#—this place has gone to the dogs | musings

[siriusmistakes]

DECEMBER 24, 2009; NUMBER 12 GRIMMAULD PLACE.

trigger warning: implied child abuse.

Snow had fallen so gracefully upon London. The muggle homes that lined Grimmauld square had bright, twinkling lights and Christmas trees that glittered in their frosted windows. If he listened closely, Sirius could make out the faint notes of ‘I’ll Be Home For Christmas’ playing on their static-filled radios.

He sat on a snow covered bench, his un-gloved hands red with cold, listening to the barely audibly music:

I’m dreaming tonight of a place I love Even more than I usually do And although I know it’s a long road back I promise you

The boy, just eleven, had only been home for three days and was already longing for the warmth of the Gryffindor Common Room, with its fire built up and roaring, or the snowy grounds where he and James and Remus and Peter had made poorly-crafted snow-elves (and then proceeded to have a snowball fight that ended with a snowy-faced Professor Kettleburn and a last-minute detention under all their belts, though it had been Sirius who’d thrown the fatal snowball).

His parents’ greeting at the train platform had been frosty—but that wasn’t entirely unexpected—and Regulus had lurked behind them, ever watching, ever the observer.

He heard the sharp shout of “Sirius!” though it was muffled behind heavy oak doors. Of course his mother was calling; he had to look smart for the annual Christmas party. He didn’t move, knowing it would more than likely result in a lack of dinner this evening; he was rooted to the spot. Frozen by the cold? Perhaps. Frozen to the spot because, for once, he craved silence, craved a moment’s peace that was not punctuated by mutterings of “My poor master and mistress, oh my poor mistress. Such a troubled, disgraceful boy.” Or worse, his mother’s shouting and heavy hand.

He still bore a dark welt across his cheek, though three days’ time and basic healing salves had helped it fade to a pale pink. But the imprint of a hand was still visible.

“Sirius?”

He hadn’t even heard the heavy oak door open, hadn’t heard the creak of the hinges or the soft crunching of boots over snow, “Mum’s looking for you.” Of course, of course, it was Regulus. Who else would be able to sneak up on him as easily and noiselessly as a ghost? His little brother was a head shorter than him, and just a year his junior, but he looked as close to a man as a ten year old could get.

Regulus’s dark hair, that same same ebony shade as Sirius’s (though the latter’s was flecked with ever-falling snow) was shorter and perfect styled to be kept out of his face. He wore a child-sized pair of bottle green dress robes—Sirius suspected he had a matching set hanging in his wardrobe—and those luminescent, gray eyes that were too wise for one so small, watched Sirius. Ever the observer.

“Sirius,” said Regulus again, his quiet, high voice tentative as he trudged through the snow, soiling his perfectly polished shoes, “Are you alright?” And there he sat, next to his brother, the snow dampening the seat of his freshly pressed robes.

“Mum’ll have your head if you ruin your outfit, Reggie,” Sirius muttered, his shoulder knocking a bit into his little brother’s. “And ‘m fine, really. Just needed a second. Y’know, before everyone comes in and I’m either the living freak show or a new piece of furniture that everyone ignores.”

A soft, small, warm hand gripped onto both of his chilled ones, holding fast for just a moment, knowing that, really, they didn’t have much time before they’d be parted once more—Regulus, after all, was to be paraded around as if he was Slytherin’s own bosom pal.

“You miss them. You miss being there.” They weren’t questions posed by his little brother, they were statements. He’d always been a little too smart for his own good.

“I miss being anywhere except here,” Sirius’s tone was harsher than any eleven year old’s should have ever been; for a moment he sounded nearly like a man. But those cold words had caused his little brother to stiffen in the slightest, and he sat up straight and tall. “I-“ Sirius’s voice, just a moment ago filled with such resentment, broke, and hot, fat tears rolled down his red-with-cold cheeks. “I just don’t like being back here. They hate me, Reggie. That’s never going away. I-I like it better at Hogwarts than here because… because people at Hogwarts like me,” A watery laugh and a stifled hiccup broke off his sentence.

In a barely audible voice, so quiet that, really, he wasn’t speaking to Regulus, but to himself, he whispered, “Nobody likes me here.”

But that little boy, with his intelligent gray eyes and, the ache in his chest of idolizing his older brother, just squeezed Sirius’s hand once more, and whispered back, “I still like you. You’re my brother. I’ll always like you.”

But the door opened—crashed open—and there stood Walburga, her dark hair elegantly done up and dolled up in a dress that matched Regulus’s plumage, her face white with anger.

“Regulus Black! Get up this instant, you’ll ruin your clothes!” And she took his free hand, and pulled him up and briskly, efficiently, brushed the snow from his robes. She send the younger Black inside, and he went obediently, with only one backward glance towards his brother.

Then Walburga turned her steely eyes to Sirius. “Get inside, I won’t tell you again.” For once, she was not yelling—it seemed her fury had surpassed even that—but her tone was deadly quiet. When Sirius didn’t move, just looked at her with red-rimmed eyes and a snow cold face, she walked and clasped his face with one taloned hand, so tight he couldn’t have moved his jaw if he’d wanted to. “Inside, boy. I will not tell you again.”

But Sirius’s quiet-for-once defiance, his heartsickness, left him still immobile.

“Fine!” His hard-lined mother shouted, inches from his face, that one syllable echoing and bouncing around the square. He flinched. “Fine! Stay out here all night! Freeze to death! At least this way, no one will have to look at the boy I raised and see what you’ve become.” She turned on her heel and walked back into the house.

He heard the click of the lock on the heavy door, and knew that, now, it would be no use trying to get back inside for a while.

He closed his eyes, ears listening hard, and heard it once more, so faintly, taking him to a large stone castle with suits of armor and pesky poltergeists and friends.

Christmas Eve will find me Where the love light gleams I'll be home for Christmas If only in my dreams

[alexiroflife]

"first day"

fluff, happy fushiguro family, slice of life, megs' first day of school send-off

Synopsis: you've been dating toji for a while now and megumi subconsciously calls you mom for the first time on his way out the door

to sum it up: you adore the little family you've come to be a part of

WC: 1,701

Warning(s): none

"Megs!" you call out, standing by the front door awaiting the dark-haired boy's arrival. He soon shuffles around the corner from his room, throwing a bag over his shoulder with a tired expression on his face.

His father turns to watch him walk in, crossing his arms as he leans against the counter. "The hell were you doing in there that took you so long?"

"Nothing," Megumi grumbles, moving to brush past the two of you to rush to the door. "I just wanted to look presentable, that's all."

"So you took thirty minutes to get ready?" Toji quirks a brow.

"Believe it or not, dad, some would say that's not enough time to get ready in the morning."

"Not at all, actually," you agree.

Toji tugs the corner of his mouth in judgment. " Well, you should know," he says to you. "You spend at least ten years in the bathroom when we have somewhere to go."

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "That's such an overreaction. I never take any longer than an hour." Megumi and his father exchange knowing looks and you place your hand on your hip. "What?"

"Don't worry baby," Toji assures you. "It's okay to be in denial."

"We've timed it before. The last time we all went out to dinner as a family, you took two and a half hours to get dressed," Megumi adds.

"That's only because I had to shower and pick out an outfit then do my hair and makeup," you defend.

"Isn't that a little overkill? It takes me half that time to shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, and get some homework done."

"Whatever. Your sister would understand," you sigh.

"Unfortunately, she may be worse than you."

"Women," Toji tsks. You slap his bicep and he pretends to flinch, smirking down at you playfully. "Ouch."

"Alright, well, I'm ready now. I don't wanna be late," the sixteen year old says, turning back to reach for the door handle.

"Ah ah ah, wait!" you stop him. "You're not going anywhere without me getting a good look at you. Turn around, I wanna see how the uniform fits."

Megumi lowers his head and complies, turning back around stiffly for you to admire him. You press your hand to your lips to conceal your smile, eyes gleaming with pride as you look over the sharp navy jacket and pants he adorns.

"Awwww," you coo. "It fits perfectly! How does it feel?"

"Pretty good," Megumi nods, moving his arm around slightly to show his mobility in the fabric. "It's comfortable too. It shouldn't be a problem during missions."

"I still can't believe how quickly time has gone by," you muse. "You're already going into your first year at Jujutsu High! Are you excited?"

"You better be," Toji grunts. "Your uncle Gojo hasn't gotten off my ass about your enrollment for years. At least now, he'll finally shut up."

"I still don't understand why I have to have him as a teacher. He's such a moron, I doubt he'll teach us anything useful," Megumi mumbles.

"Moron or not, he's the strongest sorcerer of the modern age and he's helped out so much. I'm sure he'll be able to give you a good experience," you say positively.

"We talkin' about the same Gojo here? The one who trashed my house playing tag with Megumi and the dogs in the living room?" Toji points out and his son grits his teeth at the memory.

"Oh come on, Satoru was like twenty one back then. I can only imagine the crazy shit you've with the kids when you were raising them," you tease.

"You don't even want to know," Megumi exhales.

"Please, you came out just fine, didn’t ya?” Toji says, reaching out his hand to ruffle at Megumi's spiky hair. The teen recoils, craning his head away and shielding himself with his arm.

"Quit it. I'm not five anymore."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You're all grown up now, I know. Gonna be a first-grade sorcerer before I can even blink an eye."

"Who said that I would be first grade? I'm only a first year."

"Yeah, and look at who your pops is," Toji grins. "Plus, you got an advantage that I never had. You'll do just fine."

Megumi hums indifferently, doubting himself momentarily but accepting the words nonetheless. "Alright, are we ready?"

"No, not yet!" you pull out your phone quickly and open the camera. "I need to get pictures."

The blue-eyed boy slumps. "(Y/n), I gotta go."

"I know, I know, just a few," you promise, holding your camera up to capture his awkward figure in the frame. "Okay, smile."

Megumi doesn't, and of course you don't actually expect him to. Instead, he calmly stares at the camera with his arms at his sides, unsure of what to do with themselves. Toji moves to stand behind you, leaning down to take a peak at the million pictures you're snapping.

"Toji, go stand with him so I can get one with the both of you."

The two groan simultaneously. "Doll, can we just focus on gettin' the kid to school?"

"It's fine. His stuff is already moved into his dorm. We have time."

"But-"

"Shut up and go stand with your son, now," you glare firmly up at the green-eyed man and he huffs.

"Yes, ma'am."

Toji raises a hand to his hip and tilts his head boredly as he stands beside Megumi, the two of them sharing the exact same blank stare as they look into the camera. You squeal happily. "You two are so cuteee!"

"We done, now?"

"No, I wanna get one more with Megs, and then I'm good." The boys give you a look, but you wave them off. "I mean it! Gosh, here Toji. Take our picture."

Toji obliges, grabbing your phone from your hand as you rush over to the tall boy. His expression melts into serenity as you place your hands on his shoulders and lean your head against his arm, smiling widely at the camera as a hint of a smile touches Megumi's lips.

Toji's heart warms at the sight, watching the way his son grows comfortable in your presence. The picture of the two of you looks so natural t to him like you are meant to be a part of his family, which he knows you are.

He snaps the photo and nods. "Got it."

You exhale, turning to face Megumi. You brush your hands over his shoulders to straighten his jacket, ridding it of any lint and wrinkles. "Okay, Megumi, please remember to be safe."

"I know. I will," he nods.

"And don't be too reckless when it comes to training."

"I won't."

"And try to make friends. I know how easy it is for you to push others away."

"I'll try."

You press your lips together with a final sigh, looking over Megumi's face warmly. You wrap your arms safely around him into a hug, your emotions getting the best of you. You have spent the past year caring for Megumi like your own, and watching him head off to achieve his goals makes your heart swell with joy and fear all the same.

"Text me or your father or Tsumiki if you need anything. Anything at all," you tell him. He returns your hug gently.

"Okay," he chuckles lightly and you pull away. "Don't worry, I'll be fine."

"...I know you will..." you pout. "Okay, I'll let you go. Good luck. I hope you have an amazing first day. I'll see you at the end of the week, yeah?"

"Mhm. I'll call you to let you know how the day went later."

"Please do."

Toji hands you back your phone and walks toward the door with Megumi. "Let's get a move on," he says. He leans over quickly to peck your lips farewell. "I'll be back in a few."

"Don't speed, Toji."

"Speeding gets you places quicker," he winks and you suck your teeth disapprovingly. Megumi opens the door, his dad gripping the frame.

"Bye, boys. Stay out of trouble," you wave, eyes glassy as you watch Megumi walk out.

"See ya, doll."

"Bye, mum."

The three of you freeze the second the words hit the air, everyone stilling in their tracks.

You feel your heart burst as overwhelming happiness consumes you. Megumi keeps his face forward, hiding his reddening cheeks as he processes what he has just said. Toji stares at the back of his son's head, eyes wide, before he turns to look at you to find your shocked, giddy face.

You don't have any time to reply when Megumi clears his throat suddenly, sweat dotting his forehead, and he walks rigidly out of the house and swiftly down the hall without looking back.

Toji stays behind, keeping an eye on you when you look up at him, stunned. "Did he just...?" you murmur.

"Yep."

Your eyes immediately well with tears and your lips wobble, your hands flying over your mouth. "He sees me as his mom?" you whisper.

Toji chuckles, ducking down to you with his hand still gripping the door. "Of course he does. He's always adored you. Him and Tsumiki."

"I'm gonna cry."

The assassin chuckles softly, pressing his thumb to the corner of your eye gently. "You're already cryin.'"

"Shut up," you sniff. "God, I love those kids so much. I just wanna give him all the hugs in the world."

"And you'll be able to. There isn't a better woman on this planet to be there for the kids," he kisses your cheek. "That's why I plan t'marry you someday."

"Fuck you, Toj. You're gonna make me cry even more."

"Sorry, baby. Can't help talkin' about it," he leans back to the doorway. "Let me get the kid squared away and make sure he's not dyin' of embarrassment, then I'll be back to talk to ya about makin' this official."

"You're being for real?"

"Of course I am."

You lower your hands and beam. "Tell Megumi I love him and get back here soon."

"I will," he hums. "But I thought you said no speeding?"

"Just- make sure the two of you at least get to the school in one peace."

He smirks. "Will do, doll."

[charliemwrites]

Bark bark bark awoooo

No content warnings

You’re gonna fucking combust.

Somehow, someway, this is Johnny’s fault. You’re not sure how yet, so he it isn’t fair for him to be in trouble, but you know it.

“This is your fault,” you tell him, pouting in bed — bare ass naked, but that means nothing to him, he’s a dog. He cocks his head, and you wave your (broken) vibrator at him. “I don’t know how, but it is. Is this because I wanna chop your balls off?”

His mouth closes, eyes big - like he actually understands you. In your horny delirium, you almost believe he really does.

You flop onto your back with a sigh, eyes a little wet with frustration.

It’s been two months since you last successfully got off. Your vibrator (and its replacement… and its replacement’s replacement) keep breaking, or running out of battery. The plug is defective or falls out of the socket.

Once you successfully got right to the edge - just for it to die. You almost did cry that time.

Sure, there’s your hand. But every time you try ol’ reliable a certain four-legged roommate interrupts one way or another. And when you tried to kick him out of the room, and then ignored the howling, scratching, and general drama - there was loud and rapid knocking at your door.

Like fucking clockwork. If you get anywhere at all, you never get to finish.

It wouldn’t be so bad, either. Your libido isn’t anything crazy, you don’t think. At least it wasn’t before. But now there’s Soap.

Soap who you should not be so attracted to. Who has no sense of propriety or boundaries, who murmurs the dirtiest things to you in the most public and otherwise mundane places. And he just keeps. Showing. Up.

Like he’s got a tracker on you or something. (You’ve checked, he doesn’t.)

He’s like every guilty fantasy you had as a good, studious girl back in high school. The kind of guy to grab your thigh under your parents’ dinner table and take your virginity in the back of his car. Maybe corner you by the lockers between classes to kiss you silly and drive up your absence record.

You never actually went for those boys — and perhaps gratefully, they never went for you. In romance novels, it would be a quaint little coming of age story. The stuff to swoon over. But reality was a lot scarier for you, especially with your older sister always keeping an ear out to report back to your parents and… well, yeah.

You’ve always been a firm introvert, anyway. That’s why you live out in the woods with only a dog for regular company.

But Soap. Soap is some unholy amalgamation of those innocent, shy girl fantasies turned R-rated. Like the grown-up version of those cute YA novels.

And you have no defense for it — except distrust, that is.

Soft-hearted as you are, you know you don’t do casual well. And you know that guys like Soap just like to spin you up and up until you finally give in, think the dreaded words “maybe it’ll work out�� despite that rational voice in your head saying, “don’t bet on it.”

Doesn’t stop you from secretly wanting him though.

Fear is the only thing keeping you in check now. Some of it for you own feelings; of getting invested in a guy that has done nothing but treat you like a prime cut of meat. The rest of it is a genuine concern that he might be a bit dangerous. He’s so much bigger than you, visibly stronger. Has gone out of his way to make you uncomfortable (doesn’t matter that a very dark and slutty part of you liked it) and ignored your attempts at brushing him off.

Fear, unfortunately, is beginning to add to the temptation.

“I’m not going to do it,” you tell yourself, or maybe Johnny. Soap’s contact is on the screen. You don’t remember putting it into your phone, but you must have at some point. “Nope. No way.”

You slide a sideways look at Johnny, tail wagging at a steady clip.

“He’s probably a former frat boy or something, right?” you muse.

Snort.

“No, you don’t think so?” you question, sitting up. He happily crawls into your lap when you pat your thighs, chin resting on your tummy. “Nah, you’re right. Could almost imagine him beating the hell out of one for pissing him off.”

