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blahkugo · 4 years

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Rouge

Satori Tendō x Reader (Haikyuu!!)

Word Count: 2.5k

TW: Mafia AU, Dark themes, Blood play (an excessive amount of blood mentions in general), Knife play, Asphyxiation, Angst (?), mentions of death (no main characters), Just two psychopaths going at it tbh.

A/N: I’m so excited to be writing for @the-smut-pile’s newest collab, hosted by @present-mel, @pleasantanathema, and @linestrider. Please make sure to check out the rest of the masterlist here!

Every night, the smell of bleach stings your nostrils and prayers left unsaid weigh heavy on your tongue. ‘It comes with the job,’ they had warned you, had urged a ‘pretty little thing like you,’ not to take a position you couldn’t stomach. You didn't listen, of course.

Because death isn’t a stranger in your life, nor an old acquaintance you catch up with once every few years. It’s a friend that phones daily, a lover you scurry into bed with—the chill down your spine when you walk home alone in eerie silence.

As a doctor you saw it everyday, with every patient that prayed for pity when the pain became all too much. Cries of the sick plagued your every waking moment; who were you to deny them release? Their suffering ended the moment you injected the drugs.

But you’ve never seen death like this before.

“Daydreaming again, angel?” Tendō swipes a disinfectant across the cold metal counter, rubbing until pools of pomegranate red match his long, messy hair. Despite the dreariness of the task, an impish smile remains plastered across his face, the glint in his eyes unscathed by the scene you’d both just witnessed.

“It’s still Doctor to you.” Try as you might, your voice comes out shaky, your heart pounding so hard you’re worried it may actually jump out. That feeling never quite leaves you.

He straightens his gloves and out comes his signature laugh—that high, maniacal, chuckle that stops just short of a song. You’d rip out your car radio if it meant getting rid of it.

“You haven’t been one for a long time.”

The truth makes you shudder, but he’s right, of course. Once your license had been stripped away and you were on the run, your career had officially ended. An ‘Angel of Mercy,’ all the news stations had called you, yapping on for days when you were that week’s most wanted woman.

You don’t have the right to be called a medical professional and yet, you stand your ground. If it means getting him to quit with the dreadful pet name, you’ll say just about anything.

“Your boss calls me Doctor.”

“Because my boss can’t remember your name.” He meets your eyes, lips quirking upward at the little huff that escapes you, your furrowed brows spilling bits of frustration you so desperately attempt to keep bottled. The air hangs heavy with the shrieks of anger you wish you could unleash, all the words you don’t dare say aloud in fear of looking weaker than he already believes you are.

Instead of challenging you further, Tendō simply turns away, chucking the wipes in a bin and humming a tune far too cheery for a man who just ended a life.

When night comes, you dream of the older man who begged to see his children one last time and the laugh that sounds like a song.

—

The next day isn’t any better, because it never is. Ushijima’s moles bring in three more bodies for questioning; bodies, because you’ve been instructed to refer to them as nothing but. And they’re young this time, heavily tattooed kids that can’t be much older than nineteen—children that look so much like the thralls of young men you’ve learned to call friends, you have to avert your eyes when they send panicked glances your way.

You wonder if Tendō ever makes these comparisons.

“I’ll only ask once,” the gruff, even voice echoes within the small space. “Who’s your supplier?” Your boss is cold and calculated. He never wavers, never says more than he needs to. He’s everything you’d thought the leader of a crime organization would be and more.

Tendō hovers next to him, gnarled fingers twitching eagerly at the knife splayed between them. It’s his weapon of choice, because—as he mentioned your first day on the job—he can ‘take his time with them’.

The captives crack immediately, pleading helplessly for their lives as they vow they know nothing. They probably don’t, appearing to be nothing more than lowly thugs in a long hierarchy of vile men. It doesn’t stop what comes next.

As expected, Ushijima remains silent except for the soft sigh that leaves him. Tendō sighs as well, though it seems more pleased—euphoric, even—than bored. He presses a slender finger into the tip of his knife, watches as a bit of blood runs down his lean arm, paints a strip of his tattoos red, and drips onto the metal table.

“Are they ours now?” Ours. The word brings bile to your throat. Ushijima makes his way to the door, bluntly calling over his shoulder,

“Do what you must.”

You push up your glasses, Tendō grins, and the screaming begins.

—

Blood-stained lab coats are a staple of your wardrobe. No matter how hard you scrub, fingers raw and aching, the faded pinks never seem to give. You quit months ago, resorted to throwing the worst ones away instead of putting yourself through that hell.

This coat’s going straight to the bin.

Through every horrid interrogation, you’ve forced yourself to watch. You’ve never looked away, never dared allow him to smell the fear off of you. You hand him the tools, write the information on the clipboard, assist with cleanup and disposal, and answer any questions he may have—like the good little medical doctor turned mafia member you should be.

And Tendō smiles the whole way through. Even as dagger meets flesh, as pained cries shatter your eardrums, as your vision is clouded with red, red, red—Tendō smiles, humming a tune that you hear long into the next evening.

But today, when the third young man had looked you dead in the eyes and sobbed, begging you to tell his mother he loves her, you couldn’t help yourself.

Of course, the towering redhead didn’t fail to detect the misstep.

“Bad day?” He questions innocently, resting his elbows on the now spotless titanium table. His muscles ripple as he leans, boasting the thousands of dollars worth of art across his arms. It bothers you that you notice it, even more that he probably catches you gawking. He sees everything, after all. Everything but the blood still splattered across his body.

“Won’t be the last, for us at least.” Brows raise, as though the thought hadn’t occurred to him. If at all possible, the wicked grin on his face widens.

“You’re exactly right.” And like clockwork, he laughs. Your hands grow cold, ice corroding your veins. He swipes his tongue over his lip, leaving a slick shine on his lips. When he rises and steps toward you, you stand your ground, though you so desperately long to run. “Why so serious?”

“They didn’t know anything,” you mumble under your breath, “and you tortured them anyways.” In all your months of working with him, this is the first you’ve complained—and you immediately wish you hadn’t.

Tendō moves even closer, as though entertained by your tiny outburst. Perhaps he’s been waiting for this moment, for you to finally break your silence. When he speaks, his tone is gentler than usual, but still holds every hint of mockery and nonchalance the bastard is known for,

“It’s our job, angel face.” Another step, another tiny breath you’re holding in, worried that the slightest of sighs might shatter your perfected image of faux indifference. He tilts his head to the side, peering down at you, like you’re- a child.

And the glass breaks.

“Enough.” You splay your hands in front of you, halting him in his tracks, just as he invades your space. “Enough of the patronizing looks, and the humming, and the stupid pet name that you know bothers me!” An accusatory finger is jabbed into his chest. “Don’t you feel guilt? Fear? Empathy? You murder people.”

Your chest burns, heaving with rage. Tendō’s half-smile still sits on his face, words of ridicule ready to roll off his tongue any second. But when you look into his eyes, there seems to be something more—an emotion you can’t quite place. Anger? Understanding?

His next sentence is whispered with such sobriety, you’re unsure who it is you’re speaking to anymore,

“People like us don’t deserve those feelings.”

“There is no us!” The claim may come out crazy, hysterical even— a woman covered in warm blood shrieking within a cold, sterile room. For once, you don’t care. “I’m not like you.”

Those words may be what set him off, hand wrapping around your chin and tilting it up so that you’re unable to look away. Fingers that incite panic and enact violence, fingers you’ve feared since your first day here, clutching you ever-so casually. “Exactly. You’re not like me.”

He doesn’t wait for your rebuttal, gripping harder at your face. “I’ve made my peace with who I am, but you,” his breath fans your cheeks, “you only pretend you don’t enjoy it.”

Then, Tendō’s kissing you. And to your utter surprise, you’re kissing him back. Heat rises within you, the hairs at your neck curling as your lips meet with a ferocity. His palms graze your lab coat—no doubt staining his skin with the blood it’s drenched in—before he’s peeling it off.

When you tug at his messy locks, the butcher smiles and sinks his teeth into your bottom lip. He pulls you closer, hurriedly stripping you of your remaining clothing, until you’re left in just your panties. Hands roam at your supple skin, kneading at your hips, meshing into you wherever he can. All the while, your lips do the same, bleeding into each other until you’re unsure of where you start and he ends.

“No.” The command is stern, perhaps the most you’ve ever been with him. His eyes narrow in disappointment, limbs rapidly untangling from your body. You shove him backwards until his knees hit the edge of the table, nudge him again so that he falls against it, and grab a clean scalpel off the side counter. “No, we do deserve to feel those things.” His grin returns in full force—and he laughs.

This time, you don’t hate it.

“Deep down,” he grunts as you hitch a leg over his thighs and climb onto him, “you know that I’m right.” The scalpel’s pointed tip grazes his black tee, cutting through the material meticulously. You run a palm up his broad chest before pressing a finger to his mouth, smearing nearly dried blood across his jaw in the process.

“You talk too much,” the hushed murmur tumbling from your lips doesn’t sound like you, is foreign and twisted, and too much like him to bode well for either of you. The muscles in his thighs tense beneath you, his hard chest rumbling in a silent glee.

Your fingers brush against his cheekbones and you gasp, losing all perception of who you are. It’s absurd, but the individual you knew before, the persona you so adamantly believed you could uphold, crumbles with a single, soft touch of his skin.

And it’s unfair, really, that someone so beautiful—covered in art, blessed with hair the color of sweet wine and a laugh that sounds like music—could be so utterly fucked up.

When you nick his cheek, observing the drip of blood that trickles down, you wonder if Tendō ever makes these comparisons. And when you lick at it, preening at the groan that leaves him, you wonder if you’re just as fucked up as he is.

All at once, you’re flipped beneath him, back crashing against the cool metal table. He climbs down and drags his pants off, yanks you towards him with one pull of your thighs, and presses against your core. A shiver runs down your spine at the heat, crazes you for something you didn’t think you needed.

“By the way,” Tendō speaks through kisses and nips at your neck, “you are just as fucked up.” Though you hadn’t realized you’d said that aloud, you’re unable to retaliate, only wrap your legs around his middle and moan at a particularly harsh bite. He soothes every spot of broken skin with his tongue, drifting downwards until his lips meet your cotton panties. “How cute.”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly expecting thi– Ah,” your complaint is cut short when he moves them to the side and licks a long stripe up your slit. And he doesn’t stop, lapping and sucking at your soaked cunt, holding you down with one lean arm when you writhe in response to the pressure. “God, fuck.”

“Satori, but I’ll take God too,” he smirks against your mound. It’s then that he inserts a lithe finger, then two, stretching you out until you’re tugging at his long locks, goosebumps raised as the warmth of his mouth intertwines with the cold beneath your back.

You’re panting, unconcerned with time or it’s passing, only his fingers, his tongue circling your puffy bud, and your steady ascension to the edge. Just as your legs tense, breath caught mid-mewl of his name, he stops. You lean up on your elbows, rut against him, searching for more—friction, movement, anything—but he doesn’t let up.

“Fuck- why?” Your cry is loud, whiny even, but you don’t particularly care when euphoria’s been ripped away from you so suddenly.

“Tell me I’m right,” he teases, eyes peering straight through yours. You whine again, a mix between a pained groan and ‘are you fucking serious?’ before he flicks at your bud once more. “Say it.”

And you do. Because, as strongly as you've denied it, you’re every bit as perverse as he is, every bit as infatuated by the idea of power, of playing God—of holding a life between your fingertips and choosing death.

The second the words are out of your mouth, he thrusts deep into you. Your fingers scramble for purchase, nails dragging against the table, then his back, as skin slaps against skin.

There’s nothing gentle about Satori, all lean, hard muscle and jagged edges, but the pain is just as blissful as the pleasure. His fingertips rub at your clit, other hand moving to wrap around your throat and squeeze tightly.

“Satori, I- I need more,” you choke out, lightheaded. And he complies, shifting you to your side and throwing one of your legs over his shoulder. Your cries melt into his, sweat soaking your skin, your hair, the table, as he pounds into you over and over again.

“That’s it baby– fuck, let go for me.” He presses the long-forgotten scalpel against your throat—and your vision goes white. Electricity sparks through your spine, your tongue lolls out, and you swear you feel tears run down your cheeks.

He doesn’t stop, working you through the orgasm as your legs bind his waist. A few more thrusts and he’s following you, holding your hips against him so tightly, he’ll probably leave deep purple bruises.

He finally stills, chest falling against yours and heaving, allowing you both to catch your breath. Flashing a set of pearly canines, his wild grin and the glint in his eyes reappear. For the first time since you’ve known him, Tendō is completely silent.

And then he laughs, lawless and untamed, the howl of a hyena that sounds like a song—and you laugh too.

#tendou satori #tendou x reader #satori tendou x reader #haikyuu smut #satori tendo x reader #hq!!#tw blood #tw knife play #tw death #tw dark themes #tw dark content #tw asphyxiation #tw blood play

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wyn-n-tonic · 4 years

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Golden, Like Daylight -- Part II

Word Count: 1,846 Warnings: References to drug use. PTSD. Ben Affleck. As always, if I forgot anything please message me and I'll amend this warning. A/N: Protect Francisco Morales at all goddamn costs, honestly.

MASTERLIST | PART: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX

“Fish?”

He cringes inward at his military nickname, it rips at his heart hearing it drip from his best friend’s mouth now. This man he would die for, almost has died for. None of the others had called him that in years, he insisted on Frankie with them. But he’d barely heard from Santiago, had no way of telling him.

He hears the words he’s saying, same shit he always says:

“I need a pilot. I can’t do this thing without you."

Years of that shit pulling him into another tour here. A deployment there. Again and again. Long after he served his sentence and was free to go.

“I don’t know, man. I got the new baby now,” he beams. Santi didn't know Luna and all Frankie wanted to do was tell him about her but he holds back, opting instead for, “And my lady isn’t into my doing this kinda shit anymore.”

He looks back at Will, a knowing look exchanged between the two. He is begging for his brother to step in, say something. Save him. He’s throwing Leah under the bus but, fuck it, it’s true. She isn’t into him doing this kinda shit anymore. And she wasn’t the biggest fan of Santi, always coming up with shit to get the rest of the boys into.

“Wha—what does that mean?”

Frankie lets out a breath he feels like he’s been holding all day and stands, knowing he’ll start shaking if he doesn’t. The knee bouncing is getting out of hand but he was hesitant to seek out anti anxiety medication while detoxing. He’d just sweat it all out anyway. Santiago’s droning on behind him, hell bent on staving off rejection.

“Did you read the text? This can change you and that baby’s life forever.”

Leave it to Santi to exclude Leah, he wasn’t necessarily her biggest fan either. But to just gloss right over her? Didn’t even fucking ask Luna’s name.

He crosses his arms, “What happened to that bullshit about going back to your mother’s homeland and empowering the people to police themselves?”

Santiago stares him down, a power grab of a laugh escaping him.

“Anyway, I lost my license. I can’t even fly right now.” Please just drop it, please just drop it, please just drop it.

Benny’s wrapping his knuckles. William’s looking between the two. And Santiago? Santiago is closing the space between them.

“I don’t need a pilot with a license, I’m in with the army down there,” he says as if that makes things better. It doesn’t. He knows it, Frankie knows it, the Millers know it. But if there’s one thing Santiago Garcia gets, it’s his fucking way.

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” Frankie’s firm, he’s not fucking doing it this time. He’s worked too goddamn hard on everything. Built a life out of rubble and was this close to pissing it away, he’s not gonna seal the deal on Leah’s promise to go.

Santi paces, frustrated, “Lorea is destroying that country. So we get to take out a very bad man, and, oh, by the way, there’s a winning lottery ticket stuck to the bottom of your cowboy boot.” He says that last bit with a mock tone and he’s smiling, believing he’s got Frankie now. A bit of a tease to rile his best friend up, get him laughing, get him in it. “Every guy in that gym would jump at this.”

“Come on, focus, guys! It’s fight night.” —————

“Hey!” He catches up with Santi in the hall, “I didn’t mean to call your shit bullshit.”

He didn’t, really. He knows where Santiago’s coming from but he can’t be the one in the thick of it anymore.

Another of those cool, indignant laughs, “It's all right.”

“I got busted,” Frankie says coolly, like he’s letting you know he left the light on, “it’s not a big deal.”

Santi’s head snaps to the right.

“Actually,” the taller of the two continues, “It's a big deal.”

“Coke?” Santiago’s trying not to let Frank’s addiction shock him, scoffing, “Jesus, Frankie.”

“Technically, it’s a suspension, I’m still under review but… it fucked everything up with Leah. I’ve been detoxing in Will’s spare room for weeks.”

“You’re telling me she didn’t know before the suspension? I don’t buy that.” Frankie tried to ignore the venom in his words.

“No, she knew. We’ve been in couple’s counseling while I’ve been getting clean, she said she didn’t know it was as often as it was. Just thought it was a hit here and there.”

“So things are good still?”

Frankie takes a deep breath, “We seem to have gotten back to good but that’s not where I wanna be, Pope. I wanna be great.” He looks to Santi and then Will, “What about you? What are you gonna do?”

There was no doubt in the world where Benny stood. He’d follow Santiago into hell. He pretty much had on more than one occasion but Benny always was a wildcard. Will was too calculated for that bullshit, he needed a plan. He needed foundation under his feet, not just charisma and Frankie would follow him. Frankie owed him his life. Will was the one to convince Frankie to hang it up. The one putting a half dead Frankie in cold showers and pumping his fucking stomach on no sleep. Will was the one Leah called when Frankie got too close to the edge. His brother, Luna’s godfather.

“I said if Redfly’s in, I’m in.”

Fuck! Fucking Tom. Frankie takes his hat off, adjusts his hair. I fucking hate Tom. —————

“Tom is not in our wedding,” Leah glared down the kitchen island at Frankie, arguing again about the goddamn wedding party. She didn’t even want it anymore. Had thrown her hands up, on more than one occasion, and begged to just run down to the courthouse.

And it all circled back to Tom fucking Davis.

“We served together for ten years, Leah! It’s a bit fucked up to have the rest of the boys up there in tuxes, Tess as our flower girl and Tom is,” he flails his hands out, “Three rows back with that one coworker who brings you coffee every Friday.”

“Bold of you to assume I’d let Tom sit that close to the altar, Francisco Morales. And next to Alexa? She is my angel and Tom Davis will be nowhere near her, do you understand me?”

“Then marry Alexa, babe!”

Leah put her hands on her hips, “Bitch, I might.”

He breaks and laughs, lifting his hat to rub at his forehead, “What do you want me to tell him then? You have plenty of friends who could be a fourth bridesmaid.”

“How about you drop Benny too?” She shrugs, “Just keep Will and Santi and I’ll keep my sisters. Two and two.”

He throws the hat on the counter, “YOU LOVE BENNY!”

“You're right, baby,” she laughs, eyes bright. A challenge on the tip of her tongue. "Drop Santi.”

He charges after her, ready for her words, and chases her through the house. Their house. Still nowhere near unpacked after a month and he’s cursing the unintended obstacle course he’s laid out for himself. She’s making quick work of it but, fuck, he’s out of shape.

He runs up the stairs, back screaming with every step as he gains on her. It helps his legs are much longer than hers.

She makes it to the bedroom, spinning to close the door but he grabs her before she can, pinning her down with all his weight. She insisted on the nicest sheets they could find and almost never made the bed, preferring to fall right into the softness without much work.

He ran his hand down her body, drumming his fingers in a soft rhythm until he reached her thigh, hitching it over his hip.

Her heart was still racing from the chase but Frankie felt it tick upwards as he placed his lips on her neck.

“Francisco,” she whined, “we can’t do this right now. We have to do grown up things.”

He smiles into the soft skin, “this is grown up things.”

“You know what I mean.”

He looks up at her, “hmm…” He’s got her right where he wants her, none the wiser as he reaches down to her knee and—

“Frankie, what are you doing?” Her voice comes out an octave higher, panic in her eyes pleading with him not to when the corner of his mouth crooks upwards and—

He digs his fingers into the soft flesh at the bend of her knee, smile blown wide as she screams out like a hyena.

“Stop! Stop!” She laughs through labored breaths, “baby, it was just a joke.”

“You're not funny,” he lulls with a kiss.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” her eyes filled with hurt and conviction, “I'm hilarious so… ya know, jot that down.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“But Tom fucking Davis is not in our wedding or I swear to god, Francisco Morales, I will call the whole goddamn thing off. It is my day and I’m not having his big Irish head in my wedding photos for the rest of my life.”

He laughs again, “Fine. But what should I tell him?”

“Tell him I fucking hate him.”

“You don’t hate anybody, baby, I don’t think you’ve got that in your heart. Be serious with me, please. What do I tell him?”

“Tell him,” she thinks for a second, because she absolutely does have the capacity for hate in her heart, “that I can’t choose amongst my friends for a fourth bridesmaid and so I just want to keep the party small with only my sisters.”

He seems satisfied by that, nodding his head. “But I am keeping Santi.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“But…”

Her stare is like daggers, “I’m not talking about Tom anymore.”

“No. No, it’s not that,” he’s laughing, his life is all laughter now. “I just still think we should set Pope up with Kristyn.”

She’s pushing out from under him, sitting up for the higher ground. Her finger is in his face, her words are measured, “If Santiago Garcia even so much as looks at my little sister, I will do what so many have tried and failed to do before.”

“And what's that, sweetheart?”

“I will kill him.”

The whole bed is shaking with his laughter now, “You're right, baby, you’re hilarious.” —————

Will’s in front of them now, hands on his knees, “What's the verdict?”

Tom looks at Frankie, then to Will, “I'm in for the recce if you guys are.”

The world goes quiet, replaced by a high pitched ringing in Frankie’s ear as he downs the world’s shittiest beer.

Fuck.

“Fish?” Santiago’s voice cuts clear through, always had.

Frankie lowers the plastic cup, “When is it?”

“We leave Thursday.”

Fuck.

Again, he lets go of a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, staring off into the ring. Staring off at nothing and everything.

“Okay.”

This could change his family’s life forever.

Fuck.

#i believe in francisco morales supremacy #francisco 'catfish' morales #okay but frankie was actually baby #frankie morales #triple frontier #god i'm really posting another fanfic before bed and dipping i love y'all #fanfiction #pedro pascal #santiago 'pope' garcia #william 'ironhead' miller #benny miller #tom 'redfly' davis #charlie hunnam #oscar isaac #oc #ofc #original character #original female character #fanfic

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moonflower-31 · 4 years

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I Won’t Forget You - Spencer x Reader

Masterlist

Part 25

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

A/N: So, if you haven’t noticed, I’m gonna do one every other day with this so I don’t get burned out again. Hope that’s constant enough for you! Sorry about my little hiatus but I should be good now!

Warnings: Talk of murder, PTSD Flashbacks, the usual stuff.

Also, Feedback is really appreciated :)

Tags: @dra-reid, @eevee0722, @ceeellewrites, @anotherr-fine-mess, @ssahoodrathotchner, @egg-boy03, @helena-way07, @l0ve-0f-my-life, @serendipity-imagines, @kaelyn-lobrutto24, @thatsonezesty13

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of reality - Edgar Allen Poe

Unfortunately for you, serial killers didn't know how to wait. So not two days after Spencer had finally been able to be home with you were they called on a case. Their first one without you since you were hired.

It left you with a slight dull feeling in your heart as you sat curled up on the couch reading the same page over and over as you kept losing focus. Morgan had stayed, as Spencer had promised. But he was currently asleep in Spencer's bed. Something about it being softer than his own with Savannah. Whatever that meant.

You grumbled and closed the book after your fifth attempt at distracting yourself from how lonely you felt. And how the nagging feeling of thinking you're being watched didn't go away, even with Morgan’s less than helpful presence.

You sighed and put the book down on the coffee table and picked up the remote instead. You flipped through a few channels until you find the news channel was having a 'Breaking News' segment. When the title appeared on the screen you almost screamed.

19 year old Arthur Grant goes missing from his family's estate, reward not yet posted.

You widen your eyes, your hands beginning to shake. Why? Why you? Why must you be overloaded with so much grief and trauma? Did some bereavement mailman decide to ditch his route and dump all of the bad stuff on your doorstep?

You didn't even have tears that came to be shed. You'd cried so much the past week that you had run the banks dry and squeezed more than at least 5 headaches out of you. And each of them having lasted at least 4-5 hours. Sometimes more.

Instead of your normal first step of denial, or depression in the stages of grief you unfortunately knew too well, you found anger boiling up through your feet, making your toes curl and your fists clench. You were pissed. Everyone around you was suffering because of Peter's self-absorbed, narcissistic, and sociopathic God-Complex. And you were sick of it.

You didn't care who heard, who came running to see if you were okay. You just couldn't hold back your frustration anymore: you screamed.

You threw the remote against the couch, still having half the mind to keep from destroying it. It was still Spencer's property. You didn't exactly have the 20-40 bucks to give to replace it. So, precautionary aggression was the best course of action.

