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adropofelixir · 3 months

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ｓｏｆｔｃｏｎｆｅｓｓｉｏｎ - ｗａｎｄａｍａｘｉｍｏｆｆ

𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜(𝙨): wanda maximoff x fem! reader

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: when sexuality starts to become something in the forefront of your mind, you can’t help but start to shut everyone out. nobody knows what’s going on with you, but a specific telekinetic woman finds the perfect way to get you to open up to her.

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: internalized homophobia, avengers compound/civil war! era, hallway crush vibes, reader not really knowing wanda all that well at first, wlw!au, wanda being perfect, i think that’s it?

𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧’𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚: nice to meet you, i’m lea! since this is my first fic it won’t be perfect, but i’ll get better as time goes on! this is super fluffy… and gay. i hope you all enjoy, happy (ending) pride month!!

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

everything about you recently had felt off. nothing was right. waking up felt like you were out of place, your insomnia was out of the roof, you were only eating your safe foods for the past few weeks. all the avengers could tell there was something bothering you.

tony had tried first. saying some words along the lines of, “cmon, kid. you can talk to me — you won’t be shut out.” although his attempt was nice, and oddly caring for the stark man, you didn’t budge. thor and bucky hadn’t really been the best at speaking to girls your age, so they didn’t really attempt much.

next was peter and natasha, they had teamed up to see if they could get you to crack. the two had purchased a large pizza and your favorite sweets in an attempt to see how much they could get out of you; long story short, it didn’t work. you just took the food, thanked them for going out of their way for you, and excused yourself to bed for the night.

cap was last to try. he had been the one person who seemed to get through to you every single time you were acting weird. this time however, he had never seen you so puzzled. after trying for about an hour of poking and prodding to get even an inch of what was on your mind to come to your surface, you practically pushed him out of the room asking for peace and quiet.

ever since you turned 18, everything about love had been on your mind. there was no doubting that you were envious of your friends that were in healthy, happy relationships. hell, some of the people you went to high school with were getting engaged already. however, every single post that you happened to scroll past on social media, you couldn’t help but feel yourself cringe a little bit.

seeing your friends happy, and other happy, made your heart flutter. that was no secret, but when you stared at the pairs of man and wife, or girlfriend and boyfriend, your heart banged with confusion as to why it didn’t feel right to you. that was, until you went on a coffee run.

walking into the small coffee shop that had become your recent hyperfixation, you noticed two women in the corner. there was something different about this pair. they were closer than just friends seemed to be, they were holding hands, the shorter blonde leaning her head against the taller ginger. you were captivated by them, they were fucking 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙮. then, as if the universe was watching you searching for answers, the two girls’ lips connected.

your heart fluttered and your eyes suddenly went a bit wide with awe. everything about the image in front of you felt so right. it was everything that you had been craving, all of the confusion about seeing the straight couples had fizzled away from your mind. it all made fucking sense. you liked women, there was no denying that, but how would you be accepted knowing everyone around you was always asking when you were going to get a boyfriend?

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

ever since that trip to the coffee shop and seeing the lesbian couple, your mind had been running circles every second of every minute. you had tried your best to avoid everyone, being conflicted with yourself and wondering if it was just a phase or if you could change your feelings for something so trivial.

it was 1am, and you hadn’t gotten an inch of sleep. you were laying on your bed with your phone in your hand, scrolling on google at photos of lesbian relationships. there was a knock at your door, suddenly jolting you away from your obvious daze. shutting off your phone, you got off your bed and cracked the door open to see who could possibly need you at this time of night.

staring back at you was the quiet sokovian, with her brows slightly taut with worry. “wanda?” you had spoken, your voice a little broken from not speaking much the past few days. you cleared your throat as she offered you a small smile. her accent slipping through her pink lips as she spoke, “i wanted to check on you. i-i know we don’t know each other hardly at all but, you’ve seemed like you need some company.”

her voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. you tilted your head as you studied her for a few moments, debating on whether you should allow her to try and pick your brain, assuming that she’s going to be talking to a wall like the rest have. noticing you’ve been taking a while, you open the door just enough and step aside for her body to fit through before shutting the door once again.

“i know talking about your life isn’t easy, so i won’t push,” she starts off as she takes in your room, before gesturing to the trinkets you’ve made and the fully finished rubix cube that sits on your bedside table. “these are cool, did you make them all?” you looked over at them and hummed softly before nodding your head in agreement. “yeah, yeah i did.”

she hums as she spares you a slightly bigger smile than she had outside your door just minutes prior. “did one of them… tell you to come talk to me?” you couldn’t help but ask, you were mutual with each avenger but there were a handful of them that didn’t spare you more than small talk if you happened to run into each other.

her brows furrow slightly before she meets your eyes. “no, not at all. i’ve actually been worried about you myself. a very bright soul that’s comfortable around everyone in this building suddenly became a bit too quiet. i wanted to make sure you didn’t need help with something.” her words were swirling in your ears as she spoke them, her voice taking over you as if it was made of vanilla.

you contemplated for another moment, feeling a weight heavy on your chest as you thought about everything that you had been feeling the past few weeks. letting out a sigh, you took a seat on your messy bed. “i guess, there is… something, that’s been on my mind lately.”

wanda nodded as she took in your posture, before deciding to take a seat next to you on your bed while also keeping enough space for you to not feel suffocated by her presence. you didn’t know why she was the one you had chosen to share your problems with, you barely know the girl. but something about her made you feel like you could trust her with this information.

she eyed you curiously as you struggled to find the words, eventually giving up and deciding just to speak from your mind. “i’ve been having…. feelings lately. they’re different than normal feelings, you could say. all of my friends are, getting married and in really healthy relationships, which is great for them but, that’s not my issue..” you trailed off as you started to get nervous knowing you were just about to come out for the first time.

wanda placed her hand over yours softly, reminding you that she’s listening and that it’s okay. your heart did a somersault at the feeling of her skin against yours, and your stomach erupted in butterflies. all be damned, you realized why you had started feeling this way. what made you question in the first place.

you stared at her for a moment before you started again, “i went down to the coffee shop at the end of the street that i really like, and there was this couple. they were gay, two girls, and they were addicting to look at. i never felt happy staring at a couple until that moment and i…. i think it’s because i’m lesbian.” you looked down, not knowing what sort of reaction to prepare for.

she squeezed your hand softly, a small smile forming on her lips as she chuckled. “that’s okay, i’m gay too. i like girls just like you do, and i didn’t understand why i couldn’t be in love with vision like he is with me, until you came around.” your eyes blew wide at her statement before staring at her once again.

“me? why me?” you were confused. you weren’t anything special, at least not that you knew of. she smiled even wider. “from the second i saw you i was attracted to you. your energy felt good, every time i was near you i could feel you in my veins and it was like magic. not to mention, you’re pretty hot too.” you couldn’t help but let out a chuckle.

you bit your lip nervously as you contemplated before thinking to yourself, fuck it. “i started questioning because of you too.” you squeezed her hand back this time and smiled softly at her, both of your voices were only audible to each other. her smile spread even wider as she looked at you.

“it’s okay to feel this way. it’s not out of ordinary either, so don’t say you’re not normal. don’t worry about everyone else either, if you don’t wanna tell them, it’s none of their business. this stays between you and i, okay?” she tilted her head at you as you processed the delicate reassurance.

you let out a breath of relief. “t-thank you, wanda. it means a lot that you let me talk to you.” she scrunches her nose before quietly speaking again, “you’re welcome.” she delivered a kiss to your cheek, which prompted yours to turn pink.

she got up from your bed beside you and walked towards your door, looking at you one last time for the night. “see you in the morning, y/n.” she smiled at you and departed your room, leaving you to your own feelings. you touched your cheek and could feel all kinds of adrenaline rush through your veins. what was she doing to you?

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

𝙨𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧’𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚: thank you all for reading! i was just blotting words on the screen at 3 am but i hope it was a least a little enjoyable. as i get back into writing again i’ll have better ideas, but i thought this was a decent start. i love you all! <3

#fanfic #marvel #wanda maximoff #wlw #pride month #writing

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 6 months

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Steal Your Heart (Part 1)

When the calling card of the infamous Knave of Hearts arrives, he’ll rob his victims blind of their most treasured items on the appointed date. Enter ace detective Yuu accompanied by rookie cop Deuce Spade, both seeking to apprehend the Knave and bring him to justice.

Will they succeed, or will the phantom thief steal their valuables--and their hearts--first?

This was originally meant to be one fic, but it was getting to be WAY too long. I decided to split it in half and release this part now and the second part (which I am still working on!) later. This first part focuses more on Yuu and Deuce; the second part will be more Yuu and Ace.

(Please note: there are slight romantic implications in the form of an Ace/Yuu/Deuce love triangle, but those elements could also be interpreted as platonic or as just playful teasing with no additional meaning. It’s all in the eyes of the reader!)

Imagine this...

The police station’s waiting room was a familiar sight.

With time, the shiny checkered floor had grown matte, marred with scratches and scuffs from the boots that crossed it on a daily basis. Someone had taken to attempt to pretty up the otherwise dull space by hanging out abstract paintings on the cream-colored walls, and a vase of white roses dripping with red paint at the check-in desk. There was as even a glass tank which housed a small family of colorful hedgehogs.

Maybe they were meant to be welcoming—but really, they were more clashing than anything. Certainly not a fit for the stiff atmosphere of the station.

Still the fluorescent lightbulbs buzzed faintly, flickering in and out on occasion. The sound distracted from the old television mounted in a corner to entertain guests. It seemed to play commercials on a loop more often than it played actual shows. Currently, an Olympus Corp. branded tablet was being toted as the next big technological marvel—though the TV’s audio was fuzzy at best, and the image half static.

A coffee table pushed to the wall, stacked with a new stash of magazines. Whoever updated the reading materials—most likely the friendly senior officer with orange waves for hair—was into the latest trends, often selecting fashion magazines with high gloss finishes. A dangerously beautiful man graced the covers of many of them, dressed in the hottest summertime styles while looking the part of an untouchable ice queen.

As usual, the station was scented with coffee and tea, the beverages of choice for many officers burning the midnight oil or working overtime. The chief demanded it at times to meet deadlines and goals—he was such a stickler for them—and the caffeine helped those under him stay sane as they went about their duties.

In the afternoons, most were either out on lunch or on patrol, lessening the foot traffic at HQ. There was only one man in uniform, seated behind the desk and filing some papers.

Yuu shifted in their own chair, adjusting the rim of the baseball cap upon their head. They were suited in an inconspicuous jacket and sneakers, fingers toying with a badge in a pocket, hidden out of view. To the common man, they were a jogger--but one flash of their lilac gemstone bound to a black and white striped ribbon, and there would be no doubt as to what their true identity was.

The smell of coffee and tea grew stronger, and Yuu glanced up from behind the bill of their hat.

The bespectacled man from behind the fro

nt desk had approached. He had a sheepish smile, bearing a paper cup filled with hot brown liquid and a napkin with a donut laid upon it. Bright pink icing dusted with sugared violet petals crowned the golden fried pastry.

“Detective.”

“Mr. Clover.” Yuu nodded—a terse, polite greeting. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Please, just ‘Trey’ is fine.” He offered the treats, which they readily accepted. “Sorry for calling you in on such short notice. I’m sure you’re busy juggling your other cases—but I think I speak for the entire department when I say we’re thankful that you were able to make it.”

“No worries, I’m used to it in this line of work,” Yuu replied. “It must be something pretty urgent this time around. The Chief sounded frantic over the phone.”

Trey rubbed at his chin, grasping for the right words. “Let’s just say he’s not in the best of moods right now. You’ll need that sugar to get through this in one piece.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you.”

“Just trying to avoid any trouble. You’d better finish them before you step into his office. You know how he hates it when there are crumbs or spills in there.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Yuu gave a joking salute before starting to pack away at their snack. The drink was the instant kind, and practically scalding, but it was easy to tell that the donut was homemade. The pastry, flaky on the outside and fluffy on the inside, dusted with sugar granules and sweet icing. “Wouldn’t want the Chief to be blowing a fuse again.”

“No, definitely not. He’s done too much of that lately.” Trey carefully eyed Yuu’s donut, now only half of it left. “Oh, but be sure to brush your teeth a thorough cleaning tonight, or I might have some problems with you. Cavities and staining are real dangers, you know.”

“Are you Assistant Chief of Police or my dental hygienist?” Yuu took a generous swig, then a bite just as big. “You worry too much about everything.”

“Ahahah… Do I? It’s a habit, I guess. Comes with the job.”

“That stressful, huh?”

“Well, I do what I can to smooth things over. Hopefully you can too. It’s been difficult on our department with the Chief all rattled up about the… situation.” He stopped himself. “I’m sure you’ll hear all about it from him.”

So the case is top-secret, Yuu concluded with the last of their donut. Not to be discussed in the public.

They ran their tongue across the length of their mouth, lapping up the remains of sugary residue. “I understand. The details are not to leave his office.”

“You catch on quickly. No wonder why the Chief thinks so highly of your abilities.”

“Flattery’s a part of your tool kit as well, Trey?”

He raised his eyebrows. “… You’ve worked long enough with us to figure these things out. Nothing gets by you, it seems.”

“UGIGIGIGIGGGGHHHH!!”

The remainder of Yuu’s drink sloshed around in its cup, set into motion by the bloodcurdling scream.

A familiar man with orange waves erupted from the chief’s office, hurriedly slamming the door shut behind him. His typically relaxed features were arranged in panic, his hair frazzled.

“How did trying to calm him work out, Cater?” Trey inquired half-heartedly. It was a courtesy more than genuine curiosity.

“What do you think?” the senior officer groaned, sinking where he stood.

Yuu quickly finished their drink, tossing their trash—the evidence they had been there—away and then stood, adjusting their jacket. “That sounds like it’s my cue.”

“Yeah, it is.” Trey sighed, frowning. “He’s in a tough spot right. Be kind to him, will you? That’s all I ask.”

“You got it.” Yuu tipped their baseball cap as they passed the officer. “Thank you for the pick-me-up. I’ll be seeing you, then. Officer Diamond—get some rest.”

“Good luck.”

“You’ll need it, Yuu-chan! Brace yourself.”

The Police Chief was a small but serious man.

His character came through in his office space: books on law and order neatly arranged on shelves, papers and files alphabetically organized in their cabinets, and pens evenly spaced apart and arranged in rows. A crystal vase with deep red roses was poised beside his writing implements. A plate polished to a fine shine was propped up at his desk, reading: Riddle Rosehearts, Chief of Police.

Perched imposingly despite his short stature in his seat, he impatiently tapped a finger on an arm. Riddle’s face was a telltale red and veiny, proof of his earlier outburst, but was beginning to cool into a faint, smooth pink.

There was already another man in the office, sitting across from the Police Chief. He was pale and jittery in a suit the color of the night and sewn with blue sequins and glitter. A top hat rested upon his raven locks, the brim of it shading his hauntingly golden eyes.

Yuu removed their hat and, keeping it to their chest, gave a shallow bow as they entered. “Sir.”

One move out of line, one hair out of place, and they suspected he, in his volatile and vulnerable state, would explode anew.

“Welcome, Detective. I’m glad you could join us today.” Every word was a gruff puff of air, a leash with which to wrest control of his rage. Riddle gestured to the empty chair beside the nervous man. “Sit.”

Yuu obeyed, sinking into the seat offered. They casted a glance at the stranger adjacent to them, who was fiddling with his velvet-lined gloves.

“Mr. Crowley, this is the independent detective from Stray Cat Investigations that I had previously mentioned to you. The force has collaborated with them for a number of difficult cases in the past. Their wit and strategic skills have made them an invaluable asset. I thought it prudent to have them return to join us for your case as well.

“Yuu, meet Dire Crowley. He is the esteemed director and curator for the Sage’s Island Museum, and he’s come to us with his woes.”

“Hello, Mr. Crowley,” Yuu said politely. “It’s nice to meet you.”

He responded with a tired attempt at a smile. “Yes, you too.”

“Now that we’re all acquainted with one another...” Riddle produced a file from beneath his desk and placed it before himself. “Do you care to explain, or shall I?”

“I-I’ll elaborate!” Crowley crowed. He picked at a collection of keys belted to his waist, glistening gold under artificial lights. “The Sage’s Island Museum is planning a new exhibition on the Great Seven. As part of the exhibit, we are having many priceless artifacts flown in from all over Twisted Wonderland. We have donations from even Briar Valley’s royal family!!

“There will also be a great number of important VIP guests present for the grand opening of the exhibit. Royalty, wealthy benefactors, important diplomats, businessmen, celebrities... All individuals who wish to see their history on display! This is very important, you see!! M-My reputation--er, I mean, the museum’s reputation--is on the line here!!”

“Right.” Yuu nodded as they parsed through the information. “I’m following what you’re putting down. And where does your problem arise, Mr. Crowley?”

“Ah, now that,” Riddle smirked, “is the question of the hour.”

He opened his file, pulling out...

A single playing card, its back facing Yuu.

“I trust you’ve been keeping up with the news?”

“As any good detective would. There have been several robberies lately. Terrible, really.” Yuu’s expression clouded with concentration. “Hmm... but if it’s a potential robbery that you’re concerned about, Mr. Crowley... Doesn’t the Sage’s Island Museum boast a state-of-the-art security system from Olympus Corp.? I doubt the average thief would be able to bypass it.”

“That’s just the trouble,” Crowley loudly lamented.

“We are dealing with no ordinary thief,” Riddle clarified.

“It’s not?”

“No. Far from it.” The Police Chief exhaled sharply. “The string of robberies from before--they’re connected by a single thread, perpetuated by the same lone culprit. And now that scoundrel intends to continue his crime spree.”

“I’ve never heard of this before.”

“You shouldn’t have. It was a top-secret operation within my force since the first of its kind.”

“Why am I being told of it now?”

“Because, loathe as I am to admit it, the culprit has managed to outwit us and elude capture each and every time, He employs a bag of cheap parlor tricks and smoke and mirrors like the coward he is,” Riddle confessed begrudgingly. The blue-grey of his eyes were steely and stubborn. “A case as important as this needs the additional man—and brain—power, Detective.”

He placed the playing card down and slid it toward the detective. “This arrived in the morning at Mr. Crowley’s desk, the same as all the prior robberies. It gave him quite the fright. He rushed all the way to the station to beg for our assistance.”

