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starredblood · 6 months ago

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NOWHERE GIRL

CHAPTER SIX

kang sae-byeok x fem!reader

synopsis: you confront your classmate, determined to make her ex leave you alone.

wc. 1.7k

warnings: none

(nowhere girl masterlist)

When you got kicked out of your house you only had time to bring a few sets of clothes, your toothbrush, and your school supplies. While you were getting ready this morning, you had to watch a video tutorial online on how to tie your hair up with a pencil not minding the tall short haired girl who was eating breakfast just a few feet away in their tight knit apartment.

It was easy not to talk to Sae-byeok. She was like smoke, easy to spot but can’t grasp as it’s already dissolving away. She left ten minutes earlier than you did without a single uttering to you. You try not to think about it too much because you will be gone soon.

“Noona.” you hear a voice behind you peep while you were done tying your hair back. Cheol pops up from his room, handing you his tie timidly. “I accidentally loosened my tie. Could you tie it for me again?”

You walk over to Cheol and kneel on the hardwood floor to help adjust his uniform tie.

“Did someone hurt you?” he asks, pointing at your cheek.

“No, never. I just tripped.” you lie. You feel the weight of his stare on your bruised up cheek. “Do you always go to school by yourself?” you say to advert the topic.

“Yes. Sometimes my sister takes me if she doesn’t go to work early but she usually does.” he explains, rubbing his tired little eyes with his fist. “Ji-yeong noona isn’t a morning person so I’m scared to ask her.”

“Done. You look nice.” you ruffle the top of his head and stand up. “I would be scared to wake up Ji-yeong too by the way.”

A fatigue little giggle escapes Cheol’s mouth.

“Have a good day at school, Cheol.” you say and walk over to the door to slip on your sneakers only to look over at Cheol who pokes his head out his room once more.

“Are you staying with us forever, Noona?” he asks. The confused expression you gave him startled him. “I want you to!”

“No, I know what you meant to say it’s just—“ you scratch the top of your head. You don’t think it’ll be appropriate to say that tomorrow morning you’ll be long gone to a sensitive boy like Cheol. “I don’t know actually. Maybe one day I’ll have to leave but we’ll still be friends, okay?”

“Seriously?”

“Absolutely. Maybe in the summer you can come visit me at the art gallery I work at.”

“That’ll be cool.” he says quietly. “Bye, Noona.”

You wave him goodbye and exit the apartment.

The bus ride to your campus is serene on this cloudy spring morning and you wonder when this moment of calm will end. Maybe it’ll end when you get to your first class of the day where you will confront Yoon about her ex-boyfriend’s attempted assault on you yesterday.

✿・・───・・✦・・───・・✿

One thing Sae-byeok had to get used to was having a routine. Before working at the bakery, her days of pickpocketing were irregular and her income would be inconsistent. It was strange at first and she wasn’t the best on arriving to work on time at first, but by some miracle Miss Ahn never complained about her tardiness. Sae-byeok is almost certain Ji-yeong told her about her past so Miss Ahn could take it easy on her.

Her first month working at the bakery she didn’t think she would last. She was told to memorize kneading techniques, how to spot expired flour, and go grocery shopping in the middle of a rush because they ran out of eggs. It was all too foreign. But now she can barely remember her life without this job. However, today her mind is back to the days she used to be Jang Deok-su’s little apprentice. Everyday was violence, theft, drugs, and more violence. Sae-byeok can’t believe she survived it all.

For her midday break, Sae-byeok stepped outside to the back alley of the bakery and leaned her back against the wall to ponder some more.

“Hey, Kang!” Ahn Yong-sun, Miss Ahn’s eldest grandson, calls out to her from the back door. She slowly turns her head to look at him. “Where the fuck did you put Kim Yeoreum’s cake order? I can’t fucking find it anywhere!”

“On the top shelf! Asshole.” she mutters the last word underneath her breath.

“Just because you’re two inches taller than me doesn’t mean we can all fucking reach the top shelf!”

“Yong-sun, watch your mouth child!” Miss Ahn hisses as she arrived back from her grocery errands. She fans her grandson with her hands in a shooing motion. He mumbles an apology and cowers back inside but not before throwing Sae-byeok a glare. “Don’t let that brat get into your head, dear. He’s become so spoiled—of course he has, he was raised by my own spoiled son!”

Sae-byeok reaches over to grab her bag of groceries.

“Ah, look at you always being so attentive with me.” Miss Ahn coos. “I’m telling you if I fell down the stairs my grandson wouldn’t even bat an eye.”

They enter the kitchen and the aroma of fresh bread hits their nostrils. As Sae-byeok reaches over to shut the door for some odd reason the smell makes her think of you and the croissant you offered her last night. While she unloads the bag of groceries she keeps thinking of you and the last thing you told her last night.

Sae-byeok turns to peer down at the elder lady beside her jotting down another list of groceries. “Miss.” she says out of the blue.

“Yes, dear?”

“Is the apartment above the bakery still vacant?”

Miss Ahn’s looks up past her reading glasses and raises a brow. “Why? Did you and Cheol get booted off?”

“No, it’s for a friend.”

“Ah.” she hums and continues to write her list again. “I’m in the process of having a couple of people visit the space. However, it’ll make my life easier if you got your friend to come first—just make sure she doesn’t ask too many questions. You young kids love doing that.”

“Okay. Can she come tomorrow?”

Sae-byeok could sense that the older lady is skeptical. But she remains stone faced and calm hoping that she won’t raise further questions. It’s bad enough she’s doing this for your sake.

“I don’t see why not. Tomorrow afternoon.” she pats her on the shoulder. “Now, can you help me finish icing this cake for me? The customer will arrive later today.”

Sae-byeok walks around the other side of the island counter and sneakily pulls out her phone to send Ji-yeong a message.

✿・・───・・✦・・───・・✿

You drop your belongings at your usual spot, next to the large window panes in the studio and march over to Yoon who was currently chatting with a friend. Without noticing, your jaw clenches seeing how content Yoon looks giggling with her friend while your mind is in torment over the chaos that ensued yesterday.

When she sees your rigid figure march up to her she hushedly says something to her friend that made her go silent. She avoids your eye contact the closer you approach them.

“Can I talk to you in private?” you ask her, irritated.

Yoon stiffly nods while still avoiding your intense eye contact and follows you out the classroom. When you reach the end of the hall you cross your arms and narrow your eyes at her.

“So—“

“I’m really sorry.” Yoon interrupts quickly with guilt written all over her face. “I didn’t think Yen-ho would…”

“Try to beat me up?” you scoff.

“I was just confused about this whole situation an—“

“Situation? This isn’t a situation, Yoon this is my life! I get it if you don’t want to be around me anymore. It fucking sucks that I know what you will decide but to go around and tell people…” you choke back tears. “it’s just making my life harder than it already is.”

“Fuck. I’m so deeply sorry.”

Breathless with anger you take a couple of seconds to compose yourself before continuing. “Whatever, Yoon. Could you just tell me if he’ll be here today so I know when to leave?”

“He doesn’t go to school here he just likes to wander.” she mutters. “But I’ll text him—tell him to back off.”

Before you could speak your professor appears. “Ladies, class is starting now could you head to your seats please. And can I speak to you after class about your project?” he points at you.

“Yes, I’m sorry.” you mumble, lowering you head and scurry with Yoon to the class.

“Don’t apologize.” he chuckles.

It was hard to pay attention in class when all you could do is shoot daggers at Yoon across the room. You could see the anxiousness in her behavior, how she would pick up and put down her phone, and only reply to her friends in short sentences.

At one point you heard the professor cough in your direction leaving you no choice but to try and concertante on the piece you are working on. But by the time class was finished, you barely finished what you started with.

You wait until everyone leaves before dragging your feet up to the professors desk.

He greets you by your name and folds his hands, thinking deeply. “So, you’re the only one that hasn’t shown me their piece. Could you show me and explain to me what your piece is about?”

“It’s a textile piece that will, um, resemble a fashion designers sketchbook. I’m using textile, watercolor, fashion magazines, and my own sketch designs for this piece…” you quietly explain as you show him the piece, frowning at the disapproval on his face.

“That sounds…marvelous.” he says to your surprise. “I like the use of watercolor to depict paper fading yellow.”

“Thank you, professor.” you bow.

“Is there a story behind this?”

“I’m still trying to get around it.”

“Okay.” he hums. “Recently, I’ve noticed your lack of concentration in my class however. I stated from the start that students that consistently keep lacking won’t succeed in my class. This is the first big project and you will have two bigger ones these next upcoming weeks. I don’t want you to fall behind already—especially since I can already conclude that you’ll be one of the runner ups in the Hangaram prize.”

Your heart begins to swell. This is the first good news in a while you aren’t sure how to react. So you just stare at your professor with wide eyes and a gaped mouth.

“So please, focus on this project and I am excited to see the end results next class.”

“Of course, thank you professor!”

You walk out of class in high spirits only to be crushed with the realization in knowing that a potential group of loiterers are waiting for you outside these walls.

🏷️: @monroesturnns @knfthxv @jumpedthenfell-13 @peelover25 @karli6 @kissedberries @bitchybananaflower @laurenkenss

#kang sae byeok #kang sae byeok x reader #kang sae byeok squid game #kang sae byeok x fem!reader #squid game #squid game fanfic #fanfic #wlw #wlw fanfic #angst #fluff

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magicalbats · 1 year ago

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Oh, Captain (Luffy x reader)

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 5222

Warnings: Afab!reader, gendered language, noncon, physical coercion, outdoor sex, inappropriate use of 5th Gear

A/N: My second ever commission and the lovely donor was kind enough to give me permission to post it for everyone else to read. Thank you for a great experience, @avidbroswer!! 🩷🩷🩷

⭐

Let’s help Luffy, they’d said.

We’re a crew, they’d said. Family.

You don’t feel very much like family when you’re running for your life from the very captain you’d sworn loyalty to. Or at least, you’re pretty sure that the strange figure with white nimbus cloud hair is your captain. You’d watched it happen from a (questionably) safe distance, when he suddenly transformed in a surge of sparking static electricity that made your skin crawl like it was trying to escape from your bones but it’s still hard to believe that it was really him. Even having seen the reality of it with your own two eyes doesn’t make it any easier to accept.

Luffy was supposed to be a dark haired, dark eyed youth in the prime of his life. Not this uncanny version of him that giddily laughs with boisterous amusement while he ping pongs about so violently within the craggy mess of scorched earth in the wake of his battle with Kaido that you can feel the massive chunks of rock slamming into the ground as much as you can hear it. One after another, from the left and then the right, they just keep falling in an almost continuous rain of rubble and ruin. The resulting shockwaves very nearly take you off your feet more than once but you force yourself to keep running even when your sore legs scream in protest, aching from the exertion. It was the only choice you really had at this point.

And it’s not lost on you that this is technically your own fault for getting so close to the fight but you’d wanted to help. All that talk of family and crew, and unwavering allegiance to the Straw Hats had clearly infected your brain because you’d rushed straight into the danger zone despite knowing good and well that you were the only one close enough to make it in time. Now you were the one who needed help and it wasn’t going to arrive soon enough to do you any good.

What an idyllic fool you’d been.

“Ah!” You suddenly get tripped up in all the rocky debris laying across the ground and fall to your knees with a seething hiss. Your palms come back scraped where they’d shot out to catch you but you’ve managed to avoid taking the brunt of it to the face. Thank the stars for life’s smallest miracles.

Panting heavily, you just sit there amongst the broken wreckage and detritus for a harrowingly long beat, trying to catch your breath. You can still hear the chaotic destruction of Luffy — or the man who had once been Luffy — bouncing around like a rubber ball behind you, completely unimpeded by the laws of gravity or common sense. It sounded like he was having a blast.

Maybe that was good. Maybe he hadn’t even noticed you yet, so lost within the mess of demolished land and too tiny a speck to even draw his attention. You had a chance to escape then, if that was the case.

Any such hopes quickly fizzle out when his uproarious hooting and hollering abruptly rushes towards you, getting louder and louder until your eardrums start to vibrate. You suck in a sharp, nauseated gasp and slap your hands over your ears as you twist around to look behind you. Just in time to watch Luffy sail overhead like a shooting white comet. The kickback from his high velocity speed hits you seconds later, tearing a shriek from your mouth when the wind hits you full force and as solid as any wall.

Too busy ducking down with your head between your knees to protect yourself from the sting of flying rocks, you don’t get to see how he manages to pivot his momentum mid air and land a couple hundred yards away. You hear it though. You feel the shock of impact too, when it races through the ground to make the rubble underneath you tremble. It goes quiet then, and unnaturally still. Suddenly all you can hear are your own labored gasps.

You hesitate to do it but, realizing you have no other option, you slowly lift your face to peer out over all the fallen debris. Standing at a distance, Luffy just looks at you with a fiercely manic edge in his now golden-yellow eyes that makes your veins ice up. You’re more certain than ever that this cannot be your captain. He should have been giving you the usual bright faced, happy go lucky grin he always did when he inexplicably came out on top against all the odds that were stacked against him. Not this — viscous leer of victory.

But if this wasn’t Luffy then who in the seven seas was it?

“Have you come to celebrate with me?”

His voice isn’t quite the same either. More raspy, like the weight of immense power flowing through him was putting strain even on his vocal cords. You don’t think you like that any more than you like the way he’s eyeing you up as if you were a stuffed pig on a roasting spit. Even for his bottomless pit of an appetite, you’d never seen him look at another person quite like that.

Cautiously slow, you straighten up out of your defensive huddle. Work to get your feet under you without taking your attention off him for even a moment and then stand so you can prepare to … what, run again? A lot of good that had clearly done you.

“I don’t think it’s time to celebrate just yet.” You tell him softly. “We need to find the other Straw Hats. Make sure they’re all okay. You still remember them … don’t you, Luffy?”

Your emotional plea only succeeds in giving him a momentary pause. “But I have so much energy left. I just want to dance and shout, and jump into the air! You’ll join me, won’t you?”

He takes a step towards you, a rather aggressive one at that, and you quickly back up. Something told you if you didn’t agree to go along with this he was going to try and force you into joining in on whatever constituted his idea of merrymaking. Unfortunately you weren’t sure if you’d survive that, given the state of all the crumbled boulders littering the ground on this now desolate stretch of land.

“No, Luffy. Not right now. We have to - -“

With an abrupt jerk, he lurches forward as if to launch himself at you. His rubbery legs momentarily struggle for traction on the ground, as if they couldn’t quite decide what consistency they wanted to be, but you don’t plan on sticking around long enough to find out. Feeling like you’ve forgotten how to breathe, you spin around and make a mad dash for it, barreling straight into a dead sprint.

It’s a resounding effort in futility.

You don’t even make it three whole steps before he slams into your back hard enough to take you right off your feet.

There’s a split second moment of shock at how fast he’d managed to close the distance, and then the ground is rushing up at your face again.

That dizzying blur of vertigo inducing free fall coupled with the way your vision tilts on its axis very nearly has you spewing your guts right then and there. But if Luffy picks up on the dire, sickened tinge coloring your wounded grunt he certainly doesn’t act it. He just flings his arms around your middle, alarming in their fleshy elasticity and yet still familiar to you, then hauls you up against his front before you can slam into the rocks.

Everything happens much too fast for you to keep up with any of it. Your brain is reeling, still trying to recover from the impact of his body colliding with yours and the subsequent head rush that followed. So stunned you can’t even find the wherewithal to protest his treatment of you let alone try to fight your way free. Unable to do anything else, you simply allow your limbs to bonelessly flail when he takes a handful of eager steps forward with you in his arms.

In the next moment Luffy spins you out away from him, snagging your wrist to stop your momentum and make you jerk to another abrupt standstill. The yank on your shoulder causes it to pop, splintering pain racing up your arm as you cry out. He doesn’t care though. He either doesn’t care or he doesn’t notice, because he just pulls you right back into him again, hard enough to make you collapse with a teeth rattling jolt against his chest.

“Come on!” He laughs, loud and frenzied, his hold on you much too tight where it’s shackled around your wrist. “Dance with me! Aren’t you having fun?”

Teeth gnashing to fight back the nausea, you bring your uncaptured hand up and brace it against his shuddering frame. You’re more than just a little surprised to find his heartbeat hammering out a sharp, almost violent staccato against his ribcage, so powerful you can feel it thrumming through his skin. It reminds you of an endless procession of war drums. Too many to count and impossibly loud, their ferocity equally intimidating and awe inspiring.

What in the world had happened to him?

You don’t have the privilege of lingering on that question for very long. Couldn’t afford to, as you try to get your tired legs situated under you again so you can stand on your own. “You’re hurting me, Luffy. We don’t have time for this right now. Just let me go. Please.”

But he doesn’t even seem to register what you’re saying as a plea at all.

A snickering, raspy laugh rattles up out of him, and you vehemently push at his narrow chest with your uncaptured hand. Shove him as hard as you can. He still doesn't budge though, simply reaching up to snag that wrist too so he can forcefully spin you around in his arms. You feel sick with the rush of motion coupled with the fatigue and throbbing pain in your body but there’s nothing you can do to stop it. He’s too strong, too wild, too lost in whatever manic high he’s slipped into after his fight with Kaido.

Tightening his grip to lock you against his front, Luffy moulds himself to the line of your back with such an unnatural, rubbery motion that you find yourself fighting not to wretch even as his mouth finds your neck. He nuzzles at you for a brief moment, just brushing his lips over your jackhammering pulse before angling his nose towards the spot just behind your ear. The breath he draws is slow and savory, and he seems to hold it in his lungs for an unnecessarily long time.

