared to joke ‘too long’ before Sam said, “About two years. We knew each other for a long time before that, though.” It made sense, as far as answers went. ‘About two years’ since Dean was gone, since your lives changed, but it still ripped through you like an electric shock and sent you reeling. You could have spent an hour looking at that statement from every angle but snapped out of it when Barbie gave you a basket of rolls to pass to Mike.

“So that explains why she doesn’t have a ring,” Mike winked, playfully knocking Sam’s arm with his fork still in his hand. “Two years isn’t that long.”

Two years is a lifetime. Sam blushed and looked down at his plate. “Be nice. Kids don’t get married at 20 like they used to,” Barbie teased from across the table, smirking at her husband with so much love behind her eyes. You couldn’t help but wonder if you would’ve looked at Dean like that across some dining room table if things had been different and your mind flashed on the kitchen counter a few nights before, silently clinking rocks glasses together over pie and wanting to hold Sam until the world got more fair.

The plates were cleared and an amazing, sticky bread pudding was brought out. Mike and Barbie coaxed each other into telling stories that made you genuinely belly laugh until finally you couldn’t suppress a tiny yawn and the final drink was poured with a joke about how it wasn’t like you were driving home, so what was the harm? You all moved to the living room in front of the fire, sitting next to Sam on the couch when Mike and Barbie took what must’ve been their normal spots in each armchair. Old cushions folded up around you comfortingly and rolled you slightly into Sam’s weight next to you, lining up the firm stretch of his thigh along yours. Warmth from the fire and Sam, the pleasant sounds of your hosts’ voices and Sam’s answers to them rumbling through you as vibrations when he spoke were so sweet and heavy under the bourbon, and your eyelids began to droop.

Sam’s hand gently covered your knee. “Ready to go?” he asked, low with a private smirk.

You made a conscious effort to sit up straight. “I’m so sorry, I can barely keep my eyes open! Where are my manners?”

Mike laughed a big belly laugh from his armchair. “Babs, we’re outlasting the bartenders!”

Everyone chuckled as you all got up from your chairs, Sam accepting a Tupperware of leftovers before the at-the-doorway conversation of people who didn’t want to go and hosts who didn’t want them to either. You’d been so nervous about the dinner and now you didn’t want to leave, honestly hadn’t really wanted to leave the sofa, just doze against Sam in the heat and company like a child. It had seemed before like maybe Mike and Barbie were just asking you for dinner because it was the thing to do, but they had been genuinely welcoming and you realized that these were the first non-hunter or hunting-related relationships you had made in literal years as you zipped your coat up all the way to the top and followed Sam outside into the quiet night.

“Man, they are really nice,” he remarked, walking closely enough next to you that your sleeves brushed together.

You could barely see his face when you looked up to him. “Yeah. We should have them over sometime.”

“Our place looks like a flop house.”

You giggled, the sound falling softly on the snow around you. “We can fix it up first.”

“No real point in fixing it up if we’re not staying here for a long time.”

“Maybe we could stay a while.”

Sam looked down at you, slowing to a stop even as the icy wind whipped around you. “You want to stay?”

“I mean, I—yeah, I think I do. Unless you think we should go somewhere else.”

“No, I just…I guess I hadn’t really considered it here, the whole “roots” thing.”

“It’s fucking freezing, can we talk at the cabin?”

Sam’s laugh rang out across the woodsy surroundings as he clapped an arm around you and shuffled you both home.

That night you tucked your cold toes between Sam’s flannel-clad legs and tried to imagine Dean as an old man.

If you’d thought December and January were bad, the intense cold snap of February sent you for a loop. Something about the months of darkness and frozen fingers was making you more stir crazy than normal; the idea of coming home to the cabin seeming less and less enticing as the days went on.

And then the boiler broke.

Well and truly broke, not just making the horrible clanging sounds it was prone to, but no heat at all. It had only been a couple weeks since going to dinner at the Kaisers’ and the experimental conversation with Sam about investing time into the cabin which had since fizzled out. A lack of heat at the border of the Upper Peninsula in winter was obviously untenable, and it forced the topic again as you grumpily helped carry in the remnants of another dead tree Sam had felled to heat the home with firewood.

“Is it worth fixing or is this a sign?” you huffed through the tiny clouds of steam coming out of your mouth. “How much would it cost?”

“I don’t have a ton of experience with boilers, but I’m pretty sure it’s the heat exchanger. And I have no idea how much it would cost to fix, but I can try to do it myself if the parts aren’t too much.” Pragmatic, genius Sam with the patience for machinery that you didn’t have. He snaked a long arm out from the bundle of wood he was carrying to open the door and hold it for you to scurry under his arm before closing it after both of you.

Generally, you thought a landlord would probably fix this kind of thing but it always felt a little scary asking him for anything, knowing you paid cash every month and the owner had never asked for a background check. It could have been fine, but every potential conflict seemed like it might be an opportunity to be unceremoniously evicted. Better to either leave before it could happen or solve the problem yourselves. You put a hand on Sam’s chest before he could go back for another bundle of wood. “Let’s talk about it for a second.”

Sam put his hands on his hips and it accentuated the broad span of his shoulders in his thick jacket. “Okay, right. What do you think?”

“Well, I mean, do you want to stay here? Or do you want to go somewhere else, or start moving again or something? We haven’t even really talked about it.”

He seemed to be weighing the options before biting his lip. “Here seems as good a place as any in a lot of ways, you know? Off the beaten path, probably not going to get spotted by anyone we know—knew—and the money is honest.”

You cut him off with a flippant wave of the hand. “Right, but I’m not talking strategically. Do you want to stay here? Do you like it here?”

A moment of silence fell as you searched his face for clues. “I—yeah, I do. I like being in the woods, I like the bar, I like people like the Kaisers and Steve and Jake. Maybe I’ll feel differently in the summer but right now I do.”

The grin cracked open your face slowly. “Good. I like it here too. Do you think the hardware store would have the stuff you need to fix it?”

“Definitely the first place I would check.”

After getting the rest of the wood inside and leaving it next to the small fire already burning to dry out, you started to follow Sam to the car before he turned around a step before the door. “Where are you going?” he asked as you almost bumped into him.

“Hardware store, I thought?”

“Nice try, we can’t both leave with a fire going.”

“Oh, I get it. So you get to go sit in the warm car and hang out in the warm hardware store while I turn into a popsicle over here.” You were half-joking, but it was genuinely freezing in the cabin, even with the fire going. Sam rolled his eyes over a smirk and strode around you, pushing the couch tight to the fireplace before retrieving the down comforter from the bed and throwing it on top. He grabbed a rinsed plastic bottle from the top of the recycling bin and filled it with water hot from the tap before throwing it in the microwave for a second.

“Unless you feel like learning a lot about boilers today, then yes.” He gingerly pulled the bottle out of the microwave and tightened the cap back on, deftly shifting it between hands before tossing it under the comforter on the sofa.

You were having a hard time holding onto your anger as you watched him make a cup of peppermint tea, still wearing his boots and coat as he moved around the tiny kitchen. Reluctantly, you shuffled over to the couch and removed only your boots and gloves before getting under the blankets, tucking your socked feet around the poor man’s hot water bottle and finally smiling only when Sam brought over the steaming mug of tea with more than a touch of affection under the exasperation coloring his face. “Fine?”

“Fine.”

When he came back, you were well into a worn paperback and had put two more logs on the fire already. “Do you need help?” you called over your shoulder from within the comforter cocoon.

“I think I’ve got it, thanks.” His words came into the room on a gust of cold air while he tapped snow off of his boots.

“Think you know what you’re doing?”

“Actually, yeah. The woman at the hardware store—you’d recognize her, Diane I think—knew a fair amount about it. I’m pretty sure I have it under control.” He brought a paper bag weighted with supplies over to the utility closet you knew held the boiler and got to work.

It was nice watching Sam in this element, always had been. As much as Dean had loved doing little projects and fixing things, both Winchesters were far handier than your average bear and Sam’s natural interest in learning lent itself well to tinkering with all kinds of things. Evidently boilers were not an exception. He shucked his coat off to lie flat on his back, looking up at something you couldn’t see with his hands gently resting on his ribcage before reaching to grab a wrench. The twisting motion raised his elbow and tugged his shirt a bit up his torso to reveal a few inches of Sam’s lower abdomen, the trail of hair tracing to his belt buckle in slightly sharper contrast to the taught skin around it given the consecutive months spent without sun. It made you blush and you quickly looked back to your book, grateful for the heat that the fireplace was bringing to your cheeks as cover.

About forty minutes later, Sam tapped your shoulder and startled you out of the goofy historical fiction of the paperback. “Wanna see if it works?”

He had a stripe of oil or something on his cheek but you resisted the impulse to swipe it off, instead nodding and extricating yourself from the heat of the blanket and couch around you. When you turned it on, the boiler clicked loudly twice in a way you thought might be a bad omen before going silent again. You let an extended beat pass and placed a palm on the side. It was already on the edge of being too hot to touch and you momentarily forgot that you and Sam had decidedly not been continuing your new normal level of comforting affection lately before throwing your arms up high around his neck excitedly. He chuckled into your ear and closed the embrace, forearms crossing your ribcage and hoisting you off the ground as he stood up in your hug. You could feel the fingers of one hand splayed out over your back and side through your jacket, the other still holding the wrench tightly.

“Okay, no promises it’s going to last, but I think that was it,” Sam offered as you released each other.

“Crank it! I want it to feel like the Caribbean in here.”

“You say that now, and in 3 hours you’re going to be whining about how hot you are,” Sam grinned, clearly feeling a little proud of himself even if he wouldn’t admit it. He tapped the wrench absentmindedly against his palm for a moment, considering whether he wanted to say something. “When I was at the hardware store she said our landlord might be open to cutting our rent if we offered to fix up the place.”

“Who’s we?” you teased, holding your frozen fingers close to the boiler like it was a campfire.

“I thought you might say that. But seriously, I know you don’t like the color of the walls or the shower pressure or whatever, could make it feel a little less…sterile.”

You tried not to remember that the last time you’d picked out paint was for a bright pink bedroom at age 12. Sam was right, it could be nice. Even more than that, it would be great to have some leftover cash around, and an extra project to kill a few hours of daylight wasn’t a bad idea.

“I kind of like the sound of that. I’ll talk to him about whether he’d be game.” Sam squeezed your shoulder before massaging your neck, admiring the boiler distractedly when you continued. “And seriously, thank you for fixing it.”

Continue to Dreams, Chapter 8

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deja-you · 4 years

Text

times new roman | episode five

t. jefferson x reader

summary: Y/n needs a date. Thomas would be more than happy to oblige.

trailer | previous | next

A few hours earlier...

Sometimes, as humans, we love and forget how to stop loving. Questions will go through your head, like: what if I can’t ever stop loving you? What if I forget everything about myself, and only remember your name? Sometimes we meet the person we want to fall asleep beside. The person whose heartbeat you just can’t help but count.

And then sometimes we meet Thomas Jefferson. Arrogant, know-it-all Thomas Jefferson. The casual flirt who didn’t care for real relationships and was content with one-night stands. The lawyer who defended big oil companies and wealthy business men because, as he put it, “someone had to do it.” The man who had been born into a wealthy family, got into a good school because his family made large contributions, and couldn’t imagine a life void of penthouse apartments and designer suits. In conclusion, Thomas Jefferson was not a man Y/n could ever see herself dating.

This wasn’t a date. They both made that perfectly clear. Quite frankly, Y/n was bored and had nothing else to do. At least, that’s what she told herself. There was nothing harmful about hanging out with her father’s employee for a while, was there? It was fun and meaningless, what could be wrong about it?

But if you had told Y/n how the day was going to end, she would never have left the coffee shop. In fact she would’ve thought you were joking. But no one was there to tell her how the day was going to end, so she did leave the coffee shop. Thomas called an Uber and a few minutes later, Kevin, in a silver Prius showed up to take the pair to Coney Island.

“Really? The Thomas Jefferson takes Ubers? I thought you would have a private driver or a luxury car,” Y/n said.

“S’that really what you think of me? I’m a man of the people, angel.”

She rolled her eyes. “A man of the people who wears $600 Burberry shoes.”

“Excuse me? For your information, I got these shoes on sale. See? I’m just like ordinary people, shopping sales and stuff,” Thomas tried, unconvincingly.

“How much were they on sale, Thomas?” Y/n prodded.

“...$300.”

Y/n proceeded to make fun of Thomas for buying a pair of shoes for that much, saying something about how the rich need to pay higher taxes, but he didn’t hear much of what she said. He was too focused on the fact that she had finally used his first name.

At some point during the 45 minute ride to Coney Island, Thomas asked Kevin if he could have control over the AUX chord. Kevin agreed (earning himself a five-star rating) and Thomas then played some tunes from the 60s.

“The Temptations?” Y/n raised an eyebrow as the catchy intro to My Girl began playing.

