#I think I got the arm proportions mostly correct on these ones finally | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bubble-tea-bunny · 4 years ago

Text

pretty please

[zuko x reader]

author’s note: wowowow it’s been a minute. until this story, i literally hadn’t written anything since april. i really don’t like to write unless i’m in the correct headspace and it took about 4 months to get back into one ^^’ anyway, i’d been sitting on this idea since july, and i’m glad to have written it. hope you enjoy

word count: 3,341

The doors of the Jasmine Dragon are always open to welcome patrons and a cool breeze. Zuko marks the beginning and end of each day by the size of the crowd—which grows in the early hours and keeps him and Uncle Iroh decently busy until finally it begins to shrink—and by the crisp air which greets him in the morning and again in the evening, both instances when the sun is hidden by the horizon. Heavy rain has been pouring over Ba Sing Se as of late, but today is the first day where the clouds have cleared, and Zuko is once again able to gauge the time by the color of the sky: at opening, a wash of indigo with strips of pale yellow at the horizon like the sands of a faraway land, and at closing, reds and oranges like fire.

Dusk paints the rug in the center of the shop in a warm-toned light, the jasmine dragons embroidered upon it more like crimson dragons now. Zuko gently sets the tray with its empty pot and teacups down on the counter before turning around to wave at the last customers of the evening. They’d lingered to chat with Uncle Iroh, and Zuko had spent the time tidying the rest of the shop, so that once it’s just the two of them left, most of the cleaning is done.

Zuko yawns, feeling the fatigue catching up to him now that the place is silent but for the quiet clinking of ceramic dishes. Uncle Iroh chuckles.

“Tired?” he asks.

Zuko shrugs, a noncommittal answer. “A little, but I think I’d rather eat dinner than go to sleep right now.” As if on cue, his stomach growls. It had been busier than usual today, and as consequence, he’d decided to work through lunch.

“Did someone say ‘dinner’?”

A loud voice carries from all the way across the threshold, prompting Zuko and Uncle Iroh to see who it is. Sokka leans against the doorframe, arms crossed and crooked smile on his face. “Because I could do with some food right about now.”

Upon realizing who is standing there, Zuko smiles widely. “Sokka! You didn’t mention you’d be in Ba Sing Se.”

“To be honest, I didn’t really plan on it, but I was in the area, and you know how the saying goes: spontaneity is the spice of life, and yada yada.” Sokka waves a hand dismissively.

Catching up with a friend he hasn’t seen in a while makes Zuko look forward to dinner even more, but he stops short and glances to his right, where Uncle Iroh is already watching him.

“Go,” he encourages with a nod. “I’ll clean up here.”

“Thank you, Uncle.” Zuko gives a respectful bow, and then he’s traipsing across the teashop to join Sokka, and they descend the steps together into a dark and brilliant night.

The first subject of conversation is figuring out where to eat, and after tossing a few suggestions back and forth, they settle on a noodle bar that stays open late. If they get caught up talking for too long, they could remain there a while. The rest of the walk, then, is spent swapping stories of what they’ve been up to since last they saw each other. Zuko listens attentively, smiling absentmindedly, truly interested in the adventures his friend has been on.

It’s when the tables are turned and Sokka asks What about you? that Zuko heaves a sigh, shoulders sagging. He’d been so busy back in the Fire Nation with diplomatic affairs, talking to this person and then that person, visiting other regions and welcoming ambassadors to his own. By now, he handles his position as Fire Lord with grace and respectability, but he’s still human and gets worn out too.

“That’s why I came to Ba Sing Se,” he explains. “To get away from all that and just spend time with Uncle.” And sure, he gets tired after working at the Jasmine Dragon all day, but it’s mostly from being on his feet, going from the back of the shop to the front to serve customers, a route he repeats for hours. It’s a different sort of tired from fulfilling his duties as the Fire Lord, and is entirely worth it to him, to take a moment to be no one but Zuko, a guy who works at a teashop.

Sokka smiles sympathetically. “I’m glad I chose to stop by Ba Sing Se. I was wondering how you’d been doing.”

The stress slowly melts away as Zuko smiles back, his shoulders not feeling nearly as heavy as when he’d first arrived in the city. He misses his friends whenever they’re all apart, and he too has lingering thoughts about their wellbeing always in the back of his mind as he goes about his days, and now that he’s finally reunited with one, he’s beginning to feel more like himself again, pulled back down to the ground.

As they turn the corner, the Firelight Fountain comes into full view, yellow lanterns illuminating the ground and the nearby buildings. Though it’s dark, there are still people here, either passing through on the way to their destinations or choosing to congregate on the benches and the edge of the fountain itself. It’s in the latter location that Zuko spots you.

You’re seated a little farther away from the only other two people who have chosen the fountain as a place to rest, perhaps to afford you some quiet as you read a book. The gurgle of the water behind you serves as a perfect white noise, enough to fill the silence but not to pull your attention away.

“Ah… She’s pretty cute.”

Zuko blinks and glances at Sokka. “What?”

Sokka tilts his head in your direction. “I saw you looking at her.”

“Wha—I was not.” But Zuko’s avoiding eye contact and his cheeks feel warm, embarrassed to have been caught (even if he hadn’t exactly been attempting subtly to begin with).

“Hey, come on, nothing to be shy about!” Sokka playfully nudges him with his elbow, and they slow to a complete stop, finding themselves now under the lights of all the lanterns, stopped just on the inside edge of where the light meets the darkness it couldn’t quite reach. Zuko’s still not looking at him, and Sokka’s grin grows. He is thoroughly amused. “You should go talk to her.”

Zuko shakes his head. “No!” he replies hastily. And then, more slowly, “She looks busy anyway.”

Sokka raises a brow. “I bet she’d make time for you. Any girl would.”

The matter-of-fact way in which Sokka says this is flattering, truly, but it doesn’t convince Zuko that approaching you would be anything but a bad idea. “Forget about it. Let’s just get food.” He tries to continue walking but Sokka is quick to clap him on the shoulder, halting his steps, and he just barely keeps from stumbling backwards from the sudden stop in momentum.

“Oh no you don’t,” Sokka declares. Zuko brushes his hand off with a groan and twists around, a silent plea to let the subject drop inherent in his eyes, but Sokka easily ignores it. “What if she’s your soulmate? You can’t just keep walking!”

“My… soulmate?” Okay, now Sokka is starting to blow this out of proportion. He’d spared a glance your way because you were pretty and that was it. “There’s no such thing—”

“You don’t know that!” Sokka exclaims.

“And you do?” Zuko counters.

Sokka shrugs but it’s not a sign of defeat. “I’m just saying, when the soul knows, it knows. You didn’t pick her out of the crowd for no reason.”

It’s awfully dramatic and Zuko opens his mouth to respond but then closes it, deciding he wouldn’t win this debate. Sokka is persistent when he wants to be, and when it comes to the topic of love, Zuko’s on the losing side every time. He knows, however, that if he were really insistent, Sokka would let it drop and they would resume their walk to the noodle bar, but it wouldn’t be without a warning that Zuko was making a huge mistake and that he’d regret it, going to bed thinking about you and then dreaming about you but he’d never be able to find you again—

Even imaginary Sokka is hard to handle and Zuko takes a deep breath, momentarily diverting his gaze from the real Sokka in front of him over to you, and back again.

“So…” Sokka trails off, watching him expectantly.

“I’d mess it up,” Zuko offers weakly in the way of an excuse.

“You’re the Fire Lord,” Sokka says as if that solves the issue. “You got this!”

“I don’t… really see how that’s supposed to help me…” Zuko tilts his head, confused.

Sokka rolls his eyes. “Just go!” He gives Zuko an encouraging shove.

With a quiet huff, Zuko ambles in the direction of the fountain, where you still sit reading, none the wiser to the fact you were the subject of their conversation. Halfway through the walk, he looks over his shoulder at Sokka, who gestures enthusiastically for him to keep going and to stop looking over here because you’re over there and you’re what’s important.

Is it too late to turn around? Zuko thinks begrudgingly to himself as he sets his sights on you. He ruminates on the question with every step he takes, reasoning that perhaps he could deal with Sokka talking off his ear about how he will regret not doing anything, because surely Sokka couldn’t keep it up for that long, right? (The immediate doubt Zuko feels upon considering this point speaks for the contrary.)

But before he can make up his mind, suddenly he’s in front of you and though he’s said nothing, you sense his presence and your eyes slide up from the pages of your novel to him, the lower half of your face concealed by the hardcover. The few seconds of silence that follow feel instead like a few years, panic filling Zuko as he fails to say anything. Your eyes flicker to the side, which he assumes you do to check if he’d actually meant to approach someone else because, well, why would he be talking to you? You don’t know each other.

“That book seems really interesting,” he says finally, and he wants to crawl into a hole and hide. Five words in and it is already not going well. What kind of opening was that?

You blink and lower the book, using a finger to mark your place before closing it to get a better view of the cover. It’s blank.

“W-Well, I just thought it was really interesting there’s nothing on the cover!” Zuko rushes out. “Since, you know, you usually don’t see that, and… and…” His intention was to segue into asking you what it was about, having decided that to be his way into a longer interaction with you, but the words die in his throat the longer he looks at you now that your face isn’t hidden because you’re a lot prettier up close and he learns tonight that you’re what all those love stories must be talking about when they extol the levels of beauty which render a lovesick heart speechless.

If you’re bothered by the bouts of silence, this most recent one stretching longer than the first, you don’t say anything. In contrast, you continue to sit there, watching him steadily, waiting patiently, and Zuko feels bad that he’s so bad at this. Never has the act of talking come less easily than it does now, in a situation where the stakes are lower than any dialogues he has with diplomats or government officials. It really shouldn’t be this difficult talking to a girl, but maybe he has it backwards and the stakes here are higher, because if he entertains Sokka’s admittedly outrageous claim just a few minutes previous about what you could possibly mean to Zuko, and if in fact the hands which keep the world turning are also those which keep hearts beating with purpose to seek out their companion, then the stakes as he stands here are the highest of all.

He’s still scrambling for what to say next, entirely unsure how to salvage a conversation that hasn’t even taken off yet. Nervously he rubs the back of his neck. Sokka must be observing the whole situation unfolding with equal parts stress and exasperation because even if Zuko isn’t actually flailing his arms, helpless and drowning in an open sea called love, his awkward posture and anxious spluttering are enough of a metaphorical signal. Sokka’s on the shore, too far to come to his rescue right away, but maybe this will go the way of those romantic tales and it will be you who holds a hand out to save him instead.

However, you’re beaten to the punch by those aforementioned invisible hands of destiny as they, quite literally, push Zuko closer to his own. A couple of kids dash past the fountain, laughing loudly as they chase each other in a game, and one of them checks Zuko in the back, which causes him to stumble forward.

He manages to catch himself with a hand braced on the edge of the fountain, and luckily too, because if he hadn’t, he would’ve fallen on you and knocked both of you back into the water. But now the two of you are face-to-face, mere inches away, and your eyes are wide in surprise and he is mortified. This entire conversation (if one could call it that) he had been plagued with the urge to apologize for being so skittish and acting so strange and the urge multiplies now because he could’ve accidentally kissed you and he’s honestly not sure what would be worse—that, or the two of you tumbling into the fountain.

This close up, the top half of your face takes up most of his field of vision, but in his peripherals he notices the curl of your mouth, and his gaze briefly drops down to it, to the smile which has found its way there.

“Looks like you just fell for me,” you remark teasingly, the quip slipping from your lips so easily and in this moment he can think only of two things: one, that your voice is incredibly soft, like the first warm light of morning settling on his skin, and two, that you have no idea how right you are.

Zuko’s wrist begins to feel slightly sore from bearing the brunt of his weight and that’s when he realizes he’s stayed that way for too long, and he clears his throat and stands back up straight. “S-Sorry…” he says quietly. For being skittish and acting strange and, now, for almost falling on you.

Your smile widens and it reaches your eyes and in their depths are the reflection of the lanterns surrounding you both and Zuko can’t help but liken them to stars strung across the sky. “It’s okay.”

The tension has slowly ebbed away, your almost-collision the perfect ice breaker. It had been a shocking one, certainly, but that was what Zuko needed. Anything more subtle and he probably wouldn’t have felt relaxed enough to think clearly. From the few words you’ve said, he knows you’re far from bothered by him approaching you, and he’s able to calm down a little bit.

“So as I was saying, that book of yours…” Internally he cringes. Why did he have to go back to the book? This was the perfect chance to steer the topic elsewhere! What was he supposed to follow up to that?

“It is interesting,” you comment. Zuko’s cheeks heat up. You’d noticed his struggle. But he is grateful nonetheless that you’re helping carry the conversation along. The fact you’re seemingly in no rush to end it must be a good sign.

“I could explain it to you, the plot, since there’s no summary or even title on it or anything, so…” You trail off and he wonders if he’s imagining the nervousness suddenly inherent in your amiable grin, as you go quiet and look up at him and—oh. Oh.

This is the opening he’d been looking for, the one he’d been unable to find himself because he is completely helpless in scenarios like these. If the universe and its mysterious machinations had been the hand to keep him from drowning, you’re on the lifeboat checking to make sure he’s okay, the sun behind your head a halo and maybe heaven feels like a warm day and smells like salt in the ocean. And maybe it looks like you.

“That sounds like a great idea,” Zuko states. “Maybe over some tea?”

“I’d like that.”

Then, before he has the chance to change his mind, “Are you free right now?”

The question stops you short, and he’d completely understand if you said no. This is incredibly short notice, and there was no issue with making plans for another day. But you have no qualms about the sudden invitation, for you place your bookmark to save the page then stand, clutching your book close to your chest. “I am.”

Zuko grins lopsidedly. “Great.”

He guides you in the direction of the Jasmine Dragon, and as you begin to walk, while your focus is on the path in front of you, he glances quickly over at Sokka. He wouldn’t have made the split second decision to ask you out right now if he didn’t think Sokka would be fine with it. But he knows his friend well and Sokka is, indeed, perfectly okay with the unexpected turn in the evening. From across the way, by the lanterns farthest from you two, he is smiling proudly and giving a thumbs up. They would have time to catch up tomorrow (and Zuko is sure Sokka will want him to recount everything about his time with you).

At the teashop, he tells you to pick any table you’d like while he goes to prepare a pot of tea. You both lose track of time as you talk, for the conversation opens up to other avenues aside from your novel, and Zuko notes that the tea he’s drinking has never tasted so good. It reminds him of something he heard a while ago, hazy in his mind currently, and he wracks his brain trying to recall it. What was it that Uncle said?

The best thing to have with tea is a good friend. Yes, that sounds correct. Zuko can envision him as he says that, a teacup clutched in his hands and wise grin on his face, and at the thought, Zuko hides his smile behind his own as he takes another sip. But the move doesn’t escape you, and you catch the small smile. It makes you halt in the middle of your sentence to address it.

“What?” you ask, amused and curious.

Zuko shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

Your eyes are sparkling and he knows that you know he’s lying, but for his sake you drop the subject, instead returning to your original topic. And he continues to listen and hang on all your words and he is the luckiest man in the world because he’s sharing tea with someone who is beginning to feel like so much more.

He’s left wondering if this is the feeling of finding the one, the right one, the one for him. He doesn’t want to give this to Sokka, to admit that okay, perhaps there had been substance to what Sokka had claimed and maybe the idea of soulmates is real, and not just written about in stories for the lovestruck and the romantic. But then you dazzle him with a large smile in response to something he says, and he doesn’t dwell on the question for long as he comes to the conclusion that honestly, the answer doesn’t really matter to him.

#zuko x reader #zuko imagine #prince zuko x reader #prince zuko imagine #atla x reader #atla imagine #zuko #prince zuko #atla #avatar the last airbender #bubble-tea-bunny #queue

366 notes · View notes

hezurkubo · 4 years ago

Text

When D’jinn meets Gene or “Dramatic Pot Twist!”

Hey there! Just wanted to start off by saying that in order to give this story the desired outcome I was looking for I added in some extra events that I thought could have canonically taken place during certain key moments in “The Last Adventure!” While we as the audience don’t know what happened to everyone else while the main characters were off driving the main plot along I still tried to come up with a side story that seemed plausible at least in terms of timing.

If I overlooked anything and it comes off as complete nonsense that throws off the original plot than please consider this an AU where the side characters play a more proactive role in kicking the butts of F.O.W.L.’s lackeys while our main cast took care of Bradford. This is mostly to satisfy my craving for a meeting that never happened in canon and I still hope that whoever decides to read enjoys this dumb story of mine. With that said.........

“SHABOOEY!”

That was all Gene managed to exclaim before he felt himself vanish in a dramatic flash. He found himself being dragged through the pocket void between realities, a place he’d frequented many times since his existence had been tied to the trinket he’d been forced to call home. While he had yet to feel the familiar power of the ‘Seal of Solion’ connecting him to his lamp, he knew it was only a matter of time.

“Huh, wish I coulda at least thanked her for saving me. Guess now it’s back to the good ol...”

His thoughts were interrupted by a rather abrupt tug to the side through a sudden blinding light, giving Gene just enough time to let out a yelp before tumbling beak first onto a cold hard surface. Groaning as he got to his feet, the duck had to double-take as he got a first look at his surroundings.

And it was, unfortunately, a very familiar site.

He’d become well acquainted with the row upon row of containment units in which the people F.O.W.L. saw as threats to their ‘final goal’ were imprisoned.

“Oh-keeeeey, so.... another dramatic plot twist, shoulda expected that in a ninety minute finale, though not so much for a short cameo appearance.”

Although he was pretty sure what would happen, and despite knowing the repercussions, Gene focused his power and winced in painful anticipation as he tried to will himself out of the current space he occupied.

“Okey three, two, one...SHABOOEY!”

He felt a small spark of magic begin to bubble up within him, allowing him to hope that maybe he could....

ZAP!

The genie doubled over as a short but powerful electric shock coursed through his body. He had been unfortunate enough to witness others struggle for freedom and receive the same treatment, and while he doubted it’d be different for him he felt that he at least had to try. After all, he was magic and it couldn’t possibly hurt that bad....right?

He had been partially correct, but it was still VERY unpleasant.

Thankfully the shock wore off quickly, but rather than test his chances again he moved to the center of the cubicle and sat in the dark, drawing his legs into himself as he rested his arms atop of them and let out a sigh.

“Guess old Blotty really made sure I couldn’t get out of dodge.”

“Not like I’d have a choice anyway...” Gene couldn’t help but think bitterly while resting the the bottom of his beak on his arm. He’d already exchanged one prison for another, so what difference did it make?

Gene let the moments tick on by as he attempted to drown out everything else, which had so far been surprisingly easy despite being surrounded by people....

...And then, despite his best efforts, a familiar thought reared it’s ugly head.

Many of these people were trapped here because of him.

Because the Blot had used his power.

Because he had given him the information needed to capture them.

And he had watched helplessly, his screams for them to run drowned out by their own as they were zapped of their magic, easy for the Eggheads to swoop them up and bring them to this hopeless place while they waited to be done away with for good.

And now Gene was here. He supposed it was fitting, as unwilling as an accomplice he had been in all of this, he still felt deep despair for having been used as a tool for the inevitable destruction of so many innocent lives.

And he would join them. Gene buried his head further into his lap, holding back sniffles as he felt his eyes stinging.

“...At least it’s roomier in here...”

“KA-BOOM!”

“Gyaaa!!! Bees!!! AAAHHH!”

The genie’s head quickly shot up, eyes widening as he took in the commotion echoing off the library’s lofty walls. Scrambling to his feet, he dashed to the front of his cell, pressing his ear against the glass.

Someone was fighting out there, and from the sounds of it they were facing off against Steelbeak.

The kid that had freed him, her friends were still fighting F.O.W.L.

Gene couldn’t fight the small smile that began to spread across his beak despite his teary eyes.

He would never be free, not even if he got out of here. But everyone else still had a chance. There was still hope that this could be made right.

“And the plot thickens!”

__________

Faris Djinn watched helplessly from his prison as Scrooge’s allies valiantly fought against the rooster F.O.W.L. Agent. Clenching his fists to his sides, the desire to unsheathe his sword and join them against these honorless enemies boiled within him, but he knew it was of no use so long as he was trapped like this. Still, that gave him all the more reason to wish to help the group of birds somehow. This was finally everyone’s chance to escape!

The canine warrior had been brought to this strange place after being ambushed and knocked unconscious by his cowardly foe, whom he had barely caught a glimpse of. When he woke up, he was surrounded by blocks of blacked out cubes in what looked like a giant storage facility. After about a day or two, he learned that his first assumptions had been somewhat true.

From what he’d gathered through listening to hushed conversations exchanged while the security guards were busy, and from a few familiar faces detained with him, including his good friend Amunet, he came to realize they had been brought there because they had been labeled as dangerous by simply knowing or associating with Scrooge McDuck and his family.

From close family members and friends to bitter enemies, or from good and bad to neutral, nobody seemed to be spared. It made D’jinn seethe at the injustice of it all, while villains such as the Beagle Boys and the infamous Magica de Spell may have deserved such treatment, this F.O.W.L. organization was indiscriminately locking away so many innocent people. He had even seen them lock up a couple of elderly ducks that could have easily passed as Scrooge’s own parents

(Impossible, he thought, for a man of McDuck’s age)

but not before the old woman had let loose a string of unintelligible words that D’jinn was pretty sure were some colorful expletives.

It appeared that the enemy had overlooked nothing, and any means of escape had been locked away along with them. The canine began to lose track of time as freedom seemed more and more impossible.

But D’jinn remained resolute that if anyone could pull off the impossible, it’d be Scrooge McDuck.

Then, a strangely dressed duck decked in a dark flowing cape and hat swooped in, followed by his heavily armored companion, and while they were acting antagonistic towards each other the dog had a feeling they had come to help. His hopes soared even higher when Scrooge’s pilot crashed in after them. At last help had come.

