#they’re fine outside of the invasiveness

[the-faultofdaedalus]

see i can’t look at that post about delicate pretentious picky rose vs chill survivor dandiliom anymore because you know what does grow fucking everywhere? rose. you know what there’s like, maybeee a couple dozen of in a hectare? dandelion.

respect the rose listen there’s Good Reason why malificent chose to make THAT plant her impenetrable wall. multiflora will live forever and will tear you to shreds while doing it.

[eretzyisrael]

This account, first published in JewishNews, is written by an anonymous London-based Guardian employee who has family living on a kibbutz in southern Israel. It offers a look at life in the newspaper’s offices in the days since Hamas’s attack on Israel.

I wake up on October 7 to a text from my brother-in-law: “Thoughts are with your family in Israel. I hope everyone is safe.”

I check the news. Hamas has entered southern Israel. They’re in a kibbutz. My partner’s family is in that kibbutz. His cousin is nine months pregnant. He’s in contact with them; they’re in the safe room. Terrorists are outside.

I check social media. Reports of hostages, maybe three. I check again; perhaps ten.

There has been a massacre at a music festival. I look at the video. Who do I know there? I check social media again; there are videos of hostages. I look at their faces. Do I know them?

We lose contact with family in the kibbutz. I tell myself that the phone lines are down because the IDF are there. I watch Hamas footage as it is coming out. I go on Telegram for the first time in my life and I see a room full of bodies covered in blood. I see children gunned down. I see the bodies of raped women. I see families holding each other as Hamas livestreams atrocities. I look for people I might know.

My partner and I walk 30,000 steps. There’s nothing we can do. Late that evening we hear that his family is safe but their house is gone, neighbors are dead.

I don’t understand. I could have easily been there and part of me thinks I was.

I look at the papers the next day. The newspaper I work for has a tank on the front page: ‘Hundreds die and hostages held as Hamas assault shocks Israel’—victorious terrorists hold a Palestinian flag. The subheading reads ‘Netanyahu declares war as 150 Israelis die. 230 Palestinians killed in air strikes.’

I don’t understand. I know people, Israelis, who were murdered. They did not “die,” as if in some kind of accident. I saw footage of terrorism. It was not an “assault.”

The front page of The Observer, The Guardian’s sister Sunday newspaper, on October 8, the day after the Hamas massacre. (via The Observer)

On Sunday, we get more information about what happened to my partner’s family, about how Hamas set the family’s house on fire when they thought it was empty, how my partner’s cousin screamed for her life when the room filled with smoke, how her husband had to pin her down to stop her cries, how Hamas laughed when they realized the family would need to crawl out of the room, how they refused to leave the burning building. We hear that they somehow survived and walked out through pools of their neighbors’ blood, pieces of dead children littering the street; kids who’d been playing on a Saturday morning.

I’m safe, I’m fine, but I can’t comprehend the color of the sky or the rustle of the trees. I look around at people enjoying their Sunday and I think: Do they not know what is happening? I check the news again and see there are more hostages. I look through the names.

There are still terrorists in Israel.

I listen to the radio, one Israeli interviewee and then one Palestinian. I can hear that the interviewer is struggling as defenders of Hamas justify terrorism. I don’t understand. Is this how they reported the Russian invasion of Ukraine? Did they platform Putin’s people?

I check social media. A friend has posted: “They’ve broken out of jail.” Another has said: “Today is a day of celebration,” and someone else has shared an infographic of “Settler colonialism for beginners.” My old flatmate tells her followers she will be at the demonstration outside the Israeli embassy and she invites people to join her.

On Monday I go to work. How are your family, a colleague asks. When I answer, she squirms. Can’t they just leave, my colleague says. No, they can’t actually.

I look at the morning newsletter for the newspaper I work for. It breaks down the number of dead Palestinian children. It does not mention dead Israeli children.

My group chats are exploding as family and friends work out what has been happening, who is alive. I go back to the news. I type the name of the kibbutz into the wires. Nothing. I read how Hamas invaded “settlements.” They’re not settlements! They’re small, pre-state kibbutzim.

I find out that a friend of a friend was at the music festival and is missing. I’m shaking at work.

I see a colleague who had posted about “decolonization” all over social media over the weekend. They’re laughing with the rest of their team. They’re having a great day. I used to love their podcast, full of hot takes and celeb gossip. Now they’ve evolved into an expert on the Middle East. It doesn’t look like their family is in the middle of it, though.

No one else at work speaks to me about it. I nod my way through conversations about fonts and I stumble home.

I go back the next day. I look at the front page. A photo of Gaza and “violence escalates.” Israelis “dead” but Palestinians “killed.” If they can’t empathize with the Jews now, they never will.

I email the editors. I tell them that my newspaper’s coverage has been upsetting. They tell me that their thoughts are with my family but they stand by the paper’s reporting.

I hear colleagues complaining about the newspaper’s “American readers. They’re always accusing us of antisemitism.” They’re laughing.

I leave work early to go to a vigil outside Downing Street. People quietly weep. Everyone there is Jewish.

I’ve seen on social media that I know people going to a demonstration. Later, I see photos of it: people on lampposts, red flares, Jews hiding inside, the Israeli embassy boxed in. All kinds of people are united in the chant, “From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.” In Sydney, they are shouting: “Gas the Jews.”

On Tuesday, I find out that my friend’s friend at the music festival is dead. I remember the day I’d spent with him on the beach in Tel Aviv last month. He’d gotten back from South America and was excited to travel again. He had been gentle and sweet. I don’t understand.

On Wednesday, I go to work again, and the next day, and the next day. Finally, the pictures from the kibbutz come out. I look at all of them. I rewatch the footage. I bear witness. No colleague asks me how I am again that week.

I go to synagogue at the weekend and cry with my community. The rabbi holds space for pain. I say Kaddish for the boy at the music festival I will never talk to again.

Back at work I see someone pointing to a photo of the Israeli flag burning in the newspaper. They laugh, “This is my favorite picture.”

I remember telling my family that when I next went to Israel I’d lie to my colleagues and tell them it was Spain. I’d lie because my colleagues had said to me of Israel: “You gotta go while you still can.”

Now another colleague asks me what I think of Netanyahu. Do I hold him responsible? I explain that I have protested against Netanyahu but the only people responsible for October 7 are Hamas. She keeps asking me about the settlements. I tell her they’re bad but she won’t stop. “Don’t you think Bibi has a lot to do with this?” I ask her if she has family in the region. She does not.

I’m on social media again. Friends share infographics from Jewish Voice for Peace and heavy-hitting images from the Gaza Health Ministry. I don’t disagree with what they’re posting but they said nothing when October 7 happened. I start unfollowing decades-old friends.

In the days that follow, my synagogue receives a bomb threat, my local rail station has photos of missing children ripped off, I hear of more friends of friends who have been killed. I hear of others who are now enlisted. I hear that a synagogue president in America has been stabbed to death and synagogues all over the world have been vandalized and destroyed.

The newspaper I work for is covering the bombardment of Gaza and I watch in horror. I think that Israel must defend itself. Yet when I say this, people will tell me I am justifying the murder of children. They will tell me it is a genocide.

As the events of October 7 draw on collective Jewish memory of pogroms and the Holocaust, the newspaper I work for will dispel that myth, publishing a piece entitled “Israel must stop weaponizing the Holocaust.” Am I wrong to connect our grief today with that of our past?

In the weeks that follow, I will apply for other jobs and speak exclusively to Jewish friends and family. I will hide myself away from the streets of London and the waves of social media.

I will not forget the photos and videos I saw on October 7, but I start to think about how this day will be marked; how my children’s children will take part in a new commemoration, where we will remember not the Romans or the Persians or the Nazis but Hamas, and how we survived.

Intergenerational trauma has been retriggered but now is not the time to dwell on our historical violent oppression. Now is the time to rise up, speak out, and defend our right to exist. Now is not the time for colleagues to dismiss Jewish pain or publish inflammatory op-eds that will spark more violence.

I will keep applying for other jobs.

[thebigbadbatswife]

Wonderstruck

Pairing(s): Diana of Themyscira x F!Reader

Summary - Bruce introduces you, his oldest friend, to the one superhero friend of his that you haven’t met yet.

Warnings - First meetings. Reader has social anxiety. Fluff. Humour.

Word Count - 1.5k

“Are you sure about this, Bruce?” you ask, looking yourself over in the mirror, frowning. You’re still unsure about the outfit you have picked out for the party tonight. “It’s been forever since I’ve been to one of these things.”

Bruce chuckles and gently pulls you away from the mirror, turning you to face him. “You look great and keep in mind this isn’t a fancy party filled with upper class dickheads. Just friends and family.” 

You know that he’s right. This is supposed to be a more laid back type of party. Even his outfit is laidback. A black shirt and slacks instead of the usually suit and tie. It hasn’t stopped you from working yourself up though. Your palms are sweaty and your heart is thumping hard against your ribcage. Already your mind has conjured up and played out a bunch of scenarios. Each one going worse than the last one. It’s more than enough to make you feel like running back to the safety of your room.

Being one of your oldest friends, and therefore knowing you the best, Bruce can see every little sign of your anxiety building up and threatening to consume you. The rough feeling of his calloused thumb against your cheek helps with grounding you. 

“Breathe,” he reminds you. “Everything will be fine. You do know most of them.”

“Except for the one you seem most excited for me to meet,” you reply. 

“I just think that the two of you will hit if off,” he shrugs. 

“So you’re playing matchmaker now? What, did you get bored of your cowl?”

“Everyone needs a hobby.” He links his arm with yours and begins to lead you toward the manor’s garden, where everyone else is. “Besides, if you really do start to panic you know that either I or Selina will step in and whisk you away to a quiet room.”

“I know and I’m so grateful to the both of you for that.”

Since your diagnosis, the both of them have gone above and beyond to make sure that you feel safe and supported whilst you seek help and figure out how to manage it. Even being miles away from them, you haven’t been left to feel like you’re all alone. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to repay them for all everything they’ve done for you.

Before you know it, you and Bruce have reached the doors to the garden. They’re wide open, letting the summer air into the manor and you could easily hear the conversations going on. Taking a deep breath, you let him lead you outside. 

He’s right. You do recognise almost everyone and they recognize you, despite the fact that it’s been a few years since you last saw any of them. Barry gives you a toothy grin and waves while the rest take a more reserved approach. A smile here or a small gesture of their hand or head there. Doing their best to not overwhelm you. 

“I’m glad you decided to come,” Selina says as she pulls you away from Bruce and into a hug. You hug her back. Thankful to see your other old friend after so long.

“It’s good to see you, Selina.” 

She smiles at you as she pulls away. “Diana’s over there.”

“Thank you,” Bruce tells her. He leans in close and presses a kiss to her lips. You’re glad that the two of them finally stopped dancing around their feelings and actually got together. They deserve to be happy. Though that very thing is probably why Bruce is playing matchmaker with you right now. He wants you to be happy as well. Like he is.

While you have never met Diana, you have seen her on the tv and the web. Various news reports and footage that spreads across the internet every time that the Justice League stops some alien invasion or super villain attempting to take control of the world, again. In truth, you’ve always had a bit of a crush on her. Thing is you never thought anything would ever come of it until Bruce decided to start introducing you to aspects of his superhero life. Though, now that you think about it, you probably should have suspected something a month ago when he kept bringing her up. 

“Diana. This is…” Bruce introduces you to her. You feel your mouth go dry. She’s even more stunning in real life. Long black hair, the ends dip dyed blue, a red tank, blue jeans and her silver bracelets.

“Hi,” you just about manage, hating how pathetic you must sound. All you want is for the ground to open up and swallow you whole. At the same time, you know now that running away from everything constantly isn’t a way to live.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” she says. “Bruce has told me a lot about you.” 

“Same here,” you reply. 

You both side eye Bruce, who’s doing his best to act completely innocent, like he hasn’t been planning this meeting for ages, but his act is completely transparent. Before either you or Diana can say something, there’s a loud crash. You all turn to where his two eldest sons are suppose to be helping Alfred with setting up the grill, but only seem to be making an absolute mess of it. A long, drawn out and tired sounding sigh leaves Bruce as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“If you’ll excuse me.” 

You and Diana both chuckle as he walks away and both of his sons scatter when they seem him approaching. 

“So, Bruce is playing matchmaker now,” she says, drawing your attention back to her.

“Apparently. He’s happy so everyone else has to be as well. Which is better then him making everyone else miserable.” 

She nods in agreement. 

With the ice now broken, the conversation between the two of you flows easily. Bit by bit your anxiety slowly starts to dissipate and you are not over analysing every last thing that you say. Diana is completely intrigued by your job as a wildlife photographer and the various situations you have managed to get yourself into during your job. From close encounters with the very animals you’re photographing to poachers and trophy hunters. The mention of the latter two visibly angers her and you share her sentiment. They had not been fun encounters at all.

“And you got out of those situations unscathed?” she asks. 

“Mostly. Selina taught me how to defend myself while we were growing up on the streets,” you reply.

“And the men who attacked you? What happened to them?”

“Most of them are behind bars–” you gesture toward where Bruce and Selina are–“Their handiwork as soon as they found out what happened. They’re now trying to forbid me from travelling to the Amazon Rainforest because of it.”

“What if I was to come with you?”

Her offer takes you completely by surprise. You have only just met each other and she’s already offering to travel to a rainforest with you. A trip that’s bound to last a few weeks. 

“I’m sure that it would soothe any fears they have and it would be an opportunity for us to get to know each other without so many other people around,” she continues. “If you want me to join, of course. I don’t want to pressure you.”

“I mean, I’ve only ever gone with colleagues on these trips, but I think it could be a lot of fun if you came along. It would also stop Bruce from constantly blocking me from charting a flight.”

She nods. “It’s agreed then. We’ll go together.”

Afternoon quickly turns into evening and one by one the rest of the leaguers say their goodbyes and leave until it’s just you, Diana, Bruce and Selina. The four of you have long since come inside and have settled in one of the lounges. 

You decide that now is the perfect time to mention what you and her talked about earlier. As soon as you mention the rainforest you can see Bruce visible tense until you say that Diana has offered to come with you. He relaxes at that and even looks a little smug. Sometimes you could really deck him, but you would really rather not break your hand on his face again. 

“It was an absolutely pleasure to meet you,” Diana says. The two of you are standing outside of the manor to say your goodbyes. It’s got quite late and your social battery is so drained you’re ready to curl up in bed and never leave it ever again.

“Same here. I’m glad that Bruce managed to talk me into coming today.” 

“As am I. You’ll text me the details?”

“Yeah. ‘Course.”

You wave goodbye to her and watch until she reaches the end of the drive, then you’re turning away and heading back inside. Bruce is waiting for you, leaning against the bannister of the grand staircase, grinning.

“I told you the two of you would hit it off.” He sounds as smug as he looks.

“Oh, shut up.”

[heliads]

Can I request a Loki x fem reader where the reader is a super kind empath Avenger and comforts Loki, who also has been recruited as an Avenger (very reluctantly) but is still a bit ostracized from everyone else on the team. The reader is able to see how poorly Loki was treated in the past and promises to be there for him. They both end up falling in love but are too afraid to tell each other (the reader is able to feel this weird warm and fuzzy emotion Loki directs at her and she can’t pin point what emotion it is). They end up confessing when Loki sees an avenger member take advantage of the readers sweetness so he steps into comfort her. He confesses and they kiss 😚

Also have an amazing day and take your time with requests!!!

hope you have an amazing day too!

masterlist

If you squint ever so slightly, peer out from the reach of your favorite chair just enough to see into the surrounding hallway, you can almost make out the silhouette of Tony Stark pacing back and forth outside his office door. 

As resident empath of the Avengers team, you’re in charge of reconnaissance, general battle backup, and checking in on everyone to make sure they’re still intact. You’ve also gone ahead and assumed that to mean that you can use your abilities to read the hearts of your teammates. Hey, it’s what they hired you to do, right? It’s not like you’re scanning their minds, now that would be invasive. All you’re doing is sensing how they’re feeling. Anyone could do that with a bit of good knowledge on body language.

You shift slightly, and there– you can just make out a cloud of colors circling Tony’s figure. That’s how emotions have always appeared to you ever since you were a kid. When people are having a perfectly normal day and not too much has happened, you’ll only be able to pick up on a tendril or two of colored smoke around their frame, a few hints at happy or sad but nothing too special. 

Conversely, when something crazy is going on, it’s like they’re walking out of a bank of mist, Mr. Darcy at the end of Pride and Prejudice (2005)-style. For instance, at this very moment you can’t even tell what shade of shirt Tony is wearing through the dense emotion rattling around him.

This is obviously a sign that something is going on. Usually, Tony’s pretty laid back, or at least he pretends to be. Cool blue is his trademark. Sometimes, closer to missions or just after them, you’ll see bright lime or sickly yellow lancing through them, panic and stress from too much pressure on his shoulders. You can sense his anxiety attacks before they start. Tony has no idea how many times you’ve used your gifts to divert those things, and if you have it your way, he’ll never figure it out.

Tony’s not panicking right now, though, or not in the way that you’re used to. Instead of purple or blue, all you can see around him is red, blazing red. Tony’s not usually a red kind of guy. Red means anger, outrage, and by the looks of him now, something has happened to cook up a regular bonfire of irritation.

As you watch, though, more colors join the fray. You can spot uneasy yellows and greens, an undercurrent of fear. What could possibly be going on to make Tony so unhappy? The situation is complicated, to be sure, but that’s nothing new around the Avengers. Take it from a S.H.I.E.L.D.- registered empath:  no one ever feels just one thing at one time. There’s always a dozen different emotions swirling in between your heart and head. And right now, Tony’s got quite a few to chew on.

Unable to contain your curiosity, you get up from your seat and pad over to him. Tony almost flinches when he turns and sees you, but he rubs a tired hand over one eye and greets you like normal.

You arch a brow at this attempt at pretending everything is fine. After all this time, Tony should know that you’re not one to get fooled by a pretty lie like that. “What’s going on? You’re totally freaking out.”

“So glad to see you, Y/N,” Tony complains, “I look great? Thanks for telling me. You’re always so quick with the compliments.”

You give him a look. “I know how you’re feeling. What’s up with you?”

“It’s not me you should be questioning,” he sighs, “it’s the newcomer to our team.”

You frown. “I didn’t think we were getting someone new.”

“We weren’t supposed to, but Fury added another guy last minute. Apparently it was either that or have him rot down in a cell for all eternity, and we don’t want to risk pissing off his brother,” Tony clarifies.

“Who’s his brother?” You ask, curious.

“Thor,” Tony says, and then you understand at last.

