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dumbslxtclub · 2 years ago

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just a taste | e.m - part one

eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: a summer pool party at the harrington residence emboldens you to make a move on eddie

content warnings: fem!reader, 18+ for eventual smut, adult language, adult themes, mentions of underage drinking and drugs, reader is 19, brief mention of male masturbation, sexual tension

word count: 2.4k+

a/n: this has been living in my drafts for far too long, so I'm posting it as motivation to actually write the *smut*. big love to @dickfics69 for helping me with this one xx

The raucous and completely off-tune rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ fills the balmy night air, undoubtedly disturbing the sleepy neighbors surrounding Steve’s property. Hoards of your senior classmates crowd the backyard, beer sloshing against concrete as they jauntily sing at the top of their lungs, hoarse from an evening of inhaling far too much smoke. A forgotten bonfire crackles in the corner, one or two figures passed out in the warm glow. Sweat clings to your skin, the thin material of your summer dress far too claustrophobic in the sweltering heat of the night. No reprieve from this warmth is granted as Robin’s arm wrap around your shoulders, practically blowing out your eardrum from the volume she’s singing. One of those ecstatic inebriated moments of youth, surrounded by people you’ll never see again after graduation, living for today. A perfect night. There’s only one thing missing.

You’ve been eyeing Eddie all night. Liquid courage has fueled your interactions, boldly brushing against the sinewy muscles of his bare arm, complimenting the scratchy tattoo job adorning his forearm. Nothing out of the ordinary, the pair of you close friends who have spent many a night leaning on one another as another movie flashes across the TV screen. But tonight, you feel emboldened to make a move. You’ve tried, and failed, to rationalize your attraction to one of your best friends. His charismatic nature causes anyone who gives him the time of day to fall under his spell, with Eddie remaining blissfully oblivious to his effect on people. Over the years, you’ve watched him transform from a meek boy into, well, a man. Unaware of how he’s grown into his body, lean muscles built from endless nights of loading band equipment into his van. Trading in his buzz cut for an unkempt mane of curls, which somehow always seem to fall into an effortless frame around the sharp bone structure of his face. What has always remained, however, is that boyish smile. Dimples hollowing deep into his cheekbones, causing you to trip over your words whenever they’re flashed in your direction. God, you’re in deep.

With a deep huff, Steve blows out the two pathetic candles Nancy pulled out of the bottom drawer and stuck haphazardly into the thick icing at the last moment. A loud cheer booms from the crowd, sending their drinks skywards in celebration.

“To Steve!” Robin practically screams, sloshing a fair amount of her cider down your already damp chest.

“To me!” The birthday boy, grinning madly, tips his head back and empties the contents of his lukewarm beer down his gullet. He’s long since discarded his shirt, proclaiming “it’s my house and I’ll do what I want”, leaving nothing to stain as a steady trickle of liquid slides down his bare chest.

The party is at its peak, electricity coursing through the night as unsupervised teenagers give into their impulses. Couples stand devouring each other in the corner with little regard as to who’s watching, some of the jock’s cannonballing into the pool. The brush of bodies around you clear, illuminating Eddie giving Steve a hearty hug and firm pat on the back. Now’s your chance.

Shrugging Robin off your shoulders, you grab her wrist and lead her over to the pair, ready to cash in on her promise of playing wing-woman for you tonight.

“Great party, Steve.” Addressing the younger man, you watch as he pulls a candle out and licks the icing off the base.

“Would you expect anything less?” He quips back, a cheeky smile taking over his face before he wraps a sweaty arm around your shoulders.

“I’ll expect you’re in for an ass-kicking when your parents get back on Monday.” Robin chimes in, clinging to you like a buoy for support.

“Pfft, cleaning up is tomorrow’s problem. We live for tonight!” Wow, Steve is sure getting into the spirit tonight. Eddie shakes his head at his friend’s antics, turning his attention to the sickly-sweet dessert.

“Want me to slice this up, big boy?” Ringed fingers slide along the skirting of the plate, but his eyes are elsewhere. You feel his gaze raking up the expanse of your thighs, oblivious to how your dress has ridden up amidst the sweaty excitement of the evening.

“Sure, could only help to soak up the alcohol at this point. I’ll grab a knife from the kitchen.” Stumbling backwards, he shoots a half-lidded look in Robin’s direction. “And where did you put my beers? Thought you said they were in the fridge.”

“They are, dingus. On the bottom shelf next to the lump that was probably once cheese but now could be studied for science.”

“They’re actually not. And if someone stole them, they’re gonna have hell to pay.” “Oh my god! They are…” Their bickering trails off through the sliding doors into the house, leaving you and Eddie alone. Time for some world-class flirting, brain flicking through the Rolodex of teen magazines on how to make a move. But before your brain is capable of firing any neurons, Eddie beats you to the punch.

“The uh- the cake looks good.” Oh great, we’re going down the small talk route. It’s cool, totally cool. You can work with that.

“Oh, thanks! Robin and I baked it yesterday.” Off to a cracking start.

“Well, if you had anything to do with it, I bet it tastes as good as it looks.” Is he-

“Sure does, I’m a master baker. Go ahead, try it for yourself, see if your theory holds up.”

Eddie quirks his brow at you, and you give a small nod in the direction of the frosting-covered mound. A small smile creeps across his face as he dips his forefinger into the lip of the cake, a glob of white icing and sprinkles stuck to his fingertip. Raising it to his mouth, he slowly places the pad of his finger against his tongue, licking a long stripe of sugary cream onto his taste buds. You feel your cheeks burn at the sight, breath hitching in your throat.

“Mmm, ‘ts good.” Satiated, Eddie’s lips curl into a smug smile, is he getting a rise out of seeing you like this? Masochist. But you’re nothing if not competitive.

“You’ve uh, got something…” Pointing to the corner of your mouth, Eddie mirrors your action and wipes a small dollop of remaining frosting stuck to the apex of his lips. Pulling his hand back to study it, you take a sure step towards him, closing the gap. Wrapping your fingers around his, you bring the digit up to your lips and place his fingertip against the groove of your tongue. Lips curl around his finger, causing his eyes to widen. You know exactly how you look right now, grateful for the veil provided by the inebriated guests to prevent this gesture from being seen by anyone other than Eddie. Glancing up at him, you hollow your cheeks out slightly as you withdraw his finger from your pursed lips. You shoot him a honey-sweet smile, turning on your heels to find Robin.

“Yep, definitely tastes as good as it looks.”

After three bottom-shelf tequila shots, two generous slices of cake and one group rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody later, you’re feeling on top of the world.

And hot.

Like, stiflingly hot.

The living room is stuffy, thick with haze and balmy humidity. The party has begun to wind down, designated drivers loading up their cars with the inebriated to transport them home. And you, Robin and Steve are sweaty messes post-Queen performance doubling over with laughter on the dance floor. That’s when Steve loudly announces: “Everyone in the pool!”

He’s met with a mixed reaction, a few of the popular girls shooting him a dirty look as they resume their couch gossip session. But with your dress now acting as a sweat rag rather than a garment at this point, you jump at the idea. The three of you beeline into the mostly empty backyard, bar a few smokers lounging around on Steve’s deck chairs.

“Here comes trouble.” A voice chuckles through the billowing smoke, Eddie leaning forward on a recliner as you kick your shoes off haphazardly to the side.

Steve, with little to discard besides his jeans, shucks them off and cannonballs into the pool, spraying the partygoers scattered around the rim with water. Robin quickly follows suit, diving in next to him, maroon tank top turning a shade darker as it intermingles with the liquid. You chuckle at how they immediately take to dunking one another under the surface, hoping an accidental drowning isn’t on the cards for the night. You turn to Eddie, who is shaking his head and taking a steady drag of his cigarette.

“You coming in?” He glances up at you, expression dropping slightly as he contemplates his answer.

“Nah, someone’s gotta play lifeguard tonight. Make sure Harrington doesn’t drown.”

“Suit yourself, then.” Grabbing the hem of your floral dress, you’re quick to shimmy it up and over your head. The cool breeze hits your clammy skin, providing the immediate relief you’ve been craving all night. Tossing it carelessly to the side, you feel soberingly exposed all of a sudden. Standing on the edge of the pool, water droplets tickle your bare feet as your friends splash about. Cool air caresses the groove between your breasts, intermingling with the sweat droplets accumulating between your lacy bra. The unlined cups provide further relief, a mere suggestion of material against your sensitive skin. On one of the rare occasions you elected to wear a matching set, you’re grateful for the cheeky cut design of your panties, allowing more airflow to cool down your body.

In your slightly drunken indulgence, you don’t notice Eddie unable to tear his eyes away from you. Drinking in your curves far more eagerly than any whiskey he’s consumed that night, committing every square inch to memory. Face to face with the body he’s only ever envisioned in his most private of moments, desperately trying to fill in the blanks as he stroked languidly along his cock, chasing the release only you can grant him. He knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help it. You’ve become his guilty pleasure, the only satisfying image in his mind’s eye. And now, standing in front of him, it’s better than he ever could have imagined. He’s still running off the high granted from the sensation of your lips wrapped around his finger. So warm and soft, your wet tongue flicking against the pad of his finger, sending shockwaves coursing through his body. Grateful for your swift departure, before you had the chance to notice the tightening bulge in his jeans. Blood rushed directly to his crotch, rendering him slightly dizzy from the whole interaction. Fuck drugs and alcohol. He was completely intoxicated by you.

“Dude, help me out!” Robin extends her wet hand out to you, hair completely drenched from her underwater battle with Steve. With a smile, you reach out to your friend, grasping her hand in yours. With a swift tug, Robin’s grin is manic as she pulls out into the pool with a squeal. Water crashed around you, submerging you in a tepid ocean of relief. Bobbing back up to the surface, you feign annoyance before bursting into laughter. “God, you’re too easy sometimes!”

Stevel, floating on his back, looks unbelievably content gazing up at the night’s sky, another successful party in the books. Robin takes to doing laps of the pool, using up any excess energy she’s accumulated through the night. And you can’t help but notice the outlier, still sitting in the poolside lounge. You wade over to the edge, looking up at Eddie.

“It’s nice in here.”

“I’m sure it is.” Taking another drag of his cigarette, he shoots you a small smile. It’s sheepish, unlike him.

“Didn’t bring your bathing suit?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

“I can see that.” Eddie chuckles, respectfully averting his gaze.

“Can I have a quick drag?” You don’t usually smoke, but when in Rome. Eddie obliges, holding the butt of the cigarette out to you, just out of reach. Pressing up on the pool’s ledge, you hoist yourself up high enough out of the water to lean over and take the cigarette between your lips.

What you fail to notice is the way your breasts are pressed together, hands hip distance apart on the rough cement to just enough to accentuate the groove of your bust. Water droplets accumulated on your delicate skin, glimmering like the impending Autumn dew on grass under the moonlight. Ancient Greek artists could only hope to carve such a divine sculpture, striving for unattainable perfection as they tried to capture your beauty. And then, through the wisps of your lashes, you look up at him. Doe-eyed, cigarette perched between your parted lips, gaze boring into him. And Eddie feels the ground fail beneath him, no longer providing unconditional support. Head growing light as his blood rushes elsewhere in his body causes him to quickly clamber to his feet.

“Hey, you alright?”

“Yeah, fine. I’m just, um- not feeling great. Just gonna head inside for a bit.” And with that, Eddie averts his gaze and beelines for the sliding doors, disappearing into the house.

Fuck.

So much for playing it cool, it looks like tonight isn’t your night.

“Is Munson okay?” Steve floats over to your side, plucking the cigarette from your mouth to claim it as his own.

“I don’t know, he said he wasn’t feeling well. Should someone check on him?”

“Nah, probably just smoked too much. I’m sure he'll just grab some water and settle down.”

You hope Steve is right, but five minutes turns to ten, and you begin to worry. What if he’s passed out in the bathroom? You need to go and see if he’s okay, he would do the same for you. Pulling yourself out of the water, you ring the remaining chlorinated water from your hair. In your drunken excitement, none of you possessed the foresight to bring towels out with you. And so, you concede to pulling your floral dress back onto your damp frame, sure Steve will let you borrow some of his clothes later on. Trailing water droplets into the carpeted living room, you peak around for any sight of Eddie. With no one left in the kitchen besides a couple shoving their tongues down each other's throats, you elect to head up the stairs. The bathroom is empty, as is the master bedroom, both doors ajar and rooms dark.

“Eddie?” You approach Steve’s bedroom door, noticing the light seeping out from under the threshold. Hand meeting the door handle, you give it a shake and notice that it is unlocked. Tentatively pushing it open, you remain quiet in case a poor drunk girl is napping on the bed, not wanting to wake potential inhabitants.

The image you are instead presented with is far less innocent.

#dumbslxtclub #eddie x reader #eddie x you #stranger things fic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie x fem!reader #eddie x y/n #eddie munson smut

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nico-di-genova · 7 months ago

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In My Mind, You are Safe

Chapter 3

Alternate link to read on A03 Chapter 1 Chapter 2

“He knows?” Lance manages to ask the night after he wakes up, motioning with his head to his dad who slept snoring deeply on a leather couch in the lounge. “About us?”

“I did a bad job of keeping it secret.”

Lance thinks he maybe had too, what with the ass grabbing played as camaraderie and the way he couldn’t stop staring at Fernando during debriefs. His father wasn’t a dumb man, but rather a very observant one. He’d known Lance was smoking pot at fifteen not because of the bloodshot eyes and the smell, though those would have been the obvious giveaways, but because his reaction time during training took a hit.

‘If you’re going to smoke weed, you better do a damn better job of hiding it,’ He’d demanded.

Lance never touched the stuff again, he knew he’d get caught.

But with Fernando he thought he had maybe been a little better. They had rules about it. No kissing in the paddock, the garage, not even their drivers rooms unless it was a special circumstance – the circumstance always ending up being Fernando was needy and Lance was bored. They didn’t go to each other’s hotel rooms until it was late enough that no sane fucker would be wondering the halls. Nothing obvious could be left above the neckline, because Lance had already gotten looks from his father after the weekend on Fernando’s ugly yacht where they spent half the time naked and the other half sipping champagne. All those rules seem to have been thrown out the window the moment Lance ended up in intensive care.

Intensive Care

The word makes him shudder.

Fernando sees the movement and presses a kiss to Lance’s knuckles, “Cold?”

“Kinda.”

