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chantersboard · 4 months

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Lovely To Be Rained On With You

Summary: 3K. Reader and Joel rush to find shelter from the storm

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, post-outbreak, oral f!receiving, unprotected PIV, creampie

A/N: okay I have spent so much time on here reading other Joel fics and enjoying myself so I kinda wanted to give back. but first of all I need to get three things off my chest. one, it's been a long time since I've written anything. two, this is my first writing The Last of Us. three, and probably most important as I beg for kindness, it's my first time writing smut. this has been sitting in my docs for too long so Imma just press post and walk away. enjoy! AO3

The weather was changing rapidly. Not long ago it had only been partly cloudy, but now, for as far as the eye could see, the sky was one massive, threatening cloud. The leaves danced on their branches as the gusting wind flowed through them; their rustling a constant melody accompanied by the quickening beat of two pairs of boots.

Tightening the grip on your rifle, you look up at the darkening sky. The weapon could protect you from a lot, but not from this. It had been four days since you left camp and it was still another day’s walk until you returned.

There was no outrunning this storm.

A few feet ahead of you Joel Miller marches onward, his broad frame and long legs setting a rapid pace you struggle to keep up with. The pack on your back is overfilled and heavy with recently looted goods. It causes your steps to be slow, more cautious and measured.

You take a deep breath, “Joel…?” you begin. You’re both thinking it. Someone has to say it out loud. “It’s gonna pour in any minute.”

His graying curls dance along with the leaves in the wind. He steps over a fallen tree then turns and offers his hand to help you over. You graciously accept it, sliding your fingers over his calloused hand. The weight of the bag digs into your shoulders as you step over. Had it not been for the heavy sack you would have been closer to camp by now, but those supplies are the sole reason the two of you journeyed so far away.

“I know,” he says as you join him on the other side of the log.

“We’re too far from camp—”

“I know,” he repeats, his brows furrowing. He scouts the distance, bright eyes scanning left and right, through the trees and beyond. A bead of sweat slowly falls down his face, the unseasonable hot May weather demanding to be acknowledged.

“There was a cabin…” he trails off, lost in thought. You look ahead, only seeing trees. “D’you remember? Was it before or after all those alliums we saw?”

You think back and try to remember this area from a few days ago but a lot had happened since: Joel injured his shoulder wrestling with a jammed door; you found and promptly devoured a can of ravioli; there were two separate attacks with solitary infected; finding the motherlode of supplies in what looked like a doomsday prepper’s basement; oh, and then there was last night.

Still riding the high of finding all those medical supplies and ammunition (and a bottle of bourbon), the two of you spent last evening in high spirits. You shared stories and laughed and drank. Joel hummed a tune that had you swaying your hips and smiling towards the obsidian sky. For a moment things felt so easy and normal.

At some point that night, with only a sliver of the moon in the sky, you stumbled in the darkness and fell into Joel’s arms. You had looked up at him, your hand rested on his strong chest as you breathed in the scent of him. Your body tingled where his hands pressed into your waist. The stars twinkled above him as he smiled crookedly and whispered, “y’okay, sweetheart?” and you nearly confessed. Nearly told him how you truly felt about him. Nearly revealed you knew he watched you when he thought you couldn’t see.

Nearly kissed his gorgeous face.

But then he dropped his hands, the magic of the moment gone, and you swallowed your feelings. You fell asleep last night wishing things were different. Wishing Joel was yours.

A single raindrop plopping on your forehead brings you back to the present. “We saw the cabin first,” you recall. “And then the flowers.”

Joel nods, walking forward even faster than he had before. He too must have felt a raindrop.

The two of you continue onwards, the sky teasing you with singular drops of rain as you migrant the woodsy terrain. It doesn’t take long until you see them in the distance.

Alliums. The purple flowers, towering high on skinny stalks, sway in the wind. The bulbous plant, petals like bursting fireworks, are scattered across the field. The sight of them brings you relief. It shouldn’t be much longer until you find the cabin.

Just as you walk past the last bunch of flowers the sky begins to open up. The rain comes softly at first. Small drops that slide off your skin and moisten your clothing. Foolishly, you believe if it continues like this you’ll be fine. But as lightning shoots across the sky and thunder shakes your body, the drops grow heavier, their frequency increasing.

The rain continues to fall harder as you trek on. The sound of water blanketing the land drowns out everything else. Joel turns and looks behind at you, his normally bouncy hair weighted down and plastered to his face. Another clap of thunder rings as the rain soaks through you. It seeps all the layers of your clothing, through your jeans, through your socks, pooling in your boots.

Walking is becoming more difficult as your boots sink into the mud, your clothes are soaked through and heavy and your cumbersome backpack doesn’t help. You’re about to yell ahead, tell Joel it doesn’t even matter anymore, that you’re too tired, but then you see the cabin.

It’s a tiny little thing. The sheltered patio leads into one cozy room. To your right is a kitchenette, directly in front of you is a small living space, and further back, against the wall rests a bed. There’s a closed off area there as well, presumably a bathroom.

Joel crosses the cabin, his hand resting on the pistol holstered to his hip, and peers into the smaller room. His posture relaxes and he gives a quick nod. The cabin is safe.

You rest your rifle against the wall by the door and unceremoniously drop your bag. Relief spreads through your bones. You arch your back and stretch your arms upwards, pulling the muscles along your spine. You glance across the room and there it is again—Joel is watching you. His eyes travel your body and linger where your soaked top clings to your chest.

He’s lost in the sight of you. You raise your arms higher, his gaze warming your cheeks and your core, and you push your chest further out to taunt him. The wet fabric is unforgiving and you're sure he can see your hardened nipples even from across the room.

You decide to break the silence. “You think it will last long?”

Joel snaps to attention, his eyes finding yours as he runs his fingers through his hair. “Huh? What was that?”

“The storm,” you pause to lick your lips. “Do you think it’ll last long?”

Joel sets his backpack down at the head of the bed. “Not too sure,” he looks past you out the window at the turbulent weather, “regardless, we should stay here for the night.” He opens his bag and begins to rummage through it.

You nod as you walk over to the foot of bed. With your back facing him you sit on the edge. “In that case I’m gonna get out of these clothes.”

You wrap your fingers under the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head. You toss the clothing and it lands with a loud slap on the wooden floor. After kicking off your boots and socks you lift your hips off the bed enough to push your jeans to your thighs. You struggle to get the tight and stiff wet denim off your legs.

You lean back on your forearms and look behind at Joel. He’s suddenly very interested in his bag. You watch as he digs around, the muscles in his arms pressing against his tee. His face is glistening wet and it highlights the slope of his nose and the curve of his jaw. He’s just as handsome as always.

“Hey, Joel?” You bite your lip and wait for his attention.

His hands still as he looks down at you. “Yes, sweetheart?”

The endearment makes your heart swell. You swing your dangling legs. “Can you help me out of these? They’re giving me trouble.”

He looks at the jeans halfway down your thighs. You’ve changed in front of Joel before but after last night, after spending so much time alone with him, things have gotten intimate. You feel exposed half undressed in your mismatched undergarments, but it’s also exciting and your breath quickens under Joel’s glare.

“Yeah, I can help,” he nearly whispers. He drops his bag on the floor, the stuff within no longer important, and rounds the bed. You lift your legs when he gets close and await his touch.

He holds your ankles first. Gathering the material there, he attempts to pull, but the jeans barely move. So his hands climb up, over your calves, then behind your knees, and when they reach your thighs he pauses. He hooks onto the edge of the material, his thick fingers touching your bare skin, and pulls.

The jeans start to give way. As he tugs your body jostles, your breasts bouncing lightly in your worn bra, each jerk becoming more arousing. Once he’s peeled your pants off he discards them onto the floor along with your shirt.

“There ya go,” he says as he comes between your legs and leans in. “Will you be needin’ anything else?”

He looks at you, his eyes intense and questioning. He’s so close you can feel his body heat, even with his cool wet shirt brushing against your bare torso. A flash of lightning briefly brightens the room. You swallow hard and wait for the resounding thunder. You won’t repeat last night. You won’t let this moment pass.

“Kiss me,” you whisper.

And suddenly Joel’s lips are pressed against yours. He kisses you hungrily, mashing himself against you, finally feeding the longing you’ve both felt for some time. You part your mouth and allow his tongue entry as you melt into him. You explore each other, your hands running along his chest as you’re rendered breathless under his kissing. Your fingers tangle in his shirt. You pull at the fabric wanting to feel his skin against yours.

Joel breaks from the heated kiss and straightens his body. His eyes are dark and filled with lust as he yanks his shirt off. You watch him as you scoot back on the bed and fully lay down. He kicks off his boots and undoes his belt and jeans. His body is strong from years of manual labor. There’s a line of hair on his soft belly that trails under his boxers.

“What else do you need, sweetheart?”

You can’t tell if the roaring in your ears is the sound of the rain or of your quickly beating heart. Joel waits for your answer as he unclips the gun holster from his belt and rests it on the floor. His hardening cock springs free when he drops his pants and boxers.

He strokes himself slowly and you watch as his cock gets harder in his grasp. You rub your thighs together, desperately seeking relief for the growing ache between your legs. You unclasp your bra and cup your breasts. Joel softly grunts when you pinch your nipples between your fingers.

The sight of him bare and beautiful leaves you breathless. He looks so handsome with his hair slicked back and glossy from the rain. The sight of his cock, hard and ready for you, sets you on fire. He licks his lips and all you can think about is those lips on you. On your mouth, on your tits, on your cunt. You have never wanted someone so badly.

“You, Joel,” you finally say. “I need you.”

He smiles at your answer and makes his way onto the bed. He takes his time crawling up to you, planting kisses along the way. He pauses when he meets the apex of your legs.

His fingers curl around the band of your panties and he pulls them down and off. You open your legs, inviting him in, so desperate for his touch.

He looks up with hungry eyes. “I want to taste you,” he says as his fingers part your pussy lips, opening you even further for him.

Joel opens his mouth and presses his tongue against your cunt. He licks up, takes his time savoring you until he passes over your sensitive bundle of nerves. The sensation has you moaning and lifting your hips to meet his mouth.

“Oh, Joel,” you whine as he continues sucking and licking you, alternating between the flat of his tongue and the point of his tip. One of his large fingers finds the entrance to your hole and pushes inside.

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me already,” he mumbles into your folds. “One of my fingers isn’t enough, is it?”

Your hands run through his hair as he inserts another finger inside you, your walls clenching around him. He pumps his fingers in and out of you, curling them into the spot within you that has you moaning his name.

Your pleasure grows as Joel finds his rhythm, his mouth and hand working together to bring you closer and closer to orgasm.

“Please, Joel,” you’re begging, pleading with him. “Don’t stop! I’m so close, please don’t stop!”

So he doesn’t. His moans join your screams of pleasure until the pressure in your core finally snaps. Your back arches and your legs shake as your orgasm rips through you. Joel’s fingers continue to work through your high, prolonging your pleasure until your legs relax and your grip loosens from his hair.

“Fuck,” you exhale as Joel crawls up, his strong body caging around you. He leans into you, the touch of his skin on yours and the weight of him soothing your body. He nestles his face into the crook of your neck as one of his hands squeezes your breast, his fingers playfully twisting your nipple.

He’s planting kisses on you again, on your neck, along your jaw, then on your lips. You moan when you taste your own release on his tongue as he slips it between your lips. You spread your legs further underneath him, a fire burning in your core that only he can put out. His cock rests thick and hard between you.

“I still need you,” you whisper, lifting your hips to grind yourself against the length of him. You need all of him, every pound and every inch. You need his touch, his lips, his moans. You need him around you. You need him in you.

He grunts as you rub against him, your wet hole eager to be filled.

“I need you too,” he whispers back as he reaches in between your bodies. He grabs himself and aligns the thick head of his cock at your entrance.

You whimper as he slowly pushes himself inside you. Inch by inch your walls stretch to accommodate his shaft. Seeds of pleasure start to grow when he’s fully inserted into you.

Joel stills inside you and looks into your eyes. His face is twisted in bliss. “Goddamn, your pussy is squeezing me so tight,” he rasps. He sharply exhales when you flex your cunt around him.

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in for a kiss. He begins to pump his hips then, making soft shallow thrusts until he’s gotten used to the feeling of you. He moans into your mouth as he picks up the pace, nearly pulling himself out of you entirely before plummeting back into your depths.

His dick is intoxicating. Waves of pleasure wash over you each time he rams himself deep in you. He fills you completely, your wet hole stretching around the length of him.

Joel begins stroking faster, his hips snapping into you at a blinding pace. Your fingers dig into his back when he rocks into the spot that makes you arch your back and moan his name.

He smiles, satisfied with the pleasure his cock gives you. “Right there?” He asks as he continues to mercilessly drill into you, pounding your sweet spot over and over again.

“Yea—oh my god, Joel—yes!”

He’s already pushing you towards your next orgasm and he can sense it. He repositions your bodies, folding you nearly in half as he brings your knees up.

You scream out as the altered position lets him stroke deeper inside you. His cock hits your cervix, pain and pleasure meshing together, forcing you closer to the edge.

“You like that, sweetheart?” Joel asks as your moans increase in volume. “Look at your pretty pussy juices making a mess… so fucking wet.”

You look down where the two of you are connected. You watch as he disappears inside you and then reappears again, shiny with your slick. The image makes your head spin.

“I… oh fuck! I’m gonna… I’m gonna—”

“You’re gonna cum on my cock for me? Huh?” His strokes are becoming more erratic, his own orgasm approaching. “Gonna let me feel that pussy grip my dick while you cum?”

Joel’s filthy words combined with his dick destroying your cunt sends you over. You yell out as your orgasm knocks over you. Your pussy pulsates around Joel, pushing him over the edge. You milk his cock as he cums, his dick twitching inside you as his warm seed fills your hole.

The two of you lay there a while, Joel softening inside you as his body envelopes yours. When your body has relaxed and your breathing has slowed Joel softly presses his lips to yours. He rises and slowly pulls out. You feel your combined arousal spill out of you once he’s completely out of the warmth of your cunt. You immediately miss the fullness he gave you when he rolls over to lay beside you.

The storm continues on outside. Fat raindrops pellet the cabin and the wind rattles the windows. Staying in was a good call, the sky was already darkening with the approaching night.

You look over to Joel. His eyes are closed, his face is soft and relaxed. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him look so calm before.

“Y’okay, sweetheart,” you ask, mirroring Joel’s words from last night.

Joel chuckles as he intertwines his fingers in yours. “Yeah. I am now.”

#Joel Miller #Joel Miller x Reader #Joel Miller x You #The Last of Us #Joel Miller smut #joel miller fanfiction

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empresskylo · 2 years

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[part 1] part 2 of touch-starved where Ghost and you have been distant ever since that night. you do not have to read part 1 in order to understand this part btw

a/n: you guys, i am down so incredibly bad. my entire pinterest and tiktok is covered with this stupid mask-wearing man. and i don’t even play the game so it has everyone around me like 🤨 also super annoyed that part 1 glitched or sumn because it posted my unedited version. edited version is on my ao3. anyways, enjoy the smut <3

masterlist

cw: ptsd, smut, p in v, reader described as small and referred to as a woman and blushes once

simon “ghost” riley x afab!reader

wc: 3.3k

𝐍𝐒𝐅�� 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐓

It was late in the compound, the silent night echoing through the hallways. Ghost and you had, in fact, been awkward the moment you released one another from your embrace. You had shuffled uncomfortably beside him as you both stood up. Ghost cleared his throat and his eyes danced across your face, his eyes unreadable. He shied away and motioned you to follow as you continued heading to base.

It was weeks after that mission and you hadn’t really seen all that much of Ghost since. You had come up to train with Soap while Ghost was in the room. He swiftly exited, grumbling in annoyance as he left. Soap had raised his brows, noticing the (extra) grumpiness in Simon.

You tossed and turned in your small room, a tiny bed and a chest of your things filling the space. You usually shared the room with another woman on your team but she was offsite at the moment.

You grumbled, shoving your boots on as you got up in the dark. You decided you needed to walk it off. Maybe then you could sleep.

In just a tank top and tight black leggings, you left your room.

You immediately collided with a large, firm object. You tripped, off balance from your boots not being tied, and fell backward. Two strong arms caught you, making you finally look up and coming face to face with Ghost. “Oh. LT,” you said embarrassed.

Ghost set you upright then removed his hands from around your arms, leaving a lingering warmth in their absence. Ghost was busy making his rounds as usual when your small frame came bustling into him. Always so clumsy.

Ghost’s blue eyes scanned your face. He was about to walk away and continue what he was doing, but halted. “Have you been cryin’?”

You felt your face warm. Why did he always have to be so blunt?

You shifted uncomfortably between your feet. He tried to get a glimpse of your face but you had shied away, staring at your boots. He could see the dark circles around your eyes from exhaustion. The same that he saw in his own reflection every morning. “Oh, uhm…” You rubbed the back of your neck.

“You still thinkin’ ‘bout that night?” You looked up at him and gave a meek nod. Of course, Ghost was referring to the close call a week ago where you almost got Gaz killed. You all had made mistakes that night, but Ghost had watched as your hand slipped from Gaz’s grip because you had failed to properly secure the rope holding you up. He had seen the horror spread across your face.

Honestly, you were surprised Ghost hadn’t kicked you off his team yet. Soap and Gaz had reassured you that you were a crucial part of the team and any one of them could have made that mistake.

But they didn’t. You did.

You watched as Ghost rolled his eyes and gripped his gun on his hip tighter before pushing you back into your room and closing the door.

He sat on your roommate's bed and pointed at yours. “Sit,” he commanded.

You did as you were told and closed your eyes. Here it was, the big moment where your Lieutenant finally ripped you a new asshole for being such a fuck up.

Ghost’s husky voice filled the already cramped space, threatening to overfill it. “I lost one of my best men back in the beginning.” Your eyes opened. You could see him in the faint glow of your room’s light. His eyes were heavy, surrounded in black, as he looked at you. “It was because of me.” Ghost felt his fist squeeze harder. You stared at him, realizing he was trying to make you feel better. To tell you how he had done something similar in the past. Though, he wasn’t great with words. You smiled at Ghost’s first kind words to you. “What?” His voice boomed with annoyance.

