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theggning · 4 years ago

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I Hate the Alternate Ending of Blind Betrayal, and Here's Why!

DISCLAIMER THE FIRST: Massive spoilers for Fallout 4 abound. This post discusses Blind Betrayal, a quest with suicide as a heavy theme. Content warning applies.

DISCLAIMER THE SECOND: This post discusses cut OFFICIAL content from Fallout 4 that has since been repurposed into multiple mods. I am not criticizing any modders or their implementations of this content. Mods are fun and people can enjoy whatever the hell kind of game experience they want with whatever mods they want.

I am ONLY interested in discussing the original cut content as Bethesda had written it, and how it would have impacted the story and lore of Fallout 4.

So, yeah, it seems there was originally going to be another way to conclude Blind Betrayal (BB).

As described in this Kotaku article (citing this post by Tumblr user tentacle-explosion,) there are unused audio files of Danse’s dialogue that show an alternate ending to his pivotal quest. These lines are the only evidence we have of this ending (suggesting that it was cut fairly early on, as no other actors/characters seem to have recorded for it.)

From what we can tell, in this alternate ending of BB, Danse comes up with a possible way out of the sticky situation re: his identity as a synth. According to the Brotherhood Litany, he is able to challenge Maxson’s authority as Elder via combat. If you agree to this idea, you go with Danse to challenge Maxson. The Paladin and the Elder duel one another, Danse wins, and Maxson dies. Then Danse names the Sole Survivor the new Elder-- or with a hard charisma check, you’re able to convince Danse to take the job himself. It is unknown how the main plot would have progressed beyond this point, as there is no other evidence of what being (or influencing) the Elder would have been like or what choices it would have given you.

There is understandable disappointment in learning that this ending was cut. Choices in games are great, and it could have been fun to have multiple different options for how to resolve the quest. In many gaming circles, people complain that this theoretical ending is superior to the one we got and shouldn’t have been axed. The Kotaku article calls it a “way better” ending, and you’ll see many players lamenting that it wasn’t implemented, saying Bethesda was bad at writing for cutting it, etc.

So why did Bethesda get rid of the Elder ending of BB?

In December 2020, after the Fallout 4 Cast Reunion, Danse’s voice actor Peter Jessop answered questions in a private signing session on his Instagram. Peter Jessop is an extremely kind and gracious man, an avid gamer, and a huge fan of Fallout. During the stream, he reflected on the alternate ending and remembered recording the lines, but stated the content was ultimately cut because Bethesda decided it was lore-breaking.

Peter Jessop is right. Bethesda was right. The Elder ending of BB is a bunch of dumb nonsense. It sucks, I hate it, and I’m glad they got rid of it. And now I’m going to tell you why!

SIDENOTE: King Shit of Fuck Mountain

There is no wrong way to play a single-player video game. If you are having fun, then you are accomplishing the task for which the game was made. Good for you! Play it on easy. Play it on hard. Mod it. Speedrun it. Make up an intricate roleplaying scenario. Perform “challenge” runs. Kill everybody you see. Ignore the story and run around collecting wheels of cheese. Games are meant to be fun and there is nothing wrong with enjoying a game however you damn well please. This is especially true for RPGs like Fallout, which are designed with player freedom in mind.

There is an RPG playstyle I like to call King Shit of Fuck Mountain: a naked power fantasy in which your protagonist is the most powerful person ever, even beyond normal RPG plot significance. Through brute strength, incredible charisma, or having completed tons of quests for world-breaking artifacts and weapons, your character wields godlike influence, able to control people, factions, and the fabric of the world itself. A game enables KSoFM gameplay when it allows the player limitless freedom to gain as much power as they like with zero consequences to plot or storytelling.

A great example of this is the Dragonborn in The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. If the player chooses to pursue every questline in the game, one single person can become Harbinger of the Companions, Archmage of the College of Winterhold, Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, Nightingale and Guildmaster of the Thieves’ Guild, hero of the Imperial/Stormcloak army, the chosen one of like, 11 different Daedric princes, a bard, a Blade, and otherwise just, absurdly goddamn powerful in completely unrealistic ways. And that’s not counting DLCs. A fully-kitted-out Dragonborn is King Shit of Fuck Mountain.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with playing KSoFM if you like to. But I’m not a big fan of this style, personally. Sure, my first Skyrim character became KSoFM while I was figuring out the game, but after my first playthrough I preferred my characters become coherent figures in the story of the world. I pick one or two character traits and things that my Dragonborn is good at, focus on them, and make them part of some overall story. My honorable Imperial paladin werewolf is in the Companions, and hunts vampires on principle. My Argonian sneaky archer is a gleeful thief, but would never jive with the College or the Dark Brotherhood. I like creating protagonists who fit into these settings immersively. I don’t care about power fantasies or being in charge. I don’t WANT my character to be all-powerful, because that ruins my immersion and my little story.

Additionally, in a plot-driven story-focused game like Fallout, KSoFM tears the narrative apart. Skyrim is fairly light on story, so the Dragonborn can be the leader of the Companions and the Dark Brotherhood and whatever other factions without any of them noticing or caring. But FO4’s themes, faction drama, and the main thrust of the plot don’t work at all if the Sole Survivor is able to become too powerful or too influential. The Sole Survivor cannot become the leader of every faction, solve every problem, or eliminate every inconvenient bend of the conflict because it makes the lore of the entire setting implode. Thus, the game forces you to choose between factions. You cannot be with the Minutemen and the Nuka-World Raiders. You cannot be with the Railroad and the Institute. And you cannot become Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel.

So if you’re the kind of person who loves playing KSoFM, if you like plots that your character can “solve” with relative ease, or if you just think it would be super cool for your Sole to become Elder regardless of surrounding storytelling, then you might think the Elder ending sounds super cool. You are absolutely allowed to disagree with me here. Install all the mods and write all the fic and have all the headcanons you like. I respect that. There is no wrong way to enjoy a single-player video game. Have fun!

But if you’re a big nitpicky pedantic lore nerd like me, a fan of cohesive storytelling, or if you just want to hear how the Elder ending of BB absolutely fucking ruins Maxson, Danse, the Brotherhood of Steel, and the entire plot of FO4 from a narrative perspective, read on!

1. The Synth Thing

The Elder ending requires the stupid plot contrivance of the BoS forgetting about Danse’s synthhood.

One of the biggest problems with the BoS as an institution is their strict and dogmatic beliefs, which include a widespread dislike of non-human species. Perhaps more than any other non-humans, the BoS hates synths. Synths are, in their eyes, machines given free will, a violation of the sanctity of human life and the ultimate example of technology run amok. To them, synths are not sympathetic, they are not slaves, and they are not victims of circumstance. They are weapons that left unchecked will destroy all of humanity for a second time. Synths are anathema to everything the BoS stands for, and finding out that one of their most beloved and trusted Paladins is one is an earth-shattering blow to their integrity and sense of security.

It is completely absurd that the BoS would allow a synth within their ranks, particularly as they are waging war against the Institute, who created synths in the first place. It is even MORE absurd that they’d allow one to influence their Elder, or even worse, to become Elder. It completely undermines their mission in the Commonwealth, and the core tenets of their extremely rigid beliefs. No matter the Elder, no matter the Litany or obscure BoS law, no matter how valuable the Sole Survivor is as a soldier or how much influence they wield. Danse is a synth. He’s the enemy. He is physically the embodiment of everything they hate.

Not only wouldn’t they trust a synth in general, but the BoS specifically believes that Danse is an infiltrator for the Institute. Even Danse believes that he is a danger, that the Institute may be able to take control of him and use him as a weapon. Sure, we know none of this is actually true, or possible, but the BoS don’t know that. And given how quick they are to order Danse dead without even the possibility of surrender, I don’t think there’s any charisma in the world that’s going to convince them otherwise.

According to Peter Jessop, this, ultimately, is the reason why the Elder ending was cut. He talks about it around the 11:30 timestamp in his Instagram stream, linked above:

“We recorded an ending where you keep Danse alive and you take over the Brotherhood. But there was a question of content… there’s no way the Brotherhood, once they knew he was a synth, would let him be even the right hand of the person in charge.”

Bethesda correctly recognized the incredible narrative contrivance for the BoS to shrug off the reason they’re trying to execute Danse in the first place. Whatever other beefs I have with this ending conceptually, they all come in second to just what a big dumb leap it is to get beyond this first and most important problem.

2. The Complete Death of Conflict

The Elder ending of BB destroys the conflict of the quest, and potentially the conflict of the entire game.

Greed is a poison. There is no such thing as a perfect ideal or a perfect organization. Power corrupts. Humanity has the choice to build back better. War never changes. The Fallout games are full of themes, depicted by the characters and quests and factions we play out.

Blind Betrayal is rightfully praised as one of the most powerful quests in FO4. Not only is it well-acted, but it puts the player in a very difficult position. The BoS has given you clout and glory and free power armor and lots of firepower, but now you see the price: unquestioning obedience. You are ordered to execute your friend and mentor Danse for the mere fact he is a synth. Are you going to follow that unjust order? Are you willing to give up your principles on command? Or is this where you can no longer stay quiet and stay in line?

To be honest, I’ve always thought the fact you can talk Maxson out of killing Danse but still remain with the BoS in good standing was a cop-out. BB goes 90% of the way to forcing you to choose between a companion and a faction, and then chickens out at the last second to let you have both, if your charisma is high enough.

(I believe this has the fingerprints of Skyrim’s development on it-- Bethesda’s writers got nervous about doing another Paarthurnax choice involving the fan favorite Brotherhood of Steel. That’s right. Danse is the Paarthurnax of Fallout. Frankly, I understand why they chose not to go there, but damn, wouldn’t it have been wild? You want to run with the BoS? Then kill your friend and feel the burn. THIS is what it means to follow orders without question.

As for me, I’d pick Danse every time and sleep soundly without the company of shitty bootlicking dieselpunk LARPers- but I digress.)

Anyway, you know what would have REALLY been a copout? If the game asked you to make a difficult thematic storyline choice, and you solved the problem by just not choosing at all.

You are supposed to feel uncomfortable when Maxson orders you to kill Danse, because the game is telling a story about how it is maybe a bad thing to thoughtlessly follow orders without question. It is asking you to think about what the BoS is, what they are doing, and how they are going to run things, if you choose to let them “win” the Commonwealth. It is pointing out that there is no room for gray in the BoS’ black and white. That a good, loyal man may die because of the way he was made, through no action of his own. That soon, you’ll be killing other people on command. The Railroad. Fleeing Institute synths and scientists. Others, down the line. It all depends on who’s giving the orders. Are you going to follow those orders?

Eesh, that sounds thought-provoking and unpleasant and difficult! Let’s just skip it by killing Maxson and making ourselves the boss. Now we get to tell everybody else what to do!

It’s unknown what powers the Elder ending would have granted the player, or how it would have interacted with the other factions. There is speculation that you’d have been able to ease back on the BoS’ dogmatism, or change some of the later events of the game. For instance, perhaps you could talk the BoS down from attacking the Railroad, sparing popular characters like Glory and Deacon who must die in the normal BoS storyline. Perhaps you could have made the BoS a kinder, gentler faction and directed them to run the way you want them to.

If this was indeed the case, then the Elder ending would not only suck the gravitas out of BB, but torpedo the entire main plot.

If you can get rid of any and all downsides to siding with the BoS, why in the hell would players side with anybody else? With the player given total power, the BoS becomes a perfect faction with no drawbacks, no weaknesses, no tough decisions to be made. Screw slumming it with the Railroad or the Minutemen, let’s take over the BoS. Free power armor and a giant robot! Forget the whole intolerance thing, I hereby proclaim the BoS No Longer Problematic! Now to force all the factions to get along, completely removing all conflict and nuance from the plot!

That’s some real anticlimactic “tell Legate Lanius to go home and then he does it” bullshit right there. King Shit of Fuck Mountain!

Look, it might be nice if there was a perfect path like that to take through the game. It would be cool if our characters could be that powerful and the game was that tailored to our individual choices. On the other hand, “I change all the factions to suit my exact liking” might be a fun idea for a fanfic, but it’s an incredibly boring plot for a video game. “I get to make everything in the world exactly how I want it” is Minecraft, not a story-driven RPG with a complex and intricate plot.

It would be great if complex conflicts could really be solved that easily and effortlessly, but hey, you know what? War never changes.

3. The Assassination of Arthur Maxson (Literal)

Arthur Maxson’s death is too significant and fundamentally disastrous for the Elder ending to make any sense at all.

Hero, villain, leader, monster, tortured soul, brutal dictator, immature twerp, bearded sex hunk. However you personally interpret Arthur Maxson, there is no denying that he is a venerated, popular, beloved figure in the BoS. He is the blood heir of the organization’s founder, a powerful warrior, a brilliant tactician, and a charismatic negotiator. He is responsible for reuniting the East Coast BoS with the Outcasts, leading the new, stronger BoS with a sense of shared purpose. There is a damn good reason his name is Arthur and he named his ship The Prydwen, echoes of King Arthur and the legends of his glorious kingdom of Camelot. Arthur Maxson is so beloved that many view him as a demigod, a messiah sent to lead the BoS into a mighty and prosperous future.

So I’m sure nobody’s going to be upset when some wasteland jackass recruited a month ago stumbles in with a synth, kills him, and takes over his job. Right?

It doesn’t matter that it’s “honorable.” It doesn’t matter that it’s done “by the book” via obscure BoS rules. There is no codex or litany or rule so binding that it’s going to overcome the cult of personality around Maxson. There is no way that the BoS is going to accept the death of Arthur Maxson, a man whose reverence borders on worship, especially not when he is immediately replaced by a wastelander, or a synth.

The death of Arthur Maxson removes the unifying glue that’s been holding the BoS together since mending the rift with the Outcasts. Maxson’s death eliminates the one person that both sides of that conflict agreed could steer the organization in the right direction. Some level heads may try to keep the focus on the mission and the Brotherhood tenets, but Maxson loyalists will never forgive the new Elder for his death, and that amount of passionate righteous anger will not be quelled by appeals to the rules. The new Elder’s war on the Institute is basically over before it begins, when the forces splinter and start infighting over the change in leadership.

And this is if the new Elder lives long enough to actually give any orders. I give them around 24 hours after the duel before some angry Maxson loyalist “accidentally” pulls the trigger and “tragically” empties a clip into their back.

24 seconds, if it’s Elder Danse, the dirty synth abomination.

4. The Assassination of Arthur Maxson (Figurative)

The Elder ending of BB falsely pretends that Arthur Maxson is the biggest and only problem with the BoS.

In the Elder ending, as written, the conflict of BB is considered completely and totally solved by the death of Arthur Maxson. The core problem, that Danse is a synth and considered an enemy by the BoS, has not gone away. But by getting rid of Maxson, this apparently no longer matters. Nobody else is going to take offense to Danse’s nature or protest his presence. Nobody else is going to attack him or try to follow through with Maxson’s prior orders. Nope, that meanybutt guy who gave the order is gone, and everybody else is going to welcome Danse back into the fold like nothing ever happened.

I touched on this a little bit on an ask about Maxson a few weeks back, but a lot of people seem to believe that the FO4 Brotherhood of Steel is the way they are purely because of him. That he is the one making them treat non-humans as second class citizens at best, and enemies to be slaughtered at worst. That it’s his fault the BoS is so vehemently against synths and the Institute. That he is the one influencing their imperialistic tendencies, and treating the Commonwealth like territory to be conquered and people to be ruled over by their betters.

He’s not. That’s the Brotherhood of Steel, guys.

The charitable, altruistic, virtuous BoS that many of us met for the first time in FO3 were outliers. Lyons’ group was literally disowned by the rest of the faction because their kindness to wastelanders had gone so far astray from the “core” tenets. The BoS as a whole has always been exclusive, isolated, and seen themselves as “superior” to the average wastelander. They have long disliked or outright hated non-humans (and even Lyons’ BoS in FO3 use ghouls, feral or not, for “target practice” if they get too close!) The rigid dogmatism of the BoS is not something that Arthur Maxson started, but has always been part of their fabric.

Now, it’s true that Maxson is absolutely going hard on the BoS tenets, and extremely dedicated to upholding them. His BoS are the way they are and act the way they act because he believes that this is the way it should be. Is it possible that a different leader may be a little more flexible? Absolutely. Could a skilled Elder eventually show them the benefits of a softer approach and a more generous worldview? Totally. Is getting rid of Maxson and replacing him going to make that happen overnight, or going to make the rest of the BoS who supported him shrug and follow suit?

Nope.

Blaming Arthur Maxson for everything unsavory about the Brotherhood is unfair to him and also foolishly ignoring the deep, massive problems that are far older than he is-- problems that plenty of its members wholeheartedly believe are not problems at all. Getting rid of Maxson does not make the BoS kinder or gentler. Even pretending Maxson isn’t as personally beloved as he is, any new Elder who steps in and starts trying to fundamentally alter the way the BoS operates and what they believe in is going to face some major, immediate pushback.

Like, a full clip of bullets in the back type of pushback.

In the face if it’s Elder Danse, the godless freak of nature.

5. The Un-Redemption of Paladin Danse

Last, and my personal least favorite!

At first glance, Paladin Danse is a steely jackboot, a die-hard Brotherhood loyalist who fully and firmly believes in their cause. Many immediately dismiss him as a humorless brute, or completely ignore him because they think that’s all there is. But if you spend any time with Danse at all, you’ll notice a sort of weariness in him. He is tired, overworked, and his years of service are starting to weigh on him. He has watched friends, comrades, and mentors die in horrible and gruesome ways, and he suffers from PTSD. Though he has always been told that his own sacrifices, the sacrifices of his brothers and sisters have been” worth it,” he’s starting to question if that’s true.

After telling of the incident where he personally executed his best friend Cutler, who’d been turned into a super mutant, the Sole Survivor is able to console him:

Player Default: You did the right thing. Danse: {Somber} It's what I was taught. I don't know if it was right.

This line is an excellent summary of Danse’s entire character arc. He learns to question whether to believe what the Brotherhood has taught him, or to believe in himself. His gut feelings. His sense of justice and his own ideas of what’s right and wrong.

(In the interest of not turning this into an essay about Danse’s character, I won’t even get into how this also applies to his beliefs about his worth as a person. But keep in mind, that dimension is there, Danse just covers it up by making everything about the Brotherhood.)

During Blind Betrayal, after getting the orders to execute him and hearing Haylen’s plea for mercy, we may expect Danse to be ready to fight back or flee. But when you confront him in the bunker at Listening Post Bravo, he’s compliant and suicidal. Danse is so deeply poisoned by the BoS’ rhetoric that his own feelings or will to live don’t factor into the conversation. He demands that you follow your orders and execute him, because he believes, as the BoS does, that all synths are dangerous and must be destroyed.

Danse: {Stern} Synths can't be trusted. Machines were never meant to make their own decisions, they need to be controlled. Technology that's run amok is what brought the entire world to its knees and humanity to the brink of extinction.

{Confident} I need to be the example, not the exception.

Through various dialogue options, if your charisma is high enough, you are able to talk Danse off the ledge. He is able to consider, at least, that the BoS’ merciless judgment of him is wrong and that what he was taught isn’t right. He is a thinking, feeling, self-aware synth, and that makes him as much a person as any human. Danse is no danger to humanity-- and maybe, most synths aren’t either.

Danse is an example, not an exception.

Later on, if you manage to get him out of BB alive, Danse shows further acceptance of his nature. His approvals about synths begin to soften slightly (or many of them do, at least… it’s not perfect.) He is still struggling with his identity and reconciling it with his former hatred, but his dialogue suggests that he’s on the road to being more open-minded and understanding. Along with this, Danse learns that he has value as a person beyond the Brotherhood. He no longer needs to define himself with BoS beliefs or judge himself by how useful he is to them. He learns that he is worth caring about, worth being friends with or being loved because of who he is-- not what he is, in any regard.

[SIDENOTE: Many players, myself included, are frustrated that Danse’s arc leaves off sort of midstream there. Due to the open-ended nature of the game, we don’t get a real conclusion to his arc-- even though much of his idle dialogue doesn’t change and he still espouses pro-BoS sentiments ( an unfortunate by-product of writing for a video game) there is every indication that he’s started down the right path, but understandably has a ways to go.

Also, Peter Jessop agrees with us.]

Meanwhile, in the Elder ending, Danse doesn’t get a redemption. His entire character arc, actually, hits the skids and does a total 180.

He never leaves the BoS. So scratch the need for Danse to ever think about himself as separate from them. He never needs to question what they’ve taught him or whether they’re right or wrong. He never needs to find any worth in himself beyond his use to the BoS. Why would he? He might be the Elder. The BoS is all he needs to care about anymore. The BoS is all he ever needs to be, ever again.

And I think, most horrifying of all, this Danse never needs to change his mind about synths. On the contrary, one of the surviving dialogue files includes Danse’s speech to reassure the rest of the BoS of his stance:

Danse: I want to make one thing clear to everyone. This body might be synth, but my heart and mind belong to the Brotherhood. The Institute is still a tremendous threat to the Commonwealth. They possess technologies that need to be confiscated or destroyed. And even if that means I have to pull the trigger on my own kind, I’m willing to make that sacrifice.

Elder ending Danse doesn’t grow more understanding on the nature of synths. He doesn’t accept that synths are people, or anything more than technology run amok. He won’t even accept that for himself. Elder Maxson wasn’t wrong about synths-- they’re the enemy and they need to be destroyed.

But, see, he was wrong about Danse. It’s okay for Danse to exist in spite of his nature. It’s okay for him to never fully accept his own personhood, and to outright deny it to his kind. Because his body is a machine, but he’s different from the rest because his heart and mind belong to the Brotherhood.

He’s the exception, not the example.

CONCLUSION:

The Elder ending of Blind Betrayal is dumb, contrived, stakeless, character-derailing powergaming crap at its finest and I’ll happily dance on its grave.

People give Bethesda a lot a shit for their writing-- whether it be stuff they left out, stuff they left in, or stuff that they never, ever could have made work due to the limitations of writing for a video game. Plenty of it is well-deserved, or at least worth a discussion. But from the minute I found out about its existence, I have always wanted to extend a congratulations to Bethesda for cutting the alternate Elder ending of Blind Betrayal. It was a good choice. A very good choice to cut a very dumb plot that would have fundamentally altered the story they were telling, and characters that I’ve grown to love. I think the writers deserve some credit and a hearty handshake for the wisdom of this decision.

Now as for why Nick Valentine isn’t romanceable--

#fallout 4 #fallout meta #paladin danse #arthur maxson #blind betrayal #this one was a long time coming #any thematic resemblance to any fics of mine is a coincidence #the blind betrayal manifesto #king shit of fuck mountain #the initial intrigue of the idea wears off if you think about it more than not at all

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sunshineandaisies · 4 years ago

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Pikachu Problems

Words: ~1.9k

Pairing: Peter Parker x Avenger!Reader

Warnings: language, very minor sexual suggestions

Note: I am currently sick- thus, this was created. Also watched a bunch of Teen Wolf while writing this, so took inspiration from Kira’s thunder kitsune powers for the reader’s powers.

It had started off as just sniffles – an occasional sneeze here and a blown nose there – but within the course of a few days, what you had hoped was just allergies had turned into a full-blown, misery-inducing cold.

Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if it were a normal cold, but because normal wasn’t in your vocabulary, you had been placed on quarantine to stop your sneezing and coughing from taking down an entire electrical grid in the city. Instead, you were irritating Tony every ten minutes as the lights flickered within Stark Tower and F.R.I.D.A.Y. updated him on the power outages throughout the building that your sneezing and coughing was causing.

“Kid, I’m gonna need you to stop shorting the power in the lab,” he had told you over the intercom after your latest coughing fit had caused a slight blackout within that part of the building. “Do we need to get some lightning rods for you or something? Maybe pad your room in rubber? I’ll take any suggestions, kid. Anything that’ll help keep you from frying the equipment in my lab.”

If you hadn’t been absolutely miserable, his growing frustration may have been funny.

Your quarantine only made you more miserable. You hadn’t been to school in days – hell, you’d barely left your room. Your meals were brought to you, your supply of tissues restocked every other day when Bucky or Bruce would leave a plastic bag from the drug store outside of your door, and your communication with others was done solely through the intercom or with F.R.I.D.A.Y. serving as a messenger.

To make matters worse, on the third day of you quarantine a particularly powerful sneeze had shorted all the electronics in your room. F.R.I.D.A.Y. had been unable to access your room for three hours while Tony repaired the damage, your laptop had to be completely wiped in order to assess the damage, and your phone – well, your phone was fried.

That’s probably why, on the sixth day of your quarantine, a friendly neighborhood Spider-Boy showed up at Stark Tower, rambling on and on about unanswered texts and awkward voicemails – that you definitely needed to listen to once Tony sorted out your phone situation – and ‘why the hell weren’t you in school all week’.

“C’mon, Mr. Stark. Let me in to see her,” you heard Peter begging through the intercom after he had finally managed to track Tony down after trying and failing to get F.R.I.D.A.Y. to open the door to your bedroom for nearly thirty minutes. “I just wanna make sure she’s feeling okay.”

“Kid, the last thing we need is a fried spider,” was Tony’s response, making you roll your eyes.

“I won’t hurt him,” you defended, your throat sore and scratchy from days upon days of feeling like you would cough up a lung. “I just want some cuddles, and I don’t see anyone else lining up at my door to cuddle me.” You sneezed, and the lights in your room flickered. You hoped your sneezed hadn’t affected the electricity anywhere else or you’d never convince Tony to let Peter into your room. “Please, Tony,” you pleaded. “I just want to see Peter.”

“Please, Mr. Stark,” Peter joined your pleading, and you knew that with the combined efforts of the two of you, he’d crack eventually. “She won’t hurt me. I know she won’t.”

You heard the older man groan over the intercom, and after another second, the lock on your door disengaged. “Thank you, Tony!” you exclaimed at the same time as Peter happily shouted, “You’re the best, Mr. Stark.”

