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whiskeyncoke-redux · 3 years ago

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Crushed Velvet

Chris Evans x Reader

*a/n: I’m reposting some of my fics here, hopefully soon I’ll write something new.

Summary: Those damn velvet pants cause too many problems....

Warnings: Smut 18+ ONLY, Minors DNI

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Those damn pants. You knew he was wearing them on purpose, you knew that. All because you had let slip that you liked the feel of them. It had all started with the suit jacket he had worn to the Oscars. You couldn’t help but run your hands over the fabric while he wore it. While you were in the limo, while you were sitting in the theater, even at the after parties; your hands were somewhere on him, feeling the fabric of the jacket.

“What’s with you?” Chris had eventually asked you. “Why do you keep rubbing on me? Not that I’m necessarily complaining, I’d just like to know.”

You had removed your hand from his arm. “Oh I just like the way this fabric feels.”

“What? You’ve never felt crushed velvet before?’

You gave him a look. “Of course I have, I just, I dunno, it feels nice and you look good in it, that’s all. That’s why I can’t keep my hands off of you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Buuut if you want, I’ll keep my hands to myself,” you said with a smirk. “I won’t touch you anymore.”

“Well hold on now…” Chris began to protest, but you just laughed and sauntered off.

Later that night, at home, when you had tried to pull him in for a kiss, he shook you off.

“What? I don’t get a kiss?”

“I thought you were keeping your hands to yourself?”

“Oooh, it’s like that?”

“You started it, sweetheart.”

You nodded, your eyes narrowed. “Okay, bet.”

And so it went. For weeks, every time he attempted to touch you or you him, the other would bring up “keeping your hands to yourself.” You had to admit it was funny at first, but as time went on, you became frustrated. You were stubborn and so was he, so neither of you were willing to give in on the joke.

Keeping your hands to yourself eventually had interrupted your sex life. And it didn’t help that Chris had left soon, promoting the newest Avengers movie with the cast. So now you were all alone and you hadn’t been touched in weeks.

A few days after he had left, you couldn’t take it anymore. Your hand and toys just weren’t doing the trick anymore. So you decided to fly out to him and officially put the little game to an end. You called Chris and found out where he was staying; soon your bag was packed and you were on the way to the airport.

——-

You were in the audience at that panel. He knew why you had flown out to see him, he could see it in your eyes when you met him in the lobby of the hotel and on the elevator ride up to his room. He knew how bad you wanted him, the lust practically radiated off your body.

He decided to drag the game out just a little bit more. He had left you to unpack while he went into the bathroom to change. This time, he had decided to put on the crushed velvet pants that matched the jacket that had started the whole thing, matched with a dark top and sweater.

Once he came out he asked you, “So, how do I look?”

You turned from your suitcase to look at him and almost dropped the clothes you were holding.

“Well?” he asked with a smirk, turning on the spot. “Say something.”

Your eyes were firmly fixed on the pants he had on. “You, umm, you look nice.”

“Just nice?”

“Yep,” you nodded, turning back to your suitcase.

“You know, I had the pants for a while, I just didn’t know when the right time would be to wear them, and then today came.”

“Why today?” you asked.

Chris just shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea.”

“Hmmm,” was all you replied with.

Chris kept on, “You know they’re made of the same material as that jacket.”

“Are they?”

“Yep,” he said coming up closer behind you. “You know the one you couldn’t keep your hands off of?”

You turned and realized he was right up on you, close enough for you to feel the heat coming from his body.

You looked into his eyes. “Yeah, I remember,” you told him, your voice barely above a whisper.

He lifted his hand and let it ghost across your side, causing you to take a shuddering breath. You inched a bit closer to him, wanting to touch him, but he deftly took a step back.

With a smile he said, “Well, I better get going. I’ll see you there.” And before you knew it, he was out the door.

Once you got yourself settled, you got ready and headed to the panel. You could only bring yourself to smile when you saw Chris come on stage. Him and those damn pants. You could imagine running your hands over them like you had done with the jacket, but this time, it wouldn’t lead to a no touching battle of the wills. No, this time the pants were coming off!

While you were watching the panel, or rather just Chris, it was like he could read your mind. He had spotted you in the audience, and seeing the look on your face he began feeling on the pants for you. To anyone else, it seemed innocent, but you knew better. It was anything but.

You couldn’t help but stare as he ran his hand up and down the fabric, touching himself here and there. You almost passed out when he opened and closed his legs. You wanted to climb on him right then and there.

———-

By the time everything had wrapped up, you had almost come undone. You were waiting for him when he left the stage. You went and spoke to everyone to be nice, but when Chris came up to you, you gave him a look, grabbed his hand. He barely had time to say goodbye to everyone, before you had managed to pull him out.

“Y/N, slow down,” he said, laughing.

“Nah, you started this,” you said, getting into the waiting car.

“Me?” he asked following you into the car and turning to look at you.

“Yeah, the whole keep your hands to yourself thing. Remember that?”

“I was just kidding, you kept it going,” he argued.

“Yeah only because you were too stubborn to stop it.”

“I was too stubborn?”

“Yeah, you were,” you said. “But forget all that now. I saw you up there. You knew what you were doing.”

“What was I doing?” he asked, feigning innocence.

You shot him a look. “You know, feeling all over yourself, like I wouldn’t see.”

“Really? Was I?” he snickered, then leaning in close to you he said in your ear “How was I, why don’t you show me?”

You turned your head to him, your faces only inches apart. You took your hand and placed it on his knee.

“I just had my hand on my knee?”

You moved your hand up higher on his thigh, the feeling of the velvet tickling your palm. He closed his eyes at the feel of your hand rubbing on his thigh, reaching in between his legs and rubbing there too. He leaned in and began kissing you on your neck, making you shudder with need.

“Where else?” he whispered against your neck.

Before you could do anything else, the car stopped outside of the hotel. You both quickly jumped out, practically running through the lobby to get to the elevators.

Once inside, you were hard pressed to control yourselves, but there were other people inside. As you stood beside him, you still couldn’t keep your hands to yourself. You felt up on him as discreetly as possible. You had to hide a laugh as you watched him control his facial expressions.

After one particularly enthusiastic grab of his ass, he leaned over to you and whispered “Just wait until we get in the room, you’re mine.”

You smirked and said back to him “I can’t wait.”

The elevator finally got to your floor; this time it was his turn to grab your hand. He practically dragged you down the hall to his room, reaching to take out the key card in his pocket with his other hand. He unlocked the door pulling you inside.

As soon as the door was closed, he had you pinned against it, his lips hot against yours. He then moved down to your neck, kissing it first, then biting it, making you hiss out. He soothed the spot where he bit you with his tongue, then moved on to another spot. Unable to take it anymore, you pushed him back towards the bed.

He sat down and attempted to pull you on top of him. You pushed his hand away, making him frown. You ignored it, reaching down to undo your jeans and sliding them off. Once they were on the floor you went over to him and climbed on his lap. Kissing him again, you began rocking your hips back and forth, relishing in the feel of the fabric against your bare skin. He reached down and pulled your shirt over your head, tossing it on the floor with your jeans. Then, he grabbed on to your ass pulling you closer to him.

He moved his hands up your hips and sides and you moaned at the feel of his hands, hot on your body, after all this time. He reached around and unclasped your bra. You shrugged out of it. Once it was discarded, he lowered his head taking one hardened nipple in his mouth, while tweaking the other with his hand. With his free hand on your back, he pushed you closer to him. Then he rolled you over so you were laying on the bed.

He knelt between your legs, looking down at you clad in only your panties.

“You gonna stare, or are you gonna do something?” you asked.

In response, he bent down kissing you from your breasts, down to your stomach, stopping at the hem of your panties. He hooked his fingers in the elastic and pulled them down and off. Then he kissed and licked his way back up your thighs. He stopped and glanced up at you and you pushed his head back down, making him chuckle. He slid his tongue inside you, licking up the juices. You gripped the bedsheets in one hand as you arched your back, wanting him to go deeper. He obliged, spreading your legs wider. You squirmed as you felt his nose nudge your clit. You reached down to rub it, but he swatted your hand away. He then flicked his tongue out at it. You gasped and he did it again and again. Taking one hand from your thigh he slid one, then two fingers inside you, curling to reach that sweet spot inside you. As he did this, you felt him take your clit into his mouth and start sucking on it, causing you to arch your back further off the bed as you screamed his name.

He stopped, leaving you panting. He slid off the bed and took off his sweater and shirt, then undid the pants, sliding them off with his underwear. He then crawled back on the bed next to you. He grabbed you and pulled you close, kissing you again, sliding his tongue back in your mouth, allowing you to taste yourself.

With a moan, you climbed on top of him, unable to wait any longer. Grabbing his hard dick in your hand, you positioned it at your entrance and slid down on top of him slowly. It had been so long and you wanted to savor the feel of him filling you. Once you had sunk completely down on him you sat there for a while, loving the feel of him inside you once again. But Chris was getting impatient.

“You just gonna sit there or what?” he asked, moving his hips.

You started riding him slowly, teasing him a bit, but he was having none of that. He grabbed your hips and began moving you up and down faster. You grabbed on to his arms to steady yourself as you matched his pace. He let go of your hips and laid back watching you move on top of him. He reached up, running his hands up and down your body. Loving being able to touch you again.

Suddenly he sat up. He grabbed you to keep from falling off, but you kept moving on him. You were face to face, he kissed you deeply again then rolled you over so he was on top of you. He started rutting faster inside you. You wrapped your legs around him, wanting to push him in deeper . Your nails scratched at his back and he moved faster hitting your spot deep inside you. You had to hold one hand out to stop your head from hitting the headboard of the bed repeatedly.

You felt the coil in your abdomen tighten.

“Chris, I’m close,” you moaned. “So so close. Don’t stop.”

“Cum for me, baby, I need to feel you cum around me,” he said back, placing a sloppy kiss on your lips. “Fuck I’ve missed you so much. Come on, cum for me.”

A few more strokes and you felt the coil loosen and you fell over the edge, coming hard, with a shout of his name. Feeling you tighten around him, he came soon after you did, collapsing on the bed next to you.

You both lay there panting, hot and sweaty. You managed to roll over on your side and look at him. He smiled at you and you started to laugh.

“Let’s not wait like that again,” he said.

“Mmm I don’t know,” you said tracing your finger up and down his arm. “That was pretty good.”

He threw his arm around you and pulled you close. “It was but I absolutely refuse to never touch you again.”

“Yeah fair point. I hated not having your hands on me.”

He chuckled. “So it’s agreed, we can touch each other as much as we want?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Especially when one of us wears velvet pants.”

He laughed. “Okay, okay I get it.”

“Good,” you said. “Now we got some time to make up for.”

And you reached down and began stroking his dick, before scooting down and lowering your head and taking it into your mouth.

#Chris Evans #chris evans x reader #chris evans smut #chris evans imagine #chris evans x you #chris evans x y/n #chris evans rpf #rpf #rpf smut #marvel actors #marvel smut #whiskey writes

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mossy-rainfrog · 3 years ago

Photo

[Image ID: A digital drawing of Martin and Jon in season 1 of the Magnus Archives. Martin is seen out in the archives hallway, through the doorway to Jon’s office. Martin a fat Black man with short coily hair, round glasses, and snake bite lip piercings. He wears a blue sweater over a white collared shirt, and carries a brown satchel with him. Martin is looking over his shoulder with interest as he walks into work, and in a smaller panel to the side, we see Jon watching him with wide eyes. Jon is a thin Persian person with long greying hair tied back in a low bun, and rectangular glasses. He wears a red button down underneath a brown jacket, and is seated at the desk in his office. He stares out at Martin, looking flustered. There are small lines by Martin’s mouth indicating the piercings, and there are exclamation marks by Jon’s head indicating his reaction. End ID.]

I found an old fic in my notes about Martin dressing alt/punk outside of work and accidentally leaving on a small indicator of his usual fashion when he comes into the archives and I just. had to bring it back. Also, because I am still fond of it, please enjoy the aforementioned fic🥰:

Jon is having a difficult morning, to say the least. He had believed that coming into work an entire hour early would provide him with ample time to get a head start on today’s organizing, but that has decidedly not been case. He’s already had to take the statements of two utterly ridiculous liars who could barely keep the grins off of their faces as they recounted their ludicrous tale, and then listen to Elias subsequently dress down his so-called ‘attitude towards patrons’ for nearly half an hour, and suffice it to say, he would really like to get started on something that is actually worth his time.

He dislikes settling down with the more... difficult statements before all of his colleagues arrive, an attempt to keep them from interrupting his recordings to greet him, so once he’s finished his other menial tasks, he finds himself simply sitting and waiting for the ensemble of his assistants to arrive.

Tim and Sasha are the first - entering together as usual after having stopped for coffee on the way in - but Martin is slow to follow, taking nearly another fifteen minutes to arrive. It’s nearly ten past seven at that point, and once Jon hears Martin’s steps coming towards his office, he has half a mind to give the man yet another lecture on punctuality and work ethic. He gets as far enough as bracing his hands on the table to stand up, and then Martin appears in the doorway to his office, and he realizes something strikingly different about his appearance.

That is to say, Jon’s whole world narrows down very suddenly to the little black studs decorating the space underneath his bottom lip.

He’s staring, he knows he is, but Martin is busy looking down the hall for the moment, so Jon doesn’t force himself to tear his eyes away just yet. How long has he had his lip pierced, Jon wonders? Has it been there the whole time he’s known him? Has he only recently gotten it done? How? Why?

It’s hard to imagine Martin - soft, unassuming Martin who is far too large for the amount of space he crams himself into, always slouching, always pulling himself inwards as if he can make himself disappear - dressing in any way other than soft sweaters and slacks, but if Jon’s honest, he’s never actually seen the man outside of work. He has no idea how Martin chooses to dress himself when out from under the Institute’s rigid dress code, and this tiny window he’s been provided with is making him maddeningly curious.

He’s not... he doesn’t have feelings for Martin, aside from a general annoyance, occasionally marked with curiosity. He’s a professional, for God’s sake, not to mention that Martin’s very existence as a given is like a grain of sand in his eye, rubbing and irritating. Now he cuts clean through without even noticing. Jon itches to know more.

“Jon?” Martin’s voice tears him from his thoughts. “Is something wrong?”

Oh, shit. Jon can feel his gaze heat up as if he’s done something horribly wrong - how embarrassing that he can’t even keep a blush off of his face - but he still forces himself to open his mouth and stutter out an excuse. He means to remark on one of Martin’s missing reports, or the fact that he’s coming in nine minutes late, but what ends up leaving his mouth is; “Your lip is pierced.”

Just a sentence, not a question. He thinks he’s positively beet red. Martin freezes, the tips of his ears darkening visibly against his brown skin as his hand shoots to his mouth and his eyes widen.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I must have forgotten to take them out,” the poor man looks like he’s about to panic as he whips his gaze around as if to see if anyone else has noticed. “Don’t tell Elias, please, I’ve seen how he gets after Tim for the dress code, and there is no way, I mean no way—”

“Oh, n-no, it’s- I- it’s fine, really,” Jon raises his hands in defense as Martin rambles, for some reason inclined to reassure the man. “I won’t- I’m not- I’m not going to tell him.”

Martin hesitates, wringing his hands, apologies visible on every pore of his face. “I- Thank you. I’ll- I’ll go take it off. Christ, that’s embarrassing.”

“Only if you want,” Jon shrugs, which is definitely not the correct thing for him to say as a boss, and it definitely comes out a little gentler than he intends it to, and Jon is three seconds from screaming if he can’t figure out how to make himself react normally to this. It’s a non-traditional piercing in an academic institute of research; it’s against the rules, however dated they may be, and further than that, there is no reason for it to completely undo his composure the way that it has. He tries to get a hold of himself. “I-I mean, that’s likely for the best.”

Martin is giving him a funny look - probably a response to seeing the whole spectrum of human emotions flash across Jon’s face in a millisecond - but he still nods and says: “Sorry again. Thank you,” and then disappears down the corridor.

Jon immediately buries his face in his hands and sighs.

What is wrong with him? For God’s sake, he’s just seen Martin with a lip piercing, it’s not like he’s witnessed the man undressed. Besides, he works in an archive where he has to read statements about the intricacies of monsters that rip off people’s skin and suchlike every day, he should know how to keep his composure better than this. He should just move on with his day and focus without a problem, just like he does every morning.

Except, his mind keeps wandering back to it; the way the little studs had followed the shape of his mouth, the way they had quirked up when he flashed one of his nervous smiles, the way Jon is still desperately curious about what brought him to get them done, and also what it might feel like to brush a thumb, or perhaps even his lips over them.

Jon sits up so fast his head actually smacks against an open filing cabinet behind him. His mind is too busy reeling to notice the ache that fills his head, and he stares straight ahead with wide eyes and utterly scorching cheeks. Absolutely not. He absolutely did not just think about kissing Martin Blackwood. that was- that would be...

He blinks hard, clears his throat. It doesn’t matter what that was. He’s decidedly not interested in Martin Blackwood romantically, or in any other capacity given his truly ridiculous academic competence and his obnoxious habit of interrupting seemingly every stable thing Jon has in his life. He crushes the feeling down hard, locks it up in a box, stuffs it down under his lowest two ribs, and resolves himself never to open it again.

He is not going to keep thinking about this all day. He has work to do, and if something as simple as a pair of metal studs can distract him this badly, then he needs to make absolutely certain it doesn’t happen again.

He tells himself he’s not disappointed when he sees Martin without the piercings later that day.

#the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #tma s1 #tma season one #martin with piercings my beloved #tma fic #tma fan art #mossy art #man i wrote this concept back in december but ohg i'm still so fond of it #alt/punk martin my angel my sweetheart my light and love #if you read this fic MWAH i love you

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lazysublimeengineer · 3 years ago

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You’re my Gofer!

Summary: One shot sequel to crystal clear.

Takemichi’s brain short circuited at the sight that greeted his eyes.

When Akashi mentioned to him yesterday that he should be prepared, he wasn’t expecting this kind of surprise.

Characters: Takemichi H. Draken R. & Senju K.

Takemichi swallowed thickly and clenched his fists as he watched the growing tension between Draken, Akashi and Senju.

While he understood and appreciated Draken’s overprotectiveness and not wanting to involve him in the world of delinquency again, Takemichi also realized that joining the Brahman will make him reached his goal faster of defeating Mikey and preventing him of going down the path of the terrible ending that was waiting for him in the future.

He can’t be indecisive now.

‘If I don’t make any decisions now, then nothing will change!’ Takemichi thought firmly.

“Draken-kun. I’ll join Brahman!” He announced resolutely.

“Huh?!” Draken looked taken aback by his decision.

