#age of sail movies and series

[ltwilliammowett]

HMS Surprise

[the-golden-vanity]

I felt like I had to take a shower after watching every episode of Hornblower*, but MAN, I'm upset there's no more episodes for me to watch.

*Despite the conspicuous absence of physical grime, this show made me feel the visceral, soul-sucking awfulness of Age of Sail realities much more than aesthetically grimy Age of Sail shows like The Terror and The North Water ever did. And I'm not even sure the creators were doing any of it intentionally? Idk, if you've seen this show, please weigh in, I can't be the only one thinking about this.

[ltwilliammowett]

He is amazing, thanks for sharing and tagging me.

Captain "Lucky Jack" Aubrey.

I rewatched Master and Commander recently and couldn't resist.

[ID: Digital painting of Jack Aubrey in his uniform (a long dark blue jacket with golden épaulettes, buttons and trimmings, and a cream-coloured vest and breeches) hanging over the side of a (off-screen) ship, holding onto a rope. More ropes are visible behind and in front of him. The background is a calm sunny sea-scape.]

@ltwilliammowett and @acrossthewavesoftime I'm tagging you because you're the only ones I know who post about this movie.

[mystery-star]

Whumptober 2023 - Day 25 | Storm

Master and Commander - The Far Side of the World (2003)

[macfrog]

sweet child o' mine | pt. iii

now taking name suggestions for my joel's duck doodle. must rhyme with a curse word. most creative wins.

pairing: neighbor!joel x fem!reader

summary: as your pregnancy progresses, you and joel are getting closer. dangerously closer.

warnings: reader is literally pregnant so typical pregnancy symptoms & descriptions of stuff like extreme nausea and gagging (reader throws up off-page, no graphic description past sore throat/esophagus afterward), body changing, nerves around birth/becoming mom, another sonogram (gender reveal...?), baby kicks felt, labor pains shhh, age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), joel is dating someone who isn't reader, our girl hates nye (she's valid), tommy uses colors to represent gender (he is Wrong), joel is for sure emotionally cheating at this point and reader knows it, joel kisses someone who is not his partner again, f masturbation, memories of the hot dirty sex they had whew, a SPRINKLING of breeding kink, praise kink, size kink, another parent dies (i love parents i promise ????), jealous!reader, protective!joel, alcohol consumption, cursing, a LOT of angst, lots of fluff, lil bit of smut, and duckie has the best comedic timing of any character in this entire series. :) DISCLAIMER: this series covers some issues which i know may be sensitive and possibly triggering to some. warnings will always be as thorough as possible, but if there’s ever anything you feel i’ve missed, please let me know. feel free to drop by my inbox anytime.

word count: 11.4k (sorry. lots to cover lots to do.)

pt. i / series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🩵

December.

The days are funneled by a quick pinch of dark, the breeze heavy in its sail. Houses lined with twinkling lights and windows pierced by pointed trees. Crooning from every radio station, teary-eyed movies on TV, and spiced apple everything.

You hate every fucking minute of it.

“Wait a second,” Tommy sits forward, leaning in, “you never do nothin’ for New Years?”

You shrug, lifting your eyebrows. “Nope. Just don’t like it much. That a crime?”

He considers it as he hands his empty tumbler up to Joel, his head lolling some. He’s on his…fourth drink of the night, right? Though, if you take into account his earlier argument – I’m eatin’ as I go. It don’t count. – it’s probably more like two. But it’s whiskey, so –

Never mind.

“Yeah,” Tommy finally decides, “kinda. The hell’s wrong with you, girl?”

“Tommy.”

Joel’s voice is a warning, edged by the sharp clink of three glasses pinched in his fingers.

His brother laughs amiably in response, though, nodding to your mock-offended expression. “At least you’re spendin’ it right this year. Last one before lil’ Dickie comes along, huh?”

Maria slaps his shoulder, rolling her eyes. “It’s Duckie,” she hisses, glancing over to you.

“Shoot,” he says, chuckling. “I knew that. My mistake.” And then, hand out towards you in an apology which makes your shoulders jerk with laughter, “I did know that, I swear.”

Tommy and Maria flew in a few days ago; the younger Miller adamant that he’d spend one last New Years with his big brother before he became a father. The night they arrived, they showed up on your doorstep – a hamper filled with diapers and muslins and baby socks hanging from Maria’s arm. They’ve asked to hang out with you every day since.

They’re good fun. Tommy likes you, at least, enough to tease you as much as you figure a brother might. He’s definitely the louder of the two – sometimes you swear you notice Joel cringing at him, something caught between a laugh and a frown on his face. And Maria’s sweet; she’s asked probably six times every hour since she first saw you if you’re feeling okay, if you’re tired, if you’re hungry.

Joel text you yesterday morning. Tommy and Maria wondering if you feel like coming over for NYE. No pressure, he added, I lie pretty good.

A smile snuck its way across your lips before you had the chance to tame it. Sure, you typed, I’ll bring the newspaper.

What Joel’s told them, about the wedding and the baby and everything since, you’ve no idea. You guys almost talked about it when he told you they were flying down after Christmas, but before you got the chance to ask him, Vanessa pulled up out front.

Not exactly a conversation you felt like having with the dude’s girlfriend hooked around his right arm.

She smiles at you, now, as you shuffle to the edge of the armchair you’re curled up in. Joel’s armchair – the plaid blanket cradling you, the leather soft and crinkled beneath. Your eyes quickly drop from hers when his hand reaches for your mug, your fingers crossing as you pass it up. “Let me come help,” you say, pushing from the chair.

He holds up a palm, shaking his head once. “Stay. I got it.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, settling back. Vanessa resumes smiling. You wish she’d fucking quit it. You wish you’d fucking quit focusing on her.

Joel knocks the mug gently against your shoulder with a small, almost sympathetic smile, and heads for the kitchen – leaving you sat between Tommy and Maria on one couch, and Vanessa on the other. You tuck your heels under your thighs, picking at a hangnail as you wait for the conversation to thaw.

Maria makes some comment about Austin in the winter: how different it is to Jackson, and the three of you nod and hum in agreement before the chatter fizzles to nothing again. You glance over to the clock, watching the hands chase one another to twelve.

This isn’t what you imagined a get-together with Joel’s family would feel like. Tight, tense. So tense that you can feel the weight on your chest, closing your lungs. Talking about the weather and the holiday traffic, talking about nothing to avoid talking about everything.

Tommy’s chin lifts, after a second too long of silence. “Hey, Joel!” he barks. “You ain’t shown me this nursery yet!”

Joel leans around the doorframe, half-distracted. “Barely even started it, little brother. Crib only got delivered yesterday.”

“Sheesh,” Maria’s eyes widen, “you sure are prepared.”

Vanessa laughs when Joel rolls his eyes and vanishes again. “You got no idea,” she says, “I have never seen him so…pedantic, right?” She looks to you, still smiling. So sweet, you worry your lips are pursing at the sight of it. Your neck tensing. Your eyes watering.

“Yeah,” you reply, nodding shyly and swallowing back the saccharine. “I think he’s more nervous than he’s letting on.”

Joel’s voice calls from the kitchen again: your name. When you answer, he says, “Why don’t you take Tommy up, show ‘im what we got so far?” and then, leaning back around the door, “She picked the color ‘n whatnot.”

“Ah,” Tommy says, palms pushing down on his knees, “so you’re the brains, then?”

You mirror him, accepting Joel’s request. As though you had any choice in the first place. Standing beside the younger Miller, you mutter, “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

He holds a hand out to usher you ahead, following you upstairs. Past the tousle-haired boy in grayscale, past the German shepherd, past the Christmas Day portrait. Wandering like you know the house inside out, like you might’ve picked the exact coordinates of each nail the picture frames hang on yourself.

Like the photographs pinned to the walls aren’t still as alien to you as they’d been that day you first set foot in here, the dress Joel would come to tear from your body slung over your arm.

You twist the gold handle and unveil a homely little room, painted by you and Joel just last week. The soft blue drying into his knuckles, random splatters on your palms and your jeans. The giggles drawn from your chest; the thief either the chemicals from the paint, or the man rolling it over the walls – and you’ve a pretty good idea of which.

Tommy sniffs roughly, nodding. Taps the toe of his boot against one of the two bulky boxes leant against the wall, a crib printed on one and a rocking chair on the other. His tipsy head bob bob bobbing. “Alright. ‘s nice, ain’t it?”

You settle against the window, the glass cold at your back. “Real nice, yeah. Be even better once it’s done.”

“What’s yours look like?”

“Mine?”

“Nursery at your place. Your one pink, ‘case it’s a girl?”

You snort. “Mine is a little greener. More…I guess it’s duck egg. Had some leftover paint.”

He clicks his fingers and points to you. “See what you did there. Duck egg. Duckie.”

“Hm. Wish I were that poetic. I just like the color.”

Tommy stuffs his hands in his pockets, wanders around the bare room. The faint lingering of whiskey putting up its best fight against the clean bite of fresh paint, the sweet scent shaking from him when he nods some more at the blank walls and naked windows. He clicks his teeth and asks, “How you holdin’ up, anyways?”

“How am I holding up?”

“Yep. With, uh…” he nods to the door, eyes wide, “…Vanessa,” he whispers. Louder than he must think – probably echoed, if anything, by the palm he curves around his mouth.

You cross your arms protectively, shoulders bunching. “She’s fine,” you say, voice deliberately low. You both ignore the crack in it when you add, “I like her. She’s – she’s taken this all like a champ.”

Tommy leans on the window ledge, a rugged hand you reckon you’d know was a Miller’s just by looking at it. Same rough-cut quality as Joel’s, like they’re torn from the same sheet of sandpaper. He props the other on his hip. “But, boy – it’s gotta be complicated, right?”

“I guess. But she’s real sweet about it. And Joel’s been great, too.” You sniff, the memory of your kiss flashing behind your eyes. The steady drum of Duck’s heartbeat, the gleam in Joel’s eye when he looked down at you. The guilt seeping from your skin like beads of sweat, prickling along your spine and fizzling against the cold windowpane.

Tommy blinks at you, liquor-glazed eyes scanning. His shoulders jerk, a loud huh propelling from his throat. When your head cocks in confusion, startled from your daydream, he spills. “He ‘n I had a mighty long talk when he told me.”

You feel yourself leaning in, magnetized to him – body hunched as though you’re gossiping in the corner of a house party. Inhaling secrets with the tinge of alcohol on Tommy’s breath. “Oh, yeah?”

Tommy hums. “Just wanted to make sure he’d thought it all through. Not you – I always knew he’d take care a’ you and Duck. But…involving Vanessa,” he lowers his voice again, glancing over to the warm light spilling in from the hallway, “I just wanted him to be sure.”

Your blood begins to warm, heat flooding through your body as you step closer, murmuring, “What’d he say?”

He flicks his head, seeming to toss his initial response to the wind. “You know Joel. He is his own man.”

Your face screws, head jerking back. “What’s that mean? He is his own man?”

A voice from the doorway interrupts. A shadow swimming in the golden light. “Who is?”

Tommy steps away from you, loosening his arms as his big brother drifts into the shadowy room. Dusting the conversation under the rug. The smell of whiskey backs off. “Speak of the devil. Nice paint job, Joel. Missed a couple spots, but – I’ll let you off.”

“Uhuh.” Joel’s eyes thin, his body slanted against the wall. Arms crossed, bottle of beer hanging from his fingers.

Tommy swaggers forward when Joel holds the bottle out, taking it with a wary glance at the tall figure. A dog meandering back to his owner, tail between his legs and ears flat. It takes his gritty voice to jolt you back to the room, splintering your gaze from Joel’s toned arms and huge chest. “Looks real good, you two. ‘s one lucky kid.”

Joel’s jaw lifts, his eyes landing on you. Dogs are terrible liars. “He talkin’ your ear off?”

You smile; recognizing the softer Joel you’ve grown used to over the last three months replacing the stern, cold version you once knew so well. “Only a little.”

“Tommy,” he says then, “Maria needs you for somethin’.”

The denim-donned Miller nods knowingly and heads out of the room, thud of his boots receding downstairs.

“Maria okay?” you ask, making space for Joel as he settles beside you.

He shrugs. “Only said that to get him outta your hair.”

You frown. “You sent me up here with him in the first place.”

“So I could come up ‘n check on you. Know this must be a lot – the two of them, tonight.”

“I’m fine. Promise. I’m a big girl.”

You both sigh, turning to look out at the dark street. Your arms cross, sitting somewhere above the tiny slope of your bump – a new development you’re still getting used to. Your stomach feels tighter, a little more solid than usual when you touch it. A little more…real. There’s someone in there, right? Like, actually there. They’re changing the way you look, the way you feel.

“This is it, right?” you say, staring at the white lanterns illuminating Alice Brown’s rose bushes. “This is the year.”

“The year,” Joel agrees.

“Mhm. Become a mom. Become a dad.”

He purses his lips. “Yeah, I don’t know. I’ve had bigger years, kid.”

“Let’s hear it, old man. Let’s hear about your biggest year. God knows you’ve had plenty to choose from.”

He sucks a deep breath in, eyes tracing the silhouette of the houses across the street as he thinks. “Senior year, nineteen ninety-three. Asked Stacy Moore as my date to the prom ‘n she said yes. I was so nervous that I forgot my bow tie. Was a pretty good year.”

You hum, agreeing, and then, “I see your ninety-three, and I raise you: two thousand and one. There was this bike I wanted for-fucking-ever; it had, like, little beads on the spokes – would make this ratatatat sound whenever it moved. Tassels hanging from the handlebars, all iridescent. I begged my mom the entire year for it, and on Christmas morning I woke up, and…” You lift your hands, air puffing from between your lips. “Santa Claus delivered that year, dude.”

“Well,” Joel clicks his teeth, shell hardening only a little, “thanks for making me feel old as hell.”

“You’re welcome.” You beam back at him, breaking into a laugh when he does.

The two of you stand a little distance apart, denying yourselves the innocent brushing of shoulder against shoulder, the nudging of elbows and swaying of hips. Admiring the empty sky and emptier street, bathing between the cold moonlight of outside and the warm lamplight in.

And from somewhere deep in your belly, somewhere tucked behind your ribs, beneath your slow-growing womb: an urge to ask about her. To bring her up. To tend to the curiosity that Tommy poked a clumsy, drunken finger straight into, tearing it apart at the seams.

Like pressing on a new bruise, satiating the hungry need to know where you were hurt, how you were hurt, when you were hurt. A bent fingertip, pushing heavily into a sensitive splatter of dark purple; the burst blood vessels hissing in response, whispering, You don’t know, and you don’t want to know.

But you defy them. You do want to know. Want to satisfy the disturbed thrill you felt, leaning into Joel’s brother. Hands turning over one another, wet bottom lip trembling as he rounded the corner on some sort of…what was it, a secret? Some sort of truth, a long-buried revelation about the other woman. She’s a witch, have you spotted her crooked nose? She’s plotting something, I swear. She’s up to no good.

Your eyes lift again, focusing back on the dull color of the outside world. The bland canvas of reality. She’s not a witch, nor some genius mastermind. She’s a boring, relatively normal woman. Kind, thoughtful. Naïve and a little too eager to please; too willing to forgive a situation which warrants no such kindness or empathy.

She’s just…fine. Lukewarm. And you’ve no idea why that pisses you off so much.

Which, incidentally, makes the bruise sting all the more.

“Maria, Maria,” Tommy’s voice claws its way upstairs, “turn it on, turn it – Joel? Joel! It’s midnight, Joel, you two better come on down, now! Have we missed it –? Have we –?”

The sound of cheering slowly bubbles to life behind his drawl as the TV volume picks up, the tittering of Maria and Vanessa chiming in.

“…five, four, three, two, one…Happy New Year!”

