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scuttling · 3 years

Text

Weigh Me Down

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 4,221 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Dad bod Hotch, Physical domination, Manhandling, Slapping, Choking, Mild breath play, Sir kink, Oral sex, Rough sex, Unprotected sex, Biting, Begging, Dirty Talk Summary: You always knew being the kind of girl who runs her mouth would get you in trouble eventually; you just had no idea how incredible being in trouble could feel. *Inspired by @unicornprancing. Link to A03 or read below! It’s always the quiet ones: it’s a cliché because it’s true, something you’ve never really given much thought to because you are not a quiet one. You talk a lot, laugh a lot, aren’t afraid to speak your mind—it can get you in trouble at work, when local law enforcement is being stubborn and you give them a piece of your mind, or when Hotch gives an order that makes no sense, like stay behind me.

Has he met you? You aren’t the stay behind me type, not by a long shot, so when he says that or something like that, it always leads to you running your big mouth and starting an argument.

You are surprised as hell when one of those arguments follows you back to the office and, in an apparent effort to get you to stop talking, Hotch presses your back against his closed door with his body and puts his hands on either side of your head, leaning in to kiss you rough and deep.

Kissing Hotch is not a thought you've ever entertained. It’s not that you don’t find him attractive—he’s pretty much everything you dream about in a man, tall and strong and commanding, with dark hair and big hands and a withering stare. It’s more that you are so different, that you are loud and lively where he is quiet and clearly repressed; the idea of the two of you together just doesn’t make sense, until it really, really does.

You fist your hands in his shirt, arch up to press your hips against his, and he puts his hands on your body and shoves you back against the door; there’s something hanging on the wall to your right, and its frame rattles with the force of it. You moan into the kiss, and he pulls back, panting, to look into your eyes.

“Was just trying to shut you up for a change,” he says, low, and you lick your lips, look over his face. He’s still angry, and his hands are hard on your hips, holding you down when you try to press up again. Your heart is pounding, your breathing harsh.

“It was working.” His eyes sweep over your lips, your heaving chest, and you suddenly want so many things, starting with his mouth on yours immediately. “Maybe try again.”

He tilts his head, looking like he can’t decide whether he wants to kiss you or purposefully deny you what you’re asking for, but ultimately he gives in, leans in, takes your face in one of his big hands and kisses you hard.

You twist your fingers tighter in his shirt, slip him your tongue, and struggle against his hand so he’ll let you make contact, so you can feel the raging hard-on he has to be sporting. He takes his hand off your hip, and you think you’ve won, but he slides a thigh between your legs instead, pins you against the door that way, and grabs your wrists; he pulls your hands away from his shirt despite your tightening grip, holds your arms over your head, and deepens the kiss, makes it wetter and messier.

All your life, you have wanted this: someone bigger and stronger who could handle you at your mouthiest, who could calm the fire that’s always raging inside you and wind you up at the same time. Men have always been intimidated because you’re in the FBI, or because you were a cop, and for those reasons you’re also physically more capable than they expect; plenty of guys enjoy having a girlfriend who can rough them up a little, but not the guys you want. The guys you want see your strength, your fortitude, and they go running.

Hotch knows all of this about you, and he’s not running.

Far from running, he is crowding you up against the door, his body and his hands and his unrelenting mouth bringing you such pleasure you’re tempted to try to rub off against his leg. You grind against it, more to see what he will do than to actually try to achieve anything, and he shifts so both of your wrists are in one hand, brings the other to your jaw to hold it still. When he stops kissing you, you whimper at the loss.

“No.” So deep it’s almost a growl, his command is one you can feel in your bones, and you swallow hard. Your eyes are fixed on his, and you grind up against him again; his hand flexes on your jaw, presses into the bone, and while that feels really good, there’s something you want even more. You cover his hand with yours—his grip loosens, either because he knows you’re trying to ask for more or because he thinks you’ve had too much—and slide it to your cheek.

You let him go, look up at him, breathless, and he pulls back and slaps your face: not too hard, or too soft, just enough to sting and soak your panties. You gasp, lick your lips, dazed, and he switches hands, hold your wrists together with one and slaps the opposite cheek with the other. He takes your jaw in his hand again, tilts your face up like he’s daring you to act up.

You contemplate it, quickly weigh the pros and cons—acting up is looking better by the minute—but someone comes up and knocks on the door, right behind your head.

Hotch drops your hands, steps back, and you squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, try to snap out of the trance you’ve found yourself in. He turns around, presses his hand against the front of his pants, clears his throat and says, “come in.”

It’s JJ, and she gives the both of you a concerned once over when she enters; she was in the SUV with you on the way back from the airport, had a front row seat to the argument that started it all. You can’t imagine how you look—flushed, breathless, a little confused?—but Hotch somehow manages to look unaffected, like he’s really just been up here bickering with you all this time. You envy his composure.

“I was just getting ready to leave, wanted to make sure you guys didn’t need anything.” He crosses his arms, shakes his head, and looks over at you; you shake your head too, hope that your inability to do much more than stand there can be attributed to the fight she clearly thinks the two of you were having. “Okay then. Have a nice weekend,” she says, flashing a soft smile, and she leaves, closes the door behind her. Hotch blows out a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair.

“Look,” he says, and your heart sinks so fast. You really thought for a second that things might be different with him. That you finally found what you’d been looking for.

“No, I get it,” you manage to say, and your voice is rough, but you look him dead in the eye because that’s who you are. “You didn’t mean for it to go that far. We can pretend it didn’t happen.”

You’re surprised again when he frowns, shakes his head.

“No. Well, yes, but no. I didn’t mean to take it that far, I’ve never—I’ve never done that.” He wets his lips and takes a step closer to you, and already your body knows how to react to his proximity. It’s like a switch was flipped, and now it can’t be unflipped. “But I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen. Not if you don’t.”

You breathe heavily, let silence blanket the room for one heartbeat, two. Twenty.

“I don’t. I really don’t.” He takes another step closer, brings a hand to your cheek, but this time his touch is gentle.

“Then we won’t.”

His mouth, when it finds yours, is not gentle. It is bruising, probing, his tongue seeking yours, and you wrap your arms around his back, his shoulders, encourage it, until one of your hands drops to his belt and he grabs it, forces it down at your side.

“Not here,” he says through gritted teeth—probably because, while he’s saying no, the unmistakable bulge in his pants is actually begging yes. You move the hand he’s not holding, brush it through his hair, and he blinks slow. “Do you want to come home with me tonight?”

You’re pretty sure you’ve never wanted anything more in your goddamn life. The ride to Hotch’s place is slightly awkward. You are both mostly silent, in that stage of the hookup where you’re both reliving how you got here, wondering what will happen, if this is the right thing, if it’s worth it.

From everything you’ve seen so far, it’s really fucking worth it.

His apartment is very nice, clean, kind of bare in that modern bachelor way. Yours isn’t much better, because you are always at work, always looking at photos of missing women instead of your family and friends. You run a hand along the sofa—large, black, suede—and comment on it just to say something, and he puts his hands gently on either side of your throat, kisses you, and looms over you so you are forced to settle back onto it.

You lay back, one foot on the floor and the other leg stretched along the length of the cushions, and he pushes his way between your knees, drapes himself over top of you, kisses some more. You run your hands over him because he lets you, truly feeling his body for the first time, and the thickness, solidness, softness has you moaning against his lips for more.

He leans up, takes one hand off your throat, and moves the other to the front of it, his fingers digging into the sides of your neck. The image of him on top of you like this, your literal life, safety, comfort in his hands… it’s intoxicating, and you nod just slightly, to let him know that if he wants, this is something he can have. Something he can take.

He bends down to brush his lips over yours, then over your throat, your ear. “Just a little,” he murmurs, squeezing tight. “I’d prefer to discuss it more—unless you wanted to stop and do that now.” There is a smirk in his voice when he says it, because he knows already that stopping is the furthest thing from your mind. You’ll take just a little, for now.

He leans up again, flexes that hand on your throat in a way that makes your eyelids flutter. With his free hand, he loosens the knot of his tie, pulls it off, starts slipping his buttons free.

Undressing himself on top of you, making eye contact, restricting your air supply—never before have you been willing to give a man free rein of your body, but there’s a first time for everything, and he’s quickly earning himself a key to your kingdom. Your body thrums at the idea of being at his complete mercy, tied up maybe, legs spread, edged with his mouth and hands until all you can do is whine his name and beg to come.

Your face heats, and you whimper, and he loosens his grip, brushes his thumb over your mouth.

“Good girl. Are you alright?” You lick your lips, swiping your tongue over the pad of his finger, and nod.

“Yes, sir.”

You would never be insubordinate—okay, you absolutely would be, have been, were earlier today—but authority is not really your friend, so you aren’t the type of person to throw sir around like it’s second nature. Your use of the title here is deliberate—call it a hunch—and when his eyes darken, it’s clear it’s worth swallowing your pride over.

He takes his hand off of you, makes quicker work of his shirt with both hands available to him. You look down at his crotch, and he pauses to bring his hands to yours, moves them to his belt, giving you permission to open it. The clink of the buckle feels obscene in his quiet apartment, and you untuck his shirt so he can pull it off, left only in a tight undershirt that emphasizes every curve of muscle, the bit of softness across his midsection. He’s perfect, and you run your hands over him, moan, make sure that he knows it.

He pulls your t-shirt off, unhooks your bra and kisses your throat, your chest, cups your breasts in his hands and teases your nipples with a pointed tongue. You let your head fall back, because it feels so good and you want to feel his tongue lower, wonder how he’d react to the taste of the slickness that’s been pooling in your panties since he slammed you up against that door.

“Fuck. Please.” He looks up at you from where he’s mouthing at your breasts, pulls off with a wet sound and rubs his hand up your chest to curl around your neck.

“You have to tell me what you want, sweetheart. I’m not a mind reader.” You whimper, and he presses his thumb into your mouth, lets you suck on it a moment before easing it out. “Always running your mouth, always disobeying me. Always have to have the last word. Where’s that mouthy girl now?” You stare up at him, say nothing, and he slaps your cheek, pushes two fingers into your mouth when it falls open in a moan.

He’s back to undressing one handed, stands while his fingers thrust over your tongue and pushes his pants down, his underwear. You moan when his cock springs up, big and full, and you bob your head a little so maybe he’ll get that you want to give him a sickeningly sloppy blow job.

“No, you don’t get this yet,” he says, pulling his fingers out of your mouth and spreading the wetness over the dark head of his dick. “You don’t get anything until I give it to you. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” you promise with a nod, and he pulls his undershirt off and works your pants open, drags them down your legs. He exhales deeply when presented with your panties—you’re certain they’re obscenely, visibly wet, and it’s confirmed when pulls them off and you can feel how messy you are, your sticky arousal coating your pussy, ass, and thighs.

He pushes your legs up, leans in, and swipes his tongue over you, from your opening to your clit, then over your inner thighs, and you moan, buck against him. Moving his hands to just behind your knees, he holds you tightly, lays his arms over the length of your pushed up thighs, presses down so you can’t move. You whimper at the restriction, and he presses harder, dives down to lick and kiss your pussy, to tug at your lips gently with his teeth.

“All this because of a little roughness?” he asks with a delicious jab of his tongue inside your aching hole. “Soaking your panties because I slapped your pretty face?” You pant, nod, and he rubs his tongue hard against your clit, gets you so close you can hear the change in your own voice as you moan, and then pulls back. “You’ve been needing someone to put you in your place for a while, haven’t you? Someone who can take hold of that smart mouth and render you silent. Do I have it right, baby?”

He has it exactly right and he knows it, only asks to hear you say the two words he probably never imagined he’d get out of you.

“Yes, sir.” It’s strained and weak, and he lays one forearm across your thighs, holds you down, and batters your clit with his tongue, rubs his huge hand over your hot, sensitive pussy until you come whining and trying desperately to move against him even though you can’t. “Oh my god, Hotch, fuck.”

He kisses you as soon as you sag against the sofa, groaning against your mouth, running his hands over your hips, and you are still trying to catch your breath when he gets his arms around you, scoops you up and carries you to his bedroom. From there, he tosses you roughly onto the bed, your body bouncing from the force, and then turns you over and wastes no time thrusting inside you, laying on top of you, his full weight all but guaranteeing you’ll come fast and hard.

“Does that feel good?” he grunts in your ear, pounding against your ass, and you whimper, claw at the sheets. He covers your hands with his, laces your fingers so you can't move them, pushes your hair off of the back of your neck with his nose. “Good girl, just lay there and take my cock. You aren’t the type to put up a fight, are you?”

That shouldn’t turn you on like it does, but you live to fight, and now that you have this incredible, sexy, strong man on top of you, dominating you the way you’ve only dreamed, it just comes naturally.

You try to buck back against his thighs but can’t because he’s so heavy, his thrusts so deep and rough. You try to get your arms free, whine when he holds your hands tighter, when he presses his biceps down against the backs of your arms so they can’t move at all. You thrash your head, moaning, loud, nearly primal sounds of pleasure, and he puts his mouth against the back of your neck, bites down hard like you’re an animal he’s forcing to submit.

“Settle, settle; just let me fuck you, let me come inside. You’re no match for me, sweetheart.” Your eyes roll back in your head as he speaks it into your ear, as he rocks his thighs against your ass, as you can feel the muscles of his stomach flex against your lower back. He uses your body, truly, every inch of it covered and compressed by the weight of him, forcing your breasts and clit to rub against the comforter; any one thing he’s doing would be enough, but all of it combined is almost too much, and you whimper, desperate, needy. “Too weak to do anything but let yourself be fucked, aren’t you? Whether or not we come is up to me.”

“Mmh, yes sir,” you breathe, and he leans in to bite the back of your neck again, possessive and rough. It sends a wave of arousal through your whole body, makes your pussy throb and ache. “Oh, god. Please, please make me come. Please use me to come.” Your voice is high, eager, so unlike you’ve ever heard it before that it somehow only adds to your pleasure.

“Using you, baby,” he groans in your ear, thrusting faster, harder, the fleshy smack of your thighs as he fucks and the wetness of your cunt as you take him in filthy and amazing. “I’ll make you come, I’ll come in you, if you promise to be a good girl for me. Are you a good girl?”

God, he’s really going to make you say this. Being a sweet, subservient girl is not in your nature, but it could be, for him. You’d be anything he wants you to be.

“Yes, sir,” you murmur, and he lifts one hand off of yours and puts it on the side of your head, pressing your cheek against the bed while he fucks you.

“Louder.”

“Yes, sir.” Your voice is louder, but less convincing, and he trails his lips over the curve of your ear, sinks his teeth into your exposed throat.

“Louder.” He punctuates it with a hard, almost brutal snap of his hips, and you can feel your orgasm so close, try not to become so focused on the feeling that you miss out on all the rest.

“Yes, sir, I’m a good girl. Please, please.” He picks up the pace, crushing you against the bed, beneath his weight, and you are sweaty, breathless, out of control—perfect.

“Yes you are, and you’re going to come for me.” Soft lips brush over the stinging bites he left on your neck, and he swipes his tongue over them, soothes them. “Who are you going to come for?”

“You, sir,” you gasp, body tensing, pussy clenching, and he groans.

“Who are you going to come for? I need a name, baby.” You whimper, moan, wish you could kiss him, taste him, and when you come it is violent, lengthy, gripping your whole body and dragging it somewhere you’ve never been.

“Aaron—oh, god, I’m coming for you, Aaron. Please, please.” Your eyes water as he fucks you through it, pumping deep until he spills inside you, panting that’s right, easy, just like that in your ear until he’s spent.

He settles on top of you, and the layer of sweat between you should feel disgusting, but it just makes you feel closer to him, like a good girl, like you earned the reminder of how hard you both worked, how hard you came.

He is all sweet kisses and gentle hands, asking if you are alright, praising your performance, your body; it feels so good, his velvet voice wrapping around you, his heavy body pressing down on yours.

You shower after that, so you can sleep; notorious insomniac that you are, he chuckles in your ear when you start to drift off in his arms almost instantly after he gets you both situated in bed. You wake to gentle hands sweeping over your body. You are bruised where he held you down, sore all over in the very best way; you hum at his touch, turn to face him so you can collect soft, sleepy kisses. You drape your arm over his stomach, bury your face in his chest, and he rubs his hand over the back of your neck where you are bitten and raw and claimed. It turns you on—the feel, the memory, the implication—and he lays you back against the bed, puts a pillow under your ass, then settles between your legs and kisses your mouth.

“Going to make you feel really good, baby. Just do as I say, be a good girl, and I promise I’ll make you come.” You nod, tired but horny and ready to do as he says, and he leans up over you, wraps his hands around your shoulders, hooks his chin against your neck. His weight is pressing down on you again, but this time it’s different, sweeter and more intimate. You smile softly, wet your lips.

He slides inside you, maneuvers your legs up over his thighs, and rocks upward, his pelvis lined up in such a way that it rubs right over your clit. You moan, wrap your arms around his back, roll your hips while he grinds against you, pumping shallowly inside but, more importantly, stimulating your clit with each stroke.

“Aaron,” you sigh, holding him tightly while he moves against you, and you throw your head back, gasp and groan while his heavy body glides over yours, while he breathes roughly in your ear.

“Yes, baby. Feels good? Want your sweet pussy to feel good, after I was rough last night.”

“Yes, sir, feels good.” It leaves your mouth as a groan as he humps against you right over your clit, as he tilts his head to kiss you softly below your ear.

“Not sir right now, just Aaron.” You hum, clutch him tighter, move against him, feel the tip of his cock come so close to slipping out just to have it pushed carefully back inside.

“Feels really good. I’m close.” He grinds a little faster, body rolling harder against yours, and you shudder, dig your nails in, and climax, easy and slow and delicious. He praises you even though, again, you didn’t do much, then leans up on his forearms and pushes in fully, thrusts quick and deep. “Mmm, yeah. Want your come.” You pull him close for a kiss, grip his shoulders hard while he fucks you fast, desperate.

You kiss his arms when he comes, panting and gorgeous over you, and when he collapses onto you you wrap your arms and legs around him, hold him tightly, and hum.

“What are you thinking about, baby?” he asks, knows that sound, and you press your lips to his shoulder.

“Just thinking how nice this is. How I like that last night isn’t all you want from me.” He makes eye contact, smooths your hair back, brushes a kiss against your mouth.

“I want anything—everything. I think we could be really good together, despite our differences… if that’s something you want.” You nod, smile softly, and he reciprocates, leans in for more easy kisses. “One thing, though: when I tell you to stay behind me, stay behind me.” Your smile melts into a scowl.

“You wouldn’t tell Derek to stay behind you!”

“Why are you comparing yourself to Derek? Why are you comparing at all, I told you—”

“I know what you told me, and it’s bullshit, so forgive me if I—”

“I don’t forgive you, actually, and if you keep talking back to me—”

“What are you going to do?” He demonstrates. It’s extremely effective. You still don’t stay behind him when he tells you to.

Taglist ❤️: @thaddeusly @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce @my-rosegold-soul @ssamorganhotchner @heliotropehotch @angelhotchner @qtip-blog @gspenc @wishuhadstayed @averyhotchner

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x female reader #hotch x female reader #hotch x reader #ask answered #prompt #unicornprancing

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hartigays · 3 years

Note

Rafebarry Prompt for you! So what about some of Barry’s pals being over at the trailer and they’re all just like “Damn Bro” at seeing Rafe (who’s just living his best chaotic life, being Barry’s housewife/partner in crime) and Barry’s just all smug about it like “Yeah. I’m hittin’ that. Be jealous.”

tw: mature themes (drug use, sexual implications) and some homophobic language (just a comment from some loser tho)

rafe’s bike tears through swampy grass and dirt with a vengeance as he pulls into barry’s front yard, leaving tire marks in his wake.

when he pulls off his helmet, the first thing he sees are people spilling in and out of the trailer. people rafe doesn’t recognize - some of them attractive, even.

which is… infuriating, to put it lightly.

barry clearly hadn’t felt the need to keep rafe in the loop, inviting him over without informing him that half of the cut would be in attendance as well.

like, seriously, what the fuck? rafe had thought - well. he’d intended to come here to pick up some blow, and maybe, possibly, perhaps let barry have his way with him while he’s at it.

barry can’t have his way with him if half the population of north carolina is stacked up inside the trailer. and that’s just. frustrating.

rafe kind of wants to drive his bike straight through the trailer, mowing some partygoers down and end this whole shebang right here and now. but, as barry has made explicitly clear time and time again, rafe is Not Allowed to harm and/or kill people on his property.

it’s sometimes irritating, this whole thing they’ve started. this casual fling that’s maybe not-so-casual anymore considering rafe agreed to be exclusive with barry not even two days ago.

there are just. so many rules, like no maiming, or killing, or… actually, that’s about it. but that’s two rules too many. rafe doesn’t like rules, or being told what he can or can’t do.

barry is just lucky rafe likes him. kind of. sort of. somewhat.

otherwise, barry would be drifting along the bottom of the ocean somewhere, flesh being nibbled away at by fish and sharks and the like.

rafe flings his helmet towards his bike, not bothering to see if it landed anywhere convenient, before storming across the yard and shoving himself through a cluster of people to get inside the trailer.

barry is sitting on the couch, all sorts of people surrounding him, looking like he’s already fucked up beyond belief.

which is also annoying, because he was supposed to get fucked up beyond belief with rafe, then mandhandle rafe into bed to have his wicked way with him. like always.

