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roosterforme · 6 months ago

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Covering the Classics Part 11 | Bob Floyd x OC

Summary: When Anna hits rock bottom, she knows she needs to figure out how to put herself back together. But she also knows that leaving Kevin behind once and for all will require her to give up the only thing she wants from him. Maybe a shot at happiness with Bob would have been worth it.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, adult language, 18+

Length: 4400 words

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Female OC (this story is part of the Beer Boy/Sugar and Jake/Jessica universe)

Covering the Classics masterlist. Check my masterlist for more!

If this wasn't rock bottom, Anna didn't want to know what was. She spent Sunday night laying on the floor next to her bed alternating between crying and hyperventilating. Apparently she couldn't do both at the same time, because her body kept giving each activity its full attention before switching again. When she finally started to fall asleep around three o'clock, her ribs were aching so much, she didn't see how she would be able to teach in a few hours. But it didn't matter. She wouldn't be going to campus anyway.

When she woke up at six, she crawled to her computer and emailed everyone in her classes, informing them that she would not be in today and to work through the syllabus independently until their next class with her. All of the other professors pulled this kind of thing all the time, but she still felt guilty which triggered more tears. If Kevin somehow cost her a full time tenure position along with her happiness, she didn't know what else she had that he could possibly take from her.

When she thought about Bob, it hurt so badly she had to run to the toilet. And when she thought about Advanced Calculus and Advanced Physics, it hurt almost just as much. She was in love with so many things in San Diego, but she'd dragged her past here along with her even if she didn't want to acknowledge that fact. She'd brought this dark shadow along that tainted everything and left her wondering if she could fix any of it at this point. If she could even figure out how to start.

As she hiccupped alone in her bathroom, she knew she needed to mentally backtrack to New Jersey for the first time in a long time before she could focus on San Diego. When she crawled back toward her bed, she located her phone and found the contact information for her lawyer's office. It was late enough on the east coast that someone answered after one ring, and soon Anna had to use her scratchy, raw voice to try to communicate.

"When will my divorce be final?" she managed to ask as she propped herself against the wall. She left herself hungry every day, and she was living in this tiny room simply so she could pay these people to help her sort out her life, but the response she got was not ideal.

"Ms. Webber... your husband still has three days left to comply, but he has not done so yet."

Anna wanted to scream, but her throat felt like it was constricting. Why wouldn't he just let her have the one thing she wanted? She wasn't asking for anything extra, just the thing she worked so hard to make her own. She didn't even care about all of the money. But he wouldn't let her have it. Even though she didn't want to fight for anything else in the house, he still wouldn't comply. He was making hundreds of thousands of dollars now, and she wanted none of it back, but he knew that her manuscript was the one thing meant something to her. He would happily drag this out until she had nothing left.

She knew she needed to wait it out. It was her fault she hadn't filed sooner. She let Kevin's words destroy her even when she knew he was sleeping with Alyssa. She let him convince her that she needed him for way too long. "What happens in three days?" she finally asked.

"If he doesn't comply, then you can restructure your end of the divorce agreement, and we can try again."

Anna knew what that meant for her, but she didn't know if she could pull the trigger. Restructure it? There was only one thing she could remove. Kevin would come out clean as a whistle, and she would lose everything she hadn't already.

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When Bob knocked on the door at seven in the morning after barely sleeping at all, Jessica looked concerned when she opened it, and Jake looked annoyed. "What's wrong?" she asked, reaching out and running her hand along his stubbled cheek. "Why haven't you shaved? Why do you look so upset?"

"Why are you even here?" Jake called from the kitchen where he was cooking breakfast in his uniform.

"I need to talk to you," Bob croaked, and Jessica pulled him inside and gently guided him toward the couch. She rubbed his back and didn't rush him as he sat there, and Jake even stopped turning to glare from in front of the waffle iron.

"Did you know Anna's married?"

Bob could tell by the sharp intake of breath and the way Jessica's hand came to a screeching halt on his back that she had no idea.

"She's what?"

"Married," he repeated without any feeling whatsoever. The handful of hours he'd spent around her were some of the best of his life, but he would have never let his friends try to push them together if he'd know. He should have let her keep him in the friend zone when she tried to let him know that's what she wanted. Mutual attraction be damned, she'd made marriage vows to someone else. He just wished he would have known.

"No," Jessica said adamantly. "How? She's got no rings, and she said she lives alone. She mentioned an ex before, but I'm virtually certain he's still in New Jersey. She... struggles with certain things, and if she was married, someone would be helping her make ends meet. I don't know where you came up with this, but no."

Bob took his glasses off and set them down on the arm of the couch while he ran his hands over his exhausted eyes. "Jessica. She told me she was."

"Well," his friend said as she wrapped her arm around his shoulders, "I'll ask her about it at lunchtime today. There must be some sort of miscommunication."

"I don't think so," he groaned softly. "We... slept together, and those were her parting words as she ran out of my house."

"You slept together?!" Jessica practically shrieked.

"It's about damn time!" Jake called from the kitchen, clanging his spatulas together and whooping loudly.

But Bob was shaking his head and staring at the floor through his slightly fuzzy vision. He had his phone in his hand all night, trying to decide if he should call or text her, wondering if she went home to climb into bed with her husband. Scared that this was the reason why she squeezed herself into her apartment door before closing it abruptly when he drove her home.

"I should have backed off when she friend zoned me the first time. I should have never believed that I could be with a woman like her." A woman that inspired the best poetry he'd ever written in his life. A woman who made him want everything.

It finally dawned on Bob that there might be an irate husband in his future, and he would just have to take whatever came his way. Because there wasn't a chance that Anna didn't have her spouse wrapped around her fingers. Even if she had a lapse of judgement when it came to Bob, Anna's husband would know how good he had it and want to fight for her. Bob would just have to take it on the chin.

When Jessica kissed his cheek and whispered, "I'll try to sort this out," he just nodded with his shoulders slumped and his elbows digging into his thighs. But there was nothing to sort out. Anna would never be his, and now he would have to pay the price for the way she told him she was married about an hour too late to take it all back. Honestly, he never thought accidentally sleeping with a married woman was something he would ever have to deal with in his wildest dreams, and now that he was forced to do it, he was getting pretty mad.

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Anna managed to give her Classics lecture on Tuesday morning with a sore throat after screaming into her pillow off and on for most of Monday afternoon. She hadn't eaten in days, and if anyone noticed her puffy, red eyes, they didn't mention it to her. She had quizzes to grade and reports to read, but when she went back to her office, the overwhelming scent of bread from the cafeteria made her gag.

There was a pack of peanuts in her desk along with a room temperature can of ginger ale, but she had no appetite yet. She was just in survival mode until she decided what to do when Kevin's time was up. Until she worked up the courage to talk to Bob and apologize.

He was the sweetest man she had ever known, and her lapse of judgement was going to cost her any chance with him in the future as well as her friendships. In fact, none of them were ever going to want to speak to her again, and that's what she deserved. If she would have just been honest with Bob, she wouldn't be in this mess. But San Diego was like a balm for her senses, making her feel normal where she knew she wasn't. Maybe Bob would have been willing to wait a few more months until she figured out her next steps. Maybe he would have accepted that she was legally separated from Kevin if her husband would just sign the fucking paperwork.

Tears were burning her eyes again just as someone knocked on her office door. She sat perfectly still, silently begging them to go away, praying that everyone would leave her alone until she could sneak out and go home later.

"Anna?"

She knew that voice so well, and she was shocked to find that it sounded more concerned than angry.

"It's just us," came the second voice, and without another thought, Anna was on her feet, wrenching the door open as she started to sob. "Oh, Anna," whispered Jessica as she collected her into her arms.

Anna stood in the middle of her tiny office and cried and cried in Jessica's arms while her other friend studiously locked the door and dimmed the lights before reaching for the box of tissues on the shelf. "Here," she whispered, and Anna accepted a wad of tissues from her.

She tried to mop at her face, but it was a lost cause. Jessica pushed the loose strands of her red hair back from her eyes as she said, "Anna, we're here for you, but I think we need to talk. For real."

"We have some... concerns."

Anna tried to take huge gulps of air into her burning lungs as she gasped, "I'm really not okay. I hurt Bob."

Her friends looked at each other before Jessica said, "I think it's time you backtracked a little bit. Maybe all the way back to New Jersey."

"I hated it there," she told them immediately, wiping at her eyes as she sat on the edge of her desk, bracing herself for the interrogation to come.

Advanced Calculus eyed her sympathetically before a look of steel locked in her gaze. "Are you married?"

Anna nodded slightly, cringing as she pictured Kevin's face. "Technically, yes."

"Anna!" Jessica exclaimed. "You slept with Bob!"

They knew. They knew everything. Bob told them, and they knew what she'd done. She cradled her forehead in her hands and said, "I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I hate Kevin. I don't think we were even married two years before he started cheating on me. I'm trying my best to divorce him, but he just won't fucking let me."

"What do you mean he won't let you?" Advanced Calculus asked, cutting off Jessica before she could screech again.

"He is ruining my life," Anna whispered, finally starting to feel more anger than anything else. "Like an idiot, I've let him ruin my life. I put him through medical school. I dropped out of Princeton to work two jobs to put my husband through medical school." Her voice faded into a soft yet harsh whisper. "Kevin promised he'd take care of me after that so I could finish my Ivy League PhD. But then he started cheating on me because I was always tired and boring and no fun. Because all I was doing was working to pay his tuition for four years straight while he fucked another medical student between classes. I caught them having sex in my car."

"No," both women gasped at the same time. But she just nodded as the memories she had tried so hard to keep at bay since she moved to California came roaring back.

"That's not a marriage," Jessica practically growled, reaching out for Anna's hand that she hadn't even been aware was shaking. "Not really."

"You're right," Anna agreed. "I'm a joke." She honestly felt like one. Images of Bob's face and the memory of his kind voice flooded her system. The way he looked at her and touched her felt like love. The things he wrote about her had her almost convinced he could love her back.

"You're not a joke, Anna," her friend told her. "You're a smart, capable woman who should have come to her friends months ago with all of this information."

"I hate Kevin!" Jessica shrieked before biting down on her own fingertips, and it was so comical, Anna might have laughed if she was in a better frame of mind.

"Yes," Advanced Calculus agreed. "Kevin sounds like an asshole. But you know who isn't an asshole? Bob. But right now, he kind of feels like one."

Anna closed her eyes as the tears started welling up faster. "I tried so hard. You have to believe me. But Bob is perfect. And he didn't think I was boring. But I wasn't planning on falling in love ever again."

"You love him?" Jessica snapped loudly. "You love him? Because Bob thinks you are in a loving marriage with your spouse!"

"Jessica, go sit in the desk chair and calm down," the other woman commanded, and Anna watched the petite, bespectacled blonde stomp around her desk. "Now, Anna, why didn't you explain this all to Bob before you rocked the man's whole world and then ran off into the night like Cinderella?"

"I freaked out," Anna whispered, swallowing hard. "He's the perfect man. He did everything exactly right, and he was exquisite." She looked down at the floor as she said, "I haven't been touched like that in years. Like I was worth something. I'm not even thirty yet, and my husband ditched me for someone else while actively bankrupting me." She was mortified by what she was telling them, but she couldn't stop herself now. "Kevin always said I should dye my hair, and he loved it when I wore makeup. But Bob... he likes my hair and my freckles. He likes the books I read. He thinks I'm smart." She felt her face warm up as she thought about his poems. "We had sex, and then he was looking at me, and he started talking about us. I can't be an us with someone when I can't shake Kevin."

Anna could practically feel Jessica freaking out in the chair behind her, but she kept her eyes on the floor. "If you need help with Kevin or money for a lawyer or something-" Jessica said, but Anna cut her off.

"No. I'm fine. But he's going to force me to decide if I'd rather have my freedom or my self worth. And right now, I can't decide what I want to let him get away with when he already took so much."

"Hey," her much calmer friend said softly, and Anna finally met her eyes. "We're here for you. Anything you need, okay? But I need you to promise you'll talk to Bob. The sooner the better." Then Anna watched her reach for her tie dye lunch box which she apparently brought in with her and pulled out one of her fancy containers. "Bradley made you some hummus, and I packed you crackers and veggies to go with it. Please make sure you're eating. And please talk to Bob. I need to go teach Differential Equations, but I'll text you later. Jess, you have Physics III in fifteen minutes."

Anna received two hugs that she barely returned, and when the two women were gone, she sank into her chair and managed to eat some of the hummus without gagging. Then she texted Bob, because if nothing else, she needed him to know how sorry she was for running out on him. How sorry she was for all of it.

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Anna wanted to talk to him on Thursday evening. Bob had to fight the urge to offer to pick her up on campus and save her from having to take an Uber to his house, especially after the few details that Jessica told him about her finances. She confirmed that Anna was married. She also promised him that there was no angry spouse waiting to jump him in the In 'N Out parking lot. She also told him that he needed to give Anna a chance to clear the air. So he agreed. He was free on Thursday. It wasn't like he'd been doing anything except going to work and coming straight home all week, even avoiding Suzanne as much as he could. And he wasn't going to break his promise to Jessica, even though Nat told him to delete Anna's number.

Bob sat in his living room, staring at his new bookshelf in disgust. He'd let himself fall into a fantasy where he imagined someday Anna's books would get mixed up with his on the shelves. Where all of her dog eared novels would live alongside his pristine ones. He'd been subconsciously thinking about it since he met her.

His insides were churning with anxiety. Part of him wanted to scream at her that none of this was fair to him, but the other part knew that no matter what, he still didn't want to see tears in her brown eyes. He couldn't let her take all of the blame for this anyway. He'd even told Jessica that she pushed a little too hard and that she shouldn't do that again in the future.

When there was a knock on his door, it was hard for him to stand up. How was he supposed to do this? He dragged himself across his living room to his front door and carefully opened it to find Anna with the saddest expression imaginable on her face. She looked somehow smaller and paler than she should. She looked like she hadn't slept. And that's when Bob realized he must look the same way to her.

"Hi," she whispered, brown eyes darting around his face nervously. She held out a small bouquet of blue flowers and the books she had borrowed in his direction, and Bob noticed her hands were shaking. "Um, I got these for you. They look like the flowers on the cover of the Whitman poems, and I thought of you when I saw them at the store."

"Anna," Bob groaned as he took them from her along with the books. He moved out of the doorway so she could come inside, and somehow he still couldn't decide if he was angry at her or not.

"I'm sorry," she gasped, turning to look at him once she was halfway across the room. There were several feet of space between them, but he could smell her hair. She was wearing the jeans she wore last time she went to the Hard Deck. He knew what that shirt felt like between his fingers. He could tell she was trying not to cry as she said, "I'm just really sorry."

"Why didn't you tell me you're married?" he snapped, unable to hold back. He knew his tone was harsh as he added, "Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"Because I should have been divorced by now!" she practically shouted, and Bob was instantly more soothed by that sentence than he should have been. "You think I want to be married to the worst man I know?" He had so many questions already, but something told him to just let her keep going. "That's why I'm here. In San Diego. He was supposed to sign the papers so I could get on with my ridiculous life, but he won't!" She sucked in a deep breath before she said, "And it's eating me alive knowing what I kept settling for when you exist! Knowing that I could have been with a man like you."

Her lips were moving like she was shivering, and her eyes were wide and watery. Red blotches covered her freckled cheeks, and Bob just knew she was going to panic again. She made a helpless noise and rushed forward, ready to run, but this time he caught her in his arms, the books and flowers falling to the floor. He let her struggle for a few seconds as she cried, but he held on tight.

"Anna," he said softly. "You can't keep running."

Her body slumped against his. She looked up at him as he held her, and a few seconds later, she let her cheek come to rest against his chest. She nodded against him as she whispered, "I don't really have anywhere to go anyway."

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Bob kept his distance while also somehow always being nearby. Anna knew he was probably expecting her to vanish again if he turned his back for too long, but she was too mentally and physically exhausted to move from his living room couch while he fixed some tea. It was getting dark outside, and it was nearly impossible to try to think about anything other than Sunday night when she felt truly free for the first time in years.

Similar thoughts must have been on Bob's mind, because he was still occasionally looking at her like he used to. Then his cheeks would turn pink, and he'd duck his head before showing her a completely neutral expression. She took the mug of tea he handed her and whispered, "Thank you," as he sat down as far away from her as he could. She cleared her throat as she looked into her drink and said, "You're one of the kindest, most generous people I've ever met." She forced her gaze to his face. "I'm sorry I took that for granted. And I'm sorry I wasn't honest with you and the ladies."

Bob nodded but didn't speak for a minute. His voice was as gentle as always as he eventually said, "I'd like it if we could talk."

"Yeah," she agreed softly now that she felt like the fight inside her was gone and the tears had finally dried up.

"Where's your husband?"

She pictured Kevin standing in the perfect kitchen in the beautiful house on the cul-de-sac. "In New Jersey."

"Right," Bob replied in a reassuring tone. "You said you should have been divorced by now, so does that mean you don't want to be married to him?"

"I hate him," she whispered, back to staring into her mug. "And I'm sure he hates me, too. No, I don't want to be married to him any longer."

"You're separated?" he asked softly.

Anna shrugged, wishing more than anything that she could scoot a little closer to Bob and feel his hand on hers. "Not legally. He won't sign anything."

"Right," Bob repeated again. "Would it be too much for me to ask what happened? Because I really don't understand. I'm trying, but I'm still so confused, Anna."

Her brain was screaming at her to start crying again, begging her to fall apart or hyperventilate, but she didn't even have the energy for it. She took one long sip of her perfect cup of tea before setting it aside and turning to look at him. Even now, he had sympathy in his eyes. Whether that was because he now knew she and Kevin weren't really together or because he was always this sweet, she couldn't say. But he was everything she wanted and would never have again.

"The short version is that I put him through medical school while he cheated on me. The long version is that he used up every bit of my money, let me work myself ragged, prevented me from finishing my PhD at Princeton, belittled me, and flaunted his extramarital relationship in my face. It was humiliating knowing he was cheating. It's humiliating eating sandwiches and peanuts for every meal now. But the worst thing is that he is holding my manuscript hostage, and no matter what I do, he won't let me have it back."

"Jesus, Anna," he gasped, making the slightest move like he wanted to reach for her before pulling back.

She slowly stood, and he looked up at her, trying to gauge what she was going to do, but she just looked down at him as she tucked her shaking hands behind her back. "You're perfect," she whispered. "You're Sky Writing. You're the handsome man from the bookstore who smells like tea and soap. You're Bob, the guy my friends knew I would fall in love with as soon as I met them." She took a step back, barely able to handle how he was looking at her like she still mattered. "But I don't know how to be an us with you. I know that's what you want, but I never wanted to fall like this again. I tried my best not to. I can't do this with Kevin's shadow behind me all the time. And I'm just really sorry I let it go as far as it did. Because now that I know so much about you...."

That's when the tears arrived, and that's also when Bob stood up. "Anna, I feel like-"

When he cut himself off, leaving the sentence hanging in the air for a few seconds, she took one long, last look at him and whispered, "I'm going to go." He didn't stop her from stepping over the flowers, walking out the door, and heading to the end of his street where she waited for a ride as the night air made her shiver, and her tear streaked cheeks finally started to dry again.

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Oh, they both fell for each other. I'm not sure if Bob feels better or worse now. Kevin is an absolute dick, and we will hear from him in the next chapter. Keep fighting, Anna. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 12

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grippingbeskar · 2 years ago

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two is hardly a crowd

— john price x fem!reader

— warnings: explicit content minors dni (age gap, mxf, dirty talk) swearing, mention of death and injury

— a/n: i’m so in love with this man. oh my god.

“You wanted to see me, Captain?” You say through the door, knocking a few times.

“Come in.” He calls back, and you try to still your hand as it reaches for the doorknob. Every time he calls for you, you can’t predict what will happen. Some times he’s all work no play, giving you assignments like he does the rest of the 141 with a straight face and serious look in his eyes.

Other times, it’s… less business, more pleasure. He smiles more, offers you a drink. Jokes with you. Flirts… you think, but you weren’t entirely sure Price meant it. You don’t have the most experience with this kind of thing, but he certainly isn’t having those kinds of meetings with Soap or Ghost. He doesn’t compliment them at all, let alone sweet talk them like he does to you. It’s only really when you’re between missions, and almost always when everyone else has gone out for the night or gone off base. He knows you don’t leave even on off days— Price is observant, and the only other one who stays, too.

Swallowing, you push the door open. You know everyone’s gone home this break— Gaz just left last night, and he was only here this long because he couldn’t get a flight out. Now, you knew it was just you and the Captain. It made you as nervous as it did excited, considering the embarrassing crush you were nursing for him.

“I really hope you aren’t telling me I have to spend the year locked up in the cockpit of a jet.” Taking a seat in front of him, you watch the curl of his mouth form around a lit cigar. He leans back, and your eyes are drawn to the stark lack of papers or files open on his desk. All of them are stacked in piles. All closed cases.

“Nothin’ like that, don’t worry.” You watch him closely as he pours himself a glass of scotch. Then, he pushes the full one towards you. “How you holdin’ up?”

“Fine.” You reply, trying not to think too hard about the last few weeks. It was rough— all your missions are, but the burn of the scotch now going down your throat and the undivided attention from Price makes it a bit easier to forget. “Starting to understand why you all drink so much, though.”

“You did well out there, not that you need me tellin’ you.” He looks at you under the brim of his hat, still sandy from the return. You wonder if he ever washes that thing, or if he’s superstitious, like it’ll wash the luck off or something. “All the boys were impressed. So was I.”

“Thank you, Captain.” You try to hide the obvious heat that spreads to your body, nearly making you squint. Of course it was good to be recognised, but hearing it from him. ‘So was I’. You impressed him. “Is— was there something you needed me to do?”

“Just hate to think of you wastin’ your off time in the barracks. I’m not takin’ the jet, so I was gonna offer it to you. Get out of here for a bit, see your family.” The sentiment was sweet, and the idea that he was thinking of you nearly overshadowed his offer.

“I appreciate it, but I don’t… see my family. Besides, I’m not a big fan of flying. I like to avoid it, when I can.” The fact you’d just spent almost a month flying between bases and never said a thing makes Price lean forward, eyebrows raised. It was a stupid fear to have, but it was there nonetheless.

“Take a car, then. Go see— something. Anything.” His forearms were on the table, leaning toward you. His shoulders are slumped slightly, about as relaxed as he gets.

“You trying to get rid of me, Captain?” He laughs dryly, taking the cigar out of his mouth again to finish off his drink. You follow him, needing the liquid courage.

“Course not, love. You just shouldn’t be hangin’ around here at your age. Let us old guys sit and rot, but you— go live a little.” Almost choking on your drink, you bite down on your bottom lip as you swallow. Love. Love. Fucking hell, you’ve been less tense while staring at the barrel of a shotgun.

“You aren’t that old.” You say meekly, dropping your gaze from his intense one.

“Don’t change the subject.” His voice is dripping with authority, one that simultaneously drops you into line and makes you need to shift on your seat. “Why are you still here?”

“I don’t have anywhere else to go.” That shuts him up for a second. Your family probably thinks you’re dead— if they know you’re alive, they don’t care enough to check in. Any friends you had drifted away when you became too hard to reach, missing birthdays and never coming home for holidays— always working. Once you joined the 141, they stopped trying completely. You didn’t mind. You only wanted to focus on your job. The next mission. Keeping people safe. These guys were all the family you needed. Plus, Price was here.

It was hard to find a good enough reason to leave him, and the kindness he always showed you was ten times more than you’d get if you really went home. It was more than enough to feed your ridiculous crush on him, too, which you couldn’t figure out if it was a good or a bad thing.

“Ah.” He says after a while, and then fills up your glass. The action mixed with the subtle uncomfortable look on his face, like he’s not sure what to do, makes you laugh out loud. The sound seems to relax him again. “Can’t argue with that.”

“Well, why are you still hanging around base?” You take another sip, the honey flavour of the liquor easing the burning taste. “You’re not afraid of flying too, are you?”

“I think I’ve seen enough of the world by now. Happy where I am.” Before your heartbeat can catch up, he keeps talking. “Besides, the company’s not all bad.”

Your face gets so hot you think you might break out into a sweat. It was definitely one of those kinds of meetings. Your favourite. These kinds of talks with him, where you get to see the man under the title and pressure of the job. Price, as you’ve discovered, is smooth. A gentleman, of course, but such a sweet talker. You only ever see it here, alone with him, but you can never stop thinking about it when it happens.

“If it’s good enough for you, it’s good enough for me.” You say, stumbling straight over his compliment. He makes you so confused— you’re usually straight as a steel blade. Impossible to bend, strong willed and focused. With him… you can’t even think. “But you… you don’t have anyone to go visit? You said you aren’t taking the jet. I’m sure your wife would be missing you.”