Joel’s looking over his shoulder, waiting for footsteps or voices or a girlfriend who never shows. And he ignores his brother, for he is his own man, and turns to you instead. Bracing himself on the ledge, he blinks down with a plain grin on his lips. “Happy New Year, Mom,” he whispers.

You return his smile, taking his hand when he reaches out to you. “Happy New Year, Dad,” you reply, squeezing his palm.

He pulls you in for a hug, kissing your cheek briskly as you hook your arms over his shoulders. His beard scratches your cheek, grazes the curve of your shoulder, and you don’t mind. Your small, swollen belly presses against his; the tiny curve safe in the midst of your embrace.

Outside, the sky crackles to life with the distant spatter of fireworks, color shattering across the black canvas – red, blue, green and gold, dissolving as quickly as they explode into the now-January night. A burst of purple light washes between the two of you, and you turn your head on Joel’s shoulder to watch as the sparks rain over your neighbors’ roofs.

“I should get goin’,” you whisper, feeling his heartbeat a little too strongly against your own. Becoming suddenly aware of the weight of your frames locked together.

“Glad you came,” he says as he leans away. “I know this ain’t…I know we’re all tryin’, but you’re tryin’ the most, and I appreciate it. I hope you know that.”

“I know it,” you tell him, rolling your eyes. “Now, go. Go kiss your girlfriend.”

He chuckles, making for the door. “You want me to walk you home?”

Your eyes close serenely, the image of him doused in flickers of gold burning behind your eyelids. “I’ll survive the walk across the hedgerow, Miller.”

Joel nods once and leaves, plodding downstairs to be greeted by his open-armed girlfriend, a peck between them, arms crossed behind his neck. The lyrics of Auld Lang Syne slurred against his lips.

And you think – You know what? If it’ll rip you apart from her, if it’ll keep her bright red lips and her shining curtain of hair away from you, if it’ll stop her sucking in your air and your smell and your attention for thirty fucking seconds –

Then, yeah. Walk me home. Stay for a drink. Sleep in the goddamn guestroom.

Walk me home.

You slip out of the front door when the two couples are in the kitchen, missing Joel’s calling your name – or perhaps just ignoring it altogether.

“Spread the love at St. David’s this Valentine’s Day…”

Joel slows alongside a wall of cerise hearts, each one fluttering like wings whenever the hospital doors slide open and the breeze sneaks inside. Slips scrawled with names and messages: Love you M! and J + A, crude drawings of stick figures holding hands. Your lips curl into a smirk, watching him flick through each one as you palm your round stomach.

You just saw Duck for the second time. The last time, Freya was kind enough to mention, before they’re tearing you in two. Sorry, she mouthed when your expression dropped, and went back to twisting the probe over your stomach. Silently.

You’re getting better at it, you think. Playing Mom. Like some little game of make-believe, which is only real for as long as you’re looking it square in the eye – attending doctor’s appointments, updating the neighbors on your newest list of symptoms en route to your mailbox.

A little surer on your feet, now that you’ve found a balance to it: taking it as seriously as it warrants, a dry little pill stuck on the cliff of your throat, and making it easier to swallow with humor like water, a huge gulp anytime the fear claws its way up your spine.

And no more panic, since at least before Christmas. Only a little flustered this afternoon when Freya asked if you wanted to know the sex.

It felt too big a thing to hear, too real. You’re only just getting used to the backache and the bleeding gums. (And why didn’t you know that your gums would bleed? Isn’t that something they should fucking warn you about? Congrats, you’re pregnant: prepare for blood seeping from your jaw.)

No. No, thanks. Your head shot around to Joel. No, right?

He shrugged. Makes no difference to me.

Are you sure?

I’m sure, kid. Promise.

‘cause we can find out. I mean – if you want to.

He rocked forward on the balls of his feet, tapping you amiably on the shoulder. I don’t. You’re good.

You don’t?

No, I – He sighed, a hand dragging through his hair. If you want to, I want to. If you don’t, I don’t. Alright?

Freya bit back a laugh, the closed fist over her lips doing little to hide it. You guys should write a book on co-parenting.

But then she left the room again, closed the door on that same old little bubble – the three of you perched on the bed, you and Joel blinking up at the grains of your child onscreen – and you cried. Again. More.

Everything clearer, everything even more human than before: the globe of their skull, the tiny slope of their nose. All glowing in the dark waves of your womb, twinkling like the most beautiful constellation you could ever come across. Their ankles were crossed, feet forming a tiny heart shape in the top corner of the sonogram. Your hand lifted to point it out to Joel, and before the words found voice, you choked and broke down again.

He held you, lips to your hair, body solid as a rock as you melted into him in waves of salty tears. Smiled that honey-glazed smile and said he was so proud of you, said, look what your body’s doin’, darlin’, look what you’re growin’ – which only made you weep more.

And you pretended not to wait for it – for the moment when you might tilt your head up and your lips might line with his, and he might close the achy space between you again, might shush your cries by stealing the air from your lungs and the beat from your heart.

But he didn’t.

Which is fine.

Right?

“Somethin’ on your mind, kid?” he asks now, eyes still glued to the sea of hearts.

Your stare snaps from him instantly, unaware it was even held there. You tug on the hem of your sweater and pull the sleeves over your hands, mumbling, “Fine, I’m – I’m just…Come on, man. I’m hungry. I didn’t eat lunch today.”

“’n whose fault is that?”

You glower at him. “How considerate,” you seethe, “Vanessa’s a fucking lucky woman, you know that?”

He ignores you, a dumb smile on his face. The usual. “Let’s leave one for ‘em.”

A hot temper begins to boil below the surface of your skin, squeezing between your teeth in a fist-swinging breath. Also the usual these days, apparently. “For who?”

“Duckie. Somethin’ to mark the second scan. Last time we see them, before –”

Your hand flies up, eyes closing with a wince. Shut the fuck up. “Enough. I know.”

Joel hms, still smiling to himself. His beard has grown out a little: thicker, darker, gray sewn through like little whip stitches lining his jaw. He fishes a heart shape from the tub along with a pen, which he twirls annoyingly around his fingers as he thinks.

You sink back against the clinical white wall, an offensively bright color, holding your cheeks up in something of a smile when a nurse wanders past, nodding to both of you. Your face drops back to a scowl as soon as she’s over Joel’s shoulder, and your eyes meet his again – his brows raised, expectant.

“What?” you ask, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

He holds the slip up. “What we gonna write?”

And whatever charm the moment may have held, withers instantly. You throw your arms up petulantly. “You wanted to do it! Pick something. See you soon, or something, I don’t fucking know.”

“I don’t fucking know,” Joel muses, creases by his eyes when he smirks. “Poignant.”

“That’s what you should write,” you step closer, shoving your shoulder into his as you study the trembling hearts on the board, “if you can spell poignant, write that.”

“Hilarious,” he mutters, bending to scribble onto the shape, shielding his work from your view when you hang around his shoulder to pry. Cupping over the message until he’s straightening up, tossing the pen back to the desk, stealing a pin from the tub.

“Let me read,” you protest, tugging on his flannel sleeve.

“I will,” he says, shaking you off. “Patience, darlin’.”

Joel turns to the wall and pins the heart higher than the rest, in a spot clear of its own on the corkboard – thick arms stretching higher higher higher and pulling your gaze with them. As he steps back, he takes you gently by the waist and positions you in front of his body, your shoulders brushing against his chest. Your ribs hold your heart back from hammering into his.

You push up onto your tiptoes and squint at the note, which quivers when the hospital doors pull open again. “Mom and…Mom and Dad f…You fucking…”

Joel dodges your batting arm, snickering with you as he turns to make for the exit. “You don’t like it?” he tosses over his shoulder.

The heart stares down at you, black ink carved into the paper, watching as you turn and hurry after him, giggling. “Mom and Dad fuckin love you? So much for my potty mouth. And the –” another wheezing laugh you’d otherwise be ashamed to let him hear, “– the drawing? It looks – it looks more like a giraffe than a duck. Or, like, you know those long-necked dinosaurs?”

Joel’s head tips back, his own laughter caught up by the breeze when you wander outside, slipping your wrist around the crook of his elbow. Something infectious about it, something which stirs your own laughter until you’re walking arm in arm to the truck with a man who, six months ago, you’d barely look at twice over the fence.

The blind rage bubbling from your empty stomach seems to dissipate, dwindled to nothing in the face of that same man – his swollen cheeks and crows-feet eyes. And you say, “You’re disgustingly sentimental, you know that? Like, sickening.”

And Joel smirks, the way he always fucking does, and says, “You love it. Can’t lie to me.”

“I love it,” you concede, nudging into him as he opens the door for you.

The drive home is quiet, but not uncomfortable. There’s another thing you’re getting good at: being around Joel without need for snide remarks, without feeling your tongue curl under the weight of some snappy quip, loaded and aimed. Being around him and talking about Duck, asking how Tommy and Maria are. Forcing your teeth and tongue to carve out words which ask how Vanessa is, what she’s up to, when he’s seeing her next.

None of this is ideal, that’s for sure. Joel’s girlfriend aside, you’ve spent the last five months cohabiting your body with a stranger who lives most peacefully in the eye of a raging tornado of hormones – flitting between fits of giggles and pulsating joy in your veins, to waves of tears and an anger so hot beneath your skin that you wonder if your emotions might dry up completely by the time this is all through.

It's tough. It’s scary. And some nights you lie in bed, alone, wet eyes fixed on nothing, waiting for someone to burst into the room and announce that it’s all a prank. Just a silly joke. You and Joel can go back to tossing newspapers and casting glowers.

But for now, sat in the passenger seat of his truck – the seatbelt warped around the curve of your belly, the Eagles lilting softly from the radio – it feels like you’re making a home out of that tornado, too. Feeling the swirling walls of wind toss your hair like the breeze through the truck window; the chilled caress of the evening around your outstretched arm, soaring down the highway.

Yeah, you think. I can make something outta this.

“You know what I’m craving?”

Joel’s watching the light, waiting for green. “What’s that?”

“A fucking bagel. Cream cheese, pastrami,” you groan.

He snorts, cringing when he adds, “Pickles?”

A moan tears from the base of your throat, head lolling against your seat. “I could orgasm just thinking about it.”

The light turns, and Joel swings right. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he mutters, turning the wheel with one palm. “I got bagels back at the house, if you want one.”

You stare at him, jaw loose, saliva pooling behind your bottom lip. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He smiles, shaking his head. “Let me make you one, ‘fore you go home. Big day, ‘n all.”

And you hate it – hate the way your cheeks fill with a genuine happiness, something swollen and achy, impossible to ignore when it lifts your eyes and hurts your teeth. Appreciation, or admiration, perhaps, that you figure you’ll only ever have for him. You don’t know what the fuck to call it.

So you sum it up into three words. “That’d be nice,” you whisper, and Joel places his hand over your knee, shaking it lightly as he drives on.

It stays there, until he’s pulling into his driveway.

He pushes the front door open and steps back, an arm extended to let you by first. An after you, ma’am, between his lips. And you turn to make some mocking joke, the beginnings of some comment about how gentlemanly he is, when you’re socked square on the nose by a heavy-fisted, bitter scent.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, stumbling backwards across the threshold and onto the porch again. Your throat constricting around nothing, your tongue twisting, your stomach lurching.

Joel catches you just in time to stop you from falling on your ass. “The hell’s the m–? Oh.”

“Hi!” Vanessa calls from the kitchen, leaning around the doorframe to wave you both in. “Almost ready! Take a seat.”

“V–? Hey, sweetheart?” Joel calls back, one hand around your wrist and the other between your shoulders. “What – what’s cookin’?”

She pauses, glancing back at the stove. Pulls the dish towel between her hands taut. “I…I made pasta.”

“Yeah, what kind, sweet?”

“…Bolognese.”

He can’t cover his own sigh quick enough. Thick with something which feels like anger. “Shit,” he turns back to you, “I am so sorry.”

You pull in a deep, unsteady breath, your lungs struggling to separate night air from tomato juice. A weight rolling at the bottom of your stomach, your entire body beginning to tremble with it. “I feel like I’m gonna – Joel, I’m gonna –”

“Breathe,” he whispers, voice urgent, palm slipping to cup your jaw. “Just breathe for me.”

But your throat’s tightening, swallowing hard around gags which come stronger and quicker the more you try to fight them down. “I can still fucking smell it –”

Her shadow blocks the stretch of light from the house. A nervous little thing, a timid creature’s shadow stretched wide across the porch floor. “Is…everything okay?”

“It’s – it’s fine,” Joel sighs again, torn between comforting you and letting Vanessa down gently, “it’s just – tomato is one of her…her aversions.” He’s unable to pull his eyes from you, privately asking, “Are you okay?” when Vanessa turns back to the kitchen.

“I didn’t – I didn’t know,” she mumbles, thumbnail between her teeth. “I am so sorry.”

Suddenly, your will not to throw up is overpowered by your will to tell her, “It’s fine,” sucking in a deep, sickly breath before adding, “I’m just gonna – I should go.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Joel says, his teeth guarding the words from his girlfriend.

“I’m gonna clean up in here,” Vanessa points over her shoulder, and you think she must’ve heard him, “get outta your hair. I’m so sorry, again. I would’ve never…”

Joel lets go of you as you stagger backwards, the cold air tearing down your throat to meet the burning acid tickling up your esophagus. “Please don’t apologize,” you lift a weak hand, “how could you have known? I’ll –” another sharp gasp, “– I’ll see you guys around.”

He must say your name, must try once more to pull you back to his side, but the blood’s rushing through your ears, and your heart’s pounding at the back of your tongue, and your stomach’s notching its way up your spine. You make it to your kitchen sink just in time.

He keeps you waiting all of one hour before he’s calling you. Your arm reaches over to your nightstand, fumbling in the dark for your heavy phone, the screen cold against your cheek.

“Mhm?”

“Are you okay?”

Your lungs pull a deep, slow breath. The acid painted across your throat tickles as the air passes by it, an uncomfortable, scratchy feeling.“Mhm.”

“That a lie?”

“Only a little. Is Vanessa okay?”

He takes a second to answer. Lets go of whatever he was going to say with a sigh, replacing it with, “She just left.”

“Is she mad at us?”

Another second. “Just me. Not you.”

You massage the slope below your breasts, the ache in your esophagus throbbing when you move. “Why just you?”

Ruffling, like he’s settling back into his couch. Sinking into the cushion, his body as heavy as yours feels on your mattress. “I should’ve told her you didn’t like tomatoes. ‘cause now I’m a goddamn mind reader. I mean, why the hell wouldn’t my girlfriend be in my house cookin’ a damn pasta dish while I’m out, y’know? Jesus Christ.”

“Joel,” you turn slowly onto your back, bravely waiting for the waves of nausea still lapping around your stomach to turn with you, “it was a nice thing, what she did. She didn’t mean to…She probably thought she was helping.”

“Naw, I know,” he replies, the sharp bite of his words softening again, shrinking under yours. “I don’t care about her and her helping, though, darlin’, I care about y –” He barely catches it in time. “I care about you carrying my child, and I care about making sure you don’t spend your nights fuckin’…throwing up tomato sauce.”

You gulp, neck convulsing. The backwash of bile swallowed back. Your chest floods with a heat of quick panic. “Can we…maybe…not use the word? I just –”

“Sorry, baby. Sorry. This is just – it’s a lot easier if she would just…”

Your eyes close over, a salty sting sweeping behind them. If she would just lay off. Back off. Fuck off. “…but she won’t, Joel. She loves you. ‘n you…”

The words drift off, taken by the tide, swept off into silence. And neither of you bother with trying to retrieve them – you just watch, stood safe on the shoreline, as they fold under the waves of something too big for either of you to acknowledge. Too dark, too dangerous.

So, you say, “I get it,” instead; say, “I get why you’re mad. Just – let’s forget about it, okay? Sorry for…ruining dinner.”