“Loki is joining the team?” You can’t believe it. Loki attacked New York all of six months ago. Sure, Fury has always been one to maximize opportunity, but you can’t believe he’d let Loki into the ranks of the Avengers so quickly.

“That’s what I said,” Tony harrumphed, “but apparently it’s already done. He’ll be coming up later today to meet us all. You know, without trying to kill us this time.”

You chuckle under your breath. “I can’t wait to see how that goes. How long do you think we have until Steve breaks out a patriotic speech on our or his behalf?”

Tony snorts. “It’ll happen any minute now. Look, here Steve comes up the stairs now. It’s like he marches everywhere he goes. Unreal.”

True to Tony’s suspicions, Steve, upon learning of Loki’s arrival, does indeed treat all of you to a talk about looking past first impressions. If the red flickering around his eyes and fists says anything, though, it’s that he’s just as pleased about the whole affair as Tony.

You, for one, aren’t sure what to make of the whole thing. Something must have happened to make Fury trust Loki, and until you learn otherwise, that’s as good an endorsement as you’ll get around here. Before long, Thor is marching into the Avengers complex with a stranger in tow, and all of a sudden, you have eyes on your new teammate.

It’s strange, your first impression of Loki. Second, technically, but you’re not counting the Battle of New York. That was different, you were trying to kill each other. Now you’re supposed to count on him to save your life.

Tony shoots a quick glance your way, cocking one brow as if to ask, getting anything? The honest answer is no, not yet. Asgardians are always hard to read, you figured that out when you first met Thor. Everything about them is different, even down to how they feel certain emotions. Loki is no exception. At first, you think he feels nothing at all. Then, you realize he’s just very good at hiding it. His back is perfectly straight, spine stiff and unfeeling.

That is, until you look a little deeper and you start to see the threads of colors playing around his clothes, his hands, his blank stare. They’re green in color, green and gold like the stitching on his apparel. They’re not happy emotions, these, they’re–

They’re fear. Loki is afraid. Not that anyone here will kill him, not that sort of fear. He is certain that all of you will reject him, that this great god will have to watch humans laugh at him and just deal with it anyway.

You can understand feeling like that. When you were first recruited to the Avengers, you almost thought it was a joke. Surely an empath wouldn’t be useful in the heat of the battle. They had to convince you of that later, once you could start changing people’s emotions instead of just reading them. Still, you know what it’s like to doubt yourself, even when you’re sure that you are worth more than anyone can imagine.

So, you step forward first, and greet him with a smile. “I’m Y/N,” you say, “it’s good to see you.”

Loki arches a brow, and you don’t have to read minds to know that he’s thinking is it? as strongly as he can. This confusion only grows when you hold out a hand to him. For a moment, you think he’s going to reject you, but your smile stays insistent. He doesn’t have to like you at all, but goddamnit, you’re going to like him. He can deal with that on his own terms.

He must be able to pick up on this sort of stubbornness, and for some reason this is what wins him over at last. Loki extends his hand to shake yours, and just like that, the ice is broken. It’s as if a collectively held breath is released across the room.

That isn’t to say that the rest of the Avengers take to him so readily, nor that Loki is as willing to accept them as you. He tends to stick to himself, avoiding crowds unless he can’t avoid it. He begrudgingly tells you it’s because being around that many people either reminds him of Asgard or the battle or both.

He tells you a lot, actually. It doesn’t all happen at first. He may have shaken your hand, but he seems dead set on despising you. However, you’d made up your mind to win him over at that point, and you weren’t going to rest until you met your goal. It took a lot of slow, deliberate effort, but before long the conversations weren’t so one-sided and you swore he actually smiled when you entered the room.

Also, he stopped hiding his emotions as much. The first time you saw a hesitant wave of goldenrod brush across his shoulders, you thought you were hallucinating. It was there the next time you saw him, though, and the next, and the next, deepening to sunset orange and staying there. Happiness. He liked being near you.

Once trust was built, real friendship could follow suit. Turns out Loki was just as reluctant to join the Avengers as your lot was to welcome him in, but when Director Fury makes a decision, pretty much everyone has to follow suit. Thor had warned him against causing more trouble, so Loki was here to stay. He used to think that was a bad thing, but judging by the way his tone has softened as of late, he might not be so sure of that anymore.

Loki starts to tell you more, once he stops thinking of you as an outsider. He tells you about Thanos, about how he had twisted Loki’s mind so that he could only attack the city. You had suspected something was wrong with Loki during the Battle of New York– his eyes glowed a strange color, the emotions flickering around his chest were almost alien, so unusual even for a god– but hearing it is the confirmation you needed to be sure. Loki had not attacked you in his own mind. He had not tried to kill you, that was someone else forcing his hand.

That last part was especially crucial. The night he finally told you about Thanos’ control, Loki had not been able to leave until he was certain that you understood that it had not been him leading the attack on the Avengers and your home. At last, you convince him that it is alright, and only then can he rest easy.

The rest of the Avengers aren’t able to share in this peace, however. They don’t want to give Loki a chance, which, seeing as they’re not able to actually see his emotions, you can sort of understand, but at this point it’s growing tiresome. It’s been months now since Loki joined the team, and he has not lied to or betrayed or attempted to murder anyone. You want to yell at them to grow up, but you don’t feel like picking someone else’s fights.

Instead, you’d rather spend your time pondering another puzzle. Loki’s moods have shifted again towards you, but this time you cannot understand them at all. Something’s changed about the way he looks at you, how he speaks, and you have no clue what any of it means.

When you have trouble, though, there’s only one surefire solution:  you need to talk to Natasha Romanoff. Nat’s been your best friend since you joined the Avengers, actually. She gets you. You get her. It’s a good time all around.

So, Natasha doesn’t look too surprised when you all but throw yourself into one of the chairs in her favorite space in the complex one sunny morning. The only question on her mind isn’t to ask what’s up with you but what Loki’s done now.

You grimace. “I don’t know, that’s the worst part. He’s acting weirdly.”

“Isn’t that normal for Loki?” Nat questions. “I mean, he is a disgruntled younger brother/frost giant/Norse god. I feel like weird for him is kind of expected.”

“No,” you argue, “This is different. Something’s changed.”

Natasha furrows her brow. “And you haven’t been able to pick up on anything?”

“Well,” you hesitate, “maybe there’s something. I have no idea what it is, though. It’s happy, I think, but it’s sad at times, too, and flickery, like even he can’t explain it. I don’t know how to describe it in the slightest.”

She nods decisively. “It’s love.”

You blink in surprise. “What? No, I just said I had no idea what this is. There’s no way you would be able to guess it so quickly.”

Nat shrugs. “Actually, your vague description was exactly why I know what this is. Only love makes no sense like that. Love makes you happy, but it breaks your heart, right? It confuses the hell out of you because that’s what it’s supposed to do. There’s nothing else that could make anyone feel like a mess of emotion but love.”

You sigh. “That still leaves the fact that it’s Loki, though. You actually think he’s in love with me? I’m a human. I mean, inhuman, technically, but same difference to him. Why would a literal Asgardian god ever look at me like that?”

Natasha’s gaze is knowing, but you can’t quite meet her eyes. “I don’t know why he wouldn’t. You won him over faster than anyone was expecting. I think the biggest question isn’t what he’s feeling, but what you are.”

You brush her concern aside. “Well, of course I know how I feel. I’ve had this much time figuring out how other people’s emotions work, it’s like a user manual for what certain things feel like in your own head. I just can’t believe that he truly feels the same. Maybe he’s trying to trick me by pretending to feel a certain way, I wouldn’t put it past him.”

Nat scoffs. “I thought you were the president of the ‘Stop Loki Hate’ fan club. What’s gotten you doubting him again?”

You shoot her a look. “I’m not doubting him, just myself. Also, there’s no such fan club. Fury banned us from attending Avengers-based clubs, remember?”

She nods mournfully. “All it took was one bad experience. Look, all of us showing up to the ‘Personally Victimized by Nick Fury’ meeting was funny. He was just being a bad sport.”

You smile fondly. “I remember. I’ve never seen that much red in my life. He was totally outraged.”

“Oh, I know. You didn’t need empathy powers to tell that much. At least we abstained from putting on the fake eye patches.” Nat muses.

You bite back a laugh. “Yeah, that might have been overkill. Anyway, back to the point. Are we sure about this?”

“We’re sure,” Natasha assures you, “I’m sure you’ll get in your own head about it later, though.”

“You can count on it,” you grin, and say your goodbyes.

Natasha is right as usual, as it turns out. Both about your feelings and the fact that you would second guess yourself. You were going to say something to Loki, but you talked yourself out of it later that night. It just feels wrong, that’s all. There’s no way a literal prince of the gods would fall in love when you’re just, well, you.

You do your best to push it out of your head, Nat’s knowing glances be damned. Life is too busy to contemplate men who won’t speak their minds. It feels like a new crisis hits New York every week. Speaking of which, you’ve actually got complaints about that. Namely, the fact that you haven’t been on a mission in quite some time despite your status as an Avenger.

You get frustrated once a couple of months have gone by without you seeing a fight. You pull Steve aside when you hear about something going wrong again. “I saw Fury’s memo about needing an extraction team for a situation over in Spain. Can I sign up?”

Steve shakes his head. “Thanks for the offer, Y/N, but we’ve already got enough guys on that team.”

You frown at him. “You can never have too many guys on an extraction team. It’s, like, Avengers lore that stuff always goes wrong on those. I can at least tag along as backup just in case. I’ll grab my gear and be off in like five minutes.”

Steve doesn’t seem willing to back down, though. “Look, I’m glad you’re passionate about the team, but we’re good, honestly. If you’re getting bored, just join the next mission, I’m sure one will come up sooner than later.”

You sigh. “That’s what everyone said last mission, and the one before that, too. I haven’t been out of the complex on official business in three months. I’m an Avenger, Steve, let me act like one.”

Steve puts his hand on your shoulder, forcing you to look him in the eyes. “Y/N, I meant what I said about being glad you want to help, but this is serious. I’m a supersoldier, that’s why I’m out there all the time. Nat’s been trained for this sort of stuff since she was a kid. It makes sense to send us, right? You know we value your gifts, but we can’t risk hurting you.”

Your stomach twists. “You mean, I’m really best when I’m looking at people’s heads, not actually in a fight.”

Steve doesn’t seem to realize he’s upset you, and he nods emphatically. “Exactly! You’ve got a great skill set, just not for right now. I bet we’ll find something soon, though.”

You flash him a thumbs up, already walking back down the hallway so he can’t see the way your face twists. “Can’t wait.”

You let your composure drop the second you’re around the corner. Is this really how they feel? You were useful in the Battle of New York, you know that, and the other agents say you’ve been improving with your abilities by leaps and bounds. You’re handy with a gun or knife, too, so you know you could survive a fight and be of use. You’ve done it before, why are they so keen on stopping you now?

It makes you feel, well, useless. It’s hard to stop the tears from pricking at the corners of your eyes, and you quickly change course to head for your private quarters. You don’t want anyone to see you like this.

Of all the fantastic timing, though, the one person you want to run into least of all right now steps into the hallway just as you think that. Loki nods at you as usual, but he stops dead in his tracks when he sees you. “Y/N, what’s wrong?”

You shake your head dismissively, trying to physically will yourself to look normal. “Nothing! I’m great. Everything’s good.”

He doesn’t seem convinced, though, and reaches out a careful hand towards you. “Are you sure? It doesn’t seem like everything is good.”

You let out a watery laugh, and that does it. “No, actually, things are terrible. Everyone on the team sees me as a joke.”

Loki frowns, clearly taken aback. “Well, that’s not true at all. I don’t see you as a joke in the slightest.”

“Everyone else, then,” you amend with a messy wave of your hand, “I’ve been trying to convince them to let me on a mission for months and they won’t do it. I know my gifts are damn near useless, but I just want to help.”

“That’s not true,” Loki repeats, “They’re a lot of good, actually, and you know that. You’re the best interrogator they have, even compared to Romanoff. You see through everyone’s lies in a heartbeat, even mine, and I’ve had plenty more time to practice them than most. You can sense a trap or ambush in half a second. They’re fools for not wanting you out there with them.”

You smile weakly at him. “You don’t have to say all of that. Thanks, though.”

“Of course I do,” Loki says blankly, “it’s true, and I need to.”

“Why?” You ask curiously.

Loki swallows hard, looks away, and then you see it again– that faint mist of pink, right over his heart. It’s just like Nat said, isn’t it? Just like that.

He forces his gaze back to you, and you’re shocked by the certainty in his eyes after all this time of ducking around your feelings. “It’s true because I love you, and I would not be able to stand it if you let the rest of them talk you into thinking otherwise. They’re toy soldiers, the lot of them, all the same. They couldn’t see real worth if it was standing right in front of them.”

You smile, and for once it’s not cracked or teary or anything, it’s real, as real as the pink ribbons tying the two of you together. “I love you too,” you say.

“Of course you do,” he replies, but he’s smiling too, and you think– no, you know– that everything is going to be alright.

marvel tag list: @mayfieldss, @rogueanschel, @mycosmicparadise, @ellobruv, @callsign-scully, @with-inked-solace, @sher-lokid7, @amortensie, @23victoria, @watchreadfangirlrepeat, @gods-fools-heroes, @w1shes43, @deafsuperhero, @fadedver

[cecilysass]

Negotiation

Read on AO3 | Tagging @today-in-fic

They’ve been debating which case to work on next week so long that the car windows are all Rorschach test splotches of fog.

There’s a moment’s lull in conversation. Mulder reaches into the console, fishes out his bag of seeds and pulls it apart. His eyes lock on twin silhouettes in trench coats moving through the mist about twenty feet outside their car.

“You know, I hear they’re more than just partners,” he offers in a conversational tone.

“Who?”

“Gillis and Perez,” Mulder says, cracking open a sunflower seed, gesturing out the front windshield. “That’s the water cooler gossip, anyway.”

“Spending a lot of time at the water cooler, Mulder?”

“I’m in the know, Scully.”

They’ve been waiting in the car outside a row of weather-battered warehouses for two hours, part of a coordinated raid that hasn’t gotten its go-ahead yet. There have been days of briefings and prep, but something seems to have gone to shit, because they’re sitting positioned with practically the entire Bureau twiddling their thumbs. Dressed for action with no place to go.

Mulder suspects they’re probably not really necessary in this operation, which is about the size of the invasion of Normandy. They’d probably not be missed if they drove off and went to pick up some hamburgers.

But they’re nothing if not team players. And besides, this isn’t so bad. Scully sighs next to him, and he subtly glances at her. She’s leaning back against the seat, the soft arch of her neck exposed and her lips slightly parted. There are worse ways to spend an evening.

He turns back to watching Gillis and Perez through the front window. They’re dutifully walking the perimeter of the closest building.

The two agents don’t look overtly romantic, he decides. If it’s true, they’re discreet. They do walk side by side, very little distance between them, but they don’t touch one another. Gillis is a tall woman, so she stands almost at Perez’s height, and their heads keep arching towards one another to talk.

He wonders what they’re talking about. It could be anything—the raid, the weather, their favorite sexual positions.

Scully’s eyes track them, too, seeming to note every possible tiny physical clue.

“Hmm,” she says slowly and thoughtfully, “I admit, that’s interesting.”

“Interesting that it’s an open secret and there don’t seem to be any repercussions?”

“Yes,” Scully says, pushing back against the seat and stretching out her limbs like a cat. “And interesting in other ways, too.” She reaches down and, peeking first, helps herself to some of his sunflower seeds, her small hand slipping into the bag’s interior without crackling the wrapper.

Mulder makes an affirmative humming sound. “I thought so, too.”

“I mean, on some level it’s perfectly understandable,” Scully adds, placing some seeds between her lips, her eyes still focused out the window where the pair have disappeared around the corner. “They’re both very attractive. It’s hard to date in this job. People have needs.”

Mulder glances at her warily again. Jaw working on his own handful of seeds, he doesn’t answer right away, cautiously processing this statement. “Sure,” he says mildly. “I guess you’re right.”

And then the car is quiet, only the sound of cracking seeds and the rustling of the bag as he reaches for more.

“Actually,” Scully says casually, “it makes me think that we could do something like that.”

Mulder turns to her. “Something like what?”

“What Gillis and Perez are doing.”

“What?” He blinks rapidly. “Are you being serious?”

“Yes,” she says. Staring out the front window, she certainly appears serious, if a little uptight.

“You’re teasing, right?”

She looks down and carefully smooths the dark pants she wore for the raid, as if she has just noticed many sudden wrinkles. “If you don’t want to, fine. I was just raising the idea.”

“Raising… the idea,” he repeats, bewildered.

“Okay, Mulder,” she says with a small sigh. “I get it. It’s out of the question.”

“I’m just shocked that you would bring it up like … that you would just … it’s unexpected.”

“Let’s change the subject then. How do you like the Knicks this year?”

“I mean…” Mulder runs his hands down the sides of his face, dragging his cheeks. “What are you suggesting, exactly? How would you see it working?”

Scully’s eyes flash to his. “I’m not suggesting something in particular. It would be open to negotiation.”

“Open to negotiation,” Mulder says, shaking his head in disbelief. “Jesus, Scully.”

“What’s your concern exactly?”

“So this would be a ‘meeting needs’ kind of deal,” he says, using finger quotes. “A ‘taking care of basic urges’ situation.”

“That’s one possibility,” she says brusquely.

Mulder’s head twists rapidly back towards her. “What are the other possibilities?”

“Well,” Scully says. Her face changes color. “It could be a little more traditional than that, I suppose.”

“Traditional like what?”

“I don’t know, Mulder,” she says, throwing her hands up. “It would be open to negotiation. Is there an arrangement you would prefer?”

“To be honest,” he says, “I’d prefer not to have an arrangement at all.”

“Then we certainly don’t have to discuss it any more.” Her lips draw tightly.

“No, no,” he says, and he reaches out to place his hand on hers without thinking. “That came out wrong.”

“Mulder,” she says, stiffening under his touch, “let’s just gracefully drop it, okay? I regret bringing it up.”

“I just don’t want an arrangement,” he repeats meaningfully. “I don’t want a negotiation.”

“I get it,” she says shortly, jerking her hand out from under his.

“No,” he says. “No, you don’t.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s not that I don’t want … what you suggest. I’ve thought about it. A lot. Maybe too much.”

Scully’s mouth twitches at the corners as she apparently absorbs this. “Okay,” she responds. A pause. “Then why not?”

Mulder rubs his temples aggressively.

“I don’t think I could do it without … all of it. I mean, that’s not strictly true. I could do it. I’m only human. But I think it would end … really badly.”

“End badly how?”

