#and the fact that the circuit feels ridiculously dangerous

[race-week]

One of the issues I have with the Jeddah track is that it had the potential to be a really good circuit, that’s both unique and interesting but I think they pushed it too far (in regards to setting records) and instead have this circuit with 27 corners, many of which being blind that somehow feels generic?

[hoshifighting]

rival fashion designer!minghao

— synopsis: where minghao flexes his fashion awards whenever your brand competes against him during fashion week. — WC: 3k — WARNINGS: explicit language, smut, reader uses a transparent clothing (just like rihanna in oscar x swarovski), oral (f. receiving) ENORMOUS DICK!MINGHAO, slight face slap, mentions of choking on a cock, penetrative sex—or trying to.

look, you weren’t trying to start beef with minghao. you don’t even know why the dude hates you so much. okay, maybe you said one thing about his fall line looking like it got snatched off the clearance rack at an IKEA. but that was a year ago. and also? you were drunk and kinda bitter ‘cause your show got bumped for his stupid avant-garde puff-sleeve renaissance clowncore shit.

but now, every fashion week is like a personal vendetta for him to humble you. you’ll be vibin’, sipping your overpriced latte in the designer lounge, and this man will just stroll in, decked out in some vintage runway piece that costs more than your annual budget, flashing that “i won best emerging designer again” smirk like it’s a fucking weapon. and then he’ll throw some casual shit like:

“oh, y/n, is that your collection over there? i thought they were setting up for the kid’s line showcase.”

[...]

so this year, you swore you wouldn’t let him get in your head. you’d play it cool, professional, unbothered. except you walk into your studio late one night, the day before your big runway debut, and this man is just there. sitting on your worktable. wearing a pearl-studded harness and leather pants so tight it should be a crime.

you freeze, halfway through the door, holding the iced coffee you begged your intern to grab five minutes before starbucks closed. “what the fuck are you doing here?”

minghao barely glances up from his phone. “your assistant let me in.”

traitor.

“why?” you slam the coffee on the counter, praying your voice doesn’t shake. the audacity of him just existing in your space is enough to make your blood boil.

he stands, slow as hell, like he’s got all the time in the world. he’s tall—annoyingly tall—so when he steps close, you’re immediately at a disadvantage. but you refuse to back down.

“just wanted to check out the competition,” he says, eyes flicking lazily over the chaos of fabric swatches and half-finished sketches strewn across the room. “cute line. very... simple.”

“fuck you, hao,” you snap, crossing your arms. “it’s called ‘minimalism.’ not that you’d know anything about taste.”

he laughs, soft and low, the kind of sound that creeps under your skin and lingers there. “oh, i have plenty of taste. i just don’t need to keep it basic to get attention.”

and here’s the thing: you hate how much he gets to you. he’s a smug asshole with an overinflated ego, but he’s also stupidly talented, and you can’t ignore the fact that his lines always sell out in under a day. or how his press coverage makes yours look like a local craft fair feature.

but what really gets you is how hot he looks right now, with his ridiculous cheekbones and the glint of that tiny silver chain peeking out from under his collar. it’s disgusting. you hate it.

you’re about to throw a cutting remark his way, something about how he’s overcompensating with all that jewelry, but he beats you to it.

“you know,” he murmurs, stepping even closer, “you’d look good in my designs.”

your brain short-circuits. “excuse me?”

“if you ever want to elevate your style...” he trails off, dragging his gaze down the length of your body like it’s a runway.

“you are so full of shit,” you hiss, but there’s no heat behind it, because your stupid traitorous brain is suddenly imagining what it’d feel like to have his hands on you.

he smirks, all teeth and danger, leaning in so close you can smell his expensive cologne. “maybe. but you’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?”

you don’t answer.

[...]

the next morning, you’re running on zero sleep, fueled by pure spite and caffeine, but your runway show? flawless. models everywhere, hair spray choking the air, seamstresses practically sewing on skin ‘cause the deadlines were that tight. and you were doing a thousand fucking things at once.

fixing a hemline here, shouting at a makeup artist there—“no, not clean girl aesthetic, we’re going full grunge today, wake up!”—all while struggling to get yourself into the swarovskied transparent gown you planned to wear for the night.

no bra, because tits were the least controversial thing in fashion. and the way the crystals draped over your skin looking likew pure art. nipples out and proud, paired with modern curls swirled to perfection and makeup that screamed chaos-but-make-it-glam.

by the time your collection hit the runway, your nerves were shredded. but watching the models strut, each piece shining under the lights... fucking worth it.

and then, the finale: your dress sweeping dramatically across the stage as you closed the parade. you bowed to the crowd, letting the cameras and whispers soak in every inch of you, and as you turned to leave, you felt it.

minghao’s sharp eyes.

you caught his eyes just as they traveled the length of you—from the swirl of your hair, to the unapologetic sharpness of your nipples under the crystals, to the shimmer of your dress, down to the towering heels on your feet.

you just smirked to yourself as you headed backstage, knowing full well your collection didn’t just crawl under his skin this time. it slithered under his flesh, wrapped tight around his ribs, and squeezed.

[...]

minghao’s models stormed the runway like it was their goddamn birthright. and of course, you watched. no designer worth their silk ignored the competition, and minghao wasn’t just competition, he was a walking masterclass in making everyone feel like second place.

he closed his show with his usual flare, stepping out like he already knew the applause was his. fast-forward two designers later, and the nominations for the fashion academy awards started rolling in. you didn’t have to look to know minghao had already claimed half the early awards.

you watched him backstage through narrowed eyes as he balanced four trophies—two tucked in his arms, two in his hands—posing for a picture with that smug-ass smile. you knew that pic was already blowing up on his Instagram. your jaw clenched, nails digging into your palm as the last nominations were announced.

and then, plot twist of the year:

your name came up five times.

designer of the year: you.

new vision in fashion: you.

collection of the year: your brand.

runway innovation: your brand.

showstopper of the year: your brand.

walking out with those five heavy-ass awards in your arms? victory tasted better than champagne. your models and team practically swarmed you, hyping you up ‘cause they knew how much blood, sweat, and tears went into this collection.

but what you really wanted... minghao. definitely minghao. minghao, in your line of sight. because after all the times he flaunted his wins like a smug bastard, you wanted him to feel this.

and lucky for you, fate delivered.

you spotted him in the back hallway, leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone. clearly, he hadn’t heard the last nominees. his head snapped up when your heels echoed through the space.

“oh, hey, hao,” you called out, voice sweet as honey but sharp as glass. you stopped just short of him, shifting the five trophies in your arms so they pressed against your chest. the weight of them pushed your tits up just enough to catch his eyes.

“looks like I’ve got... a plus one on you this year.” you smirked, shaking the awards a little for good measure, the motion making the crystals on your dress catch the dim hallway light.

his eyes flicked down—brief, subtle, but not subtle enough—and then back up, his expression neutral, but you could feel the shift in his ego.

“congrats,” he said, the word clipped like it physically hurt him.

“thanks, babe,” you purred, turning on your heel with a sway of your hips. “see you next season. maybe.”

and with that, you left, letting the click of your heels carry the weight of your victory.

[...]

days later, you were lounging in minghao’s big leather chair, legs crossed up on his table, showing the expensive ass high heels you always wore. his assistant had let you in with barely a question, and you weren’t one to waste an opportunity.

when he finally walked in, his eyes narrowed immediately. “what the hell are you doing here?”

“relax,” you drawled, leaning back like his office was a spa. “your assistant said I could wait. guess they like me more than you.”

he folded his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “didn’t think you’d show your face here after the other night. thought you’d be busy polishing all those trophies.”

you grinned, slow and smug. “oh, i polished them. just thought i’d stop by to see how you’re doing. must be hard, you know—losing.”

his jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. instead, he stepped closer, looming over you. “you done?”

“not even close,” you said, standing up to match his energy. you stopped just shy of his chest, tipping your chin up. “but don’t worry, hao. i’ll let you borrow a trophy sometime if you really need the validation.” you patted his shoulder.

he scoffed, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer. “you know, i like your attitude.”

you raised an eyebrow. “yeah? you must, considering how much you stalk me every season.”

“maybe that’s why we should work together.”

you laughed, loud and sharp, tossing your head back. “oh, that’s rich. you? work with me? what, so you can take credit for my ideas and call it a ‘collaboration’?”

he tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “i’m serious. we’d be unstoppable.”

for a second, you almost believed him. “unstoppable, huh? what makes you think i’d even want to work with you?”

“because you like the challenge... admit it. you love it when i push you.”

“you’re intolerable.”

“and yet,” he murmured, stepping so close you could feel the heat radiating off him, “you haven’t left yet.”

your laugh came out breathy this time, your pulse quickening as his hand grazed the curve of your hip. “you think I’m staying here for you? please. your assistant let me in, remember?”

“sure,” he said. his thumb traced slow circles against your side, almost lazy. “but you’re still here.”

you were about to snap back with something cutting, something to wipe that stupid smirk off his face, but then he tilted your chin up with two fingers, his gaze locked on yours like a predator sizing up prey.

“stop thinking,” he whispered, leaning in just enough for your lips to almost touch. “you might actually enjoy yourself.”

his lips were soft and plump, moving against yours so fucking good that felt unfair. his hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, and you couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped.

your hands found his chest, the fabric of his shirt warm under your fingertips as you pushed him slightly, breaking the kiss with a smirk. “you’re bold, i’ll give you that.”

“you’re still thinking,” he teased, catching your bottom lip between his teeth before pulling back.

your hands slid up to his shoulders, gripping just enough to feel the flex of his muscles. you threatened to sit on his table.

his eyes widened slighty, his hands immediately grabbing your ass to lift you up, making you yelp. “don’t!”

“what? scared i’ll break it?” you teased, wrapping your legs around his waist.

he places the needles that were spread lazily on the table, inside of a box. he turned, his grip firm as he carried you a few steps and sat you on a nearby armchair.

“there were needles on that table, genius,” he scolded, his tone sulky but his fingers tracing slow lines along your thighs. “you’d be bleeding before I even got started.”

“aww,” you cooed, dragging your nails down his neck. “you worried about me, hao?”

“no,” he muttered, kneeling, dipping his head to kiss along your jawline, his teeth grazing just enough to make you arch towards him. “just don’t want to ruin my night with a trip to the hospital.”

your laugh turned into a soft moan as his lips found the spot just below your ear. “guess you’re not as heartless as you act.”

he pulled back slightly, his smirk sharper than ever. “you talk too much.”

you pulled him in for another kiss, your tongues colliding this time. when you tried to take control, tilting your head for a deeper angle, he pulled back just enough to make you chase him.

minghao’s hands were firm on your thighs, his thumbs brushing against your skin like he wasn’t about to wreck you in the middle of his office. his eyes dragged down, lingering on the way your skirt was pushed up, the space between your legs bare and unapologetic.

he clicked his tongue, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. “no panties, huh?” he said. “came here like this?”

“what can I say?” you shot back, shifting slightly so his hands pressed harder against your skin. “i had a feeling you’d end up on your knees.”

his smirk deepened, his fingers tightening slightly as he leaned in, close enough for you to feel his breath. he pressed your legs further onto the armrests, spreading you wider, his hands splayed like he wanted to leave imprints.

his tongue flicked out, close enough to make you tense—but he didn’t touch you. instead, he pulled back, his eyes locking with yours as a smirk tugged at his lips.

he leaned in again, his tongue brushing so close you could feel the warmth from his breath, but once again, he pulled back just as you tilted your hips forward.

“hao..” you warned.

“what?” he teased, his lips hovering over your folds.

your hands gripped the armrests as you glared down at him. “if you don’t stop playing, i swear—”

he cut you off with a broad, strong lick, dragging his tongue from your entrance, through your folds, and up to your clit in one unbroken suck. your head fell back as a gasp tore from your lips.

“that shut you up,” he muttered, his voice muffled as he dipped lower, his tongue swirling around your entrance before moving back up. “needy much?”

“shut up and do it again,” you shot back, your voice sharper than the way your thighs trembled under his grip.

and he did the same. your clit throbbing at the rough skin of his tongue, making you melt on his armchair, he smiled at the sight, he knew how a good head felt after months dealing with needles and sparkly cloths.

his lips latched onto your folds, sucking them into his mouth before he pulls back just slightly, his tongue flicking against your clit in quick, teasing strokes. you let out a pornographic moan, before your clap a hand on your mouth, remembering the team outside the office. he chuckled darkly, his hands tightening on your thighs to hold you still. his lips wrapping around your clit again. this time, he sucked it fully into his mouth, his tongue flicking against it as his eyes flicked up to yours.

“you’re so good at this, hmm—fuuuck!” you said, your nails drowning in the leather of the armchair. “you must’ve practiced on a lot of other girls, huh?”

his eyes narrowed slightly, and his teeth grazed your clit just enough to make you wwhimper. “jealous?” he asked, his voice smug, though he didn’t stop the relentless motion of his tongue.

“please,” you shot back, though the way your breath hitched betrayed you as he did a zig-zag on your bud with the tip of his otngue. “you’re better when you’re silent.”

he smirked against you, his lips curving as he pulled back just enough to speak. “then shut me up.”

your fingers tangled in minghao’s hair, tugging him closer, harder, until his face was buried against your pussy. his groan vibrated through you, desperate, and his hands clamped down on your thighs to steady himself as you rolled your hips against his mouth.

“that’s it... mhmm, just like that...”

he obeyed, his head bobbing as his tongue slid against you in broad, wet strokes, his lips sealing around your clit every few seconds to suck, deep and rhythmic. the wet, obscene sounds filled the room, and your nails scraped lightly against his scalp as you held him there, guiding him exactly how you wanted.

the heat in your core coiled tighter, and you barely had time to register your orgasm hit.

your back arched, your mouth falling open as moans spilled out shamelessly. your hips rolled against his face as you came, and minghao didn’t stop—not for a second. he worked you through it, sucking and licking as though he felt your climax before you did.

he only pulled back when you began to squirm, your breath coming in sharp gasps as overstimulation took hold. his lips and chin were slick as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes glinting as he looked up at you.

“had fun?” he asked, sarcastically.

you gave a breathless laugh, your chest heaving as you leaned back in the chair. “you talk too much for someone who just spent five minutes swallowing my pussy.”

his smirk widened, and he stood, his hands braced on the armrests as he leaned down, his face inches from yours. “and you talk too much for someone who’s about to beg me to fuck her.”

your gaze flicked to his lips, and then lower—to the bulge straining against his pants. “big words,” you said. “let’s see if you can back them up.”

his hands slid to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he walked you back toward the desk—no needles this time. you didn't even had time to register what was happening before your skirt was pushed higher, his fingers brushing over your thighs as he settled you on the edge.

his hand worked his belt, the clink of the buckle making you clench around nothing.

“this isn’t gonna be quick,” he said as he freed himself, the sheer size of him making your breath catch. it was big both in length and girth.

you swallowed hard.

“relax... mhmm”

he teased your entrance with the tip, sliding it slowly against you, and the stretch was immediate, even as he slightly pressed in. your breath hitched, your hands gripping the edge of the desk as he pushed forward, achingly slow, giving you time to adjust.

