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get-your-fuckin-star-bitch · 1 year

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So at the office, while he was away, Michael was basically considered to be a Threat™️ because everyone had wound up seeing or hearing about what had happened to Leitner. Elias being like “oh he just needs some time to work himself out” but in a weirdly sinister way does not help his case.

Jon eventually gets into his own bit of trouble because of the possibility that he could have been an accomplice, has to run away like he did in the original series.

Actually, Michael’s not fully considered a threat by anyone… not anyone who actually knows him, at least.

Melanie’s opinion? Yeah, he was a little weird when she gave her statement to him. Probably evil.

Tim? He’s not responding to anyone’s questions at the moment, and you can kindly fuck off. (Michael saved Sasha’s life with the worms, but he’s not gonna tell the police that he thinks Jon maybe did it instead with some weird mind controlling powers or something. They’ll think that it’s bullshit.)

Sasha’s… conflicted. He has been acting weird recently, but she’s not sure he’s actually evil, she’s actually pretty sure he’s just… stressed. People can change, though, so… she doesn’t really know what to think.

Jon’s. Um. Not there, but he’s SUPER sure the guy’s gone crazy and is killing people for sport.

Martin………………………………………………………….

“It’s… complicated? Probably.”

[CONTINUED BELOW oh you BET there’s more ehehehe]

Nikola, though… oh boy.

Two potential candidates. One of them’s rumored to not really know much of anything, and the other knows plenty. But while both have gotten strong, one of them’s going to be stronger.

Kicker’s that the potentially-stronger one probably won’t actually fit properly because he’s too tall. And he’s all twisted, so that won’t do at all.

So instead, she’s been talking to Jon about the gorilla skin, like in the original series.

Being a super creepy motherfucker and all that.

Y’know.

Anyway, Michael did not get anywhere near death, so Oliver didn’t have to go in and help out or anything, but… Elias has realized that michael keeps getting himself into situations where he nearly gets killed, and does not seem to handle them too well, so he’s experimenting and seeing if he can have Jon be a “backup archivist”, which i’m sure Nikola’s absolutely delighted by…

Still… Michael does get visited by some of the stranger’s gang eventually.

Just “checking in on our dear old archivist!”

(Michael does not feel comforted.)

(He is also not particularly thrilled.)

(Especially when she casually mentions not being able to use his skin in particular, because it “just wouldn’t fit right………….! You understand… don’t you, archivist?”)

He tries to burn her with the spiderweb lighter.

No wonder Jude Perry liked him a lot- (he’s actually now tried to set two things on fire because they were bothering him- but I haven’t posted the part where he yeets a lighter at the other thing yet lol-you’ll see)

Obviously, it’s ineffective… but it lights up her face for a moment before miraculously snapping shut upon hitting the floor.

Or… where her face should be.

Michael screams, his friend finally gets the lights working, and Nikola is gone.

…Fun!

OH HEY WAIT WHAT

OKAY SO

If Michael gets this tape! (Which he definitely would, cause he would have completely missed everything.)

Obviously with a few edits!! But!!!!!!! That shit would just.

Like a goddamn jagged-edged sword getting shoved STRAIGHT through his torso, GOD that stupid bit of commentary would hurt so BAD-

Jesus, Elias, stop trying to make your archivist feel like a disposable paper bag that somehow managed to make it out of the landfill, the hell are you doing, man????

Michael’d probably just try and mirror-jump to Jude Perry or something and be like “hey, my boss is a sick bastard and I hate him, want to help?”

Not sure if I’m /j or /srs, but Martin might be on board lol

Michael’s having more and more trouble with the whole… mirror-hallway trap thing. Although, like with canon, he probably ends up figuring out a way to drag out the whole process of victims slowly kinda going nuts so that he doesn’t actually have to kill anyone, he can just… “bother someone” in order to keep things going.

Which actually winds up working better than the “drive em mad and then whoop there they go” method.

He doesn’t like how it feels, cause it’s basically making a bunch of people go through what Ryan went through, but he tries diffusing the messing-with across more than one victim in order to make it not be as horrible for each of them.

Oh, and on top of that, he still has to get statements.

Does Jon send him the statements he gets (and his own notes on them) after he’s done with them, so that they’re both on the same page with things? (And does it work..?)

And if so, does he get to hear the “dust to dust” one, finally?

*Sound of Michael nearly popping a stress ball open with one hand*

(>:(((( Bruh Gertrude what the fuck)

AND HEARING HIS OWN VOICE ON THE TAPE…

Just rewinding and playing it over and over again. Just to hear it.

It hurts to know that his voice doesn’t quite sound the same.

He’s lost the stutter that he hated so much. He almost misses it.

Might actually mumble the words a little, in a half-hopeful attempt at getting his voice to sound like it did back then again. It works, for a moment or two, and in that little sliver of time, he feels like… himself again. Like Michael.

But he can’t hold it for long.

Still… it was there.

He was… there, somewhere. He wasn’t completely gone… so maybe there was still hope.

(HhhgfhhHhhHHHHHH I wanna hug him so badddddddddddddd aaaaaaaaaa 🫠)

Anyway, so Jon gets taken by Orsinov-

And the only reason Michael doesn’t pick up every time Elias tries to call him to tell him to get Jon is cause he’s got Elias’s number registered in his phone as “old sod” and just sits there pressing “decline” every time the phone starts ringing with that name.

It’s very fun to do.

However, eventually Martin’s the one who calls him, sounding a little bit panicked, and explains what’s going on, and Michael feels like an asshole, rushes out the door- (“hello good morning I’ve got to go get Jonathan out of situations he keeps getting in don’t kill me don’t get killed please don’t leave things on voicemail if they’re important, lesson learned, ohgosh bye-”)

So the Michael appears! No doom threat, just Michael apologizing for being “so incredibly late” and being like “oh good lord these are creepy oh sh- you’ve got a gag on- I’m very sorry-”

And he notices that Jon’s…. Looking at him, like… he wants to ask something, but doesn’t know if he should.

Michael… forces a smile, getting the feeling — based on the last tape he’d gotten from jon — that he knows what he wants to ask about. “Can we… t…t-“ oh, of course- and just at the moment he’d rather it not be an issue, here it was, again, in the way of him getting his words across. “It- I- We don’t- there isn’t much… much time to share… stories.”

“She won’t be back for-“

“I just don’t want to.”

He didn’t mean it to come out sounding so snappy, and winced a little at his own voice. “She…she’s just… a bit of a hard subject, as of right now…”

Jon looks a little bit… desperate, though, and it occurs to him that he most likely hasn’t been able to get any new statements in days.

If he were to go through the mirrors… he might not be able to keep himself together in there. Or he might get lost, or…

“Ask me.”

Jon blinks, looking a bit confused. “Didn’t you say you-“

“Yes, I know. It doesn’t feel good, but if you don’t-“ he takes a deep breath, and sighs heavily. “Please. Just… this once. And it’s all… good.”

…”What was she like?”

Oh, that question hurts.

A string of expressions pass across his face as he tries to think of the words for the things Jon wants to pull out of him. Needs him to let out.

“…different… she- she told me a lie.

I thought I knew… why she was who she was. Why I was… her… assistant.

I- but i didn’t. Really. She was cold… and… I just fell for it.

He takes another deep breath and sighs, but… no, it… isn’t done, is it.

It all spills out, like blood gushing from a deep, arterial wound.

He tries to twist it, to lessen the tearing sensation that the eye gives as it drags the information out of him, but it just… happens. The words aren’t quite his to control.

The Sannikov trip is the most painful to feel.

Once, it might have been a tale told in horror, of the near-death experience of his mentor, the old woman who fell over the side of a ship in the middle of a storm. About how he almost went insane, but that could have been a dream, and she had been saved, and then they had gone home again.

He told Jon all of this story, the statement riddled with sarcasm and frustration, and hurt.

And then he told… a different story.

The one he’d had in that vision, or dream, or nightmare- whatever it had been.

He told the eye what it already knew, and — in a way — begged it to answer him, instead. Tell him if he had just been… a pebble to be kicked into a trap so that it could be made safe to pass through.

He explained his fear that Gertrude had, in fact, killed one of her old assistants, a woman named Emma Harvey. She’d burned her alive.

And then he recounted his terror upon waking up in the office that one horrible night, when the doors had not been the right doors, and had nearly taken him and swallowed him and taken him apart.

How the fire had roared around him.

The rest of the story, Jon already knew, and so his talking should have ended there.

But he mentioned something he didn’t want to.

About how much Jon had reminded him of her, when they’d first met.

And with this revelation, the story ended.

At once, Michael slid to the floor, his whole body drained of energy, fighting to keep itself together.

It was not a moment too soon.

A door had opened behind him. A horribly familiar one, and as it loomed over Jon’s bound form and Michael’s barely stable one, a voice floated through the room, coming from the figure standing at its threshold.

“That was a very, very stupid thing to do, archivist.”

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andro-dino · 6 months

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oh ryuga! 1, 4, 8, 9, 24

He’s really low in my mental tier list for me I think mostly just bc of how popular he is. that’s not just me being a contrarian (although I unwittingly definitely am one I’m not denying that bc I know full well I am lmao) but also because he’s so popular with annoying dudebros specifically who completely ignore everything I love about beyblade and just powerscale and overhype Ryuga to all hell and back. it’s to the degree that i genuinely like Ryuga less bc of it which is unfortunate. my Ryuga enjoyer friends are the only ones I trust with him you guys are chill (shoutout arti hani and snuggles). It’s unfortunate additionally bc I do think he’s a really interesting character. I am very insane about the way the idea of power is handled in beyblade and Ryuga really helps exemplify that with how physically strong yet self destructive he is and what that says about him and his relationships with other characters which is really interesting to me. I think im more interested in how that affects other characters and their stories more so than him himself tho lol

I want him as the protag in a visual novel. Not because I think it would provide any interesting gameplay or anything but I can only imagine how fucking funny it would be to have an entire game narrated through ryuga’s brain bc there’s no telling what’s going on up there. Also I think it would be funny to only have the worst action choices available at every decision and being forced to choose one of them that would be silly as hell.

8. I think my response to the first question kinda answers that mostly. The other thing though. I’m not gonna say anything more than “early fandom ryugin.” I like ryugin but. portrayals of them I’ve seen from way way back. horrifying.

9. Definitely not. He would be an awful roommate and I do NOT have the self discipline or responsibility enough to clean up after him lmao

this is funny bc I have a whole PowerPoint presentation on beyblade characters that remind me of other characters (/srs it’s a little insane lol) but I don’t have anything for Ryuga. Trying to think but I really don’t know. I guess he’s just that unique of a character (or I haven’t consumed that much different media. that’s probably more the case lol)

#axel’s silly little thoughts #peculiar creature #I like him in the same way a child is fascinated by an ant before they squish it

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ijustreallylikecaptainamericaok · 1 year

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Earth’s Mightiest Heroes thoughts (season 2, episodes 11 - 15):

- I’m guessing T’Challa is still T’Challa, because the Skrulls had gotten to him they wouldn’t’ve needed those Skrull Avengers to attack Wakanda. But I’m still not sure... fuck, this stuff makes me tense in a bad way.

- Though admittedly, watching Jan pop Skrull!Hank in the face was pretty good, lol.

- CD: “T’Challa, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t know what to do.” T: “I assume you do now.” CD: “Oh, yeah.” Oh, they pissed off Carol. Bad idea.

- MH: “When all this is over, I’m gonna get a t-shirt made. Know what it’s gonna say? [...] It’ll say ‘Nick Fury was Right.’“

- LMD!Maria! LMD!Maria!

- MH: “I’ve had the same car since I was 19 years old, never had a problem. Yet this thing [the SHIELD helicarrier] falls out of the sky every other Thursday.”

- CB: “Told you I wasn’t a Skrull.” CD: “If we survive this, I’ll apologize.” Also: CD: “Are we even now?” CB: “No.” Fuck, I love Clint. The show really should’ve let him bitch-slap Skrull!Steve when he charged at him. I get they wanted to let Steve-Steve beat that fucker up, but still.

- Don’t even get me started on Captain Skrull Fuckface. That hit me even worse than I thought it would.

- Oh, thank fuck, Thor. It’s always such a relief to see him.

- Okay, but what the hell is this:

The Cyclops/Wolverine hybrid was weird, too.

- CB: “This is their photographer? He’s 10 years old.” PP: “Uh, I’m 17.” CB: “Respect your elders, punk.”

- BB: “A few questions? Captain, what happened? Everyone on the planet thinks that you told the world to surrender to an invading force! How do you respond to that?” SR: “I take full responsibility.” BB: “Do you maybe want to elaborate on that?” SR: “Not really.” PP: “Please?” Aww, Peter, I’m with you, bud. Even though I know exactly what that big, self-sacrificing jerk (affectionate) is doing.

- PP: “How could you be so... so not upset about this?” SR: “I know who you are. I talked to the police, the firemen, the people that you helped. And I heard their stories, about how you saved lives, how you never asked for recognition or reward or even thanks. It doesn’t matter what the newspapers say or the politicians or the whole world. They don’t define who you are. You do. And not by your words, but by your actions. The truth will come out. But until then, I’m going to keep fighting, just like you do.” PP: “Can I be your sidekick?”

- Yeah, following up the Skrull stuff with a Spidey episode was a very good call.

- “That shield and I have been through a lot. And honestly, it’s one of the few things I have left. That and the Avengers.” Aww, honey. :-(

- Good Lord, Clint, want a little “passive” with your “aggressive“? We get it, you missed your man, chill. XD

- Deserumed!Steve crawling up walls and getting tossed around was weird to see. How is he not eighty kinds of broken after all that? But the Stubborn Bitch Disease persists, so there’s that.

#earth's mightiest heroes #slowpoke watches tv (sometimes)#screencaps

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goodnighttexas · 10 months

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still haveht seen all of ahsoka show yet but I have been seeing stuff on this star wars account I follow that I don’t understand so I’m assuming it’s in the part I didn’t watch bc I was Very uninterested.

ummm so I’m thinking about it again and as ahsoka tano fan top 10 she’s one of my faves of all time. I just. my. A H S O K A. show. the. A H S O K A. show. and its like here’s the rebels and I’m like oh great that characters I really don’t care about thanks. like I watched their show it was alright I grew to like them BUT NOT ENOUGH FOR ME TO WANT TO SEE THEM AGAIN. well. except hera I love hera I want to see her always <3 BUT THE ITHERS?? WHATEVER!!!! I would like to see what my sweet sweet ahsoka is doing and what shit she’s wrecking on the other side of the galaxy. not. her wayward padawan. why does she have one of those? Like why is ahsoka “I am no jedi” tano waltzing around with a padawan and WHY IS SHE SO DRY ? :((( her actor gets her snarky bits well SHED DO THE SILLY WELL TOO I BET WHY DONT THEY GIVE HER THE SILLY ? she’s so serious I want to kill myself a little. ahsoka my little high school drop out why does she act like a “cool” teacher who breaks the rules only a little but is still a teacher none the less. OHHHH kills myself whatever. she’s not Totally down for the rules but she’s more down for the rules than I think she should be. she’s too slash srs. like ahsoka is wise as hell she’s very smart but she was never BORING….. CRIES MYSELF TO SLEEP.

look even that aside I just don’t care about sabine like that I don’t care about ezra that much and I definitely don’t want to go to Big Plot Thrawn like fuck that wgaf you get rid of that guy for OOOH? BIG PLOT ?? MAYBE FOR LATER ?? and then he comes back with MID PLOT. and does nothing. like I haven’t finished the show yet but I’m presuming he gets defeated bc I think I would’ve heard of big thrawn Star Wars phase BUT I HAVE NOT! so it’s just let’s have ezra again. which. as already stated. IDCABOUTHIMCOUGH. sorry ezra. I just. yeah. go off girl go crazy go stupid do whatever im gonna look over here now though.

like. I love my slay renegade disaster lineage girl who’s like nah fuck this we done. and does her own thing. SHE IS NO JEDI !!!! why have a padawan…… whatever

look I don’t like extra dubious disaster lineage that shit ended with ahsoka okay? BOOP yoda BOOP dooku BOOP quigon BOOP obiwan BOOP anakin BOOP ahsoka and then she was like okay this is the worst lineage in the history of ever let’s not. green freak, Sith Lord, rebel who died too young L, the “negotiator”, little freakass orphan annie who let him in here?? he’s too emotionally unstable—, and ahsoka tano the best thing to come out of this whole thing. one she doesn’t end up a sith lord two she knows what’s up she knew the order was flawed and went fuck this shit I’m out LOSERS and went on her own significantly more righteous path of awesomeness to be. what a jedi really SHOULDVE been. COOL. AS. HELL !!!! kind and compassionate, a bit of a smart ass, and selfless to high heaven. if there’s good to be done she will do it. she is bound by no order she is bound by no code she will do as she wants when she wants and she will make such a good impact and she will look so cool doing it. she also kicks so much ass.

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izzy-b-hands · 1 year

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I played Bleeding Out tonight, so naturally I’m having Boss/Gat/Aisha thoughts and wound up writing another ‘Eesh has died, but Johnny is out of the hospital now and back home with Boss, and no one is equipped for this emotional upheaval but it’s here all the same’ thing.

Using one of my more recent Bosses, Ellis. If you’ve happened upon any of my SR stuff from the past year or so, you’ve probably read something with him in it already kladsfldjsa

---

“Thought we weren’t doing rings,” Ellis remarks, silver band in hand.

“Yeah,” Johnny mutters. “Well. I bought us rings. Wear it or don’t.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Johnny won’t look at him, and the third ring sits between them on the coffee table.