A little grumbly noise. You smile and start petting absently over his head and ears, phone forgotten now.

“This is dumb anyway,” you sigh, head tilted back to the ceiling. “You don’t like men. I couldn’t bring him back here.”

Johnny’s ears flick. You giggle and start flopping them around, making airplane noises. Eventually he huffs and starts licking at your face until you stop, complaining that you’ll need to wash off now.

—

“Fuck it.”

Johnny picks his head up, staring at you as you run a hand down your face.

“Fuck it all. I’m going to a bar. I’m getting… I dunno. Laid or something.” Thank god it’s only Johnny here. You don’t think you could live with the embarrassment of someone else hearing the way you talk.

You set your hands on your hips, nod to yourself.

“And if it happens to be Soap, then… sign from the universe, right?” You grimace a bit, striding for your bedroom. “Please don’t let him be a murderer or something…”

For once, Johnny is perfectly behaved as you get ready. He doesn’t try to lick at you when you come out of shower (freshly shaved and lotioned and everything). Sits patiently on the bed as you pick through your closet, even noses at a pretty pink dress you rarely wear but were considering for this.

He doesn’t try to bump your arms or hands while you do your makeup, just watches attentively. You choose a pretty, matching bra-panty set, apply a light spritz of perfume. Hesitate over jewelry.

“Is it normal to wear jewelry when you plan on fucking?” you wander allowed.

A little “boof” from the bed. You’ll take that as a yes.

You decide on a set of faux pearls with a gold heart pendant in the center. Not quite a choker, but high enough on your throat to suggest one. A delicate bracelet, a pair of stud earrings, and you’re just about set.

“Christ, I hate doing this alone,” you mutter, fumbling with the zip on the back of the dress.

Lastly, the shoes.

“Fuck it,” you say again. Your mantra for the evening, apparently. Wobble into a pair of heels, a bow on the outside of each ankle where you buckle them.

You pause when you’re done, giving yourself a once over in the full length mirror. Pleased with what you see. Coquettish and pretty, not necessarily bombshell sexy maybe, at least not on first glance. But the necklace, the heels, the cutouts at the waist of your dress… it’s all exactly what you wanted.

“Alright,” you breathe, tummy swooping with excitement. “I can do this… right?”

Johnny’s gotten down off the bed, is keeping a respectful distance. You appreciate it, don’t want to have to lint roll hair off yourself.

“Oh, god. What if he’s bad?” You ask, giving him a horrified look. “What if he’s been, like, compensating?”

To your shock, he stomps his paw and starts damn near howling. Carrying on and on like he’s bitching you out. You blink in shock, almost laugh — then check the time.

“Oh! Don’t worry, baby. I won’t let you starve!”

You toddle off to the kitchen and prep his dinner, scrunching your nose at the raw chicken and beef liver. He grumbles and fusses the whole way, making you laugh as you pretend to have a whole conversation about the economy with him.

“Okay, bonnie Johnny,” you coo, setting his bowl down. “Be good, okay? If I bring someone back here please don’t eat them, okay?”

More grumbles and whines and growls. You roll your eyes, blow him a kiss, and slip out the door.

You tell yourself you just need action with someone. Don’t admit to yourself that there’s really a specific someone you’re hoping to see.

First | Previous | Next

Masterlist

[shadowsndaisies]

the hard deck: athena settles debts (pt 4)

WC: 898

synopsis: what if Mav's daughter settled his tab that night in the hard deck

main masterlist

athena-verse masterlist

a/n: this was brought on as i rewatched top gun maverick again, because i love it. and even though i should be finishing the last update of season 1 for codename: nightingale (which is only missing the final fight btw its almost done!!!) i took a little brain rot break. also top gun's been officially added to my masterlist!

You'd heard the jukebox get pulled and then the piano, and you couldn't move. Even when Phoenix tried to convince you to join her by the piano. You watched as Hangman and Coyote stayed with a few others by the pool tables at first, but even they started wandering over eventually.

Hangman, however, moved slow. He lingered by you first, saddling up beside the table. And ehen he realized your gaze was going to stay focused on your beer's label, where your fingers were slowly peeling it off the bottle, he knocked on the table. A look far more gentle than you'd anticipate in such a public place crossed his face as your eyes met his.

" 'Thena?" he calls your callsign with a softness that you know is real, and your lips tug down at the thought of having to lie to him when he's being so open with you.

Before you can say anything else before he can ask more, Penny rings the bell again, and chants of "overboard" can be heard. Saved by the bell, literally.

"Go," you nod. "Penny beckons," you tease softly, forcing your lips to turn up.

He nods, and both Payback and Coyote go with him.

When you follow them with your gaze, you meet your dad's eyes, and when the three younger pilots take up positions, boxing him in, a small quirk of a smirk curls at your lips, because it would be him. He seems to catch your eye just in time and offers up a half smile in response. You watch as Penny gives a nod, her head jerking toward the door. Then the three hoist your dad up in their arms and carry him, before throwing him out, a small amused smile now on your lips, as you make a note to stop by the Kazansky house tomorrow, Ice would love to hear about this.

You're so focused that you miss the first few notes. It's not until a familiar voice fills the space with lyrics that you learned as a baby that there's a sickening twist in your stomach and a renewed need to leave as you push out of your seat, leaving the half empty beer behind.

You move to the bar as Bradley begins to sing and have to force yourself not to look at him. You know what you'd see, aviators perched low on his nose, still slightly crooked from when he'd caught a fastball to the face as a teenager. Curls that are almost golden in the light but had to be matted somewhat by the heat and sweat inside the bar. He had that stupid mustache just like his father's, that was just borderline within regs. You know his dog tags were visible on top of his tank top, with some stupid Hawaiian shirt hanging open. You know what you'd see, so you do your beat to avoid looking.

If you had caved, what you would've also seen is how he searched for you while he sang. A slow scan of the bar, for the girl he learned the lyrics beside, propped on an old piano as a toddler as your father's and his mother sang along, holding little you in her arms. In the mass of people surrounding the piano though, he's having a hard time finding you, why did he pick this song?

"Hey, Penny," you call her name, and her head snaps to you, from where she'd been watching your dad get tossed out.

Your lips quirk on end a bit. Years have gone by, and her relationship with your father, volatile as it can be, still has been the most steadfast of your life. She was your mom in all the ways that mattered.

"I didn't realize they called you back too," she says, talking a bit loud over the music.

"Best of the Best, Miss Penny," you muse, though there's a hollowness in your chest as you say it, she seems to catch it.

"What can I get you, sweetheart?" she asks, grabbing a glass and you shake your head.

"No, I, uh… I'll settle for the old man," you tell her, head tilting as you slide your card across the bar.

"No, he'd—"

You cut her off, though, before she can argue. "No, let me. I, uh, I was heading out anyways. You know him, he'd hate to have an open tab," you admit, throwing in a joke to add some levity.

"Sweetheart-" she tries again, and you know she can read you. Despite all the years and gaps in your relationship with her. This was the woman who took you to buy pads for the first time, you knew that she knew you.

"Please, Pen, I… I can't be here, not with this. It's so much worse for him, too. Let me settle it," you admit to her rawly, and her gaze moves to where there's a live performance.

"History's a fickle thing, isn't it?" she offers instead, taking your card. "The ones we truly care about, they always seem to come back in the end, though."

"You'd know better than me, Pen," you shoot back, your tones got a bit defensive but she doesn't even flinch.

She hands you your card with a bittersweet smile, "I guess I would," she nods.

You let out a sigh, and look back at her, "Tell Amelia I'm back?" you ask, and she nods. "At the end of this, whatever it is, tell her I'll take her for ice cream?" you tag on, signing the receipt.

"I will, she'll hold you to it though (Y/n)," Penny confirms.

"I'd expect nothing less as a woman of the Navy," you muse, tucking your card away and turning from the bar.

Rooster's still singing, his voice as pretty as ever. And you can't help your self. You cave.

sue me, you think as you look over at him just once as you pause by the door.

"Well, kiss me baby! Ooh! That feel's good!" he sings, and you smile to yourself despite the ache, shaking your head as you push the doors and walk out. He had a smile on his face, and maybe, maybe you could learn to be okay.

Maybe.

(Probably not.)

You're unlocking your truck when you hear your name. "Athena!" You pause and turn, surprised to see both Phoenix and Hangman; after all, they always seem to be at ends.

"Where are you going?" Phoenix is the one to ask, her cheeks are flushed and her chests heaving a bit from how she'd all but been screaming the lyrics from beside Rooster.

"Home, gotta get some beauty rest before tomorrow," you tell them. "Make sure I'm ready to show you all up," you cover.

"Are you sure?" Phoenix asks, hesitating by the door.

"Yeah, I'll see you bright and early," you reassure her.

She seems to take your word as she nods once at you before heading back into the bar. Hangman, on the other hand, has stayed outside.

"Bravado was never your strong suit, 'Thena, it's mine," he drawls, and though the words are cocky, you understand the question hidden there.

"Go inside, Jake. I'll see you tomorrow," you say softly before getting in your truck. "I gotta keep both my feet on the ground," you add, willing him to understand, before shutting the door.

You notice he stays, watching as you pull out. It's only once you pull out on the road that he turns to go back in.

He be-lines straight to Coyote, missing the look that Rooster sends him as struts back in. The one that lingers on the door, waiting for you to walk back in as well, not that you do.

...

a/n: come talk with me about this athena idea if you want, it's been a while since i've posted anything not DC, so it was kind of fun. I have a longer non-related top gun fic in my drafts too, but that'll come after cnng probably

everything tags: @butterfly-skinnylegend

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 33 all chapters

WARNING: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, YANDERE SH!T. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

As it turns out, the Underworld provides a whole slew of services designed to deal with circumstances just like this. Medical care, emergency home repair–and body disposal, all for the price of a handful of gold coins.

You sit with John as a man your lover so descriptively calls Doc sews up Wick’s wounds. There is blood on your face, and your silk pjs. Dog sits on your foot, clearly anxious about letting either one of you out of his sight. In the same spirit, John’s good hand is clasped in yours, or yours in his–neither of you have been able to let go. 

Another man known simply as Charlie orchestrates the removal of the collection of corpses through the house. Yet more tattooed tradesmen work on boarding up the blown out window in the kitchen with a big piece of plywood. 

It’s a miracle, really, the house didn’t burn down. 

“Thought you’d left all this behind you, John?” asks Doc, making a neat knot in the former assassin’s side. 

“So did I.”

“What will you do?”

“The same thing I always do when I’m lost. Talk to Winston.” 

The two men share a snort of laughter you don’t entirely understand. 

When Doc finishes with John he gives you a bottle of pain meds, and a bottle of what are, as far as you can tell, pharmacy grade amphetamines. “In case he has to work again.” You take them with wide eyes and a nod, praying to whatever devil might be listening that that won’t be necessary. 

You’re fairly certain that no one up above is interested in any of you anymore. 

You killed a man. 

You killed a man with a gun to save John, and you do not feel sorry at all. 

Numb, perhaps, but not sorry. 

John groans as he adjusts himself on the couch. You reach out to steady him, helping him best you can. He is heavy, and you look at the stairs with doubt. “Maybe we should sleep down here tonight?”

He blinks at you, undoubtedly thinking you incredibly naïve. “We can’t stay here, baby. It’s not safe.”

“Where will we go?” 

“We’re going to the city,” says John, sounding weary as a man twice his age. “I know a place. Can you drive?”

You have to admit you’re a little dizzy from the whiplash. In the span of a few hours, you’ve gone from being locked up like a princess in the castle, to murdering a man, and now John is going to let you drive?

He must read the blatant surprise on your face. He doesn’t like it, his grip tightening on your hand. “These are bad, bad men who would eat you for breakfast. You’ve got to stick with me.” 

You bristle at this, because even though you absolutely should be thinking about escape? You’re not. You were thinking about how you were going to manage taking care of him in this state, and it pisses you off that he’s still so fucking worried about controlling you that he can’t see the writing written in blood on the wall. 

Or at least, written in blood, on the kitchen floor. 

“You asshole,” you say for the second time tonight. It wins you a lordly scowl that for some fucked up reason thrills you to the tips of your toes. But it’s too late to turn back now. “Were you there, when I fucking shot a man for you? Maybe this is just business as usual for you, but it’s fucking new to me.”

He clenches his other fist on his knee, seeming to count to ten with his eyes closed. “I’m sorry,” he finally grinds out. “I know…Are you alright?”

You guess that you put up a good enough front that he forgot that maybe he should ask. Good on you. Maybe.

“No, not really,” you answer truthfully. “But I don’t have any choice, do I?”

He actually has the grace to cast his eyes down, seeming to really think on what you’re saying. “You had a choice,” he muses quietly, his thumb sliding over your knuckles. “In the kitchen.”

You stroke Dog’s head for something to do with your other hand, which is shaking. Your thundering heart beats painfully in your chest. From the corner of your eye you take in this anomaly of a man. This man, who kidnapped you, who has been playing mental games with you for months, who has kept you prisoner, who has taken your body to heights you never even knew were possible, who has spoiled you, who has adored you and degraded you all in the same breath–this man, who somehow, you know you love with your whole heart. 

“John…” He tilts his head to look at you, his eyes glazed with pain. You’re not sure if it’s physical or mental at this point. “Did you really think I could shoot you?”

Perhaps he did, because in his mind, the only acceptable answer to a wrong against you is murder. 

Perhaps in the brutal world he’s occupied since he was just a child, it is. 

Suddenly he can’t meet your eyes. “Maybe I would deserve it, y/n.”

The fact that he knows that is definitely a good sign. 

But the tricky truth is–it wasn’t all bad. And the good? The good was almost worth the bad, you dare to think now that you’ve survived it. You know better than to say that, because you know you are in the midst of a negotiation right now.

“I love our life together, when you’re sweet to me, John. I only want to murder you when you boss me around. And I only mean that figuratively.”

A huff of laughter escapes him; there is a glimmer of hope in his miserable dark eyes. You know it’s insane, after everything he’s done, but you feel sorry for this man. 

“If you would just treat me as an equal, instead of constantly trying to control me…” I’ll be your ride or die. You can’t bring yourself to say it aloud yet. He already has enough power over you. “Do you think…that’s something we can work on?”

He could have pushed you over with a feather, when slowly he nods, bringing your knuckles to his lips to kiss them. “If you don’t want to murder me after everything I’ve done to you…maybe anything is possible.”

You on the other hand, can only blink. Did you just hear what you think you heard? 

That blood-pressure induced ringing has returned to your ears again. The explosion and gunfire surely didn’t help, but somehow this is far more momentous to you. Your surprise for the magnitude of this admission surprises you, and you must show it in the lift of your brows. It makes him smile ruefully; you’re not sure why the sight of it squeezes your heart so. 

You are not so stupid as to think this traumatic event has healed him miraculously, knocked some loose screw back into place. The mind doesn’t work like that. But just maybe, it did put some things into perspective. You are allies now against a mutual cause, rather than enemies of each other. And just maybe, when you tell him that you don’t want to leave him, he will actually believe you from now on. 

“Anyway…I can drive the Rover…” you say with confidence, even though you are still utterly flabbergasted he’d even give you the opportunity. “I don’t know about the ‘Stang.” The Mustang you think you could manage in an emergency, but it’s been a long time since you had to drive a stick, and being responsible for his baby doesn’t sit well with you. 

“That will do.” He grumbles, mostly to himself, “I’ve got to teach you to drive. There is so much I need to teach you.”

You’re not sure what he means by that. You are too tired to hash it out completely right now, but you sense that something, a whole lot of something, has changed in the past few hours between you.  

He makes to get to his feet with a groan–and can’t quite. “Maybe I am too old for this shit,” he grouses. 

“John, you got shot, stabbed, and fought off ten heavily armed assassins. I think you can count tonight as a win.”

Again, that bitter huff of laughter escapes him. You help John to his feet, trying to steady him as best you can. If he’d injured one of his legs badly you would be so fucked; there was no way you could carry him.

“Um…who were they?” You realize you haven’t even talked about who was just trying to kill him. You suppose you already think you know the answer, but then again you could be wrong.

“Camorra goons, I’m pretty sure,” hisses John, clearly in pain. “Guess I should have kept someone alive for questioning…I’ve always been bad at that.”

You press your lips, because it shouldn’t be funny…but if you don’t laugh about it, you might cry. Your life has been so weird lately, it almost just seems par for the course in a way. 

“John…” you chortle and sigh. “Surely the d’Antonio kid gets the picture now? You’ve killed everyone he’s sent after you? Why can’t these assholes just leave you alone?” Why the prince of the Camorra would court such trouble is beyond you. 

“Good question.” He groans as he takes a step, his good arm slung over your shoulder. “The young ones, especially the second or third generation, think they have to prove themselves. Or maybe…he loved his mother and wants me dead. It’s a faint possibility.” 

“Italian boys and their mothers.” 

John chuckles a little, then winces. “Please, sweetheart,” he entreats you. “Don’t make me laugh.” 

Maybe you are a silly creature, but hearing the endearment for you warms something in your heart that had been left out in the cold for too long. “Fine,” you agree, even though humor is absolutely your biggest coping mechanism. “Tell me what we need to do next?” 

“We need to pack.”

“Ok. What?”

“Suits, and guns.” 

You guess in a nutshell, that was the essential distillation of his world, once upon a time. Now, quite against your will, you both are being kicked back into it. By the look in John’s dark eyes, for some reason you have a feeling it’s the Camorra who are going to regret it. 

