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swimmingismywholelife · 11 months ago

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Joy

Summary: João decides to take you around the city of your dreams during the most wonderful time of the year.

Warnings: fluff

WC: 1.3K

A/N: 🎶On the sixth day of Ficmas my writer gave to me, a João fic that's really fluffy 🎶 I apologize for the lack of posts! Life got in the way and I'm trying my best to keep up with the schedule. I promise I'll still give you guys 12 different fics for 12 different people by the end of the year (and hopefully a few bonuses to make up for it!). Anyways, I've been in love with João these days and it's kind of a problem so yeah here's me being in love with him for however many words this ends up being!

Link for the Song: Joy

"I hope love spreads all over the world

I pray to the heavens

That this night can shine with the song of angels."

~~~

"Are you ready, amor?" you heard your boyfriend calling from down the stairs.

"Almost!" you shouted back, quickly putting your earrings in. "Give me a minute!"

You could feel João's eye roll as you looked over at yourself in the mirror for a final time. You wanted everything about this day to be perfect.

João had a busy schedule despite it being the holiday season. He had several games approaching including a friendly in America a few days before Christmas. Even still, he always made time for you. This was your first Christmas together and he wanted to do something special. You told him you didn't need anything fancy and that just his company was more than enough. João refused, claiming it wasn't good enough

"Que linda," João said breathlessly as you walked down the stairs. "Come here, give me a spin!"

He took your hand gently and twirled you around, staring at you with admiration. He brought you in closer and lightly kissed you, making your heart skip a beat.

"I'm not even dressed in anything special," you whispered against his lips. "It's too cold to be fashionable."

"You're beautiful in anything you wear," he replied, kissing you again.

You playfully pushed him away, attempting to hide your blushing cheeks.

"Are you excited?" he asked.

"Mhm," you said. "It's been my dream since I was a kid to see Barcelona during this time of year."

"Then the adventure awaits you, princesa," João said, kissing the back of your hand. "Our ride is here to take you on the best date of your life."

"To the city!" you grinned excitedly.

Ever since you'd seen a picture of the Catalonian city as a kid in one of your mother's photobooks, you knew you had to be there one day. She lived there briefly for school, and she fondly told you stories about her experiences and how she fell in love with the city. After you finished school, you knew that you wanted those experiences for yourself. So you made your way to Barcelona, where it turned out to be better than you could've ever imagined.

But more than anything, you'd always wanted to spend Christmas in Barcelona. Your mother always described it as one of the most magical places she'd ever been to. The people were kind and friendly, the food was always amazing, the music was lively, and the lights were out of this world. You just knew you had to be a part of that.

It was João's idea to visit the markets for your date. Since you didn't want anything fancy and he wanted to do something special for you, it was a happy medium that you gratefully accepted.

You gasped as your taxi drove closer to La Sagrada Família, your face moving towards the window to get a better look. To say the sight was enchanting would be an understatement. It wasn't that dark out yet, but even still your breath was taken away. Garlands and wreaths filled the streets of Barcelona, greens, golds, and reds decorating almost every part of the city. Everything was covered in a light dusting of snow, making it look like a scene straight out of a movie.

"Esto es Barcelona," the taxi driver said, noticing your awestruck face. "Es la mejor ciudad del mundo."

(This is Barcelona. It's the best city in the world.)

"Sí," you agreed. "Es como un sueño."

(Yes, it's like a dream.)

João stared at you fondly. You were generally a bubbly person, but seeing the twinkle in your eyes as you took in everything made his heart stop. He'd never seen you so happy and it made him fall in love with you even more.

The taxi arrived just outside the markets. You made a move to open your door before João whacked your hands away.

"No!" he said. "That's my responsibility!"

You giggled as he quickly ran out the car to open your door like a gentleman. Even though you knew he was being dramatic, he still managed to make you blush anyway.

"Bienvenida a Barcelona, princesa," he said, sticking his hand out for you to take. "Espero que tengas la aventura de tu vida."

(Welcome to Barcelona, Princess. I hope you have the adventure of a lifetime.)

You took his hand and humored him.

"Thank you my love," you said as he kissed the back of your hand.

"¡Muchas gracias, Señor!" you said, peeking your head back into the taxi.

"De nada," he replied. "Disfruta de la ciudad."

(You're welcome. Enjoy the city.)

"Es increíble," you said, your attention now fully on the city in front of you. "It's better than any of the pictures in my mother's photobook or any of the stories she told."

"What should we do first?" João asked, also amazed at the hustle and bustle of the market. "You pick."

Your stomach made a loud noise, making the both of you laugh. "I guess eating would be a good idea."

You made your way to the different food stands, squealing softly at the sight around you. The sun was now beginning to set, meaning the lights around you slowly started to grow brighter. Each stand was decorated in its own unique way, giving them a distinctive and beautiful feel. Barcelona's culture and heritage was really shining through as people from all around you walked from stand to stand.

João couldn't have been more in love. He'd been fortunate enough to live out his dreams, playing for a team he'd wanted to be a part of since his childhood. And he was even more fortunate that he got to meet his dream girl at the same time. And seeing you so happy made his heart swell. He knew that he had to keep the smile that was permanently etched onto your face every day for the rest of your lives.

"Muchas gracias," you said to the street vendor as they handed you food. You happily munched on your different, taking in the scenery around.

"Is this everything you've dreamed about?" João asked.

"Es mejor que mis sueños," you answered, your cheeks puffing with food.

(It's better than my dreams.)

He couldn't help himself, leaning over to quickly kiss your cheek.

"What?" you said.

"You're just cute," he said, "and I love you."

"I love you too," you said.

You stopped by as many of the shops as you could, stuffing your faces with both local and foreign cuisines alike, while also buying trinkets to remember your trip. You were so warm with excitement that you couldn't feel how much your feet hurt from walking or how cold the air was. It was a world that had only been a part of your imagination for as long as you could remember, but it didn't compare to the real deal at all. And being with João only made things even better.

João checked his watch. "Baby, let's go find a place to watch the light show."

"Sounds good to me!" you said, throwing out your trash. "I wanna be able to see everything!"

The light show was probably what you were most excited to see. The sun had completely disappeared, the twinkling of the Christmas lights illuminating the streets. The cathedral had a special Christmas show planned and you couldn't wait to see what they had in store.

"Thank you for taking me here," you said to João softly as you sat in the perfect spot. You leaned your head onto his shoulder, his arms wrapping around you. "I really appreciate it."

He kissed the top of your head, pulling you in closer. "Any time, princesa. Was it everything you wanted it to be?"

"It was even better because I have you," you answered shyly. "I was already in love with the city, but being here with you makes it even more special. I'm here in the city of my dreams with the love of my life. There's nothing more special than this."

João hummed in agreement. "And you deserve it all. Thank you for letting me be a part of this."

"I love you, João."

"And I love you, Y/N."

Nothing more needed to be said. And underneath the moonlight and the sparkling lights of La Sagrada Família in the company of each other, you truly felt the magic of Christmas.

Taglist: @shadowscorch @nyctophilic0vitnir @thoseboysinblue @neverinadream @notsoattractivearenti @lovelynikol16 @chilwellspulisic @pulisicsgirl @lizzypotter14

#joao felix #joao felix imagine #joao felix fic #joao felix one shot #joao felix au #footballer imagine #footballer fic #footballer au #footballer one shot #swimmingismywholelife

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ressyfaerie · 3 years ago

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Fic suggestion; 2/3 years post canon where they're in their respective colleges/universities. Kai happens to be passing through & finds out that Tyson is struggling to fit in due to relentless bullying. Kai decides to confront the bully(es). Afterwards Tyson wonders what made Kai be so protective & out slips an accidental because I love you? hehehe

This sounds CUTE! And Also reminds me of when I wrote something similar in my long slow burn fic (its a bit of a long story)... but this sounds SUPER FUN. Big fan, here we gooo

“So I hear the world champion still can’t integrate into society?”

“Shut up, Kai.”

The phone connection crackled as Tyson put Kai on speakerphone.

“Where are you right now?”

“Walking in the park to get back to the dojo, how about you?”

“Studying back at my apartment, is it dark? Be careful.”

“I know how to walk, Kai. It’s not that dark, there's lots of streetlamps. So why are you phoning me?”

“I need a reason to phone my best friend?”

“You always have a reason.”

“Alright, you caught me.”

“I knew it, you know you’re not that sneaky, Kai.”

“Whatever. Ray told me you were having troubles at school—”

“I’m fine, Kai.”

“Is it studying? I can help again—”

“No it’s not that, everything’s fine, okay? Can you drop it?”

“It doesn’t sound like everything’s fine.”

He heard Tyson sigh on the other end of the line.

“Bye, Kai.”

*beep*

“Tyson? Tyson!?”

Kai threw the phone down on his open textbook.

That bastard hung up on me!?

Kai had just finished texting Ray about Tyson’s troubles at school. This time it wasn’t the studying, girl or boy problems, friend problems, family problems… The list of Tyson’s issues that Kai was forced to deal with since he started university was overwhelming. Not that he was forced to deal with them… They kept getting shuffled down until Kai was the closest person to deal with it. Tyson didn’t accept help easily, but Kai could tell when he needed it.

Kai found he was worried about Tyson constantly.

And he had every reason to be.

Kai attended a prestigious university, while Tyson decided to enroll in one closer to the dojo. Kai got used to university life fast, Tyson lagged behind. Tyson was hit with a brick wall. University wasn’t highschool, or a tournament, it wasn’t traveling the world. It was a whole other realm that really didn’t suit Tyson at all. Kai watched from afar as Tyson struggled through the everyday, he made friends easily but everything else was ten times harder.

And now, it seemed that Tyson had yet another problem he wasn’t sharing.

The tip of Kai’s mechanical pencil broke.

He decided he’d go to Tyson’s school tomorrow to check up on him.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Kai mimicked Tyson’s anger.

“Checking up on you.”

Kai leaned on the hood of his Mercedes, wearing casual clothes and a hand in his pocket.

“If you show up looking like that talking to me like this, people are going to think you're my boyfriend.”

Kai laughed, “what’s wrong with that?”

Tyson stuttered but didn’t manage to answer.

“What’s wrong?”

Kai’s words cut through the world, forcing it to stop moving and stay stationary for just a moment.

“Nothing is wrong.” Tyson turned on his heel, but Kai was too fast.

He grasped his arm pulling him back.

“Kai, what the hell!?”

Tyson angrily twirled backwards, trying to push him off.

“What’s wrong with your face?” Kai felt his heart rise in his chest when he saw the purple bruise on his cheek.

“Hurt it doing kendo, can you stop? Get off me!”

With force Kai pulled Tyson into him, observing his face.

“Stop looking at me!” Tyson used both his arms to push him away.

Kai had slipped off the curb he was on and fell into his car, leaving a small dent near the hood.

Tyson’s face read pure panic, “I’m sorry! I never meant to push you that hard!”

“Well you did.” Kai rubbed his forehead with his forearm, “clearly something is going on, you wanna share with the class?” A dangerous scowl grew on Kai’s face.

“I’ll tell you, but I don’t want your help okay?”

Kai nodded.

“Some guy has been picking on me—we got in a fight, but it's under control.”

Tyson sent him a broken smile and Kai felt a burning rage in his chest.

“What’s this guy’s name?” Kai wore the same scowl from before.

“You don’t need to know, because I don’t need your help.” Tyson stated matter-of-factly.

“Did you at least beat the shit out of him?”

Tyson bit his lip while looking in the opposite direction.

“Don’t you know a shit ton of martial arts? You’re telling me you didn’t kick his ass?”

Kai kept his voice from rising, but it was shaking. The rage was hard to keep under control the more he imagined someone hurting Tyson.

“There… might have been more than one guy.” Tyson trailed off.

“They ganged up on you?” Kai’s mind was now filled with a murderous rage, “why?”

“Dunno, jealous maybe? World champion, bluh bluh bluh…” Tyson yawned “well, time to get back home, huh?”

Kai locked his eye’s on Tyson’s.

“Call me if they try anything.”

“They won’t. I’m sure it was a one time thing. Plus I was stronger than they thought I’d be…”

“I don’t care.” Kai’s voice was serious. “Call me.”

Days later Tyson wasn’t returning Kai’s calls. He texted him asking why he wasn’t answering, he got simple short messages, busy or sorry can’t talk right now. It pissed Kai off. He hoped their interaction hadn’t damaged their friendship. He valued any relationship with Tyson, any excuse to be close to him really. He really hoped he hadn’t screwed this up.

Almost two weeks later Kai was at his desk studying. His regular nightly routine. His phone buzzed, a phone call.

From Tyson?

He dropped his pencil and reached for his phone so fast he became worried how obsessed he was with this boy.

He dropped the phone.

No doubt it was Tyson missing him, apologizing and begging to talk to Kai again.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

Maybe I should give it a few minutes.

He put the phone on silent. And left it by his side for less than a minute. When he looked back he had a text as well. He rolled his eyes.

1 missed call.

2 texts.

He opened the text box.

Park.

Help.

Before Kai could process what was happening he was in his car speeding down the highway.

He almost sped past the park, slamming on the breaks he just managed to make out a dark group of boys huddled away from the streetlamps by a tree. He had no time to observe, only to assume.

He accelerated, jumping the curb into the grass and tearing up dirt.

He kicked open his car door and slammed it closed.

“Where is Tyson?” He said in the boy's direction.

A member of the group broke away, advancing on Kai, he mumbled something about ‘minding your business’ before launching a fist towards Kai’s face.

He expertly dodged with an instinct he forgot he had.

He grabbed the boy’s fist in midair and landed his elbow in the boy’s forearm sending him crumbling to the ground screaming.

Two more from the group branched off towards Kai.

Kai clenched his teeth. It had been years since he actually fought, he forgot how it felt. One of the boys tried to punch him identical to how the last one tried. Kai bent his knees landing a punch to the boy's gut, knocking the air out of him. Now he could focus on the other one, who was trying to land a kick by his ear.

Kai fell on his back, feeling the air brush past his face, the boy now had the advantage, but kai was fast. Using his knees and all the momentum he had he launched himself off the ground to his feet.

“The fuc!?—”

The boy didn’t have the time to finish his sentence before Kai jabbed the edge of his palm into his throat.

Kai turned around directing his attention to the center of the group, one boy standing over a black mass.

Kai cracked his knuckles, “if that’s Tyson, you understand I will kill you?”

The boy wore a devious smirk. Kai shook his head.

The black mass on the ground managed to mumble, “Kai…”

That was Tyson’s voice.

Kai slowly blinked. His face showed only pure white anger.

“I’ll kill you.”

The boy held his ground as Kai threw his body full force towards him. He was bigger than Kai, he blocked his first hit, throwing Kai back.

This guy is a tank… I have to be careful.

I need to finish this fast. I need to help Tyson.

Kai fixed his stance, grounding himself expertely. The boy grabbed for his shirt, he used both his palms to push him away. The boy kept trying again and again, Kai finally attempted to land a punch, but this guy was strong. He pushed Kai’s fist away and grasped the collar of his shirt, then threw him to the ground.

Kai felt the ground quake under him as he lost the ability to breathe.

The boy punched him, and then again.

He felt no pain, only fear for what had happened to Tyson before this. The world around him flung side to side, then suddenly, the boy stopped.

WACK.

Above him the boy was motionless, and fell to the side near Kai limply.

Tyson took the boy’s place. He was holding a heavy stick. He dropped it on the ground.

They were both covered in blood and bruises.

“I told you I'd be just fine.” Tyson grinned.

Kai tried to laugh but still didn’t have his breath back. He managed to groan, then inhale sharply.

“Why didn’t you call somebody to come help? Is your car okay?”

“Because…” Kai managed to moan weakly.

“Cause?” Tyson asked in a hoarse voice.

“I love you.”

Kai held his side, unaware of the words he whispered to the dark.

Tyson held his hand out to his best friend.

“Come on sourpuss, let's get to a hospital.”

#ressyfaerie #asks #fic #request #tyka #WHEN TYSON CALLS KAI SOURPUSS #AAAHAHAHAHA

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laconservancy · 3 years ago

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An Iconic Mural in the Heart of Historic Filipinotown

Photo credit: M. Rosalind Sagara

Named one of the top 20 iconic murals in Los Angeles by L.A. Weekly, “Gintong Kasaysayan, Gintong Pamana” (“A Glorious History, A Golden Legacy”) in Historic Filipinotown’s Unidad Park turned 25 years old last year. Commissioned by the Social and Public Art Resource Center (SPARC) and created by artist Eliseo Art Silva in 1995, the mural tells a story of the awakening of Filipino national and political consciousness, and pays tribute to Filipinos, both locally and nationally.

In May, the L.A. Conservancy’s Neighborhood Outreach Manager M. Rosalind Sagara interviewed artist Eliseo Art Silva about the mural, Historic Filipinotown, and how the two contribute to our growing understanding and appreciation of Asian American & Pacific Islander (AAPI) heritage in Los Angeles.

RS: What inspired Gintong Kasaysayan, Gintong Pamana?

ES: Chapter eight of Jose Rizal's novel Noli Me Tangere is titled "Recuerdos," and it depicts a scene wherein the main protagonist encounters a kind of inverted telescope which converges Europe and Manila in one scene. Rizal calls it "The Spectre of Comparisons": a charged space where nationalism, art, and the imagination emerge from. It was the kind of space I wanted to recreate in the expansive “Great Wall of Pilipinotown" so that ultimately, we can emerge both a Creative Economy and Ethnic Economy within the Filipino enclave of Los Angeles. At that time (1994-1995), the area was not yet designated as HiFi. Filipino leaders Uncle Roy Morales and Joel Jacinto have said that the Filipino mural was integral to the successful designation of the district as Historic Filipinotown.

RS: How does the mural fit in to the story of Historic Filipinotown?

ES: There were four murals in Filipinotown painted by Filipino Americans with a Filipino theme prior to “Gintong Kasaysayan,” and two more painted after, but only “Gintong Kasaysayan” has been preserved. Three of the murals were lost to demolition and the other three were painted over without protest or resistance. The other artists that painted Filipino murals within the neighborhood are Faustino Caigoy, Orlando Castillo, and Papo De Asis.

Since previous attempts to Filipinize Filipinotown were largely limited to Bahay Kubo ("Nipa Hut") aesthetics and the mentality it generates of minimizing the achievements of pre-colonial Philippines as a major player of The Filipino Story, “Gintong Kasaysayan” shifts the Filipino perspective. From one largely shaped by the Americanization movement, designed to rid the Philippines of Filipinos, to one that takes The Filipino Story as the main protagonist. It elevates Filipinos as a major player in America’s cultural landscape so our own Filipino community can earn and deserve that equal seat at the table of power and influence. Why have a seat at the table if all that we bring to the table is the stories of foreigners in our country told "on their behalf"?