“If I had one, I’m sure she’d of left me by now.” You honestly hadn’t been sure if he had family. You had a feeling he did… look at him. There’s no way a man that looks like this, talks the way he does isn’t dodging women left right and centre. “When have people like us got the time for date nights, aye?”

“Soap does it. Gaz. It’s not impossible.” Your glass clanks against the wooden table as you set it down, and Price’s eyes seem to light up a little. “I mean… I’m sure you could find someone if you— if you wanted to.”

“You got me there.” He fakes a little surrender, his hands rising off the table. You almost didn’t realise how close he was until he sets them down again, fingers nearly brushing against your skin. “What makes you so sure?”

“You’re…nice.” He laughs, bringing the cigar back up to his mouth. You watch him intently, smoke curling and fogging in front of his face. Ash drops onto the desk, and his giant hands swipe it away quickly.

“Nice.”

“Mhmm.”

“That all?” Your throat feels dry. He was looking at you so closely. Like he could see through you, right to how fast your heart was beating. Like he could see your thoughts in a cloud above your head, as clear and thick as the smoke in front of him.

“Fishing for compliments, Captain?”

“It’s John.” You suck in a low breath at the sound of his first name. Your eyes nearly flutter shut. “And can you blame me? Pretty girl like you, maybe I could get some ideas since you wanna marry me off so quick.”

It was subtle. So like him, smooth and easy, but it hits you like a freight train. That cross of a line in such a short, stupid little sentence, but he knows he’s made a touch down when you smile and hide your face. You were a soldier, for fucks sake— but he had you blushing and smiling like you were a kid.

“I’m just saying, Ca—John. You are nice. You deserve something like that to go home to.” The sentence wasn’t well thought out, two glasses of scotch going straight to your head, but it was true.

God, how you have thought about being that for him. Let him come back from a long mission, take the stress out of his shoulders and have him really relax. He was always so on all the time, so much pressure running the team. He was fucking good at it too, which was worse for your crush on him. You just wanted to take care of him like he took care of everything for you and the team every single time—

“I think I’ve got all I need right here.” You blink up at him, hands gripping the side of your chair. His head is tilted slightly, a smirk on his face. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, love. Like I said, I’m exactly where I wanna be.”

His voice is low. Lower than before. Maybe you’re just drunk, but his eyes seem a little darker, too.

“On base with me, eating leftovers? Sounds like a real fun t—“

“Yeah. I want to be here with you.” You don’t take a breath for a good five seconds. Just let the confession hang in the air. It’s thick, full of smoke and tension, and the burn across your face is either from embarrassment or pure need.

He wanted to be here, alone, with you. Until now it was easy to sign all these passing comments and looks off to pure coincidence. Maybe even a lack of options, being one of the only straight females on base. But with the way he was looking at you now, it was anything but.

“Are you messing with me?” Your eyes nearly shut completely, suddenly feeling the warmth of his hand on yours. His covers you completely, thumb tracing along your knuckles. They’re still blue and green from the fading bruises of the last mission, and he pays extra care not to press to hard.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” His eyes stay on your touching hands, the rough pads of his fingers drawing aimless lines on your skin. “I’m patient, but I’m only a man. Only so much time I can wait before I blow myself to bits keeping this to myself.”

“Keeping what to yourself ?” Your voice is hardly above a whisper.

“I’m your Captain.” He says like it’s a confession, and your heart is beating so fast he can probably hear it with those trained ears.

“I know that.” He makes a noise like he’s in pain, going to pull away, but you’re faster and catch his arm. “Tell me anyway.”

“It’s… you mean something to me. A lot. More than I can chalk up to just admiration. I want to take you out.” He says, his voice trained, like he’s using every ounce of bravery he’s got to get the words out. Only then does he finally look up at you, his pupils nearly overtaking his eyes. “I want to see you outside this place. I don’t wanna be looking over my shoulder every three seconds makin’ sure no one’s watching the way I’m staring at you. You’re in my head. Can’t get you out of it. I want to do this the real way. The right way.”

“I—“

“But if you don’t feel the same, you’ll never have to hear it again. Trust me. I’ll learn to live with it. I— it’d just kill me if I never asked.” He runs over your sentence, then leans back, taking a few puffs of the cigar like a reflex.

“You really aren’t messing with me?” Your hands were reaching out instinctively, missing his touch, as fleeting as it was.

“No, love. Just been working up the courage.” You were grinning like an idiot at his expression. The composed face of your Captain had folded in on itself, now replaced by the man you knew was underneath— admittedly a little more nervous than you were familiar with. “Is that… do you—“

“Oh! Yes. Yeah— fuck yes. I’d really like that.” Nodding rapidly, his head hangs back and he sighs a little in relief. Adjusting his hat, he watches you smile at him, fondness dancing in his eyes.

“Guess I wasn’t the only one thinking about it?” He asks, tilting his head.

“Nah. The foods just really shitty on base. I’d do anything for a good meal.”

“Ah. Of course.” He squints, smirking as you laugh. He takes another drag of the cigar, and you watch his mouth intensely— letting your eyes linger with the safety of his confession. “Well, can’t deny a pretty face like yours, can I?”

“In that case, I haven’t eaten since this morning.” You say, the words fumbling out of your mouth before you have a chance to reign them in.

“It’s nine o’clock, Private.” He chides, the tone of his voice making you squirm in your seat. “You wanna go now?”

“You’ve been patient enough, haven’t you?” Your leg bounces with all the extra energy you suddenly have, mind wiring with thoughts of where he would take you. He stands up, and you follow him, pushing your chair back as he clears the distance around the table in two steps.

Those giant black boots, ones he still hasn’t changed out of since coming back. They were tracking dirt and mud all over the hard wood floor, and you had a feeling he’s never had anyone tell him to take his shoes off before he came inside. Probably why he wears his camouflage jacket everywhere, too. You hate to imagine the state of his real place, wherever that may be. He keeps walking towards the door, unlocking it and nodding towards you.

“Come on, then. Better move if you want anything other than pizza.” He smirks, and you really could walk out the door. You could, and make him take you out to a nice dinner. He’d be sweet, and you know you’d probably ask him a thousand questions that he would answer without skipping a beat. And you want that— you do. You’d thought about it more times than you’d admit out loud. You’d get there.

But right now, you had too much adrenaline. It was like being on a mission— heart racing, antsy to just jump in with both feet and not look back. There was something about living the life you did that made you not want to wait for anything anymore. Now, you had been so, so patient with Price, because you had to be. But now it was right there in front of you, standing at the open door.

A kick in your step sends you right up to the door, your hand slowly pushing against his grip on it. It’s squeaky and obvious what you’re doing— and his eyebrows raise higher and higher, eyes flicking down to you when the lock clicks shut.

“Not hungry?” He rasps, taking a step closer to you. His hand drops from the door, settling gently on your hip.

“I have something else in mind.” Your hands fist in his jacket and you yank him forward, feeling his hand on your neck as you finally kiss him.

He doesn’t rush, taking his time to feel your mouth against his. Once he realises you don’t want to let him go, he drags his hand up your face, along your cheekbone, thumb tracing along your skin lightly. You push yourself up on your toes, wanting to be closer.

He grabs you a little harder, and you moan into his mouth when his hand tangles in your hair. He uses it as leverage, nearly pulling you off the ground. He’s wrapped his arm around your waist, and the warmth of his body against yours has you pulling on the hair that hangs out of his hat. He’s the one to make a sound now, letting out a low groan when you fist your hands and tug.

He tastes like expensive cigars and scotch, his mouth burning it’s way into your memory. Every time you look at him from now on all you’ll be able to think of is how he tastes, and how easily he’s taken over you. He towers over you, and with one hand still around your waist, the other tucks your hair behind your ear, a hint of something softer despite the neediness of both your movements. You hate it like that, always thinking you look off balance. It’s why you have your head shoved in a hat most days, but he seems to like it. He walks you backwards, away from the door, picking you up with a strong forearm under your ass until you feel your calves hit the hard wood of his desk. He presses close, only leaving your lips for a second to kiss along your jaw. When you whine and tug on his hair, he comes back up, and you can feel him smiling through it.

When you need to take a breath, reluctantly you lean back, eyes fluttering open when you feel his forehead press to yours. His hands cup your face, enveloping you in the feeling of him everywhere. The shadow of his body blocks out all the light in the room except for him, tunnel visioning him into focus.

“You have really pretty eyes.” You say before you can think, almost like some kind of trance had overtaken you. Price laughs, his thumb tracing your bottom lip lightly.

“Is that right?” You nod once, and he leans closer, his mouth lightly pressing its way along your neck. You squirm in his touch, needing more, but he only gets further away. “You have no idea how many times I thought about walkin’ down to your room and begging you to put me out of my misery.”

“Fuck, Price.” You tug him closer by the ends of his jacket, smiling when you feel his hands fall to your waist and his head pull back. “You should of. It’s so lonely in there.”

“Don’t play games with me.” He says lowly while you bat your eyes up at him, that authoritative tone rumbling through every word. “Your tuggin’ on my last string of control with that look.”

“Good. Maybe it’ll finally snap.” He groans, kissing you lightly.

“I should do this right. Take you out. Buy you flowers and dinner.” His hands begin to wander again, getting a little more daring, opposing the words he’s trying to talk himself out of. “You deserve it.”

“You could just propose, skip the twenty steps and get a ring.” He smiles again, finally, and even if it’s controlled and Captain like, it’s a smile. “Heard you army boys like to settle down pretty fast, anyways. That what you want?”

“Fucking hell. You really are trying to marry me off.” You shrug, and something much more intense is in his eyes now. It makes you tick into a higher gear, cogs turning faster and faster. “Can I kiss you again?”

Instead of answering, you bring both hands on either side of his face and yank him to you, moulding your mouth to his. It’s desperate, one lonley hand seeking another as he puts his palm over yours, then moves you seamlessly. You mould for him, standing as he hurls you up and into his arms, keeping your legs wrapped around his waist tight even when you feel the hard wood of the table under your thighs. He reaches behind you, one hand on your lower back rolling your hips towards him, the other now revealing his half finished cigar.

You want to roll your eyes, but he’s too overwhelming to think about anything else. The way he smells— smoke and old spice filling your senses. You can’t get enough of it, your arms wrapping around his neck, fingertips tracing up his neck. For a second you hesitate, feeling the material of his hat against your knuckles, but the slightest touch of your hand in his hair makes him groan into your mouth, and you throw all caution to the wind.

He kisses you a little rougher now. Keeping you still with one strong arm around your waist, he’s slowly uncoiling, strand by strenuous strand. His other hand is still occupied with his cigar, and you can’t figure out why he’s holding onto it right now until you hear something crash and hit the floor behind you.

“Jesus, Price.” You sigh into him, only opening your eyes for a second to see he’s shoved everything on his desk to the floor— ashtray shattered in pieces under your feet. Didn’t want to waste his damn cigar, but the countless files on his desk weren’t important enough to him.

He pulls back, your lips chasing him even though your lightheaded from a lack of oxygen. You open your eyes again, your arms still wrapped right around the back of his neck, and your head drops to the giant mess on the floor. Cigar still secured in his fingertips, both of his hands cup your face, forcing you to look at him. You’ve never seen him unwound. He’s your Captain— a man of control, someone who’s always three steps ahead of the enemy. But here, breathing hard and standing between your open legs, he looks fucking wild. His eyes are half shut, and he’s smiling like a fool, the sight making you feel even warmer with him this close to you.

“You are something else.” He murmurs against your mouth, making you smile.

“And you’re a fucking tease.” You kiss him again, and he nearly whines in his own protest as he pulls back. “John.”

“I know, love. I’ll take care of you.” He steps away a little, one hand dropping to the edge of the table. “Mind holding onto this f’me?”

He brings his other one up, the end of the cigar appearing in front of you. Instead of handing it to you, his thumb drags down against your lip, your mouth opening for him on the silent command. Dark eyes watching your every move, he puts the end of the cigar in your mouth, watching you take in the familiar taste of it. Of him. It sends a buzz through your veins now, the alcohol and feeling of him overloading your body. He lets his hand slip to your jaw, smirking at the way your teeth nearly bite into the end. Then, the asshole winks at you, and you almost choke on the smoke burning through your chest.

“There’s a good girl. Stay nice and still, yeah?” He presses a quick kiss on your cheek, watching as you nod slowly. Mesmerised. It’s taken about five minutes and a few well chosen words for one of his best soldiers to become a puddle in front of him. You knew it was a little embarrassing how quickly you lost your nerve with him, but he didn’t have to look so smug about it.

Just as you think you’ve recovered, he drops his hands, still staring at you as he expertly undoes your military pants. He doesn’t even have to look down, just watches how your eyes close, head falling back as he yanks them down your legs and his fingers hook into the fabric of your underwear.

You almost forget the cigar completely, moaning around the end of it as you feel him draw closer. The rough pads of his fingertips, hardened from years on the force, are gentle and soothing against the sensitive skin, and he plays with the seams sitting around where you are clearly edging him towards.

He’s not watching you anymore. No, now his eyes are occupied with the sight in front of him, just below your face. How your back is arched towards him, enticing him to move a little faster. Your legs spreading across his table, knuckles white as they grip the edge in anticipation. Then, there’s your fucking underwear. Price spits out a few curse words, then rips them away, tucking them into the pocket of his own pants.

“You wear that just to drive me insane?” His hands splay on your thighs, rising higher and higher. You hum around the cigar that’s growing heavier in your mouth. “That what you wear all the time? Pink and lace shit under all that gear?”

“Just hopin’ you’d take it off and find out.” You mumble, only half coherent with your mouth full. The comment seems to undo something in him, and his restraint frays as you finally, finally feel two of his fingers dragging slow, steady circles on your clit.

You crumble forward, hips shifting to seek out something a little faster, but his free hand holds you down. He kisses along your neck, down to his collarbone while setting you alight with his soft moving hands. As he dips just below there, in a place he knows will be hidden in your uniform, he spends time there. He listens to the little noises you make, how you say his name like it’s the only word you know. He fucking knows he has you right there— and he hasn’t even taken off his shirt.

“You are so gorgeous, baby. You know that?” His mouth is so hot and his fucking hands— they were playing you like a violin. Plucking all the right strings, a melody of pleasure played out of your mouth, interrupting his ramble. “Never gonna be able to keep my hands off you. Not when I know how sweet you sound.”

“Hmph.” You groan around the butt of the cigar, and he grins a little mockingly, cooing as he takes the cigar from your nearly open mouth.

“There you go, did real good for me. Need to hear you louder though, princess.”

“Please, Price.” Your hips buck, and his fingers dip lower, teasing.

“You ask me, it’s yours.” He whispers, then bends down to press one long, bruising kiss to your lips, one you take greedily.

“I need you.” He kisses you, humming low into your mouth, then you feel one of his strong fingers curl inside of you. “Ohh— fuck.”

“You’re alright darlin’. That’s it.” He whispers in your ear, and your mind focuses only on the sweet adoring touches of his free and and his mouth and the coil tightening low in your stomach.

Everything is only him— the roughness of his hands subsided by the gentle graze of their touch, exploring all the parts of you he’s telling you he’s dreamed about. His other hand, finding the places that make you scream the loudest, never letting up as your eyes roll backwards into your skull. His mouth— god, that fucking mouth. The way he’s talking to you, telling you all the ways he’s imagined you spread out for him, how long he wants to take with you, how hard he is for you, only you.

Your hands reach towards him, sliding down his toned chest, along the lines of his jacket until you blindly caught on the waistband of his jeans. You could feel yourself slipping into that blissful heat low in your stomach, but you wanted him to fall with you. As much as he was talking, you were just as desperate to get your hands on him, even if you couldn’t articulate words right now.

“You don’t ha—fucking hell.” He growls, kissing you harshly as your hands slip into his pants and palm him through his boxers. “I’m not gonna last. You’re fucking me up real good, princess.”

“J-Just let me make you feel good, too.” You blink your eyes open, pleasure skittering up your spine. He pumps his fingers inside of you faster, skilled in a way your brain can’t compare to anything else. The rough skin of his palm drags across your clit with every move, sending your hips into a roll in search of more— greedily chasing whatever he’d give you.

When you finally feel him, hot and heavy in your hand under his boxers, you can feel he wasn’t lying. He’s a fucking mess— a choked moan shocking through him as your thumb gently swipes across his tip. When you pull away he looks up from where his head dropped on your shoulder, eyes only half open to watch you spit in your hand, and then return to wrap your fingers around him, pumping him slowly.

“Ohh, fuck. That’s good. Fuck, that’s so good.” He praises, hot breath kissing your neck and collarbone. You could tell he liked to talk, but it wasn’t even the words he was saying that was sending you spiralling helplessly anymore. It was the noises.

Desperate, nearly whining as you tighten your grip, matching the pace of his two, strong fingers curling inside you. You felt boneless— foreheads pressed together as you watched each other fall apart from just the others hands. You weren’t much better, high pitched, girlish sounds that had nothing of the trained solider in them. Just a girl, spread out on her Captains desk, exactly where she wants to be.

“So tight, baby. Can’t wait to feel you on my cock.” You hum, closing your eyes and imagining it. If he felt this thick in your hands, you couldn’t imagine how he’d feel in— “Gonna take you out to a nice dinner and then bring you home, fuck you in a real bed. Fuck… you think about this too?”

“A-all the— fuck, right there— all the time.” You manage, vision beginning to blur. “I’m so close, Price. Please.”

“Give it to me. Wanna feel how wet you get after you cum for me.” He groans. He switches so fast— low, heavy voice interrupted by slightly higher moans and a gasp. He’s so hard to keep up with, it melts your brain down to only the simplest of instructions. “Cum for me.”

You lose conscious control of your hand, only knowing to keep holding him like that as his hips buck, fucking into your palm. Pleasure takes over— zapping and skittering through your body, making your legs shake. His breathing gets faster, stuttered little gasps coming from him as he guides you through your orgasm, hand slowing to a soothing rhythm.

There was none of that softness for himself, though. No— he was nothing but hard and fast, using your hip as leverage to drag his length along the wet hold of your hand. The table creaks under his strength, and you wrap your free hard around his neck again to hold on tight, needing to see him through it.

“So. Fucking. Pretty.” He growls, and then covers your hand in warmth as he cums to the sight of you. His jaw is hanging open and you take the opportunity, kissing him desperately. He responds even with the pleasure clouding his thoughts, all tongue and teeth and feral sounds as his hips slowly still in your hand.

Both of you are reluctant to let go of each other, but you seemingly find yourselves at the same time as you both flinch at the touch of the other. You take your hand back first, sliding up along the lower contours of his abs. You’ve been obsessed with that part of him for so long, it’s nearly surreal to have it under your hand.

“You… Jesus Christ.” He breathes deep, his head falling to the crook of your neck. He kisses you affectionately, taking slow inhales like the taste of your skin will bring the oxygen back to his lungs. “That’s not what I thought this meeting was going to go like.”

“Funny.” You say softly, still searching for your voice. “It’s exactly what I had planned.”

He sits up at that, and you catch the look of him believing you— just for a second before he shakes his head, smirking.

“Alright, smart ass.” You laugh, tugging him to stand closer between your spread legs. “You okay?”

“Never better.” He kisses you softly again.

“You gonna let me take you out? Do this the proper way?” His hands hold your hips, thumbs rubbing circles into the skin. “Cause I meant it when I said I’m not keeping my hands off you now. I’m a man of my word.”

“Pizza is fine with me.” You smile, and he picks you up off the desk, but not before sneaking one lazy kiss while you’re up in his arms.

Pizza would be fine every night, you think as you quickly pull your pants back on and follow him out the door, still seeing the light pink fabric of your underwear sticking out his back pocket.

#john price x reader #john price x you #john price x y/n #captain price x reader #captain price x you #captain price x y/n #john price #captain price #captain price smut #price smut #cod fic #mw2 x reader #cod mw2

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year ago

Note

Hiya! I’m so happy your requests are open omg your writing is impeccable. So I’ve been with this concept in my head for so long since I read this prompt somewhere: what is with your weird fascination with me?

And just immediately my head started creating a story about reader having the nickname ‘Death’ because she has the highest body count known, skilled as no other and, also, imposible to know on a deeper level because she is like a wall, not letting anyone in. Until John Price needs her for a mission and is, as the prompt says, fascinated by her (and feeling other things he doesn’t want to admit), and is able to break her a little when he gets hurt in a mission after months of working together.

Glory to the Reaper

PAIRING: John Price x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: He was strange, you admitted to yourself. Always around even when you didn't want him to be. But perhaps the Brit just might surprise you.

WORDCOUNT: 5.8k

WARNINGS: Angst, blood, death, gore, canon typical violence, avoidance tactics, fluff, pining, hurt/comfort, etc.

A/N: I switched around the codename but it's still the same plot! Enjoy, Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Your eyes slip over the file on the table, slowly caressing the parchment with easy and careful consideration of every word and comma—searching. Focusing. You hum under your breath and slide the page away to spy on the one behind it, the room quiet and the air cold. Outside the window the entire compound is asleep, only the light of the street lamps illuminating the land; inside this office, your feet barely shuffle over the tuft of the rug.

Clicking your tongue, you go to the next document in the pile.

The still-warm body flinches and jerks below you, but you barely notice—he hadn’t put up much of a fight; wasn’t memorable. Sighing and itching over the mask along the bottom of your face, you snatch the last six papers from the desk and fold them four times, stuffing them into your vest pocket.

Stalking with sure steps, you press into the radio on your gear as you step over the body and head to the door. Bloody bootprints follow behind you like a crimson shadow of surefire death.

“Actual, intel secured. Heading to Evac now.” Laswell was listening intently on the other end, your Op of the highest priority.

You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t, surely. The small click from the other end greets you as you shove open the office’s door and saunter down the hallway paved with glints of marble and pools of viscera like a Roman horror story. Eyes numbly slide past the scores of bodies; necks slit and stomachs burst from bullets fired through silencers.

“Good job, Tomb,” Laswell utters, voice fast and serious as always. “What’s the clean-up status?”

Your lips flinch upward, “I suggest fire and a prayer, Actual. But no one knows I’m here. Main house is neutralized.”

A small pause later and a huff of dull amusement.

“Copy, Tomb. Your ride is waiting—best not to miss it, we need you back sooner than later.” The structure of your lungs rearranges in a small chuckle that echoes off the ceiling; molten silver from the moon slips over your darkened form. The patch upon your right shoulder is illuminated in steady intervals, the familiar image of a mausoleum and a guarding Sphinx.

Alone, that patch is, with no other dark affiliations beyond that demonic cause. Many see it right before they meet their end, but the insignia was entirely left to ruin—no one sees it and lives besides other soldiers.

“Copy.” Your voice is easy and bland as the curtains from the single open window shake in the breeze. “Tell the boys I’m on my way.” You pass the window and slap a gloved hand to it, hearing the squeak of the frame as it hits back down before you turn the corner, slinking away to reform into a figure that evokes grim glances and sliced sentences.

—

You stare into blue eyes with a sheen of disinterest coating your own, hands stuffed into your pockets and gear heavy on your chest. From your shoulder, the strap of your rifle sits as you speak, tilting your head, “Captain Jonathan Price of Task Force 141.”

The man was tall, you admit, fit and formed to harsh military life. Undoublity he’d been in the service for decades. You’d seen his face before—the brunette beard and the strong jaw; small eyes with wrinkles, it’s how you had ID’d him. Plus the bucket hat. Laswell had told you he’d been inquiring about your file and you’d done your own digging off the books.

John grunts a greeting before nodding.

“Pleasure. Tomb, was it?” On the tarmac, you glance around with stiff shoulders as the blades of the helicopter slow down behind you. Morning was just on the horizon, and you hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep on the flight back.

Lips thin, before your vision slides back into place. John’s hands are crossed casually, but his blue holds glints of intrigue. You don’t like that. “...The one and only. Excuse me.”

Walking past, you move like a crane, legs taking long, steady, strides. A hand comes up to scratch at your cheek through your face covering. Laswell was expecting you immediately.

And those feet at your side were not supposed to be there. Your eyes shimmer lowly at the shadow of John as he follows.

“Should tell you that Laswell’s in building two, then.” Pace halting, the Captain continues off on his own as your sharp gaze burns into his neck. He spares a glance over his expansive shoulder before adjusting his course to the East. “Told me to bring you to her. We need to have a little chat, yeah?”

You stay silent, watching John travel to the larger building where Laswell was apparently now waiting for you. After a still minute where you listen to the birds waking up and the scent of dew is in your hidden nostrils, you sigh deeply and roll your shoulders before beginning to walk behind.

“Hm,” Garbled grunts are only heard by you as you stay well enough back from the man. Cautious as you stare at his head.