“ngh—fuck!” you gasped, your voice breaking as he filled you inch by hard inch.

“breathe,” he murmured, his tone gentle despite the tension in his body. mouth glued on yours to make sure he feels your puffs of air.

“trying”

he paused, his hands tightening on your hips as he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. “you’re okay,” he whispered. “just breathe for me.”

you hiccuped, your chest rising and falling in shallow gasps as your body struggled to adjust.

“there you go,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your jaw as he waited “good girl. just like that.”

you exhaled slowly, your body relaxing slightly helping him to slid in further, the fullness stealing the air from your lungs.

your hands gripped his arms, your nails digging into his skin as he finally bottomed out, his body pressed flush against yours.

“fuck,” he muttered, his voice tight as he buried his face in your neck. “you’re—so fucking tight.”

you swallowed hard, your head tilting back as you tried to catch your breath. “you’re—so fucking big.”

he pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting yours as a smirk tugged at his lips. “think you can take it?”

your breath hitched, and you nodded, your hands sliding to his back as you wrapped your legs around his waist. “try me.”

minghao hips pulls back just an inch before thrusting forward experimentally. the sound that left your lips was somewhere between a moan and a strangled gasp, your nails biting into his shoulders as your body clenched around him.

he paused, a smug smile tugging at his lips as he tilted his head to the side, his eyes flicking over your face. “yeah, knew that’d happen.”

“don’t—” your breath hitched as he moved just slightly, a tiny shift that made you clutch at him even harder. “don’t fucking smile like that.”

his laugh was quiet, he leaned down, his forehead brushing against yours. “why not? you’re almost cummin already.”

“i’m not—” the words caught in your throat as he slid just a little deeper, your body trying desperately to adjust to his size.

“not what?” he asked, his tone playful as he stilled again, waiting for you to catch your breath.

“not—cumming” you managed, though your voice shook with the effort of speaking.

“hmm.” his thumb grazed your clit, circling it trying to soothe your nerves. “then why are you holding on to me likethat?”

you glared at him, though the effect was probably ruined by the way your mouth fell open with a gasp as his thumb pressed down just slightly harder.

your body tensed as he began to move again, sliding in slowly, each inch dragging against you in a way that made your head fall back. the wet squelch of your body adjusting to his girth filled the room, obscenelly.

“shit,” he muttered, his voice tight as he wrapped his arm around your waist, holding you steady. “you’re so—tight. feels like you’re trying to squeeze me out.”

“maybe i am.”

he laughed softly “you’re all talk,” he murmured, his thumb still circling your clit. “that pussy is begging for me.”

“hao,” you whispered, your hands clutching at his arms as your legs tightened around his waist. “i—fuck, i can’t—”

“you can,” he said softly, his lips moving against your neck. “breathe for me, baby. you’ve got this.”

you exhaled shakily, your chest rising and falling against his as you tried to relax, tried to let the tension in your body melt away. his thumb pressed a little harder against your clit, insistent, coaxing pleasure to override the discomfort.

“that’s it,” he murmured, his voice soft as his arm tightened around your waist. “just like that. let me in.”

your head fell back, your eyes fluttering shut as he finally slid deeper, his hips pressing flush against yours. the sensation stole the breath from your lungs, and your fingers dug into his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor you.

“you okay?”

you nodded weakly, your hands sliding up to grip his hair as you whispered, “move.”

he chuckled as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “not yet.”

your eyes snapped open, frustration bubbling in your chest as you glared at him. “hao—”

“relax,” he murmured, his thumb circling your clit again, making you cry out slyly. “i’m not gonna ruin you all at once. gotta make sure you can take it.”

“i can,”

“we’ll see,” he said, his tone smug as he finally, finally pulled back, his cock dragging against you.

“hao, just—fuck me already.”

his laugh was quiet. “you’re not ready for that yet, look—” he roll his hips, making you hiccup again. “but don’t worry—I’ll get you there.”

“how about you?” you ask, feeling your orgasm building up as he circled the thumb faster, your hips rolling slightly, weak, like the cock inside you was to heavy to make you roll them freely.

“i can get off just by looking at this pretty face...” he slaps your cheek weakly, twice, making you squeeze around him. “listen to what i'm telling you… you're still going to model for my brand.” he chuckles.

“i’d rather choke to death than work with your brand.”

“why don’t you choke on something else, then?”

[wumblr]

again -- when zionists, conservatives, or terfs use bad logic, it's because they fundamentally don't care what the logic says, whether it's internally self-consistent or even at first glance reasonable. the ONLY things that matter to them are whether it makes their in-group look good or their out-group look bad, and whether it has utility to get them closer to their goals or not

everything they say depends only on whether it supports their preselected goal. truth, accuracy, nuance, and material implications of the matter are irrelevant. it's not a philosophy that allows for revised perspective based on new information, that would be seen as a display of weakness

this is one of the most meaningful distinctions between the logical structuring of totalitarian vs liberatory politics and every day i see it getting glossed over: circular-reasoning, garden-path, thought-terminating cliches are very effective at their intended purpose, which is, very simply, to make author and audience feel differently about the topic, so that they can morally absolve themselves of continuing their reprehensible behavior. in many cases this is openly stated! the doubt and confusion attendant to circuitous logic are cast as the devil's brainwash, a dangerous fire to be comprehensively and immediately stamped out. you have to feel it in your chest, the obvious "common sense" truth of the thing you already wanted to believe, and remain steadfast, and obliterate anything that gets in the way of that, no matter the lengths you have to go to get it done

and this is precisely what's capable of persuading people to discard it. isn't it exhausting? this doesn't have to be your circus. you wouldn't need to keep forcing yourself into contortionist acrobatics to constantly devise insubstantial, convoluted and ridiculous talking points to counter an endless litany of obvious facts, you could develop a solid moral core, and the easy, clear, righteous certainty that comes along with it would stand in stark contrast to everything you've ever known. it would be a lot of work, so much that the stress might quite literally cause your heart to fail or your mind to falter, because of how deeply entrenched you have allowed it to become, because you're so steeped in it and unfamiliar with any other habits -- but it is possible

of course the most effective method is being brought to face the way this philosophy hurts someone they love. that's not something that can be engineered through discussion, they have to make the choice to go and face it themselves, and many have been so primed by it that they would rather disown someone than face it. i don't think there's any hope for those people, and there's no point mincing words about it, because the alternative is to waste time on long-lost causes

[goldendivinewrath]

@full-of-mercy

Not that he expects anger, of course. Annoyance after the fact, fine; there are (at least mostly) honest apologies and making up for it to consider. He hadn't entirely counted on that being the moment when anything and everything that might have kept them tethered to the idea of slow and steady, patience and savoring, got fully torn asunder as well, but it's appreciated.

Of course, the whole thing is more than a little ridiculous. Maybe slightly pathetic, unable to help the laugh but being utterly unwilling to let go. He doesn't want to hurt -- not bad hurt, in any case -- but there's something... there's something...

Something in that very steady thought-emotion, shiver-shudder-hum that seems to respond to the concept of, "Mine." Taken. Stolen, pulled back-- Given back. Given back to himself. Given back to himself except maybe also a little bit Vash's.

He is definitely not going to try and explain that in words. Or think about it too much. Not that he's successfully able to think about anything when the world around them is want and need, giving and taking and sensation. There's no real comparison between the bone-deep resonant vibration he's making and the purr-growl-rough bliss that Wolfwood's voice seems to evoke, but they-- Harmonize. Causing a steady, familiar, long since forgotten and abandoned warm shiver to run through his lower abdomen.

He doesn't want to let go, desire to keep indulging in how utterly right it feels for his jaw to exert just that much pressure, texture and warmth and the drum of a pulse under his lips and tongue, but he can feel the tug of healing flesh. It's fine. It will be fine, and he... He can always bite again, now can't he? The flutter of pleasure in his stomach responds a little too readily, jaw relaxing, teeth (fangs) slow in the slide out, and with that... He's gotten used to it already. He can worry about that later, about how he's not hyper-focused on the singular fact that he's tasting Wolfwood's blood and enjoying it, but on making sure it doesn't spill. Doesn't get any more wasted than what's already fallen. His mouth lingers to be sure the punctures are healing before he turns his head slightly, closes his eyes, breathes in.

He feels drunk, a little. The good parts of it. Words are slow to filter through, the laugh in response feeling as viscous as the word answering the threat: "Promise?" But what he's really feeling, what he's really feeling...

More even than the electric jumble of pleasure radiating through his core, hips responding in several tiny little twitches foward, it's the visceral response of teeth against his own skin. Aching for it in a way that changes the pulse of the resonance that seems to be echoing between them; not quite call and response. There isn't particularly a spare bit of coherent thought to document it, let alone try and make sense of it, just wanting. Wantingwantingwanting. Teeth, and bite, and share--

"Harder." It's so much more plea than demand. Begging. Begging before he realizes he's already pinned to the wall, he can let go and not have to worry about losing contact. It's also another embarrassment, fingers fumbling on trying to get more buckles undone, open, losing track of what's already accomplished and getting his fingers tangled with Wolfwood's more than once while figuring out what needs to just hurry up already--

He is definitely going to need to start wearing simpler clothes. If any at all. Vash quite soberly recognizes the danger of the thought as it occurs to him, sounding perfectly logical in his own head: Leather is reasonably easy to repair. He--

Tears. Again. Not much! Or, rather, most of the buckles had already been opened. There were a pesky few that he lost patience with, was all. He'll fix it. Later. Now, right now, he needs more contact, he needs to complete a circuit, hands abandoning his clothes and getting back to shamelessly grasping, groping, and then holding Wolfwood against him by the really quite satisfying curve of the man's ass.

Oh. He can see the glow of his own eyes reflected in the dampness of dark skin, gazing directly at the healing pinpricks in the other man's neck and-- What's one more ever so slightly lust-fueled bite, after all?

It hums between them, this whatever-it-is. An undercurrent below human hearing, more a feeling than a sound, the strum of a cello string or the warble of a tuning fork struck and set to ring the barest breath away. Hair-raising, vibrating, it passes from skin to skin, from skin to teeth and tongue and lips.

From bite to bite, as Nicholas tests the stretch and tack of Vash's bodysuit and neck with the canines of a carnivore.

Fabric bursts with a guttural rip.

Wolfwood grunts. Question. Surprise. He cannot see exactly what Vash has done to his last scrap of clothing, but he can feel it, feel the cool rush in. Granted, the seams are—were—careworn in the manner of cloth too often caked in dust, mended against the wear and tear of brutal battle and brutal heat and the general brutality of living. They may well have been the same ones he was buried in, even if they looked far too clean to have been part of his funeral garb.

Too late to worry about right now.

Vash's apology is the pindrop—the lit match pitched into tinder banked and fit to burn.

"You gotta be fuckin' kidding me," he grouses, albeit with a different sort of heat than umbrage. He surprises himself with that, with the timbre of his own growl, rough and breathless and thick, as though they've been in the heart of a shootout rather than here, here in this moment, here with buried fangs and gripping hands and the thrill of touch. Wanted touch. Desperately desired. Needed, needful.

Nicholas bullies his way forward to compress Vash between a wall and a hard place, rolling his shoulder up and into sharp ivory meanwhile. Seizing his nape, he holds fast with an insistence bordering on frenzy. Muscle tenses, flexes, bunches underneath groping palms, flesh-and-blood and metal alike, a hands-free and utilitarian shimmy out of the shredded waistbands and hems that fall as things affected by gravity ought to. Stepping out of the crumpled pantlegs is an awkward affair, but he does not have the room to care about those particular appearances.

Better things to worry about. Naked and brazen and feverish, he aches, hiding nothing because he can hide nothing. He does not wish to hide. Not this vulnerability, not this drive, not this selfish want of proximity, not this compelling crackle, electric, not his state of bone-deep arousal in bellows-fanning breaths. Flesh begins to knit even as every movement reopens it, even as every heartbeat wells crimson, rivulets escaping to paint along the slope of his clavicle.

Want is a thing with teeth. His right hand squeezes, indenting fingertips into Vash's buttock before he sweeps his grasp down over the panels and buckles covering his thigh. There, then, he hefts, pulls Vash's leg up over his hip. More. More contact, bare-and-erect slotted to softer leather rather than the unforgiving metal of zipper and buckle.

"…gonna take that out of your ass later," he breathes, hot, huffed.

Hard to sound truly threatening when trying not to laugh. Rather, while actually laughing, trembling with it, with the firestorm of feeling. His only recourse is to return the favor. And so he does — aiming for a mirrored bite at the unprotected juncture of neck and shoulder, just hard enough.

Maybe he can grope his own way to ridding Vash of his stupidly complicated attire while indulging in his own taste. He can multitask.

Maybe. Proibably.

[alexsfictionaddiction]

Review: Carrie Soto Is Back by Taylor Jenkins Reid

I have now read six Taylor Jenkins Reid books and she is yet to let me down. I definitely should mention that I recommend reading Malibu Rising before Carrie Soto. Malibu Rising is a chapter of Carrie’s history, so it gives readers a bit of previous knowledge and makes the reading experience of Carrie Soto Is Back a lot richer.

Carrie Soto is the greatest tennis player the world has ever seen. She will stop at nothing to win titles and defend them. That’s why despite retiring from the game six years ago, she is now determined to defend the records that are in danger of being taken away from her by the new wave of female players. So she comes out of retirement at the age of 37 and resumes coaching with her father in the hope of sweeping the Grand Slam circuit again. Even if the media can’t stand the Battle-Axe and ridicule her for coming out of retirement. Even if it means training with old flame Bowe Huntley because none of the women want to practice with her. For one final year, Carrie Soto is back.

Carrie is definitely the most competitive, determined character I’ve ever met. Losing is the biggest failure imaginable for her and it’s fascinating to see that even after six years away from the game, that hasn’t changed. While I can’t really understand that level of competitiveness, it did make me admire Carrie. I can definitely see how this trait might make her appear immature, petty and annoying to some readers but the context of her story caused me to see it in a much more positive light. She just wants to prove her many critics wrong.

It seems that Carrie has been raised to put success above everything else. Her mother died when she was young, meaning her mother’s desire for her daughter to focus on kindness and finding happiness was never really a priority for Carrie. Her father is a very warm, caring man but his dream of Carrie becoming the greatest tennis player in the world really is the only thing that matters to both of them.

There is a lot of commentary on how successful women are treated by the press. Although this book is set in the 1990s, this certainly hasn’t changed in the last 30 years. Female celebrities are expected to look pretty and happy all the time and yet are called out if they’re deemed to be ‘trying too hard’. Once again, it’s evidence that women really can’t ever win and that criticism will find them one way or another.

The fact that Carrie is fully aware of the fact that she can’t win with the media is heartbreaking but it is perhaps a great strength for her. She knows that there’s no point in trying to ingratiate herself with the public or even with her fellow female players. They all have the idea that she is a cold, aloof Battle Axe and there’s not a lot of point in her trying to challenge that. However, there were times when I could see that she would have liked some female friendships within tennis and some good press for once. Perhaps that desire for someone to say something good about her further fuels her motivation to win.

