#POV switch

[fanaticsnail]

https://open.spotify.com/artist/35l9BRT7MXmM8bv2WDQiyB?si=9utFoksgTxelGPQNegKVtg

The way she has singlehandedly plunged my mind into Zosan angst

Now, why would you do that to me, Anon? This playlist is gorgeous. In saying that, my favourite Zosan angst song is if there was initial mutual pining, but Zoro refused to make a move. He doesn't want to hurt Sanji.

Just imagine you're Sanji for a moment. You hated the swordsman at first. The way he was everything your family beat into you to be: the pinacle of masculinity all wrapped up in the broad chest of that stinky marimo. Then, almost out of the blue, you've noticed little things about him.

Has Zoro showered today? Is he wearing cologne? Why is he allowing you to borrow his sharpening steel for your kitchen knives? Why is he reclining and napping in the kitchen? Doesn't he know it's your domain? Who the hell does he think he is?

And why do you love him?

Now imagine you're Zoro. You're in love with Sanji the moment you first taunt him. He's so fun to tease, and his reactions are so explosive you simply can't get enough. You love having his face in yours, butting heads while enjoying an impromptu spar together. He's getting so close to you, it's almost impossible to not make a move now.

So why can't you? What's holding you back? Is it your solitary journey in becoming the world's greatest swordsman? It's too dangerous to bring him along, you shouldn't want to do that to him. Why do you want to? You can't. He could get hurt.

But you love him.

Now, imagine, after all that, that you're one firey, polite gentleman named Portgus D Ace. You show up out of the blue and immediately become smitten by the serviceable attitude from your baby brother's chef. He's gorgeous, and you immediately want to make a move. Is he straight, bi, gay, trans, anything else you haven't thought of? Doesn't matter. You know what you are, and you know what you want.

And what you want is Sanji.

So you flirt, and Sanji is initially taken aback by your approach. You don't pester him, you don't prod him, you are only ever always polite to him: the complete opposite to one Roronoa Zoro. And now, as you go to the kitchen and see the blonde chef completely alone in the kitchen, you can't help it. You just want to be close to him.

And Zoro has no choice but to gaze through the spherical window to the kitchen. His heart breaks as he witnesses you finally do what he has always wished he had the courage to do with Sanji. You kiss the damn cook.

So Zoro does what he knows to do when he wants to forget. He turns to the sake bottle and mourns what could've been.

NOW THAT I'VE SAID ALL THAT.

Here you go:

[hairmetal666]

Steddie Notes Part 4 (Welcome to Steve's POV)

CW//small instance that could be viewed as internalized homophobia

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3)

In the bottom of Steve’s closet is a Nike shoe box. It’s full of a year’s worth of torn notebook pages, paper menus, receipts, envelopes, sticky notes, notepad sheets, invoice carbon copies, discarded things from dnd, and whatever else they could find to write on.

It's this box that contains every bit of Steve’s heart. 

✏️✏️✏️✏️

Steve’s at the school to pick up Dustin, Mike and Lucas, but they don’t appear at 9pm on the dot like they promised. Grumbling and annoyed, Steve heads down to the drama club room.

He hears Eddie’s voice even before he walks into the room. The low baritone, all husky and threatening, sends shivers down Steve’s spine. 

Steve strides into the room, ready to berate his kids for their tardiness, but he stops literally in his tracks when he sees Eddie. Eddie looming over the table, all that long curly hair framing his face; his expression uncharacteristically dangerous, his eyes flat and promising violence.

He can’t do anything but stare, mouth shocked wide. Eddie lifts his gaze, locks it on Steve. Eddie’s looking at him with such intense command, such focus, that Steve knows he’d drop to his knees for that look, give Eddie anything he asked, everything.

He wants. So hard and so fast it makes him a little nauseous. 

Eddie’s gaze flicks away, while Steve reels from the striking clarity of feeling that rewrites the year of their friendship frame-by-frame.

Steve hardly listens, still trying to come to terms with his sudden realization, with how right it is, with how obvious it’s been this whole time. He remembers, after Starcourt, the way Eddie made him feel safe, cared for. The way Eddie calling him baby echoed for hours, days, weeks after. 

Of course Eddie doesn’t miss Steve's distraction. He leans into Steve's space, murmuring softly, “You okay, sweetheart? Sorry we ran late. Lost track of time.”

“Just tired, I guess.," he says. And he is distinctly not okay, because Eddie is calling him sweetheart and how did it take him this long to realize how much he loves the pet names? 

He tries to tell Eddie. Can’t. Too afraid of losing his friend.  He keeps going out with girls; nice girls, pretty girls, but wishes that Eddie was the one sitting beside him in the movie theater, in the passenger side of his car, across from him at the restaurant. 

Eddie…I think I really like you

You’re my favorite person in the entire world

Some days you’re the only thing I can think about

I want to wake up in bed with you everyday

I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss you

Do you like me? Yes or No

✏️✏️✏️✏️

Steve’s in the Wheeler’s basement, leaning against Eddie's shoulder, waiting for the kids to finish up.

“What are they talking about?” He scribbles at the edge of Eddie’s campaign notes.

Eddie scowls at the note placement, responds anyway. 

“Halloween costumes.” 

“Wanna dress up together, Munson?”

“No way, Harrington, I’m not dressing up as Danny Zuko for you.”

“…obviously you’re Sandy.”

Eddie makes an offended noise. 

“I could do end of the movie Sandy. But face it, baby, you’re the pretty, fresh-faced innocent and I’m the bad boy.” 

Steve strangles back the sound he wants to make when his brain supplies him with an image of Eddie in those black, skin-tight pants.

“I could be a bad boy.”

Before Eddie can reply, the kids start shouting, and Eddie climbs on the wobbling card table, clapping his hands for attention. 

“Jesus, Eds." He grabs Eddie’s ankle to keep him stable. 

“I think a trip to the pumpkin patch is in order, what say you?”

There’s a blip where the whole room stills, every single one of them, aside from Eddie, remembering rotted fields and fetid tunnels filled with Upside Down spores and demo dogs. 

“Oh, yeah, we don’t go to the pumpkin patch anymore. You know, since the tunnels—”

Steve shoots Dustin the most intense silencing looks he’s ever given anyone, which is really saying something. 

They’d agreed, back in July that they would never tell Eddie what really happened at the mall. Eddie is too good, too gentle, brimming with too much pure kindness for Steve to want him anywhere near the Upside Down.

Eddie cackles. “Tunnels, Henderson?” 

Lucas laughs, says, “He means the maze. Don’t you remember? They set it up one time a few years ago.”

“We got really lost. Took us hours to find the exit,” Dustin adds. 

“Mike cried,” Lucas says. 

“Hey! I did not!” 

Mike’s anger at fake crying about a made-up crisis is enough to have them all in stitches, even Eddie who doesn’t know it’s a lie.  

“What about that apple orchard?” Steve suggests.

Eddie pokes him in the cheek, excited. “Ooh, yes, apple orchard!?”

✏️✏️✏️✏️

The orchard is a mad dash of fighting over wheelbarrows, shrieking sprints into the trees, Steve stressing at the kids throwing themselves across branches with zero regard for personal safety. 

Eddie nearly sends him into a coronary at the ripe old age of 19 by walking down a branch like he’s doing a tightrope. 

“Munson! Get your ass down from there!”

“I’m fine, Stevie! I’ve got reflexes like a cat.”

“The hell you do!” Steve shouts as Eddie wobbles. 

“Don’t worry, baby, I know you’ll always catch me,” Eddie yells back. He winks and Steve blushes about all of it. 

“You’ll just get us both hurt,” he says right as Eddie shimmies easily back to the ground. 

“You worry too much,” he scolds. “All this beautiful hair is going to go grey,” Eddie shuffles his fingers through the strands.

“You’re a menace,” he growls. Pushes Eddie playfully away. 

They pick apples and drink cider and it’s the best time Steve’s had in a while. He kids are spread out around him, Eddie and Robin on the quest for an apple that’s perfectly red, like you could poison Snow White with it, and he’s content. Happy. 

He lets himself bask in the moment, but it’s cut short by a familiar whooping yell and the crash of Eddie Munson clinging to his back.

He groans, almost loses his footing, but quickly hoists Eddie’s legs higher against his sides.

He runs and Eddie screams, giggling, and clutches his fists into the fabric of Steve’s sweater. 

“Can’t believe you caught me, sweetheart,” Eddie says once Steve slows to a walk.

“I’ll always catch you, Eds,” he promises.