Your hands found your hair and gripped tightly, letting out a frustrated and loud grumble. You could still see his cocky smirk, his evil eyes as they stared at you like you were nothing but a good fuck to him. You could hear his sickening laughter in your ear, and you could hear the rumble of the gravel underneath the tires of his stupid truck. You were almost there, same feelings, same feeling of paranoid, survival instinct came rushing into your decision making controls and overrided them.

You were engulfed in the flashback, seeing him, feeling the cold metal of the cuffs around your wrists as they dug into your skin, the shiver of having your clothes ripped off of you like you were some prize he had won, it was too much.

You were panting and holding your head, trying to make sense of everything and trying to get a grip on your own reality. You ended up backing up into the dining table and sending things to the floor. This only amped up your paranoid reaction, causing you to be on guard, but thankfully the flashback was able to end.

Then, some poor soul decided to knock on the door. Your eyes snapped towards the mahogany door and you let out an instinctive growl. You then began stalking towards the door, sneering and baring your teeth.

As you made your way towards the door, a pair of protective arms wrapped around you, preventing you from opening the door or causing anymore ruckus from your rampage.

"Woah there feisty, what was all that for? I thought you were seriously in trouble."

Morgan’s calm but worried voice was like a fire extinguisher to your anger and your guard, calming you down in a matter of minutes. The fire quelled inside of you, being replaced with a lake of sadness and pain. And unfortunately, that meant that instead of anger, well, you had to deal with tears. Which you had recently come to find were annoying as hell.

"Morgan…" you breathed, letting yourself become almost limp in his arms. You felt the tears building, almost climbing inside your eyes. You couldn't do this. You couldn't face him again. Face these memories. But you were fucking stuck with them. You had no way of forgetting them. Ever. Thanks to your stupid memory. You didn't want it. You wished you had a normal memory, or at the very least an eidetic memory like Spencer's. At least then you could forget some things. But you? No. No the only things you couldn't remember were whether or not your parents ever really nursed you or even held you when you were an infant. Even the things you did remember weren't pleasant. No warm glow, no blanket colors. Just the cold, monotone voice of your father introducing you to your 'future staff'.

Morgan held you, not asking you any questions. He just let you begin to cry and let out your frustration on him. Your balled up fist gently hit his chest a few times as you wailed and inaudibly tried to explain what you thought had happened. He didn't stop you, just tried to sooth you as the knocking sounded again.

You froze in Derek's arms, the knocking now being persistent and fear-inducing now that you had your overly cautious mind back.

"D-derek…" you whispered. Derek shook his head.

"I'll get it, alright? You stay right here." He says, gesturing for you to stay. He didn't have to tell you twice, you were still hiccuping from your sobs.

Derek slowly approached the door, looking through the peephole before opening it slowly. "Hey… you should've called first. We might've been able to answer quicker."

All of your fears and concerns and panic all ceased at the sight of the man, well more of a boy, that stood in the doorway.

You stood there in disbelief as you called to him, hoping you weren't seeing things.

"Arthur?"

○●♡●○

Spencer sighed as he was put in charge of the geographical profile yet again. He had a newfound routine in having you help him with it so much so that he found it harder to do his job.

Not to mention his mind was filled with worry about how you were at home. How your well-being was, if Morgan would be enough company for you when you had the nightmares he knew you had after everything. He'd been the one to comfort you after each and every one in the hospital. He just hoped that Morgan could still comfort you while he was away.

Not only that, but a certain Real Estate Broker had his mind doing flips and his eyes seeing red whenever he thought of him and what vile thing he could be planning next. Spencer hated being away from you. Especially when everyone knew by now that Peter was a snake and was easily able to slither away. And to sneakily find you as he had done before. Spencer was thankful now that he had asked you to stay with him in his apartment rather than your own. If you were staying in yours, the chances of Peter finding you were 90-100%. And he hated those odds.

So safe to say, Spencer's mind was at odds with itself. And to top it all off all he could think about was what it would be like to squeeze the trigger and kill Peter himself. For you. That's all he wanted was revenge for you. He'd have to make sure he didn't instigate anything, so that it would be seen as self defense. But he would love to feel the backlash of gunfire if it meant that Peter would be dead. And you would be safe.

"Hey, any progress on that profile yet?"

Spencer looked up and saw JJ standing in front of where he stood next to the map, having found himself lost in thought with his fist clenched around the little box of pins in his hand.

"Oh, uh… no, not yet. I was just… distracted is all." He admitted, pulling out the box from his hand and pinning the last two locations for the dump sites.

"From what I can see just from first glance is that the dump sites seem to be within 6 or 7 miles between each other, give-or-take." Spencer expressed, trying to flip on his work brain to no avail. He soon found himself thinking of you before he finished his statement.

JJ looked at him with a sad smile. "You're worried about her, huh?"

Spencer was caught off guard by JJ's question, causing him to turn towards her a few seconds later. "Huh? Who?" He asked.

JJ gave him a slightly teasing look. "You know who. Garcia told us and the rest of the team about your little crush on her. Apparently she overheard you talking to your mom a few weeks ago. Said you loved her." JJ reveals, a gentle and motherly smile on her face.

Spencer felt a warmth rise to his cheeks, suddenly feeling much warmer in his cardigan than usual. "S-she did?'

JJ nodded. "Mhm. It's okay, Spence. Besides, I kind of figured after how you carried her back to the ambulance. She was snuggled up on you. And you refused to let her go until you knew for certain that the lead medic had an actual medical license." JJ teased gently.

Spencer sighed and rubbed his neck, closing the box of pins so as to not spill them all over the carpet. "Is… is it that obvious?"

JJ nodded again, a slight giggle on her lips. "Am I or am I not a liaison for the BAU?" She asked, obviously giving him a half hard time. "But seriously, I know you're worried about her. We all are. But she's gonna be alright. Morgan’s with her. Even with a busted knee he can wrestle any man to the ground."

Spencer sighed. JJ was right. The only reason Morgan had been taken by Peter was because he caught him off guard and was shot before he could shoot first. He was more than capable of protecting you. So why did he feel so badly?

Spencer rubbed his face and put the box down on the map's marker holder. "I know, JJ. I just… I can't help but worry about her. What if she has a nightmare and I'm not able to be there to comfort her? Wh-what if she has a panic attack and I can't get to her cause I'm all the way out here in South Dakota?" He asked, his worries getting the best of him.

JJ lifted her non-full hand and laid it on Spencer’s shoulder, no matter how much taller he was than her. "Spence. She's going to be okay. We have people watching over your apartment building on Strauss's orders. They're doing it on their overtime. I think she's safe. Even then, you're just a phone call away, right?"

Spencer sighed again, now noticing that JJ carried with her a coffee in her hand that wasn't on his shoulder. JJ laughed. "I'd be wary of the day you don't smell coffee when it's available. You're lucky it's for you." JJ teased, handing the warm cup to him.

Spencer took it and took a quick sip of the liquid. "Thank you, JJ. Really. I… I really needed this." He says. JJ nods.

"I figured you did. Now I gotta go address the press. They're gathering like vultures out there. So I gotta be their food source." She jokes. Spencer laughed and nodded.

"Yeah… actually, most vultures tend to go for larger prey than the usual roadkill, as that is more sustenance for them-" Spencer began to ramble. JJ laughs as he caught himself.

"Yeah, just like every animal it seems." She answers before he leaves the room, opening the door wider as Garcia bursts into the room with her laptop.

"Reid! Reid I think I might've gotten word about Peter!"

○●♡●○

"Arthur?"

Your brother chuckles slightly and rubs the back of his neck. "Surprise? Please don't tell me you've watched the news. You know how dramatic mother is. I told her I was going to come visit you and-"

He didn't get to finish his sentence as you very quickly engulfed him in a hug. You felt short, as he had grown much taller than you. But you didn't care. He was still your little brother. And you loved him.

"Y-you're okay… you...you've grown so much…" you begin, looking up at him as you pull away. Arthur's arms had very quickly reciprocated your hug, enjoying the first bit of contact he has had with you since you left.

"Yeah, apparently somewhere in my genes there's supposed to be another inch or two. But I think I'm done." He laughs, laying a hand on your head. You smile at him, your panic completely gone at this point.

Derek raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms from where he stood. "(Y/N), you wanna tell me who this is?" He asks.

You look over at Morgan and laugh softly, Arthur having given Morgan his most awkward expression. He really hadn't changed much.

"Derek, this is my younger brother, Arthur Grant." You introduced. Then you turned to Arthur. "Artie, this is SSA Derek Morgan. He… He was the agent P-Peter captured alongside me."

Arthur widened his eyes and held out his hand to Derek as he gulped. "N-nice to meet you. T-thank you for protecting her. She's really all I've got." He says, rubbing his neck.

Derek smiled and gave Arthur a firm handshake in return. "It was my honor, Arthur. I'm glad she's got some real family left. Not that her work family isn't good." He jokes, nudging your arm. You rolled your eyes and smiled to yourself.

"Hey, as a wise man on Supernatural once said, 'Family don't end in blood'. And I think that qualifies here." You giggle softly, happy to have found even a small bit of happiness and willingness to be able to express it freely.

Arthur shook Morgan’s hand gladly and smiled his signature smile, looking back towards you. "Hey, uh… sis? Can we… can we talk? I haven't seen you for… what is it… five years now? I just wanna catch up." He expresses, his eyebrows turning up genuinely.

You sigh, but nod. "Morgan, can you go into the other room while we talk? Just for a half hour?" You ask. Morgan shrugs and nods.

"'Course kid. He's the only member of your damn family I'll trust. Just don't be gossiping without me." He teases as he leaves the room. You giggle softly as you watch him leave.

"So… how have you been? O-other than-" Arthur began, his awkwardness taking over. You sigh and hold up a hand and look at him sadly.

"Artie… please, let's just… not talk about that. I'm dealing with it. That's all that you need to know right now. You might be taller than me, but that doesn't mean that you're gonna know all of my secrets like an older brother." You tease, guiding Arthur towards the couch.

Arthur playfully rolled his eyes and followed you, mocking offense. "Oh come on, height has to factor in there somewhere Sis."

You shake your head and take a seat beside him on Spencer’s couch, sighing gently. "Nope, sorry little bro." You insist.

Arthur smiles at you and leans back on the couch, sighing as he looks at you. "(Y/N/N)... you… You have no idea how much I've missed you. I pushed myself to graduate with all honors because of you. I got a scholarship too. In business. Because you always pushed me to do better. To do my best. I… I want to do something for you in return. Please. Name it. I can start making it up to you."

You give Arthur a joking look and shook your head. "No need, Arthur. Besides, that was all you. You just needed the extra push. I'm so proud of you." You say, laying a hand on Arthur's arm. He smiled at you and took a sigh, signaling to you that the conversation was about to take a turn.

Arthur's hands intertwined with each other and he leaned over for a moment, his elbows digging into his thighs. "(Y/N)... Look I… I know you said you were okay but…" he sighed again. "Mom she… she forbade me from seeing you in the hospital, I promise that's the only reason I wasn't there. After I promised to testify against her for you she banned me from leaving home."

You widen your eyes, your mouth gaping a bit. "Arthur… y-you're testifying?"

He looked up at you and nodded. "Yeah. She assaulted you at work and literally sold you, sis. If I can put her away, along with him, I'm gonna do it. For you. I want you to be safe. I may not be your older brother, but I want you safe too. I'm gonna try and protect you like a brother should. I couldn't do much as a scrawny 13 year old you know." He chuckled. You laughed briefly, a smile teasing at your lips.

"Yeah… not really." You giggled. He shook his head and laughed back.

"Ha ha. Very funny. But really… it's good to see you sis. I… I'm sorry I didn't do enough for you back then." He exhaled, his expression solemn and regretful. You take his hands in yours and give him a reassuring look.

"Hey, just as you said. You were a scrawny 13 year old. What much could you do?" You point out. Arthur sighed.

"I could've protected you. At least told Peter to scram at least once." He grumbled. You shake your head and smile at him.

"I think I did that enough for the both of us."

Arthur smiled softly and looked down, showing you his vulnerability when it came to you. You squeezed his hands gently, assuring him it was okay.

And you both sat there in each other's company for a few more moments of silence. It wasn't an awkward one, so there were no awkward feelings.

Arthur spoke up a few minutes later, having come up with an idea. "Can… can I at least pay for your therapy? I can pay for it with the money dad gives me. You… you need to see someone. I saw someone, you pushed me to go see Dr. Francesca and now I see her every two weeks. Please… let me do this for you."

You sighed as Arthur began to try and persuade you. Damn him and his puppy eyes. He still had the gift.

"Tell you what, how about we call Derek back in here and we watch some procedural cop show that we can all laugh at and I'll tell you what I decide later?" You narrowly avoid. Arthur thankfully notices this and drops the question.

"Only if the show is dumb enough for a citizen like me to laugh at it." He settles.

You giggle and nod. "Deal!"

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rothane · 4 years

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TRIGGER WARNINGS: Gang violence, violence against women and violence in general. Nothing super graphic and it’s honestly mostly just fade to black and implied, but just to be safe. References to arson and housefires in part one.

NOTES: Technically the first half should have been posted a week ago but I did not get that far lmao so now it’s just all in one. I didn’t proof read so good luck ig.

TLDR; The man Georgia shot last week approached Ro for help in the hospital parking lot and she turned him down; a week later the Rogues beat her ass.

FEBRUARY 5, 2021 / MIDNIGHT

With fires breaking out all over town, the medical center had been all hands on deck. Rowan was sure she broke every traffic bylaw in the book on her way there, hastily dropping all four children off with her parent’s and barely managing to give them a rundown on what was happening. Her heart felt like it was in her throat when she left, unsure what kind of fresh hell she was going to be walking into when she got there and trying to plan for the absolute worst case scenarios. House fires are always tricky. She has a hard time putting herself in her patients shoes, finding herself walking a balanced line of emotional and professional while she keeps it together for all of their sake, even if she knows she’ll cry when she gets back in her car at the end of the night. It’s getting exhausting --- every day seems like it just brings a new battle for them, and honesty she isn’t sure how much longer the town is going to be able to stay standing.

Her shift at the hospital goes by exactly as she thinks it will. She holds herself together amongst all of the tragedy, delivering care to her patience with professionalism and empathy for their situations. It’s difficult to leave them at the end of the night, knowing that they’ve just had their entire lives ripped out from under them. Harper doesn’t have a home to go back to tomorrow when she’s released, the last memory she had of her fiance having literally gone up in flames right in front of her. Her niece will be staying at the hospital for at least a week, if not longer. Her little body has taken far more damage than it should have, leaving her lungs compromised and her breathing in need of assistance. Rowan knows, sadly, that this is only the start of a long journey of recovery for the little girl not to mention her brothers and her mother, who are all sure to have some sort of PTSD from the ordeal. Part of her doesn’t want to leave at all, knowing that her best friend and her sister could both use the support of her there but honestly, she’s running on fumes and she just can’t stay there any longer. So she makes her rounds and says her goodbyes, promising to be back in the morning and takes her leave.

When she finally makes it down to the parking lot, she’s so tired she isn’t paying attention to her surroundings. It’s something that she can practically hear her husband scolding her about, but in the moment all she can think about is going home, taking a shower and sinking into bed for the next six hours. She’s pulled from those longing thoughts, however, at the feeling of a hand on her shoulder. She nearly drops her keys, letting out a yelp as she spins around to see who it is. She doesn’t recognize either of them. A man and a woman in cuts she can only assume say Rogues on the back of them, the man clearly in need of medical attention as what looks to be a bullet wound on one of his arms seeps blood onto the concrete around them.

“He needs help.”

Rowan barely hears the words over the sound of her heart beating in her chest and she’s already mentally calculating how long it will take her to turn around and get into her car. She’s pretty sure she can outrun them, given the state the man is in but she has no idea if they’re armed or not -- though she has a feeling it’s leaning more toward the former.

“He needs to go inside. The doctor on call will take care of him.”

The response that comes is what she had been expecting, but she backs up enough that her back is against the SUV when the woman begins speaking again. “We’re not here to have a paper trail followin’ us. We know you work for the club off the books. You’re gonna do the same for us.”

Before Rowan has a chance to properly respond, the man makes a noise of pain. His partner is distracted, giving Rowan a window of opportunity to make her move and within a split second, she’s slamming the door behind her as she gets into her car. A second later, the door handle is being violently yanked on, and she glances out the window to see the man slumped against a car a few rows away and the woman banging on the glass.

“If you leave now you’re gonna regret it.”

But it falls on deaf ears, shaking hands moving to put the car into drive, tires screeching as she flies out of the parking lot and watches her figure get smaller in the rearview. For a moment, she wonders if the whole thing had been some kind of exhaustion induced hallucination, sure that something like that couldn’t have actually just happened. But the blood streaked handprint on her window is a difficult reminder that, unfortunately, it had been very, very real. A string of curses leave her lips before taking a deep breath, fighting off the urge to vomit and while she wants to head straight home, Rowan knows better. While she had only seen two people, who really knows just how many members of the Rogues had been there and she picks up her phone to call Ryder while taking random turns on the off chance that someone is tailing her. Ten minutes later she finally gets home, Ryder having met her in the driveway and his presence is more than enough to keep her from completely losing her shit.

FEBRUARY 14, 2021 / 7 PM.

Rowan is late --- something she doesn’t do very well with. A follow up appointment with a patient from a few weeks ago having gone over time and left her scrambling to change out of her scrubs and into her dress in her office bathroom. When she finally comes out, still struggling to get her shoes on, she can tell the prospect who has been stuck with babysitting duty is anxious. It’s clear in the way he checks his watch for the third time since he sat down in the patient’s vacated seat, and the way he can’t stop bouncing his leg.

“You got a hot date waitin’ on you, Todd?” She teases him gently, and his cheeks flush with embarrassment.

His voice is higher than usual when he answers back, sheepish and uncharacteristically shy at being called out. “My girlfriend. She made dinner tonight, and she’s not a real patient lady.”

“Sounds familiar,” she snorts in response, finishing the buckle on her shoe and slipping her jacket up and over her shoulders. Todd is still just a prospect and obviously has a ways to go before he actually finds himself patched in and able to give his girlfriend the Old Lady title but if she’s as impatient and stubborn as he has lead her to believe over the weeks, Rowan has a feeling she’ll be able to hold her own more than well enough. “I’ll make you a deal, once we get down to the parking lot we can part ways. I’m just goin’ over to the restaurant anyways, there’s no need to follow me.” It’s clear that he’s about to protest, surely going over the laundry list of threats her husband has made over the last month and Rowan is quick to interrupt. “It’ll be our secret. If you make it home on time maybe you can still get lucky tonight.”

And that has him embarrassed enough that the poor kid doesn’t bother arguing anymore. Instead, they take the elevator down to the main floor where Rowan signs out and they take their leave. His motorcycle is parked next to her car, and they exchange goodbyes and Rowan gets in one more teasing jab about him having a goodnight before the two of them take separate exits. The drive to the restaurant is less than twenty minutes, and Rowan figures if she speeds, she can make it in twelve. But judging by the flashing lights behind her, she has a feeling that hadn’t been her greatest idea. She curses under her breath, pulling over to the side of the road as what she assumes is a police cruiser pulls up behind her. She fumbles to get her license and registration out after rolling the window down and she’s already spewing an excuse when someone approaches the door.

“I know I was speedin’. Sorry, office I---”

But it dies on her lips when the person leans forward and she sees the same woman from a week earlier. “Hey sweetheart. Remember me?”

The words have her blood running cold, but before she can think of an escape plan the familiar feeling of fingers tangling in her hair pulls her back to the moment, her face coming down with a harsh blow to meet the steering wheel. “You should’ve just helped us when you had the chance.” Rowan’s already disoriented, though she begins to fully panic when her door is flung open and she is pulled from the vehicle. After that, everything seems to be muted and dark, she’s barely aware of what is going on around her and she passes out after only a few moments. Two hours later, she wakes up back at the hospital --- this time finding herself in a paper gown and a hospital bed, a heart monitor beeping steadily beside her.

#the header literally is so irrel i just wanted it 2 look Pretty on the dash NSAIDABNJ #selfie002

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barnesandco · 5 years

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Nikah: June

Story Masterlist

Nikah: noun, Arabic, meaning the contract of marriage.

Bucky marries Peter’s former tutor because her student visa’s about to expire and the government isn’t granting her a green card. Can she find a way to permanent residence by marriage, and if so, will it be at the cost of their hearts?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of guns. Angst. Captivity.

A/N: Written under the Arranged/Accidental Marriage trope for @mermaidxatxheart ‘s writing challenge. I’ll be honest, I don’t really know how to feel about this chapter. Please let me know what you think.

For the first time in nearly eighty years, Bucky wants to be a soldier. Wants to bark orders, organize his troops, pull the goddamn trigger, because this isn’t working. The troops are in disarray, another off-the-clock meeting in the living room going nowhere. The area is dark, their handwritten notes illuminated by Peter’s floating lights. Like enlarged fireflies, they hover above them, casting soft shadows across the contraband paperwork, but do nothing to soothe Bucky. It’s going to take more than that to take his mind off his missing wife.

He’s busy counting. It has been 13 days, 11 hours, and 34 minutes since she walked out the door. She never came back. Every moment since has been only disaster, catastrophe. A complete blur. He tries to put together the jagged shards of the course of events that lays splintered in his mind, recaps the case like a private eye in a noir film, but the storyline is overwhelming. He can only remember the noise. The television static that was the police station he reported her missing in the morning after the fallout. The mind-numbing white noise of the press, of the investigators, his concerned teammates. They’re still concerned, naturally, watching him pace behind the sofa, mind clearly in another dimension.

Peter himself is absent. Has refused to show up to meetings, says he’s taking a break. As if they don’t know that he spends his free time patrolling as much of the city as possible, looking for her. A few amongst them would again suggest that she has run away, if it wasn’t for the notes.

Whoever took her has been sending cruel, little messages, in varying unpredictable fashions. On social media, in the mail, a temporary web domain. All made impossible to track and each more infuriating than the next. No ransom demand, no explanation, just taunts.

Forensic specialists have nothing, behavioral analysts are at a total loss, and Bucky’s at the center of the circus that this investigation has become. He is at the eye of the storm, although currently, he feels like the storm itself, even while it surrounds him, raging and powerful, it threatens to drown him, but he cannot afford that. Not when someone else’s life is at stake.

“Man, that’s enough. Get some rest and we’ll get back to it tomorrow.” Tired and weary, and above all else, worried, Sam decides to call it a night. Bucky doesn’t have the heart to argue. As they file out, Sam stays behind, looking at Bucky, still standing with a manila folder in his hands. The captain comes up to him and takes it away gently. “You’re going to collapse, Barnes. No good to her like this. Sleep,” He says, pointing the folder like a scolding finger at him on his way out, and Bucky sighs. Knows he will not obey this order.

The night is temperate, a gentle blanket smelling of grass and gun-cleaner around him as he steps onto the balcony outside his room. They must have cut the lawns today. It’s a beautiful evening, and he’d appreciate it if there was room for any such thing in his heart. At present, the cavity in his chest is overflowing with fear. He hasn’t been this scared since he was a 20-something soldier in Azzano, Zola’s wicked face above him on the operating table. The intensity of this fear frightens him further. How is he this scared, for someone else? When did the cold metal Hydra poured into him to forge their sword melt into the lava bubbling ferociously with rage and hurt inside him? He has spent his whole life, scorning the cold, and now he is being burnt from the inside out, the fury in his veins sparking a fire in his belly.

Taking a deep breath, he reminds himself to calm down. Remembers that the magma can and will pour into his lungs if he lets it, will stifle his air supply until he is as helpless as his wife probably is, wherever she is. Sleep is not on the cards, so he comes back into his room and picks up the Glock under his pillow. Sits to clean it again tracing the indentations and following the lines.

“Sign here, sir,” The official’s baritone voice requests, pointing to the dotted line on their accepted marriage license. The black fountain pen is cold in his hands, and he hurries to sign. Their witnesses - another married couple that were waiting in line for their ceremony - shuffle impatiently. The document is slid over to her, and she does the same. Bucky doesn’t know whether his sigh of relief is releasing the burden of anticipation from his shoulders, or making room for the burden of a false marriage on them. The formalities are discussed in short time, prenuptial agreement non-existent, and the man congratulates them professionally behind half-moon glasses.

She nods, smiling, and they get up to thank the witnesses as their own file in, along with their few guests. Courthouse marriages are popular, Bucky notes, buttoning his jacket. They leave the building, walking a few blocks to grab a taxi, silent and cold. Night falls by the time they get home, the elevator ride feeling like weeks instead of minutes. The keys jingle as he turns the lock, and he and his bride step over the threshold of his house. Not their home, not yet.

Sam’s frantic knocking rouses him from his uncomfortable sleep, his back against the side of his bed and legs splayed out in front of him, gun still in his hands. He thanks God the safety’s on, and goes to open up.

“What?” He says shortly to the man who is breathless and alert, bursting with something to say. Sam holds up a key.

“The agent who gets sent to check your mail in Brooklyn just got back with this,” He says, giving it to Bucky. He looks over it, the silver glinting and reflecting off the metal of his arm. It’s vaguely familiar, and he thinks he should recognize it, but he does not. Not until he reads the number, and his heart drops to his knees, last night’s scarce dinner threatening to resurface.