Carrie and Bowe’s relationship was great fun to watch. They have an easy way of talking to each other and it’s clear that they have a lot of history and more feelings than either are willing to admit. They do flirt but Carrie certainly has her guard up with him, so I was never sure when or even if she would ever drop it and let him in. I couldn’t help but smile while they bantered and I was really excited to see what would happen between them.

Nina Riva and Brandon Randall are principal characters in Malibu Rising and although this is the only time they’re mentioned in Carrie Soto, it gives Carrie’s role in the Riva/Randall story a bit of a backstory. I do wish Carrie had featured more heavily in Malibu Rising but perhaps if she had, it would have negated the point of releasing her own story. There are several years between the events of Malibu Rising and the events of Carrie Soto and I think I’d like to know what’s been going on in those years.

The book also features newspaper clippings, podcast scripts and bulletins discussing Carrie Soto’s comeback. One article that really touched me was written by a young woman who was clearly beaten down by the idea that women can’t achieve their dreams and win at life. She is inspired by what Carrie is trying to do and I was so grateful that it was included in the book. There will undoubtedly be women who have been forced to abandon their dreams in favour of supporting their husband’s or children’s dreams, watching Carrie fight against the odds. How amazing for them to see her win!

The fact that Carrie compares herself to Princess Diana was so moving and poignant. They are both women who the press love to rip into and who the public have strong opinions on. I would never have compared Carrie to Diana by myself but when she pointed it out, I couldn’t help but see the similarities. Both were just trying to live their lives well but were products of a society that teaches us that women are only useful or interesting for a certain amount of time and should fade away when that time is up.

Carrie Soto Is Back is a very powerful, thought-provoking novel that celebrates female success and explores the very real ripples that sends through society. It’s moving, inspirational and incredibly exciting -the chapters detailing Carrie’s tennis matches are truly nail-biting. My heart leaped and fell with hers and I thoroughly adored it.

[homoose]

Love Has a Learning Curve: Part II (x reader)

Summary: Spencer and reader spend a lot of time together. And then he spends some time away.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, hurt/comfort

Warnings/Includes: typical CM violence, Spencer gets hurt but there’s no graphic descriptions 

Word count: 5k

a/n: This chapter is a little bit of a different style, because it had a lot of ground to cover! So we’ve got a few different vignettes of their first few months together— first dates and sleepovers and Spencer’s first long case away. I also worked some requests into this chapter.

———

Y/N stretched out across the bed, humming and burying her face into the pillow. She sighed and then drew in a deep breath. Her eyes blinked open as she recognized the new scent on her sheets— cedar and spice and a hint of floral. 

She moved her hand across the bed to find the sheets were cool, then raised her head to see the room was empty. The apartment was quiet, but the aroma of freshly brewed coffee crept in through the bedroom door left slightly ajar. She ran a hand over her face and reached for her phone on the bedside table, tapped the screen to check the time and saw a missed text from Anita.

Anita: How did it go???????

Y/N: Good! We talked a lot. And he spent the night.

Anita: W H A T

Anita: 🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨

Y/N: Calm down. It was just a sleepover. Emphasis on the sleep. 

Anita: Sure it was 👀

Anita: 👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

Anita: 🍆🍑🍒💦

Y/N: I’m going to mute this thread.

Anita: You’re such a prude!!!!!!!

Anita: But also

Anita: This mf is still on THIN ICE with me

Anita: So tell him to sleep with one eye open 

Y/N swiped the message thread to mute the notifications and sat up to drop her legs over the side of the bed. She stood and did a cursory once over in the mirror above her dresser, retrieving the sweater hanging on her closet door and slipping into it. Then she padded to the doorway, pushing the door open and quietly moving into the living room.

Spencer was on the couch, still in her shirt, with a book in one hand and her favorite coffee mug in the other. Roald was curled up in his lap, fast asleep. Spencer turned the page of his book, then brought the mug up to his lips. The simple domesticity had her chest tightening, and she let out a small, contented sigh. 

Spencer lifted his head at the sound, a smile stretching across his face as soon as he saw her. “Morning.”

“Morning.” She shuffled toward the couch, and he closed his book. She peered over the couch and gestured to Roald. “I see you’ve got a friend.”

“Indeed. I kind of feel like I can’t leave now.” He looked up with a small crease in his brow. “I made coffee. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” she assured with a smile. “Nice mug.”

“I didn’t want to wake you up, but I didn’t want to go through your cabinets,” he explained, looking a little nervous. “This one was on the dish rack, so I figured it was okay to use, but I can—”

“Spencer.” She leaned against the couch and smoothed a hand over his hair, meeting his eyes and smiling gently. “Is there more coffee?”

He nodded and looked down at the cat on his lap. “Yeah, I— I’d get up, but I don’t want to disturb him.”

Y/N laughed and pressed a quick kiss to his hair before retreating to the kitchen. “Oh, of course. We wouldn’t want to disrupt the king.”

…

They spent the morning on the couch, reading quietly and sipping their coffee and trading the occasional smile. She tucked her sock covered toes underneath his thigh as the sunlight crept across the floor. He brought his hand to rest on her knee and turned to the last chapter of his book, and she wondered if he was consciously slowing himself down so that she could attempt to keep up. 

Eventually, Roald yawned and stretched across Spencer’s lap, standing and hopping down off the couch in search of food. Spencer ran his hand down Y/N’s leg and circled his fingers around her ankle, rubbing his thumb lightly across the skin. She looked up from her book with a soft smile, wiggling her toes under his thigh. 

She closed her book and sat up a little closer to him on the couch. “So. I’ve been thinking.”

“Sounds dangerous,” he teased. 

“Ha, ha.” She rolled her eyes, and then her gaze shifted back to him and she chewed a little at the inside of her lip. 

No matter how hard she tried to quell it, the idea continued to nag at her subconscious— that even though he’d poured his heart out to her, even though he’d said that he loved her… that somehow she was still building him up in her head, seeing things that weren’t there, and making this into something it wasn’t. She was well aware that getting too comfortable too quickly was a surefire way to scare people off. 

“Our tea dates weren’t really dates,” she hedged. “So we haven’t really had a first date.”

He gave her ankle a quick squeeze. “No, I suppose we haven’t.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear. “I don’t want you to think I’m in the habit of inviting men that I’m not dating to spend the night.” 

He set his book on the coffee table. “Of course.” 

“So, um.” She tilted her head and drew her brows together. She needed to hear it, directly from his perspective. “Are we— do you consider us to be, um.” She closed her eyes. “Are we dating?”

She felt him lean toward her on the couch, felt his warm palm cupping her cheek and his thumb stroking across her skin. She opened her eyes slowly to see him looking at her with a tentative smile. “I hope so,” he breathed. 

She barely stopped herself from letting out a relieved sigh, slightly embarrassed to have needed the reassurance. He didn’t seem to notice, instead closing the rest of the distance between them to press a soft kiss to her mouth. Their noses bumped together awkwardly, drawing a laugh from them both. 

He withdrew from her mouth, pressed a kiss to her bumped nose, and then sat back a little, considering. “If you’re free today, we could knock ‘first date’ off the checklist.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “You have a checklist?”

“Well, a metaphorical one,” he clarified quickly. “I’m not, like, keeping track in a journal or anything.”

She laughed, bright and loud and almost carefree, and then swung her legs over the side of the couch. “What did you have in mind, doctor?”

…

Spencer Reid’s idea of a perfect first date was the Smithsonian National Postal Museum, and it was just about the most Spencer thing Y/N had ever heard. 

“I should have put two and two together with the no technology thing,” she surmised.

“I know letters have sort of gone out of fashion with the advent of phones and email, but— letter writing is an art form!” he defended, waving his hands. “And think about how incredible it feels to get something in the mail. You don’t get that same rush with a text message.”

She thought back to receiving a perfectly wrapped package with his handwriting scrawled across the brown paper. “Mm, you do have a point there,” she conceded.

He led her through the exhibits, explaining the various displays with more facts than the placards themselves could ever contain. She watched with a smile as he gestured wildly about with his hands, his eyes wide with the joy of sharing the information— of sharing it with her. She nodded, and mmhmmed, and asked the occasional question. But she was mostly just so unbelievably content to listen to him talk about anything and everything. 

He stopped mid-sentence in the Serving the Cities exhibit, dropping his hands and looking at her sheepishly. “Sorry, I— I’m boring you.”

She drew her brows together in genuine confusion. “What? No, you’re not. I’d never heard of the, um— new— no. The— new tubes?” 

“New York City's pneumatic tube system,” he offered. 

She smiled gratefully. “Yes, the pneumatic tube system. Underground mail tubes moving at 35 miles per hour? That’s kind of amazing.” She shook her head. “Why don’t they use it anymore?” 

“The Post Office Department suspended the service to conserve funding during World War I,” he explained automatically. “They restored partial service in 1922, but it eventually just became too costly to continue.” He seemed to catch himself, shaking his head and continuing, “But I— I’m sure it’s all here in the exhibits, I should just let you—”

She grabbed his hand, and he closed his mouth to stifle the rest of his rambling. She used her free hand to gesture around at the displays. “There’s a lot of information here, but to be honest, I— I haven’t really been looking at the placards.” She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks as he stared at her. “I, um— I’d much rather hear it from you.” 

She watched his eyes alight with surprise and wonder, and she wanted to personally fight anyone who had ever made him believe that he was boring. He took a step closer, eyes flicking down to her mouth, and her lips twitched up into a smile. He leaned down to meet her halfway in a sweet kiss, mostly just upturned mouths and huffed breaths. 

He lingered slightly as he pulled away, still studying her with a little bit of shock. She intertwined their fingers, pressed their shoulders together, and nodded toward the next display. “So, what else can you tell me about the history of the mail system, Dr. Reid?” 

The pair of them continued through the museum, their fingers threaded together and Spencer murmuring facts into her ear. They spent three hours walking through the exhibits, pausing here and there to gaze quietly at the details of a particularly interesting display. When they finally completed their circuit, Y/N insisted on visiting the museum gift shop. 

There were postage stamp tote bags, mail carrier t-shirts, mailbox ornaments and more— all incredibly overpriced and generally ridiculous and not of interest to either of them. But the stationery display caught her eye— sets of parchment with embossed letterheads, fancy letter openers, and wax stamp kits. She ran her finger over the raised design on one particularly intricate stationery set, and Spencer peered over her shoulder. 

“I’ve always enjoyed letter writing. Partly because I tend toward the arcane, but also because it feels… intentional and personal,” he explained. “It takes time, and energy, and care.”

“It’s a very deliberate and lovely way of showing that you care about someone,” she agreed.

“Mhm,” he hummed, smiling softly. “I still write a lot of letters to my mom. When she was still in Vegas and I didn’t see her very often, I wrote the letters because she didn’t always recognize my voice over the phone.” 

He drew his brows together and ran his fingers along the top of the stationary display. “Now I write them so that she can have a— a sort of record of my life, I guess. So that hopefully when the memories aren’t there anymore, she can still read them and feel like she’s a part of the story.”

Y/N reached for his hand again, and he accepted it with a bittersweet smile. “We did the same thing for my grandma,” she told him, returning his melancholic smile. “Lots of letters and photos. I never thought of it that way, but it was sort of like keeping her in our stories.” 

She turned back to the display and picked up the package of stationery, turning it over in her hands. He gently plucked it from her grip, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. “I think you need some nice paper for the next few chapters.” 

“Oh, you don’t have to—” she started. 

He cut her off with a press of his lips. She grasped a little at his waist as he kissed her and wondered if she would ever get used to kissing Spencer Reid. When he finally pulled back, she had to catch her breath. 

“I’ll take half,” he murmured. “I was hoping I could, um— help you write them.”

She squeezed his waist gently, heard the chains of insecurity clinking and breaking as he chiseled away at them piece by piece. “I’d like that.”

…

Two weeks later, Y/N convinced him to try painting— specifically, Paint & Sip Night at the art studio around the corner from her apartment. 

“I’m going to be terrible at this,” he warned her, looking over his shoulder at where she was tying the strings of his smock. 

She tugged the strings around his waist to gently pull him back toward her, leaned up on her tiptoes, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. She knotted the strings tight and barely restrained herself from sneaking a little squeeze of his bum— although she did not stop herself from looking. 

“It’s not about being good at it. It’s about having fun.” She used her hands on his waist to turn him around. “And if you’re not having fun, then we can go home,” she shrugged. 

He smoothed a wrinkle from her smock. “I always have fun with you.” He smiled and scrunched his nose at her, and she returned the nose scrunch with a laugh. 

“All right, everyone!” The instructor clapped her hands together. “Are you ready to paint a masterpiece?”

Forty five minutes later, Spencer peered over at her canvas and huffed out a breath. “God, look at that texture. How are you actually good at this?”

Y/N turned and looked at his painting. “Yours looks good, too,” she insisted. 

“Michael could— and has, actually— done better than this,” he scoffed.

“Well, I like it.” She tilted her head. “It’s giving me... Monet vibes. It’ll look perfect in my living room.”

“You are not hanging this in your living room,” he laughed. 

“I’d like to see you try and stop me,” she teased, turning back to her work to follow the next instruction. 

She watched him as they worked— his tongue slipping out of the corner of his mouth in concentration, his fingertips tapping across his thighs in consideration, his huffed breaths here and there when a stroke didn’t look the way he wanted it to. She finished a little bit before him, adding her tiny signature to the bottom of her canvas before standing to move to his side. She slid a gentle hand around his waist and looked over his shoulder at his work. 

He sighed and gestured to the corner of his canvas. “This whole section looks… weird.” 

She studied it for a moment. “I think maybe it’s just because it’s sort of one note?” She pointed to the rest of the painting. “Like, you played with layering the colors everywhere else. Here it’s just the blue. You could add some purple maybe? Or green,” she mused. 

“Yeah, I guess I can try that.” He shrugged and leaned over to the paints, gathering some purple on his brush.

She moved out of his way but rested her chin lightly on his shoulder as he worked. He moved the brush meticulously in small strokes, layering and creating dimension in the corner of the piece. When he finally set the brush down, he leaned his head to rest on top of hers. 

“Okay. So it looks much more…” he trailed off. 

“Cohesive,” she offered. 

She could feel his smile. “Yeah,” he agreed. He lifted his head to look at her. “Seriously, how are you so good at this?” 

She moved her chin from his shoulder and gave a nonchalant shrug. “I guess my many years of finger painting experience had to pay off someday.” She nodded to his finished painting. “I don’t know what your going rate is, but I have to have this.”

He swiveled on the stool to capture her hands in his, lacing their fingers together and pulling her in between his legs. “It’s yours.”

She feigned shock. “For free?”

“I didn’t say that,” he corrected with a sly smile. He dropped her hands to bring his own to her hips, pulling her in closer. “But it’s sort of an on-going payment deal. I’m asking at least 30 kisses per month.” 

She pressed her lips together to avoid breaking out into an absurd grin. “You drive a hard bargain.” 

“Take it or leave it. That’s my final offer,” he shrugged. 

