#(does this count as fenders?)

[witsserviceablesubstitute]

Loving Anders and Fenris means I'm trying to enjoy two similarly flawed characters whose trauma shouldn't have been used as a weapon against each other, nor as a weapon against the entirety of DA2's plot. At least, not the way it was. Their respective stories needed a lot more empathy and nuance. Some of that was DA2 being a rushed rough draft, but there are still certain choices that the player makes with both of them that exist as pointlessly cruel, racist, and abelist and therefore shouldn't have been options at all.

Ultimately DA2 is a story that handled both Fenris and Anders contextual oppression and meta creation poorly enough that sometimes all I see is a reproduction of their reductive feud, but in real life. I understand why someone would dislike one but not the other (and people should feel free to), I even agree with an interpretation of Anders as this particular type of biased white leftist. However, years of their constant reduction has only led to a dismissal of what they represent. The exploration of which being DA2's whole plot, the execution of which being fundamentally flawed, and the divisive reaction of which being inevitable. They needed care, basically.

The story was damagingly irresponsible in how it went about pitting their two biggest in-game marginalized identities against each other, one an allegory for queer oppression and mental health issues, the other for colonialism and slavery. It has gotten to the point where I believe fenders (or rather the hopeful romanticization of Fenris and Anders) has the better idea in how to manage their mishandling than discussion that reduces them to their worst selves, dehumanizes them altogether, or dismisses their textual metaphors. Because they are flawed but sometimes all I see is a recitation of their flaws used to dismiss all they represent rather than discussion on how DA2 could've handled their themes respectfully.

This, again, is me navel-gazing. Not on the attack. Please be free to disagree, just not abusively so. Different interpretations of a text and characters are unavoidable, especially for these two (who people feel a strong personal affinity for) and in a game like DA2 (a story within a story). This is just how I feel.

[flashhwing]

my main problem with fenders is that it doesn't follow the same scheme as every other anders ship. you got handers, nanders, kanders. they all rhyme. it's the single letter -> anders. and yes i know hawke, nathaniel, and karl all have 'a' as the second letter but still! it's the principle of the matter!! it should be fanders!!

[ravenousarts]

Got to paint my new fender today and I'm super happy with how it came out :)

[arbezcra]

playing my guitar like the harp

[dreamwatch]

Ramblin' Gamblin' Man

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest

Day #20 - Prompt: Under The Covers | Word Count: 979 | Rating: M | CW: period typical homophobia (alluded to) | POV: Steve | Pairing: Steddie | Tags: secret relationship, sharp suits, Steve Harrington is stupid for Eddie Munson, Fluff but make it lustful

Steve’s at the Grammys. Holy Shit.

It’s not the first time Eddie’s been here, but it’s the first time he’s brought Steve. He walked the red carpet alone last time, the rest of the band ahead of him with their wives and girlfriends, Eddie playing up the bachelor angle. Steve watched from their home. 

Tonight they’re ’best friends if anyone asks’, which Eddie thinks is unlikely because there are some big names here and like, who the fuck are they in the scheme of things?

They’re not nominated for anything; Eddie said they’d been asked to play a cover of Ramblin’ Gamblin Man and both Wayne and Steve’s dad are big Bob Seger fans so the band said yes. See, its little things like that that make him want to climb inside Eddie and never come out. Any other act is thinking about the prestige, Eddie’s thinking about whether his family would like it.

He loves this man so fucking much.

The band are sitting about ten rows back; he’s got a clear view of Sheryl Crow from his seat, and he’s pretty sure that’s the back of Whitney Houston’s head over to his left.

His new phone is buzzing in his pocket. Robin is obsessed with sending him messages. Tonight so far:

‘Is Stevie Nicks there?’

‘If she is please tell me she’s hot.’

‘Shit I think I just saw you!’

‘Is that Sheryl Crow in front of you?’

He deletes them to make space for new messages, hopefully something about how their friends are at the goddamn Grammys and not whether Shania Twain has a nice ass. (She does, he looked.)

Eddie taps his arm. “Okay, we have to go get changed.”

“Huh? Why?”

They’re wearing their ‘Corroded Coffin smart attire’, essentially their usual clothes minus the rips. They’re not exactly scruffy, per se, but… Steve’s in a suit here, you know? (The suit is borrowed, but it’s all about the effort.)

Eddie grins at him. “You didn’t think I was performing at the Grammys in this, did you?” He pulls at the long sleeve tee he’s wearing under his new leather jacket. 

“I mean, yeah, I kind of did.”

Eddie tsks. “For shame, Steve.” He leans in, achingly close, his breath tickling Steve’s neck. “Wish me luck.”

Just for a second Steve thinks about kissing him. Fuck everyone else, fuck the fans, the industry, he just wants to kiss his man publicly. But he doesn’t. Instead he shifts so his lips are practically touching the shell of Eddie’s ear.

“Good luck,” he whispers. 

Eddie shivers. Steve laughs.

The boys all leave, and now it’s Steve and The Wives.

Thirty minutes later the sound of a trashy high-hat fills the auditorium, lights flashing in time to the thu-thu thump bass drum pattern. Despite Jeff being their lead vocalist it’s Eddie, with his raspier, bluesier voice, that’s taking the lead tonight, and doesn’t that just make Steve’s heart fucking cry out with pride? And you know, Eddie, his Eddie, singing at a nationally televised event should be the thing he’s concentrating on, and it is! It is. But when the lights go up the first thing he actually notices is—

“Holy shit, they’re wearing suits!” 

Bonnie says it before anyone else gets a chance. He imagines the four of them are a picture right now, side by side, eyes on stalks because their men are all on stage at the Grammy’s wearing blacks suits, crisp white shirts and… fucking sunglasses. 

Look, he’s seen Eddie in a suit. It was a nice suit, but he looked about as comfortable as a priest in a lingerie store. This is not that.

These are sharp tailored suits, fitted to perfection. Eddie has too many buttons undone on the shirt, some of his chest exposed, that old Fender guitar pick necklace replaced with a solid silver copy (the original with Wayne). The stage lights hit his mirrored Ray Bans, the chain, the rings. But Steve can’t take his eyes off that fucking suit.

He’s going to devour him.

Eddie’s not a frontman, says he loves being able to just do his thing and let Jeff take care of the crowd. But he has a feeling things might change after tonight. 

The audience are on their feet, and Steve grabs the girls so they can head down to the backstage area. They have passes but even then he has to pull the ‘pregnant ladies coming through’ card to get them back to the green room. And when they get in there--

They’re still dressed in those fucking suits.

Eddie spins toward him. “Hey! What did you—“

Steve doesn’t give him a chance to finish the sentence, he has his hands on Eddie’s face and he’s dragging him in for a long, deep kiss, Eddie’s eyes wide and cross eyed.

When he finally comes up for air he realises Jeff, Gareth and Matt are all getting much the same treatment from their wives.

“You’re never taking this off, understand?” Steve says breathlessly. “Never.”

“What… the suit?”

“Duh, the suit, yes the suit. You’re never taking it off. I don’t care what you’re doing, mowing the lawn, taking the trash out, washing the car, don’t care. This,” he says gently pulling at a very expensive lapel, “is never leaving your body.” He goes in for another kiss. “God the things I’m going to do to you tonight.”

“In the suit?”

“Fuck yes, in the suit! Told you, you’re never taking this off.”

Eddie’s grin is slow and mischievous. “This is really doing it for you, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

It’s doing it for everyone. There are three respectable married ladies here, mothers no less, acting like groupies at an Aerosmith gig. 

Steve squeezes his hips. “Let’s go.”

“Sunglasses: on or off?”

Steve wants to sink his teeth into him right here.

“On. Definitely on.”

The song:

The inspiration:

[magniloquent-raven]

I'm getting distracted from my current projects by someone else's post again someone tell me to stop going on tumblr while I have WIPs lmfao

@rosetterer this isn't EXACTLY what you posted about but it does get there in the end

**

Twenty-four hours has never seemed like such an insurmountably long time.

Buck's had long shifts before, the boring ones when he'd stare at the alarms on the wall, willing them to go off—he can picture Maddie's disappointed scowl if she ever found out about that, but he swears he was only hoping for something small and harmless to break up the monotony—and the busy ones. Ones that leave his ears ringing with phantom sirens by the end. Those days only ever seem long in retrospect, when he's bone-tired and trying to remember all the names he asked for.

But now every shift seems to find new and shittier ways to be gruelling. Eddie's miserable and trying to act like he isn't. There's this weird, uncomfortable tension brewing between Hen and Chim. Ravi got himself transferred to B shift—probably to get away from Gerrard, and Buck can't exactly blame him, but he sort of does anyway and their new probie is terrible, and... then there's Gerrard.

Like, Buck already knew he was a piece of work, but. Knowing and experiencing are two very different things. He could barely stand keeping his mouth shut at the medal ceremony when he met the man for five seconds, and now he has to put up with him making smug, belittling comments towards all his friends, all the time. Constantly needing to remind himself he doesn't want to get fired is actually killing him.

It doesn't help that every so often he'll remember Tommy's offhand Captain Gerrard was like having the dad I already had, with a pang as he wonders what exactly Tommy grew up with. What parts of Gerrard's condescending tyranny were familiar to him. Phillip Buckley may not have been father of the year, but maybe never being looked directly at was better than being raised neck deep in toxic waste.

Every time he remembers he gets the urge to pull out his phone and call Tommy up just to... he doesn't even know. Just to hear his voice, maybe. Know if he's doing okay.

Another reason work days seem so long now, if he's being honest. He's always counting down the hours until he can see Tommy again. Like a kid on the last day of school, watching the clock tick closer and closer to summer vacation.

So, of course, right near the end of a particularly busy shift, Gerrard gets them all lined up for a lecture about how sloppy that last save was. Everyone did something wrong, and everyone needs to hear about all the ways they could have gotten someone killed, like they don't all know how risky the job is already.

By the time he's finished telling Chim it's a miracle he managed to convince anyone to let him out on calls, Buck is clenching his jaw hard enough to make his teeth ache.

"I'm sure Captain Soft-Touch loved telling you all it was okay to be mediocre, and that you were trying your best," Gerrard sneers at them all, waving a dismissive hand at very idea of Bobby's captaincy. "But the coddling ended when he retired. Sparing your feelings is going to get people killed. Diaz!" He shouts, abrupt, turning on his heel towards Eddie. Eddie doesn't flinch, but Buck does.

"Yes, sir?" He's coolly polite, and his face is carefully blank, but his posture is tense.

