#mirror on the wall - whos the most stubborn of them all?

[beccel]

Bonus:

[glitterguts13]

Who would the genshin boys deal with a baby stuck in their pussy. The baby is just there, but every time they stop pushing to breathe, the baby sinks back into their pussy. All they can do is get the baby to a soft bulge before the baby undos their progress

Oh LORD that's just the hottest fucking shit isn't it? Let's go through them one at a time!

Mondstadt

Albedo Oh, he is so frustrated. This isn't how this is supposed to work, he pushes, and the baby comes out. But no matter how hard he tries, his stubborn child just won't come out. Sucrose can just watch, teary eyes, and unable to really do anything. They aren't in distress, just stubborn. Albedo is thankfully clear-headed and able to keep his calm, but he's no less irritated.

Bennett

Of course, this would happen to Benny. He's squatting down over a mirror, trying to see what's happening down there under his heaving belly. Every push causes his little one's head to bulge, starting to burn, but he can't push hard enough to actually get it to crown. He's a crying mess, but he never gives up.

Diluc Stubborn man refuses to ask for help while he's struggling to push the baby out. He's locked in his room, standing braced against the wall. Gravity should be helping, but his baby just won't move. He can feel it pushing free, spreading his pussy open, but in the end, it just keeps slipping back in.

Kaeya Oh, it is everyone's problem. He is screaming, tired, and thoroughly frustrated with the lack of progress. He cursed up a storm, damning everyone and everything because this baby is just stubbornly resting right there. So close, but not close enough.

Mika Poor thing, he's a sobbing mess. He can feel the head under his fingertips when he pushes, but each time he stops to gasp for air, they sink right back inside. There's nothing he can do but keep trying, and praying they'll finally come out.

Razor He's out in the woods, surrounded by the wolves. On all fours, grunting and groaning the most feral sounds. The baby is so close, he knows he can get it out if he just tries harder! But... every time they just slip right back inside.

Venti He's stumbling through the back alleys of Mondstadt looking for somewhere to rest. Heavy in labor, each time he stops to push the head starts to bulge, but it never gets much further. He's tired, and sore, and just wants it to be over.

Liyue

Baizhu The panic is intense and he loses all his composure. He's not strong enough to get them out, he's witnessed people die during childbirth. His own health is terrible on a good day, and deep into labor without the power to expel his baby, he's certain this is how he dies.

Chongyun Swears up and down his child must be a demon for tormenting him this way. Each push brings it right there, so close- but every time he stops, all his progress is wiped away.

Gaming He's got his family by his side, his mother is worried sick. She'd had the same trouble with him, and is by his side, wiping his face and holding his hand. Gaming is screaming and crying, he can feel them under his palm, he's so close to meeting his baby- till they slide right back inside his aching cunt.

Xiao Honestly handles it a little too well. After you've endured the worst pain known to mankind, a stubborn baby is manageable. Not that he isn't exhausted, annoyed, and fed up. He wants this baby out, and it isn't budging.

Xingqui Crying, screaming, gagging, begging. He can't get it out, he just can't. The healers are holding his legs back as far as they can go, but nothing is working to get that stubborn baby to crown.

Zhongli More annoyed than anything. Like Xiao, he's been around a very long time, and he's been through much worse. He's tired, aching all over, fingers constantly slipping into his aching pussy to graze over the head. It's fascinating, but he would like for it to be over now.

Inazuma Arataki Itto Moaning and groaning through the whole thing, deep into a squat. His baby is large, little horns constantly poking into the tender folds of his cunt each time he bares down. He's going to rip open when they finally decide to crown fully.

Ayato Inazuma customs be damned, he is screaming. To hell with what everyone else thinks, to hell with being proper. He's got a baby stuck in his pussy, tormenting him with each weakening push. The midwives look on with sympathy, all they can do is support him since neither are in any real danger.

Gorou Humiliated and ashamed. Kokomi is helping him the best she can, but with his legs spread wide apart, he can see her wince each time the first of his litter slips back inside his belly alongside its littermates. It's going to be a long night.

Kazuha Stays pretty calm, sort of just letting it happen. Pausing between pushes to pant, he takes a moment to brush his fingers over the top of his baby's head, marveling at how amazing it feels. Not the birth part, that part sucks, but the fact his baby is right there.

Heizou Tired, too tired to keep pushing. If his baby wants to stay inside, it can just stay inside. He's not got the energy to keep going.

Thoma Whoever said childbirth was beautiful lied. Each push sends another splattering of fluid gushing around the head, all over the floor he just polished a few days prior. Stubborn child, causing so many problems already.

Sumeru Alhaitham He knows he needs to keep calm and focus. Slow, even breaths, putting all his strength into pushing. It's beyond frustrating to keep them slipping back inside after each attempt, but he knows if he keeps going, something will eventually give.

Cyno Buns come out of ovens a lot easier than this. Nothing funny about having a baby stuck in your cunt while in the middle of a sandstorm. Luckily, with no one around he can keep traveling in between pushes.

Kaveh There isn't a soul in Sumeru who doesn't know what's happening. Kaveh is screaming bloody murder the whole way, swearing up and down he's dying. This must be some sort of divine punishment because there has never been anything more miserable than feeling his baby refusing to come out. Sethos Crying, but doing his best to keep calm. Panic won't help the situation, but it's getting hard not to. Each push sends him closer and closer into a panic attack because why?? Why isn't it coming out??

Tighnari Is fully aware this can happen, but why to him? He's got a full litter in his tummy, ticking and tumbling away, furious that their sibling is halting their progress. Each push is instantly undone when he stops to breathe, sending it right back alongside its unborn siblings.

Fontaine

Freminet Poor thing. He's quiet as a mouse aside from a few whimpers, but it's growing tiring very quickly. His siblings are beside him, coaxing him through it, but they both look grim at the sight of his baby constantly sliding back inside of his dripping pussy.

Lyney Shouting and cursing. The pain is bad enough, but the disapproving look he's getting from Father is so, so much worse.

Neuvillette Locked up in his bathroom soaking in a cool tub, sobbing quietly. The pressure is so intense, and nothing he does is relieving it. Pushing seems so useless, and he wants nothing more than to pull it out. Wrio Not really calm, but quiet and level-headed. Focuses all his efforts into pushing, bracing himself against his office desk as he does so. The head keeps poking out just enough to give him some hope, before it vanishes inside of cunt once more, leaving him irritated and tired. Fatui Dottore Furious, filled with rage. Violently pushes against his belly, legs spread apart on one of his own medical tables. Swearing and cursing, soaked with sweat and wondering if the reason it's stuck has anything to do with the fact it isn't human-

Capitano Doesn't show a single sign that anything is wrong, or that he's even in labor. He's in the middle of a meeting with the other Harbingers, naked from the waist down under his cloak with a baby stuck in his cunt. Pushing quietly when no one is looking.

Pantalone Held up in his office. Anyone who enters is as good as dead, and if this stubborn brat doesn't come out in the next 5 minutes he's going to slam his gut into the corner of his desk to force it out.

Pierro Same thing with Capitano, you'll never know and it's most likely happening right in front of someone.

Tartaglia Unfortunately, he's well aware this can happen because his mother struggled with all of her births. Unfortunately, he's alone, without help in the middle of a mission. Keeps pushing, but nothing helps, cursing each time he feels it retracting into his birth canal.

Wanderer Having the body of a puppet doesn't make him exempt from such troubles. Maybe it causes more trouble because his pussy doesn't stretch as much as a human's should, and each push is met with firm resistance from his modified body, keeping it firmly lodged in his pussy.

[phyrestartr]

My World Ends With You (1/2) | Miguel O'hara x M!Reader

Miguel x Husband!Reader W/C: 4.7k

#SFW, hurt/comfort, infidelity, toxic relationships, brief verbal abuse, mending relationships, difficult/complex feelings and emotions, things work out in the end, nobody dies, the zombies aren't that important, old men just really going through it, ZOMBIES BABEY

Note: Tis a continuation of Till Death Do Us Part . Would rec reading that first lest you get mad confused

--

“Did Miguel cheat on you?” 

The question caught you off guard. As far as you knew, only a handful of people got the gist of what happened, and even fewer knew the exact reason why everything systematically fell apart. 

“How'd you–who told you?” You asked Gwen, surprise and trepidation creasing your brow. 

The young lady shrugged and crossed her arms over her chest tighter as she leaned toward the fire you'd made–the one you made out of pure restlessness from staying inside for too long. You decided to pretend you were out in the great outdoors like the old days, and set up a ring of rocks and chairs on the roof to escape the fluorescent lights and white walls. Evidently, Gwen needed a break from it all, too.

“Gabi.” She fiddled with her toque and cleared her throat. “She, uh--y'know. She mentioned it.” 

“Huh.” Your gaze wandered away from Gwen, and back to the fire. “I didn't think she'd remember.” 

“How old was she? When it happened, I mean.” 

“Must've been 11. We split when she was 13, I'm pretty sure.” You sighed and leaned back in your shitty old soccer mom chair. “Guess we were bad at hiding it.”

“Pretty hard to hide that kinda thing from your kid,” Gwen mumbled, dwelling on something ancient and sore in the depths of her memories. “They're more perceptive than you think.” 

You nodded. The stars caught your attention and you stared up, gazing upon the winking lights and shooting comets flying by. Most of those celestial bodies were there when everything happened. Did they remember, too? Were they haunted, too?

“Yeah. My parents thought I didn't know nothin’ either. They didn't know how wrong that was,” you agreed. 

“So he did cheat on you?” Gwen asked. You nodded. She scoffed. “But--why? He always acts so lovey-dovey and gross around you. Why would he–?”

“Good people do bad things,” you said, and continued before she could cut in, “‘n bad people do good things, sometimes.” 

“So which camp is he in?” She asked.

“Pretty sure he's mostly good.” 

“Pretty sure?” 

You chuckled. “I've met ‘bad guys,’ believe me.” You took a breath and nudged some logs around in the fire with a stick. “Miguel ain't like them. He's full of himself, arrogant, stubborn ‘n all that, but he's helped people. He's helping people, even if he's got a crap attitude about it.” 

“Right,” Gwen breathed. Her voice carried something heavy with it. Something uncertain and unwavering, like the teeter of winter into spring, or thunder that wondered if it might rain. Her restless energy mirrored the fire as it roiled and spat brilliant sprays of embers into the cold, night sky; only, the fire would eventually die down, calm itself into blackened coals. Gwen’s torch would not fade as such. 

“You think he’s a bad guy?” You asked. 

“Never really thought he was a good guy.” She rubbed the back of her neck before sighing. “But. Yeah.  Never thought he was a bad guy, either. Kinda feels like a vigilante, or something. But less cool.”

You smiled when you peered over at her. “Maybe like an antihero?” 

“Way less cool than that, but yeah. Sure. An antihero,” she huffed. “But you’re a blue-blood. I don’t think those types are supposed to get along.” 

That made you laugh. “I think they get along pretty well. They do in the comics, even if they don’t see eye-to-eye on everything.” 

Gwen rolled her eyes. “You mean most things?”

You nodded. “Yeah, most things.” You tucked your hands into your pockets and gazed up again, this time losing your thoughts to the endless void of grey sweeping in and devouring all light in the sky. “You don't need to worry about me, Gwen. There’re more–”

“More important things to worry about?” She finished, not sounding too impressed. “Feels like you're using the end of the world as an excuse.” 

You frowned, and wiped the dew of melted snowflakes from your cheek. “Maybe you got yourself a point, there.” 

–

You were the new kid in year 12. Normally, no one gave a shit–it was New York, after all–but you had a tendency to catch everyone's attention when you never sought to try. 

You were a country boy. A fella with a strange tendency to be kind and hold doors open for ladies or help some sorry idiot pick up their dropped assignment. That gentle lilt in your voice, the only evidence that you weren't from the city, always had people staring your way. Boys would mock you, especially when their girls flushed soft colours and whispered while they glanced your way. It didn't help that you were handsome as all hell, too. 

And one day, like a fucking fairytale, Miguel finally ran into you and got hit with the triple threat that was your accent, face, and genuinity–what he didn't expect, however, was to meet you at the Kwan's ranch.

You were clad in boots and jeans and a stupid cliche cowboy hat hung around your neck, hiding the impressive display of shoulder blades flexing and rippling with strong muscle as you shoveled and cleaned out the old hay and debris from the stables. Something warm and melodious trilled under your breath as you worked, and it beckoned like a siren's song--so captivating Miguel couldn't help himself. 

“Hey,” he said. 

You looked over your broad shoulder and blinked a few times, like you were showing off the brilliant hue of your eyes on purpose. A kindly smile made you shine brighter, too, like the sun somehow lit you up from within. 

“Howdy,” you said. 

“Howdy?” Miguel snorted and tucked his hands into the pockets of his shorts as he wandered in. “That's a little too country, isn't it?” 

“Is it now?” The twang in your voice must’ve been fake. No normal person sounded like they were ripped straight from a Western. “Maybe you're just too city.” 

“Hm.” Miguel crossed his arms and leaned against a beam as he watched you continue to work. “Maybe.” 

“Come on, now,” you laughed, “I can smell the city on you. Could probably taste it, too, if I could.” 

Miguel's face burned. His heart pitter-pattered just a little bit faster, soon going a lot faster when he registered the wink you threw his way. Were you flirting? Was it working? Was Miguel swooning? 

Yes, yes and yes. 

–

“Y'know, you don't have to be such a busy body,” Miguel said, wandering into the lab-turned-greenhouse. He had to admit, it looked good. Peaceful. And it certainly helped with keeping everyone fed and happy. So did your presence at Alchemax; you and Gabriella felt like a fresh coat of paint on a beat-up old car. A nice change. Good additions. 

And Miguel felt complete now that you were with him, too. There were still issues, still things to work out and problems to talk about, but it felt nice to work towards something selfish and meaningful. Something that was wholly and unabashedly for him and him alone.

But you were such a restless man. All day, every day, Miguel found you working; clearing snow, repotting, sowing seeds, cleaning, teaching, handyman-ing were all on your resume of husband material and so clearly those skills ruled your mind every waking hour of every day. It didn't help that the other folks In the colony realized just how much of a do-gooder sweetheart you were. Miguel was one more flirty comment away from nuking the building. 

But the way you smiled in the face of adversity let him keep a reasonable cool. Whether it was your awkward attempt to be cordial with someone who so clearly thirsted for you and your attention, or in a sheepish and innocently guilty way whenever Miguel called you out for working too much, you had a way of melting his frigid heart into something cool and light like an autumnal spring.

“I’m just puttering,” you hummed, pausing what you were doing to lean in and give him a kiss, careful to keep your dirt-crusted hands away from him and his neatness. “Just movin’ some of these into bigger pots. Don’t want them to go dying on us.” 

“I think they’d live.” Miguel hummed as he looked over the array of little plants sprouting with flourishes of brilliant emerald. His hand slipped to the small of your back before his arms looped around your waist, and he pulled you flush against his chest. “I need you more than they do.”

You laughed, soft and smoky. “That right?”

“Yeah.” Miguel left a sweet kiss on your neck, right on the odd, heart-shaped-ish scar he used to leave hickeys over back in the day. “They’re not the only ones that need fertilizing.”

“Christ. Did Pete teach you that one?” You laughed, but didn’t crumble and fertilize Miguel. Damn. 

Your partner huffed. “Come on, just–can’t you take a break, viejo?” He kissed your neck another handful of times and buried his face into the strong curve of your shoulder with a most petulant sigh. “Feels like I only get to see you when we go to bed.” 

“Not much different from how it used to be,” you said. “I worked nights, you worked days. Hardly got to see each other.” 

“I hated it,” Miguel mumbled. And you actually paused, your busy hands halting with the rest of your body. “I wanted you home with me. I didn’t want you to work nights.” 

He felt you shift again, the sound of your hands under running water sparking hope in his chest. But he snuffed it out himself–he knew you too well. You weren’t the type to stop when something needed to be done. Miguel couldn’t fault you for it, though, not when he was the exact same way. 

“Miggs.” You turned in his arms and held the sides of his face. “I’m not going anywhere. No night shifts, no driving after gun-toutin’ idiots on the highway, no overtime. You can always find me if you need me.” 

“Would you've come for me and Dana–” he stopped, a bout of regret punching the words back down his throat. The sudden distance in your eyes and the stiffness of your touch haunted him. Why did he have to talk? Why was he still chasing you away like this? 

“Don't,” Miguel pleaded, his hands flying up to your arms, holding you still. 

An overcast of something chased away the far look. Miguel wished he could read you as easily as you read him. He didn't know what you were thinking. Did he ever?

“I still have some things I'm working on getting past, Miggs,” you managed. “I don't--I'm trying.” 

Miguel nodded. What could he say, really? Try harder? Love me more? Get over it already? Your marriage reached a difficult point before the apocalypse; now, it'd climbed to new heights, but problems erased themselves thanks to the simple fact that the world had ended. There were more deadly things to worry about in the present.

“Just let me know if I can help,” your partner offered. And you smiled, tired and weary, unknowingly soothing the frigid panic freezing Miguel's veins. 

“Promise I will.” You gently stroked the arch of his cheekbone with the back of your knuckles. “Just don't worry too much. I'm alright.” 

And he believed you. 

– 

“Who's your friend?” 

The question drove Miguel insane, like a chisel tapping away at marble. Because everyone asked when they saw you, a stupidly handsome, ridiculously tall, polite southern gentleman dressed to the nines in a custom suit Miguel picked out himself–garments he picked out for his fiancé. His betrothed. His to-be husband. 

Miguel's coworkers knew he was taken. He thought it'd be obvious by whom since, well, he rolled up to the event with you and had complimentary outfits with you and you were wearing a fucking ring on the finger.

Still, countless folks introduced themselves to you, sweeping you up into conversations and leaning in too close for comfort. Miguel’s ego swelled, sure; he had the most impeccable, handsome, perfect man in the world, but his jealousy chomped away at his temper. He didn't like people thinking they had a chance with you. It was funny at first, but you were too nice to snap at them, to put them in their places. And, quite frankly, Miguel had had more than enough of watching his damn coworkers throw themselves at you the second they heard that stupid, endearing drawl or saw your charming, lopsided smile. 