“This is...” Yuu gingerly turned the card over, revealing a message scrawled on the other side in bright red gel ink. Each letter was big and bubbly, bursting with cheek and pomp.

Their heart jumped.

To the Old Crow that safeguards the Museum,

Heyo~

Your pockets look a lil’ heavy there, so I’ll help you out. (Aren’t I so kind?) Three days from now, I’ll claim one of your most prized treasures at the stroke of midnight.

Stand back and watch as I perform the greatest magic trick you’ll ever see... and make the portrait of the Queen of Hearts vanish before your very eyes. It’ll be a show-stopper!!

Until then,

Phantom Thief Knave of Hearts <3 ;3

P.S. Send the cops my regards, they can’t catch me lol (especially when their teapot tyrant’s patience is in SHORT supply geddit)

“They’re just flat-out announcing what their intentions are,” Yuu realized. They were half impressed, half shocked at the gall. “You said all of the victims received messages like this?”

“Calling cards, yes.” The fury had returned to Riddle’s features, causing his voice to spike and strain. “It’s infuriating!! What does he get off on, misappropriating magic as cheap parlor tricks for crime, writing notes in such a cocksure manner, taunting us to pursue him?!

“Not only is he poking fun at my height and committing a crime, but for mere SPORT?! For the THRILL of it?! He’s making a mockery of the good people of this island and of my men and our efforts to secure the peace!!”

The Police Chief slammed a fist down on his desk, rattling his glass vase and setting his perfectly straight pens askew. Crowley shrunk back in fear. “That Knave of Hearts...!! He must be stopped at all costs!!”

“Y-Yes, absolutely!!” Crowley chimed in. “For my--er, I mean, for the museum’s sake, this criminal must be put behind bars!! That’s why I’ve come to you, my good people!

“My taxpayer dollars help fund the police force, so I’ve come to collect on what its promise to protect and to serve the community!! Well, here’s the community at your doorstep asking you to protect and to serve!!”

“That’s why you want to put me on this case,” Yuu concluded, clasping the calling card to their racing heart. “To prevent this from going down tonight.”

“And furthermore,” Riddle added, “to investigate the identity of this so-called phantom thief once the museum is safely secured.”

“That’s a tall order, sir.”

“You’ll have access to our force’s resources, and to my officers. You will assist in overseeing this operation, with maps and outlines of the museum’s security detail from Mr. Crowley. We’ll cooperate to create a plan of attack to apprehend the Knave.”

“You misunderstand me. I never said I wouldn’t take the job,” Yuu coolly informed the Chief. Their mouth cocked upwards with confidence. “I’m always up for a challenge.”

“Oh, blessed day!! From the very bottom of my oh-so-generous heart, thank you very much!!” Crowley cried tearfully.

For the first time the entire briefing, Riddle smiled back at Yuu. “Hmph. That’s what I like to hear. Happy to be working with you again, Detective.”

“Likewise, Chief.”

The sun had already set when Yuu exited the station, the stars blinking into existence. Several hours had been spent picking the museum curator’s brain with a fine-toothed comb, looking over layouts, and memorizing security detail. The information had been well-stocked, and now came the time to let it marinate and bloom into plans.

Stuffing their hands in their pockets, Yuu shuffled down the sidewalk and past rows of parked vehicles. Ahead, neon lights flashed in and out, and the trains rattled on their well-worn tracks, buses and cars honking at each other, the chatter of street vendors filling the air.

And something different than the usual tonight.

The city never slept, always buzzed with energy. Yuu had become accustomed to its sights and sounds, finding them even comforting. Their best ideas were conceived against the hum of the cityscape. It was just soft enough to not fully distract, but just noticeable enough to tug at their thoughts for long enough to stray into new territories and concepts.

Light from lonely streetlamps created tears in the darkness, illuminating the path to their favorite downtown thinking spot: the Mostro Lounge. A good (albeit overpriced) drink would chase away their tiredness.

Yuu continued with that promise in mind, every step catlike. First quick, next slow, then quick, moderate, slow, quick, slow, quick, moderate. Their speed, ever alternating.

Their ears strained against the sounds of the city, slowly parsing through the individual elements.

Trains, buses, cars, chatter… and the soft footsteps masked by them. Footsteps which matched Yuu’s pace.

There was no mistaking it now.

I’m being followed.

They didn’t look to see who it was—the first rule of tailing a target was to never alert them to your awareness. Yuu would know (as oftentimes they were the one in the position of tailer).

They cast their eyes across the street, which was busy with bodies. Once Yuu merged with the crowd, they could easily shake off their stalker.

Their feet picked up their pace again, hurrying to the crosswalk. It was a glaring red, advising pedestrians to stop.

Shoot, Yuu cursed.

They felt a presence step up beside them. From the corner of their eye, they could make out a dark form--clothes. Yuu pretended to check the time on their phone, and glimpsed him in the reflection.

He was in a hoodie, with the hood pulled up and head down to conceal his features. His hands, too, were out of sight, a sea of baggy fabric hiding identifying features, save for his frame. Lanky, but reasonably packed with muscle to keep up with Yuu.

The man shifted, and his sight grazed theirs. His eyes were hard and icy, a silent threat.

Yuu quickly focused on the crosswalk light. Their heartbeat became as loud as the surrounding sounds. Screeching above the vehicles, shouting from the rooftops. THA-THUMP, THA-THUMP, THA-THUMP.

At last, the light turned from red to white.

Walk.

They started--and so did he.

“Excuse me.” A hand came upon their shoulder. The other pulled at something with a sinister glint. “Do you have a second?”

No walking, Yuu corrected themselves. Run!!

They sprinted down the crosswalk, jostling pedestrians with a hasty “sorry!” thrown back at them. As Yuu weaved through the crowd as fast as they could, they could not completely shunt out the man after them.

“Hey, please wait!! Where are you going?! C-Come back, I need to talk to you!”

His voice carried above the others. People jolted back, the crowd parting to make way for the man to charge forth. His volume swelled louder and louder as he gained on them.

Towering apartments seemed to bear down on Yuu. Their windows, glaring.

A shop. Find a shop and get inside!!

Yuu pumped their arms, pleaded for their legs to move more efficiently.

Again, a weight fell upon their shoulder. It was a clamp, fingers biting Yuu’s skin through their jacket as they dug in and held firm.

The other hand wielded the same shining object that it had before. Yuu looked more closely this time, and the unease in them dissipated. It was not the pointed tip of a knife, but the glint of a familiar officer’s badge wreathed in golden roses.

The man tore off his hood with a sigh--though Yuu noticed that he wasn’t one bit out of breath. Navy bangs fell across his forehead, his eyes a peacock green-blue, much friendlier under the streetlamps than the crosswalk signs.

He smiled at Yuu as though he were greeting an old friend. His grip turned into a tender squeeze. “I finally caught up with you!”

The detective awkwardly pulled away, confusion scrawled on their face. “Um... Sorry, who are you? I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

“Oh! Uh...” The man jumped, retracting his hand. “That’s because we haven’t! Er, not officially anyway, but I’ve heard a lot about you!!”

Yuu pointed to his badge. “That. You’re an officer?”

“Yessir!” The man offered the proof of his identity and stiffly saluted. “Officer Deuce Spade, sir!! I’m a new recruit...!! I just joined the force a few weeks ago!”

Yuu mustered a faint smile. The darned fool was going to give them away. “... Am I in trouble, officer?”

“Nossir! Not at all!” His entire face shone with eagerness, earnest, and a slightly nervous energy. Maybe Yuu would have found it adorable (in the same way that a child trying hard was adorable), were he not blasting your occupation to the public. “Why would you be in trouble, sir?! You’re working with...”

“Okaaay, that’s enough out of you!” Yuu slapped a hand over Deuce’s mouth, silencing him.

Curious onlookers murmured amongst themselves. Some had taken to halt and full-on gawk. Children pointed, adult narrowing their eyes with suspicion.

Yuu frowned, removing their hand to shoo pedestrians away. “Nothing to see here, folks. Just a misunderstanding. Move along, Wonder Boy and I can settle this ourselves.”

“Wonder Boy?” Deuce, in a daze, pointed to himself. “Is that... me?”

“Who else would I be talking about?” Yuu folded their arms. “I assume you’re free now?”

“I am, sir! I was just let off my shift a little while ago, sir!”

“First, drop the ‘sir’. It’s giving me a headache,” Yuu instructed. “Second, if you’re free, then you’ll be joining me for a drink and a chat. We have things to discuss--chief among them being why you were following me.”

Ring-a-ling!

A bell sounded as the door to the Mostro Lounge swung open. Deuce stepped into a new world, Yuu at his side.

The interior itself was dim, but glass lights fastened in the shape of jellyfish projected swimming incandescent lights in purple, blue, and pink. Velvet booths lined one half of the eatery, the other, a glossy bar with tall, narrow stools, the shelves behind it healthily stocked with bottles in jeweled tones. Strangers poised with drink took residence in most of the seats.

The entire back wall had been repurposed into a massive aquarium teeming with aquatic plants and exotic creatures. Seaweed and coral gently swayed to the rhythm of the smooth jazz floating through the lounge, fish frolicking among them.

“Whoooa,” Deuce gasped, craning his head to drink in every detail. “I’ve never been to a place as classy as this. It looks so expensive. You think my salary’s enough to cover at least an appetizer?”

“Hang on tight to your wallet,” Yuu warned. “This place will squeeze you for every thaumark you’re worth and then some—and they won’t feel a bit of remorse about it.”

The detective raised an arm, flagging a nearby waiter.

Their uniform was simple yet sleek: dark dress pants, a white bow tie, spotless gloves, and a cummerbund and suspenders over a lavender button-up shirt. It allowed for slight variation—one waiter skidded by with his shirt buttoned as low as food safety regulations deemed safe. Another jotted down orders with a jacket thrown over his shoulders and a pair of glasses tucked into the crevice of his buttons.

The waiter Yuu called out to approached like a shark fin cutting through still water, neatly bowing to greet their waiting customers. He was prim and proper compared to the other servers, not a button out of place.

When he raised his head, Deuce marveled at his mismatched olive and gold irises, the teal of his hair marred by a stripe of black. Three diamond-shaped scales dangled from his left ear, as sharp as his eyes.

“I bid you welcome to the Mostro Lounge, honored guests,” the waiter said smoothly. He gaze immediately cut to Deuce. “I see you’ve brought a friend with you, today, Yuu-san. How delightfully rare.”

“Acquaintance. We just met outside under… less than ideal circumstances.”

“Oya, how quick you were to seize on that chance encounter. I may even deem you a bigger opportunist than our dear manager.”

“… Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Deuce inquired.

“Perhaps you will find the answer to your question, should you act as a patron at our establishment for long enough.”

“Quit toying with him, Jade. You know what we’re here for,” Yuu grumbled. “My usual.”

“If that is what you wish. And for this gentleman acquaintance of yours?”

“Just ice water is fine, sir!��

Jade maintained his polite smile. “Very well. One glass of ice cold water for you. I will bring you a menu as well, in case you begin to feel peckish late into the night.”

“Oh, thanks!”

“Right this way then.” Jade gestured for the two to follow him.

“He’s upselling you, you know,” Yuu pointed out under their breath. “Hoping that you’ll buy something when presented with the opportunity to spend.”

“E-Eh, he is?! I didn’t even realize…”

“Fufufu. Please, do not let your worries consume you. You have come to relax, correct? We at the Mostro Lounge ask that you put your fins and your feet up and enjoy yourself while the night is still young.”

They were escorted to two empty stools in a (relatively) quiet corner of the bar. The glass jellyfish lights were clustered in the center of the main dining area, leaving the corner like a slice of dark, uncharted waters. Jass music and conversation filtered into a muffled melody.

Yuu plopped down with relief, followed by an apprehensive Deuce. He slowly sank into the cushy seat.

“I will be right back with your drinks. If you will excuse me.” With another bow, Jade rounded the bar and rolled up his sleeves—the transition from waiter to bartender. Presenting his back to the duo, he set to plucking bottles off of the shelves.

Deuce blinked. He still hadn’t taken to fully processing his new surroundings. “Are we really going kick back and have drinks when there’s a serial thief on the loose?”

“We can’t talk about that in public, or risk blowing my cover. It’s safe to talk here,” Yuu reassured him. “What happens in the Mostro Lounge stays in the Mostro Lounge. Say what you want about the slimy staff, but they know how to keep their patrons’ secrets. Client confidentiality and all.”

The young officer brightened. “Ooooh, I get it!”

“… You’re not the sharpest tool in the shed,” Yuu remarked bluntly. They slipped off their baseball cap, letting loose their hair. “So? Let’s have it.”

“Have what?”

“Your reason for following me.”

“Oh!! That.” Deuce nervously scratched at the back of his neck. “That’s kind of…”

The detective drummed their fingers on the polished counter. Methodical, deliberate. “You mentioned that you recently joined the force. However, only senior officials in the police department and myself were privy to this operation. How did you come to learn about it?”

Deuce stiffened, thrown off his beat (if he had any to begin with). “Th-That’s…!”

“I’m asking you a question, Mr. Spade. Please answer me truthfully.”

“I… um… Truth is, I…” Deuce stared at his lap, unable to meet the detective’s eyes. “I might have eavesdropped when I returned from my patrol shift…”

“Go on,” Yuu coaxed.

“There was a report I had to submit to the Chief, but it sounded like he was busy in his office. It’s hard to not notice him when he raises his voice, sir. I decided to wait outside until he was done, and… well, I got curious.”

“Wasn’t Assistant Chief Clover also present? He just let you do that without a single protest?”

“Assistant Chief Clover was very nice to me! He laughed a little and said ‘make sure you don’t get caught with your hand in the cookie jar’!”

Darn it, Trey!! You could’ve been a LITTLE stricter with this guy…! Yuu groaned, massaging the bridge of their nose. “Okay, I think I’m starting to get a better picture of what went down. You followed me wanting to learn more about the operation.”

Like a curious child chasing after a white rabbit. Still immature, still wondering, and still way over their head.

“Yes, but that’s not all!” Deuce insisted. He abruptly stood from the table. “There’s an even more important reason than just satisfying my curiosity, sir!”

Yuu quirked an eyebrow. “And what’s that?”

“I had to talk to you—without the Chief around. I had to. That’s why I followed you in secret.” The officer nibbled his lower lip, as if biting back something harsh and bitter from coming up.

“Out with it, Mr. Spade.”

“Pardon the intrusion,” Jade coolly interjected. His tone was nonchalant but his bemused smile was a telltale sign that he was relishing in every second of the hot gossip. “Your beverages.”

He slid two glasses between Yuu and Deuce before departing. One was tall and slim—a highball—loaded with carbonated water and fruity gummies. Yellow for jeweled pineapples, red for ruby berries, green for frozen mint, black for floral cacao, and blue from pure azure salt. It was Yuu’s usual, the famed Mystery Drink. The other glass was, by comparison, an ordinary drink of water, a single large, clear cube of ice floating in it.

A bead of sweat ran down Deuce’s jawline. Condensation forming and racing on his glass of water.

Suddenly, the officer slapped both hands on the counter, slamming his face down upon its surface. His navy hair splayed, forehead touching the table in a display of humility.

Yuu almost spilled their drink. “What are you doing?”

“I’m begging you, sir!! P-Please put me on the mission!!” Deuce pleaded, his voice shaky but resolute. “I… I want to help catch the Knave of Hearts too!!”

“If that’s all you wanted, why ask me? Go through the proper channels to…”

“I can’t!! The Chief would never allow it.” His expression creased with shame. “He says rookies need to work their way up from meter maid to working on cases.”

“He’s right. You need to grow into these things, not rush in head-first in a burst of passion.” Yuu made to take a sip of their drink—but the officer’s fist collided with the counter, the liquid inside the glass sloshing overboard. Seltzer water splashed onto their pant leg, leaving a sticky wet spot on a thigh.

“P-Please reconsider! I know how to handle myself in a fight! I’m fast, I could easily catch up with him if it’s a race on foot!”

“Look,” the detective said irritably, “I don’t know what you’re hoping to accomplish here. Fact is, no matter how much you ask, I wouldn’t want to take you on for this case. You’re too green behind the ears—and sorry, but I just don’t see you as an asset.

“You may be strong and quick on your feet, but it’ll take more than strength and speed to catch the Knave of Hearts. There’s a reason he hasn’t been caught yet.” Yuu tapped at their temple. “It’s this. He’s got smarts, and we need to combat that with smarts of our own.”

“I-I can be smart!! I can try to, at least! Please, just let me try…!!”

Frustrated, Yuu scrutinized the young man again. Their eyes roaming, searching, for detail wrong, a hair out of place.

Years of sleuthing had built up a great amount of cynicism and distrust in the detective. How many times had they pulled back the curtain, revealing the ugly truths hidden out of plain sight? How many bruised egos--both clients and coworkers--had they encountered? People seeking status or to feed their own pride.

Yet when they looked at Deuce, none of that ugliness or ego came through. Here was someone who stubbornly stared right back at Yuu, unwilling to back down, even when his dignity lay in tatters on the floor the instant he prostrated himself.

Another selfish bid for recognition? They ventured, toying with the idea. Maybe personal ambition, looking to climb up in the world.

“... One reason,” Yuu said, holding up an index finger. “Give me one good reason why I should take you on. Convince me.”

Deuce recoiled--as though even he hadn’t expected to have made it this far, or to be taken seriously at all. His brows creased with effort as he racked the recesses of his mind to find the right phrasing.

A second later, he let out a piercing shout.

“GAAAAAAAAH!!”

With a grunt, Deuce grasped his cup of ice water and lifted it to his lips. He hammered the drink in a single swig, releasing a satisfied hoot. The liquid courage had revived the man, returning the spark to him.

In a voice as clear as the drink he had just downed, Deuce said, “It’s for my mom. She’s just about the sweetest, most hard-working person I know.”

He hung his head and slammed his empty cup down, shaking the entire table.

“She raised me as a single parent. Mom never once complained, only wanted the best life for me.” Deuce glared into his glass, speaking with scorn and anger--not at others, but for himself. “And how did I repay her? I... turned to delinquency.

“I acted out because I wasn’t man enough to do the mature thing and work on myself!! She blamed herself for my stupid decisions! I made mom worry for me so, so much...”

Plip, plip.