Eddie makes a little noise, almost like a whimper, pressing his cheek against Steve’s.

And for just a second, the barest hint of a moment in time, Steve swears he feels Eddie’s lips pressed against the sensitive skin right beneath his ear. 

It’s right then that Steve knows he doesn’t just like Eddie. No, he’s positively, totally, and completely in love with him.

(Part 5)

Thank you all so much for your comments and reblogs and likes! I appreciate it more than I can say and am still so honored that so many people like this little series. Please let me know if I missed you in the tag list, and I'll make sure to get you added for future updates (I think we're looking at 3 more)!

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[wanderinginksplot]

Gar Cabur - Chapter One (Alpha POV)

Hello, friends! This was a request made some time ago that I couldn't help but write. I hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 3,900

Warnings: social confusion, descriptions of alienation, descriptions of overworking and burnout, Alpha being grumpy as ever.

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Masterlist

---

“It was nice to meet you, Captain.”

With that, the nattie stacked her tray and hurried out of the mess hall, a crease forming between her eyebrows. Alpha scowled at the empty table. He had already finished his meal and there was no reason for him to stay now. Not that there really had been before. What did he care what some nat-born thought of him and his motivations? 

Even if she had turned out to be far more perceptive than he had given her credit for.

Alpha pushed the whole situation out of his mind and stood. It was high time he returned to his ARCs. They were about halfway through their training and doing well. They were actually doing better than most, but he would never tell them that. Knowing wouldn’t do their motivation any favors.

As he started back toward the training areas, Alpha’s mind was deeply involved in the intricacies of ARC training. There were dozens of things he could change in a single scenario, based entirely on how the ARCs reacted to certain situations. It led to countless options for their training, which meant Alpha’s full focus needed to be on the men and their needs. 

So why was he struggling to get you out of his mind?

It didn't matter, he told himself sternly. The Kaminii didn't keep him here to figure out the motivations of civvies with no stake in the war. He had ARC training to plan. Drift had come up with an irritating habit lately- Well, most of Drift's habits were irritating, but this one might actually interfere with Alpha's training plans…

It was your eyes, Alpha decided. They had been focused on him: studying, analyzing, and eventually drawing conclusions he would have guessed were beyond an untrained nattie. More importantly, you had been right. 

He hadn’t been expecting that. He hadn’t been expecting anything about the way you had turned out to be. He had just seen the Republic’s administrator in the mess hall and took the chance to chase away two of the cadets. It was a chance for some rare entertainment, followed up by one of Alpha’s favorite activities: making nat-borns uncomfortable.

He had thought you would stammer, maybe scrape up some poor attempt at conversations. Civvies were never good at making conversation with clones, especially ones as imposing as Alpha. He knew what he looked like, but there was a cultural difference between Kamino and the rest of the galaxy. The clones saw him and knew he was a fighter, a survivor. Something about his height and the scars on his face left civilians staggered. 

You were clever, fast thinking and sassy when driven to rash speech. But then those eyes had dimmed as your attention focused inward. Alpha had no idea what he had said that had made such an impact.

Drift, he reminded himself. That stupid di’kut needed some motivation to focus on his training or he was going to end up…

That was a lie, wasn’t it? Alpha had a perfect memory, just like all of the Alpha class ARCs. He knew exactly what he had said that made you retreat inside of yourself: “You’re the first human female he’s ever seen. The first any of them have seen. They’re bound to get a little stupid.”

He knew exactly what he had said - the real question was why the simple statement of fact had made you react the way you had.

Nat-borns. Who knew what was going to set them off? 

That was it, then. There was no way of deciphering why you had been hurt by his statement, so there was no use wondering about it. Alpha was going to put you out of his mind and concentrate on his work. 

Would he see you again? 

Irritated sighs were a talent of Alpha's, but it was rare they were directed at himself. As far as he could remember, this was the first time. If his mind was going to refuse to stay disciplined, he would go along with it. He could have the rest of this trip to the training area to mull you over, then he was going to focus. 

To his shock and displeasure, Alpha wasn’t able to cut himself off as easily as that. He was still frowning as he thought about the interaction when he stepped into the ARC training area. 

The trainees fell in line without a single stupid comment - unusual for them. Alpha's scowl grew more pronounced. 

"Did you di'kutla men do something stupid?" he demanded, widening his stance and folding his arms over his chest. There was no answer from the line of troopers and he made an impatient noise. "That was a question, men. When an instructor asks one of those, they usually want an answer."

"I don't…" Monnk started, but paused, glancing down the line. "We don't understand the question, sir."

"I stepped in the room and you all line up without ten minutes of osik before you're ready to get started?" Alpha shook his head. "Why are you all so disciplined all of a sudden?"

"Your- you look-" Bacara said, stopping abruptly when Alpha shot a venomous glare at him. 

"I look what, trooper?" Alpha pressed.

The question was clearly aimed at Bacara, but the voice that answered belonged to Drift. “You look kaden. But not just angry. Like, really really… angry.”

The willpower it took to keep from rolling his eyes was incredible, but Alpha managed. “I am angry, Drift. For once, it’s not because of one of you idiots.”

Everyone relaxed, but Monnk looked curious. “If it’s not one of us, who got you kaden? I didn’t think you interacted with the younger cadets too often.”

“I don’t,” Alpha bit out, sighing when the rest of the ARCs looked more interested. “It was a civvie.”

“A civvie?” Faie repeated, sounding stunned. “I didn’t think the long-necks let any of them on Kamino.”

“I don’t know what she was doing in the mess,” Alpha said with a sigh. “But she’s too polite for her own good. Sits there and listens to every cadet who thinks he’s got something to say. Civvie’s gonna get eaten alive.”

“She?” Drift asked, sounding inordinately delighted. “Not only a civvie, but a nat-born female? If nothing else, she’s something different than most of them have seen before.”

“That doesn’t mean she should put up with their osik,” Neyo countered. “She’s probably here to complete some kind of task.”

“She’s writing a report,” Alpha informed them absent-mindedly. “The Republic Senate has decided they want a full accounting of the Kaminoan processes. Everything from genetic manipulation to training.”

Bacara’s eyes were dancing, but Alpha ignored it so he didn’t feel the need to put his fist through the younger man’s face. “Did she tell you that, sir?” 

“No,” he answered, begrudging the teasing that would come from the answer, but unwilling to lie. Why would he? He had done nothing wrong. “Easy enough to find out, though. There isn’t a trooper on this rock who does anything half as well as he runs his mouth.”

The way his ARCs glanced at each other, amusement clear on their faces, would normally have spurred Alpha into giving them all an extra painful round of exercises, but he was focused on other things now. Specifically, how a nat-born stupid enough to volunteer for an extended assignment on Kamino had been clever enough to see straight through him? 

Secondary to that were several other questions: how much longer would you be here? Why had he never seen you before? Were the cadets always such di'kuts or was this the first set of incidents? And why had you left so abruptly? 

The ARCs were staring at him. Alpha gave a ferocious glare. “What are you all waiting for? A ‘please’? The GAR isn’t gonna beg you to do what you’re supposed to. Next set.”

The flurry of motion distracted him, but only for a handful of minutes - not nearly long enough to clear his mind of you. 

He was going to ask you, Alpha decided. He would sit by you at dinner. You didn't eat in the mess hall normally, but the only reason you would have broken that pattern was if someone or something had convinced you to. There were good odds that you would be back for a second meal that day. He would ask you then.

With that settled, Alpha refocused his attention on turning the group of obnoxiously grinning men into ARC troopers. 

“If you’re all gonna stand there wasting time, I’ll find something for you to do,” he barked at them. “You’d better be ready to prove you aren’t a waste of Republic funds.”

The men scurried to do the exercises Alpha had assigned them and he couldn’t help the surge of satisfaction that swept through him. The ARCs-in-training were obeying orders and shaping up nicely. Beyond that, he would have an answer to the civilian conundrum in only a few hours, then he could put you out of his mind permanently.

And so it was an unpleasant surprise when you didn't show up to the mess that night.

Alpha scowled down at his empty tray. He had been sitting at the table for almost as long as the mess hall had been serving dinner and you still hadn’t shown up. Normally, Alpha was gone after only minutes, having long since eaten his food and left the crowded area. The sounds and smells of the mess hall were almost imperceptible to him now, after sitting there so long and he wasn’t happy. 

More than that. He was irritated. 

He stewed until the kaminii shut down the food distribution area. By then, you definitely weren't coming to get food and he couldn't ask you why you had left so abruptly earlier. 