It’s not really a lie, the AC is set on Ice Box and he’s got nothing but a thin sheet, a stiff blanket, and bare legs beneath a hospital gown to protect him.

“Here,” Fernando pulls the Aston Martin sweatshirt from the back of his chair and helps work it over Lance’s head. It takes an extreme amount of maneuvering, and gentle tugging, and he can’t put one arm through the sleeve because of the IV in his hand. It kind of sucks at providing any actual warmth, but it smells like Fernando so that’s a comfort all on its own.

“Thanks,” He rasps.

“Of course, Lancito.”

“I missed you,” Lance blurts out, which doesn’t really make sense because he was just with Fernando in the paddock. Just with him in his driver’s room. But Lance also thinks he maybe remembers the dark. The emptiness. The distant voices that sounded like they were right beside him and yet a world away all at once. He thinks he remembers being scared.

“I missed you too. Stop talking, you will irritate your throat.”

Lance wants to make a joke about Fernando not wanting to hear him speak, but that would take too many words and he already kind of feels like he’s breathing around fire. Instead, he accepts the water Fernando offers him and sips slowly through the straw to draw out the soothing effect. He has to be careful with how much he drinks, and he can’t have solid foods yet, which Lance chalks up to normal post coma recovery, but might also have something to do with the abdomen injury as well.

He knows it’s serious because when he’d asked the doctor how long until he could get back to racing she hadn’t given him an answer. And Fernando couldn’t look him in the eye. They don’t lie to each other, brutal honesty has always been their forte. That, or steadfast avoidance.

“Careful,” Fernando chides when Lance sips too quick and chokes on the liquid, some of it escaping his mouth to dribble in a cool line down his chin.

Lance rolls his eyes. Fernando should be used to the sounds of his choking by now, he’s certainly gagged himself on worse than a few drops of water.

“Brat.”

Lance smiles around the straw, all innocence and fluttering eyelashes.

“You are lucky you’re in a hospital bed.”

Which, he isn’t, far from it, but for the moment things feel almost normal so he ignores the remark.

--------

There is an argument about who Lance will go home with.

Lance’s Switzerland apartment is out of the question, his agency being robbed by the injuries his body is still trying to adjust itself to. His dad knows he can afford better around the clock care, people to help Lance with everything from changing his bandages to holding his dick while he pisses. Fernando knows Lance doesn’t want that, knows the humiliation of it would probably kill him faster than his car in the wall should have. They don’t ask for Lance’s opinion on the matter though as he sits silently in the bed between them. Watching them fight for custody of him, it’s familiar, reminds him of being small and wondering if he was going to have to have two bedrooms after his parent’s divorce.

“He needs help Fernando. Doctors, nurses, staff – not just you.”

“I have taken care of him before. I know what he needs.”

Healing from a head wound and a piece of carbon fiber tearing through his body isn’t really the same as a cold, but Lance appreciates Fernando’s commitment. He doesn’t say this of course, because neither one of them seem to really notice he’s there, just continues sipping slowly from the cup in his hands and picking at the starched blanket over his lap. His throat doesn’t hurt anymore, swallowing doesn’t take as much effort.

“You think you know better than me? I’m his father,” his dad states. As if it needs stating. As if Lance wasn’t born with Lawrence’s name over his head and a silver coated thumb in his mouth. As if there were any injury out there that would make him forget who he belongs to, down to the blood and marrow of him, the very making.

“I am his-” Fernando pauses. They never really put a name to it. There hadn’t been much discussion about what he and Lance were before he started bleeding out in Fernando’s arms. Not that he would remember that of course, doesn’t remember much about barreling into the wall at top speed. The doctors say that’s probably for the better.

“Boyfriend?” Lance supplies helpfully around the straw in his mouth. He’s continuing his bad habit of gnawing on the plastic, the taste reminiscent of the tube he had woken up choking on, but also of the bottle he would carry around during race weekends.

Fernando motions at him appreciatively, “Yes. This. I am this.”

His dad’s scowl deepens, “This isn’t a fever and some rest. It’s physical therapy, cognitive therapy. He will need someone 24/7.”

He is sitting right here, and he doesn’t necessarily agree. Lance is needy in the same way a cat is, he craves attention only as long as it is wanted, too much and he will probably begin scratching at you. But there hasn’t been much in his control since he lost the wheel at Silverstone.

“Okay. I will do that.” There’s not a hint of hesitation in Fernando’s tone, when Lance knows there absolutely should be. Whatever unestablished thing is between them, it’s far from stable enough to rest Lance’s entire laundry list of medical issues on, or at least Lance thought it was.

“I can hire someone too, Lawrence,” Fernando pushes, “You are not the only man with money. Lance has not lived with you since he was a child, yes? He needs familiarity. Routine? That is not in your mansion. Let him come home.”

Home.

Is that what Fernando’s place is to him? Most of his memories there are the sort that speak less of a home and more of the flat you wake up in after a one-night stand. Strewn clothes and half-finished bottles of beer on the kitchen counter, The warm press of Fernando’s body along his bare back. Would he be healing on the same sheets they routinely fucked on? Propped up on the pillows that know the shape of his teeth?

Is home where you have a drawer and your PlayStation hooked up in the living room? Or is it the childhood space where you keep a collection of Pokémon cards and karting trophies to collect dust? Lance isn’t sure, mainly because he’s never stayed in one place long enough to really understand the feeling.

His dad throws the last card in his arsenal, the thing they all three have been wondering at.

“And what about the season? You’re done then?”

Fernando bites his lip, thinks on it.

“I go back when he does.”

No one wants to state the obvious, least of all his father. Fernando has played the winning hand, deploying the same dirty tactics he’s fond of utilizing when behind the wheel.

Lance stops chewing on the straw. He stops picking at the blanket. Instead, he just stares blankly at the fabric and tries to tune their bickering out. He’s getting a headache, the kind of stabbing pain that only comes when he tries to think too hard about a memory that has escaped him. It’s easier to blame the pain on the bright fluorescent’s, or the way Fernando’s voice is starting to rise, instead of the crack in his skull.

In the end, he goes with Fernando. He asks to go with Fernando, because as much as he loves his father, he cannot stand the thought of trying to make himself fit in a space that no longer knows the shape of him.

“We did get along, so you know,” Fernando says when Lance is buckled into his passenger seat, groggy from the meds they’d dosed him with. Supposedly, they’re supposed to help Lance with the nausea, manage it during the ride.

“When I was ‘sleep?” Lance slurs, still not calling his coma by its name. He’s got his head resting on the car window even though the nurses had warned him not to do that. He’s supposed to be focusing on stationary things within the car, like the warm weight of Fernando’s hand on his thigh, not watching the trees whip by outside while his skull rattles against the glass.

“Yes,” Fernando says, focused on the road with an intensity Lance has only ever seen him possess when behind the wheel, and therefore does not realize the implication of his answer. That he and Lance’s father could only get along as long as Lance was the unconscious white flag waving between them. He tries to backpedal. “No, that is not-.”

Lance shrugs, lethargic, “S’okay. Go back to sleep for you then.”

“Querido no, that is not what I meant,” Fernando actually sounds pained, the nickname rolling of his tongue with an ease Lance did not realize could be familiar to them. Lance just feels exhausted. Consciousness actually takes a conscious effort these days.

“Lance?”

“Hmm?”

“I did not mean that. You know I did not mean that, yes?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

He’ll probably forget the conversation by the time he wakes up anyway, memories leak out of him now the same way his blood had.

--------

Surprisingly, Lance has more at Fernando’s UK home than he remembers. Or, unsurprisingly, depending on how much you take his brain injury into account.

He’s got half a bottle of shampoo in the shower, a razor and toothbrush at the sink, most of his hoodies and a good chunk of his sweatpants. Somehow, his favorite pair of socks has even ended up here, thrown in with Fernando’s dirty clothes and discovered by the cleaners. He takes to padding around the place in the loungewear, hood pulled over his head and keeping his hands tucked into the hoodie pocket – subconsciously splaying a palm along his stomach as he always has, but now pressing at his healing abdomen with newfound curiosity.

Fernando will catch him doing it sometimes, grab him by the arm and then the wrist until he can pull Lance’s probing fingers away from the tender skin and entwine them in his own.

“It won’t heal if you pick at it.”

“Feels weird. Itchy.”

It also sometimes hurts so much that Lance finds himself crying silently into the pillow while Fernando sleeps soundly beside him. The phantom pain of an injury he does not remember. When Fernando checks that the healing is coming along nicely, Lance deliberately does not watch. He hasn’t actually seen the incision since he accidentally looked while a nurse at the hospital was cleaning the wound, and nearly lost his light lunch of applesauce and pudding at the sight. It’s ugly, disgusting, and Fernando seems completely unphased by it.

Fernando squeezes his hand, raises it so he can press a kiss to Lance’s knuckles, a quickly forming new habit for him, “I’m sorry, cariño.”

Apologies flow from him easily now. He apologizes for splashing Lance with water when they’re washing dishes. Apologizes for grabbing Lance when he slips in the shower. Apologizes for the simple way the words seem to flow off his tongue now. It’s strange to Lance, stranger than waking up choking on a plastic tube with your dad on one side and your long-term fuck buddy/partner/boyfriend/mentor on the other. Stranger even that it’s coming from Fernando Alonso of all people, who notoriously does not apologize.

Lance is used to arguments between them ending in mutual silence on either end of the couch, not Fernando pressing a kiss to the furrow between his brow and asking for forgiveness.

“Stop doing that,” Lance grumbles, for what must be the hundredth time.

“Sorry.”

“Fernando.”

“Sor- okay,” and then he kisses Lance’s cheek with the gentleness of atonement anyway. Lance misses when Fernando would just slam him against a wall, crowd him against the marble of the kitchen counters, and talk Lance into sinking to his knees. Not that it ever really took much talking to begin with.

Fernando doesn’t fuck him anymore, which he thinks is maybe the biggest travesty to come out of all of this. Instead, he trails careful fingers down Lance’s side, presses kisses to his neck, his shoulder, his jaw with a tenderness that should be considered foreplay. Then he pulls away, leaves Lance half-hard in his sweatpants, and pretends he doesn’t notice the pout on Lance’s lips. Lance doesn’t beg, at least not before Fernando has gotten him undressed, and he’s not going to ask Fernando to suck his dick while the man is on his knees making sure Lance’s abdomen is still healing properly. So it becomes another thing they just don’t talk about. Lance is worried he’s picked up his father’s habit for avoidance.

--------

Nearly three months after his crash, Lance’s morbid curiosity gets the better of him. His therapy is going well, all three of them. The physical therapy for his legs, because they’d gotten fucked up too, though on a much smaller scale, and for his hands and for – well, for every part of him, is almost familiar. He’d done a few rounds of physio for his wrists after his bike accident, though those had been high intensity because Lance actually had a deadline. The cognitive therapy is more of a challenge, because his memory is still shot to shit, but he can remember Chloe’s birthday again so at least there’s that. The therapy therapy is kind of annoying, only because Lance has never really seen the value of shrinks picking apart his mental state to begin with, but it’s easy. Sometimes they play Jenga, sometimes they talk about how Lance is scared he’ll never be the same again, sometimes Lance excuses himself to the bathroom and screams until his voice is as hoarse as it had been once the intubation tube was removed. It’s all a process.

But he still doesn’t remember the crash.

He can see the reflection of it in Fernando’s eyes sometimes, the fear, the shame. The guilt is the worst, usually brought on when Lance jerks awake from a dream he cannot remember and finds Fernando watching him in the dark with eyes shining.

“You okay?” He will ask, propped up on an elbow and tracing a finger along Lance’s spine. The touch sends shivers through Lance, want and need all bundled up in the foggy confusion as his brain tries to reorient itself.

“Fine.”

“You are sure?”

“Definitely.”

Talking was never their strong suit. But Lance has always been able to read people, an ability fine-tuned after years of rejection. He likes to know when people are planning to turn on him before it happens, doesn’t want to be blindsided by a journalist asking him some probing question only to see if they can get a response. He can see Fernando’s guilt, and eventually he caves and searches for the why.

F1 TV, or his father, or maybe the FIA have made a herculean effort to scrub the full footage of the crash from the internet. But Lance has grown up in the age of the digital, so it doesn’t take him long to find it on YouTube, under a video titled “Canadian Buries it in Wall – ’24”. Inventive.

What he remembers is this, sitting beside Fernando in the pre-race briefing. Both of them trying to listen to Mike explain the stacked pit strategy again, but also occupying themselves with each other. Lance, dick still aching from being teased in his driver’s room, was feeling particularly vindictive. He’d been inching his foot slowly up Fernando’s pants leg, his hand up the inside of Fernando’s clothed thigh.

Fernando hadn’t responded. Sat ramrod straight in his seat and kept his eyes glued ahead. Until Lance just barely brushed his knuckles along the bulge in Fernando’s pants and received a sharp pinch to his own thigh in response.

“Ow!” Lance had yelped, loud enough that a few engineers turned to look at him.

Lance had blushed, “Hit my- hit my knee, sorry.”

And then he’d woken up in the hospital. The irritation to his thigh replaced by the throbbing pain that occupied his entire body.

He wants to remember, and so he hits play. He watches himself drive like he’s analyzing onboards for where he can maybe improve, with the same detached feeling. There’s Fernando behind him, and Russel ahead, and Lance in the middle of it all holding his ground. Fernando’s given the order to back-off, told not to fight because Lance’s tire management has been better, and he’s got the speed and clean air for now. Their fight is with Russel, except that Russel was six ahead and Fernando wanted to play sooner rather than later.

The commentators say Lance is driving surprisingly well, he tries not to grind his teeth.

And then Fernando pulls out of the slipstream, makes a charge to overtake in the straight, and Lance sees himself move. Just a twitch of the car, a fraction of movement in an effort to defend, before Fernando’s front right tire clips his back left and Lance spins. He can see himself try to overcorrect, but then the car goes sideways, the tires leave the track when he skitters across marbles, and he’s flipping until there’s only the wall to stop him.

The red flag is immediate, so is Fernando’s stop when he pulls into the gravel and doesn’t even hesitate to book it to Lance’s on fire car.

“Lance. Lance are you alright? Lance. Respond. Confirm you’re alright,” Andrew’s voice comes through the broadcast, but Lance’s own response does not. It’s eerily quiet, especially in the empty space of Fernando’s house when the man isn’t there to bring life to it.