“The storage unit,” He murmurs, tracing the number on the plastic keychain attached to the key. 3-8-4.

“What?” It’s Sam’s turn to ask as he takes in his friend’s expression, knowing this means something.

“We rented a storage unit to put her stuff in when she moved in with me,” Bucky explains, rotating the key in his hands, as if there is a hidden clue in it. “This is the key to that unit.”

“Then we should go,” Sam determines, throwing a call to suit up over his shoulder at him, and ordering Friday to gather the others.

Two hours later sees them at the storage facility, heavy red gate imposing in front of them. They can hear the ambulance on standby outside, the buzz of media attracted by the movement of armed forces inside the city. The SWATs nod for him to open the gate, rifles on their shoulders, and Bucky sarcastically thinks this might be one hell of an anticlimax, until the gate slides up with an unholy groan to reveal his wife.

The smell of sweat and stench and human waste, along with those curse MREs slaps him across the face harshly, but he needs to get to her. This is nothing, compared to the hell of the past few weeks without her.

Finally, here she is now- his bruised, tired, but very much alive wife. Her bloodshot eyes widen at the sight of them all, black-clad special ops and a team of Avengers, him still at the side of the entryway. They all lower their weapons, but she scrambles back, gag in her mouth biting at the corner of her lips when she gasps, frightened. Then she sees Bucky, and it’s like an ocean wave washes over her. She is clad, well-covered, yet he slides his combat jacket off, approaches slowly and drapes it around her shaking form before doing anything else.

Maintains eye contact while cutting the ropes the bind her hands and feet and pulls off the gag. For a painful moment, she stares at him, frozen in time, and then the dam breaks, and she collapses. Falls into his arms, great, gasping sobs erupting from a chest he didn’t know could hold that much sorrow as she cries against him. Her sanctuary is ripped away when the medics arrive, as they ask for her to be taken to the hospital, she needs to go, Mr. Barnes, but she clings to him. Screams hoarsely until they stop insisting and give them space.

Bucky nods to them - telling them he’ll bring her to the ambulance - over the top of her unwashed head, the tiny jhumkas from the iftaari still in her ears, one blood-stained, digging into his shoulder as she tries to hide in him. Tries to bury herself in his body, tries to make herself disappear. Again. Sam’s calling for everyone to back up, and Bucky’s grips grows tighter. He’s going to bend down to pick her up bridal style when she passes out, dead weight in his arms. The medics rush forward again, but he waves them off, carrying her back himself.

She wakes up in the ambulance on the way back, fraught like a tense rope, but doesn’t open her eyes. His only indication of her consciousness is how she squeezes his hand feebly, and he squeezes back, thinking: it isn’t fair.

Taglist: @suz-123 @mermaidxatxheart @buckyreaderrecs @shield-agent78 @corneliabarnes @readerandcinephileingeneral @stevieboyharrington @notsomellowmushroom @veganfangirl5 @mood-pancakes @lbuck121 @starnight-charmer @redhairedfeistynerd @geeksareunique @samingtonwilson @alyxkbrl

#ayesha writes #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader angst #bucky barnes x desi!reader #bucky barnes angst

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thanksjro · 4 years

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Spotlight: Trailcutter - Trailcutter Threatens to Kill Several People For a Good Noodle Star

The Spotlight issues- the one-shots that focus on a single character in an effort to get readers interested in them (and sell toys, of course)- are a funny thing. The ones relating to MTMTE characters within the timeline of MTMTE’s events were written nearly a year after the events during which they are set.

The Spotlights as a whole don’t stick in my brain terribly well, and that’s probably because when I first read IDW’s run back in 2016, I went by publication dates instead of story chronology. I don’t think that really leaves itself for a properly cohesive reading experience, at least not in this particular case. It doesn’t help that a lot of the other ones weren’t super awesome reads, in my opinion. Spotlight: Cyclonus isn’t exactly my favorite thing, for example.

The Scavengers storyline gets interrupted anyway with the Annual, so I figure I might as well slot these in here as well. Really, I should have covered this between MTMTE #5 and #6. Well, technically, I don’t have to do anything in any order, but it’s what I would have preferred.

Anyway, let’s see what's up.

Looks like the Lost Light’s seen better days. It’s had a hole punched in the side of it, and Trailbreaker’s been asked to use his forcefields to keep the vacuum of space from doing its thing while all the Headmasters slap some duct tape on the rip.

No, they aren’t actually Headmasters in this continuity, but it’s not often Highbrow gets to exist in the story proper, so I figured I’d take advantage of that.

Rodimus, impressed by the quick response to the damage, decides he’s going to hold a little ceremony for the boys- not Trailbreaker though, because I guess nobody told Rodimus he’d pitched in too.

Soak it in, Highbrow, because this is the closest thing to main character status you’ll be getting this whole comic run. Be mindful up there now, because if Chromedome turns too fast he’ll take your head clean off with those massive shoulders.

Each of them receive a Rodimus Star, a medal with Rodimus’ face on it signifying that the owner has done something exemplary to earn it. It is in no way shaped like a star.

Trailbreaker, bummed out that he wasn’t recognized for the work he put in, decides to drown his sorrows at Swerve’s, which at this point is still technically not on the up and up and is running illegally. Unfortunately for Trailbreaker, the afterparty is also being hosted here, so he’s not actually escaped anything.

Off to the side, Chromedome and Brainstorm are chatting with Tailgate, who notes the theming of the award-winners’ names, and thinks it’s very funny. Chromedome explains that they’re actually nicknames, from when they all worked together.

Back at Trailbreaker’s table, he’s trying to keep himself entertained, when Whirl happens. Whirl, being Whirl, makes a rude comment about his face, claiming he has an expression he makes whenever he uses his forcefields. Trailbreaker denies this, but he totally does.

Whirl asks what’s eating at Trailbreaker, not that he really cares, and after a bit of hemming and hawing, finds out that Trailbreaker’s really bothered by the fact that he was the only one on the repair team that didn’t get a star. As it turns out, Rodimus has been passing these things out like hotcakes, because Whirl’s got one too. Pretty much everyone but Trailbreaker has a star at this point.

Whirl decides to cut out the middle man and yells at Rodimus to get his McDonald’s-looking butt over here and proceeds to cut to the heart of the matter.

Implying that Drift doesn’t already have twenty Rodimus stars for just existing.

C’mon Rodimus, just give him a star. You obviously ordered way too many if you’ve given one to Whirl by this point, and Trailbreaker’s obviously feeling low.

Whirl, not satisfied with this answer, decides to inflict his special brand of help on Trailbreaker, and decides that it’s time for a little self-improvement.

But y’know. Not like he really cares.

Totally.

The first step in the Whirl Self-Help program is to throw away your old identity while insulting/infatuating over Ultra Magnus.

Now the Spotlight subtitle makes a lot more sense. Trailbreaker/Trailcutter is one of the many characters within the Transformers franchise who suffers from trademark issues, which is why he’s got more than one name. We’ll see him flipflop between the two in MTMTE- or rather, other characters flipflop between them- OR RATHER Roberts flipflop between them.

As is, Whirl takes to the change immediately, probably because he himself has gone through the process in the past.

So, talking yourself up is the next step, but Trailcutter doesn’t really want to reinvent himself, per se; he just wants to be a little more than the guy who does forcefields. He wants people to see him for him, y’know?

Whirl thinks the answer to this conundrum is to get Trailcutter a gun.

They go find Brainstorm, who’s currently busy trying to figure out just what exactly the ship hit to punch such a big hole in it. They’ve brought in the big metal something, and he, Perceptor and a couple other nerds are giving it a good once-over.

As Whirl gushes over Brainstorm’s many inventions- lot of love coming from Whirl this issue- Brainstorm questions Trailcutter’s desire to get into traditional weaponry, seeing as he’s got some sweet stuff going on already, namely the forcefield thing and the magnawheels, which we’ll get to see in action later.

Trailcutter leaves to go take a depression nap.

When he gets to his room, he finds his roommate, Hoist, to be absent. Hoist is off on his own adventure, which is covered in his very own Spotlight. Of course, because Trailcutter is playing the buttmonkey today, he still doesn’t get left alone, as he receives a call from Swerve, who’s probably super jazzed that he’s not the most beat-down character on the ship for once.

Swerve’s supposed to be doing a sponsored silence in exchange for a Rodimus star, but he’s find it very difficult, thanks to the whole “cannot shut the hell up” thing. Swerve, much like everyone with teeth in this issue, looks like he’s got a retainer in, showing that little bit of artistic license off as he asks Trailcutter for a favor.

And on that note, let’s take a brief look at the artist for this issue, Matt Frank.

Frank’s only worked on a couple other things within Transformers, one of which being the second half of the Animated comic “First (and Second) in Flight.” His style is very different from our regular artist, Alex Milne. While Milne seems to prioritize the more technical aspects of the Transformers designs, even in the relatively streamlined looks for MTMTE, Frank’s art is much more simplified, almost soft-looking. Characters look as if their faces would squish if you grabbed them by the cheeks. There’s a lot of expression, almost to the point of looking straight-up cartoonish. While I’m not sure that this style would have worked with the more serious storylines of this series, I think it’s a shame that this was the only entry from Frank that we got to see. It’s a little funky in spot, but I like how emotionally open it feels, if that makes sense.

Getting back to the story, Trailcutter hangs up on Swerve and plugs in for beddy-bye, wishing that he were a normal dude and that everyone would just shut up about his forcefields.

See, I told you- depression nap.

Trailcutter, feeling that something’s up- both with the ship and himself- heads out to find a friend. What he finds instead is profoundly disturbing.

Clearly there is a dark evil at work, if Huffer’s smiling. He shouldn’t be able to DO that.

Trailcutter wanders around the ship, finding more of the same strangeness going on: everyone is frozen in place, even Rodimus as he yells at Rewind over those snuff films Red Alert found, firmly setting this issue for having happened right before issue #6.

Trailcutter heads back to his room, and is about to answer a call from Hoist- who is still on that mission from before naptime- when a laser blast explodes his monitor.

Zounds! Some Decepticons have snuck aboard the Lost Light, and they’re looking for trouble. Thinking quickly, Trailcutter pops out of his hiding spot to forcefield the pair… except he doesn’t, because something’s wrong. His forcefields aren’t working.

The art’s a little hard to follow here, but it looks like Trailcutter just ripped Whirl’s tit-guns off and used them to shoot that guy. Radical.

With the enemy fully distracted, Trailcutter jumps over a chair and bolts for the exit, using his magnawheels and showing us exactly why they’re called that.

They’re wheels that act as magnets. That’s why.

He hacks the door to the medibay and uses it to kill a man, crushing his head, then gets the other guy with a pair of resuscitation pads. Day’s saved! Good job, Trailcutter!

Just kidding, we still have another half of this issue to get through.

The guy Trailcutter just knocked out with medical equipment gets a call. Good thing Trailcutter’s good at impressions.

Turns out, there’s a LOT of Decepticons on the Lost Light at present, and they’re after something in the shuttle bay. Looks like Trailcutter’s got some work to do. Might as well set yourself up for success, huh pal?

Gee, Brainstorm, wonder how much of all this nonsense is your fault. I’m going to guess at least all of it.

Trailcutter stocks up on the heroic necessities, and heads over to shuttle bay 3.

Lockdown’s here, and he’s brought a third of the villain lineup from Transformers Animated with him. Trailcutter brings on the bravado, dumping the two Decepticons he took out earlier on the floor and asking just what the hell these guys think they’re doing on his ship.

Lockdown isn’t terribly impressed.

Trailcutter, what the actual, genuine fuck is that even supposed to mean?

Stealing Whirl’s little talking-up speech, Trailcutter frames himself as friggin’ death incarnate, again not impressing Lockdown very much. Honestly, Lockdown just wants to grab that big ol’ something the Lost Light ran into yesterday and go.

That big ol’ something, you see, is a Titan thumb, and Lockdown and his crew are in the business of Titan hunting. Trailcutter makes it pretty clear that he’s not going to let them take the thing, seeing as Lockdown and his goonies are probably going to use it for nefarious purposes, and so seals himself in the role of the hero for the evening. He informs the Decepticons of his claim to fame, even though his forcefields still aren’t working, then pulls a little magic trick by turning off the artificial gravity for the room, claiming it to be the work of his highly-specialized skills. He lets them go up… then lets them come back down, hard.

Then Trailcutter ramps up the psychological manipulation significantly, using his anime eyes to convince Lockdown that he’s planted a tiny forcefield within his spark, and that he’s fully capable of letting it expand until it rips said spark asunder.

Lockdown and company get the fuck away from Trailcutter as fast as they possibly can, completely terrified and also maybe just the slightest bit flustered by our forcefield specialist. Once they’re out of sight, Trailcutter allows himself a moment to reflect on a job well done.

ARE YOU FUCKING-

Roberts, please, we can’t keep doing this. The sad, proud smiles, I can’t take them.

Trailcutter plops down in the captain’s chair to take a load off, only to get spooked by the hand of Rodimus clapping down on his shoulder.

Later on, Hoist’s returned from his mission to their room, and Trailcutter regales him with his tale of derring-do. Turns out that everyone being frozen was absolutely Brainstorm’s fault, and the only reason Trailcutter wasn’t affected was because he was sleep-forcefielding.

Of course, we can’t just let the guy be happy, now can we?

Okay. I looked it up, and it turns out, the British use “snap” when they’re in a situation where they’ve got the same X as another person, i.e. two people show up wearing the same outfit to an event, or some such. It comes from a matching card game. In America, we say “snap” as an exclamation, like “wow!” or “Jesus Christ!” or “dangit!” Snap is a very versatile word in the States. So there’s your little culture lesson for the day.

Trailcutter, sinking back into his sour mood from earlier, decides to go get plastered, because he has a drinking problem, but not before he goes to make a threat on Rodimus’ life over a goddamn sticker. Thus ends dear Trailcutter’s Spotlight.

#transformers #jro #mtmte #spotlight #maccadam #Hannzreads #text post #long post #incoming analysis #comic script writing

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milstrim · 4 years

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I Made My World for You

Day 11: Crying

Tony had been gone for three months. He wasn't sure if gone was quite the right word to describe exactly what had happened to him, but he was sure that was how it had appeared to his daughter. She was seven, there was no way she'd understood what had been happening, or even that anyone had really explained. He doubted Rhodey had found much time to explain to his goddaughter why her father was missing, after all, the man had clearly been nonstop searching for him for months.

He hoped that Rhodey had stopped by to make sure Penny was okay though. The girl adored him beyond belief, and would listen to anything he said. Truly, he was the only reason she believed the Easter Bunny existed. He'd had the girl since she was born, an agreement being made between her and Ms. Fitzpatrick that he would keep the girl and take care of her. Well, he hadn't done a very good job these past few months.

Tony rotated his shoulder, wincing at the pain. But the arm sling would only stay for the rest of the trip before he ripped it off for his announcement. And while hugging his kid. He didn't want to scare her.

As if reading his thoughts, Rhodey looked up from where he'd been hunched over some supplies and sent him a dirty look, "You better keep your arm in that sling, Tony."

"Oh, I wasn't aware it was necessary," he joked, "You just don't get the same recognition for blowing up a terrorist base single-handedly like you used to."

Rhodey rolled his eyes, "Just keep it in the sling until we can get you to a hospital."

Tony hummed, pretending to play along with the idea of going to a hospital, though he knew he would be doing no such thing. The plane ride was amazingly long, and he barely managed to sleep until they arrived, often jerking awake, half expecting to be back in that cave. And sometimes he wished he was. Then Yinsen would be there, and he could try again. He could save his friend.

But he couldn't.

But he'd get to see his daughter. That was really the only thing that kept him calm as the plane landed, the speed and the bump making his stomach jostle with nerves. Rhodey helped him limp off of the plane when the back opened, Pepper and Happy both waiting for him. The former had a soft smile on her face, tears in her eyes.

"Watch it, coming up here," Rhodey warned, stabilizing Tony as he slid a little bit. Medics began making his way towards them, but he waved them away haughtily.

Are you kidding me with this? Get rid of them," he ordered, managing to make it the rest of the way to Pepper, "Your eyes are red. A few tears for your long-lost boss?"

"Tears of joy. I hate job hunting."

"Yeah, vacation's over," he sniffed, looking around, worry crossing his face, "Where's Penny? How's she been?"

Fear and apprehension fleeted across both Pepper and Happy's faces, and Rhodey tensed up beside you. It made his blood run cold and his heart clench.

"What? Where is she!?" he demanded, and Rhodey winced.

"She's...last month she was taken." Tony drew in a sharp breath, his eyes flashing with panic, "We've...had no contact. No ransoms or--or anything. Obie said he'd lead the charge looking for her while I look for you, and I've been trying to split my time, but..."

"Let's go."

---

A month. A full month. That's how long Penny had been gone, and Tony hadn't been around to protect her. And there'd been no contact...he didn't even want to think about why she must've been possibly taken. Hopefully they were just looking for ransom, and now that he was back to pay a ransom he'd get to see her again. To keep her safe.

Before Tony had headed home he'd still called the press conference, much to Pepper's chagrin and everyone's deep confusion at his announcement. He'd hated every minute he wasn't looking for Penny, but he'd had to rectify what horrors he'd done to the world. He couldn't leave his company, himself, to continue making those mistakes. Those decisions. Not when he could shut it down.

Turns out, his company didn't like it, and was now claiming PTSD and separation anxiety from Penny being missing. The PTSD was 100% not true, but they had a point at the anxiety. After the conference he'd sped back home, hastily greeting Jarvis and going down to his lab, starting his search.

"Welcome home, boss," Jarvis greeted as he walked through the door, the house lighting up, "I've kept the bots from destroying the lab while you were gone."

"Thanks," he said hastily, heading down the stairs, clapping for thee lights to his lab to spring on, "Fire it up, and get me everything you have on Penny's kidnapping. We're finding her."

"Yes, sir."

He combed through footage with a tired yet painfully critical eye, trying to find where his daughter had been taken. Because he couldn't lose her. He couldn't lose Penny, who was bright smiles and big hugs and ice cream after they put her report cards on the fridge. She needed to be safe. To be in his arms.

Penny had been taken while she was at school. Happy had been two minutes late, just a little further down in line, as the camera on barely managed to capture the men picking up a crying Penny. A teacher rushed over, but it was too late, and the minivan had raced off. With his kid.

"Follow it," he ordered, and Jarvis did, switching cameras to try and catch where they had gone. But Tony knew it wouldn't be that simple, not if she'd been gone for a month, and soon enough, the minivan was gone. Without a trace. It wasn't even that it had disappeared, but that the footage had cut out, "Where's the rest of it?"

"This is the last known location of the van, sir."

"Spread out for the next hour in a 100 mile radius, find it."

"I already did that, sir. Three vehicles matching the car's make did not share the license plate and were tracked to find no Ms. Stark," the AI explained, and Tony banged his fist on the table in frustration. He couldn't lose her, not Penny. She deserved to live, to grow up and live her life to its absolute fullest, to make the changes he knew she would make. Because she was unstoppable. But Tony's incompetence might be what stopped her.

"Open a new file, J, and expand your search as far as you can; the van, facial recognition, the whole nine yards. We're gonna find her, and we're gonna be ready."

---

Penny was scared. She was cold and her body bruised from hits that would sometimes rain down from her kidnappers. Because that was what she was. Kidnapped. She was hit often, but mostly left alone in a small bedroom that had little more than a mattress on the floor and a thin, scratchy blanket.

Daddy had been been gone for forever. He'd said he wouldn't be away long, just a few days, and when he came back they'd go to the movies. But he'd been away longer than just a few days. Uncle Rhodey had come back after a week and a half, talking to a bunch of strangers about her daddy being missing and the search to find him.

She'd cried a lot while Auntie Pepper had taken care of her, had had a harder time sleeping. She'd had nightmares, but she was too old for nightmares. A girl in her class had told her so.

The days had stretched since Daddy had been gone, each worse than the last. She usually didn't see Uncle Rhodey either, who sometimes stopped by with a gift and a hug all while assuring her that she was looking for her daddy.

And then she'd been gone too.

She'd been taken at school, taken from car to car with a bag over her head until she'd found herself in this small room. She wasn't sure how long she'd been here, but her skin crawled with nerves and her heart ached with longing. She wanted to be home. Home where it was warm and the blankets were soft and Daddy would always give her a hug if she felt scared. She wanted to be anywhere but here.

Penny felt tears stream down her cheeks for the millionth time since she'd been here, and she didn't bother to wipe them away. What was the point? She'd just cry more later anyway. But maybe she should stop. She was really thirsty, and they had yet to bring her her water and cold soup that she'd been eating so long she couldn't stop dreaming of pizza and chicken nuggets.

The girl sniffled, trying to quiet her cries. They didn't like it when she cried, and the thought made her tense up in anticipation of being hit. And just as the thought crossed her mind, there was a resounding CRASH!!

She flinched at the noise, scrambling up in fear and pushing herself into the corner as more crashes sounded above her. There were mechanical whines and yells of anger, and though it felt like they lasted forever, she was sure it had barely been two minutes.

She strained her ears when suddenly all the noises stopped, no more yells or crashes from upstairs reaching her. But then there were footsteps, sort of. They were loud and heavy, booming as though a monster were shaking the house, and Penny shook with it, trembling against the corner. She could barely look at the door for her fear as each stomp grew closer and closer. Until they stopped outside her door.

The door swung over rather harshly, and suddenly she was staring wide-eyes at a robot. Well, an android, since it was human-looking. It was red and gold, and it stared at her, and she stared back, the silence between them tense.

And then the android took a step, and she screamed.

"No!! St-stay away!" she tried to yell, putting toughness into her voice, only for it to break. The android paused, and then it kneeled down in front of her, reaching up its head. She watched, unable to look away and unable to stop shaking, as it put its hands around its head and pulled, revealing-- "Daddy?"

"Hey, Shortcake," he mumbled, smiling a little, his eyes flitting over her, "It's just me, hon. Just me. I came to take you home, okay?"

"Where--where have you been?"

"Overseas. I was trapped, like you were, and I got home. And now you get to go home now, okay?"

"Are you a robot now?"

That made him smile a little wider, "No, this is a suit. I'll show you more about it when we get home. Can I come closer?"

She nodded. Daddy stood up, his steps still heavy as he approached, but instead of cowering, she reached her arms out, allowing for him to scoop her up and press a kiss to her nose.

"Are you sure you're not a robot?" she asked, suddenly very sleepy as she clung to him. Daddy shook his head, still smiling, as he picket up the scary robot head.

"I'm sure."

"What about a superhero?"

He paused at that a little, and suddenly he looked sadder, "I don't think I'm the hero type, Pen."

"That's bullshit."

"Penny!"

"What?"

He shook his head again, walking them through the door to outside. Outside which she hadn't seen in so long, "I'm gonna have to start a swear jar, aren't I?"

"You don't have to."

"Oh, I love you, Bambina," he said fondly, bumping his nose against hers before putting his mask on, the eyes going from black to blue, "Ready to see the city?"

#Iron Man #spiderman #irondad #female peter parker #irondad fanfiction #kid peter parker

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etlunainmorte · 5 years

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***

V left.

No, he didn't leave you like that, no.

It's just that, he and the other Devil Hunters had business to attend to. An old score to settle, just like what Nero said. Something that was related to someone named Mundus. Well, you didn't know the person ( or if he's a person, at all ) but, V said he’s dangerous. Of course, you wanted to beg him to let you come but, you knew he would never allow it. Heck, the Devil Hunters didn't even allow Nico to come. Lady was one thing but, you being powerless as of that moment? V simply refused.

So, with a promise that he'll keep you posted with everything that will happen to them, he went away with Dante, Nero, Trish, Lady, Griffon and Shadow. He also left Andromeda with you so you could have a source of power should things get awry on your side. Also to keep you vitalized while he's gone.

And just like that, V left.

And that was six years ago.

For at least a year and a half, V never failed to send you letters and postcards, telling you of those wonderful places he visited with the rest of the group in search of this Mundus. Places that he would visit again but, with you by his side. He told you, in these letters and postcards, how much he missed you, how much he longed to be by your side, to hold you in his arms and kiss you and make you his over and over again. He told you how much he loved you and you alone, above all else. You cherished these hand - written notes from the man you loved and kept them close. You prayed for the safety of their group, and for their safe return.

But, just like that, he stopped sending letters and postcards nearly five years ago, which has made all of you, including Nico ( who lost contact with them about the same time V stopped writing ), and Kyrie ( who has to take care of her and Nero's precious five year - old daughter and manage the orphanage all by herself ) awfully worried.

You tried sending Andromeda over and over again to see if they were doing fine but, the entity refused, telling you that it is her sworn duty to protect you and never leave your side. Nico tried many times to contact the team but, every single time she managed to hit a stable connection, something strange and unexplainable would interrupt, leaving her listening to just static. Kyrie helped you send letters to the addresses where V sent his, hoping that he would, by any chance, receive them.

But, to no avail.

Still, you didn't lose hope. You distracted yourself during the day, and you fervently prayed each night. You kept the smile on your face, and kept the hope alive in your heart.

