#Best Industrial Ovens | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zot3-flopped · 7 months ago

Text

Sylvia Plath did not stick her head in an oven for this! When Taylor Swift took the Grammys stage last month to claim her award for Best Pop Vocal Album for Midnights, she saw that spotlight as an opportunity to announce her 11th studio album: The Tortured Poets Department. The follow-up cut to audience members—Swift’s music industry peers, mind you—told us all that we would ever need to know, and the collective disinterest across the crowd echoed through our TVs.

Folks from all walks of life took to social media to express a multitude of reactions. Swifties clamored to their beloved monarch’s forthcoming era, while others lambasted the terminally cringe title and artwork and ridiculed Swift for making a night recognizing musical achievements across an entire industry about herself—knowing perfectly well that it would send her fanbase into a surge that would, no doubt, overpower the excitement around the ceremony itself.

Quite a few people questioned whether or not that moment suggested that a critical—definitely not commercial—tide would turn against the world’s most-famous pop star. And, perhaps it has—but, to most, it will look like nothing more than a single ripple in Swift’s ocean of successes.

Swift remained relatively hush-hush about The Tortured Poets Department up until its release, leaving her fans, admirers and haters alike with nothing but an album title to ponder about. And it’s a bad title.

If you have never been in Swift’s corner, her taking the route of labeling her next “era” as “tortured” was likely catnip for your disinterest. If you are a fan—not necessarily a Swiftie, but even just a casual lover of her best and brightest work—you might be beside yourself about the first Swift album title longer than one word in 14 years.

In terms of popularity—certainly not always in terms of quality—no musician has been bigger this century than Swift, which makes it impossible to really buy into the “torture” of it all.

This is not to say that Swift being the most famous person in the world makes her immune to having multi-dimensional feelings of heartbreak, mental illness or what-have-you.

But, she has made the choice—as a 34-year-old adult—to take those complex, universal familiars and monetize them into a wardrobe she can wear for whatever portion of her Eras Tour setlist she opts to dedicate to the material.

Torture is fashion to Taylor Swift, and she wears her milieu dully. This album will surely get comparisons to Rupi Kaur’s poetry, either for its simplicity, empty language, commodification or all of the above.

And, sure, there are parallels there, especially in how The Tortured Poets Department, too, is going to set the art of poetry back another decade—as Swift’s naive call-to-arms of her own milky-white sorrow rings in like some quintessential “I am going to take pictures of a typewriter on my desk and have a Pinterest mood-board of Courier New font” iPhone fodder. 2013 called and it wants it capricious, suburban girl-who-is-taking-a-gap-year wig back!

Soaking our book reports in coffee or having our moms burn the edges with a kitchen lighter cannot come back into fashion; the cyclical notions of culture cannot make the space for such retreads.

There is nothing poetic about a billionaire—who, mind you, threatens legal action against a Twitter account for tracking her destructive private jet paths—telling stadiums of thousands of people every night that she sees and adores them.

Tavi Gevinson says it well in her Fan Fiction zine: “When 80,000 people are also crying, you become less special, too.” If Swift can return to one of her dozen beach houses across the world, kick up her feet and say “I’m a poet of struggle,” then who is to say that millions—maybe billions—of people with access to a notes app and a social media account won’t dream that dream, too?

Maybe that looks like a net-positive, but it’s inherently damning and destructive to take an art form that has long stood on the shoulders of resistance, of love and of opposition to power, systematic injustice and climate warfare and boil it down to the new defining era of your own 10-digit revenue empire. “My culture is not your costume,” yada, etc.

The Tortured Poets Department does begin with a shred of hope that, just maybe, Swift knows what she’s talking about—as she sneaks in a cheeky “all of this to say,” textbook transitional phrasing for poets, on opening track “Fortnight.”

But “Fortnight” unmasks itself quickly as a heady vat of pop nothingness, though it isn’t all Swift’s fault. “I was a functioning alcoholic, ‘til nobody noticed my new aesthetic,” she muses, attempting to bridge the gap between a behind-the-scenes life and on-stage performance—only for it to occur while propped up against the most dog-water, uninspired synth arrangement you could possibly imagine.

Between producer Jack Antonoff’s atrocious backing instrumental and the Y2K-era, teen dramedy echo chamber of a vocal harmony provided by out-of-place guest performer Post Malone, “Fortnight” chokes on the vomit of its own opaqueness.

“I took the miracle move-on drug, the effects were temporary,” Swift muses, and it sounds like satire. This is your songwriter of the century? Open the schools.

The Tortured Poets Department title-track features some of Swift’s worst lyricism to-date, including the irredeemable, relentlessly cringe “You smoked then ate seven bars of chocolate, we declared Charlie Puth should be a bigger artist / I scratch your head, you fall asleep like a tattooed golden retriever” lines glazed atop some synthesizers and drums that just ring in as hollow, unfascinating costuming.

Aside from the Puth nod, which I can only discern as a joke (given the fact that he is one of the 150-most streamed artists in the world and is one of the blandest pop practitioners alive—I don’t care if he can figure out the pitch of any sound you throw at him), I think Antonoff should stick to guitar-playing. Get that man away from a keyboard, I’m begging you.

Synths can be, if you use them correctly, one of the most emotional and provocative instruments in any musician’s tool-box. There’s a reason why keyboards defined the 1980s; they rebelled against the very oppressive nature existing outside of the cultural company they kept. There’s resistance in electronic music that, while they brandish an aesthetic that, to a layman’s ears, seems like technicolor hues for any infectious pop track, it’s a genre that aches to tell its own story. That is simply not the case here, and that electronica hangs Swift out to dry when she drags us through the lukewarm “I laughed in your face and said, ‘You’re not Dylan Thomas, I’m not Patti Smith’ / This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel, we’re modern idiots” lines, only to hit us with a softly sung F-bomb that sounds like a billionaire’s rendition of that one Miranda Cosgrove podcast clip.

I used to rag pretty heavily on Reputation—mostly because I thought (and still do, mostly) that it sounded like Swift had given up on making interesting, progressive pop music; that, in the wake of her (arguably) best album, 1989, it seemed like she’d lost the plot on where to go next. But as she’s put out Midnights and The Tortured Poets Department back-to-back, I find myself clamoring for the Reputation-era more than ever—at least seven years ago, Swift wrote songs like she had something to prove and even more to lose.

That was the always-obvious charm of Reputation, even despite the downsides—that she took a big swing from the echelons of her own musical immortality, that the comforts of winning every award and selling out the biggest venues in the world were no longer pillowing her aspirations. Even though that swing didn’t land, she still made it in the first place—and Swift is at her best either when she is clawing upwards (Reputation) or faced with nowhere to go but into the studio and noodle with the bare-bones of her own sensibilities (folklore).

You get something like The Tortured Poets Department when the artist making it no longer feels challenged, where she strikes out looking.

The mid-ness of The Tortured Poets Department will not be a net-loss for Swift. She will sell out arenas and get her streams until she elects to quit this business (a phrase decidedly not in her vocabulary, surely).

She will sell more merch bundles than vinyl plants have the capacity to make, and rows of variant LP copies will haunt the record aisles of Target stores just as long as Midnights has—if not longer.

Perhaps, in five or six years’ time, we will speak of this record just as we now do of Reputation. But right now, it is obvious that Swift no longer feels challenged to be good. The Tortured Poets Department is the mark of an artist now interested in seeing how much their empire can atone for the sins of mediocrity.

Can Swift win another Album of the Year Grammy simply because she released a record during the eligibility period? The Tortured Poets Department reeks of “because I can,” not “because I should.”

On “I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can),” Swift tries stepping into the shoes of the country renegades who came before her—the Tammy Wynettes and Loretta Lynns of the world. But her self-aggrandizing inflation of importance, glinting through via a seismically-bland bridge, is backed by a minimal set dressing of guitar, drum machine and keys.

“Good boy, that’s right, come close,” she sings. “I’ll show you Heaven if you’ll be an angel—all mine. Trust me, I can handle me a dangerous man. No, really, I can.” On “Florida!!!,” Swift calls upon Florence + the Machine to help her sing the worst chorus of 2024: “Florida is one hell of a drug / Florida, can I use you up?”

Even Welch, who is a fantastic pop singer-songwriter in her own right, delivers a grossly watery verse: “The hurricane with my name, when it came I got drunk and I dared it to wash me away.”

Not even the typos on the Spotify promotional materials for this album could have foretold such offenses. I won’t even get into the sonics, because Antonoff just rewrites the same soulless patterns every time.

What separates The Tortured Poets Department from something like Reputation is that, on the latter, Swift made it known what was at stake and who she was making that album for—herself, in the aftermath of her greatest long-standing criticisms (“Look What You Made Me Do” triumphs exactly because of this).

On The Tortured Poets Department, there is a striking level of moral nothingness. The stakes are practically non-existent, and the album sounds like it was made by someone who believes that they had no other choice but to finish it, as if Swift fundamentally believes that her creative measures are firmly embedded in the massive monopoly her name and brand currently hold on popular music. That’s how you get meandering pop songs about hookups, wine moms, Stevie Nicks comparisons, Jehovah’s Witness suit mentions, hollowed-out, tone-deaf nods to white-collar crime in lieu of empowerment and, topically, Barbie dolls.

(Don’t even get me started on the Anthology lyrics, which feature these absolute barn-burners: “Touch me while your bros play Grand Theft Auto” and “My friends used to play a game where / We would pick a decade / We wished we could live in instead of this / I’d say the 1830s, but without all the racists / And getting married off for the highest bid.”) This album and its hackneyed grasps at relevance exist as “Did I just hear that?” personified, but in the most derogatory sense of the notion.

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys” features another low-point in Swift’s lyrical oeuvre, as she sings “I felt more when we played pretend than with all the Kens, ‘cause he took me out of my box”—perhaps a measure of her capitalizing on the Barbenheimer mania that none of us could escape, not even the musician who spent most of 2023 flying across the world from one country to another.

But you, us, the listener—we want to believe that Swift makes these records because she has the artistic will, drive and interest to continue giving us parts of her story in such ways that they exist as an archival of her life.

But the problem is that, on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift is packaging her life into a form that is easily consumable for the 17 or 18 years olds who pour over her music. Just because her Eras Tour film is on Disney+ doesn’t mean she has to strip her songwriting (which we know can be, and has been, phenomenal) down for the sake of it being digestible by a wide spectrum of ages.

And, sure, maybe that makes the work accessible. But on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift makes Zoomer jargon her bag—titling a song after one of the most popular video games in the world and conjuring flickers of “down bad” and “I can fix him”—and it feels like she’s cosplaying because the Fountain of Youth was out of order.

Now that Swift is in her 30s, it sounds like she is infantilizing her own audience more than ever before—that singing to them at a level that could force them to reckon with something more akin with adulthood would be some kind of kink in the coil or her consumeristic threshold, that writing lyrics that sound like they were penned by a 30-year-old would, somehow, deter the interests of the billions of people who adore her.

If making one, continuous coming-of-age album is what Swift has been doing for 15 years, folklore and evermore were hiccups in the timeline—existing as the most fully-formed renderings of Swift’s own insecurities and concerns. They mirrored our platitudes towards an uncertain future with sweet, stirring remarks about isolation and heartbreak and the unavoidable, hard-worn truth about getting older. On those records, her larger-than-life living seemed, for once, to truly feel as close to the ground as ours.

Now, though, Taylor Swift is at the top of the mountain. Far better artists have made far worse records than The Tortured Poets Department, but you can’t read between the lines of this project. There is nothing to decipher from a place of quality.

Sure, Swift’s fan base will pour over these lyrics for the rest of their lives—insisting they know, for certain, which song is about who. But you cannot place a bad album on the shoulders of lore and expect it to be rectified.

We are now left at a crossroads. Women can’t critique Swift because they’ll run the risk of being labeled a “gender traitor” for doing so. Men can’t critique her because they’ll be touted as “sexist.”

And, sure, Swift is probably too easy a punching bag in this case—and most of the time, I would argue she is undeserving of being a victim of such barbs. But, you cannot write about someone being a “tattooed golden retriever” and get away with it and still retain your title as the best songwriter of your generation. You just cannot.

Sisyphus should be glad he never got the boulder to the top of the mountain—because Taylor Swift is showing us that such immortality and success ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. And, when you’re standing on the peak alone, who else is there left to hit?

In a recent interview with The Standard, Courtney Love said that Swift is “not interesting as an artist,” and I think The Tortured Poets Department proves as much. She has nothing to fight for, no doubters left to drown.

So where does she turn? Well, to boredoms of celebrity thinly veiled as sorrow everyone and their mother can latch onto—because we’ve all had to “ditch the clowns, get the crown” at some point in our lives, right?

The billionaire is having an identity crisis, but there are no social media apps for her to buy up. So she sings like Lana Del Rey and writes meta-self-referential songs about looking like Stevie Nicks.

What’s hollow about The Tortured Poets Department is that the real torture is just how unlivable these songs really are. No one can resonate with “So I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your street, crash the party like a record, scratch as I scream ‘Who’s afraid of little old me?’ You should be.” And normally, that wouldn’t be an end-all-be-all for a pop record—but when your brand is built on copious levels of “I’m just like you!” as the demigod saying it to their fans does so from a multi-million-dollar production set, it’s hard to not feel nauseated by the overlording, overbearing sense of heavy-handed detritus we’re tasked with sifting through on The Tortured Poets Department.

Love’s words to Lana, her advice to “take seven years off,” should be applied to Swift. Now, that doesn’t mean that, to make a good album, you must sit on material for years and labor extensively through the sketching, shaping and recording in order for it to be transcendentally landmark. But it’s obvious now that not even Taylor Swift wants to be the head of an empire—that she, too, can’t outrun the damning fate of being plum out of ideas by hopping in her jet and skirting off to God knows where.

See you at the Grammys.

****

#this review is everything #anti taylor swift #taylor swift #travis kelce #3.6 !!!#hope Pitchfork comes for her too #jack antonoff #taylor swift reviews #the department of tortured poets

424 notes · View notes

riverssongs13 · 14 days ago

Text

While we're all agonising over waiting for the last 2 episodes, I'd like to take this time to talk about how Lilia Calderu, seer extraordinaire, Queen of Cups, singlehandedly waged war against the harmful stereotypes witches have endured in literature, in history, and in any and all media in general. This endeavour requires a rewatch of all the episodes but I'm just going to eyeball it by what I can remember for now.

In episode 3 Through Many Miles of Tricks and Trials, Mrs. Hart, maiden bless her soul, said "A witch is really just another name for a bad girl, is that right?" Lilia immediately says, "That is extremely reductive. We are not a monolith."

Lilia is the oldest member of the coven (after Death, I guess), and it goes without saying she has lived through and experienced all the horrible things witches were subjected to throughout history. In which, I would like to posit a slight correction: she has lived through all the horrible things POWERFUL WOMEN experienced under the hands of misogyny and patriarchy.

In episode 5, Darkest Hour Wake Thy Power, the coven was being actively chased by the Salem Seven, and needed a quick escape from The Road. Teen, with his precious innocent soul, suggested they fly to escape their pursuers. After getting very negative feedback from the coven, Lilia explains how "brooms have been co-opted by the holiday industrial complex as an absurd emblem of our culture, and an obvious symbol of female domesticity."

Death's Hand In Mine, episode 7, also had Lilia commenting on how "demeaning" it was to be portrayed as wearing the typical witchy trope costumes when they got inside the Tower. Quite tongue-in-cheek as well how Lilia was Glinda the "good witch" while Jen was the Evil Queen in witch disguise.

Going back to episode 3, it was also Lilia who vehemently refused to "climb inside an oven" after completing their first Trial. She added that the same thing happened to a friend, one with a lovely house, and ended up, well, we can recall what happened to the supposed "captor" of Hansel and Gretel.

In episode 4, If I Can't Reach You…, it wasn't so much as Lilia mouthing off another witchy trope, but her inside the recording studio. The powerful image of her looking at the portraits of all the women who were persecuted during the countless witch-hunts throughout history. The abject horror of being thrown into these witch trials by mere suggestions, and these women were oft sentenced to the most horrific deaths even without evidence. Lilia looking at these women being burnt at the stake, boiled alive in a vat of tar, maimed, flayed, and I wonder how many of these scenarios are being played from memory.

Within the same episode Lilia said, "You know the worst part of being a witch? All the misconceptions and rumour mongering." And this basically sums up the experience of witches around the world -- of POWERFUL WOMEN -- present yourself with even a modicum of power, motivation, and ambition, and if that threatens the fragile ego of man, you best believe you'd be persecuted for it. (I find it even a more compelling message after having re-watched Patti's character in Penny Dreadful, burned at the stake for standing up against a man. Great show. Check that one out.)

I'm certain there are more instances I'm unable to recall and include, but right now I'm swimming in anticipation and anxiety over the last 2 episodes, I honestly do not wish to pore over the previous ones with a fine tooth comb. I may do that in the future, but today is not that day.

Which is to say, I love how Lilia has played the part of the wise sage correcting all the wrongs her kind has resolutely endured for countless centuries. I love how women are slowly being given back the power in their own narratives, without the need to insert the story of man for it to be relevant. I love how this show is very unapologetically queer, and about women, and about reclaiming that power taken away from them.

To add cherry on top, I love how Patti LuPone herself said in a recent interview, that the whole show is making it about "what we are initially: we're all witches because we are powerful women; women are powerful. The power has been robbed from them for centuries. BY MEN. Its kind of great to see a show that represents witches as women with power."

We may be lightyears away from an ideal society where women are no longer oppressed and boxed within their own existence at the insistence of men who wish to reduce them into something they could fit within their egos and minds, but it's quite nice to think that this show about a ragtag team of women and a teenage boy is taking a step into the right direction.

Thank you, Lilia Calderu and Patti LuPone, we all say in unison.

#Thank you Lilia Calderu #Thank you Patti LuPone #patti lupone #lilia calderu #this is a patti lupone appreciation post #this is a lilia calderu appreciation post #agatha all along

88 notes · View notes

xoxo-surfergirl · 11 months ago

Text

A Very Targaryen Holiday - Dark!Aemond x Strong!Niece

Part I

summary: Lucera and Aemond reunite with their families to spend the holidays together. Aemond wasn’t always nice to her when he was younger, but has he changed?

notes: the main pairing in this is aemond x strong niece, but I guess I did write it as aemond x fem!lucerys velaryon. Whichever floats your boat more! aemond is not the nicest in this, but this fic is a mix of fluff and smut (but none of the fluff comes from aemond, lol). Slight dubcon, rough oral sex, and attempts at humor. There are no physical descriptions of Lucera besides her having long hair. There is a second part, which I will be posting soon. I cross post on ao3, with essentially the same username (just without the hypen) xoxosurfergirl! I hope you enjoy!!!! <3

Lucera took a deep inhale, followed by a deep exhale. Indulging in her breath usually helped whenever her nerves began to get the best of her. Her suitcase was cracked open in front of her, waiting for her to stuff it.

A few fancy dresses. A few long sleeves—it could get cold there at night. Several pairs of pants. A tank top just in case. A swim suit for the hot tub. More underwear than she needed.

She ran back to her dresser to grab the last few items required to fulfill her trip, when her door swung open loudly. Baela was able to nearly leap from the door to the bed, causing her comforter and pillows to jump from impact.

Her curls splayed out onto the bed in a halo. “I’ve always loved your bed. It’s the softest out of all of ours, you know.”

Lucera looked at her, unease crawling its way through her stomach and up her throat. “Yeah, well. You can always ask mother for a new one.”

Baela softened her face. “Luce, I know this is weird for you.”

“No, no. It’s fine, really, it’s just been awhile.” Lucera folded her clothes to keep her hands focused.

“It’s not really fine. I know we haven’t talked about it for a long time, but I know how weird it must feel for you.”

Lucera sighed. “It’s just, everything might be completely normal you know? And I’m anxious about nothing.”

Baela sat up on the bed, making deep eye contact with Lucera. “Don’t discount your feelings. It’s been four years since we’ve seen them, and for very good reason. Let me remind you that after you accidentally maimed him, he did try to hurt you. On purpose.” Lucera looked away, but Baela continued. “The only reason why we haven’t celebrated Christmas with them is because there were so many close calls and mother noticed”

She remembered the “close calls”. If only they had known all of the times the calls weren’t so close, but no one was there to see it.

“I know, I just wonder sometimes if it’s all in my head. Nothing really happened,” Lie. “I’m the only one who actually hurt someone.” A deep sense of shame leaked through Lucera’s chest, one that she had been trying for years to tame.

But Baela wouldn’t let her stew. “It was an accident, Luce. It’s okay. I’ll tell you as many times as you need to understand it. But what he was doing was not an accident. Remember the year he locked you in Grandfather’s industrial freezer for half an hour? Any longer than that and you would have died. Remember last time he took an ornament and forced you to crush it with your hand so you’d get glass stuck in your skin? Remember when he tried to slam your arm in the oven but Jace stopped him? Remember that other year he almost drowned you in the hot tub? There are even more than this, Lucera. You are perfectly right to be nervous about seeing him again.”

The walls in her mind were crumbling with Baela’s narration of the past holidays. These were memories Lucera had done her best to stifle, but they always returned louder than ever. She would never tell Baela that she had let him do these things, or that there were several more incidents that no one else knew about, because she had always felt like he deserved some form of retribution for losing his eye at her hand.

Aemond had always taken a keen interest in her. He had always followed her, watched her intently. It wasn’t hard to take notice of it. Everyone had.

But everyone had written it up to be nothing beyond youth fascination. Children stare at each other all the time. There was nothing peculiar about Aemond’s behavior.

It was only after the accident that his attention on her took a slight new meaning. Although hesitant at first to resume the previous non-concern from the rest of her family, time had worn away the worry it had initially caused. It had allowed for much else between them to take place.

“Thank you, Bae. I am nervous, but part of me does think we’ve all changed a bit. I certainly have.” And she had. They are adults now. It would be weird if he was still into torture. Most kids grow out of it.

“Exactly. We were weird teenagers and now we’re actually older. I’m sure we’ve all changed a lot since then.”

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

The snow crunched under their tires, a fresh coat not yet salted by the city. Lucera recognized the skyscrapers in the distance, and her face softened when she saw the telltale curves of the family company’s building peak around the corner. Although it had been some time since she had visited their family townhouse in the city, she remembered the streets like she had lived there her whole life. Happy Little Treats, the best bakery in the city. Blackie’s, the best diner on the East Side.

Her, Rhaena, Jace, and Baela had decided to drive separately from their parents, who also had Joanie with them, as well as little Aemma and Viserra. It was much easier to take two cars, especially when they knew they would probably want to go out at different times from their parents who had two little ones. Poor Joanie, too young to be with the older girls all the time, but also far too old to be stuck with Aemma and Viserra, was doomed to float between the two groups.