[blingblong55]

Until I found you-König

GN!Reader, angst, fluff

Oh, let me hold you I'll never let you go again like I did

Your relationship with König was more than amazing, he always looked forward to coming home to you. But as the missions started to pile up for him, the more he saw himself losing hope to come home safe or alive. He couldn't and wouldn't be the reason why you were sad if he were to die, so he thought that maybe if he broke up with you before one of the toughest missions he's been on, surely you'd be able to move on without him in the world.

The day that he broke up with you was nothing but painful, you were sad but also mad at him. His reasoning was not clear and all you could think about was that maybe there was someone else for him and he just didn't want you to know that. Were you not enough? Was there something wrong with the way you loved him? He definitely knew you loved him with every fibre of your being but you didn't think he was fully aware of how much love you have for him. There was a deeper reason for this, not just because he thought I'd be mean of him to leave you alone and in despair.

Two months ago he was closer to death than ever before. A bullet passed through his shoulder, it was by pure luck he never got hit. That was when reality set in for him. He can't just leave you like that. Stupid excuse for such a valid reason. And now, as he walks into the flat you two called home, your stuff is gone and the home feels colder. The colours and comfort the place brought him once, are now gone with you.

Reality set in. He let the one good thing he had in this miserable world go. If only he was as smart in love as he is on the field. What a shame. König now sits on the sofa that you two once cuddled in after he came home. What a fool was he to think he'd have you for years to come. He used to think he was at risk of getting hurt only to be the one who brought such pain to a wonderful and kind person. Couldn't he be more kind to your heart and feelings? Memories flush through, the night he got news his Oma died, you were there. Holding him close he silently cried for her. You were there the day his mum was in the hospital, calming him down, making tea and visiting his mum every week after the incident. You made sure to clean her face after every meal, made him feel comfort when he felt it was wrong to be weak and you were the one who was there the night he had the worst panic attack due to his PTSD.

Why is he such a fool?

He saw you at the park, reading a book under your favourite tree. He smiles, knowing that at least that part of you has never changed. If he is such a tough and ruthless soldier then why hasn't he gone to you and started to talk? Because he is a coward at love, not war. You laid back, jumper on your back to make the tree bark more comfortable to rest on. He used to be the one you rested on as you read. It was the one thing he loved to do in public. He was Shakespeare and you his Anne. The muse to his love and sonnets.

"Liebe?" he softly says as he finally has the courage to talk and approach you. "König." you sounded surprised. Oh, how he longed to hear your voice and the sweet sound you made when you said his name. Sweet angel, his sweet sweet angel.

Now, four years since he and you rekindled your love, you two now chase your dog around the park because the dog can't let go of the dog bone a little kid threw by accident. You are now his spouse, the one and only for a man like him. Never did he know he could feel so much for one person, yet he is there, loving, protecting and caring for you.

[aestherin]

KEEP MY HEART

goal 09: do you like sweets?

You are fully self-aware that you have delusional tendencies, but you know yourself well enough to think that you weren't that far gone yet to the point that you will start seeing your long distance crush right in front of you.

He's probably real.

Taking notice of your presence, Scaramouche then turned towards you. His face was hard to read, other hand holding his phone and the other inside the pockets of his denim pants. His oversized black shirt was tucked, highlighting his good figure.

'Holy. He's got good style too,' you thought. It was simple, yes. But he carries outfits so damn well.

But what is he even doing here in your uni?

Since an eye contact has already been made, you flashed a sheepish smile and a light wave. Your loud personality online was such a huge contrast in comparison to how you're actually behaving now.

He just stared. 'Oh. So he's the cold type. God, he's exactly my type.'

"Aren't you going in?" You snapped out of your musings upon hearing his voice.

"I was about to. I'm starving," you chuckled. He scoffed. "I could use a bit of food, too."

"We should eat at the birthday party then."

"Kazuha's?"

You nod.

He looked away. "Go and eat inside. I'll find another place to eat at."

You flashed a look of disbelief. Scaramouche raised a brow in confusion. "Dude, you're literally already at a restaurant and you still want to go somewhere else to eat?"

"And you're hungry, aren't you?"

He sighed. "Look, I don't know if you know this, but the one holding a party — well, we're not on the best of terms."

Oh. Yeah.

There's that thing.

How the fuck could you forget that the love of your life is from the rival of your brother's team?

"Ah," You nod again. He seemed to take it as you understanding his reasoning and turned the other way, attempting to head off.

If only you hadn't tugged at his shirt.

"What the?!"

You led him to a lone bench at the parking lot, lit warmly by the streetlight just directly above it. "Sit there and wait for me."

"Excuse me?" He hissed. "What am I? A dog?"

"Your words, not mine." You grinned. "Just do as I say, okay? It won't be long, I promise."

He was about to retort but you cut him off by hurriedly entering the lively restaurant.

When you got back, you easily spotted Scaramouche who was sitting comfortably on the bench where you left him. He immediately scooted over once he saw you.

"Wow," he remarked. "You know I actually doubted if you would even come back."

You chuckled as you sat and handed him his plate. "Do you have trust issues?"

"Shut the fuck up."

"Oh, so you do."

He rolled his eyes.

Your late dinner with him was mostly filled with a comforting silence, with some bits of small talk in between. The only ones left on your plate were delectable desserts, as well as the little pieces of food you left out.

"Do you like sweets?"

"No," Scaramouche speedily replied. "They're disgusting."

You subconsciously frown. "Shame. I like them."

"You can have mine then," he says as he picks up his portion of desserts and transfers them to your plate. Unbeknownst to you, his observant gaze failed to miss how your eyes sparkled in delight at the sight of mouthwatering sweets.

As he did so, Scaramouche also spotted some leftovers on your plate. "Do you not like bitter stuff?"

"My tongue can't handle them."

"Give it to me then instead of wasting food, idiot."

You let out a laugh. "Is that your way of saying you like bitter stuff?"

The man just let out a quiet "tch" before taking a bite.

KEEP MY HEART — scara x reader smau

previous . masterlist . next

SUMMARY —you find plenty of guys around you attractive, but there is only one you’re willing to make the first move on: the guy you first saw during your older brother’s soccer game. spoiler: he's a player from your rival university.

NOTES -> a lot has happened lmaoo i was so busy aaa -> i graduated hs finally :P -> i also submitted my requirements for college haha -> also can u guys believe i'm gonna be in college while my college smau is on going omg -> and apologies for ghosting HASDHADHA (also wtf fontaine livestream tomorrow already whaaat time flies so fast omg)

TAGLIST I (closed)

@lady-elodie @krnzysh @syriiina @unsterblich-prinz @xiaosonlybeloved @xiaomainlmao @cindywasneverhere @coquettemaiden @sunsethw4 @lunavixia @calickoh @arealistonao3 @lowkeyivorie @zyilas @mondaymelon @yukiipc @heartswonder @st0pthatsgay @ozzierenato @astreaa-express @shewolfmiko @lovelyycherries @myaaones @countessqin @aloveablechaos @letthewindlead @lunaavity @local-blueberry-boy @luminestars @layla240 @useless-potatho @atlaszi @alatusorrow @lahsram2201 @sakiimeo @user11918163805279 @vqazx @neigesprincess @kunicrush @yoursockstinks @hotgirlshit5 @mikctp @crucnhice @apotatouwu @yuaenri @sammybeefangirls @miko1ly @deffenferofjustice @etherisy @sagegreenthinks

[hellowoolf]

on strawberries and masonry: chapter i

series summary: you atone for your sins, now, in a jackson garden, learning to care for soft things and yourself. joel miller is a lethal sort of similar, and misery loves company

OR

you live in jackson and meet joel and you’re both damaged little babies and fall in love (but i’m drawing this shit out🫶🫶)

warnings: angst, ANGST👈🏻👈🏻, reader has a violent past but we don’t get graphic about it yet, knives (at present we only use her for gardening), age gap (reader late 20s/early 30s, joel 50s), mention of masturbation (if i left out any, let me know!)

word count: 3.1k

authors note: i would consider myself a mildly experienced writer but this is my first ever fic! kindness is appreciated but so is constructive criticism. i really hope you enjoy🍓

by the way, a big ol thank you to @macfrog @netherfeildren @5oh5 @swiftispunk @bageldaddy (and others), whose fantastic writing gave me the courage to put this story to paper🫶

series masterlist | masterlist

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

you don’t remember much about the little fruits, from the time that came before. you were only a child then, 8 when it all crumbled to pieces, and those small sweetnesses aren’t things you’re taught to notice when you’re that young. lemons and airplane engines and the neighbor’s dog; these you remember, what with all the ruckus they made, but berries and peaches were far too soft of creations to make an impression. you suppose to anyone who could see your life in full, it would seem ironic in a tragic sort of way that they were all you cared for now.

you like to ponder these things—torture, really—on your way to the garden in the morning. there’s something about the honesty of jackson air, the clarity of it at daybreak, that make such musings, painful as they are, the only bearable passtime. keeping your hands close to your sides inside your jacket, you let your fingertips brush against the knife stored there. maria had offered you gardening tools, things more fit for the work you did now, but you’d refused; this knife was your father’s once (if you were remembering correctly) and you wouldn’t let it rust over on your nightstand. you like to make use of things, things and people if you’re honest, and trimming plants and flowers and little fruits are no less noble uses for it than what you did before jackson.

the crunch of your boots beneath you whispers up as you trudge along. your house isn’t far from the garden, but ages, it feels, from everything else. you’d gone to the tipsy bison, once, within the first few weeks of moving in, convinced you were young and entitled to normalcy after what they’d collected you from on the outside. the scotch burned your throat in a cliche kind of way, and you suppose you enjoyed that part, but the walk alone in the dark on your way home was enough to keep you from the establishment since. you moved back and forth from your garden, the dining hall, and occasionally tommy’s house when you couldn’t bear the loneliness; these pathways you’d carved out for yourself here are few and stubborn, but you love them because they’re yours. the other young men and women your age in town, most of whom have lived the better part of their lives within these walls, don’t think of you enough to find you as strange as you perhaps are, but their not thinking is a comfort to you. the crunch crunch crunch of your boots on the gravel mumbles in agreement.

“speak of the devil.”

tommy is leaning against the glass of the greenhouse wall with noah when he calls it out to you, grounding you in place. you’d made it all the way to the garden in the time it took for that ugly contemplation, but the both of them are smiling with that back and forth glance only boyishness forgives, and now the morning is real. it’s cold enough that numbness has clawed its way up the bridge of your nose, the frost keeping last night’s snow frozen to the ground. it’s these moments, the arrivals to your garden at dawn, when the day comes to you. you like the both of them, noah and tommy. they make you feel like somebody’s sister. you turn up the ends of your mouth. “all bad things i hope.”

“awful, really,” noah chuckles, tugging on the arm of your jacket to pull you inside with tommy behind you, the both of them still smiling in conspiracy.

you begin to slip your arms out of your coat, laying it carefully against a wall, the wet warmth of the greenhouse rushing you immediately. you’d been heating the inside for a few weeks now, trying to maintain a healthy summer crop output despite the freezing soil, and a few of the sturdier vegetables had steadily been peeking their way up. you plucked a full radish from the dirt last week and nearly wept over it. you look back up at tommy and noah, standing shoulder to shoulder now in the aisle between the planter boxes to block your path forward, humming still with whatever tommy-and-noah-elation they’ve concocted. you tilt your head a little and smile.

“are you gonna make me guess? or can you just tell me?”

they confer with a nod and a jostle side to side, tommy turning back to you. “there’s a strawberry.”

your tongue unsticks from the roof of your mouth as something golden and beautiful unfolds inside of you. “there isn’t,” you counter. noah turns himself sideways so you can walk through the aisle to the end of the left planter box and you rush there (you’re rarely frantic, nowadays, but you allow this sort of thing for your little fruits).

maria had placed you here in the garden as a safeguard. she thought you dangerous (and you were, at least back when you met her), so she put you to work where your hands could do good and be far from people. it helped, you guessed, that the greenhouse is made of glass; she could keep an eye on you this way. and oh, how you’d resisted it, the softness of a gardener’s job. in the end, though, the black and grime of life left as residue on your palms felt like forgiveness, and you’d taken quickly to thinking yourself a botanist.

by the time you arrive at the end of the left planter box, on your knees like a worshiper at a pew, you’re eye level with the little poetry of red and green parting the soil you’d scooped by hand last month. tommy and noah, you feel, are behind you as your shadow casts itself over the soil, and you almost have to pull the thing out just to bear this feeling. there’s a strawberry. and you actually say it out loud, softer than anything but wild, still, and staring at the child of plant and earth you’d nursed to color. noah and tommy drop to your sides, and you notice then that the three of you are crying, and you laugh and laugh over the little thing like madness and sweetness and pride.

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

the euphoria of your strawberry lasts you well into the late afternoon. tommy and noah had left you to bask in the glory of it to continue with construction on a little post office right off the main road, and you worked the morning with your thumbs in the dirt, slicing browning leaves off the budding plants with as much gentleness as you could muster. you look down at your knife, cradled close in the cup of your palm, to finger out the soil packed through the engraving along the handle. a last name meant nothing anymore, what with your loneliness and the end of the world, but still the slopes of it peer up at you; you watched your father make the engraving, you think, though the actual memory of it is lost to time.

by the time you reach the beets at the end of the right planter box, a commotion has stirred outside. men’s voices ring and rumble from the main road, and the bass of it hums under your knees on the ground. a great bark of tommy reaches you clearly, even tucked away as your greenhouse is, and curiosity consumes you enough to resign from your garden for the day. these days you are quiet, and reserved, sometimes frightening because you like how it feels, but still curious, always curious, and so you curl yourself back into your jacket to join whatever audience has congregated by the front gates.

he is beautiful in a holy sort of way, whoever he is. you come upon tommy wrapped up in a great big stranger, a horse and a young girl behind him, and the slopes of his nose bend the waning sunlight off into a ribbon of a beam. jesus, when was the last time you’d looked at someone this way? tommy pulls back from him, glassy eyed and awestruck, looking around at those who’d crowded the scene almost incredulously, but you stare still at his stranger, who is so broad and so timid and so clearly unused to his own timidness that you can’t pull your eyes away. he meets your gaze for a moment, as he sweeps his own across the crowd, and looks at you with about as much detachment as he does the rest of this spectatorship. but oh god, he is so divinely pretty, and so you can forgive his lack of immediate fascination with you.

tommy begins walking his stranger and his stranger’s small companion through the throng, introducing and shaking hands, and as you watch them slowly shuffle towards you, you are struck with the thought that this is tommy’s brother. as he shifts his face along the axis of his shoulders, taking in the town, you see more and more of tommy in the motion of his stranger’s face. you’re sure of it now, as tommy calls your name and shepherds the man in front of you.

“my brother here’as decided to make a grand entrance!” tommy says, slapping a mittened hand across his back. you shake his stranger’s hand and give him your name, hoping your little smile doesn’t give away how awful it felt for him to look this way.

“joel,” he musters (and it really does seem like it takes a mustering), and gives your hand a firm shake before stuffing them back in his pockets. he is disinterested, surely, but afraid, too. it almost hurts you how clear his prevailing apprehension is, and you nearly make to apologize for forcing him to introduce himself. his eyes squint in the golden light cast over jackson.

“i work in the greenhouse, a few blocks from here on the edge of the settlement,” you explain, eyes drifting between joel and his little shadow, who both joel and tommy have yet to introduce. she looks a little feral, and this endears you immediately to her. “welcome in,” you offer, and you do your best to direct this message to her from around joel’s shoulder. her eyes are so big for a thing so ferocious (and you are certain she is) and they widen further at your acknowledgment of her.

“we won’t be here for long,” joel grumbles out and you straighten back up. he says it like you’ve offended him, and you bristle a little. tommy’s beautiful stranger is very guarded, you decide. regardless, the width of him, from left to right, blocks the mountain range behind him, and the patchy scruff along his jaw makes you die a little death.

“alright, well,” you start to back away then, feeling increasingly overwhelmed by his face and his broadness and this little girl who looks and moves like you used to, “you know where to find me,” and you nod a little to tommy before turning and walking away. you lasted all but five seconds in front of him, relishing in how little you were in his shadow cast upon you and loving whatever creature the girl he brought with him was, but all the same he looked too tired and cautious and vicious that it suffocated you. he wouldn’t be here for long, apparently; you’ll likely never see him again. as you step towards your little house, you figure it was worth the meeting, if for nothing else than a face to keep you company in the dark when you’re a woman and alone, and a real image to pair with the descriptions tommy gave of a brother who loved him once.

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

for a while, it seemed you really wouldn’t see joel again. you watched, through your greenhouse walls, the great expanse of him ride out with the girl, and you were left with the comfort of knowing how gorgeous you found him and that you would never have to speak with him again. you warded off your own psychoanalysis of your relief at his faraway-ness in the face of your immediate physical attraction to him, and sunk your fingers again in the soil.

but then he had returned. what with how consoled you felt at his leaving, he almost had to; fate was funny this way. but you figure, still, you needn’t disturb yourself with him. you imagined he’d keep to himself with how unspeaking he was when you first met him, and other than crossing his path every once in a while, leaving tommy’s house or marching himself along somewhere or other, you were right.

you think of him at night, though. in the morning you wake up with the shame and hilarity of it, of this lusting over a man you neither know nor want to know, but past midnight in your bed you let your fingers slip over yourself thinking of how small he’d made you feel. the wanting of him strikes you somewhere between your shoulder blades, and you blame it entirely on how long it had been since you shared your bed with anyone. strictly physical, strictly physical. you’d learned again to care for yourself these years in jackson, and you’d wrought kinship from tommy and noah without realizing it, but in all you attend mostly to flora, and in this you are protected. yes, joel keeps to himself as you surmised he would, but you avoid him, too; to want him in this way, all hands and hips and somewhere within you, is harmless, you determine, so long as he stays tommy’s stranger. he could never be anything or anyone to you.

it’s six weeks or so of joel’s continued disinterest in you, and your insistent avoidance of him (barring the way you touched yourself at night to his face), before a knock at your door past sunset brings you out of bed. people rarely appear at your doorstep, though you imagine it’s noah dropping off seeds found on patrol, or tommy with a similar sort of package, or even ellie, joel’s little creature, who’d spoken all but five words to you about your garden, but all the same materialized rather often there to see the colors of your little fruits. but when maria blinks back at you when you open the door, any semblance of a greeting dies in the back of your throat.

