#plan oblique | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

slowd1ving · 3 months ago

Note

hello!! Your fic is so cool and if your request is open, can I request DG x male reader when DG still in his James lee era while reader is the King of Busan

XENIA ゜゜・DG

Xenia, noun: the classical concept of hospitality to strangers. This, unfortunately, includes a wandering dog and his conniving owner—a most irritating, tooth-grinding conundrum the King of Busan has with Charles Choi and his boy-genius. sorry for the wait anon I was away from my laptop for the past week or so! and I couldn't write :'( first meetings and onwards for this particular work haha chicken and egg problem.. haha introspection on business and corruption... haha capitalism pairing: dg (james lee) + male reader warnings: male reader, canon typical violence, arguing (bickering) wc: 3.3k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

In the lengthy chronicles of Charles Choi’s grand plan—to mould the precarious South Korean underground into something far more profitable—James Lee finally came across his very own cause-and-effect conundrum.

What came first, the chicken or the egg? Plutarch initially posed this question in The Symposiacs: a symbolic tug of war between creator and creation. James supposed, in his bored sort of way, that this question described the relationship between cities and Kings as well. Chronically, objectively, the cities existed first—tall structures and unique ecosystems that forged shadowy figureheads to rule the violent underbelly. But poetically, it was rather hard to ignore the hands etching—pummeling—a pathway for the power to flourish. Without those in charge, what were the cities? And without the cities, who were the people in charge?

Parsing the matter, it distilled into who influenced whom.

Of course, the dazzling sprawl of Busan refracting from the glass under his feet was no exception. Even he, who satiated his youthful wanderlust with blood on his fists, couldn’t deny his reluctance to sully this city more. But, what did it matter? The second most important city in South Korea (some would froth at the mouth and argue it was the first for its gateway to Eurasian trade, or at least for its world-class ports) was built from perfectly respectable trade; but alack! it was also protected by its snarling underworld. It had already been befouled: polluted by fists no better than his, trodden by legs more filthy than his own. Blood and toil smeared its golden sand, and its money was just as dirty.

Sure, the city was propped up by honourable (hah) commercial deals, but it was shielded by the illicit ones.

A defiled aegis, if you would.

It was clear the current glitzy glamour of Busan night-life was carefully orchestrated by someone: from the specific mouthfeel the night air had, to the businesses that ran late into the witching hours. Those mythical beings and chaebols who fed and extracted money from this place, in endless loops, were culpable for these towering skyscrapers and glittering lights.

Creators.

In turn, the city cradled your grimy little body—chubby hands wrapping around index fingers of the metaphorical hounds—and made you.

Did this metropolis represent you, or did you represent the metropolis?

It was not in a polite setting that James Lee scouted the venerable King of Busan: arguably the second most esteemed figurehead for the Kings of South Korea. In theory. In theory, since Busan’s reputation as a hub for trade and exalted trade (rather than the mere cold, hard cash ill-reputed other cities offered Choi) entwined with your own. Except, in practice, you were a far more reticent King than anyone could imagine. A shadow to fade into obliquity more than any other shadow.

Underbelly, yes. This was the turf you were most at home in; he could forget all about the glamorous, illegal casinos in basements, he could forget about eavesdropping on business moguls and their lackeys, he could forget about waiting in the entertainment districts for the proverbial snake to finally rear his head.

You were the fucking microcosm of this city: draped with expensive fabric and chainmailed with gold, but the blood on your knuckles stank of impurity. In a parking lot nestled on the outskirts of Busan, he witnessed the King in his court: complete with the luxury, the opulence, and the hamartia of brutality that came with capitalism. Yes, Busan had minted you as a shadowy side to a glitzy coin—as your eyes snapped to where he lounged against concrete, he couldn’t help but observe how your imaginary hackles raised.

Thwomp. Casually, you tossed the grunt beaten black-and-blue to the frigid asphalt, with the magnanimity of tossing breadcrumbs to ducks in a pond. Like the lackey was the bread and James fucking Lee himself was the duck. A bloodied cheek squished into his sneaker, but you merely stared at him owl-like. No, cat-like, because it seemed to be the same nonplussed stare a cat would give someone after bringing them a dead rat.

“Nice city.” Since you clearly had no intention of speaking first. Deftly, his fingers unravelled the mystic plastic of a lollipop: popping the cherry-flavoured candy into his mouth to soothe the acerbic irritation he tasted. “You treat all your guests like this, or do kings not follow xenia anymore?”

It was a rather futile attempt to lighten the mood. After all, if he could help it, he’d rather negotiate to pave the way for the second generation before resorting to throwing his fist. No, that was a lie. His flexing fingers wanted nothing more than to curl into a fist to let off some of the steam he’d garnered from searching for you in this uselessly big city, but fate had him making stupid jokes based on The Odyssey he’d read just last week for his Classics competition. If he rummaged in his pocket, he could probably find the gold medal clanking against hard sweets.

Your expression changed minutely—a slight disturbance in your brows. They furrowed, and for a brief moment James Lee thought his joke fell flat. With all the blood soaked into your expensive garb, maybe you just valued fists over Homeric hexameter. Violence over prose. Brawns over brains. You slinked like shadows. Crude. Ominous. He could barely see your face even with the city lights flashing neon in the backdrop, but when your loping gait came to a halt, there was an exasperation that afforded more subtle nuance to your character. A bitterness to tinge what he thought was mindlessness.

“Mr. Lee.” Your voice curled low in your throat, as quick and elusive as mercury, and perhaps just as poisonous. Shadow King of Busan, the man who never introduced himself to you noticed. Silence was golden, and he suddenly understood why Charles Choi so badly wanted sway over the young King in charge of this port city. “I hope you’re aware that beating my subordinates would invalidate any sort of hospitality between us. You’re no god amongst men either, so ritualistic hospitality is a very weak premise to coerce my amiability with. Try again.”

Deity in the flesh. Perhaps James Lee was the closest thing to breaking the limits of humanity, but all men were fallible. That wasn’t what caused his brow to rise though; going in blind may have been risky, but it was worth it to find someone with a silver tongue like this.

You looked about his age—treading on the precarious cusp between First and Second Generation, fists stained as red as his hair—but you spoke as if you were triple your years.

“You wanna transfer to my school? It’d be fun to have you in the Debate Club,” he said on a whim, but it wasn’t really a whim either. His instructions were expressly to negotiate with Busan—the city was far too volatile to create a power vacuum in. For cities like Ansan, struggle was welcomed; but Charles Choi had too little of everything to contend with Busan, of all places. Just like in Seoul, the situation would resolve itself, and it was far too soon for the HNH Group to meddle in a place like this. “You talk like a teacher.”

His tone was as syrupy as his candy, but there was half-provocation, half-probing-curiosity entrenched in his cadence. Go on, it coaxed, throw a punch. Argue back. Unorthodox was his means of securing cooperation, but he’d have to be a little unorthodox to secure the deal old man Choi had painstakingly written out. A contract between Elite and the capricious man before him, between HNH Group and the microcosm of Busan himself; it sounded like every capitalist’s wet dream.

“Good question, kid,” you smiled, but it was less of a smile and more of a sneer as you ghosted closer to him. Kid, like you weren’t one yourself.

Crack. You stepped, heavy, on the hand of the man you’d pummelled—only his unconscious groan of pain re-alerted James to his existence. “The term isn’t over. You should still be in school. Playing around like this makes me far less likely to listen to whatever you’ve followed me for. Try again.”

The thick scent of metal invaded his personal space as you peeled your black gloves off; the rings beneath them were tinted with the blood that had seeped through the material. Just like that, you callously tossed the garment onto the slumbering man under your feet—though he truly wasn’t sure whether it was a final affront to a beaten man or throwing down the gauntlet towards James Lee himself.

It was a reminder, once again, to not be hasty. There was the real possibility of fucking Charles Choi several times over if he didn’t get this right, but the thought of his imminent doom didn’t seem all too unappealing. On the contrary, he found his heart beating faster—pulse hot on his tongue as an intriguing challenge presented itself before him.

“I’m sure your informants have relayed more intel than just my name,” he mirrored the jagged stretch of your lips. The Legend of the First Generation. The Genius. The original, associated with the base moniker of the Ten Geniuses to show just how unparalleled James fucking Lee was. “Take a guess as to how my scholastic life is going, then consider the opportunity that I’m bringing you.”

Ambiguous. His words were dusted with just enough information to seem straight to the point, but vague enough that it was tantalising. A hook to ensnare the snake of Busan himself. And rather than sating the itch in his fists, he found himself looking forward to a parley instead.

You studied him, appearing to consider his words seriously. Syllables phrased like he was the one with the upper hand, when in fact the HNH group was still tentatively unfurling and in the process of negotiations with both yakuza and Triad alike. He awaited your favourable response, hearing the stats roll into your mind as you calculated the preliminary gains and losses to joining hands with Charles Choi.

Bloodied fingers tapped a rhythm into your jacket absentmindedly. He watched, anticipating your invitation.

“Fuck off.”

“Huh?” he spluttered. Maybe he misheard you. Maybe he finally choked on his candy and induced a coma in which he was now dreaming of your response.

“Your boss sent a high-schooler to broker a deal with Busan.” Your fingers now drummed in irritation against your forearm, but he was just as irritated. He took care of every other prefecture and province, only to have this guy who was his age, nonetheless, tell him his presence wasn’t good enough. Like, what? “Tell old Choi to come himself to negotiate if he wants any sort of foothold in my city. If he truly wanted a respectable contract, why would he send you as a messenger?”

“Excuse me?” If he wasn’t restricted from fighting you—the only exception was valid self-defence—he would’ve made the asshole in front of him eat shit. Alas, Choi wasn’t that generous or lenient. “He sent one of the Ten Geniuses, the primero, for this. I’m one of his greatest assets.”

“Are you a damn car or a person?” you snapped, and it suddenly felt as though he was looking upon an ancient wizard as he lectured a troublemaker outside his tower. His eyelid twitched, and he was finding it quite hard to keep a cool head. “Talking about assets… can’t believe Choi’s sent the guy who’s fucked up all the smaller provinces to deal with us.”

The latter sentence was more grumbled to yourself; it appeared he annoyed you just as much as you annoyed him, which he found a delighted satisfaction in.

“Tell Elite to come himself,” you uttered finally, not even letting him get in a word edgeways as you ambled back into the shadows—not even sparing a glance for the pile of bodies left in your wake.

And despite his objective, despite the imminent yelling he’d no doubt face, he couldn’t help but stare at your blood-soaked coat fluttering in the frigid coastal wind.

Out of hatred, obviously.

・゜゜・

Charles Choi was a conniving bastard. You already knew it, but seeing him in the reception hall really drove the image home. He was polite, a little too polite; yet as soon as you slid that manila folder across the mahogany table, his demeanour prickled into something knife-like.

Snake of Busan, you were nicknamed, but this guy was something else entirely. Once he sank his teeth into your determination to keep Busan flourishing, you could practically see his pupils contract into thin slits. Of course you’d dealt with tricky deals. Weaving through negotiation as though it were a riptide was how you clawed your way to the very depth of Busan’s underworld—navigating until you finally found that crown mired in cess.

Or, more accurately, it was Miss Crystal Choi who’d pierced her venom right where it hurt. A Genius of Business, her father had called her—and boy, did it take all your wit to match her expertise in trade.

But did he really have to bring that guy along?