The radio was tuned to holiday music, and the girls delighted in singing along to every song that rang through the speakers.

As they were closing in on their destination, Baela intercepted the music with her normal speaking voice, the first to do so in over an hour. “What do you think they all look like now?”

Rhaena was the first to answer. “I’m not sure about Aegon or Aemond, but Helaena and I see each other at uni. She’s radiant and beautiful, as she always has been.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot you've mentioned seeing her around.” Baela replied.

Rhaena smiled, and shook her head down. “Yeah, she’s the coolest, honestly.”

Baela laughed. “Out of those three? It’s no competition.”

Jacaera’s breath fogged up the window as she spoke. “I’ve seen Aegon and Aemond in passing at uni as well. They seem alright. Aegon is no longer the tall one.”

Lucera perked at this. Aemond? Tall? She shook her head. “I swear I forget we all go to the same school sometimes. There’s just so many people I never see them.”

“Aemond is tall now? Wow. I’ll have to see it to believe it.” Baela jeered.

Jacaera drew a heart in the fogged glass before turning and facing the rest of her sisters. “Yes! It was honestly shocking at first. I barely recognized him, but I saw the eyepatch and knew immediately.”

Oh right. The eye patch. Lucera sighed. Baela moved her hand to sit atop hers in acknowledgement.

A right turn here, a left turn there, and the chateaux-style massive townhouse came into view. The four stories were gaudily embellished by baroque trim, with a massive oak door calling attention to its center. Wreaths were attached to the base of every windowsill, and a candle placed in each window. They watched as Rhaenyra and Daemon pulled Aemma and Viserra out of their carseats, having arrived a few moments before they did. Joanie was looking up at the mass of the townhouse, most likely counting how many windows there were, trying to remember which room was what.

Two men Lucera didn’t recognize dressed in all black greeted her parents, and Daemon smiled and gave him his car keys.

Rhaena twisted the steering wheel to pull up right behind them, and the other man dressed in black immediately jumped to open all of their car doors. Lucera felt like she was moving in slow motion the way the man was everywhere at once, and by the time she had stepped onto the sidewalk, he already had the trunk thrown open and was lifting their suitcases next to her.

“Thank you!” Lucera said enthusiastically, trying to cut through his quickness.

The house—if it could be called such a humble thing, loomed above her. She felt as if she was stepping into all holidays past, where he lingered with the bitter taste of sadism.

The large doors eased open, beckoning them inside. When she peaked in, she saw Daemon’s black trench coat deep in the arms of her grandfather, Rhaenyra to his side, buried in Alicent with a beaming smile of delight. They let go, embracing one another in turn. Viserys could barely contain his excitement at the sight of the little ones, having crouched down to greet them. Lucera noticed the exact moment he caught sight of the rest of her and her sisters, and his joy multiplied ten times over.

“Oh, my girls! My girls.” He said, reaching in to hug each one of them. “I couldn’t be more happy to have all of my family in one place again.”

Greetings were further extended to Alicent. It must have been an exhausting process for Viserys and Alicent, she guessed, since there were so many of them.

Alicent addressed the group. “I was just telling your parents, the rest of them are lost in the house somewhere. I’m sure you’ll see them shortly.”

The girls nodded, and Joanie said something about being excited to see Daeron. The flurry of movement divided as everyone was sent to their rooms to unpack.

Alicent nodded to a staircase on her left. “I put you girls up in the kid’s wing.”

Jacaera laughed, playfulness in her voice. “Only some of us are still kids.”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous,” Alicent waved her hand downwards. “You’ll always be children to me.”

Climbing up three floors was exhausting without the bag, and Lucera could hardly imagine doing it with the extra weight in tow. She looked at the house staff carrying her and her sisters bags, and felt a bit sorry for them.

After reaching her rooms, she was delighted to see that she had a window overlooking the front sidewalk. There were fresh winter roses placed delicately in an opaque white vase on her bedside table, the blue jumping out against the walls of her bedroom.

Her nerves were reaching an all time high. She still hadn’t seen Aemond, yet he was here. But her thoughts were interrupted when Baela swung open her door.

Lucera turned to look at her. “Do you ever knock?”

Baela spun around and leaned exaggeratingly against the door frame before saying, “Not with you, I don’t. All of us girls are going to the hot tub. Put your bathing suit on.”

Lucera smiled, and unzipped her suitcase. “I’ll be ready in five. Wait for me?”

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

The hot tub was roiling, jets pumping near blistering water against their backs. It was heavenly. Their hair was tied up in variations of buns and pony tails, the ends tickling their necks.

Rhaena had been intently looking at the back of the townhouse. “It’s so crazy to be back here after all these years.”

“It’s hardly changed since then. It feels like I’m stepping into a place frozen in time.” Jacaera marveled.

Helaena chuckled at their insight. “I’m sure it feels that way. I haven’t been to Dragonstone in forever either.”

Jacaera turned to her in revelation. “Gods that’s right! You should come stay with us for the summer. The beach is so warm then.”

“Yeah! Maybe when we all finish up our finals Helaena can just come home with us?” Rhaena said in agreement.

“I’d be happy if you had me,” Helaena replied. “What are all you studying anyways?”

Baela went first. “I’m studying business, with a concentration on finance.”

Lucera seconded her. “Me as well.”

Jacaera tagged at the end of Lucera's agreement. “Also me.”

Helaena laughed. “All you three planning to work for the family business, then?”

“Something like that. Jacaera, Baela, and I will take over after Rhaenyra and Daemon.” Lucera answered. “After Viserys passes, of course. It will be awhile, but there’s a lot to learn anyways.”

“Aemond’s going to do the same. Aegon isn’t interested in being a part of Hightower Associates, and neither am I, but Aemond is preparing to take over after our grandfather. Have you seen him around uni?”

Baela chuckled. “We were just talking about that,” she looked at Jacaera. “Only Jace has, really.”

“Hm. That’s funny considering he’s also in your department.” Helaena remarked.

“Right? I mean the library is huge, but it can’t be that large. I’m there all the time.” Jacaera pondered.

“Knowing him, he probably found a secret room and lives out of it”. Helaena sighed. “He doesn’t go out too much, and he’s really focused on his work.”

Lucera thought about the growing man Aemond had morphed into. One who was deeply integrated and committed to his family business, just as she. It only meant he had gotten more cutthroat. It’s the only way to survive in the world of finance they were thrust into. None of the top hedge fund managers, heads of banking families, or titans of brokers reached and stayed where they were because they were the most virtuous. To survive in this world meant being vicious at times.

A trait that ran in the family, clearly.

“We’ll probably run into him one of these days.” Baela acquiesced. “What are you studying again Helaena?”

“Studio art, concentrating on painting. Aegon is doing the same, but focusing on photography. We both much prefer it to the chaos of the family business.” She said proudly, until she realized the context of the conversation. “Not that I’m putting you down for choosing it, or anything.”

Jacaera giggled. “No, we get it. It is pretty chaotic.”

The hot tub had gone from the initial burn, to comfortable, to boiling again as the conversations ebbed and flowed through several different interests of theirs, such as their love lives and the semester's hook-ups, with extra time spent on the more embarrassing ones. It was truly Baela dominating the bulk of the conversation, hardly anyone else had anything to add apart from a meager makeout here and there.

Baela was also newly introduced to the term “situationship”, as the rest of them deduced she was most certainly in one with Adam Hull.

“Just because we sleep in the same bed most nights doesn’t mean we’re together.” She objected.

Helaena was set on getting her to admit it. “And does he stay in the morning? Do you do any other activities together?”

Baela scoffed. “We get dinner sometimes. And go to the movies every Tuesday, but that’s only because tickets are half-off on Tuesdays. And we go to the gym together. But it’s nothing, really.”

Helaena tried to ease her into it. “You do realize that is essentially a relationship, besides you have no direct commitment or any expectations? Someone is going to get hurt eventually.”

Lucera rolled her eyes. “And it’s probably him. Gods Baela, the man is probably in love with you and you are too daft to see it.”

All eyes on her, Baela was lost in the processing of this new information, until she remembered who and where she was, and quickly found a way to deflect it. “Oh shut up. Says you, you’re like the genuine version of a pick-me girl. Every man who looks at you falls in love with you.”

Lucera rolled her eyes. “You’re exaggerating.”

A smile crept across Baela’s lips, successfully removing the attention away from her situationship. “Um, no I’m not. What of Tyrek Lannister? Gerrick Greyjoy? Dorren Stark? And that’s only from this quarter.” She used her hands to prove her point, counting them on her fingers.

Lucera threw up her arms. “I can’t help it! Honestly! Besides, I don’t lead anyone on, just have maybe a kiss or two.” The rest of the girls sang a chorus of oos, bringing a blush through her cheeks.

“And who was the best out of them?” Jacaera coaxed.

“It hardly matters,” Lucera drawled, “but, it was Gerrick.”

“Hm. I’m surprised it wasn’t Stark.” Rhaena gave a side-long glance at Jacaera. “I’ve heard good things about Stark men.”

Jacaera’s face flushed, praying the heat from the tub would conceal her thoughts. Naturally, everyone noticed, but chose to spare their easily flustered sister.

Helaena looked her in the eyes, and threw her a trusting wink.

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

As the day wore on, Lucera’s anticipation of seeing Aemond waxed and waned. She thought it would have happened by now—if they were still kids, it surely would have, being at the age where presence around the family was required. She thought of the many places he could be, the things he could be doing, but it was difficult to imagine someone she hadn’t seen in several years. It was nearly impossible to conceive of it, and it only raised her nerves.

Dinner passed along quietly, winter soup and charcuterie being served on a come-and-go basis in the parlor to account for the rush of her family’s arrival and the need for a little bit of flexibility in their schedule. Afterall, there was still much planned for the day: they were going to the ballet, and everyone would be attending.

In front of her vanity, Lucera examined herself in the mirror. She lifted the delicate silver chain to secure it around her neck, the deep crescent moon in its center sitting in the joint of her collarbones. She didn’t try to examine her reasonings for being extra fickle about what she wore, but it was hard to escape his presence in them. It had been so long, and she didn’t want him to think her ugly. He either had changed for the better and would no longer say his cruel thoughts aloud, hadn’t changed and would say that and so much more, or he had gotten worse. A shudder rippled through her as she tried to imagine how that could be possible, but what if it was?

She wanted him to look at her and see how much she had changed, that she was no longer a girl anymore. And perhaps, if he had any lingering thoughts of resentment, that could lend him to realizing that she was no longer deserving of his hostility.

Her nerves from earlier had thawed, and amongst the remains was a newfound confidence. Her mary janes clicked on the sidewalk, her self-assuredness carrying through her legs. She reached into the SUV where her family was waiting for her.

Rhaenyra, holding Aemma on her left leg, reached over and grabbed her hand. “You look radiant, darling.”

Jacaera patted the seat next to her. “Something got your spirits up?”

“Nothing in particular, just had a good day.” And it was true. The day had been knotless. She had been surprised by its ease, and delighted just the same.

Once the tires slowed and the doors slid open, she reached her hand around to grab the frame, the other taking Daemon’s hand to step out of the car. The marquee hung gaudily above them, its essence of performance steeped in its display. She looked around for the Hightowers, who had pulled in ahead of them. She found Alicent’s thick calico fur shawl, trailing to Helaena’s platinum hanging down her back, to…

Her throat seized. Was that really him? His back was set against her, but she could see Aegon’s side profile, meaning the other one must be him.

Jacaera was right, he is tall. She had never pictured him with his hair long. Her sisters poured out of the car to stand alongside her.

Baela was the first to acknowledge it aloud. “Gods, I hardly recognize them.”

The slamming of the car doors must have carried, and he turned around from his mother to face the rest of them.

His hair swung gently, and she caught the moment his eye landed on her. His eyepatch looked menacing, scar tracing just outside of it. While holding her gaze, he upturned his lips into a tight smirk.

Their families approached each other, not too far away to begin with.

Aegon looked delighted to see his cousins, endearing them each. His face had filled out on the edges, and he hadn’t grown an inch. Aemond upheld his apathetic image, looking slightly uninterested, but they knew him better—-he simply always looked that way. Her sisters took turns pulling each of them into hugs with their greetings.

When Aemond reached her, he regarded her for several moments, his dark smile returning. “You’ve changed, Luce.”

She straightened her back, ignoring the way he was openly sliding his eye across her from head to toe. “So have you.”

He surprised her by pulling her deep in his chest, bending his neck down to whisper in her ear. “I haven’t forgotten our little games.” Before she could respond, he released her.

Baela had witnessed the interaction from a few paces away, her eyes still on Aemond, who had gone to greet Rhaenyra. Lucera walked up to her.

She fell into step beside Baela, through the doors, tickets in hand. “What did he say to you?”

Back and forth, she contemplated telling her the truth. Through her childhood, she had never been fully honest through the extent to which he hurt her. Rhaenyra had questioned, Daemon had asked, and her sisters had pushed after her wellbeing once the accidents had been exposed as something more purposeful. Lucera knew her parents were smarter than she, but they also didn’t push the subject when she refused to yield.

She didn’t quite know why, though she supposed it was because she felt she owed Aemond her pain. It was the least she could do for taking his sight. He hadn’t permanently damaged her, afterall. Even though he got close, she reminded herself.

Her mind completed its process, and Lucera would continue her pattern with conflict as she always had. “Just that we all look older now.”

“Hm.” She grabbed Lucera’s arm, looping it in hers, voice quieting. “He looks like a fucking super villian.”

Lucera couldn’t bite back her amusement. “He really does, doesn’t he?”

She didn’t want to think about what else he looked like. Attractive, for one. It felt like a sin to even say it in her mind. Lucera was startled by how menacing he looked, but it suited him. His face was lined in hardness and brutality, his lone purple eye allowing for expression.

His walk bled dominance, something she could do without recognizing. But it was hard to ignore the complex grace in his movements, how every turn of his head and lift of his hand was controlled and measured.

Her eyes kept finding him unwillingly, absorbing the man he had become. Lucera couldn’t help herself, needing to remind herself to keep her gaze anywhere but him. He would notice. Baela would notice. Daemon would notice.

After getting their tickets scanned, she and Baela followed their entourage to their seats. The gilded plasterwork came alive from the walls, creating deep shadows, brightening the jewel tones that sat there. The lattice work was interladened with cherubs holding glowing sconces and foliated candelabras. Figurative and floral murals and abstracts curled and jumped from the ceilings, each framed by golden trim. The proscenium arch jutted out gently from the stage, red curtain dropped to hide the rest of the stage.

Their seats were hoisted on the second floor in the box on stage right. Lucera smiled to herself. She knew whoever had bought their tickets did so knowing that the best view would be from above, so they could see the aerial perspective of the dancer’s intricate formations. If she had to guess, it was probably Alicent.

She had sat in the first row of seats, between Jacaera and Baela, while he sat in the second, off to the side, closer to the stage. The curvature of the seats allowed for her to see him out of the corner of her eye, his side profile unmistakable. As she gauged where he was in relation to her, he caught her eye. He brazenly smirked towards her, and then looked away. She ran her fingers over the front of her dress, needing the movement to keep her grounded. Shortly after, the curtains opened and she breathed relief at the comfort that she would have something else to focus on.

It wasn’t as easy as she had hoped.

As they progressed through the suites, Lucera was trying to tame her gaze, pulling and forcing it to remain ahead on anything but him. There was so much to look at, too—the dancer’s tutus and tights, skin and hair was alight with glitter catching every ray of stage light. The way they moved, their arms pouring up and down, their legs fluttering across the stage. Glissade en arriere to arabesque. The live orchestra in the pit, the sliding of their bows, the dancing of their fingers. She had so much to choose from. And it worked for a time, until she remembered his presence, and she had to pull her gaze forward again.

He caught her once or twice, and returned her wandering eyes with the same haughty smile.

She didn’t know if it should scare her, but it definitely made her feel something. Like she wanted to push the button to reveal a secret. Perhaps it was curiosity; she was a woman now, and can’t possibly be pushed around like she used to. He wouldn’t kill her. Not now at least. It would have had to happen years ago, when he was still a child and could get away with “accidental” murder. At present, he’d go to prison for manslaughter. Right? He has to know that. And he himself is a man grown, who has risen above such ideas. Right?

The curtains were drawn, they stood from their seats, her family quickly ushering everyone to get back to the house as fast as possible.

Once alone in the comforts of her bedroom, she unzipped, unlaced, and undid every button and tie on her clothing, releasing more than just the tension it had held on her skin. The whirlwind of their evening had finally come to an end. She had seen him, and it had been somewhat eventful, but she had expected nothing less.

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

The next morning after an uneventful breakfast, Viserys had called all of his grandchildren to the kitchens. He ensured they knew their presence was mandatory.

“You kids haven’t seen each other in so long. It’s time you bond again.” It was hard to tell what the room-wide cringe was from: being called kids, or being told they must bond over something of Viserys’ choosing.

Lucera looked around the massive kitchen, and knew immediately what they were going to be doing.

Viserys waved his hand. “I dismissed the staff early today. Instead, you all are going to be making our family’s holiday cookies!”

Joanie squealed in excitement, diverting the attention away from Aemond and Aegon, who both rolled their eyes louder than she’d ever seen it done.

“Why not. I love baking!” Rhaena perked.

Viserys stepped out to be more directly in front of them, looking at each of them intently. “Here’s what’s going to happen. Aegon and Jacaera, you two will do our peanut butter kisses. Aemond and Lucera, I want you two doing our sugar cut-outs. Daeron and Joanie, you two are in charge of snowballs. Rhaena, Helaena, and Baela, you three will do our gingerbread cookies. You’ll need the extra person since they’re a lot of work.” He gestured towards the back wall. “I’ve had the cooks set out all the ingredients, and there should be plenty of room for all of you.”

Lucera didn’t know quite what to do. Her intimidation of him was preventing her from moving her feet. Let alone, she didn’t know if Aemond hated this idea, and she didn’t want to feel his rejection. But then again, very little sounded better than fresh cookies.

Joanie and Daeron had practically run across the kitchen, as if it was a race to see who could finish the fastest. Lucera smiled at her youthful enthusiasm.

“Are you going to just stand there and look dumb?” Aemond’s voice cut through her thoughts.

She looked up at him. “No, no of course.”

“Of course you’re going to stand there and look dumb?”

Lucera grumbled. “You know what I meant.”

They walked over to the corner of the kitchen. Lucera knew this recipe by heart, having made it many times the past several years at Dragonstone.

“We need to work the butter, first. Cream it up a bit.”

She began unfolding the wax off of the butter.

“They’re quite simple. I don’t know why he wants the two of us to do it. A child could make these by themselves.”

Lucera took the flat end of the spatula and smashed the butter into smaller pieces in the bowl. “You know why he wants us to do it together.”

Aemond pulled out the bag of flour, dipping the cup deep in the bag. “I suppose. Funny thing for him to act like he cares so much about bonding time.” He swiped a knife off of the top of the measuring cup. “So this is what bonding looks like?”

Lucera scoffed. “It could be, if you actually acted like you wanted to be here.”

Across the kitchen, she could hear Jacaera scolding Aegon over the bag of hershey’s kisses. “You do realize we need some of those to actually make the cookies? Save some for the rest of us.”

Aemond paused, mulling over his next words carefully. “I could be doing something else.”

Lucera looked over at Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena, who were giggling over the molasses and brown sugar.

“And what might that be?” She questioned mockingly. While he poured in the sugar and flour, she began mixing in the butter.

“Working.” He turned to face her, dipping his head to look down at her from their close proximity. Sarcasm sat between his next words. “Ever heard of it?”

Lucera was slightly ruffled by this, and even though she caught on to his tone, wasn’t willing to go along with the act. “You don’t know the slightest thing about me.”

He stood behind her to grab something on the other side, and whether it was for stability or otherwise, he put his hand on her waist. She tried not to make any sudden movements to imply she was thrown off or affected by this gesture, and could not say if she was successful or not. His hand was large, fingers stretching across the right side of her lower back. Just breathe. She tried to tamper down her blush, not wanting him to know that he flustered her. It would only make her more of a target.

“Twas just a joke, Lucie.” He smirked, pulling away, and warping his fingers to the newly formed dough in the bowl.

She tried not to watch the way his deft hands worked the dough into a ball. Needing to prove she was not in fact bothered, she replied, “Regardless, I will have you know that I’m in the line of succession. Me, Jacaera, and Baela are all going to uphold Targaryen International Banking after Rhaenyra and Daemon.”

To her surprise, Aemond showed her possibly the first form of respect she had ever received from him. “It’s an honor to not only be a part of our family, but also uphold its greatness.”

Lucera pulled out the various cookie cutters, clearing her throat. They had been apart all this time, their secret torture games known truly just between them. She knew she should hate him, but she didn’t. And the unfortunate circumstances had decided that he must grow into a desirable devil. But she can’t think about that right now. Looking at her cookie shape options, she decided her favorite was the Christmas tree. “I heard you’re inheriting Hightower Associates.”

He smiled, and even though it was tight lipped, she could tell it meant something to him. “Yes. Otto most likely has another decade in him to run it, but it will be mine once he is no longer fit for it. Thank the gods, Aegon and Helaena would destroy it.”

Lucera looked over at her sister and Aegon. He looked at her with light in his eyes, while she double checked each dough ball to ensure they were the same size. As nice as the scene was, his momentary calm was deceiving. She laughed quietly in her throat imagining him being put in charge.

Their own dough had been rolled out, and they began stamping it with the cookie cutter. “I’m sure you will do the business much good. You can be…” Lucera looked for the right words, and wondered if it was even a good idea to remind him of his nature in the first place. “Quite intense. And cutthroat.”

He paused at her implicit acknowledgement of the past, looking at her directly once again. His chest was at her eye level, even though she pried her eyes upwards to meet his. The soap on his neck had a clean, sharp scent. “Yes. I suppose I haven’t changed much.” He waited for any kind of reaction, but she figured it best to not give him any. Lest he get any real ideas.

Lucera slid the cookies into the oven, the warmth heating up her arms. She vaguely recalled when Aemond had tried to shut her arms in the frame of the oven, and startled herself with his proximity.

He noticed her pulling away from the oven with fear in her eyes. “Relax. My days of trying to scar you are over.” Aemond poured a small stream of milk over the powdered sugar on the stove. “Besides, my hands are busy. And there’s people here.”

It wasn’t until she finished sliding the tray in the oven and closed the door that she processed his meaning.

She looked up at him, eyes widened. “You’re not going to…?” Lucera didn’t say it out loud, for she didn’t want anyone else to hear.

He continued stirring, the smell of the heated sugar between them. “We’re both adults now. I wouldn’t be so senseless.”

The tension she had been holding around him had faded, filled in with relief. “I don’t know why,” she chuckled, “I just didn’t know what to expect.”