"If I ever catch you checking your phone at a scene again, I'll make sure you're mopping floors for the rest of your life."

Eddie's expression hardens. It was a fender-bender and Eddie didn't even touch his phone until everyone was accounted for and packed into the ambulance. "It was a text from my son. Sir." His tone veers a little to the left of polite.

"I don't care if it was from the goddamn Pope, when you're in the field your focus stays on scene. Next time your brat needs something tell him to go cry to his mother about it."

This time when Buck flinches, everyone else in line does too. Hen bites down on a grimace. Chim hisses quietly through his teeth.

"I can't do that," Eddie says flatly. "What with her being dead and all."

The firehouse is silent for a long, horrible moment. That might've taken the wind out of any decent person's sails, Buck thinks. At the very least most people would've retreated into awkwardness and ended the lecture entirely.

Gerrard's brow pinches angrily. "Don't get smart with me, Diaz."

Buck's not sure it's possible to hate someone more than he hates their new captain right now.

"I don't care about your little sob story excuses, I care that you're sloppy and distracted. If you can't handle the job and the kid, drop one of them."

Oh, he was wrong.

He hates this man so much he's choking on it, it's clogging his throat like bile and he's running out of strength to care that he shouldn't spit it out, spew it everywhere and ruin everything just for the chance of hurting this man in the process. He feels like his skin is bursting at the seams.

Eddie's biting the inside of his cheek, rage and sorrow warring silently on his face.

And Buck breaks. Bursts. "Hey, Captain, that's—"

"Can it, Buckley," Gerrard cuts him off before he can even start. It's not angry, it's not anything, he brushes Buck off like he's an annoying fly buzzing in his ear, barely worth glancing at for the two seconds it takes to tell him he doesn't care. "You're all dismissed. Get out of my sight."

Some of them flee, scurrying to their lockers, the kitchen, anywhere but here. A couple of people throw backwards glances before they walk away. Hen and Chim exchange grim looks. Eddie disappears out the back door in an angry haze. And Buck...

Buck feels. Empty. Small. Like he cut himself open trying to relieve the pressure and now there's just nothing left. No one to patch up the wound, and no reason for any of it, he didn't make an impact, he didn't help anyone, he stood there listening to his friends get degraded, and now—now he's feeling sorry for himself?

It's stupid. He's stupid. He feels like shit because, what, because he didn't get yelled at? Because his piece of shit captain took a break from implying he's a disgusting pervert?

He thinks himself in circles about it his whole way home, the pit in his stomach getting a little deeper every time he tries to will it away.

He's wallowed himself halfway through a six-pack, staring sightlessly at his TV, by the time his front door opens.

"Evan?"

One of the knots in his chest loosens. "Yeah," he calls out, not bothering to sound less pathetic than he is. "In here."

"Hey." Tommy's stopped next to the stairs, eyeing him. His gaze is assessing, but his tone is soft. He's always so careful with Buck. "Bad day?"

Buck takes another sip of his beer. Shrugs.

"Ah, one of those."

The couch cushions dip as Tommy takes a seat next to him. He's close enough that Buck doesn't have to look at him to know he's there. There's warmth radiating off him. The woodsy scent of his aftershave. Buck presses their knees together, and exhales properly for the first time in hours.

He knows he could talk about whatever he wants and Tommy would let him. He's waiting for Buck to take the lead here. Buck could avoid the issue entirely and decide to talk about anything. The fact that he can't really tell the difference between the fancy beer Tommy insists is better than the crap Buck's drinking right now. The documentary about bees he's pretending to watch. The goddamn weather.

What comes out of his mouth is a quiet, "I feel like an idiot."

Tommy pulls the beer bottle out of Buck's loose grip, puts it down next to the couch, and then takes Buck's hand in both of his. "Why?"

Buck scrubs at his eyes. "I..." He catalogues the tiny scars on Tommy's knuckles. Two, three, little dots on his index finger. A lopsided vee on his thumb. "Something happened at work."

"Did Gerrard say something to you?" There's an edge to Tommy's question, something sharp and flinty. It makes Buck's heart do dumb little somersaults.

"No." He stops, shame burning his cheeks. "Not. Not to me. That's... He was lecturing everybody, and I..."

"Evan." Tommy grips his chin, firmly, gently, guiding Buck's face until he looks him in the eye. There's a sympathetic twist to his mouth. "Tell me."

He does. As best he can when it feels like what's didn't happen is more important, and he can barely put into words why that is. But trying helps, a little. Trying to whittle it down into an explanation forces him to look at the whole of it, and realize it's not looming over him anymore.

Maybe it's just Tommy's hands on him, soothing the hurt away.

"I dunno. Feels like I could have done something differently, maybe"

Tommy hums, tilting his head in acknowledgement. "You could've."

Buck winces.

"But it wouldn't have turned out any better."

Oh.

A flower blooms on the TV, purple and white petals reaching for the sun. Buck toys with Tommy's fingers, and shifts his leg closer, hooking their ankles together.

"It felt so shitty," he mutters.

"I know."

He would, wouldn't he. Buck gets that pang in his chest again, and he pushes the rest of the way into Tommy's space. Tommy wraps his arms around him, and drops a kiss into his curls, seemingly content to let Buck situate himself however he wants.

He kind of wishes Tommy wasn't still wearing jeans, but asking him to take his pants off might send the wrong message.

"You don't think I'm, like...a bad friend, right?" He cringes his way through the question.

"No." Tommy responds matter-of-factly and without hesitation. Then the corner of his mouth twitches. "I think you're a very good boy."

Buck's entire head feels like it's on fire. A grin starts to creep across his face. It might be the first time he's smiled all day. "Oh, yeah?"

"Mhm."

Maybe he should ask Tommy to take his jeans off after all.

[superprofesh]

The Five Times Colt Seavers Almost Kisses You (and the One Time He Does) — Part 2

Pairing: Colt Seavers x reader

Description: The second time Colt Seavers almost kisses you — in which he thinks he might be losing his sanity.

Rating: T

Word Count: 2.2k

Tag List: @strangedeerconnoisseur, @icantwaittoliveandlearn, @moonlightandstarshimmer

Author’s Note: As the Colt obsession rages on, I hope y'all enjoy part 2, because it certainly was sizzling when I wrote it :D This one is more from Colt's POV, and it includes some of his inner monologue (which I loved in the film). I appreciate everyone's kind words so far and would love to hear your thoughts about this chapter! Thank you all! <3

Part 1

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

Ever since the little paint-smudging incident, Colt has been, well… off.

This never happens to him. He’s a professional, he’s been working on movie sets for years, he’s known hundreds and hundreds of coworkers. But something is different. You’re different.

As he leans against the hood of his truck after filming, one leg propped on the fender as he takes a deep breath of the midnight air, Colt can’t stop replaying the events of the day before. You painting a prop sign, you laughing at his dumb jokes, you smearing red paint across his face. The steadiness of your hands, the smile crinkling the corners of your eyes. The sunbeams luminescent in your hair. The way your hand felt for the few seconds it lingered on his cheek.

Get it together, man, his inner monologue scolds him.

Colt can’t deny that he has feelings for you. You’ve been on set together for about two months now, and he sees you practically every day. Every time he performs a stunt, you’re always there adjusting the furniture, dabbing color onto the walls, rearranging props with that magnificent touch that brings every setpiece to life. Colt is amazed by your talent in your job as a set decorator, and your skill pushes him to try harder stunts each time, to try to impress you with his own skills.

But there’s one major problem that he can’t get past — he’s just not good enough for you. Sure, Colt has all the confidence in the world when it comes to throwing himself from a moving car or flashing a dazzling smile at you across the set, but he’s destined to be an unknown stuntman for the rest of his career. Your talent and dedication promises great things for your future, and Colt has already made up his mind that he’s not going to stand in your way by coming on too strong.

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts. Even when he’s trying to be noble and keep himself from getting you distracted from your career, he’s replaying the way your eyes fluttered shut for a moment when his thumb brushed your jaw.

I’m so screwed.

Colt has just agreed with his inner monologue that he will keep his distance from you and turn all his unfulfilled feelings into protein powder when you step out of a nearby trailer, one arm over your eyes as if you’ve been crying.

All thoughts of noble detachments shatter instantly, and Colt pushes off his truck to make his way toward you. He’s relieved when you lower your arm from your face and he can tell that you weren’t crying — just so dead tired that you can barely keep your eyes open.

“Hey, Van Gogh,” he calls to you, keeping a distance of about six feet as he reverts to his usual habit of artist-nicknames. Too familiar, too familiar, abort, abort. “Too much moonshine?”

Your eyes pop open in surprise to see him standing there, but a wearied smile crosses your face nonetheless. “Too much moonlighting,” you correct him, leaning back against the art trailer with a sigh. “Gordon has been on my back all day about the props for the train station scene. I got wooden benches for a rustic vibe, but he wants metal for a grittier vibe. I painted the graffiti mural in multi-colors, but he wants it red for a sharper contrast. I spent the last week distressing the station floor so it would look lived-in, but now he wants it clean. Clean, cold, and clinical.” You bury your face in your hands, rubbing your red-rimmed eyes. “I just finished making twenty neon signs for the depot, but I don’t know if he’ll even still want them by tomorrow.”

Colt’s heart tugs seeing you so exhausted and discouraged, and he elects to ignore his previous inner monologue and take a few steps in your direction. “Sounds like Gordon is trying to direct a hospital soap opera instead of an action thriller.”

“Exactly!” You throw your hands up in frustration, letting your head loll to the side as you look at him through half-opened eyes. “I never want to see another paint roller again. Or at least not until tomorrow.”

Colt chuckles at that, taking another step closer. “It is tomorrow. It’s past midnight.” His brow furrows in concern as he watches your eyelids drift closed again. You look like you’re about to fall asleep on your feet.

“Right. I knew that,” you mumble. “I need some sleep.”

“I’d say you need a hibernation,” Colt says gently, cursing himself for the way he feels the urge to reach out and touch you. “When’s the last time you got any winks?”

Your eyes roll back in your head as you try to recall. “Uhhh… Tuesday?”

Colt shakes his head. “Come on, I’ll drive you back.”

Your eyes open at that, and you automatically shake your head, swaying a little as you do so. “No, you don’t need to do that! I’ll be fine. My hotel is just a few blocks from here.”

“Good,” Colt agrees, reaching out to put his arm around your shoulders. “Then you won’t have to pay me back for gas money.”

