#Captain Fire Balls

[xeavy]

We are evolving ♻️🔥

[feroluce]

Sampo's jobs usually involve either business or smuggling, but he prides himself on his wide variety of skill sets. He's the one and only Sampo Koski, after all! You name it (and pay him for it), he can do it! Which is how he gets drafted by Natasha to help out in the daycare/orphanage one day. Gepard goes down to the Underground to see the leader of Wildfire about some official business, and instead he runs into Sampo with:

One baby strapped to his chest,

Another baby strapped to his back,

A toddler carefully balanced on his hip,

And a little kid clutched around each leg, whining for Sampo to start walking again because they wanna hitch a ride.

Sampo: Well, well! If it isn't our- Er... You alright, friend?

Gepard: OTL (I AM GOING TO DEFY BIOLOGY-)

[mustasekittens]

ashes, ashes 🥀

alt (aka the original vision) + ref | this was mean to be more of an interpretation rather than a screenshot redraw/study so take it as u will. this ep was devastating and i might draw something based on the finale,,,however that turns out

[void-of-the-moon]

Fuck you trans your cookie run characters

They are all canon in my mind you cang convince me other wise

[im-not-buying-it-ether]

Marvelous Bats tidbit #3

Billy has a few aliases and fake names he has used, something any part time radio personality host, part time superhero, and full time menace of a child should have a fair amount of.

Joesph Williams is the name he always used when police caught him. Be it shoplifting in his homeless days to get through the month trying not to starve, being caught place a child shouldn’t be during the school day, or the one time he broke into a patrol car. Joesph Williams was the name he gave so he didn’t build a juvenile record on his real name, it as close enough to the real thing without being it for billy to easily remember.

The Whiz kid, famous boy reporter in the after school hours for Whiz Radio with Marvelously provided safety tips for the average Fawcettizen dealing with mundane magical issues or coming into their own (the close proximity to The Rocks entrance and the near weekly exposure to magic has a lot of it surfacing in Fawcett) Everything from why you absolutely shouldn’t summon and Hellhound to leave your enemies a flayed corpse and basic protection spells for the next time the Monster Society of Evil rears their ugly heads. Billy loves being the Whiz Kid, people actually listen to him talk magic and its the one time all his magical study as magics champion gets recognized since Captain Marvel doesn’t always need spells to punch a bad guy into prison.

Captain Marvel, the guy the whole world knows. The symbol of pure and perfect heroism Billy always saw in his heroes and try’s to emulate the best he can, never curses or has a mean word to say. Always there to save the day and comfort the people he’s saved when they’re frightened, doing his absolute very best to be the hero he’d love as a kid and the hero he needed every time “Do Good And Good Will Follow” never seemed to work for little orphan Billy.

[revolutionaryjackelving]

THANK YOU FOR THE DAYS: Steven Attewell, In Memoriam.

My tribute to @racefortheironthrone, aka Steven Attewell. Thank you for the days.

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 4]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 7.2k

Summary: It is very, incredibly important not to get attached to someone who will no doubt be leaving you high and dry to die stranded on an island any day now—be they man or fish. And you are definitely, definitely following that rule. For sure.

🌶️ Obligatory Warning for Mild Spice

[PART 1] [PART 1.5] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [PART 5]

The next morning, there was a conch shell set beside the familiar offering of half-mauled fish.

The insides were a shining, pearlescent pink—smooth and sleek. You picked it up curiously and turned it over in your palms. You’d never seen such a complete one before. Normally they were at least a bit dinged, cracked here or there along the thin edges. But this one was practically perfect. It sat heavy and warm in your palm, and you brushed a finger along the rough ridges.

You looked up and the Siren was lounging at the shoreline, waiting expectantly.

“Thank you,” you said. “It’s really pretty.”

He preened, the fins along the side of his head fluttering wide and colorful. You huffed, amused, and set the shell neatly at the forefront of your slowly accumulating corner of Things. You’d rebuilt the little shanty shelter that he’d had his seagull minions pick apart into useless nonsense that first day together, and it wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep some of the sun off your shoulders at the height of the afternoon and would probably (maybe) hold up under a bit of rain. And that pleasantly cozy hovel of yours was where you’d been keeping your Stuff. The best sticks for poking at the fire, a rock that you’d found with a dip in the middle that made it sort of, almost a bowl if you squinted hard enough, bunches of drying beach grasses that you’d been tediously twining together into bits of rope and other nonsense. That sort of thing.

You placed the conch shell on the roof of it, prodding at it with the tips of your fingers until it sat just so. Like a figurehead on a ship. The crown jewel on your little mess of ferns and driftwood.

“What do you think?” you asked, turning back to the Siren. “Really brings the room together, huh?”

He puffed something under his breath and rolled those amethyst eyes of his, but there was a curl to his lips that looked far more amused than irritated.

You trudged back over and plopped beside him in the sand, the soft, low roll of the waves playing against your toes.

“Today feels like it’s going to be gross again,” you sighed, squinting up at the sun overhead in distaste. The big ball of glowing fire had barely crawled its way over the horizon and already it felt like the world was beginning to steam.

The Siren curled his claws around your ankle and tugged.

You arched a brow at him and he pushed his stupidly, perfectly shaped ones up right back. Like he was positive that he could out stink-face you with ease.

“It’s too early to swim,” you complained.

He tugged again.

“I can’t be in the water that long. You’re going to turn me into a prune.”

He said something back, mouth quirking in irritation, and you focused hard on the shape of it. His expression smoothed with that familiar, near-eerie perception of his and he was reaching forward to dig his free fingers into the sand at your hip.

‘Don’t know what that is.’

“It’s like a—” you frowned, waving your hand around your head. “Y’know. A fruit, that’s gone pruney. A prune.”

He looked at you like you were the dumbest human he’d ever met, and to be fair you very well could have been. You doubted it was an extensive list. And even if it was, you tended to have a proclivity for landing near the top of those illustrious sorts of rankings either way. At least that’s what your Captain saw fit to remind you ad nauseum.

So, like the very mature and intellectually competent person that you were, you kicked a mess of seawater right into his face. And then the Siren was screaming something silent and mad that had all the goosebumps on your arms popping up to say hello, and he was dragging you into the shallows ass first. You skidded along the wet sand and landed in the white surf with a laugh that you had to swallow real fast. Because if you drowned in three inches of water just because you couldn’t manage to not choke to death on a giggle fit, you’d never forgive yourself.

.

.

That night, you were lounging by the fire with a belly full of seared snapper and the Siren curled just as contentedly only a few feet away. His fins were splayed out across the damp sands, and you couldn’t help but compare them yet again to some of the finest, spun silks you’d ever seen. Even when they’d been pinched and shredded beneath the prickly teeth of your ropes, they’d still been lovely. But now that they were near-fully-healed, the spread of them was truly impressive.

And they were. Almost healed, that is. You could barely make out the trailing, scar-puckered lines of even the biggest tears anymore. Which was good! Great, even. Because that meant he’d be able to begin his journey home soon, didn’t it? And then at least one of you would manage to get away from this barren mess of rocks and sand.

There was a thump against your thighs that had you jolting back into focus, and you looked down to see a pair of familiar, gem-cut irises staring back in the dark.

The Siren was glaring up at you like there was a Purpose to his sudden loss of personal boundaries, and you blinked down at him in confusion. After a long moment of nothing but your silent gawking, his brow started to pinch and the skin around his eyes went tight with irritation. The fins along his ears rippled like a pissy cat raising its hackles in preparation to lunge, and you cautiously placed a hand against the edge of one. The grumpy fluttering stopped all at once, and if you were a touch more sun-poisoned you would say that those delicate, purple pins relaxed against your palm. Either way, you were clearly on the right track. So you let your fingers trail down towards his temples, and then to the salt-curled waves of his hair. His eyes slipped closed with a pleasant rumble that you could feel all along your skin, and you puffed in half-hearted irritation. Prickly, fussy, bastard man.

You weren’t really sure what he wanted, but for now the gentle scratch of your nails against his scalp seemed to do the trick. After a few cycles of lazy petting, you let your fingers catch in some of the softer, pale hair beneath his fins. It was a bit tangled—possibly from all that frilly posturing of his—and you carefully began picking apart the small knots there one by one. Once those were cleared away, you found yourself with little else to do but sit and play with the newly freed waves of lavender-tipped gold. You tucked one strand over the next, twisting the familiar pattern of a simple braid beneath your palms.

“Deuce grew his hair out at one point,” you chattered idly as you wove those silky locks together beneath your fingers. “That’s someone from my ship, by the way. Deuce. Anyways. He thought it’d make him look more rugged, or whatever. But he just ended up looking like some rogue, sea elf, and everyone was teasing him about how he’d gone for ‘windswept sailor’ and ended up with ‘foppish, little lordling.’ So he chopped it all off again.”

The Siren hummed, and you could feel it against the pads of your fingers.

“Which was a real shame,” you continued. “Because obviously I spent all that time learning to braid it, but also because it actually looked pretty nice—OUCH! What is your problem—"

You yanked your hand away from his sharp teeth and cradled your smarting fingers to your chest. Because the stupid fish had bitten you! Not hard, or anything. Just a little nip. But it’d still hurt. If less as a genuine injury and more as a sting to your pride.

The Siren spat something quick and harsh under his breath, turning up his nose like you’d been the one to err here, and not his wandering fangs.

“What?” you huffed, reaching out to flick at those purple fins in irritation. They twitched against the side of his head to smack at your fingers. “Oh, I’m sorry, am I not allowed to call anyone else pretty, your highness?”

The Siren rolled his eyes with a look that screamed ‘well, duh,’ and you forced your irritation to override the little, bursting bubble of fondness in your chest. So silly, so silly. This ridiculously primped fish of yours.

“Well, too bad,” you grouched, tugging at the end of that half-bound braid. “Just because you win ‘most attractive specimen on the island’ doesn’t mean you get to tell me to pretend I’m blind on top of being deaf. Let me have something, you prick.” And it wasn’t like it was much of a competition—seeing as the entrants were you, him, and the octopus (if you were being generous). Less of a contest and more of a merciful slaughter, perhaps. A kindness that you were even allowed to share the same stage at all.