When he at last sighs out, displacing some of the loose flyaways in your hair, an unmistakable rumble low in his chest accompanies it. “Mmm, you smell good. Like victory.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean? “Luffy, just listen to me … don’t do this. I - I don’t really understand what's happened to you but we can figure it out together. We’ll fix it. I promise. But you need to let me go or - -“

“Let you go? But we’re having so much fun. I want to have even more fun with you but you’re not a fighter, not like he was. And you don’t want to dance with me either.”

He sounds dangerously close to pouting when he says that last bit and you give a halfhearted twist in his hold, testing for any slack. It’s no good though. For as little effort as he seemed to be putting into it, his arms were like iron shackles where they’re criss crossed over your body. Dammit.

“Why?” You seethe in frustration and fast mounting panic. “Why won’t you just go back to normal, Luffy? This isn’t like you!”

His frame shakes behind you with the giggles that rise within him, making his whole body vibrate like a mercilessly shaken soda bottle. It quickly grows, rapidly multiplying and expanding until he at last throws his head back with a cackling peel of laughter aimed up at the sky. It’s much too close to your ear and deafeningly loud, reigniting your desperation to get away from him, but your wild thrashing just causes him to laugh even harder. Like he found it hilarious that you were scared and trapped against him.

“I can’t!” He howls, belly laughing so ferociously it makes you jerk in his hold. “I can’t go back until I’ve used up all of this energy! It feels like I’m going crazy but it feels good too! Amazing even! I’ve never experienced anything like it before! I want to keep going but you can’t fight and you won’t dance with me … but there’s something else we can do together, isn’t there?”

“What are you ta - -“

He releases you so suddenly you don’t even realize you’re crumpling to the ground until your butt has already hit the rocks, surprising a yelp out of you. Fresh pain immediately races up from your backside in a blinding starburst and you outright hiss as you gingerly start to angle yourself onto your hip in hopes of taking some of the pressure off of where it hurts the most. You don’t quite make it that far though.

Luffy’s hands are suddenly on your shoulders, shoving you forward to sprawl out rather inelegantly on your front. He follows you down, pinning you to the destroyed ground with his body weight, and you immediately start to panic in earnest. Your captain didn’t look like much more than a lanky beanpole at first glance but he was so densely packed with muscle that he felt like a sack of bricks on top of you. It makes it hard to breathe and the quickened, gasping lungfuls of air you suck in don’t exactly help. Your chest constricts painfully tight as you struggle against him, forgetting all logic and reason in your blind desperation to get away from him.

He doesn’t even seem to notice though, still just as unbudging sprawled out over top of you as he’d been when the two of you were standing. No amount of kicking your legs or bucking up underneath him even gives him pause, and his greedy hands fumble down to your waist where they squeeze tight enough to rip a hurt shriek from your throat. This doesn’t cut through the manic haze spurring him on either. He doesn’t even waver.

“What are you — stop that! Have you lost your mind!”

“I’m sorry.” He snickers, not sounding very sorry at all as he shoves his face into the crook of your neck again. Another deep, savory inhale. Another rumbling exhale right against your pulse. The faintest growl that trails afterward is new though and you go painfully still under him, hardly even daring the blink despite all the grimy dust kicked up in your desperate fight for freedom.

You’d never, ever heard such a sound come out of him before. It scares you perhaps most of all, and you’d seen many a frightening and unsettling thing since stepping foot into Onigashima. Somehow this just really took the cake though.

“I’m sorry,” He says it again. Contradicting this, his callous worn fingers dip into the hem of your pants and start to tug at them, jostling you with each insistent pull. “I’m sorry, heheee. I just can’t help myself. If I can’t have you I don’t know what I’ll do. You’ll help me calm down, won’t you?”

Your mind struggles to process that. He was asking you to help him? Not with words or medicine, or even the endless supply of food he would have otherwise asked for had he been in his right mind. He wanted your body.

So that’s what it was then. What it all boiled down to.

If he couldn’t fight you and you refused to dance with him then that left only one other option. He was going to fuck it out of his system. Anything to get rid of all the excess energy running through his body, making him vibrate like a lit fuse on top of you. It made a certain amount of sense, you supposed, but that didn’t mean you had to like it.

Curling your hands into tight fists against the rocks, numb to the abrasive sting, you draw a rattling breath to center yourself. It doesn’t do much in the way of good. “Please don’t do this.”

It’s like he doesn’t even hear you, a grunt of victory puffing out of him when he finally manages to get your pants tugged down over the curve of your ass.

“Please.” You gasp, the sound wet and faltering.

Completely ignoring you now, Luffy reaches further down to fumble with something lower while his opposite hand possessively curls around your hip to keep you in place. You hiccup rather sadly at the distant sound of rustling clothes, almost completely lost under the violent pounding of blood in your ears, but there’s no missing the fleshy nudge against the back of your thigh that soon follows. It leaves a sticky smear where it touches you, inspiring an eruption of horrified goosebumps in its wake.

You don’t have to look to know what’s touching you. The innate knowledge of what’s happening and who is responsible for this paralyzing fear that grips your aching heart in a chokehold is horrible and suffocating all at once. Stinging tears spring up and well in the backs of your eyes but you clench your teeth to try and stifle the terrified wail threatening to claw its way up your throat, knowing it would only sound hysterical.

On one hand you almost couldn’t believe this was really happening, even though the reality of the situation was staring you right in the face. It just seemed almost too implausibly awful to be real.

But on the other, Luffy wasn’t exactly known for his self control or restraint. You knew this. Had even found it charming at one point or another, so you brace yourself for the worst. It just might be the only thing that ends up saving you.

“Captain - -“

“I’m sorry.”

He’s suddenly between your legs, pressing up into you from behind. You go ramrod stiff against him, your whole body clenching in genuine distress, but it does very little to stop him. Like he’s done it a million times before, or perhaps thanks to the instinctive muscle memory bestowed upon every man with a working cock, he pushes right in on your entrance until cunt slips start to part under the pressure. A thin, tremulous groan escapes him at the first kiss of your hot guts against the tip and then he just keeps pushing. Even when your muscles tense up and try to keep him out. Even when he meets a great deal of resistance as your body tries its best to reject him. If anything he almost seems to take it as a challenge the same way he would another combatant or a roadblock standing between him and his goals.

In this case his goal is clearly to sink himself in you right down to the hilt, and he just puts more effort into his cause the more you try to fight it. Leans his weight into you until it feels like your poor cunt is taking the full brunt of his mass. The resulting stretch of your inner sleeve is painful and drawn out, taking much longer than it otherwise would have had you been even slightly prepped for this.

Your mouth hinges open but nothing comes out for a prolonged moment as the tears break loose to streak down your face. It feels like he’s tearing you in half! Either he was much bigger than you’d assumed he’d be or by virtue of how tightly your interior walls were squeezing him — or even some terrible combination of the two — it was like you were being split down the middle. You couldn’t even breathe through the choking discomfort of it and a threadbare, sobbing little mewl dislodges from your throat when he at last manages to shove himself past that first barrier.

Full penetration is much easier for him to achieve after that but it’s no less painful, and you cry out when he snaps his hips forward once, twice, and finally lodges his length the rest of the way in on the third. A pleased huff slips out of him as he settles on top of you, a fresh wave of giggles quickly following suit. It was like he’d gone mad. So wrapped up in the raving power that had turned his hair white that he can only laugh about it even while he’s buried balls deep in your body.

That short lived pause is all the respite you get though and Luffy is soon moving, rutting into you with quick, sharp little jabs up into your guts. You shriek at the top of your lungs, clawing at the ground while you kick out behind you, but he ignores this the same as everything else. Lying prone and trapped under him, all you can do is take it.

“Waah — why are you doing this, Luffy? It hurts! If … if the others find out about this - -“

“I know, hahaaa. I know. I’m sorry, but I can’t stop. You feel … this feels amazing! Almost as good as fighting Kaido did!”

You seethe at that, trying your damndest not to get caught up on it right now but that proves to be more than a little difficult. He really didn’t see any difference between fucking and fighting? Somehow that seemed so typically him, and you think you would have probably joined him in laughing about it under better circumstances.

But better circumstances wouldn’t have found you being roughly jostled back and forth on the ground by his eager, jack rabbit thrusts. The motion of his hips lacks any and all refinement with no technique to speak of, and yet that doesn’t stop you from seeing stars every time his cock blindly rams into your upper wall. It punches the air from your lungs and materializes out of your mouth in the form of heaving, strained bleats of distress that quickly climb to a higher and higher pitch with each second that goes by. Not for the first time today, you feel like you really might throw up.

“Ooh, that’s …” He suddenly gasps, lets out a half strangled groan, and drives himself into you even harder. Faster. The force of his pelvis slapping against your upturned ass rapidly grows to a steady, almost constant blur of stinging swats — plap, plap, plap, plap — and you shriek at the rapidly swelling pressure on your gut. “Ooh, that’s good. That’s good! It feels so good! I - I can’t - -“

Without warning, your pussy abruptly floods with wet, sticky warmth. He hadn’t even given you a chance to beg for him to pull out.

Your eyes widen to the approximate size of dinner plates but he just keeps pistoning his hips even as the rest of his shuddering frame gives a series of little jerks to thoroughly empty his balls into you. He shows no signs of slowing down or tiring any time soon though, his limitless energy evidently far outpacing his obvious lack of experience.

It’s a hard thing to wrap your reeling head around just how quickly everything has happened and yet there’s no mistaking it for what it is. The sensation is completely foreign to you but you innately understood it for what it represented, what it could potentially mean for your future. You’re not half as relieved to have it done and over with as you are terrified of what it meant.

Even more confounding, however, is that it doesn’t so much as make Luffy slow down let alone stop now that he’s painted your inner sleeve a thick, creamy white. Not the orgasm itself which, considering how much he fills you up, should have thoroughly drained him for the time being, nor the possible repercussions of allowing himself to shoot off inside of you like that. He just keeps going without a care in the world, like it wasn’t his problem and he still had more than enough stamina to keep up the harried pace he’d settled into for the foreseeable future. The only sign of it burning up any of his energy at all is the slightly labored quality his breathing takes on, but that’s it.

Realizing that this ordeal is still far from over, you give your body a twist and try to angle your cunt away from the constant attack of his cock. “H - hold on a minute, what … aagghhh, what are you doing, Luffy? You - - you can’t just cum inside like that, you idiot!”

“Can’t stop! Heheehe, I can’t, I can’t, not when you keep squeezing me like that!”

All but wheezing at the intense pleasure of thrusting into the sticky mess he’s made of you, Luffy presses himself flush against your sweaty back and circles his arms around your middle. You brace to shove him off, or at least try to, but you don’t quite make it that far.

Catching you completely off guard, he yanks you up against him and practically throws himself back onto the ground. The sudden lurch lodges your stomach in your throat, and you let out a frazzled scream as you land on top of him. That he cushions the impact with his rubbery body only comes as a slight relief when you were struggling just to get your bearings straight, disoriented and stunned in the aftermath of his impulsive decision when you unexpectedly find yourself blinking up at the sky.

You start to pull yourself upright, wincing, only to quickly realize he’s still got one arm looped around your waist to keep you held in place on top of him. The other is — you gasp when you glance down to see him already fisting his cock in hand, guiding it back to your entrance where it had slipped out in that rush of movement. It’s still achingly stiff and unrelenting, like he hadn’t already spilled his seed in you only moments ago, and your heart painfully wrenches with the fresh wave of dread that comes over you.

“W - wait, please don’t - -“

The head of him finds your cunt, pressing back up into you again, and you outright sob when he mercilessly snaps his hips to impale you on that stiff length once more. You sway unsteadily at the fresh stretch, trying to decide if it’s better or worse in this position, but gravity soon proves itself your enemy when the weight of you on top of him firmly sinks his cock even further into you than before. It feels like he’s tickling at your ribcage like this, but all you can do is give a wounded little mewl and try to steady yourself. Undaunted, he reaches up to tug your pants the rest of the way off.

“Luffy,” Sniffling sadly, you fight him as much as you can in your physically exhausted state but it’s no use. Your bottoms come off to leave you bare and exposed from the waist down, sitting upon his cock like a whore on her rightful throne.

The tears quickly start up again, streaking hot tracks down your flushed, sweaty face while he gets himself situated underneath you. His hips lift, nudging you just a pinch higher so he can brace his feet underneath him while his hands come around to anchor around your love handles. Then, he’s moving again.

Completely unconcerned by your crying, Luffy flexes his legs to thrust up into you and the same fleshy slap as before quickly rises loud in the air again. Plap, plap, plap, plap. The wet squelch of your seeded cunt sucking him in deep on every upward plunge joins in, adding to the obscene cacophony of noises even as you toss your head back to sob at the sky. You can hear him grunting underneath you, clearly enjoying himself quite a bit, but you couldn’t say the same. Your body was already a sore, achy mess of bruises and scrapes, and this certainly wasn’t helping. You were just getting more and more tired by the minute.

“Nnghhnnn, please, captain. Please don’t cum inside again, I … I’m begging you!”

The only response he gives is a low, rumbling groan that seems to bleed into you and reverberate endlessly inside your belly, making you squeeze your thighs together as if to block him out. But of course it doesn’t work. Given the way he stutters over a raspy hiss of your name he actually seems to like the way it makes your walls tighten around him, unintentionally though it may have been. There was really nothing you could have done to dissuade or stop him once he’d set his mind to something, and it seemed he very adamantly had his sights set on using your cunt until his energy reserves finally wore out.

Distantly, you wonder how long that will actually take.

“You’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine,” He chants underneath you, again and again, even when his hands tighten around your hips to guide you into bouncing right along with him. Having no other choice, you snifflingly spread your legs wide and brace your feet on the ground, moving with him despite the throbbing ache in your muscles. “Mine, mine, mine. My prize. My treasure. My woman!”

He viciously slams his pelvis up at the end, further punctuating his claim on you, and the sharp stab of his cock rips a wild shriek from your mouth. “N - no, captain, please! I can’t — I don’t want it! Not like this! You’re not … aaghnn, you’re not Luffy! You’re not!”

The only response he gives is a deranged little laugh that makes his cock jump where it’s wedged inside you. That push on your upper wall makes the tension running through you double and then triple, your heaving gasps coming a little quicker now even as his hands travel up your body. You can’t stop him like this when your own were propped behind you along his flexing stomach to help you maintain your balance in this precarious position. It’s not hard to figure out what his intentions are though, and you screw your eyes shut so you don’t have to watch him grab hold of your top.

A deafening riiiip tears through the air when he shreds it, the poor cotton helpless before his far greater strength. He leaves it hanging from your shoulders in tattered pieces as your tits bounce free, the stiffened tips already aching and strained long before he greedily palms at them like a starved man clutching at a lifeline. The blinding friction of his calloused palms and fingers on your teats makes your cunt spasm around him and you wail, screaming for someone, anyone to save you from your captain.

Unfortunately for you, help was still a long ways off and Luffy wasn’t even close to running out of steam.

⭐

Crossposted: here

#one piece #monkey d. luffy #luffy x reader

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bubble-tea-blossom · 5 months ago

Text

The Smuggler and the Soldier

8. The Note

Pairing: f!reader x Joel Miller, wc: 4.2k

Warnings: first aid descriptions, sutures and blood, 18+ ONLY

Previous chapter

You wish your brain would leave you alone. One night without dreams would be nice. Or at least if they're going to be wildly vivid and strange, make them them pleasant. Like an acid trip with a talking bear or something.

Nope.

His face. Gunner. Its inescapable. No matter where you run, his head just grows bigger. His eyes shine like searchlights, exposing you in any corner of shadow you hide in.

Then his hand grabs your face. Nails digging into your cheeks as he turns your head left then right, inspecting. Only this time, your head never stops spinning, round and round like your neck is made of rubber.

You must be dying. All you can smell and taste and feel is the metallic iron of blood. It's rising from the floor and submerging you as your head is spun faster and faster.

You try to scream but opening your mouth only gains you a mouthful of warm sticky blood.

You have to fight to wake up. Clawing at consciousness like scaling a cliff.

Your eyes blink open slowly, eyelids made of stone. Even awake, your head is spinning, but at least your neck isn’t twisting infinitely.

A few seconds pass and you realize the scent of blood hasn’t passed with your dream either. Neither has the touch of it. You raise your hand that was laying on the cot, the palm is wet and red.

You sit up, moving much faster. You look down, at the blood soaking the mesh. Your rattled brain confuses it for yours and you worry for a second if you started your period.

Except for when you follow the trail, its clearly is coming from the smuggler.

His back is to you. The shirt he was wearing before was transformed into one long bandage that's wrapped around his torso. You must have really been out of it when you returned last night because you definitely did not notice that.

The makeshift bandage is more red than plaid at this point. It looks like a fucking murder scene. Only his muttering in his sleep keeps you from worrying that he's dead.

“Hey,” your croak is barely audible. You clear your dry throat and try again.

“Hey!” You get louder, but your voice is still quiet and croaky. You try to poke him to wake his ass up. You don’t want to prod a wound which looks like his whole torso so you end up jabbing your finger at his temple.

He stirs but doesn’t wake up. So you pinch his ear. Hard.

He snaps upright like a cobra, smacking his head against yours when you don't get out of the way fast enough, snatching your arm and violently twisting your wrist all in one move.

At your yelp, he lets you go, blinking the sleep away. He retracts, looking a little guilty while you rub your wrist.

“The hell you doing?” His voice is thick.

“What are you doing? Was your plan to just lie there and bleed out?”

Even with both of you leaning back, when the moment calms again, you find it too intimate, sitting on the same uncomfortable cot, nose to nose, glaring at each other.

You get up, and begin pacing around the room, trying to shake off the cobwebs of sleep and the way that moment made you feel.

Joel slowly straightens out, rubbing his eyes. With both feet on the ground he finally speaks, “I need your help.”