Alpha paused after having slammed the scraps of his lunch into the waste receptacle, tray frozen a millisecond from being flung into the collection trough. Were you skipping meals because of him? Kark, he knew nat-borns were ridiculously sensitive, but this was a step further than even he had expected. 

He didn't even know what he had done wrong. 

It isn't me, he reminded himself ruthlessly. Not my fault some civvie took something too personally.

Even with that stern warning to himself, Alpha's irritation mixed with something disturbingly close to worry as he stomped toward your office. If you weren't there, he would navigate toward your quarters. There were only so many places you were likely to be found in Tipoca City.

If the ARCs could see him, they would ask stupid questions like how he knew where your office was. As if the kaminii would put you anywhere other than the rarely used administration hallways. A place for everything and everything in its place, he thought grimly. 

Figuring out which office was yours wouldn't be much of a trick, either. It would likely be the only one that was occupied. In fact, the only challenge Alpha expected was figuring out what exactly he wanted to say to you. He would figure it out, though. ARCs were good at thinking on their feet, and that went double for Alpha ARCs. 

As he rounded the corner into the administration hallway, Alpha saw light from under one door. He was pleased his guess about your location was right, but that pleasure turned to mild surprise when the light turned off. 

For a wild moment, Alpha thought you had figured out he was coming and turned off the light in an attempt to throw off his suspicions. The next instant, he was corrected by the sight of the door opening. You stepped through and he caught sight of your face as you turned back to check that the door had sealed behind you. 

You looked… tired.

Alpha’s irritation melted into a mild concern as he took in the circles under your eyes and the way you slumped as you started toward your quarters. His intention to demand an answer from you faded into nothingness. He would leave you to your business for the night. Maybe the next time you were in the mess hall at the same time, he could convince you to explain your thought processes. 

And then a group of cadets passed. They were close to graduation, Alpha would guess, which meant their hormones were raging. That was the reason they turned to scan your form, watching you with intent eyes and trying to convince each other to speak to you. 

Alpha’s stomach tightened as he watched the scene unfold. You were clearly exhausted - why couldn’t they see that and leave you alone? You were almost too far away for the cadets to bother, but there were a few who seemed willing to follow you in the hope of sharing a conversation. 

With a sigh, Alpha stomped in the direction you were going, trailing behind you from a distance. A single stern look from him was enough to put them back in line, walking in the other direction. The ARC trainer shook his head as he followed you. 

When you were almost halfway to the hallway where the officers’ quarters were located, you were stopped by another cadet. This one seemed to be a little younger than the others had been, but not by much. If Alpha’s guess was correct - and his guesses were always correct - he was about a year out from graduation. 

The cadet said something to you, you replied and… held out your hand. Alpha bit back an exasperated sigh as you shook the cadet’s hand. He said something that made you smile, then he smiled back, and Alpha was finally in earshot. 

“It’s good to see another face around here, especially such a nice one.”

Alpha grimaced. The cadet was half a second away from making a clone joke, the most basic form of humor on Kamino and the least-welcome. You gave an uncomfortable chuckle and Alpha decided he couldn’t observe any longer. If he had to watch you struggle the rest of the way back to your quarters, he was going to have a stroke. 

“Cadet,” he said evenly. “You know where you’re supposed to be. Is this it?”

“No, Captain,” the cadet replied, standing at attention as soon as he caught sight of Alpha. “It isn’t, sir.”

“Then go where you were told,” Alpha ordered. The cadet wasn’t old enough to be wandering around without strict orders to go somewhere or another. As the cadet scurried away with a quick salute, Alpha circled around to stand where you could see him. When the cadet was gone, Alpha looked over at you. “Why does this keep happening?”

You were watching him, eyes wide. Alpha took a moment to sigh lightly. Of course you were scared of him. You were a nat-born, and a civvie one at that. Alpha could deal with a little fear - hell, he expected that. But if you cried, Alpha was going to leave.

When you spoke, your voice was steady and even sarcastic: “I’ve been told it’s because I’m the first human female they’ve ever seen and that I shouldn’t read too much into it.”

It was Alpha’s turn to stare, then. He hadn’t expected a personality from you. To his surprise, he actually needed to fight back a grin at your sharp reply. Instead, he nodded at you. “Right.”

The urge to smile disappeared entirely as another pair of cadets passed in the hallway. They looked over at the pair of you, gazes catching on you. By the time they took the time to look at their superior officer, Alpha’s jaw was tight and his expression was murderous. The cadets hurried away and Alpha gave a heartfelt sigh. 

“I’m going to walk you to your quarters,” he decreed. He wasn’t giving you a chance to refuse. It would take you a week to get back on your own, though he softened that assessment before saying it aloud. “Maybe that way, you’ll actually get there before midnight.”

You eyed him for a moment, brow crinkled in thought. Alpha didn’t know what you were thinking about - which was the kriffing problem - but you’d better not decide to argue with him. He would argue back and then there was a chance you wouldn’t be able to handle it.

Instead, your shoulders settled a little. “Thank you.”

The two of you walked in silence for a while as Alpha tried to figure out the best way to approach his original topic. Point-blank accusations and demands seemed like a bad idea now… and he refused to consider why. He decided on honesty in the end. “I looked for you in the cafeteria tonight. Did I scare you off?”

“Of course not,” you said instantly. You didn’t even need to think about it, and some tension Alpha hadn’t even noticed eased. “I just spent longer at lunch than I had planned and had to make up for lost time.”

You had spent too much time in the mess hall? Alpha frowned. “You were in the cafeteria for twenty minutes, if that. How much time do you usually spend eating?”

“Uh, I just kind of eat while I read over documents or type up reports.”

You made it sound like a perfectly normal way to live and work, but Alpha felt the ever-present anger reignite in his stomach. Apparently, the Republic thought they had the right to push every worker to the point of collapse from exhaustion - trooper and contracted worker alike. Still, that wasn’t something he intended to share with a civvie he had just met. Maybe you were blindly loyal to the Republic. He had no intention of being court-martialed. 

With a hard-won blandness, he said, “That can’t be healthy.”

You responded with a shrug. “The Senate wants this series of reports finished within six months and I’m buried up to my eyeballs in the work. If I’m going to finish it on time, I can’t take a break, even to eat or sleep.”

“Did you tell the Senate that?” Alpha asked sharply. He hadn’t meant to - it was pushed from him by the twisting of the anger in his gut. 

You gaped as you struggled to form an answer. Alpha waited, spurring you on with nothing more than a twitch of his eyebrows. “No, of course I didn’t! They want this job finished in six months or less. How could I just ask them to let me take longer?”

“You shouldn’t,” Alpha said, watching you nod before he said, “Just tell them the job can’t be completed that quickly.”

You looked devastated by the suggestion. “But they’re expecting-”

“Kriff ‘em,” Alpha interrupted. Osik, you were going to work yourself into a breakdown if you kept up this way. He could see it having known you less than an hour. How could your supervisors not know? Unless they didn’t care. “The Republic isn’t out here working long hours and skipping meals. If they need the job done that badly, they’ll send you some help or change your deadline. You can’t keep working if you’re dead on your feet. That doesn’t help anyone.”

As he watched, your expression shifted, smoothing as you seemed to consider his point. Alpha watched raptly, wondering if he had managed to make a difference in such a short time. He wondered vaguely why he cared, but that question was a distant second in his thoughts.

“Excuse me?”

Alpha looked over to see a cadet openly staring at you. His jaw clenched at the interruption. 

“Yes?” you asked, your expression shifting into one of polite wariness. 

The cadet took a breath. “I think-”

“No one cares what you think,” Alpha said, cutting him short. He frowned at the cadet, and it must have looked as irritable as he felt, because the cadet actually took a step backward. “Here’s what I think: you’re on your way somewhere else and you’ve suddenly remembered how important it is that you get there sooner rather than later. Do I think right?”

He almost wanted the cadet to disagree, to argue, but the trainee nodded. “Uh, right… sir. I’ll just- I probably- I’ll see you later, ma’am?”

Alpha’s mood dropped, if possible, even further. “No. No, you won’t. Go.”

As soon as the cadet was walking away, Alpha turned and kept moving toward your quarters. If he had to start throwing cadets out of the stilt-city, he would. Though it would probably be more convenient to throw you over his shoulder and just barrel through them like a droideka. 

When you caught up to him, Alpha realized he had been muttering threats and bits of plans under his breath - though he had been doing so in Mando’a, so the likelihood of you understanding him was zero. 