She pretended to mull it over, lips pursed and eyes on the ceiling. He huffed out a laugh, and she cracked a smile, bringing her fingers up to tangle in his curls. “Deal.” 

…

Y/N: I don’t even know if your phone is capable of receiving pictures, but look what I hung today!

Spencer: It receives pictures! I wish I hadn’t received this one though. I cannot believe you actually hung that horrific thing on your wall.

Y/N: I’m going to commission you for a piece for the kitchen ;)

Spencer: You’re hilarious.

Y/N: You love it.

Spencer: I do. 

Spencer: I wanted to tell you... I have my first therapy appointment tomorrow afternoon. 

Y/N: Spence!!!

Y/N: I am so proud of you. It’s going to change your life. 

Spencer: You’ve already done that, Miss Honey. 

…

Y/N: How did it go?

Spencer: I cried? A lot.

Y/N: That happens to me, too! Good therapy will do that. Other than the crying, how do you feel? 

Spencer: I feel… amazing. Lighter, I think? I’m actually kind of bummed that I have to wait two weeks to do it again. 

Y/N: I know I said it already, but I’m so incredibly proud of you. 

Spencer: I quite literally would not have done it without you. 

Y/N: Happy to give you a little nudge whenever you need it, doctor. <3

...

The BAU’s caseload had been uncharacteristically slow, and the two of them took advantage of every moment. On one particularly gloomy Saturday afternoon, they were sprawled across Spencer’s couch and sipping on their umpteenth cups of coffee. He scribbled notes in the margins of his students’ latest essays, while she typed out her lesson plans for the upcoming week. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him set down his pen. He stifled a sigh and she held back a smile as she typed out a short vowel word chain. She could feel his eyes on her, could practically smell the smoke coming from his overworked brain. 

When he didn’t break the silence, she looked up over the top of her laptop. “Can I help you?” she teased.

His cheeks colored with a very pretty flush— the same one she’d pulled from him in the carpool loop all those months ago. “Two of my students just… aren’t getting it.” He gestured to the papers in front of him. “I’ve tried extra office hours, extended time for work completion, and it just— doesn’t seem to be helping.” He looked at her with pursed lips. “I was, um— I was wondering if you had any ideas? That I could try.”

Her eyebrows shot up into her hairline. “You— you’re asking me for help?”

“Well, yeah.” He shrugged. “You’re the best teacher I know.”

Now it was her turn to blush. “Oh. Well, um…” She set her laptop on the coffee table and sat up, considering. “Have you tried differentiating your lectures?” At his raised eyebrow, she continued, “Like— having a PowerPoint or a recorded version that they can revisit? You’re kind of a fast talker, so it’s possible that they’re struggling to retain the information because they can’t keep up with your delivery.”

“Huh.” He tilted his head with a furrowed brow. “I... didn’t consider that my oratory speed could have an impact on student achievement. But of course— that makes total sense.” He gave her a sheepish smile and his best puppy dog eyes. “So… how much coffee do you think you’d require to, um— help me make a PowerPoint?”

She sighed dramatically but couldn’t stop herself from smiling. “At least another two cups. And one of those peanut butter sandwich cookies from Soho.”

He set the papers aside and leaned over to plant a kiss on her upturned mouth. “I’ll buy you a dozen.”

…

In late May, their luck ran out. 

First there was a case in Arizona— brutal and ritualistic murders scattered through the desert with almost no cooling off period. On the eighth day that he was in Phoenix, Y/N’s phone rang on the bedside table. She reached across to pick it up, smiling at his name on the screen.

“Hey,” she answered, moving her computer off her lap and getting comfortable. 

“Hi,” Spencer murmured. 

“How’s the case going?”

“It’s, um— it’s going okay, actually,” he assessed. “We’ve made a lot of headway in the last twelve hours, and I think we might be narrowing in.”

“That’s great.” She stifled a yawn behind her hand. 

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” 

His tone of voice had her sitting up a little straighter in bed. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he insisted, but his tone didn’t shift. 

“You don’t sound fine,” she prompted. 

“I just—” He blew out a breath, and she could almost hear him running his hand over his face. “I miss you. And maybe that’s weird, because we’ve only been together for seventy four days, but—”

“Spence,” she interrupted. He sighed, and she continued, “It’s not weird. I miss you, too.”

“Eight days isn’t even that long, but I just— I’ve never, um.” The line was quiet for long enough that she almost thought the call had dropped. And then his voice came back, softer than she’d ever heard it. “I’ve never had someone to miss.”

Her heart physically ached for all the time he’d spent without someone to miss— and without someone to miss him, and cherish him, and— well, love him. She still hadn’t said it back. She wanted to say it right then, but it felt wrong to say it for the first time over the phone. And there was still that nagging little fear— of his inevitable reconsideration and rejection— keeping her from pulling the metaphorical trigger. 

“Well. I’m happy to fill that position,” she settled on— and hated how inadequate it sounded. She leaned back against the pillows, prepared to make him feel it even if she couldn’t say it. At the very least, she could help him take his mind off the monsters— if only for a few minutes. “Teach me something, doctor.”

He laughed a little through the phone, and she knew her plan was working already. 

“Okay,” he started, and she could hear the muffled crinkle of the hotel duvet. “Um— did you know that the Sonoran Desert is the only place in the world where saguaro cacti grow?”

“Wow. No, I didn’t,” she smiled, ready to learn everything there was to know about the giant, prickly plants. “Why is that?”

“Experts believe there are two main factors that limit the cacti from expanding into the Mojave — temperature and rainfall. It’s also possible that...”

...

On his tenth day away, the letter showed up. 

Y/N,

I’m writing from the balcony of the hotel room overlooking the desert— well, more so the parking lot of the desert— and I’m reminded of the duality of this landscape. The arid climate and rugged terrain can make it a mercilessly hostile place. Yet at the same time, this environment is one of the most enigmatic and enchanting, and it’s teeming with life if you look close enough. 

This job can illuminate the cruelty and brutality of humanity, but it so often reminds me of the resilience and the goodness of people, too. The duality of the desert parallels the duality of man, I suppose.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been out here. I think you’d like it. I’ve thought of another poem that makes me think of you, and of the way that I finally feel like I can breathe. 

With thee, in the Desert –

With thee in the thirst –

With thee in the Tamarind wood –

Leopard breathes – at last!

       - Emily Dickinson

Love, 

Spencer

…

They had barely deplaned after the culmination of the case in Arizona before they were called back out to Colorado, this time for six days. She barely heard from him at all, save for the occasional text, and even then, it was never more than ten words. She spent her waking hours worrying and dreamt the same terrifying dream every single night— being chased until her legs gave out, never sure of what she was running from and never able to slow down. 

It was 2:27 in the morning when her phone rang, rousing her from her restless tossing and turning. His name on the caller ID had the worry jumping into her throat, but she answered as calmly as she could. 

“Hi.” She yawned into her hand and let out a little sigh.

“Hi.” The tenor of his voice was quiet and weary. “I know it’s unbelievably late—”

She sat up and interrupted, “Are you okay?” 

He was quiet for a moment, and her worry intensified. “I, um— I’m… I’m downstairs.” 

She turned on the bedside lamp. “Like, right now?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed quietly. “I— I’m sorry. I should have called first before just— showing up at your door.”

She was already climbing out of bed. “No, no, honey, don’t be sorry. I’m coming to buzz you in.”

She shuffled through the dark apartment, fumbled for the intercom to press the buzzer. She could hear his feet on the stairs before she even made it to the door, unlocking the deadbolt and pulling back the chain. As the door swung open, he was rounding the top of the stairs and turning the corner of the landing. 

It took him five strides to cross the threshold, and then he was tumbling into her arms and burying his face in her shoulder. The impact knocked the breath out of her, but she recovered quickly, bringing her arms around him and holding him tight. 

He didn’t speak, just breathed into her hair and clutched a little desperately at her back. She stroked a soothing hand over his curls and pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

“I’ve got you,” she murmured. “You’re safe, Spence. I’m right here.”

She shifted her weight slowly back and forth, rocking him gently and petting over his hair, steady and rhythmic. He burrowed his face into the crook of her neck and let out a shaky breath, and Y/N felt his tears on her skin. She brought both arms around his shoulders then, squeezing him tightly. “I’m right here, honey,” she repeated. “I’m right here.”

He cried quietly into her shoulder as she ran soothing hands over his back. She knew this was more than just missing her— it was the cruelty and brutality of man that he saw every day, the layers of hurt that would probably always be there. But she knew the resilience was there, too. And she was determined to always show him the other half of the chasm of humanity.

After a long while, he pulled back, still sniffling. Y/N reached out to grasp his face in both her hands, sweeping the tears from his cheeks with gentle thumbs. Her heart panged at the way his eyes were shining and ringed red, full of complete exhaustion and raging emotion. 

“What do you need?” she asked. “Water, tea, a snack, a shower?”

He shook his head. “Just you,” he mumbled.

She felt the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. “You’ve got me. Always.” She pressed one, two, three chaste kisses to his chapped lips. “Let’s get cleaned up and changed and into bed, hm?”

She had him wash his face and brush his teeth, and then she moved him to sit on the closed toilet lid. “Close your eyes,” she said softly. 

He could barely keep them open as it was, and she didn’t even want to think about how little sleep he’d had over the last three weeks. She cupped his face in her hands for a long moment, rememorizing every curve and angle. 

First, she swiped a cotton pad soaked with cucumber toner across the high planes of his cheekbones and along his nose. She allowed it to dry, and then dropped gentle kisses to his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, his chin. Next, she took a dab of moisturizer on the tips of her fingers, rubbing in circular motions along the path her lips had traveled. Finally, she pressed a few drops of her favorite lavender and chamomile face oil onto his cheeks, soothing away the last, damp remnants of agony. 

When he opened his eyes again, they were already a little clearer, a little calmer, a little lighter. He let out a long, slow breath and laced their fingers together. She squeezed his hands, and then pulled him up and into her side.

She led him into her bedroom, stripped him out of his cardigan and button-up and trousers, and helped him into the soft, oversized school fundraiser shirt that had become his. And then she took his hands in hers once again and pulled him toward the bed, getting him settled and tucked in on his side before coming around to shut off the bedside light. He whined at the loss of contact, and she shushed him gently as she climbed in next to him. 

“C’mere.” She lifted the duvet, and he moved to lay his head on her chest, wrapping his arm around her middle and pulling her impossibly closer. She tucked the covers back around him, and then brought her arms around his shoulders, hugging him tightly. 

She stroked his hair quietly, listening to his breathing as it evened and slowed. He was asleep in minutes, snuffling gently into her chest. His grip loosened with every breath, and he settled more comfortably against her side with each exhale. 

She let the tears she’d been holding back slip over her lash line and pressed a soft kiss into his hair. The faint snores vibrating from his chest muffled her quiet voice as she whispered the trio of words she couldn’t quite bring herself to say in the light of day.

———

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[tossawary]

thinking about the widower mobei jun au and im deeply struck by the mental image of mobei jun going into full mourning clothes. switching out his dark noble wardrobe for a pure white set of robes. maybe a lacy veil to go with??? a whole new level of icy and ethereal and untouchable

This is an Extremely Powerful image. Much too powerful. He would look so good. (Either that or he would look kind of ridiculous, but he’d still look good.) If the Demon Realm didn’t already know about Mobei-Jun’s extremely romantic and public devotion to his strange human partner, they’re going to know now. Bonus points from all the demons for the fact that MBJ is definitely stepping into this ensemble out of a long and deep trail of blood and guts. 

This would definitely short-circuit Shang Qinghua’s brain. 

I feel like Shang Qinghua would be kind of down, maybe, for “seducing a dedicated widower” and “what happened to his first husband? Nothing you can prove” fantasies. He’s a weird guy. He’ll contemplate nearly any scenario once. But I can’t really envision Mobei-Jun being immediately willing to entertain this kind of fantasy. Like, MBJ can’t even think about any husband of his (since SQH appears to be it for him) passing away with getting deeply upset. Even the suggestion of this kind of thing is going to end in Shang Qinghua petting Mobei-Jun’s hair for hours and apologizing for his thoughtlessness. 

You’d at least get that scene of Shang Qinghua (ripping?) removing this outfit from Mobei-Jun, which would be... unbearably full of relief and devotion. 

Maybe after it’s less raw MBJ would be more down for fantasies in which SQH ruthlessly murders any earlier spouses to have MBJ for himself. Okay, yeah, MBJ would be very into that. He’d just be a little delicate for a while after Shang Qinghua’s return from the dead, so I think casual jokes would be off the table, which SQH would unfortunately learn very quickly.

I should make a note about a separate one shot about SQH orchestrating the deaths of MBJ’s spouses, actually, for a dark humor piece. (I’m not against MBJ having other matches, especially not political ones, because harem stuff can be fun, but focusing on SQH and MBJ being very exclusive and SQH being the dangerously possessive one sounds fun too.) There’s a lot of ambitious demonesses hunting for a powerful husband (esp. now that LBH is off the market) and MBJ’s family is shit enough to try and sell him off. I imagine that the first death would be kind of an accident? More of an inaction thing? At least, that’s what SQH tells himself, but he’s not sorry about it. Whoops! 

Mobei-Jun thinks it’s incredibly hot. 

I’m going to file this under “black widow mobei jun fic” under “fic ideas”. Oh, MBJ would be very into provoking SQH through the widower look here.

[omgmarauders]

"I rather think it's unsporting to judge a man by his bedhead, Evans." James pointed out, though he was unable to mask the smile on his lips that somewhat gave away his true feelings on the matter. "Especially when said man is likely to be the only other soul awake at this hour. Besides, yourself of course." He relented, though he stood by the fact that it was still quite ridiculous she was up at this hour. He made a mental note to ask why should the moment arise. "Perhaps I have." He wiggled his brows, wondering what kind of things she might have been imagining. No doubt something much more ludicrous and sinister than he - or they, given the likelihood that any given marauder would also be involved - could accomplish.

Having been on the receiving end of many a lecture over the years - and many from Lily herself, James felt he might have been able to join in on her little speech. He managed to refrain and let her finish. "Yes, it's terribly irresponsible of me. And I'm incredibly lucky you turned up to reprimand me." The grin on his face wasn't quite what you'd expect after being on the receiving end of one of Lily Evans' lectures. However, James found himself miraculously impervious to them. Well, at least when they weren't too personal for comfort. Those he couldn't burn from his brain if he tried. This one didn't quite seem to have quite the same spice as usual, however. "And, of course, to ensure I don't put myself in grave danger flying without supervision."

James had been sure that the redhead would disagree. In fact, perhaps everyone in their year would have bet on her disagreeing to join him. But, she took his hand. She actually took his hand! For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. The touch sent a thrill through his body that apparently had short-circuited his brain and he hoped she didn't catch the absolute shock and complete awe he felt. He met her gaze. A vivid, mesmerising green looked back - like the first burst of spring after a barren winter. His smile softened for a moment and he nodded. "Alright," he repeated her word before catching up with himself.

“I’ll take full responsibility, Evans.” He promised, his voice quieter but no less confident. "I solemnly swear." Still holding her hand, he guided her onto the broom, lowering it for her. "Besides," he began, a mischievous grin of his own on his lips, "I’ve been known to be pretty good at outrunning Filch."