Then that nefarious Steelbeak had chosen to fight underhandedly, controlling the Beagle Boys and the dread sorceress herself as the heroes fought valiantly back before being imprisoned as well, and any hope of freedom appeared to rest on the shoulders of Launchpad McQuack, Scrooge’s pilot.

D’jinn winced as the poor duck was thrown about and beaten to the ground, unfairly outmatched in strength and numbers.

“Get back up!”

“You got this!”

As big and strong as he seemed in appearance, the warrior canine doubted the pilot could last at this rate, watching from the dark with urgency as he struggled to lift his head.

“Ugh... I’m sorry, I’m no hero...”

D’jinn shook with righteous indignation.

‘No! You cannot give up...!’

He couldn’t just stand by, there had to be something he could do to help, anything....

“That’s ridiculous! You helped inspire me to be a hero!”

He watched in anticipation as Launchpad gathered enough strength to look their way, unsure gaze focused on his friends as they encouraged him to keep fighting.

“And me pal.”

A new source of light brought their attention to the square that held the young red headed duck and the strangely proportioned robot child, both looking back at Launchpad with hope and confidence.

“Same here.”

The prison above them lit up, revealing a familiar Moonlander.

“I as well, Earth Launchpad.”

The room quickly grew brighter as, one after another, everyone stepped forward to show the duck that they believed in him.

And so did D’jinn.

His cubicle lit up as his hope returned.

“Blabbidy-Baloonersize!”

....Later....

Gene watched elated as scores of people poured out from their now-opened confines and began to wreak havoc on anyone unlucky enough to be a F.O.W.L. lackey. It was an unspoken call to arms, inspired by Scrooge’s pilot and, while the genie hadn’t seen what had actually happened, Steelbeak running away while screaming in terror was a pretty clear indication that the good guys were gaining the upper hand.

Gene was so relieved that everyone had been freed, he almost missed Launchpad and company dashing towards the main entrance before slipping out of sight.

He took another look around him, and couldn’t help but quirk the edges of his beak up in a mischievous grin.

“Well.... dunno how long I’ll be sticking around for, might as well be part of the fun...”

“SHABOOEY!!!”

_______

There was low buzz followed by a click, and suddenly the front of his enclosure swung open. Eyes narrowing in careful focus, D’jinn stepped out from his prison and into what was quickly becoming a losing battle for F.O.W.L.’s remaining underlings.

Scrooge’s family had been triumphant, and he was now free to assist in thwarting what remained of their foes once and for all. The canine reached for his hip, unsheathing his sword and slicing it through the air before resting it with his arm against his side. The McDucks may be fighting greater forces, but that didn’t mean there weren’t loose ends to tie up.

“SHABOOEY!”

Ears perking under his keffiyeh, D’jinn turned to the side and lifted his head just in time to see something rather peculiar rounding the corner. It appeared to be a small duck, but he was gliding through the air as if there was nothing to it, a trail of smoke billowing from his lower body.

For a single moment, D’jinn lost his carefully guarded composure as his eyes widened in shock and his jaw dropped.

It was as if all those fantastic stories he’d heard growing up had come to life in front of him.

He recalled the hushed conversations among a few of his fellow prisoners, all regarding the terrifying power the Phantom Blot wielded when he came after them.

However, what now came to the forefront of D’jinn’s mind were their descriptions of the strange and obviously magical little guy smooshed to an impossible degree within the Blot’s gauntlet. He didn’t quite understand what they could be referring to, but now, despite his usually serious demeanor, D’jinn couldn’t stop the small bit of wonderment from rising up in him, momentarily forgetting where he was.

“Could it really be...?”

A loud crash from above followed by a chorus of screaming Eggheads brought him back to reality. The warrior shook his head, scowling to himself for losing focus.

“No, I must not waver! The task at hand requires a warrior’s spirit!”

Sword at the ready, D’jinn quickly made his way towards the sounds of fighting, the lingering thoughts of his ancestors replaced with the challenge to come. He still chanced to glance back one more time at the spot he had last seen that duck, hoping that he’d be able to see him again once all of this was over.

....Later....

With F.O.W.L. defeated and it’s remaining agents scattered, everyone wasted no time in congratulating the heroes of the hour, rushing at McDuck and family as they made their way down the library tower. It was a whirlwind of joyful cries and relieved sighs as the exhausted but happy family meandered amongst the crowd, breaking up into teams to prepare for their departure.

With everything finally settling down, Gene casually sat in midair as everyone else began to disperse and make preparations of their own, all the while chatting amongst each other. He figured it must have been a sense of camaraderie that came with surviving such an ordeal, and while he wished he could fully indulge in the same feelings of comfort, he couldn’t help but feel on edge.

The powers that bound him to the lamp hadn’t reclaimed him yet.

He knew that couldn’t last much longer, whatever forces the Phantom Blot had used to disrupt the seal’s power and separate him from his prison

....no, home....

wouldn’t be able to hold on their own, now that the Blot was gone and Gene was free from any magic-proof confinement.

Earlier, before the extra trepidation had sunk in, he did try to enjoy his temporary freedom for as long as it lasted.

And oh, how he wished it lasted.

The genie chatted briefly with the young sorceress that had freed him, but not until after she and a younger hummingbird finally stopped hugging the pink clad girl, who he recognized as the little spitfire who tied him up and interrogated him during the entertaining fiasco that was Donald’s wish for a ‘perfect family’.

Despite the now growing feeling that this would all end soon, Gene had enjoyed himself. It was nice to just interact with others again and not be at someone’s beck and call. While he did like using his powers to have fun with mortals, there were more than enough terrible things he’d been forced to do, and the ability to simply be among people he knew couldn’t demand something of him was a rare reprieve. One he probably wouldn’t be getting again.

Now, with the excitement beginning to wind down, Gene decided to take in the busy atmosphere, not expecting anyone to notice him up there with how preoccupied they all were.

“Pardon me...”

The duck quickly spun around in midair, looking down and catching the sharp gaze of a rather serious looking canine all dressed in dark, save for a few splashes of red. He was staring up at him so intensely that Gene jokingly thought if he looked at him any harder lasers would shoot from his eyes.

“Hmmm... an interesting side character, guess a little more mingling wouldn’t hurt.”

Without missing a beat, Gene floated down from his place above the crowd to hover at eye level with the stranger.

“Well He-llo there! Always nice to meet a new face!” he said eagerly, flashing a grin that he hoped came off as charismatic and giving a wink.

The dog’s eyes widened for a few seconds before returning to his serious expression. Trying to act nonplussed by the lack of enthusiasm, the duck waved his arm to conjure a neon sign above him, his name spelled in blinking lights. Smile unwavering, he held out his hand.

“Name’s Gene! Nice to meet ya!”

The dog stared at the outstretched appendage, his hesitance causing Gene’s excitement to falter. Luckily, it wasn’t long before he was reaching out and gripping his hand in a firm but friendly shake.

“Faris D’jinn. It is an honor.” He said, head bowing slightly.

“Woah, an honor? Kinda formal, but I think I like it.”

Gene suddenly perked in realization. ‘Faris’, if he recalled, meant knight or horseman, and he couldn’t help but think how it suited the noble looking gentleman in front of him. And with a surname like ‘D’jinn’, well, why would the genie not find that interesting? He became so uncharacteristically lost in these thoughts that he almost failed to realize that his companion was staring at him a bit oddly, and he was suddenly aware that he was still holding his hand.

Awkwardly clearing his throat, Gene hovered back slightly while relinquishing his grip, trying to hide how awkward he felt by widening his smile.

He was sure he looked half crazy.

“Well Mr. D’jinn, I must say it’s a pleasure to meet such polite and proper ol’ gent and- Ooooh!”

Gene was at his side so fast that the warrior nearly jumped away in surprise as the genie’s eyes sparkled with curiosity at the sight of his sword’s hilt peeking from his robes.

“Oh-hoho, that’s quite a blade you got there. It almost looks like... I wanna say late Mamluk dynasty, Burji maybe...? But that can’t be right, unless it’s a really good replica.”

If D’jinn was shocked by his educated guess he hid it well, although Gene did notice the dog’s brow raise slightly from were it was hidden under the hem of his headdress.

“You are quite wise, although I would not expect anything less from a great and mystical genie.”

Gene’s eyes shot up from the finely crafted blade to the canine’s face. The gaze that met him was serious but not in a way that came off as cruel or accusatory. Still, that look, accompanied by such a bold statement, made the duck want to buckle his knees and shrink into himself.

Just who was this guy?

“Are you not a genie?”

The duck suppressed the urge to gulp at the quiet forcefulness behind the simple inquiry. It was after all a sensible question, he did more or less fit the description of his kind, though he liked to think he set himself apart with his showman’s flare because, servant or not, he still liked seeing others smile.

Now, his inner showman was currently at a loss for words, opting for wanting to hide his face in his turban.

“Get it together Genester! You heard him, how ‘great and mystical’ do you think you look right now?”

Trying to shake of the awkwardness, he disappeared from D’jinns side to reappear in front of him in a puff of smoke.

“Yessir! One-hundred percent bonafide and certified wish-granting genie, that’s me!” Gene exclaimed, conjuring up a laminated license that read ‘Certified Genie: Gene C. Baba’ complete with a photo of himself smiling awkwardly while donning a thick pair eyeglasses and suspenders.

D’jinn stayed unwaveringly quiet as the duck nearly shoved the card to his face.

“He he... yeah, funny thing though, the whole ‘wish-granting’ part of my deal is a bit... compromised at the moment. Y’see, only the holder of a genie’s lamp can control said genie, i.e., me” Gene pulled an arrow out of thin air and pointed towards himself “and big bad and Blotty left my lamp behind along with the rest of the lost treasure of Collie Baba when he sucked me into that fancy oven-mitt of his, you’d think with all his magical know-how he wouldn’t forget that important tidbit, right?”

Why did he sound so nervous?

“And I tell you what, I’m glad I’m not strapped to that thing anymore...!”

D’jinns eyes widened as a grim realization dawned on him.

“So, it is true. The device the Phantom Blot carried with him, the one he used to steal the magic from those he hunted...”

“I swear it was totally against my will!”

The canine shook his head. “No, I heard of its use from other captives, some who were brought here months before F.O.W.L. found me. Gene, how long have they kept you prisoner?”

The genie awkwardly rubbed one of his arms, looking away from D’jinn as the mood shifted drastically. While he may had been a little uncomfortable before, now he wanted to focus on anything but the dog in front of him. He might end up saying something that would break his facade, and he couldn’t....

“Technically, was already a prisoner. Y’know, the whole ‘genie in the lamp’ deal.”

“What are you doing?! Stop talking before...!”

“It’s like, I dunno... I’m almost glad this happened...”

“Idiot...”

“I mean not that I helped capture all those people or anything, because I still feel real bad about all that! It’s just that, whatever he did, even after I escaped, I’m still here. This right now is the closest I’ve ever felt to being...”

A sudden feeling of a hand gently enveloping his own prevented him from saying anything else. Momentarily shocked out of his train of thought, Gene dared to look back at the stranger he had begun to admit his sadness to.

He expected to see pity, but the eyes that looked back at him held something different. They were narrowed and serious, but not like before. There was fire in that glance, and as D’jinn’s grip on his hand tightened it only seemed to burn brighter.

“You shall be free, that I promise you.”

If Gene’s eyes got any wider he thought they’d escape out of his head. Heck, there was a better chance of that happening than what the man in front of him had just said.

“Heh, Being trapped in that pickle jar must’ve done a number on my ears. Y’know everything’s muffled in there, might not have heard ya right....”

He tried to laugh, to call the his bluff.

The dog said nothing, nor did he change his determined expression. He simply gave Gene’s hand a quick but firm squeeze, as if to reaffirm what he said.

“But why....”

Just then, he felt it.

It wasn’t how he expected it to happen, but he knew.

A panicked glance down confirmed his suspicions as he saw a bright light spread from the tip of his shoes, gradually making its way up his body, a familiar emptiness growing with it.

His time was up.

“No, please, it can’t be over yet...”

He felt D’jinn grab his other hand.

Even as he felt himself fading away, as he began to feel despair weigh him down further and any lingering hope drained from him, Gene again dared to look up at his companion.

He was greeted by the kindest smile he had ever seen.

“Because, it is the right thing to do.”

A single flash, and the genie was gone.

___________

D’jinn was left standing at the now-empty space in front of him, hands outstretched to cusp something that was no longer there as his smile disappeared, allowing the heaviness of the moment sink in.

That silly little duck hadn’t been at all what he expected. The stories his grandmother told him painted a picture of genies as powerful and filled with fiery intimidation, as well as being wiser than any mortal born of flesh and bone...

“Technically, I was already a prisoner.”

D’jinn’s frown deepened. Those words, they certainly weren’t spoken by some mighty cosmic being, but by a man, who could feel sadness and fear just like anyone else.

D’jinn thought back to the story of his ancestor and a kind servant trapped for eternity, until she saw it in her heart to exchange that eternity for a lifetime of love and happiness. This was certainly a different situation, but wasn’t it still the right thing to do?

And those eyes.

The look of desperation in those beautiful gold-colored eyes as he vanished were now burned into his memory. It was a cry for help, and the warrior ached to answer it.

He had made a promise, and while it may had been spoken in a passionate spur of the moment, he would honor it.

Resolute, he scanned the enormous crowd, his well-trained senses focused and on high alert for any sounds or scents that would lead him to his quarry. The minutes ticked by as his stoic expression masked his growing apprehension.

“There!”

It was faint among the throngs of people surrounding him, nearly undetectable, but his keen canine nose picked up on a familiar smell of dusty tomes mixed with the metallic scent of coins. With extreme calculation, he allowed his tracking instincts take the helm as he stealthily maneuvered through the crowd, ears perked beneath his keffiyeh for any signs of...

“Della, Launchpad! How’re the plane repairs comin’ along?”

Quiet relief washed over D’jinn when he noticed a familiarly distinct top hat poking out from the crowd near the library’s entrance. Making his way towards the fellow adventurer, he couldn’t help but notice just how tired the old man looked, uncharacteristically showing his age.

“Scrooge, my friend.”

Caught off guard, the duck tensed so hard that he nearly lost his balance before turning to the canine in surprise.

“D’jinn? Bless me bagpipes that villainous vulture nabbed you too?”

Scrooge shook his head as he adjusted his spectacles, expression shifting back to exhaustion, his browsed creased upwards in guilt.

“I’m sorry lad, you lot were all dragged into this mess because of me. I cannae imagine what you must ‘ave endured at the hands of those fiends.”

D’jinn’s eyes narrowed as he placed his hand on his chest, expression serious but sincere.

“Noble Scrooge, the only true guilty ones are the villains you speak of, those who would seek to harm the innocent indiscriminately and use them for their own nefarious means.”

Scrooge’s sighed heavily at the canine’s statement.

“Aye, like me poor darlin’ Webby.”

Like Gene.

“I have dedicated my life to righting such wrongs. I hold nothing against you my friend, I could not let such transgressions against an ally stand. That is why we are here. You have many on whom you can rely, and friends are part of the journey as well, are they not?”

Scrooge stared at D’jinn for a moment, absorbing the man’s insightful words before breaking into a gentle smile, eyes shining with gratitude.

“Thank you, I... needed to here that. I know I can rely on my family when I need ‘em, but it takes times like these to remind this stubborn old fool that ‘family’ can be many things.”

Scrooge silently laughed at himself.

“Sorry, been feeling a little more sentimental than usual.”

Nodding in understanding and knowing that he’d soon depart, Djinn decided to waste no time and reached into his robes as he lowered himself onto one knee, startling Scrooge with this sudden change in demeanor as he withdrew a blank scroll along with a quill.

“Not all has been made right, and my journey must continue.”

The look of determination that met the old duck’s gaze startled him with its ferocity.

“Scrooge McDuck, I simply need a moment to ask you some questions, and the rest will fall to me.”

Scrooge stared back for a moment, perplexed. His family would be leaving soon, and he needed to help them prepare. However, the weight of the severity in the canine’s request, along with the deep sincerity with which he’d said it, told him all he needed to know. Nodding in affirmation, Scrooge watched as D’jinn unraveled the scroll in front of them, quill raised and ready.

“I wish to know about the lost treasure of Collie Baba, and the lamp that is hidden there.”

I’m so sorry, that took MUCH longer to complete than I wanted it to, l have more projects planned and hopefully once courses are over they won’t be as bad. Also sorry for the poor writing quality, I’m kind of rusty. Still I hope that whoever took the time to read this found something entertaining about it. Thank you for your interest, until next time!

#ducktales #dt17 #faris djinn #gene the genie #gene c. baba #faris d'jinn #fargene #djinn x gene #self-indulgent nonsense #sorry it took so long #launchpad mcquack #the last adventure fanficion #ducktales fanfiction #bad fanfiction #d'jinn x gene #scrooge mcduck

36 notes · View notes

rina-writes · 4 years ago

Text

Survivalist Shower

Summary: [Throwback to the Surviving in the Australian Wilderness videos when Ethan was a MOOD.] Ethan is more than relieved to come home and you’re happy to welcome him as long as he showers first.

Warnings: Smut Lite ♦ Mostly Fluffy

Ethan walked into the Airbnb with the saddest expression on his face. You heard him long before he walked in through the door. He and Grayson were arguing from the car. As usual. They arrived about 8 hours earlier than the planned time. To be honest, you had expected them 12 hours earlier than the predetermined time, and you thought you were being generous. You were glad that you had food ready for them to eat because the look on Ethan’s face said he needed it.

“Babe…” He yelled, weakly.

You removed your apron and ran over to him. You gasped. He looked terrible. He was covered in mud, his skin was splotchy from sun burn, you could see mosquito bites (or was it a rash?!?) on various parts of his body and he had plastic bottles taped to his feet. Without thinking about it, you gave him a big hug. He hugged you tightly, taking in your scent with a deep breath. Grayson theatrically moved past you two, using his weight to push you both out of the way, in an effort to remind you that you were blocking the entrance. The crew walked around you two with ease, trying not to interrupt your precious moment.

“How can you hug him right now, Y/N?” Grayson asked, teasingly. “I bet he stinks.”

You laughed. “Clothes can be washed, but emotional wounds from neglect last forever.”

Ethan nodded, making an approval noise, but refused to let go of you. He like a child holding on to you like his security blanket. You would be lying if you said that you didn’t enjoy it. This soft, adorable version of Ethan was one of your favorites. There was something heartwarming about seeing a pretty big dude cuddling into you for comfort.

“Come on, babe.” You said, breaking the hug only to see the pout forming on his face. You laughed and patted his head. “I’m still right here.”

You glanced at Nick Fry who had walked in with the crew. He was the survivalist they had met in Australia who had helped them on their adventure. If anyone would know what’s up, it would be Nick. You couldn’t tell if they were blowing it out of proportion if it was really as bad as Ethan’s face said it was. There was also part of you that knew Nick, the person who had been doing this since he was a child, may be a bit biased.

“I’m guessing they had a rough time?” You asked, with a sympathetic smile.

“The Australia Wilderness is hard enough.” Nick explained, his Aussie accent thick. “Being vegan only made it 10 times worse for them. I genuinely felt bad for the guys.”

You looked at Ethan who was just standing by the doorway zoned out. His face looked so innocent: his eyes wide, his hair sticking to his forehead with a mix of mud and sweat, his lips in a seemingly permanent frown. From the shoulders down, it was easy to remember that he was a grown man. He was tanner than usual thanks to the Australian sun and his muscles were rippling. His abs were more defined, probably because he hadn’t eaten in awhile.

“I think Ethan took it a bit harder.” Nick said, following your eyes. “Kyle told me you fixed up a nice spread for them though.” Nick smiled, “I’m sure that would pick them up.”

Ethan’s face lit up as he looked at you. You swear you could see the green in his hazel eyes clearly as they twinkled. Right on cue, Grayson ran from the kitchen with an excited expression.

“DUDE!!” Grayson yelled. “Y/N THREW IT DOWN. WE GOT VEGAN BURGERS, VEGAN PIZZA, VEGAN FRIES, VEGAN WATER...”

“Vegan water is definitely not a think…” You couldn’t contain your laughter as you actually tried to correct him. It didn’t matter anyway, as Grayson continued to yell out the “menu.” You really did throw it down, knowing they would need the pick me up.

“Alright, alright.” You clapped your hands together. This was how you got the boys’ attention. It was tip you learned from their mom and it never failed you. It even worked on Nick and the crew who had their full attention on you.

“Showers first. All of you...no messing up my nice Airbnb dining table.” You commanded.

There was some grumbling, but everyone went to their respective bathrooms. Nick offered the crew to come to his place for showers since it wasn’t too far. As everyone dispersed, you were surprised to see that Ethan was still by your side. He snaked his arms around your waist and in one quick motion carried you to the bathroom.

“What are you doing?” You asked, between laughs.

“We’re showering.” He explained as if it was completely obvious what was going on.

“Why am I showering? I didn’t go in the wilderness.” You pretended to protest. In reality, you loved it when he swooped you in his arms. He knew this; which is why he always did it when he had the chance.

He put you down in his bathroom and happily stripped off his clothes. It always impressed you how quickly he got naked. You smiled softly, seeing his tush still a bit paler than the rest of his body, but not by much.

You started to remove your clothes as well while he got the water temperature ready. As he tested the water with his hand, he answered your question.

“You hugged me, so you’re dirty too.” He grinned. “If I’m being honest, I kind of just want some cuddles. I didn’t like being out there in the wilderness. I wish I could always be with you.”

“Oh E…” You said, finally ready for your shower. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

Since you were cooking all day, you weren’t wearing anything too fancy. You removed your oversized t-shirt and the pajama shorts you wore underneath followed. You were wearing your comfiest bra and the soft underwear that made your butt look nice without giving you a wedgie.