He holds the door open for you when you finally make it, and you stand blankly from the opening as John’s calloused hand clenches over the door. When you don’t enter, the Captain shakes his head and releases a deep chuckle.

“Alright, then,” he mutters, shuffling through the door first. You follow the strain of his back until you look away and reach for the barrier, pushing it back from you. Making your way inside, you sigh and wonder what you’re getting into.

“Laswell said you don’t like strangers,” eyes peek back at you as the buzzing from the overhead lights echoes in your ears. Your throat releases a hum; shoulders showing a picture of wound ease. “Can’t say she’s wrong, now can you?”

Watching another soldier pass the two of you, you tilt your head to make sure the stranger’s footsteps turn the corner before you answer John’s question with a raised brow to mirror his own.

“Did she also tell you that I don’t plan on joining One-Four-One, Captain?” His bearded smirk catches you slightly off-guard, perplexed by not even the hint of shock in his gaze. He’d done his research.

John grunts as his eyelids narrow, amused. Your muscles tense.

“Affirmative.” The meeting room door is opened and this time he allows you to ease your paranoia by slinking in first.

In the room sits an occupied Laswell, a long table, a projector, and black-out windows. Confused but used to last-minute changes, you simply enter silently and pick a chair with your back to the wall and a good view of the room.

“Laswell,” you utter in greeting as the woman hums a hello, shifting through numerous files. In your breast pocket, you pull out the files you’d stolen and toss them onto the wood. John stands near the entrance with crossed arms, hips shifting every so often as his feet re-situate themselves.

He blinks down at the papers and then back to you with a careful glance at Kate.

Your Station Chief chuckles when she looks at you, tilting her head before she snatches the prize.

“Good work as always, Tomb.”

“Why is he here?” You get to the point, one hand going up to brush over your hair as the other sits limply on the seat’s arm. Your gear sits heavy on you, but that brutal tic of curiosity blooms.

John’s lips twitch before he answers, “An offer. Knew I wouldn’t be able to meet if Laswell wasn’t the mediator, eh? You’re bloody difficult to track down.”

“Offer?” Small talk never mattered to you, hadn’t since you’d signed up, and probably never would. You didn’t understand why people beat around the bush—just say what you need to say and get it over with. There was only so much time in a day.

It seemed John Price carried part of that opinion as well.

Blunt, you admit to your opinion of the man, and sure of his strengths.

“I need your skill set.” Kate looks back and forth between you two before she focuses on her work, multitasking. John continues, pointing a hand at you in demonstration from their hold on his chest. “Mission in three days. Turkey…” He watches you closely as if gauging your abilities. “You in or out?”

You wait in a dim silence for a minute or two before you tilt your body to Laswell, eyes still stuck in stormy blue and pale wrinkles inlaid with dirt.

“Kate?”

“Totally off the books,” the woman says confidently, pen sliding over paper. “Two targets in Bursa. There’s a file in your office.” Raising a brow, John hides his cheeky smile behind a bored mask.

“Take your Lieutenant,” you glare, “Ghost, was it?”

Price shakes his head, hat flinching along with it. “On assignment. I’ll need an answer today, Tomb. Time’s ticking.”

Your jaw clenches in annoyance, “Capture or kill?”

John shrugs nonchalantly, “Either. Is this a yes or a no?”

In this game of cat and mouse, you find yourself slipping. Your obligations as a soldier call to you to take the mission immediately, but for the simple fact that this Captain was unknown to you—and apparently, you weren’t unknown to him.

John was checking all of the boxes of people you didn’t like to be around.

Your voice grits out, eyes burning in their glare, “...When?”

His smirk makes you want to storm out.

“Tomorrow. 1300.” The air in the room is thick, tense like a thick layer of molasses was overtop everything. Under the table, your foot taps to the steady beat of your heart, your face tensed, and the layers of your facemask suddenly too formed to your neck and chin.

Twitching your nose you dig your eyes into John, peeling down his expansive shoulders and chest to take in the layers of packs and other miscellaneous items. His thigh holders and the way they hug his legs. You end with one last dead-on look into his eyes, trying to pinpoint intentions and flay the lines of his brain.

Most people glance away, but John returns the look with a casual tilt of his head and a raised brow. Not at all off-put.

Your hand steadily clenches over the chair.

All you give him is a firm nod—nothing more than a mere jerk of your chin. Kate sighs from where she’d been watching.

“Perfect. John,” she points her pen at the Captain as you both stare off. John grunts before his eyes flicker to the side, leisurely roving back moments later. You blink and rub your forehead. “You have your answer. Now would the both of you get the fuck out of here?”

“Copy, Kate.” John sighs, and you huff; standing as you plan out the amount of time you have to clean up and sleep before you have to leave. With an easy brush of your shoulders, your form shimmies past the Captain with dull enthusiasm.

You weren’t happy about this, but fine. You’ve been through worse.

As you shuffle down the hallway to the armory, your ears quirk when the footsteps ring in the drums of your ears like a hiking beacon. Already you’d memorized the walking pattern.

The thump-bump, bump-thump, of boots and the clink-clank of metal on metal. Shoving down a growl you hiss out into the air, not turning around.

“Problem, Price?” A gruff humph bounces.

“Negative, Tomb.” His shadow comes to conjoin with yours, large body standing side-by-side. Eyes flash to the side of your face, hidden from all by the cloth—like a bored cat, you continue to pave your way to silence; hoping whatever thought this man had in his head would disappear. “Just curious, see.”

“Curious?” your brow raises, the make of your muscles showing your unease. “Can’t help you with that.”

“No, probably not, eh?” John grunts and reiterates as strange emotion spikes in the lines of his face as he glances along you. “Tomorrow. 1300. Don’t be late.” With nothing more, he halts and pivots, peeling back to leave your side as his sudden absence leaves you devoid of heat.

Confusion breeds in your chest, but your steady legs carry you on until your tension leaves. Under your breath you utter a question as you enter the armory, shuffling your rifle off of your chest. “What the hell was that about?”

—

Price and you stand inside the safehouse with fast hearts and narrowed eyes. Blood was dripping down your hands, the black gloves flooded with gore that sure as hell doesn’t belong to you.

“Fuck,” John growls, guttural reverberations echoing off the walls. With stiff ribs, you go and lightly peel back the fabric of the nearest window to study the street below; looking for any suspicious figures. Frowning, you see nothing and let the curtain fall, eyes wafting to the Captain.

“We either lost them or they have surveillance on the building. Best for you to not leave either way.” The mission had gone sideways—apparently one of the targets had an ID on John as a member of One-Four-One. One thing led to another and resulted in you sticking a knife into some man’s gut to get away when he’d been spotted. You blink at his agitated expression, the black beanie on his head ruffled as he runs a hand over it.

But you don’t say anything else. Peeling off your gloves, you listen to him as a rain of blood splatters the carpet.

“This sets us back—since when does bloody fuckin’ Metin Baydar know who I am?” John’s hands are clenched, jaw so tight you wonder if his molars will crack under the pressure. A smirk twitches your lips at the thought. “Tomb,” you slowly tilt your eyes to him. The man sets his lips and crosses his arms, the brown casual wear in his chest bunching. “I’ll need you to be my eyes on this, yeah? If I leave this position I jeopardize your safety.”

“My safety?” you huff a laugh and push your gloves into your loose pants. “Captain, I don’t need you to worry about my safety.”

He seems to pause for a moment, and with a shake of his head his blue eyes shutter closed. A deep, tight, breath is taken and those tiny lids are forced back as you lock gazes. You send a blank look his way and he nods firmly.

“Keep low.” Is all he grunts, feet standing apart and his stare intense. “Copy?”

A swirl of amusement dances in your gut—you tap the earpiece in your shell with a stained streak of blood on your fingers. John stares, unreadable.

“I’ll leave when the streets cool. Just keep on the line so I can relay my intel, Price.” After a moment of silence, your eyes tighten with intrigue. “How do you wonder Baydar knew your face?” Standing by the window again, you peek out and keep John in view. His form shuffles, and he scoffs before walking beside you. Over your shoulder, he also views the buildings and businesses below. You still at the sensation of his breath on the back of your head, hand twitching over the curtain. It ruffles your hair for a moment before you snap out of it, eyes blinking rapidly. “Your Task Force isn’t exactly known,” you finish your sentence, voice strained.

Clearing his throat, as if realizing how close he’d gotten with only the intention of gazing outside, the man’s form jerks back; taking a step or two away to give you distance. Your far-gone eyes blankly continue to look outside but your chest gains some tension to it. You don’t know why.

This Brit is strange. You frown, watching a cat traverse the concrete far below. Not that I really have much to go off of.

“Haven’t a clue.” John sighs again, one hand going to itch at his chin. “Your guess is as good as mine. One thing I do know is that we have to fix this. Now.”

“You should tell Laswell,” you mutter, turning around and walking past him to stand around your packs—all of which hold your gear. Your knife was set into a small sheath inside your shirt, leather wrapped around your waist as you stopped near the coffee table. You pull the lip of your clothes up and grasp at it before peeling the metal out with an inquisitive eye.

If there was any breakage to the tip, you’d be furious.

John watches from across the room, catching glances at your bare skin riddled with scars and burns; unmarred flesh foreign. He feels his breath hitch before you drop your shirt back down and bring the blade into the light.

Holding it parallel, you gaze along the edge and tilt your head, eyelids half-closed.

“Kate?” Price answers you, clearing his throat. “No, it’s better not to create any more shite. She’ll be good off not knowing, yeah?” The brunette’s brow raises in question.

You hum and don’t reply.

The rest of the mission was spent with the two of you conversing over the open line of your comms as you scoured the streets for any sign of the target, feet carrying you over the city as the chill of the late afternoon set in. Presently, you didn’t know how to feel about your situation. Working with others was a strain on your focus—on the walls you’ve built up; John had obviously noticed that you didn’t exactly play well with others. It was plainly stated in your file, after all.

“—attitude, or lack thereof, is a detriment to the structure of any team/unit/platoon that she is placed into under all circumstances. Recommended reserved operations to limit drawbacks.”

Having a pleasant attitude wasn’t your job.

Stalking around the corner, your ears twitch to John’s voice. “Sitrep, Tomb. What’s it looking like out there?”

It was strange, then, that the man over the line was so eager to speak to you. Your sigh hits on deaf ears, and you respond as you carefully walk past civilians making their way home.

“Quiet. No sign.” The silence re-settles and you gradually loosen again. Like a cat, your ears twitch to hear the muttering from the commuters; eyes sliding with watery film across faces.

Baydar owns a restaurant as a front for funding terrorists. Anyone exiting from this direction could be part of it—

“You said you’d never join One-Four-One,” John’s voice makes you shove down a flinch, ripped out of your focus. In your pockets, your hands close into fists, and a deeply annoyed mask fits itself over your expression. “Why’s that, then?”

“What is this?” Your voice goes cold, “interrogation time?”

“With a record like yours, you’d get pick of any Task Force or SOF in country.” The Captain seems to ignore your hiss and jab as his deep voice continues; accent low. You hear the drag of a cigar and the puff of smoke. Internally, you’re thankful for the casual yet attentive acknowledgment of your skills—how the man doesn’t seem in the slightest worried about you. “Why is it that you’re always alone out ‘ere? Couldn’t wrap my head ‘round it, truthfully.” A tobacco-slick chuckle, “Bloody hell, people would kill to get you on a mission like I did, eh? No doubt.”

For a long time, you don’t answer, leaning against the wall across from your target’s restaurant doing recon. Frown tight and face stiff. John’s voice fizzles.

“Ah, fuckin’ forget it Love, just a man’s curiosity speaking for ‘im. I’ll leave you to focus.” Before the line can click, you open your lips—as if the things have a mind of their own.

“People are unpredictable.” The Captain’s breath is gently puffing over the line. He listens and you know he hangs on every word; it was a strange feeling to know that. From under you, your feet shuffle. “They do things that don’t make sense. I don’t like dealing with it.”

A grunt. “Well, can get behind that…” John had a smirk on his lips, you can hear it. “You’d lose your head if you met MacTavish.”

Your focus waning, you blink, getting sucked into this strange interaction with an even stranger man.

“Yeah?” You wonder, head tilting to the side. “One of yours?”

“Hm,” he affirms and the chill of the night caresses your skin. John chuckles. “Sergeant. Bloody good shot, but can get into trouble faster than his fucking gun can fire.”

Your mouth quirks. “Sounds horrible.”

“Makes my job a living hell,” John admits and you shock yourself by listening. “But no one better to keep by my six…You’d ease up to him.”

“I’m not joining, Price,” Your voice mutters out like how a dragonfly snaps its translucent wings on still air. “This is it.”

In the safehouse, John hums under his breath, staring out the window at the blinking lights of the city as you watch the restaurant with far-off thoughts. A smile twitches his lips. For some reason there was something about you he wanted to figure out—something to unravel. You were like Ghost sometimes, but more… fascinating. Darker.

And you knew how to get the job done better than anyone.

John wanted you on his Task Force, your expertise, and the only way to get that was to take you apart like a puzzle of razor blades. Study you. Learn you as the edges cut up his flesh. The Captain had no idea what picture you’d make when everything was in its proper place, but he’d be willing to try with the very tenacity that had gotten him this far.

But there was something else there, too. Some kind of tightness in his chest when you looked at him; he'd gotten it when he’d seen you on the tarmac back not so long ago like some schoolboy. Those blank eyes of yours…why did he want them to light up?

Why did he want to see your laugh?

John wasn’t immature enough to not know his own feelings or attractions, but this was an entire section of its own. Blinking, the man grunts to himself and smirks. “Well, better make it last, then.”

You feel your eyelids carefully pull in surprise.

“I…” Your voice starts but dies off, swallowing saliva down as your mouth clacks shut with a connection of teeth. Closing your eyes, you steady your heart, which had suddenly created a concerning skip in its beats.

John places the cigar back to his lips and takes a long drag, leaning out of the window to watch the smoke disappear into the twinkling lights. Lips peeling his beard hairs back.

—

As it turned out, the mission in Turkey wasn’t the only time you’d have to deal with John Price, and it certainly wasn’t the last time you’d see his face in front of yours. One mission turned into two—two into three and so on. You hadn’t exactly wanted it, but you found you couldn’t turn him down either.

At whichever base you were stationed at, all of a sudden he’d just show up; standing on the tarmac with his arms crossed and that casual set to his shoulders. The first time you’d seen him after Turkey, you had half convinced yourself he was a mirage. And then he’d smirk at you and tilt his head and you’d have no control over your words.

It was pathetic…disgusting…it was…it was…

You shake yourself back to the present when a bullet whizzes past your head, a sharp call from across the utter warzone you’d found yourself in the middle of.

“Tomb, what in the hell’s wrong with you?!” John’s voice is harsh, and you lock onto it. “Get your gun up!”

You sigh, unperturbed. Peaking past the large crate you use as cover, your eyes glare at the enemy soldiers across the dock, fixing your finger’s position over your M4A1. The small unit you’d been dragged into by John was mostly dead—only four of you remaining from the ten.

It wasn’t supposed to go down like this.

Jerking back, a splintering of wood explodes in front of you as the next fast piece of metal nearly takes your nose off. With a grit of your teeth, you flick your safety off and swivel your shoulders.

Popping from the top of the crate, your sharp eyes lock onto the first visible body before you press your finger to the trigger with practiced ease as the word shrieks all around you. Recoil is eaten into the padded kevlar of the junction of your shoulder and arm.

When you dart back, the body has yet to hit the ground.

“There she is!” John calls, and you look forward with a steady stare as the brunette laughs from behind his own crate a few feet away. “Keep your head in the game, Tomb.”

You frown, normal facemask back over your chin hiding it. While you loathe to admit it, John had grown on you in these…what was it…? Months? Yes, that seemed about right.

Months of joint missions. You could hardly believe that he’d dragged you out like this.

“Tell the others to flank,” Your voice whisps over the line like smoke, “Left side—there’s a gap in the crates.”

John looks you in the eyes and blinks, eyelids twitching. With his beard covered in gunpowder, the man looks across the open space between the gunbattle to the left. Sure enough, right before he’s forced to snap back down to cover, the Captain spies a very well-hidden gap in the defenses.

He smiles viciously like a dog, and barks a laugh to you, nodding, “Good eye! Boys,” the two don’t pause their assault but call their questioning voices over the line. You don’t listen, occupied with giving off bursts of gunfire and trying to avoid the eyes of your fellow dead soldiers. Your lungs are compressed inside of your ribcage like prisoners. “Flank left. We’ll cover you!”

“Sir!” Steadying your breath, you avoid John’s confused glances and scoff to yourself, resituating your clammy hands.

When all’s said and done the four of you are the only ones left. Letting your gun sit on your chest you use the body as an armrest, allowing it to hang off the side from the trigger-guard. Your fingers twitch, and as John speaks to the two men, you stare silently at the gushing bodies of your fellows like phantoms spring from their chests.

John’s voice slows when he sees you apart from them, glancing at the soldiers at your feet before ordering the remaining men to get to the evac point. They try to argue everyone should be going together, and on all accounts, they’re completely right, but John won’t hear it.

“Go—that’s an order.” Reluctantly, the two glance at each other and speed off.

You jolt at a call of your name, head turning to face stormy blue as they gaze at you with concern. Stopping a few feet away, John stands still and folds his arms, face going rigid with concern as he glances you over for wounds.

His head slightly leans in, chin down.

“...You alright?” Hand flinching, you clear your throat.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” You ask, fixing the position of your feet and forcing away the images of dead bodies and blank eyes.

You’d seen scores of men dead before—friend and foe—but you had thought you’d never have to see more of your own fall. It had been a long time since you’d felt the distant lull of numb horror in the back of your brain; like some ocean wave that drowns you under every time it comes back. It always comes back.

John narrows his eyes and frowns deeply, glancing around and hiding the slight way his right arm sags.

“Tomb?” He says it so lowly that you really have to focus, ears straining. That gravel was back, and you found yourself latching onto it. “Eh, you just focus on me, yeah? I’m right ‘ere.”

“I know,” you snap, eyes shuttering away only to find more vacant stares. You flinch back and look up into the sky; a sudden burn in your brain that you need to quell.

The man grows even more concerned with you, taking a step forward and clenching his jaw. He studies you, your shaking tension and the clench and loosening of your fists—attention always on you but roving to the dead men all around. Something clicks with a violent inhale.

John moves to you without a word and grasps you around the shoulders quickly. You gasp at that, immediate reaction to shove away, but only gape at the warmth that he brings you instead—the steady presence and chest to lean on. As the Brit drags you, you focus instead on calming your breathing.

The Captain lightly shimmies down your facemask and you suck down tight air as you go limp into his side.

“C’mon, Tomb. It’s alright. I’m here. I’m right here.” He’s muttering to you, disguising his pained grunts in favor of taking care of you.

That strange affection for you had grown in your time together…not that he’d said anything. It was more proper of him to watch out from a distance, not sure of your own feelings or the probability of you gazing back at him with the same amount of concealed longing. Many a night he’d sat on his bed and wondered. Wondered how an animal so extraordinary and remarkable took the form of a woman with a black sphinx patch and sharp eyes.

John had heard you laugh once through your expeditions together—sniping in Greenland. Once had been enough; if he never heard it again, he could still recall the pitch and frequency to the yawning of his soul. He didn’t need to hear it again.

It was locked into the fabric that made up your skin and speech, and every time he stared at you he could find it in your eyes.

The Captain puts you down near a crate around the corner, letting you lean into it as he turns and captures your neck from either side. You shake under him, blurry vision stuck to his dog tags as they wink against his chest.

“Tomb,” John says again, and with a lick of your chapped lips, you carefully turn your head up. Blue eyes crease worriedly. The thumbs on the sides of your neck caress up and down your rapid pulse steadily; calluses creating stimuli. A small smile meets you. “There we are, atta girl. Focus.”

Tears dribble down your cheeks, and you flatten your lips, whispering out brokenly, “I said I don’t like teams.”

John’s heart breaks.

“Oh, Sweetheart,” his hand captures the back of your head and you’re brought into a deep and firm embrace—gear pinching and prodding but neither of you care.

When was the last time you’d been held like this? The feeling makes your mouth quiver, your face stuck into the junction of the Brit’s neck and shoulder.

“John…” You whimper out and his arms around you only tighten—his tense nose shoved into your scalp as his eyes closed tightly.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, heart racing, “I’m so, so, sorry.”

You don’t know long he holds you there, the air filled with blood and death but just so soundly resting atop his vest and limp to his gentle swaying. The tears dry at some point, they always have to. Sniffling, your burning face takes in the scent of beard oil and gunpowder and you find yourself calmed by it.

Calmed by John.

The man holding you waits a moment more before he slightly leans back, staring down at you intently; nervously. You lick at the tears drying into the line of your mouth to taste the saltiness on your tongue as fingers grasp at your chin.

Angled up, your face is on full display.

John sighs and the drowned keratin of your lashes flutters, embarrassment flooding you. His eyes crease before his hands come up to take away your sorrows with a soft brush of his digits. The man clears his throat tinily, voice deep with emotion.

“Better?” Your eyes dip away from his, knowing you’d been staring.

“I…” Glancing over his right shoulder absentmindedly, you only get a word off before you see a fountain of red. Blinking away the last of your tears, John’s finger on your cheek stops moving as you freeze—stiff to the touch.

His panic spikes again.

“What’s going on—”

“When did you get hit?” Your voice is hard and laced with something you can’t name. Shaving back from John you frantically grab at his arm. In an instant, the Captain is whirled around and shoved back into the crate; he grunts loudly, eyes snapping wide.

“Fuckin’ hell.” He grumbles, but flinches when you peel at the bloodied layers of his compression shirt. John smirks, letting your touch rove him as your nose scrunches. He represses a shiver at the bite of your nails, whispering out, “If you wanted to throw me ‘round, Love…all you had to do was ask.”

You blink rapidly and turn your fast gaze to his eyes as you stutter, fingers covered in blood and holding apart the fabric of his outfit to show a bullet graze to his pale upper bicep. John’s cheeky smirk grows and against all the pain and the dark corners, you feel a bubbling in your gut.

A small chuckle snakes out, like twinkling bells.

“Shut up,” your smile leaves him breathless, smirk falling to a small open-mouthed screen of obvious admiration. A hum marks the back of his throat, eyebrows loosely curving upon his forehead.

You look over and find him like this—his gaze trapping you like his arms had. Like music, it takes you into its melody. Staring, your smile, gradually too, leaks out.

“What are you doing?” Your question is breathy. "What is your fascination with me?" John’s eyes stick with you, the shining, shimmering, blue. There are tempests held there and if this man was anything, he was a storm of intentions and promises.

“Looking,” John answers lowly. "Just looking."

You take down a breath, “At what, John?”

He chuckles at you, face close and pleasant, “Y’know, I haven’t quite figured that one out yet, Love.”

Blindly you wonder how the world can still turn while you both stand here—was it, even? How can life go on when such things are uttered to light? When they’re buried deep into your marrow like the dirt on top of a grave?

How can the Reaper knock at your doorways when love exists in such quantity…in the fractures of his eyes? Only when his lips brush yours do you understand.

It’s all here, and then it’s gone. Nothing can truly be as it was in the past, and therein lies the small, glorious, deaths. Both a blessing and a curse.

Your lips press deeply into one another and the blood of old wounds dries.

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chiiroptereh · 4 months ago

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[Please zoom in, there's a lot of detail! And a massive file size...ouch]

Hi guys, long time no post! Been working on Art Fight and life stuff, but I've got something kinda fun for you.

This is a compilation exploring how a mortal Bill may interact with our world if there were still some kinda Euclidean instincts buried in there. Y'know, before the Book of Bill ruins all my headcanons >:P (EDIT: IT HAS BEEN READ. YAHOOOOOO)

Also quite an experimental piece as you can probably tell. Lots of details on both said headcanons and the art stuff under the cut, but I invite you to study the colorful texture yourself beforehand and think about what it might be representative of, just for fun because I got some really cool answers from my friends when asked :]c

TL;DR: the headcanon is that Euclideans have exceptional eyes for geometry. They find things like symmetry, tessellating patterns, graphs and fractals very aesthetically pleasing. If pushed into our 3D world, they feel comforted by the familiarity flat objects/spaces bring, as well as high-contrast patterns. Shadows especially are a familiar dimensional reduction that may bring them much comfort.

Bill would surely not be happy about these inclinations, constant reminders of a past long gone, but I'm not sure he's even aware of them here :P I think his ego gets in the way to the point where he just views these interests as common sense, which, of course, us lame humans just don't understand because we aren't nearly as cool as him. Of course he likes perfectly symmetrical leaves and staring at the kitchen floor, it's called taste, look it up!

And yet, he can't seem to shake the strange sense of melancholy he gets from viewing his own shadow.