“ayy, country club!” barry practically shouts over the noice, his accent even thicker and more drawn out than usual. “you made it!”

“yeah, barry, i made it,” rafe snaps, then sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

look, he’s not against parties or anything. actually, he’s quite in favor of them. he just… did not plan for his day to go like this.

rafe wanted barry’s full attention, which is now virtually impossible given the amount of bodies that are currently filling the room.

barry just looks at rafe with glazed eyes, leaning back casually against the couch cushions. “aw, don’t you go pouting on me ‘n shit, rafe cameron. ain’t you always down for a party or some shit like that?”

“a little heads up would’ve been nice,” rafe tells him, his temper rearing it’s ugly head again and bleeding into his voice. “look, can i just get my shit so i can get out of here?”

rafe moves around the coffee table, elbowing a few drunk idiots out of his way as he does. barry eyes him as he comes closer, before suddenly swinging one arm out and wrapping it around rafe’s waist. he ropes rafe in close enough that rafe stumbles a bit over barry’s feet, sprawling right into his lap.

“see, ain’t that more like it, country club?” barry purrs, his lips pressed against rafe’s ear.

rafe feels a shiver rocket down his spine, but also a flare of anxiety.

barry is certainly fucked up beyond comprehension, and they haven’t exactly talked about making their relationship public. rafe has no idea if this is something barry will regret in the morning and end up cutting rafe off.

but to be fair, if barry did wake up and decide to tell rafe to fuck off, rafe would probably just kill him. he might just kill him anyway, just because he feels like it.

and since barry’s inevitable death is hurtling towards them at breakneck speed, rafe might as well enjoy barry’s final moments while he can.

so he lets barry kiss him, full on the mouth, on display for the hundred or so other people milling about the room.

rafe, regrettably, makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat when he feels barry’s tongue dip into his mouth, sweeping across his own.

regrettably, because some fucking weird ass next to barry leans in close to watch. rafe can see the movement out of the corner of his eye.

but barry isn’t deterred. he might be a little encouraged, even, because he deepens the kiss even more, pressing in so close that rafe feels like they could crawl inside of each other and form one cohesive nightmare of a person.

“ain’t peg you for a fag, barry,” the guy comments, his words slurring. he burps after he speaks, and barry detaches his lips from rafe to look over at the source of the noise.

“the fuck you just say to me?” barry snaps, digging his fingers into rafe’s hips to keep him in place when rafe moves to get up, ready to just slit this guy’s throat and be done with it. “ain’t you in my damn house, fuckass? who the fuck you think you’re talkin’ to?”

“hey, man, didn’t mean no offense,” the guy says, raising his hands in mock surrender before burping again. “jus’ askin’.”

“getcho’ dumbass out my house, bro,” barry tells him, removing one hand from rafe’s hips for only a moment, just to shove the guy out of his seat.

the still nameless man just shrugs, gulping down the remnants of his beer before getting up and disappearing into the crowd.

“i think you guys are cute,” a girl giggles from where she’s seated, across from the couch rafe and barry are currently planted on.

barry looks up at rafe, and it’s almost fond and god, that’s disgusting. rafe wants to soak himself in it, let it marinate until it’s deeply ingrained in every fiber of his being.

“sho’ are,” barry agrees with her, still looking up at rafe. he’s got one hand beneath rafe’s shirt now, nails raking over his back.

rafe shudders, wishing he could dissolve every person in this room right this very moment so he can curl up inside barry and make a home there.

“gotta say, ‘m a little jealous, man,” some other guy pipes up from barry’s other side.

rafe looks over at him, one brow arched, finding the guy staring right back as he hits some sort of pipe.

probably filled with meth, based on the state of the guy’s teeth.

classy.

“guess you just gon’ have to be jealous, then,” barry tosses back, not bothering to spare the guy a glance before returning his mouth to rafe’s.

the party comes and goes, faster than rafe anticipated, but that maybe can be attributed to the fact that barry keeps rafe glued to him at all times, practically devouring him every chance he can get, and showing him off to every person who happens to look their way.

rafe will admit, it’s a little satisfying, knowing how proud barry is to have staked his claim. he’s surprised that he’s so okay with barry being so possessive of him, too.

rafe cameron normally does not like the idea of being owned by anyone or anything. at least, he hadn’t up until now.

at this point, he’s pretty sure he’d let barry put a dog collar on him that reads property of barry the coke dealer, without complaint.

now, lounging in barry’s bed, sweat-soaked and panting, rafe sparks a blunt. he takes a long hit and passes it to barry.

“you did this on purpose,” rafe says, knowingly.

barry just grins up at the ceiling like a shark, shrugging as he hits the blunt.

“you’re pretty, rafe cameron. and you’re mine,” barry tells him, passing the weed back. “what’s it hurt to show off a little? you ain’t die or nothing.”

“never said it was a bad thing,” rafe snorts. “just maybe give me a little warning next time you plan to parade me around as your trophy wife.”

“like you ain’t get off on all them people talking ‘bout how jealous they are that i get to have you.”

barry has a point, rafe will admit. not out loud, mind you, but still. in the quiet of his mind, where no one else can hear, he agrees with barry wholeheartedly.

“can you blame them? i mean, look at me,” rafe says with a snooty little sniff, running a hand along his jaw. “you landed yourself a masterpiece. people are gonna notice.”

“you so damn full of yourself, country club,” barry snorts. “imma have to knock that ego down a peg. i been too nice to you.”

“says the guy whose ego grew ten times larger just by being a show-off about his boyfriend.”

barry rolls over onto his side, watching rafe hit the blunt with heavily-lidded eyes. “boyfriend, huh? ain’t we a bit old for that?”

“you literally called me your boyfriend like, fifty times today. do not even- ”

barry shuts him up mid-sentence by taking the blunt from rafe’s hand and putting it out on the ashtray next to the bed, tangling his fingers in rafe’s hair, and pulling him in for a kiss that’s all tongues and teeth.

rafe wanted to finish his sentence, had planned on finishing it, but barry doesn’t give him the chance. not with the way he’s kissing him right now.

within a matter of moments, rafe forgets what he was planning to say in the first place. but whatever, he’s fucking tired, barry feels good and smells good and tastes good. so what if he’s a trophy wife, so what if he may or may not get off on people being jealous that barry gets to date him. to own him.

it’s all arbitrary.

instead of figuring out what he was going to say, rafe breaks away from barry’s lips, fastening his mouth to barry’s neck and biting down.

his teeth sink in deep, and he hopes with everything he has left in him that it leaves a scar.

#rafebarry #outer banks #hope u enjoy!#my fics #ask #goodnightandbillyrobicheaux

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belphies-cuhm-sluht · 4 years

Note

Hey... It's my first time requesting here, so here goes. Could you make a scenario in which the reader and Belphie had a baby? I saw you Lucifer one and it got me wondering how it would be like with Belphie.

Without You (Belphegor x F!Reader)

WARNING (Pregnancy, Children, Babies, Slight NSFW, ANGST)

A child was the last thing he wanted, literally the last thing, it was at the very bottom of his to-do list written in the tiniest print, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t even his handwriting. He had turned you down every single time you brought it up, and it was quite easy to turn it down, finding any and every reason for you and him not to have a child together. His main reason was quite simple, and very selfish. He didn’t want to share you, not even with his own child. He wanted you all for himself, he wouldn’t have some tiny, whatever the hell it would even be, taking your time away from him. That would be unacceptable. Think of all the naps the two of you would miss out on! Ridiculous, it would just be ridiculous.

There was also a small part of him, very small due to the fact that he didn’t really worry much about it at all, but it was always in the back of his mind, of what would happen if you did try to carry his child. He was a demon, and any child by him would obviously be part him, maybe even more, he didn’t know how potent his seed was. Of course, nothing had happened yet, and he had filled your womb many times before, so that worry was shoved to the furthest part of his brain. Nothing to worry about, there hadn’t been a mistake yet, and he was 99.999% sure that there wouldn’t be any mistakes made at all.

He hadn’t been thinking ahead though, and one important thing had slipped his mind completely. Breeding Season. You hadn’t even known about it at all, he didn’t feel the need to tell you, he thought that he would be able to keep control of himself long enough to keep you safe from himself. His plan proved futile, and his animalistic nature had taken over completely. It wasn’t his fault though, it was just how he was, who he was… what he was. He, in a way, completely blacked out. You were pinned to the bed in less than a second, your clothes torn to shreds and discarded onto the floor as he completely ravaged you, slamming into you, making sure his tip pierced through your womb with each and every thrust, filling your womb over and over with his seed. By the time he was done with you, you were a bruised, crying, cum filled mess. There was no comfort afterwards, no aftercare, nothing. Just the sounds of his light snoring next to you as you weakly crawled out of the bed, trying to get as far away from him as possible.

Days passed, and shortly days turned to weeks, and you still refused to talk to him. Why would you talk to him? You were terrified, and rightfully so. What had happened to you was traumatic, almost as traumatic as him killing you. Now he had two things to feel guilty for, but you still talked to him after he had killed you, so why wouldn’t you listen to his reasoning now? “Let her be.” “Give her time, Belphegor.” Everyone always had something to say, but none of them truly understood. He didn’t like being away from you, especially not for this long. You wouldn’t even respond to his texts, you wouldn’t even read them. Were you really that scared of him? Did you really hate him that much? He didn’t really care, he would stand outside your door all day, even going as far as to bring down his pillow and his blanket, napping right outside your room. He would wait there as long as it took for you to open that damn door and talk to him. He understood that it didn’t make sense to you, but the least you could do is give him a chance to try to make it make sense to you.

Finally, after almost a month of you not talking to him at all, you finally went to him. It felt like forever, and hearing your voice say his name, it sounded… heavenly. You were finally giving him a chance, a chance to explain, a chance to make you understand. He knew it would be hard, but even now you still seemed scared of him. It only made it harder, all he wanted to do was reach out to you and pull you into his arms and tell you that it would all be okay. For a couple of weeks after it even seemed like everything was okay. He had explained everything to you, and you were slowly coming back to him, letting him touch you again, letting him kiss you again, and he would thank the dark Devildom sky every morning when he’d wake up and see you curled up next to him. He had messed up twice, almost lost you twice, he wasn’t about to screw up a third time.

That was the problem though, he thought that the third mistake would never happen, not even realizing that the third mistake was already taking place, making its home in your womb. He was so happy that you were finally talking to him again, overjoyed that you had, in a sense, let him back into your life. All he wanted to do was forget about what had happened all together, move on from it, leave it behind the both of you like a bad nightmare. It would have been too easy though, he would have been too lucky if that were the case. If he just got to move on from what he had done and still have you. Luck was never on his side, and there were always two sides to every coin.

There were no changes, not for a while, no changes that he would have picked up on immediately. Sure, you were sleeping a lot more, but he just attributed that to you being around him so much. Plus, he didn’t really have a problem with it, you were constantly with him, always next to him, it’s not something that he would complain about. Then you started eating more, bringing bowls of ice cream up to the bed with you, crying into the bowl as you scrolled through your D.D.D. He didn’t get it, and he didn’t really know who to ask. Beel had no answers for him, but he’d supply you with food whenever you asked for it. He could get used to your strange eating habits, and he even got used to you crying at almost everything… you were just emotional. When you started throwing up every morning when you woke up, that’s when he started getting worried. He was panicking actually, trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with you. Had you gotten sick? He didn’t know how you would have gotten sick though, you were constantly with him, and he was never sick.

Soon enough the physical changes started coming, the small bulge in your abdomen that was never there before. He knew he had never seen it before, he noticed everything, he could pick up any change in your body. It wasn’t just visual, he could feel it when he held you close, rubbing his hand over your stomach which seemed to soothe you more now. He tried to write it off as your eating, maybe you were just eating too much. He didn’t bring it up to you, you were already so emotional, he didn’t want to upset you even more, so he just questioned it mentally, paying more attention to you as the days passed.

It happened one night as you were laying next to him, snoring quietly, his hand rubbing over your stomach as he always did. Your abdomen had grown much more from when he first noticed the change, but he was still writing it off as your eating, you were eating way more now than even before. That’s when he felt it, something moving beneath your skin, almost like it was pressing up against his hand. Your body reacted to it, rolling over onto your back with a smack of your lips, he would have thought it was adorable had he not been silently freaking out. What the fuck was that?

He couldn’t keep quiet about it anymore, he had to ask you, he had to bring it up. That was the first night in a long time that he had actually lost sleep, his mind focusing only on his hand that was still laying on your stomach, waiting to feel the slightest movement. As soon as you woke up he asked. He didn’t have time to wait, he was panicking even more now. “Did you eat something bad? Did Beel give you raw meat? Did you eat raw meat? Did you go anywhere without me?” The last question seemed stupid, he knew that you hadn’t left the house, let alone left his side since he got you back. He was worried though. Was it a worm? Was it a parasite? He didn’t know, but whatever it was had to be taken care of immediately.

You didn’t have time to answer any of his questions before pushing yourself out of the bed and running into the bathroom. He held your hair away from your face, wiping the sweat from your forehead as you retched into the bowl. That’s when he sensed it… almost… smelled it… it was different, but not too far off from the smell of him and you mixed together. It was familiar but unique at the same time, he didn’t like it. As soon as he knew you were done he carefully pulled you up off the floor and led you into the bedroom, laying you carefully on the bed. “I need you to be honest with me, Y/N. What the hell is going on?” He hadn’t raised his voice at you, only letting show through his tone his genuine concern. He didn’t understand why you started crying, only reaching out to grab you, pulling you onto his lap as you cried on his shoulder.

That’s when you started telling him between choked out hiccups and loud sniffles that you didn’t really understand what was going on, that you just blamed the changes on the Devildom at first. Then the real changes started happening, and you caught on, everything finally adding up in your head, but you were too scared to tell him, scared that he’d hurt you again, and that killed him. You were scared of him, scared to talk to him, scared to tell him what was going on… you didn’t trust his rationale, and why should you? He had hurt you twice, what would make you think that he wouldn’t hurt you again if you told him something that he didn’t like. He tried to stay calm, keep his composure for you, but inside he was freaking out. He was pissed, pissed at himself, angry that he had even allowed this to happen. He was pissed at Lucifer, for allowing him to get to you, for not protecting you when he had gone through his season. That’s surely when it must have happened. Not only had Lucifer not protected you, he hadn’t even told Belphie that this kind of thing was possible, and now… here you were, proving the impossible to be possible.

The problem wasn’t just that it had happened in the first place, the bigger problem was that he knew you wouldn’t allow him to get rid of it, and he knew just how to do it too. If you didn’t mean so much to him he would do it while you were sleeping… but you were everything to him. He cared about you, he wanted you to be happy, he didn’t want to lose your trust again. So… he did what he never thought he’d be able to do. He thought of the good aspects of it, and while there were very few pros to what was going on, at least with his seed growing inside of you everyone would know not to go near you, at least they should know. He didn’t expect the instinct to protect it would kick in, but he found himself growling at anyone that even came close to you or your stomach, and he only realized how bad it really was when Beel came to bring you food and he damn near bit Beels hand off.

Watching it grow, watching you grow with it, that’s what scared him the most. He knew it would be strong, how could it not be? The thing was part of him, a literal demon spawn and it could hurt you, rip through you at any point. There was no way to tell how big it actually was or what it was doing, he could only see the movements through your stomach and attempt to measure it by rubbing over your stomach. He could tell it was bigger, as it would be, but that only made him worry more. Would it have horns like him? Would it even care enough about you to be careful with its movements? He had no way of knowing, he could only hope. Hope that the thing, the child, loved you as much as he did.

Months passed, and while most men found it beautiful to see their woman carrying their child, he found it terrifying. It didn’t take long for him to realize that not only did the child have horns, it also kicked like a bull, it was just like him and he hated that. He couldn’t stand to look at your stomach, it was almost painful to see the purple and yellow blotches that covered your skin, knowing that it was his fault, that he had caused this. He would try to clear them up every day, only for the beast inside you to kick just as hard, creating darker bruises, almost as if it were mocking him. It wasn’t just seeing what it did to you, it was watching you try to cover up your pain, pretend that everything was fine as you clenched your teeth together, rubbing your hand over your stomach in an attempt to calm the monster down. He hated it, and he hated himself for doing it to you.

What hurt him the most though… was actually thinking that you would make it. He had done everything he could to try to make you comfortable, to make it easier on you because you were so damn persistent, so dead set on carrying this thing that you would kill yourself in the process. He knew it was a possibility, but he had never actually thought of it happening. You had already made it this far and while, yes, you were exhausted, and you were being beaten from the inside, you were still breathing. You were still going. It was so close to the end, you only had to wait a little while longer, but the monster had different plans. They always do, but not even he, a monster himself, could have planned for it to happen the way it did. No one would have been ready for it.

Everything was calm, too calm. You had finally dozed off, and for once you actually looked… peaceful. The thing had finally stopped moving, almost as if it had decided to take a nap itself, and he thought that he’d be able to get some sleep in. It had been so long since he had actually taken a nap, a decent nap where he didn’t wake up almost immediately to the sound of you gasping or crying silently when the thing would kick you. He should have known better, he should have known something was about to happen, the calm before the storm, he should have woken you up, he should have gotten the thing out of you sooner… but he was too late. He was always too late.

It wasn’t a gasp, it wasn’t even a cry… your scream had startled him awake, he knew that scream, he had heard it before, it just wasn’t a scream that he ever thought he’d hear from your lips. His eyes were still clouded with sleep as he sat up and looked at you, and for once he wished that he hadn’t slept, that he hadn’t given himself that small joy, because now the greatest joy he had ever known was being taken from him. He knew that much, watching the blood stain through Beels shirt, the only shirts that even fit you at this point. It wasn’t only coming through the shirt though, it was oozing from between your lips as your breaths came out in choked off gurgles. He didn’t know what to do, he couldn’t even find his voice to call for help, to call for anyone. It was as if he was stunned into silence, watching it all happen, your eyes wide with panic and fear met his own that mirrored the same emotion.

Your scream had alerted the brothers, and they all came rushing into the room, but there was nothing anyone could do, what were they supposed to do? His eyes never left yours, even as the beasts horns, horns that looked exactly like his own, ripped through your chest with the most god awful squelching as skin and muscle was torn. Most of his brothers left at that point, even Beel could barely stand to stick around and watch, but he still stayed longer than the others. For emotional support or just to say his own goodbyes to you, he wasn’t quite sure, but he didn’t blame him for leaving. The only one who stayed was Lucifer, helping to rid your body of the beast that had destroyed you, the monster that had taken you so carelessly away from him.

Lifeless eyes stared up at him now, the sheets and blankets stained with your blood. It was quiet, eerily quiet, the silence was deafening and he hated it. At least he thought he did, until he heard the child crying. What right did it have to cry? He hated it, he didn’t want to see it, he didn’t want to hear it, he just wanted to have you back. He would do anything to bring you back, but he knew he would never get that option, he would never get that choice. He had screwed up, it was his third mistake, and now he had really lost you.

Everyone went on as if it had never happened. It was easy for them, but it killed him to see his brothers act as if you were nothing more than a mere visitor who had passed through. The only one who understood his pain was Beel, and not only did he understand, but he helped. Belphie wasn’t the greatest father, he wasn’t the best, he wasn’t even close to being a good father, but he tried. Not for the child, but for you, because he knew that’s what you would have wanted him to do.