Deuce faltered, letting quiet tears dribble down his cheeks and landing on the cube of ice left in his glass. Once they made contact with the frozen block, it was impossible to tell what was water and what was salt.

“I swore to myself that I would turn my life around... to show mom that it’s not her fault, that she did all she could to raised someone who could contribute to society!! So I studied really hard at the police academy, and even though my grades were crappy, I managed to graduate...!!”

He choked up, a concoction of fiery passion infused in his stuttering words. “I can finally be that model officer and make a change in the community! But I haven’t done a damn thing...! I just play meter maid while bad guys are out there running free, when I could be out there making this city a safer place for mom and everyone that lives here...!!”

The noises of the lounge seemed to fade into a stoic silence around Deuce. His declaration reverberated loudly. “I have to do this. I need to do this.”

He bowed again, his forehead pressed hard against the surface of the table. The single word he uttered was hoarse, desperate.

“Please.”

Deuce pried himself up almost painfully. The eyes were aquamarine, wet with hot tears. Something shone through them in shades of blue and green, priceless as any treasure: an honesty that burned like an eternal flame.

Yuu startled, striken by a single, haunting revelation: He’s telling the truth.

“... I don’t think I’ve met someone like you before,” they said cryptically. “I don’t doubt your story—but as touching as it is, I don’t know if...”

Hesitation reared its head, and Yuu forced themselves to look away. Couldn’t bear to see him, that wide-eyed sincerity.

Emotion clashing with their sound logic. Two things that shouldn’t have belonged together colliding.

Wait... things that don’t belong together? Things I didn’t expect, surprises and twists to the tale...

A ex-delinquent turned into a policeman. A selfishness turned selfless. An anticipated lie turned into a truth. Something there that hadn’t been before.

The detective’s mind raced, quickly outpacing the words leaving their mouth. A solution which subverted expectations, a trap laced with honey for a man with sticky fingers.

That’s it. We’ll pull a trick of our own.

“Okay, I’ve changed my mind,” Yuu abruptly announced. “You’re in on this operation, Mr. Spade.”

“R-Really?!” Deuce’s face nearly tore in half, his volume revving up like a motorcycle engine. “You mean it?!”

“I do.”

Yuu took a cool sip of their Mystery Drink. Flavors from all over Twisted Wonderland cascaded over their tongue—a triumphant, fleeting pleasure.

They set their glass down and bent over, gripping Deuce by the strings of his hoodie. Yuu tugged, bringing the policeman lurching forward.

His clammy forehead against theirs. Centimeters away, his eyes widened. A flushed heat climbed to his cheeks, his voice set in a stammer.

“S-Sir, what are we...”

“You’ll have to follow my instructions very carefully,” Yuu replied with a devious grin. “Listen up, rookie: cuz you’re going to be the star of this show. Here’s the plan...”

The ambience of the lounge drowned out Yuu’s whispers. From afar, their words could only be read through the shapes of their mouth, the increasingly confused and alarmed expressions that Deuce pulled.

Jade observed them patiently, chuckling to himself. “My, my, it seems like our genius detective has found yet another solution.”

CLATTER, CLATTER!!

A tray piled high with empty plates and dishes was slammed down. Jade’s twin peered around the stack, leaning lazily against the bar.

“Eeeh, but I bet against them this time.”

“Playing the contrarian runs its risks.” Jade picked up a glass, staring at his brother through it. The golden orb called his left eye was clear as a topaz. “As for myself, I’m excited to see how this plays out.”

PLAP.

A notepad came down on the table as a third waiter joined them.

“Both of you need to stop gossiping and get back to work,” their manager chided, sliding the notepad—scrawled with fresh orders—to Jade. “Leave the customers to tend to their own business. We’ll soon know the outcome.”

[To be continued...]

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cryptidghostgirl · 7 months

Note

HOLY SHIT

I just got to reading the request you did for me

Aka Till Death Do Us Part (Alastor x Mad Scientist!Reader)

And I love it so much???

Like it's so good 😭

Don't wanna bother you with another request but could you do a part 2? I'm just curious on if the reader ever succeeds or if alastor ends up getting their marriage back lmao

A/N i’m so glad you liked it!! a number of people have been asking for a part two actually so of course :) Also this is my reminder that I am not a woman in stem but an enby in classics so I get science things wrong,, i’m very sorry.

Till Death Do Us Part pt. 2 (Alastor x Mad Scientist!Reader)

Pairing: Alastor x Reader

Warnings: Nothing I can think of please correct me if I am wrong.

Word Count: 2,206

First Part: Till Death Do Us Part (Alastor x Mad Scientist!Reader)

Master Lists:

Master Lists

Hazbin Hotel Master List

"I can still be useful" Alastor told himself as he straightened the lapels on his jacket, "She still needs me."

Alastor leaned into the mirror, slicking his hair back just the slightest bit.

"Yes." he nodded to his reflection.

Taking a deep breath, Alastor stepped out into the hall. He didn't know why he was so nervous. Y/n had never caused anxiety to rule his being before, so why was it happening now?

Since her arrival at the hotel, she had stayed locked in her room. Two whole days had gone by and the demon avoided everyone and everything. It was not unexpected or out of the blue, she had always favored her own company above anyone else's but, Charlie was growing tense. She had asked Alastor to help bring their newest guest out of her shell, hoping their shared past would cause his attempts to be more fruitful than her own had been. For some odd reason, Alastor had agreed.

Fondness was the trouble. He was fond of Charlie, and he had always had a bit of a soft spot for Y/n. She had been his wife for christ's sake, there was no way he couldn't have fostered some sort of affection for the wildly brilliant and creative girl.

Before he really realized it, Alastor was at the door to Y/n's room. She had taped a sheet of loose leaf to the door. Keep Out had been written on it in all caps, in her familiar, messy handwriting. Alastor's smile softened slightly at the sight.

Y/n had not haunted his thoughts, had not been an obsession, since his arrival in Hell. While he had recalled her with warmth and a slight smile, even looked for her in Hell on occasion, she had mostly stayed out of his mind after his death. Alastor had had bigger things to deal with, more important occupations of his time. He had had plans. He still had plans but, everything had seemed to change the second Y/n had appeared and nearly flat out told him she didn't care about him.

Alastor was nothing if not prideful. His image, his sense of self, his power, it all played in to the idea of himself in his head. He had figured that through the years of their arrangement, the strange woman had come to harbor some sort of affection for him as he did her. He had figured she at least cared for him as a friend, that her irritation had been friendly, playful even. Clearly, he had been incorrect.

The door suddenly swung open revealing Y/n. She wore an cross expression, a lab coat, and safety goggles. Peering over her shoulder into the room, Alastor noted the way her hair was still continuing whatever she'd been working on before opening the door. He had never seen a demon with a form like hers before. It was perfectly suited, equally unusual as the soul it housed.

"I could feel you standing out here."

Alastor raised his eyebrows, bravado taking over.

"Really, my dear?" he asked, leaning on his microphone before him as if it were a cane.

"Yeah." Y/n flatly replied, lifting the goggles from their eyes and pushing them onto their forehead, "What do you want?"

"I..."

What did he want? Alastor was a man who always knew his goals, his aims. He was always working towards something, no deed without its purpose. It was only now he realized that he didn't really know what he wanted from Y/n, why he had really agreed to fulfill Charlie's request with nothing given in return. Alastor cleared his throat, banishing the complicated thought to another time.

"Charlie requested I come speak to you about your lack of participation in the hotel's group activities."

Y/n raised her eyebrows.

"And you care what I do with my time because...?"

She tilted her head slightly to the side, her hands still on either side of the doorframe, blocking him from entering the room. Alastor sighed.

"You're not going to make this an easy conversation, are you."

It was a statement, not a question, and a slight smile cracked across Y/n's tired face.

"You know me so well." she joked lightly.

Alastor was ready, preparing himself to have to force his way into the room to have this chat. He saw the way her hand on the door twitched, and prepared himself to have it slammed in his face. Much to his surprise, Y/n let go of her hold on the door and stepped to the side.

"Are you just gonna stand there or are you going to come in?" she asked after a moment, her head cocked to the side in a genuine curiosity.

Alastor nearly laughed. Always so inquisitive with regards to the world around her, always trying to fill the gaps in her understanding, usually at a loss when it came to what was considered normal interaction. He stepped into the room. Y/n's hair stopped what it was doing with the test tubes in the back and closed the door for her as she turned to face him. After a look of appraisal, she seemed to decide the atmosphere for the conversation and sat down on the bed, patting the empty space beside her at Alastor's continued hesitation. He sat down and she crossed her legs, watching him intently.

"You need to stop avoiding people, and the activities. You are here to be redeemed, aren't you?"

"Oh! I see what the issue is." Y/n smiled brightly, "No, I'm not."

Alastor's brow furrowed. He had thought it odd that Y/n of all people would seek redemption but, had figured the time had simply changed her in ways he had yet to grasp.

"Then why are you here?"

The little beast called hope clawed at the inside of his stomach, gnawed on his ribs. The want was unfamiliar.

"Because I need an angel."

Alastor froze.

"You need..." he watched her in confusion, "you need an angel?"

"Yep." Y/n nodded in earnest.

She smiled up at him, evidently satisfied with herself and her response. She had always been like this. Alastor sighed.

"Why?"

"Because I need to test my virus on one, duh."

"Y/n, what are you planning."

"Same thing as always. Actually, I could use your help. Maybe this isn't all so bad, can you get me an angel? Just at the next extermination or something. I already know it works on demons, I just don't want to actually let my little baby loose without knowing it will work on the angels as well."

"Jesus, Y/n." Alastor laughed lightly, unable to not.

He shook his head in disbelief and Y/n's smile slipped from her face. She was always scheming, always wanting, always doing what it took to ensure she got what she wanted. They were so alike in that way: complete and utter disregard for the world unless it served them.

"What? Did I do something wrong? Did this hotel already work? Have the exterminations stopped?"

"No, I... you really haven't changed."

"Well, I'm taking out the afterlife now instead of the living world, but sure." Y/n crossed her arms, evidently irritated by his remark, "I'm just the same. So are you, by the way. I've heard about what you've been up to since you died."

Alastor was silent in thought for a moment before he spoke again. He looked at Y/n with a determined gaze.

"Are you asking to reinstate our deal?"

Y/n was wrong, Alastor had changed, she just didn't know it yet. The hotel had changed him, whether or not he wanted to admit it. He realized the answer to Y/n's initial question, what it was that he wanted, in that moment and there were only three things. The first was the same as it had been for the last seven years, to get rid of this damned contract he was under. The second? The second he had realized earlier, in his room when he'd been getting ready to come to Y/n, he just hadn't liked it and so, he had ignored it. Alastor wanted to be back in her good books. More importantly, for some undefinable reason, Alastor wanted her back at his side. The world, he had realized, had felt empty without her, no matter how irritating and distracting she could be. Though his motivations were muddy, figuring out the reason for the want was never the priority. The end goal was to fulfill by any means necessary. It always had been, for both of them. The third was that Alastor secretly wanted Charlie's crazy plan to work out. He wanted to protect these sinners, to protect this place they had all worked so hard to build.

There was a point of intersection to be found in two of these three things, if Y/n answered his question correctly. Taking out sinners, taking an angel, could let all hell loose on the hotel. Convincing Y/n to make a deal with him, to give Alastor her soul, well, that would be killing two birds with one stone. He would have his imperfect little companion in afterlife and he could stop her from doing any more damage to the hotel and its reputation than necessary to ensure the first thing took place.

"I suppose."

That was exactly what he had been hoping to hear. The first deal had been under her terms. Alastor had been hoodwinked into it, unable to turn it down due to the information on him she had uncovered. Now, the tables had turned. Alastor held his hand out towards her, grinning malevolently.

"How about this, let's make a new one."

"I don't see why not." Y/n shrugged after having thought it over, her hand meeting his, "Things are different, we're both dead. The old one wouldn't really work anymore."

"No, it wouldn't, would it?"

"Yeah so, you get me an angel to test this on. I start participating more in the hotel. Deal?"

"How about this." Alastor's grin widened, his antlers growing as well as his shadows ate away at the room's walls.

Y/n didn't flinch. Nothing in her expression changed save a slight twinge of intrigue as she watched him become more monstrous by the second, more all consuming.

"I help you get an angel. You stick by my side, like the old days. That would include participation in the hotel and all of Charlie's plans as it is where I work for now. A metaphorical taking of a soul rather than a heart, shall we say."

He was counting on her lack of interest in the world outside of science right now, counting on her lack of understanding of how things worked in Hell when an overlord offered a deal like this. He had chosen the words carefully, getting everything right while keeping the truth hidden.

"I'll still have time to work on my project?" she asked skeptically.

"When there is time."

Y/n smiled.

"Deal."

Green smoke wound its way out from the point their palms met. Y/n watched it, eyes wide with intrigue as it curled around them, temporarily filling the room.

"Is that what happens when deals get made in Hell?" Y/n asked as she let go of Alastor's hand.

"Only certain ones."

"Cool."

She got to her feet, snapping her goggles back over her eyes. Turning to the table, she began to fiddle with her test tubes once again. Alastor retook his normal form, watching her with a satisfied smirk. He summoned the chain, feeling the cool shadow of the mellow across his fingers. Y/n seemed not to notice as the collar formed around her neck. Alastor didn't like that, didn't like being ignored. He gave it a tug and she stumbled back a few steps, her hands flying to her throat and her hair catching the glass beaker she had nearly dropped.

Y/n noticed the chain now. It was impossible not to. As her hair set the beaker down, she turned to Alastor, eyes fixed on the glowing metal. Her gaze traced it from where she held it to his hands. Y/n looked up at him.

"What's this?" she asked, eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion, "When did this get here? How..."

She trailed off and Alastor's smile grew wider still. He advanced towards her, wrapping the excess chain around the handle of his microphone. It clinked menacingly against itself, spawning a sudden deep seated dread in Y/n.

She held her place, her shoulders thrown back and feet planted firmly. Alastor couldn't tell if it was all a show or if she really was not at all scared of him in that moment. He didn't really care, it didn't matter. She stared intently up at him in defiance as Alastor came to a stop about a half a foot away.

"Well?"

"Oh my sweet, you really have no idea what you've gotten yourself in to, do you?"

It was better than he could have hoped, could have dreamed. She was entirely under his control.

"Welcome to the rest of your afterlife."

----

Next Part → Till Death do us Part pt. 3

A/N I wasn't super sure how to end this off, I hope you liked it!!

@marukun @nanami1chu @i-like-potatoes12533 @boogiemansbitch @apenasandorinha @almond-t0fu @mygoldtears @ahellborn @winterisholding @misty-melody @themetalbabygirl @trash-shoot

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python333 · 3 months

Text

residual self-image — python³

― ― ― ―

synopsis residual self-image is the mental projection of your digital self; it refers to your own physical appearance that is understood by you, that is projected unto you by yourself. you see yourself as something to be ashamed of. price sees something different.

relationships platonic!captain price & gn!reader.

characters cap. price.

word count 7.6k

warnings anxiety/panic attack [not sure exactly how to classify it; i think it's more of an anxiety attack?], reader takes SSRIs [zoloft/sertraline], suicidal thoughts and almost-suicide attempt, reader is the most unreliable narrator known to mankind, second person pov [you/your/yourself], usage of [name], usage of [c/n] for call sign/code name, bad matrix references/spoilers for the matrix and the matrix: reloaded.

note please please PLEASE let me know if this comes off as me romanticizing having anxiety or taking antidepressants so that i can fix/rewrite it /srs i don't take any form of antidepressants or anxiety medication and i also am not diagnosed with either of those!! nothing i say is final!!! i do not have firsthand experience with what reader goes through in this fic!! sorry i disappeared for a second, have some food as an apology. again, feel free to correct me on anything you think is inaccurate and i will (most likely) change it!! also sorry for like 3k words of backstory oopsies

In The Matrix, Morpheus gives Neo two options: blue pill, or red pill?

He says that if Neo takes the blue pill, “the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe”. But the second option, the red pill, if Neo takes that, he will “stay in wonderland and [he] show [Neo] how deep the rabbit hole goes”. Neo, of course, takes the red pill, and is shown the “real world”.

Neo is thought to be “the One”. With the “O” in “One” being capitalized, so you know that it’s a pretty important title.

In the end, Neo becomes confident in who he is and what he can do, and defeats the “Agents”. Trinity confesses her love to a “sleeping” Neo, their ship is getting attacked by whatever those weird fuckin’ creatures were called, and Neo defeats the last of the agents. The end.

You take pills too. But yours are blue. They’re matte, powdery, baby-blue pills that are branded with the name “ZOLOFT”. It’s sertraline, to be specific, and you’ve been taking it for the past few months. You’re new to pills like these, ones meant to treat anxiety and depression and a number of other medical issues, so you didn’t know how much to take at first. You asked your doctor so many questions. You think about it often, and wonder if, even though it’s their job, that doctor had gotten annoyed at some point because of your inquiry.

These pills do similar things to the ones in The Matrix, though. You take them, preferably at night, and wake up in your bed like you always do. You believe whatever you want to believe, and another chapter is closed at the end of every day, marking another page closer to the end of your story.

Some days, the story feels like it’s going to end sooner than expected.

A side effect of sertraline―or, well, Zoloft specifically―happens to be suicidal ideation. It’s not that common, not that talked about, and isn’t the most well-known. But then again, most mental disorder-treating medicines have some kind of side effect like that, and plenty of people take things like antidepressants without an issue―or so you thought―so surely you could deal with something as simple as sertraline, right?

Wrong. So, so, wrong.

It’s probably really bad for a person who works in a military group to be dealing with such thoughts. You think about quitting sometimes, for the sake of the other people in the task force, because what could happen if the wrong straw breaks the wrong camel’s back while you’re doing an assignment? What if, caught in the crossfire between your team and your enemy, you say fuck it and decide that it’s all just too much? What are the odds of that happening? What are the odds of anything happening? What were the odds of the Earth being created, of the first animals evolving, of the first humans speaking the first languages? Statistics are so important, chance is so important, and odds determine everything. What are the odds of you deciding whether or not you have the will to live? The ability to keep going, to keep the routine you’ve always kept, to keep from taking one of those G19s from the armory and turning off the safety before pulling the trigger? To commit to such a permanent solution, one you’ve deemed as the “s-word”, because thinking about it sometimes is too much.