His side-eye landed on her, but he was playing lighthearted. “You wound me Lucera. Surely I would hope you think higher of me than that.”

“Hm.” She smirked at him, wanting to joke with him as he had to her. “You’ll just have to prove how smart you are then.”

His face held an unreadable expression, but she still counted anything besides scowling as progress.

The butter, sugar, and flour were melding together in the oven, releasing a heavenly smell. Lucera released some of the tension she had held around him. Perhaps this new chapter of their lives could strengthen their family, instead of tearing it apart as their childhood had.

Reading the golden edges of the cookies, Lucera determined they were finished and removed them out of the oven without fear of Aemond shutting her arm in. The royal icing was ready, and she put them in the refrigerator so the cookies were able to cool before they could put the icing on.

A large guffaw of laughter exploded from the other side of the kitchen, where Joanie and Daeron were saddled with powdered sugar. It had lodged itself in the creases of their faces, deepening their smile lines. In their attempt to brush it off their faces, they only served to spread the sugary dust to every surface in their vicinity.

Daeron, upon realizing the blessing this was, ran to Aegon with his snowy sugared hands and started furiously wiping them on the back of Aegon’s sweater.

Having been attacked by the enemy in a blind spot, Aegon was initially at the disadvantage. But, once he turned around, he used his height and weight to throw Daeron to the ground.

This move might have deterred many from another attack, but Daeron was a Targaryen, afterall. He grabbed onto Aegon’s leg, not letting go. It was an advanced move, leaving the victim—Aegon—unable to do much else than furiously try to peel him away.

Joanie made a jump to his other leg despite Aegon’s protests for her to not get involved. The two clung to his calves, anchoring him to the floor, giggling in victory. Aegon ceased his complaining and sighed in defeat.

“Anyone want to help me?” Aegon moaned.

Jacaera was busy pressing what was left of the hershey’s kisses into the cookies. She shrugged. “I can’t, I have to do this while they’re fresh out of the oven.” Besides, she was too amused by the situation.

“Sorry, I don’t want to get powdered sugar all over my new pants.” Baela shouted from across the kitchen.

Aemond was also pleased by his brothers, and after hesitating a few moments too long, began long strides towards the scene.

He had nearly reached Aegon, but once Daeron had peeked his head around Aegon’s knee to see the long legs of his other brother coming towards them, he flung himself off of Aegon and skittered across the floor. Joanie was quick to follow.

Once the cookies were all primed and pretty—to the best of their ability, at least—Lucera padded up the steps with a giggling Jacaera. In the parlor, Rhaenyra was drinking tea with Alicent. They must have heard of Viserys’ plan, as they looked at Lucera with concern, subtly checking over her limbs and face for any signs of harm as they had done when she was younger.

Alicent leaned over with furrowed brows and express interest, Rhaenyra had worry in her eyes. “How was baking my darlings?”

Knowing that they truly wished to know of her wellbeing, Lucera was relieved that for once around the holidays, she could tell them the truth. “It was good! No unlucky burns or anything! Just tasty cookies.”

They brought a plate over with all of their treats.

Rhaenyra beamed at her daughters. “I see gingerbreads, sugar cut-outs, and—?”

Jacaera leaned forward. “Peanut butter kisses. Aegon ate half of the hershey’s chocolates, so we didn’t have enough to put on top of all of them. Those ones are just plain peanut butter cookies.”

Alicent rolled her eyes through her smile, lovingly joking. “Of course he did, the little twat. I’m sure they’re still delicious.”

“Once he stopped eating the candy and started participating, he really enjoyed baking. Does he ever go down to the kitchens to bake?”

Lucera raised her eyebrows. She knew exactly what made Aegon so interested in baking earlier, and it wasn’t the sweets.

“He’s never thought it interesting before. Perhaps he was just happy to see everyone.” Alicent had toned down her surprise at the idea that he enjoyed the experience, having a mother’s sense of what was really at play. Her and Lucera shared a knowing glance, Jacaera none the wiser.

“And you Lucera?” Alicent had turned to face her.

“Oh yes! Aemond and I got along quite well. He’s an arse, but it suits him.” The sense of relief she glimpsed earlier had returned, and the weight of lying no longer chained to her. She was able to be genuine without having to pretend. It was a welcome feeling.

“He’s a proud man, that’s for sure. I still don’t know where he inherited his arrogance.” Alicent chimed.

Rhaenyra was put at ease with the grace of her features, always knowing the truth of her daughter. A shadow of skepticism remained, but she was optimistic that their maturation had changed things. “I’m glad you had a good time, darling.”

At least for the time being, any fears she had could be put to rest.

It had been a hard period of time when she had lied to her, both of them knowing that there was something much deeper to her words. It had been why, without too much evidence, Rhaenyra had decided it best that they spend a few holidays alone at Dragonstone. Viserys had insisted that they return each year, believing that it best for the family to be together when there was tension. Namely, after the accident where Aemond lost his eye, and his consequent aggression towards Lucera. Rhaenyra could only look at the truth in her daughter’s eyes for so long.

He hadn’t done anything out in the open, but he was occasionally sloppy. He was only a child after all, and was still learning how to keep a victim silent. He was lucky it was Lucera, who in her docility and self-blaming from the accident, let him act as he saw fit.

Her least favorite memory was when he held her head over the tub in the basement filled with water. He had grabbed her hair and held her face under water, keeping it there until her squirms softened to near limpness. He would then pull her up again, allowing for her to catch her breath before repeating the cycle. She had silently trusted him to let her live. It didn’t make the moments she spent choked underwater any less terrifying.

That had been the last time she saw him. Rhaenyra had remembered her coming up the stairs, face flushed, edges of her hair wet. Lucera recalled telling her that she slipped and fell in the snow outside, but her eyes had given her away. Even after much pressure, Rhaenyra still wasn’t sure what had happened, but she knew Aemond was involved and that Lucera looked like she had been through a torture sequence. Which, of course, she had.

But those days were behind them. He had said it himself.

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

Later in the evening, after a light dinner, a particularly competitive game of Scrabble that nearly ended with Daemon’s knife at Aemond’s throat, and a Hallmark movie that Viserys claimed would “calm everyone down” (which it hadn’t—not entirely—although the two had slowly united across the one hour and thirty five minute screen time against their hatred for such movies), the family had dispersed and found their ways to bed.

Lucera was tucked in, nearly drowning in the comforter, just how she liked it. There was just one thing—she needed water. Her eyes had closed, her body tired and unwilling to go downstairs. But her throat was scratching for relief, and no amount of willing herself to sleep had changed it.

She skimpered down the steps, her long fuzzy socks lightening the blow of her feet. All of the lights had been turned off, and she relied on the underlights of the cabinets to light her way.

Under the fridge light, she filled up her cup.

The silence was broken by the stream coming from the fridge, and then by footsteps coming near. Lucera tried to cover up what little she could, as a simple t-shirt and underwear had been all she needed in the privacy of her room. She hoped whoever it was wouldn’t look too closely or scold her for being so indecent.

She would be gone in a moment anyway.

Putting her water glass in the sink, she turned to go down the hallway when she saw the illumination of platinum hair in the dark.

“Aemond.” And even though she whispered, the surprise was not lacking in her voice.

“Lucera. It’s getting late.” He was stepping closer to her, his voice soft.

“I was just a bit thirsty. I’m going back to bed now.” She tried to step around him, but he blocked her way with his arm against the wall.

“You know, before I saw you I wondered if I’d continue our little games.” He glazed his eye over her near-nakedness. “I thought I might not. And then I saw you, this pretty little thing, and I realized that we can have so much more fun together.”

She knew what he meant by it, but tried to ignore it for the moment. “But I thought you said you wouldn’t—”

“I said I wouldn’t scar you. I never said I wouldn’t do other things.” He grabbed a lock of her hair, twisting it between his fingers. “Oh how you’ve grown, Lucera.”

She tried to grab at the wrist of his hand in her hair, but he only grabbed onto her wrists instead, pushing her backwards towards a door in the hallway. He fumbled with the knob before throwing her in, the force of it landing her on the floor.

Lucera pulled her hair out of her face and stood up. “You didn’t need to be so rough with me.”

He grabbed her chin domineeringly soft. “Look at me, Lucera.”

Her lip quivered and she looked up at him, her large doe eyes unable to prevent her from looking nothing but innocent.

He looked deep in her eyes, commanding her submission with nothing but a look. “You always let me torture you, sweet little thing.”

All breath in her body halted, every movement, every beat of blood. The silence around her grew louder, unsure if she had heard him correctly.

“But now I want to do other things to you. I’m still using your body, of course, just in a different way. And you’re still going to listen to me, just like you always have?” Aemond tilted her jaw upwards to the right, then moved it to the left, as if he was examining her face from every angle.

The blood moving through her veins got thicker, her heart quickening its pace. Lucera quietly admitted to herself that she was excited at the idea that he could want her that way. Did he really think her attractive enough to want? He couldn’t mean what she thought he meant. Did he? Surely he didn’t want her like that.

He sneered in her face, clearly finding her dumbfoundedness amusing. “Look at you. Big eyes just looking up at me, waiting for validation. I knew you’d do anything I’d ask. Hells, you’ll probably enjoy it too.”

Lucera didn’t know how he had such a hold on her. How could he get away with talking to her like this? Why did she let him? Why was her belly aching with heat? She could feel her arousal dripping along her slit, sitting warm in her panties.

She pulled every last string of dignity together and tightened her hold to say, “No, Aemond. You’re not allowed to treat me this way.” and tried her hardest to turn away from him.

But, he was quick to react, and immediately pulled her backside flush against him, arms locked across her neck and midsection. “Squirm all you want. I see how your eyes hold nothing but submission for me, they always have. Is it guilt? Or something else?” He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “I don’t believe you wouldn’t enjoy every last drop of anything I give you. I’ll prove it to you right now.”

He moved his hand knowingly across her hip bones, giving them a hearty squeeze before sliding his fingers down her thigh to hike up her skirt. Her panic was felt immediately as she put her back and shoulders into every push and shove she gave him. “No, no no no, don’t—”

“Why? Are you worried about what I’ll find?” She wasn’t able to break out of the cage that was his strength, and his fingers gently trailed across the thin fabric hiding her entrance. What little barrier she had did a poor job of concealing her heated wetness.

He began lightly circling her clit, bending his face into her neck. “Tsk tsk tsk. Just as I thought, Lucie.”

She whimpered. “I just, I just am confused.”

“Hmm? I don’t think your body is confused. Your body wants me, Lucie. It wants me inside you. It’s all soaking and ready to take me.”

“You’re just so mean to me. I can’t let you do this if you’re mean to me.”

Aemond chuckled, feeling her melt into his touch as his deft fingers pleasured her. “You’ve always been so good at letting me take out my frustrations on you. This is no different, Lucie.”

She whimpered in his arms, unable to control the profound pleasure he was thrusting upon her. And it was him. There was something so enrapturing about his presence. She wanted to be engulfed in it, to feed off of it. But he had too much power—it wasn’t fair, he had always had the upper hand.

He slipped his fingers underneath the constraints of her underwear, immediately finding her slick folds. He gathered some of the wetness he found there and brought it up to her clit, where he rubbed gentle circles against her. “You’re soaking for me Lucie. I want to hear you submit to me. Your body is begging you.”

She whimpered again. The pleasure was too great, his weight pressed against her from all sides. Lucera needed more. Her resolve and rationality were slipping, disintegrating into a state of utter obedience, the teasing becoming too much to bear. It was like he was drowning her again.

“Anything, I’ll do anything, Aemond. I need this,” her voice squeaked from under his arm.

He laughed darkly in her ear before licking it, the warm sensation filling out through the rest of her body. “You will listen and do as I say, yes?”

“Yes. I swear it.” She cried.

“Good. On your knees, sweet girl.”

Her eyes got even bigger as she received his command. Lucera hesitated, looking up at him in his utter assertiveness. The look in his eye alone made her knees buckle.

Softly finding the most comfortable position she could on her knees, she tilted up her chin, attempting to hold as much dignity as possible. He grabbed both of her cheeks with each hand, fat pudging out between his thumbs and forefingers.

“You’re going to swallow my cock, do you understand? And when I decide I want to fuck your throat, I will.” He moved his right thumb down to her chin. “And if you bite, we can play one of our old games.”

She wouldn’t have bit him, but she was old enough to realize he got off on the power he had over her. And yet, she didn’t have to fake her submission. It was real, and it soaked her through.

With that, he let go of her face and gave her a playful slap on the cheek.

His hands remained at his sides, and she took that to mean that she must be the one to remove his pants.

Lucera tried to conceal the hesitation to approach his cock, but she couldn’t help herself. The bulge reaching across his leg was considerable, and she was unsure about trying to stuff something so large in her throat.

When she finally collected the courage to pull down the flannel in her fingertips, she was truly faced with the reality of such an act.

He was beautiful. Of course, even his cock has to be perfect. She took her hand, and worked the warm skin up and down, twisting her palm ever so slightly.

“Suck.” He said bluntly.

“I’ll try, but I don’t know how I’m going to—”

“If you can’t figure it out, I think pounding your throat will do the trick.” He interjected, his hand landing in her hair firmly.

This drove her to action, as she wanted to maintain as much control in the situation as possible. She pushed the head past her lips, his salty precum landing on her tongue. Her jaw expanded as much as it could, and she pushed herself to swallow his length.

Lucera could already feel the sides of her mouth being triggered to wetness by the intrusion, and she was thankful for it. She held onto the base to steady herself, and she began slowly moving back and forth, lathing her tongue on the bottom of his cock.

She could feel his hands shift in her hair as he played with it gently, combing his fingers through.

“You’re such a good girl, Lucera”

His voice felt like pure encouragement, and his validation was something she had never felt before. Lucera decided she liked that feeling.

She pushed herself deeper on him as her throat warmed up, but was still unable to fit it all. She tried using her hand to make up for what she couldn’t reach, and although she wished she could deep throat him, she was proud that she had made it this far.

He grabbed her hair a bit more assertively, and guided her up and down with a touch more of force. “You’re taking it so well, your throat wraps around me perfectly.”

Her eyes had begun to slightly water, but she still tried to connect their eyes. She had read in a magazine that boys liked that.

He began to move her head even more strongly, and pushed her throat further on his cock. She gagged, but he only moaned in his chest, the sensation squeezing his cock in her throat.

Lucera could hardly see, her tears clouding her vision. Her saliva gathered around her lips and slopped down her chin as she felt him push deep into her throat.

“Look at you, on your knees for me. This is where you belong.” He thrust into her mouth, holding her by the back of her head. As rough as he was, Lucera found that she just wanted to impress him. To show him that she wasn’t weak, and that she was capable.

“Fuck, Lucera.” He moaned above her, his breath deepening. With animalistic impulse, he worked her throat with lewd hunger, before pulling her as hard as he could towards his hips.

She knew what was about to happen, and although she was still choking on his cock, braced herself. Lucera felt his length throb in her mouth as he unloaded down her gullet and straight to her belly.

Having ceased his brutal thrusts, Aemond brushed her hair gently. “Swallow all of it, Lucie.”

She subconsciously tried to swallow around it, but it was difficult to move much of anything.

After holding her there for a few more moments, he released her. She stuttered backwards slightly, coughing and gulping for air.

He tucked himself back beneath his waistband, and bent down next to her. He took her shirt and wiped off the excess spit that had gathered around her chin, and then moved it up to wipe her eyes.

“You’re gorgeous on your knees, you know that?” His hand dragged languidly against her inner thigh, towards her underwear. She inhaled deeply at his movements, canting her hips to meet his hand.

“You’re so needy, aren’t you?” He tilted his head, looking down at her below him devilishly. “My cock down your throat only made you more soaked, hmm?”

His words burned into her pleasure, and Lucera couldn’t help but whimper. His fingers on her moved in light circles on her clit, warping the pleasure building inside her.

“Tell me how it felt in your throat.” His voice poured over her. She drank in each syllable of every lewd word spitting out of his mouth like ambrosia.

“You felt heavy on my tongue,” Lucera said, her breathing erratic. “I didn’t know how I was going to take it.”

“Hmm, that’s right.” He drawled. “It’s not easy taking a thick down your throat is it?”

“N-no.” She mewled.

“But you did a good job,” he brushed his thumb above her stomach. “You didn’t miss a drop.”

She panted as he loomed above her, playing her body like an instrument. She had already been so worked up, so much ache already inside her, that she knew her orgasm was coming. Aemond must have noticed too, for he picked up his pacing to the exact tempo she needed.

“Cum on my fingers, Lucie.”

She didn’t need anything further than his voice to send her over the edge as her eyes rolled back in her head, orgasmic pleasure bursting deep in her belly. She did her best to hold back the amplitude of the cries in her throat lest someone hear her.

The euphoria rippled through her body, and she could feel his satisfaction at her pleasure. After a few more moments, the lingering contentment was joined by a new wave of drowsiness.

It was late.

Lucera opened her eyes. Aemond stood up, pulling her up with him.

“Sleep well, Lucie.” He opened the door, gave her a quick slap on her ass, and walked towards the kitchen.

Her haze carried her to bed, where she unceremoniously slung herself under the covers, half-unconscious already.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x lucera velaryon #aemond targaryen x female!Lucerys Velaryon #smut #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #aemond targaryen x Fem!Lucerys #aemond targaryen fanfic

98 notes · View notes

demonbarbers · 10 months ago

Text

so high rn so sorry if this doesn’t make any sense i’m just so emotional about josh and annaleigh and this production so i’m gonna ramble a bit about what i love about it and them. ok. enjoy.

the thing about sweeney todd is that it’s mean. it’s a mean show. it ends on the cruel irony of 2 officers bursting in on toby slitting sweeney’s throat, surrounded by 2 other bodies and one in the oven; on johanna watching her father die holding her mother and not even knowing it. everyone is an abuser or abused, and there is no hope or redemption to be found. and it fucking rules! it just rules. it’s so fun to indulge in our basest pleasures for nearly 3 hours, delicately served to us by one of the greatest composers who’s ever lived.

and every major production takes the bile and cruelty inherent to the material and runs away with it. like- just look at this swedish production from 2006, directed by vernon mound. or the last time it was on broadway, directed by john doyle:

productions tend go smaller and nastier, more intimate, in keeping with the spirit of how sondheim originally conceived the piece. (side note: i LOVE when they do that. my ideal sweeney has buckets of blood and visera right in your face)

the original production of sweeney was MASSIVE, but that came from hal prince. hal couldn’t really get an emotional foothold on the material until he found within sweeney an extended metaphor for capitalism and the industrial revolution; people literally eating people and the machine of capitalism grinding everyone up. revivals also tend to seize on the brechtian class elements, like this absolutely gorgeous korean production from 2019 directed by eric schaeffer:

sondheim, meanwhile, always objected to readings of sweeney as brechtian- it was all a farce to him, just a good, nasty time at the theatre. he approached it as a horror fan who wanted to write some fucked up stuff, which is maybe now some of the best art is created. but hal made it into epic theatre.

(if u don’t know what epic theatre is or what brechtian means google will explain it better to u than my ridiculously stoned ass can rn but im just focusing on one aspect of it rn: the distancing effect. basically, emotionally distancing the audience from the characters and the material so that everyone is engaging with the work on an intellectual level as opposed to an emotional one)

obc sweeney is an alienating show. it’s so fun and brutal and deeply felt, but these characters are grotesque. they’re cartoonish in their cruelty. just look at their makeup! john doyle also embraces the distancing effect; his revival is actor-muso, so we’re pretty aware at all times we’re watching a show. it’s all so cold, and the only warmth to be found is in the humor. and it rules. it’s nasty. i love it. this is the show i fell in love with.

all these things have become inherent to sweeney over time, all teased out of the greatest broadway show to ever exist; visceral horror, cruelty, coldness, and class commentary.

but this revival is just.. it’s warm! it’s lush! it’s romantic! and i don’t mean that in the sense of lovett and sweeney (tho this is the warmest they’ve ever been towards each other in any major production i’ve seen). i mean that it gestures at and plays with romanticism.

my biggest critique of this production is, in doing away with the brechtian elements (sondheim just cheered), it also does away with overt class commentary. it’s all still there in the text- turpin is a corrupt judge, beadle is effectively a sheriff, sweeney and lovett are working class, the beggar woman is homeless- but as a director tommy kail seems… uninterested in any biting political commentary, to put it generously lmfao. and i hate so much how little of it there is to be found in this revival, bc you can still Do It without invoking brecht. but i’ve long made my peace with that. i wanna talk about what i love.

and what i really love and what kept me returning to it (beyond the fact that it’s sondheim, and it’s sweeney, and josh groban is so stupid fucking hot) is how human everyone is. the entire production, from the ground up, is built around taking these characters and their pain seriously.

the ensemble all have incredibly period accurate costumes, unique to each character they’ve crafted (fun fact even the swings have their own unique costume that’s only seen when they perform). gone is toby as a mentally disabled man child with an oedipal fixation on lovett. in gaten’s hands he’s a young teenager, aging out of being a cute urchin and just looking for a mother. in daniel’s hands he’s beaten down young man with a limp and a genuine love for lovett.

ruthie’s beggar woman has developed DID after a brutal rape and the trauma of institutionalization and homelessness. she’s not played for laughs, even if sometimes the audience chuckles, and she makes u feel guilty if you ever did laugh at her situation. daniel yearwood leans so far into anthony as a sweet guy completely unaware of the story he’s actually in to the point of comedy. maria is just a revelation as johanna, all nerve and tension and bloody nails from years of self-harm. it’s easy to lean into johanna as a princess track, but ~crazy~. and maria plays jo as mentally ill and traumatized from years of incesteous abuse, but it’s not a pastiche or a praody of it. jo feels human in a way i’ve never seen her depicted before. i love it. maria bilbao u have my heart forever for this.

and then josh and annaleigh…. ugh!!! annaleigh really captures the avarice at the heart of lovett, but still brings in enough genuine moments of humanity and compassion that you find yourself (like sweeney and toby) endeared to her. lovett is always cruel and can only love through manipulation, but annaleigh’s lovett is a woman who makes small concessions. bit by bit, piece by piece, she erodes whatever goodness she had inside her until nothing but her desire for sweeney is left. she’s a woman who’s used seduction to get her way, and it’s easy to envision that when lucy returned from turpin’s, she shamed her for “giving it away” without getting benjamin back. she’s a monster! and yet, when she dreams of a better life, you feel it. when she holds toby in her arms and cried at her perfect little life unraveling, you feel it. annaleigh makes you laugh so hard she gets under your skin and stays there, exactly how lovett seduces sweeney in ALP. and there it is- identification! the complete opposite of alienation. we’re in it with them.

and then there’s josh and his sweeney… i really feel like his sweeney is undervalued. annaleigh steals the show. she won the drama desk for a reason. it’s a legendary performance. but josh…. man. i just. i keep returning to josh’s open wound of a sweeney over and over again. i think he’s probably had this take bouncing around in his head for years. they smartly leaned away from sweeney as this embodiment of rage and physical menace, which surprised a lot of people. but instead leaned into sweeney’s grief in a way i haven’t seen any major production do. josh’s sweeney feels like a man who was put on this earth to be a father and a husband. there’s a buried sweetness to him and you can still see benjamin barker in him until the very end. i keep calling him “kendall roy sweeney” bc it’s the closest way i can covey to other ppl what josh is doing here. he’s all big sad eyes and suicidal ideation, tragedy and twitchy hands. he’s so deeply pathetic he just endears himself to you. i want sweeney to succeed more than ever before. even though he spends all of act 2 killing people and being a shit father and thus killing benjamin barker, i still find myself wanting him and lovett to get away with it. and when the reveal comes, and even worse the betrayal hits- that this woman who he let into his life and body and who, in some odd way, became a friend, lied to him this entire time- it hits like never before for me.

i just love it all so much. i’m so happy it exists, so happy this revival does something so new! sondheim has said sweeney todd is a show about obsession, and it is. this revival supposes: what is the difference between love and obsession? what if the two look the same?

i think often of this quote from luca guadagnino’s suspiria (a masterpiece btw): “Love and manipulation, they share houses very often. They are frequent bedfellows.”

to me, that’s this revival in a nutshell- the thin line between love and obsession, and all the blood spilled in between.