He was never quite sure about how much time had passed, he relived that day every single day. In his mind, it was as if it had only happened yesterday, always fresh in his memory. Days could have been weeks and months could have been years and he would have never noticed. Not even the growing of his son helped mark the passing of time. Everything was a blur to him, without you there, he felt he had no reason. The only reason he even got out of bed at this point was for his son who he could barely even glance at without feeling a mixture of anger and sadness. He didn’t want the kid, but he looked so much like you, he hated that the child was the only living piece of you that he had left.

Days went on, and every day was the same. It was like a constant loop, feed the kid, keep the kid occupied, put the kid to sleep. It never ended, it never changed. He was laying on the floor, on the verge of passing out when his son pushed himself off the floor and walked to the door just as the knock came, pointing at it with a smile. “Mama?”

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snipsnsnailsnwerewolftales · 3 years

Text

Blue Moon - Part 5

A/N: See masterlist for prompts used. (And the list of amazing people who have helped me with this.) This one gets kinda heavy again. Don’t blame me! Blame the season! But you might wanna recheck the warnings on the masterlist just to be sure, and know the Sourwolf lovin’ and content is coming! (And hope to high heaven that Jennifer Blake isn’t here to stay. Please. Release the Sourwolf, Ma’am.)

I do not own Teen Wolf or it’s characters. Sadly.

Warnings: See Masterlist

Word count: 3,693

Xxx

“You two are idiots!” you hissed after Isaac and Boyd as they made their way down the sidewalk in front of the McCall house, back toward Stiles’ waiting Jeep.

“Today would be nice!” Stiles hollered from behind the steering wheel, his fingers drumming impatiently while he waited. “I only agreed to do this because I owe Scott, and my car is already starting to smell like dog, so can we please move this along so I’m not late for school?”

Climbing into the backseat and sliding over to make room for your packmates, you reached forward and whacked the back of Stiles’ head. “No dog jokes.”

“You didn’t have to follow us, you could have stayed in the car with Stiles like you were when we got here.”

You leveled a glare on Isaac as he smirked at you from the seat opposite you. “I had to get out of the front seat anyway, so I figured I would see what the idiocy was all about.”

Boyd let out a snort from the passenger seat and shook his head gently, despite his small grin, before he turned and looked out the front passenger window. He didn’t talk much, especially since Erica, but he was always listening. That’s why he was always one step ahead.

You smiled at him briefly before Isaac snapped in front of your face, making you scowl in his direction again. “Go to school, Y/N. No need for you to be at the loft any more than you need to.” After hearing about what you saw the night they were all trapped at the motel, they had all been for you not going back there unless it was necessary. They didn’t exactly want to go, either, but their frustrations with Derek could wait for a time when everyone’s imminent safety wasn’t at stake.

“I still don’t totally get your plan, but I hope you don’t all wind up dead.” You shuddered. “This could go badly so many different ways….”

“Be optimistic, Y/N!” Stiles protested, looking at you in the rearview mirror as he pulled up in front of the loft. He turned in his seat to meet your gaze after putting the car in park, letting the engine idle. “If their plan works, hopefully you can move back to the loft once this all settles and get out of my hair.”

You ruffled his hair as you made your way out after your packmates, smiling at his cries of protest, and hesitating before fully getting into the passenger seat. Turning around you gave Isaac a hug, ignoring his groan and awkward back pat in return. “Just don’t do anything stupid.” Turning to Boyd, you wrapped him in an embrace, which he surprisingly returned. “I need you guys.”

“We need you, too, Y/N.” Boyd was even smiling when he pulled away, holding on to your shoulders. “Which is why you have to go to school and cover for us.” He turned you and gave you a gentle squeeze on the shoulders before lightly shoving you into the Jeep. “Remember what we told you to say?”

You grimaced. “Yes. Do I have to?”

“Only if you want this plan to work,” Boyd smirked.

“Fine,” you huffed, shutting the door, and leaning out the window to finish the conversation.

“And be as descriptive as possible,” Isaac snickered, and you glared at them both before it melted into a small laugh.

“You owe me. Big time.” Turning to Stiles, you saw that he had just finished fixing his hair, and it took all you had not to reach out and mess it up again.

“Don’t even.” Stiles held up a finger in warning at you.

“I didn’t do anything!” you cried, grinning.

“You thought it, and you know it, and lying is not a good attribute, Y/N.”

You turned and waved at your two friends, smiling as they chuckled and turned toward the loft, Stiles putting the Jeep into gear and pulling off in the opposite direction.

Xxx

The rest of the day happened in a whirlwind, coming to a screeching halt as you rounded the last set of stairs up to the loft.

You heard a scuffle, then suddenly the loft seemed to emit what looked like lightning. The twins left Jennifer by the door and walked inside, their footsteps sounding like they were walking through water. Isaac quickly leapt to Jennifer’s side and held her close.

You slowly approached the door, feeling as if you weren’t really living what you were seeing. To your horror, you heard Kali yell something, the twins sloshing around to grab Derek and force him into submission like a disobedient puppy. They forced his claws to stay extended, and Kali lifted Boyd up and onto them, the only noise a soft groan as his abdomen was pierced.

You saw Derek break. You felt it.

Kali said something, you weren’t paying attention, and she exited the loft with the twins, stopping and rolling her eyes when she had to step around you because you wouldn’t move. You couldn’t. Your feet were rooted to the spot. You stared at the twins as they passed you in the hall with a sneer. Keeping your head high, eyes narrowed at them, you waited until they were down several flights of stairs before you let out the breath you were holding.

A small smirk worked its way up your face knowing you’d gotten under the Alpha Pack’s skin, but it quickly vanished as you looked back up and to the loft doorway, where Isaac held a terrified looking Jennifer.

Even if she was lying about everything, she sure played the distress convincingly. Enough that you doubted some of what you knew to be true.

He met your gaze over her head, gently shaking his head to tell you what was waiting in the loft wasn’t good.

Boyd and Derek were exchanging some faint conversation, and while you wanted to rush and help, the moment felt special, almost sacred, and you didn’t want to break that.

Only moments later Boyd fell to the floor, and you heard no heartbeat from your fallen friend. A single tear slipped down your cheek, and you turned your gaze to Derek to see him staring at his hands as they shook in front of him.

Stiles, Lydia, and Cora all rushed past you, Lydia hovering in the doorway. Brushing past Jennifer and Isaac on the threshold of the loft, you stilled once again a few steps in at the scene you were met with.

Cora lay sobbing over Boyd’s body. Derek knelt right beside him, his hands covered in blood and held in front of him as if he didn’t recognize them as his own, or didn’t want to. Stiles was behind Derek, hand on his shoulder in comfort. No words were exchanged, the only sounds were Cora sobbing, Derek’s ragged breathing, and the water covering the loft floor lapping at any movement.

As if he could sense you, Derek snapped his head your way, looking you over from the ground up as if to make sure you were okay, before landing on your eyes and finally holding your gaze firmly. Something swirled in his eyes, something you hadn’t seen in months, since before you were turned.

You had been a long term resident of Beacon Hills and had met the Hale family on several occasions growing up, enough to know when Peter was scheming and to know Derek’s wide array of moods. This is one you’d only seen once before the fire, and anytime after when the fire was brought up.

Pain. Failure. Loss. A swirl of grief stared up at you with blood stained hands.

And without exchanging a word, you walked around behind him, putting a hand on his other shoulder, mirroring Stiles to your side. Slowly you knelt in front of him, careful to keep your hand on his shoulder, and brought your other hand up to his cheek. Purposely putting yourself between him and Boyd, and his grieving sister, you needed him to focus on one thing at a time before it all became too much.

Reaching down with both your hands, you took hold of his, and he flinched, trying to pull them back, but you held on tightly.

“Derek,” you whispered, not trusting your own voice.

His eyes went from the floor to staring at his hands again, and finally up to you. And when he met your gaze again, you almost broke completely. But you couldn’t.

So much pain and death and in general horrible things happened around him, no matter how he tried to do the opposite. People literally used his hands to kill someone else. And despite how hard he fought, and went against everything bad, he was still the one made to take the fall.

“Derek, this isn’t your fault.” Your voice was breaking with emotion, you didn’t trust it more than the small sound it currently offered. “It was Kali and the others. You fought. You fought trying to protect them, protect everyone, and you almost did, but they played dirty.” Giving his hands a tight squeeze, you pulled them closer to your chest and saw the hesitance in his eyes. Slowly lifting them up to sit on your shoulders, you placed your hands firmly on top of his, rubbing his knuckles with your thumbs.

Smiling cautiously, you held his gaze. “See? There’s nothing to be afraid of. Those same hands that won’t kill a spider for me are right here.” He smiled gently at the remark, and you let yourself return it. “These hands did not kill Boyd, Kali’s did.” You swallowed thickly, feeling the lump of unshed tears growing in your throat. “Now, I need you to do something for me.” His eyes darted all over your face, before holding your gaze once again with a gentle nod. “First, we have to take care of Boyd. We’ll put him by Erica? I think he would like that.” Derek nodded again after a moment of hesitation. “You know his ghost would haunt us if we didn’t.” Everyone in the pack let out a little laugh in agreement, letting tears fall unabashedly.

Pulling his hands down into the water that filled the loft, you rinsed them gently to remove the blood as best you could, speaking after a moment as you did so. “Then, after a proper send off, we need to get the water out of this loft. I have no idea how, but until then you should go stay with Peter in his apartment.”

“He can stay with me,” Jennifer offered.

Going rigid at the sound of her voice, you turned almost mechanically her way. You’d forgotten she was even here. Keeping your voice a monotone, you looked her dead in the eyes as you spoke. “I think it’s best that he’s with family right now.”

“I’ll make sure he gets there,” Cora said from behind you, sniffing loudly as her tears calmed down for the moment.

Looking over your shoulder, you smiled at her in thanks.

She returned the gesture. “I might even stay, myself. Family time, however dysfunctional, sounds nice.” You didn’t miss the way she eyed Jennifer with mild disdain, and Derek with unabashed concern.

Turning back to Derek, looking down to see his hands now clean, you turned your grip in them to hold them, fingers interlaced tightly with his, and a smirk rising on your face. “Then, this last part I know you’ll love - revenge. After we take care of Boyd, then the loft, then we plot our revenge, and get justice for our friends and everyone else they have made suffer.” Leaning in close to his face, you whispered, “And that includes you.” Giving his hands a final squeeze, you rose to your feet, pulling him with you.

Despite everything, you saw a glimmer of the old Derek shining through, and it was enough to give you hope again. That maybe Jennifer hadn’t totally brainwashed him. And she wouldn’t. Not if you could help it.

Xxx

Pulling up in front of the Stilinski house yet again, you sat in silence as Stiles put the Jeep in park, turned off the engine, and just stared out the front windshield blankly without saying a word.

You eyed him from the passenger seat, the silence tense, and the small popping sounds of the engine as it cooled down nearly made you jump each time. Steeling your resolve, you reached a hand over to place on Stiles’ forearm. He flinched gently away, but allowed the gesture with a sigh, placing his other hand firmly over yours with a soft pat. “It’ll be okay, Stiles. This sucks, I know, but we have to be there for each other. I lost him, too. Don’t shut me out.” You choked on the sadness that had been building in your throat, swallowing the small lump down, daring it to break you. You could only manage a small, wavering whisper after that. “Don’t you dare, Stiles.”

Patting your hand once again, Stiles smiled tightly, his voice heavily sarcastic. “Yeah, it’ll be okay, Y/N. We’ll be fine. I’ll just add it to my list of trauma from this week and move on. Sound good? Okay.”

Pulling away from your grasp, he opened the door and got out of the car, slamming it shut behind him. The action was so violent for Stiles, it made you jump.

He had only gotten this way a few times in the years you had known him, one of those being when his mom died. It was never easy to watch, and sometimes harder to handle, but grief had a way of doing that. And you weren’t about to let grief dictate this evening. At least, not anymore than it already had.

Climbing out of the Jeep slowly, shutting the door quietly, you followed your friend to where he held the front door open for you, his face a tight line, his gaze downcast and far away.

He gestured you through with a stilted motion, but you stood at the bottom of the steps looking up at him. Shifting your weight side to side, the squelching sound of your waterlogged shoes finally became too much in the awkward silence, so you reached down and slipped them off, holding them limply at your side on the tips of your fingers.

You’re not sure how long you both stood there, but it felt like an eternity before Stiles finally took in a sharp breath. “Are you ever going to come in?”

“After we have talked.”

“We can talk inside just fine.”

“You can distract yourself inside just fine.” Stiles let out a loud breath through his nose, looking away from you again. “We need to talk first.”

He let go of the handle and took the few steps down to where you were. “Look, I know what you’re doing, and I appreciate it, I really do. But we can’t talk about this out here, for a multitude of reasons.”

“So what if someone hears us?” Stiles scoffed disbelievingly. “In case you haven’t noticed, werewolves are kinda in right now. We might just become the popular kids.”

Stiles smiled despite himself, plastering his hand over your mouth. “You mean you would finally be popular. I would still be the skinny kid full of sarcastic jokes who follows you around.” You went to speak, but he wouldn’t remove his hand. “And that’s okay with me. Times like tonight, that’s just what Derek needed, a friend. Not someone with a supernatural agenda, not pity, or someone picking up on chemo signals or whatever. He just needed a hand on his shoulder to ground him, one not covered in blood, which, no offense, all of you seem to have at this point for some reason or another.”

Rain drops started to hit the top of your heads, and you looked up, blinking once or twice as it pelted your face.

“Plus, it’s raining, so……”

Stiles smirked, removing his hand, and went inside, one arm still outstretched on the handle as he waited for you, a sly grin on his face this time, his eyes meeting yours. Despite the facade, you saw his pain; tonight would haunt him for a while. Stepping up and inside, Stiles mumbled a “thank you” as you passed over the threshold past him and went directly up to his room.

“My dad is at work tonight, so we have the place to ourselves.”

“What are you suggesting?” You playfully wiggled your eyebrows. “I mean, I know grief can make you do some weird things, but…..”

Stiles held up a hand, shut his eyes, and shuddered violently. “Don’t ever-” he made a fake gagging noise- “joke about that again. I don’t need nightmares, thank you very much. I’m very successful at them on my own.”

You chuckled.

“What do you think Boyd and Erica would have to say to this situation?” You smiled ruefully, absently adjusting a pillow on Stiles’ bed.

“Oh, they wouldn’t let us hear the end of it. How we joked about it, and also, how disgusted they were at the thought of it.” He looked thoughtful for a second. “It might actually be the first thing we would agree on, come to think of it.”

Your jaw dropped, and you threw the pillow at him, which he caught with a chuckle. “You know I’m right.”

“You don’t have to be mean about it.” You cast your eyes to the side, eyeing the floor, before you flopped in the center on his bed. “You can sleep on the floor, asshole.”

“It’s my bed,” he argued.

“It’s your punishment,” you shot back.

Both of you were still in your soaked clothes, but he didn’t seem to mind. Grabbing a pair of PJs you had set out earlier in the day, he pelted them at you, hitting you square in the face. “Nice reflexes, wolf girl. Go change.”

Mocking his words in a ridiculous voice, you went to the bathroom to change, hearing him do the same, hopping around trying to get his soaked sneakers off, before he must have succeeded, only to whack himself somehow because he muttered an “ow” after a soft thud.

Walking out with your hands over your eyes, you asked, “Is it safe?” before opening them just a crack to peek with a smirk.

“Hardy, har,” he said sarcastically.

You launched back onto the bed, ready to relax, when Stiles pounced beside you and wrapped you up tight in his arms, holding your back to his chest. After the initial comfort sunk in, so did the events of the day.

“I can’t believe he’s really gone,” you said quietly.

“It was a really shitty move,” he agreed.

Finally letting your tears fall, they raced silent tracks across your face and onto the pillow. You felt a dampness growing on your shoulder, Stiles’ shaking behind you as he too tried to be strong, not wanting to let it out.

Once it started, it wouldn’t stop, and you knew to Stiles that meant having to take a moment and be still, which let everything else catch up to you that you did your best to run from.

Placing your hand on top of his that rested on your abdomen, you threaded your fingers with his and clutched his hand tight, letting him know he wasn’t facing it alone. Any of it.

Giving your hand a squeeze in return, a single sob came through, and it was all you could do not to match it. But you knew he needed to get out just enough to take the edge off the pain before he bottled it up for later. It wasn’t healthy, but it was how he processed things, and that was enough for you to let him. You’d be there for the fallout later.

He sniffed loudly, cleared his throat, then rested his mouth over the damp spot on your shirt. After a few moments of silence, he mumbled into your shoulder, “Sorry about your shirt.”

You chuckled, swiping at your tears with your free hand and feeling him smile into the fabric where he stayed. “It’s okay, Stiles. Sorry about your pillow.”

This time he laughed softly, the sound making you grin.

“Please stay in here tonight. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep if I’m by myself. Too much going on in here.” He gently rocked his head back and forth where it still sat on your shoulder to indicate his troubled mind.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you said, realizing your pun when Stiles groaned and moved his forehead to the spot on your shirt, making you giggle.

“Your jokes are the absolute worst.”

“It wasn’t intentional!”

“That’s worse!” he cried, lifting his head up to make eye contact with you as you grinned over your shoulder.

Reaching up with your free hand, you wiped away the straggling tears. His eyes bloodshot, you caught a single stray tear that escaped on the top of your thumb. Pulling it back, you smiled sadly as you stared at the tip of your finger. “Say, ‘goodnight, Boyd’.”

Stiles side eyed you.

“Whenever I was sad as a kid, my parents would wipe away my tears and tell me to say goodbye to my worries as they dried away, and to blow them away like an eyelash. I dunno. They are weird people, how do you think I came to be this way? Stop looking at me like that.”

“Goodnight, Boyd,” Stiles whispered, before blowing the tear away.

Settling into the quiet, Stiles still held you close before he spoke quietly, a smile in his voice. “Did I ever tell you about the time Boyd got us the keys to the ice rink?”

“No….”

“Or when there was a werewolf smack down on the rink while Boyd was on the…. the…. the thing that smooths over the ice?”

“No!” You laughed.

“Too bad. He was a cool dude.”

“Yeah, he was.” You smiled. “I want to know these stories, now!”

“Tomorrow, Y/N. We already said goodnight, remember? Weirdo.”

Xxx

Tags: @mayahart02, @palaiasaurus64, @shydinosaurcandy, @lucyqueenofthestars, @c-breanne1999, @l4life, @ethereallysimple, @teenwolffan-with-nolife, @bellabadacadabra, @lilostif16, @wandas-love, @emily500, @babygirl-angel-love, @c-dizzle99, @itscheybaby, @fandomsfanman, @sunsetcurvej What’s This?

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notanotherinfjblog · 2 years

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So many people seem to essentialize traits and attribute them to specific types. One example: infj subpage on idrlabs site. Many of these guys died before video but none of the ones who didn't look like INFJs. What sort of traits do people think INFJs have that they conclude almost every supervillan is that type?

From what I gather, they ascribe INFJs to be basically the master manipulators with extremely strong idealisms that they want to turn into truths, which is just hilarious. I literally don't agree with a single INFJ typing on that site and I find it quite sketchy that they use some quotes as "proof" that those people are this type. But what conclusions can you really draw from quotes or, more generally, words at face value? You can interpret anything into them. That's the Paulo Coelho problem, as I like to call it. So many people love typing him as an INFJ because yes, he creates stories from Ni, but that doesn't make him an INFJ. To be fair, I only ever read one of his books (The Alchemist) and these Ni visions in it seemed so incredibly on the nose and almost innocently child-like to me as an Ni-dom that I don't understand how you can seriously consider his inferior Ni to be the true essence of Ni. A lot of actual NJs (though not all of them) that create from high Ni tend to create the weirdest, most insane things you can imagine. But! Just because some artist creates insane stories etc., you can't just type them as an NJ because of that. You type people first and then what they say and do makes sense. You can't just shove people in a box based on some traits that they display the way that this site is doing. For instance, I'm an INFJ that doesn't like planning far ahead. I'd prefer booking a holiday in three days compared to booking it three months in advance. And it's hilarious to imagine that people would type me as an Se-dom based on that simple fact, not knowing that the reason for my aversion to future planning is that I was in a really bad car accident in my early 20s that shifted my perspective. Why would you make a detailed 10-year-plan when you might as well die tomorrow? That doesn't stop me from being an Ni-dom.

