#and this has probably been done before but them being too happy and distracted can put them in their demon forms??

[solomiracle]

oopsie!

[kryptonitejelly]

art donaldson x childhood friend reader who he hasn’t seen in a long time (whose had a crazy glow up) visits him at stanford at the same time as patrick and patrick starts hitting on her (him and tashi are in an open relationship) and art gets jealous.

(maybe she tells patrick she knows he’s in a relationship and he tells her tashi wouldn’t mind and she would probably be down to join idk)

art donaldson x reader // challengers // fluff; happy ending

a/n: i did not hit the prompt on the head 100%, but i’m not mad at it. this ended up turning into a monster i had no control off and ended up being alot longer than i expected (i haven’t done a word count, and did not mean for it to spiral into this but i enjoyed writing this very much). i am an art donaldson defender and this is my way of giving him everything he deserves (i hope you guys can see what i subtly tried to do in places - please leave comments/reblog if you see them, it would mean the world). also i typed this entirely on my phone without proofreading - you’ve been warned.

edit - as a disclaimer, i do not purport to comment on the victim/villain/any dynamic in the challengers universe. this space is purely for delusional thoughts and fiction only (see also)

-

Good luck.

Art shoots the text off to you before taking a swig out of cup of diet coke he has in hand. He leans forward, his forearms on his knees, teeth crunching on ice cubes as lets his gaze sweep across the court in front of him. It is devoid of players but already has the umpire and linesmen ready and waiting.

You’ll buy dinner if I win?

Art doesn’t expect to get a text back, so he checks his phone absently, but his face breaks into a tiny grin as he sees your reply. Most other players would have been hyper focused in the moments before a match but you, in the breezy light hearted way you always were, still had it in you to joke around.

Yes, but if you lose…

Art sends his response, the tiny grin still on his face.

I’ll feed you.

Your reply is fast and it makes art shake his head lightly a quiet chuckle dropping from his lips. He is just about to type another reply but is interrupted by the loud cheers that erupt from around him. Art looks up from his phone to see Anna Davies walk out on court in the same colour red as he had on. He claps politely with the rest of the men’s team who he was sitting amongst in the stands, in a show of support.

Art catches sight of Tashi and Patrick, both perched a few rows down from him with the rest of the women’s team both clapping and hollering in support. He notices the turn of Patrick’s head, no doubt to check in on Art but he doesn’t tilt his head or smile back in acknowledgement as he usually would - he is far too distracted by you.

Art can feel his jaw slacken slightly as you walk on court. He knows what you look like, but you in the flesh - Art thinks you are breathtaking. Your top is in a shade of your college’s colour, paired with a white tennis skirt that shows off a pair of toned, long legs. He catches a glint of metal just above your ankle, and he finds himself squinting in a feeble attempt to make out the look of the ankle bracelet that you have on. Art moves his gaze your face, taking in what he can see from his perch on the stands as you walk out towards your designated bench on the court, bright neon green bottle in hand, your tennis bag slung on a shoulder.

You had been close back home for most of your childhood and more formative teen years, and the both had kept in touch since he left for Stanford and you to your own school of choice, but too infrequently - the occasional text, more frequent reaction or comment on each other’s social media and the small conversations that spiralled from those interactions - like two planets orbiting in the same solar system, but not close enough. Life had overtaken, the excitement of moving your separate ways to a new environment, of college - tennis, academics, people, parties, it had overwhelmed you both, individually and together - made you just about forget that you had each other.

Art is transfixed. You are, lithe, glowing and with a hop in your step - Art finds himself questioning why he had never made more effort to keep you closer since you had both gone on your separate paths. He watches as you settle your bag on the bench, turning your gaze to the stands, eyes narrowing from the glare of the sun as you search the stands, only for your gaze to fix on his. Art sees you smile, lips turning up as you wink directly at him. It makes a series of heads turn to look back at him - your fellow team mates, the small group of supporters from your college who had come along, and the Stanford women’s team plus Patrick, half curious, half puzzled. Art can only raise a hand beside his chest in greeting as he remembers to breathe, letting the air he had been holding in his chest out.

He sees turn away while reaching for your phone which you had wedged in between the band of your tennis skirt and skin. Your fingers flying over the keypad briefly before you toss the phone into your tennis bag, hand fishing out your racket. Art feels his phone buzz in his hand and he looks down at the text that had come through.

Stanford still hasn’t taught you the right way to wear a cap huh.

Your text, a reference to his penchant for securing his cap on backwards, makes Art laugh, out loud, the sudden sound causing his team mates to crane their necks in attempt to look at his phone. Art swats them away as he refocuses his attention back on you, watching as you do a few hops, shifting your body weight from side to side before walking to your position on court, racket in hand. You lose the coin toss, and Anna choose to serve and yet your demeanour is one of ease, something Art can’t help but think is so stark in contrast to Tashi before a match. You aren’t smiling anymore, and yet in an unexplainable fashion, Art can feel you smiling as you bend to ready position, your hands flipping the handle of the racket around, poised to receive. He sees Anna toss the ball, her back arching, hand shooting up, before she connects her serve, and he watches you receive it with ease, your body moving in a smooth motion as you hit it back. Your strokes have their own weight and intention behind them, they are careful, thought out - but what surprises Art is he sees little calculation behind each. Instead, he watches as you let yourself feel each shot, as you let your instinct take control with each step. Art sees himself moving pieces of chess across the court when he watches replays of his game, but with your game, - Art manages to see colour, life, ease. He sees something he hasn’t seen in his tennis since he had last played with you, Art sees fun.

-

The match isn’t long drawn out, you win - effortlessly, just as each of your strokes and movement are. It frustrates Anna, as is evident from the increasing number of unforced errors she makes on her art which leads to her swearing loudly as you easily hit the last heavy, driving it quick and to the opposite corner of the court from where she is positioned. Art finds himself clapping enthusiastically along with the crowd as the umpire calls the game.

-

“You never told me you had such good looking friends,” Art feels an arm sling itself around his neck, pulling him close as he stands outside the court, waiting for you to finish your match debrief with the rest of the team.

“Shouldn’t you be with Tashi?” Art questions as he tugs himself out and under, away from Patrick’s hold. His eyes remain focused on the door of the tennis court, waiting for you to emerge.

“Some strategy meeting,” Patrick offers as explanation, “refocusing or something like that.”

Art starts to say something in response only to be stopped by the view of you walking out from the courts. You both lock eyes, not too similar from how you had with you on the court and him on the stand. Art thinks that your smile is more brilliant up close.

Neither of you say a word, as you walk up to him, hands reaching up to tug his cap off his head only for you to pop it promptly on your own head, the right way around.

“The right way,” you say in greeting, pointing towards his cap which is now sitting on your head, the Stanford red a confusing contrast to your your top, now a loose fitting tshirt in your college colours, as Art chuckles while running a hand through his hair, attempting to shake out any flatness.

“The red looks good on you.”

“Perhaps I should transfer.”

“Didn’t peg you for a traitor,” Art teases which makes you laugh.

“Do I get a hug,” you ask, both of you oblivious to Patrick who is just watching.

“C’mere,” Art says, his words inviting, but just almost slightly shy as he opens his arms to you. You step into his embrace, arms slipping around his body as Art brings his arms around your shoulders, hands bumping into the tennis bag you have on your shoulders. His embrace is familiar, and you let yourself relax into his hold.

“Could I get a hug?” you hear a different male voice chime in and you pull away to look curiously at the brunette who is standing just beside you both.

“Fuck off Patrick,” you hear Art say with no bite, but notice as he steps just that one inch in front of you in an attempt to place himself as some sort of barrier between you and the brunette.

“Patrick Zweig,” the boy says, ignoring Art as he proffers a hand to you which you shake to be polite while introducing yourself.

“Do you go to Stanford as well?” You take in his attire of jeans and a white tee, the lack of red - you would guess not but it didn’t hurt to ask.

“I’m just visiting,” he says, “I’m actually playing on tour.”

“Losing on tour,” Art corrects.

“Your tennis is insane,” Patrick comments, ignoring Art, “when will I see you on tour?”

“I don’t intend on turning pro,” you respond with the flash of a smile.

“Why?” Patrick continues the conversation, now slightly befuddled, “you’re a natural.”

You shrug with a laugh, not answering and simply brushing off his question.

“Why don’t I take you to dinner and you can tell me why.” Patrick’s statement makes Art roll his eyes.

“Aren’t you taking your girlfriend our for dinner?” Art chips to which Patrick simply shrugs not phased in the slightest and answers with a no.

“Thanks, but I already have a dinner to cash in on,” you offer Patrick a smile, before glancing at Art.

“I’m sure Art wo-”

“Nope, fuck off Patrick,” is what Art says again, not even giving the other man a chance to finish his sentence. It makes you laugh, but you follow as Art grabs your hand, tugging you off in a direction away from Patrick.

“It was nice meeting you Patrick,” you call out, turning your head towards him giving him a wave with your free hand, “good luck on the tour!”

You walk for a minute or two more until the tennis courts are out of range before Art stops. He lets go off your hand, but reaches instead to grasp the top of the tennis bag on your shoulder. You raise a brow questioningly only to have him tug again with a slight tilt of his head. You relinquish the bag to him and he hoists it on his shoulder instead.

“What a gentleman,” you joke, but with a smile on your face.

Art does a mock bow with a flourish of his hand which makes you laugh with a shake of your head.

“Your chariot awaits my lady,” he extends a hand to you, waist still tilted in a bow, but his head up and looking at you.

“Lead the way,” you place your hand on top of his again.

“My car is that way,” he says jerking a thumb towards his right as he intertwines his fingers with yours. Its the second time in the day where he’s holding onto your hand but you don’t think too much of it and neither does Art. It feels right, comforting, familiar and like it’s supposed to be - and you go with it.

-

“Sorry about Patrick,” Art says as he fiddles with the paper casing of the straw. You are both sitting in a booth, plates cleared, your drinks left in front of you. Art is leaning back but being across him you can feel his knees knocking into yours. Dinner had gone by way too fast for Art’s liking. There had been both plenty to catch up on, as well as new information to learn and yet - it had felt like no time had passed between you both.

“He’s a bit of an ass isn’t he,” you say as you lean back, a mirror of Art. Your comment elicits a bark of laughter from him.

“Girls don’t usually say that about him.”

“What do they say?”

“Well not say, but they usually fall at his feet or into his bed,”

“No,” it makes you crinkle your nose while you shake your head.

“His girlfriend Tashi,” Art says, fingers still fiddling with the wrapper, “we played tennis for her number, she chose him.” Art said referencing the tennis match between him and Patrick. His sentence is blunt, to the point, and yet manages to be vulnerable at the same time. Art surprises himself as the words slip out from his lips so easily but it feels easy to tell you, safe to let himself be vulnerable, fine to let you view him for who he truly is.

You both sit in silence for a beat or two, the only sound between you both being the rustle of paper in Art’s fingers.

“Well,” you begin, “if she made you play for her number, maybe its for the better you didn’t win.”

Art’s fingers give pause and he looks up at you. His expression is unreadable, but you don’t feel like you’ve said anything wrong - just the obvious.

“I guess you are right,” he says after a few seconds of silence, before raising his head to look at you. There is a small smile on his face that you can’t quite place.

“When have I been wrong Donaldson?” You challenge in jest as you lift a leg under the table to jostle one of his lightly. Art leans forward, managing to capture one of your legs, your calf in the warmth of his palm.

“You really want me to start?” Art questions as you wriggle your leg in attempt to get away but no no avail.

“No.”

“Let’s see, the time we were six and you thought that the way to get strawberry milk was to dump pink food colouring in normal milk.”

“Stop,” you protest, but with a laugh on your lips.

“Or the time we were ten and you were convinced that the park we passed by on the way home from school was haunted and we had to sprint past that stretch of sidewalk for 3 whole months.”

“It was creepy!”

“How could we forget the one time we were thirteen and you thought that the way babies were made wa-”

“Arthur Donaldson,” you protest, managing to wrestle your leg out of his grasp which has grown looser with each anecdote. It allows you to set your foot on the ground, body shooting up to lean across the table, your palm coming to cover Art’s mouth to prevent him from announcing any further recollections from your youth.

You can feel his breath hot against the palm of your hand as his muffled laugher fills the space of your booth.

“Art,” you huff, relinquishing his full name for his nickname again. You move to drop your hand from his face, but Art catches a hold of your wrist. You sit back down, butt hitting the seat again, but with your hand still stretched across the table, wrist still loosely wrapped in one Art Donaldson’s hand. His shoulders are still shaking, now with a silent laughter.

“Art,” you try again.

“I’m sorry, it’s just so funny,” Art exhales, trying to collect himself as best as he can. He doesn’t remember the last time he laughed like this, freely and with such reckless abandon over something so innocent.