“No shit.” You snap, arms crossed.

Joel wisely keeps his mouth shut.

You sigh, “Look, if I do this, you owe me. Got that? I didn’t ask for you to come back. I don’t owe you anything.”

Joel nods, “I know.”

“And if-“ you barrel on before you realize he agreed. You hadn’t been expecting that. “Oh, ok then.”

"Well, first things first. I'm going to have to stitch you up." You grab his leather backpack from the ground and plop it on the desk.

“There’s a med kit near the bottom,” he tells you.

You rummage through his pack, sifting through spare clothes, and food rations, but mostly boxes of amo. You find a black fabric case, and pull it free. Its surprisingly heavy.

You’re already unzipping it when Joel speaks up, “that ain't it.”

The muffled clinking of glass while you handle it strikes your curiosity. The case is obviously important.

You open it like a book. On the sides are rows of small vials of glass tucked into slots, inter spaced so when the case closes they don't rub against each other. There's at least fifteen vials.

The burn of Joel's gaze ignites against you while you carefully pull one free. You hold it up to the rays of light filtering in through the boards on the window. The liquid is clear, the faded label reads 'doxycycline'.

You do some rough math as realization hits you. Slowly, you lower the vial, turning it in your fingers, the glass cool but thin, especially at the rounded top where it was meant to be broken. One drop on the floor and the precious liquid gold inside is gone. Wasted. Doomed to evaporate on the dusty floor, never providing life saving care that it could. Just gone.

You swallow your dry throat in order to speak, eyes still taking in every detail of the little bottle in your hand, "This was the payment?"

Joel speaks behind you, "Yes."

This was worth your life? You can only ponder it through a detached lens. You have experience with black market medication dealings. You know how desperate people are. How much they are willing to sacrifice for a little bottle just like this one in your hands.

"I'll take it as a compliment," you speak dryly, it does not feel like a compliment, seeing an objective amount your life costs. It makes you feel smaller than ever. The ant the mean kid burned with a magnifying glass and laughed as it writhed in agony. You return the vial to its empty slot. The whole case is worth enough that your tired brain can only come up with 'a fuck ton'.

You zip the case back up, "Well at least it might come in handy." You leave it on the table and resume your dig in the smuggler's backpack. You finally find the med kit, at the very bottom, which is not where you would keep yours. Its hard, white plastic, the iconic red cross on the front.

Inside is packed with very basic essentials. Nothing fancy. Mostly bandage rolls, a tourniquet, antiseptic wash. The suture kit is actually a sewing kit, meant for clothing repairs. It make do.

After gathering your supplies, you set the chair by the cot. But one look at Joel, his blood soaked torso. You're missing one last thing. Water. And lots of it.

Luckily the ocean isn't that far, but sewing him up on the beach in the open is too risky. You look around the little safe house for a pail or container. You dip your head into the bathroom as you pass and there's a bucket in the corner.

Wary of bathroom buckets, you inspect it, "please be a shower bucket," you pray as you pick it up. It's clean.

Oh so you'll answer prayers about buckets but nothing else? You chide the god who you know is dead.

Bucket in hand, you go to exit the bathroom when the movement in the mirror stops you in your tracks. You have to steel yourself to gain the courage to look at your reflection. Slowly you face the sink, and inch by inch raise your eyes until you're staring through your own pupils. They're uneven. Big surprise there. You definitely have a concussion.

Despite the pain you feel, seeing how shit you look is jarring. Short lacerations dominate one side of your face, caused by your skin tearing between your skull and the knuckles the soldier used on you. Your ear didn't escape any of the hits either. A cut on the ridge of your ear is too wide to stitch itself back together, you suspect you'll look like an alley cat even after it's healed.

Your nose is broken, the bridge swollen, bloody and crooked. Trying to set it straight yields a huge rush of added pain and no visible difference. Then there's your eye, the skin around your entire orbital bone has turned deep purple, the swelling preventing you from opening your eye all the way.

Your bottom lip was lacerated as well, dried blood resting in the cracks of your dry lips.

Confronting the visual proof of what happened stuns you. You knew it was bad. Yet you remember almost nothing. Only the rest of the soldiers leaving the room, and facing off with Bruce, and then you woke up to a needle in the thigh and Joel's scared, handsome facing hovering over you.

Some much hate and you were forced to wear it when you weren't even a part of any of it. You want to ask, what did I do to deserve this? But you already know. Nothing.

"Wrong place, wrong time," Joel's cold tone fills your head from what feels like a lifetime ago.

You have to force yourself to look away from your reflection with more strength than making yourself look in the first place. If you keep staring at yourself, you're going to do something very stupid.

You march out of the center without a word, slamming the door behind you.

All the walk down the beach, down the metal staircase, the images of the glass vials flash through your head. You kick sand over any blood splotches left on the ground.

You return to the boat, scanning the horizon but you see nothing. You crouch slowly, cupping water in your hands. First you scrub your hands with your nails, then slowly you wash your face, hissing at the salt in the water digging into the numerous cuts and scrapes. Despite the bite, you feel better afterwards.

You wash out the bucket, then fill it, keeping as much sand out of it as possible. But the eye sore of the boat on the beach holds you back from returning to the visitor center.

Two paths play out in your mind. One where you return to the boat, paddling it slowly down the coast. Maybe faster than on foot, but far easier to track. All FEDRA would have to do is follow the direction they saw you heading.

The other path, is returning to the city on the foot. Getting lost in the maze of the wasteland. Much harder to track. They'd have to follow on foot too, the broken concrete streets are too decayed to drive on them anymore. And most importantly, you wouldn't be in the open.

Your mind's made up. First you search the boat for anything you could use, which is not much. A coil of rope. Then you drop your pants and shirt on the sand besides the bucket. You hate swimming in heavy clothes. Then you make the executive decision to paddle out until it gets taken by a current. Once it's past the waves and floating on its own, you jump out.

"Fuck," you gasp as the cold water shocks you awake more efficiently than coffee ever could. You begin your swim back to shore.

Standing on land, dry clothes over your wet body, you watch the the waves carry the boat. You hope it gets far enough away before it crashes back on land to confuse anyone following, hopefully get them off your scent.

You pick up the bucket, and return to the visitor center.

Walking into the office, Joel looks at you, surprised, "You came back."

It's a statement, but also a question.

You stare at each other while you decide what to say. Finally you settle on, "Against my better judgment."

You want to demand him the same question. But the look on his face already tells you it's the same answer.

Joel looks you up and down, "You go for a swim?" He's standing, well more leaning over the desk, looking over maps.

"You'll get blood on those," you scold, stepping into the room. He takes a step back from the maps.

You set the bucket of water down on the ground, "I drove the boat away, I figured it was more of a liability than anything else."

Joel grunts. You can't decipher if it was a grunt of approval or the opposite. You're too tired to care. But then he says, "Good thinking."

Well at least he's not criticizing every choice you make like some men you've worked with.

You eye the cot with a little disdain, "I'll sit on the blood soaked cot, you sit on the chair," you tell him.

You do your best not to sit on the giant patch of blood, but your pants are already stained with variety of people's blood anyways so what's the fucking difference at this point.

The smuggler makes quite a site as he walks over to you. Bare chest covered in blood that you know is not all his. Blood he spilt and blood he bore for you. Looming over you, you make the mistake of making eye contact before it's broken when he sits down.

"You need to wash yourself after this" you deflect any unwanted emotions of fear or anything else with a cold remark.

He settles in the chair, leaning against the the back, facing away from you, "Agreed."

You heave a deep sigh as you wash your hands in the bucket. You hate doing sutures. No matter how many times you've done them, you still get queasy. You would much rather be getting the stitches than giving them.

You start by unraveling the makeshift bandage. Unsuccessfully, you try to keep all parts of your hands, save for the very tips of your fingers, from touching the warm body in front of you. You know it's a little silly since you're about to get very hands on. Peeling the fabric from around his ribs forces you to pass your hands around the front of his torso. With each pass your face dips close enough to his skin your breath rebounds off and warms your lips.

Finally, the bandage is free. You toss it in the far corner of the room where it hits the floor with a wet plop. The full extent of the damage is revealed.

The slash is long, extending from just above his hip all the way to edge of his shoulder blade. It's deepest at the base, becoming more shallow as is rises, however the deepest parts are concernedly deep. Days of bed rest would be ordered by any actual medical professional. Something tells you that is as unattainable in your current position as a vacation to Italy.

"Ok, let's get this over with," you announce.

You start by mopping all the dried, congealed, and fresh blood away. At the first splash of water, Joel stiffens ever so slightly before he relaxes again and makes no further hint of discomfort at the salt water soaking his wound.

"Thank you," Joel's voice is quiet, almost sheepish as you pat dry the edges of the wound.

"Thank me after you're sewn up. I'm no medic," you pluck the needle from the spool and begin threading, "This from the axe?"

"Yes ma'am."

Images of the soldier swiping the axe at Joel flash in front of you.

"Half a second later and this wouldn't be fixable." The axe would have stuck in his ribs, and tore out his insides when pulled free.

"I heard you scream and knew to duck," he tells you.

"A man that listens," you swoon while rolling your eyes, another deflection for the little spark of happiness his words lit deep inside your belly. Do people in your normal life ignore you so much that that would rise a reaction from you? Apparently.

The needle threaded and hovering, you steel yourself. One hand keeping the skin still, the other pushes the sharp tip of the needle through the flesh, the initial moment of resistance that you have to gently force past has you anticipating a flinch, a groan, a curse, anything. The needle is guided out the other side of the wound and you pull it free. Still, there is no reaction from your patient.

Looping the thread twice and slipping the needle through to create the knot, you tighten it til the skin closes taught. You cut the thread and move on to the next.

Stitch after stitch, you work your way up the wound. Gaining more confidence combined with the time pressure that right now you two are sitting ducks has you stitching and tying off the sutures faster and faster. Yet when you take a moment to view your work you're not even halfway done.

Diving back in, you lose yourself in the bloody task, trying to do a good job with the lack of expertise. As you tie off what must be your thirtieth stitch, Joel yawns.

"Did you just yawn?" you ask, pulling the the thread taught through his skin.

"Mm, did I?" He sounds sleepy.

You can't help the laugh that comes out more as a scoff, "Not your first rodeo?"

"Not my first rodeo."

"I can tell," you glance at the numerous scars adorning his back. Some are easily identifiable as gunshot wounds, others are more mysterious in origin.

You loop the thread twice and pull the needle through, closing the suture. You snip the thread and start on the next one.

"I'm glad you know what you're doing," he admits.

"Mm, May, would be looking over my shoulder, telling me all the things I'm doing wrong, then probably just shoo me away and take over. Guarantee you'd barely scar if she was doing this"

"She a medic?"

"No, not really. She was a seamstress at a theater production before the Outbreak, a transferable skill I guess. Turned into the neighborhood seamstress in the QZ, clothes or bullet holes, she can patch you up."

Talking about May, you're slapped with the reminder of the situation. You would do anything for her, and now when she's in the greatest danger, you are too far away to do anything. If FEDRA finds her, she's dead. Very real memories blur with fears, and for a moment, as if from a crystal ball, you watch a soldier shove May to the ground and put a gun to her head.

In an effort to distract yourself, you keep talking. You aren't sure why.

"Even from the start, when people would come over to get patched up, she'd have me watch. Teach me what she could. Her eyesight has started to go these days, so I've had to take over a lot of it."

There's a very long pause. You get to your fortieth stitch when Joel speaks, "Is she the one that you traded insulin for?"

Your hands falter in their movements, but you have to get over it quickly, finishing the knot. This is the first time Joel's brought up your first meeting. The last time he spoke of it, he threw it back in your face. Told you it means nothing.

"Yes," your next stitch starts with a jab rather than a poke, but you get a hold of yourself, honed with detached professionalism.

The final stretch approaches, your fingers stiff from prolonged focus. The smell of blood has overwhelmed all else for so long that you no longer notice it.

Swimming through your head are memories. Just as each one crests to the top, another comes rolling in, flooding you in a never ending cycle. Memories of May. Memories of your mother. Memories of the Outbreak, and the first time you killed someone in self defense. All the things you’ve done to keep yourself safe.

The man sitting in front of you is what pulls you back to the present. What has he done? In the short and yet simultaneously long time you’ve known him, he’s done a lot.

This doesn’t scare you like it should. Sewing the flesh of a man that’s shed his humanity, even if it was in exchange for survival. The veterinarian performing dental surgery on a tranquilized bear sheds their instincts to perform their duty.

You loop the thread and slip the needle pulling the last knot taught to his skin. Thread snipped, and needle put down, you pull a compression bandage from the kit.

“Stand up for this, it’ll be easier,” you order.

Joel complies silently, pushing the chair out of the way.

You get him to hold one end of the bandage against his side while you wrap it around his torso. It's the same dance as before, forcing you closer with each pass of the bandage around him, your heart beating faster with the uncomfortableness. It only covers the worst part of the wound, the rest of it you tape gauze over the stitches.

"There," you announce, taking a step away, "how's it feel?"

"Sore," Joel answers.

"I bet, you lost a fuck ton of blood," you're honestly a little surprised he's standing.

The smuggler does his best to scrub his hands and arms free of blood in the bucket. You give him some privacy, rummaging through the desk and collecting all the maps and papers you can find.

You carry them out into the main room, laying them flat on a table by the boarded windows. You pause at the single sheet of paper already lying on it. You pick it up gently, it looks faded and its coated in a thick layer of dust. You deposit the maps to read it, the strain hurting your eyes, the words jumping around on the paper.

Vivienne,

It's Andy, I've been waiting here for you and Elise for the last week. Where are you? Goddamn Viv, we agreed where to meet if we got split up. You can't be gone. I can feel it.

I'm heading to the tallest building downtown, I can see it from here. I have a feeling you'd head there, hoping to meet up. I'll stay there as long as I can but be careful, there are hunters in this area.

We got ambushed by some. Jordan got shot. I tried my best but I think he became septic. I buried him behind the building, facing the ocean. I'm so sorry, baby.

I'll see you soon, I know it. Tell Elise I love her to the moon and back.

And Viv, be careful.

Love, Andy

Reading the note, you hold the paper more preciously, like a newborn duckling. Its full of love and loss and desperate hope. You could use some of that right now.

Opening the front door, you don't have to step out far to see the building he was speaking of. It sticks out even more these days with the adjacent buildings in partial collapse. It's fucking huge. Sticking straight up into the sky like an ugly rod of rebar. The view you'd have from the top would extend in miles on either side of the coast.

The door opens behind you. The smuggler steps outside, looking much cleaner and fully dressed in a coffee brown t-shirt.

"I think I have an idea," you tell him. You point to the skyscraper, "perfect place to watch for any followers coming from the water while we heal." Your concussion is going to slow you down and Joel is vulnerable to infection until the wound closes, not to mention the severe blood loss.

Joel takes his time to answer, but you know he isn't ignoring you. You watch from the profile his eyes scan the building, take in the surrounding city, weighing the pros and cons.

"Could work," he says finally, "you think they'll follow?" He turns to you.

"I don't know," you sigh, "it's what I would do, if I was a fucking sociopath. Send a small team, skilled trackers, take out the loose ends."

"How much of a threat are you now?" Joel asks, which is a very polite way of asking how much you matter.

"To FEDRA as a whole? Nothing. To an offhand mission, we're both proof that whatever sham they're playing at is a lie."

"So a lot." Joel sighs.

"Yep," it helps to express your thought process out loud with someone. KNowing that Joel is now just as tangled in this mess makes it but it a lighter load to bare, "if they are following, we're sitting ducks. We need to get going."

"There'll be infected out in the city." Joel warns.

"Where are there not?"

"A lot more," he presses.

Looking at his serious face, the grey at his temple, you trust he isn't exaggerating. Since coming to the QZ, you've spent your years behind its walls, rarely patrolling the perimeter much less venturing into zones far beyond. Joel has, being a smuggler comes with an experience you don't possess.

Just one more thing you'll have to trust the man on.

You let your bravado slip, "Is there another option?"

You catch his eyes skip around the injuries on your face, his heavy brows pulling in before he shakes his head.

"Then let's get going."

You take lead, heading towards the downtown core, the smuggler following a few paces behind. Your eyes set on the skyscrapper. The sight of it, standing tall like a bolt of steel defiance against the rest of the crumbling city fills you with a naive wonder if Andy and Vivienne ever reunited. Or if he's still waiting up there, hoping.

Next chapter

A/N: PSA don't wash wounds with salt water.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller #my writing #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x y/n #joel x reader #the soldier and the smuggler

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inkwolvesandcoffee · 1 year ago

Text

Imagine meeting retired!Price on a group trip to Japan.

Inspired by my own upcoming trip.

CoD ML

At first you don’t know you’re part of the same group. For all you know and care, you’re simply two strangers seated next to each other on the plane to Osaka.

Few words are shared between you during the flight. However, it’s anything but awkward because the tall stranger with enchanting blue eyes shows himself quite the gentleman minutes after your shallow acquaintance.

John stands up from his seat as soon as you point out yours is by the window and blocks the pathway with his imposing frame. “Sorry,” you mumble while trying to settle in as fast as you can, self-conscious about the others waiting to get to their seat.

“Take your time, miss. I’ll wait.” There’s a silent warning in his words to the others behind him, daring them to defy him or show annoyance.

“Want me to pop that in the cubbie?” he asks when he sees you struggle with where to put your jacket.

“No. Thank you, I mean, but-“

He extends a hand, which oddly reminds you of a bear’s paw. “Don’t be silly.”

His fingers briefly brush yours when you hand him your jacket. Perhaps to calm you, to assure you he really doesn’t mind. Perhaps it’s just an accidental touch.