#2023 revival #sweeney todd #.txt #josh groban #annaleigh ashford #i’m sorry if this doesn’t make any sense. i’m crying rn. i love this production i miss josh and annaleigh soooo much

111 notes · View notes

five-miles-over · 1 year ago

Text

For All Time, It Was Always You

Chapter 3 - Happy to Keep His Dinner Warm

A/N: It's a series now! Thank you all for your positive comments, your likes, and reblogs. Click here for Chapter 2: Mrs. Laufeyson

(Pairing: Loki x Wife!Reader)

Summary: The best way to a man's - or a god's - heart is through his stomach.

Warnings: Fluff, silliness, an infomercial that's not meant to offend anyone.

You turned the knob of the television in the living room, letting a soap opera play in the background while you washed the dishes - including those from Loki's breakfast - and preheated the oven. Then, following the cookbook's instructions, you prepared the batter for an angel food cake, a dessert you were hoping to dress with whipped cream and strawberries for your - yes, you were really saying it - husband. If there were two jars of strawberry jam, maybe it meant that Loki really liked strawberries. Or there was some kind of two-for-one deal at the store.

While the cake baked in the oven, you took a shower after tinkering with the hot and cold faucets. With a towel wrapped around yourself when you were done, you shuffled your feet into the master bedroom. You opened one of the large wardrobes opposite from the window, finding an entire rack of crisp white shirts and brown dress pants - probably Loki's uniform for work - along with tuxedos and pajamas. You didn't think about opening the drawers beneath the racks of clothing, assuming they would be filled with your husband's underwear and socks.

Speaking of underwear…where was the laundry room? You made a mental note to find it at some point, so you could use the washing machine. Also, did Loki wear boxers or briefs? Biting your lip, you brought yourself to imagine which of the two it could be, thinking of the way you checked out his ass that morning while making breakfast. How nicely the fabric hugged the curve of his rear. It definitely had to be boxers, surely briefs would've left some kind of outline. Or…what if he wasn't wearing any underneath those pants? You bit the inside of your cheek and crossed your arms, still damp from your shower.

The smell of vanilla wafting into the bedroom silently reminded you that the cake was done, like an invisible tap on the shoulder. You snapped out of your reverie, looked through the other wardrobe and found a flattering midi-dress to wear over a lacy bra and a girdle. Now dressed, you took the golden-brown, light to the touch, warm cake out of the oven and let it cool. Meanwhile, the soap opera on the living room television was now replaced by a vague infomercial for a fancy kitchen gadget made by Stark Industries. You didn't know what it really did, or how much it cost, but it was apparently 'life-changing', 'ground-breaking', and only made by Stark Industries.

It didn't take long for you to find a few other gadgets laying around the house. Inside a closet within the hallway was a vacuum cleaner, which you used to clean the living room and the other carpets in the house. Not that there was anything much to clean, considering the house seemed spotless to begin with. While you moved the vacuum around the welcome mat, you looked over your shoulder at a new infomercial.

"Are you tired of playing the dating game over and over again? Exasperated by the lack of paramours unwilling to cuddle with you? Does the loneliness of the night bring you sadness? Tired of all the nights alone with you and your fingertips? Do you wish for an attractive sweetheart you can flaunt to your friends and family, and to all the nosy strangers who ask why you're still single? Introducing the newest product from Cambridge Technologies, TOM H."

The spokesperson gestured to a six-foot tall male with perfectly combed dark-blonde hair with a slight curl, wearing a navy blue blazer and a matching set of trousers with a light blue dress shirt underneath. "Look at him," the spokesperson beamed. "His cheekbones are so sharp, I could grate cheese on them!"

The male smirked. "I love cheese, 'specially when paired with wine. And the company of a lovely lady."

Wait…this man looked familiar. Where had you seen him before? Squinting, you turned off the vacuum and began to fluff the pillows on the couch, keeping your eyes on the screen.With a fake laugh, the spokesperson turned to face the camera.

"Short for Technologically-Optimized Male Humanoid, TOM H. is equipped with the ability to speak seven different languages, including French, Spanish, and even Latin. He can open doors for your, pull your chair out, hold an umbrella for you when it rains, and even apologize for calling you beautiful! That's right, ladies, he's got every single piece of etiquette mastered at the back of his hand. No more worrying about guys who laugh at misogynistic jokes, or guys who treat you like a piece of meat. Our new android will make sure you spend everyday feeling like a princess!"

You continued to reluctantly clean the living room while the spokesperson continued to brag about the abilities of this supposedly life-like android. How many other people were watching this advertisement right now? And were any of them actually considering buying this android? Moreover, how would one actually take care of an android? Did it require charging like any other electronic device? Did it pretend to sleep at night?

On-screen, the spokesperson showed the android relaxing in bed, wearing nothing but boxers, and droned on and on about the android's ability to give warm cuddles and recite poetry at the drop of a hat. Then the scene changed to the android standing in the kitchen, wearing a black apron over a three-piece suit and preparing some kind of pasta dish. The android gave a cheeky smile to the camera, as if it was perfectly aware that somewhere, some touch-starved single person would be watching and immediately reach for their checkbook.

"Call the number on-screen," the spokesperson announced, "and for just four separate payments of $599.99, TOM H. can be all yours. And for a bonus payment of $49.99, we'll throw in a blue jumper!

Please note that all clothes are sold separately, including the boxers. Cambridge Technologies is not responsible for the android crying. The android may experience urges to play with puppies and babies, do kind deeds for strangers, or dance in public. For optimal performance, we ask that you refrain from raising your voice in the presence of the android, and to feed the android tea every six hours."

"Oh my god." You gulped, standing still for a moment. The commercial finally ended with an image of the android giving the spokesperson a shoulder massage, and smiling at the camera. You switched the channel, and put away the vacuum, shuddering at what you'd just seen.

The next thing to worry about was the spaghetti bolognese, another recipe from the cookbook you chose for tonight Luckily there was a pack of ground mince in the fridge, otherwise you would've had to either rush to the supermarket - wherever that was - or pick something else to make for Loki's dinner. With the cookbook propped open on the kitchen countertop, you flipped to the recipe and did your best to follow every instruction. Chop the carrots, the celery, the onion, and the bacon, it said…Then, heat the pot with a generous amount of butter, add bacon…Put the rest of the vegetables in the pan, along with the mince. While that cooked in the pan, you opened a can of tomatoes from the pantry, poured it into the pan, causing it to sizzle loud enough to overpower the television for a moment. The final ingredients to add were dried herbs, a splash of red wine, and for some reason…milk.

After moving the cake to the center of the table, you stirred the pot with the Bolognese mixture until the alcohol from the wine boiled off. The final step, according to the cookbook, was to place the entire pot in the oven at one-hundred eighty degrees Celsius for…well, enough time to stew everything.

You closed the oven door with a sigh, wiping a trace of sweat on your forehead before taking a box of spaghetti out of one of the cupboards. Yes it was true that you'd only known Loki for a few hours, not even a whole day. And yet, you found yourself wishing and hoping that he would be pleased when he walked into the door. That when he opened the door, the smell of dinner would entice him to the table, and the sight of you would entice him into your arms. Maybe it was because of the way he looked at you this morning, with affection in his eyes as if you were the most priceless thing in his life.

As the noodles cooked in a pot of boiling water, you dressed the cake with whipped cream and chopped-up strawberries, and then chopped cucumbers, tomatoes, olives, and red onions for a side dish. Within about thirty minutes, you had a pot of cooked spaghetti dressed in bolognese sauce, a lettuce-free salad dressed with olive oil and red wine vinegar, and an angel food cake reserved for dessert. And just as a finishing touch, you set the dining table for two and lit a few candles.

"Darling, we're home! Something smells amazing." At the doorway with a large grin on his face was Loki, standing in his work clothes with his dark curls slightly messy, dirt caking his fingertips,…and a black kitten in his arms. Tagging: @anukulee @smolvenger @pineappleandro @lotsoflokilove23 @talklokitome @rumin8ting @12-pm-510 @painedfever @iambetterthanbefore @princess-ofthe-pages @thenotoriouserg @lokischambermaid @lokiismineforever @lokidbadguy @lokisgoodgirl @lokisprettygirl22 @holdmytesseract @wheredafandomat @wolfsmom1��@lovelysizzlingbluebird @evelyn-kingsley @muddyorbsblr @stupidthoughtsinwriting @icytrickster17 @thatdummy-girl @fantasyfan4life @huntress-artemiss @itsdoni @gruftiela @ellooo0ooo @ireallyneedtherapy @jennyggggrrr @turniptitaness

#loki laufeyson #loki x reader #loki #loki odinson #loki god of mischief #loki fanfic #tva loki #mcu loki #loki x y/n #loki x reader fic #loki x reader fluff #loki imagine #loki imagines

192 notes · View notes

sheafrotherdon · 11 months ago

Text

Nicky wakes up early. It’s still dark as he climbs out of bed and picks up yesterday’s discarded t-shirt and jeans from the floor, pulls them on, and pads out into the shadowed hallway. Everyone is sleeping and will stay that way for a while, attuned as they are to the specific silence of the safe house. The scent of coffee will tell them when it’s time to wake.

The kitchen floor is cool beneath Nicky’s bare feet as he pulls flour and sugar from the cupboard, and finds his favored mixing bowl. He selects two oranges from the platter on the kitchen table. They’re a pleasant weight in his hands as he rinses them at the sink, and he smiles as he gently peels long strips of rind from each fruit, orange oil dampening his fingers. He chops the rind into tiny pieces with a kitchen knife he keeps predictably sharp, and lets his mind wander.

They all came into this long life with midwinter rituals, rituals that pushed aside the darkness and kindled light. Andy’s rituals were, by the time Nicolo met her, casual habits and scraps of poetry from more places than she could name. Quynh would find the means to make lamps from whale oil and tallow, beeswax in later years, but always she would meet winter with the industry of her hands. Yusuf leaned toward fire, kindling and branches, logs or turf, more than once the pungent blaze of cow shit. Always he would smile; always he would sing. Always Nicky fell a little more in love. And then came Nile, with traditions that ran from Santa to mass, to knitted stockings for each of them when she had the means, and Catholic rituals that Nicky recognized as echoes of his own. Last Christmas she had given Joe coal, and he had thrown back his head and roared with laughter, and called her fond and obscene names.

But it was solstice where Nicky felt most grounded, where the patient observation of darkness in its fullest expression brought quiet joy. Thus the oranges, the creaming of butter and sugar, the addition of flour that he never quite manages to avoid spilling on his shirt. Dropping the orange rind into his bowl, he turns his attention to chopping sweetened cranberries into small, tart bites, and mixing everything into a dough.

By the time the dough is chilled and the cookies cut into small, precise rounds, the oven is ready, and the coffee has been set to brew. Andy shuffles into the kitchen as the first of the solstice sweets are cooling on a rack, and Nicky smacks her hand away from the still-too-hot cookies, a ritual in and of itself. She accepts coffee in lieu of food, pulls her knees up to her body, heels resting on the seat of the chair, and hunches inside her oversized sweater that has seen better days but is worn and well loved. Nile follows, and after a time, Joe, and only then does Nicky slip the cookies onto a plate and set them on the table.

The sky outside turns from black to morning grey, and the people Nicky loves eat the best expression of sunlight he knows. He wipes his hands on a towel and fills a mug with coffee, pulls out a chair and as Joe rests a hand on his knee, covers that hand with his own.

#solstice #a day early #but tomorrow is a travel day #joe x nicky #nicolo di genova #yusuf al kaysani #andromache the scythian #nile freeman #midwinter

137 notes · View notes

brittle-doughie · 2 years ago

Text

Star of the Industry (Popping Candy, DJ, Rockstar, Parfait, and Shining Glitter Cookie)

Requested by: 🧁 anon. Sorry for the wait, but here it is at last! Quite a lot of musical cookies!

“Ladies and gentlemen, Star Jelly Records would like you to put your hands together for the one and only, Y/N Cookie!”

The crowd roared and cheered as you came up onto the stage, outfit and mic at the ready. You tipped your head in confidence as you began to sing.

Running out the oven, we are never turning back. We will not be the witch’s crispy, crunchy snacks!

You danced as good as you sang, making finger guns towards the audience, with the cookie at the receiving end fainting in their fanboyism/fangirlism.

Security cookies had to deal with fans trying to leap over the railings to get closer to you, some had to work hard to get hired this job and it showed with how much they pushed back against the crowd, they were determined to keep you safe.

Be the way you want to be, for all of those to see…

The crowd erupted into cheering as you dropped the mic…into your other hand because microphone were delicate things, why drop it on the ground, hehe.

————————————————————————

You were making your way to your vehicle, security covering you as you walked, your personal agent, Dumpling Cookie, walking right beside you as she too cleared your way of the boisterous crowd.

“Clear the way, cookies. Y/N Cookie has a lot of places to be! HEY! You keep your hands off their hair!”

She smacked the offending cookie on the head with her notebook.

Like with your security detail, Dumpling Cookie had to work real hard to get the role as your agent and vowed to be the best there was. Really only soft spoken and considerate to you, she was cold and professional with others.

She will not tolerate anyone taking advantage of you and will put her foot down towards devious contracts these big shot studios were giving you, with Star Jelly Records being one of few that she was willing to settle with.

You two made to your vehicle as security escorted you both in, with them following after as you drove off.

“You were unbelievable today, Y/N Cookie. Ah, I already preordered myself a copy.”

You very much appreciated her support as you smiled warmly at her, Dumpling having to cover a blush with her notebook.

“O-of course, Y/N Cookie. Okay, next on the schedule is a interview with Reporter Cookie, and then a meeting with our manager, he said it was important.”

The manager? Wonder what that will be about. Sales have been doing pretty wonderfully, and you don’t recall particular problems with today’s performance..what was on his mind…?

————————————————————————

“Tell us, Y/N Cookie, how does it feel to be the next big and upcoming pop star? Your tracks never fail to reach around the top of the chart! I struggle to even get a physical copy with how many cookies crowd the stores!”

Cue a video showing a large crowd of cookies entering the store, huddling around your section inside as copies were literally flying off the shelves.

You chuckled at the recorded scene before answering her question that you were rather humbled that cookies actually listened to, god forbid, even like your music! You uploaded your first track for fun, not really expecting the SURGE of popularity it garnered!

You remember just making a small song in your home and posting it online, not really thinking much of it. To go from being a regular cookie to being a popular figure was surreal to say the least!

“Haha! That’s Y/N Cookie for you, viewers! Humble to the end! Your songs are always so sweet and amazing, it’s even garnered the attention of other cookies in the industry! Even the superstar, Shining Glitter Cookie, plays your songs in her car, humming along to it!”

Shining Glitter…actually likes your songs too? That…was a lot to take in actually, hehe.

“In fact, you’re the talk of the town amongst other well known cookies in the music biz! DJ Cookie mentions you a lot on their posts, Popping Candy showed off his collection of your merchandise, even rising star Parfait Cookie says she gets inspiration from you and your singing!”

Parfait Cookie, you remember going to one of her shows, before you became popular. It was a little funny now that she was looking to you for her inspiration to rise as a pop star!

Funny indeed…

————————————————————————

Your manager praised you for another outstanding performance today, tickets sold like crazy and merchandise sales continue to impress! Dumpling Cookie got a little bit of a scowl going on, she didn’t like all this talk about the money the manager was spouting.

“But…I believe you can get an even bigger popularity boost then what you have right now! After all, a cookie of your talent deserved it! Hence why I called you here!”

Oh? You asked him what that would be? You’re pretty comfy where you are right now.

“It’s no secret that other popular figures in this industry are fans of your music, so I reached out and a multitude of them wished to have a collaboration with you! A great opportunity in my opinion!”

“Now just hold on a second.”

Dumpling Cookie objected, surprising both you and the manager.

“I know you’re the boss and all, but is this really a decision only you yourself can make? A collaboration requires agreement from both sides and I’m not hearing any say from Y/N Cookie about this. I will not let Y/N Cookie be forced into anything.”

You accept!

“W-what?!”

“See, this cookie wants to do this as well! Let’s get this project underway!”

The manager starts to type away at his computer as Dumping turned to you in concern.

“You really want to do this, Y/N Cookie? I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable with this whole thing. Watching out for you is not just me doing my job, but because I care about you. Know that.”

You chuckled as you placed a hand on her shoulder, you looked her in the eye and reassured her that you were okay with it. It sounded like a neat idea and hey, you could make some new friends with this collaboration project. You thanked her for caring about you, it what makes her an awesome secretary to you.

Again, she used her notebook to hide her blushing face, a small smile forming on her face.

————————————————————————

You waited in your studio for the first cookie the manager scheduled for you, the door opening to reveal them.

Rock and roll, baby! Rockstar Cookie had made it onto the scene! He was enthusiastic to meet you, playing a guitar riff as he entered the room!

He’s seen your stuff and wanted to collaborate with you as your musician! With your cool singing and his spectacle guitar playing, you two would make a good team!

His admiration didn’t stop at just your jams, he will compliment you personally, though this will get an eyebrow raise from Dumpling Cookie.

You agreed that his guitar playing was pretty great, those were some sick riffs he played. This is enough for Rockstar to start playing his guitar from the hype.

Your audiences will just adore the two of you together, baby. His fans will simply love you after a concert together! He knows he does-

Alright that was enough as Dumpling Cookie nudged him out the door, Rockstar calling out to you that he hopes you pick him! Other cookies have no soul with their music, rock and roll was the way to go!

“Okay, that’s one of them. Not bad with a guitar, but should really learn personal space. Who’s next?”

Parfait Cookie would be the next to walk through the door, at first a little nervous, but after a warm welcome from you, her confidence grew and she was eager to proclaim her inspiration from you!

She heard one of your songs in the cafe and was immediately got stuck in her head. She was, like, a pretty big fan of you afterwards. She watched your shows and would try to replicate your singing and dancing herself!

You were flattered! It was pretty clear Parfait looked up to you a lot, like, a lot a lot.

She’s got a bunch of your albums in her room, she couldn’t pick favorites, they were all amazing! It would be perfect if you could sign them!

You were amazing….~

She would be a incredibly happy cookie if you collaborated with her, not only would she be one step closer to her dream, it would make her year to sing alongside her idol!

“Happy to possibly work with you, Y/N Cookie! I’ll totally cherish the time spent together, paru paru parfait~!”

Parfait happily waved at you as she made her exit, Dumpling closing the door behind her.

“She seemed fine, an inspiring cookie with a dream. Though she seemed too sugary with her admiration, if you want my opinion on it I mean. Let’s see…”

DJ Cookie made through the door with sick beats, nodded their head as they made their way to you. The winner of 8 Jammy Awards and had earned the label of having the best album of the year!

You’ve heard of DJ Cookie’s music career and thanked them for believing you were worth it to collaborate with.

Of course, you were a cookie with a sick talent for singing and dancing, DJ themself have a few videos of your performance in the background while they record!

They saw Rockstar Cookie leaving your office with a smug grin, you weren’t actually considering collaborating with him, were you? His music would put people to sleep, not DJ!

DJ believed that you are worth so much more to let a cookie like Rockstar be your musician for a concert! You deserved only the best and they will do their hardest to be the best for you!

8 JAMMY AWARDS. Did you know they won 8 of them?! Their album was at the top for the year! There was no cookie capable of such feats as them! The choice to collaborate with is obvious!

Just say you’ll pick them please.

And that was Dumpling’s cue to escort DJ out of the studio. DJ tried to say that it was only a heat of the moment thing, but Dumpling wasn’t having it as she closed door.

“For a cookie of their caliber, that went down fast. Please advise caution if you go with DJ Cookie, Y/N Cookie. They don’t seem to be of sound mind when it comes to…rivals. Next one in line!”

Popping Candy, similar to Parfait, was nervous when coming through the door. Along with Shining Glitter, you were an idol to him and his group the more they climbed up the chain.

Shows you his collection of your merch he has on his phone. He even had the head shaped pillow that quickly ran out of stock! To see his collection yourself, you chuckled as you scratched the back of your head in flattery.

When your manager put out the offer of a collaboration in his feed, he jumped at the opportunity. To have a joint concert with you would be a dream come true for a fan of his level.

He and his group, the Cake POPs, would do their best to follow your every step, they wanted to make sure this concert was perfect! Popping Candy already watches your performances on repeat, so he’s got an idea of how you perform!

His other group members would be greatly appreciative if you chose them to collaborate with!

Let him take a breather, wow, it’s just, he was actually talking to you, THE Y/N Cookie, an idol he’s been following for a long while now!

Could you perhaps…sign his forehead?

Dumpling sighed, that was her cue. She politely requested Popping Candy to make his leave, but to avoid making him upset, she tried a roundabout approach.

“Uhh, right. Thank you for your time, Popping Candy Cookie. We’ll keep in touch if you get picked, so give Y/N Cookie some time to think about it.”

Ah! Of course, Popping Candy understood! He got up and headed on out, he needed to practice on his choreography and singing some more! Dumpling wiped her forehead as she shook her head, what was going on today..

The most popular for last, Shining Glitter made her entrance by shaking hands with you, saying how she became a quick fan of you after listening to your songs on the radio. The way you sang just enraptured her!

She was a super star, but in her eyes, you were the star that shined as brightly as ever with how you were on stage! She found herself wanting to dance to your rhythm!