What the “Gintong Kasaysayan” mural offers to the city is what the Filipino community can offer and why they deserve that equal seat at the table. What the mural provides is The Filipino Story. It challenges people to answer the question: What is "Filipino" in Historic Filipinotown?

At times, it aims to make people uncomfortable that they do not know enough about the story of Filipinos in this country and city, along with making Filipinos uncomfortable that they themselves do not take their own Filipino Story seriously enough to make it the main event in their own lives and humanity.

Festival of Philippine Arts and Culture, 2020

RS: Has the mural encountered challenges over its lifetime and how have these been addressed?

ES: Yes, many challenges have surfaced throughout the more than 25 years that the mural was in public view in that area of the city.

First of all, the Filipino community had not held an annual event in front of the mural until I initiated the Larry Itliong Day celebration in 2015 at Unidad Park. Because “Gintong Kasaysayan” was largely ignored by our own community for most of its two decades in the neighborhood, there were several instances when we almost lost the mural or the cultural integrity of the site.

When I moved to the East Coast in 2000 and lived there for 15 years, the mural came to a point when the residents around the mural wanted to cover the it with a 15-foot-tall fence to accommodate 25 community garden beds which would have obstructed the entire length of the wall. Had I not happened to visit the site while the meetings were being conducted, that community garden would have completely covered the entire length of the mural.

My personal protest produced the current mural signage for the public to recognize the significance of the mural and the site to the City of Los Angeles and the Filipino community. There was also a time when the neighborhood came close to erecting a life-size full figure monument honoring Bishop Romero at the center of the dap-ay space.

(Author’s note: The dap-ay is circular in form and intended to create a communal gathering space. It is a character-defining feature of Unidad Park and is believed to be the first of its kind outside of the Philippines.)

RS: What is your favorite part of the mural?

ES: The shifts in meaning. I like the parts intended to be ambiguous, challenging and uncomfortable.

RS: How do murals link the past to the present?

ES: I believe that murals are the best way to document communities. At its best, art and murals are not didactic, yet reveal core truths. I see murals as a kind of palimpsest intended to build upon previous stories and images which have ceased to be relevant, active and engaging.

RS: Do you have favorite mural in L.A.?

ES: América Tropical by David Siqueiros is my favorite mural in L.A

#aapi #aapiheritage #aapi heritage month #los angeles #los angeles history #Saving Places #historic preservation #public art

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trustsalvatorewriting · 5 years ago

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remember me || cesar diaz - chapter one

Summary: In which Cesar decides to have a summer fling

Word Count: 2,256

❝ why would you ever kiss me? i'm not even half as pretty ❞

The first time Cesar truly felt fear was the night he saw a lost teenage girl on La Luna, just outside a bodega, at nine o'clock at night. He'd gone out for a walk after an argument with his tío. Thought he would take some time to cool off before he found himself on the wrong end of a pair of brass knuckles. He made a mental note never to buy a pair.

It was a warm summer night, and he found himself wearing a simple black t-shirt and blue jeans - he would have to trade them in eventually, especially if Oscar was getting out soon. If Andrés was right, he would have to join the Santos by the end of summer, and all hope of feeling like a regular teenager would go out the window in an instant.

He had just made it into Sanctuary when he saw her. She was standing on the corner of La Luna, a block away from the abandoned train station and across the street from a crappy bodega that paid taxes to the Santos every month. She turned her head, looking both ways, clearly trying to figure out where she was.

Normally, he would have let her figure it out. A person that was willing to stay out past curfew on gang territory was a person confident enough to defend themselves. Cesar shoved his hands into his pockets as he waited for her to pull out a phone and call for help, the eerie silence on the street starting to eat away at him. It was when three Santos drunkenly stumbled out of the bodega that he sped up his pace.

"What'd I tell you?" One of the members grinned, waving the pile of cash in his hand. "I ain't even have to say 'tax time.' Them Prophets are bitches."

"You better get that shit to Andrés in the morning," another one warned. "Puta doesn't like having his money missing."

"Que se joda!" The one with the money threw the money at him, cackling as it rained down.

Cesar swerved off the sidewalk, attempting to pass by the drunkards without getting their attention. He kept his eyes trained on the concrete, occasionally glancing up at the girl to ensure she was still there.

"Yo!" A hand clamped down on Cesar's shoulder, spinning his around. It was the guy who had thrown the money. Beneath his jaw, the name 'Malakai' was tattooed in cursive. "Oh, shit! It's Lil Spooky."

'Shit,' He thought to himself. 'Think fast, asshole.'

"Aye, Lil Spooky!" The second one exclaimed. He took a sip from the bottle in his brown bottle in his hand. "I ain't seen you since you was a little chico. Cuantos años tienes, eh?"

"Tengo quince. Listen, I can't stay. I got my hyna waiting for me, and I can't keep her waiting," He lied smoothly.

"Quince? Damn. I remember when Andrés had to carry your ass inside 'cause the music was too fuckin' loud. What you think now, Lil Spooky?" He swung the end of his bottle against an open door. It shattered, leaving bits of broken glass on the end as he held it up to Cesar's neck. "Things getting too loud for you?"

Maybe there was one good thing that came with finally joining the Santos: he wouldn't have to deal with assholes like this.

Ever since Oscar was put away, some of the Santos were getting hard to control. Andrés did his best, but he didn't have a reputation -- at least, not the way Oscar did. He was soft on his punishments but strong on his legislation. It had made in-fighting inevitable. Cesar was his nephew. He supposed he should have expected people to turn against him, too.

"Watch your tone." Cesar lowered his voice, not breaking eye contact with the bastard in front of him. "Spooky's getting out in a couple days. What's he gonna say when he finds out some bitches were fucking with his little brother?"

He was bluffing. Anyone that knew Cesar, knew that he could've gone another three years without speaking to his brother and he wouldn't have even blinked; but he didn't even recognize the guys in front of him. If it weren't for the white tank tops and crosses around their necks, he would've just as easily believed they were Prophets. If they didn't believe him, both he and the girl on La Luna would be fucked.

The guy shoved him off, tossing the bottle onto the street. "Maricón. Let me know when Spooky's out. He's got a debt he needs to pay off."

Without another word, he popped a cigarette into his mouth, lighting it. Cesar nodded and turned on his heel, only to see the girl walking in the direction of the train station. He winced, only turning when 'Malakai' called out for him once more. "Oh, and tell your tío we'll bring him his taxes in the morning."

'Do not engage,' Cesar thought to himself. He jogged across the empty street, stopping a few paces before the girl before cupping his hands around his mouth. "Hey! You really shouldn't be out here, alone at night. Freeridge isn't that type of hood."

The girl turned around, a look of fear crossing her face before it fell into relief. "Shit. I'm sorry, I'm just trying to get to my friend's house. His name is Judas Medina. Do you know him?"

She spoke softly, speaking with her hands and with rapid movements. Cesar couldn't help but grin. "No, I don't know him, sorry. If you have his address, I could help you, though."

"Uh..." She looked around, scratching the back of her head awkwardly.

Cesar nodded, pulling out his phone and tossing it to her. She caught it with ease. "The password's two-six-seven-three. You can dial the police if you really think you're in danger, but let me walk you to this Judas guy. I don't wanna risk you getting hurt."

The girl unlocked his phone, going into his contacts and hitting the keypad. She bit her lip, locking eyes with the stranger in front of her. He looked a bit younger than her, with his hair covered in an absurd amount of gel and a pleading look on his face. After a moment, she nodded, and typed in Judas' address in his Maps app.

"You are thirty minutes from your destination. You should arrive at your destination by 9:35PM."

"I'm Maya." She nodded, keeping the phone in her left hand as she reached out to shake the boy's hand.

He smiled then, shaking her hand. "Cesar."

The two followed the phone's signals, walking side-by-side as Cesar scanned the perimeter for any threats. They walked in silence for all of three minutes before Maya started talking. "So, it's pretty obvious I'm not from around here, huh?"

"Just a little," Cesar chuckled, putting his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Where are you from, anyway?"

"San Diego. I live there with my dad and his girlfriend during the school year. Every summer, I come here and spend time with my mom," Maya explained. "We were supposed to have dinner tonight; but she fell asleep, and I didn't feel like waking her."

"Right. So you're going to this Judas guy to steal all his food and then run?"

"Would that be so bad?" She winked, running a hand through her honey-blonde hair. "What about you?"

Cesar grimaced. "I've always lived in Freeridge. Can't really imagine a life outside of it."

"Come on, that's bullshit." She rolled her eyes. "There's a whole world out there, with different countries, cultures, people -- and you're telling me you can't imagine a world outside of Southside L.A.?"

He shrugged. "What's the point if I can't see it?"

Maya huffed, muttering the word "tarado" beneath her breath. Cesar only grinned, somewhat pleased that he'd managed to get on her nerves considering they'd met only a little while ago. He moved to walk in front of her. She scrunched her nose in annoyance, glaring at him through her eyelashes.

"So, how old are you? Like, seventeen?"

"I just turned sixteen," she replied, hand still gripping the GPS in her left hand.

"And your parents are letting you travel alone? That's weird. I would'a thought San Diego kids were spoiled."

"I would'a thought you weren't a Santo," she shrugged half-heartedly. "And it's not a big deal. My dad works late, so he couldn't bring me to the train station, and my mom passed out as soon as we got to the house."

"How'd you know I was a Santo?"

"Seriously?" Maya snorted. She took a step closer to him, wrapping her finger around the chain on Cesar's neck. He looked down, only to see a silver cross hanging above his chest. "Check the ice, ese. Either you're a Santo, or you're religious."

"I'm affiliated," Cesar muttered, tucking the pendant into his t-shirt. "Why? Does that bother you?"

"I'm letting you walk me to my best friend's house in the dark, in a neighborhood I'm unfamiliar with." She turned the corner, only to be met with a street lined with houses. "You being gang-affiliated is the least of my problems."

They reached the third house in silence. It was nice -- luxurious, even -- compared to the other places Cesar had seen. This Judas guy must be really classy. As Maya went to ring the doorbell, he turned and asked, "So what's this guy like?"

Before she could respond, the door swung open, revealing a short, pale boy with messy dark hair and sweatpants. "Maya! Fuck, I wasn't expecting you until the morning. My folks are in the living room, but we can hang in my room." His eyes drifted to Cesar, and they immediately filled with shock. "No shit. You're Lil Spooky! Maya, you're fucking with gang members now? I don't blame you. He looks better than A-A-Ron."

"You put the 'ass' in 'class,' Judas. Let us in. I'm starving." She pushed the door open, walking past him with ease.

"I'll leave, if you want," Cesar told Judas. He would understand if he did. There would be a target on his back if people knew he was associated with Cesar, even if he was just 'affiliated.' "She didn't have a phone. I just wanted to make sure she got here safe."

Judas furrowed his eyebrows. "You walked her all the way here?" When Cesar nodded, he continued, "From where?"

"La Luna Drive," He answered, the cross around his neck suddenly feeling hot against his skin. "There were guys coming outta the bodega. they were drunk, and aggressive. Looked like they were gonna cause trouble."

"Do you think I'm gonna let you in just because you pretended to be el salvador for half an hour?" He sneered.

"No, I didn't mean it like that--"

'Boyfriend,' Cesar thought to himself. 'Got it.'

The cold look in his eyes shifted, turning to amusement. Judas grinned happily, opening the door wide in an effort to invite him in. "I'm just fucking with you, Lil Spooky. Come on in."

"Actually, it's fine. I should get back. My tío is probably worried sick," Cesar started, suddenly uncomfortable.

"No seas marica, asshole. Maya's still gonna need help getting home." Judas turned on his heel, heading deeper into the house. After a few seconds, he yelled, "Are you coming or not?"

'What the fuck?' Cesar thought to himself, before taking a few steps, walking into the house and shutting the door behind him. He was met with a dark room, lit up only by the TV on one end of the living room and a kitchen light to his left. In tbe kitchen, Maya was raiding the fridge, a box of Cheeze-Itz in one hand and a pack of Mountain Dew in the other.

She glanced up at him and grinned. "You want something?"

"Uh, water's good." He followed behind Maya and Judas as they grabbed several snacks, laughing and catching up like old friends.

Judas pulled a few bottles of water out of the fridge before heading out and turning into a hallway. "So, how is A-A-Ron these days?"

"Still in love with Alivia," Maya sighed, her hand tightening around a bag of potato chips. "They've been going strong for, like, two years. I don't know why you bother asking anymore."

"Fuck him. What kind of name is Aaron anyway? Un nombre de puta, I'll tell you that." Judas' room was at the end of the hall. He set his snacks down on a wooden desk before motioning for Maya to do the same. Cesar went to sit on a surprisingly neat bed, though the headboard looked worn in for a reason he didn't want to ask about.

Maya threw a water bottle at Cesar, eyes still trained on the bags of junk food in front of her. It landed at the end of the bed, nearly tumbling off the edge. He chortled as he went to pick it up. As he began to take a sip, Judas threw himself on the worn-out computer chair in front of him.

"All right. I have one fucking question for you and you better answer it honestly," Judas stated.

Cesar nodded stiffly. Confrontations like this felt all too personal. He fought the instinct to stand up and leave.

The Colombian boy leaned in, his face painted in curiosity. "Are you scared of ghosts?"

#cesar diaz #cesar diaz x reader #cesar diaz one-shot #cesar diaz one shot #cesar diaz imagine #cesar diaz x oc #on my block #on my block imagine #on my block imagines

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elaboratedbee · 5 years ago

Text

Bigby x Reader

A/N: this is my first imagine, so let me know what you guys think and if there’s anything you guys want me to write! :)

Prompt: “What’s with the box?”

Summary: You introduce Bigby to the wonders of vinyl, and he hates it (or so he says)

Rating: Mature-ish! There’s implied sexy times but nothing actually innapropriate in this one! :)

Ship: Bigby x Reader (unspecified gender)

Word count: 2,168

A Little Quiet

“Ta-da!” You proclaim proudly, placing down a box onto Bigby’s desk. You were careful to avoid moving or covering any of the case files and scattered paperwork that littered the surface. To the casual observer, it would look like a mess of papers with no rhyme or reason, but Bigby was funny like that. His apartment was disorganised and unclean to put it lightly, but when it came to his cases, everything was just how he liked it. It all made sense to him.

At first, Bigby acknowledged you with nothing but a grunt, his brows furrowed as he continued to stare at the case file in front of him as if he thought that if he glared at it hard enough then it would start to make sense. “The whole ‘big bad wolf staring into your soul thing’ works better if whatever you’re intimidating can talk, you know that, right?” You teased him, waiting for him to finally turn his attention to you and your announcement.

This broke through to him, and he looked up at you with tired eyes. He was always so tired, especially when he was in the middle of any kind of case. This time it was a string of B&Es that he just couldn’t seem to pin anyone for. His immediate and most obvious suspect Jack had been quickly ruled out due to his presence at the Lucky Pawn being accounted for at the time of almost every single event, so it hadn’t been the simple open and shut that you thought the wolf may have been hoping for, and with the pattern continuing, you could feel the Sheriff’s frustration mounting over the last few weeks. As much as he would pretend otherwise, you knew that the opinion of the Fables affected Bigby much more than he cared to admit, and the growing unrest amongst the citizens of the town only festered his frustration. Their eyes would be on Bigby, and Bigby’s eyes would be tired. That was the way it always seemed to be. “What’s with the box?” He inquired, even a shortage of sleep not enough to kill his curiosity.

“It’s a record player,” you reveal, removing the box to properly show off the contraption.

Bigby looks confused for a moment, his nose scrunching ever so slightly as he formulated his response. “Why would you want one of those?” He asks eventually, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Bigby!”

“What?” He leans back in his chair and makes a vague gesture with his hands, “I just don’t understand why anyone would want to come home every day and then be surrounded by more noise.”

For such a powerful beast, Bigby really was a creature of habit. Before the two of you met, you supposed he spent all of his evenings in silence, accompanied by whiskey and cigarettes as he worked the night away. With the job that he had, which seemed to mainly involve yelling at, or getting yelled at by, other Fables on a daily basis, you could see why the man would appreciate a little quiet when he was finally alone.

But this was different, music was something that you wanted to share with him. It was another one of the many differences that set you apart, that often prompted other Fables to give the two of you funny stares or to whisper among themselves about just how exactly the two of you managed to make it work. Bigby was comfortable in silence, used to it. You, on the other hand, thrived in chaos and colour and noise. You love music and the sprawling city below your window that was never really quiet, never truly asleep.

“You’ll see,” you promised him determinedly, before leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. It was a simple gesture, but it drew the tension that he didn’t even realise he was holding out of his shoulders, and he melted into your affections. “Come to bed,” you appeal to him quietly while you have his attention, straddling his lap with one leg either side of him.

“I can’t,” he refuses, but his voice is strained as you run one of your hands through his hair, and begin to place slow and deliberate kisses over his jaw.

“Come to bed, Bigby,” you repeat, your voice more firm the second time, and he wordlessly agrees, his body melting into yours in his submission. He rests a head on your shoulder and sighs.

“Okay.”

Effortlessly, despite his lack of sleep, he stands up and carries you with him and you wrap your legs around his waist. He places you down onto the bed and you try to tone down your smile, internally celebrating your victory. Looking all too happy with your success would only drive him back to his desk, so instead, you sit up and tug him closer by his tie. He allows you to slip the knot undone and pull it away from his body and undo his wrinkled shirt buttons one by one, sliding it off his broad shoulders. It’s an intimate act, but not a sexual one as you undress him and you follow your actions with kisses, gentle and certain.

When he finally falls into bed next to you, pulling you close into his arms, you think to yourself that this is worth it. It doesn’t always go like this, where Bigby concedes so beautifully and with so little coercion. It’s more often a hell of a lot more difficult. And there are nights when it’s an impossible task, where you push too hard and he snaps at you. But on the nights that you lay together, breathing together, being together, you would make the trade a million times over.

The next morning, you implement your plan. Fabletown seems content to hold off its daily disasters for a few sweet hours, so you slip out of bed early and start making breakfast for the both of you. Accompanied by the lilting tone of Frank Sinatra, you waltz about the cramped kitchen as much as possible as you mix ingredients and avidly look over frying pans. Before long, the smell of bacon lures the wolf out of your bedroom and he stops in the doorway of the kitchen, regarding you in silence for a long moment before he speaks.

“I don’t deserve you,” Bigby says, watching you lay down bacon, scrambled eggs, pancakes and a steaming pot of coffee. It’s a sentiment that he shares a little too often for your taste.

“You deserve better,” you argue as he makes his way over to you, wrapping his arms around you from behind and letting his headrest on your shoulder.

He growls uncomfortably at your response and you laugh, “Now you know how stupid you sound when you say that.” You point out and the two of you sit down to eat. The vinyl player spins on unobtrusively as Bigby enjoys your offering with a smile on his face, a rare and beautiful sight for such an early hour. Still, he eats quickly and stands, dropping a kiss to your forehead and grimacing.