“I don’t know about you, but to me sometimes it seems like things are too complicated between us already. This would be upping the ante. I’m pretty sure I’d always be wanting the whole thing.”

She’s confused. “What do you mean by ‘all of it?’ The ‘whole thing?’ We could negotiate that, if you wanted it. Make it part of the arrangement.”

“Scully,” he says in a fond, exasperated tone. “You can’t negotiate being in love. You know that, right?”

He thinks for a moment she’s not going to respond.

“And that’s what … you want?”

“Well, it’s probably not something I’m going to have a ton of willpower about, so don’t test me,” he says with a rueful hitch in his voice. “But in my experience, it’s a bad idea to enter into a sexual relationship with someone you’re in love with if they’re not in love with you.”

Scully is very still, apparently reacting to the implied revelation. He steels himself for more.

“I admit, I’ve done it in the past,” Mulder says. He’s proud of how calm he sounds. “I might even be prone to it, whatever that says about me. It’s ended in spectacular fucking heartbreak. You think it will work out, that you’ll convince the person, and it feels real. But it’s not. And in those cases, it wasn’t like…” He breaks off. “Well, it wasn’t like this partnership. Which, as I hope you know, is ... already different from most other kinds of relationships. I just think this would be a lot worse. More painful.” He hesitates before saying the last word. “Devastating.”

They don’t say anything for a moment. Scully has a strange, almost dazed expression on her face.

“Gillis and Perez,” Scully says, gesturing to where they’d walked around the corner. “Is that a meeting-basic-needs situation?”

“I have no idea,” Mulder says. “Maybe. Or maybe they’re one another’s soulmates. I don’t know. Water cooler didn’t cover that.”

She nods once. He hears her toying with the edge of the sunflower seed bag.

“For what it’s worth,” she says, after a moment, “I didn’t bring up the meeting-basic-needs idea. You did.”

Mulder’s brow furrows. “Did I? I thought you mentioned ‘needs.’”

“I used the word ‘negotiation,’” she continues, in her precise work voice. “Which doesn’t really reveal anything about the feelings of any of the parties. It just means parameters would have to be agreed on in advance.”

“I guess,” Mulder says doubtfully.

“I don’t know if it would be as risky as you’re thinking,” she adds with finality. “It seems to me that you’re making some faulty assumptions.”

“I don’t think I am,” Mulder says stubbornly. “I know myself pretty well, and I know my feelings.”

“Yes,” she replies, “but you don’t know mine.”

A pause.

“No,” he says in a different tone. “Now that you mention it, no, I guess I don’t.”

“It never occurred to me that we would have an arrangement without … attachment. I suppose I took the attachment for granted.”

“Attachment?”

She nods shortly.

“And by attachment, you mean…?”

She bites her lip and rolls her eyes. “Mulder.”

“That embarrasses you, Scully? Talking about feelings?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Just a little hard to believe when you were propositioning me for sex a few minutes ago.”

“I wouldn’t describe it as propositioning you for sex,” she says huffily.

“No? Come on. You were basically like: let’s negotiate a contract and take your pants off, Mulder.”

“That’s not what I was like,” she replies, flushing.

“I know what I heard.”

“I was only trying to say that maybe we should talk about this option … that we don’t ever talk about,” she says tightly. “That we both think about.”

“Scully—”

“An option that’s literally sitting right in front of us. That Gillis and Perez chose for themselves.”

He squirms in his seat, then pulls in a long, slow breath. “Yeah.” He’s not looking at her. “You’re right.”

“You were the one that made me sound so…” She composes herself. “You were the one that took feelings out of the equation.”

He steals a careful look at her. “I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t respond, and she’s looking away from him, but he suspects, from past experience with the various cadences of her voice, that she’s got tears in her eyes.

“I should have realized you had some protections up, too, Scully,” he adds roughly.

She looks down at her hands.

“Scully,” he tries, gently, “just to be clear in negotiation here—are you saying that … it might be possible for you and me to have a relationship where both parties hold equivalent feelings?”

She lifts her head, and there are indeed tears pooling in the corners of her clear blue eyes. “Don’t you know me at all? Haven’t you been paying any attention?”

He reaches over and takes her hand in his. Her small fingers feel gritty, like the salt coating his sunflower seeds.

“I thought I was paying attention,” he says. “But then you go and do something really, really surprising.”

“I thought I was being logical,” she says primly, looking down again.

He places a finger under her chin and tips her face up. “Very logical,” he says in a low, playful voice. “Nothing says logical like initiating a relationship with Fox Mulder.”

[storiesofsvu]

A Thin Line

Emily Prentiss x reader warnings: language, some medical situations (again, likely some inaccuracies, don't come for me), minor mentions of the Lauren arc/past trauma/anxiety, but mainly fluff and all happy ending! Covers a bingo square for @prentiss-theorem and also is a fix it fic (i guess lol) for s7e15 of the same title. I just thought things were kinda brushed over in the aftermath.... so here we are.

The team had been in San Bernardino, California for nearly a week now solving what was originally thought to be a series of home invasions linked to gangs in the area. It was after piecing together the threads and a victim getting away that you were able to apprehend the unsub, the team was split up between addresses, Rossi, Reid and Hotch over at the unsubs while Morgan, JJ, Emily and you were heading to Councilwoman Hillary Ross’, knowing that she was one of two next likely targets.

Everything seemed to be going to plan as Derek and JJ snuck around to the back of the house, waiting only on you and Em to burst through the front as Emily announced herself, calling out into the house at just the wrong moment. Her eyes darted toward the unsub, noting the gun in his hand, pointed directly at her and only a second later she felt the burning in her shoulder, jolting back into the wall behind her as she groaned.

“Shit!”

“You’re hit.” You stalled, turning back to her and she nudged you in the direction of the unsub.

“I’m fine!”

“He’s upstairs!” You called over to the other two who had burst through the back door, flying up the stairs to take the unsub down.

“Go.” Emily urged, wincing as your hand came up to the injury, pressing against the wound.

“Like hell I’m going anywhere right now.” You muttered, tugging at your radio to call for medics.

“I said I’m fine.” She insisted, nudging at you once more, “you can go.”

“It’s already two on one, I’m sure they’re doing great. And you’re not fine, you just took a bullet Emily.” You could feel her blood slowly seeping in between your fingers, you would’ve been worried if it wasn’t for the amount of attitude you were getting from her, the scowl persistent on her face.

“It’s nothing.” She grumbled, letting out an annoyed sigh at the flashing lights outside as the ambulance pulled up, “oh come on.”

“You’re gonna need stitches at the bare minimum, c’mon.” Gently lifting her arm over your shoulder you helped her outside and to the paramedics.

Much to Emily’s dismay, she was told she would likely need more than just stitches, that an actual doctor would have to take a look at her before making the official decision and before she knew it she was being transported to a hospital. Even more annoying was that her adrenaline was starting to wear off, the fight or flight draining from her body as the pain began to creep in. She winced as she moved on the stretcher, letting out a quiet hiss and felt her cheeks flushing as your gaze shot to her, concern in your eyes.

“We’re almost there.” You murmured softly, reaching to squeeze her hand, almost surprised at the way her hand wrapped around your thumb, keeping you there instead of letting you pull away. The touch brought a comfort Emily needed but wasn’t ready to ask for, wasn’t ready to admit she even wanted. Her gaze remained turned away from you as she let out a low breath, trying to will the immense pain in her shoulder to go away.

The emergency room was a cacophony of noises, patients crying, yelping out, doctors, paramedics and nurses calling out to each other, demanding what they needed for their cases, alarm bells going off, phones ringing off the hook, the whir and beeping of machines. It was completely overstimulating and enough to block out the pain Emily was feeling briefly while they rolled her through the admittance stages. Your hand had been ripped away from hers as they’d unloaded her from the ambulance, leaving a cold spot on her skin as she tried to block out her surroundings. The lights were bright, still harsh even if she closed her eyes, she felt someone prodding at her skin as they started an IV, grimacing as the needle pierced her skin, the smell of rubbing alcohol burning at her nostrils. The noises from the ER were now slightly muffled, but there were as many beeping monitors and fast talking doctors moving around her right now. She could just hear your voice over the hum of noise, giving her credentials and details of what happened to a doctor, conversation talked over by one of the paramedics as she heard her stats being listed off. She was hooked up to another couple of machines, creating more beeping that was beginning to overwhelm her before the room suddenly seemed to empty.

“Paramedics patched you up pretty good.” Your voice rung through the air and her eyes cracked open, looking up at you with hesitancy in her eyes.

“Then we can go, right?”

“No.” You laughed softly, “you’re just not as emergent as some of the other cases. You’re under observation until they can get you a CT to check for internal damages and we’ll go from there.”

“I hate hospitals.” She grumbled, shifting awkwardly on the gurney, hating how on display she felt. The remaining nurse in the room seemed to sense her uncomfortable-ness, moving over and adjusting it so it was propped up and she could sit upright.

“It shouldn’t be too long Agent Prentiss; they’re just waiting for a backlog at the CT machine to clear out.” They explained, giving you both a brief smile before they disappeared from the room.

“Since when do you have a problem with hospitals?” You asked, dropping onto a spare stool, watching her curiously.

“I’ve just spent enough time in and out of them over the past year.” She replied quietly, ducking her gaze as she picked at her fingernails.

“Hey,” your hand reached out, stopping her destructive movements and she glanced toward you, “you’re non emergent, you’re sitting upright and talking and like you’ve been insisting since Ross’, you’re fine.”

“Thanks.” She flashed a tight smile to you and you squeezed at her hand, only pulling away when your phone pinged and you dug it out of your pocket to read the message.

“They got him, finishing up paperwork now. Hotch wants to know if you want them to meet us here.”

“Oh god no!” Emily groaned, wincing as she moved her arm to run a hand over her face, “I don’t need a fucking audience waiting for me. Tell him they can go home, hell, you can go with them.”

“Well tough titty.” You pocketed your phone, “I’m not going anywhere. You got shot; I’m not leaving you here alone.”

Emily felt a warmth spreading through her chest, knowing that she had someone by her side for the entire thing, unlike last time, she wasn’t facing this on her own. She felt her heart start to calm down rather than racing in her chest, sighing softly as her body relaxed into the stretcher. She was fine, she was going to be fine.

“You’re too nice to me, you know that.” She rolled her head to look at you, a dopey smile on her face and you practically snorted.

“I think those drugs are starting to kick in Prentiss.”

She frowned, pouting at you and you laughed again, this time glancing away as you prayed she was too distracted to pick up on the thudding of your heart in your chest.

Okay. Maybe the warmth spreading through her was the painkillers, but at least she wasn’t focusing on the pain in her shoulder and the terror of being trapped in a hospital anymore.

Though that sense of calm and comfort only lasted the next hour. The results from the CT were exactly what Emily didn’t want to hear.

“Surgery?!” She protested, “you can’t be serious! Can’t you just leave it in?”

“No.” The doctor chuckled softly, “that risks more damage than taking it out.”

“So just rip it out now, here.”

“I do that and you’re gonna hate me for how much pain your in.” They countered.

“Full blown surgery just seems like a complete waste of time and resources.” Emily commented, “for something as trivial as this?”

“Agent Prentiss, I can assure you it’s a very simple procedure and it won’t take very long at all. We’ll have you patched up and out of here by morning with some pain killers.”

“No I—”

“If there’s an issue with pain killers, general anesthesia isn’t in the same, you’ll most likely sleep it off and only feel a little bit groggy when you wake up from being under.”

“No, that’s the part I don’t want.” Emily felt like her heart was beating out of her chest, her throat tight and she wasn’t fully able to catch her breath. The beeping next to her seemed to be getting louder with each moment that flickered by and she was sinking into a nightmare where she couldn’t tell tonight apart from the last night she’d spent in a hospital.

“Em…” Your voice was soft, your hand coming up to squeeze at hers gently, thumb rubbing reassuringly, a cool touch on her burning skin. “Just breathe for me, okay?” You turned to the doctor, “is there any way you could do this with a local anesthesia or something? Something where she doesn’t have to be asleep?”

“There likely isn’t a doctor who would.” He replied, “the CT didn’t give full visibility, if an artery gets nicked we’d have to put her under in a rush and adding extra things on the to do list in a situation like that isn’t ideal. I didn’t see anything in her medical history about a reaction to anesthesia.”

“It’s not exactly medical.” You replied, feeling Emily’s hand squeezing at yours.

“I don’t have the greatest track record with being put under.” She muttered and the beeping on the heart monitor started to increase again.

“Hey…” you shifted from your spot on the stool so you were perched on the edge of the gurney, grabbing her other hand, “look at me.” You waited for a moment until she actually looked up at you, the fear in her eyes slowly melting away as you shot her a small smile, “you need to stop deflecting and shutting down. They’re just trying to do their jobs and get you outta here healthy and in one piece, and that’s exactly what’s going to happen. You’ve got a bullet in your shoulder and the longer it’s in there the more risk you’re at, so let’s do this, okay? You’re not alone, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere okay? I’ll take care of you. I’ll be as close by as I possibly can the entire time, I mean, they’ve gotta give us some leeway, we are federal agents.” You raised a brow in the direction of the doctor who let out a huff of a laugh mixed with a sigh.

“I’ll have someone escort you to the gallery.”

“Thank you.” You nodded, “And like you being knocked out is gonna have me running off, I promise. I’ll be there the whole time and when you wake up.”

Emily let out a long low breath, the tightness in her chest finally easing as chewed on her lip, “okay. You better not be lying, if I wake up on the other side of the country you’ll be the one with a bullet lodged in your shoulder.”

“Em!” You scolded with a laugh, watching as a small smile finally broke out on her lips.

Emily focused on her breathing and remaining calm, listening to your voice as you walked with them all the way down to the OR floor. She wasn’t even sure what you were rambling on about, you always had the most ridiculous stories from when you babysat your nephew and they were mindless enough yet also wild enough that it would steer her mind away from the thought of being put under again. You squeezed her hand once more, saying a quick ‘see you soon’ before you were taken up to the gallery and you watched the way Emily’s eyes flicked toward you as she counted down from ten, letting out a breath to know that you were there, watching over her and this would be over before she even knew it.

The low beeping and dull ache in her shoulder were what roused her first, shifting slightly in the bed with a quiet groan, trying not to agitate her shoulder too much. Without opening her eyes she knew there was a soft light coming from somewhere in the room, much nicer than the glare of the fluorescent overheads and the next thing her ears picked up was the sound of a page of a book being turned before the creaking of a chair.

“Em?” Your voice whispered into the night, leaning forward against the side of the bed and she groaned, her eyes fluttering open.

“Shit still sucks.” She complained, pushing herself up to sitting and you let out a chuckle.

“How’s the pain?”

“Not too bad.” She swallowed, reaching out for the glass of water on the nightstand. As she fully woke up and her eyes adjusted to the light in the room she was able to take you in, spotting the bags under your eyes, the slight redness in them and the fact that you’d somehow snagged a hospital issued hoodie that was about three sizes too big to curl up in. “How late is it?” She asked and you looked at your watch.

“Almost six.” You replied with a tired yawn.

“You haven’t slept yet.” It wasn’t a question; it was an observation and you shrugged.

“I wanted to be awake when you came to, doctor said it wouldn’t be too long. And I definitely wasn’t about to sleep while you were in surgery, besides, it was pretty cool to watch.”

Emily observed you for a moment, her eyes drilling into you so much that you ducked your gaze, picking up your own drink to distract yourself, praying the heat in your cheeks wasn’t noticeable in the low light of the room.

“Why would you do this much for me? You could have left with the rest of the team.”

“I promised you wouldn’t be alone. I care about you, I wanted you to feel safe, I mean, you’re my… friend.” You shrugged it off, picking at the sleeve of your hoodie.

“Okay, now who’s shutting down and deflecting?” She asked with a tease in her voice, prodding at your arm and you let out a soft sigh, glancing back up at her with a playful glare in your eyes.

“Being in the hospital alone sucks enough on its own. The last time you had surgery you woke up across the world completely isolated and if that was me I would’ve been terrified. I know you don’t want to admit it and I’ll never mention it to the rest of the team but you were scared earlier and I wanted to make sure you knew I would be here for you, no matter what. And I… would like to hope that if the tables were turned that you’d do the same for me?”

“Are you kidding me?” A laugh burst from her lips, “of course I would! I really don’t think you have any idea how much you mean to me. You still being on the team and being around was the main reason I decided to stay, no matter how awkward it was with everyone else.”

“Now you’re just making stuff up.” You ducked your gaze once again, this time no doubt the blush on your cheeks noticeable.

“Not at all.” Emily’s finger curled under your chin, turning your eyes up to her, “you were an absolute sweetheart today without even needing to ask and that was exactly what I needed, even if I am too stubborn to say anything. When we get back I’d really like to pay you back by taking you to dinner.”

“Really?” Your brow furrowed, wondering if she was finally stepping across the line the two of you had been toeing since she’d gotten back.

“Yeah.” She softly pinched at your chin, “you can read me better than anyone else. You know me almost better than I do some days and… I really care about you too.”

“Okay.” You laughed softly, the smile remaining on your cheeks, “well then I think that sounds great.”

“Great.” She smiled across at you, “it’s a date.” She gently tugged at your arm, “now c’mon, you need to get some sleep and there’s plenty of room up here.”

With a small laugh you shifted, kicking off your shoes and sliding under the blanket into Emily’s embrace, careful not to nudge her left arm too much. You let out a small yawn as you nestled into her uninjured shoulder, her free arm wrapping around you as she relaxed back into the bed, a sigh of relief finally feeling you in her arms. There was absolutely no doubt in her mind that she was completely safe and wouldn’t have to worry about being alone ever again, not with you around. Her lips brushed against the top of your head; a feather light kiss left on your hair as she spoke.

“Thank you.”

________________

@mickey-gomez @momlifebehard @daddy-heather-dunbar @maybe-a-humanbean @rustyzebra @ilovemycrayons @mandy-asimp @leftoverenvy @kades95 @dextur @supercriminalbean @daffodil-heart @its-soph-xx xx @just-a-torn-up-masterpiece @hopelesslyfallenninlove @peanutbutterprincess @emilyprentisssluvr @lex13cm @zizzlekwum @emobabeyy @riveramorylunar @s1ut4nat @scorpsik @strongsassysexysloane @happenstnces @sapphicprentiss @geekyandgay98 @pagetboobstarcomments @onmykneesformarvel @inlovewithemilyprentiss @desperate-gay @amypoehlfey @overtrred28 @theclassicgaycousin @regalmilfs4me @kalixxh @ara-a-bird @five-bi-five-mind @niyizh @inlovewithmiddleagewomen @tommyriddleobsessed @hotchs-bitch @ollysmulti @kmc1989 @irishavengersassemble

[zofi-persson-quotes]

Under cut bc it's hella long

“Alright, who ate my ice cream.”