They play a message from Esteban who drives by, the Frenchman’s voice laced with worry as he asked, pleaded, for Lance to be okay. Lance understands now why Esteban had looked so pale when they’d spoken last. When Lance had been curled up on Fernando’s couch, shrouded in shadow because the lights hurt his head, and Esteban had been sat in the chair across from him. He’d thought it was maybe because they were in Fernando’s house, thought the strangeness of the setting might have just had Esteban on edge. He hadn’t realized it was because his best friend had seen his on fire car and thought for a moment he might not get out.

It's suddenly a little hard to breathe. He blames the tightness in his chest on his ribs, even though those have healed by now.

“Lance?” Fernando’s voice in the doorway, quiet, worried.

Lance jumps, winces when he pulls at something sore, and slams the laptop shut with enough force that he’s a little scared to open it again. His eyes dart to Fernando’s and-

Oh. The guilt. He’s drowning in it.

“Fer, I’m sorry, I- fuck. I just…I didn’t- I’m sorry,” and now he’s the one gushing apologies, wanting so badly to tear his gaze away from the tears building in Fernando’s eyes. He shouldn’t have looked. It was easier when he didn’t know the shape of his body in the wreckage, when he didn’t know it had been Fernando who ran to him, who crashed into him. Pandora’s box and all of its contents are spilling across the mattress.

“I’m sorry,” Lance says again, because Fernando still has not moved from the doorway and he’s not sure what else he could do. He can’t walk to him, his leg is still aching from physio, hence the whole curled up in bed watching his own life-threatening crash while Fernando was supposed to be out picking him up a ridiculously overpriced smoothie from his favorite place down the road.

“No,” Fernando chokes, “No. Lance. No. I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. I-“ Fernando chokes again and then he’s sobbing. Lance’s spirulina, coconut, gold flaked smoothie still clutched in one hand and his free one wrapping around himself as he doubles over in the doorway.

Lance does go to move then, sore muscles be damned.

But when he grabs Fernando, the man only sobs harder. He doesn’t pull away though, he needs Fernando for the support now. His thigh is killing him.

“Fer, Nano, baby, please. It’s okay. I’m okay.” He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, because Fernando doesn’t cry. He bottles everything up, ghosts Lance for a week, and then comes back as if nothing was ever wrong in the first place. Lance doesn’t know how to comfort him, and he doesn’t think that’s something to be blamed on the memory loss, he’s almost certain this is entirely new to them.

Fernando collapses against his chest, Lance stumbles under the weight of them both. His body protests the sudden movement, something sharp and hot spiking it’s way through him, starting in his leg and moving to the incision scar on his stomach.

He gasps, tries to breathe through the pain. It’s kind of like how his wrists were after a race, before he plunged them into a bowl of ice, he can manage.

“I’m okay,” he says, and hopes it doesn’t sound too tense. There’s sweat breaking out along his brow. He kind of wants his smoothie. “I’m okay, Fer. I promise.”

Fernando’s tears are soaking the fabric of his hoodie. Lance cradles the back of his head, and ignores the damp feel of them against his chest, ignores the warm heat of Fernando’s breath as he tries to find air.

“An accident,” he wails, “I swear, Lance, I swear.”

“I know.”

He saw, just now, could clearly see himself moving and see Fernando slamming the brake to try to stop it. He sees Fernando running. Running to him. People who hurt Lance intentionally are hardly ever concerned enough to check on him afterward, some of them think he deserves the knife twisted inside him simply because he can afford the medical bill. He knows Fernando would never try to hurt him, but he also knows nothing he says could absolve the guilt.

“I know, dude. And I love you, but could we maybe move this to the bed? My leg is killing me.” Fernando, thankfully, lets himself be maneuvered until Lance is sitting on the edge of the bed and Fernando resting solidly in his lap, knees bracketed on either side of his thighs. It’s the most contact they’ve had since Lance woke up, it’s making him a little heady.

Fernando rests his cheek against Lance’s shoulder, cries into the crook of his neck, and Lance tries to soothe him as he takes intermittent sips from his smoothie that he’d pulled from Fernando’s grip before it ended up spilled across the sheets. He rubs a hand along Fernando’s back, a pantomime of how his dad used to calm him down when he had a rough race and had to blow off steam in his driver’s room. It’s not working very well. Lance is maybe bad at this.

“I shouldn’t have watched the stupid video,” he grumbles. Knowing the how has not brought him any peace, only made him realize the true severity of his injuries. His therapist might have been right in saying to stop pressing at the wound, Fernando too for pulling his hand away.

“I could have killed you,” Fernando cries, “I almost killed you. You- you were-“

“I know, Nando, I know. Please, just- just stop. Please.”

It’s too much too fast. Fernando’s guilt, his own brain trying to process it all, the headache forming at his temples and the exhaustion crashing down on him. He’s tired all of the time now. And not in the lazy way he once was, like a big cat stretching in a patch of sunlight, more like someone who’s been crumpled in their car and extracted without all of the pieces smoothed back out.

He wants to sleep. He maybe wants to cry himself.

“Thought I would lose you,” Fernando mumbles, miserable and quiet, his stubble rough against the soft skin of Lance’s neck when he speaks.

“You didn’t. I’m safe. I’m right here.”

Lance hadn’t realized he was Fernando’s to lose, didn’t really put the pieces together until now that he maybe belonged to someone other than his family. He didn’t think anyone would ever actually want him. It’s a weird feeling, makes something beneath the scarring and the healing wound in his gut twist.

“You have me. I’m right here. I’m safe. I’m here.”

I’m okay, he thinks, and he starts to believe that it will be true.

#there may be a chapter 4 actually #I wanted to write more but I didn't want the chapter to be stupid long #strollonso #strollonso fic #my fic #lance stroll #fernando alonso

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howlsofter · 1 year ago

Text

Nextdoor ii.

John Wick moved in last year but you’re just home for the summer. He hires you to dog sit for him while he’s on business trips but it doesn’t take long til you’re pushing the limits of your “professional” relationship. Part 2, first here. John can’t keep ignoring your desperation for him, especially not after this.

Word: 2.2k

Tags/warnings: weed, drinking, smoking, voyourism, masturbation, no sex yet but def nsfw

John ignores me. Really I just think he’s busy working, he’s back on his usual schedule. I’ve heard him walk outside with daisy, talking to someone on the phone looking serious. He doesn’t ever glance my way from where I peak at him from my second story window. I wonder if he can feel my eyes. He doesn’t act like it, but John likes to play it cool.

My room is small, and it’s mostly items from before college. All my dorm stuff is packed up in boxes. My bedsheets are different and my room is more normal, since guests are the only ones who get any use of it besides me. I don’t mind, I don’t want to feel like I’m in my exact childhood bedroom.

I feel stupidly needy for his attention, getting all my shit out to go to the back porch. I don’t preroll myself one this time, bringing all my items and setting up my phone flashlight so I can see.

I don’t put on anything to drown out my thoughts, biting my lip as the metal grinder softly clinks. I dumb the herb out onto the small tray I’d brought, carefully pinching the end of my paper.

It’s not that noticeable at first, the burning smell of nicotine. It’s so out of place in our suburban neighborhood, the smell of cigarettes are saved for college. Imprinted in my mind for when I’m hazily stumbling onto the back porch of some fraternity, easily bumming a cigarette from the nearest person perched against the wall.

It’s John, I know it without checking. That empty ash tray on his porch. In all my nights out here I had never caught him smoking. I tsk to myself like he’s my kid.

I roll my joint hurriedly, scared he might finish before me. When it’s mostly done and I don’t think any crumblies will blow into the wind, I push myself up. The grass is soft underneath my socks, it makes a quiet crunching sound I try desperately to mumble. Up against our wood fence, I grab the taller metal post that stand between the wood panels. Hoisting myself up how I used to when I was young so that I could peak out into John’s yard.

Sure enough he’s sat, white button up tucked into his loose slacks. He’d ditches his belt and tie, the top mostly undone and a cigarette perched between those strong fingers.

“Smoking kills, you know,” I try not to yell, my normal talking voice carrying enough in the silent neighborhood for John to peer over to me. He looked shocked, like he’s 12 and I’m a police officer.

Once he realizes it’s me he relaxes back, flicking the ash off the tip. He reaches out to his glass in front of him, the amber liquid still just above the ice. He tries to move it from my view, turning his head away in a chuckle.

“And what are you about to do?” He throws back, I readjust my hand. It’s getting sweaty against the metal, my foot slips from the thin ledge I’m balancing on but my hold is firm.

“…it’s a different kind of smoking.” I can’t see but I feel John roll his eyes. Already caught, he takes another drag and gestures for me to join him. I lower myself from the fence, considering.

I finish up my joint and pack my shit, dumping it by our front porch before heading out the side gate into John’s.

He’s almost done with his cigarette, not bothering to sit forward when I join him at the table. He blows the smoke away from me, ashing it against into the tray in front of him and taking another small swig from his drink.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” I light mine up, watching him stare into his cup.

“On occasion. I’m not a smoker.” He says it while reaching for another. I hold the joint out for him and he pauses, shaking his head, “no I’m already… it’s fine for now.” He retrieves the second cigarette and I pass him back his lighter.

“You look like one,” I tease him carefully.

“What else do I look like?” He asks, turning his gaze up to me and tilting his head. I stare at him in silence, suddenly feeling wayyy higher than I thought I was already.

“Like, uh, hmm,” suddenly scared I’d say something insanely offensive, John blinks back to me with real expectations, “a tired business man.”

John actually laughs. He follows it with another sip, trying to shut himself up. “That I am.”

“What do I look like?” I ask him. He focuses in, I’m actually kinda intrigued. This John is different, more casual. Even looser than high John. He has to be drunk.

He seems to bite his tongue, his eyes scanning me like Sherlock deducting clues. “You look… bored, usually. Like you’re waiting for something to happen.”

I take another hit so I don’t have to explain myself. If he knows what he’s talking about he’s onto me. And what would that be, John?

“Trade me,” I hold out the joint so I don’t have to confirm his analysis. He hesitates before passing me his cigarette.

I watch him take a shallow huff and he watches me take a long drag, blowing the heavy smoke from my nose. It coats all my senses just like weed, smells utterly familiar. Maybe this was the key index to John’s scent, the ever fading smell cigarettes. Subtle nodes I wouldn’t have been able to identify prior.

He passed it back in the silence, staring off past the fence.

“I think you’re waiting for something too,” I break it, John doesn’t even throw me a glance.

“Waiting for what?” He finishes his drink finally, pushing it away from him. He answers almost bitter, like I had struck something in him.

“Tired is really just another synonym for bored,” I explain, going quieter so he could move on if he wants.

“So what do we do?” He throws it back at me.

I should kiss him now, but he won’t look my way. I carefully nudge his outstretched foot with my sock.

“Continue to wait, I guess,” I shrug, he still doesn’t move, “or do something about it.”

Now he turns, making eye contact with me in the darkness. He takes another drag of his cigarette.

“You’re so…” he begins, burying his face in his hands, “fuck.” A response is better than none, I set the roach against the corner of the tray, not moving my foot away from his.

He sits up straight, putting his cigarette out beside the joint and peering back at me. He had reset, suddenly looking like a professional in the remnants of his suit.

“So you’re just offering yourself up to me, like that?” He asks, resting his elbows against the table and I’m in the second round of interviews.

“Well- no, I was just saying.” I stammer, loosing all the courage I’d mustered up the past thirty minutes.

He leans forward slightly, my eyes dip to his lips, “really? You’re not just waiting on me?”

That’s exactly what I’ve been doing. Word for word. But hearing it come directly from him has me out of commission. I blush, turning my face away.

God himself set this moment up for me, but I’m cracking under the pressure.

“Why don’t you do something about it?” I ask weak, the words almost getting lost in my throat. John is still looking at me when I manage to turn, blinking back in thought.

He readjusts in his chair, turning to me more fully. I want to sit in his lap so badly, let him cradle me. I can tell he feels blurry, probably a little crossed. He rubs his palms against his clothes thighs, biting his lip.

“It’s not that easy,” is all he can say. I am stoned, sliding my heavy arm over to touch him where his hands had just ghosted over his thigh. He breathes in sharply, I can see him debating with himself.

“Why?” I coo, trying to lure him into me. John. John John John, I’m begging him in my mind, dragging him closer to me. He doesn’t move in his seat. He already knows where I stand, there’s no point in my shame now.

John takes my hand off him him, pulling me this time. I follow his directions promptly, pulling my chair up closer so I could kiss John with ease. He meets me halfway lazily, pressing firm lips against my soft open mouth. He tastes like whiskey and cigarettes. I hate whiskey with a passion but on John’s tongue it’s intoxicating. He lets me push up into his lap, tilting his head up and to the side as I climb there. I don’t straddle him, sitting sideways and keeping my legs up on my own chair. He wraps his long arms around my waist, holding me loosely.

I moan into the kiss, tilting my head slowly and making John chase me. We stay like that for awhile, it feels too nice to stop. I run my fingers along the line from John’s ear down his neck, he tilts to let me into the sensitive space there.

Trying to deepen it is useless, John cuts me off when I lick inside his mouth. He turns his head away, catching his breath.

He excused himself in the next one, but not before requesting I watch Daisy in a few days while he’s gone for the weekend.

I fucking hate him. His sudden coolness and casual glances to my window when he comes home from work. He sends me a thank you the day I go over to check on Daisy and I have to stop myself from sending him a Fuck you back.

I come over to check on her and let her out, keeping an eye on the camera in the living room.

I’ve reran our conversation through my mind a hundred times over, trying to figure out what I’m doing wrong. No man has ever expressed interest in me and not wanted to fuck immediately after.

Maybe I haven’t been waiting on John, but instead a challenge. Stubborn John Wick giving me enough confidence to strut in his house in my bikini, all my other items for the night tucked away in my tote bag. It’s 7pm when I decide to go settle in over there, telling my mom I love her before rushing off.

He’s not checking the cameras when I’m first there, dumping my belongings on the kitchen counter as usual.

He doesn’t check until that evening. took a quick shower and changed into my tank top and sweatpants, climbing down the stairs carefully to the living room. He’d sat in that spot on our movie night, the corner of the couch the camera had the perfect view of. I grab the remote and switch on HBO, lounging back as I try to find what to watch. I restart the Last of Us.

I try to lounge casual but sexy, which just results in me splayed out, leaning up against the arm rest. I let my hand rest in my sweatpants, pressed right up between my thighs warm and comfy. Halfway into the first episode the light of the camera flicks on.