“I have to go,” he states.

“I know.”

With one last to kiss to your lips, he turns around to leave, before he stops and turns to face you once more. “You know, the only thing that could have made this breakfast better would have been if you turned that damn thing off.” He gives you a sly grin and disappears out of the door before you can come up with a rebuttal.

That bastard.

For the next couple of weeks, the record player becomes almost a form of competition between the two of you. You turn it on whenever you’re at his apartment, bringing different records over with all kinds of genres (some of which Bigby despises a lot more than others) and trying to coax him into singing or humming the lines along with you, or giving you a twirl. In return, he attempts to take the needle off whenever you look away for too long and even resorted to putting a large scratch in the absolutely deafening heavy rock record you had bought over.

“Oops,” had been his deadpan response when you showed him the very suspiciously fingernail looking scratch on the disc.

Occasionally, you think you have him. One night, he arrives home delightfully early and calls you to share the good news. As soon as you’re finished with your work, you go straight to his place. Arriving home before the dead of the night puts Bigby in a comparatively joyous state compared to his usual broodiness, and you put on a record as soon as you enter. It’s almost force of habit by now. He lets out a totally overdramatic groan of disapproval at your action, but you ignore him completely and take him in your arms.

Pulling him close to you, you begin to sway lightly to the sound of Paul Anka’s rendition of Put Your Head On My Shoulder. Bigby stiffens, shaking his head a little as you wind your arms around his shoulders. “I can’t dance,” he grumbles.

“Neither can I,” you confide, “not a fucking clue,” which pulls a small smile out of him. The two of you turn about the cramped living room with a complete lack of grace and even rhythm at times, occasionally standing on one another and muttering hurried apologies. Eventually, Bigby starts to loosen up slightly, holding you closer to him and allowing you to pull him around the room. By the end of the song, he’s even bold enough to invite you to twirl and you do so as a finishing flourish.

The music fades, but neither of you pulls away for a long moment, staying entwined in the centre of the living space. “I like having you close. Right here, right in front of me where nothing else can interfere. Mine.” Bigby doesn’t meet your eyes as he confesses his inner thoughts, his voice deep and his words slow. He emphasises his point by tightening his grip on your waist and pressing a hard kiss to your lips. It’s not often the wolf lets slip how he feels, especially when its a somewhat primal and basal thought, but you love it.

You cup his rough jaw with one hand and kiss him back, bodies pressed close and reassure him.

“Yours.”

It’s only after a long moment that you pull away from the kiss and Bigby murmurs more lowly in your ear, “I can think of another way I get just as close to you, without that damn machine.” He presses himself closer to you and smiles suggestively, but it’s warm love in his eyes before burning desire and you grin. You know that you’re winning.

It’s another week before you catch him, taking him by surprise as you turn up at his place. He swings the door open with a frown already fixed into his face, sure it was going to be some Fable asking for one favour or another. The frown clears when he sees you standing on his doorstep and his eyes brighten. Without hesitating, he pulls you inside and closes the door before promptly pushing you up against it. His actions are urgent and forceful, but he waits for you to kiss him first before he allows himself to place a hand either side of your head and devour your mouth.

His teeth, quickly sharpening, bite at your lower lip before his tongue soothes the sting away. Your own hands are soon twisted in his hair, his curls soft between your fingers as you tug on them, trying to pull him impossibly closer. When he finally allows you a moment, you grin at him. “Bad day?”

“Bad day,” he confirms, “about to get a lot better.”

Finally able to think straight now that Bigby’s mouth wasn’t on yours, you register the sound of music floating through the apartment. An expression of pure, unadulterated joy appears on your face and the Sheriff baulks, realising his mistake as it dawns upon your face.

“You’re listening to music!” It’s almost an accusation as you cry out victoriously and Bigby hangs his head.

“Alright, alright. I put it on when I got home. It’s kinda like a cigarette,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand shamefully, “it’s a noise that blocks out the other shit.” You notice that the usually overflowing ashtrays have depleted somewhat, an additional bonus that you had not expected.

“It grows on you, right?” You punch his shoulder lightly and he rolls his eyes and nods.

“I guess you could say that.”

As he pulls you in for another kiss, more concerned with getting both of you out of any clothes that will prevent him from turning his day around, he keeps to himself that it wasn’t that he liked the music, and it wasn’t that he preferred it to his cigarettes.

It just reminded him of you.

#the wolf among us #twau #the wolf among us imagine #twauimagine #bigbyxreader #bigby x reader #bigby wolf #the wolf among us fic #maybe he is soft #imagine #bigby wolf x reader #bigbywolfxreader #Bigby Wolf X Reader #bigby wolf imagine

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what-big-teeth · 5 years ago

Text

Spark (Male Fire Elemental, pt. 1)

When graduate student Simone Price inherits her deceased grandmother’s house, she hopes to mend bridges that were long burned prior to the sudden passing by way of fond memories. But she soon learns two important truths. One, the cause behind those severed connections is still around. Two, the childhood fables her grandmother told her are more rooted in reality than imaginative fantasy.

Female Human (POV) x Male Monster [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] ”It’s...charming, you know? Really rustic.” Mica carefully chooses her words and attempts a cheerful smile. When she fails, she settles on tucking a loose microbraid behind her deep brown ear. “Right, Mason?”

Mason hefts the large, black garbage bag full of cleaning tools off the ground, gives the old house a once-over from top to bottom, then snorts. Loudly. Mica swiftly elbows her twin in the ribs for “being rude”, but even I can’t stop my nose from scrunching up in displeasure.

She can dress up her opinion with as many euphemisms as she wants. But the truth is plain as day: Nana’s place has gone to the dogs.

The two story’s once brilliant white paint is a dingy, chipping mess that reveals the underlying dark decay. The windows, always transparent enough to see through when the curtains were drawn back, are caked with grime and rust. And the front door, a deep, beautiful burgundy my mind can still picture, has dulled into a paler shade of red. I wouldn’t be surprised if Nana’s little garden in the backyard has been choked by weeds and overrun with wild plants. It saddens me to see the current state of her home compared to when my visits were more common. That was before Dad suddenly severed all contact with Nana ten years ago, when I was only thirteen.

A warm weight settles onto my shoulder, fending off the morning’s autumnal chill. Mica wears a sympathetic smile.

“Are you alright, Simone?”

I’ll never be able to thank Mica and Mason enough for sacrificing part of their Thanksgiving break to help me out. But I can try by remaining as positive as possible.

“I will be,” I say. “Once Nana’s place starts looking like it used to.”

“It’s your house now,” Mason says, adjusting his grip on the garbage bag. Oddly enough, his words sound sad. “You sure you don’t want to do anything different with it?”

It came as a shock when Nana’s last will and testament bequeathed the entirety of her property and assets to me. Dad did all he could to contest the document, but his attempts failed. I’ll never forget the haunted look in his dark eyes when I asked him why he disagreed with my newfound inheritance.

“That place isn’t a home, baby. Not with what it’s got locked inside of it.”

I later refused to budge on the matter, even when he begged me to. After that, Dad told me to do as I wished, but to be careful and stay vigilant. I didn’t understand what he meant then and I still don’t. But I hope, with some hard work and lots of love, Nana’s house will be whole again. Then with time, Dad will come to visit and remember the good times before his mother’s passing.

“Earth to Simone,” Mason says. “Did you hear me?”

“Yeah, and I’m sure.” I fish out the front door key from my coat pocket and smile. “Let’s get to work.”

We hang our coats in the entryway. Once the buckets, brooms, and mops are divvied up among us, Mason works on doling out the cleaning solution. We then decide on who gets what area. Mason is quick to claim the upstairs, citing the possibility of rotten wood weakening the floor.

“I’d rather fall to the first floor and get hurt than see it happen to you two,” he says in an obstinate tone. “Especially since you two might end up worse off.”

“Always the gentleman,” Mica mutters, rolling her light brown eyes. “I’ll take the kitchen and dining room. Might be worth it to see what condition your Nana’s cookware is in.”

“Good idea,” I say. “Just be sure to yell if you find anything interesting.”

“Will do!” She grabs her broom, bucket, and mop,then leaves the foyer.

“Guess that leaves me with the living room and fireplace,” I say.

Mason replies with a hum I can’t discern, which is weird since Mica and I are fluent in Mason-ese. Always have been since we were little kids.

“Something up?” I ask.

His neutral expression doesn’t reveal a thing and that worries me. He’s always had a tell or two, even when he’s tried to hide something from me. Instead of talking, he just ties back his dreadlocks, grabs his share of the cleaning supplies, and walks towards the stairs.

“Call me if you need anything.”

I follow his old sneakers until they vanish from my line of sight. That was weird. But there’s no point in digging to figure out what’s going on. He’ll tell me when he feels like it.

After locking the front door and grabbing a broom, my feet guide me down the main hallway towards the living room. And my heart nearly breaks at the sight. Just about everything is covered in a thin layer of dust and cobwebs, including Nana’s knitting basket and needles. The floor and rug are worst off and I’m somewhat scared to tackle the fireplace. But if I don’t, no one else besides Mica and Mason will. Especially not anyone in town.

After asking for directions and mentioning our reasons for being here, nearly everyone bid us a swift farewell, claiming they had something to do. Only a few upfront people told us to leave the estate alone and head back home, claiming that a witch once lived there.

My grip on the broom handle tightens to the point of pain.

Nana was many things; a huge sun tea addict, an amazing storyteller, and a wonderful knitter. She may have used Black folk magic to help me with my childhood night terrors, but she wasn’t a—

“Ow!”

A thick wooden splinter peers up at me from my index finger alongside a bead of blood. This is why I told Mason we should’ve packed the plastic brooms instead. I lean the broom against the brick mantle, swiftly remove the sliver, and flick it into the dead fireplace.

The piled ash sparks with light and heat, singeing the cobwebs.

“What in the…”

“Simone!”

“Gah!” I wait until my racing pulse calms a bit then respond. “Yeah?”

“I found your Nana’s bundt cake pan,” Mica yells out, “but I can’t tell if it’s still usable.”

“I’ll be there in a moment!”

I look back at the fireplace. Nothing but cold ash. I shake my head and make my way to the kitchen, trying to recall where Mason keeps the mini first-aid kit in his pickup truck.

Midday sneaks up on us, warming the chilly house a few more degrees. Mica decides it’s the perfect time to break for lunch and Mason agrees.

“We passed by a burger joint on the main road,” Mica says, wiping off her hands. “Wanna give it a try?”

Even with the tempting prospect of a patty melt, my mind keeps drifting back to the fireplace. And what I think I witnessed.

“Sure, but do you guys mind going without me? I want to get more cleaning in before the day’s out.”

“Seriously?” Mason is quick to call out my attempt at an excuse. “We’ve been at it for four hours.”

Before Mica can chastise him for being, well, himself, I think up a compromise.

“What if I took an extended break instead? I won’t touch a broom, mop, or bucket while you guys are out and I’ll eat with you once you get back. Sounds good?”

“Sounds perfect!” Mica chirps up. She grabs Mason by his forearm and starts hauling him towards the foyer before he can object. “We’ll be back soon. A patty melt with onions and a small fry?”

“And a bottled water too, please!”

The front door slams shut, the sound echoing until the truck’s engine revs up. I let out a heavy sigh and plop down onto the couch, uncaring of the weak cushioning.

“Finally. I thought they’d never leave.”

I stop myself from launching off the sofa, but my feet still slip on the area rug. My ass slams onto the floor with a hard thud and a deep chuckle follows soon after.

“You’re not very graceful, are you?”

“Who—!”

A large, bright flame emerges from the ash piled in the fireplace. It twists and curls in random patterns until it settles into the distinctive outline of a humanoid face. It grins. I scramble away and slam into the opposite wall.

“What’s this?” it says. “A descendant of Abigail, afraid of me?”

No shit. Who in their right mind wouldn’t be? But, as the barely-calm-and-reasonable part of my brain points out, I won’t get any answers if I let my tongue turn into lead.

“Who are you? How do you know Nana?”

The flame…face…creature remains silent far longer than need be. Its eyes narrow.

“Don’t mock me, girl. You know very well who I am. Or did you forget Abigail’s tales all too quickly?”

The creature’s words slowly begin to make sense, as much as my mind begs them not to. Nana used to tell me all kinds of stories when I was little. But she’d always retell my favorite whenever I asked: the story of a fearless Black girl who trapped an evil flame spirit, thereby saving the town she lived in.

“Oh my god. That story was about you?”

“Cruel, isn’t it? Conditioning a child to believe a lie through a simple fable. All whilst I could hear and see everything. Abigail was always a manipulative, abusive wench.”

Hot, white anger floods my body, wrenching me to my feet.

“Like hell,” I hiss, stalking towards the fireplace.

The creature peers up at me, stunned and silent. Good.

“Nana would never harm anyone. But she sure as hell didn’t take shit from anybody. Ever. What did you do?”

The story always characterized the fire spirit as evil, but never gave a reason. So why not ask the source?

“Well?!”

“Simone?”

My gaze snaps up. Mason stares at me with brows furrowed with concern and confusion. My rage dissipates into nothing, leaving me drained.

“You alright?” he asks.

I glance down at the fireplace. The creature’s vanished. Leaving me to look like an utter fool.

“Uh, yeah! I was just…re-enacting a scene from my favorite drama! Nothing else to do while waiting for you guys to get back, right?”

Mason’s eyes narrow, the simple action screaming ‘bullshit’. “Not even looking at your phone?”

I jam my hand inside my back jeans pocket and pull out my smartphone. Surprisingly, there’s service.

“Not enough bars,” I lie.

Mason doesn’t look convinced in the slightest, but thankfully, he lets my horrible excuse slide. He holds up a large, white paper bag stained with grease. The scent wafting from the inside makes my empty stomach clench with anticipation.

“Mica and I will be in the dining room. Be sure to come and eat while the food’s hot.”

He walks off, the wooden floor creaking underneath his every step. With a heavy sigh, I start to follow.

“Perhaps you are more like Abigail than I first believed: utterly stubborn and foolishly brave.”

I stop moving. If the creature’s words were meant to insult me, they fail. Pride wells up in me and it takes all my willpower to not smile. It somehow notices and scoffs.

“To answer your earlier questions, past humans have called me a fire elemental. And one gave me the name Ignis.”

The creature...Ignis begins to recede back into the ash pile, but my mouth opens before it can vanish.

“Wait.”

He does, to my surprise.

“You weren’t awake before we arrived, right? Which means something made you come around.”

I carefully recall Nana’s story, then all of the related events leading up until now. My eyes widen.

“It was my blood on the splinter. That’s what woke you up. Because I’m of her bloodline.”

Ignis continues to sink further into the ash, but says one last thing.

“You have a sharp mind as well. How interesting…”

The fireplace goes dark, but I stand before it, staring.

I get it now. I understand why Dad severed contact with Nana ten years ago and never wanted me to inherit this place. Why Nana told me those childhood fables and willed her home to me.

But Dad’s still wrong. This house will be a home. But first, I have to finish what Nana started.

#monster boyfriend #monster/human #monster romance #fire elemental boyfriend #exophilia #there are tons of stories where MC/reader inherits a house #why not add another #my writing #female reader #fem reader

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shslmahoushoujo · 4 years ago

Text

Ok, so I did say math and maps will help me work this route out. Let’s begin then. And for everyone’s convenience, I’m gonna keep this after a read more tag to not clutter any dashboards. Anyway. Here we go.

For starters, I’ll make a few things clear. First off, I’m doing this with MS Paint and a mouse, so you can give or take a few hundred meters from the routes I’ll draw. And second, I’ll be working under the assumption it’s on the high end estimate of 500,000 wall titans total, since I generally see it at around 300-500K. So for all intents and purposes, lets estimate it at its most devastating. But first, and rather importantly, we need to set the scene. This includes my best guess for Liberio currently, and I’ll explain how that got there.

So before we start getting into this properly, now that the map’s here, let’s talk about how I came to the conclusion of Liberio being where it is. Though I think a range might be more fitting, but anyway. Let’s begin with this one page.

The titans have already arrived at Marley, the closest cities. My reasoning for the harbor being where it is comes also from this, it’s where the advance of the titans could be seen, which means it has to be the point where Mozambique and Madagascar are at their closest. Even though in real life you still shouldn’t be able to see either one from either end, but w/e. Point is, the steam can be seen from there, but there’s no defeatism about Liberio being gone yet. But then comes next chapter.

Liberio would only be doomed after the titans made landfall at the coast and they’re forced to spend half a day dealing with repairs. So that alone tells us that if they’d been able to get the plane going almost immediately and they just went to stop the Rumbling straight away, Liberio could’ve been saved. So it’s between the northeast coast and Odiha, and so I arrived at this conclusion. Currently I’m placing it at Dar es Salaam in our world, but I could see an argument being made for Mogadishu. Either way, it’s a coastal city, it’s big, and it’s between Mozambique and Odiha (which I put in Djibouti, but there could be a case for elsewhere).

In any event, with that in mind, let’s think about what the route might’ve been following Hange’s thought process based on what we had at the time. I’m assuming there’s 500,000 titans. We saw a lot of rows of titans, but let’s lowball it at 10 rows of 50,000 titans, covering 1000km across as they make their other 600km of movement. It’s probably less considering the likeliness of more rows, but let’s go with this for now, it’s a good example and I’ll reuse that measurement again, because either way I believe either of these two upcoming situations aren’t what’s happening.

(I told you, MS Paint. It’s rough). And here we are. If we consider just the steam Hange and Magath saw, and the assumption that the rumbling made landfall across the north coast of this upside down Mozambique just heading south from there, that’s what we get. But of course, that’s not the end of it, because 132 hits us with some very interesting information, and it also resolves an oddity from 131. And that information is the main 2 goals of a partial rumbling: Port Acirfa, and Fort Salta. And what do I mean by oddity from 131? Well...

Look at where the Rumbling is coming from, and where the ocean is in relation to it. If they’re moving southwards on the east coast, the ocean shouldn’t be to their right, only if they were moving northward. So that means, if they’re moving south, they have to be on the west coast. Which adds up considering the directions to the port and the fort. But of course, that brings a few problems. So let’s keep in mind the fact that Eren came out from the ocean along the rest of wall titans, and that he first hit the Alliance likely at Port Acirfa, which I might’ve put a bit lower than it should be, it’s likely where Cape Town would be. Anyway, let’s look at a map of what it would look like if Eren just stuck to the west coast and made his way to Odiha while going around said coast.

That’s what that would look like. But, as mentioned, there’s some issues with that. Doesn’t fully add up with the steam from 128, no doubt one of our characters would’ve commented on the Rumbling coming from a strange direction, Fort Salta being brought up now would be pointless since it’d already be gone, And frankly, if the Rumbling did all that in a single day, the situation is even more fucked than it looked like, so no, this ain’t the case. So what is it?