John’s travel outfit of choice is a pair of baggy cargo pants, army green jacket, and grey teddy fabric hoodie.

John reads most of the flight away, oblivious to how his glasses make you feel. Like, seriously, how do they make him even more distractingly handsome than he already is?!

As the hours pass by, slipping into the night, you decide to try and catch some shut eye. The stranger next to you has already accomplished your ultimate goal, slouched a little in his seat and vast asleep. He’s pulled his hood up, face half-hidden by the fabric, and crossed his arms. Such a lucky bastard.

He doesn’t mind you lean on him after falling asleep yourself after the necessary struggles. In fact, unbeknownst to you, John manoeuvred your head to rest on his shoulder. He even considered draping his jacket over you, strangely affected by the way he briefly saw you shiver.

When one of the flight attendants kindly wakes John up for breakfast, it takes every ounce of self-control to not let instinct take over and kiss you on the temple to wake you up. However, where he manages to restrain himself, he looses control otherwise.

One hand on your arm, he tries to wake you. “Sweetheart, wake up. Breakfast’s ready.”

You only curl up more into him, clutching his arm like your favourite stuffed animal. So he uses a little force and gently shakes you. “C’mon, darling. Ya need to eat.”

It shouldn’t affect him this much. You shouldn’t have this effect on him. Yet, there’s a prideful warmth in his chest when your drowsy eyes fall on him, delighted he’s the first thing you see as you regain consciousness. But the tender sentiment mingles with the inklings of lust he hasn’t been able to shake off, manifest in the painful hardness in his pants. Fortunately, the blanket in his lap hides it well.

It’s only at Kansai Airport you each discover the other’s identity.

“Wait, you’re part of the group?” Gobsmacked, you gawk at him. The last thing you had expected was to be ‘stuck’ with the stranger for the coming two weeks. Such a cruel fate.

“So it seems,” the man mumbles before he takes your hand, raises it to his lips, and kisses your knuckles. “John Price, miss. At your service.”

Naturally assumes the role of your guardian. Of course he allows you your freedom to go and do your own thing. After all, he’s only a travel companion, a vague acquaintance, to you. Someone you only see when the whole group is together. And despite his natural confidence, John isn’t so sure you’d want him with you.

But the uncertainty proves unnecessary soon.

You go from holding his arm to holding his hand fairly quickly, standing closer to him every day. What also helps the growing craving for his presence is how he always sits next to you on the Shinkansen. During the journey, you share the food you bought before boarding (which you later buy together for a planned lunch on the train). Or you go over the photos you made or hidden gems you found in absence of the other.

Or you sit in silence, leaning on each other while reading.

You two more often than not go off by yourselves. The first few days you share stories over group dinner, but soon go adventuring together.

When you do, of course there are compromises when it comes to what to do and see. Fortunately, John is willing to pop into every Pokémon Center you come across. He knows nothing about the franchise, but your enthusiasm and the nostalgia you harbour for it melts his heart. And despite forgetting the creature’s names as soon as you mention them, he makes a mental note you seem to have a special affinity for something called an ‘Eevee’, an ‘Arcanine’, and two wolves. One carries a sword around, firmly wedged between its maws (Zacian). The other is decked out in shields (Zamazenta).

John finds it adorable how you snuggle with an Eevee plushie at one of the big Pokémon centers. However, he’s seen how much you’ve bought already. “That still gonna fit in your suitcase, sweetheart?”

“Surely with a bit of rearranging it will.”

He sighs, not believing what he’s about to do. Damn those feelings he can’t seem to suppress despite his best efforts. “I’ll pay. And if it doesn’t fit, there’ll be plenty space in my suitcase.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes,” he answers matter of fact, already counting the yen in his wallet. “How much is it?”

In return for his many kindnesses, you accompany him on the hunt for as many Eki stamps as possible. Whereas you expected a bit of a wild goose chase, John has actually meticulously planned out a route so you don’t haphazardly go to and fro across the country.

He insists on paying for any food and drink on the way. After all, he’s the one low-key dragging you along so he might as well make it beneficial to you.

Little does he know you don’t mind.

That his company is plenty reason to go with him.

John is a foodie and loves exploring the Japanese food scene with you. Bakeries, cafés, sushi restaurants, food stalls. You name it, he’s in.

Loves buying a bunch of food you can try in the privacy of either of your hotel rooms. He’ll brew a cup of tea to have with it and if the food doesn’t make too much of a mess, you snuggle up on the bed to enjoy it while watching a show or movie on Netflix (either on his laptop or your tablet).

Loves the occasional midnight ramen moment with you.

Though he mostly loves the mornings after your visits, which has ended yet again by sleeping in each other’s beds or futons (depending on where you’re staying). Every time the both of you tell yourselves you’ll leave, go back to your own room to hit the hay.

But what better way to wake up than in sturdy warm arms?

Have someone snuggled up to you instead of opening your eyes to an empty space?

Seems those Liverpool nights have finally come to an end.

Although John’s a bit hesitant, you manage to convince him to start an Instagram together to document the trip. It doesn’t take long for people to start commenting on the photos of you two together or react to John’s captions on the photos he posts of you. And those are a lot in comparison to those you post of him.

You make such a cute couple!

Are you two together?

Relationship goals!

Ugh, would love me a man like that.

Handsome!😍

But there are also the negative comments, which mostly concerns the age gap between you two. He deletes them as soon as he can, but you know he’s read them and that simple repeated act has made them eat away at him. It’s hard, dealing with online hate, and John honestly wonders how you do it. You’re flattered he gets angry, furious even, on your behalf when there’s any negativity aimed at you. However, you know it’s pointless, spending energy on the opinion of others. So whenever he’s on the verge of going ballistic, you put your hand on his arm and pluck his phone out of his bear paw. “Let’s put that away for now, hm?”

Words can’t describe how grateful John is whenever you do that. But they can explain his growing affection for you.

Perhaps, at long last, he’s falling in love.

One night, at about two in the morning, he shows up at the door of your hotel room. Your drowsiness fades into concern when you notice his sickly complexion, it’s paleness highlighted by the shimmer of sweat coating his skin. “Thank God you’re still alive.”

“John, you alright?” The dullness in his otherwise sparkling blue eyes is haunting, more worrisome as the dusk makes them look emptier.

“You can rely on me, okay?” His voice cracks. “That’s an order.”

“Okay.”

“So don’t go bloody wandering off by yourself. We’re a team. One unit.”

“Okay,” you repeat. “Come inside.”

He doesn’t budge as you lightly tug his arm. “It’s safe.”

“Right.”

He lets you lead him to the bed, where you plop him down. Judging by how light he feels, easy to guide, you can tell he’s not here entirely. “Stay here tonight.”

“I have to save him.”

“Who?”

“Soap. I- I have… have… had… couldn’t. I couldn’t fucking save him.”

“John, I’m sure you did what you could.” In spite of not knowing what he’s on about, you wrap him in your arms to console him. His fingers dig painfully into your skin, clinging to you for dear life. “I’m a failure. We should’ve made it out alive. The whole unit. Not just-“

“Shh, you did what you could.”

“I- I should’ve- What if I can’t do the same for you?”

“It’s alright. I’m here, alive. As are you.”

“Yeah… alive.” His breathing starts to even out. “With me. Together.”

You manoeuvre yourself beneath the sheets, careful to not escape his touch and thus take away his comfort. After a bit of a hassle, you end up with John snuggled up to you and your fingers in his hair. Finally you feel him relax and settle. Into the bed, your embrace.

Your presence.

His anchor.

Come morning, the tables have turned and now it’s you snuggled up to him and his warm sturdy arms wrapped around your body.

Neither of you thinks it strange. After all, you’ve grown accustomed to each other’s company. So it’s nothing but natural to feel his fingers caress your cheek. Perhaps to wake you, perhaps a gesture of tender admiration. Whatever the case, it’s a nice way to wake up.

“Hey,” John murmurs.

“Hey,” you repeat, equally as drowsy. “Sleep well?”

He rests his forehead against yours. “Thanks to you.”

“You snore, though.”

“Do I?”

“Like a grizzly bear.”

“Well, you ain’t wrong. Then again, I’m your beartleman.”

You groan. “No puns this early, please.”

“Sorry.” Tracing your features, he gathers the courage to start the conversation he loathes having. He is a capable man, a leader, level-headed and determined.

Most of the time.

Because he also knows he’s damaged goods. The fact he’s here in bed with you tells him he wasn’t lucid dreaming or, rather, hallucinating. He showed up at your door.

Holding out his broken pieces to you, wilfully ignorant of the fact you don’t know how to put them together.

“Y/N, about last night…”

“John, don’t apologise. It’s alright.”

“I was a bit much, wasn’t I?” He remarks, trying to play it off.

“Do you get those types of attacks often?”

“Not a lot. Thought I was over them, but apparently not.”

“Were you in the army?”

“I was. SAS. Captain Price.” A dark chuckle leaves his lips, full of the stories he won’t tell. Not yet. “Once upon a time.”

“Got dismissed?”

“Of my own volition. Officially I’m retired, earlier than I thought or would’ve liked.“

“But?”

“But there are only so many ghosts a man can allow himself to be haunted by. So much he can bear before he goes insane.”

But fortunately you are here now, to dispel the worst of his ghosts.

And he’ll dispel the yokai hiding around you.

#John Price #CoD x Reader #John Price x Reader #Captain John Price #CoD MW Price #CoD MW #CoD #Call of Duty

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luimagines · 2 years ago

Text

Mirror Mirror

Another commission!

They asked for an expansion on Legend’s section on the Fairytale au, which you can read right here!

Masterlsit

Content under the cut!

You were telling him a story from your homeworld. A small princess who had to flee from her home because the evil queen was jealous of her beauty. After finding refuge with seven little men the queen attacked her and left her in a death like sleep with a poisoned apple. Legend fell asleep before he could hear the end of the story but he had hoped that it had a happy ending.

When Legend woke up in rags and was told to get to work, he was too shocked to question anything. He took the bucket and the mop and went into the courtyard.

Sure it was hard work but he was willing to lay low until he figured out how to get out of this place.

And then something stranger happens.

Warrior calls him over and calls him Prince and leads him away from the castle. Maybe this is a rescue mission? Surely they had the wrong guy from the get go. But how can he be confused for a menial servant and a prince at the same time?

When they’re far enough away, Legend feels as if he can let his guard down. With a stretch, he keeps walking forward, not aware that Warrior has stopped walking as well. “Boy, am I glad that you came along! I had no idea what I was doing but I figured one of you would come help me. Do you know what place this is? I have no idea how I ended up like that compared to everything else. I can’t wait to see the others though. Maybe we can-”

Something metal hits the ground.

Legend turns around with a small jump. “Captain?”

“I can’t do it.” Warrior sits on the ground on his knees with his face held in his hands. His sword is unsheathed and pointed toward Legend.

Legend feels his blood run cold as he takes a few steps back. “I don’t… What happened? What is the meaning of this?”

Warrior gasps and stands, shaking his head. “She’s gone mad. Absolutely mad.”

“Who?”

“You have to run.” Warrior grabs his shoulder and turns him around. He starts to push him forward, into the direction of the forest “You have to run. Never return. She wants you dead! Dead!”

“Wait! Who!” Legend digs his heels into the dirt. “Who wants me dead?”

“The queen!”

“The queen?”

“Yes! You must run! Run boy! Never look back!”

Primal fear overtakes him. He has no weapons, no supplies and someone who he’d trust with his life is telling him to run for his life. So he does so.

Something about this is familiar to him. Being on the run. Being hunted. Needed to look for help. His uncle would know what to do in this situation, his brain supplies despite his better judgment. It’s added salt onto the wound.

Legend trips, falling down what he can only explain as a cliff with lowered consequences. He doesn’t know where he is. None of this is familiar. Where are the others? Why is this happening to him?

He finds a small house in the middle of the woods after he’s run the better part of the morning. There’s smoke coming out of the chimney top. Someone has to be home.

Legend runs to the door and bangs on it with all his might. He’s out of breath and tired but he needs to get his bearings first.

The door opens.

“Help me!” He says before he can see who answered. He’s panting too hard to look up. “Please! They’re going to kill me!”

“Easy, young man. Who’s trying to hurt you?”

Legend gasps and looks up. Time blinks back at him, leaning down to meet his level. “Take a deep breath. I doubt they’ve followed you this far.”

Legend coughs, heaving too hard for his body to handle. Just how far did he run? “Help… Help me… Please...”

“Who’s at the door, Old Man?” Legend hears Wild asks from the inside.

He allows himself to relax. He’s found the group. He’s ok. They won’t let anything happen to him.

He blacks out.

He wakes up again but this time in a harder bed and a more modest setting. He still has no idea where he is.

“He’s awake!” A young boy shouts. Wind, Legend relaxes again. Friendly faces. People he knows. What a strange nightmare.

“Well hello.” Time enters the room again. He has a steaming bowl in his hand when he sits by Legend’s side. “We were hoping to get some answers out of you.”

“I had a really bad dream.” He rubs his forehead. “I dreamt that I was being chased out of a castle and that I was being hunted for sport. That’s the last time that I let them tell me a bedtime story-”

“Castle? Are you from the castle?” Hyrule asks as he comes into the room as well. “I checked over your body and managed to heal up some of your more major injuries. For someone who was running from the castle’s forces, you’re not as hurt as I expected you to be.”

Legend squints. Hold the phone. No one corrected him. “Where are we?”

“You’re in our cabin.” Time hands him the bowl. It smells delicious. “We go out and forage around in the forest before we’re called to menial jobs around multiple countries. This is unclaimed land. They can’t get you here. You’re safe.”

Legend feels his stomach drop. They don’t recognize him. Why don’t they recognise him? “...Good. I’m glad. Thank you.”

“Of course, we can’t let you stay for free anyway.” Twilight pipes up from the doorway. When did he get there? “But I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”

Legend winces. He misses his items already. “I can’t pay you any money-”

“We’re not asking for money.” He hears from beyond the door. It sounds like Sky. “Just take care of the house while we’re out for the day. Nothing major.”

“House sitting?”

“Yes.” Time smiles gently. “You gave us quite a scare. But if it’s work, then it’s work. Do you agree?”

Legend has to think about it. Where else can he go? It’s not like he knows what’s going on or why they don’t seem to know who he is. He’s the only one who remembers them but they’re the ones that see him as the stranger. They clearly know each other.

There has to be a way to fix this somehow. Legend nods. “I can do that. Thank you.”

“Steal anything and we’ll find you.” Twilight points a finger in his direction.

Time turns to him with a disapproving look. “Pup.”

“I mean it. We don’t know this guy.”

“He’s clearly just been through a lot. Kindness shouldn’t be held overhead.”

“Yeah, yeah Old Man.” Twilight waves him off. “Welcome to our humble home, stranger. I have to get to work.”

“We all do.” Time stands up. He looks to Legend with a look that hurts more than it comforts. “We’ll be back soon. By nightfall if we’re lucky. Don’t be afraid to get yourself acquainted with the house.”

Legend nods and watches them all leave.

This becomes commonplace very quickly. Legend counts himself lucky that he knows how to take care of a home as he does. Granted, the group is messier than he is, but he supposes that’s what happens when you work all the time and with six other people. No one is willing to pick up after other people. But then again, that’s his job now.

He gets used to the quiet fairly quickly. And he gets used to the noise just as quickly when they return. It’s a cycle. One that he finds that he can live with relatively easily. Unfortunately, he’s no close to figuring out where he is or what happened to him.

He tries to snoop through belongings and items but there’s no weapons. There’s no maps. There’s no markers or hints about anything that he wants to know. At least not in a way that he would be able to piece together. Even stranger still, there’s not a single trace of you. You’ve seemed to have vanished into thin air, just like the group’s memories of him.

Paranoid, he makes the excuse of doing a deep clean throughout the house on the off chance that he’s ever questioned about his whereabouts through the day. Twilight seems to be able to sniff him out more than he’d like but with evidence of cleaning, he’s left alone for the most part.

It’s only a few days afterwards that he starts to think that this sounds more like the story you were telling than he realized.

As he falls into a routine of cleaning, cooking and investigating, he gets a knock at the door.

“That’s weird. They usually just walk right in.” Legend puts the broom on the side, walking towards the door.

He opens it and his blood freezes in its place. “...Zelda…?...”

“Hello.” She smiles sweetly. “I heard you were in trouble so I came to see if you wanted help.”

“How did you get here?” Legend runs a hand over his hair. “What are you doing here?”

Elated he hugs her, not thinking about the consequences. He pulls back, allowing her to enter the house. “It’s so good to see you!”

“Likewise.” She giggles, putting a basket on the table. It’s full of apples.

Legend realizes the truth too late.

He remembers the apples. He remembers what they meant. He was waiting for them. It’s time.

“...You brought food.” He tries to say normally but the words get stuck in his throat.

Zelda doesn’t seem to notice his instant turmoil and picks one off of the top of the bunch. “Of course! I didn’t know what else to bring you but I wanted to help in at least some way.”

She tosses it to him and he catches it with ease. Zelda looks at him expectantly, that ever sweet smile on her face.

Legend thinks that he’s never going to face her again after this. If he makes it out alive that is.

He looks down to examine the apple. It looks normal. Not a bruise in sight. It’s bright red and inviting. What happened in your story again? The princess bit the apple and fell asleep. Did she ever wake up? He doesn’t remember.

Legend wipes the apple against his shirt. Zelda seems to be waiting for him to bite into it. He may not know the ending to your story, but he’s been playing along as it is right? The story has to continue.

He takes a bite.

It tastes just fine at first. He can’t register that there’s anything wrong with it. But then he gets dizzy and falls to his knees. His throat feels like it’s burning and his head feels a hundred times heavier. He blacks out for the second time.