He floated to your side, anchoring an arm around your waist while his other hand held a crystalline glass of something golden and fancy. 

“Hey,” Miguel hummed as your eyes met, and he leaned in, planting a soft, sweet peck onto your lips. “Havin’ fun?” The energy around the bystanders shifted dramatically. Miguel felt more pleased than a lion catching its prey. 

“Better now that you’re here,” you hummed, eyes creasing with a gentle tilt of your lips. He loved that look on you. It was the same one you wore every morning when you cooed your sweet good morning-s. 

“I make everything better,” Miguel agreed. He finished his drink and handed it off to whatever poor sod stood beside him. “Guess they haven’t heard the good news.” 

Your head tilted as whispers spread around you both. “Thought you would’ve told ‘em by now, honey.” 

“Well,” Miguel said, sing-songy and so obviously annoyed and bitter with how annoying this event had been for him. He took your hand and brought it up, feigning examination while purposefully catching the light on the band of gold hugging your finger. “I didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to not put two and two together.” 

With that, the vibe died. Soft scoffs and muttered words were left in the wake of party-goers as they abandoned the two of you. Some offered anxious goodbyes to you before shuffling off, but many who’d been burned and shit on by Miguel in the past were not pleasant enough to separate you from your man. Which Miguel preferred. 

Miguel smirked to himself, satisfied with his work. Though, when he met your eyes, you looked anything but impressed. Oops. He probably should’ve considered the aftermath.

“Look, they should know who they're messing with,” he testified.

You quirked a brow. “You mean who they're talkin’ to?” 

Miguel huffed, the smallest of pouts forming. “Don't give me that. They were all over you.” 

“Honey, no one's ever gonna replace you, alright? You've got nothin’ to worry about.” Still exasperated, you smiled, and fixed his tie for him, giving it a light tug and tucking it back against his breast neatly. “You think I'd ever fool around behind your back?” 

“What? No.” Why wouldn’t you? You were handsome, a gentleman, a man who could have anything and anyone you wanted with looks and charm alone. So maybe–maybe that's why Miguel did what he did. Maybe he was trying to show you just how wrong you were. 

“Exactly. Now, you stop worrying and try to enjoy the event, alright? Promise I'll stay by your side for peace of mind,” you said with a wink. Miguel melted. You were too good for him. 

“Por dios–yeah, alright, okay. Fine.” He huffed and pulled you in close to him again and gave you a sweet kiss to seal the deal. 

And of course, it was in that moment Dana passed him by with a smile full of secrets and damning evidence–a vault that he wanted to break open and force you to face.  

–

Miles fucked up. 

He yanked open that fucking car door–specifically when told not to–and set off the dinner bell for whatever undeads still wandered the streets of New York. 

The race through the city streets wasn't so easy, not after years of the military, militia and more trying to block off streets, take a stance against the unending hordes threatening human existence–tanks, trucks, barricades and more littered and cluttered the streets like the puddles after a storm. Every vault and jump was uncertain despite determined, never really knowing if the next car the group jumped onto would throw one of you to the ground with a broken leg or twisted ankle. Miguel almost wished Miles shattered his knee. 

Especially when you nearly didn't make it inside. 

Miguel pulled you through just as they got the shitty garage door down, and he pulled you up, eyes wide and jaw set as pain jolted your features. 

“Hey, hey, what's–you're fine. You're fine,” he whispered. His hand frantically touched where they could before settling on either side of your face as you both fought to catch your breath. “You're fine.” 

But you shook your head. “I, uh--need you to back away from me, baby.” 

“No.” 

“I gotta make sure, be careful–” 

“No.” 

You pulled his hands away from your face, and Miguel saw liquid ruby stain his skin, too. 

“Listen,” you rasped as you limped toward a rundown car with your cuffs unlatched from your belt. “We gotta–gotta clear the shop. Miggs, you take care of the doors.” 

But he didn’t. He stood still, shoulders rolling with the heavy breaths he sucked in while you and Gwen puttered around the small, homely garage to the tune of the undead hissing and snarling just beyond the metal door. Miguel took a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the–

“I–uh, what should I do?” Miles asked. 

Miguel whirled around and stalked to him, explosive rage fuelling his steps across the room. He grabbed Miles’ shirt and slammed him into the wall, looming over him like a titan. 

“You are not going to do anything,” Miguel growled. Miles’ eyes widened as he shrunk. “This is your fucking fault in the first place.”

“Hey, he’s just a kid–” Gwen tried, but Miguel’s quick glance her way stalled her. “He didn’t mean to–”

“That’s the problem. He doesn’t know how to survive out here and he’s not willing to use his fucking brain to fill in the gaps.” 

“Dude, let go of me!” Miles snapped, panic lancing through the quiver in his voice. “You can’t–” Miguel slammed him into the wall again. The undead shrieked and howled a mere half a foot away beyond the stone walls barring them out. 

Miguel basked in the dread eating away at Miles’ confidence. “It was a mistake to bring you here. You were a mis–” 

You yanked Miguel off the kid and slammed him into the wall, hand clapping over your partner’s mouth while your red-hot stare bore into the back of his skull and pinned him still. Your other hand held firm over his throat. You didn’t hurt him, but the fingertips digging into the straining tendons of Miguel’s neck threatened the opposite. 

“Quiet,” is what you commanded.

The room fell silent. And it stayed that way. It was hard to tell if anyone still breathed or lived in the minutes you all stood, patient, suffocating, and you stayed in that unsure limbo while the bloodthirsty reverie gradually de-crescendoed in the placid muteness. Slowly, slowly, with each wandering corpse that left to chase errant noises or to wander aimlessly with no mission left in mind, the air in your sanctuary began to heal. 

Your grip became kinder, and you let go, staggering back on unsteady legs. Then, you collapsed.

–

Your injury turned out to be a gash, not a bite. It ran across your shoulder horizontally, accented by a few other gouges bloodying your exhausted face and Miguel's busy hands. 

He stitched you up carefully yet thoroughly, eagerly trying to finish the job while you squeezed your eyes closed and gnawed on the belt wedged between your teeth. To your credit, you handled the temp stitches well. You only really shifted and panicked when Miguel tried to flush the wound with what water he had on hand. 

“That should hold until we get back,” he murmured for your ears only. He cut the thread with his teeth after tying it off, and wrapped your arm with a strip of torn shirt. 

You nodded tiredly and let him take the belt from between your teeth. “Thank you.” You sat up a little straighter against the wall and took deep breaths, eyes squeezed closed and brow beaded with sweat. 

Heat flared in Miguel’s chest. If not for you, Miguel would have ripped Miles a new one. He might have even thrown him to the undead in your name. If you'd come out infected, doomed to die, he'd make sure Miles suffered the same. 

“Don't be so hard on him,” you rasped, voice blending with the soft crackle of the unconvincing campfire. 

Miguel's stare hardened into ice. “He could've–” 

“Miguel.” He looked at you, and melted as you leaned into his warmth. “Lectures can wait. We need to get home first.” 

You were right. And it enraged Miguel further. He wanted to take his anger out on something, or better yet someone, but you just–

“You remember when you proposed?” You whispered. 

The creases between Miguel's brows lifted and smoothed. “‘Course I remember.” He slid a careful arm around your waist and held you to his side. He kissed the top of your head and inhaled your scent. “You were coming home from a night shift.” 

He remembered it too clearly, actually. You, being exhausted and out of it, still suited up in your uniform when you came through the door with a yawn. 

Coffee, your other beloved, lured you to the kitchen where Miguel knew you'd find him. Though he hated not waking up beside you those mornings, he cherished the sleepy back hugs you'd greet him with while you both waited for the carafe to fill. 

“Mornin’,” you grumbled into his neck between small kisses. “Sleep good?” 

Miguel always leaned back into you and basked in the wander of your hands and the scent of cigarettes hiding in your words. It all meshed too well with the bitterness of coffee. “Woulda slept better with you here.” 

You hummed, crackly and apologetic. “Good thing that was my last night shift this block, hey? Get to wake up with you tomorrow.” Your fingertips dragged up the hem of shirt in your search to feel the dips and curves of his toned stomach. “And the next day, and the next day…”

Miguel turned in your arms to spy your drowsy smile. He cupped your face, running his thumbs along the bags under your eyes, before giving you a peck. “I think you need a nap, mi amor.” 

“No, no, ‘m fine. Promise. Just need a shower ‘n I'll be right as rain.” You took one of his hands in your own and turned to kiss his palm. “Wouldn’t be opposed to a mid-morning nap, though.” 

“Lucky for you, I'm getting back in bed after coffee's done.” Miguel kissed you again, purposely mooshing his nose against yours. “Go take a shower. I'll pour you a cup.” 

You hummed, accepting the offer, and very very reluctantly separated from your lover. “Just don't make mine too crazy sweet, alright?” 

Miguel huffed. “Tch. I don't even make it that sweet.” But you were already sauntering off to the ensuite, loud yawn punctuating your departure. “Pendejo.” 

The coffee maker beeped not too long after. Thoughts of what to do with the weekend swirled through Miguel's mind with the springy, disoriented bounce of ADHD while he made up both of your coffees, one just sorta sweet, and one just a little (a lot) sweeter. Honestly, Miguel was bad at making coffee to your taste. Too often he'd watch you stand at the coffee maker, measuring cream, sugar and coffee in your quest to achieve a perfect bitterness to sweetness ratio. 

But when Miguel made you coffee, you never complained. Simply requested it not be too sweet. And everytime Miguel handed you that cup, trepidation filling the childish part of his pride, you always declared it was perfect from the first sip. 

Perfect. Like you. Like his life. That's why he needed to–

“Honey,” you called, bringing your partner back to the present. He turned to you, eyebrows raising in interest at just how low the towel hung from your hips–until he saw the small box in your hand. That made his heart start pounding. 

Miguel crossed his arms and cleared his throat, trying to hide his sheer panic. “Where did you–”

“You forgot it in the bathroom. I think. Found it on the counter.” 

Shit. Fuck. Shit. He really forgot to put that stupid thing away. He really went all cliché romcom and rehearsed in front of the mirror and didn't put the fucking ring away. What the fuck was wrong with him? He was supposed to be a goddamn genius, and yet–

You opened the box because of course you would. Anyone with a shred of curiosity would. And you whistled in a way that only cowboys could. Back when you were both young, you whistled at Miguel like that when he walked by. Lyla said you weren't one to do that, that that was a first for you.

“Damn. This thing looks expensive.” You pulled the gold ring out and looked it over as Miguel came to you. The band was simple gold, yes, but inlaid was a diamond flanked by your birthstone and his, all shaped in a striking baguette cut. The piece was simple and masculine, something befitting you entirely. 

But you were too out of it to realize what the fuck it was you were holding. 

“Bet I could buy a farm with this.” 

Miguel had to laugh a bit at that. “Most people would say a house, you know.” 

“Farm's better. Comes with a house.” You snatched up his hand and examined his fingers, probably sizing up which one the ring–your ring--was supposed to fit on. “Either way, you’re gonna turn heads with a whole mortgage on your finger, I'll tell you what.” 

Miguel's chest warmed. Maybe because of your smooth way of talking, or maybe because you were too sweet and admiring of your partner. Miguel couldn't tell. But it was probably both. 

“On my finger?” He repeated as he plucked the ring from the box. His heart beat in his ears. His face burned. But it was now or never. “I think it'd look better on yours.” 

“What?” You asked, soft and confused, sorta like you'd realized what that ring meant halfway through. “Wait, wait–” 

“I was going to.” Miguel slid the fine gold band on your left ring finger. “But then you ruined the surprise.” 

There was something magical in that moment. Your hand in Miguel's, the sparkle of new promise shining on your finger, the glitter of crystals pooling in your eyes. And your eyes were so wide, like you didn't quite believe Miguel would want to marry someone like you, so he had to say it, if not for the cliché, movie finale:

“Will you marry m–” 

You kissed him before he could finish. Your arms flew around his neck as your weight hit him like a ton of bricks. But he caught you both and held you close, laughing against your lips as the ball of doubt unraveled as every whispered chant of ‘yes, yes, yes,’ touched his skin. 

Those days were good. They were simple. They were The start of everything Miguel could have dreamed of–and then he ruined it. 

“Still hard to believe you wanted me, sometimes,” you reminisced, looking down at the dull, chipped set of rings hugging your finger still.

“You're the only one,” he murmured into your hair. “Even when–even if I–no matter what. No matter what, it was always you. It'll always be you.” Then where's your ring, Miguel?

You hummed and sunk into your partner's warmth more, staying silent with your thoughts as you watched the dim flicker of the fire and the two others collapsed around it. “Try not to be so hard on Miles.” Ah. “He screwed up. But we need to keep morale up.” 

Miguel huffed. “So you only mentioned our–you just wanted me to stop thinking about today.” 

“I wanted you to relax, sweetheart.” God, that smile was so clear in your voice. 

“Tch. Pendejo. He deserves to be yelled at.” 

“By his father. At home. Where it's safe.” 

“Fine.” 

[sstan-hoe]

◇ 𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐋𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐬 ◇

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — andy barber × fem!wife!reader

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — Andy bought you new shoes and you love them, you wear them everywhere at any chance you get. The only downside is that after a little while they get uncomfortable…

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 — SMUT, p in v (unprotected), mention of edging, light degrading (very light) spanking (like once), idk what else

𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 — I won't be posting for a little while now, my plan is to finish some fics and have them ready for all of you!! reblog/ comment and follow!

It wasn’t a new thing that Andy carried you around. He always had the excuse “you’re my wife why would you need to walk?”

However, a few weeks ago he gifted you a pair of black Louboutin heels and you adored them.

You would wear them on every occasion, yes, they were painful but who wouldn’t want to look hot? 

Besides, anyone who wants to look beautiful must suffer.

Recently the two of you attended a party with some of Andy’s colleagues. Of course, he knew you would wear the heels, but if he talked against a wall, he would have had better chances.

As Andy rounded the corner, he saw you standing in front of the mirror at the entrance, wearing a black cocktail dress, golden hoops with a matching necklace and the black Louboutin.

He wanted to ask you if you really wanted to wear them, but he already knew the answer.

So instead, he just snaked his arm around your waist pulling you against him and laying his hand softly on your cheek.

He titled your head up giving you a loving kiss on your lips.

Andy’s lips left yours, but you chased after him to capture him in a passionate kiss. While you were concentrating on the kiss, Andy sneaked his hands down your body.

His plan was easy: seduce you, you're horny and want to stay home and prevent you from being in pain.

Andy softly withdraws his lips from yours once again. He kneels down while kissing down your leg. His hands felt soft against your skin as he lifted your leg with his right hand.

The other one slid down to your feet until it reached your shoe.

A small chuckle escaped you as you realized what he was doing, lifting your foot pressing the sole against his forehead like Margot Robbie in Wolf of Wall Street.

“What do you think you're doing?” you asked in a low voice.

„Darlin‘ I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” Andy gave you those concerning eyes. “Andy they’re painful but sexy and you gifted them to me, I want to wear them all the time.”

Andy sighed in return, “my love you can wear other heels you know I won’t be mad, and you look sexy in everything you wear,” he stood up cupping your face in his large hands, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

“No, I will wear them,” with that you turned around and opened the door stepping into the cool air of the beautiful autumn night.

With a sigh Andy walked after you, this was going to be a long night.

The car came to a stop in front of the bar where you would be meeting Andy’s colleagues. Your man turned to face you, “you can still change your mind darlin’,” he said gently but you shook your head, “no, let’s go, we don’t want to be late,” you said and got out of the car.

Andy stayed back for a moment, his mind running wild as he thought of a way to help you. In the end he could only watch you and make sure you were comfortable. After all you were his stubborn wife who he loved with every cell in his body, he’d do everything for you.

Quickly he walked after you, interlocking your fingers with his as you stepped inside the bar.

Said bar was filled with Andy’s colleagues, some you recognized, others you didn’t - not that you minded as most of them were arrogant assholes.

“Ooh, look at you, you look amazin’,” gushed Marta, the wife of Andy’s assistant. She seemed like a nice woman, but god you didn’t like her. She was always chipper, but it often looked like she was faking it.

“Thank you, you look great too,” you answered with a polite smile while guiding Andy’s hand around your waist and pressing yourself against his side.

Andy smiled to himself as he noticed what you were doing, gladly he tightened his hold on you.

Then Marta began talking, she talked like a waterfall and at some point you needed to escape. “I’m gonna get us some drinks,” you excused yourself and took a deep breath once your back was turned to them.

As you walked towards the counter you could already feel your feet hurting. You hated that Andy was right, but these shoes were too beautiful not to wear.

You hopped onto the bar stool and ordered a juice as well as a beer for Andy. Once you got the drinks and stepped from the chair, you hissed at the burning sensation. There would definitely be blisters by the end of the night.

Giving Andy his beer, he noticed the slight distress on your face. He decided to ignore it for now, knowing you wouldn’t say anything.

The conversation continued for a little while, in the middle you had shifted almost a lot of your weight onto him. Andy didn’t mind, but this only showed him how right he was. However the two of you couldn’t quite leave yet.

You kept your posture up, no one but Andy noticed how much your feet started to hurt.

“Look at this sweet arm candy you got there Barber,” a man said who came to stand next to your husband.

Andy turned his head to the man and glared at him, “my wife, looks beautiful and is not arm candy, Chad,” his tone was harsh.

God, some of these assholes could just go fuck themselves and you’d love to slap the shit out of them.

After another thirty minutes you needed to sit down, you nudged Andy’s arm and gestured to a table to sit on. Not asking questions Andy walked with you towards the table, before you could sit on one of the tables there was an extra step to go.

As you lifted your foot to step up, your knees almost buckled in once your foot hit the parquet. Luckily Andy was there to support you.

He didn’t say a word but you knew what he was thinking, “I’m fine,” you said quickly. “I didn’t say anything,” he countered with a knowing smile.

Both of you finished your drinks and you only hoped Andy didn’t want another beer. Seeing how uncomfortable you were, he did the only right thing.