“You got a problem with that?” Thomas asked, then he began singing (might I add, quite loudly) along with the lyrics. “I’ve got sunshine, on a cloudy day...”

Y/n shook her head and began to sing along, but still much more reserved than Thomas. “And when it’s cold out, I’ve got the month of May...”

Thomas smiled when he heard her sing along. The chorus started and he nudged her with his shoulders, urging her to sing louder. Y/n rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t keep the smile off her face. They continued to sing the remainder of the song together until it began to die down and transition into another R&B song.

“So tell me,” Y/n began, “what made you decide to take a trip to Coney Island today?”

Thomas gave her a thoughtful look. “Used to come with my mom and siblings when we visited New York. Always had fun.”

“What about your dad?” Y/n asked.

He sighed and looked away from her. “My dad died when I was 14. We started visiting New York every summer after that.”

“I... I didn’t know. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“You couldn’t have known.” Thomas gave her a small smile. “Everything about Virginia reminded me of my dad. I think that’s why I moved to New York. I’ll visit Coney Island now and then when I want to be reminded of my family. Reminded of the good parts, at least.”

They fell into silence, neither one of them knowing what to say. The beat of some jazzy tune could be heard as well as Kevin tapping along on the steering wheel.

“My dad used to take me to Coney Island,” Y/n finally said. She was trying to break the silence, but immediately wished she hadn’t said anything. Was it insensitive to bring up her own dad when Thomas had just told her that his dad had died?

She was put at ease when he smiled. “That so?”

Y/n nodded slowly. “Well, it was only once. I must’ve been ten? We went on a rollercoaster, even though I was terrified.” She laughed quietly before turning more serious. “I don’t think I’ve been to Coney Island since. Dad started getting more busy, which I understood of course.”

Thomas turned on his side to face her, casually resting his arm against the backseat. Maybe he didn’t know how good his bicep looked when he sat like that. Maybe he did. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be Washington’s kid. I mean, he’s an amazing guy and a great boss—feel free to tell him I said that —but running a business this size must take a lot of time.”

“It was hard at first, for my mom and I,” Y/n admitted. “He would always be traveling for work. It took us a little bit, but we figured it out. He would visit us at home sometimes, and then other times mom and I would visit him. Sometimes he would take me on work trips with him. And then it made sense to go to college in New York so I could be closer to dad.”

“Sounds like everything worked out pretty well for you and your family, then.”

“Only because my parents worked hard to make time for me. My dad was always happy to see me, but I could tell that he was exhausted after a long week and traveling home to see us.” She then added, “but I shouldn’t complain. I know a lot, if not most, people had it worse off.”

“Maybe,” Thomas shrugged, “or maybe not. You don’t need to compare your struggles to anyone else’s, angel.”

“I...I know that,” Y/n murmured.

They continued talking for the rest of the drive. Discussing which Netflix shows were the best, and which ones were garbage (Thomas was convinced Tiger King was the best show on Netflix, making Y/n roll her eyes). Thomas told some funny anecdote about one of his crazy clients, and Y/n even brought up how she was trying to find an internship with a humanitarian group. They never ran out of things to talk about, and only stopped their conversation when Kevin the Uber driver announced they had reached their destination.

“It is cold.” Y/n admitted as she stepped out of the car.

“I did tell you to bring a jacket, didn’t I? The wind coming off the ocean is pretty chilly, isn’t it?”

Y/n squinted up at the sky. “It doesn’t help that the sun hasn’t decided to come out.”

Thomas chuckled and began walking down the boardwalk. “C’mon, I know what’ll cheer you up. Let’s get food.”

There weren’t many things that could make Y/n smile the way she did when she was offered food. She happily skipped after Thomas and they came to a food stand. They ordered some variety of burgers, fries, and milkshakes, Y/n didn’t really pay much mind to it. When Thomas pulled out her wallet she swatted his hand away.

“You paid for the Uber, I can’t let you pay for lunch, too,” Y/n insisted, pulling out her own wallet.

He waved her off. “No, let me. What kind of gentleman doesn’t pay on a—”

“On a what, Thomas?” Y/n raised an eyebrow. “Because we’ve both agreed that this isn’t a date.”

“Right, right. Of course.”

“Besides, the whole idea that men have to pay for dates, or in our case non-dates, is completely outdated. I’m paying for lunch.”

Thomas hid a smile and allowed Y/n to pay for lunch, seeing that nothing he said would change her mind at this point. It was mostly a pride thing, he figured. Y/n paid for the food and they ate while they walked along the boardwalk.

“So what’s the plan now?” Y/n asked. “Are we going to go do all that touristy stuff?”

“Wasn’t my plan,” Thomas replied. “Unless that’s what you want to do. There is something I want to show you.”

“You’ve probably been here more times than me, I’ll let you make the decisions. This time.”

“Great. You done eating?”

Y/n looked down at the empty bag she held in her hand that had been filled with food only moments before. What? She was hungry. “Yep. All done.”

They tossed their garbage in a trash can, and Y/n let Thomas lead her down a boardwalk toward who knows where. They stopped so Thomas could buy a bag of cherries. Y/n had so many questions, she didn’t even know where to begin.

“You’re buying cherries? Are you hungry? We just ate. I didn’t know they were even in season,” she commented.

Thomas turned to look at her, rolling his eyes. “So you’re just going to question and insult all my decisions, then?”

She shrugged. “What else would I do?”

“C’mon, angel, let’s go.”

So with a bag of cherries in hand, Thomas continued on his way down the boardwalk with Y/n in tow. They walked in silence; Y/n didn’t even question him when Thomas stepped off the boardwalk and onto the sandy beach. They didn’t walk to the water. Thomas and Y/n walked along the boardwalk until the boardwalk was a few feet over their heads.

They kept walking until Thomas led Y/n to a spot underneath the boardwalk. Ocean air on one side, a concrete wall filled with graffiti on the other. Sand beneath them, and the slotted wood of the boardwalk above letting through beams of sunlight. Waves could be heard crashing on the shore not too far away, along with seagulls somewhere above them and the nondescript chatter of tourists and locals.

Thomas climbed on top of a cement slab and took a seat, opening his bag of cherries. “Here we are. This has been my spot since I was a kid. I hope you like it.”

“Under a boardwalk? Sitting on cement?”

“What? You don’t like it, angel?” He teased.

Y/n shook her head and moved to take a seat next to her. “No, I love it. I just didn’t picture Thomas Jefferson’s hangout to look like this.”

“Why do you say ‘Thomas Jefferson’ like that? Like I’m some kind of notorious billionaire playboy.”

“That’s what you think it sounds like when I say your name like that?” She laughed. “I don’t know, is that not how you see yourself?”

“Well I wouldn’t be in bad company, would I? Batman and Iron Man are both billionaire playboys,” he pointed out. “But I see myself as a suave, charming business man with a touch of Southern hospitality.”

“You’re so full of it.”

And sure, it was supposed to be an insult. But the way Y/n laughed when the words came out of her mouth made Thomas feel a way he hadn’t felt in a while. He’d rather have her insult him everyday than have some other woman whisper sweet nothings in his ear. Because all they would be is nothing, and when Y/n spoke it was like warm honey and a string orchestra.

“Perhaps.” Thomas shrugged and nudged the bag of cherries toward her. “You want one?”

She eyed them warily. “I don’t know. Are they poisoned? How do I know you didn’t lure me out to Coney Island to give me poisoned cherries and hide my body under the boardwalk?”

“Why would I want to kill you? They’re not poisoned.”

Y/n decided that he must be telling the truth and popped a cherry into her mouth.

“Besides,” Thomas continued, “if I wanted to kill you, this wouldn’t be the way.”

She swallowed roughly and stared at him with wide eyes. Seeing her expression, Thomas laughed in an attempt to reassure her. “I’m just teasin’, angel. Don’t look at me like that.”

“So,” Y/n said, “do you often lure unsuspecting women down here with a bag of poisoned cherries?”

“They’re not poisoned.” He shook his head, but his smile still reached his eyes. “But to answer your question, no. I’ll come down here now and then, usually pick up some local fruit, but I’ve never brought anyone else here.”

“Should I feel special, then?”

Thomas watched her for a moment then shrugged. “If you want. I think you’re pretty special no matter what.”

“So smooth. You practiced that?”

“If you would I believe it, no. But I have other tried and true pick-up lines.”

“Let’s hear them.”

“Really?”

She nodded, “yeah.”

“Well sometimes I’ll say,” and he proceeded to drop his voice an octave to try and sound... sexy? “‘Do you have a name? Or can I just call you mine.’“

Y/n burst out laughing again, leaving Thomas confused.

“Huh. That’s not usually the response I get,” he admitted.

She tried to contain her laughter. “I’m sorry, but that’s hilarious. Does that actually work on women?”

“You’d be surprised. 9 times out of 10.”

“Alright, alright. What else you got?”

“Okay, how about ‘are you a map? Because I just got lost in your eyes.’”

Y/n laughed again. “Really? That’s so corny.”

“Is it?” Thomas pouted. “Fine, I’d like to see you do better. Give me your best pick-up line.”

“I will do better. Okay, try this one on for size. Are you a beaver? Because dam.“ The way she said it with such seriousness must’ve made it funnier, because it was Thomas’s turn to laugh this time.

“I’ll admit,” he smiled. “I liked that one.”

“See? It’s not that hard.”

“Fine, you win. Now let’s do something I know I can beat you at.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

Thomas held up a cherry for her to see, then pulled the stem off. “Have you ever tied a knot in a cherry stem with your tongue?”

“No, but I’m sure it’s not that hard.”

Y/n would live to regret those words. For the next who-knows-however minutes, Y/n struggled to tie a knot in her cherry stem. It was one of those things that she thought she would just pick up easily, but it was so much harder than it looked. It didn’t help that Thomas was weirdly good at this, tying maybe three stems while Y/n was still working on her first. His coaching wasn’t very helpful either.

“You just need to bend the stem in half with your tongue, cross the two ends over, and tighten the knot with your teeth,” he told her for what could’ve been the hundredth time.

“I’m trwaying! Not sthat easuh!” Y/n complained, aggressively maneuvering her tongue around the stem. Thomas laughed at her but was silenced when she sent him her very best death glare.

For the next five minutes, Y/n was completely focused on tying the stem. First, she had to make sure the stem was bendy enough to be tied. Bending it into a half-circle was the easy part. She scrunched her nose up when she had to cross the ties, knowing this is where she had always messed up in the past. Then using her tongue to push one end of the stem through the loop, she tightened it and pulled out them stem to show Thomas.

And of course, being Thomas Jefferson, he leaned back, smirked, and said, “damn, angel, what else can that tongue do?”

Y/n’s mouth fell open. Her face heated up. She stumbled over her words until she settled on an offended, “Jefferson!”

And that stupid smile he wore when he knew he had gotten her all worked up and flustered made her think that he said it just to get a reaction out of her. The way he looked at her made her feel some kind of way, and she didn’t know if she never wanted to feel that way again, or if she never wanted to stop feeling that way.

“Don’t be gross,” she finally muttered, her eyes trailing the sand at her feet.

He chuckled, “sorry ‘bout that.”

Again, they fell into a silence. At some point Thomas started humming a tune that Y/n recognized as Under the Boardwalk. Fitting. A cold breeze reminded Y/n that it was still a chilling April day and the wind coming off the ocean wouldn’t let her forget that either.

“Do you want my coat?”

“What?” Had he read her mind?

“You’re visibly shivering.” Oh. “Do you want my coat?”

It’s not like Y/n hadn’t brought her own coat. She had, it was a pretty red color, but it didn’t keep the cold out well. Y/n hadn’t realized just how much colder it would be on Coney Island, but if she had thought about it for a second she would’ve known better. The problem was that when Thomas asked her to come with him and flashed her that charming smile, she didn’t think. So now she was cold.

“No. I shouldn’t—”

“Angel, can we just skip the whole pride thing? This doesn’t have to be some cliché moment where I give you my coat and it’s oversized on you and you look so cute so it’s worth it to me that I’m cold. Just take my coat, okay? You need it more than I do.”

Y/n blinked. “...okay.”

Thomas inched closer to her, shrugging the jacket off his shoulders. He wrapped the jacket around her, and then proceeded to change the course of their relationship forever. Instead of leaving the jacket on her shoulders and returning his hands to his side, his hands lingered.

If that hadn’t happened, maybe Y/n would’ve held the jacket tightly to herself. She’d be warm. They’d continue to have light conversation. Then they would go their separate ways. Maybe she’d see him at her dad’s office and they’d give friendly nods to each other when they passed in the hallways. They’d go make to being familiar strangers, and that would be perfectly fine.

But his hands lingered. And he knew what was happening. And she knew what was happening. The kind of linger that wouldn’t occur between two friends or any two people who were less than that. He was still holding her in his arms and showed no signs of letting her go. Y/n looked up from the sand and met his eyes.