“Don’t make me regret this,” Tony warned, sounding just as exasperated as you imagined he was. You smiled widely despite knowing that neither Tony nor Peter could see you. Tony Stark was good at many things but being able to tell his protégé and his ward no when they both pressed hard enough was not one of those things.

Within ten minutes, Peter was at your door. He had a fuzzy blanket draped over his shoulders, a steaming bowl of soup in his hands, and his laptop tucked under one arm while a fresh box of tissues was tucked under the other. He beamed at you when you opened the door, but his smile quickly faded as he took in your appearance. “You, uh- you look like-”

“Shit?” you guessed, hating how nasally your voice sounded. You tried to laugh when you saw his cheeks tinge pink as he shrugged, but your attempt at laughing quickly turned into a coughing fit. The lights flickered again, and Peter’s eyed you skeptically.

“Is this why you haven’t been answering my texts and calls all week?” he asked, though you assumed he already knew the answer to that question. You cocked your head to the side and raised a brow at him, moving to the side to let him into your room and past you. “You killed your phone, didn’t you?”

“Can you kill something that was never alive to begin with?” you asked rhetorically. You crawled onto your bed and crossed your legs, waiting for Peter to join you. “Did I fry my phone and make it completely unusable? Yes. Did I kill it? No.”

“Sounds like you killed it,” he quipped with a teasing grin. “Here. Pepper made this for you.” He handed you the bowl of soup, and you happily took it from him, inhaling the steam that rose off the liquid and letting it warm your throat and sinuses. You sighed in relief as you felt it soothing the inflammation that made it difficult to breath and speak. The sound didn’t escape Peter’s attention, and he smiled softly at you before settling a hand on your bare knee. “Better?”

“I will be,” you reassured and returned his smile. You let him mother hen you as you ate the soup in quiet. He made sure you had enough water, made sure that you weren’t feeling feverish, made sure that a box of tissues was within your reach, made sure that you were comfortable – ‘Peter, you really don’t need to fluff my pillows again’ – and made sure that you had taken the recommended dose of cough syrup throughout the day.

Finally – finally! – he joined you on the bed after pulling the now empty bowl from your hands and setting it on the bedside table. “Someone asked for cuddles?” he questioned sheepishly – and oh so adorably – as he settled in the spot beside you.

“I believe that someone is me,” you returned. You moved closer to him, but something in the back of your mind made you stop. “Are you sure?”

His face twisted in confusion and his brow furrowed tightly. “Sure about what?”

“That I won’t hurt you.” Right on cue, you coughed, causing the lights to flicker once again. “I can’t control it, Peter. I could hurt you, and if that happens, I don’t know what I-”

Your train of thought was interrupted by a warm hand on your cheek and soft brown eyes boring into yours. “Y/N, I literally trust you with my life. Out there and in here.” His thumb trailed over your cheekbone, his touch igniting your sense. You really wished you weren’t sick. If you were healthy, you’d definitely pounce and show him your appreciation for him and his trust.

“Aren’t you worried about getting sick?”

He shrugged. “Seems like it’s nothing more than a cold, but your powers are making it, like, ten times worse for you.” His hand dropped away from your face, but his arms opened, inviting you into his embrace. “C’mere, pretty girl.”

“Pretty girl? Didn’t you say I looked like shit earlier?”

“In my defense, I never actually said that. You just assumed that that was what I was going to say.” You scooted closer to Peter and slumped into his arms, sighing at the contact after going days without. “But you’re always a pretty girl. Even if you’re sick and look like shit.”

You swatted at his shoulder and laughed, but another coughing fit soon took over. The lights flickered overhead and a mechanically buzzing in the walls could be heard for a few seconds before the room grew silent once more. Once you were sure that the need to cough had died down, you relaxed against Peter. “Can we take a nap? Please?”

“Yeah, of course.” He guided your bodies down to the mattress, settling your heads atop your pillow and pulling the blanket over your bodies. “You’ll tell me if you need anything?”

“Definitely,” you murmured against the skin of his neck, your eyes drooping shut. “Missed you.”

“Missed you, too, pretty girl,” you heard Peter respond before you finally let your exhausted body rest.

When you woke up a few hours later, your body shaking from your latest coughing fit, the New York skyline was lit up with different shades of pinks and reds and oranges as the sun sank below the horizon. Peter bolted awake beside you, a comforting hand on your back to rub soothing circles over the fabric of your t-shirt.

Again, the lights flickered, and the mechanical buzzing sound returned, even louder than before. This time, though, the lights grew brighter and brighter before your bedroom was eventually plunged into darkness.

“Peter,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he reassured quickly. “I’m fine, but, uh-” He held up his phone, the screen remaining completely black as he pressed the home button over and over again. “I think you killed my phone.”

You groaned and flopped back against your mattress, covering your face with your hands. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

You were interrupted by Tony’s voice over the intercom, sounding just as irritated as you imagined he was. “Okay, Pikachu.” You rolled your eyes at the nickname. “Not sure how you managed to do it, but F.R.I.D.A.Y. can’t access anything on your floor. The locks, the lights, the elevator. All of it. Until I can figure out how to fix this, you’re not going anywhere. That means you, too, Spiderling.”

“But Aunt May said to-” The distinct click of the intercom disconnecting sounded, and Peter slumped against the mattress beside you, pressing his face into your neck. “I guess I’m stuck here.”

“You won’t hear me complaining,” you quipped.

You felt him smile against your neck while his arm wound itself around your waist. “I’m not complaining,” he defended. He pressed his lips to your neck in a soft kiss, and you sighed happily, fingers twining in his messy hair. To prove his point, he pressed kisses along the column of your neck, across your jaw and cheeks, and finally firmly against your lips. “I’m definitely okay with being stuck in my girlfriend’s bedroom. Even if she’s sick and unintentionally causing blackouts in the building.”

You smiled against his lips as he settled himself between your legs, and you whispered, “Whoever said giving you a perfectly good reason to stay the night was unintentional?”

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mandoinevarro · 5 years ago

Text

NO REFUNDS

Words: 5.1k :))

Rating: E, baby

Warnings: Smut (surprise surprise), bad words :0, masturbation, a biiiit of praise kink, face fucking, cumplay? let me know on the comments, etc. etc.

a/n: Happy Star Wars day!! The first few lines of this are an attempt at dumb comedy, but humor me a little and you’ll get a reward (smut) along the yellow-brick road

Finally, the lanky kid behind the counter stops air drumming with two chicken bones gnawed dry and trails his dopey eyes from the gloved fist on the table, up a bracer, and along a flexed arm, until they settle on the Mandalorian helmet staring him down and waiting for an answer. The employee removes the music bandeau from around his ears and settles it down, its noise so loud Mando can hear it from where it lays. The kid scratches the whiskers of facial hair growing patchy on his cheeks and thoughtfully nibbles on one of the bones, trying to figure out what one does when a client shows up.

“Uh, what?”

“I need to speak to the owner,” the Mandalorian repeats slowly.

“Oh, uh.” Mouth gaping like a fish too stupid to know it should fear hooks, the kid calmly turns his attention to the four walls of the hardware store, searching for guidance in the fluorescent signs hanging around the room and dictating the store’s rules like they’re ancient scriptures:

NO CHILDREN

WILL BUY STOLEN GOODS FOR LOWER PRICE

NO IMPS

NO REPUBLIC OFFICIALS

NO REFUNDS

NO APPOINTMENT, NO MEETING

“You, uh,” the kid continues, lingering on that last stanza and flicking open a dusty agenda that probably hasn’t been touched since the war ended, “you got an appointment, uh, sir?” He drags a greasy finger down the planner, squinting at nothing and pretending to read the page that Mando can clearly see is empty.

The bounty hunter sighs, holding on to the last reserves of patience that hang precariously on the cliff of his self-restraint, threatening to let go and leave him to his own anger. “No. But she’ll see me.” You better. You better fucking see him. “I was sold equipment here a few days ago, some of it faulty. I need to speak to her.”

The navigator. The fucking navigator. Of all the bunch of overpriced, black market scraps you’d somehow convinced the Mandalorian to buy from you last time, it just had to be the navigator. He still has his old blasters. Pumps are cheap. Even the deflector shields he could’ve done without for a couple of months. But the fucking navigator. The lack of droids on the Crest means that Mando relies solely on the navigator to set coordinates. Without it, he wouldn’t be able to find his way out of a system, let alone make hyperjumps. Even worse, the model is so old, its glitching isn’t recognized by the control panel, so he had to hover around the atmosphere of this damned planet for three days before figuring out what it was, throwing off his schedule and losing track of two bounties in the process. All because you sold him a damaged version of the one part he can’t do without.

But your gaping-mouthed kid worker seems too unused to visitors to really care about Mando’s request, too entertained nibbling on a bare bone and eyeing the costumer in front of him as a knowing smirk cracks his lips and he says, “I dig it.”

“You…you ‘dig it’? I don’t…”

“The whole, y’know.” He draws circles in the air with the bone, signaling the beskar armor while he wipes the sauce around his mouth with a sleeve. “The, uh, Mondolarian vibe you’ve got going on. Very retro, dude. I dig it.”

Mondo…? Bewilderment overshadows irritation for a second, and Mando focuses all his energy into searching the kid’s vacant eyes for a sign of intelligent life. “I…I am a Mandalorian.”

Fucking stars above, it’s never easy with you. If not your endless teasing, it’s the exorbitant prices, your unwillingness to compromise, or your scurrying around so he’s forced to play cat and mouse with you. Your latest impossible challenge for him to tackle is, apparently, getting a straight answer from the obtuse employee you must have handpicked from a catalogue of idiots to torture Mando. Maker, he’s surprised your store hasn’t gone bankrupt yet. He can’t imagine anyone else in the galaxy putting up with your whims. And he only does it because…well, because…

After dedicating a couple of seconds to crafting the perfect response for what appears to be his very first client, the kid muses, “Well, shit, what do I know.” He flashes a toothy smile as he rereads the dogmas on the walls. “Says nothing about Mondolarians here, but, uh—”

“—Look,” Mando bargains with your gatekeeper, trying to level the exasperation escaping the vocoder, “I only have one faulty part. Let me talk to the owner, and—”

“—Shit. I bet it was the microvalves.” Your staff of one hangs his tuff of hair in shame, swaying it limply from side to side, before staring straight at the visor apologetically. “My bad, dude, I’ve been trying to get them right, but I always fuck them up. It’s hard, y’know? Red with red, white with white. Why not red with white? Or—”

“—No. What? No. Listen to me. You sold me a busted—”

“—I sold you?” the kid scoffs, his eyes suddenly snapping wide and offended, ignoring Mando’s clenching fists, which usually make normal people cower. “Excuse me, mister Mondolarian sir, but I don’t, uh, don’t recall selling you shit, in fact—”

“—Not—not you personally, the store, look, just—”

“—in fact, I’ve never even met a Mondolarian before and you’ve, uh, no right—no right— to judge my microvalves that I worked hard on—”

“Let him in.” Your voice carries its usual amusement as it cuts between the Mandalorian and the kid, breaking off the bickering from both ends and drawing their attention to the melody’s source. You lean on the doorframe leading to your workshop, holding a pair of pliers in one hand and a wrench in the other. Grease is smeared on your face, where teeth bite down on a playful smirk and the twinkle in your eyes speaks of terrible intentions—like always. You tilt your head back to the room behind you. “C’mon, Mando. Let my receptionist work.”

With a sigh, the hunter moves towards the separate room, not before glancing back at the receptionist, who throws him one last disapproving look and wraps the bandeau that never stopped blasting music around his ears.

“Why do you keep him here?” the Mandalorian grunts as you push yourself off the doorframe to move inside your studio.

You shrug. “It’s him or droids.”

Mando trails after you inside the cramped workshop, filled to the brim with piles and piles of sensors and motors and all the other scraps from dubious origins you collect, fix, and resell. He closes the door behind him and pushes a large tube hanging from the roof to the side to walk closer to you.

Facing him, you plummet on your wheeled chair with a sigh, your arms dangling off the armrests, still holding the wrench and the pliers, like you’re the monarch of your little kingdom of junk granting him an audience.

There, Mando finally gets a good look at you, and—much to his annoyance—you’re as lovely as always. Glistening and greasy, you’re still beautiful with oil stains on your skin and fat droplets of sweat trailing your temple. You beam at him from your squeaky throne with that faint grin that attracts nothing but trouble. Maker, no wonder you always manage to talk circles around him. But not this time. This time he won’t fall for your little games. He won’t, he won’t, he won’t. Tonight he’s walking out of here with all of his money, no matter how much you bat your pretty eyelashes at him.

The Mandalorian squares his stance and straightens his back in a futile attempt to intimidate you, strutting ahead firmly and pointing an accusing finger at your face.

“You sold me a—”

“—a busted navigator.” You roll your eyes and push yourself to your legs abruptly before the hunter can get any closer. He stops dead on his tracks. You wave the wrench and the pliers in the air like the conductor of an orchestra. “I sold you a busted navigator.” The vowels are dragged out with an exaggerated tune to make fun of him. “Yeah, I heard you the first four thousand times, Mando.”

Without looking, you drop the pliers to the side. They land dead center on an open storage box. Perfectly. Almost rehearsed. Something clicks. The Mandalorian suddenly finds the missing piece of a puzzle he didn’t know needed solving, and he feels his shoulders deflate and release some of the anger that drove him to your store in the first place.

You peacock closer to him, one foot in front of the other and swaying your hips as you look down to the wrench in your hand. “But, you should know by now,” you murmur once you find yourself only inches away from the beskar, your voice morphing its earlier mock exasperation into the tone you only use whenever you two aren’t talking business. You look up at him, failing miserably at masking the mischief in your eyes. “I don’t do refunds.” You lift the wrench and grin as it taps the beskar breastplate lightly with a tink.

And before you can blink, Mando’s hand flies to your wrist to clutch it roughly, squeezing without hurting you, but with enough strength to force your fist open. Just like he knows you like it. The wrench falls to the floor with a bang that makes you jump. It’s Mando’s turn to smile when he pulls you by the wrist to press you closer against him. The cocky glint in your eyes dulls into confusion.

“I never said it was the navigator,” he informs you lowly.

You tense under his grasp and shift your jaw. “You knew I’d come back,” he continues, encouraged by your grimace. Staring at your feet, you half-heartedly try to wriggle away from his grasp, but he grabs your other wrist instead and holds you flush against the cold beskar. “Okay. I’m back. Now give me my money.”

But his satisfaction is short-lived, because if there’s anyone in the universe who knows no shame, that’s you. So you simply bite your lower lip and move your head from side to side to shake hair and embarrassment off your face. When you look up at the visor again it’s with that brazen insolence that secretly gets the Mandalorian going like nothing else in the galaxy.

“A girl gets lonely in here,” you purr. Your wrists relax, and make no attempt to pull away. “Can you blame me for wanting you back a little earlier?” Your plush lips curl into the perverse smile of someone who’s holding all the cards, making heat rush involuntarily to his crotch. And it drives him fucking insane. He could have you tied, shackled, or bent over, and you would still sneer at him like you had him wrapped around your finger.

At his silence, you wedge a leg tightly between his thighs and massage it against the bulge between. Your gasp in fake surprise when his length hardens at the first hint of a brush, too unused to any sort of physical contact to remain neutral to your bold caresses. He bites down hard on his lip to suppress a moan. He won’t give you the satisfaction.

Mando’s learnt, though, that his restraint only feeds your audacity. Only makes you taunt him more. His lack of response spurs you on, and you crane your neck forward to lick a slow line along the beskar of the chest. You blink at him playfully as you go, stuffing your tongue back into your mouth once you reach the top edge of the breastplate.

You must find it funny. How his ribs expand and contract in anticipation. How he tends to roll and unroll his fists in an attempt to suppress the instinct to throw you on top of the table so crowded by clutter that he can barely see the surface beneath and fuck the smirks off your face. How he always gives in. How he stiffens both scandalized and impossibly aroused every time you introduce him to some newer, filthier act. You must think it’s so fucking funny.

And as much as the bounty hunter wants to shove you back against your crumbling wheeled chair, he knows you’ll only enjoy it more. So he simply lets go of your wrists and steps back.

“I’m only here for my money,” he lies.

The vicious grin grows wider. “Oh, so you’re making me work for it tonight.” You step back and lean against a table with your arms crossed over your chest, purposefully pushing your tits against the cleavage. Mando shifts in his place. Licking your lips until they glisten, you give him a once-over. You study him inch by inch, and an uncomfortable rope knots in his stomach when he realizes that this is how his bounties must feel when he watches them wordlessly.

Your eyes settle on his visor, and a decision seems to cross them as you walk over to sit on your creaking chair. “Or maybe you just want to hear me beg.” You part your legs wide and clutch the armrest with one hand while the other disappears under the waist of your pants. The contour of your hand shifts up and down slowly inside the crotch of your trousers, and your lips crook into a full O as they release a deep, foul moan. “Is that it?” Your eyes are glossy and malignant, trained on his visor. “You want me to beg for your cock?”

His leather gloves ball into fists, trying to coax blood into his head and away from his…well, his other head.

Yet you hold him in place with that sinful stare and the lewd whimpers that you know get him off, and yes, fuck yes, he wants to hear you beg and sob for him all night as much as he wants to clog your throat with his shaft and make you swallow your teasing.

But he can’t let you win. You can’t scam five thousand credits out of him and expect him to throw himself into your arms no questions asked. He wants to put an end to your little tyrannical rule on his cock. And he wants his fucking money back.

So the powerful Mandalorian watches helplessly as your hand quickens under your clothing and you throw your head back in ecstasy. That fucking smirk doesn’t leave you, though. Even less so when your palm picks up some speed and you hear his breath hitch involuntarily at the visual, loud enough to override the vocoder.

“C-come on, Mando, don’t—” Your hand sinks deeper into your pants and you hum at the adjustment. “Don’t you wanna teach me what—what proper cos-costumer service looks like? Huh?”

His cock jumps in his pants when you say his name in a wanton gasp, and Mando can see you’re sweating and moving your hips faster against your palm. He’s so hard it hurts.

Your smile falters and you frown impatiently as the pent-up tension threatens to snap in your body.

“Don’t cum,” Mando blurts before he can stop himself.

“Or what?”

“Or I won’t give you what you want.”

Your movements halt on command, and the hunter almost envies the control you have over your own body to be able to backtrack on the very edge of your release. You hold your hands up in triumphant surrender as you watch the Mandalorian approach and stop just a breath away from your body. He stands tall before you, crowding you with his size and turning down the volume on the nagging voice that reminds him that he’s letting you win.

Eyes on the prize ahead of you, you lick your lips and snake a hand beneath your sit. You pull a lever and the chair plummets a few inches until your mouth is directly in front of the rigid tent growing in his pants. Expert fingers undo his belt and lower his fly, but, stars, nothing is fast enough when Mando already feels the veins of his cock growing thicker and thicker. Skipping all formalities, your hand sneaks inside, cups his balls, and pulls all of him outside. He groans when you grab his shaft and squeeze hard from base to tip, your bare palm catching awkwardly on his equally dry skin. Mando melts into the sensation all the same, but you seem displeased with your palm’s lack of fluidity.

“Fuck. Hold on.” A pair of fingers disappear into your mouth and down your throat as far as they’ll go. You choke on them dramatically and your eyes water slightly, but they shine when the two small intruders drag outside your mouth, pulling a thick string of elastic spit with them and dropping it on his shaft, pulsing with anticipation. You lean forward and look up through your lashes as you unroll your tongue slowly and more gooey saliva dangles from it. It’s too dense to spill onto its target, so you pluck the heavy ropes from your mouth and smear it manually on his cock, while a thread of it hangs on your chin.

“Fuck.” Your tiny clenched fist wakes up every nerve in his body as it drags up and down his shaft, obscene and perfectly lubricated. Mando’s hips buck into its grasp involuntarily, so suddenly that you flinch at the unexpected jolt. It’s a small comfort for him, to see that he can also surprise you. But then you’re giggling again, locking him in place by grabbing the buck of his belt with your free hand.

“Eager,” you remark. You lean forward and place a chaste kiss on the tip that digs into his spine. Maker, it was barely anything, but he’s so hard and your mouth is so close. “Aren’t Mandalorians,” you tease, “supposed to have self-restraint?”

Mando’s only answer is a low groan and a gloved hand that tangles on your hair and pushes you forward. You resist, though, instead wrapping a fist around his base and dragging your hot tongue up his underside, stopping just before the tip. A tortured whimper echoes around the helmet, and the Mandalorian is not sure if you could hear it because his muscles pull tighter, drawing his attention to his cock and your mouth and the fact that the latter is not wrapped around him for some reason. As if you could read his mind, you suddenly engulf him whole. Spit gathers on the edge of your lips as you suck on his length, swallowing around the tip and swirling your tongue around his girth.

“Fuck, you’re so—so fucking g-good at this.” You hum in response, sending vibrations through his shaft that make his knees buckle. He always forgets how good it feels with you. He forgets that you take him perfectly like all your holes were made for him to fuck. That you make his blood run hot with every swing of your tongue and every spasm of your cunt and every insolent remark that escapes your lovely mouth, now busy pleasuring him.

You settle on his head and suck on the bulb, hollowing your cheeks to let him feel the delicious inside of your mouth. Mando grabs handfuls of your hair with both hands, still trying to extinguish little whimpers before they leave his throat. And you can tell. He knows you can tell because determination clouds your eyes as you yank him closer by the belt. You drag your tongue in a circle around the ridge of the head, before dipping into the slit on the tip and finally earning a punched out groan and some beads of precum as a reward. Somehow, you moan and chuckle at the same time, opening your mouth as strings of spit fall to the floor.

“You’re hard, Mando,” you coo, pumping his length while you rub it on the side of your face, “throbbing and so, so hard. You should’ve come to me sooner, baby. You’re desperate.” You suck on the head again, and the Mandalorian’s grip on your hair turns to steel, pulling you into him and no longer asking. Moaning, you let him, taking him as far as you can and wrapping a fist where you can’t reach. Your other hand releases his belt and snakes down to your lap, fumbling with the waistband of your pants.

Somewhere in the swamp of sensations drowning his thoughts, an idea flashes in Mando’s head, and he holds on to it before you can suck it out of his tip. One glove lets go of your hair and quickly grans the hand lowering into your heat to resume touching yourself. His cock still in your mouth, you look up at him with furrowed eyebrows and a silent question.

“You can’t c-cum,” he explains, forcing words out of a throat that right now only wants to moan, “un-until you give me my—my refund.”

You groan and roll your eyes, taking your mouth off him with a pop. “Fuck no,” you breathe as you pump him faster and harder, almost making Mando lose his resolve. Almost. His hold on your wrist tightens. “It’s store policy.”

“Y-yeah?” You continue sliding your fist along his shaft, as you lean forward and lower your face to start lightly licking his balls. The room spins around Mando, and his grip on your hair pushes you into him until you suck on one ball gently. “Is—is it store p-policy to—ngh—to f-fuck your clients?”

You chuckle against his taint. Your head straightens to set your attention back on his tip, where he’s leaking an almost embarrassing amount of precum. A thumb brushes over his slit, gathering the pearls and bringing them into your mouth to taste him. The way you rub your core slightly against the chair is sneaky enough, but the Mandalorian catches the movements and tugs your hand and hair tighter as a warning. Your shoulders slump. “I’ll give you half,” you offer.

Mando guides your hand lower and curls it around his swollen cock, silently begging for your attention. His hand wraps over yours as he squeezes your fist and drags it along his shaft at a pace of his liking that sets his insides ablaze. “Eighty.” The helmet falls back as he revels in the wet sounds of your hand sliding back and forth his cock and giving him a nice enough memory for when he inevitably goes back to the Crest and is forced to take care of his needs himself.

You let him guide you, cupping his balls with your other hand and swirling your tongue around his darkening tip. Mando’s chest trembles with a long moan at the toe-curling feeling of your warm spit and your clenched fist working so hard for him, until you drop him from your mouth and answer, “Seventy.”

“N-no, I—”

“—Seventy,” you repeat and twist your hand away from his grasp, leaving his seeping cock throbbing and abandoned, “or you don’t cum.”

Fuck, he was close. He was so fucking close, before you turned the tables. Like fucking always. A part of him cradles his already bruised pride, shaming him for—yet again—not being able to hold it together around you. But his cock tugs harder. More insistently. It pulls every fiber in his body and screams at him to give you whatever the fuck you want.

“Fine.” He nods his head once, before his better sense can convince him otherwise. “Seventy.”

A full, beautiful smile that almost makes Mando forget he’s getting scammed graces your plump lips. You waste no time shoving your hand inside your underwear again and moving your arm frantically as you give him a couple of throaty whines. You open your mouth as wide as it’ll go and blink up at him, inviting him to take you however he so pleases. He tangles his fingers on your hair and shoves you against him as you wrap your lips around his cock and muffle your mewls on it.

The Mandalorian starts fucking your face, getting his money’s worth as he moves you back and forth. Your eyes water and you gag with every shove, but you work earnestly for him, hollowing your cheeks and moving your tongue and pulling just about every trick on your toolbox to make Mando’s eyes roll to the back of his head.

And stars, even through your pants and his helmet, he can still smell your arousal. He hears the wet squelching of your fingers working your pussy fast and if he could only get a look. One look is all he needs to cum, he’s sure, one fucking look at your clenching cunt and he’s done.

“F-fuck, l-let me see,” he pants, “let—let me s-see you—see your p-pussy cum, just—fuck—just a mo-moment, please, j-just…”

Tears from all the gagging fall out of your pretty eyes as you open your mouth and stand up, taking your trembling hand outside to fumble with your trousers. Your thumbs are hooked under their waistband and push down slightly before you suddenly stop and stare at the Mandalorian gulping all the oxygen he can get and waiting for you. “Sixty,” you say carefully.