The flurry of hand pointing that follows would be comical were it not for the murderous look in Second’s eyes.

“If you’re all to blame,” Second says, cracking his knuckles, “then perish.”

Dark screams when Second charges him, the older Becker sibling unfortunately being the closest to the enraged teen. The Overlord goes down with a helpless cry for mercy, taking a pillow directly to the face, and the other Sticks in the room take their chance to book it in different directions.

Vic takes Dark’s unwilling distraction as a chance to throw themselves out the nearest open window. Blue, opting for the quickest and more efficient route out of his enraged sibling’s path, climbs on top of a dresser, well out of Sec’s reach, while Green and Purple run down into the cellar before emerging through the outside entrance, only to find an angry Second armed with a pillow for each of them waiting on the other side. Green decides to sacrifice himself for his boyfriend by wrapping his arms around the smaller Stick to take the blows.

“I shall protect you, my love!” He declares.

“GREEN!” Purple wails.

“IT WAS LIQUORICE YOU CRETINS!!”

It’s the last thing Vic hears before they throw themselves into the Wi-Fi portal to make their way to the nearest store for more ice cream. Maybe next time they want to try eating with their android body, it shouldn’t be their little sibling's comfort food. Then again, the others were all smiling while they were pursued, so perhaps it wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

By the time Vic returns from their tactical retreat with more ice cream something has gone wrong.

The blinds of the house are shut and the door, which had been left open to let the warm fall air in through the screen door is now shut tight.

“Guys?” they knock on the door, very concerned with the abrupt change in the air, “What’s going on?”

The door flies open, and Sec hauls them inside.

“Quick! Quick, don’t let it in!!” Dark hastens. The couch and tables have been upended to face the front door and the three Sticks taking cover behind them look ready for an incoming enemy attack. Vic seriously wonders what they missed in the hour they were gone.

“Did you see it?!” Green yelps.

“See what?” Vic asks, stepping forward to assess the situation. The others look prepared for war against a home invasion of insects. Purple is wielding roach killer in one hand and a rolled-up newspaper in the other. Dark’s white-knuckled grip on a baseball bat betray their fear at whatever they’re planning on fighting, and Green has two spatulas that he’s holding defensively in front of him.

“I didn’t see it when I…” Second’s voice trails off as Vic passes him.

“Where’s Blue?” Vic asks and Purple points up at the dresser he had seen the alchemist climb up onto earlier. He isn’t armed with anything, oddly enough, and is pressing himself further and further away from the door with a pale, horrified look on his face.

“Oh, there you are. Why are you all so scared?”

Dark makes a choked off noise and backs away from them.

“Dark?”

Purple shrieks when Vic turns around to face their sibling, accompanied by scrambling from the direction of the dresser.

“Okay, no this is fine, Vic-” Second makes a hysterical noise, “don’t - just don’t move.”

Green makes a noise that sounds like a dying mouse.

“I-I-I can get it.” Dark stammers with shaking legs.

“You’re not going to hit him with the bat!” Sec hisses.

“You’d rather Purple try the newspaper?” Dark demands, gaining confidence as he speaks and then losing it again for reasons Vic doesn’t understand. “Or – look it’s too big for the roach killer-”

“Too big? TOO BIG?!” Green cries. “We’d need a hose of the stuff for that thing! What are we going to do? Hit it with what we have and expect that to work?! I HAVE A SPATULA, Dark!”

“Okay, okay. Stay calm, I can try using the whole thing?” Purple meekly tries to sooth the others, as if they don't even want to make the attempt.

“I’m starting to worry about your sanities, will you just tell me what’s going on?” Vic crosses his arms sternly and begins to move towards the kitchen to put the ice cream, that is surely melting at this point, in the freezer. There’s yelling from all sides as they make their way to the kitchen, but they only stop when they hear the buzzing.

Out of the corner of their eye a blob of brown mars their vision and they turn around their head just in time to see that it’s part of the mesothrax of a very, very big cockroach.

It flies off their back (ah, that would explain a lot actually) and approaches the wall nearSecond who looks ready to pass out at the sight of it but manages to swing his broom to drive it in a different direction. Purple reflexively starts spraying the roach killer at it which it doesn’t take kindly to.

The cockroach erratically flies around the room, causing shrieks of terror and panicked scrambling from everyone to get away from it. Vic stares, analyzing it. It’s enormous, three feet long and a wingspan that easily doubles that, making it an extremely unusual sight.

Green dives over the couch to get away from it with a screech and Dark tackles Purple out of the way of its path. “Spray it! Spray it!” Second yells.

Purple dutifully sprays in its direction, the others not wanting to get close with their short-ranged weapons. It flies away and Purple follows (at a distance) with the others trailing behind them. The ground they gain is lost, however, as the roach killer runs out and the behemoth of an insect doesn’t seem too badly affected by their attack. There’s a brief moment where the heroes stare at the empty can in Purp’s hand and then raise their heads to look at the enemy that no longer has a reason to leave them alone.

All the color leaves their faces, and the Sticks dart out the front door without looking back.

“I do not understand people’ fear of roaches.” Vic admits, watching them trip over each other in their haste to escape. They step over to the bug that has since landed on the floor and is now scuttling around the room.

“I’m sorry but you must depart.” Vic rolls up their sleeves and grabs one of its legs. It buzzes angrily and scrapes its legs against the floor to get away from them. In the process, it dislodges its leg from the joint and flees to the ceiling.

Vic wrinkles his nose at the smell and tosses the leg outside. They go back to try again (perhaps if they grab its body instead of another leg, they'll have more success?) but they're met with further resistance from the bug.

their android body is still new to them and they've been careful with it so far, but if they're going to get the bug down from the ceiling, they’ll have to be a bit reckless. With one powerful jump they're eye-level with its body and they latche on. Their heavy metal frame yanks it off the ceiling.

Long brown legs wiggle desperately, throwing them off-balance. They drop it to regain their balance and they're startled to see it turn around to face them, short but sharp mandibles launching towards their face (wait a minute, cockroaches don’t have mandibles, maybe it’s not-)

It falls to the side before they can close around his head, a knife sticking out of the side of its skull.

Blue wheezes from the top of the dresser, wide-eyed and short of breath. A hand is extended with open fingers and another knife is already primed for throwing in his other. He sags back against the wall behind him calming down now that the bug is dead, before starting do descend from it.

Vic leaves him up on the dresser and cleans up the mess on their own, hauling the body out the door and mopping up the acid from its body on the floor. By then the younger is on the ground.

“Do you want to go find the others or shall I?” Vic asks, handing him back the (bug brain free) knife.

Blue shakes his head, putting the knife back in its drawer “They’ll come back eventually.”

“Were you up there that whole time?”

“I came down when I heard screaming, and then the others ran in screaming about a giant cockroach.” Blue admits, “I climbed back up not long after.”

[theonceoverthinker]

...I really don’t know how I came to ship this, but I do, and here we are!

Here’s a little Bowuigi idea I had yesterday while waiting at the dentist office.

So Bowser and Luigi have been going out for some time, like a few months. Everyone’s accepted it, Mario included because he loves his little bro, but reluctantly. Trusting Bowser feels difficult.

One day, Luigi is helping Bowser during a battle with an outside invading kingdom (We’ll say it’s the Penguin Kingdom from the movie’s teaser, now back with an actually formidable army/arsenal). This particular battle is closer to the border of the Mushroom Kingdom than it is Bowser’s castle and during the fight, Luigi gets hurt pretty badly. He’s knocked out at the very least, maybe has a broken bone or two, and has a lot of bruising. Bowser has his minions finish the fight with the Penguin Kingdom while he gets Luigi to safety. Though he’d prefer to take Luigi to his castle, the distance makes that difficult and Luigi needs immediate help. What’s not a terribly far distance away, much to Bowser’s chagrin, is Mario and Luigi’s home, and so he sets his Clown Copter for there.

Mario, Peach, and Toad are hanging out at Mario’s place. Mario’s telling Peach and Toad about how Luigi is helping Bowser fight against the invasion, and Peach can tell that Mario isn’t himself. They talk a bit more about Luigi and Bowser’s relationship, and Mario says that he’s happy that Luigi is happy, but that the idea of trusting Bowser with his brother’s heart is tough for him. Luigi’s spent so much of his life feeling small and up against someone with as big of a personality and strong of a stature, he doesn’t want Luigi to suffer at Bowser’s hands if he doesn’t take of and respect him. Peach reminds Mario that Luigi has a way of bringing out the best in every one he meets, a sentiment that Mario agrees with, giving Peach a grateful smile. He gives an unsure sigh and says that he supposes only time will tell.

Suddenly, Bowser arrives, Luigi’s passed out form in his arms.  

Mario’s first instinct is to yell at Bowser for putting Luigi in danger, but Bowser’s worrying has that instinct die in his throat, instead leading Bowser to Luigi’s room, where they settle Luigi in. It’s a tight fit -- Luigi’s room is on the small side relative to Bowser’s form, and while there are chairs, they’re too tiny for him to even sit in. Out of exhaustion from the battle as well as his overwhelming sense of worry for Luigi, Bowser sits on the floor, two claws wrapped around his hand.

Toad starts preparing medicine while Peach and Mario listen to Bowser as he tells them what happened.

Bowser gives an abridged telling of the battle. However, Peach and Mario have questions because of that abridged recount.

As Bowser speaks, looking at Mario’s stern look, Peach’s worrying gaze at Luigi, and Luigi himself, he begins to feel hatred towards himself. It doesn’t matter that Luigi volunteered to help out: Luigi got hurt because of him. He would be fine if he hadn’t involved Luigi, if he stayed as far away from Luigi as possible. Surely, Mario and Peach feel the same. The guilt Bowser feels rattles in his head like an earthquake as he self-depricates like rainfall during a storm. Before he can even fully finish he recounting of the battle, Bowser excuses himself, running out of the brothers’ home before anyone can properly react. Any attempts to follow him in that moment are interrupted by Toad as he needs help with Luigi’s medicine.

An hour or two passes, and it’s getting dark. Bowser has long since stopped running, and is now walking a half mile or so around the brothers’ home. What hasn’t stopped is the self-deprication, staying just as powerful as it was while he was in the house.

Why did he let himself be with Luigi? He’s a giant monster. Luigi’s the sweetest person alive. He should never show his face to Luigi again. Being hated is better than endangering Luigi.

Bowser hears his name called from behind him. He turns around. Peach is there. She tells Bowser to come back to the house with her. Bowser starts to tell her that he shouldn’t, but Peach doesn’t let him. She says that Luigi adores him and as soon as he wakes up, Bowser’s the first thing he’s going to be asking for, and that Bowser needs to be there when he does. Peach states that they both know that Luigi won’t be able to rest, let alone forgive himself, if he doesn’t know that Bowser is okay. Bowser tries to bring up more counterpoints, but Peach cuts them off, giving him a sharp look before Bowser finally follows her lead back to Mario and Luigi’s house. 

Toad is still in the kitchen when Bowser arrives, though it doesn’t seem like he’s cooking medicine anymore. Bowser takes that as a good sign as he follows Peach into Luigi’s room. Bowser looks to Luigi first when he enters the room. Luigi’s in fresh pajamas and has a compress on his head, bandages where his bones are hurt, and a few ice packs here and there. What an especially relieving sensation is what Bowser hears. Luigi’s snoring softly, a sign that any serious danger Luigi might have faced has passed. Bowser feels tears trying to fight their way up his eyes, just barely kept under his surface.

Luigi’s going to be okay.

Upon taking his eyes off of Luigi, a downright Herculean effort on his half, Bowser sees that something significant has changed. Right next to Luigi’s bedside, a big armchair that Bowser vaguely recalls seeing in the brothers’ living room earlier now sits. Bowser can tell immediately that it’s just his size, save for the presence of its occupant. Mario, who is sitting in the chair, gets up and nods to Bowser to sit. Bowser can see scuffs on Mario’s gloves that weren’t there before, and it hits Boswer exactly how that chair came to be at its current location. Bowser, nodding back at Mario, sits in the chair and takes Luigi’s hand in two of his claws, kissing Luigi’s knuckles.

Not long after Bowser’s return, Mario pulls one of Luigi’s smaller chairs to the foot of Luigi’s bed, a hand placed on his brother’s sock-clad foot, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over it.

Peach goes off to make everyone tea, leaving Bowser and Mario alone together.

Even though Luigi and Bowser are dating, Bowser and Mario have spent very little in each other’s company since they started. That time has been...awkward, to say the least. And now, they’ve got hours upon hours of it to “look forward” to.

It’s going to be a long night.

Bowser usually knows what to say (Or at least knows what he wants to say if he’s striving for good behavior and can’t actually say it). Right now though, with Luigi unconscious and the story of how he got that way not fully cleared up yet, he’s bereft of words.

What CAN he really say right now, especially to Mario of all people?

Is he supposed to apologize to Mario for putting Luigi in harm’s way? That doesn’t feel right to say. Peach told Bowser herself on the way back to the house that Luigi chose to join him in battle, and she made him promise to not forget that (Peach can be a force to be reckoned with when she want to).

Should he try to clear up what happened during the battle? Just thinking about that makes Bowser feel like his head is being blended like a smoothie, and he doesn’t want a repeat of last time. The details are at once too clear and too sketchy; any attempt on his half to delve more into them won’t end well.

What about small talk? No, just no. He and Mario aren’t small talk people, and Bowser fears that even reaching such a level where they can rest on that level of social interaction is all but out of the question now.

Bowser’s at a total loss on how to proceed, but before he can despair on that too much, Mario starts talking.

He tells Bowser how Luigi was this morning before he left their house, excited about joining Bowser and fighting off the Penguin Kingdom. Mario gave Luigi what Luigi now jokingly calls his “overprotective big brother speech,” but Luigi insisted he’d be okay (”Fire beats ice, big bro! You know that!”), that he has power-ups packed, and that Bowser would take care of him if need be. Mario states that didn’t say this to Luigi, but in the back of his head, he worried about how Bowser would prioritize Luigi in a fight for his kingdom, and would Luigi’s attestation be true. Would he be more the Koopa that Luigi believes him to be, or would he default to the power-hungry king that Mario has seen almost nothing but since he and Luigi first arrived to this kingdom and leave Luigi to the wayside in fighting the Penguin Kingdom’s army?

Bowser attempts to speak up, but Mario cuts him off. Bowser shuts his mouth and listens.

Mario says that Boswer showed him that answer today.

While Bowser was gone, lost in his own thoughts and guilt, Kamek flew by the house to report on the rest of the battle, unintentionally yet heavily implying to them all that Bowser left the battle as soon as Luigi got hurt, its (And by extension, his army and possibly kingdom’s)nultimate fate unknown to him.

That told Mario all he needed to know.

Bowser chose Luigi. No matter what he would look like to his own army or the Penguin Kingdom’s army or how his side might suffer because of it, Mario knows that Bowser immediately took Luigi to safety, and even took him to Mario’s house of all places. Even during this conversation he and Bowser are presently sharing, upon learning about Kamek, Bowser hasn’t asked about the results of the battle; instead, he’s just held Luigi’s hand that little bit tighter.

Mario says Bowser proved himself to Mario, that Bowser can be trusted with Luigi’s heart and that Mario feels safe to give him the benefit of the doubt going forward.

Bowser is saved from giving Mario more than a grateful nod, as he feels Luigi start to stir and wake. His and Mario’s attention snaps to him.

Luigi takes in where he is and the two by his bedside. He asked how he got here, and what happened during the rest of the battle with the Penguin Kingdom. Mario answers both points, the latter of which giving Bowser an answer that had been only at the furthest recesses of his mind. The Koopa Kingdom won, and the Penguin Kingdom petulantly surrendered, with no casualties on either side. Luigi shifts his hand to clap it around Bowser’s claw, instead of the other way around as it had been since Bowser sat down. He thanks Bowser for bringing him home, and Bowser jokingly rolls his eyes as he points out how annoying it was, the two snorting with laughter.

Peach emerges with some tea and greets Luigi, hearing him wake up from the other room and revealing that she made him a tea that will help him sleep. Luigi says (really, pseudo-whines) that he doesn’t want to sleep (”I just woke up!”), but the room’s three other occupants nag at him that he’s going to need a lot more sleep before he’s better. Luigi, resigned, submits to their tag-team and slinks back into his bed before drinking his tea.

Bowser stays by Luigi’s bedside all night and beyond.

Some highlights from Luigi’s recovery.

-By the following afternoon, it takes the group up of all the Mushroom Kingdom’s greatest heroes to get Bowser to just take a nap in another room. Bowser falls asleep on the other living room armchair. His snores are loud, but it’s well worth it.

-Two days after Bowser brings Luigi home, while Luigi continues to rest, nine Koopa Copters, all smaller than the one Bowser and Luigi arrived in the day before, land outside the brothers’ house. Mario, Peach, and Toad go outside and see the Koopalings and Bowser Jr, with Kamek trailing just behind them. The kids rush in and Kamek sheepishly replies that they insisted on visiting Luigi. Luigi’s room is beyond packed, so Bowser has all but one or two of them leave the room, turning Mario, Peach, and Kamek into their pseudo-babysitters.

-The kids have all made Luigi get well soon cards and pictures, and Luigi adores them all. Luigi has Bowser hang them all on the wall in front of them so he can see them all the time.

-On the third night there, Mario wakes up in the middle of the night and hears Bowser stepping outside the house. He goes to join him, and they just sit on the porch, watching the night sky together. When he asks Bowser if he can’t sleep, Bowser simply huffs. Before he can comment on it, Bowser jokes to Mario about how it is he can stand the constant smell of mushrooms, not just in his house, but all over here. Mario, smirking, shrugs and says that that’s just part of this place and that honestly, it faded into the background for him pretty quickly after he arrived. Bowser says it’s weird, and Mario counters, saying that it’s not called the Mushroom Kingdom for nothing (”The castle doesn’t smell like that.” “The castle is filled with flowers and is always cleaned.” “Still smells.”). They spend the next ten or so minutes looking out at the night sky before Bowser goes back inside, with Mario going inside shortly after.

-After about a week or so, Bowser’s confident enough in Luigi’s recovery that he’s convinced that he can return to his castle and get to his normal dealings (He does have a lot of post-invasion paperwork and organization to take care of, not to mention his responsibilities as a father to the kids). That first night apart is difficult for both of them. Luigi’s gotten so used to holding Bowser’s claw as he sleeps that going without it feels weird. Bowser meanwhile needs to state affirmations at least once an hour that he knows Luigi is feeling better and that being apart for a few days will be fine.