“can i come in?” maria asks, although she’s already leaning her shoulder towards the gap between your body and the doorway. you step aside to let her through. it occurs to you that maria has never visited you in your home before, not in your five years in jackson, and when she turns back to you, back pressed against your kitchen counter, it’s clear she’s just had the same thought. the way she crosses her arms over her chest, the authority of it and the terror, too, beckons you toward her from your place at the threshold.

“is everything okay?” you sigh out as you prop your hip against the adjacent table top. she is inspecting you, but smiles.

“yeah, yeah.” one of you sniffs. you shift your weight. “i came to see what you thought of joel.”

you almost laugh then, really laugh. “i don’t think anything of joel.”

she rolls this answer around behind her teeth. “mhm,” and then this time with finality, “mhm”.

you inspect her, now. “you don’t want him here.” it isn’t a question.

maria hums. “tommy wants him here.”

“that isn’t what i said.”

she purses her lips a moment. “yeah, i know.”

and you’re making the moment torturous for her, you’re certain, because you know why she’s come to you, why she’s standing in your kitchen like the elected leader she is, while something awful, something almost like alarm, leaks from the back of her neck onto your floorboards. you’d come to jackson a wild thing and she’d tamed you, and now you lived as a dirt woman who sunk her dagger into earth and green and life more permanent than humanity. she is proud of this, you think. and joel came as much of the same, with red hands that opened dripping, and maria needs him watched now the same way she watched you through your garden’s glass. you sigh again.

“what do you want me to do, maria? anything i’d say to tommy would be infinitely more effective from you.”

maria nods. “i don’t want you to say anything to tommy. i can live with joel in jackson. but he’s insisting on patrol, and i don’t know who else to put with him.”

your jaw seizes, and the heat of anger spreads itself along your neck and around your ears. you remember when you’d pleaded so kindly, crouching to make yourself smaller, hands collapsed together, begging to be useful, to be put outside, to protect jackson like it was yours. maria was as honest with you then as she is now, and she’d cited your instability (the reality of which is neither here nor there) to keep you off the rounds. you’d told tommy maria envisioned your actions before jackson as far more unforgivable than they were, though you knew that was a lie before you opened your mouth to say it. “patrol?”

she looks so solemnly at you you think you might die right there between your kitchen and the staircase. “yeah. i want you to be his patrol partner. i’m not looking to send him out there with a gun strapped to his back with one of the other gu-”

“and why does it have to be me?” and you’re really angry, now. for your unyielding quiet in this jackson existence you’d sewn together and the little strawberry you’d grown from nothing, still, still, you were at most and at least a violence. “why can’t you assign someone else?”

maria has this answer constructed already, it seems, for how fast she releases it, “because you’ll kill him.”

“noah would, if he had to. and leila. i can think of at least fi-”

“i’m not saying you would kill him. i’m saying you could.”

and suddenly you were again a wasp or spider, poisonous and unthinking, and the weight of the killing you did before jackson, which you had halfway successfully ignored to piece yourself into something good, perched its chin on the crown of your head. your father’s knife, laying up next to your bed after what was now years of tending to vegetables and stalks and leaves, howled with laughter, and it carried down the stairs to you like wind in summer, leadened and screaming and satisfied.

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

i hope you enjoyed this first part! like i said in my authors note, this is my first time writing a piece like this and certainly my first time posting it, so kindness is much appreciated, as is constructive criticism. part 2 coming (hopefully) soon🍓

update: chapter ii!!

[yeoandmoon]

i found the cure to growing older (and you're the only place that feels like home) ( hongjoong x fem!reader )

you're destined to follow park seonghwa. that's how it's been your whole life, and you'd prefer to keep it that way - thank you very much. it doesn't really come as a surprise to anyone when you follow him across the country to seoul to join the lucrative music industry, but perhaps the real surprise comes in the form of seonghwa's 5'8, pink-haired leader - kim hongjoong - and the late night studio visits that he's prone to.

smut, idolverse, producer!reader, friends with benefits, childhood bestie!seonghwa, a lot of music references (both joong and reader are little music snobs), implied seongjoong x reader (if u squint), studio sex, come eating, fingering, clit play, praise kink, bratty hongjoong, marking kink, implied dacryaphilia, wc is 3.1k

note: :) hiiiiiiiii (louder than anyone else) it has been a while! ngl here - this might be a little rusty! but i hope you all still enjoy it :) title is from i slept with someone in fall out boy, and all i got was this stupid song written about me by fall out boy! (ps. shoutout to the girl at blenz who watched me down a peppermint matcha and then go crazy writing the second part of this)

You owed a lot to Park Seonghwa.

You owed him far more than the cheap soju and street side corn dogs you bought him on nights out, despite listening to him whine that he had the idol money and could easily buy for both of you.

Seonghwa had gotten you the job at KQ Entertainment after a drunken night of you musing to him that no one in all of Seoul was hiring musicians, and you were about ready to pack up and move back with your grandma (who had been, in fact, right about moving to the big city) in the countryside. He helped you settle in the small studio full of instruments and sheet music, and he spent time with you around his busy schedules & hectic idol life.

(“It’s like you’re deliberately trying to keep me by your side, Hwa.”

“I did promise your grandmother I’d make sure Seoul didn’t chew you up and spit you back out, didn’t I?”)

He pushed you hard on quiet days, and would sit on the dingy little loveseat on the far side of your studio while he filled you in on random idol drama and rumors that filled the music show halls. Seonghwa would sometimes patiently watch you record instrumentals for songs, and go through demos the company would send you. He’d laugh at the jokes you’d crack about the bad demos, and sometimes you two would produce silly little raps & songs for the demos - seeing if you could somehow save the tone deaf beats & loud guitars that filled the GarageBand app.

Those were the days you longed for; the days you missed with your sweet best friend.

You understood the high school days once filled with old Fall Out Boy songs and pepero sticks were long gone, but you still tried to cling to the remnants that remained in your life.

Perhaps then, it would only make sense that Seonghwa would be the one to introduce you to Hongjoong - KQ’s Golden Boy and his closest friend within the idol world. In Seonghwa’s mind, this was a logical friendship. You two were ‘similar’ and ‘weirdly into music’, Seonghwa would tell you while on early morning coffee runs. He would grin at you when you raised an eyebrow at him.

“‘Weirdly into music?’ You’re the one with your face plastered onto subway cars, Mister Global Idol.”

(The small quips didn’t stop Seonghwa’s mission, though.

“I want you to meet someone.” He had told you, stalking into your cluttered studio one day.

A familiar figure followed Seonghwa through the door, his small stature dwarfed by your best friend. Kim Hongjoong was a colourful man. His hair was a vibrant blue, and his nails were painted a hot pink. He wore a backwards dad hat with the picture of a pastel coloured bass on it and a corny saying that you couldn’t quite catch before he looked up at you with bright eyes.

“So, you’re the one who produced the One Direction and Fix On remix?”)

After all, Seonghwa knew you better than anyone else. He knew all your deep secrets, and happy moments; he knew the things that made you tick and the things that brought you joy. So - maybe that was why you didn’t find yourself surprised when, none other than Seonghwa’s pick himself, Kim Hongjoong showed up outside your studio at 3 in the morning a mere few nights after being introduced; maybe that’s why it didn’t entirely baffle you when he placed a pile of cds ranging from newly released hip hop to eighties new wave, & everything in between, and asked your opinion on each and every cd in the pile. You soon found yourself arguing over the cultural shift you felt ‘Jolene’ brought, and cackling over Hongjoong’s Matty Healy impressions. 

Maybe that was why you weren’t surprised when he reached over and kissed you hard while a Shinee song played from your old MacBook and drowned out the soft moans that soon filled the small studio space.

Perhaps it was the late nights that followed the ‘Shinee Incident’; or, perhaps it was the fact you were both workaholics. You knew you should talk to Hongjoong outside of the oasis you felt you two had built yourselves within the rooms of KQ Entertainment, but sometimes you found the quietness of your late night rendezvous and stolen daytime kisses in the empty practice rooms was easier than the loud bustle of the Seoul streets and the distractions that came with Hongjoong leading a loud group of 20-something year old men.

You could also think of a hundred more reasons why you and Hongjoong kept meeting like this, but you were also content with just ignoring it and accepting whatever was going on until it was over.

[ from: hongjoong :) ] are you around??? [ from: hongjoong :) ] i can hear you playing with the piano. lol

Just like clockwork, you thought when your phone lit up. 

The bright little clock on your phone reads 03:19, and the piano you were working on was nearly finished. You were tired and craving your own bed; your ass hurt from the hard bench you had been sitting on for hours at that point. Despite that, you still found yourself reaching for your phone.

[ to: hongjoong :) ] yea im next door [ to: hongjoong :) ] :-)

Maybe you were craving something else too; maybe part of you was desperate for human affection, and you knew Hongjoong could give you that.

[ from: hongjoong :) ] :-)

(One could only take so much of the vibrator tucked away in their nightstand, of course.)

There was a shuffling in the hallway before the outline of Hongjoong appeared in the stained glass of the instrumental studio’s door. You watched the doorknob slowly turn before Hongjoong peeked his head into the room, a dark green beanie covering his faded pink hair. He smiled, and you swore his eyes always brightened at the sight of you.

“Hi.” You say, wincing at the exhaustion evident in your voice.

Hongjoong stepped into the studio, his eyes glancing around at the array of instruments surrounding you both before stopping back to where you sat on the piano stool.

“Hi.” He echos, stepping further into the room.

He’s wearing a tan hoodie that has little purple butterflies flying up the sleeve - and for a brief moment - you think it’s so sweet and so Hongjoong that you almost don’t want him to take it off. Then, he takes another step towards you and you see how his eyes darken as they take in the way your own hoodie is falling off your shoulder, exposing the lace black camisole and deep purple bra strap underneath. Something in his look stirs you, and you feel your cheeks begin to heat up as you look at the man in front of you.

“How’s the comeback going?” Your words crack, and you know your cheeks must be burning.

“It’s good,” Hongjoong says, his tone confident while he keeps his eyes on you, and pulls the hoodie over his head. A dark brown t-shirt is revealed, stretching across his chest and riding up enough to reveal to you the boxer band peeking from under his jeans. He throws the hoodie in the general direction of your computer chair and a smile plays at his lips, “Hwa and I are recording part of the rap tomorrow.”

He takes a step forward as he speaks, and you can hear the way his own words crack as he speaks so casually about your shared friend.

You know he needs this as much as you do - if the thick bulge in his jeans says anything about Hongjoong’s current state of mind.

You force yourself to pull away from blatantly checking him out and look up at him, “Did you happen to get that song I sent you?”

Hongjoong takes another step forward. “The Counting Crows one?”

“‘A Long December,’” you move to get up from the piano bench.

Hongjoong is suddenly on you with a sense of urgency, and the small talk portion of your evening is abruptly finished. “Don’t get up,” he tells you, pushing you back onto the bench. 

You see then how affected he really is; his pupils half blown, and his cheeks beginning to match the peach in his hair. “Cute.” The compliment falls from your lips before you can stop yourself, and your hand comes up to cup his cheek.

It delights you the way Hongjoong’s cheek burn at the simple word, and he moves to his knees in front of you, “‘Want you to stay there for me, yeah?” One of his hands moves to rest against your hand on his cheek.

You swallow and nod, not taking your eyes off the man who had managed to pry your legs apart, and was getting comfortable on the floor between them. You’re suddenly aware of your body’s reaction to Hongjoong - how sticky your panties were becoming & how heated your body was beginning to get.

Despite how common this occurrence was becoming, you never seemed to get used to how overwhelming his presence was; how much Hongjoong overtook your senses in every way possible. His hands moved to your waist, and he glances at you again before moving to the waistband of your leggings. His fingers gently slip under the waistband, and he nods to you - a request to move forward.

His fingertips are cool against your skin. They feel nice, you think as you nod to him.

Like most things with Hongjoong, he begins to move with urgency after he receives your consent. He leans up to pull you into a heated kiss as he tugs at your leggings and panties, urging you to shimmy out of them so he can get his hands on your thick thighs and the soaked core that’s between them.

Once exposed to him, one of his hands is immediately between your legs - his thumb pressing into your clit while two of his fingers gently run through your folds, gathering the wetness that lays there and sending your brain into a frenzy of Kim Hongjoong. 

You moan into the kiss, and your hands move up to tangle in his hair and pull him closer to you in an attempt to deepen the kiss. He smiles into it, and you just know that if you weren’t too busy kissing the smile away, it would be that impish, cocky smirk he gets every time he succeeds and wins; it’s the same smile he holds every time Ateez wins a music show, and it's the same smile he holds every time he makes you cum. One of his fingers gently breaches your sopping entrance, and you let out another moan against his lips.

“That feel good, love?” Hongjoong laughs against your lips before stealing another kiss.

Before you have a chance to answer, Hongjoong knocks your legs further apart and presses his thumb harder into your clit. His finger pushes into you and all you can do is swear, “Fuck! Hongjoong!”

Hongjoong releases another breathy laugh from his spot below you before pressing kisses down your neck. You feel his other hand begin to crawl up your tummy from its spot on your waist before stopping just as his fingertips hit the wire of your bra - it rests on your soft skin, and he hums against your skin before softly biting down. The sudden sting makes you gasp and your hand in his hair tightens on the strands you were holding, making Hongjoong hiss against you.

“Take it off.” He tells you, his hand coming up over the bra and tugging at the top of the cup to free your tit. His voice is lined with a growl, and his hand on your thigh tightens.

You know there’s bruises forming under Hongjoong’s fingers - adding to the collection of bruises he’s already left along your neck, tummy and anywhere else Hongjoong could possibly mark you. The possibility of them excites you; fills you with a pleasure, and rush of arousal.

His fingers immediately pinch at your nipple and you bite back a particularly loud whine, your hips bucking up against Hongjoong’s fingers. You begin to peel the hoodie off, letting it fall to the floor in front of the piano, while Hongjoong wastes no time to move his hand from your chest and tug the camisole over your head. It quickly joins the hoodie on the floor, and you’re left in only a lacy black bralette for Hongjoong’s hungry eyes.

“Take your shirt off.” You say, locking eyes with him and reaching for the brown fabric, “I wanna see you too.”

The light blush returns to Hongjoong’s cheeks, and you feel a sense of accomplishment rush through your veins. He leans back onto his legs and looks up at you - in the low & warm LED pink lights of your studio, Hongjoong looks pretty. His eyes are dark, and his hair is tousled from your pulling & tugging on it.

“Okay, love,” Hongjoong replies, “just gotta clean up first.”

There’s a small smile playing at Hongjoong’s lips as he moves his hand from your core, and keeps his eyes on you as he brings his hand to his mouth. His eyes flutter shut as he begins to lick his fingers clean, and all you can do is watch in pure pleasure as he licks your juices off his hand. He lets out a small moan, and your eyes widen as another rush of arousal surges through your body.

You tighten your thighs and try - & fail - to conceal the whimper that falls from your lips, and Hongjoong tilts his head in faux confusion. He moves his hand from his mouth, “What’s the matter, sweetie? I just wanted to taste you.”

You’re utterly, and completely, speechless and all Hongjoong can do is giggle from his spot below you. 

He leans up to kiss you again, with his (now “clean”) hand coming up and cupping the back of your neck to pull you closer. You kiss him back and part of you revels in the faint taste of yourself on his tongue. Your hands move to the bottom hem of his shirt, and you break the kiss to pull Hongjoong’s shirt over his head.

It’s added to the ever-growing pile of clothes that are gathering at the bottom of the piano.

“You’re gorgeous.” You say, and you can’t help as your eyes rake down Hongjoong’s newly exposed body and the piercing that glints in the light on his left nipple.

Hongjoong’s eyes flash, and his other hand tightens on your thigh again, “Do ya’ think flattery will get you somewhere, sweetie?”

You play along with Hongjoong’s games. You pretend you don’t see the way he gets flustered & bothered when you compliment him, and he pretends not to notice that you like making him feel like that. You couldn’t deny the absolute rush it gave you every time he whined your name at the smallest praise.

You take a deep breath before nodding, “Will you let me cum?” You ask, giving him a pout.

Hongjoong’s cocky smirk is back, and your hands grip the edge of the bench. They’ve become so tight against the wood that you’re sure your knuckles are white; it was your turn to become flustered. Your mind was beginning to fray at the edges with every second that passes of Hongjoong’s intense stare and the way his hands slowly began to move up your thighs again. 

He pushes your thighs apart again, and promptly takes his spot back between your legs. He gives you a cheeky smile while you gasp at the cold air against your soaking core; before he pushes you back against the piano and pushes his two fingers back into your hole, chuckling when you let out a cry of his name. The piano keys sound out throughout the room, but Hongjoong ignores it as he drives his fingers harder into you.

If Hongjoong wasn’t so determined to fuck you stupid, perhaps you’d think he was trying to see what notes he could produce every time your back bounces against the keys. Perhaps, just maybe - you’d even suggest turning the microphone on, and recording the notes and moans that’d be produced.