“Gonna give it to the funeral home?”

“Not sure yet. She didn’t get to wear it, so what would be the point in keeping it to wear myself, right?” Johnny asks. A hand worries at the bandages under his shirt.

“Don’t fuck with that.”

“It itches,” Johnny grumps. “I survived being fucking vivisected damn near, if I want to itch the fucking thing-”

“I don’t want you in the hospital again,” Ellis interrupts as gently as he can. “That’s all I meant.”

“Do you think she’d want it?”

“To be put on her in the coffin?”

“At all,” Johnny’s eyes are stuck to the ring.

“You know she would have said yes. You’d talked about it, and we’d worked out how it would work with me-”

“Should have just gotten two.”

“Would it help if I do it?” Ellis asks. “You tell me if you want it at the funeral home, and I’ll take it there. If you want a chain for it so you can wear it like that, we’ll do that.”

He doesn’t expect Johnny to move and join him on the couch, or to lay down and set his head in his lap.

But he plays with Johnny’s hair, and rubs his back. “Take the night and think on it. They said we could bring anything we wanted to go in it damn near up until the burial itself.”

“Think they could put me in there?”

“Don’t fucking say that.”

“You blame me for wanting it?”

“No. Just don’t like hearing it, since I damn near had to bury you with this,” Ellis replies, hand lingering down lower, at the bump of the bandages under Johnny’s shirt.

“Nah.”

“Yeah, I fucking did,” Ellis insists. “You didn’t have to sit there and watch yourself nearly bleed out while that fucking asshole-”

“Trent did his best,” Johnny sits up slowly and wraps an arm around him. “His route, I’m told was-”

“Bad. He’s banned from driving right now, as a result,” Ellis sighs. “Because who the fuck thinks, ‘oh, we need the hospital immediately, but we’re being followed by rival gang members, let’s fucking do a jump from the road to the roof of a building below it, and-”

“I’m okay,” Johnny interrupts. “I’m breathing. He did fine.”

“Any room in that coffin for me too?”

“We’ll have to ask. Eesh would be pissed though.”

“At having to share, or us giving up?”

“Maybe a little bit of both,” Johnny muses. “It’s not a big coffin, so maybe the sharing. That’s why she had us buy that new mattress-”

“Because we either replace it with a bigger one, or Ellis is gonna keep falling out of bed,” Ellis quotes. “She was right. It is really nice, not falling out of the bed because it’s too small. Kind of too big now, isn’t it?”

Johnny peers around the house, and his voice catches in his throat. “Would you hate it if we went to your place near the hideout, maybe?”

“No,” Ellis will never say it aloud to Johnny, but every day and night they’ve spent in Aisha’s place, what had been their place, all three of them...

He sees it. Over and fucking over again.

The chair she was tied to and her body limp in it, and the blood on the walls, and the flowers cut and tossed to the floor, and her head-

“Boss?”

“Should we call Pierce or Shaundi to come get us?” Ellis asks.

“I don’t think I can handle any questions,” Johnny says. “If Carlos was still here-”

“He’d pick us up and not say a single fucking word if we asked him not to,” Ellis gives up and buries his face into Johnny’s neck. “I don’t wanna undo all the work we’ve done. But if I could have two things, just two-”

“I know. We don’t get that though. But we can get revenge.”

“Maybe some sleep first?”

“Never thought I’d hear you say that,” Johnny chuckles, but there’s a bitter note in it. “Have you been sleeping at all?”

“You know I haven’t. I keep coming down here at night,” Ellis murmurs against Johnny’s skin, just loud enough to be audible. “Because it feels like she’ll be down here. And I’ll untie her, and she’ll shout at us for fucking up, and then she’ll come upstairs to bed.”

They wind up taking the train, where they stay until the sun rises, sleeping as the cars follow their endless loop around the city.

#text post #long post #not to be overly emotional abt video games but yes I do get teary eyed and or cry every time I watch Aisha die bc like. plot wise I get why #but from a I love her and wish she could have been in every single game somehow point of view like. why #I know the deaths are a part of johnny and boss paying for their hubris and rash decision making and shit but fuck man #they don't show that much but that's even worse it's fucking brutal and when you play the game more than once you Know when it's coming #but it still fucking rips my heart out of my chest and I hurt for Johnny so much #ddk fucking. nails that dialogue as the shitty Saint npc drives to the hospital and he didn't have to Do That but he did and it's so good #but it tears me apart bc he keeps telling her how sorry he is and that he's coming and he's dying but his only thought is Eesh #I'm done and maybe I should pop the game back open since I'm not that tired anyway rn lmao

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blackandgoldandeverythingnice · 3 years

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among the fields of gold - c. mcavoy

Pairing: Charlie McAvoy x female!OC

Summary: A little sneak peek into the future of charlie and nellie from i’m so glad to know as they attend the 2026 Olympics

Word Count: 4,682

A/N: Just the most self-indulgent little fluff I could come up with because I love writing them.

Warnings: none! the smallest hint of adult content but that’s about it.

“This is so fucking cool – did you ever actually tell me how cool it was to be at the Olympics?” Charlie was bouncing along the streets of Milan and swinging Eleanora’s hand as they went, a couple of other Team USA players behind them as they used the off day to do the touristy things they hadn’t yet been able to do during the first round of games.

“You’ve done plenty of World’s before, it’s almost the same.”

“It absolutely is not.” He argued back, glancing down and smirking at the little scowl on her face. He ignored the groans of a couple from the guys at the fact they were about to start bickering. It wasn’t their fault; he didn’t invite the idiots to come with them.

“You’re just excited because you’re staying in the Village and there are a bunch of girls there too – you don’t get that at World’s.”

“Yeah, I’m there for the girls.” He rolled his eyes and squeezed her hand before leaning over to kiss the top of her head.

The team was housed on their own floor in the dedicated USA building and it was like being back on a road trip in Peewees. They’d cruised through the round-robin, winning every game in their group and were heading into the elimination games. A lot of the guys had played together for years through development camps and national teams and they felt good about their chances.

They’d been wandering the streets of Milan, seeing as much of the sites as they could since all they’d seen were the inside of rinks. While Charlie had wanted to spend it just with Eleanora, some of the guys had caught him in the lobby with her on their way back from breakfast and insisted on joining them. She had pretty much become their team mascot: at every game, made a new sign for each and chatted with all the families happily. It made something in him burst in pride at the sight of her fitting so seamlessly into his life now. It hadn’t been an easy road to get there.

“Can you two not?” one of the Hughes brothers interrupted.

“Yeah, let’s stop this before it really gets rolling.” Matthew Tkachuk cut in, sweeping past Charlie with a smirk as he hit his shoulder and made his way across the square towards the Duomo. A few of the other guys sped passed them, running around the square and changing pigeons.

“And for a former Olympian, could you walk any slower?” Auston Matthews teased as he came right up close behind them.

Annoyed, Charlie shoved his teammate away just as Eleanora pinched his side. “I’m sorry, put some respect on the only gold medalist in this little crew right now. Also, I’m six months pregnant, dick head – you try carrying a bowling ball around your middle on these cobblestone ass streets.”

“Technically, a McAvoy has a gold medal – shouldn’t have changed your last name, babe.” Auston grinned, wrapping an arm around her shoulders but making sure to gently guide her as they walked around the various tourists and other athletes who had done the same thing they did.

“Can you get the fuck away from my wife?” Charlie groaned, checking Auston away so he could pull Eleanora into his side.

The rest of the guys walked ahead, leaving the two of them alone. Charlie smiled down at the way Eleanora was basking in the bright, cold air, her cheeks flushed and nose a little pink. There was a visible glow around her. He’d always thought it was bullshit when they said pregnant woman glowed but since the second she’d taken the test, there was a light happy aura around her. Walking with her tucked into him like she was slowed them down but Charlie liked making sure Eleanora was okay, to the point that she might kill him at some point if he asked her again how she was feeling.

“How are you – ”

“Don’t you dare ask how I feel right now, Charlie McAvoy.”

He pouted down at her. “It’s a valid question, they keep you scheduled so late for some of the media shit.”

“It’s called my job, babe.” She hip checked him gently. She’d stayed involved in the figure skating community and this year they’d invited her to provide commentary for the ladies’ singles. Turns out she was incredibly personable in front of the cameras and enjoyed talking to the young skaters. “I’m just happy none of your games conflict with the skating. I don’t think they’d love me ‘calling out sick’ only to have me show up on TV on the glass yelling at you to play better.”

“Excuse you, I have the most minutes played and highest rating.”

“Yes, baby – you’re very highly rated.” She snuggled into his side, and he laughed when she slid her hand into his back pocket and squeezed his ass.

The pair of them walked slowly around the square, laughing at the guys as they ran around. A few of Team Canada showed up along with a few of the Czech players. Since most of the teams were made up of NHLers, all the teams were friendly off-ice and trying to control them was like corralling kids at their first away tournament. A few fans stopped them as they went but most of them were interested in getting pictures with Eleanora rather than any of the guys, something the team loved to tease Charlie about. Joke was on them, he couldn’t be more proud to watch the way people adored her.

“How’s my boy doing?” he changed tactics as a group of young girls walked away after spending five minutes taking pictures with her and asking what it was like to win gold.

“I think he wants pizza and pasta.”

“Pizza and pasta? Not or?”

“You’re really gonna ask how I feel then judge your pregnant wife for wanting all the food?” the glare she shot him was enough to have him throwing his hands up in defense.

He leaned down to kiss her but she dodged him. “No way, bud – find me food then you can kiss me.”

“In my defense, I asked what my son wants to eat – you’re incidental to me checking up on him.”

“Do you want to die? Is that your plan? You want Team USA hockey to lose the gold because their captain was murdered by his pregnant wife?”

“Why’s Goldie threatening your life?” Jake popped up behind them, scaring the shit out of Charlie while Eleanora had seen him coming.

“He’s judging how much I want to eat.”

“Well, come on my fellow sewer rat – if Chuckie won’t love you right, I will.”

Jake offered her his hand and she took it, tossing a teasing smile behind her as the two of them started towards one of the side streets to find a suitable restaurant leaving Charlie to scurry after them.

--- ---

Eleanora chewed distractedly on her cuticle, staring at the clean sheet of ice waiting for the guys to step on for warmups. As she had for every single game, she was standing on the glass at the corner where her and his family had sat for the entirety of the tournament. The jersey of Charlie’s she had on barely fit over her belly and the maternity leggings made her feel like a sausage. Bouncing on the balls of her feet anxiously, she was as nervous as she’d been for her own gold medal skate.

“How’re you feeling?” a voice interrupted her nervous thoughts and she glanced over to see her father-in-law sliding into the seat next to her. After the first win, they’d sat in the same order they’d been in for every other game that followed. While Charlie wasn’t overly superstitious, Eleanora was and there’d been half a dozen little rituals she’d come up with for this Olympics.

“Jesus, your son ask you to ask me that?” she teased back at Charlie Sr. She rubbed her belly slightly and tried not to wince at the pain in her back. “Pretty sure this asshole is sitting right on my sciatic nerve.”

“Can you not call my first grandson an asshole?” Charlie’s mom appeared on her other side, looping her arm through hers. “But seriously, you alright?”

“No pain I haven’t dealt with before but this kid is already putting me through the wringer. I have to do this for 3 more months?”

Mrs. McAvoy frowned sympathetically and rubbed her arm softly. “Sorry, Ellie but yes. It’ll be worth it though.”

Just as she spoke, the guys stepped out and Eleanora zeroed in on Charlie leading the way, pushing the pucks off the edge of the bench and onto the ice.

“I can’t believe this – my son is going to be an Olympic medalist no matter what.” His mom said, sniffling slightly as she watched them start skating.

“We want gold, Jen – right, kid?” Senior nudged her in the side.

Eleanora smiled slightly. “I just want him to do the best he can.”

“Bullshit, you’re more competitive than he is. I saw you cursing him out last game for - and I quote - ‘a bullshit lazy turnover’.” Holly added as she joined the conversation, pushing her mom out of the seat next to Eleanora so she could keep the right lineup.

They all laughed while she just shrugged. “No one plays for second place...although I do kinda like being the only gold medalist. It’s how I get him to do things for me when I think I deserve them.”

The noise in the arena started to swell as the Canadians took the ice and Eleanora felt the familiar buzz and thrill of the pressure building. She hadn’t been able to see Charlie this morning, only getting a quick FaceTime as she’d been wrapping up interviews with some of the figure skaters who were getting ready for their final performance the following day.

“How was he this morning?”

Kayla shrugged. “Quiet. He missed you.”

She frowned, cursing herself for not having been there. It was their routine for the last few years, she was always the last person to see him before he went into the locker room for a big game. It felt like a bad omen that she’d missed giving him a last kiss before the biggest game of his career.

But just then Charlie skated by them for the first time, helmet off and his hair flowing behind him. He tapped the glass as he went by but kept skating in loops. After a couple laps and drills, he returned to the corner and stopped in front of her.

She couldn’t hear him over the crowd but he was pointing at her and gesturing halfway across the rink to where there was an opening in the boards. She followed where he was pointing to see one of the arena staff standing by the entrance to the locker rooms and she got the hint, squeezing through the seats as fast she could. The belly didn’t exactly help her move quickly or the people that kept trying to stop her.

He was already waiting for her by the time she reached the space, his gloves off and resting on the side. He reached out for her and she stepped eagerly towards him. On skates he was so much taller than her that she had to stand on tip toe just to wrap her arms around his neck. She was cognizant of the eyes of those in the area on them and she was sure there were cameras zooming in too.

“I couldn’t play the biggest game of my life without getting my good luck kiss.”

The stares and camera clicks faded away as she stared up at him. Knowing how the media was obsessed with “Their Story”, this was bound to be everywhere in no time. It’s why they liked their moment to be private before a game but right now, Eleanora couldn’t quite care because all she wanted was Charlie to win.

Gently, he brushed her stomach and just as he did, the baby gave a hard kick. Charlie grinned, leaning down to press his lips firmly to hers and she smiled into the kiss. “I think someone’s telling you he wants you to win.”

“I plan on winning it for his momma, gotta impress her.” He smirked, his face still inches from hers.

“I love you, baby – so fucking much.” She pressed one final kiss to his lips. “I’m not gonna tell you just making it to the gold medal game is an achievement – even though it is. You know what you need to do. Go fucking win it.”

“I shoulda had you do the pump-up speech for the boys.” He kissed her nose quickly before pulling back and grabbing his gloves to return to warmups. “I love you, babe – see you on the ice after.”

She watched him skate away, her palm flat against her belly and she felt another strong kick. Rubbing her stomach she looked down at the USA stretched across her front, smiling softly as she whispered to herself.

“Don’t worry, little man – daddy’s gonna win it for us.”

--- ---

The second period started with the game tied at two. Charlie had an assist and had already spent almost twelve minutes on the ice. Despite most of the off-ice friendships and even teammates who were playing against each other it was getting chippy. They all clearly wanted it and weren’t holding back. Tkachuk had managed to draw three penalties while only going to the box once himself.

Eleanora felt like she was going to lose her voice the amount she’d been screaming throughout the game. It seemed like part of Team Canada’s game strategy was to go after Charlie as much as possible. They’d been hitting him hard and there’d been one particularly nasty penalty he drew when Chabot leveled him with a late hit. Charlie had been slow to get up from that one but within the first thirty seconds of the powerplay, he’d put a pass right on Auston’s tape for the tying goal.

There had always been something both exhilarating and nerve-wracking about watching Charlie play. When he was on the ice, she only watched him, not even noticing where the puck was or what action was happening unless he was involved.

It was partially how she was able to react a second before the rest of the rink when she saw Chabot coming from behind him, hitting him hard and sending Charlie headfirst into the boards. He was splayed out flat on the ice while his teammates immediately rushed to his defense, Auston and Tkachuk jumping Chabot before Auston was pulled away by Dougie Hamilton. Eleanora felt like climbing over the glass to get to him and Kayla was gripping her arm tightly.

“Get up. Get up. Get up, Junior.” His dad was begging while Eleanora just kept staring in horror.

After what felt like hours but was probably only a minute, he slowly tucked his legs up under him and managed to get to a kneeling position just as the team doctor reached him. He was clearly still dazed, holding one hand on his helmet as he slowly got up. Gaudreau had come over and was kneeling next to him, offering to help him up but Charlie waved him off.

The arena applauded as he stood up, but Eleanora couldn’t feel the relief everyone else did as she watched them lead Charlie to the locker room.

“He’s okay. He got up on his own. They just have to check him out for protocol. He’s okay.” Kayla was chanting and all Eleanora wanted to do was rush to the locker room. Instead of watching the rest of the game, she stared at the locker room entrance, praying Charlie would return to the bench.

They ended the second period down by one and only during the intermission did she let herself pull her phone out to find the replay of the hit. They all huddled around together watching intently, only slightly reassured that Charlie had gotten up on his own and made his way quickly down the tunnel without support. It felt like time was moving in slow motion as the ice was cleaned. Finally, the lights dimmed again and the players started back out on the ice.

It felt like a weight was lifted when she saw Charlie hop out last, doing quick laps to warm back up as he shook his legs out. As he went by them, he tapped the glass and Eleanora felt like she was going to cry just from the quick wink he gave her.

“Thank god.” His mom sighed a breath and Eleanora felt lightheaded as she rubbed her stomach aimlessly. The baby had been active all game, bouncing around and kicking more than usual. It’s like he could sense what was happening around them.