I try not to panic, it was part of my plan, but now I’m embarrassed. I wait, frozen there, trying not to look directly at the camera, seeing if he’s going to click out.

When the light stays on for a solid few seconds I start to move. I carefully lift my hips, pushing my sweatpants down to my thighs. I expose my black underwear the the camera, looking up to see if he’s still watching. The light is unwavering.

My heart begins to race as I lean back, continuing to look through the camera to him. I run my hand along them tantalizing, pulling my lower lip between my teeth. Just the pressure feels good. I slide my middle finger passed the material, dipping into my unacknowledged heat.

The lights still on.

I slowly fuck myself with one finger, bending back against the arm of the chair. I angle up the best I can, grinding against the single digit. I peek once in awhile, reaching my other hand forward to touch my clit. Both the feelings the repetitive drum of John echoing in my brain got me close quickly. Already shaking and stuttering over myself I forget about the whole goal.

I cum hard, whining as my hips stir. I slowly pull my fingers out, wiping them off on my sweatpants and slumping back. I breathe shakily before I’m shocked awake, remembering where I am.

That stupid red fucking light flicks off the second I look back up to it.

I can excuse my insane actions with weed. To myself anyways. Maybe cumming on his couch isn’t the right path of action after feeling mildly rejected, but it sure made me feel better. I sleep in the guest room and wash the sheets in the morning before fleeing back to my own home. John venmoes me $200 for the weekend without saying else.

#john wick #john wick smut #alternative #john wick fanfic #john wick x y/n #john wick x reader #fanfiction #john wick: chapter 4 #smut #john wick gif

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firefirefruit · 11 months ago

Text

Steel in Her Veins, Chapter: Eight

Read On: AO3 | Table of Contents | Next Chapter

Characters: Fem!Reader x Roronoa Zoro

Chapter Eight: The One-Eyed Marimooo

The world’s spinning. You physically can’t breathe. This boy’s whooping in your ear, screaming, “LET’S GOOOOO!” over and over again.

Fucking great. This is it. The end of your journey.

You’re being dragged upwards, a body of limbs flailing from impact. Riding the worst escalator you’ve ever been on. Going up. Up. Up. Up. And up – until, finally, you’re nearing the tip of your ascent.

The moon swallows both of your shadows whole like a voracious celestial behemoth, hungry for the spectacle it's about to witness, and there’s this one second where you and Luffy turn to each other, both flailing in the air.

Just for one second, there’s silence. No whizzing of air or the flapping of bodies, no screams of terror echoing into the abyss – there’s just silence.

Then, you begin your descent.

As the two of you plummet towards the ship, the world speeds up in a dizzying blur of sea and stars and trees and darkness. Ice-cold fear courses through you, as you feel yourself steam in terror, and for a moment, time seems to stretch as if reluctant to witness the impending impact.

Great. This is the way you’re gonna die. Awesome. Well, thanks for everything, Gramps. You shut your eyes tightly, preparing for the sound of God to come thundering down on you.

“Here we go!” Luffy bellows, his voice fighting against the current of the wind. You snap your eyes wide open, undecided on whether to scream at Luffy or at death itself.

With a sudden twist, Luffy's rubbery limbs twang into action. He wraps his arms around you, forming a makeshift cushion against the gravitational pull – you can’t lie, it's a bizarre yet effective mid-air manoeuvre, and you can't help but marvel at the sheer fucking audacity of it.

The wind howls around you, and the world regains its chaotic symphony while Luffy's laughter cuts through the air, a mix of thrill and exhilaration.

And then, with a jarring but surprisingly gentle thud, you land on the Sunny's deck; it's as if gravity itself had a change of heart, deciding to be merciful at the last moment. The ship creaks under the sudden impact, but still, it holds firm beneath you.

Immediately disentangling yourself from Luffy's curling grasp, you stumble off into a direction, steaming with sheer terror and fury. Liquid nitrogen spreads from your feet like wildfire, chilling the Sunny into a post-apocalyptic landscape.

“Woah, woah, what’s goin’ on?” Franky exclaims, gaping at the smoke crackling across the Sunny’s body.

"THAT WAS AWESOME!" Luffy cheers wildly, his arms flinging into the sky. “Did you like it, Raya? Was it fun? You wanna do it again?”

You, on the other hand, are about to throw major hands.

"What. The. Hell, Luffy? What the actual fuck?” you seethe, each word punctuated by bursts of ice shattering beneath you.

"You’re tough, Swordsy. You took it well!" he grins, slapping you on the back with gusto. You stagger forward from the impact, each unintended step leaving frozen disc-like cracks into the floor.

“Raya! Stop moving!” Franky cries out, helplessly gaping at the glacial destruction of his beloved ship.

Arching an eyebrow at Franky's evident distress, Luffy shifts his gaze down to the deck. With a sudden yelp, he exclaims, "WOAH! Why's it snowing in this kinda weather?"

"It's not the weather, Luffy," Robin calmly remarks as she and the others begin boarding the ship. She observes you with a surprised curiosity. "It's Raya."

“But you’re a fire-user…” Sanji’s questions, a curious cigarette dangling in his mouth. His eyes flicker to the floor, staring at poor Franky who’s knelt over the damage, helplessly scraping his metal fingers through the mist. “Isn’t this liquid nitrogen?”

“Yeah, um…I ate the Burn-Burn fruit…” you quickly answer before looking down at Franky. Guilt washes over you as you realise the extent of the damage to his hard work. “I’m so sorry, Franky…I’ll fix this for sure.”

“Mmmh,” Franky responds miserably.

“What’s a Burn-Burn fruit?” Usopp pipes out, squidging his face in the small gap between Zoro and Robin.

Robin smiles at you, her eyes lighting up.

“You burn things?” Chopper cocks his head, crawling all over Zoro’s shoulders.

“Yeah – I mean, I’ve been using fire for my whole life, but I’ve recently been trying to…to burn things with ice…” your voice awkwardly falters when you and everyone else diverts their attention to the snowstorm on the floor, your face heating up – and because you’re aware that your face is heating up, your face starts to grow even hotter.

Fuck. You’ve been working on ice for months, and a single fucking fright leads you to unleashing frostbite hell. You knew it’d be too risky - especially with how closely your Burn’s tied to you and your feelings – but Gramps had insisted…

Well, at least you went with ice. At least you didn’t choose electricity…or, heaven forbid, chemicals…

You want to get stronger, don’t you? Gramps’ voice rings in your head like a persistent echo, urging you forward. Fear is a blockage of spirit.

You mutter to yourself, wondering how the hell to shut this man up in your head. It's a constant nagging now, always lecturing, always trying to sound deep and wise beyond his years and he's all so Wano-esque.

Maybe that's why Gramps doesn't complain anymore; he's living rent-free in your head, and he's probably loving every minute of it.

In a heartbeat, the urgent staccato of anxious heels reverberates against the wooden boards, instantly capturing everyone's focus.

"Out of my way!" Nami's commanding cry slices through the air, prompting Usopp and Chopper to emit startled yelps. They stumble away as a streak of vibrant orange hair charges through them like a bolt of lightning. "Raya! Are you okay?!"

"Absolutely," you respond with a wry smile, your sarcasm laced with a lingering adrenaline rush pulsing in your head. “Had a fantastic flight.”

Nami immediately swivels around to Luffy, seizing his head in a firm chokehold. “Don’t ever do that to people who aren’t part of your crew – you got that?”

Luffy, garbling in her grasp, still manages to force out a pout. “Wh – gah – why not?”

“I mean, it doesn’t look that bad…it kinda suits the atmosphere of my show, if you think about it ….” Usopp thinks to himself, tapping a finger to his chin. He stares at the ice cooling over the deck, then at Zoro straight in his eye. “Cold, brittle and painful to the touch. Juuust like the one-eyed marimooo.”

"Quit that," Zoro hisses, narrowing his eye at him. "I'm not here for your one-eyed marimo exposé."

Gramps Suki amusedly sighs whilst cleaning his hands with a rag. "Enough with the theatrics, already! Don’t you all have a party to host?”

“Yes! Let us commence!” Usopp shouts in his deep, theatrical voice, jumping on the stage with an air of intrigue and mystique. “Gather, my fellow comrades, and let us begin! Jester, play your most foreshadowing tune!”

Brook grins, and with a -- “Yo-ho-ho! I shall!” -- His fingers begin to strum dramatically across his guitar.

Luffy bursts into excited cackles, dashing to take a seat in front of the stage; Chopper's eyes light up with enthusiasm, and he tugs at Zoro's hair like Ratatouille. Zoro huffs, stumbling forward to gently place them both on the unaffected floor.

Usopp gestures everyone else to sit, and as they all obey his command, he raises his arms to begin.

Brook plays the opening to an intense heavy metal riff. Angular shadows crawl up onto Usopp's face like an army of black ants, moonlight shining a thin silvery trail across his silhouette. Then, he smirks.

“Now, let us unravel the story of the One-Eyed Marimo. Possessing three swords in his reservoir, he has no other room to consider fear…

“I don’t care what society says…” Usopp rasps in a Zoro’s low voice, his marked eye shut firmly as he scowls at the audience. “I’ve never regretted doing anything...”

The crew erupts into wild cackles, caught off guard by Usopp's spot-on impersonation of Zoro. Even Luffy’s rolling on the floor, clutching his stomach with laughter.

Nami shoots a playful glare at Zoro. "Well, it seems Usopp has you figured out!"

Zoro grumbles in response, feigning indifference, but there's a subtle twitch of amusement playing on his lips; Sanji, puffing away on his cigarette, can't help but grin at the accuracy of it all.

Usopp, revelling in the attention, continues the act with theatrical flair. "Strive to be complete with everything you have!" he mutters coarsely, mimicking Zoro's trademark three-sword stance. "No hesitation!"

In the midst of the laughter, Luffy, still rolling on the floor, manages to gasp out, "Let me have a go!"

With a burst of energy, Luffy propels himself off the floor and somersaults onto the stage, landing next to Usopp. His grin is infectious, and the crew watches in anticipation, wondering what kind of chaos Luffy's going to unleash this time.

"Alright, alright! Watch this!" Luffy declares, mimicking Zoro's posture with exaggerated seriousness.

Luffy slaps his hand to his forehead, his eye looking as narrowed and sharp as Zoro’s, scanning across the audience with apathy. Mimicking the marimo’s slouched posture and crossed arms, he lets out a half-hearted, "Mmmm. Where are those idiots? You idiots. Bastards. Stupid idiots.”

Nami, still holding onto Luffy's earlier attack on you, can't help but burst into laughter.

"You're an idiot yourself, Luffy," she remarks between fits of giggles.

Luffy continues with the impersonation, exaggerating Zoro's stern expression. "Why are we even doing this party thing? Shouldn't we be out training and getting stronger? You guys are all a bunch of slackers."

Zoro, trying to stop himself from smirking, mutters under his breath, "Idiot captain..."

Usopp, fake gasping, his hands slapped on each side of face, joins Luffy on the stage. "Hey, marimo, look! It's your fan club!"

Luffy continues his impersonation, now adding a comically serious tone, kissing his teeth dramatically. "TCH. I don't need a fan club. I'm just here because I want to be. TCH."

Nami, still holding her laughter from Luffy's antics, suddenly spots Chopper perched on Zoro's shoulder. With a devious grin, she strides over, seizing the opportunity for her own brand of amusement.

"I'm taking over, Swordsmen!" Nami declares with a sly grin, directing a mischievous gaze at Luffy and Usopp. With a swift motion, she grabs Chopper from Zoro's shoulder and cradles him in her arms, adopting the same serious expression Zoro has.

"I'm not a caring guy," Nami says, mimicking Zoro's gruff voice with surprising accuracy. "I don't have time for this fluffy stuff."

Despite her stern words, there's a playful glint in Nami's eyes as she proceeds to pretend to wash Chopper's back, combing through his fur like a loving father-figure. The crew watches, thoroughly entertained, as Nami continues the charade.

"I'm really not!" Nami insists, patting Chopper's head sweetly like he's a child. "Shut up, Chopper! I'm a marimo, not a babysitter!"

With a flourish, Nami pretends to spoon feed Chopper imaginary food, all while maintaining the serious demeanour of the marimo she's impersonating.

"Swallow your food like a man, Chopper!" she exclaims, channelling the essence of Zoro's gruff and no-nonsense attitude.

You burst into laughter, raising your eyebrow at Nami’s interpretation. “Didn’t know you were a father, marimo?"

"More like the guy who tells brats to stay off his lawn," Zoro retorts, slightly amused by Nami's depiction of him.

Chopper, for his part, seems to be enjoying the attention, giggling between bites of fake food as Nami continues her exaggerated impersonation.

"BUT WAIT!" Usopp roars, reclaiming the spotlight at the centre of the stage. "With every move he makes, with every swing of his swords, he bears every burden without a single complaint.. The glint in his eyes mirrors the strength with which he unleashes his fury upon his enemies...While we actors may be well-refined, only the true master, the One-Eyed marimo, can reveal the elegance of his three-sword style."

He dramatically extends his arm, pointing directly at Zoro. "One-eyed Marimo, step forward and grace us with your power!"

Zoro, still feigning indifference but with a subtle hint of amusement, rises from his seat and ambles towards the stage. Everyone holds their breath, curious to see if their stoic samurai is going to play along.

Usopp, ever the storyteller, encourages the act with a flourish. "Behold, ladies and gentlemen! Witness the formidable three-sword style of our very own marimo!"

Zoro, with a smirk playing on his lips, picks up three scrap metal swords from the barrel with practiced precision. The moonlight casts a silvery glow on the blades as he assumes a battle-ready stance.

Usopp continues his narration, his voice filled with dramatic flair. "The marimo's blades move like an intricate dance, a deadly ballet choreographed by the hand of a true master. Each stroke is a testament to his skill and determination. A fearsome whirlwind of steel awaits any who dare to challenge him."

Captured by the performance, you watch as Zoro gracefully manoeuvres the swords, each movement embodying the essence of his true prowess.

Well... You lean further against the ship’s banister, folding your arms in intrigue. Maybe you underestimated his skills a little bit…

Nami, still in her Zoro persona, crosses her arms and watches with feigned indifference. "Hmph. Not bad, marimo. But you still owe me money."

Zoro, not missing a beat, retorts, "I don't owe you anything, navigator. Keep dreaming."