The Siren muttered something low and amused under his breath, the amethyst in his irises twinkling with the crackling, orange light of the embers beside you. He reached up to twist his claws along your palm and snatch the hand he’d so viciously nipped—bringing it down to eyelevel to observe it more closely in the dim glow of the fire. There was a steady trickle of blood bubbling up along your thumb. Honestly, not much worse than a papercut. Nevertheless, his brow quirked at the soft trail of red and his gaze jumped up to yours with a pointed sort of curiosity.

“What were you expecting to happen? Humans are fragile,” you huffed. “At least more than you are. It’s not like I have scales or things to keep me safe.”

His mouth tucked down on a frown, and his tail swept irritably back and forth through the sand.

“What? It’s not like you didn’t know that,” you tried, awkward. Because he ate stupid, little flesh bags like you for breakfast. Surely he ought to be well aware that there wasn’t much there. Just skin, and muscle, and all the gory, gooey bits beneath. Just like how you knew what it felt like to bite into a piece of bread, or the crunch of an apple. Solid enough to survive in its own right, but something that would give beneath your teeth easily enough that calling it anything other than ‘delicate’ would have been a gross exaggeration.

He turned your palm this way and that, brow pinching down more and more with each fresh prick of crimson. His tail beat against the sand and his talons curled up and away from your skin—like he was worried just touching your fragile, little, egg-shell of an exterior would burst it.

“It’s fine,” you blurted out, still far too confuddled over his progressive panic. You pulled your hand away from his claws and popped your finger in your mouth. “See?” you garbled around the faint taste of copper. And then pulled it out with a pop to show him the slowing trickle. “Totally fine. Just a scratch.”

The Siren watched that little bubble of red with all the vigilance of a hawk eyeing its super, and then he was snatching your wrist back between his talons and dragging your hand down towards his own mouth. And oh my God, this was it. He’d finally decided to eat you after all. What was it? Had your oh-so-breakable human foibles finally pushed him over the edge? Or was it the blood? Were Sirens like sharks? Driven to hungry frenzy by the very scent of your—

There was a gentle, wet warmth along your skin and you blinked through your hysteric descent into adrenaline-manic-mania to see the Siren carefully cleaning the blood along your cut, just as you had only moments before—his tongue running smooth lines along the teeny wound until the sore skin was tingling and spotless. Granted, his endeavors were carried out with a great deal more delicacy than your earlier example of just shoving your whole finger into your mouth like a gremlin, but…

“Uhm—” you spluttered, too gobsmacked to come up with much else. “You—ah—you don’t have to—uh—"

The Siren grumped something at you that you could feel the shape of against your palm, and then returned to diligently wiping away each new drop as it appeared. It was a strange sort of sensation. Not bristly like a cat’s tongue, but certainly not all human. There was a sting to it—something hot and prickly. Poison, maybe? Or… something. Whatever it was, it had the hair on the back of your neck rising to attention and a shiver working along your shoulders. He kept at, silent and meticulous, until finally—finally—the bleeding slowed to a stop. He hummed and turned your palm this way and that, looking over the drying nick in your skin like an artist admiring their work.

Once he was content with whatever it was he’d been searching for, he tucked your hand back along the fins at the side of his head and butted up against your palm in as blatant of a ‘get back to work’ as you’d ever seen.

You swallowed the weird mess of something that had clawed its way up to tangle your tongue and dug your nails back against his scalp just to give yourself something to do other than—than—

“I hope you don’t expect me to do that for you,” you babbled, still far too out of your head with What In The Fuck Was That to do much but gawk like an absolute imbecile at the fact that he’d actually, factually, just—

The Siren rolled his eyes and reached over to drag the point of his talon along the sand at your hip.

‘No need. Already healed.’

You barked out a startled laugh and tugged at the ends of his hair. Your fingers caught at the edge of the braid you’d been weaving, loosening one of the twining sections, and he was hissing and swatting your hands back into place—poking around with his dark claws at the little end you’d fussed with until it was exactly how it had been. And then was dragging your hands back to the half-woven bulk of it with a pointed snarl that was clearly an order to finish what you started, human. Or else.

“Okay, okay, jeesh. I’m on it.”

The Siren trilled low and rumbling under his breath, and beneath the weight of your palm it almost felt like the steady drone of a cat’s purr. Warm, and pleasant, and comfortable in a way you couldn’t quite place. The thin strands of chain-twined-rope you’d woven to make his necklace pressed into your thighs with a scratchy tickle, and the pretty piece of sea glass at its end reflected the low light of the fire in a kaleidoscope of purples. His fins flicked against your fingers in a steady tempo, and when you gave in and pinched one he was rolling onto his side to shove the full weight of himself into your lap. You whined, and bitched, and complained about suffocation, and the stupid bastard of a fish just smacked his tail indignantly against the wet sand and draped over you even more.

Seven, he was such a nightmare. And you were going to miss him so, so much.

.

.

The next day passed in much the same way as the one before, and the day after that, and the day after that. And as pleasant as it was, you couldn’t help but feel like the headsman's axe was hanging over your neck. Always there—just a breadth away from falling.

You were fixing your Siren’s hair—redoing that braid of his that he insisted you tuck into his golden locks each and every morning—and normally he was quite responsive to your prattling. Flicking you with his fins and curling his tail along your ankles as you rambled. A silent, steady way of expressing his interest when you couldn’t hear his own responses in return. But today he was… distant. Amethyst eyes locked on the grand expanse of the ocean before you with a forlorn sort of expression on his face. The water was still and quiet today, with sunlight bouncing off the low, rolling waves in a pretty glimmer like the glow off his own, shining scales.

You trailed off, fingers falling from his finished braid to twist in your lap. And he just kept staring. Fins half-pricked along the side of his head and gaze heavy with focus.

You swallowed around the tightness in your chest and forced a smile. You hopped to your feet with a merry, little bounce and reached down to pat him on the shoulder.

“It seems like a nice day for a swim,” you said, and ignored how you could feel your nerves eating through the words. The wobble of them in your throat.

The Siren startled, as much as someone as grandly majestic as he could really do such a thing, and turned your way with a fondly exacerbated huff. He held up a hand, like he was expecting to drag you along with him into the lulling tide, and you shooed away his fingers. His brow pinched and his mouth turned down at the corners.

“For you, I mean,” you clarified. Like your blatant stepping away from the water’s edge wasn’t an obvious rejection in its own right. You turned back out towards the ocean beyond your little cove. “Your fins are doing a lot better, aren’t they? You could probably stretch them a bit, right? With how smooth the waters are today.”

He hummed, considerate, gaze skirting out to track your own. You swallowed around another ball of prickling ice in your throat and kept your grin buoyant and encouraging.

And then he turned back and offered you his hand again.

You frowned, confused. “I can’t follow you out there.”

He rolled his eyes and leaned forward to dig his talons into the damp sand.

‘I will swim with you.’

A pause, where he reached out to poke at your ankle with a pointed jab, jab, jab before finishing off with a—

‘Like always. Stupid.’

“Oh, yeah? Well, I won’t be so stupid when you ditch me halfway out and I drown in the riptide,” you harrumphed and his eyes narrowed grumpily.

He dragged his claws through the sand in short, angry jerks.

‘Won’t leave.’

“Uh-huh,” you drawled, swallowing stiffly again when that curl of awful something tightened behind your ribs. Hoping you could manage to choke it down. It sat heavy and unpleasant on the back of your tongue, like food gone off.

He underlined the ‘won’t’ with hard, pissy strokes.

“How about this,” you tried, because man oh man, you couldn’t do this. It was going to turn you into a ridiculously weepy, clingy mess if he kept talking (writing?) like this. “Prove that your fins work well enough to keep you up and alive before I risk it. And then we can go from there.”

The Siren huffed, sending the longer ends of his hair flipping out to the sides. But those gem-cut eyes of his kept flicking out to sea, and you could see the tip of his tail twitching back and forth—like he was itching to just leap forward and swim. The fins along his ears pricked up again, and then he was turning his nose up at you with some petulant comment under his breath and diving forward into the surf. He smacked his tail down with a splash!, drenching you in a mess of salt and seafoam. You spat, and hacked, and scrubbed the water from your eyes.

“Great way to prove you won’t try and drown me!” you called, hands cupped over your mouth and still spluttering around lingering saltwater. He reared up quick enough to swipe another wave your way before slipping back under, and you laughed through the spray of mist.

You settled yourself back in the sand, ankles crossed and chin pillowed in your knees, and watched the shadow of him dance just beneath the surface—starting in his familiar, looping circles before slowly venturing towards the mouth of the cove. He paced along the breakwater, pectoral fins cresting above the waves to glint bright and sleek in the light of the morning. And then he was darting forward with a great beat of his tail, spraying salt behind him as he dove towards the depths. You waited, anxious, as one moment faded to the next, and then—finally—there was a burst of frothing bubbles as he broke the surface with a great, curling leap—fins flared wide like the wings of a great bird and scales shining like jewels. It was nearly effortless, how he crested over the water. Diving back down in a mess of spitting mists with a flick of those long, trailing fins. He leapt up again, twisting in the air to crash down on his back and it almost looked like he was dancing. You could see the white flash of his grin even from all the way where you were sat. You didn’t think you’d ever seen him so happy. Truly, a sight worthy of every grand tale you’d heard of the Sirens of the Sea.

He circled the mouth of the bay at least a dozen times more—fast, and wild, and breaching the waves in a burst of seafoam like he was trying to give every pod of dolphins out there a run for their money. Gradually, he began to lose steam, and those grand leaps melted into soft curls of his tail in the tide. And honestly, this was the part where you expected him to sink beneath the surface and glide off into the sunset. You braced yourself for it—for the moment that golden head of his would vanish beneath the water and never pop back up again—but instead he bobbed closer.

The Siren rolled in with the waves, panting, and flushed, and looking like someone coming off of a marathon. The muscles all along his torso were jittery with the strain of it, and he looked positively exhausted. Ecstatic beyond compare, but exhausted. He slipped up the damp shore with wobbly arms and came to a stop at your side before very gracelessly and rudely flopping the entirety of his sopping wet bulk onto your person and squashing you into the muck.