I could tell you that she saw a universe or forever or something wonderful in his eyes, but let’s be real, they were a pair of eyes. A pair of beautiful eyes, sure, but they were just eyes. So it wasn’t his eyes that made her fall in love. It wasn’t his eyes that made her lean in and kiss him. It was simply the person she had spent the last few hours getting to know.

His lips were soft and tasted of cherries, and when he kissed her back, it was with a kind of gentleness and tenderness that Y/n hadn’t expected from Thomas.

All too soon, logic and sensibility kicked in. Y/n actually realized what she was doing, and while she didn’t want to stop, she couldn’t continue without better reasoning.

She pulled away, not having the heart to push him away after initiating the kiss. Her whole body felt hot, and it wasn’t due to the new coat she had recently acquired. Y/n’s heart began beating more than the average beat for minute, however fast that was, she couldn’t quite think properly about anything.

“Y/n—”

Why did her name on his lips sound so good all breathy and needy from the kiss? Was that even the right way to describe it? And why couldn’t she think about anything else except him?

“I need to go.” It wasn’t Y/n’s proudest moment, but she wasn’t able to think clearly around him, and that was dangerous in itself. Maybe she’d feel bad about leaving him behind with no explanation later, but she was a too much of a mess right now to even think of that.

She retraced her steps back up to the boardwalk (Thomas called after her a few times but ultimately let her go) and out onto the street. She got in an Uber -- or was it a taxi? Y/n couldn’t remember. The ride home seemed quicker when she was zoned out. At some point she had texted Peggy? The memory was hazy.

Even though there were people on the streets and her driver in the front seat, Y/n suddenly felt all alone. Alone with her... feelings. Her traitorous, uncontrollable feelings. Thomas had made her feel some kind of way that the only thing that could get it to stop was just to stop feeling altogether. And that wasn’t working well for her. Y/n sighed and opened up her phone.

A/N: Let me know if I forgot to tag you or if you’d like to be tagged.

tags: @wiffle-snuffles @thisistrashperson @comingupwithacoolnameishard @wordvomit-foryourmind @newtonslawoffuck @isharemydeathdaywithfeanor @i-know-i-can @imperial-martian @fangirling-central @dannighost @ateliefloresdaprimavera @justahappylilblog @fanfic-addict-98 @a-hopeless-fan @and-claudia @nicolemelton @youtxbemusic @reidcult @eirenism @fantasy-of-fiction @iamsuperconfusedallthetime-dead @a-midwinter-night-dream-86 @rycbar-221b @bethanymccauley @fanworrior @gggamingz @nemesis729 @ibeaesthethicc @yodas-padawan @sabbrriiinnaa @micaiahmoonheart @beautifulfound @moondustmemories @ct-salad @teenwaywardasgardian @bj-is-a-graduateof-julliard @ruebx @katierpblogg @speedypartyducksuitcase @fangirling-central @idkkbaleighh @ballerinafairyprincess @spn-pogues @gryffin-claw @elegantbutedgy @1elysium @sierraisnotreal @ssanjuniperoo @collectivefandom

#hamilton x reader #hamilton #hamilton imagine #lafayette x reader #hamilton fanfiction #lafayette imagine #daveed diggs #marquis de lafayette #daveed diggs x reader #thomas jefferson x reader #thomasjefferson #thomas jefferson imagine

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zosonils · 4 years

Note

surely post some autistic ferb things for us all,,,,,,

hell yeah anon!! here’s an absolute hell dump of Ferb Autism Indulgence Things because i have really been wanting to get my grubby little autistic hands all over him lately

his special interests are engineering and tetris [which is the game he’s internationally ranked in!]

he stims vocally by humming or repeating other vocalisations, but rarely with actual words

if he’s too nervous to vocalise/just not in the mood he goes for small hand movements to stim like clicking pens or tapping his fingers

he does flappy hands/arms when he has a lot of excitement to release! otherwise he prefers to stick to smaller/more subtle motions for a variety of reasons

he only repeats actual words as echolalia, almost always off of either phineas or perry! that thing they do where perry chatters and the boys mimic it and they all just loop off each other for a while is absolutely an echolalia loop for all of them [yes even the platypus]

a very epic headcanon i have is that owca agents are typically labelled as having therapy animal training to give them some more wiggle room with showing intelligence, so perry is officially a therapy platypus for the flynn-fletcher kids, especially the boys. ferb does the aforementioned echolalia chatter thing with perry and also just generally finds him extremely comforting to hold. of course perry’s figured out all of ferb and his siblings’ needs by observation and makes sure to subtly be as comforting as possible for his kids, especially if they’re having a meltdown and need to hold someone who won’t try to talk to them

ferb genuinely dislikes communicating verbally, due to a combination of general social anxiety, struggling to translate his thoughts into words, and finding it physically uncomfortable to talk. it’s not serious enough to prevent him from cracking a joke or vocalising his thoughts every once in a while, but he prefers to be nonverbal as much as possible and communicate through gestures and body language

throughout the series he only ever speaks on his own terms and as much as he’s comfortable with, so it comes out without issue, but if he’s forced to talk when he doesn’t want to or while he’s under stress he struggles to string sentences together and stutters really badly. fortunately he’s got nice friends and a great family so this issue rarely presents itself, although it comes up sometimes during the school year in battles with pissy neurotypical teachers over oral presentations

over time he starts to work past the discomfort [genuinely, it’s on his own terms as opposed to masking to get allistics off his back] so that by the time he’s an adult he can hold an entirely verbal conversation for a decent while before it drains him, but he still tends to avoid speaking if he can

phineas instinctively understands ferb’s silent emotional cues, a lot better than he understands most people’s [but that’s a whole other infodump lmao], and unless ferb actively indicates that he wants to talk for himself phineas usually speaks for both of them and translates any of ferb’s less neurotypically obvious signals

phineas and ferb made The Ultimate Fidget Cube as one of their daily projects [they were being mass produced for an hour or two and then something or other happened, there was a mobile phone and an avalanche of instant noodles, long story short only the handful they made for themselves and their friends are left now] and neither of them go anywhere without it

ferb doesn’t have any specific comfort/security objects but he feels significantly more at ease if he’s got some kind of tool in his hand or within reach [or, failing an actual building-stuff tool, anything he can hold and Do Something with, like a pen or his fidget cube or a video game controller], and is a lot more stimmy with his hands and generally anxious if he isn’t holding something

perry performs the task of comfort item better than any inanimate objects but platypi aren’t allowed to come to school even if they’re very polite :(

believe me the brothers have tested this numerous times

school is stressful for ferb because it fires up his sensory overload and is usually where he’s forced to do some neurotypical shit that upsets him, but his friends always have his back and linda and lawrence are definitely super involved in making sure their kids’ needs are met and respected by their teachers, so he manages pretty well unless something really bad happens to set him off

he’s susceptible to sensory overload, mostly with bright lights, sudden noises, and being touched. the light and sound involved in many of his and phineas’ projects is alright because he usually designed them and knows exactly when they’ll come on and what it’ll be like, but if he doesn’t have that prediction available he freaks out easily. being touched [especially without warning] is the absolute fucking worst and he almost invariably flips out if someone unfamiliar tries to touch him or he’s hit with an unexpected sensation he doesn’t like

he only rarely has meltdowns because he’s good at self-regulating when he needs to and his friends and family know what does and doesn’t fly with him, but when he does they’re often triggered by either sensory overload or being forced to talk

when ferb starts entering meltdown territory his verbal skills are the first thing to shut off, and if it gets worse he usually stops communicating altogether and enters a really bad dissociative state that he won’t come out of until he feels safe again and can be carefully brought back to his senses

standard procedure for ferb meltdowns is to get him a weighted blanket and some tea and a perry if you can find the slippery little bugger, let him snap back to reality at his own pace, and once he can communicate his needs again pay extra close attention to them until he calms down enough that he can properly self-regulate again

his favourite sensations are weight/pressure, the funky bumpy shit perry’s tail has going on, and anything soft!

most of his clothes [including his usual outfit in the show] are tight-fitting but made out of soft fabric for maximum comfy

the blanket on his bed is a weighted one, but if he’s too far from his room or it’s too hot to be comfortable under a blanket sometimes he’ll just find the tightest spot he can wedge himself into without getting hurt or stuck and squish himself in there to calm down a bit

his favourite food texture is crunchy stuff, and he samefoods with particular cereals and sandwich combos that rotate every few months when he finally gets tired of the exact same breakfast and lunch every day and wants slightly different identical meals

while he’s fine with variation from day to day, he’s very firmly attached to the summer/weekend formula of wake up > cereal > big idea > where’s perry > [building montage] > mom holy fuck > sandwich > [having fun montage] > our fuckoff massive contraption has vanished somehow > oh there you are perry > snacks > nondescript vibing > dinner > bed time, and if this schedule gets significantly thrown off it really bothers him

ferb shows his emotions more subtly than neurotypicals, which can make him seem hard to read, but his external emotional range is still extremely distinct - he just expresses it in atypical ways sometimes!

one of his most notable atypical emotional cues is that thing he does when he’s startled and he pulls his hands up - he does this in we call it maze when candace falls over on her skates in the beginning, split personality when busting candace scares him, lost in danville when he’s worried another capsule might fall on him or phineas, and the phineas and ferb effect during how do i do it when milo’s exercise bike crashes, just to name a few instances! this boy has Unique Emotional Cues and i love him for it so much

he’s better at reading emotions than phineas [as low as that bar is], but sometimes misses more subtle cues and doesn’t quite trust his ability to read anyone aside from phineas, candace, and his closest friends

he’s been aware that he’s neurodivergent ever since he was diagnosed as a little kid [he was first diagnosed with autism when he was extremely baby, not even three years old, and had it continually reconfirmed as he got older] and he’s been entirely happy with being autistic for as long as he’s known what that even means, with this only being reinforced as he found siblings and made friends with other autistic kids :)

good lord this is such an infodump i’m sorry i just love my son so very much and have been feeling particularly self indulgent today ;<;

#i've been on and off typing at this ask for like six hours help hsjnkdfnkj /lh #i love ferb so fucking much you guys have no idea #[diverges his neuro]#sonic forces me to answer questions #just fucking whatever #THIS post goes RIGHT in the infodump tag #long post #good lord i'm sorry lmao [except i'm not because talking about my comfort characters is awesome]#anon

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poptod · 4 years

Text

The Game (Baxter x Reader)

Description: You’re either a weirdo or a psychopath. Or both.

Notes: so this is um. kind of weird. but i guess thats kind of my thing at this point WC: 1.7k

"Didn't think this was how it'd go, did'ja?"

"I would really like it if you took these handcuffs off."

"Why? Cause they're yours?"

You stepped closer to his chair, dragging your gaze over every knot you tied around his body. The rope around his ankles and chest, the metal handcuffs behind the back, the gag unceremoniously hung round his neck ever since he wrestled it off.

"Does that bother you?" You asked as you bent in front of him, a wide, toothy grin spreading across your lips. "Being tied up by your own tools?"

"Shut. The fuck. Up," he hissed out beneath his breath, staring straight forward with a glare that could kill. As usual he completely avoided your own eyes.

"Aww, tiny cop is a little testy today, isn't he?"

Shooting up from your position on the floor, you wandered into a darker corner of the room, where the fluorescent light shining over Baxter couldn't quite reach. There you kept your bookcase stocked full of a variety of your tools. Mostly books, but several of the shelves held cases for knives and bug specimens, two of the most beautiful things you imagined one could have. The white light reflected off the glass case and into the detective's eyes.

"I think you need to calm down," you said as you dug into one of the bookcase drawers, feeling around for a lighter and cigarette. "You smoke, right?"

He remained quiet, that glare still piercing the wall in front of him.

"Doesn't matter. I've seen you smoke. I watch you a lot, you know," you spoke through the cig, clicking on the lighter in your hands before a flame burst.

The steps you took towards him were small, calculated, and gentle with your tapping shoes on the cement floor. This room didn't have the best sound quality, and every little noise was magnified by the stone walls. The minimum amount of furniture had made way for the same echo.

"You're very interesting to watch. You're the only cop that's actually interesting. Did you know that?"

With how low his seat was on the ground his face was right in front of your hips, and you spared him no mercy. Instead you stepped even closer, till he was forced to lean back with uneven breath, ire lacing his stare that had nowhere else to rest but you now.

"I've met a lot of cops in a lot of different countries," you admitted thoughtlessly, taking a long drag from your cigarette. "But you're fun. And so fuckin' pretty."

You knelt once more, this time nearly sat between his legs, and blew smoke into his face. His nose scrunched up as his eyes shut, annoyance clear on his pursed lips.

"What the hell do you want from me?" He said in a low, quiet voice that you had already come to know quite well. The moment you recognized it another smile spread across your face, big and unsettlingly happy.

"A good time, hopefully," you said, raising your hand to his face. At first he flinched, twitching away from you, but your need was relentless. Your palm landed on his cheek, allowing you to stroke the small cut along his cheekbone.