Draken just took a one look at his face and he knew that he can’t really stop Takemichi no matter what he does. He’s just as stubborn as Mikey. Or even more so. This was what he actually fears when Takemichi knew everything. Takemichi will join the fray regardless if its dangerous or not. He knew that Takemichi was an adult that can make his own decisions but fuck, he didn’t want him to risk his life for Mikey or anyone of them ever again.

There’s a great future waiting for him back there but he still chose to go back here into the past to fix everything. Again. He just hoped that it’ll be all worth it in the end.

“Draken… As much as Brahman wants to stop Kantou Manji Gang…”

Akashi’s voice cut off his racing thoughts and looked pensively on the ground. “There’s no way we want to fight Mikey.”

“That’s why we need both of you, the very people whom Mikey trusts. Facing him without getting in a fight would be for the best. Please understand.” Akashi replied seriously.

Draken pondered over his words.

The pelting of the raindrops from the above had ceased and the sky grew clearer afterwards. It didn’t go unnoticed by Senju who moved his umbrella from the side and stared up at the sky.

“Oh, it stopped raining.” There was a certain look into his eyes as he stared up at the small puffs of white clouds that’s beginning to show itself. Funny, how the sky grew clearer and the weather became calmer after Takemichi had accepted their offer of joining their gang.

Was he a secret weather magician too? Takemichi could spread his sunshine and brightness even to the gray clouds beyond them. A slight curved of his lips turned upwards at the mere thought.

Draken sighed in defeat as he looked over at Takemichi’s determined face. “Well, that’s Takemitchy for ya. Keep in mind that the only reason we’re cooperating with Brahman is because of our aligning goals.” He said firmly.

“…Got it.” Takemichi replied.

“Don’t you forget about that. Welcome to Brahman, Takemitchy.” Draken smiled at him and offered his hand in front of him.

Takemichi took his hand, enveloping it in a gentle yet firm handshake. “I will definitely bring Mikey back!”

Draken could feel the callouses on his hands, a sign of the hardships that he already went through in saving all of them. And yet he could also sensed the warm sincerity beneath them, engulfing him in a state of reassurance and trust. He may have to risk again in putting of his faith in Takemichi. And that’s the one thing that he won’t hesitate in doing so now.

If there’s one thing that Takemichi’s well known of, it’s his keeping and fulfilling his promises to them and not giving up.

Draken shook back his hand firmly and smiled warmly at him. This was one of the rarest times when he can put his walls down and expressed what he actually felt for the other.

“Alrighty! I’ve decided.”

Senju’s sudden cheerful voice broke the fragile moment between the two of them and Draken resisted the urge to twitch his eyes and sigh in annoyance.

What a great timing.

Takemichi pulled his hand away from Draken and turned around, seeing an offered umbrella to his direction by Senju. He casually accepted it with a bewildered expression on his face.

“An umbrella?” He blinked a few times.

“From now on… You’re my gofer!” Senju announced happily.

“Huh?” Takemichi looked taken aback, but he wasn’t sure if it’s from Senju’s words or the cheerful expression on his face. It was strange seeing the happy look and cheerful smile painted on his face since his usual default of facial expression was mostly blank and serious. But he couldn’t deny that it made his seraphic features softer and younger. And he couldn’t tear his eyes away from him.

Senju looked like a beautiful, fallen angel from the sky.

Senju leaned closer with that everlasting smile still present on his face. “Let’s meet tomorrow, 3PM at Harajuku!”

Takemichi tried so hard not to blush at his proximity and the cuteness that was laid out in front of him. What’s with Senju and the other members of their gang invading his personal space?!

“Eh? Wait—”

“Senju’s interested in you, Hanagaki!” Akashi cut him off cheerily.

What. Takemichi’s line of thought came into a screeching halt.

“Just be prepared.” Akashi flashed him a smirk before he waved goodbye to him and Draken.

‘What does that mean?!’Takemichi thought frantically as he could only watched Akashi leave and Senju walking beside him with a spring to his steps.

The Next Day, 3PM Harajuku…

Takemichi tried to be punctual this time even though he wasn’t the exact model employee back at the DVD shop that he was working for back then. He simply didn’t want to shatter any good impression and standing that he currently had with Brahman now especially with their leader since Akashi said that Senju was interested in him. Which still weirded him out. Yet it brought a warm feeling spreading through his chest. And he didn’t even know the reason why he was feeling like that in the first place.

Nevertheless, he took Akashi’s words with a grain of salt and didn’t delved deeper on it further. Maybe Senju was always like that when he found something that caught his eye or when his goals are actually met. Their leader’s unpredictability still caught him off guard sometimes. It reminded him of Mikey.

At the mere thought of the blond, Takemichi’s mood went pensive for a bit before he fought it back with a resolute determination. Of course, he was firm in his decision to save him regardless of what method he had to undertake to achieve it. If he had to join the Brahman to reached that goal faster then so be it. He’s ready for any consequences that he needed to face if necessary.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Hanagaki!”

A voice cut off his wandering thoughts and the noise among the crowd that made him paused and turned around to the source of it.

Takemichi’s brain short circuited at the sight that greeted his eyes.

When Akashi mentioned to him yesterday that he should be prepared, he wasn’t expecting this kind of surprise.

“Let’s go.”

A young lady dressed in a female school uniform stated calmly and looked casually at him like everything wasn’t out of the ordinary.

But it isn’t.

This was Senju.

Dressed in female clothes.

Senju.

Who is now a she instead of a he.

Female clothes and features.

And had a nice rack.

Takemichi internally screamed at himself. Now this wasn’t the time to be thinking like that! There was a right time to admire the beauty in front of him. And now isn’t the right time to do it. Since when did Senju became a woman?! His brain felt like melting along with his common sense.

“Huh? Who?” Takemichi replied intelligently as he gaped at Senju’s transformed existence in front of him.

Senju just stared at him blankly before she raised a hand to cover her mouth and stifled her giggles. “Hanagaki you never failed to amuse me sometimes.”

“Eh? But h-how…?” Takemichi stammered.

“Did you hit your head or something Hanagaki? I told you yesterday to meet me here at 3pm right?” Senju answered playfully as she now tugged on his arm and pulled him along the bustling crowd of the city.

Takemichi let him get swept away by Senju’s hold and actions, his mind was still racing with rapid thoughts at this newfound discovery that made him have an internal midlife crisis. He wanted to ask so many things… but for now he just let her be as he was also tantalized by her rare sunny disposition and her ethereal features in front of him.

Of course, Senju knew the reason why Takemichi was being confused and having a meltdown in front of him. But she chose to blatantly ignored it and willfully play the ruthless card of feigned innocence. She was having fun of making him bewildered and flustered.

And she also found it cute and adorable anyway.

This was going to be an interesting day ahead.

(A/N: I own nothing from this franchise except this weird fic of mine. Chapter 215 watered my crops and extended my lifespan because of these things: Inupi, Draken and Takemichi being shirtless and exposing their toned bodies, Draken going feral to protect Takemichi, Takemichi’s ever growing character development and backbone, Senju acting like Mikey and growing fond of our crybaby hero and lastly the infamous gender reveal party at the last panel. Ken plays with us like a damn fiddle with that bomb at the last panel of chapter 215 in the manga. The whole fandom is shook and is now rioting with speedy theories and ideas lmao. Well from my end, it’s fine if Senju is a guy or a gal since the gender is not my measurement of an interest to a character anyway. But it’ll be intriguing if Senju turned out to be a female and a leader of a gang since we all know that it’s mostly a male dominated territory in the franchise. And we’ll probably get another girlboss like Yuzuha as a bonus. Who knows? Maybe Ken will drop us another mind-blowing twist at the next chapter so I’m still not fully onboard with Senju being a 100% gal. But for the sake of this fic and for fun purposes, let’s assume that Senju is a complete female here and she’s having the time of her life making our crybaby hero like this: Takemichi.exe has stopped working. Also, if Mikey learned about this, he’ll be feral and he would raise some hell to prevent them from stealing his dear Takemitchy. So, Mikey you need to step up your game and appear in the future chapters so Takemichi doesn’t end up with one of his harems lol. Reviews are amusing. So, let me hear them from you.)

#tokyo revengers #fanfiction #spoilers #manga spoilers for chapter 215 #sentake #drakenmichi #gender reveal party #or is it #you decide #mikey’s gonna be pissed when he learns that someone is stealing his takemitchy #draken is a feral knight #takemichi hanagaki #draken #senju kawaragi #takemitchy #senju

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op-sheepy · 4 years ago

Note

ok so I'm particularly interested in

Bellamy Law

Law and Bible stuff

Law is a substitute kindergarten teacher

shichibukai applications

reverse hanahaki disease (?? do u spit out flowers when your nemesis walks by?)

if you feel like elaborating on any of these!

This is gonna get long and I actually contemplated posting them separately but would that have been more work? Yeah, that felt like more work so for anyone interested, check under the cut. :D

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Bellamy Law

Hm… This would be an attempt to explore the parallels and contrasts between Bellamy and Law. I've always found it fascinating that the former was a foil to the latter.

They both come from well-off towns in the North Blue.

Bellamy left because of boredom. Law had no choice because Flevance.

Both ended up seeking Doflamingo because of his notoriety as a pirate. Both admired him initially

Doffy favored one over the other though. Bellamy always sought his approval but was never really part of the inner circle Doflamingo cared about.

Law got the dubious privilege of being part of the family despite being absent for so long. Even offered one of the highest seats by Doffy's side for seemingly nothing.

Law had no trouble turning his back on Doffy once he realized the man's nature. Bellamy tried to stick to his principles until the end despite admitting that he new he was wrong.

Bellamy can (and did) quit piracy after his ordeal with Doflamingo. Having the option to live peacefully, perhaps a return to his previous life (the one he considered boring). Law can't do that quite as easily what with his Devil fruit and his reputation.

I thought it would be interesting trying to explore what Bellamy was thinking. Did he hear the Donquixote Pirates talk about their missing 'family'? Did he get to see Doffy be amused at Law's rise as a Supernova while he kept being reminded of his own status? Did Law save Bellamy partially because he also saw what he could have been had Corazon not saved him?

On principle, Bellamy should have hated Trafalgar Law. Does. Bastard even saved him without him wanting it. But there was something about the shadows haunting those eyes and Bellamy started to wonder.

He had heard the family talk about Law before. The child personally taught by Doflamingo, chosen to be his right hand. Never was he compared to the man because Law was just obviously better. Smarter. Stronger. Bellamy was ever just an uncouth thug.

He was allowed to 'borrow' Doflamingo's symbol while Law had an empty seat waiting for his return–a seat Bellamy had wanted enough to risk everything for.

Maybe he had resented, Trafalgar Law for carelessly rejecting the things he had that Bellamy had always desired. In the end too, Trafalgar Law did prove to be better. He'd done as a child what Bellamy had trouble doing even as he was now.

But having been given the chance to observe the other man as they all recovered, he wondered, perhaps for the first time, whether despite Law being better than Bellamy, Bellamy had had it better–barring the poor life choices.

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Law and Bible stuff

This is just me wanting to know how many biblical parallels and themes I can draw from Law, the Donquixote brothers, the characters associated with them, and his backstory. Honestly not sure whether this would become a fic and in what style or I'm gonna give up and just make it a post.

Not gonna elaborate on them much but here are the ideas in more bullet points (yay):

Law gets familiar with all four horsemen of the apocalypse: conquest, war, famine, and death. He even survives them.

Law is like the son in the parable of the prodigal son to the Donquixote pirates. Except the themes are inverted.

Doflamingo and Rocinante -> Cain and Abel

Ope Ope no Mi -> Granting eternal life by sacrificing one's own life

Gods descending or living among humans. Also, Homing and his family being prosecuted for other people's sins.

That scene where they were hanged by their arms outstretched looks like a crucifixion. Also, Rocinante was on the right while Doflamingo was on the left. Similar to how the penitent thief was on the right and the unrepentant one to the left.

Flevance being considered a paradise with walls/fences/gates and somewhere Law cannot return to.

In the panel where the Donquixote pirates are seated at the table, there were thirteen of them with Doffy at the center. Same as The Last Supper

There are a lot more of these (David and Goliath, Solomon, Jonah, Job, etc.) but I kinda lost the notes and some are more visual so I can't really explain it too well. This would is a drabble series to emphasize or highlight the parallels so no proper snippet for this one.

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Law is a substitute kindergarten teacher

Originally an idea to get around most of the Heart Pirates being nameless but evolved to include other characters as kids. Chopper is a kindergarten teacher and he convinces Law to take over his class for a week because somehow Law has the qualifications to and free time. Naturally, he wasn't able to say no.

Unfortunately, despite not being terrible at handling children, Chopper's class is filled with menaces. Also, despite not being terrible, Law can still be awkward so...

"Mr. Trofao–fargar—"

"Trafalgar."

The kid—which one was this one again? Shit, he should really get them name plates or something—scrunched up his face and tried harder, "Tar-pal—"

"Law. Just call me Law."

"Mr. Low"—eh, close enough—"can I go to the bathroom?" Wide imploring eyes stared up at him.

"Sure, go ahead." Law gestured towards the exit of the classroom with his head.

The kid just stared expectantly at him and he tried to suppress the need to narrow his eyes.

"Is there… anything else?"

"Mr. Chopper always comes with me to hold my hand."

Really?

"Mr. Chopper isn't here. You should practice doing it on your own now." He said after a deep inhale.

"But the monsters might get me…"

"No, they won't."

"You don't know that."

"I do." Before the kid could open his mouth again to argue, he added, "Besides, children taste terrible so you're safe."

The kid looked stricken and took a step back from him. Uh oh. Glistening eyes, wobbling lower lip… "Alright! I'll go with you." The kid did not look reassured. In fact he looked like going alone with Law was the last thing he wanted to do. Guess, he kinda implied that he ate children didn't he? Oops.

Well, the kid needs to go and he's not going to be cleaning up after him if he wets himself.

Law glanced at the rest of the children. It was Arts and Craft time and they seemed preoccupied enough. Still, Law doubted Chopper ever left these kids alone–already he could see some of them glancing up at him, waiting for him to leave no doubt to cause trouble. That Monkey kid in particular looked extremely suspicious.

He stood up from his crouch and clapped twice to get everyone's attention.

"Alright. Fall in line. Single file."

There was some grumbling and questioning directed at him. "What's going on?"

Law shrugged. "You're all going to the bathroom."

---------------------------------o

Shichibukai Application Forms

Crackfic where the World Government and relevant parties review various Shichbukai Applications. Most submitted by the pirates applying themselves, some produced by their own staff. They discuss and debate. As well as judge pirate resumes.

She scanned the document. Terrible format, really. If you fail to impress within the first page, you've failed entirely. There just wasn't anyone promising enough in this batch of applications or any of the other ones before. The last one had been that clown. "Apprentice to the Pirate King," was a pretty hefty credential.

"Oh, how about this one? Three years experience pillaging, and they even listed all the towns they looted." One of the newly transferred administrative staff said.

"None of these are worth considering at all. You know, when Mihawk was asked to submit his application, he hadn't bothered with all of this. He just sent us a card with his name on it and the title "World's Strongest Swordsman," underneath."

The staff perked up. "Oh, there was an application like that." There was scramble and some shuffling before a plain white card was produced. "Here."

"'From Trafalgar Law'. What does this even mean?"

"Well, it did come with a big box..."

---------------------------------o

Reverse Hanahaki Disease

(?? do u spit out flowers when your nemesis walks by?)

Haha. At first it was going to be that way (because it is hilarious) but the inflicted would probably choke to death too soon. Or if both enemies had it, they'd end up just coughing flowers at each other until they stopped being enemies.

The version I ended up going with was that this variant of Hanahaki, instead of afflicting those with unrequited love, affected those in denial instead. The reverse part comes from the original idea that this would usually happen if you somehow fell in love with your nemesis (someone you originally hated). So it's not the thought that the other person can't love you, it's that you can't accept that you love that other person. You get cured by confessing to the person sincerely.

This is actually another KidLaw (surprise!). And the flower coughed up directly represents the person they're in love with (I went with Oda's flower representation for them because I found it funny for plot)

So the idea is that, you get sick but you don't automatically know (maybe) who it is because that's part of being in denial. Kid and Law have many enemies after all. In this story they both get it though not exactly at the same time and not known to the other.

He survived Amber Lead Syndrome only to be killed off by a stupid flower disease that apparently knows more about his own feelings than he does.

He glared at the petals. Tulips. Red.

An image of a cocky grin and a shock of red hair flashed through his mind and—nope. That's not right.

He coughed harder, tears stinging his eyes with the effort. More flowers. Now he has enough for a bouquet.

Alright, he was a doctor. He could do this. Differential time.

First, which variant does he have. He doesn't particularly feel unloved or hopeless. There wasn't anyone he wanted in particular to love him. Ok, nothing. It was maybe safe to say he had that other variant.

Which was stupid because Law had many enemies and he hated all of them.

And cue the racking coughs. More red. He was very familiar with that particular shade.

New theory. This was a new variant that somehow makes you sick when you think of the person you hated the most.

Yes, that had to be it. He thought as he all but collapsed on the floor from the sudden paroxysm.

I knew this was gonna get long. :) Oh well...

Thank you for playing. :D

#One Piece #One piece fanfiction #wip game #trafalgar law #donquixote brothers #donquixote doflamingo #donquixote roci #donquixote homing #donquixote pirates #one piece bellamy #bellamy the hyena #eustass kid #kidlaw #trafalgar d water law

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bananapajama87 · 4 years ago

Text

Bend-The-Knee or be Broken

@aphrarepairweek2020 Day 2: Thunderstrom prompt! Super late, but having fun anyway! A friend/crush fic for RusEng! I just love to think about the mechanics of Nations’ free will and I think (other than Germany) Russia is one of the best subjects for a study on it. I hope my ideas came through clearly :) Ivan Braginsky had a well-known and violently documented dislike for “friendly political visits” but the guest room in England’s lavish country estate had always been one of his least favourite personal hells.

He paced slowly around his confines, inspecting the impersonal velvety decor that he had begrudgingly become familiar with over the centuries. Its careful design was facetiously inviting and desperate to be impressive. ‘Please, make yourself at home!’ the glowing fireplace seemed to say, echoed mockingly by the diamond chandelier who added ‘because I bet you don’t have things nearly so nice back at yours!’ Every country did this of course, but England always managed to be so wonderfully condescending.Ivan bristled. He never slept well in other Nation’s homes, but something in the night air was making him particularly restless. He hadn’t found the peace of mind to even sit down since he had arrived, despite his duties early the next day. Showpony duties, he thought, The dusty to be an amusing little beast, well-trained and pampered to show off how well his masters are doing. He gripped at the hem of the silky pyjamas he had been issued for trips like these. They were so unlike the cotton tank top and shorts that he wore at home. Ivan glanced around the room again and as usual, his eyes were tugged toward the monstrously large landscape painting looming above the mantle. It was a mirror image of the view outside the room's large window. Temperate, emerald moors bordered darkly by mysterious, hungry woods. He ran an ungloved hand over his scarred throat and thought about his own rugged taigas and unforgiving tundras. He shook his head. It was tacky of England to have a painting of himself in the guest bedroom, even if it wasn’t a portrait. He stalked out the door to see if he could find somewhere less here to be.