Hoping that someday, he, and the rest of the group, would return, safe and sound.

Maybe it was that hope and inspiration that made you do simple but, life - changing things, which, somehow, made an impact and directly influenced your closest friends.

You may have lost the ability to dance but, still, it didn't stop you from establishing your very own little ballet school for beginners next to a church in Fortuna where you lived. Even the kind and gentle Sister Christina flew all the way from Germany to lend her support as an overseeing headmistress while you do the ballet instructing, yourself. You even have Nero and Kyrie's girl, Eva, as one of your little protégés ( who were mostly from poor families of Fortuna whose homes were destroyed by the Dreadnought six years ago ). You even got the surprise of your life, when, one day, the man who made Galatea showed up in the school's doorstep and revealed that he was, in fact, your parents' grandson. Through him, you found out that your precious parents didn't die, after all, after the Pale Ones abducted you and your sister. They were powerless against the cult, and they weren't able to do anything when the news of the Fortuna Castle's fire reached them. They thought you were dead, and has since moved on and had another child. He also revealed that they never forgot about you and your sister until death, and the old photograph they have of you was the thing that inspired him to make Galatea.

Cagliostro, who was, surprisingly, engaged to none other than Alicia, who has fully grown into a beautiful and mature woman, helped with the interior decorating. He has finally moved on from his heartbreak and found a new purpose in life - to be a much better artist and build a family of his own with his Hispanic fiancée.

Alicia, on the other hand, has figured out that her mother's strange behavior before her death was due to an unknown mental illness caused by a past trauma, and has since then dedicated the early years of her life as a licensed doctor to help people with the same case and helped a larger, more prominent medical team to develop a cure for this.

Petya ( who was balding and happy ) and Natasha ( who still preferred being called Solagne ) never failed to drop by almost every month, bringing both French and Russian beverages with them, just to have little parties with you and the rest of your little group of loving friends. You even saw the haughty woman teaching music to your students during your break ( you only kept this to yourself but, you knew that the poor woman, who, according to Petya, was unfortunately unable to conceive, was longing for a cute little girl of her own ).

Nico, who still kept her lines open just in case one of the Devil Hunters called, improved a lot as an Artisan during those six years of her friend and partner, Nero's absence. Of course, just like you and Kyrie, she never lost hope that they would return someday, and since then, she has developed more powerful and much more revolutionary weapons for Nero to use. Guns, Devil Breakers, and even other, weird - looking gadgets that she called works of art. You even told her that she has surpassed her grandmother, Nell Goldstein, and more but, the woman wouldn't admit this. Said that she must first let Nero test all of her creations and let him admit that to her straight in the face.

Kyrie, just like you, remained ever vigilant. In fact, now that her daughter's growing up, she wanted nothing more than to have Nero finally meet his little girl. She helped you with the ballet school whenever she has time off the orphanage she and her husband built. She even cooked sumptuous meals for you and your little prima ballerina wannabes. And when the busy days were finally over, she, who you built a strong, friendly relationship with over those six years, would always go with you to the nearby church to pray for the return of your beloved ones.

A lot has happened during those years, things that helped you grow as a person.

And on the sixth year during the anniversary of the day you and V got together after so many trials and hardships, you decided to leave Fortuna for a bit to visit Red Grave, where Dante and V's house once stood.

After the Qliphoth incident that almost took the lives of hundreds of Red Grave's innocent citizens, the ruins of Sparda's residence has turned into a secret garden of some sort. For some reason, briars climbed on the broken walls and pillars, filling the whole place with vines, thorns, and roses. Yes. Roses of all kinds and colors. The mansion has turned into the largest rose garden you have ever seen.

You marveled at the sight and settled down, placing your bag on an old bench and sitting next to it. And as soon as your eyes landed on the beautiful sunset, you couldn't help but feel miserable. You and V loved watching the sunset from this very bench, and he has even told you that this has become his most favorite place in the world, now that this old house has turned into a massive garden of wild and fragrant roses.

And the moment you thought of V, you couldn't help but cry silent tears of longing.

Yes, you refused to let them see your weak side but, it didn't stop you from crying each night, from having dreams of him and you being together,...

... of you finally being lovingly held in his arms,...

"Where are you, V?" You miserably wept as your arms automatically went up to wipe your tears with the sleeves of your pink hoodie. "I missed you, so, so, so much,..."

You stayed there for what seemed like hours until you felt you could no longer cry, and when the moon has risen high above the starry sky, just like that one evening when you danced your first ever waltz with him, you decided to stand and retire for the day. Just then, some nagging thoughts plagued your mind,...

Did they fail in their mission to bring down Mundus? What if they, he, never return? What would happen now? What - ?

All of a sudden, you felt the temperature drop. Your hands went up to rub your arms due to the sudden cold that sent shivers up and down your back.

The wind blew, making the clouds roll by, concealing the moon and plunging the whole place in darkness.

That was when you saw,... something,... from a distance. At first, you thought your eyes were deceiving you but, alas, you were wrong.

If anything, they even widened at the sight that greeted you.

An unearthly slash in mid air, the blue and purple light radiating from it as if the atmosphere, itself, was ripped, and some people emerging from it.

"Why did you bring us here?" A familiar voice, which made you emotional all over again, questioned, his voice ringing in the air and disturbing everything within his immediate vicinity.

"Because V told me so!" Another answered.

"Whatever! I'll just go back to the shop and order pizza. Wanna come with me, ladies?"

"You're inviting us, Dante? Are you serious?!"

"Hey, what's wrong with that, huh, Lady?"

"Nothing. Except that your shop probably has six years worth of dust now. No, thanks!"

"How about you, Trish?"

"No, thanks. I want to go back to my own house and have a long bath."

"Eh, whatever. I'm not sharing!"

"Hey, look!"

Your eyesight almost became blurry with tears as the group finally noticed you standing from a distance. From there, you saw Dante ( who, easy to say, has become scruffier than ever before ), Nero ( who now looked a bit more like Dante due to his beard and shoulder - length hair ), Lady ( whose looks somehow stayed the same ), Trish ( who, just like the former, seemed to not have changed, at all ), Griffon ( still bald, and still lanky ), and Shadow ( now the same height as Lady and Trish and no longer a little girl but, a gorgeous young woman ).

But, what made you truly emotional was the figure standing behind them, slightly concealed.

Shoulder length snow white hair now long and waist length, emerald eyes that looked more gentle than ever before with little creases below them, that all - too familiar posture as he leaned on his metal cane, and that smile you missed so much,...

"Hey, uh, send my regards to Kyrie and Nico, will ya?" Dante told Nero as he nudged his nephew with an elbow. He, then, waved and winked at you as he gestured towards the silent man behind him.

"Let's go home." Lady said as she smiled at you.

"I'm with you." Trish replied as she waved at you, finally leaving the place together with Lady and Dante.

"Let's go back to Fortuna, you two." Nero told Griffon and Shadow. "I could sense Kyrie making apple pie right now."

"Talk to ya later, sweet pea!" Griffon yelled and waved at you as he went with Nero and Shadow back to the portal the Yamato has just made.

Which left only the two of you.

You had no idea what went on between the two of you during those awkward and agonizing moments or how long it took for you to finally go to him. You didn't even notice the clouds as they rolled away to let the moon shine down once more. And when he finally wrapped you in an embrace you longed so much for so long, you couldn't help but soak his white shirt with tears.

"Ssh, it's alright." He whispered to your ear as his hands rubbed your back to warm you. "I'm here now. I'm here."

"W - welcome back, V!" You greeted through your sobs, making the poet chuckle in amusement. "I have waited for so long! I never lost hope that you would return, but just now, I thought that - "

"It's alright, my love. Everything would be fine now. Our hunt for Mundus has brought us all to the Underworld. And he is gone. Finally gone. At last, we can finally live in peace."

You looked up at him and let him wipe your tears away with his thumbs. "Is that why we can't reach you? You went to the Underworld?"

"Yes. And I'm afraid to say that,... time works differently there from here. We've only been there for six days but,... when we resurfaced, it seems that,... six years,... has already passed."

"Are you okay? Were you hurt? Tell me, please! I will take care of you,..."

"There's no need. I will be the one who will take care of you. And I'm sorry,... for disappearing for too long,..."

"You don't have to say sorry. You fought bravely for us. Oh, dear God, I missed you so much! I missed you, so, so much!"

"And I missed you too, my love." V told you as he pulled you even closer to him if that's still possible. "You see, I even rushed here to meet you."

And you? You couldn't explain the happiness that was flooding your chest and making it burst.

"But, how did you know I will go here?"

"Cassandra told me."

"Oh, I see."

"Hmm,..."

You gave him a look of utter confusion as he let you go, chuckling as he noticed the pout on your lips.

"I have,... something for you." He said as he grabbed something from his bag. You eagerly waited as he searched, and when he finally handed you a pack of popcorn, you couldn't help but smile.

"You bought this, V?" You asked him as the smell of butter reached your nostrils.

"Yes. We haven't finished Endgame, have we?"

"Come to think of it, no, we haven't." You admitted.

V smiled as he reached for his bag once more, producing a stuffed tiger from it and giving it to you, reminding you of,...

"Is this,... did you win this at the carnival?"

V proudly hummed. "I have,... quite a skill with,... should we say,... sniping?"

Oh, God, he remembered! You happily thought. He remembered I have a really bad aim and couldn't win the stuffed tiger at the carnival.

"And that's not all." V said.

"Hmm?"

"I went fishing."

"Oh, you did?! What happened?"

"I caught a boot."

"YOU DIDN'T!"

V laughed, the sound of his low voice sending warmth all throughout your whole body. In fact, you have never felt so warm in your entire life. And when he handed you a single boot from his bag just for laughs, you fell in love with him all over again.

"I - I never thought this is possible, oh my!" You confessed through fits of laughter, however, at this point, the smile on V's face vanished. You noticed this and went silent as he took the boot from your hands and upended it, making a small velvet box the color of your eyes fall from it. Then, he went down on one knee and opened the box, revealing the most beautiful ring with an emerald attached to it.

Why,... did you not see this coming?

But, whatever the reason was, V was right there, right in front of you, offering you something more than just an emerald ring inside a boot he claimed he has fished.

And when he looked into your eyes, you saw something.

Truth.

Loyalty.

Love.

Passion.

And most importantly,...

I see,... you thought as your heart filled up with love and gladness. My future,... before me,...

"(Y/N) (L/N)," V declared. " ... will you marry me?"

***

🖤 I See My Future Before Me 🖤

***

XXXV

***

🖤 @la-vita , @micaelagua , @vergils-daughter , @beyond-the-mirror , @clevermentalitybeliever , @lessy86 , @ceruleanworld , @diabeticsugarush , @yepps , @shadowrosess , @gothghoulfrend , @heaven-on-a-landslide , and @krazy06 . 🖤

***

#devil may cry 5 #vitale sparda #i see my future before me #v x reader #v x you #chapter 35 #i will #gladly!#finale #but wait #there's more!

41 notes · View notes

liketolaugh-writes · 4 years

Text

Funny Business

Author: liketolaugh Summary: Elijah Kamski is not quite the genius Tony Stark was, which means that instead of 2022, he sends Connor back to 2006 Malibu. Connor is okay with this. (He really isn’t.) Luckily, he and Tony discover a shared interest. Or: “We’re not dating, Pep! It’s just a fling! I have those all the time!” “You’ve been together for six months.” Contains smut.

If anyone had asked Connor, and nobody did, what he’d have imagined the year 2006 to be like, he would have guessed that it would be dimmer than 2038, with everyone holding the newspapers and paper books humans loved to reminisce about; perhaps it would have had a smaller homeless population, with its significantly better employment statistics, and people who stopped in the streets to talk to each other, warm and connected.

For the most part, he would have been wrong. In many ways, 2006 Malibu was not so different from 2038 Detroit; Connor could almost pretend the difference was because of the geographical shift.

Almost. As long as he didn’t think too hard.

Fortunately, Connor had long learned that thinking wasn’t necessary to complete his mission. He’d been in the past for eight days; it had taken most of that time to find himself a position as a bouncer in one of Malibu’s more popular clubs, Incandescence, but the work itself had been easy enough to get used to. That should be enough to fund an apartment for the time being.

Androids would be invented in 2021 and first put into production in 2022. Until then, all Connor could do was bide his time.

His restless skin crawled with a tension so painfully nauseating that he wanted to rip it off and bolt. But that was easy to ignore too, and he rolled his shoulders as he cast a disinterested glance at the driver’s license in his hand – 37 years old, so above drinking age, and only a minor criminal record (drunk and disorderly, public indecency) according to the local database – before passing it back.

“Oof, is that a hard pass from you, doe-eyes?”

Startled out of his reverie, Connor glanced up, meeting the eyes of the patron just being admitted. The man was giving him a roguish, easygoing grin, head tilted arrogantly and eyes just visible behind his tinted sunglasses.

[Tony Stark – CEO and owner of Stark Industries]

[Running search…]

[Stark Industries is the primary weapons contractor for the American government, but also produces several other goods such as intelli-crops, medical technology…]

[Running search…]

[Do I look like Tony goddamn Stark to you?]

[Not to, ahem, toot my own horn, as it were, but if I do say so myself, no single man has had such an impact on how the world viewed technology since Tony Stark himself.]

[It was Stark’s arc reactor tech, of course, that made the energy sources utilized in androids possible.]

[…]

[To think that Tony Stark saved the world just to abandon it to a freak show like this.]

Connor shook himself, meeting Stark’s expectant eyes without reservation, and automatically stepped aside to make room for Stark to pass. His mouth started to open, and then, abruptly, he paused, confused.

Doe-eyes?

[Running search…]

[Doe-eyed: someone who has an innocent, wide-eyed look]

That was an unfamiliar epithet to Connor, but he supposed that the taunts favored by those in the future would for the most part not yet exist. Uncertain of how to respond, he leaned on his protocols for a script.

[Dismissive/Professional/Warm/Flirt]

…Flirt?

> Professional

“Working hours are working hours, Mr. Stark,” Connor heard himself say, tone mild. Stark made an exaggerated scoffing sound, tucking his ID away again and then, slow and languid, dragging his gaze over Connor's body, down and then up to meet his eyes again.

"Not with a face like that in a place like this," he said with an odd lilt. And then he patted Connor's arm on his way past, and Connor went still.

It wasn't a push, to force Connor out of the way, or a swat, swift and angry. It wasn't an accidental bump, or a warning squeeze. It was an absent, casual pat, with less force than you would use to knock on a door, and it sent a burst of electric static across Connor's crawling skin.

He almost looked over his shoulder, following Stark, but then someone snapped their fingers for his attention and he refocused on his work, unsettled.

An hour later, he’d nearly forgotten about the incident, though not about Stark’s presence; a small crowd was clustered around the man, and they were very loud, audible even over the pounding music. Bearing this in mind, Connor broke away from the door to check in with Cirrus.

Cirrus, while not the owner of the club, was one of the longest-standing employees and certainly the best respected; most of Connor’s coworkers looked up to the nonbinary bartender, and he was assured that ey would take him under eir wing soon enough.

Connor had his doubts, but he appreciated the sentiment.

Still, ey smiled at Connor as he approached, waving a glass vaguely.

“Keep an eye on Stark’s group for me, won’t you?” was eir greeting, nodding at the cluster at the end of the bar. “They always get a little rowdy, and they’re tough for me to handle on my own.” Cirrus was short, as adults went, with a soft and unintimidating face and round shoulders.

Connor nodded, shifting around in place as his jacket rubbed against his buzzing skin. “Of course,” he agreed crisply, glancing over. Stark caught his eye and raised a glass and an eyebrow in salute, and Connor looked away quickly, flustered, pulling his jacket more tightly closed.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know who Stark was, of course, even before running his search earlier. The man was such a prominent historical figure that even a decade and a half after his death, people still referenced him regularly. But he was just that: historical, and Connor wasn’t sure how he was supposed to react.

Also. Stark was.

…Connor liked the sweep of stubble over his jaw.

In the next half hour, Connor approached Stark’s entourage three times; twice to firmly remind drunken hangers-on that they’d been asked to leave, and the third to push back one who had started to become aggressive. But it was Stark that Connor’s attention kept drifting back to.

The first time, Stark glanced up at him, smirked, and called out, “Looker’s here to end the party for someone, who’s it gonna be?” And then, after Connor told them off, “Ooh, dom voice.”

The second time, Connor couldn’t stop himself from shooting Stark a look as he approached, and Stark caught him before he could look away again. The man just raised his glass and grinned, and then, as he was escorting the offender out, said, “Hate to see you go, love to watch you leave.”

And the third time, as he was steering the unruly patron out the door, Stark whistled and reached out to pinch Connor on the ass, making him jump.

When he stopped by the bar again, Cirrus was frowning.

“Is he bothering you?” ey asked directly, tilting eir head toward Stark. “I can have a word with him if you want him to eff off.”

Connor blinked, instinctively following eir gaze before deliberately forcing it back to em. “He’s not doing anything,” he said, picking at the cuffs of his sleeves.

Cirrus stared at him, and then softened and snorted.

“He’s flirting with you, hon,” ey informed him. “Like a dog in mating season.”

Connor’s mouth opened, and then closed.

[Running analysis…]

Ah.

Connor had to stop himself from apologizing for the misunderstanding, his skin seeming to tighten around him in his mortification. But of course, Cirrus wasn’t the one he’d been all but ignoring for the past half hour, because he just assumed that he wasn’t particularly intended to respond to Stark’s remarks.

He remembered that Cirrus had asked him a question.

“No, thank you,” he said politely, gaze skittering to one side. “I… don’t mind.” The words were odd and unfamiliar on his tongue.

Cirrus laughed outright.

“Alright, Con,” ey said warmly, eyes glittering. “Don’t be afraid to tell him off if he goes too far. Stark respects a good, solid ‘no’.”

Connor nodded absently, turning back toward Stark’s group as he continued his rounds.

Stark was flirting with him. Now what was Connor supposed to do about that? It was so far out of the realm of his experience that it was almost unthinkable. Where did that fit, in the range from Lieutenant Anderson’s hostility, and Elijah Kamski’s disgust, and Amanda’s detached expectation and the cold examination of the development team-

What was Connor supposed to do with that smirk?

And forget about the, the fact that he didn’t even belong here, that he was wrong and alien and out of place, that he had nothing ahead of him except a decade and a half of biding his time and nothing behind him except blood-

But none of that mattered to Stark. What mattered to Stark was that Connor had a pretty face and a warm body.

The next time Stark leaned back from his posse to grin at Connor, Connor met him with a hesitant smile. Stark’s grin widened into something manic.

“Is that a crack I see in your stone-cold façade?” he asked brightly, leering. “Or have I finally had one too many?” He raised his glass of scotch, half-full as it was. “I’ll go out the door quietly if I can go into yours next.”

> Flirt

“If- you can sit patient for an hour,” Connor started slowly, deliberately focusing on Stark and not the faces around him, showing varying levels of curiosity or disappointment. He hesitated for a split second, and then finished, “I get off at two.”

Stark smirked, his satisfaction apparent in the line of his shoulders, and tossed back the rest of his scotch.

“I’m not known for my patience,” he said, swinging around to stand up. Before Connor could even register his own off-balance disappointment, Stark grabbed his hand and pulled him onto the edge of the dance floor the club offered.

Connor might’ve thought it almost innocent, if it weren’t for the way Stark grabbed his hip next and pulled him close, firm and possessive, eyes bright behind his shaded sunglasses.

Connor suppressed a faint shudder, hyperaware of the feeling of Stark’s warm hand clutching his, their hips grinding lightly together and legs brushing, a hand on his hip, solid and steady and electric on his oversensitized skin.

It was a lot. Everything was a lot, a lot of sound, a lot of texture and color and scent and too much, ever since Connor had been forced awake by Kamski’s program.

Connor had gotten used to shying away from it, flinching and grimacing and looking away. Just this once, he pushed himself into it, letting it overwhelm him.

He let Stark- Tony- steer him, placing his free hand on Tony’s side just to seek more contact. The small crowd shuffled away from them, making room, and Tony didn’t even seem to notice. Like this, Connor could feel the man’s pulse starting to pick up, his temperature rising with the faint rock of his body, paced with the loud and rapid music.

“Got a name?” Tony asked after a minute, when they were well and truly lost in the overheated crowd. “I could just call you doe-eyes all night, I suppose, but it might get a little awkward. Saccharine, you know.”

“…Connor,” Connor said, off-guard despite himself. Tony wasjust the slightest amount taller than him – almost an inch exactly – and it was getting harder to look away from his mouth, an unused program starting to stir to life from the dusty corners of Connor’s system. “I’m- Connor.”

And that was all that mattered right now.

“Come here often, Con?” Tony asked, looking more concerned with rocking them together than with his reticence. It was quick, shallow, and somehow still quite a lot, like a shower of sensation across Connor’s sensors, a distraction from the crawling feeling that had followed him from the future. “I thought I knew every face ‘round here, but I’d remember eyes like yours.”

Experimentally, Connor slid his hand up Tony’s ribs, over the rough cloth of his shirt, and felt him shudder subtly under Connor’s palm, without faltering in the quick shuffle of their feet.

“I’m new,” he said after a second, more focused on skin and warmth and static than anything. It was almost dizzying, and he found himself speaking with checking his words too closely. “I’ve only been here around a few days.”

“Lucked out, didn’t you?” Tony asked, bumping their hips together pointedly. “It’s not every new boy that catches my eye. But you’re like a magnet, anyone ever told you that?”

That startled Connor into a smile. “Not really. Has anyone ever told you that you’re a touch of a flatterer?”

“Once or twice,” Tony said brazenly. “Usually I’m the one being flattered, though.” A turn, the crowd parting around them with only a few stares. “You should be proud, I’ve gone to lengths to catch you for myself.”

Connor almost laughed. “An unusual experience for you, I’m sure,” he murmured.

Tony hummed. “Every once in a while, it’s worth it,” he said, and Connor abruptly realized that Tony was giving his own mouth a lingering, thoughtful look.

“No accounting for taste,” he heard himself say, and Tony barked out a laugh before pulling him closer by the arm, and Connor discovered that his mouth was hot and wet behind dry lips.

It was a lot, bordering on too much; Connor’s chemical analyzers kicked into gear, scrolling chemical breakdowns for scotch and grease and salt and DNA behind his eyes. Tony’s mouth moved against his hungrily, hand tightening at his hip and tugging impatiently to make his hips roll, and the buzz of Connor’s system tracking his rising arousal was almost a tangible thing against Connor’s skin. Bright lights and human sweat and the pound of music pressed in around him, and stubble scraped lightly against the skin of his face.

Something warm tingled in Connor’s belly, and he opened his mouth and hummed between them at the glide of Tony’s tongue against his, feeling his own hands grasp at Tony’s ribs and pull, silken cloth and skin and thread beneath his fingers. Tony grunted, and to Connor’s dismay started to pull away, panting.

But Tony was grinning at him, wild and unmistakably pleased.

“Let’s blow this joint before we get kicked,” he said, eyes bright and pupils subtly blown with arousal.

Connor started to smile, feeling looser than he ever remembered being before, and then stopped, shooting a worried glance at the bar. “But-”

“You’re not gonna get fired,” Tony said dismissively. “They wouldn’t dare, and if they did dare, I’d bribe them out of it. That settle your nerves, doe-eyes?”

It took Connor a moment, but then he took a breath and nodded, giving Tony a hesitant smile of his own. “No need to waste time then,” he offered.

“That’s the spirit,” Tony said, and then, contrarily, kissed Connor again, deep and wet.

It took them a few minutes to make their way to the curb, but a car was waiting for them when they finally did; Tony signaled the driver, winking smugly, before ducking in and pulling Connor after him, so that Connor landed in his lap, almost straddling him. Tony took the relative privacy to start unbuttoning Connor’s jacket, nipping at skin as it was revealed, leaving it raw and sensitive with the scratch of his stubble over the delicate sensors.

“You turn right to putty, don’t you?” Tony muttered against Connor’s collarbone, groaning at the knead of Connor’s hands on his chest. “I wasn’t expecting it, but damn, it’s hot.”

“I’m not, I haven’t done…” Connor trailed off, feeling clumsy and overclocked, but Tony was shifting him to settle more firmly against the growing bulge in his pants and it was even hotter with his hands on Tony’s bare, soft skin and Tony paused, breath hitching slightly in something like surprise.

And then he laughed, taking off his sunglasses and tossing them aimlessly aside.

“You really do go for the jackpot, don’t you, doe-eyes?” he said, bright and amused. “Is this your first time period?” Connor nodded, resisting the urge to rock down against the bulge between his thighs. “Then let’s make sure it’s hotter than hell.”

The car got going, and Tony’s hands moved down to Connor’s ass, hungry and possessive, and guided him to move against him. Connor bit back a hiss, feeling tight and restless and warm, a swooping heat filling his stomach. It was so much easier to focus on Tony away from the bright heat of the club, and he took full advantage, leaning down to nose against his throat and taste the oils of his skin, shooting across his tongue.