The third period wasn’t any less stressful, Team Canada was clearly content to play defense while Team USA threw everything at them but couldn’t seem to find the back of the net. But then in the last 27 seconds of the game, Charlie caught a pass from Quinn Hughes and buried it in the top corner of the net to tie the game. The roar of the arena felt deafening as they all jumped up and down, screaming happily while the players mobbed their captain. The crowd clearly expected overtime, neither team wanting to give one up in the remaining seconds of the game.

But then Conor McDavid of all people misplayed the puck in the neutral zone and it landed on Jack Eichel’s stick who shot down the ice on a breakaway with only 7 seconds to go, shifting to his backhand as he slid the puck between the goalie’s legs.

If it was possible, the roof would’ve blown off the top of the arena. Team USA hadn’t won since the 1980 Miracle on Ice game and the place was shaking with excitement. USA gear and equipment was strewn across the ice like confetti while Team Canada stared on in disbelief, some kneeling together watching while others had already started to make their way towards the locker room.

People were hugging her tightly and screaming in her ear. Eleanora wasn’t even sure they were all people she knew. Charlie Sr. pulled her away from whoever was holding her and into a tight hug while the rest of the family crowded around jumping as they celebrated. She didn’t even realize she was crying until she tried to spot Charlie on the ice but her vision was blurry.

Sobbing into one hand, the other pressed tight against her stomach she felt another strong kick which only made her sob harder. It was better than her own win because she hadn’t had any true family to celebrate with besides her coaches who had become replacement parents to her. This was entirely different and felt like they’d all won it.

The celebrations continued on the ice as the McAvoys all made their way towards the same opening Eleanora had talked to Charlie before the game start. Other wives and families were already there, pulling each other into hugs, most of the moms crying happily while a few of the dads tried to fight their own tears except for Jim Hughes who was openly crying as he held his wife tightly to him.

Standing on the glass so she could watch, Eleanora scanned the sea of blue jerseys to try to find Charlie, biting her lip to try to stop crying. She was still contemplating scaling the glass but knew the guys deserved to celebrate with their team first.

Finally, her impatience grew and Eleanora, just popped the door open and started to make her way onto the ice. Once the dam broke, the rest of the families followed, ignoring the staff asking for them to stay off the ice until they had carpets laid down.

It was decidedly difficult to maneuver on the ice in sneakers and a pregnant belly but she moved as quickly and carefully as she could towards her target. Their eyes locked and Charlie broke away from the guys to get to her. When he reached her, he went right for her waist, dragging her up and off the ice as he twirled her around as she held tightly to him.

Neither of them spoke at first as Eleanora pressed kisses all over his face as he laughed until he could kiss her back. It was awkward to be held up so Charlie carefully set her down on the ice, one hand tucking protectively against her back so she wouldn’t slip and the other pressed gently on her belly as he leaned down for the sweetest kiss they’d ever shared.

“I told you I’d win it for you.” He whispered, pressing his forehead against hers.

“Not before scaring the shit out of me first.” She shot back but squeezed his waist tightly, her face landing in the sweaty material. “I’m so fucking proud of you, Teddy.”

She stared up at him, and despite the fact that he had just won the biggest game of his life, he was staring at her like they were the only two people in the world.

“This is almost as good as our wedding night.”

She gave a watery chuckle in return. “Just the wedding night not the wedding itself?”

“Eh, that was okay too.” He teased just as the rest of his family joined them. Reluctantly, she released him so he could hug his family, stepping back to give them a moment.

A few of the guys paused to hug her as they went by but mostly she just stood there watching Charlie beaming at everyone around him. The camera crews were starting to show up as the staff worked to get the carpets out and set up the podiums. Eleanora knew they wouldn’t get a private moment together for hours and she tried to melt into the background but Charlie was having none of that, snagging her hand and dragging her towards him as they started to interview him.

From her position under his arm, she stared up at him as he spoke, beaming proudly as he talked about the win and how special it was for them. She was so focused on him she didn’t realized they’d asked her a question.

“Nellie.” Charlie whispered, nudging her with a nose to the top of her head and she glanced at the reporter who was beaming at her.

“I was just asking how this compares to your own gold medal win just four years ago?” they repeated the question.

Eleanora grinned and squeezed his side tighter. “There’s no comparison.” She started, enjoying some of the frowns that followed before continuing. “What Charlie and the boys did was so beyond historic and I’m so proud to have been able to watch it happen. This team worked so hard and never gave up. I’m just thrilled I was able to share in it. Although I’m pretty pissed that I can’t win arguments anymore by saying ‘well I have a gold medal so you have to do what I say’.”

Everyone laughed in response, Charlie squeezing her side lightly.

“I’m sure you guys haven’t seen yet but the video of you two right before the game has become quite popular.” Eleanora flushed slightly as they continued. “Charlie – did you get any last minute advice?”

She pinched his side, hoping he’d lie but the smirk on his face already told her differently. “She pretty much told me that just getting to the medal game wasn’t enough and that I knew what to do. Pretty sure the exact words were ‘now go fucking win it’ and honestly, I can’t really say no to my wife so I did.”

--- ---

It was nearly three hours later by the time Eleanora and Charlie were walking into her hotel room and shutting the door so they were finally alone. They were planning on changing then meeting up with everyone to celebrate. Most of the guys’ flights weren’t for another day or two so they planned to enjoy what little remained of their Olympic break before they’d have to return to their teams for the rest of the season.

Charlie face planted onto the king-size bed. “Fuck, you’ve been sleeping on this for two weeks while I’ve been on the worst twin mattress in the world?”

Eleanora giggled, pulling her jersey off leaving on her loose t-shirt, she slipped out of her sneakers and kicked them towards the door so she could sit and join him on the bed. Despite how happy she was, she was exhausted and the pain in her back went from dull to stabbing on a dime. It took a little effort for her to climb up onto the bed and get comfy as she curled up on her side.

Charlie inched up so his nose was brushing against her swollen belly. Her hand immediately fell to his hair, running her fingers through gently and scratching his scalp. He brought his arm up so he was hugging her middle and pressed his lips against her.

“Hi, Tripp.” He whispered causing Eleanora to tug his hair gently.

“Baby, no. Even if he ends up Charlie the third, we are not calling him Tripp.”

Charlie ignored her. “Ignore mommy, I’ll make sure you get a cool nickname.”

She rolled her eyes but he kept talking. “I don’t know if you heard all that noise but now you have two parents with gold medals. We’re pretty big deals.”

“Kid was bouncing all over the place for most of the game before settling directly on my sciatic nerve so I couldn’t get comfortable.”

“Be nice to mommy, sweet boy.” He mumbled and pressed a kiss to her stomach before turning up so he could stare at her. “I think I won because of you.”

“You won because you’re an amazing hockey player and leader. You did this. Next up you can win us a Cup.” She smiled softly, stroking his hair as he crawled up so their faces were level. They lay there quietly together, staring at each other and enjoying the peace. They’d both turned their phones off, telling his family they’d see them at the restaurant that USA hockey had reserved for them. For now, they just wanted to be alone.

Carefully, Eleanora brushed Charlie’s hair off his forehead. “Your head okay? I might kill that Canadian fuck.”

Charlie laughed but cringed slightly. His head hurt more than he let on but he passed concussion protocol and had a few days off before he’d have to be back on the ice for a game.

“Are you okay? I know when you’re in pain, Nellie.”

She winced despite trying to smile as he tucked his hand under her top to lay on her bare skin, soothingly running his thumb along belly.

“Just pregnancy, or so I’m told. I need to figure out how to get him off this nerve or I’m gonna spend the flight pacing the aisles because I won’t be able to sit.”

Charlie frowned. “I hate seeing you in pain. And I’m worried you won’t want the five that I want if this one is such a pain in the ass.”

She snorted, inching forward to kiss him softly. “Let’s get through meeting this little man first then we’ll talk more, kay?”

“You’re the love of my fucking life, you know that?” he gripped her neck gently.

Smiling, she leaned forward to steal another kiss. “Lucky for you, it’s mutual. Now…I bet we could find a comfy position for you to fuck me in before we have to go to the restaurant.”

A slow smirk spread across Charlie’s face as he rolled her carefully onto her back so he could lean over her.

“I can definitely do that.”

#charlie mcavoy #nhl writing #nhl fic #nhl imagines #charlie mcavoy fic #boston bruins #me writing hockey fics #hockey fic #my writing #hockey imagines #hockey blurbs #annnnd we're back #because i'm just gonna keep writing these two #because it's fun for me #I hope you like it!#let me know if you have requests or feedback

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fowl-fox · 3 years

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I know I keep asking you all these random questions, but- in AF, it always irked me that we never learned about Fowl Sr.’s return to Fowl Manor, given that he was recovering from being in a coma (I know his amputation sight would have been healed by then, but I don’t think he would have been strong enough to walk on a prosthetic for a while- he probably used crutches for a bit). Like... what was that like for the Fowls. I know that the books never go into it, but I would have hoped that it was a brief period of the Fowl Family being just... happy to be together again, even as they were having to dramatically restructure their lives again to adjust to the head of the family being home again, especially for Tim and Angeline. Any thoughts or headcanons or what-not?

Ask as many questions as you like! (That goes for anyone else as well.) It gets my brain going and motivates me to start writing things. Also sorry this took a bit, I've got medical crap going on rn.

As usual, I'm gonna toss this under a Read More, because boy, did this get long, I apologize. And I'm going to warn you, a lot of this delves into how I feel about Artemis' relationship with Tim and Angeline overall. But it's those feelings that drive most of my headcanons, so I feel like it's best to talk about them.

Let's start with Artemis Sr. and his state of being after rescue. I'm gonna pull some quotes from my copies of The Arctic Incident and The Eternity Code throughout my pondering, please bear with me.

At the beginning of TAI, we're given a laundry list of ailments Fowl Sr. has when he's dragged out of the water in the beginning of the book:

"Though the man's clothes were relatively intact, his body had not fared so well. His bare hands were mottled with frostbite. One leg had been snapped below the knee, and his face was a horrific mask of burns."

"He'll lose that leg for sure, (...) A couple of fingers, too. That face doesn't look too good either."

When it's Holly's turn to drag Fowl Sr. out of the water, his heartbeat is dangerously low, due to deadly cold water. We know she kept him alive, healed the chest wound caused by the blunt force of the shell Butler shot him with, as well as a blinded eye that wasn't mentioned previously, but we're not really told anything else, which I suppose leaves it up to our imaginations as to what ailments he's left with.

We know he lost his leg, but did he lose some of those frostbitten fingers? Frostbite doesn't fuck around (Mayo Clinic link, if you'd like), and while it's not mentioned, it would be likely his captors would have had to amputate a few of those as well, to prevent the dead tissue from eventually killing their meal ticket. His face was severely burned from the explosion, how extensive was the scaring after everything was said and done? We know magic can heal scars if that's what the magic is told to do, but Holly probably wasn't worried about that in the moment, and she makes this statement:

"I got him," she gasped, "One live Mud Man. He's not pretty, but he's breathing."

So even with Holly doing what she could, it sounds like Fowl Sr.'s condition was still really rough. Rough enough to need prolonged medical attention. He'd spent nearly two years in a coma before waking up in Murmansk, and the ordeal of his rescue was enough to throw him back into a coma, as we're told in The Eternity Code.

Except wait a minute. In Artemis Jr.'s diary excerpt, we're given some information that contradicts the previous book.

"It had been over two months since Holly Short used her healing magic on his battered body, and still he lay in his Helsinki hospital bed. Immobile, unresponsive.

The doctor's could not understand it. He should be awake, they informed me. His brain waves are strong, exceptionally so. And his heart beats like a horse. It is incredible, this man should be at death's door, yet he has the muscle tone of a twenty-year old.

(…) Holly's magic has overhauled his entire being, with the exception of his left leg, (...) He has received an infusion of life, in body and mind."

(...) my father had no need of medical attention. He simply sat up, rubbed his eyes, and muttered one word: 'Angeline.'"

So now Holly's magic apparently healed everything but the lost leg? What?

I love the Artemis Fowl books, but I will always be a little frustrated with their inconsistencies. But you know what? It's great for giving yourself permission to play around with your headcanons. If Colfer changes what he wants when he wants, I certainly won't feel bad about doing it.

I'm going to go with the TAI and say that Tim was still in a really rough state after everything. Ignoring that supposedly his muscles were fine, he'd still have to learn how to walk on the prosthetic. And tbh, I'm just going to believe that his muscles weren't magically perfect. Maybe easier to build back than they would have been without the magical infusion, but there was definitely gonna be work involved. And that's ignoring probable mental trauma. He was in a coma for a large portion of his captivity, but there was a brief period of time where he was conscious, with captors that maybe couldn't kill him, but definitely didn't treat him well (though it sounds like he was being a difficult captive, but yeah, of course, he's a Fowl lol.)

(Detour Thought: My mental picture of Artemis Senior has always involved heavy facial scarring, especially on the side of his face where the damage was apparently bad enough to blind him.)

But to get back to your original inquiry (Jesus, Blue, I am so sorry at how badly I've dragged this out) I do like to think there would be a period of recovery and restructure that would involve the Fowls getting to be a happy family together. Great potential for a hurt/comfort fic, if you ask me.

I'm going to be frank, (and this opinion puts me at odds with the fandom at large, I know) - from my interpretations of the books overall, while Artemis certainly had a strict upbringing with parents who were usually busy and definitely irresponsible, I never got the sense that it was a loveless childhood. Nor did I ever get the sense that Artemis feared his father as a person, but rather that he feared disappointing him, which at no point are we told ever actually happened. I've read these books a million times, I've never found anything in them suggesting Artemis ever disappointed his father, nor that Tim was ever actually cruel to Artemis. Strict, yes. Overly formal? Definitely. But not cruel.

Now, the fact that he felt he had to jump through so many hoops to maintain his father's approval? Bad parenting, Tim. Also, don't encourage him to be a criminal mastermind, maybe. But also Artemis is an over-achiever by nature, which Tim just either didn't clue in on or more likely imo, thought it was in Artemis' best interests as an heir of a criminal empire to be that way.

Aside from Tim and Angeline later suggesting he try to be more 'normal' and let go of his criminal tendencies, and that one incident of Angeline pulling a guilt trip (all of which is a whole other thing I won't get into rn), Artemis' parents speak positively to and about him. I just honestly think they don't know how to be actual parents, which, being aristocrats, tracks. They function almost more like older siblings after TAI, really, which isn't exactly great, but it could be worse.

We know his father used to read to him regularly when he was little (ending with a kiss on the head, which I always thought was sweet) and we know that Angeline was always warm and available to him whenever possible (until her grief-stricken dementia set in.) Artemis has a moment of angst at how strict/formal his upbringing was compared to the twins, but overall he generally speaks positively of his parents, and he loved and missed them enough to risk his life several times for them. Even when he's frustrated by their joined presence making it harder for him to conduct criminal activities, he still misses them and thinks about them often when he's away from them.

Which yeah, that's what this all boils down to for me. Artemis just wants time with both of his parents, and Artemis Sr.'s recovery, in my headcannon, would absolutely allow for that time he so desperately wanted, deep down. Assisting in the physical recovery, using the down time to really talk and catch up (without mentioning his fairy adventures, of course.) It would be a drastic change and awkward to adjust to initially, but overall I think it would be good.

And as for Tim and Angeline? I think there would be of course the joy of being reunited with the love of your life, because Tim and Angeline are absolutely soul-mates. But I also imagine there were many, many conversations of regrets and questioning how to move forward as a family from this point. Angeline seems to defer to Tim as the one who makes decisions for the family as a whole, but she isn’t afraid to give her input. I bet they were scared, in a way, because not only has everything changed, but the future is uncertain. They have to restructure their whole life, and while overall the changes are positive, they’re not going to be easy.

I also feel like it would be difficult for Angeline in particular because while Tim returning is a joyful thing, she now probably has some self doubts. Why did she fall apart so tremendously, at the expense of not only her well being, but her son’s? While she isn’t the best parent, I imagine Angeline will always carry heartache about her time in the attic and how she forgot her own son. And to an extent I bet Tim does too, because it was his disappearance that triggered it.

And now I want to write a fic about all of this, which I guess I'll add to my pile of ideas I've been playing around with.

–

I'd definitely like to hear more thoughts on the matter from you if you have them!

#fowldom #artemis fowl #fowl senior #angeline #this is long #but i've put a lot of thought into this even before being asked #so here you go #headcanons

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impala666 · 4 years

Text

The One With The Boobies Part Three (Make Things Right)

This part is a little longer, but Chandler and Joey have a moment about the reader.

Last Part (Part Two), Series Masterlist

You had just let Joey’s dad’s mistress Ronnie, into the apartment while she and Joey both waited for him. Chandler sat on the sofa having a conversation with Ronnie, while Joey paced back and forth by the door anticipating his dad’s arrival. You wanted nothing more than to go out to a bar and ignore everything, or even go back over to Monica and Rachel’s and vent and hide and drink wine there. But even though you and Joey had just broken up not even ten minutes ago, you couldn’t help but feel the need to still be by him while he was freaking out. You just guessed that it was the habit of being the girlfriend even though you weren’t anymore. “You see, most people, when their pets pass on they want them laid out like they’re sleeping. But, occasionally, you get your person who wants them in a pose like, ah, chasing their tail,” Ronnie mimicked the motion as she explained to Chandler. “Or, jumping to catch a frisbee.” To which she mimicked the pose again, like a dog jumping up to catch a frisbee in its mouth.

“Joey, Y/N, if I go first I want to be looking for my keys.” Chandler joked to the both of you. But Joey couldn’t wipe off his angry face and you still haven’t wiped off the look like you wanted to cry. And Chandler noticed that you had been looking like that all night. But Ronnie didn’t have a problem laughing out loud, to which Chandler shot her an appreciated smile.