-Bowser visits the brothers’ house once a week on average after Luigi’s recovered; usually, it’s just to pick up Luigi so he can stay over in the Koopa Kingdom for a bit, but he’ll stay over for a meal if the timing is right (Bowser really likes Mario’s cooking and everyone knows this, though good luck ever getting him to say that out loud). Because of Bowser’s size, he and Luigi at least eat in the living room since that chair is one of the only two in the house that Bowser can fit in. After the fourth time this happens, Mario and Luigi get a Bowser-sized chair to put in their kitchen so that he can sit there with them. Bowser never admits it, but it’s one of the best gifts he’s ever received.

[sagemonsters]

Kaia on ko-fi has a blind date with...

Stelios the Centaur

Stelios has the lower body of a chestnut draft horse and the upper half of a muscular, redheaded human man with lots of freckles. He works as a ranger in a large, mountainous wilderness park, and takes his job very seriously. He is always rescuing lost hikers and tending their injuries, and sometimes scaring off bears! He carries emergency medical and food supplies in his saddlebags and always has a helping hand at the ready.

Ecology is Stelios’ primary hobby, and it’s not just for work. He is very passionate about reforesting now-barren former woodland and getting rid of invasive species. He can talk for hours about it, but also wants to hear about your own interests and passions. He understands what it feels like to realize that you’re the only person in the room who truly cares about a particular subject, and knows how to push forward against other peoples’ indifference.

Stelios loves gaming, but unfortunately rarely has time for it due to the nature of his work. He’s easily frustrated by technology and prefers tabletop games to video games (and yes, his D&D characters are primarily druids). When you invite him to a TTRPG session, he makes every effort to clear his schedule and come to the event; he wants to make more friends.

Stelios drinks a lot of coffee… maybe too much. Although he isn’t picky about what kind of coffee he drinks, he makes a point of avoiding chain coffeeshops and tries to support small businesses in his area, especially ones owned by queer folks or else that are havens for marginalized people.

CW for giant arachnid (scorpion) + use of firearms

“Get on my back,” the centaur wearing a ranger’s jacket mutters to you.

“Why?” you mutter back, although you are nonetheless already very close to the centaur’s flank in the steep-sided, marshy gully.

“It’s doing a threat display,” the ranger explains, eyeing the giant swamp scorpion with its enormous, snapping pincers and venom-dripping stinger, “we don’t have much ti—”

The massive arachnid rushes forward at you, its legs thudding into the soft ground. You hoist yourself up onto the centaur’s back faster than you thought possible outside of an adrenaline-fueled emergency, and the centaur wheels around and gallops as fast as he can away from the threat—but not fast enough. The boggy terrain is slowing him down, and the swamp scorpion’s wide, flat feet help it move more quickly.

You pull a pistol out of the holster at your hip, twisting on the ranger’s equine back to fire off a few shots at the scorpion. Even on the back of a struggling centaur, your aim is true, and black ichor gushes from the scorpion’s new injuries. It squeals and twitches in pain, slowing down just long enough for the centaur to reach the end of the gully and start climbing up a slope onto firmer ground. Unwilling to leave its lair, the swamp scorpion remains behind to nurse its wounds.

“You could have used that a little sooner,” the centaur grumbles. “The noise of a few shots might have scared it, at least.”

“I don’t have a permit to hunt scorpions,” you explain. “I wasn’t sure I was allowed to shoot that thing.”

“You would have been in luck if you’d tried—they’re invasive, so we would pay you rather than the other way around—and self-defense is a valid defense against being fined. I’m Stelios, by the way.”

You introduce yourself as well, and Stelios lets you hitch a ride back to the nearest ranger station. Along the way, he offers some suggestions for how to replace your lost hiking and camping gear more cheaply, and you have a good time chatting with him and swapping emergency medical treatment tips. Once at the ranger station, the swamp scorpion’s lair is reported so that a better-equipped team can handle the giant arachnid, and a kindly human ranger offers you a ride in an ATV back to the park’s main entrance.

All in all, it turned out to be a pretty fun-filled day.

see here if you'd like your own blind date with a monster!

[maternity-morningstar]

A few days after the birth, Lucifer is finally ready to take his triplets home. Despite the challenges of recovery, he feels a sense of relief and excitement as he prepares to leave the hospital. Charlie is by his side, helping to carry the babies in their car seats, all of them bundled up and ready for their first journey home.

Lucifer: *smiling tiredly at Charlie* Ready, Char-Char? Let's get these little ones home.

Charlie: *grinning* Ready when you are, Dad. The limo’s waiting just outside.

As they exit the hospital, they’re immediately met with the blinding flashes of cameras and a cacophony of voices. Paparazzi have gathered in large numbers, eager to get the first glimpse of Hell's new royal babies. The crowd surges forward, shouting questions and snapping photos, their intensity almost overwhelming.

Paparazzi 1: *yelling* Lucifer, how does it feel to be a father again? Are the babies healthy?

Paparazzi 2: *pushing forward* Can we get a shot of the new heirs?

Paparazzi 3: *shouting over the crowd* Lucifer, any word on the identity of the triplets’ father? Is it true that they have different ones?

Lucifer: *holding one of the car seats protectively, his expression turning steely* No comment.

Charlie: *shielding her siblings, trying to push through the crowd* Can you give us some space, please? We’re just trying to get home.

Paparazzi 4: *pressing in closer* Lucifer, how do you plan to raise three more children? Are you worried about the responsibility?

Lucifer: *gritting his teeth* That’s none of your business. Please step back.

Despite their efforts to keep moving, the swarm of reporters only intensifies, the questions growing more invasive by the second.

Paparazzi 5: *smirking* What does the queen of Hell have to say about you having an affair with sinners?

Lucifer: *visibly irritated, his voice low and dangerous* I said, no comment.

Charlie: *determined, leading the way toward the limo* Let’s go, Dad. Don’t let them get to you.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, they reach the limo. The driver quickly steps out, opening the door and helping them load the car seats into the back. Charlie climbs in first, followed by Lucifer, who keeps a protective hand on his children.

The paparazzi continue to shout questions and snap pictures, but as the limo door closes, the noise fades to a muffled hum. Lucifer leans back in his seat, exhaling a long breath, the tension slowly easing from his body.

Charlie: *looking at her father with concern* Are you okay, Dad?

Lucifer: *nodding, though still clearly shaken* I’m fine, Char-Char. Just... glad to be away from all that.

Charlie: *gently placing a hand on his arm* We’re safe now. Let’s focus on getting home and settling in with the babies.

Lucifer: *smiling softly, looking at the sleeping infants* Yeah... let’s go home.

[boatem-probler]

The Boys Are Back in the Mob in... Tokyo Soul!

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / You Are Here! / 8 / 9

Wowie zowie it's another guest episodes! But this time it's Sam's guest so it's not as good as Lizzie. In these episodes, the boys try to have a nice day out while Professor Geode shows his "family" around town, Grian's mic is out to lunch, and organized crime rears its ugly head once again in the city.

This report contains mentions of: violence, guns, drugs.

Previously on Tokyo Soul:

"Who wants to rub blood on themselves?” -- Lizzie

This Time...

Episode 25 – A NEW FRIEND!

Taurtis is filming a roleplay called “Yandere Middle School” lol.

Sam mentions his “personal friend” named Jin who they need to pick up from the train station.

Taurtis: “You have other friends?” Sam: “Yeah, I have friends!” Grian: “News to me.”

Sam: “Grian had a friend, I can have a friend too.” Taurtis: “But he’s actually likable.”

Sam’s friend is actually moving to the area, Sam says.

Dom and Jerry break the TV.

On the way to the train station, they see that another UFO has crashed into the tree in Geode’s yard.

While the boys are arguing about whether it is, in fact, a UFO, they are HALTed by Officer Flare. He fines them for jaywalking, and then for attempting to bribe him with Doritos and bagels. He doesn’t make any attempt to actually collect any money from them though.

Jerry is selling JerryCats and Air at the train station.

Jin gets off the train, along with two very obviously stereotypical Green Aliens in touristy clothes. Taurtis tries to convince Jin not to move there. Jin is from Kyoto, apparently.

The aliens are met by none other than Geode, who is trying to pass them off as his “Pappa” and “Gramma”.

Dom is running a bar and grill at the train station. Also, it turns out he didn’t break the TV, he stole it to put in his bar and grill.

They look for a restaurant. Grian just straight up walks into someone’s house and sits down at their kitchen table. Jerry breaks the food that was on the table. Then Igbar von Squid walks in because it turns out this is his house. He’s not happy. The boys get out of there pretty fast.

They run into the principal and Grian chews him out again. Jin is a bit shocked to hear what’s been going on at their school.

Jin: “I’m still in Japan, right?”

Honestly, I’m not too sure about that.

Episode 26 – GRIAN IS AN ALIEN!

They go to an actual restaurant. Sam makes Taurtis read the menu sign outside. He claims the restaurant serves “fish legs”, and Jin calls him out on not actually being able to read Japanese. The boys are all shocked that Jin can. More fuel for my silly little “this whole show takes place in some kind of pocket-dimensional space warp” headcanon.

Geode and his “family” are also at the restaurant. Grian, as the only one willing to admit they’re aliens and probably planning some kind of invasion, sits near them so he can listen in on their conversation. He sounds like he’s near tears trying to convince the others.

And then he sounds like a robot, because he’s having mic issues. The way they decide to work this into the story is: Taurtis yells “HE’S AN ALIEN”, Geode yells “THE MIND SLUGS HAVE ACTIVATED”, and everyone runs out of the restaurant, away from Grian.

Grian tearfully chases after them. Taurtis pulls out a gun. Sam tells him to shoot Grian in the leg if he “speaks alien”. Taurtis shoots him before he says anything, he screams, it’s incredibly garbled, everyone runs away in fear again. This is not a good day for Grians.

Then there’s a cut and Grian is speaking normally again. He explains that from his perspective, he was speaking normally and they just shot him for apparently no reason.

Officer Flare fines Grian for having an open wound. Grian decides to bandage his wound with the paper the fine is written on. He also decides to give his name as “Sam Gladiator” when the cop asks.

Sam protests loudly. “Grian, why are you trying to pull a fast one?” Grian says to him. The gaslighter become the gaslighted. Well not really since they all run away before much else is said.

Episode 27 – RUN ITS THE COPS!

They all head over to the apartment Jin’s planning to move into so he can sign the lease. The landlords are… pretty blatantly The Mafia. Also they have a doorman dressed in a very skimpy outfit and a Pepe mask, because that’s the sort of series this is. The landlords ask Jin if he’s “part of another gang in town”.

Jin’s lease contract involves him giving the landlords a pint of blood. And his soul. Right now though, the landlords just make him clean the top floor. Sam et al. go up to watch him clean, Sam gets angry at the younger landlord and punches him, and the younger landlord pulls out a gun. They all start cleaning, except Taurtis, who decides to break all the windows for some reason. Then he falls off the balcony.

The landlords also want Jin to deliver drugs to a man under a bridge. The man is Old Kurokuma, because we can never be rid of this guy. And, of course, the same cop from before walks up and tries to arrest them all. They scatter. The cop shoots at them a couple of times.

They run back to Jin’s apartment. The landlords want the money from the deal, which Jin didn’t get. The cop breaks the door down. The boys break another window to escape. 

They lose the cop by hiding in the school, before presumably heading back to Jin’s apartment. That’s what they say they’re doing, but the episode and the recording session end before they get there.

Grian Trauma Count!

Injuries Sustained:

Shot in the leg and bandaged the wound with a piece of paper and then kept running on it which definitely didn’t help.

Traumatic Events:

Guns are drawn on him multiple times by multiple people.

Once again something weird/bad is happening, in this case possible alien invasion, and literally no one will take his worry seriously.

The aliens do something to him that he doesn’t know what it is, just that it makes his friends convinced he’s an alien, run away from him in fear, and then shoot him.

Forced (by proximity to the guy who’s explicitly being forced, basically) to participate in a drug deal.

Chased and shot at by a police officer.

Next Time... the Deaths Witnessed Count Gets a Pretty Big Shot in the Arm

[areislol]

UH so i had a great idea. the streamer!AU x online reader with xiao… reader and xiao have been dating for a couple months but haven’t told their fans yet. they are at a sports event like football or something, and they get on the kiss cam. they kiss, and that’s how everyone finds out they’re dating ヾ(｡>﹏<｡)ﾉﾞ✧*。

streamer! xiao x reader

ft— xiao warnings— crazy fans(harassment, invasion of privacy, etc), kissing(duh) a/n— this idea has my whole heart, im really hoping that i can make parts of this! you guys can request me it doesn't really matter because i feel i should def make a part 2 + more of this :) i have no idea how a football starts so please dont judge, never been to any sports game too. please enjoy!

recommend listening to: bang bang - k'naan ft. adam levine(sped up)

streamer! xiao x reader

now you and xiao have been dating for a few months, and you both agreed to not tell anybody about your relationship as you both knew about how crazy xiao's fans were.

there are/were situations where fans would come over to their "idols" home to do stalk them or break in, harassment basically.

you and xiao did not want that to happen at all.

neither of you guys wanted to be hurt or have the other be in danger so it was best to not tell anyone about your relationship

it was quite hard to conceal your relationship, xiao really wanted to take you outside, to show and tell the word that your his but he couldn't, and you know why.

also since xiao always streamed on a daily basis with you, that meant you two had to refrain yourselves from flirting, teasing (to an extent) and hints. oh and pda.

this went on for about a few months, but that all changed, for the better and worse.

one day, you were eating lunch at your house along with xiao, he was sitting next to you munching on his meal

you were scrolling on tiktok, just watching whatever was on your fyp when you stumbled upon a tiktoker talking about how in a few weeks a football game would be playing in a ground/stadium that was just a few hours away from your home

you stopped scrolling, you checked the comments, everyone seemed hyped and excited for this event.

for a few minutes you contemplated whether or not you and xiao could go, as these past few days you two haven't gone anywhere, well you couldn't really anyways.

but still!! it's good to go out once in a while...

while thinking, you forgot that a special someone was also in the same room with you, and with the same person talking over and over again from the tiktok video, xiao turned his head to look at you, quirking his eyebrow.

you were staring at your phone, watching the video and scrolling on your phone (checking the comments), your head resting on your palm

"y/n? you good?" xiao asks, no reply. "y/nnnnnnnnnn?" he asks again, this time waving his hands to catch your attention

and it works, you snap out of whatever your doing and look over, only to see xiao staring at you, looking at you with confusion and he looked, concerned.

your mouth opens but nothing comes out, your throat felt dry. why. but anyways, after a few seconds you could finally talk.

"yea, im fine." you state before looking down at your phone, the tiktok was still playing. "i was just uh, thinking, do you want to go to the football event? it's only maybe a few hours away from here.. plus! fresh air.."

xiao doesn't say anything, his face droops. he only gives you a devastated look on his face. you pout, wanting a response. "yes or no?" you question

xiao gets up from his seat and walks over towards you while sighing, you're watching him, wondering why he's going over to you

his hands are behind his back, once he's right in front of you he sighs, again. you raise your eyebrows and with that he reveals to you what he was hiding, two tickets.

two tickets to... a football game? your eyes widen in surprise but that doesn't last very long when he speaks, "i was going to ask you today.... but you asked already so, here." he murmurs before handing you the ticket, you take it from him, looking at the ticket you smiled.

you two were finally going to spend some time together!! in.... a very crowded space, it's going to be noisy and smelly, and that's for sure.

but you and xiao are finally going to go out so i guess no complaining.

also when did he buy that ticket.

fast forward to the day of the football game, you have your phone out, checking the time there and then to make sure you two weren't going to be late

xiao packed the tickets into a small shoulder bag along with some water and sunscreen. what? it was going to be a hot and sunny day.

after packing everything, xiao went up into your shared room to start changing into his clothes for the day, upon opening the door he sees you in your clothes already, you were wearing a short sleeved t-shirt with shorts.

you held a zip up jacket just incase the weather forecast was wrong.

getting up from the bed, you went over to xiao and gave him a kiss on his cheek before getting out of the room

xiao was smiling like a mad man when you kissed him, oh the things you make xiao feel.

closing the door behind him, he quickly changed into your picked clothing. once seeing the clothes he was going to wear made him... want to cry.

it was a t-shirt with the photo of you and him kissing with the sentence "CHOOSE ME FOR THE KISS CAM" under it.

he felt his cheeks burn, slapping his face he sighed, he didn't want to let you down so...

other than that he wore cargo pants and of course, a jacket just incase the weather turned hot.

exiting the room, he walked down the hallway and standing at the end of the hallway was you, you had your phone out, it was as if you were waiting for him to come out in that position from the very start to end.

xiao's eye widened when he saw the phone and ran into the room next to him but it was already too late. by the time he saw the camera and ran you already took a picture of him.

two.

one of him standing still, moments before he ran, the picture of him running was the second picture.

after the pictures were taken you clicked onto the little picture at the bottom, you chuckled when you saw how the second photo turned out. it looked like it was taking just as a ghost started to run.

when xiao heard your giggles and fits of laughter he stepped out of the room, being cautious. don't want you to be taking pictures of him again.

but you didnt, not this time anyways.

he skipped over to you, leaning over to see how the pictures turned out, the first one? oh yea, he looked like a model. no matter how silly the clothes may look, but the second? god damn😭

xiao laughs a bit before stopping. he squints at your phone, your eyes follow his and you see that he's looking at the time.

the football game started at 1:30 pm, it's 11 am now. you and xiao turn to look at each other, your eyes both scream "WE'RE GOING TO BE LATE."

both you and xiao run out the door, not before grabbing your bag of course.

where the football game took place at was about 2 hours away from your place.

you and xiao were going to be SUPER late if you went any later then 11 am, you and xiao wanted to be on point.

rushing out the door, xiao went over to his car and clicked the key, he opened his door but after opening it, he stops and runs over to your side, your about to open it when your lightly pushed away by him

"ladies first" he states, opening the door he stood on the side so you could have space to go in, you roll your eyes playfully and get in, xiao closes the door and runs over to his side.

getting into the car and driving was maybe the most stressful thing that ever happened to you, ever.

there was not a lot of cars but your car wasn't the first in line, maybe the first 3 or more.

you really didn't want to miss this football game, it was going to be the first outing for this week with xiao, you didn't want to miss it, at all.

xiao sensed how you felt uneasy, and to ease the uneasiness he puts on some music, xiao connects his car with his phone's bluetooth

while the red light's on, he passed you his phone, "you can pick the songs :)" he mentions before getting back to driving when the green lights turn on.

you smile and nod and put on your favourite song, at this point you didnt care if the volume was loud or not, you wanted any of your negative thoughts gone.

after the drive, xiao parks the car and you two hop out of the car, there was other people walking towards the stadium where the football game was going to be played at.

xiao held your hand as you two walked over to where the door was that lead into the stadium

you two had to line up as well. and the line was LONG. you and xiao had to literally RUN to get to line before anyone else did, because if they did that’s just even more people to wait before it’s your turn.

and once you two started to run, so did the others. but luckily xiao is fast so you and xiao get to line before others did.

where you stood wasn’t so far to where to security guards were, after waiting for around 20 minutes it was finally your turn and you opened your bag, grabbed the tickets and handed it to the security guard who looked at your ticket, flipping it front and back before giving it back to you and nodding

you and xiao said your thanks and walked into the ground and was it large. bigger than you thought.