You squawked, rightfully indignant, and he just puffed against your neck and let his tail smack harder against your flailing legs.

“You’re going to crush me!” you wailed, shoving at his shoulder.

He rolled his eyes and curled his fins along your hips—spreading himself out in the sands like your complaints held no merit whatsoever. You could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against yours, and the rabbit-fast thump-thump-thump of his heart. His skin was so warm. You could even feel the heat of it off his scales, which you hadn’t even thought was possible. Weren’t all fishy, scaly things supposed to be cold? Slimy, and gross, and like poking a wet blob of some unmentionable gunk scraped off the hull of a ship? Instead it was just… smooth. Glass-polish sleek and all warm muscle twined along your much, much smaller self.

You cleared your throat and turned to blow a frustrated raspberry against the sand.

“You do realize if you break all my bones that there isn’t going to be anyone to cook your stupid fish for you anymore.”

The Siren grumbled something against your shoulder that almost felt like the breathy puff of a laugh, and then he was collapsing all over again with a sigh that ruffled all the soft, short hairs at the nape of your neck. He scrubbed his cheek against the curve of your throat and you froze. Because it almost felt like—was he purring?

A deep, low, tremulous thing that you could feel rumbling against your skin. Like laying a hand against a mast strung too tight in a storm. Or maybe more like that one time you’d found a stray cat lounging in the sun by the docks—the sweet, old thing chirping softly beneath your palm in a lulling drone that tickled all the way up your arm.  

The Siren’s purr wasn’t quite like either of those things, but perhaps a mix of the two. Dangerous but warm, powerful but cosseted. More predator than pet, and, well, that’s what he was, wasn’t he? And honestly, it was pretty nice. A language you could feel rather than hear, something just for you.

So you let yourself relax beneath the weight of his scaly bulk with a sigh that wasn’t quite as aggrieved as you would have liked, and his tail twisted another loop around your calves. His fins spread around the pair of you like a roll of fine silks, and while the texture wasn’t exactly soft, they were delicate enough not to feel suffocating or coarse either. Sleek and cool to the touch, and maybe the thickness of canvas. And there were just so many of them. Long, and trailing, and ruffled along the edges like the folds of a fine-boned fan. Your weird, purple blanket. If Riddle ever found out you’d been using a Siren as bed linens, he’d probably have an aneurism and scrub you in one of the scullery buckets for a week straight.

It was stupidly easy to fall asleep like that—wrapped up in lavender and plum, with the thrum of his heart next to yours. You napped all through the afternoon, and only woke up once the sun had set over the horizon.

You blinked awake to stars in the sky and a strange, scratchy sensation at your hip.

The Siren had apparently finished up whatever little bout of insanity that had made him think you’d be the perfect impromptu pillow. He hadn’t gone far—or even anywhere at all really—but he was propped up at the hip now instead of crushing you into the shore. His hand was resting just beneath the hem of your shirt, right over the origin of that bizarre, ticklish feeling. You blinked again to clear the salt and sleep-grit from your eyes, and realized it was his talons. Not ripping, or tearing, or rending. Just very, very carefully tracing a set of shapes into your skin. The same three symbols, over and over. Up, and down, and up, and curled.

He traced those shapes again, and again, and again. It was almost—you’d think it was letters, if not for the strange, swirling pop of them. Almost like the words he’d written in his own language all those days ago. His claw dragged along the skin there in the faintest prickle, leaving slowly growing streaks of red in their wake with each repetition. You opened your mouth, ready to ask him what exactly he was so painstakingly etching into your hip, and paused.

You’d realized over the past however many weeks you’d been marooned on this little crescent of sand and stone that maybe Sirens weren’t all you’d thought them to be. And that maybe you really didn’t know much about them at all. Something about the slow, cautious way that his claws were tracking along your skin made you think that this was another of those things that you just didn’t get. And going by how quiet he was, how stalwart and careful he was being not to let the knife-sharp curves of those talons dig too deep or do anything other than trace back and forth, and back and forth, it might be something… Something important. Or at the very least something that you had no business bothering him about.

Least of all if he’d be leaving any day now.

So you tossed your head back on a very loud, very dramatic yawn and used the ensuing stretch to gently swat his hands away.

He didn’t look put out by your ridiculous show of flopping around and scooching out of his grip, so that was good at least. You sat up and rubbed at your eyes, and he just kept staring. Kept to his place in the soft, wet sand not a foot away and eyes sharp in the lowlight of the evening.

“Well,” you chuffed on another yawn. “I’m starving. Dinner?”

The Siren rolled his eyes and dipped his chin in what could perhaps generously be classified as a nod. He reached up to flick at the mused braid in his hair with a pointed scowl—twisted and tangled from the salt of the sea and his earlier rambunctious tomfoolery. You sighed, overly put upon, and hefted your way to your feet.

“Yes, yes. And I’ll fix your stupid hair.”

Another nod, this one far more pleased, and the Siren settled himself neatly back into the low roll of the waves to watch you work.

.

.

The next morning when you clawed your way back into consciousness, the Siren was already awake and staring off into the distance.

The fins along his head were pricked in that same, focused way from before that made you think of a hound dog catching a scent. There was a strange sort of energy about him—not quite nervous, but certainly not anything comfortably at ease either. Unsettled. Jittery. The end of his tail flicked against the sand, and the fins along his spine curled and arched to an unsung tempo.

You followed the path of his leer and didn’t see much of anything yourself. Just an endless stretch of blue in all directions with the occasional white crack of a wave breaking along its surface.

His tail smacked at the muck again and you felt something tight and stupidly, stupidly selfish curl in your stomach.

You swallowed it down, just like you’d said you would. Because you’d meant it when you’d told him he deserved his happy ending, and you weren’t going to let the rotten, nervous thing growing in your guts stop him from having that. Not that you could even if you wanted to, but it was the principle.

“…are you going to swim again today?” you asked, and one of those fins swiveled in your direction. You came to stand at his side and curled your toes in the sand to keep yourself steady. “You should, you know. To make sure everything is really all fixed.”

The Siren tore his gaze away from the sea to cant his head at you with a sharp, suspicious narrowing of his eyes.

You held your hands up in defense. “I’m just saying. You want to be able to go home, don’t you? Back to your pod?”

He frowned, tight, but his glare flickered back out to the mouth of the bay like he couldn’t help himself.

After a long, long moment, he reached out and dug his claws into the sand.

‘Not safe yet.’

You arched a brow. “Oh, come on. I’m sure it’s fine. If anyone could make it back, it’d be you.”

He turned back your way and arched a brow, looking entirely unconvinced.

You huffed and crossed your arms. “Don’t get all modest now. You’re the most obnoxiously proud person I’ve ever met—fish or otherwise. I’m sure you can do anything you set your mind to.”

His brow pinched again, and there was something almost like worry sparking in those amethyst eyes of his.

“Look—” you said, reaching out to plant a palm against his shoulder. “If it doesn’t work out, you can always just come right back here, okay? It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

You weren’t going to think about how nice that sounded, and how absolutely, bitterly selfish it was to hope that he’d turn right back around and head back. You weren’t.

The Siren’s brow pinched and he turned back to the open water, fins rippling against his sides and mouth twisted down at the corners.

You tugged at the braid in his hair.

“Don’t make me tie you back up again just so I can drag you out.”

He scoffed and spat something at you that looked like it was properly bitchy, and it had your lips quirking on a smirk. But prissiness or no, he’d started to let himself slip down against the surf, to lull deeper into the shallows and flare his fins at his sides for balance rather than a show of irritation.

You swallowed the last, lingering bite of dread at the back of your throat and offered him a winning smile.

The Siren huffed, and right before he sunk all the way into the water, he set his talons by your feet and scribbled—

‘Do not do anything stupid.’

“Yeah, yeah,” you waved off. “Sure.”

He underlined the ‘do not’ with a harsh sneer that could have made paint curl and the fiercest of generals quake in their boots, and you burst into peals of too-fond laughter.

“Okay, okay. I promise. Swear.”

He nodded, firm, and finally—finally—sunk beneath the surface with a grand, sweeping beat of his tail.

He circled the whole of the bay once, twice, thrice, and then set out past the breakwater with another of those bounding leaps that looked like something straight out of a painting.

You sat and watched the rolling waves until the sun was high in the sky, and then long after it had begun its creeping descent. Fat and sluggish over the horizon, dripping gold along the water like the strokes of a paintbrush. Until there were no shadows in the tide, no purple fins popping up from beneath the surface to smack at your ankles. There hadn’t been for hours now. The glint of his tail had slowly grown further and further away, and you’d been staring out at nothing for longer than not.

You stood with a sigh, legs wobbly and prickling with static as you stretched out of your scrunched up crouch.

You moved towards your little shanty hut and carefully readjusted the conch at its helm so that it sat just so. You stepped back with a soft nod and began your familiar trek towards the other side of the island, dutifully ignoring the stutter in your steps and that tight, miserable something twisting in your guts that you refused to name.

It was fine. He’d be home soon, surely. With his pod—his family. Which was what you’d wanted. And now… well, you had to go catch some dinner for you and your octopus. And there was no use waiting around.

.

.

You fucking sucked at fishing.

Which was a lesson learned with miserable, sopping wet consequences. You sat in front of your stupid fire, ringing out your stupid, soaked shirt, and sneezing in the chill of the night air. You’d never been responsible for hauling in food on The Rose Queen, and the Siren had basically been feeding your stranded ass from day one (whether intentional or otherwise). And so now here you were. Fishless, friendless, and freezing.

You sighed, miserable, and carefully made your way back to the familiar, little tidepool in the crags. You knelt down by the teeny pool of water there and the octopus inside was immediately scurrying for cover. When no tasty treats rained down overhead like the gift of some benevolent god, it slowly creeped its way out from beneath the stones with a trudging sort of paddling you wanted to call pouty.

“Sorry, little guy,” you huffed. “I don’t have anything for you today.”

