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okay-j-hannah · 8 months ago

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Part 2: A Lacrosse Boyfriend

Teen Wolf : Multishot

Stiles Stilinski x Reader

Word Count: 11.4k

Warnings: series rewrite, start of season 1 {aka 2011}, slow burn, friends to lovers, eventual pining, eventual NSFW, usual teen wolf levels of violence and gore, heart conditions, health problems, lightheadedness, fainting

Request: This just came from my own head 😊

Part 1: Her Broken Heart

Part 2: A Lacrosse Boyfriend {You Are Here}

Part 3: Blue Handprints

The summer heat had finally decided to die down to a reasonable temperature. It was the only reason your mother decided a picnic at the park would be nice. It was equal parts safe for you and enough of a distraction that you could pretend you were a normal kid.

At just four years old you were starting to notice how you didn’t live like the children you saw outside your window. You had started to grow bored of your usual antics stuck at home.

You lay on your stomach near the edge of your blanket. Along the blades of green grass you spotted a ladybug climbing towards the sky. You were practicing counting the spots on its back when the beat in your chest became noticeable.

The pressure from laying on your tummy made it easier to feel your heartbeat unevenly.

“Do you want another grape, sweetie?” your mom asked, stretched out and enjoying the shade.

You reached out a smaller, pudgier hand, accepting the grape with a hungry toddler’s mouth. Your eyes looked above the ladybug grass and stared at the playground, complete with twisting slides and a rubber rock wall.

“Mom,” you say in your timid tone. “I want to play.”

“I know, honey,” she says, “But you know how that’s not safe for your heart.”

A pout grew instantly, “I am careful!”

Sensing your coming tantrum, your mother drew your attention away from the other children playing with a lacrosse ball in the nearby field.

“Yes, you are very good at being careful. But remember your heart sometimes has a mind of it’s own. Sometimes being careful isn’t enough. The doctor said not to be too crazy.”

You ball your little fists but hold back the angry words. “I don’t like my heart.”

Your mother cooed, reaching for you, “No, sweetie, you have a wonderful heart. It’s big and warm and full of love for far too many things. It tries its best to take care of you. So we need to try our best to take care of it, okay?”

You snuggle into your mother’s arms, upset feelings turning into tears, “Okay, mommy.” You feel a kiss on your head when the children playing in the field came running past your blanket.

They stopped on the other side of your shaded spot and conversed behind dirt smudged hands. They were both rowdy boys with scabbed knees and grass stained shirts, but they had wide smiles as one approached you.

He had unruly hair and sunburnt cheeks.

“Hello,” he said in a nervous voice, “What’s your name?”

You rub at your eyes, “(Y/N).” You sink further into your mom.

The boy was out of breath and already itching to run again judging by his fidgeting. He said quickly, “Hi my name is Stiles. Do you want to come play with us? We were playing sharks and minnows, but it’s not so fun with only two people.”

You look up at your mother’s chin and ask quietly, “Can I go play?”

Your mother sighs, tickling your sides, “If you don’t run around so much and stay on the playground…”

You were instantly crawling out of her lap, “Okay!”

“And if you start getting out of breath you need to tell me!” your mom continues, “Be careful climbing the ladders and don’t you dare stand on the slide!”

“Bye!” you yell in reply, already jogging away with Stiles to meet with his other friend.

He touched your shoulder, “Do you like chasing bad guys?”

“I’m not supposed to chase,” you say seriously, “But I do like to catch bad guys.”

Stiles nodded his head in deep thought, “Okay. How about we make traps for bad guys under the slides.”

You agree enthusiastically, grateful at your young age for someone who didn’t know about your heart. Grateful that they played with you like any other child.

And you schemed underneath the slides, building traps out of woodchips and leafy twigs. Innocent kids that didn’t know any better. Didn’t know that you wouldn’t remember this first meeting.

~~~

“I’ve started TAing.”

Allison gives you a strange look, “What?”

“I’m a teacher’s assistant now,” you lead the way into the school, “I have a free period since I finished a core class during my homeschooling.”

“Who will you TA for?”

You hold back a grimace, “Coach Finstock.”

Allison snorts, “You know I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know what’s going on half the time. He forgets which periods he’s teaching economics and which periods he needs to be in the gym for P.E..”

“All the more reason why he needs a TA to sort things out,” you say, straight-backed. “And it means I can help out at lacrosse games too.”

“What, like a waterboy?”

You bump into Allison’s side, “No… well maybe. Just helping out with supplies and plays and locker room stuff.”

“Locker room stuff,” Allison says with raised eyebrows.

You choke on a laugh, “Don’t start. I reserve the right to ban you from the locker rooms. Especially seeing as that’s become your new make out spot.”

That caught her off guard, ramming right into the person in front of her. With a squeal she drops everything in her arms and put her hands into her hair. It was Scott who turns around after the collision.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Allison laughs, joining you as you help pick up her things.

Scott looks terrifyingly relieved, “You’re okay.”

“Once my heart starts beating again, yeah.” You smile ruefully at that statement. “What?”

“I’m just happy to see you.”

You thought Scott looks more like seeing Allison walking and talking was a miracle. Like he couldn’t believe that she was alive. You hand Allison her pencil case and folders, watching their goodbye with skepticism.

“What was that?” you whisper as Allison walks away to first period.

Scott was still breathing shallow, “She’s okay.”

You snap your fingers in front of his dazed eyes. “Are you okay?”

The speakers suddenly turn on with a crackle of fuzzy interference. “Attention, students, this is your principal. I know you’re all wondering about the incident that occurred last night to one of our buses. While the police work to determine what happened, classes will proceed as scheduled. Thank you.” With another crackle of microphone feedback the principal’s voice was gone.

You return your eyes to Scott and furrow your brow.

He took in your confusion and whispers, “I had a dream last night where Allison and I snuck into the buses behind the school.”

“Oh?” you say, still skeptical but now with a smile on your face.

“And I sort of had… an outburst.” He seems to struggle with finding the right words. “I killed Allison and broke through the back of the bus.”

“Well, shit that sucks Scott,” you fold your arms, “But I don’t think you’re capable of all that.”

He grimaces, “No, when we showed up to school and saw the bus out back – and how it looked just like it did in my dream – I thought maybe I had actually killed Allison somehow.”

You reign in your teasing smiles and bump into his shoulder, “Scott, like I said, I don’t think there’s a mean bone in your body. There’s no way you could kill someone and tear up a bus.” He still slumps as he follows you to first period. “I can understand why that would still be scary regardless.”

It was his turn to bump into your shoulder, but with more force, causing you to trip into a row of lockers. “God! I’m sorry, (Y/N),” he pulls you closer by the hand.

You laugh, ignoring the jump of your heart. “It’s okay, let’s just get to chemistry.”

Stiles was already sitting down, bouncing his leg against the table stool. He looks at Scott as if asking if everything was okay. Scott gave him a reassuring nod as he took a seat at the table in front of him.

You smile at them as you took the remaining empty seat at a back table. You immediately start copying the diagram drawn on the blackboard, taking out your science project notes for inspiration.

You could hear the frantic voices of Scott and Stiles near the front, and a needle of hurt stuck in your chest as you remember the secret that Stiles wasn’t ready to tell you. You had to remind yourself that the friendship was still relatively new.

There was still a secret you hadn’t told them either.

“Mr. Stilinski, if that’s your idea of a hushed whisper you might want to pull the headphones out every once in a while,” Mr. Harris says from the blackboard. “I think you and Mr. McCall would benefit from a little distance, yes?”

Stiles begrudgingly moves his stuff to the back but stops when he spots the empty seat next to you.

“Hey, trouble,” you say quietly.

He sat clumsily, “How was the rest of your weekend?”

“It was fine. Just a lot of reading.” You finish copying the blackboard notes.

Stiles leans on his elbow, “Still reading that werewolf book?”

“You mean Harry Potter,” you snicker, “Yeah I’m on the fourth one now.” Turning your head you could see Stiles staring at you, “What?”

He swallows hard, awkwardly straightening himself, “Nothing just… I like that coconutty-strawberry smell.”

Warmth came up your chest, “That would be my shampoo.”

“Then thank god for personal hygiene.” He grimaces and smacks the back of his head.

You ignore it, pulling your notebook closer. You could still feel his eyes on you as a classmate jumps to the window, “Hey, I think they found something!”

Everyone ran for the wall of windows. You stood quickly from your stool too when a fuzzy feeling flickers on in your head. You grip the table, closing your eyes and frowning.

No one notices as you compose yourself, waiting for the fainting feeling to go away. You wander closer to the group of kids terrified at what they were seeing. A tingling was making its way down your legs – the blood rushing to your toes.

You felt uncomfortably warm when a cool hand touches your shoulder, “(Y/N)?”

Stiles was at your side, unsure of what was happening. “You look ashy. Are you lightheaded again?”

The breath leaving your lungs was shallow and rapid, cotton was building pressure in your ears. “I’m going to faint, Stiles.”

“Mr. Harris!” Stiles yells, “(Y/N) needs to get to the nurses office!”

Not that the student body would know, but every teacher at the school knew of your health problems. They knew it was a possibility that you would require medical care. Mr. Harris, as cynical and distrustful as he was, let you leave promptly despite his feelings.

“You may leave, Miss. Westbrook.”

“Sir, I don’t think she should be walking alone to…”

Mr. Harris was using his phone as he looks out the window, “Get out of my classroom, Stilinski!”

Stiles keeps a hand on your back and another on your arm, watching your face the whole way. His voice was frantic and small as he talks you through it.

“It’s like I can see the blood draining from your face. Does that happen a lot? I mean, I know you get head rushes a lot, but the fainting thing? Do you just have bad blood circulation? Was it something I said? Look I know I’ve mentioned how good you smell twice now and while it is true I acknowledge that it’s a little creepy of me to be sniffing your hair so much. I probably shouldn’t have admitted that. Not gonna lie it’s kinda freaking me out that you’re not saying anything.”

You struggle to breathe, “It’s sort of hard when you don’t give me time to answer.”

The shallowness of your breathy words put a strange feeling in Stiles’ chest, “Do you need me to do something else? Does the nurse… what the hell is that?”

Your watch was suddenly beeping with an alarm. Your heart rate was far too high and had stayed that high for more than thirty seconds. A pain enters your chest, and your walking slows.

Stiles starts panicking, “What does that mean? (Y/N), what’s happening?” He yells down the hallway towards the office, “Hey! We need help over here!”

It was hard to keep your eyes open as you start to slump, “Stiles…” you mumble. And you lost consciousness, falling into Stiles and in return he fell to the ground to catch your body.

He held your back and shoulders, using his free hand to brush the hair from your face. Your skin was still gray-tinged. An office lady and the school nurse came rushing down the hallway. Their heavy footfalls matching the hard beating of your heart.

Stiles was finally at a loss for words, holding you like you had just died. “(Y/N)?! Oh my god, I think she just fainted,” he says to the incoming help, “I hope she just fainted.”

The nurse asks Stiles to help drag you to the sickbed. He complies, frantically asking questions until the nurse ordered him to stop.

“Alice, will you call her mother and I’ll get her doctor on the line,” the nurse says to the office lady. She dials a number and holds it to her ear as she elevates your legs and checks that your airway wasn’t obstructed.

“What did she say to you before she fainted?”

Stiles was still flabbergasted, “She turned gray and said she was lightheaded. She told me she was going to faint.” He ran a hand over his shaved head, “And then her watch started freaking out and she had a pain in her chest.”

“It’s been more than 90 seconds now,” she mumbles to herself, checking your watch monitor to measure your heart rate.

“Wh-What does that mean?” Stiles asks, blinking blearily. “Is she going to be okay?”

The nurse starts talking to a doctor on the phone and Stiles was ushered out by the office lady, forced to watch from a different room. He refuses to leave the office until he sees your eyes open just a few seconds later.

~~~

“By the time I checked with the office at lunch she was sent home,” Stiles vents, one hand on the wheel and the other in his short hair. “She hasn’t answered any of my texts or phone calls.”

Scott was stretched thin between worrying about his possible dreamlike wolf attack and the mystery of his newfound friend. In all honesty he was more worried about how worried his best friend was.

“I talked to Allison about it, she doesn’t know anything either.”

“God, I knew there was something wrong,” Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. “That scar she has… whatever I look up says it has something to do with her heart.”

Scott eyes his friend, unsettled by the palpable worry. “She’ll be okay.”

“You don’t know that.”

“We would have heard something if she wasn’t.”

Stiles grips the steering wheel, “We would have heard something if she was.”

They pull up against the fence to the bus drop off, putting the jeep in park. Stiles rubs at his worn face and Scott leans in with an edge to his voice.

“Listen, let’s just get this Derek theory over with and then we can go check on (Y/N). Sound good?”

Stiles grumbles, slipping out of the jeep with his friend.

“Hey, no, just me,” Scott says, “Someone needs to keep watch.”

“How come I’m always the guy keeping watch?”

Scott pulls on his friend’s arm, “Because there’s only two of us and I happen to have wolf-like reflexes and you’re distracted by your sudden love for (Y/N).”

“I am…” Stiles scoffs, caught off guard. “I am not in love with (Y/N).”

“The eight text messages and four phone calls would say otherwise.”

Stiles juts a finger in the air, “Hey, that is totally untrue.” He put his hands on his hips, “I only made three phone calls.”

“Whatever,” Scott whispers, “I’ll just be in and out.”

“Okay, why’s it starting to feel like you’re Batman and I’m Robin? I don’t want to be Robin all the time.”

Scott was bewildered, “Nobody’s Batman and Robin any of the time.”

“Not even some of the time?”

But true his word, Scott was quick upon entering the bus. Stiles surrenders and sits in the jeep ready to drive with the headlights off. He pulls out his phone and scrolls through his messages to you, concern eating away at his stomach.

It was bad enough that he witnessed you fall ill so quickly and dragged you to the nurses office. But now he was realizing, through some personal investigation and the unhelpful words of Scott, that he had a crush on you.

He liked you.

With all the strange supernatural problems infiltrating his life, it was almost an unexpected surprise to have something so human as a little crush. His stomach flips. But what if there was something more supernatural about you?

Your heart rate was elevated when you fainted. Scott’s heart rate is a tell of an oncoming werewolf transformation.

Is that why you wanted to keep it a secret?

Stiles was sick of his investigative brain, slamming his forehead against the steering wheel. Couldn’t he have normal high school problems like fretting over the girl he liked instead of deducing if she was a shape shifter or not?

Flashlight beams could be seen from the school’s entrance. Stiles lifts his head to see them shining in his eyes, “Oh, shit…” he starts laying on the horn.

~~~

After dropping Scott off, Stiles sat in his jeep contemplating his next move. Staring at the clock on his dashboard he knew it was far too late for your parents to accept company.

But there was still that garden trellis outside your window.

Making his decision, Stiles drove to the end of your street, hopping out and running for your house. It was easier to climb the garden trellis now that he knew where to put his hands and feet through the vines and ladder.

He creeps over the roof tiles and squats outside your window. The lights were off, and he could just make out the human shape lying in bed… he still couldn’t help himself. He taps on the glass until he saw your figure stir.

Ruffled in white pajamas with little blueberries printed on the fabric, you carefully tip toe to the window to let him in.

“Stiles,” you yawn, the moonlight still bright enough to make your eyes squint. “What are you doing here?”

Stiles made a much more graceful entry, afraid to disturb your parents. “I wanted to check on you. You haven’t been answering my messages.”

You sit on the edge of your bed, clearly exhausted. Stiles remains standing – because he wanted to pace or because he was preparing to catch you should you fall, he didn’t know.

“I’m sorry,” you run your fingers through your bedhead. Stiles thought it was cute. “Between the hospital visit and the bedrest I haven’t even looked at my phone. My mom usually keeps it whenever I have a fainting episode. Gives me time to unplug and unwind.”

“But…” Stiles folds his arms, “But you are okay?”

He didn’t like that it took you longer to respond. “Yes, I’m fine. You know I get lightheaded a lot. Fainting is usually a consequence of that.”

“Your watch went off right before you fell,” he says quietly, his eyes dark and serious. “Like some kind of alarm.”

“Yeah,” you look at your watch that you wear even when sleeping. “It measures my heart rate. Whenever it spikes for too long it warns me that I might faint.”

“That’s why you get lightheaded… your heart?” his eyes linger at the collar of your shirt, hoping to see that scar again.

You fold your arms, protective, “When I get worked up it doesn’t beat enough to get oxygen to my brain. Then I get lightheaded and sometimes faint.”

Stiles nods his head and walks over to your bed, “Can I?”

A soft smile quirks your lips, “You may.”

He sits beside you, the mattress sinking down further. “So when we saw the ambulance and the bus driver all mangled like that…”

“It got my heart rate going,” you say easily. Of course you got lightheaded before even seeing the commotion outside the window. You didn’t feel like getting too deep into your diagnosis. This was a good start.

“It was really scary seeing you get sick like that,” Stiles says honestly, looking down at his hands. “Not knowing what was going on made me feel… like I was helpless to make it stop.”

You turn to him, silhouetted by moonlight. His eyelashes were so long that they were casting shadows onto his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” you say gently, placing a hand on his forearm. It made him look up at you. “I should’ve been more honest with you.”

“Is this where I can ask you my one personal question of the day?” his eyes were warm as his voice held slight sarcasm.

You lean into him, “I suppose.”

“If you start feeling faint or if you do faint, what can I do to help? Just so I’m prepared if it happens again.”

You blow air between your lips, “Oh, it’ll happen again. That’s my curse.” You hum as you think, oblivious to how Stiles was unconsciously smiling at your thinking face. “I generally avoid things that would get my heart rate up.”

Stiles scoffs, having an epiphany, “Like a lacrosse game or an after party.”

“Or a crowded lunchroom,” you smile. “But if it goes up regardless, I usually try to ground myself. Like thinking about what my five senses notice. And I hold onto whoever I’m closest to. Doing that and taking deep breaths can control my heart rate.”

“I know a thing or two about that,” Stiles mumbles, “That’s a technique to control anxiety.”

You nod, “You’re right.”

“And if you faint again?”

“First step is to call for help and the second step is to make sure I’m stable.”

You turn to him, and he looks so sincere that goosebumps erupt on your skin. He was taking your words so seriously. Without interrupting your council he grabs the blanket off your bed and drapes it over your bare arms.

“Lay me down and elevate my feet. Make sure I’m not choking on anything. And then if I’m out for more than 90 seconds or I start seizing, then turn me on my side.”

“Why 90 seconds?” he asks.

You pull the blanket closer around you, “Because after 90 seconds then there might be some brain damage or something else seriously wrong.”

He turns his body towards you more, your thighs fully touching. “The nurse today said that you were out for over 90 seconds.”

“That’s why they sent me to the hospital,” you nod, “But they didn’t find any serious damage. I just can’t have any more fainting episodes like that.”

Stiles swallows hard, tracing the outline of your side profile with his eyes. Brow. Nose. Lips. Chin. “Why?”

“Because the more I have the weaker my body will become. The more damage I’ll get. We don’t want that to happen.”

He licks his lips and plays with his fingers, “Thank you for telling me.” He thought back to the scar on your chest and realized that some things still didn’t add up. Craning his neck to look at you, he asks, “That’s still not everything, is it?”

Your eyebrows slant and you look scared for the first time that night. “No.”

Stiles found himself closer to you than he intended, urgency laced into his next words, “(Y/N), I want to know everything. I want to be able to help.”

A sad smile crept onto your face, “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

You take a shaky breath, “Because then it’ll become too real. I’m not ready to share that reality yet.” You match his urgency as you express, “This is enough for now.”

Stiles suppresses the instant anger that brought up. He hated not knowing things. “Does anyone else know?”

“The school staff and most parents know,” you say, “Yes, even your dad.”

“My dad!”

You shush him, “It’s a small town and my mom works under him.”

“What about Scott and Allison?”

“Not yet,” you sigh, “But I don’t mind if you tell them now. It was stupid of me to keep it to myself when I could faint at any time around you guys.”

He bites his lip, “When will you be back at school?”

“Maybe Wednesday,” you shrug, “Fainting always puts my family in a tizzy. My parents don’t like me leaving the house until they’re sure I can handle the stress again.”

Stiles was sinking further towards you, your arms now touching along with your thighs. “Is that why you were homeschooled?”

“Yes. I finally decided to not let my problems stop me from living my life to the fullest,” you relish in his warmth beside you, the goosebumps going away. “I decided to go to school, to get a job, to do things my parents and doctors said I shouldn’t do. My heart rate will go up the same way if I get jump scared in my own kitchen. I might as well be out doing something enjoyable.”

Stiles sighs and he was close enough you could feel his breath on your cheek. “I like that.” You smile and cuddle further into your blanket. He felt reluctant to leave, but all the same says, “I should go.”

He stands and walks carefully to your window. “You’re going to miss a wicked history test tomorrow and the ‘hang out’ between Scott and Allison.”

“I thought they were going on a date?” you say, crawling back towards your pillow.

“Nope,” Stiles began to slide out your window, “Lydia and Jackson made it a hang out at the bowling alley.”

“Does Scott even bowl?”

He snorts, “Never.”

“That could only end in hilarity,” you grin, “I’ll text Allison about it tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Stiles mutters, “Goodnight, (Y/N).”

“Stiles?”

He slips on the roof tiles, “Yep!”

You smile at his goofy face, “Thank you for helping me today. Not everyone would’ve done what you did.”

“I think anyone would be competent enough to cry for help when…”

“No, you coming to check on me. Asking me for details so you can help more in the future. Not judging me for having a problem. No one else has done that for me.”

Stiles nods awkwardly, gripping your windowsill. “I’ll text you tomorrow.”

~~~

Wednesday evening you were on a mission to convince your parents that you were well enough to go to school tomorrow.