Ethan was taking it all in. His mouth was agape as he started breathing heavier. You could hear him panting over the water. His breath hitched as you removed his undergarments.

“I swear…” Ethan looked you up and down. “...I think you look hotter now.”

“You’re just dehydrated.” You teased, stepping in to the tub.

“Nu uh.” Ethan said, following behind you. “I had the water you sent me and those chocolate covered dates. You take such good care of me. And now you’re standing here looking so good.”

When he said, ‘so good,’ he pressed you gently into the wall of the shower. You could feel the cool tiles on the front of your body and you turned your head to look at him. He groaned, pressing his thumb into your lips.

“Don’t look at me like that, baby.” His voice came out like a moan. “It drives me even more wild.”

His voice was deep and raspy with desire.

“A-Are we going to shower?” You asked, your body trembling with anticipation. You hadn’t seen Ethan like this in a long time. You had a pretty healthy sex life. Granted, it had been awhile. You had been in Australia for about 10 days now, and as a courtesy to everyone else, you decided not to sleep together on vacation. You also didn’t mess around much when you were at his parents’ place in Jersey, so all together it was over two weeks since you were intimate. It probably didn’t help that he was still getting off his high of being in civilization again.

Using his thumb and index finger, he held the top of your neck firmly and pulled you in for a kiss. It was a hungry, greedy kiss. It didn’t take long for his tongue to enter your mouth and his hands to press you against his chest. He tasted salty and smelled like trees, but it still felt really good. It was Ethan after all. Your hands had memorized every dip and curve on his body, and they were currently rubbing up and down his back. You just wished that you could enjoy him squeaky clean. The mud was really putting a damper on the mood.

You leaned back and he leaned with you, suspecting nothing. His hands squeezed and caressed every portion of your body. You reached your hand back and with a quick motion, turned the water all the way to the cold. You shivered, but Ethan broke this kiss to yell loudly.

“JESUS, BABE” Ethan yelled. “F-” He stopped himself, never wanting to swear at you. He backed away pressing his back to the opposite wall. He shook his head, his chest heaving.

“Sorry,” You said, obviously not apologetic, turning the water back to its warm temperature. You tried to hide your smile. “I just think I deserve a clean boyfriend.”

Ethan groaned. “You could have just asked. Like a normal person.”

“But this was soooo much more effective.” You teased. “And fun.”

“Good god, woman.” He pulled you close to him. “Now, you’re all cold. And your nips are freaking stabbing me, goodness.”

“Sorry,” You stuck out your tongue. “I’ll make it up to you.”

You grabbed a wash cloth and some soap and lathered it up. Starting from his neck, you massaged the soap into his skin. He put his hands behind his head, watching you lazily. He occasionally let out a grunt of approval when your fingers touched his skin past the wash cloth. As your hands got more and more south, his breathing became jagged. You teased him a bit, going back up to wash his armpits and his arms, dropping down to his legs and his feet, and even turning him on his stomach to get the backside.

“Baby, please.” Ethan moaned out.

“What are you getting so worked up for?” You teased staring up at him, squinting past the water. You were squatting down comfortably, his thighs at your level. “It’s just a sponge bath.”

Before he could respond, you started to wash his most sensitive area.

He hissed as you washed him gently and his hips bucked toward your hands. His heart swelled with the amount of care you put in to washing him. He was still aroused, but it just made him want to carry you to the bed make love to you instead of the animalistic pounding he desired a few moments earlier. He smoothed your hair before gently nudging you to stand up. You frowned a bit. Usually at this point you would blow him and Ethan wasn’t one to refuse it

“Let me wash off and then I’ll return the favor.” His voice was a whisper. You blushed and nodded softly. You loved this version of Ethan. This was the Ethan that caressed you and made love to you for multiple hours while cooing words filled with love. Of course, you liked freaky Ethan as well, who would push you against the wall and drill into you until you felt him in your guts. It was the versatility that made your love life, in the bedroom and outside of it, so special.

He washed off the soap and rinsed his hair. You made a mental note to shampoo his hair when he was done. You grimaced as you saw all the sludge covering the tub. You were excited to see their next video, just to understand what happened. He grabbed some face soap and washed his face. He then made his way over to you.

He kissed you, sensually pressing his lips to yours as he rubbed your sides. You melted in his arms as you kissed back with more intensity, letting out a little groan. You moved to wrap your legs around his waist and he chuckled, breaking the kiss.

“Now who’s the eager.” He put on his best impression of you. “A-Are we going to shower?”

“Not fair that you work me up like this...” You muttered with a pout.

Ethan gestured to his hard on. “Welcome to my world.”

He took the wash cloth from your hands and raised your arms up. His eyes scanned your body, but not in the same lustful way he did before. This time he was looking at you like a work of art.

“I can’t believe you’re mine, baby girl.” Ethan cooed in your ear as he start to wash you. “So beautiful, so kind, too good for me…”

He cleaned every crevice of your body. It was almost embarrassing. Every curve and crack was cleaned, with special attention to your sensitive areas. You were a moaning mess and he kept edging you on.

“It’s weird…” He teased, his voice still husky as he touched your core. “I thought I cleaned this spot before.”

“You know what you’re doing…” You managed to moan out.

“What am I doing?” Ethan asked, working his hand in your core. His fingers inserting inside of you, twisting and curling in the way he knew you liked.

“Pleasuring me…” You moaned.

“Say my name,” He whispered in your ear. “Say the name of the man pleasuring you.”

“Ethan!” You practically yelled. Half to adhere his request and half to scold him. “I still have to wash your hair.” Your voice softened, still embarrassed at how loud you said his name.

“Gosh…” Ethan groaned, removing his fingers. “You really know how to kill a mood, babe.”

You laughed weakly, your body aching for Ethan to finish what he started. You tried to shake off the feelings and poured some shampoo into your hand. You reached up to get to his head and he tip toed, a silly grin on his face.

“Ethan...stop..” You groaned as you tip toed as well to reach him. The shampoo was dripping off your hands.

“What?” He feigned innocence. “What am I doing?” As he backed away making you stumble into him. He supported your weight easily.

“Are you not hungry?” You asked, getting annoyed. “Do you want to starve? Or do you want to eat the dinner I prepared?”

He reached between your legs, his finger lightly brushing against your clit, and smirked. “I want the dinner I prepared.”

You blushed and changed the subject back to the important matter. “Oh my god, can you bend down? How am I supposed to wash your hair?”

“I got one better.” He picked you up, letting your wrap your legs around his waist, giving you access to his hair. He rested his face on your chest, blowing bubbles, while you shampooed his hair. You made a mohawk with it before washing it off. You enjoyed these moments too. Just being silly and having fun was just so...you and Ethan. He put you back down and rinsed your hair as well.

A bang on the door made you both jump with surprise. You bit your lip as you looked at Ethan, both of you trying not to laugh.

“If you two think I am going to wait for you to finish screwing around, you’re so wrong.” Grayson said, through the door, but of course, since it was Grayson, it was like yelling.

“It’s fine!” You yelled back. “We’rec coming.”

“Eww too much details.” Grayson teased.

It took you a second, but Ethan started laughing immediately.

“Oh my god I hate you both.” You groaned.

“Come on, babe.” Ethan turned off the water and kissed your neck. “Let’s go eat your delicious food and then finish where we left off. I can’t let my dessert go to waste.”

He ran his fingers on your left inner thigh, making sure to lock eyes with you as he did.

“Okay…” You said, softly.

“Okay?” Ethan grinned, getting out the shower and handing you a towel. “No retort? Ooh, you’re going to be putty in my hands, tonight, baby. I see it in your eyes.”

“Shut up…” You looked away, drying off. “I was worried about you. You’re not the only one who had a lonely night.”

“I’m sorry, baby.” He kissed the top of your head. “I’ll make it up to you.”

You smiled. “I know...the dinner was a preemptive thank you.”

#ethan dolan #ethan dolan blurb #ethan dolan imagine #ethan dolan scenario #ethan dolan smut #dolan twins scenario #dolan twins #dolan twins blurb #dolan twins imagine #dolan twins smut #r-writes-fic

192 notes · View notes

danwhobrowses · 4 years ago

Text

One Piece 1000 - 10 Confessions as a One Piece Fan

Although we did the Initial Thoughts a week ago (a long week ago, damn) which you can read here I wanted to do something for the official release of One Piece’s 1000th Chapter At first it started out to be ‘10 things I wanna ask Oda that I don’t think we’ll ever know’ but I couldn’t think of 10, then I was gonna do a General opinion post about it, but didn’t want it to come off too negative. So I am settling on a confessions post, which will have elements of these anyway.

So as we have a happy 1000, let’s talk about some stuff I usually don’t get to talk about in One Piece

Note: There will probably be spoilers so make sure you’re up to date

10. Late Beginnings I think the first confession I have to have is that despite being older than One Piece I am unfortunately not a ‘Day One’ fan. In fact I think I mainly got into One Piece around mid-Whole Cake Island arc, before I had of course known about One Piece, it was a ‘Big Three’ anime after all but the most I knew about it was that they had a guy named Luff-y and another called Zorro, and it was about ‘Pirates who can’t swim’. My curiosity only developed when in a youtube deep-dive of anime clips I kept being recommended One Piece clips, and decided to give a couple a go. Most of them were Paradise arc stuff from the anime, the dub voices were mostly atrocious so I stuck to sub. I was happily surprised about the amount of fun and emotional weight these clips gave me, which led me to check where One Piece was as of current and backtrack from there (Ironically I did the same with Beastars). I did eventually get caught up around the time of the Mafia Meeting and I’ve kept up with each chapter since.

9. I mostly still prefer the Pre-Timeskip looks When I first felt this I thought it to be pretty controversial, nowadays not so much. I understand that Oda wanted to change the look for many characters but some of them did feel like a downgrade. I think the ones who got it worst was Franky, I think it’s the bulbous shoulders, Franky was no stranger to body horror from Enies Lobby to Sabaody but I kinda preferred that he still had a lot of his humanity rather than looking like an action figure. Otherwise I think Robin, Nami and Chopper had it bad, maybe Brook too but his was more fashion than design; the women in general took heavy hits by Oda’s proportion design - I mean I get it boobs are nice but proportions are what make them better - but Robin also underwent a skin color change in the anime, who pre-timeskip shaded her skin darker than in the manga and corrected it to match the manga, I think most of us would’ve preferred Robin to have kept the darker skin tone and possibly even the fringe, Robin’s hairstyle (and her fashion in general) can be hit and miss. I go to and fro about Nami, other than the general waist and bust adjustments I think it fits her character to use her sexuality a bit, she was no stranger to that pre-Timeskip, sometimes though I can’t tell whether I preferred her with short or long hair (Short was definitely better on Nojiko), I do think though that Oda could have her show less skin, she is still very pretty in outfits such as Water 7, Thriller Bark and even her fake pirate disguise in the early chapters/episodes. Finally with Chopper I think it was a bad move to alter the hat, that was a memento from his father figure Hiriluk, it’d be like if Luffy altered his straw hat or Zoro replacing Wado Ichimonji, I do also feel that the design for Chopper’s points while easier to draw don’t look as good, I think a lot of it is the scruff, or lack thereof in favour of smoothness, Walk Point is fine but Heavy Point, Guard Point and Horn Point seem less threatening, Monster Point especially too, in Enies Lobby he looked like a cave painting of menace and destruction, now he’s smoother and his scruff lighter so it’s not as good. The rest of the designs I’m quite fine with though.

8. I wish some markings stuck as well Tattoos and Scars seem to be optional in the One Piece world sometimes, unless it’s branded in molten heat like the Dragon’s hoof, Sun Pirates logo or an attack from Sakazuki. While Nami’s redesigned tattoo has stuck around and Luffy and Zoro’s scars persist, they are mainly character reminders/mysteries for huge moments in the story, and I kinda wish that some of the Straw Hats had littler markings, not just scars either. For instance, the Alabasta X on the arm, I really wish that stayed on each of the Alabasta characters’ arms since it was a symbol of friendship with Vivi, I also wish that Luffy kept the 3D2Y mark on his arm. In terms of scars though it would’ve been nice to see the characters a bit more battle-worn; Zoro’s ankle scars from Mr. 3 have faded and frankly he should be covered in little and long scratches given his fights with Mr. 1 and 2 years of Mihawk Training, Nami’s shoulder scar is hidden completely by her tattoo and she has no scars on her hand (from fake stabbing Usopp) or foot (from blocking Miss Doublefinger), Usopp himself could’ve used some small scratches because lord knows how there’s even still bones in his nose plus he was in murder island for 2 years, Chopper could at least have a small bald patch from when his shoulder was impaled and burned by Shura’s fire lance too, other than that there’s just Jimbei’s potentially missing shoulder scar from Marineford, though Oda has kept it obscured a lot so maybe that is still there. I understand why Oda doesn’t or forgets to, but it would’ve been nice if we lived in a vacuum of no time limits and whatnot.

7. Dead End Adventure is my favourite One Piece film I don’t know what it is, but Dead End Adventure just gives me the most fun out of the One Piece films. It has a good side plot and the side character Shuraiya was a blast of a character. Granted, Gaspard wasn’t too good of a villain side for actually harming the straw hat and his defeat was a bit underwhelming but the race, the settings it was all fun. It is not to say I don’t enjoy any other One Piece movies, I delight in the horror fuel of Baron Omatsuri - and that killer final punch - and Z’s tragic tale of a fallen marine, Strong World has that epic entrance to the party and Stampede also had some great team up moments and fantastic writing for Usopp and Smoker but Dead End Adventure always feels like the movie I could watch in any mood.

6. Skypeia and Fishman Island are some of my favourite arcs While I can understand the criticism of the Long Ring Long Land arc (especially since the anime dragged out the Davy Back Fight) it surprised me that people found Skypeia and Fishman Island arcs to be boring or less entertaining than previous arcs. Everyone has their preferences of course but I felt that Skypeia and Fishman Island were very powerful arcs especially with the theme of racism. Both had glorious setting design different to the common customs of the world we had seen, Oda made both Skypeia and Fishman Island feel very much lived in with its own budding culture and prejudices, with a villain who was dead set on destroying everything just to have their way. With Enel and his priests we were able to push several characters to newer limits, with Robin showing her fighting capabilities, Zoro learning his projectile slashes, Chopper having to endure fighting 3 priests and even Usopp growing all the more braver in the face of seemingly indestructible opponents and later gaining access to the dials. With Fishman Island it was different because it was basically a ‘flex arc’: where the main villain is meant to be a stepping stone rather than a threat but even then the symbolism of the enemy is what’s significant with them, the inherited hatred of humans. But at the same time we do learn new strengths from the crew; Red Hawk, the use of armament Haki, Skywalk, Hell Memories, Franky Shogun, Usopp’s pop greens, Nami’s weather eggs, Brook’s Soul Solid and his new DF power (which is possibly an awakening), as well as the first true steps of Jimbei joining the crew. The biggest strength of both arcs is the flashback as well, like Wano would in present time both arcs demonstrated that Oda can carry a story without his main characters and still keep it as captivating as ever, be it the friendship of Noland and Calgara, the tragedies of Otohime and Fisher Tiger or the life of Kozuki Oden and the man who would be Pirate King. And the impact of Fishman Island and Skypeia’s flashbacks both come back around in Dressrosa with the dwarves and Koala, and Fishman Island really does kick off the whole Yonko saga with Luffy challenging Big Mom, these arcs were definitely significant as they were entertaining with silly faces, strong fights, challenging themes, lorebuilding, good side characters and unique twists. And the overall message of healing from the past is still significant to this day. Through Wyper’s sacrifice and the Bell ringing to Jimbei giving blood and the Ryugu royals wanting to attend the Reverie, it is all very powerful stuff and while the arcs are similar in nature its their similarities that make me love them. Also the cover stories with Enel and Gedatsu on their own mini adventures are fun

5. I really want to know where Ghin is Ghin/Gin was such an interesting character in Baratie. Given that this was right before Arlong Park too so we had not seen a character conflict with different loyalties in One Piece until then, his gratitude to Sanji against his loyalty to Krieg created a fantastically complex character, but then he left and we didn’t hear about him ever since. Did he survive Krieg’s poison gas? Is he still with Krieg? One reactor of the episode said “maybe he’ll become the next Don” which was a concept I kinda really liked. The guy was pretty strong given that he had bested Sanji at that time, and since he didn’t appear in a cover story my mind does wonder. It’s not just Ghin either, a lot of the early East Blue characters kinda fell off the map; where is Morgan? Last we saw he was sleeping as he sailed past Jango, where is Kuro? For someone wanting to resume piracy after some years off he has been very quiet, where is Krieg? Only Arlong and Morgan were arrested and the latter escaped so the rest of these characters are a mystery. Recently in Wano I am still wondering where Law’s crew that he brought to Onigashima went, as well as Caribou - where is that slippery bugger?

4. Basil Hawkins is probably one of my Top 5 Supernova There’s something about that dude I gravitate towards, which makes it quite frustrating when the anime decides to add extra malice and creepy faces to him. Hawkins in Wano is still a victim, if anything he is simply a prisoner with better working conditions, if he thought he could survive escaping Kaido he would but he doesn’t so he won’t, he’s also gonna feel sore about Drake betraying him and letting Law cut him up, so it annoys me that Hawkins is seen like a villain. Not only does he have an extremely interesting Devil Fruit and creativity with it but he’s also audaciously confident in his fortunetelling, even Luffy ran from Kizaru at Sabaody while Hawkins looked at his cards while Kizaru was about to boot him to holy hell and said ‘nah I’m not dying today’, you gotta respect that moxie. At the same time though as a pirate he has that shades of grey element, he’s okay with letting some of his crew be disposable and we don’t even know to what end, he doesn’t look like a guy too concerned about being Pirate King or having riches. I also get a good laugh in that his hobbies are interior design, it makes me really want to see what the inside of his ship looks like. I think as a top 5, I have Luffy, Zoro, Law, Hawkins and then Kid, Bege, Killer and Bonney are not far behind with Apoo dead last because fuck Apoo. Kid and Killer are cool but I do feel like they need a bit more character, Bege earned some points in being funny and his care for his family in WCI and then there’s Bonney - I really hope we dig into Bonney’s significance, she feels really important and that mystery keeps her fresh whenever we see her. Drake too has only really started to become interesting because of SWORD, we could still see more fleshing but for now he is like bottom 3. It’s a shame Urouge has to be so low, he’s not bad but he’s not spectacular either, gotta admire his hobby of lovemaking though, you do you Urouge.

3. I don’t think that either of the ‘Most Beautiful Women in the World’ are the Most Beautiful Women in One Piece The in-world consensus seems to be that the Most Beautiful Women in the World are Boa Hancock, Komurasaki and Shirahoshi, and granted they are very pretty, but the most? Not for me. I mean, y’all know that Nico Robin, Nami and Vinsmoke Reiju exist right? Makino as well is stunning, as are Tashigi, Bonney, Margaret, Ishilly, Nojiko, Vivi, Rebecca, Pudding, Perona, Cosette and I’m sure a few others, realistically I think they could all give them a run for their money. I get how for those three their beauty is a plot point (Boa it’s drilling home Luffy’s obliviousness to it, Komurasaki it’s the swerve of her not being awful and for Shirahoshi it’s due to Vander Decken IX pulling the creep factor on her) but it would’ve worked the same way without the ‘world’ hyperbole I think. As much as Oda is iffy with proportions and rarely writes women with as much attention as the boys he sure knows how to make them attractive.

2. Some of my favourite individual Straw Hat scenes aren’t in Canon If I were to have a top 5 moments of each character, it may surprise you that some of it comes from movies or filler episodes, particularly Sanji’s flexing on Jessica in the G8 Arc (in fact, Jonathon is one of my favourite marines, T-Bone is in there too, but I don’t have room to fit that). Some are of course obvious because of how iconic they are but it does go to show that sometimes filler isn’t all bad. Since you’re probably curious: As a Group Goodbye Merry [Enies Lobby] Entering Shiki’s Palace [Strong World] Walk to Arlong Park [Arlong Park] Entering the Grand Line [Reverse Mountain] vs a Stuck Oars [Thriller Bark] Jimbei Giving Luffy Blood [FMI] Vagabond Drill on Big Mom [WCI] Leaving the Big Mom Pirates [WCI] Returning in Wano [Wano] Trying to argue with Luffy [FMI] Brook vs Chess Soldiers & Big Mom [WCI] Flashback [Thriller Bark] Breaking Mother Carmel’s Picture [WCI] Baron Corpse vs Dog Minks [Zou] Hysterically laughing at seeing Duval [Sabaody] Franky vs Senor Pink [Dressrosa] Playing with the Kids [Punk Hazard] vs Fukurou [Enies Lobby] Freedom Roller [Wano] Trapping Caribou in the Barrel [FMI] Robin I Want to Live [Enies Lobby] Clutching Spandam [Enies Lobby] Throwing Usopp under the bus [G8] vs Yama [Skypeia] Clutching Tequila Wolf guards [Amazon Lily] Chopper Monster Point [Enies Lobby] Flashback [Drum Island] Chopper Man (& Minoru Kazeno) vs Usobada [Chopper Man Special] Don’t blow the whistle: Immediately blows whistle [Skypeia] Dr Chopper the definitely Human Doctor not wearing fake glasses [G8] Vivi w/ Karoo (she counts okay!) Goodbye speech [Alabasta] Escaping Bon Clay [Alabasta] Karoo Digging Luffy Out [Little Garden] Luffy Fan Club Meeting [Reverie] Slapping Usopp awake [Drum Island] Nami vs Kalifa [Enies Lobby] Standing by the kids [Punk Hazard] Saying goodbye to Bell-mere [Arlong Park] Helping Luffy vs Cracker via Lola’s Vivre Card [WCI] Luffy WILL be Pirate King [Wano] Sanji ‘I needed a light’ [Skypeia] Flexing on Jessica [G8] Saving the Vinsmokes [WCI] O-Soba Mask [Wano] vs Doflamingo [Dressrosa] Usopp Alabasta speech [Alabasta] Awakening Observation Haki [Dressrosa] Sogeking Theme Song [Enies Lobby] vs Perona [Thriller Bark] Saving Luffy from the fire [Stampede] Zoro Nothing Happened [Thriller Bark] vs Ryuma [Thriller Bark] vs Mr. 1 [Alabasta] vs Gyukimaru & Kamazo [Wano] “He’s sweeping our floors that fiend!” Test of Luck [Loguetown] Luffy ‘On the Sea, you fight Pirates’ [Wano] Red Roc [Wano] vs Katakuri [WCI] Haki clash with Doflamingo [Dressrosa] Punching Saint Charloss [Sabaody] I will have to say that for some characters I could go to 20 so if one’s missing it may’ve just missed the mark, such as Usopp and Nami vs Enel or Luffy putting back a Zombie or Stealth Luffy, I mean it is 1000 chapters as well as movies and filler episodes/specials...