You sigh in mock frustration but give in when he starts leading you to his truck. He can feel you leaning on him, drawing from his strength when he knows yours is depleted. Colt has to force himself to focus on the task at hand and not get distracted by the intoxicating smell of oil paints and charcoal and wood chips emanating off your skin. He especially tries not to notice the way your head naturally falls against his shoulder while he leads you to the passenger door.

Once you’ve climbed into the seat, you immediately droop forward and rest your forehead on your knees. On an impulse, Colt pulls off his jacket — his most comfortable one: the brown one with the drawstrings — and drapes it across your shoulders. He suppresses a grin when you mumble something that sounds like “hmmk hmum” but probably was supposed to be “thank you.”

The drive to your hotel lasts all of three minutes, and he parks his truck under the portico so you’ll be closer to the door. Against the pitch black of the midnight sky, the hotel looks cozy and welcoming, street lamps bathing the sidewalk in a halo of golden light.

Colt opens the door to the passenger side, a smile crossing his lips when you turn your head from where it’s resting on your knees to peek up at him.

“Are we there yet?” you mumble, eyes fluttering between open and closed.

“Just a rest stop,” he informs you jokingly, holding out a hand to help you out of the truck. You gladly accept it, so exhausted that you can barely stand up straight. Colt feels another shimmer of worry at seeing you so worn out.

With his arm around your shoulder again, Colt walks you to the hotel door, which opens automatically to let you in. His thoughts are a jumble of worry, consternation, and elation at this situation, but he breaks out of his reverie halfway to the elevator, when you start giggling uncontrollably.

“What?” he asks, basking in the way your musical laugh wraps around him like a melody. Colt, get it together. Stop romanticizing this.

You snicker again, pressing the elevator button to your floor. “I bet the desk clerk thought I was drunk and bringing you home with me.”

Colt goes stock-still at that comment, only moving again when the elevator door opens and you enter the compartment together. Your sleep-deprived brain is so addled that you barely even register the implications of your remark, but Colt’s mind instantly starts racing with his own thoughts. Be professional, don’t make a saucy joke, just play it cool, play it cool, change the subject, change the SUBJECT—

“You should call Gordon,” he suggests, so enthralled with the feel of your head resting on his shoulder that he can barely get the sentence out. “Tell him you can’t make it tomorrow. You seriously need to get some sleep.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, one that flutters across his collarbone like an autumn breeze. He swallows and turns his head the other way, using all his willpower not to completely come undone right in front of you. You have no idea the effect you’re having on him, so sleep-deprived that you’re missing any cues that would clue you in normally.

“I have to be there tomorrow,” you insist drowsily. The elevator door dings open, and Colt leads you through the opening, his arm still tight around your shoulders as you point him in the right direction. “We’re filming the train station scene, and it has to be perfect.”

“What, at the cost of your health and sanity?” Colt quips, though he can’t deny that there’s a note of seriousness in his tone.

You shake your head stubbornly. “I’m fine. This is my job. I just have to do it.” You yawn widely, stumbling a little as you get closer to your hotel door. “I just need a few hours and I’ll be good as new.”

Colt lifts his eyebrows skeptically but doesn’t argue with you. You’re pulling your room key out of your pocket, and he’s suddenly torn between the desire to run before he violates his vow of noble detachment, and the need to confess every passionate feeling coursing through his veins right now. He knows this isn’t the right time, though, and that there may never be a right time at all.

You unlock your door with a swipe but pause before going inside, leaning your back against the doorframe so you can look at Colt squarely. “Thank you for bringing me back.” Your smile steals his breath, makes him imagine a halo of stars around your face. “I couldn’t have made it without you.”

Every muscle in his body is urging him to lean forward, to close the distance between you, to capture your lips against his so he can whisper every unconfessed feeling, every gentle passion, every overwhelming longing in this silent, dimly-lit hallway. His heart is pounding so loudly in his ears that he thinks you must be able to hear it.

“Anytime,” Colt manages, his throat so tight that can barely rasp out the word. He has to clench his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out to you.

You reach up to shed his brown jacket and hand it back to him, but Colt stops you by holding up his hand. “Keep it,” he tells you. Shut up, shut up, shut UP— “It looks better on you anyway.”

The golden light from the street lamps outside must be playing tricks on his eyes, because he could swear that your eyes brighten at his words. Your fingers tighten around his jacket, and all he can imagine is your fingers entwined with his, your head on his shoulder again. The way it should be.

Your eyes flicker closed for a moment, and you sway against the doorway. Colt instinctively reaches out to steady you, his hand landing on your arm and holding you up for the moment it takes you to regain your balance. His skin feels like it’s on fire from this close proximity. He releases your arm so he doesn’t lose his sanity, but the touch lingers on his palm, making his heart race and his mouth go dry. His eyes flit down to glance at your lips again before he can stop them. Another moment, and he won’t have any self-control left.

You seem to feel the tension, too, lingering in the doorway when you should have said goodnight by now. He knows you’re struggling with it, and he knows it’s his responsibility as the clear-headed one to end this before it starts. His breath is rattling in his throat as he says, “Get some rest. Let me know if you need a ride over tomorrow morning.”

His voice seems to break the spell over you, and you give him a sleepy smile as you nod. “Thanks, Colt.” Your eyes linger on him for a moment more, and then you disappear behind the heavy hotel door.

Once you’re gone, Colt turns and leans heavily against the hallway wall, suddenly feeling breathless and exhausted from the intensity of what he just felt. He can’t believe he even let himself think about kissing you when you’re so dazed, but surely he wasn’t misreading those signals? Surely he felt the heat of your own gaze meeting his?

Colt sighs, trying to clear his head while he catches his breath. He can’t even entertain the idea of starting a fling with you, because his feelings have gone way too deep for a fling. He just needs to keep his distance and stop overanalyzing every moment he shares with you. He needs to get a grip on reality so he doesn’t completely ruin your friendship and burden you with any guilt. This has to stop. I’m going to stop right now, and I’m not going to think about it anymore, and I’m going to get hold of myself before it’s too late.

He hopes his inner monologue is right this time, because he knows he’s only falling harder for you.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Part 3

[lillyspeakz]

Wilbur denying your orgasm? Tehe…

ok I won’t do a full fledge fic rn but I do have thoughts 🤭 if you want a full fic, request are open!

Warnings: mean!wilbur, degradation, kissing, soft!wil, denying orgasms, a little bit of sadistic wil, mentions of female anatomy.

-

- This man loves to deny you whenever you ask to cum. He loves the pained look in your eyes when he says ‘no.’ Call him a sadist but it turns him on when you writhe beneath him from overstimulation and need as you clench around him, your body practically begging for him to let you cum.

- You can beg and whine all you want but it won’t work.

“Wil- please please! Let me cum. I’ve been so- so fucking good!” You practically moan out as your body aches with need as he continues his work on you.

Wil chuckles a bit, loving how pathetic you sound begging and whining to him. He keeps his antics up for a big longer, pushing you to the very edge then-

“Fuck- no! No no! Wil please! Please let me cum, I was so close!”

“Too bad darling, you didn’t beg hard enough.” Wil smiles at you as he placed his fingers back on your clit.

- Loves to deny you when he’s eating you out or fingering you, gives him more time to devour you.

“Fuck, taste so good sweetheart.”

“Wil please- I’m gonna cum-“

“Aww you think you’re allowed to cum? Not until I say baby, and that won’t be I’m satisfied with my work.”

- laughs at you when you cuss him out after denying you.

“Fuck you, I fucking hate you.” You whine pathetically as your chest rises and falls.

Wil quickly scoffed at you as he took your face in his hands. “Say that again and you won’t cum once tonight. I’ll just use you for my pleasure. And you know you fucking love me and you love when I make you writhe like a bitch in heat, so don’t say shit you don’t mean.”

- you guys discuss safe words and check in’s before every time, it’s a routine with you two.

“You know the safeword?”

“Fender.”

“And the check in’s?”

“Green good, yellow break or slow down and red stop.”

“Good job baby.”

- Wilbur loves to deny your orgasms, but he also loves to deny you pleasure when your being a brat.

“Wilbur move! I don’t have all day-“ you said moving your hips the best you can in his hold. Your time snarky and annoyed. You had been deprived for too long and you weren’t having this slow and sweet treatment.

Wilbur pinned your hips down on the bed, pulled out of you all the way, and slammed back into you, leaving you gasping for air. “This good enough for you or do you want me to stop all together so you can take care of it yourself?” Wil asked as he continued to plunge in and out of you at a fast pace.

- but when you guys do take it slow and make every second count, he does deny you only once but for your own pleasure.

“Baby, please let me cum, feel so good!” You moan out to him, holding onto him as he slowly works you out. He pulls out of you, letting your orgasm die down a bit before slowly rubbing your clit.

“I know baby, but trust me. I’ll let you cum next time and it’ll be so much then, you trust me yeah?” He asked you, ticking a piece of hair behind your ear as you nodded. “Good my love.”

taglist: @horny-p0et @ivvees-blog (wanna be added? Send an ask or comment)

[drivinmeinsane]

Would you do Kisses & 47 & Driver x Ken?

※ Prompt: Kisses // 47. tummy kisses // Driver x Ken ※ Word count: 396 ※ Author's Note: I've missed writing for these two so much.

Warm breath ghosts over Driver’s throat. Still half asleep, he shifts and wraps his arm more securely around the man laying in bed with him.

Last night had been a long one. He can still feel the ache in his fingers from how tightly he’d been gripping the wheel of the white Ford Focus he’d borrowed off Shannon for a getaway job. It had been a close one. When he gets to the garage for his shift, he’s going to have to fill in a bullet hole in the fender. He’s just relived the police miraculously hadn’t gotten involved.

Ken sighs and nuzzles into his collarbone, throws a leg over his hip. Sometimes it’s almost impossible to slide free of his grasp. The other man is always draped over him like an enthusiastic dog, not that the wheelman minds. He can lose himself in running his hand over Ken—petting him. Affection is still novel to them both, probably always will be.

“You awake?”

The man tucked against him like a second skin responds with a sleepy grumble and a shake of his head.

“I need to go to work. Got a stunt.”

“No, please stay. Please,” he protests, clinging to him tighter when he moves to extract himself.

It kills him when Ken does this. Driver hates to deny him anything but he has to make sure he works to support them both. It’s what he’s good for. It’s a way he can be of use.

Instead of fighting the other man’s persistent hold, he rolls towards him. Ken immediately grabs at his shoulders and goes limp and pliant underneath him, expectant. Driver wishes he could linger in bed working the tanned man over until he’s sobbing into the bed sheets. He’s learned how to coax noises out of him like a well-maintained engine.