With a sigh he slipped out of his shoes and pushed them towards you, “come on, take ‘em of darlin’,” he told you. Pouting you slipped them off and handed them to Andy before putting on his - way too big, but comfortable - shoes.

“What will your colleagues think?” you asked concerned, eyes dropping, “I don’t care what they think, I don’t want my wife to feel uncomfortable. Now, let’s get ya home,” standing up in his socks, he held his hand out to you.

“I wasn’t even that uncomfortable,” you argued as you walked out of the bar.

Then almost over the curb and falling into Andy, "okay, darlin'," chuckling he scooped you up into his arms.

He carried you the rest to the car, putting you in the passenger seat and buckling on your seat belt. Kissing the top of your head before giving you the heels and closing the door.

slutty bonus, you whore's

"You're lucky I love carrying you around," he stated as his hand came to rest on your thigh.

"You know, if I didn't know it better I'd say you're disobeying me on purpose…," he growled into the crook of your neck as his hips bucked into you.

"I'm – fuck – sorry!" you have been apologizing for thirty minutes now, being edged three times and you begged Andy wouldn't make it a four. "See, I don't think you're sorry," his tone was almost mean, he mocked you.

"Can feel how tight you are, how you keep squeezing me. I know it turns you on, don't lie to me darlin'," as if you ever could.

You gripped onto the satin sheets, Andy picked his pace up not caring for you – this was a punishment after all.

Not much of a punishment though if you enjoyed it.

"Andy," you rasped, feeling your stomach tighten. You desperately need to live the euphoria.

Complete joy and pleasure building up, "please, please, please," you moaned when he hit that spot.

"Hold it," Andy demanded, railing you, splitting you open. "No, no, I can't!" you cried, shaking your head. Your husband didn't care, he gripped your throat, "yes you can, if you don't…then you won't come at all."

Shutting your eyes, you tried to concentrate on keeping the orgasm inside until Andy allowed you.

He was close himself and already felt his cock twitching, "come, fucking hell," he muttered, rutting into you like a starved man.

You reach the mind-blowing release of endorphins. Clenching to hold onto the feeling until you finally give in and let go. Moans howling through the walls.

Before you could register anything you were turned on your stomach. Ass slapped twice.

"Let's paint that pretty ass of yours, shall we darlin'?"

��𝑶𝒀𝑺 𝑶𝑵𝑬 — @smile1318 @wintasssoldier @xcaptain-winterx @georgiapeach30513 @alina02 @broadwaybabe18 @jobean12-blog @buckymcu12 @shara-ne @lou-la-lou @pomarildreams

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | @sstanhoe-updates blog where new fics will always be reblogged in case you're not interested in the taglist as it has conditions

[nicksalchemy1]

Mientras Respiro, Espero - Part 1

Pairing: Firefighter AU Dean Winchester x Nurse!Plus-Size!Mexican!Reader

Summary: Dean Winchester, a firefighter with a reputation for casual flings, finds himself longing for something more meaningful in his life. Meanwhile, you, a stubborn surgical intern, are trying to escape your past in California. When Dean loses a bet and is tasked with cleaning the trucks, your paths cross unexpectedly. Little do both of you know meeting each other would cause some problems.

A/N: “Mientras Respiro, Espero”: Spanish for “while I breathe, I wait.”

Here’s the first part of my little story. I really like writing in this universe and if part goes well, then I’ll continue posting. (I’m gonna post it anyways 🧐) Credits for inspiration again go to @zepskies !!

🚒 Series Masterlist

Word Count: 2,167

Warnings: Toxic parental situation, mentions of fat-shaming, childhood trauma, and a quick old-fashioned meet cute.

Part 1 - Who’s Afraid Of Little Old Me?

Avalon, California, was a gilded cage with ocean views, where the houses were as polished as the facades people wore. It was in one such manicured home where your story paused.

“Mija, you’re wasting your life with these... these dreams of yours! ¡No seas tan estúpida!” Your mother’s voice was a razor wrapped in velvet, cutting into you as you packed the last of your belongings into an old, battered suitcase.

The room was a mausoleum of your former life, with its pristine walls adorned with academic accolades and a full-length mirror that once reflected a girl desperate to please. Now, it only mirrored your resolve.

“I’m saving it, not wasting it,” you shot back, the words tumbling from your lips like brave soldiers in battle. You tucked a framed photo of your childhood self – the one with the broadest, most hopeful eyes – into the suitcase's side.

Your mother’s silhouette filled the doorway, her arms crossed in the silent indictment. “And what about the family reputation? Our standing in the community?”

You zipped up the suitcase, and the sound of a definitive line drawn. “What about my happiness, Mamí? What about living a life that’s actually mine? With someone who won’t pick on me like I’m still a child?”

She scoffed dismissively, a sound that stung like salt in an open wound. “Esos gringos no saben nada. Happiness is a luxury for those who can afford to be foolish.”

You locked eyes with her in the mirror, your own gaze hardened like forged steel. “Then consider me a fool.”

The house seemed to hold its breath as you shouldered past her, suitcase in hand. Your father stood in the hallway, a silent sentinel. His eyes, a mirror of your own, flickered with something that might have been pride or sorrow – or both.

“Daddy,” you whispered, pausing for a moment.

He cleared his throat, a rumble from deep within. “You always were the stubborn one,” he murmured, his voice barely above a soft-spoken whisper. “Be careful. Call me anytime you need me.”

A nod was all you could muster before you descended the staircase, each step a drumbeat to your newfound freedom. The door closed behind you with a finality that echoed through your bones. The California sun dipped low, as if bowing to your courage.

The suitcase wheels rumbled against the cobblestone path, a small but sure declaration of your departure. Behind you, the house – a beautiful prison of expectation and familial duty – faded into just another part of the landscape.

You didn't look back.

Considering it was your first time flying in an airplane, first class at that, you were anxious. Not about actually being in the plane around people or the way the lady in the seat across from your aisle coffee smelled like someone took a fancy shit, but because you were moving in with a couple that you trusted yet, hardly knew.

Mary and John Winchester were rough around the edges, but they meant well. They knew what happened in your household, how toxic it was, and invited you to stay with them in Lawerence. Plus, you would be able to keep your job. Mary was head of Neurosurgery and earned you a spot as a surgical intern. Working hard or hardly working, am I right? You thought to yourself, smiling to yourself.

And boy, were these ‘gringos’ rich. Not only did they offer you that extra guest room in their house, but they also bought you your first-class seat, in which your butt was in right now.

You knew John was a respected detective, and with his income mixed with Mary’s, they made bank.

You also knew they had two sons. John and Mary mentioned their names, but you knew the youngest worked for the ADA, and the oldest worked as a firefighter.

Cool. Wonder what that's like, you tilt your head in thought.

A stable work life, home life, and family. But not all ‘picture-perfect’ families meant they were truly picture perfect.

And that was for you to figure out.

The airplane descended through the cotton candy clouds, and the world below began to take shape—a patchwork of fields and roads that would soon become your new reality. Your heart danced a nervous tango with the seatbelt across your lap, anticipation tightening with every drop in altitude.

The captain's voice crackled through the cabin, announcing the imminent landing in Lawrence. You straightened up, smoothing the fabric of your jeans as if to iron out the last creases of your past life.

When the wheels kissed the tarmac, you felt a jolt, not unlike the one that had propelled you out of your family’s house. You collected your single suitcase from the overhead bin—a symbol of your fresh start—and made your way through the aisle with a resolve that echoed the click-clack of your boots on the aircraft's floor.

The airport was small but buzzing with life, a hive of reunions and farewells. You stood for a moment at the arrival gate, scanning the crowd until you saw them.

Mary's presence was undeniable. She stood with a grace that spoke of her surgical precision, her eyes warm and welcoming. John, equally imposing in his own right, had the stance of a man who had weathered storms and could chart a course through any adversity.

They spotted you almost immediately, and Mary’s smile widened as she opened her arms. “There she is! Welcome to Kansas!”

You stepped into her embrace, the scent of antiseptic mingling with a soft perfume—a stark contrast to the oppressive aroma of your mother's overwhelming floral scents. “Thank you, Mary,” you smiled, grateful for the genuine warmth.

John extended his hand, which you shook firmly, finding in his grip the silent support of a seasoned detective. “Good to have you here. We’ve got the guest room all set up for you,” he said, his voice a deep timbre of reassurance.

You nodded, your eyes meeting his. “I can’t thank you both enough for this opportunity.”

As you walked through the airport, with Mary’s hand lightly on your back and John carrying your suitcase, you felt the weight of your old life lifting. The conversation was light, peppered with Mary’s questions about your flight and John’s quips about Kansas being the true heart of America.

Once in the car, the grilling starts. “So, how are you doing, hun?” Mary asks curiously, mainly because she’s concerned and trying to make sure you’re comfortable.

“Oh, you know, as good as you can be while moving state from state.” You remark as politely as possible, trying not to seep tension into the car ride.

“I hope you feel better. When we get to the house, you’re welcome to rest. I don’t cook very well,” She clears her throat, shrugging, “But I can give you some money to order something in?”

“I couldn’t do that, but thank you. It’s late, anyways. I’ll wait till tommorow morning.”

“Okay. Just as along as you’re comfortable.” Mary winks, a soft, motherly smile on her face.

You nod, meeting her smile with the same.

John pulls the Volkswagen van into the driveway and puts it in park, shutting the engine off. “Home sweet home.”

You sigh and step out of the car, staring at the home. The house is a two-story structure with a prominent green exterior. It features white trim around the windows and roof edges, contrasting nicely with the green. The front door is wooden with a rich, warm tone. There are two windows on the upper floor and one window on either side of the front door on the ground floor. A chimney extends from the left side of the roof, indicating a fireplace inside.

A well-maintained lawn adorned with various small plants and flowers. A concrete pathway leads to three steps up to a small porch area before reaching the wooden front door.

Mary leads you up to where your room is at and it seemed to be one of her boy’s old nurseries, but now the wall was decorated with two old band posters, The Beatles and a Zeppelin poster. Huh. The bed had a floral blanket and a navy sheet under it. There were two pillows in a white silk covers and a lamp on the beside table.

“John and I are gonna hit the hay, so, goodnight, love.” Mary waves from the doorframe, giving you one last glance before heading off.

“Goodnight,” You reply, setting your suitcase down beside your bed and lay back on your bed.

In the locker room, you changed into your scrubs, the fabric feeling foreign yet exciting against your skin. You tucked your hair under a surgical cap and checked yourself in the mirror. Ready.

The hospital corridors were a maze of activity, doctors and nurses moving with a sense of urgency that was almost palpable. You found your way to the intern's lounge, where a group of young doctors was gathered, pouring over patient charts and sipping on coffee as if it were a lifeline.

That's when you met her — Charlie Bradbury. With her vibrant red hair and a stack of comic books under her arm, she was a splash of color in the sterile environment. She noticed you immediately, her green eyes lighting up with an impish sparkle.

"Hey, you must be the new kid! I'm Charlie, your friendly neighborhood genius slash intern. Welcome to the chaos!" she greeted you with an outstretched hand, adorned with quirky rings.

"Thanks, I'm..." you began.

"Don't tell me," she interrupted playfully, "You're the one who just flew in from Cali, right? Mary's been raving about you."

You chuckled, feeling a sense of relief wash over you. "Guilty as charged."

Charlie showed you around, her chatter filling the spaces between the bustle of the hospital. She introduced you to the other interns, the nurses, and even the grumpy guy who ran the coffee cart. Throughout the day, you shadowed her as she confidently navigated patient care, inserting IV lines with precision and calming anxious patients with her quirky humor.

Despite the exhaustion that came with the endless rounds and the mountain of new information, you felt a sense of accomplishment. You were doing this, really doing it — and you were not alone.

In the afternoon, Mary tasked you with delivering first aid kits to the local fire department as part of a community outreach program. You welcomed the break from the hospital walls and made your way to the fire station with a box of supplies in tow.

As you approached, you noticed a firefighter washing a large, red truck — his sleeves rolled up, revealing muscular arms, and his focus never wavering from the task at hand. You hesitated for a moment before approaching.

"Excuse me," you called out, "I have a delivery from Lawrence General?"

He turned around, and you were met with striking green eyes and a smudge of soap on his cheek. He was ruggedly handsome, with a stubble that spoke of long hours and a jaw set with determination.

"Oh, hey," he replied, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Thanks for the-"

Before he could finish, another firefighter called out to him, "Dean, we need you!"

"Sorry, duty calls," he said with a charming, apologetic grin. "Just leave the kits by the door, and thanks again."

"No problem," you replied, feeling a pang of disappointment as the moment ended too quickly. You placed the box down and watched as he jogged back to his colleagues, ready to respond to the next emergency.

The rest of your shift passed in a blur, and before you knew it, Mary was driving you back to the Winchester home. As the car hummed along the road, she glanced at you with a knowing smile.

"I hope your first day wasn't too overwhelming. You did great," she said encouragingly.

"It was definitely a day to remember," you admitted with a tired smile.

Mary's expression turned warm and excited as she announced, "Well, get ready for a family dinner tonight. John and I want you to meet our sons properly. They're excited to have you."

The thought of the evening ahead sparked a mix of nerves and curiosity within you.

"Oh, uh, okay." you replied slightly indifferent by the unexpected dinner, but the prospect of a meal with a family that wouldn’t make measure how many calories your plate has won’t be bad just because you had to meet your “landlord’s” sons. “Sounds nice.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And there’s that! Next time. 😉

Character Introduction For This Series

Dean Winchester Masterlist

[silverskye13]

So there's this thing about technology, and complexity, and fear. Technology is a tool, innovation is good, time passes. Change is, well, everyone is a stubborn goat about change at some point but ahm, change happens. Change is neutral, but the little animal living in the brain of wise men likes to think change is bad, and so all things that bring change are bad.

Doc, for his part, is glad he's built mostly of change. It makes embracing change... Easier. He looks in the mirror and he sees all the complex gadgets that augment his life and, yes, change was scary once. Not anymore. Technology, vessel of change, complex, is a scary thing but Doc is scarier. Well, not really. He doesn't think he's scary. But he does scary things you know, dramatic, and ahm, well, the other Hermits do give him those wary animal looks sometimes. Not scared, just a little off-balance, like they saw movement on the horizon and can't tell if it's heat off the ground or something... Scary.

Doc thinks they're scared of his tech mostly -- not scared, wary. He changes things. Shakes them up. Well -- they all do. But he changes things in complex, dramatic ways. Shadow tech. The Perimeter. The anvil canon. The tunnel bore. Big. Complex. Technology.

It's funny almost. Technology isn't bad. An axe is tech, technically, and they use those every day. Netherite is an upgrade. They make simple farms all the time. And those farms are far more complex than an axe. Though he supposes most mules balk at their first step down a steep ledge too.

Doc isn't frightened of technology. It is a tool. It is a vessel for change and most change is neutral. It's people that make it one thing or another, good and bad. Axes don't have opinions on good and evil, they just swing. They're tools. His flying bombing machines are tools, and he uses them goodly. He uses them to break -- but only so he can build. It's not like he's hurting people with them. Intentionally. The Buttercup thing doesn't count. They're like very big shovels really, and you wouldn't get mad at a shovel for digging.

.........

Doc is standing in front of a mural. It is a mural in his Perimeter. It is beautiful and impressive and, most importantly, it is a mural he didn't make. It is a mural none of the Hermits made. It is on a wall he arbitrarily uncovered, because of a leveling in the terrain when he first mapped out this location. He thought at the time it was a fortunate happenstance in geography. But, you know, geography isn't ordered. People put things to order -- the first shapes we drew when we first started making societies were squares. Squares, well, they happen naturally sometimes but, never perfect ones. He should have known --

Well. He's not an archeologist. He couldn't have known. He didn't even know when he first blasted the hole. The mural didn't reveal itself on the wall for months. It was too... Big. Impressive. He doesn't have an eye for inorganic stone. Plaster just looks like smooth stone to him. But the rain washed away what the explosions didn't and now he's standing beneath a beautiful mural of a goddess he's never seen before. He feels... Irreverent. It's not intentional it's just. It's. It's that feeling of standing on a mountaintop and knowing you were never meant to be there. It's the feeling of elytra wings it's -- it's like trespassing. He is staring up at a goddess he doesn't know and she is staring down at him and he is smaller than an ant, and she looks. She looks. Bone-deep familiar, and rugged, and forgiving and. Sad. Yes, he thinks she looks sad. Not sad like weeping but sad like an unused thing that is bleached under countless sunrises. Her facade is cracked. By him. By... Not him. By pipes and irreverences he didn't make, old ones, made by people who knew better and he wonders how she got here. He wonders who buried her. He wonders who cracked her plaster with their ugly pipes.

Ugly? Yes. Ugly. She's holding fruits of the earth and she's made of natural things and those pipes aren't natural. Vessels for change.

Doc is standing beneath a mural he didn't make with a goddess who looks neglected whose facade has been cracked by the vessels of change and her hands cup the fruits of her labor and they're red like blood and he wonders who put her there. He wonders why he found her. He wonders what she thinks of him, of his arm lit with redstone and his vessels of change and his him that isn't her and he wonders who worshipped her. Where they went. Why they broke her and why she was buried and she is dirt smudged from her unburying but the rain reveals her more day by day and he thinks the rain is hers. And the earth. And he thinks beneath his feet if he dug he might find what was left of the people who forgot her and he wonders what rage that would bring and he wonders if they looked like him, with his vessels of change.

"It is a tool," Doc tells the mural. He doesn't know why. It's something about the way she stares at him, measuring his worth. Superstition. The little animal in the back of his brain that shies stubbornly away from cliffs. "It does no harm on its own."

The mural watches him.

It doesn't seem to be the answer she was looking for.

"Ahm, the first tools we made," Doc tells her, "we made to survive, you know. Cracking nuts, taking meat off bones and things. They were simple. Mine are... A little less simple."

Doc places a hand on his redstone arm. "But I survive."

The mural watches him, and he thinks he can feel the weight of oceans and storms in her gaze. Then, he feels nothing. Overhead, clouds he hadn't noticed gathering part for wary sunlight.