When at last he raised his eye to meet yours, the first thing you noted was fear. Fear permeates every emotion––it raises itself above all else, tells on itself before any other emotion can. There were other things beneath that, of course; anger, contempt, the usual when someone is forcefully tied to a chair in the middle of a nondescript room with no windows.

"Don't worry," you chirped. "I won't hurt you. Much. I just... I have these cravings."

Before turning back to your bookcase, you took another slow drag from your cig, watching the end burn till it nearly touched your lips. The smoke you blew out was half in his face and half not, though by his expression it might as well have been all of it.

You reached into your pocket, pulling out the key to one of your glass cases. It wasn't a terribly secure location for the contents, but that little bit of danger was always thrilling––never knowing if your prey will manage to reach those knives.

Your largest was closer to a sword than a dagger, and though it did its' job of intimidation, the easier tool was the small silver knife engraved with cuneiform. The most painful was the jagged-toothed blade, who tore at skin instead of slicing it. That was for another time.

With the silver knife in hand you turned back around, a knowing smirk on your face as you once more approached the detective.

"Jim Baxter. James. Jimmy-boy. How ya feeling? Good?"

No reaction from him. Perfect.

"You want to know something? Little tid-bit of information. Little fun fact about me," you said with a sigh as you knelt. "I don't like your line of work. Not just because you guys are always tryin' to bust my ass and ruin the fun, but I don't like the government in general. The perfect society is an anarchal society. It's probably too much to ask what your leaning on this is, right? I think I know anyway."

You fiddled with the knife in your hands, toying with the handle and picking at the blade.

"White-picket fence boy," you added.

"The hell does that mean?"

"You know exactly what it means. It's just––I think it's a little funny. All around you're such a law-abiding person, so nice, so plain, and you've got all this flavor on your face."

By the way his eyes widened, you could tell what came to his mind. It was what came to most people's minds when you tried to explain the essence of flavor in human personality; cannibalism.

"I'm not going to eat you," you clarified, chuckling when his breathing returned to normal. "I could, though. I have no qualms against it. Peel off the skin of your face, fillet that shit... probably taste like chips."

"Why are you doing this? What – what even are you doing?" He finally asked, succumbing to the confusion and curiosity that had plagued him ever since he woke up here.

"Intimidation. Kidnapping. Those are still illegal, right?"

"Yes."

"Right. Well, anyway, those are just some crimes that I by no means on purpose committed. It was just the only way to get what I really want," you said as the tip of your knife pressed into his clothed knee, running down the fabric and leaving a small scratch mark in his pant leg. He jerked away, but you only pressed harder, keeping him in place with a tight hand around his ankle.

"Don't be shy now," you grinned.

"You think you're hot shit –"

"I am."

"– but I'll find you, and –"

"It seems to me you already have."

"Would you shut the fuck up?!"

"Sorry. Go on."

"I'm gonna put you in jail, where creeps like you belong," he said through gritted teeth, his jaw set as he met your awaiting eyes.

"You think I'm a creep? I'm the most sane out of all my friends. Though, I do suppose we live in two different worlds," you said with a shrug.

His type lived in the light. Sunny-day type people, warm homes to come to at the end of the day, dark green grass and clean highways. Yours is more in the style of broken down street lamps––burning rubber from car wheels and the warmth of a lighter. At least that's the way you liked to put it, romanticized into the sweetest fashion so it's easier to swallow.

Honestly, most of your friends are coke dealers. There's one that sells guns to minors, but he's not a friend of yours. Just someone you know. All of them are good people, you can't deny that, but it's not a gentle environment.

Not that you're any bit unlike them. You do, after all, kidnap people and taunt them for fun.

"Alright. Question for you. Ever had sex?"

Nothing. You giggled, crossing your arms on his knees.

"Ever kissed someone? You don't seem like the person who would like any of that stuff. I'll still be surprised if you haven't, though. The idea that no one tried to jump your bones? Yeesh. I don’t think that's possible," you rambled on, making a few vague hand gestures as his glare never faded.

The surly twist in his face reached a high point, ending with him spitting onto your face with a deep irritation in his expression. It took a second or two before you quite processed what had just happened, but when you did you had no hesitation in your response; licking the flat of your tongue up from his jaw to his temple.

"You like that? Into that kinda thing?" You asked in a booming laugh as he spluttered, desperately trying to worm away from you. "That was on you, buddy. Come on. Admit it."

"I'm not going to –"

"Come on, say it! You deserved that. Right?"

You grabbed his chin in a tight grip, forcing him to look at you.

"You get everything that's coming to you. You deserve everything you'll receive within the next... hmm, let's say, three months? Depends on when I get bored of you," you hummed, glancing to the side as you thought.

"The next three months? What are you gonna do in that time?" He asked almost softly, brow furrowed in the same consternation as his eyes.

"Have a little bit of fun, for once. I hope you prove to be more entertaining than the last girl," you said with a grunt, pushing yourself to your feet. "In the meantime... you can't be missing for too long, baby."

"Wh –"

With the butt of your dagger in hand, you whirled back around, hitting him right in his temple. The hit of the massive gem on his skull knocked him out, muscles untensing as he fell limp in his restraints.

You smiled and breathed a sigh of happy relief, as though you had finished swimming in the brisk water of a lake.

"Ah... he seems nice."

Thirty minutes and he's waking up, waves of pain throbbing from his cranium. He hissed as he tried to sit up, realizing with much comfort that he was back in the linen sheets of his bed, the comforter all tangled and mussed beneath him. By the look of the clock, it was the morning of his first shift of the week.

And the first thing he has to tell his boss is that there's another psycho on the loose.

#detective baxter x reader #detective baxter #the little things #rami malek #rami malek character

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aellynera · 4 years

Text

Mr. & Mrs. Cooper (Part 1 - Bud Cooper x Reader)

MR. & MRS. COOPER - PART 1

(okay guys I was really not planning on this being more than one part but it’s gone rogue and gotten a life of its own so, yep. here we are.)

Word Count: 1438

Summary: You’re married to Bud Cooper and your life is a perfectly kept secret...until it isn’t.

Warnings: None for this part. Like a single minor sexy time reference.

Your house w as immaculate. Pristine. It looked like it should be the feature spread in Better Homes & Gardens, maybe even have its own special commemorative issue. The walls were light, the wooden furniture dark, the upholstered sofas stylish. Chrome and metal accents around the semi-open floor plan. Elegant, modern, sophisticated.

Just like you, with your modest yet attractive knee-length, short-sleeve dress. Your low-heel pumps in a matching color, just a shade darker. A string of pearls, a perfectly coiffed updo. Just a touch of mascara and ruby lipstick.

Perfect wife, perfect life.

Just the way your husband liked it, and keeping him happy certainly had its benefits.

That’s what you firmly believed until about an hour ago. That’s when you were cleaning upstairs, straightening out the office. Normally your husband would insist that you didn’t need to clean the office, that he would take care of it, but he had been working so much and such hours that he was often never home until late into the night, and it had finally gotten to the point where you couldn’t stand the clutter and decided he would just have to deal with it. You would make it up to him later, lure him into the bedroom or maybe even let him take you on the kitchen counter (something he had been very much into lately, not that you were complaining.)

You decided to clean the office, and that was that.

Until you knocked over a stack of papers and in the midst of trying to straighten them back up, saw the contract. A puzzled look creased your forehead. You recognized the name at the top. It was impossible not to, everyone in town knew that name even if any decent person never spoke it aloud. But why was this in your husband’s office? It wasn’t an insurance contract. Your husband worked in insurance. This was a contract with a lot of names on it and an absolutely ridiculous amount of dollar signs. Names crossed out in red. Names that you knew had been printed in the obituary section of the newspaper over the past few months. This didn’t make any sense.

Your husband worked in insurance.

You mused that technically, in its own way this could be considered insurance, just of a...morally dubious variety. Then your eyes traveled down the sheet and your mouth dropped open when you saw the last name you expected - your own.

Your husband worked in insurance.

His career had afforded you these finer things in life. Things he told you should want and desire and that you deserved. Things he gave you freely, without hesitation, almost without you having to ask. Almost...too willingly.

Almost like a sweetener. An enticement. Like a lure..

And then it all clicked. All the dominoes fell. You didn’t know if you should be unbecoming, unlady-like, and royally pissed off at your husband...or if you should be suitably impressed. You loved your husband, you truly did, but this wasn’t the way the game was supposed to be played. This was against the rules.

You pursed your lips, carefully folded the paper, and slid it into the pocket on your dress. You finished clearing up the office, careful not to disturb anything else if you didn’t have to, then shut the door behind you when you finished. You paused for a moment at the top of the stairs, smoothed your skirt, and went back down to the kitchen to begin preparing dinner.

Bud Cooper was going to have a hell of a lot to explain when he got home.

*****

Bud Cooper’s office (his actual work office, that is) was immaculate. Pristine. Anyone who came into the brokerage looking for insurance would feel welcome and secure in his office, and more likely than not would be more than inclined to purchase a policy or up their existing limits. He wasn’t technically a salesman, but most people just couldn’t resist.

It wasn’t a huge office, but it did have a sizable window with a nice view of a field and some trees. The walls were light, the wooden furniture a medium brown, the black leather sofa stylish. Chrome clock on the wall and metal accents on the desk. Elegant, modern, sophisticated.

Just like Bud, with his dark suit, crisp white shirt, and coordinating tie. His dress shoes, polished to a perfect reflective shine. His silver watch, a tie pin, a handkerchief folded in his jacket pocket, and his dark, slightly wavy hair slicked back just so. His perfectly groomed mustache and just a hint of stubble on his chin by the end of the day.

Perfect man, perfect plans.

Just the way he knew you liked it, and keeping you happy certainly had its benefits.

That’s what he firmly believed until about an hour ago. That’s when his secretary had brought a package to his desk. She had attached a note explaining the mailman didn’t know what else to do with it; apparently the envelope had gotten wet at some point and the address was washed out, blurry and illegible. The only thing that could be read was the return address which only said “Mrs. B. Cooper”. Must be a new mailman, he thought, or they would have known where your house was to return it properly. So many new people coming and going around the neighborhood these days, he mused.

So this is where the package had ended up and, Bud being Bud, naturally he had opened it. Mostly he was just curious about who you would be sending a package to. Curious...and a little suspicious. That was just part of his nature. He decided that since the package was given to him, he had the right to open it at any rate, and that was that.

Another, smaller envelope fell out as he opened the flap. Once he opened the second envelope, a stack of photographs landed on his desk. A puzzled look creased his forehead. He recognized pictures of the houses surrounding yours, and particularly the one directly across the street and the one catty-corner to the right. It was impossible not to, even if most of the houses looked the same - the porches were decorated differently, and there was no way Bud wasn’t going to recognize that goddamn pink flamingo stuck in the opposite yard. But why was the vantage point from your house? Bud’s hyper-skeptical, hyper-analytical brain could already tell that’s where most of the pictures were taken from, but you didn’t even have a camera. It didn’t make sense. You were a housewife. You weren’t a photographer.

The last few pictures made him pause. His eyes widened slightly and he just flipped through them again. And again. And again. They were of him, leaving the house in the morning, getting in his car with his briefcase. Stopping at the mailbox, retrieving a package. Arriving at a nondescript cinder block building (a building that definitely wasn’t his office) and handing the package to a man in a dark coat. A few of the pictures were close-ups, a few were more observant. All of them had dates and times noted on the back.

Well, shit.

But you were a housewife.

Bud mused that technically, in its own way this could be considered housework, just of a...morally dubious variety. Really, technically, you hadn’t left the house and you were awake at that same time and starting your own workday...

You were a housewife.

Bud had been pleased his career had afforded you these finer things in life. Things he told you should want and desire and that you deserved, because he honestly thought you did. Things he gave you freely, without hesitation, almost without you having to ask. Things you readily accepted, and it made him feel good to give you these tokens of appreciation.

Almost like sweeteners. Enticements. Like payoffs.

And then it all clicked. All the dominoes fell. He didn’t know if he should be righteously outraged at his beloved minx...or if he should be suitably impressed. Bud loved you, he truly did, but this wasn’t the way the game was supposed to be played. This was against the rules.

He pursed his lips, carefully put all the pictures back in both envelopes, and slid package into his briefcase. He glanced at the clock on the wall. He imagined that right now, you were in the kitchen getting ready to prepare dinner. He had about an hour until he was done here for the day.

Mrs. Cooper was going to have a hell of a lot to explain when he got home.

#oscar isaac #oscar isaac character #bud cooper #bud cooper x reader #bud cooper x you #suburbicon #my brain is just spitting things out i can't help it #fanfic

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intruality-overlord · 4 years

Text

Why Are We (Best) Friends?

Warnings: Excessive swearing, alcoholism, mentions of drugs, drug use, suggestive humor, implied sexual content (no smut), some gore descriptions. Generally, Remus stuff.