You open your mouth to say something - possibly to beg, possibly to cry for Hongjoong but all thoughts are abandoned when Hongjoong leans forward and takes your clit in his mouth. He sucks on the little nub and you swear your brain goes blank.

You cry out in pleasure, and your hands go down to find purchase in Hongjoong’s hair. He groans against you, one of his hands coming up to hold you waist as you gently rock your hips up against his face.

“Joong…” You plea, “Hongjoong, I’m so close. You feel so good, Joong.”

He adds another finger into you, heightening your pleasure and beginning to scissor them to stretch you out as you gasp, “You’re gonna take my cock after this, right sweetie?”

You nod. It’s all you can really bring yourself to do - although you know you’d do anything for Hongjoong at this moment. You’d probably allow Seonghwa to see you like this, if he wanted you to.

Hell, you’d allow Seonghwa to join in, if Hongjoong asked you too right now. 

“Hongjoong, please…”

Hongjoong kisses your cheek, and you flutter your eyes open to find him level with you, “Go on, love. Let it out for me.”

The simple words were all it took for you to come. The overwhelming euphoria of Kim Hongjoong took over your psyche, and you cried his name as you gripped his arms. 

You ride out your orgasm while you chant Hongjoong’s name, and he kisses your cheek & jaw. He now stands over you, his hand gently running through your hair as you slowly recover, resting your head on his tummy and reveling in the feeling of his hand in your hair.

It takes a moment to look up at Hongjoong. You’re still panting, and you feel tears on your cheeks begin to settle. He smiles sweetly at you, before leaning down to kiss you - softer than any other point during the night.

“Do you want to keep going?” Hongjoong asks, his hand coming to rest on the back of your neck.

You begin to pull away as your hands come up to undo his belt, “I gotta keep my word, don’t I?” You bite your lip to stop the smile beginning to grow on your face.

[joelscurls]

fallen into place

an epilogue to my feel it in your bones series (part i | part ii)

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

words: 2.3k

summary: It's the one year anniversary of the day you & Joel met. Your plans to celebrate are soured by poor weather - but Joel doesn't let that ruin your day.

warnings: 18+, minors dni, no outbreak, age gap (reader is in her late 20s, Joel is in his late 40s), fluff, smut (allusions to piv sex, but nothing explicit)

a/n: thank you a million times over to everyone who left nice comments on the first two parts of this series; every single one has made me smile like an idiot :') and ty as always to my beta & muse @caffeinated-validation <3 enjoy this lil epilogue!

The windows of the old farmhouse groan, rain pelting the glass and an angry wind jostling the frames. A draft slips in through a gap in the wood, the one Joel’s been meaning to fix, and you reflexively pull the blanket that’s wrapped around your body tighter, snugger. 

Through fogged panes, you can barely make out the sheep in the pasture where they’re huddled together, their bodies distorted by bulbous raindrops. You watch as a couple break off from the herd, blurs of white floating toward the fence line like grounded clouds.

The kettle on the stovetop squeals, quiet at first, then louder, and you pad out of the dining room, into the kitchen to make yourself a cup of tea. The percolator on the nearby counter gurgles away, still working on Joel’s coffee.

The day has been all but thrown away, thanks to the weather.

You and Joel had planned to celebrate your anniversary: one year since meeting under the fluorescent white lights of the lecture hall, all fidgety hands and warm cheeks.

He’d wanted to take you out, back to the lounge you’d gone to that first night, to sip whiskeys again and reminisce.

You’d wanted to cuddle up together on one of the large, leather armchairs and kiss him the way you had then, just with a bit more purpose, this time.

But a tree had fallen at the entrance of Joel’s dead-end road early this morning, the fractured trunk stretching from one shoulder to another. 

The loud thud of it had jolted you from a sound sleep, causing you to seek refuge in Joel’s strong, impregnable arms as he’d continued snoring away.

It was only when he’d stirred a few hours later that he’d called the town and learned they wouldn’t be able to remove it until later today, at the earliest.

And so, you’re stuck at his house — at least for the time being. 

When the percolator seizes, you pour the contents into Joel’s favorite mug, the one Sarah had gotten him as a housewarming gift. The speckling on the dark green ceramic makes it look as if it’s been handmade and fired in a kiln. The front is appropriately adorned with the Vermont state seal. 

You leave the coffee black — his preference — and bring it, along with your tea, into the living room where Joel is splayed across the couch, reading some book about the history of homesteading. 

You’re quiet when you enter. It gives you the opportunity to marvel at his concentrated face, his brows furrowed and his bottom lip tucked between his teeth as he scans the pages. He traces under the words with his thumb, so as not to inadvertently lose his place.

He finally notices you when you sink into the cushion by his feet and place his mug down on the coffee table in front of him. He swings his legs around and sits upright to make more room for you. 

“Thanks, baby,” he says, dog-earing the page he’s on and setting the book down on the arm of the couch. 

He buries a gracious kiss in your hair and reaches for the coffee, not bothering to let it cool before he takes his first sip. He hisses. Curses under his breath. 

You shake your head in amusement as you settle into plush upholstery, your cup still steaming away on the table. 

Joel grunts. He puts the mug back down in defeat and resumes reading

You decide to sift through your emails. You grab your laptop from your nearby work bag and settle back into the couch with it propped atop your knees. 

You open your inbox. A new message from your well-intentioned, but neurotic colleague sits at the very top, received 20 minutes ago. She’s requesting any final advice for facilitating a fun and informative Open House, since you aren’t volunteering at Homecoming this year. 

You don’t have any fresh insight to provide, so you just copy and paste the last email you sent to her, which she’d never responded to, and add a see below to the top of the message.

Most of the remaining unread emails are from students, a few begging for an extension on their midterm that’s due Monday, another asking how to access their assigned reading for the nth time.

You check to make sure the link to said reading in the syllabus is still working. It is.

A garbled, frustrated sort of noise forms at the bottom of your throat. Joel looks up from his book. Cocks a brow at you in silent question: you okay?

You groan. “Sorry, I’m fine. Just stressed. Annoyed. I can’t believe I’m checking emails right now when we’re supposed to be celebrating.” 

He leans forward. Presses the laptop shut before you can protest. “Then stop,” he offers. 

Joel is a perceptive person, more so than most people give him credit for. His usual persona, the one everyone else sees, characterized by indifferent grumbles and petulant grimaces, is a facade. Because in truth, he’s observant. Caring. He can read you better than the book in his lap with just a scan of his eyes.

He knows just what you need at all times. And right now, he can tell you need to relax.

“Darlin’,” he starts. Waits until you look at him. Until your muscles slacken and he knows you’re listening. 

“I know this isn't ideal. But we’re gonna make the best of it, okay?” 

You nod. 

“Here’s what we’re gonna do.” You watch him think for a moment, gaze fixed absently on the far corner of the room. “You’re gonna go upstairs and take a bath. Put on one ‘a those cucumber things-” 

“A face mask?”

“Yeah, that. And you’re gonna stay upstairs until I tell you to come down. Alright?” 

You want to crack some wise remark about feeling like Rapunzel. But a bath sounds good right now. Great, actually. So you nod again. Say, “okay”. 

“Okay,” he repeats. “Go relax, babygirl.”

You bring your untouched cup of tea with you. It rests on the windowsill next to the clawfoot tub as you wait for the basin to fill with water. You undress, apply a few squeezes of the facemask you keep stashed at the back of Joel’s medicine cabinet just in case. Then you get into the bath, sighing immediately at the feel of warm water lapping at your skin. 

You sink into it, let your head rest against porcelain as your eyes fall shut. 

You stay there until your fingers prune and sweat begins to bead on your forehead. When you stand, the water draining at your feet, you glance out the window and notice that the rain has let up, at least enough that you can actually see the pasture below. 

Joel is there, you realize, his stocky figure leaning against the fence, observing the sheep as they graze. He remains there for a few minutes, and you watch, entranced by him even from a distance.  Water drip-drip-drips off of your body and circles the drain.

When he retreats back toward the house, you step out of the bath. The floor below you vibrates as you towel yourself off, the way it does whenever the front door shuts. You hear the clomp of Joel’s boots against the hardwood as he makes his way inside.

He doesn’t come up. Which means you can’t come down yet, according to his instructions. So you wash your facemask off before wrapping yourself up in Joel’s bathrobe, the bottom hem grazing the floor as you saunter into his room and flop down onto the bed. 

You spend the next hour scrolling mindlessly on your phone, bookmarking recipes that look appetizing slash easy, and cute cat videos to show Joel. You figure if you show him enough, he’ll break and get himself one. 

You need a barncat, you’d told him. You can’t have a barn without a barncat. 

He’d questioned your logic. But he hadn’t said no, not explicitly, anyway.

You refresh your feed for what must be the tenth time this afternoon. Another video of a cat. This one tries to jump onto the top of the fridge from its place on the floor and misses by a longshot. Your laughter fizzles quickly. You’re getting bored. 

You lug yourself off the bed with an exaggerated huff and tiptoe out of Joel’s room to the top of the stairs. He’s playing music, the faint notes of a Johnny Cash song filtering up the balustrade. The smell of garlic follows on its heels, wafting directly into your nostrils and your stomach growls. He’s cooking. 

Joel isn’t a chef by any means. But ever since moving to Vermont, he’s really embraced farm life, sourcing eggs from a neighbor and milk from another. You’d even gotten him a book full of farm-to-table recipes for his birthday, and he’s cracked into it more than once already.

The thought of him referencing it right now to prepare an anniversary dinner for you makes you swoon. Suddenly, you’re very impatient. 

“Can I come down yet?,” you call out. 

You’re not sure if Joel will hear you over the music. But he appears at the bottom of the stairs less than ten seconds later, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. It’s marked with an orange, splotchy stain.

“Nice robe,” he smirks. Leans against the railing. “Two minutes, okay?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, your heart rate quickening at the sight of him looking so domestic. “I’ll go get changed and come down.” 

“Or you could just keep that on,” he drawls. “Look good in my clothes.”

Warmth blooms at the base of your neck. 

“Wait,” you say. “Stay there.”

You feel his eyes on you as you turn and slink down the hall, back to his room. 

You change out of the robe, into one of his flannels and a pair of sleep shorts that you’d stuffed at the bottom of your overnight bag. Then you return to the top of the stairs. 

Joel groans when he sees you. “Get down here,” he growls. You feign innocence, toying with the buttons on his shirt. 

He tracks you like a wolf as you descend, his love for you in his clothes visible by the growing bulge in his pants. You move to grope him when you reach the bottom step and he stops you with a large hand wrapped loosely around your wrist. 

“Dinner,” he reminds you. His voice comes out pained, like if he hadn’t been slaving away in the kitchen for the past hour, he wouldn’t be so adamant. 

“Wait here for a sec,” he says. He adjusts himself and disappears into the kitchen. There’s a series of worrying clangs on the other side of the wall. You hear one of the burners on the stove click off. 

You stand patiently, soundtracked by the sounds of footsteps and clattering dishware. 

And then Joel reappears, outstretching a hand. You take it. Follow him.

It’s dark in the house, the sun having set by now. You try your best not to trip over your own feet and wonder why Joel hasn’t turned any lights on. 

Your question is answered sooner than you can voice it, when you round the corner to the dining room and see what he’s done.

He’s gone all out, two small candles lit at the center of the table next to a bouquet of wildflowers from the edge of his property, arranged in a clear glass vase. On either placemat are steaming plates of pasta, garnished with tomato sauce and fresh basil. You’re practically drooling as you sit down opposite him.

And then there’s the bottle of wine, red, label turned away from you. You twist it around. The name is illegible in the dim candlelight. 

Joel clears his throat. Takes your hand in his on the tabletop. 

“It’s uh – it’s the same one I brought to your apartment that time. The first time.” 

You blink hard. Your brain works to catch up with what he’s just said.

And then you’re all but leaping across the table, catching him in an earnest kiss. 

“Joel,” you say, gesturing to the plates, the wine, the candles. “This is amazing.”

You swear you catch him blush. It’s difficult to tell in the dark.

“‘Ts nothin’,” he retorts. “Less than you deserve. I know you were lookin’ forward to celebratin’ properly.” 

“Hey,” you squeeze his hand. “This is perfect. Better than perfect.” 

Now you know he’s blushing. He attempts to cover it up by bringing the bottle in front of his face, pouring you both a glass.

Joel’s pasta is delicious. You devour it, have to stop yourself from licking the plate clean when you’re done. After dinner, you retreat to the living room where Joel throws a few fresh logs on the hearth and lights it.

He tires quickly of his flannel cloaking your body, and plucks the buttons open one by one until you’re on display for him. Then he lays you down by the roaring fire and makes love to you, heat from the flames licking at your exposed chest as he takes you apart.

You’ve never felt so loved. 

It dawns on you in the afterglow, heart rabbiting in your chest and thighs soaked with arousal — Joel is everything —  your past year, your present, your forever. An immense contentedness settles in you, deep in your being. Unshakable; impenetrable.

As Joel lays next to you, stroking calloused fingers lazily along the length of your arm, forehead shiny with sweat, you sigh. 

“What is it, darlin?,” he asks. 

“Nothing,” you say. “Just feel really lucky.” 

“Nah,” he whispers. He caresses the curve of your jaw gently, like he thinks you’ll break if he’s any less tender. Like he’s forgetting the way his body just ravaged yours. “I’m the lucky one.”

You let him have this one — at least on the outside. Inside, you’re making a list of all the ways Joel has sweetened your life: his kind soul, his expert touch, his deep, unwavering love for you. You add to it until the slowing of his heart and his loosened grip on your face distract you.

And then you lose count.

end notes: ty for reading! please consider reblogging and/or leaving a comment if you liked it <3 til next time!

series tag list:  @anoverwhelmingdin, @joelalorian, @lol-im-done, @bensonispunk, @sereindreams, @survivingandenduring, @stevie75, @vee-bees-blog, @brittmb115, @cassiopeia, @bbyanarchist, @janaispunk, @barbellpedro

[altocat]

FFVII EC: FIRST SOLDIER CHAPTER 7

We're heeeere. After months and months of waiting, we get two chapters in one sitting! I'm breaking them down individually here. How will Miniroth's story pan out? What's Rosen's fate? Have a look below!

We open on the helicopter entering Rosen's island. Glenn reflects on how they've killed so many people and are now risking everything to save Rosen. Sephiroth muses that maybe Glenn isn't cut out to be a soldier.

They land on a hill on the island. The Mako torrent is going wild and the bailoirs are everywhere. The chimney smoke is red. Rosen is furiously piling logs into the chimney to signal his people. All of whom are dead.

Glenn tells Sephiroth to stay by the chopper where it's safe. Sephiroth refuses. They get attacked by filler monsters. Sephiroth says he's going to clear a path for the group.

The island is quaking all over the place. Glenn says they need to get to Rosen FAST. The ground is opening up from all the rumbling. Hopefully the chopper won't fall in and prevent them from escaping.

With the ground opening up, Lucia wonders if they'll make it out alive at all. Glenn says it's okay--they have Sephiroth! Sephiroth says this is out of his hands. So Glenn says to rely on HIM instead!

They find Rosen and Refu getting attacked by monsters. Rosen is confused at the group being here. Rosen says he needs to stay to warn everyone. OOF.

Rosen sadly says there's no point--all the Rhadorans are gone. Rosen is in hard denial, shocked. Glenn's excuses are weaksauce. Rosen tells them to go away and leave him alone. He runs ahead to get away from them.

With the island starting to LITERALLY SINK and fall apart, it looks like they're not going to get Rosen in time. Glenn still wants Sephiroth to go back to the chopper. Sephiroth blocks Glenn's path and insists he'll go get Rosen--he'll be much faster. He and Rosen are the same age, as well as outcasts. Glenn reluctantly agrees. AND THEY FISTBUMP AWWW. BROS.

Seph runs ahead, Glenn's team trailing behind at a slower pace. Lots of filler monsters. Glenn wants to catch up to Sephiroth. They regard the mana torrent, reflecting. This is apocalyptic shit. Glenn is pissed. This is SHINRA'S fault! Glenn is ashamed of his actions under SOLDIER. To hell with it! Glenn is taking responsibility for his own actions from now on. Matt and Lucia agree.

Refu shows up. He wants the group to follow him--Rosen might be in trouble!

Monsters block Rosen's path to the chimney and Seph shows up to save him just in time. Seph tells him the smoke is meaningless--he has to leave. Rosen still doesn't want to go, even though he knows it's all pointless. Sephiroth asks him what he wants to do and holds out a hand before slowly lowering it and hanging his head.

Refu leads the group over to the boys at a distance but they are blocked by another filler monster. Rosen and Sephiroth can't hear them. And they can't clearly hear what the two boys are saying to each other either.

Suddenly, they see SEPHIROTH PULL OUT HIS BLADE AND KILL ROSEN FUCK FUCK FUCK NOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Glenn screams out NOOOOO and then some eldritch wtf monster shoots up from the ground to attack the group. It's like an angry mana spirit or some shit. Pretty sick design tho.

Glenn angrily storms over and screams at Sephiroth that he wanted this--he didn't even TRY to talk to Rosen. Sephiroth is in a state of guilty shock. To everyone's surprise, Sephiroth's FUCKING LOCKET lands in the middle of the fight and Glenn angrily KICKS THE FUCKING THING into one of the fissures. Oh fucking wow.

They get back to the chopper. Lucia gets a call from Shinra saying that all this work was for nothing since Rhadore is so unstable, and their insubordination was noted. Sephiroth brings the dog to the chopper and doesn't meet their eyes.

They fly off to safety. Sephiroth faces away from them, silent.

Fuck.