Too intoxicated with you and too focused on the blood beating hard on his cock, Mando couldn’t care less. He doesn’t give a shit about percentages or money or parts or whatever half-forgotten excuse he had to come here tonight. All that matters and all that’s real is whatever he needs to climax, and if it means letting you win, so be it. “S-sixty. Yes. Whatever. Just—just take your fucking pants off.”

One swift movement and your pants and underwear pool around your ankles. Yanking hard on the hem, you manage to pull the right leg off your boot. You don’t bother with the other one, letting it hang on your left leg as you climb back on the chair, spreading your legs and hooking one thigh over the armrest to offer him the best view possible.

Mando’s cock threatens to spill at the sight. You’re fucking soaked. Your folds are blushed and slick and swollen with all the blood accumulated on your cunt. Three fingers rub your aching clit and everything around it with messy strokes, as you stare at the bounty hunter with raw lust and moan for him loud and clear, and this. This is worth the fucking navigator.

As soon as his shaft ghost over your face you lean into it and reach for him with your mouth. Mando takes your head between his hands and resumes his previous brutal pace, his eyesight now directed at the way your cunt spasms and seeps more juices with every circle you press against your lips. And, fuck, you’re taking him like you’re hungry for his cock. Pushing harder and further and faster despite the gagging, you’re making Mando see blotches cloud his vision and feel how his muscles turn into hot, thick magma. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he can’t hold it in anymore. His balls start pulling up as a warning and you’re sucking harder and mewling around him.

“I—I…I’m gonna—I—”

Mando can’t find enough words to put together for the life of him, but you nod and manage a chocked “Mhmm” and bob your head to the pace of your quickening fingers and stars oh fuck—

The wave of his climax hits him hard on his back and makes him curl around you. He braces himself against the top of your chair and the change in position makes his cock slip outside of your mouth, but his vision goes completely black and all he can feel is the rush of pleasure crushing his bones into dust. Maybe your name is falling from his lips, but he can’t be sure. The never-ending spurts of cum falling somewhere hoard most of his attention, and he focuses on that thick and heavy release, so rare for him that he puts his mind into savoring every second.

It’s not until the echoes around his ears dissipate that the Mandalorian hears you’re still whimpering. Hunched over you, he opens his eyes just in time to see you gather some of the seed that he spilled on your neck and bring it down to smear it over your bundle of nerves, rubbing it one, two, three, four times, before you’re sobbing long and loud. Your hole tightens around nothing, your forehead resting on his cuisse, and Mando thinks he could get hard again just from the image.

You both stay like that for a while, curled into each other and panting in turns, until Mando gathers all the energy left in his system to pull himself upright and shove his softening shaft back into his pants. It’s only then that he sees just how much of a mess he made: Cum landed everywhere. It hangs thick all over your face, on your neck, on your hair, on your clothes. He blushes darkly and he’s about to open his mouth to apologize, but you sense it. Somehow. You wink and brush off his shame with a smile and a wave of your hand, standing up to get dressed. But Mando’s quicker. He kneels in front of you and gently raises your underwear until it hugs your hips, wishing for a fleeting second he could press a kiss on the supple flesh there. You grab his pauldron for balance to sneak your foot into the pantleg that Mando holds open for you.

For once, it’s he who breaks the silence. “I…I do want my sixty percent, you know.”

“Of course.” You smile sweetly at him, reaching back to your work table to grab a clean rag, rubbing it against your face and neck. “I’ll even throw in some free microvalves for good measure.”

—

Taglist of two so you can keep each other company :) : @rosetophighlander @hellomothermoon

#the mandolarian #the mandalorian x you #the mandolorian x reader #the mandalorian x ofc #the mandalorian smut #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin smut #din djarin x you #mando x reader #mando x you #mando smut #star wars smut #star wars day #his fucking microvalves that he worked hard on

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tavern-aa · 4 years ago

Text

Are You Serious: Tetsurou Kuroo

A/N: Hey there Teddy here! This is my first post on the blog and I'm excited to write for the rooster man. I hope you enjoy and I'd love of possible to get some feedback. I HOPE YOU ENJOY!!!

Rating: T for swearing and mentions of sex, but nothing explicit.

Word Count: 1.4k

X GN! Reader

Funny Prompt 22: “I hope I’m never stuck with you on a deserted island.”

Taking a business course as an elective was not something you thought you would do at the beginning of the semester as a liberal arts major. Yet here you were, sitting in one of the drafty old buildings on the west side of campus silently cursing your advisor for talking you into this. It was fine for all of six minutes until you found there was a fundamental problem with your class.

Your seatmate was a fucking asshole.

The guy was fine when he first walked in. You had just sat down and got situated in your seat when your attention was caught by the opening of the classroom door. He was tall and had a unruly head of black hair. His eyes seemed to be naturally dazed which seemed to fit with his overall disheveled sexy aesthetic. General consensus: 10/10 would smash.

Your chances of hopefully getting a taste of that sexy mess rises when he started making his way towards the empty seat to your right. You turned your head in hopes he wouldn't notice you checking him out. You thought you had lucked out when took the seat and slouched forward to rest his head on his arm. His eyes trailed the room lazily before stopping on you. You felt yourself unconsciously straighten your back under his sharp hazel eyes. He kept his gaze trained on you for a moment longer before speaking.

"Hey, you mind telling me which class this."

The request confused you, "um, this is practical business with Professor Honda. Why do you ask?"

He hummed for a moment, "no real reason I just wanted to make sure you were in the right class."

You furrowed your brow cautiously. "And what exactly do you mean by that?"

The mystery guy only shrugged as a condescending look overtook his face, "nothing really, you just don't look like someone who would be taking a class like this."

Suddenly this guy became less of a hunk...

Your face took on a harsh scowl at his words. What the hell did he mean by that?

"A class like this?" You prompted, making sure he could hear the edge in your voice.

"You know" he started, "a class that requires practical thinking rather than just relying on feelings."

He looked you up and down seeming to be taking you in, "you're an art student right?"

“Yeah so what?”

“Well it’s no secret that you artist aren’t the most logical bunch, so I think it’s pretty safe to assume you all don’t take classes with higher critical thinking.”

The jerk then had the audacity to flutter his eyelashes in a faux innocent manner, “aren’t you going to ask how I knew you were an art major?”

You honestly didn’t care at this point you just wanted to punch the guy.

“Not really,” you started. “But you seem like the kind of prick who would tell me anyway.”

The prick’s grin stretched further, honestly making him look like an attractive Grinch.

“Well at least I know you catch on quick. Your look is what gave you away, that whole alternative artsy look is pretty standard for your type.”

You were pretty sure your eye was starting to twitch at this point. Who did this guy think he is? You sighed a bit as you watched your professor walk into the class and began to set up. Not wanting him to have the last word, you leaned your body closer to him and lowered your voice so as not to draw attention.

“I know I’m just an emotional art student, but I can positively infer that I’m going to kick your ass if you keep talking shit.”

You straightened up as Professor Honda started to the lecture, making sure to school your face so as not to react to the jerk’s shocked expression.

Things only seemed to spiral from then on. You found out that first day that you obnoxious seatmate’s name was Kuroo and he was a business major in the same year as you. You also learned he was just as petty as he was blunt, seeing as how he continued to sit next to you in class and went out of his way to goad you. Whether it be asking about your latest project in a condescending way or commenting on how your outfit that day fit your “aesthetic” as he put it.

Your rivalry didn’t only reside in your conversation but it also started stretching into your academics. You two were well known in class for trying to out do each other during discussions and tests. Your professor didn’t seem to mind, rather they found the whole situation amusing. So amusing in fact they decided they wanted to up the ante on the class drama. By deciding to pair you two for your end of the semester project. You know, because that’s always fun.

The project itself was actually interesting, you and your partner had to make a presentation on a specific scenario. What would you bring on a deserted island, so as to thrive rather than survive. So instead of the usual practical items like water or a weapon you and your partner had free range to create a scenario where your items help you thrive in a business sense.

You were excited about the whole thing, if only it didn’t imply that you would have to see Kuroo outside of this class. The two of you had decided to work at your place because despite how much you didn’t want him in your place you knew you didn’t want to be seen with him around campus. So the Saturday after the project was assigned found you and Kuroo hunkered in your apartment begrudgingly working.

“So...”

You looked up from your paper to look at Kuroo who was seated across from you on your living room floor.

“So what?”

Kuroo lifted one of his eyebrows, “so, what are you going to bring to your island?”

“What are you going to bring to yours?”

The dark haired man sighed at your usual defensiveness.

“Well if you must know I would bring a box of condoms.”

“Excuse me?”

Kuroo smirked at you, “you heard me.”

You glared back at him, “why the hell would you bring a box of condoms to a deserted island?”

Kuroo began to twirl his unused pen in his hand, “because the next thing I would bring with me is you” he all but purred.

You flinched back in shock but became irritated at the familiar feeling of heat under your skin.

“What are you getting at?”

“I’m not trying to get at anything, I would have thought that my intentions were clear.”

You scrunched your face up at his cocky tone, “no your intentions were clear in I’m just trying to find out your angle.”

Kuroo leaned his body closer towards you.

“You don’t need to worry your little head about my angle just so as long as I can see you in a few...” he trailed off, racking his gaze up and down your body.

“Is this really your convoluted way of propositioning me?”

“Yep”

You were silent for a moment taking the time to observe Kuroo. He looked his usual messy but attractive self, but his eyes held a certain vulnerability you don’t remember ever seeing.

“Are you serious?”

You watched closely as Kuroo lightly scratched the back of his neck.

“Well, I am hoping for a bit more romance involved but yeah.” He took one of his large calloused hands in yours, “I’m asking you out baby, so what do you say?”

Now for the record you usually regarded yourself as a normally logical person. You were smart and you were clever, but looking at Kuroo in that moment brought back all the feelings you constantly shoved down. And that damn pet name, it wasn’t even original but it still left your heart racing and your palms sweaty.

“I’d say, I hope I’m never stuck with you on a deserted island” you said. “But I guess I can see past your weird fantasies for now, sure I’ll go out with you.”

Kuroo’s face broke out into a soft smile but before he could say anything you spoke again.

“But if you talk shit about my major ever again, I WILL kick your ass.”

#kuroo x male reader #kuroo tetsurō #kuroo x reader #kuroo x you #haikyuu #haikyuu x male reader #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x gn!reader #haikyuu!! x male reader #haikyuu x reader #hq #tetsurou kuroo x reader

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hermannsthumb · 5 years ago

Note

Nsfw prompt: The boys go for a swimming hall (Hermann finds swimming best form excercise for his leg) and Newton gets a bit handsy beneath the water.

im really in the mood for a prompt like this, i just got a nice ole (unused lol) pool off eb*y and i can’t wait to swim.....

18+/not SFW under cut

———————–

The thing about Hermann is that–no matter how often he and Newt argue, or how often he snaps at Newt, or criticizes Newt, or tells Newt to bugger off, or acts like a generally cold, unfeeling jackass–he’s still Newt’s best friend, which means Newt has a vested interest in getting into his business whenever at all possible. It’s what best friends are for, you know–having someone to always know your business. Newt always makes sure Hermann knows his business.

Anyway. Every Friday, without fail, Hermann will take a small, early dinner, clock out of the lab at 7:30 p.m. sharp, and speedwalk off down the hallway in the opposite direction of where his quarters are, a small tote bag in hand. Every Friday, without fail, Newt will ask where he’s going. Every Friday, without fail, Hermann will tell him to bugger off. It’s enough to drive anyone nuts with curiosity, let alone Newt in his official best friend status.

“What I’m trying to say,” Newt says, “is that you drove me to this.”

He doesn’t know why Hermann’s acting so weird about it all and, like, trying to cover himself up. It was only natural for Newt–after weeks of being told to bugger off–to finally just followed Hermann out one Friday and got his answers for himself. And boy, is he glad he did.

“I didn’t even know we had a swimming pool!” he exclaims happily. “Does anyone else come here?”

Hermann continues to shield his body with his towel. Again, weird–he’s in a bathing suit, it’s not like he’s naked. And it’s not like it’d be weird even if he was naked. Newt’s seen him naked more times than he can count, and Hermann’s seen him naked just as much in turn. Lot of lab accidents, you know. (Most of which are Newt’s fault.) “N-not that I know of,” he coughs out. He breathed in a decent amount of water when Newt flung open the door and starting shouting, so Newt guesses he’s still recovering. “I imagine it was once part of the rangers’ gymnasium, but–it’s not as if there are enough of them left to warrant it being, er, exclusive. Newton–”

Newt begins to take off his shirt. “You have access to the rangers’ gym?”

“Not strictly speaking, no,” Hermann says, “but no one in LOCCENT ever uses decent passcodes on their computers, and– Newton, what are you doing?”

“Undressing,” Newt says.

“I can see that,” Hermann says. “Why?”

“What, you thought I wasn’t going to swim in the super awesome private pool you hacked yourself credentials for?” Newt says. He kicks off his boots, and his socks and jeans and glasses follow. Boxers stay on–he doesn’t want to give Hermann a heart attack. “Okay, look out!”

“Technically, hacking isn’t--wait, no,” Hermann says, eyes widening in alarm, “no, no–!”

Newt does a cannonball into the deep end: the resulting wave drenches Hermann and his towel, which he finally throws aside and to scowl at Newt. “I think that was a ten out of ten,” Newt says happily. He splashes over to Hermann and settles in against the wall next to him. The water is warmer than he thought, which is nice. “So this is where you go every Friday night? You swim?

“Yes,” Hermann says through gritted teeth. “I find the exercise is good for my leg, and I like the quiet. Will you leave me alone now?”

“Nah,” Newt says. “It’s kinda dangerous to swim without a buddy, dude. I’ll be doing you a favor if I stay.” He stretches out his limbs and tosses his arm around Hermann’s shoulders. “You know, I haven’t been swimming in years. My dad used to take us to the beach a bunch when I was a kid, but we stopped when I started college, and it wasn’t like we could have a pool at the apartment, and...”

Hermann shakes him off. There’s a faint pink blush across his cheeks. “Yes, that’s all very fascinating. At least keep to the other bloody side, won’t you?”

Newt grins. “Why?”

“I said I come here for quiet,” Herman says.

Newt mimes zipping his lips shut and throwing away the key. “You won’t even know I’m here.”

They don’t exactly keep to separate sides of the pool, but they do their own things to the extent that they may as well be: Hermann does a series of calm, even laps around the edge, while Newt entertains himself with attempting underwater handstands (he fails) and perfecting his backflip off the edge (he fails those, too, though his cannonball remains tried and true). He’s paddling over to the ladder for yet another try at a backflip when Hermann suddenly grunts, loudly, in discomfort.

Newt turns quickly, snatching his glasses up and cramming them back on. “Hermann?”

Hermann–face screwed up, eyes shut tight–has one white-knuckled grip on the side of the pool, the other on his left thigh. “Cramp,” he hisses through his teeth. “Bugger. No, it’s fine, don’t bother–”

But he goes easily when Newt guides him to the steps of the pool, and he doesn’t let go of Newt’s shoulder until he’s seated down comfortably. Newt hovers, anxiously, over him. “Are you good?” he says. “Do you need me to get your pain meds?” This sort of thing isn’t new for Hermann, and they’re both well-practiced in how to deal with it at this point (pain meds, sometimes a heating pad) but Newt can’t help but worry every time. Especially when they’re this far off from the lab and their bunks.

Hermann shakes his head. “It’ll pass,” he says. He stretches out his leg and begins to work his fingers up and down his muscles, letting out the occasional grunt of pain. “I just need–”

“Let me,” Newt says.

Hermann stares at him skeptically. Then he drops his hands. “If you’re sure,” he says, and leans back.

It’s awkward at first, with Hermann breathing and glaring over him, but–after five minutes of squeezing, and testing different levels of pressure–Newt finally settles into a rhythm, and Hermann’s hisses of pain give way to small, pleased groans. “That’s–yes,” Hermann sighs. His head tips back, giving Newt a perfect view of his long, elegant throat. “Perfect.”

Newt grins weakly. He’d make some smart-ass comment, too, but he seems to be forgetting more and more of his vocabulary with each little sound that slips out of Hermann’s mouth, and he doesn’t trust himself to not just start squeaking. It’s not even just those little sounds that are making Newt feel funny, actually–it’s Hermann’s half-mast eyelids, the dig of his teeth into his wide lower lip, the tensing and relaxed sagging of his body every time Newt finds a new spot to work in his leg. It’s–well–you know. Newt’s only human. The pool water is too warm to help stop things from getting weird, but at least Newt’s crouched down low enough to conceal anything unseemly. “Good?” he croaks out.

Hermann nods. His throat bobs as he swallows. “Mm. Little higher.”

Newt obliges. Twice, by accident, his fingers dip beneath the hem of Hermann’s swim trunks and skim over the soft skin of his inner thigh; when he does it a third time, he reels back, blushing to the tips of his ears. “S-sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean–”

He stops short when he notices the tenting in Hermann’s trunks, eye level with him now. He’s not sure how he missed it before. He’s not sure how Hermann–with his heavy eyelids and parted mouth–is missing it. “Hey, dude,” Newt squeaks.

It’s a natural biological response to physical stimuli. Nudity–hands on that nudity, massaging out tension and getting just a little too close to certain parts of the human anatomy–shit, Newt’s having the same problem himself! Hermann doesn’t mean anything by it. Nothing personal. “Hm?” Hermann groans.

You have a boner, Newt thinks. I’m turning you on, Newt thinks. But he doesn’t say either of those things: instead, with a show of courage he’s not sure he actually feels, he moves his hand overtop Hermann’s dick.

Hermann’s emits a strange, low keen; his eyes shoot open. “Newton?” he says. He sounds a little dazed. More important, though, he also sounds excited, and when Newt gently cups him through the thin layer of polyester, he splays his legs wider and keens again. “What are you doing?” he breathes.

Newt moves his hand up and down twice, slowly, getting a feel for him. Hermann grabs onto the edge of the pool. “Newton,” he says again, but it’s a moan this time.

This is all the encouragement Newt needs. He shuffles forward on his knees, lifting himself just enough from the water to pull himself from his own boxers, and--tentatively--touches Hermann’s hand. “Hey,” he says, “will--will you--?”

Hermann’s fingers are cold and kind of clammy, and definitely unpracticed, and he doesn’t do anything but grasp at Newt for a minute while Newt continues to rub the heel of his palm up and down Hermann’s dick. “What do you want me to do?” Hermann says. His voice is maddeningly husky--nothing Newt’s ever heard before. God. Since when has Hermann been sexy? Always, if Newt’s being honest, but he guesses there’s a thin line between thinking someone’s sexy and knowing, definitively, that they’re really fucking sexy.

“Whatever you want?” Newt says.

Hermann blinks at him. Then--leaning in and draping the bulk of his weight on Newt--he kisses Newt. Their chins bump together, and their teeth clack, and Newt was not expecting it, but it’s awesome, so he kisses back happily and rubs Hermann a little faster. He likes how Hermann’s dick feels. It’s not scary intimidating or anything, but it’s good and firm, and the sort of thing he could (eventually) see himself enjoying getting his mouth on. “Oh,” Hermann moans into his mouth, “oh, that's--Newton--”

His own hand begins to move on Newt. Fucking finally. “Yeah, that’s perfect,” Newt says, and then winces. “Okay, don’t squeeze so tight, that’s--that actually kind of hurts. Hermann.”

“Sorry,” Hermann pants. Is that how he usually jerks himself off? No wonder he’s so tense all the time. “Oh, oh, you’re very good at this.”

Newt grins against his mouth. “I know. Hey, you want me to--?”

He was planning on offering to use his mouth, because he’s getting more and more curious about how much he’d enjoy it (and he’s really good at using his mouth, and he knows Hermann would enjoy it) but--hips jerking erratically, kissing Newt hard enough to draw blood--Hermann suddenly cries out and goes still. “Holy shit,” Newt says. “Did you--?”

“Yes,” Hermann says, through deep, heavy breaths. His hand slips off of Newt; he slumps backwards. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Newt says. “That’s hot. Okay, I can finish myself, no sweat, just sit there and look pretty--”

He jerks himself off quickly, eyes roving all over Hermann and committing every goddamn inch of him like this to memory: his heaving, blush-pink chest, his blown pupils, his wide-open mouth, the obscene splay of his legs. The top of his dick, spent, but still a little pink, poking out over the waistband of his swim trunks. How his mouth felt on Newt’s. How the soft skin of his thigh felt under Newt’s fingertips. “Yeah,” Newt grunts, and he comes over himself.

He slinks back under the water, panting. The pool filter will take care of the mess. Probably. Anyway, it’s not like anyone but Hermann knows this place exists in the first place. “Newton,” Herman begins.

The gymnasium door swings open. Newt stuffs his dick back into his boxers in a flash. “Hey,” a ranger Newt recognizes only in passing says, as two of his equally tall and equally built friends loom in the doorway behind him, “what are you guys doing here?”

“Leaving?” Newt says.

He and Hermann hustle out as fast as they can, Newt not even bothering to put his pants back on first, Hermann’s towel flapping like a striped bird behind them. They stop three hallways away just long enough to catch their breath; then, grinning shyly at each other, they dissolve into laughter.

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #Anonymous #not sfw ////

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modernidolater · 4 years ago

Text

TW: Violence, dark humor, all that jazz. Go no further, angry shit, yadda.

So, yanno...i'm just gonna yell into the void about something.

When i was very young, I read a lot of encyclopedias. Most of my knowledge of the world was attributable to the Encyclopedia Britannica, which my mother kept because well, a home should have a nice, impressive looking set of books. Along with a bunch of other old books that just...really weren't the best choice for a regressive anti-technology apocalyptic fundamentalist cult, but then, as we used to joke, my mother doesn't have to make sense, she just has to make decisions.

So, I eventually started plumbing the depths to try and figure out "what the hell is wrong with my family."

While i didn't get an answer about my family in general, I did note that i seemed to be oddly suited to the definition of "psychopath," minus the whole "being a problem for society at large" thing. Asocial, low empathy, lack of guilt, inability to plan cohesively, difficulty conceptualizing consequences, near total lack of emotions except curiosity and rage, both of which are carefully stifled, aggressive tendencies...frankly, I look at my younger siblings and i can definitely assure anyone that asks that had I not been raised quite far away from society, or if I'd stayed in the cult, I would most definitely have been a problem for society.

But psychopaths are *monsters,* you see. They're so, so bad, you see. Everyone assured me, at great length, that I couldn't be that, no, no sirree. I was too nice. Too kind. I didn't punch people nearly often enough (largely because I don't like being punched outside of sex, and I like to be in charge of where I'm being punched, and even that mostly cause I'm kinda badly out together physically, but that's aside the point.)

I wasn't *hate-able.* My empathy was too high.

On that last note, I have spoken elsewhere and i believe here regarding my empathy. My empathy is specifically a learned skill picked up by reading Edgar Allen Poe's Auguste Dupin stories. Dupin explains his near preternatural ability to get inside people's heads by his learned skill of micro-mimicking body and facial language and then analyzing what he feels when he copies someone else. Works absolute wonders, particularly as up to that point (i was 8-9), I was using the classical technique of provoking and hurting people around me to experimentally figure out how other people worked. Admittedly, it's somewhat like recording a speech and listening to it at the lwvel of a whisper in a crowded room, but then mimicry is far less likely to get you punched, and see previous for my feelings on getting punched.

But now i had, for all intent, a system to demonstrate empathy. Thanks to my mother's abuse, I had a complete paranoid delusion aping guilt. I could check plans past others, and once I got my hands on Google at 14, I had the capacity to directly look up what the general, societal consequences of most actions were and model behaviors that achieved my ends. I further had 18 years of direct training in mind control and manipulation, thanks to my cult.

You may notice that what you just read sounds like the origin story of a serial killer. Ape people around them to avoid detection, paranoia making them scrupulous enough to not get caught, and careful study of laws to find the lines, plus a hyper manipulative persona.

Roll with me here. This continues forward.

So, i'm out and about, 2, 5, 6 years free of my cult. I have married a self avowed psychopath who actually HAS been diagnosed with antisocial disorder thanks to a teenage habit of theft and punching people. He is fairly sure I am not one, since I perform guilt and empathy fantastically, by rote at this point. I literally have days that my face hurts from faking emotions for too long, i am slowly developing agoraphobia because there are far too many people to mimic in a retail job, and my guilt subroutine is just a voice chanting in my head, "they're coming to get you, don't fuck up" 24/7 to the point that i am developing hallucinations, but yeah. It's definitely not psychopathy. At this point, that's just ASPD, and i'm just too darn social. Never that. I'm no monster, you see. I'm "nice."

About this point, I have learned to use mind control techniques to help people, carefully applying them with direct permission to help people open up and discuss problems. My near preternatural ability to get into people's heads, my ability to find information, and my absolute lack of fucks about morals (thus making me wildly nonjudgemental), makes me the go-to confidant for many of my friends. This neatly surrounds me with people that can smooth my life out, but you can't tell people you're friends with them cause the world is made of grey paste and you're deathly bored 24/7 and being allowed to pick through people's minds and help them optimize is the closest you get to not wanting to shoot yourself or others. Or that you carefully maintain contact with people so you can check and make sure you're not doing anything jail worthy. Or that a large group to mimic lets you blend in easier, and finding one that also is transgressive, but socially permissable (thanks, kink) blows off some steam.

Of course, people that don't know me find me deeply off-putting, as I am at this point rapidly learning to turn off the mimicry when not immediately interacting with people. This results in me appearing utterly emotionless, but as soon as people talk to me, bing, back on. I had also joined the kink subculture, giving my hedonistic and transgressive sides an outlet.

I'd also gone to the trouble of getting a multifaceted degree. Ostensibly, my degree is "multimedia journalism." If you aren't aware, this means I have a degree in research, interpersonal communication, public speaking, written communication, mass communication, some psychology, critical thinking, media creation and analysis. In short, I have the literal perfect degree for figuring out, communicating with, and functionally understanding people, as well as a vastly enhanced ability to locate obscure information.