“Your dedicated court jester, always here to serve,” you mock with a roll of your eyes.

“You’ve been derelict in your duties,” Art says, now calm, but his eyes still twinkling under a mop of strawberry blonde hair. He keeps his tone light but what he really means to say is that it has been too long. You chuckle, not really having an answer for him.

“It’s been a while,” you finally admit, both your hands now resting on the table between you, you wrist now lying upturned in Art’s open palm. You had always been close

“It has, hasn’t it,” it isn’t really a question. Art has missed you - something he hasn’t realised until today. He had let himself be distracted by the complex, focused toxicity that was tennis, Patrick and Tashi, letting himself get sucked into the whirlpool, that he had forgotten to hold on to the things that grounded him.

“Maybe we should change that.”

“We should change that,” Art corrects you and you can feel the tips of your ears burning, and the skin across your cheek bones tingling for some reason.

-

You aren’t quite sure how ended up here, but one thing had lead to another as you both made your way out of the restaurant and back to Art’s car, and the next thing you knew you were heading back to his dorm to watch reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer for some reason.

“How do you not find her hot?” You ask again for the tenth time as you both focus on the screen of Art’s laptop which is perched half on his thigh and half on yours. You are both sitting on his bed, shoulder to shoulder, both of your heads damp from (separate) showers in Art’s ensuite, and you smelling quite like him from having used his toiletries and borrowing a short and shirt set, both of which which were a baggy fit for you.

“I don’t know, I just don’t.”

“You’re rubbish Donaldson,” you snort, nudging your elbow lightly into his ribs with a simultaneous yawn.

“Tired?” Art asks, as you stifle another yawn.

“Yeah,” you accept, seeing little point in trying to hide it. You had after all, played a match today.

“I should really get back to the hotel,” you mumble, the back of your head leaning against the wall beside Art’s bed, eyes closing.

“You could just stay here,” there is a hint of hesitation in his voice because he isn’t sure if you’ll stay.

“Here?”

“My bed’s a double,” Art shrugs, “it would also be quicker for you to get to the matches tomorrow.” You aren’t playing but Art knows you would be expected to show up as a supporter for the series of matches between your two schools that continued tomorrow.

“Are you sure?” You don’t mind, after all - it’s Art, the boy you had known growing up, shared milkshakes and apple slices with after school, but you wanted to be sure he was truly fine with it.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Art moves to shit his laptop, lifting himself to bend over the edge of the bed to place the laptop on the floor, “you can take the inside.”

He flops down on the outside of the bed that is further from the wall too easily, his right hand going behind his head. Him moving forces you to move in tandem as you flop down on Art’s left, legs scrambling under the covers which Art has somehow managed to worm his way under in the flurry of movement.

Art reaches a hand over, his arm extending over you in the process to hit the light switch that he has beside his bed. It plunges you both into darkness, the only light the faint glow from the street lamps creeping in from below his curtains, and the glow of his digital clock.

You flip onto your right side, eyes closed, missing the turn of Art’s head as he observes yours features, closed eyes, lashes, nose, lips, finding his gaze lingering a moment too long on your lips.

“Stop staring Art.”

“Am not.”

“I can feel it,” you respond, lips curving into a smirk. It was a habit he had developed from the sleepovers you both had either in his living room or yours when you were both younger. You would close your eyes, just about to doze off, only to hear the faint shifting of a head against a pillow while Art turned to stare at you, his blue-brown eyes boring into you.

“Am not.”

“Go to sleep Art.”

-

“So I guess I’ll see you around,” You are standing just a distance off the side of the bus which is supposed to take you back to campus. The matches for the day had ended, with your school having won by one match.

“Yeah,” Art replies, drawing out his words as he takes you in, he finds himself think that he had very much preferred you in his clothes despite them being oversized and not as well fitted as your own. You had managed to change into a fresh set of school colours before the matches started earlier that morning, having pleaded with your angel of a roommate to help you lug your overnight bag, which you hadn’t even had the chance to unpack the night before, over to the courts before the matches had begun. She had taken one look at you in Art’s tshirt, shorts with his hoodie thrown over, and had given you the widest smirk known to man despite your insistence that nothing had happened.

“I think you are scheduled to come play next month,” you refer to the Stanford men’s team, “I’ll see you then?”

“Or I could see you next week?” Art says almost shyly as he raises a hand to rub the back of his head. Art was a walking oxymoron, easily grabbing your hand, asking you to sleep in his bed, and yet somewhat bashful in the moments in between, “the drive over is an hour, max.”

“I would like that,” your response earns you a mega watt smile, his eyes twinkling at you. You both hear voices calling Art away from the bus, one male, one female - but Art ignores them both.

-

“Yeah and I told her-” your sentence is cut off by a nudge to your shoulder.

“Stanford” you friend explains with slightly too much glee in her voice. She had seen the smile on your face after returning from your away game last weekend, and the way you had been constantly glued to your phone, grin on your face, laughter peppering your days, the name Art Donaldson a constant fixture in your notifications.

Your head swivels up and to your left to spot Art leaning against his black jeep, hands crossed loosely across his chest. He smiles when he sees you, and your face mimics his expression.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” you friend calls out as she pushes you in Art’s direction. You pull a face at her while rolling your eyes, but letting your legs carry you towards Art.

“Are you stalking me Donaldson?” You ask in jest. Art had texted you half an hour earlier, asking which part of campus your last class of the Friday was in and where he should pick you up from.

“Hundred percent,” he says as he opens his arms; you step into his embrace for a brief hug, before he turns to open the car door for you. You unload your bag from your arm, dropping it onto the floor of the passenger’s seat before climbing in. You move to close the door, but Art is in between you and the door, reaching over to click your seatbelt into place.

“Ready?” He asks, and you nod, gazing into bright blue-brown eyes.

-

“Positivism,” Art says simply at your question of what theory of jurisprudence he found himself most inclined towards. You think for a moment, the side of your face propped up with a hand, elbow on the counter of the bar you both are seated at, your body turned towards Art who is likewise, facing you.

“Positivism,” you roll the words around your tongue, “I guess it tracks,” you shrug, before raising a brow slightly, “but how does an engineering undergraduate so much about jurisprudence?”

“I read.”

“On jurisprudence?” You frown nose wrinkling as you reach your hand out to place the back of it against Art’s forehead as if to check if he had a fever, “are you alright?”

“You mean you don’t read engineering daily in between sets?” Art questions you with mock horror as he reaches up to tug your hand down from his forehead. Your hand ends up, yet again, in Art’s, which is resting on his knee.

“Why engineering, and not something with a lighter course load?” The underlying question is clear - Art had every intent of going the pro track post-Stanford, and it wasn’t that he would be making full use of his degree anyway.

“I don’t want the only skill I have to be hitting a ball with a racket,” he shrugs, “it feels good to know I can do something else.”

You hum in bother understanding and agreement as you feel Art’s thumb begin to stroke the back of your hand. It distracts you, his calloused thumb sliding across your skin.

“In another life I’m sure you would have made a darn good engineer Art Donaldson.”

Your words make Art laugh, something he found himself doing a lot with you.

-

“So, this is me,” you point towards the dormitory buildings up in front and Art slows his car to a stop, pulling the gear into park. He kills the engine before hopping out of his seat. Your hand is on the handle of the door, ready to open it for yourself but Art is faster, his hand on the outside lever, pulling the door open for you.

Art offers you a hand as you hop out of the jeep before he shuts the door behind you.

“I had fun tonight,” you find yourself saying, suddenly feeling slightly shy for reasons you cannot fathom.

“Me too,” is what Art says in response, his hands stuck on the pockets of his jeans, heels rocking in a back and forth motion. You see his gaze on you, locking with yours before flickering to your lips. It makes you bite down one on side of your lip, an action which causes Art to gulp, making the Adam’s apple on his throat bob.

“We should do-”

“Can I kiss you?” Art blurts out his question in a burst and you can see his face flush slightly as he asks, a surprising and yet apt contrast to the Art who had no qualms about holding your hand in his. You feel your heart quickening, and with the silence between you both - you almost feel as if you can hear each beat.

“Yes,” you breathe out, a small nod accompanying your response. You see Art’s gaze flicker to your lips again, but you would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about this.

Art takes a step forward, pulling his hands out of his pockets. You feel him cupping your face gently, and you tilt your head towards him. Your eyes flutter close and your lips meet.

Art’s lips are softer than you imagined. You feel his hands move, slipping down the sides of your body, circling your waist and pulling you closer. You drop your bag off your shoulder onto the floor as your hands move up, one to cradle the side of his face, and the other reaching behind, fingers weaving into soft curls as you tug him closer towards you. First kisses with someone new had always been awkward for you - teeth, lips, noses, as you each try to figure out the grooves and crannies of each other, but with Art - there was no such thing. It felt as if you both had learnt each other long ago, each in and out, the curve of his neck, and the the planes of your body.

You break the kiss first, pulling away, eyes still closed, feeling as if the breath had been knocked out of you in the best way. Your forehead pressed against Art’s, body held firmly against his.

“I hope you aren’t going to send me packing after that.” Your eyes flutter open at his words.

“You packed an overnight bag didn’t you?”

“I might have,” Art pulls you even closer, his arms wound tight around you.

“Presumptuous much?” You run a hand through the front of his hair, pushing his fringe back.

“Just good at reading the room.”

-

12 years later

The skin across your knuckles are visibly tight, your hands clenched into fists, the only sign of the nerves that have taken over and riddled your body. Your eyes are shielded by dark oversized glasses, but your pupils are darting left and right as the final point of the match plays before you. The stadium is silent, save for the pop of the ball and the grunts from the two players on court. You hear an exceptionally loud grunt, the whizzing of a racket whipping through the air, and then you hear it before it hits you - the roar of the crowd, the thundering claps, and you feel your body freeze as even the announcer goes wild.

“Art Donaldson, ladies and gentleman, our new US Open champion.”

You remain glued to your seat despite the commotion around you - family, Art’s team, cheering, jumping, excited hugs being passed around. Your eyes watch as Art runs towards the center of the net, hand raised as he waves to the crowd around. He shakes his opponents hand, before waving to each section of the stadium in thanks of their support and there he is, jogging towards you. His hair is dripping with sweat, plastered to his head, shirt clinging to his body. He extends a hand to you even before he reaches the sideline and your body reacts from habit, standing, your hand extending back towards him. A warm hand, the back of it still slick from sweat grasps yours, tugging you forward lightly.

“Hi,” is all he says as Art’s lips meet yours. Art enjoys the tennis, but he doesn’t need it - doesn’t need the tennis, the fame, the money, or the trophies - all he needs is you.

You hear the crowd go wild at the display of affection, the announcer’s voice booming over the sound system with something about Art Donaldson and his wife, but it all fades - the commotion, the sound, the people, the tennis, because all you see is Art.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

[that-nerd-who-writes-fanfiction]

I wanna write a really mundane magic reveal.

This has definitely been done before (please send fic recs) but I’m procrastinating and really want to write it.

Literally nothing is happening, Arthur is having a bath, Merlin is tidying up in his chambers one night and everything is basically fine.

Arthur asks Merlin how he manages to always get the bath water perfect and Merlin jokingly says “must be magic” while he’s distracted, Arthur stops and starts thinking about all the fallen tree branches, how his armour is perfect and even if Merlin is late, his food is always hot.

So Arthur realises Merlin is a sorcerer, but not a very good one if all he can do is boring stuff with chores. And if he’s not using magic to defeat all the bandits, it must be because he can’t defeat all the bandits. Not that he’s trying not to die or anything. In fact, the thought of killing Merlin, or of Merlin being punished for his magic, never even crosses his mind.

Arthur shrugs, because Merlin made the joke before, it was just his fault for not noticing it, also his father is still king, so it’s probably for the best that Merlin never said anything, and he tells Merlin to be careful about his magic and to only use it if he’s locked the door.

Merlin’s too shocked by the easy acceptance to panic, so he’s just like: “you’re cool with it?”

And Arthur, oblivious but in love, is just like “well, at least you’re good at something.” Because, sure, Merlin isn’t powerful, but he’s not about to piss off the guy who gives him perfect baths. Then he’s like, “maybe figure out how to lie so my father doesn’t find out about you though. We can figure out the ban once I’m king”

I’m picturing this to be in early/mid season two. Morgana never turns evil, Merlin helps her with her magic because I said so.

So Merlin and Arthur have a while for Arthur getting used to Merlin magically lighting fires, sharpening his sword, adding protection charms to his armour, heating his baths, removing stains from his clothes and even putting them back to being like new if they lost buttons or anything.

Then they go to find the dragonlord, Balinor survives also because I said so.

Merlin tells Arthur Balinor is his father in the inn before they meet him. Arthur is a little worried for Merlin, but ultimately happy for his friend.