The next day, Doc returns to the mural with a shovel, and at the goddess's feet he digs. He plants the seeds of one of his best tomato plants, and a row of flowers to attract butterflies, and he wires a simple redstone circuit to bells, that will chime when it all needs watered. The sky is cloudy when his work begins, but it clears by the time he wipes the dirt onto his pants. Doc stands beneath the mural, in front of the work of his hands done with simple tools, and waits for... Something. Superstition.

Nothing happens.

Doc takes to the sky on his elytra, and belatedly begins work on another redstone project.

He is glad he's built mostly of change. He thinks his goddess is as well.

[sinfulsalutations]

𝕥𝕒𝕝𝕜 ⋆*･ﾟ 𝕔𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕥𝕣𝕠𝕠𝕡𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕖𝕔𝕙

➼ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ ☆ ᴛᴇᴄʜ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

➼ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ ☆ ꜱʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ. ꜱʜᴇ'ʟʟ ʟᴇᴛ ʜɪᴍ ʙʟᴀʙ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ɪɴ ʀᴇᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ. ɪᴛ'ꜱ ɪᴛꜱ ᴏᴡɴ ꜰᴏʀᴍ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴏᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ, ʜɪꜱ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ.

➼ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ☆ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ᴄᴜᴛᴇꜱʏ ꜱᴛᴜꜰꜰ, ꜱʜᴏʀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ (ʙɪᴛᴛᴇʀ)ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛ, ʜᴜʀᴛ/ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ, ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴄʀɪᴇꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰʀᴇꜱʜᴇʀ, ᴛᴇᴄʜ ʜᴀꜱ ᴀᴅʜᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴀʟᴋꜱ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʜɪꜱ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇꜱᴛꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛꜱ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴄᴜᴛᴇ

➼ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ ☆ 2.4ᴋ

➼ ᴘᴏᴠ ☆ ᴛʜɪʀᴅ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ

⋆ ★ ɪ ᴀᴍ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʜᴏɴᴇꜱᴛ, ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ꜱᴏ ꜱᴇʟꜰ ɪɴᴅᴜʟɢᴇɴᴛ. ɪ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴀ ꜱʜɪᴛ ᴡᴇᴇᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪɴᴀʟᴇ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴄʀɪᴇᴅ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴛᴏᴅᴀʏ ɪ ʙʀᴏᴋᴇ ᴍʏ ꜰᴀꜱᴛ ᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴇᴀꜱᴛ ᴏɴ ᴍʏ ᴘʀᴏʙʟᴇᴍꜱ. ꜱᴏ ɪ ᴡʀᴏᴛᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ ᴍʏꜱᴇʟꜰ, ɪ ꜰɪʀᴍʟʏ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛᴇᴄʜ ɪꜱ ᴀʟɪᴠᴇ ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʙʙ ɪꜱ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴏɴ ʜɪᴀᴛᴜꜱ ꜱᴏ ɪ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ᴀʀᴍꜱ. ɪᴅᴋ ɪꜰ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴇʟꜱᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴄᴀʀᴇ ᴏʀ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴀꜱ ɪ ᴅᴏ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴍᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ. ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ :)

⋆ ★ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏɴ ᴀᴏ3 ⋆*･ﾟ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀᴍ

It’s suffocating.

Everything is too much, not stimulating enough, too little, too... everything. She's cradling herself like a baby, a whiny little kid, grasping herself, gripping it with sharp nails, leaving deep, deep marks all over her skin. The claustrophobic air cages her in, she is trapped, she is trying to escape, and now it taints her.

But maybe she’s just overreacting. That must be it. That’s why she feels stupid and silly. Like a little kid stomping their foot when they don't get their way. Being dramatic over little things. Just little things she's upset about; little, little, minuscule things that had piled up, slowly until it was too much. It's too much. It's all so much that she's so little, so small in her own arms pressed up against the `fresher wall, barely able to hold herself up with wobbly knees as she cries.

Silently. So so silently. 

She can’t be a burden. It would be insultingly rude, to put that responsibility of her happiness on the people letting her stay on their ship. Clone Force 99 is incredibly hospitable to her. Too kind. They gave her a cot and food, company and kindness in exchange for her expertise in medicine. She is an asset. She is useful. And when she isn't?

That, she can't be certain. Not everyone is the same, she knows that. But she won't risk it. Not when she's become attached to their little family. Hunter is always endlessly caring, even if she is closer to a stranger than family to him. Wrecker immediately took a liking to her, even if she did have a softer voice and disposition. It took Echo a little longer to warm up to her, but enough restless nights for the both of them to talk about their lives before joining the batch had brought the two as close as she was with the rest. And she simply adored Omega; from her curiosity and optimism, even to her brash stubbornness.

And Tech... she couldn't imagine a day not getting to see his face, hear him talk about anything and everything he has learned and studied. His voice was another form of remedy. Perhaps it might help with this frustration... 

Knowing all of this, she won't take a chance at losing it. She wants to stay somewhere, for once. She's not going to kriff it up this time. 

She tries to bottle it up. She sniffles once, twice, before grabbing a dry towel and dabbing it in water, softly wiping away at her tears in the mirror until her reddened cheeks blend nicely with the rest of her complexion. Once she feels fully satisfied with the way she looks, she blinks away any remaining water droplets that litter her eyelashes like raindrops on leaves and tries her best to smile in the mirror. 

Everything is okay, she thinks. It’ll be fine.

She’s still relieved, however, that most of the batch isn’t currently on the ship. Usually, she would have gone off to Cid's and maybe grab a drink before listening, as always, to what the smart little trooper had to say. Hunter has caught on and began leaving the two in their strange, dorky little bubble tucked into a little booth, her open ears and his excited chatter.

Today, the only person who didn't go back to Cid's (or to chomp on Mantell Mix) is her and Tech, who works on damage inflicted on the outside of the Marauder. They've just got back from a rather chaotic attempt to retrieve some goods from a back-alley planet Cid sent them to. Wrecker was able to secure the crates, but not without a gang of pirates firing old-fashioned arrows in his direction until they tore at the exterior and into the inner mechanics of the ship. And as usual, Tech insisted to stay back and fix it all by himself (You all could have the rest, he said).

She wouldn’t say she was most particularly fond of Tech, but that would be a bald-faced lie; she loved all of the boys like they were her brothers. Though, perhaps with him it is different. Just perhaps. Perhaps, right? Unless it was more- kriff, it probably is.

Especially ever since she saw him without his goggles for the first time; she was able to see that hue of brown that colored his eyes so well. He was rubbing his eyes and yawning as he went to clean them, and he hadn’t even noticed her ogling eyes from a few feet away. Omega certainly did. And asked her about it the next chance she got. 

“Do you like Tech?” 

When she didn't respond, she only kept nagging.

"You do like Tech, don't you?"

"That's why you like to look at him so much, right?"

Yeah. She loves the kid, but her endless questions did end up getting to her. So Omega might have given her a cheeky look when she said she was going to stay back as well. Oh, if that was the only reason she had decided not to come along with the rest.

But it all leads to right now, admiring him from afar while leaning against the open ramp. It takes him a moment to notice, still very focused on the task at hand, on his knees in front of an open panel and he quickly turns, blinking rapidly in succession and in surprise. 

“Oh-” He begins, before quickly clearing his throat and continuing, acting less shocked than before. He adds her name quickly in before, and treads so lightly on it too, as if he was unsure if he was allowed to call her by that. “Hello. I forgot you stayed back.”

She chuckles lightly and walks closer to where he worked, watching his clever and dexterous fingers move swiftly. 

“So I’m that quiet?”

He shrugs.

“You can be swift when it requires you to be,” He observes, finally looking up into her eyes. The look he gives her, one of full undivided attention, makes her heart miss a couple of notes on the staff. He continues without noticing her hitched breath. “But I wouldn’t say you are… quiet .”

She grins, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Her eyes are still heavy with the remnants of her tears. 

“Yeah,” she mumbles, leaning back onto the Marauder and sighing, her eyes fluttering close. She tries to relax, really does, but it's hard to when Tech was right there. He still watches her and stills completely, as if he was trying to pinpoint the exact feeling on her face. “Do you mind if I just sit here?” She finally asks, eyes still closed.

With that, Tech blinks again, quickly composing himself and looking away once she opens her eyes again to appear as though he hasn’t been staring at her. He nods.

“Of course.”

She hums sweetly like a hummingbird in response and tries to get more comfortable, slowly sliding down until her bottom promptly hits the floor and she is level with his crotch, as he still kneels to gain access to the inside of the ship. And she watches for just a little, the only noise filling their bubble the noise of fuses and bolts twisting and loosening, the occasional clang of two pieces of metal here and there, even a long strenuous creak from the larger panel dismantled. He doesn't talk. She doesn't talk.

It might be quite boring in any other situation, one where she isn't feeling so helplessly overworked and burned out, or in general to any other person in her shoes, but it feels so calming just to watch. To observe and not have to react. Just be without any strings attached. His presence is calming. It’s fascinating. When she just watches him, it is uncomplicated. It is simple and it is good.

Though it isn’t enough. Something in her itches. She thinks it is physical, and she readjusts her seating position a few times, and fumbles, but it doesn’t seem to work exactly. Tech turns to her. 

“Are you comfortable?” He asks.

She nods.

“Yeah, nothing to worry about,” She reassures him, and he nods accordingly. 

“Good. If you need anything, please let me know,” He finishes before going back to his work. And when the talking stops completely, replaced with the crackling sounds of fizzling electricity, she realizes what feels off about the moment. 

“Tech?” She starts shaky, gazing up at him slightly worried. Tech stops completely; his hands drop and he tilts his head. He lifts up his visor to look at her better, and the simple act makes her bite back a grin. “Would you tell me something?” 

At first, he just stands there, confused. His head tilts even further and makes sure to confirm.

“You, want me to talk?”

She looks at him perplexed and huffs in disbelief. 

“I do,” She states simply.

"About what?" He probes further.

She shrugs.

"Anything you want. I just want to hear your voice."

He’s still confused as he looks at her through the yellow-tinted goggles. No, less confused, and more surprised. Tech turns away for a moment, trying to process the moment. A pretty girl wants him to talk… just talk about anything. And she wants to listen. Listen to what he’s been told over and over again his useless information regarding niche subjects and fields of study. He’s always seen her interest in what he’s said, yes, but he's just assumed it is common decency to listen to what someone is saying. He’s not used to his brothers actually tuning in and seeming actually interested in what he has to say. But she is. And she wants him to say more. 

He always has something more to say. But now, looking back to her barely parted, pretty lips and her thoughtful eyes… Tech draws a blank. 

He turns away again, fumbling with the task at hand as he tries to distract himself from it, still trying to conjure up something, anything to say to her. And she still waits, unphased by his hesitant silence as she methodically raps the pads of her fingers against her wrist. She sits as if she has all the time in the world. And if it were up to her, she would give him that.

He finally thinks of one small anecdote to share. 

“... I read a fascinating historical document this morning," he says. She perks up brightly, eyes lighting up with excitement as he begins.

“You did?” She says.

He nods in confirmation. The coy smile matched with tied lips she wears across her face is undeniable; even he can see it in the corner of his eye as he works. He tries not to let it get to his head. 

“Can you tell me more?” she continues.

Tech hisses so quietly, the modulator under his helmet doesn’t pick it up. Thank the Maker for that. 

“... It was the first recording of our modern republic system,” He does his best to recall what the document was about. “Or, what the Republic was, at least.” He looks over quickly for reassurance that this is what she wanted from him; he sees her nodding eagerly and intrigued. Oh, that only excites him more. He begins to remember more pieces of what he read once he turns away and back to the wiring in front of him, talking to her as he works. He even tries his best to slow down his pace to make it easier for her to process and understand better; though, he was unsure if it was the content that intrigued her more or simply his presence. 

“The document was essentially half-transcript, half-commentary on the first galaxy-wide meetings in the Senate, and the new opinions surrounding it."

"Who wrote it?" She interjects. He blinks but doesn't tear his eyes away and toward her.

"A group of people. Transcribers from the conferences, a member of the Jedi Order, and a few prominent Coruscant state senators that oversaw them."

She hums, and from the corner of his eye, he sees her lean closer to him, sighing deeply and letting her eyes flutter as if she was breathing in the most serene scent, and not the smell of smoldering wires and oil. Perhaps in their bubble, if Tech were to take his helmet off and breathe in as well, it smells of roses.

"I cross-analyzed both sections; there weren't any higher conclusions recorded. But by using critical thinking, you can really piece together how disorderly the first few decades of the Republic were." He tries to keep working, but ends up fiddling more than actually working; if he were to complete the task, he'd be done much sooner than he wanted to; especially if it meant he'd have to stop talking to her and their bubble would pop.

"Senators of large Core planets had to try and keep the piece; many outside planets had doubts about the design and future of the Republic to be sound. And even from the beginning, there were rogue planets that refused to join entirely. I guess there were always a few ‘Separatists.’”

The comment makes her chuckle.

“That really is interesting, Tech.”

“It is! In fact I-” He begins before the realization hits him and it shuts his mouth promptly there. He looks at her, just as perplexed as she was before, but more laced with insecurity. “You… find this, interesting?”

She nods as if baffled by his question. 

“If only you had me around before,” She says melancholic and softly. “I find all your interests really cool. And… I like hearing you talk.”

The admission has her flushing furiously, and Tech is too busy trying to compose himself to even kriffing notice. 

“That is… good to know,” he manages to say, giving her an approving, stiff nod before going back to work. His roboticness manages to elicit a sweet giggle out of her, and she sighs into comfortable contentment as he continues talking.

Her heart soars as he keeps going on, even without her explicit request. Even if she isn’t ready to talk, or even tell him about what is going on yet, hearing him gush about his interests certainly simplifies everything in a way that perfectly fills their little world, and makes everything better for as long as they stay.

[marmie-noir]

Riding Practice

TW: Suggestive comments from Mitch, nothing crazy. I missed this man.

Prep as a server was one of the most important things to prepare for a busy Friday night. Nothing was more annoying than running around delivering beers and trays of food only for someone to tell you their ketchup was empty, or that half the tables didn’t have salt shakers. So here I sat early on Friday while Mitch cleaned out the keg system behind the bar, filling salt and pepper shakers while Dwight and Pops sat on either side of me ‘talking’ about something or another involving a sport I didn’t care to listen in on. They’d say talking, I’d say arguing, but men were stubborn so apparently I was wrong. I rested my elbow on the bar top and planted my chin on my palm, watching Mitch a moment with a bored expression on my face. I loved Pops, and had gotten a bit warmer to Dwight, but god were these two were putting me to sleep. Mitch, who was running water through the lines to flush out any of the gross stuff that apparently could grow in them, glanced up and caught my eye, flashing me a smile and a wink. I felt my cheeks warm slightly and rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face. I glanced away from him, focusing on the pictures that were still on the mirrored backing of the bar. One of a young Mitch grinning at a rodeo caught my attention above the rest and I straightened, refocusing back on the man behind the bar. “Were you any good?” I asked. He quirked a brow at me, confused on what I meant before I gestured to the pictures. “Bull riding. Were you good at it?” That had him grinning. “Well I wasn’t bad, darlin’.” “He was great.” Pops interrupted, making both of us look over at him. “My boy was one of the best on the circuit. He stuck on them like glue, not even the meanest bull could throw him.” “Till one did.” Mitch said with a little smile, shaking his head at the fatherly pride practically glowing from Pops where he sat sipping his coffee. “I was pretty good, but once you get injured it’s kind of over. Couldn’t hold on as tight as I needed to while I healed, and well.” He trailed off because I knew what happened. Mitch had been put on painkillers, gotten addicted, and it eventually lead to him doing eight years inside. “I don’t understand the appeal.” Dwight said, lifting a broad shoulder as he looked at the pictures of young Mitch, sipping his own coffee. “Clinging to the back of one of those mean bastards while they try to throw you?” “I bet it’s a big hit of adrenaline.” I said, resting my folded arms on the bar and leaning on it as I looked at the other pictures and yellowed newspaper articles on the back wall. “I can see it though.” I could too. Mitch was tall with long legs, he probably slid on the back of the bulls like he belonged on one. Bet he looked really handsome in all that gear too. “Pretty sure there are some videos on youtube of it, if you are really curious darlin’.” He said, glancing back down at the job at hand. I still saw the little quirk of his lips though, clearly entertained by the subject at hand. 

I hadn’t even thought of that though. I pulled my phone out of my back pocket but per usual I had garbage service all the way out here. Pouting, I continued to fill the salt and pepper shakers, knowing I’d have to ask Ann if her phone could pull up the videos when she got in around lunch time.  

“Sunny, Julie’s gonna take your tables, we’ve got an errand to run.” Mitch’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts and I paused, glancing over my shoulder at him. I had been working on the schedule, trying to figure out when the new girl could get some training in because she was horrible. Yesterday she mixed up three tables of orders and set Ann and I back by at least twenty minutes in a rush. “What kind of errand?” I asked, wondering if this was bar business or something that Dwight might be more involved in. Mitch just gave me a look, pulling the knot on the back of my server’s apron to undo it before tossing it in the little cubby I had claimed as my own. 

“The kind that requires you be in the truck in five minutes.” He said, arm wrapping around my shoulders to pull me closer, pressing a kiss against my forehead before releasing me to head back out to the bar to wrap up. I watched him leave the office, a little confused about what was happening but it was a nice day out and the idea of getting out of the dimly lit bar for a few hours sounded like a good time so I went with it. 

What I hadn’t expected was us pulling up to a sale/rodeo yard. There were large buildings, multiple pens full of different animals or people training in one rodeo event or another. I was talking next to Mitch, looking around like a little kid in a candy store, taking in the pens of horses and the people milling around. He let out a chuckle, throwing an arm around my shoulders to steer me, his other hand tucking into his pocket as he lead me through the maze of pens and fenced off sections. It was warm and smelled of hay and animals, something I hadn’t experienced since I was a little kid and my neighbor had taken me to a livestock sale to get me out of the house. 