Or maybe it’d be a rope, your brain continues without your consent, A chain. Anything that will hold your body weight up enough for you to dangle from the fan on the ceiling―an image that makes you lean towards a chain, sickeningly enough, because of the idea of your abnormally stretched neck on display. The purple bruising that would appear, the indentations of each link, the smell of your blood and the metal of the chain unable to be told apart. Maybe your eyes would still be open, and it would look like you’re staring down at anyone who walks into your office. There’s so many possibilities. They add up, and create new odds, new chances. Every time you simply think, you are creating a new way to go about life, and that creation is sometimes stored so deeply in the back of your mind that it haunts you. It comes back around, becomes more common, the chances of it happening go up.

Sometimes the odds feel like they aren’t in your favor at all. Sometimes you wonder how you could’ve ever thought that any part of the universe was against you. It’s not bipolar; it doesn’t come and go in extremes, it just comes and goes. The odds will lower in your favor some days, and you will deem those days “bad days”, and other days they will be so high you don’t even think about “good days” or “bad days”. But those other days are almost as bad as the “bad days”, because they go by so quickly. You take them for granted so easily, too easily, and they leak through the thin lines between your fingers, leaving you with nothing by the end of the day.

Sometimes on “bad days”, your hands go from cupped to praying, and you will plead with yourself to just get better. You never do, on those days, and after taking your medicine you will go to sleep and believe that the next day will be better. Or, at least, convince yourself that the next day will be better.

You would’ve understood if Neo took the blue pill. If he stayed in blissful ignorance, even after all of the weird shit that happened to him. If he continued to wake up every day in a “normal” world, to sell computer systems and hacking programs, to be anyone but “The One”.

Because that’s what you do. You take your medicine, and go on with life as normally as possible, even with all of the things that you’ve been through. You wouldn’t want to be the one responsible for saving the world, or beating up robot-alien-things, or whatever. Just like how you don’t want to be held responsible for really just… taking care of yourself.

Which you’re shit at, by the way, if that doesn’t make things worse.

You take your sertraline and that’s about it. It’s not like it doesn’t work, it’s just underwhelming sometimes. Before you got on it, you would take more things to heart, think about things more, and were probably a little more prone to actually killing yourself. After starting to take it, it was admittedly pretty rough. It felt like your anxiety had increased a little, like your paranoia had only heightened, and everything felt so elevated.

Then, maybe a few months after beginning to take it, everything dimmed out. Like one of those lightbulbs you can dim, everything gradually came back down, and even lowered to a more tolerable level. You were glad, at first, that you had endured those first few months the way that you did because you’re not sure you would’ve even been here to this day had you not. Reading several articles and Reddit posts about Zoloft definitely didn’t help, especially as someone who was taking it partially for anxiety, but still, you managed.

And then you realized that just taking the medicine didn’t do as much as you hoped it would.

It helps you deal with anxious and depressive thoughts, yes, but you still feel like something’s missing. That lightbulb in your mind has dimmed, but it’s only just enough light to see ahead of you. Before all of this, the light was bright enough to blind you, to make you see that dreadful stark-white that still sometimes haunts you―when it dimmed down to where it is now, it was obviously a relief, but you feel like now there’s not enough light.

You understand the whole point of the medicine is to dim that light, to help bring down your mental state to a more “normal” one, but you think that even people who don’t have diagnosed mental disorders feel strong emotions like you used to. Maybe not as strong, but definitely something adjacent to it. You miss that, funnily enough―getting strong enough emotions.

Right now, you’re sitting at your desk in your office, staring down at the plate of mashed potatoes in front of you. You get it almost every time it’s offered, and endure the teasing you get from your teammates, all for one purpose.

To hide your pills in it.

Mashed potatoes are starchy, yes, but easy to swallow without chewing. They’re thick enough to help hide the feeling of the pill going down your throat, and don’t leave that weird aftertaste in your mouth that taking your medicine with water does. You tried taking the pills with water at first, like you would with any other medicine, but with this specifically you just can’t. It’s too easy to notice, they’re too big to just hide with water, and it feels like swallowing a rock every time you take them with water.

So, mashed potatoes it is.

The pill is already mixed into it. You had folded the small blue tablet into the mushed vegetable with a plastic fork, trying to keep it as hidden as possible, making sure no hints of blue bled through the beige-yellow of the potato.

You’re now watching the mashed potatoes, unblinking, as if it’s going to grow legs and run away from you. It’s never truly easy swallowing the medicine, even with the mashed potatoes coating it, but it’s usually easier than it is today. Then again, today was deemed a “bad day” the moment you woke up, so this was to be expected.

You grab the white plastic fork after a brief moment of hesitation and pierce the food with it, hand trembling ever-so slightly as you do―not from anxiety, but from your lack of water intake―and pick up a clump of potato with little strength. The vegetable oddly weighs your hand down the tiniest bit more than usual, but you ignore this in favor of pushing yourself to just force the food into your mouth. You try your best not to chew, your jaw only really moving to chew the side of your cheek instead to satisfy your urges, and eventually manage to swallow the food.

Right off the bat, you can tell the cluster you swallowed had the pill in it. Lucky me, you think almost bitterly, not sure whether you should be happy or uncomfortable, at least it’s over with. It’s not that it’s a bad thing that you got to the pill so quickly, but usually you’re able to get a few bites of medicine-less potato in before the actual medicine itself. Nonetheless, you scoop up another fork-full―fork-full?―of mashed potatoes and try to eat as much as you can to get rid of the weird feeling of having a pill going down your throat.

Just the fleeting thought of having a pill that big going down your throat makes it feel like your esophagus is closing. You feel yourself grow closer to nausea at the feeling, setting down your fork and pushing the paper plate of your dinner aside, just to rest your elbow on the table and put your forehead in the palm of your head. It’s bad enough that you feel ashamed because of the fact you even have to take antidepressants, so it’s even worse that those same antidepressants are throwing bad side-effects at you.

Ashamed because needing medicine to function the same way anyone else does feels so pathetic to you. Maybe it isn’t pathetic. Actually, you know it isn’t; you don’t look at other people who do the same thing and think that they should feel as ashamed as you do. But you still look at your bright orange prescription bottle, labeled with your legal name, and think that you shouldn’t need it.

You think, for a moment, that it’s because of how much you’ve dehumanized yourself.

Dehumanized is such an ugly word, and it leaves a strange bitterness in your mind after thinking about it, but deep down you feel that it’s true. You know that you’re human, obviously, because physically that’s what you are. You are, undeniably, a homo sapien―a person, a living being that is a bipedal primate mammal. You, in a less literal sense, have those same cords attached to you that Neo did when he first went to the “real world”.

But you need those cords, you think, lifting your head so that your chin is resting in your palm instead of your forehead, you need to stay attached to the Matrix.

Because you took the blue pill. You found a way to keep yourself attached to the Matrix, to keep yourself grounded to what you wish you could experience without them. And those cables weigh you down, and that pod you stay encased in limits your movement―sometimes you feel more like the pod than the person inside of it―but it all seems so worth it to you, doesn’t it? To keep believing what you want to believe, to wake up everyday and dose yourself with that fifty-milligrams worth of sertraline hidden under a pile of food, to eat that food and swallow that pill even though it makes you feel like a mutt?

You take a shuddering breath in, your thoughts building up in volume and mass, more questions entering your mind too fast for you to process them all. You feel that familiar rush of adrenaline, the kind that triggers your ‘fight-or-flight’. It lights your nerves on fire and causes them to jump, to electrify, and you feel your fingers twitch with the feeling. It almost feels like there’s something crawling along your nerves, under your skin, and the thought almost triggers your gag reflex. Your eyelids flutter, barely shutting for just a moment before you force them open. Your gaze flits over to the still-mostly-full plate of mashed potatoes.

You’re usually able to finish them, even on “bad days”. But today, with nausea swirling uncomfortably in your stomach, and a too-big pill going through the thin tubes inside your body, you find that it’s much harder to even think about picking that fork back up. You can almost feel your heart beating through your palm, that continuous th-thump, th-thump growing exponentially faster, and your palm getting sweatier by the second. You shift your feet and find that invisible needles are poking at the bottom of them, small pins that push and prod at your skin that leave a strange hot-cold feeling. It forces you to take the pressure off of your feet by holding them up ever-so slightly, the soles of your shoes just barely touching the ground.

You swear your heart rate increases at all the different sensations lingering on your body. You can feel your breathing starting to pick up, and for God knows what reason, you suddenly find it difficult to keep your eyes locked onto one object. Your gaze dances around the room as a surge of chills runs up your spine. A trail of goosebumps rises after each wave of biting cold, passing over the bony projections of your dorsum. After having so many of them, you know instinctively the signs of an oncoming anxiety attack, and know how quick those symptoms escalate from simple shallow breaths to the inability to keep your breathing consistent at all. Yes, they develop slower than a panic attack does, but the gradient from fine to not-fine is hard to view as slow when there’s so many symptoms to keep track of.

At the thought of such a thing happening, your gaze instantly locks onto the prescription bottle sitting on your desk. It’s still uncapped―fortunate for you, because you’re seriously doubting your ability to uncap something with a child-proof cap on it right now―and in your eyes is practically glowing. It’s so tempting, because it’s just right there, so easily accessible, so easy to just grab and pour however many pills you need down your throat. The thought makes you realize how dry your mouth feels, how constricted your throat feels, but your mind is too filled with a flurry of incoherent thoughts to dwell on such feelings.

With your free hand, you grab the uncapped bottle. It shakes with your hand, now more from your building anxiety than your dehydration, and makes the tablets inside rattle. You bring it to your lips, ignoring the chiding voice in the back of your mind telling you how disgusting it is to just put it on your mouth like that, and shake it just enough to get a single pill out of it. The dryness of the pill sticks to the wetness of your mouth, just below the border of your bottom lip. You set the bottle down and poke at the pill with the tip of your tongue, the weird vanilla-like taste of the medicine spreading across the muscle easily.

Your mouth is dry, so you have to use the residual saliva sitting on your tongue to slick the pill up enough to go down somewhat-smoothly down your throat. It’s still rough, and some areas of the pill remain powdery, the feeling of it sliding down your throat enough to make you gag. For a brief moment, the action causes the pill to lodge in your throat―it’s not big enough to make you choke or anything, but it’s enough to make your heart beat faster and your hands grip onto the edge of your desk tightly. Your thumbs are tucked under the edge, the first knuckle at the tip of your finger bent and the flesh of the tips of your fingers turning lighter from the pressure.

You cough once you feel the pill go down your esophagus entirely, and breathe raggedly afterwards. Deep down, you know that the medicine takes some time to work, and that if you gave it a little longer than a minute that you’d start feeling better. But the reeling anxiety that wraps around your throat like a chain seems to pull you impossibly farther away from that betterness, and forces your throat to tighten to a point where your breathing feels limited. You go from breathing through your nose to your mouth, where you can still taste the lingering artificial-vanilla with every inhale.

It’s getting worse, an annoying voice tells you, one that manages to be louder than the others, the medicine’s supposed to help. You’ve only taken a hundred milligrams so far. Another and it’s a hundred and fifty. An overdose is only if it goes over two hundred.

It’s stupid logic but more tempting the more you think about it. It is, after all, only a third pill. You’d be pushing it—

Do you really care all that much that you’re pushing it? What if you want to break that limit? The limits you made, to keep yourself alive, that you still sometimes question the existence of?

―but that doesn’t really compute well in your mind, and you soon find yourself reaching for the bottle again. Each pill shakes with your hand, and with each tremor another wave of tablets hits the sides of the bottle, like a visual representation of the thoughts that bounce off of the walls of your brain. You lift the bottle, and bring it to your lips, the area that makes contact with your mouth cooler than the rest of the bottle from earlier when you had done the same thing. You’re about to tilt it up before you hear a sudden knock at your door.

The noise is startling and makes you drop the bottle, the pills spilling over the edge of it and onto the table.

“Shit,” you curse quietly under your breath, quickly flattening your hand and sweeping all of the pills into a pile, and picking them up in clusters. You manage to get them all back in the bottle before another knock sounds out, and cap the bottle before opening up one of the small drawers on the side of your desk and shoving it in there.

“Come in!” you call out in a strained voice, praying that you’ll be able to keep it steady for as long as the person at the door needs to talk to you. You close the drawer just as the door creaks open.

Much to your horror, you look up to see your Captain.

Your palms are still sweaty as he walks in, so you try to discreetly wipe them off on your pants, and hope to whoever can help you that he doesn’t pay too much attention to the sweat gathered on your forehead. You take a deep breath as silently as you can, attempting to gather yourself before Price can notice anything being wrong.

“It’s a quarter past two,” Price comments once he walks in, closing the door behind him, “why are you still awake?”

You look over to the digital clock on your desk almost immediately and, oh shit, it is exactly 2:15. You look back over at Price, who is busying himself with pulling the chair that was once in front of your desk around it, presumably to sit next to you. You still feel the dreadfully fast pace of your heart, that th-thump, th-thump, th-thump that you can hear blaring in your ears. It makes itself known in your chest, in your wrist, even in the base of your throat―almost every pulse point in your body has forced you to become aware of its existence.

You swallow dryly, trying to ignore said feeling, and reply, “Why are you still awake?”

Price raises an eyebrow at you, pulling the chair up beside you and sitting down in it, “I asked first.”

You look at him with an unimpressed look on your face. “Can’t sleep. Why are you up?”

Price hums and leans back in his seat, arms crossing over each other, “Same reason.”

It doesn’t sound like a lie, but it doesn’t sound entirely true either, in your opinion. It’s not that you don’t trust him, but he just seems like he’s up to something. What that something is, though, you aren’t sure.

“Why the food?” Price nods over to the plate of mashed potatoes, very noticeably unfinished.

Your gaze follows his to the mashed potatoes. You can still feel the moisture on the palms of your hands, the small tremors that wrack your fingers, and Price’s presence does nothing to soothe your flaming nerves.

“Wanted dinner,” you shrug as casually as you can, forcing a neutral expression onto your face―you briefly overthink what a neutral expression looks like, and decidedly just let your face relax the best you can, “I didn’t get any when everyone else went, I was busy with something, and didn’t really want to head over to the mess with so many people over there, plus I was busy.”

You look over at Price after your lengthy explanation, not realizing just how lengthy it was, and watch the corners of his lips quirk up into an amused-yet-worried smile.

“You said you were busy twice,” he points out, before pausing, and pointing out again, “and it looks like you’ve taken a few bites out o’that at most.”

You don’t bother to look at the mashed potatoes again; you know very well how they look, and know how undeniably full the plate looks.

“Didn’t feel that hungry,” you make up a poorly thought-out excuse, that even you can understand is unbelievable.

Price blinks at you, slowly, before sighing.

“Are you alright?” Price asks, looking more concerned than amused now. You should’ve known from the moment that he walked in that you wouldn’t be able to hide anything from him. If not for the fact that he always seems to know what’s going on, then because of the overwhelming presence of your disquietude.

You look at him and try to figure out what to say. What is there to say? You were panicking just two minutes ago, with your prescription bottle in one hand, the other too shaky to hold up the damn thing. You can still taste that vanilla. You can still taste the plastic. The bottle itself never once touched your tongue, but every time your tongue rests in your mouth, the tip of it pokes at the same exact place the bottle made contact with. You expect it to taste of vanilla, like its contents, but it doesn’t; it tastes like the pharmacy you got it at. It tastes like the sterile white of the counter, the fingers of the person who handed it to you, the money you spent on it, and the time it took you to get it.

It’s nothing pleasant. The strange vanilla of the pills aren’t either, but they’re preferable to the bottle itself.

Price notices you zoning out for a moment, and waves a hand in front of your face. Your eyes unconsciously track his hand for a moment before you blink back into reality and look at him. You knew you were fucked earlier, but when you look at his expression, at the look in his eyes as he watches you snap back to reality, you know that he knows. Maybe he doesn’t know exactly what happened, or how it happened, but he knows something. Fuck, he knows.

Or, maybe he does know. Maybe he heard your cursing through the door, even with your low voice, maybe he heard the pills spill onto the desk, maybe he heard the opening and closing of the drawer, maybe he―

He’s staring at you.

―has security cameras set up in here, because he does in every room, every hall, everywhere but the bathrooms and the sleeping quarters―

He’s talking. It’s muffled by the sound of your own heavy breathing.

―or maybe it’s just intuition, a gut feeling he has, where he just knows that something’s wrong, that same gut feeling that everyone seems to get when something isn’t the way it’s supposed to be―

Your palms are sweaty. Your heart is pounding out of your chest. You’re starting to feel a little lightheaded.

―the same “gut feeling” that you experience every day but have to ignore because it’s not a gut feeling it’s anxiety and your real gut feelings feel the almost the exact same way anxiety does so you may never know if you ever get an actual one―

Price grabs onto your arm, though the feeling of his skin on yours can’t push past the skin-crawling sensation that coats your skin.

―but how do you really know that your gut feelings aren’t gut feelings? How do you know that anything is anything? That it’s really Price that’s sitting next to you, that it’s your own office you’re sitting in, that―

“[name]!” Price’s voice snaps you out of the trance you seem to be in, and you sharply inhale at the sound of his voice, his volume much louder than you expected it to be.

You didn’t realize how fast and heavy your breathing had really gotten until this point. You look at Price, a little more on the panicked side now, with restless eyes that can’t stop flitting all over his face. He takes his hand off of your arm before you can even notice it was there in the first place, and leans back away from you.

You try to take deep breaths, but each breath feels like trying to breathe underwater, and each inhale-exhale leaves you shuddering. You look down at your lap, breath hitching and stuttering, and the moment you open your mouth in the hopes of breathing easier, you are all too aware of just how dry it’s become. You’re sure you let out some kind of sound that alerts Price of your growing distress, because he hesitantly leans forward and takes a deep breath.

“[name],” Price keeps his voice soft and quiet, quieter than he’d been just a few seconds ago, his soothing voice a gentle wave crashing against the rock of your mind, “you’re okay. Look at me, soldier.”

Like a remote to TV static, the noisiness of your mind is partially calmed and the waves that wash over your brain provide sweet escape from the overwhelming adrenaline and cortisol thrumming in your veins.

Mindlessly, you do as he asks, his words grounding you and tugging you back down to Earth more effectively than any anchor could. When you look at him, his eyes are clouded with concern and there’s a small frown on his face that almost perfectly juxtaposes his usual quokka-smile.