“Nothing.” Your smile sank as you thought of Gaz and you felt tears begin to well in your eyes again. “I’m not used to all this,” you said, gesturing around you.

“The military?”

“Being alone.” Your voice was quiet. You had always had your family. Friends. And for all of it to be taken from you destroyed you. You felt a strange sense of relief finding family with these men. They filled the void that you tried to stuff with whatever you could. But there was always that one part that never quite filled.

Your knees brushed against Ghost’s. He reached out without thinking and grabbed your hand. No. You weren’t alone. They were your family now. This was your home.

Ghost was solely wearing his balaclava mask without his usual hard skull addition, which felt more intimate. You could see the instant regret in Ghost’s eyes when he realized what he was doing. As he retracted his hand, you reached out and stopped him. Just like before, your name left his mouth in a faint whisper. You slowly stood, still gripping Ghost’s gloved hand, and pushed him back onto the cot. Maybe it was the way you now knew perfectly well that Ghost was feeling the same absence you were. Or maybe it was the darkroom that gave you confidence. You slowly crawled up beside him, your heart pounding in your ears. You moved dramatically slow, like you were attempting not to spook a feral cat—and in a weird way, you were.

Ghost’s eyes were burning a hole through you as he just let you touch him like this. He had half a mind to push you away, but his body knew how alone he felt as well. He craved this.

You rested a hand on his chest and Ghost felt your touch burn him through his clothes. He gently moved his shoulders so he was sliding his tactical gear off. Your small fingers helped, throwing his vest onto the floor. In one swift motion, Ghost decided what he wanted and he pulled you on top of him, your body flat against his. A small yelp had escaped your lips. You were afraid Ghost could feel your heart racing. His arms tightened their grip around you, suddenly overflowing with the need to connect with another human. To have your delicate hands caress him. To feel the warmth of your body against his.

He slipped his gloves off and he placed his calloused hands on your exposed arms. You held in a tight breath as he gently touched you.

You felt his chest move as he let out a painful breath. You peered up at him finally, faintly making his eyes and mask out in the dim light. Ghost looked down at you as he felt your eyes lock onto him. You gulped, unsure of what your next moves would bring.

You trailed your hands up, making Ghost’s own slip from your arms and rest on your waist. You propped yourself up slightly as you reached out to Ghost’s mask. He flinched backwards before stilling. Taking that as consent, your fingers pulled the bottom of his mask up from its spot under his black shirt. Ghost was breathing loudly through his nose as you edged the hem of it up slowly. You finally pushed it up, just enough to expose his jaw and the tip of his nose. You stopped there to much of Ghost’s relief. If you had tried to remove his mask any further, he would have likely thrown you off of him.

“I get it,” he said softly.

“Hm?” Your eyes traced his lips as he spoke, his thick accent pooling from his mouth that you could finally see. He had quite a bit of stubble coming in. “Being alone,” he finished.

“And do you like it, LT?” Your eyes darted up to his, almost challenging him. Did he like being alone? He had told himself yes for years. Every void he felt didn’t matter. He filled it with violence and bloodshed from striking down his enemies.

But now, having your warm body flesh against his own, your tiny fingers brushing against his jaw as you pried his mask up, he wasn't so sure. He wanted you. Desperately.

Ghost’s silence was deafening as he contemplated. Finally, he pulled you up into him, a small “Wha—“ leaving your lips before they were locked with his. Ghost didn’t begin to move until you reciprocated. Then, he deepened the kiss. His mouth attacked yours fervently. Your hand slid up to his chest to hold yourself steady. One of Ghost’s hands tightened on your hip, the other moving into your hair. He pulled you closer, his tongue sliding against your lips. His fingers clenched your hair, a feeling he hadn’t felt in so long.

As fast as it began, it ended. Ghost pulled back, both of you breathless. His hand didn’t leave its spot behind your head as he spoke. “No. I don’t fucking like it.”

Your eyes widened in reaction to something you couldn’t quite explain. Your body tingled as he stared at you. You moved your fingers to the hem of his t-shirt, edging it up. You wondered if you were going too far. Before you could finish your thought, Ghost pushed you back onto his thighs and tore his shirt off, careful to not catch his mask in the process. At this angle, you could make out the details of his partially exposed face. You saw old, faded scars that trickled across his face. One slid down his neck to his shoulder.

You pulled your tank top off, your breasts exposed, though he could hardly see in this lighting. You tentatively leaned forward, your chests colliding. You hugged him as close as you could, your body flat against his once again, but without the fabric. Ghost’s arms came up to wrap around you, pulling you into him. You felt a sigh of relief escape his mouth as you held each other, your fingers tracing smooth circles on his side.

You could hear his heartbeat. You smiled lazily. How much you had missed having someone you trust this close.

You turned to him and leaned up to kiss again. You could see his hesitation, but he concluded his thoughts by softly kissing your lips. You felt a chill run down your spine. This was the man who could scare a grown man with just a look. The man who gave you orders. The man who couldn’t be killed. A man filled with such rage that it came out in bursts of humor here and there. A man who hadn’t shown anyone his face is God knows how long.

And then here he was, pressed against you, kissing you so delicately like you might break. His rough fingers ran along your back, the heat from your body making him sweat.

He should be worried about what this meant for the two of you. How wrong this was since he was your lieutenant. But Ghost’s mind was so preoccupied, he wasn’t sure he had the strength to think about anything other than the way you were consuming him in this moment.

He felt your fingers fiddle with his belt. A wave of heat ran to his crotch. He pushed you back and you pouted, suddenly embarrassed. You had gone too far. Of course, Ghost wouldn’t want to—

You were cut off when you saw Ghost lifting his hips to push his pants down. You gulped, a blush spreading across your chest.

He reached out for you. He knew how pathetic he was acting, but he didn’t care. He was drunk off your touch and fuck, did he need more. He wouldn’t let himself ruin this.

His fingers played with the hem of your leggings and he tried to pull them down. You stood up and tore them off before settling yourself on his thighs once again. Your hands rested on his strong shoulders, looking into his eyes shyly. He was breathing deeply as he stared at you. Both of you were shocked at what you were doing.

“We can stop if…” he started, but you reached out and dragged your fingers along his scruffy jaw, making his words get trapped in his throat. Your finger pads tickled him as they slid down his slightly hairy chest and traced over his faded scars.

“Do they still hurt?” You asked timidly, afraid you were really pushing things now. Maybe all he wanted was the feeling of a woman in his bed after not having one for so long. You bringing up his battle scars was sure to kill the mood.

“Not physically.” You felt goosebumps rise on your skin, his voice far deeper than you’ve ever heard him before. You leaned down and placed a kiss against them. Peppering him with your soft lips. Ghost felt his eyes shut as he focused on the way your lips felt against him. Your wandering hands tracing his side and thigh.

You looked back up at him and his hands immediately went to you. His hand slowly skimmed your thigh, edging closer to your throbbing core. He hesitated before stroking his knuckle against your underwear, making you bite your lip. He was so slow with his movements, wanting to be gentle with you. Shit. Had it really been this long since he got laid?

He watched as your eyes squeezed shut, your nails digging into his shoulder as he continued to drag his knuckles against you.

Ghost had reached his breaking point when he saw your face drowning in pleasure. He grabbed your hips and flipped you around so you laid sprawled beneath him. You let out a tiny yelp, your eyes wide open now as you stared at a hovering Ghost above you. His hands gripped your panties and slid them down your legs and threw them on the floor. He looked down at you, his mouth all but watering. You tried to squeeze your thighs together feeling flustered at his gaze. He pried your legs apart and settled himself between them so you couldn’t close them again. “Don’t get shy on me now, pet.”

You took in a sharp breath at the name he just called you. Unsure if you liked it or not, Ghost halted movement before you were prying at his waistband. His husky chuckle vibrated through his chest.

He pushed his underwear down just enough to free himself and he rubbed himself against you. You gasped and grabbed onto his shoulders again. You wanted to look down and see if he was as big as you thought but it was too dark in your room to tell. You’d find out soon enough.

Ghost’s pupils were blown as he pressed against your soaking entrance. He crashed down on top of you and held himself up with his elbow, his chest pressing against yours, his other hand lining himself up. As he began to push himself into you, his hand came up, getting lost in your hair.

You both groaned as he stretched you out, slowly filling you. He really was big.

After a few painfully long moments, he bottomed out, his breath hot on your neck as he panted against you. His hands continued to wander across your body, grabbing the fat around your thigh and hips every so often. Then moving up to caress the swell of your breast. Ghost pulled out and then pushed himself back in rather roughly. “Simon,” you gasped. His name in your voice had his eyes honing in on yours. He sounded gruff as he spoke, “Am I hurting you?”

You shook your head, desperate for him to slam into you again. You bucked your hips against him and he got the message.

Simon began at a steady pace, growling each time his cock hit your cervix. You dug your nails into his back, Simon painfully stretching you out.

Simon’s face sank into the crook of your neck, leaving little kisses against your skin as he rutted into you. He smelled of mint and gunsmoke. His hand slid along your body and up into your hair, giving it a slight pull. You mewled, your eyes fluttering. “Like all the lil’ noises you make,” he grumbled between grunts.

Your walls clenched against him and he swore under his breath, his hands gripping you tighter. His body laid flat against yours, your nipples pressing against him. You were completely engulfed by this large man; you never felt so safe.

You began muttering incoherent words as he filled you up, completely drunk off him. Ghost pulled away and looked down at you. Your eyes met his. Your face was glowing with sweat as the two of your bodies intertwined in the small quarters.

Ghost gripped your thighs and pushed them towards you so he could get a better angle, all while never breaking eye contact.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he moaned. Your hands clenched the bedsheets, your walls tightening in on him. You both were dangerously close.

One of his fingers began to rub circles on your clit. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as you repeated his name again and again. “Look at me,” Simon demanded. Your eyes flew open and locked back with his as you came, your walls clenching Ghost’s cock painfully tight. He moaned as he watched you gasp in ecstasy.

“Fuck. Simon,” you mewled. That was enough to push him over the edge. He pulled out of you before stroking himself and coming against your lower belly, leaving ropes of his come dripping down you.

You both struggled to catch your breath. Simon rubbed his cock against your slit, riding out both of your highs.

Your orgasm floated away as you came down from your high, relaxing into the pillow. The dark makeup around Ghost’s eyes were smudging from the heat, but it just made his eyes even more captivating.

Before you could speak, Simon leaned over and grabbed his t-shirt, wiping his mess off your belly.

Ghost’s eyes analyzed your face, trying to read your expression. He pulled his mask back down and silently got dressed. You did the same.

You looked up at him as he towered over you, he seemed a lot shorter when you were both horizontal. He had everything on except his shirt, which he held in his hand. You’d be lying if you said the sight of Ghost’s exposed chest wasn’t sending a rush of warmth between your thighs again.

He stood there, lost for words. You shifted between your feet as he intently watched you.

“I, uhm. If you want, you can…well. You can lay here with me. For a bit. If you wanted.”

Your face was red hot as you babbled like an idiot. But you desperately wanted Simon to lay down and hold you as you fell asleep, so you didn’t care about acting like a fool at this very moment.

Simon pushed off his tactical gear instantly as if he was just waiting for the invite. He loomed over you before pulling you down with him into your tiny bed. Ghost took up most of the mattress so you were forced to lay flat against him, his arm gripping you close like he never wanted to let go. Your back pressed into his chest and your eyes felt heavy at the rise and fall of his breath.

You felt him reach up and take his mask off, clutching it in his hand as he held you, his mouth next to your ear as he shared your pillow. You fell asleep to his warm breath and nose nuzzling you. You’d worry about the awkwardness tomorrow, especially when you realized Ghost would have to somehow exit your room without getting caught.

Ghost’s hand clutched you against him the entire time he slept. He hadn’t slept this well in years.

#ghost #simon riley #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #cod #ghost cod #ghost fanfic #simon riley fanfic #ghost mw2 #ghost call of duty #fluff #angst #ghost angst #cod mw2

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bao3bei4 · 19 days

Text

BLESSED BE THEY WHOSE LIVES DO NOT TASTE OF EVIL

BUT IF SOME GOD SHAKES YOUR HOUSE

RUIN ARRIVES

RUIN DOES NOT LEAVE

IT COMES TOLLING OVER THE GENERATIONS

IT COMES ROLLING THE BLACK NIGHT SALT UP FROM THE OCEAN FLOOR

AND ALL YOUR THRASHED COASTS GROAN

anne carson, antigonick

panting like a dog at the edge of your bed is a tian guan ci fu fanfiction written by ao3 user bloodletter. it follows he xuan, a side character in the original work, for sixty thousand odd words and over two hundred years. it is very good. it has some hefty cws, though, check them out. but on the whole it’s a funny and pleasant fic.

you can read this without having read the fic yet. consider it an advertisement with mild spoilers.

let’s begin with a short story about graves: two brothers fight each other for the throne. one is buried a hero; one rots a rebel. their sister decides that the latter ought to be buried as well anyway, against the king’s edict. she is entombed alive as punishment.

some other things happen too, but they’re not important. i tell you this story, the story of antigone, not because or maybe not simply because she is oedipus’ daughter and she therefore might be as psychically central as her father, but because panting is also a story about duty, remains, and being entombed alive. and it seems to ask the question, in its own way, what might happen to antigone if she hadn’t killed herself, but encased in her tomb, festered, rotted, into a shape beyond a girl, beyond a human?

when we release antigone from her tomb, what do we see?

we turn, actually, to zizek here briefly. he makes the salient point that being “not dead” and “undead” are two totally separate things. as he phrases it:

the ‘undead’ are neither alive nor dead, they are precisely the monstrous ‘living dead.’ and the same goes for ‘inhuman’: ‘he is not human’ is not the same as ‘he is inhuman’... [the inhuman is] marked by a terrifying excess which, although it negates what we understand as ‘humanity,’ is inherent to being-human.

so rather than being inhuman, we might call a ghost extrahuman. they have a surplus of humanity, overfilling overflowing from them. the ghost is simply too alive to categorize. at the heart of being human, is something very very strange.

now i am going to give you a long quote. and it is not because i am lazy but because it is just that good. and i’m a little lazy. so here’s avery gordon:

if haunting describes how that which appears to be not there is often a seething presence, acting on and often meddling with taken-for-granted realities, the ghost is just the sign, or the empirical evidence if you like, that tells you a haunting is taking place. the ghost is not simply a dead or a missing person, but a social figure, and investigating it can lead to that dense site where history and subjectivity make social life. the ghost or the apparition is one form by which something lost, or barely visible, or seemingly not there to our supposedly well-trained eyes, makes itself known or apparent to us, in its own way, of course. the way of the ghost is haunting, and haunting is a very particular way of knowing what has happened or is happening.

ghosts, then, have an epistemology all their own. they are a way of seeing what is not there, an absence. antigone is not alive. what might she say anyway? what might she want?

we know, from freud, that ghosts are a projection of our ill will against the dead. we wanted them dead, on some level, and so they reproach us in their un-death. this is why so many ghosts have grievances; we have grievances against them in turn.

it is perversely surprising, therefore, that he xuan might become a ghost. shi wudu has no grievance with he xuan; he sees only necessity. but panting brings he xuan to life by shi wudu’s hand.

The man’s hand hovers in the air, and though cast in shadow, it sees uncertainty play out on his face. The companion calls from the doorway, “Oi, Shui-xiong, are we done here?” The first man gazes at the urn for a moment longer, and then turns away. Nods curtly. “We’re done.”

this is the name that animates he xuan; it is shi wudu’s ambivalent last visit, in my view, that catalyzes the whole thing. his fear that it is, in fact, not done, that sets in motion the events that bring about his demise.

i’m going to tell you a ghost story. 水鬼 are a type of ghost. they live in rivers and streams and they are the remnants of people who died by drowning. be careful on the water: if they pull a living person in, they can finally be reincarnated. isn’t that beautiful? revenge brings you peace. i’m sure it’s that simple.

these are the kinds of ghosts he xuan eats: “No one had to teach him how to do it. When the first time came, an instinctual part of him knew how to proceed.” but the more he eats and he eats the more he turns into a constellation of hunger.

A hairline fracture within him widens, opening up that black chasm where the things he swallows are made room for. It spreads out to the border of him, turning him inside-out, until nothing remains except that lustful emptiness. Perhaps nothing more than that nothingness ever existed; in those feverish moments, his humanity feels like nothing so much as a wistful dream of better days that never were.

is it cannibalism for he xuan to eat a shuigui? a human? another god? or is it simply doing as was done unto him?

lu xun writes in diary of a madman:

the eater of human flesh is my elder brother! i am the younger brother of an eater of human flesh! i myself will be eaten by others, but none the less i am the younger brother of an eater of human flesh!

but so too did he write:

wanting to eat men, at the same time afraid of being eaten themselves, they all look at each other with the deepest suspicion. . . . how comfortable life would be for them if they could rid themselves of such obsessions and go to work, walk, eat and sleep at ease. they have only this one step to take. yet fathers and sons, husbands and wives, brothers, friends, teachers and students, sworn enemies and even strangers, have all joined in this conspiracy, discouraging and preventing each other from taking this step.

lu xun is, of course, critiquing tradition—the “madman” sees cannibalism all around him, even in the classics he was taught. the cannibal has this in common with the ghost — they are the allegedly primitive ways of knowing that outlived the logics of capitalist modernity. the law, the state, the family, all of it bursting with this repressed violence. freud writes: “From the idea of ‘homelike,’ ‘belonging to the house,’ the further idea is developed of something withdrawn from the eyes of strangers, something concealed, secret.”

marx was no stranger to ghosts. he was of course intimate with the specter of communism, but even more than that, he writes: “the tradition of all dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brains of the living.” the bodies we have eaten return to us. and derrida contended with this problem, describing the ways in which, quoting hamlet, “the time is out of joint,” or rather, history is disordered. the past is made present, ghosts caught forever in-between by injustices and disruptions, necessitating a new way to describe something that is and is not actually present. fredric jameson describes hauntology as derrida’s “mocking” answer to the question of if “tangible certainty and solidity corresponds to ontology... how to describe what literally undermines it and shakes our belief?”

whatever. big shock. what IF law and order were violent. i think they made a show about that. i am trying to move here, from the individual undead to the collective undead. what if it is not merely us that are undead in the world of unliving, but the world which has in fact already ended?

before he xuan dies, (in this fic) he xuan is raped. i want to read this eschatologically:

He’s not sure he’s ever been less of a person than this; despite all of the indignity and toil that came before, he was at least always working towards something. Like a feral dog, his purpose has become bare survival. He needs to survive long enough to serve the end of his time, and then someone will pay.

okay before i go any further i want to give into my semi-medicated anxiety disorder. in fear of misreadings: i am not saying that any of this applies to all survivors of rape. i am making a claim about how he xuan sees and conducts himself, as a malevolent undead avatar of revenge.

anyway: panting is a story about living past the end of the world. it follows an undead protagonist living past the end of her normal life, her life, her world, and who indeed lives beyond the limits of the original story, veering even into epilogue. this sexual violence heralds the apocalypse, and razes what-has-been to the ground. let us consider he xuan’s initial new form as a ghost: “It can’t touch anything, but neither can it be touched. It is, and it is not.”

rape and death are a de-gendering process for he xuan. what is left afterward is the idea that mourning can be constitutive of gender.

he xuan clings to masculinity as obligation: “It wasn’t enough for my parents to die on my behalf? I should do away with their son, too?” but bloodletter also makes new possibilities explicit as well.

