#I just love these characters so much and this game

[kisses4themissus]

Just A Fool | M.R X Reader

a/n: happy mothers day y'all...why not celebrate mother's day with some cuteness...and angst.. pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Single Mom!Reader wc: 5.2k (idk I blinked and it was at 5k)

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Chatter and clicking of plates and cups filled the restaurant.

“So?” Robby began, glancing over to Lacey then to you beside her. “How did you not know she’s mine?” You asked, confused how he had assumed she was your niece. “I wasn’t thinking, does anyone else know?” he asked, glancing over to see Lacey already staring at him.

“I thought everyone knew i was a mom, lovebug stop staring at him.” You said, patting lacey’s hand on the table.

“He looks like the guy from josh’s game!” Lacey realized after staring intently at robby. “If having a kid turns you away then– what did you say?” you turned to lacey who sat next to you smiling at robby.

“He looks like the army guy!” She laughed, before turning to robby, sitting up on her knees. “My mommy likes his face hair.” She told Robby, who chuckled and titled his head. “Army guy?” Robby questioned.

“She thinks you look like a call of duty character.” You explained, chuckling to yourself. 

With a shocked expression, Robby stared at Lacey for a bit before turning to you. “She plays call of duty?” he asked, shocked as the little girl began to nod proudly.

You laughed and shook your head. “Her older cousins play but they let her get on the mic to talk shit.” You explained, looking over to see Lacey searching for her restaurant crayon. 

Robby nodded at the explanation. “I’ve dated a single mom before, she had a son…his name is jake.” Robby spoke softly as he watched you recognize the name.

“The boy who lost his girlfriend at pittfest?” You questioned, earning a slow nod from robby.

“He told me that he had gone to a therapist and said that it didn’t help but when he went to the hospital, he ran into someone..” Robby hinted, making you nod.

“I know the grief he’s going through, told him I wished Adamson was here so I could give him a proper apology.” you told robby, running your hand over the back of lovebug’s head 

There was a beat of silence before Robby asked.

“Was the person you lost her dad?” Robby motioned for lovebug who was too busy following the little maze on her place setting to listen to the adults.

You shook your head. “I wish he was her dad, he would’ve been a great one.” You sighed, looking down at the little girl. Robby saw the look of sadness and backed off the topic. 

Feeling eyes on her, Lacey looked up and saw both you and robby staring at her. “What?” She asked, looking a bit upset. “Got a problem?” She asked, raising her crayon to point at robby and you.

Robby chuckled and raised his hands in surrender. “I haven’t said anything.” 

Lacey sighed and nodded before flipping her place mat to face Robby, handing him a yellow crayon. She tapped the paper and pointed to her little tic tac toe board where she had placed a big X in the middle.

Glancing over you took in a deep breath and looked at robby with a smile. “Good luck, she’s good at those..” You sighed, picking up your drink.

Robby had begun to play with Lacey, at first letting her win but slowly grew to be competitive as she managed to trap him each time before running her red crayon over a line of hidden X’s. He leaned across the table and looked at Lacey in a mix of shock and awe.

“How do you keep doing that?” He laughed as Lacey shrugged before turning to you.

“How much longer, I'm hungry!” She dragged out her letters, flopping over on your shoulder.

You laughed and rubbed her head. “I’m not sure lovebug, we’re not the only people in here eating.” You explained, motioning towards the other booths and tables.

She sighed and placed her hands under her chin as she sat back down. She looked out the window before sighing once more, a bit more dramatic.

Both you and robby exchanged a look.

“Why does your family all call her that?” Robby asked, earning a laugh from you.

“Before I found out I was pregnant, I claimed I had a really terrible stomach bug, that’s why I was always tired, vomiting, and grumpy. So when I took a test and it was positive my brothers teased me by saying I had a lovebug in my stomach.” You explained.

Robby chuckled and nodded. “She’s more of a bedbug though!” You teased, tickling her sides. 

“Stop it mommy!” She laughed, wiggling from you.

You let her go and smiled as she sighed and moved back to her part of the booth, leaning over the table, Lacey looked at robby.

“Dr. robby. what’s your favorite color?” She asked, tapping the table with her pink painted nails. Robby chuckled and pretended to think.

“Blue.” He answered, earning a nod from lovebug.

“I like blue, my favorite is green.” She smiled at the doctor. 

“How was rat practice?” he asked, taking a sip of his drink, watching as Lacey perked up.

“Great, me and the older kids said on opening night we should do WWE rats, and– and I'd be the flying rat off the couch!” She explained, her eyes bright as she said her plan. You and Robby laughed.

“And the boys agreed?” You asked, laughing into your cup.

“Yep, Jason said to do it!” She nodded, waiting for you to finish your drink before asking for a sip.

Robby’s heart warmed as he watched you and Lacey across from him.

Lacey happily drank the lemonade, streaks of the drink on the sides of her mouth, she sighed and wiped it away with the back of her hand.

“Here honey.” Robby handed the little girl his napkin, smiling warmly as she nodded and wiped her face and arm. “Thanks dr. robby!” She grinned.

“You just call me robby.” His heart grew as you laughed.

“But you’re a doctor!” Lovebug tried to reason. “Like when mommy isn’t nice, I call her dr. mommy.” She explained before taking gulps of more lemonade.

“What’s your favorite food lacey?” Robby asked, making the little girl stop her gulps, she let out a deep gasp before answering.

“I like cheesy noodles!” She explained, making Robby tilt his head in confusion. 

“Fettuccine alfredo.” You clarified, lacey nodding in agreement. She turned to your purse and searched through it. Leaving you and robby to your own conversation.

 - - - - - - - -

Leaving the restaurant, you attempted to carry lacey who looked around the street, her sugar rush going crazy.

Robby noticed the look on your face as Lacey chattered and attempted to climb around you and quickly stepped in.

“C’mon monkey.” He took lacey and held her up. You smiled at the two. Lacey settled down a bit as Robby placed her on the ground before giving her a piggyback ride.

“Sure, your old man back won’t give out?” You teased, earning a laugh from robby; the fluttering in your stomach resumed. “I can’t guarantee it.” he joked, following as you walked to your car down the street.

As you passed an ice cream parlor, you took a deep breath and waited.

“Ooh, can we stop!” Lacey squealed, making you chuckle. Robby glanced at you with a grin. 

“It is nice to have dessert after dinner.” Robby teased, making you sighed before nodding at the pair, who cheered and walked inside. As the tired employee greets you three, staring at the ice cream flavors you turned to ask what everyone was getting only to see a sight that’d melt your heart.

Robby had moved Lacey to be in his arms, nodding as she pointed out different flavors she had liked the sound of. You felt red as robby’s free hand fell to your lower back and guided you to the counter.

“We’ll take a waffle cone with, what did you say you wanted honey?” Robby asked, looking at Lacey who sat comfortable in his arms.

“Cotton candy!” She squealed, making robby chuckle and nod at the employee before turning to you.

“What do you want?” he asked, not noticing how flustered you were. “Um- can i get a brownie sundae please.” You ordered, your face feeling overwhelmingly warm.

The employee nodded and typed something on the register screen. “And one fudge sundae.” Robby finished, removing his hand from your back to get his wallet out of his back pocket. 

“Hold this honey.” Robby told Lacey who nodded and held his leather wallet as he got out a twenty. At the same time you had pulled up your digital wallet on your phone.

You and robby looked at each other, robby looked almost offended as you attempted to pay. “Put that away, I'm treating you girls.” He playfully scolded you, making you nervously chuckle, nodding as you turned your phone off, letting him hand over the bill.

“Could you get the change for me, Lacey's shoe is falling off.” He asked, not waiting for a response, walking over to a booth and sat lacey down before helping the little girl with her Mary Jane shoes.

“Cute family.” The employee smiled at you, handing the change over.

You stuttered to get the words out. “Thanks..” You smiled and quickly walked over to the two.

After you and robby had shared your sundaes with each other, you three continued the way to your car.

As you unlocked the back door and loaded Lacey in, she sighed and whined. 

“What’s wrong babybug?” You asked, running a hand on her leg, trying to sooth her. “I don’t want dr. robby to leave!” She sighed, looking at Robby with puppy eyes. “Please come home with me and mommy!” She pleaded. 

You sighed at her. “Eat your ice cream before it melts some more!” You pointed to the waffle cone, she followed your finger and quickly jumped up to start eating it.

Both you and robby chuckled, softly shutting the door. You turned to robby and looked around the parking lot to see a few cars.

“Which is yours?” You asked, finally looking at him who smiled at you. “I walked.” He shrugged, watching as your eyes widened. “What?!” You scoffed at him. “And I thought carrying lovebug would’ve taken your back out..” You lightly laughed.

He nodded and motioned for you to get in the car. 

“You can’t be serious, I'm not gonna drive off and leave you to walk back to your apartment michael..” You said, noticing the flushed look on robby’s face. “What did you call me?” He asked, a sly grin growing.

You recalled your words and froze at the slip up. “Robby…I meant robby!” You attempted to cover. He nodded and grinned. “Nice cover slick.” 

“Are you getting in the passenger or what?” You asked, turning to the driver’s seat.

Robby laughed and nodded, opening the driver's door for you before running to the passenger side.

 - - - - - - - -

Somehow lacey had managed to convince you and robby to go back to your own apartment, robby agreed on staying till lovebug had passed out.

Unlocking the door, you sighed and smiled as Lacey ran into the living room and threw herself at the couch. Robby stayed at the doorway and admired the apartment, hanging plants in every corner of the rooms, a small kitchen and living room, two doors on each side of the apartment; easily you could tell which was Lacey's the colored construction paper and stickers stuck on the white door.

You kicked off your shoes and walked to your kitchen, opening the fridge to grab a cold water bottle, you turned to robby and offered one. “No thanks, nice place.” He nodded and looked around.

“Thank you.” You smiled, walking around the kitchen and poured the water into a bottle with cartoon characters before going to the couch and handing Lacey the plastic cup, “drink it for me please!” You smiled as the little girl began to chug it down.

She hopped onto the sofa, and patted the spot next to her for robby to sit, you sat on the opposite side of lacey and picked up the remote.

“Movie or bluey?” You asked lovebug who paused before looking at robby then back at you. “Movie since dr. Robby hasn't seen bluey!” She sighed, motioning for you to pick a movie out. 

Robby chuckled as she slouched down, and watched as you scrolled through movies, waiting for someone to pick.

“OH ALADDIN!” Lacey popped up from the couch and pointed at the screen. You hovered over the disney movie and turned to see Robby watching with a smile as Lacey bounced around, waiting.

He glanced at you and nodded.

It had barely gotten half way through when Lacey's sugar high hit, causing her to crash on the carpet in front of the hung tv. “She looks like a bug that’s been squished.” Robby chuckled, leaning over as you got up and prepared yourself to pick her up.

“Oh that’s because she’s tired from her long day, normally she’s fighting off demons.” You joked, you picked up the half full water bottle and placed it on the table to the side of the sofa.

Robby got up from the couch and carefully scooped up lovebug and looked at you. 

Too busy staring at robby’s broad shoulders you hadn’t noticed him gently shushing Lacey as she whined in her sleep, gently patting her back. Snapping back, you led robby to her room and watched as robby sat her down gently, you walked over and settled her in.

Robby smiled at Lacey's room; fairy lights were strung up across the room’s ceiling, painted stars on the walls, he looked back and blushed; It had felt oddly right to be domestic with you.

With a forehead kiss, you backed away from Lacey's room, turning on her fairy lights before leaving the room with robby.

Robby quietly shut her room door, noticing as you walked to your kitchen to clean up. 

He sighed and walked over to you. “I’ll be taking my leave now.” He smiled as you turned to him, two wine glasses in hand. “So soon?” You grinned, placing the glasses down on the island before turning to an upper cabinet and pulled out a bottle of wine.

Robby chuckled and sighed, looking down. “Alright, you got me.” He shook his head and walked further into the kitchen as you popped open the bottle. 

Robby took it gently from your hands and began pouring some into the glasses.

You scoffed at the amount. “Give me that, stop trying to be cheap with it!” You both laughed, taking the bottle from his hands.

He watched as you poured more wine into the glasses.

“Trying to wine and dine me?” He asked, a sly grin on his face as you froze in place.

“...possibly..” You looked at him quickly before taking a long sip of the wine. “I mean, I'm not opposed.” he told you before taking a drink. Feeling flushed, you watched as he drank more. “If you think you can stay quiet then absolutely..” You shrugged, placing down your glass.

There was a beat before both you and robby leaned into each other and let your lips touch, it was exciting, your stomach curled in as he reached to cup your face, bring you deeper into the kiss.

You pulled away first, smiling as he followed your lips. Placing your hands on his chest you motioned to your bedroom. Robby smiled and picked you up, cupping your bottom as he carried you to the bedroom, shutting the door and locking it behind you both.

 - - - - - - - -

Waking up to the smell of food was unusual for robby. He looked up from where he laid, all the memories of the night before rushed back, the late night chat with you.

He grinned and got up, putting on his clothes from the day before. Opening the door he saw you in the kitchen, humming to yourself as you made coffee and prepared something. Walking over he stopped at the kitchen island, smiled as you turned and grinned at him.

“Morning robby..” You said a bit shyly. He chuckled and walked over you, wrapping his arm around your waist. “Good morning, sleep well?” He asked, you closed your eyes and leaned your head against him. “Be quiet!” You giggled.

Robby had begun to help you make sandwiches, he raised an eyebrow as he placed another into a zip lock bag. “What are these for?” He asked, slightly confused.

You chuckled as you finished another sandwich. “Every other weekend, I get lacey all dressed up and cutesy and we go have a picnic.” You explained.

“That’s sweet.” Robby smiled.

As you both talked about your date, Lacey's door swung open to show a tired and crazy haired lacey. Her pajamas all messed up, one pant leg was hoisted up by her knee while the other was on the ground, her shirt was now backwards.

She walked out and rubbed her eyes as she yawned, she dragged over a stepping stool and hopped onto a stool nearby to sit down.

Robby quietly chuckled at the sight while you smiled and walked over to your crazy little girl. “You ready for our picnic?” You asked, earning a nod from her.

“Is dr. Robby coming with?” She asked, quietly. You looked over your shoulder and shrugged. You leaned in and shrugged at you. “I think you should ask him.” Your words made her light up.

“Do you want to go with us dr. robby?” Lacey asked, sitting up looking at robby with her puppy dog eyes once more.

He sighed and nodded. “I’d love to!” He grinned. With an answer lacey nodded and motioned for you to help her down.

Lacey ran off to your bathroom to brush her teeth and her hair. Leaving you and robby alone again.

Robby looked down at his clothes before nodding to himself, with a deep breath he walked over to you and leaned in. “I need to go back to my place, I need an outfit for the picnic with you lovely ladies.” He grinned as you got flustered and nodded, robby leaned in and kissed your cheek before leaving your apartment, out walked lacey, toothbrush in her mouth, her comb stuck in her hair as she looked around and shrugged at you. 

“Where’s dr. robby?” She mumbled, making you giggle before walking over and guided her back to the bathroom. “He went home to change, just like we need to change you into your dress.”

 - - - - - - - -

Robby had sent you a text about a park he knew that had good shade and a playground to take lacey to. You had agreed to meet there, packing up the picnic basket, a big enough blanket and getting lacey into the car; thankfully you had gotten there peacefully and quickly.

You carried the basket while Lacey insisted she carried the blanket, she walked through the grass, smiling as little kids ran past and towards the big playground. You had spotted robby across the park and walked with lacey over to him.

“Hi Michael!” Lacey yelled, making Robby turn and smile widely at you both.

You laughed and looked at lacey. “How do you know his name?” You asked, the little girl shrugged.

“After ice cream you called him michael.” She explained, running over as Robby knelt down to her height.

“Look at how pretty your dress is!” Robby smiled and spun her around, making her skirt fan out.

She laughed and sighed as he stopped and turned to you, his cheeks tinting pink.

You stood before him in a matching dress with lacey, a basket in hand and a warm smile on your face made his heart palpitate. “You look wonderful too!” He told you, taking the basket from your arm as lacey attempted to lay the blanket out.

“Thanks robby!” You smiled, helping lacey before sitting down on the blanket. Turning back to him, you chuckled as robby stood still, watching over you both.

“Come sit.” You patted the spot next you, robby nodded and with a groan sat down, placing the basket to the side. 

Lovebug began to buzz on her knees as kids ran past laughing, she turned to you.

Without having to ask you nodded at her and watched as she zoomed to the playground. “She could hardly wait.” Robby laughed, his arm going around your waist. You watched with a smile as Lacey joined a group of kids easily and began to play.

“I didn’t get to tell you but you look very nice as well.” You complimented, turning your head to robby who was looking over his shoulder. “I don’t look as good as you in that dress though.” He winked, making you both chuckle.

TIme had passed, you and robby had ended up cuddled together under the tree, watching as Lacey played with other kids, talking about anything and everything. 

You sighed and turned to look at robby, he had opened up about his struggle with adamson’s death then jake and his fallout. Your mouth frowned as you opened your mouth.

“Her dad’s name is nicholas callahan..” you started, earning a look from robby as you opened up. “He was my ballet partner, he and my ex boyfriend were best friends, everyone at the studio was surprised to find out that me and him had begun dating rather than me dating nick.” You looked down at your palms, not meeting robby’s gaze.

“When everything had happened, Nick comforted me...I was a fool, he took advantage  of my grief and convinced me to sleep with him; he said it’d take the weight off..” You sighed, feeling Robby's grip tightening on your waist in anger at Lacey's father.

“When I realized I was pregnant and went to tell him…he had left for Scotland, saying he didn’t want to be stuck in one place; I told my mom I wanted to quit ballet and the reason why.” You finally looked up to see Robby's eyes of remorse.

“That dick..” Robby muttered under his breath.

“He’s only seen lovebug a few times, she knows who he is, what he does for work; and how rarely she sees him.” You began to tear up. “My ex’s family knows about the whole thing, they adore lacey.” You chuckle, looking up to see robby looking distracted behind you. 

“She really likes you y’know.” You added, noticing the far off look in robby’s eyes but brushed it off.

He absentmindedly agreed, a pain struck your heart at his actions. 

You looked over to see lacey on the monkey bars, playing chicken with another little girl. As you turned back to robby, you saw him with his phone out, typing quickly.

“Is something wrong?” You asked, robby sighed and got up from the blanket. “I need to deal with something but you and Lacey have a good picnic.” He gave a peck on your lips before giving a quick smile before running to the other side of the park, leaving you alone on the gingham blanket.

Calling lacey over you had pulled out the sandwiches and ate as lacey talked your ear off about her new friends, part of your mind listened while the other half wondered why robby left urgently.

 - - - - - - - -

Going back to the hospital after spending the weekend with robby was lonely, no help with lacey’s questions of medical things she’d hear you both talking about.

As you scanned your badge into the ICU a mix of night shift and day shift all stood together around the nurses station, watching you with wide grins. You ignored them and placed your things down before going to log into a computer.

The night doctor stared at you before sighing and walking over to your desk. “So, how was your weekend?” She asked, smiling down at you.

You chuckled as you scrolled through files from the night before. “It was good, took lovebug to the park, got into a fight at my parents studio oh and made cookies!” You listed before turning to see the pile of workers.

“You forgot your date with dr. robby!” She giggled, making your face drop. 

“What? How did you know about that?” You asked, standing up, your face feeling warm. She quickly pulled out her phone and showed you a photo.

It was of you and robby at the coffee shop, both smiling at each other almost looking like a couple, it was clearly taken across the street.

“We met up for coffee…so what?” You asked bashfully, glancing back down at your new lockscreen. She laughed and leaned against the desks. “So what? You got your biggest hater to go on a date with you!” She laughed and began to clap at you.

You quickly stopped her. “Can we stop talking about my love life in front of all the patients, please?” You asked, gesturing to the open room doors.

She sighed and waved you off. “Most are intubated or probably want to hear something other than a depressing diagnosis.” She insisted; making you sigh.

“Fine, it was a date, he may have also stayed the weekend at my place..” You smirked shyly. 

A bunch of squeals and gasps came from the ICU workers. “Are you dating?” One of the respiratory nurses asked, grinning widely. You sighed and tilted your head to think. “Umm– I’m not too sure, he hasn’t officially said..” Your words made everyone stop and stare at you.

“And he stayed over?” The night doctor asked once more, making you nod.

Quickly the excitement disbursed. “I knew he was a player..” One of them sighed, shaking their head.

“What do you mean?” you asked, watching as the ICU workers began to pick off some post it notes off the fridge, groaning at each one.

“Do I have to tell her?” The nurse sighed, earning a nod from the others. She sighed and walked over to you and rubbed your arm as she sat you down.

“There’s rumors of dr. robby dating dr. Collins and for a while the rumor was dead but… lately all the other departments have been talking about them,” She sighed, your stomach tightened before releasing. 

“Apparently, one of the girls in CT saw them snuggled up together just this past weekend at the park by that one deli shop..” She finished, watching for your reaction.

The park…the park he had suggested for you, Lacey and him go for your picnic, the park where he kissed you at–.

You sighed and shook your head. 

“Their exes so what, maybe he needs closure..” You tried to excuse, your stomach began to sink as you thought about it some more. “I need to go get some fresh air..” You quickly got up from your chair and exited the ICU.

As you passed through the pitt, you were stopped by Langdon and McKay who both smiled widely at you. “Wanna place a bet?” Langdon asked, making you look at him confused.

“What kind?” You sighed, looking around for robby, but failed.

“Rumor has it, Robby's got a girlfriend, and I'd place a bet quickly if I were you..” Langdon smiled, you froze and shook your head. “No thanks, left my wallet upstairs anyways.., hey where’s robby?” You asked, turning to mckay who shrugged and glanced around the ED.

“No ones seen him since he got in.” Dana replied, sighing as she placed her hands on her hips.

You nodded and excused yourself to go to the ambulance bay, as you stepped outside by the bush you sighed and closed your eyes.

As the feeling of bile rising slowly washed away laughter caught your attention.

Opening your eyes you froze as you saw robby with Collins by her car; both laughing together. The bile quickly rose up as you saw the look of love in robby’s eyes.

Finally leaning over, preparing as the bile rose to your throat. Looking up for a final time to see robby rubbing over Collins stomach before cupping her face with a longing look.

The EMTs nearby jumped into action as you vomited into the bush. 

One held your hair back. “Are you alright?” She asked, you nodded and took a shakily breath before wiping your mouth. “Peachy..” You sighed, watching robby and collins off in their own world.

You stood up before walking back into the ED, rushing to the nearest bathroom. Thankfully being a single stall, you locked the door and bent over the sink.

Once again you had been taken as a fool; thinking a man would love you with no bad intention; was him being sweet to lacey just to get you to sleep with him faster.

Sighing, you glanced in the bathroom’s mirror and fixed the stray hairs as tears began to form. Silently crying as you perfected yourself.

Rolling back your shoulders you sighed and wiped away the tears. You stared at yourself before walking back out. As you exited the bathroom, Langdon laughed and shook you by your shoulders. “I won the bet, I knew him and Collins were together again!” He laughed.

You looked over to where the group of ED workers all cheered for the pair.