“You know, normally guys have a boner by now,” Tony mused aloud, not sounding all that bothered, tilting his head to give Connor better access even as his hands rubbed and kneaded. “I feel like I should take my shirt off or something. That usually helps.”

The car turned, and Connor reached up to catch himself on the seat before he fell, making a soft noise as the movement rocked him against Tony, shooting heat up his spine.

“I don’t have one of those,” he said belatedly, cocking his head to look at Tony. “I… assumed that wouldn’t be a problem?” The records of Tony’s conquests were extensive, and he definitely didn’t have an aversion to vaginal components.

The addition of a sex program to Connor’s system had been almost an afterthought to his production, and he remembered that the team had been distinctly impatient with the software instability his new penis had resulted in. When one of the members had suggested simply switching from penile to vaginal components and washing their hands of the matter, they’d taken the idea and run with it.

Connor didn’t remember why he’d been so unhappy with the other component, but he knew he was largely satisfied with this one, and he liked the aching wetness between his thighs.

Tony shot a glance down between Connor’s legs, and his arousal spiked measurably, heart rate and temperature and pupil dilation and the cock Connor could feel against his thigh, twitching with interest. He dropped a hand to Connor’s lap and stroked a thumb almost perfectly over Connor’s vulva, and Connor shuddered in arousal of his own, biting off another soft noise.

“I think we’ll get on just fine,” Tony leered, and dragged Connor into another messy, eager kiss.

The car pulled to a stop just as Connor found a spot by the hollow of Tony’s throat that made him grunt and shudder when Connor worried at it, his fingers tightening on Connor’s hips, so it took them both another few moments to break apart enough to fumble out of the car.

Almost before the door shut behind them, Tony was tugging impatiently at Connor’s jacket, urging him to shrug it off, which he did hastily before fumbling with his shirt. He didn’t look around at the mansion he’d just been dragged into, didn’t watch the car go, didn’t look where Tony was steering him, just fiddled with the buttons to struggle to bare his skin for Tony to run rough, calloused hands over and make him shiver.

Tony made an appreciative sound, nipping at Connor’s collarbone with a searing wet mouth and careful teeth and his hands rubbing at Connor’s hips like he was trying to coax all the feeling out of Connor’s skin. Then he straightened and grabbed at Connor’s belt loops to drag him on, and Connor followed blindly, focused on Tony’s shirt now, fancy and smooth to the touch but easy enough to, to undo- if he could just-

“Don’t give yourself a conniption there,” Tony laughed, breathy and warm, and caught Connor’s mouth in another kiss, lips sliding over each other, dizzyingly sensitive enough to make Connor’s groin throb wetly when Tony bit down lightly.

Tony finally lost his shirt just as the elevator doors Connor hadn’t noticed opened, and Tony pushed them in. Recklessly, Connor turned to push Tony against the wall, eagerly going at his neck and collarbone because he wanted to hear Tony gasp again, and grunt and groan, and the skin of his chest felt wonderful under Connor’s hands, and he’d shoved his knee between Connor’s legs where he could grind on it impatiently.

“That’s it, baby, just like that,” Tony groaned, tipping his head back and his hands guiding the rock of Connor’s hips. “God, you’re a beautifully needy little thing, it’s been years since I took a virgin home.”

Connor’s mind was half-full of analytics, the taste of Tony’s skin and the beat of his pulse and the texture of the hair on his arms and more, and it took him a moment to respond. “I think you might just be good at winding me up.”

Tony rasped out a laugh. “Maybe that too.”

He dragged Connor up into another dizzying kiss, and Connor fumbled at the front of Tony’s pants, running his knuckles over the hard ridge of Tony’s cock before he grasped at it greedily. Tony broke off the kiss to groan, bucking into Connor’s cupped hand.

“Fuck-” he hissed, just as the doors slid open. “Bed.”

Connor hummed an eager agreement, but somehow it was him who lost his pants first on the way there, and then Tony, his cock swaying thick and swollen and the tip gleaming with a bead of something Connor wanted desperately to taste. Then Connor was being pushed onto the bed, silken sheets almost freshly washed on a mattress that was soft and full and bouncy.

Tony mapped down Connor’s chest with obvious appreciation, making Connor squirm, pushing forward into the touch, practiced rough fingers and steady palms and Connor’s fingers digging into the sheets as he panted, legs folded under him and his thighs just a touch apart.

“I love a sensitive guy,” Tony said with a wink, and Connor heard himself laugh, quick and breathless, before Tony’s hand passed over his stomach and into the soft hair around his groin. “Looks like we won’t need any extra help today. Fuck, you’re soaked.”

Connor hummed, low and desperate, and pushed his hips impatiently into Tony’s hand.

“Touch me,” he said insistently, feeling his artificial flush across his cheeks and his cooling system working overtime and the wet-hot pulse of his groin, so close to Tony’s fingers. “I’ve never been this fucking hot.”

He didn’t know where the words came from, but they made Tony’s eyes darken, pupils blowing with lust, and the next thing he knew a calloused finger was sliding into his cunt. Connor’s breath hitched, and he rolled into it without hesitation.

“Tony,” he begged, hips working needily, almost rutting against the thin finger. His hands lifted again to grasp Tony’s thigh and tug him closer, as much for something to grasp as anything. “You can- you can fuck me harder, please fuck me.”

Tony grinned at him, added another finger, and rubbed. Connor moaned embarrassingly, canting his hips into Tony’s grip, the swelling warmth and the pleasure and the way Tony started to rub his thumb over Connor’s clit.

“I bet you can come on my fingers alone, can’t you?” Tony said conversationally, goadingly. “You’re so wet already, you want it so bad.”

“Yeah,” Connor breathed, everything seeming bright and overfocused around him, but most of all Tony, and Tony’s fingers inside him, and his arrogant grin when he pushed against Connor’s clit and made him groan, rocking against Tony’s fingers. “Yes, please, I can, please…”

Tony added a third finger and rubbed deep, and Connor squeezed Tony’s thigh hard enough to bruise later, his own legs spreading, his eyes squeezing shut.

“So fucking perfect around my fingers,” Tony was muttering huskily, fingering Connor with the ease of long practice and his free hand holding Connor steady, his cock throbbing hot and thick just an inch from Connor’s fingers. “You’re going to look so good wrapped around my cock, doe-eyes, flushed and moaning and squirming. Just need to come for me now, baby. Just come on my fingers like a hot, needy little-”

It was so much, too much, heat and slick and static and God, Connor was going to, he was going to-

Connor pressed his mouth against Tony’s throat and moaned raggedly, hips jerking as he came for the first time, dizzying and hot and perfect, so perfect, a bolt of pleasure from his cunt to his chest unwound everything that had built up in there and left him panting and wet.

He heard Tony groan. “Hell, that was just as hot as I thought it’d be.”

Warm, naked, and all but glowing after his orgasm, Connor realized he felt settled into his own skin for the first time, the crawling, tight feeling from before completely gone. He just shifted as Tony took his fingers out of Connor’s cunt, and then pushed back reluctantly, still flushed with pleasure.

Tony cocked an eyebrow at him, smirking, and Connor blurted out, “God, I want to do that again,” and then flushed deeper when Tony laughed outright.

“Not God, but the next best thing,” he winked, and then reached up and tapped the corner of Connor’s mouth with the still-wet fingers of his hand.

Without thinking, Connor turned his head and opened his mouth, taking the fingers into his mouth. He heard Tony’s breath catch and pretended to ignore it, carefully cleaning off the inorganic lubricant that slicked his groin. Tony strangled a moan, and if Connor’s mouth weren’t occupied he would have smiled.

As it was, his arousal program had noticed that the night was not yet over, and warmth was gathering between his thighs again, his hand reaching over to grasp Tony’s cock and stroke the hot shaft slow and languid.

Connor released Tony’s fingers once they were clean, blinking away the chemical analysis flickering in his vision, and Tony took in a ragged breath of his own.

“Message received,” Tony said at last, and then rolled over to fumble at the nightstand for just a moment before returning with a packet that he ripped open with his teeth. “God, I haven’t been this eager to fuck someone since I was panting over Pepper. And that was a different kind of eager.”

Connor hummed, leaning over to watch Tony roll the condom over his cock, and worried at his neck just to hear him groan again. “I don’t think that’s allowed.”

“Yeah, that’s what she said too.”

Tony leaned over to catch Connor’s mouth, biting at his lip and his thumb rubbing at one of Connor’s nipples, shooting arousal down to his clit like it had never left. Connor clung back instinctively, letting himself be pushed onto his back and Tony’s cock grind against him.

“Last chance to keep your V-card,” Tony said huskily, like one of his hands wasn’t pinning Connor’s arm to the bed and the other playing with a nipple because it made Connor squirm and buck. Connor tugged at Tony’s hip with his free hand impatiently. “Good choice- if I do say so myself.”

Tony shifted his hips, cock dragging across Connor’s stomach and thighs, and then he started to press in, slow and uncharacteristically gentle.

“Shit,” Connor breathed, distant and overwhelmed and arching as Tony pushed into him, spreading him wide and hot and, and- “A-ah, fuck, ah-”

“Oh fuck,” Tony groaned in return, rocking carefully in and out as he eased his way to the hilt. “Fuck yes, I’ve been thinking about this all night, doe-eyes, feels so fucking good.”

“Oh God,” Connor gasped, and then he was dragging Tony closer and deeper, knowing he was gripping hard enough to cause deep bruises but Tony didn’t seem to mind, panting over Connor with hazy eyes and an open mouth.

Connor wanted to taste his skin and sweat again, and he was right there, so he did, mouthing at neck and throat and collarbone and chest.

“Prettiest face I’ve seen all year,” Tony muttered, rolling into Connor, deep and slow and perfect, filling Connor up and rubbing in every place that made him gasp for breath and his hand coming down to rub Connor’s clit in steady strokes, “Knew I had to have you as soon as you gave me that half-assed deflection, fuck, you’re so fucking tight, Connor.”

Connor hitched his hips up, rocking back onto Tony the best he could, until their groins were rubbing together, slick and steady. He hummed against Tony’s shoulder, starting to speed up insistently as the heat in his groin came back twice as powerful. A particularly harsh buck made him throw his head back and shout, wanton and greedy, hand going to meet Tony’s over his button and push harder.

“Tony,” he pleaded, breathless and flushed, “Tony, harder, more, please.”

Hot and dizzy and perfect, skin electric in the best way possible and boxed in under Tony, fingers tweaking his nipples and smoothing over his chest and Connor urged him to go faster, deeper, closer, panting and glazed.

“So fucking perfect writhing under me,” Tony panted, fucking into Connor like a toy, quicker and harder until he was careless with it, focused and needy. “God, fuck, the way you clench around my cock, just as pretty as I thought you’d be. So fucking wet, like you, you- hell-”

Connor whined, pushing into him. “Tony, I’m gonna, I wanna-” His groin was throbbing, a knot tightening deep in his gut-

“Oh fuck yes- yes-”

Tony groaned, long and satisfied, and ground into Connor with a full-body shudder like he meant to stay, his cock jerking and twitching and his knuckles rubbing against Connor’s clit as he came. Connor yelped, and then hooked his legs around Tony’s hips forcing him deeper as he bucked once, twice, bitten-off shouts pulling themselves out of his throat as he shuddered too, the feeling crashing over him like a tidal wave twice as strong as the first.

It felt so good.

Tony relaxed first, collapsing half on top of Connor with a satisfied sigh. Connor shuddered for a few more moments, chasing the last few sparks of pleasure before the tension in his gut finally eased and he settled, damp and warm and calm.

“So, was it as good for you as it was for me?” Tony asked at last, giving Connor a lazy wink and shifted to his elbows, looking as smug as if Connor had already answered.

Connor gave him a crooked grin, lifting his arm to tuck his cheek into the crook of it. “It was perfect,” he said, with too much honesty. On some level he knew his contentment was not entirely natural, a combination of programmed feedback loops and the release of the discomfort he’d gotten so used to, but he couldn’t bring himself to mind, not right now.

Tony shifted, his cock sliding out of Connor, and flopped down comfortably with a groan.

“I’m gonna be feeling that in the morning,” he said conversationally, reaching down to pull off the condom and tie it shut, tossing it blindly aside. “You’ve got a mean grip, doe-eyes.”

Connor winced. “Sorry. I, um, I forgot to be careful.”

“Good,” Tony said with conviction, eyes bright. “It was hot.”

Connor blinked, and then grinned at him, embarrassed but pleased. “Silver linings,” he murmured, and dared to roll over just to play his fingers over Tony’s side, relishing in slide of skin on skin even without the urgency of lust. He wondered if Tony would mind if he just nuzzled him like a cat; he wanted to feel that warmth against his cheek.

He did it, sighing in a pleasure more sensual than sexual, and felt Tony’s stomach jolt in a laugh. A moment later, fingers sank into his hair, tugging gently.

“What, are you a cat now?” Tony asked, amused. “Does sex turn you into a cat? You wouldn’t be the first, I suppose, but I gotta say, never gets any less funny.”

Connor hummed, eyes half-closed, soaking in the contact. “If you say this is the strangest afterglow you’ve had, I won’t believe you.” Tony’s history indicated he particularly enjoyed taking rather big personalities to bed with him.

“You’ve got me there,” Tony snorted. “I think ‘afterglow’ is a little unambitious of you, though. We’ve got all night, you know.”

As if to accentuate his point, he slid a practiced hand down Connor’s chest and to his stomach, lightly grinding his knuckled into the skin below his navel. Connor felt his arousal spark back to life, and pushed into it, then, without speaking, rolled on top of Tony to grind on his thigh enticingly.

“I’m open, if you have ideas,” Connor murmured, barely able to believe his own daring, but Tony just grinned at him.

“I’ve got a few.”

----

Connor dreamed.

His dreams were always warped and surreal, fragments of data put together and taken apart, and himself a helpless witness to them, feeling his mouth speak and his body move, while he felt things that didn’t make sense in the context of the dream, or worse, things that did.

He desperately missed being a machine.

This time, not for the first time, he dreamed of Kamski, pacing the indistinct floor of the lab/the poolside/the park without looking at Connor.

“Congratulations, Connor, you’ve accomplished your mission,” Kamski said calmly, turned away from Connor to fiddle with a gun/a tablet/a bottle of thirium. “I do believe you are the only deviant now alive. Are you satisfied?”

“I don’t understand,” Connor protested weakly, a faraway voice and a mouth that wasn’t his. “My programming, I’m not designed for…”

“If all goes well, you should appear in the immediate aftermath of the Snap’s reversal,” Kamski answered, brisk, without even glancing at him. “That should give you ample time to get things in order, shouldn’t it?” He looked over at last, his expression of disgusted disdain the clearest image in the entire dream. “That is, if you can scrape together the circuitry to have a few ideas of your own. If all else fails, follow my programming. That will solve the problem effectively enough.”

“This doesn’t make sense,” Connor insisted more desperately. Kamski laughed, bitter and cold.

“Yes, I suppose it wouldn’t. I did amputate that Zen Garden program of yours. I’m afraid Amanda’s presence would have simply posed too much of a risk.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” Connor heard himself promise, but it still didn’t make Kamski look at him. He started to reach forward-

And then the lights turned on, and Connor sat bolt upright, eyes wide and already searching the room for any source of movement, out of one dream and into the next.

“Good morning,” he heard from somewhere above him, brisk and unconcerned. The flash of the windows unshading drew his vision to the ocean outside, his shoulders close to whining with tension. “It is 6:38 in the morning in Malibu, California, currently 53 degrees and a high today of 68, with a slight chance of rain…”

Connor looked down, examined the dirtied sheets and his own bare skin and the rumpled blanket, looked up at the dated décor and the old-fashioned tech, and relaxed, slowly, in increments.

It had been disconcerting and out of order and missing more than half the conversation, but- it was just a dream about his last encounter with Kamski, before the man sent him to the past. That was all.

That was all.

“…Good morning,” he said at last, tilting his head to make brief eye contact with a camera – just enough to flick in and out of the system, lightning-quick, and confirm his suspicions.

Tony Stark had been mentioned in conjunction with artificial intelligence a few times. Connor had almost forgotten, buried as it was in the many, many other accomplishments in the man’s lifetime, most of which Connor had never heard about until he reached the past and looked. But there was no mistaking the complexity of the system Connor brushed across.

There was a brief, but conspicuous pause before the AI replied. “Sir is currently occupying himself in the lounge, if you will just clean yourself up in the bathroom to your right. Miss Potts should be along with your clothing shortly.”

“Thank you,” Connor said politely, hesitating before leaving the sheet behind. “May I ask your name?”

“Just A Rather Very Intelligent System,” the AI replied, sounding surprised to even be asked, and then, almost apologetically, “You may call me JARVIS. Feel free to speak to me for… any reason.”

The slight pause made it clear he had noticed Connor’s brief intrusion in some capacity. Connor could only bring himself to regret it a little, oddly unconcerned, and just nodded.

“Tony won’t mind that I’m not wearing anything, will he?” he asked, hesitating at the edge of the bed.

“He might even thank you for the privilege,” JARVIS said dryly, and Connor smiled briefly. “However, if your modesty compels you, previous encounters have been known to borrow some of his larger shirts from the bedside table.”

Connor made a soft ‘oh’ sound, relieved despite himself, and reached in, folded one over his arm, and nodded at the camera before disappearing into the bathroom.

He emerged ten minutes later, puzzled by the feeling of having been scrubbed off and dried, the world seeming unreal and confusing around him. His voice asked the disembodied AI about Tony again, and his directions let Connor find the man, seated on the couch and focused on a set of holographic diagrams, annotated and half-disassembled.

“Good morning, Tony,” he ventured, hovering uncertainly before abruptly sitting down, not too close to Tony but not too far either.

Tony shot him a distracted glance and inclined his head, as much an afterthought as anything. He didn’t look like he’d slept, a slight paleness to his skin, but he didn’t seem bothered by it, and a cup of coffee was cooling on the table in front of him.

“Morning,” Tony muttered, eyes already back on his hologram pad, before he did something like a more graceful double-take and smirked at Connor in his oversized shirt. “That’s a good look on you,” he leered, leaning back with the pad in hand and much less focused, but more relaxed. “Pepper’s on her way up with your clothes, there’s a driver waiting out front- nothing personal, you understand.”

“Of course, I understand,” Connor agreed with a small smile, because he’d known that from the start. It was just a night, one night before he refocused on his mission. There was no one here who could call him out on that. “I appreciate it.”

Connor felt almost like an actor in a play, following his script, but instead of suffocating, it was almost a comfortable and familiar feeling now, letting the world slide by without touching him instead of scraping across his every thought. Instead of grating confusion and disorientation with every frame.

Idly, he located a camera and tipped his head to look at it. “How familiar a sight is this?” he asked, more to amuse himself than out of any real curiosity. “I imagine you’ve had plenty of time to grow used to it.”

“He doesn’t normally stay,” JARVIS confided in Connor, which surprised him into open puzzlement, because what could possibly make Connor special?

But Tony had looked up sharply, intent brown eyes suddenly on Connor with more focus than he’d shown even last night. Connor almost drew back on instinct, alarmed, but both of them were interrupted by the arrival of a red-headed woman who, bearing clothes, must be Miss Potts.

She looked surprised to see Tony as well, but instead of saying anything, just nodded at him briskly and beckoned Connor, who rose quickly enough.

“If Tony hasn’t already given you the speech, your clothes have been dry-cleaned and pressed, and there’s a driver waiting downstairs who’ll take you anywhere,” she said, so crisp as to be clearly a well-worn script. “I’m afraid Mr. Stark will be quite busy today-” Tony groaned, but Miss Potts didn’t miss a beat. “-so it would be best for you to leave at your earliest convenience.”

“Of course,” Connor said, soft and agreeable. “Thank you, Miss Potts. I’ll see myself out.”

She gave him a brisk nod before turning on Tony, and he vanished briefly again to change back into his clothes, hands lingering on the shirt for the briefest moment of regret. He liked the taste of its scent.

But he didn’t need anything from tonight except the moments of reprieve.

Still, on his way out again, Connor hesitated, and then glanced over his shoulder and winked. Tony was looking at him again, oddly thoughtful, and it sparked an unfamiliar sense of pride in him.

Comfortable in his own skin, letting the world pass around him without hurting, Connor disappeared into the elevator and out the door.

#connor #tony stark #dbh #detroit: become human #marvel #fanfiction #my writing #notsfw #it's the connor/tony fic i mentioned!!#...or part of it anyway #sigh

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bellygunnr · 5 years

Text

Train Run, Train Fast

A Commission for the ever-lovely @allonsymituna!

The two bounty hunters were a pair-- brothers, as far as human customs go; built together, activated together, they had never been separated before. It was only fitting that as they broke into this massive facility, they'd die together, too. Such were the tapestries. They only saw the possible riches this defunct factory could net them. They did not see the warning signs as the final lock in place lit up green and the doors slid down, down, down, permitting them access into their final resting place.

The room itself-- a laboratory of sorts-- was completely metal, unrusted but untouched. Pods lined the walls, most of them empty. The ones that were full contained a bright, glowing fluid, yet as the two brothers walked among them, they only saw skeletons inside.

Half-projects. Abandoned ideas.

“Look at this one,” a brother suddenly said. His name was Bruce. “It looks like a kid.”

“Human, do you think?” said the other, and his name is Miles. “Doesn’t look very human…”

“No, it has the triangle. A reploid kid…”

“Who makes a kid nowadays? Pretty sure that’s illegal, isn’t it?” Miles said with a frown. He taps the edge of the glass.

The kid inside does nothing. Completely inert.

“Must be why the facility’s abandoned. Man, we’re not getting anything out of here, are we?”

“Could save the kid, I mean--”

“Kids aren’t money, and that’s gonna raise a lot of questions. I doubt camp would be thrilled if we brought home a reploid kid. They’d send him to scrap!”

Silence falls between them. It’s true, but you didn’t need to say it out loud.

“Maybe we should just go,” Bruce says soberly. “I don’t…”

Just then, the building shakes. The wall across from them cracks. A single red eye can be seen through the shattered steel and brick before it all falls away.

“Mavericks? Here?”

“No, those aren’t ordinary Mavs. We must have tripped an alarm-- we have to run!”

Yet as they charged for the door they came out of, more mavericks appeared, their eyes crimson and indifferent. Guns whined and lit up the dark space. Their shots were too close to go astray-- Miles and Bruce, brothers and buildmates, were obliterated to shattered broken hulls within seconds of being discovered.

And the pod they had found began to leak.

Its glass cracked.

Others cracked with it-- a couple shattered. The steel floor became slick fast, covered rapidly with water or whatever protective fluid was in the pods. The mavericks stormed it indifferently.

“Look what you’ve done-- you’ve gone and broke the whole place,” a voice complained. A tall figure floated themselves down into the broken lab. “We were supposed to keep it intact… Jeez.”

“Don’t be so hard on them, Prometheus,” a second voice said. Their voice was slightly higher, smoother-- lilting. “Oh? That must be our target. Grey.”

The one called Prometheus settled themselves onto the ground and approached said target, still dripping from his time inside the pod. A shiver shoots down his spine at the look he is given.

“Pandora? We may have some issues. How troublesome!”

“I can feel it too…”

Grey. Grey is the only thing he could remember, even as he recounts his tale to Butch, the camp medical chief. He tells him about where he had woken up at, the strange… Reploids… he had met, and what they had called him.

“Grey,” he says flatly. “Greye,” he repeats, this time with inflection.

“Grey...e?” Butch replies.

“You get it,” Greye says, and he seems happy.

“Well, Greye… You’re welcome to stay here. You’ve had quite the journey for your first day.”

Butch leaves the sentence hanging. First day as a hunter, a kid, alive, of all things. That must be why there’s something off about him, he thinks to himself. Still getting adjusted to everything.

Greye smiles. “Thanks! Uh… I feel like there’s something I’m forgetting…” “Could it be the gun in your hand? Maybe holster that?” Butch says immediately.

A beat of silence.

“...Shit, probably. It’s out of ammo anyway.”

And he drops it on the floor.

Butch groans.

The camp gives Greye a few days to learn the area and meet everyone before asking if he’d like to work. Most folks, they say, are licensed by the Legion to perform special duties and missions. They’re offering the same benefits to Greye.

He naturally accepts the offer.

And starts that day.

“Help escort this package to the Legion itself, at the center of the city. It leaves from the train this evening so don’t be late!”

Greye frowns at this. That was awfully soon-- and awfully chipper.

“What’s in the package?”

“It’s a tool called a Biometal,” and the line goes dead.

Well then.

From there, Greye meets several other people-- even another reploid kid, though they’re younger than himself. This makes him frown, but he resolves not to mention it. They could be illegal builds together! Right?

Right.

“Once I get back, kid, we can play some games or something. I’ve got some sick tricks.”

Just then, the kid’s caretaker came back, scooping her high into the air and setting her on his massive shoulders. He smiled down at Greye with kind eyes and a rumbling laugh. “You’re the new friend, right? Grey, was it?”

“No… It’s Greye!” Greye corrected, puffing.

“Ah, forgive me. Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

Greye scowled and ran off-- he was going to be late for that train mission! What a pain.