Ivan drifted through the hallways, careful not to step on any creaky floorboards. He was making a circuitous path toward the first-floor sitting room. If he remembered correctly, that fireplace was always burning and had comfortable chairs. It was disquieting to think about how intimately familiar Ivan was with England’s home although they had never really been on first name (or even last name) terms with each other. Not that he was with anyone else either… Maybe he could tire himself out reading old newspapers.

The heavy oak door didn’t creak when Ivan pushed it open. The dying glow of the fire was filling the room with the heavy smell of a quiet night and casting long shadows on the opposite wall. They wavered gently, distorting the shapes of things and making Ivan unsure of where the floor ended and the dark began. Running his hands lightly across the furniture for guidance, he crossed the room silently, coming to a stop in front of the picture window that looked out onto the veranda, and beyond that, those green hills now inky black silhouettes. The moonlight fought valiantly to shine through the thick clouds but was diffused into a mere suggestion of itself. He could smell the humid scent of an oncoming thunderstorm brewing on the other side of the glass.

“Good evening, Russia. Is there something I can do for you?” England’s voice was soft and scratchy with fatigue, and though Ivan would not allow himself to show his surprise outwardly, he felt his heart pick up speed as he turned to look. England was standing in the doorway, hair more dishevelled than usual and an untied housecoat draped over his pyjamas. He was carrying a mug in his hand that seemed to be empty.“No not at all, England. Just trying to admire the stars, but as you can see, it is not my lucky night.” Russia smiled his diplomatic smile and put a gentle pep in his voice that he used for others. He was naturally soft-spoken but he seemed suddenly too loud for the room. England crossed the room deftly, and joined Russia at the window, not needing to try to avoid the furniture in his own house. The top of his head only came up to Russia’s shoulders. “Quite unlucky indeed. A storm’s coming. A big one if I’m not mistaken.” England said, and Ivan knew he was right. His skin had begun tingling with static electricity. They stood in silence, England sipping at the empty mug every so often. Russia sensed that he didn’t know what to do with his hands (or make a graceful exit from the situation now that he had engaged with Ivan). That man had never been able to stop himself from standing on ceremony even if it made him squirm with discomfort as it did now. Ivan chuckled.“What are you giggling about?” England asked, frowning up at Ivan. Ivan looked down at him, his emerald green eyes were glowing with irritation.“Your mug is empty.” Ivan pointed into the empty cup. England’s face went red and he set the mug down quickly on a coffee table and he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

They were quiet for a while and watched the clouds gather.“Why are you awake, England? Surely you weren’t hoping to stargaze too?” Ivan asked, enjoying keeping England trapped here with him. He wouldn’t be only one miserably tired in the morning.

“Oh, you know. Insomnia. You being here and all, I have a lot on my mind. Lots of things being prepared for your stay and all that,” he said airily, gesturing vaguely with his hands. Ivan noticed the deep circles under England’s eyes and wondered how often he was struck with insomnia. He looked much more human now than Ivan had ever seen him in an official capacity. Stubbly, slouching, and underdressed. Somehow, he felt the need to reassure him.

“No need to go to all the trouble. If I am honest, which I seldom am, I hate the pomp. It is… insincere,” Ivan said, making sure to look away from England’s face before his subject could notice his staring. England ran his hands down his face in exasperation and groaned.

“Don’t I know it. It’s tax money and organization and time being put into a show for the measly audience of one,” suddenly England realized what he had said and quickly added: “no offence, Russia.” Ivan couldn’t help but laugh again. England seemed to take that as acceptance and continued. “I don’t know of anyone who really likes that pampering. Except maybe Francis. And Alfred. Those two are a pair of egotistical layabouts if I ever saw some.” Ivan nodded, the first names not lost on him. He was reminded that despite England’s prickly disposition, he was in very good standing with the other Nations. Friends, even. “I mean, I don’t even want them in my bloody house but, you know how it is, the boss says you’re a bed and breakfast, you’re a bed and breakfast.” Arthur was leaning his shoulder on the wall now, looking more casual that Ivan had ever seen him. There was an impish smile on his lips, complaining about bosses and other Nations was clearly a favourite pastime.

“Yes,” Ivan offered, “America has proven many times over the years to be a terrible houseguest, yet he is one of my most constant companions.” Ivan tried to match Arthur’s relaxed posture.

“Right? The boy carves his name into anything and everything he can lay his hands on, and thinks I won’t notice! Three hundred years I’ve had this little estate and he vandalizes the wall panelling! I don’t know how I could have raised him so poorly.” Arthur mimed strangling someone furiously and Ivan smiled.

“Is that what it says on the back wall of the closet in the guest room? I had always wondered. Terrible penmanship.” Arthur went a little red in the ears

“Alfred,” he growled bitterly. This time, when Ivan laughed, Arthur joined in. “Well, I guess, on the whole, being social isn't the worst thing our bosses have made us do, eh?” Arthur poked Ivan in the ribs with his elbow and winked. Ivan forced himself to keep smiling as his stomach dropped to the floor, he did not want to ruin the atmosphere.

“No, I suppose not,” he said, trying to approximate pleasantness in his voice. Arthur was not fooled.“Oh, sorry. The past is a better subject for a younger crowd.” He had his hands back in his pockets and pushed himself up off the wall. His eyes seemed to be trying very hard not to direct themselves towards Ivan's neck. “I’ve been talking to Alfred too much.”

Silence.

The clouds finally broke and rain finally began to hit the window arrhythmically. For some reason, Ivan didn’t like seeing England feeling guilty on his behalf. Usually, it would be funny but tonight it was not. Unusual. He should say something.“Well,” Ivan tried to sound reassuring, “I suppose that even the past is preferable to America’s company.” Arthur let out a little puff of air that condensed on the cloudy window and smirked.

“You’re a mean son of a bitch, you know that?”

“Coming from you, England, that is high praise.” Arthur let out a barking laugh that made Ivan smile from ear to ear. His own shoulders shook with suppressed snickers. The room felt suddenly larger as if something oppressive had been banished by Arthur’s earnest smile.

“Call me Arthur, Ivan. We’ve known each other for centuries. It’s ridiculous to pretend like we’re not at least well acquainted.” Arthur looked up at Ivan as he said this, his eyes shining a little from laughter. They were the same colour as the hills outside. Ivan felt warmth in his face that he couldn’t diagnose.

“Oh, I thought… Well, we have not always been on the best terms, or speaking terms, I’ve been quite hostile to many of your allies, I-”

“Oh please,” Arthur interrupted, rolling his eyes, “that’s Russia. I’m asking Ivan to call me Arthur. Here,” Arthur stepped closer to Ivan and Ivan once again felt his heart hammering, “since I suppose I’m formally meeting Ivan Braginsky for the first time,” he held his hand out. “My name is Arthur Kirkland, hobbyist and amateur murder mystery author.” Ivan had no idea what to do, he felt nervous for the first time in a long time. Other Nations never tried to be familiar with him. Ivan stared at the hand, frozen until Arthur shook his proffered hand insistently.

“I-Ivan Braginsky. Um, personification and official national ambassador of Russia,” he said. Before Ivan could take Arthur’s hand, it was snatched away.

“Everybody knows that. Tell me something about Ivan!” Ivan was speechless. He hadn’t thought about himself much outside of that in a long time.

“Uh, brother and,” He felt like he was trying to guess a correct answer, “sunflower enthusiast?” Arthur seemed satisfied because he took Ivan’s hand and shook it firmly. And he smiled. Ivan smiled back.

The two men stood in comfortable silence for a few moments, watching the rain run little snail trails down the window through which the two men could see the strengthening moonlight.

“Do you really think that?” Ivan almost whispered. The crackling of the fireplace was setting the volume of the room.

“Think what?” Arthur looked over at him, equally quietly.

“Do you think we are... real?” Arthur blinked and furrowed his considerable brows. “I mean,” Ivan paused to search for the words, “When your boss tells you to do something, do you decide whether or not to comply or do you just,” Ivan mimed a little salute and clicked his heels, “even if you would rather die than carry out the order?” Arthur nodded understandingly, his face seeming concerned, but what he said sounded like something he had rehearsed to himself. Maybe late on nights like this, where everything seemed small.

“I have had to accept that I am not human and that here are some choices I don’t get to make. Not like the people I represent. I don’t get to say no, or yes for that matter, unless one of them leads me there. Boss says ‘the peasants are revolting’? I sharpen my axe. The people say ‘parliament rules’ and it’s the king’s head on the chopping block? I sharpen my axe. It’s that or I’m next.” Arthur shrugged. Ivan gulped. He remembered the weight of the gun in his hand and what it was like to point it at starving citizens one day and the royal family the next. “Obviously, we can’t die but, well, you remember what happened to Francis. During the revolution.” Ivan nodded. Everyone had heard about what happened to Francis. He’d pleaded with Robespierre to stop the violence in Paris and been guillotined by his own people. When he woke up, he was out in the countryside where he had first appeared centuries earlier, naked and revolutionary. “We don’t really ever get to choose. Most have decided it’s not worth the effort anymore. Not that I have to tell you that.” Ivan scowled.

“So… you are saying that it’s bend-the-knee or be broken? That is our freedom? What makes Arthur Kirkland and Ivan Braginsky is - is - obedience with the addition of indignance?” Ivan clenched and unclenched his fists. The first fork of lightning flashed through the sky, for an incalculable instant illuminating the room in a cold white light. The thunder that came after was felt rather than heard. Arthur sighed.

“It’s certainly not the most inspirational thought, but essentially, yes.” Ivan growled and his arm tensed, itching to hit something. To shatter something, anything. Just to make a difference to something of his own accord. But Arthur was looking at him with a pitying acceptance and understanding that Ivan knew could only ever come from another Nation. Ivan felt the fire inside him go out and he slumped against the window, the glass cooling against his forehead and his breath hot on the glass.

“Are you alright?” Arthur asked, leaning next to him on the window, his hand dangerously, tantalizingly close to Ivan’s. Ivan closed his eyes and suddenly felt how late it was. He couldn’t summon the energy to open them again.

“This is not a revelation to me. It is just... disheartening to hear it from someone else.” Arthur huffed in agreement.

“Don’t I know it.” They were silent again.

Rumbling from the outside rattled Ivan’s tired brain as he stood half asleep, just feeling the window on his skin and Arthur’s presence. That is until Arthur once again pushed away from the wall and Ivan felt the loss. He looked up to see the other man walking determinedly to the other end of the window. “You know what?” Arthur wasn’t whispering anymore.

“Arthur?”

“I may not get much to myself in this world, but I do get this. I get to be Arthur Kirkland, a stuffy, grumpy, brother, soldier, knitter, terrible cook, and,” He looked back at Ivan and nodded as he pulled a set of keys out of his housecoat pocket, “friend.” he jammed one of the keys in the lock of the veranda door and began to jostle it violently.

“Arthur?”

“And I don’t know about you, but I don’t have to be England until tomorrow morning, so tonight,” he threw open the door and was immediately battered by the violent wind and rain. The sound of the door slamming against the wall was camouflaged by another clap of thunder. “I’m gonna do whatever the hell I want.”

“What are you doing? It’s pouring out there!” Ivan shielded his face from the wind with his arm. Arthur looked back at him with a half-crazed smile Ivan had heard about. It was a famous harbinger of-

“Who says we’re too old for a little teenage rebellion?” He cackled, once again holding out his hand for Ivan to take, inviting him to spend the night doing absolutely nothing but pretending they were going to die someday.

Ivan didn’t hesitate, he took Arthur’s hand in his own, pulled him close by the waist as if ready to lead him in a waltz and sent them both careening out the door and into the storm, their laughter drowned out by the elements.

#RusEng #APH Russia #Aph England #aphrarepairweek2020 #Hetalia

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ialwayscomewhenyoucall · 4 years ago

Text

Unshackled

winterhawk

whole fic rated E, this chapter rated T

very loosely based on the novel Sunshine by Robin Mckinley

major tags (for the whole fic): enemies to friends to lovers, there was only one bed, slow burn, lots and lots of pining

chapter 1 word count: 3079

Chapter One

Clint swims to consciousness slowly, and not without some pain. His face is pressed against a cold tile floor. A cold, dirty tile floor, he amends; he can feel grit against his cheek. Before he even opens his eyes he shifts his head slightly to the side and immediately makes a mental note to avoid doing that in the future. When did something hit him in the back of the head? It feels like it was a shovel, or maybe a tank. He cracks one eye and reevaluates. Three tanks, at least. Nothing less could have caused this much dizziness and nausea. Not to mention the stabbing pain.

Okay, the pain is bad, and the sickening feeling along with it is maybe worse. But he needs to prioritize, and there are more important things. To start, where is he? Who brought him here? And finally–a very distant third–why? That last one is for future Clint to deal with. Future Clint isn’t dealing with a possible concussion and certain memory loss.

He does a quick check of the rest of his body, tightening and relaxing muscles. It doesn’t feel like anything but his head is hurt too badly, although there’s an ache in his side that feels like it might be a bruised rib or two. He won’t be able to tell until he’s up and moving around, which isn’t going to be easy. Not with his head making him see stars every time he tries to move.

At least he can hear himself breathing. That means they left him his aids. Whoever “they” are.

He doesn’t hear anything else, though. Is he in a soundproof space? Or maybe he’s just truly alone. The fact that he hears no ambient sounds is telling. He’s either deep within a building, far underground, or distant enough from the city that he can’t hear any traffic noises.

Okay, he’s got to quit stalling. Maybe just rolling onto his side? He can’t make out much of his immediate surroundings laying here on his stomach, and he really needs to do something. Even figuring out where he is–or even just figuring out how to move–would give him back some control of his situation. (He knows this isn’t really true. This is exactly the kind of situation where he doesn’t have control. But a few baby steps can’t hurt.)

The best way is to just do it, right? He slides his right arm along the floor until he can flip his hand; when his palm is against the floor he pushes–slowly, slowly–with the goal of shifting his weight onto his left side. He’s got to pull up his knees a little to keep steady, but when he does there’s a clanking of metal and some resistance from his right foot.

His brain puts together the sound and the feeling at once, and the conclusion thrusts him closer to panic. Without thinking he jerks his foot against the shackle, even knowing it won’t work, and scrambles to his hands and knees.

“Fuck!” he shouts. Or, he means to shout; his voice is barely a whisper. Had he been screaming? Or has his voice just been unused for too long? But these thoughts are just flickers in the background of the agony in his head.

“Moving’s a bad idea, I think.”

He’s so startled he scuttles backwards until his back is against the wall. He’s trying to see but the room is so dark; the other man is in shadows, and his vision is a bit blurry around the edges from whatever had been done to him. Had he been drugged or just knocked out? And then the pain of moving catches up to him, and it’s worse than all the rest combined. The nausea is so bad he turns to the side and wretches, but nothing comes up. Maybe he’s been here long enough that there’s nothing in his stomach to lose.

“I told you you shouldn’t be moving,” says the voice, this time with a hint of amusement in the tone. “Looks like you took a nasty hit to the head. You’ve got great vision, Hawkeye, but it doesn’t help if there’s no one to watch your back.”

There’s a hint of–is it sarcasm?–when he says “Hawkeye,” and the voice seems oddly familiar. Clint squints, trying to make out the face of the man across from him, but there are still too many shadows.

“Be thankful for the darkness. I know you wish you could see better, but trust me: bright lights and a concussion are not a good combination.”

Clint wishes he felt confident enough of his balance to snort. Instead he lets his voice drip with some sarcasm of his own. “You’re telling me HYDRA’s into kindness now? Right. First we’ll give him a concussion, then we’ll make him feel all cozy.” Because of course it had been HYDRA. This whole thing just screams HYDRA attack.

Even if he can’t remember any of it.

The other man actually does snort.. “Not HYDRA. Just me. I’m the one who asked them to leave the light off. I know what a concussion feels like.”

Clint stops himself just before he rolls his eyes–it would probably hurt. “So now I’m supposed to believe you’re my friend, that you’re here to take care of me, so I’ll tell you whatever you want to hear? Do you really think that kind of lame-brain scheme is going to work?”

There’s a soft sigh, and then, “Believe what you want.” Then the man shifts, and his face falls out of the shadows and into the barely there light for the first time. In the span of a heartbeat Clint realizes two things.

The first comes as a bit of a shock, and he wonders if maybe he’s hallucinating due to his blow to the head. He knows why the man’s voice sounds so familiar. He knows who it is, and his blood runs cold.

He does not want to be shut in a room with this man.

The second is smaller but maybe just as jarring: the other man is shackled to the wall, too. He’s got shackles on his right arm and left ankle. It doesn’t make any sense.

And before his brain can talk him out of it, his mouth goes ahead and blurts out, “You’re a prisoner too?”

“Yes,” says the Winter Soldier, voice even, almost resigned.

“Fuck,” breathes Clint, because that seems like the only thing to say. Then he adds, “Those must be some hefty shackles.”

The Soldier grins. It is not a nice grin. It is a grin that says, I could rip your arms off, and it would be entirely fun for me. “They went through quite a few tries before they found something that worked.”

Clint swallows, or tries to. His mouth has suddenly gone dry. In a small room with the Winter Soldier is not a good place for him to be. How many Avengers has he tried to kill now? That he hasn’t succeeded–yet, a traitorous part of his brain supplies–is beside the point. In all those attempts the Soldier had been facing multiple Avengers, and most of them have superpowers. Right now it’s just the Soldier against Clint Barton. A concussed Clint Barton. A concussed Clint Barton with no bow. No weapons of any kind, actually. Never mind that they’re shackled to opposite walls–the chains seem long enough that they could meet in the middle. And if the Soldier got ahold of him with that silver arm…

Clint shivers, and the shiver turns into a shudder, and soon he is shaking. Distantly he knows it’s something to do with his injury and that he isn’t quaking in fear, but he wonders if maybe there is some fear involved.

“Barton! Fuck, Barton, just breathe, okay? Try to take deep, even breaths.” The voice comes from far away, echoing like someone calling down a well. Funny, he hadn’t thought there could be anything like a well in this place.

Just before Clint falls into unconsciousness he feels metal against his face, cupping his cheek, and he takes a moment to think that the Soldier’s metal hand is a lot warmer than he’d expected.

Then there is only blackness.

Clint floats back to consciousness this time, a leaf caught in the current of a slow-moving stream. The first thing he’s aware of, once he manages to open his eyes, is that he can actually see. The light is dim, just a single lit panel next to what he can now see is a door, but it’s better than the almost complete darkness he’d been in before.