Joel scoffs, that old, pissed-off Joel scoff. You can see his deadened expression on the back of your eyelids. You may as well have just thrown his newspaper to the end of the earth. “You know damn well that you didn’t ruin anything. How you feelin’?”

“Tired. Throat kinda hurts.”

“Still feel like that pastrami bagel?”

“Not really. Sorry. Appetite’s gone.”

“How about a water?”

“I got some here. Thanks.”

“Okay,” Joel sniffs, “how about: you take the hint and let me come over there to see you?”

You giggle, hand over your eyes to mask your expression from the dark. “I hate you. Yeah, come over. Door’s unlocked.”

Date night – six month anniversary or whatever. Call me if you need anything.

And I mean anything. OK?

Your thumbs hover over the two gray messages, an awkward jig as your brain scrambles to offer words back. Where are you guys going? Too interested. Too weird. OK, what if I’m bored? Delete delete delete. Trying too hard. Sure, have a good n–

The ellipsis pops up and you freeze. A stupidly polite swish delivers Joel’s third text.

Boredom counts as anything, by the way.

And the fucker steals another smile from you. You notice it when you look up, clocking yourself in the mirror. Accompanied by a warmth which drips down your spine, swirls around your tummy; a fluttering you’re not sure is Duckie or something else.

Have a good night, Dad, you type back, tossing the phone to the end of your bed when you hit send. Swiping for a pillow, holding it firm to your face. Pressing so deep into the plush that even the linen won’t be able to see your grin.

Joel told you about this six-month anniversary last week. He wasn’t too thrilled about it then, either. Dinner to celebrate six months? A year, fair enough. But six months?

You swallowed your pride, swallowed the same throttling ecstasy which seeped through your pores on New Year’s Eve, on that February evening she cooked– never mind; a desperate desire to tear apart the very notion of Vanessa and her cutesy little date nights and candlelit dinners. I think it’s a fun idea, you said. Y’all should do it.

And Joel listened. Because he always fucking listens to you, these days. Listens when you tell him that you like the watermelon Sour Patch Kids best, and picks them up anytime he’s at the store. Listens to you when you tell him he should move the crib away from the window, in case the streetlights shine on Duck while they sleep.

Listens when you ramble about how sore your feet are, how heavy your belly feels, how there’s a clammy heat lingering under your skin at all times, bubbling and bubbling and never rising to anything more than steam collecting on the underside of your flesh.

Listens when you tell him to go spend time with his girlfriend. And neither of you pay attention to the jealous shadow behind your words, the hesitant quiver behind his.

He replies almost instantly, the ping like a gunshot at the beginning of a race. Pillow slammed into the mattress, body lunging forward.

You too, Mom. Don’t have too much fun without me.

You lock the phone and slide it back under your covers, smiling dumbly.

There’s still a small part of you waiting for the big reveal: none of this is really happening. A dream, maybe, something you’ll wake from with a tiny throbbing headache, a dry mouth and a new reason to avoid your neighbor at all costs.

But it seems that, each time that thought crosses your mind, you’re quicker and quicker to quash it. Realizing each time that what lies ahead – Joel, your baby, this future version of yourself that you’re yet to meet, still just a little out of reach – fills you with more excitement and wonder, than it does fear.

Mom.

It’s not something you ever imagined for yourself. Not someone you ever thought you’d be. And yet, each time you say it out loud, each time you look in the mirror and picture a baby in the crook of your arm, a toddler perched on your hip, a kid stood by your side, tugging on the hem of your shirt – she feels a little closer. A little clearer. She just has to look over her shoulder, notice you waiting. I’m right here, she says. Come find me.

Mom. Mom and Dad.

You imagine Joel right now, sat in some ritzy restaurant with jazz music and stained-glass lamps on every table, ordering Vanessa some glorified lentil soup and slapping his card over the bill before the waiter has a chance to reveal the damage to him. Your lips twist at the thought – her jewels and her long hair and her sweet little smile laced with a smug possession.

And then you slap your own wrists, hissing to yourself to shut the fuck up.

“She’s nice,” you argue out loud, thin air holding no debate. “She’s kind, and I like her. She’s good for him.”

And then the air replies. Good for him, it swirls, but you could do it better.

Your arm lifts, lingering for a beat before batting the thought away.

Three weeks. Three fucking weeks, between pushing yourself out of his embrace in bed, and pulling yourself back into it – armed with a pregnancy test and a chest full of fear. Three weeks of dodging him, of your cheeks bubbling with embarrassment and regret anytime you thought of it; of hoping to God that Alice or Diane or Steve and Kris across the street wouldn’t clairvoyantly know what had transpired that night and corner you on your own front lawn.

A one-night stand. That’s all it was. Two lonely bodies, excitement enough to convince you both that it was a good idea; a fitted suit and a backless dress crumpled together on the floor. Liquid courage lacing it all together.

Three weeks, then, of reminding yourself how it felt: how amazing you were together. Your hand between your legs and Joel’s name between your teeth.

Fuck. If only he knew. Goodforhimgoodforhim she’s so good for him but I’m better.

You did it better. You know you did. The sun was cresting the horizon by the time the two of you stopped. You hauled yourselves down to breakfast and sat at least three people apart, made forced conversation with Maria about the DJ stumbling off with one of her cousins, while the ghostly ache of Joel’s body churned somewhere deep inside you.

It travels through your veins the way that everything does right now: urgent and unforgiving. A need to be dealt with, immediately. Coursing through your body, an arrowhead pointing somewhere you know it shouldn’t. But your hands lift anyway – following it, loosening the waist of your sweatpants and skimming beneath your underwear.

Your body lights at the first touch. The first dip of your middle finger against the plush over your clit. Knees bend, thighs part. You push your underwear down your hips, settling your bottoms loose on your legs. You’re already wet. You’re already there.

Good fucking girl. She’s good but I’m better, right? Take it, baby. Does she take it like I take it? Take it. Can she take you like I did?

Quicker and quicker and quicker, your fingers heavy on your clit. The other hand sifting between your folds, dipping to collect a glimmer of wet. Yeah. Just like that. Do you fuck her like you fucked me? You feel what you do to me? Fuck no, you don’t. You’ve never fucked anyone like you fucked me.

Head back, eyes fluttering closed, lips parting to breathe answers to a man who isn’t here. To a man who, as he dips sourdough into an overpriced soup, sure as hell isn’t thinking about that time he fucked you so good he got you fucking pregnant.

Well. Maybe he is. You are, right?

Voice without body, drawl etched in your memory. Think she can take it all? You hum in amusement, waiting for him to answer his own question. Yeah, she can.

Attagirl. Your legs spread further, knee lifting as you insert two slick-coated fingers. His hands are on your thighs, following the dip of your hips, holding your waist as you guide him back inside. Attagirl. That’s my – Fuck, Joel, you’re so b– That’s my fuckin’ girl. Take it. Touch it. His thumb on your clit – his, not yours. You like that? Yeah, that’s nice, ain’t it?

The flesh of your breasts filling his palms, squeezing and nipping and rolling between. The warmth leaking between your legs: his and yours and fuck, he’s so deep and he’s filling you again and he’s groaning as more dribbles from where he splits your body around his own, holding you still until he’s done. Until he’s empty.

“Joel,” you whine, a third finger pushing in.

Between your hips. Headboard hammering against the wall. The sun hanging loose at the bottom of the sky. Gonna make me come again, baby. Do it. Do something irreversible. Change me forever. Fuck me fuck me fill me and then pull out, push back in with the wet squelch of your come mixing with mine and changing me forever. Making me brand new. Making me yours.

Another moan. Louder. Sharper.

Yours yours yours. All mine? All yours. We’re good at this. I know we are. Who fucks you like this? No one – No one – just you – just me. It’s so big, fuck, but I can take it. Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ day, baby. All I do is think about you. All I fucking do – You gonna come for me? – is think about you.

Know you need it. Let ‘em hear you, downstairs.

Fuck, I’m thinking about you. Come home. I need you to come home, need you to –

Fuck me, Joel, I’m –

Good girl.

– fuck me.

Atta fuckin’ girl.

She’s good but I do it so much better.

We’re good at this. ‘s do it again.

She’s not as good as me.

Again? Again.

She’s not as good. She’s no fucking good.

Your walls clamp around your fist, entire body shuddering to a stop. Breath held by something shaped like the hook of his accent, two fingers either side of your throat. The same smirk on his lips that convinced you in the first place. Fuck, baby, fuck me.

“Joel,” you cry out, the sound ripping between your vocal cords, punching against the ceiling and reverberating in your ears. Your body convulses on the mattress, back arching and slackening again. “Fuck, I’m – oh, my –”

Just feel it, baby. Feel me. You got it.

Let go.

Your lungs lurch open again, breath flooding in like waves spilling over the gunwale and rushing down to pool at your feet. A lulling rock to your movements, chest rising and falling like the steady tide. Soothing, coming down. Foam and salt carrying the flotsam away, the jagged glass of his name disappearing to sea again.

And then he’s gone.

And you’re just alone in your bedroom.

Last you checked your phone, now face-down on the carpet at your hip, it was eight p.m. Streetlights on, the sky painted by the pale dregs of daytime.

Now, you lie in near-darkness, blinking up at the ceiling. Hand sifting through a bag of glow-in-the-dark stars, comparing the different sizes, considering where to stick them, and then tossing them back in frustration.

Your front door clicks open, a pause between the sound and his voice.

“Anyone home?” Joel calls, and you lift your wrist as though he can see it from the bottom of the fucking stairs.

“Up here,” you eventually announce, knuckles rubbing your tired eyes until Catherine wheels spatter across your eyelids.

His shadow splits the light from the hallway, the long rectangle crossing over your swollen belly. “The hell are you doin’?” he asks, wandering in.

You lift the bag. “Decorating. The hell are you doin’?”

He pulls your nursing pillow from its temporary home in the crib and tosses it down on the carpet, bending to lift your shoulders and slot it underneath. “Scooch,” he says, groaning as he lays back beside you. He smells like whiskey and cologne. All woody, pine and spice.

“You got a bad back,” you warn him. “You shouldn’t be all the way down here.”

“You’re seven months pregnant,” Joel clicks his teeth, “neither should you.”

“What if you get stuck ‘n can’t get back up?”

Offense pulls his brows together. “What if you do?”

You smile in response, feeling the heat of his shoulder against yours. Sucking the scent of him through your nose. The pair of you exchanging smirks and batting eyelashes, wrapped in the cool darkness of the room. It’s juvenile and intimate.

You’re trying not to think too much about it.

“I can’t fucking figure this out. I put two of the big stars over there,” you point to the far corner of the room, streetlight splintered by the shades on the ceiling, “but it looks stupid having two so close. So, then I thought,” moving your arm to the right, “a cluster of smaller ones, right over the crib. But I couldn’t move the damn thing to climb up, so…I’ve been down here ever since.”

Joel lifts his hand, stopping your train of thought. “Please do not climb on anything, bein’ that you are…with child.” And then, when your eyes roll to meet his, he grins, adding, “Nesting got you good, huh?”

“You should see my kitchen cupboards. Never been tidier.” Your expression dissolves, voice quietens – your most desperate plea since that morning you shook hands on his doorstep. Your broken wardrobes and his lonely wedding invite. “Will you help me?” you ask.

He thinks it over less than once, dragging his gaze from the twirling star in your fingers. A quick shake of his head, like it’s obvious. “’course I will. ‘s what I’m here for.” And then he yawns, lowering a hand absentmindedly to settle on the curve of your stomach; a gentle pat in greeting to Duck.

“How was dinner?”

“Good,” Joel lies.

“Vanessa okay?”

“Good,” again.

“Sorry.”

Joel’s eyes roll, fingers pausing. “Why do you always gotta be sorry for som’?”

You shrug when you realize it’s not a rhetorical question. He’s genuinely asking. “I don’t know. Just tryna be polite. I know you’d probably rather be at home right now, not…deciding where some plastic fuckin’ stars should go.”

“For my kid’s bedroom? For you?” He huffs something shaped like disapproval. “Do me a favor – stop with the sorrys, alright?”

“I’m not even done with the last fucking favor I said I’d do you.” Your eyes flit down to your bump.

He stares blankly. You know there’s a laugh gathering like hot air on a windowpane behind his eyes, threatening to shatter the glass.

“Fine,” you concede, “dickhead.”

“Better.”

You sigh, looking back down at the phosphorescent shape in your hands. Turning it over and over and over, matching the rhythm of his fingers tensing and then untensing on your belly. His fingers, matching the rhythm of your chest rising and falling with breath. The room quiet. The night’s eyes averted, even just for this moment.

“If it’s anything,” Joel says, “I think the stars look alright.”

Another stolen smile. Another defiant show of teeth. You place your hand on top of his: a thankful gesture, an invitation. Something in between.

Joel blinks back at you, his eyes flitting from yours to your lips. The dim light in the room swallowing the two of you whole, secluded in the upstairs of your home. And you think, Kiss me, kiss me kiss me kiss me, and you will the words over your tongue in a ragged breath – hoping that Joel might breathe them in and feel their sharp edges as they absorb into his bloodstream, each cell flipping like the star in your hand and whispering the same two words to him: Kiss her kiss her kiss her.

But right then –

There’s a burst of movement. Under your fingertips. A fluttering, like bubbles popping right below the surface of your skin.

Your eyes snap down at the same time Joel’s do; your fingers separating and hovering over your tummy.

“Did you – did you feel –?”

“Yeah. Did you?”

“Uhuh. Was that –?”

“I don’t know. Was it?”

He takes your hand, pressing it back against your stomach with his on top. Your knuckles safe in the canopy of his palm. Both staring into space as you hold your breath.

“They’re not…they’re not doin’ it, now…”

“Maybe it was just –”

“Wait! Did you feel that?”

A second burst on your womb, a tiny beat on the other side of your bump. A wide grin breaks across your cheeks, a disbelieving laugh escaping.

Joel laughs, too. “Is that – is that the first time they’ve ever –?”

“Yeah,” you sniff, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, “that’s the first I’ve ever felt ‘em, anyways.”

“Wait,” Joel says, lifting his hand and holding a finger up. Just yours on your belly. “They doin’ it?”

Your head shakes.

When he lowers his hand, Duckie kicks again. The two of you lean in to one another, exchanging laughter. You lift your own hand, watching his expression as he waits patiently.

But then his head shakes, too. “Nothing. They’re only doin’ it when it’s both of us.”

“What the fuck?” you laugh, replacing your hand and waiting for the baby drum. “How can they even tell? What the f–?”

You shift your hands around the globe of your bump, pausing every so often to feel for Duck’s movements. A tiny fist punching, or a heel kicking, or an elbow shoving right above your navel in a way that’s bordering on painful, but numbed by the sheer thrill of it.

And for a while, it’s all you do: play tag with your unborn baby, giggling when they respond to your tapping fingers and cooing voices.

Joel sits up, leaning on his elbow to talk to his kid; runs two fingers across your shirt like a pair of legs scaling a cotton covered hill. And he laughs, and you laugh at his laugh, as if he’s a kid himself again – tearing apart gifts on his birthday, gasping and throwing his head back with glee at whatever he uncovers.

“It feel weird?” he asks, glancing up at you.

“So fucking weird,” you tell him.

“Does it hurt?”

“More…ticklish, if anything. Might get kinda annoying, if they start doing it when I’m tryna sleep, or somethin’…”

Joel lowers his jaw to your stomach, whispering, “You know what to do, Duckie. Make your daddy proud.”

You slap his shoulder, muttering, “Asshole.”

“Alright,” he says, splintered by a laugh. He pushes himself to his feet, swiping the bag of stars from your side. “Let’s get these up so you two can get some sleep.”