When he wakes up again, you’re over him and weeping.

He grunts. Was this a part of the story? He doesn’t know. What happened after he fell asleep? “...Good morning.”

With a gasp, you shoot up, teary eyed and all and kiss him.

Legend’s eyes pop open. He suddenly feels more awake than he did just a second ago.

You pull back and cry. “Oh thank goodness that you’re alive!”

“I’m alive.” Legend agrees.

You hug him and tuck yourself into the crook of his neck. “I was so scared that I would be too late.”

“Just like your story, you would win in the end.” Legend pats your hair, sitting up. Looking around, he’s back at the campsite, but everyone else looks like they’re still sleeping. Strange.

You shake your head, catching his attention again. “You fell asleep before the end. You missed the hardest part.”

“I knew about the apple though.” Legend whispers. “I hoped you were still around. The story had to go on.”

“Legend, you’re an idiot. Never again.”

#linked universe #linkeduniverse #linked universe x reader #lu x reader #lu legend

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al-astakbar · 2 years ago

Text

☆ The Gift -- Thrawn x reader ☆

> title ☆ The Gift ☆part 7/?

> summary ☆ As congratulations for his recent promotion to Grand Admiral, Emperor Palpatine gives Thrawn a gift -- a young woman who has been trained as a pleasure companion.

> pairing ☆ Thrawn x reader ☆ word count [2.2k] ☆ warnings for this part ☆ sex, mentions of bondage > series warnings ☆ dubious consent; sexual slavery; concubine/ sex slave AU; will add more warnings as more parts are posted

>series navigation ☆ part 1 ☆ part 2 ☆ part 3 ☆ part 4 ☆ part 5 ☆ part 6 ☆ part 7 ☆ part 8 ☆ part 9 ☆ part 10

> posted on ao3

author note!! To be very clear, in this story reader is a concubine against her will and is gifted to Thrawn, but there is at no point any noncon between Thrawn and reader. Reader is never noncon with anyone, either referenced or explicitly, and there is never any explicit noncon. However, this is a darker take on Thrawn and he doesn't really have many hangups about putting his gift to use...

When you get back to his quarters, he puts you over his desk and gives you a slow, thorough fucking. Compounded with how you had denied yourself the night before, he leaves you tender and aching with need.

It need not be like this every time.

He cleans you up again. Gentle attention that you think the schedule of a Grand Admiral should not have time for. He does it as intently as you’ve seen him do everything else, a lingering touch as he wipes his spend from your thighs. You can’t help a quiet moan nor the quiver that goes through you when he runs the cloth over your labia.

“Would you like to be alone?” His voice is low, soft, his expression knowing.

Damn him, you almost--almost-- say yes. “No.”

/////

For you, the rest of the day is quiet. You stay in the small sitting area, reading on the datapad, or else looking at the art or out the viewport at the blue stream of hyperspace.

If this is a template for how your days will be aboard the Chimaera, you suppose you will have to get used to monotony and loneliness. In the time Thrawn is at his desk, he hardly acknowledges you. After a lunch without conversation (he eats nothing), he goes into another room of the suite that is locked to you and does not come out for several hours.

By dinner you are restless, and almost glad for his company.

Two serving droids bring the meal and lay out two place settings at the small dining area next to the huge viewport in his main cabin.

When the meal is cleared away, Thrawn’s plate again untouched, he tells you that you may spend the rest of the evening reading. That is better, you suppose, than what was permitted during your training in the cloister on Coruscant, where you couldn’t access the holonet. Still, you miss having embroidery to work on, and nameless, faceless friends to whisper to while doing chores.

Several times, you glance up from the datapad to find Thrawn looking at you appraisingly, as if trying to decide what to do with you.

/////

The rest of the trip to the Outer Rim passes in much the same way. You were expecting the passage of time in space to feel strange, after so long planet-side, but for the most part it doesn’t. The ship maintains its own day/night rhythm. The lights cycle on and off. The crew work in shifts, though there isn’t much to do yet, this early in a deployment.

Thrawn wakes you at the same time every morning, you go to the bridge with him and observe silently from a corner. Ronan, to your frustration, continues to pretend like you don’t exist.

You find little ways to annoy your new master: leaving your clothes all over the floor, blowing bubbles in your drinks, persistently asking him questions while he’s trying to work. More than once you push him too far and he strips you naked, ties you kneeling beside his desk. Sometimes a gag if he particularly wants quiet. Every time he does, you sit there fuming, petulant and humiliated, but you never fight him on it. Not really. You’d never admit it to him, or to anyone, but the restraint is almost calming.

Thoughts of your time on Coruscant linger in your mind most days, especially with little else to occupy you. The datapad, you’ve found after more searching and testing, has limited accesses, so you can’t get much new to read or watch. Thrawn’s art collection, while interesting at first, becomes familiar and mundane. By this point you think you could name each piece in order with your eyes closed.

“I miss my friends,” you say aloud one evening. You don’t even really mean to say it to him, he’s just there, as always, reading quietly.

He looks up. “Your friends on the city planet?”

You nod, suddenly a little shy. He actually sounds interested.

“The two who were with you at the ceremony did not seem friendly.”

“Not the ones you saw. Mirri and Solis. They weren’t-- they weren’t nice. They were always there, they made sure we didn’t misbehave.”

Something flashes in Thrawn’s eyes-- perhaps he has something to say about the ineffectiveness of their methods when it comes to your own behavior. But instead he just asks more about what it was like, and you find no reason not to tell him. You were not supposed to use your own name, or anyone else’s. Your face was nearly always covered, so you had never really known what any of the others being trained looked like-- only brief glimpses. Shadowy impressions, a beautiful girl with light hair and eyes, a boy younger than you with curly brown hair and full lips, countless others.

None of you were supposed to acknowledge each other in any way that could remind you of your individuality, but you had still talked to them. Learned who they were by their voices and brief glimpses of exposed hands. You could tell a lot from that. From the skin tones and length and number of fingers. Not all were humans. You had seen other skin tones, like blue and green and yellow and orange, and some you could tell had to be Twi’leks from the way the hoods draped over their heads and lekku. Some wanted to be there, thought it would raise their social standing. Some were like you, unwilling and defiant. Some were broken, with no voice.

They were all strangers, essentially. You had traded stories in hushed whispers, of others who had come before you, and their fates with cruel or kind masters. But most who left the cloister just disappeared. You would have no way of finding them again.

“They were still my friends,” you add, a little defensive.

Until now, Thrawn has listened intently as you tell him all this, but offered no comment or reassurance. “I have no doubt,” he says softly.

In his quarters, he fucks you efficiently and regularly, driving you closer to madness and relief every time. He knows what he is doing to you. He tells you he can feel how slick and tight you are, how good you feel, your lovely cunt takes my cock so well. He knows how his voice affects you, he feels you push your hips back to meet his when he murmurs obscene praise against your neck. He knows you still deny yourself pleasure, even as you moan his name and spread your legs to take him deeper.

At meals, you eat methodically while he watches you and eats nothing. Not even a sip of water, caf, nor the emerald wine served with supper, which is delicious. It makes you lightheaded, since you haven’t had alcohol since before arriving on Coruscant, over a year ago. The food is much richer than you’re used to as well. You mention both of these things to him one evening, instead of accusing him of being a creep for just sitting there staring at you.

“It’s the standard meal served in the galley,” he explains. “Breakfast and lunch, too. Other than these accommodations and my pay, I claim few privileges. I eat the same as my crew does.”

You snort, taking a pointed sip of wine. Was that pronouncement supposed to win you over? “I’m sure the crew appreciates your humility and all the sacrifices you’ve made.”

“Perhaps.”

“I’m willing to bet they don’t get a wine ration either.”

“They don’t,” he confirms.

You have a moment to feel smug, having gotten him to admit some small hypocrisy.

“You speak as if you’ve been in their position,” he says. “Have you served aboard a starship before? Prior military, perhaps? Or mercenary work.”

You freeze, glass halfway to your lips. For a moment, you consider denying it, but he misses nothing. Your reaction has already given it away. But if he guesses anything more specific-- it’s something you’d really rather not admit, especially to a Grand Admiral. “How’d you get that from wine rations and humility?”

“You aren’t particularly… cordial… with officers. You know enough about ships to be impressed with the Chimaera-- on the approach the other day,” he specifies.

“Anyone would be.”

“You have a sense of how ships function, how information flows among the crew-- “ he pauses with a slight frown. “My apologies. There is a word for it in my native tongue. I do not know its equivalent in Basic.”

“Gossip?”

He shakes his head. “It is slang for the spread of rumors among the junior enlisted, as both an information network and a pastime.”

“How do you say it in your language?”

Thrawn hesitates. You think you might see some odd reluctance in his expression, but he masks it quickly, and answers. “Csarrob.”

You try repeating it, but can’t quite form your lips and tongue to mimic the sounds. “The ships I was on called it the underground. Or the mafia, depending on what ship and what part of the galaxy.”

Thrawn goes quiet for a moment, the type of quiet you’ve come to recognize as the times he is thinking, and about to say something inconveniently perceptive. He sits back in his chair, one arm crossed over his chest, his other hand touching his chin. You’ve seen the same pose on the bridge-- with a dangerous edge to his usual even tone, he says one word that makes your heart drop. “Rebel.”

There’s no way he could have known, nobody could have told him-- coming to the cloister, everyone’s identity was wiped clean. No one there had known, there were no records. You’d been given a new name, a new chain code.

“You served on Rebel ships,” he presses.

You swallow a large gulp of wine and nod.

His eyes seem to glow brighter. “And your position? Not very high, I would imagine, given that you’re here.”

Your mouth feels too dry. “Yeah, I was-- I was nothing, really. I was nobody. I served meals and mended uniforms. Fixed radios, cleaned blasters. Anything that needed to be done.” And though you’re loathe to admit it, your time so far with Thrawn has been luxurious compared to your short stint in the Rebellion. You had barely thought about it for so long, you’d almost forgotten. It had been buried, deep, and you’d never even thought to worry someone might find out.

“And you believed you needed to conceal this from me,” he says. “Explain your reasoning.”

“Other than…” you gesture at him. At his uniform. His rank. He gives you a level stare, as if to say ‘continue.’ “Fine. Well, I wasn’t trying to hide anything. It’s not a very exciting story. I was captured. Eventually sent through the ISB system. They interrogated me and then recommended me for the training.”

“So. You’ve been… domesticated.” He puts a sly twist on the word, suggestive in a way that makes arousal knife through you.

Your instinct is to glare at him, but you only manage to sound petulant. “Should I be kneeling at your feet during meals?”

“Perhaps. You might find that you enjoy it.”

This sets your mind spinning, and it’s all you can think about the rest of the evening as you try to read on the datapad. He has unbalanced you so easily. The incisive deductions about your past -- ‘Rebel’ in his smooth, modulated voice replays in your mind over and over-- though he does not seem angry about it, or hateful, like you would expect of an Imperial. Only intrigued.

As for the idea he’d put in your head… kneeling at his feet. During meals, or maybe while he’s working. He already makes you do it while restrained, but to settle there at his side by your own choice… Somehow the thought of it is calming, almost a fantasy. Sitting on the couch, you steal a glance at Thrawn, who is engrossed with something at his desk. You take a deep, slow breath. He might let you lean your head against his leg. Stroke your hair idly as he occasionally reads aloud from whatever he’s working on, his voice cool and soft. He seems to like your hair. He often touches it when he has you over his desk, brushing it off your face or combing his fingers through it as he fucks you and fills you over and over.

Later, through the night and the following days and weeks, you try to keep yourself at a distance from him. It doesn’t really help. You find yourself unable to keep your eyes off him. Even in the privacy of your own thoughts, he holds this power over you.

You sit up attentively when you hear the hatch opening which signals his return. You listen when he speaks, though that isn’t often. He rarely chooses to share with you, and it only makes you more curious for information about him, his thoughts-- anything. In the meantime, you watch him, observing carefully, entranced by his quiet manner and his utter command over himself and his ship.

Noticing that he was attractive before that was different, you rationalize. Anyone could see that. Just as anyone could pass a particularly attractive person on the street and notice them, but not spend the next month falling under their thrall. And each time you spread your legs for him, you tell yourself it’s because you agreed, because he convinced you that all the alternatives were worse. Not because you might, just a little, like his attention.

☆ link to part 8 ☆

☆join tag list☆ <- this is the easiest way to make sure your request is recorded, however anyone is also welcome to dm me if they want to be added or removed.

@thrawns-babygirl @vibratingskull @thrawns-teef-weef @aethersecho @exoplorationn @elc3004 @littlecrowtime @twilekchiss @saber-slutt @projectdreamwalker @ele-millennial-weirdo @vaarians @shoe-bag @thrawnspetgoose @nomercyforthewarrior @pb-jellybeans @twincesskorisoka @jewelliffer @cecilyjmorgenstern @mandinlore @bobaprint @bluechiss @andrakass2 @nocturneabyss @starwh0ers @obbicrystaleo @pencil-urchin

#thrawn #grand admiral thrawn #thrawn x reader #thrawn fic #star wars #thrawn x you #thrawn fanfiction #thrawn x y/n #thrawn fanfic

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cal-daisies-and-briars · 10 months ago

Note

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

WOOO! 129 for time loop.

Tagging @steadfastsaturnsrings

---

“Yeah, sure,” Buck replies. He feels like he’s been seeing a lot of sea otters lately. He saw them yesterday. Didn’t he? “They’re cute.”

“I know they’re cute,” Eddie nods. “I’m excited to see both of your reactions.”

Buck thinks his reaction today might not live up to expectations. But he follows the script he remembers anyway.

“Well, then let’s get going,” he says, rolling out of bed. “Wake up Christopher.”

Eddie nods, expression tight. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s do that.”

When Buck stands, stretching his arms above his head, he finds himself staring at the old analog clock on the wall. Hideous thing, really. Still not telling the right time. It reads 12:03. Buck turns to look at the digital clock. 8:03 AM. There’s something about that. He just doesn’t know what.

➰➰➰➰

Half an hour later, they’re sitting on a big patio eating a complimentary hotel breakfast. Chris looks mildly zombified. Eddie and Buck are both trying to watch each other while they eat, but not look at the other person watching them. It’s strange and tense, and if Chris was any less tired, he’d probably ask them why they’re being weird.

“View is nice right?” Eddie asks at one point, after taking a small sip of black coffee.

Buck nods. “Same nice view as yesterday.”

Eddie’s lip twitches. He looks unhappy, like Buck has said the wrong thing. Buck can’t tell if it’s because he’s being sort of bitchy, or if it’s because he went off the script he can feel playing out in his head. Does Eddie want him to stick to a script? Why would he? Unless he knows.

Buck narrows his eyes. He needs to see what Eddie knows.

“We should come back here again,” Buck says, following his sense of what he should say next. But his heart isn’t really in it.. “Some other time. A long weekend wasn’t enough.”

Eddie blinks, like he is surprised by the sudden swerve back onto course. Then, he smiles. And Buck knows that exact smile. Knows it because he knows Eddie. He knows all of Eddie’s smiles like a dream that stays with you forever. He works hard to make them appear, when he needs to. Finds it effortless, other times.

Eddie’s smile is relieved.

“Anytime you want,” he says.

Buck could cry. Why is Eddie lying to him? What is Eddie hiding from him? What is going on?

Never, not once since they’ve met, has Buck felt like he can’t trust Eddie. So why can’t he trust him now?

➰➰➰➰

Buck is very quiet during the entire guided kayaking tour of the estuary.

He’s frustrated and he’s scared. He’s also uncertain. He can’t know for sure, right? He doesn’t know that Eddie is lying to him or keeping things from him. He just suspects. So he watches. He gathers information. He builds his case.

“When have you kayaked before?” Buck asks Eddie as he teaches Christopher how to paddle, just a little too deftly. He knows he’s heard this answer before. Knows Eddie has told him. How many times can he tell the same tale?

“Huh? Oh, uh… El Paso.” Eddie shrugs.

“El Paso? In the desert?” Buck challenges.

“There was a lake near my house growing up. Like, the only lake around,” Eddie says. “Had to find things to do.”

“Okay, so… Over a decade ago?” Buck presses.

‘

“Well, yeah,” Eddie says. “Wasn’t coming home from Afghanistan for kayaking trips.”

Christopher and their tour guide, Brittany, watch this exchange awkwardly.

“Don’t you think you’re a little sharp for a decade of not using that skill?” Buck accuses.

Eddie’s mouth parts with surprise at Buck’s tone.

“It’s muscle memory,” he says. “You don’t forget.”

“No,” Buck says. “I guess you don’t.”

Eddie’s expression tenses. “Buck-”

“Can we go already?” Chris interrupts. “I want to see the otters!”

So they go. And Buck hardly says a word. He hardly looks at the wildlife. All of it just serves to annoy him.

➰➰➰➰

He and Eddie help Brittany load the kayaks from the beach onto a rack.

“Thank you!” She exclaims as they’re halting them. “Most visitors don’t stick around to help.”

“Of course,” Buck replies quietly.

“They’re firefighters,” Chris says. “They lift heavy stuff all the time.”

“It’s true,” Eddie says, sliding a kayak onto the rack.

As soon as Buck puts the last kayak on the rack, he takes several large steps away from the rack. Eddie watches him, eyes bugging out, as he does.

“Something wrong, Eddie?” Buck asks.

“No,” Eddie replies. “Why would anything be wrong?”

Brittany frowns. “Well, uh, thanks again for the help, guys.”

They’re making total asses of themselves, and Buck knows it. Yet he can’t quite bring himself to care. Somehow, he thinks he may have the chance to redo this interaction tomorrow.