The second thing he’s aware of is that the light doesn’t hurt his eyes. He moves his head experimentally and it’s not the agony he’s expecting. There’s a dull ache in his neck and he can feel a slight bump on the back of his head when he checks with his fingers, but he doesn’t feel any nausea.

“Wondered if you were gonna sleep forever.”

Clint jumps, which, okay, it still doesn’t feel good to hit his head on the floor, but at least he’s not throwing up. He tries to sit up and hey, that actually works out. He looks warily at the Winter Soldier. “Thought maybe I’d hallucinated you.”

“I don’t think you’re quite that lucky. Looks like you can move though, so that��s an improvement.”

“How long was I out?”

“Just over six hours,” the Soldier says, and Clint wonders if whatever knockoff supersoldier serum HYDRA gave him also put a clock in his head. But then the words catch up to him and he sputters with disbelief.

“Six hours? That’s not possible. I feel...well, not fine, but like I’ve been healing for a week. Maybe two. There’s no way I was only out for six hours.”

The Soldier shrugs. “Someone came in after you passed out.” An evasive look flashes across his features, but it’s gone in a fraction of a second. “Gave you an injection of some kind. Looks like it did the trick.”

Clint actually laughs. “I’m no doctor, but I’ve had my share of concussions. You can’t just reverse a head injury like that. It’s...look. The only thing that can take care of a bruised brain is time.”

Waving his metal hand, the Soldier looks at it with a smirk and then back at Clint.

He slumps, momentarily defeated. “Point taken.” Then crosses his arms, unconsciously hugging himself. The thought of something HYDRA created running through his veins makes him itch underneath his skin, even if it did do something to help him. Grasping at the need to change the subject, he says, “So, what’re you in for?”

He means it as a joke–partly, at least–but it doesn’t land that way. It’s as if a steel gate snaps shut between them, and he knows he’s not going to get anything from the Soldier about that. He holds up a hand. “Alright. Not talking about whatever fucked up reason HYDRA locked me up with their most notorious and deadly assassin. Check. Any other topics I should avoid?”

The steel gate opens a crack, but just. “Do we have to talk?”

“They didn’t leave me with anything but my aids, so I think conversation’s all we’ve got to pass the time. Unless you’ve got a deck of cards in your pocket.” He gives the Soldier a hopeful look. It earns him a scowl.

“I’ve got nothing to talk about.”

Clint grins. “I can probably talk enough for both of us.”

After over an hour rambling about feathers versus plastic fletching, the Soldier finally growls, “Enough!” When Clint falls silent he takes a deep breath and the sigh he lets out is saturated with relief. “That’s better. Do you always have to be talking?” he asks.

“Not always,” Clint says, his voice raspy with overuse. “But often. I’ve been told I have a nice voice; don’t you like to listen to it?” He knows he shouldn’t let that thread of wounded pride slip into his voice, but he’s tired and confused and locked in a room with someone who keeps trying to kill his friends. So maybe he gets a break for not being able to control every little thing.

“When you’re giving me an archery lecture? No.”

“You should participate, then. You know, conversation? You talk, then I talk, then you again? Any topic can be applied.”

The Soldier is quiet, but Clint doesn’t interrupt the silence. Finally he says, “I don’t have many opportunities for casual conversation.” His voice is soft, almost sad.

Clint inwardly kicks himself. Of course the Soldier isn’t much of a talker. He’s more of a follow orders kind of guy. Clint’s about to apologize, say he’ll just shut up for a while, when the Soldier says, “I’d like to try.”

Masking his surprise, Clint says evenly, “Oh. Okay.” When the Soldier doesn’t say anything, he adds, “What should we talk about?”

The Soldier looks thoughtful, then says, “Tell me about your life.” Clint must visibly put his defenses up, because the Soldier holds up a hand to mollify him. “I don’t want secrets about Avengers Tower. You don’t have to tell me all about your teammates. Just tell me what it’s like, living with people you care about.”

Something about that statement pierce’s Clint’s heart. This guy really is alone. It’s not like HYDRA goons are gonna sit around and play cards with him, or chat about the latest episode of Dog Cops. So Clint starts talking. He talks about staggering onto the common floor in the morning, heading straight for the coffee pot, about Steve and Sam bickering while they make eggs and toast and bacon, about how the team arrives in ones and twos but they all seem to get there to eat breakfast together. Most days, anyway. The Soldier has to be coaxed into joining the conversation, but Clint keeps asking questions and ever so slowly he begins to talk.

“Do you like scrambled eggs? Or bacon?” Clint asks.

The Soldier squints, thinking, as he stares off at nothing. “I don’t...I don’t remember,” he finally says. “I do remember toast, though. It’s best with strawberry jam, but we didn’t have that very often. And if we did, I gave it to…”

Clint desperately wants to ask, Gave it to who? because Clint knows nothing at all about the Soldier, only that he is impossibly old and has been HYDRA’s secret weapon and assassin for decades. He seems to be talking about his life before becoming the Winter Soldier, and Clint had never thought about him as having any kind of a “before”. Like maybe he’d been created in a lab or something. Raised by goons and mad scientists. But maybe he’d been just a regular guy who’d been caught up by HYDRA.

Just like he had.

He can’t hold back his shiver at that thought. He can’t imagine becoming like the Soldier.

“I like strawberries, too,” Clint says, in what he hopes is a close imitation of his normal voice. “Strawberries always say ‘summer’ to me, though. I always feel weird eating them in other seasons.”

“I’d eat a strawberry anytime,” the Soldier says. He sounds almost wistful.

It’s quiet for a few minutes, and Clint’s wondering if he should fill up the silence when the Soldier says, “Tell me more.” Then, quiet and hesitant, “Please.”

Clint doesn’t like that there’s a man under the mask. The Soldier is an enemy, someone to be wary of, to avoid or to attack, depending on the situation. But this...this is a person. And Clint is almost–almost–starting to like him. He already feels sorry for him. And that is dangerous.

But he goes on talking. “When we’re not off Avengering–”

“Don’t you mean avenging?” the Soldier interrupts.

“Leave my grammar out of this. When we’re not off Avengering…” He says the word slowly, one syllable at a time, smirking, “we do normal stuff. Movie nights. Video games. Stacks of pizzas. Enough sandwiches to feed an army. We work out, too–gotta stay in shape to be a superhero.” He grins. “Or even the regular kind, like me. We go to the gym, we spar, we have target practice. We’ve got a great range…”

He trails off, not wanting to give too many details about the inner workings of the Tower. But the Soldier just looks at him. “I’ve never even held a bow,” he says. “Not that I can remember, anyway.”

“You’ve never–” Clint shouts, then he stops, takes a breath. “Of course, you wouldn’t need to, you’re rather talented with firearms.”

“And knives,” the Soldier adds.

“Right. And knives. How could I forget.” Images of the Soldier holding a blade, his near inhuman speed, his deadly accuracy, cross Clint’s mind, flip-flip-flip. He makes a valiant effort and manages to keep the sarcasm from his voice. It’s a near thing.

The Soldier looks at the floor. “I’m very well trained,” he mumbles.

They talk about movies–the Soldier knows he’s been to see movies, but he can’t remember anything about them, so Clint tells him the major plot points of a few of his favorites. They talk about video games, another blank slate for the Soldier. Clint tries to explain Mario Kart, but the Soldier can’t seem to grasp the point, so he gives up after ten minutes or so. In the middle of a rather intense conversation about life with siblings–Clint’s brother, the Soldier’s sister–Clint yawns so big his jaw cracks.

“I think I need to sleep,” Clint says, looking around as if a bed and pillow might magically appear. The room remains empty, so Clint just sighs and sprawls on his back with his hands behind his head. “Whatever they did to heal me, I’m suddenly hitting a wall.” He yawns again. The Soldier watches him, says nothing. Clint takes note of the fact that he apparently isn’t susceptible to the whole ‘yawns are contagious’ thing.

He should be nervous, being so vulnerable just feet away from the Winter Soldier. He should be on edge, unable to rest, let alone sleep. But less than a minute after he closes his eyes he’s asleep. Just before he drifts off he thinks he hears a murmured, “Sleep well,” but he’s probably imagining things.

***

Author’s note: I’m posting chapter one of this as a birthday gift to myself, because I’ve been working on it for a long time and I just couldn’t wait any longer. Quite a bit of it is already written, but I have no set posting schedule, and no idea how many chapters there will be or anything like that. It’ll come when it comes. But I’m having so much fun with it, I can’t wait to share more!!!

💜

#lirael writes #winterhawk #marvel fic #enemies to friends to lovers #slow burn #and lots and lots of pining #also #there was only one bed #*gasp*#i swear i'm halfway just writing this so i can put my favorite tropes all into one fic #(all but one; no one has wings...hahahahaha)

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nijiirorhyme · 4 years ago

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NaruMitsu/WrightWorth Fic: Lights, Camera, Action! Chapter 3

NaruMitsu/WrightWorth Fic: Lights, Camera, Action!

Fandom: Ace Attorney

Ship: Mitsurugi Reiji | Miles Edgeworth/Naruhodou Ryuuichi | Phoenix Wright, Ayasato Mayoi | Maya Fey/Karuma Mei | Franziska von Karma

Warnings: None

Tags:Alternate Universe - Actors, Other Additional Tags to be Added, More characters to be added

Description: Rookie actor Phoenix Wright can not believe his luck as he scores his first major acting role in one of the most anticipated movies of the year. But, what was better than starring in one of the most anticipated films of the year? Starring in one of the most anticipated films of this year with famous actor Miles Edgeworth.

A Wrightworth acting au where two dorks (eventually) fall in love!

Chapter 3/?

Alternatively, it can be read here!

Text below cut!

October 5th 1:05pm

Cafe Aroma

It finally made sense to Phoenix. As he was staring at the two of them chatting in their own little world along with the light blush that appeared on Franziska’s face, the strings that Maya pulled were actually the heart strings of the young manager.

‘Who would have thought…’ Phoenix brought his hot cup of coffee to his mouth, gingerly taking a sip before setting it back down. Phoenix casted his gaze at the man that sat across from him. He wished that the two of them could talk as animatedly as the other pair did.

The cafe Maya chose for the four of them to meet at was one she often frequented, Cafe Aroma. In fact, she went there so often that the majority of the employees would recognize Maya’s vibrant voice the moment she walked through the door with the little jingle of the overhead bell. It was a short distance away from the studio-- about a ten minute walk from the front gate. And it was because of this distance that it would be no uncommon feat if one saw a celebrity here. The first thing one would notice when opening the door was the warm and rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air. The entire cafe gave off a very intimate atmosphere, further accentuated by the warm, cozy array of colours that painted the entire place; the dark cocoa brown wooden panels that hugged the bottom portion of the walls paired with a lighter-- almost beige shade that filled in the space above it. Above each black stained table with the exception of the widow seats that faced outward towards the street, several abstract paintings aligned the walls, most of them too abstract for Phoenix to even tell what they were. From the dim lighting, to the warm comforting atmosphere, one could stay here for hours while listening to the soft piano they played over the speakers.

All of that was nice and all, but what really got Phoenix’s attention were their cinnamon sugar donuts. Seriously, paired with their signature blend, they were amazing.

Taking a bite of the fried pastry, Phoenix dusted his crumbs off on his pants before trying to engage in small talk with the man. “So,” he awkwardly laughed, scratching the back of his head like he usually did when he was nervous. “This cafe’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Quite.” Edgeworth responded in a deadpanned tone, taking a sip from his own mug, one filled with tea instead of coffee.

Phoenix took another sip in hopes that it would dispel the awkward atmosphere from the two before attempting to strike up a conversation once more, “So… How long have you been acting?” He asked, which he instantly regretted right after because he already knew the answer. He inwardly cringed at himself, ‘Nice going, Phoenix. You just had to ask.’

Edgeworth paused momentarily, giving his answer a thought before he spoke. “I can’t quite remember, but I started sometime when I was six.”

Phoenix was pleasantly surprised at the honest response. It seemed that Edgeworth truly had a passion for the art that he put the majority of his life into. He couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes softened as it looked like he was reminiscing upon the several memories he had created throughout his career. Phoenix made a mental note, talking about acting was the way to get Edgeworth to speak to him. After all, they both had it in common seeing how it was both of their livelihoods (though one was more successful than the other).

“Wow, you must’ve acted in a lot of movies, huh…” Phoenix trailed off, when suddenly another question popped into his head. He wanted to keep the conversation going as much as he could, even if it meant he sounded a little bit like an interviewer. “What was your favourite movie to work on?”

A pause once more, followed by an answer. “There are several movies that I’ve enjoyed working on, but the one I particularly liked working on was The School of Dreams.”

“Oh! That’s one of my favourite movies! An oldie, but a classic. But funny you should say that because…” Phoenix stroked his chin. “I don’t remember you being in it…”

Edgeworth paused mid-motion as he was taking a sip from his mug. He set it down, pointing his eyes into one of the glares he had shot at Phoenix the moment they first met. Phoenix seemed to have offended him. “I was one of the main characters, Wright.”

Suddenly, it all came back to him. The grey hair, those stone grey eyes… How did he blank on such an important detail? It was one of the first movies he ever remembered watching. In fact, he could even recall the exact time in his life he watched it…

It was a Saturday afternoon in his sophomore year of high school. A sleepy Phoenix who had not a single clue what he was going to do after high school found himself alone at home that day. Sitting on the couch as he cradled a bowl of cereal and milk with one arm and held the TV remote in his other hand, he flipped it to any random channel he found, stopping when he saw the title of the movie pop up on the screen. Sure, he missed the opening of the movie, but there was at least the rest of the movie to enjoy-- and enjoy he did. As a young Phoenix continued to watch, he couldn’t help but notice how phenomenal the actor who looked to be the same age as him was. His eyes gravitated towards him, as if the young man on the screen shined the brightest in the movie. He knew nothing about acting and once it was done, all he could do was remain awestruck.

This movie revolved around a delinquent—played by the young Miles Edgeworth—who continues to get mixed up with the wrong crowds at school. Without telling his parents anything, he continues to live a life where he receives blow by blow and delivers blow by blow to those who seek to challenge him until he is the most feared high schooler among his peers. One day, he meets a boy who transfers into his class and changes his life for the better. By the end of the movie, the two of them are the best friends and plan on attending the same university together. Not only did the transfer student teach the delinquent boy how warm it was to have a friend that understands you, but more importantly, the feeling of belonging he had always dreamed of having with someone. It was a beautiful and touching story of how the two helped each other grow individually, as well as together.

Phoenix recalled trying to blink the tears that pricked his eyes away. He had never felt so moved by a movie before. At that moment, something in his soul had ignited, as if he had finally found what he truly wanted to do. So, he wanted to follow the footsteps of the young man portraying the delinquent and become an actor of the same caliber.

‘Who would have thought that same actor that inspired you would become your co-worker…’ He was a bit shocked at how fate had a funny way of playing tricks on people.

It took a moment for him to recollect his thoughts before he spoke again, “Oh… That’s right that’s right-- heh, no pun intended. How could I have forgotten?” He let out an awkward chuckle to mask the heat he felt creeping up onto his face, dusting his cheeks a rosy pink. It would feel a bit embarrassing to admit that watching a movie that Edgeworth starred in when he was younger was the reason as to why he became an actor after that blunder, so he decided it was best to stay quiet on the matter.

He saw Edgeworth roll his eyes at the pun he made with his own last name. Get it, “right”, “Wright”? It was the oldest joke in Phoenix’s book. Usually, this elicited two reactions from the people he told it to: they either chuckled a little bit because the realization dawned upon them that they sounded the same, or they awkwardly chuckled alongside him in order not to make him feel bad at such a lousy pun. This man surely was neither of those people.

“Though honestly, I don’t know how you do it,” Phoenix looked down at the table at his hands clasped together. He was about to say something sort of embarrassing, but he might as well. It wasn’t like he didn’t make himself look out to be a fool already or anything. “You’ve brought so many characters to life over the years, but I’m still having trouble trying to figure out what I should do to make Ruth Liss believable.”

Edgeworth cleared his throat, “Well, it certainly isn’t an easy task, Wright. After all, there are a lot of eyes on us to make sure we do it right.”

“Yeah, there are.” Phoenix agreed. In the end, that was the goal for all actors once they picked up a script. It was their job to bring a character to life. But that was something he definitely needed to work on. Just then, an idea popped into his mind. What Phoenix was about to say was indeed, a long shot, but at least he could say he tried. “So… since you know all the ropes… I was wondering if you could, you know… give me some advice maybe? Or maybe we could practice together some time?”

Ever so slightly, Edgeworth’s eyes widened. He seemed taken aback, which made Phoenix nervous. Would he decline? Accept? The man looked as if he had the response on the tip of his tongue, when an oddly familiar ringtone sounded from across the table.

Maya gasped, “Is that the Steel Samurai opening?!”

Then, the most unexpected thing happened. He witnessed Edgeworth fish his phone out from his pants pocket, then after checking the caller id with a tsk, set the phone on the table, completely disregarding the call he received on his personal cell phone a few seconds ago. The ringtone went silent, leaving Maya’s voice to be the only thing ringing in Phoenix’s ears.

“Mr. Edgeworth, you’re a Steel Samurai fan too?!” Maya’s eyes were practically sparkling. One glimpse at her could tell Phoenix that she was ecstatic.

‘Here we go again…’ Every time Maya happened to meet another fellow Steel Samurai fan, she would lock them into conversing with her about it. This was not a hard task though, as Maya was the one who tended to carry the conversation when speaking about her favourite show. Usually when this occurred, Phoenix would be waiting for at least half an hour.

“Perhaps a little…” Edgeworth mumbled. Was it Phoenix, or did he look slightly embarrassed?

“A little?!” Maya scooted her chair closer to Phoenix, their shoulders touching as she reached over to point at the dangling charm that was attached to his cellphone. “You even have the limited edition steel Steel Samurai phone strap?! How did you even get one of those?! I tried to have Nick get me one, but they sold out just as he was about to get to the front of the line.” She looked at him, her eyebrows furrowed and cheeks puffed up.

“Hey, it wasn’t my fault someone couldn’t leave the house on time.” Phoenix retaliated.

“Yeah, it was you!” Maya accused. “You couldn’t find where you put your house keys!”

Phoenix paused, that was right. He was the one at fault. “... Oh, you’re right. Sorry, Maya.”

She crossed her arms, “When they release the steeler Steel Samurai limited edition keychain, you owe me one.”

‘... How could something be “steeler than steel”?!’

Phoenix sighed, “Alright, alright, I do. Next time, I’ll just ask Will instead.” Since he was close enough to the man at this point, he could at least ask him to do him a solid.

“So, Mr. Edgeworth, you like the Steel Samurai too?” Maya turned the conversation back to him with absolute delight evident on her face.