Fast forward again. Three mental breakdowns, four years of therapy, poking at my gender, figuring out a lot of mental health problems, and a rotating series of diagnoses, life is...slowly improving. I've left a toxic marriage (toxic on both sides), moved to a completely new place, started over. I have sort of resigned myself to focusing on my (admittedly annoyingly complex and wide ranging) physical disabilities.

And it comes up, in talking to my partner, that his adoptive mother displayed (she's dead) quite a few signs of ASPD. And he asks curiously if there's any connection between ADHD, autism, and ASPD, mainly cause the "personality disorder" part. PD's can, with long or early exposure, sometimes be passed on, you see.

Guess what's being studied, right now? Not a connection between ASPD and ADHD. A connection between psychopathy and ADHD. Wait, but I thought psychopathy wasn't a thing, says I? I thought there was only ASPD, now?

Ah, but for you see, the DSM is a load of horseshit. And i have heard that from multiple communities with different relations to it, and from multiple therapists, psychiatrists, professors...as a general rule, when the people who use it, the people it's used on, and the people who teach it all agree that a document is manure, I get a touch distrustful. I get more so when current studies use umbrella terms disavowed by a document known for being reductivist and that has been noted as having a great number of entries that were manipulated deliberately to make them as narrow and unusable as possible.

So anyway.

Turns out that while no, ADHD and Autism don't make you a psychopath, there's a distinct overlap. Empathy issues are a possiblity in all three, though both ADHD and autism can create *hyper*empathy. Inability to navigate social constructs is another point of overlap.

But really, it's the serotonin deficiency that hurls it across the line for me. And the genetic factors. Can psychopathy result from environment? Yeah, seems so. But there does seem to be a genetic and neurochemical component. Which is...curious for a disorder presented as purely a traumatic abreaction that creates dangerous amorals.

I then looked it up. And wouldn't you know, psychopathy is only pathologized as ASPD/APD, and DPD? The former is the sort of psychopathy that is characterized by violent amd criminal antisocial behavior, and the other an inability to understand and perform social mores at all. But this is the DSM, so these are of course diagnosed by problems caused for others as a first line.

Violation of societal norms, lack of emotions other than rage, aggression...it's almost like the same people that named a serotonin and function deficiency Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder to enshrine the disorder only by those aspects that make neurotypical people uncomfortable rather than seeking to help the neurodivergent person, the same people that invented torturous behavioral correction therapies to "fix" the neurodivergent person? Those strike me as people that might possibly have looked a serotonin deficiency that causes rage, limited emotions, impulsivity, difficulty conceptualizing consequence, and potentially a hell of a lot of other fun side shit and decided to call that "Doesn't get along with others well" disorder.

What really kicks it in the teeth for me, however, is that psychopathy used to mean more than "a social pariah." You see, Theodore Millon, the guy that wrote the book on personality disorders, noted between 5 and 10 subtypes. Do you know what they are?

Nomadic

(including schizoid and avoidant features)

Drifters; roamers, vagrants; adventurer, itinerant vagabonds, tramps, wanderers; they typically adapt easily in difficult situations, shrewd and impulsive. Mood centers in doom and invincibility

Malevolent

(including sadistic and paranoid features)

Belligerent, mordant, rancorous, vicious, sadistic, malignant, brutal, resentful; anticipates betrayal and punishment; desires revenge; truculent, callous, fearless; guiltless; many dangerous criminals, including serial killers.

Covetous

(including negativistic features) Rapacious, begrudging, discontentedly yearning; hostile and domineering; envious, avaricious; pleasures more in taking than in having.

Risk-taking

(including histrionic features) Dauntless, venturesome, intrepid, bold, audacious, daring; reckless, foolhardy, heedless; unfazed by hazard; pursues perilous ventures.

Reputation-defending

(including narcissistic features) Needs to be thought of as infallible, unbreakable, indomitable, formidable, inviolable; intransigent when status is questioned; overreactive to slights.

(It should be noted: the features listed above are simply what each presentation is most likely to display if disordered. A reputation-defender may not display narcissm, a risk taker may not be histrionic. A malevolent [what a terribly judgy name...] could be negativistic, or avoidant, or histrionic. And so on.)

Now, ya may be going, "wait, hold up, narcissism is on there! We still have that! Schizoid is on there, we have that! Sadism, paranoia, we got all those things!"

Flash quiz: do you know what a personality disorder is? It's a series of learned behaviors that require moderation and unlearning.

Why yes, they did spin multiple neurotypes off into diagnoses that require behavioral therapy to "fix." Why on earth would you think they wouldn't? They're still trying to use reparative therapy on auties. Hell, near as I can figure, histrionic got spun into Borderline Personality disorder. You know what the therapy for that is? DBT, aka, "it IS your fault and you SHOULD feel bad."

Beyond knowing there used to be different flavors, did you know that there is about a millionty scare articles about how psychopaths are everywhere? Guess why.

What do you get when someone has an absolute need to see what's on the other side of the hill and no real fucks to give about how you get there? You get scientists, explorers, people utterly driven to find out. Think about how many of our science and exploration heros are noted as deeply weird and off-kilter. We have whole stereotypes about this. There are books and articles devoted to the transgressive personas and behaviors of famous scientists and explorers.

What do you get when someone is belligerent, paranoid, truculent, violent, fearless? Snipers. Literally. The army has openly stated they like psychopaths quite a lot. Someone that can look at a map of human lives and commit calculus with the phrase "acceptable losses" makes a damn fine general, wouldn't you say? Hunters, too. Make a good king? Or bounty hunter. Or, if we're going to be honest, a martial artist. Hell, think of all the ways our society accepts violence in real terms and symbolically. Management. Video gamer. Espionage. Actuary. Pest control. There are THOUSANDS of of societal uses for people like this.

Covetous? Well, banks are openly quite loving towards psychopaths. CEOs are indicated here. Businessmen. Fandoms with collection as a function have any number of anecdotes of individuals who have an intense drive to get more. "Focused on the chase, rather than the victory, to the exclusion of all else" is considered a positive, laudable personality trait. To put it in other terms, "can't stop, won't stop, never done." Sports players, yes? Football, rugby, hockey...

Risk takers are the real standouts, in terms of societal love. Doctors. Firemen. EMT's. Skydivers. Extreme sports players. Equipment testers. The list goes on. Society loves risk taking psychopaths. Hell, look at the diagnostic criterion up there: it's mostly traits with high positive connotations.

Reputation defending? Politics. Law. Advertising. Acting. Writing. Religion. Leadership of any kind.

I'm not talking out my ass here. All those fields have been noted as friendly towards, attractive to, and having a high representation of people who fit the behavioral model of psychopath.

But only if they're useful. Like literally every other non-normative neurotype.

Society loves ADHD and autistic people when they're displaying savant abilities or when they can mask well enough to use their sensory and cognitive differences to societal ends.

And if they're a problem for people around them, that's treated. The underlying difficulties? The societal structures that punish and harm them? The pain of adapting their entire neurobiome to do all the work of interfacing with different neurotypes while being driven to harness anything useful and discard the rest of their brain? No, we don't treat that. That's just the price of doing business. "Pull yourself up and don't be a problem."

And here's the problem, in plain terms: psychopaths who learn to cope, to mask, to adapt like I did are never diagnosed. I have spent most of my life fairly concerned about the fact that I seem not to have emotions or compunction, that i am always consciously working to figure out and connect to people around me on the most basic level, that I am constantly working to keep an active model of social norms going at all times. And I don't mean "shake hands, eye contact." I mean I have the same mental conversation regarding "don't shoot that person" and "use a turn signal." All prosocial behaviors, all social behaviors period, are a struggle to understand.

The funny thing is, it also makes antisocial behaviors difficult. Shooting someone seems remarkably inconvenient in many cases. Regardless of whether I care about getting caught or not, shooting somone will interrupt my day.

Not shooting them also seems remarkably inconvenient in many cases. Yes, it'd be a pain in the ass to shoot them, but then again, if I do it correctly, I only have to do it once.

But again, "correctly" is a wildly unfixed variable, and the whole question won't come up if I always ensure I fail the "do i currently have a firearm" step. And I don't. Ever.

That's how my brain works. Y'all go on about moral and ethical and legal reasons. That's an exhausting conscious mental conversation to have every other day, so my shortcut is:

"Should I shoot them? Oh, right, I don't have a gun. Guess not. Should I get one? No, cause I might shoot someone, and that'd be a pain in the ass. Welp, no shooting people."

And so it goes. I don't understand any social norms. Good or bad. I have all the problematic issues still, mind you. Environmental factors. I mimic and I was raised in an apocalypse cult in Oklahoma. I spend a lot of brain space sorting between prosocial behaviors and the violent antisocial behaviors I was taught were prosocial.

Because, you see, I can't really understand the prosocial behaviors, but I can see they work. And antisocial behaviors don't, really. Have i impulsively pocketed something? Couple times. Even got away with. Can't steal a house, though. And theft gets boring, for me.

Ok, except piracy. I may quite enjoy piracy.

Cooperation with a larger whole can and does yield benefits. Forcing myself to sit through mind numbing gratification delays does seem to yield results that are beneficial, though I really try to keep that one to a minimum. I refuse to be bored if I can help it. Making nice talky sounds gets me shit faster than making angry talky sounds.

Possibly this is a result if being raised manipulative. No idea. Kinda don't care.

Point is, I'm one of the psychopaths that, while not immediately useful, is also not actively a problem. So no-one will listen when i talk about everything being gray and cold and exhaustingly complicated because people make no sense and almost all my emotions are dialed so far down it's a joke i lack the ability to laugh about.

No one has believed me that the one emotion I have in spades is rage and that i have to literally consciously work out from first principles why violence is a bad option as my sole method of controlling that, my ONLY EMOTION OF ANY STRENGTH, which I cannot allow myself to feel for any length of time because I start losing sight of that consequence model and I worry i'll make a mistake I can't unmake. Or that it took me two decades to learn not to smash things I need when someone looks at me funny. Or just smash them.

Or that i have to keep my hands in my pockets and chant "don't steal" in my head some days. That I wear tight clothing with shallow pockets to make stealing harder so that, like guns, I simply can't do it easily and therefore short circuit my behaviors.

People are more than happy to hurl me at any problem that requires a lack of emotion, but if I dare to be less than appropriately emotional on a date? At a wedding? Funeral? If I make an error and don't diagnose it myself and perform contrition appropriately, regardless of if I knew there was a social or personal rule there? Well, I'm fired/broken up with/punished/evicted.

But I am not actively a problem for society. So none of those things are worth diagnosing. Or helping in any way.

And those that are useful? Are often fed utter horseshit and encouraged to break society. Bankers creating recessions. Generals commanding useless wars. Cops. Doctors that uphold a broken system. Politicians that pursue a broken society.

I know, I can see, that ASPD people catch a shit ton of shit cause they get blamed for "useful" psychopaths mistakes, and none of the benefits when said same psychopaths are lionized. Looking back at what it was, and what it is now, pathologically speaking, it makes perfect fucking sense for the asshats that designed a diagnosis to only include the people they don't like as the "sick" ones, and label the "good" ones as "heroes." Makes a nice distinction there between people we want to demonize and people we want to lionize for having the exact same chemical imbalance, and neatly creates a fall group when any of the "heroes" trip up. Silence those who can't cope, elevate those that can, treat neither effectively, and if an elevated one stops coping, we can just "realize" they were "sick" all along, and oh, yeah, those sick people are so bad, you guys, nothing like those heroes at allllllll.

I am...so tired of this society bullshit.

So anyway, I'm a psychopath. Paranoid, some schizoid. So whatever grains of salt you feel like taking, grab 'em, I guess. I'd mostly like for people like me to stop being weaponized, lionized, or punished for having a different neurotype. I'd like to be able to talk to a doctor about that and for there to be some options beyond "stop that," "get locked up," "have you considered the army" (yes, a doctor actually asked me that as a teenager) or "you seem fine, tho."

And if you resonate with this, well...I'm 32, never been arrested, mostly managed to avoid terrible shit, and I've got a life, couple partners, and I'm surviving, so like. You can do this. Lotta people wanna tell you you can't have this or that cause "you're not bad, tho." They're stupid. Y'ain't evil, just different. Don't let them get to you.

And (this is a joke) if you decide to shoot someone, do it once, correctly. Saves time.

#actuallymentallyill #vent #tw violence

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pvntherz · 5 years ago

Text

Love-struck Heartthrob

Summary: Catherine has a crush and despite being the “local heartthrob” her whole, she’s never experienced real love before.

A/N: this is just a lil somethin to break my writing funk since the last fic i remeber writing was the most recent part of the Hades and Persephone thingy (which i might add to/revamp) Anyways, stan Cathy with emotional stupidity.

Word count: 1245

💛💙💜

Love was a strange word and even stranger language. So strange in fact, Catherine Parr could never wrap her head around it. It was frustrating. All her life Catherine had a number of terrible names attached to her. "Playgirl", "heart throb", "vixen", "a tease", and most simply "a flirt". It simply wasn't fair to the poor girl. Years worth of ruined relationships and non stop name calling simply because she didn't like saying words she didn't understand.

This followed Catherine for years.

Hence being laid out in the middle of her bedroom (or the attic as anyone else would call it) floor surrounded by a mountain of books. Some closed, others filled to the brim with self made book marks, some even open and filled with annotations in a mix of messy scrawl and neat script. It was shocking to see-- Catherine had a strict "no books on the floor" policy and "no writing in old classical books" code as well-- However, in times of emotional distress, she had to let her own mistakes slide.

"Hey kid… wow are you okay?" Catalina peeked up through the attic entrance and flinched at the sight of her daughter's emotional drainage.

She entered the attic and maneuvered around the countless old classics littered on the floor. Catalina neatly stacked some unused notebooks and doodle pads and moved them to the side so she could sit down. "Come on, tell momma what's wrong." She pulled Catherine's head into her lap and gently ran her fingers through the dark brown curls.

"Niente è sbagliato." Catherine said softly and nuzzled into her mom's lap and tapped against her knee. "Just because I impulse bought a buncha books and I'm blasting my sad song playlist doesn't mean anything." She chuckled softly causing her mother to roll her eyes.

"Well that's what you said with Zoey, then again with that Ruby girl, also that Juno girl." Catalina raised her hand before her daughter could interject. "The first time." She sighed and shook her head. "So. Are you gonna tell me who's the girl and why you're so worked up about?"

Catherine shot up and turned towards her mother. "I- there is no girl! I may repeat a lot of things, but I meant it when I said I was done with all those little flings and heartbreaking shit! It's not the real me!" She huffed out and crossed her arms.

"Yeah I know, but no one mass buys a bunch of old classics such as 'Divine Comedy' and 'The Iliad' alongside books such as 'Jealousy' and 'Master your Emotions'." She squinted at Catherine's computer and chuckled. "How desperate do you have to be to go so far as to look at Apollo's love life?"

Catherine deflated and leaned against her mom. "I think..I get it now." She sighed softly. "Like this time feels different. I don't know what to do...what if I break her heart?"

"If you really do love her, you won't actually worry about that, dear." Catalina placed a gentle kiss on Catherine's forehead. "I know you may be feeling apprehensive about pursuing this person, considering your past relationships and all, but if you truly do love her, then I honestly don't see anything that's stopping you from pursuing her. I know you have a good heart and you're afraid to show it, but if you love her, I know that you'll trust her enough to let a little bit of your walls down around her. You care for her, and she cares for you too. So, nothing's stopping you, conejito. I just hope this girl makes you happy."

Catherine sniffled and wiped her eyes. "I just..I'm scared. She's just so nice and sweet a-and I really do love her. What if she hates me for having so many exes or like, I don't know, what if she isn't into nerds!" She nervously chewed on her knuckle only for her mom to pull her hand away. "Sorry…"

Catalina shook her head. "C'mon, you need to do something other than read a bunch of books and take notes." She stood and pulled Cathy up with her. "We're gonna make cookies." She chuckled as Catherine's face lit up. "See? Already feeling better."

They both climbed down the stairs and headed to the kitchen. Thankfully it was empty and clean. Catalina raised an eyebrow and looked at her daughter who nervously glanced away.

"Anyways, go and get the dry ingredients." Catalina pushed her daughter toward the cabinets and headed towards. She quickly grabbed two small bottles with 'AE' and 'VE' on them, eggs, sugar, brown sugar, chocolate chips, and butter. She placed everything onto the kitchen island and sighed, thankful she had not dropped anything. "If only I held you like that." She chuckled softly.

"What?!" Catherine turned around and furrowed her eyebrows. She placed the flour, cornstarch, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and cinnamon on the kitchen island and glared at her mother. "So you're directly responsible for my shitty love life? I'll be seeing you court." She giggled playfully, then pulled open the drawer in front of her and took out two wooden spoons and a sieve. "Here you can do the yucky- are those almonds?"

Catalina looked at the jar in her hand and back to her then nodded slowly. "Yeah, for the cookies. Hey don't make that face, they're good!" She rolled her eyes and put the jar to the side. "Fine no almonds, but we have to put something else in these cookies. No one likes plain cookies."

Catherine shrugged and began measuring out all of the ingredients. "Well, we can add marshmallows." She hummed softly while sifting the dry ingredients as her mother mixed in the wet ingredients. "I really hope these marshmallows don't catch fire in the span of 10 minutes." She snickered and slowly added both mixtures to one bowl and mixed them together.

Catalina shrugged and sprinkled some flour on the counter and dumped the cookie dough onto the counter. "Here roll it out and cut it up. My old lady arms can't roll that damn thing out." She handed the rolling pin and went to the sink.

Catherine shook her head and laughed as she began rolling down the mountain of cookie dough. She glanced out the side of her eye and smiled. "Oh, hey Kitty! Do you got any cookie shape requests?" Her cheeks heated up the longer she stared at the shorter girl.

Kitty smiled softly. "Oh yeah! Do you think you can make some little heart ones for me?" She looked up at the taller woman. Kitty had her usual twinkle in her eye. Granted, it only ever showed up when she did something she enjoyed, but Kitty enjoyed a lot of things. "Hey stay still." She stood up on her tiptoes and wiped a smudge of flour off of Catherine's cheek. "Well that's all, I'd love to help but I got homework to do!"

Catherine stood there in awe, watching the other girl walk away happily. She shook her head and turned around and squinted at her mother. "I don't wanna hear!" She blushed deeply and covered her ears before Catalina could start gushing. "Lalalala! I'm not listening, lalala!"

Catalina rolled her eyes and pulled her daughter into a hug. "You're such an idiot but you're my idiot." She kissed the top of her daughter's head and ruffled her dreadlocks. "Now it's time to get to cutting."

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captainillogical · 5 years ago

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Distant Lands Ch.9

Stranded on a planet with toxic conditions and nothing but the clothes on your back, your only means of survival lies within the gem that got you here in the first place.

Spinel/Reader

collab with my lovely wife @firstofficertightpants

You finish chewing your current bite of food, walking quickly over to Spinel.

“What? What’s in there?” You say as you get over to her side, leaning near her to peer at the screen properly. The screen is filled with rows of unreadable text. "What does the text say? I can't read it."

"I'm still reading this one.. hold on." You watch her read the text for several moments before she rips her eyes from the screen, looking at you with a confused expression.

“What?” You ask her. “You’re making me anxious.”

“Er..” She lifts her hand up, and points at a line of text near the top of the window. “This is kinda weird here. They noticed several bismuth’s and a lapis went missing after only being here a few weeks. A lot of this is just daily logs so I’m having to wade through a lot of garbage info.”

“Did they say why they went missing? Did they ever find those gems?”

“No, actually.” She scrunches her face, perplexed. “The logs continue with some geological and temperature readings. They did mention in here that they came to this planet to take it's resources because it's got limited time left. Something about the dying sun this planet revolves."

“Yeah, have you seen that giant red thing up there? It's kind of atrocious. What else have you got?” You lean a bit further near Spinel, practically hovering over her lap at this point, but you’re having a hard time seeing the screen. You think your eyesight has somehow gotten worse on this planet.

“It seems like they also observed that the animal life on the surface is mainly nocturnal, with quite a few notes on a couple particular subspecies of canine.” She replies, and pulls up a few pictures that are attached to this file. She flips through a couple, having never seen any of these creatures that you are looking at on the console right now. After a few, she gets to one you almost recognise immediately.

“Oh!” You exclaim and point at the image, and she looks at you almost startled. “I’ve seen this one. It was small, but it looked just like that picture.”

“You saw this?” She asks, eyebrows raising up her forehead almost comically. “When!? I haven’t seen anything aside from that thing by the lake!”

“Remember that night you found me on that hill?”

“You mean the night you tried running away?” She attempts to correct you.

“That wasn’t what I was doing. Anyway, I ran into one of those little guys that night. Scared the shit out of me. I managed to run away from it before any more showed up, though.”

“Well, it explains why we haven’t seen like, any of them at all.” She continues to click through the images, and you don’t recognise anything else. All the creatures that inhabit this planet look super weird compared to anything else you’ve seen.

She gets into another file and starts reading, and you patiently wait for her to let you know what it says. After a few seconds, she moves to a different file. She gets through three before you interrupt her.

“Are you gonna read any of this out loud, or am I going to have to guess?”

“Sorry, there’s not much in some of these. I’m skimming to get through all of the boring supply checklists and kindergarten charts.” She glances at you and how close you are to her, and quickly looks back to the screen.

“Okay.” You sigh, and lean back a little.

“Hm,” She says, narrowing her eyes at the screen. “This entire file is still corrupted aside from the pictures. Think they’ll load?”

“Won’t know until you try.” You say, eyes glued to the console. She loads into the file, and the image is just black. She clicks to the next one, and that’s also just a black image.

“Well, that sucks.” She says a bit disappointedly.

“Keep going.” You reply, and you see the next image also be blank, but the one after that is a very clear picture of a damaged injector. The glass and steel of the casing is completely mangled, and all of the fluid is drained due to there being a giant chunk taken out of the side.

“What the.” You hear Spinel say, and she clicks to the next image, showing similar injectors in similar conditions. There are just several images in this file of broken, unusable injectors in what looks to be like a kindergarten. You think it looks like the one that’s nearby, but you can’t be sure. “What happened to all this equipment? Did the gems stage a small rebellion and destroy all of this?”

“Did any of the other information allude to that?” You turn to ask her. “Otherwise that makes little sense. Er, well.. there were those gems that went missing, so it’s not a completely out-there theory.”

“I’m hoping the further we go, the more likely we’ll get answers.”

She continues to wade through files, and you lean forward against the console, tired. She seems to be focusing pretty hard on reading for the both of you, and occasionally she takes long glances at you when she thinks you’re not looking at her. Except you can see her do it out of the corner of your eye, and now you’re worried you have something on your face.

“Spinel.” You address her, and she doesn’t look up from the screen she’s reading.

“Hm.” She grunts out.

“You keep looking at my face. Is there food on it?” You ask her, swiping down your cheek to feel for particles of anything. She glances up at your face anxiously before her expression changes to one more neutral, and shakes her head.

“There isn’t. I’m just having a hard time focusing, so I keep spacing out.”

“By staring at my face?” You say half in jest, and raise an eyebrow at her.

“You’re kind of right in my personal space, so. Yeah.” She replies, deadpan. Her eyes manage to catch on something on the screen, and her expression turns a little more serious.

“What did you find?”

“Look. More gems went missing here. They have a record of up to.. thirty-six. All different gems.” She turns her head to face you, meeting your eyes. “There aren’t any records of them reappearing.”

“Where would they even go?”

“Do ya’ think they hated this planet as much as we did and actually succeeded in leaving?” She continues reading, and her eyes skim quite a few more lines at the bottom before getting comically large in shock. “Wait.. no. It got higher than that. Here they have an update with over a hundred and sixty-seven missing after just a few weeks.” “What the fuck? How are they even going missing! How do they not notice when a whole squad of quartzes just.. disappear!?” You hear your voice echo out throughout the room.

“Your guess is about as good as mine. Seems like a whole bunch of these logs are still corrupted though.” She huffs out a sigh, and stretches her arms above her head before concentrating back on the console. You’re starting to feel a migraine coming on soon. You should probably go out for fresh air just to give yourselves a break.

"Kinda makes sense though, why the Spire is only half finished." You bring up your hand to rub at your right temple, attempting to ease some of the throbbing. "Probably stopped production due to the rapidly disappearing gems."

"This also mentions frequent ground quakes, and the appearance of those holes, but nothing more than that." She looks at you tiredly, and sighs. "The last few files after this are completely unreadable from the corruption."

"So, let me get this straight." You clear your throat. "These gems get to this planet to start a kindergarten, they notice a few weird things going on. Injectors are being utterly wrecked, more and more gems keep going missing without a trace, and holes are popping up around everywhere."

"Yeah." She says, giving you an 'this is obvious' expression.

"Is this not really fucking weird to you?"

"Of course it's weird! I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it! I've never even heard of this happening to a colony, and I was Pink's best friend!"

"Okay well," You stand up from your leaning position, cracking your back in the process. "I think I should get some fresh air or something, because if I stand still any longer while thinking about all of this, I'm going to go crazy."

She's staring at you for a moment, before lazily shrugging. "Have fun with that."

"Do you not want to come with?" You ask her, raising an eyebrow in question. "You seem like you could also use a break."

"You.. want to spend time with me?" She asks, perplexed, pointing a finger to her chest.

You give her an unamused look, and make a point to look to either side of her, before meeting her gaze again.

"Is there anyone else here, Spinel?"

"I mean, no, but-"

"Then let's go." You say, leaving no room for questions. You swivel around on your foot, and head for the entrance to leave the Spire, hearing Spinel sigh behind you.

The doors open with a whoosh, and the heavy heat of the afternoon hits you immediately. You breathe in the thick, humid air of this planet, glancing at Spinel next to you. She looks visibly irritated at the hot temperature around you two. She must've gotten used to the inside of the Spire, as it was darker and much cooler in there.

"Ugh, feels awful out here." She says, voice dripping with disgust.