We know Port Acirfa was hit, 100% no doubt. The port of Liberio is devastated and it’s merely been a month, so they for sure aren’t hanging out there. Also, I don’t think they can move their whole setup from Acirfa to some unnamed east coast city to attempt stopping the Rumbling in the mere days it took for the Rumbling to make its way out of Paradis and into the mainland. And we’re seeing the titans make 10+ rows (look at that shot of Hange looking at all those colossals), so at best I’m working with the assumption that they’re covering 1000km across, which is still massively damaging but doesn’t add up with stomping Liberio along the way. And even if the rumbling like that zigged to hit Liberio and Odiha after Port Acirfa and before zagging towards Fort Salta, with the extra distance of swimming around and making the way from one place to another, I imagine they’d have longer at Odiha than they had as it is. Also of note, the Eren/Armin PATHS moment from 131 gives us certainty that if anything, Ramzi’s west coast city is being hit the same day Hange and Magath saw the steam.

So what kind of route do I propose? Well, a bit of a mix of both. I also think this is very much a bit on the extra theatrical side, and with the steam being for show for the Survey Corps/Warriors team. I’m working here under the assumption that Eren realized there was another plan after the Liberio raid, but if that’s so, then creating the illusion that Liberio got destroyed adds up. The warriors’ support stops being conditional at that point, which is something I saw people discuss in the past. Because here’s the thing about it. No showing us Liberio getting trampled? No tragic end for the people we know of there and resolution for the rebellion? Then in conclusion, Liberio isn’t destroyed, or at least a lot of the people there survived.

I’m gonna work this next map up with this in mind, and so, this is the Rumbling route I end up with that makes sense. In this one, 200,000 titans would go with Eren to the North (the Wall Maria titans), 300,000 are doing their own thing from the northeast to Odiha, they either swerve around Liberio or Eren knew his warning would allow for mass evacuations (so Liberio was just like Odiha when the titans got there).

Either way, it also creates another scenario: A pincer attack on Fort Salta, and the major ports of Marley devastated to the point said empire can’t possibly be sustained. And I’ve no doubt that, with Annie and the kids going elsewhere on the ship, they’re bound to have some sort of surprise moment happening. Running into the mass exodus of Subjects of Ymir would definitely be a big moment for them. Or maybe I’m overthinking this, but this makes the most sense to me currently. It explains the steam Hange saw and the idea of the Wall Titans heading southwards towards Odiha while also hitting Port Acirfa and the west coast at the same time. It also prevents the group from noticing giant Eren titan before getting to the fort, since he won’t be with the titan group that hit Odiha.

#Tara Says Stuff #shingeki no kyojin #snk spoilers #snk 132 #the rumbling

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countryshitposts · 5 years ago

Text

I Won’t Cry For You

Germany suffers alone.

Trigger Warnings: emotional, mental, and physical abuse, child abuse, vomiting, eating disorders, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt

"Frankreich please, I swear I really didn't hear it!" Germany reasons with his wife, his soft voice with reason has turned to a hysterical and almost-wail, but instead of convincing the woman in front of him it only gives him an uncomfortable glance and a shift of position, but her gaze becomes stern and firm, making Germany squirm a little.

"Allemagne, you were the only one left here in the office", France says in her 'mature and adult' voice; Italy would always try mimick it to make Germany feel better but now he wants to throw something - preferably soft - at her to distract her and run from this confrontation. "Surely you know what happened to why the safe is open and our money just vanished into thin air?"

Germany sputters a little; he tries to think of a good excuse to try and put himself in an innocent light - like he is - and stop Frankreich from tearing him apart piece by piece.

(He remembers all the eyes on him as he and his twin sister was revealed in this large crowd of cheering Germans, cheering for Reich and complimenting his 'children' and how East will hold his hand tighter when they are regarded as his. Ost had almost spoken out of a party, to answer a woman Third Reich, that cruel man, was not their father but West arrives in no time and ushers her into her bedroom to calm her down.

He wonders how she is doing behind the wall, seeing dozens of houses and buildings runny and downed. He stares at them for a moment, before moving on.)

"What, Allemagne, have nothing to say?" He hears her snicker and he shivers, remembering the cold room in the middle of the night with a gun on his fingers and Third Reich's laughs echoing in this closed room with absolutely no lights whatsoever. "I was right, and still am; you and your father are nothing but spineless cowards, only trying to stir trouble away from you but it doesn't and it comes back to bite you in the ass. Useless."

Germany's eyes widen, but he only keeps his eyes on the floor, lips trembling, tears threatening to spill out and screaming when they're not unleashed with a torrent, polished black shoes scratching the smooth and shiny floors with the light showing his thin, pathetic self.

(He hates the way his appearance was like- how it was all thin and delicate with no skin whatsoever and he'd try to change it but in the end he gets more and more hurt.)

But he cannot deny it; Frankreich is right of him. She is right, he is useless, he is nothing but another miserable soul in earth that was put there just to be another life form that sucks the air out of earth and waste it for his own gain. It is what Reich says; a spectre of useless things being thrown to the pages of the books being burned in the town square while others revel.

When France leaves, the tears in his eyes drop like rain; in tiny, unnoticeable small drops like a drizzle, before becoming more numerous and backing sheer amount of size as it becomes a waterfall in his face.

West silently walks his way into the building, ignoring the thrums of people he passes and they ignore him too, an invisible spec of light to behold. He opens the door to the office, and, much contradictory to the silent spell he is creating. He sits besides Italy, who was talking to Greece and not paying the slightest bit attention to him. Then again, he has always been invisible until he speaks, and that it when everyone would yelp and remember and regard that he was, in fact, there.

He opens his documents to observe the requirements of the day, pen full of ink as he starts to scribble the daily memoirs for the day. He tunes out for a little, not listening to the dramatics of everyone, the little hand waves everyone would do every so often but he does not pay attention to the slightest bit of movement or word.

That is, until, France ruins this moment of serenity.

"Allemagne was the only person in the building when the alleged crime scene happened", France says, and West's handwriting turns ugly for a bit before going back to its default style, his hands still shaking. "So, technically, that makes him our number one suspect."

He stops writing, as he feels everyone's eyes upon him, and he looks down at the ground, hating the confrontation happening, remembering the audience's eyes on he and Ost as Reich parades them in town, looking proud and almighty.

(Reich had beckoned him to sit with he and his allies, once. Reich asks West many a question to the point he could not keep up with all of them and stumbles on his words; Reich had called him an underdeveloped child and sends him on his way, but the pang was still there.

It always is.)

"Frankreich, listen to me-"

"You can't just fabricate another alibi, West; sooner or later you're going to lie yourself into a corner and be done with it."

"Es tut mir leid Frankreich aber-", he falters; he questions to why he is speaking in German, despite the fact that everyone here despises him and one time France had hit him when he spoke in his tongue. He reasons it is due to his nervousness and anxiety, his whole body shaking but he tries not to show it.

(It was a complete reverse to what went on in Reich's household.)

The beads of sweat were basically hugging his skin, making it all warmer as he fans himself with his suit, silently asking how it had grown warmer in the course of minutes.

France laughs. "What's wrong? Cat got your tongue le crètin?"

His heart stops; he remembers the insults that Reich had hurled in his way, remembering the hands and raising of fists and the cold and dark room in which he and that tyrant were always locked in as he tries not to spill any tears and minimise the shaking of his body, blonde hair covering his eyes.

He stands up, feeling his stomach plead to him for them to release the half-digested remains he had eaten in breakfast; scrapes of food he had found on his cupboards as he struggles. Germany throws a hard look at France, and, without waiting for her reaction to this, immediately runs out of the door, nausea in his veins.

He runs, his feet still light and nimble on the floors, making small squeaking sounds but wad not loud enough to alert anyone of a nearby person. He had practiced his light feet from sneaking out to meet Ost in her room, to taking food from Reich's plates and then for just not frightening or making anyone aware of his presence at all. His mouth was burning, bile covering his tongue like the millions of souls that Reich had murdered reaching out to him in his dreams.

(He had dreamt of them many times in the past, their screams of fury and horror, their protests and screams to make him confess that it was his fault, oh his fault. It is his fault that he had caused their deaths, and he tries to fight back and say he cannot do anything but they let out horrible and gruesome noises until he is on the floor, sobbing, covering his ears and confessing that yes, yes, he murdered them all.)

Germany opens the door to the bathroom, immediately running to the first stall - almost tripping - and hunches his back over the toilets, making retching sounds as his throat burns, bile creeping up his throat and seeing the remains of his breakfast in the toilet makes him vomit even more. He sobs a little, trying to compose himself, shaking even more after he unleashed a torrent of his remains. He shakes, as he stands, wiping the edges of his mouth with the back of his wrist, before looking at himself in the mirror.

He makes notes of his now messy blonde hair, sad green eyes showing how much he had cried this day, the messed up suit. Germany exits the bathroom, looking at the direction of the office where he had ran off to and the exit. He turns on his heel.

He has no motivation to go back to the meeting.

Germany desires for a drink, but he abstains from that thought; he cannot return to a meeting by simply being drunk, no, he would make an ass of himself even more, and will be the subject of ill-willed jokes for months. He would pass bars that offer the best of beers, but he shakes his head from that thought- he had also realised that he left his wallet in the coat rack at the front of the building, and he swears silently at the loss of it.

(At least he won't go wasting his fortune on little drinks, that is a plus.)

He finds a park bench he can sit in, looking absolutely miserable, not minding the others' staring and the looks they give of him, of him displaying the vibe of an employee who was fired from his job.

Germany would usually stare off into space if he cannot get the slightest bit of the revelries of being drunk- the way his eyes will dilate, his mind bring him into a different world just as bad as this one, and his limbs going slack as if he had fallen asleep in all of this. The voices in his mind would make him imagine gruesome thoughts, and he lets them control him like a puppet with strings, since that is what he is, right? Nothing more, nothing less. At least he would not deal with the consequences of a hangover in the morning, head pounding and stumbling as he makes his way downstairs and visit the pharmacy store to buy painkillers.

The guilt inside of him is easy to be played with, and he lets everyone take advantage to the softest of pleas to the most direct of them all.

He does not fight back as he gives them what he wants.

He stands from the bench, feeling himself drained from thinking of these thoughts. He throws a glance to the people at the park; elderly men and women feeding the ducks, young couples having their first dates in underneath the trees while the children are playing and their parents are setting up the picnic table in a relaxed manner.

Sometimes Germany wishes he can be as relaxed as them; not these contorted limbs that had always been aching and hurting and making him want to cut them off one by one until he is limbless.

Feeling utterly sick to his stomach, he leaves the park to go look for a way to calm himself down of the insult.

He breaths in- t'was just an insult; he has no right to get angry or sad or offended by it.

It just brings back some horrible memories.

But horrible memories are meant to be sidelined to make way for happier and joyous memories.

(It is bold enough to assume he even has one.)

And horrible memories shouldn't be brought up on the dinner table; that's just going to make everyone hate you more instead of pitying your sorry face.

So he keeps them bottled up; only using them as a leverage to get some exquisite excuses from his mind and sometimes his line of work, whenever it gets stressful for him to even function.

(He'd have days like these- days where he is plagued by the ultimate failure and outcome of his mind that he cannot even begin to process the fact that he has a life other than being sad and lonely and being mad for the fact that his father up and abandon them to snap and become the most evil man he has ever witnessed.)

West kicks a rather empty can back to where it had come from, an abandoned and moldy alley with no light coming from there. He stares at it for a little; how he had unknowingly kicked a priced vase from its foundation and how Reich had heard that shatter and immediately fumed once he sees West's frail figure trying to pick up the broken pieces of the vase but ends up cutting himself, pricking his fingers and drawing in an amount of blood. He had remembered the insults and words thrown onto his face as he tries not to cry, but he does and Reich even grows more furious, his hand raised to hit him.

But it never did, instead he was laughing and making fun of the way West's body quivers in fear and tells him he's only joking; no need to overreact.

But West knows that he will never hesitate to hit him even in his most simplest of mistakes.

He now desires for a smoke, but he has neither the cigarettes nor lighter to even light one- he swears once again, now really regretting not bringing his wallet with him. He wants to get blackout drunk by now.

He passes by a fine-dining restaurant, with everyone seeming like they are having a good time with their friends and family, and he pauses his feet, looking through the glass like it is an ideal dream- unreachable, yet it can exist if he can just try. He remembers his father, feeding he and Ost with the scrapes of food he finds in the streets, and he feels content with even the single particle enter his stomach. Then it is replaced by a memory of Reich giving him only a meal a day; if West ever dared step out of his boundaries he will never be given a meal that day and will be left to starve.

(West had objected to this the first few times, of course.

"Papa would let me eat despite the fact I broke a frame!", he had said in front of Reich, who was smoking a cigar, puffing out a cloud of smoke.

"The only frame you'd be breaking is yours- except for the fact, it is already broken." Reich laughs at his joke as West's eyes immediately go downward.)

He jolts at the sudden memory in his mind - stop giving him painful memories you useless sack of membrane - stepping backwards and landing onto somebody's arms, and he looks up to find a concerned man and woman - perhaps husband and wife - looking down at him.

"Are you alright, young man?", the man holding him asks, and West steels himself and gets up from where he was being aided from; he did not need to be babied, that perspective of his life had come to a close once his father had turned.

(Germany must confess, but he wanted to be held, nurtured, cared for and loved in someone's arms once again, back to the times someone actually loved him before two people had the complete and utter gall to take them away and place him in a different surrounding where his sister hates him and everyone is against him.)

"I'm fine", Germany replies to the man, stepping back a little, "just a little... dazed."

"It's just... you've been walking 'round the place with quite a solemn look, like something has been on your mind."

Germany shakes his head and smiles, knowing full well it is plastic. "Really, I am fine- I just have a lot of things in my mind right now."

The man nods, "All right, off we go then. I do hope that you sort out whatever issues you are dealing with right now." With that, the couple walks off; leaving Germany in his thoughts once again and completely solemn.

He wonders if there are any vacant high-scaled buildings he can break in in the middle of the night.

Germany wakes up screaming after a nightmare. He gets up from the bed, unconsciously throwing his nightly glass of water to the walls, its shattered wails of glass desecrating his night - or day, he has lost time really - and screams even more when he remembers the horrible sounds of shattered glass to the screams of his people running rampant to Ost telling him they both need to jump out the window to escape the wrath of the enemies. West throws his sheets upon himself, utterly shaking from head-to-toe, trying to make himself relax, all his joints swollen and throat in pain after the high screams from his nightmare.

(He doesn't remember his dream; all he knows was that at first everything was white and then it faded to a crimson red of the blood his alleged victims had owned and the blue-stains signifying his tears.)

West gets up from his bed and unwraps himself from his blankets, looking around cautiously like the ghost of the past has been left behind to haunt him forever. Yet the ghost of the past is him; he is a living memory of what Reich had done, and he will be the one to blame for the next century or so.

(Sometimes he'd jump back from a reflection of him- scared at how he looks so much like his father to the point it is rather jarring.)

West was not fond of handling steak or kitchen knives at three in the morning, with his skin full of thin lines are tingling underneath his long sleeves, thirsting for the sharp metal to bury deep into his skin but he denies them with all his might despite the fact he eyes it- eyes the way it shines underneath the kitchen's ceiling light, calling him, tempting him to come have a taste of what the knife can do.

He sighs a little before ultimately giving up at making himself a snack at three, knowing full well he could not trust himself with a knife. Or any sharp object in general.

He decides not to eat anything at all, remembering the way he vomited out contents of his stomach at a single mention of the awful and horrible things Reich had done. Of course, has not eaten anything since yesterday, preferring having an empty stomach retching over the toilet trying to spill its contents into the bowl than a full one- his appetite would immediately become lost.

So Germany blankly opens the television and spends the rest of his free time before going back to his work place of pure torture. Not like he'd find a good movie or show to watch; he sincerely thinks that real life was much more entertaining than a measly motion picture with scripted words and actions and romance to top it all off.

(The way he sees it, he feels as if the romance of all the complicated movies and series he has seen are rushed; a handsome, dashing man and a damsel in distress falling in love, kissing passionately at the very end to show all that they are a couple, they are together, and everyone will be happy of their love. All the while, Germany would clench at his fists hard and crush the utter soul of what he is holding.

He had love. He had love a long time ago, before it came crashing down like tidal waves pinning him down to the deep blue sea and forever rendering him without his sister and father to guide him endlessly.)

He lets himself melt into the suffocating couch, sighing a little from how soft it feels on his back, contradictory to the fact that he can still feel the bruises Reich had caused on it, still throbbing with pain every time he presses them onto a hard surface. (Which is why his chairs on every meeting is stacked with pillows; he knows he cannot have his back mangled from both work and a painful past.)

He then stiffens when he hears a gunshot- then it starts to multiply a lot in his ears, amplifying it to the sounds of many a soldier screaming and ordering in German, then a shot towards he himself, a scared and trembling boy who tries his damnedest to lift the heavy armed weapon on his arms as he, with quivering feet, try catching up with the older men who were completely ignoring him to save their own asses.

"Bitte... lass mich alles vergessen." He silently prays to no one in particular; he has never had believed in a single faith after his childhood came crashing down to reveal the outside world in the most sickening and twisting of ways, twisting his mind until he cannot make up what is real and what is not anymore. "Bitte... bitte..."

His nerves start to rack as all of his senses were now on fire, trying to claw their way into his skull and he grits his teeth, opening and then closing his eyes again when he sees that everything around him is as dark as the death of the night, no stars nor light was there to guide him. He tries to stand, but his legs had turned as soft as jelly, and he stumbles with a hard thud- but it doesn't hurt him, only giving him a slight amplifying when his heart starts to beat, faster and racing like they were trying to catch up with his nerves settling into him. He tries to feel his hands, but they were numb, like they were settled deep into a blockade of ice where they stayed for an hour or two before completely being submerged frozen. His chest was heaving, pounding outwards like there was a beast inside him waiting to be let out so they can murder him. He can feel the wetness of his cheeks, though, and opens his mouth to let out a muffled sob but nothing comes out (if something did come out he'd choke it back down).

He tries to calm himself down - which was now a daily occurrence - because he knows no one will acknowledge him, no one will care that he's having panic attacks in three in the morning and trying to control himself from taking the knife and giving himself a variety of cuts and bruises along his skin.

No one will care.

And that's a fact he has to live with.

"You have the nerve to show your face here again?" Germany's green eyes slither towards the towering figure that was Frankreich, always high and mighty, always proud, and always antagonizing him no matter what he has to do. His eyes go back to the documents he was writing.

"I work here, Frankreich", he says softly but can still be heard by everyone in the room, "please leave me be."

He hears the woman laugh, her laugh just as warm and thick with honey as her voice. "Ah, so the la mauviette learns how to talk back to his higher-ups, hm?"

He ignores her, despite the fact he knows she doesn't have an inclination towards being ignored, loving the attention, loving the spotlight that may sometimes be meant to others.