She scooted closer to you as she took your hand into hers, saying how this was probably your first collaboration and so it would be an honor if she was the first cookie you partnered with, it would mean lot. This sent alarm bells for Dumpling Cookie.

Both of you were popular stars, so it only makes sense that you two were paired together. Fans from both sides would just LOVE to see you two perform on the same stage.

They were naming a street after her, she’s considering including your name in it too as a token of your beautiful partnership with her!

Like with Popping Candy, she has a bunch of your merchandise she shows off on her social media, nabbing the higher end ones like Y/N Cookie-branded pillows, plushies, party sets, etc. Even a copy of your very first track release, it was incredibly rare!

Sorry if this seemed out of nowhere, but it would be a funny to see the possible ship names the fans would make for you two. Shining Y/N Cookie? Y/N Glitter Cookie? The possibilities were infinite!

Line was drawn, Dumpling requested that Glitter make her way home. Shining Glitter was genuinely confused with this, was it something she said? Shining Glitter would not budge as she refuted what Dumpling was trying to tell her.

“Ms. Glitter, you need to make way for the next cookie in line-“

“What? What do ya mean “next cookie”? Was my proposal not good enough to get selected right away? Who else was there to choose besides me?”

“Plenty of other cookies, you’re not the only one making it in this line of work. Simply, I don’t care if you’re popular, Y/N Cookie will not be working with any cookie who’s this forceful and arrogant.”

“I want to hear it from Y/N Cookie themselves, Y/N, would you like to have this partnership with me?”

Dumpling was doing her best to push back, but Glitter got uncomfortably close when asking that it made look to the side awkwardly.

Well…

“You’re, like, already popular enough, I should be the cookie they collaborate with!”

Parfait Cookie at the door?! DJ too?! Wait, they’re all here?!

“They’re good in the singing business, they just need the right cookie with the sickest beats, that’s where I come in and whisk them off their feet!”

“Your tunes are soulless, rock and roll is the way to go, baby!

“So many cookies here..will Y/N Cookie still choose me after all this?”

“A cookie of their standing only deserves an equal to that, don’t ya see that it’s me who can fulfill that?”

Dumpling Cookie grew increasingly agitated the more the group of cookies bickered, this was no way to act in front of you.

She had to angrily call for security to escore all the cookies out of the premises.

————————————————————————

The cookies waited in the lobby, sat down and lamenting on the events from earlier.

“We messed up, didn’t we? I hope Y/N Cookie isn’t too mad at us…”

“Parfait: I do admit to losing my cool there, it’s just…I look up to them so much, that sharing the stage would be a dream come true. I should’ve assumed it was the same for everyone else, regardless of fame.”

“Hear hear, the fire in my heart was so passionate that it clouded my mind…”

“Shining Glitter: I do admit that I was actin’ unprofessional back there, a part of me…wanted Y/N Cookie to like me as more then just being a superstar, but as me…”

The door leading into the lobby opened, revealing you and Dumpling Cookie as you made your way to them. Dumpling’s cold state boring into the eyes of the cookies made them want to avert their eyes from the intensity.

“Y/N Cookie has taken it into consideration…and they’re just not interested in any of you. Thank you for your time and actually make your leave from here.”

The cookies gasped in horror before you poked Dumpling in the shoulder with a pout.

Heyyy, you didn’t say that. Come on now, Dumpling.

“What? Am I not allowed to have a little fun?”

Broooo. Anyway, you corrected Dumpling’s little joke by stating that to avoid any discourse and bitterness from the other cookies, you’ve decided…that you accept everyone’s offer to collaborate. Let’s shoot for the moon with so much talent onboard!

Everyone was taken aback! They were so sure that they’ve messed up their chances by the little squabble from earlier, they didn’t expect you to have the opposite reaction in any capacity!

Well, the stage was for anyone, and considering how each and every one of them said they were a fan of you, you figured why not and decide to make this one grand collaboration of all different types of talent! The manager was certainly happy and excited with this idea, so if they’re willing, you were down with it.

They saw the opportunity and JUMPED for it

“Yeah, Y/N! Let’s make some killer music, baby!”

“I won’t let ya down, Y/N Cookie. I promise ya my beats will pump up the crowd!”

“Y-yes, I’d love to! I really need to practice now to match you!”

“Shining Glitter: Let’s be glorious stars together, Y/N Cookie!”

“Parfait: Wow, just wow! I’m, like, totally excited for this! I feel like my toppings wil melt!”

Dumpling Cookie rolled her eyes at the other cookies with a smile, you always did have a kind sway over cookies to have them get along. Sure, you weren’t as hard on them as she would’ve been, but it just showed how much of a giving cookie you were. And that’s what she loved about you.

————————————————————————

“Welcome back, cookies! We have a special performance today! Y/N Cookie is not making an appearance alone tonight! We at Star Jelly Records would like to announce our special guests! Rockstar Cookie!”

“Are you cookies ready to rock?! WHOO!”

“Parfait Cookie!”

“Paru-paru-PARFAIT! Are you cookies ready for sweet melodies!”

“DJ Cookie!”

“DJ Cookie here and I’m gonna drop the beat!”

“The Cake POPS!”

“We’re honored to be singing alongside Y/N Cookie! Here’s to a great concert with you all!”

And gracing the stage alongside them, Shining Glitter Cookie!

“Can you make some noise, cookies?! We can’t hear you!”

The crowd roars as you handled the mic, singing alongside Glitter, Parfait, and the Cake Pops while you played your tunes with Rockstar and DJ, all of them very much liking you giving them attention.

The manager behind the curtain was crying happy tears while Dumpling Cookie was waving a mini-flag of you as support.

Your mailbox will be crammed with fan letters, but hey, that’s the price to pay when you’re a superstar in this industry!

439 notes · View notes

cooperfinishing · 28 days ago

Text

Innovative Powder Coat and Systems Cooper Finishing

Cooper Finishing offers high quality surface finishing services, specializing in metal polishing, coating, and restoration for industrial applications.

1 note · View note

senditcolton · 9 months ago

Text

I'm Still Glad I Met You (epilogue)

a/n: just a little something for Demi's "Lowkey Lovefest" because I wanted to write a little more of these two! hope you all enjoy! check out the fic here word count: 1.4k warnings: sexually charged flirting and the lead up to more but nothing explicit prompts used: fluff numbers 9, 12, & 13

There were a few things that made a house a home: laughter echoing off the walls, an abundance of love that palpable when you stepped through the door.

But for Emma, the best way to make a house a home was to bake. There was just something about the smell of bread fresh out of the oven that instantly transported you to the feeling of comfort and domesticity. It was one of the first things she did when she moved into Nico’s former bachelor pad.

Yes, she was a pastry chef, so baking in Nico's kitchen was expected to happen eventually but that first day, she baked a simple bread recipe just for them. And it remained to be one of her favorite memories; Nico welcoming her into his place and his life.

The memory is fresh in her mind as she leans over the kitchen counter, grabbing another handful of flour, sprinkling the marble top and the dough with the powder. Emma reaches up, brushing a strand of hair that fell from her messy bun away from her face before taking a hold of the rolling pin again. She moves, the strength in her arms pressing down and rolling out the dough, the butter now paper thin between each layer.

The industrial equipment and professional grade counters and refrigerators at Crème de la Crème would get this done faster but Emma never liked taking up space just to experiment when that space could yield more productivity for the café. Here, in her and Nico’s kitchen, was perfect for attempting a new recipe. Nico didn’t complain – not only did he get to try delicacies before anyone else but he was always honest and kind about what did and didn’t work. Even if he freely admitted that he still knew next to nothing about pastry, even after almost two years with Emma.

The jingle of keys and the creak of the hinges sound, signaling the return of Nico from practice. Emma hears the thud of his hockey bag hitting the floor of the hall closet and she smiles to herself, listening intently to the sound of his footsteps moving through the foyer and to the kitchen.

When they pause, she glances over her shoulder to find him leaning against the doorway and she’s forced to catch her breath at the sight of the sheen of sweat still lingering on his skin.

Two years and he still made her heart stutter every time she looked at him.

“Hey you,” Emma smiles, her hands never leaving the rolling pin.

“Hey you,” Nico repeats, lifting himself off the wall. He walks up behind her, his arms curling around her waist and pressing a quick kiss to her lips before looking over her shoulder at the dough on the counter. “What are you making this time?”

“Vanilla laminated brioche.”

“Sounds fancy,” Nico says.

“You think everything sounds fancy,” Emma laughs, the remembrance of him adorably trying to pronounce Religieuse coming into her mind.

Nico’s only reply is a hum, his head moving to press a small kiss against her cheek. Emma expects to feel his arms disappear and hear his footsteps retreat but the butterflies erupt when she feels the press of his lips against her skin. His kisses continue, moving down her cheekbone, towards her jaw until he places a gentle kiss on the spot on her neck that always elicits a reaction. And a reaction it does bring: Emma’s knees weakening as Nico continues to mark her skin, his hands moving underneath her shirt and tracing the lines of her hipbones.

“Nico,” she says, extending the vowels in a playful whine. “I’m in the middle of something.”

“I know,” comes his fast reply, no attempt being made to move. “And you look insanely hot.”

Emma can’t stop the blush that rises to her cheeks. She gently shakes her head, trying keep her attention on the task she was almost done with before she was not so rudely interrupted.

“It should be a crime to be that hot,” Nico whispers, his raspy voice against the shell of her ear forcing a shiver to run down her spine.

“That’s just the stove,” she quips. It wasn’t a lie; the stove was still warm from when she made the cream filling. But in reality, the words were an attempt to hide how much he was affecting her. It didn’t seem to work, the sensation of Nico’s lips curling in a smile against her skin making another tremor move through her.

“No, it’s all you.”

It takes all her focus to move the rolling pin over the dough a few more times before she places the heavy wooden utensil off to the side. She spins in Nico’s arms, coming to face him with a single eyebrow raised in amusement. An expression that is mirrored by Nico as he takes in the sight of her.

“You have flour on your forehead,” he says, as if that was the most important thing that needed to be addressed.

“Does that turn you on?” Emma teases, her arms coming up to rest on his shoulders, careful not to touch his shirt with her still flour-stained hands.

“Everything you do turns me on.”

“Oh, really?” she asks. “And why is that?”

“Simple. I love you.”

The words bring another smile to Emma’s face. No matter how many times she had heard them from his lips, it always felt like the first time. And Emma knew she would never get sick of hearing him say it.

She doesn’t immediately give a verbal reply, choosing instead to connect her lips with his. Nico’s arms tighten around her body, pulling her flush to his chest as the kiss deepens, his tongue brushing against hers. Emma can feel his hands moving, the fabric from her shirt bunching up as his hands lift above her hips over her waist and to her ribcage, his thumbs brushing the delicate underside of her breasts. She presses closer, the need for him flooding her body before her brain reminds her of the task still at hand. She pulls away from the kiss, smiling up at him.

“I love you too,” she says, pecking another kiss to his cheek before playfully scrunching up her nose. “Even though you still smell like practice. You need to go take a shower.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know,” he laughs, his hands finally falling away from her. “I’m going to.”

Emma hums an affirmative, turning back to the brioche dough, lifting it off the counter and placing it on the baking sheet. She hears Nico’s footsteps retreating away from her before they pause. She turns to find Nico once again lingering in the doorway.

“You’re welcome to join me,” Nico says, that hunger in his eyes returning and making Emma’s heart do somersaults in her chest.

She smiles as she grabs the towel next to her, wiping off her hands before tossing it aside. It only takes a few quick strides across the tile floor to reach Nico, launching herself into his arms before kissing him again. This time, it is desperate, no more holding back, her hands tangling into his still damp hair as his reach down to grip her ass, pulling her impossibly closer. Eventually, Emma is the one to break the kiss, her forehead resting against his.

“I have to put this dough in the fridge to rest overnight,” she explains, a wicked grin breaking out on her face. “You get started without me. I’ll be right there.”

“You better be,” Nico says, untangling her body from his before disappearing completely from the kitchen.

Emma listens intently to the door open, smiling when she hears the shower start. She finishes her task, placing the sheet in the fridge and throwing the dirty dishes into the sink to be dealt with later. Her footsteps are silent as she makes her way to the bathroom.

When she reaches the threshold, it isn't the steam already seeping out from the open door that causes her body to flood with heat. No, it’s Nico’s naked form standing under the showerhead, the water flowing in rivulets down his toned back that makes the warmth pool in her lower stomach.

The grin reappears as she walks in, closing the door behind her. The click of the lock hitting home calls Nico’s attention to her, his own smirk mirroring hers. Their eyes stay locked on one another as Emma peels the fabric from her body, her clothes slowly join his in heaps on the floor. Once rid of the layers, she crosses the small distance between them, sliding open the shower door and lets the steam and Nico’s arms wrap around her.

tags: @tkachvkmatthew @m00nlightdelights @cixrosie bonus tags @wyattjohnston & @offside-the-lines SIGN UP FOR MY TAGLIST HERE

#nicole writes #lowkey lovefest 2k24 #nico hischier fic #nico hischier imagine #nico hischier fluff #new jersey devils fic #new jersey devils imagine #nhl fic #nhl imagine #hockey fic #hockey imagine

62 notes · View notes

harleykeeners · 9 months ago

Text

Be My Life Line (Please)-Parkner

Peter Parker/Harley Keener

Prompt: Peter Parker is overwhelmed. His Dads happen to be called out on a mission the same week his life decided to fall apart. With 4 tests, massive presentations, and no parents, Peter starts popping pills to cope with the pressure of everything crumbling around him. Harley finds him and accidentally makes it worse.

Word Count: 9282

“Hey, kid. Just checking in, we just landed. Everything good?” Tony asked.

Peter put the phone down as he sighed, “Yeah, everything’s great.” Lying through his teeth, Peter started to make his way to the medicine cabinet.

“That’s good to hear. Hey, we should be back in 3 days tops. Just gotta wrap something up here with Nat quickly, something about some rogue spies, I don’t even know at this point.”

“Sounds like fun. Well, I gotta go, got things to do. Be safe, love you.” Peter hung up and just… stared into the mirror. He closed the medicine cabinet and walked away. Tony and Stephen were suddenly pulled away for a mission Peter (and apparently Tony) knew next to nothing about. Which was normal.

Except it had to be this week.

It had to be the week Peter had his Calc and Physics midterm.

It had to be the week Peter had an English and History test.

It had to be the week Peter promised to help MJ with Academic Decathlon practice.

It had to be the week Peter was set to present his work to the other head scientists at Stark Industries.

All in all, he had too much this week. Too much, all at once.

Normally, whenever Tony and Stephen were out, Peter would ask Pepper for help. Well, with Pepper being promoted to CEO, that was next to impossible. After Pepper, Peter would go to Happy. However, it appeared the universe was dead set on making Peter’s week terrible. Happy was preoccupied with training new bodyguards and media specialists (which wasn’t his job?).

So, Peter was alone. Alone with a crammed schedule.

He took solace in his bedroom, the lights low with just a lamp over his desk. He figured the best course of action was tackling everything one thing at a time. Or else he feared he would drown.

Peter found it kind of funny, how all of his teachers decided to assign work the same week his internship project was due for a presentation. He figured he’d start with his Physics review. The packet had 60 questions, and he hadn’t started yet. His midterm was 40% of his final grade. He couldn’t afford to fail- which he doesn’t think he will- but better safe than sorry.

As he stares at the packet, Peter wonders why he cares so much. Maybe it's because everyone tells him how “lucky” he is. How he has to make his Dads proud. How he has to live up to his Dads expectations. How he has to prove he’s “worthy” of the life he has.

He knows it’s irrational.

But, it's still enough to motivate him to study himself into an early grave.

He stares at the paper… and completely blanks out.

Friday alerts Peter that it is time for dinner. Normally Tony would make dinner, (or at least leave Peter some leftovers), however, he left in such a rush that Peter had to make his own dinner. The only issue with that is, Peter easily loses track of time. Peter would find himself burning several meals and leaving the oven on multiple times.

It’s not that Peter is a bed cook, just not a safe one.

Tony had banned Peter from the kitchen multiple times.

Worse comes to worst, Peter will cook. However, he’d rather not. Whenever Tony and Stephen would usually leave, Pepper or even Harley would come over and cook. They’d make a day of it.

As Peter stares into the fridge, he really starts to contemplate calling or texting Harley. However, he imagines it’d go something like this:

“Harls, how do I make pasta?”

“Peter, you can not be serious…”

Once Peter sees that there isn’t food, he goes back to his room. He doesn’t want to waste more precious study time. Besides, he wasn’t that hungry. Dinner could be a bit later.

Peter went back to his packet and about his day.

Before he knew it, Friday alerted him it was midnight.

“Great..” Peter muttered. He hadn’t eaten and still didn’t understand certain problems in his review packet.

Peter gave up and started getting ready for bed. He wasn’t that hungry anyway. He set his alarm and then remembered, Tony wasn’t here to drive him. He’d have to take the bus.

Peter set his alarm for 5 A.M.

After a quick shower, he settled into bed and checked his phone. No notifications. It seemed his Dads were busy.

“Goodnight,” Peter says to himself. He could feel it, this was going to be a hard week.

Initially, Peter thought he’d be fine. His Dads joke about how it would be a trial run for college. Peter would be responsible for getting to school, work, and all the house chores. “I’ll be fine,” Peter said. “Go! Go save the world!” Peter ushers his Dads out the door after a quick goodbye.

He wishes he went with them.

The alarm hurls him awake. Peter fights every force known to man, plus some, to get out of bed. His phone's brightness slightly blinds him, and he sees the time says 5:10 A.M. and a text from his Dad.

Dad: Have a good day! Just killed a weird alien, will bring goop as souvenir!

9:45 P.M.

Peter hurls himself out of bed and makes his way into the bathroom.

“What the fuck!” Peter shouts as he hops into the freezing shower. He laughs to himself, “Oh, the universe is out to get me.”

Pro: Peter was no longer sleepy.

Con: Peter was freezing in the middle of January, in New York.

He rushes to pack his bag, making sure to shove his review packet in there. Peter hoped to do a few extra questions on the bus. Racing downstairs, Peter quickly grabs a banana for breakfast and races out the door.

“Next bus in 30 minutes,” reads on the bus app. Great, that only means Peter just missed the bus.

He sat at the bus stop, regretting not dressing warmer, and started working on his review packet. The smell of weed hit him as a few people started to gather at the bus stop. It frustrated him that he had to smell weed this early in the morning. That was the main reason he asked Tony to drive him to school.

He wasn’t a fan of starting his day with the horrid stench of weed at 5:30 A.M.

By the time the bus came, Peter had to fight his way on. He ended up standing in the alley, holding on to the overhead rails for support. Any plans to keep studying went out the window.

The morning bus was always oddly crowded. People getting on would shove and jostle Peter, and he simply got used to it.

As luck would have it, Peter forgot to grab his headphones. The nice thing about the morning bus was that no one tried to talk to him. He quietly watched the street view and the soft fall of snow outside.

He found comfort in the route. It was the same route every day. It was a constant.

When he finally got off at Midtown, the time was 6:45 A.M. Peter had 15 minutes before class in which he can continue his studies. He found a small corner by the school and settled down.

“Yo, you got those practice questions I asked for?” MJ asks. She seemed to appear out of thin air and scared the shit out of Peter.

“Oh, no. Sorry, it completely slipped my mind.” He answered as MJ opted to sit next to him. Peter forgot that MJ was in the hospital with her mother and needed help with Academic Decathlon practice questions.

“Ah, don’t sweat it. I just need them before Thursday.” She looks over his shoulder at the packet. “Last minute cramming?”

Peter nods and sighs at the same time. “Yeah. I think I’ll be fine but can never be too sure.”

MJ laughs and quips back “Yeah, don’t be like Flash. He’s going on and on about how he knows he’ll ace it but” MJ leans closer to Peter, “If you look at him closely, you can see the panic in his eyes.”

They shared a laugh before MJ got up to roam around school a bit before class. Peter was feeling a bit more confident, however, his test anxiety was acting up. Bad enough that he has to take this test at the end of the day. Now he’ll just be anxious all day.

Throughout the day, Peter’s head started to hurt. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, mixed with his empty stomach, and his anxiety that started making his head spin.

It was fine, he just needed to get through this midterm. That he forgot about until yesterday. That was worth 40% of his grade. That could tank his 96% “A”. That Flash 100% bombed if his face at lunch was anything to tell by.

If Peter played his cards right, he just needed 81% to end up with 90%. He needs to end the semester with an “A”. He can only afford to get 12 questions wrong. He should have studied earlier. His head is spinning. His palms are sweating. When did it get so hot?

Peter flips over his test and quickly skims the questions. He doesn’t remember what happens next.

He walked out of the classroom, feeling relief that it was finally over. Until he remembers he has to go on patrol.

Peter really didn’t want to go on patrol as he had his Chemistry midterm on Thursday. But, Spider-Man can’t just disappear for a week. So, despite his better judgment, he calls Ned to take his bag.

Normally, Peter loves patrol. He loves swinging from building to building and helping those in need. Peter finds that being Spider-Man is one of the few moments he can truly be himself. No pressure from school, friends, or his Dads. Spider-Man is his window to freedom.

And right now, Peter wants to slam the window shut. Right now, Peter needs to be studying. However, just as he thinks that Peter sees a cat in a tree.

“Hey! Someone a little stuck?” Peter asks the cat, not really expecting a response. (However, he doesn’t ignore the possibility of a talking cat.) Luckily, the cat doesn’t try to scratch him. Peter easily scoops up the cat and returns it to the ground.

“I feel like I should find your owner…” The cat ends up running away behind some home, allowing Peter to conclude that it was an outside cat that simply got stuck.

He wishes his patrol ended there. Over the next 3 hours, the universe decided to line up every petty crime back-to-back. First, Mr. Delmar found himself behind gunpoint. Then, some teenagers decided to rob a gas station. Followed by three guys causing a commotion on the subway. And the cherry on top of this picture-perfect night was a woman getting mugged right as Peter was going to go home.

Peter knows he’s there to help. But sometimes, sometimes he wishes he could be selfish and take the day for himself.

He swings by Ned’s window to collect his bag and makes his way home.

“Welcome home, Peter. It is currently 9:37 P.M.” Friday announces. Peter simply groans and makes his way to the shower. One thing he feels he must do is shower after patrol. Even though he should go to bed, Peter needs to study.

The relief Peter feels as the hot water hits his shoulders is unparalleled. It's the first moment of relaxation all day.

As Peter gets dressed, he notices the clock strikes 10 P.M. That gives him roughly an hour to study. He silences his phone to avoid all distractions and hits the books.

Dad: Everything okay? Haven’t heard from you yet

10:12 P.M.

Pops: Hope you’re doing well, Peter.

10:19 P.M.

Dad: Sleep well, kid. Love ya

10:35 P.M.