The young witch crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow, trying to suppress the smile threatening to break free. "You really think bedhead is an appropriate style for anything?" she shot back, glancing at the tousled hair that seemed to crown his confidence. "It looks like you've been up all night plotting something ridiculous, James."

When he leaned closer, she couldn’t help but laugh softly, despite the sternness in her voice. "You know, I really should be the one nagging you about being responsible around here. You’re not supposed to fly this early without a proper plan—rules exist for a reason. And just because the view is nice doesn’t mean we should be up here like this."

But there was something undeniably tempting about the view he was offering — the sunrise spilling colours across the sky, and the thrill of actually joining him in breaking the rules for once. She chewed her lip, as she thought about his offer and sighed, pretending to weigh her options, but the corners of her lips were starting to twitch.

“Alright,” she relented, a mischievous glint in her eye at the thought of surprising him with her answer. “Just this once, let’s see what kind of trouble you can get me into.” She reached out for his hand, feeling a flutter of excitement beneath her irritation as she grasped the warmth of his palm. “But if Filch catches us, you’re the one explaining it. And I’ll be sure to remember that this ‘gorgeous sunrise’ was all your idea.”

[my-writings-and-musings]

Not sure if you still want to write for old prompts but if so; May I request Rodimus, Brainstorm, and a bot of your choice for the kidnapped s/o defending their bot and giving the kidnapper a tongue lashing? Your writing is so good it seriously brightens my day reading through it all! :D

I never tire of my prompts, lovely anon! Thanks a million and here's the good boys! I couldn't think of anyone I wanted to do for the third bot but I poured my heart and soul into these two, I hope you like them!

Rodimus

·Your panic had never really gone beyond some light anxiety about when you'd get to eat next, but you credited that to the rescue party you knew was coming. Rodimus had bested bad guys far more competent than this loser, so you had few worries about getting out. Truthfully your greatest concern was how unfathomably annoying your captor was proving to be. Between their grandiose personality and their constant taunting over the communication line, you feel as if you're going to go mad. Unfortunately, when the mocking starts to be aimed directly at Rodimus without end, you quickly build to your limit. The gloves come off when your captor crosses the final line and calls your partner "Hot Rod" in an unacceptable jab.

·"Oh for God's sake! It's Rodimus you dolt, not Hot Rod! I know the extra syllable is a little difficult for you, but try to keep up!" Your shout echoes so loudly in the tiny cave that a bit of dust falls from the ceiling. Your captor is quick to try and shut you up, but that doesn't stop you in the slightest, as yelling feels far better than taking any more of their trash. For pete's sake, they stole you for ransom and they're expecting good behavior? Entitlement falls way short of describing what a jerk this bot is, and you let them know it, channeling the insults you know your partner would unleash if they could.

·"You think you scare me? You think you scare anyone?! You're dumb enough to piss off the captain of the Lost Light buddy, you should be afraid! Rodimus sees guys like you as footnotes compared to what he usually deals with!" Quite accustomed to your beloved captain charging in to save the day, you let loose a long list of his accomplishments, proudly defending and boasting at the same time. Your captor can't even get a word in edgewise. With a devilish smirk, you start to go on about all the less public ways Rodimus rules as a partner. His impeccable charm, his smooth wit, and his capacity to perform as a Prime where it really counts... That last bit is kept from vulgarity only due to a none too distant explosion cutting you off.

·Before anything can move, the door quite literally melts before imploding inward as molten metal, revealing Rodimus covered in flame. He moves in a fiery blur, his fist more akin to a meteorite as it collides with your captor to knock them out in a single punch. At your cheering of his name, he comes to your side in a flash, fire dissipating completely after he frees you of your bonds. Moments later the remainder of the crew is pouring in with Magnus scolding Rodimus for rushing ahead. He ignored him completely as he takes you into his arms, optics shining as if he's beholding something more precious than the Matrix could ever be. Though his words are flirty, his tone is tender and brimming with affection as he takes you back to the ship. His lovestruck expression doesn't seem to go away even when he throws a massive party to celebrate your rescue.

·In an incredibly rare moment where his responsibilities pull him away from you, a bot close to him tells you something they think you should know. Rodimus was initially devastated by your kidnapping. Though the entire ship had rallied for your rescue, he'd barely held it together enough to take charge, and hearing the bot mock him had nearly sent him over the edge. Your outburst had, as if by a miracle, revitalized him. Hearing you stick up for him, including your grand list of what you adored about him, had so inspired him that controlling his fire had become easy. It was unlike anything anyone had ever seen. You believing in him had put into perspective what he was capable of, to the point it lit a fire in the most literal sense of the phrase.

Brainstorm

·Dating a bot brilliant enough to rend time had made you quite accustomed to shenanigans of all kinds. Thus, you were calm when kidnapped, both due to the aforementioned reason as well as your certainty of rescue. However, that calm had proved short lived when your captor proved to be an annoying jerk with a massive inferiority complex. Their ceaseless mockery through the communication channel was like torture the DJD would have found too cruel to condone. You'd been able to stay cool for some time, focusing on keeping the situation calm and looking for weak points your rescuers might exploit, but inevitably you'd been pushed to your limit. The final straw had been your captor having the audacity to mock your partner for being a hopeless inventor who only managed to make things no one needed, and that sent you over the edge.

·"Hopeless?! You call inventing time travel and creating the multiverse hopeless?! This coming from a loser in a cave with the most backwards security system on this side of the galaxy?!" Your outburst had come with a rattling of your chains to emphasize your point, and between your voice and the clanking metal you'd immediately had the full attention of the bad bot. Still enraged, you made a point of detailing every single categorical failure they'd displayed, having learned plenty about judging the quality of technology in Brainstorm's lab. There's more than enough material for you to throw at them with the nightmare of poor maintenance surrounding you. "When was the last time you bothered patching up these turrets anyway?! Hope you're not planning on using these for defense, Brainstorm will have them short circuiting before he's done hacking that door!"

·There's something resembling an attempt at a comeback, but you're a mile ahead before it's even halfway out. To say your beloved bot eclipses this loser's intellect would imply they'd actually register on the same level, and you have to laugh at the absurdity of someone so incompetent daring to come after one of the most brilliant bots in the galaxy, something you let them know in no uncertain terms. The litany of reality warping ways you might be rescued is as long as it is ridiculously plausible. You begin going off on the countless other ways Brainstorm might get around this captive situation, extolling his many talents in weapon design and paying special attention to how brilliantly he thinks outside the box. You're about to get into the details of other areas he's creative in when the lights go out and everything plunges in to darkness.

·Flashes of biolights, small explosions, and shouts of action are all you have to discern some incredible rush of activity. Before you can really figure out what's happening a beautiful pair of yellow optics light up the darkness, and in a split second your chains are broken and you're being lovingly cupped by a pair of careful hands. At the flip of a small device the lights flicker on to reveal a beaten but otherwise fine captor being cuffed, but you ignore that entirely when Brainstorm removes his mask to speak to you. Playfully fussing over your condition, he uncharacteristically kisses your little head in full view of everyone, something he's never done before. In fact, the next few days he's nothing but openly loving and outright showy in his affections, publicly presenting you with a series of fantastic gifts invented to profess his love.

·In a rare moment of solitude, you're unexpectedly taken aside by a bot who says they need to let you know something important. Brainstorm was almost dangerous. He'd already lost one love, and he'd been so intent on not losing another he'd been forced from his lab to prevent him from tearing reality asunder to get to you. He'd been nearly impossible to console or restrain until your voice came through the comm. Hearing you defend him so passionately had calmed and invigorated him all at once, grounding him in reality and giving him the clarity he needed to assist in rescuing you. The device he'd created to extinguish enemy defenses had been put together at a speed that impressed Perceptor. It was thanks to you that he remembered to go slow and take things one step at a time, because just as much as you were worth fighting for, you were worth living for.

[kpopfanfictrash]

TAOM Drabble: The Party

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: Jungkook / Reader

Word Count: 1,611

Rating: PG-13

Summary: An accompanying drabble to The Art of War More. This drabble takes place during Y/N and Jungkook’s kiss at hockey house, as well as the immediate aftermath (aka what Seokjin said to convince Jungkook not to follow).

[ PART OF MY JUNGKOOK BIRTHDAY DRABBLE GAME ]

You had to be the most maddening person alive.

Only an insane person would actually be mad at Jungkook for purposefully losing a game of beer pong to you. Only an insane person, or maybe a drunk person – which you were dangerously close to becoming, based on the volume of beer you’d consumed.

Jungkook recognized the fact that he was also insane, since instead of being annoyed by this fact – as he rightfully should’ve been – he just kept staring at your lips and wondering what they would taste like.

“You’re the ridiculous one here, not me!” you complained, your brow adorably crinkled.

Jungkook shook himself free from his stupor.

“Oh, yeah?” he shot back. Then, he sighed. “God, this conversation is stupid. You drive me crazy – you know that?”

“Well, same!” 

“Great.” Fuck – Jungkook was staring at your lips again. With great effort, he forced himself to look you in the eyes. “Anything else you want to say?”

He expected you to cuss him out, maybe tear him a new one, or swear at him about his parentage, so your sudden hesitance came as a surprise. As was the determined way you stepped forward to tilt your face up to his.

“Yeah,” you breathed, almost in a daze.

Jungkook’s entire world seemed to slow. He was able to feel the heat from your body, the warmth of your hands when you reached for his face. As your fingertips brushed over his cheekbones, Jungkook stared wonderingly back at you.

He had imagined this many times prior, but most of those times had been on desperate nights spent alone in his bed when he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think about anything but your smile, or your scowl.

When you reached up to press your lips against his, Jungkook seemed to short-circuit. 

A strangled noise tore from his throat – did that really come from him? – and he tried to reconcile your touch with reality. Luckily, his insanity only lasted a moment before he came to his senses and wrapped both arms about you.

Tugging you forward, Jungkook’s spine hit the wall and he pulled you between his legs, kissing you fiercely. You shivered when one of his hands brushed your back, which ripped an arrow of fire straight through his chest.

Swiping his tongue at your lip, Jungkook demanded entrance and when you parted beneath him, his knees seemed to buckle.

He’d spent so long not touching you, not even letting himself think about touching you, that now that he had you, he seemed to lose control. Skimming your cheek with his thumb, Jungkook moved his lips to your neck and kissed slowly down your throat.

When your hands wound their way into his hair, he couldn’t help but moan. His two weak spots had always been his hair and his nipples. Jungkook started to drown in your kiss; he imagined you siphoning off pieces of him to leave something better behind.

As soon as he grasped the enormity of this moment – he was kissing you, after all – Jungkook roughly pulled back to rest his forehead to yours.

“Y/N,” he breathed, his voice graveled and strange.

When his eyes finally opened, he saw you staring at him and – instead of his hopeful desire mirrored back – Jungkook saw something inside you which made his heart stutter. You looked at him panicked, uncertain as his gaze roamed your face.

“Y/N?” Jungkook managed to ask. “Are you okay?”

Suddenly desperate, you wrenched yourself from his grasp. Jungkook faltered, feeling cold without you.

“I – yeah. I’m fine,” you said, although you clearly were not. “Just… fine.”

When you spun around, shoving your way towards the door, Jungkook felt his heart tear in two as it sunk to his shoes. He remained frozen for a moment, staring after you and then he tore himself free to plunge into the crowd.

Jungkook rose up on tip-toes, peering over the party to spot you by the door. He pushed himself in your direction, calling your name, although you did not seem to hear.

The further he moved, the higher his heart lodged in his throat. He’d fucked this all up again, somehow. Somehow, Jungkook had made you bolt and he couldn’t even fathom how he’d make it up to you now. It had taken him so long to get you to look at him again, to get you to smile at him again, to get you to trust him again.

Freshman year, Jungkook had been such a shit after you went home with Jimin. Now he knew Jimin meant nothing, but Jungkook had been too prideful and stupid back then to let you know that he cared. 

Heart pounding, Jungkook shoved his way towards the exit. He had almost reached you when a hand closed over his bicep, yanking him sideways.

Pulled from the main room, Jungkook found himself facing Seokjin. “Not now,” he grunted, trying to shove past. “I need to talk to Y/N.”

“It’s about Y/N,” Seokjin said, grabbing his arm again.

Gritting his teeth, Jungkook evaluated the situation. He could definitely overpower Seokjin if he had to, but it’d take longer than convincing Seokjin he had good intentions.

“I need to go after her,” Jungkook said, whirling around. “I just want to talk. Promise.”

When he met Seokjin’s glare, Jungkook nearly recoiled.

It was strange to see Seokjin wearing an unpleasant expression. Jungkook knew Seokjin as the affable guy, the funny guy who got along with everyone and whom everyone liked. He’d never seen Seokjin as the type of guy to pick a fight in the middle of a party, but Jungkook was quickly reassessing that statement.

Finally, Seokjin let go. “She doesn’t want to talk to you,” he said, somewhat heated. “Whatever dumb shit you said, she doesn’t want to hear it.”

“What I said?” Jungkook asked in disbelief.

“I saw you two making out, JK.” Seokjin’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what royally stupid thing you said after to make Y/N run, but whatever it was, you can save the apology for tomorrow. Let her cool off for tonight.”

“I – but...” Jungkook gaped. “All I said to her was her name!”

Seokjin faltered for a moment. “If that was true,” he said slowly. “Y/N wouldn’t have run away like she did.”

Somewhat desperate, Jungkook glanced over Seokjin’s shoulder. He no longer saw you standing with Gina by the door, which made his heart twist.

“I don’t know,” he groaned, turning back. “I really don’t know why she ran. I don’t know what I did to make Y/N angry. Please, Seokjin – I just want to talk to her.”

The longer he looked at Jungkook, the more Seokjin’s expression seemed to shift. He no longer stared at Jungkook with open distrust, but rather uncertainty. 

Still, Seokjin held his ground. “Give it one night, at least,” he sighed, rubbing his neck. “Maybe you’re right and you did nothing wrong, but Y/N still looked upset. Give her some time to cool down.”

Chewing on his lower lip, Jungkook glanced again at the door.

You had looked upset – which made Jungkook wonder why. Why had you looked so utterly torn? That wasn’t the normal reaction Jungkook got after kissing people. It wasn’t the sort of reaction anyone hoped for after a kiss, which made Jungkook wonder if Seokjin had a point.

If you really didn’t want to talk to him, maybe Jungkook should leave you alone.

The instant he thought this, a protest rose to his lips. This was exactly what Jungkook had done several years ago – he had left you alone and pretended not to care – and look where that had gotten him.

Still, he couldn’t help but see your face again in his mind. Your stricken expression, the panic in your voice as you dashed into the crowd – if you really had no desire to see him, Jungkook shouldn’t keep pushing you into something he wanted.

“You’re right,” Jungkook said at last, leveling his gaze with Seokjin. “I don’t want to upset her any more. But I’m not giving up,” he declared, making a decision right there. “I’m not letting another stupid misunderstanding come between us.”