(One time he sees Italy and France arguing about something he cannot hear, except for the fact that France was complaining about how she 'didn't have enough screen time' and Italy looking genuinely apologetic.)

"Rèponds-moi- I do not want to be ignored."

The sounds of scribbling paper fills the room, the entire office becoming eerily quiet for Germany's taste, and he wonders if France did have a specific touch on the building to let everyone know that drama was happening.

"RÈPONDS-MOI, SALE ALLEMAND!" Her shriek, which is an octave higher than her voice, makes West's handwriting sloppier as he jumps from his seat with his hair a mess from the jolt. His shaken eyes turn back to France, jaw locked, eyes murderous and bloodshot, her fingers on his desk.

(No, this did not bring him bad memories of Reich, absolutely not.)

"Ah, so I can get your attention from shouting", France says, a tiny smirk dancing across her face, a malicious intent in her eyes. "What? Scared I'll come to your room and murder you in cold blood?"

I am not afraid of murder, Germany wants to say but bites his tongue, knowing he'd provoke France even further than he did before.

"You are", she says with a small chuckle as she retracts her fingers from his table slowly, like she was going to raise it and scratch his face with her nails. "I think I know what else will frighten you."

She raises her hand, clenched to a fist, and Germany gasps; all of a sudden the warm air around the room has been shattered, replaced by the familiar chill he has always felt whenever he was around, whenever his shadow lurks in the darkness, watching, eyeing him and whenever he shows up in his delusions that are called dreams in his slumber. And he remembers those tainted red eyes of madness, showing no remorse as he strikes East after she had misbehaved his order, and then him, cowering in fear underneath the staircases but he receives a blow, horrible and it repeats and repeats, the blows becoming more and more painful as pain blossoms into his body while he apologizes, knowing full well Reich would never listen.

"ES TUT MIR LEID!" He did not know when he had stumbled into the ground, out of his chair, into the cold and hard floors, sweating, chest heaving and breath quickening, seeing the shadow of the ruthless dictator he had come to despise all his life, and not France. "Vergib mir! Bitte! Hit me but not her!" He starts to choke and sob, a river of tears running down his cheeks, gritting his teeth.

(Was he aware that he was foolishly breaking his own walls in front of people who dislike him? Perhaps, or he is hallucinating he was in his room once again talking to a shadow of that man.)

He screams when he feels someone's hand on his shoulder, and scrambles back like a rat against all human touches and wanting to get away from them. "GET AWAY! DU BIST NICHT VATER! Ich will meinen Vater! WO IST ER!" His eyes sesrch frantically at the sea of faces, trying to decipher who was the kind and caring father that had raised him over the years with his kind smile and lively attitude, and breaks down into sobs, crawling into a fetal position when he cannot find him.

(France hears Allemagne repeat Weimar and Ost's names, crying his heart out as he puts his face into his hands, his fingers digging into his skin. All the while, she did not know what had triggered this, and she looks at her fist with a confused look.)

The whole room is now full of nerve-racking sobs, when the man in front of them reverts back to a young boy that wants his family back.

Austria hears impatient knocks on his door, and he sighs, sitting up from where he was sitting and pinching the bridge of his nose, silently deciding whether to abandon his music composition briefly or answer the door. He decides to come downstairs, in his bathrobe and hurries down towards the door, where in which the troublesome knocks were resonating.

"Darf ich Ihnen helfen?", he asks calmly, until he fully registers who was at his doorstep-

France looks at him awkwardly, feet shifting from left to right and hands on her back. "Puis-je te demander quelque chose?"

France takes a sip of her cup of tea which Austria had brewed, placing it on the tray on the small coffee table as she puts her hands on her lap daintily.

(Austria knows that her dainty and fragile features mask the she-wolf of a woman that she is; that her innocent looks and pure smiles can mean something else and everyone who has fallen under her spell has suffered a terrible fate, a poisonous apple.)

"Third Reich", Austria spits his name out of his mouth, like a forbidden curse. "You are aware of the fact Weimar turned into him, correct?"

France rolls her eyes, "Of course I know. I wasn't born yesterday you know."

"Well, you see, the twins are quite attached to their father; something you can never relate to." He flicks his finger, a tiny snap as his eyes carefully flickers to a portrait of Liechtenstein. "When they realized their father was replaced by a terrible and god-awful man, oh, were they devastated."

"Well, from the way Allemagne was crying of his father today I can see it." France mentally slaps herself after she lets the remark slip out of her mouth, and now Austria was glaring at her, holding his cup of tea.

He sighs, "Well, I cannot critique you; I made no help to both of them, with the delusion of still being in power." He sighs a little, guilt lingering in his voice as he fixes his glasses. "Why do you need my help again?"

France's leg starts to bounce, "Because, Austria, I want to know why Allemagne overreacted to me almost hitting him yesterday."

Austria's eyes give off another slight irritation, as if not wanting to talk about how everything all went wrong yesterday.

(He was, of course, there, obviously- he had just gotten back from the coffee room only to see West on the floors with everyone standing like a deer in the headlights and France nowhere to be seen. He and Schweiz had to soothe Germany out of his fetal position and support him while walking. The nerve-wracking sobs remind Austria of Confederation and he was close to sobbing as well.)

"If you were such a 'smart' woman as you put it", Austria puts finger quotations on the word 'smart', much to France's dismay, "then you would know how much harshness Reich treated those twins of Weimar."

France leans uncomfortably into her chair, looking at the steam rising from her cup of tea like it was a phantom offering her something else in the cup, a woman giving her a thousand knowledge in one life time. She sighs, "Look, I know me and the others were at fault for his demise-"

"It's not entirely your fault too", Austria cuts in, "it is partially also Weimar's for accepting the ghost in his head telling him of promises so he can take what was his."

"Alright, back to the topic", France swivels, "I've noticed something peculiar about Germany. About the way he's always really silent that when he speaks everyone just jumps because they're unaware he was in the same room as them; the way he jumps when someone makes a loud noise; the way he asks people if this seat or place is taken despite the fact that he actually is seated there; and just yesterday, when I tried to hit him he just spent half an hour on the floors, grovelling, until you helped him up."

Austria thinks for a moment, lips pursed as if contemplating how this situation had gone to a topsy-turvy. "Have you ever considered that this net behavior of West can stem from years of hurt and pain?"

France blinks, "I thought he was just anxious and shy-"

"You thought wrong, Frankreich", Austria says, glowering a little. "You'll always assume even the most basic of things. I've seen West being hit and belittled by Reich, while that disgusting man had enjoyed his pain and misery." His face shows more regret once again. "But what do I know? I turned a blind eye on them all. The next thing I knew Reich was dead in his office, West is in the Allies' custody, and East is now with the Soviet Union."

France sighs a little, "Listen, I've done something horrible to Allemagne, that I can tell; and I want to... help him."

Austria scoffs, gripping the handle of his cup hard. "Help? I think you've done your part on helping the poor boy. You think hitting him will make you feel satisfied at the fact you made a boy grovel at your feet? That is not helping; you are doing the same thing Reich did."

"And what did Reich do?"

The man in front of her chuckles, like he has seen a hilarious move right in front of him. "Isn't it obvious? He hits, starves, and misuses the twins to the point they are broken beyond belief."

"I... I didn't know that bastard would do that to his own children!" France tries to find some evidence so she can prove herself justifiable of why she had tried to hit West in the first place. Her mind gives her a conscience instead of a reliable excuse though- she wanted to hit West to see how much his mind will topple over and break him like the fragile glass in abandoned buildings and even in her own home in which she drunkenly throws all of her glasses of wine into the walls.

Österreich glares at her with a magnitude of a thousand suns looking to strike her down. "Now you know, and now... I do not know. If you would've given the boy a chance, then he would not be scarred by days past. He would not wallow in guilt on what has become in his life and how he should make it up to every single one of you. I can only be here for him for a short while before he goes back to his home in a pitying manner, before he goed nd play with that razor blade-"

France's heart stops for a second as she jolts up from where she was sitting. "Wait... Allemagne hurts himself?"

The sadness in Austria's eyes increase as he looks back at the cup in his hands. "He does; I tried so much to get him out of those manners but he would not listen- he keeps telling me he will kill himself when the timing is right, when the sea meets the sky."

France feels more and more feelings of guilt churn inside of her; who is she to mock the German family when even she was just as terrible as they are? And she remembers the awful things she has told about West and his sister and father, even right in front of him or in earshot like she has no care for his feelings and treating him as a person even lower than she.

She stands, "Thank you for the small talk, Austria, but now I have to go."

He gives her a small wave of farewell as she closes the door behind her, cup of tea already cold.

The air at the roof of the building was quite cold and chilly- like the cold floors that Reich would press West upon or the even harsher winters in which he is thrown outside after pushing Reich's buttons too much so now he has to sleep in front of the door he has been kicked out of, with thin clothes and freezing to death as he tries to plead with Reich to take him home.

(He'd cry and weep as he shakes with the shattering snowflakes as the tears on his face freeze up as his body becomes frozen and he crawls into a sitting position to conceal the warmth that still resonates within him.

Reich would only open the door when he is unconscious and would take him in like the loving father figure he is, wrapping him up in blankets and hiring the best doctors to help heal him. When West came to, he would shout at Reich but he'd simply laugh and say he has saved his life from the hazardous cold of the winter season.)

He takes the burnt out cigarette that has been stuck on his mouth for long as he drops it to the ground and steps on it as he grows closer, tantalizingly closer to the edge. The wind becomes colder and stronger, screaming at him to back away unless he deserves the terrible fate he's always did and steps on the edge to see what lies beyond the top of the very building.

West's eyes scan the neighbouring buildings, full of blinkering yellow lights that show people going on about their mundane but impacting lives, at how, in introspection, these lives are not worthwhile in the history books and that only the people living their lives fully know what has happened; not even their closest relatives will know of their deepest secrets and dreams and fears, only the speck of imagination that came out of their mouth is the only knowledge their closest companions will absorb of. He looks down at the speeding cars, wondering if he falls down from this great height and be flattened by the ashphalt road, will the cars zooming in such a high or moderate speed stop when they see some large thing fall from the sky in heaven's grace? Or would they simply ignore and accidentally run over his mangled corpse?

His polished dark shoe is camouflaged with the dark sky, as he taps to create a small cadence before his untimely - but expected - death. He takes a deep breath - his last - closing his eyes and to calm his beating heart, which was protruding from his chest and wishing to escape.

Not to worry, he tells his beating heart, you will be free after I fall off this building.

West takes a cautionary step outside the edge of the building, his shoe touching thin air, trying to see if it can carry him away from oblivion, away from its taste, trying hard to seduce him into the dark side, lips tainted with past lovers. He exhales, letting out all his stress, trauma, hate and sadness that has been plaguing him like a sickness in all the years after Reich had been created (his father was a fool).

So he leans- leans into the very edge, waiting for his inevitable death to sweep him into the afterlife, where he belongs.

A hand holding on his wrist stops him, and now he is frozen on the edge, like the sculptures of a fountain he has seen numerous times before. And then he is pulled back, pulled back to the bittersweet tastes of imminent death, his eyes looking back down to the ground waiting patiently for him, trying to comprehend that a body would not drop to their hard bed that easily.

Instead of fighting, he feels numb; like the only safe way to close the curtains of his life is down. He cannot feel his hands, like he had just inhaled another fresh bag of cocaine and spread it all over his systems like a fresh batch of flour had just rubbed off into him. West then feels himself coming to his senses, as he is brought back to the world of living he hated and will always hate and into warm arms that scoops him up like a swan.

"Allemagne, can you hear me?" The voice was sweet, pure but with the touch of concern in it, like she cares, oh she cares at how far West has fallen down. Her hands finds West's cheeks, warm with tears he did not know had appeared on his face during his time being saved by the light that has always hated him ever since he was born. "S'il te plait dis quelque chose, Allemagne."

West stares up at the night sky, stars blinking and twinkling all above him like they will shower him with gifts, gifts that will never make sense in a lifetime. His eyes search the skies, to find the constellations moving to form his sister, his dear sister that had pushed him away when they had reunified, smiling down at him just like in the old days, when spring felt warm in his hands as it devours the icy winters, touching the frozen wasteland that had become second nature. The constellations move again to form his father, his dear and loving father he had loved from the beginning to the end of his life, anger suddenly dissipating when he remembers the real reason why he became desperate, clutching at short straws before succumbing to the deepest and darkest desires of his mind, working like a needle for him to grapple at and sew his own life story.

(He reminisces about the small but comfortable apartment they had once lived; he was always never alone, he was always never sad nor angry, especially when it was with their father and Ost, so happy and so peaceful, until like a picture they were torn apart by the great grand scheme of things.)

And he sees her, burning like a supernova under the stars, the sun expanding and expanding and expanding until it wholly occupies the space where all life exists, her troubled face looking down at him with such intensity that he could not bear look at her eyes of hurt, knowing he's disappointed her, over and over again.

Frankreich's hands feel like the sun underneath his tear-covered cheeks, ultimately caressing him and then taking him by her arms, like they were the best of friends, the worst of enemies, dying in battle. "Je suis vraiment désolé." There she goes again, cradling him like a small and vulnerable infant unready for the world to take them out, but he enjoys it, he enjoys her embrace, he enjoys everything about this feeling, as if he had not felt it in a long time.

So he stays.

Es tut mir leid Frankreich aber- i'm sorry France but

Bitte ... lass mich alles vergessen- please, let me forget everything

Rèponds-moi- answer me

Vergib me- forgive me

Du bist nicht vater- you are not my father

Ich will meinen vater, wo ist er- i want my father, where is he

Darf ich Ihnen helfen?- may i help you

puis-je te demander quelque chose- can i ask you something

S'il te plait dis quelque chose- please say something

Je suis vraiment désolé- i'm so sorry

#mine #countryhumans #writing #GerFra #countryhumans germany #countryhumans france #countryhumans austria #countryhumans weimar republic #countryhumans east germany #tw: suicide attempt #tw: child abuse #tw: emotional trauma #tw: abuse

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sweetautumnwine · 5 years ago

Note

there’s a name appearing on Gon’s phone with heart emojis and he’s been texting this person for the entire day, ignoring killua. Killua finally confronts him about it only to be surprised that it’s not at all what he thought. #request

Killua tried to disregard it, but as the day progressed into afternoon, he found his patience dwindling, his confidence wavering.

Gon was ignoring him.

The realization stung, and Killua bowed his head, clasping his hands in an arc above his scalp as he wrestled with the thought. Gon had just fled the hotel room, cell phone held tightly in his grasp, with a weak farewell left in his haste.

All day, Gon had spent his time with his eyes glued to the small screen of his Beatle. He’d gotten pretty adept at texting, and his fingers flurried across the keyboard, his eyebrows furrowing when his speed increased.

Whenever Killua tried to speak to him, offering him chocolate or a playful quip, Gon brushed it off. Killua, in a desperate attempt to secure Gon’s attention, had even blurted out that he would run away if Gon kept this up. But Gon didn’t look up, just pursed his lips as he continued his message and murmured, “Sure thing, Killua.”

It didn’t help that whoever Gon was texting was clearly important. More than once, Killua had snuck a glance at the screen only to spot a collection of hearts alongside the unreadable contact name. He wouldn’t admit it, but his heart felt sore after that first glimpse.

Alone in the hotel room, Killua rose from the lone table and retreated to his bed, collapsing backwards onto the comforter and draping an arm over his eyes. Evening would come soon enough, then dusk, then night. The passage of time was always something to rely on, even if his dearest friend wasn’t.

His lips quivered, but he forced them together to keep them from moving. With a deep breath that strained his lungs, Killua sat up, his mind turned solemn and still. Blindly, he sought his own phone, still lying on the nightstand, and dialed the one number he’d bothered to memorize.

Gon answered on the second ring, his voice dwarfed by what sounded like the soft din of a crowd. “Killua?”

Killua gripped the phone. “Where are you?”

“I’m just... in the lobby.” Gon clearly covered the receiver with his hand and made a muffled shushing sound, and the uproar grew quieter. “Do you need something?”

Gritting his teeth, Killua sucked in air through his nose before speaking. “Yeah. We need to talk.”

The silence that followed was maddening, even though it only lasted a few moments. “Sure. I can come back to the room in a little while.”

“It can’t wait.” When Killua felt the prick-sting of tears in his eyes, he hastily wiped his sleeve across his face and continued. “I’ll just come down to you.”

Growing serious, Gon exhaled, the sound almost of defeat. “Oh. Okay. I’ll be waiting.”

“Yeah,” Killua said, staring at the opposite wall so intensely he imagined the wallpaper smoldering into flame. “See you soon.”

Killua took the emergency stairs, deciding that it would be better to make Gon wait—and to give himself time to prepare for the worst.

For months, they’d been together, but there had been times when Killua would lie awake at night, plotting an escape. Should Gon tire of his presence or determine that Killua wasn’t suited for his company any longer, Killua decided that he would make his exit as gracefully as possible.

Now that the scenario seemed more likely than ever before, Killua found that he was clinging to the past, burying his claws in it, resisting his escape plan even when he knew it would be for the best.

He reached the ground floor and lay his hand on the door knob, his touch light and reserved. He closed his eyes, bringing his chin to his chest, and dispelled the tension from his features.

As much as the day had distressed him, Killua wanted to believe in Gon. He wanted to believe that nothing was wrong, that it all had been a misunderstanding, but something knotted in his stomach, telling him he was a fool.

Knowing that he couldn’t delay himself any longer without good reason, Killua pulled the door into the stairwell and stepped into the lobby.

Gon stood facing the elevators, but when he heard the door open, his head swiveled. The grin on his face was blindly, and Killua froze in place, captivated by Gon’s light.

How can you smile like that when… when…?

As Gon drew closer, his pace slowed as he registered Killua’s expression. He tilted his head to one side, his eyebrows pinching with concern. “What’s wrong?”

Killua clenched his fists by his side. He could feel each pulse in his palms and his temples, pounding enough to ache. “Why…”

Gon reached Killua and stopped just a foot in front of him, his worried hazel gaze searching for answers. “Killua?”

Normally, Gon’s concern would embarrass and delight Killua. It was foreign, after all, to be cared for. But now, it made Killua angry, and though he knew he was behaving irrationally, he ground his teeth together and hung his head as he tried to contain his emotions.

“You’ve ignored me all day,” he choked out, unable to meet Gon’s eyes. “But now that I seek you out, you greet me with that grin? What are you trying to do here, Gon?”

When Killua lifted his head, he knew that his cheeks were red and wet, but he immediately forgot his fury upon registering the devastation on Gon’s face. His tears stopped from the shock.

And then, Gon smiled again, tentatively this time, as he extended a hand. “I’ll apologize later. For now, come with me.”

Killua shook his head, unsure if Gon was truly that insensitive or if he was dumber than Killua thought. “No, what—”

“Trust me,” Gon insisted, taking Killua’s hand by force. “You’ll understand in a minute, Killua. I promise.”