You stood in the kitchen, soft blue silk pajamas on and fuzzy socks keeping your toes warm. A home speaker was playing songs from your favorite playlist, coercing your body to nod and sway with the beats.

“Are you sure you feel alright enough to be alone?” your mother frets, putting a coat on as your dad grabs the car keys.

You hold up your wrist with the watch, “My heart has been steady all day.”

“Yes, but you don’t know if…”

“Mom!” you cry, “It’s Wednesday. Wednesday is date night. You should enjoy your Wednesday date night. I can make myself dinner and watch a movie before bed.”

Your dad nudges your mother towards the door, “Let her have some freedom,” he teases.

Angela smacks his arm, but keeps moving nonetheless, “You better believe I’m getting my own cheesecake tonight.”

Your father, Tom, gave you a wink, “Let’s treat ourselves tonight, sweetheart.”

And for the next ten minutes you were blissful in making yourself some chicken and rice, green beans on the side. Clad in your softest sleepwear and dancing around to your favorite tunes, it was hard to shift the mood when you receive a frantic phone call.

“Hey, Stiles. Sorry I wasn’t at scho…”

“(Y/N), I need your help,” he says quickly.

You turn away from the stove, “Cutting to the chase, alright. I’m listening.”

Stiles trips over his words, “Y-You work at the hospital right? You have a wealth of doctor knowledge? Like you could tell me a few facts about first aide?”

You lean against the counter, the marble cold under your arms. “Yes… Stiles what’s going on?”

“I might, sort of… maybe have a friend who is… very hurt.”

“Very hurt?”

“He has a wound that just keeps sprouting blood and he’s not looking so hot.”

You hum a ‘uh huh’ as you ponder who this friend might be, “Not looking so hot meaning what?”

“You know, just the general sweating, pale skin, heavy breathing.”

“He must be in a lot of pain then.” You could hear a slam on something metal in the background. Stiles must’ve jumped by how his voice rose an octave.

“Lots – lots of pain. Listen, what might we do to help said wound?”

You go to stir your sizzling chicken, “How does it look?”

“Red and gross and all around a major health code violation,” he felt his chest tighten at your slight laugh. “There’s also these purple veiny things creeping up his arm.”

The smile falls from your face, “That would mean he has blood poisoning. Whatever wound he has is infected and if it reaches his heart then it’ll kill him.”

Someone was rummaging through drawers; you could hear pill bottles flying around.

“That’s good, great,” Stiles curses, “What do we need to stop that from happening?”

“Well, you need to stop the infection with some pretty heavy antibiotics,” you rub at your forehead. “And you need to clean the wound to stop more infection from getting in. And you could put a tourniquet on to help stop the bleeding.”

Some heavy whispering was happening behind Stiles’ hand. Something recognizable was in the other man’s voice.

“Stiles,” you say warningly, “Who are you with?”

“Just some guy,” Stiles replies, moving around, “We’re putting a belt around his arm as a tourniquet now. Thanks for your help, (Y/N).”

A cry of pain was heard through the phone and you hiss, “Are you with Derek Hale?”

“What?! No way… not a chance,” he laughs weakly before growing silent. “Yes, I’m with Derek Hale.”

“What the hell, Stiles – I thought you hated that guy.”

A growl was heard behind him, “Listen, I gotta go. Talk to you later?”

“I’ll be here, making dinner and watching old Disney movies.” You wait for a goodbye, but the line went dead. “That was weird.” And it continues to be that way as you finish making the dinner and grab a soda from the fridge.

You sat on the couch, pulling a fluffy forest green blanket on you. It was quiet and serene as you pull up one of your favorite movies: Atlantis: The Lost Empire.

You weren’t even ten minutes in when there was a knock on your door. Slipping on your thick socks, you skid across the hard wood to the door.

Suspicious, you say, “Stiles… how is Derek?”

“He’ll live,” Stiles says, out of breath and wrapping his jacket tightly around him. “He’s having a chat with Scott right now about the Hale family or something.”

“About the house fire?” you ask, “So now that he’s innocent of killing his sister you’re suddenly buddies with him?”

Stiles had an exaggerated look on his face, “Well, not exactly. He’s still a big scary guy that we got thrown into jail for a day. And now the town thinks he’s some murdering recluse because of the evidence we put against him.”

You couldn’t fight the smile creeping onto your face, “So it was just a favor you helping him tonight?”

“Yeah, it was a hunting accident,” he says casually, as if it were the whole truth. “And he didn’t have any friends to turn to.” He dances on his toes, looking up at the porch light, “While I love chatting out in the cold, do you think your parents would be alright if I hang out here and check on you?”

Leaving the door open, you walk inside, “My parents aren’t here. It’s date night.”

“Right,” he says, closing the door and kicking off his shoes, “How are you feeling?”

You sigh, “I feel fine. My mom is just determined to keep me couped up for the rest of my life.” Without prompting you prepare a dinner dish for Stiles and meet him in the living room, “I’ve only been in school a few weeks, but I miss it.”

Stiles eyes the plate of food with wide honey eyes, “Oh my god, that smells amazing.”

“Come on, I’m watching Atlantis.”

The boy was only too eager to follow you onto the couch. He flops down, staring at his plate hungrily. You share the green blanket, throwing it over his lap. He looks at you with big eyes.

“You said it was cold outside,” you shrug, picking up your plate. Your legs were touching again as the pair of you ate.

Stiles was eating the chicken and rice like his life depended on it, “This is the best food I’ve had in years.”

“You must be in love with it,” you snicker, “Judging by the sounds you’re making.” You laugh as he chokes on his fork.

“No, it’s just…” he scratches the back of his neck, “I don’t eat a lot of homecooked food anymore. My dad and I survive on takeout mostly.”

You push the rice around your plate, “Did your mom cook a lot?”

There was a shift in the air as Stiles continues to eat, but he responds with as normal a voice as he could manage. “Yeah. My dad used to say that… that she would bribe him with a good dinner to get him home from the station sometimes.”

Your voice was warm as you say, “She must’ve been an excellent chef if that got the Sheriff away from his caseload.”

“She used to make this delicious homemade mac and cheese, like fancy mac and cheese…” he made silly hand motions in the air, “Like with the little chopped up green things on top.”

“Parsley?”

He shrugs, but his eyes grew wide and bright, “And she’d serve it on top of a piece of garlic bread with some Italian sausage on the side.” He makes an overexaggerated chef kiss. “It was a masterpiece.”

“Sounds amazing,” you lean back into the couch, leaving your plate on the side table. “Like a fancy kid’s meal.”

Stiles guffaws, “That’s what it was! When I was little the only thing I would eat was kraft mac and cheese with chicken nuggets. She was determined to make me a better version.”

“I would’ve liked to have met her,” you say softly, fixated on the points where your bodies were touching. “She sounds like an amazing person.”

“She was,” Stiles says just as quietly, playing with his food like he had lost interest in it. “She would’ve thought you were sweet.”

You lean closer, intrigued, “Sweet?”

“That was her descriptor word for all things she liked.” He puts his plate aside too, resting against the couch and your shoulder that was so near. “We got a coupon for the arcade? Sweet! My dad picked her a flower from the woods? That’s sweet of him. I’m forced into a sailor outfit for family pictures? He looks so sweet!”

You take a deep breath, “That is pretty sweet.”

Stiles turns to you, startled to see you so close to him. His throat grew dry and his chest felt tight, all words trickling from his brain and out his ears. He never talked about his mom. Not to Scott, not to his dad, not to his pillow – not to anyone. But talking about her to you was… easy.

You were having the quick realization that Stiles had not just brown eyes, but the most glassy brown eyes you had ever seen. Like if sunlight were to shine through the liquid of a whisky bottle. Or if a sunset caught a glimpse of a glistening honeycomb. Or if a campfire reflected off a drop of amber tree sap.

“So…” Stiles clears his throat, not wishing to pull away but very conscious of how high his voice sounds. “You like Atlantis?”

The movie had been playing the whole time in the background.

“Yes! Have you seen Milo Thatch? I’d marry him in an instant.”

“I didn’t realize you felt so strongly for an animated man.”

You poke your shoulder into him, “Fictional men.”

“And the appeal is?”

“It’s in the name,” you snicker, “They’re fictional.”

Stiles hums a reply, turning his attention back to the tv screen. “I’ll add that to your case file: only attracted to fictional men and therefore can conclude that she’s never had a real boyfriend.”

“Oh, it feels real though.”

Stiles fought a shiver tickling the top of his spine. He instead readjusted his pants, “I think I’m going to need more research on these fictional men you’re so fascinated with.”

“We’d have a lot of ground to cover,” you sigh, “Seeing as I don’t think you’ll read any of the books I give you, we’ll have to have a lot more movies nights like this.”

“I think I’d be okay with that,” Stiles says with a smirk on his face. His hands were above the blanket you share, lying in his lap and fidgeting with the green fuzzies coming from the fabric he was pulling.

~~~

You sat on the windowsill in the girls bathroom the next day, reapplying your lipstick and combing your fingers through your hair. Allison was readjusting her hairband in the mirror while Lydia fixes her mascara.

“We’re going to have a movie night,” the redhead says, admiring her eyelashes. “All of us.” She turns with a flair and points to the other two. “It’ll be prime time for a little under the blanket action.”

You make a face while Allison coughs awkwardly, “You want to do a double date?”

“Triple if we can get (Y/N) a boytoy,” Lydia smirks.

“I’m not exactly in the market for boytoys,” you say, crossing your arms.

Lydia leans against the sink, “You will when I tell you half the lacrosse team wants to ask you out since you started helping with Coach.”

A nauseous feeling enters your stomach, “I’m not a huge fan of dating, Lydia.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll handpick the perfect one for you.”

Allison was all skepticism as the bell rang, “There goes the last of English.”

“And now we can go straight to lacrosse practice!” Lydia claps her hands, “Let’s go shopping for (Y/N)’s boyfriend.”

The trio make their way to the field, each at a different level of enthusiasm, as you see Scott and Stiles in their uniforms. The boys were quick to pull you to the side.

“Why did you skip the rest of English?” Scott asks, “Is Allison okay?”

“We got an emergency text from Lydia,” you huff, “Turns out it was just the regular scheming and gossip.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows, “Like…?”

“Like how Lydia is going to find me a lacrosse boyfriend to match her and Allison’s lacrosse boyfriends…”

Scott and Stiles spoke at the same time:

“I’m Allison’s lacrosse boyfriend?”

“You’re getting a lacrosse boyfriend?”

You roll your eyes, “And with all our lacrosse boyfriends we’re going to have a ‘movie night’ to coverup the sexcapade I think Lydia’s planning.”

Scott was blinking really hard, and Stiles seems to have left on a thought tangent based on the slack jawed look on his face.

You snap your fingers, “I need your help with Lydia.”

“No,” Scott mumbles, “She’s scary.”

Stiles was still lingering on his imagination as he says, dreamily, “You don’t want a lacrosse boyfriend?”

Your hands fall on your hips, “I just don’t want Lydia to conduct a speed dating the lacrosse team weekend.”

“WESTBROOK!”

You close your eyes, “Yes, Coach!?”

Coach Finstock stomps over, clipboard in hand as he struggles to wrap the whistle around his wild haired head. “I need you to register the team for a spring retreat.”

You blink blearily, “A spring retreat, Coach?”

“Yeah, yeah it’s good for bonding and teamwork and… bonding.” He threw his hands up, “We have the funds this year so we’re going out.”

The teenagers share looks as you attempt to get a baseline of knowledge, “What’s our budget? When are the dates? Who do I contact?”

“Everything’s on my desk. Now get to it,” he puts the whistle between his teeth, “The district likes to hear about these things in advance.”

You back away to the locker rooms as you silently plead to Scott and Stiles to handle the Lydia situation. They were frantically whispering back to you, making exaggerated and confused gestures. You could spy Lydia and Allison talking to a lacrosse huddle by the bleachers.

For the next forty-five minutes you handle the paperwork that the principal and district employees emailed Finstock. You create an excel sheet for signups and a budget tracker. You contact a sports summer camp that allows retreats and field trips during the school year. All you need was to pass out permission slips and gather player information.

You were on your way out of the copy room when you spot Lydia on Jackson’s arm, conversing with some players on the sidelines. Scott was playing goalie while Stiles and a few others were doing a play on the field.

“Give me some good news, Westbrook,” Coach grumbles, bending his clipboard to near splintering levels. “Because these dancing monkeys need some incentive to play better than my recently deceased grandmother.”

“I’ve got everything scheduled here,” you say, not even bothering to show all your hard work. The Coach trusts you enough to have it finished. “I just need to get players information.”

“Done. Boys! Get your pansy ballet asses to line up next to Westbrook! Do what she says fellas or you’re going to miss one hell of a weekend retreat.”

A herd of maroon jerseys and shoulder pads stampede towards you on the bleachers. Sweaty, and slightly smelly, boys began to filter past as you write down their names, shirt size, contact information, and give them a permission slip. You could feel Lydia and Allison waiting on the bench behind you.

Lydia’s heel toed boot prods the middle of your back whenever a boy she particularly likes came up.

“Ben Manley,” a blonde-haired, freckled face says. “I like your jacket.”

Seeing as it was a jacket you borrowed from Stiles’ jeep, you smile, “Thanks, Ben Manley. Get this paper signed if you want to come on the retreat.”

He looks a little dejected as he walks past. Another boy comes up, shiny with sweat on his wonderfully dimpled cheeks. His hair was chestnut brown and curly, “Andrew Wickstrom,” he says with a smile, “Thank you for helping Coach. He hasn’t been as manic since you started.”

“I’m glad my hard work is paying off.” You hand him a permission slip as another sharp poke was felt in your back. “Just turn that in within the next week.”

“Thanks, (Y/N). See you in gym.”

Right, gym class that you were a TA in instead of attending. You told the other students that you already got those credits during homeschool, but really you had a doctors note detailing how under no circumstances were you to get your heart rate up.

While others ran laps and did pushups and played volleyball indoors, you graded papers for Finstock from various classes.

Scott and Stiles came next in line. Scott gave a lovestruck wave to the girl sitting behind you while Stiles whispers to you.

“Hanging in there?”

“I think Lydia is making a March Madness chart with eligible lacrosse players,” you hand the boys permission slips. “She’s relentless.”

“You think I’ll make the bracket?” he asks clumsily, his cleats sticking into the grass.

You shrug, a teasing tone to your voice, “She’s very particular about who she adds.”

Stiles hopes he wasn’t hearing sarcasm, or even worse – dislike, in your voice. He was shoved to the side by a much taller boy coming in next.

“Josh Arnett,” he says.

He was broad, darkhaired, light eyed, and currently getting a dirty look from Stiles.

“Hi there,” you say, a little starstruck at the intense eye contact. You immediately recognize him as a narcissistic asshole, one that you’d still gladly kiss and get your heart broken over. He was one that made you think Greek gods still existed. He was one that made dirty look sexy.

And you just said, ‘hi there.’

His smile was killer, “Are you going to be at the retreat?”

You ignore the boot in your back as you fumble over your words, “Probably. Coach has kind of grown dependent on me to function.”

He took a permission slip, “I’ll go if you go,” and he winks. Like full on ‘sent-a-warm-river-of-shivers-down-your-chest-and-to-your-middle’ kind of wink. Your uneven heart patters at the sight of him walking away. Those wide shoulder pads… slim waist… and tight little…

You snap out of it as you realize the boy next to you was doing the exact same thing. Danny Mahealani was gawking as he groans under his breath, “Damn I love being on the lacrosse team.”

You laugh, shoving him away in a playful gesture. Danny was by far one of your favorites on the team. Lydia was right above your shoulder in an instant.

“I think we have our winner.”

“What?” you say a bit breathless, “Mr. Tall, Dark, and Philanderer?”

Allison was choking on laughs as Lydia huffs, “Come on, just a little movie date tonight. You don’t have to see him again if it’s really that bad.”

“You’re just trying to get a hot squad together,” you poke her button nose before you stand. “But you can’t force a healthy relationship on incompatible people.”

“Sure I can,” she scowls, “Jackson and I are still together.”

You share a look with Allison before packing up, “If you two are bringing dates tonight, I might as well bring the one that flirted with me.”

“Oh, please,” Allison crosses her arms, “All of them were being fl…”

“Perfect,” Lydia claps, “I’ll talk with Josh in the locker room.” And she flounces off in her skirts, leaving Allison to walk with Scott.

And Stiles appears at your shoulder, grabbing your leftover papers and the laptop from your hands. “So, has Lydia decided your fate?” He tries not to sound too eager (and/or desperate) to learn about the evenings plans, but he was hovering a bit close as you rub your temples. Your heart rate was a little high since encountering Mr. Philanderer.

“We have a big movie date tonight.”

He holds his breath as he continues, “… slash sexcapade?”

You snort, “I’d rather clean out whatever is festering in Coach’s desk drawers than have a sexcapade this weekend.”

His next breath was deep and tight, “Then who are you watching the movie with?”

“Josh Arnett.” Stiles stuck to the grass while you walk a few steps ahead. “What?”

“You are going to spend the night with Jealous Josh? Judgy Josh? Jockstrap Josh? Forget that last one.”

You giggle, “Yes, I’m going out with Jaw-dropping Josh.” You pull on Stiles’ arm, “It’s just to appease Lydia.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Of course you don’t,” you say, “It’s going to be just a one time thing.”

“But what if he charms you and kisses you and you agree to more dates…” he watches a dreamy look slide onto your face. “Oh my god, you’re thinking about kissing him, aren’t you?”

You open the door to the locker room, full of sounds and smells alike. “It would be a crime not to acknowledge that he’s hot. And I’d have more status by saying I kissed him once.”

“I don’t have a good feeling about it.”

“Because I’m going on a date or because I’m going on a date with him?” You try to keep your tone civil as you’re surrounded by changing lacrosse players.

“Because he’s a douchebag that will probably do something to hurt your feelings and I don’t want that to happen.”

You take all your supplies from him, speckles of anger popping up your spine, “You trying to control who I go out with is a little douchy, don’t you think?”

“I’m not trying to control…” Stiles threw his gloves on the ground, “I’m trying to look out for you.”

“I’m not going to catch feelings for him,” you say indignantly, “I just want to try it Lydia’s way for once. It’s just one date, how bad could it be?” A sudden rush to your head makes you stumble, ramming your shoulder into a line of lockers.

Stiles jumps to your back, hands on your arms as you screw up your eyes. You take a deep breath and force the black spots from your vision. Slowly the voice of Stiles enters your ears.

“I’m fine,” you say, standing straight, “My heart was just beating a little fast.”

“Because of our argument?”

You turn to the sound of his voice. The previous anger was gone. In its place were fearful honey eyes and an open, honest expression.

“Among other things,” you say, trying to catch your breath. “I’ll see you later.”

Stiles was screwing up his lips, chewing the inside of his cheek, clearly worried as you retreat. “Call me if something happens!”

~~~

You wait at your living room window for over an hour. You wait in your comfy blue sweater that’s cute enough for a date and soft enough for cuddling. You wait with styled hair and a little lipstick.

You could feel your parents spying from the kitchen, disappointed that you were being abandoned like this. A pain creeps into your chest that has nothing to do with your heart. It made your stomach twist and your head hurt.

It did not feel good to be stood up.

You text Lydia to give her an update. Her quick reply was that she and Jackson would pick you up and you could pick out the movie together.

You didn’t wave goodbye as you left the house, embarrassed by the turn of events. “I was such an idiot.”

Lydia turns in her seat, “You’re not an idiot, you look gorgeous.”

“I’m an idiot for getting excited about a night out with that jerk,” you play with your fingers. “And I knew from the beginning that he was an asshole, and I still got all ready trying to impress him.”

“No, you got ready because you wanted to feel hot. Remember you were going to one and done him tonight; Josh should be the one feeling disappointed that he isn’t here with you.”

You crack a faint smile, “Where’s Scott and Allison?”

“Oh, Allison’s hanging out with her aunt and so Scott decided to make other plans.”

“Meaning it’s just us three tonight?”

Jackson sighs begrudgingly, “Yep.”

“Then we might as well make it a chick flick night,” Lydia says, cheery despite her boyfriends obvious disdain for the situation. “Let’s watch The Notebook.”

“Absolutely not,” Jackson says, “We are not doing chick flicks just because your friend was dumped.”

Lydia purses her lips, “You’re not making this any easier, Jackson.”

“Yeah, I don’t really feel like crying, Lyds,” you attempt, the video store just down the road.

Jackson starts to ramble about different action and sports movies, “We never choose a movie that I pick. How about Hoosiers? Not only is it the best basketball movie ever, but it is also the best sports movie ever made.”

Lydia was quick with her reply, “No.”

“It’s got Gene Hackman and Dennis Hopper.”

You grimace at Lydia’s same short reply. “We can go in and browse for a little bit.” The night was shaping up to be one of the worst by far.

“I am not watching The Notebook again!” Jackson raises his voice.

“Come on, Jackson,” you say, opening the door. “Let’s just go look around for a second. I’ll help pick a good one.”

You walk to the first aisle inside, both of you on edge for different reasons. Jackson makes no effort to make conversation as you peruse the romantic comedy shelves. “She means well. She’s just trying to cheer me up.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry if I don’t want my date ruined by turning it into a girls night.”

You cross your arms, “I’m sorry.”

Jackson scowls at your drawn expression, “Arnett really is an asshole, by the way. I told Lydia as much.”

“Again, she meant well,” you sigh, “But thanks anyway.” A phone starts ringing in the background and kept echoing through the empty store. “Geesh, you would think someone would pick that up by now.”

“Hello?” Jackson calls out, “Is anybody working here?”

“What’s that?” you ask, pointing at a pair of shoes sticking out from an aisle further down. “Did someone fall off that ladder?” The medical assistant in you was already in action, pulling your phone out as you near the shoes.