“It’s not like that-”

“Indeed he does.” Franziska interjected, cutting Edgeworth off. Her usual smug smirk remained plastered on her face as she rested her chin in her hand, the index finger on her other hand wagging pointedly. “Let’s not forget about the Steel Samurai statue that you have in your office-”

“Enough, Franziska.” Edgeworth snapped back, his face gradually turning redder and redder as the conversation continued.

Taking this new information into account, an idea popped into Phoenix’s mind. If he knew Will Powers, the man who played the Steel Samurai himself, then perhaps he could strike a deal… “Edgeworth, if I got you a Steel Samurai autograph, would you practice together with me?”

Not a single second passed when, “I don’t suppose I have a reason to refuse such an offer.” He answered, a bit too eagerly. “Franziska and Ms. Maya can work out the details later, but I believe I should have some time next week.”

“Great, I’ll see you then,” Phoenix couldn’t help the smile that seeped out onto his face from the satisfaction of success he felt on the inside. He outstretched his hand again. This was the ticket, the way he could finally get some hands-on experience. With Edgeworth’s guidance, he was going to make Ruth Liss the most nefarious man to exist.

Much to Phoenix’s surprise, he felt a warm, but firm hand grasp his own. “I, as well.”

As the conversation concluded, Franziska pushed herself up from her chair, “Well, our business here is done. Come now, we have a photoshoot to attend to. That foolish fool will be here any minute with the car.”

“Aw, leaving so soon, Franny?” Maya pouted.

“Unfortunately, I must. But next time, I will try to stay longer.” Franziska gave the girl a small, but gentle smile. “Oh, and Phoenix Wright…”

Phoenix’s ears picked up on his name being called. “Hm? Ow! Ouch! What was that for?!” A cool, leather whip thrashed at him, causing the skin underneath his suit to sting. He had just gotten a thrashing from Franziska’s whip and for no reason he could think of, at that.

“Just because you sport the face of a fool who deserves it. Now, the two of us will be off.” Grabbing her binder off the table, the two took their leave, leaving a satisfied Phoenix, and a satisfied Maya to their own devices.

“Well, what did you think, Nick? Isn’t Franny just the nicest person in the world?” She asked, her voice as sweet as honey. Phoenix could practically see the hearts in her eyes; she seemed quite smitten with one Franziska von Karma.

‘Nicest?! She just whipped me!’ “She was… something to say the least.” He opted to say instead. He downed the rest of his coffee, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. For some reason, this conversation renewed his spirits, his motivation to get better replenishing by the second.

‘A week from now. I have a week to show him what I’ve got!’

October 5th, 11:00pm

Edgeworth’s Penthouse

Miles Edgeworth was something of a busy man. No matter how many times his schedule had been packed to the brim, the tiredness he would feel after a day’s work was something that he would never get used to.

He unlocked the door to his place, greeted by the energetic dog he had meticulously raised since he had found the time to do so.

“Pess, it’s late. Why aren’t you asleep? Were you waiting for me?” Looking down at the dog with loving affection softening all of his facial features, a tender smile graced his face as he reached down to pet the pomeranian nuzzling against his leg. Edgeworth’s heart practically melted when he heard him bark back in response.

He set down his keys and scooped him up in his arms, to which he took the opportunity to lap at his face. He chuckled, “What did I do to deserve such a loyal dog?”

Miles gently set Pess back onto the floor, who darted from the front door to the slightly ajar bedroom door. He turned to look back at Miles, which Miles perceived to be his dog’s own way of telling him, “come here”.

Miles’ smile widened, “Alright, alright. I guess it’s time to get ready for bed.”

11:25PM

Miles slipped off his slippers and settled into bed, pulling the covers up over his entire body. At night right before he fell asleep, this was the time his brain was the most alert. Most of the nights where he had trouble falling asleep, for he was afraid of the nightmares that would plague his dreams, he would reflect on the day’s events, this one being no exception. All in all, talking to the man wasn’t such a bad experience in itself. Surely, he was a bit clumsy and awkward and just a little bit of an idiot, but what today’s conversation showed Miles was how dedicated he was. It truly seemed as if Wright wanted to improve and it made him feel a bit guilty for treating him so coldly the first time he met him. It had been a while since he had interacted with someone as inexperienced as Phoenix. After all, he had been taught that people of his stature shouldn’t interact with people like him.

“You don’t need to talk to any of these nobodies; you are leagues above them. Friends? Forget about such a notion. In this industry, you can never trust a single soul.” The words of his late mentor echoed in his mind.

He exhaled at the memory. Hopefully in a week from now, Miles could bestow upon him the advice he had been given throughout his years of being an actor. Would Wright succeed with his help? Miles wasn’t so sure, but did he want that Steel Samurai autograph?

Of course.

Hopefully, just hopefully, next week will be a good one.

#ace attorney #naruhodo ryuichi #mitsurugi reiji #phoenix wright #miles edgeworth #wrightworth #narumitsu #i tried #my fic

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have-each-others-six · 5 years ago

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face to the wind, eyes to the sun (pt. seven)

part one

part two

part three

part four

part five

part six

welcome, ladies and gents and nonbinary folks to the final part in this series! thank you all for being so supportive of my first multipart fic, it makes me so happy to know that people like my work. this has been an amazing experience and i thank you for coming along on the ride!

tw: death, blood, beheading

***

zero.

Catherine of Aragon opens her eyes, and the first thing that strikes her is the horrible pain in her chest.

The last thing she remembers is sitting in her bed with the rest of the queens, but they’re nowhere to be found.

This is really happening, she thinks, and when she looks around, she sees her bedroom at the house of Thomas More, with its deep red walls and dark wood paneling. It’s still grey outside, precisely like she remembers it.

Then she notices the priest at her bedside. Her vision gets blurrier, and her hearing becomes worse, but she can still make out his words to the other figures in the room.

“Not long now,” he mutters. “I would say she’s got only minutes left to live.”

She realizes she can’t breathe anymore, and her chest is seizing, and she remembers this now. She remembers the thrashing, the screaming, the agony that reached into every fiber of her body.

Her heart is being torn apart from the inside, tumors taking over the healthy tissue and making her chest spark with pain, her hands twitching of their own accord, and-

She’s all alone when her heart finally stops beating and her last breath leaves her lungs.

The last thing she sees is the sky.

***

Anne Boleyn is kneeling on a wooden scaffold facing her death, and she is trembling.

It’s like one of her nightmares, but this time it’s painfully, brutally real. The executioner is standing there with a sword, and the crowd is furious at her, and she’s trying very hard not to cry.

While she’s panicking, a memory surfaces from the last time she was beheaded. The executioner pretended to look for his sword, and when Anne was turned away, he sliced off her head.

She stops shaking, and she makes a silent vow not to break eye contact with the man who’s going to kill her.

It’s going to be okay, she tells herself. It will all be okay.

“Where’s my sword?!” the man clothed in black exclaims, but Anne’s jaw tenses and she doesn’t look away.

Realizing his ruse has fallen through, the executioner growls. “You’re lucky the king told me to make this quick, or I’d rip you apart as slowly as possible.”

Chills scrabble down Anne’s spine, but she doesn’t give him a response. She closes her eyes, and Maggie, behind her, slips a blindfold over them. Anne can tell that she’s trembling.

It’s a small blessing that she can let herself cry now, but only a few tears fall before the sword is swung.

The last thing she sees, through the fabric of her blindfold, is the sun.

***

Jane Seymour immediately feels the loss of Kat’s warm body in her arms when she awakens in her bedroom within the palace.

Her head feels heavy, and she can’t lift it off of the pillow.

Somewhere in this castle, she knows, her son is sleeping, being held by a woman who isn’t her.

She also knows that somewhere north of here, Katherine Howard is a thirteen-year-old girl who is days away from meeting the first of many monsters she will encounter.

Blind rage fills her at the thought of that evil, evil man coming anywhere near her daughter, but she can’t even clench her fists, her body completely weakened by disease.

Jane wishes more than anything that she could have her girl in her arms again and Edward by her side, but she can’t.

Her son will be forced into monarchy far too soon, and Kat-

Kat is going to be beheaded in five years.

Five years from now, after Jane is long dead, after the mourning period is over, Katherine will be beheaded.

Jane thinks she’s too dehydrated to cry, but a single tear leaks out the side of her eye and slips down her cheek.

It’s not long now. She recognizes the heaviness in her limbs, spreading towards her heart.

“It’ll be okay, love,” she says, although it’s more of a breath. She hopes Kat can hear her, wherever she is.

The first time she died, she went without a real fight. She’d tried to stay alive for Edward, of course, but she had died quietly. One raspy, crackling heave of her lungs, a sigh, and then she was gone.

Now, she screams as loud as she possibly can.

She kicks, she pulls at the sheets, she twists and turns, anything to keep her alive longer for her son and her daughter.

But it’s pointless.

The last thing she sees is the look on Katherine’s face just before they’d both disappeared, the image stark in her mind when her consciousness ebbs away.

***

Anna of Cleves knows where she is.

She’s surprised, honestly. She has terminal brain cancer in the year 1557, she would think the illness would be so far gone at this point she would have no thoughts left at all. But she knows she’s in her bed in the Chelsea House, where Parr had lived after her remarriage.

She hopes Parr is okay, because Anna knows she isn’t. It’s almost like she can feel the cancer spreading through her.

Her ability to speak is gone, but she remembers that from last time.

Someone sits by the side of her bed. Her vision’s blurry, and she struggles to recognize the face of the person there. She tries to puzzle it out based on their posture and they way they’re holding her hand so tightly, but the logic that should link the characteristics into an image of a person in her mind is failing her.

“Just hold on for a bit longer,” the nameless figure pleads, and it’s the sound of her voice that makes everything click.

It’s Bessie.

She can’t see her very well, but she can picture her sitting there, anxiety creating that familiar crease between her eyebrows and forcing tension into her shoulders, her dark eyes calculating her thoughts at a speed far outpacing any of the gentlemen at court.

Anna tries to squeeze Bessie’s hand in place of a hello, but the cancer has taken her motor function too, so she just looks at her, trying to communicate everything she feels in one glance.

“There you are,” Bessie says softly, recognizing the alertness in her friend’s eyes, and Anna knows she’s smiling. “Come on, Anna. I know you can do this.”

You can do this.

She can’t. She knows she can’t.

When the darkness finally overtakes her, she can hear Bessie scream, and she wishes she could comfort her dearest friend but she knows that it’s pointless to hope for the impossible.

The last thing she sees, somehow in perfect clarity, is a flower on her bedside table, a white rose that’s losing its petals. She can’t tell if it’s a dream, but she doesn’t have time to think about it before she falls into unconsciousness.

***

Katherine Howard is being pinned down onto splintery wooden beams by a man who is going to cut her head off.

Her breath is coming too fast, rushing out of her lungs before she has a chance to breathe in.

She’s hysterical, but she can’t show it. She’s a queen getting beheaded, she’s not allowed to show emotion. That would be against the rules.

There’s something she feels like she needs to remember, but she doesn’t know what it is. The last thing she remembers is Henry screaming at her, spittle flying out of his mouth, telling her she would be beheaded for her crimes.

No, wait, that’s not right, is it?

That’s not the last thing she remembers.

She remembers being held. Wrapped up in loving, safe arms, being told that everything would be all right.

Katherine doesn’t remember who it was, and the curiosity about the partial memory doesn’t abate when the man with the sword steps closer and puts a blindfold over her face. She’s not an idiot. She knows what comes next.

Desperately, she tries to fish for the person’s face in the fog of panic in her mind before she dies. She’s hyperventilating, all of her composure gone at this point, and she needs something to focus on so she doesn’t start screaming.

She can’t remember.

She can’t do anything, she’s powerless yet again, she’s alone, she’s alone, she’s alone, she’s alone-

“It’ll be okay, love.”

The voice doesn’t come from anywhere around her, but she hears it as clear as day.

“Mum?” she asks in a tiny voice, and all of her memories come flooding back, music and color and faces all reappearing in her mind. She knows she heard Jane’s voice.

But Jane’s not here.

She’s dead.

That thought echoes through her as the dull blade falls heavily against her neck for the first time, and she finally lets herself scream, guttural and raw and filled with tears. It’s not a merciful death, like her cousin’s six years earlier. This is a beheading fueled by malice and bitterness, and the executioner knows exactly how to make this go on for as long as possible.

The last thing she sees is her mum, holding out a hand to her with a sad smile on her face, and Katherine takes it, leaving the pain and fear behind.

***

Catherine Parr is waiting to die.

She can hear her baby girl Mary somewhere, her infant scream-cries carrying through the cavernous halls of the castle, and although the sound makes her ache, everything is reduced to background noise in the glaring thought that she will die in a few minutes.

It’s funny, but she’s almost gotten used to the idea, after thinking about it so much over the past twenty-four hours. Her death has just become another fact of her life, and it’s pointless to fight against it.

But it feels like a knife being driven through her chest knowing that her family is going through the same thing, in all their different ways, the people she loves being put through unimaginable pain.

This time, she can’t save them. She won’t be transported into the modern world again, searching for the other five wives of Henry and getting them together to write down their stories in song.

It’s September, but there are still leaves on the tree outside. Had it been a late summer the year she died? She doesn’t remember. Why can’t she remember? She needs to remember everything, doesn’t she? If she forgets, what will she carry with her into the next life?

Panic seizes her, and her breathing is stuttered as she tries to desperately remember the summer before her death. It was hot. The strawberries were in season outside. She was pregnant with Mary, sweet little Mary, who cried so loudly when she was born that the nurse said God himself could hear her.

I hope he could hear you, little one, Catherine thinks. I hope he’s with you when I can’t be.

Mary wails again like she knows what her mother is thinking about, and Cathy flinches at the sound like she’s been slapped. Even that tiny movement causes a spasm of pain to radiate through her whole body.

Not long now.

In some sort of small miracle (or curse, depending on how you look at it), the apathy that had filled her body vanishes, replaced with rage and fear and resolve.

Cathy steps out of bed, the blood rushing to her head and making her dizzy, and she stands unsteadily on her feet.

Spots darken the edges of her vision, but still she stands, refusing to die without resistance, and she stands near the window, watching the leaves rustle in the trees outside.

Katherine liked it when the trees changed colors. She’d run down the street, kicking up leaves on her way to the theatre, and Anne would join her after a while, and the rest of them would roll their eyes but smile at the two of them leaping through piles of orange and red.

The wave of memory hits Cathy unexpectedly, and tears start to sting at the back of her eyes.

In a few years, the musical will fade out of existence, and they’ll be forgotten. And even if they aren’t, no one will remember the real them. No one will know or remember the ones who cried and made mistakes and kicked up leaves in the autumn.

“Catherine of Aragon liked knitting and reading books about astronomy and having picnics in the park,” Cathy says, surprising herself by speaking, her voice raspy and almost too quiet to hear. The words are rushing out of her because she doesn’t know how much time she has left to say them.

“Anne Boleyn tried to put fedoras on pigeons one day and wore a lot of eyeliner because she liked to and she gave people hugs when they needed them. Jane Seymour could cook like a master chef and watched old sappy movies and loved her daughter more than anything. Anna of Cleves knew how to make people laugh and made wishes on ladybugs and owned seven pairs of sunglasses. Katherine Howard jumped up and down when she had too much sugar and cuddled with people she trusted and tried to plan surprise parties but usually gave the surprise away.”

Her voice is cracking with tears and death now, but she’s still standing.

“Catherine Parr loved them all. She loved them and they died. They died too soon but they still got at least a small chance to truly live, and they were messy and they were loud and they made each other better.”

Mary has stopped crying. The big house is crushingly silent in the echo of Cathy’s makeshift eulogies, and she doesn’t want it to end this way.

Her strength’s giving out, and her knees buckle, but someone is there to catch her.

“Careful there, Cathy, or you’ll crack your head open on all this fancy-ass furniture.”

“Mum, swap with me- there you go, now it’s easier to hold her.”

“You’re okay, darling, we’re here.”

No. It can’t be. Can it?

Can she dare to hope?

She opens her eyes, and it’s the five people she wants to see most right now, holding her up and keeping her from crumpling to the floor.

“How are you here?” Cathy asks, softly, disbelievingly.

“We don’t know,” Anne responds honestly. “We don’t even know if we are here.”

“We’ll stay as long as we can, though, love, all right?” Jane says. Her voice is comforting, and she’s smiling at Cathy like she knows everything will be okay.

Time passes. She doesn’t know how much. The queens sit down, and Cathy lays across their laps. She lets herself relax, tries to memorize everyone’s faces and voices and movements.

Aragon’s hand combs through her hair, the gesture soothing Cathy’s jangled nerves, and when she looks up at her godmother there are tears in her eyes.

“It’s all going to be okay, honey, I promise you,” she whispers. “We’ll all be okay.”

Cathy lets her eyes drift shut, warmth spreading throughout her whole body, and Aragon’s gentle fingers in her hair keep her calm.

“I don’t want you to go,” Parr murmurs.

“I know, my darling. But we can’t stay. You know we can’t.”

She does know. That doesn’t stop her from clinging to the idea that maybe the world will be kind, maybe she’ll get more time. But that’s naïve.

The world is several things, but it is not kind.

“Goodbye, Cath.”

The queens disappear, and with no one to hold her up, Cathy falls to the floor, and it feels like her brain rattles in her skull when her head hits the ground.

The last thing she sees is complete darkness.

***

Someday in the future, on a Monday, maybe, or a Thursday, some indeterminate weekday, a European history teacher asks his students about Henry VIII.

Most of the teenagers sitting in the desks blink slowly in his direction, wondering when class is over and hoping against hope that this information won’t be on the test.

The teacher rolls his eyes. “Come on, guys. Anyone? Wake up a little here. There’s a rhyme, does anybody know the rhyme?”

Somebody yawns.

“I’ll even help you out a little. Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived…” He trails off, waiting for someone to fill in ‘I’m Henry the Eighth and I had six wives’.

No one does, but a girl with dark brown hair and glasses mumbles something softly, words you could only hear if you were right next to her.

“But just for you tonight, we’re divorced, beheaded, live,” she whispers, not intending anyone to hear her. She never talks to anybody.

However, the blond girl sitting to her left lights up at the words and beams at her, and the brown-haired girl smiles back, a little surprised.

They walk to their next class together, talking about their favorite songs and dances from the show, and each of their worlds is a little brighter when they part ways.

The queens’ stories don’t end with their death.

They don’t end at all, really.

Every time someone says no to something that they know is unjust, or allows themselves to be wild and crazy, or protects those they love, or refuses to let insults keep them down, or is brave enough to tell the truth, or helps to share the stories of those who want to tell them- the legacy continues.

And the queens’ souls can finally rest.

#six #six the musical fanfic #face to the wind eyes to the sun #oof i made myself and my friend cry at this #sorry to m but also you're welcome #six the musical #catherine of aragon #anne boleyn #jane seymour #anna of cleves #katherine howard #catherine parr

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helpimdrowninginfandoms · 5 years ago

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The Anomaly.