You reached forward and the octopus panicked—trying to flee so fast that the poor thing wound up twisting itself in knots. Its stubby tentacles curled and flailed uselessly in its puddle, and you tutted in sympathy. You scooped the blob into your palms and immediately four sets of tentacles were curling around your fingers like a lifeline. Its little suckers pulled at your skin with sticky smacks as it tried to burrow away into your skin. And Sevens—OW! What the Hell!

“Chill, chill!” you squawked, trying to wrangle the thing more securely into your hands and stop it from pinching the flesh clear off your bones. “I’m just—would you—look, I don’t want to drop you, okay? So would you just—"

The octopus screamed, and you didn’t even think that was possible. You could feel the sharp, yowling vibrations of it all along your fingers and a few of the gulls nesting along the rocks took off into the air with a harried flurry of feathers and scrabbling claws. Their wings thwacked the back of your head and you swatted them away with a shrill scream of your own. Why did everything on this stupid island have to be a no good, dramatic, serenading, piece of shi—

“Fine!” you shrieked, feeling your molars ache with it. “Begone!”

And hurled the thing as far as you could over the edge of the rocky shore. It landed in the water with a lackluster plop of fat bubbles and immediately darted away like a prisoner fleeing captivity. And not, you know, the benevolent hand of the very lovely pirate who had been feeding and caring for it all these weeks.

You kicked angrily at a mess of pebbles, and then swore loud and furious when all it did was scuff up your toes and prick bruises into your heels.

You trudged back to your stupid, little hovel and collapsed miserably into the sand.

Here you were, trying to be noble, and kind, and give all of these ridiculous sea creatures the second chance at life that you would never have. And what did you get for it? An empty stomach, an aching heart, and gravel in your fucking feet—

“Well,” you chattered to yourself. Pleasantly poisonous and tendons jumping in your jaw, “I suppose at least it can’t get much worse.”

Which should have been the universe’s signal to do something truly petty. The skies opening overhead in a torrential downpour. Your little, stick home collapsing under the sheer weight of your patheticness. A crab scuttling up from the depths just to pinch your toes. Something like that.   

Instead, there was a gentle breeze that tickled your cheeks and coaxed you into looking out over the horizon.

There was something there—something in the distance that you couldn’t quite make out from where you were curled up suffering in the sand. You sniffled past angry tears and scrubbed the back of your hand over your nose, and then let that touch of wind guide you forward on wobbly legs.  You had to climb all the way up the salt-slick rocks to get a good look at it. But there it was. Not too far at all actually.

A ship.

Large, and wooden, and cresting through the low rolling waves with all the ease of the monstrous vessel it looked to be. There was a silver insignia emblazoned on its side, but it was still too far away to make out the particulars. But you didn’t care, because it was a ship. An actual, factual ship.

You waved your hands high over your head and shouted at the top of your lungs.

And holy shit, holy shit—maybe the universe didn’t actually hate your poor guts. Maybe there’d be a happy ending to this whole thing after all.

You watched in the distance as an anchor dropped, and you had to stop yourself from tumbling off your rocky perch in your excitement. One of the small dinghies was lowered into the water and a gaggle of crew climbed down to man it. Slowly but surely, that little boat grew closer, and you sprinted down to the shoreline to meet it.

A man with short, dark hair climbed over the side and met you halfway. His eyes were soft, and brown, and kind, and he offered you a warm smile when you nearly tumbled straight into him in your haste—catching a hand around your arms and helping keep you upright.

He said something polite that you assumed was the usual sort of greeting and intrigue into how exactly you’d managed to find yourself in this state of affairs, and you hastily made to explain your situation as you always did.

‘Thank you—I can’t hear, but I can write and read—And I—’

Your train of thought cut off sharply, and your rambling explanations with it. The brunette was already nodding your way in sympathy and rattling off instructions to his crew. They were all decked out in slightly differing variations of the same, white and navy uniform. With golden buttons and sashes glinting in the low light and silver pendants pinned to their breast pockets. Your doe-eyed savior turned back your way and offered you his arm with another of those sap sweet smiles that lit his cheeks in a merry, rosy pink.

You hesitated, throat bobbing around something tight and cold that curdled along the back of your tongue.

Twining songbirds, wings frozen in flight as they soared up towards an endless sky.

The intricate, little emblem stared back at you proudly from its place on his chest, and you couldn’t help but think of the Siren who’d only just left your cove a few hours before.

‘Not safe,’ he’d demanded, dragging you away from the wreck so frantically you’d nearly drowned from it. ‘Not safe.’

The brunette’s smile wavered at your hesitance, and he wrapped his hand around yours to tug you into the boat.

You climbed in on wobbly legs, because—what else were you supposed to do? Stay stranded on this little patch of sand and stone until you starved to death or went mad from loneliness? Run? From sailors with swords on their belts as long as your arm? To hide on an island that you could traverse in its entirety in a half hour or less? You were always one to happily snatch up the weird and wonderful opportunities life could present to you and run them into the ground, but now… What else was there?

You were settled against one of the small, wooden benches and the brunette shucked off his jacket to drape over your shoulders and the silver songbirds glinted in the low light. He offered you another of those warm, warm smiles before turning to call an order to his crew.

You sighed, miserable, and slouched against the siding—fingers dangling down to brush along the surface of the water.

‘Do not do anything stupid,’ your Siren had said.

And you’d really been hoping to last more than twenty-four-freaking-hours before inevitably breaking that promise, but it seemed the universe really was out to get you after all.

.

.

.

[TAG LIST - CLOSED]

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[chibinasuu]

Ace x Reader ― reunion; kisses

part of the cozy holidays event

🎁 ― anonymous tags: sfw, childhood friends to lovers, GN!reader, no use of y/n

“You saved my little brother’s life. He never stops talking about you.” 

Portgas D. Ace took off his hat and bowed slightly to the Captain of the Red Hair Pirates, “I just wanted to thank you in person.” 

You didn’t expect to see him here, of all places. 

He had not seen you yet, hidden among the onlookers. Your heart was hammering in a ferocious beat – it had been since the moment you saw that familiar wide-brimmed orange hat, that silky black hair, that freckled face, that cheesy smile.

God, you missed him.

He wasn’t the lanky boy you knew anymore. He was a bit taller now, and his hair was longer than it was the last time you saw him. He was also… bigger. It was hard to see underneath that cloak he was wearing, but you were sure he had put on some muscles. 

You wanted to call out to him, to surge forward and hold him, but you held yourself back out of respect for this monumental exchange between the Super Rookie and the Emperor. 

Shanks’ frown turned into a wide grin, his laughter echoing in the dark cave, “You’re Luffy’s brother? I didn’t know he had one!”

Suddenly, Shanks turned and called out your name, “You know this guy? You used to hang around Luffy too, right?”

The crowd of Red Hair Pirates parted to let you through, and Ace’s eyes widened in disbelief as he finally noticed you. His lips formed your name though no sound came out, shell-shocked at this happenstance that was just too good to be true. 

“Is that really you?” He said when he finally found his voice. 

You felt tears of joy threatening to spill out as you grinned, “It is!”

You were practically bouncing on the balls of your feet as you looked up at Shanks, your eyes silently asking for permission. 

Shanks sighed, smiling and giving you a nod in Ace’s direction, “Go ahead.”

You thanked him before running toward Ace and launching yourself into his arms. He caught you firmly, laughing while spinning you around a few times before setting you down gently.

“I can’t believe it’s actually you!” He exclaimed breathlessly, “What? How? What happened since I left Dawn Island?”

You opened your mouth to explain, but before you could get any word out, Shanks interrupted with a shouted order to his crew, “Prepare a feast!”

“You’re welcome here," he told Ace, giving him a friendly pat on the back. "Tell me all about your adventures.”

As the Red Hair Pirates and the Spade Pirates partied the night away, exchanging stories over shared bottles of sake, Ace found you among the crowd and dragged you outside into the quiet night.

Away from the noise, you suddenly became very much aware of Ace’s warmer-than-average hand holding your cold one. 

He found a wide, flat rock near the cave’s entrance and swiftly removed his cloak. He wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath, and you briefly – and hopefully subtly – glanced at his newly exposed torso.

Yep, he had definitely put more muscles on. 

He laid his cloak on top of the rock and sat down, patting the space next to him.

“Aren’t you cold?” You asked as you plopped down beside him.

Ace lit the tip of his index finger on fire in answer.

“Right,” you chuckled, “Sorry. Stupid question.”

“So, how did you end up with an Emperor of the Sea?”

That’s Ace, you thought. Always straight to the point. 

“Not long after you set off to sea, I booked a passage to Loguetown. I was planning to find work with some traveling merchants there, but I was attacked by a bunch of nasty pirates who wanted to rob me.” 

Ace’s brows furrowed in concern, but you continued on with your story, “Shanks happened to be in town on some business, and he saved me. He recognized me as the kid who used to play with Luffy in Windmill Village and took me in. I’ve been sailing with his crew ever since.”

“Not officially part of the crew though, I’m just tagging along.” You quickly clarified, “Being in an Emperor’s crew was never part of my plan. Shanks is just kind enough to let me stay in his ship until I figure out what’s next.”

Truthfully, you didn’t know (and didn’t want to think about) what was next.

At first, you just wanted to be a merchant – open your own business and travel island to island in the East. 

You didn’t even know why you took up on Shanks’ offer to sail with him in the first place. 

Seeing Ace again, however, had opened a tiny door in the deepest part of your heart, out of which a voice whispered that maybe, it was because you knew that going into the Grand Line was the only way you could even have the slightest chance of ever meeting Ace again. 

But whatever the reason, you had now gotten a taste of the Grand Line – of piracy and the thrill of the adventure. You weren’t sure you could go back to the little corner of the world that was the East Blue. 

Not wanting to dwell on that much longer, you turned the conversation to the man sitting beside you, “Well, how have you been? You’re a big-name pirate now! A captain of your own crew!”

“Yeah, they’re a great bunch.” He chuckled as he started telling you about his crew. He told you about how he met his first mate, Masked Deuce, who you briefly met earlier. He told you about all of his adventures, right from the moment he left Dawn Island until how he got here, at this moment. 