Spinning around on his heel, Jungkook marched into the crowd and left Seokjin standing, somewhat bewildered on his side of the room.

Yanking his phone from his pocket, Jungkook flipped to your messages and scrolled to the bottom. The last text you sent him was a simple ‘okay’ in response to the house address Jungkook had sent you earlier.

Coming to a stop, Jungkook’s thumb brushed the screen. He had typed and re-typed that message several times, debating whether to add something more personal before deciding against. Now, he wished he’d been a little more forthcoming about why he really wanted you here.

About why Jungkook always seemed to want you near. It was more than just wanting to be friends with you, more than the begrudging cooperation between two detectives. It was about how Jungkook couldn’t stop thinking about you, couldn’t stop dreaming of you and each time someone said your name, it felt like a physical wrenching because he couldn’t say your name how he wanted.

He had finally said your name that way tonight and then, you disappeared.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Jungkook took a deep breath – and when he opened them, he composed himself enough to send a text.

Jungkook: Y/N, are you okay? [12:15 AM]

Jungkook:  please talk to me [12:15 AM]

Jungkook: please [12:16 AM]

© kpopfanfictrash, 2020. Do not copy or repost without permission.

[gftimelord]

*Stanford could sense the unsease coming from his counterpart, he always was an easy book to read unfortunately, all the more since back then. He decided to play a different tactic instead, one that would be regretfully more familiar.*

"Oh it's no problem at all! At least when it comes to you being aware of these things. It's practically harmless! I think. Anyway—"

*The doctor spoke so casually, tossing the screwdriver between his hands like some kind of plaything. The way that it's able to simply manipulate space and time despite it's very careless handling was no short of concerning, shouldn't he be more careful?*

"About the Higgs Boson, or the 'God particle'—whatever people want to call it—was only proven to exist fairly recently where I’m from. And manipulating something that unstable? Yeah, not exactly feasible, even for someone like me. I mean, it only sticks around for a teensy fraction of a second. Trying to mess with that? Talk about a calamity waiting to happen, not to mention it's ridiculously volatile nature. But hey, props for trying!"

*Ford seemed oddly very cool about all of this, you'd be lead to wonder how often he would find himself in this kind of scenario to be so... comfortable with it. Not that it seemed dangerous, but it was unsettling how accustomed he seemed to be with being a source of unpredictability, at least to a certain extent. It made him cringe inwardly how familiar this felt, how it fit somebody else much better. Somebody he used to call a friend. He could only hope his counterpart hadn't made that catastrophic deal just yet, it wasn't something he was going to ask.*

"Alright, Einstein, I wouldn’t exactly call it common sense, but meddling with other universes or timelines like I do? Yeah, that's definitely not allowed. In fact, messing with the fabric of the universe is a big no-no for most cosmic entities. But, you know, I have a blatant disregard for their nonsense and genuinely don't care."

*The way he seemed to gesticulate instead of placing his hands behind his back was entirely different, this version of Ford didn't seem to be all that affected by his polydactyly. In fact, he even seemed to wear it like a badge. Something striking, memorable, it's like he knew he was renowned. The million dollar question being what for.*

"My sonic screwdriver does a lot of things—it's a multitool, first and foremost, something I use to do whatever I want. Whether that’s hopping between dimensions by opening rifts or just reprogramming anything with a circuit. Oh, and it can also eviscerate anyone where they stand if I feel like it. Reduced to atoms. Fun stuff."

"How fascinating, versions of me from all walks of life seem to collate on this platform. I'd argue that we've saturated this place but I think we could always do with a couple more... or would this high level of interaction be quite detrimental? Mabel was fine with her counterparts, navigating this should be a walk in the park!"

"Well, a labyrinth more like but I'll manage. I think."

- @gftimelord

Greetings! Glad to see a new version of me! Are you also studying parallel realities? At the moment I have not found a way to move (other than the portal), so I am collecting information about variations through interviews. I would be glad if you tell me a little about yourself!

[whumpforthewin]

The Answer - 2

((NSFW Content under the cut))

Jack had fucked up big time. Sure, he’d fucked up a lot in his twenty years of experience but this had to be one of the worst. Some guy had paid extra to use toys. Normally Jack thought they took too much time but they guy had paid a lot. And Jack couldn’t just turn down free money. 

But now he was trapped. The man had gotten him into a spreader bar, which wasn’t too bad. But he’d flipped Jack over and gotten him in cuffs. He struggled but the man smacked his ass hard and stopped, still struggling to get his breathing under control.

“You’re too pale, love.” Jack snarled at the name. “Let’s add some color to your cheeks.” He’d brought out a necktie, but Jack felt like it was more of a noose. The man would pull it tight, watch Jack struggle, flail as much as he could, before loosening the tie enough for Jack to suck in a breath, never letting Jack pass out and escape this hell. 

The man pushed into him and Jack let out a whine. He wasn’t nearly prepped enough for this. But then he started tightening the tie. 

“Yeah, bitch, struggle, that’s what I like, tighten, god you feel so good around my dick. You were made for this sweetheart. Fuck,” the man was babbling. 

It sounded far away to Jack. The blood was rushing in his ears. He wasn’t loosening the tie. The edges of his vision were swimming. This guy was going to kill him. Too busy chasing his own pleasure to realize he was killing the person providing it. 

Suddenly the weight was gone. All of it. The tie, the man, nothing. Jack was too busy gasping in air to know what had happened. 

But he soon came to his senses. 

He was not alone in the room. 

But it was also not the same man as before. 

“You’re money’s on the table. I didn’t take any of it.” The man’s voice was rich and smooth, like whatever liquor he was drinking. 

“Who are you?” That seemed to be the most pressing question. He ignored how rough his voice sounded. He rubbed his wrists realizing he was free of the cuffs and the spreader bar.

“You can call me Dark.”

Jack let out a strangled laugh. “Really? What kind a emo name is that?” He couldn’t see the man’s expression and weak as he was he shouldn’t really be egging on a guy he knew absolutely nothing about. He was silhouetted by the window and he looked broader than Jack. 

The man just sighed. “It’s my last name. Damien Dark.” 

“Isn’t that a DC villain?” God Jack wished he could just shut up. 

But Dark let out a low chuckle and stood. “More than likely. You can decide how fitting the name is or not.” He moved into the lamp light and oh hell, this guy certainly looked like a villain. 

Tall, dark, and mysterious had nothing on this guy. Jack was suddenly very aware he was still naked, though a sheet had been thrown over him. 

“Or you can use my middle name, Mark.”

“Your name is Damien Mark Dark?” Jack asked. He was trying to take this guy seriously but his name was too ridiculous. 

“Damien Marcus Dark, Mark for short if you really must,” he said with a sign. 

“Why not Damien?” Jack asked, half genuinely curious, half wondering if he had a weird reason.

The smile he gave was downright villainous. “People don’t call me Damien and survive. I just saved your life, don’t make me regret it so soon,” Dark said coolly. 

Jack swallowed. “Starting to see why people call you Dark.” He let out a strained laugh “Uh, where’d the other guy go?” Jack asked looking anywhere but Dark. 

“He had to leave.” Jack glanced at him from the corner of his eye. Dark’s mouth was curved down into a small frown. “He won’t be contacting you again.” 

“Did you kill him?” Jack didn’t mean to sound as panicked as he did. 

“The man is unfortunately still breathing,” Dark said but didn’t elaborate and Jack wasn’t sure he wanted him to. But now that he wasn’t in immediate danger of dying, he realized why Dark was still here. 

“I guess I should thank ya,” Jack said. He pulled the sheet off and got to his knees on the bed. 

“That won’t be necessary. This was a favor for a friend.” Dark’s hungry eyes traveled up and down his body. “But if you’re free I can certainly pay for some of your time.” 

Jack was a bit stunned. This guy had saved his life, seemingly out of nowhere, Jack didn’t really have friends, and wasn’t going to take the freebie Jack was offering. Jack didn’t get it. He wasn’t going to complain, Dark was actually really hot, but he didn’t get it. 

“Okay.” His voice was rough again with an emotion he couldn’t name. “Can I suck you off? I’m not exactly prepped for sex, but I mean if you want to…” Jack trailed off. 

Dark cupped his cheek in a surprisingly gentle move. “It’s okay, pet, only what you’re comfortable with.” 

Jack short circuited for a moment. “Lay down.” He said instead of acknowledging the gentle gesture. 

Dark swiped his thumb over Jack’s bottom lip before complying and laying down. Jack could see his dick tenting his pants and without seeing it directly Jack could tell he was big. But that made sense. He was a big person. 

Jack nuzzled his crotch and mouthed it a bit before pulling it out of his nice pants. And he was big, not like, insanely large. But proportional. 

Jack started slow. 

Maybe it was the fact he came close to dying tonight. Maybe it was because Dark was really attractive, but Jack wanted to go slow. And Dark seemed content to let him go at his own pace. 

He was quiet, but Jack focused on the hitches in Dark’s breathing, or when a moan would slip out. 

Even as he came he was quiet. Jack did his best to swallow all he could. But he could feel some dripping down his chin. 

He pulled off Dark with a lewd pop. 

“Come here,” Dark said, pulling him up. 

Jack’s breath hitched. “Sorry, I don’t usually do cuddles.” Jack tried to get out of Dark’s grip. But he was as strong as he looked. 

“Humor me. You’ve been through a lot tonight.” Jack settled a bit nervously on Dark’s chest. 

They laid there for a few minutes before Dark spoke again. His chest rumbled as he spoke and Jack found it surprisingly soothing. 

“Do you want to take back a little more control?” 

Jack glanced up at him. “What?”

Dark untucked his tie from his vest. “A little breath play can be fun. You don’t have to. But if you were curious as to how to do it properly.”

Jack blinked at him in a way that could only be considered owlish. “I could hurt you.”

“Unlikely, but it’s up to you,” Dark said with more confidence than Jack had. 

“Maybe, maybe later,” Jack said, putting his head back down on Dark’s chest. 

Dark wrapped his arms around Jack, he placed a soft kiss on his cheek before settling back. “Of course pet, just rest for a bit.” 

Jack didn’t mean to fall asleep on Dark’s chest. But it was the best sleep he’d gotten in years.

I will be making a master post at the end for The Answer!

- Tag List! Lemme know if you want to be added to it!

@whumper-in-training

[riversofmars]

Ok I had to send a prompt haha 13 saying to River “have you still got those red heels?”

First off, deepest apologise to anyone still waiting for their prompt to be answered, I promise I will get around to all of them, I just get distracted easily lol! But I just fancied doing a little short tonight so here goes! :D

Rating: G

Words: 1800

Red Heels

“Get a move on Sweetie, we will be late for dinner.“ River called.

“Oh, right, yeah, okay…“ The Doctor couldn’t form coherent thoughts but managed to just about close the bedroom door. “Dinner, yeah, I remember.“ The Doctor bit her bottom lip as she watched her wife take of her shirt. She should have probably turned around or better yet, left the room, to give her privacy, but her brain had short circuited.

“Don’t tell me you forgot.“ River chuckled and looked around, realising her wife had frozen by the door. “I told you, the only way I would go to that ridiculous theme park with you is if we go for a candle light dinner afterwards!“ She smirked blatantly facing her now as she unbuttoned her trousers. It had been weeks of linear time now since the Doctor had rescued her from the Library. Weeks of mad adventures, weeks of getting to know each other again, weeks in which they had barely stopped to think and feel and well… River thought it was high time they stopped running for an evening.

“Yes, dinner. Of course. Like dressing up and candles and wine and dessert…“ The Doctor’s words tumbled over her lips without any actual thought behind them. She just stared at her wife. She had forgotten how beautiful she was.

“You look like you’re just about ready for dessert.“ River smirked but took pity on her wife who clearly could only command about two braincells when confronted with her bare skin. She enjoyed how still, after all these years, she could render the Doctor speechless. “What are you going to wear?“ River marched over to the wardroom and opened it. She didn’t stop to comment on the fact that half the space was taken up by her own clothes. Even after all this time, when the Doctor should have long given up on her, she had left her things untouched, as if this would always be their rightful place. If River stopped to think about it for too long she knew she would well up with tears so she focused on her wife’s clothes instead. There were numerous copies of what she was wearing right now and seasonal variations of it, jumpers instead of t-shirts and such, but on the whole, more of the same. “I mean, I know you’re a creature of habit and you like to make a statement but, darling…“ River shook her head.

“Why can’t I just stay in this?“ The Doctor finally managed to move from her spot by the door. It wasn’t quite as hard to function when River had her back turned to her.

“Absolutely not.“ River shook her head. She had already picked out her dress for tonight and she was determined to get the Doctor into something appropriate. Black tie was a requirement for the restaurant she had picked and she wasn’t going to get turned back at the door. “Now what is this?“ River pulled out a suit from the back of the wardrobe.

“Oh that… that was sort of an undercover thing… for a party… needs to go back in the wardrobe hall…“ The Doctor gave a half smile remembering the adventures she’d had in that suit.

“Let me see it on?“ River grinned and held it out to her.

“Uh… right now? Right here?“ The Doctor blushed.

“We’re a bit pressed for time, seeing as you just had to have one last go in the ball pit.“ River reminded her with amusement and the Doctor huffed, taking the suit from her. She hesitated for a moment looking around, and River took pity on her again.

“I better get a move on too.“ She winked at her and walked to the bed where she had draped out her dress. She picked it up and disappear into the bathroom with it, giving the Doctor some privacy. The Doctor let go a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. She looked to the door River had disappeared through. The last few weeks had been a whirlwind of adventure and emotion, she knew it was time to slow down and get acquainted with her feelings again but there was something scary about that. She had lived with the expectation of losing River for so long, it was hard to shake the habit and rejoice in their new lease on life. It was so hard to trust hope and joy when loss and disappointed was all they had known. But River was right of course, this was where they should finally slowed down and faced forward.

The Doctor took a deep breath and put the suit down on the bed. It was time she let go of her fears and worries. She shrugged off her coat and pulled her braces down. It was time she took her wife’s hand again and move forward, together. She pulled her shirt off and kicked her boots off. It was time they went on a date, an actual date again. She pulled her trousers off and picked up the white shirt. Her anxiety slowly ebbed away when she buttoned up the shirt. She pulled on the black trousers and fastened matching braces. The anxiety was replaced by excitement and anticipation. She slipped back into her boots and picked up the bowtie.

“Silly old Doctor, just get over yourself.“ She told herself as she folded up her collar to tie the bowtie around it. It was stupid really, to stand in her own way and hold herself back, when she wanted nothing more than to pull her wife into her bed and never leave that happy place, but life had made her cautious. She didn’t trust as easily. She didn’t laugh as freely. And she certainly didn’t believe in herself as she used to. She had been through a lot since River had last seen her and somewhere, in the back of her mind, there was a nagging voice questioning whether she was even still the person River had fallen in love with. She had changed so much, perhaps too much? She shook her head to herself, trying to silence her doubts and finished the bowtie.

“Well that, my dear, is a suit.“ River’s sultry voice pulled her out of her thoughts. The Doctor looked up and any sort of response died on her lips. River was wearing a beautiful navy gown, her hair was down and she fastened sparkling earrings, she was a vision.