[siriusmistakes]

「  ✦ robert sheehan . cis male.  he/him.  gryffindor  +  hogwarts  alumni.✦ 」 was  that  SIRIUS BLACK  seen  wandering  the  streets  of  diagon  alley ? the  TWENTY-FOUR  y  /  o  ANIMAGUS  was  last  seen  in  THE HOG’S HEAD. i  hear they  are  working  as  a BARTENDER  and  have  sided  with  THE ORDER. they  have  been  described  as  PASSIONATE  +  RECKLESS  with  the  familiarity  of  bloodshot eyes as he counts the hours until the sun rises; the smell of smoke clinging to his skin, his skin, and lingering on his breath; laughter–too loud and too frequent yet not always entirely genuine; the warmth of the hearth on rainy days. they  have  been  heard  humming  WE COME RUNNING  by  YOUNGBLOOD HAWK

IN CHARACTER INFORMATION

Full name: Sirius Orion Black

Age & birthday: 24, November 3

Blood status: pureblood

Occupation: Bartender at The Hog’s Head

Former House: Gryffindor

CHILDHOOD & HOGWARTS

Childhood growing up at Number 12 Grimmauld Place was never one filled with endearment, or hugs and kisses, or, really, affection of any kind. Grimmauld Place had very strict rules, and a strong-willed, energetic young boy always had difficulty following them. He was meant to stand a certain way, to get rid of that “horrendous” London dialect and speak eloquently, to be poised and elegant and graceful. Politeness was taught and etiquette was a requirement. All in all, a Black was meant to be the face of what a good, strong, respectable pureblood should be. There was a reputation to uphold, after all.

Sirius Black always found these rules difficult to follow. 

He was energetic, exuberant, always wanting to play in the square with his little brother, tracking mud into the house without any regard for the extra work this would mean for the house-elves. He slouched, he rocked back and forth on his heels, he hid upstairs at family parties to gawk at all the people and make up scandalous stories. Of course, Orion and Walburga would never reprimand him at such events, that would be rude, but words and blows were dealt with properly, as they should, in the comforts and confines of their own home. 

However, growing up around all purebloods, being entrenched in their fair society, Sirius grew up prejudiced. Of course muggleborns were lesser than he was; he could trace his lineage on their dining room wall, could trace the decades of magic that allowed him to even exist. There was no doubt that, despite their rules and regulations, his family had the correct ideas about blood purity. 

That was, until the age of ten, when his darling mother, Walburga, introduced him to a charming pig-tailed girl and told him that he ought to get to know her now and be very nice to her at Hogwarts, because they were to be married in just a few years. Married. The idea of it shocked him. He didn’t know this girl. He didn’t care about this girl. But the idea of his life being arranged for him, the idea of spending it with a stranger, baffled him. Protestation was not allowed, not with all the onlookers, not until they were home. But this was the first straw, the first hint of wrongness, the first hint that maybe, just maybe, things were not as cut and dry as The Most Noble and Ancient House of Black made them out to be. 

The chaos had all begun on the first of September. His mother had sat him down and told him that being in Slytherin was the family legacy and that he, as the eldest son and carrier of the family name, wouldn’t do anything to tarnish their sparkling legacy. Then, she’d dressed him up nicely and brushed his hair so it wouldn’t fall into his eyes. And that had been the closest thing to affection she had shown him in years (even if it was for her own benefit, she couldn’t have an unruly-looking son running around the platform where people of all sorts could see), and it would be the last time, as well.

Sirius had ended up in a compartment with three other first years: James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew. From the very beginning, the four of them had instantly clicked, though it had come as a real shock to them that all of Sirius’ family, dating far back into history, had all been sorted into Slytherin. Not a single person bearing the surname of Black had been an exception. Ever. At the tender age of eleven, he was terrified to not be put into Slytherin -- didn’t want to suffer the repercussions of breaking tradition, didn’t want to stick out (though he supposed he already did). His entire family had been in Slytherin. He was a Black. It was what was supposed to happen. It was law. But, a small inkling in the back of his head, sitting in that scarlet steam engine, was that these three perfect strangers already seemed to be nicer to him than his family ever had, that they laughed with him and joked with him and treated him just like everyone else. 

But, the decision wasn’t up to him. The Sorting Hat was placed on his head, and he had sat there for what seemed like hours (though was probably five minutes at the most) hearing the voice of the sorting hat going through his mind. He was ambitious, that much was certain. That ambition would serve him well in Slytherin. But, after sifting through his brain, was it really ambition? No. It was approval. He simply seeked approval from his parents, he wanted to be loved, but knew, even then, that was a standard he could never live up to. Knowing that he could not reach those standards, at age eleven, was a brave thing to admit to himself. Bravery, the hat knew, bravery is what that kid had. He needed a place that could embrace that courage and make it stronger. A place that would welcome him and bolster his confidence and self-worth. So, that’s what made Sirius Black different from day one. He was the first Black on record ever sorted into Gryffindor House.

The other boys from the compartment he’d met had also ended up in the same House and, coincidentally, in the same dormitory as well. Even from the beginning, there was a streak of mischief in all of them, however James and Sirius were the forerunners. They wreaked havoc around the castle and wound their way through secret passageways that were only accessible on Fridays, or when it was raining, or had to say an incantation in just the right volume. The four of them knew the ins and outs of the castle more in their first year than most students had in their seven years at Hogwarts.

Sirius Black’s first term had brought him into a world that he had never known before. A world where there were people who would stand up for him and with him, he was a star of the first year, with top marks in the majority of his classes (he never could quite get the hang of potions and History of Magic bored him to tears), and quite a lot of detentions under his belt. He would have said that it was a success if he’d ever seen one. 

Though, his feelings of grandeur had deflated inside him like a balloon as soon as he had stepped off the train for the winter holidays and had seen the look on his mother and father’s faces. They hadn’t said a word to him as they swept him off the platform. Those were the Blacks in a nutshell, speechless with anger but too much dignity to make a scene in front of everyone.

His brother had run upstairs as soon as he possibly could, not wanting to get caught in the middle of everything. Regulus had been like his father in that way–quieter–because Sirius, though he would never admit it, was like his mother. Loud and confrontational and never one to back down from a fight. But Sirius had just stood there, for once, his hair long and unruly, his face a smile, bursting to tell his parents everything that had happened at school. Because, though he had known they would be upset with his sorting, he’d hoped his 111% in Transfiguration would help them to see that he was not besmirching them.Despite their lack of warmth and affection, he still craved approval from his parents. But, as soon as he had opened his mouth, his mother had opened his trunk, and a pair of Gryffindor robes were thrown at him, followed by his mother’s hand cracking across his face. She told him he was a disgrace upon the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, how dare he allow himself to be sorted into any other House besides Slytherin. She had spit the word Gryffindor at him like a curse, but told him he would have to come home at holidays because the Black Family had an image to uphold, even though he threatened to tarnish it. Orion had stood there, arms crossed and looking furious, but not uttering a word. 

Then, they’d sent him upstairs with his trunk, and locked the door from the outside. That was when the whispers and thoughts from Kreacher had begun; every time the elf brought him a tray of food, he’d mutter about what a disappointment his Mistress had raised. Sirius despised him for it. 

Sirius had cried and cried, until the only thing left in him was emptiness. So, he’d put everything he had into his winter work. The homework was checked over once, twice, three times before he claimed it finished; each potion ingredient was written in the most careful handwriting; each charm was pronounced perfectly, then a separate wand movement to accompany it. He’d had objects moving around the room with a swish and flick of his wand. But, before he left to go back to Hogwarts, he’d stuck a Gryffindor pennant to the wall behind his bed. There was still a part of him that hoped to impress them, that good marks (despite the numerous detentions) would put him in their favor, that he could still live up to his family name. 

He had never been happier to be out of that house again, and back at Hogwarts, where he had friends that were his family. His marks were impeccable, though he was there around every corner, with all four of his quartet, waiting with a clever ruse. It was Minerva McGonagall who had penned the name, referring to each outing as a maraud, and that there was nothing that she could do to stop the raids (though that didn’t stop her from putting them in detention every other day).

His first four years at Hogwarts passed in a blur of happiness. Love and havoc and top marks, and going home and being banished on holidays, each time he was home, he brought more and more Gryffindor decorum to enhance his Grimmauld Place lodgings (and trying to sneak out to the Potters’ whenever he got the opportunity). Grimmauld Place was the opposite of Hogwarts’ loud and raucous atmosphere, and was instead greeted by house-elves and occasionally punctuated by (though he never acknowledged these) a sweet or note or particularly interesting Daily Prophet article, left for him by his little brother. If he was still in the heart of London, owls would be constantly swooping in and out of his window, though he was usually at the Potters’ during the majority of breaks; they treated him like a second son.

 He still feared his family, feared their hold on him and place in society. He disagreed with their ideologies, now, that muggles and muggle-borns were lesser. Hadn’t he met perfectly nice muggle-borns? Hadn’t Lily Evans always been neck and neck with him and James in classes? He was beginning to think for himself, and the shouting matches between he and Walburga were enough that they could shake the rafters (though, on occasion he might discuss the Daily Prophet with his father). 

It was the summer before sixth year that had done it, that had been the breaking point. He’d received his ten outstanding OWLs (and an acceptable in Potions but he wasn’t going to talk about that) and there was a glow of pride in him. He still clung to that hope, though the rational part of him knew that it wasn’t ever happening, that he could impress them. That Walburga would finally treat him the way she did Regulus – because, of course, he was their shining, shimmering golden boy – that maybe his successes could negate his blood traitor, Gryffindor ways. That, however, was never going to be the case. 

Instead, with a quick flick of her wand, the exam results burst into flame and crumpled to ash. She said that nothing he could ever do would repair things, that he’d embarrassed them, that he hung around with people unbefitting to his status, though his status then was even laughable. Hot, unadulterated rage had erupted inside him, anger so strong that, for once, he was left speechless. So he summoned his trunk, walked to the fireplace, and in a rush of green flames, he never looked back. 

He no longer acknowledged any of them, even Regulus. At school, he’d occasionally jeered at his family, poking fun at them as if it were all a big joke, but stone cold silence, he felt, was how it had to be done. His last two years at Hogwarts did their best to put his familial situation from his mind, after all, he now had three brothers instead of one who couldn’t stand to be in the same room as him. 

He’d made a name for himself despite, and in spite of, the disappointment from The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. 

BARTENDING BANANZA

Sirius still isn’t quite sure how he secured a position at The Hog’s Head. It went like this:

Aberforth: You’re here so much you might as well work here.

Sirius: Alright

And he never left. It’s now been four years and he’s become mildly infamous for giving away free drinks to attractive people, claiming its their birthdays, standing atop the bar while using a summoning charm to refill patrons’ drinks, and getting distracted talking to his friends while he’s on the clock. But, he cleans, and so glasses are covered in much less dust, and he’s gotten a younger crowd in, so Aberforth tends to keep him around. Plus, Sirius suspects the old man has a soft spot for him (they have an estranged brothers bond that neither one has spoken of but Sirius knows he feels it too).

Sirius’s time is split between the dusty old pub and Order duty – he does a lot of good undercover work as Padfoot.

RANDOM FACTS & TIDBITS

HEADCANONS

Padfoot is a Newfoundland. An absolute bear of a dog that doesn’t know any form of personal space. He often sleeps in his animagus form because his human thoughts dull ever-so-slightly when he’s a canine. (He also makes a lot of werewolf jokes when he’s not within Remus’ earshot that he already turns into a dog and so being bitten by a werewolf would give him double dog superpowers).

Sirius joined the Order right out of Hogwarts. He wanted his own say, wanted to make a difference against Death Eaters (and his family) but now, with the werewolves in control, he feels more guilt at fighting them.

After his sixth year, since he was of age, he began work on an old motorbike. It was a piece of junk, to begin with, found somehow in a muggle junkyard and picked up by a particular wizard who felt as if the rules didn’t apply to him. So, he’d somehow fit parts back together (a bit of Reparo here and there), then, with all the intelligence and fancy wand-work he possessed, enchanted it to fly. It was an all summer project that he worked on in between doing his work. He would have ridden it to Kings Cross to show off, but he couldn’t imagine just leaving it there for who knows how long. Instead, he just bragged about his ‘baby’ to anyone who would listen.

Sirius is a walking oxymoron. He’s loyal yet deceptive; he’s selfless, yet has a hell of an ego; he’s reckless yet- no, just reckless. But how can this be? Oxymorons don’t make sense! To the people he cares about, Sirius will stick with them 100%, no questions asked. He’s a huge believer in one-for-all and all-for-one, no man left behind. He’d go over a cliff, for any of those he loved without hesitation. Yet, to those he’s not so fond of, the deception comes in. He could lie, cheat, and steal his way to the ends of the earth, so long as his people were out of the way and unharmed. At the same time, there is no question that Sirius thinks he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread which is saying a lot because he loves sliced bread. However, there’s also that hidden vulnerability that his ego tends to hide. He struts like a peacock, but those feathers are all truly for show. And, though he sometimes doesn’t have the most tact in the world and may say the first thing that comes to mind – he truly does put others before himself. Except people he doesn’t like - then he’s going to upset them; he’s going to mean it and they’ll have deserved it. 

Sirius is messy. He always, always has been. In a house that was ordered and regimented to a fault, this was once again a flaw that he had in which others, if they had it, could hide. He’s messy in the “that sock is right underneath that shirt which is stuffed behind my dresser” way that he knows exactly where everything is, but to an onlooker it would be pure chaos. It drove his dorm mates nuts, because whatever he touched seems to just explode, and his tie will end up hanging from Peter’s bedpost and a shoe will find its way into James’ trunk. 

Sirius is a whiz at nonverbal magic. He first really began to learn it due to laziness, but picked it up really quickly. His mind is constantly sharp, so his tendency to show off with nonverbal spells has that much more increased.

AESTHETICS

Sirius Black is fire. He is staying up too late at night, knowing fully well that you have to be up early in the morning. He is laughter - too loud and too frequent. He is vulnerability and talking about the future that he wants to have, but doesn’t think he will. He is spitting his drink out in a fit of laughter. He is taking his anger out on someone due to other issues. He is never wanting to be at home. He is friendship. He is staying inside on rainy days and talking for hours. Sirius Black is the first lightning strike in a thunderstorm, right when the electricity could be felt in the air. 

Adrenaline kicking in, he’s a sprint across a field, feeling as if something is chasing him. He’s loyalty, and the comfort of a dog snoozing in front of a fireplace. Sirius is running late to all Order meetings; he’s cold hands and snow covered cobblestones. Sirius Black is screaming so much you lose your voice. He is collapsing into silent sobs, torn between two parts of himself. Sirius Black is drying someone else’s tears while holding back his own. He is a phoenix, coming from such hurt and sorrow, and flourishing, setting things ablaze in glory. 

Using sarcasm and humor to cover up his inner pain and hurt. Sirius is staying up into the wee hours of the morning, talking about everything under the sun. He’s cracked lips and bloodshot eyes with dark circles underneath. Sirius Black is a hand on your shoulder, steadying himself even more than the other person. He is making a cup of tea in the morning, trying to keep himself awake. He’s the strict use of the buddy system at all times.

Sirius Black is the last call at the bar, a smirk on his lips asking the bartender to come home with him. He’s a tremor in his fingertips as they hold a mug of coffee the next morning to stave off a hangover. He’s the smell of smoke clinging to his skin, his hair, and lingering on his breath. He’s fits of sullen as well as being the life of the party. Sirius is never wanting to be alone, afraid of what his mind will do to him. He’s the ghosts of his past sneaking up on him in the dead of night, whispering, whispering, whispering. 

Sirius is hours upon hours of waiting for the sun to rise. He is begging the ghosts to stay away, not having enough energy to fight. He is night terrors and shouting in his sleep and shaking so violently he couldn't walk in a straight line. He is pain. He is anguish. He is agony.

BITS & BOBBLES

Residence: a flat in Muggle London, walking distance to The Leaky Cauldron

Wand: 10 inches, ebony wood, dragon-heartstring core, surprisingly springy

Patronus: rat terrier

Sexuality: pansexual

Height: 5’10 – he doesn’t want to talk about it

WANTED CONNECTIONS

The Regular – The person who comes into the Hog’s Head on a regular basis, Sirius knows their drink order by heart. They know each other better than they should, considering they’ve never really interacted outside the pub.

Unlikely Friends – Maybe (?) an Order member that is the complete opposite of Sirius. No one expected them to get on as well as they should. 

Family Drama – A friend of my enemy is.. My friend? Someone who knows the Black family, is maybe friends with the others, but it’s kind of awkward but not unkind.

Ex-Childhood Fiance – this one is pretty self-explanatory. I just think it’d be a laugh (bonus points if they ever got together because Sirius would actually hate that his mother would be proud)

Grew Up Together – also pretty self explanatory, maybe a friends-to-enemies vibe. I just want more uncomfortable situations that Sirius hates. 

[arcstral]

Hello, hello! This has been a few months coming but I think the end of his anniversary month is a good place to do it.

To start, I've been writing Marth for five consecutive years between TOA and indie FERP. I've had a lot of fun with him throughout that time and made so many wonderful memories. Five years without breaks for one muse is impressive by any standard, and more importantly, by this point I feel that I've explored everything with him that I wanted to. I feel very satisfied with where's he at, where he's gone, and the connections he's made.

All that said, Marth is very important to me and will stay important. He was my first muse coming into this community, my original foothold into TOA four years ago, and the character that got me into Fire Emblem. He may come back, he may not. But right now, I'd like to treat him with the respect he deserves and give my old dog a well deserved rest.