“Hey, Joe.” Joey’s dad greeted his son as he walked in the door and nodded his head to you in a greeting.

“Dad. Ronnie’s here!” Joey announced with fake joy and a fake smile. Because if he were being honest, he was devastated about what was all happening at once. First his mom and dad, and now you and him.

“Huh?” Big Joey asked. But he shifted his gaze to behind Joey when he saw a certain someone wave over his way.

“Hi!” Ronnie smiled and waved at the older man.

“Hey!” Big Joey laughed in surprise. “Hello, babe! What’re you doing here?” He asked her as Ronnie stood up and made her way to meet him in the middle.

“Well, you left your good hair at my apartment and I figured you’d need it for your meeting.” Ronnie explained as she went over to her purse and pulled out what looked to be a toupee and handed it to the man.

“Thank you,” Big Joe said to her before everyone in the room fell into an uncomfortable silence. You and Chandler looked at each other to decide who broke the silence, and you shrugged to him deciding that he could have this one as you ran over to stand by him so you didn’t have to stand in the middle of the awkwardness.

“So, who’s up for a game of Kerplunk?” Chandler offered, which made you laugh a little. It was just so random.

“Look, I, uh...I shouldn’t have come.” Ronnie finally came out and said. “I better get going, I don’t want to miss the last train.” She started to gather her purse and the rest of her things, but Joey’s dad had another idea.

“No, no, I don’t want you taking that thing this late.” He told her.

“Oh, where am I gonna stay? Here?” Ronnie asked him, like it was a ridiculous idea. Which she was right, it would have been very very weird.

“Woah-ho.” Joey protested as he held the door open for her.

“We’ll go to a hotel.” Big Joey offered his mistress another solution, but once she agreed and they tried to make their way out the door, Joey had his own plans.

“No, you won’t.” Joey told them as he closed the door.

“No, we won’t.” Ronnie announced to Joey’s dad.

“If you go to a hotel you’ll be… doing stuff.” Joey insinuated. “I want you right here where I can keep an eye on you.”

“You’re going to keep an eye on us?” Big Joe asked his son, almost like he was feeling insulted. Considering the thing that went on between his son and you. The thing with Ronnie should have been the least of his concerns.

“That’s right mister, I don’t care how old you are.” Joey told him, to which you rolled your eyes at him. “As long as you’re under my roof, you live by my rules. And that means no sleeping with your girlfriend.” You couldn’t believe Joey pulled that card that every parent loved to pull on their kids so they wouldn’t do something that the parent didn’t want the child to do. But in this case it was the parents turn.

“Wow, he’s strict.” Ronnie somewhat joked to the man’s father.

“Now, dad you’ll be in my room. Ronnie, you can stay in Chandler’s room.” Joey offered. That meant you, Joey, and Chandler would have to have another awkward conversation about who was sleeping where and why. You just weren’t sure where you were going to sleep just yet. But one thing was for certain, you were not sleeping on the floor. You lived with two men in their twenties. Who knew what was on that carpeting.

“Come on, I’ll show you to my room.” Chandler offered to Ronnie as Joey Sr. started to make his way to his son’s room. “That sounds so weird when it’s not followed by “No, thanks. It’s late.” Chandler announced to you and Joey as Ronnie waved good night to Joey Sr.

“Okay, now this is just for tonight. Tomorrow you gotta make a change.” Joey quickly grabbed his old man’s arm to have a last talk with him, before probably having a talk with you. “Six years is long enough.”

“What kind of change?” His father asked him with worry in his eye.

“Either you break it off with Ronnie,” Joey started.

“I can’t do that.” His dad pleaded.

“Then you gotta come clean with Ma. This is not right.” Joey told him flat out that it was just not okay.

“But,” his dad started but that’s all he got out.

“I don’t wanna hear it. Now go to my room!” Joey told his dad, ending the conversation where he wanted to end it. He was done talking about his whole thing with his dad and Ronnie. With that Joey Sr. sauntered off to bed and Chandler came out of his room closing the door to give Ronnie and the three of you some privacy.

“So, are you two sleeping on the pull out couch and I’ll sleep on the floor?” Chandler asked, not really thinking much of it.

“Actually, I think you two should stay here and I’ll go stay at a hotel or something instead.” You told them, thinking that the idea to hide out in a hotel room didn’t sound so bad.

“What? Why would you do that?” Chandler asked, to which you shrugged which wasn’t going to be enough for him. “Okay, that’s it. The both of you have been moping and not saying a word to each other the whole night. Are you guys fighting or something?”

“Wekindofbrokeupactually.” You mumbled as you rubbed the back of your neck.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you what was that?” Chandler asked, putting a hand to his ear pretending to try and hear you better.

“We broke up alright.” Joey told him for you.

“What happened?” Chandler looked between the two of you. Joey’s hands on your crossed over your chest and your face looking at the floor, while Joey’s hands were on his hips while he avoided any kind of eye contact.

“It just didn’t work out.” You told your brother honestly.

“Well, whether it worked out or not, I’m not letting you go to a hotel by yourself either.” Joey told you, making you roll your eyes at him. How dare he care about, you joked to yourself in anger. “I’ll go.”

“No, I said you two stay here so you two are staying here. I’ll just go ask Mon and Rach if I can sleep on their couch. I just need to sleep in not this apartment right now.” When everything was silent between the boys and the three of you looked at each other, you could tell that they were okay with it. “Okay, now that that’s settled, good night.” You plastered on as fake of a smile as you could and walked over to hug your brother, which he reciprocated.

“Good night,” he smiled at you. Maybe it was for the best that you were sleeping over across the hall, it gave him the chance to talk to Joey about all of this.

“Night, Joey.” You bid him as you quickly walked passed him, Joey could see you tense up as you barely even looked at him as you walked passed him to get to the door. As you walked out he couldn’t help but feel his heart sink into his stomach, he never meant to hurt your feelings. But maybe once you knew the real reason why he broke up with you, then the both of you could go back to being really great friends.

You walked over to Rachel and Monica’s and knocked on the door as you felt tears coming up and a knot building in your throat. You just really needed your girlfriends right now. “Hey, what’s going on?” Monica asked you as she opened the door, Rachel stopped doing whatever she was doing when she saw you at the door with tears in your eyes.

“Joey and I broke up.” Was all you needed to say before you cover your face with your hands and let out a sob. The sobs became louder when you felt your friends safely and lovingly wrap their arms around you, bringing you into a big hug.

******

Joey and Chandler:

He couldn’t sleep, he just couldn’t sleep. He was worried about everything; his dad cheating on his mom, breaking up with you and you thinking that he didn’t love you, not having you sleep next to him, and above all else, trying to sleep in his underwear. Hey just kept tossing and turning, kicking his feet just to get comfortable. “Hey, kicky.” Chandler called Joey, trying to get him to stop moving. “What’re you doing?”

“Just trying to get comfortable. I can’t sleep in my underwear.” Joey complained.

“Well, you’re gonna,” Chandler told him flat out. You might have been into that, but he was not at all.

“I’ve been thinking. You know how I’m always seeing girls on top of girls?” Joey asked after he sat up in the bed, thinking about the relationships that he had been in.

“Are they end to end or tall like pancakes?” Chandler joked as he sat up.

“You know what I mean,” Joey told him, trying to get Chandler to be serious. “How I’m always going out with all these women. I always figured when the right one comes along I’d be able to be a stand-up guy and go the distance, you know? Now I’m looking at my dad, thinking…”

“You’re not him,” Chandler reassured him. “When they were all over you to go into your father’s pipe-fitting business, did you cave?”

“No,” Joey answered him. Not really sure where he was going with this.

“No. You decided to go into the out of work actor business.” Chandler accurately joked with him. “And that wasn’t easy, but you did it. And I’d like to believe that when the right woman comes along, you will have the courage and the guts to say, “no, thanks. I’m married.” Chandler honestly told Joey.

“You really think so?” Joey asked as he couldn’t help but let his mind wander to you and picturing you as his wife.

“Yeah, I really do.” Chandler said as he tapped him on the shoulder. “You're imagining Y/N as your wife aren’t you?” At first Chandler hated the idea of you and Joey but after seeing how well you cared for each other, he could see on Joey’s face that he already missed you.

“Yeah,” Joey admitted glumly.

“Then why did you guys break up?” Chandler genuinely asked, hoping to know both sides, plus he was a little concerned when he clearly heard you crying in the hallway.

“She broke up with me because she thinks that I don’t love her because I couldn’t say it in front of my dad.” Joey told him.

“But you love her, don’t you?” Chandler wondered, after Joey’s dating streak he had to make sure you weren’t just another conquest.

“I love her more than any girl I’ve ever been with.” Joey told him honestly. “Hearing her crying in the hallway made me die inside. But I decided to end it with her because I want her to do all that she wanted to be and become who she wants to be. She just got to New York and I want her to find herself first.”

“Does she know this?” Chandler asked, not believing how much the dork next to him loved you, but Joey shook his head. “Then you better tell her, I don’t want to see her crying like she did today, and if she does… I’ll punch.” He tapered off with a weak threat.

“Thanks, Chandler.” Joey fake swooned as he went to lay his head on Chandler’s shoulder.

“Get off.” Chandler told him making Joey laugh to himself as he laid down on his side to finally get some sleep, so that he could actually be honest with you about what he wanted for you.

#friends rewrite #friends #Joey Tribbiani #joey tribbiani x reader #bing!reader #sister!bing #chandler bing #monica geller #rachel green #phoebe buffay #ross geller

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yeojaa · 4 years

Text

ANGELS & AIRWAVES (w. jjk)

He's never met you but you know how he sounds when he wakes up from a nap and his greatest fears. You know the way he sings after a shower and that he could be mistaken for a dying seal when he's laughing too hard. The best part? You don't judge him for any of it - including the fact he's a filthy Widow main. He might just love you.

alt summary. Jeon Jungkook has a big fat crush on a girl he's never met.

pairing. jeon jungkook

genre + rating. fluffy crack, smut. explicit.

warning / tags. long-distance relationship, crushes, canon compliant (ish), eventual happy ending, gaming, gamer!jungkook, strangers to lovers, friends to lovers, overwatch, oral (f receiving), fingering, enough sweetness you’ll get cavities.

reading. n/a. a three part one-shot.

word count. ~8400

part iii.

JUNGKOOK’S HOTEL ROOM Sunday, 3 May, 2020. 12:20 AM (LA), 4:20 PM (Seoul).

There’s nothing quite like the feeling after a show. How it crowds cavities behind his molars and sets his heart off on a marathon, exhilaration colouring his cheeks and stealing his voice. It’s something he’ll never get tired of - all the best parts of this journey presented on a silver platter.

Still, he thinks talking to you might be a close second.

“I can’t understand a single thing you’re saying,” you chide, playfully, with a mouthful of granola. It crunch crunch crunches in his ears, blocking the sound of his own laughter, ringing and half out of breath.

“I said I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy. Things have just been—” Crazy? Out of this world? Some kind of wonderful? “—hectic.” He all but throws himself across his bed, the luxurious hotel sheets soft against his still overheated cheek. It feels nice but steals the strength of his voice, muffling his words as he continues, like a runaway train with no destination in mind.

You laugh at him as you always do, mirth sprinkled over teasing like little treasures to be found among the vowels and consonants. “It’s fine , Jay.” The name - not his name - rolls off your tongue, dragged out by the giggles you can’t help. “I know you’re a busy guy. Don’t worry about it.”

Easier said than done, Jungkook thinks. You’ve been on his mind every day, in between the practices and the performances. A silhouette shaped like you - not that he knows how you’re shaped - existing in the recesses of his thoughts.

“Anyway, I finally stopped losing SR so it’s not all bad...”

He doesn’t register what you’re saying. Not at first, anyway. But when he does? He’s belligerent, the loudest shriek rocketing out of his chest as he dissolves into laughter. So you were a little bit better than him. “Hey!”

“Hey yourself, sandbag.”

Your mockery shouldn’t have the dumbest smile spreading like wildfire but it does, the expression eating up every ounce of his exhausted self. He can’t fight it, glee working itself every which way until he’s on his back, staring up at the ceiling as his jaw aches.

“You’re mean,” he manages in between the teeth-numbing joy, chest heaving.

He’s certain you don’t mean it the way he takes it. “And yet you love it.”

God, if only you knew.

He wants to tell you so badly - wants to shout it from the rooftops until he’s blue in the face and without a voice. He thinks he’d have a chance, maybe, if your passed secrets at midnight and tender goodnights were any indication.

But he can’t, because he’s him and you’re, well, you, and really, it’s just his fault.

“Did you die?” You steal him out of his reverie, tearing him wholly from inside that overthinking head of his. It’s one of the things you’re best at (other than keeping him alive in Overwatch).

He sighs and it’s a wistful sound, softer than any other that’s passed between you since getting on the phone fifteen minutes ago. “I’m good, yeah. I’m fine.”

“You sure? I thought I might’ve lost you for a second.”

The playfulness has returned, rounding syllables in a way that’s very distinctly you.

“Yes, Mom .”

“Watch it or you’re grounded, young man!”

“Do you even know how old I am?” Probably not, because he doesn’t know that about you either.

For all of the secrets you’ve shared, these very basic pieces of information are ones you’ve never exchanged. They’ve always been held tightly to the chest, held hostage behind sharp gates of enamel. There was too much at stake when it came to these identifiers.

Sure, you’d told him about your greatest fear - losing one of your parents without being able to say goodbye - and sure, he’d told you his - not being good enough and letting the people he loves down even when he’s trying as hard as he can - but your ages? Where you grew up? Your real names? That was out of the question.

“Are you about to tell me you’re sixteen? Have I been friends with a high school student this whole time?” You’re chuckling at your own genius. He really doesn't think you’re that funny - low hanging fruit and all that - but he likes the way it sounds, curling out of your mouth like smoke.

“I’m actually twelve . Geez, get it right.”

You gasp, scandalized and as if you really believe him. It makes him choke on his own spit and he has to roll over onto his stomach, effectively trapping his phone between his chest and the bed as he struggles to regulate his breathing.

“I’ve always wanted a little brother!”

It’s a joke. Obviously , it’s a joke. He shouldn’t take it seriously.

And yet he’s fueled with the need to rebuff it, speaking before he has a chance to stop it, the words coming in a flurry. It’s a verbal snowstorm, locking the conversation in place - like Mei’s ultimate except he’s trapped in it, too. “I have something to tell you.” There’s no going back now.

For once, you’re not tearing holes in his confidence - not that you ever do with any sort of animosity. Your relationship was equal parts give and take, honey and vinegar coexisting in perfect harmony.

When Jungkook doesn’t immediately continue, you give him a little push. “Spit it out, Jay.”

“My name isn’t Jay.” A small, insecure part of him worries that that’s enough to shatter the careful friendship you’ve crafted. You - Jinny, the ineffable - remain surprisingly silent. He’s not sure whether that’s encouraging or disheartening. “I… haven’t really been honest with you.”

Already he can feel the nervous energy in his limbs, anxiety replacing the high he’d been on only an hour ago.

“I’m…” How does he start? “I’m not just… some guy.” Okay, that sounds bad. He’s backtracking. “I mean, I’m a guy. I’m normal.” This is going so poorly. His breath catches in his throat, teeth worrying incessantly over the soft cherry Chapsticked contour of his bottom lip. “I’m just not, y’know, your average guy. I’m actually like, uh...”

Jungkook has never stuttered this much in his entire goddamn life.

“My name’s Jeon Jungkook and I’m the golden maknae of Bangtan Sonyeondan.”

It comes in such a rush that you probably don’t hear it clearly. He’s introduced himself this same way for over half a decade and even it sounds strange to his ears.

When you don’t respond after what feels like an eternity, he’s left to his own devices, filling the silence with the erratic beating of his heart.

“Jinny?” It comes smaller than he means it to, uncertain and filled with hesitation. Still, nothing. He wants to toss himself off the 37th floor balcony so he doesn’t have to feel this way. “Can you say something?”

Your voice is far more measured than his own. You’re trying to be serious, he thinks. “I… kind of - sort of - already knew?”

Well, he hadn’t expected that.

“What?”

“I mean, the other members don’t exactly knock before they barge into your room screaming your name.” A beat. He can hear the laughter that’s threatening to knock your words into submission. “ And you posted a cover of a song I sent you.”

Dammit. Dammit dammit dammit .

That was definitely his fault. It’d just been so good - living in his head and in his heart rent-free. “ Never Not’s a good song!” He retorts, like that’s an appropriate rebuttal.

“I know, doofus.”

“You’re the doofus!”

The two of you were back, glazing over the revelation like it was nothing more than a little bump in the road.

“Thank you for telling me, though.” He imagines you’re smiling - can practically hear it in your voice. Somehow, it feels different. Sunnier than usual, blinding in its intensity. “I wasn’t sure if you ever would.”

“Would you have been mad if I didn’t?” Though he asks, he’s not sure if he’s ready for the answer.

“Of course not.”

“Really?”

You’re only a little exasperated when you reassure him. “Of course not. You’re still you - no matter what you do.”

Whatever best case scenario he’d imagined doesn’t hold a candle to this. He’s a million miles over the moon. You must be able to tell because he can hear you stifling sound, trails of laughter buzzing around in his ears like hummingbirds.

“So, what now?”

“What do you mean ‘what now’ ? Didn’t you hear what I just said?” There’s no venom in your words. “You’re still you, Jay.”

“It’s Jungkook.” There’s that unabashed need to hear his name. He hopes it isn’t too obvious.

“I know but that’s gonna be hard to get used to.”

“Is your real name Jinny?” He’s always wondered.