At the end of his story, he just stared at you silently. You shrunk bashfully as he drank you in, slowly taking inventory of what had or had not changed since you last saw each other. 

Finally, he simply said, “I really missed you.” 

You could see your breath as you let it out into the cold air, “I missed you too, Ace.”

He took your hand, stroking his thumb gently across your knuckles. He struggled with his next words, hesitating on whether or not he should say it.

“I think about that night a lot, you know.”

A shaky breath left your mouth as the memories flashed through your mind.

Of his hands, his touch, his lips.

You remembered how he had finally kissed you for the first time on that night before he set out to sea on his seventeenth birthday. How you had yelled at him because how dare he kiss you now when he’d be gone tomorrow. How you had kissed him back anyway. How he had pressed his lips to yours again and again and again until the sun rose, with a promise that he’d see you again someday. 

You looked away, unable to meet his fiery eyes as you admitted, “Me too.” 

Ace took your chin between his fingers, guiding your gaze back to him. 

When you met his eyes again, they were mere inches away from yours. 

The hand on your chin moved to cup your cheek. You didn’t realize you were also leaning in toward him – drawn by an irresistible need to be closer – until your nose bumped his. 

He was so close that you could count the freckles dotted across his face.

The rapid beat of your heart consumed your being. Your thoughts were filled with him, and only him. 

Ace sighed out your name desperately, his lips nearly brushing yours, “Can I–?“

“Yes.”

You couldn’t tell if it was you or him who finally closed the minuscule distance between you, but you couldn’t care less. You couldn’t care about anything else when his lips were on yours, filled with all of the longing and pent-up desire that only grew more intense the longer you were apart. 

His lips were as soft as you remembered, but they moved more surely, more confidently, than the last time you kissed, on that night that seemed so long ago. 

Your hand roamed his defined abs, up to his chest, before settling at the back of his neck. Ace’s arms circled your waist, dragging you in until you were practically sitting on his lap. 

The cold winter night just urged you to get closer and closer – to press your body against his and bask in the rising temperature of his bare skin. 

You gasped as his tongue flicked out to tease you, and he took advantage of your parted lips to deepen the kiss. 

You were drunk on the taste of him, sweeter and more potent than the most expensive sake you’ve ever had. 

The need for air had you panting slightly as you pulled back, sweat dotting your brows. 

“You’re so hot, Ace.” 

“Yeah?” He claimed your lips again in a short but heated kiss, “You think so?”

“No,” You said, abruptly pulling away from him, “I mean you’re literally hot.” 

He jumped up as if woken up from a trance, quickly moving away from you. It was then that you noticed that the sleeve of your coat had started catching on fire. 

Ace frantically stripped the coat off you and plunged it into the snow, but his fire had done its damage. You looked pitifully at the unsalvageable scorched sleeve. Guess you needed a new coat. 

“S-sorry!” Ace’s whole face, no, even his neck and torso, were bright red, “Sometimes that happens when I’m too, uh… excited.”

You laughed, burying your burning face in your hands, secretly pleased that you could get the mighty Fire Fist so worked up that he briefly lost control of his powers. 

“C’mere, Hotstuff.” You beckoned him closer, “You ruined my coat, now you gotta keep me warm.”

He sat back down, immediately enveloping your body with his. You sighed in pleasure as you settled into his warm embrace, laying your head on his chest. 

You never wanted to let go.

You sat together like that for minutes, or maybe hours. No words were exchanged, but it was a comfortable silence, broken only by the rustle of the trees and the whistle of the winds.

After what felt like an eternity, Ace’s arms tightened around you, “Come with me.”

You swore your heart stopped for a second there. 

“Join my crew. Or don’t. You can just stay on my ship – I don’t care as long as you’re by my side.” Ace ranted in one breath, his anxiety on full display as he awaited your answer. 

“Ace,” you finally said, “It’s not that simple.” 

“Why can’t it be that simple?” He said softly, letting his forehead fall against yours, “I don’t think I can stand being apart from you again.”

You closed your eyes as you sighed, already feeling your walls cracking, but still refusing to let them crumble completely, “Let me think about it.”

He nodded, “I leave tomorrow morning. I’ll be waiting for you at the coast.” 

Ace draped his cloak on you, and you thanked him with one last peck on his lips. You walked towards the encampment of the Red Hair Pirates, hugging the cloak tighter to fight the freezing winds. It smelled like him. 

You let yourself imagine what it would be like to sail on Ace’s ship – to have him by your side at all times. To discover new islands and have adventures with him. To fall asleep next to him and wake him up with kisses. 

You realized that the decision had been made by your heart all along, ever since the moment you saw him, even before he extended his offer. You were a fool to think that your brain had any say in this at all.

Your feet had unwittingly carried you to Shanks’ tent, and you knew what you had to do.

“Shanks?” You called, “You awake?”

A groan from inside the tent told you that he was at least conscious. There was no telling how many barrels of alcohol he had consumed at the party. 

“Come in,” he croaked.

Shanks took one look at you and sighed. 

The Captain looked quite disheveled, but was surprisingly coherent when he said, “You’re going with him, aren’t you?” 

“Are you using future sight on me?!” 

He eyed your mussed-up hair and swollen lips, “Darling, I didn’t need to.”

You felt your face heat up in embarrassment as Shanks chuckled.

“I saw how you looked at him, kid,” he added on a more serious note, “And I saw how he looked at you.” 

“I think I might love him, Shanks.” You said, surprising yourself. Your voice was barely audible even in the quiet tent. 

“I mean, I used to have a massive crush on him back when we were teenagers. But, seeing him again… it’s like everything just clicked.”

Shanks just nodded in understanding, “So this is it, isn’t it? Your ‘next’.” 

“I think it is.”

“Go. Be with him.” His eyes were soft as he smiled at you, “Be happy. You deserve it.”

You crushed him in a hug, “Thanks for everything, Shanks.”

You choked up as you felt his one arm tighten around your back.

It was not easy, packing up everything and saying goodbye to the crew that has become your family these past few years. 

But as you trudged toward the coast, you felt your heart growing bigger, making room for a new home, a new family, and a new adventure. 

For the first time, instead of dread, you felt excited for what would come next.

a/n: this event was supposed to be max 1k drabbles, but alas, i was carried away (again). this was my first time writing for ace, and i actually felt quite happy with how this turned out! i hope you all enjoyed it and pleeease let me hear your thoughts in the comments or tags <3

₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊ main event page || event masterlist ₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊

[wonderjanga]

Warfare

You see, Marvel’s mentioned the Wisdom of Solomon before. The JL never really thought much about it. As a result, the JL just thinks Marvel has all these… interesting ideas but just never says anything about them. Though, there are a couple times the ideas are actually voiced. (They don’t know Billy is just parroting whatever Solomon or occasionally another God with tell him)

Like the time Batman and Marvel got stranded on a planet that was stuck in the middle of war. They were promised

Rebel Leader: “Do either of you have any ideas to bring to the table?”

Batman: “No. Marvel?”

Marvel: “Huh? Oh uh… well I could magic a plague into the water near them. You said they’re using it for their water source, right? Then, when they’re weak, we can go around and take them out.” *sounds hesitant*

Batman: “Hmm… That could be a good idea, but what sort of plague are we talking about?”

Marvel: “Cholera.”

Batman: “What.”

Marvel: “Cholera.”

Batman: “Marvel, that’s fatal.”

Marvel: “Oh.”

Batman: “Yeah.”

*silence*

Marvel: “Well, if we’re quick, it we can get to them before they die.”

Batman: *stares for a bit, holding back a sigh* “We don’t even know if Cholera will affect their biology the same way it does humans.”

Rebel Leader: “What is this Cholera?”

Batman: “It’s a deadly waterborne disease.”

Rebel Leader: “I see… And you’re unsure whether it will work with our physiology… might I propose a different disease?”

So yes, biological warfare, that’s our first thing. Batman proceeded to spend a lot of time convincing the Rebel Leader not to nearly kill an entire group of people with their version of Cholera.

Then there was the time Bruce and Marvel were working together and got held up in a shootout at a lab.

Marvel: *looking at the various chemicals in the lab* “Gosh, I remember my first exposure to chlorine gas.” *getting nostalgic* (He’s from the 1940s in this one, guys)

Batman: “You’ve been exposed to chlorine gas?”

Marvel: “Yeah, and let me tell you, those dang Nazis were horrified when it didn’t work on me. Don’t worry though, we’re gonna be making mustard gas instead.”

Batman: “Captain, we are not doing that.”

Marvel: “Why? We have all the available ingredients.”

Batman: “Marvel.” *puts a hand on his shoulder* “Mustard gas can be fatal.”

Marvel: “Oh.”

Batman: “Yeah.”

*silence*

Marvel: “My bad.”

*more silence*

Batman: “Is this why you always let others plan?”

Marvel: “Are you gonna look at me weird if I say yes?”

Batman: “Hn.” (Translation: Yes, but it won’t be visible through my cowl)

This incident checks chemical warfare off the list. Bruce is now concerned as to why most of Marvel’s ideas are either nearly fatal or just fatal.

Then there was the time Marvel went undercover with Bruce Wayne, not Batman for whatever reason. They then got attacked by pirates while on a ship trying to gather information about some supervillain.

Bruce and Marvel: *taken cover under a table while the pirates fire cannon balls at them*

Bruce: “Any ideas?” *peaks over the cover only for a cannonball to whiz right past his head*

Marvel: “I think I have one. So here’s what I’m thinking. I take out their mast, steal all their oars, and then push them out to sea and let them drift wherever.

Bruce: “That’s… Intense. Wouldn’t they starve if you just let them drift?”

Marvel: “I guess. If they’re not saved, I mean.”

Bruce: *stares with the most deadpan face* “How about I come up with a plan instead?”

Marvel: “You got it boss.”

And last but not least, the physical warfare.

By the way, Billy doesn’t know Bruce is the Bat. No, no, no, he just thinks the guy is someone Batman wants him to work with. He was a little surprised to see the dude act all brooding like Mr. Batman when he had heard from others that he was a party boy. Oh well, not his business. Meanwhile, Bruce doesn’t know Marvel thinks he’s just interacting with a capable civilian.