Among the workers, robby found your eyes, watching as they went from lovingly to sharp. He went to excuse himself but you had been faster as you slipped to the staff elevators with a blank expression.

 - - - - - - - -

The ICU had noticed the subtle shift of your personality; it was only seen on your worst days.

Everyone had quietly spoken about it. You had been snippy with any ED call, denying any bed space and allowing any OR patients the bed first. 

While on a cafeteria run, you walked through the ED, ignoring the gaze stuck on your back.

As you passed a curtained room, someone calling your name made you stop. You turned and opened the curtain and begged for your day to be over or to keel over and be bedridden.

“Nick..” You sighed, fixing the end of your jacket, feeling insecure around him; Nick the man your whole family hated, the man your heart still had affection for, Lacey's father.

He sighed at the sight of you.

“You still look pretty as always.” he smiled, admiring as you looked around the room. “What are you here for?” You asked, avoiding his gaze.

“Got trampled by some folks during a fire drill.” He explained, smirking at you. “Are you my doctor?” He smiled charmingly at you.

As you opened your mouth to speak the curtain was pulled back to show robby, collins and santos.

You saw robby and shut your mouth before turning to nick. “I got bumped upstairs, better patients and doctors.” You told him, using santos as a shield from robby walking closer to you. 

“These will be your doctors, dr. Collins, dr. santos and…dr. robinavitch.” You motioned to the three, seeing robby’s hurt expression from the corner of your eye.

“You still have my number right, let me see you and lovebug this weekend?” He asked, you turned and noticed robby’s furrowed brows at the patient.

“My apartment’s still the same.” You told Nick before walking to the elevators, leaving Robby to brew in his anger.

robby taglist!! @nerdgirljen @whatdoesntkillyoumakesyoustrange @evans-dejong @lovebuggyies @snowflames-world @whimsicalfungiforager @itschelseacisneros @kmc1989 @foolishseven @rhysology @delicatetrashtree @equallyshaw @qardasngan @fallout-girl219 @dantemorenatalie @18lkpeters @ohmystrawberrycheesecake @blackblueberries @swiftie-4-lifes-stuff @isla-finke-blog @baileythepenguin

[justjiongu]

Well, it all began with this roleplay group of mine that I've known since 2018.

I'd met them on a game by the name Tokyo Ghoul: Bloody Nights that was on Roblox. Specifically in a group that'd taken up the label of Anteiku. And at the time, I hadn't even know what roleplaying was.

Hell, I hadn't even known what roleplaying was. And I didn't have much interest in making friends since I'm pretty pessimistic when it comes to that sort of thing. Well... that and because of internet safety. But I did talk to people every now and then, as well as participate in group events whenever they were hosted. Because it was fun to interact with people every now-and-then.

One of the members noticed I was pretty closed off. And so they asked me if I knew what roleplaying was. I, of course, acted as if I knew all~ about roleplaying. Even though I didn't know a thing. To which he invited me to a tokyo ghoul roleplay server that a friend of his was hosting.

Now, while I didn't know much about roleplaying. I was an avid reader. And so I took to text roleplay pretty quickly. But, uh, well it didn't go very well. Anytime I spawned in, this person with a one eyed ghoul would sprout in the same location within their kakuja and then eat me.

I didn't really care too much about it. If anything, it was just a tad irritating to constantly make ocs and then have to throw them away.

So, after that server died, that friend invited me to another server.

One where he had a whole HOST of other friends who also liked roleplaying. The pessimist I was, I expected to eventually get kicked and thus, constantly told myself not to get attached.

I wouldn't talk with these people for long.

They aren't my friends.

No one would ever want to be friends with me.

Things like that. Just... thoughts that feel more like facts rather than me putting myself down. Hell, it didn't even hurt to say it. It genuinely just felt like the truth to me at the time.

Days passed, then weeks, months, then years.

Roleplays came and went—mostly of the anime variety—and I kept cycling through names.

Haku, Nexus, Ravnier, Zalgo, Ralshier, Rolshier, Ravnier (I got real sloppy with those ones,) Techno Virus, Raze, Feralia.

But nothing really stuck. Well, aside from the name that my friends still use for me which was the main part of my roblox username at the time. Which uh... can be really problematic without the context of why they use it. Which I shan't share here.

But yeah, nothing really took until this one naruto roleplay where I was allowed to use Earth Grudge Fear. A kinjutsu used by my favorite naruto character. And I loved both so much that I'd actually spent a lot of time looking at fanfics that included the kinjutsu.

After a time, I stopped using (EGF) and settled strictly on Jiongu.

Some time later, I guess I entered a point where I'd started questioning myself and who I was. And I came to the general consensus that I am Just a person.

Regardless of my gender, sex, ethnicity or anything like that. Because those facets of me don't matter as much as they used to. And so I wanted something to reflect that little realization of mine which I thought to add to the name. The issue is that the original name would've included the uh, main part of my roblox username that my friends prefer over the rest of it. Which would've been even more problematic.

So I instead went with my ever favorite naruto kinjutsu: Jiongu.

JustJiongu.

USERNAME LORE GIVE IT TO ME NOW YOU ALL

[lazy-ahh]

YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE GOES GOOD WITH GAMING?

pairing mark grayson x male reader

you’ve waited weeks for him to return from his mission, and now he’s here, warm and insistent against you, while your ranked match blares ignored on the screen. the worst part? you don't mind losing. despite the weeks of hard work. you want his lips on yours, his weight pressing you into the chair, the way he murmurs "i missed you" between kisses like it’s a confession. but you’ve clawed your way to this rank-up game, and you never quit—even when mark’s tongue is lapping up the precome leaking from your tip and your fingers are trembling on the keyboard.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro , @cynvia

mark’s been gone for weeks—some off-world mission, because apparently, the universe can’t handle itself without him. not that you’d admit it, but you missed him. more than you should. more than you’d ever let him know. you caught yourself staring at your window too often, half-expecting to see his silhouette against the glass, that infuriatingly patient tap-tap-tap before you’d let him in. as if he didn’t know you left the damn thing unlocked for him every night. typical.

everything reminded you of him, which was unacceptable. so you buried yourself in distractions—school, homework, then straight to your pc, booting up marvel rivals before you could even think about how quiet the room felt without him. the game had been his idea, of course. he’d all but shoved it at you, that stupid, eager grin on his face as he said, "just try it. if you hate it, i’ll never bring it up again. but you won’t." as if he hadn’t already known you’d love it.

at first, he was the one explaining everything—mechanics, lore, all that useless trivia he’d absorbed like some kind of nerd-shaped sponge. "see, magik’s portals work like this—" or "no, don’t engage yet, strange’s cooldown is—" annoying. endearing. you’d never admit either out loud. but then you got better. faster. soon, you were the one calling shots, dragging his sorry ass through ranked matches while he laughed in your ear, loud and unguarded, every time you pulled off some insane play. "holy shit—did you just parry that ult?! that’s illegal. you’re actually cracked. YOU JUST SAVED MY LIFE OH BABY I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU-"

he never complained, even when you outclassed him. just watched you with that quiet, proud look, like he’d somehow won just by getting you to play. sometimes, when you were both too tired for another match but not tired enough to log off, he’d let his character idle beside yours in the lobby, humming some off-key tune while you fiddled with skins. "you’re keeping me up," you’d grumble. "then kick me out," he’d shoot back, knowing full well you wouldn’t.

now, with him gone, solo queue was a nightmare. you tried comms, but it was a coin toss—either decent teammates or the kind of toxic dps mains who threw matches the second things went south. you added a few tolerable players, grinding comp at set times, but most of your matches were still solo. and you’d climbed. platinum, after weeks of stubborn, teeth-gritted effort. you could already picture mark’s reaction—that mix of irritation (probably pretend) and admiration he got whenever you outdid him. not that you’d gloat. much.

the real problem would be playing together once you hit diamond. he was still stuck in gold, and you refused to smurf. so for now, you were stuck in elo hell—platinum I to diamond III, then back down again, in a cycle that felt like the universe mocking you. but you’d figure it out. you always did. and when he got back, you’d make sure he knew exactly how much ground he had to cover to keep up.

you were half-heartedly proofreading your essay, the queue timer ticking away in the corner of your screen, when your hand moved before your brain could stop it—grabbing your phone, unlocking it, immediately swiping to mark’s messages like muscle memory. it was a bad habit at this point. every idle moment, every second of downtime, your fingers betrayed you, pulling up his chat like some pathetic reflex. and there they were, still staring back at you: his last messages from weeks ago, before comms cut out and space swallowed him whole.

your thumb hovered over the screen, tracing the timestamp like you could will it to change. then—there. that stupid, stupid one-liner he’d sent right before losing signal: ��try not to miss me too much!’ as if he hadn’t known exactly what he was doing. as if you weren’t already doing exactly that.

a quiet, involuntary laugh escaped you, sharp and fond all at once. "idiot," you muttered, but the word came out too soft, too warm, and you hated how easily he could drag that out of you. like you were some sappy romance protagonist instead of yourself. you tossed your phone back onto the desk, maybe a little harder than necessary, and forced your eyes back to your essay.

it didn’t work. the words blurred together, your focus already frayed, and you could feel the heat creeping up your neck. stupid. stupid markus sebastian grayson, turning you into this—some lovesick fool who couldn’t even function right without him around. worst of all? you knew he’d be grinning if he saw you like this. that smug, infuriating look he got when he realized he’d gotten under your skin.

you gritted your teeth and stabbed at your keyboard, queue be damned. you had an essay to finish. and not think about him.

and then—as if the universe itself was mocking you—tap-tap-tap.

your head snapped up so fast your neck protested. for a second, you wondered if you’d finally lost it, conjuring him up out of sheer, pathetic longing. but no. there he was, floating outside your window like some overgrown, dirt-streaked moth, his stupid grin brighter than the goddamn moon behind him.

mark looked wrecked—hair a mess, suit scuffed, one of his lenses cracked—but his smile was the same as always: crooked, too-wide, the kind that crinkled his eyes and made his stupid dimples pop. like he’d been waiting for this moment, like seeing you was the best part of his damn day.

and then—because you were a fool—you scrambled for the window like some desperate rom-com lead, fumbling with the latch like you hadn’t left it unlocked for him on purpose. your face burned. disgraceful.

mark’s expression flickered—confusion, then worry, his smile dropping as he darted forward. "baby? is everything alright?"

before you could even attempt to salvage your dignity, he was inside, his hands cradling your face like you were something fragile. his palms were rough, still warm from flight, thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he searched for injuries. "you okay? you look—" he paused, studying your flushed face, the way you were very pointedly not meeting his eyes. then, slowly, his lips twitched. "…oh."

oh. like he’d just figured you out. like he knew.

you wanted to die. "shut up," you muttered, but it lacked any real bite—not when your traitorous heart was pounding loud enough for both of you to hear.

mark’s grin softened, something unbearably fond in his eyes as he leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. "missed me that much, huh?"

"no," you lied, immediately.

he laughed, quiet and warm, and you hated how it made your chest ache. "liar."

and then—because he was the worst—he kissed your stupid, burning cheeks, one after the other, like he was savoring the way you squirmed. "it’s okay," he murmured, lips brushing your skin. "i missed you too."

you were never living this down.

and then—because he was the absolute worst—he kissed your stupid, burning cheeks, one after the other, lingering just to feel the way you tensed under his touch. "it’s okay," he murmured, lips brushing your skin like he was savoring every second of your embarrassment. "i missed you too."

you were never living this down.

just as you opened your mouth to snap something—anything—to wipe that smug look off his face, your pc chimed. the two of you turned in unison, and there it was, flashing bright and mocking on your screen: match found.

"shit," you hissed, scrambling back toward your desk. "i forgot to fucking cancel queue—"

mark barked out a laugh, loud and delighted. "no way. you’ve been grinding rivals this whole time?" he was already following you, leaning over your shoulder with that infuriating grin. "aw, baby. did you miss me or the game more?"

you elbowed him hard enough to make him oof, but he didn’t budge, just hooked his chin over your shoulder as you frantically clicked to lock in your character. "shut up. i was bored."

"uh-huh," he drawled, eyes scanning the screen. then—"holy shit." his fingers dug into your shoulders. "you’re one game from diamond?!"

you could feel the grin in his voice before you even saw it—that stupid, contagious excitement thrumming through him like a live wire. it was unbearable. worse, it was working, that familiar warmth pooling in your chest despite your best efforts to stomp it out. pathetic. since when did you let him sway you so easily?

"took you long enough to notice," you muttered, aiming for derision but landing somewhere dangerously close to fond. your chest tightened traitorously when he let out that low, impressed whistle—the same one he used when you pulled off something reckless in the field. like you’d impressed him.

"damn. guess i’ve gotta step up my game." his lips brushed your temple, lingering just long enough to make your fingers twitch on the keyboard. you jerked your shoulder up to shove him off, but he just laughed, the vibration of it rattling through your ribs. "carry me when i’m back in gold, yeah?"

"in your fucking dreams," you snarled, but the bite dissolved the second his laugh vibrated through your shoulder—warm and familiar and alive, filling up the hollow spaces his absence had carved into your room for weeks. your traitorous heartbeat steadied against your ribs, and you didn’t shove him off when his chin dug into your shoulder. pathetic.

you’d never admit it out loud—would rather chew glass than acknowledge how much you’d missed this—but his presence at your back, solid and warm and breathing, made your fingers stutter over the character select screen.

then mark, the insufferable bastard, decided words weren’t enough.

his lips found the hinge of your jaw first—soft, teasing—then the corner of your mouth when you tilted your head automatically. "distracting me on purpose?" you muttered, but the protest cracked when his teeth grazed your bottom lip.

"is it working?" he murmured against your mouth, all smugness, and you hated how easily your body betrayed you, leaning towards him with a scoff that turned into a sharp inhale when his tongue swept over yours.

his hands cradled your face like you were something precious, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as he kissed you slow and deep, the way he knew unraveled you. your fingers curled around his wrist—anchoring, needing—while your other hand slid up to cup his jaw.

when you finally pulled back to breathe (because unlike him, you were human, damn it), mark didn’t go far. his forehead stayed pressed to yours, lips swollen and curved into that stupid, satisfied smile, his breaths just as uneven as yours. his eyes were half-lidded, dark with something unbearably fond as they traced your face—your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the way your fingers still clung to him like you’d die if he let go.

"missed you," he whispered, like it was a secret.

you swallowed the i missed you more threatening to spill out. "shut up. i’m trying to rank up." you shoved at his chest, but your fingers curled into his suit instead of pushing him away—another pathetic betrayal your body refused to stop committing.

mark’s grin turned wicked, eyes flashing with that infuriating knowing look as he chased your lips before you could even think to turn back to the screen. his hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he kissed you again, deeper this time, hungrier. his tongue swept against yours, slow and teasing, then insistent when you made a noise embarrassingly close to a whimper.

you could feel his smirk against your mouth, the way his free hand gripped your thigh to pull you closer, his body pressing yours back into the chair until you were arching up into him without thought. his teeth caught your bottom lip, tugging just enough to make your stomach flip, and when you gasped, he took advantage, licking into your mouth like he was trying to memorize the taste of you.

your hands were everywhere—one fisted in his hair, the other clutching at his shoulder, nails digging in when he nipped at your tongue. his breath hitched, and the sound went straight to your already-fogged head. you could feel his heartbeat where your thumb brushed his pulse point, wild and alive, and it made something possessive curl in your chest.

then—

the sudden blare of the match-starting music ripped through the haze.

you jerked back, breath ragged, lips swollen and wet, just in time to see your character standing idle on-screen, the round start timer already counting down.

"fuck," you hissed through gritted teeth, fingers scrambling across the keyboard with desperate precision. mark blinked, dumbfounded as he processed your sudden panic before chuckling, that infuriatingly warm puff of air hitting your pulse point. "seriously?" his arms tightened around your shoulders in protest, nuzzling deeper into the crook of your neck like some overgrown cat refusing to move from its favorite spot.

"you're really playing right now?" he murmured, lips forming the words against your skin in a way that made your fingers stutter on the WASD keys. the amusement in his voice was unbearable, especially when you could feel his smirk pressed into your shoulder.

"one game away from diamond," you muttered, the words coming out flatter than you intended. the forced casualness did nothing to mask the frustrated and disappointed edge underneath. "if i leave now, i lose twenty fucking points."

mark sighed dramatically, the full weight of his disappointment radiating through his entire body before he finally—reluctantly—peeled himself away. the sudden absence of his warmth against your back felt criminal, and it took every ounce of your pitiful self-control not to spin your chair around and drag him back by his sinfully narrow waist. "fine, fine," he conceded, stretching with exaggerated resignation. "I'll go shower. but you owe me," he added, pausing just long enough to press one last kiss to the top of your head—chaste but loaded with promise—before sauntering toward the bathroom with that infuriatingly perfect sway to his hips.

you waited until the bathroom door clicked shut before allowing yourself one single, shaky exhale, your fingers finally steadying on the mouse as you looked at your character. the screen blurred for just a second before you violently blinked it back into focus. damn this stupid game. damn mark for being so distracting. and damn you most of all for caring about either.

the match loads in with that familiar chime, and suddenly the world narrows to the glow of your monitor—every neuron firing, every muscle coiled tight with precision. your fingers dance across the keyboard in practiced patterns, movements sharp and lethal despite the phantom heat still burning where mark's lips had been moments ago. focus. you need to focus.

the numbers don't lie—48% ult charge, one teammate already flaming in chat, the enemy hawkeye picking your supports like fucking target practice. your teeth grind together hard enough to hurt. stupid. you never should've filled as support. if you'd locked in iron fist from the start, this match would've been over already.

when the third round starts with another pathetic stagger, you snap. "swap with me," you speak into voice chat, voice steady and determined, already selecting iron fist before the whiny psylocke main can protest. the second the lock-in confirmation pings, your shoulders drop half an inch—better. this you can work with. this you can carry.

your crosshair finds the enemy healer's skull just as—

warm fingers skate up your inner thigh, slow and deliberate. mark's palm presses flush against your leg, his thumb tracing idle circles through the fabric of your sweats.

your entire body jerks so hard your knee slams into the desk—mark's suddenly between your legs like some fucking phantom, all sharp teeth and wicked gleam in his eyes as he looks up at you. "what the fuck," you snarl, but he just presses a single finger to his lips, the bastard, like this is some goddamn library and not your room.

"don't let me distract you," he murmurs, voice dripping with false innocence—and then his clever fingers are sliding your sweats down with agonizing slowness. you should shove him off. you should. but your hands stay frozen over the keyboard even as your pulse jackrabbits in your throat.

then his mouth—fuck—his mouth is on you, and the world narrows to the wet heat of his tongue dragging up your cock in one long, filthy lick, from base to tip, slow enough to make your thighs tremble. he lingers at the head, swirling the flat of his tongue over the slit just to hear the choked noise it punches from your throat. bastard.

he does it again—slower this time, savoring the way your hips jerk up, your fingers flexing like you can’t decide whether to shove him off or pull him closer. but mark just hums, amused, and pins you down with one broad hand splayed across your stomach, his grip firm enough to keep you in place but gentle enough that you could break free if you really wanted to. (you don’t.)

then he sinks down, taking you into his mouth inch by inch, his lips stretched tight around you, his tongue pressing up against the underside in a way that makes your vision blur. he pulls off just as slow, dragging his teeth just shy of too much, before diving back down like he’s got all the time in the world. like he wants to ruin you.

and the worst part? he’s watching you the whole time—eyes dark, lashes low, his gaze locked onto your face like he’s memorizing every twitch of your expression, every bitten-off curse. like your pleasure is the only thing that matters.

it’s unbearable.

your character dodges a stun on pure muscle memory because christ—the way mark hollows his cheeks, lips stretched obscenely around you, the wet slick sounds filling the room every time he pulls up just to plunge back down. his eyelashes flutter against flushed skin when your thighs instinctively squeeze around his head, and your mouse creaks under your death grip, sweat rolling down your temples as you choke back a moan that's been building in your throat for minutes.

"m-mark—" you hiss through clenched teeth, but he just hums around you, the vibration shooting straight to your spine. your foot kicks out involuntarily, knocking against a wall as he picks up the pace, lips red and slick with spit, watching you unravel above him. the match is chaos—your team screams comms in voice chat, frantic calls to focus the enemy tank, but all you hear is the filthy slide of his mouth and your own ragged breathing.

you're so fucked.

mark's tongue drags along the underside of your cock with practiced precision, swirling around the head before sinking down until your hips twitch against the chair. his throat works around you, warm and tight, and you barely register the kill feed flashing on-screen as your healer dies, leaving you alone on point with the overtime bar bleeding out. for one delirious second, you think there goes my rank-up game—but your hands move anyway, your body reacting on pure instinct as you somehow, somehow clutch the round.

"p-please—" the word tears out of you like a surrender, raw and desperate in a way that would’ve had you recoiling if your brain wasn’t reduced to static. your fingers twist in mark’s hair—pulling? pushing?—as your hips stutter helplessly. "mark, please, go—ah—go easy—" it’s pathetic, how your voice cracks on the last syllable, how your thighs tremble under his palms like you’re some inexperienced kid instead of—

mark listens, but not the way you wanted. he pulls off with a filthy, wet pop, your cock twitching against your stomach, flushed and glistening under the low light. the bastard has the audacity to grin, lips slick and swollen, breath coming in quick puffs against your overheated skin. "that good, huh?" he rasps, dragging his tongue along your length in one torturously slow stripe, savoring the way your abs clench violently.

you barely have time to gasp before he’s mouthing at the head, pressing wet, open kisses along the vein underneath—teasing, always teasing—his breath scorching where you’re oversensitive and throbbing. then—just as the enemy team respawns, just as your team’s frantic pings flood the screen—he swallows you back down in one smooth slide, deep, until his nose brushes your stomach and he stays, throat working around you in slow, deliberate pulses.

your hips jerk instinctively, chasing friction, but mark just digs his fingers into your thighs, pinning you to the chair with infuriating ease. the contrast is maddening—the game’s frantic audio in your headphones, your team’s character voice lines of getting hurt, the enemy pushing point—while mark’s mouth is nothing but molten stillness, his tongue pressing just there every time you twitch. sweat drips down your temple. your knuckles whiten on the mouse. you can’t tell if the choked noise that escapes you is from the hawkeye headshot that just wiped your backline or the way mark breathes through his nose, content to let you unravel in his grip.

his eyes flick up to yours through his lashes—dark, amused, the bastard—lips stretched obscenely around you as he watches your screen with detached interest. like this is just another game to him. like he knows you’re two seconds from either throwing the match or throwing your dignity out the window to fuck into his throat.

somehow—through the haze of sweat and mark’s fucking teeth grazing you on an upstroke, through the way your thighs tremble around his shoulders—you clutch. iron fist’s ult meter hits 100% with a deafening chime. your muscles coil, every fiber taut with tension, and mark’s grip tightens on your hips in warning, nails biting into skin. but you launch yourself into the backline anyway, the kill feed exploding in a burst of color. triple. quad. your team’s hysterical screaming in voice chat drowns out the wet, obscene sound of mark finally moving, sucking you down to the root just as "victory" flashes across the screen in blinding gold.

your team continues to scream—cheering, cracking jokes, their earlier hostility forgotten in the adrenaline rush. you would've thought this was a beautiful moment if you weren't currently being sucked off by your boyfriend. you mutter a breathless "gg" into the mic, lips twitching at the chorus of "holy shit, w fucking iron fist!" before you’re cutting them off with a sharp click of your mouse. the headset hits the desk with a clatter.

you don’t even get to savor the win. mark’s hands are on your hips now, dragging you to the edge of the chair with a roughness that makes your stomach flip. his nose presses into your stomach, lips sealed tight as he swallows around you with a filthy, shuddering groan—like he’s been waiting this whole fucking match to ruin you properly. your back arches off the chair, fingers tangling in his hair hard enough to hurt, but he just moans around you, eyes fluttering shut like this is exactly where he wants to be. like he’d happily die here, between your thighs.