“I’m going to have to escort you around this place, aren’t I?” he asked, feeling both cranky and somehow eager about the prospect. 

“Why-? No, that’s… unnecessary. Thanks, though.”

He watched you stammer through the polite refusal before he bothered to reply. “You’re just going to listen to every cadet on Kamino who thinks he has a shot, then? Because this is probably going to keep happening. It has to be uncomfortable for you.”

Judging from the look on your face, you were trying to choose the correct words. Alpha could have told you that it didn’t matter at all to him, but he kept that to himself. Eventually, you decided on, “It… isn’t my favorite.”

Alpha nodded. “But you’re too polite to stop them.”

You looked awkward. It was one of the more mild reactions Alpha had ever seen to his sharp stare, but your voice was tight when you continued. “Well, they have no experience with outside life. I feel like I can’t just dismiss them-”

How many times had Alpha wished the nat-borns would treat them like people instead of expendable soldiers? It figured that, the one time someone acted with consideration, it was with too much consideration? 

“Here’s my offer,” Alpha said, interrupting you yet again. “Meet me in the cafeteria at mealtimes. I’ll scare away the cadets and you don’t have to be the bad guy. After it happens often enough, the trainees will lay off and you won’t have them flirting at you every second of the day.”

To Alpha’s pleasure, you seemed to be considering his suggestion. “How long will that take?”

Alpha shrugged. There was really no way to know for sure, but he knew enough about the men to make an educated guess. “Couple months.”

You shook your head slowly, but less like a refusal and more like you were deep in thought. At last, you held out your hand. “I accept your offer, Captain.”

The title sounded odd coming from you. He took your hand anyway, marveling at your delicacy as he shook it. “It’s just Alpha. Seems like we’ll be spending a lot of time together from here on out. You might as well use my name instead of my rank.”

You were quiet for the remainder of the trip to your quarters, though you paused outside of your door. 

“Goodnight, Alpha,” you told him. “And… thank you.”

Alpha grumbled away your thanks and left for his own quarters.

---

Author's Note - I wanted to post something on Valentine's Day to thank you for your patience on Gar Cyare! Even beyond that, though, I had a few requests for new perspectives and I really couldn't help myself.

Thank you for reading and I hope you have an utterly fantastic day!

Taglist (taken from the current Gar Cyare list): @rexs-wife @sugarpuffsstuff @stargazingthenightaway @just-some-girl-92 @kimageddon @ladysongmaster @carodealmeida @adriiibell @nomercyforthewarrior @boomtowngirl @bitchylittleredhead @blck-omen @hrk-fic-recs @lackofhonor @captxin-rex @literallydontlook @salaminus @mothmanbelievesinyou @archivedreading @lucyhelena @808tsuika @ladykatakuri @echos-gal @shawtyitsyou @butterbug14 @skyguy-snips @fan-fic-favs @frietiemeloen @tsedeshgishnii @buddee @justanothersadperson93 @leotatombs @mavendeb @rain-on-kamino @itsagrimm @dancingwiththeplanets @hummellchen @theclonesdeservebetter @wolffeswife @ladyemxo @maulslittlemeowmeow @murder-of-crows-1 @ollovaemisc @rosmariner @staycalmandhugaclone @marennial @fordo-kixed-rex @murderofcrows1 @quietplaceinthestars @dinsverdika

[emeralddoeadeer]

Doe, tattoo-reveal Queen....could I get a perspective flip for Class of '78 when James notices Lily's tattoo?? 🙏

Thank you for the unusual ask, lovely Kelsey 💕 So sorry for the delay, this week ran away from me.

I expect his brain sounded much like a skipped cd, but as those didn't exist in 1978 here is James' pov below the cut.

In the distance he hears a splash, laughter singing through the air, his focus on the still water and the two bodies making their way back from the outlying rock.

Marlene stands a few feet away, maintaining a steady conversation with Dorcas and Remus while her attention bounces back to James. He feels her gaze surveying him, as it has intermittently since Sirius and Lily entered the water

“Bloody hell is that a Grindylow —"

Certain there isn't a Grindylow, James is about to turn to Marlene, curious about her sudden dramatics when his eyes fall on the scrambling bodies, one particular body, one particular patch of skin on that body.

Struck by the sight, his chest thunders, and sparks tingle in his fingers.

Black crisp lines, carved into a hip he knows the shape of, the taste of… As if that weren't distracting enough, it’s a deer. 

A doe, a deer. 

She knows about Prongs, one of the few they’d trusted that information to. His mind stutters over thoughts of why and when and what does it mean?

He needs to know the reason, he wants to be the reason. He wants to meet that deer, reacquaint himself with the soft curves of her hips.

With Sirius’ hand on his shoulder, he blinks free of his thoughts, allowing his friend to steer him along the waiting path.

“Pads, does she… did I see… was that real?”

The smile he’s met with is one of absolute delight.

[zerolostwalks]

Writing Warm Up!

What about: POV switch for Getting Carried Away 👀

XD Woooo, ok gonna limit myself to 8 sentences because I did say these are supposed to be snippets.  (Getting Carried Away)

Reggie hadn’t meant to kiss her like that. She knew he hadn’t and would have readily brushed off her surprise and teased him about his over enthusiastic gratitude if he tried to make a joke of it like she half expected him to. He hesitated though, wide eyed panicked gaze meeting hers and she couldn’t help but wonder. 

Around most people he flirted and teased and confidently played the role of jester. The times she had seen or heard about him getting flustered or losing confidence was when it turned into something real, or too close to real. 

He took an unnecessary deep breath in, feet shifting beneath him trying to pull back. Her arms tensed, not ready to let him go, not ready for him to potentially run and hide. Hoped he wouldn’t remember he could simply poof out of her grasp before she could find out just how real this was.

Writing Warm Up

[saltymarshmall0w]

Danny is "in denial" about the Waynes being vigilantes

Danny is really grateful for the Waynes taking him in and all but it’s just… it’s really obvious they’re vigilantes. Do they WANT him to find out? Why?? To join their battalion?

Hell nah. He’s already got enough going on trying to keep in check the many shades in the city.

Danny simply pretends to be oblivious about the Waynes being vigilantes. That's a future Danny problem.

It turns into Kyle levels of denial, where he ends up pretending he thinks the vigilantes are actors hired by the city to cover up all the ghosts haunting Gotham.

And obviously, the city bases them on the infamously growing Wayne family. It's so sweet of the Waynes to volunteer to dress up as their character for public appearances.

Meanwhile, Bruce has banned outright telling Danny even though it's been nearly a year of him living with them. So what if Danny glows sometimes and has full conversations with invisible people in dark alleyways, everyone has their quirks! so, the Batkids have resolved to just "accidentally" leave their mask on after patrol or make tactical plans loudly about taking down Penguin's latest scheme with Danny a room over.

-

“Is Dick coming to the Gala?” Danny asked as his head swiveled between his phone and the mirror as he attempted to tie his own tie. How did his mom always make it look so easy?

“No, he is going out as Batman tonight, since Father is unable to.” Damian responded. He may as well be blasé about their identities, seeing as Fenton was obviously both completely aware of their identities and completely in denial.

“Oh, man. Does that mean one of the “rouges” are going to attack the gala?” Danny asked, “It’s probably going to be that Two-face guy, huh? He hasn’t made an appearance in a while and his character arc with “Brucie” hasn’t made any progress in a while.”

“Nonsense, there is no predicting the mindset of a criminal like Two-face.” Damian ignored Danny’s disbelieving scoff as he maneuvered his newest brother to face him so he could take over the task for him, else they would be standing there all night. “Besides, Drake is in charge of security for the gala and will do an adequate job securing the venue. If you are afraid remain by my side where I can protect you.”

Damian tightened the tie around Danny's neck and stepped back to let Fenton pull his own collar down.

"That's very sweet of you, Dami." Danny reached up a hand and mussed up Damian's newly-gelled hair, garnering a growl and a shove from the boy. "But you should do normal kid things during the gala, like accidentally saying rude things to old ladies, or complaining about how bored you are, and don't forget to prank all the evil billionaires."

...

The “I told you so.” Danny brazenly mouthed to Damian later in the evening from where Two-face held a gun to his head was as infuriating as it was distressing.

—

(Kyle Weston is the fanon brother of Wes Weston (also a fanon character) who’s whole thing is that he believes in conspiracy theories like Wes, but doesn’t believe in ghosts at all to Wes’s frustration.)