"I've had hotter summers." You shrug, and pick a direction to walk in, spotting an opening in the thick of the jungle treeline. "I've also accidentally set myself on fire one time, and that was a bit worse than this."

Spinel sputters behind you and you stop your pace to look at her. "How do you set yourself on fire!?" She cries out in confusion.

"You trip into the campfire you're making." You chuckle, and keep walking. You make the mistake of brushing your hand against one of the nearby trees, and your hand has sap all over it when you pull away.

"Not entirely sure how humans have survived as a species." She scoffs beside you, matching your walking pace.

"Sheer spite, honestly. It gets you places." You try to wipe your hand off on your pants, and you can see Spinel glancing at what you're trying and failing to do. She attempts to curb herself from laughing at you. Asshole.

"Does it really? I feel like that gets you killed more often than not." She says, and you can almost hear the withheld laughter in her voice. It infuriates you, but only a little.

"How would you know?" You reply, tone mocking. "How many humans have you met?"

"Only you, but I feel like you're an outlier if we're going by examples."

"Wow, rude." You roll your eyes at her, and you can hear some water trickling off to the side, so you decide to follow it. "You're not what I'd call a prime example of a gem either."

"Yeah, well, how many gems have you met?" She nearly trips on a large tree root, and you almost laugh out loud at the way her arms comically flail about before she catches herself. She glares at you when she finds her balance, like it was your fault somehow.

"Quite a few actually! Enough to know that you're all a little bit bastard on the inside at least. Except for Steven, he's only half. And a total sweetheart." The two of you get closer to the sound, and you realize that it's a small waterfall attached to a pool of water, and that leads to a brook that keeps going beyond where you can see it.

"I resent that statement." She wipes her forehead, some of her hair sticking to the sides of her face. She looks at the water longingly, and you get an idea.

"Wanna relax here for a while?" You ask her, watching her face. She looks at you thoughtfully, like she's thinking you have some kind of sinister motive.

"..if ya' wanna, sure." She replies, and you shrug, heading over to the waterfall.

"Seems like a decent idea, with the heat and all." You bend down to slip off your shoes, almost losing your balance in the process. Setting your shoes off to the side, you dip your feet into the cool water. It feels nice on your skin. You look over to Spinel who is watching you, and you walk over to a large nearby rock to take a seat. "You gonna just stand there and stare, or what?" You say, raising an eyebrow in amusement.

"Right." She replies with a shake of her head, as if to clear her thoughts. She mimics you in taking off her boots, slipping them off and setting them down next to the side of a tree.

"Can't you just phase off your clothes?" You ask her, giving her a look.

"Sometimes I forget." She shrugs, moving over to lean against the same rock you're sitting on. She moves her foot in the water a little, making ripples across the surface.

"How do you forget.. nevermind." You shake your head. "Wait a second, that first time I went to that lake, you swam in it fully clothed."

"Oh, that." She smirks a little. "I wouldn't do that normally, I was just making sure you weren't trying to escape."

"In a lake? You're an idiot. You freaked me out by touching my leg, though."

"Yeah, that was on purpose actually. It seemed like it'd be fun to scare you a little."

"Remember what I said like five minutes ago? I'm doubling down. You're definitely a bastard." You glare at her, and at that, she chuckles. You find yourself almost smiling, and it irritates you immensely.

"Ya' kinda deserve it, considering the amount of times you've hit me in the face." She throws back at you.

"Don't even go there, you've smacked me around quite a bit and even sliced my forehead." You point at the healing wound on your face. "You know this is going to scar right? My poor face. Now I'll look like some kind of rugged adventurer." You sigh disdainfully. She gives you a pointed look.

"Technically, you're already one."

"Yeah, against my will." You say, and kick some water at her. She narrows her eyes slightly, and she looks like she wants to kick back.

"You look fine, anyway. Even with the scar." She says, rolling her eyes at you. "Dunno why'd you care."

"Because it's my face? Whatever. At least you didn't blind me I guess. Was kind of a close call."

"Yeah. Could've also just plain 'ol murdered ya', it would've been really easy." She says, staring at her hands. She slips one finger underneath the edge of her right glove, pulling it upwards to remove it.

"To be fair, humans in general are just easy to kill. Like half the time we do it ourselves." You glance away. You have no idea why your heart is starting to beat a little faster? They're just hands, and she's an alien.

“Kinda comes with the meatbag package, yeah?” You see her flop the gloves down next to you on the rocks surface.

“Don’t call us meatbags. We’re so much more than that.” You scoff at her, splashing her with another kick of water against her legs.

“Really? Doesn’t seem like it’d be all that fun.” She replies, watching her own feet in the shallow water.

“Guess it seemed fun enough for Pink, all things considered.” You say and smirk at her. “Cause you know she changed her form to-”

“Y-yeah, I know.” Spinel cuts you off, and you think you see the faintest blush on her cheeks. Which is fucking hilarious. “Pink was always the type to be overly excited about new things..” She trails off, and you watch her for a moment. She’s not looking at you - instead, she’s looking at the water below her. The afternoon rays of sunlight have breached through some of the jungle canopy, and light is reflecting off of Spinel’s gem. It sparkles a bit - blinding you with a flash of light for a second before passing. You wonder if the temperature of the gem matches with the rest of her. Actually..

“Spinel.”

“Hm?” She glances up at you.

“Why is your gem upside down? Isn’t it a heart?” You ask her. She looks at you thoughtfully.

“It used to be right side up before I reformed.” She replies with a shrug.

“You reformed?” You reiterate out loud. “Did you look any different from right now? When the crystal gems reformed, only slight things changed.”

“Not by much. My hair was different.”

“Yeah? What was it like?” You question her, actually interested.

“Er, like this,” She says, using both her hands to grab one of her pigtails and maneuvering the hair into a heart-like shape. It’s uh.. it’s actually really cute. A beat of silence passes between you two as she waits for a response from you.

You stare at her for a moment, before you have to stifle a laugh.

“Hey!” She cries out in offense, and drops her hair to reach down into the water, actually splashing you with her hands this time. It makes you actually laugh out loud.

“God, I’d pay to see you like that.” You say in between laughs, and for that, she splashes you again. “You’re such an ass!” She says, and looks away from you. Is she.. Is she pouting?

“I’m just saying, it sounds cute. And besides, I think you look better the way you are now.” You pull your soaked shirt away from your body, squeezing out the excess water. You don’t even care honestly, the evening heat will evaporate it quickly. “Suits you better, anyway.” You try squeezing out as much water from the rest of your shirt, but looking down at your pants, you realize they’re a bit of a lost cause. When you look back up, Spinel is staring at you with a strange expression, light blush upon her face. Your heart skips a beat.

“Regardless.” She shakes her head. “I think we should head back, and maybe discuss going over to investigate the kindergarten. It’s kind of been bothering me.”

“Yeah, same.” You sigh, kicking your feet in the water one last time.

Both of you put your shoes back on, as well as her gloves, and give each other a nod. The two of you walk side by side on the way back to the Spire, discussing several things related to your plan of possibly going over to the kindergarten in the next day or so. And maybe you also try and throw in as many jabs as you can at her, because, well. It’s fun.

#spinel #spinel x reader #su #Steven Universe #distant lands #fic #my fic #self insert

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kmclaude · 5 years ago

Note

An AU thought, unfinished: Annemarie as a nun. Not a sexy nun, but someone found out about the whole “preggers with her brother’s baby and sent to a convent as punishment” type nun, who may or may not wind up teaching a bunch on unruly kids and has her fellow sisters breathing down her neck to make sure she doesn’t sin again. But hey, guess who’s the priest/confessor for the order? And considering nuns “have” to obey Fr. Tiefer’s authority…! Not smutty but it’s all I’ve got 🤷🏼‍♀️

oh how decadent! oops my hand slipped!!!

Émile is probably the one who gets mad when he finds out she’s pregnant and who’s kid it is because sure he’s white trash and has been bending his daughter over for years but he draws the line somewhere (and part of it is because he knows Emilein is a freak, he knows he wouldn’t want her so it’s obvious she’s the whole reason for being knocked up – and she’s been using the stupid baby in her fat gut as a shield to mouth off to him and run the joint – why not punish her? Besides, no one in that family can afford another mouth to feed…)

So he pulls Emilein aside, says, “hey, you’re good with that priest, yeah?” and Emilein shrugs, says, “maybe I am,” and braces for a nasty shot about how of course he is, he loves being on his knees, but it never comes, just, “so he knows about like…them wayward girl schools, yeah?” and Emilein plays dumb until his daddy plays his hand: send Annemarie off to a convent or wayward school or hell an asylum – she wants to use a baby to get her way, well then she can get out of the way. Forever.

Emilein, for once, is more than happy to help his daddy out.

He talks to the priest, Fr. Michaud, who has offered him chance and again ways out, one in particular though it would mean the priesthood, and reveals his sister is pregnant (not that it was terribly secret: the whole town was waiting for the day she slipped up at this point) and she is…troubled. And is there a place. The Church. Anything.

Of course Fr. Michaud hesitates because yes there is one nearby but it’s practically an asylum, run by an order on their grounds – cloistered – “And, to be frank, we all know your sister is…not exactly saving herself for anyone…but unless she’s a-a maniac it would be almost cruel–”

And Emilein puts his hand lightly on Fr. Michaud’s, smiles in a way that doesn’t meet his eyes, and says, “You know how she hasn’t named the father? You’d think someone like her’d be going up and down the street, demanding a wedding or at least support, wouldn’t you? But she ain’t. ‘Cause she can’t. Now, remember the first time we actually talked, you an’ me, an’ I told you I’d suck your cock in a heartbeat ‘cause that’s usually how things went with me an’ older men an’ not always by force?”

“Difficult to forget,” says Fr. Michaud, neglecting to mention that most fourteen year olds don’t say that.

“So we both agree I’m…funny.”

“What are you getting at, Emilein?”

“I’m sayin’, the reason she ain’t beatin’ down no po’ bastard’s door to help with her own bastard is ‘cause she doesn’t want anyone to know that the daddy’s her own brother.”

Michaud goes pale and Emilein isn’t smiling any more.

“We both know she don’t interest me much. So, Father, please: help me.”

–

Of course, being a good man, Fr. Michaud helps him, and Annemarie is sent away to have her child (and then work off the debt she’ll have accrued – after all, not like her father and brother can afford to pay.)

Her choice is very simple: go as willingly as she can pretend and nobody has to know about who the father is or fight and Emilein tells (with Fr. Michaud as a witness – Émile, of course, is more than willing to rat her out but really, every other word from his mouth is a lie.)

And life is peaceful – until Émile decides he can fully boss around his son like he did his daughter in a house he doesn’t own.

Emilein is having none of it but Emilein is terribly small and Émile has friends too, friends just as nasty as Annemarie’s boyfriends, and Émile ties him to a bed and starves him and lets all sorts of men use him for days and brags about the money he’s made from him – “shit, cher, we should’ve been whorin’ you out years ago! Guess yer cunt sister was just too jealous to share.”

He lets him go, eventually, after a week that feels like forever and Emilein runs to Fr. Michaud, banging on the church door, and when Fr. Michaud answers his request is much the same as it was before: “please, help me.”

Of course, being a good man, Fr. Michaud helps Emilein Tiefer and gets him connected to the seminary.

–

At twenty-five and with the title of ‘Father’ himself, Tiefer is assigned to a convent in Fuckoff Nowhere, Louisiana to be the priest and confessor on the grounds. Segregated from the opposite sex and the real world for so long only to be thrown headfirst into the wide world, some were realizing, was not the greatest idea: so, the younger were sent off to serve their religious siblings first, particularly their sisters.

The Mother Superior is kind when she greets him on his arrival, a stark contrast to all the rumors of the convent here: it was a convent, yes, that made its daily bread with something of a home for wayward girls – part home, part school (for the younger ones whose unfortunate choices and circumstances left them behind their peers as well as their children, for those who had or expected them), part workhouse so the former two could survive – but for years its nickname had been the asylum because, regardless of how long one worked, much like the TB asylums, the only way out was in a casket.

Which is where, Tiefer always figured, his sister was at this point.

Until, during a tour of the small school on the grounds (as the children would be needing sacraments as well) he sees one of the nuns with the children – though she’s not a nun, not exactly, as she only wears a veil and simple dress and the bangs of her blonde hair peak out and frame her face – and she, in turn, sees him and freezes.

“Mother Superior,” he asks, voice steady as possible, once they’ve passed, once he’s calmed down, “who was that woman?”

“With the children? That’s Sister Anne, one of our success stories – quite a tough one too. She came here, pregnant, no idea who the father was and ready to dare I say fight every one of us sisters who came near. But the Lord works in mysterious ways and eventually He brought her ‘round. She should be taking her vows in a few years.”

“Ah. Do many of your girls usually wind up joinin’ the order?”

The mother superior sighs, sort of pointed in a way that hints that the topic is better put to rest. “Unfortunately, it’s not always part of God’s plan,” she says and then adds, “You sound a lot like she does – how far down South did you come?”

“Very.”

“Hm. She also.”

–

“Sister Anne. A word?”

After all the introductions and required niceties are made, Tiefer doubles back to the classroom of children, led by the novitiate.

“Of course, Father,” she says, the shock from earlier long gone from her face, a little more lined than he’d remembered it, her eyes a little less bright.

“In private?”

He lets her lead the way to a small, unused classroom and locks the door behind them.

“Well. Never thought I’d see you here, Sister.”

She scoffs, the plain novitiate from earlier twisting, like a monster under flesh, into his sister, the way he knew her, cocky attitude and all. “Why not? You put me here.”

“You know what I mean. ‘Sides, he put you here.”

“You helped.”

“Just told the truth is all. You want me to tell the truth again?”

“Can’t send me away again, sugar. Anyway, I’m a changed woman. The success story of these sisters.”

“Ain’t you special, huh?”

“Had to be. Play along or die like the rest.” She looks him over, sixteen years on his twenty-five, sizing him up. “You obviously understand, don’tcha Emi?”

“Father, now, actually.”

“Father, right, Father, now, huh? So Father – what was it? Not enough dicks to suck back home, you had to join the biggest boy’s club around? Or you just get sick of Daddy – bet he was a real sonuvabitch once he didn’t have me ‘round to take his shit out on.”

He cuts her off: “Annemarie. You like it here?”

“You like it where you are?”

He doesn’t answer, simply pulls out a cigarette and his lighter. He watches her reach out, then freeze.

“I’ll share if you tell me what the fuck you’re doin’ playin’ nunnery.”

“I told you. Play along or die. Same as you.”

“You don’t know shit about me or what I been through.”

“An’ you know ‘bout me?”

Tiefer shrugs, lights up. Refuses her one.

“I heard the girls who come here only leave one way.”

“Do I look like I left?”

“Mm.” He offers her a cigarette and a light. Her fingers brush his. He tries not to grab her wrist and crush it. “So this is better? Bein’ a mother to a slew of bastards an’ prayin’ to God who put you here?”

“I dunno, Emi–”

“Do not–”

“Father Emi, you tell me: would you like being worked like a dog to pay off your own existence your fuckin’ family sold off, gettin’ beat ‘cause no one gives a damn about you, and not knowin’ if the priest they brought in to hear confessions this ‘round would rather you suck him off than say you’re sorry. I’m fuckin’ forty-one years old: I wanted something close to freedom, even if it’s from behind a wall an’ veil. ”

Tiefer makes a sound like mock pity. “Sounds like every damn day of my childhood, Annemarie. In fact,” – he grabs her by the jaw, pulls her close, tugs the cigarette from her lips and puts it out against the back of her neck, hidden by her veil – “looks to me like you’re getting off easy, little miss success story.”

“Em–”

“That’s Father to you, now. An’ come to think of it, I’m sure Mother Superior would love to hear what you really did.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Would they put you back in the work house? Or just turn you loose on the streets like a dog. Where you gonna go, Sister? Y’all take vows of poverty last I heard – gonna finally be a real whore and suck dick in the gutter?”

“Please…”

“Please what, pity you?”

Tiefer lets her go, takes a drag from his own cigarette, blocking the door. He grins, more a snarl than anything else.

“Oh Annemarie… You’re right: I wouldn’t dare as long as you don’t give me a reason to. I’m your superior now…let’s start treatin’ me as such, hm?”

He unlocks the door. “An’ Sister Anne? If you thought those other priests who put your ol’ ass on your knees were bad, you’re gonna really regret all your earlier sins against me.”

#character stuff #au where annemarie is a nun #pretreetzi #my writing #writing #callistochan87 #kmclaudereplies #kmclauderepliestoask #kmclaudereplies to ask #kmclaudeart

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just-jordie-things · 5 years ago

Text

The Five Cases of Proof - Peter Parker

word count: 4789 warnings: swearing request(s): anonymous: “Can you do a Peter fic where him and Ned are talking & he gets a text from y/n. So Ned makes a comment about him being an idiot bc they obviously love each other & tells Peter things he's noticed over the years” and anonymous: “Can I get a Peter fic where everyone is sick of their googly eyes from far away and are like "please just go on a date we can't take it anymore" and Pete and the Reader and like "haha?? What eyes??? We don't???? I mean unless she/he wants to-"” summary: These are the five events that happened while (y/n) and Peter were growing up that proves they’re in love

Peter should know better than to be staring so blatantly at (y/n) from across the classroom. But he couldn’t help it. She looked exceptionally angelic today. She was in a jean skirt and a big sweater, her hair a mess of (y/h/c), and the grin on her face as she gossiped with MJ at their lab table was heavenly.

(y/n) (y/ln) was one of his best friends. And he knew that he shouldn’t be looking at her the way he was, but when she looked like that-

(y/n’s) eyes wandered as she turned away from MJ, stifling her giggles as not to get in trouble. In doing so, she caught Peter, and her smile only widened as she waved at him. He waved back politely, cheeks pink and lips tugging upwards. He was certain that she had stars in her eyes.

“Your heart eyes are gonna make me throw up one day”

Peter jumped, turning in his seat as Ned sat down.

“Shut up” Peter mumbled, hastily pulling out his lab folder and busying himself with work. Ned just rolled his eyes, before catching (y/n) still looking over at their table.

“You’re hopeless” He sighed, taking his seat next to Peter, and getting his own things for class out. ___

“You know,” MJ said, snapping her gum and getting (y/n’s) attention, “You make a lotta kissy faces to Parker over there”

(y/n) choked on air.

“What? No I don’t”

“Whatever,” MJ rolled her eyes going back to taking notes. “I was just gonna say you should really act on it. Before he starts making kissy faces to someone else”

(y/n) looked over at her, mouth open to argue, but she just ended up closing her mouth and going back to her work.

But she couldn’t help glancing over to Peter every once in a while. He looked too adorable in the lab goggles that didn’t really fit his face. ___

Ned didn’t bring up the heart eyes thing again until lunch.

He was sitting with Peter at their usual spot, animatedly talking about tearing apart the Lego Death Star just to rebuild it again, when Peter got a text, and suddenly didn’t care about it at all.

“Aw, (y/n’s) not coming to lunch, she’s helping the prom committee put up posters and stuff” Peter said, already typing on his phone, not once having looked up to Ned, who was shaking his head.

“God, you’re such an idiot!” He declared, making Peter falter in his actions and stare at him in confusion.

“What?”

“You two are… you’re driving me insane!”

Peter’s brows furrowed, eyes wandering around the cafeteria before back to Ned, waiting for some kind of explanation as to why he was blowing up right now.

“You’re so in love with each other-”

“What!? N-no we aren’t we-we’re just-”

“We’re just friends. We aren’t in love. We don’t bat our eyelashes at each other at every waking moment. Cut the shit Peter,” Ned mocked. “You’re in love with her. It’s not just a crush, it’s not just you think she’s cute, you’re full on in love with her”

Peter gaped like a fish, and Ned just began to laugh.

“Come on, it’s always been there, the thing between you and (y/n)”

“It has?”

“Mhm” Ned nodded, and moved his lunch tray out of the way, folding his arms over the table.

“It’s between the both of us?”

“Yep, take the first time you met for instance…”

Case 1.) Kindergarten

Peter, at the ripe age of five year olds, both parents still alive, was still a shy little boy at the train table. Three months in and he hadn’t made any friends. It wasn’t supposed to be hard making friends at age five, it was supposed to come easily. You see someone playing with something, and you play with them.

But nobody had come to play with Peter.

Until one day, a little girl got transferred into his classroom, after running into some troubles her class. Her name was (y/n), and everyone was talking about her and the rumors of the fights she’d gotten in, and the bad words that she’d said.

At playtime, Peter was sitting at the train table, rearranging the wooden tracks. (y/n) scared him a little, but she’d always played by herself during recess.

Until today.

“Can I help?” A small, almost mew, came from next to him. And (y/n) was the last person Peter expected to see standing there.

“Wh-what?” He stammered out, nervous, and confused. He’d heard the rumors.

“Can I help you build the tracks?” She asked, rocking on her feet. She was wearing worn out pink ballerina flats, little bows on her toes. Definitely not the pair of shoes Peter pictured she’d wear. He thought she’d be in black combat boots with spikes. Like a biker gang guy.

“Y-you want to play trains with me?”

The girl nodded, looking over some of the tracks he’d already put together.

“O-okay” He stuttered again, and moved aside so that she could have better access to the unused pieces.

After a few minutes of them building, she spoke again.

“I’m (y/n),” She told him with a timid smile. “I’m new, kinda”

Peter nodded his head, “I know. I-I’m Peter”

“You mess up your words a lot Peter” She said casually, trying to put a bunch of hill pieces together for a big hill.

“I’m sorry-”

“It’s cute,” She told him with a big, gap tooth smile. “Don’t say sorry”

He nodded, and was silent as he continued building. Until he started helping her put blocks up so the hill pieces would be stable.

“If you have blocks underneath them, then the hill won’t collapse when you put the train on it,” Peter told her, and demonstrated by picking up a train, placing it at the top, and sending it down the hill. It rolled to a stop at the end of the track, and (y/n) and Peter shared their grins at the success. “It works!” Peter exclaimed, and (y/n) giggled as she went back to working on the other side of the tracks.

“I have some train tracks at home, they were my cousin’s, he’s a boy,” (y/n) told him. “I have a lot of boy toys from my cousin”

“I don’t really have a lot of toys” Peter said. (y/n) frowned.

“You can come and play with my toys” She told him. Peter shook his head right away, and she frowned again. “Why not? Because I’m a girl?”

“N-no,” He said. “Cause you got in a fight, with Icky Richie in Miss Darlee’s classroom” He replied.

(y/n) stopped building, and turned to him with a frown.

“That’s a lie,” She said quietly, her chest began to rise and fall as tears burned her eyes. “That’s not true”

“That’s what everybody keeps on saying though” Peter mumbled, not knowing any better.

“Well everybody’s lying,” (y/n) whimpered. “Icky Richie was picking on me, and-and pushed me off the ladder on the playground,” She told him. “All I did w-was throw a handful of wood chips at him, and he told on me” There were fat tears rolling down her cheeks now.

“You threw chips at Icky Richie?” Peter asked. (y/n) sniffled, and nodded her head. “Wow,” He breathed out. “That’s so cool”

Her tears stopped, and she wiped at her face with her sleeves.

“C-cool?” She stammered out, and Peter nodded, smiling at her happily.

“Yeah, I think that makes you the coolest person here”

(y/n) smiled at him as he went back to building the tracks.

Case 2.) Third Grade

Peter was sitting on the reading carpet, doing just that, reading. More importantly, he was minding his own business, when Flash Thompson walked over to him, and kicked his book out of his hand.

“Parker, where’s your lunch?” He demanded.

“In my locker, where it always is-”

“What snacks do you have packed?” Flash spoke again before Peter could finish.

“I-I don’t know my mom made it for me this morning-”

“Well why don’t you go look, and bring it back to me, before I beat you up?” Flash spoke condescendingly.

“Okay” Peter sighed, and marked his book before getting up and going to the hallway, Flash trailing behind him.

If (y/n) had been in the classroom, she would’ve beat Flash up herself. But she’d been in the office, maybe for saying a couple bad words in front of the teacher. For an eight ear old, she’d turned into quite the trashmouth.

Peter opened his locker, pulled out his Avengers lunch box, and handed over his chips and cookie to Flash.

“This it? Last time you had crackers and cheese spread-”

“Hey! What the hell are you doing, Flash?”

Oh no.

(y/n) was back from the office.

“(y/n/n) why don’t you go back to class before I tell on you for saying bad words again” Flash threatened. Peter stayed silent, adjusting his glasses on his nose.

(y/n) giggled, cocking her head to the side at Flash tauntingly.

“Oh no” Peter muttered to himself.

Her eyes wandered to the chip bag and cookie in Flash’s hands.

“Those aren’t yours”

“Yes they are,” Flash replied. “(y/n), threaten all you want, you don’t scare me. You’re small, and you’re a girl”

“Oh no” Peter repeated.

In a blink, (y/n) snatched the snacks out of Flash’s hands and shoved her hands up against his shoulders until his back hit the lockers.

“Hey-! Ow!”

“Next time you wanna steal someone’s lunch, remind yourself of today, alright?”

“I’m still not scared of you sweetie-”

He was cut off by a gasp as (y/n’s) knee shot upwards right into his crotch.

“(y/n)!” Peter shouted, rushing over and pulling her off of the now doubled over boy.

“Go fuck yourself Flash!” She shouted, still in a state of rage.

“(y/n)!” Peter hissed in warning, but it was too late, their teacher had already walked out into the hallway.

“Miss (y/l/n)! Back to the office, and you stay there until you learn your lesson for real this time!”

(y/n) groaned and rolled her eyes, but turned around and began to trudge back down the hallway.

“N-no Mrs. Mills it’s not (y/n’s) fault-”

“I should be sending you to the office too Mr Parker, for being in the hall without a pass. But you and Mr Thompson may be excused if you come back to class. Now”

Peter sighed, and headed back to class.

“Bye (y/n)” he called.