The scion of the Geniuses was also in your office, leaning against the wall far behind Elite and his daughter. And though nobody asked for his input—not even old Choi spared his prodigy a glance—it still irritated you to no end that he’d tagged along. A bright, cheerful grin cast the sun against the city nightlife on the top floor of your building—one directed right at you, considering the only other two people he knew had their backs facing him. Quite the foolish move, but you weren’t one to concern yourself with people who were basically daylight robbing you. If the dog they’d raised bit them, all the better.

Or maybe he was beaming right at your bodyguard-turned-assistant, who stood discreetly in the shadows of the blinds: slatted light gently cresting over his tall build. Well. It certainly was one of the less strange things Mr Lee had done.

Still, for someone who’d been glaring at you just a week ago, the change felt far too eerie to ignore.

“—and onto the temporary personnel exchange section—” A feeble attempt to pry open the walnut that Busan was, which would only end with the unfortunate bastard failing. You’d choose a loyal subordinate, they’d select someone who was doomed to only grunt work—far from the impenetrable fortress of this building. Boredly, you tapped the pen on the contract, before freezing up at Miss Choi’s next words. “—we’d like to recommend James Lee to transfer to this office.”

A pen snapped, and ink spilled onto the page. Dumbfounded, you barely registered her sliding over a fresh sheet, as though she knew full well this would happen.

No, it was no recommendation. Her very mention of his name was a forceful shove of him into your office. No wonder he was grinning like the devil. No wonder he was here in the first place. At that moment, you wanted nothing more than to leave Busan behind.

Your eye twitched.

He kept smiling—an ominous prelude to the brimstone and fire you were sure to experience promptly.

・゜゜・

“Aren’t I a better bodyguard than that useless one you keep around?”

James Lee had been a bit too quiet these past few days; duly loping around behind the lower-ranked subordinates as they made their rounds, never crossing the proverbial line when you’d handed him his duties as interim grunt. Though, whenever you passed him, his eyes followed the shadows of your fluttering hem—two pinpricks of an arid glare sweeping on your back.

But James Lee was a dog, and whatever command Elite gave him, he’d obey. Heel. Roll over. Serve under the King of Busan for a month. A jester, if you would, with a leash around his neck that kept drawing more and more blood from him. What were the limits? Just how far would he go for the man with a crimson shadow?

“No,” you said. He stood, far too proud, on a summit of lackeys that had been sent your way by one of the companies who’d attempted to cheat their way to getting a more favourable deal. It would’ve been a simple ambush—one doomed to fail—fated to end with you tossing blood-soaked gloves right on them before you postponed the meeting you were on your way to.

But not today. It appeared the limit of the dog of Elite was passing up petty competition with the man two paces behind you.

“Unlike you, Song’s actually pleasant to listen to.” Yes, Song wasn’t the most useful of bodyguards point-blank, but it wasn’t like you particularly needed someone to take care of protecting you. He made people lower their guards. And he made a mean cup of tea. “I don’t have any use for you, so you’re still worse.”

“Semantics,” he shrugged. “I made your life much easier, did I not?”

He was smart. Too smart, but you already knew that from the intel that had not yet been erased. Hushed up, because of course Elite would painstakingly conceal his cards.

And unfortunately, you were always drawn to a risky hand. A pleasure far removed from the mundane violence of your everyday life—a heart-pounding thrill of betting all your chips in a hazardous (though not desperate) gamble.

“Maybe.” For it was one day removed from the multitudes of late meetings and burdensome glove changes. Your hands weren’t seeped in oily red, sliding and dripping onto your expensive clothes that were tailored—though still felt so fucking ill-fitting that it made you sick—right to your body.

You considered the man toeing carefully past the dogpile located against a cargo container: donning what could’ve been your life. A beige school uniform, pinkie slightly indented from books and study, pen marks still dotting his fingers. Closer. He ambled lazily to your direction, and as he approached with the dying sun behind him, you could see his smile. Just as languid as the day you first met him, and just as irritating.

Closer. Strawberry candy laced the iron odour, though you could faintly taste lemon in the profile too—testament to the yellow wrapper stuck crudely on one of the men. Closer—he was far too close now, standing chest to chest while he stared directly at you.

If there was one thing that came from this ill-fated encounter, it was probably the permanent furrowed brows that decorated your perplexed face—the bloodhound had been reduced to this fluffy thing demanding your attention.

And it was just as unfortunate that your impression had been chipped away for him too—a King whose expressions were utterly delightful to witness. A straight mouth, grinning ever-so-slightly when a deal went your way. A routine rhythm to your biro tapping your notepad. Eyes that shone with practical constellations as you breathed the briny air of the port in.

A particularity to the way you treated others, steely to the strong, awkward with the weak. So utterly flustered, when it came to tiny kids tugging on your long coat, or the grandmas you lent your arm to on the streets. If he had to compare it, he’d attribute your personality as a non-Newtonian fluid: your very own mix of cornstarch and water. Tough with pressure, all soft without.

Like now.

“Come on,” he whined. Psychologically, he was doing a damn good impression of pitifulness—even if you’d just witnessed him commit a beatdown so one-sided that you could feel the second-hand pain. And little by little, he was watching you falter: breath caught in his throat as he watched your brows default to their furrow once more. “I saved you a good few minutes, didn’t I? Don’t tell me Busan can’t even acknowledge hard work and effort.”

“Fine, whatever,” you crumbled just like that, under the heavy weight of his triumphant eyes. “Good job.”

So cute, he thought, then froze almost immediately the moment the words came to mind.

Fuck.

・゜゜・

#slowd1ving #res ･ﾟ writing #x reader #male reader #x male reader #ask slowd1ving #anon request #requested #lookism #lookism x male reader #lookism manhwa #manhwa x reader #manhwa x male reader #dg x reader #james lee x reader #pre dg james lee

158 notes · View notes

barrenclan · 3 months ago

Note

Sorry for asking this late but I tried looking at previous ask to see if someone asked a similar question but couldn’t. Back in issue 33,When Cormorantpaw said he thought by bringing Barren Clan to Defiance he would be forgiven for his father’s crimes, what did he mean exactly ?

I remember hearing Defiance has a bit strict when letting animals in since they need to go to trial so I can’t see Cormorantpaw doing it to have the clan join the cult.

If it means that Cormorantpaw was going to bring them to Defiance to be killed then my goodness that is messed up.

Yep, that was his plan - he would call the crows to himself, alerting them of BarrenClan's presence, and sacrifice BarrenClan in exchange for him and Egrettail being forgiven for Thrasher's crimes. He mentions it in Issue 5:

And obliquely in Issue 21:

But by Issue 26, he's decided not to do that anymore:

And he tells Pinepaw about his aborted plans in Issue 33.

#ask #anon #cormorantpaw

120 notes · View notes

canonicallyobserving911 · 18 days ago

Text

The BS Tommy said to Buck during the breakup scene was classic, "It’s not you, it's me" language.

I'm so happy they're over and I'm still celebrating the demise of that awful relationship. IMO, it should have ended in season 7 but I digress.

There were so many things in the BT 2.0 breakup scene that felt obscure and oblique to me and I've already posted about a couple of them (linked here). I'm still planning to do a full post on all of it but I think I figured out why the BS Tommy said during it seemed so out of left field. Two weeks ago, I posted about how the show went out of its way in 8x5 to illustrate the reasons why Buck and Tommy weren't compatible and I included an explanation of the way Buck believed Tommy was his boyfriend even though Tommy didn't consider Buck to be his (linked here). But in 8x6, everything about whatever they had was flipped and made to seem like Tommy really cared about Buck but HE DIDN'T.

The truth is he's always known Buck wants Eddie and I think it's possible he was planning to end it during dinner after he gave him the Lakers tickets. It seems like he was trying to get Buck to realize or admit he'll always be in love with Eddie but there's one thing he didn’t count on and that's Clinger!Buck. When Tommy said he could "Take Eddie" to the game, it was his ploy to see if Buck would take the bait and he kind of did when he asked him if he'd be ok with it. But Tommy turned it into one of his rude, unfunny dry ass jokes by responding with "And die." Who TF even says that? No one just like that whole "vision in a cone" line he said in 8x1.

Anyway, my point is Tommy used the classic "It’s not you, it's me" breakup language on Buck because it was the only excuse he could come up with to end it. He had tried everything else with his dismissive attitude, laughing at him with his coworkers and not kissing him anymore but Clinger!Buck was holding on for dear life. The final straw was when Buck said, "I want you to move in with me" and it was the thing that sealed the deal and Tommy realized he had to get out and it’s the path he chose to do it.

They didn't know each other after 6 months and the proof was the anniversary gift and Buck not knowing anything about Tommy beyond the physical (déjà vu for all of Buck’s other relationships). Has Buck ever even been to Tommy’s house? Eddie has and it's CANON because Eddie said it in 7x4.

Tommy prefaced the breakup with several compliments when he said how handsome and great Buck is but then he said that BS about his heart would get broken and he wouldn't be able to take it 🙄. In the few episodes he was in, they never discussed love or anything else other than that daddy kink joke in 7x10. Therefore, their relationship was surface level so why in TF did Tommy say that?

The only answer that makes sense to me is he was having fun but Clinger!Buck was ready to take it to the next level and Tommy didn't want that. He told Buck that in 7x4 when he said "Dating someone you meet on a call never ends the way you expect" but Buck missed the memo and he’s still misunderstanding the assignment.

Eddie had already told Buck that in 6x15 but it’s evident Buck still doesn't realize he’s on the same hamster wheel he's been on since 2018.

The point of this post is Tommy did the "It’s not you, it's me" to breakup with Buck because that's what people say when they don't want to admit the truth. He was softening the blow of dumping him because Buck was being left behind again just like he was with Abby, Ali, Taylor and Natalia. Buck broke up with Taylor and Natalia but he didn't end it for the right reasons. He was unhappy with Taylor but their breakup wasn't about that and he knew Natalia was all about death when he started dating her so there's that.

It was a $hitty reason to end it especially with all the other things they could have used to breakup but for whatever reason, TM (showrunner) chose this option and I don’t like it because Tommy came out unscathed. He should've had to answer for his racist and bigoted past but he wasn't held accountable just like Gerarrd and that sucks.

Buck’s in love with Eddie Diaz! He always has been but he’s still on the hamster wheel and he won't get off until he asks and answers the questions regarding what he wants for himself.

#buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #911 abc #911 spoilers #911 meta #911 speculation #911 on abc #911 season 8 #911 season 8 speculation #anti bucktommy #anti tommy kinard #Canonically Observing 9-1-1 Speaks

75 notes · View notes

tropes-and-tales · 7 months ago

Text

The Softest in the World

Day 15: Fingering (Dave York x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event found here! Is it April? Yes. Am I that far behind in posting that it's April and I'm still working through Kinktober requests? Also yes.)

CW: Smut (Fingering; talk of masturbation; oblique talk of vague future sex acts); 18+ only.

Word Count: 4102

AN: This is a sequel to this, and it was requested for Kinktober by an anon!

AN2: Never edited, never beta'ed. I live and die by my slopping typing.

The first Christmas without Carol goes far better for Dave than he ever thought it would. Of course he misses his wife, nearly a year out from her sudden death. Molly and Alice miss their mother too. But the immediate grief—that sharp, cutting pain that left them breathless and stunned—has faded into a more mellow sorrow. Ever-present, but it doesn’t take Dave out at the knees anymore.

He knows he owes much of his family’s collective healing to you, the nanny he hired months after Carol died. You’re the one who stepped in and took charge of their lives. You never tried to replace Carol, but you’ve managed their day-to-day moments and their larger healing.

This first Christmas was your idea too. A month in Vermont, away from the family home where memories may have been too thick and pressing to allow for any joy. It had proved out to be a great idea too: long days sledding and snow-shoeing and building snow forts leave the girls exhausted by evening, too tired to ruminate about their missing mother.