He Xuan’s true body is a weathered vessel for the memory of people he is still trying to do right by, in his way. As much as it might presently seem otherwise. He must fashion new flesh for the shameful pleasures of the dark.

and those new feminine bodies?

The body itself is an assemblage of women she has seen and been. The form that He Xuan took on with Hua Cheng is too ghastly for polite company, so as Ming Yi she concedes to look more like a goddess.

it is not so simple as masculinity = death and femininity = possibility, by the way. it’s more complicated than that. NOT to personally equate femininity with reproductive capacity, but it’s worth talking about how ming yi’s implicit equivocation of the two through her new undead capabilities has a gender kaleidoscopic effect.

after all, the earth that’s nature’s mother is her tomb; what is her burying grave, that is her womb. or whatever. it’s a truism at this point. is it feminine to be dead? anyway, he xuan echoes that shakespeare line:

He Xuan has been inside mines before, in her role as the false Earth Master, and she always dislikes them, despite the comforting quality of their thick darkness. The bottom of the sea is just as black, but while underwater, He Xuan may move in endless directions. Here, she is pressed in on on all sides, and can’t help but think of the true Ming Yi, imprisoned in Ghost City.

womb and tomb, indeed. he xuan builds herself a womb/tomb to return to:

He Xuan thinks of the manor, encompassing them on all sides. Still, solemn, cavernous. A place where the living have never trod, and any who might come to enter its depths are hers to claim.

central to the fic is the idea of circlusion, or the antonym of penetration. to encompass, to surround, to squeeze, to engulf, to circlude. my god the fisting scene. or consider this quote:

For her own part, He Xuan dreams of Shi Qingxuan, devoured. If Shi Qingxuan were another dead thing, like herself, the temptation would be too great to resist, and then at least He Xuan could contain her: suspended in eternal digestion and assimilated into the slipstream of selves that He Xuan may drag her fingers through as she pleases, and which never disturb her otherwise.

anyway, this succession of wombs/tombs provides new form for he xuan’s gender and indeed catharsis:

The thought that a man could look at her and want to shove something in her cunt makes her want to laugh: go ahead, go and try it; plumb those depths, where only death awaits you.

consider the cunt that gives death, not life, but is itself life. anyway. look, to sum all this up, the point i am trying to make is that grief is something that can be so trans to me. she is standing in the wreckage of her old life. and you don’t move on, you move around the shape of the loss, until you are warped and whole containing the seed/husk of yourself.

remember poor antigone? what if instead of being buried, she was reborn? what if she ate and she ate her way free, until she was no longer human, but more than human, and the world ended around her, but she kept unliving until there was nothing left but GORGEOUS T4T SEX?????? and also there was a really good huaxuan fwb subplot that i didn’t even talk about because i got caught up in the fever of he xuan dramatics??? that’s what panting like a dog at the edge of your bed is about. in my opinion. you should read it.

#this is what i do instead of making moodboards #or instead of leaving ao3 comments #x

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my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction · 1 year

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Here's something that's been cooking in my head for a while. So there's a lot of fics where Marc and the reader will have a argument and then Marc will sort of shut out and just leave Steven and Jake to be out as a means to avoid reader, and some have it that while that's happening Steven and Jake then just spoil reader with affection and stuff and then there's some point where Marc just comes out and they talk it out. But hear me out on this one and even feel free to run and do your own things with it-

So let's say that that's a common scenario that happens and that Marc and reader are arguing about something and at some point things boil over a little and they do a whole "Fine! "Fine!" sort of thing. Reader walks away to cool off and maybe go back to the issue later when both of them are more calm but then Marc goes "I guess this is the part where you sit somewhere and wait for Steven and Jake to spoil you rotten!".

And now there's an even bigger problem because now Marc is bringing Steven and Jake into this and that pisses them off and there's a whole argument between them because Jake and Steven are saying that they wouldn't have to if Marc would just man up and not turn every issue brought up into an argument. And Marc is saying that it wouldn't be such a big deal if they just let him sulk and solve it himself without them swooping in and overhearing/seeing them basically fawning over reader. And reader is even more upset because it's somewhat true but because you're still made they want to prove him wrong.

You can continue from here or just leave it. Just thought you'd like to hear it at least

Thank you so much for this ask! It has been fermenting in my mind for days now. I hope I've done it justice ❤️

Spoiled Rotten

Marc Spector X GN!Reader Rating: T Masterlist | ao3 | want to be tagged?

Warnings: arguements (subject matter is not specified), hurt and comfort (heavy on the comfort), typos, rail road sentences Please let me know if I've missed a warning!

Word Count: 1496

_______________________________________

“No that’s not what I said, you’re not listen-”

“You’re just repeating what you said over and ov-”

“I wouldn’t have to repeat it if you would just li-”

“It’s not even relevant to this, you’re changing the sub-”

“I’m changing the subject? What do you think you’re doi-”

“Stop talking over me!”

You both glare at each other, rage boiling over like an overfilled pan.

Your breathing hard, your lips forced together, just waiting for him to say something so you can both go at each other again.

You could strangle him, the way he sneered a little as he spoke, that little mocking tone he used specifically for you, the fact that he would never, ever, ever back down.

Your breathing calmed a little as he stayed quiet, good. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, a few rouge curls had escaped his carefully slicked back hair, breaking his illusion of being oh-so perfect.

Oh, I’m Marc Spector and I never do anything wrong.

You loved him, of course you did, and if anyone ever laid a finger on him you’d gouge their eyes out, but good god if that man didn’t know how to get perfectly under your skin.

He stayed quiet, scowling at you.

With a deep breath you looked away from him and walked into the kitchen. There was no reason to stay in his presence if he was going to be like this, trying to bait you into talking first like a child. (As if you hadn’t been trying to do the exact same thing to him.)

You thought about making a comment, saying something like ‘oh, the silent treatment, Marc? Real original.’ But you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. And you knew how childish it would sound.

You stopped in front of the kitchen counter and sighed. Cliché as it was, you couldn’t remember what you had first started arguing about. Or why it even mattered.

Maybe if you just took a few minutes to cool off and-

Marc’s distinct footsteps sounded as he came into the kitchen. “So, I guess this is the part where you sit somewhere and wait for Steven and Jake to spoil you rotten!" His voice was somewhere between normal and shouting, raising in volume even more at the end.

He had been trying, and promptly failed, to sound collected.

You turned, anger rising in your chest and throat, “what?”

“It’s always the same-”

“It is not always the same-”

“We have an argument, you go off and sulk and then,”

“I sulk?” You gestured to yourself, “I’m the one that goes off and sulks?”

“And, then, Steven or Jake front and it’s all ‘oh what has that horrible Marc done to you now.’” His eyes flicked to the side the second the words left his mouth, the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching hard.

You recognised the movement instantly. Steven or Jake, or possibly both, were saying something.

Heat rises to your cheeks. “That’s not what happens.”

He glances back to you, the smallest twitch is his forehead telling you that Steven and Jake must still be talking. “Liar.”

You clamp your teeth shut, trying to stop yourself from saying something you know you’ll regret.

He was right though, and you hated it. Why did this insufferable man always have to be right?

You and Marc argued the most.

Jake didn’t shout, he didn’t like that kind of confrontation. He would go quiet and listen to you when you were angry. For anyone else his silence would have made it worse, but there was something about his expression. How he just folded back, bleeding emotion out of himself until he seemed monochrome against your rage. It never failed to refuse you. You’d both end up talking calmly about your disagreements.

Steven was the king of sarcasm, and passive aggression when he wanted to be. But when an argument with you was getting too far he would just call a timeout and let you both go your separate ways to calm down.

On the whole, very rarely did any of you argue, and when you did it was usually about something silly.

And as you’d been together longer, disagreements with Jake and Steven had lessened to almost nonexistence. While arguments with Marc had stayed the same.

It always followed a similar pattern: you and Marc would shout at each other and then Jake or Steven or both would come and make it better with hugs and kisses and soft words.

“Well it’s not going to happen this time.” Marc snarled.

You looked back at him, realising you had been lost in your thoughts.

“You're stuck with horrible me.”

He was goading you, trying to get you to shout at him again. Needing you to yell, to express your anger. He could deal with that, could fight against it.

You stayed quiet.

“Gonna give me the silent treatment? Because I’m not good enough for you? That’s real original.”

You almost laughed then, but just managed to stop yourself. There was no way that could help in this situation. Your shoulders slumped slightly. The problem was, you were both too similar.

“Sit down.” You spoke softly, and gestured to the kitchen table before walking over to the coffee machine. Marc was the only one who really used it for the fancy milky coffees he still pretended he didn’t adore.

“What?” He snapped, watching you move. He took a step towards you, his hands flexing in irritation as he saw you switch the coffee machine on.

You turned fully to look at him, “sit down,” your voice sounded calm and kind, even though you were still fighting with your own exasperation inside. “Or stand, whatever you want.”

You expected him to snap back with another dig. But to your surprise he swallowed, a small bob of his throat, and sat down on the chair closest to you.

He didn’t take his eyes off you while you made a coffee, the crease in his forehead deepening as he assumed you were going to drink it right in front of him.

Instead you heard the little breath he exhaled when you placed the cup on the table directly to his right.

Marc stared at it for a second, dumbfounded. He was so caught up in staring at the coffee that he didn’t hear you step back and open the cupboard, only realising that time had passed when you set a small plate with choco leibniz milk biscuits in front of him.

“Those are Jake’s.” He whispered.

“I bought them for everyone.” You leave out, ‘except Steven’ as that was a given due to the milk.

The biscuits were, however, a favourite of Jakes. And he did have a tendency to eat them all before anyone else got a chance.

Marc pressed his lips together into a tight line.

You didn’t want for him to say anything else as you walked into the living room and turned on the television. You spend a few minutes searching through the listings until you found something that matched your criteria. Marc had a soft spot for westerns.

You clicked on The Searchers and pressed play before grabbing the heavy, fluffy blanket out of the airing cupboard and laying it out on the settee.

When you came back into the kitchen Marc was chewing on a biscuit. He looked up at you as you entered and for a moment seemed much younger than his years.

“Come on,” you spoke softly, lifting the plate and cup from the table.

Marc didn’t question you and followed you into the living room one step behind.

You gestured to the settee after you put the biscuits and coffee on the table, raising the blanket for Marc to sit. He did, slowly, as if he was waiting for something awful to jump out at him.

You sat next to him, pulling the blanket over you both. You left a ‘sensible’ space between you. Not wanting to be too far or too close, and upsetting him with the extreme.

He stared at you, not even glancing at the television. “What are you doing?” He whispered. His expression was nervous, pained, and it chased away the residual anger in your chest.

“Spoiling you rotten.” You said quietly, The Searchers opening music nearly drowning your words out.

Slowly, you lifted your arm to the back of the settee, leaving an open invitation for physical touch.

To your surprise he moved instantly, burying himself into your side and laying his head against your shoulder as he wrapped his arms around you and squeezed you tight.

You smiled and kissed the top of his head as you hugged him back.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into your chest, his breath hot against your skin.

“Me too.” You kissed his head again as you both relaxed into each other's embrace and settled down to watch the film.

____________________________________

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @pleasurebuttonwrites @raven-rk @campingwiththecharmings @alexxavicry @mystinky-butt @cocodiem @oscarisaacsspit @welcometostayingawake @mbakubabe @solobagginses @melodygatesauthor @romanarose @pimosworld @jake-g-lockley

If you'd like to be taken off the tag list please let me know here

#marc spector #moon knight #moon knight mcu #marc spector x reader #x reader #marc spector x you #x you #marc spector x gender neutral reader #x gender neutral reader #marc spector x gn!reader #x gn!reader #my writing #fanfic #oscar isaac #oscar isaac characters

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bimboamyrose · 1 year

Text

Unfamiliar - Ch. 14

First two chapters ☆ Previous (Ch. 13) ☆ AO3

(life update at the end cause it’s been quite the year)

Ch. 14 - The Present

“There’s no time like the present.” Amy thought back to her conversation with the fortune teller- how wise and experienced she seemed. Her words echoed in Amy’s head- “Your time is as valuable as anyone’s.”

Amy kneeled on the floor of her room, her stack of tarot cards fanned out in front of her. It reminded her of when she was a kid; of when she first met Sonic. The excitement and nerves of that time reflected to her from the back of those same cards.

But there was no time for a full spread today, as much as she would have liked the guidance. She would instead draw her daily card and discern what she could from that.

She’d been staring long enough. Closing her eyes, she reached in whatever direction felt right. Her fingertips made contact with a frayed corner. Amy held her breath as she turned it, slowly opening her eyes.

“The fool?” she said out loud. At first glance it was a silly choice, but her face quickly lit up. “The fool!” she repeated with joy. “Perfect!”

The card was illustrated with a carefree man happily standing at the edge of a cliff, as if on the onset of a precarious journey. But he looks confident, even if unaware of the possible risks ahead. For better or worse, The Fool took his chances and looked toward the future with optimism.

It couldn’t be a clearer sign. Madame was right- it was time she understood how Sonic felt about her. She would find an opportunity for that today.

Nervous as it made her, Amy hopped around the room giddily, imagining the scene. It went on for a few minutes until she caught sight of her alarm clock.

“Oh!”

The morning was growing late. She quickly gathered up her deck, placing her special card face-up on her nightstand. She would slip it into her pocket later for good luck.

Amy rushed out of her room, past her house guest. “Morning!”

Metal read, sitting at his usual spot on the couch. The shape of his heavy body grew further indented into its cushions by the day, a reminder of how much time had passed since Amy opened her home to him. She rustled around the kitchen, glancing at her guest and out the back window as she made herself a quick breakfast. In the time Metal had been there, the weather had slowly shifted from frosty to damp, the ground flourishing as spring showers rolled over the landscape. It was warm out.

Amy had overfilled her coffee mug as she pondered it. She frantically reached for the paper towels.

In reality, Metal was doing anything but focusing. A low hum had made its way to Metal’s hearing, tuning in and out since the night before. It echoed the high pitched ring that entered his head after leaving the festival.

Feet away in the kitchen, Amy slammed down a plate on the counter. His head shot up. She was slurping from a coffee mug as she took slices of bread out of the toaster. She placed them on the plate gently enough, but the contact came across as banging to Metal. Then the ringing continued. As if instinctually, Metal scratched at his pointed “ears”- the triangular sound receptors mounted to the top of his head- but the buzzing persisted. Amy was seemingly deaf to the noise. Was it coming from inside him?

“Gotta change,” Amy said quickly, footing it back to her room with her meager breakfast in hand.

Metal followed her with his eyes until she shut the door behind her. He tensed like a guitar string at the noise. He focused on adjusting his receptors until his surroundings were no longer deafening. But why was his hearing so sensitive all of a sudden? He couldn’t even recall using it to that extreme prior to that morning.

Before he could process what caused the error, his receptors picked up again. Metal could hear Amy in her room; involuntarily eavesdropping on her. He heard the distinct sound of cards shuffling. She was surely reading those tarot cards of hers, drawing them with gasps and giggles between pulls. He listened on, wondering silently what she was so excited about.

Then her tablet rang loudly, screeching to Metal’s sensitive hearing. Amy picked up the call as he frantically adjusted his sound receptors again.

“Hi, Tails!” she giggled.

“Hey Amy. You’re sure in a good mood!”

“Well-”

Metal immediately tuned out. It probably wasn’t the right thing to do, invading her privacy- but curiosity had gotten the better of him. And he probably should focus on why his hardware was malfunctioning instead.

But it was no use. Whatever was causing the issue wasn’t letting up, and he could hear their conversation coming in and out. He finally relented when he heard his name some minutes later.

“I’ve been thinking,” he heard Tails remark. “I still find it sorta suspicious that Metal’s here just as Eggman’s supposedly turning over this new leaf.”

Amy sighed. “What is it now?”

“Well, I checked him over yesterday and couldn’t find any evidence of spying like remote control or tracking, but… I’m just not convinced Eggman would abandon him just before going on some business venture. Don’t you think he could be some kind of distraction?”

Amy paused for a moment. Metal sat up on the other side of the wall in anticipation for her response.

“Nah,” she said finally. “I trust him.”

Trust. Metal nodded to himself, relieved at her answer.

“Oh, speaking of spying- what’s the plan for today?” Amy continued.

Tails grumbled. “I’m giving Sonic the listening device. All you have to do is pay Eggman a visit and plant it somewhere we can listen in on him. It’s not like Eggman to be this private so whatever he’s planning has to be big-”

“If he’s planning anything at all.”