You both move slowly, tense as the atmosphere gives an eerie flicker of lights. As you round the aisle of movies, there laying on the ground is the store manager – his throat clawed out.

“Oh my god!” you scream, gawking at the blood soaking the front of his shirt. It was fresh and glistening, splattered up onto his face and glasses.

“Holy shit!” Jackson yells, jumping back and onto the ladder. It moves enough that a broken light fixture falls, ripping the exposed wiring and plunging the entire video store into flickering darkness.

One second it’s dull yellow light, and the next an awful red dark, and then light again. It was making your vision blur with spots. You fall to your knees, sickened by the sudden wet warmth that soaks your pants.

Your heart was racing, beating like a war drum as you fought to control your breathing. Jackson was standing in the middle aisle, clearly shocked into silence. You were fumbling with your phone, attempting to dial any number that came up first.

There was a low, deafening growl that ripples through the store. You eye the claw marks on the store manager and immediately think of something big and terrifying. Jackson did too as he falls to hide behind a shelf.

You could hear the growling towards the back, too near for your liking. You shuffle away from the body, aware that Jackson had just left you to fend for yourself. A row of shelves falls behind you as you make your way to the front, crawling on your hands and knees.

You finally manage to dial a number, the first one you could think of. And the sound of Stiles on the other end brought you a sense of relief. He would do something.

“Hello.”

“Stiles…” you whisper, crawling along the front of the store and next to the windows.

“(Y/N), what’s wrong?”

Your breath was shaky and came out in wheezes, “I need help.”

There was a rustling on the other end, “Where are you? (Y/N), you need to breathe.”

A snarling growl came from your left and you dread to turn your head, “Oh god…”

“(Y/N)! Stay awake – tell me where you are!”

But as you turn your gaze to the hot breath and red gaze of the growling creature, you let out a bloodcurdling scream. The giant monster swipes a paw at you, clawing at your shoulder and sending you spinning into the opposite wall. You slam against the brick with a sickening force, a crash of broken glass above you as the creature jumps through.

Shards of glass collect on your body, stinging some of your exposed skin. Warmth was spreading down your left arm as you fought to breathe. Your vision was blurring, and you were falling in and out of consciousness.

Jackson crawls out from under the fallen video shelves and finds you at the front, noticing Lydia screaming in the car. He kneels beside you and pulls out his phone, dialing 911.

~~~

Stiles sat in the parking lot of a burger joint, eating dinner with his father in the police car. He was reminiscent of the homecooked meal you made him, fondly thinking of his mother too.

“Did they forget my curly fries?”

He chides his father, “You’re not supposed to eat fries, especially the curly ones.”

The Sheriff smirks, “Well, I’m carrying a lethal weapon. If I want the curly fries, I will have the curly fries.”

Stiles took his bitten straw out of his mouth, “If you think getting rid of contractions in all your sentences makes your argument any more legitimate, you are wrong.”

His dad gave him a bewildered look, “Somethings off with you tonight. Did you take too much Adderall?”

“No,” Stiles grumbles, picking at his hamburger wrapper, “Just… thinking about school.” He watches his dad’s expression egg him on further, “… and lacrosse… and Scott…” He huffs and throws his dinner back in the brown bag. “And girls.”

The Sheriff scoffs, hiding a laugh, “Just the usual then.”

Stiles felt his phone ring and he was surprised to see your name appear. Thinking you’re going to tell him Josh Arnett is the asshat that they all knew him to be, Stiles says confidently into the phone, “Hello.”

There was a terrified whisper in reply, “Stiles…”

He sat straighter, his dad catching a soda before it fell to the floor. “(Y/N), what’s wrong?” You sound like you were on the verge of a panic attack.

“I need help.” Your breathing was erratic, and he knew your heartbeat was probably the same.

“Where are you? (Y/N), you need to breathe.” God forbid you faint in whatever terrifying situation you’re in.

There was a terrible growl behind your shaky words, and you sound so small when you cry, “Oh god…”

It sent a thrill of terror through Stiles, “(Y/N)! Stay awake – tell me where you are!” A million scenarios were flying through his mind. Was there a werewolf there? The alpha? What had happened to your date?

There was a deafening bloodcurdling scream as the phone must’ve fallen from your hand. It took Stiles a second to realize that it was you that screamed. “(Y/N)? (Y/N)!” Your cries flew to the side along with a crash of glass as the snarling beast left.

The line went dead and Stiles fell into a panic, “How do I… where… god, dad we have to find her!”

The Sheriff listens with sincerity as he had watched the entire conversation. “What’s going on?”

“That was my friend, (Y/N) Westbrook. She was supposed be out tonight on a date, but something went wrong. She sounded terrified and then there was a scream and a crash and then… nothing.” His arms were flailing as he sat on the edge of the car seat, “We have to find her!”

“Westbrook?” the Sheriff says, throwing his wrapper to the floor, “You don’t mean…”

“Yes! And I know you know about her heart.”

His dads eyes widen ever-so-slightly, “How do you know about…?”

Stiles slams a hand on the dashboard, half tempted to grab the steering wheel, “We have to go – she’s in serious trouble!”

“Now hang on just a damn minute,” was his reply, “We don’t even know where she is. And before you go flying out the window, let’s think about this with some sense. Do you know where she was supposed to be on her date?”

Stiles whacks his head, as if to jog some memories over the panic, “They were going to watch a movie.” He bounces his leg, pleading with his dad, “Please, dad, she’s going to have another fainting episode.”

The police radio turns on with some crackling feedback. The dispatcher on duty was a man judging by the voice. At least that meant Mrs. Westbrook wasn’t on shift that night.

“Unit One, do you copy?”

Stiles leapt for the radio and the Sheriff slaps his hand away. “Unit One, copy.”

“Got a report of a possible 187.”

Stiles jumps in his chair, shaking the whole car, “A murder!?”

“It’s at the local video store. Some teenagers are involved.”

The Sheriff confirms he’ll be there and felt a twang of guilt as he watches the fear bubble in his son. “Do you have confirmation on how many are hurt?”

“Negative, but the boy on the phone was in a frenzy about an animal attack.”

“Thanks, Johnson.” The Sheriff put the radio up, speeding down the street with sirens blaring. “Let’s not fear the worst, Stiles. They said there was just one possible 187.”

Stiles was biting his lips, drumming his knuckles over his mouth, “I should have stopped her from going out. I knew it was a bad idea.”

The drive was tense and painfully slow despite the speed the Sheriff was emitting. When they reach the video store it was swarming with EMTs and an ambulance. The store window was shattered, and Jackson was yelling at whatever emergency personnel he could. Lydia was huddled in a shock blanket on the curb, and sitting on the edge of the ambulance was you.

“Oh, thank god,” Stiles cries, “Thank you god.” He was falling out of the police car before it even made a complete stop. “(Y/N)!” He ran for the Beacon ambulance.

You were leaning against the side of the car, an EMT bandaging your left arm. You had a few butterfly bandages on your face and a rapidly developing bruise to the side of your head. There were dark circles under your eyes and your skin was ashy again.

“What happened?” he asks, quiet compared to the panic he was in moments ago.

You turn your wet eyes to him, gulping, “Stiles. There… there was a monster.”

“She hit her head pretty hard,” the EMT says, finishing your bandage. “She needs to go home and get some rest.”

Stiles gave the man a nod, gently sitting next to you and giving his full attention. “What kind of monster?”

“It was like a bear or a wolf,” you whisper, exhausted. “I was so scared.” The break in your voice put a hitch in his chest. “Josh bailed on me and then Scott and Allison. And I just wanted to go home.” You turn to him, “I want to go home, Stiles.”

He clenches his jaw, his throat bobbing, “Okay. Okay, we can go home…” He stole a shock blanket from the back and wraps you in it, careful around your left shoulder. “Did you faint at all?”

You stare off, disassociating, “In and out.”

The Sheriff calls your parents as you lean into Stiles. Your head nestles into the crook of his neck and shoulder. He couldn’t put his arm around your shoulders for fear of hurting the new wound. Instead he wraps his hand lower on your waist.

With his other hand he reaches for your fingers, worry still eating away at his stomach. “Where are we on the possibility of fainting right now?”

You groan, “60% chance.”

He gives a painful smile, wrapping his hand in yours. With his fingers he felt for the pulse in your wrist. It was a little high and stuttering unevenly.

“What do you hear?”

You hum, “Sirens. People. You.”

Stiles felt a warmth seeping into his chest, it was loud and suffocating and squeezed at his heart. “What do you smell?”

“Rubbing alcohol. And you.”

He plays with your fingers, tracing them with his thumb, “What do I smell like?” A small huff of air escapes your lips, and he likes to believe it was almost a laugh. “Cause you know exactly how I think you smell.”

You try to clear your throat, “Like sandalwood.”

“I’m not even sure what that is.”

“Like the woods,” you whisper. “Like rain, and trees, and honey.”

“How did you know my favorite pastime was bathing in forest rain and honey?” He imagines the twitch in your cheek against his neck was an attempt at a smile. “What do you feel?”

You fidget in his embrace, “Tired. Pain. Fear…”

“Okay, bad question.”

“Your hand,” you continue, “You’re warm. It’s nice.”

The inflation of his chest was reaching a bursting point, and he laid his face against your hair. Holding you there, he checks your pulse again with his long fingers. It had lowered since his arrival.

Your parents came soon after that, fretful and terrified of your condition. They wanted to take you to the hospital for a full checkup and your grip tightened on Stiles’ hand as his dad took him away.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers in your ear, your parents approaching. “I’ll see you later.”

~~~

It was very late into the night when Stiles climbs the garden trellis to your window. He was delighted to see that it was left cracked open. He pushes it open the rest of the way and falls inside, careful not to make too much noise.

You lay in bed with the lamp on, illuminating the room with its peachy color. You were in midnight blue pajamas with little stars printed on them. Your left arm was stiff and heavily bandaged, painkillers adding to your collection of prescription meds on the nightstand.

“Hey,” he whispers, gaining the attention of your wet gaze. You must’ve been crying for a long time judging by the redness of your eyes. “How was the hospital?”

“I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t believe you. He sat on the edge of your bed, itching to grab your hand again but needing a good reason. “When I got your call… it scared me shitless.” A chuckle escapes him, “My dad was ready to clobber me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” Stiles says, “You don’t have to be sorry for anything. You did nothing wrong. This was all just a terrible ordeal.”

You sniff, “I’m tired.”

Stiles nods, “Yeah, I just wanted to check on you before bed. I should let you sleep.”

“I’m not going to sleep.”

His chest tightens like earlier. He aches to touch you again, seeing you so fragile and tense. “(Y/N)…”

“Every time I close my eyes I see that thing clawing at me.” Another tear escapes your eyeline and runs down your cheek, “I’m too scared to sleep.”

“Well…” Stiles picks at a seam in his pants, “How about you call for your mom? I’m sure she’ll…”

“I don’t want to worry them anymore. I’m tired of making them worry so much.”

Stiles chews on his lip, “Hmm, okay. How about I stay? I’ll just sit at your desk and keep watch.”

You watch him with swollen eyes, “You’d do that?”

“Of course,” he shrugs his shoulders, “I’m worried about you too. And I feel better knowing I can keep you calm.” He wasn’t going to tell her that for the last three hours he had been replaying their moment outside the ambulance. The way you leaned into him, and he got to hold your hand and listen to you talk about how nice it was to be next to him.

“I want you to stay,” you say quietly. “But you can’t sit in a desk chair all night.” You pat your uninjured hand on the mattress beside you.

Stiles feels warmth flood his cheeks, “Oh, yeah… well – great.” He sits down and stretches out on top of the covers, “This is a much more comfortable spot to keep watch.”

You pull at your blankets, turning towards him and grounding yourself in his presence. “There’s a squeaky floorboard in the hallway. You’ll hear if my parents are coming.” You place a hand on his forearm, “Thank you for being here.”

His throat bobs at your touch, “Always.” And he lays there well into the night, cursing when your hand falls away in your sleep. He waits for sunrise to leave, occupying himself with watching your breathing patterns and checking your pulse every once in a while. He even brushes the hair from your face and flattens the arm bandages that start to unstick.

He was just memorizing the curve of your nose and the slant of your cheekbone when the sun broke over the horizon.