Ken never sleeps wearing a shirt. He won’t run the risk of not feeling Driver’s arm or hand against his bare skin. Driver finds himself grateful for it as he presses his mouth against the other man’s sternum. He leaves a trail of apologetic kisses down Ken’s body, stopping just above his waistband.

The tanned stomach trembles underneath his lips.

“Be back later,” he says, pressing a final kiss just to the right of Ken’s bellybutton before sliding off the bed to pull on his jeans and find his car keys.

[leslie057]

17a and 3b?

hii, thank you for the prompt!

prompt game posted here

17a + 3b = the semantics are totally outdated + but they can’t talk

word count: 3.4k | pairing: jonathan x nancy

but i can't live by those stakes, the semantics are totally outdated -sam fender, last to make it home

Her summer, china shop. Lowe and Holloway…two biggest, most aggressive bulls a matador could wish for.

And even that is such an undeserved accreditation, that semblance of animal majesty and dominance and punch, since her china’s literally in mint condition. She’s doing just fine, the guys don’t scare her. They’re not capable.

Her issue isn’t fear, it’s rage. More rage than Jonathan knows what to do with at times. The flush of red on her face, the urge to choke in her hands, the hair-pulling (his hair, not hers) and the pacing, all too wayward in his pen, burning up each of the four corners at once. Not that he’s much of a firefighter—pretty clear that he likes for a girl to take everything out on him, as long as her methods are nonverbal. He’s not gonna smother a flame when he could just let the flame smother him. He loves a good path of least resistance.

Things are different between them, inside the Hawkins Post. She can see him struggling with that, with meanings lost and rules rewritten, her amendments unfairly implicit as she switches up on him, forcing her sweet mariner into the Atlantic with his map of the Pacific. No, his map of the Wabash River. She doesn’t mean to respond differently to him, it’s just that she has to be careful with the way she carries herself here because no one wants to take her seriously. There aren’t many wins to be had by a teenage girl in this building, and there really aren’t many wins to be had by a teenage girl who lets her boyfriend dote on her in this building. The pep talk thing, the passive pity, the hey come here you’re okay after any negative reaction she has…he’s making it worse without realizing.

She’s making it worse, too, though. In her own way.

Keeps getting them in trouble, for example.

Today they're in trouble because of what she convinced him to do yesterday. Apparently, leaving work ten minutes early is really a no-no. Her bad. (She needed out, Lover’s Lake was calling to her. They don’t go much, but when it’s raining? When it’s raining that lake belongs to them. No other couple in town is weird enough to go in thunder and lightning, it is their thing, they own it. Privacy is a guarantee. Never mind that inducing the feeling of drowning has been a secret placation of her survivor's guilt lately, a quiet way to exhaust herself and surrender to nature's embrace for a while, to let it take her over, knocking her down a peg as it comes down in heavy sheets. It should have been her on that diving board two years ago, it really should have.) She never said their date habits were healthy. Oh, except the splashing, the splishing. That’s a normal couple thing. Very healthy.

They’ve been given different punishments for slipping out; he’s meant to be folding all the newspapers, she’s supposed to be stapling reports. It’s 4:45, and they just started. They usually use this time to clean up, but whatever doesn’t get done before five is unpaid work.

So that’s fun.

In the main room they serve their silent sentence, each stationed at opposite ends, less than consumed by their tasks. There’s an early golden hour effect outside; she can tell with the warm glow that’s seeping in between the window blinds, teasing her, testing her, tempting her to just walk out again. Despite her best efforts to focus on work and keep her distance from Jonathan, she does think about him a lot under this roof. And other roofs. And every roof. Like now, she’s thinking about how he’s staring at her and how strange it is that she knows he’s staring at her even with her eyes cast down.

I can feel that.

She combats the softness of the sentiment with a hard press on the stapler. Loud click is overly loud. Obnoxious. Swiping the heavy thing across the desk, she lets it clunk against the lamp’s square base. If he wants to daydream about her, he’ll have to romanticize her inclination towards inanimate object abuse. (Imagine the emotional release in banging that ashtray on this typewriter. Personally, she’s imagining it.)

She tips her head up to check on him. Okay, he is romanticizing how pissed off she is. Blinks at her like she’s some unusual celestial something at the end of a telescope, pretty and rare. He brightens up over there as he realizes that he got her attention, making a small posture adjustment, leaning her way. Still slouchy, of course. She wants to glare, she does, but the edges of her gaze are being anonymously softened and all that’s left behind is a tender, conflicted expression. What do you want from me, it says. This is intern detention after all. Not social hour.

With a gentle glance he offers her some support, devoid of any pressure or demands. Nothing, Nancy.

She ducks her head and goes back to her report stack. But as quickly as she dives back into the task, she comes out again. He has something to tell her—she can feel it. When she looks up, he's tapping his thumb at the base of his throat, which is kind of weird even for him. His hand hovers near his collar before he motions to her, a silent prompt. She takes the signal and touches the same spot on her neck, brows knit together. Your necklace, he’s trying to say, miming the action of spinning it around, repositioning the clasp and extender so that they’re at the back and hidden away. Your necklace is backwards. She fixes it accordingly, embarrassed by nothing in particular it’s just…yeah, Bruce Lowe definitely doesn’t need to be provided with any joke bait below her neckline.

Bonus points for the ever attentive boyfriend. Just this once, his tendency to space out and stare at her has gotten them somewhere. Good boy.

She busies herself with the stapler, determined to get them out of this place sooner rather than later. Count, separate, slide, straighten. Staple, stack, repeat. Repeat repeat repeat. She wishes she had someone to compete with, to race against. Her brother, maybe, because Jonathan isn’t competitive. Then this would go faster. In the warm office, heat sprawls on top of her, slowing her movements. Sweat has already pooled at the small of her back, gathered behind her ears, formed a light sheen along her jaw. So much for box fans.

Her mind strays away from the chatter around her, a few abrupt fantasies now steering her thoughts. Hormonal thoughts. She’d ignore the love rush if she could, but it’s on her, on her like a sticky lotion in June weather, soaking slowly into her skin. Being seventeen is—yeah. Difficult.

Crazy difficult, once you factor in the need to be a professional mini-adult and not associate with the person you take to bed.

There’s just…it’s her, and Jonathan, and the necklace, and she’s taken off the necklace, held it taut against his neck, not choking him per se, no, but softly sawing at him with the chain until there are faint red lines impressed in sensitive flesh. Who knows where this came from; she’s never done anything like it. Doesn’t typically play so rough with him that there’s physical evidence more severe than your average hickeys or scratch marks. This job is turning her into a hazard.

She indulges for a couple seconds longer in the dumb image that had momentarily eclipsed her reality. He’s not looking at her when she looks up at him, but somehow it feels like their telepathic dialogue is still going, born from shared frustrations.

I want to be done here.

I know, we’ll be done soon. We’re fine, keep stapling.

And maybe she wouldn’t have to take off the necklace. Because he has his tie, his not-so-nice tie. Okay, without sugarcoating, it’s ugly. The one that’s currently loose, gray with diagonal brown stripes, pencil-thin stripes; it would be way more fun to pull across his throat compared to her necklace. Of course, she wouldn’t lead with that, she’d be counteracting with the super soft services of a needy mouth, settling on the kindest way to release her anger and affection in one fell swoop. (Why is it that the uglier the tie design, the bigger her heart? She’s wanting him bad this afternoon.)

In a moment of distracted clumsiness, she knocks over her box of staples, several of the refill strips breaking apart on the ground, their clatter piercing through whatever awful discussion was being had by these overpaid husbands and fathers.

“Wuh-oh,” Bruce interjects before carrying his conversation on. Not as big of a deal as when she fumbles a lunch order, but bad nonetheless; she’s on her knees in a dress, catching everyone’s double takes. A sideshow act to glance at intermittently between unrelated one-offs and cigarette drags.

Jonathan’s soon kneeling by her, ready to lend his assistance. Yeah, absolutely not.

The more he helps her, the more of a girl she is. Her eyes plead with him, begging him to remember that any perceived dependence on him will undermine the tiny shred of social authority she has here.

I love you, but get away from me.

Pouting, he backs off, an achy longing lingering between them. He chooses instead to go tend to the coffee grounds she’d yet to throw out.

Despite the distance enforced by circumstance, and her annoyance, she remains fixated on him, finding some solace in that mental landscape. When they leave this place within the hour, everything will go back to the way it was, and she can go back to speaking in a language they both understand.

She scoops up the staples and tidies the desk. Resumes her work without a second thought, waiting for the embarrassment to bleed out of her.

--

By five after five, they’ve almost finished up their punishment tasks. The office is more peaceful than before, hushed and dreamy, as their older colleagues file out, letting paper cups and gum wrappers fall into trash cans whose bags she and her boyfriend replaced an hour ago.

Tom switches off a couple lamps, touches his watch (with that bizarre air of supremacy and boredom). On his way out, he claps her chair on the back. “Keep up the good work,” he says. “No more sneaking out early.”

At least she’s getting credit for something. For leading the rebellion.

She watches Fallon, the receptionist, push in her desk chair and begin to pull at the hem of her skirt. As she passes by Jonathan, she carelessly drops a keyring into his lap, instructing him to lock up when they go. She also calls him Jordan. Not a thought in her head.

“Yes ma’am,” he mumbles, “have a good night.”

They’re left all alone when the last footsteps fade away, and she shifts in her spinny chair. For possibly the first time today, she takes a deep breath in, a deep breath out. This is good. This is better.

It’s sort of warm and sweet and spongy—cakelike, she’d say—the growing sense of comfort she has in the privacy that’s been laid upon them. That, or she’s hungry. They should pick up a cupcake from the bakery downtown. Key lime, lemon, one of their seasonal flavors. No, wait, the bakery closed a few minutes ago. Not that they get much business anymore. (If they shut down and the mall ruins her and Jonathan’s cupcake sharing thing, she might choke someone. She might kill.)

Though her gaze is locked on him, he keeps his head slanted down, not acknowledging her or their privacy.

She taps the desk, slides her tongue behind her teeth, resentment creeping in amid neglect. This is the part where their tension falls away, right? The part where he apologizes for overdoing the boyfriend thing, and then gives her his undivided attention until one or two in the morning, thus overdoing the boyfriend thing, but in the right place at the right time. Trying to make up for the shittiness of their internship, trying to help her bubble wrap all the china in her china shop before morning comes around again.

He’s slumped down over there, sleeves cuffed, collar half-popped, movements slow as he calmly creases his final papers. The box fan’s soft currents delicately ruffle through his hair, and at first glance, he doesn’t have a care in the world. At second, though, he’s wearing a bit of a frown, moodily refusing to acknowledge anything but himself and his newspapers.