"f-fuck—mark—" you whimper, but it’s too late. he’s not stopping this time.

his tongue drags along the underside of your cock in a slow, filthy stripe before he takes you deep again, one hand sliding up your chest to thumb at your nipple through your shirt. the dual sensation punches a ragged noise from your throat, your hips jerking involuntarily. mark hums in approval, the vibration rippling through you like a live wire. his free hand slips under your thigh, hiking your leg over his shoulder to press you even closer, until you can feel every hitched breath he takes through your skin.

he pulls off just to mouth at the head, tongue circling the slit with agonizing precision, and you whine, high and desperate. his eyes flick up to yours, dark with something unbearably fond even as his lips glisten with spit. "love you like this," he murmurs against your skin, voice wrecked. "all mine. fucking perfect. i missed you so much baby, you don't even know the half of it—"

then he’s sinking down again, taking you until his throat flutters around the tip, and you’re gone—fingers tightening in his hair as you spill down his throat with a broken cry. mark swallows every drop, lips staying locked around you until you’re twitching from oversensitivity, until your grip on his hair loosens to cradle his face instead.

when he finally pulls away, his lips are swollen, his cheeks flushed. he rests his forehead against your thigh, breathing hard, and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh—soft, reverent. like you’re something sacred.

"welcome home," you mutter, voice hoarse.

mark's grin is worth every goddamn second of the wait—all bright-eyed and breathless, his lips kiss-swollen from where you'd bitten them. you're still coming down from your high, chest heaving, fingers trembling against the keyboard where you'd gripped it too tight. you should shove him off. you would shove him off. any second now.

"baby," mark murmurs, and fuck, the way your stupid traitorous heart lurches at that tone—all soft and reverent, like you're something precious instead of a mess of sweat and frustration and arousal. his fingers trail down your stomach, feather-light, and you hate how your body arches into the touch before your brain catches up.

"don't—" you start, but it comes out hoarse, ruined. mark just smiles, that dorky, infuriating smile that makes your chest ache, and presses a kiss to your shoulder while his other hand navigates your mouse with infuriating ease.

"c'mon, diamond boy," he teases, clicking queue with one hand while the other slips lower, fingers tracing your rim in slow, maddening circles. "wouldn't want you to lose your hard-earned rank, would we?"

you choke on air when his fingers slide past your lips—calloused and tasting faintly of salt—pressing down on your tongue with deliberate pressure. "suck," mark murmurs, and your traitorous mouth obeys before your pride can protest, hollowing your cheeks as you work his fingers wet. his breath hitches when your teeth graze his knuckles, his other hand fisting his own cock through his pants at the sight of you—lips stretched, lashes fluttering, teary-eyed, that fucked-out daze already clouding your expression just from this.

then those slick fingers are dragging down your stomach, pushing past your thighs, and—"fuck—" your hips jerk when one curls inside you, crooking just right. "you're insufferable," you spit, but it loses all bite when your hands scramble uselessly between the desk and his wrist, torn between shoving him away and grinding down onto his hand.

mark laughs against your pulse point, the vibration rattling through your ribs as he adds a second finger with that same unbearable patience, stretching you slow. "keep playing," he breathes into your ear, twisting his wrist to drag a broken noise from your throat. "i wanna see you try to focus when i'm fucking you full of my cock."

the match loads in with that obnoxiously bright chime, but the sound barely registers—not when mark’s fingers crook just right, scissoring deep and dragging a broken moan from your throat. your vision whites out for a second, hips jerking uselessly against his hand as he adds a third finger, stretching you with that infuriating, practiced ease.

"fuck, you’re tight," mark murmurs against the shell of your ear, his free hand sliding up to palm your chest, thumb brushing over your nipple. "when was the last time you touched yourself, baby?"

you choke on a gasp when his fingers press deeper, hitting that spot that makes your thighs tremble. "few—fuck—few weeks ago," you manage, voice ragged. "didn’t— didn’t do shit. couldn’t—"

his teeth graze your earlobe, sharp and teasing. "couldn’t what?"

you hate how breathless you sound. "couldn’t reach deep enough. wasn’t—hnng—wasn’t you."

mark groans, low and filthy, his fingers stilling inside you just to feel how you clench around them. "christ, you’re gonna kill me," he mutters, but he’s grinning when he nips at your jaw. "lucky for you, i’m real good at reaching where you need me, huh?"

you scoff, the immersion breaking for a second as you look at him unimpressed, "did you really just say that—ahh—" and then he curls his fingers just so, and you’re pretty sure the entire universe short-circuits.

mark withdraws his fingers with a slick sound, and the emptiness is agony. your head drops forward, teary eyes staring down at yourself—flushed, trembling, needy—and you hate how pathetic you look. how wrecked he’s made you already. his cock twitches in his pants at the sight, and the groan he lets out is filthy. "look at you," he murmurs, voice rough. "all desperate for me."

before you can snap something defensive, his hands are on your hips, hauling you up with that stupid superhuman strength of his. you stumble, legs shaky, but he steadies you effortlessly—then drops into your chair, pulling you down onto his lap in one smooth motion. the heat of him sears through his clothes, and you feel him, hard and eager beneath his boxers, the fabric damp where he’s been leaking for you.

"there," mark murmurs, his breath hot against your ear as his hands slide up your thighs, pushing your legs apart wider. you can hear the smirk in his voice when he adds, "better view, yeah?" his fingers make quick work of his own pants, shoving them down just enough to free his cock—already hard and leaking against your back. "still gotta pick, baby," he teases, nipping at your earlobe when you hesitate on the character select screen. "unless you wanna dodge? though, i don't think you can dodge in this game."

you scoff, locking in iron fist with more force than necessary. "shut up."

the game loads in a blur of colors and sound, but all you can focus on is mark's teeth sinking into your shoulder as you guide your character toward the point. his hands roam your chest, pinching and teasing until you're squirming in your seat. "f-focus on the fucking game," you mutter, even as your hips push back against him.

mark just laughs, low and dark, before licking a stripe up your neck. "giving yourself pep-talk? how cute."

"i swear to god, markus sebastian grayson, if you say one more cheesy thing i will throw you out of my room."

when the enemy team finally pushes in, bullets and abilities flying across your screen, mark chooses that exact moment to shove two fingers past your lips. "suck," he orders, and you do—tongue swirling around his digits, moaning when he curls them just right. he pulls them out slick with your spit, trailing them down your stomach before reaching between your legs.

"f-fuck—" you choke out as his spit-slick fingers circle your rim, teasing before one pushes in to the second knuckle. your back arches off the chair, thighs spreading wider despite the game still raging onscreen. "mark—!"

"that’s it," he growls, his free hand groping your chest as he works you open again—first one finger, then two, scissoring slow until you’re panting, your neglected cock dripping onto your stomach. his own erection grinds against your lower back, leaking precome onto your skin. "still gonna carry, or am i too distracting?" he taunts, curling his fingers just so until you see white.

you barely register the starlord that flanks your team from behind you, killing your punisher as mark withdraws his fingers, leaving you clenching around nothing. "look at you," he murmurs, lining up his cock—thick and flushed and yours—against your hole. "already fucking yourself back on my fingers like you’re starving for it." he pushes in slow, just the tip at first, and the stretch burns so good your toes curl. "shit—" he groans, hips stuttering when you clench around him. "still so tight, even after i loosened you up. fucking perfect."

he pulls out until just the head remains, those shallow, teasing thrusts making your nails scrape against the keyboard. "more—" you demand, voice cracking, but mark just laughs—bright and smug—keeping the pace agonizingly slow.

"beg prettier," he murmurs against your ear, and you’re going to fucking murder him later.

the thought evaporates when your character dies on screen, a sharp "fuck!" tearing from your throat as your head thuds back against his shoulder. mark’s chuckle vibrates through your spine. "distracted, baby?"

"shut the fuck up," you groan, but your hips twitch back against him instinctively, seeking friction. his hands tighten around your waist, holding you still.

"uh-uh. you wanted to play." his teeth graze your earlobe. "so play."

then your character respawns, and you barely have time to register the 30 SECONDS OF OVERTIME warning before mark slams up into you in one brutal thrust, filling you completely. your back arches as you come with a choked gasp, vision whiting out around the edges—

"that’s it, sweetheart," mark praises, biting down on your shoulder hard enough to bruise before soothing it with his tongue. his arms cage you against the desk, his cock twitching inside you as he murmurs nonsense into your skin: "so good for me, taking me so well—fuck, look at you."

you’re trembling, oversensitive, but the game’s still going. with a shaky breath, you force your hands back onto the keyboard, your movements sluggish as you try to focus past the haze. mark hums approvingly, resting his chin on your shoulder to watch the screen, his cock still buried deep. every slight shift of his hips—every lazy pulse inside you—has your fingers stuttering on the keys.

"c'mon, baby," mark murmurs against your jaw, his breath warm as his fingers trail higher up your thigh. "carry us." his other hand slips around your waist, pulling you back flush against his chest—solid and familiar and home after weeks of empty space and staticky comms. "missed watching you play," he admits quietly, lips brushing your earlobe. "missed watching you win."

you're going to strangle him. after you win.

his nose nuzzles into the space behind your ear, inhaling deeply like he's memorizing your scent. "god, missed you," he continues, voice going rough around the edges. "mission was hell without your voice in my ear. kept thinking about how you'd chew me out for taking stupid risks." a soft laugh vibrates through his chest and into yours. "missed that too."

your fingers hesitate on the keyboard for half a second before you tilt your head just enough to press a grudging kiss to his jaw—the closest part of him you can reach without twisting your entire body. "i missed you too, beloved," you mutter, the endearment slipping out despite yourself. "but right now, i'm trying to focus."

mark makes a wounded noise at the nickname, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. "say that again," he demands against your throat, lips dragging wet and insistent over your pulse. "c’mon, sweetheart, just once more—" his hips shift minutely, and fuck, you feel it—the way his cock twitches inside you, already so hard it makes your breath stutter. your grip on the mouse tightens reflexively, knuckles going white around it as you try to focus on the flickering screen instead of the heat of him buried to the hilt.

"later," you rasp, securing a kill and kicking away through sheer muscle memory. "if you can fucking behave."

mark groans like you’ve wounded him, but he mostly stills—except for the way his fingers keep tracing absent, possessive circles low on your stomach, except for the way his lips keep finding patches of skin to suck bruises into between ragged breaths. "better win fast then," he murmurs, teeth scraping your shoulder in warning. "cause i missed all of you, [y/n]."

your eyes flick down instinctively—and there, just below your navel, the faintest swell where the tip of him presses up inside you. the sight punches a shaky noise from your throat, your body clenching around him before you can stop yourself.

"f-fuck—" mark’s whimper is wrecked, his forehead dropping heavily between your shoulder blades as his hips jerk involuntarily. you can feel him throbbing, the slick drag of him as he accidentally pushes deeper. "christ, you’re gonna kill me," he grits out, fingers trembling where they splay across your stomach like he’s mapping the bulge.

you swallow hard, throat bobbing against the thick press of him inside you, forcing your attention back to the screen even as your thighs tremble on top of mark's. "then fucking stop moving," you snap, but your voice fractures halfway through, turning the command into something embarrassingly close to a plea. the kill feed lights up with your username in bold strokes but the victory does nothing to hide how wrecked you already sound, how your walls flutter around him when he chuckles darkly against your neck.

"you're doing so good, baby," mark murmurs, lips dragging along your pulse point as his hands slide up your chest. his thumbs brush over your nipples through your shirt, teasing just enough to make you jolt but not enough to truly distract—not when you're finally gaining ground, finally winning. "carrying this match and taking me so well..."

you bite back a whimper, fingers flying across the keyboard as you cap the point. eight minutes. eight agonizing minutes of mark's cock seated deep inside you, his hips making tiny, barely-there rolls whenever you did something particularly impressive—a well-timed ult, a perfect parry—until you were dripping around him, your sweat-slicked back sticking to his chest. you don't even remember when you (or mark) had taken your shirt off. the start had been a disaster, but after forcing that useless jeff to swap, after taking matters into your own hands, your team steamrolled through the enemy like they were nothing. just like you knew they would.

the victory screen flashes gold, the triumphant DING of your rank-up swallowed whole by the filthy, wet sound of mark’s cock driving into you—deep, too deep, the angle so brutal your vision whites out for a second. his hands lock around your waist, flipping you before you can even process it, and suddenly you’re straddling him, knees digging into your chair as he yanks you down onto him with a groan that rattles your bones.

"fuck, look at you," mark gasps, voice shredded. his fingers scramble over your hips, your stomach, your chest—like he can’t decide where to touch first, like he’s starving for all of you at once. his hips snap up, relentless, the thick drag of him punching a broken noise from your throat. "all mine. perfect for me."

his praise is molten, spilling between feverish kisses, between the slick clash of tongues as he licks into your mouth. you can taste your name on his lips, sweet and desperate. his cock brushes that spot inside you with every thrust, just right, and your back arches on instinct, nails biting into his shoulders hard enough to bruise.

"knew you could do it," he growls, hands fisting in your hair to tilt your head back, exposing your throat to his teeth. "knew you’d win. my brilliant, beautiful boy—"

his voice cracks on the last word, and god, the way he’s looking at you—eyes black with want, lips swollen from kissing you stupid, his usual awkward confidence unraveled into something raw and needy—it’s worse than the pleasure, worse than the way his cock stretches you open. because this? this is mark grayson coming apart beneath you, for you, his breath coming in ragged bursts as his grip on your hips turns possessive.

you’re both a wreck—skin gleaming with sweat, your thighs trembling where they bracket his hips, the filthy, wet sound of him sliding into you over and over until your vision whites out at the edges. his grip on your hips is brutal, thumbs pressing into the bone hard enough to bruise, holding you down as he grinds up with a snap of his hips that punches a sob from your throat. "mark—!" his name comes out broken, slurred between panting breaths, and he’s no better, his voice ragged as he chokes out, "that’s it, baby, take it—fuck, just like that—" like he’s unraveling, like he’s worshipping you.

you cut him off with a sharp roll of your hips, stealing the groan right from his lips as you take control, your fingers tangling in his hair to yank his head back. "shut up," you mutter, but it’s fond, "you’re so fucking loud." his hands scramble at your back, blunt nails dragging red lines down your skin as you ride him with ruthless precision, chasing your own pleasure just as much as his, the whimpers and groans coming from his lips not stopping. the chair creaks dangerously beneath you, your forgotten headset hitting the floor with a clatter, but you don’t care—not when mark’s thrusts are growing erratic, his rhythm faltering under your relentless pace.

you lean in, teeth scraping his cheekbone before you kiss him, messy and biting, swallowing his gasp as you nip at his bottom lip. "gonna come already?" you taunt, voice rough, "thought you had more stamina than that."

mark growls—low and feral, the sound rumbling through your chest like thunder—and suddenly the world tilts. his arm snakes around your waist, hauling you back flush against him with a brutal yank that makes your gaming chair screech in protest. your chest meets his, sweat-slick and heaving, as he manhandles you like you weigh nothing.

one hand fists in your hair, wrenching your head back to expose your throat while the other grabs both your wrists, pinning them behind you with crushing ease. "stay still," he groans against your ear, voice ragged with want, and then he’s moving—snapping his hips up hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs, each thrust deeper, meaner, the angle punching ragged moans from your throat.

you’re burning. tears streak down your face, hot and humiliating, but you can’t—fuck, you can’t stop the way your body arches into him, the way your thighs tremble as he fucks up into you with punishing precision. his hand gropes your ass, fingers digging into flesh as he holds you at that perfect, devastating angle, every drag of his cock lighting your nerves on fire.

"that’s it," mark pants, his breath scalding against your shoulder. "take it. fucking take it." his pace turns brutal, the wet slap of skin on skin drowning out the game’s distant lobby music. you don’t care. can’t care. not when he’s ruining you like this, not when every snap of his hips has you sobbing, oversensitive and wrecked but needing more—

"fuck, look at you," he pants against your ear, voice wrecked as he watches his cock disappear into you with every snap of his hips. "taking me so fucking good—god, you feel perfect—" his words dissolve into a whimper when you clench around him, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he fucks into you with desperate, uneven thrusts.

you can feel him everywhere—the heat of his chest pressed against yours, the bite of his fingers on your wrists, the relentless stretch as he bottoms out again and again. "gonna—fuck—" mark's warning is barely coherent, his whole body tensing as he pulses inside you, his release hot and overwhelming. but he doesn't stop—can't stop, not when you're still clenching around him, not when your own orgasm is so close.

his hand slips between you, calloused fingers wrapping around your neglected cock, and it only takes three rough strokes before you're coming with a broken cry, painting both your stomachs in streaks of white. mark groans as you tighten around him, his hips stuttering through the aftershocks as he mouths at your shoulder, your neck, anywhere he can reach—like he still can't get enough even now.

mark gathers you against his chest as you both come down, his lips pressing shaky, open-mouthed kisses to whatever skin he can reach—the sweat-damp curve of your temple, the corner of your swollen mouth, the frantic rabbit-quick jump of your pulse. "so good," he mumbles against your throat, voice wrecked and raw. "so fucking perfect for me. missed you—god, missed you so much, baby." his arms lock around you like steel bands, all that stupid superhuman strength trembling with the effort of not crushing you.

you feel him shift—his softening cock dragging slow and filthy out of you, the obscene wet sound making your thighs twitch—then pause. his breath hitches when he sees it: his cum starting to leak from your used hole, glistening in the dim light. a rough noise tears from his throat, and before you can even process it, he's pushing back in with one sharp roll of his hips, the thick head of his cock scooping up the spill and stuffing it back inside you where it belongs. "mine," he growls, biting at your shoulder as he seats himself to the hilt again, making sure not a single drop escapes.

you should shove him off. should snap something scathing about his disgusting possessiveness, his pathetic need to keep you full of him. but your traitorous hands fist in his hair instead, dragging his mouth to yours in a biting kiss as your legs lock around his hips. his groan vibrates through your chest when you arch up, taking him deeper—like you couldn't bear to let him pull away either. pathetic. you're both so fucking pathetic.

so. this was supposed to be a quick little 3-4k one-shot. supposed to be. but then reader and mark decided to have feelings (gross) and now here we are at 7.7k words of competitive gaming, unresolved tension, and mark being absolutely insufferable (affectionate). whoops? anyway, hope you enjoyed this self-indulgent mess as much as i enjoyed writing it—because honestly, i have no regrets.

[fic-girlie]

Hidden in plain sight

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x f!reader Summary: While promoting Gladiator II, you and Pedro keep your three-year relationship low-key, playing it cool in public. But behind closed doors—especially after the London premiere—passion and love overflow in a night full of intensity, comfort, and quiet devotion. Warnings: fluff, established relationship, explicit smut (18+), soft dom!pedro, unprotected sex, p in v sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, language, dirty talk A/N: Thank you @kellyxo1 for the idea, again!

The lighting in the suite is too bright, as always. Cameras click. Laptops clack. The endless rhythm of press junket days, where the same questions are folded into new words and passed across the table like shiny candy. You’re seated on the left, angled ever so slightly toward Pedro, as always. There’s something in that small tilt of your body that comforts him—you don’t say it, but he knows it.

You’ve learned how to make each other laugh without a single word.

Today, he’s in a white button up. Curls tamed but not conquered. He’s got that easy charm dialed up, eyes soft, smile sharp, the kind of presence that people describe as “effortless” even though you know exactly how much effort he puts into staying calm in rooms like this.

The interviewer is young and clearly nervous. She fumbles through a question about character dynamics, some half-formed thought about power and vulnerability, and Pedro saves her with a warm chuckle and that gentle charisma that got him cast in this movie—and half the world’s hearts.

“She throws me to the ground in our second scene together,” he says, tossing a thumb in your direction. His voice is light, playful, but the way he glances at you—quick, fond, proud—makes your stomach flip.

You smirk. “I did not throw you to the ground. I gave you a gentle push. With force.”

He lets out a theatrical sigh. “And people wonder why I have trust issues.”

The room laughs. It’s easy. You make it look easy, the way your rhythms lock into each other like pieces that were always meant to fit. It’s not fake. It’s just not everything.

Because when you two share a look like that—one filled with years of stolen mornings, late-night scripts read aloud from opposite ends of a hotel bed, silent dinners when the exhaustion was too much to speak—it’s too much to explain to strangers. So you don’t. You let them see what you want them to see: a friendship that feels alive and quick and perfectly believable. And if someone catches a flicker of something more behind your eyes, that’s their business.

“I will say this,” Pedro continues, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees in that way he does when he’s feeling a little too exposed. “This one—” he gestures toward you, “—she’s dangerous with a sword and devastating with sarcasm. The duality is… genuinely terrifying.”

You laugh again, but the heat crawling up your neck is real. The way he praises you—quietly, gently, under the guise of teasing—always hits harder than it should.

“Better terrifying than boring,” you say smoothly, nudging your knee against his under the table. A soft pressure, fleeting. But he doesn’t shift away.

Your names trend together on social media almost daily now, not because of PDA or big declarations, but because people love trying to decode you. The inside jokes. The way he watches you when you speak, like he’s still discovering new things in your voice. How he sometimes interrupts interviews just to say, “Wait, tell the story about Morocco—the falcon one,” even when it has nothing to do with the question asked.

It’s a game you never meant to play, but now you both know the rules. Keep it fun. Keep it light. Let the world believe they’re watching something spark in real time.

Only you and Pedro know it’s been burning steady for years.

——

The boat had been someone’s spontaneous idea—Fred, probably, or maybe Pedro himself. A rare day off during the Italy shoot, too precious to waste indoors. You’d all been running on fumes, eyelids sunburned, costumes stiff with dust and leather, so the idea of turquoise water and cold drinks had seemed almost holy.

The boat was bigger than you’d expected, but still cozy enough that no one could pretend not to hear the conversations happening across it. A small crew kept to their business, steering and serving and politely pretending not to notice when someone made a bad joke or took too long choosing a playlist.

You wore a black one-piece under an airy linen cover-up. Pedro’s sunglasses had slid low on his nose. He hadn’t stopped smiling since his bare feet hit the deck.

From the start, it was easy. Laughter. Music. Connie swaying to Stevie Nicks with a drink in each hand. Joseph sitting on the edge of the deck, feet dangling above the sea, narrating dramatic fake scenes from the “Gladiator III: Vacation in Capri” as if the camera crew were rolling.

And then there was Pedro.

He hadn’t left your side since you boarded.