~ End of TL;DR, long version below! ~

🔺 Headcanon Development

So, the catalyst of this idea was in relation to my friend and I's AU ( @love-triangles-au ). TL;DR, Bill's brought back mortal, meets another triangle named Y.V. (it's his hand holding the paper in the piece, actually), at some point they fall in yaois together, you know how it is. And, in writing a pair of triangles (or, more broadly, writing from the perspective of a different species), something I've had to consider was that you really can't get much further removed from a human being than sentient geometry.

The anatomical aspect was mostly figured out (see my piece on Bill's eye-mouth), but I wanted to consider what psychological differences might be at play. I wanted them to be weirder, more alien, double-so for Bill. At first I explored these possibilities through the lens of Bill and Y.V.'s relationship, specifically the question "what might a triangle find appealing about another triangle?"

Well, really the only things that came to mind were straight lines and symmetry, anything related to the geometric form of such a creature. That's more-or-less where that ended until the thought struck me that there's no reason this aesthetic appreciation couldn't extend to the rest of the environment, and then further when I realized, "wait, this is a species that is designed to live in a 2D environment. Like, they should seriously be really weird. I need to push this like 200% more."

So...yeah! I did some thinking and brainstorming with others and came up with a pretty long list of things a Euclidean in our world may be inclined to enjoy or find some level of comfort in. It's worth noting again that in this piece specifically this is a mortal/powerless Bill, so he can't really escape this Earthly environment. IF he's aware of these instincts at all (and that's a big "if"; when have you last been cognizant of your own instincts let alone known where they were stemming from?) I think he'd have snuffed them out in immortality and/or purposefully gone against them; he doesn't take kindly to being told what to do.

In order from left-to-right, top-to-bottom, here's an explanation for each!:

Flat objects such as paper are something he may find particularly engaging. It's basically 2D!

Tessellations are especially fascinating, and our world has them everywhere in the form of tile floors. Symmetry and such a predictable pattern...as the infinity of the starry sky might for us, the infinite potential of tessellations might invoke a similar sense of awe in him. Add on the maximum contrast of black on white kitchen tiles and the forms are only even better defined! A sensitivity to contrast would be very helpful for a 2D being navigating their environment.

Fields are flat and open, much like Euclydia itself. Laying flat may make him feel a little more at home.

More tessellation in the honeycomb of hymenopterans (bees, wasps and friends)! It helps that pain is hilarious.

The city is an absolute treasure trove. Rectangular buildings, precise architecture, square sidewalks and straight lines abound...he may as well be looking at a rainbow or an art gallery! I think a Euclidean's brain is very fine-tuned to mathematics, especially in regards to trigonometry. What may appear to be a straight painting might appear obnoxiously crooked to him.

Zebras are high-contrast :]

Another flat surface, another relaxing space <3

I think graphs are about as high as high art gets to most Euclideans.

I've touched on shadows before, and for good reason; truly they must be something borderline magical to the Euclidean and perhaps bitterly nostalgic.

This one kinda speaks for itself. Dweeb.

🎨 The Artsy Stuff

Lately I've been trying to find ways to fit more color into my work, as color is perhaps one of my favorite things in the world. My wardrobe is rather garish; my dad jokes that you could see me from space. My fursona is obnoxiously bright for a reason -- I feel my soul is a very colorful one!

I also realized recently that I don't actually know the exact style that speaks to me. I could talk about the phenomenon of the "style crisis" that many artists have all day, but in my mind the best cure for this feeling is to go against it entirely and begin stealing as much as possible.

So, I've tried to keep an eye out for more sources of inspiration everywhere I go, physical and digital. I've tried to train my mind into making a habit of considering, "can I do anything with this?" everywhere I go, and it recently paid off!

The glittery rainbowy texture you see plastered all over Billiam is this one, a photo-manipulated set of fruit stickers. I must confess I've been obsessed with this image for the past 72 hours, and this seemed like a good excuse to try it out!

I worried throughout the process if it might be so abstract that it loops back around to being horribly deliberate, if that makes sense -- like each sparkle was not a piece of a whole but rather an object in itself -- but it seems like that hasn't been a problem, so I'm grateful for that :Dc

I hope it can dazzle and delight you as it does me, but as long as you find it fascinating at the very least then I consider it a success! I really enjoyed hearing my friends' interpretations while workshopping it, and got tons of amazing answers from opal to kaleidoscope to fossilized bone marrow! I truly believe that the best art has some room for interpretation and it really excites me to be surrounded by that kind of creative energy that follows said pieces. That definitely adds to my pride in this work. It's weird, it's colorful, it's detailed and yet ambiguous. I'm feeling pretty autistic about it

Alright, I think that's about it. Thanks for listening!

#digital art #gravity falls #fan art #bill cipher #artists on tumblr #posting this and running! not returning to social media until my book is here and read front-to-back >:Dc #this may age terribly or it may not...i'm inclined to think it may not. bill's a flatass he already basically said as much #i use the term “flatland(er)” as a placeholder; he's not literally from the same universe as the book Flatland #...probably 👀#EDIT: YEP. words have been changed!

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uncouth-the-fifth · 7 months ago

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good morning, charlie - Leon Kennedy/Reader

read it on Ao3.

Pairing: Agent!Leon/Detective!Wife!Reader Tags: domestic fluff with the tiniest dustings of background angst, married life, hugging, kissing, and snuggling. Words: 3k (yes, I'm capable of keeping something this short) Notes: read this in a WWE announcer voice: THAT'S RIGHT! UNCOUTH HAS COME CRASHING BACK INTO THE RING AFTER YET ANOTHER MONTHS-LONG HIATUS. i'm magical, truly. here is the first Leon fic I promised last month! There's so much I want to say about this little drabble, but I'll save that for my curious ppl on Ao3. this is going to be a big 180 from my spn content, and I sincerely hope that's okay with the public 😭 for my RE people: enjoy domestic Leon bullshit!

At two in the morning, Washington D.C. is pouring everything it has into crafting the coziest atmosphere of all time. A pleasant window-tapping storm had rolled in right around when you resolved to stay up working. Some late-night radio host is making soft, fizzing chatter in the next room, and coupled with a stellar view of the city from fancy floor-to-ceiling windows, you have a prime opportunity to pass the fuck out.

Unfortunately, you have made some spectacular life choices that don’t mix well with a full night’s rest. Nope, no sleep for you. Despite all of fate’s attempts to stop you from being a cop, (including throwing a city-wide outbreak at you on your first day), you are still here, gripping your job with both hands. At two in the damn morning.

Since scrubbing your eyes hadn’t woken you up the first five times you tried it, you give it another shot as you pace the length of your living room rug—from the coffee table you’ve stacked with files, then back to the whiteboard pasted top-to-bottom with pictures of missing young women. The whiteboard had been Leon’s idea. After the fourth time you’d transformed a flattened cardboard box into a morbid case-board for work, he’d cajoled you into letting him buy one for the apartment.

But I won’t be able to stab the tacks into it, you’d pouted.

Oh, the agony, your husband had drawled. He was a master of delivering a good, dry look.

You’d propped your fists on your hips and tried your best to look serious. The red yarn connecting everything isn’t just a detective-movie thing, y’know! It’s actually really useful. And I need my tacks to stick the yarn in—

Leon had cut cleanly through your building sass with another look, this time one glimmering with humor. Then I’ll get you magnetic ones, detective. Don’t you use whiteboards at the precinct anyway?

You’d grumbled. Because, yes, you did use whiteboards at the station, and they did have the little tacks with the magnets on the bottom. But you’d refused to deal with Leon being all smug (he was unbearable pretty when he was right), and had teased back instead, Whatever, nerd. Why don’t you and the other two angels go call Charlie already?

The reference had gone clean over Leon’s head. Of course, he hated being left out of a joke, so he’d roped you over by your wrist and pinched an explanation out of you until you were squealing with giggles.

Summarizing Charlie’s Angels to Leon had been a lot like offering a paper rocketship to an aerospace engineer. But, hey, picturing him running around in skimpy outfits and escaping action movie explosions on a motorcycle is a whole lot more fun than… than the real deal.

You don’t want to think about what his missions are really like. Not that you’re even allowed to know in the first place. Being Leon’s wife permits you a government-issued phone with his handler’s number, and on antsy days you can push Ingrid for details if you want. But after so long you’ve learned it only hurts both of you—for her, in the inability to answer, and for you, in the excruciating pain of being unable to know. Where is he? That’s classified.

She can’t always tell you when he’s coming home, either. So much of your life is hinged on her check-ins, and even more is forced to live off a simple, He’s okay.

For the seventh time, you scrub at your tired eyes and suck in a deep breath. You’d gotten that fabled text from Hunnigan—he’s okay—earlier today, and like always you crawled through the rest of your shift roiling with anticipation, waiting for Leon to materialize back into your life.

You force your gaze back to the whiteboard, littered with notes and pictures hung up with magnetic tacks. The faces of five missing women bore back. The ten-ton weight of your caseload slams down in full, and again, you scold yourself for floating back into comforting memories of your husband. These girls have lost all comfort in the world since they were taken. Your Captain gave you the responsibility of finding them, and after all you’ve been through, after all the other cases you’ve closed, there can’t be any room for failure. Think.

Your legs ache from being on your feet all day, chasing leads, but dropping into Leon’s armchair for even an instant will just have you nodding off again. More pacing it is, then. This is your pattern for the next half-hour: pace, re-read witness statements, turn, sip your coffee, pace, cross-reference alibis. He’s okay. Two of the girls were taken from Queen’s Chapel, two from Takoma, one from Woodridge. He’s fine. The last victim breaks the profile. What’s different about her? Why take her? Think think think— You know what Leon would do. He was the kind of person you could put in front of a problem, and no matter what he would find a way to shoulder his way through. With physical force, sure, but mental force too. He would sit and just look at the puzzle, and sheer willpower would lead him to some kind of answer. But you’d been pushing and pushing for days now, pursuing every lead, pressing every witness, yet nothing will give. The whole thing feels like a punching bag you’re beating at over and over again, knuckles raw and bloody—

Keys rattle just outside the front door.

First the big deadbolt scrapes open, unlatching with a heavy thud, and that sound alone is enough to shock you awake. More than any coffee could. Then comes the doorknob. Leon hasn’t even turned his key before you’ve twisted the lock open, yanked the door out of your way, and sent it whipping into the jamb with his keyring still swinging from its slot. You give him one full blink to register that it’s you before you’re throwing yourself on him without a single lick of shame, legs and all.

Of course, Leon bears your weight with grace. He grunts out an oof! when you come in for landing, and the living, breathing sound drains into one gruff laugh. You’re scooped up under the thighs and teddy bear squeezed against him. He reeks of cheap motel soap and something faintly coppery—then mint, a whole world of plush, wet spearmint when he nudges your face up with his nose and lays a hello kiss on you. The taste of his gum and the scratch of his stubble on your chin make your skin feel like it’s fizzing, inside-burning-out, every inch of you stood on end by his static charge. Jesus, this guy. He feels like fucking magic, and you’re confident that the laws of physics don’t quite apply around him. Everything in the room, in the too-big apartment that’s painfully empty without him in it, tilts toward Leon.

You shove your face nose-first into his neck and clutch the back of his jacket in both fists. Swallowing hard, you manage, “Hey, angel.”

“Good morning, Charlie,” Leon says.

If you had any resolve for today left in you at all, the wash of his sizzling butter voice would squash the last of it. You’d been trying to be sweet, but your husband has to be funny about fucking everything, of course. Even after weeks spent apart. You love him so fucking much.

“Don’t tell me you found time to watch that stupid movie.” Your voice is muffled by his coat, and you’re grateful for an excuse to hide.

You’re moving. Leon carries you inside, his wedding band pressing into your leg and his other big, warm hand spooned around your back. “Boring plane ride. I wanted to get your jokes.”

Your front door is toed shut, and with all the efficient maneuvering of a proper agent, Leon gets the place locked up behind you. Somewhere in all the commotion he’d dropped his go-bag by the welcome mat, and you hear the dramatic thunk, thunk, of his fancy work loafers being kicked off beside it. Only then does he slip you onto your own feet again.

Your hands slide down his arms as you make contact with the floor. Somewhere in the back of your mind you’re aware that he’s damp from the rain, but that fact hangs in the little alternate universe he’s made in your front hall. Standing there and being able to look at him straight-on, Leon doesn’t feel real. It’s like your constant thoughts of him have manifested a ghost in his shape, mimicking the smiley rookie you remember.

He greets you with a quiet, beaten-down smile, and you understand immediately that the world has thrown its fair share of punches at him, too. You’ve both had a shit week. The Kennedy surname just brims with good luck, huh?

Your hands work on autopilot as you take him in, slipping under the fabric of his jacket and lingering over his thudding heart. His warm blue gaze swims over your face, and you can almost hear the clicking mechanisms in his head as he forces himself out of operative mode and into home mode by looking at you.

“It’s a really bad movie,” you say, choked up.

Leon’s jacket hits the floor with his shoes. There’s a swath of ugly, purpling bruises crawling up his bare arm, old enough to be greening at the edges, and your stomach churns when you see it.

He taps your chin up, pulling you away from the damage and back on him. His voice rolls over you like bourbon in a glass. “Absolutely. So-bad-it’s-good, even. We should watch it, make fun of it together. Like, why the hell does…”

Leon flawlessly falls into an analysis of the movie’s poorly-written espionage elements. The movie you made one offhand joke about several weeks ago, mind you. He’s pulling at straws, saying whatever the hell comes to mind to make you laugh, so exhausted he’s literally swaying on his feet. You can’t believe he’s trying to distract you with something so trivial, but this is your husband. One flash of that weary closed-mouth smile, one brush of those callused hands down your wrists, and your whole world resumes its orbit around him.

You laugh at the jokes he’s obviously crafted for your benefit, a weak chuckle your heart isn’t in. With his hands looped around your wrists, he guides your arms around his neck and welcomes you back into the toasty bubble of his touch. Leon’s even warmer from being tucked underneath his coat. Pure goodness and safety glows off him like a fucking nuclear reactor, and it dawns on you that you haven’t felt safe at all since he left. Anyone can be plucked off the streets here.

One more scratchy kiss and then he’s leading you deeper into your apartment. No one on Earth would believe that he’s a chatty guy, but he talks the whole way through. Too often he’s left to sit in his own mind on missions, and you’re treated to two week’s worth of his backlog in the next ten minutes. All the little things he wanted to say to you. The streams of smart-mouth commentary he was famous for at the academy are all inner monologue now, but you’re confident the Leon radio show still runs twenty four hours a day. He chatters so much in his head that it slips out of him like water sometimes—

“…that close to an explosion would disintegrate you, but fuck physics I guess—“ Leon interrupts his own flow of thought to squint at you. “Quit looking at me like that. It’s unfair how pretty you are when you’re tired. What was I—not like the laws of physics apply to that movie anyway, but…”

—and you’re stupidly charmed by it. He talks to comfort himself, and because the two of you are one unit, one person to him, he does the same for you.

With your hand tethered in his, he clicks off the radio in the kitchen. One of Leon’s side-stories replaces the random late-night station that’d been playing, floating over the din of the rain like bass over relaxing drums. He pours out the dregs of your coffee. He closes the files full of gruesome crime scene photos on your coffee table, and you watch, barely able to keep your head up, as he flips your whiteboard over to its blank side. You’ll get his second opinion on the case tomorrow.

Leon sweeps the place with you in tow, and once the security system’s armed and you’re almost sagging against him, the lights come off. Though you’ve had plenty of time to adjust to the Leon that returned home from training, you’ll never get used to the little alien ticks it’s given him. He navigates to your bedroom in complete blackness. He avoids the creaky floorboard just outside your door without seeing, deathly silent. The broad presence of him looms in the dark.

One wall of the bedroom is nothing but paneled glass, throwing a long square of dark blue moonlight over your rumpled comforter. While the view of the Potomac and Capital Hill is stellar from up here, you’ve always felt out of place among the things Leon’s generous salary has earned the two of you: a flat with a private elevator in the nice part of town, fresh-off-the-press sports cars, a getaway cabin up north. So much of it you end up enjoying by yourself. It only ever feels worth it when he’s here, smacking his elbow into the digital wall-panel that controls your A/C.

“—s’ supposed to be a touch screen,” he sidebars himself for the tenth time. Softer, Leon adds, “Brush your teeth. I’ll be right there.”

You rope your arms around his middle and press your face into the heart of his back, careful of the bruises he’s doing his best to hide. “Wanna wait for you.”

Leon doesn’t protest. There’s more little beeps as he screws with the temperature of your mattress or something, deciding, “We live in a damn spaceship. Are we too good for plain old-fashioned buttons now?”

Apparently you are, since old man Leon fails to figure out how to crank the heat up. You let him play with it for a little while longer (it’s not his fault he’s rarely home), and then intervene with a few quick taps when things get dire. The heater hums to life under the floor a beat later, and he turns in your grip to scoff, mystified by your vast and incredible knowledge.

“My smart girl,” he hums.

Just that is enough to chip off a piece of your strength. Had he said that to you over the phone, a million miles away in god-knows-where, your knees would buckle. He is the only one who talks to you like that—with so much simple, uncomplicated love. Too tired to put your thoughts into words, you flatten a hand over his heart and kiss the sun-freckled nape of his neck.

“Clingy,” Leon mutters. You’re pretty sure it’s supposed to sound dry and funny, another one of his jokes. But then he’s smoothing both of his palms down your arms in two long handsy swaths, and the gesture tells you everything about just how clingy he’s feeling, too.

His stories make getting ready for bed an even slower affair. You couldn’t mind if you wanted to. As you help him out of his starchy dress-shirt button by button, he surprises you with a rare explanation of where he’s been for the last weeks. The UK. Truly, your husband is the special secret agent to end all special secret agents: he talks around his job as if it was a bump he’d hit on the way home, entertaining you instead with his Leon-ified vision of London. Touristy as shit. Loud as shit. Smelled like shit.

“Just like DC,” he chuckles, and then a second time when your fluffy head pops through the collar of the sleep shirt he’s dressing you in.

It’s too much rough, cinnamon spice laughter for one woman to stand. You duck away to brush your teeth and groan into your palms like a schoolgirl over him, but sure enough, Leon trails you, fingers chasing the hem of your shirt (his shirt) in a sleepy daze. He always keeps you in view. Nervous, maybe, to have you out of his sight.

This tradition continues when the two of you crawl into bed. Your eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and so has your body, able to sense him on the stupidly expensive mattress beside you. He thinks you can’t tell, but his gaze roves over you again and again—down your back when you flop face-first into the plush bedding, over the slope of your shoulder when you wiggle under the covers. Leon draws you into the glorious halo of his body heat with a gentle hand on your belly. If you could bottle this feeling, the whole world would be sick and stupid for him in hours. Minutes even.

You feel so safe that the word doesn’t even come to mind. Just vague, peaceful shapes of things you know, home, sleep, cologne, cozy. His work-rough palm with his body-warm wedding band slips under your tee to sweep over your ribs. Then comes Leon’s face, just on the right side of stubbly as he shoves it between your shoulder blades without a single lick of shame. The breath he takes of you is so heavy that his whole frame shudders with it, top to bottom.

You remember how you’d burrowed into his jacket the second he got home and think, You are me and I am you. We’re always on the same page.

With that, the stage is set. DC’s faraway glittering cityscape lights up all the raindrops on your window, and you watch them run as the two of you melt into one another. Leon’s warm breaths slow across your neck. Time for you to deliver your line.

You wet your lips and murmur into your pillow, “Do you want to talk about your mission?”

Legally, he can’t say yes. Government secrets, bureaucracy, yadda yadda. Leon isn’t always emotionally ready to crack open a coffin he’s just finished sealing, either, but while it is his job to close your case files for the night, you’re his wife. You’re the only person who can knock on that door. With how little choice he has left in his life, you try to give him options whenever you can. Regardless, you know the man you married—strong-willed on a mythical fucking level, and just as self-sacrificing. He’ll always try to spare you.

Sure enough, Leon says, “Tomorrow. Do you want to talk about your case?”

You shake your head at him, exhausted to the point of dizziness. “Tomorrow.”

A tender kiss is pressed to the nape of your neck, and the whole world goes silent for the perfect, husky whisper you’ve ached to hear. You feel his wry smile against your skin. “We’re always on the same page, baby.”

#leon s kennedy #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy/reader #resident evil #resident evil four #re4 remake #leon kennedy drabble #uncouthre

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astroboots · 1 year ago

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PUNCH-OUT LOVE 2

Artwork by @guruan

LOST AND FOUND

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Word count: 3.2k

Summary: You're sent on a wild goose chase for your missing handbag in the Lost and Found section and find something else instead: Miguel O'Hara.

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist

[Previous Chapter]

The stage is empty.

The gargantuan defeated Knock Out King, all 340 pounds of him was loaded on a stretcher minutes ago. He was lying face up as if he was taking a restful nap on a hammock while he was carried out into the crowded noise of fascinated and hushed whispers.

The ring lights are dimmed down now and most of the crowd have gotten to their feet and are pouring out of the stadium.

You're still glued to your seat, the hard plastic of the chair, bruising against your tailbone. But despite the discomfort you make no moves to get up. You're too busy staring up at the evacuated stage, reliving the scene that had unfolded before your very eyes minutes ago.

The swift motion of punches flying through the air, evaded with precise dodges. The refraction of ring light bouncing off brown glistening curls. The sheen of sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat as he closed in and landed the final blow that had his opponent reeling back and crashing to the ground.

"You alright?"

You snap out of your thoughts at the familiar voice, and find yourself blinking up at a pair of inquisitive eyes.

"You look completely zoned out, like you're on a different planet.”

“Sorry, Jess,” you say, “I’m– I was distracted.”

Standing on her feet, Jess gestures towards the exit in the back of the arena. "Should we start heading out? Gonna be a real pain in the ass grabbing a taxi in this crowd, we better hurry"

With a brief nod, you rise in your seat, feet wobbly and a bit out of balance as you file out of the arena in the crowd.

Maybe it's the heat in the arena, overcrowded as it had been mere minutes ago, but you feel like you're sleepwalking. Even as you're physically leaving the stadium, your mind is still left behind, sat in the front row seat, staring up at Miguel O'Hara.

The flash of knuckles as O'Hara's fist connected to his opponent's jaw. Watching the other man's bottom lip wobble as spit flew out of his mouth seconds before he landed in defeat.

Your veins still thrum with adrenaline. Your heart thumping in excitement. You can't contain the rush of emotions that swells in your chest.

That was amazing... He was amazing.

Still in a daze, you’re acting on muscle memory as you follow Jess out into the lobby, until you reach the outside and are standing in the back of a long and seemingly unending line for a cab.

"Shit, Uber prices have surged like mad," Jess is muttering next to you, frantically swiping at her phone.

She's cursing away, trying for every alternative taxi app: Lyft, Via, Gett, with little success.

You're only paying her half-attention.

Standing under a canopy of the parking zone, you're staring up at the evening above, but you’re not really seeing the light-polluted starless city sky. All you see is the sharp focus of mahogany eyes as they turned in your direction and settled on you. You can feel it still. The intensity that resided in them, burrowing into your skin and has made a home in you. An itch that you cannot scratch that is consuming you from within.

"Hey!"

The sharp sound breaks your concentration. "Did you hear me at all?" Jess asks.

There's a terse impatience in her voice that means she's probably been calling for your attention a handful of times by now while you were zoned out.

"No. I--sorry," you say sheepishly. "What were you saying?"

"Can you try getting on Uber? I have a shit rating there and no one will accept my requests."

Nodding absentmindedly, you reach for your handbag slung across your shoulder. Your shoulder feels awfully light, and you swipe at empty air before you realize, there's nothing there. You're not wearing your handbag.

Crap.

"Did you leave your handbag inside?" she asks.

You revisit your steps. You last remember having it on when you sat down and hung it on the back of your seat. You were so out of it when you left the arena, you don't think you ever picked it up.

"I think I left it inside, I'm gonna head back in, I'll be right back."

“Alright, but hurry!” she shouts after you as you run back inside.

Without the tight squeeze of having to manoeuvre your way through the impatient crowd, your journey back into the stadium is a much quicker one than when you entered before the game.

Everywhere you go is empty this time around. The glitz and glamor has completely faded.

There is a strange atmosphere in the arena in the aftermath when it's devoid of people. Your footfalls echoes and bounces of the walls, and you become aware of your every movement.

You rush through the rows hurriedly, eyes scanning the plastic seats even before you have reached your own previous seat.

When you finally do, there's nothing there.

Shit.

On stage, there is a member of the cleaning staff, mopping up the grimy sweat and grubby soap from the squeaky vinyl floor.

"Excuse me," you ask, and the man ducks up to stare at you. "You wouldn't have happened to see a handbag that was hanging here would you?"