And yet. She can’t deny the magnetic pull drawing her that way. With a defiant flip of her hair, she sets out to close the big gap between them and put an end to the ridiculousness. They shouldn’t be ignoring each other upon being given total privacy, not even for a second. Reaching his space, she stops in front of his chair, leaning back on the edge of the desk. She’s the wall between him and his paper stack.

He sighs, eyes cast up to her. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she parrots.

“You’re done?”

“Pretty much.”

“Me too.”

He’s still in that place of self-minimization, that corrective headspace following the staple incident. He’s stuck on being quiet and invisible and adult and the absolute opposite of lovey and dovey. It’s no longer necessary.

She fidgets with her ring blindly, an anticipatory energy working itself up inside her, right under her ribcage. He opens his mouth to speak. Closes it quickly. Guarded, he averts his gaze.

“You’re allowed to correct her, you know.”

“Huh?”

“Fallon. You don’t have to let your name be whatever she decides.”

The silence stretches between them, a tight wire, trembling faintly, a few touches away from snapping. She’s unsure if he’s playing a game here or if he simply doesn’t feel like talking. You never know with him (but she does).

“We’re allowed to talk now, you know,” she adds.

A beat.

“Your dress is messed up,” he says, to himself more than her.

“What?”

“The hooks on your dress. You accidentally skipped the first one.”

“I—” she starts. Her jaw hangs. Curious, she feels for the mismatched hook and eye clasps below the frilly collar of her dress, and she finds that the bottom one did get skipped over. This is what happens when you don’t get enough sleep, wake up late, and have to dress yourself in sixty seconds. She huffs. “Well come fix it?"

Because he has to want to. He likes this dress a lot, he’s never said anything, but he does. It’s white and yellow, not any yellow, but like a buttercup yellow, semi-sheer with an open ruffly collar and wide sleeves. He would want the excuse to touch it. He would want that sense of purpose, that delegation of mess-fixing. She’s so rarely a mess when there are no monsters to slaughter. He’s usually the one with the inside out shirt, the smudge of lipstick on his face. This is his one chance.

His bottom lip curls, and his shoulders shrug. “Thought you wanted to pretend like we don’t know each other.”

“Jonathan…please come fix it.”

She reaches out, and without a word he holds her hand, standing up. He bites down on his tongue, presses it against the side of his mouth, looking like he knows how cliché this is but is too sad to complain. He moves closer, his hands gentle as he begins unfastening those top four hooks so he can fasten that fifth one, the one she’d skipped before she also skipped breakfast. Her eyelids sink, wispy bangs brushing the tops of her eyes as the fan’s whisper of a breeze plays over her.

He’s still working with the clasps when her hands find his neck, tickling their way to the ends of his hair, curled by humidity.

To her surprise, he doesn’t flinch when she sneak attacks him, stealing a kiss off his mouth. Just makes a huffy sound afterward, all judgy eyes and short breaths and pinked skin. “Does that mean you like me again—”

She guides the slipping of their lips, a soft sensation of stickiness lingering in the inbetween. “Shut up,” she murmurs, “I never stopped.”

“Yes, you did.”

Plush lip tissue gives way between her careful teeth as she nibbles, trying to draw out a whimper or a groan or some other noise of desperate compliance. She thinks she hears an ow, and if she did, that’s good. His ow isn’t code for hey that hurts, his ow is like a regular boy’s don’t stop, I need more.

“I did not,” she argues.

“You did, you said so.”

“When?”

“With your face.”

She tightens her grip on the back of his collar and pulls. Seeking a diversion, she peppers his mouth, the tip of her tongue relaxed, impressively subtle. A muffled squeak leaves him as the collar tightens around his throat, and she lets go, releasing him. Maybe she does feel a little bad. “Don’t be so sensitive,” she says, but her words lack conviction, and her heart’s not in the dig. “I know I’ve been acting weird. It’s not about you.”

He rests his forehead on hers. “It’s only about them?”

“Duh, it’s about them.”

They put the conversation on hold among their shared prioritization of making this into more of a makeout than just a way to argue. Kissing mainly because it feels good to kiss, and bad to not. Their age demands this, pushes them. (They’ll grow out of the phase someday…she assumes. If she ever learns how to control herself. Perhaps.) She noses her way to his jaw while getting wrapped up in a hug, the gleam of sweat under her lips pleasantly salty. “So sweaty,” she teases (though she’s burning up, too). His breath hitches, and he doesn’t start the banter back up, doesn’t say what’s on his mind which is probably: I didn’t ask you to come over here and lick me like a cat.

Eventually they do separate a few inches, significantly more satisfied than before, significantly more pink in the face. Her head tips, and her tired eyes follow the path of daylight pouring in through the window, casting long shadows across the office floor as he distractedly massages her shoulder.

“Not that I’m complaining…” he begins, and her lashes flutter, her ears tune in, “but you are sending me mixed signals here.”

He’s right. Her professionalism has come at the price of his trust and certainty. She’s still adjusting to the job, getting used to the fact that she’s not particularly needed, wanted, or respected here. Jonathan doesn’t get it, and a Jordan wouldn’t get it, or a Josh, or anyone else who has never been on the receiving end of that coffee maker too tricky for you, sweetheart?

His concern is being obedient, being good, getting paid, keeping to himself, not making a fuss. It makes sense that he’d want to pep talk her out of her anguish, but it’s not healthy for her reputation. She thinks he owes it to her to roll with the punches for a little while.

“I know. I’m still figuring all this out. You’re gonna have to buckle up and settle in for now.”

“Do you think I could have a…handbook, or something?”

“A handbook?”

“I want the dos and don’ts. I want to know what you think makes you look bad and what doesn’t.”

She laughs softly. “That could be arranged. I’ve always wanted to write a book.”

--

After they’ve hesitantly split up and attended to closing tasks, she takes pride in the fact that they’ve only had to do twenty minutes of unpaid work this evening.

The remaining lights get switched off, and they gather their things, ambling to a door whose glass promises the return to a nicer world, a return to wide prospects—night drives and music, dinner and shared showers, lakeside commitments and homemade cupcakes.

“Hey,” she murmurs, hand curling around a few of his fingers, “just so you know, about that handbook: I haven’t forgotten about the darkroom.”

“What about it?”

“Nothing, I just mean that I don’t think any of the rules would have to apply to the darkroom. It’s private, it’s safe, it’s…rule-free, isn’t it?”

“Umm…”

"You can pick up as many staples for me as you want in there."

--

creds to @musicalchaos07 for helping me come up with this idea, and creds to @wanderleave for picking his tie color for me

[silverdune]

1978. | introduction

"and that is why i dedicate this album.. to the seven of you."

1978 masterlist | next -> character(s): kim hongjoong (ft. ?? of ateez) tags: rockstar!hj, driver!atz member, 70s setting, concerts, light banter, explicit language, emotions, screaming fans word count: 1.7k summary: for his fifth anniversary, rockstar kim hongjoong holds a concert where he talks about and performs his brand new album: 1978. there, he reveals one by one what the true meaning behind each of its seven tracks is..

The tinted window of a black 1972 BMW New Six is the only thing separating Hongjoong from the night and the crowds of people who have swarmed the underground club he is due to be playing at.

In the backseat, he adjusts his outfit, the one, two, three necklaces resting not-so precariously on his chest in varying lengths, the sunglasses on his bridge and the belt that keeps his jeans comfortably tight on his waist. Smacking his lips together, he tastes the cherry balm he put on an hour ago, and feels the grains of darkly gold glitter on his eyelids. He brushes a hand through his hair and the wax layer of a dozen products laced into every strand leaves it greasy. Half of those products are just to keep it healthy, his new bleached blonde hair job had left his stylists quietly seething last week.

His guitar - a red and white 1960s Fender Stratocaster - is nestled in his right side and tucked safely in its black velvet case. It was the first guitar he had ever owned, the only one he has ever used to record and perform his plethora of songs, and the only one he can foresee using until his fingers grow weak and no longer know how to play. Idly, he drags and pulls his fingers along the case, catching the metal hinges on his nails every so often, and takes a deep breath as he gazes out of the window.

“Number’s in the thousands, Joong,” says the driver, monotonously. He tweaks the rearview mirror and looks at Hongjoong, but the artist does not look back. “They’re all waiting for ya.”

“I know, I know..” Hongjoong mumbles to himself. Never before has he felt so pensive.

Never before has he felt so nervous.

He knows why he is here. He knows why they, his fans are here. Fans. The word still freaks him out to this day.

His fifth anniversary concert.

Nothing could really prepare him for the true sound that had been deadened by the depth of a car door. The flashing lights of a hundred cameras dulled by the window’s glaze.

He doesn’t say a word to the driver as he moves to click the door handle open. Bodyguards, escorts, ushers and marshalls are already waiting on hand and foot before he’s even stepped outside, and just the tiniest gap lets him in on what exactly he needs to take an extra breath for.

The driver catches Hongjoong before he makes the commitment. “Mr. Hongjoong?”

That makes Hongjoong take notice. He turns directly to the rearview mirror, a little befuddled and wanting so badly to roll his eyes at this man. Mr. Hongjoong? He will absolutely poke his neck after this gig.

His driver’s eyes are more prideful and defined than Hongjoong has ever seen them before now. Hongjoong curses him internally, but can’t help a similar smile forming once the glint shows itself. Bastard.

His friend smirks. “Get out there and give ‘em hell.”

Hongjoong cracks then, grabbing his guitar by the arm and pushing the car door a little wider. “You know it best, Jongho.”

Jongho chuckles to himself and leans against the arm rest as the sound of the door closing rings through his ears. He shakes his head and starts the engine. “No one like you, Hongjoong.”

Once Hongjoong firmly closes the door behind him, he is immediately surrounded by bodyguards ensuring he gets inside the venue swiftly and safely. Beyond their large statures, he can hear everyone’s voices, some screaming his name, others yelling terms of endearment or declarations of love, some merely cheering for his arrival. The strength of excitement from all corners fills Hongjoong’s head so fast he could almost collapse on the floor, but the weight of his guitar and the speed at which he is walking means he ends up in the venue with little fuss.

Seconds later, he finds himself backstage, almost as though he teleported there. The concert isn’t due to start for another hour, but the amount of preparation needed means Hongjoong needs ample time to get ready.