What I'm trying to say is, we can't read other people's minds and we can't claim authority on being adept enough at perfectly interpreting all of their words as they intended them. We never have the full picture on people's lives, so I find it more than questionable to have sites like idrlabs or 16personalities etc. typing people this way, even people that are long dead. It's arrogant. Also, it feels like these sites really underestimate just how hard it is to find famous INFJs or NJs in general really (with the exception of ENTJs), so they just take the most likely candidates. One thing to consider here is also the problem that INFJs tend to only ever let you see what they want you to see. If you ascribe INFJs to be these enigmatic idealists with greater visions of everything and only look for people that fit that description, then I guarantee that you won't find a single INFJ. Even if they are idealists with great visions, they probably won't discuss them with random strangers on television. Those people that openly and relentlessly fight and stand for what they believe in and want to change in the world, are often FPs (though certainly not exclusively!). But they are the ones then that find their way onto lists like on that website to be typed as an INFJ.

I think I derailed this post again, I'm sorry.

#ask #typing post

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dragynkeep · 3 years

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It could be just from the long day of work that makes it alittle tough for me to sorta express why, atleast with Flynt Coal specifically its hard to really be like 'eh ok' about that. This can just be treated as a very worn soul's rant as I don't hold anger or ill will. Even if they gave Flynt Coal a different skin, others would call it whitewash or something similar, and the reason would be because Flynt Coal is a longer reference to minecraft runs back when the A.H. crew were dipping into minecraft (since you said A4 Paper, my reference here would be before they became various brans of Paper Towels :P) and over time anytime Flynt (the material found in Gravel) was found they'd right away go 'Coal' and in doing so created the name Flynt Coal. At one point they were like 'what would be be like' and started to just create and thus Flynt Coal was made in X-Ray and Vav as Detective Flynt Coal. So if someone who gets upset about whitewashing saw Flynt Coal have a different Skin and time styling (as Detective was sorta Niore time Detective, even doing the monologue of one) and think thats what they were doing.. The only reason i'm like 'hold up' is because it just seemed like a 'its ok if we do it' sort of situation when it came to that part of 'well her name's blake so she has to be black' (ik you go for tan unless the Au; I think the AU mostly stuck to my mind..But I have seen a few that do put her in darker and that sorta added) But again no ill will just trying to get understanding as I try to wind down from long day and ringing in my head.

The problem here, dude, is that Flynt Coal didn't exist as a character when they were doing that meme. I was there during their minecraft lets plays, I know the joke that they couldn't tell flint and coal apart. Whitewashing wouldn't attribute to this issue if Flynt was designed as white, or really any other race, because he did not exist.

If he was created, shown as a black man, and then turned to a white man, that would be whitewashing. But him just being white from the get go wouldn't be. It's racist for them to go "haha Flynt Coal are two black things so Flynt has to be black", and even starts dipping into unfortunate territory of black people look the same if you add onto the context that these white guys couldn't tell the difference between coal and flint.

It's absolutely not an okay if we do it moment, because Blake has never been drawn black by us except for one art piece where it was all of Team RWBY if they were black. The Blake with darker skin who I've drawn multiple times is Romani, because she's based on Esmeralda and taken from the design in the Disney movie.

And even if we and other fans draw Blake as black, so what? We're not doing it because her name means black, that's literally a reason I have never seen. Most of the time it's done because she's an in-universe minority who's story is explicitly based on the African American Civil Rights Movement, or because fans want her simply to look more like them.

Big difference from a bunch of white guys looking at a shitty meme and going "What if we make one of our first black characters off this and shove so many stereotypes onto him?"

#rwby #rwde #blake belladonna #flynt coal #answered #luke.txt #minority fanartists exploring different races on their fav characters is not the same as creators basing their characters on racist memes

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kitsunefyuu · 3 years

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OFA is super sus as hell and as a quirk it basically a parasite to those that have quirks. It’s entire purpose is to be passed on by DNA so it’s possible that it always has the ability to copy quirk. But all it had was literally itself.

It truly became something special when All for One shoved stockpile onto Yoichi.

But without stockpile I imagine it something like this. Given to a quirk user, probably makes a copy while incubating, when given away it does like a check of person has a quirk or not. If no quirk then gives a quirk, if already has one it doesn’t do anything. It just makes a copy of their quirk.

It might be completely based on Yoichi’s Will too because that seems to be its other purpose. Yoichi is technically alive inside that vestige and All for One is aware of this. Even able to mention hearing his voice tho that likely because of stockpile making a copy of AFO when passed it onto him.

It basically a more convoluted form or All for One. A way to pass around quirks from people to people.

Now probably wondering if copies quirk regardless what the point of stockpile. Easy it makes the quirks and physical attributes INSANELY strong. So each generation because stronger and each copy more powerful then the last. Able to improve the original quirk of the old users.

Turning it from just a way too complicated way to pass on quirks and for Yoichi to live forever, to a powerful quirk. But there’s a catch if you have a quirk the strain of it will kill you at the young age of 40. So it likely comes with the impulse of the users to give them away.

But even when given away it already made a copy and shortened the persons life. Yoichi has been shown capable of talking to the users. He told Nana and All might it wasn’t time.

Yet he fails to mention the whole, btw this quirk will kill you part. He lives IN the quirk and it’s implied he’s aware I’m pretty sure that would be good knowledge for any user to know. Yet Izuku and All Might had to be the ones to find out from Al the users death.

Which honestly is making me feel like Yoichi purposely hiding this fact. Only when the users point it out does accept fact won’t be passed on again since the amount of quirkless is dwindling. Since it be against his ideals.

I don’t think Yoichi is Evil but he definitely seems prone to manipulation and is very parasitic. Even as a quirk the fact it detrimental to the users health if already has a quirk is insane. How do you go several generations and never implied it once after the fourth death?

The quirk is literally haunted! Maybe the others can’t interact with it but a spooky dream warning would have been nice. But then it would be hard to seem like a heroic quirk if they know it shortens your life span, _but I’m sure many would have appreciated that knowledge._

But guess it’s not something to worry about when your older brother tends to kill the users before reach that point.

#all for one theory #yoly's theories #my hero academy theory #my hero academy #(OFA is sus as a person and quirk.)#(Might be because afo raised him or his influence. Rather then being evil but it’s fucked up!)#(or he is bad despite being on the total opposite ideaology.)#(afo still the more evil one tho.)

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iam93percentstardust · 4 years

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hey! i hope you’re having an amazing day. this is just me popping in your inbox to say that’s youre one of my favourite writers and you got me really interested in winteriron (honestly one of the cutest ships) are there any fics/authors ii could reccomend?

Hi there! Thank you so much! I love this ship so much, they’ve got such potential for both fluff and angst. They really are one of my favorite ships to write and I’m glad I was able to write so much for them this year. I certainly do have plenty of recs for you, starting with my favorite authors:

@riotwritesthings: started writing last year, I highly recommend just about everything Riot writes but especially Road Hazards, Melt into Me (Your Words are My Own), and When is a bed not a bed? (When you’re not in it)

@hddnone: so many stories and all so good! Has nearly 100 Winteriron works on ao3 and you will not regret reading any of them, though fair warning that some of them are Team Cap Critical. Especially recommend Honey Pot, You’ve Got Mail, and A Bit(e) of Danger

@monobuu: mostly an artist but sometimes writes stories as well. i recommend Ravioli, Invincible Summer, and Meet the Fam

@tisfan and @27dragons: can’t make a Winteriron rec list without including the both of them. They work together a lot but you should definitely take a look at their own stuff as well. I recommend Safe and (the) Sound, Kiss Me Thru the Phone, and Stark, Naked

@ad1thi: currently taking a bit of a hiatus and working on non-Marvel works but I love everything Adi writes, particularly her entire Bollywood but Make it Gay series, which isn’t always Winteriron but wonderful nonetheless. I recommend the Greek Gods AU, 1000 Lives (For You), and we’re connected

@the-winter-writer: lots of smut and all absolutely fantastic! I like Precious Treasure, Winter Wings, and Instinct

@rayshippouuchiha: definitely an iconic writer for this fandom. Really great if you’re looking for genderbends. Writes a lot of absolutely incredible fics and not just for Winteriron but my personal favorites are The (Not So) Great Pretender, Fearful Symmetry, and The Mistletoe Kiss Polka

Finely Honed (jaqen_hgar): once again very iconic. you’ve probably read at least one of their works even if didn’t know. I recommend Shameless, Today’s Forecast, and Practice Makes Perfect

@lovelyirony: mostly writes ficlets here on tumblr and a multishipper (I don’t know why I’m saying that like it’s a bad thing, I’m a multishipper), also a fan of Sharon Carter and that’s the thing that made me follow her so you know

@amethystinawrites: I only recently started working their works but I’m loving everything I’ve come across so far. I recommend Tech Support and I Won’t Hold My Breath

AvocadoLove: also writes a lot of Stony and Stuckony, which I love a lot, but for their Winteriron works, I recommend Amalgam and Dead Man’s Switch

Dracusfyre: another one I’m new to. I literally just started reading their works today so I don’t have any recs for them yet but one of my friends loves them so I’m going to go with you should definitely take a look at their works

Eirlyssa: has some anti-Team Cap works so keep an eye out for that if that’s not your thing but writes very good Winteriron. I recommend Guide Me Home (Guide My Heart) and Always (I’ll Be There)

@imposter-human: one of the first MCU blogs I ever followed! I recommend childhood memories, speak my language, and lost in translation

As for specific works I like:

Four Strings and Second Chances by Vashoth

It was reluctance to let one of his finest inventions ever out of his grasp that made him take a couple days over a week to send the arm to Pepper’s office. But all things considered, Tony figured that sending finest prosthetic that had ever come into existence--literally grasping an olive branch--was one of the classiest gifts he’d ever given. He’d included a note and everything. ‘Barnes,

Can help with installation. Or not. Up to you. --Stark'

Who is the Mechanic? by @akira-of-the-twilight

The Asset watched as his handlers brought in a stranger—a man with a metal object stuck to his chest that was hooked to a car battery.

The handlers shoved the man onto the stool where many who had operated on the Asset’s arm in the past had sat before.

“Asset,” one handler said, “meet the Mechanic. He will be responsible for the upkeep of your arm. Should anything malfunction, kill him.”

The Asset eyed the Mechanic. The Mechanic was glassy-eyed and unresponsive.

He’d probably be dead in a week.

The Fix by SleepsWithCoyotes

Right, because Tony...Tony fixes things. He remembers thinking that, not for the first time.

Paths are Made by Walking by @potrix-the-queerschlaeger

The road to recovery is long, winding and a different one for every person walking it. Bucky chooses to help himself the only way he knows how; by doing what he does best.

Or, alternatively; the one in which Tony is a mess and accidentally kick-starts Bucky’s protective mother hen instincts.

The Evidence by StrivingArtist

Didn’t notice. Right. Sure. Two brilliant minds, two super spies, and a god didn’t notice when the chattiest man they knew stopped making sound. They just seemed happier than before. Brighter and more cheerful than before. They just seemed like they were more comfortable with him around when he was stone silent.

Fuck it.

He knew they noticed.

And he knew they liked him better this way.

Shadowed Hearts and Winter Souls by NotEvenCloseToStraight

The mid-1800s and Antonio Carbonell Stark is caught in a scandal with his lover. Desperate for a chance to escape the trouble and his own broken heart, Tony accepts a proposal from a mysterious Russian heiress and flees the country.

Natalia Romanova is in trouble of her own and has enough secrets to make Tony's head spin but somehow they settle into a fake marriage and calm day-to-day together, and everything works... until her half brother comes home and their life is disrupted again.

James is somber and silent, brutal and nearly broken and scarred, a soldier of the resistance. His heart is cold and gaze like ice, but his hands are hot and lips are warm and Tony finds himself ignoring the blood on James's palms and the shadows in his soldier’s eyes, and falling in love.

When danger lands at their doorstep, Natalia and Tony have to pack up and leave, running away in the middle of the night and leaving their men behind.

The distance between Tony and James gets longer every day, and Natalia has been keeping a secret for that can’t be hidden much longer. With no place to call home and a thousand miles between them and the men they love, what are Tony and Natalia supposed to do?

Puppy Love by Reioka

Bucky is learning to become a person again. When some guy starts crying all over Natasha's dog, he decides he's doing better than he originally thought.

Describe Your Perfect Date by ali_aliska

After getting turned down by Bucky, Tony decides it’s time to move on from his massive crush. He tries online dating—Pepper’s idea, not his—but the only thing worse than getting rejected is getting rejected and finding out your soulmate-level match is Clint Barton, all in the same day.

Clint, of course, does not let opportunities like this go to waste, but he’s driving Tony nuts for a good cause, he swears.

Bucky’s just trying to do the right thing and fails spectacularly, but it all works out in the end.

Rocket Science by marsmaywonder and orbingarrow

Sleep-deprived and under-caffeinated, grad student Tony falls asleep in a conveniently empty classroom and wakes up in the middle of Bruce’s Physics 101 course. After seeing a groggy Tony fumble a simple question, actual-student Bucky offers to tutor him. In a moment of “oh no; he’s cute” panic, Tony takes him up on it. Now, in addition to his already complicated life, Tony has to figure out the answer to the incredibly messy question: “How do you look like you’re failing the class, when you literally wrote the book?”

What’s Good for the Goose by Taste_is_Sweet

For this nonny prompt at the Imagine Tony and Bucky comm on Tumblr:

"A soulmate AU where an immortal goose shows up one day to lead you to your soulmate, the challenge is surviving the goose." (Full prompt in notes.)

We all have soulmates, and every soulmate pair shares an animal guide. The Guide is there to lead you to your One True Love, and they represent the aspects of the psyche that you both share. They appear when you're about to meet your soulmate, and often materialize in moments of great personal crisis, offering hope and support. There are stories upon stories about how someone's Guide appeared to lead them to their One True, or how the barest glimpse of their Guide eased their hearts and gave them hope in the midst of despair. The newly-rescued almost always attribute their Guide with giving them the strength and courage to hang on.

Animal Guides are ephemeral, ethereal, and elusive. They are, most often, no more than a warm presence or flicker out of the corner of one's eye. They are incarnate symbols of perseverance, optimism and hope. Foretellers of happiness, and the grand destiny of love.

Except for geese. Geese are assholes.

and so, we unfold by TheKitteh

Senbazuru. Thousand Cranes.

An ancient Japanese legend that promises anyone who folds a thousand origami cranes will be granted a wish by the gods. Some stories believe you are granted happiness and eternal good luck, instead of just one wish, such as long life or recovery from illness or injury.

Bucky’s not big on believing in any legends, not after all that has happened. He just wants to create something for a change, not destroy.

He needs to prove himself that he can be trusted to handle something delicate. He doesn’t need a promise of a wish come true. He just,- needs to do this for himself.

He doesn’t need noticing how sad, tired Stark looks. Doesn’t need to want to do something for the man, when he can barely do anything for himself. --- Tony simply goes through days and motions. He deals with the Avengers, with R&;D, with the rewritten Accords. All of it, it’s nothing new really. He just wants to get things done.

What’s new is seeing Barnes hunched over the coffee table, one step away from ripping a glossy magazine apart in the middle of the night.

And why the hell Barnes keeps looking at him during the days after like he’s a puzzle to be solved?

Welcome to the Winteriron fandom! We’ve got a lot of incredible authors and artists both and this is just the tip of the iceberg!

#alle answers #winteriron #fic recs #have a great day as well!#hold-our-destiny

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moonknightly · 4 years

Text

Mistakes and Sour Grapes : Modern!Poe Dameron x Reader (One)

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader

Word Count: 2.4k

Excerpt: “You were totally fucking staring, and he totally fucking caught you, and wait, maybe he was staring back and had his cheeks been pink the whole time?”

Warnings: Alcohol, some cursing, future parts are gonna be slutty.

I am extremelyyyyy unsure about this so if it’s a thing you guys are into, please, please let me know.

[SERIES MASTERLIST]

Bars weren’t really your thing.

Especially in a city that was typically known to be overrun with tourists at any given time of year.

They were crowded and loud, and you usually weren’t the biggest fan of the style of music blaring through nearly shot speakers, and you definitely weren’t a fan of the headache you’d often suffer with afterwards from the absurd amount of bass they deemed necessary. They smelled bad, they were dark and dingy and gross, and many patrons were less than respectful and showed little regard after knocking back a few drinks.

It really wasn’t your thing.

But you had a friend who worked as a bartender at a small brewery and local restaurant, and that was definitely more your speed, and honestly the only time you did end up sitting at a bar. Most Friday and Saturday nights, you found yourself practically drooling over a plate of delicious food and, depending on your mood, either a beer or a cocktail while making smalltalk with Finn as he worked. And most of the time, you’d end up the last customer in the building, staying late to help Finn put away glasses or wipe down the counter, partially so he could get out of there faster, but mainly because you just enjoyed spending your time there.

It was one of those nights now, where you were behind the bar, a rag in your hand as you wiped water droplets from still warm tumblers while Finn worked on the wine glasses.

“I’m telling you,” Finn said from behind you. “You’d make more money bartending here.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes playfully as you peeked over your shoulder towards him.

“I have a job,” you reminded him for the hundredth time in the last ten days. Ever since another bartender had put in their two weeks, he had been trying to convince you to put in an application.

“Yeah, a shitty one. Come on, I could move out to the beer garden, you could take over in here. It would be absolutely perfect.”

You laughed, shaking your head almost teasingly. “Perfect for your schedule maybe.”

“And for yours! Look, you hate waking up early. If you worked here, you could sleep in until noon if you wanted. And we’d be coworkers. What more could you ask for in a job?”

You rolled your eyes again, turning back to the look at the tumbler in your hand, falling back into a comfortable silence.

One that didn’t last long by any means, for Finn was apparently damned and determined.

“I mean technically, you’re already working. Might as well get paid to do it.”

“Putting away glasses is hardly working.”

“You’d get tips nightly instead of having to wait every other week for a paycheck. And did I mention you’d make more?”

“Might make more, but it’s not consistent.”

“You like the vibe up here. You like the building.”

Now there was a point that you would actually consider.

You did like the vibe.

It was laid back, relaxed while still being a more refined atmosphere. Most people who sat at the bar were corporate workers or couples, just looking to have a drink and a good meal after a long day, and the other restaurant goers were typically families.

The building itself was just a year away from turning two hundred years old, and the history behind it intrigued you to no end, including the fact that it was said to be the most haunted building in the city. That was something you were entirely into.

You hesitated, tilting your head to the side and gnawing on your bottom lip.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Maybe.”

His response came in the form of a bar towel snapping through the air and hitting the back of your thigh, and you yelped before dissolving into a fit of laughter, thankfully having just set the last tumbler in its place. You were pretty sure you would have dropped it had it still been in your hands.

Finn hung the last wine glass just after — his last task for the night, and you were ready to make your escape, but before you could even push back from the counter he was reaching around you for two of the tumblers you had just put away.

“Okay, we’ve gotta take a shot to celebrate, and we’re makin’ it a double.”

You laughed again, the sound completely exasperated yet so amused at the same time. “Finn, I didn’t say yes. And even if I put in an application, I’m not guaranteed to get it.”

“Oh you’re gettin’ it alright,” he snorted, shaking his head. “I’ll beg if I have to. Now what are we having?”

“You’re still on the clock.”

He narrowed his eyes playfully, whipping his head around dramatically, quite literally spinning in place, arms open wide as he gestured to the empty restaurant. “And who the hell is going to care? I’ll just put it on your tab.”

A third laugh, and a reason Finn was your best friend. He could always make you fucking laugh. You raised your hands in mock surrender.

“Now what are we having?” he repeated his prior question, quirking an eyebrow.

You thought about it for a moment, drumming your fingers along the countertop, lips pursed. “Chocolate cake shots.”

“Excuse me, what?”

“What kind of bartender are you?”

“A shitty one apparently,” he scoffed, his eyebrow raising just a fraction higher. “Now explain.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s one part vodka, one part Frangelico, and-”

“-and a sugared lemon on a sugared rim.”

You jumped, and Finn nearly dropped the glasses as a new voice echoed throughout the room, but you watched as he quickly relaxed, a look of recognition crossing over his face.

He turned slowly, the action conveying mock annoyance, and you peeked around him, glancing towards where the voice had come from.

A man with short salt and pepper curls and tanned skin was walking down the staircase, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans and a smug smirk tugging at his lips. A noise caught in your throat, one you wouldn’t have even been able to begin to describe, and Finn managed to catch it, glancing back towards you for just a brief second before turning his attention back to the man approaching.

The undeniably handsome, gorgeous, breathtaking man in an olive green hoodie with the sleeves pushed up mid-forearm, a good two day’s worth of stubble covering his jaw. A small scar on his cheek. Big brown eyes.