“It’s Yoojin. Jinny’s just my nickname.”

“Well, Jinny—” He says it dragged out and silly. “—want to come to one of our shows?”

“I live in Seoul.”

“So what?”

The second time sounds exactly like the first. He snorts. “I live in Seoul .”

"I’ll fly you to Osaka.”

It’s the first time he’s heard you genuinely shocked. It strips the usual mischief from your tone, draping it in lily white and baby’s breath. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.” He doesn’t think he’s wanted anything more. At least, not in a very long time.

“Thanks, Jungkook.”

It sounds better than he could have ever imagined.

KYOCERA DOME OSAKA Thursday, 23 July, 2020. 10 PM.

Does he smell bad? Should he have showered first? Would you be grossed out?

These are all the thoughts running through his mind, chasing themselves in circles like a dog after its own tail. They revolve in a neverending merry-go-round, creasing worry into his brow and dropping his mouth into a little O-shaped pout.

“You ready, Jungkookie?” Jimin’s doing what he does best - draping himself across his maknae’s shoulders without a care in the world.

“Are you nervous?” Hobi’s swiping through his phone, dark hair a stylishly dishevelled mess around his angelic face. He’s still got traces of makeup around his eyes and his clip-on earrings glint under fluorescent light.

A hand lands hard on his shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle in a way that’s meant to be reassuring. “Of course he is.” Namjoon can read him like a book, shooting Jungkook his signature smile in the same instance he receives one.

“I’m not nervous!” The youngest chirps in a voice that warbles like a baby bird.

Everyone laughs at that and he can feel his ears burning around the edge of his baseball cap. It creeps over the shell and down his neck, descending blossoms of colour into the collar of his shirt.

“Shouldn’t you get going?” It’s Yoongi that reminds him of the time, the rapper only barely cracking an eye open as he taps the face of his steel-cased Audemars Piguet. He’s right.

Jungkook jolts out of his seat, scrambling to his feet - all four thousand dollars of his designer boots - and nearly knocks Jimin off the back of the couch he’d been precariously balanced on. The overeager bunny shouts an apology that’s lost amongst even louder laughter as he tears out of the room.

He’s going to be late .

He doesn’t think he’s ever ran so fast in his life - darting past bicycling seniors and tourists with all the grace of a boy in love. He somehow manages to find the entrance of the BIC CAMERA store without much hassle, rooting himself just left of the door when his phone screen registers 10:30 PM.

A little triumphant whoop! presses into the sponge-like material of his facemask in the same moment he catches sight of a waving hand.

He’s not sure whether it’s the mask or the sight of you that’s making it hard to breathe.

“Hi.” You sound exactly like you always have and yet six months of hearing your voice somehow doesn't prepare him for it. It hits him like a ton of bricks, crashing his resolve into the soles of his feet. There’s something about you that makes him squint - like staring directly at the sun. His heart stutters in his chest. He thinks, dimly, he can hear bells in the distance. It’s probably from a food stall, but he doesn’t care.

It’s the first meeting he’s always dreamed of, wrapped up in an adorable pink Cooky headband.

He’s scooping you into his arms before he can think better of it, twirling you around like the princess you are. It probably isn’t appropriate - you’ve only just met - but he can’t resist. You feel so good in his arms, weightless and yet entirely grounding.

The fact that you’ve wrapped your arms around his neck, easily reciprocating his onslaught of affection, doesn't go unnoticed. He tucks away this knowledge into the sleeve of his shirt for safekeeping.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t sound very sorry at all. You’re back on your two feet, black military boots of your own on solid ground once again.

Standing so close, he can smell your perfume. Its notes of vanilla and cola and something powdery, reminiscent of babies and home. You’re smaller than he imagined, with narrow shoulders and wide hips. Like him, you look to be about 95% leg, faded blue denim hugging your thighs and falling loosely around the tops of your Doc Martens. Your top is long-sleeved but semi-sheer and he can make out what he thinks are inkings over your skin, little trails in greyscale and colour that draw his stare.

Stop being weird , he tells himself when he finally manages to refocus, tearing his gaze from the jasmine branches that traverse your limbs and training it on your eyes instead.

Bad idea, Jungkook.

He’s lost in the colour of your irises - an impossibly dark brown that twinkles under the awning lights - and the heart-shaped turn of your jaw. He’s all too distracted by the high contours of your cheeks, the turn of your button nose, the dusty pink that fills the shape of your mouth and fades prettily against your skin.

“You look like you’re about to pass out.” The way your lips move should be a chargeable offence. They coax into a smirk that’s equal parts soft and vexing, singular dimple presenting itself with the motion.

God, he’s so in over his head. He can feel it in his bones.

So he laughs - because that’s what he does when he’s unnerved - and the sound is a pack of hyenas. It’s Lion King on Broadway, sweeping above the already boisterous cacophony of the entertainment district.

“Your laugh is even better in person.” You’ve said better and not worse and even though he’s a little self-conscious - a decidedly not Jungkook-like thing to be - he preens from the praise.

“Yeah?” Can you see the hearts in his eyes? He imagines they’ve replaced his pupils.

“Yeah. But don’t let that get to your head, mister.”

“Already has - sorry.”

You laugh in sync and it’s music to his ears - the prettiest sound he’s ever heard.

The two of you fall into your routine in a way that feels effortless, the back and forth banter rivalling that of best friends.

You tease him mercilessly, picking up on all his little idiosyncrasies - how he stands at stop lights, pigeon-toed and adorable; how he jams his hands into the back pocket of his jeans in tandem with the tips of his ears burning bright red; how his laugh sometimes trips over itself and splinters like a kid going through puberty. He doesn’t mind any of it, truthfully, because it means you’re paying attention to him just as much as he is you.

Because he sees all of your little habits too - watches them unfold before his eyes in technicolour. You bite your own lip when you think you’ve said something particularly funny. You wiggle your head on your shoulders like a bobblehead when he says something snappy, equally biting remarks softened by the way you bob up and down. You don’t step on cracks, even if it means you’re straining those strangely long legs of yours to carry yourself a few inches further.

You don’t have any patience - something he’s known since the beginning - but that he realizes with a front row seat when you’re shoving a takoyaki into his face. There’s steam curling off it and the smell is intoxicating but he can practically feel the roof of his mouth burning when you’re relentlessly offering it to him. You’re not even deterred by the fact that he’s got a facemask on.

“Open up!”

Jungkook wants to say no - should say no, for the sake of his own health - but he accepts it anyway.

It sears white hot pain the moment it lands on his tongue, teeth buzzing uncomfortably as he bites into the dough. He’s sucking air in through his teeth, the cold barely doing anything to alleviate the sting. He probably looks stupid as hell.

Of course, you’re laughing at him, lips curled in on themselves as you try to choke back the sound.

“Too hot?” You coo, feigning surprise. You do feel a little bad - he can see it in the flex of your jaw, how your bamboo stick-wielding hand lingers in the space between you. “My bad.”

He chews once, twice - tries to keep it to a minimum because holy shit , does it hurt - before swallowing. It burns on the way down. “You eat one now.” He’s pushing the tray towards you, long fingers curled around yours as he all but tries to make you face plant into the plate.

“I don’t like squid,” you deadpan, lying through those neat white teeth of yours. You’d literally made takoyaki at home a few weeks ago. He’d dared you to put an entire wasabi ball into one and you’d done it.

“Shut up.”

“You shut up!”

So it goes for the rest of the night, trading insults over street food. You share an ice cream-filled melon pan - well, he orders one and you eat all of it but a bite - and you scroll through your phone as he inhales a bowl of ramen. He catches you taking a picture of him when he’s halfway through slurping noodles into his mouth like a Hoover. You look a little sheepish when he swallows and levels you with a look that screams unimpressed.

“Is this okay?” You’re a little uncertain and it’s the cutest thing he’s seen all night, teeth catching your bottom lip. He wonders, briefly, what it’d be like to do that to you instead.

You beam when he reassures you. “Of course.”

“I won’t post it anywhere.”

He wants to tell you that’s okay, too, but he knows he shouldn’t. Instead, he simply returns your smile and goes about finishing his bowl of broth. You take a few more photos - of his face when he’s full-belied and satisfied, of the street where people mingle and mix, of the stupidly big moving crab sign across the way.

He wonders if you can feel it too - the connection that crackles between you like a livewire.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” you return your attention to him in the same instant he’s glossing over the shape of your lips, the turn of your nose. “I’ll pay you back.”

Before he realizes what’s happening, your hand is on his. You don’t do very much, simply allowing your palm to rest over his, fingers curled around the seam of his thumb. It’s so much smaller - complete with neatly manicured lilac nails - that he stares down at it for a beat too long.

You start to pull away - he sees it happening almost in slow motion - when he flips his own, catching your wrist in his grasp. “No need,” he mumbles, not quite looking at you. He’s still too focused on the way your hands fit together like two puzzle pieces.

“We’ll see about that,” you return, equally as soft.

Everything feels a little fuzzy, like you’re wrapped up in cotton candy and cloud nine.

You must feel it too.

But then you’re standing and you’re not holding his hand any longer and he thinks maybe he’s imagining it all over again. It leaves him heartsick, reaching for your figure that’s already too far away.

“We should head back - I have an early flight tomorrow.”

Damn him and his poor planning skills. He should’ve booked you something later in the day. Why had he thought the 9 AM departure was the best idea?

“Right.” He lifts himself off of the wooden bench, returning his facemask to its rightful place as he closes the distance between you in four easy strides. He tries to ignore the way you smile at him when you’re back together, matching pace through the somehow still-packed streets.

There’s no playful ribbing now. The schoolyard mockery is replaced with a comfortable silence that sinks into his bones and brushes his hand against yours every time you have to squeeze past a gaggle of people that just won’t move. It’s familiar without being boring, satisfying the big fat crush that lives in his heart.

It settles even further when you do the same, head gentle against the curve of his shoulder.

“Did you have fun?” He finally asks when the familiar silhouette of the Conrad Hotel comes into view, your driver rolling to a complete stop right in front of the impressive glass structure.

You hum something that sounds like yes as he pays and thanks the driver in the softest Japanese before he ushers you out of the back of the cab. You’re smiling at him, heavy-lidded and with a tenderness he doesn’t expect. You must be tired.

“More than I’ve ever had.” There’s a certain truth to your words, whether it’s from your sleepy state or something else. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“You don’t have to,” he reminds you, guiding you past the concierge with a palm on the small of your back. It’s intimate in a way he’s not really sure is appropriate but you don’t seem to mind, all too happy to be herded around like a baby duckling.

“Stop saying that.” There’s no weight behind your words - only sandman’s dust and starry-eyed affection. Jungkook’s heart plays a staccato rhythm in his chest as he steps into the lift behind you, crowded against the far right wall. Mozart would be proud.

Trapped in the small six by six area, his breath seems too loud. The roar of his pulse in his ears is deafening. He barely hears his own words when they stumble out of their own accord.

“I like you.”

Your laugh is the sweetest he’s ever heard. “I know.”

“You do?” He rounds on you in the same breath, your body mirroring his subconsciously.

“Of course I do.” You’re so confident he absorbs a little bit of it, stepping closer when you do. “I’m your safe place - and you’re mine, too.”

His hands are shaking when they crowd your face, thumbs gentle over the jut of your chin. “Can I kiss you?” Spoken like a child asking for a Christmas gift, full of wonder and hope.

“Hm.” The vibration of your sigh is felt through his fingers all the way down to his toes.

He decides for you, closing the distance with a roll of his shoulders.

Kissing you is unlike anything he could’ve ever imagined. It’s better than his wildest dreams. It’s soft and sweet and done with the utmost care, like you’ll break if he isn’t careful. You taste as good as you smell - the citrusy tang of your lip gloss reminding him of Lotte World lemonade and picnics on the Han River.

“I’m sorry.” It’s an unnecessary apology that gets lost against your lips - because he isn’t quite ready to let go of you yet. “I couldn’t help it.”

“You’re forgiven, I guess .”

When you speak, it’s kissing in its most basic form, mouth brushing over his with each enunciation. He wonders what it’d be like to have you sing a song for him like this. He decides he wants to find out as soon as possible. Needs it like he needs air - or more of you. Either or.

“Thanks.”

You laugh together and kiss again and again, repeating the motion like overeager high school students behind the bleachers. He grazes your forehead, pressing sweetness into the tops of your eyelids and you return the favour, sweeping delight over the sharp turn of his jaw and over skin not hidden by the collar of his button-down.

You’re so involved that you hardly notice when the lift doors slide open, revealing the empty hallway of the 33rd floor. You break away first, though it’s not without some resistance - both his and yours. He wants to keep you here with him as long as he can, because it feels like where you belong .

“I’ll see you.” A last kiss - lingering, longing, littered with words neither of you say.

And then you’re gone.

JINNY’S APARTMENT Saturday, 5 September, 2020. 2:45 PM.

You live in a nondescript apartment in a nondescript neighbourhood with trimmed hedges and a crisp white exterior. There’s a doormat - grey, a little frayed at the edges, polka-dotted - and nothing else. No sign on your door, just the number 134 stamped on the right-hand side, half a foot away from the window that looks into the open-air hallway.

You answer the door on the first knock, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed like you’d been lingering just behind the frame, waiting for his arrival. Your hair’s shiny and freshly washed, damp at the ends where you haven’t wicked all the moisture away. You look comfortable - if not a little overexcited - bouncing from sock-clad foot to sock-clad foot in your low slung sweatpants and oversized tee shirt. He can see half a dozen plants just behind your bobbing head, his gaze bouncing between pretty ceramic and terracotta pots.

“I half expected you to live in a PC bang,” Jungkook states, drole and with that trademark grin of his, nose scrunched and eyes waning.

You counter him easily. “You haven’t even been inside. Maybe it’s all a front.”

He snickers at the thought, stepping over the threshold once you’ve taken a step back. It smells like cinnamon and sugar - he wonders if you’ve been baking - and he peers curiously around the apartment.

“It’s a candle,” you supply before he has a chance to ask, reading the question in his stare.

“You mean you didn’t bake me a cake?”

You offer an extended scoff in place of an answer, rolling your eyes as he unlaces his boots. “What for? Your birthday’s already passed.”

“It might not have.”

“It literally has. I know your birthday.”

Right. Because he’s him and that’s sort of common knowledge.

He chuckles to himself as he sets his boots aside, right beside where yours sit, near identical. He doesn’t need to say anything when he hears you sniff, Rilakkuma-tipped sock nudging his hand away from where it threatens to upend the piece of footwear.

“I had them before I met you.”

“Right.” It’s too easy to tease you - just as it’s too easy to rib him. This is how the two of you are. Schoolchildren with big crushes and near zero emotional maturity.

“Do you want a tour or are you just gonna be some weirdo with a foot fetish?”

He meets your stare then, both of your expressions ice cold. If looks could kill .

You crack before he does, though your laughter melds together like a perfect harmony, ricocheting off the art-covered walls.

“Fine, fine. Show me around.”

So you do - with gusto and great pride. It rolls off you in waves, tangible in the cascade of your hair over your shoulder and the way you beam up at him. You’re like a kid at show-and-tell.

You guide him into the living area - a small space with a comfortable, worn-in grey couch and probably more throw pillows and blankets than is strictly speaking necessary. There are framed pieces on the wall and it’s the contents that surprise him. There’s Mercy playing pool, bent over the table in a revealing Playboy bunny one piece; there’s D.Va in a hoodie and little else, bottles of soju littering both the back and foreground.

Where the walls are bare, there’s other stuff taking up the space. Artfully positioned floating shelves house succulents and cacti. A well-cared for Monstera sits in a far corner, taking up more space than it probably should. Nestled among its soil are little Animal Crossing Amiibos - Cyrus and Reese, to be exact. There’s an all-white cabinet with a glass front and some of the most random stuff he’s ever seen: limited edition Gunpla, a Taiko Drum, and your framed university degree (for accounting, to his great surprise).

“Is that a Widow bobblehead?” He spies it last, sitting on the cabinet that houses an impressive array of gaming consoles. You even have a VR headset, the cords neatly looped together and tucked away beside a maneki neko-shaped piggy bank.

“Maybe.”

“You really are a dork.”

“Says the bigger dork? Really?”

He could dispute that - easily - but he doesn’t, instead shrugging it off as he flops onto the couch, feet immediately kicking themselves up.

“What’re you doing?” You join him even as you ask. He’s a little disappointed by the polite amount of space you leave - just enough that you’re not touching.

“I’m tired.”

“I haven’t finished the tour.”

“Tour schmore .”

You scowl at him and it’s so charming that he wishes you were just a little closer. He’d kiss that look right off your face if it were up to him.

“What do you want to do then?” Where the stuffed animal comes from, he’s not sure. It’s more than a little ratty, soft brown fur faded from what looks like years and years of love. You hold it tight, clutched to your chest as you recline against the far arm.

“Watch the Runaway and Lunatic-Hai show matches?”

You level him with a look that very much tells him he is the bigger nerd. He doesn’t mind, though. He’s been wanting to watch these matches for months since it was first announced.

Unfortunately, you’d promised each other you’d only watch it together, so really, this was your fault.

You must suddenly remember that, because you’re biting back the words he’s sure were about to tear into him, swallowing them whole as you grab your PS4 controller and begin silently navigating through YouTube. He smiles, a little triumphant thing he knows you can see from the corner of your eye.

“Happy?” Resentment mixes with excitement as you return your controller to its rightful home and settle yourself once more against the too-many pillows.

“No.” Jungkook worries for your neck when you whip to look at him, brow furrowed and mouth blown out in a pout.

“Why not?”