As Zoro continues his swordplay, the crew, now fully immersed in the theatrical atmosphere, can't help but marvel at their powerful friend.

Usopp, revelling in the success of his storytelling, raises his arms for a grand finale. "And thus concludes our tale of the one-eyed marimo and his legendary three-sword style! A round of applause for our fearless swordsman!"

☽

Luffy, having kicked up his feet, sprawls over the stage, his stomach emitting audible growls that resonate with exaggerated hunger. He moans theatrically, a performance of hunger so dramatic that even the stars seem to take notice. The sheer anticipation of food makes him twirl his fingers, mimicking a culinary dance in the air.

Beside him, Brook lies gracefully, his skeletal form seamlessly integrated with his guitar. The moonlight casts angular shadows across his bony joints as he strums, creating a hauntingly beautiful harmony that intertwines with the soft pop melodies. His fingers move with spectral precision, producing notes that linger in the night air like echoes of a distant serenade.

Gramps and Sanji, side by side at the grill, are a dynamic duo in the art of cooking. The sizzle of food on the grill mixes with their laughter as they exchange culinary wisdom. Sanji, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, moves with grace and precision, mirroring Gramps's knife techniques. The rhythmic dance of flames and the clattering of knives creates a symphony that harmonises against the rhythm of the sea.

Gramps, with a twinkle in his eye, reaches into his pocket and retrieves a set of culinary knives, self-crafted with meticulous care. He hands them to Sanji, a gesture of appreciation for the true artistry that the cook brings to the crew. Sanji, looking at the knives with admiration, expresses his gratitude, a genuine smile spreading across his face.

Meanwhile, Zoro lies sprawled on the deck, a bottle of sake in hand. He drinks with a contented expression, lounging beside Chopper and Franky. The trio shares a moment of loud discussion and playful arguments, their laughter blending with the distant sounds of music and fire. Zoro, with a playful glint in his eye, raises his bottle in a silent toast to the night.

Over in a quiet corner, Robin and Usopp are deep into a board game showdown. Glasses clink, and laughter breaks out as they banter back and forth. Robin, grinning with confidence, seals her fifth consecutive win. She shoots a knowing look at a defeated Usopp, signaling that he's now on the hook for three vodka shots to make up for it.

Nami, reclining on the banister beside you, holds a beer in hand as she gazes at the stars echoing across the rippling sea. The soft glow of moonlight highlights her thoughtful expression; the atmosphere is serene, a stark contrast to the energetic celebration unfolding behind you.

You turn to Nami, and a small, comforting smile plays on your lips. The distant laughter and music provide a somewhat comforting backdrop to the quiet moment between you and Nami. As you nudge your shoulder against hers, a silent understanding passes between you two.

In the tranquil embrace of the night, you speak with a gentle hush.

"You okay?" you ask, concern threading through your words.

Nami, drawn from her contemplative thoughts, manages a smile that carries a hint of melancholy. "Yeah, yeah… It’s just – I was thinking… Are you sure you don’t want to join us?"

A subtle ache tugs at your heart. It tempts you; it really does.

You avert your gaze, turning your attention back to the vast expanse of the sea. The horizon, bathed in moonlight, stretches out before you, almost too perfectly serene against the gentle lapping of the waves.

"I have so many responsibilities here…and joining you guys would just be dangerous – I don’t…" Your voice trails off, leaving the unspoken implication hanging in the air. This idea of duty, a tether to the ship and its crew, makes you worry.

Nami regards you with understanding eyes, her own gaze drifting towards the horizon. The night carries a delicate balance of joy and solitude, and in this quiet exchange, the weight of unspoken worries and unfulfilled desires lingers beneath the starlit sky.

“I know…it’s just – the offer still stands,” she says, taking a huge gulp of her beer.

As you casually lean against the banister, soaking in the excitement, joy, and life of these people, your attention is drawn to your old man. A subtle tension rests in his arms as he attempts to force a smile, scanning the surroundings with suspicion.

That can't be a good sign. It's never a good sign.

“Hey Nami, I’m gonna go refill my drink,” you say, your eyes never leaving your Gramps.

You leave Nami on the banister, the rhythmic sound of the sea and distant revelry accompanying your steps as you approach Gramps. He's standing near the edge of the ship, his eyes scanning the surroundings with a watchful intensity.

"Gramps," you call out, your voice a soft murmur, trying not to draw attention. He turns towards you, attempting to force a reassuring smile.

"What's going on?" You raise a brow. "You're on edge."

Gramps looks at you, his attempt at a smile faltering for a moment. He places a hand on your shoulder, a mixture of concern and reassurance in his eyes.

"It's nothing to worry about, Raya. Just being cautious, you know how it is," he says, his voice low and measured. "We're in unknown waters, and it doesn't hurt to keep an eye out. But trust me, everything is under control."

You glance around, still sensing an air of tension, but Gramps' words, combined with the steadiness of his gaze, makes you hesitate a little.

You cross your arms, giving him a look. “Are you lying?”

Gramps meets your gaze, and for a moment, his eyes betray a flicker of uncertainty. He sighs, dropping his hand from your shoulder.

"I won't lie to you, Raya. There's... something out there. A...presence," he admits, choosing his words carefully. "But we're prepared, and I don't want you to worry. I will keep you and everyone else safe."

You narrow your eyes, the worry in your chest tightening. "What kind of presence? Gramps, be straight with me."

"I can't say for certain," he confesses, his voice a low murmur, eyes flickering to the others, then to you. "Until we have more information, I need you to trust me and enjoy the celebration. We'll deal with whatever comes our way."

Your arms remain tightly crossed, the unease settling in the pit of your stomach. You shake your head stubbornly. "I can't just ignore this. What if it's a threat?"

Gramps places a hand on your shoulder again, his eyes conveying a mix of warmth and solemnity. "Raya, we've faced countless challenges together, and we've always come out on top. I promise, if things get serious, you'll be the first to know. Right now, I need you to be with your friends. We'll handle this. Trust me."

You pause for a moment, studying him. Your eyes search his face, catching the flicker of a weary resolve in his gaze. Gramps, weathered by years of navigating both treacherous seas and the complexities of life, stands before you with a quiet strength. The lines etched on his face tell stories of battles won and challenges faced, yet in this moment, there's an acknowledgment that the current unknown carries a unique weight.

Finally, Gramps breaks the silence with a reassuring squeeze on your shoulder, his eyes conveying both a plea for trust and a promise of protection. The distant laughter and music from the celebration underscore the gravity of the unspoken exchange, a delicate dance between the duty to protect and the need to savour moments of joy.

"Go back and enjoy the night. I've got everything under control,” he whispers.

As Gramps' words hang in the air, a sudden shift in the atmosphere unsettles the night. The sea, once a serene companion, seems to murmur in a language of foreboding whispers. The distant revelry dims, and an eerie quiet blankets the ship.

You cast one last glance at Gramps, his weary but determined eyes meeting yours. The unspoken understanding between you lingers, the weight of secrets shared beneath the starlit sky.

"Then keep me updated. Please," you whisper, pursing your lips.

As you turn away, a chill crawls up your spine. The night, once full of promise, now grasps onto something else that eclipses the celebration. With a tinge of tension in your body, you walk into the chaos, the unknown presence lingering in the back of your mind, shaping the contours of the abyss that unfolds. The ship anchors itself into the heart of uncertainty, leaving you to navigate the shadows that dance on the edge of the moonlit waves – one that even Nami won’t be able to foresee.

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brynnmclean · 5 months ago

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in the core of everything drums a beat (WIP)

Hi, it's my birthday and in hobbit fandom fashion, I want to share fic! This is very much a WIP that I've been kicking around for several weeks (slow writer solidarity) so there is going to be more and I eventually want to post a beta-read multichapter version on AO3 when it's complete and I'm satisfied with it. But for now this is the first (rough draft) chapter of a Hellblade 2: Senua's Saga fic! Spoilers for the end of the game under the cut.

I. drifting

When his father’s blade pierces into his back, Thórgestr finds himself almost thankful for the blow. It is the bite of steel, the tearing of breath, the blinding burn of pain—but so too is it the bleeding of shame and doubt from his body. Time turns liquid and slow, and as the Goði discards him, so too does Thórgestr cast away all thought of himself. He reaches out for Senua, every ounce of strength he has ever had straightening his spine in the silence between ragged breaths. He must give her the giant’s name. She must end the tyrant’s reign.

Light glows between their clasped hands, warm and gentle. A rushlight to show the way. Brief, but enough.

Thórgestr strips a title from a tyrant, turns an undefeatable monster into a weak, mortal man.

My father’s name is Áleifr.

The name rings like steel struck true with the hammer beat of his heart. Thórgestr has carried his father’s reputation—his expectation—like an oxen’s yoke, where once it was a torc around his neck. Now the weight of it on his back—Goðisson—is gone.

He is Áleifrsson.

And Death is coming, swift as raven’s wings.

It hurts to breathe. He tastes blood on his tongue, between his teeth. But Senua holds him still. Not his broken body—just his hand, his gaze. It is enough to keep him here a moment longer.

Her eyes are so blue. There are snowflakes caught in her lashes. Thórgestr looks at her and wishes for many things. But there isn’t any more time.

She pulls away and takes up her sword. He crumbles to the ground, cold as ash.

He waits for Oðinn’s Valkyries to come, but all he sees is Senua, fierce as flame, defeating the god he made of his father.

Death is coming, but not yet.

Thórgestr drifts. He dreams.

He is in the eye of a terrible storm, floating in dark water. Every so often, his head slips under the surface and he chokes on strange sea-water, thick and metallic on his tongue. He comes back up and turns his head to vomit up Áleifr’s poison. There is no strength in his limbs, only shadow and pain.

Senua’s voice reaches him, close in his ear—soft murmurs telling him to hold onto her, she won’t let him go again. But fear is ice in his veins, heavy as stone. I’ll drag you under, he weeps, I’ll drown you.

She won’t hear him, her hands cradling his face, sword-strong grip lifting him up. And he has no will to struggle against her, grieved and grateful.

Distantly, he knows there are poultices and bandages, needles and prayers. Conversations swirl around him like smoke, nothing he can grasp. He shivers and sweats in a sick-bed, lost in a maze in his mind.

The forest path winds around and around in circles, mist thick and cloying. Sightless, fearful, he cries out for his companions to no avail. The malice of Járnviðr has stolen them from him, Senua and Fargrímr and Ástríðr—stupid to have taken his eyes off them when at every turn he can feel beasts watching, rapt and ravenous, waiting for him to fail. And he will, he knows it, his steps are heavy and limping like the footfalls of prey destined to die in the dirt. Something is broken within him. A deep, dull pain throbs inside his chest with each breath.

You stupid boy, strikes inside his skull, reverberating. His father’s voice, cutting him down. His leg gives out, axe-bite scar blazing even as he slips into a shallow pool of water and finds the water cold. He gazes into the broken mirror of the surface, sees his reflection in fragments—his eyes, there’s something strange with his eyes, they flash silver with an animal’s shine.

If his father is a jotun, then his blood is infected, too. There is a monster inside him, waiting to strike.

“There are no giants,” someone tells him, thumbs sweeping away the tears staining his cheeks, “Your father is gone. Rest, Thórgestr…”

Rest? He doesn’t deserve that.

The Goði snarls at him to prepare the sacrifice, and unthinking and unquestioning, Thórgestr obeys.

He lifts the sacrifice—the slave—the woman—up and ties her sea-soaked body onto the poles. The girl from Orkneyjar shakes and screams, and curses him with his own name: Thórgestr, liar, betrayer.

She will bring the giant’s wrath down upon us, the Goði snaps, shut her up, my son!

Hands trembling, bile burning in his mouth, Thórgestr takes up a knife. He does not want this. He never wanted this. But his father says there is no other way.

The woman’s blood in the moonlight looks black, her throat a ruin beneath his fingers. Senua chokes and somehow he can still understand the final name she gives him: coward. The stains sink into his skin like ink. He will never be clean.

He wakes, gasping for air, but the nightmares wash over him again, though he fights, he fights—

The Goði beats him bloody, throws him down into the dirt. Thórgestr shudders and cries—crawls back to his father’s feet, his guts spilling out and steaming on the ground. His father reaches down to him from a towering height, and for a breathless moment, Thórgestr thinks he will pull him to his feet and turn a loving hand upon him. But the giant holds him fast, tears into his flesh and digs until he finds his heart, crushing it in his fist.

Thórgestr’s vision twists and writhes like an animal in death-throes, and then the world glows red.

He rises from death and wields sword and axe like tooth and claw, become now a revenant, a draugr of legend. He makes himself kinslayer to match Áleifr.

“He’s gone,” someone says, soothing but for the note of desperation crackling through their voice, “Áleifr is gone and cannot hurt you anymore—now rest, heal, live for me, I—I will not lose you, too.”

But he is lost, blind and trapped somewhere between Midgard and Niflheim. Alone in the dark.

“Follow my voice. I won’t leave you.”

A woman is singing in a language he cannot comprehend, the notes fading in and out—coming to him from a great distance in one breath and then brushing as close as a lover’s breath in his ear with the next. Each note thrums with a thread of light, wrapping around his body like arms—no, a net—he is caught, but the bonds don’t cut. He reaches out into the tangle of it and finds a steady drumbeat in his blood, strength enough to grasp the threads—light, life—it is a rope cast down into the cavern he has fallen into.

Thórgestr pulls himself to his feet and climbs toward the song.

#hellblade #senua's saga #thorgestr #senua x thorgestr #senua #hertan writing tag #rough drafts #my fic #i can't remember my video games tag #senua's saga spoilers

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theclairvoyage · 6 months ago

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Chapter 1: Boomer Sooner

Part of Bloody Knuckles series

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Javier Peña x AUSA!f!reader

Javier's first day in OKC is nothing short of stressful-though that changes when he meets you.

Chapter warnings: alcohol consumption, smoking, adult language, mentions of violence, mentions of human trafficking, reader is able-bodied, has long hair and is roughly the same height as Javi (no other descriptors), Spanish usage (translations at the end)

WC: 3.2k

Fall 1992

Corpus Christi, Texas

Sweat drips from Javier’s forehead and temples as he pulls stubborn weeds from the dry dirt at his mother’s house in Corpus Christi. The air is heavy and humid, compressing his chest like a thick heated blanket. Mamá insisted she could do it herself, stubborn as the weeds. Mijo, puedo hacerlo. No necesito ayuda. He’d waved her off and stepped out the front door, Tecovas boots clomping the wooden steps.