Were you staring? Fuck, you were totally staring.

You were totally fucking staring, and he totally fucking caught you, and wait, maybe he was staring back and had his cheeks been pink the whole time?

“Of course you’re still here. Do you ever leave or did you convert one of the rooms upstairs into an apartment?”

“There’s an idea,” the man chuckled, tearing his gaze away from you, and you felt a small amount of air flood back into your lungs.

You were still staring though, blatantly so, and you couldn’t even find the shame to stop yourself. You watched as his eyes fluttered back over to you, quickly, for a mere second before he eyed the tumblers in Finn’s hand, quirking an eyebrow.

“She wanted to buy me a drink and it would’ve been rude to turn a customer down,” Finn deadpanned, and you couldn’t help but snort.

The man shrugged, leaning against the counter opposite of you. “Make it three.”

“Yes sir.”

Finn grabbed a third glass after setting the first two down, not taking his eyes off of what he was doing as he nodded towards you, saying your name.

“This is Poe Dameron, the owner. Dameron, you are now in the presence of my best friend in the entire galaxy.”

He repeated your name, and Poe smiled, pushing off the counter and extending a hand out to you.

“S’nice to meet you.”

You nodded, your cheeks suddenly feeling a touch warmer than they had been before as you took his hand in yours, shaking it firmly. “You too.”

He smiled again, nodding his head, holding onto you for just a second longer than what would be considered customary before letting go. He stayed next to you though, folding his arms across his chest as he glanced towards Finn again.

“Now, why are we taking shots?”

“Because she’s,” Finn said, pointing a finger towards you, “applying for the open bartender position.”

Poe raised an eyebrow, turning his attention towards you. “Is that right?”

Your blush only intensified as you noticed those big brown eyes of his flutter quickly over your body, just once, for just a split second. You nodded.

“Have you ever bartended before?”

“Not really,” you admitted, just a hint of a nervous edge in your voice.

Poe shrugged. “Fast learner?”

You nodded again, and Finn spoke before you had a chance to.

“And she apparently already knows more than I freakin’ do. Chocolate cake shots, what the hell?”

“Trust me,” you said, a small chuckle following.

Poe smirked again. “It tastes exactly how it sounds.”

Finn shook his head, adding the sugared lemons to the finished drinks before passing them out.

“You gotta hold the lemon juice in your mouth while you take the shot though,” you added, already taking the wedge off the rim.

Poe nodded, following your actions. “If you don’t, you’ll ruin it.”

You and Poe took your shots first, Finn watching before throwing back his own, his eyes widening in surprise as the liquid ran down his throat.

“Holy shit, you weren’t lying.”

“Have I ever led you wrong?” you laughed, wiping at a stray drop of vodka and Frangelico that ran down your chin.

You could feel Poe staring at you as you did so, and you chose to ignore it, and this time, you attributed the blush on your cheeks to the alcohol slowly moving through your veins.

You reached for Poe’s glass, grabbing Finn’s as well before moving to clean them, just as an excuse to put a little distance between you and Poe. You heard the two of them quietly talking, about what, you didn’t know, couldn’t hear over the running water, and only when the glasses were clean and back in their place did you tune back in.

“Where’s Bee?”

Poe shrugged. “She’s around here somewhere.”

“Who’s Bee?” you asked, tilting your head to the side, looking between the two men in front of you.

“His lady,” Finn chuckled, his answer earning him a sharp jab to the ribs and a small snort from Poe.

Oh, so he was taken?

Figures. A man so beautiful certainly had a woman just as gorgeous on his arm.

Before you had a chance to say anything further, Poe whistled, the sound loud and echoing off the walls, and you jumped for the second time that night. Just ten seconds later, the clattering of nails across hardwood could be heard throughout the restaurant, and a big, white German Shepherd came bounding around the corner of the bar, practically jumping into her owner’s arms.

“Oh hello there sweet girl, were you taking a nap downstairs again?” Poe cooed, scratching the large dog behind her ears.

Bee whined affectionately, her tail wagging erratically. You flushed, laughing at yourself just a little bit for how your mood had taken a hit at the idea of him being taken. You had known him for less than ten minutes.

You watched the two interact for a few seconds, your arms folded loosely over your chest.

“You can pet her if you’d like.”

“Oh how could I ever turn down such an offer?”

You immediately knelt onto the ground, ready and eager to be attacked by the big floof of white fur, but Bee didn’t turn her attention away from her owner, causing you to over exaggerate a pout and Poe to laugh.

“Bee, you’re not working right now sweetheart.”

You looked up at him, tilting your head to the side just a fraction. “Working?”

“Service dog,” Poe shrugged, a mannerism you were quickly learning was signature. “Even when she’s not wearing her vest she likes to think she’s on call.”

You stayed quiet for a couple of seconds, knowing not to pry but also not knowing exactly how to respond.

“She seems to be good at her job,” you settled on finally.

Poe chuckled quietly, nodding his head, not offering up an explanation himself, but that was to be expected. You were still mere strangers.

“Go say hi.”

Bee nuzzled her nose into Poe’s chest before dropping back down onto all fours, finally turning her attention to you. She ignored your outstretched hand, immediately going for your face, licking your cheek and pawing at your thighs. You giggled, stroking the dog down her back, scratching every now and again.

“I think I might steal her,” you teased, wiggling your eyebrows as you glanced up.

Poe only laughed, and you spent several minutes merely petting and playing with Bee behind the bar, giving Poe the opportunity to sneak back upstairs and grab her vest — an orange one with the words “service dog” printed onto the side.

“What’s your schedule like next week?” he asked, giving a short whistle after that immediately made Bee pull away from you, sitting patiently as she waited for her owner to slip her vest on.

You shrugged. “I work in the mornings but otherwise I’m free.”

“Ew, mornings,” Poe mumbled, scrunching up his nose before shaking his head. “Think you can come by Monday night so Finn can start training you?”

Finn let out an excited yelp, and you could only blink.

“Wait, like, train as in...I have the job? Just like that?”

“If you don’t burn the place down Monday night and you enjoy yourself, then yeah,” Poe chuckled. “It’s yours.”

You bit your lip, and you wouldn’t have been able to hide your smile regardless of how hard you tried.

“I’m down, Dameron.”

He smiled right back, holding out his hand for you to shake while also simultaneously pulling you off the floor, and you would’ve crashed into your chest had you not braced yourself against the counter with your free hand.

“Welcome aboard.”

#poe dameron x reader #poe dameron #tros #star wars #poe dameron fanfiction #poe dameron imagine

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hellowkatey · 4 years

Text

The Plights of Force Vision: Chapter 4

Rated T for language and depictions of violence

Summary: Obi-Wan is running on fumes. Anakin has a bad feeling about this. They go into battle anyway.

Read it on AO3

Chapter 4: General Kenobi

This morning, a shiny asked Obi-Wan if he preferred General Kenobi or Master Kenobi. It was a question that earned him a slap on the back of the head from one of the more experienced men. "He is your general, newbie, only the other Jedi call him Master." The men laughed it off, giving the kid trouble, and Obi-Wan walked away before they noticed.

An innocent question, yes, but one that sent Obi-Wan into a bit of a tailspin. The war has been getting to him. He hasn't had proper sleep in days, living off stale caff and wherever he can curl up for a thirty-minute power nap.

Do you prefer General Kenobi or Master Kenobi?

He wants to say master is his preferred title. The title he has been working his entire life for. Master Kenobi is a Jedi who worked hard to come back from less than adequate beginnings. One of the youngest members of the Jedi council (and they certainly like to remind him of the fact). A master of Soresu and the only Jedi that actually enjoys instructing the youngling Aurbesh class. After spending months teaching a padawan as stubborn as Anakin to read when he was nine, three-year-olds are a breeze.

But Master Kenobi isn't here right now. General Kenobi is.

General Kenobi is a smooth-talking, always rational, master of strategics. The Negotiator, they call him. Even named a ship after him and signed him up to command the whole of the Third Systems Army. High General Kenobi-- Who fights alongside his men on the front lines, coordinates the attack plans for other Jedi Generals, and somehow finds time to learn the names of thousands of troopers that look almost exactly the same. As much as Obi-Wan wants to be Master Kenobi, he simply is not. There will be a time and a place for that man, and one day he will get to take that place.

But not today.

Not as they prepare for battle. Not as Cody is assigning positions and handing out blasters to men who haven't been alive but ten years. Not as he overhears his former padawan challenging a sixteen-year-old to a competition on who can decimate the most battle droids. Certainly not as he looks at the plans and can tell this is going to be a bad battle where no matter how well they fight they will lose many troopers.

Because underneath Master Kenobi and General Kenobi is Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan is simply tired.

He feels Anakin approaching, so he pushes aside his weariness and pretends to be going over their starting positions. A strong hand clamps onto his shoulder.

"I know I didn't just hear you two planning another one of your silly competitions," he says before Anakin or Ahsoka can say anything.

"It's called efficiency, Master," Anakin replies cooly, plucking the datapad right from Obi-Wan's hand. He rolls his head to the side so the knight can better see his dissatisfied expression. Ahsoka chuckles, looking between the two generals in a staring match.

"We have to beat Master Mundi's record!" Ahsoka says, nudging her master in the ribs. "C'mon Skyguy, Rex is waiting for us."

"What have I told you about-- nevermind, let's go," He turns back to Obi-Wan and gives him a one-finger salute. "May the Force be with you, Master."

Obi-Wan smiles. "And with both of you."

The pair takes off toward a gunship on the opposite side of the staging area where Captain Rex is waiting as patiently as a trooper dealing with those two can be. Obi-Wan can't help a small smile as he watches the Master and Apprentice pair talk with animated motions the entire way over. Ahsoka is simultaneously a good lesson in responsibility for Anakin, and so much like him, they might as well be quarreling siblings. In a certain way, he feels like they are both his padawans-- kids thrust into war too young. He feels responsible for them no matter how many times Anakin is insistent that he is not "a padawan anymore" and he can "take care of himself".

Right. I'd like to see him trying to make that claim while he curls up in my bunk after a rough mission or having a bad dream.

(Truth be told, Obi-Wan doesn't mind when Anakin shows up at his door in the wee hours of the night, his eyes bloodshot and watery from another horrifying premonition within his dreams. It's a feeling Obi-Wan knows far too well. He is pleased his quarters are a place where the young knight can feel safe.)

"Ready, sir?" Cody says. Obi-Wan hadn't noticed he walked up next to him. He looks at the clone commander he's come to consider a good friend and puts on his best look of confidence.

"Of course, Cody. Gather the men."

_________

As Anakin and Ahsoka take off, leaving the staging area to get to their drop point, Anakin keeps his gaze fixed on his former master until they are too high for him to see him. He frowns, earning a mirrored look from his padawan standing across from him.

"What is it, Master?"

He can't really explain it. Something is nagging at him and he isn't sure why.

"I just have a weird feeling."

"To be honest," she says, placing a hand on her belly. "I think those rations this morning were expired...I've had a weird feeling all morning, too."

He squints. "Ahsoka, rations don't expire."

"Then why did it taste like cardboard?"

Rex, who is standing next to Ahsoka starts to laugh. "Did you have the taco salad one, sir?"

She looks up at him with wide eyes. "Yes!"

"That's just how that one tastes. We usually leave those for the stray cats."

Ahsoka looks disgusted, and Rex and the other nearby troopers look amused. But Anakin stares back out the open door of the gunship trying to puzzle through what could be feeling so strange in the Force.

________

Obi-Wan is quite literally knee-deep in battle droids. Some of them had the misguided programming to attempt to dogpile him, which resulted in about ten battle droids being sliced through their midsections with a quick spin of his saber. Coincidentally, a few tanks and another battalion of battle droids decided to show up at that moment, so the area around him quickly turned into a battle droid barricade.

Anakin would find this hilarious, Obi-Wan thinks, managing a smirk as another battle droid gets added to the pile. The battle is going well, allowing him some respite. The Separatists had a good position, but their strategy was weak. The 501st managed to push the forces that threatened Obi-Wan's pursuit the most into retreat, freeing up significant resources to aid the main front. Their casualty numbers have been minimal so far, and he can feel the confidence and energy of the men increasing as this daunting battle quickly turns in their favor.

And then, Obi-Wan feels a familiar prickle down his spine and the faint smell of mint. Surrounded by battle droids bleeding oil and shooting sparks, the fresh scent should be the last thing he should come across. His eyes widen as he frantically turns to find Cody.

Thus far in the war, Obi-Wan has gotten lucky.

Now, luck is not necessarily something he believes in-- everything is the will of the Force. However, since his visions are also the will of the Force, he figures the fact that a bad one has not struck him in the midst of a battle is something he can consider lucky. At least, luck attributed to the Force being not in the mood to see him incapacitated while getting shot at.

Of course, the reason Obi-Wan doesn't like luck is that it runs out.

And of course, it happened to run out today.

As he turns to find a place to retreat to ride out this vision, a blast manages to slip through his cleverly constructed wall of droids, ricocheting off the durasteel and slamming into the back of his shoulder. He yelps in surprise, crumbling to the dusty ground. As his vision starts to blur he manages to press a code on his commlink and bring it to his face.

"Code Ginger," he rasps. His body goes limp as he hears the faint yelling of troopers running toward him.

"The general is down! Repeat, the gen..."

An explosion ricochets off the side of the mountain, sending Obi-Wan flailing into the open air. An animalistic, shrill shriek echoes off the rocks around him, and it takes a moment for him to realize it is not his own scream but that of a varactyl falling a few meters below him.

Falling. I'm falling! He realizes as the world around him rushes past. Through the wind whistling, he can hear his men yelling.

"The general is down!"

But...

If he isn't mistaken their tone is not one of fear or anxiety, but of celebration.

The general is down.

He's plummeting toward a body of water at an alarming rate. Many times, Obi-Wan has fallen from great heights, so his reaction is automatic. He stretches his arms and legs out, attempting to create as much drag as possible as he tumbles through the air.

But pull in before hitting the water.

Obi-Wan draws the Force around him, cradling his body to slow his descent. He's going too fast to stop himself, but it's enough he could survive this fall.

Probably.

Closer and closer the water comes.

How long have I been falling?

Luckily and unluckily the varactyl hits the water first. The animal, unfortunately, unaided by the cushion of the Force dies with a high-pitched gasp upon impact. He has just a second to feel the sudden blip of Force presence cut out before he pulls his body into a straight line, takes a deep breath, and plummets head-first into the water.

From the surface being broken by his fallen companion and his manipulation of the Force, Obi-Wan opens his eyes to find himself still alive. He is deep in the water, the pressure aching against his head and lungs. Even with his rebreather, which he quickly shoves into his mouth, it will be a slow-going way up to equalize the pressure. Obi-Wan watches sorrowfully as the lifeless green blur of the varactyl sinks into the bottomless abyss below him. Had he fallen below the animal he would most certainly be dead.

I almost died... and how? Cody and the others had the platform secure. The blast had to have come...

Screaming. Bellows of agony echo through his mind in a sudden crescendo of fear. Screams he shouldn't be able to hear so deep underwater if they were coming from the surface, so they must be--

Death. So much of it. It wraps its dark fists around Obi-Wan's throat, and even with the rebreather allowing oxygen into his lungs, he sees dots before his vision. The Force is imploding, writhing as he can physically feel inky darkness staining the delicate tendrils of light.

He kicks as hard as he can, trying to find his way to the surface but everything in him is saying Stop!

Stop.

Rest. Finally, rest.

Panic spreads through him. His head is whirling as pain shoots through it. A shooting pain he hasn't felt since Qui-Gon was killed and their bond was forcibly--

Help us!

Young voices cry in agony, and he feels something irreparable within him shatter as the galaxy cries out with a haunting mourning song. Help us! Save us! He's coming! He's going to kill--

And then silence. Silence so jarring he stops swimming in hopes he will hear anything.

A faraway voice. A woman speaking in hushed tones. "Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi, you're my only hope." And then she too is silenced.

He feels like he might puke. Or faint. Or just fade into the Force right there.

But the Force wraps around him like a blanket, warming his shivering body and urging him upward. Onward.

You're their only hope.

And so he swims.

Obi-Wan awakes gasping, staring at the burlap roof of the med tent at base camp. He's not underwater. Not falling. The screams turn to the familiar yelling of his troopers, and the occasional echo of blaster fire.

He breaths heavily, letting reality melt back to him... but as it does, involuntary tears well up in his eyes.

__________

Cody was the first to see the general drop. Tucked up near the very front lines, the Jedi curated an impressive pile of clankers and was, per usual, keeping the large bunk of the battle droids occupied. The Commander was already watching him when he saw the Jedi suddenly stiffen and stagger back. Cody has been in enough battles with Kenobi to recognize it's time to send in backup.

"Waxer! Gearshift! With me!" he commands, and the two men fall into formation behind him.

Cody watches in horror as a stray blaster shot smashes into the already-weary general, and he loses sight of General Kenobi beneath his pile of battle droids.

Code Ginger.

The commlink message rings out and Cody curses. He calls in for more cover fire, shifting some of the troops a further distance from General Kenobi to draw the Seppies away.

The three troopers arrive at the fallen general, immediately struck by the wake of carnage Kenobi has left around him. The Jedi are efficient in battle, but it's rare their casualties are so... concentrated. Gearshift nearly trips over the head of a battle droid.

"He's hit," Waxer says, examining the blaster wound. "Superficial."

Cody is suddenly aware that the Jedi's eyes are still open, making his stillness look eerie like a dead man. He tears his glove off and presses his fingers to his pulse point, instant relief at a strong heartbeat beneath his fingers.

"We extract him now. Gearshift, hold this position."

"Taking over the clanker cage, sir," Gearshift says, eagerly planting his long-range rifle on its stand to get some ground-level snipe shots through the gaps of the droid pile.

Waxer jumps to the other side of the man, kicking the fallen clankers out of the way to make room. He squats down and picks up General Kenobi as though he weighs nothing, throwing him limply over his shoulder. Cody grips his blaster, taking a deep breath. He and Waxer nod to one another, and then the lieutenant presses to a stand from his crouch, Cody laying down cover fire as they run back toward the base camp. Other troopers, momentarily pausing to take in the sight of General Kenobi being carried unconscious, jump into action. They join in on the cover, alerting others of the 212th to fill in. Supported by his brothers, Cody turns to focus on his running.

The shift in the attitude of his troopers is palpable. A moment earlier they were immersed in the battle, fighting well and yelling their usual battlefield jokes over the sound of blaster fire. Now, the men fight with a different determination. Their Jedi is down and they have collectively decided their opponents will be swiftly defeated.

Cody feels a pang of pride for his brothers and their quick response, but also mutual worry for their general. He's come to grow attached to the annoyingly reckless Jedi, and though he knows this is mostly Jedi Force stuff going on, he can't help feel concerned seeing his lifeless body.

Cody catches up to Waxer who is breathing heavily with exertion but shows no sign of slowing.

"'t's like Geonosis all over again," he yells.

"Let's hope that's where the similarities end," Cody groans. The dusty terrain of this planet already reminds the commander enough of the Point Rain mission. He doesn't need or want a third Geonosis.

The two troopers burst into the med tent, startling Kix of the 501st. The medic's eyes widen when he sees the general slumped over Waxer's shoulder before narrowing with intensity. "Bed two. What happened?" the no-nonsense trooper asks, grabbing a handful of bacta patches.

Waxer deposits General Kenobi gently on the cot while Cody explains the blaster wound.

"It's a flesh wound, but the general is in the middle of a... Force vision.. thing. He might be unconscious for a while."

Kix looks from General Kenobi to Cody again. He can see the gears in the medic's head turning with this new information. "Damn Jedi Force shit," Cody hears him mutter. "Sir, will he need... treatment? For... that when he wakes up?"

Haar'chak, I didn't think to ask that. General Kenobi gave him a very brief crash-course on Force visions. "Sorry, Kix, I just know it's a Code Ginger."

"Code Ginger?"

"It's the tea Obi-Wan drinks to relieve his post-vision headaches," a new voice rings out through the med tent. Cody, Kix, and Waxer turn to see Skywalker standing with his arms folded in the doorway. "with honey. I came up with it," he adds. General Skywalker thankfully looks untouched beside his robes being quite dusty. "501st is back with reinforcements. Ahsoka is with Rex getting them in position. Looks like the Separatists have already started calling for retreat, though."

Cody nods and looks at Kix. "Do you have any tea on hand?"

"No sir, I'm afraid not."