He memorizes the way you look right now, framed against sunlight that spills through your windows and hugging what he assumes is your childhood teddy bear. It’s an immediate serotonin boost.

“Because you’re all the way over there.” He sighs, long and loud, head swinging in a dramatic semi-circle. He can hear you snickering despite yourself - could pick it out in a crowd of thousands, he thinks - and suddenly you’re beside him, distance closed in a heartbeat.

With you so close, it’s hard to think, his thoughts jumbled and tripping over themselves.

“Better?” You must know the effect you have on him, because you’re batting those goddamn eyelashes up at him, mouth dancing around his favourite sound in the world.

“Much,” he hums, unashamed.

“Welcome home, Kook.” The way you say it sparks fireworks in his chest. He knows you mean home as in the city of Seoul, but it feels like more and he likes that - just like how he likes you and this little piece of normalcy.

It feels good to be here with you, seemingly without a care in the world.

It’s distinctly different from anything he’s used to - even better than the long hours spent bonding on the internet. There’s no worry here, no nagging in the back of his mind, no concern that one of his hyungs will burst into his room. It’s just you and him and commentary on his favourite game.

That is, until it’s just him and commentary on his favourite game. He’d lost you somewhere along the way, roughly three hours in. He hadn’t noticed at first, far too focused on the big brain plays unravelling across the screen, but when you started snoring, he knew.

You just snored so damn loudly.

“Jinny.” He feels bad when he has to rouse you, the feeling in his right leg but a distant memory.

You don’t move. He wonders when the last time you slept was.

“Jinny,” he repeats himself, a little louder this time. There’s the beginning of stirrings, your head drifting from its position on his shoulder to nestle into the crease of the couch cushions. “Do you want me to take you to bed?”

It doesn’t immediately dawn on Jungkook how that sounds.

“Wouldn’t you like that,” you mumble into the woven fabric, half-asleep.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing.” You’re doing that thing you do when you’re impressed with yourself, teeth littering your bottom lip with indentations. It’s more distracting than it should be, paired with those bedroom eyes he’s not certain you’re in control of.

Get it together , he scolds himself. In his mind, the angel powerbombs the devil into submission.

“Do you want to go to bed?”

“No! Not yet.” You’re waving a boneless wrist in his direction, like you’re swatting away an irksome fly. It’s cute, in a frazzled sort of way.

“You want to sleep out here?” He knows you don’t - you’ve complained about it enough times when you wake up with kinks in your neck and soreness in your back.

“No!” A huff puffs out your cheeks, blows your grown-out bangs away from your face. You’re sitting up now, slowly but surely. There are creases all over your face - an ode to the couch. He has to keep from laughing right at you - bites it back with a bitten tongue when you sniff and card a hand over through your hair. “I have a gift for you.”

You say it so sweetly, he can’t help himself.

“Is it you?”

He’s honestly not sure what to expect once he’s spoken. He half thinks you’ll laugh, shove him away from you with a giggle and a roll of your eyes. He hopes you won’t, though - can feel every fibre of his being strung tight with anticipation and hope and the request of please, love me .

“Do you want it to be?” You’re looking at him with the strangest expression. He can’t read it at all, despite how easily he normally does. It’s white noise, static on a television screen.

Uncertainty grips him. “I do.”

“Then I’m yours.”

It’s music to his ears - the key to his heart. It strips away the doubt, turning it on its head.

He finally does what he’s wanted to for the past four hours.

When he kisses you this time, it’s different. It’s urgent but not rushed; he takes his time in exploring the softness of your lips, how they fall open under his careful ministrations. His mouth slants, coaxes you to give everything to him as his tongue passes tentatively over yours. You taste like lemons again - and a touch of honey.

It’s intoxicating and addictive and he chases the high it gives him, large hands finding purchase against the back of your head and the slope of your jaw. Fingers thread through your hair - gentle at first, then with more purpose. He maneuvers you how he needs you and peppers kisses everywhere he can reach. Your eyelids, your nose, your neck.

When he ghosts his mouth across your shoulder - mouthing hot over the soft cotton of your shirt - and finds that particular point where your pulse beats, you gasp.

He’d thought your laugh was his favourite sound but he realizes now how wrong he was.

“Do that again.” You say it together, in perfect sync.

Laughter blooms between you and he muffles his against your throat, nosing over where your perfume lingers most. He inhales once, twice, and holds you somehow closer, all but dragging you into his lap. “You’re my dream girl, you know that?” The words are surprisingly sweet, given the compromising position you’re currently in.

“You’re not too bad yourself.” You thread your fingers just as he has, twirling through his just-on-the-right-side-of-too-long strands.

He moves to pull away, a scoff building in his throat, but you’re having none of it, capturing his lips the moment he’s made up his mind. You really could read him like a book. He wonders what you’re thinking now, starts running through possibilities when you bite down just so on his pouting bottom lip.

A not-so-subtle hint to get out of his own head.

“Stop thinking,” you hum, lending your voice to his thoughts.

“Sorry,” he returns in kind, tracing an apologetic tongue over the seam of your lips.

“Show me how sorry.”

You sound positively sinful and while it isn’t the answer he’d expected, it stirs something within him - from his chest to somewhere decidedly further south. He stifles a moan, caging it behind bared teeth as he becomes suddenly far too aware of how you’re making him feel.

“You’re playing with fire, baby.” The pet name rolls off his tongue like it was made for you.

“It’s fine - I have self-healing.”

It’s so fucking dorky but somehow, even that makes Jungkook groan. “Seriously - dream girl.”

And then he’s kissing you again and again, a devoted parishioner of your church. They’re this-side of innocent at first, little pecks that dot every sliver of available flesh. His hands roam in tandem with his mouth, flitting beneath the cropped hem of your top before gliding greedily across the tops of your thighs.

“Can I get the rest of the tour now?” He looks like the devil himself, all dishevelled dark hair and that heart-wrenching, lopsided smile.

You’re impatient though - always have been. “Straight down the hall. Last door to the left.”

It’s all he needs to know before he’s on his feet, rising with you as if you were featherlight. Your ankles lock around his waist, clinging to him like the cutest koala he’s ever seen. He doesn’t look away - frankly, can’t – as he follows your directions, gaze trained on your eyes and your lips and the column of your throat he wants to see blooming with roses.

“I’m crazy about you,” he announces, suddenly, as he nudges open your bedroom door.

“I know.” You say it a lot. He wonders if you really know.

By the way you kiss him, he thinks you might have an idea. It’s not enough, though. He wants to show you - needs to show you.

You allow yourself to be tossed upon your bed - soft grey sheets, no stuffed animals in sight, too many pillows again - and he hovers above you, curious. “Are you sure you know?” The question is punctuated by the drop of his knee, cotton of his black joggers a stark contrast to the soft linens.

You’re not sure if this is a game - he can read the question swimming in your eyes. “Maybe?” You’re upspeaking, which is something you never do. It’s disarming in a way that makes him want to hear it again, but with his name over and over.

“Maybe?” He echoes, brow quirked and mouth twisted into an expression that starts butterflies in your stomach. It’s like a switch has flipped. For the first time, he’s the heartthrob you’ve seen on stage, the one fansites rave about with fervour. A force to be reckoned with . “Let me make it clear then?”

It’s spoken like a question, though it begs no answer. You’d give him anything he wanted.

“Can I?” You don’t think you have it in you to respond - not when he’s looking at you the way he is, from behind dark lashes and with the most charming smile you’ve ever seen. But he needs an answer - won’t go further until he has one.

“Yes,” you breathe in a voice that doesn’t quite sound like your own, far too airy and mellifluous.

He looks like a kid who’s had his heart’s greatest wish granted. There’s unbridled joy spilling into every crevice, streaming out of every pore as he lowers himself onto the bed. You’re trapped beneath him - knees situated comfortably on either side of your legs - when his hands find the shorn hem of your shirt, tugging gently at the offending article of clothing.

“Off,” he says simply. It’s gone before you can think twice. Your sweatpants and socks follow in quick succession - he snorts a laugh when he has to tug your socks off by the ears on either side of your ankles - until you’re left in only black cotton that covers hardly anything at all.

Jungkook sighs a sound that shoots straight into the belly of the beast, sparking warmth in the pit of your stomach.

“You’re so beautiful.”

He sees the uncertainty in your eyes, hands reaching to cover the places you’ve been self-conscious about since you were old enough to understand what bullying was. The modest swell of your chest, the tiger stripes along your hips.

Words are fitted with motion, hands of his own sweeping your arms away from your body. Long fingers curl easily around the dainty turn of your wrist. “Please don’t hide from me.”

You can’t deny him when he asks so nicely.

“Tell me about these?” He means your tattoos, of course. They’re intricate works of art that span nearly a quarter of your flesh, painting grayscale and colour over cream. There’s the jasmine he’d spotted the night you met, coiled around your left forearm and up to your bicep in stark ink. Across your stomach, from the top of your right thigh and over your ribs, are intricate peonies in shades of pink and red and green. Everywhere lines bloom, etched forever into your skin, his mouth follows. He can’t ingrain himself in the same ways but he tries, searing devotion in the form of kisses.

It tickles when he ghosts over your ribs with both tongue and teeth and it’s absolutely indescribable when he catches your nipple between enamel.

You make that sweet sound he so loves - a heady mix between a gasp and a moan - and he repeats the motion. You hardly realize he’s speaking when he does it for the third time and adds nimble fingers to pinch and pull the other into the same pebbled state.

“ Tell me.” He sounds like he’s laughing, trapped halfway down your body with his cheek pressed to the modest swell of your chest.

You’re not sure how you get the words out. “My mom’s a big gardener. She calls me her flower.”

“Her flower, huh?” The question is muffled among your humble cleavage.

“Did I stutter?” That earns you a sharp tweak to your nipple, the pain shooting pleasure through your limbs in a very unexpected way. You’ve never been one for pain but the sight of Jungkook staring up at you, head cocked and hands full - well, there’s a first time for everything.

“You want to be nicer to me,” he states solemnly, like he’s commenting on the weather or the 6 o’clock news and not palming your tits in his much larger hands and drawing out the sweetest murmurs of encouragement.

“I am nice to you,” you retort - or try to at least. You hardly get it out before it’s chased out by another one of those lovely sounds that Jungkook seems to be obsessed with.

“ Nicer , baby.”

As if to drive his point home, he straightens out, face suddenly dangerously close. He crowds you with his entire frame, mouth finding yours easily. It’s not the same sort of kisses you’ve shared all evening; it’s a display of dominance, a reminder that articulates more than he can say.

It’s also a distraction, you realize belatedly, with a gasp tearing its way out of your throat.

Capable hands have found their mark, digits sweeping beneath the seam of your thong. He lingers just shy of where you desperately want him, expertly trailing featherlight touches through your folds. He never goes further - doesn’t stretch where you need him most. He’s careful not to brush your clit, focusing instead on the way you’re coating his fingers.

The shit-eating grin never leaves his lips - which never leave your mouth. He swallows your whines in the same instant he’s pulling them forth, playing you like a fiddle without even really doing anything.

“Can you do that for me?” He coos against your neck, that damned voice of his dripping liquid gold into your ears.

You have to focus hard on what he’s saying because his touch is so distracting. “What?”

“I said—” It stings where his mouth connects, where his teeth nip and spill wine over porcelain. He’s painting the prettiest pictures, signing his name in the form of broken capillaries. “—can you be nice to me?”

You’d like to respond - really, you would - but he punctuates the question with the glide of his finger and you can’t do anything but arch into the sudden intrusion. It feels so good and yet isn’t nearly enough.

“Kook.” You’ve never sounded this whiny in your life. Even his name - one single syllable - hardly makes it past your lips without descending into a cry.

“Use your words , angel.”

If every nerve ending didn’t feel like it was on fire, you might’ve yelled at him. Instead, you can hardly form a coherent thought. You’re too far gone, standing on the edge of a cliff as he teases you open with slow, measured pumps of his wrist.

“I need—” He’s crooking the single digit within you, right against that spot that makes you see stars.

“What do you need? Ask nicely.”

“M-more. I need m-more .” A hiccup. “Please.”

“Like this?” You’re empty all at once and then suddenly far more full, the stretch of two fingers stealing the breath from your throat. “Or like this?” The pad of his thumb finds your clit with ease, sweeping over the sensitive bundle of nerves once, twice, three times. “Maybe like this?”

He repeats his earlier movements, curling his knuckles in a come hither motion that has you sobbing out his name.

“That’s right.” Ever the gentleman, he works you through your high, watching your face in rapt fascination as your first orgasm of the night crests and crashes over you, sending shockwaves through your system. He admires the way your mouth falls open - full lips rounding in delight - and how your eyes screw shut.

You’re the hottest thing Jeon Jungkook has ever seen.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your temple, never ceasing the slow drag of his fingers, the carefully measured flick of his thumb. Even when you’re trembling with oversensitivity, he doesn’t relent, choosing instead to reposition.

His weight is gone as he settles between your legs, knees folded beneath him. He only pauses his needy actions - almost doesn’t, when your hips roll in an apparent attempt to draw him back in - to strip you of your thong, tossing it somewhere over his shoulder.

“Give me another, okay?”

You aren’t given a chance to answer before he slips two fingers back where they belong and seals his mouth over your clit. The coil he’d snapped earlier returns, tension increased tenfold as he alternates between sucking hard and licking, dragging his tongue over and around his fingers. There’s too much stimulation. You’re obscenely wet and you’re certain you’d be making a mess, if not for the careful way Jungkook’s devouring you whole, licking up every bit of slick.

“Kook. Jungkook .” His name sounds like heaven coming off your lips. He replays it over and over in his head as he fucks his fingers into you, tapping a brutal rhythm against your g-spot. He can tell you’re close again - can read it in the way your jaw tenses and your breathing goes erratic, lungs heaving.

“Come on, baby. Let go.” The second orgasm hits harder, arching your back off the mattress as you fight to keep your knees from snapping shut. You come with a hoarse cry, legs trembling like a leaf with the effort. “That’s my girl.”

He’s upon you again, this time crowding your space as he settles all one hundred and fifty pounds of himself beside you. He anchors you in reality, preventing your boneless body from floating off by pulling you against his chest.

“You did so good.”

You accept his kisses readily, somehow managing to thread your arm around his neck despite the fact that you feel like you’ve just run a marathon.

Being wrapped up in his embrace is like being home - warm and familiar.

“I want you.”

He laughs and you can hear the sound rattling around in his chest. “You’ve got me.”

“That’s not what I meant.” You sound a little petulant, like a child being denied their favourite toy.

“I know what you meant,” he retorts, squeezing your bare hip affectionately. “But you’re also exhausted, so get some sleep. Patience is key, remember?”

You pout up at him with your messy bedhead and sleepy eyes and he almost gives in right then and there. It’s nearly impossible not to, especially when you drag your hip across his, your ankle hooking his in a bid to bring the two of you somehow closer.

He doesn’t expect you to relent so easily but your yawn outs you, forcing itself past the cage you’re trying - and failing - to keep closed. “Fine.”

“I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“You better be.” It’s an empty threat - you both know he won’t leave. “I still have to give you your present, anyway.”

He feigns surprise then, snickering quietly. “You mean it wasn’t you?”

You don’t have the energy to yell at him, so instead you dig your bony fingers into the vulnerable underside of his ribs. He squirms away from the feeling but never really goes far.

“It’s a Mercy bobblehead, you butt.” You yawn again, shiver running the length of your spine as you snuggle more closely against his side once more. Jungkook tugs your duvet up around your shoulders, tucking you in tightly. The action reminds you of why you’d bought the gift in the first place. “I think you might actually be my guardian angel.”

notes. the end of an era (and by era, i mean a fic). this honestly turned out to be my baby, so i sincerely hope you enjoyed reading it. i'll likely do some drabbles in the future, because i really, really adore this couple. as always, let me know your thoughts. xo

tag list. @letmebeyour-sun @teawithbucky

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chyrstis · 3 years

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WIP Friday!

I’ve had some tags throughout the week, so I’m going to cash them all in here, since Friday’s the day and I might’ve been hoping to get this posted last night too, whoops! And I want to thank you all for tagging me even if I don’t always respond quickly! <3 I definitely intend to, but there’s never enough time in a day or a week, is there?

Tagged by @redroci @tommymillers @jackiesarch @ma-sulevin and @amistrio and @adelaidedrubman !

Tagging: @writerofblocks @twistedsinews @painterofhorizons @hunnybadgerv @cobb-vanthss @shallow-gravy @nightwingshero @ma-sulevin @shellibisshe @jackalopestride @unlikelynick @geronimo-11 @fluttyseed @fadedjacket @weekend-writer @starsandskies @faithchel @belorage @tomexraider @consumedkings @vasiktomis @chazz-anova @aceghosts @ofravensandgenesis @scarlettkat86 (and if you’re already posted WIPs, don’t mind me one bit! no obligation or pressure’s ever intended)

First, a snippet from Lighting the Fuse’s Ch. 2 which I’d love to edit up and post this weekend, so here’s hoping I can kick myself in the butt hard enough to pull it off? *crosses fingers*

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“Not tonight, hon. Not tonight.” Propping herself back up on her elbows, she gave him a smile. “You’re here now, though. So…how about it?”

“How about what?”

“You ask,” she replied, giving him a lazy smile. “Since I’m clearly on the cusp of benching you if you don’t.”

Sharky clapped his mouth shut. Stood there, rooted to the ground and didn’t let out a single peep.

That boggled her completely. “Seriously, hon? Nothing?”

It was dark, but Hana could almost swear he was a shade of red darker than her hair right now. “You uh…. See I didn’t think it was-maybe you being asleep kinda threw off my groove a bit.”