Then Merlin uses magic infront of Balinor and Arthur after Merlin told Balinor that he’s his son. Balinor shoves Merlin behind him protectively and Arthur is confused, “why would anyone assume he’d hurt Merlin? It’s Merlin. If anything, he’s more useful as a servant and more honest as a friend since he found out about the magic.”

Balinor is floored by it, and starts treating Arthur a lot better. Arthur gets to ask about pre purge stuff, Balinor tells him a bit about his mother from when her parents visited his when they were kids, then about Ygraine visiting the dragons and how she, Balinor and others in court at the time were friends.

They take him to Ealdor after the dragon is defeated/banished and Arthur looks over at Merlin and realises “oh my god, you summoned the wind.”

And Merlin is like, “yeah? No big deal.”

So Arthur is left wondering why Merlin is downplaying what he thinks is the strongest bit of magic he’s ever done. He comes to the conclusion that Merlin is embarrassed that it was a fluke, he tries to reassure Merlin that he can always practice and learn to do stronger magic like that. Merlin is confused because the wind wasn’t strong magic?

Balinor realises what’s happening and decides he wants nothing to do with it so he stays quiet. (He’s already sensed a lot of power from Merlin, so he knows he’s strong.)

Anyway, they keep going to Ealdor. Merlin still hasn’t caught onto the fact that Arthur thinks he’s a weak sorcerer, Arthur hasn’t caught on to Merlin being strong and just thinks he’s a little bit embarrassed about not being that strong of a sorcerer.

Then they get to Ealdor, everything is great for about two days until it starts down-pouring. Enough rain to flood the village and everyone is worried because Cenred or Lot(?)(I don’t remember when Cenred dies in canon) isn’t going to do anything because he just doesn’t care so their fields will flood and they’ll starve and not be able to afford taxes.

Arthur tries to reassure Merlin that it’s okay, but Merlin just hums. He asks Arthur if they can still lie and say they were on a hunting trip if he does something about the rain, Arthur tells him he shouldn’t push himself or anything, but Merlin says he won’t and Arthur trusts him so it’s fine. Merlin then goes outside and casually stops the rain, clearing the clouds and moving the rainwater into the river.

Arthur is shook.

Then he’s got to realise that Merlin is powerful, but again he never lied about it so he can’t really get mad, so he decides it’s better to just be shocked and carry on as usual until he gets used to the idea that Merlin is stronger than he looks.

There’s also a little bit of a bi panic in there somewhere because Arthur definitely has a thing for competency. We all saw his crushes on Gwen, Merlin, Lancelot, Mithian if she wasn’t just the wrong person for him, I’m pretty sure Percival too. There’s definitely others I haven’t noticed or forgot about. You get the idea though.

He sees Merlin being good at Magic and is suddenly very confused by the feelings he’s too emotionally stunted to recognise. Even if it’s just small things, Merlin is good at something and ‘what the hell happened to the bumbling idiot who forgot to hand him his sword the first day? What? Huh?’

Then after he accepts Merlin is really good at magic, he decides: “great! He can train with me now! :D” and he drags Merlin out of Camelot to spar which is basically just Merlin teaching Arthur how to defend himself against magical attacks. Arthur thinks he’s helping Merlin to protect himself because ‘if all he can do is wind that’s hardly an offensive attack so he needs more help mastering that. And considering no one else knows, it’s my responsibility to make sure he’s safe if he ever needs it.’

Merlin is just glad to be accepted and that Arthur is willing to learn how to protect himself against the numerous magical attacks every week so he lets Arthur think whatever he wants about why they’re sparring.

But yeah, there’s minimal trauma, it’s not a big deal and they get the happily ever after they deserved.

[lastoneout]

Okay, honest question, who is Yotsuba?

OH HO HO ANON I AM ALL TOO HAPPY TO EXPLAIN :3

Yotsuba is a character from the greatest manga ever made, Yotsuba&!(or Yotsuba to! it translates weird, most fans just call it Yotsuba) which is a comedy slice-of-life manga about Yotsuba Koiwai, a five year old girl, and her very strange yet wholesome family and friends!

It's from the same mangaka who gave us Azumanga Daioh, though while that manga is told in a four-panel comic style and doesn't really have much of an overarching plot, Youtsuba is done in a traditional manga style and despite also being very episodic there is a bit of a throughline surrounding Youtsuba getting settled into the neighborhood she just moved to, growing up, and eventually, in the later chapters, getting ready to go to school for the first time. Also, there are storylines that take place over multiple chapters as well! Despite the fact that the manga has been releasing since 2003, the chapters are pretty sporadic and the comic has only really covered about one year of the character's lives, but it never really feels slow or aimless. It feels almost...timeless? I guess. It's really nice.

Anyway, the manga is legit one of the most wholesome, funny, heartwarming things I have ever read. Kiyohiko Azuma is a fucking MASTER of comedy(you may have seen screencaps from a Sailor Moon fan comic he made going around on tumblr in which Jupiter accidentally sends Venus shooting across a pool that made me laugh so hard I cried) and he balances it well with lots of slow moments with GORGEOUS artwork where you can really take in the scenery and all of it is seeped in a wonderful nostalgia for childhood that legit makes me super emotional.

I don't think the manga has ever really taken off in terms of popularity, at least not to the degree that it deserves imo, which is likely in part due to the creator being firm about it never getting an anime adaptation and the sporadic release schedule, but it's far from unknown. There's been an official(I think??) score released and plenty of figurines and merch. It's also birthed a lot of memes, and it def has the same issue as One Piece where if you read it and love it you will turn into a walking billboard and try to drag your friends and family in with you. It's just THAT good!

You may have seen art of or people cosplaying Danbo, a "robot" made of old cardboard boxes that Yotsuba adores (Totally a real robot btw, def doesn't have a middle schooler shoved inside there, that would be silly wdym /s)

And this pose from the back of one of the manga volumes featuring Yotsuba, her father, and their extremely tall friend Jumbo has been redrawn with other characters like 500000 billion times

And you've also probably seen this going around tumblr before (that's Fūka she's my favorite cringe fail daughter I would literally die for her).

Also, I would be doing a disservice if I didn't mention Yanda, who is a friend of Yotsuba's dad and also Yotsuba's nemesis. He's a loser who constantly gets dunked on by a toddler it's fucking hilarious.

But yeah it really is just like, a manga that feels like a hug, or a warm blanket or something, it's so comforting and funny and fantastic, I find myself re-reading it any time life gets to be too hard just bcs it's that good at distracting me and reminding me that live is worth living.

And also given that it's literally my favorite manga, I saved up a bunch of screencaps to use as reaction images after a read one time, and thus now it's my own little joke that if you send me anon hate I'm just gonna send you back a picture of this cutie

Bcs come on how can you be angry when you're looking at this???

Anyway here's some screencaps of the main supporting cast bcs I love all of them so much <3

YOU WILL READ YOTSUBA I AM NO LONGER ASKING

[crobones]

[kicks open the door I just closed] AND ANOTHER THING

when a ghoul is turning feral, they say their name. they repeat it, over and over. "Roger. My name is Roger." like a chant. to remind themselves who they are. to hold onto the last bit of humanity they have left, because maybe if they hold tight enough, they can beat it. or maybe they can just hold on until help comes.

Cooper wasn't just distracting Roger so he could get a clean shot. He was reminding Roger of something good. BlamCo Mac & Cheese. His mom's apple pie.

When someone can't be saved, you don't want them to just focus on the fact that it's over. It's done. Waiting in that anxious fear for their every breath, because they don't know if it will be their last. Or, in Roger's case - and the case for any Ghouls out there still surviving - their last moments of control.

The sad fact of the matter is that, feral ghouls are still alive. They're not zombies. They hunger, they drool, they eat, but they can hide, too. They can gather. Being feral isn't dying, it's worse. They've not even just gone to base instincts - they've lost any and all sense of self preservation. They can sprint and throw themselves at prey because the body has simply become a vehicle for that hunger.

They don't hide or gather to stay safe. They do it because it's easier to take down someone if they're surprised and outnumbered. So yes, a feral ghoul can think. But only insofar that they can find a way to feed that hunger.

But even animals have some sense of self-preservation. (Unless, of course, they're rabid.)

To be feral is to experience such complete ego death that a person has no sense of identity outside of hunger and fear. So they try to hold onto control by reminding themselves who they are. "I am Roger." And so, it's not too far of a stretch to say that a person's humanity lies within their memories.

Cooper asked Roger if he remembered what food tasted like, back when he could taste. Before the radiation and necrosis. As most people know, certain senses like taste and smell can trigger a stronger memory than any words or chants.

What Cooper did to Roger was a mercy. It was simple. It wasn't a countdown or closing his eyes, just so that the last thing Roger could feel is fear. He reminded Roger of something good, like the taste of apple pie. Of his mom. Of being a kid again. Ghouls are people, but for those last few seconds, Roger was the most human he'd probably been in twenty-eight years.

And so what's going to happen when the Ghoul runs out of vials? Not Cooper, but the Ghoul. The character. The facade Cooper Howard has been wearing like a second skin. It's wrinkled, irradiated, and necrotic, but it's tight. It's safe. It's kept him alive. To survive, he willfully distanced himself from his humanity and became a monster. Cooper Howard didn't die. He's been buried alive in a coffin for centuries, feeding off of scraps. But he put himself in there.

So when the Ghoul runs out of vials, he'll do what they all do when they're trying to hold on. They'll hold on to their humanity by tooth and nail. "I am Cooper."

It'll be the first time anyone who didn't know him before the bombs ever hears his name. The first time Lucy connects who the Ghoul is to who Cooper Howard was, back when he was human.

It clicks in her head, subtler than a light switch. She should be happy. She should be ecstatic! She's meeting her favourite hero from her childhood! But all she can feel is sadness. She saw what her mother became, and she quickly proved to the Ghoul that she can put him down when the time comes. If she can do that for her mother, she can do that for him.

But how will she give Cooper those last seconds of humanity? Does she think he deserves it? Fuck deserving it, she'll decide to do it just because it's the kindest thing to do. But she didn't know him before. Didn't know his favourite tastes and smells. But she can probably guess.

Maybe it's the scent of his wife's perfume. Maybe it's the taste of hot coco. Or maybe it's Janey. Just Janey. In any form, any memory. So Lucy does that for him. And after two centuries, Cooper Howard finally remembers how it felt to be human. If only for a few moments.

[record scratch]

I don't want to end it on that. It's too much, even for me. Cooper Howard remembers his humanity and holds on long enough. He's saved. (Hey, Maximus carries RadAway, maybe he can carry other drugs.)

Now Cooper has to sit and deal with the tidal wave that is his humanity fully resurfacing so strongly after several lifetimes. The Ghoul has done a lot of things Cooper would disapprove of. More bad things than any good things he ever did when he was human. But they were all choices he made. Cooper's always been there. Just below the surface. He buried himself in that coffin. And what's more monstrous - to kill and be cruel to survive, or to hide from the responsibility and act like it was someone else all those times? Who is the monster, the Ghoul or Cooper Howard?

Inner turmoil. GIVE ME INNER TURMOIL.

meanwhile, Lucy can lose sleep over the idea that you should never meet your heroes. That maybe she likes the monster, better - but she doesn't know which is which either. They find themselves. They find each other. They find themselves inside of each other. Cannibalism, vore, allegory, etc, etc. they find his dick inside her. Happy ending. fuck you. fuck me!

[randomprose]

“Why.” 

Not a question. A demand. He Tian wonders if, as much as Mo Guan Shan says He Tian always makes demands of him, he’s also aware that he does the same.

“Hm?”

“Why me.”

He Tian ponders at the words as he runs his fingers on the side of Mo Guan Shan’s head resting in his chest. The shorn hair is starting to grow. Mo Guan Shan has noticed. And tomorrow, he’ll probably go to the barber shop downtown, the one he’s been going to since middle school, to get it cut again. Maybe he’ll ask He Tian to come and they can eat at the corner noodle shop next block from the barbers, the one with the really spicy mapo tofu Mo Guan Shan likes. He Tian will drag them to the fancy yogurt store he likes by the station to get his tongue to stop hurting from the mapo sauce and Mo Guan Shan will tease him about his shitty spice tolerance (It’s not! Mo Guan Shan’s Sichuanese palette is just short of demonic!) before heading home to do laundry. 

Or if Mo Guan Shan doesn’t feel like going out, he’ll shave off the side of his head over the bathroom sink himself (maybe he’ll ask He Tian) and they’ll just order takeout. And then do laundry.

“Hey.” A pinch at He Tian’s exposed hip which hurt enough for him to tug at Mo Guan Shan’s ear in retaliation. “Answer the question, you dick.”