He doesn’t notice the missed texts. Peter wakes up on his desk.

His phone is screaming at him from across the room. His head hurts and the lights he left on blind him.

“Shit,” He thinks. Peter pulls himself from the desk, his back in agony and his head pounding. “Friday, what time is it?”

“It is 6 A.M, Peter.”

“Oh, shit.” Peter thinks. “I’m going to miss the bus.” Immediately, Peter throws on the first thing he sees and races out the door. No time for breakfast. Now that he thinks about it, he missed dinner yesterday.

As he rushes to the bus stop, Peter realizes the bus is approaching. Luckily, there's a line of people to get on so Peter makes it on in time. Way too close for comfort.

By now, his head is pounding. He keeps forgetting to eat and he’s not getting enough sleep. He’s still sore from patrol and he’s anxious about his tests. And now, he’s out of breath from chasing the bus.

It’s not like today is going to get any better. Peter knows he still has to do the Academic Decathlon questions MJ asked for. Plus, he needs to finish patrol quickly to review some formulas that were wrong on his internship project.

Once again, MJ finds him sitting in the same corner, now reviewing Chemistry. Peter sees her from the corner of his eye and prepares to let her down again.

“Before you ask, no, I still don’t have the AcaDeca questions. I’m sorry, I’ll try my hardest to get them done by tomorrow.” Peter doesn't promise and he isn’t even sure what he just said is true.

He doesn’t really know why he can’t just tell MJ he doesn’t have the time to do them.

Well, Peter knows why.

He doesn’t want to let her down. He doesn’t want to admit he can’t do something. He doesn’t want to admit he bit off more than he can chew. Peter wants to be someone people can rely on. But right now, he can’t even rely on himself.

“No sweat, just let me know if it’s too much. I can always ask Ned to do them instead.” MJ calmly answers back.

Peter should tell her that would be better, but something stops him.

“Hey, MJ.” Peter finds himself saying. "Do you have any Advil on you?”

“Yeah, why? Headache?”

Peter nods his head as MJ hands him the small pill. “Slept horribly.” He doesn’t even bother getting water and dry swallows the pill. MJ shoots him a look of sympathy and understanding.

“Happens to the best of us,” she says. With that, MJ bids Peter farewell and he resumes his studies.

When 3rd period rolls around, Peter is hit with the fact that he indeed has a history test today. He’s not panicking, just annoyed he forgot. It seemed like things were slipping from his memory recently.

The class is silent as they take their test and Peter starts to feel dizzy again. He didn’t eat during lunch and instead kept studying. He drinks some water, which does help him a little, but right now Peter just wants to put his head down.

He finishes his test and makes a dash for the bathroom. He just needs a minute to breathe. “Okay, just calm down. Just relax and focus,” Peter thinks as he splashes water onto his face. He begins to form a list and organize himself:

Patrol.

Internship formula.

Chemistry Midterm.

English test.

Academic Decathlon Questions.

And dinner.

He keeps forgetting that one.

Peter just needs to better manage his time. Other than that, he sees no reason to be overwhelmed. He’s just all over the place. However, his head wasn’t feeling much better.

The nurse can’t give him any medication so Peter will have to wait till he gets home.

The bell finally rings and Peter makes a dash for an empty alleyway. He doesn’t bother giving Ned his bag as he simply webs it to the wall. Peter jumps into his suit and begins his quick patrol. No more than an hour, the city gets Spider-Man for one hour and that’s it. Today, Peter Parker is needed more than Spider-Man.

Rushing to wrap the patrol up, Peter ends up slamming into a pole.

“Fuck!” He shouts and concludes patrol then and there. His arms are throbbing but that doesn’t matter, Peter still needs to get home and review his project.

The tower is freezing, and Peter makes a run to the bathroom. With no time to revel in the soothing hot water, he quickly cleans up the sweat and blood and changes into his comfort clothes. The other interns will simply deal with Peter in Harley’s hoodie and sweatpants.

Before going down to the lab, Peter goes to the medicine cabinet. His head is killing him and the pain in his arms isn’t going away. He looks at the bottle of Advil and opens it. He takes two for his headache and two more for his arms.

As he swallows the pills, Peter realizes that he hasn’t eaten yet. However, he then remembers Friday exists. “Friday, could you order a pizza and deliver it to the lab for me?”

“Of course, Peter.” Friday happily responds.

With that settled, Peter heads to the lab.

Peter is face to face with the whiteboard and one problem on it. He’s been going over it for hours. He keeps ending up with a remainder, however, it ruins the machine's code. All the other interns have taken a stab at it and none have been successful.

“This is going to be the death of me.” One of them says, which by the size of their eye bags, seems to be right.

“I swear I’m going insane. How do we keep getting a remainder? We’ve used every rational method…” Another intern says.

“We have to be missing something super obvious. Maybe, we need a new set of eyes?” Peter says and then realizes his error. They have all been staring at the same problem for the better course of an hour now, and probably all have tunnel vision.

The only issue is, they've run the problem by every intern.

“Are you going to call your Dads? I bet they could figure this out.”

And that comment struck a nerve in Peter. Mainly because he knows he can solve this. He’s solved this type of problem thousands of times before. But for some reason, he’s stuck.

They have to figure this out, as they are set to present this robot to the pantheon of scientists at Stark Industries on Thursday.

“Wait…” one of the interns speaks up, “Isn’t Harley in today?”

Peter silently cries tears of joy.

The universe is throwing him a bone.

Harley is an intern in every way but legally. Peter rushes to call the front desk and hunts Harley down. “Send Keener to lab 37, immediately. Tell him it’s life or death.”

They all let out a sigh of relief, finally having a small break from the same numbers on the whiteboard. It’s 8:45 P.M. and Harley is met with five interns surrounded by several cups of coffee and energy drinks.

“What’s going on?” Harley asks in a slight panic.

Peter doesn’t answer. He simply hands him a dry-erase marker and places him in front of the whiteboard. Harley doesn’t need direction, as Peter can see his mind running as he stares at the problem. They all leave him be.

Peter takes the time to pick up his pizza and eat a bit. He forgot how good New York pizza is. With some food in his stomach, Peter quietly sneaks off to take another pill. His arms are still throbbing and his head is killing him. At least now he has some food in his system.

He comes back to see Harley on a completely new board, the previous one filled with equations.

“Still can’t crack it?” he asks.

“Darling, I think you finally got me. What the hell is this?”

“I have no idea. We’ve been stuck on this for weeks and keep getting a remainder, which then causes a system error in the bot. Thought you’d be able to figure it out.” Peter answers.

“Do you guys still have your previous proofs?”

“Yeah, right over there.” Peter points to a stack of paper on a nearby desk. Harley nods and ruffles through the stack, his eyes quickly skimming the numbers.

Peter goes off to grab some water. He gets the compulsion to check his phone and notices he has a few texts from Tony and Stephen.

Dad: Just checking in, all good?

6:11 P.M.

Dad: Would you like an alien finger as a souvenir?

8:24 P.M

Peter laughs at the messages and sends back a quick selfie to make sure Tony knows he is indeed alive (despite what his body is telling him). To his surprise, Tony replies right away and they spend a few seconds discussing TSA guidelines for transporting severed alien fingers.

Harley then speaks up and asks, “Peter, what’s the square root of -1?”

“It’s i.” He quickly responds. The square root of -1 does not exist, so its i, which stands for an imaginary number.

“Right, and who wrote this?” Harley calls him over to review some work. He points to some long equation where there’s a smudged number.

“Does that say 1 or i?” He asks.

Peter sees red. They have all spent weeks looking over this problem, going slightly insane, all because of some poor penmanship.

“That’s supposed to be an i..”

“Yeah, but then they added it to the equation as if it were a one- which throws everything off-”

“By one,” Peter concludes. “That’s why we keep having a remainder.”

In a moment of pure blinding rage, Peter throws all the work onto the floor. His entire team had spent weeks refining their robot, all because someone misread a number. Peter was fuming.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Peter shouts.

This grabs everyone's attention. They all gather around Harley, who's picking up the paper on the floor. “Hey, at least we caught it now and not in front of the professionals.” Harley tries to reassure Peter.

The group nods, but Peter doesn’t care.

He’s beyond exhausted and at the end of his patience.

He quickly checks his phone and sees that it’s 10:22 P.M. He’s even more frustrated as he still needs to shower and do homework. However, before he storms off he speaks up, “Next time we do something like this, we are all making our numbers and variables extremely legible.” He doesn’t wait to see the looks on everyone’s faces and storms off to his room.

The entire fiasco was making his head hurt even more, so Peter pops another pill before bed. At least he ate today. Peter will take the small victory.

He lost track of how many pills he took today.

Before going to bed, Peter realizes that he doesn’t care about bothering Happy. He calls Happy and -borderline begs- him to take him to school. Happy agrees and Peter is over the moon he can sleep in a bit more.

The extra hours of sleep do wonders for Peter. He’s able to take a shower without rushing and is even able to eat a light breakfast. Peter allows himself to stop and breathe. He feels like he hasn’t had the chance to.

“Kid, are you ready to go?” Happy calls out as Peter quickly packs his bag. He nods and they both make their way to the cars. Peter hops in the back and, to his surprise, ends up falling asleep.

(It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. He looks like shit.)

It was a much needed power nap, and Peter felt slightly better. He says goodbye to Happy and makes his way to his corner. He sees Ned sitting there, eagerly waiting for him.

“Woah, dude are you okay?” Ned asks with concern. Peter simply waves him off and says he’s fine. Ned doesn’t question it and simply changes the subject to the Academic Decathlon training they have in two days. With that, Peter remembers that he needs to finish those questions. He makes a mental note to finally start them.

Peter knows he has his English test today, and he honestly can’t be bothered to review. He knows he’ll be fine.

Instead, he begins the Academic Decathlon questions he promised MJ he’d have ready for tomorrow. Now, the challenge with that is that he needs to come up with questions that are challenging- but not impossible. Which is extremely difficult.

He promised MJ 30 questions: Ten math questions, ten science questions, and ten history/geography questions. In the first two sections, Peter had it in the bag. He pulled several problems from projects he’d seen in the labs and even a few Tony used on his suits.

The history/geography ones stumped him. This was MJ’s field of expertise, not Peter’s.

However, Peter’s too stubborn to ask for help. It doubles as reviewing, in a weird way. Peter pulls several articles from various historical moments and begins crafting some questions. He convinces himself that he’s reviewing his reading compression skills.

By the time his English test rolls around, Peter has managed to complete 26 questions. He’s running on pure adrenaline and 2 more Advills, but he’s getting it done. Like clockwork, Peter blanks out during his test. He’s sure he did fine, English wasn’t ever challenging to him.

However, he can’t afford to worry about that. In the grand scheme of things, that test was less than 1% of his stress. He almost forgot about his Chemistry midterm tomorrow. Plus, he had his presentation and AcaDeca training the following day.

Peter sometimes wishes he knew how to say no.

Patrol was starting to feel more like a job. Peter dreaded it and that frustrated him because Peter loved helping people. He loved seeing people smile and making their day. Being Spider-Man is one of the things Peter’s the proudest of. However, he can’t help others if he can’t even help himself. That’s evident by the empty pill bottle in his bag.

Once again, Peter is convinced the universe is out to get him. Everything that could go wrong, goes wrong. Mr. Delmar gets held at gunpoint, the bank has two attempted robberies, Peter counts seven muggings, and finally, some punks thought it would be funny to rob the pawn shop run by the old lady. Honestly, he couldn’t catch a break.

And it was one after another. Spider-Man didn’t stop and was constantly moving between crimes. He was getting overwhelmed and his movements were getting sloppy. The worst part was that Peter wasn’t pulling back his punches. There was so much going on at once that controlling his strength was the last thing on his mind.

That’s when he finally accepted he had a problem.

He saw the blood on his hands and the horrified looks of the criminals he was hurting. Thankfully, most civilians had fled the area so they didn’t witness the grotesque image of Peter decking them with ease. So Peter had to call the cops and the ambulance to patch up the bodies he left behind.

He was getting irritable and irrational. He has to cut the patrol short. Spider-Man is becoming more of a danger rather than an aid.

His knuckles are busted open and he has bruises all over his chest. When he gets home, Peter downs another 6 pills to try and numb the pain. He hasn't eaten and he hasn’t showered but that isn’t his concern. He sloppy puts on some bandages over his wounds and immediately hits the books.

By now it's 8:48 P.M. and Peter is about to pass out. He’s staring at his desk with his chem packet and AcaDeca questions all spread out. He’s almost done but he's beginning to see spots. His head is pounding and no matter how many pills he takes, the pain isn't going away. It hurts to move and he’s hungry and he knows he stinks.

Finally, it seems the universe has him beat and Peter snaps.

Peter- against his will- breaks down. He’s crying his eyes out and his head is killing him. Peter can feel a migraine coming on and he doesn’t think he’ll survive. He begins hyperventilating and he runs for more pills. Whether or not they work doesn’t matter, Peter’s convinced himself it's better than nothing.

By this point, Peter’s blocked out all his surroundings. Therefore, he doesn’t notice when Harley walks onto the floor and calls for him.

“Hey, Peter! So, for our presentation, I was thinking we should maybe revisit the previous reversion with-” Harley stops dead in his tracks when he finds Peter.

Peter knew what he was doing was wrong. He knew this wasn’t healthy. He knew he was destroying his body. But Peter was ashamed.

He was too prideful to ask for help.

Harley simply looks at him, and Peter knows what it looks like. His hair is a mess, his hands are bloody, his face is bruised, his eye bags are heavy, and the empty pill bottle on the floor seals the deal.

“Peter, what did you do?” Harley asks with worry and anger in his voice.

“I’m fine. Harls. I’m just stressed.” Peter waves off. The last thing he wants is for Harley to lecture him. “I’m okay, you can go. I have homework I need to finish.”

“No! I’m not gonna sit around and watch you do this to yourself!” Harley yells. He starts to pace the living room back and forth, shaking his head and looking in shock.

“You preach on and on about how drugs are the downfall of our generation and now- what? You’re popping pills? Peter, what the hell?”

Peter feels awful. He feels like shit. He wants the ground to swallow him whole.

Peter knows what he’s doing is wrong. He knows he's in the wrong. But… he just wants to help people. He just wants to meet their expectations. And now… he feels like a failure, and Harley is only rubbing salt in the wound.

“Harley, please…” Peter breaks down and Harley snaps out of his angry trance.

“Please, just hold me.” Peter wails as he falls onto the floor. He holds himself tight as he tries to process the millions of thoughts swimming in his head. Harley suddenly drops to the floor and begins to comfort Peter.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what to do. I’m so stressed. And it started small.” Peter starts. He isn’t sure if he hears Harley ask questions, but now he can’t stop talking.

“I was just having such bad headaches and taking them made it better. But then I started taking them whenever I got stressed and- I was so stressed this week. Patrol was so hard and they helped with the pain, and I lost track of how many I’ve had. I’m so sorry to disappoint you, but I already feel like shit, Harls. I don’t need you reminding me of the failure I am. I already know that! I let you down, I let my Dads down, I let myself down. I let everyone down!”

“I just want my Dads.” Peter sobs into Harley’s arms. “I’m so tired…” Tears are filling his eyes and it's getting harder to breathe. His chest feels tight and he’s in so much mental anguish and physical pain that he isn’t even really present at the moment.

Harley rocks Peter back and forth. He runs his fingers through Peter’s hair and kisses his forehead. “It’s okay. I’m sorry I snapped. I just… I care about you so much I got worried.”

“Where are my Dads?”

“I’ll call them right now.” Harley then forces Peter to look at him.”Tell me what you need. Tell me how I can help you.” Peter can’t verbally answer but he simply signals towards his chest. Harley removes his suit and notices the black and blue bruises with dried blood. Harley also notices Peter's greasy hair.

“Let me make you a meal and run you a bath,” Harley whispers into Peter’s hair and hugs him tighter.

While Harley goes to the bathroom, Peter passes out on the floor, finally allowing himself some peace. He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He wakes up to the smell of chicken soup and Harley gently shaking him.

“Hey, the bath’s ready. I called your Dads and they’ll be here in the morning. Also, I talked to Ned. You’re not going tomorrow.” Harley says as he lifts Peter onto his feet and helps him remove his suit.

“Harls, I have to go tomorrow. I have my midterm and I need to give MJ the questions I promised her.” Peter answers.

Harley simply shakes his head. “I say you take it next week, however, if it bothers you that much, after tomorrow you can go. I’m sure Tony can sort that out with your teacher. But you need to take at least a day off. And if the presentation stresses you out that much, I can cover for you.”

Peter should feel relieved but he doesn’t want to give up just yet. He’s done so much to make it through this week, he just wants to see it to the end. “Can we talk about this later?” Peter asks.

He’s down to his boxers and Harley has a full view of the bruises littered all over Peter’s body. Peter can see Harley is fighting the urge to say no, but instead, he simply nods his head and kisses his cheek. “Sure, just go get cleaned up.”

Peter agrees and makes his way to the bathtub. Nice that Harley probably figured Peter can’t stand long enough for a shower.

The water is warm and sends immediate relief throughout his whole body. Peter sinks into the tub and lets the water engulf him. He looks at his body and notices just how severe his injuries are. He should probably have Stephen check those out when he gets back.

After an incredible half hour in the tub, Peter finally gets out. He didn’t realize how much he truly needed that.

He changes into some light PJs and finds Harley by the kitchen island with a bowl of chicken soup.

Peter can't remember the last time he had an actual meal. Harley sat next to him as Peter slowly drank the soup. “So, what about tomorrow?” Harley asks.

Peter checks his phone and realizes it's 10:41 P.M. He had two options: he could either take tomorrow off, or he could suck it up.

“Would you mind helping me study?” He asks. Before Harley protests, Peter cuts him off. “I have my midterm first thing in the morning, after that I’ll have Happy take me home. That lets me give MJ the questions I owe her.” Peter didn’t go through the worst week of his life only to not see it till the end. He was stubborn like that.

Harley didn’t seem to like the idea, but he agreed nonetheless. When Peter finished his soup, they both headed to his room and Harley quizzed him on a few problems. Peter was feeling okay, his anxiety was just through the roof.

They both called it quits at around midnight. Harley crashed on the couch and Peter was out like a light.

He only had two days left. He was so close.

When the morning rolls around, Peter wishes he chose to stay home. He is groggy and tired, but still feeling the best he’s felt all week. He assumes Harley was already up and making him breakfast while he went to shower.

They had both agreed that Peter would skip patrol. He was in no condition to help anyone and would probably just hurt himself again, which isn't helpful to anyone.

To his surprise, however, his Dads were home. He walked into the living room to see Stephen making breakfast (no sign of Harley).

“Good morning,” Peter says as he goes to hug his Dad.

“Hey, Harley told us what happened. Just text us when your exam is over and we’ll come to get you. I also need to check your injuries, Peter.” Stephen said as he lightly tossed Peter’s hair and serves him a small stack of pancakes.

Peter silently hopes Harley didn’t mention the pills.

By the time Peter finished his breakfast, he wanted to vomit. He hadn’t stomached that much food all week and his body was trying to reject it. He holds it down as Tony pulls up to Peter’s school. “Text me the second you’re done. Promise?”

Peter sees the worry in Tony’s eyes and simply nods. He already feels guilty. He doesn’t need the reminder. (Looks like Tony understood that.)

As Peter gets to school, he immediately tracks down MJ. He hands her the questions, doesn’t wait for a thank you, and runs to the bathroom.

He can just feel vomit rising up his throat. His eyes are losing focus and he’s currently heaving over the toilet. “Maybe I should have stayed home,” Peter thinks as he stares into the mirror over the sink. His dark circles are getting worst and his skin is breaking out. He splashes some water on his face and quietly reminds himself that he’s almost done. “Just two more days.”

The bell rings and Peter heads off to his classroom. He’s taking his midterm first thing in the morning and right now, he’s fighting to stay upright.

Almost routine, Peter receives his test and flips it over. He knows he knows the material, he just has test anxiety. The studying he did with Harley definitely helps, so he’s confident he’ll do fine.

He ends up blanking out. He doesn’t remember much of the exam, nor many of the questions. However, he feels lighter, like a weight has been taken off his shoulder.

Peter ends up vomiting in the bathroom.

He’s heaving over the toilet and clinging on for dear life. His throat burns and the aftertaste of his breakfast is in his mouth, with a mixture of acid. He’s drenched in sweat and can’t see straight and he feels a migraine coming on.

Quickly, he texts Tony that he can pick him up. Peter gets off the floor and washes his face in the sink. His face is sickly pale and the lights are blinding him. Out of habit, Peter reaches for his pockets to get a pill, only to realize that he doesn’t have any.

That movement alone scares him.

He’s worried he��s feeling dependent.

When he leaves the bathroom, he quickly tracks down MJ in the library. “MJ, here are the questions I promised you. I’m so sorry they’re so late.” He profusely, but rapidly apologizes to her as he hands her the packet.

She doesn’t even look at them, instead places her hand on his shoulder and looks him in the eyes. “Pete, are you okay?” Just being forced to look at her is giving him a headache. The library lights are a blinding yellow and he can hear noise from the hallway.

“Yeah, just a little headache,” Peter says, but MJ still looks at him with worry. “MJ, I’m fine.” Peter doesn’t even believe in himself. He has that gazed look people have after they vomit their guts out and a small twitch in his eyes due to the lighting.

It seems like she doesn’t believe him either. Before she speaks, before she pities him, Peter runs to the office, knowing Tony will arrive any second.

As he waits in the office, he decides it's better to wait in the bathroom. The office had too many people talking, stapling, and filing. The office had too much noise.

That was the main thing he hated about his powers, his senses were heightened, making his migraines a hundred times worse. He’s on the brink of tears when the receptionist yells out his name to alert him that he’s leaving.

It seems that Tony notices so he doesn’t speak, simply thanks the staff, and ushers him into the car. Tony shuts off the radio and hands Peter a jacket in the backseat. Immediately, Peter covers his eyes and attempts to drift off to sleep. He’s just realizing how tired he is, mentally that is.

The ride home is a much needed break. He only has to get through tomorrow’s AcaDeca practice. (He’s not expecting to stay conscious during class).

When they do eventually arrive at the Tower, Peter can’t stand. His body has completely given out on him. Tony ends up carrying the boy inside and up the elevator to the medical compound.

“Okay, kid, you’re scaring the hell out of me. What happened?” Peter wakes up on one of the medical beds and is met with the horrible blinding lights in his face.

He’s too overwhelmed to talk and simply points to them, silently begging Tony to turn them off. He does, thankfully.

“I took on too much,” Peter says. “Everything just pilled up on the same week, and you guys weren’t there, and I don’t know how to say no..” The tears finally begin to spill as Peter talks. His head is killing him and his body is sworn and the voice in his head is nagging him even more. The look on Tony’s face says it all. Peter let him down, Peter disappointed him, and Peter worried him. “I’m sorry, I thought I could handle it.”