Taglist: @blogging-time @veraisnotfine @littlestr @jessibbb @ibroken-butterflyi @hi-its-tutty @idkanameatall

(For these first couple chapters I have tagged people I thought might be interested in reading this. Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the tag list!)

The next chapters I will be posting every week on Thursday/Wednesday because this is a prewritten fic (look at me being responsible—)

Chapter Two: Fuck This

The Present.

“That fucker drives me fucking insane!” Patton’s shouting bounced off the walls. “Virgil keeps getting fucking mad at me and I don’t even know what I’m doing fucking wrong at this point, but he won’t fucking tell me what the fuck it is either!” He ranted. Remus nodded along, sat across from him. His legs were crossed with his pointy elbows resting on top, and his spine bent awkwardly so he could settle his head in his palm. Thoroughly entertained, Remus hummed every now and then in agreement like a sham therapist.

“And Roman! He... he... You know why he’s a bitch,” Patton lamented. A cackle shattered Remus’s short-lived, feigned seriousness.

“The last time we saw you was fucking Christmas,” Patton mocked. “Maybe because you didn’t fucking invite me, idiot. Of course Logan wouldn’t, though, all high and mighty smartass. And my puppet idea was a fucking good idea goddamnit. Bullshit. Bullshit!— ugh,” Patton sighed out his remaining traces of frustration. He crossed his arms over his chest and sunk into the green bean bag. Some of the styrofoam beads spilled out a small tear on the poor, battered, ever shrinking bean bag.

Grinning wildly, Remus said, “While that was a marvellous performance, I must say it could do with a little more variety in your profanity.” Patton gave an amused, breathy snort.

“Why are we friends, Remus? You’re such a bad influence on me,” Patton said teasingly. Remus rolled his eyes as Patton plucked another Pepsi can (which contents had most definitely not been poured down the drain and refilled with a concoction of cocktails) from his mini fridge. Remus let Patton hide his alcohol stockpile in his room since his dear friend was so paranoid of the other sides discovering it. “Encouraging me to curse, letting me have access to vodka…”

“Oh, shut up. You’ve become an alcoholic all on your own,” Remus said dismissively.

“...True,” Patton conceded. “You were always more the type for cookie mix,” Patton added as an afterthought. Remus doubled over into a laughing fit. Cookie mix most certainly had nothing to do with cocaine. He couldn’t help but laugh at the smug knowing look Patton sent him as him floundered.

“You— you can’t— I’ve been clean for a few months now!” Remus said defiantly, sinking further into his beanbag with his arms crossed. (Quickly, Remus double checked, pulling his hair over his eyes only to find clear brown, no white in sight. Phew.) Patton hummed sceptically. “But you did have shrooms recently,” he teased.

Remus huffed. “No I haven’t— …Wait—” Remus paused, “Have I?”

“I don’t know,” Patton smiled, “Have you?” Remus let his eyes wander the room. “I can’t remember…”

Patton rolled his eyes fondly.

“You know as long as you’re not over doing it, and you’re being as safe as possible, it’s fine with me. I don’t have any right to judge,” Patton said reassuringly. Yes, Patton knew it was inherently wrong to not at least try and steer his friend onto a less self-destructive path. Remus, to him, was like a hairless Chinese Crested puppy. Very weirdly adorable in the nasty kind of way. (That sounds bad, but he truly means it in the best way possible. What he lacked in hair as a metaphorical dog, he made up for in personality and a good heart muddle somewhere in there). Which meant he struggled to ever say no to him.

Patton also knew that the last thing he wanted to be was a hypocrite. Maybe once he got himself on the right track, then he’d intervene more.

“Seriously, how did we ever become friends?” Patton said genuinely. “I still thought babies were delivered by stalks when we first became friends.”

“I dunno… we just did,” was all Remus could come up with. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. When he couldn’t quite get comfy, he resorted to sitting upside down on the couch instead. Much better.

Silence settled over the two for a minute. Patton stared into space, deep in thought. Taking sips of his drink, he felt the alcohol lethargically burning down his throat. Remus resorted to picking at his nails again in the stillness, wondering if it’s possible to have a tattoo underneath your nails.

“I don’t regret it,” Patton said thoughtfully. Remus cocked his head to the side, neck cracking when his body slipped down the sofa a bit. “Becoming friends with you,” Patton clarified. “You’re the best friend I could ask for, really. You don’t baby and shelter me like the others. You let me just… be,” Patton said sincerely. “Which always seems too much to ask of the others,” Patton tacted on bitterly. He took a generous swig as if to emphasize his point. Remus scoffed, the tiny movement making him slide the rest of the way down onto the carpet. “Aww I’m flattered, honey.” His tone was excessively teasing, yet his expression was anything but.

Midst lazily reaching for another can, Remus swatted Patton’s hands away. “I think that’s enough. You’re already starting to monologue. If you keep going you’ll have a hangover so bad, it’ll feel like you actually hanged yourself,” Remus tutted. While Patton was no light weight (his words hadn’t even begun to slur yet), from the way Patton was chugging it down, Remus knew his body just hadn’t caught up yet.

Meekly lolling his head back to face skywards, Patton whined but didn’t protest. Sinking lower into the cushy bean bag, his eyes traced imagery patterns on the ceiling.

God, Remus knew that look.

“I just don’t know anymore, ReRe,” Patton said defeatedly, “Every time I think I’m over it, they keep giving me false hope. Everything I say and feel is ignored, and whenever I’m right, they always think it’s a stupid flook. They never listen. I don’t think they ever will at this rate. I don’t even know if I want to be friends with them anymore or I’m just really fucking lonely and my brain’s just hard wired to associate, I don’t know, being happy? With them?” His eyes were vacant, dull. “Why can’t it be like when we were little?”

While the whole point of their little get together was for Patton to vent with free will to cuss as needed, this more sappy, philosophical stuff… Remus didn’t like. You can’t blame him for not liking to see his best friend this miserable. Still, he knew it was best to let Patton keep going.

“Even if they did actually care about me, I’m sure they’d stop the moment they knew we’re like… a thing. Logan would think I’m crazy— Virgil and Roman too… I know what they’d think of us and it’s so— so—” Patton made a nondescript noise of frustration. “They’d say you corrupted me or some shit. I… I’m not embarrassed of you. I should stop acting like I am. I hate this stupid dumb angel reputation I have anyway. I’m just… I have to admit the only real reason I haven’t really said anything at this point is it’s kinda funny seeing their reactions whenever I accidentally say something that sounds wrong.”

Remus chuckled. “I don’t know how they haven’t caught on yet, honestly. Your half of our brain cell is just as sick as mine. They must be in denial.”

“Yeah…”

…

“I should be going to bed,” Patton tried to stand up. As soon as he stood however, his knees buckled. Remus dashed to his side and caught him. “You goof…” Remus positioned him upright. Steadying hands on his hips, Patton tried to stand up straight. A task easier said that done when you’re a gay panic. Inevitably, Patton limply collapsed on top of Remus.

“I don’t think I can make it to my room…” Patton’s cheeks flushed and the red ran down his neck.

“You wet noodle.”

“You… blue cheese lover.”

(“Is that supposed to be an insult?”)

(“Who the fuck likes blue cheese?”)

Arm slung over his shoulder, Remus hauled Patton into the hallway and onwards. He would have carried Patton if he hadn’t been so surprisingly stubborn. All well, anything to make him happy. They returned to their earlier, lighter bantering. The alcohol started to really catch up with Patton, his quips came slower. No less witty, though (by their standards).

Everything would’ve gone like normal if it wasn’t for a certain nerd who had decided on a coffee before bed. Most counterproductive. As soon as Logan had started out his room, he spotted them. His eyes settled into a potent, yet subtle glare. Like a droplet of poison spilt on an unassuming biscuit.

“What the…”

“Logyyy!” Patton perked up at the sound of his voice, lifting himself from Remus’s side that he’d been slumped on. The sudden movement made him lose balance. Scrambling to catch himself, Remus found himself with two arms wrapped around his shoulders now.

“Is… is he— are you drunk?” Logan sputtered. Disbelief shaped his words like they felt alien on his tongue. “I’m not thaaaat drunk!” Patton retaliated. Logan ignored him, cold, tired eyes set on Remus. “What did you do to him?” Logan said as aggressively as a guinea pig could manage. Confusion still mostly coloured his stare. “Me an’ Re er havin’ bestie time, duh!” Patton answered. He sounded giddy, but his voice had a touch of satire only drunken Patton could manage. Even in his drunken state, Patton subconsciously was trying to maintain his image.

Remus frowned. This learnt behaviour was ingrained into Patton.

“He shouldn’t be around someone like you in such a vulnerable state,” Logan said, already trying to pry Patton from his arms. “No—” Remus began, looping his arms securely on Patton's waist, “I’ll take care of him.”

“Noooo,” Patton recoiled, trying to melt into Remus’s side. “It's bestiee tiiiimme wi’ Emu.” Patton's arms slid up Remus’s shoulders around his neck as he squirmed. “You’re drunk, Patton,” Logan dismissed.

Seething, Remus shoved Logan off. “You heard him,” he said, sternly. “Back off before I carve out your tongue, blend it, and force feed it to you,” he threatened. Arms crossed, Logan huffed like an exhausted parent. “You’re all bark, no bite,” he dismissed.

“Oh honey, you ha’ no idea how mu’ he bi’es.”

Schooling his face into glares and scrunched eyebrows, Remus sighed out the giggles brewing in his lungs. Nonetheless, Patton was proud of the brief smug smile he provoked. Pretending he didn’t hear that, Logan insisted, “You’re a bad influence on someone like Patton. People like you shouldn’t be around him, especially when he’s inebriated.”

“Better under the supervision of a friend. He’d drink himself to death otherwise.”

“Yes, but preferably, that should be Virgil or Roman or I, most certainly not you.”

“It’s not my fault he doesn’t feel comfortable enough around anyone else, tin can.”

“Re,” Patton interrupted, whining, “I’m bored le’s gooo.” He tugged on him.

“—He’s drunk he doesn’t know what he’s saying— you know what— Okay, Patton, you choose. Me,” Logan pointed to himself, “or him?” He said overly pronouncing his words.

…

“…‘M drunk not a fuckin’ kid,” was Patton’s response. “We go now,” and he was stumbling down the hallway dragging Remus with him.

Both missed the shell shocked expression on Logan, not daring to believe his ears. Patton cursing? An intoxicated Patton, no less? No. Nope. Absolutely not. He needed coffee desperately.

When they finally got to Patton’s room, Remus carefully directed him, even lowering him onto his bed. Patton had the tendency to unceremoniously flop face first onto his bed like a starfish.

“I swear I’m gonna strangle Logan,” Remus muttered as he made sure Patton was comfortable, tucking in his blankets.

“I don’ think he into bdsm,” Patton said as an offhanded thought.

“You never know. He could be partial to a spider gag…”

“You really just want to try that thing out don’t you? I swear to god— oof.” Remus snatched his pillow from beneath his head to fluff it. Pretending to not pretend he was punching a sheep’s limp corpse, he fluffed it extremely thoroughly.

“You gotsa stop relying on me to keep you in check, ya know,” Patton pouted, arms crossed. “Your— you’re fuckin’ innsaaane!”

“I only ask you sometimes…” Remus said (the worst part about that sentence was that it was utterly true).

Blank stare piercing Remus, Patton paused a moment for his brain to function before deadpanning, “I’d like to talk to you about Jesus Christ—”

Remus shoved Patton’s pillow back, and he promptly forgot everything in favour of burrowing down into his bed. Touch light as moonlight, Remus herded Patton’s wild locks from his forehead. “What am I gonna do with you…”

“You’re na’ gon change my mind… kinky b-hole,” Patton mumbled, caught between the conscious world and sleep. Remus’s eyes smiled. Crouching down, he hovered over Patton. Hovered over his forehead, wondering. Pondering, debating, convincing himself. His breath stirred Patton’s brown locks. They scattered like a spooked flock. Running. Patton shivered.

He shouldn’t. Backing away, Remus was ready to switch the lights off and evacuate, yet was stopped.

“Reeemuuuuuss,” Patton called. Suddenly, he was wide awake again.

Huh?— his breath hitched. His hand caught on the doorway.

“Staaaaayyy! Preddy please?” He made grabby hands.

But— they don’t—

Did he deserve…? Right now? His nails dug into the doorframe.

…

“Okay! I’m coming, I’m coming,” Remus assured, relenting. Lazy giggles from Patton rewarded him. Flicking off the light, Remus strode back over. Laying together in silence, Remus picked the paint and splinters out from underneath his nails and waited. When Patton didn’t budge, Remus took his arms and used them like a seat belt. Simultaneously, Patton glued himself to his back like a limpet. A warm wall of heat.

“Remouse?” He mumbled into his shoulder.

“Hmm?”

“You’re really sweet. like… like tomato sauce.”

…

Welp okay then.