You groan as he pulls you upright, one last pat on your stomach, looking at you a second too long and a touch too meaningful. Too warm, too inviting.

It’s the calm before the storm, though you’re still stood motionless. Still trying to work out whether the tornado is moving away, or headed directly for you.

At five in the morning, Vanessa’s sister calls her.

“Heart attack,” Joel tells you a few hours later, the rustle of paper crinkling in your ear. The truck hums in the background. He speaks through a mouthful of sandwich. “Her dad always had a condition, but they thought they were managin’ it with medication,” another crinkle, and then, voice even more obscured, “but he got rushed to hospital durin’ the night, and…”

“Poor Vanessa,” you reply, nail drawing shapes on the curve of your bump in attempt to lull Duck into a more relaxed state than the sharp kicks they’re throwing at your ribs. Now big and strong enough to do considerable damage, your voice falters each time they swing. “Is she – son of a bitch – is she okay?”

“Shaken up,” he says, turn signal ticking over his voice. “She’ll be alright. She’s pragmatic like that. Problem is – they’re in Houston. Her whole family. So I guess that’s where the funeral’s gonna be.”

You swing your legs off the couch, heaving your awkward, nine-months-pregnant body to your feet – the irritating scratch of hunger suddenly gnawing at your stomach. “Yeah?” you say, waddling through to the kitchen. “So?”

“So,” Joel takes another bite of sandwich, “she has to – I mean, we have to…go. To Houston.”

“We?” You slot the phone between your cheek and shoulder as you fish out a couple slices of bread.

“Me ‘n Vanessa.”

“Uhuh,” you carve a knife around a jar of peanut butter, “you gotta be there for her.”

Joel sounds a little defensive. “I know. And I am. I’m goin’ to be. ‘s just – I gotta be there for you, too. For – for Duck.”

Your stomach swirls, a fire catching which lights your chest in a trickle of flame.

“You are. You will be. Houston’s only, like, three hours away.”

He sighs.

The turn signal fills the silence between you, between Joel and an appropriate answer. Clicking like the sound of a tennis match, his head spinning between his grief-stricken girlfriend, and the third-trimester mother of his child.

“I’m here,” he says, and you hear the squeal of brakes out front. “Give me a sec.”

The door pushes open as you sink back into the couch, balancing the plate on the planet beneath your breasts. Joel crumples his sandwich paper in his fist and lowers his hand over the back of the couch, scrunching his fingers over your belly as he passes.

“Thought you hated that stuff,” he calls over his shoulder, disappearing into your kitchen.

“I had a craving,” you say, ripping the first bite from your sandwich. “You made me hungry.”

He returns a minute later with a glass of water which he sets down on the coffee table in front of you. He lifts your legs, letting them fall gently in his lap when he collapses into the opposite end of the couch, heels of his palms pressing against his eyes.

You tap his thigh with the ball of your foot and he turns to you, placing a hand over your ankles. A sticky paste of peanut butter and bread between your molars, you ask, “What’shup?”

Joel holds back a smirk at your chipmunk cheeks. “Just – just worried that you…you know, while I’m gone, is all.”

You scoff, gulping. “Come on. I am not gonna go into labor in the, what – two days? How long would you even be gone?”

He seems to wince at the thought, fingers sifting through his hair – a gray sweep sat casually over his left eyebrow; flicks following the curve of his ear towards the hinge of his jaw. “Less than that, if I can help it.”

“Joel.”

He turns to you, saying your name just as deflated in response.

“You have to go.”

He rolls his eyes, thumb and middle finger massaging his temples. Crosses his arms and huffs like a teenager. “Well, I ain’t happy about it.”

You snort, unable to hold it in as you take another bite. “I ‘on’t think Vanesha’sh too happy about it, either, to be honesh wih ya.”

Joel’s jaw slackens, a choked laugh bursting from the back of his throat. He lifts a cushion and swings it in your direction. “Heartless. That’s heartless, you know that? Jesus, baby.”

He leaves on Saturday morning.

You stand on your porch, watching him shove a suitcase into the backseat of his truck, squinting in the sunlight as he stalks across your front yard. Joining you in the shade, he leans into you, shoving you lightly.

“Quit it.” Your hand locking with his, steadying yourself. Something in the back of your mind begging him not to let go.

And as if he can hear the thought: “I can stay. You know I can stay, right?”

“I don’t want you to stay,” you tell him, sweeping the hair from his forehead. “We will be fine. We’ll stay up late, eat junk food and watch TV; I’ll do audio description for Duck…”

He scoffs, glancing across the street.

“…and then you’ll be back home, back to buggin’ the hell out of us. It’ll be Monday before you know it.”

Joel’s jaw tightens. “And what if…?”

“You really think that’s gonna happen? You think your kid’s that much of an asshole?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah,” he shrugs, tongue in his cheek, “they’re half you.”

“Alright,” you click your teeth, turning away from the simper on his lips, “why don’t you just fuck off to Houston now, asshole?”

“I’ll fuck off, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Uhuh. Here’s hoping you don’t break down, or get a flat, or get struck by lightning, or anything.”

“You’re so funny,” he whispers, leaning closer.

“Hm. Now go.”

His jaw turns, beard grazing your skin. And then his lips; soft and warm, damp when he kisses your cheek. A moment too long. And he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t lean back the way you both know he should. No, he lingers – his lips by your ear, eyes flitting up to the street to make sure nobody sees.

“Joel –”

“I know.”

“We shouldn’t –”

“I know.”

But your arm is hooking around his neck, asking him to do it anyway, and his lips are lowering to yours, submitting to your request, and what’s supposed to be a goodbye kiss lasts at least a few seconds too long for it to mean anything less than a don’t go kiss.

You pull away when you feel the wet dab of his tongue against yours, realizing with an ice-cold shock where you are, and who he is, and what’s happening. Realizing how fucking stupid it’d be for both of you, how catastrophic and terrible the outcome.

A one-night stand.

A one-night stand.

A one-night –

He leans his forehead against yours, nose nuzzling your cheek. “I’ll call you when we get there.”

Your arm loosens, letting him go.

Just – letting him go.

Saturday Night Live ends just after midnight.

You arch your back into the couch, your swollen belly pushing forward. It’s an effort to get to your feet, what with the steady ache in your back all day, the weight on your front, and the fucking human being smushed into every vital organ inside you.

A deep breath feels like it inflates your lungs only halfway, Duck using the bottom half as a fucking ass cushion, and scaling the stairs takes another ten minutes – by the end of which, you’re slumped against the handrail, pausing before making off for your room.

You sink into the mattress, creasing the cool, smooth sheets. Duck stirs inside you, stretches out and throws a right hook against your bladder. You curse under your breath, hoisting yourself back to your feet.

“We gotta sleep, baby,” you hum, swaying back and forth with a hand under your belly. “Shh, ‘s okay. Take your fuckin’ fist outta my bladder, you little asshole.”

Whichever traits of yours and Joel’s have blended into the human cocktail growing in your uterus, you know one thing for certain: this kid has your stubbornness. The weight remains on your bladder, regardless of how much swaying, or pacing, or rubbing, or threatening you do.

You growl, wandering through the upper floor of your house in attempt to shift Duckie, or distract yourself, or, at the very least, tire the two of you out enough to fall asleep.

From the nursery door handle hangs a little wooden star, a tauntingly sleepy smile painted on it. You push the door open with two hesitant fingers, stepping into the still bedroom, the weak wash of streetlight meeting moonlight on the greenish walls.

You suck in a deep breath, floorboards squealing as you take your first step. Over the crib hangs a plastic mobile, soft plush shapes twirling slowly. The matching changing table slotted alongside it, a rocking chair over by the window.

You pad across a fluffy rug and lower yourself into the chair, tilting back and forth on your toes as you glance around one of the two rooms you and Joel have spent the most time in since that October morning bonded you forever. A baby duck ornament perched on a shelf above the dresser, its orange legs dangling. A multi-photo frame Joel’s mom bought you, both scans in the first two slots and the third empty, lying in wait.

Your breathing fragments, struggles, eyes slipping over to the baby clothes hanging in the closet. “You know, little Duckie,” you whisper, rubbing your bump and thinking back to Tommy’s words six months ago, “you are a pretty lucky kid.”

The hooded towel robe on the back of the door, the perfect size for a newborn. The framed prints sat atop the chest of drawers, waiting to be nailed to the wall: a rainbow, a frog, a starry sky.

“You got two houses. Two bedrooms, all to yourself. You got two parents who already love you more ‘n the whole world. And,” you gulp, “you got Vanessa. And she loves you, too.”

You glance down, watching the tiny pulse of movement when the baby stretches in your womb. Your hands scoop them up, as if holding them closer than they already are. As if already cradling them, forcing yourself to feel less alone.

Duck seems to quieten, to still; seems to consider what you’re avoiding. Reads between the lines, hears the words you’re not speaking.

Two of everything, you think, and I barely even had one.

The most evidence you have of being loved by anyone in your life is the house you live in. Four brick walls and three decades’ worth of belongings, more inheritance than memories. But they roll around like marbles – they echo against the walls when they hit them. There’s nothing binding them, no thread of love, or family, or anything real enough to hold it all together.

You’re the only living organ inside a skeleton’s cage. A lonely little heartbeat, making noise for no one to hear.

And that’s the way it has been, at least since you were eight. The absence of warmth and safety isn’t anything new to you – it left the second your parents did. The last scrunch of your mom’s nails on your head, the last kiss of her lips to your plump little cheeks. The passing over to your grandma, like you were cargo, like you were a box to be checked.

Maybe you found some distant flicker of heat in the way Joel looked at you, the day you told him you were pregnant. Maybe you saw the same glimmer of a flame that you used to see in your mom’s eye. The rosy smell of her perfume, the feel of her finger inside five of yours. Maybe, for the first time since you were a kid, you felt safe.

We’re gonna work it out, he said. I’m here. We’re in this together, alright? I am not running out on you.

Together. And yet, now, sat in your child’s nursery – a room built from scratch by Joel’s two hands and strung together by every beat of your heart – you’ve never felt more alone. The same two hands that are wrapped around Vanessa right now, consoling her, wiping her tears away, massaging her shoulders and sweeping her hair from her eyes.

And the same heartbeat which quickens now, fueled by an angry desire, an impulse scratching deep into your flesh to march all the damn way to Houston and tear the pair of them apart. Like he’s yours; like the way he touches you and looks at you and talks to you means anything more than his child growing inside you.

Like it’s you he’s touching and looking at and talking to, and not Duck. Like his attention won’t cease to shine on you, the second this little baby leaves your body.

And then, washing over the scorching hot sand of anger: a foam-lined wave of guilt. Of shame, for wishing for the breakdown of something that clearly makes the two of them happy. That makes Joel…happy.

He doesn’t owe you anything – he was never yours to begin with. Just one drunken night, a mistake until you noticed the two pale lines on the pregnancy test. And by that point, he was already hers again. You had missed him without even knowing it.

You sigh, pushing up from the rocking chair and reaching for a tissue from the changing table. Turning back, giving the room one last teary glance before closing the door, you sniff.

“You’re just…the luckiest little kid who’s ever gonna live.”

At one twenty a.m., cicadas chirping and trees rustling, the low breeze carrying the sounds through your half-open window – your back begins to ache. A blunt, gnawing pain. Feels like your period, and in your doze, you stuff a pillow between your legs and pray you don’t stain the sheets with a show of blood.

The realization comes over you as if that stifling breeze flips to freezing. You slowly come around, eyes peeling open as you think it over twice, then three times, then four. Duck shifts somewhere deep inside you, somewhere you’ve never felt them shift before.

“…No. Not right now, Duck. You gotta give me, like, twenty-four hours. Just – wait until your dad gets ho–”

A blinding pain interrupts you, the moonlit-blue room fading out of focus for half a second before you’re wide awake, clutching the bottom of your spine where you’re sure the kid just tore a fucking hole straight through your uterus.

“You’re a fucking dick,” you whimper, fingers clenching in tight fists around the bedsheets. “You’re a fucking – dick.”

One twenty-three. You go into labor.

[hwaslayer]

wildfire (cs) | seven.

—spotify playlist | series masterlist

—summary: assistant professor in bioengineering, incredibly attractive, lonely and divorced; that’s how most people describe san. but despite the events that have happened in his life, san has a lot going for himself. he’s a successful, sought out professor due to his brilliant contributions to science at just an early age of 32. he worked hard to get where he was now; head deep into his research, his publications, building his lab and creating a name for himself. everything was good and smooth sailing— until it wasn’t. because when he meets you, a bioengineering grad student interested in rotating in his lab, he finds himself ready to risk all the blood, sweat and tears he put in throughout the years just to keep you close— his need for you spiraling out of control like a wildfire.

—pairing: asst. professor!choi san x grad student!f. reader

—genre: (18+ - minors dni) strangers to lovers, grad school au | fluff, angst, smut

—word count: 5.3k

—chapter content/warnings: cussing, mature language/sexually implied content, girlies we are lying straight through our teeth.. 😭, we also got door code privilege so we can talk to professor choi about neuroscience papers in private more often!! 😙, making out, a shower together ouweeee, blowjob, handjob, swallowing his cum, more cute affectionate moments, watching a movie together and being domestic af basicallllly

—a/n: i just wanna say tysm for being down bad for prof choi as much as i am <33 ily!! there will be a 7.5! & tsbut!yunho will make his debut soon.. 👀

—FLASHBACK

The walk back to your building isn't that bad, especially when most people aren't quite up and about just yet. San drops you off in the same residential area, watching through his rearview mirror as you make the trek back. When he sees you enter through the side door, he pulls off and drives around to the usual garage he parks at for the day.

You make it back to your studio unnoticed, slipping in with ease and heading straight to the shower to get ready for your day. The events from last night replay over and over again in your head and you can't help but smile to yourself knowing how well San took care of you.

You long for him.

After a good, long shower to soothe your body, you try your best to go about your morning as normal as possible. You quickly dry your hair and dab on some blush, mascara, brow gel, and lip gloss— keeping it light before throwing on some baggy straight jeans, an oversized crewneck and a pair of 530 New Balances. The moment you slide your laptop into your bag, Felix comes knocking on your door.

"Morning sunshine!" He smiles. "What time did you get back from lab last night?"

"Not too late. Sunwoo dropped me off before heading to his place." You give him a toothless smile, hoping he'd buy it. And he does.

"Oh, cool. Glad it didn't seem too bad and that he was there to accompany you." You sling the strap of your back over your shoulder, swinging your door shut before locking it. You follow Felix down the hall and head down to the dining hall to grab breakfast; except, you aren't hungry.

"Eunchae and Jurin are still asleep, huh?" You nod.

"Yeah, they won't get up for breakfast anyway." You laugh, knowing the two will probably get up right before class, giving themselves enough time to grab coffee on the way over at one of the cafes. 

"Yeah, Jiung is fucking knocked out." You giggle. "Anyway, wonder what special they have for breakfast today."

"I'm actually not hungry."

"Not hungry? For breakfast?" Felix looks at you weirdly. "Since when? It's your favorite meal of the day."

"I dunno, I'm still full from last night. I ate pretty late." Felix shrugs.

"Well okay, then. I'm just gonna grab something real quick and eat it on the go."

"No, we can stay and eat. I'll probably just grab some fruit." Felix looks at you with a brow cocked up, watching as you fiddle with the strap of your bag.

"Are you sure you're okay?" He presses his hand to your forehead gently. "You're not feeling sick, are you?"

"No." You look at him with a small, reassuring smile. "I promise."

"Okay then." He shrugs, no longer questioning you about your appetite this morning even though the tiny change in mannerism is enough to have Felix wondering what's been going on with you. Maybe it's just a phase, maybe you are just overwhelmed like Jiung says. 

He won't ask, though. He'll let you come to him if you need him. 