“Tch.” He Tian’s hand continues to run through Mo Guan Shang’s hair, down to his neck, to his shoulder, his arm, and then back up. Repeats.

The touch is light and almost absent. Done almost as if just for something to do. Mo Guan Shan knows He Tian is thinking. He waits.

There’s a myriad of answers to that. Chief among them is, well, He Tian doesn’t know really. Mo Guan Shan was just some delinquent who Jian Yi and Zhan Zheng Xi fought once. He Tian helped beat him up and then he saw him again eating a sandwich outside of some convenience store he couldn’t remember what chain now. He Tian was bored. Mo Guan Shan was a good distraction. A fun distraction. He made He Tian laugh. Truly. Genuinely. The type that travels warm through the chest and sits pleasantly in the belly. The type of laugh he has to stifle. And He Tian can’t remember the last time he laughed that wasn’t out of derision or condescension. Mo Guan Shan is a good cook. A really good cook. He Tian never really cared much for food beyond needed sustenance but the first taste of Mo Guan Shang’s beef stew got him craving. To this day, He Tian swears it’s one of the best dishes he’s ever had. Mo Guan Shan needed better friends and maybe at the time He Tian also needed a friend. Mo Guan Shan was strong but he needed saving too and He Tian liked being needed. 

Mo Guan Shan had the eyes of someone fighting the world as if it owes him something. He looked at He Tian like a nuisance and without any expectations. And He Tian liked exceeding expectations regardless if they don't exist so he took that as a challenge.

But it’s also precisely because Mo Guan Shan looked at him without expecting anything. For someone like He Tian that was the most refreshing thing in the world. Mo Guan Shan looks at him and He Tian can just be. And now the only expectations he wants to exceed are Mo Guan Shan’s.

“Your eyes.”

“What?”

“It was your eyes. I liked them.”

“Liked?” Past tense?

“I still do. I like you.”

“My eyes, huh.” A pause. “Why?” A genuine question this time.

He Tian shrugs. “They looked sad.”

“Have you looked in the mirror.”

“Not the same.”

“You liked my eyes because they looked sad.”

“I like sad things.”

“You’re sad.”

“On the contrary, Little Mo.” He Tian presses Mo Guan Shan against his side. Skin to skin, half of Mo Guan Shan’s body practically draped over him. He keeps him there and drops a kiss on fiery auburn locks. Smiles against his temple when he doesn’t shift away and just stays there, pressed snug against He Tian. The arm thrown over his bare torso is a very welcomed warm weight. “I am actually very, very happy.” 

Now. Because of you.

“What about now?”

He Tian lets his hand travel lower, beneath the sheet draped loosely over their hips, to grab at soft flesh.

“Oh, I am very, very, absolutely happy right now.”

“Tch.” Another pinch to his side, a light kick in the shins. “Not what I meant, pervert.”

“Eeeh. You love it.” Love me. “Well, what do you mean?”

“Are my eyes still sad?”

A consideration. “No.” He Tian thinks of warm brown eyes welcoming him home with dinner on the stove, thinks of the wicked glint in them just moments earlier looking down at him as Mo Guan Shan rides him, of the euphoric haze in them afterwards when He Tian flipped them and finished inside him. “Not much now, no.”

Because Mo Guan Shan still has his days when it feels like his insides are slowly but surely turning cold, chest heavy and hollow at the same time. They both do. And He Tian can’t pretend he can chase them all away any more than Mo Guan Shan can keep He Tian’s at bay. But best believe He Tian is damn well sure as fuck always gonna try his level best to pull Mo Guan Shan out of it just as he does to him. Every time. 

“Guess you no longer like me then, huh.”

He Tian scoffs—almost laughs—at the absurdity of the mere idea. See? Didn’t he say Mo Guan Shan is quiet the comedian?

“Again, on the contrary, Little Mo.” He Tian turns on his side, pulls Mo Guan Shan impossibly closer against him so they’re chest to chest, and slots a leg in between Mo Guan Shan’s. In response, an arm curls tight around his back, a hand pressed between skin and cotton sheets, the other placed over He Tian’s chest, and it’s like slotting two puzzle pieces together. Perfectly. “I really, very much like you. Love you even.”

Mo Guan Shan sighs, tucks his face where He Tian’s neck and shoulder meets. He inhales, revelling in the smell of sex, sweat, and something distinctively He Tian—dark and dangerous and safe.

“Sap.” Because He Tian, Mo Guan Shan knows, for all his faults, never lies. “You said you like sad things.”

“No. I said I like you. Just you.” He Tian says. “I love you.” 

The words are said with a tone of unquestionable certainty. Just like all the other times he’s said them and all the other times they will leave He Tian’s lips. Always. Without question.

In whatever state you are, I will always like, want, need, love, everything you.

Mo Guan Shan just hums, pressing his lips tenderly at He Tian’s pulse one, two, three times. 

He Tian clutches at the palm resting over his heart. It’s all the answer he needs.

[fckbatmanhiskidsareminenow]

Kill me slowly, Baby you know I don’t fucking mind

warnings: vent fic about illness, mildly graphic depictions/imagery of physical and mental illness

tim drake centric

title: life waster by corpse (don’t look at me ok im embarrassed)

word count: 912

beta read and edited by the lovely @vespertilionis

Do not cry. Do not cry.

That’s all Tim can tell himself as he stiffly walks back to his car. He knows how this is going to go, he’s not too sure why he got his hopes up. He feels like an idiot.

Finally, in the safety of his car, he actually looks down at the referrals he has been given. One for a CT scan and the other for an overabundance of blood tests. He didn’t ask for either. All he wanted was a referral to see an ENT, but the doctor hadn’t even looked at him before she started talking over him and suggesting other ideas.

There’s a few things we can do before you see an ENT. It’s been a year since he started feeling like this. All he wanted was to see a specialist, someone who would know what was wrong.

It’s probably not what you think it is. Probably?

You’re crazy, nothing is wrong with you.

Nothing is wrong.

Nothingiswrongnothingiswrongnothingiswrong

He throws the referrals across the car before slamming his fist into the steering wheel and letting out the loudest scream he could.

It peters off into a sob when he realises he can’t hear anything. Well, anything but a high ringing. He sits there hyperventilating in his own version of silence.

He calls the CT place while driving, desperately trying to sound like he hasn’t been crying. He almost breaks down when the receptionist mentions he had the same test done around this time last year.

As he pulls into the driveway of the manor, he takes a moment to calm down. Firstly, because he doesn’t want to talk about it, and secondly, because he feels guilty for being upset. At least the doctor was running tests. Sure, she didn’t really listen to him and suggested tests for allergies and anemia, which he is sure he didn’t have, but she still decided to do tests. Other people have been sick for years and don’t have doctors listen to them, so he should be grateful.

Maybe she doesn’t think he’s crazy.

He tries not to think about the fact that if the CT scan comes back and shows his sinuses blocked, the doctor might put him on his fourth round of antibiotics. Even after the other three rounds have completely tanked his immune system. Or that if the blood tests show he is anemic, she might focus on that instead of the actual problem. Like the horrible constant congestion that makes him feel like his brain is being compressed into a liquid that’s going to explode out of his ears and nose. Or that if he does have the disease he thinks he does, he might lose his hearing. He really doesn’t want to think about that part.

When he enters the manor, he heads straight for the cave. He’s hoping for the perfectly healthy distraction of vigilantism. His hopes are immediately crushed when Bruce turns to him and asks him how the appointment went.

“Oh, uh, it went ok. We’re redoing some of the tests we did last year,” he says awkwardly, wishing for once Bruce would notice he didn’t want to talk about it. Once again, his wishes go unheard as the older man just looks concerned.

“You don’t seem too happy about that.”

No shit, man, no clue how you got the title of world’s greatest detective.

He tries to push away the resurfacing anger by laughing, but it comes out wrong.

“Yeah well, last time the results didn’t really get us anywhere. So, I was kinda hoping she would try something else.” Another laugh. Bruce nods and turns away. Either he finally got the hint or doesn’t know where to go with Tim’s response.

Relieved that the conversation is finally over, he starts heading to the computer when he hears Jason scoff.

“Ya know what I think you need? Some concrete to harden you up.”

Harden you up. Fucking whiny baby.

Harden you up. Ungrateful child.

Harden you up. Nothings wrong with you Tim, you’re out of your mind.

Tim stops in his tracks and turns his head slowly to face the older boy.

“What?” he says coldly, causing Jason to raise his hands in surrender.

“Hey! I was just joking with you.” he laughs, and Tim’s eye twitches.

“No, explain it to me, so I can understand how it was supposed to be funny.” He can feel the anger rising again. Jason lowers his arms, looking guilty for his ‘joke’, but Tim couldn’t care less.

“I just meant that you complain a lot. It’s kinda miserable.” He answers, sounding defeated, but again Tim couldn’t care less.

“Why do you think that is Jason? Do you think I’m complaining because it’s fun?” “No—“ “No! I’m not! I am fucking miserable! I’m exhausted and dizzy and I feel like my brain is rotting in my skull! And I’m sick of people not listening to me and thinking I’m fucking CRAZY!”

His throat hurts from screaming. He’s hyperventilating again, but he can’t hear it over the sound of the ringing again. It hurts. He shakes his head to try and clear it, but it just makes the world spin around him. A hand reaches out to steady him but he pushes it away.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” God, his voice is always so much louder when his ears are blocked.

He stumbles up the stairs, knowing he’s probably stomping, but he can’t hear that either.

[semisolidmind]

But what if Reader was sneaking out to try and meet Macaque? Maybe somewhere down the line where SWK has already taken Reader, but she’s still determined to see Mac, even under the cover of darkness.

How would he react? I bet not happy, but maybe more disappointed than anything.

yikes. ok, so

let's say this is happening before swk has killed macaque and is holding him in a dungeon somewhere in the cave. reader has done her recon already; she's–very subtly–asked some of the monkey citizens where he's being held. she's prepared to free macaque and run for her life.

however, the king is always aware of the gossip flowing between his subjects.

reader is able to sneak away that night, uninhibited. she probably should've been suspicious at how "exhausted" wukong was when he laid down next to her that night, but she was too distracted. after finally figuring out how to get into the dungeon, she wasn't gonna wait another night to free her only friend.

reader makes her way down into the winding passage shown to her by a well-meaning gaurd. after a long walk in near total darkness, the path opens into a cavern. it's empty aside from macaque, bound by his wrists, ankles, and neck by shackles that lead to chains magically sealed into the stone wall. on his knees with his arms stretched behind him, his head hanging low, he looks...half-dead. reader gently calls out to him, and gets no response.

she goes up to him, tentatively touching his shoulder...macaque startles awake, reflexively snarling and jerking in his bonds. reader falls backwards, missing macaque's teeth closing on her hand by mere inches. once his eyes clear of rage, a look of wide-eyed disbelief crosses his features.

"Reader...?"

"Macaque!"

reader surges up to embrace him. he can feel her tears against his shoulder. he's shaking, he realizes. he wants to hold her back, but settles for burying his face in her neck. he missed her, and her warmth is more than welcome in opposition to the chill of the cave. he's happy to hear her again too, having been driven almost mad by the sound of constantly dripping water.

but then he hears something else. and the realization of what's about to happen floods his veins with ice.

"You can't stay here, you have to leave right now–!"

"Isn't this a touching sight."

the monkey king's eyes burn like fire through the gloom of the cave, and his voice, though deathly quiet, echoes throughout the space. his body language would suggest nonchalance, but the malice radiating off of him is unmistakable.

reader freezes. her arms become lead around macaque's neck. she meets his look of defiance with a shaky, but determined look of her own.

"Just let him go, please," she whispers, knowing both demons can hear. "It doesn't have to be this way. I'll stay and I won't try to escape again if you'll just let him live."

macaque shakes his head. "Don't do this-"

"I'll think about it. If you come back to bed."

all is silent for a moment as reader turns to look at wukong. he leans against the entrance to the cavern, his posture loose though his arms are crossed. he seems...agitated, if his tail is any indication.

she pauses. she looks back at macaque, but he's hung his head again, his eyes hidden in shadow. he won't look at her.

"Go." he whispers.

and what else can she do?

reader shakily stands, turns, and walks back to her "husband." her feet feel heavier with each step, and it's almost a blessing when wukong picks her up. he carries her out of the dungeons and back to the royal bedchambers.

the king lays his queen gently into the large nest of pillows he acquired just for her, following her down a moment later. he kisses her passionately, and runs his hands down the length of her stomach. his claws catch in her robes, drawing them upward.

"Let me take care of you." he coos, his eyes glowing warmly.

reader remembers his hands on her and the heat of his body, his eyes burning through her, the scent and taste of peaches...and not much after.

she sleeps soundly that night.