Hana blinked at him. Watched a crooked smile settle onto his face as he let a nervous chuckle out.

“Like, like I mean I was gonna-was thinking of maybe doing this sorta-” His words trailed off as he clenched his teeth, swallowed hard, and let out a long exhale. “Okay, so maybe this shit isn’t exactly-”

A loud sigh came from her left directly from the radio, and the sound filled the entire room.

“…Wait, what the fuck?” Sharky asked, his eyes darting everywhere as he tried to pinpoint where it was coming from. “You hear that?”

Clenching her fists, Hana slowly let her hands relax as she let the tension out. “Unfortunately.”

“Deputy, Deputy, Deputy. I know you’re listening. But I’m starting to think you’re doing this on purpose. I thought you wanted my attention. Would’ve been glad to finally have it undivided, and yet you deny me the pleasure of hearing a single response in turn. How…cruel.”

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And a bit more of the Hana/Sharky one-shot I’ve been chipping away at, that’s actually getting really close to being finished too. I just need to jot down a few more moments for it and see if these two can actually clam up long enough to let me finish

---

“Yo, it’s not like I’ve been there any longer than a few days at a time, and half of the shit they’ve dragged me down to the jail for’s legal, just not in any of the spots I ended up doing it.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, which is just fucking stupid seeing as lighting a fire by my house’s fine, but if it gets out to the street and catches on the trees ‘cause it’s extra dry out and the wind’s blowing, suddenly I gotta go in ‘cause I’m negligent or some shit. Then the po-po’s claiming I gotta have a permit to burn in the drier seasons, but it rains fucking plenty here.”

He’d draped his arm over her shoulders by this point, the motion coming so easily from him she hadn’t even noticed at first. Just nestled right into that warmth almost on reflex as Sharky kept on talking, and didn’t want to budge an inch if she could help it.

“Man, it’ll be the driest stretch of the year, and the sky’ll just open up and drop a bucket-load on us ‘cause it’s feeling it, but even if it don’t, anything I start’ll get put out. Just ‘cause I’m around doesn’t mean shit’s gonna go down, or nothing. ‘Cause then phone calls are made, people start looking at me funny, and I’m getting pulled out of my car for jack and shit when maybe I just wanted to take a breather there. Maybe get in a few Zs, take five to ten to jerk it, and they don’t gotta watch that too closely if I’m doing it either.”

She’d been nodding along with him, then stopped. Let that statement sink in as her eyebrows drew together before they rose high on her face.

“…Hon, that’s not legal.”

“Aw, come on, Dep! Don’t tell me there’s some kinda permit for parking out-“

“No, not that. You’d probably get slapped with a ticket or fine, sure, but it’s more about the fact that you were beating it there.”

“It’s indoors.”

That response came quick enough for her to tilt her head back to look at him. To side-eye him heavily as he shrugged, and damn. She’d curled up to him a lot closer than she’d initially thought. Close enough to-

She cleared her throat.

---

And a little more of the No Cult AU, maybe? ...I may have watched Speed again last night entirely due to this. and it might also be up to almost 8K in length as well, pre-edits, so... Help

---

But that didn’t solve the other problem. Towing it.

A truck would’ve been their best bet, but with him already there it didn’t make sense to try and scrape together cash for a tow truck, or to fire off a call to anyone down at the compound. His car had been used to drag Sr’s truck out of more than a few ditches without tearing the frame up, so this wasn’t a stretch to consider, and leaving them hanging now would’ve just been a shit thing to do when they didn’t even have a working phone or forty bucks between them.

And while he’d never been able to get a tow bar to last more than a few months max, he had a few solid workarounds that could still get the job done. One of which he’d seen in a commercial a while back.

He knew it almost by heart at this point, and cool as it’d be to fix their problem by just whipping his pants off and tying their vehicles together with them to help tow them to the compound, he’d gone down that road before. Hell, not just once, but twice now, and considering he’d been left between getting pepper sprayed and arrested, or having a busted set of jeans and his ass hanging out for the rest of the day, he wasn’t sure he liked where that left him on round number three.

Besides these were a well-worn pair, and they seriously didn’t make them like they used to. Long as he tried not to get too creative with them, they had more than a few good years in them yet. So after some sifting and digging through the trunk of his car, Sharky kept his fingers crossed that he’d find an actual tow strap back there. He and Hurk had been through this dance enough times before that he knew he had one, and crossed his fingers that he hadn’t left it over at Sr.’s place.

Sure enough, there it was. Fucking majestic, and almost crumpled in the back, Sharky withdrew one perfect tow strap and broke out a few moves to celebrate it before hitching the two together.

Once it was secure, he told them all to hop in, and while trying to cram one extra person into his car was tough three other people might’ve been pushing it. John regularly had the best seat in the house and still hardly made it more than a few miles before fussing at him, and here they were double - and triple stacking themselves in any spare space in order to take a seat. Man, he was already thinking up ways to relay this story to Hurk later on, but with them semi-settled and packed safe as they could be, he fired the engine up and got them all back on the road.

It wasn’t a far drive out to Joseph’s but he took his time with it. Drove the slowest he’d ever attempted short of being twelve and behind the wheel for the first time, trying to be extra gentle with it all as the van lumbered behind them.

If he went too fast, they’d tear the back of his car off and lose it. If they hit the brakes too hard, they’d get rammed, so he needed to nail that sweet spot. Keep from tipping from one end over into the other as he played his very own version of Speed out on this stretch of road, watching that needle dance back and forth over that perfect point as he started to sweat a little under his cap.

But he had this. Pressed his foot down on the gas and let up when he needed to, exercising the kind of control that even John would give a silent nod of approval to - which would almost make him the Keanu to his Sandra, except John wasn’t there and currently trying to crawl under any of this shit to keep a bomb from going off - but whatever, it was close enough.

So he watched the mile markers fly by as they got closer and closer to the island, and by the time they rolled through the gate and came to a stop, Sharky let out whatever breath he’d started holding, and didn’t even care when the van nearly smashed into them on the home stretch anyway.

#wip #some of these are incredibly rough b/c my brain's part mush right now #but I've also had some of these segments stashed for way too long too #also if you want a laugh go ahead and look up the the old levi jeans commercial where they're 'towing' cars with it #of all the things to store in my brain over the years as a source of amusement it would be that

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ddarker-dreams · 4 years

Text

Knowledge is Power. Narancia x F Reader x Fugo 🎀

this was based on a headcanon i put out for SR a while back, that narancia once came to fugo for help on how to woo reader in her native language. dialogue in italics are words spoken in english! takes place pre-events of VA. fugo’s POV.

[Scarlet Ribbons description]

This night was already off to a rocky start.

Pannacotta Fugo values efficiency, getting work done in a timely fashion and producing the best results. He’s aware that this line of work must allow for some flexibility, but that doesn’t mean he has to be pleased about it. He and Narancia have been sitting here in the car for... how long exactly? Fugo checks his watch, grimacing at the hands of the clock, which now read 2:00 AM. So much for getting a good night of sleep, he thinks.

“Why are they not here?” Narancia huffs, sinking further into the passenger seat. “Can’t we just call it a night? I’ve been lookin’ at the radar for hours, and there’s nothing.”

Fugo understands the sentiment, having trouble suppressing his own frustration and patience wearing thin. “Narancia, this is important. If the rumors that Tuscany gangs are trying to get a foothold here are true, Passione’s reputation will be called into question. We have to nip it in the bud.”

“Well, yeah, that much is obvious,” Narancia blows a strand of hair out of his face, lips pursed. “I’m just saying. If they were gonna show, they would’ve done it by now. Meeting up this late is suspicious.”

Fugo can’t help but agree. If there’s anything gangsters don’t want, it’s drawing attention to themselves. “We’ll give it another thirty minutes and call it a night.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Narancia stretches, neck stiff from staring at Aerosmith’s radar all this time. Fugo can’t help but feel respect for his companion. Sitting still is the last thing Narancia wants to do, as someone who is constantly buzzing with energy. Maybe he’s not all that incompetent after all, Fugo muses.

“Hey, Fugo,” Narancia scratches his neck, to which Fugo raises an eyebrow. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something...”

“And that is?” Fugo replies.

“Do you think it’s difficult for [First]?” Narancia voices his concern. Fugo gets the sense that he’s omitting some information, for whatever reason, but doesn’t press it. The question feels wholly random. Not a far cry from Narancia’s erratic thought process, yet Fugo contemplates the origins of the inquiry all the same. If you’re involved, it’s impossible for Fugo to suppress his curiosity. Not that he’ll ever admit it.

“Difficult?” he repeats the word back. “In what sense?’

Narancia groans, struggling to string his words together. “Well, y’know, speaking Italian all the time to us. What if it gives her a headache at the end of the day or something...”

Fugo shakes his head at the thought. “I doubt it does.”

“I don’t know, I think if it were me, it’d hurt my head,” Narancia takes a deep breath, prepared to get to his actual point. “So, I wanted to ask you to teach me some English.”

Well, now his nervous rambling makes sense.��Fugo holds back a sigh. This isn’t the most opportune time to be speaking leisurely, seeing as they’re both working, but he decides to humor the request. Though, he notices, the thought of Narancia getting closer to you makes Fugo’s chest tighten. He doesn’t understand why and tries to ignore it.

“I’m not too hopeful seeing how our previous studying sessions have gone, but let’s give it a shot. What do you want to know?”

Narancia straightens his posture out, suddenly renewed with energy. Fugo doesn’t miss the glimmer in his eye. When was the last time Narancia looked so eager to learn? There’s no time that comes to mind, at least, not to this extent. How strange. Narancia does give you puppy eyes, but does that really mean...? No, there’s no way, Fugo reasons with himself. It’s simply admiration. Anyone with a Stand Narancia finds cool earns that behavior.

“I wanna give her a compliment,” Narancia blurts out. The two of them blink, his tan complexation flushing and hands going up in defense. “F-for her hard work! Yeah, her work...”

Just great. Fugo pinches the bridge of his nose, willing himself to remain calm. He takes a deep breath, fingers drumming against the steering wheel, uncertain on what to do. The thought of Narancia brazenly flirting with you in English makes his head spin. He can’t turn his back on the request now, Narancia will want to know what made him change his mind, and he doesn’t have the wherewithal to deal with that.

It doesn’t help when Narancia mistakes Fugo’s silence for not knowing any compliments, offering unwanted suggestions. “Maybe something like, how she’s nice, or... how she smells really good, and has a cute smile--”

“I’m an idiot.” Fugo interrupts with a snap, trying to hide how his nose scrunches in displeasure. Not his finest work, he recognizes, but it should serve its purpose in deterring Narancia’s progress. Narancia is none the wiser to the true meaning of Fugo’s words. He nods his head, practicing the phrase underneath his breath, assuming it to be the highest flattery the English language has to offer.

Fugo nods his head in faux approval. “Yeah, tell her that, she’ll love it. I promise.”

Narancia beams at the thought of pleasing you. “Really? I’m gonna tell her at lunch then!”

Here’s to hoping he doesn’t find out before then, Fugo thinks. He can already see this ending badly once you explain to poor, naïve Narancia, what the words actually mean. It still beats Narancia fawning over you in English, a role Fugo is intent on keeping to himself. He’ll get to that point eventually, he’s been working so hard...! To think Narancia is bolder than he is is a sweeping blow to Fugo’s pride.

“Alright, I think I’ve got that one down,” Narancia proclaims with a puffed out chest. “What else can you teach me?”

Fugo smiles thinly. “Plenty, if you’re willing.”

You’re going to be in for quite the treat tomorrow.

#fugo x reader #narancia x reader #fugo panacotta #pannacotta fugo x reader #Narancia #narancia ghirga x reader #narancia ghirgha #pannacotta fugo #scarlet ribbons #JoJo's Bizzare Adventure #Golden Wind #golden wind x reader #part 5 x reader #jjba x reader #my stuff

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davids-cartoon-corkboard · 4 years

Text

I have said a Lot about the “Raph is a system” theory over the past several months, so this is something of a compilation post. It’s got some new stuff, it’s got some old stuff. (You’re reading Part 1) (Part 2 is here) (Part 3 is here)

---

Firstly, “system” is the term for someone with Dissociative Identity Disorder, or DID. (The term can also apply to some folks with OSDD.) Someone might develop DID after experiencing long-term trauma at an early age- roughly five or six years old. To paraphrase the DSM-V:

1. We’ve seen three (possibly four) distinct personality states who speak, act, and perceive others differently.

2. The personality states, or “alters”, don’t necessarily share memory, and Donnie insinuated in “The Clothes Don’t Make the Turtle” that Raph has a bad memory in general.

3. Problems arise when alters don’t get along or aren’t on the same page. That none of them seem to be quite aware they’re a system doesn’t help either; it’s hard to work on communication and cooperation when you don’t know they need to be worked on!

4. This whole situation isn’t a normal part of a broadly accepted cultural or religious practice, or just Raph playing make-believe. (Though I wonder if he had “imaginary friends” when he was younger...)

5. It’s also not because Raph’s been smoking the devil’s lettuce or whatever. “Pizza Puffs” was one long weed joke and he was the only one “sober” (not poisoned) throughout! We don’t see this happen to other mutants, so it’s not a bizarre side effect of mutagen either.

(I’ve seen a few people joke that Mikey has “multiple personalities”, but that’s a tad yikesy and also just plain incorrect. His “doctor” personas are something he does deliberately, and youngest siblings are just Like That.)

So yeah, Raph is pretty heavily DID-coded. We’ve seen four alters so far:

“Host” Raph (HR): He’s our everyday Raph. A “host” is an alter who fronts most of the time and takes care of “business as usual” situations. They are often unaware of past traumatic events, such that they can appear “normal”. (Ex: the host of a child who lives with an abusive parent could be unaware of the abuse. Otherwise, they might cry or be uncooperative whenever the parent is near, further invoking their wrath. This unawareness allows them to be a “good child”, and stay under the parent’s radar sometimes.) Some systems have more than one host, but that the others have shown up so rarely in this story suggests HR is the only host (for now?).

Savage Raph (SR): Debuting in “Man vs. Sewer”, he’s a survival-oriented alter. HR probably could have defeated the Sando Brothers on his own under normal circumstances, but being in the middle of a breakdown doesn’t do much for your fighting skills. SR got pulled to the front to deal with them instead.

“Red” Raph (RR): “Red” is just a placeholder since we don’t actually know his name yet (or even if he has one, not all alters do), though I’ve also heard folks call him “Angel”. He’s got a “tough love” approach to problem-solving, which was probably a helpful thing in the past. LDM were no doubt rowdy children! We were (officially) introduced to him in “Pizza Puffs”.

Mind Raph (MR): MR could just be a manifestation of HR's thought process via Cartoon Goofery, but that possibility doesn’t give me anything to work with so I’m ignoring it. He’s pretty similar to HR, maybe a tad more upbeat. We (officially) met him in “Raph’s Ride-Along”.

When “Pizza Puffs” first aired, I was like “ah yes, this is the alter who has the cranky edgelord tendencies we’ve seen in previous iterations of Raph. He probably broods on rooftops in the rain when he’s in a bad mood.” Combining that with the whole “Red Angel” thing gives off some Batman vibes. And, of course, SR is similar to the Hulk. Those two heroes are pretty different, but they do have one major thing in common...

A sudden, violent loss. Given how prevalent rushing water is throughout “Man vs. Sewer”, I’m thinking a flood came through and separated Raph from his family. (You could probably argue that turbulent water symbolizes a turbulent subconscious? 🤷) Again, DID stems from long-term trauma, so Raph must have been gone for... a while. A couple of months, maybe more? It’s hard to say exactly; we have a little wiggle room when applying human developmental psychology to a human/turtle mutant. Since Splinter still needed to care for the other three, he wouldn’t have been able to devote much time to searching for Raph, and the New York City sewers go on for miles and miles. The longer Raph was alone, the more convinced he would have been that the others had drowned and he was the only survivor.

How old would he have been? I know the turtles are “different ages”, but they were all mutated at the same time so I’m pretty sure Splinter was just like “the littlest one is the youngest, the biggest one is the oldest, and the medium-sized ones are the middle children.” They’re all probably fourteenish by “Finale”. Back in “MvS”, Leo said, “You know how savage Raph gets when he’s alone”. He didn’t say anything like, “You know how savage Raph gets when he’s alone ever since such-and-such an incident happened”. This suggests that LDM straight-up don’t know something traumatic happened to Raph; they were too little to retain concrete memories of that time. In their minds, Raph has always been like this. Draxum isn’t known for his patience, so even though he wasn’t able to immerse the hatchlings in mutagen for long, they probably mature a bit faster than humans. And since humans usually can’t remember anything from before four years of age, three sounds about right for the turtles, though they would have been stronger and steadier on their feet than any human toddler. I doubt Raph would have survived otherwise.

I think he’s sort of... “stuck” back in that trauma. Catching food, building a fire, making a weapon, and getting camouflage aren’t the behaviors of someone who’s only been gone for a few minutes.

When SR called for help, I don’t think he was expecting anyone to answer.

But Raph did manage to hang onto something as he was swept away! It wasn’t much, but that little ragdoll gave him comfort while he was scared and alone.

(The rabbit design on Bruce’s pajamas is probably a coincidence, but...)

Raph seems the type to have sympathy for odd-looking toys. His knockoff Mrs. Cuddles plushie was the emotional crutch he needed back then.

And then he was separated from that as well. Lowkey associating Mrs. Cuddles with this traumatic event would explain why HR was so scared of her. That he doesn’t remember the trauma means he has no context for this fear, making it seem silly and baseless to him (and to the rest of his family), which is why he denied being scared at all in the first part of the “Mrs. Cuddles” episode. It would also explain why he collects teddy bears instead these days, they are a “safe” toy. (The moral of the story is to not make fun of triggers that seem silly.)