Tony doesn’t answer and simply steps aside as Stephen appears to tend to Peter’s medical needs. He doesn’t say anything, he just stands off to the side and looks at the ground. Peter can’t read his face, he can’t tell what's going on in his head. Is he angry? Upset? Not knowing is somewhat worse.

When Stephen finishes, he tells Peter that he’s simply dehydrated and only has a few bruises, nothing extreme. Seems like most of his injuries were healed due to his enhanced abilities.

No one says anything. They all look at each other and quietly leave for their own spaces. Peter can’t muster the courage to tell them what happened. Right now, he just wants the ground to swallow him whole. Peter makes it to his room, takes a much needed shower, and tries to sleep. He’s awakened, however, by Tony at his door with a plate of food.

“Oh, thanks but I’m not really-”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Tony coldly states and Peter shuts up. He hands Peter the plate and Peter realizes he isn’t leaving until Tony sees him clean the plate.

Reluctantly, Peter ate. His body needed to get used to consuming food on a regular schedule, not just every other day. When Peter finishes, he hands Tony the plate and apologies once again.

Tony doesn’t say anything, instead reaches over and kisses his forehead.

The next morning is a little better. Peter feels well-rested and his stomach isn’t doing flips. (He’s happy he kept his food down this time.)

He knows today his only task is to make it through the AcaDeca training (which would be easy, as he made the questions), and make it through his internship presentation. That alone takes the pressure off him, with a bonus that it’s Friday. Peter desperately needed the weekend.

He doesn’t even bother changing out of his pajama pants. He just throws on a hoodie and walks out the door. When he gets to school, it seems like MJ and Ned plotted to corner him. They both catch him in his usual corner and block any exits. “Pete, you gotta talk to us. Are you okay?” Ned starts out sweetly.

“Yeah, you look like a bus hit you on the way here,” said MJ. He laughs at her bluntness but assures them that everything is okay. (It’s not, but he thinks he’s getting better)

Today is just about staying awake- if he can even manage that. His migraine is still lingering and the school bells still hurt, but he thinks he’ll be okay.

Peter is proven wrong the minute he sits at his desk. Once he’s in his chair, his head is on the desk and he’s out cold. His body is catching up on the sleep he’s missed all week. No one bothers to wake him up, and if they did, Peter didn’t notice. Today marks the first day Peter slept in every class. Usually, he’d chug coffee to keep himself awake, but today he just couldn’t find the strength.

Every time the bells ring to switch classes, he’s violently jolted awake. Some teachers tried to check up on him, however, Peter still refuses any help and claims he’s okay.

When the final bell rings, Peter is beyond overjoyed. (No more loud bells in his ears.) He quickly makes his way to the auditorium for the AcaDeca training and throws himself into a chair.

Slowly, the rest of the team makes their way inside and immediately, “Parker, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Flash speaks up. And Peter can’t even be mad, he knows he looks awful. Flash saw him completely passed out in chemistry and history. Thankfully, MJ shuts him down and begins the training.

As MJ begins reading out questions to the team, Peter gets a text on his phone.

Harls: Hey, hope you’re feeling a bit better. The presentation got moved to 7 tonight, btw. Xx

3:56 P.M.

With a sigh of relief, Peter relaxes a bit and is able to focus on the training. While most of it was pretty easy, given that he made the questions, MJ threw in some surprise ones as well. The team discussed strategies and tactics, but Peter didn’t really listen. He patiently waited for the MJ to call the meeting to an end before he bolted out the door.

Tony was already outside the school. He’s patiently waiting in what appears to be Happy’s car. Peter hops in and just slumps into the seat. “Remind me to never take on any more responsibilities,” he says as he throws his bag into the backseat.

Tony laughs and replies, ‘Kid, you and I both know that you need to learn to say no. It’s about you taking on too much- well, partially that- but it’s also that you take on extra when you can easily say no.”

Peter thinks about that for a moment before responding, “Well, what am I supposed to do? I can’t just say no to someone in need.” By now, Tony is pulling onto the road as Peter leans his head against the window. “That’s true, just be mindful of those who need help and those who are taking advantage of you. Remember, put on your own oxygen mask before helping others.”

What Tony says rings true, and Peter sits with it for a bit. Maybe people are taking advantage of him. Or maybe he just took on too much. Right now, Peter is too exhausted to figure out which one applies to his current situation.

Eventually, Peter allows himself to close his eyes, finally allowing himself a moment of peace. (Sleeping on school desks is never comfortable, ignore if anyone tells you otherwise.) As he lays back against the seats, with the soothing hum of the car, Peter drifts off to sleep.

When they arrive at the Tower, Tony isn’t sure whether or not to wake Peter. It looks like he’s finally comfortable and finally resting. However, one quick glance at the clock and he knows Peter would be upset if he didn’t wake him up in time to review for his presentation. “Hey,” Tony starts gently shaking Peter, “We’re home. It’s 4:30 P.M. Figured you and Harley would want some time to prep for tonight, and maybe even have some dinner before.”

Peter musters up all the strength he was to get up and make his way out of the car. He thanks Tony and sluggishly drags himself to the lab. The bright lights from the Tower and the constant jostling are enough to wake him up a tad, but he’s still rather dazed.

As he enters the lab, Peter is met with Harley and his team all frantically reviewing. Harley is pointing at people and assigning roles as he catches a glimpse that Peter arrived. “-And you, get Peter a coffee, please!” The intern runs off and quickly returns with a cup of expresso for Peter.

“Alright, what do we need to go over,” Peter says as he takes a sip of his drink- and suddenly he feels much more awake. Harley begins running down everything they’ve covered. Who will be discussing the prompt, the robot, the calculations, and its real-world implications. “We just need someone to finalize the posters. Do you have the files, Peter?”

Peter nods, taking another sip of his expresso. (He can feel his entire body shaking.) “Yeah, I got them. Just to clarify, it’s one poster showing the rendered robot, another showing the entire crew, and one more for the overview and prompt?” Harley nods as Peter sets off to work in the corner. He and the team had agreed that he would begin the presentation and introduce their design, leaving the math to the other interns and Harley, who was far more awake and present. Peter quickly notices that he’s drank all of his expresso, and goes off to get more. His body is shaking and he feels dizzy, but he needs to stay awake. He just needs to make it through tonight.

Opening his computer, Peter finalizes all the posters and sends them down to the printing lab. He takes it as his excuse to get up and walk around, making sure his legs don’t fall asleep. He starts looking over all the reports, research, and calculations they did, and everything looks good. However, you can never be too sure.

Harley seems to be stressed out of his mind. “Okay, we start in an hour. Anything else we need to get done?” he frantically asks the group. After a series of ‘no’, Peter mentions that he’s going to pick up the posters and bring them up and that it should be the final thing they need. Harley lets out a sigh of relief and opts to join Peter as they both head downstairs.

The ride down the elevator is calming. Peter takes it as his chance to drop his head onto Harley’s shoulder. To this, Harley brings up his hand and begins playing with Peter’s hair. “I’m so tired..: Peter says, mumbling into his shoulders, The expresso is making him shake and he refuses to drink more, genuinely concerned for his health. “I know. You just need to do this one last thing, then you’re free.” Harley says as he places a light kiss on Peter’s head before they step put the elevator. Thankfully, the printing lab was empty. Both boys quickly gather the posters and then stand there for a moment.

“You know, I’m really sorry I snapped at you,” Harley says quietly. He’s looking down at the floor and won’t look up. “I was just so scared, I’m sorry if I made it worse.”

“No, no you didn’t.” Peter starts, “Yeah, it hurt, but I needed the reality check. I was so far in my own head that I didn’t realize what exactly I was doing. I didn’t consider how it’d affect me, or you…” Peter replies. They both look up and meet each others’ eyes. Peter notices the beginning of tears forming in Harley’s eyes and he makes his way over to catch them before they fall.

“I had a stumble. I’m…” and Peter wants to say that he’s okay, but he doesn’t want to lie anymore. He wants to fall over. He wants to cry. He wants to go to bed. “I’m getting help,” he concludes. Harley nods in approval of that statement and makes his way to kiss Peter’s foreahead. I’m just happy you’re okay,” He whispers.

Peter smiles and after a few seconds of enjoying each others embrace, they pull apart and begin to head back upstairs. By now, it’s 6:17 P.M., and Peter chooses to get a meal and a shower in before he presents. He is fighting to stay awake, as the espresso is wearing off and he can feel himself crashing soon.

After a quick warm shower, Peter finds himself a plate of food waiting for him at the table. Stephen is in the kitchen cleaning dishes when he noticies Peter. “Hey, I saved you a plate. Nervous?”

Peter immediately begins to scarf down the food. He feels slightly more refreshed after the shower, however the food finally makes him feel complete. His stomach is no longer growling and he’s not so light headed anymore. After a little small talk with Stephen, Peter feels a little more relaxed. They fall into a casual conversation, delicately avoiding the topic of Peter’s situation. He’s thankful, truly. He feels guilty enough and hearing about how it hurrt those around him just makes him feel worse.

By now, its 6:48 P.M. and Harley comes rushing into the kitchen. Without forming a coherent sentence, Peter understands what Harley is trying to say. “Robot. Present. Prep. Now.” Immediately, they both get up and begin bolting to the lab. In the distance, they hear Stephen wish them good luck.

The reason they were both so stressed was because of their reputations. It meant the expectations were even higher. These weren’t scientist that were just impressed because Peter was related to Tony Stark, these are people who couldn’t give less of a shit about Tony’s fame. However, they took it into account when setting the expectation.

When they make it to the lab, the other interns are also franctincally reviewing flash cards and pacing around the room. Peter luckily didn’t need to prepare for much, he just reviewed the outline of the introduction. Instead, he opted for drinking more espresso, trying to make it through the final push. His reward after this would be a long awaited nap.

As the scientist enter the room, Peter escapes into his safe space. If it was nay other day, he’d be fully present and in the moment, which might have caused an anxiety attack. However, Peter is just too tired to give a fuck. He disappears into his safe space and puts on his confident persona.

He goes trough the overview and introduction smoothly. Not really remembering where he is, just that he’s talking. Peter isn’t even present in the moment when the team begins to discuss the calcutioans and revisions they went through.

Peter only snaps back to reality when the board claps and congratulations them. Their faces ins’t giving anything away, he can;t tell if they’re disappointed or impressed. But honestly, he doesn’t care.

They end up finishing at 9:51 P.M. and Peter is beat. He can hardly stand up straight, and Harley is supporting his every step. When they finally making it to his bedroom, Peter dones;t even bother to get under the sheets. He falls onto his bed and the minute his head hits the mattress, he is out like a light.

Harley chuckles at the sight and draps a blanket over Peter, before kissing his forehead. Peter finally gets a break after, what he considers to be, the worst week of his life.

End.

Reposting the fic I posted here a few months ago. Wanna get into formatting more on tumblr!

#peter parker #harley keener #parkner #peter x harley #peter parker x harley keener #mcu #marvel #mcu fanfiction #i love them #mlm #gay

60 notes · View notes

homestuckreplay · 7 months ago

Text

Dad Egbert Found Alive In Kitchen

(page 88-90)

IT'S HIM. IT'S DAD TIME. On page 88, we get a dramatic silhouette and a slow zoom into his defining features - pipe, industrial sized baking oven, hat, and a cake big enough to make installing the oven worth it. After teasing him for so long, it feels like a great payoff to have his introduction be such a big moment.

I LOVE the top panel on page 89 - there's no dialogue, but I can hear John's dad saying "I know it's you under that disguise, kid." Given that there's only two of them in the house, I'm not sure what John was expecting, but I admire his resolve and determination.

The really important thing here, though, is 'STRIFE!' on page 90. I wasn't expecting the strife deck to come into play so soon, and definitely not in this context. It's a fascinating panel both in its themes, and in how it's constructed. It does such a good job of showing a parent-child relationship where neither of them are in the wrong; they're both just on completely different pages and struggling to communicate. All John can do is try to run past before his dad forces cake on him, and all Dad can do is try to give John the thing that he spent hours lovingly making. It's actually really sad, if you can look past the fun jester music.

It's also the most interactive panel so far in a story that's had the illusion of interactivity from the start. Usually, the cursor is moved by an invisible hand; on page 31, we can mouse over John's games but not actually click anything, but here we have two actual buttons to click that show us different animations - presumably John and Dad go back and forth like this for a while, and this is the best way to represent it. But knowing that Hussie has dabbled in 'choose your own adventure' type stories before with Bard Quest, I'm wondering if we could see that on a small scale with Homestuck - small branching paths that lead to the same outcome, choosing the route but not the destination, perhaps, which could allow for interesting storytelling but not be too wildly difficult to implement.

A couple of final things - Dad Egbert knows what the fuck he's doing. He lights all 13 candles at once with a single flick of the lighter. Also, John's fridge art is adorable. I want to know when he drew it and how long Dad's had it up there.

#homestuck #reaction #the meta/interactive stuff is definitely gonna be my next longer analysis. it keeps getting more and more interesting #chrono

38 notes · View notes

ukulelevillainwrites · 1 year ago

Text

who follows the rules anyway?

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9

complete

pairing : anthony lockwood x she/her reader

word count : 7.3k

content : fluff scenes where i was kicking my feet as i wrote them, angst too with another fight, the plot thickens

taglist : @cassiopeiia24 @archiveoftara

note : it's like i blinked and suddenly 3 weeks had passed, i have no idea where the time went but i certainly did not want to post this so late thank you everyone for your patience i really hope you like this part (i like it a lot let me know what you think)

“What do you mean?” She asked with round eyes.

“There’s been a sudden increase in missing sources in the past two weeks. This happens at the same time you see Dufour selling a source she stole from a client. That’s too big to be a coincidence.”

“Well, that’s my cue.” Lockwood said as he was heading for the door. “You should watch out, y/n, he’s going to be rambling for the next two hours.”

“Actually, I kind of want to hear this.”

She settled on the couch next to George, pulling a blanket over her legs. In this moment, there was nothing other than the light shining in George’s eyes as he went into further details and the softness of the blanket underneath her fingertips. About a week ago she thought she had seen him for the last time. That the last image she would have ever had of him was carrying his stuff in a cardboard box so damaged it was a miracle nothing was falling everywhere. Now here she was, listening intently as he told her about the operating system of an industrial-sized source-burning oven used at the furnaces and how time-wasting and inefficient it was to turn them on late. Her anxiety had made itself silent, her tears were dry, her breathing had slowed down. Maybe it was thanks to Lockwood’s comforting peace. Maybe it was thanks to her determination to see the positive even on the darkest days. Maybe she was lying to herself, drawing way out of proportion her ability to keep her emotions in check. Either way, she felt peaceful and warmth flooded her as she realized she got to listen to George’s crazy theories once more. She hoped many more evenings like these were to come. Her career plan may be out the window, but here she had found something she never got close to having at Fittes. She had found her home.

Lockwood left the room without a sound, smiling at his best friend’s enthusiastic tone and energetic hand gestures. She was too caught up in George’s explanation to notice him exiting the room and throwing her one last glance, relieved to see her smiling again. They stayed up well into the first hours of the following day, not paying attention to how late it was actually getting. They hadn’t realized how tired they were either apparently.

A ray of sunshine shone directly into her face. She reluctantly opened an eye to see the sofa in disarray and her blanket on the floor. She was exhausted. Her limbs were heavy, her clothes seemed to be made of lead. She turned her face away from the light, drifting back into peaceful slumber. She heard some light rustling and thought it was another one of her dreams. She was too tired to confront that girl again. But to her surprise she never came. Instead, she felt a cover being draped delicately over her. It was soft and smelled faintly of cinnamon. It was enough to put her back to sleep. As she was drifting in and out of consciousness she could have sworn she felt something brushing her cheek. She must have been dreaming.

She woke up crouched into the sofa, her legs resting on something harder than cushions and covered with a queen-sized blanket she thought she had dreamed of. Light was shining through the windows, the sun already high. She went to get up, but as she tried to move her legs a groan came out of the opposite side of the sofa. George was sleeping on the couch too, his legs underneath hers as well as a part of his torso. They were tangled up in one of the most uncomfortable sleeping position ever. Seeing them like this triggered her laugh which made George pull up the blanket over his head. She got up as delicately as she could so as not to disturb him. She stumbled into the kitchen, sleepy-eyed and unaware of her surroundings.

“I was starting to worry you two might be in a coma.”

She jumped, bumping into the foot of the closest chair.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

“What time is it?”

Lockwood told her it was almost one, laughing as he poured himself a cup of tea.

“I thought you’d be sleeping all day.”

“It would have been nice but we have a case tonight, right?” She mumbled. She wasn’t entirely up quite yet.

He smiled and handed her his cup. She warmed her hands on the mug, feeling more awake already. He went to pour himself another one but winced as he picked up the kettle.

“Your arm is still hurting?”

“Just a little, it’s nothing really…” He said, struggling to pour the hot water.

She got up to help him out but had to battle him to take hold of the kettle. She looked him straight in the eyes to silently convince him of letting her do this. He reluctantly let go, and she noticed his tie was undone.

“When did you wake up?” She asked as she poured him a cup.

“About two hours ago.” He said, taking a sip.

“And you didn’t tie your tie because…?”

“I didn’t have to go out yet.”

She might have only been living with them for a week, but during her time here she only saw him without a tie late at night once they had gotten home from a case.

She sighed and went to tie it for him. She raised her hands towards his collar. Before she could take hold of the blue fabric, he reached for them.

“I can do it myself, I swear-”

But his fingers had barely brushed her skin that he had to take hold of his arm. She looked back at him with a disapproving stare. He lowered his hands. She smiled with a triumphant grin, satisfied. He stood straighter with a sigh to allow her to focus on the knot. Slowly, she passed one band over the other.

“How did you manage to button your shirt in that state?”

“It… took longer than expected…” he admitted hesitantly, his eyes looking up at the ceiling.

She passed the larger band around the thinner one, passing it inside the forming knot.

“You need to learn how to ask for help.”

He looked down at her work and scoffed.

“You need to learn how to tie a tie.”

At that she tightened the knot around his neck, enough to startle him. His breath caught and for a moment he looked into her eyes with surprise. After a few seconds, she figured she had taught him a well-deserved lesson and loosened the knot carefully, maintaining eye contact. He still seemed to be holding his breath when she finally let go after neatly replacing his collar and making a few adjustments to the knot. Maybe she’d scared him. That would teach him to criticize her necktie expertise in the morning.

She sat back down, taking a sip of her tea before asking him if he was going to be okay on the case tonight.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“That probably means I should keep an eye on you. It could have been a very close call yesterday.”

“If you’re gonna keep an eye on me you’ll have to work on your rapier technique.”

“You’re so unfair! First of all, I saved your life. And second, I’m excellent with a rapier, Kipps mentored me every day when I was on his team.”

He let out what was probably the most honest laugh she had ever heard. She crossed her arms, vexed. He could be so infuriating.

“Kipps is mediocre at best.”

“Yeah right, like you could take him in a fight.”

“I could actually. I even brought back a trophy.” He winked at her. “Poor Quill never got over it.”

“Is that seriously the sole reason for your stupid rivalry?”

He nodded, smiling into his cup. He looked so proud. It was rather funny, but she was really close to slapping the grin off his face.

“That, and the fact you humiliated him.” George chimed in, coming through the door barely awake.

“Lockwood! I thought you were better than this.” She acted shocked, but they were all laughing.

“He’s the fully grown man holding a grudge.”

“Oh, right. And you’re just an idiot.” She teased.

He put a hand to his chest, like his feelings were hurt. George interrupted their banter to remind them of the case they had that night and what they were getting into. They organized the rest of their day, Lockwood insisting on training her this afternoon.

---

“Your stance is all wrong and the fight hasn’t even begun.” He left his position and took a step closer to her. “You’re already standing back in defense when nothing has happened yet. You have to look more confident otherwise you’ll lose the upper hand right away.”

“Sure, because confidence is a famous ward against ghosts.”

He wasn’t amused. Right then he looked like a strict fencing teacher bothered by his student’s lack of progress. She hadn’t realized placing her feet improperly could upset him so much.

“Just show me then.”

He came to stand right behind her, telling her to place her right foot a few inches farther from her left. He got closer, a serious look on his face. He really wasn’t joking anymore. He turned slightly around her and lifted her chin to make her look right in front of her. His eyes were sharp and focused. They didn’t linger on her face and he didn’t seem to notice hers getting rounder at the sudden contact of his fingers with her jaw. His other hand was on her waist, adjusting her position a few inches. He then came closer, mimicking her stance like he was her shadow, and took hold of her arms. She felt his breath in her hair. He strengthened her grasp on her rapier and lifted her right arm at the correct angle. It must have triggered his pain because he lost his balance, leaning against her before staggering backwards.

“Are you okay?”

“My arm’s a little sore, that’s all.” He was already trying to get her back into position.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this today.”

“Really, I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. I’ll cover you for tonight, I’ve done it before I can do it again.” She said, leaving her position to look at him. “No matter how skilled you are you’re not in the right state today, Lockwood. It’s okay to rely on others, you know?”

He didn’t even acknowledge what she just said before adding

“Just try to hold your arm lower than you usually do so you don’t cramp up. It’ll allow you to gain stamina and it could save us some time.”

George called them from the kitchen, he needed help with the bags.

“How did you know-”

Lockwood was already climbing the iron stairs. She shook off the feeling that he could see right through her. It was good advice. She focused on that part and made a mental note to remember it tonight.

---

The case had gone even better than the night before. Sure, it was just a Type One so it wasn’t as dangerous. But they were more coordinated, more organized and more methodical. Lockwood hadn’t gotten into a near death situation, which was a significant improvement. He had been in the last two cases they had been on together, it was enough for her to think it was a common occurrence.

She felt like she was part of a proper team again. However, now she didn’t feel the need to impress anyone. She wasn’t craving the praise and admiration of her team leader. It was liberating. She was free to do her job without worry. It made her feel more confident in her abilities too. She didn’t need to prove anything and she didn’t feel watched all the time. She had found a team that helped her grow.

They established a rotation of their roles, alternating who had to dispose of the source, who had to oil the chains and who had to give the keys back to the client the following day. The guys made her feel instantly like she was an essential member of the team.