---

the next morning, reader awakes to the satisfied smile of her king. he seems a little bit too satisfied, actually. her head still foggy with sleep, reader's filter isn't awake yet either. so she asks the first question on her mind.

"What...What are you gonna do to Mac...?" she asks blearily.

the king grins. reader doesn't like the implication.

"'Mac' and I made a deal. He leaves and never shows his face to either of us ever again, and I don't turn him into a meat bun. Everyone wins." wukong happily explains. "I let him go last night actually, after you passed out."

a beat of silence passes.

the king laughs lightly. "We need to work on your stamina, peach. You barely lasted two rounds. Though, maybe I should've gone a little easier on you–"

reader pushes him away, beating her fists against his chest as his laughter rings in her ears. she can feel her face redden.

after getting over her fluster, reader is...surprised. she almost can't believe that macaque would take that deal, but–

...she did ask for his freedom in exchange for hers. maybe...maybe she shouldn't be surprised that he took it. maybe she shouldn't be surprised if he never comes back for her. it isn't fair that he should suffer if he doesn't have to.

perhaps he finally realized that, too.

reader doesn't want to believe that macaque would abandon her, but...he doesn't come back. or give any sign that he's around.

reader mourns, and she's not sure why.

-----

macaque was just happy that she's alive. wukong hadn't hurt her, at least not physically.

the same couldn't be said for him, obviously.

wukong had been using him as a personal punching bag for however long since his last failed attempt at freeing his favorite (not so mortal anymore) mortal. not that macaque couldn't take it, but he was getting very tired of being chained up in this stupid cave. and he was very, very tired of not having access to the shadows. another fun quirk of his shackles.

macaque let out a frustrated sigh. he needed to free reader. he...he promised he'd help her get away from the monkey king. he needed to rethink his plan–

his internal monologue was interrupted by the sound of leisurely footsteps.

"You know, I really hadn't expected her to try and find you." wukong drawls as he saunters in. "I guess I should have, given how stubborn she can be."

"One of the things I like about her," macaque chuffs.

wukong huffs out a humorless laugh. he makes his way closer to his once-brother. macaque stiffens, readying himself for an attack. the tired smile on wukong's face makes his fur stand on end. at this proximity he can't help but notice how messy the king's fur is, and that–

...that he smells very strongly of reader.

macaque feels a surge of protective jealousy, despite his position.

"Our little tug-of-war was fun for a while, but I'm tired of it," the monkey king sighs. "I wanna settle down, y'know? Maybe have some kids, really focus on my kingdom."

macaque flinches backward when wukong kneels down in front of him. the look on his face is one of somebody who's been dealing with a particularly annoying pest and is absolutely done with it.

wukong stands. he summons the cudgel, stepping back.

"You're in the way of that, bud."

macaque doesn't have the chance to think before the staff comes down on his head.

[everlasting-rainfall]

Hi I’m all caught in the manga and I just had to know , what are your thoughts/hcs on yandere gear 5 Luffy 👀 love to hear your thoughts (sorry if that was a spoiler it wasn’t my intention to spoil it for u )

Also hi hope your doing ok and happy holidays 💗🥰

🌸anon

Oh happy holidays to you too, Darling! I’ve been well if you don’t count the occasional crying breakdown here and there but I hope that you’re doing well too just without the breakdown crying part!

Also don’t worry, you didn’t spoil anything for me!

Anyways enough about me, I’m not gonna lie that I really like Luffy’s Gear 5th form like it’s absolutely terrifying but in a good way. I’ve actually been laughing occasionally about the idea of Gear 5 activating when Luffy was about to be eaten by the Sea King as a kid as I think that’s a bit funny like suddenly Gear 5 child!

Terrifying to imagine but also kinda funny if you think about the chaos that would ensure

Anywho before I get too far off track, let’s get into it!

!-MINORS DO NOT INTERACT AT ALL-!

!-POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNINGS-!

SPOILERS FOR GEAR 5, Kidnapping, Stalking, Near Destruction of an Island, Heavy Size Difference, NSFW at the bottom

!-POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNINGS-!

!-MINORS DO NOT INTERACT AT ALL-!

So honestly with your request, let’s pretend that Luffy is always in Gear 5 mode as that will make this easier for me to write like there’s no such thing as turning it off now that he’s activated it

I feel like catching the attention of Monkey D. Luffy in the sense of him being a Yandere is already bad enough but what makes it worse is the idea that he can’t turn it off anymore and I feel like when it comes to this form, his emotions are amplified

The best example that I can give for what I mean is like if Luffy was already a Yandere then these tendencies have been amplified big time like if he’s willing to pick a fight with the World Government over Robin right now then now he’s willing to completely demolish anything that even vaguely threatens his crew now

Doesn’t even matter if it’s like he doesn’t actually know if said person wants to hurt his crew like let’s say that someone like knocks over Chopper while they’re running causing him to get hurt just a little bit. Unless the crew can convince him not to or manage to distract him then that person is done for

Also you’d think that dealing with Luffy raiding the fridge would be a pain in the ass now, yeah? It still is but if Luffy has any feelings buried deep down for some of his crewmates then Gear 5 has brought it up to the surface

So Luffy might be able to be distracted from raiding the fridge through a little something from Sanji like a kiss or something but that might result in Sanji having a hard time walking without a small limp for a good while afterwards but whatever keeps them from starving at sea

Chopper definitely gets Platonic Yandere’d to hell and back like he’s basically kind of acting like a dad, I’d say that you should probably check Luffy’s temperature as he’s actually being a semi responsible parent like telling him to eat healthy and not really allowing him to go off anywhere alone

As for if he had an S/O in this form like if you were dating Luffy before he awakened Gear 5? I’d recommend just honestly getting ready to never be out of his sight like you’re gonna get up to head to another room and he’s already getting up to follow you

He’ll be following you just about anywhere that he can and if I’m right then he’s much bigger in that form too, yeah? So let’s say that he can change his size and when he’s all big then chances are that if he doesn’t like what things look like then he’ll just pick you up and stuff you in his pocket for a while

What better way to keep you safe than to keep you right with him after all? Although even as much as you tell him that a battle with another pirate crew is not enough of a reason to shove you in his pocket, it’s not like he’s gonna listen

Much like with any Yandere too, don’t even think of attempting to escape as not only is he impossible to escape even without Gear 5 but now he can literally just lift the roof of any building that you’re hiding in and grab you like he’s playing with a dollhouse

I wouldn’t recommend at all turning yourself into the Marines to escape him either as that just sparks one hell of a frenzy, you thought that doing this sort of thing before Gear 5 was bad? You ain’t seen nothing yet…

If it wasn’t for the others then he would probably unintentionally destroy the whole damn island alongside the Marine base just to get you back especially if the Marines have roughed you up

You cant fight him either, that goes without saying so it’s really better to just do as the rest of the crew has and accept that this is your new life being watched over by an extremely possessive sun god who refuses to let anything happen to any of you…

I’d also recommend getting used to being in Luffy’s bed… Lord knows that when that man fucks you now, it’s gonna be a marathon that leaves you unable to think straight with legs so numb that you’re certain you’ll never regain feeling in them…

Honestly though imagine him being absolutely gigantic and playing with your body like you’re some kind of doll, imagine like laying in one of his hands while a single fingertip of his rubs at the area between your legs or he tries to give you oral but just winds up licking your whole body

It probably isn’t the worst thing but it’s not pleasant although let’s hope that he never wants to stick his dick in you while he’s big like this as you’ll be stretched to absolute hell and back… Like I legitimately think that you’d need either a wheelchair afterwards or a mobility aid for the rest of your life…

[soaps-mohawk]

I am... Desperately waiting for chapter 9, no pressure, but I read the last two back to back and I gripping my sheets in anticipation. I was expecting to read that Ghost had a similar experience with his father, but then you threw me from the chopper with no parachute and no warning. Like holy fuck. Also he seemed... Upset that he Price was happy to make the Omega happy and get her what she likes.. is it because he was having difficulties moving past his trauma and nightmares as well?

If I had a way to just plug my brain into the computer and turn the images in my head into 7k words with little to no effort I would do it, believe me 😭

I mean, you're not entirely wrong. I'm using OG Ghost's backstory for this one too, like a lot of writers do, so that's definitely going to come into play later as well when reader starts revealing more and more of her backstory later on.

See, here's the thing. Ghost and death are best friends, right? They follow each other like shadows. Ghost has seen many, many people die and he has killed many himself, a lot of which were probably omegas that got caught in the crossfire. So you'd think some nameless omega getting shot in front of him wouldn't stick with him like that. Like yeah, that's pretty brutal for his first mission, but he's done far worse things since then. So, something like that shouldn't bother him.

Until, suddenly there's an omega being added to their pack. There's an unwanted dynamic being forced upon all of them and he's, of course, the least happy about it. They don't need some weak, mindless omega. They don't need a loose end, a vulnerability.

Then this omega shows up, and obviously something's off from the start. There's things not adding up, things not quite right with the omega and the situation. Suddenly this omega isn't some mindless subservient creature, it's a real person with a name and a face and he's sitting there watching his beta and Gaz and his Captain slowly fall for this thing that none of them had wanted. I mean, Price was fighting adding an omega for months before he was finally told no, you're getting one because the higher-ups said so.

So now, suddenly, there's this real, tangible thing in front of him. He's watching his beta slowly develop feelings for this omega and now he wants to pursue a bond with the omega and that's something Ghost will have to put up with, because of course he's not going to tell Johnny he can't. There's this real thing in their lives that would destroy each of them if something happened to it. He'd be forced to watch his pack, the only people he cares about in the world, fall apart if this thing was ever taken from them.

Now this nameless omega is beginning to take form in his dreams again. He's being haunted by something that happened probably fifteen years ago, something that had been lost in a haze of blood and violence. This omega that he couldn't save suddenly begins to have a face and a name, it's becoming real, something he can see, something he can lose.

The faceless omega has become the reader.

There's a real fear there now. Their lives are dangerous. They have enemies. If someone found out about the omega, it would be so easy to distract them, to tear them apart from the inside. He's scared for the first time in a long time because now there's something to lose. Something innocent and free from the bloodshed of their jobs, of their lives. Losing a member of the pack is something they all had to come to terms with. Any mission could be their last, they could die at any moment and that's something they've all had to accept. They were fine with that, they understood. It's part of the lifestyle. It's what they agreed to when they signed their names on the sheet of paper.

Now there's an omega.

Defenseless, blind to the true dangers of their lives, naive to the real horrors they're capable of. The omega didn't have a choice in this. If one of them doesn't return, then that's just the dangers of the job. If their omega is gone?

It will destroy all of them.

Well...that turned into way more than I expected but damn that felt good to finally say. Lord that's what I've been holding in ever since chapter 1 when y'all were asking "what about Ghost??" "What's Ghost's deal?" "What's going to happen to Ghost?" I've been sitting on this. I've been holding it in for so long you have no idea how good that was to finally put into words.

Obviously there's more and things will slowly get uncovered as the story goes on, but yeah. This...this is what that last little part of Chapter 8 means. This is really what Ghost was saying when he told the reader about his nightmares, about what happened to that omega he didn't even know the name of, the one he couldn't save.

It was never about some omega, it's always been the reader.

[groenendaelfic]

Faroe Gone Final Chapter Sneak Peak

So there's still lots of editing I need to do before I can post the whole thing, but with tomorrow looming I thought I'd share something "happy" and "cheerful" to distract y'all.

Have fun reading the beginning of the final chapter and hope you enjoy! 😇

Simon doesn't know if it's the sudden fog, his tears, or the fact that all he wants to do is be a fool and turn back around again—the first one, definitely the first one—but he drives back to Tórshavn at almost a snail's pace.

It doesn't matter. He has well over a day until the ferry makes its return journey to Denmark and nothing else to do except go over his time with Wilhelm again and again, replaying the good times and the pleasurable times and wondering if he could have said or done anything to change the outcome of his journey—other than realizing that all of his feelings were mere nostalgic illusion and fantasy, which of course turned out to not be the case.

Quite the opposite. Real Wilhelm was so much more than what Simon made him out to be in his head. There's so much he's missed. So much he doesn't know yet and which he desperately wants to find out.

It hurts, and yet there's nothing else Simon can do, no other choice which wouldn't hurt more sooner or later.

No. Simon tried. He did the best he could and that is enough. It has to be enough.

Simon had to leave while he still could.

The road ahead of him is empty, no one else in sight. No people, no cars, no sheep. Nothing except the wet, cold fog swallowing up everything and a rushing noise in his ears which might be the wind or the ocean or Simon himself.

Simon blinks away another tear and keeps driving, turning up the heat and hoping it will help.

It doesn't.

On the next island he passes a camper van. It's parked, and Simon thinks he can make out a brave tourist trying to take a picture, but he isn't sure. It's not as if there's much to see except an endless wall of grayish white.