"Check lost and found," the man says brusquely as he continues to sweep the stage unbothered by your presence.

That’s seemingly the only thing you are going to get from him. He doesn’t pay you anymore attention, even as you shift your feet to try to catch eye contact and regain his attention to ask where the lost and found section is. It doesn't work.

After two awkward shuffles, you decide to take your luck elsewhere. You make your way back down the row of seats in the hopes you might find an usher who can point you in the right direction.

But the corridors are even emptier now. The only people wandering down the aisles are not paying you any notice and actively avoiding any eye contact you try to establish in order to initiate a conversation. In other words, they’re behaving like New Yorkers do in New York.

You sigh, trudging along another dimly lit hall when you spot a tall lanky man munching on a half eaten donut. He’s clad in slippers and a pink bathrobe with the most angelic looking cherub baby, bouncy curls and all, strapped in a BabyBjörn to his chest.

You’re not entirely sure that he works here, or that he would have any better idea than you at finding the Lost and Found section.

The only reason you decide to approach him anyway is the bright security badge in big bold capital letters reading “VIP ACCESS” hung around his neck.

Gently you tap him across the shoulder, and the man turns around.

His eyes go big and rounded, pupils dilated with shock at the sight of you as he stares down at you. “Oh holy shit!”

The man seems high.

Shaggy hair and unkempt scruff on his jaw, wearing sweatpants over a stained t-shirt. He certainly looks the part of a stoner, save for the part where he has a literal child strapped to his chest.

“Sorry," you try politely. "I lost my bag and the custodian said I should go to–”

The man in front of you nods enthusiastically, but you get the sense that he’s not really taking in the words you are saying.

“Yeah, yeah! Of course,” he interrupts. “Right down the hall. You won’t miss it, it’s the only room there”

You peek down the hallway he’s pointing you towards. Except you can't see down the passage he’s suggesting you take because there is an obstruction. Two in fact. Two mountainous security guards standing shoulder to shoulder to block anyone from going down that route.

That doesn’t seem right.

Why would a Lost and Found section be so heavily guarded?

“Are you sure that’s correct?” you eye the bodyguards cautiously, trying be polite about the obstacle the two large men blocking the said hallway presents. Especially when they are only three feet away and definitely within hearing range.

Luckily, stoned as the overly friendly man in front of you may be, he seems to catch the drift without any further hints from you.

“Oh right!” He grabs the security badge hanging around his neck. “Take this,” he says and drapes it over your head with dramatic flair as if he’s rewarding you with the honorary city keys.

The two men part as you approach. You feel like you are Moses, the chosen one, and the red sea is parting before you.

You look back one more time, and in the sliver of space between the two security guards you see your friendly stoner flash you an amicable salute in your direction as the angelic looking baby waves at you with a squeal.

“Good luck,” he shouts over to you.

Strange man.

You continue down the hall, to the flickering of the glaring fluorescent light that is entirely too bright as you reach the only room at the dead end of this hall.

It’s odd. Why would a communal space such as a lost and found section be so damn hard to find and this heavily guarded. Why on earth would anyone need a security pass just to reach it? Is this some elaborate scam run by the boxing organization? Do they make massive winnings from reselling spectators' left behind belongings on Ebay? Because otherwise this seems like exceptional poor planning on the architect’s part. Either that, or the friendly stoner pointed you in the wrong direction… which seems like the most probable option.

For a second, you contemplate turning around to find the man again and ask him if this really is the right place. But Jess is waiting. She must be either pissed or incredibly worried at how long you’ve taken already. A twinge of guilt pass over you, you're hoping it's the former rather than the latter.

Shaking your head, you open the door and the first sight that greets you are rows after rows of oldfashioned lockers standing like sentinels.

There are no boxes here. No junk items of lost wallets, or jackets. Instead all you see is the vision of the man standing several feet away from you. His wide impressive back filling up the space of the empty room as he looms over an open locker.

“Parker, I told you I’m not in the mood.”

You freeze, shoes stuck to the floor as if the soles have set in with industrial cement to the tile.

It doesn’t matter that you can’t see his face, or that you’ve never heard him speak before. You’d recognize that perfect silhouette in a heartbeat after tonight. A man of proportions so exceptional, you’re not entirely sure he’s a real flesh and blood human.

It's a presence so large that even in this changing room he looms so tall, you swear he must have to duck to not hit his head against the ceiling.

He seems like he’s sprung out of the imagination of a 13 year old boy’s idea of what a Superhero from the Golden Age of comic books should be.

Miguel O’Hara.

In front of you, he slowly rises, straightening his posture. Somehow, and you don’t understand how that’s physically even possible, he grows even taller with the movement.

It’s like the scene out of Jurassic park when the Velociraptor is inches away and approaching. Even as you watch him slowly turn to face you, you’re too frozen to flee out of the room. The only thing you find yourself doing is breathing harder and harsher. Until it’s too late and he’s turned fully around, facing you.

O’Hara stands unmoving, towering with the presence of a monolith.

Even though you’re clearly not the person he was expecting. Even though you’re clearly not this Parker person he thought he was speaking to, he’s not saying anything. His face is stoic, not betraying a hint of emotion. The sole clue that he’s even registering your presence is the way his perfect arched brow arches.

He doesn’t say a word. Just stands there, just as still as you are, eyes locked on you.

He is assessing you, you realize. Stern, sharp and penetrating eyes, starting from the tip of your toes, up the length of your legs to your shoulders until his assessing stare lands at the crown of your head.

It’s the same focused and unwavering attention you felt on you from across the stage not even half an hour ago when you were sat in the rickety plastic chair and he was standing in the boxing ring.

Electricity sparks, bright and sharp, along the surface of your skin until every hair stands at alert at his attention.

“I’m so sorry. I think there’s been a mistake”, you try to explain. “I lost my bag, and I asked where the Lost and Found section was and for some reason some random pothead told me to come down here.”

You flash the badge at him. “They gave me this and nobody stopped me, I didn’t mean to interrupt you in your… uhm….”

Your eyes land on the trickle of water that’s pooled on his neck. The wet sheen of his brown curls fresh out of the shower, then drift lower.

More bare skin. Your sentence trails off mid-word. Words slurring at the tip of your tongue. It feels heavy in your mouth and syrupy, like you’ve been given the good stuff at the dentist and you lose track of what it was you were trying to say.

His skin is tanned and marred with black-brown bruises, a testament to what his body has been put through. Somehow every inch still manages to look impossibly soft and you are itching to skim your fingertips all over him.

Your eyes linger on his bare chest and hard stomach. He’s only clad in a towel. It modestly wraps around his narrow hips, and you catch the sparse trail of hair that graze down below his navel and every single one of your brain cells is erased of any coherent thought.

Then he finally breaks the silence.

"What did you think of the fight?"

You blink up at him at his question. Did you miss a sentence while you blacked out? You must’ve. How did you go from walking into the wrong room-- interrupting and invading someone’s private space as he’s come right out of a shower-- to him asking you a casual question as if this is nothing out of the ordinary and you’re just sat across him at a cafe to catch up? How is he not calling security to throw you out of here?

And what does he mean, 'what do you think?'

What are you supposed to think about it? You know nothing about boxing.

Wracking your head, you try to think of something clever to say that doesn't make you sound like a complete novice. You're replaying videotapes of boxing matches from your childhood, grasping at phrases used by announcers during the fight.

Words like footwork, technical knockout and roundhouse punch flit through your mind, but you don't know how to string them together into sentence that sounds remotely half intelligible.

In front of you, O'Hara tilts his head to the side as he observes you. Your fingers tingle from the attention of his focused gaze on you. In all of your life, you can't ever recall being this affected by a man just looking at you.

Shit, he's still waiting for an answer isn't he? He's still looking up at you with those expectant narrowed eyes, waiting for you to answer. You open your mouth, blurting out the first thing that comes to your mind.

"I liked it. It was like a dance."

The moment the words leave your mouth you regret it. Your cheeks burn with heat.

Oh god. You sound like a brainless moron.

What an incredibly ditzy thing to say. Why not just compare him to a fucking mime or a tap-dancer while you're at it?

You're better than this. But you blame your lack of cognitive functions at how the sight of this half-naked man has incinerated every last one of your brain cells.

You brace yourself for him to laugh you out of the locker room. But he doesn't. Instead that stern expression on his face breaks. His full lips curve into a small, disarmingly sweet smile.

The smile softens his features. His brown eyes go warm when he looks up at you, brows rounding and no longer tense. It's nothing at all like the angry sharp lines etched into every line of his face when he was on stage, fists braced for a fight.

"Yeah?" he asks, so much more soft spoken than you had expected a guy of his size to be.

Still out of sorts, you nod your head dumbly at him. "Yeah."

The smile on his lips grows. You don't know if it's a trick of the light, but as dim as this gray and dingy locker room is, it seems to go a little bit brighter with it. He looks at you with a nostalgic familiarity that is reserved for a longtime friend.

Oh god help you. He's not just scary, and alarmingly handsome in a way that makes him belong on the glossy covers of GQ. It's so much worse than that... he's cute.

You physically shake your head to snap yourself out of it.

Get a fucking grip. You’re meant to be on a seemingly futile journey to find your handbag, not a prowl to get your rock offs.

Oh shit.

… Except that's what this is, isn't it?

That’s why he hasn’t chased you out of his room.

That’s why he’s trying to make small talk.

Why he’s asking you what you thought of the match.

He thinks you're a groupie. Some starstruck boxing fan, that's wormed their way past his manager to get a backstage pass and a chance to ride the boxing champion. You should probably say something to correct his misunderstanding...

You look back up at him. That warm and unassuming smile that's still there on his face.

Yes. You should do that. Speak up and explain the situation. But for some reason you don't. You stand there in place. Mouth parting and closing like a dumb goldfish, unable to find the words to explain the situation.

Until a terrible whisper of a thought enters your brain. What if you don't...

It lasts entirely too long. Two whole seconds before you remind yourself that it would be wrong for one. Because that would be operating under false pretenses.

...

Except would it though?

There is no membership to join the council of groupies that you need to apply for beforehand. There's no harm and no foul here.

After all, whether you're a groupie or not, if you're both willing adults, then what's the problem here?

...

The problem is that it would still be a lie, and you'd know.

Your mind is playing ping pong in the thought process.

It's like there is a tiny angel sitting on your right shoulder and a miniature devil on the left.

You look peer up at him again, biting down on your lip at the sight before you. All dark eyes and tanned skin and pouty lips. Shit.

The devil and angel may be in disagreement about the ethics of this situation, but here's the thing, they are in complete and total agreement over one thing.

Both of them want to fuck him.

To be continued.

A/N: Guys guys so sorry it took forever. Life has been wiiiiild as of late. I have quite a few WIPs going on at the moment and having a bit of a think about which ones to continue/prioritise so if you do want to see more of this one please let me know! Let me know if you enjoyed this, if you want to see more and what you would like to see.

Big thank you to my bestie Guruan who made the beautiful art banner for me. This is my treat to her because I'm unable to send her icecream in person.

And of course as always all my love and gratitude. If I could I would give her my heart on a platter: @thirstworldproblemss I got a bit stuck on how to get these two in the same room together and she helped me plot this chapter. Thank you for always letting me rubberduck things with you.

#miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara fanfic #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x reader #oscar isaac #spider man: across the spiderverse #across the spiderverse

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javierpena-inatacvest · 1 year ago

Text

Chapter 1- I D.A.R.E. You

Summary: After starting your new job as a 3rd grade teacher at Alma Pierce Elementary School, you meet a handsome Javier Peña who has been forced to come give a presentation to your grade. Although you've never met him, you're shocked to find out you may have more in common than you'd think.

Warnings: Mentions of Javi's past work for the DEA, mentions of death and grief, language, financial compensation if you were subjected to the D.A.R.E program as a child, Javi's family friends giving him sass

Word count: 6.2K

A/N: Post Season 3 Javi lives forever in my brain, as the first chapter of this story takes place in Laredo, May of 1997. This man deserves love, and boy is he going to get it.

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“It’s your lucky day, Peña!”

Javier glanced up from the pile of paperwork scattered across his desk to acknowledge the voice coming from the doorway to his office.

“What do you want, Carter?”

Javier's voice half grunted in response, his eyes shifting back down to the pile of papers on his desk. In his doorway stood his office mate, Detective Eric Carter. When Javier began his new position with the Laredo County Sheriff's Department 4 months ago, it took everything in him to keep from calling his new co-worker Steve. At a glance, he looked just like his old DEA partner. Tall, lanky, with a wiry head of blonde hair and bright blue eyes. 30 seconds into meeting Carter, it didn’t take long to realize looks were about the only thing he and Steve Murphy had in common. Eric Carter was a human ray of fucking sunshine, and his chipper demeanor was blinding Javier this early in the morning.

“It’s your turn!” Carter replied in a sing-songy voice, slapping a red file folder onto Javier’s desk, covering the papers he had been sorting through. Javier picked up the folder and crinkled his brows in confusion. He turned the cover towards him, holding it just far enough away so that his squint trying to read its contents wasn’t too obvious. God, he just needed to give up and buy reading glasses already.

As he got the folder just the right distance away from his face, he gave Carter a look that said absolutely fucking not. The folder read D.A.R.E school assembly lessons, with a picture of the Lion mascot giving a big thumbs up in his black D.A.R.E shirt. The office had recently been recruited by Laredo Public School District to start giving presentations to the Elementary schools, using the program aptly abbreviated for Drug Abuse Resistance Education.

“Just take away the “R” and rearrange some letters and it spells DEA!” Carter laughed to himself. “It’s like it was made for you!”

“No.”

“Sorry Peña, you’re bottom of the totem pole this week. We’ve all done our time, and you’re the last one left in the office who has yet to go present. It’s not even that bad, you just basically go talk to these kids for an hour and tell them drugs are bad, don’t do them, yadda, yadda, yadda, you get the gist, and then it’s done. Piece of cake!”

“I’m not fucking going.” Javier scoffed. “I have shit I have to get done.” Gesturing in annoyance to the piles of papers on his desk, now in disarray from the folder being thrown on his desk.

“Not a choice, Mr. Peña.”

A new voice passed by the doorway, and a much broader frame stood behind Carter’s. Chief Deputy Dean Morris, had joined the conversation, knowing that it wouldn’t end easily for Detective Carter if he kept harassing Javier about it. Morris was head of the department, and what he said, went. Coming from a background in the Air Force, Morris knew how “civilian” a position at a sheriff’s department must have felt for Javier after his time in the DEA. 5 years ago, it seemed fair to think that neither of them would have assumed paperwork, mundane training programs, and now, arguing over talking to 10 year olds about the dangers of doing drugs would have played any importance in their jobs.

“Right of passage. Ever since the school board dropped this on us last year, we’ve all done our time. Believe me, no one wants to do it, but like Carter said, today is your lucky day!” Morris’s voice oozed with sarcasm, knowing that Javier would absolutely hate every second of what he was about to have to do.

“You lucked out on your day to go too, Peña. It looks like you get to go to the school with the hot teach-OW! Hey! What was that for?!” Morris had slapped Carter’s shoulder before he could get out the rest of his sentence.

“Keep it in your pants, okay Carter?”

Carter let out a huff of defeat. “I’m just saying, he could have gotten worse days to go…”

“Just read from the notes, let the kids ask a couple of questions at the end and then you’re on your way. Easy peasy. When you get to the school office they’ll let you know where to go.”

Javier opened his mouth to rebuttal, but before he could even get out a word, Morris held up his hand to stop him.

“Not a choice. I’ll have Carter help you finish sorting paperwork, so don’t try to bullshit me and tell me that you have too much work to get done.”

Javier let out a sigh of frustration that was a little louder than he intended it to be. His hands rested on his forehead as he rubbed the bridge of his nose before replying.

“Fine. But this is one and done.”

“Good man.” Morris reached over Javier’s desk and gave him a pat on the shoulder. He and Carter started to make their way out of Javier’s office when Morris turned his head over the back of his shoulder.

“Carter’s right about the teacher, too. She’s a catch.” He winked and shut the door behind him.

Javier gathered his things and made his way through the office, passing by Detective Carter’s desk.

“Have funnnnnnn! Say ‘hi’ to the hot teacher for me!” Carter mocked, twinkling his fingers, waving at Javier.

Without saying a word, Javier flipped him off, and kept walking.

Settling into his truck, Javier set down his belongings in his passenger seat, and opened up the red file folder to see where his unexpected journey was taking him.

This is fucking ridiculous He mouthed to himself as he cranked up the AC in the truck with one hand, and rummaged the other through the items on the seat. Reaching next to him, he grabbed and opened the folder, and grazed his index finger down the inside cover, where a schedule of schools, dates, and times were printed. At the bottom, he found

5/27/97- Alma Pierce Elementary School, 12:00-12:30 pm, school cafeteria

Javier’s heart sank to the bottom of his stomach. He read the line several times, re-checking the location and date to make sure what he read was true.

Fuck.

To any of his other co-workers who had been tasked with giving one of these D.A.R.E. presentations, the elementary school they were assigned to that day most likely held little to no significance. Of course, out of the 16 elementary schools in the Laredo Public School District, Javier was assigned to the one that held the most significance to him.

The school that his mother taught at for her entire teaching career before she passed away.

Since returning home from Colombia, Javier had been avoiding human contact like the plague. He had returned as somewhat of a “hometown hero” after his accomplishments with the DEA but couldn’t have felt further from it. He had become Laredo’s hottest topic.

“What was it like to help catch Escobar?! The Cali Cartel?!”

“We’re so proud of you, the DEA couldn’t have done it without you!”

“When are you going to come over and tell us all about Colombia? We want to know everything!”

Each question, compliment and conversation about his time in South America was like a knife to his heart, slowly twisting with each word that came out of someone’s mouth. He could feel the guilt and burden of his time away growing heavier and heavier as he politely smiled through these conversations.

But worse than the strangers who felt entitled to berate Javier about his time in Colombia, were his friends and family who he had been actively avoiding since returning home. Besides his father, Javier hadn’t seen anyone close to him since his mother’s funeral 8 years ago. It hurt Javier knowing that he had returned to Laredo a changed man, haunted by the things he had seen and done. His mother’s closest friends, those that she worked with at Alma Pierce Elementary School, had promised to fulfill Lucia Peña’s dying wish that they would look out for Javi and made sure that he came home okay.

Well, Javier was home. He wasn’t quite sure how to break it to them that he wasn’t really okay.

As he drove and parked in front of the school building, Javier’s heart began to beat heavier in his chest. His fingers drummed on the steering wheel as he started at the entrance to the school. He couldn’t decide if the feeling swirling around in his stomach was comfort or terror, knowing that Alma Pierce Elementary looked exactly the same as it did the last time he was here 9 years ago with his mother.

He did know that part of that feeling definitely had to be terror, as he began to think about the fact he was about to be interrogated relentlessly by his late mother’s closest friends. Might as well sign these women up to work for the DEA- they were probably more terrifying than anyone Javier had encountered in his time working there.

After a few more deep breaths, Javier gathered his things out of his truck and headed towards the main doors. Each footstep felt like he was walking through wet cement, questioning if it was too late to turn around.

Practically tip toeing in to the office, hoping to be as inconspicuous as possible, Javier let out a soft “Hi, I’m from the sheriff's department, I’m here for-“

Before he could even finish his sentence, the office secretary, a tiny and graying Señora Gutierez was thrusting her arms across the threshold of the office desk to wrap Javier in an impressively strong hug.

“JAVIER PEÑA. I cannot believe it’s you! oh my sweet mijo, look at you! The older you get, the more like Chucho you look, dios mio! Why haven’t you stopped by?! We have all missed you so much, what have you been doing? It is so good to see you!”

Here we go.

“Hola, Señora.” Javier half grunted from how tight he was being squeezed. “It’s nice to see you too.”

“I have lots to ask but I know you need to go, or they will know that this old woman has been running her mouth, making you late.” Señora Gutiérrez began shooing her hand, as to send Javier on his way.

Javier chuckled. He felt his body begin to ease slightly, letting the familiarity of friendly faces bring him a small sense of comfort.

“I would hope after this VERY LONG time that you have not been to see your mamà’s dearest friends, you still remember where the cafeteria is?” She gave Javier a playful grin.

“Sí, Señora.”

“Everyone will be so happy to see you, mi amor. Now go, or everyone will be after me for keeping you!”

Grabbing his things, Javier made his way down the bustling hallway. Tiny faces stared up at his, as he shuffled his way towards the cafeteria doors. There, he was greeted by a sea of children chatting amongst themselves and 3 smiling faces, patiently waiting for his arrival.

“JAVI!”

Out of any of the faces he was bound to see today, these were the 3 he would recognize anywhere. The ladies who stood before him were the fellow 3rd grade teachers who had taught alongside his mother for almost 20 years.

The ladies surrounded him in a bear hug, Javier quietly noting to himself that he had definitely reached his hug quota for the next several weeks.

“It’s so good to see you, Javi.” The first of the 3 women spoke, her words sweet like honey. Linda Garcia was short and stout, her gray bangs brushing over the brim of her glasses as she looked up at Javier. Linda had always had a soft spot for Javi, and reminded him the most of his mother.

“It’s good to see you t-“

“PENDEJO. WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?! WHY HAVE YOU NOT CALLED?! WE SWORE TO YOUR LATE MOTHER THAT WE WOULD TAKE CARE OF YOU, AND IF IT WASN’T FOR CHUCHO KEEPING US UPDATED TH-”

“Maria, let the boy breathe, this is the first time you’re seeing him in years, and this is the route you’re going to take? Dios Mio.”

Standing next to Linda were her 2 partners in crime, Maria Rogers and Estelle Lopez.

If you didn’t know Maria Rogers, you would be shocked to see the ferocity that came out of such a tiny woman. Javier’s mother used to refer to her “el vòlcan”- a matching nickname for her fiery personality.

Estelle, on the other hand, was one of the most soft spoken people that Javier had ever meant. If she had something to say, he knew it was time to listen.

“Hi everyone, it’s really great to see all of you.” Javier meant it. As overwhelmed and flustered as he was, it brought him peace to know after the hell that these last 8 years had been, some things never change.

“MRS. ROGERSSSSSSS. WHEN IS THIS GONNA START?! I’M HUNGRY AND I KNOW LUNCH IS AFTER THIS.”

“BE QUIET, MICHAEL. YOU KNOW WE’RE STILL WAITING FOR ONE MORE CLASS. YOU’RE SO ANNOYING.”

“AM NOT!”

“AM TOO!”

Chatter and fidgeting amongst the 3rd graders instantaneously increased, the crowd of children now growing restless.

“Oi, these niños will be the death of me, thank goodness this school is almost done.” Maria mumbled under her breath, the other 2 teachers rolling their eyes and laughing in agreement. “We’re just waiting on one more class, but they should be here any minute.”

Overhearing the conversations shouted across the cafeteria, Agent Carter’s voice wandered through Javier’s thoughts.

“You get the school with the hot teacher!”

Obviously, Carter was not referring to the 3 women who stood before him. Although he wasn’t one for crude office banter, Javier couldn’t help but wonder if Carter’s statement really held true. With a genuine curiosity and a slight smirk on his face, he leaned back, arms crossed and asked, “Yeah wait, there’s still four 3rd grade teachers right?”

The women all shot him a look that took him aback, their eyes burning a hole though Javier.

“Jesus, you men really have a one track mind don’t you. Yes, I’m sure all of your friends from the department have been more than happy to tell you about our new teacher who just joined us. She is a sweet girl, and I am sure she is sick of getting harassed by all of you.”

“Maria, I was just asking a quest-“

“Javier Jesus Peña, I have known you since before you were born. Wipe that smug look off your face, I know exactly why you asked the question”.

Yup, things haven’t changed a bit.

Before he could retort, the cafeteria doors began to swing open, followed by a long line of children, and you.

“1, 2, 3, eyes on me!”

“1, 2, eyes on you!

God, the amount of times you’d had to repeat that phrase as the end of the school year approached, you might as well have gotten it tattooed on your forehead.

“Okay 3rd graders, we’re already 5 minutes late for our assembly, and I’m sure the other classes are not going to be happy that we’re holding them up, and probably making us late for lunch after”

The chatter stopped. With only a few days left in the school year, you were running out of ammunition to keep your class’s attention. At least the threat of being late to unch would work for now.

A little hand shot up from the middle of the line you were about to trail down the hallway, like a mother duck with her babies following in line. “What’s your question, Jaun?”

“Do you know if it’s gonna be the same guy as last time? He was kind of scary.” Mumbles of agreement came from the voices surrounding him. The Laredo Sheriff's Department had sent in a slew of their employees each week for these presentations, and you had been convinced none of them had ever even attempted to talk to a child. Last week’s presenter, Martin, Michales, something like that, had spent the large time of his presentation talking about getting murdered by the Cartel, leading to tears from many of your students, and a prompt request to not have him back.