He sighs, rubbing hard at his face. If this is what having a crush on you was like… it was going to consume him.

~~~

Taglist: @assassinsasha23 @tasty-book-fans @lovelybaka @the-fandom-queen @runs-with-sciss0rs

#stiles stilinski #stiles stilinksi x reader #teen wolf stiles #okay j hannah #okayjhannah #fandomfantasia

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getaapologist · 4 days ago

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The Tension and the Terror..............Part IV

Pairing: Emperor Geta x OFC (extremely loosely, character is named but otherwise not described besides hair length in a later part)

Summary: Letha prevents the assassination of the Emperors and picks up a wound in the process. Caracalla's indulgent tendencies prove useful in a pinch. Geta has feelings.

Warnings: Violence, mentions of blood. Reference to Letha's Voyeurism if you squint, 18+ only

Word Count: 3.3k

Part 4 of 13?

[ Part III ]

Series Masterlist

A/N: And here we go. I hope you like this one.

Letha held the glass to her lips but didn’t drink, letting the wine stain her lips. She couldn’t afford a lapse in concentration, not now that she knew anything could happen. She was given no guidance, no indication of who could be responsible. She would only know once someone was making a lunge for Macrinus. The hand in her lap clutched the handle of the blade tucked into her dress, in a pocket she’d watched Hyacinthia sew in as she spouted dreams of a seaside home, the sound of the waves lulling her to sleep.

She had to get this right. Sure, for Macrinus’s plan’s sake, but also for her own sake. She’d drawn blood before, plenty of it. She just hoped she wouldn’t have to kill this would-be assassin herself. She wasn’t sure she had the stomach for it and there wasn’t exactly an opportunity to practice. In the weeks leading up to this celebration, she’d sparred with a select few of Macrinus’s gladiators. Those he trusted to actually help her.

She would do this.

Geta had looked over a few times, but he was currently attached at the hip to Lyra, a generous gift from senator Thraex, as he had loudly proclaimed at the start of the dinner. Probably hoping to garner favor now that his coffers were beginning to dwindle. Caracalla sat beside his brother, half out of his own chair, his arms slung around a pretty man’s bare shoulders. He had loudly praised Thraex for his thoughtful gift of new outfits for Dondus, the small monkey currently sitting on the table before them, plucking abandoned grapes off his plate in a shining outfit. Dondus was clearly used to the cacophony of sound that accompanied the Emperors wherever they went.

She couldn’t be distracted by Geta either, despite how his greeting haunted her all afternoon. Pretending like they had never met. Protecting their secret encounter as if it could mean something to him. Surely not, with the way his large hand squeezed at the flesh of Lyra’s bare thigh. No, perhaps it meant so little it had completely left his mind as soon as she slipped out of the room.

Letha could hardly stomach it. The jealousy was overwhelming. Macrinus noticed, but again mistook her half-hidden look of anger for her desire for revenge.

“Soon, Letha. Channel that rage. Use it for this, in the right way, and soon you will certainly be in their employ. Then you can come and go as you please, and no one will ask questions of you. You will be able to do what I cannot. Just bide your time,” Macrinus instructed. She wished she still felt as angry towards Geta as she now did towards Lyra. It would certainly make her position in all this much easier to navigate. “You are my shrike,” he reminded her. “I’m letting you off the leash.”

At Macrinus’s words, Geta stood, having eyes for no one but Lyra. “As my lovely companion has reminded me, we are all here to celebrate. A toast, to Macrinus, and his hearty barbarians,” he smiled, lifting a cup in Macrinus’s direction. Most others did as well as Macrinus sat comfortably, smiling under the attention of the elite of Rome. Basking in it, even as he intended to ruin it.

“And to Thraex, for his wonderful gifts,” Caracalla shouted, throwing himself up onto his feet suddenly. He reached down for the table to steady himself. Geta seemed a bit perturbed at his brother’s state of inebriation, but said nothing of it.

Everyone drank, but Letha hadn’t lifted her glass. As her eyes were forced away from Lyra’s searching hand at Geta’s wrist, she spotted someone striding forward through a break in the columns on the opposite side of the room. Her heart caught in her throat. He wore the dark armor of the Praetorian guard, but something was off. Her adrenaline spiked as she spotted the glint of metal in his palm. She waited, watching for someone else to notice, but no one seemed to react. He strode forward, towards the tables.

Before she could think twice she got to her feet, gathering her dress as she fought to get out of the chair without falling over on the hem. The man advanced, no guards yet intercepting him, the atmosphere in the palace giving everyone a false sense of ease. Perhaps if she wasn’t tipped off she might not have noticed him either. But she did, either way. And now, her inaction would get someone killed.

She passed around the edge of the long table, nearly breaking into a sprint as she realized he wasn’t headed to where Macrinus sat. His eyes were dead set on the center of the table, and his legs were carrying him there, right to where the Emperors currently stood, enjoying their party and the company.

No.

Letha intercepted the man uncomfortably close to the table, startling everyone out of their revelry. The blade in his hand seemed prepared for a stab, probably between the ribs of one of the Emperors. She reached for the arm, forcing it up and away from her own ribs, pushing hard against him with her body, forcing him back away from the twins. The man grunted, trying to force her off her feet, but she was stuck firm, as if roots grew from her feet. She knew his center of balance was higher than hers, she could keep her position quite well. He let out a frustrated roar and opened his hand, changing his grip on the knife before plunging it straight down towards her with renewed force.

Chaos ensued as people began to realize what was happening. A scream cut through the noise of the panicked guests and Letha felt the bite of the blade in the top of her shoulder. Hot, searing pain radiated from the injury as her skin split. The pain had her sweating. She saw white, her breathing becoming uneven. She had to do something more, she was stuck here otherwise. If she had been smarter she would’ve drawn the blade tucked away in her dress before now. Still, it was her only recourse. She knew what she had to do.

Letha freed a hand and accepted the blade deeper into her shoulder in favor of drawing the blade hidden within her dress. Any hangups she might’ve had about killing the hired attacker went out the window as soon as he’d stabbed her. She sank the small blade into the unprotected space beneath his arm, just above where his chestplate began at his side, striking bone, just like Viggo had instructed her. The force exerted on the knife in her shoulder ceased and she felt some small relief. She pulled her blade free and stabbed again, her other hand gripping the lip of the chestplate firmly, drawing him in close as he gasped. Once more for good measure.

After a few more agonizing breaths, he was pulled away from her, her knife wrenched free from his side as she held it in a vice grip. The guards stood around him as his blood poured out of the wound and onto his scrabbling fingers pulling at his armor as if in disbelief, spilling out onto the ornate marble floor. He fell with a loud clatter, blanketing the room in silence. She stared down at the blade in her hand, sick at seeing his lifeblood staining her skin.

She felt faint and took a step back, stinging emanating from her shoulder. She remembered the attacker’s blade and reached up for it, pulling it up and out of her flesh, the pain a white hot flash that blinded her for a moment as she swayed on her feet, her own blood falling over her shoulder and dripping onto the floor in large droplets, the rest soaking into the dress she wore, the deep purple of it turning black. She would need to apologize to Hyacinthia.

“Letha, come here, give me those,” Macrinus soothed, his hands like hot coals on her arms. He gently removed the blades from her hands and tossed them aside before returning his hands to her upper arms, steering her away from the scene and back to her empty chair. Her vision was blurred, but she could see Macrinus knelt down before her, something close to worry in his eyes as he turned to rifle through the contents of their table, eventually finding cloth to press down into the wound at the top of her shoulder.

He couldn’t lose his asset, she thought bitterly.

“Press down, Letha,” Macrinus barked, pushing her left hand down over top of the linens. “Hold that there,” he muttered, not quite panicked, but as close to it as she’d ever witnessed.

“Summon a healer!” a roar reached her ears. “Everyone get out, please,” the stressed voice ordered. Geta. “Where is Tegula?!”

A warm hand overtook hers, lifting it away from the cloth and pressing down itself, much harder than she could’ve. She hissed, swiping out at her abandoned glass on the table, knocking it down to the floor. Her nails found the wood and dug in as she grimaced, brought back to reality as this fresh pain cut through the rest.

“Letha,” Geta muttered, his other hand reaching out to pull at her wrist, trying to free the poor table from her crushing grip. The familiarity in his use of her name didn’t escape her. She could feel the heat of his body against her upper back as she felt ever colder. He succeeded in prying her fingers from the wood, wrapping her aching hand in his, an offering that should have delighted her. She could hardly pay attention to Geta and his softness with her. She would dwell on it later.

“Where is the healer?” Geta demanded, his voice laced with frustration.

“Emperor, I can take her back to the arena, I have a doctor there that can stitch up her wound,” Macrinus offered. She thought of Ravi. Yes, he would be able to do it.

“No,” Geta frowned. “She saved my brother. We will look after her.”

“...Of course, your majesty,” Macrinus relented, his plans bearing fruit. He watched Geta carefully.

“You are staying close?” Geta questioned.

“Across from the Colosseum, yes,” Macrinus answered.

“Good. I will keep you informed.” Geta was dismissing Macrinus.

Macrinus would mark this moment as the one that confirmed that all his work had been for something after all. There was no going back. “Of course. If you need anything at all,” he offered, getting to his feet.

“You will know,” Geta promised, still applying pressure to Letha’s shoulder as Macrinus got to his feet.

Macrinus leaned down, near her ear. “You did well,” he praised, pressing a kiss to her hair before gathering his robes in his arms and striding away. It shouldn’t have buoyed her spirits, it was all for his gain, but she still felt relief at his praise.

“You were magnificent!” Caracalla’s giddy voice met her ears before he leaned down to be in her line of sight. “Just–Ugh!” he shouted, mimicking her stab to the man’s armpit with a reckless swipe between them.

“‘Calla,” Geta warned, though his tone lacked any real bite. “Give her space.”

Caracalla just giggled, sitting down on the floor before her, elbows on his knees. “You must be strong,” he commented. “What are you doing warming Macrinus’s bed?”

She reflexively gripped Geta’s hand in hers, reacting to the implication. “I-I don’t,” she clarified, her voice weaker than she expected. The mere act of speaking made her vision swim.

“Then what does he keep you for? His gladiators?” Caracalla’s words probably weren’t meant to incite her, but they did all the same, her grip on Geta’s palm tightening uncomfortably.

If only you knew, she thought carelessly.

“Caracalla, move,” Geta ordered, the healer finally arriving, setting down their things before Letha on the floor, blocking Caracalla from view. Her grip relaxed.

Geta spoke calmly with the healer, explaining what had unfolded before his eyes, finally lifting the blood-soaked linen from her shoulder. The healer’s eyes widened momentarily before looking down to their supplies. Through all this, Geta never removed his hand from hers, made no attempt to withdraw. Even when he was arguably in the way, the healer didn’t mention it, probably assuming it would do no good to demand anything of an Emperor.

She groaned, grimacing as a liquid was splashed over her shoulder, the burning sensation deep in the wound almost worse than when it was created. She kept a vice-like grip on Geta’s hand and the moment the pain began to lessen she released it, apologies tumbling from her lips.

“Do not be sorry,” he spoke. “Take it,” he ordered, slipping his hand back into hers. She reluctantly did, thankful for his hands taking the ice out of her fingers. The healer got to work, threading a needle with skilled hands as if he had done this countless times. All comfort Letha had begun to feel abruptly left her as the needle pierced her skin and she let out a sob.

“Do you have nothing for the pain?!” Geta begged. The bones in his hand were forced tightly together and he wondered if they would break in her grip.

“I did not grab it, Emperor,” the healer apologized, his hands stilling over her shoulder, wondering if he should continue.

“I might have something,” Caracalla proposed, stepping around his brother, his eyes focused on the split flesh over her shoulder, fascinated.

“You’ll kill her,” Geta accused, wishing he could send his brother away like he had everyone else.

“Perhaps just a little,” the healer suggested, glancing at Geta as if asking permission.

“Give it to me,” she all but whispered, lifting her bloodied hand slightly off her lap.

Caracalla beamed, reaching into his robes. He eventually withdrew a vial, lowering it to Letha’s open palm.

“Don’t,” Geta groaned, pulling the vial quickly from Caracalla’s hand. “Wine,” he ordered. A cup was placed on the table and quickly filled. He finally pulled his hand free of her grip and stood, opening the vial over the glass.

“Only a few drops,” the healer guided, watching carefully as Geta tilted the vial, only allowing a small amount to disappear into the wine.

Caracalla came back around the back of her chair, stealing away the vial from his brother and stashing it back in his robes, a grin on his face. “You see, brother, I am good for something.”

Geta made no comment as he swirled the glass. He noticed the blood staining his own hand, thinking of how cold hers had been. He was reminded of his dream, a highly confusing one that left him stewing, right up until this afternoon.

Letha had turned him to stone, one look was all it took. And he was trapped, trapped in his own skin. She just sat, watching him, observing him in some liminal, featureless place. Every part of him her eyes roamed over, he felt a trace of warmth, the barest hint of it. And that was enough for him. He woke up sweating, dazed and slightly embarrassed. He reminded himself he might never encounter her again and that brought him crashing back down to reality.

But he did. He did, and he couldn’t deny the flare of satisfaction he felt when his attempt actually worked. When he saw her sitting there. It only lasted a moment, though, before his eyes traced the point of a blade up from her shoulder, along Macrinus’s fingers, up his arm, his shoulder, his jealousy forcing him down a murderous path.

“That’s quite enough stirring, Caesar,” the Healer offered, right as a giggle burst forth from Caracalla’s lips. If Geta thought they knew what he’d been thinking of, he might’ve felt anger.

He held the glass in front of Letha’s mouth, gently pressing against her lower lip. His eyes were trained there, watching as she opened. He only poured a little of the hastily made tincture in. He waited as she swallowed, staring at the column of her throat, eyes lowering to the darkened fabric that had been cut away from her shoulder, the nearly-dry blood covering much of her skin. Her hand squeezing the fabric of his tunic took him out of his study of her and he tilted the glass, offering her a little more.

This was not at all how he expected this evening to go. Finding Lyra waiting in his chambers after returning from the arena took him by surprise. He had enjoyed her, sure, but he didn’t think he’d expressed any particular desires to Thraex for his concubine. He figured the senator didn’t want to leave one of them empty-handed. He almost sent her away but thought better of it, hoping it would remind Letha of their encounter, and maybe he could relieve some of the tension lurking in his shoulders too.

He was sure it was successful, if not a bit too successful. Letha had sat beside Macrinus the entire evening, stone-faced, definitely not enjoying herself. And then he’d toasted Macrinus. He thought the evening was going quite well otherwise, until he realized a man was stalking toward his brother, the shine of a blade in his hand.

He’d moved in front of Caracalla, trying to shield him from this grave injury just as he had always done. Caracalla had gripped the cloth of his robes quite tightly, but didn’t voice his fear. He didn’t have to, they had experienced similar scenarios far too often. It was as natural as a reflex for Geta to step in to receive the blow. But it never came. The blade never came close, and it took him a moment to realize why.

Letha.

It didn’t make sense, none of it did. The guards had been so slow to react, he knew they needed to be replaced. Where had she come from? Why was she protecting them like this? As the attacker’s blade pierced her skin, he felt it as if it were his own shoulder. Where had she gotten a knife from?

He couldn’t deny the way his chest fluttered at her easy violence. The way she clung to the man, her fingers curled around the lip of the chestplate. It stirred something within Geta that he couldn’t name. He wished it had been him pressed against her, some small part of him would even have endured the fatal wound to be that close. It was so intimate. He felt his skin flush at the sight.

And then it was done. She reached up and pulled the other blade free of her shoulder and Geta could only watch, his rapture morphing into fear as her own blood welled up and fell down either side of her shoulder, the drips echoing in his ears as she swayed before him. Before he could vault over the table Macrinus was there, steering her back to her seat.

“That’s probably enough for now,” the healer instructed, bringing Geta back to the present moment. “I’m going to begin again, and you must keep still,” the healer warned Letha, meeting her eyes. She nodded weakly.

Geta returned to her side, dragging over a chair so he could sit behind her. His hand found hers again and she squeezed it, though only a fraction of as much as before. His brother’s penchant for recreational drugs had somehow benefited someone other than himself.

As the needle pierced the other side of the wound, Letha hissed, turning her cheek into Geta’s chest. He welcomed her, turning his torso into her, letting her bury her face, hide her discomfort and pain as the stitches slowly knit her skin back together.

Geta did not lack intimacy. He got as much or as little of it as he desired, the nature of his position and what it granted him. But what he did long for was sincerity. True desire. He could tell the difference. It wasn’t in how they gripped his skin. It was in the eyes. And what he saw in Letha’s as she looked up at him, exhaustion weakening her eyelids, left him stunned.

[ Part V ] coming soon

#emperor geta x ofc #emperor geta x reader #emperor geta #gladiator 2 x reader #no going back now

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lqfiles · 1 year ago

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SCORE THAT GOAL! — 9. grape & lemon drink

(wc: 1.185)

stepping outside the comfort of the apartment you shared with ningning, you took in the cold wind that blew your way at that moment and quickly pulled the zipper of your hoodie close. the sun was slowly setting, and the wind also prevented you from feeling any of the remaining heat.

you held tightly onto the small plastic bag you carried, just incase you decided to buy more than you could carry. you knew mark was more than likely going to nag at you if he knew you seriously only bought a pack of sweets, so with maybe a few more purchases you could prevent an angry knock on your door later.

the supermarket was quite a walk but you enjoyed it, feeling entertained enough by the music that blasted through your earphones. the 10 minute walk felt like a short 3 minutes as the song finished and you had made it to the store. the air-con was blowing from all direction and you shivered the moment you stepped foot into the supermarket. “fuck” you muttered under your breath, quickly lifting the hood of hoodie over your head and taking more steps into the store.

your eyes raked over the various food on display. you hadn’t thought too much of what you exactly wanted, deciding that you’d just get whatever caught your eyes and was in your budget. eventually you opted to go with a pack of sour patches, fresh fruit, some fruit yoghurt and a few cups of noodles before you decided to make your way to the crisp isle. you were craving crisps for a few days now ever since chenle refused to share his with you, and took this as the opportunity to get ahold of it.

you wondered if this much was enough to not worry mark anymore. you were sure you could last a few days with the food, it was good enough according to your standards. mark’s standards however, you weren’t too sure about.

too occupied with calculating the current items, holding onto the said items, and also picking a crisp flavour, your focus was everywhere except for your surroundings. taking a step back after picking one of the many bags, you swiftly turned, losing grip of your stuff as your hand collided with another firm object. your eyes firstly searched for the items that had all dropped on the ground before you decided to look at what had caused the accident.

“no fucking way.” you whispered under your breath as your jaw was almost fully open at the sight of jisung staring at his own food items that were now scattered on the ground. your whisper, that wasn’t quite a whisper since it was already silent, caught his attention and he looked back up.

“i’m so sorry.” you quickly apologised, reaching down to grab both your and his items. “it’s okay.” he responded back with a slight hint of uncertainty. he reached down himself to help pick up the items that had fallen to the ground. the both of you held each other’s food, and the awkwardness intensified as you tried to reach for your own while handing his.

“are you… okay?” you asked, and he hummed, turning around and walking off without sparing you another glance. you wondered if he remembered the encounter you had last week. when you had bumped into him and spilled his drink. you wondered if he got his phone fixed yet, shouldn’t you pay for it?

you spotted him at the checkout service, you realised he wore a hoodie similar to yours, much more baggier than yours. you silently stood behind him, eyeing his items. the irony of meeting him right now felt surreal, it was just the two of you in this shop, waiting to pay for your items, nothing was stopping you from talking to him. the realisation dawned on you more and more and the pressure of taking action became bigger. ningning would’ve told you how badly you fumbled if you didn’t do anything.

snapping out of your thoughts, you realised jisung was ready to leave when the cashier put all his items in a plastic bag. you panicked, frantically trying to come up with a way to approach him. it was almost as if a lightbulb turned on above your head when you noticed a fridge with multiple drinks in them. not thinking twice, you quickly walked over to it and took the first drink that caught your attention, returning to pay for it together with your other items.

you probably looked very desperate as you sprinted out the shop, turning your head all directions in hopes of spotting the boy. which you did, walking far ahead on your right. it took you a lot of courage to run after him, but if you put all that effort into getting him a drink, then this should’ve been light work. you hoped so, at least. jisung wasn’t too far as he was much more busier on his phone, doing who knows what. taking a deep breath in and out, you tapped him on the shoulder.

jisung flinched, taking a defensive step back as he turned around to look at you. he seemed to slightly ease at the sight, slightly. still, he tilted his head in confusion, looking around to make sure it was you who tapped him. “…hi.” you greeted him, awkwardness evident in the way you scratched the back of your neck. without much thought, you pushed the drink you had in your hand his way, waiting for him to accept it.

he just… looked at you. then back at the drink. then back at you. “do i know you?” you felt like ripping your hair off. realising that not only did he have no memory of what you looked like- even though he saw you a week ago- but you also probably looked like a creep, trying to hand him a drink out of nowhere. no wonder he still hadn’t taken it. “hi, yeah.. you probably don’t remember but i accidentally bumped into you last week and spilled your drink and i have been feeling really bad about it so i thought i could make it up by buying you a drink.” you blurted out in one go, shaking the drink in your hand a bit to show him what you were talking about.

jisung was silent. trying to take this information in while also thinking back of last week and remembering how one of favourite t-shirts was covered in lipton ice tea that day. then he looked back at you. he was hesitant to take the drink, ready to decline you and walk off but the desperation in your eyes made him feel too guilty. instead he silently nodded and reached for your drink. your fingers touched for a small second. “thank you.” he said, wondering if he should just walk off. but you did him the favour and turned around yourself, “it’s no problem, sorry about your shirt and phone by the way.” you apologised before briskly walking off into the direction of your apartment.

previous — master list — next

notes ; listening to hold on tight right now WHERE ARE THE MYS.

TAGLIST ; @rksbae @222brainrot @severefireangelprune @violetvoo @prdshobi @kikookii @haechansbbg @en-dream @bbxnny-bbxtch @cvpidxo @jaeminslattes @90s-belladonna @softieluvsyou @wenjunblossoms @be0mluver @jeongintwt @myhaechan @love1again @ckline35 @cassie6392 @hibernatinghamster @starboys-gf @rllymark @mfaal @snflwrhaerecs4u @sunflowerbebe07 @ahnneyong @enhalovie

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ssaeri · 2 years ago

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we fall to ashes

☆ tags: alex x gn!reader, he finds something that he never expected to see on your farm, this was going to be angst with an angst ending, but then my sister begged me to not write a sad ending, so have this relieving happy ending instead, LOTS of alex spoilers! ☆

Alex stretches his arms over his head and breathes in deep. In the distance, he hears chickens screaming—a sure sign that he's getting closer to your farm. The walk from his house isn't short, but while his grandparents would complain about the distance, he finds it ideal for cooling down after his harder work-outs. And he gets to see you at the end? He'd say that's a winner winner chicken dinner situation...out of earshot from your coop, at least.

"Hey there! Evelyn's boy!" Pam calls from his right.

He slows to a stop and waves. She sits in the driver seat of her newly repaired bus, window fully open, and takes another swig from her Joja Cola. Immediately, her face scrunches.

"Mornin', Pam!" he yells back. "How's that alcohol detox going for you?"

"Awful." She smacks her lips and holds the can up to her eyes, searching the ingredients for what makes it so fucking nasty. You often joke that it's the bitter taste of capitalism. "I could go for something stronger in this heat. You think the farmer has an extra glass of pale ale?"