He enters the dressing room and instantly sits down on his assigned seat. Makeup and hair stylists twirl around him with tools, products, brushes and sponges, layering the look for the night which Hongjoong had pitched as whimsical. The gold glitter is joined by smokey eyeliner, specks of silver are scattered across his cheeks, a star and moon sticker are placed, one on each outer corner of the eye, and his balmed lips are covered by a smooth caramel lipstick. His hair is doused in so much hairspray, along with a few comments over the condition of it that Hongjoong diligently waves off.

Once he is out of the dressing room - the outfit of the night having been decided by him - he makes his way backstage to ensure the audio is working correctly and that his mic or guitar won’t suddenly cut out midway. Everybody is rushing around, and he almost gets the urge to tell them to stop and breathe for a few seconds, but he knows in his heart they won’t listen.

Everything is happening so fast that even he doesn’t get a chance to stop and breathe.

The only milliseconds he gets between all the chaos come when his guitar is safely on his shoulder.

The moment he is finally able to pick a few strings absent-mindedly and just sit with it all, is the first time he detects the bustling sound of thousands of fans waiting for him to take the stage.

“You’re on in five!” says a voice, pulling him from his reverie. Hongjoong stutters out of his trance and sees the stagehand holding up a five to indicate the minutes. He nods, though not fully with the reality that he is about to have his biggest gig to date.

Five years. How the fuck did this even happen?

The minutes fade to seconds before Hongjoong has time to ponder it, and with nothing else left to lose, he steps out onto stage, immediately greeted by the passionate chorus of the crowd.

Upon first glance, all Hongjoong can do is beam. He walks up to the microphone and puts a hand on top, “Good evening, everyone!”

The uproar in response causes him to laugh nervously. Each fleck of glitter sparkles in the spotlight, and the photographers at the very front of the crowd start taking pictures one, after another, after another.

“Wow..” Hongjoong breathes after a time. He hasn’t performed one song and yet the adrenaline is at an all time high. “This is fucking crazy. You are all fucking crazy, d’you know that?” The crowd screams and he chuckles. “I cannot believe this.. It’s been five fucking years!” A mix of applause and cheering fills his ears to the brim. He joins in for a while, but gently requests their quiet for him to continue his speech. “I know.. Honestly, I was sitting in the car more than an hour before the show, and I just.. sat there for a little while. I had to really let it sink in that it’s been that long and yet it feels like absolutely no time has passed.” Murmurs of agreement follow. “Right? And I just couldn’t believe it, so- It’s the anniversary concert, as you know-” The crowd begin warming up, getting more enthralled as they listen. “And as I’m sure you also know, I released a new album today to celebrate!”

The announcement comes as a surprise to no fan, and yet the response is insane. Hongjoong has to calm them down again just to continue speaking. “I released an album today, entitled 1978- yeah, I know- and of course.. I’m gonna perform it for you all tonight.” His smile radiates through the entire arena, and the thousands of fans from the front all the way to the gods can see it. They cry, shout, cheer and scream for him as he preps his guitar for the first track.

As the noise dies down, he carries on.

“So, this album is incredibly important to me. It’s a very personal album, and I’ve been working on it for the past few months. Actually, I was working on this album when I was doing my last album, Nights High in the Wind, but these songs I wanted specifically for this album. You’re probably wondering why I called it 1978, huh?” The fans shout in confirmation. “Well, when I started working on this project, I didn’t know what I was gonna call it for the longest time, in fact, I literally only decided on it last month.” Sounds of surprise fill the arena. “I know, I know,” he breathes a laugh. “But, I chose it because last September, I was having a chat with one of my closest friends, you might know him.. Seonghwa? Is he here tonight?”

The lights move until they reach one specific spot of the arena. Not only is Seonghwa there, but Hongjoong just knows there are six other individuals with him.

Hongjoong smiles fondly, his heart ticking up a notch. “Hey!” He waves, and the seven wave back excitedly. “Glad you’re all here.” I fucking love you guys, I am so fucking happy you’re here, do not make me cry on this fucking stage- “It’s actually so perfect you’re all here, but- where was I? Oh, right! Seonghwa and I were having a chat last September, and after a while he said: 1978 is gonna be your year. 1978, that’s the big one.”

Even from afar, Hongjoong can see Seonghwa proudly nodding.

“And it didn’t hit me until last month but.. yeah! It makes too much sense, I absolutely had to call it 1978. But there’s something else that the guys up there don’t know yet.”

Suspense begins to build. It’s now Hongjoong’s turn to be smug.

“Let me ask you all this: how many tracks are on this new album?”

It takes a few seconds, but when it starts to click, the noise is absolutely raucous.

“That’s right! Seven tracks.. One for each of the most important people in my life.”

The seven exchange differing looks of amazement, bewilderment, fondness and love.

Hongjoong firmly plants his feet behind the microphone and takes a deep breath.

“All of you have impacted my life in ways you don’t even know, and that is why I dedicate this album.. to the seven of you.”

The lights dim, the crowd screams, and Hongjoong plays the first chord.

taglist: @bikerjongho × @viviixlyy

× tristeetconfus (ave). do not repost. ×

[kkaisarion]

dew's black leather pants

look. we've seen the list of things that dew requested in the phantomime video game. we all want to see him wearing those slutty black leather pants. so here's 1400 words of clergy-approved smut about them.

@forlorn-crows does this count as "helping during band practice" for mushy may

rating: explicit pairing: swiss/dew includes: leather kink, puppy kink, humiliation word count: 1452

read on AO3 or below

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

Swiss whistled to himself as he walked down the hallway toward the band’s rehearsal room. He was going to be early to practice for once, since he ended up not having any other plans for the afternoon. (In completely unrelated news, his weed stash had run out.)

He got to the door and pushed it open, expecting the room to be empty. Instead, he was met with a sight that made him stop in his tracks.

Dew sat near the back of the room, hunched over a shiny new Fender Stratocaster. Swiss would usually be drawn to the way that Dew’s long, elegant fingers were flying over the fretboard. But not this time—not when Dew was wearing the tightest black leather pants that Swiss had ever seen in his entire life.

The smooth leather hugged Dew’s lean muscles, showing them off perfectly. It didn’t help that he was bouncing his leg to the rhythm, making it impossible for Swiss to ignore the long line of his thigh. As Swiss’ eyes slid up further, he wondered what the pants looked like behind the guitar, how the leather looked stretched over Dew’s—

Dew chose that moment to stop playing and look up. Swiss blushed at being caught staring, but that didn’t stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth.

“What is that.” Swiss gestured toward Dew.

Dew gave him a knowing smirk, suggestively stroking his hand up and down the neck of the guitar. “My new Strat? It’s nice, right?”

“Yeah, it fits your tiny body so much better,” Swiss chuckled, and Dew stuck up his middle finger in response. “You know what I’m talking about. I can’t believe the Clergy actually got you those pants.”

“They approved everything on my request list,” Dew said, sounding somewhat surprised himself. “Copia convinced them, since I promised that I’d share the juice boxes with him.”

“That’s good,” Swiss said distractedly. He had stopped listening halfway through what Dew was saying, his eyes still roaming over his leather-clad legs.

“Like what you see?” Dew set his guitar to the side and spread his legs open in blatant invitation.

“Yeah,” Swiss breathed, his legs walking forward of their own accord. He fell to his knees easily, settling in between Dew’s thighs.

Dew leaned back and casually swung his arms across the back of the chair. “Go ahead, then,” he told Swiss. “Show me how much you like them.”

Swiss immediately brought up his hands and placed them on top of Dew’s thighs, stroking and squeezing them slightly. Then he slid one of his hands up to where Dew’s legs met in the middle, and cupped his rapidly growing bulge. It was so very warm, and the more Swiss rubbed over it, the more the leather stretched to show the obscene outline of Dew’s cock.

Dew’s breathing was getting heavier by the second, and he groaned low in his throat when Swiss lowered his hand and shamelessly shoved his face into Dew’s erection. Swiss took his time mouthing at Dew’s clothed cock, his hot breath ghosting over the fabric.

Swiss didn’t move back when Dew started to unbutton his pants and pull down the zipper. “Hold on, I’m gonna pull it out for that hungry mouth of yours,” Dew hissed, and Swiss whined softly as his head was nudged back. But then Dew’s cock finally sprung free, and Swiss’ mouth watered at the sight. It jutted straight up, the head flushed a deep red and already shiny with pre-cum.

Swiss took Dew’s cock into his mouth and slowly sank down all the way, choking slightly when the head hit the back of his throat. It made Dew moan and grip Swiss’ hair painfully, pushing Swiss’ head down to keep him there. Swiss gasped for air when Dew finally let him up, but he barely paused before swallowing him back down. Swiss set a quick pace right from the start, unable to control himself—the scent of Dew combined with the leather was driving him insane.

“You’re drooling everywhere,” Dew tsked. “So weak over just a pair of pants.” The judgment in his voice made Swiss’ cock throb in his pants, and he suddenly realized just how hard he was.

As if Dew could read his mind, he shifted his leg slightly, and Swiss yelped in surprise when Dew’s boot pressed directly against his cock. Swiss hurried to undo his jeans and pull his cock out, and was about to wrap his hand around his aching erection when Dew stopped him.

“Is that really what you want? Your own hand?” he questioned, knowing Swiss all too well.

Swiss sat back on his heels and bit his lip, reluctant to answer. Still, he flicked his eyes down to Dew’s leg, and brought his hand up to stroke at the leather covering his calf muscle.

“I’ll let you have it,” Dew offered with a glint in his eye. “If you ask nicely.”

There was a moment’s pause as Swiss struggled to form the words. “Can I have it?” he asked, and swallowed hard when Dew raised his eyebrows. “...Can I use your leg? Please?” Swiss tried again.

“That’s more like it.” Dew gave his permission in a patronizing tone, but Swiss barely registered it as he straddled Dew’s leg and pushed his hips forward. He moaned loudly when his cock made contact with the leather, finally getting friction after neglecting it for so long.

Dew growled and shoved Swiss’ mouth back on his cock. It was just as well that Dew took over controlling Swiss’ movements, because he couldn’t focus on anything except the slide of his cock against the smooth fabric as he thrust back and forth. He was leaking precum almost continuously, making everything slicker and slicker.

“Look at you, humping my leg like a desperate little puppy,” Dew groaned. Swiss shook his head in protest, even as his hips sped up. “Tell me, how does it feel?” Dew demanded, and Swiss responded with a long moan.

That made Dew laugh. “You can’t even think right now,” he taunted. “Puppy is too dumb to speak.”