“You… uhhh…“ The Doctor couldn’t form words.

“You too, my dear.“ River smirked and walked up to her. She reached out to straighten her bowtie for her. “You know I’ve always been partial to a bowtie.“ She winked.

“Were you?“

“Yeah… just not in combination with a fez.“ River chuckled.

“Right…“ The Doctor forced a smile at the memory of it. It felt like a lifetime ago now and just like that, her doubts returned and suddenly, the words just started tumbling out, she had held them in for so long. “River, about that…“ She took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. “I… I’m not the same person anymore, not since… so much has happened… since Darillium, with Gallifrey and the Master and…“ She gestured wildly trying to explain somehow, she didn’t even know where to start. But when she met River’s eyes she could tell she already knew what she meant.

“You’re still the Doctor, are you not?“ River asked softly, giving her a smile full of understanding.

“Of course…“ The Doctor replied, confused.

“When you see people in danger, you help?“ River carried on.

“You know I always do…“ The Doctor didn’t understand what she was getting at.

“You travel around the universe in a silly blue box?“ River questioned.

“River, what…“ She sighed, waiting for her to get to the point.

“You still act like an absolute idiot when I flirt with you?“ River smirked leaning a little closer and the Doctor huffed:

“Hey, that…“

“You still love me?“ River asked softly and it stung more than the Doctor had anticipated.

“Of course, how could you even doubt…“ The Doctor was hurt that she even had to ask the question but the expression on River’s face was disarming.

“Then you haven’t change, at all, my love.“ River smiled warmly, her eyes full of love and adoration. “And I love you as much now as I did when I was in Stormcage. As I did on Darillium. As I did all those years I was trapped in the Library… no matter which face you wear, I always love you.“

“River…“ The Doctor didn’t know what to respond to that, she looked away, down to the ground trying to compose herself.

“And again, you came when I needed you, as you always do. And yes, maybe it’s taken you a little while longer than we both would have liked but you came and you saved me.“ River reached out and took her wife’s hand in hers. The Doctor couldn’t reply, a lump formed in her through as she tried to keep her tears at bay. “Remember the time you told me that you weren’t always going to be there to catch me?“ River asked, tilting her head a little. “And remember what I told you in return?“

“That I was so wrong about that…“ The Doctor mumbled, remembering it well.

“And as you can see, you were.“ River cupped her cheek and made her look at her. “You are still the same person. My Doctor. My mad-woman in a box… No matter how much time passed in that Library, I always knew you would come back for me. Because you’re always there to catch me.“

“That reminds me… have you still got those red high heels?“ The Doctor managed a half smile, fondly remembering the time she had quite literally caught her. She couldn’t do justice to what she wanted to say with words so she didn’t try. So, she promised herself she would show River instead. Tonight, and every night that was to come.

“After all that, that’s what you come up with?“ River started laughing, melancholy and seriousness giving way to relief and joy.

“Well, like you’ve always had a secret thing for the bowtie… I have a thing about those heels on you…“ The Doctor admitted with a little smirk as she look a moment to look her up and down. The heels would go perfectly with this dress.

“Do you like the idea of me being taller than you, do you?“ River replied flirty, brushing her hair back.

“Makes a nice change.“ The Doctor admitted with a grin.

“Oh Doctor, nothing has changed at all.“ River grinned in return and pulled her into a kiss. The Doctor kissed her back, relief washing over her as finally, certain realisations were coming to her: River was back. She was alive. And she was here. With her. River Song and the Doctor in the TARDIS. Next stop: Everywhere.

[hale-13]

Triple Axel

By Hale13

For the Summer of Whump Day 1 - Freezing

There’s nothing Peter loves more about winter than spending the entire season ice skating. The fact that Mr. Stark‘s lake freezes over so well just gives him the perfect excuse to hang out with his mentor, pseudo-sister and still get to skate for free.

Words: 2738, Chapters 1/1 (Complete), Language: English

Fandoms: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)

Rating: Gen

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Morgan Stark, Sam Wilson, Bruce Banner

Read on AO3 or below the line break.

Peter grew up a pretty graceless kid.

He never looked where he was going, always too excited, and tripped over air. His knees and palms were perpetually covered in cuts and scrapes in various stages of healing and he broke his glasses so often May and Ben had taken to just taping them together at the bridge of the nose instead of replacing them. Going to the community playground was an activity that was fraught with danger due to Peter’s over enthusiasm; well that and his two left feet and lack of hand-eye coordination. It was lucky that he picked up the, much safer, past time of building legos and other models with Ned at a young age.

Peter looked back on those sepia childhood memories with nostalgia and fondness now but he can remember the frustration of just wanting to do what the other kids did. He hated that he stood out because of his ridiculous coke-bottle glasses, the severe asthma attacks that kept him from participating in gym and recess. He just wanted to have fun.

And, unbelievable to anyone who knew him, the one thing that Peter Parker was inexplicably good at as a kid was ice skating.

The first time Peter was allowed to skate was when he was eight at Betty Brant’s birthday – coincidentally the first party he was invited to. May and Ben had both be overly hesitant – accident prone kids didn’t often mix well with anything slippery and sharp pointy objects – but Peter was able to wear them down eventually.

The prediction that Peter would fall flat on his face the second his skates touched the ice proved to be accurate but Peter was nothing if not stubborn so he pulled himself up and used the wall to make a shaky first lap. The longer he spent moving, the better he got and, by the end of the two hour party, he was able to make a complete circuit all by himself. His love for skating and finally, finally, being able to do something active grew from there. May and Ben were never able to afford lessons for him but they managed to scrap together enough money for season passes for him every year at the local rink.

Skating reminded him so much of the toddler ballet classes his mom had signed him up for before he had been diagnosed with asthma but so much more fun. He spent just about every weekend he could on the ice for a few hours practicing; he was never really able to do any jumps or anything too fancy but it was still so much fun. It wasn’t until after the spider bite and his life changing forever that he got really good.

It sure sucked that he couldn’t thermoregulate well anymore.

“Petey!” Morgan screamed, delighted, from where she was carefully skating closer to the edge of the frozen over lake under the watchful eye of her father. “Do another flip!”

Peter smiled indulgently and performed a perfect double axel, landing gracefully and gliding over to where Morgan was clapping next to dock. She had good balance for a five year old but the thin blades of her tiny skates still wobbled precariously on the ice due to her enthusiastic cheering.

“Not bad kid,” Tony told him from where he was seated in a camp chair on the dock and covered with blankets, a thermos of warm tea in the cup holder. He had flat out refused to test his luck with skating but, then again, his center of gravity was still off from his upgraded prosthesis.

“Thanks Mr. Stark!” Peter smiled, coming to a stop next to the other two and spraying his mentor with ice. Tony protested wordlessly but his smile let Peter know he wasn’t too serious. Peter absently rubbed his hands against his biceps to bring some warmth back into his skin – part of not thermoregulating well meant minimal to no shivering in the cold so he had to rely on friction – he was clearly not sneaky enough though because he could see the moment Tony clocked the movement and narrowed his eyes.

“Alright Johnny Weir time to go in before you freeze into a spider-sicle,” the man said as he drained the last of his tea and started packing up all of the stuff they had carted down to the frozen lake – more than they really needed in Peter’s opinion. “I promised your aunt I wouldn’t let you get hypothermia this week.”

“Aw daddy,” Morgan whined, skating unsteadily over to collide with Peter’s knees and shins and nearly knocking him off balance and onto his butt. “Five more minutes? Please?”

Morgan was attempting her very best puppy dog expression and Peter joined in when she shoved her pointy little elbow into his thigh. Tony had gotten soft in his old age and Peter could see his resolve crumbling under their combined gaze before he finally cracked with a sigh.

“Fine,” he conceded. “Five more minutes. I’m going to go brew up some hot chocolate. Can I trust you two by yourselves?”

“Yay!” Morgan screamed making Peter clutch his ears as she shakily skated off, getting just a little bolder and heading more toward the middle of the ice where Peter had been doing jumps and flips earlier. “Come on Petey!”

“I’ve got her Mr. Stark,” Peter promised before taking off after the little girl he was beginning to see as a sister, doing a perfect back flip and landing easily on the thin blades of his skates to her delight. At Morgan’s request, Peter continued to skate around her in wide circles, doing more and more elaborate jumps and laughing with her when he fell or stumbled.

“Do the hard one again!” Morgan called out from her spot about fifteen feet away from Peter, standing pretty steady for her lack of practice and Peter smiled indulgently.

“Last time and then we should probably head in before your dad comes after us,” he agreed, skating back into a wide arc before picking up speed and calculating his jump. He planned to land a few feet from Morgan because he knew it would really excite her. Things went pretty great in the beginning, his speed and takeoff were both perfect and his execution, while a little off, was passable enough for his sister.

His landing, however, needed work.

Unlike the ice rink ice he was used to, the frozen lake was pitted and rough. Peter had a little difficultly adjusting when he started but was able to compensate quickly as the afternoon wore on. Unfortunately, he was just a little too late this time to notice the divot and he hit it with his toe pick sending him sprawling onto his front about six feet from Morgan.

“Ouchies,” he muttered as he gave Morgan a thumbs up to show he was okay and started to leaver himself up.

Until he heard the cracking.

He froze immediately and looked down in horror to see the ice below him cracking and shattering. A small part of him wanted to slam his body down flat to better distribute his weight but his logical brain knew it was far too late for that all he needed to do was make sure that…

Morgan!

“I’ll help you Petey!” He heard her yell seconds before she crashed into his side and Peter, thinking fast, double clicked the panic button on his watch just as water started gushing through the cracks, pulling him under.

Morgan screamed and struggled as Peter did his best to keep as much of her as possible out of the water. His head was dunked briefly and his lungs seized from the cold. He felt the sharp blade of Morgan’s skate cut into his shoulder through his puffy jacket and he winced before clawing his way back above water with a gasp. He could hear Morgan still screaming and, gathering all the strength he had left, Peter hurled her from the water and across the ice where she slid safely away from the cracks.

“G-get dad-d,” Peter gritted out through shattering teeth as he gripped the broken edges of the ice. He could vaguely hear Morgan shuffling off the ice and up toward the cabin but his main focus was staying above the water and keeping purchase on the continually shrinking edges of the ice. His legs were completely numb and the metal of his battered skates felt heavy in the water, pulling him down deeper.

“Hang on Peter!” He heard Tony’s panicked voice from the shore before the sound of repulsers drowned out everything else and Peter looked up and made eye contact with the Iron Man suit piloted by FRIDAY. The left hand reached down and plucked him out of the water and into its arms, flying back to land on the porch steps. Peter collapsed on the ground, completely unable to hold up his own weight and feeling completely numb. “Peter!”

Tony skidded to his knees next to Peter, Morgan in his arms before he swiftly set her down on the porch. “C-cold,” Peter gritted out through clenched and chattering teeth as he tried to force his frozen body to curl up with little success. Through blurry eyes he could tell that Morgan had ditched her skates somewhere and he felt a spike of worry – he didn’t want her to get frostbite.

“I know buddy,” Tony said, propping Peter up with his vibranium arm before picking him up in a bridal carry. “I’m going to get you warm.” Peter didn’t do anything to help beyond curling closer to Tony’s chest and the body heat it emitted. The man kicked open the cracked door to the mud room and air so warm it burned cascaded over him. “Morgan go grab some blankets from the closet for Peter okay? Really quick now.” Morgan, crying silent tears and pale and shivering in her damp winter gear, ran off down the hall toward the linen closet.

“Tony,” Peter whimpered when he was set on the floor but the man was quick to shush him.

“I know buddy,” he reassured, “I just need to get these wet clothes off okay? Just let me do all the work. FRI, have Banner and a quinjet here ASAP.” Peter spaced out as Tony whipped Peter’s frozen, wet hoodie over his head followed quickly by the t-shirt and thermals under it. “Eyes up Pete,” Tony ordered as he worked on getting Peter out of his soaked jeans and thermal pants to leave him shaking on the floor in his boxers. “Your only job right now is to stay awake, capiche?\

“Yes sir,” Peter said, willing his eyes to open and his teeth to stop chattering. Morgan slid back into the room trailing a pile of fleece blankets and the comforter off of Peter’s bed and Peter mustered up a smile for her so she wouldn’t be so scared.

“Great job Maguna,” Tony praised as he wrapped the thickest fleece around Peter’s shoulders, doing his best not to jostle him too much. “Now run up to Pete’s room and get him a pair of sweatpants and his black zip up jacket okay?” Morgan hiccuped on a sob but ran out of the room and back up the stairs. Once she was out of the room, Tony wrapped Peter in another blanket before helping him wiggle out of his icy boxers. “FRI update on Bruce?”

“Dr. Banner and Mr. Wilson are on their way, ETA seven minutes. He advises getting Peter out of his wet clothes and wrapped in warm blankets. He recommends not moving him too much.

“Thanks dear,” Mr. Starks said distractedly as he pulled Peter into his arms to provide extra warmth. “How we doing Pete?”

“Tired,” Peter answered, burrowing into Tony’s arms. “Cold.”

“I know kiddo, just hold on a second longer.”

“I got it!” Morgan said as she came back into the room brandishing Peter’s clothes.

“Good job honey,” Tony said as gently as possible as he took the clothes. “Uncle Bruce is on his way and we’re going to go visit the compound. Can you go change into your warmest PJs for me as quick as possible?” As soon as Morgan had left the room again, Tony made quick work of threading Peter’s unwilling and stiff limbs through his pants and jacket, tucking the comforter around them both to lock in the warmth.

“Tony?” Bruce called, voice urgent, from the direction of the front door.

“Mud room!” Tony called back, not moving from his position curled around Peter’s limp body. Footsteps thundered in their direction and Bruce and Sam skidded around the corner a second later both wearing their warmest loungewear and Peter felt a little guilty about pulling them away from a day of relaxation.

“Jesus,” Sam mumbled as he dropped to his knees next to the pair reaching into the blanket nest to press burning fingers to Peter’s carotid to take his pulse.

“How long was he in the water?” Bruce asked, carefully moving Peter’s hair back out of his eyes to look at his pale face. His eyes darted over to the gash on his shoulder from Morgan’s skates that was beginning to bleed sluggishly now that Peter was out of the water and warming up but ignored it for now.

“Only a couple minutes,” Tony told him, an edge to his voice, “but he had been outside for a few hours. We were about to come in for hot chocolate.” The man sounded bereft and Peter cuddled closer into his chest trying to offer some comfort.

“Okay,” Bruce said, calm. “Peter you’re going to let Tony carry you out to the jet. I don’t want you moving more than you absolutely have to so just let him do all the work. Once we get you on board I’m going to start warming you up.” His tone brokered no argument and Tony disentangled himself from the cocoon and picked Peter up. Sam left the room but Peter could hear him talking to Morgan in the kitchen, calming her down and ushering her toward the jet.

Things went a little fuzzy for Peter from there. He was vaguely aware of the quinjet taking off and Bruce and Sam starting warm IV fluid. Warmed oxygen forcing its way down his throat. But he was just so tired. He knows he promised but surely Mr. Stark wouldn’t be too upset if he just took a little nap right? He let his eyes dip closed one last time as he slipped away.