Next Chapter:

#WAW(B)F?#sander sides #thomas sanders #ts sander sides #patton sanders #ts patton #remus sanders #ts remus #intruality #moduke #logan sanders #ts logan #remus x patton #patton x remus

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korpuskat · 5 years

Text

Christmas with Michael, Thomas, and Danny 🔪💘

Merry Christmas @harlequince @knifeknifebaby !!

Michael [PG | WC: 826]

You fidget on the couch, already anxious. You really wanted to share something nice with him, but now you were worried if he’d care at all. Michael sits next to you, staring blankly at the flat little box, all wrapped up in shiny red paper and tied with green ribbon. He hadn’t reacted at all as you placed it on his lap, barely lifted his eyes to meet yours at your meek “Merry Christmas.”

Now he stares at the gift box and you wonder if he even remembers what Christmas is. You know so little about his life inside Smith’s Grove, had they ever tried to celebrate with him? Were you… bringing back unwanted memories? You bite at your lip, wonder if maybe you could defuse this before it happens.

“If you don’t…” You start, but pause as you watch Michael’s finger slip under the satiny ribbon. He pulls the bow out, slow and measured despite the lack of interest on his face. He picks through paper and reveals the plain, thin cardboard beneath it. You can’t suppress your smile, you know you got a good gift for him--

And Michael lifts the flimsy lid. You watch his eyebrows lift minutely, the only hint at what’s going on his mind and your grin becomes obnoxious. Inside, pillowed in white tissue paper, is an obscene amount of candy- mostly a variety of little hard caramels in shiny foil wraps, but in the center was a hefty chunk of saran-wrapped handmade chocolate bark.

Michael picks it up and peels back the plastic wrap to reveal the multicolored chocolate in all its glory. “It’s salted caramel,” You say and you’re much too giddy, too proud of your creation. “With pecans. I thought you’d like that. There’s more in the kitchen.”

He lifts the chocolate bark and so delicately bites off the corner of the chunk. It snaps satisfyingly and you’re filled with excitement- you’d tempered the chocolate well and as Michael lowered the chocolate a long string of the semi-soft caramel stretched between his mouth and his hand. Michael swipes off the caramel with one finger and if you weren’t already vibrating with innocent Christmas joy, you might’ve thought to blush- he sucks the sweet string off his finger and immediately goes to break off another piece of the bark.

“You like it?” You venture and are rewarded with Michael’s swift nod. “Good.” You smile- and with Michael fully distracted with his gift, you lean forward, nearly have to get up on your knees just to reach him, and press a kiss to his stubbly cheek. “Merry Christmas, Michael.”

He does not kiss you back, but he also does not reject you as you press against warm his side and pick up the remote. “So,” You start and flick over to the TV guide, “I’m going to guess you haven’t seen many Christmas specials.” Another snap of the chocolate, you hadn’t expected a real response anyway.

“Did you ever read How the Grinch Stole Christmas?” Michael stills for a moment, you watch his eyes shoot up to the screen and read the description on the guide. You really hope you weren’t pushing your luck, but as Michael went back to nibbling appreciatively, you figured you were in the clear.

You select it and settle in closer to Michael’s side and let him adjust so his arm rests behind you.

In the morning, one lazy stretch of your arm confirms the sheets on Michael’s side of the bed are cool and unoccupied; he must not have slept very well. Too bad; you’d hoped for warm morning touches, of any variety. You sweep your hand over his side and-

You blink the sleep from your eyes and sit up. Your room is empty, the door to your bedroom left ajar. On Michael’s side of the bed, amongst the ruffled sheets, is a soft, gray blanket still folded up, a fake white ribbon held on with velcro holds the tag in place. The ribbon is slightly rumpled, a peculiar pink tinge dotted over where the lines criss-crossed, as though it had been carried by the ribbon. You can’t help but smile and touch the fabric, you sigh and stroke at the plush fibers.

You carry the folded-up blanket into the kitchen- and find Michael standing in front of the container that had once been full of chocolate bark. From how far he has to dip his fingers into get another piece, he’s made quite a dent already. You might just have to make more.

You snip off the tag and leave the fake velcro ribbons on the counter. Michael does not turn towards you to watch as you drape the blanket over your shoulders. When you lay a hand on his shoulder and rise as high as you can on your toes, he does duck his head just enough to let you press another kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, Michael.”

Thomas [PG | WC: 665]

“Do you like it?” You ask, eyes flitting between Thomas’s half-concealed face and the gift he held in his hands. The box was large enough to be uncomfortable to set on your lap, but in his rough hands it looks dainty. Dark eyes scan the red lettering and though you worry he can’t read everything the box advertises, he surely recognizes the large image front and center. “It’s a sewing machine,” You say and look at the little arrows on the box emphasizing the powerful motor, “for leatherwork.”

His eyebrows raise slowly, his face lifting to stare at you. He nods, first contained and then energetically, his dark curls bouncing in his excitement. You grin- and barely manage to set down your cocoa before Thomas is pulling you into a bear hug, pushing the sewing machine off his lap and onto the couch so he can hold you closer. You laugh and it’s the best sound Thomas has ever heard; his fingers dive into your hair, strong forearm wrapping around your waist to keep next to him. You curl your arms around his broad shoulders and press your cheek to his jaw. “You’re welcome, Tommy.”

He lets you go after a minute, those huge hands coming to settle at your hips. You don’t go far, still perched on his lap. “So, where’s my gift, handsome?” A pink tinge sneaks above the edge of his mask and Thomas looks askance. You think it’s just from the pet name- but then he picks at your shirt hem and won’t meet your eyes.

You stroke at his hair, draw the dark strands away from his face. One gnarled scar peeks up above the edge of the leather, slithers across his skin up to the edge of his ear. You touch it softly- and Thomas shivers, his eyes falling closed. “Tommy?”

He finally looks at you again and you want to fall into his big, dark eyes that shine so beautifully, you want to smother his skin in kisses until the fear and vulnerability are washed from his face forever. He doesn’t need to speak for you to be able to read his deeply expressive face. He’s worried- ashamed. “It’s okay if you didn’t get me anything.” You say and stroke over that scar again.

One huge hand covers yours, holds your palm to his masked cheek as he shakes his head. With the other he reaches into his pants pocket. If the sewing machine’s box was dainty in his hands, this tiny thing was hardly more than a trinket. It’s just a little cardboard thing, unwrapped and plain. You catch Thomas’s eyes before taking the box into your hands, your heart already racing. A box this small, there’s only a handful of things that could fit inside.

Thomas’s eyes bore into you, his breath coming in short, anxious puffs, his hands- now back at your hips- stroke at your sides, though you don’t know if it’s supposed to be soothing you or him. You lift the tiny lid- and gasp. Tommy’s eyebrows jump as you breathe out, “Oh my god,”

In the box, among white tissue paper, is a ring. A simple little thing; one faux-antiqued band with three round-cut stones set side by side, onyx set in the center, flanked on either side by moonstone. You pick up the tiny thing and stare at it, turning it in the light and watching how the reflection slides across the gems’ well polished faces.

“Like it?” Thomas echoes you, his voice is low and rough, breathy in his worry.

You nod, can’t help the grin that splits your cheeks. You slide the ring on and find it just a touch loose. You don’t ask where he found it. “I love it, Tommy.” You watch as teeth appear under the mask, his eyes crinkling as he smiles. You lunge forward, wrap your arms around his neck and bury your face in his hair just over his ear. “Thank you.”

Danny [Mature | WC: 714] [CW: knife, violence]

“I wasn’t sure what to get you.” You preface the gift, grimacing at the shiny paper. You hand him the strange-looking object-- a wide square base with a smaller square on top. He was so damn hard to shop for, his gift was the one you had dreaded picking out all month. You figured if nothing else-

One dark eyebrow arches up. “Am I really that difficult?” He turns the gift in his hands and listens as something inside it shifts.

“Yes.” You groan and it only makes Danny’s hazel eyes shine brighter.

His fingernails cut through the paper neatly, pulling apart your wrapping and revealing the contents. It was not one gift, but rather five you had sneakily taped together to at least hope to make him guess. The bottom is made up of four boxes of film rolls, fresh and ready for his photography.

One corner of Danny’s lips lifts as he looks at the box- it’s the brand he uses, you know it is. He isn’t the only one who can snoop. Not that it was really snooping; he’d left the empty boxes on his desk. “Thanks, doll.”

Not very fun, but least he appreciated it, you know he’ll use them. “Keep going.”

The smaller box on top is black and nondescript. The perfect size for a ring. He looks up to you, a playful, silent question on his tongue. He thumbs open the lid- and you nearly laugh at the way his face twists. His eyebrows raise comically high as he peers down at the gift.

“I thought I might need a map. In case I forgot.” You grin and Danny actually laughs. The barbell is tiny in his fingers and he brings it up close to his eyes to stare at the tiny writing. “There’s actually a whole twelve pack, but I thought you’d enjoy that one most.”

“Oh? What was your second choice?”

“I swallow.”

Danny snorts. “I’m glad we have the same idea about Christmas gifts.” He offers you a simple rectangular box with black, glossy paper and a red ribbon tied in a bow, then sticks his tongue out and begins loosening the simple black stud he had in.

Same idea? You frown at the box; it’s a little short to be a dildo and Danny was more into restraints and canes than something to fuck you with when he could do it himself. With his mouth occupied, his knowing smile has migrated to his eyes, a dark glitter about them as you work off the crimson ribbon. Could be a bullet vibe- asshole would probably love to stick that in you while you’re working-

You lift the lid. You frown, tip your head. “You switch up some presents, Danny?”

He’s just finished tightening the new stud and you watch as he moves his tongue about, feeling the new texture. “Of course not.”

In black tissue paper, the spring-assisted knife is already extended, the anodized blade having bit through the thin layers of paper. You pick it up; the grip is a textured matte black, little holes punched out so you can see the metal of the tang. It’s sharp and the urge to press your thumb to the edge just to see if it would cut is strong. “How’s this the same idea?”

Oof- your head cracks against the floor and the world spins; weight on your chest knocks the air from your lungs and you strain to inhale, to writhe under the assault- and something slams your hand to the hardwood. You choke out some startled noise and drop the knife.

“Oh, sweetheart.” You blink and realize Danny is perched on your chest, his knee digging into your left arm- in his hands he turns the knife. It flashes dangerously, but not nearly as dangerous as the heated, predatory look in Danny’s hazel eyes, as the slowly growing grin with too much teeth. “We both got something we wanted.”

And Danny’s tongue slips out, his new stud clicking against his teeth as your gift stares you down. It and the blade were your only clues to what, exactly, Danny had in mind. He laughs, cool and amused at the heat spreading over your cheeks. On his tongue, a half-flat stud reads cum here.

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theomotaku · 5 years

Text

Trying to Hold All Day

(Goemon omo. Inspired by the imagine you've seen floating around omo blogs "Character with a small bladder getting teased about it and deciding to hold all day.")

They were in a nice hotel in a large-ish town in a nondescript part of the U.S. Goemon had gone to bed over an hour ago. Jigen and Lupin were still up, in the living room. Somehow, the conversation had become about Goemon, or more specifically, his small bladder. Lupin cracked a couple jokes about it. Jigen laughed then said they shouldn't joke like that. What if Goemon heard?

Goemon had heard. He hadn't fallen asleep yet, and he needed to use the restroom. He had gotten up and started to open the door when he heard what Lupin and Jigen were talking about. He'd show them! He got back in bed. He didn't need to go that bad anyway.

Goemon squirmed for a while, trying to get comfortable and go to sleep with his filling bladder. He managed to fall asleep eventually.

Goemon woke up the next morning with a wet diaper and a full bladder. Forgetting what he had heard last night, he rushed to the restroom to use the toilet and throw the diaper away. That's when he remembered last night. He would show Lupin and Jigen that he could control his bladder just as well as they could control theirs. He wasn't going to use the restroom all day! Oh well. This time didn't count, right? Everyone had to go when they woke up. Right?

When Goemon left the restroom, he noticed Jigen cooking breakfast in the kitchenette. It looked like he was almost done, but Goemon offered to help anyway.

"You can set out the plates," Jigen suggested, back to Goemon, still cooking. Goemon nodded and got the plates out. "Thanks," Jigen said as he turned around to face the samurai. "Guess we might as well start eating. Who knows when Lupin'll wake up." He picked up a plate and started putting food on it. Goemon followed suit.

Knowing it would go right through him, it took Goemon a minute to decide if he wanted tea like he usually has in the mornings. He thought he wouldn't really be proving anything if he changed his routine, but he knew it was would be a dumb move. He'd be desperate within an hour. He decided to have the tea. If he didn't, Jigen might ask questions, and he didn't have an answer other than the truth, which he didn't want them to know. With that in mind, he resigned himself to drink tea. He was dreading the rest of the day.

After breakfast, they put away the leftover food for Lupin, then went into the living room. Jigen stretched out on the couch and found a western movie on TV. Goemon sat near the wall to meditate.

Lupin woke up half an hour later.

"Morning, Lupin," Jigen greeted. "Breakfast's in the refrigerator."