That last part was inspired by @helps-the-writing-brain-go’s reblog of this post. Thanks for letting me write with your idea :)

[laine-is-pomegranted]

You won’t do it, no balls (like curly).

Jimmy x co captain Y/N smut, or head cannons NSFW and SFW. Anyways you ate your last Jimmy fic!

Jimmy Headcanons ! (NSFW & SFW)

c/w - jimmy being jimmy

a/n - thinking abt doin headcannons for all of the mouthwashing crew.... lmk if that would be something you guys would wanna see... also sorry about this being so short.

wc - 408

(image not mine)

Safe For Work Headcanons !

huge on pda! always has a hand on your waist or the small off your back or an arm around you. not really in a cutesy "i love my partner so much i need everyone to know how much i love them" way but more in a "i need to keep my dog on a leash" kind of way.

contrary to popular belief, i think he is actually very well groomed. he thinks very highly of himself so i think it would only make sense that he wants to make himself appear extremely put together.

uses cremo's 'bourbon vanilla' bodywash and their ' spice and black vanilla' cologne.

love language is definitely acts of service or gift giving.

he hates telling you that he loves you because it makes him feel like you have a level of control over him and he can't stand it. however, he is constantly doing things for you.

your car needs repairs? he's under the hood. you need help moving something? he's doing it by himself and will NOT let you help.

smokes camel crushes. used to use chewing tabaco because pony express doesn't allow cigarettes onto the ship due to them being fire hazards, but stopped after realizing you could taste it in his mouth. now he just uses nicotine patches while on the ship.

listens to divorced dad rock. think hinder, theory of a deadman, my darkest days.

much bigger fan of cats than he is of dogs.

Not Safe For Work Headcanons !

slightly above average dick size, not huge though. quite girthy, though.

not a fan of you riding him, he says it doesn't feel as good as missionary or doggy but in reality it makes him feel emasculated having you on top of in a 'position of power'.

a huge sadist (shocker). he's constantly spanking or hitting or pulling hair.

LOVES making you cry during sex. whether its from overstimulation or just straight pain, it doesn't matter.

really big on choking too.

not very big on bondage or restraining you. he likes to feel you grabbing at him and writhing around under him. it gives him a huge ego boost to know that he doesn't have to tie you down to keep you from squirming away.

bites and leaves hickeys frequently. he enjoys the thought of there being physical marks on your body that show that you're his.

very vocal in bed. he's not necessarily *loud* perse but he talks and groans a ton.

[imyourbratzdoll]

I crave a good fluffy fic with wolverine, his wife is a badass and when someone threatens him she loses her shit and kicks their ass🫡 with so much disrespect.

hey baby, I'm so sorry for taking so long! I hope you enjoy what I did, it's a bit more violent than you probably wanted.

summary - a dumb 'bad guy' lures you and your husband out, things take an escalated turn when he threatens your husband.

warning - SUPER violent, like extreme level probably, swearing, mentions of sex, dude talks of touching what's his but nothing triggering, dick and balls suffer rip.

18+ only please, the gif I use isn't mine, divider by @newlips

You couldn’t believe this guy, he was really threatening your husband right in front of you. Thinking he was all tough because he could throw fire or some shit? You didn’t know what he could do, except talk a lot of shit. That was probably his power. What was his name again? Captain Talks Shit? Shits A lot? Little Fucker? Who cares, all you care about right now is that he’s threatening your man. 

You walk out of the shadows, having heard enough because honestly. Why do the bad guys always talk for so long? Have none of them realised or picked up from past bad guys mistakes? It was tiring and a waste of your time because you and Logan could’ve been gone by now, screwing each other silly, probably somewhere extremely risky. But, noooo. You had to listen to this jackass.

“Listen, dick licker. If you don’t stop threatening my fucking husband. I’m going to rip your arm off and beat you with it.” You growl, moving to stand in front of Logan. (Sure, he would have protected himself and it may look weak to the other guy that a woman is standing in front of an extremely large man, in more ways than one, wink wink. But you happen to know that this turns your husband on and who are you to deny him his fantasies?)

“Is that a threat?” Captain Dipshit sneers.

“Did it sound like a fucking compliment, Princess?” You watch as he eyes you, sizing you up and in his mind he’s probably thinking ‘yeah, I can take this chick.’ You hope his ego deflates before you kill him.

“Listen, Babe. This is between us men, now why don’t you run along and go make us a sandwich or something. Maybe put on some cute lingerie and wait for me in the bedroom ‘cause once I’m done with your husband here. You’ll be creamin’ around me.”

Logan shakes his head, stepping way back. He remembered when he accidentally said something similar and he was in a coma for a whole month, not even his fast healing could help him. 

It was like a switch turning on, the beast that lived within you had been released from its cage and not even God could save this man now. You stalked towards him, he still smirked thinking he was safe. You jump, wrapping your legs around his neck and twisting, bringing him down using a move your good friend Natasha had taught you. You move swiftly while he is down, sending a harsh kick to his face, hearing the satisfying crack of his nose and possibly jaw breaking. You grab him by his hair and lift him, a large grin covering your face as you bring him eye level with you. 

“You wanna repeat that, Princess?” You bring him closer, whispering in his ear. “How bout you go make me a sandwich, put on a cute set and I’ll bash your dick in with a baseball bat. How do ya like the sound of that? Cause I love it.” 

He struggles within your grip, trying to swing at you but with your other hand that isn’t gripping his hair. You snap his arms, relishing in the sound of bones breaking. His screams echo the warehouse, dumbarse had lured us in here without a backup plan or backup. 

You let go of your grip on his hair, immediately switching to gripping his throat instead. “You don’t like my plan, Princess? Rethinking the whole thing? Cause ya already pissed me off by threatening the man I love, but then you had the balls to say THAT? Tell me, Princess. Just between us girls. Did mummy not give you any hugs as a kid? Cause how did you think this was gonna go? You could’ve ‘killed’ the Wolverine, but he wouldn’t have stayed dead. No. But if he heard you touching me, touching what’s HIS. He would’ve torn you to shreds, but slowly. Very slowly. It’s what makes me love him.” You pat the man’s cheek, grinning as he winces. 

“How bout an apology and I won’t kill you.”

“F–fuck you.” He spits at you, SPITS. Not even clear fucking spit, this shit has blood in it. You lift your hand, wiping the spit with the back of it and then onto his clothes. 

Your face screwed up. “Well, that was stupid.” With quick movements, you throw him, watching him crash into a wall so hard that it leaves a dent. Your hand reaches out and a bat flies into it. “You’re not wearing that cute set and I don’t have a sandwich, but this will do.” He tries to shuffle away, his eyes wide. You stalk toward him and swing, smashing his dick and balls with one hit. Think Superman merged with Hulk strength, how do you think his twig and berries did?

A scream rips out of his mouth before his eyes roll back and he falls backwards. You frown and poke him with your bat. “Hey mista, you dead?” You look at Logan, “Bitch passed out.” He shakes his head at the pout on your lips. 

He walks over and places a kiss on your head, “C’mon, let’s go home now or better yet. You ready to do something real risky, Sweets.” Your eyes light up.

“Do you mean…?!”

Logan nods, smirking. “I’ll finally let you fuck me while I drive.” Your squeals escape as you jump into his arms, smothering his face with kisses.

“OH THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU! You’re the best husband a woman could ask for!” And with that, Logan carries you out as you stare at him dreamily.

thank you for reading!

feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Big Bed IV

Hardersson x Daughter!Reader

Part of The Big Adventures Universe

Summary: Sometimes you just need the Big Bed

It was a rough game.

Against a team like France, the games are always tough. They're ranked so highly and they play so skilfully and they run circles around most teams.

Their shots come in rapid fire, one after the other and it's like they're playing with multiple balls because the pressure keeps piling up and up and up.

A corner is where it all goes wrong for you.

One of your midfielders conceded it, a young girl that you're pretty sure plays for Häcken who had to kick the ball out after your defence was caught off guard.

France swing it in.

You can't get a good grip on it, not with all the jostling and pushing in your box but you manage to punch it away.

There's a leg already up though, a dangerously high leg with a knee that cracks into your eye.

The pain is instantaneous and you groan.

Your eyes swells shut quickly. You can already tell a bruise is forming.

It's a straight red card.

No leg should be high enough that the knee is what connects with someone. There should be no high legs regardless but the fact that it's the knee that hits you instead of the foot is pretty dangerous play and the player gets sent off.

You get taken off too. You can barely see out of your other eye. You're no use to the team right now.

You give the armband over to your vice-captain and follow the medics out to get treatment.

You don't have a concussion which is good but you have to sit there with an icepack on your face to make the swelling go down.

"You look rough," Magda says, tilting your head to one side when you come home that night.

This was the last match of your Euro Qualifiers and, honestly, it hadn't really meant much.

Sweden were already through so it's not like your absence from today's match was make or break for the team.

It's nice to be home though even if you still feel a bit unsettled.

You don't know if it's because of your eye or just plain exhaustion but you feel a little out of your skin, like you're sitting at the dinner table but not at the same time.

You're hyper-aware of every part of your body and your stomach swirls uneasily.

But you can push that feeling away, at least for a little while. At least while you eat with your mothers.

It's a good time, mostly. Good food. Good conversation. Good company.

You think you've made yourself feel better, pushing away this fleeting feeling of anxiousness.

It comes back though, like it always does. It creeps up on you like a phantom, waiting until you're alone to pounce.

You stare up at your ceiling.

It's dark out and, even though you took some painkillers, you can swear that you feel your eye throb.

You toss and turn for what feels like hours, unable to settle yourself.

The last time you felt like this, you were at home with Talia. She'd held you and whispered sweet nothings in your ear, a supportive body against yours as you both waited for the feeling to fade.

You feel dangerously unmoored, like you're a boat that's been pushed out to sea with no sails and no oars. You just drift into the darkness as your stomach swirls uneasily.

You sigh, pulling yourself from bed and shoving down the covers.

It's a short walk across the hall to your mothers but your hand freezes on the door handle, suddenly worried that they'll kick you out for doing this.