And it allows Dave more time with you.

Usually you only live at the York home when he’s traveling. You handle their lives at home—drive the girls to and from school, to and from activities. You handle the maid who comes in twice a week to clean. You keep the refrigerator full, get the girls bathed and put to bed with a story and a hug each night. But Dave is never there to see it—when he returns home from his work trips, you leave for your own apartment.

This month in Vermont? You sleep in the room just down the hallway from him. You share a bathroom with him, leave behind the scent of your shampoo and soap after you shower. He hears you each night when you, like clockwork, pad out into the kitchen for a glass of water that you gulp down until you’re breathless.

More than all of that, he has front row seats to how you care for his girls. You’re tough but fair. You cut them plenty of slack, grieving as they are, but you don’t allow them to run roughshod over you. You play with them, you teach them, and you genuinely seem to love them…and they genuinely love you as well.

Him, though? Dave can’t seem to get a bead on you when it comes to him. Your ease with the girls disappears the moment the two of you are alone. You can’t always meet his eye line. You flinch away from him if he brushes against you. Sometimes he wonders if you can sense his former double life—if you have some preternatural prey response to being so close to a predator. But more than once, he’s caught you watching him on the sly. He’s noticed your heavy-lidded eyes, the way you pull your lower lip between your teeth.

When he cornered you in the hallway a few days earlier, he definitely noticed how your breathing quickened.

Maybe you can sense his killer nature, but Dave would also guess that you are attracted to him. And knowing what he does of your character, you probably feel conflicted about that. Guilty. Maybe even a cliché, the nanny falling for the widowed father of her charges.

If Dave has taken one lesson from Carol’s death, though, it’s this: life is short, and life can end in a blink. Why not live while you can?

-----

The day before Christmas is spent in a nearby town. You plan it, of course, and you layer in fun stuff with all the errands you have to run and make it a family affair. You take the girls ice skating at a nearby pond. Dave stands along the rink’s edge and watches you take lazy circles on the ice, Molly’s and Alice’s mittened hands firmly in yours until they get comfortable on their own. Then you skate over to him, and the two of you watch in silence.

Then there’s hot chocolate at a nearby café, last minute presents for the stockings, and the grocery store. You return to the cabin laden with bags, and the evening flies by. You and the girls make flat breads for dinner, and afterwards, you put on a Christmas movie while the girls put the finishing touches on the tree Dave bought earlier in the month.

Dave helps the girls with their evening baths. He gets them tucked into bed, reads them a story. He presses a kiss to each of their foreheads, and they are out like a light before he’s even quietly clicking their bedroom door shut behind him.

As he’s been tending to his daughters, you’ve tidied up in the kitchen and living room, and now you’re pulling the wrapped gifts from their hiding spot in the hallway closet to arrange them under the tree.

At the sound of his footfall, you glance up and offer him a smile.

“They out already?” you ask.

Dave chuckles. “Before I even left the room.”

You smile, brush the back of your hand across your forehead, miming hard work. “It’s exhausting work, trying to exhaust them.”

“And you manage to do it every time.” He joins you near the tree, kneels down beside you.

“Sometimes I make them run laps at home,” you reply with a laugh, and maybe you don’t notice your casual use of the word home, but Dave notices.

Dave notices everything.

He noticed, for example, how you stood by him at the skating rink, perfect posture and a tension radiating off of you when Dave moved close enough for his coat to brush against yours. He noticed the way you ducked your head at the café, how you pretended not to hear the women who sat nearby and remarked on the lovely little family that you, Dave, and the girls made.

He notices now how you lean away from him just a fraction, how you start when his fingers touch yours each time he hands you a wrapped gift to place. He notices that you won’t look at him, that you keep your gaze carefully fixed on the presents or the tree. He crowds you closer, plays dumb about it, and he notices when the pink tip of your tongue darts out and licks a wet line along your lower lip.

Part of Dave—the dark part of him, the predator in him—wants to grip your face between his hand and force you to look at him. He wants to hold your gaze until it’s too much for you; he wants to stare at you until you squirm and beg him to let you go. And then he wants to not let you go, your begging futile—he wants to hold you tighter and lean in and draw his own tongue along that bitable lower lip of yours.

He keeps that part of him at bay. He knows he has to go slow. Slow movements. You freeze around him, but if he comes on too strong or too fast, you’ll bolt. He needs to quiet that prey instinct, make you feel safe. Alleviate your guilt, if you have any, at being attracted to a widower.

So Dave decides to seduce you instead.

When you reach for the next gift, he instead grasps your wrist lightly. He can feel your pulse against his grip, and he hears the breath you draw in. He holds you like that until you have the courage to look at him, and he smiles at you to put you at ease.

“I’ll finish up,” he tells you, his voice low. “Why don’t you go get a bottle of wine and some glasses? We can have a drink on the couch.”

You hesitate…then nod. It shouldn’t be a turn-on, but Dave loves the hesitancy, then the obedient way you stand up and do exactly as he says. It’s not hard for him to imagine other things he could order you to do, the same uncertainty before you obey him.

-----

The wine is Moscato-adjacent. It’s one of those local vintages made with fruits other than grapes, and far too sweet for Dave’s taste, but you had picked it out at the grocery store, so he sips it carefully and hides his winces when the cloying sweetness burns against the back of his throat.

You? You nearly gulp it down, and he realizes how nervous you are to be here: alone on a couch beside him, the room dark except for the lit-up Christmas tree and the crackling fire in the fireplace. It’s romantic, but you’re his employee, and he swears he can feel you flailing out of your depths to find yourself in this moment.

“Easy,” he says. He stills your hand when you reach for the bottle. You’ve bolted down the first glass so fast, and Dave doesn’t want you drunk. He doesn’t even want you tipsy. He wants just the barest bit of your nerves soothed, but he wants you fully in control of yourself.

He wants you to be completely, stone sober when you beg him.

“Slow down,” he continues. “You don’t want to overdo it.”

You laugh, a nervous giggle that spills out of your mouth, and you start to say, “I just…” but you trail off, don’t finish the sentence.

What were you going to say, Dave wonders?

I just am nervous.

I just think this is too much.

I just think it’s wrong. It’s too soon. It’s too complicated. It’s too unseemly. What will people think, if anyone ever finds out?

“It’s okay.” He says it soothingly. He eases your empty glass out of your other hand, and he sets it down along with his own mostly-full glass, but he does it with one hand—his other, he keeps wrapped around your wrist, unwilling to break his hold on you.

“Mr. York…” You start, and he hears the nerves in your voice. He hears the wobble in your words, the faint tremor, but he also swears he can hear desire too—a huskiness to your voice, the slightest rough edge. And you squirm in your seat, just a bit, but you don’t try to pull away from him.

“Mister York? Since when did I become Mister?” It shouldn’t be so hot, you calling him that, formal with the tremble in your words, but then you breathe out his first name—Dave—and you draw it out, and that’s even hotter.

His hand on your wrist, he pulls you to him, tugs your upper body towards him, and you let him. You go willingly, but your eyes widen. In shock? Fear? Lust?

“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs, his face inches from yours. “If you don’t, say so now, and we’ll forget it ever happened.”

The tip of your tongue darts out, licks nervously against your lower lip. “It’s just…” You take a breath, try again. “It’s just complicated.”

“That’s not a yes or a no, baby.”

You huff and offer him a tremulous smile at his use of a nickname, so he adds, “it’s a simple question.”

You hesitate, and Dave wonders if you’re really conflicted about it. If you’re weighing how your life will change depending on how you answer…

…or if you just don’t want to seem eager, because you nod, then whisper “yes, I do want this,” and when he bridges the remaining distance between you, you’re right there, ready and eager to slot your mouth over his, to part your lips to his searching tongue, to cup his stubbled face with your free hand.

-----

Other men might take you then and there. They might claim you right on the couch, in front of a dying fire and a Christmas tree sparkling with lights. They might rush it, make it some sweaty, sad fumble, then parting to each slink to separate bedrooms.

Dave York has always enjoyed the long game. If he were a game hunter, he would enjoy it better to sit in a tree stand for hours before dawn. He would relish the cool planning, the stalking, the calculating and recalibrating as needed.

Dave York doesn’t fuck you just yet. He wants to give you a taste, just a morsel, because he wants you slavering for it. He wants you looking at him with those wide eyes, that lower lip caught between your teeth, as you beg him for more.

So this night, he only pushes you gently back against the couch as he kisses you. He lowers himself onto you—lets you feel the weight and heft of his body against yours, lets you feel how he can press you into the couch with his weight. He lets you feel the length of his growing erection where it presses against your hip, and each little whimper makes him harder.

He kisses you deeply—tastes the glass of Moscato you gulped down, tastes the sweetness of you beyond the tart, sweet wine. He slides his tongue against yours, licks the inside of your mouth, and he smiles inwardly when you shyly try to do the same. You are mostly led by him but there’s little movements—your tongue pressing back against his, say, or the upward press of your hips as you search for friction—where you try to lead too.

He braces himself with one hand, which allows the other to roam free. He cups your flushed face, feels the heat of your blushing. He draws his hand down, traces a path down your neck, circles his palm there, feels how much he can fit in the span of one palm. Not because he likes choking—he’s never been into breathplay or anything so risky, but he does like the tame feel of his hand partially around your neck with the feel of your pulse and the ragged breaths you pull in.

Then lower. He grasps the softness of your breast, and even through the sweater and bra, he can feel your pebbled nipple. He brushes the pad of his thumb over it, back and forth, and it makes your hips lift up again…and then you groan when you find nothing to meet you, no friction and no touch.

“Be patient,” he whispers in your ear. He nips at your lobe, darts his tongue against the whorl of your ear, and you whimper at the sensation of his hot breath fanning over you.

He moves his free hand lower still. He finds the hem of your sweater, snakes his hand under it. Then he finds the waistband of your leggings. He sends up a silent prayer that he gets to live in a time and place where leggings are a thing—no tricky buttons or zippers, just an elastic waistband so easy to slip his hand under, and he cups your mound through the soft cotton of your panties. Dave chuckles near your ear, then lifts his head to look at you because you’re already wet there, the damp cotton cleaving to you as he skates his fingers over you.

“Bad girl,” he whispers. “Getting wet for your boss.”

He’s watching you as he says it, and he sees the flash of hurt that crosses your face before your pupils get wider and your lips part, as you breathe out a heavy breath. You’re such a good girl; Dave obviously vetted you before ever letting you into his girls’ lives. Straight A student, honors, full ride in college. Not even a speeding ticket in your history. He bets you’ve never been called bad, never been a bad girl, and it seems to hurt you for a beat before you embrace this tamest step outside of your erotic comfort zone.

Dave has so many more steps he wants to lead you on. He wants to take your hand in his and lead you into darker, deeper waters. He imagines spanking you, binding you, blindfolding you. He imagines twisting your innate desire to please into something sensual; he imagines training you to greet him on your knees. He imagines rewarding you, calling you a good girl instead, fucking you senseless until you are left overstimulated and weeping, ruined for any other cock but his.

“Is this just from right now?” he continues, and he strokes you through your soaked panties, feels how they are molded to your folds and cleft. “Or have you been thinking about this?”

“I don’t—”

“Tell me.” He pinches you lightly—not enough to hurt, but the sensation pulls a gasp from you, and your hand flies up to grasp his bicep where his bracing arm is near your head. “Tell me why you’re so wet.”

“I’ve been thinking about this.” It comes out a whisper, barely audible. Tinged in shame, and that’s the first thing Dave will burn out of you. Guilt. Shame. He’ll break you down and tear those useless emotions out of you.