Seemingly out of nowhere, but right out of Buck’s gut feeling, there’s a strange metallic creaking sound, followed by a loud crack. The kayak rack lurches as a leg breaks, sending the top kayak sliding out, fast and hard onto the sand.

“Oh my god!” Brittany exclaims.

“Wow,” Buck says flatly. “That totally could have hit me in the back of the head.”

Eddie won’t look at him.

#daisies and briars writes #time likes pulling my teeth fic

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fuckmeuselessdegen · 1 year ago

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i am once again thinking about whitney and my pc daiki together 🧎‍♂️ this time, it is how i imagine their first kiss together.

just to be very clear at first, i know that canonically whitney will try to actively fuck/kiss your pc, and it’s very easy for him to do so. however, for the sake of pc character/lore building, i like to imagine that it went completely differently :)

it starts off on a sunday night, right after drinking with whitney at the pub. daiki had gone to the pub that night to sell off some stolen goodies to landry and couldn’t help but spot whitney across the way, sitting at a table with other delinquents and staring at him. daiki is actively trying to ignore this mf but whitney doesn’t relent on the staring, so he decides to approach him anyways because he knows whitney’s gonna get on his ass about this.

he approaches the table and basically cue the pub event with whitney where he tries to get the pc shitfaced and see who can handle their liquor better. they take shots and chug so many bottles of beer that by the time they’re out of the pub, the two of them can barely keep each other up.

so daiki and whitney are drunk as all hell. regardless, whitney walks daiki back home to the orphanage, tripping over both of their feet multiple times in the process. when they walk up to the front door, whitney slurs through his words.

“where’s my thank you for walking you home, huh? you’re lucky i didn’t leave you on the street to get jumped.”

daiki sort of stands there awkwardly, swaying on his feet and rubbing the back of his neck. he looks down at the ground, almost in a submissive way.

“thanks, i guess.” he mutters, his words also slurring and voice uncharacteristically soft. he doesn’t have his usual defiant bite to his words.

and at that, something sort of snaps in whitney’s brain. the two of them have had such intense sexual tension before all of this had happened. each time they fought, all the manhandling and skin on skin contact only fueled a strange sort of lust that was brewing inside of them. and so seeing daiki suddenly so passive was simply… cute. too cute.

whitney can’t help but grab daiki by the collar of his shirt and pull him into a rough kiss. their lips smashed together, daiki is caught completely off guard and is unsure of what to do. a part of him wants to push whitney away, but an even larger part of him is REALLY into it. he decides to kiss back, letting lust and desire fill his head.

they bite at each others lips and knead their tongues together, all while pawing at each through through their clothing. after a few minutes of just making out, daiki pulls away, heavy breathing and gazing into whitney’s eyes.

“… do you want to come into my room?” an obvious proposition for more of… whatever the hell they were doing. and with a grin, whitney obviously accepts.

the two of them make it towards daiki’s small, cramped room and spend the night together in his even smaller bed, making out and groping at each other like horny teenagers. there’s no penetrative sex just yet, only just the two of them jerking each other off and kissing each other sensually, but it’s enough. by the time they both cum, daiki is slumped back in the bed, exhausted out of his mind. he slips into an easy snooze while whitney decides to take this opportunity to slip out of the orphanage while he still can.

sure, maybe at least one of them (coughdaikicough) will regret it in the morning. he’ll wake up in the morning hungover and have a very foggy idea of what actually went on last night. by the time he actually remembers, he’s flushed red with anger and embarrassment, ready to confront whitney and start another fight.

thus the cycle repeats. they fight enough to the point where the air is basically dripping with sexual tension, and they release all that lust in some way 😌

#whitney the bully #dol whitney #daiki the delinquent #degenrambles #all they do is fight and fuck #with some occasionally tender moments sprinkled in 😌

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sea-side-scribbles · 1 year ago

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Solas wakes up in the strange new world of his own making and it terrifies him. Ridden with guilt, he joins the Inquisition and begins his lonely research in order to correct his mistake.

He doesn’t expect to find consolation in the presence of a human who wields ancient elven magic without knowing it. Who is way too gentle for an elgar’thanelan, but doesn’t know that either.

Solas, for his part, doesn’t know how to stay away.

Dorian wonders if the mysterious elf just enjoys playing with a Tevinter. He wouldn’t expect anything else.

_____________________

Chapter 1- 13 | Right after uthenera, Solas is found by a Dalish clan. This goes well until it doesn’t. (Basically my excuse for world building and hilarious misunderstandings.)

Chapter 14 | Solas joins the Inquisition.

Chapter 20 | Dorian appears in Haven.

Chapter 26

A day trip to a bog hadn't sounded like hard work, but Dorian soon noticed that he had underestimated the landscape. The Frostback Mountains were – well, as the name implied, very frosty and mountainous, providing narrow, icy pathways up and down deep slopes. There wasn't any possible good weather. Snowfall merely blocked his view and the melting snow crept into every crack of his robe while sunlight made the paths glisten and almost blind him. Most of the time, he blinked and squinted against the natural forces.

It was the horses who knew the way, trained army mounts with nerves of steel and endless patience. They trotted through the snow, calmly putting their hooves forward as the cold wind took a toll on the riders on their backs. Dorian wrapped his robe around himself, muttering spells to keep the cold and the moist away from his skin. The spell would've been more efficient if it wasn't to protect every soldier in the troop. Ellana and Solas did what they could, but together, they were only three mages.

In between casting spells, he whispered praises to his stallion, petting the animal's neck. He was a decent rider – in Tevinter. In plain, civilised land with proper roads and inns at any corner. This was very different and more often than once Dorian feared to dramatically slip from his saddle, to the amusement of his company.

Genitivi's reports about the Avvar had long been exhausted, but Ellana had remained at his side. Varric claimed the other side, entertaining them both with anecdotes from Kirkwall. At one point, Ellana brought them to a halt, because she insisted she found edible plants in the snow. Rather, plants with edible roots. Blackwall came out of his corner to help her dig these miraculous plants out of the snow. It wouldn't have been possible without her magic softening the ground. Soon, she triumphantly lifted a handful of soil, supposedly full of delicious treasure. Well, melted with magical fire and cleaned in the snow, the roots tasted almost bearable. Dorian didn't dare to complain when he saw Ellana chew happily on her rubbery, sour snack. She was surprised that nobody else in the party recognized en'an'sal'as.

Blackwall was very interested. As he said, he appreciated any sort of supplies he could find on his long recruiting journeys, so Ellana began to explain Dalish cooking recipes to him. Apparently, these roots could be turned into everything: flour for bread, dried for long term rations, fried and put in a stew or cooked in a soup. “They even warm you from inside. Do you feel it?”, she asked with wide eyes. “Yes, but I fear that is because they declared war to my stomach,” Dorian couldn't hold back. He earned a punch against his side. “I gladly take yours, if you don't want them.” She held out her hand. “Ah, but if it does warm me, I'm willing to comply. I can't defy the words of holy Andraste after all.” “You say that because your teeth are chattering.” “As they should. We've been out here for an eternity and it's still freezing. Wasn't our destiny a swamp? Shouldn't we get into warmer territories yet?” “Look at the sun. It's not even midday. We're soon beneath the snow line where we can take a rest and stretch our legs.”

“Soon” actually involved another strenuous descent down a steep and muddy path. As the snow began to melt, it turned the ground into a slide. Dorian couldn't imagine how their horses avoided all the puddles. Then came the warmth, and with it the moisture. Dorian's robes were suddenly glued onto his skin and the air was thick and musty, with the constant buzz of mosquitoes. Dorian almost wished the cold back.

They rested at a riverbank were they quenched their thirst and refilled their waterskins. Ellana suggested to save rations, hence to collect more of these roots. Blackwall and Solas agreed, Varric submitted and Dorian suffered along. Admittedly, the search was a welcome excuse to not sit for a while. Dorian stretched and turned his body while pretending to pay attention. Ellana already dashed through the muddy grass like a ferret. The sight made him smile. He liked to see her happy. Although he successfully played the role of the “evil” Tevinter of the party, she was the true stranger here. Despite Genitivi's efforts, the Dalish life had remained vastly unknown. There was a confusing multitude of fairy tales and superstitions, of course. Her people was feared and romanticised at the same time. In reality, Ellana Lavellan simply was a charming woman, close to becoming a good friend.

As Dorian glanced around, he saw Solas, who had been rather quiet the entire journey, except for occasional conversations with Blackwall. The Warden and him apparently made a good team. They resembled each other in a way, both secretive and broody, and with no sense for proper hygiene after living in the wilds for most of their life. Dorian noticed that the elf was still wearing his leg wraps, exposing the front of his feet. No boots. The sight made him shudder, thinking that elves must be extraordinarily resilient against cold. It probably explained Ellana's cheery mood.

He couldn't finish his musings, because he suddenly heard a shout behind him. “Good morning!” He yelped and turned around for a laughing Herald. “You're not even looking!” “I am”, Dorian weakly defended himself. “I was very concentrated before you disturbed me.” “U-huh.” She flashed her teeth. “Anyway, why don't you help Blackwall over there?” “I don't even have tools.” “You have hands, no?” Dorian sighed and gave an exaggerated bow with swirling arms before went to work – digging in the dirt. With his bare hands. His magic softened the soil and the Warden gave him instructions, sparing him with the usual comments about pampered princes.

This would never be his favourite pastime. When he was finally done covering himself in mud, he crossed paths with Solas, who was holding a pile of roots himself. He looked indifferent. Hard to say if this Dalish delicacy was familiar to him or not. They brought their treasure to the campfire.

“I miss en'an'sal'as bread so much, but there's no time for that...” Ellana sighed, regarding the roots with glowing eyes. “I'll make a soup instead. That's quicker.” Dorian kept in the background while the others began to peel the roots and gathered the cream-coloured insides in a pot. “Looks like you're not into cooking”, came a remark from behind. “I hope Blackwall's repertoire is a bit more satisfying than sour roots, cooked or not.” Varric grunted and patted Bianca. “When we're finally there, I'll shoot us a rabbit.” “Oh, Maker, please do it.” “...or whatever lives in this swamp”, he added grinning. “Maybe we should try fishing. You know that there are fish in a swamp? Mudskippers, slimy little bastards with eyes on the top of their heads, so they can look for snails and insects when they crawl around in the dirt with their fins.” Varric imitated the crawling as Dorian's stomach turned.

“Why are you doing this to me?” “Oh, it's a speciality in Orlais, I've heard. Tastes like two weeks old socks and sour milk. But with a strong Whiskey...” “Please, Varric, no more. Or I'll faint and someone has to carry me all the way to the Fallow Mire.” “Huh.” Varric slapped his arm. “You'll survive, Sparkler. I got your back.” “I hope that's not a threat”, Dorian said even through he felt warmer hearing it.

They decided to pass their time with a card game. After a while, Dorian caught Solas sitting cross-legged on a trunk on the other side of the camp, reading a book. Varric caught up on it, gave Dorian a short eyeroll and shouted: “Hey, Chuckles, bet you can't beat me in Diamondback?” Solas looked up. “Varric, don't”, Blackwall warned him while he stirred the soup. “Why not?” “I bet 20 Sovereigns Varric is gonna run around naked with only a barrel for his bits after that game.” Ellana laughed out loud. “What?” Solas nonchalantly walked over to Varric. “Perhaps I did not face a proper challenge yet”, he answered towards the Warden, who grunted: “I didn't hear that.”

“You, a whiz at Diamondback? Let's see.” Varric wasn't intimidated. “Blackwall taught me the game and I have surpassed him quickly.” “That's beginner's luck. Come here, Chuckles. I bet 10 Sovereigns that I can beat you. It's gonna be three players and Sparkler and I are partners.” Dorian realized he finally had a chance to react to this. “Do you expect me to bet as well? Then I'd say I bet against you.” “You can't do that, you're my partner!” “Ah, peer-pressure. Lovely. I say farewell to my dear Sovereigns then.” Solas had a seat at their trunk and accepted the cards Varric had shuffled. “You are already intimidated?”, he asked Dorian, shortly looking at him. Dorian leaned forward, forcing him to look again. “It's that mean glow in your eyes, you see. It tells me I'm making a great mistake.” Solas froze shortly. Dorian acted as if he didn't notice.

The next minutes, the pile of cards on their makeshift table grew bigger and foreheads were furrowed. Dorian and Varric communicated with side eyes while Solas kept a stone face every statue would have been proud of. Ellana and Blackwall served the soup and Dorian found that the roots tasted a lot better when cooked and softened to mild cream. Their taste reminded him of pumpkins. Ellana and Blackwall then watched the game and speculated loudly about the outcome.

In the end, the elf indeed won. By a nose, but still. Dorian didn't mind it too much, he was glad to release the tension and keep his healthy distance to Solas again. Also, Varric's astonishment amused him. He gladly gave up his Sovereigns and climbed back on his horse that already shook his mane in excitement.

The group chatted more lively now, together with the solders, their constant background support. Despite that, Dorian didn't fail to see that the sky became darker by the minute. Eventually, the clouds released the rain. It would've soaked the group within seconds, but the mages muttered spells to keep everyone warm and dry.

The rain didn't end. It became a constant shower. And then came the smell. As if the ground underneath them rotted away. Even the trees sweated it. Dorian prayed they wouldn't have to eat the plants here.

“How further do we have to go? Isn't this boggy enough?”, he burst out eventually. “We have to meet up with the scouts first and hear what exactly is going on. We can't just wander off and hope to find the hostages by accident”, Ellana shouted against the howling and pattering of the storm. “Why did they have to camp so far away? I can't imagine this place isn't disgusting enough already.” “Perhaps they found a cave? Something dry?” Varric stirred their hopes up. So far, the land was plain, with little clusters of trees around the muddy pits. Nowhere to hide from enemies, either. “A tavern”, Blackwall went on. “One that serves honey mead.” “Perhaps a hotel with a fancy restaurant serving sweetmeats and holding a ball? As amusing as it is to speculate, alas I don't believe it.” Dorian's mood was a low point.

He already considered the land to be cursed, making them trot in rain forever, when they finally caught a glimpse of other soldiers in the distance. Immediately, everyone cheered up, waving and giving signals. When they came closer, Dorian saw that they stood in the rain, not exactly protected by the soaked trees above. So much for the cave. But he was glad to finally get off his horse. He patted the animal's neck while Ellana met with the scout, a dwarven woman named Lace Harding he had also met in Redcliffe.

“Thank you for coming.” Harding sounded truly grateful. “Maybe you can solve this mess.” Ellana brushed her wet hair back with one hand. “Do you know where they took our solders?” “There's a castle in the west, more like a ruin. It's hard to get close to it now, because new rifts opened. Also, this place is taken by a plague. You should avoid the water if you don't want to wake up more undead. There'll be enough corpses wandering around already.” “Undead?”, Varric butted in. “Shit. I'm glad we brought a Necromancer.” “Alright, this will be a walk in the park, then”, Dorian quipped. “ Just let me shake hands with a few rotting corpses, have a nice chat and the issue will be solved.” “Anything below that and I'll be disappointed.”

Ellana continued the conversation: “Why do the Avvar want to meet me like this?” “The Avvar think there are gods in nature”, Harding explained. “As in, the sky has a god and the forest. The Avvar say you're claiming to be sent by one and they'll challenge the will of your god with their own. I think their leader is just a boastful little prick who wants to brag he killed you.” Ellana wiped her forehead. “I knew this would cause trouble. Now I can only hope there really is a god with me.” “They're not that tough. Just caught us by surprise and now they're hiding in a castle. Just stay on the paths and..maybe hold your breath too. This place stinks.” She didn't have to say that out loud. Dorian wondered how he had kept his appetite until now.

Later, they sat huddled together at a campfire under a tent and ate their stew. Dorian didn't care about what it tasted like. He was glad he could save his mana. “Does the rain ever stop?”, he asked a soldier that stood by their tent. “Didn't since we got here”, she said shrugging. “Ah, marvellous. This is going to be my favourite place.” “Good to know. So I can count on you when I have to come back here for another mission”, Ellana said with an innocent voice. “Oh, please, I think I build a home here.” He gestured towards the swamp. “Yes, right there in all the filth. Every morning, I take a bath in the mud, getting out dirtier than I went in, and with my mouth full of mudskippers for breakfast. And in the evening, I invite all my undead neighbours for a game of Skull and Bones.”

The group laughed. “You have it all planned out”, Ellana acted excited. “Sure, this place is so lovely, I can't stop thinking about it since we got here.” “Maybe I'll come visit you in your palace in the mud”, the dwarf said. “You better hurry before it sinks into the ground. But by all means, bring your family.” “How about an uncivilised mob of thugs instead?” “That is what I said, yes?”

They bantered on like this until Ellana got up and yawned. “I better get some sleep now or I'll be undead tomorrow.” She sighed. “Varric? Blackwall? How about?” “Yep.” Varric put his bowl down and got up too. Ellana had that laid back way of inviting people into her tent. Dorian knew by now it wasn't frivolity. She didn't like sleeping alone as a Dalish. These elves slept in groups crammed together in narrow wagons and for some reason, she missed that. And she steered the party dynamics like this. What made him realize -

Blackwall hesitated to follow her, glancing at Solas. The two looked like they communicated without words. “Is there a problem?” Ellana looked at the Warden. Her tone became sharper. Another short glance. Finally, Solas gave the Warden a small nod – and the man finally moved. “I'm coming.” Ellana was content, nodded Dorian good night and disappeared into a tent with her companions.

Dorian stared down at his second bowl of stew, now without appetite. He didn't want to be angry at Ellana, but he couldn't quite help it. That had been her great plan. To bring him to the most disgusting place in Thedas, where he had to deal with endless rain and mosquitoes, filth, demons, a plague and on top of that, she forced him into a tent with an elf that downright hated him. Dorian didn't want to ever share an enclosed space with him again. Ellana probably thought that Solas would come around. She was a sweetheart. But right now, Dorian felt betrayed.