"Morning, and thanks." Lupin went in the kitchen, heated up his food, and rejoined Jigen in the living room to eat.

Around two and a half hours later, Lupin got Goemon's attention. Goemon opened his eyes and looked up.

"Hey, we were thinking about going out for lunch. Where do you want to go?"

Goemon just stared for a moment. Didn't they know by now what his answer would be?

"There aren't any Japanese food restaurants near here," Lupin sighed, showing him his phone. It was a Google page showing the nearest Japanese food restaurants, all of which were more than an hour away, in other towns.

Goemon shrugged. He could find something he liked at the restaurant they chose or he could skip lunch.

Just then, his bladder made itself known. Oh, he had to go so bad! Skipping lunch didn't sound like a bad idea. At least he wouldn't have to drink anything and fill his bladder more. Don't think about it. Don't think about it! he told himself as his eyes slipped closed again. He couldn't show his desperation, either. Lupin and Jigen were usually understanding, but after last night, Goemon wasn't so sure. He didn't want to give Lupin more fuel to make fun of him. He wondered how often they did this behind his back.

Lupin noticed that Goemon looked uncomfortable. Without warning, he felt the samurai's face, checking for fever. Goemon opened one eye, giving him a What the hell are you doing? look.

"Sorry. You look sick. What's wrong?" Lupin explained.

Damn, was he that obvious? "I'm fine."

"Okay," Lupin said reluctantly. He didn't really believe him, but he would let it go for now. "You almost ready to go?"

Goemon was ready to go, but not in the sense Lupin meant. He was thinking about giving this up. He didn't think he'd last much longer. Maybe he should go before they leave? No. Surely, the restaurant will have a restroom if things got too bad. He stood up and gravity took its toll. Was he sure things weren't already too bad? No. He could do this!

Jigen went before they left, and Goemon felt a wave of jealousy that he could do it so casually while he, himself was dying. Lupin doesn't make jokes about Jigen to Goemon. That served to make him feel worse, reminding him that Lupin and Jigen seemed to have something with one another that he didn't have with either of them. He'd been with them a little over half a year, and they were nice enough, but at times, he still felt like an outsider.

They leave the hotel and get in the car, Goemon struggling to walk normally. He thought standing was bad. He thought walking was hard. Sitting back down was torture! It squished his bladder, but he managed to hold it, though he had to squeeze his legs together and resist the urge to squirm. Forget this silly holding all day idea! He would have to go at the restaurant.

After Jigen and Lupin arguing for ten minutes on where to go - Lupin wanted seafood, Jigen wanted a burger, - they decided on a buffet that advertised having a wide variety of food. Jigen Google Mapped it and helped Lupin navigate as the thief drove. It took another 20 minutes to get there, by which time, Goemon was bursting.

Goemon walked behind Lupin and Jigen, keeping his legs pressed together and hoping they wouldn't notice. They paid for their meals and got their drinks - during which Goemon was sure he would loose it, but somehow managed not to, squeezing his legs together as tightly as possible - then they went to choose a table. They chose a booth against a wall. Goemon took the inside of one seat and Jigen took that outside. Lupin took the half seat across from them. After they put down their drinks, they went to fill their plates.

Even though it was still hard to walk, Goemon was relieved to not have to see their drinks for a few minutes. He glanced toward the restrooms when he got near them and saw that that the men's was out of order. His bladder spaasmed and he felt like crying. He tried to forget his need and focus on finding something to eat. He managed to find a few things - mostly seafood. He went to sit down.

Jigen noticed something was off with Goemon. He had an idea, but he wasn't certain. The samurai had been meditating all morning, meaning he hadn't had a chance to use the restroom. Although... why didn't he go before they left? Shit, did he actually overhear us last night? Jigen wondered. Well, he's stubborn, but not dumb. He'll go if it gets too bad. That's when he saw the out of order sign on the men's room. Fuck! Poor guy's probably not going to make it back to the hotel dry. Maybe not even out of here. Jigen felt bad for laughing at Lupin's jokes. He had gotten every that looked good to him. He went to sit down.

Goemon was tense. He was sure Lupin and Jigen could both tell. He was sure this would end with him wetting himself, and he was no longer trying very hard to hide it. He had his legs crossed tightly under the table and he was sure Jigen knew what was going on. He just hoped he could make it through the meal and out of the restaurant.

Lupin noticed that Goemon was eating slowly and barely touching his drink. He was hardly looking at the table, mostly keeping his eyes downcast as if he was embarrassed or something.

Goemon was blinking back tears now. He just felt his first leak. He never had long when he started leaking. He leaked a couple of times while working up the courage to ask Jigen to let him out. He was going to just wait by the car. He knew he was going to wet, but he didn't want it to be in the restaurant.

Before Goemon could find his voice, Jigen got up to get seconds, or maybe desert. Goemon started sliding across the seat, planning to get up and dash outside, but it was too late. He got to where Jigen had been sitting then he froze as his bladder gave out. He shivered, starting to tear up. His urine quickly soaked through his hakama and spread all over the leather cushioned seat before spilling over onto the carpet. Tears were steaming down his face now, but his hands had gotten wet. He wasn't going to touch his face now.

Lupin knew what was happening. He waited until Goemon stopped peeing before going around to try to comfort him. He gently pulled on Goemon's shoulders to get him to get up. Goemon slid the rest of the way ot off the booth, pushing urine off the side, causing it to splash onto Lupin's shoes and the bottom of his pants legs.

"S-sorry," Goemon wept. Lupin just shook his head and pulled the younger man into a hug, telling him it's okay.

Jigen came back with a plate of desert. He noticed Lupin and Goemon standing, hugging, and people staring, some sympathetic, some judgmental, and a few people looking everywhere but at them. Jigen put his plate down on the table and placed a hand on Goemon's shoulder and tried to block a few people's view.

Goemon felt eyes on him. It made him feel worse. He hid his face in Lupin's shoulder.

"We should get him to the car," Jigen said softly to Lupin.

Lupin nodded. "Yeah. You take him. I'll take care of this." When Goemon didn't move, Lupin gently pushed him toward Jigen. "Goemon, go with Jigen. Don't worry about this."

Jigen wraped an arm around the younger man and led him outside. He got in the backseat with him and held him close, stroking his hair, letting him cry, trying to comfort him.

Lupin ran a hand through his hair. This was a huge mess, and he wasn't sure how to take care of it. He decided to get someone who worked there. He knew it was customary to tip here in America. He would give this poor employee $100 at least. He went to find someone.

In the car, Goemon had calmed down a little bit. Jigen was still holding him and stroking his hair.

"You heard us last night, didn't you?" he asked softly. He felt guilty.

Goemon nodded. Jigen sighed.

"That why you let things get this bad?"

"The restroom was out of order."

"You didn't go before we left the hotel."

Goemon didn't have an answer for that.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry. We shouldn't have been joking like that. We didn't mean anything by it, though. We certainly didn't want you to do something like this."

"It isn't your fault, Jigen." Goemon didnt blame Jigen. He didn't even blame Lupin. Yeah, they were joking about him, but they didn't make him do this. This happened because he was too weak. No matter how much he trained, mind or body, he'd never been able to conquer the obstacle of his bladder.

Lupin had found a manager. She wasn't happy when she saw the mess they left. Not just the urine, but all the food they wasted. She charged him $20 extra, and he paid it without complaint. He did say, though, that this probably wouldn't have happened if they had working restrooms. A few people from the nearby tables overheard and voiced their agreement. This made Lupin smile.

The manager showed a young busboy how to clean up the mess. Lupin gave the manager another $20 and then discreetly slipped the kid $100 like he planned to do. He went out to the car.

Lupin could guess why this happened. It wasn't just because the restroom was broken. In fact, it had very little to do with it. He was sure now that Goemon had heard his jokes last night, and had taken them personally. He felt really bad, like this was all his fault. Honestly, it kind of was.

Lupin had an idea. A way to try to make it up to Goemon. His bladder was starting to get full. He decided he would wet himself in the parking lot - he didn't want to give the restaurant another mess to clean up. He had to give a good show, though. He wanted it to look like an accident.

Lupin pressed his legs together as he walked out of the restaurant. As he started walking to the car, he put both hands between his legs and plastered on his best panicked look. He stopped walking halfway there and forced a little bit out. He did this another time before he reached the car. He reached for the door handle and let it all out, faking a shocked look and making his eyes water.

Jigen smiled inwardly. He knew Lupin's accident was probably fake. On the outside, he played the concerned friend he would be if it were real.

"Lupin!" Jigen squeezed Goemon's shoulder then got out to "comfort" the thief. "Hey, it's okay, come here." He pulled him into a hug.

Lupin relished Jigen's embrace for a minute, trying and failing to make the tears spill from his eyes. He hid his face in Jigen's shoulder instead, hoping Goemon would think he just stopped crying quickly.

Goemon watched in shock. Lupin had seemed fine in the restaurant, and they'd only been apart for 10 minutes or less. Did his need really get that bad that quickly? Somehow, Goemon doubted it. He had a feeling that Lupin's accident was a little more on purpose than he tried to make it look.

"Do you want me to drive?" Jigen asked softly, like he would if Lupin were genuinely upset.

Lupin shook his head, pulling back and wiping non-existent tears from his eyes. "N-no, I'll be fine," he said, trying to sound like someone who was trying to pretend to be okay.

Jogen wasn't sure what to do at first. He held Lupin close as he debated. He decided it would be more realistic if he insisted on driving. He hugged Lupin tight for a second before loosening his hold and saying, "Why don't you get in back with Goemon? You don't need to drive after something like this."

Lupin nodded and got in the back. Goemon, somewhat awkwardly, scooted over and wrapped an arm around Lupin's shoulders. Lupin smiled and leaned into the samurai. Jigen got in the driver's seat and drove off.

"That... wasn't a real accident, was it?" Goemon asked, looking Lupin in the eyes.

"What? Of course it was!" Lupin lied in what he hoped was believable embarrassment. "Why would I do something like that on purpose?"

"To make someone else feel better?" Goemon suggested softly, looking away and blushing.

"To ease guilt?" Jigen chimed in, amused.

"Damn, couldn't let me have this one, could you?" Lupin said, wrapping an arm around Goemon's waist. "I'm sorry for last night." He looked at Goemon.

For the first time today, Goemon smiled. "It's okay, Lupin."

When the car was parked at the hotel and they were getting out, Goemon realized, much to his dismay, that he had to go again. It wasn't urgent, but his wet clothes were tempting his exhausted bladder to just let go. He resisted the urge as they walked in.

When they got to their suite, Lupin told Goemon to get the first shower. He had been in wet clothes a lot longer than Lupin. Goemon might have put up more of a fight if he wasn't already struggling not to wet himself again. He quickly gathered his clean clothes and went into the restroom. He got undressed, used the toilet, and took a quick shower, knowing Lupin was probably uncomfortable in his own wet clothes. He quickly got dressed and left the restroom.

Lupin was waiting outside the restroom with clean clothes. He went in when Goemon came out. He showered, got dressed, and came out himself. Jigen and Goemon were both reading their own books. Lupin decided that reading did sound nice and got out a book of his own. The rest of the day passed without incident, and with Goemon using the restroom when he needed to instead of trying to hold it again.

#omorashi #male omorashi #lupin the 3rd #arsene lupin iii #jigen daisuke #goemon ishikawa xiii

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stcrmybastard · 4 years

Photo

✦ ▓ AND WHO GOES THERE? oh, it’s just [ EDRIC STORM ]. some say [ HIS ] resemblance to [ TOMMY MARTINEZ ] is almost uncanny, but the [ TWENTY-SIX ] year old has been in the capital for [ HIS ENTIRE LIFE ]. many suspect that they are the notorious [ ASSOCIATE ] of the [ BARATHEON ] family: perhaps that has made them [ COMPETITIVE ] && [ DEFIANT ] of late, when they used to be so [ AFFABLE ] && [ CAREFREE ]. during the daylight hours, [ EDRIC ] can be found working as a [ CAR RESTORER ], but when night falls over king’s landing, they are best remembered listening to [ WRONG MAN BY MATT CORBY ]. may the gods be with them in these dark streets.

H I S T O R Y ;

Growing up with the knowledge that neither of your parents want you is to be born with a chip on your shoulder. A chip that despite all the attempts of sanding away by the hands of Renly and Stannis, still blemishes the marbled statue of Edric to this day.

Edric was born out of a night of wine and lust between his father Robert Baratheon and mother Delena Florent. Robert was married, Delena engaged. Robert’s relationship with his wife was already fractured beyond repair, but she refused to have the living, breathing reminder of his constant habit of straying in her house. And Delena, just on the verge of her own happy ending, soon to be married to a Norcross, didn’t want to constantly remind Hosman of the mistake he had only barely forgiven her for. If not for Stannis and his utter loyalty to blood, Edric would have most likely ended up in the system, a boy to be passed around from foster family to foster family until eventually aging out. Often times Edric finds himself wondering what his life would have been like, if Stannis hadn’t been such a staunchly honorable man.