Your hand hovers, clenching and unclenching around the smooth metal before you close your eyes, resting your head on the door.

You push the door open, slipping inside.

It creaks slightly and Pernille rolls over in bed, voice still rough with sleep.

"Princesse? Is that you?"

"Yes."

"Is something wrong?"

"I..er...I mean no but..." You sigh. "I don't know. Can I sleep in here tonight?"

Even in her sleep addled mind, Pernille can't make much sense of why. "In here?"

"I can sleep on the floor," You say quickly," I just...I don't know. Can I?"

"Don't be stupid," Magda says, awoken by the noise and blunt as ever," You're not sleeping on the floor." She pats the spot between her and Pernille. "Get in."

"Are you sure?"

"Get in. The bed's big enough for all of us."

"I feel like a kid again."

"You are a kid. You're our kid. Get in bed."

It's the best sleep you've had in weeks.

[woso-story]

Summer Bliss

Alexia Putellas x Reader

The off-season was finally here. After months of watching Alexia pour every ounce of herself into her game—captaining her team, dominating the pitch, and carrying the weight of so many expectations—you were thrilled to finally have her all to yourself. And what better way to celebrate than a sun-soaked vacation?

The first leg of your trip took you to Ibiza, where Alexia’s closest teammates joined you for a few days of fun. But the real highlight of your summer would be the quieter days in Mallorca, just the two of you in a private villa with nothing to distract you but the sea and the stars.

---

Ibiza was everything you’d hoped for—beaches that shimmered under the sun, music that kept the nights alive, and an energy that seemed to loosen even Alexia’s famously focused demeanor.

The villa you shared with her teammates was perched above the coastline, its infinity pool blending seamlessly with the sparkling Mediterranean beyond. By day, you all lounged on the beach, sipping cold drinks and diving into the warm sea. By night, you explored the island’s nightlife, dancing until your feet ached.

Alexia was in her element, laughing and teasing her teammates, her relaxed smile a rare treat you couldn’t stop staring at. She noticed, of course.

“You’re staring again,” she teased one night at a club, her lips brushing your ear as she leaned in to be heard over the music.

You smirked, your hands slipping around her waist. “Can you blame me? You’re stunning.”

Her cheeks flushed, though the confidence in her gaze didn’t waver. “Keep saying things like that, and I might not let you out of my sight.”

You couldn’t imagine a better scenario.

---

The days passed in a blur of sun and laughter. One afternoon, Alexia challenged you to a volleyball game on the beach, her competitive streak flaring even during vacation.

“I’m taking you down,” she declared, her eyes glinting with mischief as she served the ball.

Predictably, she won every round, her athleticism and sharp instincts impossible to match. But you didn’t mind losing—especially when she celebrated by lifting you off your feet and spinning you around, her laughter ringing out over the waves.

---

After a heartfelt goodbye to her teammates, you and Alexia boarded a flight to Mallorca. From the moment you stepped into the private villa, you knew this was going to be special. The house was perched on a hill, surrounded by lush greenery, with a pool overlooking the sea.

Alexia let out a soft sigh as she dropped her bags, pulling you into her arms. “Finally,” she murmured, pressing her forehead against yours. “Just us.”

You spent the first day exploring the property, marveling at the beauty of your surroundings. That evening, you cooked dinner together, sharing laughter and stolen kisses as you navigated the small kitchen.

Afterward, you sat on the terrace with glasses of wine, the stars twinkling above you. Alexia looked completely at peace, her head resting on your shoulder as she traced lazy circles on the back of your hand.

“This feels perfect,” she whispered.

“It is,” you agreed, brushing a kiss against her hair.

---

The next morning, you woke to the sound of birds and the faint scent of the sea. Alexia was already outside, her lithe form stretched out on a sunbed by the pool. She wore a black bikini that hugged her toned body perfectly, her golden skin glowing under the sun.

You stepped outside, your gaze lingering on her abs—the defined muscles that spoke to her dedication and strength. She noticed your stare and smirked, pushing her sunglasses down slightly to meet your eyes.

“See something you like?” she teased.

Blushing, you walked over and sat beside her. “Maybe,” you admitted, letting your fingers trail lightly over her stomach. Her abs tensed under your touch, and you felt her shiver slightly.

“Careful,” she murmured, her voice dropping an octave. “You’re playing with fire.”

“Maybe I like the heat,” you shot back, grinning.

Her laugh was soft but full of warmth. She pulled you down beside her, her fingers brushing your cheek before she kissed you deeply.

---

Later that afternoon, the two of you were splashing around in the pool when Alexia challenged you to a wrestling match.

“You sure you want to lose again?” she asked, her smirk infuriatingly confident.

“Who says I’m going to lose?”

She laughed, lunging for you with ease. You tried to fight back, but her strength and precision were impossible to match. Within seconds, she had you pinned against the edge of the pool, her hands gripping your wrists gently but firmly.

“You were saying?” she teased, her face inches from yours.

You couldn’t help but laugh, your heart racing as you leaned into her. “Fine, you win. But only because you’re ridiculously strong.”

She released you with a grin, her fingers brushing over your sides as she stepped back. “At least you admit it.”

---

That night, after a simple dinner on the terrace, Alexia pulled you onto the couch to watch the stars. She looked so relaxed, her hair still damp from her shower and her skin glowing from the day in the sun.

“You’re staring again,” she said softly, her lips curling into a smirk.

You didn’t even try to deny it. “Can you blame me?”

She leaned in, her hand sliding to the back of your neck. The kiss started slow, but it quickly deepened, her body pressing against yours. There was something about the privacy of the villa, the freedom to be as loud as you wanted, that made your heart race.

She pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips, “Bedroom?”

You nodded, letting her lead you inside. The night was a blur of heated touches, whispered words, and the feel of her hands exploring every inch of you. Alexia was strong yet tender, her confidence on the pitch carrying over into moments like these. She took her time, making sure you knew just how much she adored you.

---

On your final night, you spread a blanket by the pool and lay beside Alexia, staring up at the clear night sky. The stars were impossibly bright, their reflection dancing on the water.

Alexia turned to you, her eyes soft. “Thank you for this,” she said. “I needed it more than I realized.”

You brushed a strand of hair from her face, your heart swelling at the tenderness in her gaze. “You deserve it, Lex. You give so much of yourself—I’m just happy I can give something back.”

She pulled you close, her lips brushing yours in a kiss that was as soft as it was full of promise.

By the time the vacation ended, you were both glowing with renewed energy, ready to face whatever the season would bring. As you boarded the plane home, Alexia squeezed your hand, her smile brighter than ever.

“Best off-season ever,” she said.

And you couldn’t agree more.

[cottoncandybitchfuck]

Fabian Aramais Seacaster, a darling boy, the son of William Seacaster and Hallariel Seacaster. He's a fighter, and his money got him everywhere he wants to be in life. He punched Gorgug on the first day, and he got detention. He didn't get on the owlbears. He ends up in a detention room full of weirdos. They fought in the cafeteria and he could not get on the tables! Two of them die... They became friends while solving a mystery. He got a motorcycle holding a demon within it. He bought gifts for his new friends and didn’t tell them he got them until many episodes later. He learned how to protect people, he became a team player. He became captain of the Owlbears. He mercy killed his dad…He told his mom to get her shit together. He helped kill a dragon and he was just a freshman. He went to his dad’s old stomping grounds and he lost his confidence after he got many pirates killed. He de-classed, and almost killed his motorcycle. He met his grandfather and became a dancer, connecting with his mother’s side of the family. He kissed a fire elemental and gained bardic powers. “Spring Break, I believe in you!” He helped his friends. He went to hell, his motorcycle is a hellhound. He fights on his father’s ship in hell and fights all of the people he helped kill in his freshman year. “You have no heart!” “Toxic Masculinity is dead. I dance Now!” He tried to claw his way through stone to Kristen when she was in danger in the temple of the Goddess of Mystery. He found Gorgug in the Nightmare King’s Forest and hugged him, a different greeting for the two. He knew they’d be okay because they were the bad kids. He helps seal the Night Yorb, almost getting run over numerous times. He was in love with a mirror, but his friends helped with that. His best friend is the Ball, but he’ll never admit it. He is living alone, and that sucks. He threw a ton of parties and had many study sessions. He did anything to not be alone. He slowly falls in love with another bard but he almost loses her a few times. He lept into a briefcase without a plan to save his friend. His mom is having another kid, and she might love this one more than she loved him. He saves the world again, and finally gets to see his dad. His dad says he would love him without his name being written anywhere, and would give up everything to spend another day with him. But his name is written places, because he is Fabian Aramais Seacaster, and he’s a part of the bad kids. 

It is 4 am (1 pm) in a warehouse in Santa Monica (dorm building, not in Santa Monica) and I am emotional about him

[biolumien]

hello!! I loved your rooftop smoke fic so much oh my goodness could I ask for literally anything hoshina I would love to read more of your works... It would make my day if hoshina fell first/if he was the one hopelessly in love but anything that is easier to write for you I would love to read

ALSO PLS FEEL FREE TO IGNORE THIS IF ITS NOT EXACTLY IT FOR U!!! TYSM IN ADVANCE

notes: bwahhhh omg… thank you for liking my first work…  i havent written hoshina before… but uh. i hope this is good. same reader-insert from last time for this one too!

hoshina falls first (or tries not to, because to love is to be known)

soshiro hoshina x gn!reader i turned it into kind of a character study, forgive me word count: 1103

let’s get this right off the bat, to clear any misconceptions. hoshina’s not a romantic. he doesn’t fall for anyone first. he’s built up the demeanor of a sly, wily little fox not because he wanted to, but because he had to. tread lightly around others, and they will never know what lies in your heart, the insecurities that bubble and eat at you alive. never let them know how you feel, because as soon as your inherent, weak-willed intent is shown, you’ll be devoured alive.

well.

that’s what hoshina tells himself, anyway. 

it’s what he has to remind himself of constantly when he sees you.

you’re not allowed, he reminds himself, to get under his skin. not in any mean way, not in the way where you play up his insecurities–except you do, don’t you? you don’t mean to, but he gets the impression that if he were conventionally stronger, more impressive, that he’d deserve your attention, the small smile that crosses your lips and lights up your eyes when you see him, the faint exhale of breath when you see him–he’d deserve that if he were better. if he were just simply better, he’d deserve it. he’d feel worthy of it.

hoshina’s not a romantic.

he signed up for a line of very dangerous, practically suicidal work knowing it might mean the death of him.

all to prove that he was worth something.

he’s not the ashes you throw away, he’s a brilliant ball of fire, can’t you see–but he needed to prove that he could shine alone, under his own merit. he didn’t need anyone, except he needed mina to get him into the third division anyway. 

he didn’t need you, except he kept making excuses to get close to you, and not even in any particular suave way. hoshina practically pines for your affections and attention, but the key thing about it is that he refuses, in a way that’s either very cute or insanely frustrating, to make it seem like he’s making the first move. fleeting kisses he shared with you, he never properly initiated himself–he’d stand there, make a big show of leaving, and you’d pulled him by the collar to kiss him. 

but at the very least you seem to be accommodating about it, in any case. you sometimes end up preparing him a cup of tea when you go on break, as if instinctually expecting him.

hoshina wonders if he’s pavlov’s dog in this case–drawn by you, trained to behave around you.

he doesn’t know how he feels about it.