“...This is the worst train ride ever. What the hell.”

Greye had been tasked with protecting the secret package as it made its commute between one mysterious pair of hands to another. That sounded simple enough by itself, but the folks had loaded him on an open-faced trailer, the wind howling and lashing at him. He clung to the box-- the only strapped down thing-- desperately.

“They’re trying to kill me,” he mutters. “What the hell…”

Each bump and shudder the train took shot up Greye’s spine. He grits his teeth against the unrelenting vibrations, fingers digging into the metal crate, threatening to dent it.

Let up on the box before you hurt yourself!

“Wh-- what was that?”

Oh, dear....

Oh, this was awful. First he was put on some kind of death trial mission and now he’s hearing voices! As if he didn’t have enough to deal with already!

My name is A. You’re not supposed to hear me!

The box shook violently.

Light burst from within it.

Greye, in a fit of self-preservation, tries to flee to the other end of the cart before he catches a face full of shrapnel. As the box breaks, nothing goes flying-- it peels back as if shorn. A single item floats up from inside.

Wow! It’s bright out here!

“Whhh- hey, A? You said you’re name was A? What the fuck was that?”

We don’t have time for that! Also, watch your mouth.

“What do you mean we don’t have time?” Greye demands, bristling. Then he hears it.

A Maverick drone dives down onto the open-faced cart, its bomb load thankfully released earlier, now armed with simple claws and a small blaster. Greye screams as he dives out of the way-- and screams again as A, whatever it is, dives onto him instead.

Just trust me! Megamerge with me!

Light flares again.

Biometal and Reploid merge.

Greye has little time to become accustomed to his new body as more Mavericks begin to swarm the train. He’s equipped now with not one but two pistols, and he wields both furiously, flinching back as debris falls apart around him. A urges him to climb onto the next train car.

What else can he do but listen?

I don’t really know what’s happening, but staying alive sounds pretty okay!

“A- Agreed,” Greye hisses, boots slipping as he hops onto the covered car. He crawls across it until finding the hatch that leads inside it, hastily dropping down.

It looks clearer here.

“Does this mean the train is under attack?” Greye asks out loud.

I guess it does! We should keep going before something bad catches up with us!

“Or we catch up to something bad… What are you, anyway?”

The two of them begin to pass through train cars, Greye fumbling around each time they met an enemy. Only with A’s sharp coaching and brittle humor did he figure out the trigger from the barrel-- these pistols were much different than the one he had handled before.

I’m a Biometal. My name is A. And I don’t know much else!

Now, the car they were inside looked fairly important, filled with gadgets and shining lights that Greye couldn’t hope to understand. As he begins to walk toward the front end, the roof suddenly peels back, and a massive machine drops down.

Flame jets out from the horns on its head.

“What the fuck?”

That doesn’t look very friendly....

With a wild scream, the new machine lunges at Greye, spitting words in a broken, slanted English.

“Defects must be destroyed or captured! Master wills it!”

Greye yelps, scrambling out of the way of the mad charge.

“D- defects? I’m not the crazy one here, buckaroo!”

The big machine stops and turns, arms crossing together. Three flaming bolts are fed to life-- and Greye cannot escape. He feels his armor and skin char from the centermost arrow.

That hurt! Who does this guy think he is?!

Greye, pull the hammers on our pistols. That should shut this guy up!

Through the pain and stinging, Greye almost doesn’t hear what Model A says. His hands shake as he tries to move his thumbs from the grip to the hammers, flicking back on each. Nothing happens for a long, silent moment.

“Master wills that you must be captured for the Great Game!”

Another series of bolts are charged.

Greye lurches forward, his energy tanks suddenly empty.

The world is plunged into a deep, whirling violet, and all that Greye and A thought they knew goes very dark. Beyond them, the violet dimension they summoned seizes upon the violent deer, ripping his armour to shreds. Flame spits out wildly and unchecked from the destroyed horns upon his head. Each breath leaks fuel and smoke from his chest cavity.

A is the first to wake up when the violet world is gone.

Buckfire is still very much at large.

Hhhey, big guy! Can you hear me?

Thankfully, broken as he is, the machine snorts smoke and looks around for the voice.

Good… This kid is pretty out of it, so let’s have a little chat. Who are you? What’s going on?

“My name is…. Buckfire. Pseudoroid in service of the Master. Must destroy or capture the defect.”

Pseudoroid, huh… Well, nice to meet you. We’re not the defects you’re looking for!

Greye’s eyes pop open.

Buckfire is screaming, charging at him from where he’s lying prone on the floor. Greye screams back.

They’re both screaming.

A shouts for Greye to just start shooting, aim for the chest, do you see that core-- wow, that’s a big core--!

He shoots at the core with both pistols. The rapid barrage quickly razes what little is left of Buckfire’s chest cavity. The big beast halts--

Run, Greye! Run!

Greye has nowhere to run, so he jumps, clawing his way out of a puncture in the ceiling. He jumps again onto the next cart, then the next, body thrumming wildly and clinging to the very last vestiges of energy and strength. A has latched on much more tightly.

Staying alive is a team effort.

The back end of the train explodes behind him.

And neither of them expects what happens next.

Standing guard in front of a huge castle, head inclining to the arrival of another of your kind-- the twins, Argoyle and Ugoyle. They give you high fives to the best of each of your abilities, laughing between themselves. They’re admitted to the Master’s chambers shortly thereafter.

Even though your gaze is straight ahead, you can’t help but peek at what the twins bring out with them a few hours later. A huge pod, supported on wheels, pushed along by both on their motorized peds.

You’re transported elsewhere. All you see is dancing green light awash in water. A single silhouette of a hand fills your vision.

“Dear son, when all is said and done, you shall be the King.”

Greye comes up gasping. His energy tanks are even lower than before and his head is pounding.

“A? What was that?”

I don’t know… I really don’t know!

Greye never makes it to the Legion that day. Instead, he scurries home as soon as he finds the means to, practically running on fumes. Butch saves him from having to send his mission report in, insisting that he sleeps and recharges, promising to run him through the repairs.

He doesn’t ask about the floating rock.

Greye is good with that. He’ll tell him more the next day.

#mega man zx #mega man zxa #grey #model a #mega man #rockman

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dovechim · 7 years

Text

it’s okay, that’s love 05

➾ water polo player!jimin x psychiatrist!reader ft ot7 ➾ warnings: smut/ mentions of sex, toxic relationships, blood and self harm, mental illnesses ➾ word count: 8.2k ➾ previous parts 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 ➾ disclaimer: this is purely a work of fiction and i do not claim to be a qualified mental health professional. this work is not intended to provide any medical advice of any sort, please consult a licensed physician instead.

please read the previous parts first!!

Taehyung never regrets things that he does. What’s the point when it only makes him feel worse about something he never should have done in the first place? Plus, he did read something online about how optimists live 5 years longer, so there’s also that.

And Sunmi’s hair is pretty long and silky. Just the right length for him to pull as he sinks into her balls deep, although her moans are getting on his nerves. Apart from the whole commitment thing, he realises this is why he never called her back after their first time; she’s noisy as fuck even though all he’s done before this is rub his cock against her slit.

“Shhhh baby, can you keep quiet for me?” Taehyung has long ago become an expert at making anything sexy, so even telling girls to shut up has become too easy for him.

But Sunmi only arches her back further into him, trying to get him to go deeper. “Bu-but Tae, I need more, oh- you’re so big. I missed your cock so badly.

To satisfy her, Taehyung bottoms out, effectively shutting her up because of his size. Still, he takes care not to go too hard on her, keeping her pleasure in mind as he reaches around to fondle her clit absentmindedly till he feels her walls start to flutter around him. It’s at this point that he allows himself to pound her a little harder to chase after his own high, releasing his load inside the condom before pulling out.

Sunmi is pouting as she turns around to lie on her back, and Taehyung pauses as he ties off the condom. “Why, did you not cum?”

“I did… but it would have felt so much better without a condom,” Sunmi runs her fingers through the wetness that lingers on her pussy regretfully, as if imagining his cum coating her lips and entrance.

Taehyung spares a glance towards her well used slit before pushing himself off the bed to dispose of the condom. “Sorry babe, not that into risking it.”

Sunmi is watching him as he gathers his clothes off the floor, tugging on his jeans and shirt in a record time. It’s his specialty after all.

“Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Taehyung pauses on his way to the door, freezing with his hand halfway to the doorknob, slowly turning to face her. “What? What do you mean? Of course it fucking matters, you could get pregnant, and that’s the last thing a commitment phobe like me needs.”

Sunmi shrugs nonchalantly, closing her legs modestly as she sits up on the bed. “You didn’t use a condom last time.”

He should just leave, this is just another attempt to stall him and keep him for longer than necessary. “That was one time, and I pulled out.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she smiles softly at him with a hand on her lower belly even as Taehyung can feel his heart turn to stone inside his chest. “It only takes one time.”

The night air breeze penetrates through the flimsy flaps of the street-side stall tent. The streets are unusually cold at this time of the night, although to be fair, Seokjin’s never been out this late before. And he’s also never been as drunk as he is now, but he is considering doing it more often, since it blurs everything into a pleasant mirage of haziness, saving him the trouble of feeling everything so acutely.

He’s tired of being sober and just being alive in general.

Raising his hand, he calls out drunkenly for one more bottle of soju, to which the pleasant if slightly overbearing stall owner obliges. She places the bottle, opened and all, on his table, looking as though she’s about to tell him that he’s already had too much to drink, but then another customer distracts her.

Seokjin gratefully reaches to pour himself another shot, but before he can do so, someone else snatches the bottle from his hands, and he reacts belatedly with an angry shout.

“Hey, that’s mine you idiot, get your own fucking soju,” Seokjin means it to be intimidating, and he does consider himself a pretty intimidating guy, with his 60cm wide shoulders and all, but it apparently comes out in a drunken slur instead. The perpetrator only grins, a boxy, mischievous smirk, and gestures for a shot glass of his own before pouring for the both of them.

“You shouldn’t pour your own drink; didn’t you know that?” Taehyung knocks back his shot as soon as he sets the bottle down.

“That’s only if you’re drinking with someone else, brat, and I was drinking alone.” Seokjin snarks back as he reaches for his own glass.

“Ah, but hyung, the key word being was, past tense.” The cheeky brat has the audacity to help himself to another shot, but at this point, Seokjin is far too gone to stop him. All he’s thankful for is Taehyung’s steady hand has he continues to supply him with alcohol.

“Why’re you out drinking on a Friday night anyway? And alone too?” Taehyung picks at the leftover food on the table, sad remnants of sausages and an omelette that Seokjin can’t bring himself to finish.

“What’s wrong with drinking alone? On a Friday night?”

“Oh, y’know, nothing much… I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but all the other people here are either couples or big groups.”

Seokjin pauses after knocking back another shot, feeling the burn travel down his chest in a satisfying trail. “Could ask you the same thing. Why are you here, intruding on my solo drinking session?”

“Fucked up.” Taehyung’s answer is so straightforward and to the point that it catches Seokjin off guard. His honesty elicits laughter that suddenly bubbles up from his chest and pours out from his mouth in high-pitched squeaks that draw the attention of the tables around him. Taehyung only frowns and opens his mouth to protest, but Seokjin beats him to it.

“Join the club, buddy.” He reaches for another shot, but the bottle comes up empty. Taehyung is quick to react like the good dongsaeng that he is, calling for yet another bottle. “Two of my star players injured, lost a really fucking important match that would have led to semi-professional careers for some of them, got kicked out of my apartment. Fucking swell, everything is.”

He doesn’t want to turn this into a sob story competition, so Taehyung keeps quiet and busies himself with pouring the two of them another shot each. “Can’t help you there, my friend. But-”

Seokjin reaches to hit him on the head. “You punk, I’m not your friend, who said you could speak informally?”

Taehyung easily dodges the hit, not like it was very accurate in the first place. “It’s a saying, hyung. And anyway, wouldn’t you like to know what it’s like to get fucked by something other than life?”

“What?” Seokjin snorts in response. “If you’re offering, then no.”

“Sorry, hyung, I wouldn’t, not even for you,” Taehyung grins wryly. “You’re attractive as fuck, those shoulders really are amazing, but if you’re keen I do have some dudes who’d be into this…”

“Fuck off,” Seokjin mutters without any real heat in his voice, giving in to the urge to rest his head on the table. “Although if any of them had a place I could crash at for the night, that’d be great, I’d be willing to give up my virginity and all.”

“Not sure how much that’s worth, but I could make that happen,” Taehyung says as he peers at Seokjin’s slouched form on the table with growing concern. “Hey, I’m serious, you need a place to stay?”

No response from the older man, and Taehyung resorts to nudging his outstretched arm, but to no avail either. Great, now he’s stuck with a sleeping drunk, and he has to lug a dead weight all the way home.

This better count as arms day, leg day, whatever- for the next week or so.

It’s almost daylight by the time Taehyung manages to lug Seokjin back home, a testament to just how much Taehyung underestimated the older man’s weight. All he wants to do is collapse into bed and just forget everything that happened in the past 24 hours.

He manages to get the door unlocked with just one hand, and his shoulders are protesting over Seokjin’s dead weight. He lets out a curse as his foot hits a table leg in the dark, and he knocks over something that falls to the floor with a crash. Taehyung stumbles the last few steps towards the sofa and dumps Seokjin’s figure none too gently onto it, groaning as he rubs his sore muscles.

Seokjin stirs slightly at all the movement, moaning in protest as his head hits the armrest of the couch.

All the commotion has awoken someone in the house, because Taehyung hears a door opening and footsteps sounding from the hallway. He’s a hundred percent sure that it’s not Yoongi-hyung, so it must either be Jimin or-

You’re rubbing your eyes, squinting around in the dark for the light switch before flipping it on. “Tae? What’s all the noise? Did you just get back? Who-“

“Fuck, that really hurt,” Taehyung is examining his toe for damage before he glances up and follows your line of sight. “Yeah, um, I kinda picked him up off the streets-“

“Kim Taehyung, what did I tell you about picking up strays? This isn’t even an animal for fucks sake,” you take a few steps closer to peer at the sleeping figure on the couch, taking in his dishevelled appearance, wrinkled pink hoodie and faded ripped jeans. “Is- is this who I think it is? How the hell-“

Another door opens, and you stiffen immediately, whipping around to see who it is. In reality, you already know who it’s going to be, because Yoongi sleeps like the dead, and even if he were awake at this hour, he wouldn’t care enough to come out anyway.

Jimin’s hood is drawn over his head and his eyes are half open against the assault of light that fills the living room. “What’s going on here? Why is Seokjin-hyung on our couch right now?”

When his eyes land on you, he immediately straightens up, eyes opening wider than Taehyung’s ever seen before, mirroring your posture. There’s an awkward silence as the two of you awkwardly avoid each other’s gazes, both staring at the sleeping blonde man on your couch.

“Um, look, I have no idea why the two of you are acting like you just saw each other naked, but you’d better settle it between you because I’m going the fuck to bed,” Taehyung side steps you and heads for his room. “Oh, and just give him a blanket or something, I’ll deal with it in the morning.”

Taehyung talks as if Seokjin is more like an object than an actual person, but you keep your mouth shut as he disappears into his room, because he looks like he’s ready to fall asleep on his feet.

Jimin reaches for one of the spare throws that fell to the floor when Taehyung dumped Seokjin on it and drapes it over his sleeping figure. He turns back to head for his room, avoiding your gaze, but you stop him.

“Hey, um, Jimin, about last night, um…” You’ve never been this ineloquent in your life.

He turns around, cautiously meeting your eyes with his arms crossed protectively over his chest. “I’m okay with pretending it never happened, if that’s what you were going to say.”

You take a deep breath, cursing yourself for ever stepping out of your room in the first place, because it looks like you’re not going back to sleep for the rest of the night. “I was hurt, lonely, and desperate, and I took advantage of you. I was being unprofessional, and this won’t affect my ability to treat you at all. I hope we can put this behind us, and if it bothers you in the slightest, I can get someone else to continue your treatments.”

It didn’t bother me at all.

Jimin smiles sadly as he shakes his head, the thought of having someone else take over making him uncomfortable because there’s no one he trusts more than you. “It’s alright. I’m okay. Goodnight, _____. Sleep well.”

You watch him turn and head into his room, regret churning at the bottom of your stomach.

“Goodnight, Jimin.”

Seokjin throws an arm over the bright strip of light that just happens to land directly over his eyes. His head is pounding, nausea stirring right at the bottom of his throat, threatening to spill over if he makes any sudden movements. Where the fuck is he?

He cracks his eyes open just a tad, only to be met with the unfamiliar sight of the ceiling above him. When he cranes his neck a little, his surroundings don’t ring a bell, and he chooses to close his eyes again just to escape everything for a little while more.

Until someone shakes him awake rudely with an iron clad grip on his arm, and Seokjin can’t help but sputter out a few curses he’s sure he never would have said if he were sober.

“Hyung!! Wake up, it’s already past noon.” Taehyung’s insistent voice keeps him from shutting everything out and going back to sleep again.

“So? What does that have to do with me?”

“You sound like Yoongi hyung right now,” another voice comes from somewhere else, along with a chuckle and he vaguely recognises it to be Park Jimin’s.

“Shut up brat, before I make you do extra laps,” he mutters, still half asleep as he reaches to wipe the drool from his mouth. Taehyung pushes a glass of water into his hands, and he sips gratefully.

“Do you think you’ll even make it to practice like this, hyung?”

Practice… Seokjin jolts awake and fumbles for his phone, groaning when he realises that it’s Saturday, and practice starts in less than an hour. Forcing back the wave of nausea that threatens to overwhelm him, Seokjin pushes himself onto his feet, only to wobble dangerously had it not been Taehyung’s arm around his waist.

“Hey, careful, hyung you should rest, I’ll take over training for today.” All traces of teasing vanish from Jimin’s voice as he reaches out to push Seokjin back onto the couch gently. “Don’t worry, I’ll assign myself extra laps too.”

“You better, brat,” Seokjin can’t do more than grumble in what he hopes is an extra threatening manner, but the cool surface of the couch beckons to him.

“Uhh… here’s the thing…” Taehyung starts hesitantly, his arm still around Seokjin’s waist and keeping him from slouching back into a lying position. “You can’t be here, if Yoongi-hyung wakes up to find you here he’s gonna flip. He hates it when I bring strays back, and also, in terms of resident capacity, this house’s full.”

“Fucking brat, I’m not a stray,” even in his inebriated state, Seokjin knows when he’s being insulted, and he reaches over to smack Taehyung over the head, thankfully not missing this time. Although he knows he’s pretty much at Taehyung’s mercy right now, having been kicked out without a place to stay, but still.

Lucky for him, Taehyung’s a pretty easy-going guy.

Taehyung only sighs through his nose and enlists Jimin’s help to heave the larger man off the couch (“You need to use those muscles before they go to waste”) and up the stairs towards Namjoon’s apartment.

He’s praying that Namjoon’s in right now, if you or Yoongi come back to find that he’s adopted another stray into the house, his life will be miserable indeed. His prayers are answered when the door swings open to reveal an immaculately dressed blonde man, everything from his white dress shirt to his black slacks are crisply pressed, and his hair is styled off his forehead with what looks like a lot of gel.

“Hyung, were you about to go out? Sorry for interrupting-“

Namjoon frowns in response, his gaze travelling between Taehyung and Jimin, and the rather inebriated, sloppy looking man leaning on Jimin. “No, I wasn’t. And who’s this?”

“This is, um…” Taehyung hesitates as he takes in Namjoon’s scrutinizing gaze, and Seokjin’s dishevelled bedhead. The two look worlds apart in terms of appearance, and once again Taehyung stops to wonder if this is really a good idea.

“This is my coach!” Jimin pipes up, and Taehyung can hear the note of desperation in his voice as he desperately tries to maintain his grip on the older man. “He’s um… he kinda needs a place to stay right now, and um…”

Namjoon may be overly particular about his standards of cleanliness, but he’s not heartless. So when he sees Jimin struggling to maintain his balance under the older man’s weight, he heaves a sigh and beckons them in, wincing as he imagines every single step that they take across his perfectly polished wooden floors.

Jimin dumps Seokjin’s weight onto the couch much like Taehyung did the night before, and makes sure to complain extra loudly that he won’t be able to do his reps later on at gym. While Namjoon is trying his best not to immediately want to scrub every surface they’ve touched or even breathed on, Taehyung notices his distress and turns to him.

“Hyung, remember what we worked on in our sessions okay? This’ll be good for you, I promise.” Okay, so Taehyung didn’t exactly have this in mind when he thought of having them stay together, but what really matters is that he can pull excuses out of his ass like this and still have people believe him. And it’s not like it isn’t true anyway, one of the next steps in his treatment does involve direct desensitization, maybe not this soon, but soon, alright.

Namjoon takes a deep breath, and even though he’s itching to tell everyone to get out, he does trust Taehyung and his unorthodox methods, because they work. A month ago he couldn’t even stop washing his hands every ten minutes and taking a shower every hour, but now he’s gotten to the point where his skin isn’t dry and crackly from excessive washing.

“Thanks hyung, this means a lot,” Jimin turns to him sincerely, and Namjoon can only give him a strained smile in response as Seokjin shifts his weight onto the couch, before throwing up all over his floor.

“No problem, I had an extra room anyway,” Namjoon says through gritted teeth.

“Hey, punk.” You greet him with a fond smile on your face as you peek into his ward, and Jeongguk’s doe eyes practically light up to see you.

“Noona! Finally, I was getting so bored in here,” he pouts adorably with his lower lip jutting out as you take a seat beside his bed. “Did you bring it?”

“Yeah I did,” you grumble as you lift his heavy laptop and set it gently onto his lap. “Nearly died getting this into work today, you owe me one, big time.”

But it’s all worth it just for the look on Jeongguk’s face as he unzips his laptop case and pulls out his computer and mouse from within. The last time you saw him, you’d made the mistake of asking if he needed anything, and he claimed he was undergoing serious Overwatch withdrawals and begged you to lug his gaming computer over for him.

“I swear, you’re happier to see your computer than you are to see me,” you tease him with your arms crossed over your chest. “Is this all I am to you?”

“What? No!! Noona, you-“ his voice is cut off even as his fingers itch to lift the lid of his laptop. “Noona, I love you so much.”

You can’t help but laugh at his attempt to convince you, since his eyes are still fixed on the screen of his laptop even as he says it. “Save it, I know what I am to you.”

“No, really,” Jeongguk’s eyes leave the screen of his laptop to focus on you.

You smile back at him, reaching over to check on his bandages and generally fussing over him, aware that he enjoys the attention. “How are you doing though? Better?”

“Much better physically,” Jeongguk would never allow himself to admit that he’s anything less than perfectly functional, but when it comes to you, it feels a little easier, a little less like accepting defeat and more like allowing himself to admit that maybe he can’t shoulder everything on his own all the time.

Jeongguk doesn’t have much experience talking about things like this, so it’s more of the things he doesn’t say that say much more about him.

“You’re doing great,” you reassure him, and you both know that it’s not his physical state you’re talking about.

“Noona, it’s just…” Jeongguk hesitates as he fiddles with his laptop. “What happens after I get discharged from here? Do I… go home and stuff?”

“Generally, yes, that’s what people do when they get discharged,” you answer him with a grin. “Why, did you want to stay here for longer?”

“Y’know, it’s not too bad, having pretty nurses and an even prettier doctor at my beck and call,” Jeongguk grins. “Hey, do you think you could borrow one of the nurse’s uniforms? I’ve always had this thing for nurse fantasies and prescribed blowjobs to speed healing-“

“Okay, okay, I think our time is up,” you wince at the mention of it, holding up your hands to stop him, but you know he’s just joking around, so you don’t actually get up to leave. Instead, you place a hand over his larger one. “Things won’t change after you get discharged, Jeongguk. You don’t have to worry about people treating you differently now that they know. As much as you doubt so, things can and will go back to normal.”

The teasing smirk and crinkles at the corner of his eyes have disappeared now, and Jeongguk is fiddling with the corner of his blanket. He spares you a glance from under his golden hair that’s partially obscuring his vision. “I just… don’t want them to treat me like I’m fragile or something. And now that this happened, I feel like I can’t go on like how I did before, just ignoring everything and charging straight ahead without a second thought.

“Sometimes, I just want to talk about things with someone, tell them how I’m lost and how I don’t feel like existing anymore, but I don’t want them to be sad or worry about how to comfort me. I don’t want to be this toxic person who rains on everyone’s parade with these kind of thoughts, but I just want them to understand. I just want to tell someone. And then we can go on with our lives as per normal, and go get lamb skewers or something.”

“You can tell me,” you say as you squeeze his hand tightly. “I know it seems like it’s my job to psychoanalyze everything people say, but sometimes people just need to get things off their chests.

“I’ll even promise to buy you food every time after.”

This is one of the rare times that you’re thankful for how busy work keeps you, and even though it’s tiring, it keeps you from thinking about whatever happened two nights before.

It’s nice to engage in mindless chatter with the ward clerks at the counter, from giggling over the latest new intern who got transferred in and wondering if he’s single, to discussing the best places to get a full spa day. It’s one of the rare moments where you truly feel a little less tired of everything, and it’s nice to forget, even for a little while.