Peter can remember waking up on and off a few times. He remembers getting off the quinjet and being settled in a trauma room in the compound’s MedBay, the heated blankets that felt heavenly to his cold skin. He was out for a while after that he thinks and, when he next wakes up, he’s warmer and much more comfortable.

“Pete?” Peter lets his head fall to the side and he gives Tony a little grin. His mentor looks like shit and is sitting hunched over in an uncomfortable chair next to Peter’s bed. “Oh thank God,” he says, going to grab Peter’s hand and then aborting the motion, leaning forward to press their foreheads together instead. “If you ever scare me like that again you’re grounded until your thirty.”

Peter chuckles a little and shifts on the bed. His arms both have IV catheters in the forearm and he can see blood flowing through the lines. He follows it back to a larger machine set up next to his bed and mutters a hoarse little “what?” of confusion.

“You were too cold so Bruce started warming your blood,” Tony told him, hand reaching up to comb through Peter’s wild hair. “You’re okay now though,” he assured. “You’re on the mend. Bruce said you should be done with this in about an hour so you just need to relax right now okay Bambino?”

“Morgan?” Peter asked instead, dizzy and tired and barely clinging to consciousness.

Tony smiled down at him. “She’s just fine kiddo. You saved her you big damn hero.”

“Good,” Peter slurred, letting his eyes slip closed again. “May?”

“Happy went to get her,” Tony promised. “The roads aren’t too great but they should be here soon.”

“‘Kay,” Peter yawned.

“Take a nap buddy – you earned it,” and, warm and comfortable, Peter did.

[moonmarrowed]

ok ok but screams into a cup on the note of kayneth and mana and why he got so fucked by the origin bullet, because i should definitely address this idk why i didn’t before. 

according to nasu, the origin bullet works by rearranging active magic circuits in the targeted mage in a way that causes them to misfire and then basically be useless, turing the generated mana output into damage against the target mage. nasu also says that for kayneth who was completely not ready for this and believed he was basically blocking just a stronger bullet and was likely generating the greatest mana output he was capable of, this becomes ‘ 3000 damage to 100 hp ’ we all know what happens next, kayneth coughing up a ridiculous amount of blood and losing the ability to use magecraft, although he can still feel pain, which i will address in a moment. 

first, i want to talk about magic circuits and mana generation in the first place. so evidently the normal magus has 20 circuits. rin tohsaka is said to have 40 and 30 sub - circuits, so im going to say that’s 70. her maximum output of mana is 1000 units, which is basically 14.3 units per circuit if i just assume whatever ok anyway. shirou emiya is said to have 27 natural circuits which can barely deal with 10 units, but assuming he can generate 10 units per circuit, his maximum output is 270 units, which is way lower than rin. there is NO WAY kayneth is actually generating 3000 units, unless he has a ridiculous amount of circuits. he may be a prodigy, but assuming he also has 70 circuits in total like rin, that would mean 42.5 units per circuit, which is ridiculous  … but then again, bazett is like 3 rins or something, so it really isn’t impossible because that means bazett is 3000 units max, which means the 42 units per circuit isn’t unheard of, just rare. so, sure ok lets say kay has 70 circuits and generates the 3000 units at max. 

why does nasu go with the 100 hp : kayneth is a scholar, while he can command multiple mystic codes and make a 24 layer bounded field and has mastery of like 4 areas of magecraft and extra talents such as illusions etc, he is a scholar. beyond that he is an artist, he’s not a warrior, he’s not meant for battle ( being physically in shape does not mean someone is meant for fighting!! ). even in a situation where kayneth somehow knocks out everyone beneath him in kiritsugu’s danger scale which is everyone but kirei, in a showdown between the three of them, kay’s dead in an instant still. ‘ as a magus he is far superior, but as a killer he is leagues behind ’ yeah so this is where the 100 hp comes in, this also explains waver’s 5 mp to 50 hp, because waver is u kno … w a v e r …. 

what the fuck happened with the backfire : magic circuits are supposed to be a pseudo nervous system, they are there when a person is born and the number cannot be increased naturally, although mana transfer is a thing, i guess, but that isn’t permanent. kayneth gets a 3000 unit backlash, all 70 circuits are now dead etc. when he regains consciousness, he tries to sit up and finds he is strapped to a bed. sitting up at all should not be possible if his actual nervous system is fried, meaning that isn’t the issue, he is still capable of at least moving his upper body, although he’s also incredibly fatigued by all that’s happened. when the actual nervous system is fried, that’s when people don’t feel shit. kayneth sure as fuck feels when sola breaks his fingers and he sure as fuck feels when kiritsugu has maiya shoot him, because he’s laying there on the ground in agony, which he would not be in physical agony if he’d taken a hit to his actual nervous system. i don’t doubt that the paralysis that leads to him being in a wheelchair has something to do with damage to the actual nervous system. after the fiasco but before dying, kayneth somehow ‘ regains movement ’ but only within the confines of the wheelchair. fact, i don’t think we in almost 2018 have anything that can repair full on nervous system damage, so in 1994 - 1995 ? no, i don’t care if you’re magical, normal people don’t even have that down.  

anyway, the tldr of this is kay is only fucked for walking and using magecraft and he was a fucking glass cannon so uh what did anyone expect of a scholar and artist in a war. even reines says that even with iskandar, kayneth would have died, because let’s be real he isn’t a warrior at all. 

[anextraordinarymuse]

I'm just gonna go ahead and make a new post to respond to your points Katie (@jonesgirl88) so that we're not constantly reblogging and trying to load all of those gifs.

Jump to the DLO dance: there is a war going on in Oliver's head and the fact Eric can act that so we can see it? Brilliant. Chef's kiss. He's so torn and you can feel it and your heart breaks for both of them. He's holding her hand to his heart but Shane is also physically on his right side. Her chin is nearly resting on his right shoulder and he's pulled her close to his right side. What say you?

I noticed this too, of course. But first - Eric and Kristin deserve awards. All of the awards. They act beautifully, and they play off of each other so well - they're wonderful scene partners. Okay anyway. Yes, Shane is physically on his right side and has many points of contact along that side (like you said, her chin is nearly on his shoulder) but I pointed out their hands specifically because they are originally positioned away from their bodies. Shane and Oliver's physical closeness is a given in this moment because dancing is intimate. It requires that a lot of you be in contact with a lot of your partner. But originally Oliver and Shane's hands are extended away from them until Oliver pointedly draws them in and places Shane's hand over his heart. This movement is unnecessary in the context of ... well, anything. It's a purely instinctive and intimate move. He could have simply let go of her hand, or drawn it closer and then held it in some other position, but no: he pulls it right in against him. That's why I included it. I'm sure that it was included in the blocking and written in to the script because we're meant to notice it.

I could write for days about that DLO dance scene. THE. FREAKING. CHEMISTRY. I blush ridiculously easily (seriously it's A Problem and I hate it) and I would have been crimson that whole time if I were Kristin. The Tenderness. The Tension. The way his eyes dart back and forth right before he lets her go because he's so at war with himself: kiss her or let her go? O.Y.E.

They're standing in a line (because they're being given awards) but he's turning towards her and she's turning towards him. I just...I can't with these two.

This is totally A Thing©. Shane and Oliver both have a tendency to turn in toward each other like that - but especially Shane. It's an unconscious attempt to take refuge in Oliver and his strength, I think. She often does it in times when she's seeking comfort and closeness/affection. That moment where Shane is sleeping on Oliver's shoulder is one my favorite moments of it, but there's another one that's a small moment (that apparently was either filmed in a longer moment and cut, or aired as a longer moment/actual hug in one of the international versions).

Right before the scene fades into the next one we see Shane turn herself even more into Oliver's left side and tuck her head, as if she's going to bury her face in his shoulder. I wish we'd been gifted with more of this moment! Look at the way she tucks her arm into him and tips her head - she even kind of pushes her hip into his side. I just love this moment a lot.

1) Shane is shown to be freaking out when closed in the vault. Her fear seems to trigger at odd times? She's fine when she learned there's 13 hours of air; she's fine when she learns there's actually less than 5 hours of air; she's fine when she's bored and wants to play a game; but Katherine might be dead so she freaks out? I get it, she believes their fate to be tied together but then why wasn't she more fearful before they started reading the letters? It just doesn't make a lot of sense.

I think for a large part of this Shane was doing a good job of distracting herself and focusing on something else. But reading the letters made them both emotional: they connected with something poignant in those letters. They're reading about two people who fall in love despite their circumstances and share something beautiful even if it's only words - and then find out at the end that these two people may not have actually been able to be together. Not only does that mirror their situation, but all of a sudden it seems like they might never have the chance to be together either (to Shane) because, oh yeah, they're also in danger of not breathing anymore - and I think that just brought her fear to the surface. Also, it's a small moment, but Shane wasn't too thrilled about having to go into the vault at all. When she first sees it she hesitates and says "in there?" like she'd rather not go anywhere near it. I always took it as a small nod to the fact that Shane might not have a love of small spaces. We've never seen it mentioned again though, so who knows.

I know it's part of the story but he literally just wrote he's willing to give things with Holly another chance but then spends his time thinking of Shane when reading the letters.

Yes! And I have always taken this as another indication that, at this point, Oliver is saying what he feels he should have said long ago. He's making the effort he feels duty bound to make. I mean, I think part of him does want to put in the effort - but that part is his head. His rational mind, and probably his memories of Holly and his affection for her, and the importance he puts on his marriage vows. This is another reason why I truly don't think his heart is with Holly anymore, or in his marriage. AT NO POINT after he writes that letter and tucks it away does he think of Holly. He's reading powerful, moving love letters between two people and the only person he thinks about is Shane? And - we don't find this out until later, but still - the letter he does write to Holly isn't that romantic. He promises to try to see her dreams through her eyes, and says that he's willing to change, but there's nothing about how much he loves her or how her absence has affected his heart or his life. Maybe because Oliver didn't really believe when he was writing it that he was in danger? I don't know. But it's interesting.

That hand grab!! ... And then the way she looks at him as he sings along at the end when Rita wins?? I can't with this man. I can't with this woman.

Um, yes. Shane takes Oliver's hand and he just ... short circuits. It's hilarious. And they're so smitten with each other it's ridiculous.

And in that hospital scene, Oliver absolutely would have let anyone sleep on his shoulder like that. But it wasn't anyone: it was Shane, and it was Shane after all of the emotional intimacy they shared in The Treasure Box; and, once again, it was Shane turned into his side like Oliver offered to let her lay her head there, or she knew what she was doing when she did, because she's not facing forward in the chair with her head to one side like she just accidentally fell asleep and then her head sort of slid to one side. She's angled her body into his. Her feet are pointing toward him. Her hand is just under/next to his arm. How did they get to that moment? I NEED TO KNOW.

(I always understood Jordan to just be an angel. Definitely open to interpretation though.)

OLIVER IS THE ANSWER TO HER LETTER. His words, his faith, his person is the answer to Shane's childhood prayer she never forgot. He opens the wound but it's destined he's the one to help her heal.

Oliver is the embodiment of Shane's hope. Jordan couldn't answer her letter because it had to be Oliver, which he realized. And before he leaves the chapel he says to Oliver "take good care of that little letter writer." HE'S TALKING ABOUT SHANE. In the Impossible Dream, Shane tells Oliver that he's given her something she'll never forget: "a little hope for this world." Oliver. Is. Shane's. Hope. Oh my gosh! She's his heart, he's her hope. How tooth-rottingly, disgustingly sweet. I love it.

Extra point: Kristin can rock a leather skirt...like hot damn woman.

A) she always looks so good, but yes, this leather skirt and periwinkle/lavender top is one of my favorite looks on her, and B) I love her fashion and style and aspire to be that fashionable one day.

Holly and Oliver try to have a conversation with words and they fail.

This literally just occurred to me: Holly herself points out that she and Oliver suck at having actual conversations. Physically they click, so they obviously had a lot of chemistry, but they struggle to just talk to one another. Juxtapose that with Shane, who literally understands Oliver so well and on such a deep level that she not only understands him when no one else does, she can actively translate him. The reunion in HG instantly comes to mind here. She translates in real time for the audience what Oliver means ("And I might be the only person on Earth who understands what you just said!") But she also translates what he says for their waitress in OIAM ("Oh, he just means that people weren't having their booshes (or however you spell that) amused in the 20th century.")

In the Pilot and The Masterpiece, things get McSteamy so quickly but it never starts out that way ... He's trying for the sake of his marriage one last time but his head and heart aren't in it.

Exactly! The pull between him and Shane is magnetic. It's natural and impossible to ignore. This is why I maintain that even if Holly had changed her mind and asked to work on their relationship it never would have worked. Oliver was in love with Shane by this point even if he wouldn't say it or wasn't ready to acknowledge it (although Jordan played a part in making Oliver more aware of this truth. Hard to ignore when a freaking angel points out to you how important someone is to you.)

To Holly, kissing Oliver is akin to breaking promises to herself ... To Shane, kissing Oliver is akin to keeping promises.

Well, you just blew my mind. This is so true! Holly tells us that the only way she could see to live her dream was to stop kissing Oliver (insinuating that it was also to leave him behind); Shane's dream seems to just be ... Oliver. Sharing a life with him; delivering dead letters with him; loving him.

BRB, sobbing over this stupid show and these idiots in love.

I do think that Holly and Oliver parted amicably. I can't decide if I think that Holly asked about Shane, or if she made a comment about her (directly or indirectly). I kind of feel like Holly was more the type to make a comment than ask a question.

I am dying over the logistics of Oliver actually buying that porch swing. Well dressed Oliver scouring the aisles of Walmart at like midnight for the perfect porch swing while surrounded by a bunch of people in their pajamas and college kids on middle of the night snack runs because they're marathoning TV shows instead of studying? Hilarious. Headcanon accepted.

Back to the topic at hand...I do think some of the left/right stuff is purely ease of blocking

As do I. I'm definitely reading more into it than I'm meant to at some points, there's just SO MUCH of it and it's so fun to contemplate that I went for it.

THE HUG IN TRUTH BE TOLD.

hahahahahahaaa ... the way that Shane literally just drops everything and wraps her arms around him slays me. The stunned little pause where Oliver's arms are just up in the air for a second, as if he's somehow surprised at the force of her hug despite having watched her move toward him, and then he tentatively puts his arms on her back and then ... he holds her a little tighter. Ugh. UGH. I DIE.

CAN WE TALK ABOUT OLIVER IN FLANNEL WITH THE SLEEVES ROLLED UP??

Yes. A million times, yes. Oliver with his sleeves rolled up? Outstanding. Oliver in flannel? An absolute vision. Oliver in flannel with his sleeves rolled up? I C A N N O T.

There will be more. I need to make the gifs, but there's going to be a part 4. And probably 5. In fact, I think this is just going to become a series of Things I Need To Scream About™ with supporting gif evidence.

I'll try to break it up though, so there's just ShOliver stuff, just Shane stuff, and just Oliver stuff. And then all Postables stuff because they're the cutest little Postal family ever.