“When?” Another light pinch, another gasp. Your hand grips his arm harder, and Dave will see dusty little bruises there in the morning.

“Since….ah, since a while.” Another pinch, and you add, “over the summer.”

The summer. When Dave was around more due to his busy period at work dying off. When Dave ran each morning and returned home to find you cleaning up the breakfast mess, when he shed his sweaty shirt and walked through the house on his way to shower. When he pretended not to notice the way your eyes followed him each step, and when he pretended like he needed a glass of cold water, shirtless, that he drank down in your eye line.

Bad girl indeed.

“You touch yourself to the thought of me?” Here he moves his hand, shifts it to slip under the lacy band of your panties, and he’s delighted to feel a strip of damp curls there, happy that you haven’t shaved or waxed yourself bare. He drags his fingers through them, then finds your clit, slick and swollen, and he touches you lightly there. Strums you with his thumb and chuckles at the keening whine that tears out of your throat.

“Answer me. You touch yourself, thinking about me?”

“….yes.”

“Like this?”

“S-sometimes.”

“Not every time?”

You fix him with a pleading look, but you’re barely able to hold his gaze for long. When he brushes his lips over your cheekbone, he can feel how hot your face is. This is a challenge to you, possibly humiliating, but also arousing because you continue to lift your hips, chasing the touch you’re desperate for. Such a soft little thing, the softest in the world, and yet you’ve been touching yourself to the thought of him.

Dave stills his hand, and he chuckles again at the groan of disappointment you make. “Tell me or I stop.”

You swallow, nod. “Sometimes I…I have a vi…a vibrator.”

He can imagine it; a sad little tucked-away piece of silicone or plastic. You probably pull it out in the darkness of your room, ashamed at pleasuring yourself. You probably bury it under your socks and blush when your hand brushes against it when you’re putting laundry away.

He hums, considers the mental image that rises to his mind. Your legs spread under the covers, running the toy over your clit, maybe pushing it inside you. Imagining it was him instead.

Not that different from the times he’s gripped his own cock, stroked himself in the shower or in his room and pretended it was you instead of his hand.

Dave could demand to know your fantasies. He could make you tell him what scenarios you’ve used to get off to him. Him bending you over the kitchen counter? Him fucking you in the shower? Him sneaking into your bedroom at night, sliding under the covers and slipping his already-hard cock into your tight little pussy? He could make you blush harder and demand to know these things, but he wants to take this slow, so he kisses you instead, murmurs his thanks, calls you a good girl for answering his questions, and when your face lights up at the praise, Dave pushes one thick finger into you and draws the sweetest, throatiest groan from you.

Other men might take you then and there, but Dave only finger-fucks you. He goes so slow, eases it out, pushes it back in so you feel every goddamned bit of him entering you. He keeps his thumb firm on your clit, and just the pressure makes you whimper each time he presses a little harder.

He adds a second finger and feels the delicious stretch as your pussy cedes to him. You’re unbelievably warm, slick, and your pussy twitches and pulses around him each time he breeches the confines of your body. It’s tight, but you’re nervous, and each bit of praise—good girl, such a good fucking girl for me, just relax and let me make you feel good, baby—makes you unclench a bit more. You relax, and you find the rhythm that he fingers you, and you lift your hips to meet his fingers.

When he adds a third finger, you hiss at the thickness of it, the tight fit. He stills, watches your face for any pain, and when he doesn’t see any, he continues.

Three fingers is a good start to preparing you for his cock, he thinks. He imagines the feel of pushing into you, mounting you, and he imagines your fingers digging into his shoulders as he bottoms out in you.

In due time. Now he fingers you, he scissors his fingers inside you and feels the answering throb in his erection each time you whine or whimper or groan, the sweetest symphony of sounds he’s able to pull from you. When he starts circling your clit with his thumb, when he crooks his fingers inside you, pressing gently until he finds the spot that makes you gasp out his name, but you call him Mister York again, and it unlocks something inside him, the power you’re letting him have over you. He dips his head and sinks his teeth into the side of your neck, right at the pulse point, and you gasp again. Your other hand flies up and cradles the back of his head, and you twist your fingers through his hair, but you don’t pull him away—you hold him there, and he licks against the dimpled marks he’s left in your skin, he breathes against the wet line on your neck, and he’ll see a lurid bruise there in the morning too that will make him instantly hard.

“You’re going to come for me,” he growls against your neck. “You’re going to be a good girl and come when I tell you.”

And his mind boggles at the possibilities with you because you do exactly as he says. You nod at his order, and you press your hips in time to his searching fingers, and he feels when your orgasm approaches because you lose much of your embarrassment. You swear in a hoarse whisper against his head—oh fuck, D-Dave, fuck fuck fuck, I’m close, I’m gonna, oh, don’t stop—and you spread your legs wider to make room for his hand, and the lurid sound of his hand working against your wetness doesn’t seem to even register to you. The entire living room smells like sex and you don’t care, and when you gasp and buck your hips up into his hand, he feels your orgasm break around you: the pulse of your cunt gripping his fingers, the hot slick of cum that coats his hand, the way your body shakes under his.

He fingers you through it. He draws out your pleasure until you shove at him lightly, tell him it’s too much, and he stops. He feels the tension of your orgasm—the arching body, the trembling—leave you, and you lay underneath him, sated and heavy with your release.

Dave draws his hand out from under your clothing, and he straightens the hem of your sweater where it rode up a bit. Then he fixes you with an unblinking stare and lifts his hand to his mouth, and he smiles at your shocked expression as he licks his fingers clean. Then, with the taste of you on his lips, he lowers his head and kisses you again—deep and slow, so you can taste yourself too.

“Good girl,” he tells you when he breaks the kiss. “You’re going to be such a good girl for me.”

#dave york #dave york imagine #dave york x reader #dave york x you #kinktober 2023 #tropes and tales #the equalizer 2

145 notes · View notes

emkayewrites · 3 months ago

Text

Lukola snippet from my imagination. One cold night, Nicola and Luke are rehearsing their most intimate Season 3 scenes in his trailer when they get a little carried away...

(Excerpt taken from my fanfiction 'Curtain Fall')

2nd November 2022 – Salisbury (UK)

Nicola stepped out of the make-up trailer and onto the sludge that had once been a green, well-kept field. Several days of non-stop rain had not been kind to the grounds of Wilton House and wellies had become essential wear for the cast and crew. It was a bitterly cold night with a bright moon hanging overhead. Nicola pulled the big brown fleece she was wearing more tightly around herself and made her way determinedly towards his trailer.

She was equal parts exhausted and frantic. It was a strange way to feel. It had been a very long day of filming so she should want to do nothing more than go to bed but her mind would not let her rest.

After all, she had spent several hours on set with Claudia, filming some very emotional scenes that occurred between their characters. Several takes had been needed because of lighting problems and because Claudia was struggling with a chesty cough. They had finished their night seated in front of their respective vanity mirrors as the make-up team helped them scrub off the layers of foundation and lipstick, and they had talked about how desperate they were for the warmth of their beds. Nicola had not entirely lied; she was eager to be warm. Yet, sleep was the last thing on her mind.

In less than two days, she and Luke would be filming the most exposing and intimate of all their romantic scenes together. For several weeks, they had been meeting discreetly in their trailers to rehearse kissing, touching and even tentatively exploring the idea of seeing each other naked. This had been done without the knowledge or involvement of anyone else even though Lizzy had made it clear to them that the production team would not support the rehearsal of intimate scenes without a coordinator. Regardless, Nicola had felt that their extra rehearsals were giving her confidence but as the big day approached, she had been losing sleep. It did not help that since Ezra had arrived less than a week ago, she and Luke had had no time together to privately rehearse. It also really did not help that she had not seen any part of Luke under his clothes until just a few days ago. The sight of his tight abdominal muscles, the way his jeans hung just low enough for the revealing V-shape of his obliques to be visible – she shook her head as if to try and shake the image from her mind.

How am I going to have that body on top of me and act? She thought. It was not just his body. It was the fact that she already found his personality attractive – so to find him physically appealing as well would be torturous. She reasoned that exposure would help. She was just overwhelmed at seeing him in such great shape for the first time but repeatedly seeing him would surely dull the effect.

So, she had been grateful for the exchange of texts that had happened between her and Luke as she was having her hair and make-up undone for the day.

Luke N: Plans for tonight?

Nicola C: Staring at my ceiling for four hours before my alarm goes off. You?

Luke N: Wow, same.

Nicola C: Rehearsal would probably be a good idea.

Luke N: Definitely. When do you finish?

Nicola C: Being de-Peneloped in make-up right now. Can be with you in 10?

Nicola stared at her phone. She had sent him that message over half an hour ago and there had not been a response. She tapped out a message as she approached his trailer door.

Nicola C: You better not have fallen asleep.

“BOO!”

She was so engrossed in her phone that when the noise came, she squealed and jumped several inches off the ground. Her phone slipped from her hand and into the mud.

Luke was stood behind her in a black button-down t-shirt, carrying a small Styrofoam takeaway box and laughing.

“Jaysus fucking Christ!” Nicola snapped, and immediately bent down to rescue her phone.

“Oh shit, is that your phone?” The smile disappeared from his face. “Is it OK?”

Nicola peeled the phone off the ground using only the tips of her fingers. It was completely covered.

“Why would you do that?” She glared at him. The intensity of her own anger took her aback. Perhaps it was the very long day of filming or maybe it was the heightened adrenaline she had been experiencing since Ezra had arrived – either way, she was not able to do what a well-rested, clear-minded Nicola would do: laugh.

“It looks alright.” Luke spoke softly and carefully, recognising that a line may have been crossed on his part. “See, the screen’s still lighting up and there’s no cracks…”

Nicola narrowed her eyes at him. Before she was able to fully form a thought, she found herself thrusting forward, grabbing him by the arm and then smearing the gloopy mess that covered her phone across the cotton fabric of his top. He let out a shocked yelp and jumped back, pulling his arm away from her but it was too late, the front of his shirt was completely covered.

This time, Nicola laughed. He looked down at his clothes in disbelief and then at her.

“Happy now?” He sighed.

“No.” She replied, holding her phone up. “My phone is still disgusting. You’ll have to do the recording tonight.”

It was true, her phone did not look any cleaner, instead it looked like the mud had just been more evenly spread across the phone’s surface.

“Peace offering?” Luke gestured to the box in his hands. “I got us some chips.”

“You remembered the vinegar?”

“I would throw myself down in the mud right now if I hadn’t.” He attested, leading the way up his trailer steps and inside.

Nicola stepped inside and was hit with the blast of warm air from the space heater that stood by the paisley patterned sofa. Opposite this was a small kitchenette area with a sink and work surface where Luke placed the box of chips.

“Oh my God, I feel like I’m melting.” Nicola sat down, pulling the fleece off herself to reveal a black vest underneath.

“That heater only has two settings – on or off.” Luke apologized. “It’s better on then off right now.”

She watched him as he pulled out his phone from his trouser pocket and started to stage it on the work surface before him. He propped it up against a cup so that it was stood upright with the camera lens facing her on the sofa.

They had taken to filming their rehearsals so that they could watch them back together to see how their performance looked.

He started to unbutton his shirt, trying to avoid touching the dirt where possible.

Nicola watched him, hawk-eyed, as he pulled the shirt off his shoulders to reveal the very sight that she had not been able to get out of her mind.

How did he still look that ripped at the end of a day?

“I’m sending you the dry-cleaning bill.” He joked, balling the shirt up and pushing it into a laundary bag. He grabbed at a white t-shirt that was hanging off a hook behind him.