At least, you look happy. There's a certain glow to you that he can't pinpoint.

—END

"School is awful." Jurin puts her head down to rest her eyes for a second. "I feel like I'm a robot, moving nonstop."

"Tell me about it." Felix yawns. "I have to TA in a few." Felix looks at his watch and hums. "Hm, I'll leave in like.. 5 minutes."

"You know, I actually enjoy TAing!" Eunchae pops a grape into her mouth.

"Honestly, I do too. It's pretty fun." You chime in, taking one of her grapes.

"Same, especially when the class knows how to interact. Otherwise, I kinda just stand there and look dumb." Jiung snorts. At this moment, your phone dings from an email. You furrow your brows when you notice it's coming in from the department, stating that your TA hours were gonna be split with Jeong Yunho's class.

To: yn@atz.edu From: bioeng@atz.edu Hi Y/N, Hope this email finds you well! I'm emailing you to let you know there's been a change with your TA assignment. Half of your hours will be split between Professor Hsieh and Professor Jeong, effective immediately. Professor Jeong's TA needed to take leave for a family emergency and will not be returning for the remainder of the quarter. He should be emailing you soon to discuss a little further, but please feel free to reach out in the meantime if you have any questions or need any clarification. Thank you, Erika

"What's wrong?" Jiung looks at you as you read through the email.

"Uh. Speaking of TAing, I just got an email saying some of my hours are going to Professor Jeong's class. His TA needed to take leave for the rest of the quarter cause of a family emergency."

"Oh, damn. Hope they're okay." Jurin says. "Isn't that cool to be helping him now too, though?"

"Yeah, I guess." You lie because no, it's not. You'll obviously keep it civil and do what you need to do. But at the same time, you don't respect him the same way you used to. You don't care if you're biased over San— you just don't do that to people you claim to love. "It'll be interesting." There's a slight pause in conversation until Felix chimes in again.

"It'll be fun, I'm sure you'll learn new things from him just like you're doing with Professor Hsieh and Professor Choi." Your heart skips a beat thinking about San, and you realize you really need to keep yourself under wraps better before you slip up and start smiling like a fucking idiot around your friends.

And knowing them, they'd never leave it alone if you give them even the slightest hint of something going on.

"Mhm." Is all you manage to say.

"What're you guys doing this weekend?" Jiung squints at all of you. "Should we head out if you're all here?"

"I think I'm gonna be gone on Sunday during the day, but I'll be back later that evening." Jurin says.

"I'm gonna head home tonight and just hang out with my mom for the weekend." You poke at your salad before forking it and taking it a bite. You also avoid eye contact because it's a lie, and you won't be seeing your mom. You'll be at San's.

"Okay, so we aren't hanging out this weekend." Jiung snorts.

"Yeah, I think my cousin is gonna come down to visit and sleep over." Eunchae says. "We'll probably go out and head around."

"Just us boys again! We should throw a little kick-it at the apartment and keep it lowkey." Jiung adds, with Felix nodding. "Eunchae, you can bring your cousin if you guys aren't too tired." 

"Yeah! We'll swing by if we have the energy." She turns to you. "What're you gonna be doing with your mom?"

"Just hanging out, relaxing." Jiung nods.

"Nice you're spending more time with your mom." You give him a toothless smile and quietly nod.

"Alright, I gotta head out. I might even be a little late." Felix laughs. "See ya'll for dinner later? Y/N if I don't see you before you go, please drive home safely and enjoy your weekend with your mom!"

"Thank you, Lix." You smile and tuck your things into your bag. "I should probably go too, actually. I should wrap things up sooner than later." Jurin, Eunchae and Jiung begin to pack their own things as well, waving their goodbyes as you all split to different ways; some going back to lab, to class, some going to the library to finish some assignments before the weekend rolls around so they don't have to worry about it.

You walk to the Harvey Center with a slight pout, unsure of how to feel being thrown into Yunho's class. Truthfully, it could be worse. You don't know what you'd do if you somehow had to work alongside of Iseul. You're still praying and hoping you don't ever have to collaborate with her, and this is probably all sorts of fucked up because it's based on your feelings for San. You can agree that they are both great professors— their work and contributions are widely known. You don't doubt that you'd learn something new from them. However, you just can't get past the idea that they did what they did to San. You can never fathom betrayal like that.

You sigh.

You can't wait to tell San about this.

As promised, Yunho emails you and asks if he can set up a time to talk and catch you up on everything that's been happening in class so far. He asks if he can see you before the day ends so that you're good to go by the time next week comes.

To: yn@atz.edu From: jeongyh@atz.edu Hi Y/N, I think you might've received the email from Erika already about the change in your TA hours. Thank you in advance for your help, and I'm excited to have you onboard! Do you have some time before end of the day to quickly meet and go over the course? I can bring you up to date on where we're at. I'm on the east wing of the Harvey Center, room E122. Let me know what's good for you and I'll carve out the time. Thanks! Yunho

"You look unhappy." Sunwoo says as he plops down in the empty chair next to your desk, watching as you stare at the email through your laptop. "What's wrong?" You snap out of it and chuckle.

"Nothing." You pause. "Well actually, I'm short on time today so I might not get much done. I'll come in over the weekend if needed."

"Dude, it's fine. Take your weekends." He chuckles. "Why, though? Is everything okay?"

"Mhm. My TA hours are just getting rearranged."

"Oh, more or less?"

"Hm. I'm cutting down on Professor Hsieh's since she has two other TAs, and those hours will go to Professor Jeong instead."

"Oh, cool. That'll be a fun class! I've heard good things about it."

"Yeaaaah. I have to go meet him before the end of the day." You start typing your response to Yunho, letting him know 4:30pm was the best time for you— that way, you still have time to get through some of your work before heading out. Coincidentally, at this point, San walks into the office area, along with three other people. They're conversing in good spirits, and they make a turn towards your direction to head to the small conference room situated near your desk.

"Yo, what's up Professor Choi!" Sunwoo nods.

"Hey Sunwoo." He smiles at him before looking at you. "Y/N." He subtly licks his lips and smirks, returning his attention back to the group as if it never left. You almost forget about Yunho entirely.

He'll be the death of you.

"I'm going to work on some data analysis before I see him. I don't think I'll have time to slice and image today." Sunwoo shrugs.

"All good. We have time next week in between surgeries."

"Don't remind me." You smile at him playfully.

"Assuming you'll listen and take my advice about not coming in on the weekends unless absolutely necessary, what do you have planned?" 

"Mm, just hang out with my mom. What about you?"

"One of my good friends is visiting so I'll be taking him around and letting him sleep on my couch." You snort.

"Sounds fun." 

"Alright, I'm gonna finish some imaging from the slicing we did earlier in the week." You nod and wave. "Have fun at your meeting with Professor Jeong, and have a good weekend!"

"You too, Sunwoo." You give him a toothless smile before returning your attention to the data on your laptop. You spend a good few minutes typing out your analysis, only turning when you hear San's voice as he passes by. He gives you a small, tiny smile before returning his attention to the group, walking out of the basement to who knows where. 

You continue to keep your head down, bouncing between small assignments and your data analysis up until the very end. When 4:20pm hits, you quickly pack up your things and head out, giving the basement one last look. San hasn't returned after leaving with the group, so you assume he's busy for the rest of the afternoon until he heads home. You let out a small sigh, power walking over to the east side of the building. You tap your badge and hold your breath, hoping the badge reader will turn green and pop the door open; which, to your luck, it does. You follow the room numbers until the end, finding Yunho's office in the corner towards the back end of the first floor. You press your ear to the door, making sure there isn't an ongoing meeting before you knock. Once it's clear, you give his door a good, hard three knocks, not even having to wait for Yunho to respond with a 'come in!' 

"Hey!" Yunho smiles at you as you walk in, and you give him a simple, toothless smile. "Nice to see you again!" He's standing, just about to slip a book back onto the shelf next to him.

"Hi Professor Jeong. It's nice to see you again, too."

"Please, take a seat. I'm just kinda fiddling through books right now."

"Are you working on something in particular?" You gently set your bag down and watch as he grabs another book off of the shelf and sets it down on his desk. The book has different images of the mouse brain— the anatomy, from different angles.

"Ah, I'm just trying to make sense of some images, that's all." He smiles again at you. There's no denying that Yunho is also very attractive. He's charming in his own way, very witty and outgoing. You see him bouncing around campus pretty often, with or without Iseul in tow.

"I see."

"How's your day been?"

"It's been alright. Had two classes before I finished up work in San's—" You pause. "Professor Choi's lab."

"That's right, you're rotating in his lab this quarter?"

"Mhm." 

"How's it been?"

"Amazing." You tilt your head and he nods.

"That's good. He's a good guy. If it's anybody you'll learn the most from, it's him."

"Yeah, I agree wholeheartedly." You chuckle to play it off a bit. "So.. I'm sorry to hear about your TA. I hope things are alright with them."

"Hope so, too. I'm just glad they're taking the time they need." He pulls out a copy of his syllabus and slides it over. "You're probably familiar with the format since Professor Hsieh follows a similar one. I usually do about 4 lectures and take care of finals at the end. I've got about three other professors doing guest lectures, and one of our postdocs handles the hands-on lab portion and some other classes." You skim the document. "My TAs usually handle journal club-led discussions. I'll pop in for a few if I can, but I let my TAs have the floor." You nod.

"Oh yeah, this is similar to Professor Hsieh's class. Shouldn't be too bad." You continue to flip through the syllabus.

"No. It shouldn't be." He chuckles. "I may need you to assist with one of my lectures and labs, too."

"Okay, no problem."

"I'll send you the journal club papers and add you to our discussion board. They'll submit assignments and post any questions there, and we can upload lecture or reading material there as well. You can set up office hours for however you'd like, whatever works easiest for you. Just let me know what day you decide to do it."

"Sounds good." You look at him, and he looks at you. You can see the way his brow subtly cocks up before he lets out a small laugh. He's probably unsure why it feels a little tense when trust, you're trying your hardest to not let it slip.

"Any questions? Feeling overwhelmed?"

"No, I'm—" The door suddenly swings open and it's Iseul. Her eyes land on you for a quick second before she diverts her attention back to her husband and apologizes for interrupting. "I'm good, I think we're all set here." You stand and grab your bag. "Thanks, Professor Jeong. I'll see you next week?" He nods. 

"Alright, well feel free to reach out if anything comes up. Have a great weekend, Y/N."

"You too." You give him a short and curt bow before slipping past Iseul. You feel her eyes on you as you pass by, up until the very moment you slip out the door.

And finally, it feels like you can breathe.

"Is that your new TA?" 

"Y/N, yes." He stands to give her a hug and kiss on the top of the head. 

"She looks familiar."

"Well, she's in the bioengineering department and has rotated in Christopher's lab. She's in San's now."

"Hm." She hums. "Interesting." There's something about you that rubs her the wrong way and she's quick to trust her gut. It's not that she doesn't trust you around Yunho, no. But, she doesn't know you and something already feels weird.

"So, hungry? Where should we go for dinner?" He sits back down while Iseul leans against his cabinet behind him, scrolling through her phone.

"I'm feeling sushi tonight."

"That sounds good. Let me finish this up real quick and I'll get you out of here, okay?" He squeezes her hip before returning his attention back to the images on his screen.

After you meet with Yunho, you walk back straight to your studio to pack up for the weekend. You wash up and grab a few things, changing into comfier clothes per usual. When you leave, you shoot San a quick text, waving goodbye to a few friends you run into on your way out.

you: i'm about to head to your house!

san: sorry baby, just wrapping things up but i'll be there ASAP. feel free to get comfy and do whatever you need to do. code to the door is 9583.

you: waoow i have door code access now 🤭

san: lol you sure do, pretty girl. i'll see you soon, okay?

you: mmkay, hurry ☹️

San smiles to himself as he sets the phone down and powers through a few more tasks. When you get to San's house, you park off to the curb and head straight inside, hoping to avoid any confrontation with neighbors at this moment. You slip in and step out of your shoes, sighing a sigh of relief when you've made it safely. You head upstairs to drop your things, noticing San's bed fixed nicely. Rings spread across the drawer, cologne lightly lingering in the air. 

You can't wait for him to get home.

You head back downstairs and turn on the tv for background noise, lighting up a candle on the island. You take a few moments to snack on some fruits before you [slowly] start prepping ingredients for dinner, scrolling through Instagram and getting lost in the social media rabbit hole. You lazily walk over to San's fridge and quickly skim the shelves to see if there's any ideas that'll pop up for dinner. He's got just enough groceries, but nothing too overwhelming. You walk over to the pantry, also taking your time to skim the shelves. The TV is unexpectedly playing a show on unsolved mysteries, which distracts you to a great extent as you hang out beneath the door frame of the pantry.

"Hm." You pull up random recipes in between glancing at the tv. It isn't long before you hear the garage door open, the soft, muffled audio creeping through the walls. San walks in shortly afterwards, airpod in one ear while taking a meeting on Zoom through his phone. 

"Yeah, I know. I agree. Maybe they should work on it together and try a different approach? Have you asked Russ to try some computational analysis on their data?" Is all you hear him say as he walks into the kitchen with a smile on his face seeing you there. You reciprocate the smile and wrap your arms around his neck, waiting for the right moment to kiss him and welcome him home. "Mhm." He says before muting himself. "Hi baby."

"Hi." You tippy-toe to kiss him, allowing San to deepen the kiss despite his Zoom call still going on in the background. "San." You giggle in between, pointing at his phone.

"They don't need me right now." He chases after your lips, hands sliding from the small of your back down to your ass and giving it a good squeeze. You squeal, indulging in a few more seconds of kissing San— fingers tangled in the ends of his hair, gently biting onto his bottom lip and causing him to hiss in response just as you pull away.

"Go finish up your meeting."

"Tease." He mouths out before unmuting himself. "Yeah, I'm here. I hear you." He keeps his eyes on you with a small smirk. He points upstairs, mouthing out a quick 'i'll be in my office.' You nod, giving him one last peck on the lips before he disappears up the steps. You rummage through his fridge to grab those mushrooms, bokchoy, and tofu he had sitting around to whip up a quick udon stir fry. Before chopping up your ingredients, you let the udon sit in a hot water bath while you pop in some shrimp tempura you found in his freezer in the air fryer. Once the noodles are ready, you toss them in as you fry the vegetables, along with your wet ingredients— whipping everything up in a matter of 25 mins. 

After his meeting, San quickly finishes some emails and follows up on a few pending items before calling it a day. He's trying to balance his time better now that you're around because the last thing he wants to do is make the same mistake again of unintentionally pushing someone he cares about away. And it's a little scarier this time, a little different, because San feels himself falling deep [and fast] for you. He doesn't wanna run you off or scare you in any way, and he surely doesn't want a repetition of his last, but he truly cares about you and wants this to work no matter how tough it might be.

He just wants you.

He sighs when the thoughts flood his head, locking his computer and setting his things aside. Since he hears you whipping up dinner, he heads to the room to change and quickly shower. He tosses his clothes into the laundry and steps in, leaving the bathroom door cracked open. When you head up the stairs after making dinner, you find San drenched underneath the piping hot water. Steam is rising out of the shower and into its surroundings, fogging up the mirrors. You watch for a few moments through his bathroom mirror— catching 'lil peeks and admiring his pretty, honey-dipped skin, wet black hair. You find the sudden urge to join him, to just be with him, and before you can even think twice, your feet are already taking you to San. You tread over in front of the shower door, San curiously looking at you with a small smile on his face. His eyes are glued to you while he watches you strip down in front of him, beautifully bare and raw. He pops the door open for you to step in, hands instantly coming to your waist to pull you flush against him.

"Wasn't expecting you to join."

"Thought we could save some water."