1. I’ve learned quite a lot due to One Piece Since my fascination started with a deep dive of checks, I did start to learn a hell of a lot more not just about the franchise itself (you know it’s almost catching up BATMAN on total sales, which has been around more than 3 times longer?) but I also learned a lot about stuff Oda has used as a reference key; folklore, actual pirates, actual practices, the amount of detail Oda puts in is astounding. Which does lean into another thing I’ve learned, One Piece has changed the way I approach some of my ideas for writings and whatnot, before I would be afraid of either spoonfeeding or being too vague, Oda’s mastery not only in storytelling but character development, character quality and pacing has both helped and intimidated me a lot of times, I mean consider this: it took hundreds of chapters to get a proper backstory on Luffy, the main character, how unprecedented is that? Often I could fall into the trap of making sure you knew everything about the main character from day one but now I wonder about what’s necessary for the now and what can I work on. Another thing that both inspires and intimidates me is his drawing, I suck at colours and still do, and a lot of Oda’s attention to detail is incredible considering he’s gotta whip that out on the weekly, but at the same time you see some of his rough sketches and they’re pretty similar to a rough sketch of my own, so in a way it’s a ‘there’s still hope for you’ moment seeing those. I can’t say I’ve learned Japanese from listening to One Piece, but I have picked up on some stuff, some hiragana there, some phonetics here, I also appreciated some of the stuff kaizokuou-ni-naru does (I won’t tag them in case that’s a bit rude to do it out of the blue but check out their tumblr) when it came to deciphering the Japanese of chapters and the little puns and hints Oda puts in his native tongue. And of course any One Piece fan has learned one thing above all else: Patience. Oda himself included, it took over 20 years to get to 1000 chapters and we still have plenty of questions to ask, plenty of islands to see and thus plenty of chapters to go. So Straw Hats off to you Oda, and a happy 1000th!

15 notes · View notes

queakenstein · 5 years ago

Note

Mama Queaky ! :D Could you do a Hw Zelink or OOT Zelink (either one is fine) where Zelda is struggling with trust issues from a rumor & Link is reassuring her ?

Hey, my little baby Anon! ‘course I can! (also, I have no idea if I’m correct about how old horses should be before they “retire” so feel free to educate me because I did like a quick 5 second google)

Also, also: Let me know if this is too long for ya’ll’s dashes. I can pop a read more on it to help.

______________

The whispers and rumors that swirl around any group can always be an interesting mix when it comes to romance. Especially, when in particular tiers of royalty. Zelda has learned to disregard them and, in some cases, to use them for her advantage should she need to. She has learned there is almost always a kernel of truth to even the most blown out of proportion secret. The Queen ignores the unnecessary information but the temptation to dive into the world of words orbiting around your own life can prove difficult.

“Your Highness is everything all right?” A young girl, new to the staff, asks as she picks up the tray of tea mostly untouched. She shuffles with nervousness and averts her pretty, brown eyes to the floor. “I’m sorry to ask but... I’ve heard... rumors.”

Zelda lifts an eyebrows and smiles, gently. “Birds like to twitter around and sing. Pay them no mind.” She closes the book she was reading, an old tome brought home by her favorite green clad knight, and sighs. “Thank you for your concern though.”

The girl nods and turns to leave but pauses. “It doesn’t bother you... though?” She seems torn between speaking so casually to the regent but the curiosity overcomes any desire to be quiet. Zelda’s familiar with the rather informal relationship she has with her ‘servants’. It’s something that she worked hard to achieve. “I don’t know that I could stand having anyone talk about me like that... I-In fact, I know I can’t...” Her hands grip the tray hard enough Zelda is a little shocked to see the white of her knuckles.

“Is there something you would like to say?” She urges, softly. Clearly, this was something that truly was bothering the young woman. “Or is there something I can help with?”

She wiggles her lips in an odd, quirky way as if the words are fighting just behind her teeth. “I... I’ve heard rumors.” The maid swallows and musters up a little more courage to shake the tremors in her voice. “That your husband has been seen... getting close with a ranch girl some ways away from town.”

‘Malon.’ Zelda thinks but does not interupt.

“M-My issue isn’t as serious as that... but... I heard... that there might be a bet among the guards on who... can... bed me first.” She says the last part so quietly that Zelda almosts asks her to repeat it but she’s shivering so badly that she doesn’t dare. “H-How do you ignore things like that? Mean things!”

The Queen gets up from her table and moves forward to take the tray from the girl’s hands. She puts it down and then takes hold of the girl. “It can be difficult and I remember when it used to sting. Hurt and cut so deep that I would agonize over it.” Zelda squeezes the girl shoulders and smiles. “ I have worked hard to value my own worth and words. I’ve surrounded myself with friends who are quick to ignore these kinds of things and who work to support one another. I would advise you to do the same.” She releases her and then laughs. “I have also gotten pretty brave and tend to track down those being particularly nasty to give them a piece of my mind.”

“R-Really?!”

“I wouldn’t say for you to do the same... but,” Zelda shrugs, “I can make an arrangement that the guards are reminded they are supposed to be noble and righteous.”

“Thank you!” The gratitude that shines in those brown eyes warms Zelda’s heat but it isn’t too long after they’re quick goodbye that something cold slithers it’s way in.

Her room is warm and inviting which is only enhanced by the fact that her favorite person is sitting in his old armchair by the fireplace. Link has his legs draped over the arm and seemed to have only managed removing one boot before getting lost in tracing the lines of the map he’s inspecting.

“I would have come to bed earlier but I got lost in the library.”

Link snorts and folds the map down so she can see him snicker at her. “You mean, lost in that old book I brought you.” He wags his eyebrows at her as she begins to undress for bed which is met with an eyeroll.

“Says the man studying his next adventure.”

“Heh.” He drops his map onto the end table next to him and reaches down to finally remove his shoe. “I am merely keeping our beloved kingdom safe from monsters.”

“And treasure.”

He grins. “If I must!” Link stands to begin removing his own clothes long since in need of a good cleaning. He drops across the bed and reaches his hand out to draw her against his chest. His merry mood dims and he looks sad all of a sudden. Link caresses her cheek when she props herself up to look at him with a questioning expression. “I, uh, talked to Malon the other day and she thinks it might be time I retire my girl.”

“Epona?” Zelda ignores the sting in her chest at the rancher’s name and focuses on the sadness in her husband’s voice. “She’s nearly 18, love. Not quite young enough for adventures any longer... ” She pokes his chest. “And neither are you.”

He pouts. “I’m not yet 30.”

“30 is old enough to start thinking about settling down... eh, dear?”

Link shrugs. “I don’t know.” He laughs. “Marriage is a being commitment.”

She gently smacks his chest and sits up. “Terribly sorry to inconvenience you.” Zelda sighs and, after just a moment or two of quick contemplation, decides that she doesn’t like the heaviness she feel in her chest. “Darling?”

Link pops up behind her and brushes her hair to the side so that he can kiss the curve of her neck. “Yes, my beautiful love?”

“Do... you...” She feels silly, suddenly, asking him something like this while his hands encircle her. “Um.”

Link places his chin on her shoulder and then titles his head so his head lightly bumps hers. “Zelda, what is it?” His voice is soft, encouraging, and she wonders if he will laugh at her question.

“You’ve been spending more time at Lon Lon... and... it’s come to the attention of the court--”

“Ah, yes, the spymasters.” Link pulls away to lie back against the headboard.

“Well.” She pushes on though she misses the reassurance his bodyheat gave her. “They’ve noticed how close you and Malon have become... again.”

“Again?” He asks and she turns in time to see the puzzle she had not even fully laid out click together in his eyes. “You think I’m cheating?” Link’s voice tries very hard to remain even and calm but she can tell there’s more complicated emotions swelling in him.

“N-No!” Zelda holds her hands up and shakes her head. “I-It’s just that you used to be close--”

“You can say engaged, Zelda. It’s not a curse.” Link frowns and crosses his arms. Zelda knows that’s the sign he has upped his mental guard. “That was ages ago. We were teenagers.”

“I know.” She slumps and curls her legs up to her chest. “Sometimes, when I hear the whispers, I think that maybe you regret becoming my husband.” She sighs. “It is hard when our relationship has been so complicated and I think about how easy a life with Malon would be.” She meets his gaze and shrugs. “I would not blame you if the temptation be--”

“Nope.” Link moves forward and seizes her face in his hands. He kisses her fully and hard against the mouth. “Listen,” He says presses his forehead against hers, “there isn’t a day that goes by that I am not so incredibly happy that I have you. That we chose each other. That I have this, right here, until that day that I die.” He kisses her more softly this time. “Malon and I were kids... there is always going to be some affection there. I cannot deny that.” Link smiles so softly and genuinely that Zelda feels her heart skip a beat. “But, I love you. I love you and there is no one else that would be able to fill the space you would leave if I were to lose you.”

Zelda smiles and is a little shocked when his thumb brushes away a tear. “I love you too, darling.” She kisses him and allows herself to be pulled into his lap. “I’m sorry for doubting you.”

“Don’t be.” He chuckles. “Sometimes, it’s nice just to be reassured.”

#queaky writes #zelink #legend of zelda #fanfiction #zelink fanfiction

71 notes · View notes

misschiuahua · 4 years ago

Link

Marjorie

Explicit - Part 2 of 3

Marjorie couldn’t complain -much -about life aboard the Covenant. It was boring at times, but at least she was still alive.

Walter had decided to give her tasks around the ship to keep her occupied, and even though they were small and menial, they made her feel like she was doing something other than just waiting for time to pass.

And it turned out that Walter was correct: she did feel better after they had sex. She couldn’t believe she’d really just needed to get laid.

Even though it had been just that one time, it seemed to make her feel better about some other things -and she did get back to masturbating no problem, so thanks again, Walter.

Having an illicit affair with a synthetic -at least that was how she called it in her fantasies -brought back a sense of desire and yearning.

It strangely made for a fun past-time. It was like having a secret crush on someone out of her reach; she could look at him during the day, then play her fantasies in the safety of her room.

It’d also helped her relationship with him. Before she’d been treating him somewhat like a computer; a tool to spend the infinite amount of time she seemed to have there. It wasn’t the nicest thing to do, but it was how it was. Now she managed to talk to him better and she came to realise he was a pleasant company to have around.

It still sucked to know she was stuck there, wasting years of her life to reach Origae-6, but she’d come to accept it with a sort of resigned conformity.

The next six months passed uneventfully while she maintained the boring routine of everyday: wake up, exercise, work, read, eat, sleep, repeat.

Then, one day, she was taking a shower, when -for what seemed no reason whatsoever- she slipped on the locker room. She was so shocked by it, that she just laid there trying to catch her breath and looking at the ceiling.

“Mother?” Marjorie finally called. “I fell, can you get Walter here?”

“He’s on his way.” The female voice replied.

Marjorie tried to remain still, concerned about broken bones, even though she didn’t feel a lot of pain. Maybe she was just winded, or maybe the adrenaline was still running through her body and she didn’t feel pain because of that.

She heard steps hurrying her way, and Walter finally appeared in the room. “Marjorie.” He advanced towards her, kneeling next to her. “What happened?” He was frowning.

“I slipped.” She told him.

“Don’t move.” He directed. “Did you hit your head on the ground?”

“No.”

He checked her carefully, while she lay there soaking wet and barely wrapped on her towel. He was quick and perfunctory about it, making the occasional question of “Does it hurt here?”

Once he seemed satisfied by her answers, he just picked her up in a bridal carry.

“Walter!” Marjorie squealed in her surprise, trying to clutch at her towel.

“I’ll take you to your room.” He informed her as he started walking.

“Way to sound like a hero from a trash romance.” She teased.

Teasing Walter was always interesting, because he tried to understand the idea first, then he’d smile at it. This time wasn’t different. “Why?”

“You know.” She insisted. “Carrying me off on your arms, declaring you’re taking me to my chambers…” She teased, wiggling her eyebrows at him.

He seemed to think hard about that one. “You are naked.” He conceded.

Marjorie giggled. “That’s the spirit.”

They entered her room and he sat her down on the bed, before kneeling in front of her and carefully holding her left ankle. “You seem mostly fine, but I want to keep an eye on your ankle. It doesn’t seem to be broken, but you said it’s tender.”

“Yes.” She confirmed, clutching the towel to her chest.

Walter remained kneeling in front of her, his hand around her ankle. “You’ll probably feel pain from the fall tomorrow. If it hurts too much, come to me and I’ll give you something for it.”

“Fine. Now get out of here before you start giving me ideas.”

He didn’t let go of her ankle, he just inclined his head to the right. “What ideas?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You are not that innocent, Walter.”

“I do know you’re talking about sex, I was just expecting a clarification.”

Was he messing with her?

Marjorie cleared her throat. “With all your programming and stuff, you can probably figure it out on your own.” It wasn’t the smartest answer out there, but… She was under stress.

Walter nodded, then became quiet, as if he really was making analysis and checking the math in his head. Eventually he focused back on her. “May I present my conclusion?”

He really was messing with her, wasn’t he? That had to be it. “Present?”

Marjorie was shocked. Was he really suggesting… It had been just that one time, right?

Right?

He nodded. “It’s the most efficient way to know if I’m right, correct?” He pointed out as if it was oh-so-obvious and Marjorie wondered if synthetics could also bullshit people.

“Present away.” She said breathlessly.

Walter kept his intense eyes on her as he pushed her legs open, his fingers caressing her thighs as they traveled up. Marjorie had always been cool with pleasuring herself, but she had to admit that nothing was better than someone else touching her.

Walter’s hands found their way under her towel, then around her waist. He used his hold to pull her a bit more to the edge of the bed, but Marjorie only understood his plan when he put her thigh over his shoulder.

Well damn… Since he insisted…

He used his fingers to spread her pussy lips open, then teased her clit with just the tip of his tongue. He gave it quick and slow licks, but most of them were in small proportions.

Marjorie grabbed Walter’s hair. “Don’t tease!” She protested.

He didn’t answer her, because he didn’t take his mouth from its advantage point. But he finally put some energy into it.

By the time he was done with her, there wasn’t a part of her pussy he hadn’t teased with his tongue. He was attentive to parts she’d never thought about before, in ways she hadn’t considered before. There were even some teasing bites in locations that would normally make her nervous, but this time just made her wet.

When he finally put his fingers inside her, she was a wet mess. Marjorie had fallen back to the bed, back arched, fingers grabbing at his hair, his name a constant in her lips.

Since he didn’t breathe, she shamelessly ground her pussy against his face and pulled him closer. She also wasn’t one bit embarrassed of telling him exactly where she wanted him. She’d never been a particularly demanding lover, but with Walter she was discovering a tendency.

When she came she screamed his name so loudly, she thought the people in the pods might wake up because of it.

However, it became clear he didn’t intend to stop just yet, so Marjorie had to push him away.

“Get naked. Now.” She ordered, moving on the bed so she was better positioned on it.

Walter got undressed, and Marjorie found mildly amusing that he actually folded his clothes before climbing on top of her.

She pulled him for a kiss, the taste of her on his lips only making her hotter.

“Come on.” She grabbed his cock.

“You’re impatient today.” He observed, gently pushing her hand away.

“And you’re acting like a tease.” She pointed out. “Not sure why.”

“To my understanding, a tease is someone that does not plan to follow through.” He pushed her legs further apart and rubbed his cock against her. “And I have the intention of following through.”

“Then do it!”

“As you wish.” He guided himself into her and pushed in with a single thrust.

Marjorie lost her breath and sunk her nails on his shoulders. He was thick and it was a stretch, but he had gotten her really wet and prepared for his cock. Besides, she enjoyed it.

Walter hooked her knee on his elbow, pushing her leg higher and started fucking her; but now he was back to going slow, and it was maddening. Marjorie swore she could feel every inch of him moving in and out of her. And once again, his eyes were fixed on her face, as if he was studying her expressions, memorizing the lines of her face.

“Harder, please.” She begged breathlessly, uncaring of how needy she might sound.

The first -and only time -they’d fucked, she had ridden him the way she wanted. She told him where to touch her and she took control of the situation.

This time, since he was on top, it already felt like he was in control. However, once he started fucking her, it became quite clear he held back before.

As he was a synthetic, he didn’t tire, which meant he could fuck her this hard for hours. When she said ‘harder’, he took it seriously -as he normally did -and proceeded to wreck her.

Marjorie could barely hang onto him, as his hips pistoned against hers. The noises around the room were obscene, and so were the words escaping her mouth. She was sobbing so pathetically that Marjorie pulled Walter’s mouth to hers just to cover it up.

He finally let go of her leg so he could play with her clit and Marjorie didn’t even know if this was a good idea. She was worried she might not survive another orgasm.

Walter was doing just whatever he wanted then, without waiting for instructions. He just rubbed her clit until she was coming, harder than the last time, harder than ever before.

Once again Walter got up and took care of cleaning her up. However, instead of leaving, this time he laid back next to her. “My protocols suggest that cuddling might be appreciated.”

Marjorie snorted. She’d have fucking laughed at his face if she had the breath to do it. “Are those the same protocols that suggested I wanted you to eat me out?”

“That was just a logical conclusion based on the evidence presented.” He told her as if it was quite simple.

“Was all of that on your programming?” She just had to ask, because whoever programmed him to act -if necessary -as a sex bot had done a hell of a job.

“Something like that.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you turning into a smart ass?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Marjorie.” He finally stood back up and put his clothes on. “If that’s all I’ll leave you to rest. Tomorrow I’ll check your ankle.”

Marjorie didn’t even remember about it anymore.

Just after Walter left, something occurred to her. She’d never said she wanted sex. Sure, she’d teased him a bit before, but she never came out and asked him for it. She was also pretty sure she wasn’t moody or grumpy as she’d been before.

Walter had offered to eat her out for…

She couldn’t quite figure out why.

How odd.

#My writing #part 2 #posted on AO3 #smut #alien covenant #walter #OFC #Walter x OFC #robot sex #i guess Walter counts as a robot

5 notes · View notes

recurring-polynya · 5 years ago

Note

I hoped you would reblog that! :3 A fic after Aizen arc, where Ichigo DOES NOT lose his powers, and seireitei is in full party mode. Someone asks where Rukia is. Renji's like "she went to get snacks". and Orihime, tipsy as hell, just blurts out "Of course you know where she is! You're so cute together!!" and everyone is either like "yeah true" or "WAIT SINCE WHEN?". aka the dorks get peer pressured into realizing they should date already By Everyone. Feat. Women's Society paparazzi.

Hey, so you know how always spend a ton of time on my really long fics and don’t post them until I’m all the way done so that I can make everything internally consistent, etc, etc? What would it look like, as your therapist would say, if I just wrote some nonsense and posted it? And if I feel like writing more chapters later, maybe I will? To post something with a 1/? Also, what if was Canon, Never Heard of Her? and also full of things that do absolutely do not belong in Soul Society (like potato salad?) What would that look like?

Anyway, here you go @unohanadaydreams. I’m sorry it took me so long to do this and also I also messed up your prompt a bunch (I figure that everyone knows how bad Renji has it for Rukia and wouldn’t rag him about it, so I switched ‘em), but I think I captured the spirit of it, along with the spirit of that filler episode where everyone makes movies.

Enough! Enough intro! Here it is!

Heroes of the Hueco Mundo Invasion – In Love!!

“HELLLLLLOOOOOOOOO, SQUAD 10!” Inoue Orihime yodeled, flinging herself into the courtyard, where a barbeque of epic proportions was gearing up.

“Orihime!” Matsumoto screamed.

“YO!” Kurosaki Ichigo announced, stumbling in behind her, arms raised victoriously. “What has two thumbs and just saved Soul Society?”

“This guy!” Orihime squealed, trying to point her thumbs at Ichigo as he also tried to point his thumbs at himself.

Ichigo squinted at the hands waving around his general vicinity. “How many thumbs do I have? Hey, hey, Ishida?! Did I grow any extra arms while I was fighting Aizen?”

Sado Yasutora suddenly plunged through the gate behind them panting and out of breath.

“Are you two drunk?” Captain Hitsugaya demanded.

“My new best friend Captain Doctor Unohana Retsu gave me the good stuff, because I am the Hero of Three Worlds, possibly Four,” Ichigo explained.

“Painkillers,” Chad gasped. “He’s on a very high dose of painkillers. It’s…okay… I'm… keeping an eye on him. He’s still really fast, though.”

“What about Orihime?” Rukia demanded, from where she was trying to sculpt a bowl of potato salad into a diorama of herself defeating Rudabone. Or possibly Chappy. “She wasn’t even hurt.”