“No. Keep it off.” She noticed herself gulp as she said the words. He froze and looked at her.

“I mean… for the scene.” She continued.

“Right.” He let his arm drop away from the hook and he moved towards her.

Why was her heart racing so fast?

Jesus, he was beautiful.

He has a girlfriend. You have almost got a boyfriend. A very hot boyfriend. A boyfriend with abs. She repeated in her mind, trying to remind both her mind and body of the facts.

He sat inches from her and a mischievous smile spread across his lips. “If I remember right, we’re both topless in at least one of the scenes.”

Nicola laughed; she knew he was joking but she could not resist commenting: “These are coming out once and once only. When I’m being paid a crap-ton of money for it.”

“Should I be charging for this?” Luke looked down at himself.

“I think you should be paying me for this.” She quipped and placed a hand on his chest. She felt him shiver a little at the coldness of her touch, which amused her. They both stayed in that position for a moment, sat on the sofa, leaning towards each other, her hand on his heart. He felt warm and his heart was racing. She looked at him in surprise.

“Nervous?” She found herself asking.

“With you?” He half-smiled. “Always.”

She was not sure how to take his words. She was sure a look of confusion was spreading across her face. His heart seemed to thud even faster under her hand.

I make him nervous? She thought.

What happened next felt natural.

He leaned forward and pressed his mouth against hers, one of his hands was on the back of her head, holding her face against his. It was the epitome of a closed mouth acting kiss.

They had gone through these very movements so many times, it would have been odd for it not to feel natural. Yes, this was what regular rehearsal and being in your comfort zone with your costar felt like, she was sure of it.

She was not sure how other than the fact that every part of her mouth longed for it to happen but suddenly, her tongue was in his mouth. Tentatively at first. He did not pull back. In fact, his tongue seemed to greet hers with glee. His hand gripped the back of her head even tighter, and he wrapped his other arm around her waist, pulling her so close to himself that the hand she had placed on his chest was now squeezed between their two bodies.

Wait - what scene was this even? The question swirled very faintly in some corner of her mind that was easy to ignore.

All she cared about was how ferociously hungry he seemed to be for her. He held her so tightly it was almost as if he was afraid to loosen his grip for fear that she might slip away. His lips left hers so rarely that taking in oxygen was not the easiest thing. She didn’t care. Oxygen no longer mattered. Barely being able to breathe felt too good.

She could hear his breathless panting as he pulled the strap of her vest down and she felt the warm air of the room against her naked breast. It was the wake-up call she needed to come back into her own body.

What are we doing?

You should not be enjoying this.

The voice in her head was louder now.

What scene is this even?!

She found herself prying her lips away from his, her hand still on his chest, his heart still beating furiously.

He pulled back, breathless and looked at her.

“I-um, I…” She was at a loss for words. She knew what she wanted to say but she did not know how to say it. She wanted to ask him what he was thinking. She wanted to know what he was feeling. She wanted to ask him if he felt as crazy as she did right now? She did not say any of this.

Instead, she took a breath and pulled her vest back over her breast.

“Boobies out, time to stop.” She gave a chuckle that came off nervous when she had wanted it to come across nonchalant.

“Sorry. I, uh, I got caught up in it…” He trailed off.

The energy between them was weird. She knew it and she knew he knew it too. They had never discussed a line that could not be crossed in rehearsal. They had only agreed to try to be comfortable with each other and to try to portray the intimacy of their characters with authenticity. That was the problem though. This felt too authentic for her.

He has a girlfriend.

“I actually – you know, the night is just hitting me.” She sounded like a bumbling fool, but it was the best she could do in that moment. “I think I should just go to bed.”

She saw a mixture of emotions cross his face; upset, surprise, concern.

“OK.” He had settled on agreeing with her, although she could sense he had wanted to protest. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, just – exhausted.” She reassured him. “Are you?”

“I could keep rehearsing but… I didn’t have a ten-hour shoot day.” He gave her a smile. “I’ll walk you to yours.”

“It’s fine, Luke.” She was already on her feet with her fleece wrapped around her. She stuck her mud-encrusted phone into her pocket.

As she headed to the door, she suddenly remembered his phone. She turned and looked over at the work surface where it stood.

“Luke – I would delete this one.” She iterated to him. He nodded.

Moments later, she was back out into the night. She was still exhausted. And her mind was still racing. In fact, it was worse now.

I really fucking like him.

And that was a problem.

45 notes · View notes

sunllghtt · 1 month ago

Text

Rocket and his complex relationship with power and authority

(I'm not really familiar with the comics so this whole thing is solely based on evidence from the trilogy and Marvel's Guardians of the Galaxy game ok thank you)

It's repeatedly shown to the audience that Rocket has absolutely no respect for authority and whoever's supposed to be above him. Though it definitely has some deep roots and goes way back to his experience with control and the High Evolutionary (once he's out, there's certainly the wound and the wrath of a victim who's been abused and dehumanized for years in the name of someone else’s twisted will – someone who should've protected him and promised a reward at the end of the torture), I don't think that's where the resentment stops.

Rocket will go out of his way to spite authorities. He'll go out of his way to prove to them their hierarchy means dogshit to him. In the first movie, when they get caught, he calls the Nova “fascists” and talks about how they're “corrupt and cruel” (which doesn't fall far from Rocket's game iteration, who would rather do literally anything but pay the goddamn fine. His resistance is beyond their lack of money and comes from something bigger he can't step over, as if giving them any ounce of their money would be a betrayal to himself and his beliefs). In the second movie, Rocket impulsively steals a shit ton of batteries at the very clear risk of getting his whole team killed, and despite the self-destructive, self-sabotage aspects of the whole thing, it was also his “fuck you” letter to the people who, besides being directly connected to the High Evo and most likely bringing back not so awesome memories, made sure to talk down to him and his friends and literally just exist to serve as this perfect, unflawed images of unquestionable power.

Before we understand what it is, we need to understand what it can't be. When we go back to Vol. 1 and look at the other characters, especially Quill, we learn that Rocket knew about the political state the galaxy was in. He knew about Gamora, about Ronan, about most of their plans and had a clear idea of what was going on in general. Meanwhile, one of the only reasons Quill just stood still and let it happen for so long was his own ignorance and lack of information, and he takes a side as soon as he realizes what's about to happen – while Rocket's still reluctant until the last second (“What’s the galaxy ever done for you? Why would you wanna save it?). Rocket actively chooses to keep himself as far as he can from any of that, and not out of ignorance or neglect, but a conscious and resistant decision.

Rocket's hate toward the system might be related to some sort of trauma response and a lot of hard-learned experience. He knows what injustice is. He knows the Nova Corps will always help everyone and everything out of the kindness of their heart and their flourishing goodwill, as long as it fits their own interests. They'll watch over whoever benefits them the most. He knows the system has a funny tendency to side with the rich, the great, the powerful, and he knows he's none of those things. The High Evolutionary had done whatever he wanted, took as much as he pleased, hurt whoever he wanted for hundreds of years and still got praised for his hard work and had his face openly circulating around the whole galaxy like he hadn't torn him and his friends apart. People like him got to stay safe while Rocket would get arrested for stealing a protein bar. Everybody knows and nobody does anything.

I guess what I'm trying to say with all this rambling is the reason Rocket is, or at least used to be, so thrilled about defying authority figures is because he's seen enough to be hopeless, he's seen enough to know most of them have no problem being selfish, sadist, oblique, fascist, corrupt and cruel when given the opportunity.

#i feel like this was worded in such a boring way #but you know what i dont think abuse of power is supposed to be fun anyway #rocket raccoon #gotg #guardians of the galaxy #peter quill #character analysis #kinda?#idk what this is but it has almost 700 words im sorry

34 notes · View notes

palebluewords · 6 months ago

Text

The Sanctuary

Summary: You've found yourself in the fabled Sanctuary. Now that you are in the wolf's den, what more will you discover?

Part Six of Dead Weight: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five

A/N: Phew, it's been a while! I don't know if or when I'll update again, but this is a story I've been circling back to over the past couple years when I've gotten the inspiration and it means a lot to me that anyone's read it. If you've read in the past two years, thank you :)

There was a moment of silence as you took in Michael’s words. He had not only thwarted the witches again, but also isolated you from joining forces with them. Both of you were now beyond their reach. From the smirk on his face, this was the plan all along.

“You son of a bitch!” you roared, letting your control slip. In the skylight, lightning streaked across the night sky, and a bellow of thunder shook the room. Michael quickly steadied himself, relishing in your fury. “They were right there! Why did you-”

“Oh Miss Y/L/N,” he tutted. “Did you really think I would leave you behind? You’re the most valuable export from that hellhole.” Mead, overcoming her shock at her new surroundings, returned to Michael’s side.

“Michael,” she murmured. “What’s so special about Miss Y/L/N that we couldn’t kill her with the others?” Michael regarded her respectfully as he answered.

“I have my reasons, Mead. Right now, we have to prepare our newest addition to the Sanctuary for her introduction tomorrow morning.” You stumbled to your knees, aghast.

“But,” you sputtered. “What about the witches? They’re still looking for you at the Outpost-”

“You’ll forgive me if I'm in no rush to participate in their little last stand,” Michael dismissed your concerns.

“But, you wanted them dead! After everything that’s happened-”

“They will get what’s coming to them, believe me. But right now, there’s more pressing developments to attend to, now will you please stand up?” Slowly, you rose to your feet, staring him down. Looking at him, you noticed how different he looked now that you had abandoned the harsh lighting of the Outpost. Here, the moonlight made him look ethereal, a ghost who looked through you in the last living garden in the world. You tore your gaze away, chilled.

“What do you plan to do with me?” you asked, voice low. “Because I assure you, you won’t be able to stop me from leaving here.”

“Oh please,” he scoffed. “Drop the theatrics. I left your friends in Outpost Three to waste, the world outside remains ash and dust and God on high still doesn’t want you. There’s nothing for you outside of this Sanctuary.”

“Then why the fuck did you bring me here?!” you spat at him.

“All in due time, but I can assure you it’s not nearly as nefarious as what you’re thinking.”

“This is cheating!” you exclaimed, causing another strike of lightning. “The Outpost…that was supposed to be where everything was settled, you knew that damn well when Cordelia was at the doorstep!” Michael laughed.

“Cheating, Miss Y/L/N, really?” Then, with the controlled force of a conductor, he swung his hand up toward the skylight, and metal paneling came out to cover it up, closing out the view of the storm you had brought on. Now the light was much dimmer, Michael all but a specter against the darkness. “Do you really expect me to play by your rules? You don’t even know what they are. As it happens, the little showdown you and Cordelia had planned for me was merely an inconvenience that I didn’t have time for. I was anxious to return home.” The last word fell out of his mouth awkwardly, tripping you up. Of all the words he could have used for this place, why go for that?

You shook your head, your frustrations finally taking their toll. What were you even doing anymore?

Your path has become more and more oblique, with no hope of an end to your mission on earth. Time and time you’ve sought to prove your worth, and you’ve failed. You began to cry.

Michael froze as Mead stepped back, repulsed. You hid your face in your hands, quietly sobbing. Then, with a short roar, you sounded a thunderclap that vibrated through the room. This is what you’re reduced to, wailing in the stronghold of your enemy, your hopes of joining forces with your only allies shattered. You heard Michael shuffle toward Mead before speaking.

“The door out is that way, if you see anyone, ask for Josephine and tell her I’m here.”

“Michael,” Mead prodded. “Are you alright with this one?”

A pause before his answer. “Of course I am, just get Josephine and this will all be taken care of.” Mead stayed a moment, before finally obeying her orders and quitting the room. You wiped your eyes, useless creature you were.