[somewhereincairparavel]

maybe if jason's or just everyone's pov in heroes of olympus was written in the first person's, they would've been liked way more? i swear I feel like if jason's pov was written that way, it would've been way more hilarious, and would've made his dry offhand remarks alot more funny? (like say, percy's 'i said hello to the poodle' it's sort of the dry kind of thing jason says in his chapters all the time, but they're not considered funny because it's told through third person limited) and even leo's humor would've been tripled. it was, in my opinion, a wasted opportunity truly.

[blindmagdalena]

All of a Sudden, There You Are

3k. homelander x gn!reader. pining. pure fluff! an older fic that desperately needed cleaning up. rewritten for a consistent perspective and added 600-some words. gif credit. AO3 link.

As Homelander's stylist, it's your job to ensure he looks his best, whether he's saving the world or saving face in front of the cameras. After nearly a year servicing him, things between you change abruptly.

Familiarity and consistency feed a base need in all of us. So much of what is best in us is bound up in the permanence of those around us that it becomes the measure of our stability. For Homelander, there are precious few things in his life that offer him any such quality of solidarity. People come and go. It's the nature of the business that has always been his life.

He's stopped paying attention to the PA's, interns and other worker ants that rotate in and out. Their faces blend together in a bland sea of normality and mediocrity. They're little more than cogs in the machine of his contrastingly extraordinary life.

Funny, then, that you should catch his attention amidst the insectoid buzz of it all.

It happens quite abruptly. He's just sat down before a brightly lit vanity where it's your job to style his hair and makeup, as it has been for the last several months. You greet him good morning, as you do every time, but for whatever reason... He notices you today.

"Remind me, what's your name again?" Homelander asks, watching you draw a comb from your kit.

That visibly catches you off guard. You offer only a dumbfounded stare for a moment before snapping to attention, smiling sheepishly as you introduce yourself. The name doesn't sound familiar to him. Had he never actually asked? Probably not. There’s rarely a point in bothering.

He hums contemplatively. "You've been styling me for a while.”

"Yes, sir. About eight months now," you say, using the comb to begin working product through his hair. He’s fairly certain this is the most he's ever spoken to you in all that time.

That sounds like both a long while and yet no time at all. It's nothing in the grand scheme of his life, but in terms of the people he sees consistently, that puts you in a shockingly small pool of individuals. Inevitably they move on, whether by choice or because they’ve found a way to irritate him enough that he has them dismissed.

He can recall his last stylist not by their name or face, but by the way they’d always manage to spray product in his eyes. They hadn’t lasted two days. The one before that he can’t bring to mind a single detail of.

Typically humans only become exceptional to him for how they grate on his patience. You’ve somehow managed to avoid making yourself noteworthy in that regard. Before today you had served as little more than a properly functioning gear in the well-oiled machine of his life.

Now it's as though you suddenly exist to him. Blood, flesh, laughter and all.

"Gooood morning," he greets you the next day, once again triggering another flare of surprise in you. He’s aware of the strangeness of his initiation, but behaves as though he isn’t. He flashes you one of his trademark Hollywood grins.

"Good morning to you, sir," you say with an answering smile that catches his eye. You sound pleased, which tickles something pleasant in the back of his own mind. He likes how well you’re mirroring his shift in mannerism.

He waves his hand dismissively. "Please, Homelander is fine. You keep it awfully formal."

You're actually quite pretty, he notices. Not exceptionally so, not like the celebrities and figures of social influence that someone like him brushes shoulders with on a daily basis, but... pretty nonetheless. He doesn't remember you being this pretty before, and speculates while you work whether you've changed something about yourself. He cannot put his finger on what exactly that may be, though.

He’s perceptive when it comes to the things that matter. Until yesterday, you hadn’t.

You laugh sweetly, pushing your fingers through his hair. His eyes flutter shut as you do. You’re good with your hands, much better than the last stylist. He’s sure he made note of that at some point, but in the same way someone notices when a door stops squeaking. You take it for granted after the first time.

"I'm a creature of habit. Might take me a couple tries to adjust," you warn, covering his forehead with your palm as you spritz product into his hair. You never let any of that sticky crap get on his face, much less in his eyes. You take measures to ensure his comfort, even though he’s never scolded you. You seem to do it entirely out of reflex simply because you care enough to.

"Well, you've made it this far. You've got time to adjust," he says. Now that he's seen you, he finds that he doesn't care for the thought of you being gone. More than that, he starts actively looking forward to the time he spends in the chair with you. What used to be a monotonous aspect of the celebrity side of his life becomes a comforting ritual. 

The two of you chat with surprising ease, like old friends made new. He tells you about himself, vents to you about work and personal business alike. In turn he learns about you and the life you live beyond the time you share with him. It’s nothing extraordinary–not like his–but it's yours, and for some reason, that’s enough to make it interesting.

The more he grasps that you are an entire person outside of the service you provide him, the more he wants to know. He doesn’t give a fuck about your elderly cat, but he does like the way your voice changes when you talk about it. His mind drifts when you tell him these little anecdotes, and he wonders what you tell the people in your life about him. He wonders if your tone similarly changes when you do. Do you speak fondly of him? Days turn to weeks. Little by little, Homelander discerns small changes in himself. There’s a slight pep in his step these days. The sun feels a little warmer, the thrum of crowded events less irritating. His attitude towards interviews flips; even the ones he used to dread he begins to anticipate. He knows you’ll have him looking and feeling his finest. He knows that regardless of what awaits him, you’ll have something to say about it that will make it easier to smile for the cameras.

Thinking of you is sometimes all it takes.

When he has nothing on his schedule to be styled for, he sulks. On those days, he misses your laugh the most. 

He makes sure the products he keeps at home are the same as the ones you use. The smell of them reminds him of the smell of you, of your knock-off Dior perfume that fades too quickly after you apply it, which makes it just perfect for his keen sense of smell. The humble subtlety of you, your sincerity and gentleness, have become a boon against the unfeeling corporate reality of his life. On the days he does see you, he begins to miss you before he’s even left you. Now, as he walks to his next scheduled appointment with you, he’s painfully aware of the beat of his own heart. His stomach is twisting in on itself, though he isn’t hungry. If anything, he feels a little nauseous. The closer he gets to the door, the louder the cacophony inside of him becomes. Is he sick? That shouldn’t be possible, but he can’t understand what’s happening to him. Pausing just outside the door, he takes in a steadying breath.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Taking a moment to collect himself, he gives his face two quick pats on either side, shaking his head. Get it together, he tells himself, stepping into the dressing room. 

“Gooood morn–” Homelander cuts himself short, looking around the empty room. His brows pinch. He isn’t early. Pursing his lips, he takes a brief stroll about the room, clutching his hands behind his back. He peers down the hallway, cutting through the layers of wall with his vision. No sign of you on the grounds yet. He clicks his tongue. 

You’ve never been late. Unable to settle, he paces for a while. He has the thought to call you, but he realizes he doesn’t have your number. Why doesn’t he have your number? It seems such an obvious thing to have despite the fact he’s never needed it.

He’s just pulled out his cellphone to track it down from Ashley when the door suddenly opens and his head snaps up. The initial relief he feels is cut short, turning cold in his chest when the person who steps through the door is most definitely not you. “Good morning!” the woman greets him, her voice chirpy and grating in his ears. She’s not really happy to see him. She doesn’t know the first fucking thing about him. At most, she’s another sycophantic drone who’s only pleased to breathe his air. In his upset, she looks freakishly distorted, her smile overly wide and fake. His leather gloves creak as he curls his hands into fists. “Who the fuck are you?” he asks, voice as measured as he can manage it. His anger hits in an unreasonable surge, hot like lava from a volcano. This woman’s only crime is the fact she’s not you, and yet it’s enough to make him want to rip her head off her shoulders, spine and all. The woman hesitates in the doorway, her chipper demeanor flipping to a fearful one. “Uhm, my name is Lisa, I’m supposed to style you to–” “Where is my stylist?” he interrupts her, prowling towards her like a hungry predator. He says again, louder this time, voice full of anger and anxiety in equal measure, “Where the fuck is my stylist?!” “I– I don’t know!” Lisa yelps, stepping backwards from him. “I was called in as a last minute replacement! They said– they said there was an accident, or–” Homelander pushes her roughly out of the doorway, blowing past her with a frustrated growl. She hits the wall hard before crumpling to the floor like a lifeless sack of potatoes, but he doesn’t even register it. He calls Ashley, stalking down the hallway, his footfalls loud with fury. Why the fuck didn’t anyone think to tell him? “Ashley!” He snarls into his phone the second she answers. “Tell me where the fuck my goddamn stylist is.”