General Skywalker walks further into the tent, pulling a small pouch from his utility belt. "I have some." He hands it to Cody, and Kix goes to work examining the blaster wound on Kenobi's left shoulder. Without the wall of clones obstructing his view, Cody is vaguely aware that Skywalker has a full view of his master. He watches the young Jedi, thankful he has his bucket on to hide his observations. Skywalker sighs deeply, his fist clenching at his side before relaxing. He is used to seeing General Skywalker worried when his master is injured-- Kix has grown quite comfortable pulling rank when he needs to by this point. But now, he is reacting differently than usual. The Jedi Knight is calmer like he knew something had happened and wasn't at all surprised. Perhaps it's just that he understands this whole Force thing. From how stocked his utility belt is with in-case-of-emergency Obi-Wan Kenobi supplies, this must be a frequent occurrence the commander isn't aware of.

Even so, Skywalker has freaked out over lesser wounds than blaster burns.

Cody stands by him silently for a moment, waiting for further questions about what happened, how Kenobi was shot... but it never comes. Instead, Skywalker turns, looking at him with a hollow expression.

"Thank you, Commander. For pulling him out."

Cody can't imagine a world where he wouldn't run into an active battlefield for his general. The apology catches him off guard. What else would he have done? He nods anyway.

"Of course, General... How long do these usually last?"

"Depends."

For as much as Skywalker talks, he certainly doesn't say much, does he? Cody thinks and then squeezes his eyes shut. Great, I sound like General Kenobi.

"Depends on what, sir?"

"How bad the vision is."

Cody isn't sure if bad is referring to bad like graphic scenes or bad like vivid and lengthy, but he gets the feeling the Jedi knight isn't in the mood to elaborate either way. He excuses himself to go find Rex and end this battle once and for all.

_________

Obi-Wan's quarters feel small. He lays in bed, staring at the ceiling with no intention of falling asleep anytime soon.

He's vomited twice. It worried Kix, but he convinced him to let him sleep in his quarters anyway. That he would return if he vomited again, though there is nothing in Obi-Wan's stomach that could possibly force its way up now.

Somehow, he still feels like he's falling. Like he'll hit the water at any moment now. He tried to meditate on these potent feelings clouding his mind, but every time he closes his eyes he hears the cries of agony and the horrible feeling of death tear through him like a damn lightsaber.

Obi-Wan curls onto his side, pressing his shins against the wall of his bunk. He tells himself the usual list:

1. The future is constantly changing.

2. His vision is not guaranteed to come true.

3. None of it was real.

He tells himself this despite the fact his visions come true more often than not. He was a padawan when he experienced their horrific landing at Point Rain decades before it happened. He was a youngling when he saw himself fighting amongst the Young on Melida/Daan. Both times there were these moments when reality collided with the dreams he had spent months trying to get out of his head. It was a strange sensation. Like he'd been there before, and knew exactly what was coming. (His vision did give him the foresight to bite down on something as Trapper set his dislocated leg back in its socket when that moment came around again.)

And there were many others. Somehow his visions have the convenient quality of not providing him enough context to stop the horrible consequences. He doesn't realize he's in the future he foretold until it is his present.

This terrifies him.

He doesn't know who is in agony or why. Where even is he? How did he fall? Why is he their only hope? His anxiety is peaking and attempts to quell it are not working. Obi-Wan draws his shields in, feeling the unanswered questions swirl about his mind.

Then there's a knock. Before he can say anything or even move, his door is opening.

"Master?"

He lets out a deep breath that betrays him, quivering with emotion. And then Anakin is beside him, a hand on his bicep gently rolling him from his side so he can see his face.

"Master Obi-Wan!"

"Anakin," Obi-Wan says, acting as though he woke him up though it is obvious that is not the case, "what are you doing here? Did you have a bad dream?"

"I--" the young knight looks conflicted. Tired and conflicted. "No, I-I wanted to check on you."

Obi-Wan pushes himself to a sitting position. "Well the bacta did its job, so my shoulder is quite alright."

Anakin swallows hard, sitting down on the edge of the bunk. "That isn't what I mean, and you know it."

"My vision?"

He nods.

"Well, it wasn't anything too crazy. Actually, it was quite unevent--"

"Don't do that," Anakin huffs. "I know what you're doing."

"And what exactly am I doing, padawan?"

"Bullshitting me!"

"Anakin langua--"

"It's bullshit, Obi-Wan and you know it," he crosses his arms over his chest. Obi-Wan half-expects him to storm out, but instead, his face softens. He's getting better at controlling his anger at least. "I had a bad feeling about today. Before the battle. The Force was trying to tell me something," he looks up at Obi-Wan. "Warning me about you."

Obi-Wan leans forward, placing a hand over his former padawan's. Anakin only slightly leans into the touch, still maintaining his hardened expression.

"It was only a blaster shot. Cody and Waxer were on top of it, and as for the vision I managed to use the code to--"

"I also felt you on the battlefield," Anakin interrupts (again), and Obi-Wan feels everything around him freeze. He is always on top of his shielding for visions-- has been since he was a young child. Sure, he's been tired lately but that shouldn't be an excuse to project. Unless...

"The blaster injury... might have compromised the hold on my shields," Obi-Wan says quietly, looking down at his lap. "Did Ahsoka feel my projections too?"

"She was shielded. I made sure once I started to feel it." Obi-Wan feels Anakin's hands on either of his shoulders. He looks up to see him staring at him with blue eyes full of worry and concern. "But master, I... I felt what you were feeling. How you reacted to that vision, and..." he looks away a moment, taking a breath. "it nearly made me lose my lunch in the middle of battle, and I couldn't even see it... What happened?"

For the second time today, Obi-Wan feels tears welling up in his eyes. Partially at the guilt for putting his former padawan through such an ordeal, and partially because the voices are screaming again, and he is afraid that maybe this isn't reality as he thought. He reaches up and wraps his hand around Anakin's wrist, feeling his flesh against his own and a heartbeat beneath his fingertips. Real... Real, this is real. Anakin is here and he is real.

"Honestly," Obi-Wan whispers, "I don't know what happened. I just felt... everything around me... the entire galaxy become shroud in darkness and death." he looks into Anakin's eyes, trying to make sure he believes that he is telling the truth. "So many-so many dying. So many in pain... it was horrible."

And then he's being pulled against Anakin's chest, Obi-Wan's face against his shoulder, and the knight's arms wrapping tightly around him. Obi-Wan shakes, weeks of exhaustion, and a day of battle, injury, and diving far too deep into the Force catching up to him all at once. The last time he cried in front of his padawan must have been after Qui-Gon's death, and even on that day Anakin wrapped his nine-year-old arms around him and hugged him tightly. Over ten years have elapsed since that time, yet he half-expects to open his eyes and find himself back on Naboo.

Anakin holds him until his body stops quivering and his tears run dry. And when he pulls away he sees silent tears running down the knight's own face.

"I won't let it come true," Anakin says softly, shaking his head.

"You know we don't have control of these things. As much as we would like to."

"I'm the Chosen One, though," he says, swallowing hard. "I am supposed to bring balance. I won't let darkness win, Obi-Wan. I won't."

He's speechless, only able to nod along with the young man that is unraveling before him. This is exactly why he picks and chooses what visions to share. He doesn't want Anakin to carry the guilt.

The future is constantly changing.

My vision is not guaranteed to come true.

None of it was real.

Anakin falls asleep curled in a ball at the end of Obi-Wan's bunk. He grabs his cloak and spreads it over him before slipping under his covers. With his legs pulled up to his chest, they both fit in the bunk. He doesn't mind the position.

The future is constantly changing.

My vision is not guaranteed to come true.

None of it was real.

He finally drifts to a dreamless sleep.

By morning, Anakin is gone from his quarters. He wonders if it was actually all a dream, but from his cloak unceremoniously bundled on the floor, he knows it all happened. Obi-Wan gets dressed and tidies his hair. As he finishes, he stops in front of his refresher mirror, gripping the edges of the sink as his reflection stares back at him.

Visions have been a part of Obi-Wan's life for thirty years. He's had bad ones before-- arguably worse in content. He can handle this one and move forward. He always does. He must. There are people relying on him. Battles to plan and execute. The war rages on no matter if he is having a nervous breakdown over a nightmare, so he might as well muster on.

Are you General Kenobi or Master Kenobi?

Somehow he sees neither. He looks in the mirror and sees only Obi-Wan Kenobi. Tired, weary, shaken by the events of the previous day.

That won't do.

General Kenobi would throw himself into the next campaign. Distract himself until the screams fade to the back of his mind.

So he leaves his quarters, heading for the mess to grab a cup of caffeinated tea and some breakfast. He greets his men, assuring them that he is alright and they did a fantastic job in the battle. He sits next to Ahsoka and tries to ignore the pity smile Anakin is giving him.

"So," Obi-Wan turns to the young Togruta, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. "What was the final tally on battle droids?"

Her eyes widen and flicker to her master before a wide grin crosses her face. "Sixty-eight."

"What!" Anakin bellows. "You did not get more than me again."

"You dipped early, Skyguy, not my fault."

"I was at the med tent, all the one's after don't--

"I suppose--" Obi-Wan interrupts, shaking his head at the two, "when I see Master Mundi I will have to inform him his record has been broken."

The table erupts in cries of protest from Anakin claiming a recount and Ahsoka rubbing in her victory. These two have much to learn. But as the knight and his padawan quarrel, Rex and Waxer slide down from the other end of the table, both of them holding back smiles.

"Seventy-four," Rex says, making Anakin and Ahoksa's heads turn in shock.

"Rex what! You got seventy-four battle droids?" Ahsoka says in awe.

"No, sirs," Waxer nods his head in Obi-Wan's direction. "Master Kenobi did."

That is enough to set off the other two Jedi over logistics of whether or not Obi-Wan should even be considered as part of the competition when he was the one making fun of them for it in the first place, and the troopers into fits of amusement. Obi-Wan lets them have their fun, sipping on his tea and letting the warmth of the drink and the moment spread through him.

The voices of his vision are still there. A constant reminder that no amount of his padawans' yelling at one another will allow him to forget the cold that spread through his every cell. In this instance, maybe the General Kenobi approach isn't enough.

Master Kenobi would meditate over these lingering feelings. Perhaps after breakfast, he will feed on this positive energy and take the morning to release his anxieties to the Force.

Maybe, being a little bit of both will help.

He just won't be Obi-Wan. Not right now, at least.

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chickensarentcheap · 4 years

Text

Sanctuary -Chapter 47

Warnings: profanity

Tagging: @alievans007, @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @thunderintheshadows, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @valkyrie-of-the-light

The text messages arrived shortly before one thirty in the afternoon. The rattle of the phone as it vibrates against the nightstand jarring Tyler from peaceful slumber. Hypervigilance the shrink had called it once. One of the many symptoms of his PTSD. He'd always attributed it to being on the job for so long; the ability to go from deep sleep to an almost extreme state of alertness in the blink of an eye. His brain and body on edge; always on the outlook for dangers; whether visible or not. It had always come in handy when out on a job; he was able to quickly detect any sort of threat and determine if it was valid or not. Within the last two years though, waking has often been a harrowing experience; everything and everyone around him a possible danger, anxiety already sitting on his chest and threatening to suffocate him, a cold sweat covering him from head to toe. Many times one of the kids has jumped a little too hard on the bed and he's bolted awake, a hand ready to grab whoever was next to him or a fist cocked ready to defend himself. It had never gotten that far, thankfully. Awareness settling in before anything horrible could happen.

He'd never forgive himself; if he hurts his own kids because his brain is fucked up and beyond repair.

Today it isn't bad. His reaction isn't extreme; no pounding heart, no sweats, no desire to rip somebody apart. There's more annoyance than anything. It had been one of the best -if not the best- sleep he'd had in weeks, if not months. Not demons to fight in his dreams, no memories of Dhaka, no replay of what he'd done only hours before. His body and his mind temporarily shutting down; flat on his back with his wife between his legs, fast asleep with her stomach pressed against him, her head on his chest. It had been intimacy in it's purest and most innocent form; long, slow, sweet kisses that didn't develop into anything more, whispered conversations about not just their worries and their fears, but future plans, declarations of love, promises that everything was going to be okay. That they were going to be okay. And he'd wrapped his arms around and held her as tight as her little body would allow him to, eyes closed as he relaxed in the warmth that radiated off of her, the scent that lingered in her hair.

He reaches for his phone, careful not to wake her. This pregnancy is already proving to be the most difficult one out of the three she's already been through; the all day sickness much more severe and accompanied by near crippling exhaustion. The stress isn't helping of course. The constant state of worry and panic that she always seems to be operating in. But for now she's peaceful. Her back rising and falling with each soft breath, hair falling over her eyes, a slight smile curving her lips. She's relaxed. Safe. Secure. Protected. And his mind is comforted by that. That despite all of their issues, all of the fights, all of the harsh words, all the ultimatums, she still is able to feel that with him.

He has to change. Staying the same isn't an option. And neither is losing his family.

We got trouble, Yaz' text reads. N is here. Pissed. Get here. ASAP.

“Fuck me,” Tyler mutters, and drops the phone onto the mattress. Yet he isn't filled with a sense of urgency. In no hurry to either respond to the text or get to the storage facility. There isn't much that Nik can do. Not even she will step on the toes of the IRA, and she knows that Tyler himself will be a force to be reckoned with if she even so as much -in the slightest- puts his children further at risk. And if she knows what's good for her, she'll just walk away entirely and pretend she never saw a damn thing.

He doesn't want to move. The mixture of the earlier Valium with the most recent pain meds he'd taken have his body at ease; the pain is minor, a dull yet bearable ache just under the shoulder blade, the right knee and back both stiff, but manageable. And he closes his eyes once more; a hand falling on the top of Esme's head, softly running his palm over her hair before it settles in the middle of her back. She stirs against him, mumbling in her sleep and rubbing her cheek against his t-shirt, yet eyes never opening. She looks even younger when she's asleep; ends of her eyelashes brushing against the tops of her cheeks, skin pale and soft -those freckles across her nose more noticeable thanusual-, a soft smile curving her lips. And she seems even smaller than normal; fragile even. Even though she's anything but. He'd made that mistake once. In Dhaka. Assuming she was weak and fragile and needed someone to handle her problems. And she'd quickly let him know just how badly he'd underestimated her.

His phone vibrates again and he groans in protest, scooping it up off of the mattress.

Put your dick back in your pants and get here now

He smirks at that, then sets the phone down once again and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, laying there for several more minutes, summoning up the energy and the desire to actually move. What he wouldn't give to just stay there; fall back asleep with her body tucked so securely against him, both of them temporarily at peace. No worry, no stress, no arguments brought on by the two. No raised voices or harsh words. No tension. No threat to their marriage. It's not the first time he's felt as if things are falling apart; he was certain during their six months apart that things were over and it was a waiting game when it came to win the divorce papers would arrive. But even then she'd given him a second chance. Or was it a third chance that time? Maybe even a fourth? This time he truly feels that he's all out of chances. That's he used up his last one and all that is left is true change. And the effort that has to go into it.

He runs both of his hands up and down her back and presses a kiss to the top of her head, reluctant to wake her up. “Baby...” he combs his fingers through her hair; clearing her bangs off of her forehead. “...Esme....baby....wake up....”

“No,” she pouts, voice childlike. “You can't make me.”

“Well I could make you. But I don't really want to have to resort to that.”

“I said no. I'm not moving. I'm not letting you leave.”

“Babe, I need you to wake up. Or at least get off me.”

“No,” she refuses once more, nuzzles her face even tighter into his chest, hands tightly gripping the sides of his t-shirt. “You're staying right here. Where you belong. With me. You're not allowed to go anywhere.”

“What if I have to take a leak?” he challenges.

“I heard your phone. I know you don't have to go the bathroom. So I'm not moving. I'm not letting you leave. I'm tired of you leaving all the time. Why can't you just stay? Why can't we just have this? These kinds of moments?”

“We'll have tons of these moments when this is all over.”

“When? We have four kids. And one on the way.”

“We'll find time to have them,” he assures her. “But right now? Right now I need you to get off me. Please.”

“You suck,” she mutters, and rolls off of him. “You're the worst.”

“But you love me.”

“Maybe,” she singsongs, and then yawns.

“Well, I love you,” he leans over her, places a kiss to her lips. “You don't get a say in that.”

She smiles, then reaches up and lays a hand on the side of his face, running her thumb over the scruffiness of his beard. “Is everything okay? Who was it?”

“There's some issues. With McMann.”

“And that's your problem how?”

“They need me to come help straighten him out.”

“They're Marines. They're more than capable of handling things.”

“Yeah, well he's scared of me, so....” he kisses her once last time, then gives her a wink and climbs off the bed.

“He should be,” she says, as she rolls over onto her stomach, frowning when he shoves his feet into a pair of flip flops. “Where's your boots?”

“In the closet. I have to clean them when I get back.”

“Why would you lock them in the closet?”

He shrugs, silently cursing himself for not taking care of things early. This all could have been avoided had he just cleaned the goddamn things when he'd first got back. “I dunno. I guess I just did it and wasn't thinking about it. I'll take care of them later.”

“I can do it if you want,” she offers. “As nasty as your boots smell, I've cleaned worse. I have three boys. It doesn't get any more nasty than those three.”

“Just leave them. They're gross. I've got shit all over them.”

She scrunches up her nose. “Like literally or figuratively?”

“Literally,” he lies. “So I'd rather you not deal with something like that, okay?”

“Okay,” she agrees. “Are you going to kick his ass?”

“If I have to.”

“Is it wrong that it makes me wet when I think about you beating the hell out of people? Or getting all aggressive and mean with someone?”

“Well, you like it when I get all aggressive and mean with you, so...”

“My hormones are all over the place. Just so you know. Even seeing your ass in those jeans does me in. Guess I'll just have to have some fun by myself while you're gone. A little solo studying time.”

He groans inwardly. “I'm going to have that stuck in my head now. The thought of you 'studying'.”

“Don't worry, baby. I promise I'll only think about you when I'm studying.”

“You're evil,” he declares, and stands at the side of the bed, pushing his hand through her hair and tightly gripping those soft, red tresses as he kisses her. Hard. Intense. A toe curling kind of kiss that he knows she'll feel for quite a while.

“And you call me evil,” she huffs, as he heads for the door. “I love you. And lust you. Just so you know.”

He grins. “I love you. And lust you, too.”

****

“What...the...fuck...”

That is how Nik greets him, already at the side of the SUV before he even climbs out. Hands on her hips, eyes blazing, mouth set in a grim line. Quite the contrast against the dreary, filthy backdrop of the industrial area in her wedge heels, well tailored black slacks, and low cut red blouse.

The look he gives her must speak volumes, as she takes three steps backwards, giving him both the space to throw open the door, and some breathing room.

“Hey to you, too, Nik,” he responds, and uses his hip to shut the door. “What's up?”

“You damn well know what's up,” she snarls. “What the hell is this?” her hand wildly gestures towards the building. “Just what the hell is this?!”

“It's none of your business is what it is,” he attempts to step past her, but she grabs a hold of his forearm, nails digging into his skin.

Scowling, he sighs heavily and glances down at the hold she has on him, then back up into her eyes.

She gets the message, quickly removing her hand, and she hurries to keep up with him as he heads through the front gate. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you do this? What would make you resort to something like this?”

“Go back to Colorado, Nik. This has nothing to do with you.”

“It has everything to do with me. You work for me. You're associated with me. With my business. You're mine and....”

“I'm yours?” he scoffs. “The ring on my finger says I belong to someone else. You don't own me. This job never belonged to you. You just took it upon yourself to get involved. Because for some reason you can't seem to leave me the fuck alone. What's your issue? Is it a crush? Love? Obsession?”

“Get over yourself, Tyler.”

“I'm not the one who turned you down. Several times. Or are you forgetting that? So you get over yourself. Leave me alone, Nik. This doesn't involve you. It never has.”

“It involved me the second you asked me for my help,” she reminds him. “When McMann showed up in Colorado and you were suspicious of him. You asked me to look into it. You asked me if I had someone tailing you and I said no and then you asked me for my help.”

“For your help. Not to just show up here and try and take things over. This? What's going on here? Has nothing to do with you? And why aren't you in Colorado? Why aren't you at my place, keeping an eye on things?”

“Maybe because you went behind my back and sent Ovi and Chloe away with the kids. You took it upon yourself to screw everything up and...”