"Yeah?" He laughs. "I'm not mad about it." You tippy-toe to peck him on the lips. He doesn't let you go, though. He deepens the kiss, tongues fighting for dominance slowly, sensually. His hands are roaming all over your body, giving your breasts a good squeeze. You moan, the need, desire, to please San becomes overwhelming. He lets out a small sigh when he feels your hand wrap around his hard cock, his breathy moan causing goosebumps to rise on your skin. Your lips press chaste kisses down the column of his neck, tongue swiping across the surface before you gently nibble. You're careful not to leave any marks, softly sucking on the base of his neck, collarbone; just enough to make him feel a way without having the proof littered on his skin.

"Fuck, princess." He chokes out. "Feels so damn good already." You pick up the pace as you continue to stroke him, slowly crouching down to come eye level with his member— kissing and sucking away at his angry, red tip to start it off. Your tongue swipes from the base upwards, pressing tiny kisses across the surface. "Don't be such a tease." He pouts as he watches from above. You smirk, taking half of him inside your mouth. You work your hand at the same time you bob up and down, pulling back with a pop. The string of saliva connecting your bottom lip to his tip drives him insane, his hand coming to the back of your head to slowly guide you down his length the next time you've stuffed your mouth full of him. "Doing so well, love. You can take all of me, yeah?" You nod. He feels you gag when he eases it all down your throat, causing San to groan a little louder— the tone echoing off the bathroom walls. He keeps his cock down your throat, determining on his own terms when he'll give you time to catch your breath, take a breather. When he pulls your head back, you look up at him with those doe-eyes. And it goes from one moment of sticking his cock back down your throat, to the next moment of you constantly bobbing your head; sucking him off so fucking well. 

"Aw—fuck—" San hisses before moaning loudly. "So fucking sexy, baby. Made just for me." He breathes out. "Fuck, fuck— gonna cum—" It takes that one last moment of taking him fully before San keeps your head there as he shoots his cum down your throat. When he's finished, you slowly pull back and wipe at your mouth, throat feeling all sorts of sore and battered but you could careless.

As long as you made San feel good, that's all you wanted.

"Okay, maybe we need to finish up in here."

"Do we have to?" San smirks, hands rubbing at your waist. "Can I help you with anything?"

"Just wanted to make you feel good, Sannie." The nickname rolls of your lips so naturally San feels his heart soar. It just feels like you were meant to say it, like you're the only person on this Earth that is deserving of so. San doesn't even realize he's still smiling down at you until you kiss him on the lips tenderly and finally taking the lead with getting washed up.

When you get back downstairs, San still can't keep his hands off of you. You sit on the edge of the counter while San washes a few of his containers from lunch. After he finishes, he slots himself in between your legs, admiring you from where he stands. You wrap your arms around his neck while his hands are resting on your thighs. He presses cute, repeated kisses along your chin and jaw, causing you to giggle.

"So, I forgot to tell you. I got an email from the department today about my TA assignment."

"Is everything okay?" 

"I think so."

"You think?"

"I, um." You look at San. "Some of my TA hours are going to Yunho. I had to meet with him really quickly earlier."

"Oh. That's cool, baby." You shake your head and he chuckles. "No?"

"No."

"Don't think about the things that happened. He's still a great professor and someone you'll learn a lot from." You scoff.

"Like what, how to be a bad, homewrecking bestfriend?"

"Baby." He smirks a bit and gently pokes your nose. "Don't do that."

"You're right, sorry." You roll your eyes playfully. "He is cool, I guess." He chuckles.

"Promise me you won't let your feelings get in the way, hm? Look at him as a professor, not from what you know about me." Truthfully, San is a little afraid that you'll be working closely with Yunho now. Not because he's insecure, no. But, working with Yunho meant there was a chance he'd learn more about you. And obviously San wouldn't hide your relationship if he didn't have to, for the sake of rules, policy, his lab, Namjoon even. The fear is stemming from his past, coming back to haunt him all over again. He doesn't trust either of them one bit.

"I should be looking at you as just a professor too, you know?" You tease.

"Oh yeah? Wonder what happened there."

"Kinda like you better like this, though." You giggle, allowing San to swoop you into his arms. You cling on, wrapping your legs and arms around him while he walks you to the couch and sits you on his lap. 

"Damn, so the whole professor charm didn't do much?"

"Kidding." You laugh.

"Your laugh is so cute." San says, looking up to you all smitten. He rubs at your sides, kissing you sweetly before he's back to just smiling at you.

"What, no?"

"Yeah."

"Why do you keep looking at me like that?"

"You're just so beautiful, that's all." You smile. "Hm, so. What do you wanna watch? What do you wanna do this weekend since I have you all to myself?"

"Well, we can watch something cute? Because I've been watching this and it's making my mind work overtime with all the possibilities." You look back at the TV and San chuckles.

"I thought you liked stuff like that, baby."

"I do, but tonight, I just wanna relax."

"Fair enough. I'll watch whatever movie you wanna watch."

"Even if its A Walk to Remember or The Notebook?" He nods, bottom lip poking out.

"I don't mind."

"Wow, you're a little too perfect." He laughs.

"Far from it, actually." 

"And, I don't know. I'm down for whatever this weekend."

"I'll take you around some places away from here."

"Sounds good with me."

"Let's grab our dinner and watch a movie?" He kisses you once more before tapping you on the hip. "Thank you for making dinner, angel."

"Of course." You smile and hop off his lap. You fill your bowls with the udon stir fry and tempura you made, laughing and joking around mid-convo with San as you both walk back to the couch while he's telling you about his day. You pop on the classic Titanic, not really in the mood for anything else popping up on Netflix. San compliments you on dinner, smothering you in more kisses all over your face. You joke about how he didn't have much to work with, so maybe grocery shopping needed to go on your list for this weekend's festivities.

When you're done with dinner, San cleans up in the kitchen while you continue to watch away on the couch, answering to a few texts in between until San comes back to keep you company. Mid-movie, his phone dings, signaling a text coming through.

It's Jongho.

jongho: trying to play tennis this weekend? me and yeosang were thinking about going to the courts then hanging out at his house after. 

jongho: chris is gonna be busy with his sister this weekend so he's out 

jongho: and i asked mingi but i don't think he wants to play lol

san: sorry my guy! sounds fun but i'll be occupied with some things this weekend.

jongho: like what??

san: i'm just behind on a few things, needa wrap it up before the NAS conference.

jongho: hm ok, well the invite is there if things change!

san: thanks! have fun lol

And with that, San locks his phone and continues to watch the movie while your head is on his lap. He looks down at you and smiles a bit to himself, his hand coming down to thread through your hair and give you a gentle head massage. He feels a bit guilty for lying to Jongho, but at the same time, he doesn't.

He's content, he's happy.

Right now, things couldn't feel any more perfect and he'd be damned if he did anything to mess it up.

—read 7.5 here

—taglist: @asjkdk @interweab @woojirang @svintsandghosts @cheolliehugs @persphonesorchid @mxnsxngie @jycas @cowboydk @vcutparis @chngbnwf @struggling101 @sanhwalvr @angelqueendom @barbielibra @brown88 @choisansplushie @yunhoswrldddd @hyukssunflower @vickykazuya @lucid-galaxys-world @jaytheatiny @pommelex @thespiffynerd @vixensss @santineez @nopension @domfikeluva @in-somnias-world

[slepiesheep]

SpongeBob Truman show AU lets gooo!! Discussing with friends and feeling motivated. Setting takes place decades later. I will analyze, include about my theories, and intentions how the series ends. I made this for FUN, don’t take it too seriously. It's likely that you might not fully understand this if you haven't watched The Truman Show or are unfamiliar with the television theory by Alex Bale. I highly recommend watching the Television theory.

Just a quick note before we start: in the SpongeBob SquarePants universe, the show is canonically a show within the show. For instance, we've seen pirates getting excited about the first SpongeBob movie. Even Patchy the Pirate, the biggest SpongeBob fan, knows about SpongeBob's existence in real life (within the show). If i remember correctly, in the Sponge out of water movie, a child even saw SpongeBob and called out his name. I think that Scientists will do anything to make the show interesting and profitable.

There will be 2 parts of this story.

Part 1

SpongeBob, Squidward and Mr. Krabs gets to celebrate The Krusty Krab anniversary. Mr. Krabs wanted to set sail on a boat trip with SpongeBob, a father-son bonding experience. Mr. Krabs dressed in his sailor hat, a dark blue trenchcoat, and SpongeBob also wore sailor clothes. Yeah Mr. Krabs fucking dies because he took 50% of the show's profits and didn't perform his duties properly 😂 The producers decided to eliminate him from the show, leaving SpongeBob traumatized for his life to increase viewer interest. A horrible thunderstorm hit. SpongeBob tried to pull up Mr. Krabs, but his scrawny arms couldn’t do it. He only managed to grab his trenchcoat. Mr. Krabs’ body was never to be found. Now, SpongeBob is the manager of the Krusty Krab, responsible for keeping the secret formula safe. He opens a notebook to write down important information. Due to aging, SpongeBob started wearing glasses. Plankton tried to exploit his naive nature, but SpongeBob slowly became more mature and courageous like Mr. Krabs. It began to feel like a repeating pattern for SpongeBob. He wanted to get out from Bikini Bottom and experience a new life and travel around the wonders of the nature before growing old and dying. However, when he tried to purchase a ticket for a trip outside of Bikini Bottom, he found that it wasn't an option for him. Strange events happened to keep SpongeBob preoccupied and ensure his continued stay in Bikini Bottom. On his way to work, SpongeBob accidentally bumped into an elderly man, only later recognizing him as Mr. Krabs. Unforeseen, two men appeared, abruptly pulling Mr. Krabs away. creating a distraction with a group of anchovies.

Mr. Krabs boarded a bus as SpongeBob began to question why Mr. Krabs, who was presumed dead, was somehow still alive but never came back to him. Confused, he shared his thoughts with Squidward, who dismissed it and pretended nothing was wrong. Feeling unsettled, SpongeBob decided to visit Sandy at her treedome to talk about what he had seen. Just before putting on his water helmet, it hit him, how could Mr. Krabs have drowned when they all lived underwater? The thought made no sense, and the more he thought about it, the more his suspicions grew. He used to believe this kind of logic was normal. Unsure of what to believe, SpongeBob went to Patrick’s house to tell him about the strange encounter. Patrick seemed confused but not entirely surprised. It felt like Patrick knew something too, as if he'd experienced something similar, but he wasn't ready to talk about it. To distract SpongeBob, Patrick suggested they head to Goofy Goobers for ice cream, hoping to lift his friend’s spirits. The next day, SpongeBob had his driving test. Ms. Puff sat next to him in the boat, still baffled by the fact that after all these years, SpongeBob had yet to earn his license. Determined to do something different, SpongeBob unexpectedly drove off the course, speeding up. Ms. Puff panicked and shouted for him to stop. She was about to take control of the wheel but hesitated, knowing a sudden turn could cause an accident. Despite her pleas, SpongeBob kept going, lost in his own thoughts.

When he drove out of town, he encountered a crowd of people blocking the road. He slammed on the brakes just in time to avoid hitting anyone. A police officer quickly approached and explained that there had been a toxic gas leak in the area, and the entire place was being evacuated. "There’s no way through," the officer warned. Before letting him go, the officer added, “Make sure to drive slower, SpongeBob.” Hearing his name snapped something in SpongeBob, and without thinking, he floored it, trying to make a run for it. The police swiftly caught up with him, arrested him on the spot, and threw him in jail. He was locked up for just one second before they kicked him out again, sending him back on his way.

.

.

.

.

I'm exhausted. I just ate 15 bite-sized waffles while writing this, and honestly, I have no idea what I just wrote. I'll reread it tomorrow morning and fix any mistakes.

[pers-books]

Obituary

William Russell obituary

Stage and screen actor who was part of the original cast of Doctor Who

Michael Coveney Tue 4 Jun 2024 17.40 BST

William Russell, left, as Ian Chesterton, with William Hartnell as the Doctor, Jacqueline Hill as Barbara and Carole Ann Ford as Susan in the Doctor Who serial The Keys of Marinus, 1964. Photograph: BBC

On 23 November 1963 – the day after the assassination of President John F Kennedy – the actor William Russell, who has died aged 99, appearing in a new BBC television series, approached what looked like an old-fashioned police box in a scrapyard, from which an old chap emerged, saying he was the doctor. Russell responded: “Doctor Who?”

And so was launched one of the most popular TV series of all time, although the viewing figures that night were low because of the political upheaval, so the same episode was shown again a week later. It caught on, big time, with Russell – as the science schoolteacher Ian Chesterton – and William Hartnell as the Doctor establishing themselves alongside Jacqueline Hill as the history teacher Barbara Wright and Carole Ann Ford as Susan Foreman.

Russell stayed until 1965, returning to the show in 2022 in a cameo appearance as Ian and, since then, participating happily in all the hoop-la and fanzine convention-hopping, signing and schmoozing that such a phenomenon engenders.

Before that, though, Russell had achieved prominence in the title role of the ITV series The Adventures of Sir Lancelot (1956-57) – he was strongly built with an air of dashing bravado about him; he had been an RAF officer in the later stages of the second world war – and as the lead in a 1957 BBC television adaptation of Nicholas Nickleby, transmitted live in 18 weekly episodes.

William Russell on the set of the 1950s television series The Adventures of Sir Lancelot. Photograph: Mirrorpix/Getty Images

When Sir Lancelot went to the US, the first British TV import to be shot in colour for an American audience, Russell rode down Fifth Avenue on a horse in full regalia, like some returning, mystical, medieval knight in the heart of Normandy. The show was a smash hit.

By now he was established in movies, playing a servant to John Mills in The Gift Horse (1952) and a clutch of second world war action movies including They Who Dare (1954) opposite Dirk Bogarde, directed by Lewis “All Quiet on the Western Front” Milestone – he met his first wife, the French model and actor Balbina Gutierrez on a boat sailing to Cyprus to a location shoot in Malta – and Ronald Neame’s The Man Who Never Was (1956), the first Operation Mincemeat movie, in which he played Gloria Grahame’s fiance.

Until this point in his career, he was known as Russell Enoch. But Norman Wisdom, with whom he played in the knockabout comedy farce One Good Turn (1955) objected to his surname because he felt (oddly) that it would publicise a vaudevillian rival of his called Enoch. So, somewhat meekly, and to keep Wisdom happy, he became William Russell, although, in the 1980s, for happy and productive periods with the Actors Touring Company and the RSC, he reverted to the name Russell Enoch. Later, he settled again on William Russell. All very confusing for the historians. His doorbell across the road from me in north London bore the legend “Enoch”.

He was born in Sunderland, the only child of Alfred Enoch, a salesman and small business entrepreneur, and his wife, Eva (nee Pile). They moved to Solihull, and then Wolverhampton, where William attended the grammar school before moving on to Fettes college in Edinburgh and Trinity College, Oxford, where his economics tutor was the brilliant Labour parliamentarian Anthony Crosland.

But Russell didn’t “get” the economics part of the PPE (philosophy, politics and economics) course and switched, much to Crosland’s relief, to English. In those years, 1943-46, he worked out his national service and appeared in revues and plays with such talented contemporaries as Kenneth Tynan, Tony Richardson and Sandy Wilson.

Derek Ware, a fight co-ordinator, runs through a scene with Russell during a break in filming the Doctor Who story The Crusades at the BBC studios, Ealing, in 1965. Photograph: Mirrorpix/Getty Images

On graduating, he played in weekly rep in Tunbridge Wells, fortnightly rep at the Oxford Playhouse and featured, modestly, in the Alec Guinness Hamlet of 1951 at the New (now the Noël Coward) theatre. He had big roles in seasons at the Bristol Old Vic and the Oxford Playhouse in the early 60s, while on television he was in JB Priestley’s An Inspector Calls with John Gregson, and was St John Rivers in Jane Eyre.