(( Yes hi hello, I am ask-the-blind-archer but this is my main blog

I’m gonna slap this down for @sayijo ‘s @loving-cryptor-day

it’s the first chapter of my rift fic/Deity’s rift travels but it is SUPER relevant for everyone’s lovable General so here y’all go

@ceata88 @tyeler-kostlan @montyrouge @lloyd-garmadork @grumpy-zane @noramutaofrost @s-obbles @elizabethjullien if ya’ll wanna check this out ))

Another day, another set of experiment subjects.

Cryptor had learned by now that not all the people dragged in here could handle the super virus that Cole and Borg demanded be injected and force fed into people.

Some of them would die within minutes of the virus being administered.

Others would seize, bodies convulsing while the dark ooze of the virus seeped from every facial orifice.

Truthfully, he was tired. How long has he been doing this? Trapped in this computer while Mindroid ran freely amongst the infected, escorting them to chambers to be stored. While he silently prayed they wouldn’t destroy each other. To make matters worse, anytime he looked to the corner of the room, he could see it.

His body.

Cole had ripped his processor out with his bare hands during his fight to flee the facility, and then he’d been shoved in here. Why did they keep him? Because he was good with numbers? Because he’d shown defiance? Cryptor had no idea. He glanced over at his body lying in the corner of the room, vines grown over it and other signs of deterioration present. Rusted vents, broken eyes from the fight years ago.

It hurt to look at.

He couldn’t touch it.

He couldn’t go back into it.

It was too damaged and Borg had put coding in place to prevent transfer.

“Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck fuck!” Cryptor growled and slammed his fist on the inside of the monitor, slumping forward in frustration and pressing his face to it. He missed having a physical body. He missed being able to feel, as limited as his sensors had been.

A short beep ripped him from his thoughts.

Mindroid made his way over to the screen, gently patting it and letting out a soft warble. [You know what Borg said, your anger can cause power outages if you’re not careful.]

Despite him speaking in warbles and beeps, Cryptor understood him.

He slammed his fists against the inside of the massive monitor. “I don’t give a fuck what that bastard says! Min, you came in after me so you might be more content with your role, but fucks sake, I want free-”

Another soft, quiet warble. [Freedom.]

Cryptor watched Min, letting him finish talking.

The short droid sat down on the floor in front of the monitor. [I wish for freedom, too. Do you think I’m content force feeding and forcibly injecting people with all this? That I like dragging the bodies of failed subjects to the incinerator? I thank whoever created me for not giving me the ability to smell, but I’ve heard Borg talk about it. The scent of burning flesh. People disposed of as though they were scraps of paper. Neither Cole nor Borg care. They only want control. Of everything and everyone. You have no body to return to, yet you still crave freedom. Because it’s what’s right. We weren’t activated for long before you realized all this was a terrible tragedy. You fought back against Cole, and lost. But at least you fought because you knew what they’re doing is wrong.]

Cryptor huffed, turning his back to Min and clearing his throat. “I just wanted to get out of here, I don’t give a fuck about-”

[Liar.]

“What?” Cryptor whipped around and looked at Mindroid. “What did you call me?”

[A liar.]

“What the fuck, Min? Why would you do that-”

[Drop the tough bastard act for three seconds you overgrown can opener.] Mindroid huffed, steam coming out of his vents. [You care. You care about all these test subjects, and you’re tired of all of this nonsense Borg and Cole are doing. I’ve seen you give some of the sleeping test subjects extra blankets when the virus hasn’t taken hold yet.]

“Listen you-”

A soft beep let them both know the doors to the main chamber had opened.

In walked a little girl who couldn’t have been any older than seven, rubbing her eyes and holding a partially destroyed teddy bear. “Mister Cryptor, are you two fighting?” She looked as though she’d rubbed a newspaper all over her face, ink smudges across her skin.

Cryptor knew better, though. Her genetic scans had been abnormal, and he’d kept her aside in a room just outside of Borg and Cole’s sight.

Mindroid stood up and looked over this girl. [Who is this? I haven’t seen her in the main facility before-]

Cryptor looked at Min, then back at the girl. “Inkjet, I told you to stay out of sight. I don’t want you to get hurt-”

Mindroid couldn’t smile, as he didn’t have a mouth-but the look he gave Cryptor was enough.

“I told you I don’t care about anyone, stop looking at me like that!”

Inkjet rubbed her eyes again and wandered over to the monitor, looking up at Cryptor. “Mister Cryptor, are you gonna read me a story again tomorrow?”

Mindroid looked between the two of them. [May I? I will not tell anyone the room she resides in.]

She giggled and went over to Min, rubbing his cheeks. “You make funny noises. Can you read me a story in beeps?”

Cryptor reluctantly nodded and watched Mindroid take Inkjet into a false panel outside of the main chamber, that he’d converted into a rather large room.

He sighed and looked to his broken body in the corner again, slumping down inside the monitor.

Everything hurt.

Maybe he did care. But why admit it? He’d already been called out on it, with Min giving him that look about caring for the kid.

“Fuck, I can’t even comfort the kid when she needs it-”

He took a deep ‘breath’ to calm himself when the lights in the facility flickered.Cryptor winced when the surge happened, holding his chest. Power surges felt like an amplified shock, that jolted through his body. No no, couldn’t have the power going out. Inkjet and the other hundreds of subjects relied on the power for all kinds of things.

A warning siren tore him from his thoughts and sent a panic through him.

Had someone found Inkjet?

Had the facility been breached?

Digging through the various cameras the alarm was trying to guide him to, he stopped and stared when he saw the sky torn open.

“What the fuck?” Cryptor huffed and tried to pinpoint the exact location of this tear. “Damn..super virus creatures..” He grumbled and sat down in the monitor to figure out these coordinates. “Now the sky is torn open.” He fell silent when he saw something-no, someone dropping out of the tear.

The flying drone sent out another warning and Cryptor quickly silenced it.

A person fell from the sky.

“Scan.” Cryptor demanded of the silent but still functioning drone, squinting at the inner screen.

{Unknown persons. No public record exists. No known information on partially artificial life form. System labels life form ‘Anomaly’.}

“What the fuck do you mean, partially artificial-” Then, he saw what the drone was talking about.

The woman stood up and dusted her arm and leg off, tearing away part of her destroyed sleeve and pant to reveal the metal appendage. She said something, but the drones never had external microphones.

“Some kinda..Cyborg? Huh.” Cryptor watched her look around in confusion.

[Very keen observation, Captain obvious.] Min had walked back into the room, watching the woman on the droid cam. [Who is that?]

“I don’t know. She just fell from the sky.”

[The sky? You’re joking, right?]

Cryptor remotely controlled the drone, having it look up at the rapidly closing tear in the sky.

[....Damn. Do you think she could-]

He sighed and let go of the drone controls. “I don’t know. She probably doesn’t even know where the hell she is.”

[She has insignia on her top.]

“Insignia? What, where-” Cryptor went silent when the camera switched into a different direction.

Mindroid gasped when he saw what was on the screen.

Far in the distance, the drone had spotted Cole and some infected speeding in a jeep toward the woman. She couldn’t see it, only Cryptor and Mindroid could because the drone had zoomed in on them.

[Will she be alright?]

“I don’t know, I really don’t. Min, maybe she’s our ticket to-” Cryptor couldn’t say it. He was afraid to jinx it.

Mindroid went over to the monitor and gently patted the screen. [Freedom.]

#ninjago #ninjago cryptor #ninjago mindroid #apocalypse au #rift fic #wonder who that kid is #HM #and who's that strange lady? ;0 #Ninjago Inky #Ninjago Deity #GZ deity #cyborg Deity #Evil!Cole mention #Evil!Borg mention

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advernia · 5 years ago

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i’m amazed that i’ve been active for at least a couple days straight??? is it the effect of lesser fe3h playtimes + the silly coworker writing challenge at the workplace??? oh well ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿

since i remembered i was trying to make work commentary a thing here, more rambling / author’s notes under the cut!

jul 6th // ikerev

push your way through the cracks is the first edgar/mc i’ve written here and while i’ve mentioned there that edgar is my fav out of the cast, i fear that i’ll probably take me a very long time to write another one bc... he’s my favorite. i noticed i have the tendency not to write much (or have finished works) about ships i really, really like despite... you know, liking them. hopefully not - shipping aside, i like exploring the characterizations of enigmatic types like edgar.

about the fic, i pretty much like it save for the second part bc i think i could’ve done something more with it - not exactly change the setting, but expounded a little further on it. i don’t know, it feels lacking somehow in comparison to the first two.

there are a lot of flower-related descriptions tossed here and there, but i think i succeeded in not being so purple prose-y? hopefully! this was pretty descriptive, i guess.

with this edgar fic present, that means i have 2 more red army doods to write about, namely zero & jonah. i was really aiming to make edgar the last one tho haha.

jul 12th // ikerev

weave me into your web is canon based, specifically pt. 24 of sirius’ route where they say ‘goodbye’. note those quotation marks.

i think i wrote this after a discussion i had with a friend about sirius & his route - she read some posts commenting on the route and she wanted a nearby opinion. we got into an agreement: while we do find sirius to be indeed husbando material, his route would’ve risked nothing if they gave him more / emphasized his flaws. his flaws, not mc’s, gosh.

no, seriously. in my opinion, mc fretting so much about being immature sort of blinds her from the little things that prove sirius is not so composed as he appears to be. it gets even worse when she realizes she’s fallen in love with him, and while i enjoy the black army going kira-kira rabu support team + seth being hopeless suitor, i’m going 50/50 on mc. she’s written to be indeed very single-minded come the war phase and while that’s not necessarily bad since she gets to broaden her perspective as she always does, i think i would’ve appreciated it if she came to most of the realizations on her own by reflecting on them based on how the events around her are progressing; and not simply by sirius / someone else pointing it out for her. no wonder she’d think she’s immature in comparison - it also irks me a bit that she keeps on fretting about her feelings for sirius. this is what i’d be sad to see again in other routes: the romance overthrowing the potential / present character development.

side note: i understand that in relationships with a notable age gap, maturity / perceived maturity can be a problem - i just wished that the route downplayed on this bc honestly, there are other things more interesting to explore than that angle, like, say; isn’t she from another culture or world or something????????? will those differences affect our potential relationship??????????????

on sirius himself, i recall reading on reddit that one person didn’t pick up ikerev for the reason that the cast is too perfect. that’s a fair opinion. i think i can relate this to sirius himself: while throughout the route you do see some flaws in him, he’s still overall the dude you’d write home about + that dude you’d dream introducing to your parents complete with that suave voice (thank u junichi suwabe). no, i’m not saying that he has to have some unlikable or quirky trait / wangsty backstory, it’s just that in my opinion he’s desirable but not exactly relatable. let him struggle, let me see him rise up from it. show me his humanity. there’s the scene with him and lancelot, but i want more. tho him being afraid of being alone is what i find extremely relatable and endearing about him, very nice. otherwise... well, maybe i have to reread the route again or smth.

anyway. the fic emphasizes actually on his character trait of self-control / restraint. did u know too much is bad for u??? it can reflect that since you hold yourself back too much, it could mean that you’re masking your true feelings, for example. there are various psychological studies on that. *stares at sirius* hMMM.

i took care to be quite descriptive on that kiss scene and at the same time, not to be so emotional on it bc it’s still sirius lol - i believe he’s not one to lose himself completely to his emotions, but he’s not that afraid to succumb to some of it - especially if he actually wants to feel them.

... this turned out to be a rant portion rather than a fic commentary now didn’t it

aug 24 // ikerev (i’m seeing a pattern here)

a beginner’s guide to waltz was seriously just some formatting experiment, then it blew up to something larger. i actually like it tho, it’s cute.

writing oliver is actually fun, not bc of the reason that i can be rude. he is rude, but he’s not like that for just the sake of being so. as seen with blanc, it’s probably a result of habit. why exactly he chose to be verbally aggressive is something i’d like to know in his route.

i have no idea how the relationship shift is portrayed either, but i do hope it’s a mortifying revelation on mc’s part lol. like, lookie here, that little kid with his wee shorts and pretty hat that you hang out with all the time and don’t care about acting so ladylike around was that hot hunk who saved you before! oliver’s so amused and never letting her live it down.

for the line ‘i’m not interested in asking you about a decision you’ve made since you arrived here’: the decision mentioned is mc’s promise not to fall in love & to go home. i think oliver would be one of those routes where he falls for her but wants her to go home anyway, but the difference in his route is that he’s very adamant to make her leave. maybe thinking along the lines of ‘i don’t want you to end up like me’ or something. idk. idk what i’m trying to type at this point, lol.

just some random thought, but i do hope ikerev artist tcg someday draws mc in the game outfits / hairstyles bc she’s actually rly pretty. the description of mc’s outfits / fashion of part 4 of the fic was out of me just staring at the my closet portion of the game. don’t ask - i like the hc of oliver & mc having elegant wardrobes / fashion sense, and since i’m too lazy to check up 19th century london fashion trends...

sep 28 // collar x malice

haunted by something still alive was the result of me thinking about guns. don’t ask me either. maybe it’s also a result of me wanting to write something else that isn’t from my horrendous drafts folder lol.

these were actually nice drabble practices, and the first one i clearly had i mind was shiraishi’s. i honestly think it would be fitting, probably around the start of the route where they haven’t got to know each other so well.

from there on i tried to do the drabbles in the route order i did when i played the game, which was mineo - sasazuka - okazaki - shiraishi - yanagi. but tbh when i was writing it became shiraishi - mineo - yanagi - sasazuka - yanagi again - okazaki, lol. i rewrote yanagi’s and okazaki’s three times.

subtitles have their respective mathematical operations on it - i find it kind of cool and funny that those are their symbols (amnesia had the card suits), but when you do think of it properly, it does relate to their characters.

... never forget that hoshino ichika is canonically good with guns.

sep 28 // ikerev

in absence of glass slippers as stated was a part of one of my first ikerev drafts. still a draft until now, but the portion i posted is one of the ‘finished’ sections of the fic.

i don’t headcanon mc as a respectable lady from a equally respectable house or her being a well-off girl, but i like the concept of her being a self-taught lady of society aka she learned stuff like manners, dancing, and etc. out of curiosity or for more practical reasons like fitting in. 19th century london is still the victorian era, so social class and propriety was still a thing.

her taking off her shoes to practice dancing with ray is a sort of a challenge, actually... his measure of improvement will be based on the times that he steps on her feet / how many blisters her feet would gain by the end of the session, lolol - that’s why she says that stepping on a rock is the least of her problems. pretty hardcore, isn’t she?

thus the title actually - glass slippers (mary janes actually) are pretty delicate, but don’t you think a lady’s foot is much more delicate?

with ray’s fic up, i’ve officially written a piece for all of the black army men! nice.

sep 29 // ikerev

neither heaven or hell is holy shit, an mc-centered fic! hella rad - i was half thinking to classify it as a drabble, but since i decided that drabbles are pieces that i may get back on, i kept it as a full fic instead since i’m happy with how it turned out.

all of my screamings are in the tags, so i don’t have much to add besides that lol. however, the writing here is pretty different, and that’s because i was trying to do a three sentence fic challenge kind of thing. buuuuut it became three paragraphs with three lengthy sentences instead lol.

also, there’s some stuff highlighting mc’s london-er/english-ness. washing powder is the british term for laundry soap. 19th century roofs for royals were usually panels, and wooden beams for commoners. different as chalk and cheese is a british expression. i’m certainly not british but i just like emphasizing the fact that mc is of another culture/world, thus there should be differences in how she perceives things / her mannerisms & actions / her way of speech. i’ve been conscious of that in all of my fics involving her.

actually, i do make it a point to watch her way of speaking. i really like the polite way of speaking of 19th century britain (and also of today), so i try to integrate that despite the fact that i’m not british myself lol. it’s hard to fully convey it, but i try with hoping that it doesn’t seem too off. i should probably look for more references to practice it.

this was a very spontaneous piece with actually minor editing involved, and i’m pretty proud of how it turned out.

#rundown.txt #oh this is certainly longer than i intended it to be #oh well thank you to those who reads these ramblings of mine tho!

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albionscastle · 6 years ago

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Formidable Foes

Last one of the forgotten fics, I may pick up writing for BATB again, I’m not sure. I hope so.

In this one Adam gets a bit too big for his britches so Belle needs to teach him a lesson. Also leather.

Masterlist

30 DAYS OF BEAUTY AND THE BEAST CHALLENGE

DAY 5 - LEATHER

Adam squinted in the sputtering candlelight, his arm coming to rest at his side, tired and aching.

“No time to rest, Your Highness, your opponent won’t give you a moment to even catch your breath.” his companion remarked, lowering his own arm.

“I would hope that I would have dispatched him long before I become this winded.” Adam panted. “Three hours seems a bit of a stretch for a swordfight.”

“Depends on the opponent. I’ve seen some over in moments, others only finished after both parties have collapsed with exhaustion.”

“God help me then.” Adam quipped, raising his sword in salute, ready to begin again.

Every muscle in his body was aching as he parried and thrust, his teacher seemingly always one step ahead of him. He was sweating from the exertion, his body had long been unused to any real physical activity and even then, well it was best not to think of the “exercise” he’d participated in before. It was worth it though, every ache, bruise and cut. Every evening spent trying to relax his tired muscles in a hot bath and going to bed sore anyway. He would fight through it, he had to. For Belle. She needed him and he would protect her and keep her safe. She. Needed. Him.

With a growl he lunged, determined. He wouldn’t fail her.

For her part, Belle wasn’t aware of the thoughts running through his head. As far as he was concerned, she had no idea that he was even training to fight or that there was any danger.

As if he could keep a secret from her, she thought ruefully as she watched him from behind a secret panel, Plumette and Lumiere beside her. She had known the moment the swordmaster had entered the castle what Adam was up to. The rumors of Gaston’s continued existence had reached even her ears, despite Adam’s attempts to keep everything secret. He really had no idea.

“Oh will you look at that.” Plumette sighed blissfully, distracting Belle from her thoughts.

Through the screen they could see Adam holding a lunge position while Chauncey gave instruction. His damp hair was pulled back with a black ribbon, sweat beading his brow. Over his shirt he wore a vest of sorts, fashioned out of leather and fitted perfectly to his figure. His sleeves were rolled up and matching leather bracers graced his wrists. Both women’s heads tilted to the side as their eyes followed the lean length of his torso, down past his narrow waist.

They sighed in unison as he shifted slightly, the muscles of his thighs and rear rippling beneath the buff colored breeches he wore like a second skin. Knee high boots encased his calves, the brown leather shining in the candlelight as he began to move, spinning, his sword flying through the air gracefully.

“Have you ever seen a man so...so….” Plumette broke off with a knowing glance at Belle’s heightened color and shallow breaths.