Past a large fenced off arena style room with bleachers on either side I leaned into Mitch a bit more, letting him basically lead as I looked around. I heard the horses before I saw them and grinned, pulling Mitch towards a pen of pretty paint horses. He let me lead him this time, reaching out with his hand not on me, offering pets that the horses seemed eager to get. Their fur was soft against my fingertips, rubbing at one’s forehead right on a white patch that stood out bright against the reds of the rest of it’s coat. “I always loved horses. Our neighbor had a bunch and I’d sneak out into the pasture and spend time with them, they were really sweet old trail girls.” I said, rubbing the horse’s noise and earning a nicker. “I did a bit of bronco riding when I was first starting out but fell into bull riding and never really looked back.” Mitch hummed, patting the horse’s neck before pulling back and taking me with him. He lead us around a few more turns and there I found Dwight and a man I’d never seen before. Mitch got right into it, stopping beside Dwight with me still firmly at his side, arm casually over my shoulders to make sure I was tucked close. Because he certainly knew that I was absolutely disappear into the mazes of fencing in search of more animals to pet. Ever since I found Scruff Mitch seemed less willing to let me go wandering, stating he didn’t want a zoo in his house. “Moss.” He said, nodding his head before glancing at Dwight. “Dwight, this is Moss Wheelwright. Moss, this is Dwight, the man I told you about. And this is Sunny.” 

I gave a little smile and wave, curious about the man who stood before me now. Moss looked like the average midwestern guy. Ball cap pulled low, a t- shirt and a pair of shorts with boots.It got pretty hot in here so I didn’t blame him, though Mitch had worn his usual attire of pants and a button up that was rolled to his elbows. “Moss is a bullfighter these days. Distracts the bull.” He continued on sounding almost affectionate, like he had some good memories of that very thing happening. “Wrangles him when the rider falls off.” It would make sense, if Mitch ever fell the bull could have very well turned and tried to get to him. Wranglers were in the pen to distract the animal long enough for the riders to get away, ensuring everyone left alive. It sounded like a terrifying job personally, but I had no experience with the bulls so just being near one sounded unpleasant to me. 

Another man walked up then with his hand extended. He shook Mitch’s hand, then Dwight, and then reached for mine. I shook his hand, pleased to not be ignored in these situations as some men would do. “Sorry I’m late brother, had to sneak out of work.” The new man said, looking at Mitch with a little nod of his head. “Howdy ya’ll. Ben Hutchins.” “Ben.” Dwight said, looking out of place in his suit but not looking the least bit bothered by that fact. “Dwight.” “Sunny.” I said, flashing him a smile. 

“Oh, don’t mind the blood.” Ben said, stepping back to stand next to Moss. He did have some blood on his jeans, his boots too. It was clear Moss, Ben, and Mitch all knew one another. These must be his buddies from the rodeo days he spoke about sometimes. “I work in a slaughterhouse.” 

Dwight let out a rumbling chuckle, looking amused. “You’re hired.” As Mitch, Dwight, and the two newcomers began to talk business I snuck away, feet silent in the dirt as I left Mitch’s side for the first time since we showed up. I wanted to explore a little bit while they talked business and had some experience in places like this so I had a general idea of what I was looking for. 

I spent some time wandering around the pens and stalls, petting the horses that allowed it and keeping my distance from the bulls and wilder looking animals that were caged up. I ended up at an odd looking contraption which I recognized was a mechanical bull, the material on the ground around it padded for when the riders would fall off. This must be the training that Mitch had mentioned…

“Spent hours on that thing.” Mitch interrupted my inspection and I looked over my shoulder, not really surprised to see him. Flashing him a smile he returned it, moving towards the metal contraption with a a contemplative hum, large hand smoothing over the back of the leather saddle it was equipped with. “We used to get a case of beer and spend our Friday nights on this thing, betting who could hold on longer.” “You win?” I teased, moving next to him. He let out a laugh. “Bet your ass I did.” Without another word Mitch reached down, grabbing me and placing me on the back of it. “C’mon, I’ll turn it on easy so you can get an idea of what it feels like. It’s not exactly like the real thing, but you’ll get the idea.” 

I blinked in surprise at finding myself in the saddle of the mechanical bull, one of my hands wrapping around the rope provided for just that purpose. “Okay, sure. But if I fall you aren’t allowed to laugh.” “Okay, honey.” He hummed, that low voice only making me narrow my eyes at him. “Now lift your other hand, gotta be authentic in it. Don’t halfass it now.” I did as he said as Mitch moved to the side where there was a box with numbers and switches, clearly a control panel. I trusted him to not crank it all the way up, I’d be tossed into space if that was the case, my legs didn’t go far around the thing and I couldn't really hold on well. 

The machine hummed to life at the flip of a switch and then began to slowly rock back and forth. I concentrated on moving with it as it began to gradually moved faster, letting my body remain more loose so I wasn’t a board on the back of it. “A natural. Move with it Sunny, don’t fight it. That’s my girl.” He called, cranking it up. The machine jerked and I let out a laugh, hair flying, nearly thrown but held on. I didn’t last much longer, tossed off the back into a mat where I landed on my back with a grin, a little dizzy with how fast it had spun, not even upset I’d already been tossed. 

The machine wound down and a hand appeared. I took it, Mitch easily pulling me up with a wide grin. “Not too bad for your first time. We’ll make you a rider after all.” “Hardly.” I said with a roll of my eyes. Mitch had this spark in his eyes as he wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer and starting to head back to the truck. “We’ll just have to practice at home, darlin’.” “Yeah, you got one of these hidden somewhere?” I sassed, looking up at him. “Nah, we’ll practice another way.” “Practice a- Mitch!” I laughed, slapping his chest lightly as he chuckled, his free hand adjusting his hat as he wove us through the maze of the large building. 

More Sunny and Mitch here

[anncanta]

Mirror, mirror on the wall

Fandom: Dracula (2020)

Characters: Dracula, Agatha Van Helsing

Relationship: Dracula/Agatha Van Helsing

Rating: Teen and up audiences

@alma37 @hopipollahorror @moremoveslessannouncements-blog

Read on AO3

Or read below

‘What happens if I win this game?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Agatha leaned forward and rested her hands on the table.

‘We both know this is not just a chess game. I don't know what you have in mind, but the fact is …’ she glanced briefly at the pieces. ‘You are clever, cunning and competitive. But that is not the case here. You took me from the convent – kidnapped me – and brought me here. You could have locked me in a box, you could have raped me or tortured me –’

‘Agatha, your expectations exceed my wildest –’

‘Yet you offered me a game of chess. And I want to know why.’

There was silence for a few seconds.

‘The fact that I am here is enough to consider you the winner,’ said Agatha.

‘Are you so sure?’

‘Yes.’

For a while, Dracula silently looked at the table, the chessboard, the waves of hair falling over her shoulders.

‘Maybe I am not,’ he said suddenly.

The room changed so abruptly that Agatha did not have time to understand anything.

…They were standing on a castle tower, on a small platform, and far below them stretched the valley, the forest, and the river.

Agatha went to the parapet. She rose on her toes and looked over the edge. Jonathan must have jumped from here.

‘This is that very tower,’ Dracula said from behind her shoulder, confirming her guess.

‘Do you want to show me my future?’

Agatha turned around.

‘I don't know what I want anymore.’

He stood in front of her, very close, and the sunlight touched his face. Agatha was surprised to discover that he had long eyelashes. She raised her hand and touched his cheek.

‘It's not real,’ she said.

‘No, of course not.’

Agatha nodded.

‘Then kiss me.’

…

‘What happens if I win this game?’

The pieces were all mixed up. Agatha's lips were burning.

‘I'll lose,’ Dracula smiled.

‘I couldn't wish for more.’

***

The Demeter arrived at Whitby Harbor right on schedule. After making the last entry in the logbook, Captain Sokolov put it in a drawer and left the cabin. The autumn sun that greeted him on deck was cold and unfriendly, but after long weeks of sailing in fog, the captain was glad to see it.

Everything was fine, he assured himself. The voyage had gone well. No storms, no incidents. The passengers were happy, the cargo had been delivered safely.

And yet something was bothering him, stubborn and persistent. Elusive, like a pebble in a boot.

‘How many passengers did we have?’ Sokolov asked Valentin, standing nearby, looking at the rigging and ropes, muttering something under his breath.

The old sailor frowned.

‘Six. Three men, a child, and two women,’ Valentin spat discontentedly on the creaking boards.

The captain nodded.

‘Six.’

He waved away the images of a tall man in a black top hat and a thin woman in a nun's robe that appeared in his head.

When the captain went ashore, he no longer remembered them.

‘And the king had a daughter, with skin as white as snow and lips as red as blood,’ said Agatha, watching the captain's retreating figure. Dracula, who had followed her down the gangway, threw a warm cloak over her shoulders.

The sun had almost disappeared behind the horizon, gilding its edge.

Dracula leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

‘I heard she was the most beautiful of all. No woman could compare with her. I think that's why her name meant “morning dawn.”’

[yiga-hellhole]

TFTK Extended Cut: CHAPTER 2

another bonus chapter to fill in the time between now and chapter 12!! this time featuring midna and fi, bonding over shared worries and shared joys. they are besties :3 this one is casual but still a lot of fun i think. around 5k words under the cut! enjoy!

ao3 mirror HERE!

Midna awoke to the sound of late afternoon bustle outside her tent. Immediately she was greeted with the stubborn burning of the aftermath from almost two weeks before. The scarring on her neck tugged with each breath — now without their stifling bandages, but insistent on bothering her nonetheless. For a moment, she allowed herself to sigh deeply, feeling the tepid air rush into her lungs as she closed her eyes, and lazily fluttering her eyelids back open as it left her. The ceiling of her tent was pitch black, shrouding the inside of her dwelling in the same shade, save for some endearing salt lamps gifted to her by the Gerudo refugees. Mere days ago, they arrived at the Eldin border in droves, having trekked from their desert home and across Hyrule Field to plead for safety with the Princess. Zelda, eager to receive any help, and offer any shelter that could be exchanged in these trying times, welcomed them with open arms. As she had done for every people that came knocking on the castle walls.

The thought of those women scattered through their camp, and how she’d fought for their safety, suddenly snapped her into panicked realization. She quickly looked to her side, before the icy chill of fear could sweat down her back, to find her Fused Shadow placed by her bedside. That loyal helmet proudly displayed itself there, its stone-hewn eye watching over her as she slept. She exhaled, the tension building up leaving her with that very same breath. Just looking upon it made her trace her fingers gently over the bubbly flesh of the scar that now spanned from her upper lip to her cheekbone. If it hadn’t been for her helmet deflecting most of Ghirahim’s knives, that encounter would certainly have cost her a lot more than bits of skin. The camp was safe, for now, but such a priceless artifact could tempt even the purest of souls into getting sticky-fingered. 

Just as she was starting to drift off again, the sound of a chime twinkled through the air outside her tent. One of her guards, who was hushing in idle conversation with her colleague just earlier, announced a visitor. Midna welcomed them in.

A presence, or rather, a lack thereof, gently parted the curtain of her tent. Purple, wing-like flowing drapery peeked past the dark blue fabric. Soundlessly floating inside, the curtain fell back into place again, blocking out the flash of outside light that overpowered the gentle glow of the tapestries for just a moment. Herself now shining a luminescent blue, Fi, Spirit of the Master Sword, had entered.

Midna gave a crooked smile with only the right half of her face. It must have looked a bit strange, but with the scabbed-over gashes pulling at the skin on her face, she took up the habit. “On sick call again, huh?”

A soft sound of chimes emanated from her as she hovered closer to the bed, looking down at her with her big, glazed-over eyes. “Greetings, Princess Midna,” she said. “Your scarring looks favorable. I foresee a 79% chance of your recovery.”

The Twilight Princess snickered a bit solemnly in response and cocked a brow at her. “That’s funny. Yesterday you said 81%.”

Fi did not respond. Her pale expression did not change, but her head tipped slightly downward, avoiding her gaze. It seemed that even the cold and calculating weapon of the Goddess was familiar with the delicate art of lip service. Midna knew very well that she did not look all too good. Her cursed form aside, Ghirahim and Zant had done quite a number on her in their last battle. Demon Blade Ghirahim, with his devious tricks, tainted her face with a barrage of daggers. To make matters worse, that worm of a Usurper managed to leave her with broken ribs and a nasty concussion. Much to her wounded pride, Princess Zelda forbade her to even set foot outside her tent, with her grocery list of injuries. 

The loophole of “I don’t walk, I float,” didn’t do her any favors, either.

So here she lied, every day, condemned to bed rest. Her sole fortune was the frequent visits she got from her fellow lieutenants. She knew none of these people — not truly — except for the young girl they had enlisted as a mage and scout. Little Agitha, one Princess to another, dropped by every other evening for tea, to prattle off about some little insect she’d found in the fields to her ‘Miss Kitty’. Something about it made her nostalgic for a time she shouldn’t be too keen to look back on.

One unexpected comrade she found, was Fi. Technically, the two had traveled together once before, they simply weren’t aware of the fact at the time. To see the mighty Master Sword now hovering by her bedside, her statue-like face in the approximation of a pout, was as jarring as it was endearing.

“You’re just trying to make me feel better, I get it,” Midna sighed, her expression softening. She reached out with her tiny, clawed hand, waving it at Fi’s wing. “Hey. Why don’t you come sit with me? Let’s talk.”

Fi glanced down at her hand, tracking its motions until it slumped onto the mattress. For a moment, Midna thought her request had fallen on deaf ears until the sword spirit twirled in place, and weightlessly sat down on the mattress, like a feather touching down on water. 

“What do you wish to discuss, Your Grace?” Fi inquired, tipping her head to look down at her.

Midna snickered, batting playfully at the cloak that now draped on her mattress within reach. “First things first, drop the formalities. When it’s you and me, I’m just Midna.”

A pause. Fi turned her head to look out in front of her, as if processing something, and then turned back to her. “As you wish. Midna, what shall we talk about?”

So she had to compute that real quick, first? How amusing the sight was, to see a data input happening in real-time, with a real-life automaton. Though the Twilight Realm was filled with pseudo-conscious machines, none were as sophisticated as Fi. Curious, given her thousands of years lagging behind her own time. Or maybe she was not truly a machine at all..? Thinking about it, Midna realized she knew very little about the workings of the sword spirit sitting by her. 

“… Tell me how you met your Link and Zelda,” she asked, looking up at her with a smile. “We have that much in common, right?”

Fi met her smile with her own, though hers was gentle. Timid, almost, uncertain like butterflies deciding upon a flower to perch on. “The art of storytelling in a way that is pleasing to you was not bestowed upon me my design, but I will relay our tale to you to the best of my ability.”

Fi recounted her stories in greatest scrutiny, speaking on and on about scorching arachnids beneath the volcanoes, endless spans of sand wastes, and ships lost at sea. Glassy eyes turned to the black fabric of her tent, she prattled on for what must have been an hour. Still, Midna found herself not minding in the slightest, and simply curled up against her pillow. As contented as she could be, at least, straining against the pressure of her injuries. With the scenes she described almost projecting from her eyes and onto the cloth before her, the peculiar way Fi viewed the world was evident in how she spoke of it. Incredibly specific attributes were carefully logged in her mind, treating every little environmental detail with the same weight as she would the many riveting battles.

“The entrance gate to the next room was forged of steel with curious properties, resisting temperatures of at least 1.100° Celsius…”

As she spoke, the Hyrule of Old seemed as familiar as it seemed strange. Midna knew of the Eldin Volcano, of Faron Woods, but not of the ancient structures she described. 

“A humanoid cephalopod, defying any known taxonomies through its leg-count of approximately thirty-six…”

Fi spoke as though reciting a captain’s logbook, or the research notes of a long-lost scholar. Youthful as she may have seemed, with a face no older than that of a girl in the springtide of her life, her way of speaking betrayed wisdom as old as time itself. Whereas others spun their yarns into warm, if not slightly sloppy scarves, losing stitches and weaving in colors for the flair of it all, Fi constructed a veritable tapestry. 

“… decorated with a central votive statue of a human, deconstructed into a head, torso, and four arms. Its frescoes consisted of patterns depicting the Nymphaea genus, which grew throughout the central pool…”

Such methodical recollections continued on and on, but her tone changed entirely when speaking of the people she’d met along the way. Fi understood material properties, and the angular features of architecture, but in her centuries of isolation, she didn’t come to understand the complexities of mortal lives. But instead of surface-level analyses, when she told Midna about those candid little anecdotes, she described their words and expressions with careful fondness. As if uncertain of what to do with it, or waiting for permission, she cradled and cherished that feeling of friendship as if her very speaking of them could turn those memories to dust. 

As she got to her tale’s end, she turned to Midna again, as if physically shutting out one part of her mind, and turning to the next. It was subtle, but her expression changed, then, a warmth cast over her sapphire complexion. 

“… And as we stood before the Gate of Time, I realized that our mission had come to an end. I said my goodbyes then, to our Link, our Zelda, and parted from them as their Servant. I am certain, however, that I have stayed with them as their friend, even if only in memory.”

Almost exhausted by this extensive tale, Midna cocked her head, meeting that innocent face with a smile. Fi looked back at her, a touch puzzled, as if thinking she’d missed out on some sort of joke. Assuringly, Midna reached out to pat her on the tip of her cloth wing, but retracted soon after the bruising nagged in her ribs. 

Such a veritable tale, with all its twists and bends, yet its fateful, epic ending. A journey crossing continents and threads of time to meet one noble goal, and sealed with the dawn of Hyrule itself. With all the chaos and gloom she herself had endured, something troubling bubbled up in her.

“Honestly,” Midna sighed, resting her head on her hand. “The way you describe your journey makes it sound all clean and plotted out. Completely destined to happen the way it did, yeah? It makes my own journey seem so messy in hindsight. Even stumbling into Link was more of a chance encounter, if anything!”

Fi looked at her once again a little confused, but soon her posture straightened. “Our own quest was not without its perils. You may be mistaken. Simply because it did not appear like it at the time, does not mean the Goddesses did not smile upon you in your efforts to save Hyrule.”