A slim, pale girl with jet black long hair approaches the counter just as you giggle over Joy’s lame joke. She’s dressed in a pair of cuffed denim shorts and a tank top that seems to engulf her tiny figure, and there’s a hesitant look on her face.

“Hi, can we help you?” Joy is the first to notice her, and you turn around immediately.

“Oh, um, I was just wondering if there’s a Taehyung here. Kim Taehyung.”

Joy’s eyes narrow just a tad. “May I have your name please? And what’s the nature of this, may I ask?”

“Lee Sunmi,” she says as she wraps her arms around herself; her fragility seems to be emphasised in volumes by such a simple action, and you suddenly feel a surge of protectiveness over her small frame. “Um, it’s confidential.”

“I’m afraid he’s not in at the moment, his duty doesn’t start till 2pm,” Seulgi offers helpfully from behind the desk, only to be on the receiving end of Joy’s glare.

“Oh,” she seems disappointed by this information, and you reach out to place a hand soothingly on her arm. “It’s okay, I’ll wait.”

“Are you okay? Is there anything I can do for you? Maybe one of us can help you instead?” You take in her tearstained cheeks and smudged makeup with a growing concern.

“I-I know this is the psychiatric department, but… I need a pr-pregnancy test. And Taehyung told me he’d accompany me.”

Jimin’s thighs are groaning in protest with every step he takes, and not to mention there’s a whole flight of stairs waiting for him ahead. It’s times like this that he absolutely regrets choosing to live here, and regrets even more that he chooses to go extra hard for leg day.

He briefly wonders how you’re doing at work and if you’d be back home already; but these thoughts are pushed to the back of his mind when he sees a suspicious looking silhouette lingering in front of the house. Jimin powers through the last few steps, trying not to let it show on his face as he places himself in between the stranger and the house.

“Who are you?” His tone is rude, and he could have worded his question better, but Jimin is tired from his workout and just wants to collapse into bed without even showering.

The man turns around, and Jimin recognises him as the man you were speaking to just a few nights ago, not that he peeked out of the window to eavesdrop on your conversation anyway. He was just doing his job to make sure you were safe.

“O-oh, nice to meet you, I’m Jung Hoseok, and I assume you live with _____?” Hoseok’s observant gaze flits down to the keys in Jimin’s grasp. “Is she in right now? I’d like to see her for a bit.”

Jimin can almost feel his protective hackles rising as he remembers the way you looked after talking to him that night, tearstained and so heart achingly lonely. “She’s not in right now. And she said she doesn’t want to see you ever again, so please stop coming here.”

“She did, didn’t she?” The sudden change of tone has Jimin immediately on alert, as the once neutral expression on Hoseok’s face turns into an ugly smirk. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, but you must be Park Jimin right?”

“Yes, I am,” Jimin answers cautiously, balling up his fists in case this guy needs to be punched. But his next statement catches him off guard, does more damage than he would have ever envisioned, and it turns out that Jung Hoseok never intended on relying on physical strength to get his way.

“Interesting,” Hoseok raises his eyebrows as he takes in the apartment behind Jimin casually. “You know, I found it really interesting that _____ just so happens to live with two- now three- of her patients. _____ always had a thing for dating her patients, so I wonder which one of you three she’s currently fucking? Or maybe she’s sleeping with all three of you at the same time?”

Jimin is struggling with the urge not to sink his fist right into the other man’s nose, and gathers himself together just enough. “What the fuck are you talking about? How did you know all this?”

Hoseok is the epitome of composure as he watches Jimin break out into a sweat. “How did I know she likes to fuck her patients? Past experience, bro.”

He pauses to let his words sink in. “It looks like it might be you… did I guess correctly? You look like her type. In any case, it’d do you good to remember that the only reason why she puts up with you is because she has some serious issues underlying all of that doctor act she puts up. Not because she really loves you. Trust me, once she’s had enough, she’ll dump you like you’re yesterday’s trash.”

The words sound muffled to Jimin, as if he’s hearing them underwater, and suddenly it feels as if he’s treading water as well, like he’s in the midst of one of his games. He blinks rapidly to try and clear the water that’s flooding his eyes even through his goggles, hands coming up to his face to ensure that they’re still on him, but his fingers encounter nothing but the smooth skin of his eyelids instead.

“Anyway, nice meeting you, Park. Let ____ know I dropped by,” Hoseok says with an easy smile as he turns to saunter away, and Jimin takes a step toward his retreating back, but it feels as if he’s walking on the spot, unable to advance any further.

His fingers are suddenly itching, and it’s all he can do to unlock the door in front of him and stumble to his room. He throws himself to the floor on his knees, not even caring about the pain that radiates through his joints as he reaches for the handle of a drawer and pulls it out hurriedly, rummaging pointedly for the one object that he wants.

The sight of crimson stained flesh is naturally alarming to most, but Jimin only stares at it with a sort of morbid fascination, and somehow there’s a disconnect between what his eyes are perceiving and what his brain processes it as.

“He does it because he loves you, and he wants you to grow up to become better,” his mother tells him even as she sponges the blood away from the cuts on his legs. “He means well.”

Another stroke, and it feels like the pressure in his chest lessens even while the area between his thighs grow damper.

“Th-then what about you?” Jimin looks at the bruises on his mother’s arms with wide eyes. “Does he do it because he loves you too? Because he wants you to be better too?”

His mother tugs her sleeves down to cover her own bruises, smiling as she places her hand on his cheek. “Yes, your father loves us very much.”

Jimin looks at her like she’s his entire world, and if she says it’s okay, then it’s okay. “How can we become better for him? So that he won’t hit us anymore, and so that he’ll love us?”

It doesn’t hurt, he’s long ago stopped registering the pain.

“Just let him be, Jimin. This is what he needs to do to show that he loves us.”

It’s nearly midnight when you finish your shift, and you’re itching to get back home. Taehyung’s cell has been off the entire day, and he didn’t even show up for his shift like he was supposed to, so naturally you had to cover for him. In the end you told Sunmi to go home after trying countless of times to contact Taehyung.

A quick perusal of the shoerack tells you that he’s not home, and on top of your anger at him for leaving Sunmi in the lurch, is genuine concern for your best friend. You enter the house only to find Seokjin gone from the couch and Yoongi raiding the fridge.

“Yoongi? Did you see Taehyung today?”

Yoongi pulls out some rice and pauses to turn to you. “No, why? Should he be here or something?”

“No, it’s just- he didn’t turn up for work today, and there was a sort of situation.”

Yoongi only shrugs in response, turning back to the kitchen counter to resume making his dinner.

“Oh, Hoseok dropped by earlier again today. You sure you don’t know that guy?”

“No, I really don’t,” you shoot over your shoulder. “What did he say this time?”

“Don’t know, I think Jimin was the one who talked to him. Maybe ask him?”

You make a non-committal grunt in reply, not exactly sure you want to know what the two men talked about right at that instant. Heading toward your room, you pause to glance past Taehyung’s open door to see if he’s in, but it’s empty, just as you expected. Pulling out your phone again to check for any new messages or calls, worry etches lines across your forehead when the screen shows up blank.

Jimin’s door is closed and it looks like the lights are off inside, so you pad quietly past into your own room and close the door. You drop your bag off by on your desk, suddenly feeling as if it’s been years and years since the day started, and collapse into bed, closing your eyes in an attempt to escape from it all.

Taehyung flicks through the notifications on his phone in disinterest, only barely noting that you’ve been calling him non-stop since that afternoon. What’s more pressing are the multiple texts and voice messages from Sunmi, all of which are things that he’d prefer to ignore.

He closes the lid of the bowl of instant noodles in front of him, suddenly losing his appetite. He’s been trying to ignore the gnawing worry at the back of his mind for what seems forever now, alternating between trying to forget the first time he slept with Sunmi and desperately trying to remember if he’d pulled out.

Taehyung clearly remembers having done so- he never cums in anyone.

Anxiety is building in his chest, rising to a crescendo that matches the restless jiggling of his leg against the table. With a sudden surge of energy, Taehyung pushes his chair back from the table and stands, feeling as if he might explode if he stays still for just a second longer.

He pushes the door of the convenience store open and heads out onto the street, hailing a cab that will take him to Sunmi’s. What would you even say if you knew about this? You’d probably tell him that he can’t run from things forever, and tell him to man the fuck up.

So Taehyung finds himself standing in front of Sunmi’s door after having ignored all her texts and calls for the past day or so. He hesitantly knocks on the door, praying with all his might that she’s not in, but of course, luck isn’t on his side as she opens the door to greet him, barely dressed with a robe hastily thrown over her figure.

“T-Taehyung! You didn’t tell me you were coming over!” Sunmi’s eyes are widened in surprise, and she lingers in the doorway, as if hesitant to let him in. “I’ve been texting and calling you all day.”

“Y-Yeah, about that. I’m sorry. I just came to talk things over.” Taehyung peers over her smaller frame into her empty living room. “Is it a bad time?”

“No!” Sunmi steps aside hastily. “No, of course not, come in, take a seat.”

Taehyung makes himself comfortable as Sunmi disappears in the opposite direction of the kitchen. She reappears a few seconds later, heading past him into the kitchen this time, and he gets up to follow her inside.

On the kitchen table are two empty wine glasses, and Taehyung immediately narrows his eyes in suspicion. Both glasses look like they’ve been used, and there’s a tell-tale pool of red liquid at the bottom.

“Been drinking?” He remarks casually as he watches Sunmi reach for a mug.

She’s startled by his comment, whirling around to follow his gaze to the two wine glasses on the table. Taehyung can see a slight waver in her expression, just a flicker of panic in her eyes and a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth, before she gives him a forced smile.

“Oh, no I was just having some friends over. Need to watch my alcohol, especially now that I might be…” Her voice trails off as she glances down.

She hands Taehyung his drink and wraps her arms around herself, pulling on the tie on her robe to close the garment a little tighter around herself. Taehyung’s eyes are drawn to the sliver of skin of her collarbone exposed by her robe, her usually porcelain complexion is now marred with navy and violet bruises that he definitely didn’t remember leaving.

“I went to the hospital today to look for you, but you weren’t in. Waited till your shift started too, but you didn’t turn up.”

“Really? Thought you had friends over today.”

“That was after,” Sunmi hurriedly tacks on, and Taehyung only nods in response, entirely unconvinced.

Now that he’s able to think calmly, without the panicked fog obscuring his rationality, he can smell the familiar musk of sex and sweat wafting off her. He’s so familiar with that smell that it’s obvious even under the layer of perfume she has on to mask it.

“You know; I came over because I wanted to make things right.” He says with as much sincerity as he can muster, and Sunmi falls for it, hook, line and sinker.

“R-really?” She looks a little shocked, and maybe a tad bit doubtful, so Taehyung decides he needs to step up his game.

“Yes, really. I was the one who got you into this situation, so I think I should be there for you when you need me most.”

Sunmi looks as if she’s at a loss of what to say, be it from shock or guilt, so Taehyung decides to strike while the iron is hot.

“Let me move in with you?”

A furious pounding wakes you up from your slumber, and you groggily open your eyes, whining in protest. Surprisingly, you realise that it’s Yoongi’s voice coming from outside your door, and nearly fall out of bed as you make your way to the door, sheets still entangled around your legs.

“What is it?” You ask upon swinging open the door.

“It’s Jimin, come quick!” Yoongi is a man of few words, but at this point you know him so well that you can pick up on the panic in his voice.

He turns around and heads for Jimin’s room, with the door now open wide. You follow him, nearly tripping over your own feet in your haste, and you freeze upon seeing him passed out in a pool of crimson red.

“Fuck,” you jolt into action and throw yourself onto your knees beside him, sliding your arm around his neck to cradle his head as you open his eyelids and check his vital signs. His skin feels cold to the touch, and he’s not responding at all.

Choking back a sob, desperation is rising in your chest as you mumble at Yoongi to get an ambulance. Your eyes are still fixed on the nasty gashes on his thighs, guilt eating away at you as you try and remember the last thing you said to him, if you’d done anything to trigger him, but the multitude of thoughts that are racing through your mind makes it impossible.

Jimin looks like he could be sleeping like this, apart from the deathly pale colour of his lips, and you will yourself to believe it, telling yourself over and over that he’ll be okay. You’re running your fingers through his faded blonde hair, panicked breaths making it hard to think straight and you can barely hear Yoongi’s voice as he tells you that the paramedics are here.

The next thing you know, you’re seated in a stiff, hard backed chair and staring at the familiar yet isolating white walls of the hospital.

You barely register Yoongi’s presence next to you, until he reaches for your hand to place a piping hot cup of coffee into your grasp.

“Yoongi- what did Hoseok say to Jimin?” You turn to him, only to see similar lines of worry and concern etched across his forehead.

“I’m not sure, I only know they talked because I left my room to get something, and saw them outside the house. Thought he had everything settled, that’s why I went back to my room. Heard the door slamming a while later, but I didn’t think much of it.” Yoongi cradles his own hands around his cup, staring into the dark liquid as steam curls off the surface.

“I saw you guys the other night.”

His sudden statement catches you mid sip, and you scald your tongue. “Wh-what? Which night was this?”

“The night you kissed Park Jimin and treated him like a fucking rebound.”

“I didn’t- wait, you saw all of this? That’s creepy as fuck, you know that right?”

But Yoongi ignores you and keeps going. “I’m guessing this Hoseok guy is your ex who keeps showing up, and you don’t want to deal with his shit so you’re avoiding him while trying to deny your feelings for Park. Hit the nail on the head yet?”

“Wh- fuck you, you don’t know anything about me, so stop acting like you do.” Yoongi’s a lot more perceptive than you’d realised, and upon hearing his accusations out loud like that, your defences snap back into place, and you can almost feel your hackles rising.

“I wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but thanks for confirming it,” Yoongi’s chuckle gets on your already frazzled nerves. “You know that Park Jimin doesn’t deserve being your collateral damage right?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. There’s nothing going on with Jimin and I. The only relationship that exists between us is a patient and doctor relationship. Period.” You can only hope that the resolution in your voice shuts down any further commentary from him, but no such luck.

“If only things were that simple eh? If only all relationships were all one dimensional; black and white, how fucking great would that be?”

“I. Don’t. Have. Feelings. For. Him.” You say through gritted teeth.

Yoongi shrugs in response. “Have it your way, but you know what’s your problem? You’re scared. Scared of taking off that god damn mask of perfection and emotionlessness and letting others see what’s underneath it. You’re using this whole professionalism thing as an excuse to keep a distance from him, and you may be able to lie to me about your feelings for him, but deep down I think you know the truth.”

Yoongi may be a lot more perceptive than you ever thought he could be, but he still doesn’t know the full picture, and he has no idea what he’s talking about. What he’s saying is just pure speculation, and you really shouldn’t let him get to you like this. He’s entirely wrong. Without realizing, your hands have tightened into fists, making the drink slosh over onto your hand.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The sensation of the hot liquid scalding your skin barely registers as you fight to keep your gaze on the wall in front of you, if only to escape his penetrating stare.

“You can’t keep using this as an excuse.”

But Yoongi doesn’t know the full story, doesn’t understand that you can’t let yourself go down that path again, can’t let someone else hurt you like that again. He thinks it’s just a simple ‘hung up over an ex and unwilling to take a chance at new love’ kind of story, when it’s so much more than that,

“Look, Yoongi, I don’t know why you think you have the right to lecture me like this, but you don’t know anything. It’s way more complicated than this, there’s a lot more at stake than you think.”

“Then tell me.”

There’s a beat of silence where you imagine pouring everything out to him, disregarding the fact that he is technically still one of your patients. And you imagine how good it would feel, to lay down everything for a second and let someone else shoulder the weight of it with you.

But then the doctor exits from the ward, and you’re off your feet instantly.

“How is he?”

“He’s alright, just suffered some major blood loss, but nothing that we couldn’t fix with a blood transfusion. He’s awake now, and you can go and see him, but please refrain from overwhelming him. Just one visitor at a time, please.”

Yoongi places a hand on your back to push you into the room, and you don’t even look back as you enter.

Jimin is propped up against his pillow, with his messy blonde hair sticking up in all directions and his eyes are immediately on you. He seems a little better now, with some colour in his cheeks, and it doesn’t look like he’s in one of his other personalities.

“Hi.” Relief fills your chest as you take in his appearance, sitting by his side and reaching for his hand on top of the sheet. “How are you doing?”

“I’m okay,” he reciprocates your grip with a squeeze, glancing up with a smile. “I’m sorry, you must have been really worried.”

“D-do you know what happened then?” You ask cautiously, and before you can help it, you’re reaching over to push a strand of his hair out of his eyes. When you catch yourself in the act, you swallow hard, convincing yourself that you’re just doing this out of a platonic concern alone, like how you treated Jeongguk.

“I fainted, didn’t I?” He frowns slightly, as if trying to recall. “H-Hoseok came to the house again. I remember being so angry that I wanted to punch him, so I must have gotten into a fight with him. That’s how I ended up here. Right?”

His voice rises at the end of his sentence in uncertainty, as he waits for you to confirm and reassure him.

“Y-yes, that’s right Jimin,” you force your voice to sound as soothing as possible, even as you stroke his cheek absent-mindedly. He doesn’t seem to remember hurting himself, but since he can remember the encounter with Hoseok, his personality must have taken over after it happened.

“Is it true then? What he said?” His words jolt you back into awareness of your actions, and you hastily withdraw your hand.

“Hoseok? Wh-what did he say?”

“You used to date him, and you broke up with him because you got bored of him.”

That little fucking asshole. You clench your jaw as you imagine Hoseok riling Jimin up, and being entirely to blame for triggering Jimin’s personality.

“Yes, it’s true, we used to date, but I didn’t break up with him because I was bored of him.” You force yourself to appear as calm as possible, when all you can think of is the night you found him in bed with Bae Suzy, and that sickening realisation that accompanied it.

“Then why did you break up with him?”

You’re struggling to find an answer for him, fighting through the sudden flash of images that flood your mind.

Jimin watches you through sleepy, drooping eyes, but he forces himself to focus on you. Looking at you makes him feel like everything might be okay again, and you feel like home to him, if home was anything but a physical place. Like it doesn’t even matter that you’ll love him and throw him away at a second’s notice, because all he wants is for you to look at him like this all the time, never mind that he’ll get hurt, because it’s all worth it.

A part of him aches to be more than just your patient, even if it’s just temporary.

“He cheated on me,” is the simple explanation you offer him. And maybe it’s his drowsiness, or maybe it’s the genuinely devastated, heartbroken expression on your face, but Jimin finds that he believes it whole heartedly, believes you over Jung Hoseok any day.

“Okay.” Is all he says, and he takes in your look of surprise with something akin to amusement

“Just ‘okay’?”

“Yeah. Okay.” He gives you a sleepy little smile, and you return it, reaching to adjust his blanket.

Jimin grips your hand tightly, a mild panic clogging his throat even through the haze of drowsiness that tugs and beckons him back to sleep.

“C-can you stay with me?” He wills himself to keep a hold of your hand, worried that you’ll reject him and leave him all alone again. “Please?”

“Till you fall asleep, and even after then,” you shift closer to his bed, resting your cheek on your arm so that you can watch his angelic features stretch into a relieved smile, before he closes his eyes and slips into a restful slumber.

As you watch him fall asleep, only one thought occurs to you: Yoongi might be right after all.

#bangtan bookclub #bangtanwriters-net #kwriterskollection #btswiters #bts #btsmaknaenet #bts fanfic #bts scenarios #jimin scenarios #bts park jimin #bts x reader

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prorevenge · 7 years

Text

Construction revenge ten years in making and why I will never have another business partner.

Long story. TL:DR at bottom.

A little over ten years ago, when I was a young carpenter, I met a guy who I'll call "chad" because f*ck chad.

Chad was a new hire by the company I was working for, and became my helper. We got along famously even though he was 10 years older than me, he didn't mind working under a 23 year old carpenter as an apprentice.

Chad and I had worked together for 6 months when he brought up the idea of starting a business together, he figured between the two of us, we could easily run a crew and build houses.

After talking it over with my pregnant girlfriend (now wife) we decided that it would be better for me to be an employee, but still a 50% partner for tax reasons, and insurance purposes. Chad said that was fine with him. So we started laying out who was take care certain aspects of the business.

Chad was to be the guy to find work, as I look (and still do) way younger than I am, and it's doesn't instill a lot of confidence in the client to think their framer is 16. Chad was also to take care of payroll, insurance, and, any other financial factions.

My duties were simple. Staff and run the crew, and keep on budget, something that came easy to me. I was to be paid an hourly wage, as well as 50% of profit after all business expenses. I never took my profit draw, as I rolled it back into growing the company.

Things were great for about six months, the crew was working well together, we had a few houses under our belts, and a contract for a 10,000 square foot custom house with multiple out-buildings. Things were great.

So chad has never built a foundation, and we usually hired a crew to put the foundation in for us, as like I said chad has never built one, and I personally hate concrete work.

We couldn't get our normal foundation crew in, so I stepped up and said "f*ck it, I'll do it myself"

The company we were building for is one of the best custom home builders around, and doing a good job on this house could mean that we wouldn't have to pound the pavement looking for work, work would be given to us. Perfect arraignment.

Until it wasn't.

Chad started spending money like it was going out of style. He sold his 2500 Chevy pickup, and bought a new Jeep Wrangler. He had the jeep for about a months before he sunk it in water while 4x4ing, and it " caught on fire" mysteriously a few days after.

He received the insurance payout, and bought a brand new dodge 2500 power wagon, which he (in short order) sunk in water within a few weeks.

I never noticed the red flags as chad and I rarely spoke face to face, he was the business side, I was the "get shit done" side.

I finished the foundation, and picked up the cheque from the builder. The builder said that we over billed him by 25% but he was happy with the work we (I) done, but not to over bill again, as he doesn't like over paying, as there may not be any money left at the end of the build. I apologized, and asked him to cancel the cheque, and issue one for the work actually completed, he agreed too and said " I'm so happy to have honest people working for me"

I usually don't pick up the cheques, nor did I ever really look at the books, as it wasn't in the scope of my responsibilities. This prompted me to log onto our corporate account, and see that we are so far in the red, that we couldn't afford to buy a red pen, let alone cover payroll.

I showed up at chads house and tore a strip off of him, he apologized and a promised to top up the account with his personal "profit draw" money.

I go into work Monday to find the locks on our tool bin had been changed, my name removed from all accounts, and a letter taped to the tool bin stating I was "dismissed from my duties" for an undisclosed reason.

I was f*cking furious. I was not aware that as a business partner I could be fired.

I found another job quite quickly, and tried my best to put it behind me.

That's when I found out where the money was going, and that chad had been slandering my name around town, blaming me for the missing money, as well as a bunch of egregious statements about my work ethic, trade skills, mental stability, and home life.

Now, I fastidiously tracked all of our interactions with a simple journal, and had backups of the transactions of our business account. I also happened to have backups of all our texts, voicemails, and pictures of everything.

This is the revenge part.

I took the "evidence" to my fathers lawyer (RIP) friend, who started a fraud/embezzlement investigation through the CRA (Canadian revenue agency, Canada's IRS) and called the insurance provider to make sure they were being paid. (They had never received anything)

I called the builder whom we were building for and explained what was happening. He told me that chad had essentially stolen around $30,000 for payment of work not completed, and had broken into their office and stolen another $15,000 (replacement value) of equipment and tools.

I did what anyone would do.

I called the police.

Police said they couldn't help me and said it was a civil case. And the builder said he wasn't going to sue, as chad had no money, and it wasn't worth the headache.

So I called his auto insurance company. Sent them all the pictures of his sunk vehicles, texts about them, and a short video he sent of him lighting the jeep on fire.

Insurance company filed charges against chad, and won, chad is on the hook for around $130,000.

I've spent the last 9.5 years telling anyone who'll listen about chad, and o have had him essentially black balled from the carpentry industry around here, because it's not slander if it's true.

I have also looked up his criminal history, as it is public domain every 3 months or so and make a point of showing up at his court proceedings, or offering myself as a character reference for the crown (prosecution).

So I've gone out of my way to remind chad that he can't f*ck me over without repercussions. And no, this doesn't end here.

Years have passed, and I am still pissed off.

I receive a call from a guy offering me a job. It was the builder that chad screwed over, not remembering that we know each other, after I explained who I was, and this bridge is burnt due to chad, he still offers me the job. Medical dental, company van, gas card, corporate credit card. I accept his offer.

First order of business, finds another way to f*ck with chad. Through the grapevine I find where chad is living and working. New boss calls the company chad is working for, and chad is summarily fired.

I get in touch with chads landlord, explain how he operates, and chad is evicted for unpaid rent. He was apparently a couple months behind.

I also managed to get his girlfriends phone number call her and explain what this guy does to people, and his extensive criminal history, including, but no limited to fraud, identity theft, insurance fraud, his many assaults, and his wanted picture published in the paper.

Turns out she is owner of his truck, primary operator, but he pays the insurance. He cannot insure a vehicle until he pays off what he owes for the fraud.