“Beautiful.” Belle murmured, her eyes following his every move with undisguised desire.

“Such a fine specimen of a man.” Plumette sighed.

“Plumette, my dove, I’m right here.” Lumiere whined, earning himself a smooch from his lady love.

Belle was oblivious to the couple, intent as she was on breathlessly watching Adam’s every move. Long minutes passed before Plumette and Lumiere shook their heads and moved off to seek the warmth of their bed.

It was close to midnight before Adam and Chauncey finally emerged from their seclusion and went toward their rooms. Sweaty and exhausted, Adam took the stairs swiftly looking forward to sinking into the hot water he knew was there waiting for him. He was forced to slide to a stop as he rounded a corner and almost collided with Belle who was coming from the opposite direction.

“Ah, Belle. Couldn’t sleep?” he sounded guilty to his own ear and he couldn’t help but notice the color of Belle’s face as she studiously avoided eye contact with him.

“Ummmm, I wanted a book.” she murmured.

His brow furrowed, she wasn’t carrying a book and she certainly wasn’t coming from the direction of the library. He chose to ignore that, in light of the lie he was about to tell.

“I’ve been with Lumiere, going over all those estate numbers again. He’s so obsessed with it.” he smiled softly, reaching for her hand, knowing he had been neglecting her.

He missed the flash of amusement in her eyes as she wrapped her fingers around his, leaning into him.

With a contented smile he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, holding her close and peppering the top of her head with kisses. Bath be damned, he could stay just like this forever, Belle safe in his embrace and all the ugliness in the world held at bay by the castle walls.

He felt her shaking against him and realised she was laughing softly.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh nothing, just a thought.”

“What thought, darling? You can tell me.” he smiled, reaching up to run his thumb across her lips.”

“Just something Plumette said earlier, Lumiere seemed determined to get her attention afterwards. It was nothing. I’m sure they are both in bed by now.” she said with a pointed look at Adam.

“Probably doing exactly what I wish we were doing right now.” he growled, spinning her around so she was pinned between his body and the wall.

He took her mouth with a passion he usually tried to keep in check, his tongue filling, exploring, coaxing. He felt her push against him, her delicate hands resting on the small of his back. Her quiet moans against his lips never failed to drive him wild and not for the first time he wondered if they could hold out until their wedding day.

With a groan they pulled away from one another, Belle resting her head on Adam’s shoulder, arms around his waist. Wrinkling her nose she squeezed him for a moment, wondering if she should just tell him she knew about his ‘secret’ lessons. “I’ll never let anything happen to you Belle.” he whispered against her hair.

“And what if something were to happen to you?”

“It won’t.”

“It almost did, remember?”

“I remember.” he sighed, holding her closer. “But that’s over, Gaston is dead.”

She knew he was lying, but he didn’t know that she knew. While she understood his position, she didn’t appreciate the secrecy. She wanted to be his partner, but like most men, he was blinded by his view of women as needing protection that only he could provide. She loved him, almost beyond reason and she knew his reasons for excluding her were valid to him and came from love, but perhaps it was time that Adam learned a few home truths about the woman he was about to marry. Not the least of which being that she was a far cry from being a damsel in distress.

“Adam.” she said sweetly, running a hand across his cheek. “For someone who was closeted in a study reading all evening, you really do smell.”

“It was hot?” he pouted slightly as he took a step back, knowing he had to be pretty offensive in odor after the hours of sweating.

“Hmmm.” she murmured, patting his arm before turning toward her room. “Tell Chauncey I said hello.” she called over her shoulder, leaving him standing in the hall with his mouth agape.

Busted. Afternoon at the castle the next day saw a large gathering of people in the courtyard by the stables. The secret was out and Adam had been in a state of nervous anticipation all day. Belle smiled sweetly and had calmly accepted his explanation. He discovered from Lumiere that the three of them had been watching the evening before and while he felt guilt at being caught out in a lie, he couldn’t deny the hot thrill that shot through him at the description of Belle’s reaction. Three days before the wedding and he could have cut the tension, sexual and otherwise between them with a knife.

Belle had, surprisingly, sent that morning for her father, who arrived with a mysterious, large package and what seemed like half the village. Even Agathe was there, which should have surprised him, but he wasn’t sorry. He rather liked his enchantress and her biting wit, not to mention the fact that half the town was now afraid of her.

No amount of coaxing on his part would convince Belle to reveal the contents of the package, not even when he had pulled her away from her guests and stolen several deep and breathless kisses in a shadowy alcove. She had simply smiled and laughed, patting his hand as though he were a child, her eyes shining with mischief.

He knew her well enough to know when she was up to something.

Lumiere encouraged him to join everyone, Chauncey was teaching several villagers a few basic techniques and they were all having a lot of fun. Belle knew anyway, so why not? He dressed quickly and went down, engaging in some friendly swordplay which quickly turned into spirited competition when he discovered that a good deal of the participants were actually quite good.

The ladies and youngsters all gathered around to watch, placing mock bets on their favorites. Adam’s enjoyment was somewhat tempered by Belle’s absence and he began to realize that he may have made a costly error in keeping things a secret from her. She deserved better than that, from him of all people.

Belle watched the proceedings from a window as Plumette helped her with the contents of the package her father had delivered. Buckles were fastened and hair was braided, the familiar smell of well-worn leather permeating her nostrils. She noticed that Lumiere and Pere Robere were surprisingly formidable and were good naturedly showing the others the finer points of their technique. The baker’s son, Louis was small and fast and didn’t tire easily. He won most of his rounds through sheer tenacity. Adam was lethal. She had never seen a superior fighter, not even Gaston, and his skill in the yard was unmatched. His lessons had certainly paid off with the help of an almost magical natural ability.

Belle had to admit to herself that he had a legitimate reason to feel superior about protecting her, not many men would be able to win against him. But he still needed to see he had a partner, in all things.

“Ready my lady?” Plumette’s excitement was at fever pitch.

“Ready.” Belle declared.

In the yard, Adam had approached Chauncey who had thus far remained on the sidelines.

“Do you spar today? I assume you taught half the men here and therefore know all our weaknesses.”

“I do intend to as soon as my sparring partner gets her lazy arse out here.” Chauncey smirked as he sensed a presence behind him.

“Do you mean me, Chauncey?”

Belle stood behind them, a wicked smile on her face and everyone began to whisper among themselves. Adam dropped his sword in the dirt, his shock was so great.

Dressed in a shirt, leather leggings and boots, Belle’s leather body armor gleamed in the sun and she could have easily passed for a young squire.

“You can’t be serious. A woman?” this from the headmaster, who still held onto his backward opinions, despite several warnings from Prince Adam.

Belle turned toward him before Adam had a chance to jump to her defense.

“Yes a woman. If you have a problem with it then you are under no obligation to watch.” her voice was calm and melodic but Adam sensed the steel and restrained anger beneath the surface.

The headmaster laughed, throwing his hands into the air.

“Oh, I will watch, if only for the amusement.”

Adam wondered where all this was going, what point his love was trying to make in her costume.

“You.” he voice snapped, her head turned in his direction. “ Perhaps you could come down off of your high horse.”

She was calling him out in front of everyone and he felt the blush rising in his cheeks. He deserved a proper dressing down, he knew it and so did most of the others. But it wasn’t in his nature to go down without a fight, and belle was a formidable opponent.

He bowed deeply before walking to where she stood, silence all around. Circling Belle he looked her up and down appreciatively and obviously, noting the twitch in her jaw as she met his gaze.

“Forgive me, Belle, my ignorance of the ways of your village, but in my experience women don’t usually take their pleasure in this form of swordplay.”

He smiled as her cheeks reddened and the others gasped audibly. Only she knew he teased and they both knew he wouldn’t take it any further than was comfortable, but his sweet was spoiling for a fight, an excuse to knock him down. He owed it to her to giver her what she wanted.

She made a show of thinking deeply.

“Perhaps that may explain why I have been forced, these evenings past to find pleasure in my own arms while you chase yours in the sword.”

A chorus of ahhhs surrounded them, the smile on Belle’s face as innocent as her eyes were not and Chauncey was finding it hard to keep a straight face. Adam’s smile faltered slightly.

“Of course I know little of these things.” Belle was laying on the demure maiden act thickly now. “I am, after all, just a girl who’s father gifted her a few lessons in swordplay to appease her curiosity. You will forgive me this one small wish of mine to feel a part of your life and close to you Adam.”

Chancy coughed to keep from laughing out loud. Angry at Adam’s secrecy and view of her as needing his manly protection, Belle was luring him into a challenge, playing him like a lute. She even had unshed tears in her eyes as she entreated a visibly moved Adam.

“Perhaps my dearest love, you would spar with me? I know Chauncey and father always got tired of indulging me and perhaps you could teach me a few things I don’t already know.”

Click. With that the trap was set and all who watched knew it. Maurice and Agathe looked on with pure glee while the others held expressions of pity, confusion, indulgence and amusement. Still, Adam couldn’t be faulted for his attention to even the silliness of his fiance’s whims.

He bowed again and made his way to the center. He understood that Belle had to feel helpless and angry. What harm could teaching her a few moves do? Maybe then she would forgive him and they could spend the rest of the evening slowly ridding her of the pungent leather she wore so well.

Belle noted with satisfaction that Adam had been utterly predictable in his reactions to her. His eyes shone with love, guilt and desire and soon he would understand her point. A glance at her father showed him watching her approvingly, he had taught her to fight her own battles. All that remained was to show everyone else that she could. Hiding a smile, she pulled her sword from the scabbard that Chauncey was holding for her.

“Show that prince of yours what you’re made of.” he whispered in her ear as she grinned. Turning, she took her stance in the center while Adam sauntered closer.

“Are you sure about this my love?” His show of concern would have had her fooled had she not seen the laughter and affection in his gaze. “Swordplay is not for the weak.”

“I’m a quicky study, as you well know.” she winked as the crowd tittered and Adam laughed approvingly. “I wish for you to teach me, surely you won’t deny me this one small pleasure.”

“I won’t deny you any pleasure.” his heated look caused a shiver, but she stood her ground.

Adam let loose his first blow, which Belle blocked easily as he had put no real strength behind it.

If he was surprised at all he didn’t show it. A child could have blocked such a blow and the look on Belle’s face was one of surprise. It would have appeared to most of the spectators that was block was merely lucky and nothing more. Only a very few watching were not at all fooled.

“You handle a sword quite well darling.” Adam smirked and advance again. “Perhaps I should let you practice with mine.”

No one successfully managed to conceal their snickers at the blatant innuendo.

Belle laughed and effortlessly blocked another strike.

“Sir, you flatter me, however I might prefer to practice with a sword that is a good deal larger than yours.”

Adam snorted, laughing as he circled.

“You’ll pay for that one my sweet.” he whispered.

“Sooner rather than later I hope.” she winked at him.

“Belle!” Chancy’s voice carried across the yard. “Why don’t you stop playing with the man and show him some real sport?”

With a wicked look at Adam she inclined her head.

“Shall we?”

Her heart was racing as Adam finally made a real attack, calculated and deadly under any other circumstances. She blocked it expertly and with little effort, smiling at her love the whole time.

After his initial surprise, Adam recovered quickly, a dawning realization of Belle’s point to be made driving home. The spar was more like a dance than a fight as they spun, struck, rolled, struck, leapt and struck again, neither of them gaining or losing ground with the other. The smiles had remained on both their faces as they fought and in Adam’s eyes shone the pride that Belle had been looking for.

Everyone jumped as Adam landed a particularly hard blow to Belle’s sword, driving her to her knees. She stayed down as he raised his sword to knock hers from her hand. At the last moment she rolled aside, re grasping the hilt of her sword. She rose swiftly and countered his next blow with a blade she had had secreted on her person. The two blades now crossed in front of her to connect with his. His eyes widened slightly as they took in the menacing looking curve of her second blade.

“That’s my girl!” Maurice cheered while the others began to clap loudly.

Belle moved so fast that it was impossible to keep up with her as she spun, the two blades wielded with deadly precision. She began to gain ground against Adam who was still somewhat in shock.

There was a collective gasp from the captive audience as Adam lunged to made a slash at Belle’s legs, which she spun from easily. As he rose he was unprepared for her recovery. She leapt into the air, one booted foot planting itself firmly on his midsection and sending him sprawling into the dust, his sword sliding away from him with a loud clatter.

He held up his hands, laughing even in his sound defeat.

“I concede my dear. You have won the day.”

Belle held out her hand to help him up, the sound of cheering loud in her ears.

He hauled her to him roughly, hoisting her up in his arms, her legs wrapping tightly around his waist.

“I’m sorry.” he whispered before covering her mouth with his own, relishing in the feel of her teeth biting at his bottom lip.

“No more secrets Adam, I mean it.” her fingers tangled in his hair, his lips blazing a trail down her neck.

“I promise. I never should have underestimated you my darling.”

“Just don’t do it again.”

Oblivious to the departure of the others to the dining room, Belle and Adam remained locked in their own world, the heat of her anger giving way to the heat of passion.

“You know, my dear,” Adam murmured against her ear. “I really should call you out for casting aspersions on my manhood.”

Belle chuckled lightly. “You did offer to let me practice, perhaps you should just prove me wrong and save yourself the thrashing.”

Adam groaned as she ground against him and he ran for the stairs, carrying her weight as though she was a feather.

“What about the others?” she panted as he held her against the door to his room, fumbling with the handle.

“Hang them.” he laughed as they tumbled inside, locking the door behind them.

Adam advanced on Belle with a wolfish smile, his fingers sliding over the smooth leather buckled across her torso.

“How do we get this off?” he growled.

“Who says we have to?”

With that Adam lost his second battle of the day as any semblance of restraint left him and they both tumbled headlong into one another.

#batb fanfic #batb2017 #30 days of batb #dan stevens fanfiction

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oh-mother-of-darkness · 6 years ago

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asks (21)

Anonymous said: Hi! Do you still like Tim Drake?

More than I can describe!

Anonymous said: Please tell me those law school quotes are all from one professor

They are not, but MOST of them are from the civ pro professor. His name is Counseller, and he’s great. He got a standing ovation after his speech at my friend’s graduation yesterday. I once went to dinner at his house and a movie afterwards. He had us all hide his candy in our bags so he didn’t have to pay concession stand prices.

@whambamthanksbatfam said: Do you know canonical nicknames for the Batboys?

Hold up lemme see what I have on file

Off the top of my head I can also think of times that Tim referred to himself as “Timmy” (usually while pretty young), and of course Dick has “boy wonder”

Anonymous said: What do you think will happen to nightwing comics? Writer changes in April, will they be able to reverse the amnesia arc? Do you think maybe the damage to the character is irreversible? I don't understand why they'd allow it especially after what happened when they tried to kill him off. It's also 35th anniversary of his first appearance in a few months. Looking at teen titans, jon kent's age, young justice "coming back" I feel concerned for dc comics' future ):

I’m basically taking my usual approach, which is (as far as comics are concerned)... everything will return to its most profitable form. Comics have a set form. With a few key exceptions-- changes in superhero persona, for example-- things generally make their way back to the “classic” form. Therefore I expect Dick to go back to being Nightwing, in a form we would recognize as typically Nightwing.

Anonymous said: wait..... waitwaitwaitwait..... wait. did u just swear in that hashtag? i have followed you for like 2 years and the closest i've seen to swearing is "sweet texas on high" which ended up becoming a bad habit of mine to say irl and then have to explain where the hell i heard that, and then i said it enough that one friend started saying it as well, then it just spread like a virus in my friend group (this isn't a complaint this is just surprise and amusement. love ur blog!)

Glad to see my nonsense swears are spreading! To be honest, I (really) swear a lot. Don’t tell my mom

Anonymous said: Hey! I have to choose a quote for my yearbook and i want to do a batman/superhero quote but i cant think of one and was wondering if you could help me out? Im looking to go for kinda funny but also has a bit of meaning, ya know? Anyway thank you!

Oooooh boy lemme see

I like Alfred’s quote in these panels. I would also maybe suggest:

"Whenever someone's asked what power they wish they had, flying is always at the top of the list. But I have to admit. I've learned to love falling too." (Nightwing #142, 2008)

I don’t know how helpful I can be on this one, honestly, but there’s my two cents.

night-mom said: Hi, I have a bat-centric side blog called Bat-Losers-Inc. I just discovered some of your writing on tumblr and have been slowly going through it when I have the time. I really love how you write each character of the Batfam and how each of them feels very distinct from each other but also different from their common representations in the Batman fandom. So anyway, I was wondering if you had a favorite Bat family member to write from in terms of point of view/personality?

Hmmmm a couple of years ago, I would have said Jason. For whatever reason, I’ve always given him a talking/fighting style that’s the most similar to my own, but lately I find myself drawn to Tim and Damian. My guess? Their points of view allow me to explore some things I’ve been going through-- specifically a nasty bout of depression, anxiety, and a psychotic breakdown. I would also say that Dick is the hardest for me to write, followed by Bruce, Duke, and Cass. Stephanie is pretty easy.

Anonymous said: For some reason, I have this huge need of some angst... Could u please do a prompt of suicide Tim? But he manages to success?? Please???

Listen. I’m definitely not going to do that, and I don’t think I need to explain why.

Anonymous said: I reread some old B&R comics. Bruce came back from his weird time adventures and one of the first things he said to Damian was, that it was his job as Robin to make sure that Batman gets home safe. Like yeah, I guess it is? But also you're talking to your 10 year old son, I'm waiting for that mentality to bite you in the ass at some point. I mean it kind of did when Damian died to save Dick in Batman Inc. Bruce's parenting is really dangerous sometimes o_o

I agree. I’ve always had a problem anytime the Batman/Robin relationship is framed around what Bruce needs. For the benefit of the child? Sure, I’ll suspend belief for that one. Because an adult needs it? No thanks. That’s why Tim’s origin story bothers me a whooooole lot.

@therusticate said: I just read the fanfic you put out around Christmas with the files on Dick and Damien and I MELTED. There were TEARS! I’m hoping to find some more of your work on your blog; I love your writing style and how everything flows. Thank you so much for creating content! You did a fantastic job and I love it.

Oh, thank you so much! I’m particularly fond of that fic

Anonymous said: how's outlining going?

Anonymous said: what is it that you are outlining??

Anonymous said: I hope your outline turns out good and you do well ❤ you can do it!!

@couldnt-pick-a-name said: Have you finished your outlining yet?

Anonymous said: Good luck on your exams!! I hope they go well and you take care of yourself and don't get too stressed

I appreciate you all for keeping me on topic <3

Exams went... probably pretty well? We’ll find out when grades come back. I was outlining for immigration law, federal administrative law, and constitutional law-- and I did get all of them done. Hallelujah.

Anonymous said: Young Justice 2019 just got published and I realized I haven't consumed enough YJ material!! Do you have any comic recommends??