Homelander is at the hospital within minutes. The staff puts up a meager effort to enforce protocols, but he’s The Homelander, and after a lie or two, they eventually let him through. He hates the smell of hospitals. The sickly mix of bleach and illness, the buzzing of the fluorescent lights. They never should have brought you here. You should be in Vought’s med ward.

You should be with him. When he finds you, you’re sitting with the hospital bed halfway reclined, wearing nothing but a hospital gown. The vibrant reds and blues of his suit paint a sharp contrast to the stark white walls of the hospital room when he steps inside. You have a pudding cup in your hand, though you nearly drop it when you see him in the doorway. His hair is woefully unstyled, splayed loose in every direction from his flight. “H-Homelander,” you sputter, choking on your bite of pudding. You swallow, clearing your throat. He’s walking towards you. The closer he gets, the faster your heart beats in his ears. “What are you doing here?” “Are you okay?” He asks, blowing off your question entirely. He blinks and his vision flickers through your clothes and skin alike. He scans your body for internal damage, for broken or fractured bones. You’re not wearing a cast or anything, but he needs to be sure. You nod, clutching at the blanket, wearing your confusion plainly on your face. “Yeah, I’m okay, it’s probably just mild whiplash, but I’m getting an x-ray to be–” “You’re fine,” he breathes more to himself than to you, his relief palpable. He can hear the flustered patter of your heart clearly. With the adrenaline wearing off, he’s beginning to feel that sickly familiar feeling that he had experienced in the hallway; butterflies rampant in his stomach, battering their wings frantically inside him. His jaw feels tight, his tongue too big for his mouth. Staring at you now, frail and precious as you are in this ugly hospital bed, he realizes what’s the matter–what has always been the matter–he is deeply and incurably in love with you. “Are you okay?” You ask, taking in his tortured expression, his wildly wind-swept hair. The obvious concern in your voice and in your eyes churns his already twisting gut. “No,” he says, the response knee-jerk. Even though the room is still, he feels as though the world is spinning around him. “No, I think I’m in love with you,” he says, expression twisted up, like he’s figuring out each word as he says them. Your heart skips a beat, your breath catches in your lungs. It’s as if the words have paralyzed you. Homelander laughs. It sounds a little hysterical. 

“I’m telling you all of a sudden, but it isn’t new with me,” he says, reaching out to cup either side of your face in his gloved hands. “I love you,” he says, voice firmer now, the realization setting in fully. He looks slightly delirious with it. He’s discovered a secret that he should have known all along, that seems so obvious in hindsight. Of course he loves you, because you love him. The gentleness in your hands as you touched his face, the care in your fingers stroking through his hair far longer than both of you knew you needed to. You dedicated yourself like no other to showing him reverence in service of him, and is that not love in its purest form? And yet, you don’t look to share his elation. You look like you’ve been struck by lightning, expression wide and bewildered. You still haven’t taken a breath. Homelander’s smile falters. “What’s the matter?” He asks, tone dropping a touch. “This is good news! Great, even.” For every second that you do not speak, the beat of his heart feels heavier in his chest. Why don’t you look happy? Finally, you suck in a shaky breath. He watches you with all the intensity of a viper poised to strike.

“I…” You hesitate. You lift your hands and grip his wrists, squeezing them through the thick fabric of his gloves as if to convince yourself that he’s really there. Maybe the accident was worse than he thought. Did you hit your head? 

Panic swells in his chest. It hadn’t occurred to him you might not reciprocate. The thought makes him ill.

“I never…” your eyes turn glassy, welling with tears. “Say it!” he wants to shout, his own heart hammering loudly enough to nearly drown out your words.  “I never would have thought–or even dreamed–in a million years that you might love me back.”

love me back.

Like a dying ember roaring back to life, Homelander’s demeanor reignites, his faded smile broadening once more. 

“I realized it when I was worried fucking sick because you didn't show up,” he says, leaning closer to you. He’s brought the scent of ozone from the sky he tore through on his way to you, but all he cares about is the faint smell of pudding lingering on your lips.

He huffs a laugh. “They sent in some idiot to fill in for you. Like they could replace you. I almost tore her head off,” he says, giddy with euphoria. Your expression shifts, brows furrowing. “Wait, what? You almost-” “I’m gonna kiss you now,” he interrupts, his voice a low rumble. He can already taste you in the breaths you’re close enough to share with him, and he’s never been hungrier for anything–or anyone–in his life. You fall silent with a shiver, nodding minutely, eyes falling shut. “Please do.” His lips meet yours in a gentle press. He deserves a medal for not crushing you with the sheer magnitude of his desire. You all but melt against him, settling into his grip as smoothly as you settled into his life, his mind, his heart. When the two of you break apart, you make a breathless noise that shoots through him like a bolt of lightning. He feels hyper aware of your every sound and move.

God, how he wants to feel every part of you. 

You move your hands to touch his face and he leans into the softness of your caress. You’ve been close enough to kiss more times than he can count. The fact it’s only now occurred to him to do so seems like lunacy. Your eyes dip to his lips, your thumb brushes the bottom one. He catches it with a quick kiss and you laugh your sweet bell-chime laughter.

Pushing your hand into his hair, the wondrous joy in your expression becomes tinged with amusement. “And people wonder why I use so much gel,” you murmur, smooth the wild splay of his hair down with both hands, cupping the back of his head. Homelander smiles wide and boyishly, which prompts you to kiss him again.

“I’m not having some kind of brain bleed hallucination right now, right?” You ask quietly, the tip of your nose lightly pressed to his. He brushes his lips against yours between words. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he purrs, stroking your cheek with his thumb. Despite the ugly fluorescent lights and the dreadful hospital stench all around, you look resplendent in your joy.

He had been right. It was love that you touched him with. It had been subtle, imbued in your every movement, and for months he had soaked it up until, unbeknownst to him, he fell into it as well.

“Trust me when I say you’ll be seeing a lot more of me from now on,” he says, brushing your nose with his.

Maybe instead of tearing them limb from limb, he’ll send flowers to whoever the sorry son of a bitch that rear-ended you this morning was. Who knows how much more time he would have wasted before he realized he was utterly smitten with you.

[ceilidho]

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 2; ghoap x reader) masterlist

-

The hard part is admitting to himself that he doesn’t know how to function on leave without Ghost’s voice in his ear.

Johnny’s two days into his annual leave when that stray thought crosses his brain. Out with chums even, packed into the booth of an old pub in his hometown, the leather well-worn and a match on the telly that he half watches while one of his mates goes up to the bar to order another round for them. In between his third and fourth pint of lukewarm mild, he thinks something like, wonder what Simon’s up to.

The thought comes and then keeps coming. Keeps cropping up when he least expects. At the pub (wonder what Simon’s up to), in line at the grocery store (wonder how Ghost takes his steak), drowsily puttering around the kitchen while making breakfast (no way he wears the mask at home), listening to some guy in front of him hack up a lung at the dry cleaner (Lt’d do his fuckin’ head in if he was here), and even in the shower with his head tipped back, rinsing out the suds (wonder if he’s got a girl tucked away at home). 

Is it so unusual? Johnny can’t remember a time in his life when someone lived in his head night and day, but Ghost’s presence feels like an extension of his own these days. He’s cycled through girlfriends without a care in the world, without contemplating their existence for half as long, but they never cradled his life like a small bird in the palm of their hands and returned it safe and sound, did they?

Still, he feels it like a knot in his chest. Dreams about Ghost even; wakes up hot and hard, and scrubs his hand down the side of his face when he sits up in bed. Phantom memories of a body heavier than his weighing him down (just the duvet) and a thick hand curling around his dick (his own hand wrapped around his shaft, rubbing one out in his sleep). 

He shakes it off, but it follows him out into the real world. Looking at the door of a coffee shop and thinking absentmindedly, Ghost would have to duck under that. 

Johnny puts it out of his mind. As much as he’s able to, that is. Chalks it up to some kind of hero worship. He’s worked with superior officers before—plenty of times, hundreds of times—but there are few men of Ghost’s calibre, both in skillset and mystique. Not to mention the sheer size of the guy. And what is Johnny if not a moth to a flame?

Better not to ruminate. He casts the memory of seeing Ghost’s dick in the showers after their last mission (monstrous thing, uncut, pubes darker than the hair on his head, more than a mouthful—it’d give him lockjaw) out of his head. Doesn’t think about it. Laughs at a mate’s joke at the pub when he didn’t catch a word of it to mask the way he perked up at the sight of a wide-shoulder man until he turned around, giving Johnny a proper look at his face.