“She was very nervous about Kurosaki,” Uryuu explained, sauntering up next to Chad. “So Lieutenant Kotetsu gave her some of Captain Unohana’s home-brewed ginger beer, which was… allegedly non-alcoholic?”

“I feel so powerful right now!” Orihime chimed in. “Like my body is filled with thousands of dubstepping bees!”

“I literally cannot feel any part of my body, right now,” Ichigo chipped in, “but at least I didn’t lose my Soul Reaper powers while performing the Final Getsuga, like some sort of contrived plot hook.”

“Why is it called the Final Getsuga, then?” Orihime asked.

“Beats me!” Ichigo hooted.

“It’s because Europe had just released ‘The Final Countdown’ when I invented it, and that song slaps!” Isshin shouted from somewhere near the kegs.

“DAD!” Ichigo shouted. “Dad, I have something to tell you! Also, Rukia, you are like my other dad, if I had two dads!”

“I am not,” Rukia protested.

“Maybe Byakuya is like my other dad, then, which would make you my sister.”

“I am definitely not,” Byakuya protested. (Did you, gentle reader, think that Byakuya would not attend one of Squad 10’s infamous keggers on the occasion of Aizen’s defeat? You were incorrect. Byakuya is a great fan of Matsumoto’s guac.)

“Listen, Dads,” Ichigo insisted. “I defeated Aizen and I think that definitely means I should get to borrow the car on Saturday, but also, Orihime proposed to me and I said yes , we are now engaged to go to the movies the next weekend that we are back home. Which is why I need the car, you see.”

Orihime dabbed.

“My precious son, I am so proud of you!” Isshin announced, throwing his arms wide. “But you can take the bus to the movies like a normal teenager.”

“Way to go, Orihime!” Rukia congratulated, abandoning her potato salad to perform an elaborate handshake/high-five routine with Orihime.

“This is so exciiiiitiiiiiing!” Matsumoto wailed.

Ise Nanao sidled up to Kusajishi Yachiru. “Madam President,” the Vice-President of the Shinigami Women’s Association intoned gravely. “Are you thinking what I am thinking?”

Hisagi Shuuhei sidled up to the other side of Kusajishi Yachiru. “Are you thinking about a special Seireitei Bulletin feature, presented in cooperation with the Shinigami Women’s Association–”

“–'Heroes of the Hueco Mundo Invasion – In Love!!’” Nanao and Hisagi chorused in unison.

Yachiru blinked. To be honest, she had mostly been thinking about the red bean dumplings she knew Captain Hitsugaya had hidden somewhere earlier, and had not been paying much attention to any of the goings-on up until this point. This may seem to stretch belief, but you have to understand, gentle reader, that this amount of shouting represented a pretty typical day at Squad 11.

Yachiru bounded up to the former ryouka. “Hey, Pencil!” she demanded. “Are you and Muscles dating?”

“Chad!” Ichigo yelped, grabbing at his own hair. “You sneaky person!”

“Uryuu!” Orihime gawped, clapping her hands over her cheeks. “You sly dog!”

“No,” Uryuu corrected stiffly.

“You are mistaken,” Chad added.

“He’s way out of my league,” they said at the same time.

There was a long silence.

Uryuu looked up at Chad out of the corner of his eye.

Chad looked down at Uryuu out of the corner of his eye.

Ichigo was making tiny, excited claps.

Orihime was bouncing.

“Doooooo iiiiiiiiittttttt,” Captain Kyouraku said out of the side of his mouth, pretending like nobody could tell it was him. Everybody could tell it was him.

Rukia straightened up to her full height. “Do it, you dorkuses. The Women’s Association will pay for it. If these two dummies can get their act together, you haven’t got any excuse.” She glanced over at Ichigo and Orihime, who were gazing longingly at one another, and promptly did a horrified double take.

“Errr…” Uryuu waffled.

“I understand if you’re uncomfortable participating in a Soul Society-related activity,” Chad offered an easy way out.

Uryuu opened his mouth, looked at Chad, and closed it again slowly. “I’ll take their money and waste it frivolously. That is within my moral code.”

“YAYYYYY!” Orihime squealed. “Triple date! Can I be an honorary member of the Shinigami Women’s Association?”

“What do you mean, 'triple date’?” Rukia tried to interrupt.

“Yes,” Nanao proclaimed. “But it will be three separate dates, covered as a three-part series.”

“In the World of the Living,” Shuuhei broke in. “The readers are crazy-go-nuts for the World of the Living.”

“Who is the third couple?” Rukia pressed.

“Genius,” Nanao threw a finger gun at Shuuhei. “Matsumoto, you’ll do host segments? Pre- and post-date interviews and such?”

“Give me a clothing budget and you’ve got a deal” Matsumoto agreed.

“WHO! IS! THE! THIRD! COUPLE?!” Rukia demanded.

“You and Renji, obviously,” Orihime replied. “You two are sooooo cute together! I bet your readers would love that, wouldn’t they, Lieutenant Hisagi? If Rukia and Renji went on a date in the World of the Living? Rukia’s like a princess or something here, right?”

“They will go apeshit , Hisagi replied breathlessly. "You have to understand that Abarai is actual very well-known among the Bulletin readership for his incredibly popular column, 'Let’s Do Shikai!!’ This is essentially the Soul Society equivalent of David Beckham marrying Posh Spice.”

“I…. don’t know who that is,” Rukia stammered.

“How do you know who those people are?” Uryuu asked, perplexed.

“I read Living World newspapers,” Hisagi excused with a shrug.

“Rukia, do you have something to tell me?” Byakuya frowned.

“No!” Rukia yelped. “I’m not dating Renji! I have no interest in going on a date with Renji, even though he consistently moves Heaven and Earth for me and we have really similar taste in craft beers and he’s objectively, like, smoking hot. I refuse to go on a date with Renji. Don’t ask me any more questions.”

“Where is Renji, anyway?” Ichigo frowned. “I don’t hear him shouting, so he must not be here.”

“He went to go pick up a bunch of snacks for Matsumoto because he’s a sucker and I’m sure he stopped off to trade out his sunglasses for polarized ones because he says they’re better for late afternoon glare,” Rukia excused very quickly.

“Rukia,” Ichigo noted, suddenly sounding a lot more sober. “Listen to yourself.”

“Soooooooo cuuuuuuuuuuuute!” Orihime repeated, exaggerating her lip movements.

“She’s not wrong,” Uryuu pointed out.

Chad did Big Shrug Arms and nodded in agreement.

At this moment, the man in question strode into the courtyard, carrying several grocery bags and wearing a pair of polarized sunnies. “Hey, party people!” Renji greeted cheerfully, somehow managing to hold four overstuffed grocery bags in one arm while he fished something out of one of them. “Why’s everyone so quiet?”

“Hey, Abarai, will you do me a big favor?” Hisagi asked innocently.

“Yeah, sure,” Renji agreed. He found whatever he was looking for. “Oi, Ruki-Ruki,” he called, tossing a small paper packet to Rukia. “They had those melon-flavored gummy salamanders you like when you get hammered.”

Rukia caught them easily, her cheeks flaming red.

“'Ruki-Ruki’?” Ichigo mouthed to her, making the most judgemental face he could manage under the influence of Unohana’s Special Sauce.

“So, what’s can I do you for, Shuuhei?” Renji asked, trying to find an empty spot to deposit his bags.

Shuuhei told him.

“Oh,” said Renji. He looked over at Rukia, who managed an awkward, sheepish half-smile as she clutched her candies. “Well, shit.”

#renruki #asks #fanfic prompts #i am between medications right now and my brain has the zoomies #should i post this on ao3? i dunno #i am sure i will regret this later #i love you unohanadaydreams u r the best #my writing

51 notes · View notes

yuanzhous · 5 years ago

Text

Tim always liked it when Dick was in town. He liked working with Nightwing, he liked training with him, he liked their post-patrol talks in the kitchen. He liked how Dick always seemed to have time for these things, how he always looked interested no matter what they were talking about.

Of course, Dick wasn't in town very often. And it was easy to be nice to someone when you only saw them once in a blue moon. Whenever Tim's mother was home - she and his father traveled together for the most part, but not always - she was always pleasant and happy to see him, taking him to museums and exhibitions and fancy coffee shops. But once his nanny had bailed, and his parents had been forced to take him on a trip with them, a whole month. He'd never felt more acutely how much of a burden he was on them. Dick had never had to be around him for a month.

"What're you thinking?" Dick asked now with a disarming smile, enough to put anyone at ease. Tim knew it was at least partially an act, but that didn't mean it didn't work.

They were sitting together at the den, in comfortable silence up until now. Dick was sprawled across the sofa, feet on the armrest and crossed at the ankles, reading a comic. Tim was curled up with his knees close to his chest, absently doodling new costume ideas. The suit he was using currently was one of Dick’s old ones, but Bruce had given him permission to come up with a design of his own.

It felt good. He couldn’t think of a better confirmation that he was Robin for real.

"Just about the upcoming science fair," he lied easily. "My science teacher thinks I should participate, but I don't know. I'm kinda busy."

Dick's smile slipped. "Robin stuff?"

"Yeah," Tim said with a shrug. "And I mean, I don't care about it that much? I have better things to be doing than making mini-volcanoes or potato solar systems, you know? Mom and dad might think it's cool if I won first place, but..."

He cut himself off and shrugged again. Dick was quiet for a long time.

"Well,let me know if you decide to go for it," he said cheerfully. "I'd love to come. And I'd offer my help, but you're probably better at this stuff than I am."

"Why?" Tim asked, baffled. "You know it's just gonna be a bunch of middle schoolers with projects made by their parents, right? It's not very interesting."

Dick shrugged. "If you're participating, it'll be interesting enough."

Oh. That was a very nice thing to say, but it made Tim want to cry a little. No one had ever been interested in something just because Tim was.

"I mean, I don't know," he said, "I'm not even sure I wanna do it, you know? And you don't have to drive all the way from Bludhaven just for that, so..."

"Oh, I don't mind the drive," Dick dismissed. "It's an hour tops. Totally worth it."

Tim wanted to insist, but his mind was already spinning with ideas for the project. He'd have to balance his time, obviously, he couldn't afford to look like he was slacking in his duties as Robin, but there was still plenty of time before the fair. If Dick really wanted to come, at least Tim ought to present something that would make it worth his while.

"Okay," Tim agreed.

True to his word, Dick was there. Tim watched him make his way through the crowd, eyes scanning the room. His face lit up as soon as he spotted Tim and he waved, changing course to come greet him. Tim waved back halfheartedly, glancing at his solar oven.

It had seemed like a good idea at first, but now that his project was out in the open for everyone to see, it felt woefully insufficient. He'd hand-painted it and made sure it looked good on top of being functional, experimented with different materials for the insides of the oven to find the one that'd heat up faster, double and triple tested the boiling time to be sure he wouldn't keep the judges waiting too long. It didn't feel like he'd done enough. Why had he even bothered participating in this again?

"I'm not late, am I?" Dick asked as he reached Tim, catching him off guard and momentarily trapping him in a one-armed hug. He pulled away and ruffled Tim's hair. "This looks amazing. Can I touch it or am I gonna break it?"

Tim squirmed. "Maybe wait until after the presentation."

“You got it,” Dick said.

By looking at Dick, you would have thought he was faced with a real scientific creation, not just some kid's school project. It made Tim equal parts wary – he wasn't at all sure what he'd made could live up to those expectations – and excited. If he did well in the competition, his parents might be pleased, but there was no question that they would ever take the time out of their busy lives to attend something like this. Neither would they gush over a cardboard cut-out solar oven.

It gave him the confidence boost he needed. Once it was his turn to show his work to the judges, he placed the little black pot filled with water he had next to him in the oven, walking them through the way it worked while they waited for it to boil. He'd timed his speech exactly so that he could take the pot out the minute he was finished talking, presenting it to the judges as proof that it'd worked.

To his immense relief, everything went off without a hitch. He got the timing down perfectly and he didn't trip over his words too much, neither did he stumble and shower one of the judges in boiling water, as had been a recurring fear of his. Throughout the whole thing, Dick watched with a wide, proud grin spread across his face.

Tim kind of felt like a fraud – he hadn't done anything that cool. He didn't even win first place. Other kids had better, more nuanced projects.

Dick insisted that they go for ice cream to celebrate, and like that wasn’t enough, that Tim tell him where his favorite ice cream shop was. Tim squirmed a little because it was halfway across Gotham, and it felt like he was just wasting more of Dick’s time, but nobody could resist Dick’s puppy eyes and relentless spirit for long.

They each got a huge ice cream in a cup with far too many toppings, and the lady behind the register slipped Tim an extra oreo. He was happy to have it but frowned a little. Surely twelve was far too old to be given free stuff on account of cuteness, although Dick did always tease him about how small he looked.

“Nice of you to treat your little brother,” she said, eyes crinkling at the corners. “All my sister ever does is hog the TV."

Wincing, Tim opened his mouth to correct her, but Dick just laughed it off.

“Well, I don’t live at home anymore, so that’s rarely a problem,” he said in good humor. “And he deserves the treat. His school was holding a science fair today, and -”

To Tim’s growing horror, Dick proceeded to talk her ear off about Tim’s project, blowing the whole thing out of proportion. Luckily the shop was mostly empty and the girl didn’t seem to mind, but Tim was still mortified by the end of it.

“What was that for?” Tim demanded quietly as they finally turned to leave.

Dick put an arm over his shoulder and pulled him into a loose hug. “Hey, you did good. Don’t I get to brag about you?”

Tim shook his head, perplexed and embarrassed. “Think you might be overselling it a little?”

“Nope,” Dick declared, popping the ‘p’ with great authority. “I’m proud of you, and that’s that. I’m telling everyone we see today about it. Deal with it.”

“Dick, no,” Tim groaned.

“Everyone,” Dick insisted, and just to prove his point, waved cheerily at a man crossing the road. “Excuse me, sir, but did you know that -”

“Dick,” Tim hissed, grabbing his arm and dragging him away. Dick went willingly, laughing all the while. “Oh my god, what’s wrong with you. That guy’s giving me the stink-eye now.”

Dick waved a hand as he tried to catch his breath. “Sorry, sorry. I’m just teasing you.”

Tim huffed. “You’re a real dick, Dick.”

“I know. But Tim,” his smile fell away, eyes earnest, “you know that I really am proud of you, right?”

Affirming it verbally felt like hubris of the worst kind, so Tim only nodded and, for once, allowed himself to believe it.

#dick grayson #tim drake #nightwing #robin #batman #batman and robin #batfamily #batfam #batbros #red robin #my writing

723 notes · View notes

kclenhartnovels · 5 years ago

Text

Horseshoes and Hand Grenades, Larocque’s Introduction

As I’m finally getting some actual words done on the project, here’s a fun sneak peak into the early chapter, and Harding’s first interaction with Larocque. I feel like I’m finally finding the narrative voice, and I may be having too much fun with descriptions.

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

"Agent John Harding, Sr.?"

The use of his full name startled Harding out of his focus, and he jerked up so suddenly he sent half a dozen papers fluttering to the ground. They hadn't been in much order to begin with, emptied from the file box and strewn across his desk and the floor with a few of his own notes scribbled on post-its on top of them, still trying to make sense of the flood of information. He had expected some other lackey suit to be standing in the door to his office, perhaps holding another full box or checking in on his progress as they had been doing for the past couple days, but instead was someone he had never seen before. And he didn't look like a paper pusher, or a field agent. Instead of a suit, he wore a long white lab coat, immaculately pressed and clean. He had the long, narrow look of someone who had at one point been a normal proportion, but then had been squeezed and pulled too tightly through some sort of unforgiving machine. His high cheekbones angled too sharply against the line of his jaw, leaving hollows that might have been called dimples if they didn't look so severely cut. Dark blond hair curled loosely across his temples, and seemed the only thing about him not pressed and stretched into a cultivated, regimented perfection. Harding got the distinct impression that he was some sort of lizard that had decided to wear a human-suit, but had no idea how to make it properly fitted. If he saw a forked tongue, Harding was going to carve a window into the wall behind him and jump through it.

"Yes, sir," he answered instead. "That's me. Can I help you?"

The reptile in the doorway smiled, at least much in the same way a snake smiled while sizing up a cornered mouse. It was less of a gesture of goodwill, and more a yawn of fangs in preparation to swallow someone whole. "My name is Dr. Henri Larocque. I have the results of your bloodwork."

"Ah." When Larocque didn't continue right away, Harding felt compelled to speak. "Is this like looking up symptoms on the Internet? Do I have brain cancer?"

The doctor's smile widened marginally, enough to finally wrinkle the hollows of his pitted cheeks. "Quite the contrary. Won't you follow me?"

"Why do I feel like I don't have a choice in the matter?" Harding picked up a few of the papers that had fallen, returned them to the piles where (he thought) they came from, and gingerly stepped around the rest. Standing beside Larocque, he was even more acutely aware that his own suit was rumpled, his tie was loosely done, and he hadn't really slept in a day or so. He felt rather like a stray dog beside a freshly-groomed Westminster poodle.

"You always have a choice, John."

Harding flinched. No one called each other by first names here, and he wasn't sure if it felt too familial, or too mocking when the doctor said it. It was just weird. Everything about the doctor spoke something of the other, and he couldn't help but wonder if there was some sort of Lovecraftian beast lurking under the skin, rather than a simple razor-toothed lizard. "Yeah, it sounds like it. You sure I don't have brain cancer?"

Larocque led him down the hallway, past the series of windowless offices where other paper-pushers like him worked, past the open cubicles of other agents. RJ saw them pass by, and she stood to exchange a glance with him. He offered her a shrug, and gestured vaguely towards the white coat in front of him, before spinning one finger beside his temple in a gesture of insanity. When she looked genuinely alarmed, a tightness formed in his stomach. Did she know something he didn't?

The doctor pushed open a door at the end of the hall, and gestured Harding into the same small clinic room where the nurse had drawn his blood almost two weeks ago. "Please, have a seat."

The only place to sit was on the hard metal table, covered with a sheet of sterile paper, and Harding felt like a child waiting for a round of vaccinations when he hopped up onto it. The paper crinkled under his hands. The sound settled around the knot in his stomach, adding an acidity that made his teeth ache, as if he had just heard nails scraping against chalkboard for the past two hours. "So," he began lamely, "what's this about? They never said what the blood draw was for."

Larocque drew the shades on the door's window, giving them as much privacy as could be expected. Harding half waited for him to pull out a butcher's knife and begin painting the white walls with chunks of his flesh. But instead, the doctor moved in front of him, and tapped his tapered fingers against a clipboard. "How much do you know about the human genome, John?"

His teeth ached, and he realized he had been gritting them. "It's Agent Harding."

The doctor smiled thinly. "Answer the question, please."

What the fuck was he supposed to say? "I'm not a biologist. I studied French and political science. I know they finished the human genome project recently. It was all over the news." Larocque nodded, and seemed to be waiting for him to go on. He felt a frustrated sigh hiss past his clenched teeth. A headache began to throb in his temple. He hadn't slept, hadn't eaten anything that morning aside from three cups of coffee and half a bagel that he had mostly neglected after he found mold in the cream cheese. "I don't know. DNA makes us who we are?"

"That is correct." He sounded like a teacher, praising an especially thick student for finally answering a simple question, while the rest of the class snickered and flicked spitballs at them. "And we have mapped your genetic code. This is a brave new world we are entering, and you and I are to be on the forefront of this new science. You see, your DNA is holding something extraordinary."

"Not brain cancer, then?"

Larocque's impeccable human suit flickered with irritation. His nostrils flared, and a hint of color finally touched the hollows of his face. "I am certain that you are aware of the rumors of humans with powers beyond the norm? Those that can produce elements with the powers of their mind, or move at speeds and strengths thought impossible?"

"I read comic books," Harding agreed.

"This is not colorful fiction any longer, John. We may have the power to unlock and strengthen these abilities, now that we know the genetic markers that indicate a predilection towards them." He tapped the clipboard again, and his taunt body leaned forward some. "And the markers on yours are incredibly rare. Tell me, how often do you get sick?"

"Get sick?" he repeated, feeling a fresh pulse in his headache when Larocque called him by his first name again.

"Yes, how often do you contract an illness?"

The question gave him pause. "I don't know. I guess--as often as anyone."

"Specifically, when was the last time you were ill?"

"I don't know." He had to bite his tongue to keep from cursing. Professionalism had been his feedback when he was accepted into the program. He had really wanted to tell them then that they could go fuck themselves. Translators weren't in the public eye anyway. But he needed this job. He just didn't need this reptile probing him with weird questions. Fuck, when was the last time he had been sick? He could remember looking after Karen when she got colds, when she got the flu last year, and she had scolded him for kissing her, because what if he got sick next? The only thing he could remember-- "Food poisoning," he said at last. "Uh, senior year of college. Four buddies and me went to a bad choice of restaurant. They all ended up in the hospital."

"And you?" Larocque pressed.

He shrugged. "I was cradling the toilet for eight hours or so. It was miserable."

"Only eight hours for food poisoning, when all your friends were in the hospital for--how long?"

His shrug came stiffer. It hurt his shoulders to make the gesture. His stomach tightened again, knotting in on itself like a low throb of warning. "I don't really remember. They got their stomachs pumped and they were dehydrated so--a day? Two?" He could taste the lie. One of his friends had nearly died, and was there for a week. The other two spent four days wretched and pale. They had sued the restaurant and won enough money that the one who had treaded the veil decided he didn't need to find a job, and bought a house instead. Harding hadn't been a part of all that. He had never even told a doctor that he had been ill. It hadn't seemed to do any harm.

Larocque made a note on his clipboard. "And that was how long ago now? Four, five years?" he guessed.

Harding felt his shoulders jerk in another harsh shrug. It felt as if his muscles were trying to tear themselves free of the bone.

"And before that? Or since then? Any allergies?"