You know you’re still trembling. You can feel the hairs that stick up on your legs and arms, the weird hot-cold feeling that creates pinpricks of discomfort across your body, the way your heart is trying to escape the prison cell of your ribcage—but none of it compares to the unbelievable dizziness you feel. Your head is a balloon filled with helium and it is slowly deflating, but not fast enough. You feel like you’re no longer in control of your own body—or were you ever in control?

Your stomach is churning. There’s a sense of dread that dwells there. You might throw up.

Cutting through your thoughts is Price once again.

“You listenin’?” your Captain asks, to which you nod after a delay of a few seconds. Price holds a hand out and gives you a questioning look, the question of ‘can I touch you?’ clear enough on his face that you nod lightly and he takes your hand gingerly.

“Do y’know where you are?” Price asks. You nod, and he softly requests, “can you tell me where?”

“My office,” you answer simply, the gravel in your voice making you wince. The warbling that escapes your mouth is nowhere near your usual voice, and for a moment you think you might be right about needing to vomit, but you manage to push it down and pray. Price ignores this and pushes on.

“And who am I?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know.

“... The Captain.” Price purses his lips—he doesn’t really want to accept this as an answer, because he wants you to say his actual name, but he knows what you mean, and you know what he’s doing. He knows that you mean that you’re here, that you’re present, and you know that he’s trying to ground you the best he can.

“Do you know my name?” he questions, to which you nod again, though a little more moderately, seeing as the repetition of nodding your head only makes you more lightheaded, “what’s my name?”

You take a few shaky breaths, ones that are shallow and uneven, ones that hitch enough for it to be so noticeable that Price manages to pick up on it. You open your mouth to talk, but find that your tongue is too heavy to lift to create coherent sounds. The thought somehow heightens your anxiety, something that seems to be noticeable to Price, judging by how his expression shifts to something impossibly softer.

“Here, let me—” Without another word, Price cautiously brings your hand up to the middle of his chest, where his sternum is.

He exaggerates his breathing, taking long, deep breaths in, and similarly long exhales. His chest rises and falls satisfyingly, and it’s clear that he wants you to copy him. You try your best at first, taking that same too-deep breath that he does and fail almost immediately as you choke on the air you attempt to inhale. Price brushes his thumb over the back of your hand and takes another exaggerated breath, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. You keep your gaze more focused on the lower half of his face as you copy him, oxygen going in through your nose, and carbon dioxide going out through your mouth.

That one successful breath is followed by an unsuccessful one, then another successful one, then another, and it’s a little rocky but you find that soon enough you’re breathing. There’s air flowing in and out of your body smoothly, with each exaggerated breath you take, almost in sync with Price, until finally he puts your hand back into your lap but continues to hold it. He squeezes it once before letting go, and clasps his hands together.

“What’s my name, soldier?” he asks, and this time you think you can answer him.

“John Price,” his name feels weird coming out of your mouth, especially with no honorifics, but he accepts the answer anyway.

“Good,” Price praises, giving you a small smile, “you’re doing good.”

The approval he gives you helps to calm your nerves the tiniest bit, and you feel yourself slowly coming down from the God awful high that you’d just been on. Again, you’re not sure how he knows, but he senses that you’re calming down―is it because your breathing is steadier? You aren’t nearly as restless? You’re no longer zoning out?―so he leans back in his chair and watches as you do the same.

“Now,” he breathes out, “can you tell me what’s going on with you?”

You look away from him for the briefest moment, sparing a glance at the cabinet you know the bottle of your pills lays in, before looking back at him. If he noticed you pulling your gaze away from him for a split second, he doesn’t mention it nor does he make it known that he did.

“There’s not really anything going on,” you shrug, to which Price scoffs.

“[c/n],” he looks at you, disbelieving, “two seconds ago I had to help you breathe normally. I know that there’s something that’s going on, somethin’ that had to trigger what just happened.”

You stay quiet and he gives you an expectant look. The pressure from his fixed glare makes you feel like you’re about to explode.

Finally, you answer him defeatedly, though vaguely, “I was in the middle of taking my medicine when you knocked.”

Price stays silent, expecting you to elaborate.

“And…” you try to find a way to make it sound less awkward than it does in your mind, though you suppose there’s never really a correct way to go about something like this, “I almost took more medicine than I needed to.”

The silence continues, but now Price looks less expectant, and instead more of a mix between concern and something else you can’t identify. That something, though, is still soft, and still has a hint of pity―maybe sympathy?―to it.

“Almost?” he repeats, “was that on purpose?”

When you think about it, it’s complicated. You didn’t necessarily intend to overdose, you just dismissed the idea of it. Or, at least, you don’t remember trying to overtly kill yourself. Then again, you knew the risks of taking more pills than prescribed to you; had you taken that third pill, you would’ve only been one more away from an overdose, and even then you’d still probably get some kind of health issue.

Price’s face hardens when you don’t answer immediately. He must be taking your silence as a “yes”.

“Not… really,” you answer slowly, “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

He nods, waiting a few seconds before asking, “Have you thought about it before?”

By it, for some reason, you sense that he isn’t asking exclusively about taking one too many tablets.

It’s tempting to be dishonest about it; it’s a shameful thing to you, to use the things that are supposed to help you to harm yourself, to be so careless with your own life. You know that it isn’t necessarily all your fault, but there’s still that small part of you that can��t help but feel guilty for using something so many other people try so hard to get to almost kill yourself with.

After a few beats of silence, you decide to answer, “Yeah.”

Price nods again, and he looks like he expected that answer. “D’you want to tell me more about that?”

You could, hypothetically, go in-depth about all of your weird thoughts about committing. The ones you’d been having just, what, fifteen minutes ago? Thirty minutes ago? The ones about chains wrapped around your throat, stolen guns from the armory, deep purple bruising and a stretched neck. Those thoughts, the ones that try to make ending your life sound pretty, that try to make it sound appealing. It’s not to convince yourself, you don’t think, but rather to help you come to terms with the fact that you were already convinced that you were going to commit at some point. The thought still scares you, because you’re a pussy―terrible, terrible choice of words, a voice at the back of your mind insists, you’re not a pussy, you’re just like anyone else―but you felt like you just knew that you were gonna die by your own hands. That you’d already made the choice, and now you have to understand it, to realize it.

You are in that room full of TVs, with The Architect in front of you, telling you that you have no choice. That, in fact, the problem is choice. You are surrounded by a million other yous, all protesting, all denying that you have no choice but to kill yourself, all yelling “Bullshit!” because deniability is the most predictable of all human responses.

But, you remind yourself, The Architect was wrong. He told Neo that he couldn’t do anything to save Trinity from her “fate”, but Neo did save her. He plunged his hand into her chest and forced her heart to beat.

That’s true.

And, you add on, The Architect is a computer program, tasked with mimicking human emotions, despite never having felt them. He could never understand the power of human will, of the desperation so many humans have to live.

Because The Architect was never alive. He is a sentient computer program, whose job is to create a world in which humans can “live” while they are fed on in the real world, but his problem was his inability to create anything less than perfect. We aren’t expected to be perfect, and are taught that flawlessness doesn’t exist, which is why he came to the conclusion that he needed a “lesser mind” to help him create a better Matrix.

You aren’t supposed to succumb to the idea of having no choice. Because that, in itself, is a choice. Everything you do is a choice. Even if everything you do will only add up to the same ending, to the same fate, why should you waste time not making the choices you want to make? When you assume that you have no choice, you assume that everything you do will go to waste, but that’s not true. You aren’t the only person that exists. You aren’t the only person who makes choices. The choices you make affect other people’s choices, and those choices affect another person, and another, and another. You still have to live through the choices you make, as does everyone else, so even if everything will end the same, why should you make inherently bad decisions when you could be making good ones? Why should you go through things you don’t have to go through, just because you believe that nothing matters in the end?

“Not really,” you answer Price, snapping yourself out of your thoughts, “I don’t… want to think about it too much right now.”

Price looks a little more worried now but he doesn’t protest your decision.

“Is there anything in here that you could use to hurt yourself?” he asks after a moment, “Or that you’ve already used?”

You bite your tongue. Technically, the pills count, you suppose, but those are your meds. You can’t really have those confiscated.

“Other than the medicine, no,” you answer truthfully, much to Price’s relief, as is evident on his face as his hardened expression softens.

“Good, good,” he shifts in his seat.

He’s gearing up for something. You can tell with the way he subtly presses his clasped hands together, the way his face goes through a mix of emotions, and the way the deafening silence of the room really seems to be getting to him.

Suddenly, he asks you, “D’you think you’re going to… ?”

He doesn’t ask you explicitly, but you have a good idea of what he’s asking.

“I was thinking about it,” you respond softly, “before you came in.”

Price nods, having expected that answer. You’re not sure if it was obvious, or if he just assumed you were thinking about it because of you confessing to having thoughts of it before this.

“Y’know I have to tell someone about this, right?” Price reminds you gently, as if you didn’t already know, “Someone up the chain. Might be Laswell.”

You hum affirmatively, because you didn’t expect anything less from him, and know that it’s for the better. It doesn’t make you feel any better, obviously, but you know how to be realistic when the time calls for it, and you know that if the roles were reversed you’d do the same thing. Not because it’s mandatory, but because when you imagine Price in your situation, the thought wraps itself around your heart and twists.

The room is silent for a beat, and you get the feeling that Price is somehow more uncomfortable with the quiet than you are. He shifts in his seat while you stay still, and he clears his throat to break the silence for a brief moment before speaking up again.

“It’s late,” he points out the obvious, before pausing and irresolutely asking, “do you want to head back to my quarters with me for the night?”

His words confuse you for a moment. You open your mouth to ask why, before it suddenly hits you―oh, right, you just basically confessed to being suicidal. He doesn’t want to leave you alone right now.

“Yeah, sure,” you agree, less questioning than Price expected you to be judging by his momentary look of surprise, before he nods and begins to get up.

He pushes his chair behind him, standing up straight, and holds a hand out for you to grab. You grab it gingerly and use it to haul yourself up, your knees cracking as you do after having been sat for so long. You wince at the sound and Price gives a light-hearted chuckle.

“I thought I was s’posed to be the old one?” he teases, making you give him an unimpressed look and let go of his hand. The room falls back into soundlessness.

You both remain silent as Price leads you out the door of your office, turning off the lights and closing the door after you, and continues to lead you down to his sleeping quarters. His are farther down the hall from yours, because of his higher rank, and therefore takes longer to walk to from your office. The long walk is quiet enough to hear a pin drop, but you both don’t mind this, as the atmosphere here is more comfortable than the one in your office.

Eventually, you make it to his room, where he opens the door for you and signals for you to walk in first with his hand. You enter the room and hear him enter shortly after you, and go to sit on his bed before pausing.

“I’m still in my…” you gesture to your clothes, gear-less but still not your “normal” sleeping clothes. Price raises an eyebrow at you as you wave at the state of yourself.

“I’ve seen you sleep in worse,” he points out, “and I think you sleep in this than in your actual sleeping clothes.”

You’re about to ask how he even knows about that, before he answers you before you can voice your question, “I’ve seen you walking back t’your quarters in these clothes and hear you snoring a second later at least ten times.”

You close your mouth and sigh through your nose, before muttering, “Didn’t know I was talkin’ to fuckin’ Sherlock Holmes.”

Price snorts at your retort, “If I’m Sherlock, are you Watson?”

You think about it for a moment, before shaking your head negatively.

“No?” Price toes off his boots and walks over to you, sitting on the bed, “Then who are you?”

You sit down next to him, “I dunno. I’m like…”

“Like Neo,” you continue, ignoring the way Price’s eyebrows immediately raise, “and you’re Morpheus. But less smart.”

“You’re not Neo,” he scoffs, “and I’m not a less-smart Morpheus.”

“I wasn’t askin’ you,” you grumble, shaking your already-loose boots off of your feet and crawling up Price’s bed. You manage to snake under the covers and feel Price’s eyes on you as you do, staring holes into your face.

He hums in acknowledgment, not bothering to answer you verbally, and instead gets up to lift up the covers and get into bed. The bed is small enough as-is, but with two people inside of it, it obviously gets much smaller. Price doesn’t seem to mind, though, and turns so that his back is facing the door and his front is facing you. Directly in front of you is the base of his neck, but if you tilt your head up, you can see him looking down at you with tired eyes.

You let out a soft breath through your nose and realize just how tired you are. Price seems to notice this, because his arm comes up and rests across your side, his hand splaying across the middle of your back. He gives you a comforting sweep of his hand, before settling it on your upper back, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb in soothing circles against your clothed back.

You close your eyes, and he closes his, and it feels like you’ve woken up in the real world and removed the cables from your body.

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clintbartonswife · 1 year

Text

it takes a village

Pairings: Peter Parker & irondad!Tony Stark Summary: tony gets a message from peter's kidnappers and makes a call. read part one first Whumptober prompt #6 : recording / 'it should've been me' Whumptober prompt #20 : 'you will regret touching them' Notes: brief descriptions of torture masterlist || whumptober2023

"Sir, you have a message."

Tony wiped the sweat from his forehead, pushing his chair back and looking up to the roof of his lab. "Can it wait? I think I'm close to fixing the lagging issue in Rhodey's leg brace."

"You ignored their last message sir. This time they attached a video."

"FRIDAY, is that a yes or no?"

A few seconds passed as FRIDAY inspected the file, Tony stretching and wincing as his back made a loud cracking noise. DUM-E whirred at him with concern, going back to dusting when he shooed it away.

"No sir. It can't wait."

He sighed, twirling in his chair to face the nearest screen, grabbing his coffee from the table. "Put it up."

The mug fell to the floor, smashing and spilling the coffee all over the floor of the lab.

He was looking at Peter being thrown into a room, body limp and bruised. The angle suggested it was from a CCTV feed, though the resolution was surprisingly high. His heart dropped as the video skipped, showing the kid hammering at the door, yelling and screaming.

Tony couldn't tear his eyes away, tears gathering in his eyes as the video skipped forwards once more. Peter was curled in on himself in the corner of the room, rocking slightly back and forth in an attempt to self-soothe. Text popped up on the screen, stating that instructions would be sent in the next two hours.

As the screen switched to black he ran out of the room, grabbing the flip phone he had vowed to never use, dialling the only number saved on it.

"I need your help."

Tony paced across the tarmac, fiddling with the flip phone in his hands.

"They'll be here." Rhodey reassured, moving to place a hand on his shoulder, "Cap - Steve reached out first. He won't go back on his word."

Tony huffed, "I know it's just - they took the kid. I was so busy I didn't even think to -" He ran his hands across his face. "He's been there for three days already."

"We're going to get him."

Tony couldn't speak, settling instead for a tight nod.

His thoughts were stuck on the image of Peter. He was alone and afraid, curled up in the corner with bruised hands hugged in to his chest.

"How did May -"

"She's with Pepper now, at the tower."

"Pepper?"

Tony let out a self deprecating laugh. "No matter how she feels about me right now, she loves the kid almost as much as I do. May needs someone with her so..."

Rhodey just hummed, stepping back at the noise of an approaching quinjet. "We'll get him back. We just... need to get through this first."

Tony nodded, shaking his shoulders in an attempt to shake off some of the anxiety that threatened to choke him. Any dread that he had been feeling over this reunion was nothing compared to the last 8 hours, and with it came hope.

Hope was a dangerous thing, but goddamn did he need all he could get.

Tony cleared his throat, doing his best to appear put-together. It failed, horrifically, but he hoped that they wouldnt be cruel enough to point it out.

The quinjet door opened, revealing almost all of the old team. "Welcome back to the States."

Steve nodded in greeting, bearded jaw clenched and hands protectively crossed over his chest.

They stared at each other for a moment, unspoken words thick in the air. Rhodey broke it, stepping forwards.

"Thank you for coming. I'm sure we all... have a lot to say, but now is not the time."

Steve's eyes darkened with guilt as they passed over Rhodey's leg braces, offering another curt nod in response.

Natasha was the first to step off of the platform, offering Tony a tight smile. "Agreed."

"Just -" Tony's fist clenched by his side, "Please. I can't get him on my own."

"We wouldn't let you, man." Sam replied, "You got coordinates?"

"FRIDAY's working on it right now. So far she's narrowed it to Chicago."

"Then lets go."

Steve turned around, heading straight to the controls of the jet. Tony took a deep breath, looking at Rhodey for reassurance before following, door closing behind them.

The awkwardness of the jet was almost suffocating, Tony checking his phone every few seconds for any sort of update. Rhodey had positioned himself protectively in front of him, though not in a way that he was completely blocked from the view of the others.

Steve's body language was tight and guarded, eyes flitting over to Tony every few seconds before diverting to the floor, restraining himself from saying the words he had been sitting on for the past few months.

Tony's phone pinged, the man's face whitening as another video appeared on his screen. "They sent another one."

"Tony... you don't have to-"

He brushed Rhodey's concern off, jaw tightening. "No. I do." He clicked play with shaking hands, spare hand reaching up to cover his mouth in an attempt to withhold his shout of shock.

Peter was tied to a chair, head hung low. A woman was stood by a metal tray, picking up a cattleprod and jamming it into his stomach. A tear fell down his cheek at Peter's yell of pain, the other people in the jet jumping to their feet at the realisation of the nature of the video.

Natasha was the first to approach. "Tony -"

"Don't. I need to -"

The abuse continued, though Peter remained strong, refusing to let out another noise despite the attacks. Despite this, the pain was written clearly across his face, guilt eating at Tony like a disease.

"It should've been me" he whispered, throat tight.

Rhodey placed a comforting hand on his shoulder once again, grounding him and saving him from the anxiety spiral that was threatening to drag him down. He spoke in a low tone, attempting to hide his words from the rest of the group. "Breathe. You can't panic now. He needs you at 100%"

Tony choked out an agreement, placing his phone down on the seat and placing his head in his hands, willing himself to get it together. He had to be strong for Peter.

As his phone pinged again, he froze. Sam approached him carefully, picking up the phone and opening it when there was no argument.

"FRIDAY has a location," he said, "warehouse in Chicago, West Chatham. I'll give Steve the full address."

Natasha stood by Tony, close enough for him to feel her body heat, but keeping distance. "We'll get him. He's going to be okay. I promise."

The last twenty minutes of the journey felt like forever, Tony's mind racing with a million different possibilities. None of them were good.