He’s not ready to think about it. Might never be able to really look at why he eats it up, why he struts around with his chin cocked just a bit higher than usual because he knows everyone else is watching him with equal parts envy and curiosity for being Ghost’s favourite. 

Then, one day, he meets a girl.

Johnny’s not winning an award any time soon for world’s best son, but he knows a thing or two. The first thing being chocolates and the second being flowers. His sisters handle the rest; they fuss about the party, get a gift certificate to the spa, send out the invites—all that fun stuff. He’s sent off for the bare essentials. Practically kicked out of the house by his oldest sister—nearly brains himself on the asphalt and tugs his windbreaker on when it’s thrown out the door after him a second later, grumbling about being the errand boy.

He picks up a box of chocolates from the corner shop (not fancy enough, his sisters will probably bitch, but that’s a problem for later) before heading down the road to the florist. There’s a bench out front stacked with tin flower vases, the only spot of colour on a dreary spring morning. He spends a couple minutes chatting with the cashier and flirting a bit halfheartedly (he thinks maybe it’ll be worth it if it gets him a discount, even five percent off) until the florist comes out from the back. 

“Jesus, who gave ye the right?” Johnny breathes, horse blinders on, vision narrowing on the object of desire coming out of the back in a linen apron and simple t-shirt underneath, scissors poking out of the front pocket. 

“The right?” she repeats back, blinking.

“To leave the house lookin’ so fuckin’ gorgeous. Glad I wasn’t driving when I passed you by—woulda been in a twenty car pile up.”

She’s not impressed in the slightest. It’s thrilling. By that point, the cashier is long forgotten. Probably not the best impression he’s ever made, but he’s made worse ones. It’s not every day he comes across an angel. Hard to be polite in front of a real life miracle. 

He wears her down over the week though, showing up each day for a new bouquet. His mam’s never liked him more, so at least there’s that. His sisters side-eye him whenever he ducks out of the house to head down the road to the florist’s, but even they know better than to bring it up and risk pissing off their mam. He interrogates her about flowers and her job, makes his presence unavoidable, a week long siege that ends with Johnny taking her out to dinner and then letting her take him to bed. 

He wakes up nestled in her cozy apartment above the flower shop, stretching out and making himself right at home. When she trades in her linen apron for a terry cloth robe and stands expectantly by the door, Johnny just grins. Shows all of his teeth. 

“Are ye just gonna use me and kick me out?” he pouts. Folds his hands behind his head and digs a foot into the sheets, trying to sink into the mattress. Little king in his castle. 

“You know, you don’t have to pussyfoot around with me. Weren’t you just trying to get laid?” she asks, brow arched. The disbelief thick in her voice makes it clear what she thinks of him. 

“No’ just some playboy, hen,” he scoffs. “I have feelings too.”

Her other eyebrow lifts. He’s tickled pink.

He plays the part well, he supposes. Lounges in bed and eats grapes all morning while she stares at him from the kitchen like he might dissipate at any moment. He’s used to leaving a false impression, like a lake that someone builds their house next to until years go by and someone says I think this was once a meteor. 

When she comes back to bed around mid morning, Johnny wastes no time pulling her up onto the bed until she plants her cunt over his mouth and sinks down onto his waiting tongue. 

Candy sweet pussy, he thinks blissfully, then says it out loud because he can never keep his mouth shut. It must tickle because she yelps and nearly pulls away from his face altogether, but he wrenches her back down, fingers digging into her ass cheeks a bit too forcefully. He’ll pay for that later. 

In the aftermath, when she collapses beside him in bed and rests her head on his chest while he plays with her hair, he itches in his skin to message Ghost. It perplexes him. They never text, he and Ghost; they don’t call, they don’t write, they don’t email. For all intents and purposes, their relationship ends at the perimeter around base, dissolves to nothing. It’s not Ghost’s fault he trickles into Johnny’s dreams sometimes. 

A week goes by. Calm the mind. He thinks of Ghost and his fingers tremble and the phone stays silent and he lets the thought go. Steady. Breathe in and out. His caryatid girl slips in and out of his sheets, hesitant always like he might leave. Johnny doesn’t know if she wants him to, wants to feel vindicated in her assumption, but of all her wants, that ranks the lowest in his mind. 

He spirals deeper into it, infatuated. She’s sweet but snippy, candy sweet with a sour kick—everything he’s ever wanted in a girl. Ever unimpressed, watching him with a small, hidden smile, amused despite herself. 

Johnny wonders if this is the universe waving its hand in front of his face. Yoohoo, missing something?

He looks pointedly away. 

It’s new, but maybe he’s like every other military man in the world, unable to go with the flow, dissatisfied with seeing where things go. He needs instant gratification, everything now-now-now, the certainty of commitment—he spills blood with everyone he knows, so why would his girl be any different?

Returning back to base is harder this time around. The last day of his leave is an exercise in restraint, tempered only by her smile when he sees her off at the door to her apartment, reluctant to leave. 

“C’mon, promise me you’ll call, hen,” Johnny mumbles into her mouth, catching her answer with a languid swipe of his tongue. His arms press her tight to his chest, digging his hands into her back pockets and giving a good squeeze, relishing in the way she squeaks. “How’m I gonna survive without ye, huh? They’re gonna have to jumpstart my heart after it gives out from missing ye so bad.”

“So dramatic. You have my number,” she says when he finally pulls back enough to let her speak.

“No, please, baby, please—promise me—”

“Oh my god, alright, fine—I’ll call. Now get going already.”

The drive back to base leaves him feeling bedraggled, lost. When he gets in, it’s straight to the barracks, an hour long nap before reporting to Price, dragging his feet the whole way over. Moping, for lack of a better word, until he rounds a corner and nearly collides with someone that stops him with a single hand on his shoulder. 

When he looks up to eyes rimmed in black paint, the world lightens. His shoulders lift. 

“Wipe that smirk off your face, Johnny.”

It takes Johnny awhile to bring her up with Ghost. Something keeps holding him back, choking him when he tries to say it outloud. He blames it on uncertainty (had to be sure she was the one, Lt, ye ken?) but he feels the truth at the core of him. When he does finally muster up the nerve to pass his phone to Ghost where her photo is front and centre, no mistaking his intentions, he waits on tenterhooks for a reaction. 

Only breathes out when Ghost asks to meet her. He can do that. 

“Aye, Lt. Just for you.”

[retrogamingblog2]

[discard-celestia]

USE MOUTHWASH / DO NOTHING

[learnelle]

I am once again asking for recommendations of Greek myth inspired books 📖 So far I loved reading the Maidens and The Song of Achilles, but my favourite has to be Pandora by Susan Stokes! Absolutely hated The Silence of Girls by Pat Baker, don’t understand why it exists. (Update: tumblr book recs post here [x])

[moonstruckme]

James Potter x Reader where reader is in a different house (Hufflepuff if you don’t mind) and she ends up on the receiving end of one of their pranks which makes her angry so she avoids James and the other marauders, forcing him to grovel/beg for forgiveness? Thank you so much xoxo

Hi, thanks for your request! This got a bit long haha, but I enjoyed writing it and hope you enjoy reading :)

cw: mentions of blood

James Potter x Hufflepuff!reader ♡ 1.8k words

Though no one tells him it’s happening, Remus sees the prank coming from a mile away.

Primarily, this is because James and Sirius appear to be playing an entirely ordinary game of frisbee. Just tossing it back and forth, no hexes or nifflers or anything. A simple pastime between two boys on a lovely warm afternoon. 

Secondly, they haven’t asked Remus to join them. While they know from experience he’s content to read his book in the grass, they always make a point to ask just to be sure Remus doesn’t feel excluded. The fact that they haven’t suggests that they’re well aware that whatever they’re up to, Remus will want no part in it. 

Lastly and most importantly, James Potter has the worst poker face Remus has ever known. 

When the curly-haired boy slyly drops the frisbee they’ve been using into his bag, trading it for another, he can hardly keep the giddiness from his face. Which is probably why, when he tosses it well away from his companion and towards a crowd of gathered students, Sirius is the one who has to say, with theatrical volume and distress, “Merlin, can somebody grab that?”

Remus watches warily as several students turn to track the progress of the disk as it sails overhead, and after a moment one breaks away, chasing after it. Remus feels a pang of sympathy for you, your yellow and black scarf flying behind you as you run, needing no further evidence than the eager look in James’ eyes to know that you’ve fallen for a trap. 