“What?” Tails sounded annoyed. “You believe this act?”

“I’d like to,” she groaned. “He is getting kinda old.” And so is chasing after him, she thought.

Another voice interrupted the conversation before either of them could continue. “Hey, buddy!” Sonic called to Tails from another room.

“Be right there!” Tails answered before turning back to his tablet. “Just… be careful, please?” he pleaded with his friend. “I know you’ve been getting along with Metal, but we can’t put anything past Eggman yet.

“Yeah, yeah,” she responded aloofly. “When is Sonic coming?”

Metal turned down his glitching receptors before listening to Tails’ response. He tensed his body, once again reminded of the intrinsic, intense loathing he held for Sonic. He hadn’t had time to process how he would manage that rediscovered fury. Then there was the knowledge that Tails still felt threatened by him. Logically, he understood Tails’ concern- armed with his memories, now more than ever; but it was, nonetheless, hurtful. That seemed like the right way to describe it. Metal slacked back into the cushions.

But, what if Tails was right? Metal still couldn’t remember what led up to the day he lost his memory. He could, very well, be part of a scheme unbeknownst to him. And now that he could recollect the relationship he had with Dr. Eggman, Metal felt strange staying out of either Sonic or Eggman’s involvement. Metal, for his part, felt no desire to fight against his creator. He didn’t feel any loyalty to the man, either. But one way or another Amy would end up in the middle of it again…

Before he could ponder it any further, Amy giddily stepped out from her room. She seemed especially cheerful when she returned, unable to keep the grin off her face. Metal was instantly distracted from whatever was happening with his hearing. His eyes followed her path as Amy twirled into the living room, a gift bag hanging from her wrist as she plopped onto the couch next to him. She looked like she was ready to burst with some kind of good news.

“Hello again!” she beamed.

Metal sat back upright, glancing down at the bag on her lap and immediately setting aside all those complex thoughts for later.

“I’m getting picked up soon, but I wanted to give you this before I head out today…” Amy held the glittery paper bag out to Metal with a bashful smile. “It’s a present! It’s nothing fancy, but…”

Even as he reached out for the gift, Metal couldn’t keep his eyes off her. What was the gift for? She cast her shy gaze off to the side with a rosy flush. Metal would match it if he could.

He took the bag from her carefully, setting it on his lap. Fluffy white tissues stuck out from the top which he pushed aside as carefully as he could manage. The delicate paper wrinkled and tore slightly from his touch, causing him to hesitate. “Don’t worry- presents were made to be ripped open,” she assured with a grin.

Metal looked to her beaming face momentarily and continued opening his gift, tossing the crinkly gift wrap aside. The contents were as much a surprise as receiving a gift at all.

“Do you like it? I thought you might like to write on something nicer than a notepad or a smudgy old whiteboard.”

He pulled out the journal she’d shown him at the equinox festival, its supple leather binding as pleasant in his grip as he remembered. Metal stared at the book, studying its smooth surface. Although it felt durable, he held it gingerly in his palms, still fearing his claws could rip into it unintentionally.

“There’s something else in the bag, too!”

A velvety drawstring sack sat at the bottom of the gift bag. Amy’s expectant eyes watched him. He pulled the top of it apart with care, revealing the contents. He was unsure what he was looking at.

“They’re gloves,” Amy said, as if reading his confusion. “I handmade them for you. I hope you don’t mind…”

Gloves. He examined them carefully. The insides were lined with a hard wearing suede that backed the fine leather exterior, like sturdy working gloves in reverse. Of course; she was probably concerned that he would tear into things from time to time. Her scarf had been unfortunate enough to meet his metallic claws and his whiteboard was scratched beyond reasonable use. Not to mention her arm…

“You don’t have to wear them if you don’t want to.” Amy cut in. “But I thought you might find it more comfortable for some things. Maybe you won’t have to be so careful when you’re reading anymore!”

That was true- he had to take his time turning pages when he read, which slowed him down. It was cumbersome to him especially as he could otherwise get through a book at full tilt. Metal looked from Amy’s considerate gift to her uneasy expression.

“Do you like them?” Amy worried that she’d offended her friend somehow. “Maybe if you tried them on…? I could always make adjustments…”

Metal shook his head, carefully slipping one of the gloves over his sharp fingers. It fastened at the wrist with openings on the palms and backs that allowed for greater mobility than full gloves would. He ran the tips of his covered claws over the face of the journal. No scratches. He then flexed each of his fingers with ease before slipping on the other. It wasn’t until then that the thoughtfulness of Amy’s gift registered in his mind. They were perfect.

He took the opportunity to reach for her hand as well, easily sliding his fingers beneath her palm and placing his other palm over top. It was a bit harder to sense her, almost as if slightly numb- but he could do it without worry of harming her. It seemed a fair trade. He chimed enthusiastically as he held her hand in both of his.

Amy’s worry melted away. “You do? I’m so glad! I had Tails help me with the measurements and design. I can still make changes if you need them, though,” she assured.

Armed with a doubtless nod, Metal met her eyes and chimed with more enthusiasm than what was probably necessary. Amy wore a satisfied grin as she chuckled back at his reaction. There was comfort in knowing that he could touch her without harm. Metal gave her hand another soft press before pulling back and watching as she slipped away. He followed her hand back down as it met the other in her lap. She knit her fingers together nervously, but the smile didn’t leave her face.

“Anyway, big day today,” she sighed dreamily. “Sonic’s picking me up for this spy thing real soon. Wish me luck!” Warmth radiated from her cheeks as she thought about her goal for the day.

Metal was intrigued at her excitement. Could she really be that elated just about going on this mission?

Unable to keep her excitement to herself, Amy continued. “It’s been a good day so far. You liked your gift, which is such a relief, and this morning, I drew this!” She pulled a tarot card from her pocket. “This is The Fool! I know the name seems silly, but this card is telling me to take a risk in order to embark on a new adventure. Isn’t that exciting? I think it’s a good omen for today.”

The Fool. Amy was so animated, it must have been important to her. He echoed her excitement with a melodic set of beeps. Still, Metal couldn’t help but think of someone else when he heard the card’s name.

As if he was summoned, the doorbell then rang, followed immediately by a quick knock on the door. Anyone could guess who the impatient visitor was even if they didn’t already know Sonic was on his way over.

“Coming!” Amy lept from her comfortable sitting place, practically sprinting to answer the door. She smoothed down her fluttering dress in anticipation.

Metal didn’t move. The mere thought of his rival sent his engine into overdrive. He brooded as Amy opened the door, determined to remain calm for Amy’s sake, but unable to do much about the intense whirring produced by his body when he heard Sonic’s voice.

“Hey, Ames. You ready?” Sonic leaned against the outer door frame with an arm tucked behind his back.

“Hey! Yeah, I’m ready when you are,” she beamed.

“Could you take care of these first?” He brought a small bouquet of blue and white forget-me-nots out from behind his back. The wildflowers poked up the tops of stems long and short, irregularly arranged together in a little bundle. It wasn’t the neatest bouquet, but they were lively and pretty nonetheless. Amy gasped at the sight of the flowers, catching Metal’s attention.

“Oh, Sonic! They’re so pretty!” She took the modest little arrangement in her hands lovingly, examining the bulbs. “Thank you! Where did you get these?”

“Found a patch of ‘em on the way here. Cute, huh?”

“I love them!” she nodded giddily.

“That’s not all. Brought you a present- Check this out.”

Sonic dangled a small paper in front of her face. It was dated almost 9 years back. Amy’s face lit up.

“Oh! Is that-”

“Yep!”

He turned it over, and Amy was face-to-face with the likeness of her younger self. The photo showed Amy, Sonic, Tails and Knuckles around a cake. It was from her 10th birthday party.

With her free hand, Amy took hold of the little memory and sighed. “How funny! I thought this was lost for good.”

Sonic nodded. “I found it while cleaning out Tail’s lab. Guess it fell off the ol’ pin board behind a bunch of old junk.”

“You were cleaning?” Amy stepped aside so he could come in.

He came in past the doorway. “Well, you know, with his wrist and all…” Sonic trailed off with a shrug. “Anyway, thought you’d want to keep it.”

“I’m gonna stick it on the fridge! Oh- and let me put these in some water.”

Metal listened as she invited Sonic in and took care of the flowers. Amy slipped into the kitchen, immediately pinning the photo under a magnet on her fridge and disappearing under the counter in search of a vase.

Metal did his best to avoid eye contact as Sonic approached nonchalantly.

“Hey, Metal. What’s up?”

Aside from the whirring of Metal’s engine, he didn’t answer.

Sonic took a step back. “Whoa, sounds like you’re about to blast off...”

The smug greeting alone could have sent Metal after him, but he sat still in silence. Or he would have been silent, were it not for his unruly engine and its ever intensifying burring. His fingers creaked together. He could feel his body involuntarily cranking up the heat.

“Uh, you alright?” Sonic repeated.

Amy peeked back at them from over the counter as she stuffed the shaggy stems into a narrow vase. It was difficult to ignore Metal’s demeanor, his engine practically screeching now, body language no more reassuring. “Metal?” His red-hot gaze shot back at her eerily and her own eyes grew wide. “Do you… need some fresh air, maybe?”

The surprise in her expression snapped Metal back to reality. The glow from his eyes dimmed to its usual state and his body relaxed, fans powering down, as if it were his way of exhaling. He lifted his frame from the couch with a nod. There was some concern in her soft smile as he approached her.

“You ok?”

His eyes shifted back at Sonic, who was now looking to the front door and tapping his foot impatiently. Turning back to Amy, Metal crossed his arms as if to ask her the same question.

“Oh, don’t worry about us- we’ll be fine.” Amy laid a gentle hand on his tense shoulder, feeling it give as he seemed to relax.

Then, pointing to the fridge, she practically yanked him into the kitchen by the arm. “Before we go, take a look at this!”

But he was too fixated on her grip to see where she was pointing.

Amy clicked her tongue. “Look~!” she repeated, pulling him further.

Metal’s gaze snapped to the photo stuck on the fridge.

“It’s from when I turned 9! A year after we met. Neat, huh?”

Suddenly captivated, Meta straightened his body. He approached the fridge, vision fixed on the crinkled little photo. He plucked it from under the magnet to take a closer look.

The girl in the photo looked just as she did the day Metal met her; the day he was activated. He could picture her behind those bars, chatting with him. It was strange- he remembered her perfectly without the photo, but it was like seeing a different side of her. She beamed back at him from the picture with a wide smile. short hair and a childish gap between her teeth. There was never an opportunity to see her that way back then. Not for Metal.

“Ah, I forgot I’d just lost one of my baby teeth that day,” Amy blushed giddily. “How embarrassing!” She didn’t actually seem all that embarrassed.

Metal took a moment to scan the rest of the photo. Sonic looked just like he did the day they met, cocky grin and all. It looked like he was the one holding the camera, facing the lens back at the group. Then his eyes wandered to the cake. It was a small whitish cake messily slathered in cream and topped with strawberries and 9 candles. There was some writing in the frosting.

Happy Birthday, ROSIE!

Rosie? He couldn’t recall hearing that name.

Metal turned to Amy, pointing inquisitively at the cake in the photo. She immediately knew what his question was.

“Oh! The boys used to call me Rosie…” There was something between a smile and a grimace on her face, clearly much more embarrassed by the nickname than the photo.

Sonic laughed from the living room. “Rose the Rascal! Man, we were so mean!”

“Pff, yeah.” Amy took the photo from Metal and pinned it back to the fridge, the magnet now stuck right over the cake. “Guess we all grew out of it,” she concluded. “Anyway!”

Amy turned on her heels and walked past Metal and out of the kitchen. His eyes followed her as she addressed Sonic and led him through the front door.

“Just lay low while we’re out, kay?” Amy called to Metal, pulling open the door.

Metal caught Sonic’s quick, perplexed glance from Amy and then to Metal as she waved good-bye and the door closed behind them.

Amy let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Shaking off the embarrassment, and glad to have avoided any conflict between her rivalrous friends, she aimed her attention back at Sonic.

“So, do you have that spy thing?”

Sonic cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

He pulled a tiny gadget out from his glove. “No way Eggman will spot this. Apparently it’s some sorta microphone.” The paper-thin listening device was no larger than a dime. “Since we’re supposed to stick this thing under his desk or something, maybe you oughta handle it.”

“Probably,” Amy said, plucking it from his grasp before he could carelessly toss it to her. She barely had time to tuck it away before she’d been swept off her feet without warning, carried away without another word by her sprinting companion.

Inside Amy’s home meanwhile, the pathetic little bunch of flowers sat in a vase upon the kitchen counter, all crookedly poking out of the vessel. Metal focused on them bitterly.

Distracting himself, Metal gathered up the gift wrap from earlier into the bag for disposal. He watched his fingers as he did, impressed at the craftsmanship of the gloves that allowed him to complete the task neatly, rather than making scrap of the delicate tissue. It felt slightly unnatural, the change in his usual grip. He glanced out the back door at the lush landscape dotted with flowers. It was so much more vibrant, more pleasant to look at since he’d arrived. An improvement.

Somehow, Amy received Sonic’s messy bouquet with all the same enthusiasm as she had Metal’s perfect bunch some weeks back. Still, he supposed, he could do better now.

Metal tossed the gift wrap and set his sights on the lush landscape beyond the back door. Surely Amy could spare another vase when she returned.

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

sooo that was another 10 months without updates ackjhasdf oopsss

yeah so since my last update i’ve:

sold my house gone house hunting found the house of my dreams & had my offer accepted... packed up most of my belongings and moved them into storage gone on a very nice trip through greece & italy LOST the dream house due to legal bullshit (i am still devastated tbh) returned home and immediately packed the rest of my things & moved(not into my dream house :I) had to go house hunting... again idk make like 5 offers. none of them were accepted found another place finally, bought it, started renovations (still ongoing) moved into the new place partially got accepted into art school!! (this is my third degree askjdfh) got offered an adjunct teaching role (accepted cause ya girl broke) gone on a little trip to turkey for xmas (it was v nice) started the new job (i have 2 now :I) started art school (bad timing) CONTINUED RENOVATING (i still don’t have a kitchen man) and more renovating i mean it never ends FINALLY moved the rest of my things into the new place (6 months later) and. kept renovating. that’s 3 moves for y’all keeping count

yeah so i’ve had a rough few months lmao BUT it’s summer break, i don’t teach right now, & I’m taking very few classes. my day job is also a lot less busy this time of year. i plan to spend the summer renovating the rest of the place, building a proper kitchen, and hopefully writing & working on my graphic design degree

oh and i get married in august c: AAAAAAAAA

ANYWAY hope you all have had a much less stressful few months & enjoy the chapter. next chapter is actually written & i’m just editing it for next week (knock on wood)

love u guys, thank you, besos, BYE

#it's back again!#metal sonic #amy rose #metamy #sth #unfamiliar #ch 14

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ray-is-they · 1 year

Text

Hi! Welcome to my blog!

INTRODUCTION PAGE!

Hello! My name is Octovia call me Ray/Octi for short :D

I'm 14 years old minor

I'm Pansexual

My pronouns are They/Them

Hobby is I write fanfics, I draw stuff, I watch some other fandoms that I like!

I don't write on ao3 but I do write on wattpad @Ray_is_They

I luv SpicyNoodles n Shadowpeach(also FreeNoodlespigsyxtang)

THIS BLOG is a sideblog of mine which I could never follow you unless I know you personally.

You guys probably came from tiktok who also know me there as or also known as @ray_is_they

"Ray Princex of SpicyNoodleShip"

My BOUNDARIES!

No:

-my pronouns are THEY/THEM not SHE/HER or HE/HIM

-LIONPEACH shipping is not my thing but I respect it

-NO NAME CALLINGS ONLY TO MY REFFERED NAME!

-racists and homophob is a big nono to me

-do not argue with me when it includes my works because i created it and my own rights for it

-nezha x [someone] sorry but no for me

-nsfw/rape/sexualizing

-MACAQUE/SWK x MK

-no critisizing my art/fic writing I only share when I share

-making jokes abt something serious <includes character getting hurt in lmk>

-I am not a dragonfruit shipper but I see them as a friend/sibling way [but i dont hate it dnattack]

OK:

-I am okay with Fluff and Gore or any angst.

-I'm good with talkative ppl because they cool.

-If you wanna DM me I'll just have to make sure we have good stuff going along

-I am a SpicyNoodlesShipper its ok to talk stuff about SNS with me :3

-if you wanna talk stuff about lores or anything included to my work I am happy to talk abt it/or if others not included to my work i am also happy to talk abt it

-art requests are fine by me just don't overfill it

-mention me if there is something important related to my work or something else

-calling me Ray or Octi is fine but if you call me Bud or Kiddo I'm fine w it

About my information:

I do digital and traditional art and I mostly do them just for fun, I write fanfics when something random comes into my mind, I share some lores if I could [my ask box is open if you want to ask something anonymous/user], I do my editing on tiktok!

MY HEADCANONS FOR THE CHARACTERS:

Mei: AroAce|Sometimes Sapphic

Mk: Gay/Transmasc

Redson: Genderfluid/Bisexual

Pigsy: Bisexual

Tang: Gay

Sandy: Queer Platonic

Sun Wukong: Gay

Macaque: Demisexual

Nezha: AroAce

SHIPS:

Sandy x Hunstman = SilkTea [for somereason-]

Pigsy x Tang = FreeNoodles

Sun Wukong x Macaque = ShadowPeach

Mk x Redson = SpicyNoodles

Mk x Mei [not much but briefly] = GoldenDragon

Mei x Redson [platonic] = DragonFruit

Mei x Mk x Redson = Chimera [not much but it's cute tho]

YEP-

ALTERNATE UNIVERSES I'VE CREATED!