Midna nodded a bit absentmindedly at her words. She wondered if indeed, those residing in the Sacred Realm had any hand in delivering her resolution to her. Would They be so bold, after Their descendants cast her very people into their own prison? Somewhere, she wanted to be convinced that the peace and tranquility the Twili had built there was their own making, even if she herself carried no grudge toward the Golden Goddesses. Fi’s words, forged by Hylia Herself, knitted themselves into unease in the back of her mind.

Right as she was getting lost in thought, the Sword Spirit continued to speak. “… And, even if it was not destiny… The Hero always needs a friend, and I believe you to be a fine choice for a companion, indeed. He was fortunate to have met you.”

Midna found herself tongue-tied for a moment. Even as she spoke, Fi did not part her confronting, azure gaze from her, and she grasped onto it with her own wide-eyed stare. Her words bloomed into a warmth in her stomach, spreading to behind her collarbones, tickling up to her cheeks that split into a wide, toothy grin. A laugh escaped her. 

“Right you are! That idiot would have been toast if it weren’t for me,” she cackled, humming and examining her nails with a smug glee.

Something inexplicable crossed Fi’s expression. Something made the polished surface of her eyes turbulent like the ocean itself, but the emotion lurking between those deep blue mirrors remained but a vague shadow. At least, until she spoke. “I am conflicted. Has Link’s carelessness truly not faded between Cycles?”

Midna scoffed. Faded! What a joke. To decide which of their Links was the most whimsical would have to be decided by coin-flip, and with their luck, the thing would land on its side. “As hare-brained as ever, I’m afraid,” she responded, picking at her teeth with her pinkie nail. Despite her lack of lungs, Fi sighed exasperatedly.

By all means, their merry exchange of pleasantries should have confused the guards outside her tent by now. Fi, by no means, had a reputation of being particularly social, though even Midna had to admit this was for a good reason. It was excessively difficult to smalltalk with her. The sword’s short, matter-of-fact responses essentially fashioned every topic with a ball and chain around the ankle and pushed it off the pier. Still, Midna enjoyed a challenge, and after having dwelled in the realm of queendom for the past years, getting to just chat with someone was a refreshing change of pace. She needed to think about something that wasn’t the crushing burden of war for just a little. By now, Fi had scooted to sit next to her, back to the pillow and one leg swung on the mattress. Her reclining pose was stiff, like a mannequin’s, but this was perhaps her first time ever in a resting position that didn’t involve being embedded in a pedestal. Head rested on the sword spirit’s shoulder, she decided to cut the poor girl some slack, and refrain from commenting.

A yawn escaped her. She was getting drowsy. The dark shrouding her tent reminded her of home; perhaps a little too much so. Such tranquility made (most of) her people mellow, but she wasn’t quite feeling up to heading back to sleep yet. 

She nudged Fi’s waist with the back of her hand.“Actually, can you part the curtain a bit? I want to see what’s going on out there.”

Not turning to look at her, Fi kept her gaze fixed on the opposite wall as she spoke. “Midna, that would be unwise. The sun’s light will impede your recovery.”

“Oh, it’ll be fine. So long as I’m out of direct light I’m good to go,” Midna drawled with a wave of the hand. “Besides, it’s almost evening, isn’t it? They don’t call me the Twilight Princess for nothing.”

Fi nodded, raising herself from her seat through sheer defiance of gravity, and bobbed through the air to open the curtain. A pillar of light split the darkness inside the tent into perfect halves, casting colors on the opposite wall, but left the Twilight Princess untouched. The world was already a drowned, pale crimson, dusk settling comfortably as the sun placed itself upon the horizon like a golden helmet. Fi lingered a moment there, peering outside, before curtsying politely at some unseen group outside the tent.

As the sword spirit returned to sit at her bedside, Midna could now see who was lingering out in the camp. Princess Zelda was accompanied by her most fateful knight, Link, discussing pleasantries with King Darunia, who braced a massive hand on her shoulder in sympathy. No matter the incarnation, it seemed the Princess was doomed to be burdened with trials of calamity. Midna almost seemed ashamed to be laying there so casually, within view of the group, but they soon turned to face her. Shame turned to a chilled comfort as Zelda smiled at her, nodding warmly with her hand crossed over her chest. Link and Darunia, unburdened by such formalities, simply grinned and waved cheerfully. Midna found herself mimicking that very same lightheartedness, rather than the royal, dainty wave her advisors back home tried so hard to imprint on her. Even now, that blond goofball sparked silliness within her, no matter how grave their outlook.

Her hand lowered as they turned back to their conversation. She sighed, her hearty smile turning to bittersweet somberness. “… Hey, Fi. When you look at them, what goes through your head?” Midna asked, speaking without taking her eyes off the group outside. “You’ve been through a lot with them, too, back in your world. Don’t you feel weird around them? It’s them, but… It’s not.”

Fi’s peering at their old, yet new friends, did not linger. Instead, she turned straight to look at her. “What I think of them is not relevant. It is my duty to aid them,” she said. Something about the cold tone in her voice made Midna’s eyelid twitch. After spending all that time telling her about her adventures, did truly nothing strike her, ripped into this strange future world as they were? To be confronted with those same voices, those same smiles, yet to see not a blink of recognition in return?

“It is relevant!” Midna snapped, but quickly faltered. Stonefaced as ever, Fi did not even flinch at the raising of her voice, yet something in the way she stared back at her made guilt drop into her gut like a lead ball. “… I’m sorry. I just want to hear what you have to say. There’s nobody else who can hear me out.”

For a while, Fi was silent and averted her gaze. Figures, Midna thought. Recollecting details from her journey in her own verbose and analytical way suited the Sword Spirit fine, but to ask her opinion on a social matter… From what she’d told her, her Link was her only conversational partner in thousands of years. Maybe it wasn’t right to assume she was comfortable talking about those kinds of things yet. A little remorseful, and about to retract her offer, Midna looked up at her, only to realize just what it was Fi was peering at so intensely.

She had her eyes right on the Fused Shadow.

With her lips curved into a gentle smile, Fi looked to the helmet for just another moment, before turning to Midna again, seemingly having decided exactly what to say. “They are incarnations. Not exactly the people we knew, but not entirely different, either.” 

Fabric brushed over her fingers. Fi had laid her ‘hand’ on hers. 

“They may not be the same, but they retain some memories. Enough to know that they can trust us, Midna.”

She looked at her lap again, her blank expression cracking just a touch. Whatever thoughts and observations she had in mind, she was weighing them off with great care. “When I last saw the Princess, I… Cannot say I am sure, but all her vital signs pointed to a deep worry. She cares for you, Midna. She is not your Zelda, and he is not your Link, but they will fight with you. In this War Across the Ages, nothing is more important.”

Finally, Fi sat up straight, and her wing retracted from her hand. “That is all I have to say.”

At a loss for words once again, Midna stared at her companion, mouth slightly agape. It wasn’t simply the information she’s dropped on her — the incarnations, the retained memories — it was the implication. She didn’t realize how she needed to hear from someone else that something was wrong, that it wasn’t the same, and that there was a disconnect. She didn’t realize how she wanted the comfort of being trusted by those descendants of her dear friends, and how they thought of her fondly despite being near perfect strangers. Above all, she didn’t realize how much she wanted to hear it from Fi, of all people. If even a tool, forged specifically for the mission she undertook, could feel conflicted, yet finally, comforted, by all this, then…

“… Fi?”

Fi’s eyes widened somewhat, having not even flinched for all the time Midna spent staring at her. “Yes?”

Midna sat up slightly, wincing at the slight ache it brought to her ribs, and settled somewhat gravely. “When you get back to your own time, can you do me a favor?”

“That depends on my ability to fulfill your request,” Fi replied, as bluntly as she expected she would.

“Before you return to your slumber inside the Master Sword, or whatever,” she began, fingers curling together in her lap as she sought the right words. “Can you just… Go see your Link and Zelda? Just to see what they’re up to now, and to say goodbye again,” Midna offered, smiling somewhat bittersweetly.

Once again, the intricacies of sentimentality were lost on Fi. Her blank expression was once again truly empty, a state she reverted to whenever her comprehension of mortal matters failed her. “… I apologize. I fail to comprehend your request. I have said my farewells to the Chosen Hero and Incarnated Goddess already, before my reawakening. Furthermore, I do not see how this benefits you. You would not be there to see it.”

“The favor isn’t to benefit me, it’s for you. After all this, you’re going to want to go see them. Trust me.”

Fi cocked her head curiously. That empty expression brought Midna to frustration – or rather, desperation. The weight of being tossed through time and confronted with her friends under threat of the very same force tore at her foundations, and her many walls crumbled. Hiding herself from those incarnations outside behind Fi’s veils, she felt choked by her yearning for her old friends. If she could not, then maybe…

“… Fi, you can go do something that I have no hope of doing ever again. When I crossed into the Realm of Light, the worlds we loved withered before our very eyes. Zelda, Link, and I, we all gave our lives for one another to save it,” Midna started, her hand insistently clutching the fabric of Fi’s wing, as if she could squeeze the understanding into her through her fingers alone. Her voice faltered. “Now, I can never see either of them ever again, and if I were to try to, I’d just risk another maniac like Zant trying to cross over to hurt them and their land. So I beg of you. Please fulfill my wish in my stead. You’ll be glad you did it.”

Fi stared at her wordlessly, empty eyes not parting from hers, until they were no longer empty at all. Instead, that glossy blue suddenly seemed all-encompassing. Midna could only break away from the contact when a light, fluttering feeling cast down upon her hands, and she glanced down to see Fi had placed her other wing to cover hers. A shadow loomed over her, and she looked up at the sword spirit again, who had leaned in with a nod. For the first time, she almost looked somber as she spoke. 

“I understand.”

The room grew quiet. For the past hour, the air was stirred by the constant flow of words, making it feel all the more stagnant when silence did fall. Curiously, Fi also seemed bothered by the tension left by the heavy words they’d just exchanged, and rose from her seat. Fearing she would leave, Midna stammered for a moment, about to extend her hand to halt her, until she noticed Fi simply floated across the tent, idly observing the various knick-knacks she’d displayed around the place. Did boredom make her a touch nervous? 

Midna took the opportunity to reel her back in and relieve her from her shared antsiness. “… So what were you planning to do when you get back otherwise? Just head straight back to sleep?”

Attention captured immediately, Fi hummed thoughtfully, staring down at the floor. She appeared almost giddy, like an adventurous child plotting to sneak away to do something they hadn’t the permission to do. The sight of it almost made Midna want to bully her a bit. “When I turned to my slumber without end, the plans to settle the Hylians back on the surface were not yet underway. If I return, the progress on this development would be fruitful for my logbook, indeed. Though, its proper chronicling will have to be left to the Hylians themselves…”

Midna scoffed and waved her hand. “Oh, don’t be silly with your ‘if’s. You’re the spirit of the Master Sword, you’ll be fine.”

“Indeed. As the Master Sword, I shall prevail,” Fi nodded. She turned fully back to her now, hovering at the foot of her bed. Staring down at her like this, the sheer nobility of that metallic being stirred a feeling of awe inside her. With the rays of the sun shrouding her in a golden veil, Fi truly looked then like the ancient, wisened being that she managed to hide behind a youthful countenance and an odd speech pattern. “The root of my uncertainty lies not with myself, but with our allies. Even if I live on, were we to lose Lana, I would be trapped in this time. As would you.”

Still, one arcane being wouldn’t be moonstruck by another just like that. She leaned her cheek on her hand, considering her words. Lana… She ought to have more words with that woman. It was that blue-haired mage that assisted her in doing away with the then-revived Zant, back when the Twilight Realm was freshly ripped into this future world. That baseline of trust could use some expanding upon. “… I see. You got it all plotted out, don’t you?”

“Indeed. Our chances are not hopeless, but they seem to dwindle with every battle.”

Midna looked up at her and frowned. Once again, the people she swore to protect were dropping like flies, and once again, she was powerless to do anything against it. “… Yeah, and here I am, laying in bed. Doing nothing at all!”

Fi leaned closer to her, face blank, yet her sheer energy buzzed with something stern. “You are recovering. Without your full strength, you would simply perish. Focus on your rest, and join us again at the battlefield at your full potential.”

For a moment, Midna pouted, her fang protruding defiantly from her lips. But then, she peered back into the eyes that hovered so close to hers, and she realized something. 

“You’re sounding just like Zelda,” she grinned.

Fi nodded dryly, fully intending to take her words as a compliment at face value. “She is wise beyond her years. I’m honored to be influenced by her.”

Midna let out a laugh, squinting her eyes shut and smacking her hand on the mattress. For just a moment, she could ignore the deep ache that burned through her ribs, completely overshadowed by the fond company of her friend. “Yeah, yeah. Forget I said anything!’

After all the time they’d spent, one giggling, and the other intrigued, eager to understand, yet not fully capable of it, it had to come to an end. The rattle of metal and stomping of feet outside alerted the pair of someone of certain esteem approaching the tent, and indeed, heavy footfall stopped outside the tent, shy of entering through the parted curtain. An imposing shadow was cast inside, but Midna had grown far too familiar with the figure it belonged to, to be even slightly intimidated.

“Lady Midna,” spoke a voice like the cracking of a whip. “May I enter?”

Midna perked up. Impa was inviting herself in. “Oops. That’s your cue, bluebird,” she giggled, fondly patting on the wing that was laid by her. “Our General wants to interrogate me, I’ll bet.”

Fi looked down at the contact, and cocked her head. “I understand,” she spoke with a nod, and slowly levitated to rise. “Then, I wish you luck. May Lady Impa be merciful to you. I thank you for your invitation to converse with me. It was… Fun.”

Though her eyes did not move, the sword spirit’s lips, smooth like polished tourmaline, cracked into a gentle smile.

“Hey, Fi. Before you leave,” Midna interrupted her before she could float away, a hand extended. Fi looked over her shoulder. “Think about what I said, yeah? You won’t regret it.”

Fi nodded. Time and time again, people around camp have hushed whispers about the sword spirit. How she was off-putting and robotic, lacking any kind of emotion. Midna believed not a shred of it. In her own way, Fi told the world how she felt, even if she did so in ways organic beings wouldn’t understand. It wasn’t like she had put up walls for people to break through. Midna was taken aback, then, by how incredibly open Fi was, and how easily the two confided in one another. She just had to know where to look to understand what the odd girl wanted to convey. Between two strange, otherworldly beings, a chord had been struck. Midna was rambunctious and loud, while Fi was decidedly more reserved, but in a way, both wore their hearts on their sleeves. An odd warmth sprang into her chest as she saw the blue spirit glittering in the light of the setting sun, her own sapphire glow drowning out the golden hue cast upon her. The light went straight through her when she looked back at her, a gentle smile pulling at the corners of her lips. 

“I foresee my likelihood of fulfilling your request to be… Favorable. Goodbye, Midna. May you fulfill that 79% percent with strength and grace.”

[mimisempai]

Do you think Crowley has stronger feelings for Aziraphale then Aziraphale has for Crowley? Or do you think maybe Crowley can accept he likes Aziraphale while Aziraphale is still having a difficult time processing his emotions? It seems to me that Crowley has been open about wanting to leave and just be with Aziraphale. I hope is season 3 Azi can recognize his feelings and accept them 💖

Thank you, dear Nony, for the question. I'm not a meta-specialist at all. My analysis of such things is much more on an emotional level and my thoughts are not the most structured. So I apologize in advance if this answer is a bit of a mess.

I've often seen: "Aziraphale fell first and Crowley fell harder".
 Yes and no. They're different, so I think their feelings manifest differently. For me, the first spark for Aziraphale was at the first meeting and for Crowley it was on the wall. And in perfect reflection. Aziraphale was fascinated by this angel who was so passionate and dare to question God. Crowley intrigued by this angel who has dared to give his flaming sword and thus steps off the trail. With that wonderful mirror scene of one protecting the other with his wing.

I think that for each of them, the feelings have been there for a very long time, but for different reasons, both are in perfect denial. And the more I think about it, the more I believe that the strength of their feelings is similar. The problem is that each of them is blinded by the strength of those feelings. Whether it's one or the other, they want what they think is best for the other, they want the other's happiness. For Crowley, it's running away from everything that has to do with heaven and hell. For Aziraphale, it's giving Crowley back what he lost.

The second problem is that everything has become urgent because of Metatron. Neither has the time to move forward, and neither is willing to listen to the other. They're both stubborn because they each believe they hold the key to the other's happiness. That's why it's so heartbreaking. To me, it's most obvious when they're both up against the wall, desperately trying to convince the other. Crowley: "Just the two of us.

Aziraphale: "I need you."

For me, it's them saying desperately "I love you."

****

As I said at the beginning, it's a bit of a mess. But I hope I've answered your question. One thing's for sure, they love each other.

[spaceorphan18]

Hi! I have a question about your fanfic Head Over Feet (it’s really good by the way). What made you decide to have Blaine be the one who is married with a husband who is very different to Kurt, while Kurt struggles to commit to a serious relationship?

Hi! Thanks for the question, Nonny, with as much Glee conversation as I get, I don't usually get things that discuss my writing, so I really appreciate the question!!

Also, just in case anyone is worried, yes, I am still working on it. I was working on the chapter the other day. I know I've been a little sidetracked (oops) but I promise, it's a passion project I'm still planning on finishing. :)

So, first of all, the structure of Head Over Feet is a mirror to Season 6, and my intention was to implement a lot of the characteristics and plot points that Season 6 had. One of those elements is that Blaine is (seemingly) in a committed relationship. While Kurt kind of flounders because his no matter how hard he tries, his heart is already at a fixed point.

I also liked to imagine what kind of place Blaine and Kurt would be ten/fifteen years down the road had they not had each other.

One of the elements of Blaine's character is that he did want to be married. And yes, in the show, he wants to be married to Kurt. But there was a romantic ideal about marriage in general. It is a big deal for him, and a goal he wanted to achieve. And I think a Blaine without Kurt would still try to latch on to someone who held those same ideals. I think Blaine -- finding someone who would be good enough -- would jump at the chance at marriage, whether it was truly the right person or not.