Though reluctant at first, Killua allowed himself to be led to an adjoining room as Gon wove a path through unconcerned patrons. The double doors were adorned with brass knobs and decorations, but Killua hardly had the time or sense to admire its appearance. Gon easily nudged both doors open and turned toward Killua as he stepped backward into the darkened room.

As Killua entered, brilliant flashes of light disturbed his vision, sharp pops and hisses filling the silence. Killua nearly recoiled, but Gon’s grip held him there, firm yet gentle.

The overhead lights slowly bloomed into brightness, and Killua’s sight adjusted with ease. However, it took him a few seconds to understand what he was seeing.

He saw Leorio and Kurapika, beaming like idiots, along with Melody, Hanzo, Satotz, and Ikalgo at the first table. Behind them were a dozen other tables, around which familiar faces—Hunters, chimera ants, and nearly-forgotten comrades—gathered. Many of them wore colorful pointed hats atop their heads, and in their hands were an assortment of firecrackers and confetti launchers.

Once Killua caught his breath, he stepped further into the room, eyes wide. All fear had vanished from his mind, leaving only utter confusion. “What… is this?”

Gon threw his arms around Killua’s shoulders, nuzzling into his neck as his full weight fell upon him. “Happy birthday, Killua!”

Realization struck like a jolt of electricity, and Killua blinked hard. “My… birthday. You mean this is for me?”

Gon pulled away just enough to nod. “Sorry I ignored you. I was making plans all day. There were a lot of hiccups near the end.”

Killua remembered the hearts and felt his chest grow tight. He leveled his voice and tried to convey a tone of curiosity, though it certainly fell flat. “Who else was involved?”

Tapping his index finger to his chin, Gon hummed in thought. He seemed unwilling to part from Killua’s side, and Killua couldn’t bring himself to push him away. “Well, Leorio helped with wrangling everyone, Kurapika dealt with food, Melody got the entertainment booked, Netero worked with the hotel staff, Ikalgo organized the gifts—”

“But what about the hearts?” Killua blurted, slapping his hands over his mouth as soon as the words escaped.

Gon blinked, his mouth still agape. Once he processed the inquiry, Gon furrowed his brow and withdrew his phone, pressing a few buttons before displaying the screen. “Which ones?”

Now that Killua had a clear view of the screen, he quickly realized his mistake. Every contact name in sight featured a name along with a smattering of emojis, a majority of them an assortment of colorful hearts.

Killua balked, turning an incredulous gaze onto Gon. “What the hell, Gon?”

“I add them for all my friends,” Gon said innocently.

“What about me, huh?” Killua demanded, wiggling out of Gon’s hold and crossing his arms over his chest. “Do I get hearts?”

To Killua’s surprise, Gon averted his gaze for a moment, then scrolled through his contacts once more before handing the phone to Killua. “Not exactly.”

When Killua took the phone, his tongue felt thick in his mouth. Gon’s behavior was undeniably strange. Was he ashamed? Embarrassed? Remorseful?

Then Killua looked at his contact name, and his cheeks grew hot. There, beside his name, resided a single red heart.

Killua thrust the phone into Gon’s chest and turned to address the crowd, ignoring the fact that his face was flushed. “Well, we’re all here to celebrate me. Where’s the food? Where are my gifts?”

Leorio made some comment about how kids like him never change, do they? and Killua spared another glance back at Gon whose grin had finally returned. He wondered, for a moment, if his immediate assumption was correct or if he was simply projecting his own desires onto something mundane.

Gon’s eyes met his. Killua saw that their usual sparkle had returned in full force, and he smiled back, reasoning that there were more important things to concern himself with for the time being.

#killugon #requests #my work #hxh fic #killugon fic #drabble #ahhhhh #i wrote this in one shot #i hope this works for your request!!!!#thank you again so so much omg #i love love love receiving requests ahhhhh #Anonymous

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detectivejigsawpines · 5 years ago

Text

A Pinesmas Carol-part 7 (Decking in the halls)

*If you want, you can imagine the Trans-Siberian Orchestra's version of "Carol of the Bells" playing during parts of this. It feels kind of appropriate.

Clink.

It was a tiny sound, barely audible in the stillness of the night; just a small, muffled noise that was barely recognizable as glass breaking.

But it had Stan opening his eyes almost immediately... and sliding the brass knuckles he’d kept under his pillow onto one hand, while opening his knife with the other.

Slowly he slid out from under the covers, straining his ears as he got to his feet. Was there a creak of hinges that came after, or was he just imagining it because of how wound up he was?

Sounds like that came from the back door. Do I go there to investigate, or stay here and make sure nobody ambushes my family while they’re sleeping?

If it had been just him, then it would have been easier, he wouldn’t have needed to worry about having to protect-

Wait a minute. Where’s Ford?!

The makeshift bed contained a distinct absence of long-limbed nerd (unless you counted Shermie, but he didn’t fit the description well enough as far as Stan was concerned).

Horrifying possibilities flitted into his head: Archer or one of his goons could’ve already broken in and seen Ford first, and thought he was Stan so they grabbed him and somehow took him without waking anyone else up; he could have gotten up to investigate on his own and got captured, and maybe even now they were-

Chill out! You literally cannot afford to panic right now if you want your family to get out of this alive.

Then, to his relief, Shermie was awake, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

“What is it?” he whispered, looking up at Stan.

“I think I heard something,” Stan whispered back. Then, decision made, he handed him the switchblade. “Just in case anyone tries comin’ through the front.”

And before Shermie could answer he crept into the hallway.

****

Stan moved into the kitchen, glad that the windows were letting in a few squares of light so he could see that...the room was empty.

On the one hand, if there were intruders, they hadn’t come in here: good.

On the other hand, there was still a significant absence of Ford: bad.

Maybe he’s upstairs.

Was it worth checking? Shermie was awake and armed now, and if they’d decided to go upstairs and found his twin-not that Ford couldn’t handle himself if push came to shove, but old instincts died hard-

A dark form was suddenly looming in the kitchen doorway, and lunging towards him; something long and metallic-looking flashed in its hand.

Stan didn’t think twice before snatching one of the chairs away from the table and bringing it down on the figure’s head.

So much for tryna be stealthy.

...Oh crap, I really hope that wasn’t Ford.

But to his relief, when he pulled the now prone figure into one of the pools of light, he saw that it was a totally different man: bulkier than Ford or Shermie, wearing a thick black turtleneck. With a large wrench in his hand, just the right size for smashing onto someone’s head.

Stan glared, and snatched it up.

Finders keepers, loser.

And then, just as he was straightening up again, he felt something cold and metal press into the side of his skull.

****

It was only made worse by the fact that this new guy-another of Archer’s thugs, Stan was guessing-didn’t start monologuing like any self-respecting comic book villain would have done when they had someone at gunpoint, or even say something along the lines of “Archer’s been looking for you for a long time, Pinowski.” He just stood there quietly and waited for Stan to straighten and turn to face him.

Once that was done he moved his hand, gesturing towards the hallway.

Of course. Archer doesn’t want me dead just yet. He’s probably either gonna try ta take me somewhere else now and finish the job like he tried to last time...or he wants ta threaten my family first, make me beg for their lives before he kills them anyway.

...Screw that.

Stan, in a move that would have had police officers (and his mother) tearing their hair out and lecturing him for a good half-hour on his recklessness, suddenly jerked to the side and grabbed the goon’s wrist, pushing it down and twisting the gun. Something in the other man’s trigger finger cracked, and he screamed as Stan yanked the gun out of his hand, before landing a blow to his jaw that collapsed him right next to his buddy.

Once he was sure he was out for the count, Stan stepped out into the hallway, his new gun drawn-

And there was Archer.

He had a few new scars along his nose and forehead, and his hair had grown out a little; other than that he hadn’t changed much.

There was yet another generic thug standing behind him, also with a gun in hand.

Sheesh, you’d think I was the first guy ever ta stop him from selling kids. Unless he gives this kinda treatment ta everyone who p_sses him off.

For a moment they just stood there, staring at each other...before Stan smiled crookedly and waved with his free hand.

“How’s it hangin’?”

Archer’s own smile was pretty thin and mirthless. “I was sure you were here.”

Stan aimed at the jerk’s chest. “Well, you found me. And now you’re gonna leave.”

Archer raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I don’t think so.”

The generic thug lifted his gun, pointing it...over Stan’s shoulder.

He glanced behind him (even though he knew how dangerous it was to take his eyes off his target), and let out a small curse of frustration. Because there was Shermie, standing behind him in plain sight like an idiot when he should have been hiding in the living room where he’d be safe with his family for a little longer, why had he thought this was a good idea-

He was probably coming to see if you needed help, a voice in Stan’s head whispered, and he groaned, lowering the gun in defeat and then dropping it to the ground.

Archer nodded his approval. “Good boy. Now come here.”

Stan only had time to take one step forward-before a voice sounded from the top of the stairs.

“Don’t touch him.”

****

As you might have guessed, it was Ford. Standing there, with a lit candle (where did he even get that?) placed on the banister next to him, a small bell in one hand, and his journal open in the other.

“What the [ CENSORED ]-” Archer began to say.

Ford just talked over him. Or, more specifically, he began to chant, while ringing the bell.

“Mutare, mutare,

Lusus naturae,

Facti quod tu es,

FACTI QUOD TU ES!”

Then he slammed the journal shut, and some incredibly crazy crap happened.

****

Specifically, Archer and the thug, and, judging by the flash in the kitchen, the two other jerks, were all suddenly surrounded by an angry-looking red light. It enveloped them entirely, and then...they began to disappear.

Or maybe shrink, since their clothes were still in place, and they just seemed to be disappearing into them, kind of like the Wicked Witch of the West.

There was some screaming, but it didn’t last very long. Until finally, all that was left were two lumpy piles of clothes.

Ford slowly descended the stairs, carrying the candle now, and looked over at Stan.

“You all right?”

Stan nodded slowly, eyes feeling a little wide. “Um, Poindexter...what did you just do?”

“Let’s see.”

And on that cryptic note he went over to the pile of clothes that used to be Archer, and began digging through it-until at last he lifted out...a baby.

A somewhat chubby, disoriented-looking baby, not exactly newborn but probably not more than a few weeks old, who on being exposed to the air began to kick and scream.

“...You turned them into babies?” Stan asked over the noise, staring in disbelief at what he was realizing had to be Archer regressed into an infant or whatever the term was.

“Not precisely. The spell was to turn them into whatever they are at their basic essence. I suppose this can be interpreted as saying that at heart, Archer-” Ford’s lip curled at the name- “was a spoiled child used to getting whatever he wanted, perhaps.” He finally registered that he was holding a naked infant in his arms, and set him down in the pile of clothes, blushing.

Curious, Stan went to the other pile of clothes-which had begun moving on its own, and shaking, until a dark-furred puppy stuck its head out. It looked up at him and whined.

Stan gave Ford a disbelieving stare; he looked equally nonplussed, but finally said, “A loyal dog, I guess?”

Stan snorted...but decided not to argue the point. He guessed it made a kind of sense, at least to magic.

“Wonder what the other two mooks were.” Stan gestured to the kitchen.

Ford peered in-and a second later pulled his head back out in a disgusted grimace.

“...They turned into a weasel and a rat, respectively.”

“That makes sense.” Stan was disconcerted to realize that the puppy had wandered over to him and was now attempting to climb into his lap. He made a few futile attempts to shove it off, until he admitted defeat and started petting it, deciding not to think too much about the fact that a few minutes ago this had been a person who was attempting to shoot his brother.

“And weasels are known to be occasional predators of rats.”

“Oh, eugh.” Stan made a face similar to his twin’s as he realized what he was saying. “How bad’s the mess?”

“The weasel’s about halfway finished with his meal.” There was a chewing, tearing sound from inside. Stan decided he was happier not seeing it.

Then he half-turned, still with the puppy in his lap...and saw the expressions on the faces of Shermie and Rebecca and Xander, who were all standing in the living room doorway and gaping at them.

Stan gulped.

“...Um...I guess we should probably explain.”

********

...Okay, technically most of the decking took place in the kitchen. But it was close enough, okay?

This explanation should be fun for everyone.

#flipside au #stan pines #ford pines #shermie pines #pines brothers fighting #not with each other this time #ford is awesome #stan is awesome #saving the day

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mysleepdeprivedass · 4 years ago

Text

Another ML fanfiction idea

And here we go for another prompt fic idea that I got while reading a fanfiction on AO3. I want to write this idea but I’m too lazy for writing a whole fanfiction.

And just want to keep in my head but it was driving me crazy sooo let's go.

Btw I inspired by the fanfiction MDR by Yilena (on AO3) (@xiueryn on tumblr) (also I haven’t finish the fanfiction yet but I need to let go the idea of my head)

(let's go for translate everything a wrote again T^T and I just saw how long a wrote, the translation it's gonna be looong x.X also idk some term are correctly translate sorry if it's not)

Also warning, i’m going to talk briefly about eating disorder, bullying and suicide so skip the part in italic if the idea or the word can triggered you.

Have a nice reading on my 2.am writing idea. \0/

AU steamer / youtuber Marinette

Marinette begging steaming around her fifteen, and she become quickly know for her skills for some game

Marinette have now like 19 yrs old, almost 20.

She plays a lot of different games.

At first (when she was 15 ) she wasn't doing face cam steaming. After a years and a half, she start face cam but disguise. Her disguise is, a clothes always in polka dots red and black, and she have a mask which hide almost all her face and she wear a red wig (she have different wig, pixie cut, big curly, straits, ect,... But they're all red)

On twitch she is know as Ladybug, and she have a YouTube channel where she post all her rediffusion of her twitch live.

Marinette have a big community verry supportive and nice. She's the kinda of girl that going to play with her fan during live if she met them on the game.

She doing some explained and tip live on game that she's really good at or that she's love.

Her favorite game are Ultimate Mecha Strike saga. And a new independent MMORPG game call " The Tale of Miraculous" a kinda fantasy/fantastic game, that's become more and more difficult when your reach a levels.

Also it's a no-miraculous idea

At first, when she started live’s, qhe was doing a lot, like every night she was doing a live which ended around 4 or 5am. But after a big meltdown on live (she was around 17 years olds) she make a calender, which sometine change depending on he mood.

Monday Night : Games of her choice, most of the time she play at TTOM (The Tale Of Miraculous) or fighting games. From 8 p.m. to 1 a.m. or 2 a.m.

Wednesday Night : if she started a let’s play, she is doing the let’s plays, if she not she’s doing two or three games, most of the time horror games or strategy games. From 8p.m to midnight or 1 a.m.

Calender most of the time :

Friday Night : chill night, she talk or debates with viewers while playing at Minecraft or she opening fan mail or for some occasion she is cooking. From 8p.m to random but between 3 a.m. and 5 a.m.

Sunday Night : Let’s plays or games selected by the community. From 8p.m to Midnight.

Marinette has become very hermits and go out just a few time. She works at her parents bakery and has her own shop (known as Ladybug) her community know that she makes homemade clothes and she has a lot of customers from her community but also from famous people.

Every other week she doing a live between 9 p.m. and 12 a.m. in addition, where she plays indie games or flash games or during fashion week (or any fashion show) she like to do reviews about it and commentary.

Marinette finished school at home because of harassment, she had ended up making several suicide attempts, and had a severe eating disorder and was anorexic

She suffered bullying very early, already in elementary school, and it got worse in middle school where the physical attack was violent. She got kicks, push down the stair, she got a lot a fractures, spit on, etc,..

After a big lynching after school, she try to kill herself, she got hospitalized and her parents finnaly knew about what she suffered. After that she become homeschooled.

A lot of cosplayers ask for commisions.

Chloé had started insults her in primary school but had stop everything before middle school except that others took over, like Lila.

Chloe apologized to Marinette after her suicide attempt. Even though Marinette and Chloe are not best friends, the two get along. Chloé always feels it's her fault that things got there

During her convalescence it’s when that she became Ladybug but was not in face cam.

She started streaming after being released from the hospital

She had a general ES bac (it’s a degree in french school, if you want i can explain french school in a other post... because I’m french ._.) and she studied fashion by correspondence.

For the 3 years anniversary of her twitch channel, she explain her firt years as the stramers, he past, and explain that twitch literaly save her live.

She self-harm for a long time (betwenn 11 and 16 years old)

She still have drugs and antidepressant, and she is follow by a doctor for her eating disorder.

During her depression, she developed agoraphobia, she doesn’t go to convention where she’s invited because of that, also because she wants to avoid overloading Tikki.

Fu is her psychologist.

Tikki is her service dog because she have anxiety attacks and panic attacks and she can hurt them during those.

Tikki is a Labrador, viewers sometine see her during live (try to climb on Marinette lap’s) or hear her bark (very rare but can alway happen)

Marinette loved roasted the clothing collections and clothing choices in video games. She also loves talking about RuPaul Drag Race.

She’s openly bisexual and gender fluid,

She lives in a small apartment not far from her parents to be able to stream quietly.(And without disturb her parents)

Viewers know other room of her apartment. She stream on green screen, but when she live and do open fan mail she is in front of a wall with drawings and gifts from fans that she received. They also know her kitchen but she rarely on the kitchen.

She don’t do much live on the Kitchen but she doing some videos edited on cook video for explain some bases and some recepis. It is to teach the beginner how to cook or the person who is on a tight budget.

Her first cooking live become a meme. She fall several times, managed to stick an egg to the ceiling (god know how), set fire to heroven, and spilled milk and flour all over her floor.

In her live chill, call “let's talk little, let's talk well” in her playlist of rebroadcast on her youtube channel, she brings people on discord to give their opinion on the subject or their experience. She has with subjects from religion, the LGBTQ community, mental illness, to motor disease, to lighter subjects like which animal people find the cutest or whether or not she should go and throw eggs at her neighbor that she hates or she talks about the series or TV show she watches.

Marinette only go out, for work, appointment or hang out with Luka, Juleka and Rose, all are her childhood best friends.And all know that’s she is Ladybug.

Marinette is known for screaming when she plays horror games and there's quite a lot of compilation of her falling off her chair or screaming, often accompanied by Tikki who jumps on her knees think of a panic attack and suddenly she falls off her chair because of Tikki.

*scene*

Marinette after a litlle jump scar :

“ son of bi-” * Tikki jump on her laps*

Luka is also a stramer mostly music related, but he some night doing game stream. He also have a youtube channel dedicate to music. He is call The Viperion Silencio.

“what the fu- !” *fall off her chair with Tikki on her, Tikki laying on her*

Luka and Marinette dated for a year and a half before realizing that they were better as friends that as couple. Their get along even better after they break.

Hours :

Tuesday night: 8:30 p.m. to midnight, play video games

Friday evening: 8:30 p.m. to 1 a.m., review and play with Marinette at Minecraft

On twitch he sing or do some music reviews that viewers recommend. And if not play

He always showed his faces.