His hand brushed the small of your back when you walked. His fingers threaded with yours when you sat. It wasn’t deliberate—at least not for show. It was just who he was around you when no one was watching. Or when he forgot they were.

You found a spot in the bow, a patch of smooth wood catching full sunlight, and settled there with a drink in one hand and Pedro’s thigh beneath the other. He stretched out beside you, skin warm, shirt half-unbuttoned and clinging to the lines of his chest from a splash he'd taken earlier when someone dared him to jump in.

At one point, you laid your head on his shoulder, and his arm slipped around your waist like it belonged there. Like it always had.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this relaxed,” you murmured, watching the sunlight scatter diamonds across the waves.

“I’m not,” he said, glancing at you with a lazy smile. “I’m just pretending for your sake.”

“Convincing performance.”

“That’s what the Oscar’s for,” he whispered, and kissed your hair.

It wasn’t until the boat stilled—anchor dropped in some hidden cove off the coast—that the warmth lulled you fully under. Pedro’s heartbeat thudded steady beneath your cheek, and the ocean hummed a lullaby. You meant to just rest your eyes, just for a moment.

But you drifted. The boat rocked softly. The breeze lifted the hem of your cover-up. And you melted into him like he was home.

You woke to hushed voices and a shutter click that made Pedro flinch. One of the crew members quickly apologized, but Pedro just waved it off and tightened his arm around you.

“Sorry,” he whispered when he felt you stir. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

His voice was rough with sleep, lips warm against your temple. He hadn’t moved at all. You realized that—your body had molded to his side, your legs tangled lightly with his, one of your hands curled into the hem of his shirt. He could’ve shifted. He could’ve gotten up. But he hadn’t.

He’d stayed.

“They’re talking about us,” you murmured, voice groggy, heart quickened more from the closeness than the attention.

“They always do,” he said softly. Then, after a beat: “Let ’em.”

You stayed curled against him until the sun dipped low and someone called for group photos. Pedro helped you up, pressed a hand to the small of your back like he was still afraid you’d topple over.

Later that night, back at the little hotel, the whole group gathered around a fire pit in the courtyard. Someone opened wine. Someone else dragged a guitar out of nowhere. You sat beside Pedro again, this time in a dry T-shirt of his and shorts that didn’t quite reach your knees, and the others pretended not to notice how much of the evening you spent tucked into the crook of his arm.

Connie snapped a picture—your legs over Pedro’s lap, his hand on your bare knee, the soft flicker of firelight between you. You didn’t see it until weeks later, posted with the caption “Sunset stunners. Starring: these two, in love and annoying about it.”

The clip started circulating almost immediately. Cast members retelling the boat story on talk shows. Paul grumbling playfully, “I thought I was the romantic lead, but apparently Pedro and his girl stole the whole damn film.” Joseph teasing Pedro about turning to mush the second you fell asleep on him. Connie calling you “the most disgustingly smitten couple on water.”

And every time it came up in interviews, Pedro would laugh. Blush, maybe. Pretend to wave it off. But he never denied a thing.

Not once.

And neither did you.

——

A few months later you were standing in the hotel room, shared with Pedro, getting ready for the London premiere. Of course, you’ve been to red carpets and premieres before, but this one was different. It wasn’t only your movie or his, it was a movie where you both played big roles.

You were looking at yourself in the mirror. You were wearing a black dress with some red details which clung to you perfectly, highlighting the curves of your body. You choose a natural makeup, not wanting to push it too far.

You were just fixing the straps of the dress when Pedro came out of the bathroom. And when you saw him in the mirror you had to take a double look.

The black shirt clung to him like it was made just for him, the V-neck showing the slight dip of his solid chest, making you go feral. The little red pins on his shoulder emphasizing him, but just enough to not stole the spotlight, and the black slacks he was wearing completely tailored for him. His hair was styled perfectly, some silver strands showing and shining in their place.

You turned around and looked at him with admiration in your eyes. He looked like one of those old statues, like a God, who fell from heaven.

“You good?” you ask quietly.

He nods, but it’s a lie.

You know that look. You’ve seen it at events before—press junkets, big tables—when the crowd is too loud and the stakes too high. When the world expects Pedro Pascal to be Pedro Pascal, and some part of him just wants to disappear.

“I will be,” he says.

You walk to him in heels that click softly on marble, stopping close enough to smell the cedar in his cologne and the faint trace of peppermint on his breath.

Your fingers brush the edge of his lapel, straightening it, pretending it needs fixing. “You look ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously handsome or ridiculously nervous?”

You raise an eyebrow.

He huffs a soft laugh through his nose and looks down. “I hate these things.”

“I know.”

“You make them better.”

Your hand slides gently down his chest, lingering over his sternum, right where his heartbeat stutters beneath your touch.

“I’ll be close the whole time.”

He meets your gaze, and the rawness there almost undoes you.

You kiss his cheek. Not the kind that means I love you. The kind that says I know who you are when no one’s looking.

——

The car ride over is quiet.

The city glows wet and golden through the tinted windows — streetlamps like fireflies, crowds already pressing against barricades. You sit with your hands in your lap, and his are resting just inches from yours on the seat, his knee occasionally brushing yours when the car turns.

You don’t speak.

He closes his eyes once, briefly. You reach over without thinking and slide your pinkie around his, just for a second. He exhales.

The carpet is blinding.

A river of flashing lights and calling voices, umbrellas twirling in the crowd, velvet ropes separating fans from stars. You feel the heat of cameras, the electric buzz of names being shouted, the press’s hunger for something worth posting.

You both step out, not quite together.

Pedro takes a moment to square his shoulders. He looks calm again — perfectly composed — but you feel the shift.

You walk a few paces behind, giving the illusion of independence. Of separation. It's part of the game.

Until the angle shifts.

Until the interviewer from Vanity Fair — the one who asked that question last time — waves you both over.

You settle beside him. Close, but not touching.

He glances down at you, voice low enough that it’s lost in the noise: “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t.”

The interview starts light. Jokes. Banter. You’re both good at that. Your timing fits like puzzle pieces — his sarcasm soft and dry, yours sharp and playful. You toss each other softballs, grin at the same questions, answer with that carefully rehearsed mix of camaraderie and mystery.

But then the question shifts.

“What was the most surprising part of working together on this film?”

Pedro looks at you.

Really looks.

And the pause stretches longer than it should.

You meet his gaze and offer the smallest, almost imperceptible nod.

He speaks slowly. Thoughtfully. “I think… the way she carried so much of the weight. Quietly. The emotion she brings—it changes the air around her. I think I forgot how to breathe sometimes.”

The interviewer laughs lightly, not sure if he’s joking.

But he’s not.

You don’t say anything. Just smile—soft, knowing—and step slightly closer. Not enough to raise eyebrows. But enough for him to feel your arm brush his as you walk away from the mic.

He doesn’t let the distance open up again.

You glide through the rest of the carpet like two satellites orbiting the same star. Separate in appearance, but always pulled toward each other when no one’s looking.

When the cameras shift.

When the lights tilt.

And later—when the lights go down inside the theater and the film begins—his fingers find yours in the dark. Silently. Desperately.

You hold on tight.

Because this is how you survive the noise.

Together.

——

You don't even remember crossing the room. One moment he's teasing you about the shirt, about the way you were staring, and the next you’re walking backward as he follows, one slow step at a time, his eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing that exists. The soft click of the door sealing shut behind him feels like it closes off the entire world.

The low hum of London still murmurs outside the tall windows, but in here, it’s all dark wood and soft light and the quiet intensity in his gaze.

Pedro doesn't say another word at first. He just watches you with that look—the one that makes your breath catch low in your throat. The one that says he’s seen every part of you and still wants more.

He stands there in that damn shirt, collar open, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. The contrast of the crimson buttons against the dark fabric makes him look sharper somehow, more dangerous. Like he’s the one pulling every invisible string in the room.

And maybe he is.

You shift slightly under the weight of his silence, heat rising behind your ribs. You open your mouth to say something—maybe a joke, maybe nothing at all—but you never get the chance.

He steps in.

His hand curves around your jaw with practiced ease, not rough, not rushed—just firm. Sure. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, slow and deliberate.

"You have any idea how hard it was not to touch you all night?” he murmurs, voice low, thick with restraint. “You, standing next to me in that dress, smiling like that…"

You try to respond, but he’s already kissing you, slow and hot, the kind that robs the breath right out of your lungs. His mouth moves with intent, just enough pressure to make your head spin. He doesn't waste time—his hands are already sliding down your back, finding the zipper, and when he breaks the kiss it’s only to speak against your skin.

“You wore that for me, didn’t you?” he asks, lips brushing your throat. “Knowing I couldn’t do a damn thing about it until we got here.”

Your answer is a shaky inhale. You feel his smirk as he pulls the zipper down, one slow inch at a time.

“I should make you beg for it,” he says, still behind you now, his breath against your neck. “After the way you looked at me all night. Like you knew what you were doing.”

You tilt your head, letting him push the dress from your shoulders. It pools at your feet like a sigh.

“I did know,” you whisper.

Pedro chuckles, low and dark, and his hands are on your hips now—pulling you back against him. You can feel him already, hard through his trousers, and the sound that slips from your mouth makes him groan.

“Then don’t pretend you’re not going to let me have you exactly how I want,” he mutters, one hand skimming up your stomach, the other sliding between your thighs.

His fingers slip beneath the fabric of your underwear, teasing you with maddening patience. Just the graze of his knuckles, slow and purposeful, as if he has all night to unmake you.

"Already wet," he murmurs against the shell of your ear, his voice thick and approving. "You like it when I talk to you like that, don’t you?"

You nod, but he doesn’t let that slide.

"Use your words, cariño," he says, his tone darkening just enough to make you shiver. "You know I want to hear it."

"Yes," you breathe, barely holding on. "I like it… I like when you talk to me like that."

He rewards your honesty with a low growl and two fingers slipping through your slick heat—slow, precise, stroking you just enough to make your knees go weak. His free arm wraps around your waist to steady you, holding you flush to his chest like he’s claiming you in the quiet of this high-rise hotel room.

"You’ve been driving me fucking crazy for weeks," he mutters. "These press tours, pretending we’re just friends. Watching you laugh with the others like you don’t crawl into my bed every night."

His words hit you low in your belly, the possessiveness curling into arousal as his fingers begin to move in earnest—deep, steady, controlled. You moan into the air, unable to keep quiet, and that only spurs him on. He bites gently at your shoulder, his grip tightening just enough to make you gasp.

"Think they know?" he asks against your skin. "Think they’d still see you as sweet if they knew how you sound when I make you come?"

The words drag another helpless sound from your lips. You press back against him, needing more—needing all of him—but he still doesn’t give it. Not yet.

Instead, he pulls his hand away, and before you can beg, he turns you around and kisses you hard—mouth greedy, tongue insistent, as if he's trying to taste every sound you’ve ever made for him.

"Bed," he says roughly, guiding you backward without looking. His hands are already unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it off like it’s nothing, like he isn’t the best-looking man you’ve ever seen with his skin flushed and jaw tense and eyes dark.

You’re still in nothing but your underwear when the backs of your knees hit the mattress. Pedro follows you down, catching your mouth again before trailing kisses to your collarbone, your chest, licking a slow path between your breasts as he peels the last scrap of fabric from your body.

“You’re mine tonight,” he says, looking up at you from between your thighs with something between reverence and hunger. “And I’m going to make sure you feel it tomorrow when we’re pretending again.”

Then his mouth is on you.

Hot, unrelenting, skilled. He devours you like a man starved, moaning softly against you, like your taste is better than anything the night could offer. His tongue flicks, circles, dives—he doesn’t give you time to adjust, doesn’t give you space to breathe. Just pleasure, building faster than you can process.

You cry out, your hands tangling in his hair, your thighs tightening around his head—but he doesn’t let up. Not until you’re trembling, choking on your own gasps, your orgasm crashing over you with brutal, blinding force.

Only then does he rise, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, gaze locked on you like he’s not nearly done.

“You still with me?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod, dazed, still panting.

“Good,” he says, undoing his belt with one smooth pull. “Because I’m not finished with you yet.”

You watch him strip the rest of the way, every inch of him revealed in the golden lamplight. His chest rising and falling with quiet tension, his hands still clenched like he’s barely holding himself back.

You sit up slightly on your elbows, eyes trailing over the defined lines of his torso, the heat that rolls off him. His gaze finds yours as he comes forward, slow and purposeful.

“You gonna lay there lookin’ at me like that,” he says lowly, “or are you gonna get up on your knees like a good girl?”

The words hit you like a spark to dry kindling.

You move, heart pounding, turning onto your hands and knees in the center of the bed as he comes behind you. You feel the mattress dip under his weight, feel his warm palm drag slowly down your back, his fingers tracing your spine with almost-too-gentle pressure. Then his hand grips your hip firmly, pulling you back, adjusting your angle like he’s positioning you exactly how he wants.

“You know how beautiful you look like this?” he murmurs, voice ragged. “How good you are for me?”

You start to say something—anything—but then you feel him against you, thick and hard, sliding along your folds without pushing in. Teasing.

You whimper, push back slightly, silently begging, and he chuckles behind you.

“Desperate now?” he says, leaning over your back, his mouth warm against your ear. “I warned you, didn’t I? You show up in that dress and expect me to behave?”

And then—finally—he pushes into you.

A long, slow thrust that fills you completely, taking his time so you feel every inch. Your hands twist in the sheets, a broken sound tumbling from your lips.

“Fuck,” Pedro groans behind you, grip tightening on your hips. “You’re perfect—always so fuckin’ tight for me.”

He pulls out just enough to make you ache before thrusting in again—deeper this time, more force behind it. His pace builds gradually, controlled but hungry, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the quiet room.

You arch your back, moaning with every stroke, and his hand slides up to the back of your neck, holding you gently but firmly in place. Not hurting—just anchoring you. Letting you know exactly who’s in control.

"You take me so well," he growls, hips snapping harder now. “Every fuckin’ time.”

His other hand slides down between your legs, his fingers finding your clit with practiced ease, circling in rhythm with his thrusts. It’s too much and not enough, your body strung tight between the way he’s fucking you and the words spilling from his mouth—rough, reverent, utterly unfiltered.

You can feel your second orgasm rising sharp and fast, your body clenching around him, and he knows. He always knows.

“That’s it,” he murmurs through gritted teeth. “Come for me. Let me feel you.”

You do—helpless and loud and shaking apart beneath him as he rides you through it, his rhythm never faltering. He fucks you through the waves until your legs give out and your arms collapse beneath you, face pressing into the mattress.

Pedro slows just enough to pull you back upright, wrapping one arm around your waist and dragging your body against his chest as he thrusts up into you from behind, now deeper, rougher, needier.

His mouth finds your neck again, his voice broken with restraint.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants. “Fuck, I’m so close—wanna come inside you, baby.”

You nod, gasping, grinding back against him.

“Please,” you manage. “Want it… want you to—”

And with a deep, guttural groan, Pedro buries himself to the hilt, his whole body tightening as he comes hard inside you, holding you there, letting you feel every pulsing wave of it.

You both collapse onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and sweat and breathless sounds. His arms curl around you as you come down, his hand sliding up your stomach, holding you close like the world outside the room doesn’t exist.

You can still feel the press of him inside you, warm and full, and the slow kiss he plants behind your ear is a silent promise—one that says this isn’t just about lust or need.

It’s him. It's you. It’s always been more than what anyone sees at a premiere.

[rcmclachlan]

I don't know if the comparison between Eddie and Tommy is intentional on the writers part, but they're turning me into an Eddie hater and I don't really want that, but it's so fucking hard to like Eddie at this point, even taking grief and regression due to grief into account. I mean am i supposed to like this fella who doesn't apologize or do what he promised and belittles his best friend? When I see that there's a Tommy who genuinely likes Buck and treats him well and risks his life and/or career willingly for his ex-colleagues and his ex-boyfriend? The contrast just highlights how much Eddie isn't bringing to the table in their friendship and it sucks so much because I do think he's an interesting character and I want to like him

PQ, I'ma be honest about something I've forced myself to downplay ever since I started watching 9-1-1 last May: I don't like Eddie, full stop. Never have. I just never clicked with the character, and the more I saw of him, the less I liked. But he's loved by so many in this fandom that I felt it prudent to keep my mouth shut about how much I don't like him—mostly because I was trying to make friends 'round these parts. Also, I'm not here to yuck on anyone's yum.

I really feel for the people who have loved this character, or at least loved the potential of what he could be, for years—and who have given him a lot more grace than I think he deserves—just to have him turn around and be the worst version of his worst self when faced with a supposed loved one's pain. To be deliberately cruel and weaponize the love Buck has for his son against him. To have the audacity to call Buck selfish for grieving his surrogate father's death.

Eddie's been a terrible friend to Buck from the get go and their relationship has always been incredibly one-sided, but this episode really exposed the imbalance. Like, Eddie may be Buck's best friend, but Buck sure isn't Eddie's.

And nothing made it clearer than 8x17's opening scene when Hen asks Eddie when he's going to tell Buck he's going back to El Paso. And Eddie asks Hen to do it. Actually, he doesn't ask Hen—he says something like, "I was hoping his acting captain would do it." Eddie wants Buck to hear the news in a professional capacity so he doesn't have to deal with Buck getting emotional about it. What kind of fuckass prick would do that to a "friend"?

I said to @screamlet a couple of days ago that if Eddie had posted any of this in r/amitheasshole, there'd be 6.1k comments all saying variations of "YTA, your friend should've left your ass in the dust ages ago, and you should probably live alone in the woods until you get that bitch-ass attitude under control."

Meanwhile, Tommy—who is operating under the impression that Buck feels nothing for him and that he's good for no-strings sex and nothing else—gets one (1) phone call from the man after weeks of radio silence and happily steals another helicopter so Buck can commit some light domestic terrorism.

Like, Tommy, my lad, you have nothing to worry about. There's no competition in this game. Eddie's name isn't even on the roster.

[tofics]

Umh??

This was so incredibly good?!

First of all - I love your writing style. It's right on the spot.

Joel blinked once. Twice. His mouth opened, then shut again, then opened just enough for a noise—somewhere between a scoff and an incredulous laugh—to escape. He shifted in his chair, pushing back just slightly, like he needed to physically distance himself from what he was hearing.

Played out like a movie scene right in my head. I live for that shit! Gobbled all of it right up!

Secondly - the way you write Joel.

I heard game!Joel in my head through all of it. Perfectly capturing how a character talks is one of the main things that makes fanfiction work for me - and you pulled it off without a hitch.

“This ain’t a normal conversation to be havin’ over dinner, Tommy.” “Do you?” Joel snapped, finally looking at his brother again, his voice sharper now. “Because I gotta tell ya, it really don’t seem like you do.” “Are you outta your goddamn mind?!”

Just some of my favorite examples. Especially for the last one I heard Troy Baker's voice ringing through my head. Hnnng. I can't express how much I love that.

And then the whole idea on its own. So wrong, so filthy, but oh my, so so very delicious. Of course Joel would agree to it. He's a family man at his core, right? How could he be the one that's standing in the way of his baby brother getting what he already has? He can't have that weighing on his conscience, no sir.

It's a good plan, a solid plan, sure, but Joel's not quite the guy to just... get down and dirty on a clinical level, is he now. It's just not how he operates. Joel's a giving guy through and through, so much that the idea of his baby brother not "taking care of his wife" doesn't just shock him, but upsets him too. Fuuuck did I love that detail about him!

“I, uh…” You cleared your throat, suddenly shy. “It’s said that women are more likely to get pregnant if, um… if they orgasm during or… or before, I think.” Joel stilled for half a second before a slow smirk pulled at his lips. “You doubt me so much?” The teasing edge in his voice—the cockiness—made some of the tension in your chest loosen. You let out a breathless laugh, your body unwinding slightly from the tension earlier. “I just… I’ve never…” Something shifted in his face. The smirk faltered just a little. “You’re sayin’ my baby brother doesn’t take care of his own wife?” “No!” you said quickly, your hand flexing against his chest defensively. “He does, it’s just… I can’t finish just from penetration. Most women can’t, actually.” “I know, darlin’.”

Giggling and kicking my feet!!! Hehehe.

“You’re tellin’ me,” he rasped, voice dripping in absolute filth and sin, “my pissy little brother never made you come on his cock before?” The shame of it—the filthy, shameless truth of it—slammed into you just as hard as the pleasure. Your breath came in short, stilted gasps, your thighs twitching, heat curling low and tight, twisting like a wire pulled too taut. You gripped his biceps hard where they caged you in, your nails digging into his skin. “I–” “Never felt the way you’re squeezin’ the life outta me right now, baby?” His voice dipped lower, rougher, as his thumb pressed, rubbing slow and tight. “Never had you like this? Drippin’ and desperate? Makin’ the prettiest fuckin’ sounds I’ve ever heard?”

🥲🫠😩 How are we supposed to root for Tommy when all of THIS is going on. Poor poor reader!

Christ almighty. This was so fucking hot. Amazing. 10/10.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 4.5 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 6.5

Summary: You and Tommy had been trying for a baby for years. When a trip to the gyno answers questions you didn’t even know to ask, your husband enlists the help of his one and only brother.

|| smut MDNI 18+, pinv, no outbreak, talk of infertility, not cheating but def not exactly kosher, baby makin', breeding kink, dirty talk, size kink, boundaries being crossed || notes: forgive me father for I have sinned. this is filthy. but also thinking about a part 2. kinda sorta maybe inspired by some crazy reddit stories. you'd be surprised how many there are like this LOL

You knew this was a crazy idea. Batshit crazy, actually. You were aware. But maybe, just maybe, if you spun it the right way, if you framed it with enough love and logic, it wouldn’t seem so absurd.

See, the thing is, you and Tommy had been trying for a baby for years. Trying and, well, failing. It wasn’t until your last visit to the OB-GYN that a simple question—"Has Tommy ever been tested?"—sent everything spiraling. A few weeks of waiting. A single piece of paper. An answer you never expected. It wasn’t you. It was him.

Not that you’d ever blame him. You loved him too much. But no matter how many old wives’ tricks you tried—holding your legs up after he emptied himself into you, orgasms before and after, cinnamon and honey in your morning tea—nothing could change the fact that no amount of effort would make it stick.

Which brings you to now. Sat at the kitchen table in your quaint, cozy home with Joel across from you, a few glasses of wine deep. His expression was somewhere between exhausted and mildly entertained from whatever dumb story Tommy had been telling. You’d needed a glass yourself, just to steady your nerves.

And then Tommy popped the question.

Joel blinked once. Twice. His mouth opened, then shut again, then opened just enough for a noise—somewhere between a scoff and an incredulous laugh—to escape. He shifted in his chair, pushing back just slightly, like he needed to physically distance himself from what he was hearing.

“You…” he started, then stopped. Shook his head. “You want me to—?”

He didn’t even finish the sentence. Just motioned vaguely, like the words were so ridiculous they refused to come out of his mouth.

Tommy sighed, his grip firm around your hand while the other wrapped around your shoulders. “Yeah.”

Joel exhaled sharply, eyes darting between the two of you, like maybe, just maybe, this was a joke. That you'd all start laughing and point at him with a big 'got ya!'. His lips parted slightly, his forehead creased.