The screen door flies open with a screech, and out comes his mother, pitcher of vibrant red agua fresca in tow, garnished with fresh spearmint and strawberries. In the fall, she loves to make Agua de Jamaica with the beautiful hibiscus flowers that bloom in late summer. Her backyard garden is a utopia compared to the disaster of a front yard, filled with a smorgasbord of gorgeous flowers, vegetables, fruits, and bird feeders.

“Tómate un descanso, Javier. Por favor,” she urges him. He nods, tearing the sweaty gardening gloves from his hands, and tossing them on the porch. He wipes his brow with the back of his dirt-covered forearm, no longer caring about how he looks or smells. Only a cold shower would resurrect this mess.

“Gracias, Mamá. Se parece muy bien,” he compliments her, relishing the sweet smile that stretches her freckled, weathered cheeks. Her long, silvery mane is curled into a tight bun, wispy baby hairs fallen prey to the humidity in Corpus Christi. She is a true Mexican mother—hardworking, resourceful, strong-willed, and unequivocally dedicated to her family. It’s nice to see the softer side of her once in a blue moon—a refreshing break from the wooden spoon or chancla.

She pours him a hefty glass of the hibiscus drink before returning to the house, ice cubes crashing into glass with little clinks. Javi plops himself on the old porch, sipping and observing the scene in front of him. Fuck, that’s good, he thinks, licking his lips to savor the taste and the liquid that has seeped up into his mustache. She knows this drink was his favorite, and boy, did she make it perfectly.

The yard, on the other hand, was not even close to perfection. Javier’s dad passed away a couple years ago, and with Javi posted in Colombia, she had limited assistance. Sure, family came around to help, and he knew she dabbled in some landscaping herself, but the weeds grew too quickly.

She was too proud to let any landscaping service come help her—he remembered the day a landscaping company tucked a pamphlet between her screen and front doors, and she called him enraged, smirking to himself at the memory. “¡Pendejos estúpidos, déjame sola!”

At least he had made decent progress. The weeds were plucked, but the grass was patchy and scarce. He’d need to find some grass seed and plant it or convince her to buy sod—fat chance. Chugging the last few gulps of his agua fresca, he stands and enters the house. His mother takes the glass from him, patting his shoulder affectionately.

“Mijo, algún hombre te llamó. No dio un nombre, solamente un número. Está aquí,” she says, pointing a wrinkled finger at an old utility bill envelope with a phone number scribbled in blue pen. The fuck, he thinks. Who the fuck has my mom’s home number? Better not be some girl.

“Gracias, Mamá. Perdóname, por favor,” he says, grabbing the envelope and returning to the front porch to punch in the number on his giant mobile phone. It rings twice before a male voice responds.

“About time, Peña. Ready to get back to work?” The voice echoes—cocky, smug.

“If this is DEA, you can go fuck yourself. Already gave y’all my letter of resignation,” Javi spits. The voice returns a few whoa, whoa, whoas, like he’s trying to rein in a wild horse.

“Got a great opportunity for you here in Oklahoma City. Need you here by next week. Already got an apartment and a desk saved for you.” Javi scratches his head in confusion.

“Opportunity for what?” Javi bites back, fucking irritated at this no-namer.

“FBI.”

“Goddammit.”

The next week, Javier finds himself squinting and cursing on the sidewalk of the FBI Building on West Memorial Road in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, wondering how the fuck he got here. He can’t remember the last time he craved a cigarette so badly. It felt sacrilege, living in Sooner country—he was an Aggie through and through. He pulls the rumpled utility bill envelope from his mother’s house out of his already-sweaty tan blazer pocket and re-reads the instructions for the 300th time.

-Enter parking lot via security gate and use code 584323, give them name

-Enter building on west side and go through security

-Someone will be waiting for me?

Shaking his head, he wipes sweat from his mustache and trudges toward the west entrance, straining to pull one of the doors open. The heavy metal doors threaten to shove him back into the outside world—something he would welcome, at this point.

Walking through a maze to get to the metal detectors, he gazes up at the highly vaulted atrium, observing the boring taupe-colored walls, and stopping at a black and white photo of J. Edgar Hoover. Two armored guards with solemn, stony faces wipe their gaze up and down Javier’s figure as he stops just before the metal detector.

“Come through,” one of them barks, beckoning to him to step through. He obliges, before the other stone soldier puts a palm up in Javier’s face. “Need ID.” Javi fishes his wallet out, instinctively reaching for his phantom DEA badge. The guard scans his Texas Driver’s License before handing it to the other guard.

“Any weapons?” One asks, as the other walks behind Javier.

“Nope,” Javi replies, assuming the familiar position of a search, hands posted up high and legs spread. The gruff men pat him down and excavate his pockets, finding nothing but his phone, keys, wallet, and the rumpled envelope with instructions.

“Come this way, Peña.” He follows one to the round front desk to a tall, blue suit, leaning against the counter with a smirk on his face. Javi doesn’t recognize him. Blue Suit stands and holds out a manicured hand to Javier.

“Nice to meet you, Peña,” Blue Suit croons. Javi recognizes the voice as the one that called his mother’s house in Corpus Christi. Javi clasps his hand and shakes it a few times, grunting in approval.

“I’m Eddie Penn, supervisory special agent. You’ll be with me for today—likely for a while,” he says with a grin. Javi raises one eyebrow at him, suspicious. Eddie trots toward some elevator doors, flashing ID at two more armored guards posted up next to them. Javi follows him into the elevator and watches him press a yellow-stained 3.

“How’s the apartment?” Eddie asks as the elevator ascends noisily. Javi shrugs.

“Honestly, I threw all my shit in there last night and haven’t had much of a chance to get any furniture,” he replies, studying the elevator inspection form above the floor number buttons. Eddie chuckles.

“Sorry about that—I was pretty limited on the timeframe and places we could put you. We’ll get you a car and help with furniture,” he apologizes, hands twitching in his pockets. Javi shakes his head, long hair swishing back and forth.

“No worries. I’m assuming this is important,” he says, turning to look at Eddie, eyes narrowing for a millisecond.

“Yes. We’ll discuss everything in my office—the Assistant Director is waiting on the phone for us,” he says as the elevator screeches to a halt, doors opening slowly. The two step out and Eddie leads Javi through a floor of gray cubicles, sounds of telephones ringing and keyboards clacking filling the air.

It’s not too different from DEA offices, Javi thinks. There are more people, more suits and skirts, but the blueprint is the same. Eddie nods his head at several people staring at the pair as they traverse the floor. Javi tries to keep his eyes from meeting anyone’s—he needs to know why he’s here before he starts familiarizing himself with these people.

Eddie opens the door to an office, contents invisible to the floor, save for a narrow window above the handle. There are two chairs facing a small wooden desk, with a giant computer monitor in one corner and a telephone in the other. There’s a small window behind the desk overlooking the city. Eddie gestures to one of the chairs as he steps behind the desk.

Javi sits into one of the stiff, unforgiving cushions as Eddie presses a few buttons and puts the phone on speaker. Javi drums his fingers on the arm of the chair as he stares out the window, somewhat covered by stray hairs of Eddie’s combover. Eddie clears his throat.

“Assistant Director, I’ve got Javier Peña here with me. Glad to have you on the phone.” Great, so Eddie’s a kiss-ass. A muffled, adenoidal voice replies on the other end.

“Thanks, Agent Penn. Javier—it’s great to have you. I read up on your work in Colombia—you’re somewhat of a hero here in the States. What made you leave the DEA?” The Assistant Director asks. Javi leans forward, elbows on his thighs and fingers smoothing his mustache hairs as he recounts his experience in South America.

“Well, sir—to be frank, it’s a shit ton of work trying to catch a drug lord. The time I put in was enough,” Javi says honestly. Eddie snaps his head up to glare at Javier—presumably for the cursing. The Assistant Director laughs, voice even more nasally than before.

“Well, I do appreciate the honesty. When I heard you’d quit DEA I jumped on the opportunity to have you join here,” the AD spouts. Javi raises an eyebrow as he listens.

“Might I ask why?” Javi tests, glancing at the carpeted ground as he waits for a response.

“There’s a large-scale intelligence task force here dedicated to stopping arms and human trafficking in Oklahoma—funny enough, we know Escobar has done some dealings here, but that won’t be your focus.” Javi raises the other eyebrow in surprise.

“In Oklahoma? Interesting—figured he was only invested in Miami and other coastal cities,” Javi ponders. The AD chuckles.

“He was—but he’s learned to be more discreet in his business operations. No thanks to the great work of the DEA.” Javi snorts.

“Anyway, Javier,” the AD continues, “Human trafficking in this part of the country has worsened in recent years. The DEA doesn’t have enough manpower to tackle a problem of this magnitude. So, the FBI has made it a priority.” Javi listens, eyes scanning the room. He leans back in the chair, crossing an ankle over his knee and pursing his lips.

“So, we are going to fast-track you to supervisory special agent, like Agent Penn here—we think your experience with the DEA has more than warranted that role, and your supervisor recommended you for this task force. Sounds like you’ve got some great leadership abilities, Peña. This job will pay well, a bit better than what you were making with the DEA,” the Assistant Director rambles, sounding impressed. Javi widens his eyes.

“Penn here will train you once you pass the field tests—marksmanship, physical, drug tests—you know the drill. Then you’ll hit the ground running with the task force. Any questions?” Javi furrows his brow, thinking.

“Don’t think so,” Javi replies. He knows he can’t back out of this one—it’s a great opportunity, a pay raise—even if it’s in shitty Oklahoma.

“Great. I’ll be in the Oklahoma Office in the next few weeks for a status report. Looking forward to monitoring your progress.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Javi replies. Eddie hangs up the phone and rummages through some manila case files on his desk, handing a thick one to Javi.

“This is what we’ve been working on as of late,” Eddie says. Javi flips open the case file and pulls out some large pictures from the front. Javi glances through photos of suspects, victims, crime scenes, and camera footage. Some are brutal—young girls with brandings and tattoos, bruises and scrapes—some deceased, some barely alive. Javi swallows loudly.

“Some fucking pieces of work that do this shit,” he seethes quietly, jaw ticking. Penn nods.

“It’s tough,” Eddie says, “But we’ve made some great strides here. Sadly, we can’t do everything.”

Javier continues flipping through the case files, now reading field reports. Some are from the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs in Oklahoma, some from OKCPD and other neighboring police departments.

“I’m assuming we work mostly with local LEO departments?” Javi questions, snapping the case file shut. Eddie nods.

“Yep. We try to work cases in conjunction, whenever possible. We also work closely with an AUSA who has taken a liking to this task force.”

“Oh yeah? He tough on crime?” Javi questions, plopping the case file back on Penn’s desk.

“She is,” Eddie says, raising his eyebrows. “Real spitfire, that one. Smart as hell. And between you and me, she’s a sight for sore eyes.” Javi nods, rolling his eyes. He pictures a petite blonde in a pencil skirt. He’s had plenty of those.

“Interesting,” he says.

“You’ll meet her sometime this week, she’s here at least two to three times a week working on cases. Sometimes she’ll go out in the field with us, though she’s not supposed to,” Eddie says. Javi tilts his head at Eddie.

“Why’s that? Likes to keep tabs on the team?” Eddie shakes his head.

“Likes to talk to the victims, meet them, see everything firsthand. Wait ‘til you see her in the courtroom—it’s something else,” Eddie says, reminiscing your powerful opening and closing arguments and connection with members of the jury. Javi is unimpressed.

“Seen enough lawyers to know it’s all a show,” he scoffs. Eddie shrugs. Javi would be in for a real surprise when he finally gets the chance to meet you.

Later that evening, after filling out dozens of forms and answering questions, Javier finds himself at a local tavern, The Dark Horseman, a few minutes from his apartment. The inside lives up to the name—dark and hazy, filled with lots of dark-stained wooden walls, tables, and chairs, with random horse paraphernalia lining the walls.

He’s the only one sitting at the bar, slowly sipping a glass of some cheap whiskey the bartender poured. There’s an old, old jukebox adjacent to the bar blaring some sad Hank Williams ballad. Some people are playing pool at the other end, filling the space with the smacks of billiard balls and random cheers.

The bartender steps in front of Javier, nodding at his soon-to-be empty glass. Javi shakes his head.

“I’m good after this.” The bartender nods again and steps away to wipe down some tables. Javi sets the glass down and pinches the bridge of his nose, craving a cigarette. He’d been trying to quit—but the move and the stress of a new job he knew nothing about had forced him to capitulate in the last few days. He stands, letting the bartender know he’s going for a smoke. As he goes to push the bar door open, someone pulls it from the other side.

There you stand, frozen in place as Javier almost slams into you. Still holding the door, you step back a bit so he can leave. He stares at you for a moment, entranced.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” you apologize, small smile on your face. Javi’s eyes drop to your lips momentarily before hovering at your eyes.

“Not a problem, s’my bad. Excuse me,” he says, mirroring your smile. You’re taken aback at how handsome this stranger is—but you really need a drink after today. He steps out, pulling the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and smacking them against his hand as he watches you walk inside.

You’re tall, probably as tall as him, confident, and elegant, though you’re wearing ratty jeans and a tee shirt. Your eyes are what captivated him the most—beautiful, emotive, weary, yet still glowing. And your scent was unlike any he’d smelled before—earthy, musky, and slightly spicy. He shakes his head as he lights a cigarette, taking a long draw and leaning up against the wall of the tavern.

He doesn’t need to fuck a random stranger his first big day here. What he needs is some food, a shower, perhaps another cigarette, and a long night of tossing and turning. He finishes the cigarette and returns to the brooding bar, noticing you sitting a few chairs down from his glass of whiskey and his tab that the bartender slapped on the wood while he was smoking.

“Come here often?” he asks, almost involuntarily. He winces at how corny he sounds, and you probably think he’s hitting on you. He’s not trying to pick you up, but he is curious. You turn to him as you finish a sip of some amber liquid—whiskey, maybe?

“I try not to, unless I’ve had a bad day,” you say, smiling at him as you set your glass down. Fuck, you’re beautiful. His breath stalls in his lungs for a moment.

“So, if I see you in here again, it won’t be for a good reason,” he says, fighting the urge to wink at you as he signs his tab. He settles for a half smile, one side of his mustache twitching up.