And... I'd like to point out that -- there's this kind of misconception about relationships sometimes. That they only have meaning if it's your one true person soul mate, etc, etc, etc. And I don't necessarily think that's true. I think Blaine and Sean's marriage helped Blaine heal in a lot of ways -- in the way that I actually think Blaine's relationship with Karofsky helped him heal.

Blaine being married to someone else, and for so long, will forever remain a part of him. He won't regret being in that marriage, and Sean will have always had an impactful moment in his life, even if the two of them get divorced.

Like the show -- I wanted Blaine to have some time to mature and grow and learn how to be in a functional relationship that didn't need to the epitome of perfect. And even as it ends, Blaine and Sean end on good terms, the same way Blaine and Karofsky ended on good terms. It was an important relationship at the moment, but it isn't the most passionate, the most love filled, the most soul searching relationship. And that's okay.

I also want to point out, I did subtly throw in a nod to Kurt. Sean is a fashion designer for Broadway. That was completely intentional, and while Sean is a lot different (I think Blaine wanted to move away from someone with the same personality) there are ways we keep finding the same people, and Sean's profession was one of those ways.

(Also - as an aside, I purposely made Sean a big and bulky guy - somewhat to mirror Karofsky, and also because Blaine would choose someone who didn't remind him of Kurt.)

Likewise, I intentionally made Ian (Kurt's bf) a professional piano player as a nod to Kurt finding someone who had nods to Blaine.

So, on the flip side we have Kurt. Kurt is one stubborn guy -- and he did a serious, serious relationship when he was younger and decided that he would not do that again. He is very, very protective of his own heart, and he has no desire to ever put himself through that pain again. So he walls himself up and plays it safe by making sure he never gets in too deep with someone else. If he lets someone else in, there is always the possibility that his heart would break into a thousand pieces again when he and Blaine broke again. And consciously or not, he won't go through it again.

This is also a Kurt who didn't deal with the fact that he made a hasty mistake in calling off the wedding. He firmly believed he wouldn't get married until he was thirty. Didn't believe that marriage would work. And if he gave in, if he allowed someone in his space and in his heart, he'd have to face up to the fact that he fucked up. And he spends a lot of time trying to reconcile that his head and his heart are in two different places.

Much like Season 6, though, Kurt is quicker to return to Blaine than vice versa.

The thing about Klaine is this... Back in season 2 and 3, Kurt had an almost blind faith that his relationship with Blaine would work and Blaine had doubts, and then they ended up breaking up because Kurt didn't realize he had to put in work in his relationship, and Blaine didn't trust it enough. By the time Season 6 comes along, it's clear that the dynamic had flipped. Blaine had too much faith that marriage would fix all their issues, and Kurt was the one who had doubts -- because his heart had been broken before.

So, I wanted to take that dynamic and layer it onto the fic. Kurt figures out that he doesn't have doubts - that he knows Blaine is the one and he knows it'll be hard work. While Blaine learns that he needs to be skeptical and take his time to rebuild.

The upcoming part of the fic -- the last five/six chapters deal with this... and it's something I wish they had done more of during the actual show. In coming back together, it doesn't necessarily solve the issues they began with, so now that they are able to have a relationship again -- how do they fix what was broken before? How do they make sure it's the right fit this time and that it doesn't break. So that's the trajectory of the final chapters.

Anyway... I suppose that kind of scratches the surface of your question, Nonny! Characterization is very important to me, and I wanted to make sure I was making logical progressions of the characters in a post-Season 5 world where they didn't return to each other, while reflecting on elements we see in Season 6 only set 10 years down the road.

I hope that all makes sense! Thanks for the question, I always enjoy chatting about writing! :)

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Night Nurse - Ch 7

A John Wick x Helen Fic

When nurse Helen Morgan is caught in the crossfire of a shootout and aids the injured John Wick, she’s faced with two options: serve the High Table, or be executed as a Witness. She tells herself her choice to work at the Continental has everything to do with survival, and excellent pay, and *not* her growing feelings for the Tall, Dark, and Handsome Assassin™ who got her into this mess in the first place, thank you very much. │ Masterlist / Chapter Map │

VII.

“You did good,” he complimented.

“I did good?” she scoffed. “That was like a movie. Is your life always like this?”

He thought a little bit about that while turning onto the ramp to the highway. “More or less.”

He didn’t get shot at in broad daylight very often. Usually his opponents were smarter than that. More discreet, at the very least.

Luckily, no blue and white sirens appeared in his rear view. There were certain cops in the area who would recognize his car and not pay his hijinx much mind, unless they absolutely had to. More likely though, he’d simply outrun any sluggish response the city might have offered.

Unless Igor and Alexei could get their ride flipped back over, he had a feeling they would be having an annoying little chat with the fuzz. The thought made him feel slightly better, though his overall sense of resignation didn’t subside. The fact of the matter was, they had shot at him, and that was a thing John Wick the Baba Yaga couldn’t let slide.

He would have to do something about it. That was a fact of their world. Any sign of weakness would be pounced upon. Usually this was a thing he would have dealt with quickly and efficiently, but…he didn’t want to go hunting that evening. He wanted to make dinner for this beautiful woman beside him, and linger over a bottle of good wine. Usually self-discipline wasn’t an issue for John, but this once, just this once…

The rest of the trip was uneventful—as uneventful as driving in the Big Apple could ever be. However, John didn’t really relax until the city views gave way to the pastoral, the landscape shifting from the angular grays and browns of buildings to the welcome softer lines and greens of early spring. It was about an hour’s trip, all in all, and Helen looked around curiously as they motored up his manicured driveway, slipping into the garage.

“Wow,” she said quietly as they went through the mudroom to the kitchen, the cavernous open living area filled with natural light from the wall of windows. “So modern.”

“I guess so,” John shrugged, dropping his keys in the bowl on the counter.

“It’s definitely not what I would have pegged for you,” she admitted as she stood on the cusp of the living room, looking around. There was no negativity in her words, more a statement about her own perceptions of him.

John joined her in looking around, curious if there was something he’d missed.

“What would you have guessed?”

“Something darker, maybe. More traditional. You seem to gravitate towards classics.” From his suits to his taste in books to his vintage car, he supposed she wasn’t wrong, and thus far those were the only things she knew of him.

With hands in his pockets he looked around. He realized he was about to share something he’d never told anyone; it came so naturally, with her. “I only realized this a few months after moving in…but I think I bought a luxury version of the Soviet orphanage I grew up in.”

He thought back on the cold concrete building that had been home for years of his young life in Belarus. The hard angles, the utilitarian design. Ugly, but cheap to build in a pinch when housing was needed for the numerous parentless children of the USSR.

This home took those design principles and made them into something beautiful. In this rich country, the most basic modern building materials of concrete and steel were transformed into luxurious commodities for the rich. It mirrored his own transformation in a way. The hungry but stubborn child, ragged but determined to survive—and now, a man of means, living comfortably. The American Dream, or some version of it.

She turned back to regard him, compassion in her eyes. He hadn’t imparted the information to garner sympathy; it was just the truth. She had a way of bringing it out of him. He realized he wanted her to know him. The real him, outside of the legend she’d been gossiped to about at the Continental.

But rather than coo over him, you poor thing, I’m so sorry, she simply canted her head. “So, this house is like your ‘Fuck you’ to Communism?”

It was also the exact opposite of the shabby elegance, the opulent but crumbling ormolu mouldings and dark enclaves of the Tarkovsky theatre, another place he did not miss.

He smiled a little, in spite of himself. “Yeah. Something like that.”

She nodded, looking around with approval. “Nice. So, you like it, then?”

He looked through the windows, across the expanse of his yard to the tree line. Beyond that, there was a glimmer of water in the distance. The travails of the city were a distant dream there. He’d bought this house under the name of a shell corporation; one could not easily look up where John Wick lived in the real estate records. It truly was a sanctuary. And now, for the first time, in fact, a beautiful woman was standing in his kitchen, looking through him with her wise, bright, eyes. It made this place feel like a home more than any couch or table or painting, and he wondered what it would take to convince her to stay.

“Yeah. It’s peaceful.”

“I’m happy for you, John.”

Strangely enough, he believed her. After that, he didn’t know where he got the cheek to tease her. “Thanks, for not calling me a rich asshole to my face.”

She rolled her eyes. “Just for that, I’m going to make you carry my bag.” Hefting the thing, she handed it over.

“Oof. What’s in this? Bricks?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” With an insouciant look over her shoulder, she began to wander down the hall like she owned the place. Allowing himself a borderline dopey smile with her back turned, John made to follow.

***

“I think we’ll start with the basics. Do you know how to throw a punch?”

Helen placed a hand on a spandex-clad hip, one eyebrow raised high. “Do I give the impression I grew up on the yuppy side of Boston? I’ve been in a scrap or two.”

They were in his home gym, a large room he used to exercise and train, and he was fairly certain the sight of her in form-fitting yoga clothes was going to be the death of him.

The corners of John’s mouth turned up, delighted by her sass, as usual. “Yeah? Have I got a juvenile delinquent on my hands here?” He couldn’t fathom a young Helen getting up to much, in the grand scheme of things. Shoplifting. Possession. The usual mischief teenagers amused themselves with. He’d been running guns by the time he was fourteen. Killed for the first time when he was sixteen. Most teen misdeeds paled, in comparison.

As soon as the words left his mouth Helen froze.

After a few awkward seconds she remarked, “Did Winston tell you?” There was a strain in her words, and he knew he’d stuck his foot in it somehow. Sighing heavily, she looked off to the punching bag hanging in the corner of the room, avoiding his eyes. “That man is a terrible gossip.”

“Tell me what?” asked John, feeling like things had jumped from point A to point F and he’d missed everything in between.

Helen, however, kept skipping ahead, talking to herself as much as him. “I wondered if that was why you mentioned blade training today. The record’s supposed to be sealed, but I guess he has his ways of finding things out.”

“I…am completely lost here,” admitted John, and only then did she look at him again. “Did you stab someone?” The suggestion seemed ludicrous, but Helen’s frown conveyed a multitude of words.

“Would you believe me if I told you he had it coming?” 

To his credit, only a beat passed before John answered, “Absolutely.”

“That's something, I guess.” 

“Give me a name.” It was becoming a theme with them.

“I would...but he's dead.” John’s eyebrows lifted at that. “I didn't kill him,” she quickly amended. “But...I would have. Still think I'm such an angel?”

He could tell that the possibility that he might think less of her hurt her.

“Yes,” he answered, unequivocally.

“Well. You do kill people for a living…” She tried to muster a smile, but it was an extremely watered-down version of her usual radiant offering. “I don’t think you enjoy it though.”

“No.” It was true. He thrived on the adrenaline of completing a difficult task—but the actual killing brought him neither joy nor much pain, these days. He’d numbed himself to it. “Did you enjoy…what you did?” He had to admit this was not a conversation he’d ever expected to have with this woman.

She crossed her arms over herself, sighing again. “In a way?” A nervous little laugh escaped her. “God, I’ve never told anyone this before.”

John simply waited, patient as the mountain.

“I guess I should give you some context.”

“Only if you want to.” What he’d meant to be a playful comment had turned into an ordeal for her, and he loathed himself for it. This was what he got for trying to flirt.

She nodded, more to herself than him. “My father died when I was in my early teens. My mom...was a drunk and an addict. It got so much worse after Dad was gone. Some of the men she brought home were very aware of the fact that she was a train wreck with two young girls in the house. Luckily I was older by then, but my sister…” She grimaced, and even after so many years, the flash of rage in her eyes could have started a wildfire. “I caught my mom’s boyfriend trying to corner my little sister in the kitchen. So I stabbed him with a kitchen knife. And in the heat of the moment…it felt good. I hated him. He was creepy and horrible and it felt so good to hurt him.”

John wanted to hold her in that moment, yet he could tell she didn’t want to be touched just then. He understood that all too well, so he simply nodded. “You did what you had to do to defend her.”

“I guess.”

“I think you’re amazing.”

There was a broken note to her laughter. “I know he deserved it. But I think in a way I’ve been trying to make up for what I did to that awful man my whole life. Nothing like Catholic guilt to make a bad situation worse, huh?”

“I wouldn’t know.” He thought for a moment about this information she’d offered up like a confession, eyes lowered. He had a feeling she meant it as a warning, but he couldn’t take it as such. He knew what true evil looked like. He saw it in the mirror every day. This woman was not it. “I do know that your sister is very lucky to have you for a protector. I never had anyone who would have done that for me.”

She took a deep breath, her long fingers holding her throat as she looked at the ceiling, picturing the conditions he’d endured as a child. The thought of him as a scrappy little dark eyed boy with hair in his eyes, fighting for the meagerest crust of bread, lodged her heart directly in her throat. Her voice came barely a whisper. “Was it as awful as I’m imagining it was?”

  “Probably. But my point is…don’t blame yourself for doing what had to be done to survive. For your sister to survive. Blame your mother, if you have to blame anyone.”

That brittle laughter came again that broke John’s heart. “Oh…I do.” She swiped at a tear that escaped the corner of her eye. “Jesus, I’m sorry. Enough pity party. Teach me how to kick some ass.”

And just like that, she was back. He’d always known it in a way, but he found himself more convinced than ever that this woman was tough as nails beneath her warm exterior. Somehow, despite what had happened to her, she had not let the world turn her bitter or mean. That took a strength that John could barely fathom. He felt that he had survived the traumas of his youth out of pure spite. Spite for his captors, and his tormentors, and the dark world he owed fealty to through no real choice of his own. He’d killed and killed until he’d carved out an existence for himself that slightly resembled freedom.

But Helen—she resisted, and kept her heart full all the while, and he’d never admired her more than in that moment. This woman was precious, and he wanted to make sure she had the tools to fight anyone or anything that might dare try to quash that light. It was possible he’d never realized how much he’d numbed himself to the horrors of the world, until she’d entered his life. Now he felt everything to the power of ten. Desire. Fear. Rage. The thought that someone might even dare hurt her made him want to burn the world down. He knew it was crazy, but now that the box had been opened—he didn’t know how to put it all back.

He was realizing there was no going back, and if he’d had any sense left to his name, that would have scared him.

***

He knew it would take a lot more practice for this multitude of information to sink in, but hours later he was proud of Helen’s focus. She absorbed information like a sponge. She was already no stranger to the workings of the human body. As it turned out, taking it apart was almost easier than healing it. He showed her how to attack the vulnerable pressure points in a man’s body. The underarms, the throat, the eyes, the groin. How to break from certain holds on the wrist and how to turn joint locks against them. How to use an opponent’s momentum or own bodyweight against them, so it didn’t matter if they outmuscled you, if surprise was on your side.

Despite his earlier faux pas, he taught her some blade work too. As a student of anatomy, she already knew where the most vulnerable arteries were. The femoral in the leg, the carotid in the neck. The wrists weren’t bad either, and the belly would certainly usually make an aggressor pause and evaluate their life choices. With a small knife concealed in her pocket, he felt comfortable that she could do almost more serious damage than with a gun. He already knew exactly which one from his collection he would be sending with her. 

He would have been a liar, if he’d claimed it didn’t move him to be in such close proximity with her. Touching her. Even if with such a specific purpose in teaching her how to defend herself, there was a titillation he hadn’t anticipated. Training had always been about survival. Now, after they had been at it all day with only a short lunch break, exhaustion and maybe a lowering of guard was setting in.

“One more time, then we’ll call it,” he insisted.

Helen answered with a pout of lips that played hell with his resolve. “But I’m tiiiired.”

“I know. You’ve done great, and I’m proud of you. Kick my ass one more time.”

“Yeah, right.”

She looked him up and down, taking in his lean form, the corded muscles of his arms deliciously bare in his black sleeveless shirt. He’d been slowly driving her mad throughout this training session. It took every iota of her concentration to focus on what he was trying to teach, with those large hands touching her. To not utterly melt, like in every delightfully bad bosom-buster romance she’d ever read. She’d known John was strong, in theory. He had to be, to do what he did. However, it was quite another matter to experience that inexorable strength first hand, even while she knew he was being exceedingly gentle.

“It will make me feel better about unleashing you back onto the world.” He couldn’t watch her back 24/7, as much as maybe he would have liked to.

“Ok. One more, then I will be officially pooped.” They assumed the position, the way they had countless times that day, John standing close at her back with his arm around her waist, his other hand resting lightly at her throat. After several seconds Helen released a shaky breath. Centering herself, John reasoned. Reviewing her options. Probably not enjoying the fleeting moment of closeness, the way he was, because he was a sick bastard.

The moments of stillness stretched on, their awareness of each other amplified by this exquisite nearness.  

“Are you going to do something about this?” He didn’t mean to whisper it. He really didn’t. But she was so close, and her scent of sweat and that sweet honeyed herbal soap drove him to the edge of sanity.

In answer Helen leaned back slightly, closing the line of their bodies that were damp with sweat from the day’s exertions. Nerves he didn’t even know he had came to attention, leaving him painfully aware of this woman in his arms. He held her weight effortlessly, his grip tightening of its own accord about her waist.

He never wanted to let her go.

She turned her head, their lips agonizingly close to touching. One hard intake of breath was all that stood between them. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. “You make it hard to want to get away,” she answered in equally hushed tones, as though they were in a church, and not the place where he daily honed his deadly trade.

“Helen…” He didn’t know what he was asking for, in saying her name like prayer. Benediction, absolution, or damnation.

She touched the tip of her nose to his lightly, experimentally. How well they fit. John Wick was not a man to give in to nerves, but he realized his hand on her throat shook ever so slightly.

He’d never wanted anyone, the way he wanted her.

Her eyes fell to his mouth, a tell as to her thoughts if ever there was one.

Then her gaze dropped lower, and those beautiful eyes went wide as saucers. “Shit, you’re bleeding!” A smear of tell-tale red glistened across his shoulder.

The magic of the moment shattered like glass on stone as she turned in his arms, all business as she wrenched back the shoulder of his shirt to see. “You’ve pulled your stitches. I was afraid this would happen. John…you are a hazard.” The exasperation in her tone was mostly endearing.

Indeed, the newest wound on his shoulder had opened a little. Blood seeped from the small tear in his flesh, running down his pectoral.

“Sorry.”