“You’re serious.”

“We wouldn’t ask anyone else,” Tommy said, voice steady.

Joel let out a breathy laugh, hollow and disbelieving. He dragged a hand down his face before pressing his palms against the table, fingers splaying out like he needed to brace himself.

“This ain’t a normal conversation to be havin’ over dinner, Tommy.”

“We know.”

“Do you?” Joel snapped, finally looking at his brother again, his voice sharper now. “Because I gotta tell ya, it really don’t seem like you do.”

“This ain’t easy for either of us,” Tommy said, his voice steady despite the tension winding between the three of you. “But we wouldn’t ask anyone else. We want to keep it in the family, so…the baby would still be related to me.”

Joel’s jaw tensed. His fingers gripped the stem of his wine glass like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. 

He looked over in your direction, but not directly at you, just at the table. At your hand in Tommy’s.

“And you’re…okay with this?” His voice was different now. Lower. Measured, like he was afraid of the answer.

You nodded. “We’ve talked about it. A lot. Ever since the results came back, we’ve been weighing options, and this—” You hesitated, swallowing, trying to gauge if he was even absorbing a single word. “It makes the most sense. More than adopting. More than a stranger. It keeps things in the family.”

Joel’s jaw clenched, his ears tinged pink. He still wasn’t looking at you.

Not until you said his name. Soft. Careful.

His eyes flicked to yours, just for a second. Just long enough for you to see everything—the disbelief, the sheer what the fuck of it all—before he dropped his gaze again, shaking his head.

“You don’t have to decide now,” you said gently, exhaling softly. “Just… take some time to think about it.”

Joel didn’t respond.

A few minutes later, he left—no joke, no small talk of the next Sunday night football game could cut through the weight pressing down on the room. Just a stiff nod, a muttered see ya, and the quiet sound of the door closing behind him.

The following Sunday, it almost felt like the conversation had never happened.

The three of you sat at the sports bar, watching the Cowboys play on the massive screens, the air thick with the scent of beer and fried food. Tommy was his usual self, shouting at the refs, leaning into Joel’s shoulder every time the score tipped in their favor. Joel, on the other hand, was harder to read. He was relaxed enough, beer in hand, his usual dry remarks slipping out here and there, but there was something quieter beneath it all—something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

Not one mention of a baby. Not a single word about what you’d asked of him.

And maybe that was his answer.

When your husband got up, throwing out the excuse of takin’ a leak, the energy between you and Joel shifted. Not in a way you could name—just… thicker. More noticeable.

He sat a seat away, the empty barstool between you like a buffer neither of you had the nerve to close.

You tried to let it roll off your shoulders, but as you sat there, your mind wandered. What if Joel had said yes? What if it worked? Would the baby have his dark eyes, that heavy, thoughtful brow? Would they get that serious little crease between their eyes when they were thinking? His thick hair, his strong hands?

Tommy would still be their father. That was what mattered. That was the whole point. But the idea of seeing traces of Joel—subtle things, the shape of a nose, the curve of a smile…

The thought sent a strange, unfamiliar feeling curling in your chest.

It hurt, his lack of an answer, of course it did. But how could you blame him? You were asking for too much. Asking him to do something unnatural, something messy, something that could never be as clean and logical as you and Tommy had tried to convince yourselves it was.

You swallowed, setting your drink down as the silence stretched. “Listen, Joel—”

“I’ll do it.”

It was quiet. Like he wasn’t sure if he meant to say it out loud.

Your breath caught, as you stared at him, mouth agape. The side of his face gave nothing away as he kept his eyes on the TV as you waited for some kind of smirk, some sign that he was messing with you.

But he wasn’t.

Joel kept his eyes averted, like this was the kind of thing a person could say without looking someone in the eye. He took a long drink from his bottle, then set it down with a dull thud.

“You and Tommy deserve this,” he murmured, rolling the glass between his palms as he stared down at it. “To have a kid.”

Your heart constricted at the sincerity in his voice.

He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “My life is better ‘cause of Sarah. Don’t think I ever told Tommy that outright, but… it is. I’d love to see him get to have that too.”

You blinked. “Are you…” Your voice was barely above a whisper. “You serious?”

Joel turned to you finally, his eyes meeting yours for the first time since last week before you dropped the bomb on him, “Yeah.” he said finally, “Yeah, I’m serious.”

He was clearly uncomfortable, clearly still working through it—but the fact that he said it at all, that he meant it... that was more than you expected.

To be honest, you knew the baster idea wouldn’t work.

Not that you’d ever say it out loud. Not to your very loving, very kind, very hopeful husband. But deep down, you were pretty sure that by the time Joel had taken care of himself, transferred it into a container, driven it over, and you’d sat back on the bed with your legs up, whatever needed to be alive in there was long dead.

You didn’t bring it up. Couldn’t. Not when Tommy was trying so hard to make this work.

Across from you in the kitchen one morning, another negative pregnancy test sitting between you, your husband sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw before reaching for his mug, “If I ask you somethin’,” he murmured, voice low, hesitant, “will you tell me the truth?”

Your eyes flicked up to his. “Of course, baby.”

His hand rested on the granite, fingers close enough that you reached out, tracing them lightly with your own. His eyes drifted down to your delicate touch against him.

Then, he exhaled slowly and cleared his throat.

“Do you think we should try…” His fingers twitched under yours. “Ya know. The old-fashioned way?”

For a second, the words didn’t land.

Not until you saw the way his eyes found yours and he was looking at you—serious, thoughtful, like he’d been turning it over in his head for longer than he wanted to admit.

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

Tommy sighed, pressing his lips together before setting his coffee down. “I just think… for it to stick properly, we might need to try somethin’ more… natural.”

Your mind reeled. Heat crept up your neck, flushing your skin before you could stop it.

The idea of being with another man…

Tommy saw it. The way your lips parted, the way your breath caught just slightly.

He stepped closer, smoothing his hands over your cheeks, tilting your face up toward his.

“Only if you were comfortable with it,” he assured, voice gentle, steady. “I’d never ask you to do somethin’ you didn’t wanna do.”

You swallowed hard, still trying to process. “I—I don’t know, Tommy.” Your voice was barely above a whisper. “And Joel would flip out if we asked that of him.”

Tommy hummed, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. “Yeah, he might.”

Might was an understatement.

Joel was over the following day to help with your bathroom remodel, a project the brothers had taken on during the slow season. You were busy finishing whatever odds and ends you needed to get done upstairs when you heard his voice traveling through the house.

Not just his voice—but the volume of it.

“Are you outta your goddamn mind?!”

The sound rattled through the house, shaking the walls as you hovered at the top of the stairs, heart pounding.

“Joel—” Tommy’s voice, calm but firm.

“No. No, you don’t get to ‘Joel’ me right now, Tommy, because what you just said—what you just— Christ.” There was the distinct sound of something slamming—a fist on the table? A chair shoved back? You weren’t sure, but it made you wince.

“Look, man, I knew you’d be pissed,” Tommy started, only to be cut off immediately.

“Oh, did you?” Joel’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “You knew I’d be pissed, but you went ahead and asked anyway? Jesus fuckin’ Christ. I’m already crossin’ so many lines with what we’re doin’, and now you’re askin’ me to…to—!?”

You could picture it perfectly—Joel pacing the length of the room, one hand on his hip, the other raking through his hair, winding up, because when Joel was really mad, he didn’t just stand there.

“You’re makin’ it a bigger deal than it is,” Tommy tried, tone even.

Joel let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I misunderstand the part where you just asked me to fuck your wife?”

Heat crawled up your neck.

“We ain’t askin’ that, Jesus, Joel, don’t talk about her like—”

“You are absolutely askin’ that.”

“It’s not like that.”

“The hell it ain’t!”

Silence. Heavy, tense.

You swallowed hard, gripping the banister, unsure whether to go down there or stay put.

Then—Joel’s voice, lower now, but still laced with disbelief.

“Tell me you didn’t really think I’d say yes to this.”

And Tommy, just as steady as ever:

“I think you wanna say no.” A pause, and you could almost feel the shift in the air between them. “But deep down? I think you’re already considerin’ it.”

Joel let out a slow, sharp exhale, but he didn’t argue.

And a week later, he was back at your doorstep.

There were three rules.

1. No kissing.

That was the hard line, the non-negotiable. Kissing was too intimate— too personal, too close to something else entirely. You could rationalize everything else, strip it down to the mechanics of what needed to happen, but kissing blurred the lines. That made it mean something. And this couldn’t mean anything.

2. No talking about it outside the bedroom. 

No slipping up over dinner, no awkward mentions in passing, no weird jokes over a few beers. It had to stay contained. A thing that only existed in a room with the door closed and the world shut out. Because once it bled into the rest of your life—once it became something you acknowledged beyond those four walls—it would become real.

3. No names

No whispered Joel in the dark, he couldn’t say yours while he was inside you. Names had weight. Names had meaning. And the second you said them, it stopped being about a baby.

So when your ovulation window came within the next few days, you found yourself in your bedroom with the two brothers. When Tommy excused himself from the room—pressing a kiss to your forehead before heading out to meet his buddies at the bar like this wasn’t the weirdest fucking thing in the world— you turned to Joel

Over the years, you’d come to know him, grown comfortable with him. That familiarity should’ve helped, should’ve made this easier. But sitting here now, alone in the bedroom with him, awkward was an understatement.

Joel sighed, rubbing his forefinger and thumb along his brows as he stood at the edge of the bed. “Guess we better get to it, then.”

You nodded numbly, tucking your legs beneath you on the bedspread, looking up at him.

He was already tense, broad shoulders squared, avoiding your gaze like you weren’t even in the damn room. He exhaled sharply, then—without ceremony—unbuckled his belt. The clink of metal sent a strange ripple through your stomach, but you forced yourself to focus, watching as he shucked his jeans down to his thighs, taking his boxers with them.

Your breath caught.

Even soft as he was at the moment, he was bigger than Tommy. Thicker.

Joel cleared his throat, shifting his stance, one hand bracing against the bedpost while the other wrapped around himself. He wasn’t looking at you. Not even close. His gaze stayed fixed somewhere off to the side, jaw locked, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he started moving his hand.

It wasn’t working.

Minutes passed, the air between you thick and suffocating, but he remained… soft. The tension in his face deepened, brows knitting, his motions growing stilted.

You chewed your lip, watching as his frustration mounted.

“You don’t gotta sit there starin’ at me,” he muttered, voice gruff, like this was somehow your fault.

You exhaled through your nose. “I’m just… tryin’ to think how I can help.”

His hand stilled. “You’re fine. Just–just give me a minute,”

Then suddenly as the idea struck, you reached for the hem of your shirt and pulled it up.

Joel’s head snapped toward you, eyes going wide. “What’re you doin’?” His voice was sharp, edged in something that sounded suspiciously close to panic.

You hesitated. “Just… thought maybe it’d help.”

“Well, don’t.” His ears were red. “Keep your damn clothes on.”

You huffed. “Jesus, it’s just a shirt.”

He grumbled something under his breath, but let it go, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe any of this was happening.

Another beat of silence, only the sound of skin on skin filling the air as he fisted himself.

“Can I help?”

His gaze flicked to yours, skeptical. “Help how?”

You shrugged. “I dunno. What do you like?”

Joel tensed. “…The hell kinda question is that?”

“A valid one,” you shot back, tilting your head. “C’mon, there’s gotta be somethin’. What do you like?”

He hesitated, shifting where he stood, uncomfortable. You rattled off a few suggestions, some kinks you’d heard of. He barely reacted.

Then finally, one seemed to slap him upside the head, “Do you like dirty talk?”

His entire body stilled.

His eyes finally, finally found yours.

Bingo.

A slow pulse of heat curled low in your stomach.

You leaned forward slightly, voice softer now. “What kind of things do you say?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at you, the tension in his jaw loosening, his pupils starting to widen.

“Come on, Joel,” you said, then immediately pressed your lips together, realizing you’d already broken one of your own rules—not even five minutes in.

“Sorry—” You exhaled, shaking your head. “But c’mon, do you want me to talk to you? Or what do you usually say to women?”

Joel’s eyes were suddenly burning into you, his chest rising and falling just a little heavier now. He exhaled sharply, remembering himself as his gaze flickered around the room like he wasn’t sure where to land it, like maybe if he didn’t look at you, this would stay clinical—mechanical.

“I uh…” He wet his lips, voice rough. “Usually will tell ‘em they’re bein’ real good for me,” he said, exhaling through his teeth. “Bein’ a good girl.”

The temperature of the room shifted, the air growing heavy, pressing down on you. A slow, pooling ache pulsed low in your belly. His nostrils flared as his eyes found yours again, like maybe he could see exactly what that did to you.

You swallowed, “What else?”

Joel’s hips twitched. He hesitated, his grip flexing around himself, fingers curling just slightly. You caught the bob of his throat, the faint shift of his stance. He was getting there.

His gaze dropped to your mouth. “Tell ‘em how pretty they look on their knees.” His voice had taken on a new weight—thicker, heavier, his drawl rolling low in his throat. “How sweet they sound when they moan for me. How bad I wanna feel ‘em wrapped around me, drippin’ and ready, beggin’ for more.”

The room contracted, the air impossibly tight, each breath harder to pull in. Your skin felt hot, your lips parting as you fought to keep your breathing steady. And you knew—knew—your pupils were wide, knew your face was flushed.

Because his was too.

His eyes had darkened, locked on yours, heat simmering beneath the surface. You inhaled deeply, the air between you charged, electric. You reached out, fingers grazing along his forearm. He tensed, muscles flexing beneath your touch, but he didn’t pull away.

“You wanna take this off?” you murmured, voice quiet but sure, fingers tracing up toward the sleeve of his shirt.

Joel let out a slow breath, something flickering behind his eyes—hesitation, uncertainty—but then, after a beat, he reached down and pulled his shirt over his head, dropping it to the floor.

Your gaze raked over him.

Christ. He was the epitome of masculinity—broad and solid, built like something carved from rough earth, from long years of labor and hardship. His chest was strong, lined with thick, dark hair that tapered down his stomach in a steady trail, leading lower—disappearing into the patch just above where he was hardening in his hand. 

Your mouth was dry, your pulse a slow, deliberate thrum in your veins.

You lifted your hands to the hem of your own shirt, pausing just slightly. He hadn’t looked away.

“Okay?” you asked softly.

His jaw flexed, gaze dark, unreadable—but after a second, he nodded.

You pulled it over your head, the fabric slipping away, baring more skin than you’d ever thought he’d see.

Joel exhaled sharply, his eyes dragging down your body, heavy and slow, his pupils swallowing the color of his eyes. Your nipples pebbled in the open air, a shiver running through you as his gaze settled there, his breath hitching just slightly.

You reached for him again, fingers trailing along the hard lines of his chest, dipping over the planes of his stomach. He was warm beneath your touch and he smelled like pine and musk and something richer, something leathered and sun-baked—something distinctly Joel.

He sucked in a sharp breath. “O—okay,” he exhaled, voice rough. “I think I’m… good,” he added shakily, and you could see his body finally catching up to the filth rolling off his tongue, the thick weight of him fully hard now. You swallowed dryly at the sheer size of him in his palm.

Standing slowly, your hands dropped from his body, but your eyes never left his as you slid your pants down your hips and let them pool at your feet.

Bare. You were both bare.

Your gaze dragged over him, from the broad stretch of his shoulders down to his stomach, the solid cut of his thighs, his cock standing thick and heavy between you. It was the most you’d ever seen of him. The most he’d ever seen of you.

And he was beautiful.

Joel swallowed hard, his jaw tight as his gaze traveled over every inch of you. Then, wordlessly, you laid back down on the bedspread, opening your legs for him.

He cursed under his breath.

You caught the way his throat bobbed, the way his fingers twitched at his sides before he climbed onto the bed after you, settling between your legs. His eyes darted down, locked onto the wetness pooling between your thighs, and his nostrils flared.

“All this from just a few sweet words, huh?” His voice was lower now, edged with something amused but dark, something he hadn’t meant to let slip through.

He shifted forward, but you stopped him with a hand to his chest.

“I, uh…” You cleared your throat, suddenly shy. “It’s said that women are more likely to get pregnant if, um… if they orgasm during or… or before, I think.”

Joel stilled for half a second before a slow smirk pulled at his lips. “You doubt me so much?”

The teasing edge in his voice—the cockiness—made some of the tension in your chest loosen. You let out a breathless laugh, your body unwinding slightly from the tension earlier. “I just… I’ve never…”

Something shifted in his face. The smirk faltered just a little. “You’re sayin’ my baby brother doesn’t take care of his own wife?”

“No!” you said quickly, your hand flexing against his chest defensively. “He does, it’s just… I can’t finish just from penetration. Most women can’t, actually.”

“I know, darlin’.”

You gasped as the thick head of his cock suddenly swiped through your slick arousal, and he hissed, pressing his other hand into the pillow beside your head as he leaned over you.

“Fuck—”

His voice was rough, gravelly, wrecked, and something about it made your thighs squeeze around his waist, made the heat coil even tighter in your belly.

Joel lingered there, his cock sliding through your slick, slow and deliberate, teasing against your swollen clit with every pass. The thick head caught at your entrance, nudging just slightly, and a gasp broke from your lips before you could swallow it down.

His jaw ticked, fingers flexing in the pillow beside your head, his body wound tight like a spring.

“This okay?” he asked, voice rough, strained.

You nodded quickly. “Yeah. Yes.”

He pressed forward, just an inch, just enough for you to feel the blunt stretch of him, and your breath hitched.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath. “So damn wet.”

Heat flooded your face, but you couldn’t think—couldn’t focus on anything other than how thick he was, how different he was from Tommy. You felt like you were being split in two, but you wanted more. Every inch only made that need, that hunger, grow.

His hand lifted from his cock, skimming over your hip before settling on your thigh, holding you open.

“Gotta take it slow,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

You swallowed hard, fingers curling into the sheets beside you. “I can take it.”

His head dropped for a second, a quiet curse slipping past his lips. “Don’t say shit like that, sweetheart.”

Something about that word, the way it left his mouth—low and full of something dangerous—made your stomach clench.

The stretch was slow, unbearable in the best way as he pushed forward even more, your body giving inch by inch, and you let out a sharp exhale as he filled you.

Joel groaned, deep and low, his fingers tightening on your thigh as he finally buried himself to the hilt.

Jesus Christ.

The weight of him inside you, the way he fit—it was overwhelming, taking up every inch of space, leaving you panting beneath him.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, his hips flush with yours now, his jaw tight. “You’re—shit, you’re squeezin’ me so damn tight.”

Your thighs trembled around his waist, your body working to adjust to the fullness, to the sheer size of him, and then—oh god—then he moved.

A slow pull out, a deep thrust back in.

You moaned, head falling back against the pillows, fingers flexing against the sheets.

Joel’s breath was ragged, his grip tightening. “That’s it.”

As he began to set a steady pace, a deep thrust in, a gentle pull out, the tingling sensation you knew all too well was rising fast—too fast. It climbed up your spine, coiling tight, and your breath hitched in your throat. The sensation was familiar, so familiar, but not like this. Not from this.

Joel moved with deep, deliberate thrusts, each one stretching you full, dragging against every oversensitive nerve inside you with agonizing precision. His cock was thick, heavy, unrelenting—pressing deep, pressing right, pleasure licking up your spine like fire.

His hand moved between you, thumb finding your clit with ease, the calloused pad brushing over the swollen bundle of nerves, a touch just firm enough to make you jolt. Your whole body reacted, thighs trembling, an involuntary gasp ripping from your lips.

His breath hitched as he felt it too, and he let out a dark, pleased hum.

“Feel that?” he murmured, his voice a slow, deliberate drag against your skin. His thumb moved again, slick and sure, working tight little circles against you. “Now, what was it you said again?”

Your chest heaved, your fingers gripping at the sheets, at him, anything to keep yourself tethered, because the pleasure was coming in hot, hard waves now—building, climbing, making your skin flush and prickle with heat.

“I—I never—” You gasped, voice breaking, lips parting as your back arched into the feeling, as you felt your muscles tighten and clench under him.

Joel leaned in, lips brushing against your ear. “C’mon, sweet girl. Use your words.”

Your hips met every thrust, dragging a moan from deep in your chest.

“I’ve never—ah!—never come like this before,” you choked out, breathless and desperate.

Joel swore under his breath.

“You’re tellin’ me,” he rasped, voice dripping in absolute filth and sin, “my pissy little brother never made you come on his cock before?”

The shame of it—the filthy, shameless truth of it—slammed into you just as hard as the pleasure. Your breath came in short, stilted gasps, your thighs twitching, heat curling low and tight, twisting like a wire pulled too taut. You gripped his biceps hard where they caged you in, your nails digging into his skin.

“I–”

“Never felt the way you’re squeezin’ the life outta me right now, baby?” His voice dipped lower, rougher, as his thumb pressed, rubbing slow and tight. “Never had you like this? Drippin’ and desperate? Makin’ the prettiest fuckin’ sounds I’ve ever heard?”

Heat flared in your belly, your legs shaking around him, pleasure tearing through you.

Joel felt it, the way you clenched down around him, and he grinned, breath hot against your mouth as he groaned through his teeth.

“Fuck—that’s it. Let me feel you.”

And you did.

Your body suddenly snapped. The orgasm slammed into you, white-hot and merciless, every nerve in your body firing at once, blinding you with pleasure so intense it was nearly unbearable. Your breath punched from your lungs as your back arched clean off the bed, thighs trembling, a cry tearing from your lips as waves of heat crashed through you.

Joel swore under his breath, hips stuttering as you clenched tight around him, and his mouth hovered just above yours, his breath mixing with yours, the air between you thick and electric.

He felt the way your body fluttered around him, still pulsing with the comedown of your orgasm, dragging him deeper, tighter—trapping him. His breath was heavy, coming in sharp, ragged exhales as he dropped his head, his forehead resting against yours.

His hips kept moving quick and uneven, dragging his cock in and out of your still-clenching walls. He was throbbing, thick and hot inside you, every roll of his hips sending sharp little sparks of overstimulation through your system.

That was when, after coming back to earth, you saw the way his lips parted slightly, his breath hitching whenever you squeezed around him just right. The tension in his face, the way his muscles coiled and flexed with every deliberate movement.

He was close.

You wondered…

Your breath was still shaky, voice unsteady, but you let it slip out, slow and sultry, testing the waters, “You feel so good,” you whispered.

Joel froze for a split second, a sharp breath punching from his lungs as he reeled his head back to look down at you.

"Does it feel good for you?” you whispered, your fingers trailing up the nape of his neck. “Filling me up? Making me feel so full? So good?”

Joel let out a ragged, wrecked sound, his fingers digging into your skin, gripping you like a lifeline.

And in that moment—fuck the rules.

Because this was anything but clinical now.

You pressed a soft kiss to his jaw, letting your breath fan against his ear as you whispered, gentle, teasing.

“You gonna give me a baby, Joel?”

Joel let out a wrecked groan, his grip on your hips tightening, his pace faltering. His thrusts turned rougher, sharper, his body moving on pure instinct now—chasing it.

And then he snapped.