“you keep coming here,” you say to him one day in the lab. at your desk is a wide variety of papers–notes on chemical formulas for bullets, the blueprints for one of mina’s new absurdly-large guns shoved haphazardly under a stack of notebooks, a coffee cup clasped between your hands, and you blow some of the fresh steam off. “i’m starting to think the captain’s going to find you slacking off.”

there’s a sardonic smile on your lips, but hoshina’s gotten better at reading you. you’re happy to see him–he can see it in the tiny way you fidget a little bit when he takes the spare coffee mug from your desk, finding it full of coffee already. does he feel his face softening, his drawn-up shoulders relaxing? no, surely not. he’s better than that. he won’t be influenced by you–and yet. and yet. 

“you have a lock on your door if you don’t want to be disturbed,” hoshina says simply, taking a sip of the coffee. black with a single spoonful of sugar in it, because as much as it was impressive to drink your coffee purely black, hoshina quite frankly couldn’t take it. and he’d built as much a complex around that, too, as if a simple coffee preference might define how worthy he is of love. respect. the works. he watches you, sees dark under-eyes from days of restless work and the writer’s bump on your middle finger, and feels his heart squeeze.

god, he hates it. does he? does he hate it? is he insecure about that? does he hate that he doesn’t hate it? does he hate that by pining for you, by forcing his way into your life, that he’s created the rumblings of his own downfall? no. the worst part of it all is that he can’t hate you. can’t hate the way you watch him, and he wonders if you’re watching him the same way he observes you–like a prey animal, almost, twitchy and nervous, in an attempt to grasp at feeble understanding. 

“if you keep coming back here, i’m going to assume you’re in love with me,” you say.

and you have no idea what those words do to him, really. you don’t know, because hoshina has learned to obscure most of his emotions, at the very least. 

so why does his face feel so hot?

“hm.”

he can’t even come up with a proper retort. you’re staring at him expectantly, as if waiting for the classic hoshina quip–a cackle or giggle, a casual slap on the table with a you wish! attached to it. but it doesn’t come. hoshina stands there, gagged for a moment–and suddenly his grip on his coffee cup feels a little weak.

“hoshina.”

he wishes the smile on your lips didn’t trigger some gut instinct of delight in him.

he’s better than this, damn it. he’s better than this.

your smile quirks up the corners of your cheeks, and there’s something like a shy flush across your skin. and–

“i wish i could take a picture of your face right now,” you say. “you look like you’re coming down with something.”

hoshina scoffs, the sound a little more high-pitched than he’d like for it to be.

“you wish,” he says. 

“so are you?” you press. “in love with me?”

hoshina stares at you–there’s a sudden tightness in your shoulders that wasn’t there before–you’re worried about his answer. and despite it all–his bravado, his hatred of the mere idea that he might rely on someone else–that he would ever need someone to know his heart, that he might be cowed and tamed like a dog–

he loves you.

he doesn’t want you to be worried about the surety of his answer.

“yeah,” he says. “i love you.” and when that sudden tightness in your body language disappears, he finally finds the strength to quip, “just don’t faint over me, alright?” 

and when you reach out to hit his shoulder, he grasps you by the wrist and pulls you in to kiss you.

[chelseacultt]

I Should Hate You

Katie McCabe x Reader

Summary: Katie is tasked with marking you.

Word Count: 1.1k words

You knew that playing Arsenal at the Emirates would be a struggle. The roaring celebratory crowds anytime an Arsenal player started a run. The equally enthusiastic boos every time you and your teammates so much as touched the ball. Nothing out of the ordinary. What you weren’t expecting, though, was your current position. 

“Sorry, darlin’,” says Arsenal’s Irish superstar as she untangles her body from yours. She stands and reaches both of her hands out for you, a small smile on her face. You might’ve appreciated the gesture if she hadn’t been on the offensive end of all the fouls you’ve encountered during the last 60 minutes. But she has been, so you don’t. Instead, you brush her off and pull yourself up before returning to your original position. 

“That’s, like, the 10th time she’s fouled me. I swear she has a personal vendetta against me or something,” you gesture around aimlessly as you take your place next to your best friend. 

“What has she done now?” Lauren James asks with a quiet laugh as she kneels down to retie her boots. 

“Aside from embarrassing me repeatedly for the past hour, she just tripped me. On purpose, probably.” You reach a hand down and help LJ up once she finishes tying her laces.

LJ lets out a laugh at your reply. “Right, well, that’s called ‘marking.’ Perhaps you’ve heard of it?” LJ squeezes your shoulder with a smirk before the referee blows her whistle, signaling for play to start back up. You share a laugh before attempting to clear your mind and get back into the game. Your attempt starts fruitfully, and you forget all thoughts of your complications with the Irish woman. 

You begin running up the wing as your teammates initiate an attack. “Heads up!” Erin yells as she sends the ball soaring toward you from the 18-yard box. Before you can even think about your next move, a sharp pain shoots through your ankle and shoulder, and you find yourself on the ground once again. Your teammates shout, and the crowd erupts in deafening boos as the referee shows your assailant a yellow and then points to the spot. 

“Oh, bullshit! I hardly touched her!” exclaims a voice you’ve grown all too accustomed to hearing today. 

“Want to explain why I’m on the ground then?” Nathalie helps you up as you glare at Katie. “I’m okay,” you assure Nathalie quickly, brushing off her questioning of your fitness and turning back toward the Ireland captain. 

“I don’t know, but I think VAR’s about to find out,” Katie states with a smirk (that you wish you could smack off her face) as she raises her eyebrows and gestures behind you before crossing her arms. You turn to see the referee walking to the penalty check screen. An intense suspense fills the stadium as everyone awaits the referee’s final decision. 

“Has to go our way. She completely clipped you. Studs up and everything,” speaks your captain, Millie Bright. She joins the swarm of fellow Chelsea players that has now formed around you, the Arsenal players having disbursed. 

After a thorough review of the penalty decision, the referee swiftly returns to the pitch. With a firm expression, she announces her reversal of the call, awarding the decision in favor of Arsenal. 

“Come on! That is shit!” Guro shouts as the referee cancels the previously awarded penalty. The thunderous cheers of the Arsenal fans drown out her shouts. The dramatics of the Norwegian winger do nothing to ease your spirits like they usually would. The game ends shortly after, ending in a 3-1 Arsenal win. 

You deflate, refraining from diplomatically shaking hands with the Arsenal players after the game. You’re standing off to the side watching a bantering Sam Kerr and Caitlin Foord when you sense a presence walking up behind you, followed by the feeling of two hands on your waist. “Think ya better fire your diving instructor,” the voice whispers in your ear before the accompanying hands pull you toward their chest. 

You pull away from the person completely and turn around to face the Irish woman who has recently been the absolute vain of your existence. “I know that you know that call was fucked,” you say sternly.

Katie mock gasps, raises her eyebrows, and drops her jaw. “You want us to what?” she jokes and feigns disbelief.

“Stop,” you reply with a roll of your eyes. She steps closer to you at this reply.

She laughs, “Ah, that’s not a word I hear too often. The eye roll is a different story.” You’re unsure if the innuendos were intentional. The way she’s not even trying to hide biting her lip answers this question for you, though. She smirks again at your lack of response, and you only kind of want to smack it off her face this time. You feel your face heat up as she keeps her eyes trained on yours. You nervously look away and busy yourself watching Niamh’s post-match interview, hoping that Katie will just walk away.

You keep your eyes on Niamh as you feel Katie step close to you again, despite something urging you to turn your head toward the other girl. Katie keeps her hands to herself as she leans close to whisper in your ear this time; her lips brush against your ear as she murmurs, “The more you try to ignore me, the more I want to be right here.” Your breath catches as her words linger in your ear. 

Katie pulls away after a tension-filled minute, her expression combining smug delight and amusement. She clearly enjoys the reaction she just pulled out of you. She steals a quick glance at your lips before looking back up at your eyes and holding out one of her hands. Your mind is still whirling from the earlier feeling of having her body so close to yours. You just stare at her outstretched hand. 

“See something you like?” she asks as she wiggles her fingers and turns her hand around and back. Your eyes jump back up to hers. “Yeah. Your yellow card earlier,” you choke out.

“Katie!” someone yells from behind you before Katie can reply. Probably one of her teammates. You can’t be bothered to check. Katie nods at the person before turning back to you. Her hand still outstretched, she reaches for one of yours and shakes it with no help from you.

“Until next time, love, yeah?” With an ever-present smirk, she finally removes her hand from yours and starts to walk away. “Unless ya don’t feel like waiting that long. Up to you,” she winks and joins her teammate (whose identity you’re still unsure of).

You’re pretty sure she just put the ball in your court.

a/n: first fic 👀 hopefully it's not terrible. I have mixed feelings about my first post being for an arsenal player but!!! advice is appreciated. thank you alright bye