Alex's smile tightens. Ever since Pam and Penny's trailer turned into an actual house, Pam's been doing her best to break old habits and he's glad for it—he can finally walk by her without the reflexive gag and hurried steps. You telling me I stink? she used to ask, angry in her drunken stupor, until she remembered why he showed up on his grandparents' steps nearly two decades ago.

She must read it in his expression now because she waves him off with a roll of her eyes. "I'm kidding, kid. Tell 'em I said hi. They're the only one who takes this damn bus anyway. I might as well take a nap." She slides sunglasses onto her face and reclines her chair until he can't see her anymore. "If I'm still here by the time you go home, wake me up."

Classic Pam, he thinks as he continues to your farm. Your dog is already running from the front door to greet him, panting and barking and disturbing your horse's peace.

"Come on, buddy," he laughs, shooing your dog until he can push open the gate. "I was supposed to surprise them."

Alex scratches your horse's ear as he passes its stable. Grape vines twist and sag on the trellises you've set up for the season, the structures nearly bursting with fruit, and he makes a mental note to stop by tomorrow to help with the harvesting. Maybe it could substitute for a work-out. He's helped you ship boxes of produce before and wondered how ripped he'd be after a month of your lifestyle. Between the trellises, the melons are just starting to come in. He doesn't know how long it takes for them to ripen, only that they taste really good when you drop off a basket for his grandma.

He calls out your name. Not in the fields, not in the pasture. Your new greenhouse, maybe? You were muttering something about ancient fruit last night. Or the mushroom cave, something he still can't believe is a feature on your farm. If Demetrius could add that, maybe Alex could talk you into installing an outdoor lifting station.

He walks past your workbench and active machines...

...and walks backwards again, hoping that his eyes are deceiving him. Crystalariums reproducing diamonds to sell, charcoal kilns working double time for enough coal, bone mills churning out fertilizer, geode crushers crunching rocks into pebbles, furnaces roaring as they smelt ores into bars—and right on top of the furthest furnace sits a wrapped bundle he's only seen in his (second to) worst nightmares.

He hears your content humming now, somewhere in the main farmhouse. Under normal circumstances, he would've called it cute, but the sound rings mockingly in his ears as he approaches the darkened flowers. A wilted bouquet. Fuck.

"Oh, hey there!" Alex called out as you got closer. He tossed his ever-present gridball into the air. "You here to catch fish again? I think you can find salmon in the river this time of year. At least that's what I heard."

Once you came to a stop in front of him, you shook your head, hands still behind your back. "I'm not fishing today," you said. "I actually wanted to give you something."

"Yeah?" His lips quirked into a grin. Another toss into the air. "Wouldn't happen to be a Salmon Dinner with extra lemon, would it? Those are one of my favorites, but I can never catch any salmon myself. Another egg would be cool, too. I've been adding your weekly deliveries to my workout meals."

You only shifted from one foot to the other, unable to take your eyes off his shoes, and a part of him faltered. You weren't intimidated by him, were you? Ever since you found him crying on the beach, he had been a little more flirtatious than usual, layering on the teasing and showing off. Maybe he came on too strong. Haley always told him that subtlety wasn't his strong suit. The grip on his gridball changed as he tossed it higher.

"You okay there? Did I do something...wait, this is—ow!"

The ball bounced off his head and landed in the grass, but he couldn't care less. He pointed to the bouquet in your hands. Not a regular bouquet, but the Bouquet made to order by Pierre. In a place as small as Pelican Town, there was no need for Pierre to have it in constant stock, so when the signature blooms made the rare appearance, they attracted everyone's eyes.

"...you want to get more serious?" he asked, incredulous.

Something in your expression changed, and you drew the flowers back to your chest. "Oh, sorry, did you not?" You gave him a wide smile, already stepping away. "I must've read the signs wrong. My mistake."

"No! That's not—I mean, you read the signs correctly. I, uh, I feel the same way." He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling his face flush. "So I guess we're together now? Should I be asking you out on a date or something? Or wait, are you asking me out on a date? How does this work?"

You laughed, a genuine sound this time. "We can continue the way we were before."

And so you did, but some things changed for sure. He could hold your hand now as you ran errands around the town, carrying half of the gifts you handed out to the townspeople. He could kiss you goodbye at his door in the evenings, though George cleared his throat loudly every time. Alex remembered making some snide comment about his grandpa, who yelled out a gruff I heard that! before being shushed by Evelyn. When It Howls in the Rain was being shown at the town theater, you bribed him to a screening with the promise of Stardrop Sorbet, but as much as he loved the treat, he would've gone anyway—it was one of his favorite movies with one of his favorite people. Good thing he'd seen it before because he spent most of the time staring at your side profile, wondering when he could finally go pro and have you stare at him on a screen.

Your dog nips at his fingers. He pets it absently. He thought everything was going fine between the two of you. Just yesterday, you came over and had dinner with him and his grandparents. You told them about your mining adventures in the Skull Caverns and, to his horror, showed off your old stitches from Harvey. (George chided your reckless behavior and gave old-timey advice that you nodded along to.) You talked about the new farm you're setting up at Ginger Island—Ancient Fruit wine all year! you told them excitedly. It's a farmer's heaven!—and the Beach Resort you're trying to restore. (Evelyn hummed at your energy, asking rapid-fire questions about the flora there.) You even promised to bring over a season's worth of eggs and leeks as soon as you got your hands on them. (Alex's mind flashed to the old mariner and the mermaid's pendant he could see hanging around your neck in the future.)

So why is a wilted bouquet sitting here, right on top of your furnaces?

No point in guessing when he can just find out the answer right from the source. He takes the flowers and goes to your door, knocking twice. It opens before he has time to second guess his choice.

"Alex! I didn't know you were coming over," you say, beaming at him. He wants to immortalize this version of you: face full of dirt smudges and t-shirt collar soaked through with sweat, yet glowing in your element. Until your eyes drop to his hands. "Oh, that's..."

He sets his jaw. "Can I come in and talk?"

Your expression falters further at his cold tone, but you step back and lead him to the living room. Your dog trots in and settles by the TV, head on its paws, watching with blank eyes. Alex sits in his usual spot and you yours, and suddenly he hates how familiar he is with your space.

It's still silent.

You clear your throat. "So," you start, wiping your palms on your jeans. A nervous tick he knows well. "What did you want to talk about?"

He puts the bouquet on the coffee table between you.

"Right." You pause, likely waiting for him to continue, but he doesn't say anything. "Alex, can you at least be less mean about this? I feel like you owe me that much after all this time together." He says nothing. "Like, tell me what's wrong instead of sitting here stone-faced. Things were okay. Why are you breaking up with me—"

"Why am I breaking up with you?" He barks a laugh. "Baby, I found this outside on your furnace! I'm not going to beg for you to stay, but what the hell is this?"

Your forehead furrows. "What? I wouldn't."

"If it's not yours and it's not mine, then whose is it?"

"I don't know! Alex, I wouldn't—I never even thought about breaking up," you insist. "Why would I lie about that?"

After scrutinizing your stricken expression, his relief comes in waves. He sinks into your couch, hands rubbing at his face.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, just—" He laughs again, the sound mostly air. "Yoba, that scared me. If someone left this here as a prank, I'm hunting them down tonight." He lifts his head to look at you and opens his arms. "Can you come over here?"

You wrinkle your nose. "I'm gross."

"You could be playing in mud with your pigs, and I'd still jump in."

With a roll of your eyes, you hop over to curl into his side and he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You stink, but so does he after a good workout. Now that he thinks about it, he's still in his gym clothes.

"You scared me, too," you tell him, gaze trained on the table. "Not the best thing to see on a Friday afternoon. But now I want to know whose this is. Did you check it for clues?"

"Didn't bother. Thought it was yours." His arm around your waist tightens as you lean forward. "Does it matter?"

But that doesn't stop you. You have the bouquet in your lap now, prying at the blackened ribbon and wrapping. "Look at this," you say, holding it between two fingers. "The ribbon isn't blue, and Pierre always uses blue. The wrap is pretty much disintegrated, but this corner—he always puts his store brand." You suck in a breath. "Oh, duh! Where did you say you found this?"

"The furnaces right outside by the workbench."

"Okay, so mystery solved. This is mine, but not in the way you think."

He raises an eyebrow. "Explain. Don't say you're breaking up with a secret partner because I don't think I can handle a second shock right now."

"I made a wildflower bouquet to put on Grandpa's grave a few days ago, but I totally forgot where I put it, so I made a second one. This one must've been the one I misplaced."

He blinks. "How the hell did you not notice it since?"

"I came back from Ginger Island yesterday and went to sleep right after dinner! The flowers must've wilted from the furnace heat."

"You," he says slowly, pinching your cheek and ignoring your squeak, "are the absolute worst. I can't believe you nearly broke my heart and it turned out to be a whoopsie."

#stardew x reader #stardew valley x reader #sdv x reader #sdv alex x reader #stardew x farmer #stardew valley x farmer #sdv x farmer #sdv alex x farmer #stardew valley scenarios #sdv scenarios #sdv alex scenarios #stardew scenarios #saeri writes;

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flowerandblood · 2 years ago

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The Impossible Choice (9)

[ Aemond • Targaryen x Baratheon! • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, angst, smut, violence, domination ]

[description: Aemond comes to Storm's End to choose his future consort. However, Lord Borros Baratheon presents him with only four of his five daughters. Being attached to his youngest child, he does not want to marry her. The prince, however, thwarts his and her plans with his decision. This is slow burn, with a lot of dark angst and sexual tension. (Anon Request)]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

______

He woke up feeling such a terrible pain in his head and throughout his body that he wondered if he was just dying. He lifted his eyelid with difficulty, feeling the sunlight streaming into his chamber, burning his face, everything around him was spinning slightly, his image blurred.

He was completely alone.

He swallowed loudly at the mere memory of the crazy fantasies that he had dreamt through the night.

That his wife's sister had come to him to suck his cock.

That his mother had come to him, but when he woke, it was not she who embraced him.

It was his wife.

He stared at her then in disbelief, terrified, angry, and thirsty all at once, still completely drunk.

He simply threw himself on the bed with her and fucked her.

In this dream, however, she wasn't lying beneath him frightened, waiting for his orders. She was kissing him greedily, her soft, warm hands all over his body, her sweet voice struggling to say his name each time the thrust of his hips open her wide on his cock.

He asked her to stop, sensing that she was arousing something in him that he didn't want to feel.

The hot sensation that was spilling over his chest.

He felt embarrassed that he could behave like that in front of a woman in such an intimate moment, to show his weakness, his helplessness and suffering that no one but him had access to.

He squeezed his eye shut, sighing quietly.

It was only a dream.

He rose slowly and only then realised, surprised, that he was not wearing his shirt. He glanced down and saw that his breeches were untied, his heart in his throat, pounding in his chest so hard as if it was about to tear him apart.

No.

He stood up, walking over to his chair and saw that there was bedding lying on it, which he was sure that he hadn't brought there, next to him on the small table stood an empty cup and jug. He squeezed his eye shut, trying to breathe calmly, covered his face with his hands and knelt down, trying with all his might not to scream.

No. No. No.

FUCK!

He thought with bitter anger that she would surely tell this story at court, that she would brag to the other ladies how she had seduced the crippled One-Eyed Prince, how she had listened to him cry for his mother, how he had even begged her when he came inside her.

That he was pathetic.

That he was not a man, but a boy.

A child.

He decided that he would not speak to her, would not summon her to him this night, or any night in the future, until he was sure she was still bleeding.

He would not trust her.

He ate his morning meal alone, devastated, bitter and disappointed with his attitude. He thought that it was pathetic for any young woman to be able to bring him to such a state after two nights and decided that he needed to start controlling himself.

How he was perceived was more important to him than his own pleasure.

What he feared the most was that she would come to him, that she would ask questions, thinking that he wanted to answer her.

That they would now be friends, whispering sweetly their secrets in each other's ears, cuddling tenderly at bedtime.

He felt sick at the thought and put the rest of the grapes that he had just eaten back on his plate.

She did not visit him that day, or any day after.

She bid farewell to her family in his company, but they did not say a word to each other; he saw that she glanced at him, but he did not reciprocate her look.

He stared murderously at her sister, Floris, thinking that if it hadn't been for her and her stupid idea, nothing would have happened. He pressed his lips together at the sight of her brother, kissing her forehead again.

Even though she didn't reciprocate his affectionate touch, all tense, knowing that he was watching them, he felt furious anyway.

As her loved ones set off in their retinue, he turned away and returned to his chamber, paying no attention to her.

From then on, for several days, apart from polite courtesies at the supper in the presence of his family, they did not exchange a word with each other. His wife didn't seem to mind; she spoke a lot with his sister, Helaena, and it was to her that she paid the most attention.

He tried to see a twitch of amusement or pity in her eyes, evidence that deep down she was mocking him, but he saw nothing of the sort and was frustrated by this fact.

He wanted to classify her unequivocally, but he couldn't.

She never did what he would have expected her to do, and this made him feel miserable in her company.

He was exerting himself more than usual during his morning training sessions with Ser Criston Cole. They always practised at sunrise, when only servants walked around, because he was frustrated by the constant stares of the onlookers, their eternal assessment of his behaviour and movements.

It made it impossible for him to concentrate.

However, he could not hide his surprise when his wife came out to them one day when they were just beginning their warm-up in the empty courtyard.

What immediately caught his attention was that she was wearing something completely different from her usual attire.

Just as she had been when he had first seen her in Storm's End.

She was dressed in a tight, embroidered corset, hugging her waist wonderfully, with a buff, linen shirt underneath and well-fitting black breeches on her legs, her hair combed into braid.

She bowed to him and moved on, ignoring the involuntary stares from him and Criston.

He felt frustration at the thought that she was up to something again.

He watched her carefully as she approached a wooden table on which various melee weapons lay. She leaned over him and began to pick up swords of various lengths, as if she was checking something, he chuckled low under his breath, shaking his head impatiently, turning the hilt of his sword in his hand.

"Can I help you with something, my lady?" Criston Cole asked, slightly amused and intrigued, clearly wanting to understand what she was doing.

His wife looked a them surprised, she held in her hands a sword shorter and smaller than his, designed for fighting for younger boys.

"No need, Ser Criston." She said lightly and turned the sword several times in her hand with a lightness that left them both stunned. She approached them slowly, an unforced, warm, excited smile on her face.

"May I join you?" She asked cheerfully. He couldn't resist himself and laughed out loud, Cole gave him one reproving look.

"Is this some kind of joke, sweet wife?" He sneered, throwing her an impatient look.

He thought that she wanted to make a fool of him again, to humiliate him also in such a sphere as hand-to-hand combat which was his strongest point, his trump card.

She, however, looked at him surprised and confused, apparently for some reason not expecting such an obvious reaction. She swallowed quietly, casting a pleading glance in Criston's direction. He seemed intrigued.

He rolled his eye, furious, running the blade of his sword across the sand with rage as he began to ask her questions.

"Who taught you to fight, my lady?" He asked, folding his hands behind him, looking at her with a calm smile. She was clearly pleased that his response was different from her husband's.

"My brother and my father." She said with satisfaction.

He threw them a glance over his shoulder and saw that Criston had raised his sword and stepped back, apparently wanting to give her a chance. He pressed his lips together at this sight and wanted to say something on the verge of exploding with fury, but Criston forestalled him.

"Strike me." He said encouragingly.

His wife bent slightly on her feet, stepping half sideways to him and swung, the blade slamming against the blade with a loud clang of steel. Criston deflected her strike with ease.

"Good. Don't stand so stiff on your feets. Again."

His wife immediately applied his advice and began to push against him with a fierceness that apparently surprised Criston himself.

Watching her he thought, frustrated, that she really knew how to wield a sword and although she didn't do it even partly as well as he did, he couldn't help but admit to himself that it was impressive.

He didn't know how he felt about that thought.

"Come here." He commanded, turning his sword impatiently in his hand.

Criston and she stopped, breathing a little faster, heated from the sudden exertion. His wife approached him slowly, scared and curious at the same time.

He thought that he would knock this ideas out of her head, show her what a real duel was, so that she wouldn't think she could match a man.

He threw himself at her suddenly, swinging his sword, and she barely managed to jump away before his cut, surprised. His sword cut the air with such speed that she didn't even have a chance to swing, neither of them having a shield to defend themselves.

He knew that he could cause her harm, but he decided that she wanted it herself.

Their swords finally collided with a loud clunk of steel, she struggled to push him away and swung, cutting with her sword so that now it was he who had to dodge.

He thought with amusement that she knew the basics, but easily forgot the essentials.

He heard her squeak quietly as he suddenly tripped her leg and she fell heavily to the ground, her sword falling out of her hand.

Criston stirred uneasily at this sight but said nothing, all tense.

His wife, however, was not too concerned about the incident. She hissed quietly and rose, brushing off her breeches from the sand and dust, gripping the hilt of her sword again.

He stared at her, thinking that he was losing his patience, fearing that he was about to really do something to her.

He rushed against her again, this time even more aggressively than before, with each clash of their blades their breaths getting faster and louder. He wanted to slash at her again, but this time she jumped back, taking advantage of his inattention, swinging quickly.

Their swords clashed loudly and they wrestled for a moment, but he managed to push her sword away with such force that it fell out of her hand. He grabbed violently by the hair and pulled her close, their faces almost touching, her hot breath and scent teasing his nostrils.

"You like making a spectacle of yourself, don't you?" He hissed, walking with her step by step, forcing her to move backwards. She swallowed loudly, looking at him in shock, breathing heavily.

She said nothing.

He looked at her sweaty skin, hot from exertion, her flushed cheeks, her hair stuck to her face.

She looked exactly as she did when he saw her for the first time.

"Why are you doing this to me?" He muttered with unintentional pain that he tried to hide.

She looked at him with her eyebrows arched in pain, trying to understand him, her lips parted in accelerated breathing, her cheeks pink from exertion.

Or from something else.

He felt his manhood swell slightly in his breeches at the thought.

"Answer me." He growled, clenching his fingers tighter in her hair, impatient, trying to hide his arousal from her and from himself.

He heard how Criston Cole, anxious, wanted to step in already, moving towards them.

"I wanted to spend a little more time with my husband. Forgive me, I'll never do it again." She whispered, lowering her gaze, defeated.

"Stay back." He said coolly to Cole who stopped in mid-step.

He looked at her face, searching for anything that would allow him to conclude that she was lying or pretending, to be exactly like her worthless sisters, but there was something in her gaze, something tender from which he felt a burning sense of shame.

He knew full well that he had been neglecting her for weeks.

He had left her alone in a place completely foreign to her.

She hadn't told anyone about what had happened between them.

She didn't even mention it.

He leaned against her ear, feeling his heart pounding hard.

"Go to my chamber."

He saw her look up at him, terrified and surprised at the same time. He let her go, and she swallowed loudly, moving slowly towards the keep, glancing at him over her shoulder. Criston approached him, looking at him with condemnation.

"Is it appropriate for you to treat your wife so brutally, my prince? It's early, no one saw any of this anyway." He said, but he threw him one furious look.

"Don't try to interfere between me and my wife ever again."

Cole pursed his lips at the tone of his voice, knowing him well, understanding how easy it was to arouse his anger. However, he also knew that properly spoken and chosen arguments could calm him down.

"I've been watching her for a month, my prince. She's a cheerful, wise, bright girl, smart enough not to impose herself on you. Everyone waits patiently only up to a certain point; after that, she will neither fear nor love you. You will be indifferent to her." He said calmly as he ran his fingers through his hair, wiping sweat from his forehead.

"I don't care." He said too angrily and too quickly for Cole to believe him.

He stared at him over his shoulder in fury, his jaw clenched so tight that he thought it would snap.

He hated when Criston lectured him like a child.

He'd told him once not to forget himself, but that didn't deter him.

He couldn't confide in any other man.

He pursed his lips, swallowing softly, turning his sword, its blade resting on the ground, spinning in his hand.

"She's too unpredictable to me." He said finally, looking away in shame. Criston chuckled lightly at his words, which made him look up at him quickly with gaze full of frustration and embarrassment.

"If you wanted a predictable wife, why didn't you pick one of her calm, well-mannered sisters, trained to be everything you desire?" He asked, unable to hide the smirk that appeared on his mouth when he saw the grimace on his face, as if he had caught him in something that he was ashamed of.

He looked down, unsure of what to say, and squeezed his eye shut, letting out a silent curse, clamping his fingers on the base of his nose. Criston sighed, shaking his head.

"I am ready, my prince." He said, turning his sword in his hand, indicating with a nod that they could continue their duel.

He finished his training faster, knowing that he wouldn't be able to concentrate on it anyway.

She jumped up on the bed as he walked into his chamber, clearly terrified that she had upset him again. He looked at her with a blank stare for a moment, wondering if he was sure he wanted to do this.

She tried to do her best to please him, but he was a living fire.

Fire could not be tamed.

"Come with me." He said lowly, turning away, without even looking at her reaction. He heard her move behind him, trying to catch up with him.

He turned into one of the narrow corridors of the fortress, then ran down the stone stairs hearing the sound of her quick footsteps behind him. They walked down until they emerged into cold, chilly cellars, torches lit all around them.

At last they reached the main hall, in the middle of which stood a huge candlestick, on top of which were placed small burning candles, already partially burnt out.

Above them a gigantic, terrifying skull of Balerion.

He looked at her over his shoulder and saw that she was glancing around, shocked.

Apparently this place had made the same impression on her as when his father had first shown it to him.

It was the first and the last time for them to do something together, like father and son.

The king told him of his ancestors, of Balerion, Aegon and his conquests, of old Valyria. He was enthralled, and asked him often to tell him about it again one day, but never afterwards did his father find the time or strength to do so.

From then on, he came here alone.

Although he prayed with his mother in the Great Sept, accompanying her every week, here, in the underground, he prayed for things that he could not entrust to the Seven Gods. He hid these desires from them, this dark, empty side of his heart.

He prayed that his whore half-sister had burned alive in the Vhagar's fire.

He prayed that he could make Luke put out his own eye, to give it as a gift to his mother.

He prayed that Aegon would drown in his own vomit someday.

He prayed that he would become a king.

He could not explain to himself why he had actually taken her there. After she told him that she only wanted to spend time in his presence he realised that he had not allowed her to get to know himself in any way, treating her only as an object to give him an heir.

He felt remorse.

He knew that he had not treated her the way she deserved. For her patience and devotion any other husband would showering her with kisses and flowers, gifts and warm confessions of affection.

But not him.

He knew that he would never be this kind of husband to her.

He wanted to give her something in return, like when his father the king had given him a substitute of fatherhood in that one moment.

He took two candles in his hands and lit them from the already burning flames, then placed them in front of him.

One for him, one for her.

For his wife.

She stood beside him, watching him with fascination, he liked the fact that she didn't ask any questions.

She knew that he had taken her to a place that was sacred to him and she respected that.