Halfway through stabbing his meal to death, he noticed eyes on him. “My, you still enjoy the view, do you?”, he quipped and turned his head. “Fancy to see my profile too? It is quite gorgeous, if I may say so myself.” Solas swallowed his stew and turned his head away. He just couldn't figure out this Tevinter. The entire journey, he had ignored him, save for some shy glances. He seemed to wait for them to be alone, although he avoided him even now. Solas couldn't help the envy that crept up his spine. Now, after provoking Pavus' anger, he got the feeling that the attention unsettled the man. There was something he wanted to ask the moment it came up.

“I heard you are a Necromancer, Dorian.” Dorian snapped his head back. Oh, this should be fun. “You heard right. What? Surprised I'm not a blood mage?” Solas didn't elaborate. “Does that mean you bring the dead back to life?” “Ah, that is a common misunderstanding. Let me explain”, Dorian said enthusiastically and wiped his hands together. “A necromancer works with spirits, more precisely, spirits of death and terror, the sort that usually flocks corpses and thins the veil in a battlefield. I either use their energy for devastating spells or I bind them directly and temporarily to my will. They are able to imitate the deceased and fight for my behalf, thus the misunderstanding that Necromancers bring people back to life. It inspired the term “Necromancer”, but I don't torture innocent souls or steal them from the hands of the Maker, in case you refer to these barbarian rumours.”

Solas mused, face unreadable. Once again, it stretched Dorian's patience. When he finally spoke, he looked down at his feet. “In ancient times, there was a school of magic called Dinathe'dirthelan. It can be translated as 'the one who speaks to the dead.'” Dorian heard the ancient language curl on Solas' tongue and it caught his attention. “These mages attempted to bring the dead back to life in a literal sense. Their methods were...repugnant. They were disturbed in their efforts and brought to justice, but the notion remained, inspired others to emulate their ancestors and the horrors they created left scars in the fade that last until today. Alas, it is unknown if they had a chance to succeed, or if some of them already succeeded.”

Dorian blinked. “How do you know this?” “I saw it in the fade.” Solas sounded so resolute as if he said 'I caught the killer red handed with a knife in their hand.” Dorian didn't dare to doubt him. Yet, the elf avoided his eyes. “So...you thought I would be...” Slowly, an image formed in Dorian's head. “I needed to establish clarity. I hope I did not offend you.” Then Solas lifted his head and for a short moment, their eyes met. Dorian stared, his tongue failed him. Now, he could tell him how offended he actually was. Had been the entire time. How he should've asked this days ago, if that was the problem. But he couldn't bring himself to shout.

“Well, it is a drastic allegation...”, he finally produced. “I suppose you did not know of this school of magic.” “No, I...” He puffed. “But now that we are sharing our magical specialisations, may I ask about yours?” Right after, he wanted to bite his tongue. This elf wasn't an educated Circle mage, probably didn't even know what a specialisation was. “I work with the fade”, Solas said calmly. “Ah, yes...certainly...” Every mage worked with the fade. “You will see that I summon matter from it. I also create rifts in the veil, not anywhere near the size of the rifts the Herald closes with her mark, but you might sense them regardless. You could use them to draw energy for your spells, so that we complement each other.” Dorian blinked again.

“You are a Rift Mage?” His question came hoarse. “Is that your scholars' term?” “This form of magic is rare. I read about the attempts to study rifts. They're disastrous. Most enchanters die trying, others go insane in the process. In fact, I struggle to remember a mage that came out of these studies successfully.” Solas didn't seem to be impressed. “Perhaps they do not indulge in writing.” Dorian gave a strangled chuckle. “Was it more common in ancient times?” “It was known as Sou'i've'an'thanelan - 'the one who wields the energy of the fade'.“ Dorian didn't dare to ask if this school was infamous.

When no new questions came, Solas got up and went for the tent he was supposed to share with the Tevinter. Slowly, he began to draw runes into the dirt. “May I ask what you're doing?” “I am setting up barriers for our protection. The cold, the moist, the noise...I thought you would appreciate.” “Very practical indeed. And so thoughtful.” Dorian warily eyed the runes, considering to sleep outside. Or switch places with someone else. But on the other hand – Solas wouldn't dare to attack him, right? In a camp full of solders? With Ellana right next to him? Now that he knew that Dorian wasn't some repulsive death cult member? Also, as a dreamer, Solas didn't need runes. On top of that, those runes didn't look or feel like curses, so they should be fine. Despite all this, a cold shiver ran down Dorian's spine.

Why, by the Maker, hadn't he thought of this sooner? Travelling with Solas... Did Ellana know what he was? By all the fuss in Haven, Dorian hadn't found the time to tell her. To be completely honest, he would also feel like a tattletale. Solas had entrusted him this, even though he was aware of a dreamer's reputation.

Eventually, Solas went into the tent. Dorian's stomach cramped as he followed. Inside, the patter of rain was muffled, the constant buzz of mosquitoes muted. And he felt more comfortable than he usually would in a tent. It seemed to be an advantage to share a tent with Solas. The elf turned his back on him as he lay in his bedroll. Didn't even say good night. Dorian rolled to the other side and waited for sleep to take him. For a long time, he only stared awkwardly into the darkness.

Notes:

en'an'sal'as: the earth's blessing

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dragon age fanfiction #solas/dorian #dragon age solas #dragon age dorian #maker preserve #dragon age varri #ellana lavellan #dalish elves #dragon age blackwall

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adamwatchesmovies · 1 year ago

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Ghost Mountaineer (2015)

A 0-star movie like H.P. Lovecraft’s Two Left Arms isn’t merely bad; it’s traumatic. You end up hating it so much you need to expunge its poison from your body by telling someone about it but they’ll never understand what it was like to sit through that ordeal. Nonetheless, sharing gives you some kind of closure because it’s all over… until you stumble upon another film just like it. Ghost Mountaineer is just like ‘H.P. Lovecraft’s Two Left Arms’. The story is incomprehensible, except when it’s so basic you could fall asleep for twenty minutes and still understand everything that happened. The filmmaking style is all over the place. The horror is non-existent. The characters are blank templates. It stretches the definition of “a movie” and since I suffered through it, I’ve got to tell you what it was like.

Based on a true story, a group of amateur geologists go searching for rare minerals in the Siberian mountains. When the group’s leader, Olle (Reimo Sagor), disappears after an avalanche, his friends Eero (Priit Pius), Marleen (Hanna Martinson), Anne (Liis Lass) and Margus (Veiko Porkanen) go to a nearby village for help. Unfortunately for them, the locals are not friendly.

This movie doesn’t know what it wants to be. Sometimes, it offers up shots that make it look like it’s going to be a found footage film. Then, it’ll switch to a point of view that makes it look like it’s the real people re-enacting the events before the camerawork becomes conventional. Is it a documentary? a fictional dramatization? Who knows?! What it certainly isn’t is "scary" thanks to the incoherent story.

At one point, our heroes start having dreams that might be hallucinations or premonitions. The way they react to them will have you scratching your head. In one of those dreams, the group sees a mob coming their way. One of the griends hides under a bed to hide. Suddenly, another character will wake up. What do they see? Their friend hiding beneath the bed. What happened? Were they sleepwalking? Was it a dream for one person and real for another?

You’re wondering about this title. Ghost Mountaineer? Is this the film’s “monster”? No, not at all. The only time we see this “ghost” is in a scene that I'm not even sure happened. Eero explains that before Olle disappeared, he spotted a strange figure in the distance, a figure that mysteriously vanished. Ooooooh! Could it be related to the ghost story he told around the fire a couple of nights ago, the ghost story he was clearly making up as he went along? It doesn't matter. The real threat is these people's own stupidity and the unhinged Militia man (Vadim Andreev) who leads the small town in which they seek refuge. I know they're stressed out, and more than a little traumatized by the disappearance of their friend, but these young adults make so many dumb mistakes it’s like they want to die.

If the characters were in any way relateable instead of a gang of aggravating losers, this scenario could actually be unsettling. It’s a frozen wasteland of a town so the morgue is filled with corpses - the ground is too hard to dig graves so they have to store them until winter - there’s something off about everyone they meet. The place screams GET OUT! but they take so long to realize something is off they're unable to leave by the time the danger is clear - partially because the map they used to navigate the mountains looks like it came from the back of a family restaurant placemat. With all their alcohol and drugs weighing them down, with their decision to constantly rely on people with no survival skills whatsoever, you know they stand no chance of escape, and not in a "it's a horror movie, desperate scenarios are good" kind of way.

This attempt at storytelling takes your hopes, stuffs them into a sack and then dashes them against a wall until the screams stop. In one scene, the sixteen-day trip has people freezing to death. In the next, the friends are living it up, laughing and having a great time joking around, wondering who will get together with who. Is this a horrifying ordeal, or a vacation? On second thought, never mind. If we give this movie any attention, it’ll start getting really pretentious and next thing you know, it’ll have a bunch of “deep” scenes shot entirely in black and white. Oh, that’s coming up next, isn’t it?

Tedious in its attempt to be a sophisticated Nordic Noir horror film, Ghost Mountaineer will have you begging for something - anything - scary. It’s a confused mess with nothing interesting to say and nothing worthwhile to show. (October 1, 2021)

#Ghost Mountaineer #movies #films #movie reviews #film reviews #Urmas E. Liiv #Priit Pius #Reimo Sagor #Hanna Martinson #Liis Lass #2015 movies #2015 films

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clarktooncrossing · 2 years ago

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Giraffe's Eye View: Christmas Specials Special (2023) | A Muppet Christmas Carol

Chestnuts are roasting on an open fire. Jack Frost is nipping at your nose. Mom and dad can hardly wait for school to start again. All the dogs in the neighborhood somehow learned to bark Jingle Bells in sync. Yet retail workers are still more annoyed with Mariah Carey. Snow is getting shoveled, tossed, and formed into sentient beings leading parades without permits. It makes for an excellent distraction as the Krampus abducts children for bad behavior. Fruitcake is exchanged only to find its permanent home in the garbage. Terrorists have hijacked the Holiday office party right before your boss can give you a Jelly of the Month Club membership as your bonus. And of course, the Turducken has returned to wreak its fiery vengeance upon an unsuspecting world! If all this doesn’t put you in the Christmas spirit, perhaps these following Holiday specials will!

Greetings people of today and robots of tomorrow! It is I, Santa Clark, your geeky giraffe friend with a deep love of Christmas! My obsession for the yuletide is rivaled only by Maleficent’s hatred for it, which is saying a lot considering she once teamed up with Mad Madam Mim to kidnap the literal Spirit of Christmas. Yes, that really happened. I know this due to my annual pilgrimage to the Island of Misfit Specials, home to obscure or nerdy festive media ranging from movies, TV episodes, and comics. It’s no easy journey. Constantly I find myself confronted by sinister snowmen, genocidal gingerbread men, and worst of all, crappy commercials. Getting stabbed in the foot by a candy-cane wielding cookie is one thing, but I swear I’ve seen that ad for Wilbur’s White Elephant Gift Emporium more times than I’ve seen Miracle on 34th Street! Sometimes at night I catch myself reciting that jingle. Wilbur’s White Elephant Gift Emporium: Where Christmas meets Convenience! Huh, maybe Maleficent had a point.

Nah, my deep-rooted appreciation for this time of year can weather even the most moronic marketing! It helps that most of the merry media I’ve seen have put me in the perfect Holiday mood! Examples include the time a Ninja Turtle found himself trapped in a truck full of stollen toys, a drunk department store Santa stumbling onto a wish-granting magic bag, Big Bird nearly becoming a popsicle, Gwenpool waking up in a world where Galactus took the place of jolly ol’ Saint Nicholas, a terrifying tree stump trying to slaughter some saps over a stupid ship war, and the year when Death gave the Little Match Girl the greatest gift of all. Needless to say, I thought I had seen it all. That is, until I took my friends on a trip to the Island, tasking them to find me new, strange, seasonal specials to review! Some of them were fair, finding me festive favorites as comforting as coco in front of the fireplace. Others were fiendish, wanting to feed off my misery like Gremlins after midnight. Regardless of how naughty or nice my companions were, I’ve compiled all of their suggestions into a makeshift advent calendar! So stay tuned everyday until Christmas to see how badly my buddies can shred what little sanity I have left.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my buddies gave to me...

Jim Henson was dead, to begin with. In life he was a storyteller, bringing life to the felt friends from Sesame Street and The Muppet Show to delight audiences around the world. He was also a director, creating fabulous new fairy tales in the form of The Dark Crystal and Labyrinth. Not too shabby for a guy who didn’t think he could build a career off of puppets. With Kermit on his arm the world would know Jim as an artist, optimist, visionary, innovator, comedian, winner of the Best Beard Award, and friend. When he died, the rest of the world wept tears. The same could sadly not be said for Richard Hunt, the company’s first openly gay puppeteer who had provided life to roles such as Scooter, Beaker, and Sweetums the Ogre. Yet these losses were felt by the caring colleagues they left behind. So when they were approached by Walt Disney Studios to produce their own take on A Christmas Carol, all of them sought to prove that life continued after death. With Jim’s son Brian acting as first time director, did they succeed?

Considering two of my own friends wanted me to review A Muppet Christmas Carol, I’d say that’s a resounding yes. Heck, I’m surprised it was only Hobo and Young (YoungSamurai18) who wanted me to assess this adaptation, everybody and their grandmother loves talking about it. Still, I didn’t want to deny Hobo the chance to contribute to this special, so I convinced the geeky, gaming gecko to pick Power Rangers instead. Jee, thanks for selecting something of equal quality. That left the wrestle-maniac wide open to pile-drive his pick right into my skull. At last, I’m free to sing this picture’s praises to the high heavens! Nothing can stop me from cementing this cinematic classic as the seasonal staple that it is! From the highest mountains I can shout that this is the greatest thing in the history of the-

Yeah, I think it's okay.

Assuming all of you haven’t left by now, let me explain. None of this comes from a hatred of Henson, as I hope the opening made clear. In fact, I love the Muppets. Their show would play on a constant loop in my house whenever I wasn’t watching the original Muppet Movie, which happens to be one of my all-time favorite films. Both it and this movie were scripted by Jerry Juhl, a man I believe knew these characters better than even Jim did. That same understanding is shown here too since every character is cast as the perfect counterpart from the book. Kermit the Frog (Steve Whitmire) unsurprisingly portrays Bob Cratchet with Miss Piggy (Frank Oz) acting as his wife. 'Acting' being the keyword here. No doubt Kermit kept reminding her that their marital bond was fake only for Piggy to bring up the wedding from Muppets Take Manhattan. Joining these two is Robin (Jerry Nelson) as Tiny Tim and three original characters standing in for their kids. If you thought adult Piggy was a handful, wait ‘til you meet her identical twin daughters. Her genes must’ve karate-chopped the crap out’a her husband’s!

If that all wasn’t amazing enough, we have Fozzie (Oz) as Fozziwig, a pun so perfect I’m convinced the entire film was made around it. His normal hecklers, Statler and Waldorf, also fill in the roles of double Marleys magnificently. I could go on, but I know you’re all waiting for me to mention the actual best part of this movie: Gonzo the Great (Dave Goelz) as Charles Dickens! Oh my gosh, that is too amazing for words! You can keep Dan Stevens, this little blue weirdo is the definitive on-screen Dickens. People already loved Gonzo before this flick, but now? He may as well be the main Muppet! Every time he’s on screen narrating the story or interacting with Rizzo (Whitmire) you’re glued to his every word. You can tell he’s loving simply being here and that enthusiasm is infectious! That alone makes this movie worth a watch.

Still, what would Mr. Dickens's story be without ghosts? Here it was decided to produce new puppets for the parts in place of choosing old classics. First there’s Christmas Past, a strange, uncanny specter brought to life via a water tank and a green screen. She’s also the most unsettling of the trio, looking like a reject from Labyrinth. The only reason she doesn’t haunt my nightmares is her sing-song voice provided by Jessica Fox. Not to mention her colleague is a right jolly old elf. I always laugh when I see him, in spite of myself. Of course I’m talking about Christmas Present (Nelson), this version easily being the best. He’s larger than life, endlessly kind, and absentmindedly can only focus on the present moment. Like Dory he forgets whatever was mentioned mere seconds after it happened. Unlike Dory he doesn’t belittle his coworkers behind the scenes. If nothing else, he at least gets the best song on the soundtrack. Finally we're left with a lackluster Christmas Future, looking like some tall doofus in a hood. Whenever I see him walk around I expect him to hit his head on something before hearing Robert Groves yell, “Ow!”

Having said that, he’s still more lively than Scrooge. Yup, we’ve reached the point where your respect is thrown off the windowsill. Michael Caine is a fine enough actor, even making for an awesome Alfred. However, his Scrooge leaves something to be desired. When he was cast in the role, Caine decided to treat the material as seriously as Shakespeare, a decision I ultimately believe hurt his performance. Dude refuses to emote for a good chunk of the runtime. His best scenes are when he’s angrily shouting at his book keepers, crying over losing Belle (Meredith Braun), or at the end when he’s singing about his newfound sense of purpose. Otherwise he seems bored. Worse, it appears as though he’s faking emotions. Some may argue that’s what acting is, but I’d argue great actors can make you feel along with them. This wasn’t a problem for Tim Curry in Muppet Treasure Island. It wasn’t a problem for former Scrooges like Jim Carrey, Starlight Glimmer, Chris Bean, or any of the freak’n ducks! All of them are puzzle pieces placed perfectly to enhance the overall picture while Caine was forced in. Nothing against him personally, he’s just not one of the great Scrooges of cinema, at least not to me.