(lmao that’s what she said)

there were already hundreds of people sitting down at their designated seats, xiao grabbed the ticket from your hold and stared at it, he squinted his eyes while walking forward and pointed at the seats a few feet away from where you two were

“how can you see that far?” “shhh my sweet lamb, do not speak” he says, shushing you with a finger on your lip.

it was a little thing only you and him could understand, others wouldn’t but you two sure did.

you giggled before tightening your grip on xiao’s hand, he walks over to where your seats are and you two sit down.

it was 1:26.

more people started to pour into the stadium and sooner or later all the seats were filled.

1:31 now, suddenly the speakers turn on, a man speaks, saying that the game will start in a few minutes and that there are food and drinks coming around

fast forward to the game, everyone’s screaming, yelling, some are even crying.

some screaming from happiness or rage, some crying from sadness or happiness.

and honestly, you two started to scream and shout as well.

you two don’t even know any of the teams, except for their names as it was on the big tv.

you just asked someone next to you who was winning as said it was the red team and you told xiao, and now you two are screaming for the red team.

xiao was obviously getting annoyed when the red players kicked the ball but missed the goal. totally understandable but to him, it was outrageous, how could you just let down your fans!?!?

after hours of yelling your throat started to feel dry, but xiao was still fine, and still screaming.

then the players got their break and then the tv changed screens, it was a red screen with the word “kiss cam” on it, you and xiao knew this well.

it is, as it says, a kiss cam. the camera randomly picks two people, strangers or not and if they’re in the heart or just in the middle of the screen they have to kiss.

you smirked at xiao and pointed at his shirt, he looks down. he almost forgot. he looks back up and rolls his eyes

you crossed your fingers. please work!

a few people got selected, and once they kissed the whole crowd laughed or awed.

then, to xiao’s horror and to your excitement you two got on the screen!! you and xiao were in the heart, the people around you two shook you and xiao, some were cheering and there, somehow, was some people saying “wait...” as if they knew.... us.

you smiled at the camera before looking at xiao, xiao was in shock at first, but seeing how smug you were getting he loved hated it.

he smirked at you and pulled you in for a very, very deep kiss.

you could hear the claps of everybody, everybody around you and far away from you. you and xiao smiled in your kiss and that made many people awe.

after letting go a few people that were like 5-9 seats away from you called out xiao’s name. xiao and you froze.

xiao slinked back with you following his move, “shit.” was all you could hear from xiao before he grabbed your hand.

“we have to go now, i know today was meant to be a good day but we don’t know if those fans are nice, leave now?” he asks, holding onto your hand, waiting for your answer

you didn’t want to leave, really. but for the sake of your and his safety you complied and you both stood up and walked out of the stadium.

you could hear the voices of both girls and boys screaming xiao’s name, and your name occasionally.

when other people heard your and xiao’s name they all stood up to look if xiao and you was really there, and you two were!! instead, running to the entrance(exit??)

the fans pulled out their phones and started to take pictures of you two, without your permission.

some started to even get out of their seats and run towards you, that makes xiao run even more faster, you were stumbling there and then from how fast xiao was running

you could still hear the people screaming out your names.

it scared you honestly. once you two reached the entrance, the security asked why you two were leaving, you and xiao told them your situation and the security actually felt bad. they let you two go and stopped the fans reach you and xiao.

your heart was racing, so was xiao’s. everybody now knows that you two are dating, what will happen to you and xiao now?

you two now needed to give out a official “we’re dating!!” message to everybody now.

what about the fans? are they going to break into our house? stalk us? dox us? send us threats? try to sabotage our relationship?

all those thoughts scared you and xiao.

you both reached your car and drove off.

adrenaline was still in your body, you were breathing heavily, sweat beads sliding down your forehead from all the running and the stuffiness in the podium.

reaching your home, you immediately went to the couch and flopped down, too tired to deal with everything. xiao followed you and patted your head.

he sits right beside you and kisses your temple, “i’ll handle it” he whispers before getting up and walking up the stairs, presumably going to his streaming room to do whatever he was going to do.

while you slept, xiao was furiously typing away on his laptop

xiao stated, on every platform he has (twitter, discord, instagram, youtube, tiktok, etc), to not harass you or him and to not take pictures without permission and if they do, there would be consequences.

he even makes a full on youtube video about it. how it can really affect the lives of the people who are being stalked. how it must be scary to be doxxed, to not be safe.

how he is disappointed to call his fan, “fans”. how they are nothing like fans if they do those, and to the real, nice and respecting fans, thank you.

xiao is absolutely devastated. how this date was meant to be cute and all, but ended up with you feeling terrified of your and xiao’s safety.

in the end, xiao makes sure to make up for this terrible outing, maybe going to a more, secluded places. a picnic maybe? cinema? crocheting class?

well, xiao will make sure that this will never happen again, plus, if anyone ever did try to do anything to harm you or him he knows that karma and consequences will be coming their way.

note: if you would like to be added to the genshin taglist pls just ask me!! dont be shy <3

taglist: @tomansimp @one-offmind @miitchiji @dainsleif-when-playable @momoewn @stygianoir @irethepotato   @v4an @imetsk(couldn’t find ur main acc xiaxiao) @fiannee @sunnyf4lls

there were others but i couldn’t find your account : @kuaenyx @mobiuskiss, dm me if this was one of your accs!!

liking + following + reblogs are very much appreciated!!

another note: this seems so short lmao, also i wrote this in like 2-3 hours. first time in like weeks that i wrote in one day without taking long breaks and procrastinating, so proud of myself, also pls send in transformers requests im in neeeeddd, i’ll put out information about it soon!!

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!

[angusbyrne]

ANGUS BYRNE ( CALLUM TURNER ) is a THIRTY-THREE year-old SENATE STAFFER in WASHINGTON, DC. They were brought under Richard’s care when they were only FIFTEEN years old. They are known as THE PROTECTOR because they are VIGILANT but also CONTROLLING.

BASIC INFORMATION

Full Name: Angus Peter Byrne

Nickname(s): His little brothers would call him Gus, but he would not appreciate anyone else using it.

Date of Birth: September 23, 1971

Age: 33 (almost 34!)

Occupation: Legislative Director for a U.S. Senator

Current Residence: Washington, DC. (Albany part-time for work reasons)

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

Hair: Brown

Eyes: Blue

Height: 6’2”

Notable Features: Beautiful long nose, freckles, slay cheekbones, sticky-outy ears, generally fae face

PERSONALITY & BEHAVIOR:

Strengths: Detail-oriented, loyal, professional, protective, diplomatic, and cultivated.

Weaknesses: Stubborn, insensitive, strict, invasive, secretive, and manipulative.

Quirks: Always popping Advil and Tums (tummy ache survivor <3), carries an expensive fancy lighter with him, always wears an expensive watch, has glasses but wears contacts every day because God forbid anyone sees him wearing them when he’s not prepared, used to bite his nails so they’re cut short, misophonia sufferer!!!

Vices: Brandy, expensive cigars, his personal art collection (which he doesn’t display in his home)

INTEREST & HOBBIES:

Interests: Fine art & art history, expensive spirits, expensive cigars, expensive cars, architecture, politics, law, boring WWII books and docos, etc.

Hobbies: Making meticulous lists, going to the gym, boxing, cooking, reading Agatha Christie novels (not that he’d admit it…), watching old film noirs, going to his tailor lol, other individual sports like golf and tennis, being boring/invisible/not drawing unnecessary attention to himself, etc.

Special Skills/Talents: Lyinggggg <3 and he grew up taking a lot of music lessons at his dad’s behest so he’s got a pretty good singing voice (church choir experience) and plays the violin.

MISCELLANEOUS

Pinterest I / Pinterest II

Playlist (vibes version -- because Angus primarily listens to his white noise machine)

BECOMING A WARD

The Byrnes resided on a large, sprawling property in the foothills of the Adirondack Mountains of northeastern New York – not too far from Woodrow House. There, they kept sporadic hobbyist farm animals – goats, miniature horses, pigs – that didn’t produce much but a means for Angus’ mother, Maren, to spend her time and keep busy (Marie Antoinette’s pastoral ideal vibes). Angus’ childhood was lush and green, filled with fresh air, fairytale books, and skinned knees from wrestling with his two younger brothers Malcolm and George; it was also marked by being the lesser-favorite son, and the only one who ever caught a glimpse in his adolescence at the extent of what his father did for work. Spoiler alert: it was, at times, not totally above board.

It was through work that his father, Peter, met Richard Woodrow. Peter Byrne was by and large an antiques and art dealer and owned a gallery outside the city. Their business dealings were totally, definitely, absolutely above board (I mean, as far as Richard knew – so that must be true, right?). Richard became close with Peter, first in a professional setting and then later personally. Their holidays mingled; they visited each other’s homes; the Byrne brothers called him Uncle Richard soon thereafter. Angus came to be one of Richard’s wards after his family was involved in a car accident – he was the sole survivor. When Angus was orphaned, Richard stepped up and brought him into his care to honor the Byrnes. 

LIFE AS A WARD

Very few fellow Wards experienced what Angus was like when he first came to live at Woodrow House. For the first few months, he was rude, agitated, paranoid, and combative. He accused the House’s staff of stealing, moving, or just touching his things; he didn’t want anyone near his room for days at a time; and he punched more than one hole in his bedroom wall (not that he advertised that fact to anyone beyond Richard and Mrs. Tristan; Angus learned to hide the products of his frustrations quite well). But then, suddenly, one day a switch flipped. Though things remained a little tense with Richard, from that day forward, Angus was outwardly neat and well-mannered – and all up in the other Wards’ business.

Going forward, he took the role of a pseudo-kinda-big-brother seriously and always did what he could to help the other Woodrow House residents and did what he thought was best for them, even if that meant frustrating some of them in the process. He wears a mask of his own face – boring, straitlaced, and stiff – and that is how most of the Wards know him. Still, that agitated, argumentative energy thrummed under his skin, like he’d gone full circle and speedran the spiraling anger and swallowed it whole so it made its home in the center of his chest – waiting for its moment to bubble back over. It's a good thing he always had a punching bag.

AESTHETIC

Angus is very well-dressed and has taken a page out of Richard’s book so that the most casual he’s ever dressed are classic Brooks Brothers and Ralph Lauren fits. 75% of the time he’s in a suit, honestly, or in a semi-deconstructed suit (not wearing a tie, first couple buttons undone, jacket on and sleeves rolled up, etc). He has carefully controlled curly-ish hair, which he keeps in check with product. His hair is basically only out of place when he’s at the boxing gym. Regarding signature accessories, Angus wears the crucifix he had received for his Confirmation from his mom a few months before she died and is always wearing a watch from his extensive collection (something also inspired by Richard, who gifted him his first). Ultimately, Angus’ goal is not to stand out. He does not wear bold colors or loud patterns; he does not try to look different from any other suit in D.C. The more inconspicuous he is, the better.

EDUCATION

Angus was due to attend a boarding high school about 4 hours away from Woodrow House when he first became a ward. The year he was taken into Richard’s care, he instead spent his freshman year in a homeschool environment on Woodrow House grounds, but when the next year rolled around he insisted that he return to what he considered a proper school. Angus finished high school at a nearby private Catholic school in upstate New York, about a 45-minute to 1-hour commute from the house. After he graduated, he attended Georgetown University in Washington, DC. where he majored in PoliSci. After completion of his Bachelor’s, he attended and graduated from Yale Law School. 

EXTRACURRICULARS 

Sports-wise, Angus primarily took up boxing and was on the wrestling team at school. He very casually dabbled in tennis. In a more creative realm, as a kid, his dad had all of his sons taking music lessons, so Angus also continued his education in violin at Woodrow House. He’s not fantastic but he was in the school orchestra all through high school. 

THEIR LIFE NOW

Since leaving Woodrow House, Angus began a career in politics. From starting as an intern for a State Representative to an advisor and manager for various politicians, a legislative assistant, and now the Legislative Director for a US Senator. And that's where his climb up the ladder is going to stop (!!).

A couple of years after college, everything seemed easy-breezy all things considered until someone came knocking at his door. Literally. They were a former affiliate of his dad’s… and they weren’t happy. Since then, for about a decade, Angus has had to contend with various loose ends re: his now-deceased father’s business, only slugging through it all because of the the promise of an end to all the business dealings altogether somewhere on the horizon. The world of art and antique dealing wasn’t always squeaky clean, that was for sure, and Angus kept that side of his life extremely under wraps – for both his safety and his sanity.

He lives alone in a DC townhouse, which has been gutted and cleanly modernized inside. Slick, shiny surfaces and no personality: just the way he likes it. In Albany, he keeps an equally clean, modern, and personality-less one-bedroom apartment. You can sense a theme here and the theme is boring. His romantic life has always been defined by the seemingly endless line of blonde Ashleys, Ambers, and Christinas that are getting their Master's at GW or working in marketing. None of those relationships seem to last very long. That is also just the way he likes it.

IRT to the other wards, Angus tries to keep in contact with most if not all of them. He wants to see all of them on a good life track – happy, healthy, successful (not jobless or directionless), the whole shebang. Historically, he's known for keeping tabs, hovering a bit, keeping track of their friends, reaching out to them regularly, offering to be a reference for work, offering to help get them a job (preferably closer to where he lives), etc etc. He’s fought their battles for and with them, championed them, and stood up for them (and also talked down to them and judged them and fought with them…)

So Angus doesn’t appreciate radio silence and he doesn’t appreciate disrespect when he’s trying so hard and is so committed to, in his way, taking care of the Wards. So though he has plenty of experience in this role so far, that doesn’t mean he deals with those frustrations super well. If you're on the same page as him re: what's good for you, then most of the time things are pretty fine and dandy, but if you're not, well. I'm sure quite a few disagreements have cropped up... but he just really really cares. Just, you know… don’t tell him it may be all deeply rooted in anxiety because that would be sooooo annoying for him. 

[preciouslandmermaid]

and i'll break all my rules for you (joel x gn!reader)

note: Reader is only 4 years younger than Joel. GN!Reader & they/them pronouns used where needed, but otherwise no other terms are used. Takes place prior to the video game & tv-show (pre-canon). 

(Not beta read, no use of Y/N). 💛 Feedback/reblogs always appreciated 💛

summary: You are paired with Joel for a smuggling run to the Massachusetts General Hospital outside of Boston. Despite Joel’s initial stoicism and penchant for antisocial behavior–you find yourself breaking all your own rules for him. 

warnings: canon-typical violence, mature language, mild hurt/comfort, mentions of drug use/addiction, a sprinkle of quiet yearning 

🍄🍄   READ ON AO3    🍄🍄

“They’re a doctor, Joel.” Tess says, “a real one.”

“Non-military?” He asks dubiously. 

You settle your hands on your hips, “I’m not a narc if that’s what you’re asking.”

Joel scoffs, “thought most of you were snatched up by FEDRA. How’d you get out?” His tone is sharp-edged and suspicious. Maybe even accusatory if you listen close. 

You bristle. This smuggler has no right prying into your past. Rule #1 of staying alive: you don’t let people get close (and most people in the QZ know how to follow that one). 

“I got lucky.”

“Joel.” Tess folds her arms across her chest, “we need them.” She gives him a weighted look. There are a thousand words in that single look. It speaks to their trust, their history, and you instinctively look away. You let Joel and Tess silently discuss your ability to run this job. 

Eventually, he bends against the category-five force of nature that is Theresa "Tess" Servopoulos and says a gruff; “Alright.”

Joel isn’t a talker. And that suits you just fine. You don’t need words to complete this job unless those words are “Look out, someone’s gonna shoot you in the face.” Although, you rather like to think you’d be quick on the trigger if someone did try and shoot your face. (Getting shot would break Rule #2 on your guide to survival). 

You make your way through the tunnels with your heart in your throat. Your sweat pools in the middle of your back. Your shirt sticks to your spine and beneath the straps of your backpack. It’s been minutes, you think, but it feels like hours. 

You’ve never been outside of the QZ.

You open your mouth to ask Joel what to expect and then snap your jaw shut. He’s not a talker and you’ll see for yourself soon enough. You remember the world before it ended. You remember movie theaters, bad karaoke, and smoke-filled restaurants. You remember brightly lit grocery stores, loud playgrounds, and quiet libraries. You thought it would never end. You thought there would always be cars, concrete, and pop music.

So much for that. You bite the inside of your check. Now we’ve got FEDRA and ration cards and a fungal infection that desires full-scale invasion. 

Joel says, “watch your head.” 

He holds a rotted plank up and you crouch beneath it. When you pass him, your nostrils twitch with the scent of his body odor, but it doesn’t smell gross. Which is surprising considering showers are a rarity and you’ve stood in line for jobs with your nose and mouth plugged to block the stench. 

The thought is quickly forgotten when you step outside for the first time in twenty years. 

You exhale, “Holy shit.” 

The world is a jungle. A cacophony of concrete and lush, vibrant wilderness. There is decay, there is destruction, you can see the iron gridwork of collapsed buildings like they’re its ribcage. But there is also beauty. The sky has never felt more open. It’s bluer, you think, than you’ve ever remembered. A shade of blue reserved for summer afternoons when you were small. The overgrowth of plant life sprawls like tiny capillaries over walls and chain link fences and through gaps in the rubble. The sunlight cuts through open rooftops and reflects rainbows off the broken windows. 

You glance sidelong at Joel. He rubs his mouth with his hand. And although he’s looking at the horizon, you doubt the view has any effect on him. You suspect he’s mentally planning your next steps.

As if to prove you right, Joel points to a narrow alleyway, “we’ll take this route.”