The Noodle Boy- SPICYNOODLES ANGST AU S4-S5 TIMELINE

-CREATED IN MAY 1, 2023

-Redson Screentime [he left the celestial realm than fight alongside with Ne Zha]

-Him and Mk had chemistry with each other so this implies more hits to his soul

Successor Who?- FORGOTTEN TIME

-CREATED IN AUGUST 22, 2023

-A world without Mk, A world with no 'Successor' a world where the seemingly supposed hero Xiaotian doesn't 'exist' practically

-Redson is stuck from the wish he regretted

SPECIAL THANKS:

From Discord! Drawn by BUNZ!

[I LOVE EVERYTHING TGE ART IS JUST SO MWAH TYSM FOR DRAWING MY OC :>]

From Discord! Drawn by Lynn!

[I REALLY APPRECIATE THE GIFT AND LOVE DOING ROLE SWAP AU! I LOVE THISS]

#my art #ray is they

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ggomos-maribat · 1 year

Text

Menace

As I said in the AO3 this was a fic that I had drafts for but never got around to completing. Thought it would be a waste not to post it anyway :D Do bear in mind that these were drafts, so the pacing is choppy and can skip over some things.

"Marinette? Can you help me change the curtains?"

"Coming, maman!" The girl zipped down the stairs, only to be greeted with an overfilled table. All sorts of delicacies decorated the top, with an elaborate centerpiece that Sabine only brought out when special guests were over. She chuckled and got the lace curtains from her mother.

"This is too much. You know we can't finish all of this." Marinette climbed on a stool and began putting on the newly washed curtains.

"Oh come on, you haven't seen them for a long time. Let me throw a feast." Sabine patted her back before moving back to the kitchen.

"No, you haven't seen them in a long time and now you have an urge to spoil them," said Marinette.

She hadn't expected that day to come quickly. For a rare time, her childhood friends had the chance to visit Paris, France, courtesy of Bruce Wayne's lavish spending. The boys would be flying over from Metropolis, Gotham, and Fawcett City and were staying over for a few days.

Sabine blew out a breath. "The ice cream shop texted me. Their delivery man isn't available today. I'm sorry dear, but can you go pick it up before the boys arrive?"

"Of course, maman. I'll take my scooter."

Marinette grabbed the money and gave her mother a kiss on the cheek before dashing down the apartment. She was peacefully driving on her scooter when she heard an ominous thump from the side of the ride. Skidding to a halt, she gaped at the mutated dinosaurs trampling over the city, sending Parisians into a panic. On the widescreen attached to a building, Nadja Chamack warned the public about the third akumatization of Dr. Anne-Jeanne.

"Not today!" Marinette groaned under her breath. From her half-open purse, Tikki sent a sympathetic look.

She took the next right to find a spot to transform. But she found herself speeding up, going too fast, only to be hit with a sudden impact on her side as she was knocked over by one of the villain's creatures. Marinette's breath fell short while she laid on the road, clutching her head. A few feet from her, she saw a familiar car pull over.

---

She regained her consciousness, but was cursed with a splitting headache. Marinette whimpered and burrowed deeper into the arms of whoever was holding her. When she tried to open her eyes, the light stung her vision, making her shut them tight again. She had no idea where she was or who she was with, but the smell of asphalt and the voices clued her in.

"This is a bad idea, Dames. We can't be seen in Paris—"

"Do you want us to sit back and let that thing wreak havoc in the city while Ladybug's nowhere to be found?"

"But the Justice League promised Ladybug they won't interfere—"

"The League promised. Not us."

"Wait, so technically, Billy's the one breaking the rules here—"

A snort sounded. "Wait a minute, I was the one who saved Marinette."

Marinette felt herself being shifted around. Billy . . . but the one talking didn't sound like Billy. It sounded like—She tentatively opened her eyes a little to see a lightning emblem on a broad chest. Captain Marvel. He was the one carrying her.

Her eyelids closed again. Head hurts. Dami. Jon. Billy. What . . .?

"Oh look, the cat can't even handle the villain himself," Damian (or Robin?) huffed.

"Even if we interfere, we can't purify the akuma without Ladybug," Jon argued.

"We can always stall until she arrives," Captain suggested.

The akuma! Chat! Marinette stirred, pretending to wake up for the first time. She squirmed and groaned, opening her eyes. Captain Marvel placed her on the ground but she swayed as she tried to stand up.

"Ma—!"

Robin sharply nudged Superboy on the side.

Superboy cleared his throat. "I mean, citizen! Are you okay?"

Marinette clutched her head. "Hurts."

Robin's lips thinned to a line. Marinette knew his irises must be blazing behind his mask. "You probably have a concussion. Captain will stay behind with you while we fight the akumatized villain."

Marinette swallowed thickly. No, I have to get away from here. Transform. Get the akuma. Get the ice cream. Get back home.

"Why do I have to stay?" Captain Marvel asked.

"If you're spotted here, how will you explain that to the League?"

"Fine."

Robin rolled his shoulders. "At least our fathers are used to us getting into trouble."

Superboy glanced back at her worriedly as he flew up while Robin grappled away. Captain Marvel led her to a hidden alley for safety. Scratches and aches were scattered around Marinette's body, adding to the throbbing in her head. She braced herself on the wall just as more of the dizziness kicked in. I'm in no state to fight right now. Besides that, she wouldn't be able to concentrate because of that sudden revelation.

"Ladybug's cure will heal you right?" Captain Marvel fidgeted next to her.

"It should," she mumbled.

She waited for a time when the hero wasn't looking and removed her earrings to give to Tikki. The kwami immediately vacated her purse to hand the Miraculous to her partner.

Marinette slid down to a sitting position, holding her head with both hands. My best friends are superheroes.

---

She had arrived back home before they did. Marinette sped up the upper floor to drop off the ice cream, meeting Sabine's worried expression.

"Marinette? Are you okay? I saw the akuma attack in the news." Sabine's eyebrows furrowed. "I shouldn't have let you pick up the ice cream."

Marinette forced out a smile of reassurance. "I'm okay, maman. I went to a safe spot as soon as I could and Ladybug—err, the heroes fixed everything."

"Do you think the boys got caught in the attack too?"

"I'm sure they'll be fine." She waved the thought off. "I'll text them to check."

Without giving Sabine a chance to respond, she dashed up to her bedroom, saying that she had to change to a better outfit. Marinette practically threw her purse on the chaise as she steadied her breaths. First, she let her mind run. Damian. Robin. Jon. Superboy. Billy. Captain-freaking-Marvel who hadn't even revealed his identity to the rest of the League. The rest of the puzzle pieces fell into place. The Wayne family. The Kents.

Marinette groaned and held her head again. It had been so obvious. They were right in front of her the entire time! And yet she had never stopped to think that they were like her, living with two identities. She sat upright, stiffening. She would have to control her heartbeat around Jon. No. She'd have to be careful around all three of them. Jon was a walking lie detector. Damian was a detective. And Billy was perceptive and had the Wisdom of Solomon. She shuddered, thinking how many times she could've come close to letting her alter ego slip while not knowing about it.

She jolted when she heard her phone ring. Putting a hand on her chest, she answered the call. The frantic voice of Adrien bombarded her ears. "Mari? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I'm okay." She sighed. "The cure fixed everything."

"Are you sure? Tikki said you had a concussion. I have to send the earrings back—"

"No, wait!" The words tumbled out of her lips without much thought. "I think it's better if you keep the earrings and Tikki for a while."

"What? Why? Is it not safe in your house?"

Marinette stood up and opened a mini drawer on her desk to retrieve a pair of extra earrings that looked like her Miraculous. "No, not like that. We're having guests over later. I won't have time to meet up with you and it's too dangerous for you to drop in. I'll get the earrings tomorrow."

"Oh, okay." Adrien muttered a curse. "I have to sneak out for sweets."

"Don't feed her too much." She laughed a little, easing off the tension in her body. "Thanks for covering for me today, kitty. You did so well."

"Yeah, but the other heroes suddenly showed up . . ."

Marinette gnawed on her lip. "I—I saw them too. Did they interfere too much?"

"They helped save some civilians," Adrien grumbled. "But Robin won't stop nagging my ear off."

"Marinette!" Sabine called out from downstairs. "They're here!"

"I'll talk to them next time," she promised. "I have to go. Thanks again, kitty."

She took a few more seconds to fish out the Mouse pendant from the box as temporary protection. Fortunately, the pendant in camouflage matched her outfit perfectly. She bounded down the stairs to see the three boys, not a hair out of place as if they hadn't donned capes not more than an hour ago. Jon wore his usual sunny smile; Damian was his usual broody self, arms crossed and posture rigid; and Billy was tucked in a thick coat and black beanie.

Marinette put on a grin of her own as she hugged them one by one. "Are you guys okay? The akuma attack hit downtown and . . ."

Damian scoffed. "We're not foolish enough to get caught in an akuma attack."

"The dinosaurs looked pretty cool though," said Billy.

"I'm glad." As if nothing happened at all.

"Are you okay? Maman Sabine said you were outside during the attack too." Jon frowned.

Her voice raised an octave as she side-eyed her mother. "Fine! I'm fine. Why don't we eat now? You must be starving."

She gestured towards the living space. The coffee table had been pushed to the side to make room for cushions and pillows. "You guys can put your bags over there."

"It's a good thing you boys weren't harmed," said Sabine, placing the plates neatly on the table. "I heard some . . . foreign heroes were around as well."

Only Jon seemed to have a split-second reaction, Marinette noticed. Damian barely batted an eye when he replied, "It seems that they've been called in since Ladybug was missing in action."

Marinette wrinkled her nose. We didn't 'call them in'. Adrien would've been offended to hear that. "That happens sometimes," she piped up. "But Chat Noir always saves the city whenever Ladybug's out of commission."

"Dunno, he looked like he was being cornered back there," Billy recounted, sharing a look with Jon. "Um, we were watching from the car."

"Chat Noir's capable of handling things by himself." Marinette raised an eyebrow.

Jon poked her side. "I forgot you were such a fangirl."

"I'm not a fan—!" She sputtered out, face heating up. "Okay, I am, but not that kind. I just hate it when people don't appreciate Chat. He and Ladybug are partners. They're equals."

They took their seats around the table. Marinette's thoughts momentarily flew elsewhere. It was strange knowing their identities, and she knew she had to tell them. But the consequences of doing that were unpredictable. They might become overprotective of her, since knowing their secrets would make her vulnerable. Or they might also push her away in fear of exposing her to danger.

She absentmindedly sipped on her drink. It would be fair if I told them about me too but . . .

She watched them carefully. Billy and Jon were both scarfing down their food while Damian was talking with Sabine. They're the same . . . but everything is so different too. She wouldn't fault them for hiding those secrets from her since she carried one of her own. But since she found out about them, another invisible weight added to her growing pile.

She shook herself out of her daze.

"I can finally beat you in UMS properly," Billy grinned with a mouthful.

"Properly?" She pointed her fork at him. "You've never beaten me at all."

"Hey, I've beaten Eugene a few times. I can beat you."

"Please. You're leaving out the real champion here," Jon chimed in. Marinette threw a napkin on his face, telling him to wipe the pasta sauce on his chin.

"If you beat me once, I'll buy you ice cream tomorrow," Marinette wagered. "Damian, you should play too."

"Tt. It's a childish game."

Jon rolled his eyes. "It's a fighting game. You like fighting."

"Not with hunks of steel."

"Mechs," Marinette corrected. "But if you want to sit down and brood for the rest of the night, be my guest then. I'll make you our food errand boy."

"Oh, he's gotta practice his scowl." Billy smirked.

"The threatening aura," Jon added.

"Fine.” Damian crossed his arms. I'll join you for one game."

---

All the words she could hear were garbled, echoing in the white wasteland. There were hands choking her as she clawed at anything she could touch.

Icy blue eyes.

Sharp teeth.

A feral grin.

He morphed into an image of Hawkmoth, who sent her flying from the top of the Eiffel right after seizing her Miraculous.

Marinette's breaths grew ragged.

It's not real!

She woke up in a cold sweat, realizing that she'd been holding the sheets tightly. Painfully. She'd fallen asleep nestled between Damian and Billy, and Jon had moved near her, hand positioned by her shoulder.

He must've heard my heartbeat, she guessed.

"Are you okay?" he whispered.

She sat up and nodded numbly. "Nightmare."

"Want to talk about it?"

She shook her head. Not wanting to wake the others, she moved to the kitchen with Jon trailing behind her. "Sometimes I have trouble sleeping," she murmured. "It's nothing too serious. Don't worry."

Jon looked at her sympathetically. To him, she was probably a traumatized innocent, someone who had witnessed too many akuma attacks. But the truth was something deeper, something that she wouldn't be able to tell them.

"Want a cup of . . . tea? Coffee? Hot chocolate?" Marinette offered, filling up the heater with water.

"Whatever you'll have," Jon said. "Does it happen often?"

"Not too often," she responded hesitantly. "I . . . I get used to it?"

He raised an eyebrow. She winced. That doesn't sound any better, does it?

"But I'm okay, really. I just have to wake myself up before an akuma slips in or something." She shrugged. "It's a burden every Parisian has to carry."

"Why can't the heroes deal with Hawkmoth already?" he said bitterly.

Marinette's fingers twitched as she handed him his cup. You don't know anything. "They're trying their best. It's just a matter of time before he breaks."

"But Ladybug and Chat Noir are just kids themselves. Won't it be easier to pass the responsibility to someone else?"

She clenched her jaw. And get amnesia? No thanks.

"Hey, I believe in trusting them both." She half-smiled, taking a sip of her drink. "Don't let other Parisians hear you say that. They're protective of their heroes."

“You’ll be joined by Ladybug for this mission,” Batman told him. “And Captain Marvel will accompany the three of you.”

Robin froze in the middle of sheathing his sword, only dwelling on the fact that his father had nearly uttered ‘babysit’ instead of ‘accompany’. His face hardened, eyebrows knitting together and lips pulled into a thin line. “Ladybug? We can do fine without her.”

Though Bruce’s cowl was pulled up, Robin knew he was silently saying ‘ no room for arguments on this one’. Batman turned back to the computer. “Sources say that the location has some strange . . . signature. You need someone with magic expertise.”

“Captain Marvel is magic.”

“You know what I mean, Damian.”

Robin clicked his tongue softly. Ladybug. It wasn’t that he disliked her, it was just that her behavior was too closed off. Always insisting that she’d handle Paris on her own, along with her team. Always saying she’s not a part of the Justice League. Never allowing anyone else to research or even see the other Miraculi.

He supposed that Batman agreed on her terms about Paris being a no-touch zone since the Bat himself understood that a turf was a turf. Like Gotham was his own miserable little city to protect. Damian, on the other hand, didn’t appreciate her lack of openness. Acting like she could handle independence from superiors or mentors when she wasn’t any older than him.

Not to mention she’d been actively avoiding the JL in the past few weeks.

“I’m leading the team,” he said indignantly.

“ All of you will work together,” Batman ordered. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Ladybug usually doesn’t work closely with the League. We shouldn’t waste the opportunity.”

He scoffed. “So you decided to put her with the other kids, huh.”

“Damian. ”

“I will ‘behave’, Father.” He signed air quotes with his fingers. “But I can’t say that she will too.”

That was what brought Robin, Superboy, Ladybug and Captain Marvel to the borders of Russia to infiltrate a cave which was pinpointed to be a base of a mysterious group. Robin, bundled up in a thicker suit, couldn’t help but side-eye the French heroine. Another thing that irked him was that the three of them would have to hide their identities from her, which meant there would be little casual conversation going around.

He clenched his jaw, putting one hand on the cave’s entrance. She’s the intruder around here.

“Do you think the cult has something to do with the Miraculous?” Superboy hovered nearby, squinting at the darkness to search for potential dangers.

“Won’t be the first time,” Ladybug muttered under her breath.

“What do you mean?” Captain Marvel asked.

“The knowledge about Miraculouses isn’t exactly . . . hidden throughout history,” she explained, opening up her yoyo to use as a light. “When people find out about the power they hold, they tend to go extreme when they try to look for the Miraculouses or their holders.”

“So that’s why you’re keeping the Paris thing under wraps.” Superboy stepped on one of the rocks leading down the cave. “I think it’s safe. I’ll stay at the front so I can keep an eye out.”

“Part of the reason,” Ladybug followed behind Robin as they ventured into the deep hollow. From the corner of his eye, he saw her shiver.

“I thought your suit protected you from the cold,” he said.

She matched his scowl with a deadlier one. “Ladybug instincts. I don’t do well in cold weather.”

“And yet you still accepted this mission.”

“I need to be here in case Miraculouses are involved.” Her voice raised slightly.

“So if it wasn’t, you’re just dead weight?”

“Okay kiddies, break it up,” Captain Marvel butted in behind them. “Forward now, and look where you step.”

Robin withheld a sigh. Ladybug fell quiet behind him.

III

“I’m worried about them,” Jon sighed as he stepped over to another platform. The damp smell of the cave permeated in the air, making him wrinkle his nose every ten minutes or so.

“Of course you are,” Billy said, “It’s Damian we’re talking about here.”

“He’s a bit . . . abrasive towards people he doesn’t trust yet.”

“Abrasive,” Billy repeated, snorting, as he nearly slipped on one of the wet rocks. “The guy punched me when we first met.”

Jon laughed. “You know that was an accident.”

Damian Wayne was obviously a tough nut to crack. He was harsh, blunt, and stubborn through and through, only letting a few people slip past the gaps. But Jon also thought the same of Ladybug. She hid behind her mask, blocking everyone with her walls the second they tried to get close to her. Maybe she was afraid of getting hurt. Maybe she was paranoid.

Consequently, both her and Damian’s spitfire personalities clashed, manifesting as heated arguments and opposition.

Then there was Jon’s other worry. Marinette.

“There’s something I’m thinking about too,” Jon began, “I . . . I think I want to tell her.”

Billy stopped for a minute to catch his breath. “Mari?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve been thinking too. We . . . we pretty much dealt with our shit separately at first, right? Damian and the League. You and your powers. Me with . . . you know.” Billy pursed his lips. “But then we got to tell each other in the end. Except her.”

“How do you think she’ll react?”

“Mad. Really mad. She probably won’t talk to us for days.” Billy laughed a little.