On youtube he does covers, original songs, has critical videos. All the videos are directed by him and edited by Juleka, him or Rose.

He also have odd jobs

Saturday: 8 p.m. to 2:30 a.m., sing, some reviews and a the end he play video games

Nino, Alya and Adrien, are TTOM players, and Adrien is a huge Ladybug fan along with Alya.

He has always been close to Marinette and helped a lot especially for her eating disorder. It helps her eat and regain a healthy relationship with her body and food.

Nino and Alya hang out in each other's apartment in turn

Nino is not a big fan of Ladybug but likes to watch her lives sometine.

Nino and Alya live close to each other and are dating

On the other hand, he's a huge fan of what Luka does.

Nino meets Adrien on a dating site, he made a account for joking (before he dated Alya) and the two got really well, and they started exchange discord, and phone number, playing together, and they already saw each other.

Sometine, Alya and Nino go to Paris and sometime Adrien go to Bordeaux.

Nino and Aly live in Bordeaux.

Alya joined them and the three are very close and have already met in Paris.

Nino, Alya and Adrien are 20 years old, soon 21.

Inside joke between Adrien and Nino, on the fact that Nino “cheats” on Alya with Adrien or vice versa.

Too many “bro” between Adrien and Nino, and too many bro joke

Like, I imagined, Alya hant out at Nino place, the three playing at TTOM.

Nino die

Adrien it’s like “Noo bro, you’re my whole world bro, you can’t live me broo”

Nino is like “ Broo I hace to leave, Bro my end is close, I love you soo much broo, live my life broo”

And Alya his laying on her stomach on Nino bed, head buried in Nino sheets and she growls and insults both them and call them "drama queen"

Alya is a huge sore loser and a salty loser.

In the evening and especially when he is tired Nino is a big game trollers.

Alya is a Ladybug Twitch Admins, she was one of the first on Marinette's channel and she quickly was in her Discord. She chats a lot with her on Discord. And she helps Marinette to make special videos where there is real editing. Other admins do it too.

Adrien, Nino meets Marinette thanks to TTOM because Marinette has created a beginner party where no one knows her, she becomes friends with Nino (whom she quickly destroy) and TIN TIN TIN group chat between the 4 (with Alya in it).

Kim is Nino's childhood friend and he started playing TTOM to spent time with his bro, and ended up in group chat (with Alix because he drag her in the game too), he's not good at games and and just a cannonball but he like let off frustration by beat out the hell of the enemy

Baby step by baby step, the group chat add more people

He live with Alix in Toulouse, their roomate.

Alix plays a bit at TTOM but plays a lot of flash and horror games.

Ivan and Mylène have 22 years old and are a couple, they don't know Ladybug much, but they've already received a lot of donation from her for their environmental association and Marinette has advertised for them for free

Alix likes Ladybug but she is not her favorite streamer.she understand Marinette's struggle on her eating disorder because she had eating disorder since she was a child, Kim helps her a lot with it

Nathaniel lives in Auvergne with Marc, the two work together on comics but Nathalie also works as a freelance illustrator and he has already made the banner and stickers for steamers and youtubers, including Marinette.

Ivan and Mylène do vlogs and have a site and an environmental association that Marinette really appreciates.

Max is a little streamer well known to be one of Marinette's best rivals, especially on Ultimate Mecha Strike 3.

He also does video thumbnails and cover video illustrations for a lot of youtubers including Luka.

Nathaniel started chatting with Marinette because of this (Marinette commissioned him for her website, and her channels) and the two became very good friends.

He lives in Strasbourg and works in engineering stuff.

He does very little live but has a very loyal audience because he's a goddamn god on some games.

And some compilation of their best roasted and sassy moment are on youtube.

The two fight each year for the prize of UMS3

The two like to throw shades at each other when they playing together.. Very big sassy and roasted moment.

* A bit like RuPaul's Reading season 5 between Alaska and Alyssa Edward * (Yeah i’m kinda in some fever of RPDR right now)

Like :

There is a roasted meme running in their respective communities, because Max had been champion for two years when Marinette arrived and took that cup from him.

“Hey Bug In ! Here Ladybug, I'm with our dear friend The Gamer, undefeated champion of UMS3 oh whait -

They talk on discord

Okay I finish to translate everything, and shame on my I finish juste by copy paste from google translate.

* gasp then clap * bravo, it was a good one, Miss [insert thing that Marinette lost or meme of her]

And their conversation is basically shades and meme.

Bruh I wrote a lot :o

I don’t know if I’m going to do some update on it. Give me your opinion on it ! Also you can take some idea just tag me and let’s me see what you have do ^^ !

Good Night

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smoljoelito · 5 years ago

Text

homesick || erick colon

word count: 2,139

description: Erick is homesick and the only person that makes him feel at home is not by his side.

warnings: fluff

masterlist

tags: @quierick @mepuserojito @ericks-mala-actitud @woowoodaaboo

A/N: watch this video before reading the one shot it’s so funny it’ll make reading it better.

I’m sorry this imagine sucks

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

The loud ringing of your phone causes you to about jump out of your skin as you’re launched out of your deep thoughts. When you see the name on the screen, you groan loudly, already knowing exactly what will take place in the conversation.

“Hey, Y/N!” Richard exclaims, not wasting a second before continuing, “Would you mind checking on Erick? He’s been acting weird lately. We invited him to go out with us tonight and he said no, which he never does. He won’t tell us what’s wrong, so I was wondering if you could ask him for us?”

A sigh escapes your lips as you agree to Richard’s statement. You can practically see him beaming from your hotel room as you kindly finish the conversation before hanging up. When you applied to be an intern for Clara on CNCO’s management team, you never thought you’d become best friends with the band members, nor did you think you’d become particularly attached to the young Cuban member.

As soon as you both met, you knew he was going to be special to you. There aren’t enough words to describe what it felt like when you met him, but the one feeling you remember was tranquility.

The whole day leading up to meeting the management team members and CNCO themselves, you were freaking out. You didn’t eat, you hardly slept, yet you had so much nervous energy. When you first met Clara, her gentle smile and personality took a weight off your chest, but the nervousness was still there when you met the boys.

Thank god they were nice, incredibly nice, yet you were still incredibly anxious. Ever since day one, Erick has been able to sense your discomfort, or any feeling really besides happiness, and goes out of his way to make it better. Of course, that day, he began talking to you, asking you questions about your life and schooling, and the anxiety completely melted away. His presence was, and is, soothing.

From then on, you two were pretty much inseparable. If you didn’t feel like going out at night, he wouldn’t leave the hotel and vice versa. Before each show, he always gives you a “bueno suerte besito”, as he likes to call it, on the cheek, still to this day making you as red as a tomato.

It’s no secret to anyone, including Clara, that he likes you. It’s so obvious that random people ask you in public if you’re dating. Even the fans like you, which is crazy. Everyone wants you to date so bad, and the only one holding back the relationship is, well, you.

You like him, you sure as hell do, but you’re afraid of risking your job. Clara already said it’s okay since the fans support it so much and because he really likes you. The issue arises after this internship. When you apply for an actual job with another company and they see you’re dating or were dating one of the members, the question of how well you actually did your job will arise. Anyone could think it was a publicity stunt.

And anyway, once the tour is over, so is your internship. There are merely a few months left, so would he actually want to stay with you after it all?

Keeping it private is a longshot since Erick already said he doesn’t want to keep you private. He wants to post about you on Instagram and hold hands with you in public, actually, he already told you that a while ago. Still, your fear keeps him locked away in the friend zone, even though your heart is aching for him.

Even now, your heart is aching for him, but for a different reason. You already asked Eric what was wrong, but he wouldn’t tell you. Instead, he shut the door of his hotel room in your face a few days ago and hasn’t spoken to you since.

It’s incredibly odd to suddenly have someone that was such a constant in your life suddenly disappear. Even the air seems different; you almost feel completely out of place even in your own room. Normally, you and Eric would be snuggled up in someone’s room talking, watching a movie, or he would be singing to you, something he knows you love.

You know exactly what you have to do as you collect all your things together, before heading out into the eerily quiet hallway of the hotel room. Each step and breath you take is completely audible until you finally reach your destination.

Softly, your knuckles tap on the door of your friend, Erick’s hotel room door. The closer he gets to the door, the louder the thuds are echoing from inside, until the door swings open, revealing an anything but happy Erick. For a second, you two just stare at each other, no words being exchanged, but then, he begins to shut the door.

Not this time.

You push the door as hard as you can, causing it to fly open and for Erick’s grip to be released on it. As he stumbles back, you walk into the room, before softly shutting the door.

Spinning around on your heel, you face a very startled Erick, who just stands there, staring at you with wide eyes. A sigh escapes your lips as you cross your arms over your chest, meeting his intense gaze. As soon as his lips part, you cut him off.

“We need to talk and you’re not slamming the door in my face again,” You state sternly, trying to keep a poker face. In reality, you’re about as threatening as a rabbit, which Erick finds adorable. The anger you’re trying to put into your face makes you look like you have puppy dog eyes, completely tearing down the wall he put up around himself.

“Lo siento carino Dime todo y piensaré sobre perdonándote o. Perdóname.” The honesty that’s evident in his voice causes you to drop the anger you’re attempting at portraying. With another sigh, you walk over to his bed, inviting yourself to sit on it and pull your knees to your chest.

“Dime todo y piensaré sobre perdonándote,” You say with a small smile, letting him know you’re kidding. This seems to relax his mood a bit, causing you to pat the spot next to you on the bed. Your fingers play with the edge of the sheet to distract you from staring at him and forgetting why you're here as he walks over. to sit next to you. Once he sits, crossing his legs, you dare to meet his gaze, which you find already on you.

“What’s going on amor?” You ask him, using the pet name you know he loves.

“Me extraño mi familia, en Cuba y en Florida mucho. No sé por qué ahora pero, por alunga razón, he estado triste por los últimos días.” You know it sometimes hard for him to express himself completely in English, so he always switches to Spanish when something serious is going on. The light that used to rest behind his bright green eyes has been dimmed, breaking your heart completely. His eyes disconnect from yours as he stares down at the comforter, trying to hide his apparent sadness.

In an instant, it hits you what’s wrong with him. Excitement runs through your veins, making you smack his arm to get his attention.

“Ow!” He calls out, rubbing his arm and staring at you with his eyebrows knitted together.

“You’re homesick!” The word doesn’t seem to resonate in his brain, causing his eyebrows to furrow even more than before as his head cocks to the side slightly.

“Estoy triste porque llego a mi casa enfermo?” It takes all of your willpower not to laugh as you stare at him.

“No, no! La palabra significa cuando extraña malo a tu hogar o su familiar in inglés,” He raises his brows a big as he draws his lips downward slightly out of embarrassment for his bad English. You can't help but giggle, causing his eyes to meet your gaze again. The sound of your laugh always ignites something in him, drawing out a smile he didn’t know he could make based on the current feeling he was holding.

“It’s true though. They can’t come up to visit, they’re too busy. Every time I call they aren’t home or are sleeping because of the time zone differences. Lo que debo hacer?” He asks sadly, looking at you with hope-filled eyes. It seems for the second or third time today, you’re heart physically aches for the boy in front of you. He’s so attached to his family, which is something you love about him.

“Well, why don’t you text them and tell them you really miss them and want to see if you all can set up a time to FaceTime this week? I can’t see them saying no, they love you so much, Erick.” Within seconds, the boy is back to beaming at you, causing a sudden warmth to spread through your veins. At first, you don’t even realize his smile has made you smile the same way back at him.

“Eso es una buena idea! Gracias, Y/N.”

Before you can even respond, he’s already on his phone, fingers flying across the screen ecstatically.

“Sent!” He calls out excitedly turning back to you. You smile at him happily, since his happiness seems to only enhance your own.

“Thanks for everything,” He begins, gazing at you, “I’ve been a really bad friend this week. I’m really sorry about that. I promise next time I’m hurting, I won’t push you away.”

“I forgive you, Erick. It’s okay.”

“Good! Cuddles and Netflix?” He asks, causing you to grin, nodding excitedly at him. This is what you do for each other each time your down. It’s always cuddles and Netflix, no matter what.

Instantly, he’s pulling back the covers for you to get in, which you do, before sliding under them himself. Before you can even begin to lie down, his arm wraps tightly around your waist, yanking you into his chest. Your laughter rings out through the room, causing his heartbeat to skip a few beats, but when you smile up at him, it stops completely.

God, you have him so whipped, and he could care less.

With his arms wrapped around you and your head on his chest, you watch a random Netflix movie, unmoving. The coolness of the AC works in Erick’s favor, thank god, since you keep yourself tightly pressed into the side of his body for warmth. Knowingly, he doesn’t offer you a hoodie to put on over your tank top and shorts, even though he loves when you wear his hoodies. Right now, he wants to keep you as close as possible.

When the movie ends, neither of you dare move, not even to start the next one.

“You should FaceTime my family with me,” Erick finally says, shattering the peaceful silence of the room. The statement causes your breath to hitch in your throat, which Erick hears, causing him to grab your hand.

“Why?”

“Cause they love you so much! You know they always ask me about you and if we are dating yet,” He says matter-of-factly. The whole room goes completely silent, only the AC running in the background, and for a second, you can’t even hear him breathe with your head on his chest.

“You know we can’t.” Your voice is so quiet, you aren’t sure if he can even hear it. The confirmation he did comes in the form of a sigh.

“You know we can. The only person holding us back is you. I’m not sure what you’re afraid of. I mean god you know Clara is already talking about hiring you as a full-time member of the management team. She’s literally making a job for you right now.” You gasp loudly, lifting off his chest to look into his brown orbs to see if he’s bluffing.

“You’re kidding.”

“You didn’t know? Oh! I may have just spoiled the surprise... surprise nena?” He smiles cheekily at you when he says this causing you to grin back at him before excitedly bouncing up and down on the bed. His laughter sounds throughout the room at your excitement, but really his heart is beating twice as face as yours.

“Oh my god, Erick! You’re gonna be stuck with me!” You scream loudly causing him to burst out laughing yet again.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Well, now will you date me?” The statement stops your excited actions as you spin to face him. Your heart is dancing around in your chest, yet you feel constricted of oxygen. For a moment, you simply stare at him, contemplating the question.

“Yeah, yeah I will.”

#this sucks so much I'm so sorry #I hate this imagine #I'm uninspired #erick brian colon #erick colon one shot #erick one shot #erick imagines #erick brian colon one shot #erick colon imagines #erick brian colon imagines #my imagines #cnco imagines #cnco one shots #cnco

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britishassistant · 5 years ago

Text

Mr. Hale’s Art 301

August— Introduction to Line and Shading

The adolescents file in, a few chattering to each other, but most with their heads down and stomachs rumbling, backpacks rustling with the sheafs of paper they’ve accumulated over the course of the day.

Even the peppier ones look tired as they choose their seats, and Peter can’t honestly say he blames them.

He’s in the back room again, observing how his students behave when they think they’re not being observed.

They’re terribly predictable. No one will sit in the front row of tables, a learned self-preservation instinct to keep distance between themselves and an unfamiliar, hostile adult.

Those that know each other will take seats near each other at the tables, their familiarity relative to how close they’re willing to sit to each other. Those that know no one will take seats as far away from everyone else as possible, or if they came in late, be forced into the seats that their classmates left purposefully unoccupied.

The bursts of petty ire towards those unfortunates who violate the buffer zones have Peter rolling his eyes. Really, the pretense that humans are anything but a particularly weak and underdeveloped sort of animal is laughable for all their veneer of “civilization”.

The beagle-girl and another girl barely make it inside before the tinny wail of what’s supposed to pass for a bell.

Beagle-girl plops behind the front table by the door, too focused on trying to rub an incriminating dark smear from the side of her hand to notice how she’s isolated herself.

The other girl scans the room, makes a face at the empty front tables, glances between them and the beagle-girl, before reluctantly seating herself next to a suddenly sour-faced young man at the end of the table that’s diagonally behind her compatriot.

So he finally has a face to put to the second intruder.

Well, isn’t it only fair that he return the favor?

Peter waits until his students begin to look around, and then opens the back-room door, feeling a measure of satisfaction when every single one of the thirteen heads whip to stare at him.

Beagle-girl shuts her mouth and tries to covertly lower her hand like she wasn’t about to try licking the stained side of it.

“Good afternoon.” Peter says pleasantly. “My name is Mr. Hale. I’ll be your art teacher for this year.”

He turns around to chalk his name at the top of the board, rolling his eyes where his students can’t see at the bursts of arousal coloring several scents behind him.

Teenagers, honestly.

He sets the chalk down and scoops up the papers on his desk in one hand, taking a moment to separate the syllabi from the rest. He circles around his desk, still smiling.

Beagle-girl doesn’t smell like arousal. She smells like fear and nerves, eyes wide and pulse racing when he stops in front of her table and proffers the syllabi.

“Would you mind passing these out while I call roll, dear?” Peter asks, smile broad and toothy.

She nods rabbit-quick, reaching out to take them with the stained left hand. She only realizes her mistake once the papers are in her grasp, face paling rapidly.

Peter’s grin broadens.

He turns and strolls back to his desk. “Now, if you have any name you would prefer to go by, please let me know and I will note it down on the attendance record, understood?”

There’s a chorus of nods and “yes”es from the class, save for beagle-girl and those who are clearly wondering why she’s decided to walk around the room to hand the syllabi out instead of passing them from her chair like a normal person.

Peter’s not entirely sure himself, but he digresses.

“Mark Spieler.”

“Right here.” A boy in the center table of the third row raises his hand with an unusual amount of self-assurance. His hair stinks of gel despite its untidy look and he’s lounging in his chair like it’s a throne, shooting conspiratorial grins to the girl and boy on either side of him.

His scent is shot through with a strange smell, something that Peter can’t quite identify but raises his hackles all the same. He’ll keep an eye on that one.

“Polly Russo.”

“Here!” The girl closest to the window in the second row raises her hand, appearing only moments from waving. She’s one of the peppier ones, with a braid covered in brightly-colored sporadically-spaced elastics, her irritation with the boy seated in the previously-unoccupied seat beside her lasting only moments.

Her scent right now is telling of mild confusion, presumably at Peter’s decision to start at the end of the roster instead of at the beginning as convention dictated.

“Alicia Reyes.”

“...Here.” A gloomy young woman seated at the far end of the central table of back row half-lifts a limp hand. Her clothes were dark and seemed haphazard somehow. Peter tilted his head, imagined a couple of years on her, and suddenly realized why he felt like her scent and features were vaguely familiar.

Well. This made things awkward.

“...Evelyn Mahealani.”

“Evie’s fine.” The smiling girl closest to the window at the back lifts the textbook she is in the process of tucking away into her backpack in lieu of raising her hand. Peter catches a glimpse of a boggled rainforest frog before the textbook goes down and away.