"I pray here every day." He said indifferently, pulling out the burnt candles, tossing them into a special basket underneath.

He cared for this place as if he were its priest.

His temple of Fire and Blood.

He saw her look up at him, surprised, for a moment it seemed to him that she was analysing his words.

She stepped around him, walking slowly towards the centre of the hall, raising her head high in the air, as if she wanted to get a closer look at the skull of the largest dragon that had ever walked the earth. He swallowed loudly as she knelt down, placing her hands on her lap and bowed her head humbly.

She was praying.

She was praying in his sanctuary, his most sacred place.

His wife.

He approached her from behind, breathing quietly, feeling her flinch when his hand tightened on her shoulder as he pushed and forced her to lie on the cold stone floor on her back. Her lips parted in shock as his fingers slid down to tying his breeches, he swallowed loudly when she did the same, clearly understanding what he wanted to do.

They both panted loudly as he knelt in front of her, drawing her hips closer to him, pulling the material of her black trousers off her, leaving her ungodly naked from the waist down. He spread the material of his breeches to the sides, releasing his erection, giving himself a few encouraging squeezes at the root, looking at her in disbelief.

What was he doing?

He leaned in at last, placing one of his hands beside her head for balance, the other guiding the fat head of his cock against her tight slit, pushing against her, opening her wide with her moan of exertion. He sighed hearing her whimper as he forced his way into her fleshy, hot interior with an impatient thrust of his hips.

She was wet.

This discovery made him start pounding into her at once, as thirsty as she was after so long of intimate abstinence, their panting and quiet, tentative moans echoing loudly throughout the hall.

"Forgive me." He whispered helplessly, his thrusts greedy, hungry from the lack of their closeness.

He wasn't sure what he was apologising for.

Maybe for taking her in such a place, subjecting her to discomfort, for how he treated her, for his brutality, his ruthlessness, his coldness.

"Forgive me. I can't do it any other way." He panted, speeding up, gripping her hips in his hands, rooting into her with wet slaps of his thighs hitting against her buttocks, feeling like he was about to burst into tears.

He felt weak.

"I know." She whispered tenderly, entwining her hand in his hair, pressing his forehead to hers, brushing her wet, soft lips against his, trailing them over his skin, just as she had then, that night, her hot breath enveloping his face.

He stared at her helplessly, marvelling anew at the warmth of her insides, her tight, fleshy walls that clenched on him again and again, sucking him inside with a loud click of her wetness.

"Forgive me." He almost sobbed, clenching his eyes, trying to catch air in his lungs, feeling as if he was suffocating.

He felt her small hands embrace him, pressing him tighter against her, her fingers clenched on his back, their bodies entwined in a passionate, sticky embrace, the thrusts of his hips slamming into her quickly and brutally with lewd slaps.

"Just fill me, my sweet husband." She hummed into his ear and he let out a deep, low, helpless groan, her words surging through him like a wave, making him come hard inside her, hearing and seeing nothing for a moment, submerged in his own, almost painful pleasure.

He felt her core clench on his cock in fulfillment as he rocked his hips inside her for a moment longer, they were both panting loudly, pressed against each other.

He thought despairingly that, as much as he wanted to, he couldn't take it anymore.

He snuggled his face into her neck and let the tears run down his cheek; he made no sound, his body convulsed, trying to find an outlet for his emotions, his frustration, his fear, his loneliness. She felt, terrified, that something was happening to him, his warm moisture run down the skin of her neck.

She stroked his hair, embracing him with her arms, saying nothing, terrified of his condition.

He felt as if something inside him had died.

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becsabillion4 · 1 year ago

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take it out on me (carmen berzatto x reader)

so this is my first time posting a fic of mine on tumblr since i was 14 and i'm slightly terrified by the formatting but i posted this on ao3 yesterday and someone told me to post here too (<3) so i hope you all enjoy it as much as i enjoy the thought of getting pounded by carmy in the walk-in

pairing : carmen berzatto x f!reader

summary : Carmy is having a terrible service, and you're sure some time in the walk-in will help him cool off (although it gets hotter in there than you might think).

word count : 4,410

tags: SMUT, rough sex, angry sex, unprotected sex, fingering, creampie, choking, semi-public sex, ending with soft carmy which makes it all okay, 18+ only

note: this is explicit 18+ only and also this is NOT an advert for safe sex, it is merely a fantasy i have been playing with since my own days as a waitress and carmy has helped me to realise it. also i'm obsessed and i know y'all degenerates won't send help so instead i ask that you send me asks so i can write more about this wonderful man

Disorienting. Overwhelming. Stressful, painful, unrelenting. Burning your hand hard enough for it to stick to the pan, hard enough that you know on the way to the sink it’s too late, that you’ll bear the scar of that mistake for the rest of your life. Knives slicing always so close to your skin, living on the point of pain, focus trained so hard on the blade you can’t even blink. Shouting, screaming, the place could be on fire, and you wouldn’t look up from the art you’re creating. Flames licking at your apron. Beautiful.

Kitchens are the prison and the heart of a chef, and the one at The Bear is currently the pride and the bane of your life. Plating up your one billionth focaccia of the evening as Marcus rushes by holding a tray of cannolis aloft, you try to tune out Sydney shouting instructions to the new servers, trying to drill something, anything, into their panicked, under-developed skulls.

But none of this worries you. What worries you is the ominous, creeping silence from the station to your right, where you know Carmy is cooking up not only the best food you’ve ever tasted, but an internal storm that is going to be unleashed any, second, now-

“Chefs! Where the fuck is my garnish? Tina, are you dead? ‘Cos you need to wake the fuck back up.”

Tina is already by Carmy’s side with the garnish, but the damage is done. She doesn’t bristle at his words, but shoots you a worried look as she slides by, murmuring, “Sorry, Chefs. Behind.”

Since you started working at The Bear six months back, you’ve witnessed a rare few Carmy outbursts, and you know everyone feels the same way when they happen. It’s like the moment you miss a step on familiar stairs, stomach lurching and fear sweeping through your body. Carmy is this kitchen, and his boiling point is the moment things tend to spin out of control.

And yet, Tina’s reaction is everyone’s; disappointment in herself, instant forgiveness because she knows Carmy is doing everything he can for this team. Last week, after you and Sydney spent the evening getting wasted on her couch, she’d confessed to you how hard Carmy took his notorious opening night failure, and how he’s been struggling to make up for it since then. And it’s been working; his kindness, patience, and passion for elevating those around him have always outshone the occasional harsh word during service.

But this service is just bad. It’s been bad since 5AM, when you got here to take in the delivery and found out that the grapes needed for the welcome broth had somehow been left off of the order. It’s been bad since Marcus ruined three batches of cannolis in a row, and when Sydney tried to touch his shoulder and ask him what was going on, he stormed out. Since Sydney snapped at Richie for singing Taylor Swift badly during family. The hundred little underlying frissons of tension that normally dissipate as soon as service rolls around have congealed today, like oil in balsamic vinegar, rubbing together but refusing to meld into the team you know everyone can be.

And you know Carmy can feel it. His anger is a physical thing beside you, like standing next to a hot pan with too much oil in it and just waiting for it to start spitting at you. Knowing you have to keep stirring it anyway.

“Four top, two steak, one bucatini, one fish,” Sydney rattles off, and everyone responds “Yes, Chef!” a little too loud.

“Can I get some hands for this focaccia,” you shout through the din, pushing the two boards forward, but nobody responds. “Hands, please, get these off my station before I eat ‘em!” you call, trying to bring some levity to the atmosphere before-

“Hands, fuckin’ hands, Chefs, FUCK!” Carmy explodes, appearing by your side so suddenly you almost jump. His hands hover over the foccacia boards like he wants to adjust something on them, fix something, but you know as well as he does that they’re perfect already.

And of course, this just makes things worse.

Carmy properly looks up for the first time, straightening out of the “chef about to have an aneurysm over plating this fish” posture and into his “everyone here is about to get fucked” pose. “These are good to go, why are we not? Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ. Go fuck yourselves-” one of the new waitresses approaches with trembling hands and Carmy pushes the boards at her, disgusted, almost taking them over the edge of the pass, “-all of you, what is the point of any of us being here if nothing is leaving the fucking kitchen!”

“Carm, it’s okay, they’re going out,” you can’t help cutting in, but you should know better than to try to soothe a wild animal. Carmy doesn’t say anything, turns back to plating up his fish, but his beautiful artist’s hands, which you often find yourself trying to draw in the margins of inventory checks, are shaking now. You’ve never seen him this bad. The whole kitchen waits on a knife edge. You glance up, watching the waitress leave with your focaccia, and have a brief but fervent desire to be her as the doors swing her out of this hellhole.

The fish is beautiful as Carmy puts the finishing touches to it. A server steps up to take it as other dishes for the same table coalesce at the front of stations, all elegant, all perfect, all more than worthy of the restaurant’s Michelin star.

Carmy is completely still. Staring. And you know it’s too late.

Plunging his fist down, he crushes the fish into sea-scented pulp. The shells of oysters, hand-selected, crack into broken-mirror shards; the sauce is peppered with shoddy scraps of lobster tail.

It’s still not enough for Carmy, as he picks up the plate and sends it spinning into the back wall, narrowly missing Sweeps’ head. “ Shit, ” Carmy mutters, turning back to his station and searching for more things to destroy. You watch him contemplate the knives, and you can’t stay out of it any longer.

“Carmy. Chef. Carmy,” you say as you reach out to grab his muscled arm, pulling him round to face you. You can feel the tension corded deep under his skin, see the sheen of sweat coating his tattoos. Normally, any skin contact with him sends your brain into overdrive, but you can’t afford to be anything but calm right now.

His eyes are wild, but you watch him steadily, and he watches you straight back. You’re not sure why, but the moment reminds you of how you felt on those rare occasions he invited you and Syd over to brainstorm new recipes in his cramped kitchen. Especially that time Sydney couldn’t make it, and you were midway through describing your idea for a yuzu-infused scallops course to him - “with maybe, like, a garnish of broccoli just absolutely smothered in hollandaise” - when he reached forward, tucked a scrap of hair behind your ear, and the very idea of food whisked straight out of your head - but you still felt hungry. And whilst he’d tried out your broccoli idea over and over again that night, you found yourself blushing every time he passed you a spoon to taste it.

You never could get that dish right. Every time you thought about it, you couldn’t separate the flavours from the curious look in his eyes, the way he drank in your ideas, absorbed them before he responded, how his eyes tracked every thought that crossed your face.

Now here you are again, staring at that measured, thoughtful man turned savage, and you wonder if you have the guts to do what you’ve been thinking about doing for a while.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you murmur beneath the clatter of plates behind you, just for him. You don’t look away even when you hear something shatter. You move your hand from his arm, up over his shoulder, push your palm into the curve of his neck and hold it there.

Then you wait, feel his shoulders jumping up and down with his rapid breathing. Wait until he leans into it a little, chasing your solidity, and it’s all the response you need.

“Come with me.” It’s not a question, but he nods anyway.

“Sydney, you got this?” You ask, never taking your eyes from Carmy’s face, worried that if you do, you’ll lose whatever grip you have on him right now.

“Yes, Chef,” she replies, and you feel her edge round the side of Carmy to put another fish on rapid fire. He catches her eye as she passes, and brings his hand up to his chest, rubbing it once in what has become the team’s official way to apologise during service. She responds in kind, and he lets you drag him off the station, past the others shooting him worried looks, straight into the walk-in.

You shut the door carefully, recalling the stories of Carmy’s previous imprisonment. It’s still securely closed, giving you both some calm and privacy to cool off.

Except cooling off is not really what you have in mind.

You turn to see Carmy slumped in the corner, curled in on himself and running his hands through his already-chaotic hair. He stands again suddenly, bracing his hands on the wall behind him as if to remind himself they exist.

“Carmy.”

“Yeah, shit. Sorry, I just need a second. It’s just, I didn’t sleep at all last night. I was thinking about doing something with ceviche, but I couldn’t figure out what fish would work best, and then that sorta spiralled into a panic attack which kept me up whisking eggs for something until three, and then-” You watch his eyes darting over the shelves around him as he talks, and you realise he’s taking stock of what’s there. Even during a full-blown meltdown, he cannot stop working, stop thinking. He starts pacing.

“Carmy,” you say again as you try to catch his eye. He’s staring at some spare T-bones like they’ll explain to him whatever dish he was whisking eggs for last night. Fuck it. You grab his chin, tilt it until he has to look at you.

“D’you know the best way to calm down?”

“Lock yourself in the walk-in for three hours?” He’s trying to relieve some tension, but you have other ideas on how to handle that.

“Sex, Carmy.”

There. You’re terrified that you finally acknowledged it, finally confessed to what you’ve been thinking about for months, but thank God it’s out in the open. You’ve been blushing at his compliments on your food for far too long, ignoring how good he looks in a white tee for even longer. And today has been such a shitshow it can’t possibly get any worse by admitting to this too.

You wait for Carmy to shut it down, laugh it off, maybe even fire you, but he just looks shellshocked. Then again, that is his default look.

“I, um…” He rubs a hand over his forehead, glances up at you almost shyly. “I mean, um. What?”

“Listen, you’re fucking up service. You’re distracted, tired, stressed beyond belief. I want to help you, and I won’t pretend it’s just out of the goodness of my own heart. I’ve been interested in you for a while, Carmy. You can take that or leave it or kick me out of this walk-in if you want, but I’m here. I want to help you work through things, through all this anger. And…I want you to know you can take it out on me. And maybe even feel better at the same time.”

Carmy is flushed, and you’re all out of words. You kind of wish he was still looking at the T-bones.

“We, uh, we can’t.” Carmy leans back on a freezer for support, crossing his arms in a pose you normally associate with him working something out in his head, deciding what a dish is missing or what it needs to take it up a notch. “I mean, not now. Not here, at least. And I don’t know, we work together. I’m your boss. It’s not a good idea.” He reaches a hand round to his back, starts massaging the strain away there. It’s an especially effective position as he doesn’t have to look at you as he does it, as he says, “Sorry.”

You shrug a little, smile. Try to pretend it doesn’t hurt. Keep it professional, or as professional as you can get in a kitchen. “Hey, it was worth a shot. Get some sleep, Chef.”

You turn to go, hoping that stirring and slicing and plating up will shake off the embarrassment currently burning through to your bones.

But you don’t live to regret the offer as Carmy grabs your arm, spins you and shoves you hard enough into the walk-in door that it rattles on its hinges.

“Hey, everything okay in there Chefs?” you hear Marcus call, and it’s a reality check you absolutely don’t want right now. Carmy doesn’t even seem to have heard him, trailing kisses down your neck, collarbone, shoulder as your body arches into the feeling. You’ve had one too many fantasies about this walk-in since you started, but the actual feeling doesn’t begin to touch the dream.

“Yeah, all good Chef!” You manage to reply, but you barely get the ‘Chef’ out before Carmy’s lips slide over yours, pushing, demanding entry as his body keeps you pressed up against the door. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place, is all you have time to think between kisses.

There is no room or time for playing around. Carmy needs this, and you intend to provide, but you’re damn sure getting everything you can out of it just in case it never happens again. One of your hands curls deep into his hair, pulling his head back as your teeth click together in the ferocity of the kiss. You swear you can taste blood, but neither one of you pulls back, the saltiness only urging you on. Your other hand is busy loosening his belt, and you tug it hard to pull the silver prong free of the leather, hard enough that his hips jerk forward into yours and you moan, long and low.

Gravity suddenly spins on its axis as Carmy lifts you, turns and drops you down onto the freezer Fak installed last week. And for once in your life, thank you, Fak. The movement seems to shake Carmy out of it for a second, and he pulls back, hesitates. A hand curves around your cheek, and you can feel an apology coming, see the reticence forming in his eyes. And honestly, fuck that.

You hook fingers through his belt loops, dragging him closer and then using them to tug his trousers down. You’re not gentle as you reach into his underwear, wrap a hand around his cock, and you can tell that’s what he needs as he hisses, his head drifting back.

Removing his hand from your cheek, you guide it slowly down to your neck. His head snaps up, and there’s a darkness, a need, that wasn’t there before as you move your hand slowly, torturously, down his length.

“Hey,” you whisper, reluctant to interrupt the low grunts spilling from him with each of your movements. “I’m not going to break.”

You squeeze his fingers around your throat a little tighter, and it’s this that has him surging forward, messy mouths pressing together again and everything condensing into a rippling, burning, rightness as the fingers of his other hand shove themselves between your legs.

He lingers there for a moment, breaths short and sharp in your ear as he breaks free from your kiss and whispers, “If we had more time, I would clean up the mess you’re making all over my freezer, Chef.”

“My apologies, Chef,” you pant, the sweetness of the apology marred slightly by your fingers tugging hard through his curls. Then you’re pushing up his white shirt at the back, reveling in the heat of him, the muscles straining under your touch. “What’s my punishment?”

Carmy hesitates, then withdraws his fingers from you slowly, and it feels like the calm before the storm. One hand is still pressed loosely around your neck as he brings the other up to your face, runs the edge of his still-wet fingers over your lips. Asking or demanding, you don’t know, but you’re happy to comply. His pupils are blown so wide you can barely see the blue behind them, and when you slide your mouth over his fingers, taste yourself on him, he closes them in momentary bliss. And it’s so beautiful to see that you can’t resist pulling him in to share.

A Michelin-star chef with one of the most sophisticated palates on the planet. A renowned food critic once wrote of him, “In my next life, I’d like to be just one of the taste buds in Carmen Berzatto’s mouth.” And here he is, savouring you, tongue searching out every corner of your mouth as if he wants to figure out each and every component of your taste. Add the recipe of you to his menu, and make it every night.

You’re both done waiting, and the clock is ticking. You can faintly hear Sydney calling orders through the wall, although she sounds steadier now. You don’t know whether anyone out there knows what you’re doing, but a rampaging elephant couldn’t stop Sydney when she’s on a roll.

Carmy pulls you closer to the freezer’s edge, jeans and underwear falling to his ankles and suddenly he is right there, and-

“Oh, fuck,” is all you can say as he pushes forward in one swift, animal movement. And oh, pain flickers down your spine as he slides almost free of you and thrusts back, relentless, and this is exactly what you signed up for.

“ Fuck ,” he echoes, hand sliding down your neck to settle over your racing heart. “Fuck, you…I don’t know how you do this to me,” he pants, and you try to keep your moaning down so you can hear as words spill from him, “When you come in with your hair down before a shift, when you - ah - when you borrow my knife and I see you using it all service, when you let me light your fuckin’ cigarette for you. Shit. You drive me crazy on purpose, and you wanna know what the worst part is?”

You can’t breathe, let alone answer him.

“The worst part is I eat that shit up every time, ” he snarls, punctuating every word with a short, sharp thrust.

This is the animal you saw tonight, spitting curses, destroying his own food, all sharp edges and uncompromising will. Grunting as he bottoms out inside you, fingers clenched around your upper thigh hard enough to bruise, littering bites over your neck as if your colleagues aren’t an unlocked door away.

But the animal isn’t the end of Carmen Berzatto. There is more to him than the bear, and you intend to remind him of that before you’re through.

“Look around you,” you pant as he thrusts again, harder, sweeter, and you have to get this out before you tip over the edge. So you risk bringing the hand you were using to support yourself forward to turn his chin towards the walk-in’s walls, to beyond them, to the restaurant hard at work and the satisfied diners metres away who have no idea what’s going on in here, and fuck if that doesn’t make it all the more delicious. “Look what you made. Look who you are.” You watch his flushed face, hope he understands the praise, but you can’t hold on anymore to see your words land.

“You’re fuckin’ unbelievable, Carmy,” is all you manage to choke out as every muscle in your body lights up, tenses and releases in a flood so strong you wonder if you’ll ever surface, and if you even want to.

Carmy fucks forward into you twice more, and his head drops onto your shoulder as he groans, shudders, relaxes fully for what may be the first time in his life.

You stroke a hand over his head, pull him closer. You’re not quite sure when this stopped being a no-holds-barred quickie and became a quiet, intense embrace, but it feels right. All the desperation, the keyed-up energy, is gone from him. And if he never wants anything more than that, even though the idea is more than a little disappointing, you can take consolation from the fact that you at least managed to stop a raging Carmy in his tracks.

Although it is a little quiet.

“Carmy?” You ask, hesitant to break the silence. Thankfully, it still sounds like it’s all bustle outside. You wonder how long you’ve been in here, and try not to think about how you’re going to emerge with any shred of dignity intact.

Carmy pulls back, and you can’t define the look on his face, but it worries you. His eyes shine slightly, and his gaze skips across your face, down your body, not holding your stare.

“Are you okay?” You ask, praying this isn’t about to get really awkward really quick. The man’s still inside you, for Christ’s sake.

“Yeah. I, um, I should be asking you that.” Carmy’s hands skim down your sides, fingers pressing in randomly as if to check for bruises. He tilts his head to look under your chin, as if to check he hasn’t caused any permanent damage to your neck. “Jesus. Are you alright? I’m sorry, that was rough.”

“I’m totally fine.” You don’t know what to do to reassure him, so opt for two big thumbs up. “See? Voice working and everything.”

Carmy chuckles unevenly, takes a careful step back, and you try not to consider how empty you feel and how cold and slippery the freezer now is underneath you. You hop off, catching yourself on the side when you realise just how shaky your legs are. When you glance up at Carmy, he’s just staring at you, which is, frankly, unnerving.

“Do I look that bad?” you ask, pulling your hair out of what’s left of a ponytail to start again.

“No. No, I’m just…I’m just taking you in.” The raw honesty in his eyes pins you in place for a moment. But of course, Richie shouts “ Cousin!” before you can read into it too much.

There is a moment of panicked dressing and clean-up, a nod to each other to confirm you both look relatively sane and not totally fucked (even though you doubt it), and then a collective deep breath as you push open the door of the walk-in.

You don’t catch anyone’s eye for a second as you head to your station, Carmy’s presence like an open flame behind you.

“Corner. Corner. Behind, sorry Chefs,” you call as you slide back into place. Two quick glances calm you; one at the clock - seventeen minutes - and one at Sydney, who doesn’t look like she’s about to throw up and only has three tickets in front of her. You spare a final one for Fak in his position by the door, who you are positive would be grinning gleefully if he, or anyone else in the kitchen, knew what just went down in the walk-in.

“What do you need, Syd?” you ask, picking up the familiar back-and-forth of the kitchen again with some relief.

Carmy is quiet, focused, for the last half hour of service, but you can’t keep your mind clear. As soon as last orders are sent out, you slink to the back for a cigarette, hoping the smoke will at least wipe out your brain fog. It does the exact opposite. When you let me light your fuckin’ cigarette for you. You exhale, waving the smoke away as the words churn through your brain. I eat that shit up every time.

“Hey,” you hear, and you’re almost thankful to speak to the real him just to distract yourself from thinking about earlier.

“Hey.” You offer him a smoke, and he takes it, sinking onto the step next to you. The brush of his leg against yours is a lot more comforting than you expect it to be, relaxing a secretly worried part of you.

He takes a long drag, the kind of drag you only take when it’s been a shitshow of a day. “I just want to say I’m-”

“Sorry? It’s okay. It doesn’t have to happen again,” you finish for him. It hurts less that way.

“What? No.” He looks at you until you reluctantly meet his gaze. “Not for that. I’m not sorry about that.” He lets that hang there for a second, holds your eye. “But I’m sorry for losing my shit earlier. Nobody deserves to be around that, and…I want you to know I’m working on it. I wanna be…I wanna be good at this.” It’s a stilted apology as he thinks through every line, and it feels all the more sincere for it.