Maybe that's the fascination.

Wilhelm told him that there are thirty-seven words for fog in the Faroese language, and while Simon laughed and told him to stop kidding, he's sure he's already experienced half of them, and it's only been two days.

Okay, that might be an exaggeration, but contemplating the uselessness of taking pictures of fog is a lot more bearable than lingering on the fact that he'll never get to be with Wilhelm again, never feel that satisfied ache in his muscles, not like this, and really how long can a grown man cry before he's all out of tears?

Pretty long he guesses.

Simon once stopped Ayub's baby daughter from attempting a daring escape on all fours, and Simon swears she was crying forever. Not that he blames her.

Crying is cathartic if it's anything, but if she could produce that many tears because of nothing more than a foiled plan to explore the stairway, then how many will Simon be able to shed before he's all wrung out? He’s a lot taller than her after all and guaranteed to not forget the reason for his tears even after being presented with some candy.

Simon doesn't want to know.

Simon wants to keep driving through this fog forever, because all that's waiting for him at its end is the mundanity of his never-changing life and a scandal revealing the Crown Prince to have been the victim of underage revenge porn thanks to his second cousin and presumed successor, and that is guaranteed to make it worse, to drag Simon’s name back into public awareness.

He should probably call home and warn his mom, warn Sara, but facing them will be torture of an entirely different kind, and also the investigative journalist they chose is a good one, one bound to build a case and not blindly believe her sources before going public, so there is still time.

Not too much though, as there is an impending deadline if the Royal Court and the Prime Minister are to be believed, or at least Simon would really prefer news of August’s deeds to overshadow him being taken into the line of succession.

Not that he’s so naive as to think a mere article can do more than delay the proceedings at best—although one can always hope—and ideally the journalist and whoever else gets a say in choosing the right time will see it the same way, but all of that is still more than half a week away, so why burden his family before he absolutely has to?

No, he's not going to call home yet, but maybe he should reserve a room before he gets back to the capital.

He decides to do it the old fashioned way and pulls over at the next opportunity. A viewpoint, or so he presumes the sign a few meters away from him would tell him if only it was clear enough to see.

He wipes at his cheeks and opens his phone. There are plenty of options for him to stay at. Small, privately owned places, holiday homes with kitchens and living rooms, quaint little hotels doing their best to sell their Nordic, rustic charm to tourists wealthy enough to make it there, and of course a camping ground, because unlike Sweden, the Faroe Islands don't allow one to set up camp anywhere else.

Simon doesn't choose any of them. He wants a warm but bland room, boring and inoffensive and as likely to be in Tórshavn as on the other side of the world.

Something as far from Wilhelm's colorful and most definitely handmade and expensive wooden furniture as he can get, and so he books himself a room at the first—and only—international hotel chain he can find, something he'd never do otherwise, and pretends that he's looking forward to it. The hotel has a fitness center after all and well over a hundred rooms. Simon is almost going to feel like back home in Uppsala.

Not.

He sighs and makes sure he received a confirmation for his booking, before he throws his phone onto the passenger seat and sighs again.

Somehow, magically, or rather because he's on a windy archipelago in the middle of nowhere, the fog is starting to clear. He can see a few meters of grass now, and then a cliff, and below it the cold, dark ocean pretending at being calm.

Simon wants the fog back, but when has he ever gotten what he wanted, and by the time he's back on the road he swears he can see a tiny patch of blue sky up ahead.

The hotel is on the outskirts of town and exactly as impersonal as Simon hoped it would be. He isn't hungry, and so he goes straight to his room and falls face first into bed.

The sheets are white and the pillows are white and they smell bland and clean and inoffensive, nothing at all like Wilhelm, and why would they?

Simon hates them. Simon also hates the hotel, but it's not as if he's in the mood for sightseeing, and as he isn't willing to take a shower yet—what? He's alone, no one's going to smell him, and isn't that the entire problem?—all that's left to do is turn on the TV, because he's for sure not touching his phone again any time soon.

Not when that would mean having it confirmed with every passing minute that he was a fool to leave Wilhelm his number. Wilhelm isn't going to call, but Simon would rather live in denial for as long as he can.

The TV does not greet him with an info screen as Simon expected, but an English speaking news channel, the volume turned up way too loudly, and Simon turns it off again as fast as he can.

Wallowing in self pity it is then.

Unfortunately Simon's usual answer to bouts of self-pity—angrily jerking off to thoughts of Wilhelm—is not an option right now, because Wilhelm is the entire reason for his misery, and so he grudgingly reaches for his phone after all and starts up a game which would work much better on a computer screen.

He's just about to finish off the newest boss, when a text message pops up.

If I do it, it reads. Then can we

The sentence stops halfway through, and Simon almost has a heart attack.

The delay in his reaction is enough for him to be killed instead, but it's not as if Simon notices.

Wilhelm. It has to be Wilhelm.

He taps the message, and while that makes it larger, it doesn't change the words.

He almost calls Wilhelm back right away, because Wilhelm is swaying, is reconsidering, and Simon wants that, he wants it so bad, to have Wilhelm back in his arms and his life, but also Simon already told Wilhelm that he can't be the only reason Wilhelm returns, that this is a life changing decision if there was ever any, and that Wilhelm needs to make it for himself and not for a hope of them maybe working out, and so he doesn't.

Instead he waits an excruciating minute and then another, just in case Wilhelm wants to add something or pressed send too soon, but no further message follows.

Simon curses and swears and kicks up his feet, because now he has hope again and that is great, but also torture. He doesn't want Wilhelm to get the wrong impression, doesn't want him to think that Simon wouldn't be willing to pick right up where they left off if he could—in the bedroom that is, not when it comes to fighting—and maybe they could also go on a date which has been nineteen years in coming.

Simon wants that. Simon really wants that. How can he not, now that he's had a taste, has spent time with Wilhelm, just Wilhelm, has had breakfast with him and done chores with him and played with his dog. Simon wants Wilhelm back, now more so than ever.

Simon knows he's an idiot, thinking of romance and dating when he just left the love of his life behind, and even if he hadn't, a returning Wilhelm would have much different things on his mind. He'd have to. He'd have no other choice. Things like his dying mother and the throne and the public reacting to his return after ten years in exile.

Wilhelm wouldn't have time for Simon, no matter how much Wilhelm would want him. Not for weeks and not for months. Simon would have to sneak into an assortment of palaces with the eyes of the entire nation on nothing but them if he wanted any time with Wilhelm at all, and Simon wouldn't want that. Simon doesn't want secrecy and sneaking and lies. Not that'd even be an option, what with the press and curious bystanders everywhere.

There is another option of course. The only one Wilhelm would ever consider coming back for. The one which at first glance sounds perfect because it means being with Wilhelm and standing by his side. It would also mean giving up everything else in Simon's life though, but what has he really got to lose? Why stop being foolish now?

Wilhelm told Simon that he's it for him. Wilhelm loves him. Simon's already traveled across an ocean. What's one tiny text message compared to that? Why can't he be selfish just this once and fuck the risk and the idiocy and the fear of what will be in one year? In five? In ten?

It all might end in disaster, but it might also not, and why should he be miserable if there's even the slightest chance at some fleeting happiness. After all it's not as if the email Wilhelm sent isn't bound to upend Simon's life anyway, and it's not as if Wilhelm is actually going to come.

Simon wants to be happy.

Simon wants to be happy and now there's a chance for it and so why not take it? He's done stupider things before, like coming here in the first place, so he might as well go all the way.

He doesn't text Wilhelm a yes, doesn't make any promises. He texts one word and one word alone, followed by a number, the name of the hotel and his room number, and maybe that's the biggest promise of all.

He doesn't regret it. He couldn't stay, not without making his inevitable departure even worse, but now he's done his part and the ball is in Wilhelm's court, all the balls are, and Simon is here and waiting.

For a ferry. For Wilhelm. For the life they could have had.

Fuck.

[icechippies]

Unnamed Twomp fic

Ok so first TWOMP fic, I'm posting it here first because it needs a name for Ao3 and I dont have a good name yet. Each chapter will be a reblog of this one by me so keep an eye out, I am going to post the first two tonight.

Tags that it would probably have on Ao3: Angst and hurt/comfort, Argos/Mr Plant, Medical stuff, chainsaw Argos, bad medical decisions -Or something like that at least, idk Ao3 tags at the top of my head.

I wrote a LOT of notes to share with this. I'll uh, I'll just let them do the talking, chapters will be reblogged from this post as I decide I want to. When I post to Ao3 Kudos are appreciated but comments are what really help.

Notes: 

I am sick and haven’t been able to sleep for the past two nights except for a nyquill induced nap yesterday. I want to write but I don’t want to deal with 8+ characters in a scene, solution? Angsty hurt/comfort of everyone’s favorite murder boyfriends. This is my first TWOMP fic so it’s going to be a little iffy on the characterization I think, I’m testing the waters. If I over explain stuff in the notes it’s because I’m practically delirious. I will continue writing this until such time as I am no longer sick, which may be a while

I think Mr. Plant normally has some vines, but they are vestigial (Like how whales still have leg bones or humans have tailbones) and don’t really serve much of a purpose and mostly come from his neck where he turns from plant to humanoid.

A witches’ broom is a growth on a plant that can be caused by fungal, bacterial, or viral infections but can also be the result of random genetic mutation (Fasciation). It causes patches of extremely dense, unregulated growth. Viral witches' brooms often have no cure, the only thing that can really be done is remove the plant to prevent it from spreading, rose rosette virus being one of them. If left untreated, the dense growth of the plant will catch water and bacteria and start to rot, slowly killing the plant. 

Anyway, pretty horrific for a plant. This story basically expands upon that real life disease but reimagining it in a way that could affect a plant-person thing.

No, Argos was absolutely not invited. He made a copy of Mr. Plant’s key because picking the lock got too tiresome after the twenty-somethingth time.

You see, I never watched Happy Tree Friends, and I only saw one episode of DHMIS. I was watching a secret third horrific thing in middle school, Cyriak videos. And oooweee, it shows sometimes.

I think Argos went to the library a lot before getting obsessed with Mr.Plant not in the nerdy computer geek way but with the same vibes as a kid who goes to the library during lunch to distract them from the fact that they don’t have any friends and as such has basically read every book there.

The Argos chainsaw photoshoot lives in my head and the bastard doesn’t even pay rent.

This was started before the void 1 stuff came out and I was so right, wasn’t I? I predicted void 1 mutated things, I predicted Ghost adding Respite to the setlist, just call me the fanfiction prophet.

(other note: I started this like 6 months ago, I have had time to edit since I was sick lol)

[tickle-bugs]

Chase the Memory of it Still

Summary: Clark is deeply, madly, head-over-heels in love with the one person he can't have. What happens when he can have him, if only for a little while? Fake dating friends to lovers superbat hehe

this one's for @fickle-tiction as payment for being a goblin in her dms LOL love ya!! the sequel to this is in progress >:) also it literally doesn't matter but vicki has a jersey shore/boston accent to me. i won't justify it.

Edit: now with a sequel, But You Were Mine

Clark has never really cared much about his paycheck—not in the grand scheme of things, anyway—but fuck he really doesn’t get paid enough. 

“Sorry, Mr…Kent, but no press is allowed at the event. You’re more than welcome to wait outside with everyone else.” One of the guards—a bald fella who looks way too excited to turn him away—crosses his arms. 

“…in the freezing rain.” Clark attempts to wipe his glasses on a dry part of his outfit. All he does is push the water around on the lenses. His suit’s about three shades darker from the storm. Why didn’t he wear his coat? 

“You all seem quite dedicated. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” The guard smiles at him and shifts his weight, looking straight ahead as if all six feet of dripping Kryptonian have just vanished. The doorman reopens the door and shows Clark his people—a swarming mob of reporters hunched behind metal barriers in windbreakers, using plastic bags to keep their livelihoods safe. 

“Thank you, gentlemen.” Clark clenches his fist until it shakes. Inhale, hold…exhale. He came all the way out to cold, rainy Gotham—wait. Gotham.

He glances past the guards and sifts through the noise of the gala until he finds the one heartbeat he knows better than anything. He smiles. 

“Oh, my mistake. I thought he hadn’t shown up. My partner is right there.” Clark points. They both turn to look—would’ve been an excellent time to subdue them if he was feeling more brash—as he waves across the floor at Bruce. 

He looks spectacular, honestly. His hair is doing that ‘I woke up this perfect’ messy thing, his shoulders are unfairly crisp under a three piece suit that’s probably worth more than Clark’s rent, and he just…glows. He’s chatting with a young woman who looks more than happy to fawn over him. Clark’s no longer staring but gazing, he feels it, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do. Maybe Bruce should stop being so…distracting. 