Swiss screwed his eyes closed and whined miserably. He suddenly realized that he was going to cum like this, rutting mindlessly against Dew’s leg, and that thought alone pushed him closer to the edge.

Dew’s thighs started trembling, and Swiss knew that meant he was going to cum soon, too. Dew kept running his mouth, seemingly just as affected by his words as Swiss was.

“Rehearsal is gonna start soon,” Dew panted. “What will the others think when they walk in and see you all pathetic like this?”

Swiss’ body went hot all over in shame, horrified at the thought of being seen like this.

“The ghouls probably won’t be surprised—they all know—fuck—how much of a slut you are,” Dew continued. “But Copia? He’ll be so disappointed in you.”

Those last words tipped Swiss over the edge, and his body seized up as his cock started spurting cum all over Dew’s leg, ruining the brand new leather for good.

Dew cursed loudly and pulled Swiss’ head off his cock. “Open up,” he commanded, jerking his hand roughly over his cock. Swiss obeyed just in time for Dew to shoot his load all over his tongue and lips, and he swallowed it all down without complaint. Dew smiled down at him condescendingly as he wiped off his cock on his cheek.

Feeling dazed, Swiss rested his forehead against Dew’s knee. He breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that they finished before anyone else arrived. But when Dew pulled his head up, it was clear from his expression that he had other plans.

“Don’t think we’re done yet,” Dew told him, pointedly looking down at his leg. “You still have to clean up your mess.”

Both of them watched where Swiss’ cum was dripping down, the white in stark contrast to the black leather.

“No, don’t make me—” Swiss started, but trailed off at the look on Dew’s face. Resigned, Swiss dipped his head down and gingerly stuck out his tongue. But then the sharp taste of his cum mixed with the leather exploded in his mouth, and Swiss knew he was done for.

Swiss moaned as he eagerly lapped at his own cum, feeling the burn of arousal rise again inside him. When Dew reached down and petted his head in approval, Swiss sank further into what he was doing, no longer paying attention to anything else happening around him.

He didn’t notice the sound of voices in the hallway. Nor did he hear the click of the doorknob, followed by the door opening—not until it was far, far too late.

[magicxc]

Hills and Valleys

Synopsis: Legend has it that Halloween is strictly for the scares. With ghouls and goblins, vampires and werewolves, witches and broomsticks, who could disagree?

However, all this friend group wanted was a little trick or treat. Sprinkle in a few party favors, loud music, and a cabin in the woods, the myth was bound to come true. 

Lurking around the corner is danger like never before, eager to bring this night to a bloody finish. 

So join these friends as they fight to make it through a Halloween they’ll never forget, proving that "the scare" is more than just a fantasy.

Word Count: 1573

Warnings: drowning

Chapter 2 - Julianna’s POV

Series Masterlist

“Let’s fucking gooooooo,” I yell into the crowd. 

I don’t know what it is about LMFAO that gets me pumped, but they’re definitely a vibe. That group was inescapable in 2012 and then they just fell off the face of the earth, damn. 

But before I can contemplate it any further, a drink is being pushed into my hands by none other than the fender bender himself. Man, I haven’t seen that asshole on tv since adult swim was poppin. 

“Is this that Jekyll and Gin?” I shout over the music. 

“Nah, this that beetlejuice,” they answered. 

Eyeing the cup for potential bugs, I shrug my shoulders and take it to the head cause lets be real, the craziest names yield the best taste. 

Next thing I know is that I’m ass up face down in the middle of the dancefloor bussing the meanest of whines for Freddy Kruger. And if I hear another Megan Thee Stallion song, Imma show him why she really calls us hotties. 

But unfortunately for him, inebriated me has the tendency to fake an accent or two, though I usually don’t know which one will get the chance to shine until the drunk meter hits full. 

“Sacre bleu nigga, Im tryna throw this ass back on youuu. So open your arms wide, bend those knees, and catch it ohh ouiiii.”

“Girl you play too fucking much,” he retorted. 

So apparently the accent of the day is French.

We dance on each other for a few more songs, my ass firmly placed in his hands while his pelvis roughly grinds into me; our bodies cradled together as we move to the rhythm of the beat. Slick comments like “get a room” or “use a condom” get thrown at us and it’s then that I leave for a breather before I fuck him there and then.  

Unwrapping myself from his arms, I get ready to go, promising that I’ll be back while he smacks my ass in return. Deciding on a cup of water before I step outside for some fresh air, I make a beeline for the kitchen damn near knocking over Lynn in the process. 

“Woahhh where’s the fire,” she jokes. 

“In my vagina,” I yell. “Freddy Krugers big dick gave my ass two muthafucking heartbeats bitch.”

“You whore, you smashed on the first night?” 

“No, but I’m about to,” I smirked. 

“Shittt join the team, I smashed the first night and became a girlfriend.”

“Girl when haven't you?”

Shrugging her shoulders, she downs the last of her drink as her beefy military guy comes up and snakes his arms around her waist; an acknowledging nod thrown my way. 

“Jason, right?”

“All day.”

“I’d love to stay and talk, but I’m legit burning from the inside out,” I said, fanning myself. 

“I think Lorenzo left the backdoor open,” Jason pointed out. “I’ve seen people in and out that thing all night.”

“Mhmm, yeah take a breather and air that cat out before you buss it wide open.”

“Fuck you!” I laughed, middle finger high in the air. “Honestly I’m surprised I’ve made it this long at his party as is.”

“At the rate you’re going, we’ll probably have to haul you out of here,” Jason chirped. 

“Y’all aren't still ‘beefing’ are you?”

“You know how he goes Lynn, if Lenny does nothing else he’ll hold a grudge.”

“Just give it some time.” 

About two months ago Lenny threw a surprise party for himself, however the fuck that works, and invited the usual crew and then some. He rented out a party hall because quite frankly we were tired of helping him clean up after his usual weekend shenanigans; and it was his birthday so ideally he wanted to get fucked up without being responsible for any mess he made. 

As the night goes on we’re all chopping it up and getting lit and I spy this gorgeous girl, I’m talking ten out of ten baddie. Now I’m far from shy, especially when it comes to something that I want, so I slid over to her, hit her with some of my best lines and made that shit official like a referee with a whistle. We end up clicking instantly. She’s downing drinks back to back with me, fucking up the dance floor with me, and even tried her hands at skiing the slopes for the first time. 

All in all things are going better than expected, hell I'm starting to think it's my birthday. At some point, we start taking body shots and somehow her trying to wedge the lime from my teeth ends with us liplocking, that slice of citrus long forgotten as it hits the floor. Our makeout session ends abruptly, both of us yanked apart with a fuming Lenny in front of us. 

Apparently she was a coworker of his who he’d been eyeing for a minute and I swooped in and ruined the possibility of something more. But the thing is, he had no chances with this woman in the first place and had he paid close enough attention through those bullshit conversations that he forced on her in the break room, he would’ve realised that sis was gay. 

Truth be told, I bruised his ego more than anything. And the fact that he pulled such a stunt like that, in his drunken state, in front of friends, family and coworkers has him a little more embarrassed than he lets on. 

I think Lenny is the bees knees and I would’ve never approached his crush had I known, but it still stings that he’s essentially beating a dead horse. I feel like he tolerates me these days because of the crew and quite frankly I’m over the silly nonsense. He’s my absolute fave of the bunch, our personalities being so similar and all. But after tonight he’ll hear everything I have to say whether he likes it or not. 

“Anyway I’m off to, as you so eloquently put it, air this cat out,” I joke. “Later sugar.”

“Dammit, is nothing sacred?” She screams. 

Chuckling, I make it to the back door, walking over to one of the nearby trees to light a joint. Bringing it to my lips, I inhale the smoky goodness, eyelids heavy from fun. Swallowing it down, I rest my head against the branch as the crunching of leaves takes me out of my daze. 

Spinning around, a small smile dangles at the corner of my lips as I eye the familiar face. Exhaling, I hand over the joint, a question that doesn’t need to be asked. Hands swiping over mine, the blunt slides from my fingers and between their lips in response; a newfound sense of serenity as we enjoy the low thumping of the music. 

Halloween aside, autumn is my absolute favorite season for the beautiful, warm colors that it produces - from the red tinted leaves, to the orange pumpkins, and the golden sunsets. The air is crispier and the breeze blows a little cooler and the wind tastes a little fresher. I don’t know but it’s something about the way the earth turns on its axis around this time of year that brings a newfound joy to me. 

Eyes closed in blissful solace, I listen in as another crunching of the leaves ensues, only this time I’m the reason for the noise. A fist to my jaw has my face slamming against the tree trunk, body tumbling to the ground as I try my best to recover from the force of it all. 

Hands desperately grabbing at the earth, dirt and debris get painfully wedged underneath my fingernails, watching the droplets of blood seep into the soil. 

Trying my best to scramble up off the ground in my drunken state, a kick to my temple makes all my efforts futile, vision blurring as I lose my fight with consciousness. 

|~~

My body feels cold and heavy, lungs intensely burning while my head feels an insane amount of pressure. Eyes shooting open, I see what looks to be the moon, a full one at that. Can you imagine, a full moon on Halloween? I see the universe has a sense of humor. 

I feel my body sink further into the cold, wet depths, limbs thrashing against whatever has me restrained and it occurs to me that I may not be able to talk my way out of this one. The more I struggle, the more water pours into my lungs, filling my chest with a fiery ache; salty tears submerged as my nose splatters furious bubbles at my body's pitiful attempt to cough up the water and relieve my chest. 

They say it takes about 40 seconds to drown and though I’ve only been down here for about half that, it feels like twice that time. I’ve always wanted to go in my sleep, peacefully and without a clue. But as I stare up at the hazy moon, surrounded by a deep blue sky, stars sprinkled in between, I figure this isn’t the worst thing to see last. Relaxing into the water, I give up my struggle and take a big gulp, ready to accept my fate. Vision darkening, I look up for a final peek at the starry night in all its blurred glory, or as I’d like to call this one “the party night” and take comfort in the fact that I got to live it up one last time.

[rakeshouseparty]

Ship/pairing talk, this is all about my personal takes and hcs and how i see the characters btw.

I like Trender and Fender, in a weird way? Maybe even a ‘flea and dog’ way because of the nature of Trender, but compatibility wise, Trender and Slender would fit together more better, if we’re going off “personality” of course (MY VERSIONS OF THEM, Of course!! <:3c)

of course how i actually zee the Slender pals is some weird, like, maybe SOMEWHAT romantic polycule/“brotherhood” gang? and im rlly stretching it w the “romance” thing since like, outta all of em, Splendor can be counted as the one whom is the most traditionally romantic, ig i could describe it as that, while the rest arent rlly that way, maybe fender too but barely, they just sorta all stick together at times and do whatever stupid bullshit they do bc reasons!