You laugh and half-shrug. He likes the sound of it—breathy, melodious, somewhat subdued. You must be tired.

“There’s a good chance of that, though you look like you’re here for the same reason,” you say, studying him as he turns to you, stuffing his wallet in the pocket of his tan slacks. He snorts.

“Something like that,” he says, eyeing you. You turn to take another sip, and he takes the opportunity to study your features again.

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Stranger That Also Had a Bad Day,” you tell him, pulling a chortle from him. You’re witty—he likes that. He better leave before he sits in the chair next to you.

“Same to you. See you around?” he says, raising a brow at you.

“Good chance of that, too,” you say, giving him a close-lipped smile. He nods at you and exits the bar. He sure hopes so.

Spanish glossary:

Mijo, puedo hacerlo. No necesito ayuda. = My son, I can do it. I don’t need help.

Tómate un descanso, Javier. Por favor. = Take a break, Javier. Please.

Gracias, Mamá. Se parece muy bien. = Thank you, Mom. It looks great.

¡Pendejos estúpidos, déjame sola! = Stupid assholes, leave me alone!

Mijo, algún hombre te llamó. No dio un nombre, solamente un número. Está aquí. = My son, some man called for you. He didn’t give a name, just a number. It’s here.

Gracias, Mamá. Perdóname, por favor. = Thanks, Mom. Excuse me a minute, please.

Chapter 2 (coming soon-ETA 05/23/24)

Taglist: @burntheedges

#javier pena x f!reader #javier pena x you #javier pena smut #javier pena x reader #bloody knuckles

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cinewhore · 1 year ago

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From Russia, With Love

Pairing: Captain Jonathan “John” Price x Fem!reader

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: fighting (reader is a boxer), blood, explosives, coma, angst. Reader is roughly the same age as Price, I don’t do age gaps! If I missed something, let me know.

A/N: Finally getting hip to the COD boys! Reader is referred to as “Memphis” which is the name that was given to her while serving with the 141. I have plans for these two teehee. Also dropped in an Oberyn reference! dedicated to @mikeisthricedeceased & @pettyprocrastination Hope y'all enjoy. Credits to the gif creator.

You wish they would kill you already.

You’ve been in this position for at least two hours, hands tied at the wrist, strung up like a goddamn piñata. You try your best to keep one pointed toe on the ground to help with your fluctuating shifting of weight.

The people responsible for you at the moment circle around you like piranhas, their thirst for blood knowing no end.

“You’re stronger than you look.” the bald one mutters, voice rasped by a long nasty habit of smoking. You hang your head as he approaches, wrinkling your nose against the stench of his warm breath. He rears back and punches you in the stomach again, sending you for a small spin. The ropes tug and burn your skin, the calloused material leaving your wrists rubbed raw.

The other man sits towards the back of the room, watching. It’s all that he did. He never interacted with you, letting the others get their hands dirty for him instead. You could hear the clinking of ice in his glass, a rather calming sound in comparison to the broken moans that slipped out of you as you continued to be pummeled. The ice clinks again once more and the glass is sat down, signifying the man's own interest in the events unfolding in front of him. He waves his head and the bastard gets one more lick at you before he retreats.

You cough and sputter, blood steadily trickles down the side of your mouth. The head honcho finally rises out of his seat and makes his way towards you, hands clasped firmly behind his back. He takes one of his index fingers to lift your chin up, eyes penetrating the depths of your soul. You’ve been in plenty of situations where you gave death the bird and paraded around without a single care for your life but this, this was different.

For once in your life, you were afraid of what the outcome would be.

“You are one with the infamous one-four-one, no?”

You nod weakly.

“You are one with me now. I own you. Do you understand?”

Silence.

“You are a fighter and I admire that. Not once did you break your loyalty to your team but yet, you landed here in my lap. Nearly left one of my men for dead. A silly little boxing game! I can take you to the big leagues, get you out of the gutter you were rotting away in. We can make some big cash, you and me. Just do what I say, when and how I say.”

He does something that scares you more than anything. You were expecting a hard slap, maybe even another punch but no. He kisses your cheek softly and leaves. Within a blink, you were cut down from your post and hoisted up by the others, all careful not to agitate your wounds. You had been inducted into a mob and didn’t even know it.

- TWO YEARS LATER -

It’s the fucking bout of the century.

The crowd sounds like the angry wrath of the sea, a constant white noise in your ear. That is, if you could fucking hear out of the left one. You had taken a hit to the side of your head and you were sure you were concussed but adrenaline kept you up on both feet.

Your mouth is pried open by your cornerman, Usov, who squirts some liquid into it before shutting it. You tilt your head back, swishing it around before spitting it out in the bucket shoved in front of your face. The once clear liquid was now rinsed red. His hands are steady as he tries his best to patch you up, your chief second spewing strategy in half broken english.

“I can’t hear you.” you mutter, wincing when Usov touches a particularly tender area.

“What?”

You point to your left ear. “Can’t fucking hear you.”

Solomin sighs but lowers himself in front of you, angling himself towards your right side. “Better?”

You nod. “Better.”

“You can beat this one, eh? You’re pulling your punches! That is not what I teach you.What should’ve been a clean knock from start, last too long. What are you scared of?”

Failure.

“She’s too quick.” you lie through your teeth, knowing that Solomin could see right through it.

“Yes, she is quick but you are quicker. She’s aiming for your left side because that is where you’re the weakest now. You must use that to your advantage and strike back twice as hard. You are the Red Viper! Never lost a match and now is not the time to start.”

Solomon grabs you by the back of your neck and you force your eyes off of the lights and your opponent in the adjacent corner. “Remember what it took to get here. The position we are both in. Death comes first.”

You didn’t need to turn around to know whose eyes were boring into your back. The whole reason you were here. A rumor spread that he put half a billion dollars on your head for tonight's match.

You could not lose. Too many things were at steak.

The bell tolls and Usov and Solomin give final words of wisdom before you're thrusted up off your stool and back into the ring.

Nodding your head furiously, you begin prancing along on your feet, smashing your boxing gloves together in a steady rhythm.

The boss smirks as he senses a burst of energy in you, knowing that you were gonna bring it home to glory. The cigar he puffs on rests gently between his fingers, other hand preoccupied by the drumming of his digits. He could smell the copious amounts of cash you were gonna rake in for him and he desperately needed a vacation to the beach. Russian winters weren’t his favorite.

The ref signals for the next round to start and you’re off. You buzz around the ring like it's nobody's business, landing hit after hit. The crowd goes crazy as you corner your opponent, striking her viciously. The Red Viper never gives up until its prey is defeated.

But today, the Red Viper gets a surprise attack.

You do the one thing you were told to never do and that’s look into the crowd. Even for a millisecond, you shift your focus and gaze up. It’s almost as if your body had been taken over, forcing you to give in to curiosity.

Jonathan Price stands smack dab in the middle of a section, beanie low and chiseled arms crossed against his chest. He sees you and knows that you see him. A mistake so fatal you knew you were done before the moment passed.

A glove crashes into your face, hard, and you are down for the count.

Everyone in the crowd stumbles up to their feet, swarming into a frenzy. The once mysterious now beloved fighter was on the ground for the first time in her entire career. This was not good for business.

One.

You attempt to steady your breathing, eyes glossed over in a hypnotic haze. With a few slow blinks, the ring had vanished. You were laying on the ground amidst rubble, body emitting a low throb. Your brain kept signaling to the rest of your body that you were in danger but you couldn’t react.

“She’s over here!” you could hear the accent of Soap as he began to hurl slabs of concrete out of the way, creating a path that led straight to you.

Two.

Your head was supported as hands grabbed at you, lifting you from what you thought your final resting place would be. You were trying hard to form words but could not get your mouth to cooperate. It was as if you were weightless, floating aimlessly among the dark sky. In reality you were being carried by Soap and Gaz, who had taken you to the waiting chopper that was now clearing ground and transporting your team to safety.

You thought you had enough time to clear the explosive but you just weren’t fast enough and caught the brunt of it.

Three.

You waver in and out of consciousness, the various faces of your team pleading for you to stay with them. You wanted to! They were your family, your safe haven and backbones. You’d take a bullet for each and every one of them. You didn’t expect the bullet to be a goddamn rocket launcher.

The injuries were extensive. The medic was sure that you wouldn’t be able to walk again, much less be mobile on your own. He expected you to make a lengthy recovery if you ever came out of a coma. Days turned into weeks and that slipped into months.

Work never ceased. The boys felt terrible leaving your side but they knew that they couldn’t sit around and wait for your eyes to open, if they ever did. Price was hit the most, an unspoken thing between the two of you. He showed no sign of emotion when others were around but when it was just the two of you, he poured his heart out. He urged you to wake up, to return back to him and the 141.

You never did.

Four.

He was leading a mission in Mexico when you woke up. He didn’t receive the message until a week after and when he returned, you were gone. Upon asking the medic where you went, the poor fellow just shrugged.

“What do you mean you don’t know where she went?”

“I already told you. She was awake, given clearance to continue her healing at home, some guy came to pick her up and she vanished.”

Some guy. Your brother.

You kept your familial background to yourself but had let Price know that you had an older brother who stayed in trouble. He was too smart for his own and that often caused him to get into situations he could never really quite get out of.

Five.

He knew that if he probed enough, he could find out your whereabouts but knew you. If you wanted him to know where you were, you would’ve told him. So, he waited. And waited.

Six.

Your eyes roll around as you regain some sort of composure, legs shaking as you push yourself up off the ground.

“Holy shit.” Solomin whispers as the ref checks in with you quickly before jumping out of the way of your opponent. You smack your glove against your head, trying to get your head straight before you entered hell again.

The ref waves his head and you are back in the throes of war, clinging onto any semblance of hope left.

Your opponent swaggers over to you with a smug look on her face, certain that with another good hit or two, you’d be on your ass for good. You match her energy and smile widely, bloodied mouth and split lips creating a ghastly image. The Red Viper was no longer here, she was now replaced by a dead woman walking.

The hot water stings as you stand underneath the flow of the cascading shower. After a brief examination, you learn the outcome of the fight. You suffered a concussion, temporary hearing loss in your left ear, bruised ribs and cheekbone swelling along with the usual cuts and bruises. Pretty chill for such a huge occasion. You’re easy with yourself as you slowly wander back into your locker room, Solomin and Usov conversing quietly.

You had zero intentions of interacting with the cameras and groupies that awaited you beyond the doors, wanting to go home and fall victim to your bed. You knew that you had to remain alert for a few more hours given your injuries and Solomin normally stuck with you through them.

“You look like hell.” Your coach grins and you shrug him off, dropping your towel to the ground. Solomin turns his back to you as you manage to slip on a shirt and loose shorts, rolling your neck around.

“Been there and it’s honestly not as bad as it seems.” you reply, groaning as you flex a muscle in your arm.

“I hear the boss is very happy. He wants to celebrate tonight.”

You give Solomin a look and he nods, wringing his hands together. You weren’t one for the nightlife and knew that partying with the man who wagered such a high bet on your life wasn’t the best idea. Besides, you were in no shape to be around throngs of people and loud music.

“Maybe some other time, hm? I’d like to crash if that’s ok with you.”

“Doctor says you must rest for a minute,” Usov cuts in. “Are you hungry? I can get us some kebabs. We can eat here and wait for the people to leave.”

You honestly couldn’t stomach anything but nodded politely at Usov’s suggestion. He claps his hands together, patting you softly on the back as he exits the room. As he leaves, he passes by two individuals, brushing shoulders with one.

“Извини́.” Excuse me.

A guard stands at the entrance to your room and holds a hand out as the two men approach.

“No fans past the barrier. Fuck off.”

Price looks at the masked man beside him. “We’re here for a business proposition, per the boss's orders.”

The men looked extremely American, or at least not in the slightest bit Russian, to him and his stance falters. Their accents weren’t American though and he didn’t know what to make of it.

“We’re comrades of the fighter.”

“You’re not friends unless she says you are.” the guard retorts. So much for a smooth plan.

The door behind the guard swings open and Solomin steps out, a cigarette in his hand. He knew you dislike smoking and walked out to indulge in his habit. You feel that sinking feeling return to your stomach and you glance at the door, spotting Price and Ghost being hassled by the guard.

The guard turns to you, clearly flustered. “Do not worry, I will get rid of them.” He assures you but you motion at him to stop. Solomin can tell something is amiss by your cagey stance and lingers, awaiting your instruction.

You stare at the two men from your past, millions of memories flashing through your brain vividly. You had half a mind to tell them to kiss your ass, to have them sent away but once again, your inquisitive side wins.

“Let them in.”

You jerk your head at Solomin who continues on his quest to smoke. The guard makes way and your old teammates enter your locker room, the door clicking shut behind them.

Ghost stands back as Price draws near. Your breathing quickens at his scent, causing your throat to tighten.

“Hello, Memphis.”

#captain johnathan price #john price x you #john price x female reader #captain price x reader #captain price x female reader #captain price x you

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kxjostarr · 8 days ago

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Totally not offended by that comment.

#liquid smoke; ic post #keen eyes; dash watching #she's like 'how dare u great great grandpappy >:c'

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running-with-the-feels · 10 months ago

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Wraith Kuai Liang Au Headcanons again(some fluff and then angst):

* Kuai Liang and Hanzo have taken up therapy painting together, a way for Kuai Liang to feel like he has more semblance of control over himslef and doesn’t need to be ordered on the whim of others like his existence as a wraith, while it’s a way for Hanzo to work out his complex and more heightening emotional issues.

* Sarena lives with the Lin Kuei, Kuai Liang has hidden here from Raiden and the special forces after saving her as he remembers her from his day as a wraith and her connection to her brother, she was one the one that showed empathy to him as a wraith. She’s Frost’s and Takeda’s wine aunt basically.

* As a wraith appearance wise Quan Chi ensured that Kuai Liang much like Bi-Zhan was unregonizle as possible as a Wraith

* He no longer wore any blue, the only sign of it was the hints of silver and blue blood from the visible veins on his skin reminiscent to the liquid that ran through his cybernetic body.

* He resembled a sickly and rotting dragonic man, bone like claws and long fangs dripping with posion, twisted horns that were chipped and broken. His clothing was a twisted version of his Lin Kuei uniform stained with so much blood it no longer contained bits of blue, with misc pieces of his cyber body making up as armour. The scars from when he was torn apart when becoming a cyborg are prominent.