"Nope. Not that I've found yet. Why? Do you think I'm some sort of superhuman cockroach or something?"

"Precisely that."

Harding opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue was dry, and he snapped his teeth shut again. What the fuck was he supposed to say to that?

"What about injuries?" the doctor went on. "Any broken bones?"

"I broke my arm when I was a kid. I got a papercut this morning." He held up his hand to show the mark on his finger, but the line was so thin it was nearly invisible, and the skin was barely torn. He had a hard time finding where it had happened to begin with. "Fuck, I was in a car accident two years ago and had a concussion. Ripped my head open on the steering wheel." He tilted his head slightly, running his fingers along a scar just at his hairline, faded and smooth. "I'm not a man of steel or anyth--can you back up?"

But Larocque had closed the distance between them, and took Harding's head between his thin hands. His fingers were cold. Harding tried to pull back, but he was held like a vice, and the doctor inspected the scar with such intensity that he had to wonder if the reptile also possessed laser vision or something.

"Fascinating," the doctor breathed at last. "A scar this healed would take decades for a normal individual. You had stitches on this wound, yes?"

"Twelve staples."

"Incredible. The marks have completely vanished. If your body already possesses this sort of accelerated healing, then it should only grow stronger once we begin the treatment."

Harding finally jerked himself free of Larocque's probing hands, and all-but fell off the metal table to get away from him. "The fuck do you mean, treatment?"

"I have your paperwork to sign first, of course. We will need your informed consent to begin." Larocque's dark eyes were glittering, and he had the giddy appearance of a schoolboy that had found a particularly large worm on the playground, and couldn't wait to pull it apart to watch both ends wiggle bloody death throes. "I'll have it all sent to your desk. I suggest you finish your current project quickly. We start treatments on Monday."

Tag list:

@fatal-blow @gingerly-writing @rrrawrf-writes @pied-piper-of-hamlet @inkstarlight

As always, let me know if you want to be added or removed!

#excerpt #writeblr #horseshoes and hand grenades #harding #larocque #hippocrates #honestly this book is going to be so much fun just because it's very much harding's voice #and he's so snarky #and so weird #i love him #he's so YOUNG here

38 notes · View notes

wulfrann · 5 years ago

Text

Contrast (AFTG Exchange Winter 2019)

All for the Game

Relationship: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard

Additional Tags: Meet-cute, Painter!Neil Josten, Journalist!Andrew Minyard, Bonding over Shared Trauma

[One-shot - 5452 words - Published 2019-12-16]

I wrote this for @sofiescastle! You asked for a meet-cute, so that’s what I tried to do. I’m not that good at writing rom-com-y situations, but I gave it my best and I hope you’ll enjoy it!!

( @aftgexchange Sorry that I’m posting this on the last day possible. I’m really bad at deadlines.)

Summary:

Painting is everything for Neil. It’s what’s kept him going while he was on the run, and it’s what pays for his flat and his food nowadays. So when the man who made this dream a reality asks him to paint a mural for his shopfront, Neil is more than happy to say yes - and that’s before he realised that Wymack actually inteded to pay him.

Neil gets more than he bargained for, however, when a normal day of work ends up accidentally involving one angry, blond Minyard with a taste for expensive shirts.

Read on AO3

* Neil shut the trunk of the van and wiped his hands on his pants, leaving spots and specks of paint at various stages of drying upon the rough fabric. Better his work clothes than the steering wheel, although the inside of the van certainly wasn’t spotless. Neil had only so much energy devoted to keeping things clean, and he tended to use it on his possessions that weren’t part of his work, like dishes and his couch.

(Granted, he’d found the couch next to a garbage can, but once his friends had helped him get it cleaned up and brought into his apartment, no one could have told the difference. And it’d made the space look permanent, which wasn’t a word Neil’d ever had a habit of using for the places he lived in. But now? Now he had a carpet.)

Neil got into the van and grabbed his phone. He went to his contacts, clicked on one of his favorites, and counted the ringtones it took for Wymack to pick up.

“Hey, kiddo,” Wymack’s gruff voice said after the third beep. “You at the shop yet?”

“Not yet. I just finished loading the van, I should be there in ten minutes.”

As he spoke, Neil put the key into the ignition and checked the time. He’d told Wymack he would be there by 9, and he would be.

“Alright. Text me when you’re parked, I’ll help you unload and show you what you’re working with.”

“I can-”

“Nope, don’t even try,” Wymack’s voice cut off. “You’re doing me a favor, kid, I’m helping you get your shit out of your shit car whether you like it or not.”

“It’s not a favor,” Neil pointed out.“You’re paying me.”

“Damn right I am, so you better do as I say,” Wymack concluded, then hung up before Neil could say anything else.

Neil pulled the handbrake and started the car.

It took him exactly 7 seven minutes to reach The Foxhole’s block, and barely another to find a practical parking place nearby. At nine in the morning on a monday, he hadn’t expected anything less.

Neil debated unloading the trunk by himself after all (he estimated that he had about five minutes before Wymack got tired of waiting for his call and showed up to check the premises), but decided he was grateful for the job and for Wymack in general, and dutifully sent the text he’d been asked for.

Wymack arrived two minutes later. They had all of Neil’s supplies by the coffeeshop in five, and Neil wasted no time getting it all ready once that was done.

Wymack picked up a roll of masking tape. “You can paint over everything from here,” he said, putting a piece of tape on the pavement roughly one meter to the left of the coffee shop's shutter door, and then another one on the right, “to here.”

Neil glanced up from the bucket of soap water he was hunched over to check. Wymack had shown him the surface he would be working with already, when he’d come over a few days ago to talk it out. The coffee shop had been open though, so he hadn’t been able to see the whole thing. As far as canvases went, it was pretty great..

“You can paint as high as the ground floor goes, since I don’t own the whole building,” Wymack added. “And keep the sign clean.”

Neil unfolded the stepladder and propped it next to the wall, a few centimeters left of the paintable surface so it wouldn’t be in the way at the beginning when he didn’t need it.

“Anything else?”

“Just make it look good. I’ve already approved the sketches.” He clapped a heavy hand on Neil’s shoulder. “You’ve got talent.”

Neil breathed in, blowing the tension that Wymack’s gesture had awakened out of his system and into the sunny morning air. “Thank you, sir.”

Wymack squeezed his shoulder once and let go. “Now get on with it. I’ve got accounts to review.”

“Yes sir,” Neil said, earning an eyeroll.

Then Wymack was leaving, and Neil was smiling as he turned to the wall. He grabbed the mop and started to clean the dust and grime off of it.

The Foxhole’s shopfront was already painted a solid color, a green that Wymack wanted to keep for the background, so all the prep that was left after that was taping the borders and protecting the sign and the ground with tarps.

Neil had used grids before, to help him stay accurate and faithful to the proportions, and he had to admit they were useful, but he’d decided early on that he wouldn’t use one for this mural. It wasn’t heavy on perspective or placement like some of his work could be, for once, but mostly he just liked it better when he was working freehand. It left more breathing room for the instinctive changes Neil liked to bring to the designs as he transformed the idea into the real thing. Sketches never translated perfectly onto their medium, especially murals. It could be frustrating, as they never turned out exactly as he’d expected, but that was what he loved most about it.

The design for The Foxhole’s mural was simple enough. Wymack had asked for ‘foxes and flowers’; Abby had wanted it ‘wild and welcoming’. So that was what Neil had given them.

Foxes, small ones, ran and played and grew strong on the shutter door, with azaleas all around and peach blossoms above. One bigger fox sat watching them on a bed of mayflowers. Proteas stood behind it, mirrored on the opposite side of the mural where an oak tree stood guard. It was a sunny scene and there was peace there, but the foxes had teeth and claws and their edges were sharp enough to cut.

Neil started with a pencil. He sketched the rough shapes according to his template, taking care not to smudge the lines, then worked his way to the finer details and rearranged a few things as he went. Once he was satisfied with it, he finally got to uncap the cans of paint. He started with the base colors, filling the lines with orange, pink, white, brown and dark green, taking care not to let the paint drip anywhere it wasn’t supposed to.

Once the base was done, he had to take a break. The acrylic needed about an hour to dry completely, so he figured he’d stretch his limbs and eat a late lunch. He couldn’t wander too far off without risking a theft, however, and ended up buying a cheap and bland sandwich from the bakery that faced the coffee shop.

It was only then that his favorite part began. Now he could blend the colors, mix them, work out the details and the shading, add movement and life to the scene. Now he got to play with textures and patterns and lighting, with the bark of the oak and the bite of the fox and the brightness of the mayflowers. On a whim, he decided to add a thick, black outline to the foxes, jagged and irregular, stylizing it so it looked almost like a flame. He made the flowers look brighter in contrast, turned the tree into a foil, tweaked the light so it flirted with the mystical.

At some point, Neil edged out of his frenzy long enough to take several steps back and look at the whole thing.

It was perfect.

Except for all the ways it wasn’t.

Neil picked up the smaller brushes and went in again, correcting details here and there, chasing a perfection that would remain out of reach for as long as he’d keep looking for it. That was fine by him - Neil didn’t actually want the mural to be perfect. All he was after, all he needed, was that moment - that there it is, where he’d take a step back and exhale, and everything would just - settle. And he’d knew that was it.

He was getting close, Neil could feel it, so very close, when the stupidest thing happened.

Neil had just noticed something off with the color of one of the proteas and had stepped down the ladder to retrieve the brush he’d been using for the deep pinks, rushing back towards the mural immediately, when someone had run into him.

Or, perhaps more accurately, when he had crashed into someone. With a paintbrush dripping pink and his hands (and everything else) covered in paint.

There was a rough sound from the someone as they collided, and then the wet sound of a paintbrush full of paint landing against a hard surface. The someone was shorter, so Neil looked down.

Very, very annoyed eyes met his.

The guy stepped back with a scowl, letting his hand drop from Neil’s arm, where it’d landed, Neil assumed, to steady the both of them. He was blond, and broad, and dressed in all black from head to toe. It made the large pink stain on his chest all the more conspicuous.

In terms of contrast though, Neil couldn’t help but notice, it worked. Pale hair, pale skins and golden eyes set against a vast darkness, dominating the whole but for one splash of vibrant color. It was threefold, and ridiculous, and Neil wanted to paint it.

Which is why Neil said, “I think I found your color,” instead of apologizing like a normal person.

But to be fair, he hadn’t been ‘normal’ since his birth. Being born into the mafia tended to do that to you.

The man’s eyebrows twitched, and the corner of his mouth curled ever so slightly down. “What you did is ruin my shirt.”

Neil felt a smile pull at his lips. “I don’t know. I think it looks better that way. Makes you look more... approachable. Less like a criminal, what with all the black.”

“I don’t care about looking ‘approachable.’ And you’re the one vandalising someone else’s private property.”

“I’m not vandalising anything. This is my job. I have a permit and everything.”

“Congratulations,” the man deadpanned.

“I’ve done it before,” Neil said, smiling sharply. “Painting illegally. It’s not typically done by daylight.”

“How surprising. I take it you’re Wymack’s new stray.”

Neil’s smile vanished. “I’m not a stray,” he said, though he had been. But he’d worked hard to make sure he’d never be again. Then the rest of the man’s statement struck him, and he couldn’t help but ask. “How do you know Wymack?”

“I used to work for him,” the man answered, laconically. Neil waited for him to say more, but he just turned around to stare at the mural instead. Something itched in Neil’s hands - an urge to hide it, protect it from all eyes until it was perfect - but he let it go. He took a step forward so he was standing next to the man instead of behind him, and looked at the mural for himself.

One of the proteas was paler than the others. There was a leaf he’d forgotten to highlight. One of the azalea’s pistil was barely visible. The outline of one fox could use more precision.

They were little things - inconsequential but nonetheless present, and he felt a pull to correct them - but even then, something in his chest just - settled.

“Kitschy,” the man’s voice drawled on his left. “But I suppose that’s fitting.”

Neil shrugged. He was happy with it. It did fit the place, but also the vibe he’d wanted for it. “It’s done.”

The man’s gaze flickered down to the paintbrush Neil still held in his hand, one eyebrow arched in question although his face looked bored.

Neil shrugged again. “I thought it needed more. I was wrong,” he stated, and smiled at the man, half-grinning by the end. “Thank you for the change of perspective. I could have ruined it, if I hadn’t run into you.”

“How… fortunate,” the man said, flat-voiced and not meaning a word of it.

Neil took the whole mural in one last time, then slightly shook his head and turned to clean up his mess. He dumped the brushes in the bucket of water he’d used to clean the wall, then picked up one of the rags he used to wipe paint off and handed it to the man. He’d turned away from the wall as well, and took the rag with both eyebrows raised.

Neil gestured at his own chest, around where the stain was. “So you can wipe the worst of the paint off,” he explained, then pointed at the bucket. “Dunk it in the water there, it’s got soap in. It won’t take it all of, but I’ll take you to my place once I’m done packing up and you can wash it there.”

“Why would I do that?”

Neil blinked up from the paint can he was closing. “Because I live like ten minutes away and I have a washer and dryer?”

“I don’t know you.”

Neil shrugged. “I’m Neil,” he said, holding out his hand. The man stared at it without moving. Neil looked at it, noticed the amount of paint smeared on it, and took it away. “Neil Josten. I’m a painter.”

“I noticed,” the man said, then rolled his eyes at Neil’s expectant look. “Andrew Minyard.”

Neil grinned. “I’ve heard about you. Are you the journalist, or the doctor?”

Andrew scowled. “Journalist.”

Neil hummed. “Thought so.”

Andrew went back to wiping his shirt with the wet cloth, and Neil walked over to the bucket so he could start scrubbing the brushes clean.

He always lost himself in the task. There was something cathartic about sitting there, rubbing the paint off and seeing it swirl and mix in the water, after spending so many hours with his mind directed solely at the mural, attention and focus held so taut that he’d sometimes forget to blink. Tidying up, in contrast, was a mindless task. It set his brain at rest and allowed him to come back down to earth.

By the time he was finished, Andrew was long done with his shirt and stood leaning against the wall with his cellphone in hand, waiting.

“Changed your mind?” Neil called out to him.

Andrew barely even glanced at him. “I’m not the one inviting a stranger into my home.”

Neil shrugged. “You know Wymack. That’s enough for me.”

“Your survival instincts are disastrous.”

Neil’s grin split his face in half. “You have no idea.”

That earned him a look, but nothing else.

Loading everything back into the van took longer without help (Andrew looked up a few times as Neil came and went, but that was it), but soon enough everything had been put away and all that was left for Neil to do was to tell Wymack he was done. When he looked up from his phone, he found Andrew standing some ways in front of him, his own phone nowhere to be seen.

Neil tilted his head towards the passenger door. “Ready to go?”

All he got in reply was a soft huff, and then Andrew was opening the door and getting in. Neil was smiling as he walked over to the other side of the van and hopped in.

“The paint will wash off,” Neil offered as the van rumbled to life. “It resists to the rain, but not the washing machine.”

“We all have a breaking point.”

Neil supposed that was true. He’d seen plenty of people break, and had come close himself several times.

Unlike paint, though, people could get back up. Even when there was more scar tissue left than skin, muscles would pull and pull at the the body until it stood.

Neil didn’t say this. He didn’t know how, and doubted Andrew would understand if he had.

Then again, if he’d worked with Wymack, maybe he would.

It was this thought, and the comforting manoeuvering of his van through an itinerary he knew in his sleep, that pushed Neil to try.

“People are more like bones than paint,” he told Andrew. The look he got in response was so intentionally bored it pushed Neil to try harder. Like maybe, if he could find the right words, Andrew’s blank surface would crack and he’d get a glimpse at the colors hidden beneath. “Paint washes off. Or fades. And if you want to, you can always cover it up,” he said. He wasn’t looking at Andrew anymore, but the attention directed at him was unwavering as he spoke. “People aren’t so easy to get rid off. We bend, and we give, and we break,” he took a steadying breath, eyes intent on the road even as the mangled lines marring his hands pulled at the skin, “but we mend. We scar. We stand back up. And we keep going.”

Run, his mother had told him more than once. Never look back. There is nothing for you there.

It had worked for him, for a while. As long as he hadn’t looked back, all that had existed for him was a narrow path forward, and the impossibility to slow down. His survival had depended on it. But when she’d died - Neil’d stumbled. She had died and Neil had tripped over her corpse and nothing would ever wash that landmark off the surface of his life. Neil had slowed down. The path had still been there, but everything around it had been there, too. A little blurred, a little out of focus, but the longer he had stared, the clearer it had become - and the slower he had run.

Of course, it’d meant that they caught up to him.

But he’d survived.

He had found help and had gotten back up and he had kept going.

And through it all, he’d learned to stop running.

“Not all of us do.”

Andrew’s voice startled Neil. It brought him out of autopilot and pulled his thoughts back to traffic as efficiently as if he’d been pinched. It took several seconds for the words to make sense.

“No,” Neil agreed. “We don’t. My mother didn’t,” he added, flicking a glance at Andrew’s profile and smiling when Andrew turned to look at him and stayed. “But I did. And I have a feeling you did too.”

“You know nothing about me.”

“That’s not true,” Neil countered. “I know you worked for Wymack. I know you’re a journalist, and that you have a twin who’s a doctor and whose name also starts with an A. I also know that Kevin thinks your diet’s disastrous and your journalistic skills impressive. Judging from the articles I’ve read, I’d say he’s right.”

“So you really are Neil Josten,” Andrew retorted, something tense in his tone. “I wondered. Tell me, are you this obsessed with every acquaintance Kevin has, or should I feel flattered?”

“I’m not a stalker,” Neil protested. “Kevin just can’t shut up about you. And I get why. That piece you did on the Moriyamas -” Neil cut himself off before he could say you were right. He was not ready for that conversation. Maybe later, if their paths crossed again, which - Neil was surprised to find out - he was hoping they would. He faltered for a bit, before settling for an honest, “It was brilliant,” and hoping Andrew wouldn’t question it.

No such luck.

“Was it now,” Andrew droned. It wasn’t said like a question.

Neil tensed. He knew Andrew had noticed when he met his eyes, but stubbornly refused to acknowledge it as he started to park his van in the exact same spot he’d pulled it out of in the morning. He was thankful when he started to unload his equipment and Andrew didn’t pry. He just stood there and smoked.

When you feel yourself start to spiral, focus on what your senses tell you, not your mind, his therapist had said. Neil dutifully focused on the task at hand and the smell of ash until the taste of blood had all but vanished from his mouth.

When he’d locked the door to the shed he kept all his work stuff in, Neil finally felt centered enough to speak again.

“I hope you’re not allergic to cats,” he told Andrew. “Sir’s very affectionate.”

Andrew arched an eyebrow. “You’re cat’s name is Sir.”

Neil grinned. This was a topic he could relax into. “Sir Fat Cat MacCattherson. She’s fat.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed.”

Neil led them to the stairs. Andrew didn’t protest.

“I’m not the one who named him. Do you know Allison?”

“Yes,” Andrew said, distaste evident in his voice. “Tragically.”

Neil shrugged. “She’s not that bad.” Andrew apparently had nothing to say to that. Neil wasn’t deterred. “Do you have a pet?”

“I have a cat.”

“What’s its name then?”

A pause. Then an aggravated sigh. “King Fluffkins.”

Neil stopped. He turned around to catch the expression on Andrew’s face, and raised both eyebrows. “I’m going to guess it wasn’t your idea.”

Andrew looked unimpressed. “Congratulations, it was my cousin’s. You guessed correctly and win nothing,” he deadpanned, and pushed past Neil.

They stopped on the first floor. Andrew remained silent as Neil opened the three locks on his door, and didn’t question it when Neil locked them back up once they’d slipped inside.

Sir came up to them to investigate as soon as she’d heard the door, as Neil had known she would. She headbutted Neil’s shin first, then wandered over to sniff Andrew. He waited for her to rub against his leg before offering her his hand, which she sniffed some more, then rubbed against to ask for petting. Andrew dutifully indulged her. The softness that came over his features was subtle, but unmistakable. It caught Neil by surprise.

Once Sir had had her fill and wandered off, however, all the tension that’d left immediately returned to Andrew’s shoulders.

Neil could sympathise. Entering someone else’s space always left him on edge the first few times. It’d taken months for him to feel at ease in the flat Matt shared with Dan, and they’d already been friends. Andrew and Neil were strangers. Allowing him in his flat would have been unthinkable years ago; now it simply left Neil unbalanced. At least he’d have something to report to his therapist the following week.

“Is it okay if I throw some of my stuff in with your shirt?” Neil asked to distract himself from the feeling. When Andrew nodded, he retrieved the laundry basket in his room.

He pointed Andrew towards the laundry/storage room with his chin and Andrew held the door open for him, since his own hands were occupied with the laundry basket. He emptied it into the washing machine, then picked out the few items that would need some stain-remover to go back to their original state.

“I’m surprised we didn’t meet earlier,” Neil mused out loud as he poured the detergent into the little plastic drawer and pushed it shut.

Andrew was leaning against the wall when Neil turned around, watching him. “Kevin likes to keep his life compartmentalised.”

“He’s dating a former Raven,” Neil pointed out, frowning.

“Former. Why do you think they haven’t tried to transfer into the same team?” Andrew said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Neil thought about it. He’d assumed Kevin had tried, but had never been curious enough to ask. It made sense now. It’d also explain why they still hadn’t made their relationship public.

“I just thought Kevin was emotionally crippled,” he said.

“He is,” Andrew stated, then gestured impatiently with his hand. “But I’m done talking about Kevin’s boring life.”

“He’s a gold-winning olympic athlete,” Neil pointed out.

Andrew made a disgusted sound. “ He’s Kevin. He could be the queen of England, and I’d still be bored discussing his life for more than two minutes.” He shifted against the wall so he was facing Neil, eyes narrowed and suddenly sharper than they’d been. “I’d rather we talk about you, Neil Josten. I can’t figure you out.”