“That’s okay. I know. We all know.” You reach a hand out to touch his arm, and after a second, he lowers his head to rest on his knee, although his face is still turned towards you. You see his eyes flicker from your hand on his arm to your face.

“Although that wasn’t exactly how I expected that to go by the way,” he says after a moment.

You don’t try to pretend you don’t know what he’s referring to. “What, in the walk-in?”

“Oh, no, I’ve thought about it in the walk-in.” You ignore a pulse of feeling at his casual confession, at the idea that he’s thought about you. “I just didn’t imagine it so…heated, I guess.” Carmy raises his head again, traces a finger along your hand where it rests on his arm until you shiver. “Not that I didn’t enjoy it.”

You hesitate for a second before replying. Before extending the branch. “Well, I’m sure there’ll be other times, Chef.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, and it’s your turn to watch his thoughts flickering there, watch as the fog clears, the idea forms, and he says, “Yeah. Next time.”

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wow guys thank you for reading i pray through the act of writing this that my jeremy allen white obsession will calm the fuck down, but i fear i've made it worse

if you'd like to keep up with me on ao3, you can find me here and please do send me any comments or feedback or prompt ideas, i would love to hear them <33 thank you!!

#becsabillion #carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x you #carmen berzatto x ofc #carmy the bear #the bear #fanfic #fanfiction #smut #carmen berzatto smut #jeremy allen white #the bear fanfiction

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trtlebuns · 2 years ago

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Who would’ve thought?

Random things about T141 + Alejandro & Köing

Tags: Fluff and cursing (maybe?)

Alejandro Vargas

my man my man my man!!!!

Alejandro HATES!!! Spicy foods, even though he is Mexican and grew up in a Mexican household he CANNOT handle anything spicy

Wakes up at 6:45 everyday

His comfort clothing includes: a tank top or T-shirt with grey joggers and black/socks

He would often cook the meals (very house husband of him)

Hates alcoholic beverages, like he’ll drink them but won’t enjoy them

Favorite color is: Rosewood Pink

Favorite ice cream flavor is strawberry

He doesn’t wear cologne

He takes his skin care VERY serious

When he’s angry or excited he would talk in his native tongue

Will call out of work if his hair isn’t “hairing”

Likes to kiss you on the forehead near your edges

Likes to watch you get dressed

Wants to have a big family

If he could be any cartoon character he would be Milo from fish hooks

Has a tattoo of your initial behind his ear

Köing

Listens to lofi and jazz

A light sleeper

Hates pickles

Wears his mask in public but at home he wears a big sweater with a large hood to hide most of his face (specifically a deep purple sweater)

Likes all of the avengers movies and if one is coming out he would buy tickets in advance (like 3-6 months in advance)

Likes strawberry milk but is severely lactose intolerant

Hates raisins but likes grapes

His comfort outfit would be: at home, a onesie to match yours or if in public ( like he goes out there willingly) would be a hoodie and joggers with crocs

Enjoys putting on his eye makeup while you do your makeup

Still doesn’t know what “beat this face to the gods” mean, even though you only say it when you do your makeup

Is happy with being with you and having a cat or two (or any small animal of your choice)

Prefers to eat ketchup with anything

Likes sardines

Likes to hug you from the back

Favorite color is: Mulberry Purple

He wears your initial as a chain

Has a dad sneeze

GHOST (Simon Riley)

Hates anything super sweet or sweeting in general

Prefers coffee (black) over tea, but would drink it if it’s the only thing around

He likes pumpkin spice lattes (yes he’s a basic bi- brit 🫣)

Secretly adds weapons to you car every time he gets in it

Like why do you have a knife in your cup holder?? How did that get there, you wonder

Orders steak every time you guys eat out anywhere “fancy”

Wears a face mask when he’s out

Your nickname for him is “beady eyed brit”

Only kisses you on the cheek and the temple

He rolls his eyes at everything

“Omg mon, you didn’t have to get me this??” You said happily as you hugged Simon. “I wouldn’t have gotten it, if you didn’t stop pestering me about it” He sighed and rolled his eyes knowing that he would buy you the world if you only mentioned it once

He loves peppermints

He likes to watch you…just do you

You’re in the kitchen? Boom, he’s leaning on the fridge watching you. You’re in the bathroom fixing your hair, Boom, he’s sitting on the toilet seat just staring. You’re walking around talking on the phone? Boom, he’s right there in arms distance listening and watching you. Just watching

He listens to classical music

Comfort fit: anything that’s lying on the floor closest to him or anything that seems comfy to him, could be shorts and a shirt or joggers and topless as long as he’s comfy he don’t care

Prefers to be just with you but wouldn’t mind stretching the family

He likes to skip rocks

He knows how to skateboard

Weirdly obsessed with peanut butter because of the “protein”

Favorite color is: Juniper Green

He goes makeup shopping with you because you need to know what type of eye makeup he wears that lasts through literal war

SOAP (Johnny Mactavish)

Hates coconut flavored anything! It could artificial or down to the real deal he HATES IT

Likes to yell at the tv

Must take a bite of your food, it doesn’t matter if you both have the same thing or not. He needs a bite and his reasoning is “I’m testing for poison”

Get you a man who CARES!

Would rate your burps out of 10

Let’s you paint his nails

He spills the tea and so do you

Johnny bursts through the door, and started you “BIIIIIIITCH!!!” Johnny says as he shakes his head walks towards you, you already know the tea is piping HOT! “Let me tell you what price done said over the phone just now” he says as he props down on the bed and you get into a sitting position “I’m all ears babe” you get ready for the most juiciest information of you life

Likes to pee/shit while you’re in the bathroom (it’s his favorite activity)

He rock climbs for a hobby

Favorite color is: Coin Silver

Always calls and never text in advance that he needs to talk

Comfort outfit: pajama bottoms, bunny slippers, and topless or a tanktop

Likes to sleep in cold temperatures

Tackles you with hugs and kisses whenever he sees you

You’re on the phone trying to pay a bill? Boom, he’s right next to you kissing your head and hugging you from the back. You’re trying to get ready for work? Boom, you’re making out and now you gotta call off work…AGAIN!

Listens to a lot of Megan thee stallion because he heard you playing thot shit

Hates the texture of cottage cheese

He’s a horrible cook and so are you, but you both try your best and end up ordering out

Likes to throw things at you and act as if he had no idea what you’re talking about when you ask if he threw something at you

“Ow, what the fu-“ you say as you scratch your head and look at the ground and see an orange crayon on the floor. You look up and see Johnny at the table with a coloring book and crayons “J did you just throw this at me” you question as you raise the crayon. He looks and you and you look at him… “I have no idea what you’re talking about” he says calmly as he goes back to coloring. You sigh, “then how did this get over here?” You roll your eyes and put your hand on your hip. “It must’ve been already over there” he shrugs while continuing his activity with a small smirk pulling at his lips

Likes to eat haggis ( Scottish bastard )

Knows how to play the flute

He would like to have 3 kids and 2 dogs (specifically a Rottweiler and Doberman)

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rayshippouuchiha · 1 year ago

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I had a gremlin thought and had to throw it at you. So we all know that JC and WWX revolved around JYL (as they should) and would 100% do what she told them to. Why had no one taken this to its logical conclusion? Let’s say it’s after another failed meeting in between JYL and her horrible fiancé she is doing the depressingly normal routine of trying to not be hurt while YZY is being horrible to WWX and JC. And she just takes a moment to breathe and wonder why them. What has she and her siblings done to suffer like this? One of the disciples comes over and offers her any help they can. This causes JYL to just have a moment of realization where she stops and tries to remember the last time anyone except those outside the sect asked the Sect leaders for anything. Because the people know that JFM is just passive at best and YZY is plain aggressive. JYL was raised to be a sect wife and basically shadow run a sect right? And let’s say she’s been doing this for years at this point. WWX basically owns the disciples and every resident of Lotus Pier. JC is Sect Heir and has every ounce of loyalty his people and siblings can give him. JYL has this vision of a sect run by the three siblings and it’s just so much better. I imagine for all that they were their mother and father JFM and YZY were very estranged from their children. It’s also basically canon that WWX hid so much of his power and skill from everyone as to not rock the boat. JYL rolls into her brothers rooms, sees the hurt that has been allowed to fester for to long and just decides it’s her turn to go feral. So now I present the idea of a coup. JYL points at the Sect and says I want it and her brothers go whole or in pieces? Now I don’t think any of the siblings is cold enough to kill JFM or YZY so I’m more leaning more towards talisman master over there creating a Jiāng version of Lan forced seclusion. Think about this would put canon in a blender and just shred it. We have Sect leader JYL, her co leader/Heir JC and their brother/Head disciple WWX. Think about WWX allowed to make the Jiāng a talisman powerhouse. Think about how a strengthened, united three person leadership which is really just JYL telling her brothers what to do and them doing it cheerfully. Everyone is validated, there isn’t constant fighting and money is rolling in from the talisman sales. The Jiāng all of a sudden are rising like someone strapped a rocket onto their ass. Let’s be honest the Lan are traditionalists who will swiftly be left in the dust by galaxy-for-a-brainWWX! Who invents like some people breathe. The Jin hold power by riches and let’s point again at our resident genius talisman master who rolls out the flags and compass. The Jiāng are getting richer by the second. The Nie are powerhouses and we have JC and WWX who are ridiculous and almost evenly matched. Lotus disciples are melee masters and going against one now makes a lot of people want to cry because Head Disciple WWX is going to drag his shidis into excellence one way or the other. JC is laughing on the sidelines because how do you think he got so powerful huh and let’s be real our angry grape loves watching people suffer. All of a sudden the Wen conquest doesn’t look to realistic anymore. Then WWX meets WN and WQ and decides to impulse adopt them and their entire branch. Then the Jiāng are now also the medical center of the Sects? Watch out Wens you’ve just lost the top spot to three teenagers two of which are really just following their beloved sisters lead. All I’m saying is JYL ruling the Cultivation World with her brothers cheerfully giving her whatever she wants while she can finally pamper them as she pleases. You want the horrible peacock? Fine buts he’s marrying in. Hey little brother you’re drooling over WQ huh? There is much mocking from single WWX towards his siblings. For awhile WWX is the only unmarried Lotus Pier sibling and boy is he hunted. Everyone is tripping over themselves to lock down the most eligible bachelor who is handsome and rich. And then WWX meets his LZ and how the tables have turned brother dear? Let’s just say the Lans are going to lose that fight before it even begins. LWJ is going to perish at their first meeting. Somehow this ends up a trend where the Jiāng end up pretty much never marrying out. Wow this got away from me but I now offer you this vision!

#Everything about this is perfect and I NEED IT #mdzs #prompt

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 1 year ago

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"Do you Trust me?"

Rollo voice) no

I feel like Rollo’s going to become a puddle of angry goo (think like a freshly salted slug) by the end of this series of headcanons…

A Big Scarabia Welcome to Rollo!

Savanaclaw’s weather was already bad enough, but Scarabia is 100 times worse. When Rollo hikes his way to the entrance of the grand dormitory (just a short stroll from the mirror), he looks like he’s about to give way to heat stroke if he doesn’t drown in his own sweat first.

He’s graciously received and personally welcomed by Kalim’s open arms (Jamil at his side) and just about the biggest smile you’ve ever seen. Rollo doesn’t sense any immediate ill will behind it (unlike the majority of the despicable mages that infest NRC), but he’s unsettled all the same by Kalim’s intense friendliness. When the Scarabian dorm leader goes in for a hug, Rollo politely steps back and declines (citing his excessive dampness as an excuse).

“Oh, you’re right! You’re not used to this kind of weather back home, huh? Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you!! Come on in! You’re today’s guest of honor!” Kalim beams, cheerfully ushering Rollo inside. Jamil follows quietly, but is staring intently at Rollo all the while—this man still remembers everything Rollo did, and he’s harboring a deep-seated grudge.

Kalim starts off the visit with a big tour of Scarabia! He forgets a lot of the finer details, so Jamil has to fill him in on the architecture and history of the dorm as he supplies them with water. (Kalim pauses to call out to and greet mob students as they pass.)

At first, Rollo’s impressed by the spread of knowledge provided—but the more he sees of Scarabia, the more disgusted he grows of its gross opulence. All the gold and jewels in the storage room could feed the entire City of Flowers for a lifetime and then some!!

The flippant way Kalim talks about his lifestyle also grates on Rollo. Who in the world places orders 100 coconuts for themselves, then buys diamonds for his entire dorm as souveinirs? Why does Scarabia have such frequent banquets and parties? How can one man live in such excess and not feel once ounce of remorse for it?! It boggles the mind.

“Hey, you must be hungry from your trip! Let’s put some food in you!!” Kalim summons a feast with the wave of his hand (Jamil had been up all night and all that morning preparing it). “Thank you, but just a nibble is enough for…” Rollo is interrupted by Kalim shoving some grapes into his mouth. “Ooh, you have to try this! Oh, and this too! And this cheese…!”

At one point, Kalim offers an apple slice with an ant on it, which causes Jamil to lock up. He screeches in disgust when Rollo casually kills the ant by squishing it under his thumb, then proceeds to take out a few others lying in wait. (“You touched bugs with your bare hands!!” Jamil cries, looking like he’s going to be sick any moment now. To this, Rollo retorts, “I should like to see you come up with a better solution!”)

After (force) feeding Rollo, Kalim tells him he has “a surprise” in store, which makes Rollo’s stomach sink. The dorm leader runs off, telling Rollo not to move from the spot. Left alone with Jamil, he warily eyes the man (who has been strangely standoffish the whole time). Jamil meets his gaze coolly. “… I didn’t tell him,” he says simply.

“To shield his poor little heart from breaking?” (Jamil shakes his head. “No, this isn’t about his feelings. I could care less about them. Kalim would only be sobbing and pestering me about my safety. I already have enough to deal with on my plate, I don’t need the extra stress. He’s kept ignorant out of convenience.”)

As expected, a self-serving reason. Rollo’s disgust does not abate. Still, a part of him wonders if Kalim would still be kind if he knew the truth of what happened in the City of Flowers, if some darker side of him would emerge as a result. No mage, no matter how upbeat, is entirely free of sin.

Kalim's taking longer than expected to get back, so Jamil and Rollo end up awkwardly playing some board games while they wait. Though Rollo tries his best, he's no match for Jamil, who takes delight in letting loose (he usually can't when he plays against Kalim) and smoking him in every match.

The ground shakes, rattling the stones in their mancala board. With each passing moment, the vibrations grow in increasing intensity—and suddenly, the doors kick open, revealing a parade of animals!! A tiger, 75 camels, 53 purple peacocks, 95 white monkeys, llamas, bears, lions, and even a flurry of birds!? Kalim arrives riding on an elephant and laughing to the slack-jawed Rollo. (Jamil groans. “You’d better get used to this, or you won’t make it through the day,” he warns flatly.)

The animals swarm Rollo, all of them kicking up a cacophony and demanding attention from him. He’s backed into a corner, trying to keep them at bag by poking them with his staff. Alas, to no avail!! The animals smother him in a pile of fur and feathers, and Rollo lets out strangled cry from between them.

“I think they’re getting along!!” Kalim notes from atop his elephant steed. (“Yes, I’m so happy for him.” Off to the side, Jamil snickers with some kind of sick, twisted joy.Finally, it’s someone else suffering for once instead of him.)

One thorough cuddling session later, Kalim flies to Rollo upon his magic carpet (it had been stashed away with him on the elephant) and offers a hand. He yanks his guest up with a grin and plops Rollo down beside him. “Next up: a magic carpet ride!” (“W-Wait, I don’t think my constitution can handle this much excitement…!!)

“Come now, where is your sense of adventure?” Jamil says as he kneels beside them on the carpet. His words are kept in an even enough of a tone, but there’s no mistaking the smirk on his mouth. (Rollo quietly fumes about it.)

Off they go into the Scarabian desert! Rollo wishes he could call it a peaceful ride, but it isn’t. Kalim keeps telling the magic carpet to show Rollo the tricks it knows, which means they’re not only soaring, but also tumbling and freewheeling through the sky. Below, the sands shine and shimmer splendidly.

Rollo’s eyes are clenched shut as he bends over the side of the carpet, trying hard to keep the contents of his lunch down. “Don’t you dare close your eyes,” Jamil whispers. “And hold your breath, it gets better.” (By ‘better’, he means ‘worse’, Rollo suspects.)

They speed up, bursting through the clouds, before dropping back down with collective shrieks. Rollo has to clutch onto his hat to keep it from flying off, forcing a scream back down as he hangs on for dear life, praying to be anywhere else. His eyes are wide with alarm, the fear inside of him clawing to escape.

The wild ride comes to a stop at a single spot of green and blue in the expanse of sand: an oasis encircled by broad-leafed trees. Rollo can’t scramble off that infernal carpet fast enough. (“Wow, he must have been really looking forward to this!!” Kalim chirps.)

With such crystalline waters available to them, Kalim thinks its only natural to take a dip! (Jamil has his sunscreen, towel, and swimming trunks on standby.) Rollo hurriedly backs away, trying to opt out—but he loses his foot in the shifting sands, and…

SPLOOSH!!! He’s drenched, the water weighing down his big hat and robes. Rollo looks less human and more like an angry wet cat (so much so that neutral-faced Jamil has to stop a smirk from overtaking him). Kalim, for his part, is super apologetic and offers Rollo his towel.

And so, Rollo sits in the shade of a tree while swathed in Kalim's towel, glaring at the Scarabia duo as they paddle around in the oasis. He hates that he can't just walk out on them, for he'd surely perish in the desert.

Rollo feels something at his feet--and when he looks down, he finds the magic carpet curled up there, emitting a sound akin to a dog panting. It seems... oddly excited to spend some time with him? Rollo frowns and makes a shooing motion, trying to banish the accursed thing--but, much to his dismay, it refuses to leave him alone and instead lingers at his side until the evening sets in ("Hmph, intrepid creature, aren't you?").

Thankfully, the trip back is uneventful (the magic carpet seems to have expended most of its energy on the showboating trip to the oasis). Rollo never thought he'd be so glad to see the garish interior of Scarabia again, but here he is. Jamil suggests that he prepare for bed (an idea which sounds surprisingly... normal, and thus earns a suspicious look from Rollo). "Oh? Do you doubt me? I would never try to deceive a beloved guest of Kalim's."

"Don't worry! Jamil's super trustworthy!!" Kalim adds. "Plus, we have to go get ready for the... Mmmmpfgh!" (Jamil quickly covers his mouth and gives a curt smile. "... As I was saying, you should wash up before bed.")

In spite of his doubts, Rollo relents with the suggestion to unwind for the night (he's had much too adrenaline for his liking today). He's escorted to a larger-than-life bathhouse and supplied with expensive-looking shampoos, conditioners, soaps, loofahs, a fluffy towel. and silk pajamas. "A bit much, don't you think?" he asks of Jamil. ("We don't do anything half-heartedly here," Jamil replies mysteriously.)

Being alone has never felt so good. Rollo has always preferred to be by himself, but after a day as hectic as this one he feels so relieved to not have Kalim and Jamil (or pesky pets!) with him as he sinks into pleasantly sweet-smelling waters.

He slips into the silk pajamas and steps out of the bathing area in slippers. Jamil bows to him and waves a hand. (Rollo's suspicions heighten.) "Right this way to your room for the night."

The inside of Scarabia is so big that it takes Rollo a while to realize that Jamil is actually leading him away from where the student rooms are—and how odd for such a noisy dorm to suddenly be dead quiet!! Just as Rollo begins to voice his apprehension, Jamil leads him right into Scarabia’s open-air lounge.

POP, POP, POP!! Party crackers go off, showering confetti onto Rollo’s freshly washed hair. He blinks several times to confirm that he is not, in fact, dreaming. No, it feels like more of a nightmare than a dream.

The lounge is infested with mob students, the air filled with loud music and the delicious smells of a sumptuous feast. Kalim emerges from the crowd and spreads his arms. “SURPRISE!! We’re throwing a banquet in your name! To our new friend!!”

Rollo feels so faint, his legs give out and Jamil had to catch him. “M-My handkerchief,” he sputters out weakly—alas, his coping mechanism won’t be able to help him now (he had foolishly tucked it away with his NBC uniform to dry overnight). “You have a party to tend to,” Jamil tells him.

The subtly evil sparkle in his dark eyes implies that Jamil knew this was coming all along… and had let it happen. He had been the one to lead Rollo here, the one to silence Kalim when he started to over speak. Anger rises in Rollo, and he struggles to contain it. “You scheming little weasel…!”

He’s not allowed to finish his statement, as Kalim has hooked one arm in his. Jamil waves good-bye to Rollo as Kalim yanks him around the room, introducing mob student after mob student to their honored guest. None of the names or faces stick in Rollo’s head, but the nausea from the earlier magic carpet ride is returning.

Speaking of the magic carpet, it trails after him and Kalim for most of the night! It weaves itself between Rollo’s legs and seems to stare at him eagerly, as if wanting head pats or compliments. (Rollo makes a face, but that doesn’t deter it.)

For the most part, Rollo keeps his mouth shut to avoid instigation (the last thing he wants is to lose it in such a public space) and downs as much grape juice as he can to quell his annoyance.

When all are full on food and drink, they’ve got to shake off all that energy!! Many take to the floor to dance, Kalim and Jamil included! They’re like birds in motion, free and flowing. Kalim just does what feels best to him, wheres Jamil mixes street dancing with his own expressive style. Rollo stands firmly at the sidelines, arms folded disapprovingly.

“Look at that disgusting display,” he grouses. The mob students around him cheer and hoot for their dorm leader and vice, their support rising about his disdain.

Now Kalim’s spinning wildly, his laugh reverberating like a bell’s echo. His arms extend as he twirls, reaching out to grasp Rollo by the arms. “Come on, dance with us!!” Kalim invites with sparkling eyes.

“No, I couldn’t…” Rollo protests, looking down stubbornly. Kalim misinterprets the motion as genuine bashfulness. (“It’s okay to be shy! That’s charming too.”)

There’s another tug—this time, Jamil. (“That’s right.” A smirk. “What’s so wrong with being a little bad once in a while?”

Rollo is dragged onto the dance floor against his will, set into the same twisted rhythm as the music. Those around him must get a sick thrill from the beats, each and every one of them a thrall to their own hedonistic desires. He wonders how they can live like this, free of care and worry—but as he dances among them, he, just for those moments, is left as feathery and as lightheaded.

How long do they dance for? He loses track of the time. There’s no clock to chime midnight to banish the magical spell placed upon him, only the burning in his feet as he dances the night away, intent on outdoing Kalim and Jamil.

Rollo basically blacks out in his bed that evening 💀 Man’s so tired and so done with this, he just wants OUT already!

… His body’s aching in the morning. (Nobody make an “he’s an old man!” joke, Rollo will smite you right where you stand.) He literally groans out loud as he hauls himself out of bed and prepares for the day. At the very least, his uniform has completely dried off from the unceremonious dunk in the oasis!

Kalim tries offload some extravagant parting gifts onto Rollo before his departure (from piles of gold and jewels to exotic new pets) to which Rollo stubbornly refuses. This leads into a back-and-forth about what would be a suitable souvenir to bring back with him from Scarabia. (Rollo won’t have any of it!!)

Jamil mediates, eventually convincing Kalim that his “invaluable friendship” and “the fun memories they made together” is treasure enough for Rollo. (Both he and Rollo gag internally at the idea, but Kalim seems super satisfied with it.)

"Yes, this won't be an experience I forget anytime soon," Rollo says dubiously. Kalim doesn't catch the malice in his flat tone, but Jamil definitely does.

#twst #twisted wonderland #Jamil Viper #Rollo Flamme #Kalim Al-Asim #Scarabia #disney twisted wonderland #twst headcanons #twisted wonderland headcanons #Rollo at the Writing Desk

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sunlightmurdock · 1 year ago

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Hate sex with daddy and momma Bradshaw? Like, they don’t hate each other, just angry and hot I guess. Or a booty call after they are divorced but they are a bit drunk so they think why not

I’m just imagining mama bradshaw coming back from one of her first nights out with her girl friends after Bradley moves out. They’re separated but the divorce isn’t official. The girls are with Maverick and the house is empty. Beyond tipsy, and alone for the first time, she’s calling Bradley before good sense has a chance to stop her.

She knows that he’ll come — which is why it’s wrong of her to have called him. This divorce is hard on the both of them. They love each other. They have loved each other for a long time. It just wasn’t enough to make it work.

That’s what makes it hurt all the more when they’re both sitting at opposite ends of the couch they had bought together after one of their girls had destroyed the last with a dangerous mix of crayon and grape juice.

They’re sitting six feet from each other, silent, each with a drink in their hand. Not looking at each other. Bradley looks tired. He looks tired a lot recently.