“I don’t know sweetie, it seems like there’s someone new who comes every week, but I sure hope it’s not him.” The class let out a small giggle. These were the moments you loved about your job as a teacher, especially now that you had moved to an older grade where your kids finally picked up on your subtle jokes with them.

You had been with your class since after Christmas break, filling in as a long term sub for a 3rd grade teacher on maternity leave. The job followed an impromptu move from Chicago to Texas after breaking off your relationship with your boyfriend (regrettably, almost fiancé) of 3 years, who had been cheating on you behind your back for 2 of them. You felt like an idiot that you hadn’t seen it coming, but it still hit you like a ton of bricks. Paul had plenty of red flags, but your optimistic demeanor and the mounting peer pressure of watching your friends get married and start their own families made you feel trapped. It still stung to think you would have settled for a miserable life with Paul out of the fear you wouldn’t find anyone else.

Desperate to get as far away from Illinois as possible, you packed your bags and made the nearly 4 day drive down to Laredo, Texas. Laredo, a strange choice to many, but made nothing but complete sense to you. Your best friend since the 2nd grade, Sarah Alverez, had moved to Laredo your Freshman year of high school, her father accepting an agricultural engineering position in ranching country. You spent every summer until college visiting her and her family, having nothing but the fondest of memories for a sleepy town outside of San Antonio. It was a stark chance from the hustle and bustle of Chicago suburbia where you had spent your childhood. Long, carefree summer days made you promise yourself that if you ever did leave Chicago, you’d find yourself here. Well, you had made good on your promise, but for reasons that still made your stomach churn in gut-wrenching knots.

You and your class journeyed down the hallway to the cafeteria. Thank god it was a short trip, because you were far too tired to put up with the bickering and shenanigans the back of your line often seemed to plague you with. Just as you were entering through the cafeteria doors, you promptly turned around, your body facing the line as you walked backwards further into the cafeteria. “Isabella and Jorge, keep your hands to yourself! You two know you’re not supposed to be in line togeth-” Before you could finish your sentence, the back of your body collided with one behind you that you hadn’t seen since turning around to stop a near WWE smackdown in the hallway. You had bumped into kids more than once who weren’t paying attention to their surroundings, but it became very clear, very quickly, that the body you had backed yourself into was not a child’s.

The body you had backed yourself into was much taller and broader than yours. Two large hands firmly, but gently grasped around the middle of your upper arms to catch you without stumbling backwards any further. An overwhelming scent of cedarwood and sage cologne filled your senses. This obviously was not one of your coworkers, either.

“Oh my gosh, I am so sorr-“ you started to apologize as you came to face the body that had stopped you in your tracks. Your apology halted as you were met by incredibly broad shoulders covered by a navy blue suit jacket. As your gaze continued upwards, the shoulders were followed by a strong square jawline and plush lips, the upper covered with an impeccable mustache. Continuing up, you were met with the most beautiful, deep chocolate brown eyes, whose soft stare soon met yours. There was no denying that this man was devilishly handsome. Realizing that you had most definitely been starting too long, you restated your apology. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize you were behind me.” Your eyes shifted away from his and darted down to the floor.

A small smirk formed on his face as he looked down at you. He didn’t realize it, but he couldn’t help it. You were wearing a yellow sun dress that hit just above your knees, covered by a light washed denim jacket. Your dress swayed beautifully as he watched you take your last few steps backwards, making him question himself if he let you run into him on purpose. You smelled like vanilla and something sweet that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Pink embarrassment flooded your cheeks as a soft smile on your face met his. He now too realized that he had been staring a little too long, and that he still had his grasp on your arms as you had turned around to look at him.

“No it’s okay.” He let out a small laugh under his breath. “I just didn’t want you to go too much further and trip over anything else.” He gently let his hands leave her arms, and watched as she brushed a piece of hair out of her face and looked back up at him.

“Should we go sit down now?!” A small voice shouted from your line, causing you to snap back to reality, realizing that you had a line of children still standing behind you.

“Yes, sorry sweetie” you replied, brushing your dress down back into place. “You guys can go find a spot behind Mrs. Rogers’ class.” Your class passed by you, paying no mind to the interaction that just took place between you and the man you had just bumped into.

As you watched your class pass by, you turned back around to find the man still staring at you, causing your heart to palpably beat in your chest. The same strong hands that had caught you were now extended in your direction, offering a handshake to introduce himself. “I’m Javier Peña, uh Javi, actually” as your hand met his, realizing how small they felt in his grip. “I’m from the Laredo Sheriff's department, I uh, I’m the one that’s supposed to be doing the whole presentation thing today.” Your hand stayed in his as you introduced yourself. God, his hands were something else.

His grip loosened as your co-workers began to move towards you. You began to realize how hot your face felt, knowing that you were flushed with embarrassment not only from almost falling into a crowd of 10 year olds, but from how awe struck you were by the man who had caught you.

The three women on your 3rd grade team had taken you in as one of their own when you started your job here. They had been more than happy to step in to help you with whatever you needed, including trying to set you up with every single man your age that they knew. With the exception of the parade of overly forward sheriff's department members who had been at your school every Wednesday. Those 3 had no problem telling those men to fuck right off and leave you alone (in the nicest way possible.) The ladies slowly crept closer towards you, sly grins stretched across their faces as they giggled like school girls.

“OH, so it looks like you met our sweet Javier!” Linda said with over exaggerated enthusiasm.

“Sweetie, you’re SO good with the technology around here, you know how us old ladies are. Maybe you could help him set up the video he needs for his presentation today?” You knew damn well these women knew how to press play on a VCR. You grimaced your face at Maria. While you couldn’t see your face, you were absolutely positive your expression was screaming “Oh my God, could you please make it any more obvious that this man is insanely attractive and you don’t need to add to the embarrassment after I already ran into him like an idiot?!”

“Yeah, of course, I’d be more than happy to help!” You pointed towards the stage that sat in front of the cafeteria. “Just come this way and I’ll show you how to set it up.”

Following behind you, Javier leaned his head down towards yours. “Must be the most complicated VCR set up I’ve seen in a while.”

You let out a giggle. ��Yeah, they're all very sweet, but not the most skilled with anything that has to do with technology. When our principal had mentioned the idea of us potentially getting a computer lab, they just about had a heart attack. Setting up the TV to play a video should be no problem.” You gestured towards the stage at the front of the cafeteria where the TV cart was kept for presentations. He followed behind you, keeping a respectful distance. Not respectful enough to keep himself from staring at the curve of your ass in your dress as you walked up the stage stairs.

“Do you have the tape you need to show?” Your words went in one ear and out the other. Carter and Morris weren’t kidding. He hated to admit that those idiots were right about anything, but God, you were beautiful. His gaze was locked on you as squatted down next to the VCR, ejecting its previous contents. It seemed in that moment that you very much both realized that when Javier stood in front of you, you eye level with his waist, staring up at him, dangerously close to his coc-

“Uh, yeah, yeah sorry,” he shook his head slightly to snap himself out of the thought he was about to have. “Thanks.” he smiled sheepishly.

“Well I’m no technology expert, but all you should have to do is press play wherever you need to, and you should be good to go! Let me just roll this cart out for you and we’re good for you whenever you’re ready!” You began pushing the cart out onto the stage, but before you could get anywhere, Javi had his hand over yours.

“You don’t have to do that. I’m sure it’s probably heavy, I can push it.” He insisted.

You raised your eyebrows and gave him a look that made him step away.

“What, you think I can’t do it?” Defiantly, you pushed the cart out to the middle of the stage to prove a point, looking back at him and shrugging with an “I told you so” look on your face. Any other woman he had met would have thankfully given up the task, let alone offer to do it at all. At that moment, Javier Peña knew you were not just any other woman. And that- that terrified him in the best way possible.

Just before you hopped off the edge of the stage to re-join your class, you looked up at him as he ran his fingers through his locks of thick, curly brown hair, trying to regain his composure.

“Good luck up there, Mr. Peña.”

Javier couldn’t even tell you what had happened in the 30 minutes that he was up on stage. There were many times throughout his career where he had stared out into a sea of blank faces as he gave a presentation about intel, informats, wire taps… but having the eyes of 80 9 and 10 year olds glued to his every word was an absolutely terrifying experience. Not because he was nervous about the judgment of a child who may or may not even be able to tie their shoes or wipe their nose, but because of what they may say about him to you. It took everything in his power not to stare at you the entire time he was up there, but every time he glanced in your direction, your face lit up with a reassuring smile. You had even given him a little thumbs up when he had successfully started the VCR, playing a clip of Daren the D.A.R.E Lion.

As the presentation finished, the kids applauded and gave a unanimous “thank you!” prompted by the teachers.

As your class gathered behind you to walk down to the cafeteria, Maria tapped your shoulder.

“Take a picture, mija, it will last longer.”

You were too busy staring at Javi to even notice that Maria was talking to you. Her words went in one ear and out the other.

“Huh, what? Sorry, did you say something?”

“I said, take a picture, it will last longer.” Maria laughed to herself. “I don’t think your eyes have left him once since you walked in here.”

You hated to admit it, but it was true. You had known this man for less than an hour, and he already had butterflies dancing around in your stomach. God, what were you, 12?! Pull it together.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Maria.” Of course you did. If you were wearing pants, they would be up in flames. Liar, liar, pants on fire.

“I’ll take your class to lunch today. I’ll be back to help stack all of the chairs in a few. I’m sure he could use some help cleaning up, and I’ve heard that VCR is really difficult to work.” Maria nudged you before she turned around to collect your class and parade them out of the gym. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Trying to contain your excitement, you playfully rolled your eyes and shook your head.

The other teachers and students left, leaving just you and Javi. He gathered his things that he had left on the stage and started to make his way back down the stairs. It took him a moment to realize you were standing at the edge of the steps, arms crossed over your chest, smiling up at him.

“I’m sorry if the kids were rowdy. It’s been a zoo since there’s only a few days of school left.” You both let out a small chuckle. Now that you two were alone, you became very aware of how nervous you were.

“You did a really great job! Honestly, you’re the best person we’ve had since we’ve started doing these presentations. The guy we had last time, I can’t remember his name, something with an M?! Anyways, I don’t think he’s ever spoken to a child in his entire life, and there were definitely some tears.”

Definitely Morris, Javi noted to himself.

“Thanks, I uh- didn’t think I’d be so nervous to talk in front of a bunch of kids. I’m glad it wasn’t too bad. I should thank you for helping me with that video. Didn’t need to get my pride bruised in front of 10 year olds. Also glad I didn’t make anyone cry.”

You both let out small laughs, your cheeks revealing small smiles across your faces. While the silence between you grew, the distance between you began to shrink as you both subconsciously took a small step towards each other.

He watched as a small wave of sadness flooded your expression. “Stinks that this is the last week of presentations before the school year ends. it would have been nice to have you back.” You looked at him with a half hopeful smile. You saw the same feeling reflected back in him as his brow scrunched and bottom lip entered a small pout.

“Oh shit. Yeah, I uh, I guess I forgot it’s the end of the school year. That would make sense there wouldn’t be anymore presentations.” He rested one hand on his hip, as the other traveled through his thick, brown locks. You bit down on your bottom lip, stunned by his broadness and shoulders to waist ratio, which was made even more apparent as his fingers combed through his hair. His deep brown eyes met yours, melting you instantly. “If I had known that you would have been here, I would have signed up to come a lot earlier.”

Before you had a chance to recover yourself from the puddle you had just turned into, the cafeteria doors swung open once again. Maria was a woman on a mission. Her tiny, thin frame marched with purpose towards you both.

“Oh good thing I caught you, amor! I was just thinking that I had something important to tell Javier before he left and I’m so glad you’re here to hear it too. Javi happens to be a dear familiar friend, and I was just telling him before the presentation how excited I am to see him and his father at my cookout this Saturday! I know you had mentioned you were thinking about going! You’ll be there, won’t you Javier? Aren't you so excited to come to the party this Saturday?”

Maria and Javier entered a silent stare down. Their expressions allowed them to have an entire conversation without speaking a word.

There’s a party on Saturday? What are you talking about? What does this have to do with anything?

Dios Mio, Pendejo. Take the hint. I already invited her. She will be there on Saturday so you can see her again. Don’t mess this up.

“Oh really?” You chimed in, perhaps a bit too over enthusiastic. “I wasn’t really going to know anyone besides the staff at school, so it would be nice to see another familiar face!” In all honesty, you were trying to find a way out of going before just now. Huge social gatherings of strangers weren’t really your thing, but if it meant it was a chance to see Javi again, you would brave it.

“Oh yeah, the uh, the cookout! Yeah, uh, yeah, I’ll be there. It would be really nice to see you again, too.” Although Javier’s tone carried a tint of confusion, his smile was confirmed that his statement was genuine.

“Bueno!” Maria clasped her hands together and shook her head in delight. “So you will BOTH be there on Saturday!”

You could already feel your heart swelling at the prospect of seeing Javi again.

“Oh and mija”, Maria turned towards you, your face lighting up, wondering if she had even more good news to deliver. “They need you in the office. Isabella and Jorge got into a wrestling match in the cafeteria and the secretaries needed to call their parents. Oi, these niños are like wild animals, summer cannot come fast enough!”

“Of course they did. They might as well put WWE referee under our job description because it seems like that’s all I’m doing all day. It’s like herding feral cats.” you groaned. “Those two cannot be together next year…”

Javi let out a snort. “Sorry”, he said, trying to contain his laughter. You joined in, realizing the ridiculousness of your statement.

“Alright, well I guess that’s my cue to go. It was really nice to meet you, Javi. I’m really glad I get to see you again.” It took every ounce of strength in your body to move yourself out of the cafeteria doors. As you walked away, you turned once more to look back over your shoulder, to find that Javi’s eye’s hadn’t moved from your direction since you turned around. “See you on Saturday.”

Even after you were out of sight, Javi still stood frozen, his eyes wide and jaw still half open.

“Hola, earth to Javier, are you there?!” Maria interjected, waving her hand in front of Javi’s awe struck face.

Snapping out of his trance, Javier began to speak, but was stopped before he could get out a single word.

“Listen to me mijo. I want you to be happy. That was all Lucia asked for before she passed. So first and foremost, you are welcome.” Maria gestured, alluding to the fact that Javier owed her big time for what had just happened. “Secondly, she is a sweet girl. If you do anything to break her heart, so help me, I will come to the ranch and run you over with your father’s tractor. Understood?”

“Understood.” Javier understood that this was not a threat, it was a promise.

“Good. She’s a good one, Javier. She reminds me so much of your mother. Lucia would have loved her.” She reached up her hand to cup the side of Javi’s face, before bringing her other arm around him for a hug.

Javier exhaled, trying his best to hold back the tears that were welling in his eyes. It was the first time since returning home that he felt a sense of relief and comfort fill his body. Maybe, he was more than the man he was returning home from Colombia. Maybe, the people who loved him before he left still loved him now, despite the person he’d become. Maybe, just maybe, someone else could love him for the new man he now hoped to become.

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starlightsearches · 1 month ago

Note

Heloooos! I've been sober from using tumblr for almost two years but your recent Hux post has me relapsing and its all your doing in the best ways possible. If it gives you any inspo, could you mayhaps write a modern!hux who has reader as their personal guard? My current job has me babysitting a higher up as punishment (the guy makes my life miserable but if was The Armitage Hux I would bark if he asked). Like an enemies to lovers and refusing to just be his friend due to too many feelings ?????

Sleepless Nights

Thanks for the request, my love! Sorry if it's not "enemies" enough for you, I have this insane fear of people being angry with me so I've never been good at the whole enemies to lovers thing. Anyways, let me know if you like what you see :0) Comments, likes, and reblogs are very cool!

Warnings: Kind of slutty, kind of rambly, hux is kind of toxic, language. I think that's it!

You're about three bites into your wilty Caesar salad when the alarm on your phone chimes.

You fiddle with the volume buttons for a second before silencing the noise completely, steeling yourself in preparation for the look you just know Veronica is sending your way.

It's worse than you'd anticipated. You actually flinch a little when you meet her eyes.

She stabs at her own food ferociously, but doesn't take a bite of the pad thai she ordered, bringing the fork level with her gaze. Being on the business end of those tines makes your heart beat a little faster.

"I thought you had twenty minutes for lunch."

You sneak the lid of your Tupperware in between your fingers, slipping it back over the top what's left of your food.

"No . . . I said the meeting would be twenty minutes. I have to be back at my desk before he's done."

Veronica chews at her bottom lip, and you just know that—if you were sitting anywhere that wasn't right outside her boss's office—she'd be cussing you out for, once again, letting Hux take advantage of your truly incredible work ethic.

Lucky for you, if there's one thing your friend likes more than violent outbursts, it's office gossip. The urge overtakes her, and Veronica leans in closer with a passing glance at Phasma's open door, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

"What's his deal lately, anyway?"

Interesting. You thought you were the only one who had noticed a change in Hux's temperament.

He had a reputation, of course—there was a reason he'd had five different executive assistants in the past year—and everybody checked over their shoulders before they bitched about him in the break room.

It hit you hardest—always in the blast radius, so to speak—with your desk just outside his door. You'd spent plenty of time rolling your eyes behind his back, or muttering curses under your breath when you heard his door latch.

But you'd put up with a lot more for a lot less, and you found you were able to take most of your boss's asshole-ish tendencies in stride.

So what if the hours are long? Sitting at your desk late into the night, filing memos and typing up emails between coffee runs was lonely, but your nights before the job were, too. At least now you were getting paid.

The past few weeks had been strange, though. Longer hours, later nights. His presence hovering over your shoulder or watching you through the crack in his door, that nervous energy always focused on you, waiting for you to misstep.

Then there were the calls during the few moments you were outside of the office, filled with reminders for routines you'd never once forgotten. Hux had been fidgety and restless during those morning debriefs and stumbling over his words half the time he passed your desk with some new directive.

"What's his deal ever?" you counter, and she snorts—then when that feels too mean, "he said he hasn't been sleeping."

Veronica purses her lips, smiling around the next word.

"Oh."

You really don't have the time to wait around for an explanation—the elevator up to the top floor already takes three minutes on its own—but, god, the way she says that word stops you like an ice pick to the heart.

"What?"

"Come on," she rolls her eyes, wondering how you could be so obtuse, "everybody knows that when a guy says he can't sleep it's because . . ."

She waits for you to fill in the rest.

"Uhhhhh . . ."

"It means," Veronica sighs, yanking you closer by the arm so nobody will overhear, "that he's been thinking about you. You know, like—" she mimics the beat of some cheesy porn intro, with the bwops and the chicka-waahs.

As if you didn't already get the message.

Your stomach rolls, and not with hunger—although you're wasting valuable time you could have to shovel the rest of your lunch into your mouth on the way back to your desk.

It takes a moment, but you manage a weak laugh, shaking yourself out of your stupor.

Hux didn't think about you like that. He didn't think about you at all unless he was reading his dictations over your shoulder while you were still writing them, just in case he needed to preemptively correct your mistakes.

"Uh, okay, you're insane."

Veronica's brows come together at the challenge—you know she won't stand for that. She scans the immediate area until she narrows in on a victim.

"Hey, Stephen."

The new intern's on his third trip past her desk since you got here, turning so quick to the side you're surprised his head stays attached to his neck.

He's been waiting for this moment all day.

Stephen's cute—dark, fluffy hair and big eyes—eager like a puppy with his clumsy, loping walk . . . and he's got no fucking chance. Veronica would chew him into pieces.

He runs over to her desk, totally clueless to that.

"What's up?"

Veronica smiles, leaning over her desk so the top of her button-down starts to split open. Stephen develops a twitch in his eye trying to keep his gaze level with hers.

"What does it mean when a guy tells a girl that he's having trouble sleeping?"

He relaxes visibly, like someone just asked him the color of the sky.

"Oh, yeah. It means he wants to fuck her."

Stephen gives the answer to you—well aware of his role—then looks to Veronica, waiting for a good boy and a dog treat and a pat on the head.

You feel like you've stepped into the twilight dimension. When the fuck did that become common knowledge?

"Okay, you're both insane, and now I'm running late."

Your steps are harried on the way back to the elevator, begging the engine to move faster or the second-hand on your watch to tick slower. Trying not to think about your boss, thinking about you every night, twisted up in his sheets.

Because, yeah, you had your daydreams. Everybody needs something to distract from the drudgery of all those fucking emails. It never mattered much to you who had you pinned against the shelves in the supply closet of your mind.

Just a little entertainment to wake you up during the afternoon slump—feverish hands and desperation and the crisp smell of copy paper.

But you've always had a thing for a well-cut suit. And Hux had plenty of those.

So what if you were kind of into him and his weird little hard-ass routine? You'd never dream of going any further than your daydreams.

But was he going further? And what did that look like?

Your palms are sweating when you get back to your desk, and you can't get the image out of your head—Hux with sweat beading down the taut skin of his neck, with his arms caging you against a wall, with his hips pinning yours against the hard edge of his desk.

You hardly have time to plant your ass in your chair before you hear the tell-tale footsteps around the corner.

Speak of the devil—or, you know, daydream about fucking him.

"Any calls?"

Hux barely glances in your direction—always on the move lately—no room in his schedule to actually stop at your desk and speak to you. You'd guess he's only got time for three directives before he's out of earshot.

Good news. Maybe you could make it out of here before midnight.

"I'm still working through them, sir, but I'll let you know if anything important has come through."

Total lie. You haven't even looked at the phone. And you can't look him in the eye either, feeling flushed and frantic.

Oh god. Do you look flushed and frantic?

Hux doesn't notice either way. Maybe Veronica was wrong and decided to ruin your entire life on a whim.

"Make sure you have a car prepared for the event on Friday. I won't stay longer than twenty minutes."

"Of course, sir. I'll call and let him know."

You had already made that call, but you'd have to update Mitaka, still. That's ten minutes less than the original time you gave him.

He's half-way into his office when he turns back for his last demand, "and I'll need you late, again, tonight."

Fuck. So close. You'd have to reschedule that date with your vibrator.

"Of course, sir. Whatever you need."

I'll need you late, again, tonight?

Could he make it any more fucking obvious?

Hux feels like slamming his head against the wall. He would, maybe, if he wasn't sure you'd hear the rattling window and come to see what his problem was. And that would only present more opportunities for him to make a fool of himself.

He certainly doesn't need any more of those.

It seemed like good advice when it was first given to him—"spending more time together" would be an easy first step, if it didn't also involve time-and-a-half for you. The paychecks he was signing were starting to look as ridiculous as the little infatuation he's been carrying.

Not that it mattered. If money was what you wanted, he'd give it. Anything to endear himself to you.

But the extra time—and the money—aren't helping. You're as distant as ever, maybe moreso, with the fog of sleeplessness and your inevitable irritability at his constant demands.

It's his own damn feelings that get in the way. He can't concentrate, not with the shape of your legs in those pencil skirts. He spends most meetings in wondering how to find out the name of the perfume you wear.

And where he can find a bottle of it for personal use.

Nights, still, are worse.

That's where this all started. Hux hardly ever had dreams, and the few dreams he did have in those short, unconscious hours were never memorable.

Then he woke with the feeling soft skin enveloping his cheeks, tasting you on his lips. And god, those noises you were making for him, your fingers through his hair, begging for him to come closer, to give you more.

It flipped the switch. You went from a passive—albeit attractive—body in a chair to a person. A someone.

A need.

He knew it was wrong. He knew, even with his sweat soaking the sheets and his heavy hand resting on his abdomen that this would ruin so much for him.

The mind can be reasoned with, if the body is hungry enough. And Armitage is so, so hungry for you.

On the nights he manages to resist, he imagines, wonders. Are you alone? Do you think of him? Or are you warming someone else's bed, rolling from their sheets with a heavy sigh every time Armitage's contact pops up on your phone screen?

That worry has him sick to his stomach.

So it's best to keep you close. Keep an eye on you.

Hux looks up from the stack of reports he's been reviewing, shifts in his chair just right until he can see you through the window outside his office without you noticing him.

It puts a god-awful crick in his neck if he sits like this too long. His chiropractor commented on it during his last appointment.

Normally there's not much to see—a Solitare window pulled up when you think he won't notice, the shape of your back curved gracefully. Sometimes your bra visible through the fabric of your thin, white shirts.

Not today, though. You're sitting ram-rod straight, one hand brushing some loose hair behind your ear. All your attention focused on the towering man in front of you, his arms propped against the top edge of your desk and a leering grin on his face.

Ren.

Armitage almost falls with the force of his shock, and then settles along with an empty rage in the pit of his stomach.