(I wonder what would happen if Mrs. Cuddles encountered Savage Raph? Perhaps he’d be quite sympathetic towards such a lonely little raggedy thing! Timestuck as he is, he probably wouldn’t question why a stuffed animal can talk... and it wouldn't be hard for her to persuade her “new bestest fwiend” to get rid of some “mean ol’ nasty sewew monstews” for her.)

That whole “sewer monsters” thing suggests Raph ran into... something while he was wandering alone. Y’all have heard those rumors about alligators living in the New York City sewers, right? Encountering Leatherhead could trigger a flashback.

It would be pretty easy to introduce Leatherhead into the narrative. One of the episodes the Rise crew had planned was titled “The Island of Dr. Noe”, and alligators have very impressive teeth. The Mirage comics had a story where Leatherhead and several cryptids were brought to an island to be hunted for sport.

Noe seems to have quite a few cronies/friends/rivals he could entertain this way. Since he’s got that obsession with Raph, Noe captures him as well, knocking him out with those darts so he can’t waste his energy trying to escape too soon. (Let’s just assume everyone’s powers are glitchy because they all hit another wave of puberty, meaning they can’t just curbstomp the lower-level villains lol.)

HR wakes up on the island and, of course, starts to panic because he’s lost and alone. While wandering, he runs into Leatherhead, which would trigger a flashback to getting attacked by that alligator all those years ago. But Leatherhead doesn’t want to fight! He’s just as scared and confused as HR is, and could really use a partner to help him survive this island.

HR and SR come into conflict because Leatherhead is/isn’t/is/isn’t/is/isn’t a threat. HR eventually wins out, reasoning that even if Leatherhead is that alligator, it wouldn’t be fair to judge him for what he did back when he was an animal.

But time and dissociation can make memories unclear. That our first look at Leatherhead was in Draxum’s “bluh bluh I’m gonna mutate all the humans” bit in “Bug Busters” means he’s a human-base mutant. He wasn’t the alligator back then, but the hunter tracking it. Leatherhead isn’t one of Noe’s targets, he is one of Noe’s guests! And he wants no one to interfere with his quarry, so he’ll play nice long enough for him and the snapper to take out the rest of the hunters and the freaks. Then the two of them will have the island all to themselves...

Years and years ago, Jack Marlin was a big game hunter prowling the New York City sewers in search of an alligator. He did manage to find and kill one, only to realize it had also been hunting! He had inadvertently saved the strangest little turtle creature.

Marlin had become too skilled at this point, the hunt held no challenge for him. This turtle sounded very young, and he was quite big and strong already. An adult could be tough and intelligent enough to entertain him. Marlin tried to get Raph to lead him back to “the others”. But Raph had been lost for some time, and as far as he knew, his family was dead. Hearing that put Marlin in quite the sour mood. A little mutant snapper is a better catch than none at all, so Marlin tried to haul Raph off. Raph fought back and bit off Marlin’s hand. He escaped, but lost his rabbit in the scuffle. Marlin retreated as well, taking some time to recover, scheme, and hunt other game. (And to pocket that rabbit. The blood loss had made him woozy, and he wanted to have some kind of proof he hadn’t just hallucinated the snapper.) Perhaps he turned that alligator’s hide into a vest, which provided the genetic material for his mutation when he eventually got bit by an oozesquito. Like his Mirage counterpart, Marlin didn’t take losing a limb as a sign he should retire, and instead got a tricked-out prosthetic. Who knows what he could do with it in such a mystic setting as Rise.

Raph eventually reunited with his family, but those distrustful, high-strung survivalist traits he had picked up weren’t helpful anymore. He once again had to be the good and patient big brother who didn’t bite when someone play-tackled him or shook him awake at three in the morning because they’d had a nightmare. Those two states gradually got partitioned off more and more, and now they know little, if anything, about each other.

So Leatherhead and HR are chasing away some mothmen or whatever, and things are going pretty well... until one of them knocks Leatherhead over and a familiar ragdoll rabbit falls out of his pocket. SR realizes that Leatherhead is Marlin and switches in to fight him off again. They’re evenly matched, or perhaps SR is even in danger of losing, when LDM arrive to provide support. Leatherhead is enough of a tactician to know that he should retreat. Donnie and Mikey pursue him while Leo stays behind, placing the rabbit in his stunned brother’s hands. “Remember when Pops made this for you? You were always really gentle with it, ‘cause he wasn’t good at sewing back then...”

(This thing really needs patching up, he’s got sewing stuff for whenever he needs to fix his bears/Blue isn’t a threat on his own/Wasn’t he just back at the lair?/Blue gave back the rabbit/Why does he feel like he got hit by a train?/Blue doesn’t want to fight?/ ...Leo?) And that’s enough for HR to switch back in. He’s probably missing memory from his whole time on the island, so while Leo does his best to tell him what happened, they don’t have enough puzzle pieces between them to truly figure out what's going on.

They defeat the bad guys, release the cryptids, save the day, etc. (Leatherhead managed to lose Donnie and Mikey in the woods. A battle for another day.) Once they return to the lair, HR gets help from Draxum to modify the memory spell from “E-Turtle Sunshine” so he can try to fill in the gaps. Surely he wouldn’t get rejected by his own subconscious... right?

Cue part three in the saga of Raph Punches Himself In The Face. SR isn’t happy that HR is essentially trying to poke at an improperly-healed wound, and attempts to chase him off. HR assumes that SR is just a psychic white blood cell like the Lou Jitsu constructs in Splinter’s mind, and retaliates.

But, of course, fighting is not the answer here. All that accomplishes is giving the body bruises. Eventually HR realizes “stay away” and “back off” are a little different than “get out”, and that SR is just scared. So HR tries another tactic. Over the following days and weeks, he tunes in to calmer memories and just sort of... talks. About what happened yesterday, about his teddy bear collection, about how he finally managed to get a good picture of that pizza pigeon. It takes a while to establish a connection, and even then, it’s spotty at best. Using the spell too much can cause headaches and nightmares. There are days when SR is nearby, and days when he’s not there at all. But he shows up when he can.

And then there’s awkward, stilted conversation and questions neither of them know how to answer and questions neither of them want to answer and more scrapes and bruises and strained silences and apologies, but they finally, finally reach a compromise. SR still doesn’t let HR near those memories, but he tells HR what happened as best he can. (The audience would see those memories, with SR as a voiceover.) Afterwards, HR still visits the mindscape that’s starting to become more solid. They talk some more, they watch light and shadow flow around them, they listen to half-forgotten lullabies on scratchy old cassette tapes. Eventually, HR doesn’t even need to use the memory spell, meditation is enough.

They’ll never get along all the time. But it’s a start.

(SR is going to be so clingy when it finally clicks for him when he finally lets himself believe that his family is alive.)

---

This took eight million years lmao. Parts 2 and 3 will come out eventually, they’ll focus more on MR and RR. Let me know if I need to tag this stuff as anything.

The usual disclaimer applies, I am not a system or a mental health professional so if you’re one or both of those things then feel free to give me some of that good good constructive criticism.

#you called for help... but nobody came.#rottmnt #rottmnt theory #the 'raph is a system' theory #rottmnt raph #savage raph #mrs. cuddles #leatherhead #jack marlin #plot bunnies free to a good home lmao #long post

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twstarchives · 4 years

Text

Macarons...

Card: Ceremony Robes - SR Characters: Epel, Rook, Vil, Pomefiore students

Chapter 1

—POMEFIORE DORM - LOUNGE—

Pomefiore Student A: Alright! Before we start our welcome party, why don’t we introduce ourselves to the other Pomefiore freshmen?

Pomefiore Student B: Okay, I’ll start. How are you, everyone? As members of the same dorm, I hope we’ll all get to know each other this upcoming school year.

Pomefiore Student A: Excuse me for asking, but... are you by chance from the Rose Kingdom? You have the fragrance of a blooming flower.

Pomefiore Student B: Pomefiore students are just as observant as you’d expect! I’m amazed you could tell through my special parfum.

Pomefiore Student A: Are you from the Land of Pyroxene? That finely-crafted jewelry glittering on your fingers surely must be the work of a reputable jeweler...

Epel: ...Oh no...

Pomefiore Student A: And what’s your name?

Epel: Huh?! M... M-Me?

Uh... um... I... I’m...

......

Pomefiore Student B: Poor thing... He looks so frightened. Like a kitten all alone in the rain.

Pomefiore Student A: Oh, there’s no need to feel so nervous! Forgive me for being so rude; I shouldn’t have asked your name all of a sudden!

Epel: No, um... I... I’m Epel Felmier...

Pomefiore Student A: Epel-kun! It has a ring to it like a little bird’s song, fitting for a lovely figure like you.

Pomefiore Student B: That sorrowful face, tinged with gloom... What fragile beauty. Surely you must be the son of a noble family.

Epel: No, I’m nothing like that...

Pomefiore Student B: All of you are perfect matches for Pomefiore, where elegant students gather. I have a feeling we’re all going to get along well!

(Chattering...)

Pomefiore Student A: Just look at the Pomefiore lounge! So many luxurious furnishings... Not even my home has this much.

Pomefiore Student B: And the carpet is so finely woven and full of luster. What brand is it? Epel-kun, do you know?

Epel: I don’t...

Pomefiore Student B: Then, what are your favorite brands?

Epel: Huh? Brands?! Um, I... don’t really have any, I think?

Pomefiore Student B: So you’re not too picky about brands; I like that! I’m positive you’ll find an artisan to offer your patronage to!

Epel: Hahaha, haha... ...Hah.

Pomefiore Student A: Oh? Epel-kun, where are you going?

Epel: Um... I was starting to not feel too well...

So I was going outside to get some air...

Pomefiore Student B: Epel-kun is very delicate. And there are so many people here. Of course he must feel fatigued.

Pomefiore Student A: With that slender physique and porcelain skin... It’s no wonder. I hope this isn’t too serious.

—POMEFIORE DORM—

Epel: ...Hahhh...

I really... I really wanted to get into the wild and brave Savanaclaw instead!!

I can’t believe I got sorted into Pomefiore, led by a dorm leader who says things like that...

This is the complete opposite of the school life I dreamed about!

...I have to study harder, improve my magic, and get even stronger.

And then, someday—!!

???: Oh? I thought I saw a lovely papillon perched over here...

That hair and eye color—you must be the rumored freshman Vil was talking about. Epel-kun, was it?

Epel: Papillon...? Er, did you say “rumored freshman”?

Rook: Bonsoir, Epel-kun. I’m Rook Hunt, a third-year.

Or feel free to call me le chasseur d’amour if you wish.

Epel: Le cha... what?

Rook: Yes, yes, I see now that could have potential, just like an apple that’s begun to turn red. May I call you Monsieur Cherry Apple?

Epel: Cherry Apple?! Get outta here! If anything, please pick a bigger, bulkier kind of apple!

I’m really picky when it comes to apples...

Rook: Anyway, Monsieur Cherry Apple! Now that the entrance ceremony is over, how do you like Pomefiore? It’s very beautiful, isn’t it?

Epel: Huh? ...Yeah... It’s so fancy and sparkly...

But the guys here are nothin’ but a bunch of real prim ‘n proper show-offs. Not that beautiful if you ask me.

I don’t think it really suits me, though. Having Pomefiore assigned to me must’ve been some kind of mistake.

Rook: Non, non, don’t say such dismal words. You carry a soul that’s perfect for Pomefiore.

I would know.

Epel: I really don’t think I do.

Rook: Why don’t we go back to where everyone else is? You mustn’t let your small shoulders fall to the devil of a cold.

Epel: No... I think I’ll stay here for a few more minutes.

Rook: Are you bad at socializing? No need to worry. I’ll accompany you!

Epel: This guy is not on the same page as me at all...!

Rook: Now, let’s go, Monsieur Cherry Apple.

Epel: I told you to stop calling me tha—... Senpai, are you listening to me?

Rook: Ohh~! Our beloved, beautiful Pomefiore~♪

Epel: S-Stop dragging me; you’re going to pull off my arm...!

Senpai! Rook-senpai! Let go—man, you’re really strong! What even is this grip you’ve got...!

Chapter 2

—POMEFIORE DORM - LOUNGE—

Pomefiore Student A: Oh, Epel-kun came back. We were too worried about you to even think about starting the first-years’ welcome party.

Pomefiore Student B: Are you feeling alright now? The cold air outside must’ve been hard on you. Come, get yourself warmed up.

Epel: Th-Thank you...

Rook: All of you Pomefiore students have only just met, and yet you’re so considerate towards each other... This sight is truly très bien!

Pomefiore Student A: You’re... Vice Dorm Leader Rook Hunt-san! It’s an honor to speak with you.

Epel: Whaaat?! Vice dorm leader?! This weirdo—er, unique person is the vice?!

Rook: Oh? Epel-kun, you weren’t listening to my introduction at the entrance ceremony? How naughty.

Epel: So not just the dorm leader, but the vice is this weird too... This is the worst.

Rook: Now, beautiful Pomefiore flower buds, let’s all take our seats and feast!

The dorm leader should be coming soon, too. Remember to mind your manners and enjoy yourselves.

Pomefiore Student B: All the food looks so delicious. And the way the table’s been set up is gorgeous!

Pomefiore Student A: We’re having a full-course dinner? How very formal. It’s perfect for us Pomefiore.

Epel: Good manners... Formalities... Even at dinnertime, that’s just what it looks like.

Hm? What’s that? There’s a big bowl with water in it.

It’s a weirdly-shaped glass, but I guess it fits for a Pomefiore dinner.

(Gulp gulp)

Pomefiore Student A: What?!

Pomefiore Student B: He drank... all the water from the finger bowl... which is for cleaning your hands...

(Murmuring...)

Epel: It doesn’t taste like anything... Huh, what happened?! Everyone’s looking at me really shocked...

D-Did I do something bad... maybe...?!

Rook: Monsieur Cherry Apple...

Epel: Y-Yes...?

Rook: ...Ahaha!

Drinking the water for cleaning your hands—what a fun, tasteful joke!

Epel: What?! That wasn’t just a fancy cup...?!

Pomefiore Student A: I see. You were lightening up the mood. Thank you!

Epel: Y-Yes. Well... Hahahaha...

Rook: ...Hey, do you see now why you need good etiquette?

Epel: Ahh... It’s true I almost got seriously humiliated there...

Rook: I don’t want to see you looking so anxious anymore. I’ll give you a lecture on table etiquette!

First, take off that napkin from around your neck. Wearing it like a scarf might be cute, but the norm is to rest it on your lap.

Epel: A-Alright. ...Okay, I’ll have some soup now.

(Slurp. Sluuuurp. Slurp slurp!)

Rook: Non! Were you trying to be an elephant slurping up water? You can’t make a single sound!

Rook: And you must use your forks and knives in the order they’re placed, from the outside first.

Now, try acting in accordance with my instructions.

Epel: From the outside first, knife with your right hand, fork with your left...

Hah... Couldn’t I have done this all with a spoon?

???: Fresh potatoes!

Pomefiore Student B: Whoa, it’s so bright. What is this dazzling radiance...!

Epel: That’s...!

Vil: How is this welcome party I directed going? You’re all enjoying yourselves with sophistication, reason, and elegance, aren’t you?

Epel: Vil Schoenheit...!

Vil: That’s Vil-san to you, isn’t it? Epel Felmier.

Epel: ....!

Vil: How is everything going with this muddy baby potato, Rook?

Rook: Are you referring to Epel-kun? He’s trying his best. I was just in the middle of giving him a lecture on mealtime etiquette.

Vil: I see. ...But his manners aside, we have another issue right now.

Epel: Huh? Why are you coming up to me with that scary look on your face...?

Vil: Your posture is just terrible!

(Slap!)

Epel: OW!

Vil: All I did was give your back a push. You’re quite dramatic.

You don’t have a single sliver of grace in you. Epel, what is your favorite food?

Epel: Favorite food? BBQ meat. ...Agh!

Vil: ...I thought I heard an answer that was awfully unbefitting of this place. But surely I must’ve misheard?

I’ll ask again.

As a student of Pomefiore, founded on the heavy efforts of the Beautiful Queen, what is your favorite food?

Epel: It’s....

...It’s... macarons... Kgh!

Vil: Very good. Now, please adjust your posture as if you’re about to eat those macarons you love so much.

Epel: Why are you grabbing my head...! Agh, your grip’s real strong! You’re gonna crush my head like an apple! Yow! YOW!!

Vil: “Gonna crush”? Shouldn’t that be “going to crush?”

Furthermore... a person is shaped by the words they use. You will repeat everything from the beginning, this time using words I understand, won’t you?

Epel: You’re going to crush my head! It hurts!

Rook: You’re very receptive, Epel-kun.

Vil: Don’t lower your head while you’re eating. You aren’t bringing your mouth to the food, you’re bringing your food to your mouth.

And your face is much too slack. I’ll take ahold of your chin and secure it in place for you.

Epel: I cnfnhg lhgjhs. (I can’t eat like this.)

Vil: Keep your mouth shut while you’re eating.

Epel: Mphfgh...

(I came all this way to Night Raven College so I could become a strong, really cool mage, but...)

(All the people in the dorm I was assigned to are so annoying about appearances and customs...)

(This is the total opposite of the manliness I’d been dreaming about before I enrolled here!)

Whrs gnhung hpen fmnnon? (What’s gonna happen from now on...?)

#epel felmier #personal story #ceremony robes

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