* His eyes were a bit less drastic change, no longer blue, brown, or even purely white like Scorpion but a red that matched Quan Chi’s own.

* He works closely with his clan’s medics having gained the trust to let them use his poison abilities for antidotes and medicine

* His poison abilities allow him to make different types of poison and venom, from snake venom to acidic posion similar to reptile.

* Post being restored, his years as a wraith have still affected him in strange ways, he gets chronic migraines and head pain from both his horns being unnatural, but also his mind having been through so much trauma and having his head fucked with so much. But as well he find himself becoming more tolerant of heat.

* Hanzo and Kuai Liang are technically married, they had a small ceremony and was not known to many besides close friends like Kenshi, Johnny, and Jax( who were told by the kombat kids)

* Kuai Liang’s hair has gotten long and often the children of the clan’s are allowed to style it because he can’t say no to them. His style is eccentric already because he wears a lot of jewelry made by them anyway.

* Had the autopsy scars from the cyber Lin Kuei even after being restored, he covers them up as much as possible, his headband covers the one on his head. He hates having it touched.

* Raiden and Kuai Liang’s relationship is far more aggressive as well, Raiden’s behavior is far worse in this Au, far more unhinged that even those close to him like his brother have distanced themselves. Hell a lot of the newer Lin Kuei recruits are from the Wu Shi Academy have deflecting like Kung Jin who joined the Lin Kuei after Takeda said Kuai Liang would be willing to help him.

* Could not speak as a wraith and it fucked up his vocal cords even when he was away from Quan Chi’s control so he often spoke in short sentences, it takes a good long recovery for it to heal properly. In the same vein during moments of extreme anger or bitterness there is a subtle distorted hiss in his voice much like when he was a wraith.

* Ice skates frequently with frost, ended up teaching Takeda and even does more advanced dance moves found in ice skating with Hanzo, Hanzo is suffering

Some Headcanons with the events of Mk11 in mind:

* Both Noob Saibot, young Bi-Han, young smoke, cyber Subzero make their appearance

* Almost none of them recognize Kuai Liang when they meet him without his mask, like in an uncanny valley way, he’s far older and his appearance changed drastically due to his years as a wraith.

* Bi-Han was more or less manipulated into thinking it was an version of himself that took a darker path, that he needed to kill because this version killed Kuai Liang( idea from a video on YouTube bascially with young Bi-Han who was unaware of anything that happened post his own death)

* Cyber Subzero is one of the many minions of Kronika who is under control of Sektor. Can’t kill him due to being the past version of Kuai Liang, without him existing Kuai Liang would fade away.

* Smoke and Cyrax say a similar phrase to Kuai Liang like in mk11, commenting on how old Kuai Liang is after learning it’s him.

* Noob Saibot is more less instead of fighting his brother wants him to rejoin his side in death as his second in command because he knows Kuai Liang was turned into a wraith and wants his brother to regain that power again.

eeeeeeeeeeeeee I've missed this au!

Kuai Liang is actually a really good artist, having been taught by his father and sister before they died. As much as the therapy painting helps him heal from being a wraith, it also helps him process his grief over their deaths and lets him feel close to them

Sareena and Kuai Liang don't have much in common, but they each try their best to take care of the other to honor Bi-Han's memory

After being freed from Quan Chi's control, Kuai Liang starts to regain his original appearance very slowly, though not fully until he's made human again. This leaves him with a monster form that he can switch into at will where his poison powers are at their strongest.

He cannot stand the sight of the colour red now, due to the blood that had dyed his armor as a wraith

his eyes stay red after being restored and he hates it

There's a type of tea that helps with the chronic pain, though it doesn't fix it, that can only be gathered in outworld

Kuai Liang and Hanzo got married in secret with the kombat kids not finding out for months afterwards, they wanted it to be something that was just theirs

Kuai Liang ends up getting piercings once the kids start making him earrings. he looks in the mirror once and for a moment thinks he's looking at his mother (she had long hair and a lot of piercings too) and Hanzo finds him crying a little bit later

Kuai Liang and Kung Jin actually become quite close, bonding over their experiences in Outworld. Cassie ends up joining the Lin Kuei too in order to be with Frost, while Jacqui goes to the Shirai Ryu to marry Takeda before Raiden can stop her

There are days when Kuai Liang struggles to speak even now, leading to him and Hanzo learning sign language

Frost didn't know how to skate until Kuai Liang taught her, claiming that it was necessary for all cryomancers to know how to move on ice (he's just looking for an excuse to bond

Mk11

Kuai Liang is desperate to reconnect with Smoke, Cyrax, and Bi-Han (And Hydro who also comes back) and is deeply hurt by Bi-Han trying to kill him (side note, someone please give me the link to that youtube video

They can't kill cyber subzero, but they can disable him, so Hanzo does that to prevent Kuai Liang from having to see it, knowing it will cause more nightmares

Bi-Han and Kuai Liang's reunion is full of tears and shouting bc neither can comprehend why the other has chosen the side they have

#kuai liang #wraith kuai liang au #hanzo hasashi #subscorp #frost mk #bi han #mortal kombat 11

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thoughtfulfoxllama · 1 year ago

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Ok, so it's Fast Sunday in my Ward, and I'm eating Graham Crackers in my In-Laws Ward Lobby, so let's talk about Fasting

Fasting in Mormonism is pretty basic: no food or drink for 24 hours or 2 meals. I never said basic was simple though, so let's deconstruct that

For one, why is it 24 hours or 2 meals? Are we supposed to only eat 2 meals a day? Honestly, I have no idea. Pres Joseph F Smith moved the Church's Fast Day to Sunday (it was Thursday before then) in the early 1900s, and defined a fast as evening to evening. So, maybe the idea of 2 meals or 24 hours is whether you eat Dinner before you start your fast or not (in 1976, Pres Nelson wrote an Ensign Article, where he said that Fasts should be 2 Meals, with no indication of 24 hours, meaning that, to him at least, Evening Meals should not be skipped)

Next, what's considered "food and drink?" Does water count, for example? Everything I've found says "it's personal." In Utah, the custom is to not drink water, but in order to understand what's allowed, we must look at the purpose of fasting. The Purposes of a Fast are increased spiritual connection & to help the poor and needy through increased empathy (encouraging is to help them) and generous fast offerings. If you ask me, not drinking water is counterintuitive to the first purpose. So, I understand the traditional LDS Fast to deal with Calories & Pleasure. If you can, abstain from food, and liquids aside from water. If you can't (for example, I need to eat with my medicine), then eat plain foods as needed

But, we're not the only Faith that requires Fasting. How do they do it (there's definitely more, but these are the ones I'm familiar with):

Judaism: Judaism has several fast days. In addition to optional fasting on Mondays, Thursdays, and the day before the start of the month, they have 6 main fasts. 4 of them are from Dawn to Dusk, but the 9th of Av Fast & Yom Kippur fasts are from Sunset to Sunset, with an abstinence from all Food and Drinks (with additional abstinence from Leather Shoes, Bathing, and Sexual Relations on Yom Kippur). And since Yom Kippur is tomorrow, I wish a Meaningful Yom Kippur to any Jewish People who come across this post before the fast

Islam: In Islam, they have the Month of Ramadan. During this month, Muslims will abstain from all Food, Drink, Tobacco, Sexual Relations, and Sinful Behavior (such as swearing) during daylight hours, instead replacing them with Prayer & Study of the Quran. They also have 2 meals, one before the fast, and one after

Christian: Christianity has so many branches, so obviously has the most distinctions. Many Christians practice a Eucharistic Fast (where they fast before taking the Eucharist, or in Mormon Terms, the Sacrament). Early Christians would also fast on Wednesday & Friday, to commemorate the Betrayal & Death of the Savior. There are also 2 seasons of fasting: Lent & Advent. Lent begins with a fast from all Food and Liquid (known as a Black Fast) on Ash Wednesday, and ends with a Black Fast on Good Friday. During Lent, Christians abstain from a certain bad habit they have (such as smoking), and are expected to increase their Prayer, Study, and Alms (or Fast Offerings as we'd call them). On Fridays during Lent (as well as all Wednesdays & Fridays in Orthodox Christianity), they participate in a Lesser Fast, where one lessens food intake (2 small meals during sunlight hours) and only need abstain from Olive Oil, Dairy Meat, and Fish until sundown. There's also the Daniel Fast, which was a diet where only Kosher food could be eaten, but now refers to only eating Whole Grains, Fruits, Vegetables, Pulses, Nuts, Seeds, and Oils (for the Lesser Fast & the Daniel Fast, that's just being Vegan. So I guess Vegans really are holier than I /j)

Faith of the Seven (A Song of Ice & Fire): I know it's not a real religion, but it came to mind when typing. Whenever Priests in this religion saw the need, they would fast from everything except Bread & Water. (Warning, if done for 40 days straight, this can lead to death and being known as a fanatical king)

Long story short: don't judge how people fast. Not everyone fasts the same way, or even can. I fast from everything except water. I also fast at the New Moon. But if you can only handle a Daniel Fast, then as long as you use it as an opportunity to serve your fellow man (direct service or fast offerings), and come closer to God, that's what matters

#mormon #lds #tumblrstake #queerstake #fasting #mormon fast #fast sunday

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deepdreamnights · 11 months ago

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Halloween Leftovers

Prompt: a painting of smoke in a dark hallway, in the style of expressive figurative abstraction, made of liquid metal, dark white and violet, organic biomorphic forms, digital art techniques, action painting, delicate ink washes:: an ice cream cone that is white, in the style of post-apocalyptic landscapes, digital expressionism, dutch marine scenes, fish-eye lens, palette knife work, romanticized country life

Prompt smashing makes for odd gens.

The image(s) above in this post were made using an autogenerated prompt and/or have not been modified/iterated extensively. As such, they do not meet the minimum expression threshold, and are in the public domain.

#unreality #midjourney v5 #generative art #ai artwork #public domain art #public domain #free art #auto-generated prompt

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patowrd · 1 year ago

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dando fic snippet pt. 5 😳 (one day soon i'll actually post the first third of this fic - i promise - but for now have a dando club scene)

Of course it’s Carlos’ idea to go clubbing.

Everyone’s here, even Max, and everyone seems keen on getting absolutely fucking hammered. Daniel can’t remember if he has anything planned for tomorrow, so he orders a gin and tonic, specifying “double” as the bartender nods.

“Feeling brave, are we Danny?” Max asks. He's nursing a pint, an orange slice floating languidly in his glass.

“Feeling like I’ve got nothing to lose mate,” he shouts over the house groove. He brings the glass to his lips and swallows, inhaling through his teeth as the alcohol scrapes its way down his throat. He loves this feeling, the bitter bite of the tonic lingering on his tongue. It fades to soft sweetness as he turns to the bartender, ordering another before he even leaves the bar.

He's aiming to get drunk enough to silence the nagging worry in his brain. Lando and Carlos have found their way onto the dance floor, and Daniel can’t help but stare at Carlos’ hands, which smooth down the faux-satin fabric of a girl’s slip as they sway, wordless. There's something enticing about the rhythm they’ve found, the breathless buzz of a couple of beers and two endorphin-seeking hearts. Daniel can’t remember the last time he’s felt that rush, the novelty of an unknown body pressed against him close as he loses himself in sensation, in pure feeling. He hasn’t had time lately, at least that’s what he’s told himself, that between standing behind the bar and smoking at the back door he’s had no break long enough to taste a stranger’s gin-soaked lips. He finds the need growing in him though, a need which crests as Carlos grips her waist, one hand firm as the other gently cradles the small of her back.

He pretends the bartender’s eyebrow doesn’t raise when he orders his third drink.

The table Daniel finds (as far away from Carlos as he can manage, so that the ache he feels when he watches can subside), is covered in a film of spilled drinks and cigarette ash. He sits alone and stares at the ice melting in his glass, wondering whether he’d better order a fourth or just head home and call it a day. Maybe this isn’t him anymore, he thinks, maybe he’s too far gone to go back to partying, to be the kind of person who, easy as breathing, can find someone to share a dance floor with. He downs the drink and inhales sharp, and he’s a second away from standing up when someone smacks him across the shoulder and sits in the booth opposite him.

“Danny!” Lando says, something strong and sweet on his breath. and then, in mock sadness, “Man you’re all alone out here.”

Daniel laughs, pretending the remark doesn’t sting something deep within his heartstrings, “Ah, and you’re drunk”

“You’re not?” he asks, eyes gliding over Daniel’s now empty glass.

“Nah, not yet buddy”

“Well we��ve gotta work on that” Lando says, matter of fact, a playful smirk on his lips, “Don’t wanna leave our guest all by himself to sulk.”

There's a beat where Daniel says nothing, his eyes fixed on Lando’s own, which stare back, unwavering. The smirk doesn’t fade, and Daniel notices how it spreads to Lando's eyes, how he stares back like a trickster, taunting, teasing.

A sharp inhale as he looks away, “So, you’re a bit of a dick, hm?”

Lando giggles, taking a sip of his drink and fiddling with the straw, “Only when I don’t know you”

“Planning to get to know me?

“Not before another drink” and it’s then that Daniel notices the concoction in Lando's glass, a dark red and orange liquid swirling and swishing as Lando twirls the straw around.

“God, what are you even drinking?”

Lando's eyebrows rise as he blushes, a smile (bashful now, Daniel thinks, fascinatingly bashful) drawing itself across his features. He takes a sip and pretends to really be evaluating it, his inexperience showing as he replies “Dunno really.” a further sip, where he swishes it around in his mouth like he’s at a wine tasting, an impression which has Daniel doubled over laughing, unsure if Lando's really that funny or if the three g&ts have finally had their effect.

When he swallows, Lando wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, lips turning a plush red as he adds, “I just let Carlos order for me usually.”

Daniel swipes the tear away from his eye, trying not to look too much like a smitten schoolgirl finally talking to her crush, “God i’ve got to teach you about actually good drinks some time,” his smile is honest here, bright and luminous, “Honestly i’ll bartend at the villa, free of charge.”

And Lando only laughs at the offer, his head thrown back and eyes screwed shut.

Daniel thinks that, at least as far as he can remember, he’s never seen a boy quite this beautiful.

#im getting impatient w myself atp honestly bc i just wanna post it but im too attached to this fic i keep editing #lmao #anyway if any of u like this dont post it on twt and tag daniel or anything 😭#daniel ricciardo #ricciardo #lando norris #norris #dando #txt

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