She shook her fist up at him, though her smile belayed any ill feeling. “Well, you wanted to know what was in my bag. It’s mostly the Costco-size first aid kit I’ve put together for hanging around with you.”

“Lucky me.” He tried not to betray his disappointment, still feeling as though live electricity crackled over his skin, desire tying his insides up in knots. This woman would be the end of him. It took everything he had not to grab her up and kiss her silly, his noble intentions and his pulled stitches be damned.  

“We’ll see. Alright, where’s my operating room? Bathroom? Kitchen?”

“How about…the dining room.”

“Okay, it’s your furniture.”

“I’m not bleeding that much.” He certainly wasn’t bleeding enough to want to stop what they had been about to do.

Maybe there was something wrong with him.

This was probably for the best, but why did it have to hurt so much? Worse than his wound, by far.

“Lead the way.”

<<CHAPTER 6 CHAPTER 8>>

[miguelsfangservice]

BEYOND THE SPOTLIGHT III

Pairing: Miguel O'hara x F!Famous Idol Reader

Warnings: Angst/comfort, fame has caused reader a lot of pressure and insecurities.

Summary: It doesn't matter he's at HQ trying to keep the multiverse afloat, your face, your voice, your smile and laugh follows him everywhere.

No, he is not losing it (yet); it's just that it’s kind of inevitable when most spiders under his command are... how did Gwen called it? Ah-staning you?

Well, he can't really complain, it's his girlfriend, after all.

PART I, PART II, PART III

“I’m telling you, he’s been seeing someone” Peter chants while gently bouncing Mayday on his arms, trying to soothe her enough to fall asleep. “That or there’s something super shady going on with him”

“Why are those the only two options for him according to you?” Jessica questions, raising an eyebrow.

“Those are the extremes of all the situations I could imagine for Miguel.”

“Him dating someone is something extreme for him, Peter, really?”

“Ok, you know what?” he rolls his eyes, and looks at Jess completely offended by her refusal to help him figure out what’s happening with their boss. “If he’s not seeing anyone, his behavior is still kind of worrying, don’t you think? Like, even while talking about all the stressing stuff about our work, he seems worried about something else. Miguel does NOT worry about anything else BUT work, Jess. You gotta admit that.”

“It’s just…” she whispers, looking away from Peter, unsure. “It feels kind of out of character from him, don’t you think?”

“I guess so, but maybe he got tired of…you know, the loneliness of the job.” Peter says looking down to see Mayday finally asleep, he smiles and thinks about his friend, of how much he would like to have something like what him and Jess have. “He deserves to have someone who’s there for him when he goes home.”

Jess smiles, thinking about her family, about the warmth that comes after a long day saving her New York and other universes.

“We should ask hi—”

“We clearly need to spy on him”

❃❃❃❃

Miguel entered the apartment with a heavy sigh, feeling the weight of the night's events on his shoulders, it’s been hours and the sun is starting to rise in the horizon, but there’s still some left-over adrenaline. All he wants is to get on the bed and hug you, he knows both need that.

The sight of the scattered clothes in the bedroom and half-finished breakfast worries him. Everything your company (specially that annoying manager of yours) is making you do isn’t healthy, it’s going to harm you sooner or later and he needs to find a way to stop it.

Miguel is used to deal with a hundred Peter Parker’s stubbornness, he knows his way around most of them…but with someone who mirrors his own stubbornness? No way in hell that, if he tried to dissuade you to leave the company, it would go well between the two.

Besides, this is his first relationship in years. He doesn’t want to mess this up, he needs you so bad to the point Miguel feels like he could die if anything were to go wrong, separating you from him.

It’s not healthy, he’s aware of that.  But years of trauma and solitude had taken their toll in several aspects of his life, especially in the relationship-love department.

He broodingly picks up the clothes and finishes your breakfast, then goes to bed and tries to get some sleep…tries and tries for what feels like hours, but he can’t stop thinking about you.

You were probably exhausted, hungry and stressed out of your mind.

Miguel looks at the clock on the wall, at 1:00 p.m. he knows you get your one and only break of the day. Miguel can visit you then, bring you some food and try to cheer you up, maybe if he’s nice enough with godawful Ashley she could let him stay for the rehearsals.

It’s not a secret that Miguel despises her and he knows you do too, so, it makes him feel a bit guilty to think that, out of all the people in your and his life, Ashley is the one who knows about your relationship.

You had told him it would make it easier for him to get into the building if she knew, instead of having him sneaking around after long exhausting days saving the multiverse.

Deep down, he recognized the same could apply to his people at the HQ. Especially Jess and Peter, who could probably give him decent relationship advice.

With those thoughts on his mind, he changed clothes, took the keys of the apartment and headed to your workplace.

❃❃❃❃

Ashley leads him through the building, trough tons of hallways covered in mirrors.

“Dios, qué asfixiante es este lugar.” ( God, this place is so suffocating) He mumbles.

“Hm?”

Miguel politely smiles and shakes his head. Ashley keeps walking in front of him.

She kept talking about how much your effort was benefiting the company, backhanded praises and just saying stuff Miguel felt bitter about, he knew that even if she was telling him good things about you, she did not mean them, Miguel was aware of how bossy and cruel she could be to you if her demands were not reached.

“If only your girl could up her game, you know?” she was using an upbeat tone, but Miguel was not stupid, he could sense pettiness in her voice.” Lose some weight and be on time she could ready for something more.”

Miguel couldn’t help but scuff and clench his fists.

“I think we both know she’s already more without any of what you mention she supposedly needs to do.” Miguel's response was laced with a sharp edge, his tone far from the usual 'normal citizen Miguel' as you liked to call it. Instead, it resembled the 'mean boss Miguel' that you sometimes reprimanded him for when he took annoying calls from Peter. “She has prepared herself for this her whole life, she’s more than ready for it, she’s already doing more than enough, wouldn’t you say?”

He kept walking, Miguel could see the door to the rehearsal room so he decided to ignore her silence and the few seconds Ashley stopped right on her tracks, watching him walk away from her.

Miguel was about to knock on the door, your sweaty and exhausted self-opened the door. Your eyes grew big and a smile started to appear on your chapped lips; Miguel tried to offer you a warm smile, but seeing how pale and absolutely tired you were clenched his heart, his mind aching to do something, anything to take you away from this place.

“Miggy, what are you doing here?”

“I thought maybe we could find some nice place to eat on your break, cielo.” He can feel Ashley’s presence behind him and he confirms she has catch up with him when your eyes divert to her.

“I’m sorry, love. I- I have to finish this one, but we could eat together tonight, right?” you whisper, your gaze nervously diverting to Ashley. Miguel looks over his shoulder and catches your manager practically giving you a death glare before shifting her attention to Miguel and forcing a tight smile.

Miguel had enough.

“You did not finish your breakfast and barely got any sleep” he hisses. Miguel does not intend to make you think he’s angry with you, but his anger towards the situation is threatening to overtake his rational side and with all the bitterness he can muster without fully showing his anger he says: “Even Ashley here can tell with how pale and shaky you are, although it wouldn’t be convenient for her to admit it.”

“I don’t think I like whatever nonsense you’re implying here” Ashley retorted, her face red with contained anger.

“You know exactly what I’m saying here, stop manipulating her!”

“Miguel, enough! I’m fine! I’m not even hungry—”

“You need to understand, you may not be feeling bad right now, but if you keep this up it’s going to do more damage than good, you know that, right?” Miguel softens his voice, moving closer to you.

He feels his stomach drop when you step away from him.

“Cielo, this place, this people” he almost hisses those words, pointedly looking at Ashley. “Cannot be the only way to get what you want, please…I’ll help you find a way, trust me with this. You’re talented, hard worker—”

“Stop” you whisper, you don’t even have the energy to stop your tears. You look around and there’s people looking at the scene now.

“You are enough, love. Don’t let them tell you otherwise just so they can fill their bags with money!”

You can hear the desperation in his voice, his eyes pleading. But it’s all too much, his words, the whispers of those who know nothing about you, about Miguel… and the relentless stare of Ashley, of this damn company that gave a nobody like you a chance to fulfill your dreams.

Overwhelmed, you felt the emotional weight of the moment bearing down on you.

“Leave, Miguel, please”

Your heart hurts at Miguel’s utterly devastated face. Even with the mental fog the stress is giving you, you are quick to regret your words, he was only trying to help, and while this wasn't the best approach, you know feelings are hard for him.

Miguel composes himself, gives you a nod and starts walking away.

“Miggy, wait—.”

“You need to leave too.”

You turn to look at Ashley, to people who didn’t know her, the expression on her face denoted nothing…but most of your day was spend with her and you knew that look.

Not only were you frightened, but you also felt completely humiliated, you felt like a child being scolded by its mother.

How in the world could you end up like this?

Behind Ashley, you look at your reflection.

Really looked at your reflection, for the first time, not to judge your body or your dance moves, but to actually see what they were making of you.

You felt a familiar warmth engulf your tiny hand compared to his. Looking up, you saw Miguel looking at Ashley solemnly, you imagined this was the expression he made when he gave orders to the hundreds of heroes under his command.

“Let’s go, cielo. You need to rest.”

❃❃❃❃

A/N: I'm so sorry this took me so long! I was having a hard time writing this cuz I didn't know what direction i wanted all of this to take. But I hope everyone can enjoy this! I'll love to hear your thoughts!

[siennadraws]

3, 14, 22 for the otp asks?

Hi Ronnie!!

You know this, but for anyone reading, I'm answering with Terys and Solas in mind! For obvious reasons jdjsjs

Do they wear the other’s clothes? (sweatshirt, bandana, necklace, etc.)

Probably not clothes, but definitely things like jewelry, cloaks/shawls/scarves etc.

Actually, back in Inquisition, Terys did give her spare scarf to Solas. Whether he chose to keep it this past decade is a mystery ;). But the old sap probably did. It's in the same memento box as his Orlesian bard wig.

How do their personalities compliment each other? How do they clash?

Well, first off: they're very stubborn in their own ways.

Terys is definitely more of a team player, having grown up dalish, but also, while there was room for disagreements (they where even encouraged), her beliefs never ended up drifting far away from her clan's.

It makes them clash a lot (mostly at the beginning) but it's also what allows them to grow. Anyone else would have a hard time changing either of their minds about something. But since they respect one another a lot, and have the mental stamina to just die on their hills, eventually they do yield to each other.

Solas' lone wolf shtick, however, does annoy the living shit out of Terys.

Disclaimer: she is a master of pushing people away when she thinks it's necessary, so she is an hypocrite.

But Solas is the one person she'll never be capable of pushing away (especially because he does that with her already), and when he's around she softens up and stops needing to push people away.

Regardless, it annoys her a lot when he... how do I say this? Because he doesn't mistrust her, it's just that he walks the Dinan'shiral alone... when he doesn't trust her with uh... information.

If after Inquisition (ok, maybe some months afterwards, to give her a breather) he turned to her and explained everything and asked for her help, she'd definitely go: "Ok, I'm 100% with you, lethallin. But let's do this in the most careful way possible, together. We can find a middle ground."

She just thinks it would be easier for everyone if they just worked as a team, instead of two people who sometimes have the same goals goals.

Terys is also very thirsty for knowledge (insert pun about drinking from the Well of Sorrows here) and Solas is always happy to either try to explain how his magic works, or telling about this or that vision in the Beyond. Teaching anything really.

But Solas does love how much Terys loves and is fascinated by magic. It of course saddens him a lot too. Magic should be her birthright, by all means- not a silly little childhood dream she could never quite shake off.

What reminds each of their partner?

Everything.

When Terys goes to sleep and dreams as a Dreamer. When she hears any story about Elvhenan. When she sees magic, or a mirror. When she looks at her arm that's no longer there. When she sees a elvhen painting blending with the nature, or against an Alienage wall. When she smells something just like the oil he massaged into his locs. When she sees something as violet as his eyes.

When Solas is sheltered by the shadows that hid her oh-so-well. When he walks by a forest, reminding himself of all the stories about her life she told him. When he sees a raven, like the one on her face. When he sees any Vallaslin, now, he realizes, more hers than any slave owner before her. When he uses charcoal on his frescoes or when a small detail calls to him, reminding him of the drawings that filled her notebooks. When his magic glitters green, like the Veil, but miraculously, by some trick of fate, the exact color of her eyes.

[storycraftcafe]

SO what’s your process for creating characters? Especially supporting cast who are important but not influential in the plot? Walk me through it!!

Hey Buddies!

Hokai so Character Creation is a big big ass subject and a very important one. To quote Chuck Wendig: “Stories are soylent green, they’re made of people”. And if you take even a glance at fandoms you’d see how important characters are to readers and fans. Characters are how we step into story and these wonderful worlds writers create, they’re what we connect to, empathise with and so on.

I like to break character’s down into three groups: Main Characters, usually our hero, main villain, any POV characters or live interests. Side Characters, the protag’s friends, allies, love interests, smaller antagonists. And supporting characters, everyone else that fills up the world and makes it feel alive and gives it depth. 

So if we’re gonna focus on side and supporting characters, there’s a few key things to remember:

Characters aren’t just people, they’re tools in our storytelling kits. While we should seek to make them feel alive, we need to remember their purpose and function in the story. 

All characters save for the once and done ones you make up on the fly like that barista with a bad attitude or the kindly bus driver should have some depth, positive traits, flaws and at least a suggestion of change, if only in how readers and pov characters see them. 

Draw from life but don’t copy from life. 

It can be so easy to slip into cliche and offensive stereotypes so it’s vital to be mindful about what kind of character’s you’re putting on the page and how you’re using them. Some stories are not yours to tell and that’s okay.

Finally to be perfectly honest, a lot of this for me is kind of instinctual. Some of my favourite side characters popped up out of nowhere and had at most a sentence in my outline telling me their purpose. But I’ll try to explain my thought process.

When I’m planning or writing a story and the need for a Side character comes up (a protagonist’s friend or neighbour, coworker, boss,) someone that’s gonna have some influence on the pov character, that we’ll see more than once I try to settle on their purpose.

Are they an ally? A friend? A helpful neighbour? Are they this asshole down the street that has conflicts with the pov character? A henchman of the bad guy? Are they there to help or hinder or be a foil or a mirror?

Say we have a protagonist who is kind of isolated and withdrawn. She’s gone through some shit, has trauma from before the story but their character arc isn’t about struggling through the dark alone but learning to make bonds, to finding their own people and community. They’re gonna need some nice side characters to help with that. Someone she can bump into a lot and form those beginning connections with.

Off the top of my head that means neighbours, either immediate or down the street/hall, people that frequent the same places she will like the cafe on the corner, wherever she works, etc. Let’s go with neighbours. Maybe… Older nosey neighbours, the kind that’d chat over the fence or bustle by to say hi and welcome and offer something baked.

Right off the bat, I get a bunch of ideas, my brain throwing at me examples I’ve seen or read of before either as they are or recombined into new ones. I see Wilfred from Dr Who, Carl from Up, a bunch of Karens (male and female) from social media, people that I’ve known in real life, including my own Grandmother. And I think about this character’s purpose.

 I want them to be an ally, someone that helps my protag along their personal journey. That’d mean they’d have to be friendly, warm, good hearted, but a bit nosey and probably very stubborn to get past the walls my protag has thrown up. My mind clicks onto the archetype of a grumpy old man, all bristle and hot air but caring. No nonsense, no bullshit, calls it like he sees it but not tactless.

I like this idea but I don’t stop here. I keep poking at it like I’m building something from lego without a plan, putting things on, taking them off. Maybe this guy is a widower and just as lonely as our protagonist. Maybe a grandfather estranged from family but wishing he could have done better. Maybe his wife is still alive but they never had kids.

Eventually, I settle on this idea of the two old love birds, no kids but they like to take in strays. Meaning they keep an eye out for anyone alone and offer a welcome. Nothing pushy, just the ‘neighbourly thing’ to do. Then it’s just what they look like (He’s broad and blocky, strong in his youth, and she’s small and petite with eyes magnified by thick glasses), what their basic personality is like (he’s a grump but sincere, she’s sweet but mischievously sassy and they bicker for fun), maybe things like heritage(Italian-American, Irish, maybe Eastern European), health concerns(he has arthritic knees and a replaced hip and uses a cane, she maybe had breast cancer), habits, etc and that’s enough for me to go off.

I only really understand my characters after I’ve written them for a bit, so try them out in a few scenes and see how you like them.

This is also where I double check my work for stereotypes, especially when working with identities and so on beyond my own experience. I highly recommend you double check with people belonging to those groups, or refer to one of the blogs on tumblr that act as a point of reference like WritingWithColor. Be humble and open to learning with this.

If you really want to go further, you can give them an arc of their own.  Maybe they have their own struggles you wanna touch on that could flesh out the story, give your protagonist a chance to do something in return. Maybe a problem that reflects the main conflict but on a micro scale. But the trick here is the audience doesn’t need to see all of it, just the changes that matter and serve the greater story.

And of course as always, sometimes my plans explode in my face and I have to adapt. I’ve made these characters up on the fly when I realised I needed one, I’ve also cut them from the story or combined two or even three into one, or I realised I needed a friend to be an enemy. I’ve even had to take really minor supporting characters and upgrade them, or downgrade side characters.

To create very minor supporting characters, I do the same just with way less detail. 

Maybe my protag is taking the train and there’s another passenger that’s kind of a rude entitled business guy and we get to see some tasty petty revenge or he just makes a bad day worse. Or there’s a cafe our protag always goes to and there’s this barista she maybe says hi to and shares compliments with who notices a change for better or worse.

These super minor characters I really just make up as I go and as I need. They’re really simple and I like to use them to emphasise a mood I’m going for, to break it up or to highlight just how my POV character is feeling or in denial about.

Like any part of writing , character creation is a skill you can practise and develop over time. 

And one part of this skill I am constantly mindful about is making these characters diverse, but respectful. With these simple ideas it’s so easy to slip into harmful stereotypes and I feel writers have a responsibility to be as mindful as we can, to constantly learn and try to do better.

If you made it this far, go get yourself a treat, have some water and feel free to ask more questions if you have any.

 Good writing!