“Oh,” Michael’s voice taunted you. “Come now, angel. How is this going to solve your problems?”

“Damn you,” you seethed. “I was supposed to be with them! I was there to help them beat you and you ruined it.”

“If it’s any comfort,” Michael lilted. “You could never have won. Cordelia was never any match for me, why do you think she never tried to take me head on herself?” Hearing him say this made you halt your crying, having remembered all the cards in your hand.

“Not just Cordelia,” you sniffled, your voice clear and low.

“I’m sure she had all the other remains of her coven along for the ride as well,” Michael said dismissively. “But it still doesn’t matter. They’re all easy pickings to me. I would have destroyed them just as I did the rest.” You lifted your head, your eyes staring vacantly up at him.

“Of course,” you said. “I remember.” Then, adding before Michael could ask. “I was there, you know. When you attacked Miss Robichaux’s academy. I escaped with Cordelia. I felt you there.” Another pause. You couldn’t see Michael’s face in the dark, but you could guess he was keeping his guard up as he took this in.

“You really are her friend, then,” you could picture the smirk playing on his lips. “And you kept it to yourself so well. I guess it makes sense now, I suppose I felt you too that day. I felt something...unpleasant. Of course, I didn’t realize it was you then. It’s a shame you took off, it would have been a delight to meet you in the waking world then.” You scoffed. “Alright then, who else managed to leave with you? I can’t quite remember who all I did away with that day.” This comment made your lip curl in disgust.

“Oh you know,” you said. “There was Myrtle, and Madison, who I know you’ve met. And these other two witches who were fairly newer. Coco and Mallory were their names.” You smiled at him. “One of them was going to be the next Supreme, you know. How convenient that you took off, giving her all the more time to build her powers.”

Dead silence. You couldn’t help but chuckle at what you’ve dropped on him. Serves him right for walking out on his own reckoning. He has to miss out on all the revelations that come with it. Finally, he spoke again.

“I suppose I’ve come to accept that you’re going to keep surprising me,” he said slowly. “But to think that Cordelia managed to fool me…and Coco Vanderbilt of all people-!” Was he actually…embarrassed? You were fully grinning now.

“If it makes you feel better, I don’t think the ruse was intentional on her part. I think Cordelia wiped their memories before the apocalypse…but yes, you had a very powerful Supreme under your nose, and now you’ve left her behind to continue to plan your downfall. Scary, isn’t it?” You chuckled, rolling your eyes. “And to think, you could’ve eliminated that threat this whole time, but I guess I was just too interesting, wasn’t I?”

“Angel,” Michael seethed at you. “As troubling as you want this news to be, I’m not changing course. If your witch friends still want me, let them try and find me again. Until then, make yourself comfortable.”

“Fuck you,” you hissed. “If you really think that I’m going to just sit here-” The door to the garden reopened, letting the outside light break inside of it. In stepped Ms.Mead, trailing behind a tall and slender woman. Her blonde hair was pulled into a loose braid that fell over her shoulder, and she wore a light blue nightgown. She looked between the two of you, the sleep falling away from her eyes, confusion taking its place.

“Michael,” she whispered, a slight accent on her voice. “Is this-?”

“Josephine!” Michael greeted, immediately painting a smile on his face. “How good to see you again. This is Y/N Y/L/N of Outpost Three.” He took you by your shoulders- you flinched at his touch, but the fabric of your dress protected you from any real sting- and walked you over to them. “Our newest neighbor. Would you be so kind as to show her to one of the empty rooms? Preferably one of the ones in the west side of the facilities.”

“O-of course!” she responded, looking at you with wide eyes. Michael stopped just at her side to give his last order.

“Oh, and when you’re done: fetch de Flores and tell him we need to speak. It’s most urgent.” Josephine nodded, and he walked off. You watched him as he disappeared down the hall.

With that, Josephine hurried you through the halls of the Sanctuary. You were equal parts impressed and disgusted by the marble walls and pillars. The bright white, in contrast to the dim yellow of the outpost, was both refreshing and blinding.

Eventually, you were ushered into a bedroom, one of the most beautiful you'd ever seen. If not for the lack of windows, it would have been indistinguishable from a bedroom in a palace. In lieu of windows, however, were detailed paintings that looked to be of Renaissance persuasion.

"I believe these are one of the more special rooms," Josephine remarked as she scurried out. "Congratulations. Make yourself at home." Hearing that word made the hairs of your neck stand. With that, she was gone.

You took in the room. The fully furnished sitting area, the four-poster king bed, and the biblical painting of Adam and Eve in the wall all made you want to vomit. What a hell you've placed yourself in, and worse yet, you know you've only scratched the surface of it. You were in completely uncharted waters, and on Michael's terms.

You could not stay here. You resolved to go at that moment. Whatever was outside the Sanctuary was outside Michael’s reach also. You would rather wander the scourged earth haplessly than live under Michael’s watchful eye, waiting for the board to move again. You sat on your plush bed, and used your powers to lose an hour. You blinked once it was done, then changed out of the Purple dress. As unideal as the white nightgown laid out on your bed was, the purple dress was ten times worse for moving around. You stripped off the dress, put on the nightgown, and then put the purple jacket over it to feel less exposed. Then, you set out into the Sanctuary to find an escape.

The place seemed even more like a maze without Josephine to guide you through it. You mused that if Gabriel was here, he could use the angelic omniscience that you still lacked to chart a course out. Alas, you were still of that different, lesser make. You would have to search on foot.

A fruitless endeavor. The grand halls seemed to swallow you immediately, the bright lights teasing you around every corner. You passed the supposed ballroom what seemed to be a dozen times. You saw the ceiling in it and thought it must stretch for miles. Painting after painting seemed to repeat so much that soon enough they started to blend together. Every time you thought you were trying a new path, you found yourself in the same godforsaken hallway outside the ballroom. Eventually, you couldn’t take the circles anymore, and walked inside, looking for any other paths to take. At the far end, you saw a set of double doors and scampered over to them. You pushed them open, and found an empty kitchen.

Empty, except for a teenage girl and small boy sat up on the counters with food in their hands. Their heads snapped toward you, the girl assuming a defensive demeanor at the sight of you. She looked you up and down, evaluating you.

“Are you the newcomer?” You steeled yourself against the door.

“Yes, I am,” you looked around, searching for an excuse for being here. “I stepped out of my room and couldn’t find my way back.” The boy looked at you impassively, neither believing nor disbelieving, he just looked right through you.

“What part are you in?” the girl asked you, still watching you closely.

“The west part?”

“Back out the large arches, take a right, you’ll find it among all the doors.” She stared at you, silently commanding you to leave. You bowed your head, desperate to get away from her cold gaze.

“Thank you,” you stumbled out of the kitchen, beelining in the direction she told you to go. Who was that?! You're stomach turned, a sensation you'd only experienced in the past because of Michael. There was something in the coldness of her gaze... Good or bad, it wasn’t natural. As you crossed the ballroom again, you saw Michael's shadow dance against the hallway walls. As you entered, you saw him walking toward you.

"Michael-" you began.

"To bed, angel," he dismissed you. "Nothing for you to do now. You should get your rest."

“Are you doing this?” You asked. “With the hallways? I’ve never been lost like this.”

“Could be the sleep deprivation,” but as he smirked, you knew your true answer. “Goodnight, now.” And with that, he turned and walked away from you. Without thinking, you spat at his back as he walked by you. He only chuckled. "Yes, better get some sleep." You watched him disappear around a corner and huffed. You knew how to go nowhere but back in the direction of your room. A bird in its gilded cage. Very well. To bed, then.

You enchanted your door behind you and fell asleep in your comically large bed. You dreamt of the garden and the stars you hadn’t seen in so long.

---

The next morning, you awoke to a gentle knock on your door. You knew immediately that whoever it was, it wasn’t Michael. Nausea induced by his presence aside, he would have had a much grander way of making himself known. Adjusting your nightgown, you opened the door to Josephine.

“Miss Y/L/N,” she greeted curtly.

“Oh!” you exclaimed. “Josephine, how can I help you-”

“Mr. Langdon wanted to ensure that you didn’t miss breakfast,” she interrupted. “He was very adamant that you meet some of the others.”

“Others,” you repeated. “How many other people are living here?”

“On this level or in the whole Sanctuary?” She took your stunned look as answer enough. “Throughout the complex are two-thousand people. Mr. Langdon has appointed leaders to multiple units of the Sanctuary to oversee their goings-ons. Beyond the facilities we have multiple radiation-controlled cities in-progress that we are using to rehabilitate those out there who survived the nuclear blast. Those are currently at six-thousand, with more arriving every day. In our unit, the Eden unit, we have two-hundred. Mr. Langdon oversees this unit.”

“That’s…quite an operation.”

“Mr. Langdon is a dedicated man,” she shrugged. “Will you join us?” You thought for a moment. So far, everyone you’ve met seems oblivious to who Michael is, or at the very least accepting of it. You had to wonder what Michael’s aim is to pack this place full of seemingly harmless people. What did he want with them?

“I will,” you answered. “Just give me a moment to get ready.” You closed the door. After freshening yourself, you searched the wardrobe of the room.

You would only be a little embarrassed to admit to the sigh of relief you breathed when you saw a selection of clothes beyond the Victorian era and the purple monochrome. The clothes here were normal. The range was casual to formal and modern day to items that couldn’t be associated with fashions earlier than the 1960s. Whatever Michael was up to here, it at least wasn’t playing period dress up with human dolls. You wondered if it was so he could stand out more, with his bold makeup and clothing. A wolf among the sheep.

You settled on a flowing white top and a pair of flared- would you believe it- jeans. You reopened the door to Josephine, finally taking to note her own beige maxi skirt and brown sweater. Almost like being in the real world again. “Ready.”

Some of the hallways Josephine took you down were all too familiar from your accursed walk the night before. You felt yourself tense as you remembered how Michael’s magics had disoriented you. Today, you could make out the twists of the halls perfectly, assuring you he had let his little hexes fade. The halls also didn’t hold the same foreboding energies as before. Along the ceilings so you could see little skylights letting sunlight in. None of them were so grand as the one in the garden, but you relished in seeing the blue of the morning sky again.

Finally, Josephine brought you to a large set of doors. “I hope you’re awake by now,” she muttered, as she lifted the giant knockers and slammed them three times before opening them. “Look sharp.” Your eyes widened at the site.

A sea of two-hundred faces, all sat at long feast tables, all turned to look at you. Stupefied, you looked around. You saw a litany of groups and families and couples sat together, looking at you as the strange new outsider. What kind of place was this? At the back of the room, you could make out the outline of Michael’s form, sitting at a head table, with Mead’s dark figure sat at his side. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and you could see he was wearing a plain, white shirt with billowing sleeves. A far cry from the Outpost regalia. You could tell he was looking at you, and you just knew he was smiling. After a moment, he rose.

“My friends in Eden,” he boomed. “As you all know I have been on an expedition to our smaller outposts to rescue the survivors housed there. It was to my dismay that I found them all overrun and destroyed.” Hearing this, you remember the smile on his face when he had told your fellow survivors at Outpost Three the same news. “But I found hope in my last stop, one person who could live with us in our Sanctuary and join us in rebuilding the earth. An exceptional and compassionate young woman whose heart, like all of ours, longs for the world before the nuclear winter, a most excellent addition to our mission. Let us all welcome our newcomer, the lone survivor of Outpost Three, and all other outposts, Miss Y/N Y/L/N!” With this, you were enveloped in thunderous applause.

“Lone survivor?” you asked Josephine.