The girl turned around and waved at him, almost proudly, and skipped off to the office.

Case 3.) Middle School

This was it, today was the day that (y/n) was going to go ask a boy to be her boyfriend. And Peter was trying to figure out why it bothered him so much. They were best friends, why was he upset? He should be supporting her.

“Maybe you have a crush on her” Ned suggested one morning in homeroom. Peter scoffed out a laugh, thinking it was a joke.

“Yeah, right” Peter muttered.

“I mean, maybe you’re jealous of Jason what’s-his-face that she’s asking out,” Ned suggested. “I feel like that’s not out of the question” He shrugged his shoulders.

Peter thought about it, but he couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He’d known (y/n) forever, and he would’ve been able to tell if he’d had a crush on her, wouldn’t he?

The question stuck in his head all day, but even more so when he finally caught up to (y/n) at the bus stop. They met up every day after school to ride the bus together.

“Hey,” He said as excitedly as he could. “How’d it go with Ja-”

“Don’t… even say his name please” She mumbled, not looking up from her phone. Peter frowned, shaking his head in confusion.

“What? What happened?” He asked. The girl just shook her head again, until he reached out and took her hand. “(y/n/n)... what’s going on? Come on… talk to me”

“He-he said that I-” She hiccuped, unable to finish her sentence without bursting into tears. “It was so embarrassing Peter-”

“Oh, (y/n),” he sighed, and tugged her closer to him to hug her. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know he was such a prick I… I thought he was nice”

“He said I wasn’t pretty enough, or popular enough and that-that I’m just not good enough,” She sniffled against his chest. “Then told his friends and they all l-laughed at me”

Peter frowned, pulling her away from him to stare at her, brows furrowed.

“He did what?” He asked, his anger clearly showing in his expression.

“No- Peter-” She sighed. “It’s not-”

“Whatever you’re about to say, you’re wrong, alright? And whatever Jason and his flunk out friends said, they’re wrong too,” He told her seriously. “Screw that guy for making the biggest mistake, of his entire, sad, life”

At that (y/n) only began to cry more, and started wiping her face with the sleeves of her jacket.

“Thanks, Pete” She murmured weakly. He smiled sadly at her, and pulled his own sleeve over the palm of his hand to wipe the tears off her face.

“Yeah honey, ‘course” She reached out to hug him again, and he found himself overthinking as he wrapped his arms around her.

God, he cared about her more than she’d know.

When he set his head on top of hers and began rubbing circles on her back, he thought maybe, just maybe this girl has tugged on his heartstrings a bit.

Case 4.) Sophomore Year: Homecoming

(y/n) stared at Peter, hands clenched into fists, unclenching, and then clenching again. She couldn’t tell if she was angry, or just disappointed.

Peter stood in his Spider-Man suit, holding the mask in his hand, and staring at her defeatedly.

“(y/n) I’m-”

“I know. You’re sorry. And let me guess, you would have told me, and you wanted to, but you couldn’t, because then I could get hurt, don’t even feed me that shit, Peter, I’m not totally defenseless”

“You think it’s cliche, and it is, but it’s true, (y/n/n), I never meant for you to find out this way because I never wanted you to find out. I wanted to protect you, and now- well now look at what’s happened, this is my fault”

While waiting for Peter at the homecoming dance, (y/n) got caught in the middle of a fight with some criminal that called himself Vulture, wound up getting thrown into the air, threatened a bit for answers, only for Spider-Man to swoop in and admit he was Peter Parker, and that (y/n) had no idea about his identity.

And now, that the Vulture was in custody, (y/n) had confronted Peter. She’d waited for him in his bedroom until he’d come home from late night patrol. And here they were now.

“Peter I…” She trailed off, and took a deep breath, trying her best not to cry. “I just… I know that you’re doing a good thing I… I-I-”

She groaned and stopped talking again, running her hands through her hair, and tugging harshly to try and stop her tears from welling up again.

“(y/n)...” Peter murmured, and walked towards her, outstretching his arms.

(y/n) just took his hands and lowered them.

“I just wanted you to trust me! That’s it, that’s why I’m upset. I care about you, and I’d support you in anything, Peter, so why couldn’t you just trust me with this?”

“Because…” He trailed off awkwardly. “Because I care about you too, and I didn’t want to upset you and get you hurt and by the time I figured it’d be fine, it was too late, it’s been months and I just didn’t want to make things worse”

“How is this not the ‘worse’ that you were so afraid of?” She asked, a sad laugh escaping her lips. He shrugged sheepishly, and shook his head.

“You’re right, I should’ve told you first,” He admitted. “You’re always right. But (y/n) I… I’m so sorry about all this, about tonight”

She was quiet, and just stared at him for a long time.

“I know… Peter,” He sighed, hanging her head, but then stepped forward. “Hey, promise me something?”

He nodded rapidly.

“No more secrets?” She asked softly. Peter nodded again, and reached his hand out to her face, pushing her hair back and frowning at the bruise starting to form around her eye.

“Let’s find you something frozen to put on that”

He left the room to go ransack the freezer, hopefully for a bag of peas, while (y/n) stayed and sat down on his mattress. She hadn’t even felt the pain of the bruise until he’d mentioned it.

“Alright, all I’ve got is ice cubes, but I wrapped em up in this washcloth and tied it off with a rubber band, it should… here” He handed it to her, and she gingerly took it and placed it against her face.

“Thanks” She mumbled.

“I’m gonna get changed do… do you want to stay the night? We can talk about everything and we can just-”

“Yeah,” She agreed before he could start to ramble. “Alright”

They spent the entire night, laying on his bed and talking through everything from his powers to random gossip from school. By the time they got tired, it was nearing five in the morning. They were both half asleep and just mumbling their words. (y/n) was dangerously close to being curled up against him.

“I’m sorry for being so upset, Pete,” She murmured, tilting her head up to look at him. “I didn’t- I don’t want to fight with you”

“Yeah, I know,” Peter said, and without thinking, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in against his chest. “I don’t want to fight with you either. I’m sorry too”

She smiled, and snuggled against his chest, listening to the slow rhythm of his heart.

“G’night, Pete” She hummed.

“Goodnight” He replied.

Even though he didn’t fall asleep for a while after that. Enjoying her in his arms far too much.

Case 5.) A Few Days Ago

(y/n) was sitting at her usual desk in AP Literature, a few rows across from where Peter and Ned were. She was smiling and laughing, but disappointingly, it was Brad, from the Decathlon team making her do all this.

“I don’t get it,” Peter said, eyes narrowing as he watched them flirting. “He’s annoying, why’s she giggling so much?”

Ned rolled his eyes, not even bothering to answer, because he knew that Peter was just complaining to himself.

“He couldn’t have possibly said something that funny,” Peter grumbled, setting his head in his hand. “She must be laughing at him, since he’s such a clown-”

“Okay, Peter? Shut up,” Ned finally snapped. “She’s friends with Brad, and need I remind you, she met Brad through you, you’re the one who introduced her,”

It was safe to say Ned was fed up with this whole ‘hopeless pining’ act Peter had going for a couple months now. It was pitiful, and it was obnoxious.

“You want her to stop talking to him? Then do something about it. Otherwise, if you don’t, stop complaining about it!”

Peter frowned, knowing his friend was right. It wasn’t fair of him to sit here and wine about (y/n) talking to other guys when he’d never even tried making a move. Not that he could if he wanted to.

(y/n) looked over her shoulder towards him, smiling warmly and giving him a wave. Peter waved back, awkwardly of course, and (y/n) turned back to Brad.

Peter wondered if you could ask Tony to take care of Brad for him-

(y/n) got up from her seat and walked over to Ned and Peter.

“Hey guys,” She said, pulling a chair to sit across from the two, setting her arms on the table and then propping her head on top of them. “God, he’s hard to get rid of,” She whispered so only they could hear. “He’s nice and all, but once you give him an ounce of attention… yikes”

Ned looked over at Peter with a pointed stare, brows raised and eyes wide.

“What?” (y/n) asked, catching the look. Peter opened his mouth to speak, to make up some bullshit answer, but Ned spoke before he got the chance.

“Peter was starting to think you liked Brad more than him”

(y/n) giggled, lifting her head to smile at Peter brightly.

“Don’t be silly,” She said, half teasingly, half sweetly. “You’re still my number one” Peter smiled back at her, looking down at his notebook, too shy to look her in the eyes for too long. However, because of this, he missed the loving way she smiled at him. Ned didn’t.

“Hello?” Ned spoke up, expecting for (y/n) to give him some of that attention. She grinned at him and crinkled her nose.

“And you are a very close second. I’ve known Peter longer, it’s only fair,” She winked before standing up and putting her chair back. Class was going to start soon, and she didn’t want to get yelled at for not being in her seat when the bell rang. “Besides, he seems a bit clingier than you, Ned,” She added suggestively. “Didn’t know you were such the jealous type Parker”

She walked back to her seat, and not once had Peter found his voice to say anything. He gaped at Ned.

“Please tell me I didn’t look like a total idiot?” He mumbled hopefully.

From the way Ned laughed, he figured that he did.

Peter thumped his head down on his desk. ___

“You see?” Ned said after explaining all the scenarios that they’d obviously displayed their love for one another. “You and (y/n) have always been like that, ever since you freaking met. And I wasn’t even there”

Peter’s brows furrowed as he thought about it, remembering all those times that (y/n) had put him first, or looked at him in that way he could never quite decipher.

“Besides, she’d been crushing on you since middle school. That’s pre-abs, Peter. That’s how you know it’s true love” Ned chuckled to himself before taking a bite of his food.

��You think?” Peter mumbled.

“Oh, I know,” Ned said, and pulled out his phone. “Here, don’t believe me, here’s the proof”

He scrolled through a long string of texts before handing the device to Peter. It was his conversations with (y/n).

[ (y/n) ] : brad asked me to prom today [ (y/n) ] : well, he tried to, I shot him down before he could really do it [ (y/n) ] : omg that sounds so mean

[ ned ] : why didn’t you let him ask you? he’s kinda annoying but he’s not the worst guy in the world

[ (y/n) ] : i know it’s hopeless but i was kinda holding on to hope that peter would ask me

Peter audibly gasped, reading faster. (y/n) wanted me to ask her to prom???

[ ned ] : if you want to go to prom with peter, you’re gonna have to ask himself

“Dude,” Peter muttered. “I would’ve asked her if you showed me this sooner”

[ (y/n) ] : i can’t i’m a baby :(( [ (y/n) ] : i’m scared that he’ll say no and it’ll be awkward

[ ned ] : it’s already awkward, it’s you and peter

“I gotta go” Peter gave Ned’s phone back to him, shooting up from his seat and grabbing his backpack.

“What? Now? You’re gonna make me eat lunch alone?”

“You’re not alone, MJ’s down there, go sit with her,” Peter pointed to the other end of the table where MJ was sketching. “It’s really important, I can’t wait”

He was already walking off, but Ned yelled at him anyways.

“Wait for what!?”

“I gotta go tell (y/n) I love her!”

The whole cafeteria probably heard it he’d yelled so loudly, but Peter didn’t care. He was too pumped full with adrenaline as he ran down the halls, trying to find where (y/n) was.

Soon enough, he skidded to a halt, sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floors when he spotted her taping up posters for prom. The loud and unsettling noise made her perk up, a cringe on her face until she saw Peter.

“Parker, hey,” She called sweetly, and he walked over to her while she was still taping. “Sorry I couldn’t make it to lunch, the committee needed more-”

“Do you have a minute?” He cut her off, practically bouncing on his feet.

“I mean, I have to get these all done in the next ten minutes and there’s still-”

“Okay I can’t wait, it's too important,” Again, he cut her off, but (y/n) was still walking along the hall and taping up a poster every few feet. She nodded, prompting him to continue, eyes focused on the bright poster. “(y/n) I love you” He rushed the words out impatiently, hands twitching against his side and his foot tapping rapidly.

“Love you too Pete,” She replied nonchalantly. “What is it? Did something happen?”

“No- uh no you misunderstood me I-I’m in love with you”

She dropped the poster, and turned to look at him, clearly stunned. Her lips parted to say something, but no words came out, and she ended up just staring at him, hoping he’d say something else. But a smile broke across her face, as she knew just the thing to say.

“You mess up your words a lot Peter,” She murmured, just like she had when they were five, and playing with toy trains. He smiled back at her, knowing she was repeating herself from all those years ago. “It’s cute” She added as an afterthought, it was almost spoken under her breath, but he heard it.

“I don’t have a big gesture or anything but… will you go to prom with me?” (y/n) giggled and nodded her head.

“Yes, yeah I’ll go to prom with you,” She said, nodding her head hurriedly. “I’d really like that”

“Okay, great, cool,” Peter hung his head bashfully. He hadn’t stopped grinning since he’d admitted his feelings for her, and his cheeks were starting to hurt, but he didn’t care all that much. “I-I kinda ditched Ned at the lunch table so I should probably…” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, and she nodded in understanding.

“Yeah, go ahead,” She gestured to the posters still in her hands. “I have to finish this, so…”

He nodded, and began to head off to the cafeteria, heart beating a million miles a minute, dopey smile still on his face.

But last second he turned around and jogged back over to her.

“Shit, sorry, I almost forgot,” He took her by the waist so she’d face him, cupped her face in his hands, and leaned down to press his lips to hers in an all to casual but life changing kiss.

(y/n) dropped the papers and tape in her hands, wrapping her arms around his neck and delicately moving her lips against his, hoping to memorize everything she could about this moment so she could replay it in her mind for the rest of her life.

When they finally parted, she brushed her nose against his, fingers curling into the soft strands of hair at the nape of his neck. Her breaths came out in a soft pant that Peter could feel against his lips, and it made him want to kiss her again, so he did. Softly, and quickly.

“Sorry, couldn’t have waited for prom” He told her, and her cheeks were rosy, and she bit her lip to keep from smiling too hard and embarrassing herself.

“That’s okay,” She told him eagerly. “I was hoping you wouldn’t”

He chuckled, thumb stroking her cheekbone before he let go of her, stooping over to pick up the things she’d dropped, handing them back to her.

“You dropped these,” He said, and she laughed quietly, shyly as she took them, having to hold them in a firm grip so she wouldn’t drop them again. “I’ll see you later?”

She nodded, a bit shakily, and watched him walk away to actually go back to lunch now. There were only a few minutes left for her to hang up the rest of the signs, and she knew she wouldn’t finish in time, but prom be damned, she didn’t care.

Peter Parker was about to turn her entire world upside down, if he hadn’t already, and she couldn’t wait for prom night.

___

taglist: @writings-and-stuff @rofromtheashes @tomshufflepuff @steve-avengers-rogers @vibhati123 @dark-night-sky-99 @hollandhours @drakonwild @imofficiallyobsessed @fussy-and-a-writer-sometimes

xoxo ~ jordie

#spider-man #spider-man x reader #spider-man scenario #spider-man imagine #spider-man fanfiction #Peter Parker #Peter Parker x reader #Peter Parker imagine #Peter Parker fanfiction #Peter Parker scenario #tom holland #tom holland x reader

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ellstersmash · 5 years ago

Text

Three: Fifteen

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Solas x f!Lavellan (Modern!AU)

Rating: overall E for Explicit | this chapter T for Teen

[ Results were inconclusive. Again. Any last-minute suggestions? ]

Athi reads the message from Solas, then reads it again. Is ready to send back [???] but her phone buzzes again before she has the chance.

[ Apologies. That was not intended for you. ]

She smirks—

no shit

—deletes her question, taps out a response.

[ :* i miss u too ]

[ oop sry. wrong # ]

[ Ha Ha. ]

[ sry bout ur results :( ]

[ Thank you. What are you doing today? ]

“That Solas?” Sera says, not bothering to look up from her unbroken line of yellow glitter glue. “Tell him to suck it.”

[ arts n crafts ]

Athi snaps a quick picture of the mess they’ve made in their living room and sends it to him.

[ sera says suck it ]

[ Of course she does. ]

“He says hi.”

Sera gags dramatically. “Thought you wanted to help with all this, not flirt with your boyfriend.”

A snotty retort itches behind Athi’s teeth but she stifles it. Rolls her eyes instead and tosses her phone aside, the device bouncing once to rest face-down on the sofa cushion. She picks up a thick black marker with pungent permanent ink, and gets back to work filling in the block letters Sera lined earlier.

Her boyfriend. Gods, but that sounds strange. Childish. Like they go on dates behind the primary school, or pretend not to be having sex in the room down the hall from someone's parents’. And yet she finds herself giddy at the thought. To be fair, it’s all she has for the moment. The thought. He's off on some adventure, and she's stuck here. Again. They'd only had that one perfect day, breakfast and window shopping and holding hands like real life lovers under trees full of dry rainbow leaves fluttering their applause. And then he took a phone call and went home to pack and left first thing in the morning.

She wonders just how often this happens.

How important could it be? Not like a bunch of ancient artifacts are going to up and wander off if he can’t go poke at them right away. A mental note to ask him later, and she moves this poster to the pile of finished ones and exchanges it for another that says “YOUR VILLAGE —> OUR CITY.” Cute, though maybe a smidge too reliant on humans knowing their history.

“Sure you don’t want to come?” Sera asks.

“That’s not—” Athi sighs. “I told you, I have work.”

“Yeah, but isn’t this more important?”

“I don’t know. Do you want rent paid?”

Sera quiets, kicking her legs back and forth as she works. Her glue bottle sputters, spits shimmer all over. A frustrated grunt and she tosses it aside, rolls onto her back.

“I’m just saying you should care is all. ‘S not going to get any better if nobody makes noise, and nobody’s making it for us.”

“Us?" Athi scoffs. "When we met, you said—and I quote—‘So glad you’re not one of those elfy elves.’”

“Yeah, well, therapy’s all right. Besides, it’s not for elves, or not just. It’s for whoever gets stepped on. That means us.”

“I didn’t know you were in therapy.”

“Maybe I don’t tell you everything," Sera mutters. “Thought of that?”

Athi caps her marker and lays it down. It’s just a feeling, but it's nagging. Persistent. Like and yet unlike the one she still gets when her papae calls her by her full name. Isalathena Sulahnera Lavellan, come here this instant, and it’s heavy on her chest, sitting right on top of her breastbone. Guilty, but she's not.

“What’s wrong?” she asks. Throws it out there before the feeling gets stale and she decides it's something she can live with.

“Nothing.”

“Right, ok, except for it’s not, so come on. Let's get it out and over with.”

Sera sits up, blonde hair sticking out in a couple new directions. “What’s your problem?”

“You! You’ve been acting weird all week, Ser. Haven’t come in for lunch or been home at night, responded to texts—”

“If you think I want to be in the next room while you and—”

“Oh, so you have a problem with Solas? That was one—”

“No!” Sera groans in frustration. “I mean, yeah, he is kind of old, and talks about old stuff a lot, and he’s all”—she straightens her spine into an uncomfortable posture, then slouches again—“but I like him well enough.”

"Then what?"

Sera stares at her hands for a while. Then out the window. Then at the wall. Then back at her hands. Athi’s patience is thin on a good day, and it takes a lot of willpower to keep quiet as Sera opens her mouth and closes it again, false start after false start.

Finally, Sera blurts out: “I want to ask Dagna to move in.”

Athi has no idea what she was expecting, but not that. Searching for some way to relate it to her own behavior, to justify her feeling or shove it aside, she takes so long to form a response that Sera begins to fidget.

“You what?” she asks at last, thoroughly stumped.

“I want to ask Dagna—”

“Yeah, I…” Athi tries to catch up, shuffles through the past month as best as she can in the pause between. “Here?”

Sera squints at her like she's stupid, but that's fair. It was a stupid thing to say.

“No, my mother's. Yes here!”

“I’m sorry, I didn't realize you two were dating again. What’s it been, a year since you broke up?”

“Yeah. You were out at your friend’s place. Better you missed the makeup sex, though, yeah? More room for fun.”

At first Sera’s cheeky grin has Athi smiling too. It’s a relief to talk about someone else’s shit instead of her own, but then Sera glances toward the couch and—

Oh.

Oh gods, she wouldn’t have . . . would she?

Athi gets up for a glass of water, makes it two at Sera’s request. Sits cross-legged on the coffee table when she comes back. Just to be safe.

“Isn’t it a bit fast?” she asks.

“Maybe. Doesn’t feel fast, though. If you add 'em all up it's been like, a few years or something, so it sort of works out to normal. If you think about it.”

“I guess.”

Sera empties her glass in one go. “Her lease is up next month,” she says.

Athi nods. “Right. So soon, then. Um… and if it doesn’t work out?” She leaves out the again, but it’s implied.

“But that’s why I should do it! See, I keep losing her because I’m not in. She was serious about us, but I kept messing around. Don’t even know why, really.” She looks on the edge of losing her momentum, halfway to introspection, then snaps back into the room. “But therapy! So this time, like Wicked Grace, right? I’m all in and she’ll see I mean it. And then it’ll work out.”

Her logic isn’t quite flawed but it’s far from perfect. Still, friends don't tell friends to be afraid. Especially when those friends have clearly put a lot of thought into their dynamic-altering life-changing decisions. So Athi drops the questions.

“Wow,” she says instead. “I didn’t know you felt that way about her.”

Sera shifts into soft focus and smiles, a faraway look in her eyes. “Me either.”

She seems so certain. Satisfied, and happy. Really, truly happy. And it’s kind of fucking beautiful.

Feeling overcome for no good reason, Athi goes back to her task. Long thick careful black lines, then short ones. She marks a pattern with them to make it less work and more play. Not that anyone will see unless they’re trying. And as she makes the spaces solid, a thought occurs to her.

“So,” she says, bright. Like it’s no big deal. “Do you want me to move out?”

“What? No! Course not. Why would you say that?”

There’s no time to answer. After so much silence, Sera bubbles over with unused conversation.

“I mean, do you want to move out? You’re not moving in with Solas are you? Gross. Definitely too fast for that one. Bet he wants to get married first, in a chantry and everything. Is he Andrastian, do you know? Where is he, anyway? He travels a lot for work, right? Must be nice. Wonder if his job pays for it. Is he gone now?”

Too many questions, so Athi answers the last one.

“Yeah. Flies in late tonight. He’s picking me up after work.”

Sera snorts. “What, picking you up? So you wouldn’t get up to take him in, huh? Good girl. Stay strong. Trust me, you drive him once and you're in for forever.”

“No, he didn’t even ask. Figured he’d take a cab or something, but I guess he drove himself.”

“And paid for parking? What’s he, loaded?”

Athi grins and crosses her fingers.

“Real nice. I’m serious, Ath, that’s some weird psychopath shit. Nobody drives their own self to the airport. No one who has friends, anyway.”

"I think he's just used to being alone.”

“Way to make it sad.”

"Alone doesn't mean sad."

"It kind of is though. But then, he’s got people, right? Like Varric, and, well... I don’t know. People.”

Athi shrugs. “Habits can be hard to break, especially when you’re not trying.”

“Ooh. Very wise today."

"Shut up."

"I mean it!"

She doesn’t tell Sera about the other things. The books covering all his furniture. The busted bathroom door that he removed rather than replaced. The singular coaster on his side table. The way he forgets to be hospitable, then overcorrects, asks her if she needs anything three times in a row. His house, his life, is not prepared for the presence of others. Not meant to host company or take in strays or accommodate a lover, meant for him and his needs and his convenience and no more.

And she’s honestly not sure if that makes her an exception or an intruder.

“Woah.”

The door slams shut behind her. Very nearly catches her in the ass but she happened to freeze just beyond its reach.

The place is gutted. Or maybe it's not? Ceiling and walls are fine and nothing she can place is missing, tables and chairs and bottles of booze all present and accounted for, but it looks fucking empty. And clean, though she can’t tell if that’s real or just the lack of tasteless decor.

“I know, right?” Tali dumps a bucket of ice in the bin with the rest. “It was like this when I showed up today.”

Athi drifts in slow, perturbed by the smell of cleaning solution and the lack of clutter. Hangs her purse on the coat rack just inside the office, her jacket on top of that. Pulls her hair back, ties her apron, washes her hands.

“Were we robbed?” she asks, only half joking.

“Technically, that would be a burglary.”

“Were we burglarized?”

“You know,” Tali says, “If someone broke in just to take those awful knick-knacks and creepy pictures Seggrit had up, I say more power to ‘em. Enjoy your ghosts, thief!"

Athi giggles. “Worst was the cabin.”

“Are you kidding? I couldn’t even look at that family one. The kid’s vacant stare, blessed Andraste, I wanted to flip it around every time I walked in that door. And you know that cat had seen things. I mean, did Seggrit know them? Why were they on our wall?”

"Somebody had to keep an eye on us."

"And make sure we weren't flirting with tall handsome customers in the back alley?" Tali grins, tongue stuck out between her teeth.

"Why? You make that a habit too?"

Tali wrings out and refolds her bar towel. “Ok, sweetie. Keep your secrets. I'll get my details one day."

"Anyway." Athi gestures at the naked walls. "Change!"

"Right. It was Seggie for sure. He was here when I came in. Must have dealt with all that crap this morning, though I couldn't say what he did with all of it. Or why. Oh! And he left that.”

Tali reaches back and raps a knuckle on the fridge where a sheet of paper hangs. Athi slides it out from under the magnet. Scans its contents. Flips it writing-side-out toward Tali.

“The fuck is this?”

“A cleaning list.”

“I can see that. Seggrit made it?”

“Either that or your writer pal is moving in for real.”

“And that’s not strange to you? That he cares?”

Tali shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe he’s decided to rejuvenate this place. You know? Spruce it up, invest a little time, maybe hire some better bartenders.”

“Hey, don't sell yourself short."

"Bold of you to assume I meant myself."

“This is weird, though. Right?" She reads off the paper. "Sweep out back? Deep-clean the office? Dust the brick wall? Tali, most of these have nothing to do with anything. Where are the temp checks? Or the fucking tap lines? Or, you know, any of the shit we should actually be doing?"