Neil’s hand tensed on the edge of the washing machine. He put it in his pocket and leaned a hip where it had been, smiling to hide the learned anxiety that was rising in his guts.

“I’m not that interesting.”

“Oh, but I think you are,” Andrew said, leaning slightly forward like he wanted to tell Neil a secret. “Everything about you says damaged goods, yet here you are. Bringing a stranger into your home on a whim. Doesn’t exactly align with the amount of locks you’ve got on your door, now, does it?”

Neil bristled. “I’m not defenseless.”

Andrew looked into his eyes without flinching. “No,” he said, a thoughtful tone to it. “I don’t think you are.”

Neil frowned. He didn’t know what Andrew meant by that. Was he talking about his scars? Had Neil let his past show, somehow? Had Kevin talked more than he should have?

Neil shook his head. Relax. Took a deep breath. You’re not on the run anymore.

He leaned away from the washing machine and gestured at Andrew’s stained shirt. “I’ll get you a shirt or something so you can take this off.”

Andrew said nothing. He followed Neil to his room, stopping at the entrance to lean against the doorframe as Neil rummaged through his clothes. He had the nagging feeling that he was being evaluated, somehow. Andrew was judging him. Neil decided to ignore it and focused on finding a t-shirt that would fit Andrew’s broader frame, settling on a grey hoodie that’d always been a little oversized on him.

“Here,” he said, handing the hoodie to Andrew, who took it without a word. “You can change in the bathroom over there.”

The hoodie fitted Andrew fine. It was a little tight around the arms and shoulders, but not enough that it looked uncomfortable. Neil took the shirt from Andrew and sprayed the stain-remover where it was needed, then threw it into the machine and started the cleaning cycle.

“It’s gonna take about an hour for the cycle to be over,” he told Andrew. “And then another half-hour for it to dry.”

Andrew’s brows furrowed slightly, but he did not otherwise complain, so Neil told him to make himself comfortable on the couch and slipped into his own room to change. He threw his work overalls on a chair so the fresh stains from the mural would dry, and exchanged it for a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt.

Andrew’s eyes trailed over his arms when he returned to the living room, a spark of interest in his gaze as he took in the mismatched mix of tattoos and scars that covered them. If he noticed that Neil had caught him looking, it didn’t show. Maybe he didn’t care. Neil brushed it off either way and made his way over to the kitchen part of the room, pulling one glass out of a cabinet then turning towards Andrew.

“Do you want something to drink? I’ve got tap water and juice.”

“Depends on the juice.”

Neil opened the fridge to check. “I’ve got apple, tomato, orange, ananas, or grapefruit.”

“Apple. That’s a lot of juices.”

“I like juice,” Neil said, and shrugged. He got the brick of apple juice out of the fridge and poured two glasses of it, shutting the fridge’s door with his hip. He stuck the juice under one armpit then and brought the glasses over to the coffee table, setting one of them down in front of Andrew. He sat down on the other cushion with his own glass.

Andrew sipped at the juice. Neil leaned down into the back of the couch and sighed. He could feel his body finally allowing itself to relax after the hours of painting. He turned his head towards Andrew and was about to ask him if he wanted to watch a movie or something while they waited when Andrew glanced down at his exposed forearm.

“What does this one represent?” he asked.

Neil followed his gaze down to the tattoo. It was one of the first ones he’d gotten: the outline of a card, with a burning car trapped inside. Below the card was a date.

Neil swallowed. He could almost feel the heat radiating off of it now, even after all those years. It burned his eyes. He looked away from the tattoo and found Andrew’s eyes instead, studying him. Brown eyes, like the earth. Unwavering.

He didn’t know why, exactly, looking into Andrew’s eyes made the words spill. But they did.

“It’s my mother’s funeral,” he said. His voice was low. Barely above a whisper. Andrew was listening. “She died in that car. I was too weak to pull her out, so I burned it.” If Neil closed his eyes, he could see it. The vast expanse of sand and the sea, rolling back and forth in rhythm. The flames filling up the car like they were trying to eat it. The smell.

Andrew bumped his knee with Neil’s and the beach disappeared.

“I buried her ashes on the beach.”

Andrew held his gaze for a little while longer, and then he turned away. His other knee - the one he hadn’t used to bring Neil back - jumped three times. When he spoke, his voice sounded oddly distant.

“The woman who gave birth to me abandoned me to the foster system. When we were ‘reunited’, I found out she’d been abusing my brother for years.” Andrew took a sip out of his glass. “So I killed her.”

Neil wasn’t as surprised as he probably ought to be. There was something about Andrew that spoke of violence. Not right here. Not in the present. Yet it was etched into him like a giant scar.

“What about your father?”

Andrew shrugged. “Doesn’t exist.”

Neil sighed. “I wish I’d never known mine,” he said. “But at least I got to see him die.”

The weight of Andrew’s gaze on the side of his face was strangely comforting. When he raised his glass in the air, Neil turned to follow the motion with his eyes.

“To dead parents,” Andrew said, and tipped his glass back.

Neil laughed.

They watched Grey’s Anatomy. Neil managed to make it through the first two minutes of the first episode before starting to roast the stupidity of the cast. Andrew joined in immediately. Neil laughed too many times to count, and managed to make Andrew snort several times in return.

They were well into the third episode when Andrew’s phone rang. The phone call itself couldn’t have lasted more than thirty seconds, but by the time Andrew had hung up, it was clear that he needed to go.

They’d forgotten to check on the laundry, however, so it’d just sat there in the washing machine for at least half an hour, which meant that Andrew’s shirt wasn’t dry. It also meant that Andrew couldn’t trade it for the hoodie he was still wearing.

In the end, Neil told Andrew to keep the hoodie, and Andrew gave Neil his phone number so they could meet up and return their respective items of clothing. Neil didn’t have a habit of inviting people over, but the flat felt oddly empty once Andrew was gone. He went for a run. It helped.

They traded the hoodie and the shirt a few days later. They’d agreed on the coffee shop where Andrew got his caffeine fix every day, and sat down to wait for their drinks. Neil asked what Andrew was working on, and just like a whole hour passed.

There was no reason that they should meet again after that. Sure, they’d probably cross paths sooner or later due to their intersecting social circles. But there was no reason to make it happen on their own.

Except - well.

There was no reason that they shouldn’t meet again, either.

[5:24pm] Hey, Andrew.

[5:26pm] Neil.

[5:26pm] I need a favor.

[5:27pm] Careful, Neil. You already owe me a shirt.

[5:28pm] Like hell I do. Your shirt is fine.

[5:29pm] Easy for you to say. You don’t have to wear it.

[5:30pm] The shirt is fine, Andrew.

[5:31pm] Would you go to art therapy with me next weekend?

[5:32pm] Why?

[5:36pm] My therapist thinks I should try it. She said it could ‘help me address some of the more repressed parts of my trauma.’

[5:38pm] Sounds fun.

[5:38pm] Ha ha.

[5:40pm] Are you coming with or not?

[5:42pm] Sure. But I’m not painting.

[5:43pm] You won’t have to. I’ll text you the address and time.

[5:44pm] Thanks, Andrew.

[5:46pm] Don’t mention it.

#aftg exchange winter 2019 #andreil #aftg #tfc #neil josten #andrew minyard #all for the game #the foxhole court #wymack #wulfrann writes #I can't tag sofiescastle bc the url doesn't exist apparently??#the ao3 handle does exist tho #I'm really sorry about the late posting #Life was busier than expected

47 notes · View notes

inkribbon796 · 5 years ago

Text

Trouble in Paradise

Summary: Anti just wants Dark to be less annoying, it’s not that he cares. He would never pretend to care about Dark’s well-being. So he goes to continue his mission of trying to officially get Dark and Wil together.

Slight continuation of my Eye of the Beholder fic I did a while back. Non-superhero story. I just like doing things with Anti and Dark’s begrudging, totally “non-existing” friendship.

This now has a part 3: Antagonist Acquaintances

“Get over here,” one of the still-conscious thugs snarled at Anti, both of them in a back parking lot, hidden from the main road or from other building that to the trees. Whether it was adrenaline, or the realization that he was going to die anyways and wanted to get one last hit on the glitch demon that had killed the rest of his friends.

Anti just smiled at the guy dropped his empty gun and pulled out a knife.

“Oh,” Anti glitched out the very air around them, the fear from the guy was palpable. Anti lived for this. “Yah’ve got guts, I’ll give ye that,” that Anti chuckled. “Maybe I’ll only send yah half dead to that loan shark.”

“Not my fault you messed with his computer,” the thug threatened.

“Maybe he shouldn’ta been tryin’ ta hack my files,” Anti growled as he took a couple steps forward, happy at the fear in his eyes.

“Hey, Anti, quick question,” Wilford suddenly appeared next to him.

Anti startled at the mad reporter’s sudden appearance, it let the thug get Anti in the side with the knife. He cursed and stabbed the guy in response. “Bit busy, arsehole!”

“Oh, pardon me,” Wilford took out his gun and shot the guy Anti was fighting. The man screamed, and fell to the ground, not getting back up. Anti glared at Wil. “Kill stealing, shitbag.”

“Ah, he’ll get back up,” Wilford dismissed, pocketing his gun. “This is important. I need you to come with me.”

“How about yah tell me about yer bullshit scheme, an’ I tell yah if I wan’ in,” Anti countered.

Wilford groaned. “Fineeeeeeee!”

Anti gestured for him to continue.

“Alright, so, I was thinking that I’ve kinda been slacking off a bit with my relationship with Dark,” Wilford explained. “Mine and Dames’s anniversary is coming up.”

“Dames?” Anti repeated.

“And I was hoping you could help me with some ideas,” Wilford admitted.

All Anti could give for a response was just to stare at Wilford. “What do I look like? Fookin’ Casanova?”

“Anti, please,” Wilford’s eyes were almost like a puppy dog, grabbing onto his shoulders and pulling him dangerously close. Close enough for Anti to consider stabbing him. “You and Dark are similar creatures. Please help me.”

“No, we’re not. ‘Sides, what am I supposed to do?” Anti scoffed. “Get the guy a bear trap or somethin’.”

Wilford rolled his eyes, “Anti, please, Dark has standard, he’s a creature of refinement.”

“Then get ‘im a golden bear trap,” Anti groaned. “You’re asking me on ways to make up to your boyfriend about the amount of side-ass you’ve been getting. I’ve never cared what Dark wants.”

“Please, I’ll owe you a favor,” Wilford begged.

“Fine!” Anti punctuated it with cursing.

“Thank you,” Wilford kissed him on the cheek.

“Get off ‘a me,” Anti cussed and pushed the reporter off of him. “If you’re so in love with him, why don’t you tell him.”

“I thought I was,” Wilford huffed. “Apparently it wasn’t good enough.”

The glitch demon dragged his hand down his face, “Yer gonna be the death ‘a me. Look, I’m busy now, meet me here to tomorrow, and I can get yah a bear trap and we’ll think of something.”

“I knew I could count on you,” Wilford grinned, finally the glitch demon left, and Anti took out his knife again. If he couldn’t get back at that loan shark by beating up his goons, Anti would just take his aggression on the guy himself.

As it turned out, getting Wilford and Dark actually on “boyfriend” terms was almost impossible. Dark was always in his office, arms deep in work. He almost never left his desk, or the mountain of paperwork in front of him.

So Wil and Anti started off just spitballing ideas. They’d start talking in a random place and eventually it would just turn to them causing trouble on the other side of town.

Anti was pretty sure somewhere along the way they stepped on Dark’s toes because they ran into him somewhere in the middle of picking a fight with a bunch of guys in suits and Dark dragged Wil back to the Manor, literally by his ear.

After a couple of times, each time they got involved with different types of people, Dark started just letting them go and wreak havoc. He would only intervene if they stepped on his parts of the city. They didn’t get much done for Wilford’s planning, but Anti had to admit it was fun to watch Silver and Jackie trying to combat them. The other Egos mostly staying out of their way.

Wilford and Anti were coming back late one night, Wilford finally sticking to an idea for the first time since they’d started what Anti could only call: Stab and Chill. Because they were too distracted to do anything else.

The mad reporter had an excited giddy smile, “Today’s the day.”

“Took ye long enough, you jittery prick,” Anti scoffed. “Go talk ta ‘em and leave me the hell alone.”

The reporter hugged Anti, making the glitch kicked and bit him on the arm, which Wilford just laughed at. They walked over to Dark’s office and then Wilford came to a dead halt in front of the door.

“What’s up?” Anti asked, but was then shushed by Wil.

Now that it was actually quiet, Anti could hear Dark and Bim arguing in the entity’s office.

“What did I do?” Bim demanded.

“I’m not here to treat you like a child, Trimmer!” Dark shouted, his ringing almost deafening, Wilford froze at how angry the entity sounded. “Get your act together and for once in your life, act like a damn adult!”

The door to Dark’s office flew open as Bim walked out, “Well at least I’m not taking out my problems onto someone else!”

“Just get out!” Dark shouted and his aura looked dangerously close to taking Bim’s head off. But Bim was already leaving and missed decapitation by inches.

Glaring back at Dark he left and immediately spotted Wil and Anti. Bim looked furious, almost on the verge of tears.

“Your boyfriend’s an ass,” Bim spat at Wilford. “He keeps doing this to me and I’ll hit him. He’s singled me out.”

Without even letting Wilford answer him or think about defending either Bim or Dark, he stomped away.

Watching him go, Wilford frowned, his top lip and mustache twitching, “This is more serious than I thought. Anti, keep him distracted, I have an idea.”

“Ye can’t be serious,” Anti groaned.

“I’ll be five minutes tops,” Wilford promised.

Indignant, the two a hushed argument between the two, right outside Darks office. Anti, at that point didn’t even know why they were even pretending when Dark could probably hear every word they were saying. Bim had left the door wide open when he left.

In the end Wilford rolled his eyes and disappeared. Anti angrily glitched, cursing at the spot where the mad reporter had been standing. After some thought, Anti threw stepped into Dark’s office.

“Hey, Dark-osaurus Rex,” Anti grinned. Dark just glared at him, the ringing that always accompanied the entity pitched up sharply.“What’s eating at ye?”

Dark scratched his hand down his face. “Just because Wilford had taken an interest in you, does not mean you can come to my office or my home uninvited.”

“Kay, first off, rude; second, I’m not uninvited, Wilf let me in,” Anti corrected.

Dark broke his pen with his bare hand and glared at Anti. “I did not invite you, Wilford knows he can’t just bring people like you over.”

“Like me?” Anti scoffed.

“Yes, Wilford knows he shouldn’t bring his paramours home with him,” Dark threw his broken pen in the waste bin underneath his desk in disgust. His aura stripped the ink from his skin and suit.

It took Anti a second to remember what that word meant. “Hey, I told yah, I’m not boning the candy cane. I’m not touching anything that’s been that close ta yer old sack ‘a meat. Don’t know how many times I have to tell ye.”

“I don’t know why you insist on lying to me about it,” Dark was already turning back to the mountain of papers on his desk. “You and Wilford have been spending an inordinate amount of time together, and he had been incessantly annoying every time he mentions you.”

Anti resisted the urge to scream with every fiber of his being. He was going to stab Wil when he got back, especially if the idiot was going to keep shooting himself in the foot like this. “We’re not always together,” the glitch demon defended. “Yer blowin’ that way outta proportion.”

Dark stopped and pulled a legal notebook out from a stack of papers, somehow keeping the whole stack of papers upright and mostly aligned. “I like to keep an ear to the ground when it comes to Wilford’s expenses. So I can find him when he goes missing, or freeze his accounts when he gets out of control.”

“Yer the possessive type, then,” Anti scoffed.

Dark gave him a withering look, then turned back to his notepad. “In the past 36 hours you and Wil have managed to spend five hundred dollars in food, flowers, and knives.”

“Only five?” Anti huffed.

Dark threw his notepad down angrily, “Anti, I am busy, whether Wilford spends a week or fifteen years wasting my time talking about you, it makes no difference to me.”

“Seems like it kinda does,” Anti goaded.

“If I knew you would be this insufferable about it, I would have discorporated you outside that bar,” Dark spat.

The glitch demon studied Dark, “Whoa, hold up, are you jealous?”

Dark shoved up from his chair, “Don’t presume, you insufferable child.”

“Oh this is rich, ye are,” Anti smiled. “That’s why yer so pissed.”

As Anti was having a bit of a laugh at Dark’s expense, Dark’s aura grabbed Anti by the throat.

“I’m done with this conversation,” Dark decided. “I’m going to look forward to the reprieve. Last time you were out for a full month. Let’s make it two.”

“What?” Anti managed to choke out. “Fraid’a little friendly competition?”

Dark’s aura began to tighten on Anti’s throat. “You are neither friendly, nor competition.”

“Hey, Darkling,” Wilford walked in, in a yellow suit with a pink shirt, holding something behind his back. “Oh, are you having fun?”

“Not now, Wil,” Dark spat, Anti reflexively kicked and fought against Dark’s literal stranglehold. Anti was sure if he was inhabiting a host or mortal, his throat would have been crushed into dust by now.

“Before you finish, I have something for you,” Wil teased. Dark groaned and looked at the reporter, only to have Wilford pull a large bouquet of tall black tulips, a purple tinge to each flower, tied up with a gray ribbon that had red and blue thread woven into the edges of it. “For you.”

Dark blinked, owlishly, as he stared at the flowers, releasing Anti just enough for the glitch demon to free himself. “What do you mean for me? It’s not my birthday.”

“I wanted to get something nice for you,” Wilford told Dark, and then kissed him on the cheek. “I like doing nice things for you.”

The entity froze, his shell fracturing a bit, one of his copies flinching away from Wil. But Dark took the flowers. “I brought dinner, I’ll go set the table?”

“Sounds like a wonderful idea,” Dark told him.

Wilford winked and then disappeared.

“See?” Anti gave Dark a rather cheeky, snide look. “I’m not chasing your toy.”

Dark rolled his eyes and showed Anti away with his aura, summoning a vase for his new flowers. “Don’t ruin my mood, glitch.”

“Seriously though, I’m not actually interested in him,” Anti told Dark. “He’s a dumb piece of shit, an’ the havoc we wreck together is amazin’. But I’d only fook ‘im ta spite ah, an’ even then, I’d still get bored immediately.”

Dark didn’t seem to be hearing him, tracing the individual flowers.

“Sides, Wilford makes ye a little less pathetic and annoyin’,” Anti reminded. “I’m all fer that.”

“Your commentary on my personal affairs if unnecessary,” Dark dismissed.

“Wow, that’d stick if ye ever had any in the first place,” Anti shot back. “Still, if that fookwad starts getting grabby with anyone else, tell me so I can kick his teeth in.”

“I told you, I don’t—” Dark began, turning away for the flowers for the first time in their new conversation.

“Yeah, yeah, just go have fun with yer boyfriend,” Anti dismissed. “An’ spare me the details, if I wanted ta be sick, I’d download a virus.”

Before Dark could keep arguing with him, Wilford came back up and the two had a nice evening. Dinner, and Wilford dragged Dark off to see a movie, despite Dark’s attempts to get back to work. The two of them enjoying their evening.

#Jacksepticeye #Markiplier #Antisepticeye #Wilford Warfstache #Darkiplier #Anti accidentally makes himself Dark's wingman #Accidental Wingman Anti #discussions of infedility #Anti stabs a bunch of dudes behind a warehouse #Pre-Darkstache #Dark doesn't know how to make friends #Anti pretends not to care #Anti cares a lot

3 notes · View notes

woozletania · 6 years ago

Text

A Merry Flarkin’ Grootmas, day 3 - eggnog

Day three: Eggnog

It was the singing that alerted Star-Lord to the fact that something was wrong. Or right. Opinions varied.

He came down from the cockpit and found Drax holding forth in his basso profundo voice. He sand surprisingly well. Rocket was following along a word or two behind. He on the other hand sang vary badly.

“Deck the halls with -hic- bombs of hi-ex, fa-la-la-la-la,” he rasped. He paused to belch and wobbled in his seat before reaching for a carton. “Pete! Petey! Pull up a stump. Plenty for -hic- everyone.”

Star-Lord's eyes widened as he took in the scene. Mantis, Mantis of all people had a panel open and was gigging as she rewired the thrusters. Just at a glance he could see it was a good thing they were on a long glide between jump points and he hadn't attempted any attitude corrections recently.

Lylla was draped over the arm of Drax's chair like a furry noodle, bent in a way he'd think fatal if he didn't how impossibly flexible she was. Otters, it turned out, could sleep with their heads resting on their own butts and twisted front to back halfway along. And she was stark naked. He hadn't seen her naked since Rocket gave her a harness and she learned the joys of shopping for clothing accessories. Pieces of her harness – and Rocket's, because was naked too – were scattered over the table. He didn't want to think happened on the dining table that would result in both Uplifts leaving their clothing there.

“What the hell is going on?”

“It is Star-Lord!” Drax thundered a greeting before sucking a carton dry and reaching for another. “Watch your step, there are bombs!”

Peter realized to his horror that the floor and even the walls were thick with stuck-on mines from Rocket's private reserve. None of them had lights on so they weren't armed. He hoped. Just the same he stepped carefully. He stared at the carton in Drax's hand, the open box on the table among the bits of Uplift clothing and realized what happened.

“Damn it, you got into the eggnog! That was for later!”

“Ish good,” Lylla chirped, and belched. She giggled and slithered across the table like a snake before falling on Rocket and dragging him into a chair. What happened next Peter preferred not to think about. Two drunk uplifts. Public Displays Of Affection.

He sighed. First things first. “Get out of the panel, Mantis.” She pouted, but stepped away. Then he pushed the box of eggnog cartons away from Drax. This did not work as Drax just reached out and reeled it in again. Finally he grabbed Rocket and Lylla by their scruffs and disengaged them from what he hoped was only a grope and kiss.