You jump up to grab it out of the air, beaming in triumph for a moment before a yelp escapes you. You fling your catch to the ground, cradling your hand as the fanged frisbee twitches and snarls at your feet. 

“Shit,” he hears Sirius breathe, and the excitement is gone from his and James’ expressions as they jog over to you, Remus standing to follow them. 

You pick your head up as they approach, eyes wet but fierce. 

“What the hell?” you snarl, and Remus realizes with a stab of concern that there’s a small puddle of blood forming in your palm. “You’ve begun targeting your stupid pranks at anyone who’s dumb enough to help you now? How’s that funny?”

Remus looks at his friends in bewilderment, aggrieved on your behalf but unable to believe they’d do something so cruel. The fanged frisbee—a cheap trick, which really should be banned in Remus’ opinion—twitches closer to your ankle, and Sirius flicks his wand at it, its teeth retracting as it goes silent and motionless. 

“We…I charmed it so its teeth would be dull and harmless.” James scrubs a hand through his hair, at a loss. “It was only supposed to scare you, not hurt you.” 

You shake your head at him disbelievingly and bite your lip, face reddening as the pain sets in. James steps closer to you, blocking you from view of the small crowd of gawking students, none of whom, Remus notes with some bitterness, have come to help you or see if you’re okay. 

“I’m really sorry,” James says softly. “Let me help.” But when he reaches for your hand, you step back, holding it close to your chest. 

“Just leave me out of your fun in the future, yeah?” you hiss, stalking inside. 

James looks pained as he watches you go, and though Remus doesn’t begrudge you your justified anger, he feels for his good-natured friend. It had been an honest mistake, though the cost turned out to be far higher than either of his friends had expected. But knowing James, he’ll find some way to make it right. 

“Sorry, mate. They can’t all be winners.” Sirius claps him on the back, and Remus knows his light tone is more to make James feel better than it is true carelessness. Sirius is loyal that way; he’d probably lock you in a broom closet rather than have you upset James again. 

“It wasn’t meant to hurt anyone,” James says quietly.

Sirius’ smile is unfaltering, though Remus spies the worry in his eyes. “She’ll get over it. C’mon, there’s still time to go into Hogsmeade if we hurry.” 

And though Remus hopes you’ll feel better soon, he knows it will take James a long time to get over it himself. 

James shuffles from foot to foot, feeling silly and anxious as he waits for someone to leave the Hufflepuff dorms so he can go inside. He’s fairly sure you’re supposed to have potions together, but you hadn’t shown up to class, and though James had kept an eye out all day in the hallways, he’d never spotted you. He’d thought he’d caught a glimpse of you in the great hall during lunch, but you’d darted out of sight before he could be sure, and then there’d been no sign of you at dinner. Luckily, it had only taken a quick consultation of the map he shared with his friends to find out that you’d holed up in the Hufflepuff common room, so here he was, draped in his invisibility cloak and fidgeting like a nervous date at your front door. 

The door creaks open, and James slips in before it can shut, the exiting Hufflepuff shivering slightly at the breeze he makes whisking by them. It’s not difficult to spot you where you’re sitting painting your nails, lips pursed just slightly in concentration. The common room is mostly empty as other students enjoy the nice weather outside, and James is grateful for the privacy as he takes off the cloak and goes to sit beside your feet where they’re stretched out on the couch. 

You look up at the intrusion and startle to find James, pulling your feet closer to you reflexively. He hopes it’s an instinct to make room for him and not to protect yourself from him, though given recent events he could hardly blame you for the latter. 

“What’re you—how did you get in here?” you ask, eyes darting between James and the door in bafflement. 

Never mind that. “You weren’t at dinner,” James says, holding out his small stolen dish of chicken curry, “so I thought you might be hungry. Sorry, it’s barely warm now.” 

You take it from him suspiciously, careful of your wet nails, and James feels a stab of guilt at the sight of your bandaged hand. 

“I’m really sorry about yesterday,” he goes on, throat burning with shame. “I know I’ve already said it, but it was supposed to be harmless. I wasn’t careful enough.” 

You don’t look at him, not rejecting his apology but not quite accepting it either. “Pomphrey fixed it good as new anyways, so we can just say it never happened.”

James appreciates the attempt to ease his conscience, but your kindness only makes him feel that much more villainous. This would be so simple if you were one of those pureblood gits, or even just a bit ruder, but you’re you, and that’s so much worse. 

“Can I see it?” he asks softly, and you hesitate only a moment before scooting a bit closer and extending your hand to him, palm up. 

James unwraps the bandage with care, keeping one eye on your face to ensure he’s not hurting you, and so he notices the faint blush that colors your cheeks as he cradles your hand in his. The last layer of your dressing falls away, revealing three tiny white scars. Though they’re healed over, he hisses in sympathy, drawing your hand further towards him protectively but forgetting you’re attached to it. 

Your inhale is soft as you lean forward awkwardly, and James huffs a laugh at his enduring idiocy. “Sorry, love,” he says, letting you lean back. He doesn’t let go of your hand, though. “Were they deep?”

You give a one-shouldered shrug, as though it’s nothing to you. James worries you’re putting on a performance of exaggerated blasé for his benefit. “They bled a lot, but a charm sealed them up quickly enough.”

James nods, remembering with sickening clarity the blood that had pooled in your palm and dripped from between your fingers. 

“I’m glad,” James says, and it doesn’t feel like enough. Nothing feels like enough. But he can’t stop himself, even if it’s all inadequate. “I’m really sorry.” 

You sigh, and James knows enough about you to guess that being upset is exhausting you. It isn’t in your nature; you’re someone who always has a kind word for everyone, who he’s seen lend your quill to a student that forgot theirs and offer them an understanding smile when they broke it, who would rather spend all day avoiding James than let him feel the wrath of your grudge. 

Your very warranted grudge, by the way. 

It’s terrible luck that someone as sweet as you was on the receiving end of his mistake. But, as you’d pointed out, that was how the prank was designed, wasn’t it? Though James and Sirius hadn’t thought that part through at the time, the victim was always going to be whoever stepped forward to help. Normally it might not matter, but they’d gotten so caught up in the excitement of trying out their new toy that James had somehow gotten the spell wrong. And as a result, you’d been forced to pay a price for your kindness and his incompetence. 

“It’s okay,” you say.  

“It’s not,” James insists. “And I can’t fix it, but let me do something else. I can do your potions’ homework for the rest of the year, I can give you my dessert every night, I can…I can sneak into Hogsmeade and bring you whatever you want, anytime you ask, I can…what?”

You’re smiling at him, and it’s familiarly lovely but, James can’t help but think, entirely undeserved. 

“I don’t need any favors from you, James,” you say, and he realizes it’s the first time you’ve said his name. It’s not a long name, but somehow your voice gives it a cadence he quite likes. “Just be more careful, okay? I ended up fine, but next time someone might not.” 

“There won’t be a next time,” he promises swiftly, and means it. “But sweetheart—” if he notices how you soften at the endearment, he doesn’t mention it “—you’ve gotta let me make it up to you somehow.”

You sigh again, though it’s lighter this time, seemingly both exasperated and amused by his persistence. After a moment spent within your own head, you ask, “Could you help me study for the potions exam next week?”

“Yes!” James grins eagerly. “Of course. That’s a start. How’s tomorrow after class? I’ll bring study snacks as well, and we can make it a regular thing, if you like.” 

He’d like to make it a regular thing, debt or not. 

You smile. “Tomorrow is perfect. And can I call in another favor right now?”

If James weren’t sitting, he’d buckle at the knees in relief. “Yes. I’m at your service.”

“Can you tell me how you got into the Hufflepuff common room?”

“That,” he says smoothly, “is just one in my arsenal of skills now at your disposal.”

[paper-birdies]

I've been reading a Gravity Falls fanfic called "The Therapist" by @bapple117, where you - The reader- are Bill Cipher's Therapist in the Theraprism. I was on Bapple's Discord server and came across a conversation asking "What if Bill had a secret collection of art he made of the therapist and got super flustered when the therapist finds them."

Posted that and then someone mentioned that in a panic, Bill would probably try to eat the art and tries to eat the pages.

Anyways, I freakin' love this fic and this funky lil' guy.

[usertoxicyaoi]

"I'm not here today to do serious birdwatching with you. I came to discover what you enjoyed doing. I came just for that. Despite unexpected things, if today ends well, it would have been fun."

TAKARA NO VIDRO (2024). EPISODE EIGHT.

[sighcomics]

this changes everything