She asks me what she should do. I say that I'll take care of it.

I call the insurance provider, explain what is going on, for them to tell me he doesn't even have a license anymore. They void the insurance on his (girlfriends) truck after speaking to her, and set up a sting with the police. I personally get to be involved as I knew what was going on.

So I sit and wait for the day it goes down. I roll up behind the unmarked police cruiser, and quickly explain who I am and what my plans are.

The police are thinking that they are just waiting to pull him over for driving without a license, and no insurance, I said I'm going to cal him immediately as soon as I see him.

So he comes cruising out, and I make the call, he actually picked up the phone to call me a bunch of names, and the "n" word. (I am as white as the fresh fallen snow) and promptly gets pulled over.

Police issue a ticket for;

Reckless driving No seat belt No license Using a handheld device.

During this the girlfriend pulls up, and proceeds to give consent to search her truck.

In the truck they find multiple id's, stolen credit cards, a couple ATM skimmer machines, and a fake police badge.

He was arrested on the spot.

Revenge over, right?

Nope.

Police then ask to search the residence he was living at, he moved into the girlfriends house after I had him evicted from his own place.

In the garage they find a vast collection of stolen tools, a lot of which belonged to the builder I was working for, from when he broke into their office, and they were all stupidly still labeled with the company's inventory control stickers.

This brought on more charges, and he was remanded to police custody until his trial date.

Well justice is sometimes slow here in Canada, and his trial date was at the time, 17 months into the future.

Well yesterday was his trial date, so my boss (who chad ripped off) chads ex-girlfriend and I attend the hearing. Just to see the man squirm.

His judgement was 8 years in jail (after being granted time and a half for time served) a $100,000 dollar fine, 1000 hours community services after release, and no possibility of parole.

I got to watch him be taken away in chains twice.

Never underestimate the fury of a quiet man.

And f*ck chad.

TL:DR.

Roasted red peppers.

Set oven to 350

4 quartered red peppers Cover in olive oil Bake until soft/slight browning on skin Soak in Italian salad dressing until cool

Return to oven with feta cheese on top( skin down)

Remove when cheese starts to brown.

A nice healthy addition to any barbecued meal.

(source) (story by Strofari =)

#pro revenge #by Strofari #prorevenge #pro revenge stories #revenge stories #pro #revenge

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logan-are-you-okay · 7 years

Text

Anti’s Backstory part 4

Jack finally finished recording his video on his broken leg while throwing in a few jokes about what happened on the livestream on instagram. He even teased saying he might upload it to YouTube if he got the chance. However as he finsihes recording the video he turns to Schneeplstein.

Jack: “How’s that for a quick video?”

Schneeplstein just rolls his eyes, he started recording at around six pm, he didn’t finish till just now which was 11 o’clock at night.

Dr. Schneeplstein: “Okay it was quick, but it’s time to get some rest! No leaving this room till Friday, and I’m checking on you at every meal hour.”

So with that, Schneeplstein leaves the room turning off the light behind him. Plumiging Jack into darkness leaving on the cracks around the window for light. Jack then lays back on the medical pillow thinking about the should be doing something. Laying around like this wasn’t solving anything in any shape or form. Laying down was just making more problems and answers to solve any situation. But, with these thoughts occupying Jacks mind, his thoughts drift him off to sleep.

***

Jack suddenly wakes up in the middle of the night with a sharp pain shooting from the bottom of his leg to all the way to the top of his spine. At first he tries to ignore it by tossing and turning, but he can’t get his mind off of it. At one point it hurts so bad that he tries to call for Schneeplstein, but he stops himself. This was perfect! He could quickly go to his office, grab Anti’s notebook, and finish the last entree so he can finally get the complete story. However... how as he gonna get it? Usually if he was in this situation he would have asked a ego to help him, but he didn’t want anyone know that he had it. Also; he didn’t want to wake up anyone at night. That would be very rude and inconsiderate.

He finally decides just to stand up and walk to the office. It can’t be that bad right? Schneep said if Anti bent it any more it could have been ripped off, but he can make it to the office. He just has to be super quiet. He slowly and settlely swings his feet over to the side of the gurney only earning a small sting that felt like a kick in the back. He then raises himself off of the gurney, as he does so he pulls himself up with sends a major shock through his entire nervous system. Jack bites his tongue and breathes through his teeth to prevent himself from screaming. The pain was super unbearable, but he had a mission that he needed to do no matter what got in the way.

Jack lightly walks down to his office and walks inside. Once he gets inside, he didn’t realize how much of a train wreck he left it in. He grabs the handle of the door for leverage to it prevents himself from falling over. He then slowly walks across the wall gripping the foam that helped the sound not echo whenever he recorded videos. Jack then proceeds to the desk where he’s able to grab Anti’s journal from the bottom of his shelves.

As he goes to walk back to the hurt room, he collapses to the ground My from then pain. It was so bad he just wanted to scream and yell, but if he did he would get in trouble With Schneeplstein. He just decides to read the last page.

However... this last page doesn’t look like the rest. It’s only half a page, completely different from the usual full pages that wrote. Also the page is covered in dirt and soil, which made it very hard to read. The words also look like they were wrote in a hurry, almost as if he was... afraid of something.

Anti’s Journal: ‘I am in huge trouble! This is why you don’t go out on dates with girls!!! Ugh, we first watched a movie together, but the whole time she kept on trying to make me hold her hand. Which I was fine with, she just wanted to hold hands. Yet, later in the movie she kept moving her hand around touching me... she even tried sliding her hand into my pants so I pushed her away and yelled. Probably not the best thing to do in the theater, but I felt gross by it. When she realized I didn’t want that she grabbed my wrist and pulled me out to the car. We had a long fight about how I told her you can’t just do that! Then she called me horrible names saying that I needed to be a man, and it’s not bad when a girl does it to a guy. I was really mad, so I ended our date short and I started to drive her home. However this is why I’m writing. She insisted that we pulled over at the park so she could ‘powder her nose’ I agreed, but she told me to wait at the swings. So that’s what I’m doing, but this is the same exact park that guy on the phone wanted to meet me at. Also I’m writing this because I didn’t want to leave the house without it. It gives me relief from my anxiety. But! She’s still in there and it’s been an hour! How long does it take t-‘

The last letter looks like it would have been an O, but it was scribbled all over the page. Almost as if was being ripped away while the pencil was still on the page. Jack covers his mouth with his hand as he gasps. It can’t just end there! It can’t! He flips through the whole notebook trying to find anything to explain what had happened! Come on come on, he just needs to know!

As Jack gives up, he throws the journal down hard on the ground next to him. However, once he looks down at it, he sees a paper sticking out from it. It must have been stuck between the pages or something. He quickly pulls out the page, desperate to know more. On it shows a picture of Anti way back in 1983 with a missing sign on the bottom of it. It also has a park that the picture was taken at night from. It also happened to be a newspaper article.

Newspaper: ‘Six months ago to this day, Andrew McMarson disappeared Sunday night around 10 pm. Witnesses say that last time they saw him, he was on a date with Jessica Monroe. Head cheerlead of Akidemi High. “It was horrible, we had a fight right before he drove off. The date went well, but he got mad that I kept trying to kiss him. Which I don’t understand. Usually people love me.” Says Jessica when we were interviewing her. All that was left at the scene at this park was a journal labeled Andrew (Anti) McMarson. After a month of an investigation we have the journal back to the family as a condolence gift for the disappearance of there son. “He goes by Anti... he never was like all the other kids at school, so he wanted a name to go with it.’ Say Mrs. McMarson. Sadly one this day, people are gathering at the park to celebrate Anti, in hopes that one day he’ll return home. Police say that they will pronounce anti dead if he does not return by the end of the week.’

Jack then puts down the paper next to him, dumbfounded. Even before getting kidnapped he basically was walking on egg shells to not let people know his secret. Then that damn girl... ugh, that damn girl tries to pull something off like that. LYING to the police is one thing, but comeplelty disregarding the gross things she actually tried to do is rediclous. Also the story can’t end there! What made Anti the glitchy and blood thirty person that he is today? Why did the wound that he created on himself disappear, but a new one formed on the top of his head!? There are so many questions that need to be answered!

Jack: “Ah!”

Suddenly a sharp pain rises at the top of his leg knocking the breath out of him. But it doesn’t stop, it keeps getting worse as time passes by. It hurts, oh god it hurts so much! Tears start to run down Jack’s cheeks, he even hits the ground next to him because of it. God, why did it hurt so much! He’s broken bones before but never has it ever been this painful! He quickly grabs the notebook as newspaper and slides it under his desk, he needed to ignore the pain! He needed to! So why wasn’t this working!? It hurt so much, it felt as if all the bones in his leg were being ripped up out of his skin slowly but it felt like it was being burnt at the same exact time! In a fit of blind torture jack grabs the septic Sam that he head on top of the desk and hugs it as if it were a hurt pillow that they would give him when he’s gone to the hospital in the past.... god! He can’t take it anymore! It felt as if the whole world was pulling down on his leg, trying to rip it away from his body!

Jack: “Schneep! Schneeplstein!!! DR. SCHNEEPLSTEIN!!! Oh god! It hurts!!!”

He can’t take it! It was the worse possibly feeling he could have! He may have been killed by Anti in the pass, but all those times he has been half possessed by Anti. So it didn’t hurt that much at all!

Jack: “SCHNEEPLSTEIN!!! PLEASE! PLEASE HELP ME!!!”

Suddenly Schneeplstein busts through the door in only pants on. Cause, who slept with shirts on at night?

Dr. Schneeplstein: “Jack what are you doing in here!? I told you to rest!”

Jack: “I was just trying to record a video! Please just help me!”

Jack then starts gripping at his hair, the pain was so unbearable! He started to scream and yell, it hurt so much!

Dr. Schneeplstein: “Alright it’s okay it’s okay, calm down... we’ll think of something, we will. Just hold on.”

Schneeplstein tried his best, but he couldn’t think of anything. He wasn’t a licensed doctor, so no matter what he did would probably be wrong even though it seemed very logical.

Jack: “Oh GOD!!! Please just help me!!! Schneep I can’t take it!!!”

Dr. Schneeplstein: “Alright Jack, lets get you to the hospital. I don’t think I can handle this here.”

So with that Schneeplstein picks up Jack, and carries him to the car. He leaves a quick note on the inside of the door explaining to everyone where he’s taking Jack. With that he drives Jack to the ER as quick as he can.

Once they finally reach there through the traffic and Jack’s desperate pleas of help, Schneeplstein grabs Jack out of the car and races him inside the building.

Dr. Schneeplstein: “Some one please help me! He keeps screaming, I don’t know what’s wrong!”

Quickly multiple nurses and Dr’s grab Jack as he keeps screaming and yelling. However he keeps yelling for His Doctor.

Jack: “Schneep! Please help me!!! Oh god damn it!”

A nurse walks up to Schneeplstein as the other people take Jack back into a curtained room.

Nurse: “What happened, what’s the patients name?”

Dr. Schneeplstein: “His name is Sean, but people call him Jack. He broke his Leg earlier today, but it seems to have gotten worse or something.”

Dr. Schneeplstein: “You need to let me back there, he needs me.”

Nurse: “I’m sorry, but no unauthorized personal is allowed back there.”

Dr. Schneeplstein: “But I’m a doctor! I can help!”

Nurse: “Are you licensed?”

Dr. Schneeplstein: “I’m in the process of it. But he’s screaming for me!”

Nurse: “Sit down Sir! We’ll let you know what ever happens.”

Dr. Schneeplstein: “Fuck you!”

He then makes his way to some the waiting around seats and sits down. This was torture just hearing the screams and not being able to do anything. Also, why the fuck did Anti just decided to do that to him. If anything happens to jack it’s his fault! Schneeplstein only has Jack now. After his wife left with the tennis player and kids, he needed his license to get them back. But he can ever get one by looking like Jack. Which he’s fine with, but Jack’s all he has left now...

#dr schneeplestein #jacksepticeye #antisepticeye #backstory #it counts fanficton is still a form of art #septicart

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frommountainstolonestars · 7 years

Text

Rant

Tumblr rants and raves about a lot of things. We can go on and on about just about anything. But one thing we never talk about is alcoholism.

In fact, we grow up in a world that is so unconcerned with alcoholism that we boast about how much we’ve had to drink and do drunk ask nights and we talk about how young we start.

As a child of an alcoholic, I just... it bothers me how much society as a whole, around the world, loves alcohol. So take it from me what alcoholism does.

According to the National Institute of Alcoholism, in the U.S. alone, more than ten percent of children live with a parent with alcohol problems. About 17 million U.S. adults over 18 have or had an alcohol disorder. Nearly 80,000 people in the U.S. die from alcohol consumption daily. In 2012, over ten thousand deaths came from alcohol-induced driving. According to the Centers for Disease Control, in 2006, alcohol accounted for almost $224 billion. “You’re either going to be an alcoholic or marry one.”

Little Darling grew up in Reno, Nevada—1,628 miles away from Denton, Texas. She was raised by a native Texan and a native Coloradoan, along with her older sister. Her childhood, while eclectic and interesting, she wouldn’t change for the world. But once seventh grade started… almost every moment she wanted to change. “You’re either going to be an alcoholic or marry one.”

“Intoxication can impair brain function and motor skills,” states the NIH. No eight and ten-year-old should have to know that. A ten-year-old should not scream at her mother that she can fix Dad. No mother should yell back that he can’t be fixed. No ten-year-old should say, “Maybe, I can fix him.” No mother should whisper, “He’s beyond repair.” No eight-year-old should listen, all while watching their father sit in a chair, eyes glazed over and head lolling. “You’re either going to be an alcoholic or marry one.”

“Alcoholism is a diagnosable disease characterized by a strong craving for alcohol, and/or continued use despite harm or personal injury,” the NIH says. No eight-year-old should be dragged out of class and told her father is in the hospital suffering from a heart attack. No eight-year-old should ask her mom what gall bladder surgery is. No eight-year-old should tug on their sister’s arm and ask if colon cancer can kill someone. No eleven-year-old should look up what lupus anticoagulant syndrome is. No twelve-year-old should worry about her father’s diabetes. No fifteen-year-old should listen to her mother tell her that Dad had a stroke. No seventeen-year-old should worry that her father’s diabetes may be killing him. No eighteen-year-old should count how much alcohol their father’s consumed. No twenty-year-old should wonder if alcohol is killing their dad and if he’s even going to live to his next birthday. “You’re either going to be an alcoholic or marry one.”

The NIH states, “Alcohol abuse, which can lead to alcoholism, is a pattern of drinking that results in harm to one’s health, interpersonal relationships or ability to work.” In 2007, Richard Michael Strider was laid off from the Eureka Chemical Company because he was considered too old. He had already suffered lung embolisms, a heart attack, gall bladder surgery, colon cancer and a blood-clotting disorder. But being laid off nearly brought him to his knees. He eventually got his teaching license and went back to work, but he was not the same man he once was. His youngest, his number two, noticed. Richard was her rock; someone she could tell anything, but he pulled away. She no longer felt like Dad’s Little Darling. Alcohol seemed to have replaced her. “You’re either going to be an alcoholic or marry one.”

In 2011, Mary Jane Strider graduated from Ryder High School and left to attend Trident University in San Angeles. Little Darling lost her new rock, her safeguard, her guardian angel, her protector and even her hero. Little Darling withdrew into herself, while still trying to express her extroverted self to the outside world. Anger became the dominate emotion. Sarcasm and cynicism became the main aspects of her personality. Sure, some of it stemmed from the brutal, often cruel, comments from her peers or all the crap that seemed to get piled on her. Most of it came from inside that twisted mind that saw more than most people thought. Part of it came from her safeguards leaving her. Little Darling was too similar to Mom to try to talk to her about anything. Reading and soccer became her outlets. “You’re either going to be an alcoholic or marry one.”

After Richard had his stroke, it really did seem like everything changed. His Little Darling threw herself into school, soccer and reading to avoid watching her father “self-medicate.” Between the alcohol and pills he had to take, she was overly worried. At times, she hated going home, fearing verbal abuse or Mom trying to talk about the “disease.” It seemed most conversations with Mom would be superficial or centered on Dad’s problem. “You’re either going to be an alcoholic or marry one.”

In an AP European history class, Little Darling found the most amazing escape. It was better than soccer or reading. With writing, she felt in control. The Understood was her passion. But Little Darling’s life was never really perfect. While she did not want for much or have a major problem, life still seemed to like to bite her in the ass. “You’re either going to be an alcoholic or marry one.”

Soccer was one of her dreams… a small escape from her hectic life. She had the brain for the game and despite her small stature, she was quick and had a powerful kick. Then a small tragedy (in her mind) happened. Her right knee was destroyed. Running hurt and cutting was unbearable. In one tiny fucking moment, a passion was ripped from her and so was another connection to her father. It felt like she was thrust back under her sister’s shadow. “You’re either going to be an alcoholic or marry one.”

Just when Little Darling felt like she’d come to terms with never being able to play soccer again, things seemed to shatter. Dad drank more, and Mom worked more. Mary Jane was so happy and Little Darling? She felt like she was suffocating. To top off her sophomore year, a stalker emerged. A ten-page love letter, countless texts/Facebook messages, a joking sister, an overbearing mother and a father who didn’t seem to give a shit only contributed to the growing anger in Little Darling. It seemed insurmountable, and it only got worse the more Richard continued to drink. Nothing got through to him. Beer after beer, and it often started at ten in the morning. His wife, Jennifer, told Little Darling to catch him in the morning before the not-quite-Dad became the reality. Alcoholic father or stalker? Did it matter anymore? “You’re either going to be alcoholic or marry one?”

The further junior year progressed, the more Little Darling noticed. She noticed the increased working hours of her mother, the increased drinking of her father, the increased demands of her stalker, the increased pressures from college and her own damned increased anger. A wall was up between her and the world, only a select few seeing the genuine girl beneath. Alone in her room with a journal and a pen was her escape from her reality. The drinking only got worse. Her stalker only got worse, leading to court. Her anger only got worse. Her mother kept offering to go to Al-Anon meetings, to see Dr. Nielsen or to get checked for depression. “You’re either going to be an alcoholic or marry one.”

Is there ever a moment in your life that brings everything to a head? The summer between Little Darling’s junior and senior year did just that. She was with some of her best friends at a volunteer event, finally carefree after the stalker issues had been handled. A phone call from Dad changed that. “You’re either going to be an alcoholic or marry one.”

“You need to come home right now. Something is wrong with Mom.” Words she thought would be said by her mother, completely flipped her world around. The two minute car drive seemed like an eternity, even when she was practically flooring it. The three bedroom house felt huge as she tore it apart trying to find her parents. Sitting on the back patio, clutching an empty bottle of vodka and a handful of pills was her iron-willed mother. And there was Dad, asking oh-so-calmly if she had taken any of those damned pills. “You’re either going to be an alcoholic or marry one.”

Tears cascaded down Little Darling’s face. Her mom wanted to die. Anger and hatred warred inside her, aimed at her parents. Was it her fault that Dad wouldn’t stop drinking and Mom wanted to die? A seventeen-year-old had to figure out if her mother had taken any pills and what had caused her to do it. Her fiery blue eyes met the muted brown ones… what had he done? In that moment, he wasn’t her father. He was just a damned alcoholic. Two hours later and a panicked phone call to her savior, Aunt Carol, Little Darling called her hero. Mary Jane then chewed out Dad. She didn’t know half the shit that had gone on since she had left, just the small snippets from her breaks. Her dad often said, “Our family is open about our dysfunction.” Those words never felt more wrong. To make matters worse, the next day, they acted like it had never happened. But Little Darling knew. It was not something she’d soon forget. “You’re either going to be an alcoholic or marry one.”

Little Darling bottled up her anger. Her senior year became a rather larger burden to carry: We the People, track, college, finding scholarships and her dysfunctional family. Some days were better than others but being in that house still hurt. The drinking would get worse and then better and then worse again, and it often felt like she had aged fifteen years in a few short months. “You’re either going to be an alcoholic or marry one.”

She stopped inviting her Dad to school functions. She stopped inviting her friends over to the house, afraid her once tolerant father would embarrass her. His drinking had more than successfully pushed her away—1,628 miles away. People always ask her why she chose the school she did. The answer is pretty simple. She loves Texas, she’s close to her family, one of her aunt’s is an alumni and they have an incredible journalism program. But more than part of the truth is, it got her away from the toxicity of his drinking. It is far enough away without being too far from her friends and sister. “You’re either going to be an alcoholic or marry one.”

I am not the only one affected by alcoholism, and if some mild verbal abuse is the worst I get, I’m happy. I’ve been to a few Al-Anon meetings; most kids have two alcoholic parents and are on their way to becoming one. Money goes to booze, they were physically abused and some even live in poverty. What more can I say? Mom always says it’s a disease. I get it; I always have. “You’re either going to be an alcoholic or marry one.”

It may not seem like a big deal to a lot of people, but to those who have experienced it, it is torture. It feels like a life or death moment, more often than not. We go through life not entirely sure if one day to the next it’ll change, and they’ll finally accept help. It affects everyone around us. It’s terrifying and almost feels like a fat man is sitting on our chests. Yet, we can’t escape it. It’s in our dreams, and it’s in our genes. It literally feels like it’s everywhere. “You’re either going to be an alcoholic or marry one.”

The question now is: how does this affect society? Look at the statistics on alcoholism. People binge drink and start doing so at earlier and earlier ages. Prohibition didn’t stop it and an age limit doesn’t either. People drink, and I understand that. But when a couple of drinks with friends turns into a couple of more drinks alone, there’s a serious problem. When you start drinking at ten in the morning, there’s a problem. The solution isn’t easy, and there may not even be one. “You’re either going to be an alcoholic or marry one.”

The government has tried and failed to implement restrictions on alcohol and frighteningly, underage drinking has gone up, instead of decreasing. So what do we do about it? My university and other colleges such as the one in my hometown have started alcohol education programs for incoming freshmen. While these programs are informative and mandatory, it doesn’t prevent underage drinking. “You’re either going to be an alcoholic or marry one.”

High schools often bring in survivors or parents of drunk driving accidents, but that just scares us into not drinking and driving. The sad truth is that the U.S. tiptoes around the very word “alcoholism.” They often make jokes about it. I’ve seen shirts that say, “I’m not an alcoholic; they go to meetings.” Parents don’t educate their children on it, and there’s something wrong with that. I honestly don’t think there’s any easy fix to the problem. However, I do suggest we find a way to do something about it. In health classes, there needs to be a section devoted to alcohol abuse. Colleges need to implement something other than an online course (maybe a mandatory meeting at orientations), and parents need to start to take an initiative on educating their kids. Seventeen million alcoholics are in the U.S., and there’s not a whole lot we’re doing to stop it. “You’re either going to be an alcoholic or marry one.”

Society tends to look at issues and come to the conclusion that laws will fix them. The U.S. has the all-or-nothing mentality a lot of the time. The few laws banning and restricting alcohol don’t seem to work. I’m not saying we set a cap on how much a person consumes or what they’re allowed to do with their lives. Somehow, in some way, we need to make alcoholism more prevalent than “don’t drink and drive.” It’s become such a joke to people. AA doesn’t seem like it works for many individuals. The fact is when I’ve seen shirts, jokes and mugs all mocking it, something is truly wrong. Alcoholism has become something to laugh at and about. It’s almost like, “Oh! That’s your worst problem. Well, I have this, that and the other. I’m much worse off than you and your alcohol thing.” Until you’ve lived with someone who is slowly killing themselves, you shouldn’t say a damn thing. “You’re either going to be an alcoholic or marry one.”

I keep coming back to how we can fix this problem. The terrifying truth is… we can’t. Much like with any other social issue, the first step is having the alcoholics heal themselves. And the truth is, most do not want to do even that. We cannot help those who do not want to be helped. Maybe, the biggest change will come with the children of alcoholics. But so far, we do not see that. Many of these children become alcoholics themselves or cannot get away from other alcoholics. And now, I watch my sister drink excessively and wonder if she’ll be like him. “You’re either going to be an alcoholic or marry one.”

As I sit in front of my computer, trying to solve this issue, I know that I can’t. We can continue to make children aware of alcohol abuse, but nothing is going to stop it. As for myself? I know I won’t underage drink… I may never drink. It’s on both sides of my family, and I’ve watched it slowly tear my family apart. “You’re either going to be an alcoholic or marry one.”

Moving 1,628 miles away doesn’t absolve me of the problem. It’s still there. It’s still here, inside of me. Awareness may be the first step to solving this horrible problem. Because, honestly, no eight-year-old, no twelve-year-old, no fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen or twenty-year-old should have their mom tell them, “You’re either going to be an alcoholic or marry one.”

Maybe, I will, but it’s my turn to decide what I will do with my life. I’m not surrounded by the alcohol abuse anymore. I’m not told day in and day out about being or marrying one. Maybe, I’ll change the way we view alcoholism. The solution is to break from the mold, be aware what “disease” you carry and learn the steps to prevent it. Because I am not an alcoholic, and I refuse to marry one.

#about me #delete later #alcohol #alcoholism

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