“And you two! You I can understand. Rocket, but you Lylla! You never drink!”

“Ish good,” she said with wide-eyed innocence. “Ish sugar, milk. Eggs.” And that was his mistake. The highly carnivorous otter must have taken one sniff of something that was mostly heavy cream and started drinking. Naturally that got Rocket into the stuff too and that probably brought Drax and Mantis in.

Rocket giggled – giggled! and grabbed Lylla's tail, trying to put them together in midair as they dangled from Peter's hands. They weighed forty pounds each and thanks to their cybernetics were strong all out of proportion to their size. Only their drunken state let him hold onto them so easily. Normally, grabbing Rocket by the scruff was a sure way to get mauled and Lylla was perfectly able to twist around and bite him if she wasn't busy groping her mate.

“Fine,” Star-Lord groused. He marched down the hall to Rocket's workbench, a squirming, giggling Uplift in each hand, and popped them both through the curtains into their private alcove underneath. It was a space too small for most humans but it was plenty roomy for two very friendly Uplifts. He did his best to ignore the giggling the emerged through the curtains, then the chittering and what sounded like a purr. It wasn't his business.

Gamora found Mantis, Drax and Peter around the table half an hour later, two very drunk and one getting there. As she opened her mouth at the scene of destruction, dozens of empty fresh-from-Terra (and very expensive) eggnog cartons scattered among the two Uplift harnesses, a stack of stick-on mines and bits of thruster control panel, Peter handed her a carton of her own.

“Yeah,” he said with a grin. “I should have hidden it better.”

#Rocket Raccoon #peter quill #Drax The Destroyer #mantis #gamora #lylla otter #Guardians of the Galaxy

8 notes · View notes

idontneedasymbol · 7 years ago

Text

Sam & Dean, leadership, control, obedience, and choice

Spinning this off into a new post because this got so long -- I love this topic, so I have many Thoughts! (Most of this is focused on the psychological side of it as explored through fictional tropes -- the mythological side of their chosen roles is also fascinating and deserving of its own post!)

@zmediaoutlet wrote:

I really do feel quite strongly about this, which makes those metas where people insist on calling Dean ‘controlling’ actually a bit infuriating to read. Sam makes decisions; Dean follows. It’s not that way 100% of the time, but it is true way more often than the reverse. It’s part of the deepest core of their natures–which is explained by the archangels they were meant for. Dean is loyal, and Sam rebels. I watched ‘The Vessel’ a few nights ago and was struck so hard by how Dean announces that he shall be the one who goes back to the past. He will be the one who puts himself in danger, because he’s expendable. He states it as a fact, almost bullish… and then still waits for Sam’s permission before he and ‘Castiel’ actually go. It’s just such a fascinating dynamic, made more so by the change-up of roles.

Again yes to all of this. Dean as "controlling" I take as a misinterpretation (--alternative interpretation, though this is a case that I feel strongly enough about the characterizations that I struggle to see the alternatives) of their communication styles -- and Dean's style in particular is molded, not just by John's militaristic upbringing, but by his relationship with Sam.

Dean can be controlling -- especially with innocents in supernatural-emergency situations, it's vital to give orders forcefully enough that you can expect them to be followed. But with Sam, that's rarely what it's about. Dean gives statements of intent to Sam knowing they're not going to be blindly followed -- since he was a little kid, Sam hasn't obeyed him without question. Moreover, Sam has always known that Dean won't actually act without his say-so. (e.g. "After School Special”, in which at 14 Sam is fully capable of letting Dean know what he wants -- Dean is raging "I'll rip his lungs out" about the bully, but he doesn't actually do anything, lets Sam handle it on his own. And it's not played as a "big brother finally lets his little brother out on his own" moment -- Sam is talking to Dean with confidence that he can handle it himself and that Dean won't intervene. He knows Dean has his back if needed, but he doesn't expect Dean to do anything without his agreement.)

Some of the reason this can be misinterpreted is because of their differences in communication and thinking styles. Sam is the kind of person who likes to go into a discussion or argument informed, fully armed -- he doesn't like to talk about anything until he's had time to think it out, to come to a conclusion and come up with counter-arguments, etc. While as Dean is less of a thinker, more of a doer; he wants to talk about what he's thinking/feeling because verbalizing it out loud is how he understands it himself. (Or by acting it, hence him being way more prone to expressing himself through physical violence than Sam.)

The reason this works is because they both understand this about each other.

A lot of their conversations start with Dean making a statement of opinion phrased as an absolute, and then Sam presents his side, softening that absolute. One of my favorite examples is at the end of 11x08:

SAM Dean, we need to seriously discuss me going to the Cage.

DEAN Okay. Not happening. Good talk. ...Sam, even if these visions are real...

Which on its surface can look like Dean is ending the conversation, shutting Sam down. Except that's not what's happening -- that's clearly not how Dean means it, because he immediately continues the discussion. He's not issuing an order to Sam that he expects to be followed -- he's stating his position, clearly telling Sam where his own opinion stands, giving Sam a starting point for his own argument. Which Dean is counting on getting from Sam, because Sam nearly always does.

This isn't perfect communication; it can lead to misunderstandings, and especially when they were younger, Sam could take it as Dean not respecting or listening to him. But they’ve worked like this for a while, mostly effectively. Dean can speak his mind so bluntly, figure out what he’s feeling, with the confidence that Sam will stand up to it. And in the end, Dean usually comes around, unless he can convince Sam otherwise, such as by coming up with an alternative plan.

The one area that this does completely break down is in regards to Sam himself -- the one time Dean will unilaterally go against Sam's "command" is when Sam's own life is at stake, in which case Dean's loyalty to saving Sam comes above obeying him.

And even then, it causes massive cognitive dissonance for Dean. One of the worst tailspins Dean has is in s7, after going against Sam's decision and killing Amy. Dean believes it's the right thing to do, and the right thing to do for Sam; but disobeying Sam and then lying to him about it makes Dean so guilty he can barely function. While as Sam can lie to Dean about the Book of the Damned for weeks without any obvious signs -- Sam feels guilt incredibly strongly, but not about disobedience, not when he thinks he's doing the right thing. Rebellion in itself isn't a sin for Sam -- as you say, it's one of his defining characteristics.

Then @chiisana-sukima had a related but different angle:

I would say that mythically, Sam is a King and Dean is his Minister of War. And I also agree that doesnt invalidate what Jared is saying because I think Sam rightfully doesn’t trust what he’s King of. And that a big part of Sam and Dean’s relationship is that Sam trusts Dean- and uses Dean- to be a check on Sam’s power, and a lot of their conflict is about that issue. Sam only wants and needs a check when he’s wrong, and he’s not always wrong. Sometimes he’s right and Dean is wrong (for example: MoC), so Sam can’t just lie down and do whatever Dean says, but he also can’t trust himself. It’s a hard position to negotiate.

I think this is all true -- and yeah, Sam gets very frustrated when he believes he's right and Dean still isn't coming around. Especially because Dean generally digs his heels in hardest when it has to do with Sam’s life/sanity rather than a moral question, which Sam does not believe is a valid argument (s9 got into this some, but as that argument happens perpendicular to the mostly-unspoken one about Dean violating Sam's bodily autonomy to save his life, it doesn't fully get resolved? And then the Mark temporarily upends their dynamic -- Dean starts giving orders actually expecting to be obeyed, and Sam flips from mission statement: saving the world to saving Dean.)

Dean sort of does double-duty as "Minister of War" and also Sam's bodyguard? Along with comparing it to Maiden Rose (which I would love to hear more about! maybe to discuss in person, as @owehimeverything has actually read it but prefers talking to writing meta) -- we've compared it ourselves to the even-less-known manga G-defend, in which the central (m/m) ship is between a commander of a sort of SF SWAT-team garrison and his bodyguard. The bodyguard is out of the main chain-of-command; he reports directly to the commander and obeys him in everything except matters pertaining to the commander's own safety, in which as bodyguard he has the authority to decide whether a given action is too dangerous for the commander to take. It's the source of some conflict (not a lot, because G-defend is one of the fluffiest BL series to exist, but...)

Sam and Dean's relationship doesn't map perfectly to these examples (in part because all the writers have a somewhat different take on their dynamic, so it can be inconsistent between eps; and I also think it's because this kind of power positioning is really common in Japanese fiction but less so in American fiction -- like, it's fundamental enough that we respond to it really strongly, e.g. Kirk & Spock; but especially without a clear command structure like the military to justify it, that kind of relationship can feel weird to Americans -- like there's something wrong about Dean being 'subordinate' to Sam when they don't have actual ranks, that it's an imbalance that must be corrected, rather than a mutually satisfying and stable arrangement.) But I have some hopes that if the story starts exploring “Sam as leader” more intentionally, it might drift more in this direction (even if by accident!)

My own view is that I do think people who say Sam is submissive to Dean are right. He lets Dean control a huge proportion of the relationship imo (for example: Dean has Baby/Sam has no car. For another example: Dean uses physical violence on Sam way more often than Sam does on Dean, and generally Sam just pretty much takes it). But power is complicated, and my view is that the operative word is let, and that they are both aware that Sam is delegating something that is his onto Dean.

On the one hand, I don't totally disagree? But on the other, neither of these specific examples seem to me like Sam ceding control. Sam doesn't own a car, but he has full access to transportation. If Dean isn't chauffeuring him, then Sam usually can take the Impala -- but if he can't, he simply steals another vehicle (or possibly they have extra vehicles in the bunker?) We've seen Sam driving multiple cars whenever he wants to go somewhere but Dean is out/Sam doesn't want Dean to know. I take Sam's not having a car of his own as him not having much interest in personal possessions (e.g. not personalizing his room in the bunker)(and maybe mixed with a little of feeling "unfaithful" to Baby, given that the only time he ever got a car of his own he was soulless? Sam's relationship with Baby as compared to Dean's is fascinating in its own right...)

And Dean's physical violence is problematic for sure, but I have a hard time seeing it as controlling when it never seems to influence Sam? I can think of three times Dean has punched Sam when both were in their right mind (other than sucker punches or getting into a full fight) (in 2x03, 4x04, and (uggggh) 7x03...season starts are rough times?) and Sam doesn't actually agree to what Dean wants any of those times, or seem more than mildly annoyed by it. (I could go on a long tangent here too, the short version is that I think these moments are the show getting confused about what level of violence it operates at. Sam & Dean are rough-and-tumble sorts such that if we actually saw them hitting each other more -- in anger or in sparring -- it would come across as less significant?)

All that being said, Sam does let Dean take the wheel on smaller things (like choosing music) in part because he doesn't have strong opinions on a lot of it (really, given the scope of the issues Sam often is grappling with, he likely has such constant decision fatigue that he vastly prefers Dean to make the basic choices like where to go for dinner.) And I think a key thing here is the "let" -- Sam could get his way (often with just a word; Dean rarely refuses anything Sam asks for outright) but doesn't feel the need to. So I guess I see it as Sam sometimes agrees to submit to Dean, but I hesitate to call him “submissive”? (Or maybe that’s just a matter of definition?)

Meanwhile, when Sam starts working for the BMOL, he's directing their hunts for two weeks and Dean doesn't see anything amiss in it -- Dean is swinging the machete, but Sam is picking the target; Dean is driving, but Sam is the one telling them where to go. And that's how they both like it, and while it's not perfect (especially if their communication breaks down otherwise -- their biggest issues happen when one of them is keeping a secret and so the other is working with incomplete information), it's largely functional, a mutually satisfying and effective personal and professional partnership.

(And yes, this is one interpretation and there is plenty of room for others! But it's one I see strongly enough that I find it kind of baffling when I come across meta holding that Sam not choosing the music shows that Dean is controlling, or that Dean agreeing to work with the BMOL is Sam overriding Dean's will, when I see both as mutually willing choices, not signs of dysfunctionality.)

162 notes · View notes

authorloremipsum · 7 years ago

Text

The Dangers of Galvanic Engineering

A “The Glass Scientists’ fanfiction

Words - 2002

Characters - Mr. Tweedy, Mr. Pennebrygg, Virginia Ito, a lightning rod

Summary - The alternative title for this story is: ”Bloody awestruck idiot gets struck by lightning.” He’s okay though, and has a wicked scar to show off!

Contrary to popular belief, Mr. Tweedy’s scar was a new addition to his face, and he laughed whenever someone implied it was from some traumatic childhood accident. In reality it was, as he put it, “A perfect example why ordinary people don’t pursue Arcane Sciences and think of them as dangerous.” Because they were incredibly dangerous!

Well, maybe not Doddle or Flowers, but the others certainly!

On the other hand, as dangerous as these sciences were, they were also incredibly useful. For example, electricity generators were few and far between in the only recently industrialized city of London, however, Tweedy knew six ways to make one with scraps and clockwork.

His science was electricity, a study that was already under heavy scrutiny by the modern world and common sciences, however, they didn’t realize all the possibilities it possessed beyond illumination and powering large machines. They also didn’t realize the art that could come from it, had no one noticed the particular hums that certain amperages produced? Controlling this incredible, destructive force of nature that people in the past had blamed on Gods was within the grasp of man, if only they weren’t too afraid to see it!

This electricity, Tweedy’s obsession, and his time at the Society, was how he got his incredibly ravishing scar. (He certainly thought of himself as handsome, despite how the other Lodgers teased)

He’d been helping Bryson put lightning rods on his balloon, you know, just to make sure if on the off hand the magnificent flying vessel was struck by lightning it’d not only survive the journey but take crucial data Tweedy needed to understand more about lightning itself. It was fascinating to watch a storm from the ground, the theological and diving clashing of earth and sky in a single, blinding flash of energy, but if only he could get closer!

Time and time again, when Bryson was in town with his glorious balloon, Tweedy nearly begged him for a ride in the balloon during the storm.

The answer was always the same.

“Not only would that be likely to kill us both, it’d heavily damage my balloon and likely set it on fire while it crashes into the city.”

Damn, that meant he needed another way to get up there.

Somehow, just somehow he had to see the interior of a storm, and none of this mild London rain, but a real typhoon. Something that put the houses close to the river at risk of flooding, Tweedy would risk hypothermia in that downpour to get up into that sky. Death be damned, he needed to see it.

Unfortunately, or well, rather fortunately, a storm like that happened to roll in around midday in the dead middle of summer. When the first rumble of thunder shook the Society, and Tweedy was certain it wasn’t just an explosion, he grabbed a number of implements and ran for the roof. With poles of metal on his back and a notebook clenched between his teeth, he climbed first onto the ordinary roof, then as high as he could get atop one of the many chimneys up there.

A few quick drills, some tightened screws, and a new lightning rod stood tall and proud from the tallest point of the Society. It was surprisingly sturdy, for simply metal that was free standing, attached only by screws to a single hole in the domed copper roof that covered somebody’s laboratory. (Probably Pennebrygg’s, it smelled like molten metal outside the chimneys)

Tweedy dropped from the lightning rod and ran to take shelter from the sheets of rain beneath the massive telescope that took up a good portion of the roof. It was mostly dry under there, but better than standing in a rainstorm of nearly biblical proportions while waiting for lightning to strike. He was thankful he’d thought to bring his notebook in a leather pouch, for it had remained mostly as he’d run to seek shelter from the storm, and in it he sketched and tweaked and sketched some more.

Rain thundered on the metal roof of this part of the Society, drumming not unlike an engine. Occasionally powerful winds would sweep through, splashing Tweedy and his notebook, threatening to steal his hat into the night, from whence it would never be seen again. After one too many of these gusts, Tweedy gave up and dropped his belongings that the storm continued to endanger down the ladder that he’d climbed up.

Once again, he hid beneath the telescope, watching the thundering storm with the awe of a man before God. So much power in the storm alone, if there was a god, surely this was his craft. The weather, the lightning, was a work of art, a masterpiece painted on reality and time, fleeting and only visible to those who were mad enough to chase it. The wind, the rain, the lightning, all of it could kill Tweedy if he wasn’t careful, which he wasn’t and many of the other Lodgers could confirm.

And yet he remained, staring at the sky from his mostly dry hiding place, awestruck.

Until a particularly powerful gust caused something on his lightning rod to snap and start bending at an unstable angle.

The storm had been picking up ferocity too, lightning and thunder flashing in the sky like the heartbeat of some massive, sublime creature, unknowable and untameable. Tweedy stood against the wind, feeling it grab and tug on his clothes as he ran for the lightning rod, an arm shielding his face from the rain. Without hesitation, or fear, he climbed up onto the chimney which the device was mounted on, squarely planting his feet on either side as he attempted to wrestle the rod back into place.

The metal creaked, slowly bending back into shape, fighting wind and rain.

Tweedy happened to glance up at one moment, and his eyes were blinded by brilliant white light. If one could pause a moment in time, one could see the lightning finally reaching for Tweedy’s device, vaguely shaped like a reaching hand as it stretched down from the ether, glowing like a sun.

Fire raced down Tweedy’s arms, through his legs and into the roof beneath his feet. His vision went to stars, his skin went numb and everything rung as he was thrown back from the lightning rod by the pure concussive force of the lightning that struck between his hands. Everything was spinning as he struck the roof, face first, rolled twice and lay there, limp, breathing erratic and raspy, heartbeat racing frantically and erratically.

The galvanist’s eyes wandered the roof, unfocused as his thoughts swam in his mind, only able to focus on the unbearable burning and stinging numbness in his arms and hands.

He barely noticed as someone slammed open the hatch onto the roof, and was unconscious by the time they could call for help.

Pennebrygg shook the man’s shoulders again, “Tweedy! You need to focus! Come on!”

They were in the room just below the roof where Tweedy had been very clearly struck by lightning. Intricate and complicated burns stemmed from the holes in his black gloves, stretching up his arms like painful ivy. Tweedy’s dark eyes were rolling in their sockets and his head kept bobbing forward, as if in sleep, but Pennebrygg couldn’t shake the feeling that it was worse than that. His hair, already usually wild and dark, stuck up at every angle and had clearly been charred in the lightning strike.

Ito, who’d been dragged from their evening reading to patch up the struck galvanist, shot Pennebrygg a glare from where they stood, attempting to bandage a large cut that ran down the right side of Tweedy’s face. “Don’t shake him, I’m having a hard enough time bandaging this as it is.”

“Why’re you bandagin’ m’ face?” he mumbled, leaning into their hands as they worked. Pennebrygg, despite himself, was immensely relieved to hear his colleague speak.

“You fell and got cut, don’t you remember that?” he asked, looking Tweedy in the eye, searching for some sign of understanding. Tweedy thought hard about it, leaning his head in Ito’s hands as they tied off the bandage, making him look like some sort of fried pirate. “I remember, tryin’a fix the rod an’, and then fire.”

“You got struck by lightning,” Pennebrygg deadpanned, smirking a little. “Just like we all said you would, was it worth it?”

Tweedy thought about it, nearly falling over as Ito let go of his head and turned to pack up their thrown-together-in-two-minutes medpack. He giggled weakly, “Hell yeah it was.”

“You nearly died.”

“He should be dead,” Ito corrected, snapping their case together. “And I’m sure he’ll have a field day trying to study why he isn’t. But don’t let him sleep until he’s clear again.”

“What I gotta babysit??” Pennebrygg asked, sounding mildly insulted.

“It’s that or risking him dying and you already dragged me out of bed,” Ito snapped before descending the ladder to below. The automaton engineer sighed heavily, rubbing his exposed eye before looking at Tweedy.

The galvanist was staring at his hands, opening and closing them, flinching as the burns beneath the white cloth stung with a vengeance. He looked up at Pennebrygg, “Did, did I get struck by lightning in the face?”

“No, you fell and hit the roof after getting struck,” he answered, offering a gentle hand to lift Tweedy to his shaking feet.

He could barely stand alone, and it was one hell of a time getting him down the ladder and onto stable ground. The whole time he kept bursting out into little, drunk-like giggles, “Oh Pennebrygg, if you’d have seen it, it was incredible.”

“I’m sure it was,” he would answer, only mildly irritated. To both of their surprise, when they entered the bronze observatory, a small army was worriedly waiting for them.

“We heard something fall on the roof!”

“Tweedy did we get struck by lightning? Did you get any data?”

“What happened up there? Was he hurt?”

The galvanist couldn’t help but laugh aloud, much to the surprise of those gathered. He raised his hands and shook them, all while giggling. “I got struck by lightning ladies and gentlemen! I can cross one more thing off my bucket list!” He dissolved into laughter again and had to lean against the wall as his legs began to give again. The giggling faded, “My God, what a storm out there, absolutely incredible, you should have seen it.”

“Should someone get the doctor?”

“I think he’s at home, but it might be worth it!”

“I don’t need a doctor!” Tweedy declared, standing alone, injured hands on his hips. “I am perfectly fine!”

He felt numbness creep into his legs and collapsed without another sound, face planting on the floor once again in as many minutes, completely unconscious.

In the days to follow, as he healed quickly with the aid of the in-house alchemists, everyone was surprised to see him in such great spirits after what surely must have been a traumatic event. Barely two days after blacking out like that he was on his feet again, trying to get back to work only to be stopped by the more responsible Pennebrygg, who shared his lab. He joked about his accident, about his resulting scars would mark him for greatness among the fantastic minds of history, and it seemed as if he didn’t care that his injury was ultimately the result of him being a total idiot.

Even when Hyde, master of getting under someone’s skin, tried to make him feel stupid, he continued to laugh at himself.

Because if getting struck by lightning had taught him anything, because it sure as hell didn’t give him much data about lightning, it taught him that one must be able to laugh at their blunders and be willing to take chances.

Most importantly though, that lightning was more gorgeous and more powerful than he’d suspected all along.

#the glass scientists #my writing

21 notes · View notes