Jon pictured it in his head: Mari would be devastated. Confused. Angry. Expectedly, there’d be a rush of emotions involved. Knowing her, she would probably accept the truth in the end, but the journey to that point wouldn’t be pretty. But he found comfort in the fact that they could confide in her someday.

“You know how the heroes have civilian aides? Like Dad has Mom and Uncle Bruce has Alfred?” Jon raked his fingers through his hair. “I kind of want Mari to be like that for us. I know we can’t force her but—but—”

“But she’d be qualified to help us. She’s that smart,” Billy continued.

He nodded. “I just thought that maybe if she’s one of us, we won’t need to worry about hiding and keeping secrets.”

“I get that. Do you see us telling her anytime soon though?”

Jon’s shoulders sagged. “No.”

#maribat fanfic #dc x mlb #mlb x dc #maribat #maribat fic #billy batson and marinette #jon kent and marinette dupain cheng #damian wayne and marinette dupain cheng

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banshee1013 · 11 months

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Suptober / Flufftober Day 4 - The Flames and the Light

Waaaaay behind but still plugging away at this thing and this thing.

Prompts: Suptober: Nimbus Flufftober: Cinderella Moment

Today's installment is below and on AO3, and also added to the series October Days (and Nights).

Title: The Flames and the Light Rating: Teen Warnings: No Warnings Apply Tags: Men of Letters Bunker, Winchester House Fire, Dean Winchester in Hell, Dean Winchester is Saved, Righteous Man Dean Winchester, Visions, Memories Summary: Hester had said, “When Castiel first laid a hand on you in Hell, he was lost!” She claimed the touch of Dean’s soul had corrupted him.

She was partly correct: touching Dean’s soul, bright and warm in a place that was so sullen and cold, changed him; but it wasn’t corruption.

It was love. Words: 603 AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50938690

==============================

“Hey, Sunshine, there you are.” Dean’s voice projects over his shoulder, his back to Castiel as he crouches by the hearth of the fireplace in the Bunker’s library. Castiel can hear the soft swish of the brush as Dean sweeps the spent ashes of a previous fire into a dustpan.

The back of Dean’s head inclines toward the two plushy upholstered chairs opposite the fireplace, lit by a small hurricane lamp on the small table between them. The flickering flame within sparkles on the crystal decanter filled with what Castiel knows is Dean’s favorite whiskey, accompanied by two matching glasses.

“Just need to clean this up before laying a new fire. Don’t want to burn the place down or anything.”

Castiel begins to take a seat as requested when Dean rises from his crouch and turns to beam a smile at him. He wipes the back of his hand across his cheek, leaving a trail of soot…

And Castiel is struck still as an image arises in his mind…

A dark street, lit only by flashing red and blue lights and a dim yellow glow. A small boy sitting on the hood of a large black car, his arms overfilled with a small, wimpering bundle wrapped in a blue blanket. The lights flicker across cheeks ashen with shock and residue from the flames that consumed his family home and set him on his path.

Castiel blinks, reality returning with a metallic clatter as Dean empties the ashes into the bin by the hearth and turns, his arms filled with firewood. He sets the wood on the metal grate inside the firebox, reaches for the box of fireplace matches on the mantle and strikes one. The bright yellow-blue flash as the match catches turning to red-gold and sparking off the highlights in Dean’s hair as he applies it to the kindling. Yellow orange flames flick as the kindling catches and licks the dark wood bark, turning it gold and then red as the flames climb.

Dean rises and rubs his hands over the flames, cinders rising around him before being swept up into the flue like dying stars.

Another image arises in Castiel’s mind, unbidden…

He and his brethren, their armor shining sullen red and burnt gold from the fires of Hell even through the smoke and haze — but their goal was something which shone brighter still. The Righteous Man, the nimbus of his glowing soul cutting through the smoke like a beacon. Castiel both curses the necessity of their rescue, but relishes being the first to reach him, the first to touch that shining soul with his Grace, the one to grip him and raise him from Perdition.

Hester had said, “When Castiel first laid a hand on you in Hell, he was lost!” She claimed the touch of Dean’s soul had corrupted him.

She was partly correct: touching Dean’s soul, bright and warm in a place that was so sullen and cold, changed him; but it wasn’t corruption.

It was love.

He’s pulled from the vision by Dean’s solid, firm grip on his shoulders, his warmth flowing onto Castiel’s skin like sun-warmed honey.

“Hey, Cas.” Castiel blinks and finds himself staring into green eyes sparking gold from the firelight. “Everything okay?”

Castiel’s hand rises to touch Dean’s cheek, brushes against the solid, warm skin there.

He had to make sure — the light of Dean’s soul still so bright, so warm, Castiel couldn’t be sure he wasn’t still locked in his vision.

“Perfect.”

Dean huffs a soft chuckle as he pulls Castiel to his chest, wrapping him in light and love.

“Yeah, you are.”

#suptober23 #flufftober 2023 #destiel #supernatural #fanfic

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barefoot-inthewildestwinter · 1 month

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Make your tea and your toast (part 3)

A/N: Sorry for the shorter/weaker chapter this time. I hope to post more this week! Thank you for the support and comments!! They mean so much:) Any feedback is much appreciated!

Title: Make your tea and your toast

Summary: If he played his cards close to his chest, she never picked hers up. Emily's past slowly catches up to her and he realizes just how little he knows about her.

Word count: 2.4k

Ratings: Mature, eventually

Warnings: Mentions of child abuse, SA, abortion, pregnancy and teen pregnancy, and violence.

Read below or on AO3

February, 2007

Quantico, VA

He’s in the office just minutes before her. It’s barely 7:00, both of them running later than usual. He’d lost track of time doing Jack's morning routine while Haley showered, he wondered what her excuse was. He brushes the thought aside knowing that they’re still in well before the others.

From his desk, he watches as Emily moves about the bullpen, hanging her parka on a peg at the entrance, setting her purse in her desk chair before rifling through it. She’s in a beige sweater, her hair straightened, just barely falling over her shoulders. They drop, allowing her face to hide behind a wall of hair. It glows brown under the fluorescent lights and he can tell that she didn’t find what she was looking for. He catches her biting a fingernail and letting out a small breath between her lips before tidying her workspace.

He looks on as she combs through a file for one of the consults he’d assigned to her on Friday. From the scowl, he guesses it’s the one from Kansas City. Her fingertips softly slide across and between the papers. Occasionally, she pauses to tuck a lock of loose hair behind her ears. He notes that she doesn’t lift her eyes from the page, even to take a sip of coffee. He savors a smile to himself and gets to work on his own stack.

At 7:40, she rushes over to the kitchen. Finding the pot empty, she curses Anderson out in whispers and starts a fresh one. She looks stressed, he thinks. He can’t be sure that it’s manifesting any different than typical work-related frustrations.

Morgan and Reid arrive as the bubbling in the water reservoir loudens. Morgan immediately saunters over towards Emily, who had overfilled the pot causing the first drops of coffee to burn her hand. His attention shifts to Reid. He’d been trying to keep a watchful eye on him since they’d come back from Georgia. Although Gideon and Reid himself had made attempts to assuage his worries, they were largely unsuccessful.

After setting his bag gently under his desk, he heads back over to the kitchen. Reid dodges the others, closing himself off while pouring a cup of coffee. His eyes drift down to the pair in front of him, deep in conversation. Morgan is wearing an amused smirk but Prentiss looks like she’s on the verge of confiding in him.

Things had really changed from her first cases on the team when Morgan would barely look at her with anything but disdain. They’ve become friendly over the past month. Ever since the team had gone to Chicago to reopen and expose all of his old wounds. Prentiss had been the only one of them that he’d permitted to help. Now she’s the one on edge and Morgan’s words seem to do the trick.

His focus on them is interrupted by JJ in his doorway with her ‘We’ve got a case’ look. He doesn’t know why he bothers to ask. “It isn’t good.”

He nods. “I’ll get the others.”

Between the kitchen and the bullpen, Emily has thawed. Her eyes now beaming as she hangs on to every word falling out of Morgan. He gathers that they’re talking about an author’s catalog, though he’s unsure why that would be the thing to lift her mood. After a minute, he catches himself forgetting why he had walked over to them in the first place.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you're a Vonnegut fan. You just made my day.” He finds it strange that her radiance reminds him of the fact that they have a case, but it does. He approaches them brushing Morgan’s shoulder, interrupting the moment. “Conference room in five minutes, please?”

Teenagers in New York City, suspicions of hate crimes, fuel for political fire. It’s enough to throw them all for a loop. They’re in the air within the hour.

He’s first on the jet. Not always, but he is today, opting to bring his files rather than work to a stopping point and leave them behind. It gives him time to evaluate the team before heading into a case. Aside from the expected sensitivities of JJ and Reid, they had remained relatively unfazed. Prentiss had been a little apprehensive about JJ carrying her weapon without an evaluation and worried about Reid coming back to work so soon, but he couldn’t honestly fault her for either thought.

She walks down the aisle, shooting him a manufactured smile as she passes him. His eyes follow her frame to the coffee cart in the back. He barely notices Morgan hitting the seat across from him. “Is there something going on with Prentiss?” He’s still staring at her, watching as she makes a fourth cup of coffee as if a scrunch of her nose or the slightest flick of her wrist will reveal something to him.

Derek follows his gaze back to her for a second before chuckling to himself. “She’s fine. It seems that Little Miss Perfect over there had a bad date last weekend.” He lets out an involuntary ‘Hmm’ which encourages Morgan to comment further. “Sounds like he wasn’t a good match for her.” He raises a brow. “Just the wrong guy.” He feels an unfriendly smirk creep across his face.

And you would be the right one for her? He has to bite his tongue to keep his thoughts at bay. He nods once, knowing he shouldn’t be dissecting the dating life of one of his agents for this long.

“Hey, how was your Valentine’s with Haley?”

It’s not that he isn’t grateful to Morgan for shifting the conversation as the others joined them, he was, but Haley was a tricky subject right now. “It was good,” he tells them. And it had been for the most part. They had a lovely dinner, downed a bottle of wine, spent time with their son, and avoided the passive aggressive small talk. “After twenty, I think we have it down to a science.”

However, his job was still a stressor neither of them wanted to address and Haley had brought up trying again, which made him uneasy. “I remember how difficult it was for you and Sean being so far apart,” she’d said. “I don’t want that for Jack.” He almost feels sick looking at them as they comment on the purity of his relationship.

Thankfully, their fawning is cut short by Reid behind an open file ready to go.

She doesn’t make any attempts to hide her disdain when they learn that the mayor wants to bury the case, politicizing the lives and bodies of teenage girls. Favoring points in the polls over justice. He pairs her with Morgan to interview the author of Sandra’s threat, a teenage girl herself.

By the time they regroup, he knows something is wrong. She’s still there, contributing relevant details for the profile. But she’s hanging in the background, quietly, fingernails digging into her palms. He sneaks glances at her while they wait for Reid and Gideon.

It’s unfair to profile her which is why he isn’t totally. He can’t help but try, though.

“I got the coroner's report.” Reid hastily enters the room, handing him the file without looking directly at any of them.

“There you are.” He immediately combs through the documents, reading the findings aloud, "Victim had been beaten so extensively that the cause of death was indeterminate. Post-mortem stab wounds were also discovered."

Morgan winces, “Post-mortem stabs, huh?”

They explain the significance to Detective Ware. “Post-mortem stab wounds almost always indicate sexual homicide.”

Reid chimes in, “This is also a fairly extreme overkill, which is markedly different from the other two girls.”

“So you're saying this was a different killer?” He asks, still unsure of what they’re telling him.

He shakes his head. “No, we're saying if it was the same killer, the overkill indicates he didn't get what he wanted from Sandra.”

“What he wanted?”

“Sexual offenders kill for sexual release.” Morgan informs the local team. “Now, in this case, there's no sign of sexual assault on his victims. That tells us that he probably fetishises, takes some souvenir from his victims that he uses to get off.”

Ware speaks up again, “Correct me if I'm wrong, but this doesn't sound like the MO of a hate crime?”

“No. We're pretty certain that hate wasn't the primary motive at all.”

When he hears her voice he looks to her holding a hint of surprise. “He has a specific physical type and he tries to cover his tracks.”

The next day, he sends her with Gideon to talk to another family. Hoping her empathetic conversational skills will overpower his abrasiveness and they will be able to gain the family’s trust. They reconvene later to deliver a profile. He doesn’t see her again until after they’ve arrested Wakeland.

She finds him in the lobby, one hand gripping a cup of weak hotel coffee the other jotting down case notes as his brow twitches. “Wheels up?”

He looks up at her, a lagging smile on his face. He shakes his head and presses the styrofoam cup into the napkin in front of him. “Morgan asked if we’d stay another night. Detective Ware’s services are tomorrow.”

She doesn’t keep eye contact for long. “Oh, right.” She falls into the chair next to him, her mood off putting like the lights above them. He knows she’s expecting him to ask if she’s alright, but he doesn’t. He just sits there staring at the crease in her nose.

After a few minutes of silence, she looks up from her lap. “It’s funny,” she says. He almost laughs because he can tell that she doesn’t find any of it funny. “When Gideon and I went to talk with that last family, her sister said that she was a ‘good girl,’ that ‘she didn’t deserve this.’” She takes a deep breath. “Like there’s someone out there that does.” She can see him start to form a defensive response and cuts him off before he can offer it. “I know, I know.” She shifts her weight in the chair. “I just think that it reflects so poorly on the world that we think being ‘good’ adds more value to a teenage girl’s life.”

“I guess I’ve never thought of it like that.” He rests his pen across the rim of the cup. “Families, friends, neighbors, they don’t want to see their loved one as anything but good. It’s easier to grieve when the water is less murky. People are either entirely good or bad. When someone purely good dies, the emotions involved are less complex. It’s sad, wrong, unjust.” Prentiss nods along. “It’s rare that that’s the case. Perfect victims are rare, but they’re easier to prosecute.”

“Perfect victims?” She scoffs and it’s clear that she’s not asking for a definition.

He savors another sip of his coffee. “It’s awful. I know.” Her eyes match the deep color of the drink in his hand.

“Would you ever go back?”

Her question catches him off guard, and he considers it for a moment, wanting to give her a genuine answer. “If things were different, maybe. I can’t be sure.” Things aren’t different though. She understands. “I like where I’m at. We have a good thing going, with the unit. It’s good.”

She laughs into her shoulder, hair tucked behind her ear exposes her dimple. He finds it embarrassing that the slightest sign of joy in her features can pull a grin from him effortlessly. He thinks it’s funny that Haley had sized Prentiss up with a twinge of jealousy the moment she met her. “At least she’s far from being your type, or we’d have a real problem.” she had told him over a glass of wine once he’d forgotten all about it, half-jokingly.

“You know, I told Morgan the other day that I was a nerd, but I cannot imagine going to law school just for the hell of it.”

“It wasn’t that bad. Besides, it wasn’t entirely my decision.”

She nods once with her lips pressing together. “Right. It’s in your DNA. I’m familiar.”

He feels the last remains of dread for returning to Quantico wash down his throat. “Did you ever consider going into politics?”

“I’m considering dinner… Is there a plan?”

“Wow. You don’t hesitate to change the topic when you don’t like it.”

She smirks, “It’s in my DNA.”

He starts to tidy up his area, closing the open file and downing the last of his coffee. “Well, Morgan and JJ dragged Reid out of here about an hour ago. We can go join them if you’d like. Or we can grab something nearby?”

“Oh. I should probably turn in.” She abruptly stands up, grabbing his trash from the table and stuffing it into the empty cup. He glances at his watch. 8:20.

“Are you sure?” It hadn’t occurred to him that she’d disappeared during breakfast and they’d skipped lunch. “Prentiss, you haven’t eaten today and I know you’re not going to bed right now. There’s a bar around the corner?” She’s trying to convince herself to feel okay declining his offer. “Drinks? I’m buying.”

“Well, when you put it like that.” He smiles up at her and they head out the front doors. Her skin pales against the cold, glowing even more in the neon city lights. He pays for their beers, and somehow manages to sell her on a slice of pizza, carrying it back over to their table.

Her eyes go wide as she looks from the paper plates to him. “Hotch, this thing is larger than my face.”

“I think that’s the point.”

They end up taking a cab deeper into the city. Crossing paths with JJ and Reid, clad in “I Heart NY” gear. They stop at another bar and walk around Times Square until they ultimately end up back at their individual rooms. Neither of them say much that they’ll remember the next day. Small talk and stories about their previous trips to the city, their words blow away with the crisp air.

#aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #hotchniss #hotchniss fanfic #criminal minds #hotchniss fanfiction #aaron hotchner x emily prentiss

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ralith · 1 year

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Canvas

Ghost/Soap fic

Rated M for suggestive themes. Fluff, Body and scar worship. Edible body paint.

Soap has run out of journal space so Ghost gifts him his body to use as a canvas. He wants to see in himself the beauty that Soap envisions with each of his sketches.

Can also be found posted to my AO3.

“I hadn’t taken you for much of a reader,” Ghost had commented on the first day he moved in with Soap, bringing with him only a few boxes of personal belongings. Soap’s house off base was slightly smaller than his own had been, but it was so much brighter and warmer. More lived in. In the corner of Soap’s, no, their bedroom, was an overfilled bookshelf.

“They’re journals, not books. Well, there’re enough stories there to fill novels, but it’s mainly doodling. Little snippets of what’s on my mind at the time.”

Ghost was aware Soap enjoyed drawing on the nearest available paper, stealing napkins from his mates at the bar or scribbling in the margins of official paperwork much to Price’s irritation. But he had no idea it was to such an extent as to fill bookshelves.

“You’re free to look through them whenever. If you’d like.” Ghost had caught the slight blush on Soap’s cheeks. He was taken back at how easily Soap trusted him. First letting him into his life, his home, and now the inner workings of his mind. Ghost hadn’t allowed Johnny to so much as see him unclothed from the mask down, still uneasy at undressing in front of the sergeant, instead slipping away to the bathroom.

A nod was all Ghost could muster, and Soap smiled at him. “Not to brag, but I’m a pretty good artist.”