No,” he snarls, and abruptly turns on his heel, fixing her in an steely gaze. “I took it upon myself to protect my family. Because you and your people couldn't do their goddamn job properly. Why did you lie to me, Nik? Every fucking time I asked you if things were okay at home, you told me that things were fine. That there was nothing to worry about. I had to find out through Ovi just what was going on. The phone calls, the pictures, the guys that came right to the house. Why didn't you tell me about any of that?'

“I didn't see a reason to.”

“You didn't see a reason to tell me that people were threatening my family? That people were out there watching my kids? That they were showing up at my house, where my kids live? You should have told me right when it started happening. So I could have...”

“So you could have what? Ditched everything and come home? And what could would that have done? The job wasn't finished.”

“Fuck the job!” Tyler snarls. “My family comes before the job, Nik.”

“Since when? You've been putting the job first for the last four years. It's always come first. The job. And if you say it hasn't, you're either in denial or you're a goddamn liar. You like to think you're all about the family life. That you're a family man first and mercenary second. But that's bullshit and you know it. You are who you are, Tyler. You can deny it all you want.”

He shakes his head, nostrils flaring. “You have no fucking clue what you're talking about.”

“You left your wife when she was pregnant with twins. When she was having problems. Serious problems. You left her for the job. When she needed you the most. But that's a theme in your life, isn't it. Leaving the people you love when they need you the most.”

“That is way of fucking line, Nik, and you know it.”

“I knew if I told you about what was happening in Colorado, you'd be on the next flight home. And I needed you to stay here. To get the job done. To find those kids. I also knew that if you came home, that target on your kids' backs would have gotten ever bigger. You being with them would have only made things worse. McMann is...was....after you. And if you went home to your kids, McMann would have followed you and you would have put your kids in even more danger.”

“They're safer with me than they are with complete strangers!”

“Tyler, these people are dangerous. More dangerous than anyone you have ever dealt with before. When they got to you...and they would have...they wouldn't have just killed you. They would have done horrible, horrible things to your kids. While you watched. And then they would have killed them. Right in front of you. And they wouldn't kill you until everyone else you loved was already dead.”

He sighs, then pushes his hands through his hair and leans back against the wall next to the storage locker, feet crossed, arms folded across his chest, eyes downcast.

“And then you sent Ovi away with those kids. Which was the worst thing you could have done. Because now I have no idea where they are. I can't send anyone to watch them.”

“They're safe,” he says. “In a different state.”

“Where? Where are they? Because they're not safe on their own. Ovi doesn't stand a chance and you know that. What the hell were you thinking? Wait, you weren't. Because you don't use your head anymore. You use your heart. Which is a big fucking mistake in the job and you know that.”

“My kids aren't a job, Nik. My kids are my heart. And maybe if you had kids of your own...”

Her eyes narrow. “You are not going there with this. You're not going to play dirty. Not with me.”

“You're going to lecture me about playing dirty? When you've been after me for the past five and half years to cheat on my wife with you? Now that's rich. You standing there trying to act like you have some moral superiority over me. I was never going to say yes, Nik. It was never going to happen. And you kept pushing and pushing. You never left me alone. You still don't. No matter how many times I tell you to back off.”

“That's not what this is about and you know it.”

“Now seems like as good as time as any, don't you think? You need to back off, Nik. You're my friend. That's it. You're never going to be anything more than that. That ship sailed a long time ago. You need to leave me alone. I don't want you texting me, I don't want you calling me, I don't want you showing up at my hotel when I'm on a job. I want you to stay away from me. Unless it's business.”

She blinks. “That seems a little....extreme.”

“I'm a married man, Nik. I've been married for five and a half years. And you act like it's nothing. Like it means nothing to me. It means everything to me. I'm trying to keep my family together and you're hell bent on tearing it apart. Back off. I don't know how much plainer I have to be. It's never going to happen.”

She inhales sharply. “If that's the way you want it...”

“That's exactly the way I want it. I'm trying to hold my marriage together. Desperately. This job is tearing Esme and I apart. All the goddamn promises that I made her. When I told her that this life was behind me and I'd never get back into it. I went back on everything single fucking promise I made. And she put up with it. She still kept giving me chance, after chance, after chance. I can't do that to her anymore. Because I keep doing this...the job...I'm going to lose her. I'm going to lose everything. And all the money in the world isn't worth that.”

“So you're walking away,” Nik concludes.

“When this job is over...when I find those kids.....that's it. I'm done. I can't do this anymore, Nik. This life. My family deserves better than this. I'm tired. Physically. Mentally. I'm fucking tired and I'm done.”

“So what is this then?” she nods towards the open door. “What you're doing here? What you're doing to McMann? What is this Tyler? You wanted to go out with a big bang?”

“I'm doing what I need to do. For my family.”

“You drugged, kidnapped, and tortured a man. You became one of the people you've always fought against. You've become of the people you used to save people from.”

“I'm nothing like any of those people and you know it.”

Nik stares at him pointedly. “You sliced a man's throat with a box cutter.”

“I barely broke the surface. Is he breathing? Did he bleed to death? Then I didn't slit his damn throat.”

“You pulled three of his teeth out with a pair of pliers.”

Tyler shrugs. “I was going to go for four, but it seemed a little overkill.”

“What is going on with you?” her voice is softer now. Concerned. “This isn't you. You've never been like this. You've never gotten yourself caught up in something like this. In revenge.”

“He threatened my family,” he vehemently reasons. “My kids, Nik. He was near my kids.”

“A bullet to the head would have been a better way to go. Why didn't you just do that? If you're just going to kill him anyway...”

“He deserves to suffer, Nik. Do you know what he was going to do Esme if he'd caught her at the house? Do you know what he told his people to do to Ovi and Chloe? To my kids? I do. He told me everything. Every sick and twisted thing that he and his people were going to do. A bullet in the head is too good for that guy. It's too easy. He deserves so much more than that.”

“This stops, Tyler. This stops now.”

He shakes his head.

“You need to get a grip on yourself,” she orders. “You're losing it. You've been losing it for a while now and I always gave you the benefit of the doubt that you'd pull yourself together. This has gone too far. You've gone too far.”

“You need to go, Nik. Just turn around and walk away.”

“And watch you destroy yourself? Watch you become someone I don't recognize anymore?”

“I'm not your problem. I never have been. Just go. Walk away now and you don't have to have this on your conscience.”

“But it's okay for you to have it on yours?” she counters. “Does Esme know about this? About what you're doing here?”

“No. And she doesn't need to know.”

“So you're not only lying to yourself, you're lying to her. About who you've become. And yet you have the nerve to accuse me of trying to tear your marriage apart.”

“You've been wanting to fuck me for five and a half years. Knowing I have a wife. So yeah. I am accusing you of that.”

“You're keeping something like this from her? What do you think is going to happen when she finds out? Not just that you lied, but what you did. What you're capable of.”

“She knows what I'm capable of. She saw it for herself in Dhaka. A job you dragged her into. You and some stupid fucking plan.”

“That stupid fucking plan worked. Until Mahajan Senior screwed us. And that stupid fucking plan gave you a second chance at life. It lead you to the love of your life. You have children because of that stupid fucking plan. It's because of that plan...because of me...that you have what you have.”

“And what? I'm supposed to show how grateful but fucking you on the down low? That's how you wanted me to repay you?”

“If you lose everything now, that's all on you, Tyler. If you go through with this...with what you're doing to McMann...she will find out and she will leave you. Because you'll be the man she's always feared you could become. She'll leave and she'll take those kids. And you'll be lucky if you ever see them again.”

“She's pregnant,” he blurts out, and Nik closes her eyes briefly and inhales sharply one again.

“Please tell me you're not serious right now,” she pleads.

“We just found out. A couple of days ago. We're not sure how far along she is. Probably a couple of months.”

“What is wrong with you two? Is that all you do with your spare time? Make babies? Is that all you know how to do? Get her pregnant?”

He smirks. “Maybe we just like to fuck.”

Her lips twitch with the hint of her own smirk. “You couldn't be more careful while you're fucking? I thought Declan was it? The last one?”

“We changed our minds. Figured one more wouldn't hurt.”

“Hell of a time for there to baby on the way, don't you think?”

“It happens when it happens, Nik. We didn't exactly plan it this way.”

She nods slowly, hands on her hips. “You send her back home. Tomorrow. First flight you can get.”

“That's not going to happen.”

“Tyler, this isn't a safe place for her to be. Especially now. You don't know how many people McMann has out there. And if you're going to be out looking for those kids....”

“And she's safe back home? With people I don't even know watching over her? Fuck that. She's safer with me than anyone else and you know it.”

“If you're out looking for those kids and eventually extracting them, you won't be around to protect her,” Nik points out.

“Mark's got someone watching her. A Marine.”

“Yet you won't trust the people I have?”

“With all due respect, Nik, but you hired Jason Andrews' brother without even knowing it and that's why McMann is after me in the first place. So no. I don't trust the people you have. She stays here. With me. And if I have to go to New Zealand...”

Nik arches an eyebrow. “New Zealand? What...?”

“...she'll come with me there, too. Where I go, she goes. That's just the way it is.”

“That's asking for trouble and you know it.”

“I'm the only one she trusts. I'm the only one that makes her feel safe. I'm not sending her home. There's no way. Go back to Colorado, Nik. Or better yet, go to Oklahoma. Find Ovi and my kids. You put them in this fucking situation when you hired Andrews' brother. You fucking get them out of it.”

“Tyler...” she attempts to stop him before he steps into the storage unit.

“Goodbye, Nik,” he says, and slams the door down behind him.

****

“Hey look who it is, Mike!” Nathan calls out as Tyler enters the storage unit. “Your favourite person!”

“Fuck you,” McMann mumbles, and then spits in Tyler's direction. “And fuck you too, Rake.”

“He's a little mad at you,” the young Marine grins, as he sits mere feet from the captive man, his long legs stretched out, hands behind his head. “I think he was really fond of those teeth you took.”

“You take care of things?” Yaz asks from the other side of the room, immersed in his laptop.

“I don't know how well I took care of them, but yeah, I took care of them. What's going Michael? You been a good boy? You been behaving yourself for my mates here? I know our date isn't planned for later tonight, but I missed you and thought I'd come see you. What happened here?” he roughly grabs a hold of McMann's chin and titls his head to the side. “That's a hell of a shiner you got there. Trip and fall on the way to take a piss again?”

Yaz chuckles.

McMann scowls. “That little asshole pushed me and he knows it!”

“Naw,” Tyler shakes his head. “Yaz wouldn't do that. Yaz is a pacifist.”

“Yeah,” the man in question snorts. “As in I'd like to pass a fist across his face.”

“I'd like to fucking see you try!” McMann snarls.

“Easy now...easy now...” Tyler lets go of the man's chin, then gives him a shot in the mouth with the back of his hand; the knuckles catching him in the top lip and easily splitting it. “...don't talk to my mates like that. So what have you boys been up to?” he asks, as he snags a bottle of water from one of the coolers and pulls up a plastic chair. “You been keeping Michael company? Keeping him out of trouble?”

“He's been a real fucking delight,” Nathan chuckles. “He speaks very highly of you.”

“I bet he does. We're close to being best mates now aren't we?” he kicks at McMann's shins, hard enough to make him wince.

“You're a prick,” McMann responds. “And when you're finally dead, I'll be the first one to come piss on your grave. Then go to your place and fuck your pretty little wife.”

“Bruh...” Yaz shakes his head. “...you should have just left it at 'spit on your grave'.”

“She'd probably like that, wouldn't she,” McMann continues. “Finally a real man showing her how things are done.”

Tyler smirks, then calmly places the bottle of water on the ground and stands up, slowly making his way over the restrained man. Then stands above him; a towering, intimidating figure. And when he sees that little glitter of fear in the other man's eyes, he snatches him by the throat, fingers firmly pressing into either side of his windpipe.

“Remember,” Yaz doesn't even look up from his laptop. “You can't kill him.”

“I'm not going to kill him. He's got a long way to go before anyone kills him,” Tyler tightens his grip on McMann's throat, until his face begins to turn a vivid shade of red and he's gasping for breath. “Don't you talk about my wife like that,” his voice is calm, yet his eyes give away the depth and the power of the rage that inhabits his body. “Don't you ever talk about her like that.”

“If you can't already tell, he's a little sensitive when it comes to his wife.” Yaz says. “But you just keep opening your goddamn mouth about her. Doesn't he Nathan?”

The young Marine nods. “Wouldn't shut up about her earlier.”

“Oh really?” Tyler looses his grip on McMann's throat, their eyes remaining locked on one another. “What was he saying?”

“I don't know if we should tell you,” Nathan says. “You might get upset. Well, more upset than you are right now.”

“Maybe he hasn't lost enough teeth yet,” Yaz suggests.

“I'll let keep his teeth. For now. So what were you saying, Michael? About my wife.”

“Nothing! They're fucking lying!”

“You blokes wouldn't lie to me about something like that, would you?” Tyler asks, looking between the other two men, both shaking their heads. “They definitely would not lie to me. Especially about something like that. So tell me. What did you say about her?”

“Thinks she's a nice piece of ass,” Nathan chimes in. “Say he wouldn't mind tying her up and having his way with her.”

“I did not fucking say that!” McMann exclaims. “I haven't said shit about her!”

“Said he wouldn't mind fucking her in all her holes.” Yaz adds. “And I wouldn't lie about that shit.”

“Michael...” Tyler shakes his head. “....you really don't know when to keep your mouth shut, do you. I thought we were mates. Buddies. Why would you say shit like that? About my wife? Unlike the psycho bitch you're married to, my wife is innocent in all of this.”

“How can anyone be innocent being married to a prick like you?” he retorts. “Must be something fucked up in her head in she stays with you! What's your secret? Beat the shit out of her to make her stay? Make her too scared too leave? No way someone like her is staying with someone like you.”

“See, I don't have to resort to shit like that. Maybe that's your way of doing things. You like to beat on women, don't you. Among other things. Which already makes me want to break your fucking neck. Now I find out you're saying things about my wife? This isn't going to be a good day for you, Michael. But I'll be nice. I'll let you keep the rest of your teeth. For now,” he heads over to the table holding the weapons. “You left handed or right handed?”

“What?”

“It's a simple goddamn question. Are you right handed or left handed?”

“Right. Why? What are you going to do? What...?” his eyes widen as Tyler returns with a hunting knife.

“That's a shame. I guess you're either going to have to learn with your left or you're going to have to improvise with the right. Yaz, you look busy. Maybe Nathan will help me out.”

“My pleasure,” the Marine says, and jumps to his feet. “What'cha need?”

Tyler smirks, then runs a finger along the sharp edge of the knife. “You ever hold a man down while someone cuts off a couple fingers?”

“No,” Nathan calmly rolls up his sleeves. “But I guess there's a first time for everything.”

#tyler rake #tyler rake fan fic #tyler rake fan fiction #sanctuary #chris hemsworth character #extraction

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mynameisnemo · 4 years

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So once upon a time @ananeiah convinced me to start listening to The Magnus Archives. And then, as if that wasn’t enough crime being committed, then she started throwing Tumblr posts about the show at my head until I actually had to come back to this hellsite and create an account so that I too could yell about headcanons.

This post right here about Martin was the post that actually dragged me back onto this hellsite after I quit years ago. It’s a really good post but to caveat the entire LONG post to follow, I don’t totally agree with OP’s headcanon.

So diving right in, we haven’t been given anything about Martin's mum other than in EP118 where Elias used her to torture Martin into not burning the statements anymore. And then she died when everything else was also going to hell. And Martin’s mum may have been awful and abusive and never loved him. But...I feel like this take on her is a very one-dimensional one, coming pretty much entirely from Elias Known-Liar-and-Manipulator Bouchard’s mouth while he’s using the knowledge against someone for a purpose. Elias is a fear entity who is getting ready to feed Martin to the lonely.

But the really awful thing is if she did love him.

Maybe at one point she really did love him but over time and thru her deterioration her ability to see him apart from his father deteriorated as well. And so Martin knows that at one time she did love him...but then things got hard...and then things got harder (and no one ever says what she was sick with so depending on what type of degenerative illness she had I have different theories about this) and in the end she can only see his father and not him but he has to hope every day that she'll remember him.

(Like there's early onset dementia/Alzheimers which would both cause a lack of ability to distinguish Martin from his father, esp given the physical similarities between them. And also an obvious excuse for emotional outbreaks on her part. And then brain cancer which...is a whole fucking can of worms about how it can exhibit. Or it could be something physical like Parkinson's or MS or ALS which doesn’t necessarily in and of itself cause a mental deterioration but the drugs that are used to treat it can cause all kinda of cognitive complications.)

But any of them would exhibit a pattern of good days and bad days and Martin wouldn’t have anyway of knowing what was the drugs - either in a positive or a negative way - and what was her actual feelings. And then a literal avatar of evil and fear takes the worst parts of that and shoves it into his mind wholesale without any nuance or mitigation.

And then on top of that, he doesn’t even have time to deal with it. Because soon after that Jon and Tim and Daisy all died to various degrees. And Elias was still there being a threat and Melanie was also there and a much more immediate physical threat. And I know everyone processes things in different ways and on different timelines but the existence of an immediate threat mostly supersedes any kind of emotional processing.

And then Peter was fucking with him which I very much feel like started with a dampening of his feelings via depression. As if he didn’t enough already to be depressed about. (And at the time that I originally thought a lot of this out I hadn’t started S5 yet. So, ya know, The Fearpocalypse.)

Mostly I feel like until he gets some time to breathe he won’t even start to work thru the major emotional trauma of dealing with his mom dying. And that would be true even if Elias hadn’t been evil and shown him a truth about her feelings towards him. I feel that would require the emotional space to work thru what is grief and what is possibly outside influenced trauma. Which also assumes that he is the type of person who has the ability to see that the two might be separate, and I think he is because he seems to have a certain amount of ability to be introspective. I think anyone who ends up lonely has to be, to some extent.

There’s so many levels to what he needs to process as well. Because the thing about processing after a parent dies isn’t just about the feelings when you're like 30 and they died but also about the feelings when you were 9 and confused and 14 and resentful and 23 and angry. All of those emotions are valid and they all have to be dealt with without the ability to hash them out with the person you feel them about. And there's no ability to gain a perspective on the things that made you feel that way because you can’t say "hey, you remember that time this happened....it made me feel this way..." and then they explain what their emotions and perspective on the thing were.

Because...they don’t exist anymore. So you have to attribute actions and emotions to a past event thru a lense of what you think you know about a person.

And I will NEVER forgive Elias because Martin will always have to wonder, no matter how healthy his coping mechanisms are, if he is just wishing his mother did love him or if she really hated him and everything was a lie.

#TMA #the magnus archives #martin k blackwood #meta #headcanon #grief #I have more martin feelings related to this but this is already long #enjoy the knife!