Oooooh I guess that depends on which Young Justice you’re talking about? Original v. based on TV show? Either way, my recommendation is to look up the associated series. Original YJ (Tim, Bart, Cassie, Conner, etc.) is the 2000 version by Peter David. That team just got a reboot, and I’m reasonably sure that’s what you’re asking about. Then there’s the YJ comic based on the tv show (2011, I believe).

Either way, I like pretty much the entire series. Sounds simple, but that’s my rec.

@dontstopkiwibea said: I've been thinking about your fic with Damien and Tim having a conversation about Tim's depression and the time when Bruce was missing. I think about all that missing time a lot and how so much /could/ have happened to Tim but didn't. And then I think about Damien being sad when Tim was dead. And then I think about Dick hearing about Tim's mental state during that time, how bad it really got, and maybe Bruce learns too. Ahhhh I don't know about you but I want more fics about Tim and getting help

Honestly? Same. I feel like there’s a lot of emotion that’s never officially explored, and that’s a problem I personally enjoy fixing.

Anonymous said: You asked for headcanons, so: Damian likes to give Tim a hard time, and one day Damian scoffs at the idea of Tim getting a pet, saying he’d probably kill it through neglect. Tim doesn’t appreciate that and ends up with a goldfish out of spite. He learns everything there is to know, and his fish is gonna thrive, dammit. And it does. Tim comes to genuinely care for this little creature (and secretly Damian is really pleased Tim is showing such interest in something that isn’t casework or WE).

Love it! Give Tim A Fish 2019

Anonymous said: What are you most looking forward to this year?

Hmmmmm... this is maybe a lil over optimistic, but I’m really looking forward to getting better this year. I’m trying harder and I have better resources than I ever had before.

@xylophonicsynapse said: Which of the bat-kids makes music playlists?

I’d say that all of them DO it sometimes, but the one who really gets into it is Damian. He likes his music organized, thank you very much.

Anonymous said: Hey Amy! Saw the ask about the line "The sun is UP and so is JESUS we are partying today." and I thought it was hilarious I MUST know where its from! Plz and thank you <3

Lmaoooo that was from a post on Easter

#okay I THINK that's all of the questions #the rest are fic prompts #asks

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markusstraya · 6 years ago

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Slow You Down

MASTERLIST | Support Me!

Pairing(s): 11th!Doctor x Insecure!Reader, Amy Pond x Rory Williams, Amy Pond x 11th!Doctor (Platonic)

Warning(s): Lying, Injury, Not sure what else

Word Count: 1296

Summary: One of your old injuries returns, and you’ll do everything to keep the Doctor from finding out. It’s not until you meet a certain Amy Pond, that you admit, out loud, how you feel.

Request(s): Anon -> Hi could you maybe do a 11dr x shy reader maybe the reader is really shy and insecure bc they have a limp/walking disability and thinks they’re ugly and unlovable and a burden and somehow the dr finds out and gets all protective and proves them wrong and it’s just really fluffy I could really use something like that thanks anyway Xx

Authors Note: So this took a while to write. I’m sorry. I really am. I was telling myself to get it done ages ago, but I just lost interest, and writers' block hit not long after. It wasn't until yesterday when I went to a family friends’ book signing, and I listened to her inspiring speech, that I realized I could do this. So here it is. I’ll be attempting to write out as many requested fics as possible today, with my goal to have started all of them.

Please remember that this is my first time writing for Doctor Who, so bear with me. I’ll also like to accept any constructive criticism! Let me know if you want to be tagged in anything!

It had been another successful adventure to another random planet with the Doctor. Thankfully, you didn’t have to run as much this time, as hiding your limp had become more and more difficult due to the rigorous exercise you both participated in on the daily. As you walked through the TARDIS doors the Doctor races in front of you, and you smile, watching him dash around the control panels. He flicked switches and pressed buttons in a silent race against himself. Silently, you chuckled. You always loved to watch how he would hurriedly run around like a mad man, even though he was, as he tried to fly the TARDIS by himself. Suddenly, the TARDIS rocked, which knocked you off your feet. Your arm darted out to grasp onto something, anything. You’d managed to grab onto the cold railing, which you’d meant to do before the Doctor had sent the TARDIS into motion. Before you knew it, the ship stabalised, all movement ceasing. You let out a shaky breath, hoping that the sudden movement didn’t cause your injury to flare up.

“(Y/N)?” You could see the Doctor looking worried as he searched for you. You raised your hand, as you began to sit yourself up. “Oh, there you are! Are you alright?” You nod while he grasps your small hand in his large one, as he helped you back to your feet.

“Thanks.” You thought your leg was fine, but as you take a step forward, you can only to pull it off the ground as you hissed in pain. Great. It just had to get worse. You could hear the Doctor walk towards you again, a concerned look on his face. His green eyes scanned you as his hands grasped your upper arms. “What’s wrong? (Y/N), are you sure you’re okay?” You sighed as you shake your head. Your brain searches for the easiest way to tell him what happened all those years ago, but you blame it on your fall. “I must have hurt it when I fell. It was-it was fine before.” Not a complete lie, but not the whole truth either. He raised a brow at my theory but accepted it anyway. I knew it was only a matter of time before he figured it out.

“Well, in the meantime, I propose that we go see some old friends of mine.” Now it was your turn to question his antics. As he noticed your look of confusion, he exclaimed, “We’re going to visit the Pond’s!”

Your arm wrapped around his shoulders, as he helped you out of the TARDIS leading you to the house ahead. You’ve never admitted it to yourself before, but you loved being this close to him. You swore you could feel a cluster of butterflies as they flapped their wings in your chest. You were just being ridiculous. A 900 plus-year-old alien falling for you? Nonsense! You couldn’t even attract any human men, let alone a Time-Lord. Still, one could hope.

The door ahead had swung open, the force had it swung into the wall, as two figures ran out. A man and a woman. The Pond’s, you supposed. “Doctor! Doctor, you’re back!” The woman shouted in her unmistakable Scottish accent as she shoved me out of the way to give him the biggest hug you’ve ever seen. The man, who had initially run out with her, had grabbed you in time, holding you steady as you recovered, smiling apologetically. “Ah, yes,” The Doctor’s voice had everyone’s attention focused on him, “Amy, Rory, this is (Y/N). (Y/N), this is Amy and Rory…the Pond’s!” You smiled as best as you could through the pain that began to shoot up your leg, as you waved slightly.

The pair led you both back to the house as the Doctor had moved back his previous position as he helped you to walk. “So, what’s the story with you two showing up out of nowhere? I mean, you,” She pointed to the Doctor, “Haven’t visited in three years.” You could see how uncomfortable he looked. He always hated to have to come back into the lives of those he traveled with, you knew that. Nervously, he focused on straightening his bow tie, obviously lost in thought about how to answer, when you spoke instead.

“I’d injured myself on the TARDIS after it had one of its weird episodes, so the Doctor thought that it would be a clever idea to have a short break and come visit you two.” You glanced over at him and gave him a wink. I’ve got your back. Rory had decided to busy himself with other, more important things, as he excused himself from the room, whilst his wife just stood and looked between us. “How bad is the injury?”

“Not bad, I just hurt my-“

“She hurt her leg pretty bad. She hasn’t been able to put any pressure on it. I’ve had to help her walk around.” Just spill the beans, why don’t ya? Her head turned to face me, her eyes scanned my legs as though she could see through my initial lie of it is because of the TARDIS. She gestured for us to head into, what I assumed, was a spare bedroom, where the Doctor helped me sit on the edge of the bed. It was kind of funny to watch him being unsure of what to do. I could tell he wanted to pace, to try and think of a way to help. But I also knew that he wouldn’t be able to.

“Okay, Doctor, I think it’s best if you leave while I see how bad it is. Go to the park or something, we have this covered.” He didn’t look convinced. Looking behind Amy, his eyes caught yours in a silent question. Are you sure you’re going to be alright? You nodded as you put your thumbs up, adding a smile for reassurance. He turned to walk out the door, before he again made sure that you were fine, only leaving with a promise to be back shortly. You shook your head at his antics.

“So, you going to tell me what the issue with this leg is?” Sighing, you patted the spot next to you, beginning your tale as Amy sat down and comforted you.

It had taken you a total of thirty minutes to re-tell the story and answer Amy’s questions, although you had to admit, it was nice to have it off your chest. She’d left shortly after having comforted you, saying something about cooking dinner for the four of you. You lay on the bed, eyes closed, as you think back to what she’d said about telling the Doctor when the door creaks open. “You could have told me, you know?” You sit up in panic, eyes locked onto the Doctor’s as he steps forward.

“And you could have minded your own business.”

The room went silent, as you both considered the others’ words. He fiddled with his tie, before he sat on the edge of the quilt-covered mattress, lost for words. You sighed as you take a deep breath, and start again.

“I’m sorry for not telling you, I just…” he looks up at you, hands coming to rest at his sides, “I just don’t want to feel like a burden.”

Eyes widening in shock, he leans forward and grasps your hands. “You, my dear (Y/N), will never be a burden. You understand?” Shaking your head, he gathers you in his arms, hugging you tightly. “You’re the only one who understands what being different is like, you know? We’re all different. Some of us more than others, and that is a good thing. You are a good thing.”

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#markusstraya #Slow You Down #doctor who #11th doctor #11th doctor x reader #request #fanfiction

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youre-on-a-starship · 7 years ago

Text

Prompt - “Can you please do a fic w Scotty and the reader being someone who works in engineering. Scotty low key knows the reader likes him a lil, but doesn't do anything bc he's older. Reader has no idea he likes her back, til one day it just happens (like tension is too much, I dunno). If you don't feel like it could work, it's all good, I just love your writing haha. Thanks!” - Anon

Word Count: 1,773

Author’s Note: It gets a little cracky in the middle? I think it opens and closes well in any case. I hope you like it!

Edit: I literally just realized that all my italics went way in the copy/paste process, so I’ve fixed that. Sorry!

“You know she likes you, right?” Jim folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the console.

Scotty just kept tapping at his work screen, ignoring you at the far end of the corridor working on your own problems.

“Aye,” he muttered.

“So? You gonna make a move?”

“Ach, I don’t, shit,” Scotty hissed as he jabbed his thumb into the display. “Has anyone ever told you you’re the worst damn distraction?”

“So? Are you?”

“Probably not,” Scotty said with a wave. “There’s nearly ten years’ difference there. She’s nice and everythin’ but… I don’t know. I don’t think those kinds of relationships tend to work verra well.”

“I’ve seen the way you look at her. And anyway, my parents were like, five years apart.”

“And how did that turn out?”

“Well, they seemed to be doing fine.”

“Sorry,” Scotty shook his head and leaned on the heels of his hands as the screen in front him began to restart. “Tha’ was a stupid question. I don’t know, Jim, I don’ think so. It’s hard to explain.”

“Try me.”

“Well, it’s just sort of unfair, you know? I mean, with ten years you’ve grown up in different times, you know different things, you’ve got different levels of experience. And sure, it’s all well and good now if ye can look past all that, but the further on you get… I just remember my grandparents. They were thirteen years apart and it nearly killed Gran to take care of him,” Scotty shook his head before bursting back up to full height. “And anyway! I’m busy! I don’ have the time to be entertaining anyone, least of all a twenty-six year old. Or you, for tha’ matter, why are you even here?”

“I’m just checking in with my senior officers,” Jim said with a shrug. He pushed off from the console and clapped Scotty on the back. “Let’s call it health and wellness.”

“May I get back to work?” Scotty snapped.

“As you see fit,” Jim said before wandering off between the machines.

---

“Mr. Scott?” you asked as you stepped into the doorway of his office. You kept your eyes glued on the PADD screen until you didn’t receive an answer. You looked up to see if he was even in the room and you froze when you saw him in his seat behind the desk. It was those eyes. Disarming. And he just stared back at you.

“Uh…” you started.

“We’ve talked about this.”

“Oh,” you shook your head. “Scotty, sorry.” You returned your eyes to your PADD. “I was just going over the terminal C-12 diagnostics, we’ve got some kind of bug preventing the readouts from collating properly.”

“Can ye fix it?”

Wouldn’t it be nice to hear that voice every day?

“Probably? I’m not sure, Lieutenant Rogers is probably a better fit for the job,” you said, lifting your eyes again.

“Well get him on it then; I think he’s just getting in Kelly’s way downstairs,” Scotty said, lowering his hands to his lap. “Is there anything else?”

“Um…”

Can’t you come up with anything?

“I don’t believe so.”

“A’righ’ then. Back at it.”

Blink.

“Back at it,” you repeated.

---

“Don’t do that!” Scotty shouted as you went for the door panel.

“Do you have a better idea?” you quipped back.

“No, but-”

You didn’t wait to listen for the rest of his speech. Pounding your fist on the control panel, you held your breath as the door swished open, a deafening roar of rushing wind and a gush of heat met you and you lurched into the transporter room.

Scotty’s panicked voice cut off suddenly as the door swished shut behind you.

The creature was curling in circles on the transporter pad like a dog chasing its tail. The fiery spine blinded you to look at, but you weren’t going to let it get the jump on you if you turned away.

As the perspiration started to boil under your shirt, you wished that you’d taken the garment off outside.

You stumbled through the thick air and punched a series of commands on the scaldingly hot console.

A tube of golden rings appeared around the creature and it disappeared. You collapsed to the floor, contemplating why you thought that the heat would disappear with it.

The door swished open and a pair of cool hands appeared on your shoulders.

“Y/N? Y/N!”

“Mmm?” you hummed. “Can you… can you keep the door open? It’s so hot…”

“Are y’okay?”

“Yeah,” you said through a heaving breath basking in the rush of cool air from the corridor.

“Why the hell did you do that?”

“You have to do something every day that scares you,” you mumbled, trying to sit up. Scotty scooped his hands around your arms and helped you. “That and if he melted the transporter console, I don’t know how else we’d deal with him. And I don’t want to have to rebuild the transporter console again.”

---

“Lieutenant.”

“Sir.”

Your back stiffened as Scotty stood next to you while you waited for the turbolift.

“Mind if I ride with ye?”

“Not in the least,” you said with a smile, strategically turning so that you could look past his nose instead of directly at his face.

He nodded and waited in silence with you. The door swished open and you both walked in and turned around.

“Where are ye-?” Scotty asked as a siren wailed and the lights turned off.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you whined, watching as the crew outside the double glass all slowed to gawk.

“Tha’s real helpful! Thanks!” Scotty waved them off with a grimace. “I dinna have anything with me.”

“Me neither; I was going for lunch,” you admitted, digging your thumb into the bridge of your nose.

Scotty put his hands on his hips and started pacing.

“Of all the days…” he muttered.

You took your comm unit out of your pocket.

“Hawkins,” you barked.

“Forget something, Lieutenant?” came the response.

“Lieutenant Commander Scott and I are stuck in turbolift two.”

“Lucky you.”

“Shut it. Can you boot it back up?”

“Yeah, yeah, give me a minute.”

Your comm went silent and you stuck it back in your pocket. You folded your arms and leaned back against the far wall from where Scotty had planted himself.

“I’m sorry about that,” you mumbled, reinserting your thumb into the bridge of your nose. “He was just being funny.”

“I understand.”

You opened your eyes and looked at his chest past your thumb.

“You understand.”

“Aye.” Scotty shrugged and looked at his shoes, sniffing.

You let your eyes crawl up his neck to sneak a peek at his face. It was turning red.

Say something.

“Where were you headed, Sir?”

Good job.

“Keenser had something he needed me to look at up on deck 6,” Scotty said, looking up and catching your eyes.

Silence descended and you dropped your hand from your face.

Say something better.

“I-”

The comm in your pocket blipped. You sighed and pulled it out.

“Go.”

“You’ve got power in 20 seconds.”

“Thanks Hawkins.”

You clapped your unit shut and pushed off from the wall, turning back toward the door.

“You what?”

You half turned back to Scotty.

“It was nothing, Sir. Just making small talk.”

He didn’t answer so you grinned and added, “When I’m hungry I’m bad at having real conversations.”

He snorted and the lights came back on. You tapped the command screen for the recreation deck as well as that for deck 6.

“Happy birthday, by the way,” you said quickly before pressing your lips together.

Scotty turned redder.

“Old guy li’ me… don’t pay much attention to birthdays anymore.”

“You’re not that old,” you said, glancing sideways. “In any case, have one on me tonight.”

The door swished open and you left before he could respond.

—

You laid spreadeagled on your back on the mat wheezing.

“You gonna make it, lassie?” Scotty’s voice came from somewhere above you. It made the ache in your shoulders ebb as you relaxed into the sound. You lifted two fingers and tried waving.

“‘M fine.”

“Hawkins, ta’ five, I think she needs a rest.”

“She will decide when she needs a rest,” you groaned, tucking your elbows under your waist and pushing yourself up to a 45. Your head fell back, but you stayed up. “Hawkins, take five.”

Hawkins snorted and padded out of the ring.

“Engineers aren’t made for hand-to-hand,” you mumbled, letting your throat stretch as your sweat-soaked hair weighed your head down toward the mat.

“Ye can say tha’ again. Are y’a’righ’ though?”

“Sure,” you quipped, opening your eyes and pushing yourself up to sitting in earnest.

Scotty stood up and offered you a hand.

Take it.

“Thanks,” you muttered, grasping his hand and letting him pull you up.

You tipped forward and he steadied you with his free hand. You blinked at him; this was closer than you intended to get.

Scotty’s cheeks started tinting pink in the middle.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, pulling yourself back a few inches. “Thank you.”

Scotty just grinned before pressing his lips together.

Say something!

“Are you going to that thing in Rec C tonight?” you blurted.

“I wasna especially planning on it,” Scotty said, his eyes suddenly darting back and forth between yours. “But if you’re going, I could reconsider.”

Your mouth opened and closed a few times before you sealed your lips and swallowed.

“I mean, unless you weren’t going-”

“Oh, no, I am. Or, I was. I could still,” you stammered, feeling yourself flush.

Scotty was pinker now as well.

You can just say it! Since when are you this nervous?

“If you’re not sold on it, I - I mean, I dinna know if you drink - I’ve got a really nice collection of scotch; I could bring a bottle to the observation deck. We’re getting close to that nebula that Spock’s been on abou’ for ages,” Scotty ventured, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he petered off.

“I, yeah. That, yeah,” you stuttered, looking at your shoes and taking a deep breath. You looked back up and he was grinning. “What changed?” you asked.

Scotty shrugged.

“You have to do something every day that scares you,” he said, tipping his face down in preparation for your response.

You couldn’t help but smile. Reaching up, you wiped the sheet of sweat off your forehead with the back of your arm.

“Then I guess we’re going to see a nebula tonight. Meet you there? Eight?”

“Eight,” Scotty agreed with a sigh and a smile.

#montgomery scott x reader #scotty x reader

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