As the quinjet began its descent, Rhodey moved closer to Tony, voice quiet. "You know I want to go in with you ..."

"I know. He - Peter will understand."

"Legs don't work the way they used to," Rhodey smiled, "But I'll get the meds out, ready for him."

"I appreciate it, Platypus. I mean it."

"I know its been a while since you've been alone with them, but they've still got your back. They won't let anything happen to Parker."

Tony nodded, fists clenching and unclenching as he pushed down the anxiety, willing himself to be strong. He wasn't allowed to be Tony Stark right now. His kid needed Ironman.

As he stood, he activated his armour, allowing the metal to give him courage.

"We go in quick and do this cleanly." Steve said, authoritative tone bringing Tony back to the prime of the Avengers. "We're still technically on the run. If we stay too long then -"

"They won't arrest you." Tony interrupted, keeping his eyes set on the door. "I've been negotiating since you went off the radar. I'm close to fixing it. Getting a pardon for your boy as well."

There was silence for a moment, uneasy and uncertain.

"Tony..."

He just waved them off. "Yeah, whatever. We don't have time to waste." Clearing his throat awkwardly, he pressed the release on the door.

The alarm blared through the building, Tony not stopping as he fought his way down the corridor, visor scanning for any sign of Peter.

"North east quadrant clear" Natasha announced through coms, "I found a map and am on my way to the control room."

Steve's voice sounded a few moments later. "North west quadrant clear. I'm heading towards you Sam."

"There's a lot of them here - I think they're guarding something."

Tony slammed his fist into the last man's face, kicking open another door and swearing as it turned up empty. "I've got nothing. He's got to be with you, Sam."

"The control room is barred from the inside," Natasha reported, exertion clear in her voice, "Door won't budge. The woman's gotta be in here."

Tony's footsteps faltered, not sure where to go. As if sensing this, Steve spoke.

"We're still making our way through this quadrant, we've got it under control. Go to Nat, Tony."

Pushing down the need to rebel, Tony followed the instructions, each step increasing with determination the closer he got.

"Stand to the side." He said, raising his hand and sending a powerful blast through the door once Natasha was safely out of the way.

Shouts of panic from the other side were ignored as he blasted away the rest of the door, barging in and hitting the first person he saw. Natasha was right behind him, carefully controlled fury powering her every move as she tore through the group of men.

Tony used this distraction to corner the woman, kicking her in the knees and sending her tumbling to the floor. "You will regret touching them" he growled, looking down on her in disgust, "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

She laughed, an obnoxious laugh, and attempted to sit up straight. "You know who I am."

He held himself back from hurting her further, the sane part of him knowing that Peter would never forgive him for lashing out in a rage.

Instead, he disengaged his helmet, looking her up and down with disinterest. "I've never seen you before in my life."

At her outraged shout, he stepped back, motioning for Natasha to incapacitate her. "You're going to jail now, where no one will ever know or care who you are. You are nothing."

"You cant - They'll never arrest me! You have nothing -"

"Shut up." Natasha sneered, hitting her once cleanly in the temple, and huffing as she crumpled. Sparing a kind look at Tony, she nodded towards the door. "Go get him - I'll make sure she's tied up and ready for the cops."

He nodded, hoping his gratitude was clear as he raced out of the room. "Cap? Do you have him?"

"We have him - on our way to the jet."

Relief rushed through him, speeding up even more in his desperation to see his kid. He burst out of the building, disengaging the suit as he stumbled up the quinjet ramp, colliding with Sam's chest.

"He's okay - he's okay." Sam reassured, "Take a breath, Tony."

He took a shuddering breath, eyes fluttering closed as he did his best to regulate himself. "Thank you."

"Of course."

Sam stepped aside, letting Tony rush to Peter's side.

"Mr Stark?"

His voice was weak and small, but so so alive.

Tony let out a tearful laugh, cupping Peter's cheek in his hand. "It's me, bud. I'm here."

"Knew you'd come" Peter smiled, blinking weakly, "Knew it."

"Always."

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glitchy-creations · 4 months

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I was looking through some of my sculpture 2 work and forgot about the artists books we had to make. I thought I would show off some of the pages from the one I made for the project!

The book with the marble like cover was my first attempt at trying out Japanese stab binding. It’s not filled with anything right now, it’s just blank pages but I’m including it anyway. The second book is bound the same way but the cover is made from orange felt. The theme was Greek mythology, specifically around the art work I had been making for the past year, so the cover was meant to emulate black figure pottery I just haven’t finished embroidering the cover. The pages include a mix of things such as the terra sig recipe I used, the crystals I’ve collected and the deity I associate them with, information on the 12 Olympians I used in my Pandora’s box piece and the wall plaques I made, as well as the exhibitions I’ve been in, the vessels I made, and other more contemporary work I’ve made! There’s a lot more than just these pages but I’ve already hit the image cap lol.

The storyboards in the last two pictures were from a music video motion graphic project I did with a friend. She had given me permission to post her half of the storyboards with credit, so full credit to her! She just doesn’t have social media set up yet and I don’t want to put her full name out there so I censored it in the pictures.

#art #artist #epic the musical #greek mythology #tagamemnon #artists on tumblr #my art tag #digital art #greek pottery #artist book #Japanese stab binding #book binding #these were a lot of fun to make #I kinda wanna make more #i definitely have more to add to this book #I have a lot of stuff for it lol

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rrat-king · 2 months

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wip wednesday (ish)

thank you for the tag my beloved @whatisamildopinion!!! this is a little snipped from the second to last chapter of pox which. v sorry this had taken so long but it will be extra long to make up for it and round at the story cuz all we have left after that is the epilogue!

Shaking his head, Jawbone pulled his crystal back out to remind Sandra Lynn that they also need to go in to grab Adaine’s meds from the pharmacy, perking up when he noticed she had already texted him back to let him know she had gotten his message and sending her love. Apparently Riz had let it slip that Kristen was awake and the girls were already planning a jailbreak that Lydia and Sandra Lynn were trying to put a cap on before it got too far.

Jawbone let himself take a breath at that and smile to himself, images of Fig and Adaine devising a way into the hospital too easy to conjure up. He wasn’t positive on why Fig seemed to know way too much information on the hospital for someone who, to his knowledge, had only been in once or twice, but that was a question for another day. He just sent Sandra Lynn a little bit of luck and love and left it at that, focusing on keeping his leg from bouncing as he waited.

The Applebees, wherever they had been hiding out, had either been farther away than Jawbone had thought, or were taking some convincing to come. Either way Jawbone spent a good half an hour forcing himself not to look at the clock on the wall before the door to the room opened again, this time Gordon not coming in alone.

It occurred to him as they came in that he had never interacted with the Applebees before despite knowing a good deal about them. It was an odd sort of familiarity, the kind that came with having never spoken to them but knowing both of their names, where they had grown up, small things about their routines like the way they folded laundry and raised their kids, all gleaned from taking care of Kristen over the last couple of years. Looking them in the eyes for the first time he was struck with the fact that these were the people who used to raise his kid.

He had seen pictures of them, Kristen still had a few of them tucked away in her room, but in person it was that much more noticeable how much Kristen took after them. Her mom, Donna he thought absently, connecting the name from the back of his head, had the same cheeks, the same strong jaw and deep red hair, though Donna’s was graying around her hairline. Her resemblance to Mac wasn’t obvious at first until he made eye contact with him, the same sharp green eyes he was used to staring at him with all the contempt in the world.

Jawbone made a point not to avert his gaze, just doing his best attempt at a smile as the three of them filed into the room.

heavy chapter but fun one none the less ;)). i'll tag @allthecastlesonclouds and @20dimensionsoftangerine if y'all got any wip's you wanna share

#d20 #dimension 20 #fantasy high #kristen applebees #wip #wip wednesday #my writing

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lemonwood31 · 20 days

Text

Leap of Faith

Pairing: Halsin/Shadowheart Rating: Explicit (... eventually) Tags: slow burn, angst, hurt/comfort, antagonists to lovers Read on AO3

Welcome to the novel-length fanfic that could have been a couple of 500-word meta posts instead, but isn't it more fun to show rather than tell?

I started writing this with two aims: to explore Halsin and Shadowheart's potential as a pairing, and to write the kind of slow burn I personally prefer (heavy on the angst/pining, slow both emotionally and physically, and tightly confined to one POV to better facilitate fun misunderstandings and dramatic tension). Along the way, it turned into much more: a character exploration of both Shadowheart and Halsin; a story about faith and friendship and identity; about choosing new paths when you don't know where they'll lead; about breaking free of old patterns; about trying to have a healthy relationship when both of you are traumatised as all get out.

I'm really pleased with how it turned out. I hope you'll give it a chance. I'm not planning to post chapter notifications on tumblr, so if you like it and want to keep reading, keep an eye on it on AO3.

By the time I meet the druid Halsin, I’ve already made up my mind about him.

So, I’d contend, would have anyone with two eyes and a brain who’d been to the Emerald Grove and seen the mess he’s made of things there. Half the place is in almost open revolt: if not quite against him personally (at least not that any of them will admit), then certainly against the way he’s been running things. And who can blame them? The man’s clearly let his soft heart get the better of him, placing the interests of a ragtag bunch of tiefling refugees above those of his own Grove.

And what’s worse, he’s done it foolishly. He hasn’t, as far as I can tell, made any attempt to get the druids on side, to work out who among his people has influence and how to apply the correct motivations to convince them to support his plan for the refugees. He’s simply relied on it being the quote-unquote ‘right’ thing to do, and assumed that will be enough to bring the rest of them around.

And the whole Grove is reaping the results of his idiocy: resource-starved, vulnerable to attack, facing threats from within and from without. To cap it all off, he’s seized the first opportunity to abandon them in favour of a hare-brained reconnoissance mission to infiltrate a tribe of goblin cultists, leaving his Grove in the charge of a woman so uninterested in hiding her ill intentions that her familiar is a literal snake.

In short, by the time we encounter him in the cells of said goblin cultists’ dungeon, my opinion of him could hardly be lower. I’m simply praying like hells to my Lady Shar that he’ll turn out to be a better healer than he is a leader.

What it hasn’t occurred to me to consider is what he might turn out to be like as a man. I suppose when people say Archdruid, I picture someone old. Elminster, but with leaves in his hair instead of a wizard hat. In actual fact, though, when the bear we find in the cells finishes ripping out the throats of his goblin captors and turns back into an elf, he’s no more than middle-aged, and at least three times bigger and ten times more handsome than the vague mental image I’d conjured up in my tadpole-infested brain. He’s got thin leather straps buckled around biceps bigger than my thighs. It’s all quite a lot to take in.

If it took me thirty minutes of wandering around the Grove, asking innocuous-sounding questions and surreptitiously reading letters that have been left out on tables as if the druids want their dirty laundry aired for everyone to see, to make up my mind about him, it takes him all of three seconds to make up his mind about me.

‘Pardon the viscera,’ he says – rueful, charming, and I’m starting to see why he’s managed to hold on to first rank in a druid grove for a century or more despite having no aptitude for leadership whatsoever – and then he starts to say something else, but his eyes flick up to Lady Shar’s symbol at my forehead, and his face hardens as he bites off whatever he was going to say in favour of giving me a cold, supsicious look.

It’s a funny thing, having almost no memories. I know my training, know it inside and out, and so I know to expect this sort of reaction from outsiders. I’ve been on the lookout for it, in fact, in the companions I’ve met thus far, although all of them have either been ignorant or too tactful to give any outward sign that they recognise the holy symbols adorning my person. As it turns out, however, it’s one thing to expect the reaction, and quite another to experience it, to see his expression closing off as he visibly decides that he already knows everything important there is to know about me.

I do my best not to let the sting of it show on my face. Foolish of me to feel a sting in the first place: it shouldn’t matter what any outsider thinks of me, let alone a do-gooder bleeding-heart poor excuse for an Archdruid whose whole Grove falls to pieces the minute his back is turned. We need him, I remind myself sternly. Little as I may think of him, he’s still the best lead we’ve got for removing these blasted parasites from our brains.

And so I introduce myself and my companions, doing my level best to remain polite, and explain why we’ve come in search of him. He’s so interested, hearing that we’ve been infected for days without succumbing to either ceremorphosis or a sudden urge to commit our lives to the Absolute, that he almost – almost – drops the suspicion while he questions us and lifts a hand to invoke some sort of diagnostic spell I don’t recognise but which leaves behind a faint scent of verbena as it washes over me.

‘This is most unusual,’ he says, frowning. ‘I have been researching these tadpoles for some time now, but I haven’t yet come across anybody who has been able to resist their influence. Do you have any idea what might make you different?’

‘No clue, I’m afraid,’ I start to say, but I don’t manage to get the full sentence out before Gale is helpfully piping up, ‘We think it might have something to do with an artefact that Shadowheart is carrying.’

Lady of Sorrows guide us. It’s bad enough that we have to admit to the tadpoles; I’ve been forcing those words out from between my teeth, and with good reason, given that a substantial proportion of the people we’ve told about them have actively tried to kill us. I’d hoped that my companions would have enough sense not to blurt out the artefact’s existence to a random druid we’ve known for ten minutes, five minutes of which he’s spent as a bear, but apparently I haven’t calibrated my expectations low enough. I shoot Gale an exasperated glare. He raises an eyebrow back at me, unrepentant or unsure of why he’s upset me, who can tell.

The Archdruid is looking back and forth between the two of us. His frown has deepened. ‘An artefact?’ he says. ‘It would have to be a powerful one to block a mental influence this strong. Can you tell me anything more about it?’

‘I don’t know much about it myself,’ I say, begrudgingly. ‘Only that I’ve been charged to bring it back to its rightful place, and that it seemed to protect us from the voice of the Absolute when we entered the goblin camp.’

‘May I see it?’ he asks, and I manage to bite back an instinctive denial, but I can’t bring myself to reply in the affirmative, either.

His mouth thins in exasperation as he looks at me, and then he takes an obvious breath to steady himself and says, tone gentle, ‘I have no interest in taking it from you, child. Nor in telling others of its existence. I am simply trying to help you to the best of my ability. But if you aren’t willing to share its secrets with me, I won’t force you.’

‘Far be it from me to criticise the keeping of secrets,’ drawls Astarion, ‘but it does seem rather a waste of having come all this way to consult a healer if we then refuse to let him help us.’

I don’t like this, of course, but I also can’t think of a compelling counter-argument, so I produce the artefact, holding it out to the Archdruid on the palm of my hand.

‘Interesting,’ he says, reaching his hand out to hover near it, as if warming himself by a fire. I curl my fingers around the artefact, ready to snatch it away if he gets any closer, but he drops his hand and returns his gaze to my face. His expression is still wary, but it’s also apologetic, and I know what he’s going to say a moment before he says it.

‘I am sorry,’ he tells me, and I can’t help but tense; beside me, I sense my companions tensing too. ‘I will not draw out your hope any further by prevaricating: I cannot cure you. These tadpoles have been infused with a strange magic, one that’s capable of warping the minds of the infected and turning them to the Absolute. Without understanding the source of that magic, I cannot remove it.’

I busy myself in re-stowing the artefact in an attempt to cover my disappointment. I shouldn’t have expected anything else, but as it turns out, I’d still been holding out a bit of hope that he’d be able to solve our problem.

‘However,’ he goes on, ‘that doesn’t mean I cannot help.’

‘Oh?’ I say, politely, but my mind is already on our next steps. Is it best, I wonder, to stay longer in the area, try to find another lead that might point to a possible cure, or to push on towards Baldur’s Gate and hope that I can make it there before I succumb to the effects of the tadpole?

‘I have overheard several conversations during my time here,’ says the druid, ‘that point to the new tadpoles originating in a place called Moonrise Towers. It’s perhaps a tenday’s journey from here, but the way is fraught with peril. The land around Moonrise has been afflicted by a curse that is hostile to all life. Still, it’s clear that Moonrise Towers is the source of these tadpoles, and therefore it is your best hope of finding a cure.’

‘Rather a slim hope, it sounds like,’ I say, ‘if it means fighting our way through cursed lands and a tower full of Absolute cultists, all on the hearsay of a few gossiping goblins. And even if we discover information that might lead to a cure, how are we supposed to find a healer of a generous enough heart to try to implement it? I can’t imagine the cultists will have too many of those stashed away.’

He raises an eyebrow at me. ‘I didn’t say it would be easy,’ he says mildly, and then he falls silent, giving me a scrutinising look. So scrutinising, in fact, that it takes an effort of will to resist the urge to squirm, to instead meet his gaze unflinchingly.

We stare at each other for several excruciating moments. Humiliatingly, I’m just about to break, to say something inane, possibly having to do with the tiny green flecks I’ve just noticed in his hazel eyes, when he saves me from myself by appearing to reach a decision.

‘My Grove is at risk,’ he says, and I blink at the non-sequitur. ‘It is only a matter of time before the goblins stray far enough east to discover us, and we don’t have the resources or the skills to resist a coordinated attack. This camp is ruled by three leaders, generals of the Absolute. Take them out, and the threat to the Emerald Grove is neutralised.’

Ah. So we’re negotiating. What in the Lady’s name does he think is in it for us? I wonder. ‘And you want us to deal with them for you,’ I say aloud.

‘I would be grateful,’ he rephrases, pointedly, ‘if you would assist me to remove the threat, yes. If you’re willing to do so, it would free me to travel with you to Moonrise and aid you in your search for a cure.’

I can’t help myself: my mouth drops open. ‘You must be joking,’ I say.

He frowns at me, puzzled. ‘I assure you, I’m quite serious.’

‘Well, why not, after all,’ I say, waspishly and unwisely. ‘This Grove of yours is in such a state that perhaps it’s a judicious decision to cut your losses and walk away.’

It’s his turn to gape. ‘Excuse me?’

‘What Shadowheart means to say,’ begins Wyll in a pacifying sort of tone, and Halsin and I both turn to glare at him, the first time we’ve been in concert in our acquaintance thus far. Wyll closes his mouth with a snap, and spreads his hands in a ‘well, I tried’ gesture.

‘I’d like to hear more about what Shadowheart means to say from Shadowheart,’ says the druid. He’s controlling his anger, but there’s no mistaking its presence in his voice.