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ducktracy · 5 years

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116. gold diggers of ‘49 (1935)

release date: november 2nd, 1935

series: looney tunes

director: tex avery

starring: tommy bond (beans), joe dougherty (porky), bernice hansen (kitty), billy bletcher (villain)

oh man, where to begin? this is probably the most important review yet, arguably more important than i haven’t got a hat. you’re seeing that right! this is tex avery’s directorial debut. some history before we start (yes, this is going to be one of those LONG posts, but it’s certainly worth it):

tex had worked at walter lantz before working at warner bros, where he suffered an eye injury. he was horseplaying in the office—they had a game where one would shoot a rubber. and or a spitball at someone and hit them in the back of the eye, yelling “bullseye!” with each successful shot. the game evolved to using paper clips, and someone told tex to look out. he turned around just in time for the paper clip to strike him in his left eye, losing vision in said eye. many have attributed his poor depth perception to the wackiness and bizarre nature of his cartoons.

avery applied for warner bros, bluffing his way through and telling leon schlesinger he was a director. tex is cited as saying “'hey, i’m, a director'. hell! i was no more a director than nothing, but with my loud mouth, i talked him into it.” with hardaway gone, freleng and king were the only directors there, and avery was graciously accepted.

yet, the staff was growing in size, and avery’s unit was beyond the limit for a single studio. thus, termite terrace was born—a shoddy five room bungalow affectionately dubbed termite terrace as a result of their termite houseguests. he was assigned animators bob clampett, chuck jones, sid sutherland, and virgil ross. instead of animators swarming around to whatever director needed them, avery now had a solid unit, a model that would continue on and distinguish the animators/units as we know them today.

tex is attributed to birthing the studios greatest stars. daffy duck, elmer fudd, and bugs bunny (it could be debated whether he created bugs or ben hardaway created bugs, especially since bugs was hardaway’s nickname and literally named bugs’ bunny. however, for simplicity’s sake, tex is virtually the creator of bugs. he solidified the voice, the personality, and the design, which differed greatly from the hayseed loon that was hardaway’s bugs.) he had a relatively short career at warner bros, leaving in 1941 after a dispute with leon schlesinger over his cartoon the heckling hare (which we’ll cover in depth once we get there). he moved to mgm, where his potential as a director really exploded. he spawned the iconic yet austere droopy, as well as red hot riding hood, the inspiration for jessica rabbit in who framed roger rabbit. this man is responsible for a LOT, including holding the title as one of my favorite directors (the others being, of course, bob clampett and frank tashlin. coincidentally, all of them left sometime in the 40s. maybe that’s why i love the 40s cartoons so much)

i’ll run my mouth more at the end of the review, soap boxing on why this cartoon is so important, but let’s actually SEE the contents of the cartoon so we can interpret it. it’s 1849, the heart of the gold rush. beans and porky wish to hit it big by digging for gold, but a nefarious villain snatches their findings, resulting in trouble.

tex avery loved to play around with words, whether it be sign gags or narrating captions as we see here. open to a remote western town, rife with cacti and dry land. “THE TIME” is proudly displayed on the screen as we pan to a covered wagon, a calendar inside clueing us in that it’s july of 1849. “THE PLACE”—we pan to a saloon titled “GOLDVILLE SALOON”. and, of course, “THE GIRL”.

little kitty comes bounding out of the general store, joining a crowd congregating around a bulletin board. the newspaper article posted details beans’ gold digging ambitions: “YOUNG PROSPECTOR TO HUNT GOLD IN RED GULCH”. a picture of a proud beans, posing with his pickaxe and his mule. below it: “BEANS — local boy to brave hazards of red gulch for gold”.

absolutely ecstatic, kitty snatches the paper from the billboard and rushes away. bernice hansen’s delivery is on point and absolutely hilarious as kitty gives her breathless monologue: “oh, that’s my sweetie, and i’ll bet he’ll find the gold, and he loves me and everything!”

porky makes his second major (i use that term loosely, since his appearance in i haven’t got a hat wasn’t REALLY a major role but more of an acknowledgement) appearance, this time as a fully grown adult, father to kitty. genetics work in mysterious ways. he fixes himself a giant towering sandwich, including a whole fish, a block of cheese, sausage links, and an entire roasted turkey. sustenance! he scarfs the sandwich down and gives an ecstatic “WWWWHHOOOOPEEEE!!”, a catchphrase of his that thankfully never returned outside of this short. still extremely amusing. as i said before, i don’t find dougherty’s porky “painful” like how some other people find it, but i definitely think this is his most awkward performance, and it’s not even because of his characterization, but the decision not to speed up his voice. dougherty had a very deep voice, and in this cartoon his voice isn’t sped up at all. it’s a bit jarring, but this WAS his second real appearance. tex’s next porky cartoon, the blow out, would have him back as a (much cuter) plucky child.

kitty rushes in and shoves the paper in porky’s face, continuing her breathless babbling. “look what my sweetie’s gonna do! i’m so proud of him! he loves me and everything! he’s gonna find gold and we’re gonna be married! and right this minute, he’s way out in the mountains—“ kitty’s breathless narration continues as we get a shot of the mountains. a long, exposed tunnel goes right through one of the mountains, where we get a distance shot of beans hacking away at a mountain. “and right now he might be discovering gold!”

a closeup reveals beans picking away at the side of the mountain, carving a little hole. just above it are some slots. beans plucks a button from his shirt and feeds it into the makeshift machine, pulling a branch as a lever. he spins, and lands the jackpot. a plethora of gold coins rush out of the slot, beans collecting the loot with his hat. if only it were that easy!

rightfully gleeful, beans cries “gold!gold!” and leaps on his trusty steed. a giant “GOLD!” zooms into view on the screen as beans gallops along on his mule, rushing into town. he bursts into the saloon and declares “i found gold in the gulch, boys! gold in the gulch!”

all of the patrons echo “GOLD?” incredulously, deserting their post at once. even the bartender leaps over the bar, leaving behind some ice cream and other desserts on the counter. a bit of an awkward shot—there’s a still frame of the food on the counter, and you’d expect someone to come in and take the food with them, but that’s not the case. it just sits there and goes onto the next scene. i wonder if there were any cuts, or if didn’t have time, or what. nevertheless, it’s slightly jarring but a menial thing to pick at.

one by one, the patrons leap on their horses and follow beans to his site. a man flops to the ground where his horse rides HIM instead—a regular gag in the looney tunes universe, but one that tex avery seemed to enjoy in particular. can’t blame him.

beans alerts everyone in town—a dog in the bathtub, the dog taking his bathtub with him as he runs, two stereotypical chinese men at the laundromat (yeah, not a good way for tex to start off. just blatantly racist.), and a barbershop quartet singing “sweet adeline” outside of a barbershop, animation by bob clampett. beans alerts them, and the quartet runs off... until they rush right back to finish their song. a great gag as they run right back to find the gold.

next stop, kitty’s house. beans rushes inside and exclaims “i found gold!”, holding kitty by the hands. porky pokes his head out from the kitchen, wielding a fork and spoon, where he repeats “gold?” incredulously. no time is wasted as he jogs right out the door, donning a ten gallon hat and a pick axe. beans excuses himself, kitty refusing to let go. he runs out the door, and kitty reflects on her sweetie. good, snappy timing as beans unexpectedly zooms right back inside, dipping kitty and giving her a rather passionate kiss. he leaves once more as kitty collects herself.

porky has his jalopy all ready to go, and beans jumps right in. porky gives another “WHOOPEE!” as they barrel on. more blatant racism as they pass the chinese men traveling via rickshaw. porky and beans zoom right past them, and a cloud of exhaust cover the men. predictably, they’re now in blackface, talking in a stereotypical accent (as if they weren’t before). obviously, it goes without saying why or how this is disgusting and wrong. i love tex avery as much as the next person, but this isn’t a good start. you’re better than this, tex! it bears mentioning regardless. although we’ll explore a ton of beautiful, great cartoons, we’ll also be examining cartoons that are equally nasty and grotesque. both are important and deserve equal attention.

fade out and back in to the site where beans struck it rich. porky gives another “WHOOPEE!” and strikes his axe into the ground, as do the siamese twins and beans. porky sticks his hand in his hole, where he pulls out a shiny coin and yells “gold!” so far, his dialogue has been three “WHOOPEE!”s and two variations of “gold”. what a complex character! he stores his find in his back pocket for safekeeping. a highly amusing gag as he sticks his hand down again, this time his hand extending through another hole near his pocket. he fishes his hand into his back pocket (unknowingly) and grabs his find, reaching his hand out of the hole and admiring his “new” loot.

the process repeats until beans’ voice stops porky in his tracks. he’s found something. porky tosses a rope down into the cavernous hole that beans is in, and with a few good tugs, beans pops out of the hole, perched on top of a heavy treasure chest.

everyone crowds around as porky and beans lift the chest. inside is a tiny little book, covered in a thick layer of cobwebs that reads “HOW TO FIND GOLD”. beans opens the book, and the answer is right there in the print: “DIG FOR IT”. tex’s strong sense of humor brings the cartoon much needed liveliness and fun. tex was definitely a gag man more than an artist, and he has said so. not that his cartoons are badly drawn at all, but it’s clear he has a priority in humor, which is a great priority to have. porky and beans exchange gobsmacked looks.

enter the villain, creeping along furtively with his horse. he peers through his binoculars, surveying the site. pan past porky and beans scratching their heads over their instructions, past a bag of gold, past a pickaxe... the villain goes back to the bag of gold, exclaiming “ah! gold!” he fires his gun, a wonderfully strange hybrid between a gun, a fishing rod, and a grappling hook. as he fires, a lasso extends down to the gulch, tying conveniently around the bag of loot. the villain reels in his catch—some great added detail as he struggles, as if fighting a big one, and even scooping it up in a net.

porky and beans spot the bandit. porky stutters “if you get that bag for me, you can have my daughter.” beans is delighted and eagerly shakes his hand—it’s a deal. he jumps into porky’s car and rides off, winding up the twists and turns of the mountain as the bandit makes off with his gold. visions of grandeur fill the bandits head as he imagines a long, fanciful, costly limo, a driver touting him around as he chuffs on a fat cigar, donning expensive clothes.

his fantasy is interrupted by gunfire. beans wields duel pistols, firing back and forth at the bandit. bullets reduce the bandit’s hats to shreds, the hat a shadow of its former self as it plops back on the villain’s big head. great contrast. beans continued his fire, shooting a giant hole in the bandit’s pants. a makeshift buttflap falls open, revealing a giant tin pan covering the bandit’s ass for protection. bullets ricochet off the pan, much to the delight of the bandit.

frustrated, beans opts for a rifle instead. a gunfight ensues, and tex avery’s need for speed begins to break out. it’ll climax soon, but tex’s strong point in his cartoons is definitely speed and timing. he can drag out gags or make them ensue in a blink, so much so that those scenes leave you breathless and exhilarated. some great examples that we’ll see are in this, the village smithy, and porky the wrestler. the bandit slings his guns back at beans, his arms whirling around at impossible speeds, so much so that he turns into a literal blur, rising and falling back on his horse.

beans ducks, retaliating. the force of his fire is so strong that his car is propelled back multiple feet with each shot. however, trouble boils when his car stalls out. empty. beans pours a jug of moonshine directly into the engine (instead of the gas tank), and the car explodes to life—parallel to the same scene in you don’t know what you’re doin’! but on steroids. the car turns into a giant blur, stretching out to vaguely resemble a race car. with amazing force, the car barrels into the villain, who is thrown into the air with ease. this is where tex’s speed is magnified and used to a great amount of potential, a potential we haven’t seen yet in a cartoon. it’s exhilarating and breathless, and above all, believable. you feel like you’re right there with them, a must see scene.

the car defies gravity as it speeds along the walls of the caverns, a lovely angle of the car headed straight towards the camera (that would be recycled in one of tex’s cartoons at mgm, dumb-hounded). beans now barrels whence he came, knocking into the villain once more. instead of being propelled into the air, the bandit is dragged into the car, reduced to nothing but a mere blur. around another curve they speed, the loose bag of gold that was thrown into the air with the bandit now landing in the car.

a forlorn porky paces anxiously, awaiting the return of his beloved gold. he, too, is wiped into the chase, again reduced to a mere blur as he falls into the car. the car zips into town, right past kitty, who sweeps outside her house. she’s spun around like a top as the shanghaied racecar whirls past.

finally, the car screeches to a halt. the villain is slumped over inside the car, whereas porky and beans are unharmed. kitty reunites with porky, who lifts her up lovingly. he places her down in front of beans. “well, here’s my daughter!” beans graciously accepts kitty’s hand as he thrusts the bag into porky’s hands, replying “and here’s your gold!”

a lovely twist as porky stutters “gold be derned! that’s my lunch!” sure enough, he stuffs his hands inside the bag and lifts out a giant towering sandwich, identical to the one he scarfed down at the beginning of the cartoon. he gobbles it up with ease, giving a contented smile as we iris out.

whether you love this cartoon or hate it, it’s historical significance can’t be denied. this and i haven’t got a hat are probably the most important cartoons we’ve seen thus far, and the two, in my opinion, rely on each other for success. had friz not created porky, who knows what would have happened in this cartoon. same goes the opposite way. had tex not come aboard and used porky in a suitable role, porky may have continued to exist in cameos, but how far would looney tunes have gotten before inevitably getting canned?

i personally love this cartoon, and is probably my favorite one so far. tex avery was such a pivotal element to the success of looney tunes. albeit this isn’t his most polished work (and the blatant racism with the chinese twins and the blackface gag can’t be overlooked or dismissed), this cartoon is fun, exhilarating, and happy. tex’s sense of humor is on point, and his timing/speed is impeccable. it leaves you wanting more, almost as if you aren’t satisfied. the whole cartoon revolving around porky reuniting with his giant sandwich is another plus. beans is endearing, though bland in personality. kitty is equally endearing, her breathless excitement indescribably amusing and contagious. porky is also amusing, but hardly endearing—but, again, second cartoon, still trying to figure things out. without comparing his appearance here to other cartoons (which is very difficult to do), he fits just fine as the bumbling comic relief character.

this is a major turning point in the world of looney tunes. thanks to tex, cartoons are going to get snappier, funnier, wittier. i may be biased since he’s one of my favorite directors, but it’s hard to argue with, especially since this is the man who made daffy, elmer, bugs. if anything else, i definitely recommend this for historical significance. aside from that, it’s fun, happy, energizing, and a great relief to the drab cartoons we’ve been seeing thus far (though friz deserves much more credit than he gets for his merrie melodies). obviously, express discretion at the racist gag of the chinese twins/blackface—they aren’t too exhausted, but definitely prominent enough to constitute a warning. this is a cartoon worth watching.

link!

#fellas... things are going to get good #lt #gold diggers of ‘49 #reviews #long post #racism m

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satansbootycheeks · 5 years

Text

please don’t take my sunshine away

Wes Johnson/Joshua Ovenshire Tags: Gang Violence, Blood, Angst, Fluff, Gun Mentioned, Injury, Hurt and comfort, Weshire - Freeform

The soft shut of a door.

A feeble attempt at calling for help.

A body collapsing to the ground.

•••

It had been a few too many hours since Joven’s roommate should have returned from work, and he couldn’t help but worry. What if’s flew through his head, imagining the worst. He pictured his love’s body stuffed out of sight in a dark alley. He pictured a car in flames on the side of a road, Wes’s beautiful figure trapped inside. Joven pushed these thoughts away, assuring himself that the other man had just been held back finishing an editing job. Yet, wouldn’t Wes have texted him? No, he had just forgotten, or maybe lost track of time. But…

Joven was pulled from his thoughts as he heard the door to his shared apartment open. He let out a relieved breath. “Thank god Wes, I was starting to…” Joven was cut off by the sound of a shaky “Joven, help…” and a thump. Joven’s heart stopped. He raced toward the sound. ‘Oh dear God, please no. Please…’

•••

Wes felt terribly for not texting Joven that he had been held back at work, finishing up a project. His poor friend would be worried half to death. He pulled out his phone to send an explanation as he packed his equipment into the trunk of his car. Before he could begin typing, however, he became aware of a car slowly pulling up to park mere inches from his own.

As his workplace wasn’t in the safest part of town, this was especially unnerving, so Wes reached for the gun he had packed in his trunk for his planned trip to the shooting range the next day. He cursed under his breath as he recalled his empty magazine, as per the rules of the shooting range. Hopefully the sight of his being armed would deter the creeps.

He peered at the four men now exiting the threatening car and caught sight of two of them visibly wielding knives. His blood chilled as he realized they were creeping toward him. He tore the gun from his trunk and held it pointed at them, trying to steady his trembling hands. The men stepped back, caught off guard, but they seemed to remember their clear number advantage, and spread so that they were approaching Wes, now more quickly, from several angles.

Wes, becoming more and more panicked, frantically aimed his gun from man to man. However, he was painfully aware of his disadvantage, not only in number, but also ammunition. Wes heard the men chuckle as he backed away. He felt his back collide with a wall and his body went cold. He had quite literally backed himself into a corner.

One of the men without a knife approached him, a revolting grin on his face. Wes aimed his gun at the man, but he knew it was no use. This must have shown on his face, because the man just smirked cockily and swatted Wes’s gun to the ground. The man then proceeded to strike Wes directly on the cheekbone, and Wes felt his head jut out awkwardly to the side. He painfully turned his head forwards and landed a blow directly to the attacker’s stomach. The man doubled over, but one of his cohorts rushed over, this time one with a knife, and pinned Wes to the wall, knife to his throat.

This new threat let out a low growl as he gestured to his accomplices to join him. They eagerly complied, and Wes shrunk into the wall. The other man with a knife jabbed it into Wes’s stomach, almost jovially. Wes couldn’t help but cry out, but his shout was met by a hand roughly shoved over his mouth, smashing his head against the wall. Wes was rendered helpless as the men beat him and slashed at his body.

Seemingly having gotten their point across, or possibly having gotten bored, the men released him and quickly got into their car and drove away. Wes slumped to the ground, every inch of his body searing with pain. He half crawled across the ground to retrieve his useless weapon, then drug himself into his vehicle. Somehow, he managed to drive himself home.

Wes stumbled into the apartment with one thought in his mind. Joven. Joven could help him. Wes feebly called for his love before the world went black.

•••

The sight before Joven was straight from his nightmares. Wes was crumpled on the floor, blood pouring from several gashes all over his body. Bruises were already forming where he had been struck by the gang members. Joven rushed to the unconscious man’s side, screams escaping his lips. His hands trembled as he dialed 911, and he begged for an ambulance between sobs. Once help was promised, Joven pulled Wes’s broken body onto his lap. He held Wes’s darling face to his, and rocked back and forth, weeping.

•••

In the hospital room, Joven sat by Wes’s side, eyes never leaving the man’s beautiful, bloody face. A tear fell from Joven’s eye onto Wes’s cheek, and he delicately wiped it away.

The steady beep of the heart monitor should have comforted him, reassuring him that his best more-than-friend was still alive, but it only served as a constant reminder of this living nightmare. It had been hours since Joven had been so relieved by the sound of Wes returning home, only to be met with a cruel reality.

Now, gently holding his love’s hand, normally so strong but now so weak, he pleaded with fate to give him back the one he loved so dearly. He whimpered as he confessed his love to Wes’s unhearing ears. Joven’s heart ached for moments gone by when he hadn’t expressed his love for the other man out of fear, but now all he wanted was for Wes to know how much Joven loved him, no matter what.

Joven lowered his face to the sheets by the other man and hopelessly weeped into them. Just then, he felt the hand held in his own twitch. His head shot up, and he called for the nurse as Wes’s eyes fluttered open.

•••

Wes slowly regained consciousness, blinking against the bright lights above him. The world appeared faded and blurred, but Wes could see an almost fully white room surrounding him, and his Joven above him, shouting something that Wes didn’t understand to someone Wes couldn’t see. He felt Joven’s hand in his, and tried to squeeze it, but only then did the excruciating pain rush back to him.

Wes screamed as he became acutely aware of everywhere he had been stabbed and beaten. He felt his Joven carefully caress his face, comforting him, murmuring words that Wes couldn’t make out but he knew to be of consolation. He stared into Joven’s warm eyes as he hyperventilated and shook, both out of fear and out of pain, and hot tears ran down his cheeks. In his peripheral vision, he saw a woman dressed in white hurry to his side, but he only cared about his precious, beautiful, perfect Joven.

•••

Joven’s heart felt as though it was as injured as Wes as the man’s eyes gazed into his own and his body convulsed. Thinking that Wes was having a seizure, he shrieked to the nurse, but she assured Joven that Wes was only hyperventilating. Only barely reassured, Joven turned his attention back to his beautiful Wesley. His beautiful, broken Wesley. His eyes blurred and burned with tears, and he brought Wes’s hand to his lips. He observed the softness in the other man’s eyes as he did so, and he felt his heart warm.

This feeling was only momentary, however, as the doctor entered and explained that she would be putting Wes to sleep for emergency surgery. Joven felt worry course through his veins, but he had no hope but to trust the doctor to save his love’s life.

•••

Wes came to hours later, the operation having succeeded and his wounds having been stitched up. He weakly turned his head to observe Joven, asleep on a couch near his own bed. Wes then realized how his pain had subsided, though he attributed in part to the various painkillers he had probably been given. But still, his body didn’t ache nearly as much. He gazed at the beautiful man peacefully asleep near to him, and ached to reach out and kiss him, but he still felt contented to see Joven, at least momentarily, calm. He turned his head again to the ceiling and felt himself fall out of consciousness once more.

•••

Months after the terrifying attack, Wes had been almost fully healed, going to physical therapy for the bones that had been found to be broken, but the nightmare was almost completely over for him and Joven. After Wes had been released from the hospital, Joven had slaved over him, caring for him day and night. Wes couldn’t help but enjoy the attention just a little bit.

Along with caring for Wes, Joven had also been almost obsessively telling him how much he loved him, and Wes had been doing the same. The two men had shared many kisses and (delicate) cuddles, never wanting to not be touching the other. Despite the tragic situation they were in, they were so disgustingly happy to be alive and in love.

And that was all that mattered to them.

#fanfic weshire smosh gangviolence blood angst fluff Gunmentioned injury hurt/comfort

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