Of course Ren would have noticed Hux's preoccupation. And of course he would wield Hux's feelings against him.

There's an animal inside his chest, clawing to get out, giving him half a mind to stomp out there, chase Ren away with some biting remark and a hand on the back of your chair.

But there's a fear that runs deeper. Maybe you'd prefer someone like Ren.

A man who is in every way Hux's opposite. Volatile. Domineering. Powerfully built.

Could Armitage compete?

His inadequacy floods him with a distasteful anger. Armitage will put an end to it immediately. Call you into his office and berate you for socializing during working hours, shame you for inappropriate and obvious mooning over a superior.

He'll make you feel small, ashamed. The way he feels right now.

Too late for all his bravado. Ren steps away from your desk with one glance back, a knowing smirk on his face. Hux almost feels like it's a look meant for him, like Ren can find his gaze through the wall.

Armitage stands from the chair, unsure what his purpose is and knowing he'll defer to anger, as always. Knowing it will make you hate him more than you probably already do.

You don't start immediately when the door opens, and he can't tell from his view of the back of your head what you're thinking.

How many times had he wished he could delve into your mind, pull out gauzy strings of your memories, any thought or emotional tug you'd had in his vicinity? How many times had he hoped you might give him a hint or a sign that you felt anything for him at all?

Armitage coughs, and you jump, turning in your chair until you meet his eyes.

"My office," he tells you, and turns back without waiting to see if you'll follow.

Your steps are quiet in the already quiet office. Everyone else has gone home by now, leaving the two of you alone, and the lights buzz menacingly over the sound of your heels rustling against the carpet. You take your usual seat across from his desk. Armitage stays on his feet, hoping to channel his anxious energy somewhere, liking the way it feels to tower over you.

"Did you need something, sir?"

He knows you're nervous. You don't try to hide it, fidgeting with your fingers, chewing at your lip, avoiding his eyes. Armitage wishes that it was him that made you feel that way, not his position, not his reputation for anger.

"What did Ren want?" he asks.

Your lips part, and then come back together in hesitation, planning an appropriate answer, wondering how he'll react.

"His assistant put in her two weeks notice today," you tell him.

He hums, waiting for more. Your lips flush a lighter shade when you press them more tightly together, and he knows you'll acquiesce.

"He offered me the position, sir."

Armitage sees red, feels his hands curl into fists where they rest behind his back. That arrogant, underhanded, low-life bastard. Hux would . . .

He keeps a cool tone, arches a brow. "And?"

"I told him I appreciated the offer but I'd prefer keep my current position."

And that gives him pause. Has the strange, effervescent hope alight in his chest, but something else snuffs it out.

"Why?"

Hux can't hide the skepticism in his voice, the aching disbelief that you would choose him in any context, but especially this.

Everyone knew working under Armitage was . . . trying. He saw the looks of pity you received from other secretaries as they packed their bags for the night, knew they were taking some solace at your misery while sipping on their happy-hour cocktails. He's well aware that he is demanding, and stubborn, and always so exacting.

He's like that in his personal life, too. Which is why he is always alone.

Your brows come together in an obvious but uncharacteristic sign of anger.

"I'm not afraid of hard work, sir."

"I am aware of that, but—"

Why is he so desirous to argue against himself? You are the best assistant he's ever had. Unfortunately, pushing people away is a skill he's mastered over and over and over again.

"Do you want me to leave?" you interrupt him, arms crossing defensively over your chest.

Part of him wants to say yes. To rid himself of this weakness you've blossomed in him, to keep everything under his control and eliminate all other variables.

Your lips press tighter together—Hux would assume he's hurt you, if he thought he had that kind of power.

He's been silent too long. You stand from your chair, brush your hands over your skirt to smooth out the wrinkles.

"Alright, then." You speak without meeting his eyes, heading for the door.

Armitage isn't sure what makes you stop, not until you glance down at your wrist, and he mirrors the movement, sees his own hand circling it.

A perfect fit.

"Sir?"

Your voice is hazy, blurred out by the warmth of your skin and the smell of your perfume and the way your eyes go wide when Armitage makes his approach.

Without saying a word or offering a hint of an apology, Hux is kissing you.

#armitage hux x reader #armitage hux x you #armitage hux au #general hux au #general hux x reader #general hux x you #star wars fanfiction #star wars fic #my writing

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television-overload · 2 months ago

Text

of our own making: beginnings

(an X-Files fanfic)

Chapter 1/2 - puzzle pieces

[Read on AO3]

A/N: True to my word (for once) here's a fic set in my "of our own making" universe, picking up right where we left off in the chapter before the epilogue! If you haven't read "of our own making," you might be a little lost, but I can't stop you from reading it anyway. The second part will be posted tomorrow <3

This is it, the thing she’s scarcely allowed herself to hope for. Mulder—all of him. As a friend. As a partner. As a husband. Now, a lover.

Her family.

“Your brother’s an idiot,” he says into her mouth, startling a huff of a laugh out of her before he devotes himself entirely to the kiss, giving his utmost care and attention to the fullness of her bottom lip.

She smiles and pulls back just long enough to look at him, his shining, tear-filled eyes and radiant grin making her stomach do somersaults.

“Shut up, Mulder,” she says, cupping his face between her hands.

His fingers brush her tears away, leaving only happiness in their wake.

And she kisses him again.

-.-.-

His awareness of his surroundings, at the moment—though usually rather fine-tuned—is limited only to the soft lips beneath his own, and the echo of I love you, too in his ears. He almost doesn't hear the crescendoing whimpering sounds coming from out in the hall, but she does.

“I guess we should have known that was coming,” she says with a small smile, brushing his hair from his forehead and settling her hand over his cheek to stop him.

At some point, they had wound up reclined on the bed, her hair fanned out over the pillow behind her. His head falls limply into the crook of her neck in defeat, as if he could hide there for just a moment more before their daughter’s complaining turns into full-blown tears.

“Maybe if we stay quiet, she'll…” He trails off, freezing in place. Scully follows suit, turning her ear to the door that sits ajar. It's silent. They wait, neither daring to make a move as they listen to see if the noises will continue, but they don't. It stays blissfully quiet as they both subconsciously hold their breath. The interruption gives him an idea.

“Hey, Scully,” he whispers after a moment, pressing a tentative kiss to her lips, as if testing to see if one tiny peck on the lips might disturb whatever peace their daughter is currently enjoying in her bouncy chair in the hall. “What do you think of me doing some redecorating in my room?”

He runs his hand up her side in a gentle motion, then back down, repeating this pattern like it’s second nature.

“Mm,” she hums, lost in the sensation of his touch. It's new, but at the same time, it's as old as their trust in each other. It’s been there from the very beginning, from the moment his fingertips grazed her back and declared her markings to be mosquito bites.

“I'm thinking some light pink for the walls,” he continues, looking at her intensely to gauge her response.

This gets her attention. “Pink, Mulder?” she asks, a crease appearing between her brows. He resists the urge to smooth it with his lips, laughter bubbling in his chest.

“Yeah,” he says, beaming down at her. “And I've heard they make these tiny little beds for babies. Cribs, I think they're called?”

Now, his meaning cannot be mistaken. He watches Scully's face as her brain connects the pieces of the puzzle, and her expression turns to one of surprise. “Mulder—”

“I mean, if you don't have any objections, that is,” he says, walking back his offer just a little. Has he been too forward? Too presumptive? The last thing he wants to do is overwhelm her. If she needs her space—

“Mulder…” she repeats his name again. And then she's pulling him close, her arms wrapped around his neck. He settles on his side on the bed, pulling her with him and not letting go. She buries her face in his chest, and he has an inkling that her motive might be to conceal another round of tears.

“Is that a yes?” he asks, grinning into her flaming red hair.

She springs another kiss on him in answer, and his heart gives a flutter.

This time, the cry from the hall is sharp, and Scully pulls back again, leaving Mulder to chase her lips as she grudgingly separates herself from his embrace.

“I have a catalog you can look at in the cabinet,” she says as she gets up from the bed, discreetly wiping a tear from her eye as her lips curl up in a smile. “No hot pink. And no Teletubbies.”

She walks backwards slowly through the door, her eyes never leaving his. As soon as she's out of his sight, Madeline’s cries instantly quiet.

Mama's here, baby girl.

Mulder flops back onto the bed, an irrepressible smile adorning his face as he stares up at the ceiling. He can still feel the imprint of her lips on his, her hands in his hair, on his cheek.

He wonders if he should send Bill a thank you card. Scully’s phone still lays where they had left it on top of the bed spread, mercifully silent.

He knows they haven't heard the last from the eldest Scully sibling, but they have at least earned a brief period of peace.

She loves him, and he loves her. And what everyone else thinks?

Well, he doesn't particularly care.

-.-.-

Stepping out of Scully’s room feels like entering a parallel dimension. Fifteen minutes ago, he was a man desperately in love with his best friend, silently pining for her while coparenting the child they had adopted together. Now, things have changed. He’s seeing everything in a whole new light. There’s a lot still to be defined, yes, but things are different. Noticeably so.

That’s not his best friend over there feeding the baby a bottle. Well, it is, but it’s also his wife, who it turns out also loves him. Go figure.

There’s a photo of their wedding on the mantle. They put it there for when the representative from the adoption agency came to do a home visit, but she’d kept it up. That meant something, now that he knew. Now that the truth behind their fake relationship had been revealed, and it wasn't as fake as he'd thought.

She smiles at him as he comes to sit beside her on the couch, neither of them saying a word. He gets the sense that she’s thinking along the same lines as him, wondering what this will mean for the plans they have made. Nothing has to change, does it? Some part of him had always hoped they would end up here, he just didn’t think it would be so soon.

Starting something like this with lifelong ramifications is scary enough on its own. To do it while sleep deprived and in the midst of the biggest life change he’s ever experienced is crazy—although it’s no different than the typical Mulder and Scully level of crazy, he supposes. They’ve always done things in their own way. It wouldn’t be them if it wasn’t.

“Are you—?”

“Have you—?”

They both start speaking at the same time, chuckling awkwardly when they realize what they’ve done.

“You go first,” Scully says, her cheeks reddening as she glances down at Maddie to avoid eye contact.

He clears his throat. “Have you thought about calling Charlie?” he asks, forcing the words from his lips. The last call with a Scully hadn’t gone well at all, obviously, but he has higher hopes for the youngest. It’s the right thing to do, and they’ve already waited longer than they should have. They can’t keep putting it off forever.

“I’d be surprised if he hasn’t already gotten an earful from Bill,” Scully answers, a frown appearing on her lips. He drapes an arm over the back of the couch, his fingers coming to rest on her shoulder, massaging there lightly. “Could you burp Maddie?” she asks, starting to pass the baby off to him. “I’ll go get my phone.”

He holds Madeline by the armpits, carefully transferring her to his chest as he watches Scully get up and leave. “You don’t have to do it right this second,” he calls across the room, beginning the steady rhythm of pats on the baby’s back.

“No, you’re right,” she says, breezing back into the living room. “I want to talk to him. Now’s as good a time as any.” Before he can say another word, she’s already dialing his number, curling up with her legs crossed on the cushion beside him.

He feels like an intruder on the upcoming conversation, though he knows he’s almost certainly welcome. And after how the talk with Bill Jr. had gone, he’s not about to leave her to face this by herself again, though he doubts they’ll have a repeat performance of what had happened before.

She sits so close to him, he can feel the warmth of her body. He can hear with perfect clarity when Charlie’s voice comes across the speaker.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Charlie.”

“Hi, Dana.”

On his shoulder, Maddie lets out a burst of air, relaxing into his hold. Scully flashes him a small smile.

“So,” Charlie continues, the silence lasting just a little too long.

“I have a feeling you know why I’m calling,” Scully starts, her posture growing tense. “Has Bill spoken to you?”

Her fears are confirmed in the sigh that comes across the line next.

“Yeah. Yeah, he has,” he answers.

Scully settles back into the cushions of the couch, her shoulders slumping. “Charlie–”

“I've been wondering since Christmas what you guys were actually up to,” he says, just the barest hint of laughter in his tone of voice. “I feel like I can die happy now finally having an answer.”

She sighs, running a hand over her face in relief that he seems to be joking rather than taking it the way Bill had. “Well, don't do that. Your niece would like to meet you.”

“Niece, huh?” he asks. “Nice. Bill couldn't even tell me her name, if you can believe that.”

Mulder could. Mulder could definitely believe that. His heart broke for Scully.

“It’s Madeline. Maddie,” she answers.

Mulder wonders what time it is, wherever Charlie is. He sounds tired. But then, so would Mulder if he’d just had an exhausting conversation with Scully’s older brother, so he really couldn’t fault him for that.

“Please tell me you gave her Mulder's last name,” Charlie pleads. “That would really send Bill over the edge.”

Scully bites back a smile, and it sends a thrill right through him. He’d never get tired of hearing her say their daughter’s full name aloud. The honor of her passing on both his sister's name and his last name is one he'll never be able to repay, no matter how much he may try.

“Madeline Samantha Mulder,” she confirms, suppressing a laugh at the way her brother cheers.

“Yes! Oh, Dana, have I ever told you that you're my favorite?” he says. “Melissa would be so proud of you.”

Mulder watches as her eyes turn wistful, seemingly focused on something thousands of miles away. “Thanks, Charlie,” she says, biting her lip. “I wish—” The next words seem to catch in her throat, but Mulder understands, and he knows Charlie does too. He holds out his hand, delighting in the way she seamlessly slips hers into his palm without even looking. She tries to finish her thought, but it isn’t necessary. “You know, I wish she—”

“I do too.” Charlie speaks softly.

The line falls silent for a moment, the two siblings lost in the memory of their fallen sister, and Mulder lost in the memory of his.

“She told me about Mulder once, you know,” Charlie says eventually. “Years ago.”

Mulder shifts, intrigued.

“She did?” Scully asks.

“Yeah, after you were…” He trails off here and whistles an eerie, spooky-sounding tune rather than finishing his sentence.

Mulder grins, and Scully rolls her eyes. Predictable like the tides in the ocean, both of them are.

“She told me she'd just met our future brother-in-law,” he continues. “I didn't think she was serious. Just another of her wild predictions that doesn't come close to coming true. When I saw you both at Christmas, though…”

“I'm sorry we didn't invite you,” Scully interrupts him.

Mulder can almost see the younger man waving off her apology on the other side of the phone. “Nah, I've been to a fake wedding before,” he says nonchalantly. “You seen one, you've seen 'em all.”

Scully shakes her head, her eyes filled with mirth instead of the sadness that had been there before. For a few moments, they sit in comfortable silence, thankful to Charlie for being his usual, understanding self.

“Bill was pretty worked up, though,” he adds after a pause, “yelling about a “sham marriage” and all that.”

Scully sighs—frustrated, but not surprised, by Bill's continued behavior.

“But it isn't, is it?” Charlie asks knowingly.

Scully’s eyes flick up to meet Mulder’s, and he gives her a small smile and a nod, his fingers reaching for hers on her lap.

“No. It's not,” she answers breathlessly, swallowing back some emotion. Tears prick at Mulder’s eyes too, and he bows toward her to press a kiss to her forehead. “Turns out we're really bad about lying to ourselves out of some misguided fear of being open with each other,” she adds.

Charlie gives an exaggerated gasp. “No, you?”

Scully closes her eyes and sighs, her lips curled up in a smile. Mulder gives her fingers a squeeze.

“I'm sorry, Charles,” she says.

“Hey, just invite me to your next wedding, ‘kay?”

Now, that's an idea…

-.-.-

The rest of the day is spent looking after Madeline, marveling at her tiny features and trying to catch some sleep whenever she does—a task that Mulder, notorious insomniac, finds impossible. Scully insists he try to rest, though, and only when she puts on some kind of chick-flick period drama as background noise does he have any success. He conks out right on her shoulder before Colin Firth’s Mr. Darcy even appears on screen, his jaw hanging open slightly in his sleep.

She watches him for a moment, noting every freckle on his skin, the slope of his nose, the flop of hair hanging over his forehead now that his hair has started to grow back out. Maddie lays tucked away in her pack ‘n play already, swaddled in a pink blanket and snoozing peacefully.

She could sit like this forever, Scully thinks, listening to the even breaths of the two people she loves most in this world; But unfortunately, reason must prevail. She can almost hear the parenting class instructor’s voice in her ear reminding her to sleep when the baby sleeps, so she dutifully reaches for the knit blanket on the cushion beside her, and drapes it over herself and Mulder.

He won’t mind, she remembers with a smile as she curls into his side, tucking her feet underneath herself. Since this morning, he’d hardly been able to keep his hands off her, personal space apparently a thing of a bygone era. They could live in an apartment half the size of this one, with as close as Mulder had stuck to her all day. His hand was practically glued to her lower back, even when she was just putting away dishes or preparing formula for Maddie.

He seemed to revel in this newly sanctioned element of their relationship, and was taking full advantage of it at every possible opportunity. Not that she was complaining; She was as guilty of it as he was, if not more so. For years, she’d had to resist the temptation to hold him. There had to be a limit to the friendly touches they could bestow, or they would’ve been forced to acknowledge that their feelings were anything but platonic.

But now, they’ve broken free of those limitations. He is hers, and she is his. In every possible way.

She sighs, leaning her cheek against his warm shoulder. The piano music coming from the TV is barely audible, but as her eyes drift shut, it relaxes her. In his sleep, Mulder shifts, nestling deeper into the cushions. His head lolls to the side, landing on top of her head, and she feels him exhale. The picture they must pose is like two pieces of a puzzle, perfectly fitted together. For the first time in her adult life, she feels complete.

She has all she needs right here.

-.-.-

After dinner, and a sponge bath for Madeline that leaves her less than thrilled, Scully sends Mulder off to take a shower while she puts the baby to bed.

“Let’s get you all warm,” she says to Maddie as she lays her down on the changing table. She grabs an infant-sized diaper and puts it on her with practiced ease, smiling at the sound of water running and Mulder humming on the other side of the wall.

That's her husband.

“Daddy has a nice voice, doesn’t he?” she says conversationally, maneuvering Maddie’s arms and legs into the onesie. “I’ll spare you from mine.”

Before she zips up the pajamas, she bends over and tickles her tummy, pressing a kiss to her baby soft skin.

“All clean after your bath, hmm? Doesn’t it feel nice?”

Madeline blinks up at her, apparently deciding whether or not to forgive her for the cold and wet first experience in the baby bathtub. She had been cranky in the last half hour, even before the bath. It’s definitely time for bed.

She fights sleep for as long as possible, draining her bottle quickly and then crying inconsolably until her exhaustion wins out and her eyes close. Scully watches her, her face relaxed in sleep, and can hardly believe this is her life.

She rocks her for a few more minutes, listening as the shower eventually turns off in the bathroom. A muffled swear sounds through the wall, followed by the clatter of several objects hitting the floor. Her collection of lotions, if she had to guess. Not breakable, at least, but to be fair to Mulder, they were in a spot that was just asking for them to be knocked over.

With one last glance back at Maddie, who is mercifully still asleep, she slowly rises from the rocking chair. Taking extra care not to jostle her in the transfer, she places her in her bassinet, watching as her chest rises and falls evenly with every breath.

A gentle knock on the bedroom door pulls her from her reverie, and she feels her heart give a lurch. She pulls herself away from Maddie’s bassinet, her stomach fluttering with butterflies as she approaches the doorway. Deep breaths, Dana. It’s just Mulder, she reminds herself.

Her hand clasps the doorknob, and she twists it, pulling the door open. At the sight of him, her lips curl into a smile, and she feels all traces of nervousness melt away.

He’s looking at her with that boyish smile of his, his hair all spiky from the shower. Droplets of water bead on the tips of his hair like early morning dew, every so often dripping onto the soft gray t-shirt he wears. Each one leaves a mark where it lands, absorbed into the fabric.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi.”

He has the pillow from his bed tucked under his arm like he’s ready for a sleepover, and he fiddles with the hem of the pillowcase, waiting oh so patiently for her next move.

She makes it.

Grabbing him by the arm, she pulls him inside, walking backwards with him slowly as he grins at her.

He kicks the door shut behind them.

-.-.-

Tag List: @today-in-fic @agent-troi @angegova @baronessblixen @calimanc @captainsolocide @cutemothman @danasculls @deathsbestgirl @edierone @enigmaticxbee @figureofdismay @frogsmulder @hippocampouts @invidiosa @is-on-its-way @limnsaber @monaiargancoconutsoy @numinousmysteries @pookie-mulder @primrose19 @randomfoggytiger @skelavender @skylarksong @stephy-gold @teenie-xf @the-redhead-in-a-dress @vincentsleftear

#msr #txf #x files #xf fanfic #my fanfiction #fox mulder #dana scully #of our own making #ooom #msr adoption fic

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midnight1nk · 9 days ago

Text

y̶͙̍o̶̳̚ṵ̶́r̵͓͗ ̵͚̔m̷͖̋o̴̳͆v̵̧̓e̴̦̒ ̴͕́S̵̭̎M̵͙̓G̶̖͘4̷̬̆

IGBP REFERENCES & CONNECTIONS IN "THE MARIO PC VIRUS" EPISODE

[spoilers ahead]

✧

Ambition

the project SMG4 is working on and motive

[The Mario PC Virus // timestamp 0:10]

[It's Gotta Be Perfect movie // timestamp 0:56]

"Say the line, SMG4!"

[The Mario PC Virus // timestamp 0:10]

[It's Gotta Be Perfect movie // timestamp 0:20]

Need Some Editing Help?

Computer buddy

[The Mario PC Virus // timestamp 2:04 to 2:25]

[It's Gotta Be Perfect movie // timestamp 4:02 to 4:19]

Leave A Note

oh hey, Windows Notepad

[The Mario PC Virus // timestamp 2:28 to 2:43]

[It's Gotta Be Perfect movie // timestamp 4:02 to 4:19]

(and the fact that SMG4 uses a Windows PC ~Ink)

Every Mario's Worried for SMG4

[The Mario PC Virus // timestamp 3:28]

[SMG4: Mario Steals The Constitution // timestamp 2:50]

A Loss of Work and Patience

An event cuts off Four from his progress and noise being what ultimately pushes him to take action

Plus, Mario Buddy plays "relaxing" music for SMG4, which 4 is not a fan

[The Mario PC Virus // timestamp 3:30 to 3:50]

SMG4: "SHUT UP!! CAN YOU ALL SHUT UP?!?! LOOK AT WHAT YOU'VE DONE!!!"

[It's Gotta Be Perfect movie // timestamp 3:25 to 3:55]

They're Always Watching

File Names (as much as I could decipher) from left to right, top to bottom:

[Default]

Blue Screen

Green Screen

Pure Red Screen

Pure Green Screen

Pure Blue Screen

Green 1

Green 2

purple 1

purple 1\puzzle

[The Mario PC Virus // timestamp 6:11]

Left to right, top to bottom:

[Default]

Blue Screen

Pure Red Screen

Pure Green Screen

Pure Blue Screen

green screen

purple screen

vnooom(??)

name(??)

[It's Gotta Be Perfect movie // timestamp 1:07 to 1:09, 2:44]

(Gonna do a whole theory dedicated to Goop!4 and bring back my analysis of the eye designs ~Ink, again)

[It's Gotta Be Perfect movie]

PC Takeover Through Mother Board and Mind

Four's PC controlling its system vs the PC controlling Four

[The Mario PC Virus // timestamp 0:05 to 0:10, 8:03 to 8:16]

[It's Gotta Be Perfect Movie Countdown stream]

Did Somebody Call For (Military) Backup?

[The Mario PC Virus // timestamp 9:30 to 13:53]

[It's Gotta Be Perfect movie // timestamp 13:39 to 13:53]

A Sacrifice

Time, sweat, and tears went into his work but he was forced to left behind (the virus, to save 3)

[The Mario PC Virus // timestamp 11:58]

[It's Gotta Be Perfect movie // timestamp 1:07 to 1:09, 2:44]

Your End of the Deal

a deal offered through the computer buddy to aid Four's work but they demand something in return (star of Four's videos vs. control over Four)

[The Mario PC Virus // timestamp 12:06 to 12:40]

[It's Gotta Be Perfect movie // timestamp 30:58 to 31:11]

The Choice

knowing his self-worth :)

[The Mario PC Virus // timestamp 12:44 to 12:50]

[It's Gotta Be Perfect movie // timestamp 34:00 to 35:00]

.・-: ✧ :--: ✧ :-・.

Ink here! That's all the ones I could find, but if I missed one, let me know, and I'll add it to the list. Four has really come a long way, and, believe it or not, he learned his lesson from IGBP.

Of course, he accidentally installed Mario Buddy, not a suspicious keyboard offered by Mr Puzzles. But once he realized what he had done, he tried everything he could to get rid of the program (after some fun).