This is now the end of the post. It's been a blast and more. I've sent in my drop ask and I'd like to give a big, big thank you to everyone in TOA who's played with him throughout the years. Much love, and at least in one respect: farewell.

[sweetea-rosey]

Greetings @ham-cheese-toastie ! Lol

I was very much intending to write you fluff for this secret santa, but....well, you said angst :)

If you give me your Ao3 I'll gift it to you on there

Nestled within the thick of the strangler fig trees, under the dappled view of the sun above the vines, is an oasis. At least, that is how Odysseus refers to it. It's a small dip in the ground and it goes dry easily, leaving sandy mud and long grasses in its wake. But it rains often enough that it fills with muddy water, the sun shines onto it just enough to make it barely reflective.

Odysseus can visit when he likes, safe from the prying of Calypso.

Whether she truly doesn't know of his getaway, or if she simply deigns to overlook his sporadic absences, he does not know.

But, in those moments, he gets to truly look at himself. The murky water dulls him, but he can't deny it. In the water, he thinks he can see himself trapped within the embrace of the lotus. His body is older, and much more weary. Lines have spread across his face- more like the cracks in a foundation than the rings of a tree. He has less color in his hair than he remembers, gray slowly encroaching from his temples and sneaking its way up into his hair and down to his beard. Both of which have grown out past his shoulders. But his eyes …they seem cloudy. His sight is focused- intrinsically, like breathing, he knows exactly what he wants- where he wants to go.

But the haze weighs him down. It makes him want to drop and plant himself right where he is.

That, he suspects, is Calypso's enchantment. Maybe she's trying to encourage him to love her.

He can't tell if his love for Penelope is so true and profound that no love magic could ever truly bend the flow of his heart …or if this is what Calypso thinks love is.

This heavy feeling that doesn't allow him to fully entertain leaving, that clouds his mind and makes him forget how to build a raft. The weight in his limbs that bind him in place like a dog, each day getting quieter and quieter before it realizes that escape is impossible and trying is pointless. This…this helplessness that trails him each day.

As if love is just …not being able to leave.

He thinks it might be easier if he did try to learn to love her. Maybe he's just exhausting himself for a fruitless task. He'll never get to see if his son has his mother's eyes, he'll never track the gray in Penelope’s hair, he'll never again catch up with Diomides, he'll never know how Helen is fairing after being reunited with the King of Sparta.

And all for what? For disarming an active threat?

Zeus can order him to drop a baby from a wall; but he pokes the eye of a man-eating Cyclopes and suddenly none of Odysseus's previous heroic acts matter at all?

He fears his despair may drown him, like a more depressing rendition of what happened to Narcissisus.

A haunting sound- like a minor chord on a kalimba- breaks his terrible musings. He snaps his attention up abruptly and wishes his soul could truly leave his body for a bit, so that he might converse with him on an equal plane.

“Why do you follow me?” He asks, his voice rough and painful.

Polites smiles. Only Polites would smile as a shade.

Odysseus just watches the stillness of his old friend, the way the air seems to warp uncomfortably around him. He stiffens at the cold that trickles down neck.

The wind whispers into his ear, stealing Eurylochus’s voice to do so. “I've never known you to roll over so easily,” he comments.

Odysseus turns around, but he sees no one. He looks back across the pond and Polites is gone. In his place is a little gray winion, with fluffy fur that occasionally wisps out like stormy cirrus clouds. It wears a red bandana around its head and holds a lotus flower in its stubby hands.

The voice returns. “In the end, you ate the lotus.”

Odysseus scowls. His mouth doesn't move, but he sees his reflection respond, the figure of his Second in Command standing just behind him. “She forced it on me.”

“Maybe he doesn't love Penelope enough,” the voice of Perimedes comes from somewhere.

“No, he loved them too much!” Declared the slurred voice of Elpenor, which Odysseus thinks is just unfair.

“Regardless,” Eurylochus cuts them off, “he can never seem to do the right thing. Maybe if he didn't ruin things with Athena …”

The Winion across the pond doesn't say anything. It simply stares, offering the lotus.

He'd have to swim to accept it.

Eurylochus scoffs. “You were never fit to be Captain-”

‘Captain’ echoes. All at once, he hears six hundred voices calling out to him in distress. Each one is begging for him to do something, to protect them, to make a decision and use his wit to get them away from certain death.

But direct combat was never his forté. He didn't know what to do.

In his frustration, he slashes the water, watching the little waves tear apart his reflection.

He opens his eyes with a start, finding his lungs constricting and the sun waving a wobbly goodbye above him.

He panics and flails until he's in a good position to shoot up and hull himself back onto the grass, coughing out dirty water. When he's done heaving, he looks up to find a figure blocking the sun.

His heart skips. He tries to speak, coughs, tries again. “I..p….Penelope?” He gasps.

The figure leans down, and then he thinks it's Athena, swooping down to pick him up and carry him away in her talons.

He blinks and it's gone.

He glances behind him, to the other side of the pond, to find it empty.

He stands up, taking slow breaths, only to startle at the woman that's appeared in front of him.

He slumps. “Calypso,” he relents.

Calypso's sweet, genuine smile is too much. “Hello my love, let's get you away from this pond, alright?”

She lures him away with cold and heavy hands.

[maxverstappensflatbrim]

Show Me Yours | Matty Healy [42]

chapter forty-two, act five: the ballad of me and my brain

masterlist

November 3rd 2017

Tommie had woken up alone in Phoebe’s apartment, with many missed calls and texts of people asking if she was okay.

Her brows had furrowed and she’d hesitated to call Adam back first. He’d called her eleven times, and although they haven’t spoken since that day he came to the apartment she still worries something is wrong.

Her mind goes to her grandparents, but she spoke to her nan yesterday. They were on their way to a trip to Tenby in the caravan with the dog, they’re fine. Unless something happened on the trip. 

Nan can’t swim. Granch got sick. Or a heart attack, or an accident-

“Tom? Tom, thank god, are you still in LA-?”

It’s then she realises how late into the LA afternoon it is, her clock reads one o’clock and she realises she’d probably been up way longer than she should’ve been writing away until her heart's content (until she passed out from exhaustion).

“What’s going on?”

“Matty’s missing.”

This is the first time she’s heard his name in months, and her heart stops.

She sits up straighter, both Button and Max looking up at her in question. “What?”

“We tried to stage an intervention, shit-” She hears him sigh, can hear Ross and George arguing in the background with another voice that sounds a lot like Jamie, “He took off, a few days ago, he’s been doing it alot lately, he’s never been gone this long.”

“Where are you?”

“San Jose.”

She sighs and climbs out of bed, putting her phone on speaker and setting it on the bedside table. She grabs a pair of jeans from the chair she’d thrown them onto last night, getting a random t-shirt and throwing it on quickly, not even bothering with the effort of finding a bra. She does however, go to the effort of saying goodbye to the two dogs before shoving on her shoes, grabbing her bag that holds her essentials (keys, wallet, journal, lip balm, cigs, lighter and some other unnecessary shit.).

“I’ll come meet you, you in the place we stayed in last time?”

“No, we’re in the fancy one across the road you liked the look of.” She hears more arguing, and then a door slams, “It’s seven hours, Tommie, you- stay in LA, I just- has he tried calling you?”

“No, no he hasn’t. I haven’t talked to him since TRNSMT.”

Adam sighs, “He’s not himself, Tommie, I don’t know what’s going on with him. He’s in his own head, doing so many fucking drugs, Tom, I-” He sighs, she hears a sob-like sound get stuck in his throat, “We’re trying but he’s not listening, saying he needs to clear his head-”

Suddenly it dawns on Tommie and she pauses halfway down the steps outside of her building, “What has he said?” She asks quickly, fumbling to get the Uber app up as she walks down the street, “Tell me exactly what he said before he left, Ads.”

Adam sighs, stutters a few times as he tries to remember the conversation he had with Matty five days prior, “Um, something about the drugs helping him sleep, clearing his mind, helping him write and create, said that the drugs are his muse or some philosophical shit. I-I don’t know, Tommie.”

She watches her Uber pull up and puts the phone to ear, “Ads, I’ll call you back, don’t worry alright.”

“Tom, please don’t-”

“Don’t worry.”

⋆｡ ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ

The studio is a mess, clothes thrown over floors, crumpled up pieces of paper, cans of beer, coke and all different kinds of things ruin her path to the booth.

There’s a drum beat on loop, it's so loud she can hear it through the headphones and it almost drowns sounds of snoring from the curly haired musician.

He’s half on the settee half off, wearing only a pair of boxers and a large hoodie of their own band.

Tommie pushes her way through the mess on the floor that her hands shake to clean, she satisfies the urge for her hands to move by moving her foot to kick at Matty's side.

When he doesn’t wake she hits him harder and he gasps, curling over on himself, “Ow.”

“Get up.”

His eyes snap open at the voice and he sits up, fumbling to pull the hoodie down to cover himself and she rolls her eyes, “What are you doing?”

“Making music.”

She looks around, “Looks like it.”

She walks over to the mixing board and pauses the drum beat playing then looks back at him, “What are you doing, Matty?”

“Why don’t you call me Roddy anymore?”

She sighs and clenches her jaw, “You’re not my Roddy,” She tells him quietly, “I don’t know where he went, but… he’s been gone a while. I miss him, If you see him- if you see him, will you let him know?”

Matty rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his hair, “What are you doing here?”

“The guys are worried, so worried that they actually mentioned your name to me, which, I’m gonna be honest, I haven't heard since Scotland.”

“Bet you loved that.”

“I did, actually.”

He scoffs, eyeing her up and down, she crosses her arms and leans back against the desk behind her.

“What are you doing here, Tommie?”

“I care about you, Ma-”

He scoffs again harsher this time and stands up, “Don’t make me laugh, you’re the one who walked out on us all, remember? Back in July, picked up your guitar and ran off to LA like it meant nothing.”

“I- what did you expect me to do, Matty?” She asks, keeping her voice on a lower level despite his shouting a few minutes prior. “Did you expect me to sit beside you and hold your hand as you killed yourself I-”

She shakes her head and looks away, “You left us. Not just me, you left-”

“Just because I left doesn’t mean I don’t still love you.”

He pauses, mouth open as he was preparing to shout something else. Tommie sighs, hands coming up to cover her face for a few seconds. Too many seconds, although he counts his head, he reaches twelve, he still thinks it's too long for her to hide away from him.

“I’ll always love you, Matt.” She promises, she avoids looking at him and he takes a few more steps forward to get closer to her, “I love you too much to sit by and watch you do this to yourself-”

“So you left me? Made it worse-”

“You won’t listen!” She moves her hands away from her face to shove his chest. He moves back to arms length then. Just watching her.

She shakes her head, finally raising her voice, “You won’t listen to any of us, to me, G, Ads, Ross, your own mother who’s gone through the same thing, we’re all worried about you.”

“I’m fine-”

“No you’re not.” She tells him, “Look at yourself,” Despite his better judgement he lets his eyes glace to his reflection in the dark tinted window behind her, “You’re a fucking mess, Matty, and quite frankly it’s fucking pathetic.”

He lifts his head, looking at her down his nose, “Half the time you can’t string a sentence together, you’re passing out on stage, lashing out at everyone, you’re a mess, Matthew.”

His jaw quivers as he tries to keep his composure, “You’re so- so god damn stubborn, and blind. Look around, Matt, you have so many people here trying to help you, trying to love you and you just won’t let them. Why, because you’re scared?”

“You don’t know anything about-”

“Quite the opposite, “She bites back, “I know you, Matty, I know everything about you. I know everything about my Matty.”

She steps to him this time, lifting one hand ready to hold him, “Are you scared, Matty?”

He looks to the small coffee table in the studio, one they'd spent many nights gathered around with pizza boxes listening to music and telling jokes. On the table sits a joint, beside it empty packets that she doesn’t even want to know are inside of it.

“I’m not-”

“Matt.”

‘You’re in love with her but you’re afraid a guy like you will ruin her. And you will.’

He nods quickly, letting the tears welling in his eyes linger a little longer, “I’m afraid, Tom.”

“Of what?”

He shakes his head, mumbling something under his breath; neither of them can understand, “Of what?”

She shakes her head and walks closer to him but he fights her off, not letting her touch him, “I-”

“Matt-”

She watches his eyes dart to the door as he licks his lips, “I’ve got a flight.”

“Matt-”

“Tomorrow, I need to pack all my stuff.”

“Matty, please, just slow-”

He nods to himself as he gathers the only thing he brought with him, a little tote bag, her little tote bag. One from the record shop she likes in London. He shoves inside his wallet, phone, charger and notebook then starts stumbling around until he finds his jeans and shoes.

“Matty, would you please-”

“I’ve got to go-”

“Matty,” She huffs, trying to follow him around but his longer legs are moving too fast, closing up his laptop, stopping the demo, throwing the stupid memory stick with the song he was working on into the mess around them, “Matt, please, just stop for a couple seconds- Let’s talk-”

“Nothing to talk about, I have to go, seven hours to San Jose-”

“Matt!”

He still doesn't listen so she pauses as he opens up the door, “I broke up with Caleb.”

⋆｡ ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ

“Why’d you break up?”

Tommie watches him dip his fries into the red sauce and then shove them into his mouth as if he hasn't eaten for years.

She sighs and looks down at the table in the little diner they’re sitting at, she picks at the table cloth beneath them and leans back.

“Creative differences.”

He snorts and she finds her lips curling a little bit into a smile.

“Seriously?”

He shakes his head a little, “I always hated him, I mean, not just because of the whole you thing, but because he was a raging arsehole-twat-prick dude.”

She nods her head in thought, “I mean, he hated Deftones, you love Deftones, if I hated them- hell, if I uttered a single bad word about them you'd break my neck- literally! I can’t believe you didn’t break up with him over that. And one major thing you should’ve ran from was his love of country music, I mean, If I heard Jesus take the whe-”

“He got me pregnant.”

Matty pauses, fry mid air, mouth open ready to bite down on it, instead his gaze is settled right on her, missing the ketchup dripping down to stain the white table cloth on the table.

“What?” He looks down towards her stomach slowly and she shifts uncomfortably covering herself with her arms, “You’re pregnant?”

“I had an abortion, few weeks ago, that’s why I’m out here, Matt.”

“What did he-”

“He told me I had no right because it was his baby too, and threatened to tell the press.”

“Did he? I mean, I haven’t seen anything but-”

She shakes her head “I told him if he did that then I’d make sure his band never made it. Then I kicked him out of the apartment, cut my lease short and moved in with Phoebe.”

He hums in thought, picking at the table cloth.  

“I was so scared, Matt. I’m terrified of the thought of having children, of ruining my career, my life, not because I’m not as strong as other women or anything like that, or I won’t be able to do that. Because I just don’t want that-”

She breaths in slowly and tilts her head at him, “I wanted my Matty. Phoebe told me I asked for you, when I was out of it. Said I asked her to go get you for me.”

He looks down, staring at the heart shaped hole he’s ripped into the dining table cloth. “I was terrified of doing it without you. What were you scared of?”

He scoffs and shakes his head, “Matty, please-”

“Did you tell me that just to try and get me to open up?”

“Trade you.” She shrugs and leans over to steal a chip.

He sighs, “When Gemma broke up with me she told me some harsh truths, one’s that I needed to hear and I don’t know. I guess I just know deep down that she’s right. I don’t want to ruin you.”

She tilts her head, reaching across the table to set her hand on his, “You won’t ruin me, Matty.”

“I will. Cause you’re you, you’re a good person, Tommie. I don’t want to ruin you.’

“Matt-“

He shakes his head and stands, “I have to go. I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“Matt-“

⋆｡ ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ

She looks around the mess in the studio. Now that he’s gone, that he’s back on his way to the rest of the band she can let herself go nuts and clean it.

She starts by cleaning up the takeaway boxes from the floor, then she folds the blankets and cleans the messy table.

Half way through cleaning up she finds the discarded memory stick he’d tossed aside. There’s a post it note wrapped around being held there with cellotape.

‘Baby, two.’

She lifts up the memory stick and then slowly puts it into the computer. 

There's a small sniffle and then a sighs as he strums a few chords. "Baby, two. Um..." He sighs again and shifts around, the leather chair creaks but is cut off as he clears his throat, "This is my deepest confession, I guess. This is for Tommie, I'm sorry. I'm sorry about a lot, that it took me so long to realise and that when I finally did I'd already pushed her out. But, I don't want to hurt her, I don't want to let her back in-" He sighs again, "Anyway, this is take one. Baby, I don't have a title yet."

I've been watching you walk I've been learning the way that you talk The back of your head is at the front of my mind Soon I'll crack it open just to see what's inside your mind … Inside your mind

Marry me, I will wait until you're fast asleep Dreaming things I have the right to see Lately you are dreaming you're in love with me The only option left, is look and see inside your mind

… Inside your mind I can show you the photographs Of you getting on with life I've had dreams where there's blood on you All of those dreams where you're my wife

Inside your mind Inside your mind Inside your mind Inside your mind

She raises her brow at the deep voice but sits there to take it for a few moments taking it in.

Every moment between her and Matty has ever shared floats through her head. From meeting to starting the band, to being on tour, to living together, to that night in LA, to watching him leave yesterday.

She thinks over every decision she’s ever made.

Being with Caleb, never telling Matty.

Maybe if she just told him, if she’d let him know how she really felt none of this would have happened. He wouldn’t have turned to drugs, he’d be safe.

Or maybe he still would have. And they’d be unhappy. Together but unhappy. And they’d hate each other.

They must be good. She wonders. The drugs, there must be something about them. Why else would he love them so much? More than her, more than the band.

Before she can stop herself she’s sitting on the floor, eyes not moving from the baggie on the table as her fingers drum right beside it.