Despite that, I get why folks love this retelling. On my list of Christmas Carol adaptations it ranks number eight. Everything else about it has stood the test of time terrifically. The puppet performances are phenomenal, the script smartly streamlines the story for all audiences, and the music by Paul Williams is the Swedish Chef’s kiss. Unsurprising, really, given this man almost won an Academy Award for writing Rainbow Connection. All of this makes for a good introductory film. Chances are you first saw this when you were a kid and it’s what introduced you to both the Muppets and A Christmas Carol. It’s why you’re so happily familiar with both now and eagerly await to share this movie with your own children someday. When that day comes, I hope you all enjoy that Christmas feeling together. After all, it is a movie from the heart! Made with a special kind of caring with the ways of love made clear!

Get it? They’re the words to the song! Wakka Wakka! Ah. whatever! Now I’m in the mood for more classic Disney Christmas specials...

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kaz-oooo · 1 year ago

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Ooooooo boy this is a mess.. and long… but admittedly a bit more coherent than what I sent my friend aha! I’ll throw it all under the cut though because spoilers for everything that happens in ep17.

So, just to catch up to speed based on what we learnt this episode (and in past episodes)

Celia Ripley is hiding something big and I am suspicious of her. I don’t think she’d an antagonist or anything, quite the opposite really, but there’s something more going on here… specifically reality hopping!!

She has a lot of secrets and hidden backstory, some of which she has explicitly lied about and when she has opened up and told the truth she’s been very cagey about it.

She recognises Chester/Jon’s voice and seems to have a familiarity with fears and avatars (or whatever they are in TMagP) specifically pointing at her encounter with Lady Mowbray and believing Alice’s story without hesitation.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Celia got a case about inter-dimensional travel after she woke up in a strange location again. Same reason I don’t think it’s a coincidence Sam keeps getting case files about the Magnus Institute and Gwen is hearing about her externals.

This episode she told Sam she needed to make a sudden trip to Oxford, which I’ll elaborate on in a second.

It’s becoming increasingly obvious that TMA’s and TMagP’s version of the Magnus Institute are very different.

The Magnus Institute in TMagP is in Manchester.. not London. We’ve also just found out it has a branch in Oxford.

Sam and Gerry were involved in a gifted kids program, which doesn’t particularly sound like something an academic research institution would be running

Add onto that the Welling Mutare Materia research program that we learn about in ep17 which seems to seek out anomalies to study and research, specifically ones from alternative universes. Again, doesn’t fit the Magnus Institute we know from TMA.

We had a very significant location in Oxford during the TMA days, that’s where Hilltop road and the rift between worlds was. We have Celia (supposedly) waking up there and the Magnus Institute running a “studying-inter-dimensional-anomalies” branch from Oxford. I don’t believe in coincidences (especially not when it’s Jonny and Alex!) there’s a connection between the Magnus Institute and alternate universes.

Sooo.. actual theories.

Celia’s jumped from the TMA universe to the TMagP universe, which I went over already. But yeah, the fact she’s coming into the OIAR with familiarity and her sudden trip to Oxford are strange and suspicious.

Gerry and Gertrude know a lot more than they’re letting on and are very much involved in the greater conspiracy. They are both lying — I love them with all my heart but I didn’t trust a word they came out of their mouths when I first listened through and after listening back we have audio glitches!! Gertrude’s “I don’t think Gerry can help you” and Gerard’s “yeah, I’m afraid so” when Sam asks if he remembers anything more both have big glitches which is very fun :) the fact Gerry was involved in the gifted kids program raises some red flags as well.

And the Magnus Institute isn’t aligned with The Eye this time around. I’m just gonna use Smirke’s 14 to explain my thoughts here cos we don’t have the TMagP system yet and it gets messy otherwise. But this place isn’t about passive observation and watching, it feels like they were trying to organise something, presumably creating another archivist or equivalent to fill that role. In TMA the institute was moved from Edinburgh to London to be over the top of the Millbank Prison so Jonah could have a closer and stronger connection with The Eye. Again, the TMagP institute is in Manchester… which doesn’t make any sense given what we know from Magnus Archives. But again, we have this Oxford Outreach Centre. We have the connection to the rift and all the alternate realities, The Eye wasn’t aware of the rift so why would it care? none of the fears were except The Web, which lay claim on Hilltop Road and the rift in TMA. I don’t really know why the Web would want to take over the institute since it always preferred controlling everything else from the sidelines… there might have been some kind of time limit, something involving the Magnus Institute burning down in TMagP. That said, I think there was an attempt to create another archivist (the gifted kids program) but also to understand how reality hopping works to see if there’s a way the fears can move throughout worlds without having to put in all the hard work and starting an apocalypse (Welling Mutare Materia research program).

It’s still early days so I can’t know for sure what any of that means for TMagP, but yeah those are my conspiracy theories!!

Oh also! Jon, Martin and Jonah are definitely in the computer. I refuse to believe .jmj stands for anything else. That’s not relevant to episode 17 or really that big a claim but we’re saying it now so when I come back and read this conspiracy post later down the line I can at least breathe knowing I was right about something aha.

Rip my friend that likes to listen to me rant about my fixations, doesn’t like horror and will never listen to The Magnus Archives/Protocol. I have SO MANY thoughts after that last episode that I needed to get out of my brain and no coherent way to put them together. She’s gonna wake up to a behemoth of a message that is purely horror podcasts conspiracy theories piled on top of one another!

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daydreamerdrew · 3 years ago

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The Defenders (1972) #60

#love that the Hulk doesn’t understand what’s going on #like they’re going on this mission because Dr. Strange’s body and soul are separated #and they’re trying to help Strange get back together by bringing his body to him #and Hulk says ‘Magician will miss whole stupid trip if he does not wake up soon’#like he doesn’t know that the point of the trip is to help Strange wake up #he’s just going along with them because they’re his friends and he cares about them #marvel #bruce banner #stephen strange #valkyrie #kyle richmond #patsy walker #my posts #comic panels

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mistiell · 2 years ago

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Let me put my Lips to Something

Pairing: Spencer x Fem! Reader

Summary: After learning about his aversion to touch, you tone down the physical affection. Spencer finds himself missing your touch, and after weeks of yearning, he’s had enough. He decides it’s time to fix this.

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: Fluff, it gets pretty steamy towards the end but nothing graphic so I don't think this needs age restricting lmao

A/N: Part 2 to “I’m Starvin’, Darlin’”. The feedback on the last part motivated me to finish this in like, a single sitting lmao. Hope y’all enjoy! :)

P.S. My requests are open so if you wanna send something in for Spence, I'll do my best to get to it quickly!

Part 1 - Current - Part 3

Spencer hadn’t realised how much he wanted — how much he needed — your touch until you stopped. Where there was once that warm, tingly anticipation whenever he made you laugh, there‘s now a strange absence left in its wake. Where there used to have been a bump or a squeeze, there are awkward smiles and nervous glances. Like a line of dialogue without end quotations, left to hang in the balance while the author considers what should be said next.

It’s killing him.

He’s come to realise that this want extends beyond the bounds of anything that could ever be considered platonic. He wants more than your touch. He wants you.

He craves you, finds himself remembering the way your arms felt around him the last time you hugged him. Finds himself fantasising about how it would feel to be the one to take you in his arms. How it would feel to be the one to hold you; to cradle your face between his palms and lose himself in your kiss; to let go of his inhibitions and drown himself in the depths of your affections.

He wants your time and energy. He wants your attention and praise. He wants to be the one to make you smile and laugh so hard your stomach hurts. He wants to be yours, and he wants everyone to know it.

It’s only been three weeks since that night at the bar, but even so, he feels like if he doesn’t figure out how to tell you how he feels, he might very well lose his mind. You’re right across from him all day, five days a week. It’s torture. Perhaps he’s being dramatic, but at this point, he’s well beyond caring.

The problem is, how on earth is he supposed to go about confessing to you? He’s never been suave or charismatic. He’s awkward and dorky and breaks a sweat every time anyone even remotely attractive looks his way. He’s never felt this intensely about anyone before, never desired anyone this way before. Sometimes, late at night when he’s finally tucked himself into bed, he attempts to calculate the probability of you ever wanting him in the way he wants you.

In his pessimistic mind, that number is despairingly low.

“Spence?” He startles at the sound of your voice, snapping his head up to look at you.

You’ve worn a different lipstick today. It’s a little darker than your usual colour, a rather glossy, rosier shade of mauve. He thinks he’s seen it somewhere before, and the name pops up from somewhere in his memory.

“Rum raisin.” He mumbles, staring intently at your lips and wondering briefly if it would transfer if he kissed you.

“What?” You cock your head at him with an amused sort of confusion.

He blinks once before clearly his throat, “Oh, um, your lipstick.”

You raise your hand so your fingertips hover over your bottom lip as you smile at him, “How’d you know?”

“I saw it in a drugstore once.”

You chuckle and shake your head, “Your memory never ceases to amaze me, Spence.”

His heart swells as he smiles sheepishly, “Thanks.”

You hum before gesturing to two big boxes of files that are sitting on your desk, “Could you help me run these down to records?”

“Oh, yeah.” He’s quick to cross the short distance to your desk and purposely picks the heavier of the two boxes.

The trip down to records is a rather tedious one as of today. The elevator is out of order so you have to take the stairs from the sixth floor to the third.

“Do you like rain?” You ask, and it takes him a moment to realise you’re looking out water speckled windows at the stormy street below.

“Yeah.” He leaves out the part that the possibility of power outages and the darkness that accompanies them unnerves him greatly.

You turn your head to smile at him as you reach the records room, “Me too.”

He opens the door for you before you have the chance and lets you go in first, letting the door shut behind him. He follows you into the room, weaving between shelves and stepping over boxes that have yet to find their places. He watches you skim over the yellowed labels, your lips twitching as you read them off in your head.

You find the spot you’re looking for and make a sound of satisfaction before bending at the waist to slide the box into place, your skirt sliding a little further up to press against the plush flesh of the backs of your thighs. His gaze wanders up the length of your body and stops at your chest. From this angle, he’s able to see the curve of your breast and he swallows hard. Squeezing his eyes shut, he shakes his head, feeling ashamed for ogling you like that.

Behind the darkness of his eyelids, he sees the lights flicker and when he opens them, he finds he’s not able to see much more than when he had them closed.

Shit.

“Damnit, the power’s out.” You curse, taking the box from him and slotting it in next to the other.

He takes a deep breath. The dark isn’t as frightening with you there in front of him, but that familiar anxiety pricks his chest and settles heavy in his gut.

“Spence?”

He wonders when the emergency lights will come on. Maybe they’re already on in the hall. He feels along the wall and shuffles back over to the door. When he tries the knob, he finds it locked. Now he’s panicking a little.

Well, maybe a lot.

There’s a clap of thunder outside that’s so powerful that he feels it in his chest and he jumps, breath catching in his chest as he screws his eyes shut as if it’ll make a difference.

“Spence?” You call again softly, “Are you okay?

“Y-Yeah.” He stutters.

“You don’t like storms?”

He shakes his head before realising you can’t see him, “No, not really.”

“Me neither.” You whisper, and he hears the shuffling of your clothes as you shift your weight between your feet and huff a breathy puff of nervous laughter, “I don’t like the dark either.”

“Me neither.” He echoes, wetting his lips briefly as he considers how to comfort you despite how anxious he is himself.

Carefully, tentatively, he reaches for you in the dark and takes your hand, just barely brushing his thumb over your knuckles. Your skin is soft and warm, and he attempts to find your face in the dark as he murmurs ever so softly, “Is this okay?”

“Yeah.” You reply just as softly, squeezing his hand.

It’s a little unsettling not being able to see you. He can hear you breathing, and having your hand in his feels so nice, but he wants you closer.

“Can I…” He trails off, but tugs at your hand so you’ll step a little closer. He swallows his nerves, “Can I distract you?”

It’s a lame excuse, but it’s all he can come up with on the spot.

“Distract me how?” He can hear the smile in your voice and it encourages his steadily growing confidence.

He pulls you closer, and you step further into his space. He places a hand on your waist, and you don’t recoil. In fact, you come a little closer and set a hand on his chest. You slide it along the length of his shoulder and up the back of his neck to thread your fingers in the hairs at the base of his skull and he shudders, lips parting to sigh softly. Your thumb settles just behind his ear and strokes the skin there tenderly and he can’t stop himself from leaning down to gently bump your nose with his, giving you plenty of time to pull away, to tell him you don’t want this.

“Can I kiss you?” You ask so innocently, breath fanning over his lips in a steady rhythm as his eyelids flutter shut.

“Please.” He breathes, leaning in to meet you halfway.

Your lips meet his timidly and his heart stutters in his chest. There’s a second where you pull back to let him breathe, let him get used to the feeling. His eyes open a sliver, just enough to make out the edges of you in the dark as his brain catches up with his body. And then the shock passes.

And he devours you.

The hand that was on your waist comes up to cradle your cheek as he brushes his tongue against your bottom lip in a silent request. You grant it, opening up to him to let him roll his tongue against yours. You stand on your tiptoes and lean further into him, returning the kiss with a fervour he wasn’t expecting but welcomes happily. He can taste your lipstick and is pleasantly surprised to find it tastes a little like vanilla.

There’s a push and pull of tongues and teeth and soft little sighs as he dares to slip his hands down and pull you flush against him by your hips, revelling in the breathy moan that slips from your throat and meets his mouth. He pulls away only to kiss sloppily at the corner of your mouth and down your jaw. He nips at the juncture between your neck and shoulder, smiling against your skin when you gasp and tug at his hair. Mouthing at your skin, he searches until you whine and shudder after he drags his teeth over a particular spot and focuses his attention there.

He sucks a nice bruise into the spot, some primal part of him driving him to mark you up and claim you as his while he has you here. He bites a little too hard and you hiss, making him pull back and search for your face in the dark.

“Sorry, did I hurt you?”

“Mm-mm.” You hum before immediately capturing his lips again, slipping your tongue into his mouth and swallowing the moan that escapes him.

He guides you by your hips until he has you pressed against the door, sliding a hand down the length of your thigh before slipping it up past the hem of your skirt to grab greedily at your flesh. He hikes your leg up by his hip and you hook your knee around it to pull him impossibly close.

His touch is tender even as he practically swallows you whole, thumb stroking the side of your thigh where your skirt has ridden up. He rolls his hips up against your experimentally and you whine, urging him to do it again. This is what he’s wanted — craved — for so long. You’re warm and soft in ways that his imagination could have never replicated. He’s dizzy, drunk on your kiss, on your touch, on you.

He’s attached himself to your neck again — the other side this time — when the lights flicker on, startling you both into looking up at the ceiling.

The room is filled with nothing but the sound of your combined laboured breathing, and when he looks back at you, he finds your face flushed and your lipstick smudged. You look back at him and he notices your pupils are blown wide as you suddenly smile and start giggling.

“What?” He chuckles, letting go of your thigh so that you can stand on your own two feet again.

“Rum raisin looks good on you, doctor.” You laugh, thumbing the remnants of your kisses off of his bottom lip.

He kisses you once again, smiling against your lips.

You tug him back and laugh again, “You’re making it worse!”

He does it again, and again, and then peppers kisses over the side of your neck until you’re giggling something awful and have to scrunch your shoulder to your ear to keep him from tickling you.

“Spencer!” You squeak as quietly as you can and he pulls away laughing.

Your giggles die down, and then you’re both left in a silence that isn’t awkward, but isn’t quite comfortable either. He has to say something, but what?

“Hey, would you, um,” You start, glancing down at his lips and biting at yours nervously, “Would you like to go out with me sometime? Just us?”

He blinks, wanting to pinch himself to make sure this is actually happening, “Like, a date?”

You nod. He blinks again before practically beaming at you.

“Yeah.” He nods, attempting to correct the smudged edge of your lipstick with his thumb, “Yeah, I’d really like that.”

“Saturday? Five o’ clock? We can do whatever you want.”

He nods again, “Sounds good.”

“Good.” You smile, leaning up to kiss him, your touch so saccharine and gentle that his legs feel like jello beneath him.

The doorknob jiggles suddenly and he instinctively reaches to help you button up your blouse a little more while you fiddle with the collar until it covers the rather obvious hickey on your neck.

“Hey, are you two still in there?” Derek calls from the other side as you attempt to help Spencer fix his hair to no avail.

“Uh, yeah!” He calls, clearing his throat after his voice cracks up an octave, “We accidentally locked ourselves in.”

“Here.” You bend to slide the key under the door, and this time, he stares unabashedly, “That’s the key.”

The knob jiggles a little more before the door opens, and when it does, Derek eyes the two of you suspiciously, “You guys okay?” He locks eyes with Spencer and smirks, “You seem a little winded.”

“Yeah, we’re okay.” You smile, hastily walking out, “The boxes were just heavy. Plus, we had to walk all the way down here.”

“Yeah, okay.” Derek says, though it’s clear he isn't convinced. When you get a little further ahead of them, he claps Spencer on the back with a bright grin, “About time, loverboy!”

“Shut up.” Spencer shoots back, though he can’t help the smile that creeps up on his face.

This is not how he expected his confession to go, but — as he watches you walk down the hall a little ways ahead of him with a renewed pep in your step and your hair a little dishevelled — he is so glad it went the way it did.

———————————————————————

Edit: I had a couple people request a part 3 (Possibly smutty, but we shall see), and I'm curious about whether or not y'all would want that? Just let me know in the replies/reblogs. :)

Update: Part 3 is posted and linked at the top of this post :)

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@louderfortheback @theblaxkbird @marimorena06 @special-forces7 @lolilkkk

#spencer reid fluff #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds

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