I really shouldn’t antagonise him any further, but it’s clear from the look on his face that he won’t brook deflection, and any attempt to soften the message will make me look weak. So I lift my chin, and tell him, ‘Your precious druids have spent your absence preparing to cast the Rite of Thorns to cut off your Grove from the rest of the world. And from you, one assumes,’ I add, although this little twist of the knife doesn’t have a visible effect on him: his expression is frozen in horror. ‘I won’t tell you how to run your affairs, but may I suggest that if you’re serious about leaving, perhaps take the time first to choose a new leader who isn’t in league with shadow druids?’

It takes a few moments for this to sink in with him: time enough for my sense of vicious satisfaction to fade and my more rational brain to point out the unwisdom of all of this. I’m supposed to be gathering allies here. If it were possible for me to bring the artefact to Baldur’s Gate by myself, I’d be out on the road already, blessedly free of the company of all these irritating, idiotic men. Men who try to speak for me, and give away my secrets, and look at me with pain raw on their face as if I’ve just kicked their pet puppy, as if their failings as a leader are my fault for having pointed them out, as if I should have been kinder. Well, more fool them. Kindness is an impulse that Lady Shar has trained out of me, if it ever existed inside me in the first place.

‘I see,’ says Halsin at last. He’s recovered from the surprise of it, and his face has closed off again. ‘I will deal with Kagha in due course. I have little interest in your opinion of how I run my Grove, and even less in explaining myself to you. However, my offer to you still stands. Will you take it or leave it?’

‘We’ll take it, of course,’ says Gale quickly.

‘We’d be very grateful for your help,’ says Wyll.

‘Some of us will, at any rate,’ says Astarion, not quite under his breath.

Halsin holds my gaze, waiting. At least he isn’t acting as if my companions have a right to speak for me, I suppose. And by this time, my rational brain has managed to regain control. Any port in a storm, I tell myself, and give him a nod; he presses a fist to his chest and nods back, his expression cool, and the little voice in the back of my head wonders how long, exactly, it’ll be before I have cause to regret this.

#bg3 fanfiction #halsin x shadowheart #shadowheart x halsin #halsin #bg3 halsin #halsin silverbough #shadowheart #bg3 shadowheart

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good-beanswrites · 1 year

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hello beans!! hope you're doing well 💜 ^w^ I know you've probably gotten a lot of requests - but I'm gonna add to that pile anyway because it's fun and also your writing is wonderful and always cheers me up to read!! I'm so inspired by your drabbles and you really bring these characters and this little world to life ;w;

From drabble list #1:

14. "Please tell me, this is not why you woke me up."

Character(s): honestly anyone, but my gut was saying Es as soon as I saw that sentence so... up to you!

Woo thank you pal, same to you!! Thanks for your kind words ah ;--; This is the perfect line for Es omg, I've been cracking up over it for so long 😂 I was tempted to write them waking up for T2, taking one look around and going "uh-uh," but decided on some T1 comedy...

Es rarely dreamed. Usually it was vague images and thoughts. Sometimes it was just them thinking about breakfast the following morning. Occasionally they were plagued by a nightmare of being forced to sing karaoke with the prisoners. Most of the time, though, it was just silence that welcomed them at the end of the day. Wonderful, peaceful, silence.

BANG-BANG-BANG!

Someone slammed their fist on the door. Es just about fell out of bed.

Mikoto’s voice came from outside. “Oi, get up! There’s been… uh… an incident!”

That was the last thing a prison guard wanted to hear at -- Es checked the clock -- 2am. Damn.

They muttered to themself as they threw on their uniform. Why the prison’s cells didn’t lock was beyond them. Some of the prisoners were more troublesome than others, but the first trial had been going smoothly thus far. Why now?

Their mind flashed with various possibilities, each one worse than the last, all urging them forward. By the time they were running down the hallway, their shirt buttons were a row off, and they had to switch their shoes to the opposite foot. They adjusted the cap clumsily on their head.

Fear gripped their chest as they heard Jackalope’s voice crying out for help from the panopticon. Jackalope never called for help.

Es burst into the room. The prisoners froze, looking up guiltily.

They sat in a huddle on the floor. Yuno and Muu held the little furry warden over a tub of sudsy water. Bottles of soap and shampoo sat nearby. An assortment of brushes and combs sat to the side. Splashes of water spread across the prisoners and ground, speaking to several failed attempts at getting Jackalope into the bath.

Nearby, Mahiru was holding up the tiny guard’s uniform, her sewing kit spread out on her lap. Es spotted bandages on Yuno’s and Kazui’s fingers. Shidou was currently dabbing blood off Fuuta’s nose as he fumed. Jackalope leaned over to nip at the hands holding him, but Yuno and Muu held him fast.

“Es!” came his frantic voice as he thrashed around. “You gotta help me! Make them stop, dammit!”

From the group of prisoners who had been watching from a distance, Haruka turned to them. “Oh! Es! Th-they thought that he needed a -- uh, a bath! His uniform had a h-hole, and Mahiru can s-sew! And they thought, they thought we could do it all t-together… Muu called it a -- a spa night…”

“At two in the morning?” Was all that came to mind.

“We tried to get him to do it earlier today,” Muu said, “but we didn’t get a chance until now.”

“They didn’t get a chance to kidnap me, she means!” He squirmed around some more, swinging his antlers wildly. “They hid around the corner and nabbed me like the filthy criminals they are!!”

Yuno said, “hold still,” as she brought him closer to the water. He kicked his feet wildly, screaming at Es to show a little authority and do something.

“Hold on a second,” they stopped her.

They closed their eyes, pinching the bridge of their nose. They took a measured breath. They were here to contemplate sin and crime, guilt and forgiveness. Their job should have consisted of questions about morality and life and death; they never anticipated looking around their prison and asking, “is human shampoo even safe for his fur?”

Kotoko spoke up from the other side of the room. “That’s what I thought, but is he really a rabbit? He eats human food and everything, we didn’t think a bit of soap was that different.”

Jackalope disagreed (“that stuff is as bad as poison -- poison I tell you!”) but the others chimed in with their agreement. From around the room came promises that they were being gentle with him, and that they’d keep quiet, and that they’d dry and brush his fur really well when they’d finished, and that they’d feed him treats, and that his uniform was already good as new, and so on. A few complaints at getting bit mingled with Jackalope’s own insults.

“-- Alright.” Es held up a hand to silence them all. They knew a warden shouldn’t be making compromises with their prisoners. At the same time, they didn’t have the energy to argue about bunny baths at this time of night. “You can continue, but wash him outside of the tub. And go easy on the shampoo. Any mess you make must be cleaned by morning.”

They were met with excitement and thanks. Jackalope grumbled that they were too soft, but he sounded relieved as he was whisked away from the dreaded bathwater.

Es sighed. There may have been a few bites and bumps, but that was all. No emergency, no fight, no danger plagued Milgram tonight. Their relief quickly turned to annoyance. They leveled their gaze at Mikoto as he entered from the hallway behind.

“Please tell me this isn’t why you woke me up.”

“Huh? Oh, this? No, no -- we have everything under control. Aw, Mappi, that looks great!”

He pointed at her sewing job, revealing bandages on his hands as well. It looked like no one was safe from the rabbit’s little teeth… Then Mikoto jabbed a thumb casually over his shoulder. “Nah, the faucet in the men’s room broke when we tried filling the basin. The whole room’s flooded now. I think it’s gonna start spilling into the hallway soon.”

“WHAT?”

#milgram #es #jackalope #mikoto kayano #and some others #rip es... they are eternally dealing with So Much Bullshit.... 😂😂😂#half the fun was actually writing it and the half of it was sitting around brainstorming all the options of trouble the prisoners could #be getting into at odd hours of the night LMAO #i cycled through so many dares/challenges (the fucked up high school variety) - competitions - show offs - crazy games #and thats Before i considered the genuine trouble they could get into #the line was so versatile asdfsdfsd #anyway uhh dont try this at home and all that -- apparently bathing bunnies IS bad for their fur and very distressing 💀#but im sure our little cryptid prison warden can handle it...#amane and haruka arent involved directly but they are chilling okay #its getting more and more difficult to write milgram humor as they reveal more and more character trauma but im trying!! 😭#thank you so much for the request! these have been such a blast -- i really appreciate it! you are so kind :')#i hope youre doing well and taking good care of yourself pal!!👍✨#i hope you enjoy :D #drabbles

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streaminn · 1 year

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The top five dates of Wednesday Addams and their interesting choice of clothing

We all know the award winning writer and actress, Wednesday Addams but do you know the suitors of such a grand lady?

Their identity is as mysterious as the great Addams family but clothes can tell a lot about a person's personality. So here are the top five most memorable dates of Wednesday Addams and our thoughts about it.

Starting with fifth, its been said by Wednesday Addams herself that their paramour for that day had worn something similar to Joe Goldberg from the show YOU. We hadn’t really seen the resemblance at first until she pointed out the iconic cap and apron outfit they wore. Seems like the cap does work after all!

We caught them standing by a coffee shop, one that we originally thought that the paramour in question was working in, until we had an interview with the owner and found out that they were just substituting in for a sick worker.

in Fourth we have a suitor wearing something rather unorthodox. Instead of the tasteful cap like the last time, we have them wearing a mask instead. A rather interesting kind, if you call a paper bag with eyeholes a mask. Wearing a classic white button up, tie and slacks, Paperbag came into the scene with a matching bag with food for Wednesday Addams.

Here, you can see the wind attempt to unmask our paper wearing lover with Wednesday who seemed rather bemused at the panic they held.

On third, we have Ghostface! Who definitely gave a scare during the premiere of scream six when they came calling but the sight of Wednesday Addams tiny smile is enough to bring them into the top three as definitely memorable. Like author like character no? Now that i realize, the more we talk about outfits, the more masked these suitors get.

Continuing, Instead of wearing the classic cloak ensemble like the movie, they opted to have a whole nondescript almost military like outfit. The image of Ghostface carrying off Wednesday Addams once the film is done is definitely a sight to see however!

Nearly done with the list, we have Prisoner in orange coming in second. Most likely done in reference for the movie Carnage, which Wednesday actively helped in directing. They were seen on set and it seems like this suitor is closer to the spotlight than we think. An extra? perhaps a main character?

All up to speculation from what we seen from the blurry photos. What we do know, is that Wednesday Addams clearly cares for this one, judging how she’s holding their face and seemingly applying stage blood on the actor.

(editors note: halfway through, we wondered just what are we rating these out off. Was it the romance aspect? the outfits? got no idea, just enjoy the bachelor(lettes?) and the oddly intimate moments Wednesday Addams spends with them)

Finally, we have the matching suits and.. yeah i have no words. They’re just a beautiful couple so feast your eyes on what the two wore.

Is this all worn by the same person? or is Miss Wednesday Addams not a lone wolf after all?

YALL MY HAND CRAMPED MIDWAY THROUGH, SO I COULDNT DRAW. EITHER WAY, HOPE YOU LIKED IT SEPH

#my art #wenclair #Streamer Enid au #or enid cosplaying as she goes to wednesday's events #writing #is this canon to the au? got no idea #lets call it semi canon until i fix up my shit bc jeezus #the art and writing detoriation hurts

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darklydeliciousdesires · 2 years

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Runaway - Chapter Nine.

Happy Friday, besties! Awww, it makes me so happy to see you all enjoying this, it really does. I love to create something that gets people talking, and thank you so much for investing in it :) If you want to go slower with the notes over the weekend to get to 30 then go for it, completely up to you, as ever :) Now, back to the story. You all get to meet Manny’s grandpa. Something tells me you’re going to like Ed...

Previous chapters - Prologue One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight

Taglist - In the comments, please DM to be added/removed

Words - 2,288

Warnings - 18+ content throughout, minors DNI!

“You fucking what?”

Oh yes. There went the sound barrier. And his eardrums.

“Baby, I’m so sorry. This is a shock, I know it is, I know,” he began, his fiancée amping up to irate within a blink.

“How could you do this to me!”

“It happened before I met you, Carmen,” he revealed, attempting to placate her.

“And how do you know she’s yours, huh? This bitch could be just passing her off as yours, could have had any number of dicks all up in her and she’s trying to pin it on you!” His eyebrows knitted at that.

“Hannah isn’t a bitch. She’s a nice girl who I ended up having a one-night stand with. Trust me, I believe her when she says she knows I’m the father. The only other guy it could have been didn’t match on a paternity test. Plus, you ain’t seen the kid. She’s my double. Ain’t no doubt over her parentage, mi dulce. She’s mine.”

“And so, what now? What does this mean, going forward? She sticking you for child support, huh?” Money. Of course, that would be at the forefront of her mind. It always was. “We have a wedding to pay for, you know!”

Manny took a breath, opening the fridge and pulling a beer out, twisting the cap off before swinging the door shut and leaning back against it. “She didn’t mention anything about child support, but I will be contributing. Ain’t no question there. That don’t mean you go without anything, though. I make good bank, you know that.”

Despite the fact she was being selfish and thinking of herself first in all of this, Manny was, as ever, understanding, selfless as he was. At that moment, Carmen was of course tits deep in the world according to bride, not wanting anything to get in the way of her special day. He wouldn’t let it either, he loved her, after all. At the same time, though, he would not welch on a commitment to his own blood.

“I’m going for a bath.” She tore a path through the kitchen, out towards the bathroom, the door slamming shut. He couldn’t help but note that she hadn’t even asked him, not once, how he was coping with the news. It was all about how it affected her.

‘I’m mindful of what I just dropped on you, and it matters to me, that you’re alright with it.’

Hannah’s concern came back to him immediately, wanting to make sure he was okay after her life changing revelation. The difference was not lost on him. He sighed, pulling his phone out, scrolling through to the pictures he’d taken, pictures of his baby, ones Hannah had taken of him holding her, too, smiling widely. Oh, she was so beautiful, such a precious little thing.

“As if I made something as fucking perfect as you, Lola Lydia Gray,” he beamed, his thumb stroking her image. “Shit, I’m a dad. I’m someone’s dad.”

It was there that his thoughts went to his own father, Manny’s mouth thinning as he moved to go and sit down in the lounge. Manuel Santiago Snr had walked out on him, his mother and two sisters when he was five, the family moving back to his mother’s home of La Paz County, Arizona, to live with a considerably better father figure; his grandfather, Ed.

Edward Ellison was a formidable force, half Apache, half white, and one hundred percent no nonsense. A rancher all his life, working fourteen hours a day, come rain or shine, producing some of the best, if not the best beef cattle in Arizona, breeding horses as well as a lucrative second income. A tough life for a tough man. He had perhaps the kindest heart Manny had ever encountered for his family and friends, but still, there was no doubting his mettle.

He sat and remembered the first time he’d ever put him on a horse as a six-year-old kid. Not a pony, oh no. A fully grown quarter horse. ‘The boy needs to learn if he’s gon’ drive cattle in’ he’d explained, when his mom had pitched somewhat of a fit about seeing her little boy sitting up on a huge steed led by her father, Manny’s feet barely reaching the bottom of the saddle flaps. He had got him something a little more suitable once he did learn, though, a little dappled grey horse of just over fourteen hands in height named Chester.

Driving cattle was exactly what Manny had done, too, until he was twenty-four, spending eight years working the same hard job. It was rewarding, but he couldn’t continue, meeting a girl who lived over in Yuma and leaving to join her down there. His relationship with Corrine hadn’t lasted, but the outlaw life he’d fallen into had.

She’d been the daughter of one of the members of the Yuma charter of the MC, hence how he got involved in it all in the first place. He missed the ranch sometimes, but definitely not the 4am starts of a morning. Thinking of his grandpa, Manny knew he was the first person he wanted to reveal the news to.

“Hey mijo, hold on. He’s in the kitchen, doing something to the coffee machine,” his grandmother, Rosita spoke, the words ‘I’m trying to fix the godforsaken thing, Rosie!’ muttered from his grandpa, Ed taking the phone.

“You’re calling late.”

Manny checked the time on his phone. “It’s 8:06pm, gramps.”

“That’s late for me, you know I go to bed at eight thirty.” It was true, he did. In bed by eight thirty and out of it by 4am, even still at seventy-one years old.

He couldn’t help but be smart. “Well then we have just over twenty minutes, don’t we?”

“Fucking kids and their sass,” Ed muttered, Manny laughing. “So, how are you?”

“I’m great, gramps, really good. I had some news today, and you’re the first person I wanted to tell. I’m a dad.”

Ed stood much taller than his 6ft 2 height at hearing that, a smile lighting up his still handsome features. “You and Carmen ain’t wasting any time, huh? Congratulations, son. When’s she due?”

“Um, that’s the thing. Baby is here already, twelve weeks old, and not Carmen’s.” He waited for it; the no doubt comically delivered reaction.

“You been philandering in some other woman’s honey pot, boy?” He didn’t disappoint, his grandson hissing softly with laughter.

“Yep, but this was before I met Carmen,” he explained, Ed snorting.

“You were cutting that finer than a flea’s nut sack hair!”

Manny was in hysterics at his words, sipping his beer. “I met her two months after I was with Hannah, that’s my baby mama, by the way. Well, I wasn’t really with her, more of a one-night thing.”

Ed sighed, coughing as he let himself out of the back door, looking out over his vast property as he sat down in the porch chair. “Still no fan of condoms, then?”

“Nope,” Manny confessed, knowing it was bad. HPV had made him finally learn his lesson, though.

“Cesspool,” Ed grunted. “I’m surprised your dick ain’t dropped off yet.” He rummaged in his pocket, taking out one of his slim cigars and lighting up. “So, what kind is my first great grandbaby? Pink or blue?” His comment sparked a memory of the time his grandmother had bought him a new shirt, one he’d refused to wear in his stubbornness, all because it had a trace of dark pink in the plaid, Manny laughing softly through his nose at how rigid his grandpa could be over such simple things as colours.

“Pink, her name’s Lola,” Manny revealed proudly. “Hold on, I’ll send you a picture.”

“Alright, I’ll put you on the speaker phone so I can talk and look.” Manny accessed his pictures on a message, clicking a few and sending them through. A few seconds passed before Ed’s phone pinged, and then a couple more before he spoke again. “Aw, hell. Would you look at that little face. She’s a peach, boy. Damn, she looks the double of your mama when she was a baby. When you bringing her here so granny and I can meet her?”

“I dunno. I only found out today, so let me settle into a routine of things with Hannah first and I’ll see.”

Ed made a ‘umhm’ noise, taking a drag on his cigar. “You told your mama yet?”