By the end, when Bonzi offered to give Four's files back while in turn allowing the PC buddy to be the star of his video, Four had a choice. Past Four wouldn't have hesitated because that literally was his work. I've been in a situation like this and golly, I would've done anything to get it all back. Instead, Four gave his PC up, similar to how Four gave up the USB with the perfect video (one he has worked on for WEEKS nonstop) to save SMG3.

(...should I even count all the scenes where SMG4 and SMG3 caring for one another?)

AND despite everything, he is still SMG4, a content creator with the wish to make people happy. Well, of course he wants his videos to be higher quality. It's his job as a YT creator and meme guardian, you can't just ask him to NOT make videos. The whole reason IGBP happened in the first place is because he felt that he wasn't good enough for his friends, driving himself to be perfect to prove that he deserves the Crew. But lesson learned, through Three's speech: he doesn't need to be perfect, his friends will always be there for him regardless. They care for him and it was worth risking their lives to save him from the possession.

He can always make another video but they can't have another SMG4.

Whatever his next big project is (the Castle, Meme Factory, videos in general), he'll do it with passion but never alone. Just as Four said at the end of IGBP: "...it may be different, but as long as we're all together, I'm sure it's gonna be perfect!"

So, he made his choice, giving up his PC because there is nothing to prove to anyone.

so.... SMG4 Team....

WHAT'S WITH THE IGBP CALLBACKS—

#smg4 #smg4 its gotta be perfect #smg4 igbp #smg4 spoilers #puzzlevision 2 #goop!SMG4 #ink rambles #chanting GOOP!4 GOOP!4

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libraryofloveletters · 1 year ago

Text

chapter one: colour me red

Chalres Leclerc x Fem!Reader + Carlos Sainz Jr x Fem!Reader

Warnings: new relationships, a little bit of flirting, carlos is having some bad thought - malice from carlos as well, charles is oblivious, alcohol and the consumption of, reader is getting caught in a wicked web already, a bit of lying and one hint to a sexual innuendo

Word Count: 1.3k

Author's Note: welcome to my new series! chapter one isn't very long, just an opening little thing but chapter two will be juicy and I will be posting the first insta file on Sunday :) I'm not sure how often I'll be updating as I have classes but I will try to get chapters out to you as often as possible :) I hope y'all enjoy it!

Call My Name Masterlist

Preseason was such a boring time to be a Formula One driver.

Most of their responsibilities were turning up for events being hosted by sponsors and attending multiple meetings to make sure that they have everything they'd need in the car. As much as that does benefit them, they would much rather be on track.

Hence why they were so glad today was the last of the preseason events. Ferrari was hosting their season opener at Maranello this evening.

Carlos has been twirling around from the moment he arrived, being dragged from one sponsor to the other as if he didn't already see them at some point in the last few weeks. The one person he was really looking for was his teammate, Charles.

The Monegasque driver had been hinting to Carlos that he's seeing someone, and that he would be bringing her to the event to meet everyone. He can still hear Charles' words in his head; a beautiful woman, god she's so beautiful.

Carlos, whose curiosity got the best of him, went looking for this beautiful woman online, searching every variation of a headline he could think of and yet, nothing.

He was starting to believe that Charles made her up.

Speaking of Charles, he was nowhere to be found. He figured he'd get a drink and then head out in search of his friend.

He isn't sure what came over him as he approached the bar and as much as he knew staring was rude, he couldn't help himself.

To his left, sat the most beautiful woman he had seen in his life; hair curled and tossed over her shoulders, her complexion complimented the red dress she had on and Carlos' eyes wandered over her legs, crossed over one another and he looked up and down until he stopped at the black heels she had on - the bottoms red like her dress. Expensive, he thought to himself.

A woman's voice breaks his thoughts; "did your mother not tell you that staring was rude?"

He smiles when his eyes meet hers. "Only if there's a reason I shouldn't be staring."

"So you're saying," you twirled the straw in your glass. Carlos notices your manicured nails, French tip - a term he learnt from his sisters. "That there's a reason you should be staring at me?"

"Can't help myself," he smiles again, stepping closer before sitting on the stool next to hers. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

The woman laughs, her hand resting on his arm that was stretched out over the bar counter. Carlos' knees bumped with hers, her own leg shifts, stretching out and her foot pressed to the bottom handle of his seat.

Carlos is lost in thought, watching as your lips wrap around the straw. His mind is filthy, he can't help but think what your mouth would feel like around his - You called him out to him.

"Does that line ever work for you?"

"Sometimes."

"Well," she smiles at him, her nails scratching over his arm before moving it. "You're not so bad yourself," she smiles at him sweetly.

Carlos sits with the woman for a while longer, buying her another drink as they chatted; he revealed more than she did, she simply nodded along and when he asked what she's doing here, she told him she's been invited.

As has everyone else; he tells her and she smiles, shrugging.

Someone rests a hand on her lower back, causing her to shift in her seat to see who it is. Carlos looks over, seeing that his teammate, Charles, was now leant down to press a kiss to the woman's cheek.

"You're okay?" He asks her, his hand on her shoulder as he stands behind her. Her hand reached up to rest on his, nodding. "Absolutely."

"Carlos," Charles smiles, "I see you've met y/n."

Carlos blinks, looking between you and Charles; he finally makes the connection. You were the mystery woman.

"So you're y/n," he smiles at you - to be fair, you didn't tell him your name nor did he ask.

"I am."

"I was starting to think that Charles made you up, that you weren't real and were just some fiction of his imagination." He smiles, making you two laugh.

"She's real, mate!" Charles laughs and you nod, offering him your arm. "I'm very real, feel free to pinch me and confirm."

As innocent as your gesture seemed, there was something underlying in the way you said it, the way you looked at him. Carlos doesn't say anything, glancing at his teammate before he reaches for your wrist. His index finger and thumb dragged across the soft skin of your wrist, meeting in the middle to pinch you.

The two of you are smiling at each other, Carlos's hand rests over your wrist and as much as you knew you needed to move your hand, you didn't. Charles was oblivious, he's yet to notice the tension growing between the two of you.

He speaks, squeezing your shoulder. "If that's all, mate," he smiles, "I'm gonna take her around to meet everyone, yeah?"

You smile at your boyfriend, scooting off the stool which lifted your dress a tad too high for Carlos's mind not to wander.

"I'll see you around, Carlos." You smiled at the man, interlocking your fingers with Charles' before picking up your glass.

Carlos nods, "don't let them bore you too much," he tips his beer bottle in your direction, taking a sip as you walk off with his teammate.

God, he wished he didn't feel the way that he did and he knew it was wrong, so bloody wrong, but he can't help it.

Charles was kind and he deserved love, Carlos knew as much but if you, this beautiful woman - so sweet and so charming, loved him as much as Charles seemed to love you, then why would you flirt with him?

You didn't suit Charles; you were opposites.

Mysterious, funny, charming, kind, sweet, smart - as the list goes on, Carlos does realize in fact that you do suit Charles in some ways but he held a bias.

He met you first, here.

That meant you were supposed to be his, not Charles's.

It left a bitter taste in his mouth, he would make sure you would be his one way or the other.

---

It's quiet, the room smells manly in a way, a scent that you've come to know as Charles. The bathroom door was opened after his shower, the man brushing his teeth as you watched tv in bed.

A phone buzzes on the nightstand, you don't look over but Charles hears it from the bathroom. "Is it mine?" He calls and you lean over, reaching for it.

His phone screen was dark but yours had lit up. "No! It's mine," you call back, pick to check who had messaged you.

There's a notification from Instagram.

Carlos Sainz (carlossainz55) has requested to follow you. 3m ago.

Charles comes out of the bathroom, finding you staring at your phone. "Everything okay, love?"

"Yeah," you smile, "just instagram."

He gets into bed, pulling the duvet up. "Anything interesting?"

"No," you shook your head, unlocking your phone to accept the request. "Just my friend tagging me in some give-away," you laughed before setting your phone back down.

Charles smiles, letting you lay against his side as you two watched whatever was rerunning on tv.

A few floors below the two of you and a room to the left, a man's phone lights up with a notification from Instagram.

Y/n L/n (youruser) has accepted your follow request. 1m ago.

Carlos reaches over for his phone, reading the words and smiling to himself; it's every man for himself now.

add yourself to the call my name taglist!

taglist: @aadslovesmads @lieswithoutfairytales @steephanie07 @topguncultleader @darleneslane @barnestatic @ravisinghs_wife @elisaa-shelby @piggyinthesea @cmleitora @kmc1989 @themandaloriansdiaries @oconso

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officialclangen · 1 year ago

Note

I don't know if this'll be helpful to all the folks who want to see dead cats' relationships, but there is a way of keeping that information that I use all the time. It only works if a cat has just died, though. So:

Step 0: Before you start doing things in Clangen, keep your data directory open in the background. This is accessed from the main menu by going to "setting + info" and then in the bottom left corner "open data directory." You can access your saves in the "saves" folder. Just keep this tab open in the background as you play.

Step 1: Oh no! You have JUST gotten the message that a cat has died, either on moon change or patrol. But remember! None of these changes are retained until you save. As long as you don't save, that cat's relationship info is still acessible! Do NOT close out of Clangen, and do NOT save.

Simply open that tab from earlier with the data directory. In your "saves" folder, you will see folders for all of your clans. Open the folder for the Clan you're playing right now.

Step 2: There should be a file in this folder called "clan_cats.json." Open it. If it asks how you want to open it, Notepad is perfectly fine to use and everybody's got it. This file is where information like your cat's appearance and traits are kept, but we're looking for something a lot more simple here.

Step 3: Look for the cat that just died and write down/remember its ID. You can cntrl+F a cat's prefix or suffix on its own to find them easier, but you will not find them if you cntrl+F their full name because prefix and suffix are on separate lines. Once you've found the dead cat's name, you will see a line above the prefix and the suffix listing its ID. This number is important because it is what identifies the cat in relationship files.

Step 4: Close out of "clan_cats.json" (and of it asks if you want to save changes, say no; we're not looking to make changes here, but maybe you accidentally pressed a key while searching for your cat, it happens; so just don't save when you close out), OR minimize it/keep it in the background.

Then, still within the "saves" folder for your clan, go into the "relationships" folder and look for the json file with the ID of the cat that just died-- the number you recorded/recall from the previous step. For example, if the ID for your dead cat is 913, the file you want is "913_relations.json"

You can either open this file right now or copy and paste it somewhere else so you can access it later. I prefer to copy/paste it to a separate folder on my flashdrive where I store all of the Clangen notes I take.

This file is basically all of the information on your dead cat's relationships, just laid out less prettily than in-game Clangen. It even keeps a log of moon change interactions this cat has had. But everything here is laid out using cats' IDs instead of their names. You can sometimes see who is who by taking note of any moon change interactions in the log, but some of the time if you want to understand which cats the info is for, you'll have to go back to your "clan_cats.json" from earlier and reference the IDs listed. Every cat, dead or alive, can be found in "clan_cats.json" but when a cats dies and you save your game, its corresponding ID_relations.json is deleted.

I would highly recommend against keeping copies of dead cat relations.json files long term. It is a lot of bloat that can add up fast, and it can get hard to find the particular file you want if you keep building a bigger and bigger pile of files. I personally prefer to keep this file copied in a separate folder until I'm ready to write any major notes on what's been happening in my Clan. Then, I open it up as well as "clan_cats.json", and I write down any final notes on that dead cat's relationships, tabbing over to clan_cats.json to cntrl+F any IDs I need to match up with names. When I've written down all the info I need, I finally delete the copy of the dead cat's relations.json. But regardless...

Step 5: Whatever you've decided to do with your recently deceased cat's relations.json file, whether you've taken any notes you need to take already or saved a copy for later, now is when you can finally go back to playing Clangen and officially save your game.

Remember! Once you save your game, the relations.json of your newly dead cat will be deleted from your Clan's save file! So once again: make sure you've written down any info you'd like from that file or made a copy before you save.

This was probably way too long-winded, but I wanted to make it as easy as possible to follow along! Hope it helped somebody!

Posting for y'all to have as reference!! Very smart, I hadn't thought of that myself

☆ Fable ☆

#long post #clangen #ask response #warrior cats #clan generator #clan gen #ask

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missrubybird · 1 year ago

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Seven Sims and a Unicorn

Thanks to the EA Creator Network I was able to get the new Sims 4 Horse Ranch Expansion Pack a little earlier and right away got to making a bunch of townies to go with the lore and existing pre-made Sims in Chestnut Ridge.

Below the cut you’ll find:

The Sims Download Link

Sims’ Backstories and Traits

CC Links and Credits

All Sims have all 8 Outfits using only HR and Basegame

Have fun! ♥️ 🦄 ♥️

CC Links: Freckles//Lashes (make sure to download all 3 versions!)

Please Note:

There is CC included in the Download Files, make sure to put it in your Mods Folder along with the CC linked above!

You need a No EA Lashes mod for the Sims to look exactly like they do in the pictures!

The Unicorn has my Default horse eyes, please be aware of this in case you're using other horse Defaults

Credits:@tamosim@vibrantpixels@vegantrait@rheallsim Thank you so much for your generous TOUs! ♥️♥️♥️

DOWNLOAD

Sims' Backstories (from left to right and top to bottom):

Issi Miashintubbee (loves the outdoors/loyal/rancher) Tula Miashintubbee (silly)

Issi comes from a long line of ranch owners and was supposed to take over her parents' ranch and business and get married to the father of her daughter Tula. To her family's shock and surprise one day she decided she was tired of everyone's expectations and the path already decided for her and packed her stuff and set off with Tula into the unknown to find out what it is that she really wants. Will she find her fortune in Chestnut Ridge? And what does Tula think of all this?

River Dempsey (loves the outdoors/perfectionist/horse lover) Milla Dempsey (bookworm)

River, widowed and possibly looking for love, is a passionate horse breeder and father who would like nothing more than to impart said passion for riding and horses on his daughter Milla. After all, there are competitions coming up! To his great disappointment Milla is all about books and hopes to one day become a published author. It's not that she doesn't like horses but she would much rather think up stories and spend her free time browsing the library.

Yona Kitegista (cheerful/outgoing/foodie)

Yona has run the Oak Barrel Bar as long as anyone can remember and she takes great pride in making the most popular nectar in town. If only there weren't those two youngsters, Marissa and Dani, who seem to have quite the touch at making new and exiting flavors of nectar. Her old friend and childhood sweetheart Don Gooseman is convinced hers is the best around but Yona isn't sure she won't have to change up her longstanding recipe to keep up with the competition!

Jaxen Tracey (creative/music lover)

Jaxen is Marissa's brother and the newest addition to the household, although Dani isn't too sure what to think of this, since things have been a little tense between her and Marissa lately. And now Jaxen is here, playing that music of his rather loudly! Marissa and Dani can tell that he is quite talented but his electro beats are a bit of a sore thumb among the blues lovers of Chestnut Ridge. All the while, Jaxen isn't so sure either what to make of his new surroundings. Will he eventually don the country fashion, get on that horse and become a blues lover?

Arabella von Rosenberg (intelligent/brave/friendly) Charley Bullhorn (rancher/romantic/familyoriented)

Why does Charley have a pink, sparkling unicorn, you wonder? No one knows, but he sure is proud of his beautiful, prize-winning Arabella. The two have travelled all over the country from shows to competitions but now Charley feels like it's time to settle down and find a permanent place to stay. Some may think he's a bit of a ladies man but actually he's a bit shy and secretly wants to have a big family. Can charming Arabella help him find the love of his life? And maybe Arabella too might find a new equestrian friend?

#ts4 horse ranch #ea creator network #missrubybird #Download #My Sims #Women #Men #Kids #Elder

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starry-nights-garden · 10 months ago

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Fuma ✧ Don’t go into the tall grass

✧ &Team Fuma x gn!reader ✧ words: ~2k ✧ genre: domestic fluff, some humor ✧ warnings: none

Desc.: In which your boyfriend Fuma teaches you how to play Pokemon and he doesn’t expect you to like it so much.

Author’s note: this was totally not written for @tomorrowxneverland who has never played Pokemon in her life <3 …yeah I got a little carried away while writing this, it wasn’t supposed to be nearly this long aklsjdöflksa but I hope you enjoyyy~!!!

“What…?” You watch as your boyfriend’s expression changes, his mouth opening and closing several times as the shock on his face grows, and eventually he manages to form words into a sentence. “What do you mean, you’ve never played Pokemon?!”

“I… have never played Pokemon is what I mean by that.”

“Yes, no, but!” Fuma attempts to say something, but his brain fails him. He’s been excitedly rambling about the topic for almost an hour now, and it’s not that you don’t like listening to him when he gets really into it. It’s just that you never really got the chance nor had any interest in playing the games when you were a kid, and so you have close to zero knowledge about Pokemon - except for a few names you’ve memorized as he was telling you about his collection, and, of course Pikachu, because who doesn’t know Pikachu? And now that you’ve reached a point in the conversation where he decided to ask you about your favourite Pokemon, you just couldn’t avoid addressing the elephant in the room anymore.

“So yeah,” you start talking in hopes of helping the gears up in his head running smoothly again. “That’s why I can’t really tell you what my favourite is. Or who I always had on my team when playing because… I never did.”

“Well this is a huge problem…” He lifts his hand up to his face, covering half of his mouth as he seems to be sinking into thought, surrounded by some of his Pokemon plushies that he’s spread out on the floor as he was giving you some information about them.

“What?” you snort. “Can’t date someone who’s never played Pokemon?” Your teasing is met with a strong reaction, your boyfriend immediately waving both his hands in front of his chest and shaking his head.

“Of course not!” he assures. “But… do you want to try? I think I have my old Nintendo somewhere here…”

“I mean… sure, why not?” you agree, and Fuma immediately jumps to his feet to take a few steps towards his wardrobe. Rummaging through a few boxes stored at the very bottom of it, it takes him only a few minutes to pull out the small game console, along with the charger and a rectangular box that can only be a Pokemon game. You’re amused by the few seconds of suspense as he tries to turn it on after sitting down next to you, and the sigh of relief that follows as the two screens light up.

“Okay… I actually didn’t make all that much progress here so… it should be fine… to start a new game…” he mumbles more to himself than you, but the distress in his voice is evident.

“It’s fine, we can also play where you left off-” you attempt to assure him, but he’s already in the process of resetting the save file.

“It’s fine,” he repeats. “I played the other version more, so that’s the one I’m really attached to.” You don’t really get what he’s saying, but you’re at least glad about the smile he’s showing you now. And then he starts the game for you and hands you the console.

The first few minutes are pretty self explanatory. You press A to advance in dialogue and tell the game whether you want to play as a girl or a boy and what your name is. There’s some old guy explaining stuff about the fictional world you’re about to enter, and that he’s a professor of some sort, and next thing you know you find your avatar waking up in what must be their room. For now your boyfriend is merely watching what you’re doing, but you can tell he’s using everything he has to keep himself from going on an excited rant and spoiling the entire story of the game for you.

You don’t really pay much attention to the dialogue, wanting to get to the part where you get to catch some Pokemon soon, and luckily Fuma is right there to hint at what you should do next. You reach the part of the game where you have to walk out of what’s supposed to be your home village and follow your in-game friend.

“But I wanna go over there…” you protest, steering your avatar to the right.

“Ah, you shouldn’t!” Fuma warns you.

“Why?”

“Didn’t you listen to your mother? There’s wild Pokemon in the tall grass, so you shouldn’t go in there yet!”

“But… if I wanna catch some, shouldn’t I go there…?”

“Yes, later,” he explains. “But you don’t have a single Pokemon on your team yet, and you need one to help you catch more!”

“And where do I get that…?” you ask, causing your boyfriend to chuckle at your impatience.

“Just keep playing for now. You’ll get there soon enough.”

And just like he said, you do. You choose your starter Pokemon solely based on which of the three looks the cutest to you - Fuma praises you for your choice and explains that the first gym will be easy to beat with the one you picked - and complete your first battle without much trouble. The game teaches you the mechanics anyway, but still you have your boyfriend next to you telling you what to do if you’re unsure.

“Is it fun?” he asks as the game is going over to the next day.

“Yeah,” you answer absentmindedly, focusing your attention on the device in your hands. You hear him laughing softly at the image in front of him, and then he watches you play some more.

Eventually you get to the point where you have three Pokemon in your team, and somehow the directions your boyfriend is giving you are getting on your nerves a bit.

“It’s fine!” you tell him. “I think I got it now, let me try playing by myself!”

“Okay, okay…” he says, going quiet as he observes you. You run towards the next city you’re supposed to go to, and you don’t pay much mind to the two newly caught Pokemon both fainting, as your boyfriend had assured you earlier that you can always have them healed again.

“I think it’s about time you-”

“I know,” you interrupt his attempted warning, not noticing how he watches your next move anxiously. Thanks to your starter Pokemon you manage to win the next fight, but now you find yourself wondering whether you should go back to the last village to heal them or keep walking towards the next one.

“Uhm, actually…” you speak up. “How far until I reach the next… uh… hospital?”

“The next city is still a bit away…” he willingly helps you. “But turning back is risky too. Don’t you have potions left?” You shake your head no. “I see… then you should probably go back to the last Pokemon center.”

“Okay.” So you turn around and you move, running right into a patch of tall grass, when you hear your boyfriend exclaiming next to you,

“Nooo, don’t r-... oh.” He lets out a sound of resignation as a wild Pokemon encounter gets triggered and you hear the unsettling warning sound signaling that your Pokemon only has a couple of HP left.

“So what do I do now?” you ask.

“Well, since you don’t have any potions left you’re gonna lose the battle and faint and then wake up at the last Pokemon center you visited,” Fuma explains calmly.

“Oh… and is that bad? Like, are there any consequences, like do I lose all my Pokemon?”

“No,” Fuma lets out a short laugh. “Nothing bad actually happens, aside from the humiliation of losing at a kid’s game.” You shoot him an empty look as the screen of the console in your hands goes black and it causes him to chuckle. “I’m kidding, it’s okay,” he says, now speaking softly and he extends his hand to pat your head once. “Just so you know for next time - Pokemon tend to appear more if you run through tall grass instead of walking slowly.”

“Oh…”

“It’s fine, everyone learns the hard way that you should always carry enough potions with you and better turn back sooner rather than later to get your team healed. But also…” He puts an arm around your shoulders and then points his chin at the window in his room. “I think it’s about time we get some food.”

“No.” Your immediate response makes him chuckle.

“No?”

“Just until I’m at the first gym.” And now Fuma laughs, leaning back and stretching his back with his hands up in the air.

“That will take waaaaay too long,” he explains. “I’ll have starved by then.”

“Then you get some food and I stay here.”

“Y/N,” he calls out your name, trying to sound strict but he still ends up talking more softly than he wants. “You need to eat well if you want to become the Champ!”

“The what?”

“Right, you don’t know what that is either…” He lets out a sigh. And then, after a second of collecting his thoughts, he reaches out to capture your chin between his thumb and index finger, turning your head to make you look at him properly. “I’ll explain that to you while we’re eating, okay?”

“Hmpf…” You pout at him like a five year old would as their mom tells them to stop playing a game, but the smile he shows you as his gaze slowly wanders down to your lips stirs up an entirely different set of emotions deep within you.

“Come on,” he says. “We can play more later.”

“Only if I get a kiss…” you try to bargain, but Fuma just laughs at you and then he gets up.

“Come get it then,” he says, walking towards the door of his room slowly, giving you enough time to rise to your feet as well and to catch up with him. He willingly lets you spin him around as you reach him, and he meets you in the middle as you lean in to kiss him. His lips move against yours gently as he sets the pace and you have your palms placed on his shoulders to hold onto him. Too soon does he pull away, shooting you a grin that tells you you fell into his trap, but when you kiss him again you catch him off guard. And then, once you part you spin on your heels and walk back to where you had put the game console.

“Go get some food now,” you say, sitting back down and returning your full attention to the game. “I’ll tell you if I get stuck somewhere.” You hear your boyfriend letting out a massive sigh of disbelief over how him trying to trick you turned into him getting tricked himself. However, he knows any effort to try and convince you one more time to put the game down would only be in vain, so he simply accepts it and disappears out the door.

You don’t think much of it anymore, simply focusing on the game in front of you, but when a few minutes later you hear him entering the room again, you look up in surprise.

“Not eating? Oh.” He sits down right next to you with a bowl of more leftovers than he can eat by himself, and as he holds out a bite to you, you find yourself grinning from ear to ear.

“Thanks,” you mumble, accepting the food he’s holding out to you, and bumping your head into his shoulder as you continue to play.

#&team fluff #fuma fluff #andteam fluff #andteam drabbles #andteam scenarios #andteam imagines #andteam x reader #fuma x reader #fuma drabbles #&team drabbles #&team x reader #&team scenarios #&team imagines #fluff

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