He was an exceptional artist as Ghost would learn. He had found himself spending hours flipping through those journals, admiring the sweeping lines and attention to detail. The journals looked like they went back to Soap’s basic training days through to the present. The newer journals were all about the 141, sketches of Price and Gaz, their latest missions, trips to the local bar which turned into late night karaoke sessions with Gaz belting out tunes to a riveted audience.

Then, Ghost noticed he quickly became the center of attention in the most recent collections. Side profiles, headshots, the mask, the mask, the mask…Soap was obsessed for a while there until just after the ordeal in Las Almas. And then his face was everywhere.

With a finger, Ghost had traced these images of himself. He marveled at how Soap had made him look so soft. In the mirror, all Ghost saw of himself was sharp edges and severe angles. He saw no gentleness in his scarred form. But Soap clearly saw him otherwise.

Soap had a preference of what kind of journal he used. These weren’t bargain bin notepads. Each journal Soap had bought while on leave, visiting a small artisan shop in town where each leatherbound journal was handmade. He would usually buy enough to hold him over until his next leave, whenever he estimated that may be.

But due to a scheduling error, Soap’s latest leave had been pushed back to an indeterminate time and his last journal was full. And it was frustrating the hell out of him. Soap was desperate for a relief to the mounting thoughts in his head. Bar and restaurant napkins were far from a sufficient replacement. Ghost didn’t want to see his Johnny in such a state.

So, he had set out to plan a mission. One that would benefit Soap’s creative output and where Ghost would force himself to be more open. The idea left him a bit shaky, but he wanted to do this. For them both.

Soap was freshly showered when he walked into the bedroom wearing only sweatpants. Ghost looked up from where he sat on their bed, eyes momentarily fixated on how the sweatpants clung to damp skin in all the right places.

“Like what you see?” Soap chuckled, the lieutenant’s gaze all too obvious. He bent down and nuzzled his cheek to Ghost’s in greeting. His skin was still warm and the stubble catching on Ghost’s mask created delicious friction between them.

“Always,” Ghost murmured. Soap placed a chaste kiss to his temple and sat across from him on the bed.

“What’ve you got there?” The sergeant nodded at a box that rested casually in Ghost’s lap.

Ghost contemplated the box. He had no idea how Soap would react. Would he think it’s stupid? Have a good laugh with Gaz later, telling him how ridiculous Simon Riley was to think of something like this? But Ghost was a man who followed through with each mission. He had planned this and would see it through to the end. He was a good soldier. And he wanted to be an even better lover, the softer man Soap envisioned in his art.

“A gift for you.”

“A gift?” Soap’s eyes lit up immediately, though it didn’t ease Ghost’s nerves any. The lieutenant was a man of few words and an unstoppable force of the battlefield, but Soap had come to know the tenderness Ghost was capable of, in his words and his touch. But a gift, this was a first in their relationship.

Soap took the offered box and balanced it on a knee. Inside were several jars of brightly colored liquid. He withdrew one and gave it a shake. It jiggled some, but that didn’t help identify the contents. Next, he gave it a quick whiff. Was that fruit?

“Lime?” Soap questioned, looking a little bemused.

“It’s body paint,” Ghost clarified. His voice came across a bit sheepish. “I made it. It’s…edible.”

“Edible body paint,” Soap repeated. Ghost could see the gears turning slowly in Soap’s mind. His next move helped to grease those gears.

Ghost began to tug his hoodie and undershirt over his head. He felt like he was peeling away so many layers of himself that had accumulated over the years.

“I noticed your last journal was full. Your art is an expression of your soul. It’s a part of you, a damn beautiful part of you. You miss sketching. And I miss your art.” Ghost tossed his clothing aside and laid back with his legs coming to rest on either side of the sergeant, hooking his heels just beneath Soap’s ass to coax him forward and atop him. Soap followed effortlessly. “I know painting isn’t your preferred medium, and this body isn’t high quality material. It’s been scorched and torn, stapled and taped back together repeatedly. But, if just for tonight, I hope this body can suffice as your canvas.”

Ghost watched Soap’s face, waiting for any minute shift in his features- a furrowing of the brow, a wrinkling of his nose in disgust, anything to tell the lieutenant that this was a bad idea. Behind the mask, his cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“Fucking beautiful, Si,” Soap breathed and the tension in Ghost’s body bled away. The Scotsman raked his eyes slowly down Ghost’s chest, over his clavicle, the gentle swell of his breasts, the curve of each muscle that built the solid wall that was Ghost’s frame. Soap traced him deliberately with his eyes and Ghost could swear he felt his gaze as if it were a physical caress.

“You like it?” Ghost’s voice was uncharacteristically small.

“I love it.”

“I’m sorry there’s not much room to draw,” Ghost spoke, referencing the scars carved into his flesh, the agony inflicted on him by other’s hands. “These marks can’t be erased, no matter how hard I’ve tried.”

“Aye, some art is indelible. But sometimes art is about taking what you already have and redesigning it. Telling new stories with it.”

“There are…a lot of stories here.”

“Think of them more as individual words and write a new story. Sometimes it’s easiest to write from past experiences.”

Ghost had enough of his past experiences. Saw them written on his skin every day he looked in the mirror. Soap could make something new from them, something he could smile or laugh about instead of flinching away when he touched himself.

“Can you tell me some of your stories?”

Soap searched Ghost’s chest for a starting point and zeroed in on an old keloid scar along his ribs. He grabbed a jar of white paint and dipped a finger in before bringing it to his lips and licking a long, slow line up the digit, Ghost’s eyes wide. He pushed the digit past his lips down to the knuckle, sucking hard and loud.

“Coconut,” Soap hummed, his finger now nice and wet. He dipped it in the paint again and began to doodle along the scar like his little show hadn’t left Ghost breathing harder.

“When I was a kid, maybe nine or ten, my family went skiing.” Soap sketched the outline of a mountain range along the raised scar. “I was nervous as hell. I’d never been skiing, let alone up in the mountains. Well, I didn’t make it very far up the mountain. Broke my fucking leg first thing.”

“Did you hit a tree?”

“Nope!” Soap laughed. He capped the mountains with snow. “I couldn’t sit still on the ski lift. Was kicking my legs and I slid right off the damn thing! Wasn’t a huge drop, but it was enough.”

“Ruined the family vacation.”

“It wasn’t all bad. When I got out of the hospital, mom brought me to get ice cream.” Soap bent forward and dragged his tongue along the creamy mountain range he’d drawn. The sudden wet heat had Ghost sucking in a breath. The sergeant smirked against the fluttering muscles beneath and suckled a red mark into the skin beside the scar. “It was delicious.”

Next, the tease of a man eyed a cluster of knife marks. He scooped some of the green, lime-flavored paint onto a fingertip and began to draw the outline of a box from the ends of several scars.

“A bit further back from the ski incident, there was a Christmas my parents thought I had disappeared. Christmas morning rolls around and I’m nowhere to be seen. They said they started to freak out, but all the doors and windows in the place were locked so I couldn’t have gotten out.” Soap switched to purple, grape, and doodled little swirls and stars into the box, making a present complete with bow. “They found me a while later, curled up inside one of the presents. A large box at the back of the tree with a giant teddy bear. I’d gone snooping earlier that night and crawled inside with the bear and apparently fell asleep.

“Somewhere at my parents house there’s a picture of me curled up in tissue paper around a big ol’ teddy.”

The sergeant swept away the present as quickly as it was drawn, tickling the nest of old wounds with kisses and nipping. He tasted it all, lime and grape and beneath it all, Ghost, a man he had longed to taste this way.

Soap shimmied up the larger man and pressed a kiss to Ghost’s masked lips, kissing with fervor as if the mask were nonexistent. Ghost was pressing back, trying to capture the sergeant’s lips. When they parted Soap noticed the absolute mess he had made of the man’s mask. It was now smeared with body paint, Soap’s own face sporting a similar look.

“Ah shit. Sorry, Si,” Soap apologized. Ghost was smiling though, the corners of his eyes crinkled with a joy he hardly let himself experience.

“Don’t worry, Johnny. I would have stopped you if I didn’t want it.”

“Ghost,” Soap murmured and pushed in for another kiss, sloppier and more awkward than last but nonetheless exciting.

“Do you want to hear more?”

“Please,” Ghost sighed, almost breathless.

Ghost propped himself up slightly, watching Soap’s work with fascination, the quick, fluid motions of his fingers dancing along his skin, weaving stories out of scarring both new and old. Tales from his childhood, family gatherings and holiday mishaps that had them both laughing and leaving Ghost a bit envious of those joys he never got to experience. The many times Soap had almost blown himself up as a cocky new recruit. Things he had seen while on missions, both benign and unbelievable.

“You did not see a UFO!” Ghost challenged, trying not to moan as Soap worked over a perked nipple, drawing what he remembered of the flying object.

“Swear on my life I did! Damn thing probably would have abducted me if I hadn’t squeezed off a few shots at it.”

“You said you hadn’t slept for three days. Not only were you hallucinating, you gave away your field position!”

“But the aliens didn’t abduct me.”

“Fucking hell, you’re stupid!” Ghost laughed.

When Soap wasn’t chattering away, his mouth was full of Simon, the lieutenant’s flesh reddened with bite marks and hickeys sucked into tender spots. He worked his tongue along every rise and dip of Ghost’s abdomen, taking his sweet time to learn his partner’s body. Where to scratch with fingernails to elicit a repressed moan, or where to tug with teeth that had Ghost’s hips rolling. Soap peppered kisses amidst the trail of blonde hair that disappeared into the waistband of Ghost’s pants, fingers scratching down his sides. Ghost was left quivering.

Ghost’s eyes fluttered open when he felt fingers slip into the waistband of his pants. He didn’t remember shutting them. Soap was looking up at him, his chin resting on the other man’s navel, his cheeks bright with a rainbow of paint. He was asking permission to delve further south. He nodded and Soap all too enthusiastically made short work of the lieutenant’s pants.

Simon’s thighs were no less scarred than the rest of him. Pink and pale lines were carved into the creamy surface. A burn scar here. A shrapnel wound there. A bullet wound that had carved a small chunk of Simon’s outer thigh away.

Here Soap paused his artwork, instead wanting to taste Ghost pure. He followed the curvature of muscles from knee to groin, breath hot on the rarely exposed flesh. He made each scar sloppy with wet kisses and dragged teeth down the inner thigh, biting his own marks into Simon, claiming the man.

Ghost’s breathing quickened. Over the rise and fall of his chest, he could just make out the mohawk moving as Soap devoured him. He reached down, his hand finding the ridge of hair and grasping. Soap growled low and pressed sucking kisses dangerously close to the clothed dick.

Then Soap bit down hard, growling Simon’s name hungrily against the tender flesh and Ghost practically yanked the Scot away, Soap eliciting a rather undignified moan at the movement. He held the ravenous man at a distance to catch his breath, admiring how absolutely debauched the sergeant looked. Ghost mused he probably looked worse.

“You’re like a fucking leech.”

Soap chuckled and wiped spit from his lips with the back of his hand.

“You taste so fucking good, Simon.”

Ghost released Soap, the sergeant sitting back to admire his work. Ghost’s body was a smattering of colors, most scars now hidden beneath a layer of paint. Designs had been doodled, licked clean, drawn anew and licked away again. Over and over again from neck to navel.

“You look like a fucking treasure, Simon. Beautiful, ornate.”

“Well, you have the hands of an artisan.”

“Aye, I’m pretty good. But I bet you’re capable of making a masterpiece too.”

Ghost made a questioning hum. The only thing he was good at making were bodies drop. His sewing skills weren’t complete shit, though.

“Simon,” Soap breathed and hooked a finger beneath the edge of his mask and tugged. He guided the lieutenant to switch positions, Soap now shaded comfortably in the larger man’s shadow. He angled Ghost’s head down to whisper against clothed lips. “I want you to touch me. Make me beautiful.”

“I can’t improve what’s already a masterpiece.” Soap was all solid muscle and dark hair. Bright eyes that warmed Ghost’s soul. He was strength when Ghost needed to feel weak.

“Ghost. Simon. Will you touch me?” Soap’s palms rested on his cheeks.

“I don’t have heartwarming tales to regale you with. Nothing funny or feel-good.”

“Then tell me something that you want to happen.”

Ghost contemplated the jars of paint. Of all the colors, red and yellow were still mostly full. Soap had steered clear of red, averse to staining Ghost’s skin the color of blood.

Yellow though. A color Ghost heavily associated with spring and new beginnings. Sunshine. Johnny was his sunshine on the darkest days.

Didn’t hurt that it tasted like pineapple.

“Something that I want,” Ghost mused, dipping a finger into the paint and beginning to draw along Soap’s collarbone. “I’ve found myself thinking about retirement more often lately. To be honest, the thought of leaving active service scares the shit outta me. I think I might lose a part of me that day. There’d be nothing to tether me to reality. But if I had someone to keep me grounded, someone who knew that feeling too, we might make it through together.”

“What kind of someone are you looking for? Someone you intend to keep around?”

“Someone for the long haul.” Ghost teased the swell of a pec and down over a nipple, bending to brush his nose against the other. Soap sighed and pressed his head back into the pillow. “Someone who is the first thing I see that day. Someone I want to curl around on cold mornings, their body like a damn furnace. And I’m cold because they like to steal the blankets in the night and somehow keep one while tossing the rest on the floor.”

Ghost worked his hand through dark curls of chest hair, making no effort to draw any specific design, just wanting to mark Johnny.

“I want someone who can cook an amazing breakfast and yet still manage to brew an absolute dogshit cup of tea.”

“That was one time,” Soap grumbled.

“But I choke it down because I love them.”

Ghost clawed at Soap’s stomach, fingertips tracing the sergeant’s own scars, concealing them in paint. He painted the dark hair that disappeared into Soap’s sweatpants. The sergeant’s hips rolled up, eager for more, but Ghost pulled back and instead buried his face into Soap’s belly, rubbing his cheeks and pressing masked kisses into the fluttering abdominal muscles.

“Want someone who has my six, and every other time of day. Who gives me their all and expects nothing in return, when they deserve it all and more. Someone who has all the patience in the world for a slow sod like me to come around.

“Just someone I can love unconditionally.” Ghost spread paint over the palm of his hand and pressed it over Soap’s heart.

“Sounds like a lot to ask of one person,” Soap smiled sweetly and his hand brushed over Ghost’s skull. “Do you have anyone particular in mind?”

Ghost closed the distance between their frames, grinding his body into Soap’s as he came up to meet the sergeant’s face. He pulled away his mask and tossed it to the floor.

“I love you, Johnny.”

They kissed soft and slow, hands buried in hair, their bodies feeling as though they were melding into one.

“I love you, Si,” Soap whispered against the other’s lips when they broke apart.

Ghost hunkered down atop Soap and nuzzled his face into Soap’s throat. The Scot held him tightly, one hand idly toying with his hair.

“Our hands are filthy, so I’ll let you grab it later, but I hid a second present in your bedside drawer.”

“Oh? You engaged on a stealth mission?”

“Sort of,” Ghost chuckled. “I ordered a few new journals from your favorite hometown shop.”

“You beautiful bastard!”

#ghostsoap #soapghost #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #modern warfare 2 #call of duty #ralith's fanfiction #fanfiction

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savebatsfromscratch · 6 months

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Hockey Watching - Palletshipping Week 1 (Roommates)

Summary:

Gary and Ash watch a hockey game together. (Au notes in final note in ao3 version, I put them at the top in this one.)

Notes:

Prompt: Roommates Note: The first thing I went to was watching a Hockey game together. …for some reason. I kinda made up my own Pokemon world teams, but feel free to imagine your favorite team I guess. (Though if it’s not the Sabers I don’t want you here. /light hearted) Also, for the record, they’re kind of American coded in this one. Whoops. I apologize for this look into my mind. Cws: Surprise kiss, sort of nonsensical writing Words: 1,791

End Notes:

…dude this is such a mess. (<- did not even try to edit it.) Here’s a fun secret, I headcannon Blake (from Pokemon Adventures) as a Hockey player, and I made his number his dexholder number! :D I also headcannon Jun (from Pokemon Diamond and Pearl Adventure) as a Hockey player, and I made his number “3” because he has three total pokemon lol. I also put Hareta (from the same series) on his team and made him number “1” because that’s the number of my favorite Sabers goalie. :3 I also Headcannon Barry and Jun as triplets (the third being Pearl from Pokemon Adventures.) I also had to make up a last name for both Jun and Blake. For Jun I gave him “Aemilius,” because I went the roman route and it “was originally derived from the Latin word aemulus, which referred to equal or rival.” (iGENEA) And I gave Blake Rasmussen because it starts with an “r” sound and so does his Japanese name AND Rasmussen would look SICK on a Hockey jersey.

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54803911

Prompts from here: @/shigerussato

Fic under the cut!

Gary plopped down on the couch in front of the already flickering TV, one hand clutched around a large can of some gross thing that Delia had bought them, and the other clinging desperately to an overfilled bowl of chicken wings. Already on the couch, Ash laughed and turned up the volume on the TV with the remote that he had apparently located. (Last time Gary had checked in, the two of them had been pretty sure that that thing was gone for good.)

“Is the game on yet?” He asked, setting the huge cup down on the coffee table (and releasing a short prayer that it wouldn’t spill) as he looked up at the current rush of ads across the television screen, “Who’s winning?”

Ash giggled and got halfway through a, “Not yet Oak,” before stopping and realizing that something was still missing from their Hockey watching spree. “Um, you did get us napkins, right?”

Gary looked around himself, and though he saw Ash’s fingerless glove clad hand already covered in Buffalo sauce, hovering unsurely about the rest of the chicken wings, he saw no napkins. “Oh dang it,” He let out an exasperated cry and smacked a hand to his forehead, “I forgot them in the other room, here, I’ll get them-,”

He went to stand, but all of a sudden the announcer sprang to life before them.