She just wants one look. One look inside Matty Healy’s mind.

taglist

@thereisaplaceintheheart, @indierockgirrl, @sofaritsalrightt, @julezs-bl0g, @eaglestar31, @sophinthealpss, @noacfemcel, @if-my-heart-bleeds, @befrwime, @fallingforel, @sexorchocolateorpillowsorclouds, @3terna15unshin3, @1975sophie1975, @thesocraticjunkiewannabe, @littlesoldierelleora, @procrastinatinglikeapro, @beatr2x, @byyourside28

-let me know if you want to be added :)

[balladofthewhitehorse]

#2 for engport please!

Thank you for the prompt <3 I wasn’t sure which prompt list you were referring to, so you get both!

[Set During The Peninsular War] + [Battle of Rolica] 

Portugal stood still, trembling in a brand of sunlight. ‘’Get out-’’ He started, abject fury curling in the back of his throat as he stepped towards France - jabbing his finger at them. ‘’Get out of my house.’’ Heart thudding in his chest, Portugal watched as the taller man regarded him with a cool look (like a fox in a henhouse; And the dog was away). ‘’Did you hear me, Fran-’’ 

‘’I heard.’’ A shrug, as if they had only been discussing the weather - Sunny with a chance of martyrdom, France mused quietly. ‘’Shame. I liked you.’’ Their eyes flashed as they slowly stood up and approached Portugal, arms folded behind their back as they cleared their throat, shrugging lazily. ‘’Spain’s troops are arriving anyday, Portugal. You’re welcome to join him.’’ A lofty smile, France raising their chin proudly. ‘’Brothers are a rare thing to come by.’’ 

‘’Why do you say that-?’’ Portugal retorted testily, hackles bristling. ‘’Is that a threat?’’ 

France almost looked disappointed, brows furrowing as they shook their head. ‘’Only cautioning you.’’ They paced the room - strides long and methodical, France’s expression pinched thoughtfully as a long silence stretched (Portugal dared not interrupt - somehow even the very quietness was envenomed). ‘’Your regent has gone already, hasn’t he?’’ It was a cowardly flight - France hovering on the port, nerves thrumming long after the ship had vanished; Coiled tight, expecting a fight that had ended up never happening.

‘’What a fool.’’ Anger dripped from their tongue, France glaring at Portugal suddenly - eyes boring into them. ‘’This is not what the Nation of Portugal is. This is not what you deserve, I can give-’’ 

‘’I will not accept it.’’ Portugal bit back, a lump rising in his throat (the people were angry, their restlessness only fanning his own - until Portugal could no longer tell what parts of him were them and what parts were him alone). ‘’Fuck you, I am more than just-’’ His face contorted, wild and defiant as he lunged for France - grasping the front of their embroidered shirt with balled fists, jerking France close with a venegful hiss. ‘’-My Crown!’’ Portugal bit his tongue, trembling in place (A heady rush of earth and sea - salt-kissed soil - who was he?) 

France regarded this with a lofty smile, peering over the bridge of their graceful nose. ‘’I assume you’re already aware of the consequences.’’ Something venomous crept into their voice, an adder in a lonesome field somewhere by the Seine - France releasing a frustrated huff as they shook their head. Typical, there was that familiar stubbornness (France had tasted its steel, as Spain tore a bloody hole in their flank) and they almost felt a laugh creep up their throat. ‘’For starters, I have your brother’s head pickling in a fucking wine barrel.’’ 

 “No, you fucking don’t.” He wrestled the urge to tackle France right then and there, as the taller country began to slowly walk away. Forget humans and their elaborate warfare, forget their swords and cannons and ships. Portugal wanted to tear into France, talons and teeth alike, a ferocious animal. 

“Why don’t you find out?” France sneered, casting him a malicious glance over their shoulder. “Or are you waiting for your…what’s his name again?” They scoffed, rolling their eyes loftily. “For Perfidious Albion to come running to your heel again?” 

“He’s-“ 

“He’s a dog, Portugal.” 

As France’s footsteps faded down the hallway, Portugal bit back a rising cry of outrage. He’s my Dog, Portugal wanted to hiss - to grab his sword and run France through right here and now, Napoleon be damned. Where anger rose, there was a pang of grief - Portugal suddenly subsumed in a wave of emotion as the weight began to sink in (an anchor around his throat, hands clawing at the briny rope). He had to fight France. For Spain, for England. 

Furious tears welled up in his eyes, Portugal nodding solemnly to himself. 

For Spain, For England. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Up, up and over the horizon - Portugal saw it, a ragged banner, blood-red and white. The face of St George was upon him, and Portugal waited patiently as a figure hovered at the prow of the ship, and did not wait before scrambling over its hull, tumbling into the stormy waters (some soldiers nearby had spotted a few of the British lose their lives as their landing craft tumbled in the water - but he knew England had eyes only for him). “About time.” He ground out as England emerged from the salt and foam, slick with brine and arms outstretched. 

“I can’t leave you alone for one second-“ England breathed out, grasping Portugal’s hands - his knuckles were red and raw, shaking as they cradled his lover’s palms (the imprint of a sword’s handle, a personal desire to kill France up close and personal, rather than the distant fury of a musket gun). “-without you hurting yourself, can I?” He growled, heart thudding in his chest - eyes troved Portugal’s body, searching for wounds or bruises, the tumbling of lost land or burned cities. 

“I’m fine.” Portugal replied stiffly, squeezing England’s hand. He knew they couldn’t waste time, jawline tense as he glanced towards his generals. “I mean, it’s okay-“ What burned in England, Portugal understood now to be something more intense than loyalty - something that could not be bought with gold or spice or the newest thing from afar, and as he watched England (his gaze ragged and worn, a man in a trance - the tireless duty of the Grim to its Church).

‘’Come on-’’ He cleared his throat, frowning solemnly. ‘’-We can’t waste any time.’’ ‘’No-!’’ England barked with frustration, staring at Portugal in a mix of disbelief and distress as the man turned on his heel - England trotting after him in a hurry, jaw set as he tried to resist grabbing Portugal by the shoulder. ‘’-No, it’s not okay!’’ A snarl rushed out of England’s throat, lips curling (red gums and white teeth bared, his shoulders bunched defensively). ‘’Not when I feel like I’m going to go batshit fucking crazy, thinking you’ve gotten yourself hurt or killed.’’ He squeezed his hand tightly around the muzzle of his musket gun and cleared his throat sagely. 

Now ruined from the saltwater, Portugal knew that it was ineffective - but not totally useless, given England’s tendency for melee warfare.

‘’Stop that!’’ Portugal snapped suddenly. He stomped his boot against the sandy earth. ‘’We’ve got France’s army breathing down our necks, and I haven’t got time to deal with you-’’ He faltered, England’s gaze heavy as he shook his head. ‘’-Come on, we’ve…we’ve got a long march ahead of us.’’ His brows twisted together in frustration, Portugal scarcely feeling England’s hand on his shoulder. ‘’Get off me.’’ England opened his mouth to say something - and thought better of it, eyes dark as he nodded stubbornly. Without another word, England skulked onward and Portugal fell in step beside him - the sun sweltering overhead as the two men marched in time with one another. 

Guilt clawed at Portugal’s belly, as he kept his gaze level with the horizon (the visible horizon has long been vital to survival and successful navigation, especially at sea - and although Portugal was not at sea, he hoped that it might give him luck; Both in the war and in personal affairs). ‘’...Thanks, for coming.’’ Portugal cleared his throat as he watched his countryside past him, a quiet dread cold and heavy in his chest. ‘’I wouldn’t have wanted to do this alone.’’ But, I would’ve. If you hadn’t turned up - went unsaid, a defensive flash in Portugal’s eyes. 

‘’Of course.’’ England replied numbly, nodding curtly. ‘’That is the rules of our alliance.’’ A flare of irritation blazed through Portugal, although his eyes betrayed nothing; England was right. Ties of blood and ink traced his veins as much as salt and earth did, and Portugal was at war with someone he had once called a brother. Spain was fighting back where he could, and Portugal felt himself weak for the loyalty and affection he still felt for him.

‘’Good-’’ A man called out towards him, Portugal’s gaze flickering off to the right as he squeezed the hilt of his sabre. ‘’-You know your role. I’ll see you after the battle.’’ The look England casted him was a wounding one, Portugal’s lips thinning with distaste as he tried to say something.

England was gone by then - disappearing with the rest of his men, a tightly-wound figure grasping at the hilt of his sword, at the muzzle of his rifle as England longed to strike something (to tear, to bite - to be a dog). ‘’...What are you looking at?’’ He grumbled softly, glancing at his neighbour with a weary, hallowed look in his eyes. ‘’Keep your eyes forward. The French aren’t gonna give you a warning before they blast your brain out.’’ England cleared his throat - before slowly reaching out a hand, gingerly patting the soldier’s back. It would be okay, the gesture said with each gentle thump. England wouldn’t fail.

He wouldn’t. 

Portugal had gone with Trant and his men towards the West - and each passing second was another noose for England’s throat, pulling tighter as he frowned. If France noticed him approaching - it would spell disaster, and quietly the man (pining - a dog left in the backyard, tied to a post and frustrated) moved slowly towards the front, shouldering his way through the crowded army. ‘’Sir-’’ He licked his lips nervously, staring up at Wellesley. ‘’Sir, can we-’’ Sensing the nation’s impatience, Wellesley nodded curtly - and gave the command. It was just a little after 9am, and England watched the horizon for Portugal. If France was…he shouldered through the foray, a snarl rising in his throat as he lifted the muzzle of his gun, a blast of gunpowder and smoke wreathing the air. With impatience, England rammed a fist into the gut of a soldier - curses thick on his tongue as he peered through the foray of dazzling uniform, eyes wild and furtive (the dog began to howl - baying for its master). 

‘’It’s me, you want-!’’ England shouted desperately, furiously as he slammed the butt of his rifle against the ground, knuckles white with terror. ‘’France-! Come to me! It’s me you want-!’’ It was the same as it had always been, the channel between the warring cliffs - an eye for an eye. 

There was a rush - clumsy and unplanned, England’s teeth grit with frustration as he cursed the foolhardy colonel (and yet, all the same, the man could not bring himself to entirely resent Lake; Did he not yearn for spilled blood? To spill himself into Portugal’s arms?) Shots rang out and men tumbled like stones, rattling down the steep hill-side as England found his feet leaden, dragged through the earth and the men and the blood that seeped through the grass. A familiar voice shot across the battlefield and he jerked forward ( and the Earth shifted with him). 

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Portugal wound himself against France’s body, blade to the nation’s throat as they writhed on the ground (He found himself wrestling with fate; Death gripping the front of his shirt as they slammed the butt of their musket against his nose, a sickly snap of cartilage). Dazed, he gave France a swift kick, thrusting his shin against their groin - a muffled curse of outrage as the other country released their hold, allowing Portugal to scramble to his feet. ‘’Fuck you-!’’ 

France didn’t say anything. A chilling silence amongst the scuffles and swears of soldiers, a figment of legend (Had Jeanne D’arc been this tight-lipped among the flames so long ago? It was hard to say - but France would carry her legacy on), as France lifted themselves from the ground and wiped their shirt, a streak of blood - Portugal’s blood - across their jacket. 

The look on their face was a patient one - a hungry one, la Bête du Gévaudan, as France held their sword before them. There was a flash of steel as they moved (Two roosters in the pit - a pair of spurs between them; France made the first move, sinking their sword into Portugal). Round and round they went, with quick swipes and strikes; A sword lost, a sword shattered as they grappled with one another. 

The men around them knew not to interrupt - knew not to intervene. Portugal bit back a curse as France slammed him against the ground, teeth cracking as they shoved their hands around his throat. There was a faint ringing in Portugal’s ears, a snarl bitten back as he felt France’s palm against the bob of his Adam’s Apple. ‘’Bastard.’’ He ground out wretchedly, jamming the remains of a broken sword against France’s breast - bruise purpling his throat. ‘’Portugal-!’’ England came charging through the crowd with teeth bared, dragging France off - enveloping them in his jaws, England burning with fury (Biting-! Biting down into the neck; A dog making off with the farmer’s prized rooster). He scarcely heard Portugal - calling after him - as they both tumbled, slick with earth and blood down the hill; France had dug a hand in his hair, and tugged while England’s teeth clenched against his throat with a growl.

 ‘’Get off-!’’ France shouted, England’s eyes watering as France jerked a boot into his belly, scrambling to their feet. They didn’t seem to take note of the teeth left in their throat, eyes narrowing as they bent to the wet grass; A discarded sword, one of somebody’s soldiers - whose side they had been fighting for was of no concern to France - and stared down their old enemy (old friend, old family, old neighbour). Without a word, they charged England and collided blade-first, crashing against one another like the choppy tides of the Strait.

Portugal cursed as he ran after England and France. They tumbled through the fray, wild and feral things (Squabbles of Man left behind; History bubbling through Portugal’s veins - forgotten grudges brought to the fore); Portugal, France and England wrestled with the weight of each other’s existence - and they crashed in weary, bloodied heaps. As France rolled away, slowly rising to their feet, Portugal rose too - and glared heavily at them, fists balled. 

France’s gaze flickered towards where his men were slowly drawing into a retreat. A bloody trail flowed down their throat, down their chest - down from their open palms, their face grim as they quietly stepped past Portugal, head held high (hair sticky with blood and earth, all too human for their liking). They fell in line with the rest of their men, and soon they were gone.

‘’...England-’’ Portugal cast his friend a furtive look, once France had slipped over the crest of the hill. Anger and relief thrummed through their veins, hot and heavy and all at once as he bit his tongue, fists trembling (adrenaline tumbled through them - the rush of the currents, pulling him hither and thither, sending him falling over and over). ‘’-What the fuck?’’ Shame plucked at his heart-strings, Portugal frowning solemnly. His friend was ragged and worn, bruises like sunsets, and still England stood before him patiently - expectantly. ‘’You bit France!?’’  ‘’Yes.’’ Came a robotic reply, England’s eyes wide and heavy as he began to croon. ‘’Portu-’’ Portugal held a hand up, shaking his head. ‘’England.’’ He couldn’t do it now, not in the middle of the battlefield; Not with the pair of them still in their soiled uniforms - wretched souls. ‘’You need a wash.’’ Fingers looped around England’s, laced together (Promise that you’ll use the finest soap - Promise that you’ll use the warmest towel - Promise that you’ll look after yourself) as they slowly began to lead the other out of the field, weary and dog-tired.

[ 2 ] - “will you marry me?”

‘’Will you marry me?’’ England’s eyebrows shot up as Portugal spoke, voice faint as it drifted from the sofa; An old thing, he had been meaning to get rid of the raggedy thing for a long time - and had simply never gotten around to it yet. ‘’W-wh…do we need to?’’ He replied, pursing his lips together as Portugal slowly got up (the shuffle of a cushion as it was kicked off onto the floor, and then carefully picked up and swung back down on the sofa). The spatula dandled in his hand for a heart-beat, England mulling over his question - just as Portugal appeared in the doorway.

‘’Do we need to?’’ Portugal replied sarcastically, smiling impishly.

‘’Are you serious?’’ 

England bristled defensively, sticking his tongue out as Portugal approached him; Arms looped around his middle, a red flush racing up the back of England’s neck as Portugal gently tugged him up - as if trying to lift him. ‘’I assumed we were already.’’ He grumbled softly, bumping Portugal with his hips as he gently lifted the spatula to his boyfriend’s lips - Does this taste good? - and smiled lightly; In the bright glare of the kitchen lights, England could follow the lines of his wrinkles and scars, rifts wrought by disaster and battle alike.

‘’You know, treaty of perpetual friendship.’’ He shrugged, looking back towards the pan. ‘’Seems fi-’’ Portugal scoffed, pinching England’s ear gently - leaning up on his tiptoes to press a gentle kiss to his neck. ‘’Friendship.’’ He pointed out, manner-of-factly. ‘’I want something official.’’ A gleam of pride shone in Portugal’s eyes (A sunken treasure - golden and desirable, England’s heart racing as he caught sight of it). ‘’And I have just done something amazing.’’ It had been a long time coming - but Portugal was caught up in the joy of his people. ‘’Before you too.’’ 

‘’I was wondering what got you in the mood all of a sudden-’’ ‘’Edmund-’’ Portugal breathed. ‘’-I just want to pretend we’re just humans for a bit.’’ England blinked at the use of his human name, guilt coiling inside him as he sighed. It was a cute idea - and how many times had they proven their devotion to one another, but by cutting one another into pieces? Portugal was right - and England slowly turned around, shifting so that he could tuck his boyfriend close to his chest, cradling his head in his hand with a oft sigh. ‘’Then yes, I would love to marry you.’’

It was hardly the most romantic way to go about a proposal - England mused wryly that they were both standing around in sweatpants and underwear in the bright glare of the kitchen’s halogen lights. ‘’Not going to start crying with joy?’’ Portugal teased lightly, snorting as he hugged England tightly. In the grand scheme of things, humans were fleeting - finite things in comparison, and Portugal knew that he could not always escape his duty; It thrummed beneath his skin, hungry and protective, the beating heart of his nation and Portugal knew that he would always yearn for his homeland in the end, for the rush of the tumbling sea beneath his feet. Yet, to be able to slake off that heavy burden - even for a brief moment, even for a short wedding, it was truly a precious thing. ‘’You wept the first time that I kissed you. I thought you were a wuss.’’

‘’That’s it, I’m breaking up-’’ 

Portugal let out a bark of laughter, tugging England’s shirt as he pulled the man close into a warm kiss (The forest rising to embrace the dawn; The Sun come again). ‘’Eu te amo.’’