“Beats me, babe. I'm just glad he's getting involved. You should’ve seen him whirling around here earlier. Something seems to have lit a fire under his rear-end.”

Another feeling, but she can't place this one. It all fits together somehow, or should. The list and the bare walls and the lack of fire hazards. Chewing on the puzzle, Athi picks a task at random, takes a spray bottle and a coffee filter to the windows. Even free of five years’ grime and in full sun, they don’t illuminate much. But that’s all right. The list says clean, and they are definitely that.

#ellster writes #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #solas #solavellan #dragon age fic #solathi #athi lavellan #modern!au #three #alcohol #not this chapter but... all the other ones lol

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bluespiderlilies · 5 years ago

Text

Reincarnation | Hashibira Inosuke

⟵ previous (chapter seven). current (chapter eight). next (chapter nine). ⟶

❝she stumbled. she fell. she rose. she dragged him down with bloodstained hands.❞

— then she took the throne and wiped her hands clean (syeda n.)

“Caw! Your letters are here!”

You furrowed your brows at the sound of Kemuri’s high-pitched screech, muttering profanities as you placed your arm over your eyes. However, you felt the folded papers fall onto your face, causing you to clench the blanket before getting up.

“Kemuri,” you hissed, rubbing your eyes. “Keep it down. There’s another person in here, you know.”

She merely cocked her head at you before flying out of the window.

“She’s so spoiled. I should’ve never given her so many treats.” You muttered, gathering the letters before walking over the chabudai table.

You looked over at Inosuke, who was sleeping soundly—well, with an exception of a couple snores here and there. It was cute.

Shit. What is wrong with you? You keep calling Inosuke cute.

I mean, not like he isn’t, or anything…

You blinked rapidly.

Shut the fuck up, me. And read the letters.

You sighed, pursing your lips as you unfolded the letter, eyes skimming over the ink kanji.

‘You broke your sword already?! This is why I hate young people like you being my clients! Breaking my fucking swords that I’ve worked so hard on! Bitch! I’m gonna kill you when I see you!

(Name)-chan, I apologize for Hotaru’s behavior. As usual, he’s throwing tantrums like the man-child he is. However, I will reassure you that he will deliver your sword by noon or later. I hope you are safe,

Chief of Village,

Tecchikawahra.’

“Man-child…” You muttered, stifling a laugh. You folded the letter neatly and placed it to the side, opening Shiori’s letter.

‘(Name),

I’m glad you are doing well so far. You even made a new friend outside of the village, so I’m proud of you for that. I know being social is not your strength, but it is good to know that you are trying.

Please, as much as you can, take care of your injuries. I know you have the habit of trying to ignore and suppress the pain as long as you can, but you know it makes it worse. For me.

That reminds me, Hideyoshi wanted me to tell you that he misses you and wants to see you back in the village soon. Mostly since he wants to play hanafuda and shogi with you. But I know that’s a lie since he doesn’t want to admit he sees you as a sister.

I also want to see you again soon. Because I miss you and I need to talk to you about your sword in person.

Stay safe,

Shiori.’

You bit your lip, looking over the ink kanji on the mulberry paper. The sword, again…? What is so special about it? It really confuses you.

With a sigh, you place the letters to the side before getting up. You looked over at Inosuke, who was sleeping—with the occasional snore here and there. Raising a hand, you were about to brush his hair out of his face when the shoji suddenly slid open, causing you to jump out of surprise and retract your hand quickly.

“Good morning! You’re awake?” Kotone beamed, placing her hands behind her back.

“Yes, good morning. Do you need help with preparing breakfast?” You replied, bowing your head politely.

Kotone shook her head. “No, no! It’s already done. Why don’t you wake up Inosuke and join us? We’ll wait for you.”

You nodded, watching her leave the room as her light footsteps grew faint. Once again, your attention shifted over to Inosuke, who stirred slightly in his sleep.

“Inosuke, wake up. Breakfast is ready. If you don’t, I’ll eat everything.”

“Hah?! Yeah, right, woman!” Inosuke shouted, springing up from the bed in a rage. He sped past you, opening the shoji and to the irori.

You almost wanted to snort. Indeed, it was amusing to see him get so riled up over food. It reminded you so much of Hideyoshi and Akane—Akane being another woman you spend your time often, and was older than you by three years. Despite the age difference, the two of you get along with each other quite well.

You miss the village so much—it was shocking to say when you first arrived, you didn’t trust a single person. But now? You were well acquainted with them; but still has trouble socializing with people outside of the village, just like what Shiori had mentioned…

A sigh escaped your lips as you closed your eyes, getting rid of the sad thoughts swirling inside of your mind. You exited your room, closing the shoji behind you and headed to the irori. Just like you had expected, Inosuke was eating as if it were his last meal and the twin women were bickering quietly as they sipped on their green tea.

“Good morning, Kohana.” You greeted, bowing politely beside taking a seat beside Inosuke. She spared a glance, acknowledging your greeting before going back to fighting with her twin.

Indeed, those two were quite peculiar.

Of course, probably not as much as the teen beside you.

“Inosuke, maybe you should try eating with your chopsticks.” You suggested, pointing towards the unused chopsticks laying beside his bowl of rice.

“Huh? I don’t need them! Eating with my hands is faster!” He argued, shoving a bunch of tempura into his mouth.

“…alright, then.” You shrugged, paying no mind to his eating habits anymore. Who are you to tell him how to eat? Although it is improper, you aren’t the type of person to be so forceful unless necessary.

“(Name), aren’t you getting your sword soon?” Kotone spoke up, causing you to snap out of your thoughts.

“Yes. Around noon or later. Why?” You said, bringing the sushi up to your lips.

She waved you off. “Nothing, nothing. I was just wondering. What’s the color of your sword?”

“A mauve-violet.”

She raised a brow. “Oh? Your Breath?”

About to open your mouth to answer her, the familiar, faint sound of wind chimes tinkling entering your ears. You immediately excused yourself, getting up from your spot and towards the front entrance of the Wisteria Household.

“Haganezuka.” You spoke, eyes meeting his mask.

“Katana Breaker.” He growled, stopping in front of you. He raised a finger and flicked your forehead harshly, causing you to hiss out of pain.

“Just give me my sword, please.” You sighed, rubbing the spot where he had flicked you.

“You don’t deserve it.” The man complained, opening the box before he handed over the sheath

“Oh, I know. But I might as well make use of it, no?” You replied, gently taking the sheath from him.

Haganezuka clicked his tongue. He didn’t actually mean it, of course—but you took him seriously. It caught him off guard—yet, in a way, it wasn’t surprising; that’s just how are you are.

You thanked him, bowing out of gratitude before he turned around and left. You looked at the sheath before entering the house once again.

You like Haganezuka—truly, you do, despite his overexessive personality; you admire his passion for swordsmithing, and the amount of hard work and determination he puts in it as well.

His death threats were sort of sad, though. Maybe you could teach him how to threaten others properly.

You stifled a laugh at the thought as you made your way to the to the irori. If Shiori caught you doing that, she’d give you the silent treatment.

“Sorry for suddenly disappearing. My swordsmith came.” You apologized, holding up the sheath to show them that, indeed, Haganezuka had come to give you your sword.

Kotone smiled. “Don’t worry! Do you still want to eat?”

You shook your head. “No, it’s—”

“Caw! Mission in the South! Caw!” Your crow suddenly announced, entering the irori through the window.

You clenched your jaw. Just what was with today, people cutting you off constantly?

“Oh, is that so? Do you have any more details, Kemuri?” You smiled sweetly, grip tightening around the scabbard.

Kemuri let out a stuttering caw before answering. “A house on a mountain where several demons live and devour humans.”

You hummed in response, looking over at Inosuke. “I suppose we should go soon, then. Right, Inosuke?”

The boy merely spared you a glance before continuing to eat.

You grimaced. It was going to be a long day for you, wasn’t it?

∞

“Ah, I think this is the house.” You pointed out, eyes looking over the typical, traditional Japanese house as you approached it.

“I can sense lots of demons in there! I’m going in!” Inosuke declared, steam exiting through the nostrils of his mask before he broke into a sprint towards the house.

“Hey, wait!” You shouted; however, it was too late—he had already entered the house.

“Ugh, fuck. If he dies, it’s not my fault.” You muttered bitterly, jaw clenched as you walked towards the house. However, what caught your attention was two children sitting outside near the bushes, hugging each other and sobbing into one another’s arms.

What the hell?

“Hello…?” You greeted tentatively, standing in front of the younger children.

“Wh-who are yo-you?” The boy stuttered, sniffing as he tried to wipe his tears.

“A demon slayer,” you answered, looking over at them. Clearly, these two were siblings—their faces very much alike, especially their amber colored eyes; they held emotions of fright, anxiety, and concern.

Concern? Hm.

“Are you lost? Separated from someone?” You asked, tilting your head out of curiosity.

“Our br-brother,” the younger girl sniffed, “h-he’s in there. A de-demon took him!”

You nodded. “I see. I’ll try my best to retrieve him. Stay put.”

“Okay.” The boy replied in a small voice, tightening his grip on his sister’s body.

You couldn’t help but let your mind become consumed by negative thoughts; by now, their brother is probably dead. How could he survive in a house full of demons, unless he had some sort of skill or ability?

Though faint, the metallic scent of blood was evident as you neared the entrance of the house; your sense of smell wasn’t the sharpest, but you could still pick up on such things. That sense, however, that was the sharpest was your intuition—it was almost never wrong.

Only once had you been fooled.

You bit the insides of your cheek, closing your eyes and took a deep breath. With that, you opened your eyes, clearing your mind riddled with your disturbing thoughts before you entered the house. Venturing further into the structure, it was made up of multiple rooms and corridors—it reminded you of a maze, almost.

Deciding to not waste any more time, you picked up your speed, dashing through the rooms and hallways. However, at the sound of a beat of a drum, the rooms shifted and turned—you cursed quietly, maintaining your balance as the rooms continued to turn.

It stopped for a moment, now stuck in one of the rooms—it seemed like it was some sort of study, with stacks of books and writing supplies in the shelves. Who exactly lived here before this whole mess?

You opened the shoji, once again sprinting through the halls—you had to find both Inosuke and those kids’ brother. You weren’t too sure about the brother, however; who knows if he is still alive or not. Even so, if he is dead, you would still have to find his body and bury it.

Just as you were about to enter a room, you felt a strong force suddenly knock you out from the side, tackling you into another room. You hissed in pain, you left foot stinging and throbbing; however, you managed to kick the thing that had decided to tackle you from the side.

“Oh~ I knew it! You’re at the age to be eaten. How wonderful!” The demon giggled, crazed obsidian eyes looking at you as drool dribbled down its chin. “You’re injured, too! Now you’re doomed!”

You bit the insides of your cheek, trying to endure the pain of your twisted ankle, not wanting to apply too much pressure upon it.

“Jui~cy girl! I’ve eaten so many of you!” The demon cackled, steadily approached you.

“You’re a fucking waste of space and oxygen. Ugh, how nasty.” You grumbled, thumb pushing out the sword out of the sheath of you gripped the handle.

“How dare you…!” The demon screeched, lunging towards you at a high speed—hands reaching to slice your body.

“Fourth Style: Tides of the Moon.” You mumbled, a stream of waves flowing from the sword as you jumped upwards, cleanly slicing the demon’s neck. You landed on your feet, barely making a sound—however, you winced at the hot, sizzling pain in your ankle, cursing in yourself for your carelessness.

You took out an ointment from one of your thigh pouches, quickly taking off your jika-tabi and dabbing it onto your swollen ankle—the ointment smelling of arnica and chamomile oil. Hopefully, it would ease up the inflammation and pain.

You placed it back in the pouch, rushing to put back on your footwear and stood up carefully on both of your feet. You decided to stay in the room as to not strain your foot too much; however, that was a mistake. Because as soon as you got up, the room shifted—taking you to a new room.

Unfortunately, due to your shitty luck, there was also a demon. Fuck.

The demon looked up, an eerie grin tugging on its lips as its eyes looked over your body.

You felt chills down your spin. How disgusting.

“Hah! Finally! Proper food!” The demon licked it’s lips, his cackles echoing throughout the room. “I don’t have any uses for this now.” He held up a gravely injured boy, carelessly throwing the body out of the window just as the room shifted and turned once again.

You maintained your balance, eyes studying the demon in front of you. Clearly, it wasn’t strong enough to have some sort of Blood Demon Art—it looked like it had only eaten ten or eleven humans so far.

It still angered you, though; how dare he throw that body outside of the window? Though the boy was almost dead, it didn’t mean he had to experience any more pain.

“Eleventh Style: Dance of the Moon.” You closed your eyes, grip tightening on the hilt of your katana as you took controlled breaths, feeling every single fiber of your being growing stronger. Not only did it increase your strength, but your stamina and intuition—as you looked up, it felt like everything was moving in slow motion, your eyes catching every micro-expression and the slightest shift of a muscle on the demon.

The demon makes it look like he’s aiming for my head, when really he wants to slice my stomach. His eyes are also focused on my face, which means he wants to try to slash my eyes before he can prepare his attack.

You dashed towards the demon, swinging your sword in an infinity pattern; with ease, you had sliced the neck of the demon and many parts of its body. However, due to the force of your attack, you crashed through the window, flying out of the house with the body parts of the dead demon under your feet. Thankfully, it managed to break your fall—making you easily land on your feet with little to no pain.

“Oh my God! It’s a monster!” You heard a male voice wail in an high-pitched manner, causing you to look up and blink at the people in front of you.

You swung your sword over your head in a quick, circular motion, cleaning your sword of the demon blood before placing it back in its sheath.

“I know you two.” You spoke up, eyes once again shifting over to the two males in front of you, their eyes lighting up in recognition at the sight of you. “You’re from the Final Selection.”

#inosuke hashibira #hashibira inosuke #inosuke x reader #inosuke hashibira x reader #hashibira inosuke x reader #kny #kny x reader #kimetsu no yaiba #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #demon slayer #demon slayer x reader

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cocomaxley · 6 years ago

Text

Harry Potter & the CGW Squad

Part 1

Three out of the four CGW girls love Harry Potter. Just a fun little idea we threw around forever ago that finally got written. Hope you enjoy!

Part of the CGW TRR A/U, a collaborative effort by @ao719 @speedyoperarascalparty @leelee10898 and yours truly. Catch up HERE.

Pam, Anitah and Genevieve sat at the restaurant waiting for Alicia. “Who wants to bet that she's late because they're screwing in the limo right now?” Genevieve asked giggling. Pam rolled her eyes, “Not taking that bet.”

“You guys, we should have a Harry Potter movie marathon this weekend while the boys are camping!” Anitah squealed.

“This is what Alicia gets for being late,” Genevieve laughed. Alicia finally walked into the restaurant, trying to straighten her disheveled clothing. “Hey girls, sorry I'm late. I was...umm…well you know,” she giggled.

“Finally! I'm starving,” Pam grumbled. The girls talked and laughed through lunch. “Hey Alicia, since you were late, we planned our movies for girls night in,” Anitah said with an evil smile.

“No, no, no! I am not watching Harry Potter,” Alicia said rolling her eyes. “We're not watching Harry Potter,” Anitah said and Alicia let out a sigh of relief, “We are watching all of the Harry Potter movies!” Alicia groaned but knew she didn't have a choice.

Friday afternoon, Rashad was packing his bag and camping gear into the car. Genevieve met him outside since they were driving to the palace together, and he would ride with Drake to the campground. He looked at her and started laughing, “Sweetie, what are you wearing?” Genevieve was wearing a gray uniform skirt, with white button down shirt, yellow and burgundy tie, black cardigan and a black Hogwarts robe. She skipped up to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. She kissed him on the lips and said, “You had no idea that you married a nerd did you? Oh well, too late!”

“Well you guys can't get into too much trouble dressed like that. So I'm actually not scared of whatever you ladies get into tonight. I hope I don't regret saying that,” he chuckled. He opened the passenger door for her and they made the drive to the palace. They pulled up the driveway and saw Drake’s truck pulling up behind them. She giggled when Pam stepped out of the vehicle. She was wearing the Ravenclaw uniform which consisted of a black uniform skirt and blazer and a royal blue blouse along with her Hogwarts robe. Rashad shook his head and laughed. “Gryffindor, Gen? I pegged you for Slytherin,” Drake snorted.

“You seem to know your houses, Drakey...are you a closet Harry Potter fangirl?” She asked with a knowing smile. Drake’s face blushed, “I don't know what you're talking about. That's for kids.” He dropped his voice to barely a whisper, “If you say anything, I will deny it and then I will get you back. Remember I still owe you for Chicago, April Fools and a bunch of other times I can't think of right now.”

“Drake, you're so scary when you're mad...like a ferocious little kitten. Mrow,” Genevieve clawed her hand at him. “And you know you love me!” He muttered under his breath, “You’re right, I do love you…like the big sister I never wanted.”

Anitah waked out of her closet and Liam raised his brow, “My love, what are you wearing exactly?” Anitah smirked, “You don't like it, my King?” She unzipped the front of the black robe and showed him the Gryffindor uniform she was wearing. His eyes automatically snapped down to the the short gray skirt and white knee high tights. Liam swallowed hard, “I...I...never said that.”

Everyone was in the royal quarters waiting for Alicia and Leo. They walked in a few minutes later and Alicia stared at her friends. Her jaw dropped at the sight all of them dressed like they just got their Hogwarts letters. She burst out laughing, “You guys are the biggest dorks I’ve ever met in my life!” The three girls rolled their eyes.

The men kissed their wives goodbye and left for their camping trip. Once they arrived at the campsite, Liam said, “So they really like Harry Potter, huh?” Rashad nodded his head. Drake’s face turned red, and he couldn’t quite look at the other men in the eye, “Yeah, Pam loves it. I don’t get it.” Liam looked lost in thought for a moment before he said, “Maybe we should take them to the Harry Potter theme park in Florida? I think they’d love it and I can’t get the image of Anitah in that skirt out of my head…” He cleared his throat and stood up, trying to hide that he needed to adjust himself.

“I’m in. Gen will be super excited. She has been bugging me to read the books and watch the movies. She even tried to download the books on tape on my phone,” Rashad said. Drake perked up, “Yeah, sounds fun! I...I mean...there’s probably a lot to do in Orlando, right? Not just The Wizarding World of Harry Potter?” Leo raised his brow at him using the full name of the attraction.

“Well if we really want to make them happy, then we should probably watch the movies with our wives. We don’t want to look like complete idiots. I’ll have my assistant book the trip then,” Liam said. “Yeah, we own all of the movies! I mean...Pam...Pam has all of the movies,” Drake suddenly stood, walking to the cooler. “Man, you guys are so whipped. I’m so glad Alicia doesn’t like that shit. We’ll still go, there’s a ton to do there,” Leo said rolling his eyes. The guys threw their beer cans at him, Rashad saying, “Yeah, we’re whipped. Who have you been texting non-stop since we left, Leo?” Leo’s flushed crimson, “She’s sending me some interesting information about...about stocks…”

Sunday afternoon, after watching the very last movie, Alicia stood up and said, “I still don't get why you guys love these so much. It's just not my thing.” Anitah rolled her eyes, “Easy, because the books and movies are amazing!” The door opened and the men walked in from their camping trip. Liam suggested they all have dinner together after the men showered and cleaned up.

The group went to the dining room. “We had an idea while camping. I had my assistant make the necessary arrangements for all of us to go to the Harry Potter theme park in Orlando.” Anitah, Pam and Genevieve all let out excited squeals. “You guys need to get sorted into your houses and find your patronuses!” Genevieve babbled excitedly.

Drake let out a snort, “You know who would be in Gryffindor? Liv...all Weasleys get sorted into Gryffindor!” He slapped his knee, laughing at his own joke. The other guys and Alicia turned to him with questioning looks. “Drake, you seem to know a lot about Harry Potter. Is there anything you want to tell us, buddy?” Leo asked him with a smirk. Drake’s cheeks turned pink, “I may have watched the movies with Pam…”

Genevieve scoffed, “Please! He loves Harry Potter. When I say love, I mean love. He has Harry Potter boxer shorts that he asked Pam to buy him for Christmas. What were they, Drake? The Marauder’s map? Also, I know that you and Pam love to role play. Exhibit A, look at Pam’s skirt and notice that it’s been sewn by the zipper because Drakey here has ripped it.” Pam tried to cover a smile which made her bestie giggle. Drake just started at her with his mouth open. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Drake. I think it’s sexy that you like Harry Potter as much as I do. I’ll show you exactly how sexy I think it is when we go home later,” Pam whispered in his ear making his face turn two more shades of red.

After dinner they went back to the royal quarters, and Pam sent the men and Alicia the website to get sorted into their houses. Alicia was the first to finish, “I’m a puffball. What’s a puffball?” The girls roared with laughter. “Hufflepuff, Alicia!” Anitah snickered. Drake and Liam were sorted into Gryffindor with Anitah and Genevieve. Rashad became a Ravenclaw along with Pam. Leo joined Alicia in Hufflepuff. The trip wasn’t scheduled for a few weeks so they decided that each weekend they would watch the movies together as a group.

The following Friday after everyone had gone home for the evening, Liam looked at Anitah, “I think the only thing that you love more than Harry Potter is the New York Yankees, love.” Anitah grinned, “Actually, I am pretty sure I love Harry Potter more, my king. I’d like to show you something.” She pulled Liam down an unused wing in the palace. “What’s all this?” Liam asked her. She giggled, “Since the rooms aren’t used down here, I took one to store some things…” She opened the door and Liam’s eyes widened in shock. He stared into the room that was laid out like the Gryffindor common room. He stepped inside and felt like he just walked into a Harry Potter retail store. There were mugs, cups, Legos, blankets, clothing, stuffed animals, action figures, and memorabilia displayed around the room. “Is that a replica broomstick, my love?” Liam pointed to the Firebolt that was hanging above the fireplace. “Actually, that’s the one they used in the movie,” she smiled at him. “I don’t know if I should be proud or scared,” Liam said with his mouth still hanging open. “Well, my king, since we’re the only two that know about this room maybe we should take advantage of the privacy.” Anitah closed the door and turned the lock with a click. She walked over to him, and pushed him down onto the sofa. “Proud, I’ll go with proud. Umm, where’s that skirt, love?” Liam said as he captured her mouth into a heated kiss.

Pam and Drake arrived home and walked in the front door. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her into a sweet kiss. “Now, I believe you promised that you’d show me how sexy it was that I’m such a big Harry Potter fan…” Pam smirked and took him by the arm, leading him into the bedroom. She pulled his shirt over his head and threw it on the floor. She ran her hands up his toned abs to his chiseled chest and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into passionate kiss. She started to unzip her skirt and Drake stopped her. “Leave the skirt on, baby. I’d like to rip it off of you again,” he growled, pulling her tight against his body and kissing her hard. He walked her over to the bed and laid her down, his hands roaming up her legs. “Drake…” she moaned as his hand disappeared up her skirt.

Leo and Alicia were laying in bed. “Babe, do we have to go? This trip is gonna be so lame.” Leo chuckled, “We can ditch them at the park. I'm sure there are plenty of places we can explore...clothing optional.” He pulled Alicia on top of him so she was straddling him. She could feel his hard length pressing against her wanting core. “I think you should get one of those skirts though...it might come in handy for when Bam Bam wants to come out and play.” Alicia smiled, “We haven't done the schoolgirl outfit yet. It would come in handy.” Leo pulled her down and captured her mouth in a hard kiss. “Now, are you ready for Bedrock, love?”

Rashad and Genevieve were getting ready for bed. She was standing in her closet, having just changed into her pajama shorts and tank top. Rashad came up behind her and kissed her neck. “Mmmm,” she moaned. “I have to admit, you looked sexy in that uniform,” Rashad continued to kiss down her neck. She laid her head back against his chest as his hands roamed her body. “Oh really? You should have seen me in high school. I was a Catholic school girl...with a very short skirt.” He growled in her ear, “Put that skirt back on...then meet me in your shoe closet.” He turned her to face him, “And, sweetheart? Wear those red peep toe Louboutins.” Genevieve felt a shiver go down her spine. All she could do was nod her head as she looked into Rashad’s lust blown eyes.

A couple of weeks later, the four couples boarded the royal jet for their trip. Anitah, Pam and Genevieve were giddy. Their husbands smiled at their excitement. Alicia sat with the three women, “I’m excited to get away. Don’t think you guys are going to make me change my mind about Harry Potter though. Not gonna happen.”

Anitah teased, “Don’t be so Sirius, Alicia. It’s going to be amazing!” This made Genevieve snort loudly. “Was that supposed to be a pun? Because I don’t get it…” Alicia said with an arched brow.

“Alicia, why don’t you ask Leo to show you his wand and you can show him your golden snitch,” Pam giggled while Alicia rolled her eyes.

Drake chuckled, “Don’t be such a muggle, Alicia!” The three women could no longer contain themselves and burst out laughing. Alicia stood up and sat down next to Leo, “We need new friends…”

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#harry potter meets cgw #cordonians gone wild #cordoniansgonewild #cgw #liam x anitah #drake x pam #rashad x genevieve #leo x alicia #cgw squad #the royal romance #trr au #cgw au #cgw world #cgworld

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there-must-be-a-lock · 6 years ago

Text

Marked (Part 11)

Dean x Reader

Word Count: ~3960

Warnings: Sexytimez, duh. It’s SO FLUFFY and Dean is SUCH A MARSHMALLOW. I don’t even know. Outdoor sex, also, which is not a good idea in real life; it literally always leads to insect bites. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

A/N: This is dedicated to @dean-winchesters-bacon, for all the reblogs, which were exactly the encouragement I needed to sit my ass down and get writing.

“‘M sorry I’m so late,” Dean said immediately, when I opened the door. I got a brief impression of sunken eyes and a tense jaw before he was half-stumbling up the step and wrapping me in a bear hug.