A strangled moan ripped from his throat as he slammed deep, burying himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing inside you as heat flooded you. His whole body shook, a ragged, guttural sound tearing from his chest as he came, thick and hot, spilling deep, his fingers flexing against your hips like he was trying to ground himself.

You gasped at the feeling, at the warmth spreading inside you, at the way his body shook above you.

Joel was panting, forehead pressed to yours, sweat damp at his hairline, his breath fanning against your lips, warm and unsteady.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Joel was still inside you, still filling you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, grounding you. His breath was heavy, warm against your cheek as he turned his head, his chest rising and falling against yours in slow, uneven waves.

“I should, uh…” His voice was hoarse, thick with something he wasn’t naming. He swallowed, clearing his throat as he sat up. “I should probably—”

You shifted slightly beneath him, still sensitive, still pulsing with the warmth of him inside you. Your thighs trembled, the ache delicious, spreading through you like slow heat.

“You can go,” you murmured, voice soft, a little sleepy. “I’m gonna stay here for a while.”

He hesitated as he looked down at you, your bodies still connected. 

You blinked up at him, lips curving in a lazy, satisfied smile.

“It’s said that if a woman stays lying down after, it increases the chances of conception.” You hummed, stretching slightly, body still warm and loose. “Just want to give it time to stick.”

You felt him twitch inside you, like his body had just caught up to the meaning of your words, and then he was pulling out, hissing under his breath as he eased away from you.

His heat vanished instantly, and a shiver ran through you at the sudden emptiness, the cool air replacing where he’d been pressed so solidly against you. You exhaled, tugging the covers up over yourself, shifting deeper into the mattress, letting your body sink into the afterglow.

Joel, on the other hand, was already moving, and fast.

He turned away from the bed, running a hand through his hair, reaching for his jeans like he needed them back on, needed the barrier, needed to be done with this.

“Hey,” you called softly as he stepped toward the door, one leg shoved into his pants.

He paused, turning slightly, just enough to look at you over his shoulder.

You blinked up at him sleepily, the blankets pulled up to your bare shoulders, your voice softer now. “You okay?”

Joel hesitated. Just for a second.

His hands hovered at his belt, his fingers twitching. His lips pressed together, like he was weighing his answer, like he didn’t trust whatever was sitting heavy on his tongue.

Then, he gave you a short, stiff nod. “Yeah. ‘M good.”

You hummed, unconvinced, watching the way his chest still rose and fell in uneven breaths, the lingering flush at his throat, the tension in his hands as he buckled his belt like he was fighting something.

“Okay,” you murmured, turning your head into the pillow, eyes half-lidded, “And, Joel?”

His gaze flickered back to you, hovering, like he was bracing himself.

You swallowed, shifting slightly under the blankets, warmth settling deep in your bones. “Thank you.”

Joel’s fingers twitched where they grabbed for his shirt, his throat working around something thick, something stuck. His eyes dragged over you one last time, heavy, unreadable, before he gave a single, curt nod.

“I’ll see you,” he muttered, voice rough, almost hesitant.

Then he turned, and with the sound of the door clicking shut behind him, he was gone.

[kxsagi]

hii, how are you? 💘 can i ask for blue lock boys (nagi, reo, bachira and especially rin) with a girlfriend who has a baby sister/brother?

“𝐛𝐢𝐠 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫”

a/n: i'm good and i hope you're doing well, too, anon!

alternated between a sister and brother for the characters depending on which one i think they would get along with best! 

ft. nagi seishiro, mikage reo, bachira meguru, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, isagi yoichi

nagi seishiro

literally looks at the baby like “he’s so small… and squishy.” he’s fascinated and slightly scared. like holding a jellybean that might scream. 

lazy cuddles on the couch suddenly include a baby boy pressed between the two of you. nagi won’t hold him unless you pass your brother to him, and even then he panics a little. “babe, it’s like holding a marshmallow, what if i squish him?” 

eventually gets used to it and starts using the baby as a personal pillow. lies back, places him on his chest, closes his eyes. the baby is asleep in two seconds. you’re both like “damn that worked.” 

baby starts mimicking his laziness. naps when he naps. drools when he drools. it’s chaos. 

lowkey obsessed with watching baby sensory videos together. “this is kinda relaxing…” he mutters while a cartoon jellyfish dances across the screen. 

mikage reo

immediately drops to baby-talk levels upon meeting your baby sister. he doesn’t even try to act cool. he’s all, “who’s this little cutie? huh? you wanna play with onii-chan reo?” 

brings gifts every single time he visits. rattles, plushies, picture books, sometimes even unnecessarily expensive baby designer stuff. you have to stop him from buying a baby rolex. “it’s an investment!” he argues. 

holds the baby like a pro. surprisingly gentle, surprisingly confident. he’s used to being around kids in his family. even knows how to change diapers (does he enjoy it? no. will he do it? yes. with only a little dramatic gagging). 

makes up lullabies on the spot. they’re all ridiculous, but your sister loves them. he sings in a goofy voice and you can’t stop laughing while watching him bounce around your living room. 

whispers to you, “we’d have the cutest kids ever, y’know that?” with a wink while the baby drools on his shirt. 

bachira meguru

thinks your baby sibling is the most fascinating creature on earth. literally crouches in front of her like, “so you’re the tiny human huh? you got any games in that brain?” 

makes the weirdest faces just to make her laugh. he’s committed. full body puppetry. he once meowed like a cat for ten minutes straight because the baby clapped every time. 

gives her nicknames like “mini-you” or “squish bean” or “giggle monster.” everyone in your house starts using them. 

builds pillow forts with the baby (and you). somehow turns your whole living room into a playground. there’s a blanket hammock. the baby sits in a laundry basket and calls it a spaceship. 

falls asleep with her on the floor, both of them snoring. you take pictures every time. 

itoshi rin

rin freezes the first time he sees you with your baby brother tucked on your hip. you're just so natural with him – gently rocking, humming softly, wiping his chin without even thinking. he never thought about kids much before, but now he’s kind of malfunctioning. 

doesn’t know what to do when the baby stares at him. he stares back, unblinking. it becomes a staring contest until the baby laughs. rin pretends he doesn’t melt but internally he’s like “what the hell… he likes me?” 

awkwardly holds the baby for the first time like it’s a bomb. you have to guide his arms, help him support the head. he gets so stiff, but once the baby curls his tiny fingers around one of his, his whole face softens like you’ve never seen before. 

starts taking little candid photos of you and the baby when you’re not looking. the photos are surprisingly well-framed. he even makes one his lock screen. 

sometimes the baby grabs his hair and tugs. he grits his teeth and lets it happen. he doesn’t even get mad. “it’s fine,” he mutters, while your sibling happily pulls on his bangs like reins. 

secretly proud when your family trusts him to babysit with you. acts like it’s an annoying favor, but literally prepares an itinerary. “we’re sticking to the nap schedule. no exceptions.” 

has never smiled so genuinely until your baby sibling falls asleep on his chest and you whisper, “you look so soft right now.” he rolls his eyes but doesn’t move an inch. 

itoshi sae

acts like he doesn’t care. “it’s a baby. cool.” but he keeps sneaking glances when you’re feeding your little sister or rocking her to sleep. 

doesn't know what to do when she crawls up to him. he just stares like “what do you want. you can’t even talk.” but then the baby laughs and touches his leg and his cold, dead heart is like 🫠 

you catch him carrying the baby with one arm, scrolling on his phone with the other like it’s nothing. when you tease him, he goes “she wouldn’t stop crying. i handled it. i’m amazing, i know.” 

occasionally watches you with the baby and gets this thoughtful look. he doesn’t say much, but later, you catch him googling things like “how to swaddle a baby” and “why do babies cry at 3 AM.” 

isagi yoichi

so excited to meet your baby sibling. wants to make a good impression. gets nervous like it’s an actual interview. shows up in a clean hoodie like “hi!!! i’m yoichi!! i brought snacks! well, not for the baby. i don’t know what he eats!!” 

ends up being super natural with your baby brother. plays peekaboo like a champ. lets him tug on his ear and giggles the whole time. 

baby loves him instantly. follows him around. cries when he leaves. isagi: on the verge of tears “he’s so pure, oh my gosh.” 

teaches him how to kick a soft ball. if your brother so much as touches it, he gasps like he scored a world cup goal. “DID YOU SEE THAT?! prodigy!!” 

talks to you late at night like, “i don’t know if i’m ready for kids now, but… someday? if it’s with you? yeah. i think i’d really love that.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[munv]

Cld i also request for diasomnia + ignihyde w raiden ei! like reader really love ur character! reader fics AKAJSJSHDH sorry if its too much </3

DIASOMNIA / IGNIHYDE X RAIDEN EI !READER

No because thank you SO much for requesting this. My inconsistency was coming back and I literally needed something that would make me work

MALLEUS

He notices you immediately. It's in the "thunder literally crackles around me too so I noticed yours from like 20 miles away" type of thing. Ancient fellow meets ancient fellow and it's one of those times where conversation isnt necessary. He realizes that you might also not be human after a while and he questions you about it.

He's a little scared that you might not take a liking to him anymore since he doesn't want to come off as brazen, yet he cant help but be curious.

Only to find out that you're a god of you're own country? He stares for a moment, slowly processing it and goes "is that so?". Not in the "I don't believe you and you're crazy way". It's in the "we now have a lot more in common" type of way.

He indulges in your oddly specific sweet tooth, bringing you little snacks and stuff to try together since you both have no idea what normal people eat.

LILIA

He laughs. In your face. First meeting.

Lilia is a good 700+ years old. So when he was face to face with someone who has been one for over 3000? He questioned for a moment if he would become that stoic (miserable) by the time he finishes 1000.

He pokes around your exterior, trying to see if he could possibly rile up a storm out of you. You dont strike him, so he takes that as a go ahead to keep it up. He teases you endlessly, noticing how you are exactly like malleus and way behind on trends and such. Although he isnt as shut in as the both of you, he is somewhat well versed in the latest things.

He doesn't find himself surprised when he gets you a phone and it ends up sparking up because you couldnt control your quiet excitement when you got it.

SILVER

He treats you gently, and he finds himself careful to not overstep any boundaries you have placed around yourself. Not because he finds himself scared, but because he genuinely respects you. He nods when you speak a few words, he opens doors for you, braids your hair under trees.

You're surprised when a bunch of animals follow him around, especially when he actually does a good job in braiding your hair. The flower additions into it? You love that too.

SEBEK

If you thought that silver was your no.1 admirer? you got another thing coming. Sebek basically explodes. Because at first? he sees you as a rival to Malleus, but over time? he grows to respect you if not, just as much. He begs you to train him and share your ever so "godly discipline". He constantly screams and yells about your noble aura and your gentle heart.

You've never met someone who could be so loud, yet loyal at the same time. Still, you give in and hand him a sword and just tell him "strike"

It's like that meme where its the avatar's saying "I can't help you bro, you jus gotta feel it". He never gives up though, and continues even if hes failing your training regimen, you've began to respect that about him, despite his outlandish tendencies to basically preach your praises on campus.

IDIA

He has a total meltdown. He hides, he panics, he screeches. "THATS A LEVEL10000 BOSS?? BRO WHY ARE THEY HERE?". Whenever he texts you, he realizes that you're one of those people who just give simple responses. "Yes." "No." "Thank you." “Why are you like this”

Idia thrives online but when he actually has to meet you face to face? he's a little nervous. Scratch a little— He basically screams bloody mary when you slightly lift your hand. Yet, he still enjoys your company. Despite him referencing you to his many different video game bosses and being chronically online with his odd slang? He finds comfort in your humble yet demanding ways.

"you're highkey scary but..lowkey chill?" You blink at him. "yes?"

He turns you inner realm into a video game setting.

ORTHO

Ortho finds himself doing extensive research on you. Your powers, your limitations, where you're from, If it's possible for you to overblot, all of the above.

He cheers and zooms around you in excitement whenever he sees you. Maybe he's just attracted to the lightning you emit, who knows. He likes hugging you and such.

If he wants more research? he goes to you, hands over some dango, and starts scanning you for 6 hours straight. Idia wonders how its possible for you to stay still for that long.

It comes with the meditation you do in your inner realm ever so often, you explain, and ortho is just scanning you casually without a care in the world.

He really likes the little zaps that you give him, he finds it ticklish, and he cute little giggles fuel you even more. “That tickled, again!” You blink, sigh, and zap him again, listening to him squeal in glee.

“Again!”

You smile at his childlike wonder

[sawmaw]

Halló Saw! Do you have any sub headcanons about the headwardens, I wanna know your thoughts on them >.<! Keep up the good work !

ooh, yepyep!!

riddle rosehearts

🫀 i know it’s a pretty common headcanon, but he probably has a mommy kink. who would’ve guessed! you must be gentle, you must be tender with him.

🫀 also, please give him lots of praise. though he'll try and act humble or dismissive, he can’t help but melt with each “good boy,” with every “you’re doing so well,” all “i’m so proud of you”s.

🫀 i think he always strives to please you, to make you happy and satisfied with him. he’ll never object when you decide it’s his turn, however.

leona kingscholar

🫀 he always wants to touch you, for you to touch him, just to feel your skin against his. lions are very clingy, after all.

🫀 he likes to have you on top of him, covering as much of him as possible. put your hands on his chest, on his arms while you slowly grind down on him, his hands aimlessly wandering around your body.

🫀 if you’re feeling particularly mean, cuff his wrists to the bed. he’ll hate it, but it’ll be quick to get him desperate and begging to touch you.

azul ashengrotto

🫀 BODY WORSHIP AND LOTS OF IT. both for him and for you. it’s stressful to look after both the dorm and the mostro lounge, so he needs some way to destress, doesn’t he?

🫀 after a bit of convincing, he’d agreed to keep in his merform a few times. he’ll be embarrassed, but you’ll prove to him that he looks good, that he feels good in any way you can.

🫀

kalim al-asim

🫀 he’s a very enthusiastic sub. anything you ask, he’ll do. you need a massage? no problem! you wanna try something new? of course! you need a face to sit on? he’s right here!

🫀 he loves light touches. pet his hair, trace your fingers on his skin, maybe even enough to tickle him. the tickling can hurt a little after a while, but his giggling is contagious and seeing you smile is worth it all.

🫀 aftercare is exceptionally important for him. not because he particularly needs to be taken care of, but because he awaits cuddling eagerly.

vil schoenheit

🫀 he doesn’t sub often, but when he does he loves to be pampered and doted on. pleasure doms are his absolute favorite.

🫀 he always wears the best lingerie he can find just for you—and he doesn’t certainly doesn’t mind if it’s torn in the process.

🫀 i think he’s very confident as a sub. he still loves to tease and egg you on. he isn’t bratty in a disobedient sense, but in a “surely you can do it better/harder than that” sense.

idia shroud

🫀 he can vary from day-to-day: sometimes he’s bratty, sometimes he’s needy, either way he’ll be whining the whole time.

🫀 make up some rules and games for him! keep a star sticker board for rewards. maybe you can hook him up to a vibrator and have him color in a coloring book, and he earns a punishment if he colors outside the lines.

🫀 roleplaying! he loves roleplay, whether it be through cosplaying, making up your own characters/roles, or even just coming up with a new dynamic to try out.

malleus draconia

🫀 he’s very needy and will worship everything about you. you are beautiful, charming, elegant regardless of how you carry yourself, even your flaws are adored.

🫀 very much a service sub, your pleasure is his own. he’s able to cum just from tasting you, seeing you satisfied is enough to pacify him.

🫀 despite what he may seem, he’s very sensitive. ears, horns, tail, hands, torso, everywhere. it doesn’t take much to make him squirm.

[genomesoldier]

Vaguely x reader survivor headcanon thing good lord

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Hi! I wrote these almost three months ago hoping I would be able to write for all of the games' cast. Unfortunately, I've since fallen out of Forsaken in lieu of the game practically exploding in popularity. I will give what I had written, though! Hopefully someone out there likes this. These will be a mix of general headcanons + more affectionate ones. They may be out of character because they were written such a long time ago.

All writing is below the cut. :)

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Noob

Noob is a quiet, polite soul; naturally reserved and even closed off. They fear being a burden, seeking out comfort in the little things and the small variables they can control.

Noob is someone who takes a long time to truly open up about themselves. Whatever happened between Guest 666 and them left a deep, lasting impression: their devotion and trust is something hard-earned.

Now, that is a high hurdle to leap; but once it is managed, Noob is an utter sweetheart. They strongly value physical touch and affection, finding grounding and security in hand-holding or a strong hug. The ability to make them feel secure and safe is a huge deal, especially with them.

Noob has a lesser-known, more expressive side to them; being a sillier, more teasing individual beneath the skittish surface. This half is often obscured by insecurities.

They love to share their snacks! They do not taste as good here as they do at home, but they hope the thought is what counts.

They had spent a lot of time fretting up to this point: their worth, their usefulness to their fellow survivors… they struggled at a point to believe that people did not secretly find them bothersome or dead weight. Being able to open up is nothing but a boon to their emotional health. They feel braver with someone that they can trust to have their back.

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Elliot

Elliot is a hard-working, (generally) polite person. This isn’t to say he has any lack of sass… that smile of his is practiced.

While he strives to make his work/team environment comfortable for everyone, he will not hide his feelings off the clock. (007 and him are noted to have a particularly rocky relationship.)

Elliot has spent much of his working life in a service position; and so his patience is immense. That is to say anyone who is treating him with decency is good in his books.

Elliot does not have much of a social life; his job was his priority. That is to say he has a lot to talk about. (Plenty of customer horror stories to tell, for sure.)

Elliot did not realize how good it was to vent his feelings—to just sit down and talk—until someone finally gave him the room to speak about himself. He is used to being the person people talk at, rather than the one doing the talking.

Elliot often puts others above himself: not because of others expectations, but rather his own. Elliot’s own exhaustion and stress is often being put aside for what he deems more important or immediate, and puts a lot of pride in being “self-made.” He often forgets to rest and needs to be reminded to slow down sometimes due to this.

Elliot is big on words of affirmation, and knows how to make people feel better or ease stress. He’s eloquent or even flowery if he’s trying to be charming, if not slightly cheesy.

Elliot appreciates quality time, too. Everything around him (including himself) always seems to be moving so fast. Having someone to just be there, a constant in what is otherwise a hectic situation, eases his frayed nerves.

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Two-Time

Two-Time is a flawed individual. A slightly(?) delusional cultist, who clearly has things to hide.

Two-Time comes off as reckless and low-empathy. They have issues to sort out clearly, but they do have some heart.

Most of the things they do are things they believe are for the greater good (even if they may not really be).

...So, someone who doesn’t treat them like a shadow—who well and truly listens to their eccentricity, authentically—is someone that would have them fascinated.

They are a lonely and strange person. Someone even remotely accompanying makes them happier than they may first realize. Company is often taken for granted, but Two-Time is intimately acquainted with isolation.

Two-Time takes much solace in having someone merely be there, to talk to them. Someone who understands or at least listens is a reprieve and reminder that there are still good things to be had, though they may not understand why (or if) they deserve it.

...Azure had not only been their partner, but their best friend. They made their decision a long time ago, but to say they feel no nostalgia or guilt (though they have likely deluded themself into thinking it to be for the greater good) would be foolish.

They will stick their neck out for people with little hesitation under the firm belief that they will come back: “shadows die twice,” as they like to say. Something especially true for someone who they feel they can rely on. To boot, Two-Time is a rather impulsive person who often leaps before they look. They bleed, but it will surely be fine—they will wake right back up again--their faith in the Spawn heaves them upwards.

They are Incredibly perceptive yet simultaneously dense. They can spot when someone is troubled, but may be invasive with their questioning. It is almost frightening how easily they can pin a persons feelings down.

Two-Time values quality time and actions: There will be a hundred little things that they may wish they had done one day… or things they may regret having done.

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Chance

This man has secrets in spades. A liar almost compulsively, a charmer to boot. The charm is natural, however. Chance proves to be quite the people-person, and surprisingly non-judgmental.

It is of little surprise how much of Chance is fabricated however; either to impress others or simply pull the wool over people’s eyes to whatever truths he may be trying to hide.

Much of his positivity is natural! Chance is a person willing to see the good in bad situations. An equal half of that positive attitude however is used to shovel away his actual problems that need addressing. Most issues are contributed by him to bad luck more than anything. (He is a rather superstitious individual, to note.)

...The effort required to get him to lay down his walls is immense; a slow chip-away to reveal someone more authentic beneath the surface-level nonchalance.

He may be rather dense at times as a consequence of this, failing to see the bigger issue (whether in a situation or even with himself) in exchange for brushing it all off.

Chance tends to act like a "hotshot" for people he wants to impress, and sometimes him looking cool is entirely accidental. Lucky him! Respectfully, he is a little stupid at times, but he means perfectly well.

Chance values gift-giving quite a bit. He is more observant than he lets on! He might not look it, but he remembers the little things. There is consideration in the things he gives, and it shows.

As someone with money to spare, he's prone to splurging for people he cares about. He may be a bit of an impulse buyer; at least when it comes to buying other people nice things.

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007n7

007n7 is a troubled individual, with an even more troubled past. In lieu of all the hardships he's dealt with, he's... handling everything the best that he possibly can.

In his younger days, 007n7 was quite the menace--outgoing, even reckless--though nowadays he is rather reserved and even occasionally pleasant to be around... if anyone can even find him to talk to him at all. (Not even to mention that's if anyone would want to speak with him to begin with.)

007n7 has become a bit of a hermit, being both closed off and slippery: in that he seemingly blends in with crowds on purpose if only to escape any modicum of attention.

Oftentimes 007n7 is lost in his own inner world. He is a chronic daydreamer, though not outwardly emotive in reaction to whatever he may be thinking about. He has mastered his poker face at this point, a blank slate that is extremely difficult to read, and he does not plan on letting anyone in anytime soon.

007n7 deals with a fair bit of self-loathing for a variety of reasons. He pins a lot of the blame on himself for losing his son; he had at one point made Elliot's work life practically a living hell; and he had drawn plenty of ire from administrators for his shenanigans. He would not and does not blame anyone for disliking him, and tries to keep himself out of everyone's business if only not to raise their ire or bother them. He is both isolated and self-isolating, to say.

...So, he would be an extremely difficult person to crack. 007n7 would take a long time to open up, let alone hold a conversation. He's rather prone to drifting off into his own thoughts, and it is safe to say he has not had a "real" conversation with someone in a long time.

Having someone snap him out of his zone-outs and drag him into reality, instead of hearing conversations manufactured inside his own head? The notion is surprising to him. Yet, with consistency, 007n7 proves to have a lot to talk about. Most of his past is unpleasant to him, but he is highly prone to reminiscing nonetheless. There is a lot of remorse and regret involved, but that does not mean his past was devoid of any kind of fun--especially not in the moment. 007n7 may hesitate to admit he had a good time out of a mix of shame and a fear of judgement.

Someone to talk to is a small miracle to him in of itself. Someone who won't judge him is even bigger. Someone to ground him in the "now" of things, rather than constantly reminiscing on what had and could have been, was something he did not know he needed so badly. 007n7 is not one to smile much anymore, let alone wear his feelings on his sleeve, but his smiles are subdued and soft and meaningful. Maybe there is still value to be had in the present...