The following day, two new clients made appointments. Then two others called. It was like she had blinked and then it had been a week since she’d been officially hired. The cases kept coming but she didn’t mind. Before all the drama of her professional life, she had loved her job and being part of an agency. It was risky, most of the time it sucked. But it was rewarding. And in the end she felt like she had a purpose, like she was making the most of the circumstances and helping out in her own way. The clients kept calling and the cases kept piling up, as if there was an outburst of paranormal activity. It wasn’t unusual to see an increase in hauntings nearing November, but she had hardly seen anything like this. Though Fittes had a lot more resources and maybe it hadn’t affected her team as much. With just them three they had a lot more work on their hands. It could get overwhelming at times but it kept her mind busy and she was thankful for that. It helped keep her dreams under control too. She hadn’t woken up in a cold sweat since she had seen the girl at the foot of her bed. And whatever she wanted from her, she was too busy to even think about it.

Another week passed. Time was flying and she had really gotten used to Portland Row. After a case she threw her rapier in the broken flower pot that stood as an umbrella stand with the others, smiled at the smell of toast coming from the kitchen, she was home. She knew what steps to avoid on a late night or an early morning, she started to know the names of the books in the library, she was even familiar with George’s filing system for their cases and his research, something even Lockwood found hard to follow.

She was grateful for George. He had brought her here. Well, she had followed him here but he was the reason she had stayed. And ever since he had made his best to make her feel at home. They had grown closer, they were actual friends now. Sometimes she assisted him on research, but mostly during the few moments of rest they had she sat at the kitchen table while he was cooking. Listening to him rambling was probably one of her main activities. But it kept her mind off her future, her responsibilities, her family who still thought she worked at Fittes. And she got to learn about random things that could always be useful someday. Once, she managed to find a source that had been hidden in a compartment inside a fireplace thanks to George’s detailed description of their nineteenth century construction technique.

Lockwood would sometimes join them, but it was rare. When they were home, he either had errands to run or paperwork to fill out. Late at night if they had a moment of rest he mostly sat in the comforting silence of the library with a magazine. He was still somewhat of a question mark. She hadn’t figured him out quite yet, but they got along. Training had become a regular thing. Once his arm had healed he had turned into the fencing teacher he aspired to be. He helped her improve her technique, her reflexes and stamina. She immediately saw the difference with the way Kipps used to train her. Kipps followed the rules, he’d always been behaving according to a script and every single one of his movements had been rehearsed. Because of him she had always thought that using her rapier was something that had been decided upon. There were rules and if she wanted to be good she had to stick to them. Anthony Lockwood was different. He was an artist with a weapon in his hand. He knew all the rules, sure. But he was creative, resourceful. Everything she had been taught so far was just a blank canvas to him and he used it to paint the most beautiful pictures. During their fights, he always found a way to gain the upper hand even when she thought her maneuver couldn’t be overpowered. He was so imaginative it was impossible to beat him. And he always looked elegant, no matter how long they fought he remained graceful until the end. It annoyed her every time. She always ended their sessions drenched in sweat and out of breath, her hair a mess. He looked slightly disheveled but overall unaffected. He didn’t even have the decency to act like she was a worthy opponent. His lessons were formative but also a great source of frustration. But it was all in good fun. It had helped them get along better. Though she didn’t feel like she had made much progress since the night he hired her. They would tease each other every now and then but aside from their training they didn’t spend that much time just the two of them. She didn’t know if he kept his distance intentionally or if it was just the normal relationship they should be having as colleagues. The night he comforted her was still very clear in her mind. She remembered vividly the gentleness of his tone and the warmth of his smile. She thought after that it would feel like they were actual friends but something was missing. She still considered that night to be special. It held a meaningful place in her mind, she hoped she would feel closer to him at some point. If she got George to come out of his shell, anything was possible.

Though, her optimism slightly faded the more she saw his behavior with others. She’d quickly learned that he had a natural charisma he used quite often, with clients, DEPRAC or anyone that might get in the way of what he wanted. He had different tricks he’d combine to make the best impression: listening intently to the requests, or sometimes orders, to seem polite and respectful, shine a wolf like smile to seem convinced and reasonable, then start a great speech with a serious tone and a hint of compassion, to end with that same grin she had soon learned was hard to say no to. What bugged her was that when she listened to those seemingly understanding tirades and saw him subtly smile, she got flashbacks from the night he hired her. It seemed a bit too familiar. It particularly disturbed her one night when the client they had been working for joined them right after they finished clearing her house. She had gone away during their inspection but was too preoccupied to sleep and had decided to stay nearby. When they debriefed the case and told her the ghost was very aggressive and was in fact her mother like she had suspected, she got emotional. Even more so when she was told the source was her own childhood stuffed animal. She was overcome with grief and the team tried to comfort her the best they could. She was on the steps in front of the house, too devastated to come in. She was barely older than them. y/n had felt much pain for her. Yet her attention was drawn to Lockwood, and how he comforted her. She was angry at herself for thinking about this. That girl was going through a lot and all her mind could focus on was how her colleague was behaving with her. She didn’t know what to say to ease her pain so she decided to make her tea. When she brought it to her she found out Lockwood was much more at ease than she was. As she reached the doorstep, she saw him sitting with their client.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you. I guess we’ve got that in common. How fun.” Their client tried to sound sarcastic but she was still sobbing.

“It gets better, I promise.” Lockwood put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Don’t be afraid to let people in, you might be pleasantly surprised.” He gave her a warm smile that, from afar, looked terribly similar to the one he had given her. It was like she was watching the scene from a few weeks ago, replaying here in front of her. Only this time she wasn’t part of it. And that smile wasn’t for her. She slowly closed the door, went back to the kitchen to pour a new cup of tea for Lockwood. She went back out and handed them their cup. He thanked her and smiled the same way he had a few moments ago, but it didn’t mean as much now.

She had tried not to pay too much attention to it yet she couldn’t help but feel like Lockwood had been lying to her somehow. She thought he had cared about her, since he had acted like a close friend would have. But every time she saw him shine his smile to someone else she realized it hadn’t really meant anything to him. Maybe getting close like she and George were would be harder than expected. Every time she thought she was close to figuring him out she went back to square one. It wouldn’t be the only thing that had made her notice how wrong she could be about him. His whole rivalry with Kipps and overall pride he made no effort to hide instinctively indicated that he was someone who would understand why she needed to clear her name, but apparently not.

After two weeks of late nights and intense work, they finally caught a breath. The phone had stopped ringing and they could finally enjoy a day off. They woke up late, George cooked a breakfast so big it could only be described as a feast. They had all planned to relax but George being George he intended to go to the Archives anyway.

“But you spend all your days there already!” y/n told him.

“Yes, but today I can research stuff I never have time to look into. Like that whole Dufour thing.”

“You’re not still into that, are you?” Lockwood lifted his eyes from his magazine.

“I just want to see if I was right!” He said, exiting the room.

“Of course you’re right. You are every time.” Lockwood mumbled, going back to his reading.

There was silence after he had gone. It was the first time in weeks that she was alone with Lockwood and they didn’t have to talk about work.

“You really think that he’s right?”

“From experience I’d say so, yeah.”

“Then I think I’m gonna go with him if you don’t need help with anything.”

“Oh. Sure.”

“If that bitch is involved in something big I have to find out!” She meant it as a joke, but part of it was true.

She got up to join George, but Lockwood caught her hand.

“You should let go of that whole thing, y/n. It’s not healthy to dwell on it.”

It took her a minute to answer. Her mind had gone blank the instant his fingers had brushed against her wrist.

“That woman fired me and is selling stolen sources. I want bad stuff to happen to her.”

He laughed lightly.

“I get it but… just be careful.”

“I will… I am.”

He nodded slightly, releasing her hand. His eyes didn’t leave her as she went to find George. Her hand still tingled as she stepped through the front door.

When they got to the Archives, the streets were buzzing with activity. They reached the inside of the building and the noise fell silent, everyone inside focused on their task. Despite the crowd, they managed to find an open spot. George was happy to have her with him that afternoon. Mostly because he wanted to go through the news coverage over the last month and had selected not one but four different newspapers for the task. With a hundred and twenty papers to read, he was glad he had extra help.

“What are we looking for exactly?”

“Anything that could be relevant to Dufour or relic-men. Something that could be part of a bigger operation linking them to the furnaces.”

“That doesn’t really narrow it down…” But he didn’t even notice what she said, he had already started reading.

They had two newspapers each, covering every day of the past month. She picked up the first one on her pile and started looking through the pages for any useful information. There wasn’t anything addressing relic-men or a dealing of sources. The columns dedicated to the Problem were focusing mainly on the advances made by the Rotwell Institute or the donations Fittes had provided to the victims of ghost-lock. One more death by ghost-touch wouldn’t make the headlines. She closed the first newspaper and reached for another one. George was scribbling at high speed in his notebook.

“Did you find something interesting?”

“Yes, about 3 and a half weeks ago there was a short article that mentioned the death of a man the police assumed to be a relic-man. Usually newspapers love this kind of story because relic-men really apply themselves when they kill a rival. It’s the kind of gruesome tale that boosts their sales. But here it’s very brief, talks succinctly of a settling of scores but nothing more. It’s a little surprising, maybe there’s more to it.”

His imagination paired with his attention to detail led to impressive discoveries in seemingly random information.

“Maybe you should double check mine when you’re done…”

She kept reading, the pile of newspapers decreasing slowly. She didn’t manage to find any groundbreaking piece of information, but she did notice the repetition of burglaries in different neighborhoods. It had been mentioned five or six times over the last few weeks. The stolen objects where the usual type of thing: jewelry, money and anything worth selling. But some objects stood out in the list made by the reporter because they were all antiques. The articles suggested that the culprit or culprits might be collectors, but George would certainly find another explanation. She pitched him her theory and he started to write even faster. She didn’t think that was possible. She was glad she could finally help, they had been here for two hours and she hadn’t contributed at all until now.

George got right back to his research but y/n needed a break. She told him she was going to get them some tea but he was already deep into another newspaper.

She got up and started to make her way outside. She climbed down the stairs, putting her jacket on. She headed for the door, but someone caught up with her and grabbed her arm. She turned around to see Quill Kipps with an uncomfortable look on his face.

“y/n, hello… I’m glad I ran into you…”

“I really don’t have time, George is waiting for me.” She dismissed him. She wasn’t over the comments he had made and she lacked the patience to have an entire conversation.

“Oh, some work to do for Lockwood & Co?” He said with an uneasy laugh. That kind of small talk didn’t seem to be his forte.

“Yeah.” She looked at the door, trying to send a message.

“I-I didn’t know you were… um… working there.”

She pressed her lips into a thin smile. She was actually curious to see what he was going to say next.

“You should watch out, Lockwood’s an idiot.”

Unbelievable. For arch nemeses they were behaving awfully similar. Though it would be unfair to say that his comment wasn’t accurate sometimes.

“That’s funny because I hear similar things about you back home.”

“Oh, it’s your home now?”

“Kipps, seriously what do you want?”

“I wanted to apologize.”

“Well, you’re doing a fantastic job!” She pushed the door and rushed outside. She didn’t know if it was Lockwood’s loathing of the guy that had rubbed off on her or if it was simply this conversation but she had had enough of him. Unfortunately for her he was persistent. He ran after her, telling her to slow down.

“What?” Her tone was cold and menacing.

He took a step back.

“y/n… I’m really sorry about what happened at the furnaces. It was insensitive and really dumb of me and I’m sorry.”

He seemed honest enough. She looked up.

“I’m worried about you. You were one of the best agents I’ve worked with but now there are some pretty bad rumors going around Fittes…”

“What rumors?”

Something shifted in his attitude. He was worried but he also seemed afraid of something she couldn’t pinpoint. He tried to put the next part delicately but it had the opposite effect.

“Many agents have been saying things about you going… bad? Like… on the wrong side of psychical work…”

Her stomach twisted and the fact that he spoke in riddles didn’t help. Was he afraid of her?

“Just spit it out, Kipps.”

“According to some probably unreliable sources, you’d be working closely with… relic-men.”

“You can’t be serious.” The blood left her cheeks.

“George too…”

She felt light-headed.

“Given your reaction I’m guessing I was right not to believe them.”

“How gracious of you.”

“y/n I’m serious. I may have only worked with you for a month but I know how seriously you took your job. And given the proportions this is taking I just wanted to offer my help.”

“What do you mean?”

“You haven’t seen today’s paper?”

“No… why?”

He pulled out a newspaper. On the front page the head title read “Rogue agents: should we be doing more?”. She looked up at him, a million questions flooding her mind. That article couldn’t be about her, right? He gave her an apologetic smile and asked her if she wanted a cup of coffee. He didn’t wait for her answer and led her to the coffee shop next door. Her eyes hadn’t left the article as they sat down. The reporter was explaining in great details that agents, after seeing so many traumatic things, needed to be eased back into society before returning to a normal life. He invoked psychological explanations that remained unclear. He advocated for the creation of a rehabilitation program to keep ex-agents under control so they didn’t end up on the wrong side of the law. He went as far as offering a mandatory two-month long camp of sorts for troublesome young people. He justified his remarks with murky reasons. Having worked in the field for many years, she knew this was all bullshit. But to someone who had never been in her shoes, it would be convincing without a doubt. But the worst part was yet to come. To emphasize the urgency of this issue, the reporter used examples of agents who had apparently gone wrong, citing several supervisors as his source. Apparently, a certain Fittes supervisor had been the witness to concerning behaviors coming from two young people, now ex agents, who had been caught committing several felonies, including maintaining business relations with known relic-men. Right there, on the following line, appeared her name. The reporter ended his piece in a dramatic tone, underlying the fact that those wrong doers hadn’t been apprehended by DEPRAC and remained at large.

She threw the newspaper back on the table.

“It wouldn’t have surprised me that much to hear that Karim was part of this. But you… It seemed impossible. And I really wanted to check up on you.”

She didn’t know what to say. Her name was being dragged through the mud. And what, she was going to be forced in a rehabilitation program made up by some trashy reporter and all because of the same person who fired her? Like ending her career hadn’t been enough. She was taking the blame for the crimes she had seen Dufour commit.

“I need to… get out of there.”

Kipps got up as she stood up.

“Can I keep this?”

“Yes, whatever you need.”

She smiled, or at least tried, and pushed the door of the coffee shop. Before she left Kipps called her.

“y/n, I’m on your side okay? You can count on me.”

“Thank you.” She answered faintly. She was still shaken. She couldn’t believe the proportions this was taking. She had finally started to let go of her time at Fittes and all her efforts were reduced to nothing with just one page in a newspaper.

She rushed back to the Archives, desperate to show the article to George. He hadn’t noticed how long she had been gone, he didn’t even say anything about the tea she didn’t bring back. His notebook was filled with new facts and arrows linking some of them together. She sat down next to him. He didn’t look up, he just started talking, saying something about repetitive power outages. She pushed the newspaper Kipps gave her in front of his notes.

“What’s this?”

“Today’s newspaper. We made the front page.”

“What do you-”

His eyes were fleeting across the paper. They grew wider as he went further.

“This is a joke, right?”

“I wish it was. Maybe it’s just a nightmare and I’ll wake up on the couch with your feet in my face.” She tried to ease the tension she was feeling but none of them laughed. She was self-conscious about being in a place filled with agents. Did they read the paper too? Did they know who they were? She heard two people whispering on her left, she turned to look, George did the same.

“Maybe we’ll be better home.”

“Yeah let’s get out of here.”

No one had said a thing the whole way home. They were both lost in thought. George opened the front door. They took off their jacket and instinctively went down to the kitchen. She put the kettle on while he got some biscuits. They sat facing each other, seeking comfort in the sweetness of cookies and the warmth of their tea. Lockwood entered the room and was taken aback by the look on their face.

“What happened to you both? You look like you’ve seen a ghost in broad daylight.”

“We ran into Kipps.” George said without elaborating.

“I can understand how this could ruin someone’s day.” He smiled broadly.

“It’s not about him.” y/n snapped. “It’s about this.” She handed him the newspaper.

Lockwood skimmed through the article, still smiling. He didn’t look affected at all.

“Well, this is obviously ridiculous. But there’s no need to panic over a badly written article.”

“Lockwood this is on the front page!” George exclaimed.

“Rumors are starting to spread at Fittes.” y/n said in a monotone voice.

“I understand that this is an uncomfortable position to be in but it’ll blow over. There’s no need to overreact, juts keep a low profile.”

“I’m not gonna sit still while Dufour is out there ruining our reputation after already ruining our careers.” She stood up. “We’ve got enough dirt to bury her with what we found today.”

Lockwood gave her an exasperated look. George didn’t notice and began going over his notes, explaining the connections he had made.

“There’s clearly a link there and we can act on it!”

“Absolutely not!”

The temperature had dropped several degrees. The tension in the room was palpable. At least y/n felt it. But George had kept on going, starting to come up with a plan to follow Dufour and see what she was up to from up close.

“George.” Lockwood interrupted. “You’re reaching. It’s a coincidence at best and you know it. It wouldn’t be the first time relic dealing affects other industries.”

“Come on! Don’t you think that-”

“No. I don’t. Please try to focus on the real cases this business needs and don’t get stuck on another obsession.”

“You’re so unfair! You’re the one who keeps telling me that George is always right and that we should listen to his instincts!” y/n cut in.

“And I also told you that you shouldn’t do what he does. The last time you did, it got you fired.” Lockwood turned to her, his arms crossed. How often was he going to go into that well?

“Because you’re always so good at following made up rules…”

“I’m being rational and grounded, which in this case makes me exemplary.”

“Right, and that’s coming from the guy who disregards his own safety most of the time and doesn’t acknowledge that the risks he takes are completely unnecessary.”

“You’re the one who wants to play right into her game! Can’t you see that she’s waiting for one of you to slip up so you can take the blame for everything she’s done?” He gave both of them a warning look. He made a good point, but he was much too aware of it and she didn’t want to acknowledge it.

“I’m serious when I say do not act on it. Dragging Lockwood&Co into this mess would be the last thing we need.”

His last words ignited the flame already burning inside her.

“This is all this is about, isn’t it? If your name was the one being tied to crimes you didn’t commit you’d be the first to convince us to do something about this. But when it’s the other way around you have to think of business first.”

“This company is all you have left!”

“Rather you’re all we have left, right? The great Anthony Lockwood rescuing us and being a hero. How glorious of you!”

He scoffed and closed exasperated eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You need to keep your ego in check, Lockwood. You need us as much as we need you!”

“If you want to cut your safety net then you can go! But as long as you work in my company, you’ll have to listen to what I have to say. It’s my name on the door and it’s my decision.”

She stormed out of the room and went up to the attic. His lack of understanding was too much to bear. She wished he had listened. Was it really too much to ask? She really thought that he would see why she needed to do something instead of laying low. Him of all people should understand. She guessed she didn’t know him as well as she thought.

She spent the rest of the day in her room, brooding, thinking about Dufour. The nerve she had to blame her for everything she did. All of this because she offered a different solution than hers to a client? Sure she broke into her office after that but it still seemed extreme.

She didn’t feel like going downstairs for dinner. She wasn’t really hungry anyway. But even if she had been, she didn’t want to face the obvious tension that would follow. She had gotten used to Lockwood’s warm brown eyes, but today they had been cold when he looked at her. She hadn’t been arguing with a friend or roommate or whatever they were, he had been her employer and she was expected to follow his orders.

There was a knock on her door. It was George, bringing her some food. He put the plate on her nightstand and sat next to her on her bed.

“Thought you could use something to eat.”

“That’s sweet of you, thank you.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Upset. And overwhelmed. But I’ll be okay. It’s just a lot you know?”

“Yeah… I still tried to convince Lockwood over dinner. You were right not to come down, it wasn’t a pleasant conversation. He’s dead set on burying this whole thing.”

At least she had one ally in this house.

“I don’t understand his reaction. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Don’t overthink it. He’s just… like that sometimes.”

She didn’t say anything for a while, lost in thought. George went to get the plate he had brought up and put it in her hands.

“You should eat. Don’t worry, you’ll be back to teasing each other in no time.” She froze. After a second, she looked up and saw him look so proud of himself.

“That’s not what this is about! What are you even getting at?”

He laughed and put a hand over her shoulder, rolling his eyes. She wanted to push him off her bed, but one bite and she surrendered, forced to compliment him yet again on his cooking.

The following morning y/n was the first one up. Sleep had cleared her mind. If Lockwood wasn’t going to help them, then she would take matter into her own hands. The plan George had started to elaborate the night before had grown into her mind. Following Dufour would really help her know what she was up against. George’s theory was a good start, but to take action she needed to know more about her operation, her clients, her associates. What was she in charge of exactly? How did she cover her tracks?

She walked into the kitchen with purpose. Today, she was taking her life back. She brewed some tea, poured herself a cup and ate toasts as she started to devise her plan on the Thinking Cloth. She remained vague on purpose. If Lockwood saw it, he would think it was just theoretical, like one of George’s ideas. She was so focused that she didn’t hear him coming in. He poured himself a cup of tea, but it was only when he spat it out that she noticed he was there.

“Why do you always make your tea so bitter?” he asked way too loudly for this hour of the morning.

“I think it suits you…” She mumbled, her eyes still set on the table.

He poured more water in his cup but still groaned when he tried it again. Desperate for silence, she got up and grabbed the sugar.

“Here, maybe it’ll soften your mood too.”

“No!” he exclaimed too late. She was already adding sugar to his cup. The opposition only made her pour more of it.

She felt him glaring at her. She tried not to smile, knowing it would infuriate him further and make her morning even less enjoyable. She sat back down and grabbed licorice from the bag that rested on the table. As she went to take a bite he slapped her wrist, making her drop it.

“Ow! What was that for?”

He didn’t bother to answer. He simply took the bag of licorice and left the room. She thought many things of Anthony Lockwood. He was a prick and an idiot, hot headed and impulsive, stubborn, but she didn’t know petty was also part of the list. He quickly said something about meeting an old friend before slamming the front door on his way out. It must have woken up George since he stumbled into the kitchen sleepy-eyed just a few minutes later. She didn’t intend on filling him in about her plan just yet. She wanted to have tangible result before dragging him into it.

She took a while longer to get all the details of her plan. She had tried to plan an itinerary that checked all the important places she needed to stake out. She would try to do as much as possible in one day. Once she had a clear idea where to start, she went up to the attic to finish getting ready. In the hall, she told George she had some errands to run. She put on her shoes, grabbed her coat and was about to open the door when the bell rang. She looked through the peephole. A tall thin man and a woman where standing in front of the door, a DEPRAC van parked right outside the house. She hesitantly opened the door.

“Good morning. I’m inspector Barnes, this is inspector Wade. Is George Karim here?”

“Um… Yes. Yes, he’s here. Should I go and get him?”

He ignored her question.

“Are you miss (y/n)?”

“Yes… I am…”

“I’m gonna have to ask you both to come with us.”

———

PS : I'm probably gonna open the next part with a couple of scenes from lockwood's pov ;))

#ukuwrites #who follows the rules anyway #lockwood and co fic #lockwood and co #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood x y/n #lockwood and co imagine #lockwood & co #anthony lockwood #george karim #quill kipps

95 notes · View notes