“Welcome to today’s game of Hockey,” he was saying, voice strong and accented like an old radio star, and speaking just as fast, “We’ve got a very interesting match up today,”

The second announcer interrupted, sounding just as excited as the first, “Thankfully for the Snowpoint Legends, it seems that number 3, Jun Aemilius, is back on the ice, after his injury on Wednesday we were getting worried that he might not be able to make it to the next game, but it seems the medics came through!”

“And based on today’s lineup for the Icirrus Truths, the Legends may have really needed the return. I mean, ever since number 16, Blake Rasmussen, was traded into the team from the Castelia Ideals, the Truths have been rising in power across the league,”

“However, the new goalie for the Legends, number 1, Hareta Rowan, might be able to match Rasmussen’s intensity,”

“Do you know who they’re talking about?” Gary whispered to Ash, who seemed to have given up on napkins and was instead licking his fingers clean. (Seeing this, he quickly flushed red and looked back to the screen, pretending to be looking for clues there, though he hoped Ash would not guess the true reason for his newfound focus. …though it wouldn’t have been a problem if he had known.)

“Number three for the Legends is triplets with one of my rivals from when I was in Sinnoh,” Ash commented, watching as the camera tracked after a very attractive blond offensive player as if it was a totally normal comment to make to his current rival.

Gary suddenly reached for a can on the table, suddenly realizing that his throat felt dry.

“None of that,” Ash waved his hands back and forth, flinging a speck or two of leftover sauce into Gary’s face, “I still love you the most,” he looked down at the cans, “Plus, those are non-alcoholic,”

Gary put his head in his hands, laughing. Had Ash assumed he had been trying to get drunk? “I’m just thirsty Ash,” he said, “and you reminded me of what your mom bought us,”

Ash made a face, studying the cans critically, “I wouldn’t suggest trying those, they’re probably flavored, like, pumpkin pie or crayons or something,”

Gary studied the can in the brightness of the ice from the screen. “The first one,” he told Ash, making a face, “Pumpkin pie seltzer, are you kidding me? Where does she even get them?”

“The Viridian Pokemart I think,” Ash said, snuggling a bit closer to Gary under the guise of checking out the ingredients of the strange drink.

“Why would she go all the way to Viridian to get-,” Gary cut himself off as the game suddenly kicked into action on the screen in front of them. Ash too sat up, suddenly on the edge of his seat as the puck rushed from player to player, currently held by the Truths. Gary glanced over at Ash’s face, noticing that he didn’t look super happy about that fact.

“Soo…” Gary tried, now his turn to scoot closer, “Are we rooting for the Legends?”

“Would you want to root for a team from Unova?”

“Fair point,”

The two sat together, watching as the action moved from player to player, occasional crashes and shrieks coming up from the players as they crashed together and into various metal walls. Gary found himself leaning forward and hissing in anticipation as the puck shot towards the goal on their side, but joined Ash in whooping when the (apparently not-so-rookie) goalie expertly blocked the shot, catching it under his glove and sending up cheers among the crowd on his side of the stadium.

Ash grabbed Gary’s arm and shook him, as if Gary had watched more than a couple of games before to understand quite what that meant for his team. “Did you see that?!” He asked, sounding almost as excited as he always had before their battles, “That was so cool!”

The fact that Gary didn’t quite understand the game did not stop him from sharing Ash’s excitement. (Though he suspected that was more due to the fact that his rival was all but climbing into his lap in nervous joy about the game.)

“Yeah,” Gary said, watching somewhat in awe as the players sped from side to side in the advertisement lined rink.

They continued to watch like that, whooping as number three on their team managed a goal and hissing as 16, Blake, on the other side finally managed one of his own. At one point, their hands met in the chicken wing bowl, and of course Ash couldn’t help but joke that it was the most affectionate they’d been since getting back to Pallet together. (Gary shoved him off his shoulder and laughed it off, but the entire next period passed before he was done blushing about it.)

Advertisements passed as Gary left to refill the snacks, and he found himself grinning with the draw to watch the game as he saw it starting up again.

“You have to admit that this is just as interesting as watching a Pokemon battle,” Ash said, between bites of chicken wing, looking expectantly up at Gary.

“And nowhere near as irritating,” Gary added, breaking off in the middle of his sentence to take a large sip of pumpkin pie seltzer. (Which was honestly even more interesting than Delia had advertised it as being.) “I’m not there picking through every mistake they make,”

They both cringed as, number three, the forward on the team they had decided to root for just barely missed an easy shot.

“For the most part anyway,” Gary corrected

“For the most part anyway,” Ash laughed, agreeing with him.

They looked forward, and the game went back into that comfortable blur as the announcers led the cheers (or boos) as players entered and left the ice. (Though Gary found himself realizing that the two rivals were getting oddly close again as the final period began to wrap up. Even if the “close together” in question was more like, “just about falling off the couch with how focused they were on the flashing screen,”)

They cheered as their goalie blocked yet another would-have-been goal, and then cheered even louder as their team managed to actually complete a goal of their own. They were back in the lead by one, and with only a couple of seconds remaining on the clock, and a major player of the Truths out for misconduct earlier in the match, it was looking good.

“Comeon comeon,” Ash muttered, his fingers digging into Gary’s shoulders as he leaned even further forward, “Just hold the goal for one more-,”

“No!” They both shrieked, watching as their goalie, the one named like his region’s professor, was knocked to the ground by an opposing player, allowing the puck to sail cleanly into the net behind him.

Making the game tied, and sending it into overtime as Ash jolted to his feet, taking two large steps forward and echoing the announcer as he yelped. “How was that not an illegal move!”

Gary stood and walked to meet him, but found his eyes similarly glued to the screen as the teams reset for the tie breaking move. In his still lacking understanding of the game, he couldn’t quite tell what was happening, but the energy in the crowd (and in Ash), was enough to tell him that, whatever it was, it was seriously interesting.

He squinted at the glowing ice, and then found himself jumping up and down as he spotted number three dragging the puck forward and towards the opposing goal. He was moving like lightning, skirting around nearly every other player as he raced for the win.

Ash and Gary watched in slow motion as 16, Blake, from the other team fought to catch up with Jun, and cheered as he crashed into a defenseman from his own team, clearly still at least a little shaken up from his apparent injury on Wednesday as the two skidded across the ice together, their balance lost.

It happened so fast that Gary almost missed it, but the puck banged against the net and the stadium exploded. Even with the TV on low volume, Gary truly felt like he was among the screaming fans as Ash jumped up and down beside him. Clapping his hands together and shivering in excitement. To Gary, the sight was almost funny, but as he opened his mouth to say something about it, he found himself the one taken aback as Ash jumped up and kissed him.

They hung that way for a moment, Gary feeling like he was floating in sudden joy as Ash’s arms wrapped briefly around his shoulders, only to be dragged back away again as his friend suddenly pulled back, face bright red.

“Oh I-,” he tried to explain himself, “I didn’t mean to-,”

Gary’s face was definitely bright red, but he didn’t care. “Well,” he said, grabbing Ash’s hands and leaning forward, “Do it again and I might think about coming back for the next game,”

He smirked as Ash stuttered out a sudden, “I love you,” right before Gary pulled them back into a kiss as the cheers of the crowd echoed through the dark room.

(Even if their mouths tasted like buffalo chicken wings and pumpkin pie seltzer.)

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ao3feed-twiyor · 9 months

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The True Meaning of Christmas is Not to Gather Intel

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/lcfdQAr by fluffmelange The mission goes on, but it's more than that now, for them at least. To further solidify that notion, Loid and Yor must work in tandem to show their colleagues that this family can exist beyond the confines of hiding intel collection and target briefings. And what's more convincing than overfilled hors d’oeuvre spreads, cheesy Christmas songs, and preventing arguments between your relatives? Words: 4699, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: SPY x FAMILY (Manga), SPY x FAMILY (Anime) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: Gen Characters: Loid Forger | Twilight, Yor Briar Forger | Thorn Princess, Anya Forger, Sylvia Sherwood | Handler, Franky Franklin, Yuri Briar, Bond (SPY x FAMILY), Damian Desmond, Becky Blackbell, Ewen Egeburg, Emile Elman, Camilla (SPY x FAMILY), Sharon (SPY x FAMILY), Millie (SPY x FAMILY), Dominic (SPY x FAMILY), Matthew McMahon, Fiona Frost | Nightfall Relationships: Loid Forger | Twilight/Yor Briar Forger | Thorn Princess, Anya Forger & Loid Forger | Twilight & Yor Briar Forger | Thorn Princess Additional Tags: Christmas Fluff, basically plotless, Christmas, Christmas Party, Loid Foger putting out fires for his wife, He just loves her so much it has to be perfect, bottle episode, Genuinely like no plot we just choking on fluff here read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/lcfdQAr

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #twiyor #spy x family #sxf #loid forger #yor forger

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ginwhitlock · 2 years

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summary: Edward Cullen wasn't even born yet when he got a brother. Jasper Whitlock didn't realize he was ever was one. (or: the story of two boys who died too young and too full of rot. not slash.) AO3

Jasper Whitlock has never had a brother. He had sisters—two of them. One older and one younger. Twin matches of flame, hair the color of corn meal and straw. The last burnt up and up like a log cabin in the west, like those boys he killed when he got turned, the first shrouded herself in blue and white like a real northern bride, cut her hair to her ears and prayed with the pentecost. By the time he was supposed to turn twenty-five, her birthing bed had swallowed her whole and she was carried away too, burnt up like the rest of them. No one remembers their names now, whose sisters they once were.

Jasper Whitlock never wanted a brother.

Edward Masen succumbs to the bite when Jasper is seventy-eight years old. The older man has spent, by the time the good doctor sinks his knuckles into that rich boy’s ribs, almost six decades in a never ending, blackened cloud of blood and shit and venom-spit, rebirth like an old joke running behind his teeth, wins and losses carved out of his shoulder blades by his dear mistress. There is more blood between his toes than there was at the Alamo, may he never forget.

He has never seen Chicago. He has never heard of influenza. He’s only felt this life, teeth in his eye like a dog about to be shot behind the shed. He does not remember a time before this.

When Edward Masen is reborn as Edward Cullen, a girl about the size of an August cornstalk rips off the stoney flesh of Jasper’s ear and throws it into the desert, when she burns it smells like robitussin and asphalt (smells he will not be able to name until his next life).

Jasper doesn’t remember being anyone’s brother.

When Alice—just Alice—walks into a Pennsylvania diner, she grins, all gums. It feels like a loaded double barrel has placed itself into his hip and pulls its trigger. It should hurt. It does. He doesn’t tell anyone.

Edward always wanted a sibling.

When Jasper Whitlock and Edward Cullen meet for the first time, the ginger boy learns what it means to speak to a corpse. Jasper Whitlock stands like a shepard with no flock, spine like stilted steel, a hand wrapped around a rifle that hasn’t been on his back in a century. It’s like he’s not there—he’ll say to his newfound little sister, it’s like he wasn’t there at all.

Jasper Whitlock meets a dead boy that day. Jasper swears he’s never seen an immortal look so sick before—like, like a grave marker turned living. Like a blank cement plaque with a frown. He asks if he needs to put him out of his misery and Carlisle laughs.

Two boys stand facing one another in a rich man’s dining room, a room that has not once seen actual dining except for that time they all played make believe for a hospital banquet. Two women grin at them from their sides, yellow irises like traffic lights, blinking. There is only pale skin between them, arched brow bones and drained arteries. For the first time in a long time, neither step away.

In half a century, perhaps a little overfilled, one of them will make a decision that will set both of their deaths into the stone below their feet, and the other will watch it happen. That’s what brothers do, right? Watch each other lose. Over and over again.

Edward Cullen carries his eldest brother out of the cold winter snow of his wife’s, his father’s, his daughter’s battlefield on his back, slung over his shoulder like he weighs nothing. His skull is lost to the fire and his neck seeps venom, a wound that will never get to close. There are no words said, nothing that would matter to a man that has been dead much longer than he was ever alive. Edward Cullen is, at this moment and in every moment before, a little boy. Jasper Whitlock was a little boy once. They are now both without. How did they ever make it this far without each other? This is all you ever wanted, he whispers. He laughs. He is alone, except for the heavy weight of his brother leaching into his skin. You saw this coming, didn’t you? You told me. He is still alone.

Jasper Whitlock always needed a brother.

#fuck!#jasper hale #edward cullen #twilight #mine #my writing #fanfic #twilight fanfiction #fanfiction #thetwilightsaga

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startswitheff · 1 year

Text

You Will Be Loved

Rating: E

Word Count: 22870

Relationship: Dean/Cas

Summary: Dean makes an ill timed wish. Inspired by this amazing post by @boyworstie.

Find it on AO3

Sam set the overfilled box of curios on the kitchen table, heedless of the fact that several items spilled out onto the shining surface, and made a beeline for the fridge. He reached in and grabbed a bottle of his home-made cold-pressed kale "superjuice" and started chugging it.

Dean turned around from where he was polishing the countertop and regarded his brother cramming his face full of green shit with distaste. Then his eye fell on the dusty items cluttering the tabletop that he had just cleaned and his grimace deepened. "Dude. We are about to have lunch."

"Awesome. I’m starving." Sam tossed the now empty bottle in the sink and stepped forward eagerly. "What’re we having?"

"Nothing, until you can clean that crap off the table." Dean folded his arms and raised an eyebrow.

Sam huffed and rolled his eyes, but dutifully shuffled back to the table and started haphazardly tossing items back in the box. There was a loud clunk and then the tinkle of broken glass, and Dean glanced up from his garnish to see Sam enveloped in a small cloud of sparkling pink dust.

"The fuck?"

Sam slowly turned around, looking sheepish and ridiculous with glitter all over his dumb face. "I broke something."

"Sam, that’s Asgardian itching powder. If you let that sink in you’ll scratch off all your skin within three days," grumbled Cas, bustling into the room with a pile of books in his hands. He nodded in the direction of the hall. "You should shower. Now. With holy oil!" he added as Sam hurried from the room.

Catching sight of Dean’s disgruntled expression, Cas sighed and set his books carefully on a far shelf before approaching the table. Dean tossed his rag on the hook and joined him, nudging his shoulder into the angel’s and peering down at the box. "What is all this stuff, anyway?"

"Cursed objects, mostly," Cas replied, eyeing the contents warily. "Sam and I were cleaning out store room 98 in advance of that shipment from Bobby’s old storage locker, and we found all these things that need to be safely contained in curse boxes." He sighed deeply. "But as you know, Sam gets a little… careless… when he’s hungry, so I sent him up here to eat before he caused too much damage. Clearly I was too late," he muttered, cautiously reaching towards something that looked like a gnarled tree root and setting it gingerly in the box.

Dean was feeling helpful, so he grabbed a set of three interlocked golden rings. "What’s this? It’s beautiful."

Cas tensed next to him before whipping a handkerchief from his breast pocket and opening it across his palm. He used his covered hand to quickly pluck the rings from Dean’s grasp. Wrapping the rings up snugly with a satisfying clink, he jammed the cloth bundle deep down one side of the carton. "Please be careful, Dean. Those were wishing rings. Who knows what the consequences would be if you’d expressed any wants or desires while holding them?"

Dean gulped and stepped back, wiping his hand across his shirt. "Jinkies, Cas. So that was like one of them Hand of God, Monkey’s Paw kinda things?"

"Indeed," Cas nodded. "Please be cautious which items you allow to touch with your bare skin until Sam and I get all the curse boxes sorted."

"Yes, dear," Dean smiled, and winked. "But you know that the only thing I want or desire touching my bare skin is you, right?"

Cas huffed and rolled his eyes, but Dean knew when he watched the pretty blush color his husband’s cheeks that he’d gotten to him and he took advantage of the moment to reel Cas in by the tie for a kiss. Smiling, he then pecked Cas on the nose and stepped back to grab the rag and spray again as the angel finished clearing off the table. He carefully set the box next to the books on the shelf and Dean spritzed the tabletop once more before washing his hands thoroughly.

Dean gestured with his chin for Cas to sit and set a plate with a club sandwich and side salad in front of him before sliding in next to him with one of his own.

"Thank you, beloved, this looks delicious." He took a bite of the sandwich and hummed in pleasure.

"Yeah, well, Sam’s will get cold, but that’s his own damned fault." Dean applied himself to his own lunch and the two men ate in companionable silence until only a few crumbs remained on their plates and Dean leaned into Cas, patting his belly. He closed his eyes, settling further against Castiel’s shoulder, and sighed when the angel looped an arm around his waist to hold him steady.

"You know, I don’t think that there’s anything I could wish for that would make me happier than I am right now," he murmured, opening his eyes to stare unseeing at the ceiling. "But I have done so much stupid shit, and made so many mistakes, that I would love a do-over for so many things in my past."

Cas demurred. "I think we both know that altering the past is… inadvisable."

Dean nodded, turning his head a little so he could bury his face in his husband’s neck. "Yeah, I know. And really I only did the dumbest crap when my back was against the wall and I was all alone and thought that nobody was ever gonna come for me. Not like you did," he mumbled, pressing a kiss just above the collar, and Cas shivered and tightened his hold.

"You have spent much of your life caring for others, Dean. I’m so happy now that you can allow me to care for you." Dean heard the smile in Cas’s voice when he spoke next. "Even if my sandwiches aren’t half as good as yours."

"It’s the thought that counts, sweetheart," Dean replied, pulling back to press a kiss to Castiel’s cheek. Cas grinned at him indulgently, but then his eyes became serious.

"I do regret that your childhood and even the first years of your adult life were so lonely."

Dean sighed again, his thoughts drifting to the past. "I would love to have a conversation with my past self, you know? Sit him down with a beer and tell him that he’s not gonna be alone forever. That he’ll be happy someday. Just to give him something to look forward to." He looked over at Cas, whose blue eyes shone with sympathy and understanding. "And who knows," he continued with a smirk, "maybe it would give him enough hope to get his head out of his ass earlier when he finally meets you, and avoids the whole will-they-won’t-they-for-over-a-fucking-decade-thing."

Cas chuckled softly. "I rather like your head where it is, Dean. And your ass," he added with a raised brow. "But yes, I would agree that our ‘courtship’, as it were, was unnecessarily drawn-out."