You shift the weight of your backpack and nod.

~~~~~~~~~~

You shimmy through narrow alleyways and climb across wooden planks. It takes several minutes before it finally hits you. You’re surrounded by silence. The QZ always contains some level of background noise whether it’s FEDRA and their trucks, or people talking, or crackling fires. You hear every step you and Joel take, every rustle of the breeze through the buildings, every shift of your clothing, every beat of your heart. You stare at the back of his head. His hair is thick and streaked thinly with silver strands. 

“Is it always like this?” You ask.

“Is it like what?”

“Like this.” You fall into step beside him and wave your arm, “this quiet.”

He glances at you. The furrowed line between his eyebrows deepens. “Could be quieter.” It’s a pointed yet passive aggressive statement. 

You bite the inside of your cheek. It’s quiet enough, you figure, to ask the question that’s been gnawing at your stomach since yesterday morning. 

You ask, “what is your problem with me?”

Joel shifts his shoulders in an almost-stretch. “I don’t have a problem with you, doc. I just…” He glances sidelong at you, then away, his scowl etches into the lined grooves of his face. “It’s odd, alright? It’s odd that a doctor doesn’t work for FEDRA.”

He sniffs. “I don’t trust it.”

I don’t trust you. That’s what he means to say, and you’re not even surprised by it. You don’t trust him either. You trust him to complete this job. You trust him to survive (with or without you). You don’t bother trying to give him explanations as to how you’ve avoided FEDRA’s grasp. Truly, it was pure, dumb luck. You fell through the cracks. An authoritative regime liked to shoot first and ask questions later and their bureaucracy was shit. FEDRA wasn’t asking folks for their resume, and it was easy enough to lie once you were in the QZ. You’d rather be a coward and survive, then a hero and get yourself killed. 

That’s why you had rule #3: Always run if shit goes sideways. 

You shrug, “There are other medical professionals hiding out in the QZ. Not everyone jumped at the chance to be a FEDRA dog.”

Joel doesn’t reply. 

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

Joel explains quietly that you’ve got to cut through the library to reach the hospital. You’re not thrilled about the enclosed space, but what can you do?

The air is rich with gray dust motes and dead fungal cells. You and Joel step quietly (so silently a librarian would be proud!) through the dilapidated shelves and collapsed aisles. The magazines on the front desk are rotted into pulp. It smells of decay and damp mold and soggy newspapers. Many of the tables and chairs are snapped in half, chewed by termites, or broken by passing survivors for kindling or weapons.

The large hole in the ceiling has allowed every element of weather to permeate the library into a tomb of dead literature. If you close your eyes, you can imagine the ink running rivers through the aisles, around fallen rubble, and spilling down the stone steps. The children’s section of the library is muted in color. All the bright stuffed animals are chewed, stuffing crawls out of their eye sockets, and vibrant plastic toys are covered in grime.

You touch a shelf in passing, letting your fingertips graze the water-logged spine, and imagine the pages crumbling within. Your heart squeezes like a vice.

Mechanical textbooks, poetry, and biographies, and books on tape and DVDs–gone. As if they never existed. And now children are taught in FEDRA schools, taught to shoot, and taught the FEDRA-version of history. 

Something snags in your chest, and you instinctively turn your face away from Joel’s so he can’t see. Your eyes prick with tears. You’ve seen bodies piled to burn, you’ve seen civilians shot down in the street, you’ve seen horrors upon horrors and lost everyone you’ve ever loved. You shouldn’t be crying over dead, lost books.

But it feels like a piece of humanity that is irrevocably lost.

The future opens like a black void, like a pit, like the mouth of hell beneath your feet. What’s the point in completing this job? You ought to just take the meager supplies you have and keep walking into the abyss. Maybe you’ll find something better or maybe you’ll be eaten–consumed–by the infected. Maybe that would be better than this. This pretense of a life worth living. It wasn’t even life. It was purely survival. Your breath stutters and you clear your throat despite the sharp, cold glass lodged inside of it. 

“Hey,” Joel’s tone mirrors that of a cowboy trying to soothe a spooked horse. “Where’d you go?” He steps in front of you, snapping his fingers and it breaks your zoned-out focus on the books. You shake your head.

“‘M fine.” Your words string together like a children’s beaded bracelet. 

“Keep your head on straight, doc.” He admonishes. “We’re almost there.”

 ~~~~~~~~~~~

Hell breaks loose in the sound of a scream. 

It doesn’t make sense that raiders should be here so close to the QZ. But, they are. Joel grabs your arm and jerks you sideways into one of the cavernous divots formed by two bookshelves that fell into one another. You crouch-walk through the make-shift tunnel with cold, stagnant water dripping onto your head and shoulders from the shelves. 

The raiders run through the library while hollering profanities at one another. Their faces are covered by gas masks or simple cloth face-masks and ski goggles. You count the footsteps and watch the elongated shadows cross over the mossy walls. It’s a small group. Hopefully they just run through and keep going. 

Joel’s breath is warm on your cheek, “there’s three,” he whispers. 

You nod minutely to signal that you’ve heard him, but you don’t trust your voice to speak. He cranes his neck to peer around the shelf and you watch the tendons shift on his dusky throat. He glances over his shoulder toward you and lifts his index finger to his lips. His dark eyes are pensive, hard, and focused. Like two chips of dark amber, like pieces of obsidian. 

You wait, listening, your body crouched and muscles stiffening. The raiders have moved to the south section of the library. You can hear them rifling through things–furniture is moved, either smashed or kicked over, and book pages flap wetly as they are tossed aside.

Joel leans close in again. So close you feel his body heat radiating from him. You smell his sweat again. Your heart threatens to break free from your ribs. 

He whispers into your ear, “this place is already picked clean which means they’re probably looking for an old stash. If we take the second floor we can sneak past ‘em.”

You carefully follow Joel’s steps. He’s drawn his revolver, but you keep your own piece holstered at your hip. Your palms are slick, and you don’t trust yourself to hold a gun properly. If these raiders see you–you’re going to run. No question about it.

Joel grimaces, his face taught in concentration, as his shoulder slowly pushes open a rusted, stairwell doorway. Every sound he makes feels like a gunshot, like a noose tightening around your throat. You glance around, paranoid and cautious, before Joel makes a quiet sound in his throat. 

You meet his eyes. He flicks them into the created narrow space of the doorway. He wants you to go first. You angle your body to the side, your chest brushes against Joel’s as you pass, and side-step through the door. The touch doesn’t even register until after you’re in the clear and even then–your mind cannot process anything beyond the potential for death, the threat of the raiders. 

Your sticky palm holds the door handle and Joel follows you into the stairwell. You muffle your relieved sigh behind your fist. You climb the stairwell like mice trying to avoid an angry housecat. The stairwell is metal and rusted, but it holds your weight and doesn’t creak too much. Joel takes the lead. 

His eyes are constantly checking you. They are brief, passing glances. You’re not sure who is more paranoid at this point–you or him. Although, it’s probably you.

You keep checking over your shoulder as if the raiders will appear like ghosts behind you. What will you do if they find you? Where can you run to in this cramped, tinnitus-dangerous stairwell? 

Your foot slips as the rusted step gives way. Just your luck, right? You swallow your gasp of alarm, your shout of terror, and your arms windmill to regain your balance.

Joel’s hand shoots out and catches you effortlessly by the wrist. He pulls you forward with surprising, wiry strength and onto the step he’s standing upon. Your cheeks burn. He releases your wrist, nods, and you keep moving.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun has almost fully set by the time you manage to escape the library. The sounds of the raiders on the floor below echoes in your eardrums. Joel led you through the destroyed second floor (which was arguably worse for wear than the first floor). He guided you over wooden planks, and through bookshelves, until you finally climbed out through a broken window and onto the roof.

The warm air tastes so, so sweet.

You plant your hands on your knees, breathing heavily, your sweat drips down your face and over your spine in sticky, moist rivers.

Joel taps your shoulder and signals with a tilt of his head that you need to keep going. At this rate, you’ll reach the hospital by nightfall. Not an ideal situation, but what choice do you have? You have a job to do. You can’t turn away and run back to the QZ with your tail between your legs. The job runs bigger than just you and Joel, and you steal a moment to wonder if Tess told him the details. You push the thought from your mind. There is no use in speculating about Joel and Tess’s relationship. Once the job was done you’d never work together again unless fate played its tricky hand. 

Your flashlights cut sharp, white lines through the deserted and overgrown streets. The hospital is derelict and dark. It poses like a forgotten specter over the street. Alongside the destroyed cars and police vehicle, there is an overturned and torched ambulance near the ER entrance. If you were to shine your flashlight into those cars, or the doorway, you have no doubt in your mind that you would find corpses. A chill shivers across your damp skin. You hope there are no infected inside, but it’s a risk you’ll have to take. 

You lead Joel around the side of the building and shine your flashlight up toward a broken window. Wordlessly, he situates himself near the brick wall and laces his fingers to hold your foot. You grunt in unison as Joel boosts you into the window. You awkwardly grip the window ledge, avoiding a large piece of glass, and shimmy your torso up and over. 

You land and grumble, “fuck.” Your boots crunch on scattered, broken glass. 

A quick cursory glance around the room reveals two skeletons sitting upright in their beds. Their clothes and blankets have rotted and are pocketed with moth-eaten holes. Their eye-sockets bloom with dead and ashen fungus that spreads like spidery roots across the wall behind them and stretches toward the ceiling. Their wrists and ankles are secured to the beds with thick, leather clasps. You shine your flashlight over their bodies and golden, empty bullet casings glitter on the floor. Shot dead. There’s no telling when they died–were they shot on day zero? Or did some scavenger pass through and shoot them out of fear or pity? 

You take off your coat, bundle it into your arms, and sweep away some of the glass. You pull a rope from your backpack, tying it on a metal bedpost, before you drop it to Joel. The hewn rope cuts into your palms and fingers like woven splinters as you hold it steady.

You release a silent sigh of relief when Joel crests over the window and joins you. Something akin to relief uncoils in your stomach when you see him. It’s not like you expected him to bail or anything. Joel doesn’t strike you as that kind of guy. However, being alone in the hospital, even for a few seconds…is unnerving. You are safer with him beside you. It’s not sentiment or tender, warm feelings creating that thought. It’s pure, survival-based logic.

“The stash is just across the hall.” You whisper.

Joel nods gruffly.

You pull your pistol from its holster and force your arms not to shake as you walk toward the door. It creaks. The hinges are flecked with rust. A constellation of acrid, gray dust plumes and swirls in front of your face. Your flashlight beam bounces over fallen IV poles, and wheelchairs, and gurneys. And corpses. Dozens of corpses. You listen, and breathe, and push the door infinitesimally wider. The hospital yawns and stretches and rises like an old alley cat to meet you. A hundred memories tug at your shirtsleeve and beg for your attention. You tell yourself you cannot indulge in reflection. You must focus on the task at hand. You have to survive this. 

You tentatively step across the hallway with your heart lodged in your throat. The ten or so steps it takes to cross the hall feel like a hundred. You are only aware that Joel is following because you can hear his breath. You intentionally mirror him - his inhale and exhale - and a semblance of calm radiates across your worried nerves. 

The closet winces open.

The handle of a mop barrels toward you. You inhale sharply through your nostrils. 

You catch it before it hits the floor. 

Your eyes lift to Joel’s, and he gives you a look that seems to say– “Nice one.” You cannot decide if his look is sarcastic or not. You weasel yourself into the janitor closet and push your fingers behind the plastic bottles of glass-cleaner. You bite the inside of your cheek. What if it’s gone? You don’t know what you’ll do. You don’t know what you’ll say to Tess. 

After some blind searching, your fingertips finally touch a plastic bag taped to the underside of the shelf. 

Thank fuck. 

You tuck the bag of mixed pills into your backpack. You quietly slip from the closet and dip your chin toward Joel. 

He raises both eyebrows then whispers, “is it all there?”

“I think so.”

You and Joel return to the first room. Together, you brace the door with whatever spare furniture you can find. Two chairs meant for visitors. An IV pole. Two cheap, wooden nightstands. You hate how flimsy it looks. How vulnerable. An infected could easily break through that. 

“That's all we got.” Joel says. “I ain’t risking moving the beds.”

You massage your hand over your neck, “yeah, no shit.”

“We’ll move at first light.”

“Fine.” You remove a ration from your bag. A sense of unease and doubt gnaws at your empty stomach. “Joel…?”

“Hm?” 

He looks over at you with an inquisitive, yet chagrined expression. He hears the question in your tone, maybe even wants to answer, but likely hates all this talking. Realistically, you think you and Joel have said less than 50 words to each other. You tear a corner of the ration off with your teeth. It’s chewy and gritty and too salty. 

“We’re good here, right?” You ask slowly, your voice sounding far too small for your liking, “I can’t shake the feeling that the raiders followed us.”

Joel shifts his weight. He is silent for a few seconds, his face closed off, his gaze on the fungal skeletons eternally resting in their deathbeds. 

Finally, he says; “I’ll keep watch.” He glances at you, “get some rest.”

You doubt you’ll manage anything more than a few fretful minutes, but it’s better than nothing. You don’t want to be jumpy and anxious from a lack of sleep. At this sudden thought, you try to catch Joel’s eyes again.

“What about you?”

He shrugs one shoulder, “I’ll be fine.”

His answer annoys you. You’ve spent the entire day climbing through rubble and avoiding raiders. You brought him to the hospital. You got the stash. You followed through on your end of the bargain and yet…

“You really don’t trust me huh?”

Joel snorts, “not really, no.”

Offended, you cross your arms, “have I done something specifically or is that just your general asshole attitude to everyone?” You ask, snappish. 

You know it’s hypocritical. You know it is. You can’t help it. Whether it’s adrenaline wearing off, or hunger, or tiredness that is the cause for your tone doesn’t really matter. Your skin itches with restlessness. Hasn’t Joel been paying attention? You’re not a smuggler like him. You’ve never been outside the walls! You risked your life for this job. 

Joel cuts you with his dark gaze. “It’s my attitude toward everyone, yeah.” He replies coldly. “But especially to so-called doctors who somehow aren’t dead or with FEDRA.”

You roll your eyes.

“Oh sorry!” You pat your pockets dramatically, “I don’t have my credentials on me.”

He sighs. The weight on his shoulders deepens. He pinches his brow. Your harsh flashlight illuminates his torso and face in blue-white. His flashlight emits a halo of light. The dark, spidery-fungus frames Joel like two membranous wings. For a passing moment, he appears like a martyr, a patron saint of little patience and years of quiet agony. 

“I trust Tess.” He says, “she said we needed you because you knew where this stash was…but you wouldn’t say how you knew…and you wouldn’t tell her where it was or why you needed to go. So, I’m standing here, and I’m thinking that I could’ve done this job with Tess. And if I did then we’d be back in the QZ by now.”

He continues, “you’re inexperienced, you’re jumpy, and it’s a miracle you haven’t stepped on a network yet.”

You flinch. 

“So, yeah, doc. I’m having trouble trusting you considering you haven’t done a damn thing to earn it.”

You turn away from him. You’re too old to be sulking, but dammit (and damn him!) you are. Did watching his back not count for anything? Your success in moving stealthily? The fact that you didn’t lose your fucking cool at any point?! Your nostrils flare. You won’t jump over hoops and climb mountains to earn his trust. And why should you?! He’s kept you alive at this point but the same could be said for you. You don’t expect his whole trust, not even half of it, but you expected something. A shred of trust. A scrap. 

You settle against your backpack as a pillow and zip up your coat all the way to your chin. The minutes unhurriedly pass in awkward, tense silence. 

You realize, bitterly, that you trust him. It’s not fair that he doesn’t trust you in return. A second realization crawls into your mind. And it’s somehow worse than the first. 

The fact that you trust Joel (just a little bit!) means that you’ve let him in. You care what happens to him. You want him to survive. Hell, he’s not even a friend! Yet, you don’t see him as baggage or a liability. You don’t see him as a simple asset to your own survival. And yet….and yet…he’s earned a tiny, tiny piece of your trust.

You’ve broken rule number one: don’t let people get close. You always assumed that rule functioned in a primarily receptive way. As in, other people getting close to you and not the other way around. Your eyebrows draw together in annoyance and frustration. Silence stubbornly stretches onward while Joel watches the door and you watch him.

Quietly, you admit, “I used to work here. Not during the outbreak, though. Like, years earlier.” You stubbornly close your eyes to hide Joel’s face from your view, “an ex-resident told me about the pills. She wasn’t able to…obtain…them before they fired her.”

You flick your tongue across your dry lips.

“We were friends.”

You wonder what happened to her. You wonder if she’s alive in some other QZ. You wonder if she’s clean, or if she’s happy. Finally, you wonder if she’s dead. You try to remember the color of her eyes and are met with a void. An empty lot where a memory lived and then was evicted by your mind to make room for something else.

“She asked me to get them for her…but I never did.” You clear your throat, “we stopped being friends after that.” 

Rule number one is officially and monumentally fucking broken. 

Joel is so goddamn quiet that you suddenly fear he hasn’t been listening. Your eyes snap open. Joel is looking at you–his brow furrowed, his lips gently parted. You’ve seen this expression on his face before. He’s pensive and calm. Usually, this look is reserved for when he’s planning routes of escape.  

He asks softly, “you thought she’d come back for it?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug, “she was technically banned from the hospital, but she could’ve had someone else do it or…” Your eyes trail upward to the spore-marked ceiling, “gone herself wearing a disguise or something? I don’t know.” You say while laughing weakly.

“And that’s why you wanted to come.” He guesses. 

You nod. “I knew there was a chance that I could be wrong. I didn’t want to risk anyone else for that.”

Joel’s mouth thins, “just me.”

“Yeah,” you smile, “just you.”

You sense the fragile truce between Joel and yourself. Satisfied, you close your eyes again and try to settle into a semblance of rest.  

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

Joel shakes your shoulder. Hard. Your mouth instinctively opens to groan or wince and Joel’s hand snaps over your mouth. You groggily blink at him, tugging at his coat sleeve, glaring, but Joel’s expression is pleading. His eyes are big, and sorrowful, and deep, dark brown like roasted coffee. His index finger presses to his lips. You tilt your head and try to speak against his hand. His fingers press a little harder into the meat of your cheek.

A clicking noise echoes down the hallway.

A sour taste of fear floods your senses. Your grip on Joel’s forearm tightens and your eyes widen as if they could somehow absorb all visual stimuli and discover a way out of this new mess. Joel slowly pulls his hand away from your mouth. His eyes side-glance to the window. You’re lucky you had the foresight to clean up some of the glass after your first entry.

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. You establish a new knot onto the hospital bed leg and toss the rope out of the window.