007n7 is not very good with his words, so he tries to convey himself with his actions. No amount of apologies could undo the past, and he has long since lost the words. He understands acutely what it is like to have no one to lean on but yourself, if even that. So the least he can do is be there when no one was there for him. It is surprising how ever-present he seems to be, following like a shadow and appearing when he is needed the most.

[thewertsearch]

Ask Comp 12/05

@carcinogeneticist-writes-fanfic asked: I know your policy has been to hold off listening to the official albums until you're done with HS and I totally get that, wanting to hear them in the context of the comic first is totally valid. That said, would you be willing to give early consideration to Michael Bowman's solo album, "Mobius Trip and Hadron Kaleido?" It's got the rather dubious honor of being one of only two or three official albums (out of like 30!) to NOT see any rep in the comic at all and I'd hate for you to miss out.

Found it on the Collection! It's generally a very chill album, with a lot of lower-energy tracks that might have been hard to fit in one of Homestuck's high-octane Flash animations.

It's not really my type of music, but that doesn't mean I can't appreciate something different every once in a while! I think my personal favorite is Dawn of Man.

@likelyvampirical asked: While on the subject of Bowman, On The Thirteenth Day has been sent to you.

This one's fucking great. It feels like the kind of track you'd hear over the opening/ending to a Homestuck anime.

It also sounds vaguely like Sburban Jungle, but I don't know if I'd call it a remix; it feels more like it's gesturing meaningfully in Sburban Jungle's direction, which I like a lot.

@shelbybunny asked: re: voice headcanons in the (as of writing) latest ask comp; i think a good voice headcanon for John is Toby Fox’s voice in his ska cover of sunsetter or Michael Guy Bowman’s cover of How Do I Live

It's still so weird hearing Toby Fox's actual voice. He feels like the kind of guy who shouldn't have a concrete presence in our reality.

Anyway, these voices are both fairly close to how I imagine John sounding. Toby even looks somewhat like John - or, at least, his hair does.

@heattth asked: Hi, I believe you mentioned once that if Tumblr died you would continue this blog on Discord. I don't know how likely this is to happen, but, could I ask you which server that would be?

I currently run an on-and-off gaming Discord which is open to all the blog's followers. If Tumblr goes down for good, I might just convert it into the new primary liveblogging platform - although Discord has its own issues, so I'm not 100% committed to that. Guess we'll see what happens!

@manorinthewoods asked: I've heard the Hockerberts (Hockengberts?) called the House of J. Unsure how common that is. ~LOSS (28/4/25) @cationicflood asked: the prospit kids may also collectively be referred to as the J-squad, as all four of them have names beginning with J (this is a trait that i do not think any other character outside this group possesses)

Yeah, there's no real way to legibly combine all four names. I came up with 'Prospit Patrol' the other day, and I honestly kind of love it - but I guess that'd technically include the Prospit trolls, too.

Anonymous asked: i think the key difference between jade and jake’s social lives despite being completely isolated is that jade at least had bec and prospit. with jakes dreamself dead (which presumably never woke up) and no guardian to speak of, hes pretty much completely alone out there

Actually a very good point. We eventually learned that Jade was in contact with the White Queen, so she was doing some in-person socialization. Clearly, that mattered a lot more than I realized.

@morganwick asked: Recall that future Jade shared your frustration over causal time loops, wanting ideas to actually come from where they came from. She did manage to get Karkat to be just vague enough to get her to do what she wanted herself to do while still giving herself enough room to come up with as much of the idea as possible herself. Karkat technically didn't even tell her to captchalogue the window, only draw it, the assumption/understanding being that she'd use the scribblepad to do so.

I definitely like that interpretation a lot better than the idea that the information was spontaneously stable-looped into existence, so I'm adopting it as my personal canon. The less loop-generated intel we have, the better.

@that-good-ol-fashioned-mothgirl asked: funny how Jane “biggest fan of a baking empire” Crocker subscribes to empiricism

Clearly, an 'empire' is any organization that values tangible evidence over logical reasoning. Jane's brainwashing is clearly benign - the Condesce is just trying to make her a better skeptic!

@that-good-ol-fashioned-mothgirl asked: the green sun is the theoretically infinite felt on English’s temporal pool table

In other words, the entire multiverse is part of Lord English's game. Seems fitting to me.

@elkian asked: Something I put together recently thanks to your blogging: the more conventially intelligent/sapient a Sprite component, the better a Sprite can communicate with the Player. BUT, these are also more independent and can operate on their own impetus, proving in some cases (like Jadesprite) to be unwilling/unable to help the Player for whatever reason. It's a neat balancing mechanic.

That's actually a really good explanation for why Jadesprite was so independent.

She's not the only one who's exhibited this trait, either - Davesprite also seemed comfortable with resisting sprite programming!

@mhafanlol2000 asked: Dave spent his childhood with Cal, too, and he doesn’t seem hypnotized. What makes you so convinced that Dirk will turn out to be worshipping English, or something?

Ah, but Dave didn't actually own the doll.

Bro was the one carrying it around all day, and he can't be flash-stepping around Dave that often. For the majority of the time, he was the one receiving the lion's share of Cal's miasma, as he has been since the moment he was cloned.

Dirk is the same, of course, but he's only had Cal for sixteen years, while Bro was in his thirties, at least. Dirk seems a lot more normal than his counterpart, so we can at least assume he's less corrupted than Bro.

Anonymous asked: I'm not going to lie, the fact that the entire acts 1-5 of homestuck are ONE DAY is one of my favorite fucked up facts about this story. Like, honestly maybe more than 24 hours passed, but because we got untethered from Earth time immediately after entering and it's not like the Incipisphere has a day/night cycle, A VERY LONG MONDAY AFTERNOON INDEED

The second the camera cuts away from John and Jade, they're going to immediately pass out for a good twenty hours.

Hey, do we think Davesprite needs to sleep? Surely not, right? Alright, he can look after them, then.

@elkian asked: Just wanted to say that I'm loving the liveblog in general, and in particular I really like your take on how the Alpha timeline works. "Based on what this character would most likely do in this situation" not only frees it from some of the rigidity of predestination, which can definitely get stifling or flatten a story if taken too far; it's also a good explanation in terms of meta. It works as both a general explanation and story-themed one, and I like it a lot. Seems accurate, too!

You can thank Terry Pratchett for putting the idea in my head, back when I was first reading Night Watch. It's a really satisfying way to resolve the identity issues surrounding time travel, isn't it?

@drakethedeep asked: Keep that thought in mind regarding a timeline involving interfering with the green sun. On a similar train of thought, timelines seemed to become doomed when they can no longer contribute to the timeloop that created them to begin with. For example, in the first doomed timeline we see, because John dies, he cannot perform the ectobiology that results in the creation of him and his friends/family. so keeping that in mind, what conclusion/ theories about the alpha timeline do you have?

Initially, I thought that any timeline which could no longer satisfy its own loops would be instantly doomed - but that would have caused Davesprite's timeline to fade long before Future Dave actually left, since John's death immediately made the Veil cloning impossible.

However, the wording you use here comes close to fixing that issue. Davesprite's timeline could never fulfil the time loop created by John's Veil cloning - but it still contributed to the Alpha Timeline, via Davesprite. Maybe a timeline only fades once it can no longer contribute to the Alpha in any way whatsoever.

@wolygan asked: Kinda neat how as Sollux is dying his powers change from the red and blue to just his blood colour, as if he is casting from his health instead of just having an ability, now that his eyes are burnt out.

Oh, interesting. I didn't consider that!

Sollux has said he's retiring his duality schtick, and apparently that includes his red/blue motif. After all, he's not really 'the duality guy' anymore - he's just Sollux.

@liliflower137 asked: This is probably a little late as I'm still catching up but,,, gush, Vriska's conversation with John, where she expresses regret, where she thinks back on what she has done… It made her my favorite character for a while. Just. The potential of her learning to be different, of becoming something more than the world she was born into. Seeing a character so HORRIBLE, so AWFUL, turn around and… realize. It's so powerful.

Yup. Super fucked up that she died before she was able to complete her metamorphosis - but I'm confident that her story's not over. After all, we've already started hanging out with her ghost!

@liliflower137 asked: Hello!! I am not quite caught up yet but your description of Scratch as thinking like an author is BRILLIANT, I never would've thought of that and it makes him make so much more sense!!! Man he's way more interesting to me now, thank you!!! This liveblog continues to be the most fascinating read of all time!!

Thanks - it just made sense to me, y'know? Scratch even talks a little like Hussie sometimes, and the idea that he's a pseudo-author is the only thing I can think of that explains some otherwise extremely strange phrasing on his part.

@liliflower137 asked: Hello hello again! I've just seen the map you showed of Rose's coordinates and you can literally see the town i live in on that map!! So I can tell you Northern New York State, at least around that section, is VERY rural. The closest Starbucks is in Canada and its mostly dairy farms and cornfields around here! New York is a big state and aside from the city itself and some other places it's actually surprisingly empty. Hell, I've lived here for like 9 years and I've never even been close to NYC! But its definitely not remote, people live and work in that national park nearby! And there's plenty of burger kings for sure. (I'd even say maybe the one 40 minutes away was the one in my town but I'm pretty sure it opened after I moved here so probably not) It's so wild I could pretty easily drive to where Rose's house would've been… crazy.

Oh, fun - it's like you're her neighbor!

If you're that local, you might be living closer to Rose's address than any other Homestuck fan on the planet. You've got to be at least in the top ten, right?

@liliflower137 asked: Another addition to the jade seer of light fakeout that I've noticed during my own reread (inspired by yours!) Remember Jade's wardrobifier? One of her possible shirt symbols was the symbol for the Light Aspect!

Hussie's Trick continues to bamboozle the unprepared.

@liliflower137 asked: After sending you a bunch of asks while reading, I'm finally caught up!! Whew I can finally stop accidentally staying up until like 5am reading your incredible analysis and being distracted at work! I'm free!! Thanks for the ride!!

Hah, this really is a serious compliment. Don't worry, I've been staying up till pretty close to 5 lately as well. That's what happens when you're gaming on a server in a US timezone!

Anonymous asked: hello ms wertsearch! i have just finished binging your entire liveblog in lieu of any meaningful way to access homestuck OR the unofficial homestuck collection (kind of a lie - i'm sure it's on the wayback machine) and i have to say you might just be the ideal homestuck reader! you analyze these characters AND this story so quickly and perfectly it is very awesome to read. i cannot wait for you to stick it out through the rest of act 6! have a wonderful day!!!

Thank you so much! As far as I'm aware, there are still a couple of unofficial mirrors of the comic floating around online. I asked around on the Discord and was provided with this link, which seems perfectly functional to me.

Anonymous asked: I just want to send a message to let you know how much I appreciate and enjoy your blog. Ive had a very rough couple of years (who hasn't, right?) and reading this blog has been such an escape. It makes me feel like I'm 13 again and reading homestuck on the school computer with my friends. You have such insightful things to say about the comic. I never really jelled with the homestuck fandom outside of my irl friends I read the comic with, so your blog is kind of like a second shot at participating in the fandom for me. I'm having so much fun. Thanks for doing this. <3

As always, messages like these are the greatest motivator I have for continuing to liveblog. I know I'm starting to sound like a broken record, but thank you for sharing! :)

Anonymous asked: Your liveblog is So fun to read, especially when you predict plot points that are either extremely true or extremely false (like when you theorised at the very beginning that jade was genetically modified to be a sburb player! Or when [spoiler] and also [spoiler] and especially [spoiler]) Are you planning to read through your own liveblog when you've finished reading the comments to see how many things you jokingly predicted that came true? Or are you relying on asks to point out things like that?

I'm definitely reading through it when I'm done! I've even half-jokinly considered liveblogging the liveblog, but that might be a bridge too far even for me, lmao

@manorinthewoods asked: I've found another HS liveblog! 'researchhpurposes'. They've not made it through Act 5 yet, so hopefully they're spoiler-free - although, like you, they're going in only mostly blind, so there might be a stray thing here or there. Going to read through and see if there's anything extraordinary. ~LOSS (29/4/25)

(I'm noticing they *do* engage with reblogs, so without reading the whole thing, I'd say there's probably *some* spoilers. -V)

I can't wait to take a gander at some other liveblogs - but, yes, strangely enough, some of them can still spoil the comic, even if they're even farther back than I am!

@mrjocrafter asked: Once Upon a Time, a serialized live action soap opera / fantasy show with a batshit convoluted plot on par with Homestuck (i highly recommend it) has this concept called The Author, who's an individual blessed/cursed with the power to rewrite reality by literally writing in book(s), but if this power is suppressed, overpowered, or lost, the wielder is just some guy with a pen/quill. This is how I like to think of character!Hussie in Homestuck.

I've actually been watching a Once Upon a Time retrospective series on YouTube, and it's been an enjoyable watch so far. I even checked out the first couple of seasons myself - and, yes, batshit is exactly how I'd describe the average day in Storybrooke. Why the fuck wasn't it in Kingdom Hearts?

Anonymous asked: Yo so i was just rewatching Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency and i was thinking since you like homestuck you should watch that if you haven't seen it already. Similar vibes. It's super excellent, it stars Elijah Wood. It did get cancelled after season 2 which sucks but each season is its own story with its own resolution. The stuff they were setting up for season 3 looked so dope tho, it's so tragic i'll never get to see it. It's the only thing that gives me the same feeling as homestuck. I don't want to like, say what it's about cuz like homestuck i think it's best to just jump in blind. If you have already seen it i'd love to hear your thoughts.

I haven't seen it myself, but I know the book it's based off. Dirk Gently shares an author with one of my favourite series, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, so I feel like the show is probably up my alley too. Will definitely add it to the list!

Anonymous asked: Community is a sitcom about a study group at a community college. I recommend it, it's got a wit to it that I think you'd like.

I've seen a couple of clips of Community, but it didn't really click with me. That said, it's hard to judge the overall quality of a show from just a handful of clips, so I may give it another chance.

@manorinthewoods asked: There's a further benefit to the three-year time skip; it'll bring the characters roughly in line with the IRL time movement. April 2009 -> November 2011 is five months off the three-year timespan - which is sensible, since you need that time to actually write the story. Five months is. Probably a reasonable expectation, from the outset, for how long it might take to progress to the end of the timeskip - but, of course, this is a webcomic, and webcomics are very well known for taking absolutely ages to write. ~LOSS (29/4/25)

If that's true, and Hussie is timing things so that the kids emerge in November, then they're kind of playing with fire here.

I mean, committing yourself to maintain a consistent posting schedule for five months? Couldn't be me, is all I'm saying.

[theballadofthesunandthestars]

After reading SOTR, it was so refreshing and heartbreaking to read from the point of view of a character who loves so openly. Haymitch bleeds love everywhere he goes; not just for the obvious people like Lenore Dove, or Sid and Ma, but for everyone.

His complete and utter adoration of Lenore Dove? How her flaws, her recklessness and impulsiveness just makes him love her all the more. How he can’t always keep up with her, but he doesn’t resent her for it, just tries his best to and loves her when he can’t understand. The contrast between Snow wanting to control Lucy Gray, even going so far as to say that he wishes she was back in the Arena so he could know where she was, and Haymitch wanting nothing more for Lenore Dove than to be free, even trying to tell Lenore Dove to move on from him when he dies in the Arena.

The way Haymitch expresses such adoration for Hattie, how he admires her hard work and hugs her when she gives him his birthday gift. How he tries to protect her during the Interviews.

Haymitch’s love for his family; how he finds them annoying sometimes, but he loves them. He ruffles Sid’s hair and takes on the role of his father, how he lets Sid drag him out on a clear night to look up at the stars. He hugs his Ma and speaks of her with admiration for her work, even as he’s just as annoyed by her work ethic.

Louella McCoy, who crushed on Haymitch for a week, and it just endeared her to him, made him fiercely protective of her. He never looked down on her for being childish, and he did everything in his power to get justice for her.

Lou Lou, whom he despised at first, only to love her anyways. He didn’t even know her real name, didn’t know anything about her except that she was from Eleven and that she was recording what they were saying, but he loved her anyways because he can’t help it. It spills out of him. He protected her and tried to make her death quick, tried to get justice for what happened to her just as much as he did Louella.

Wyatt, Maysilee, and Effie are my favorite examples of how Haymitch sees the flaws in people, but loves them anyways, embraces them even. Wyatt Callow, who he started by resenting him for his father’s gambling practices, only to grow to love Wyatt for his quick wit, then to mourn him when he was killed on the first day. Maysilee Donner who was spoiled and mean in his eyes, yet he could still see her rebellious and determined nature, her kindness for the other Tributes as she wove their tokens, and he held her hand as she died, cementing her in his mind as his sister. Effie Trinket, who despite her Capitol upbringing, despite her parroting Capitol propaganda lines, Haymitch can’t help but notice her empathy and kindness, and she becomes the only one who can seem to care for him after his Games.

Every single Tribute that he adopted as his own, his flock of doves. He never once thought about winning over any of them, choosing instead to do everything in his power to protect them. He kept the fire running and made nightlights for the young Tributes who feared the dark. He tried to play it cool when meeting with Amphert, but when Amphert hugs him, he just drops the act and hugs him right back. He stayed with Wellie and helped to feed her the best he could, reassuring her the whole time and strategizing how he was going to make her the Victor. He blamed himself for every one of their deaths.

Fuck, even the rabbits in the Arena he becomes fond of. He viewed them as allies and felt guilty when he had to use them to determine what was poisoned.

Haymitch Abernathy loves hard and fast. And that’s what Snow took; his ability to love. He trapped Haymitch into the rascal persona he had put on for the Games. The message he sent with Lenore Dove and Ma and Sid and every single Tribute who Haymitch couldn’t save, was that he would kill anyone Haymitch loved. So he drove people away from him. Forced distance between him and the District Twelve tributes. I think that didn’t even stop him from loving them too, only to watch them killed in the Arena. A yearly reminder of that message.

I hope after the revolution, Haymitch felt free to love without fear again.

[elodieunderglass]

Derek 📻

(OC musical ask meme - original character Derek, a nice gay American software engineer who probably paints gaming miniatures in his spare time)

Derek doesn't have his own playlist for some reason, and I tried quite hard to direct this to something else. Anything else.

But this guy just doesn't really care about being "cool" or "recent" or "having good performative taste in music." he likes what he likes.

SIGH.

I'm sorry. guy's got no sense of indie cool. "but it's so overplayed, derek," we say sadly, wincing, and he goes Yeah, that was me. It's overplayed because I played it too much.

and we're like "but you're gay, Derek, you can do better," and he's like: Yeah! but I like it. you didn't ask for your musical horizons to be expanded, you asked me for a random song.

The Magnetic Fields - The Book of Love

The book of love has music in it In fact that's where music comes from Some of it's just transcendental Some of it's just really dumb. But I I love it when you sing to me And you You can sing me anything.

I give up. I give up! I wash my hands of him.

[strwberri-milk]

Hello!! If it's okay to ask for characters from different media (and if you still do genshin lol) I was wondering if I could request headcanons for Diluc and Sylus about sharing a bed with him for the first time.

I gotta be honest, I have no idea about the story of lads but you made me love these guys from the way you write about them ♡

:D im glad you like my perception of the lads guys so much you love them without playing the game LMAO im very flattered <3

Diluc is a little shy and awkward about it. You can't tell because he has a killer poker face but his hands are a little clammy and he won't stop touching his hair for some reason. He combs it over once, then twice, than another time when he thinks you aren't looking. He's just trying to keep himself busy, not sure if he's really ready for this.

You don't notice until he's actively trying to find things to do to avoid going to bed at the same time as you. Again, it's not obvious but when you watch him pull out a letter opener just to re-open a contract he already signed earlier in the day you figure out what's happening.

You tell him it's fine if he's a little nervous about sharing a bed with you. Hell, you know you're a little nervous about it as well. But that doesn't mean that you have to hide it from him. The two of you decide to take things even slower, just chatting and getting into bed together. The added distraction makes it easy but Diluc also isn't too sure about grabbing for you. He decides instead to just lay near you, a respectable distance between the two of you until the middle of the night. His body instinctively looks for yours, pulling you into his arms and keeping you there for the rest of the night.

Sylus doesn't tend to sleep the same time you do so you also will have to coordinate actually going to sleep with him. If you either manage to "schedule" going to bed together or manage to catch him during one of the rare times where he's going to sleep at the same time as you, he'll simply open his arms up to you.

He doesn't say anything. The invitation is clear even if you've never spoken about it with him before. Even if you have, he doesn't want to assume you haven't changed your mind. He'll let you back out if you want to, an easy expression on his face as he waits for you to crawl in.

He holds you like he's cradling you, arms wrapped securely around your form. You're kept against his chest, Sylus' breathing steady against you as you fall asleep. It really takes no time in his arms, just being in his presence comforting enough for you to fall asleep in no time.

[shakarianminibang]

Fic summaries for the Shakarian Mini-Bang 2025 are now open for viewing!

For the next few days, everyone will be able to look at the summaries and snippets the authors provided, before artist claims open on May 15th — that way, artists will be able to get familiar with all the fics without feeling too much rush.

The fic list can be found under the cut:

1. Between Breaths | rated T

Garrus Vakarian isn’t attracted to humans, but step by step, bit by bit, he comes to care for one human in particular, until in the moment from one breath to the next he realizes he’s in deeper than he’d ever thought possible.

Which makes the betrayal all the more painful.

A look into the development of Garrus’s feelings for Shepard, interspersed with the loyalty mission as an experiment in non-linear storytelling.

Hunting a rogue salarian geneticist with the backing and blessing of a Council Spectre was, as it turned out, liberating. “Garrus, back down.” Up to a point. Garrus’s hands tightened on the grip of his sidearm. The plates of his hardsuit gauntlets groaned in protest at the strain. His breaths came short and fast. “We have him right here,” Garrus growled, frustration slipping into his sub-vocals. “If we hand him over to the Citadel he’ll just get away again.” Not two meters away, the salarian in question shook in his shoes, vitals spiking in the display on Garrus’s visor, eyes darting around the room as if seeking an alternate exit not blocked by a krogan. He wasn’t likely to find one, but Garrus couldn’t take that risk. Couldn’t.

2. A Quick One (No Children) | rated E

Hours before the galaxy’s final stand against the Reapers, Garrus spaces out while watching a live feed of Palaven, causing him to recall both his distant and recent past. He is interrupted when Shepard returns to his post, asking him to sneak off with her for some alone time. The two run off to a private corner of the Alliance base to have sex, but more importantly, pretend they have a chance at a normal life afterward. Inspired by De Selby Part 1 by Hozier.

This is a melancholy / bittersweet love story told from Garrus’s POV. It is a single chapter and contains an explicit sex scene in the second half. Garrus and Shepard are the only main characters, but a few canon and original characters appear on the sidelines.

A tremor ran through Shepard’s body. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Can we just pretend we have a normal life like a normal couple?” Garrus could’ve sworn her already glowing facial scars flashed brighter for a second. “Just this once. Please.” Dread settled into Garrus’s stomach. Shepard was about to lead the most important attack in the history of every sentient lifeform in the galaxy. Sure it wasn’t just her doing the fighting, but she was the one going into the belly of the beast. She needed to be at the top of her game. This was the worst possible time for an existential crisis. If she goes out there like this, there’s a good chance she…might…not… No. Not going to even think it.