“It’s okay, Dean, really,” I mumbled. I buried my face in his chest and inhaled, not even trying to deny how happy I was to see him. Under the familiar clean, spicy scent of shampoo or cologne or whatever the hell it was, I smelled stale sweat and something coppery that made my skin crawl. But it was Dean, solid and real and clinging to me like I was a life preserver. I’d take him any way I could get him.

“Today was just -”

“It’s okay. C’mon. Let’s get you in bed.”

“I wanted to take you somewhere,” he protested feebly, but he sagged against me as I guided him inside.

“Tomorrow,” I said. “You can still stay tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Tomorrow, then. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

He collapsed into my bed and kicked off his shoes. His eyes followed me as I moved around the room, getting ready to sleep, but by the time I got back from locking the front door, he was out cold.

I sat on the edge of the mattress and watched him for a moment. There was a crease between his eyebrows, still, like he was worrying in his dreams, and a fading bruise decorated his jawline. He twitched and reached for me in his sleep. I grabbed his hand and made a soft noise, soothing, but it died in my throat. He had dried blood on his hands, deep rusty-brown, unmistakable, caught in the rough edges of his cuticles and under his nails. My stomach lurched.

I crawled into bed next to him and shut off the light, but I couldn’t fall asleep for a long time.

-----

It was late when I woke up the next morning. I’d tossed and turned most of the night, woken up at one point by Dean shouting himself awake from a nightmare, and I felt groggy and uneasy. I reached out for him instinctively, but the other side of the bed was cold. I could hear his voice from the kitchen, though, and I smelled bacon.

“No, I told you, I’m fine,” Dean was saying irritably into the phone as I padded into the hallway. I paused by the doorway to the kitchen before he could see me, reluctant to interrupt. He was shirtless, with a spatula in one hand and his phone in the other, and his hair was still wet from the shower.

“It’s not like I could just leave it,” he said, scowling down at the pan. “I’m not a fucking idiot, Sammy, Jesus, it’s locked up… yes, in the damn trunk, okay? What is the problem? All I ask is for you to let me out of your sight for one fucking day. I think I can manage one day without you babysitting me.”

Dean noticed me watching, and quickly schooled his expression into something like a smile. It looked more like a grimace. I poured myself a cup of coffee and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

“I gotta go, Sammy,” Dean was saying, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, don’t worry, I’ll be back soon. I know. Bye.” He hung up and heaved a sigh, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, just my brother.” He hesitated. “There’s something we’re supposed to be working on together and it’s stressing him out.”

“Oh. If you have to go…”

“No, fuck no. I need a mental health day.” He kissed me, slow and soft and coffee-flavored, and when he pulled away some of the tension seemed to have melted out of his shoulders.

We took our time with breakfast, lingering over second and third cups of coffee, talking idly. Dean’s smile gradually started to seem more genuine. Then he did the dishes while I showered, and when I came back, he was packing a cooler, tucking sandwiches on top of a six-pack.

“Where is this mysterious place you want to take me?” I asked bemusedly.

“You’ll see.” This time, when he smiled, it reached his eyes.

“And we’re bringing a picnic?”

“Hell yes we are. I meant for it to be lunch, but I think at this point it’ll be an early dinner instead.”

We gathered up a blanket and all the other necessities and brought them out to the car.

“Just slide everything in the back,” Dean said, and opened the door for me. I thought of the conversation I’d overheard.

“Trunk full?” I asked.

“Yeah, I keep a bunch of work stuff in there,” he said, not meeting my eyes.

I tried to hold it in, but as we buckled up and Dean started to fiddle with the stereo, my curiosity finally got the better of me. “What do you do, anyway?”

He froze for a second with his hand still on the volume dial. “I protect people.”

“Like a bodyguard?” I asked, surprised by the wording.

“Something like that. You ready?”

“Ready.”

I studied his profile, trying to decide whether to push the question. I’d been curious since we met, of course, but for a long time it didn’t feel like I had the right to pry. Now, though… maybe. But the truth was, I couldn’t imagine any answer that would change the way I felt about him. There would always be questions and answers and inconsequential facts, stories to tell, but what was the point, really? I knew everything I needed to know.

We couldn’t have chosen a nicer day. The sky was a bright, clear blue, with a few fluffy clouds scudding here and there in the cool early fall breeze. We talked, here and there, but mostly I just watched Dean, the way his hands gripped the wheel and the shapes his lips made when he mouthed the words along to certain songs. Every time he smiled, I felt something sweet and warm fizzing in my stomach.

After about an hour and a half, we pulled off the highway at the exit for Lawrence, and I shot Dean a quizzical glance.

“Ever been here before?” he asked.

“Couple times, but I don’t know it well.”

“I thought I’d show you where I grew up,” he said quietly. I watched him silently for a second, the way he was staring straight ahead and drumming on the steering wheel. “Is that dumb? We can always just go somewhere else.”

“No,” I said, grinning. “No, Dean, this is perfect.” I leaned over in my seat until I could kiss his cheek, and I saw him smile to himself.

We walked through the town first, just strolling hand-in-hand, and ended up stopping at a little bakery. We sat by the window and ate pie, and I made fun of Dean for the indecent noises he made with each bite.

“Is this… did you come here with your family?” I asked, gesturing around with my fork.

Dean shook his head. “Nah. Or at least not that I remember. I was four when we moved, almost five. I don’t remember much. I usually have a good memory for pie, though.” He winked, and grinned with his teeth full of cherry filling. I giggled.

“We should get more,” I said. “To take with us, I mean, I’m not sure I could eat any more right now.” He didn’t answer, just smiled at me with such open adoration that my heart raced.

When we got back in the car, he placed the paper box in the backseat so carefully I expected him to buckle it in. From there, we drove away from the center of town, out into a residential area. Dean slowed down, scanning street signs carefully.

“Haven’t been back much,” he mumbled, but he spotted a side street that seemed to jog his memory, and we turned onto a quiet little street of neat, bland houses. A couple blocks down, he pulled up along the curb and let the car idle.

“Which one?” I asked.

He pointed across the street. I smiled, trying to imagine a tiny Dean walking across that lawn, opening that front door. It was such a mundane place; I’d never expected Dean, with his darkness and his mystery and his fading bruises, to come from something so ordinary. I looked from the house back to him, fitting this suburban street into the fragmented knowledge I had of him.

“My mom died,” he said suddenly. “When I was four. Sam was six months old. There was a fire, I had to carry him out.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I… shit. I’m sorry. Is that why you moved?”

“Yeah. Dad was pretty broken up, after Mom died. That’s when we started… traveling. A lot. He never really settled down again.”

“Is your dad still around?”

“No. He died a few years back. ‘S just been me and Sammy, mostly. We had our uncle, Bobby, for a while too. Not really our uncle, but close enough, he was more of a dad than Dad was, sometimes. And our friend Cas is like family.” He choked out the words gruffly, but it seemed like he was relieved to finally talk about it.

I reached over and interlaced our fingers silently, and he squeezed my small hand in his big rough one. I couldn’t think of anything to say, but he didn’t seem to mind; he was watching the house, eyes distant and shuttered.

“I’d like to meet your brother sometime,” I offered hesitantly.

He looked surprised at that, and he was silent for a second before nodding. “Yeah, I… that’d be good. When work settles down for us, maybe.”

We sat for another minute in comfortable silence. Dean gave my hand another little squeeze and then shifted the car back into drive, and the Impala rumbled slowly along the quiet street. Dean followed the street for about a mile before it ended in a wooded cul-de-sac, and then he pulled up to a dirt trail that was barred by an old, rusty gate and a “Private Property” sign.

“Don’t worry about that,” he said, grinning at my dubious stare. “It’s part of a huge farm, this is a back entrance, but my dad had a standing invitation from the old man to take me fishing here. We caught the biggest trout I’ve ever seen, one time.”

Dean tossed me the quilt we’d packed and then hefted the cooler. He led the way, hopping gracefully over the fence and extending a hand to help me, and we set off into the woods.

The path was wide and easy, probably an unused ATV trail, with grass and wildflowers starting to grow up the center. We walked quietly, holding hands again. Dean had this gorgeous, boyish grin that was deepening with every step, his eyes sparkling a bright green that matched the sun-dappled canopy of leaves. I should’ve been captivated by all the natural beauty around us, but I couldn’t stop stealing sideways glances at him.

After about ten minutes, the susurrus of running water joined the soft chorus of insects and birds. The path led right through a wide, sparkling creek, and on either side of us, a rocky bank cradled the water.

Dean turned to the right and followed the bank where it curved. Just around the bend, the creek slowed and eddied through a sandy basin, a perfect natural swimming hole. A massive old tree leaned close to the edge. Dean set the cooler and blanket in a little dip at its base, a sort of mossy cradle formed by the roots, and got everything settled as I stood, spinning in slow circles, trying to take it all in.

“This is incredible,” I finally managed, and Dean sidled up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and kissing the side of my neck.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I’m glad it’s as beautiful as I remember it. Been a few years. We came back whenever we were in the area, just me and Dad, but... it’s been a few years.”

I turned in his arms and kissed him, soft and careful, mapping the curve of his smile with gentle brushes of my tongue.

“Thank you for showing me,” I said, my voice just as hushed as his had been. It felt appropriate, like we were in a church, or something, somewhere that commanded wonder and quiet respect.

He beamed, this dazzling smile full of joy and something like relief. “I wasn’t sure you’d… like it. This. All of it.”

“It’s you,” I said fiercely. “It’s part of you, so I- yeah. I fucking like it. How could I -”

He cut me off with a kiss, so deep and passionate that my head spun.

My ribs felt too tight for the fluttery pounding of my heart. I wanted him, and I wanted to be closer to him, and I wanted to know every damn thing about him, and it hurt. It fucking hurt, like a bone-deep ache, to want someone like this.

Tears pricked at my eyes, for some stupid fucking reason, and I blinked them back, bit at Dean’s lip so sharp he gasped, but I couldn’t hold back the convulsive little hitch of a sob that caught in my chest.

“What is it?” he asked, cradling my face in his hands, looking at me intently. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing’s wrong,” I breathed. “C’mere, just -”

I closed the distance between us again and kissed his swollen lip, the corner of his mouth, his cheekbone, the soft spot by his ear, while his fingers slipped under the hem of my t-shirt and settled warm on my hips. I tugged the collar of his shirt out of the way to nip at his collarbone, and when I worried the skin between my teeth he sighed, letting his head fall back to give me better access.

“Can I?” I asked, already sinking to my knees and fumbling with his belt. When I looked up, his eyes were heavy-lidded, pupils blown, and he was gaping at me.

“Fuck if I could say no to that,” he said huskily. I grinned.

He was already hard by the time I eased his zipper down, hard and getting harder, and I felt his cock twitch when I wrapped my hand around the base. I licked my lips, looking up at him, and he made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

The smell of him was so familiar, at this point; his smell and his taste and his everything were ingrained somewhere deep in my neural pathways. I closed my eyes and breathed him in. The hunger I’d felt, the desperation, melted away, and suddenly I just wanted to take my time.

I mouthed my way up his length and then down again, slow and gentle. I could feel the heat of blood under the velvety skin, feel the pulse of it when I flattened my tongue over the vein on the underside, a counterpoint to the sharp, panting breaths he drew in when I took each of his balls into my mouth, one and then the other. I massaged gently with my tongue before running the tip of it up to the swollen head of his cock, swirling in slow circles until I could taste the salty drop of pre-come gathering there.

His hands found my hair and held tight. I took just the head into my mouth, pressing my tongue firmly against the spot that always made him shake; this time was no different. His hips snapped forward, just an inch, before he got himself back under control.

I looked up at him through my eyelashes and smiled around his cock. He cursed, gaze locked on mine with smoldering intensity, and I held the eye contact as I started to slide down, torturously slow. When I felt him hit the back of my throat, I pulled off enough to take a deep breath and then swallowed him down, closing my eyes finally and trying to memorize the feeling of my lips stretching around him. He groaned, loud and shameless.

Maybe the best part of knowing his body so well was knowing how to tease, how to draw it out until he was begging, and exactly how to make him fall apart. This time, I went for the latter. I hummed, feeling the shiver that went through him at the vibrations, before moving back just enough to massage that one spot with my tongue again. I sucked in a quick breath and then slid down, taking him in all at once, letting him feel my throat work as I battled my gag reflex. I fell into a fast, forceful rhythm. My eyes watered and spit slid down my chin.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he hissed, and his hips twitched forward roughly. I felt his cock jump and swell the way it did when he was seconds from coming, but then he was clutching at my shoulders, pushing me back, pulling away from my lips. “Can’t, not yet, fuck, you’re too fucking good at that.”

He practically tackled me back onto the blanket, fingers clumsy and eager as he tried to undo the button of my jeans. I giggled breathlessly, smiling up at the blue sky, and then lifted my hips so that he could get my pants off.

All that about knowing exactly how to get Dean off? Well, it went both fucking ways, of course, and he wasn’t wasting any time; he spread me open, hooking one of my legs over his shoulder, and his tongue dipped inside me briefly before dragging up to my clit and flicking with just the right amount of hot soft pressure to make my toes curl. He slid two fingers into me easily and moaned, low and filthy against my cunt.

I hadn’t even realized how wet I was. I hadn’t thought about how much it turned me on to suck his cock, but I was already squirming, trying to fuck myself on his fingers, and his hand was slippery-slick where it met my body. The third finger was still a stretch, though, a rough thick perfect stretch that pulled an obscene cry from my lips. I twisted and bucked my hips, pulling his hair, rubbing myself against his mouth until he gave me what I wanted. He wriggled his fingers and sucked my clit, setting a quick fluttering rhythm, and the sensation pulsed through my whole body, leaving me helpless, unable to do anything but babble shamelessly.

“So fucking amazing, Dean,” I gasped, and squeezed my eyes shut, thighs already shaking uncontrollably. “Oh, fuck, I don’t understand, nobody’s ever made me feel like this, not even close, never wanted anybody like this, think about you all the time, fuck, right there, don’t stop, I -”

I bit down on my own hand, trying to shut myself up, too close to spilling out words that couldn’t be unsaid, but whatever Dean was doing with his tongue was making my nerve endings short out. I writhed under him, clutching at the blanket in a vain attempt to ground myself, and then everything went tight and urgent and unbearable. White light burst behind my eyes and my orgasm sent shudder after lightning-sharp shudder of pleasure through my core. I rocked up, pushing to meet his mouth, and he licked me through it until I was a trembling, oversensitive wreck, shivering and limp and content.

When I finally managed to open my eyes, the sight in front of me made my stomach roil with need all over again. Dean was propped up on one elbow between my legs, staring up at me with wild, naked hunger, and he was holding his flushed, rock-hard cock at the base with the tight grip that meant he was trying not to come.

“Do you want -” he started, low and strained.

“Wanna watch you,” I said immediately. “Do it, c’mon, let me see.”

Before I could finish my sentence he was stroking himself, groaning with relief. I watched the deep red head of his cock slide through his fist, overwhelmed by how beautiful he was like this, how beautiful he always was. He looked up and met my eyes again. I could see the tension in his expression, how close he was, every movement sending a little spasm of ecstasy across his features, and when his mouth dropped open I noticed the way his lips and his chin were glistening, an incredible filthy reminder of where that mouth had just been. I squirmed and bit my own lip.

“Come for me,” I ordered softly, and I could see the ripple of tension surge through his shoulders, his neck arching and his back bowing as his hips snapped forward into the circle of his fist. He let out a long, ragged moan, and then he was spilling into his hand, shaking with the force of his climax.

He half-collapsed, shifting his weight forward just enough so that he could use my stomach as a pillow. “Fngh,” came a muffled grunt. I laughed.

“Pretty sure sex that good should be illegal,” I said, and stretched, feeling the heavy satisfied weight in my limbs.

“Pretty sure that was totally illegal,” he said wryly against my belly button. “Indecent exposure, trespassing…”

I laughed, a full-on belly laugh, and felt rather than heard him chuckle. He heaved himself up onto his elbows, wiped his hand on the blanket, and crawled up to kiss me, brushing his nose against mine with a soft, goofy smile.

“There’s beer,” I said, at the same time he blurted out, “There’s pie,” and then we grinned at each other for a syrupy-slow moment, eyes locked, and there was a warm, liquid joy swelling in my ribcage that had nothing to do with orgasms or beer or pie.

“I -”

“Dean -”

We both stopped, waited for the other to continue, but there was just silence, broken only by the loud, bright warble of a bird overhead.

“Not important,” I whispered.

He shook his head. “Yeah. Just… me too.”

His smile was so sweet that for a second, it felt like he knew exactly what I wasn’t saying. I took a deep, shaky breath, and then we sat up, reaching for clothes, smoothing down hair, coming back to reality. Dean opened the cooler and cracked two bottles of beer.

We settled back against the tree, curled comfortably into each other, warm and sated and bathed in sunlight.

-----

I was still half-asleep when I felt him nuzzling at my ear, still foggy and caught in a dream, and I couldn’t process what he was saying, at first.

“Hmm?” I grumbled, burrowing back into my pillow.

“Gotta go,” he whispered. “I wish I didn’t have to, but -”

I frowned with my eyes still closed. “Nuh-uh.”

“I’ll be back in a few days, promise.” He pressed a butterfly-light kiss to my lips.

“Love you,” I mumbled hoarsely against his mouth. It took half a second of silence for me to realize what I’d said.

My eyes snapped open. Dean was smiling, his blush visible even in the dull pink light of sunrise. He stroked my cheek gently.

“Love you too,” he breathed. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

I tilted my chin up for a last lingering kiss. Then Dean was pulling the comforter up to my chin, tucking me in like I was a child, and he was gone, slipping away, so quietly that I barely heard the click of the front door.

I whispered it again into the empty room, surprised by the way it rolled off my tongue: “I love you.”

NEXT PART IS HERE.

If you enjoyed this, please reblog or leave something nice HERE.

#spn fic #supernatural fanfiction #dean x reader #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester smut #smut

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squirrellybaby67 · 6 years ago

Text

Little Ditty About Jackie & Diane (Part 2)

Part 1

Summary: The boys are not going to let Jackie (OFC) go without a fight.

Word Count: 1,891

Warnings: Language?

Alone - Heart

I wiped my knife off on my jeans and took a last look around the bar the monsters had made their clubhouse. The corpses laying around decapitated and bloodied. We had went in hot with a plan and the plan had actually went our way which was why every single one of us was walking away from this one intact. I walked over to the jukebox, putting in some change and selecting a song before turning around to find all of my newfound hunter friends giving me a puzzled look. "The booze in this place ain't going to drink itself," I shrugged, "It'd be alcohol abuse to torch the place without drinking, right?" Dean nodded his head with his 'Well she has a point,' face as I rounded the bar to start tending drink orders.

"We oughta take some of this back home with us," Sam said as I sat a beer down in front of him.

"Home?" I asked as I poured myself a shot of whiskey.

"The bunker," Sam answered, looking around at the hunters that were dragging bodies into another room.

"Ah, yes, I forget that some of us actually have normal lives and roots in a place," I let out a light chuckle before handing a beer to Jody who had sat down next to Sam.

"You could too, you know," Jody said, pointing the neck of her beer at me before taking a drink.

"I've tried the normal life, got boring real quick," I shrugged.

"God, you sound like my brother," Sam laughed.

"I get stir crazy if I stay in one place too long," I said before pouring out a few more shots for myself.

"That's because you are on your own," Jody added before speaking again, "If you had someone hunting with you, living with you, a roommate maybe, you wouldn't be so bored."

"You going to hand over Claire to be my roomie?" I questioned, giving her a raised eyebrow before downing another shot.

"Not a chance," Jody laughed before taking another swig of her beer.

"You could always stay with us," Sam offered. I shot him my best 'yeah right' face before drinking the other shot in front of me. "I'm serious," he added, "We have plenty of room. Most of the hunters we had staying with us have all found other places to live."

"I'm sure you are serious, but I'm also sure that Dean would object to your offer and I'm not about to get into any family drama," I said before excusing myself to hand out more drinks.

"Nice work today," Dean said as I passed him a shot and a beer.

"Thanks, you didn't do so bad yourself," I smiled, pouring myself a shot and cheersing him. "There is a bunch of unopened booze in the back, figured you and Sam can take it back to the bunker."

"You aren't coming back?" Dean asked as he took a drink of his beer.

"Nah," I shook my head, "I'm better off alone."

"That's a lie," Dean quickly remarked.

"What?" I gave him a puzzled look leaning back against the shelf that held the open bottles of liquor.

"No one is better off alone," Dean stated, his face every bit as serious as the words that came out of his mouth.

"I've done fine on my own," I replied.

"And after today, I don't doubt it. But take it from someone who has been where you are, just because you are getting along just fine alone doesn't mean you have to keep it that way." Dean said before turning sideways in his seat. "All these people are friends, family even, because family doesn't end with blood. I've been down so many times that I'd stopped knowing which way is up. And if it hadn't been for Sammy or the rest of them, I probably wouldn't be sitting here now." He looked around the room at the hunters laughing and talking amongst themselves. "Sometimes it's nice to know you've got people, that have your back, around."

"I guess," I said, looking down to Jody, Donna, and Sam laughing hysterically at something another hunter had said.

"Look, I'm not going to beg you to stay. I know you can hold your own. But after today, I'm starting to think it ain't so safe for any of us to be out there alone." Dean said leaning against the bar on his elbows. "Just know the offer stands."

"Thanks," I said, giving him a tight lipped smile. I knew exactly what he was talking about. Although we were all still breathing, and most of us were without a scratch, it didn't erase the fact that there were a few too many moments when I could've been dead today if it hadn't been for someone watching my back. "I'll think about it," I said before picking up a beer and tipping it towards him in acknowledgement which he did as well.

After everyone had drank all of the open liquor, I set out to handing out the unused booze to all of the hunters to take home before setting fire to the building to cover up the bloody mess that had happened there. We all stood at a great distance away from the blazing building, everyone having a last beer before hitting the road.

"So what are you doing after this?" Dean asked as he walked up to me.

"Are you seriously asking that question or are you trying to pick me up again?" I asked with a chuckle.

"Does it have to be either?" Dean retorted as he leaned against the front fender of my car.

"Well, on that note, I will be on my way," I said, chucking my beer into the fire and reaching for the keys in the back pocket of my jeans. But they weren't there. My stomach dropped and I felt like I was about to throw up as I thought the worst case scenario. Please tell me I hadn't lost them in the fight and they were currently melting in that building.

"You looking for these?" Dean asked, a devious grin on his face as my keys dangled from one of is long fingers.

"How?" I breathed out.

"Did you forget in the past twenty-four hours, how smooth I am?" Dean winked.

"Can I please have my keys?" I sighed, holding my hand out to him.

"Come back to the bunker," he said in a serious tone.

"Are you seriously trying to get me into your bed, using my keys for trade?" I asked, giving him my best bitchface.

"Would it work?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow as that smirk reappeared.

"Not gonna happen," I laughed, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Guess I'll take them then," he said, placing the keys into his front pocket. "I'm sure Baby would love to have a friend in the garage," he added as he started to walk away.

"God dammit, Dean!" I shouted before taking off in a sprint after him. But he was quick to start off in a run too. I chased him as he weaved around all of the vehicles, everyone laughing at the two of us acting like children. I stopped on the passenger side of his car, he on the drivers side as we silently gave each other the stare down. I waited for him to make a move, but he didn't so I pounced, making a run for him around the back of the Impala and he ran the other way. I slipped on some stray leaves as I rounded the corner and landed flat on my back. "Fuck!" I shouted, laying there for a few moments to catch my breath.

"Shit, are you okay?" Dean asked as he rounded the corner of the car and knelt down beside me. I took this opportunity to get him, lifting my right leg up as quick as I could and hooking it under his arm. He flipped onto his back and I quickly sat up, straddling his chest, and reached into his pocket for my keys. "A little to the left," Dean laughed as I pulled the keys from his pocket. Without a word I gave his groin a light slap before standing up. He reached down, cupping himself as he rolled over onto his side.

"That's for threatening Diane," I growled as I walked away.

"Who the hell is Diane?" Dean grunted out as he stood up and dusted himself off.

"The baddest bitch of them all," I answered as I opened my car door. "A grade-A piece of American muscle," I said, trying to toss his words from the night we met back at him. I started the engine after climbing in, said goodbye to everyone, and decided I'd stay at the hotel one more night before hitting the road.

~~~

Nothing. Two hours of checking news outlets for any kind of lead for a case and absolutely nothing. I sighed, setting my laptop to the side before getting up off the bed and retrieving a bottle of water from the mini-fridge. I was just about to sit back down on the bed and start round two of research when there was a knock on the door of my hotel room. I grabbed my gun off of the table and made my way to the door with feather-light steps before peeking through the peephole.

"Sam?" I was puzzled, wondering how in the hell he had tracked me down. "What are you doing here?" I asked as I opened the door.

"Jody told me this was where you had been staying so I took a chance you might still be here," Sam said as I opened the door wider so he could come in. "I hope that's okay," he added as he walked through the door.

"I just wasn't expecting anyone is all," I answered him, closing the door behind me. He stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, his hands deep in the pocket of his jeans as he looked around the place. "You can sit," I told him as I sat down in one of the chairs that sat at the table in the room.

"I just wanted to talk to you before you left," Sam explained as he sat down across from me and I gave him a nod to continue. "Listen Jackie, Jody sees something in you and I have to say after today, I see it too. You are a damn good hunter, but this lifestyle can wear on you. I'm not here to give you the "we need people" speech but it's true," I sighed, running my hand over my face and then looking back at him. "Just give me 48 hours to show you what it's like to have a family... To have someone in your corner and if you decide to leave, then I won't stop you," he paused. "As for Dean, I know he can come off strong, but there are a lot of miles of hurt under that facade and if you give him a chance, he'll be the best friend you ever had."

"48 hours?" I asked, unsure exactly what could unfold in just two days that could possibly change my mind.

"I swear," Sam said, holding his hands up in surrender.

"Fine."

#supernatural #dean winchester #Dean winchester x ofc #little ditty #my work #fanfiction

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