But those thoughts, and the feelings that come with them are quickly crushed when he remembers on the way he did end up growing up. Stannis was the closest thing to a father figure, and despite Renly’s constant degradation of the man and his personality, Edric always has and will appreciate what he did for him. Sure, he may not be the most fun person to be around, nor was he one to hand out hugs and read bed time stories to the boys, but he did what he had to do to keep things going, and that’s what counts.

Edric also had Renly. He always feels odd calling the man ‘my uncle, Renly’, as the man has always been more like a brother to him than anything else. The two only 6 years apart, kept them close. Of course, when Renly was a teenager and Edric still a child the two drifted, but Renly was still always around to provide the love and care that Stannis simply could not. But as the two grew older, and Renly began to join the ranks of the family ‘business’ as the Baratheon name (a name Edric refused to use, despite being told it was his right if he so chose), and Edric turned down one of his own, the two remained close. To this day, Renly is the only person Edric would do anything for.

As a teenager, he often tried to go out of his way to soil his father’s name: getting arrested, kicked out of the schools he was sent to, setting up illegal street races (okay, fine, he still does this, but now it’s only because he has a taste for speed), but he realized that his refusal of the Baratheon name also meant that his actions simply fell on deaf ears. His actions were those of a bastard.

But as Edric has grown, the chip on his shoulder has as well, turning into fractures that run towards his heart. Despite his love for Renly and appreciation for Stannis, he hates the Baratheon name, namely due to his father wearing it. He may be an associate for the Baratheon family, passing along secrets he hears and helping when needed, but he does that only for Renly and Stannis, and not for the benefit of the Baratheon name.

For the most part, Edric stays out of the family business by choice. His hands aren’t clean by any means, but the stains on them tend to be grease rather than blood. Mostly. His garage is his so-called safe space, a space that is for the most part free of politics. Of course he services members of other syndicates, restoring or finding beautiful vintage cars for them to have as status symbols. And yes, if he hears anything that can be passed along to Renly, he does so. Sure, once or twice he’s been asked to slip something illegal into a car only to be ‘found’ a week later by the cops. But for the most part, the garage is exactly what it looks like.

P E R S O N A L I T Y ;

There is only one person that can tell Edric what to do, and that’s Stannis, which is borne purely out of respect for the man. But, even then his sway only reaches so far, as now that Edric’s full grown, he has his own ideas on things. Renly can ask things of Edric and he’ll most likely do them, but mostly because the man knows Edric, and knows if he were to attempt to ‘command’ him to do anything, it would result in that task not only not being done, but with Edric probably going out of his way to do the opposite. To say that Edric has an issue with authority probably would be an understatement. It stems both from an inherent need to piss off his father, and from a fairly young age being able to do whatever he wanted. He was fortunate to be a boat on the rising tide of the name Baratheon, but he was not tied to them the same way Renly or Stannis were, he had choices on what he wanted to become or do.

But even with this rebellious, defiant streak in the man, he is an easy going guy. He may not carry the love of excess like some other members of his family have, but he does love to have fun. That could be hanging out at the Red Keep with beers in hand, or racing his growing collection of vintage cars, or doing any number of things. But overall he is fairly easy to get along with. His lack of involvement in syndicate politics allows him to socialize with whoever he chooses, loving or hating them not for their loyalties but for who they are.

But overall he is a romantic and has an addictive personality, and has a tendency to fall fast and hard for people who usually aren’t the best for him. He craves a life of deep meaning, and tends to fall for artistic, poetic types. He wants to be the muser and the muse, he wants to know what consumes people, wants to be consumed himself.

W A N T E D C O N N E C T I O N S ;

OLD FRIENDS/RIDE OR DIE; The first half or so decade of his life was during a time when Baratheon didn’t mean much to anyone, and the friends he made during this time would have been those of the playground variety, but would have also been completely true. I would love for him to have a friend that, 20 years later is still a staple in his life. Due to his overall lack of participation in the syndicate, this person could be from any family or a civilian.

PAST LOVES; As mentioned previously, Edric tends to specialize in passionate, destructive type romances. The type where you’re so deep in it, you didn’t realize that you were drowning in it until you’ve gotten out. We can plot how it started, ended, etc. Open to any one of any/all genders and from any family or a civilian.

LOVERS TO FRIENDS; Would love a friendship that was perhaps one of romance first, and while we could go casual romance to friends, I think a deep, true love that had to end but the two still wanted the other in their life, even as friends would be *chef’s kiss*. Because I mean, c’mon who knows you better than a person you loved like that? And have that innate sense of what you need in that moment? Beer? A good cry? Ugh. Open to any one of any/all genders and from any family or a civilian.

HOOKUPS; While he may be the type to fall fast, not every romantic interaction leads to love. What’s on the tin, past or current hookups, can be friends with benefits, enemies with benefits, don’t talk other than to hookup, or even just casual non-monogamous dating.

ENEMIES; Edric is a very easy guy to get along with, doesn’t pay attention to family lines, and generally doesn’t like conflict because it ruins the vibe (VIBE CHECK!!), so something would have had to go seriously wrong between these two for Edric to consider them an enemy. Open to any and all.

CUSTOMERS; A fairly nondescript and easy going connection, just a way to have them know each other, simply someone who is also a lover of vintage cars, just like Edric, and has bought some of his restored cars, or had him restore one of their own.

NEW FRIENDS; Edric makes new friends all the time, both with his business, outgoing nature, and tendency to end up at all sorts of establishments (no matter who owns them), so if you’re looking for some casual friendship, here you go.

READY SET GO; His defiant streak may have ended (well, mostly), but some things stuck around, and racing was one of them. He got a taste of speed and became addicted. As often as he can, Edric organizes and partakes in some street racing, where there’s betting, drinks, drifting, and a whole lot of showing off. Your character could be a fellow racer or just someone who enjoys going to the races.

#vixere:intro #( * muse | he smells like cigarettes and green tea; with a hint of sweetness and safety. )#( * headcannons | he tastes like chocolate and mint; with a hint of bitterness and longing. )

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fanfic-scribbles · 5 years

Text

Barking Up The Right Tree

Fandom: MCU Captain America/Avengers

Summary: You can meet your soulmates in a variety of ways. Apparently, your dog is instrumental to this one.

Quick facts: Romance – Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers/Reader– Nondescript Reader

Warnings: Fluff!!!, ~soulmates~ trope, location undefined, Reader has a Siberian husky (and a cat mentioned)

Words: 1224

A/N: I am having the absolute worst time writing this week. So, uh, here: a little soulmate drabble! Confession: I could read about a bazillion soulmate meet-cute stories. This particular one follows the ‘soulmates have each others’ first words upon meeting printed on their skin’ trope. It is 100% fluff up in here folks. I might do more of these. I hope I do; I quite like them. However, uh, warning: I started off setting this in NYC but then thought ‘maybe it’s somewhere else that Bucky and Steve discovered they can be mostly on the down-low and they’re just having a weekend away?’ What I’m trying to say is that I left the setting very, very vague so if that bothers you I’m sorry. Anyways. Please enjoy!

The sun is shining in a blue sky only barely dotted with few puffy white clouds. The park is mostly empty on this side, with the ambient noise of a baseball game only barely carried on the light wind. The weather is warm, but comfortably so.

And you are freaking out.

“BALTO! …BALTO!” you call but your hyper husky does not come running or let out a single ‘woof!’ and you’re trying not to panic but he’s so good he should be here or be heard or something. Maple had the right idea when she saw you and Balto leave for a walk and rolled over into a sunbeam to nap. Cats. Why couldn’t Balto be a cat he’d be so much safer.

You keep searching but as you walk and shout you can think of nothing but awful scenarios– Balto somehow getting to the street and running right into it. Balto, a beautiful and friendly dog, being taken–

–or, Balto, big dumb loveable and friendly sweetheart, making a new friend who is just sitting there petting him while that big fluffy asshole revels in the attention. You stop to stare (and catch your breath). Your formerly-missing dog is lying on his back in the grass, wiggling and thumping his tail while a man with dark hair rubs him and talks in a soft sweet voice too low to make out actual words. Your dog– who can hear you fill the food dish from a block away– shows no sign of having heard your frantic calls.

You put your hands on your hips and inhale a big gust of air.

“BALTO!”

Both man and beast jump to their feet and your adorable monster bounds over to you. He alternates between bouncing from his excellent morning and remembering to be ashamed with how you’re looking at him, and he ends his journey to you with a saunter. The man follows him but for the moment you focus on your troublemaker. Who has the gall to whimper and stare at you with big eyes. “Don’t you look at me like that!” you scold and snap the leash back on, with a mental note to get a new one that doesn’t snap off ASAP. Still, you undermine your own position by rubbing Balto’s face. “You scared me!”

Balto continues to look sad, but his tail thumps against the ground rapidly. Jerk.

The man laughs and you look at him, ready to apologize, but he smiles brilliantly and then he says– he says– “I’m sorry for keeping him; he’s a real sweetheart.”

Your hand goes to your shoulder where those words rest in tiny print and you take a moment to take that in. Sure, it’s been a shit morning, but honestly you couldn’t have dreamed of a better way to meet one of your soulmates than to be standing with him in the park on a warm, sunny day, with one of your fuzzy soulmates at your feet. You let out a breathless little laugh and say, “Don’t let him fool you– he can be a real bastard sometimes.”

The man’s eyes go wide and here it is– the moment of acceptance or rejection.

“I’m sorry,” he says after too many seconds of silence. “Just– I’ve been waiting a long time.” He extends a gloved hand. “My name is James Barnes. Call me Bucky.”

You introduce yourself and shake his hand– and then it clicks. “O- oh.”

Bucky lowers his head and snakes his hand back. “Sorry; I know it’s probably not what you wanted–”

“No no no; that’s not–!” You clear your throat and calm down. Balto nudges your side and you scratch between his ears. “I know some about you but I don’t know you. And I’d like to. If…that’s okay with you?”

Bucky lifts his head and his face clears of sad shadows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, smiling with relief.

He’s smiling too, but it drops a little and you can see him swallow. “Do you have–”

“Bucky!”

You and Bucky turn, and Balto lets out a friendly “ar!” to the tall blond man making his way over.

Captain America looks at you with a friendly but cautious smile, and holding two drinks, one of which he hands to Bucky. Next to you, Balto whimpers at the end of his tightly held leash and stands so his tail starts hitting the back of your legs. You look down at him, unimpressed. “Don’t you think you’ve caused enough trouble today?”

Balto looks sad but sits his butt back down. He makes sure to whine about it though. Drama queen.

“Aw, I think he’s pretty great,” Bucky says with a bright, toothy grin. He then introduces you to Steve Rogers and…you’re nervous. You have another set of words, down on your side, and the odds are almost overwhelmingly in your favor that you and Bucky share the same ‘other’ soulmate. However–

“It’s nice to meet you.”

…You have, naturally, heard that before. A lot. As you and Steve shake hands, you chew on the inside of your cheek and try to figure out what to say. Bucky’s smile is mischievous so you decide to stick your neck out. “If you’re really the reason I have those generic-ass words, then I kind of hate you right now.”

Steve drops your hand.

Balto is the worst and also the best. So is Bucky, apparently, because he laughs really hard. Given that it’s his introduction that prompted those words, it makes sense he’s the only one finding this so funny. You look at Balto. “No wonder you both get along so well. You’re both jerks.”

Balto barks and makes a discontented muzzy noise. You look up again and start at how suddenly close Steve is; your nose practically grazes his shirt collar. “Sorry! Sorry,” he says and backs right up. “It’s– we’ve been waiting. For a long time.”

“So I hear. I thought I’d be the one saying that but…I guess I can’t really complain,” you say.

Bucky reaches out and puts his hand on your arm, so light you can barely feel his touch. “Doesn’t matter anymore. We found each other now.” Steve puts his hand over Bucky’s and cements the touch as something solid, something real. Something–

Balto fusses and the moment is so thoroughly broken even Bucky blinks in surprise. You sigh and roll your eyes. “By the way, this needy little mood-killer is named Balto. Sometimes the light of my life, sometimes the bane of my existence. He’s really playing both sides today.”

Balto is up on his feet before you finish speaking and as soon as Steve leans down he is immediately greeted by a face full of happy, slobbering dog. Steve laughs and only fends Balto off for a moment before he caves, and in under a minute your pup is getting the belly rub of a lifetime. Bucky sits down to join in, and Balto’s tongue lolls out as he ascends to doggy heaven.

You look down at Balto and try not to smile. He notices you and barks happily. “Oh no. I’m still mad at you.” You cross your arms. “I’m pretty annoyed with all three of you, actually.”

Three sets of wide, innocent, varying shades of blue eyes all turn up at you at once.

You’re doomed.

#steve/bucky/reader #steve x bucky x reader #captain america reader insert #captain america fanfic #soulmate fic #romance #fluff

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