And no i cant call it a friendship group, as much as it prob does seem like it, since it just doesn’t feel right to me when it comes to those specific guys , they arent rlly friends, and i doubt some of them see the others that way,

[aronarchy]

DO THE BASTARDS EVER HELP?

Reading the above, you may be tempted to ask whether cops ever do anything good. And the answer is, sure, sometimes. In fact, most officers I worked with thought they were usually helping the helpless and protecting the safety of innocent people.

During my tenure in law enforcement, I protected women from domestic abusers, arrested cold-blooded murderers and child molesters, and comforted families who lost children to car accidents and other tragedies. I helped connect struggling people in my community with local resources for food, shelter, and counseling. I deescalated situations that could have turned violent and talked a lot of people down from making the biggest mistake of their lives. I worked with plenty of officers who were individually kind, bought food for homeless residents, or otherwise showed care for their community.

The question is this: did I need a gun and sweeping police powers to help the average person on the average night? The answer is no. When I was doing my best work as a cop, I was doing mediocre work as a therapist or a social worker. My good deeds were listening to people failed by the system and trying to unite them with any crumbs of resources the structure was currently denying them.

It’s also important to note that well over 90% of the calls for service I handled were reactive, showing up well after a crime had taken place. We would arrive, take a statement, collect evidence (if any), file the report, and onto the next caper. Most “active” crimes we stopped were someone harmless possessing or selling a small amount of drugs. Very, very rarely would we stop something dangerous in progress or stop something from happening entirely. The closest we could usually get was seeing someone running away from the scene of a crime, but the damage was still done.

And consider this: my job as a police officer required me to be a marriage counselor, a mental health crisis professional, a conflict negotiator, a social worker, a child advocate, a traffic safety expert, a sexual assault specialist, and, every once in awhile, a public safety officer authorized to use force, all after only a 1000 hours of training at a police academy. Does the person we send to catch a robber also need to be the person we send to interview a rape victim or document a fender bender? Should one profession be expected to do all that important community care (with very little training) all at the same time?

To put this another way: I made double the salary most social workers made to do a fraction of what they could do to mitigate the causes of crimes and desperation. I can count very few times my monopoly on state violence actually made our citizens safer, and even then, it’s hard to say better-funded social safety nets and dozens of other community care specialists wouldn’t have prevented a problem before it started.

.

[loudlooks]

Fender Bender

Tiva meet cute AU, requested here.

Word count: 1606 (it was half that when I started editing, something got out of hand)

.

As the green light changed to yellow, Tony slowed down, smoothly coming to a full stop. He revved the engine—hard to resist after driving around in a Japanese rental for a few months—and grinned widely, the roar of the revised 1967 engine music to his ears.

In a split second, the sound of screeching tires, instantly followed by the crumpling of metal, wiped the grin of his face. Instinctively, he hit the brake pedal as if his life depended on it, knuckles turning white as his fingers gripped the steering wheel like a vice. The Mustang jerked forward, and his whole body tensed as the seat belt snapped him back into the leather seat. Once the car came to a full stop, heartbeat pounding in his ears, he slammed the steering wheel with both hands. “Oh, come on!”

Unbuckling the seat belt with one hand while opening the door with the other, heat flushed through his body. “One week,” he grumbled, all but jumping out of the car, anxious to inspect the damage, and give the idiot that slammed into him a piece of his mind.

Spotting the white of a deflated airbag through the windshield of the other car, and movement of the driver’s door, Tony assumed the other driver most likely was not severely injured either.

From the corner of his eye he spotted the back of his car, stopped dead in his tracks, and ran both hands through his hair. “Are you kidding me!”

Taking a closer look, it became clear the front of the other car seemed to have folded itself around his Mustang’s rear fender. The crumpled hood of the Mini was about five inches higher than it should be.

Tony stood up straight. A Mini! His Mustang Shelby, a highly desirable classic, a feat of American engineering, rear-ended by a Mini. He groaned in frustration, as footsteps came to a stop beside him.

Running a hand over the shiny bumper that was exposed, he snapped, “Where did you learn how to drive?”

“Israel,” a woman’s voice said sharply.

Not the answer he expected. He turned towards her, spotted a small burn mark on her chin, most likely from the airbag, before making eye contact.

“Where did you learn how to drive?” she shot back.

“Me?” he asked incredulously, then pointed a finger at her. “You rear-ended me.”

Her eyes seemed ablaze in the streetlight. “You suddenly hit the brakes for no reason!”

“I slowed to a halt when the light turned yellow.”

“You speed up when the light turns yellow,” she said, gesturing widely at the traffic light.

He closed his eyes and grit his teeth. “Not in America!”

“Well, that is just dumb,” she said, rolling her eyes.

He raised his eyebrows and scoffed. She was going to be a pain in the butt.

The woman briefly looked away to check out the vehicles. “It does not look like your car is that badly damaged.”

Tony complained. “I’ve only had this car for a week.”

She glanced at him. “What happened to your previous car?”

“It got totaled.”

“Oh!” She pointed at him. “You are a bad driver.”

Tony clenched his jaw and glared at her. In a carefully controlled tone, he said, “A thief totaled it during a police chase.”

“Oh, well, that is why you have insurance, yes?” She looked at him with a glimmer of sympathy, and he realized for the first time how attractive she was.

Giving her a quick once over, his thoughts immediately snapped back to his car insurance. He scrubbed a hand over his face, remembering the paper work, the red tape, the endless phone calls, the burning hoops of fire they had made him jump through to get the money they owed him according to his policy.

She shrugged. “It looks like an old car.”

He held up a finger, the tension in his neck building. “It’s a classic car.”

She made a face. “What is the difference?”

His eyes widened, mouth open, yet at a loss for words. This was insult to injury. Definitely a pain in the butt.

“I will back up my car,” she said, “to get a better idea of the damage.”

Gut churning, he held up a hand. “No no no no, we’re filling out the paper work first.”

She glanced away, then stepped in closer. “I was hoping we could,” she looked him up and down, and  bit her bottom lip, “skip the paper work.”

Narrowing his eyes at her, he opened the right side of his jacket, exposing his badge and gun. “I’m a cop,” he said matter-of-factly.

Her gaze flitted down once more, a dangerous look appeared in her eyes. “Nice gun.”

She licked her lips, and a knot tightened in his stomach.

“I bet you impress a lot of women with that,” she raised her eyebrows, “or men.”

Tony’s brow furrowed as he let his jacket fall back into place. Technically he was off-duty, but this wasn’t the first time someone had tried to flirt their way out of trouble.

“Miss-“

“Ziva,” she said abruptly, stepping into his personal space.

He did not like this. He inhaled sharply through his nose, a delicate, tropical fragrance clouding his mind momentarily. The deep and mysterious look in her eyes would’ve made Jules Verne’s head spin. It was certainly making his head spin. Or maybe that was a concussion.

Tony blinked slowly. Oh no, he did not like this, at all.

She pulled out her phone. “I know some people who can repair your car in no time.” And before he could comment, she was focused on the conversation in rapid-fire Hebrew. Cradling the phone against her shoulder, she fished a pen out of her pocket, grabbed his left hand and began writing.

The warmth of her hand, combined with the almost tickling sensation of the pen moving over the back of his hand, sent a tingle down his spine. He inhaled deeply, itching for another whiff of, what was that, coconut? Vanilla?

Ziva looked up at him abruptly, a dark twinkle in her eyes.

Tony swallowed hard, as she continued the conversation, never breaking eye contact. The tip of the pen had long left his skin, but for some unknown reason her hand hadn’t. Not that he was complaining.

She ended the conversation with one of the few Hebrew words he knew, and pocketed the phone and pen. “Meet me here,” she held up his hand, “in an hour.”

He glanced at the address, rough part of town. Busted a chop shop there two months ago. Didn’t quite go as planned.

“Do I need to remind you I’m a cop?”

“I would not mind checking out your gun again,” she said in a smoky voice, “as a reminder.”

Her thumb ever so lightly caressed the back of his hand. Or maybe that was just his imagination, heightened senses, rushing adrenaline, car crashes, and all that will do that to you. Not to mention beautiful, mysterious women that change their mood like a weathervane.

“Why don’t you want fill out the paperwork?”

“It is such a, how do you say, pain in the button?”

Tony shook his head slightly. “Butt.”

“But what?”

“No,” he pointed at his backside, “butt, double t.”

Ziva’s eyebrows squished together. “You want to show me your butt?”

Tony opened his mouth, then stopped short. His instinct had been right, she was an absolute pain in the butt.

He rubbed his brow with his free hand, becoming vaguely aware of a headache. “Are you in the country legally?”

She shrugged, holding his gaze. “Legally enough.”

Tony leaned in closer, and stared at her fixedly. “Do you have any idea how shady you sound?”

Ziva tilted her head, a coy smile tugging at her lips. “I have an idea about how intrigued you are.”

He stood up straight, and wrinkled his nose.

Ziva chuckled, let go of his hand, and patted his cheek. “Do not worry, I will not let anything happen to you.”

Tony licked his lips. Either his car would be fixed by the end of the evening, or both he and the car would end up disassembled for parts. Maybe he should let his partner know where he was going. Wait, when had he decided he was going?

Ziva walked backwards towards her car, holding up a finger. “One hour.”

He glanced at the address again, mind racing, and offhandedly said, “It’s a date.”

The wide smile Ziva sent him made his stomach do somersaults.

“Only if you bring flowers,” she said, and winked, before disappearing inside the Mini.

Tony cocked his head. Beautiful women always knew how to get his motor running. Through the windshield he watched her rip out the deflated airbag, casually throwing it on the passenger seat, as if she had done so a dozen times before. He pursed his lips, beautiful women with a dangerous edge shifted his motor into higher gear.

“I’m not sure your car is safe to drive,” he called out to her.

Ziva popped her head through the door window, amused look on her face. “I have driven worse.”

The Mini’s engine roared to life, as Tony’s mind tried to hold on to this roller coaster of a conversation. “What?”

The Mini backed up, and with unnecessary speed, and far too little distance, sped past him, making him jump back against the side of his car.

He ran a hand through his already tousled hair. “Crazy chick.”

Once seated in the driver’s seat, he checked his watch, and mumbled, “I wonder if Walmart has any fresh flowers left.”

tagging @ziva-david​, @indestinatus​, @benedettabeby​, @hopeless-nostalgiac​