He sees the surprise and hears the murmured ‘Clark?’ under Bruce’s breath. He thankfully doesn’t say anything else as he approaches, just glides over with a glass of champagne. 

It’s at this moment that what he’s done, what he’s implied really sinks in, but it’s too late to turn back now. 

“Hey, I left my invite at your place and these…upstanding citizens can’t find room in their heart to let me by. That’s what I get for showing up to support my partner, huh?” He hopes his emphasis isn’t too much, but he really, really doesn’t want to stand outside after all of this effort. 

Bruce’s expression lands somewhere between pleasure and disbelief, minute and restrained as always. It’s only the uptick of his eyebrow and the slight narrowing of his eyes that gives him away. Bordering on amusement, but not quite. 

“That’s unfortunate. What seems to be the problem?” Bruce sips. The guards shift uncomfortably. Clark tries to quell his shit-eating grin. 

“I guess they think you’re outta my league.” Clark can’t help but snort a little. Bruce rolls his eyes. 

“Mr. Wayne, can we see your invitation please?” Baldy clears his throat and plays official, knowing damn well it won’t make a difference. Bruce hands it over without a second glance.  

“You look handsome.” Clark winks at him. He could smell Bruce’s cologne before he even walked over. At this proximity, he’s starting to get a little weak in the knees. 

“You don’t look too bad yourself.” Bruce reaches past and adjusts Clark’s tie. Nice touch. 

“Alright, Mr. Kent, you can enter.” The guards shuffle aside. Just to be an asshole, Clark shakes all the water off his form like a dog, splattering both the guards with the rainwater they tried to keep him in. Their shouts of confusion and disgust are the perfect soundtrack to his entry. 

Bruce offers an arm as if he hadn’t seen a thing and leads him over to the coat check, as if he would have a coat to check. He takes Clark’s glasses off his nose, dries them with his kerchief, and puts them back. Clark wrinkles his nose at the gesture—it’s so Bruce to just…do it himself. 

“Thank you. I’m so sorry,” Clark sighs. The lenses are terribly smudged. He plans for a headache.

“You owe me. Boyfriend? Really?” Bruce passes him a glass of champagne. 

“I know, I know. I tried to get by as press and when I saw you, I panicked. Lex is here and Lois and I have been trying to corner the bastard for weeks—“ 

“Hold my hand.” Bruce extends a palm. Clark chokes on his drink. If champagne wasn’t trying to migrate into his lungs, he would’ve taken a serious crack at x-raying and double-checking it was really his Bruce. 

“Clearly you’ve never done this before,” he murmurs, the very same palm sliding down Clark’s back. “Casual affection is key. We’re being watched.”

Bruce subtly laces their fingers together as they walk through the crowd. Clark tries to appear as put-together and boyfriendy as possible, but when he looks around, every single eye in the place is on him and Bruce. He starts to sweat and doesn't take another breath until they arrive at a little private corner on the far side of the room. 

“So, you were saying about Lex?” Bruce leans against the wall, scanning the room over the rim of his glass. His eyes catch back on Clark, warm and intense. 

“I, uh…he’s here.” Clark swallows. He’s starting to feel dizzy. This is a lot. He’s used to the grit of Batman or the gentle gruffness of Bruce. Bruce Wayne is a whole different creature. 

“Mhm. He’s looking for R&D investments again. I was told it’d be rude for me not to attend.” A wry smile crosses Bruce’s features. He breaks eye contact to scan and it gives Clark the wherewithal to finish his thought. 

“Lex is pulling his whole ‘get rid of anyone with superpowers’ shtick again. Really mad at me specifically, as usual. I’d bet you ten bucks he has a Kryptonite ray upstairs. He’s probably in the process of building more…or something worse.”

“You have a plan?” 

“I was going to go up there and, yknow—“ he mimes smashing something— “but I can hear about twenty people whispering about us and I don’t want to make you look bad. Not that you look bad, you look great! I just know your reputation is important and I put you in a weird spot and I’m sorry—“ 

Bruce shushes him. Clark blinks and splutters, because who shushes people, but suddenly Bruce is so close that he can’t think. He can see the tiny scar on Bruce’s lip, the one he lies and says was from a household accident. Clark wants to brush his thumb over it. 

He feels entirely normal about Bruce Wayne. 

“Stop overthinking. You’ll hurt yourself.” Bruce roughly pats Clark’s cheek. Clark has to actively shift his focus from the calloused warmth of Bruce’s hands to his eyes.

“Okay, ouch.” Clark rolls his eyes. “I’m just…this is your element. I’m not good at this.” 

“If you’re uncomfortable, you don’t have to stay.” Bruce tilts Clark’s chin down. Brushes some schmutz off his face. 

“I got us into this. It’s alright.” Clark can’t look him in the eye. He’s so painfully aware of all the ways Bruce is touching. A perfectly choreographed performance for the outside eye. An act.

For a moment, he indulges himself, allows his mind to wander to a different world where Bruce might do this for him anyway. Somewhere so gently domestic that their rituals of touch are sacred. He wonders what it might be like to have a Bruce that’d dote on him like this, even while fussing at him. 

Of course he has it now, but it’s not the same. Not when the eyes of hungry spectators cling to them from every shadow. 

“I’ll arrange for someone to pick you up.” He already has his phone out and is halfway through dialing by the time Clark can grab him. Bruce spins out of the hold and starts walking away, still dialing. 

“Bruce.” Clark yanks him back by the bicep. “I can survive mingling for a few hours. It’s no different than using a cover. What do I need to know?” Clark releases him only when it’s clear his stubborn streak is done rearing its head. Bruce works his jaw for a while and then sighs. 

“When you’re talking to these people, they’re going to try and get to the center of you. Try not to lie. The truth will always be easier to remember. Just repackage it.” Bruce adjusts the clean lines of Clark’s suit with his fingertips, procedural and routine. Clark wonders briefly how many times he’s done this. 

“Makes sense. Anything else?” Clark takes a measured breath. 

“We have to sell this. People need to see easy affection before they believe that we’re…doing okay. Now, imagine someone’s watching us—“

“Are they?” Clark tries very hard not to scan the room. He starts to sweat. 

“Shh. Someone’s watching us and you notice. They’re definitely gossiping. What do you do?” Bruce raises an eyebrow. The light of the obnoxious chandelier on the ceiling gives him a gentle glow. His eyes crinkle at the corners just slightly, even without a smile, and it’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. The surge of emotion in Clark’s chest knocks him off balance. 

“Well, staring isn’t—“ 

Clark kisses him breathless. 

Bruce leans into it, one hand cupping the back of Clark’s neck. There’s a perfect sunburst of giddy adrenaline—his hands find Bruce’s hips and pull them closer. Bruce’s heart thunders in his chest yet his hands are steady as they brace against Clark’s back. Clark cups Bruce’s jaw and brushes his fingers through the gentle stubble there, lets it tickle at his fingers. 

Clark breaks them apart with a quiet, triumphant chuckle—years worth of watching, waiting, and yearning all cresting towards this one moment. He can hear their comfortable status quo shatter as he does, but it’s worth it. It has to be. 

“Wow.” Bruce smooths his hands down Clark’s chest. He can’t tell anymore if the heartbeat thundering in his ears is Bruce’s or his own but he doesn’t care to know—if it’s the former, he’ll combust. Or faint. Somewhere in there. 

“How’d I do?” Clark manages to adjust his glasses without snapping them clean in half. 

“I might have a few pointers,” Bruce clears his throat and looks away. 

“We have plenty of time.” Clark steals another kiss and thanks the universe that Lois isn’t here to talk some sense into him.

……..

“So, you and Mr. Wayne, hm?” A blonde woman with a massive fur shawl wound through her arms sidles up with a glass of champagne. Clark freezes at the snack table. 

“Hm?” He hides the multiple horderves in his hand behind his back. He’s very acutely aware that he shouldn’t be unsupervised right now, but Bruce is being flocked by investors with no hope for escape. He sneaks a pleading glance in Bruce’s direction.

They do lock eyes above the crowd, but the horde encircling him has the tenacity of seagulls on the boardwalk. Bruce apologizes with his eyes. Clark resigns himself to perish. 

“Phyllis Hough, a pleasure.” She extends her hand to him and he takes it out of practice, kissing the knuckles. Her skin is so dry and clammy that he has to bite back the urge to gag. 

“Clark Kent, Daily Planet.” He presses his lips into something like a smile. 

“Forgive me for intruding, but you’ve been the talk of the party since you arrived. How did you and Bruce meet?” She sidles too close, like they’re sharing a secret about someone else. Her demeanor reminds him too much of the foxes that used to terrorize his chicken coop growing up. 

The truth is always easier to remember. Just repackage it. 

“Well, he…needed my help. We met through work. We realized we worked well together and after that, everything sort of fell in place.” Clark shrugs. 

“That’s just darling. My husband and I met on a mission trip to Ghana.” She points to a deflated puddle of a man who’s leaned up on the bar, looking like he’d rather disappear than be here.

“A mission trip? That’s so…necessary.” Clark smiles and tries not to throw up in his mouth.

“I adore helping the less fortunate. It’s a hobby dear to my heart.” She places a hand on her chest, showing off the obnoxious diamonds on her bony fingers. Diamonds likely stolen from the same places she claims to ‘help’. 

“Ah, Mrs. Hough. Looking lovely as always. Do you mind if I steal Clark from you?” Oh thank god.

Bruce gives her a quick spin, using the move to squeeze closer to Clark’s side. He winds an arm around Bruce’s waist. Bruce rests his hand overtop Clark’s and he can’t help but grin like an idiot. He’ll never get over the little zing of his nerves every time they brush hands. 

“So soon? We were just getting to know one another.” Mrs. Hough tries to slide back into their space. Bruce stares her down, but not unkindly—just a blank, mannequin-like stare and a smile that almost looks real. 

A tense silence blooms between them. Clark’s sure if he listens just a bit harder, he’ll hear Bruce cursing this woman to high-heaven in his head. The silence stretches on.

“Forgive us. We haven’t spent much time together this week. I’ll admit I’m a little clingy. I never like to be far from him.” He cups Bruce’s cheek and gives him a quick, chaste kiss. Bruce chases his lips and lingers longer. Clark actually gets a little lost in it until a feeble cough splits them apart. 

“Well, who am I to interrupt love?” She strains the word strangely. “I best take my leave. I’ll see you around, gentlemen.” She waves over her shoulder and traipses back into the crowd. As soon as she leaves, Clark heaves a deep, weathered sigh. 

“How do you do this? I’d rather chew off my own fingers than rub elbows with these people.” Clark takes Bruce’s glass from his hand and downs it. The fizz is nice, but it might as well be water. He starts munching on his poached horderves. 

“Trust me, it’s not fun for me either.” Bruce grumbles, plucking a cracker with crab dip from Clark’s little stash. 

“Why do it then? Why pretend?” 

“It’s part of the job. You know that better than anyone.” There’s something so very tired in Bruce’s eyes. Even as he smiles, it’s empty and rueful—the light doesn’t make it to his eyes. 

“You don’t have to do that with me.” Clark squeezes his shoulder. Bruce’s gaze drops to the floor and his shoulder sag minutely, the tiniest give in his guard that Clark’s privileged enough to see. For a moment, he’s not Bruce Wayne but Bruce. 

He doesn’t lean to catch Bruce’s eye—he knows he hates that—so he just stands there and rubs circles into his shoulder. 

“I like who you are under the mask.” Clark offers him another cracker. Bruce takes it and taps it against Clark’s last ones, as if they’re holding glasses, and pops it in his mouth. Clark snickers. Only Bruce could make something so dorky look so charming. 

“Am I dreaming, or is that you, Bruce?” A feminine voice cuts through the din with ease. Clark catches the moment that Bruce’s muscles lock up and the eyeroll before he turns around. Just like that, Bruce Wayne returns. 

A woman in a long green gown slinks across the floor. Her posture sets her aside from everyone else in the room—her stance is powerful and lithe. 

“Vicki. It’s been a while.” Bruce gives her that practiced smile he’s been wearing most of the evening. His posture is so unnecessarily rigid that Clark rubs his back before he can think better of it.

“How’ve you been, Brucie? Hear you’re gettin’ into some interesting trouble. Speaking of trouble—“ 

“Vicki Vale, Gotham Gazette.” She sticks out her hand to shake. Tall, blonde, terrifying eyes—yeah, he could see how she would be Bruce’s type. Definitely an ex. 

“Clark Kent, Daily Planet.” He shakes her hand. “I thought press weren’t allowed in.” 

“I have my ways. So do you, it seems.” She winks and passes him a flute of champagne. He graciously accepts. 

“Ah, well. Perks of being around this guy I suppose.” Clark bumps Bruce’s hip a little. Bruce looks so startled by the motion that Clark can’t help but laugh a little. 