He played Shylock and Ford (in the Merry Wives of Windsor) in 1968-69 at the Open Air, Regent’s Park, before joining the RSC in 1970 as the Provost in Measure for Measure (with Ian Richardson and Ben Kingsley), Lord Rivers in Norman Rodway’s Richard III and Salisbury in a touring King John, with the title role played by Patrick Stewart.

His billing slipped in movies, but he played small parts in good films such as Superman (1978), starring Christopher Reeve, as one of the Elders; as a passerby drawn into the violence in the Spanish-American slasher film Deadly Manor (1990); and in Bertrand Tavernier’s Death Watch (1980), a sci-fi futuristic fable about celebrity, reality TV and corruption, starring Romy Schneider and Harvey Keitel.

With John Retallack’s Actors Touring Company in the 80s, he was a lurching, apoplectic Sir John Brute in John Vanbrugh’s The Provok’d Wife, possessing, said Jonathan Keates in the Guardian, “a weirdly philosophical elegance”; a civilised Alonso, expertly discharging some of the best speeches in The Tempest; and a quick-change virtuosic king, peasant, soldier and tsar in Alfred Jarry’s 1896 surrealist satire Ubu Roi in the Cyril Connolly translation.

Back at the RSC in 1989, he was the courtly official Egeus in white spats (Helena wore Doc Martens) in an outstanding production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream by John Caird, and both the Ghost and First Player in Mark Rylance’s pyjama-clad Hamlet directed by Ron Daniels. In 1994 he took over (from Peter Cellier) as Pinchard in Peter Hall’s delightful production of Feydeau’s Le Dindon, retitled in translation An Absolute Turkey, which it wasn’t.

He rejoined Rylance in that actor/director’s opening season in 1997 at the new Shakespeare’s Globe. He was King Charles VI of France in Henry V and Tutor to Tim in Thomas Middleton’s riotous Jacobean city comedy, A Chaste Maid in Cheapside. Many years later, in 2021, his son Alfred Enoch (Dean Thomas in the Harry Potter movies), would play on the same stage as a fired-up Romeo.

Russell is survived by his second wife, Etheline (nee Lewis), a doctor, whom he married in 1984, and their son, Alfred, and by his children, Vanessa, Laetitia and Robert, from his marriage to Balbina, which ended in divorce, and four grandchildren, James, Elise, Amy and Ayo.

 William Russell Enoch, actor, born 19 November 1924; died 3 June 2024.

-- I'm a bit annoyed there's no mention of the fact that William continued to play Ian Chesterton for Big Finish.

[ltwilliammowett]

HMS Surprise off the Galapagos Islands

[the-golden-vanity]

I'm having complicated emotions (though mostly giggling madly) about the fact that people are recommending The Terror and Black Sails to Our Flag Means Death fans purely based on them being Age of Sail series with "queer representation". Like... sure, I guess? But I'm not sure if serious-as-a-heart-attack horror or drama series are what OFMD fans are looking for.

HOWEVER.

What if I told you there is another pirate show out there with a lighthearted tone, colorful quasi-Age-of-Sail setting, and plot centered around a lovable crew of misfits creating a found family on a pirate ship?

Our Flag Means Death fans looking for a new boat media obsession, I think Netflix's One Piece may be the show you're looking for. Have fun, and I'll see you all at Funky Bar on Mirror Ball Island.

[sem24]

The whole discourse over the casting of Astrid in the How to Train Your Dragon remake is insane.

What do you mean you’re upset because she’s Black? The argument of “I’m not racist, it’s just that it’s not historically accurate to have a Black woman in a movie about Vikings” is absurd.

Let’s pretend for a moment I’m actually taking the argument about historical accuracy seriously. Looking at it in good faith, the argument is still just as obviously a a thinly veiled excuse to be a bigot.

First of all, the HTTYD movies are as “historically accurate” as Lord of the Rings is to real medieval Europe, Mulan (the Disney movie, obviously not the real Chinese legend it’s based on.) is to ancient China, or Bridgerton is to the Regency period. In other words, not even close.

And that’s fine! HTTYD isn’t even trying for historical accuracy, just as those other projects aren’t. They all take a justifiable amount of artistic license, aiming more for the general vibe of the period than for actual historical realism. It’s a broad-strokes interpretation.

I’m no historian, but even a quick search will show you that Viking women didn’t dress anything like Astrid does in the movies anyway.

What they actually wore:

Here’s where I found this image—it includes more information on how Vikings dressed. (And for the pedantic history nerds out there, yes, I know “Viking” is technically a verb, not a noun. I’m just using it because it’s the general term most people associate with what I’m talking about.) The article describes layers of long, cotton dresses and covered hair—styles that are a far cry from this:

Shockingly, Viking women weren’t actually wearing mini-skirts and skin-tight leather. And again, that’s okay! For the most part, I actually like Astrid’s designs—they suit her character and fit the unique Viking-inspired aesthetic of the movies.

Plus, the skull belt is admittedly a slay, both literally and fashion-wise.

But let’s not pretend for a second that these movies were meticulously accurate to the (vague) time period they drew inspiration from.

Also, if I’m remembering correctly (I think the creators mentioned this in a featurette I saw a few years ago), they were fully aware that Vikings didn’t actually wear helmets with horns on them, as depicted in the movies.

But they used it anyway as shorthand since horned helmets have become such a staple of Vikings in pop culture. It was simply economical storytelling. Even the creators admit that historical accuracy wasn’t their main priority. The How to Train Your Dragon movies aren’t trying to be historically accurate at all. I haven’t even brought up the most obvious argument… the fucking DRAGONS.

The entire “historical accuracy” argument also falls apart when you consider evidence of the Vikings’ far-reaching explorations and interactions with other cultures. Scholars suggest that Vikings traveled widely, interacting with people across Europe, the Middle East, and even parts of Africa. So while HTTYD isn’t grounded in reality, a more diverse Viking community wouldn’t even be ahistorical.

What’s more improbable: someone of a darker complexion getting on a boat and sailing to Scandinavia, or fire-breathing lizards? And yet no one’s complaining about the dragons. I wonder why.

(Even the books How to Train Your Dragon is based on—yes, if you didn’t know, the movies are based on a series of children’s books—aren’t historically accurate, (or even trying to be). I haven’t read them, but I hear that in the books, Hiccup can actually speak to dragons in their own language, and they have steam-powered machinery centuries before it existed.)

But we all know why they’re making such a fuss about this casting—it’s the same reason they whined about Halle Bailey as Ariel. They’re just looking for an excuse to be racist. This poor actress is simply a casualty of their bigotry, and it’s both disgusting and awful.

I wasn’t actually planning on seeing the live-action How to Train Your Dragon. The franchise is one of my all-time favorites. I distinctly remember watching the first movie in theaters when it came out. And, honestly? I didn’t like it—because child me was an idiot. Let’s all boo younger me, the dumbass.

A few years later, though, I walked in on my younger siblings watching Race to the Edge (a spin-off show set between the first two movies). At first, I tried to play it cool and act like I wasn’t interested—that I was too cool for a “silly little cartoon.” But by the end, I was fully engrossed. (Race to the Edge holds up, by the way—highly recommend. It’s on Netflix and has six seasons.) I binged all the seasons that were out at the time, rewatched the first two movies (the third one wasn’t out yet), and inhaled every spin-off show and short I could find.

(For the record, while I think Race to the Edge is the best spin-off, the others are fun, too—the quality is pretty consistent across the whole franchise.) Look, I’m a completionist. Once I get into a fandom, I can’t stop until I’ve consumed everything. (What I wouldn’t give to have that kind of free time now!) My hyper-fixation with How to Train Your Dragon was strong.

All this to say, I really care about this franchise, and while I was sad to see it end, I was okay with how it concluded. And then they had to go and announce a live-action remake. It’s not exactly a hot take to say that a lot of the original’s charm came from its incredible animation and expressive designs. Why would I want to watch the exact same story, just less creative and slightly worse? I wasn’t about to spend money on the reheated leftovers of what was once How to Train Your Dragon. Honestly, I’ve been secretly hoping it would get canceled this whole time.

Until this controversy. Maybe this is exactly the kind of attention the marketing team wanted, but you know what? I’ll buy a ticket—if only to spite the racist assholes. I am nothing if not extremely, extremely petty. If your life is so empty that you’re on the internet complaining about the casting of a Black actress to play a CGI blonde woman riding a dragon, voiced by a Latina actress, I have only one thing to say to you:

In the wise words of Tuffnut, “The chicken is not amused.”

[mystery-star]

Whumptober 2023 - Day 15 | "I'm fine"

Master and Commander - The Far Side of the World (2003)

[emilija04acer]

Cartoons and Anime from My Childhood (part 1)

Born in 2004 in Serbia, I cherish the memories of a time when cable TV was a luxury that only became available to us when I was about 12 years old. Most of my cherished shows were watched at my grandma’s place. Let’s take a stroll down memory lane with this list!

This is part one; I'm not certain how many I will create, but I'll begin with some that have significantly influenced me. They are listed alphabetically, and most are anime.

(I included a short description of each show)

Of course please share your favorite cartoons!

>>>

“Angel Friends”: Angels-in-training, Guardian Angels and Demons. First Angel x Demon ship that I sailed.

“Angelina Ballerina”: A dancing mouse with big dreams and a passion for ballet.

“Atomic Betty”: Intergalactic adventures with Betty, the space-faring superhero.

“Avatar: The Last Airbender”: “Water. Earth. Fire. Air.” A beautifully crafted world, elemental bending, and Aang’s quest to restore balance—this 2D gem blended adventure, humor, and wisdom.

“Barbie Movies”: Every Barbie movie—magical adventures from princesses to explorers.

“The Secret World of Benjamin Bear" Heartwarming adventures with this lovable stuffed bear.

“Bibi Blocksberg”: A young witch named Bibi and her magical escapades. Also Bibi and Tina.

“Bratz Movies”: Fashion-forward Bratz dolls navigating high school and friendship. That one with Paris traumatised me. ( the bone ageing thing)

“Captain Keroro” (Sgt. Frog): Frog-like alien invaders attempting to conquer Earth.

“Code Lyoko”: Virtual reality, secret codes, and a group of students fighting digital threats.

“DelTora Quest”: Lief, Barda, and Jasmine’s quest to restore the seven gems of the Belt of Deltora. (Barda was one of my first fictional crushes guys… 😭 don’t ask)

“Digimon”: Digital monsters, DigiDestined, and epic battles in the Digital World.

“Dragon Ball Z”: “Kamehameha!” The battles between Goku and his formidable foes kept us on the edge of our seats. The iconic transformations, energy blasts, and the quest for Dragon Balls fueled our imaginations.

“Galactic Football”: Futuristic football matches in outer space—goals, teamwork, and cosmic challenges!

“Holly Hobbie and friends”: The adventures of Holly Hobbie, a creative and kind-hearted girl.

“Mermaid Melody”: The enchanting story of mermaid princesses who use their voices to save the ocean. (Other first crush…)

“Mia and Me”: A girl named Mia discovering a magical world with unicorns and elves.

“My Little Pony (MLP)”: Friendship is magic in Equestria with Twilight Sparkle and her pony pals.

“Naruto”: Believe it! Naruto’s ninja journey, friendships, and determination. Who didn’t watch this?

“Nodi”: The little blue train Noddy and his friends in Toyland. (This and Strawberry Shortcake where my everything at like 6)

“Pokémon”: “Gotta catch 'em all!” Ash Ketchum’s Pokémon journey, Pikachu’s thunderbolts, and Team Rocket’s antics—this show captured our hearts. The Pokémon theme song is forever etched in our minds.

“Postman Pat” (Postman Pete): Delivering mail in the charming village of Greendale.

“Sailor Moon” (Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon): “Moon Prism Power, Make Up!” Magical girls, cosmic battles, and the power of friendship—And of course censorship!

“Strawberry Shortcake (2003)”: The sweet adventures of Strawberry Shortcake and her berry friends in the magical land of Strawberryland. (Logorovanje/ camping episode was my fav

“Tokyo Mew Mew”: Magical girls with animal DNA fighting to protect Earth from alien invaders. (Ren can get it)

And of course as I lived in Vojvodina, “Hungarian Folktales”

Here are some links... Sadly I couldn't include the images that I wanted...

Strawberry Shortcake (2004): Wikipedia, IMDb, MoviefoneWonderful Galaxy of Oz: Wikipedia, IMDb, Oz Wiki

Mermaid Melody: Wikipedia, IMDb, Trakt

Tokyo Mew Mew: IMDb, Wikipedia, IMDb for New Series

Galactic Football: IMDb, Wikipedia, SideReel

Sailor Moon: Wikipedia, IMDb, JustWatch

Winx Club: IMDb, Wikipedia, Netflix

W.I.T.C.H.: Wikipedia

As you see I had great taste! Please share yours!

If you are from Serbia... Do you remember ULTRA?! Half of my nostalgia comes from the ads that were on that channel!

Do you remember this people!?

[bthump]

hello! i hope im not bothering you with this ask or anything, but i really love your blog and the thoughts you write, so i wanted to ask if you any other titles you would reccomend that are similar to berserk (not necessarily in terms of setting, but mostly the Vibe) and deal with similar themes (i watched and read devilman!). i would accept anything tbh, be it a book or movie or a series. thanks in advance, hope you have a good week! :)

Thank you very much, and yeah I'd be happy to rec a few other things I like that have some similarities! Some of these similarities are pretty thin lol, but tbf Berserk is pretty unique, at least in terms of media I'm into, and I've seen some good homoerotic movies recently.

Anime/Manga:

Claymore is compared to Berserk fairly regularly, and it's not just for the big swords. There's no griffguts equivalent, but it's got medieval fantasy monster hunting vibes, similar themes wrt human nature (though more shounen, power of love-esque lol), great action scenes and cool monster designs, and a lot of great female characters with interesting relationships, which isn't similar to Berserk but it's a bonus by itself.

I've also seen Vinland Saga compared to Berserk, and again there's no griffguts equivalent, but there's a very Griffith-esque character who has an AU where Griffith became king the old fashioned way vibe, and a central theme is revenge.

An anon a while ago made the point to me that Light from Death Note is similar to Griffith in a few ways, such as wanting to create a kind of ideal world, and being very charismatic and having culty followers who view him as a god.

Books:

tbh I have a bad memory for books I've read, but here are a couple I read specifically because of Berserk similarities:

I read As Meat Loves Salt by Maria McCann because I was told it had griffguts vibes, and it did. Medieval lone wolf is recruited by idealistic blond mercenary who wants to create a utopia, falls in love with him, and gets fucked over. It's very dark, darker in some ways than Berserk, but it was a good read imo. More in depth post on it with warnings here.

Captive Prince by CS Pacat is known for the author having based one of the characters partially on Griffith, and you can tell lol. It's a fun read if you don't mind or are into the tropey sex slave setting, with an engaging gay romance that has surface similarities to griffguts, though the vibe of the relationship was fairly different to me. But like, the political scheming felt like a Golden Age AU to me. It's been a while since I've read it but for warnings there's rape, csa, incest, and sex slavery not portrayed positively but like, used as erotic scene setting if that's a dealbreaker.

TV Shows:

Hannibal! It's got intense homoeroticism, it's got betrayal, it's got an operatic level of intensity, it's fun to dissect analytically, violence revenge and trauma are significant themes, one character tries to escape his life ruining feelings for the other by killing him, and it's just a great time.

Yellowjackets also has strong themes of violence and how it's a temptation, and though I wouldn't compare any of the relationships to griffguts exactly, there's an intense tragic homoerotic friendship that haunts one of the characters decades later.

Xena has a campy overpowered anti hero dressed in black leather wrestling with their inner darkness and in love with a blonde, also a flirty exes kind of relationship with a god (though that's hetero lol). Not really similar tonally and no griffguts equivalent, but it's got some similar themes wrt violence, revenge, human connection saving your soul from darkness, etc, and it's a gr8, fun show.