“What else would you call it?” she asked you. “Come, he wants you at the front table.” With that, she led you across the sea of well-wishers, all smiling kindly at you. Michael stared at you the whole way. It felt like an eternity before you were finally standing before him, feeling like an animal being sold to the slaughterhouse.

“Miss Y/L/N,” Michael greeted you. “I’m so glad you could join us.” Your eyes grazed over the rest of the table. From the right of him, you could see Josephine going to take a seat, as well as a little girl next to them, beaming at you. To his left, you saw two empty seats, next to them a woman dressed in bright greens and yellows, and a large man dressed in a simple plaid shirt. Meanwhile, Mead stood behind Michael’s chair, not even bothering to pretend to eat.

“I didn’t know that I could refuse,” you said. At this, the unnamed man chuckled, and the brightly dressed woman smiled at you.

“I knew you wouldn’t disappoint us with your wit,” Michael continued, unfazed. “Do come and sit, your food is coming soon.” A moment passed, and you realized that he meant for you to sit next to him.

“I don’t know that I’m hungry,” you told him.

“But of course,” he said with complete ease.. “How could you ever find your appetite after those cubes in the outpost? But this food is real, I must insist you indulge yourself.” Seeing there was no tactical way to make him relent, you climbed the platform step and sat yourself next to him. Your companions to your right were quick to introduce themselves to you.

“Glad to have you,” grunted the man in plaid. “The name is Roger Richards. I’m the unit planner for the Sanctuary. I design the infrastructure.” You inclined your head.

“So you designed these skylights?” you asked. He nodded. “They’re wonderful.” His eyes glittered with pride.

“They’re actually pretty basic in design,” he said. “I just thought that these people would need some sunlight.”

“Roger loves to be modest,” tittered the woman next to him. “I’m Phoebe, I’m the overseer of agriculture. I heard from Langdon you tried one of our apples already?” Your stomach crawled at the memory of the poison coursing through you. You forced on a weak smile.

“Oh yes,” you said. “It was such a relief to have a taste of the world before.”

“Well,” she smiled. “Then you will like the Sanctuary.” At this, you couldn’t force yourself to agree. So you smiled again, and pretended to turn your focus to the food you had no stomach for. Your gaze kept flicking to Michael next to you, happily digging into his breakfast. You wanted to smack the cutlery out of his hands.

“Josephine is Head of Operations,” he said without looking at you. “She sees all of the in-between and nitty gritty of the Sanctuary. She also oversees the nursery.”

“Who’s the little one?” You asked him, stomach churning while looking at the painfully oblivious little girl.

“Rebecca, she’s a rescue. Are you going to eat?”

“I told you,” you said. “I’m not hungry. What do you mean ‘rescue’?”

“She’s a survivor from the nuclear wastelands,” he told you. “An orphan from the fallout. Now she sits as a symbol of hope for us all. Isn’t that inspiring?”

“Hope,” you repeated, too tired to laugh at the suggestion. “Just what kind of a sick game are you playing with these people?”

“All in due time, Miss Y/L/N,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to spoil it too early.” Then his gaze flitted to a man approaching the table, dressed in black robes. Your heart leapt a moment, mistaking it for Satanic attire. Once your panic subsided, you looked closer and realized with dread that rather than the anarchic black and red of the Satanists, this man donned a familiar vestment of black and white… he couldn’t be…

“Ah,” Michael smiled. “Father de Flores, good morning.” You looked at Michael in shock. “This is Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Of course,” said de Flores. “It is my pleasure to meet you at last.” You opened your mouth to speak, to scream, anything to warn this man of the demon in his midst. Michael clamped his hand on your shoulder, purposefully grazing a finger over some exposed skin on the nape of your neck. The sting of his touch was enough to shut you up. You could only nod as the man took his seat next to you.

Michael removed his hand, and you watched as he flexed his fingers in pain. A moment invisible to all but you. He lifted his eyes to meet your accusing gaze.

“Oh angel,” he whispered the nickname for only you to hear, before speaking again at full volume. “You really must see the chapel that Richards designed. It is truly something to behold.”

#michael langdon imagine #michael langdon x reader #ahs imagine #american horror story imagine #enemies to lovers

56 notes · View notes

badaziraphaletakes · 4 months ago

Note

Submitting this... it's a long one, sorry 🥲

*Shakes out very, very long scroll*

*In Bildad voice* "Shall I summarize?"

✅ Demanding that an ab*se victim have a plan for how to fix their ab*ser's Evil Scheme

✅ Saying you would handle the situation better than they did

✅ Acting like outsmarting an ab*ser would have been as simple as writing a sneaky lil note on a sneaky lil piece of paper, like I'm sorry but holy sh*t y'all that is just the most patronizing, trauma-invalidating BS I've ever heard

✅ Saying "idiotic"

✅ Using it to describe an Autistic-presenting character

✅ Who is also an ab*se victim

✅ Calling an ab*se victim "egocentric"

✅ Which is even more problematic given that that ab*se victim is also feminine

✅ Assuming Aziraphale actually wanted Crowley to come back with him, when we aren't yet in full possession of the facts

✅ Assuming Aziraphale meant literally anything he said in the entire Final Fifteen

✅ Assuming that, if Aziraphale really did actually want Crowley to come back with him, he didn't have a valid reason for it (maybe he actually thought it was the safest possible option for Crowley! We don't know!)

✅ Obliquely blaming Aziraphale for maybe being scared to go back alone? Or just not wanting to be lonely when he knows he might very well die up there?

✅ In short, eviscerating an ab*se survivor for having the audacity to respond to the horrendous situation their viewer has trapped them in, in anything short of an entirely morally irreproachable manner, and acting like their (supposed) moral failings gives us license to pronounce judgment on their situation

✅ Accusing Aziraphale of thinking he's always right and Crowley is always wrong, when we know Aziraphale says all that stuff like "You, I am sorry to say, are evil" in the knowledge that heaven and hell might be listening in at any moment

✅ Calling the things Aziraphale said under the ever-watchful eye of his ab*sers "starting a fight"

✅ Ignoring that, if Aziraphale is to blame for "starting a fight" , then just maybe Crowley might share some of the blame. (For the record, we don't think either of them are to blame here, considering Metatrash deliberately trapped both of them in a pressure cooker and turned up the flame, while simultaneously trying to manipulate each of them into thinking the situation was their husband's fault. A strategy which, incidentally, to have worked on a good portion of the fandom... << But we digress. :p )

✅ Saying Aziraphale "meant" the things he said while those ab*sers were possibly listening to him, and had literally just made an extremely explicit death threat

✅ Implying Crowley "doesn't have any spirit left"

✅ Accusing Aziraphale, rather than his and Crowley's ab*sers, of bearing the real responsibility for Crowley's distress

✅ Ignoring that Aziraphale was every bit as distraught as Crowley

✅ Saying Aziraphale "refuses to listen" because he cut Crowley off, even though he was stressed at the time and that's something all of us, especially the neurodivergent folk, do when we're stressed (AND even though he also probably stopped Crowley from saying something that would might have gotten them both roasted on a spit in the flaming cesspits of Abbadon)

✅ Saying that an ab*se victim has been "ignoring" their problem and needs to

✅ "confront"

✅ the "consequences" of

✅ "their" actions

✅ Acting like Aziraphale hasn't already (like any other ab*se victim/survivor) suffered more than enough for a million lifetimes

Did I miss anything lol?

(And okay, yes, the OP is responding to the "Aziraphale has a perfect plan to fix everything" take, which is an arguably slightly-problematic take in itself - but honestly, given that they responded to it by piling on a bunch of crap that was a thousand times more problematic, I'm not feeling disposed to make allowances.)

#good omens #goodomens #aziraphale #good omens 2 #badaziraphaletakes #ineffable husbands #goodomens2 #aziracrow #ineffablehusbands #cw: abuse #good omens final fifteen #justice for aziraphale

49 notes · View notes

just-here-with-my-thoughts · 5 months ago

Text

"Forget I asked"

@summer-of-bad-batch week 3 alt prompt

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: Crosshair, Hunter Set after the finale when everyone is living happily (?) on Pabu. Technically Part 1 of the Beach Days & Hair Braiding series. Word Count: ~1875 Read Here on AO3

Synopsis: Crosshair tells Hunter he wants to join the Resistance

“Your regrets will go wherever you are, Cross. You have to find a way to live with them.”

“I am. The Empire is still out there, Hunter. If I can help keep them at bay… If I can keep them away from you and Omega, that I can live with.”

Crosshair stared at the bed, the covers and sheets stripped, the end of the mattress adorned with the small collection of his belongings.

It wasn’t much. But then, clones had never had much in the way of personal possessions. Most of their ‘belongings’ were military issue gear, able to be recalled and replaced with the supply whims of the GAR.

What was there now was his. Really his. Clothes that had been gifted to him by the people of Pabu, even if he had balked at the charity. A pebble with dark veins spidering across it which Wrecker had found on the beach and brought back because ‘it has the same tattoo as you’. A beat-up datapad which Phee had sourced for him, and to which he had downloaded all the data from the recorder on Tech’s goggles – not that he had accessed the files since.

He was wearing the bracelets Omega had woven for him, dyed leather and coloured thread standing out against a grey-white fabric wrap bound round his left wrist.

That had been Mayday’s.

It felt like stealing to take the strip of bandaging from Mayday’s empty helmet when they had returned to the outpost on Barton IV, and he had kept it hidden for many months whilst guilt gnawed at him. When he had been ready he had taken it out and simply run it though his hands, remembering.

Recently the pain of those memories had instead faded to a bittersweet ache, and he had added the length of fabric to the bracelet stack Omega had made. When the rip-tide of his regrets threatened to drag him under, he pinched his thumb and forefinger to the material and rubbed softly, grounding himself with the rasp of the rough fabric.

His fingers left a grubby mark, but he didn't wash it. That would mean taking it off, and he couldn’t bring himself to do that.

He found himself worrying the knot of fabric now, right hand trembling slightly as he forced his breathing into the calm cadence Omega had taught him and gathered his thoughts for this next step.

Omega knew he was leaving. She’d worked it out – she was smart like that. She’d spotted the tell-tale signs of his inability to settle to life on Pabu, and had confronted him about it in that special oblique way she had that spared him any feelings of judgement.

“So when are you leaving?”

“Huh?”

“When are you leaving?” She kept her head down, gaze focused on tying yet another colourful string bracelet round his wrist. “That’s what you’re planning on, isn’t it.”

It wasn’t a question. She knew he was already decided.

He flexed his right hand, then crossed it to his left to adjust the new bracelet. He pinched Omega’s hand affectionately, touch lingering on the soft web of flesh between her thumb and finger.

“Don’t tell the others,” he said, voice low, not meeting her eyes. “I don’t know how they’ll take it.”

“They’ll be happy for you,” Omega said, but he could hear the sadness in her voice. “If this is really what you want.”

He shuddered an inhale. “We’ll see.”

It hadn’t stopped him feeling like he’d failed somehow. Pabu was a paradise, and he should have been happy. Instead he was anxious, restless, unable to adjust to the slow pace of life. It only made it harder to see how enthusiastically his brothers threw themselves into the island community, ready to put down roots for the rest of their lives whilst he was still tumbling like a wind-blown briar.

Wrecker had understood. His broad, honest face was a map of his emotions, and he had been unable to hide his disappointment – but he had understood all the same.

“Gonna miss you,” was the first thing he had said after the lapse of quiet when Crosshair first told him. Then, “But you can always come back, right? If you change your mind.”

Crosshair nodded noncommittally. He was fairly certain he wasn’t going to change his mind, but if it made Wrecker feel better, he could let him have that.