Joel jerks his chin to the blossoming, rosy dawn that spills like silk into the room. You peel your jacket from your shoulders and drape it over the broken glass on the windowsill. You’d rather not accidentally slice open an artery while there’s a clicker loose in the building. You squeeze the rope in your hands. Rule #3: Always run if shit goes sideways. You throw your leg over the ledge.

The rope pulls taunt against the bedpost. The metal scrapes against the linoleum. You and Joel share an identical ‘Oh, fuck!’ expression. 

The clicker runs through the hallways and knocks over who-knows-what along the way. Always run, always run…You freeze on the ledge. Joel moves toward you. Unthinking, unbidden, your hand drops the rope and grabs Joel by the arm. 

You pull him. The world tilts sideways. A sense of vertigo rushes through your body before the ground hits you. All air is forced from your lungs in a painful, tense wheeze. A field of twinkling white stars dance in front of your eyes. Your ribs ache. You suspect more than one of them is bruised from Joel’s weight falling onto yours. 

Did it count as breaking rule number three? You ran, but you ensured Joel’s safety as well as your own. Joel lifts you to your feet. His grip is steady and sure.

“C’mon.” He whispers urgently before pulling you with him. 

Who are you kidding? Rule number three is definitely broken. 

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

You have the shittiest luck in all of Boston. You and Joel make it nearly halfway to the library (which you are planning to go around) before a raider literally runs into you. His body collides with yours, but he’s faster on the draw with his weapon.

His heavy automatic gun swivels and points to you and Joel. 

“Hold it!” There’s a tremor of terror in his voice. You glance around. He’s alone. That’s weird. The raider is wearing a FEDRA issue body vest, camouflage pants, boots, and a visorless motorcycle helmet. His ammunition is strapped over his chest like he’s in a bad 80s action movie.

His watery brown eyes notice the backpacks, “Drop your bags! And any weapons!”

“Easy.” You say, your arms raised, “we’re just passing through. This doesn’t have to get violent.”

“You’re right!” He snaps, “it doesn’t! So, drop the fucking bags and whatever else you have!”

You’re not sure what exactly clues you into the raiders’ next move. Maybe his eyes flick to Joel for a nanosecond. Maybe, you think, he sees Joel as a bigger threat (which is rather misogynistic of him but whatever). 

Your feet move before your brain has time to catch up. 

The bullet bites into the meat of your leg and you eat a face-full of dirt and gravel. The tiny, jagged rocks burn as they scrape across your skin and rip your palms and chin. You try to pinpoint the pain radiating through your body and roll painfully onto your back. Your lungs are wheezing for air. You prod your jeans with your fingertips to find the bullet entry point. Thank God. The femoral artery and vein isn’t punctured. You’d be dead otherwise.

Your wet bloodied fingers crawl along your thigh and finally find the hole. The relief is minor compared to the pain you’re in. You dig your finger and press against the bullet hole in an agonizing, guttural cry. It feels like a clean shot, but you can’t be sure. Your rule number two (don’t get fucking shot!) has been officially broken. And you did it to save Joel. Your world goes blurry with pain and tears. The muted gray scenery takes a moment to re-focus. 

And when it does–you see Joel on top of the raider. His knuckles bloom carnation red. His chest heaves with labored, deep breaths.

“Good.” You murmur, “my risky move paid off.”

“Your risky move nearly got you killed.” He snaps before crouching beside you.

“That’s a weird way to say thank you.” You apply firm pressure to your bullet wound, “he was gonna shoot you.” Weirdly, the thought makes you want to laugh. You bite down on the hysterics bubbling inside your chest. It’s adrenaline. Your body is in shock. You tell this information to yourself like a meteorologist explaining the weather. It helps a little. 

Joel scowls. “I had it handled, doc.” His hands shake as he digs through his bag. You decide not to draw attention to it. 

Your eyebrow ticks upward toward your hairline, “were you going to glower him to death?”

“Enough.” He holds a rolled bandage in his hand, “let me see.”

“I can walk.” You start to protest and flinch when he reaches for you. “We gotta move out of here.”

“You need your hands.” Goddamn, you think, Joel is a stubborn sonofabitch. You reluctantly pull your hand away from your thigh.

“Clean through?” He asks while wrapping your thigh in gauze.

You wince. The pressure is necessary to halt the bleeding, but it still fucking hurts. “I think so. Yeah. Yeah, hopefully. ” A clean shot without any gun shrapnel or broken bones will be a miracle. 

He says, “we’ll get a better look at it later.” You look away from your wrapped leg and meet Joel’s dark gaze. He holds your stare for a beat longer than you expected. You’ve never had much time to look at him–really look at him–and you realize he’s got a handsome, weathered, and tired face. Something inside your chest flutters. 

You look away before he does. “Yeah, alright.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~

Wincing and breathing heavily, you manage to limp your way through the streets and caved-in buildings. You cling to Joel for support when needed until he finds a safe spot to rest. You help him push an old refrigerator in front of a doorway and black spots dance in front of your vision. The pain radiates through your leg like fire. Your face glistens with sweat.

But before you can topple over, Joel catches your shoulder in his familiar, steady grip. One moment he was standing on the opposite side of the fridge and the next moment he was next to you.

He murmurs, “easy now.” And guides you to sit down and extend your leg. You breathe harshly through your nostrils and squeeze your eyes shut.

“We have to stop the bleeding.”

You hear Joel’s bag unzipping, “I know.”

“There’s a kit in my bag.”

“Okay.” You hear your bag being unzipped. “I see it.” He says.

“Apply pressure and…”  You realize distantly that you’re slurring your words, “sterilize the needle…”

 “I know.”  

You feel his hands on your thigh. His palms and fingers encircle the painful space. You can feel the heat of him, the heat of his touch, his bodily warmth. Your eyelashes flutter open. Joel is so close…his head is bowed, his expression grim and focused, and a little sheen of sweat dappled his wrinkled forehead. Joel pours disinfectant onto his hands and briskly rubs them together. Your blood-soaked bandage is pulled away. 

He shines a flashlight into the pulsing, wet wound. Some of your blood has clotted around the entry point in thick, dark red clumps. Your fingers twitch. You want to clean and care for it yourself. You want to stitch it up. But, that would risk too much infection. Your hands aren’t clean. You have to trust Joel and trust that the injury won’t kill you.

“Here, bite down on this.” He says while handing you a faded, colorless cloth bandana. You shove the fabric into your mouth and bite down at the first sharp sting of the needle poking through your skin. 

You reach out and clutch Joel’s shoulder for support. Your fingertips dig into his muscles. Your arm trembles as you squeeze him. Your vision goes soft and blurry with tears. The needle bites and bites and bites until your skin is pulled together again. Your sense of time is completely distorted as you walk between worlds on the verge of passing out while crying out in pain. 

Joel mutters quietly, “don’t worry. I’ve got you, okay? I’ve got you here. You’re gonna be alright.”

You think you mumble, “I know.” but you can’t be sure. 

When Joel is finished, and the wound is wrapped, the strangest thing suddenly happens. Neither of you move. Your hand remains on his tense shoulder. His hands are applying unnecessary additional pressure to your thigh. Your ragged breath syncs to his. Your eyes burn with tears and sweat that’s dripped from your brow. 

Something magnetic draws your gaze to his. He watches you with intensity and something else–something hot and sharp and dark.  

“Are you mad at me?” You ask breathlessly. 

“You did a stupid thing.” He deadpans. 

“He was going to shoot you.” You enunciate every word.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do!” You rush out, your eyes bright from exertion, “I saw it in his face. He was going to shoot you and then me because it would’ve been easier to rob us.”

Joel replies, “he was a scared kid.”

“Fine!” You spit out, “maybe he wasn’t going to shoot us. Maybe he was just going to alert his buddies and then they’d rob us, or kill us, or capture us for their sick amusement. Either way, I don’t regret it Joel, and neither should you!”

The skin under Joel’s collar flushes red, “You got shot!”

“Yeah, well, I’m not dead!” 

Joel jerks away from you as if you’ve slapped him. His hands leave your leg, and he pulls the pocket of pills and tiny, injection vials from your bag. You scowl at his coldness, his distance. He scowls at the plastic baggie.

“I recognize some of these…”

You sigh and lean your head against the wall, “not everything in there is for pain.”

“What else is there?” He says while holding a tiny vial of morphine close to his face, “besides this I mean.”

“Antibiotics.” You say, “my friend would sell them…y’know…to people who couldn’t afford it ‘cause of the scam known as the American healthcare system.”

He nods absentmindedly while procuring some pills for you. And he passes his water bottle to you as well. You take both pills (after visually confirming that one was a low-dosage pain medication, and the other was a general antibiotic). You sit in silence while watching the tense rise and fall of Joel’s shoulder out of the corner of your eye.

You say, “I’m not sorry, Joel.”

Joel chuckles under his breath, “yeah, I know.”

He shifts his body and settles next to you with a loud, heavy sigh. His hands are smeared with your blood, the color bright like red poppies or dark like fresh cherries, depending on the angle of the light.

“We have to wait till nightfall to re-enter QZ…” He says and although there’s gruffness to his tone you think you hear warmth in it too (or its the drugs). “In the meantime, you ought to rest.”

“Mhm, yeah, alright.” 

Your head lolls sideways and your temple lands on Joel’s warm, solid shoulder. To your surprise and secret delight–he doesn’t push you away. He doesn’t relax or lean into you either. Instead, he’s more like a warm statue. But you don’t mind. You broke all your goddamn rules for him, and you can afford to be a little self-indulgent after the past two days. It won’t kill you. 

You’re going to have to establish some new rules once you return to the QZ. (And yes, rule number two should probably remain the same).

Your thoughts drift and carry you into a dreamless, gray void.

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

Joel folds his arms across his chest, unsmiling, and watching you. Turns out–you are a doctor. (Or at least, you were before the known world ended). You crouch beside a sick kid–obviously the kid is not infected, but sick with something that looks like pneumonia based on how hard the kid is trying to breathe. Their skin is glassy with sweat and every few seconds they cough like they’re going to lose a lung. 

Tess gravitates to his side. Her hands slide into the back pockets of her jeans.

She says, “I didn’t even think to consider they were getting the drugs to help other people. I figured it was just more opioids.”

Joel sniffs, “yeah.”

“Did they tell you anything?”

He frowns and shakes his head, “not much.”

“Well, they’re honest. They gave me our agreed upon cut and then some extra.” She glances sidelong at Joel, “would you work with them again?”

He watches you as you talk quietly with someone’s mother. Your expression is smooth and there’s a practiced and comfortable ease in the way you move, the way you talk. Outside the QZ, he considered you a goddamn liability. A nuisance. But, then you took a bullet for him. You dragged him out of a window to flee from a clicker. You risked your life to help these civilians (who probably don’t deserve it). You lean against your cane and walk toward him and Tess.

Joel rubs his jaw and his stubble is scratchy and rough beneath the pads of his fingers. He recalls the weight of your head on his shoulder. He recalls your eyes bright with strain, wide with fear, sparkling with amusement, and narrowed in annoyance. He wants to answer Tess’ question before you reach him. 

“Yeah,” answers Joel, “I would.”

[onboardsorasora]

Changed the banner because I think this encompasses the fun fluffy vibe more. Plus Daniel's shorts are important to the whole au.

Part 14 | Part 16

Part 15

Max sat in the cockpit silently, fiddling with the steering wheel while his lap time telemetry loaded up on the screens put in front of him. He tracked the corners he would need to improve on, the green dashes marring what would otherwise be a perfectly good provisional pole lap. It was ok though, because it was still just Q2 and he was safely through. He was merely waiting at this point.

He felt his leg tap listlessly against the brake pedal and glanced around the mechanics and engineers for Bradley. Daniel was playing right now in London in the men’s final of Wimbledon. He, of course, couldn’t watch for obvious reasons. But Bradley was supposed to give him updates whenever he came back into the pits.

Christian had tried to veto this plan, saying he needed to concentrate or whatever. But this was Zandvoort, Max could drive this track blindfolded and steering with his knees. Once he started driving, nothing could shake his concentration. But what would be good for his focus was some damn updates on his boyfriend’s fucking match.

Glancing around for Bradley again, Max’s finger hovered over the communication’s button. Christian didn’t want him asking for updates over the radio because – outside of the whole ‘focus and concentration thing – it would ‘look bad’ if they played it on the broadcast and everyone would blow it out of proportion that he wasn’t focused on the task at hand, or say that he wasn’t enjoying himself so he should give up his seat and give a rookie a chance since he was paying attention to something else while in the car.

Max rolled his eyes at the thought, he didn’t want to ask for updates over the radio, he’d said as much when he suggested Bradley do it. But he’d warned Chrisitan that if he stopped the updates, well, he’d be very clear that he was asking for the current score of the Men’s Final at Wimbledon that his boyfriend Daniel Ricciardo was playing in. 

That in itself was a whole thing. A whole can of worms that neither he nor Red Bull wanted him to open. Not because they were against it, not because Max wasn’t out (he was never in the closet but that was a different matter), and it also wasn’t about outting Daniel or worries about fan, sponsor or FIA support.

No, Red Bull – and Max – didn’t want to touch the subject simply because they didn’t want to have to deal with the journalists and all the extra press Max would have to do. All of the extra statements and marketing commitments that would just…appear.

Max saw it happen when Lewis came out, all the added attention and the invasive questions and then they made him the poster boy of gay sports. And that was fine for Lewis, because Lewis was known for his activism and winning media personality. He’d previously admitted to Max that he didn’t mind it – liked it even. 

Max didn’t even want to speak to the media on a good day. He could have fucked Daniel to within an inch of his life, then walked into the paddock with the biggest grin on his face, on top of the world and the moment he saw Paul Di Resta, his mood would just….sour.

So no, he didn’t want to ‘out’ his relationship on the fucking radio. But he fucking would if someone didn’t fucking give him the updates he was asking for. 

His foot tapping quickened on the pedal and Max saw Christian turn around from his spot on the pitwall. They locked eyes…ish and Max hoped his scowl could be seen through the small crack between the screens. 

His finger twitched over the communication button again, getting ready to press when Bradley leaned in, over the halo and handed him his water bottle. Max looked up, and accepted the bottle with the hand that threatened Christian’s sanity.

“He’s up 3-6 6-3. They’re starting the third set now.” 

“Thank you Brad.” Max smiled before taking a sip from his straw, looking for all the world like a contented cat.

Bradley nodded and walked away with the water bottle, giving a thumbs up to Christian who barely held back his sigh of relief. Shortly after, Max clicked his visor down and exited the garage to do his first out lap of Q3.

He received two more updates before he cinched pole position. The media afterwards took forever and biting his cheek really was all he could do to keep his annoyance in check. He sat on the couch in the media conference room watching the match on mute, Daniel looked good; focused. Not as intense as Rolan Garros but still prepared. He was winning, of course.

Lewis plopped down beside him on the couch and glanced curiously at his phone, Max angled the screen so he could see more comfortably. They didn’t speak – all too aware of the hot mics all around– but when Daniel took another point, they both smiled.

The conference started after that and Max restrained himself from bouncing his leg or tapping his thigh. He tried to keep his agitation masked. He felt his phone vibrate a few times and knew he received a couple text messages. This told him that the match was over. That clearly meant that Daniel won, because of course he did. There was no way his opponent could have come back and gotten two sets in such a short period of time. 

By the time he was able to actually look at his phone again; after going through the gauntlet of the media pen and then the debrief with the team, it was nighttime. He scrolled through his notifications, bypassing all the emails and other text threads to open his chat with Daniel.

His boyfriend had sent a selfie, his tired smile front and centre, but also he was sitting in Max’s jet cradling his trophy. Max heart-reacted the photo before typing out his congratulations. He finally checked his email, seeing the flight log confirmation that they were in the air and would land soon. He knew a car would be waiting for them on the tarmac. Another photo came in when Max reached his room.

Daniel’s straining erection pressed into the seam of his white shorts greeted him. The tattoos on his thigh were also in full focus where the inseam bunched up to expose them, the mesh-like outer fabric did nothing to mute their vibrancy.

Max licked his lips.

[slusheeduck]

Fictober 2023 Day 18 - Prompt: "Just in case this doesn't work." Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 The last goblin dropped to the floor, and an uneasy breath of relief went through the party. Getting into Moonrise Towers had already been dangerous enough, but now they were going to have to actually play into the True Soul business—with people who could tell if they were lying or not.

The four hesitated in the stairway, looking between each other.

“So,” Falerin finally whispered, “who’s going to talk to Z’rell?”

“Not me, that’s for fucking sure,” Karlach whispered back. “Fal, you usually take the lead on these things. It should be you.”

“I’ve never had to lie like this before,” Falerin hissed back. “Usually I just…keep my mind blank, but they’re going to be looking for ambition.” His gaze immediately went to Gale, who quickly shook his head.

“No. No, no. Not me for this,” he says. “I’m a terrible liar. Too earnest. It’s great for building trust…outside of insane death cults.”

The group let out a thoughtful hum, then three pairs of eyes looked over to Astarion. The vampire blanched—well, as much as he could.

“Me?” Three nods, all in sync. “But why do I have to talk to the evil cultist?”

“Because you’re already 90% of the way there, Fangs,” Karlach whispered back, not unkindly. “You’ll really be able to sell it.”

Astarion’s eyes flicked between the three. His brow furrowed, his lips moved, but ultimately he gave an irritated sigh. “Fine,” he hissed, then yanked a dagger from his belt, holding it up. “But just in case this doesn’t work, you all better be armed to the fucking teeth.” ~

Astarion, of course, did marvelously, and they’re shooed off to find Balthazar without so much as a suspicious squint. As they make their way to find Balthazar’s office, Falerin slipped up beside the vampire, sneaking in a quick hand-squeeze before doing his best to look very cool and wicked.

“Are you doing all right?” he whispered. “I didn’t think she’d do all…that.”

“Invasive intrusions on my autonomy from people I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole? Just another day for me, darling,” Astarion muttered. He glanced at Falerin, then sighed. “I’ll be fine. We have work to do.”

Falerin nodded. “How did you get her to think you worship the Absolute?”

“Oh, just Thieves Cant,” Astarion said lightly, giving an imperious stare to a guard as they passed. “I’ve never thought in it before, but it was very effective, clearly.”

Falerin shook his head, smiling. “You’re so clever.” He leans in, adding in a whisper, “And honestly? You wear being a True Soul well.”

Astarion fought the urge to preen at the praise. “Well. When I go fully, 100% evil and become the head of my very own cult, I’ll be sure to keep you at my side to continue showering me in evil compliments.” He grinned. “But for now, let’s raid this Balthazar’s office for all he’s worth. I just know he has some valuable things tucked away in there.”

Fictober 2023 Drabble Master Post