Black Sails has a kind of love vs revenge thing going on, as well as an attempt to overturn the social order and create a utopian kingdom. In some ways it's similar in tone as well, often pretty dark and violent, but with some very funny moments, and set in a fictionalized historical setting. No griffguts equivalent, but all these shows are extremely gay.

Movies:

Ladyhawke gets a lot of comparisons to Berserk, and may have been one of Miura's inspirations since he cited Rutger Hauer movies. Starcrossed wolf and hawk themed lovers, medieval setting, significant eclipse, it's got the vibes.

Hellraiser is one of Miura's stated inspirations iirc, and I mean yeah lol. It's the godhand as sadomasochists. Idk that there's that much in common in terms of theme, but the aesthetic is there.

Yk what? The Lost Boys. Homoerotic, campy fun, brooding teen is recruited into a gang and has sexual tension with the leader... that should count.

Star Trek: The Motion Picture starts with Spock trying to purge all his emotions after we can only assume breaking up with Kirk, and failing, and it's a parallel to a godlike being learning to love.

Okay hear me out on this one... Sweet Smell of Success is like if there was no Guts and instead the homoeroticism was between Griffith and the King, and it was set in the New York world of 50s gossip columnists, and look, I recently watched and adored this movie and I want to rec it. And hey, it's about doing fucked up shit to feed your ambition and being pretty and charming while you do it.

The Favourite is about a servant seducing and manipulating her way to power in a royal court, kind of an f!Griffith AU without a Guts if you look at it a certain way. But also it's another movie I love and want to rec based on at least one similarity lol.

Uh, Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence is about a dude wanting to fuck a hot charismatic and guilt-ridden blond guy but being too repressed to go for it? Great movie in general. Also Midnight Cowboy is about trauma induced gay repression while we're at it.

And finally, Paul Verhoeven's sci fi trifecta of Robocop, Total Recall, and Starship Troopers have virtually nothing in common with Berserk in terms of theme, character, relationships, etc. But the tone feels exactly like the Black Swordsman arc to me lol, to the point where I've always said that the only live action Hollywood adaption of Berserk I'd accept is the one Verhoeven directed in the 90s in an alternate universe. Miura was directly inspired by one of his 80s movies that I've never seen, Flesh and Blood, and yeah, I feel like you can kind of feel the inspiration.

I have other rec lists, as well as things people have recced to me often on the basis of similarities to Berserk/griffguts that I haven't checked out yet, in this tag, so I'd highly recommend browsing through it for more media suggestions. And if anyone wants to jump in with more recs for things that remind you of Berserk in some way, please do!

[hwaslayer]

wildfire (cs) | 6.5

—spotify playlist | series masterlist

—summary: assistant professor in bioengineering, incredibly attractive, lonely and divorced; that’s how most people describe san. but despite the events that have happened in his life, san has a lot going for himself. he’s a successful, sought out professor due to his brilliant contributions to science at just an early age of 32. he worked hard to get where he was now; head deep into his research, his publications, building his lab and creating a name for himself. everything was good and smooth sailing— until it wasn’t. because when he meets you, a bioengineering grad student interested in rotating in his lab, he finds himself ready to risk all the blood, sweat and tears he put in throughout the years just to keep you close— his need for you spiraling out of control like a wildfire.

—pairing: asst. professor!choi san x grad student!f. reader

—genre: (18+ - minors dni) strangers to lovers, grad school au | fluff, angst, smut

—word count: 1.6k

—chapter content/warnings: cussing/mature language, alcohol consumption and slight intoxication, hints of a rocky relationship, i'm trying not to put any hard timestamps to anything cause i didn't flush it out like that lolol but also trying to give you a sense of a timeline! i sawrrrry!!

⇢ POSTDOC | YR 2

San adores Iseul.

And everyone knows it.

But, he looks at her like she's all he knows. Like she's a constellation of tiny details he continuously wants to memorize, like his favorite song, like she's the sunrise and sunset, the ocean, the greenest of grass. 

Bluest of skies.

He sees everything about her; everything in a sense that he's seen who she was, seeing her for who she is now, seeing her for what she'll become.

She's all he knows.

Yunho saw all of it when San first introduced him to her. He saw it all from a simple look in his eyes, down to the way he stayed close to her side.

Hand tightly laced in hers.

The way his dimples never stopped poking out.

She was special to him and Yunho was happy about it. He deserved to be happy, and quite frankly, he could see why San was constantly falling for Iseul. She was beauty and brains, kind and outgoing; all things Yunho admired about her, and then some.

He sees it.

"Where's San?" Yunho checks his watch as he leans back against the stone divider with Iseul in front of him. Tonight was a friend's birthday, a good, mutual friend between the three. He had requested to meet at the bar— a bar with games and karaoke, muted music videos playing through a projector even though there's different music blasting throughout the place.

"Not sure. I texted him but he didn't respond." 

"Maybe he'll turn the corner and surprise us." Iseul laughs at him, waiting for San to pick up the call. The original plan was for them to meet up at Yunho's and head to the bar together. But, tonight, it seemed like the plan was out the door.

"Hey, where are you at?" Iseul slightly whines over the phone, causing San's heart to break.

"I'm sorry babe, I'll be a bit late. I gotta finish imaging. Wasn't too pleased with the data I just got."

"Really?" 

"Yeah, I'm sorry baby."

"That's fine." Pause. "Yunho and I are gonna head over first then, if you're okay with that."

"That's fine, I'll see you guys there. Soon, okay?"

"Don't be too late."

"I won't. Promise." San hangs up the phone and slides it in his pocket, returning the attention to the monitor in front of him. Iseul looks defeated and it makes the smile on Yunho's face drop. He's not exactly sure when he started caring about Iseul in a certain way. He obviously started to care about her as a friend when they met years ago and got close. Things didn't feel so blurred and different back then. They'd all hang out and do things together no matter how simple it was— going grocery shopping together, movies, Yunho and San walking around aimlessly while waiting for Iseul to get her nails done. They moved as a unit.

But now, he's concerned about making her happy and he's not sure when he got to this point.

Maybe when San started focusing too much on his work? Maybe when he'd see Iseul pout and her eyes turn a little more blue and grey? 

He's torn about it because San is his bestfriend and he knows he doesn't mean any harm. He would never intentionally hurt Iseul, but he's passionate about what he does— so much that he can lose sight of the people around him. Iseul and Yunho were equally as busy, but they knew when to turn the switch off and give themselves balance. San, though— not so much. But, he would never hurt a soul. San is like that. He is quiet, he is hardworking, he is a go-getter. He is kind, he is true and he is genuine.

Iseul is looking at Yunho now and she's forcing a smile.

"He's held up in lab, but he said he'll meet us. Let's go?" He nods, but grabs her wrist just as she's about to turn on her heel and walk towards Yunho's car.

"Hey. He'll be there soon, okay?" She quietly nods. It's a very small nod, though. He barely catches it.

"Yeah, I know." He gives her one last reassuring smile before walking alongside of her to the car, popping her door open before getting into the driver's seat.

There's tension in the car.

It's subtle, but it's there.

Yunho isn't sure when it got like this. He's always used to talking to San and Iseul about everything and anything, but she's holding back tonight. Perhaps, she's just missing San.

"Did RJ tell you he was bringing the kraken?" Iseul furrows her brows at Yunho in confusion.

"Is this an inside joke for something or..?" Yunho laughs and shakes his head.

"No, no. It's rum. I forgot where he got it from but he said he really wanted us to try it."

"Oh, so he's trying to get fucked up." Iseul chuckles. "I'd like to see San like that. He needs to let loose. I feel like he hasn't had fun in a long time." She lets out a small sigh, shifting her attention out the window.

"I agree." There's a small silence. "But, he's coming tonight and he'll probably relax a bit." 

"Mm. I don't know, Yu. We haven't genuinely enjoyed things like this together in awhile."

"Let's not worry about it too much, hm?" He hums, playfully ruffling her hair when he stops at a light. It's a very lighthearted move, something he's always done in the past. Tonight, it feels different, something small but soothes the ache and fulfills the craving Iseul has.

The rest of the ride is fairly the same, typical. Yunho and Iseul talk about how their own postdoc work before talking about upcoming plans. They all plan to head to a conference soon, making a week-and-a-half long trip out of it in Southern California. 

Iseul hopes it'll be fun and exciting, nothing too stressful or work-related. She misses having fun with San.

When they get to the bar, all of their friends are already there, holed up in the large karaoke room upstairs and surrounded by finger foods and all sorts of alcohol. Iseul and Yunho shuffle along to take shots [mainly Iseul], catching up with the group in between singing, playing games outside in the main room and dancing.

"Where's San?"

"He's gonna be late." Iseul rolls her eyes drunkly. "Holed up in the lab per usual."

"Yo, is your man married to you or his work? I swear he never misses a beat in there." RJ, another mutual friend, jokes around. Iseul laughs it off but honestly, the jokes are getting old and she's over it. She takes one more shot that probably does it for her tonight, close to an hour into the party.

No San.

"Let's go dance!" Iseul says, grabbing Yunho's wrist. A few other heads follow suit, the group taking up a small space on the dance floor. Iseul is drunk, but she is happy to be around Yunho because he entertains her. He plays along, he dances along. Subtle touches on the hip, grazing her hand. Sometimes, his look lingers for a little too long. Sometimes, her face is a little too close to his.

Yunho didn't have his bestfriend and Iseul didn't have her man like they used to. They eventually found comfort in being together most of the time, comfort in each other.

Like tonight.

"Shit, finally dude! Took you so fucking long!" San laughs at RJ, who is already drunk as hell. He points to the dance floor before making a drinking motion with his hand. "They're over there, but you gotta catch up."

"I'm driving." San brushes him off with a smile before heading over to his lady and Yunho. As he approaches them, he finds Iseul and Yunho deep in conversation. She's leaning towards his ear while he's listening intently. She playfully swats him, hand landing on his chest that San can see the rock on her hand gleaming from miles away. It's ironic, but he'll shake it off because even though his thoughts can race for 100mph, he'll forcibly settle it so he can enjoy his night with people he loves.

Not sit here overthinking every action between his bestfriend and wife, especially when they've always had a good relationship.

Why the fuck would he? They'd never do that to him.

Never.

"San!" The group exclaims. Iseul quickly shifts her attention to San and gives him a tiny smile as she brushes off of Yunho— eyes hazy, cheeks a rose tint from the alcohol in her system.

"Hey." He greets the rest of the group before extending his hand out to his wife. "Hey baby." He pulls her in for a hug before placing a kiss to the side of her head.

"You finally came." She says by his ear. She pulls back and looks him in the eye. He can see the hint of disappointment, sadness. It's not the first time he's came late, and it's not the first time her and Yunho have had to take a head start.

"I'm here." Is all he says while lifting her chin up gently. She purses her lips together before letting out a soft breath.

"Yeah." She pulls away and brushes past him. "I'm gonna go to the bathroom." She stops making eye contact with him and walks off, leaving San to watch her until she makes it into the bathroom.

"Gotta stay outta that cave, my guy." Yunho says, dapping him up and pulling him in for a hug. He isn't really maintaining eye contact with San either and things just feel kinda awkward for no reason. "Let's go get you a drink." He walks off, leading the way to the bar. 

He doesn’t get it.

But, he knows they’d never do that to him.

Never.

—taglist: @asjkdk @interweab @woojirang @svintsandghosts @cheolliehugs @persphonesorchid @mxnsxngie @jycas @cowboydk @vcutparis @chngbnwf @struggling101 @sanhwalvr @angelqueendom @barbielibra @brown88 @choisansplushie @yunhoswrldddd @hyukssunflower @vickykazuya @lucid-galaxys-world @jaytheatiny @pommelex @thespiffynerd @vixensss @santineez @nopension

[chemical-killjoy]

✨MASTERLIST✨

Greetings Dear Reader! Right now the majority of the fics on my masterlist are from my old blogs, @immrbrightsideeee and @remingtonisleithal, so most links will take you to that, any and all notes on those posts I am not likely to see for a bloody long time, so please message me or send an ask or something if you really liked the fics/want a sequel or are anything! Also if you like my writing, check out @smiling-girl and @fandomfoodiedancer, they're amazing <33

Requests are OPEN

(and encouraged lol)

I write for a whole bunch of fandoms, but here's the ones I can think of: arcane, black veil brides, bridgerton, buffy the vampire slayer, maneskin, marvel, motionless in white, my chemical romance, palaye royale, pierce the veil, the artful dodger, the raven cycle (books), and supernatural :)

If you like my writing, here's the link to join my taglist (It's very important you guys fill this out if you wanna join my taglist as I do write some serious, dark topics sometimes) and here's a link to buy me a coffee

updated: 14/12/24

* = smut

Damiano David:

*A night to remember 1/2

smut. Damiano is attracted to reader singing iwbys

Movie and a kiss

the reader had a fight with their family and Damiano looks after them

Fast Car (trigger warning)

Honestly this is just angst and emotional and if you don’t cry I have failed as a writer. But it’s got a happy ending!!

Vic de Angelis:

Knight in Shining Armour

Vic saves the reader from a creep at a bar

Remington Leith:

*Caught in the Storm

reader and remington share a bed in a storm. What ever will happen?

Feel better

comfort fic, remington takes the reader on an adventure to feel better

*Only one answer (part two of Feel Better)

I will find you

mesmerized by someone in the crowd, remington has to find the reader

Something beautiful (part 2 of I will find you)

I Just Need Some Air*

young!Remington and the reader are at a party and after confessing their feelings things get heated.

Better Than Nutella

Remington is hooked on his new friend’s cooking, and smile.

Movie Night

Remington and Y/N have a movie night

Morning Light: (this is a collab with @cursivetalk)

vampire Remington, based on the tonight is the night I die video. Series, currently being written.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Emerson Barrett:

Teach me

emerson teaches the reader the drums

Andy Biersack:

Don’t go (trigger warning) (there is comfort)

I Don’t Wanna Be Alone (trigger warning) (with comfort)

Love isn’t always fair *

After a concert Andy reveals his love for his best friend

Mortician’s Daughter (trigger warning)

Thomas Raggi:

Moonlight’s Curse (part 1)

werewolf!thomas, a series being written :)

Mistakes and Misunderstandings

Ronnie Radke:

*untitled

pwp really, Ronnie meets Y/N in a bar and things happen

Vic Fuentes:

Hell Over Me (trigger warning) (happy ending)

Bodyguards and Boyfriends

Frank Iero:

Not A Kid *

TW brief mention of abuse, age gap. Y/N works for MCR and it turns out Frank likes her just as much as she likes him

Gerard Way:

Cemetery Drive

TW for suicide and self harm. Y/N visits her ex’s grave, and is surprised to find him there

Hang Em High

Cemetery drive part 2

Demolition Lovers

Part 3 and final chapter of Cemetery Drive

Kisses and Coffee

Coffee shop and accidental kiss AU

Dean Winchester:

Life In (Rose) Pink

Dean is a romantic cliche trying his hardest

Chris Motionless:

Eternally Yours *

Based on the music video

Jinx:

You Decide

Reader has a breakdown and Jinx helps them

Timebomb (jinx x ekko):

Into the Sunset

Jinx and Ekko sail off into the sunset together after declaring their love (following the end of season 2)

Jack Dawkins/Dodger:

Healing Kiss *

Reader is in hospital, but Dr. Dawkins is there to heal her. TW for self harm, suicide and mentions of abuse.

Healing Kiss part 2 *

Smut ensues after part 1, it's very lovey-dovey

Spike:

Mr. Bloody Brightside

Spike has a pity-party when he thinks Y/N likes someone else, only to be very wrong