“I can’t do this.” Bradley says quietly, staring at the ground between his feet with a small shake of his head. “I need you to let me go. This… I can’t meet you halfway, here.”

“I just missed you.” Alcohol fuels her words, but that doesn’t make them any less true. Bradley feels her start to move. He doesn’t look. He feels her press into his side, kissing his bicep softly. “I miss feeling you in our bed.”

Bradley closes his eyes. She sits up on her knees and kisses his jaw.

“One last time.” She whispers in his ear. That’s all it takes. As much as Bradley has been trying to focus on letting her go, supporting her through this — he crumbles like sand the second that she touches him. He wants her to be happy.

She thought she could be happy without him, so he left. Now, she wants him again. Just for tonight. He knows those are the terms. He knows that tomorrow morning is going to hurt like he’s been shot in the chest. He does it anyway.

Anything to feel his mouth on hers just one last time. His fingers carding through her hair. Undressing her — even if that makes him notice that she went out that night without her wedding ring on for the first time.

It plays on his mind as she straddles him in their bed, kissing his chest. He wonders if she talked to anyone else tonight. If she thought about bringing them home. Bradley has been so passive up until now. He let her kiss him. He let her lead him upstairs to bed. He let her undress him.

He let her leave.

She gasps softly as Bradley grabs her hips and flips her under him. Panting, he searches over her features for the answers he has been waiting for.

“Just this once.” He tells her sharply. Under him, thighs hooked around his hips, she swallows and gives a small nod.

#bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #miles teller #bradley bradshaw smut #jake seresin #rooster x you #rooster bradshaw imagine #thots night (:#top gun smut #parent trap!rooster

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fungifanart · 1 year ago

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Like a bundle of grapes

Characters: Yuu (GN), Ace, Deuce, Grim, Azul, Jade, Floyd

CW: Cartoon violence, crack

Word count: 964

Notes: Wrote this for @twst-charity and their charity drive to send aid to Palestine! Go check out the other works done for it and feel free to donate, if you can! We have SO many talented artists and writers involved!

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Yuu is going to MURDER that octopus.

Actually, no. Death is too good for him.

Yuu is going to cut off his tentacles, make them into takoyaki and then feed it to him.

There, that's better.

Now that they have a plan of attack, Yuu quickens their pace as they march angrily towards the Mostro Lounge to go collect their three anemone-headed idiots.

What else was Yuu gonna do when the man running the Mostro Lounge just casually ruined what was SUPPOSED to be a nice hangout between them, Ace, Deuce and Grim?

Yuu slams their foot into the front door, forcing it open with a loud bang that causes a wave of silence to wash over the lounge's patrons as they look at them in shock, their three idiots included.

"AZUL ASHENGROTTO!!!" Yuu's enraged voice echoes throughout the lounge, prompting the sound of footsteps coming from the back hallway a minute later.

"Well, well! I was wondering who could possibly have the GALL to walk in and disrupt my business and then I find out that it's our darling Prefect!" The man in question says calmly as he rounds the corner into the main dining room, "To what do I owe the pleasure of you gracing my establishment with your ever calming presence?"

Yuu's eye twitches as they close the distance between themself and him, "Cut the crap, Ashengrotto. You know exactly why I'm here." They say as they stop in front of him and cross their arms impatiently.

"Oh dear, I'm afraid I really don't! I can tell that you're quite upset with me, but would you be so kind as to clarify why?" Azul says after throwing his hands up dramatically.

"Tch, alright fine. You suckered Ace, Deuce and Grim into another contract and screwed them over with the fine print! I thought you said you were gonna be nicer from now on!" Yuu says while pushing their finger against the man's chest accusingly.

Azul waves Yuu's hand away dismissively before responding, "Surely this isn't what you came all the way here for? Surely you realize that you should be angry at those three for not reading the fine print rather than at me?"

"Dissolve the contracts." Yuu says, not yielding even an inch.

"Oh? And why would I do that? The only ones who violated the terms of the contracts are the ones that signed them, so I'm not the one at fault here. And need I remind you that YOU decided to enter MY establishment and disrupt MY business? I could have Jade and Floyd kick you out for that alone, you know." Azul says condescendingly as the two eels in question slowly close in on either side of Yuu, most likely waiting for a signal from him.

"Oh please, we both know those two would happily let me beat you up if I made it funny." They say while rolling their eyes.

"My, how confident we are today! And how do you suppose you could do that?" The octopus says arrogantly.

"Like THIS!!!" Yuu responds before dashing behind Azul faster than he can react, wrapping their arms around his waist in a vice-like grip and arcing their back fully backwards, taking him with them as he lets out a shrill scream before colliding with the hard floor.

A beat of pin-drop silence passes as everyone's brains collectively catch up with what Yuu has done.

The silence is then broken by Floyd bursting out into howling laughter, accompanied by Jade struggling to keep his composure with his hand clamped over his mouth.

With Azul out cold and the eels successfully incapacitated, Yuu quickly rifles through the octopus's jacket pockets and pulls out Ace, Deuce and Grim's contracts before grabbing their owners by the anemones and dragging them out of the Mostro Lounge, still dazed by Yuu's actions.

Upon reaching a safe distance from the establishment, Yuu rips all three contracts to shreds, releasing their friends from the anemones and Azul's grasp.

Feeling the empty space on their heads, the three's brains finally catch up as they cheer in excitement and move to pull Yuu into a group hug, only for Yuu to dodge and instead deliver a tight and painful pinch to each of their cheeks.

“Owowowow! What gives?!” Ace asks while rubbing his cheek.

“Have you three learned nothing from the last time Azul pulled something like this?” Yuu asks with their hands on their hips like a scolding parent.

“L-look, we're sorry, it's just–” Grim tries to respond, but Yuu's frustrated voice cuts him off.

“Just what? What could be so important that you'd put yourselves at risk like that?” Yuu questions harshly, losing whatever patience they have by the second.

“Sam's shop just got a shipment of fresh watermelons, so…” Ace trails off while twiddling his thumbs.

“We wanted to get some for our hangout today, but we were short on cash, so we signed on to do some quick odd jobs for Azul, but…well…you know the rest.” Deuce explains as all three of them look at the ground.

Yuu's mouth hangs agape for a few seconds before guilt overtakes them and they wrap the other three in a tight hug, “Oh, you guys! I'm sorry for getting so angry!! I'd love to have watermelon with you!!!” They say while shaking them around.

Yuu only lets go upon hearing the door to the Mostro Lounge burst open to the sound of their favorite octopus screaming bloody murder at them and two eels that are still struggling to contain their laughter as they follow him.

“Race you to Sam's shop!” Yuu says to their friends with a challenging smile.

Breaking out into a run, the four classmates make their way to the mirror, laughing all the while.

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst yuu #twst grim #twst mc #twst ace #twst deuce #twst azul #twst jade #twst floyd #ace trappola #deuce spade #azul ashengrotto #jade leech #floyd leech #twst charity drive #why is this mushroom writing fanfics?

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sreabhadh · 13 days ago

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I still don't know how Tumblr works. I am still infected with severe strains of the TexAid, Vortex, Combaticons and MechAu diseases though. I have completed part 2/3 of what I've been calling Vortex's death story and am going to attempt to post it with a link to the part 1. Don't know how this works or how it'll go, but eh we'll give it a shot lol.

This is just my take on Vortex's death story, based on Keferon's Mech Au, art, and writing, along with the art and writing of many others that have hopped into this Au and produced some wonderful and inspiring things that have latched onto my brain with a death grip.

If this story interests you, then I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it!

Part 1, if that works 🤞 ☝️⬆️👆

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Vortex’s head pounded sluggishly. He fought for control over his eyelids, willing them to open. When they did, they immediately closed, and he squinted them back open in the painful light. It was hard to make out his surroundings- his eyes were open now but his head was still spinning. He was upright, and he could feel his weight sagging against heavy restraints. Could hear the beeping of monitors and feel IV needles poking through his skin, fluids pumping through his veins, could feel the medical tape on his skin. Another fucking experiment. Or was someone patching him up after a battle? Vortex growled, trying to remember what had happened before he had fallen asleep. There had been a fight. Something bad. Something that made him angry. Then something that had made him happy. He killed someone. Why had he killed someone?

They deserved it, he knew that, but why- the image of Swindle bleeding out flashed in Vortex’s head, Swindle, dangling lifelessly from Brawl’s massive (and massively burned) arms as he barreled through halls, trampling anyone and anything else in his way. Brawl in hysterics. Med techs struggling to sedate Brawl, Brawl raging at them. Swindle’s skin getting paler as the white medical linens on the cot became a darker and darker shade of red. Onslaught and Blast Off trying to calm Brawl down. Swindle in critical condition, hooked up to a dozen machines. They didn’t know it then, but they had been supposed to die. Swindle in particular.

‘Thin the herd. The small one’s the fastest, but he’s also the weakest. Worst fighter among em. The weak link.’

Vortex snarled. They had deserved it, but they deserved so much worse than he had given them, so much worse. They had tried taking Swindle from them. And it might’ve worked. If Swindle didn’t wake up then it would’ve worked. They almost took the others too. Brawl had been so severely burned he’d had to be sedated to heal. Blastoff and Onslaught weren’t in great condition either- they weren’t as fast as Vortex, who had an easier time dodging, and had taken a lot of hits.

The bastards…the bastards who had done it… decided to hook up that weird machine to Swindle’s mech without telling them what it did or that it would make him quint bait… Tex only had memories of killing a couple of the white coats, and one of them had already been dead before he did most of the stabbing. He could remember the feel of the blood on his hands, the sounds of the blade and the other lab coats screaming…he hadn’t been able to kill them all. Or most of them, unless he was just forgetting those killings. Fuck. He might not- probably wouldn’t (but wanted to hope he might)- have another chance to kill them all. Fix his mistake. He should’ve snapped and killed them all ages ago. Cut to the chase and spare his team the misery. Shit. He’d been hoping if he killed enough of them it would leave a big enough power vacuum for Onslaught to take over. Now what would happen? Would Onslaught be blamed? Why hadn’t he been able to kill more of them? What happened?

Vortex tried his usual tricks for slipping out of medical restraints, but these ones were different, sturdier, and the usual tricks didn’t work. If he had gotten caught, why was he alive? His stomach hardened, like someone had filled it with rocks. Were they using him to keep the rest of his squad in line? If they were, that might mean Swindle was doing better. Or they just wanted extra insurance. Or an extra lab rat. If they thought they could keep him trapped here forever to run their sick experiments on though, they were going to have a surprise on their hands. It didn’t matter if he was half-drugged, half-dead or both, he would get out and figure out who had done this to him. Then he’d repay their ‘kindness’ with his own. Maybe he could even finish his killing spree from earlier- there were a lot of people left on his list.

Vortex spun his head around, grunting at the painful vertigo that accompanied the motion. He was in a lab, but not like any of the medical labs he’d been in. The equipment in here was far more complicated than anything Vortex recognized, and the other items were more macabre than he was used to seeing openly displayed in mecha labs. He hadn’t even known jars came in sizes large enough to hold body parts that big. He just hoped they were all quint parts, not human. Not for any love or concern for his fellow species- it was just that Tex’s unit wasn’t particularly on good terms with the higher ups, or anyone else in the facility. And Vortex had always assumed that if he didn’t die on the battlefield or trying to kill everyone, then that’s where he would end up. Cut up in pieces, preserved in jars for future study.

Besides the jars, there were vials with eerie glowing liquids, a faint foul smell, diagrams on the counters, blueprints pinned to the wall- shit, those were prints of Vortex’s mech. What were blueprints of that doing here? What did they want him for, what were they trying to do? And who were they? The guards would’ve shot Tex on sight after what he did, and anyone he assaulted would’ve done the same, assuming they had any amount of skill with a gun. Who-

Vortex spotted it. A mask, helmet-thing, made to cover the entire head. A singular yellow optic dominating the center of the face.

One eye. Shockwave.

The beeping of the monitor increased sharply, and Vortex felt the sweat as it suddenly gathered on his brow. He shuddered involuntarily, body going hot and cold. Vortex remembered what happened before he had been knocked out. Shockwave. He remembered. No no no no no no no no no no no no no no

Vortex struggled against his bonds with renewed effort, he didn’t care what he broke in the process. He could get help later, relocate any joints he popped out of place, set any broken bones, stitch up or bandage any cuts, he didn’t care how much it hurt or how long it took to heal, he had to move, get out, now-

Somewhere behind him, someone cleared their throat. Vortex froze. Please, please, please, don’t let it be him. Please, anyone, but-

“Vortex.”

Vortex bit his lip. There was no way it was anyone but Shockwave, wasn’t it?

“If you move around too much I will have to sedate you immediately. The procedure isn’t complete yet.”

Vortex swallowed. What he wouldn’t do for a few dozen cigs and a room to himself right now. “What procedure?” he asked, hoping he sounded more angry than frightened.

The voice ignored him, and Vortex could hear shuffling notes and typing as the scientist worked.

“What procedure?” he repeated, voice hoarse with dehydration, anger and fear.

The typing stopped. The man released a small breath; impatient. Vortex could hear the chair as its occupant moved to stand, could feel the vibrations through the floor as they walked toward him.

Vortex felt his breathing still and gritted his teeth as the man stepped into view. He was a man, in appearance - but Vortex could hear the quiet fizzing sound and see the slightly blurry quality to the skin. He was wearing another hologram. He was wearing the face of Shockwave, the old one from the earliest days of the mecha program, when Shockwave himself had been a pilot. He had a handsome face, quite different from the polished mess of impervious robotics Vortex knew must be hiding underneath. It was little wonder the man had so many masks. He looked so different like this, so normal, Vortex could almost believe he was there just to give him a check up.

Along with context and common sense, the set to the former pilot’s former face and the look in his eyes told Vortex there was nothing so casual or carefree about this visit. This situation. Vortex was slagged. Well and truly fucked. He’d be lucky to get out of this alive. Then again, he might be luckier to get out of it dead, depending on what Shockwave had planned for him.

Questions rolled around in Vortex’s head, spinning and colliding with each other as he fought his body’s urge to shake like a leaf in the wind. Shockwave regarded him, eyes cold. Vortex shivered. Under that gaze he felt like a misbehaving piece of equipment, about to be dissected, deconstructed, and pinned to the wall. Pieces either discarded or replaced entirely, shoved back together until he did exactly what he was supposed to, nothing left except what they wanted. What Shockwave wanted.

“It’s not important for you to know. I could explain it all to you, but it wouldn’t matter, even if you understood.” Shockwave cocked his head. “You’re not going to remember this, you see. It could get messy if you did, afterall, and I want this to go as smoothly as possible.”

Vortex was silent for far longer than he wanted to, struggling to get his mouth to open and his voice to work. “Won’t remember what?” he managed.

“This part of the procedure. As well as the first few days before it.” Shockwave shrugged nonchalantly, and a tiny part of Vortex’s brain recognized that most would see the simple gesture as extremely attractive done with Shockwave’s appearance and aloof mannerism. Mostly Vortex recognized how little Shockwave cared about Vortex’s plight, his life or his concerns.

“Take too much off and you might not work the same, but take too little and you’ll simply go back to killing people. I’ve calculated how much I need, and once I’m done with this and the rest of the prepwork, you’ll be ready for the final doses. It’s a long shot that any of this works, but that’s what tests like this are for. If it works on you I can study this method until I’ve perfected it. If it doesn’t…well I have other hypotheses to test.”

“What are you doing to me?”

Shockwave smiled, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes- and not just because they were holograms or something.

“I’m resurrecting you.”

Vortex forgot how to breathe for several excruciating heartbeats.

“This is the first time I’m attempting it, so there’s no guarantee it will work, but all science starts somewhere.”

“If it comforts you, I will give you a favorable death- a heroically tragic last stand fighting insurmountable odds. You’ll go out in a blaze of glory- though, perhaps, having seen footage of your fights, I should say you’ll go out in a blaze of gore instead.”

Vortex felt his throat muscles working, but nothing came out when he opened his mouth. His questions had been spooked into hiding, his defiance shocked into submission. His body quivered, and Vortex cursed his lack of control over his own limbs.

“You’re quite resilient, even for a pilot. I dare say you’re the best candidate for this experiment- you’re arguably the best fighter we currently have, and your bond with your mech…”

Shockwave shook his head vaguely. “I frankly haven’t seen anyone as in touch with their mech as you are since..." Shockwave's eyes grew distant, a shade colder, and mournful, the edges of his lips twitching into a fondly bittersweet smile.

"It’s really quite impressive.”

Shockwave's eyes refocused, and he smiled pleasantly at Vortex. This time the expression touched his eyes as well- the sight made Vortex’s stomach twist painfully.

“You should consider this an honor. If this project works, you may even thank me. It’s not everyday one gets resurrected as living metal, after all. It’s almost statistically impossible.”

Living metal? Living…metal? Did this have something to do with the blueprints of his mech on the wall? He hoped not. What would be left of him, assuming this ‘experiment’ worked in the first place? Would he survive? If it didn’t work and he died, he died. If it did work, what would happen then? What would Shockwave do, what would Vortex become? Would his teammates- his brothers- even recognize him? Would he even see them again? He’d gone into this assuming he would probably die… did the others have any idea where he was, what had happened? No, they would’ve burned the base down looking for him. How long had it been? A few hours, a day, several? Were they okay? Did Onslaught have things handled, had Swindle recovered yet?

He needed to know. And the best source of information, until he got out, was Shockwave.Vortex summoned his anger to overpower his fear. So what if he was the phantom Vortex had been having nightmares of since he was a kid? He was just another person, which meant he had to have a weak point somewhere. He just needed to stay alive long enough to locate it. Then he could gut him like anyone else and return to his team. The thought was comforting, though it was more false bravado than Tex would care to admit.

“What about my unit? What’s happened to them? You must have a lot of guts if you think you can stop them.”

The scientist tilted his head curiously. “They have their uses, and are an exemplary fighting unit. However, be that as it may, I’m afraid your little ‘combaticons’ aren’t ever going to be the same.”

Vortex snorted, letting the false bravado take over, baring his teeth like a cornered rat. “And the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Shockwave sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. The fingers made contact with his nose- not clipping through, fizzing, or blurring like Tex had expected them too. Wait. Was that his real face? He had been certain it wasn’t. He looked too normal. How did that work?

Shockwave pulled a stool from beside the counter, and sat down, regarding him with strained patience. He raised a finger.

“As you know, your leader, unit 10, ‘Onslaught,’ along with unit 12, was on track to graduate the pilot program and was soon to join the table with mecha’s elite. That was before you went rogue.” Shockwave paused, giving Vortex an appraising look, as if checking to make sure he really was smart enough to know that much.

Vortex grunted. Shockwave gave him a disapproving look, but continued speaking. “They still are, for now, but whether they make it or not is up to them. If he goes rogue like you did, we will have to scrap him as well, though I’d rather not do that- he’s exactly what I’ve been looking for to get mecha turned back around. Too many in the company have grown lax- plump with riches and lazy in their authority. It’s what allowed you to pull that stunt you did, and it’s wasting resources. I believe with Onslaught- and ‘Swindle,’ mecha’s performance would increase substantially.”

“Which gives me more time for this.” Shockwave made a broad gesture to the lab. The scientist’s eyes narrowed piercingly. “And that is something I happen to value greatly.”

“The other two- 13 and 14- I have no personal issue with- they do form a liability however.”

“If you hurt either of them, Onslaught will never help you,” Vortex spat. Onslaught always protected them. Kept them going, kept them safe. Except… Vortex was here, hooked up, chained down, and at the lead scientist’s mercy. And Onslaught wasn’t here. Swindle had nearly died. Brawl had been sedated, Blast Off and Onslaught were full of stitches. Vortex was here. They’d all been hurt, and Onslaught hadn’t stopped it. Hadn’t been able to. They’d been hurt again, but the base was still standing. Where was Onslaught’s rage? Didn’t he see mecha needed to burn for their lives to change? Where was he?

“Hm. Perhaps. I have more control than you realize… but I understand your point. No, I don’t intend to harm them. There will be those who would wish to eliminate them, along with the rest of your crew, but they are veterans. Their experience is valuable, and your sins will have removed competitors from the board. That is favorable to certain members of mecha. Your unit members won’t be without a measure of support. That will allow them to continue serving in mecha as pilots, which is mercy enough after what you’ve done. Not that anyone will know that.”

“Know what?”

“What you’ve done, of course.”

Vortex scoffed, offended. “I murdered multiple head mecha top dogs. They’re dead. With a roomful of witnesses you didn’t let me vaporize. You’re dumber than Brawl if you really think you can hide something like that.”

“Murdered? You must be mistaken. They were each given a leave of absence. It’s not mecha’s responsibility if they were met with misfortune after the fact.”

Vortex’s jaw dropped a millimeter. Shockwave said that so easily and smoothly, like he was discussing the weather or what he wanted to have for lunch. When Vortex killed things, he was as messy as he could be- it was more fun that way. But at least he felt something when he was violent- even if that feeling was bloodlust. Shockwave clearly didn’t feel anything. They were just obstacles in his way, like a piece of shrapnel keeping a wound from closing. Removed, disposed of, and never given a second thought. Vortex swallowed. The rumors of Shockwave and how dangerous he was hadn’t been exaggerations. If anything, they probably didn’t do him justice.

“And the lab coats who saw me do it?”

“Gas leak. Caused by the ineptitude and negligence of the executives we unfortunately had to let go. The poisoning from the gas caused dizzy spells, short-term memory issues, and some minor hallucinations. Truly an unfortunate accident, but those responsible have been punished, and those affected have been repaid.”

Shockwave’s face was a mask of feigned concern, which Vortex found revolting. Sick two-faced bastard. He’d even covered up Vortex’s murder spree. Vortex wasn’t particularly proud of said murder spree, seeing as he hadn’t actually killed enough people to call it a spree, and it had been over way too soon, but still. He still would’ve gone down in history and in hallway gossip as the mad pilot that snapped and killed a bunch of people. Rumors spread and carried weight, even when they weren’t true. Now, it was, what? Swept under the rug and sanitized like it had never happened? Like he hadn’t done that, and it didn’t matter one way or another.

“And what about me?”

“You were never there. You were preparing for a solo mission while the rest of your team healed from their injuries.”

“My team will notice.”

“Your team is busy licking their wounds. When they wake it’ll be too late. You’ll be dead.”

Vortex flinched like he’d been struck. “You said I’d be resurrected.”

“If it works. You’ll have to die first, but if you survive, that will mean it worked, and I can continue the experiment.”

“You-”

“You will be dead to them either way,” Shockwave interjected coldly before Vortex could spout the string of curses in his head. “Speaking of which-” Shockwave rose slowly. “You have delayed me enough. It is time.”

Shockwave came closer- though not close enough to bite- and adjusted some dials on the machines Vortex was hooked into. Vortex could feel the sleeping drug or whatever it was entering his system. “Sleep now, and cease distracting me with your pointless questions. When you wake you won’t remember this happened, and when you die you’ll be a hero. Try not to fail. If the experiment fails, I may have to try again on one of your other units, and I would like to keep their services for now.”

Vortex tried to cuss, but whatever was pumping in his veins was working real damn fast. His tongue felt like lead and his eyelids began to droop. His head hung down, too heavy to keep up, his limbs began to go limp, and as his senses faded into the ether, he heard two words, cold and soft, like a breath of frigid winter air right down his back.

“Goodbye, 11.”

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Hopefully it won't be too long until part 3 is out (and I figure out how Tumblr works and have them all neatly linked together) but 🤷‍♀️ We'll see lol.

#mech au #keferon #vortex #shockwave #jenga writing #transformers

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