She at least appears to have a modicum of fashion sense, even with all the new-age jewelry littering her arms. She’ll soon learn how impractical those can be when they move into paints.

“Jordan Harlowe.”

“Here.” A young man with dreadlocks at the far table in the second row raises his hand, looking disinterested. He’d been one of the later ones in, and appeared wholly unconcerned with incurring the ire of his classmate by taking the “buffer” seat.

His eyes were flickering over his classmates in a vaguely judging manner, silently assessing in a way that reminded Peter of that useless lump Deaton and the charming Ms. Morrell.

“Adam Johnson.”

“Here!” A boy with enough acne to strike a match on at the central table of the second row raises his hand. Despite his irritation with his new table-mate, his overall demeanor seems to be eager to please, his clothes too neat to be anything that he’d chosen himself.

Peter recognizes him from the photos on his new boss’s desk, the nervously-smiling child standing next to his mother who probably had all of his teachers monitoring his behavior.

“Fate Evander.”

“Huh? Oh, here!” The young woman at the end of the window-table in the third row turns away from her hushed conversation with her table-mate to wave a hand. She pushes her glasses up her nose and turns to grin ruefully at her conversation partner at being caught distracted.

Peter would be surprised at the sight of a leather jacket in August, were he not intimately familiar with his nephew’s fascination with them that resulted in the item of clothing becoming a semi-mandatory pack uniform.

“Jean-Paul Durand.”

“J.P.” Peter has to blink at the curt person sitting next to the window in the third row, who stares at him moodily for a moment before turning back towards Fate. He’s...relatively certain that Stilinski doesn’t have any siblings, but the resemblance is scarily uncanny.

The buzzed hair is ginger, the accent is French, the features are (somehow) a little more feminine, and the scent is telling of a life spent outdoors. But Peter’s going to poke around some of his sources, just in case.

“Timothy Coffret.”

“Right here!” The boy at one end of the center table in the third row throws up his hand, nearly clocking the self-assured boy next to him in the nose. The lanky boy freezes, face comically horrified before asking if his friend is okay with near-hysterical giggles.

Mark reaches over and begins attempting to noogie his dark brown hair while a girl on the other side of the table begins shaking her head and giggling along with them.

“Thomasina Coffret.”

“Tina, and that one’s Tim.” The young woman points at herself and then at the boy squawking in the noogie’s grip. Even if the same last names and familiarity weren’t a dead giveaway, the similar brunette hair, coloration, and scents marked those two as close siblings.

The way they were bracketing the strange-smelling boy was interesting though. Almost as though he were their alpha, despite the fact that none of them were werewolves from what Peter could tell.

“Jessica Berzynas.”

“Here~” The second intruder carelessly raises her hand with a look on her face that makes Peter want to roll his eyes again. She leans further onto the edge of the center table in the second row, her mooning expression only outmatched by the moon on her shirt that’s surrounded by airbrushed howling wolves.

And she’s wearing a dog collar too. An honest-to-god red fabric dog collar that still carries the canine scent of its previous owner. Peter closes his eyes briefly and silently asks for patience.

“Walter Boyd.”

“Here.” A nervous young man at the other end of the center table in the end row raises a hand, glances at Peter, and quickly away, dropping his hand as he does so. He adjusts his glasses, fiddling with his phone under the table, scent stinking of pungent self-loathing.

Jesus, what are the odds? Peter almost wishes there was a way to express his condolences to the two in the back without exposing his connection to their...older siblings? Cousins?

There should be “sorry the supernatural killed your loved ones” cards. It would make things so much easier. Peter himself could’ve done with one of those years ago.

His eyes flick back down to the roster.

The small smirk returns at the sight of the dark blot at the top of the page and the rounded handwriting that’s doing it’s best to mimic the typeface under it.

“Nana Assis.”

Beagle-girl continues handing out syllabi, shuffling the remaining papers and looking around to check her classmates all had one, beginning to start her circuit again once she realized she couldn’t tell from her position at the back of the class.

Peter rolled his eyes. “Nana Assis.”

The second intruder turns around and hisses “Nana!”

Beagle-girl’s head whips up to stare questioningly at her blonde cohort, before she catches sight of Peter (and the rest of the class) staring at her.

“Oh, um, present!” She squeaks, sticking a hand in the air.

Peter raises an eyebrow until she lowers it again. “Thank you for handing those out, Miss Assis. If you could return the extras to me?”

She tentatively approaches him, heartbeat still rabbit quick. She hands all the papers back to Peter, ignorant of the fact she’s forgotten to leave one for herself.

“If I could ask another favor of you, Miss Assis?” The girl pales again, but nods resolutely. “Would you mind drawing something small, on the corner of the board there? Anything you’d like.”

She follows where Peter’s pointing, and hesitantly walks over and picks up the white chalk. She draws a rectangle, then a slightly wonky cross within the rectangle, quickly shading the four areas outside the cross in white.

“It’s, um. The English flag. Because I come from a small village north of London, originally.” She explains haltingly, British accent thick in her voice as she gestures to her creation.

Peter nods. “Thank you for this, Miss Assis. You can sit down now.”

Nana Assis gratefully flees back to her one person table in front of the door, only looking mildly confused by the syllabus that’s magically appeared there in her absence.

“Now, could anyone tell me what Miss Assis’ drawing is made up of?” Peter looks out over the class. “Mr. Harlowe?”

“Failed attempts at straight lines.” Jordan Harlowe deadpans, uncaring of the nervous titters around him, or the way that Miss Assis goes red and tries to sink down into her chair.

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Well Mr. Harlowe, if all lines were straight, life would be much more boring, now wouldn’t it?”

That garners a few giggles and Jordan Harlowe’s grudging nod, as though Peter’s passed some kind of test or won a round of something.

“Chalk.” Evie Mahealani calls out.

Peter nods to her. “That is indeed the correct material Miss Mahealani. But to go back to Mr. Harlowe’s insistence on boring convention, how would you define a line?”

There’s a silence as his students contemplate this, before Tim Coffret pipes up with, “A mark!”

“Hey!” Mark Spieler shoves his friend good-naturedly. “You callin’ me a line?”

“Yeah, a pick-up one.” Tina Coffret teases, grinning at the resulting groans from the people around her.

“A point following a dot!” Fate Evander volunteers.

“Well done, Mr. Coffret, Miss Evander. Broadly speaking, both of your definitions are correct. Lines are one of the most fundamental elements of 2D art, dating back to when cavemen discovered that mixing certain dusts with urine allowed them to paint on walls.” Peter takes a moment to enjoy the expressions of disgust and morbid interest on the faces of his students.

“A set of closed lines, like the ones Miss Assis has so thoughtfully provided for us, divide the surface we are drawing on into positive and negative space. Can anyone tell me what the difference between those is? Yes, Mr. Durand?”

J.P. Durand’s face goes stormy all of a sudden. “I’m not a Mr.”

“Ah, forgive me.” Peter says smoothly, “Would it be better if I address you using Miss or Mx.? And are there any pronouns you would prefer I use?”

The furious expression disperses somewhat. “...Mx. is fine I guess. And I use they/them.”

Miss Evander squeezes their shoulder, smiling hesitantly as they valiantly ignore their classmates’ curious stares.

“If you’d like to continue, Mx. Durand?” Peter prompts.

J.P. Durand bridles, a small sort of happiness infusing their scent as they say, “Positive space is within a shape, negative space is outside of it.”

“Very good.” Peter nods. “And, as well as forming shapes and denoting positive and negative space, lines can be used to show different colors and values of light, as Miss Assis has demonstrated with her shading here.”

Peter points to the white areas to emphasize his point, noting that the embarrassment and shame is gradually fading out of Miss Assis’ scent in favor of a small, happy sort of pride.

“In this class, we will be covering the practical aspects of art creation, with a small emphasis on the theory and history behind the techniques we will be using.” Peter continues, directing his class to begin to examine their syllabi. “We will not have tests as you are all used to them, with rote memorization that fails to actually teach you anything. However, that does not mean that your grades will not be judged based on the quality of your work. While some of you may try to argue all art is subjective, trust me when I say that there is a difference between art that has real passion behind it, and art that you think is passable for a blow-off class.”

Peter grins, teeth bared and ever so slightly lengthened beyond an ordinary human’s. “And I will know the difference, I promise you that.”

There is a collective shiver among the adolescents that makes Peter feel a lot more satisfied than he probably should, but he’s got to have his fun where he can, doesn’t he?

“This does not mean I expect you all to excel at every method I teach you. That will only stifle your talents and lead to irritation and boredom on both your and my behalf. In fact, I wish to encourage each of you to find a métier you are most comfortable with and see how you can produce something innovative with the unique skills you will develop. That is why, if you feel you have found a medium that “clicks” with you, I will permit you to continue to use it in conjunction with other methods if you let me know ahead of time. For some of you that will mean you may only discover your medium much later in the year, but that is unfortunately the nature of time and the world, which are both chronically unfair as you all have no doubt realized.”

That earns a few snickers, but some still look afraid.

“Again, I do not expect excellence in every area. That bores me, and as you will come to know, I loathe boredom. Give me effort, genuine effort, and try to find some of that innovation that the education system has tried so hard to stamp out of you, and you will do just fine in this class. In other classes, you will be filling out worksheets and textbooks and exams that will ultimately mean nothing once you all move up in the world. Here is the only place where you can create something, where you can mold the world into the vision you believe or wish it to be, rather than try to fit the molds it has arbitrarily decided to assign you.”

Peter looks out over the faces of the young minds he’s supposed to “enlighten”. What garbage. He’s not going to be putting anything there that there aren’t seeds of already.

“Yes.” He says, grinning wide. “I think we will all make something very interesting together.”

The shrill whine that’s supposed to pass for a bell rings, and his new students pack away his syllabi and stream out of the door to fill their rumbling bellies.

#my writing #teen wolf #art 301 #peter hale #teen wolf oc #art teacher peter hale #middle school #art class #vernon boyd #erica reyes #danny mahealani #stiles stilinski #wkm oc #nanbaka oc #wkm mark #ocs #nonbinary #aromatic #adhd inattentive

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failing-to-write-again · 5 years ago

Text

Germany x Ireland!Reader: Snow Storms and Confessions

Ok so the plan was to post another scenario and write two more yesterday. But Tumblr did an oopsie and deleted everything.

Every cloud has a silver lining however, my friend sent me this gem of a find and all I could think about afterwards was this story. I was going to write them as scenarios but I found it difficult to imagine situations for the other characters.

So here's a different story. A one shot...goody.

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

*Ireland's POV*

I sat there cold and alone in the Russian airport terminal. My flight cancelled due to the violent snow storm outside and no hotel room to go to. All the other countries had already left, the usual flights to Ireland weren't available. Just one at 10pm when a blizzard was due. Russia didn't exactly give a direct response when I brought it up...

*flash back*

"Little Ireland! You are feisty small one, you're lack of fear is amusing."

"I'm not being feisty I just want to know why there's none of the usual planes to my country. I don't want to end up caught in the blizzard"

"Она умнее, чем выглядит...I don't involve myself petty plane issues. Perhaps this is fate, you believe in a lot of those magical fairy tales no?"

she's smarter then she looks

"Она также говорит по-русски. Что ты прячешь?"

she also speaks Russian. What are you hiding?

*flash forward to present*

Just before I could pry, Germany got the meeting started and I was left to get to my seat and ponder over Russia's behaviour. He's a strange study for sure.

Germany was as well. We became properly acquainted in the early 1900s only labelling ourselves as friends around the 70s when I joined the early version of the EU (then EEC). He definitely is a layered character, and even though he is sweet once I became closer with him, he seems to still be hiding aspects of his personality. But enough about that I'm cold and have to figure out where I'll sleep tonight.

"Ireland? Vhat are jou doing here?"

Speak of the devil and he shall arrive...

"Hey Germy, my flight got cancelled and it was the only one available, my hotel booking also ran out so I'm just sorta stuck here haha."

A rather enjoyable shade of red spread across his face at the mention of the nickname. I'd do anything to see those little cracks in his tightly woven character. Anything to see the little smiles or chuckles, the crush I'd developed over years of friendship pushing me to.

"V...Vell mein flight vas cancelled as vell...vould you like to share a hotel room vith me? I still have an extra day."

Panic.

"I wouldn't be against it, but you probably would like to not share a room so I understand if you don't want to and everything. Thanks for the offer though"

"Nein it's fine I don't mind ve're friends ja? It's ok!"

The air is so fucking uncomfortable. Big brother France is looking on in disappointed from Paris. I just know it. After a few more rounds of pitiful back and forth we agreed we both were ok with sharing a room and set off, chittering throughout the walk.

*[insert timeskip joke] Germany's POV*

Ireland was in the bathroom getting ready for bed as I sat mentally preparing to sleep beside her.

At some point my feelings of friendship began to be replaced with... love as Italy put it. I thought I was ill whenever my heart would flutter like a manly butterfly near her. After voicing my concerns to my brother and Italy, bruder proceeded to have a laughing fit. Italy took the time to gush about love long enough for me to come to the conclusion I was in it.

Ireland. She's not perfect by any means and we've had our fair share of arguments and disagreements. Though we always manage to work then out. Would it be the same if we were dating? I would be living in a dream if that was true...

The door opened and in she came. In the shorts she wore for sleep her false leg was on full display. I remember helping her make it, replacing the standard wooden one for a metal one with upgrades bring added whenever we visited eachother or were together in our free time from longer summits. The leg, essentially fully functional due to her use of spells and my use of metal. Light blue swirls, famous for their use in her history giving off a slight hum in the dark room, dancing up and down the metal limb. Gott she was an angel.

"That meeting left me a wreck." She stifled a yawn, lowering herself slowly to the bed beside me. The blue began to fade slowly as she stopped using magic, bleeding up her leg until disappearing once it reached the end of the metal at her upper thigh. "How does it vork?" I lowly hummed.

"The magic I use to move the leg? It's a weird mix of electricity and telekinesis. I use the electricity to stimulate the metal wires and pistons you put into it and use the telekinesis to make it move in a more natural way. I just wish it didn't glow, it makes it impossible to hide"

Hide? Why hide it? It's beautiful...is it inappropriate to say that out loud? I settle on a less invasive response.

"Why hide it? The blue looks like the tattoo you always joke about getting?"

She went quiet did I go to far? No she always said when I went too far same as I always did if our discussions on my...past got too vivid...She continued.

"When I lost my leg, I lost a part of myself. The image of the country who would fight anyone to be free, that had the confidence of countries ten times her size, it was gone. I kept up the act in letters and statements acting like the leg didn't phase me...Then I got to finally see my siblings again. None of them were allowed near me after one of my attempts for freeedom out of fear I'd help them escape or convince England to go rogue against his boss. They watched me struggle to do anything, they watched me have to ask for help to move, they watched me weak. It's been hard adjusting...then..."

She took a deep breath and looked up. Something she often did when trying not to cry. I gently lay a hand on her back and put on the calmest voice I could.

"Then vhat? Take jour time, I know it's difficult, but please tell me vhat happened?"

"I met someone. They helped me without even realising it. They slowly built up my confidence in myself, taught me how to laugh and smile like I used to. Obviously my family helped but the help from this person stuck with me more I suppose. He built me up, tried to help when he didn't have to."

He. My world slowly shattered and fell around me. So she has somebody else. Someone better. Someone who can show her all the love they probably expect being raised by someone like France and England.

"Oh...vill jou tell me more about him?"

She let a slow smile spread across her face.

"He's kind and sweet but covers it over with a stiff outer shell. He has many talents...so many talents. He's amazing really, but one thing in particular is what I think made me fall for him."

"Vhat vas it? That he did"

I was probing. I was pushing too far into her private life. If she never spoke about him in all our years of friendship, she had a reason not to. She's a damn ex-spy and rebel leader she knows how much to trust people. But...I didn't care. I wanted to know. Needed to. I had loved her for years only for her to slip away the moment I had started working to con-

"He built me a new leg. Then he called it pretty and sleek and said he liked the blue the magic made on it."

Oh...this was...not what I expected. I was the one who built the leg...she knows that...she...she...

"Ireland I..."

I slowly pulled her gently, she was straddling me so I could look into her eyes.

"Do jou really. But vhat I've done. How could jou?"

"Fall for a lovable human being? It's rather simple. I'm just hoping you'll give this amputee a chance."

She looked at me hopefully through her eye lashes. At that moment I realised why us Germans aren't seen as great romantics. We're better at doing, not speaking. So do I did.

I kissed her. Pouring every piece of emotion I felt for her, because of her into it. Desperately trying to show her how much I cared regardless of how bad I'd be at saying it. And it was bliss. My pulse was racing faster then any of my, no Germany's, F1 cars.

She was with me, not my country, not my people, ME. And I'm going to be selfish.

Her soft warm lips, pushing against my colder ones. Tasting like that brand of chocolate she loves mixed with the minty taste of toothpaste. Her arms, laying around me neck, playing with the hairs on the back of my head. My arms, pulling her closer filling every gap between us I could find. I was in heaven, kissing an angel, and I wasn't going to give it up for anything. The entire world could be damned so long as she was in my arms. Everything Italy, France, Spain, Bruder, and all the other countries preached about love suddenly clicked. I loved her. I never wanted to leave her side. I wanted to be her hero, her Ritter (knight), her lover.

And by the way she was kissing back she wanted to be mine.

*POV switch*

HOLY FUCKING SHIT HE'S KISSING ME!

HOLY FUCKING SHIT I'M KISSING HIM!

AAAHHHHHHHH!!!

I barely thought of anything else, all I could focus on was getting drunk off his kisses. He was kissing me like the world was ending and I loved it.

At some point it went from me in his lap to beneath him on the bed, staring into icy blue eyes.

"vell..." He drawled "ve have a hotel room, a snow storm. no ozher countries on zhis floor, or anyvone for that matter until tomorrow. and a very horny country. vhat do jou suppose ve do Ms.Ireland?"

I spoke before my mind could think. "Well Mr.Germany. A second, equally as horny country is beneath you so the real question is...Was wirst du dagegen tun?

What are you going to do about it?

Snap.

"Ich heiße nicht deutschland Ich heiße ludvig" he growls out. Responds very well to German if the kisses are any proof.

My name isn't Germany. My name is Ludwig

I leant up to whisper in his ear..."Es ist gut zu wissen, was ich später schreien werde. Ich bin (Y/N)."

It's good to know what I'll be screaming later. I'm (Y/N).

I hear a growl before my hands are held above my head with kisses attacking my neck...If this was Russia's plan for only having only one flight home then he's getting cookies next meeting.

*both POV*

Thank God/Gott for snow storms.

#germany hetalia #hetalia #hetalia one shots #germany x reader #ludwig beilschmidt #1p Germany #doitsu

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