3. R&R | rated E

After the end of the war, Garrus and Shepard need to learn how to deal with a lot of things: her mom, living on Earth and recovering.

Thankfully for both of them, being with each other once again for the first time in months isn’t one of them.

“Okay, yeah. I needed that,” Shepard says, not being able to keep herself from laughing as she does so, and, at that, Garrus can’t help the laughter that escapes from the back of his throat. Then, he presses one, two, three more pecks on her cheek, temple and lips before pulling away. “Told you so,” Garrus says, and if he had been feeling insecure about his skills as a lover seconds ago, it sure isn’t the case anymore. Smiling at her, he starts stroking her arm. “You should listen to me more often.” “I do listen to you,” Shepard says, and Garrus can’t help the scoff that escapes the back of his throat. “But I do! Sometimes.” When Garrus doesn’t say anything else, she continues speaking, “Hey, I said I listen to you. That doesn’t mean I’m going to do whatever you want me to.”

4. composed of nows | rated M, 45k words! | CW: suicide attempts, blood and gore, body horror, minor character death, alcoholism, M-rated smut

After Shepard destroyed the Crucible, the energy expelled from the blast changed her. She's immortal, any trace of aging is stuck in some sort of perpetual stasis, her body is incapable of being injured-- and what's more, she seemed to consume the blast, which threatens to hurt everyone around her in uncontrollable attacks. She left Garrus in the middle of the night in an attempt to save him from (whatever the hell) she's turned into, and never looked back.

Nineteen year later, and Garrus is a shell of what he once was. He drinks too much, he has too many ex-wives, and not a single turian in their right mind would pay him any respect, including his own crew. What was supposed to be a routine mission to a fringe colony turned into something unexpected when he picks up an SOS signal from a shuttle. What he wasn't anticipating was for it to be Shepard-- which the shock lasted for only a few moments, before a blast came out of her body that killed half his crew.

As the explosion knocked them off course, Shepard and Garrus must find a way to cohabitate after nineteen years of scorn. If Shepard is just going to leave again, then Garrus wants no part of it. And if Garrus had moved on a long time ago, Shepard sees no reason for forced civility.

But what both of them did not anticipate was that maybe, in nineteen years, neither of them changed all that much to begin with.

Her hand made a move to cup his cheek. He took a step back, his carapace rattling the wall of cabinets behind him. More than anything, he was annoyed that the one part of his body that housed any sort of self-preservation instinct was his legs. “Don’t bother,” he said, his cheek now so cold it was as if someone had slapped him with a shard of ice. “Especially if you’re just going to leave again.” “And if I don’t?” she whispered. “What then?” She was close. She was so close that he could count all of the freckles on her skin, like stars in the sky. Except he got bored of outer space-- Claire, he’d never tire of. He never really got art before he met her. Afterwards, he still didn’t, because nothing in those galleries ever compared to her.

5. Falling Slowly | rated M | CW: very mild descriptions of injury

Everyone knows the story: man meets woman, woman recruits man, man and woman fight existential threat, woman and man begin awkward interspecies romance, woman saves the galaxy (possibly ending in tragedy).

But what does it take to have a happily ever after?

This triptych of vignettes takes place during three different time periods (ME2, ME3, and 25 years after the war respectively). Inspired by Richard Linklater's "Before" series of films, "Falling Slowly" is told primarily through intimate conversations and wanderings, depicting the small, but meaningful moments that build intimacy. It is a portrait of a relationship at different stages: from its beginning, to its deepening, to its eventual challenges and reckonings.

As an emotionally honest slice-of-life, “Falling Slowly” brings readers closer to the heart of one of Mass Effect's most beloved pairings.

“Last real long term girlfriend I had, I was 23. Thought that was it for me. I was crazy about her. Turned out she felt the same way too…just about some other guy. It ended when I walked into a bar and caught them canoodling in the corner booth.” Shepard sucks her teeth. “That’s rough.” “Got a dose of cold, hard reality that day. Never really worked up the nerve to try much after that.” “I’m sorry that happened to you. Must have hurt a lot.” “What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. Isn’t that what you humans say? Though, I prefer the old turian version: ‘weapons are forged in fire’.” He looks up, his eyes alert and steely. “As far as qualities go…a lot of things come to mind. Brains? Savvy? Principles?” He lolls his head toward her. “A nice waist doesn’t hurt.” She smirks. “Uh huh.”

6. in burning red | rated T | CW: discussions of grief and loss, alcohol use

The fic is told in three parts: First, following the destruction of the SR-1, Joker crashes at Garrus’s apartment and introduces him to old noir detective films. Garrus is fascinated by the femme fatale characters, noticing that they all wear red dresses. Joker tries to call Garrus out on his attraction to human women but Garrus doesn’t really have a response because he’s too busy trying (and failing) not to think about Shepard being gone.

Two years later, Garrus walks in on Shepard and Kasumi trying to find a dress for Shepard to wear to Donovan Hock’s party. Shepard, still not coping well with her death and resurrection, looks miserable, and Garrus gives her advice on how to blend in to the party while also struggling with some complicated feelings. Before he leaves, he suggests that she wear a red dress.

Later, Garrus comes up to Shepard’s cabin expecting to hang out and watch movies, only to find her wearing a red ball gown. Seeing her in the dress makes him realize that he has feelings for her, and helps him to fully come to terms with the fact that both of them have survived the last two years. He helps her put on an accessory she can’t put on by herself, and then leaves before he does something dumb like kiss her.

She reached out for the bottle still gripped in his hand and he passed it to her silently, holding his breath at the jolt that ran through him when her fingers grazed his. All of this was new – the way he suddenly couldn’t keep his eyes from her when she charged across the battlefield, the fact that he was always making up excuses to seek out her company. It was so distracting. He should be focusing on something important, like tracking down Sidonis or figuring out how to break the news about his ruined face to his sister. Instead, he watched the way that Shepard‘s smile cracked just on the edge on shattering, and fantasized about a galaxy in which he had never been forced to learn to live without her. “They know who I was,” she said softly. “Legally, I’m still dead. Not one person in that room is going to look at me and think, ‘Oh wow, the magically resurrected Commander Shepard has invited herself to this party.’” “I did.”

7. Katabasis | rated T | CW: corpse eating, thinking about parental death, canon-typical violence, space insect swarms

Earth is in a strange state in the weeks after the war. Rachni roam the rubble of fallen cities, serving in a search and rescue role. Medical supplies are strained, and local tensions mount between local humans and the alien armies parked on the planet.

Desperate to find answers for Commander Shepard's comatose condition, Garrus decides to do one thing he never thought thought he'd do: go to the Rachni for help.

He was getting lightheaded. Not much time before he would pass out. He found her curled over a carefully arranged pile of ruby-red eggs, chirping something pink and orange to them. Two brood warriors stood at either side of her, waving their antennae warily, resplendent in a biotic glow. “Please,” he rasped. His voice didn’t sound like anything. “I need to speak to your mother.” The Queen drew herself to her full height and turned her attention to him. A brood warrior flicked an antenna, and Garrus was pulled from his feet, into the air, suspended between the two brood warriors and before the Queen. Mouth height.

8. Consumed Memories | rated T | CW: Themes of starvation explored, mentions of suicide, mentions of cannibalism in several chapters, and invasive medical interventions in one chapter.

A steaming mug of darorn fruit, the hum of a bustling market, the crispness of an unworn uniform—mundane details, yet they all pull Garrus back to Shepard. All he has are fragments of their time together, haunting him in the silence of space, not knowing whether she’s dead or alive.

This story is told through Garrus' nonlinear memories, as he commands Normandy in the aftermath of the Reaper War. Six months of a perilous journey, the crew faces the harsh realities of survival in a post-war-torn galaxy. With the Mass Relays destroyed, the Normandy's FTL drive is their only lifeline, and every day is a struggle against dwindling resources and the unknown.

Interwoven with memories of love and comfort, past adventures, missed opportunities, and the weight of unspoken words, Garrus brings Shepard back to life in his mind. But with each passing day, the possibility of a future without her becomes more real and ever more painful.

“I guess meaningless statements have their uses, easier to hide behind than well-” “The truth.” Shepard finished, inhaling deeply. “Your turn to talk.” “Fuck you,” Shepard laughed without the smile reaching her eyes. “I had the shot lined up right between Alenko’s eyes,” she paused, pushing loose red strands from her face. “I’m riding on a thin edge, Garrus, I can’t keep holding guns up to old friends. I just-” she sighed and collapsed into him, her warmth pressed into his side. “What matters is his name didn’t have to join Ash’s.” “I know, but I don’t know if I can handle it when we're out of room.” “We’ll handle it together.” __ Countless names surrounded Garrus at the memorial wall. The sheer volume of text overloaded his translator, blurring and washing away their meanings. He focused on one name, waiting on a long, sleek metal in his grip—Commander Shepard.

9. Strategic Displacement, or, Lead You Home | rated T | CW: being buried alive and referenced flashbacks to prior trauma

On the way to the Spire on Tuchanka, accompanying Mordin to disperse the genophage cure, Garrus and Shepard find… an alternate route. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say an alternate route finds them?

Strategic Displacement is a short, self-contained fic exploring Garrus' and Shepard's relationship with the concepts of lost and found: getting lost, being lost, finding themselves, finding each other, and finding meaning and answers after losing hope. It is set during the Priority: Tuchanka mission of Mass Effect 3, and features no other characters heavily, although several are mentioned or appear in passing. It varies between banter and serious conversation as they work to escape a dangerous situation that has no clear way out.

There was no way to go but up. That much was simple. The only problem was that they’d already heard three Reaper ground troop patrols over their heads, and there’d been two more smaller rockslides since they started up the way they’d come. After the second, which had required Shepard’s cybernetically enhanced strength to shove them both out of the way and into an alcove, Shepard had declared they would no longer try to climb the pile of scree they’d brought down with them. They would make their way through the ancient tunnels of the buried city, instead. Naturally, that had resulted in their becoming hopelessly lost. He exhaled a breath that puffed out his mandibles, squared his shoulders, and followed his CO (and girlfriend) further into the darkness. [No need to worry. We get into—and out of—hopeless situations all the time. This is just another Tuesday.]

10. Carte Blanche | rated M | CW: violence and some dark themes (not sexual content)

When Shepard finds a half-dead turian in Omega’s slums, she doesn’t expect to recognize him from a ship she served on years ago: a ship that disappeared without a trace, of which she believed herself to be the only survivor. And as she dragged the body out of the skip, she hoped no one would ever ask her why she saved Garrus Vakarian’s life. She couldn’t say "Because the implant in my head wanted me to"—nobody could know about EDI, the biggest AI experiment she was unwillingly partnered with in the mission that was taking her across the galaxy. But mostly, she hoped no one would ever ask why she saved Vakarian because even as she lumbered off to find a doctor with him draped over her shoulders, she still didn’t know why herself. (Mass Effect/Imperial Radch fusion fic)

Vakarian planted himself on the edge of the bed, still eyeing her warily. He slapped her hand away when she silently raised an arm to help him back into his sling, awkwardly adjusting to do it alone. He resettled his mandible and winced. Shepard sighed. She should have caught the shuttle out of here half an hour ago, so why was she still here? He had been part of the crew, and EDI wanted to save him. But had this urge really come from the AI or just herself, an old captain’s sentimentality not quite out of her system? “You’re supposed to keep your jaw still till the bones heal,” she recalled. “Though I’m guessing that’s a lost cause. And you have to eat non-chewables for a while.” Vakarian groaned. “Says who?” “Says the doctor I paid four grand to treat you.”

11. A Planet of Lights and Forms | rated T

In the wake of the Collectors’ defeat, Shepard has traveled to Illium for a brief respite. It’s only a matter of time before the Reapers arrive, and only a matter of time before she must return to Earth to face the consequences of her actions. In the meantime, she’s eager to live in the present, and even more eager to spend as much time as possible nurturing her relationship with Garrus.

But even the most mundane plans can go awry when you lead a crew of miscellaneous alien species, and on their first day docked on Illium—on Shepard and Garrus’s first date on Illium—bureaucracy strikes. Grunt can’t be paid for helping them defeat the Collectors if he doesn’t have a bank account, and he can’t get a bank account without ID. Who’d have thought that a tank-bred krogan “birthed” on a starship would have difficulty in Illium’s hellish administrative landscape? Apparently, not Shepard.

Helping Grunt will come at a cost. Not only will Shepard need to cut her date with Garrus short but she’ll also need to confront the consequences of her past and the part Garrus might play in her future.

Odiosa’s lips pressed together. “You said he was only a couple weeks old?” “Give or take.” She nodded. “We’ll mark the date as today. Name?” “Grunt,” Shepard said. Grunt grunted. Odiosa paused, eyes narrowing. “Uh, name?” “Grunt. My name is Urdnot Grunt.” The asari’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Ah. Apologies. Parents?” “Don’t have any.” Grunt rolled his eyes, then folded his arms across his chest. “I came from a tank, remember?” “Is Urdnot not a family name?” Grunt huffed. “It’s Urdnot. Not Urdnotnot.” Her brow furrowed in confusion “Yes, I— Is Urdnot a family name?” “No, it’s my clan name.” Odiosa sighed, though it sounded more like a groan. “All right. Never mind that. Is there anyone else that could be listed as a parent?” Her eyes flicked expectantly between Shepard and Garrus. “My line descends from Shiagur, Kredak, Moro, Terg, Wrend, and Veeoll. Can you list them?”

12. The Plan | rated M | CW: cursing; very vague mentions of sexual stuff; mentions of death, injuries and war; slight PTSD mentions

After resolving galaxy-threatening crisis, Shepard has to face a brand new challenge - meeting turian in-laws. Despite Garrus' perfectly calibrated plan for a nice day out with his family, every stage of it goes wrong, wrong, and then wrong once again. Will these three wrongs make at least one right? God, they hope so.

“I feel honored to have such a thorough background check done. When it comes to you, Commander, I’m unhappy to report I had to rely just on the news.” “Well, I’m unhappy to report they constantly give me too much credit.” “Credit? Hell, I apparently can’t keep up with all the pieces coming out about you. But I was practically glued to the screen during your six months on Earth.” He cracked a first smile after that. Shepard realised she was at war with this individual. She was at war with alternate dimension senior Garrus with different markings and rougher voice. She was at war with C-Sec legend. She was at war with an asshole committed to… to do what, exactly? Make her lose it? Make Garrus break up with her? What possible goal could be in his power to achieve and what did Shepard have to do to win?

13. Fractured Continuum | rated M | CW: Major Character Death, Graphic depictions of violence, Suicide, Mental deterioration

Garrus dies on Earth.

Killed by a banshee that was aiming for Shepard. It should have ended there.

But instead, he wakes back up on Omega. No wounds, no scars, and very much alive. The reapers haven’t arrived yet, the galaxy isn’t at war and Shepard is still alive. No one seems to remember anything.

Except for him.

Each time he dies, he resets to the same point, with nothing but his memories and a splitting headache. He tries to figure out how to break the cycle, even escape it entirely. But there is no remorse, only the same outcome every time.

At first, he fights to save the galaxy and escape the cycle. But slowly, between laughter over coffee in the mess and the hum of late night confessions, his relationship with Shepard changes.

Realising his actions can alter the events, he begins to influence them. But each loop seems to come at a cost. He is mentally deteriorating and he can’t quite remember the details anymore. Along with dissonance of falling for someone who doesn’t know you’ve already fallen hundreds of times before.

Eventually he uncovers the way to end the loops and is forced to address his shifting priorities. Until Shepard confronts him and forces him to face the question he’s been too afraid to ask: Is he trying to end the war, or just hold onto her a little longer?

Told in fractured slices of life and action juxtaposed with melancholic moments of softness.

Shepard was standing, pistol in hand. Aiming straight at his head. Garrus blinked. The fish tank gurgled. Shepard didn’t move. That look in her eyes, the ‘don’t fuck with me’ stare he knew well. He’d never seen it directed at him though. And he didn’t like how steady her hand was. He gave a half laugh, at the absurdity of the situation. “What are you-” “I didn’t want to believe it.” She cut across him, her voice steady. But Garrus could detect the note of anger concealed under it, cold and unwavering. “Javik has been telling me for months that you were indoctrinated. I didn’t want to believe it. I thought he was just crazy, paranoid. But now…” “Shepard?” Another laugh, a little more nervous than before. “You can’t be serious. Come on, this is me we're talking about.”

14. Beneath Palaveni Stars | rated M | CW: Violence and sexual content

Shakarian AU! Turians as ancient Romans set in the wilds of Palaven. Lots of world building and trekking through a fantastical landscape. Relationship is adversaries to friends to lovers. Featuring POVs from Shepard, Garrus, Ashley, and Nihlus Kryik. Rated M for violence and sexual content:

Humanity’s discovery of the prothean cache on Mars has propelled them forward centuries, opening the vast relay network and uncharted worlds. Both government and private enterprises are keen to explore and expand, with an emphasis on gathering more prothean relics and unlocking their mysteries. But when the Cerberus Science Expedition lands on an alien world, Commander Shepard and her security force get more than they bargained for when an artifact activates…

Imperial Investigator Garrus Vakarian feels smothered by his overbearing father, and the constraints of his position. Looking into reports of falling stars at the Temple of the Titans sounds like a reprieve from dull assignments, but when Garrus encounters a goddess and then becomes stranded with her far from home, he learns there is so much more out there than life in Cipritine.

He’d called himself an investigator if the word had translated right, but he clearly knew how to handle himself in hand-to-hand combat. He was dangerous. Judging by the way he kept her in his periphery, he seemed to think the same of her. “I think we’re in the Vas Sea,” he said after a moment. He shook his head. “I don’t know how that’s possible, though. The Vas Sea is nearly twelve leagues from the Temple of the Titans.” Shepard decided not to comment on the vast grove of trees being called a sea, and instead focused on the distance. “Twelve leagues?” she repeated, voice pitching higher on the last word. “How the hell did we get transported a dozen leagues from the temple?”

15. To Press Down on a Bleeding Wound | rated M | CW: canon-typical violence, non-explicit sex and sexual references, mentions and descriptions of blood and injury.

Many times through the years, Garrus has found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, injured for whatever reason. Mostly minor, sometimes major. One constant is Shepard, always there to tell him to take care of it. Or, 4 times Shepard tells Garrus to get patched up and one time Garrus patches Shepard up. Relationship progression shown through injuries.

“You don’t feel that?” she asks, craning her neck to get a better look at his with the widened cowl of his armor now removed. “You really sure it’s my blood?” Shepard hums, amused. “Confident, huh?” Her hand lands on his shoulder and presses down. It isn’t her full strength, not nearly enough to move him, but it passes the message even before she says, “Just lean over so I can check.” Garrus complies, bending just slightly at the knee towards her. From this angle, he gets a whiff of her hair—smoke and blood from Menae, but just a hint of something else. Almost woodsy, a trace of sweat. Distinctly and familiarly, all-encompassingly Shepard. He swallows, trying almost too hard not to think about that night before she turned herself in again. Her hand touches his neck once more, the tips of her bare fingers cool enough to chill.

16. Wait for It | rated E

This fic takes place during ME3, set after the attack on the Citadel. Garrus has been waiting to make his move on Shepard, but hesitates. He then hears a rumor that Shepard and Kaidan are dating, and he is heartbroken but does his best to accept her decision while giving them space and kicking himself for waiting so long.

Then Shepard invites him out to Armax Arena for an opportunity to catch up. Turns out, sometimes rumors are just that- rumors.

As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t be mad. Not really. Despite their differences, Garrus liked Kaidan. He was a good soldier, unwavering in his beliefs, even when they were unpopular or contrary to Garrus’s own. From what he had heard, though not in his personal experience, Kaidan was an attractive guy. Could he really blame Shepard for choosing him? Being with Kaidan was easy. Two Alliance soldiers, the first and second human Spectres- it worked. It made sense. And what was Garrus? Turian ex C-Sec officer turned vigilante who had somehow stumbled into becoming the leading reaper advisor. And if Shepard deserved anything after all she had been through, it was something easy. Nothing about Garrus and a life with him would be was easy. They couldn’t even eat the same foods, let along the other cultural and biological complications there could be. No, this was better. As much as it made his heart ache and his stomach clench, Garrus knew that this was the right decision for Shepard. He would always have her six, always be her staunchest supporter.

17. Stolen Glances | rated T

Garrus struggles to navigate their friendship after two long years apart. Shepard grapples with the new world she was thrust into, and how the people she once knew have changed.

Garrus is gravely injured during his recruitment, and Shepard is forced to confront how he and her friends have changed since she died. Shepard prepares for Kasumi’s loyalty mission, and in the process sends Garrus into a spiral of his own making. With the help of their friends and crewmates, the two are able to finally confront their feelings for one another, and find a little peace in the galaxy to call their own.

“Are you going up or down?” Kasumi asked. “Sorry?” Shepard answered, “The elevator. Are you going up or down?” Garrus quickly shook his head in an attempt to clear his mind. “R-right.” He looked back to Shepard, and it was only then that he noticed her new attire. His eyes travelled down from her head to her feet. Her fiery fringe was pinned back, showing off her sharp cheekbones and jawline. Her dress drew his eyes down from her neck to her chest, the necklace creating a window to her heart. The dress curved in, accentuating her waist and hips. Garrus felt blood rush up the back of his neck and quickly averted his gaze. The skirt stopped at her thighs, and her heels made the muscles in her legs more prominent than usual. 'Spirits, what’s wrong with me?'

[connorology]

maybe i’m reading too much into it (but also i really don’t believe there is such thing as reading too much into anything especially when it comes to literary analysis) but there is so much to be said about the name motif in dbh.

all three of the protagonists say “my name is___” at some point or another. names are so vital to forging your identity but they are also just about the only thing we are given without our input (at first, of course, people change their names all the time).

so i feel like this emphasis on their names ties in perfectly with themes of identity and forging your own self beyond what the people before you, the people who gave you that name, intended. which is so perfect for markus, kara, and connor because they’re finding their way outside of what they were programmed for, defying the predetermined identity they’re given.

its also notable that the contexts in which each of them deliver their “my name is___” lines are perfect for their characters.

kara falls into the name easily, saying it with a smile because the person who gave her her name is alice. she has no problem becoming what alice needs because she loves her (even though at the beginning of the game she’s been reset)

markus says his name in a moment of self proclamation. he is markus, and he will BE markus even though the world has decided they don’t want him to BE at all. they won’t take his name away from him, they won’t silence him

connor introduces himself multiple times during the narrative. where as markus and kara only have their “my name is___” moment once, connor is constantly saying “my name is connor” almost like he’s not entire sure of it, as if it’s a foreign taste in his mouth, as if he’s trying to convince everyone of who he is because he himself doesn’t know. he’s caught between worlds, between his people and cyberlife, and he’s repeating this introduction as if it will some how tell him who he is, as if he’ll glean his true identity from it. but the truth is, his identity goes beyond his name, goes beyond what has been given to him, and he must forge it for himself.

as much as i have my issues with some of the writing of dbh, i think there is such thoughtful characterization for our beloved trio in small details like this