“Echo and I will still be in touch,” he reassured his brother. “It’ll be… better than last time.”

Better than last time they were separated. He didn’t need to say it.

Wrecker picked him up in a huge bear-hug, and for once he didn’t complain too hard.

“Promise me you’ll stay safe out there, vod.”

“Sure, Wrecker. I promise.”

That left Hunter.

And he had no idea how he would react. So he had put it telling him, and put it off and put it off, and now Echo was arriving to collect him today and this was his last chance to corner Hunter, alone, to break the news of his departure mere hours before he went.

An irregular patter vibrated against his thigh and he clenched his right hand to stop it trembling, hissing in a displeased inhale. Time to get this over with.

“Hunter.” He raised his voice so that the rasping edge of his call would reach through the small house. “Could you help me pack?”

He returned his attention to the pile of items at the end of the bed, and waited.

It wasn’t long before Hunter wandered into his room, sipping caf from a chipped mug. “Sure,” he said by way of greeting, taking in the neatly piled items. “Looks like you’re nearly done already. Where you going? Camping trip to the far side of the island again?”

Hunter knew Crosshair would retreat to solitary trips for a day or two at a time, when the pressure of socialising with the island populace got too much. Crosshair kept his gaze carefully on the mug in Hunter’s hand, so he didn’t have to meet his eyes.

“Bit further than that,” he confessed, voice dropping to a near-whisper. His volume didn’t really matter – he could scream it for all the difference it made, Hunter’s enhanced senses meant he would hear either way.

“Off to explore the atolls?”

“No.”

He jumped at the soft brush of Hunter’s hand against his elbow and turned to him, guilt twisting his gut as his brother squeezed his upper arm with a supportive smile.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Hunter said, his gruff voice low and reassuring. “I’ll see you when you get back in a few days. What do you need help packing?”

Crosshair raised his arm to clasp Hunter’s in return, taking a half-step closer and tilting his head to rest their foreheads together. He closed his eyes against the confused look on Hunter’s face, lips pressed thin in a grimace.

There was no way Hunter wouldn’t feel the trembling of his right hand where it held his elbow.

“Can you get my armour for me?”

Hunter didn’t pull away, but Crosshair felt the tense of his muscles under his fingertips.

“What do you need your armour for, Cross?” said Hunter slowly, his tone measured. There was a creeping note of dread in his words.

Crosshair tightened his grip imperceptibly, willing his brother to understand.

“I’m going with Echo.”

For a long moment they simply stood, foreheads pressed together, tense and unmoving. Hunter’s breath shuddered unevenly into the space between them.

“Not you’re not,” he whispered eventually, voice low and forceful. “You can’t.”

Reluctantly Crosshair pulled back, straightening to eke out his height advantage as he dropped their arms.

“I can,” he refuted, keeping his face carefully neutral, “and I am.” Then he softened his gaze, looking pleadingly at Hunter. “Help me pack?”

Hunter’s expression fractured, shock and grief breaking through his usual reserved mask.

“When are you going?”

Crosshair swallowed and dropped his gaze to the floor.

“Today.”

With a wounded exhale Hunter sat down sharply, the edge of the bed sagging under his sudden drop.

Crosshair shifted restlessly, not meeting his gaze. "I... I have to keep moving,” he ventured, struggling to voice the explanation into the tense space between them. “I've tried staying still. If I do, everything will catch up to me..."

He trailed off, and neither of them needed him to finish the unspoken sentence. They both knew about his nightmares. Maker knew Hunter had held him through enough of them.

“It’s better this way.”

“Better for who?” Hunter surged to his feet, pressing into Crosshair’s space once more. “You’re just going to… to leave? Without telling us, without telling Wrecker and Omega so we have the chance to…”

His words dropped away as he saw the guilt in Crosshair’s expression, and he shuddered in a deep breath.

“You already told them.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m the last one to know.”

“…Yeah.”

Hunter shoved him, hard, anger flashing in his eyes.

“And you thought you’d tell me… by asking me to help you pack?”

Crosshair grit his teeth and pushed Hunter away, turning to scoop up the single armful of belongings from the end of the bed, everything he owned in the world.

“Forget I asked,” he said bitterly. “I thought you’d be happy for me. I’m moving forwards.”

“You’re running away.”

“So what if I am?” Crosshair raised his voice in frustration, volume increasing as their argument escalated. “It’s better than staying here, waiting for it to consume me!”

“Your regrets will go wherever you are, Cross,” said Hunter, but he kept his voice low, and Crosshair felt a lick of frustration that Hunter wasn’t matching his anger any more. “You have to find a way to live with them.”

“I am. By helping Echo. The Empire is still out there, Hunter. If I can help keep them at bay…”

His voice wavered with uncertainty, and he forced his gaze up to meet Hunter’s eyes at last.

“If I can keep them away from you and Omega, that I can live with.”

Hunter’s arms folded defensively across his chest, and he tried and failed to wrestle his expression back to neutral. It was like now his mask had slipped, he couldn’t shove down the heartbreak that leached through.

Crosshair mirrored his position, the bundle of clothes and his datapad clutched to his chest.

A chasm of space yawned between them, a mere few feet wide, impossible to cross.

"I want you to stay.”

Hunter's voice ached with so much more than he was saying.

"I want you to stay,” he repeated, and now he gave a shaky, resigned sigh. “But I'm not going to stop you leaving if that's what you want to do."

Crosshair released the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, the sound punching out of him in a relieved gasp.

“Yeah. It is,” he said softly, willing Hunter to believe him.

Hunter nodded slowly, eyes dropping to the floor.

He stepped forwards, and Crosshair flinched, but Hunter’s hand came gently to the back of his neck as he pulled their foreheads together once more.

“I’ll miss you, Cross. You can always come back, whenever. No questions asked.”

Crosshair squeezed his eyes closed, unable to answer beyond a nod. He leaned into the gentle pressure of their embrace, arms still wrapped tightly round his meagre belongings.

Hunter’s sigh gusted against his skin, warm and sorrowful.

“I’ll get your armour.”

Aand another prompt ticked off from my @sweetspicybingo card! Hot Drink to Bad News

#summerofbadbatch2024 #week3 #forget i asked #the bad batch #tbb fanfic #tbb crosshair #tbb hunter #beach days timeline

47 notes · View notes

somefanficrecomendations · 10 months ago

Text

January Monthly Roundup

BATFAMILY

Three’s a Crowd (But I’m Here if You Are) by JUBE514 (Bernard Dowd/Tim Drake/Conner Kent) 20k, Identity Reveal, Fluff Bernard pops the top off his water bottle, a roll of his wrist at the perfect angle and it comes right off, and pops the faucet in Tim’s very nice kitchen to cold. Tim presses a kiss to the back of Bernard’s neck before Tim moves to the fridge to get his own water. Bernard used to not drink as much water, but Tim drinks enough water for three people a day so Bernard naturally has followed- and now Bernard has no acne so he’s sort of mad about it actually. “The main character has two hands.” Bernard chimes easy and teasing. “Polygamy is the awnser here babe.” Tim peaks over the door of the fridge. “Oh? Is this you telling me something?” — Tim Drake, Bernard Dowd, and Kon-El have two hands each. They use them to hold onto each other.

My Evil Twin From Another Universe by FabulaRasa (Hal Jordan/Bruce Wayne) 22k An interdimensional anomaly strands another version of Hal in this universe, and two Hal Jordans in one universe is several Hal Jordans too many.

this week in heroblr by UnidentifiedFroggy (multi) 22k, WIP, Social Media, okay im sorry y'all did SUPERBOY just say he's a tumblrina??? #SUPERBOY AS IN KON EL AS IN SUPERMANS CLONE #DIED IN THE CRISIS SUPERBOY #holy shit #superblr #heroblr - a viewpoint into tumblr as it might exist within my own exceedingly self-indulgent form of the dc universe, told through epistolary fashion in batfamily social media fic tradition. features heroes getting cancelled, takes of middling veracity, plenty of queerness both on heroblr and in the hero community, my self-indulgent ships, and something vaguely resembling plot and lore told obliquely through tumblr drama and outsider pov interpretations of superheroes

The Big Boss by Crowlows19 (gen) 4k, POV Outsider The story of Bruce Wayne and his family as told by his insane Wayne Enterprises calendar and the poor assistant that had to manage it all.

Batman for Dummies by Havendance (gen) 38k, No Man’s Land, Helena Bertinelli-centric In the aftermath of the quake that shook Gotham, Helena Bertinelli takes on the mantle of the Bat. (It isn’t like Batman’s using it.) If she’d known the cowl came with a certain moralizing little bird following her around — well, she probably still would’ve done it, but it would’ve been nice to know in advance. (Or: Tim and Helena team up 2: electric boogaloo. Now with more bats!)

Older Sibling Duty by Icestorm238 (gen) 2k, Batfam Names are important. The Bats tend to bypass their real names, however, in favour of increasingly dumb nicknames. The older sibling trio of Dick, Jason, and Cass are the primary instigators of this. After all, it is their duty.

AITAH For Tricking My Brother Into Drugging My Other Brother? by TaxiCabToSlowtown (gen) 1k, Social Media, Am I the Asshole? Okay, look, I know how that sounds, but hear me out. My (M, 19, "Fred") little brother (17, I’ll call him “Percy”) has problems. These problems stem a lot from the fact that his parents abandoned him for long periods of time as a kid and he didn’t have a proper upbringing. I should mention that Percy’s parents then are not the same as our parent(s) now. We’re both adopted, and I’m messed up too, I’ll admit it. Our Father (45, I’ll call him “Arthur”) had sort of turned his house into a home for kids with really traumatic families.

Welcome to the Family by ViiA01 (Hal Jordan/Bruce Wayne) 67k, WIP, Batfam Bruce’s children want to meet the man that their father deemed worthy of a smile. So they do, in the only way they know how. By breaking into people's houses and lurking in dark places. Bruce just wants his children to stop stalking Earth’s Green Lantern, if only because they're ruining his plans. And Hal? Well, Hal is convinced that Bruce has concocted a plot to get around his ‘no killing’ rule, by having his children stalk him until his heart gives out from the stress.

A Series of Unfortunately Timed Coming Out's by Queerbutstillhere (multi), 7k, Coming Out The batfamily had this gift. This wonderful skill. They are such talented, brilliant, capable individuals. But they are absolutely horrendous at wisely timing coming out to their family members. These are their stories . Aka: "I love you all but could we stop coming out to each other during the middle of battles?"

Call to a Lonely Earth by Drag0nst0rm (gen), 7k, Angst, AU-17776 Fusion There are no children left in Gotham. Not until the multiverse spits one out right in front of Batman, at least.

buy the ticket, take the ride by Anonymous (gen), 13k, Vegas Tim had always figured that if he ever woke up in Vegas sans-memory, it would be when he was older than fourteen. But there were some things he couldn’t control, and apparently whatever had happened last night that he didn’t remember was one of them.

CROSSOVER

Keystone by Kalinjdra (gen), 26k, WIP, HPxDC Harry Potter double-checked his lists before sending off the letter to an unknown cousin. He hoped for maybe some money at least, he didn't expect to get a scary bodyguard brother instead. Jason Todd has never stopped searching for his real parents so when Tim offers solid information in exchange of taking care of some kid, he really doesn't have anything else to do but take it. No one really could have foretold what followed.

#batfam fic rec #Batman #fanfiction #batlantern #Tim Drake #Jason Todd #conner kent #kon-el #batfamily #damian wayne #harry potter fic rec #monthly roundup #complete #fic rec #wip

72 notes · View notes