“Nah, I’m working up to that. I kinda guess she’s gon’ scream at me.” Truly an understatement if ever there was one.

“Well, of course she will. She inherited her mother’s lungs, if nothing else. How about Carmen, is she good about it all?”

Manny sniffed, finishing his beer, rising from the couch to go and fetch another. “Not really, but I’m guessing she needs time to get used to the idea.”

“Hmm.” Ed’s tone was non-comital, choosing not to voice the truth that he wasn’t surprised at all. He didn’t care for Carmen one bit. ‘That girl, she’s bougee and self-centred. Ain’t what he needs’ he’d said to his darling Rosita after meeting her for the first time. “Yeah, I guess she’ll come round to it, eventually.” Instead of being his usual, mildly abrasive, truth spewing self, he chose diplomacy. His grandson had enough to think about, without him throwing in his two cents.

Manny said he’d call again soon, Ed telling him he’d relay the news to his grandma before getting off, leaving him to make the phone call he was carrying a certain amount of mild dread over.

“You fathered a child with a woman who isn’t the one you’re marrying? For the love of god, Manuel! How could you be so reckless? Poor Carmen! This must be breaking her heart, and who is this woman you got pregnant in the first place? Is she an ex-girlfriend? Please don’t tell me it’s that little whore from the dry cleaners, I couldn’t stand her and...”

“Mom, breathe,” he interjected with.

“It’s her, isn’t it? It’s that girl! Oh my god, I need a drink! I mean, did I not always tell you to fucking use contraception? You’re thirty-nine, for heaven’s sake, and...”

“Mom, I’m sending you a picture.”

“...I’d like to think that you’re at the age where you’d kno-OH MY GOD! She’s so beautiful!”

He knew that would shut her up.

“Ain’t she? Her name’s Lola, and no, she isn’t Esther’s. Her mom is a girl named Hannah, she’s really nice, you’ll like her,” he explained, hearing his mother virtually whimpering with joy on the other end of the line.

“How old is she?”

“What, Hannah or bubs?”

Val sighed audibly. “The baby! As long as this Hannah girl is over eighteen then It's all good.”

“Oh yeah, well over. She’s fifty-two.”

“Manny!”

He laughed hard, never able to resist winding the key in his mother’s back and watching her go. “I’m just playing, calm down! She’s twelve weeks, well, a little under actually. And Hannah is thirty-eight.”

“So, when can I meet her?”

He told her the same thing he had his grandpa, his mom understanding and asking him to please send more photographs in the meantime. They chatted a little more before ending the call, just as Carmen was exiting the bathroom, swathed in towels and still looking sour. “You have a nice bath, mamas?”

No reply.

“Baby, come on. Can we just sit down and talk about this calmly?” he tried with again.

“Fuck you!”

He winced at her ire, shaking his head as the lounge door slammed shut, picking up the remote and turning the TV on, wishing he wasn’t already four beers in so he could head back to the clubhouse and hang out. He’d come home early at Carmen’s request so he could spend some time with her, but now that idea was shot to shit entirely. He got it, why she was mad, but he couldn’t help it. A baby didn’t come with a return to sender option. Besides, he wouldn’t want her to. He was thrilled at becoming a father; he just hoped his fiancée would land on the same page sooner rather than later.

It was a few days before she seemed to settle a little more, but he knew she was still pretty sour over the whole thing.

“Hey yo, come look at this,” he called to Lily and Jodie a few days later, he and Carmen hanging out at the clubhouse, Angel and EZ’s wives approaching to look at the picture he showed them.

“Awwwww! Look her smile!” Jodie gushed, bouncing on the spot, grasping her hands to her own heavily pregnant belly, Lily reading the message that accompanied it.

“Hey daddy, look how happy I am that I just spit up all over the seventh romper mommy put me in today. Can’t wait to see you on Friday and puke all over you, too! Love Lola. Oh, that’s so sweet!”

“I know, right? She always sends a little message like it’s from the baby. Imma ruin my street cred thinking that shit is adorable, but I don’t give a fuck,” he laughed.

“You shouldn’t! She’s your first born, it’s an exciting time for you,” Jodie enthused, rubbing his arm affectionately. Carmen was within earshot, snorting and throwing herself down from the barstool, stomping out of the clubhouse. “Something I said?”

“Naw, baby girl. She’s just having a time of it, adjusting to the fact.” he replied, Jodie nodding sagely. She’d expected as much, but what Manny didn’t expect was to get blasted about it as soon as they walked through the front door upon their arrival home a few hours on.

Carmen, it seemed, was not done being pissed off about it just yet.

#manny mayans mc #manny mayans mc fanfiction #manny mayans mc imagine #manny mayans mc smut #manny mayans mc x ofc #manny montana #manny montana fanfiction #manny montana imagine #manny montana smut #manny montana x ofc #mayans mc #mayans mc fanfictio #mayans mc imagine #mayans mc smut #mayans mc fanfic #mayans mc fic

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she-karev · 2 months

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The Talk About Kids (Jolex Imagine)

Age Rating: 12+

Chapters: One of Two

Fandom: Grey’s Anatomy

Ship: Alex and Jo

Canon Episode: Season 16 Episode 6

AN: I decided to shift my focus to a power couple that deserved so much more. I decided to show Alex and Jo throughout pivotal moments in Season 16 and 17 that I believe would fit them. The next chapter will be released tomorrow like and reblog below and let me know what you think.

Summary: After their second wedding Alex and Jo head back to their loft where Alex brings up the subject of having kids with him and Jo discussing it.

Words: 1314

October 31, 2019

Alex tries to roll the sliding steel door with his foot because he’s busy carrying Jo in his arms bridal over the threshold. She is in her wedding dress only this time she’s wearing zombie makeup that makes her look like bride of Frankenstein in the spirit of Halloween. He wanted to make up for skipping the traditions after their last wedding by doing them after they legally got married twenty minutes ago at the courthouse. He felt the same as he was after their first wedding the only difference is they’re now married on paper.

Jo chuckles at his feeble attempts to open the door, “Here let me get that husband.” Jo grabs the handle and opens the sliding door to Alex’s relief.

“Thank you, wife, now to cross the threshold.” Alex carries Jo inside as they chuckle and grin at entering their loft as an official married couple, “And now to put you down because my back is tweaking.”

Jo grins as Alex lets her down her feet and she heads to the kitchen, “So how does it feel being married? Are you already planning escape routes?”

Alex smiles at his beautiful zombie wife, “Never.”

Jo smiles at that answer, “Good, because I am not gonna let you get away from me so easily.” Jo grabs water bottles from the fridge and hands one to Alex, “A toast to us.”

“To us.” Alex and Jo clink their plastic bottles and drink them before their recent wedding comes into Alex’s mind. When Jo told Alex she was pregnant he was shocked at first but then images went into his head of their life together after. He imagined Jo growing round with their child in her belly and him doting on her and making sure she takes it easy. He imagined holding her hand as she gave birth to their baby and the joy in their eyes as they met their child. He imagined growing old with Jo and having Sunday brunches with their kids and grandkids.

And when she told him she was kidding a part of him was laughing but another part of him was yearning for that dream of theirs to become a reality. He hasn’t brought up the subject since before Jo left to find her birth mom. She came back after depressed and not willing to let him in which worried him of course given his history. He didn’t think there could be a future when she went into treatment, and she gave him an out knowing him well enough to know how triggering the past events were for him. But seeing her do so well and trying to overcome her struggles he knew from then that an out will never be an option for him when it comes to loving Jo.

He's seen her be the strong and caring woman he fell in love with these past few months and knows she would be a great mother. He knows they can give their kids the love and support they never had growing up. But he knows they’re not getting any younger and he should bring up the subject while their joy is fresh.

“Can I ask you something?” Alex asks Jo in front of him who nods as she sips her bottle, “…Do you still want to have kids?”

Jo stops sipping and takes her bottle out of her mouth and caps it with a surprised face, “Um…yeah, I do. What brought this on?”

Alex sighs and sits on the couch patting the seat next to him. Jo takes it and looks at her husband inquisitively. She told him she wanted kids with him and meant it but after her depressive episode it’s been out of her mind for months now. She’s been busy with treatment, and he’s been busy with Pac North the subject never came up until tonight. Yet instead of the stress that Jo would have felt five years ago at this topic she feels comfortable, like she is okay with the idea of kids since she’s in a better place.

Alex clears his throat before continuing, “When you told me you were pregnant at the courthouse, I was excited. I had this whole life of ours in my head where we grow old and play with our grandkids while our kids are talking to us about their lives. I have had that dream since the day I fell in love with you and I have been patiently waiting for you to share that with me. And I know a lot of stuff has gotten in the way but we’ve survived that and we’re in a good place, better even. I’m getting the hang of Pac North, you’re an attending, we both have comfortable lives it…it feels like the right time to start having a family of our own. Does it feel like the right time for you?”

Jo grins tenderly at her husband’s confession before taking a moment to think, “It does, it feels right but…I don’t want to get pregnant.”

Alex furrows his eyebrows at this setback, “What?”

Jo holds Alex’s hand and explains, “When I found out…how I was conceived I went dark and wondered if that evil is genetic. If I can somehow pass that vile act onto our kid and it’s made me decide that I don’t want biological kids. I know it’s silly and you think this is some depressive episode but it’s not. I don’t think I can handle being pregnant, I’m afraid I’ll react the same way my mother did when she was pregnant with me.”

Alex looks at Jo in sympathy and wishes the man who raped her mother was alive so he could kill him for forcing Jo to see her existence as an abomination. But he holds her hand tightly and caresses her white cheek that she leans into seeking his comfort.

“You wouldn’t do that; I know you wouldn’t.”

Jo sniffles and nods, “I know you do but I don’t, I can’t risk repeating the cycle, I want that to end with me.” Jo inhales deeply and proposes something else, “But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a baby, it just means we go another route, one that involves a lot of forms and home visits.”

Alex’s eyes brighten at that feeling hope again, “You want to adopt?”

Jo nods with a smile, “Yeah, I do. I want to give someone like me a chance at a family, a chance of love, a chance with us as parents. I want us to give another wayward baby the love and kindness I should’ve had.”

Alex looks at his wife in admiration as he strokes her hair, “Everyday with you, you somehow manage to find a way to make me love you even more. Let’s do it, today, tomorrow as soon as we can.”

Jo smiles at that response, “You don’t mind that we’re not gonna get pregnant?”

“Jo.” Alex smiles at his bride caressing her cheek, “I don’t care if we get pregnant or not, I care about us expanding our family and having more love to give. And hearing your argument and being a former foster kid too, I also want to give an unwanted baby a chance at a good life. I want to be a good dad just like I know you are gonna be a great mom to however many kids we bring into our house.”

Jo smiles and kisses Alex tenderly for a few moments before pulling back, “Okay first thing to do, is to find an adoption agency to apply for and then we are gonna get a real estate agent so we can move out of this loft and find a suitable house with actual bedrooms.”

Alex smiles at her already planning their future before standing up, “I’ll get the laptop, you keep brainstorming.”

Next Chapter Here

#greys anatomy #grey's anatomy #greysanatomyedit #greysedit #greys anatomy imagine #alex karev #jo wilson #jo karev #jolex #headcanon #mine #making things right

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phantom-of-the-501st · 1 year

Text

Thoughts on TBB 1x1

I've missed doing these analyses but I have started rewatching TBB from the beginning so I'm going to do some more breakdowns as I go through the series!

Discussion about random 1x1 moments down below! (Also spoilers for TBB S2)

Crosshair and Framing

I rewatched S1 a few times before S2 came out, so I was aware of some of the choices they made when positioning Crosshair in shots, but I didn't necessarily realise how often it happens! Right before Order 66 is given, Crosshair moves out of the frame. It's actually the last time that you see him until the order is given, meaning that you have a couple minutes of just the other four members.

What I find particularly interesting at this point though is what they are discussing. They are talking about what happens next, where they go from that point on. Now, in the context of the scene, they are discussing battle plans, but I find it interesting that they are talking about where they go from here and Crosshair isn't involved. He doesn't even contribute. Their entire conversation about what happens to them next does not involve Crosshair. He's completely out of the conversation, which I find interesting considering that the next major step that the Batch takes doesn't involve Crosshair being there. It's not necessarily a conscious decision by the Batch, but it's definitely a conscious decision by the writers to not have him involved in that moment.

But that's not the only time that Crosshair isn't in the frame! And even when he is, sometimes he's in the back and/or out of focus. (Images from cap-that.com)

Notice how he's also the only one with a helmet on here and how significant that helmet is when showing Imperial Crosshair.

This is just a selection of them, but you get the idea. Crosshair is frequently cut out, physically separated, or out of focus when the Batch are shown together. His detachment at this point is apparent.

But just to break your heart even more, guess who's the next to get cut out of a lot of the scenes. :)

Now Tech does appear in a lot more scenes than Cross and isn't cut out the majority of the time, but it stood out to me that the next person to disappear out of that first frame was Tech. I don't know if the writers knew for definite at this point what was going to happen in the S2 finale, but it's interesting how they seem to filter off in the same order that they do in the story.

The Bad Batch Being Irresponsible

This is less depressing to talk about but it made me laugh.

Hunter: "This is one meeting I don't want to miss."

Tech: "First time for everything."

As if it wasn't obvious enough that these lot are rubbish when it comes to following protocols, they straight up admit that they don't attend meetings. Imagine other members of the GAR trying to organise meetings with this squad to discuss missions and they just don't show up. They probably gave up trying to give anyone in this squad paperwork because it would never get filled out. I imagine that half of the mission reports are just second-hand accounts from other clones that the higher-ups had to talk to because none of them can actually track down any of the Batch to get information out of them.

Battle Report No. 7365-278

Accounts from multiple battalions claim that Clone Force 99 defeated the enemy by performing a series of unsafe manoeuvres that do not correspond with any of the plans laid out in the GAR regulations. Reasoning for the chosen methods is unknown as no-one has been able to contact Clone Force 99 to discuss these strategies. However, the battle was a success and all attempts to contact the squad have been abandoned by order of Commander CT-2224 who stated "You might as well give up now before you all get grey hairs trying to get them to do anything".

AZI and the Domino Twins

I said before during the S2 finale that seeing Echo with AZI reminded me of seeing him with Fives but what stands out to me even more is the fact that it is those two specifically who mark the last time we see him and the first time he is on screen again. The last time we saw AZI was with Fives. The first time we see him again is with Echo. The parallels between the domino twins are always there. :')

"Five are all that remain"

I'm hoping they touch on this in the final season because we've never really gone back to this. It makes me wonder a few things: how many were there? What were their capabilities? What happened to them? Did the Batch know them? It's all very intriguing but they've never really touched on it and I very much want them to.

Does Tarkin Know Echo?

I do wonder if Tarkin has any idea that Echo is the clone that sacrificed himself to help get Tarkin and the others out of the Citadel. I honestly think that he doesn't for a couple of reasons.

1. He doesn't seem to know much about CF99 in this episode, so he probably didn't do any reading up on them. I don't think he ever mentions their names either, so he probably doesn't know them, nor cares to know them.

2. Even if he did know them, I still don't think he'd make the connection. We've already established that Tarkin doesn't like clones, so I really don't think that he's going to remember Echo's name. I genuinely do not think he cares enough in the slightest to even try and remember him, let alone recognise him this much time later.

Wrecker with Crosshair and Tech

*Sigh* This makes me sad. Seeing all the wholesome moments between Wrecker and his brothers this episode just makes me think about how devastated he was about losing them. We know that Wrecker has very strong emotional connections to his family because he's the most open about them in the squad. Watching this episode when it was just Crosshair gone was devastating enough, but after what happened with Tech as well, it's all so painful.

There's that moment during the battle simulation when Tech gets knocked down and Wrecker tells him to hang on. It makes me think of 2x9 when Wrecker makes sure Tech is safe from the storm. And then it makes me think about 2x16... Wrecker has always been so protective of his brothers and he was the one to try and help Tech in the finale. He has always been there to pick them up when they need it and to protect them and he probably feels like a failure for not being able to do it. In a life like theirs, it's practically impossible for someone to protect anyone forever but for Wrecker, he's now left with the knowledge that he couldn't do it. None of us blame him, but I know that he probably suffers from some pretty awful guilt.

"Change takes getting use to"

The exact thing I wrote down after this line from Hunter was "oh, mate... if only you knew :')" and yeah... I think that pretty much sums it up.

The Batch have had to go through a whole lot of change and that's one of their biggest challenges. Even though they don't stick to orders, they are still soldiers and their life still holds some level of routine. But suddenly everything goes wrong, everything falls apart and a lot of that structure disappears. What happens to them between 1x1 and 2x16 is the most change that any of them have ever had to go through and none of them could've anticipated it.

"Good soldiers follow orders"

So this line has already been talked about to death but I noticed something in one scene in particular. When they are in the brig, and Crosshair says this, he takes a step towards Echo at the "follow orders" bit.

It's interesting that he directs that line towards Echo, the rule follower. Yes, he's addressing all of them at this point, but I wonder if he directs that part of the line specifically at Echo because he knows that Echo, by nature, is more likely to stick to regulations. It's an attempt at making the point stick. If Crosshair can make him believe that he can only be a good soldier if he does exactly as he's told (like Echo believed when he was in training), then he can hammer the sentiment in.

But what's also stands out is that Echo doesn't flinch. There's no pain, hurt, fear, concern, none of that. His face is kept stern and I think it's because that line doesn't stick with Echo as much any more. If someone had told him this when he was a cadet, then maybe it would've hurt him, made him doubt himself. But after everything that he's gone through, he knows that following orders alone doesn't determine how capable of a soldier you are. It doesn't dig as deep anymore because he of all people knows the need to adapt to the situation, even if it goes against direct orders.

(Not to mention that Echo is one of the most morally-driven people in the group. He knows that killing Jedi is the wrong thing to do and he is absolutely not listening to whatever Crosshair is trying to spew at him at this point).

#I didn't cry watching this episode!#I was very surprised by that #but here are some thoughts #more will come out as I move through the show #but I realised I have a show I need to catch up on by next week #so that'll probably get the most of my focus rn #but enjoy these ramblings in the meantime #Steph rambles #the bad batch #tbb #tbb echo #tbb tech #tbb crosshair #tbb wrecker #tbb hunter #clone force 99

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