“Listen, Clark, I’ve been with Bruce before and—“ she leans in close but doesn’t whisper, like she’s giving the world’s most public secret— “He’s honestly a softie under all the suits and cars.”

“I am not a softie. I can hear you.” Bruce shoves his hands into his pockets. Even though he’s turtling, there’s a levity to it. 

“He has a thing for stubborn asses who get into trouble, ‘cause he is one. If that’s anything like you, you’ve got a good thing going here.” She smacks Clark’s chest with the back of her hand. Her honesty is…jarring, but not unfun. 

“Oh, do you now?” Clark raises an eyebrow at Bruce over the rim of his glass. 

“It’s not a thing. I don’t have a thing.” Bruce grumbles, the faintest hint of pink tinging his cheeks. 

“Kinda sounds like you have a thing, Brucie.” Clark grins. Bruce scowls. He might be pushing his luck but it’s the only fun he’s really had all night. 

“You two been together long?“ Vicki snatches a fresh glass from a passing waiter like a viper. 

“Few months. Feels like longer.” Bruce doesn’t skip a beat. Clark hopes his smile makes Bruce’s tone sound less under duress. 

“Wow, that’s pretty serious. Congrats.” She raises her glass in salute. Clark wants to cut in—that absolutely felt sarcastic—but Bruce gives his hand a squeeze. 

“Can’t imagine life without him.” Bruce gives him such an earnest look that Clark has to avert his eyes before he gets too hopeful. His stomach twists. Play the part. 

“Do you got somethin’ you like most about him?” Vicki locks onto Clark and he jumps a little. She dissects him with her gaze in that way only journalists can. He does his best not to shuffle under her scrutiny. 

“Vicki, I hope this isn’t an interview.” Clark gives her his best stern stare. 

“If it was, you botched it.” She bumps shoulders with him. “I’m kidding. Off the record. I haven’t seen Bruce glow like this, ever. Just lookin’ for your secret.“ 

That sends a sweet, traitorous flutter through his ribcage. 

“Do you want to dance?” Bruce abruptly turns on his heel and shoves his hand into Clark’s personal space. 

“Do…you want to dance?” Clark furrows his brow. Bruce looks like he might explode. 

“Come on.” Bruce pulls Clark onto the dance floor. 

“Bye, Vicki!” Clark calls over his shoulder, but Bruce is spinning him into the gentle embrace of violin song faster than he can resist. They glide far, far away from that corner of the room, losing her verdant silhouette in the crowd.

“Be honest. Did you just run from your ex?” Clark laughs, trying to keep in time with Bruce’s steps. He’s always had two left feet, but Lois had forced him to go to ballroom dancing classes with her enough times for him to pick up some semblance of rhythm.

“No.” Bruce leads just a little too fast for the music at hand. Clark drags his feet in an effort to slow them down. 

“I don’t buy it. You would’ve been happier to see Harley than Vicki.” Clark almost dips Bruce on autopilot. He course-corrects pretty quickly and pulls a tight-lipped Bruce close instead. Nearly cheek-to-cheek, Clark takes the lead as easy as breathing. 

Clark isn’t sure when he started humming, but he lets the music take them both. Bruce allows him to maintain the lead, surprisingly, and he guides them languidly around the dance floor. He even twirls Bruce, shocked he gets away with it, but he’s too wrapped up in whatever this is to question anything.

When Clark pulls back a bit to tease, Bruce is staring at him with those wide, pretty eyes. 

“What?” Clark can hear the gears in Bruce’s head turning, even when there’s nothing to say. A remarkable talent.

“I…didn’t know you could dance.” Bruce shifts his hand from Clark’s shoulder to his back. 

“I’m full of surprises.” Clark grins. Their form slowly morphs from proper ballroom to a casual, dance-in-the-kitchen kind of waltz--Clark links his fingers with Bruce’s and leads them by the hands, they somehow find a way to get closer to one another, and they end up in a slow, gentle sway. 

“We should dance more.” Clark spins Bruce again and they end up back-to-chest, arms crossed over Bruce’s torso. 

“You can’t be serious.” Bruce’s ears are adorably rosy. Clark chooses to remain alive and not comment on it. 

“It’s good for you, Bruce! Lord knows you could use the smiles.” Clark spins them again, back to proper form. Bruce’s whole face scrunches and he stops in his tracks. A tinnitus-like sound ringing gently from Bruce’s ear and into their personal space makes Clark wince a little.

Of course he’s wearing comms. 

“Diana’s got Lex cornered upstairs.” Bruce leans in and murmurs low in Clark’s ear. He fights tooth and nail against a full body shiver. 

“Diana’s here? You called for backup?” Clark adjusts his glasses.

“If anything we’re her backup.” Bruce scoffs. “We need people to see us disappear so we have an alibi. Act natural.” 

Clark walks away. Bruce yanks him back by the bicep and leans in close. 

“Flirt with me. No, no—Clark, like you mean it.” Bruce compensates for the awkwardness by messing with Clark’s tie, but it starts to look like a tic more than anything else. Clark caresses Bruce’s cheek but it looks more like he’s wiping something off his face. 

“I’m trying!” He huffs. “This isn’t exactly my skillset.” 

“You had all of…that a minute ago—“ Bruce gestures at him— “where’d it go?” 

Clark tries to summon ‘that’,  whatever that means. The best he can do is scowl uncertainly and lead them back into an awkward sway. 

“You could at least pretend like you like me,” Bruce huffs, uncharacteristically petulant. Clark almost gives himself away then and there.

“I’m not good at this.” He swallows and averts his eyes.

“Come on, American Pie. You’ve gotta be working with more than those doe eyes.” Bruce’s devilish smirk genuinely tears the breath from Clark’s lungs. He takes a ridiculous inhale to buy him time until—yep, there it is, the smirk disappears. 

“Nope. This pie is fresh outta doe…eyes…that was going to be a dough joke but I think I should let it die.” Clark lets his forehead collide with Bruce’s shoulder as they sway, relishing in the comforting pat on the back that he gets. 

“That would be merciful.” Bruce laughs. 

“Did you just laugh?” Clark perks up. 

“No.” Bruce’s jaw tightens. He can’t kill the sparkle in his eye though, no matter how hard he tries. It’s there and it's stunning, like the cosmos in its depths. 

“You actually think I’m funny. You laughed at my joke!” Clark doesn’t realize that he’s dipped Bruce until they’re nose to nose, sharing the space of a breath. He quickly pulls him back up. 

Enough dancing. Clearly he can’t handle that. 

“I think you are…moderately amusing.” Bruce rolls his eyes. Clark squints.

“I think you are super…man.” Clark drags out the pause. Bruce all-but-scoffs. 

“Seriously?” He shoves Clark’s chest. There’s a fondness to the gesture that makes his heart ache. 

“You wanna laugh. I see it in your eyes, you do this squint—“ Clark pokes Bruce’s nose, mostly because he can’t do anything about it.  

“I don’t want to laugh. I want to punch you.” Bruce gives his best scowl. Clark’s finger on his nose cuts most of the threatening aura. 

“You’re smiling though. You are!” Clark scritches beneath Bruce’s chin as a fond gesture, something Lois often does to him. 

Bruce squeaks.

“You are beyond immature,” Bruce huffs, jerking away from the touch. Clark’s brain struggles to reconcile what he just heard with what he’s seeing, as a suddenly perfectly-stoic Bruce adjusts his suit jacket. 

Clark reaches out to do it again and Bruce latches onto both of his arms to push him away. Clark pushes back with no strain, as if the grown man clinging to his wrists weighs no more than bracelets, and repeats the gentle tickle. 

Bruce smashes his chin down to his chest as a couple of scratchy snickers force their way free. 

“No way.” Clark beams. 

“Don’t you dare. Do not. Clark—Clark.” Bruce starts to back away. Clark snakes an arm around his waist and holds him tight. 

“What? I’m flirting.” Clark presses his fingers into the curve of Bruce’s waist and it earns him a headbutt—thankfully avoiding the glasses. He finds a spot beneath Bruce’s ribs that gets a snort. 

“You’re so cute. I wish you’d smile more.” Clark worms his fingers beneath the curve of Bruce’s jaw, chasing that squeak that opened up such beautiful horizons. 

“I am not cute, you dick.” Bruce tries to bite at Clark’s fingers. 

“Mmm, I disagree.”

“I’m going to bury you in the shallowest of graves.” Bruce grits out, curling into Clark’s shoulder. A strangled squeal flies out upon contact with his ears and Clark stays there, fascinated by the degree of squirming happening in his immovable arms. 

“I’m sure you will.” He persists until finally, finally, a choked giggle emerges. It’s quiet enough to float beneath the ambient noise of the gala, but it rings loud and clear in Clark’s ear. 

“Are you coming? Otherwise, I’m taking him to Arkham myself. He’s…irritating.” Diana’s voice is a tinny pinprick in Bruce’s ear, but Clark still picks up on her message. He stills his fingers.

“On our way,” Bruce murmurs. As soon as the connection is severed, Clark steals one more squeeze at his side before they vanish to the service corridors to meet Diana. 

…

“Boys. You’re late.” Diana looks up from where she’s been braiding the Lasso of Hestia. On the other end, Lex Luthor hums an irritating tune. 

“Busy day,” Batman grouses, flexing his fingers. He makes his way over to the contraption in the corner and starts picking at the wires. 

“Whatcha got over there?”

“A highly concentrated laser stocked with a rainbow of Kryptonite strands. We were right on time.” Batman dislodges something with a mighty crack. In his hands, a glass capsule full of suspended Kryptonite crystals glitters in the light. The lenses on the cowl flick blue as he analyzes them further. 

“Well, Lex, you’ve just made me ten dollars richer.” Superman puts his hands on his hips. He can feel the faint, crawling fatigue starting to burrow into him from the proximity of the Kryptonite, but he resists it. He yanks a handful of wires free from the machine, crushes the focus, and kicks the motherboard hard enough to disintegrate it. 

“I hope your investors don’t hear about this,” he tuts, crossing his arms. “I’d hate for Wayne Enterprises to leave you in the dust for the…what, sixth year in a row?”

“We’ll see who’s laughing soon, Man of Steel. Your supposed altruism is nothing but your own selfish desire, fueled by greed—“

Superman knocks him out before he can finish.

…

“What the hell do you gel your hair with? Cement?” Bruce ruffles Clark’s hair again with a scowl. It doesn’t move. 

”Mrs. Duvet’s Quick-Dry Iron Hold gel. Otherwise it gets super obvious when I’ve been out flying.” Clark carefully starts pulling strands to the front, mimicking Bruce’s helmet hair. 

“Of course you do.” Bruce continues carefully messing with his hair. Clark shivers at the fingers on his scalp. 

“I can just wet it and shake it out real quick?” Clark grabs for the sink handle and starts sizing up how to fit his head into the basin. 

“I’d rather not leave a soaking wet bathroom for the custodians.” Bruce runs his hands beneath the tap, then holds them towards Clark. “May I?”

He nods numbly. Bruce runs his hands through Clark’s hair and he utterly melts into it. Oh, it’s a crime this won’t last.

“Looking like, uh, we had sex is a lot harder than I thought it would be.” Clark starts fiddling with his tie. He can feel his face heating up at the idea of it. 

“There is an art to it. Here, let me.” Bruce takes the ends of the tie and gives it a quick full Windsor with practiced hands. Then he loosens it just right. 

“Honestly, Bruce, no one will notice if I sneak out. I’m just some reporter they’ve never heard of.” Clark’s eyes dart to Bruce’s lips for a moment. 

“These people have nothing but time and wealth—they’re always looking for gossip. We disappear and you don’t come back? In two days, someone will find you and hunt you down for the exclusive on our ‘tumultuous relationship’.” Bruce fiddles with Clark’s shirt collar. Undoes a button. 

“So I’ll tell them we went our separate ways. Big deal.” Clark clears his throat. 

“Vicki and I broke up eight years ago. To this day, she still gets harassed by paparazzi on her way to work. Maybe that doesn’t bother you, but what are you going to do when people with cameras and time start realizing how much you disappear from the Daily Planet?” Bruce makes an exasperated hand gesture that seems to lack a target. 

“Fair enough.” Perry and Lois can only protect him so much. Bruce, regrettably, has a point. 

“We’re playing a part. After this, you won’t have to worry. I’ll give a statement that we quietly split and in a week or two, you’ll be left alone. Let’s focus on getting out of here.” Bruce returns to fiddling with Clark’s hair. 

Clark takes Bruce’s hands in his own. His breathing stutters a bit.

“Can I kiss you, Bruce?” Never has a question felt so heavy, so precarious. 

“Is there someone in here?” Bruce’s voice drops low, eyes darting to the stalls. 

“No! No, I just thought it’d be easier to…y’know…rather than faking it.” He can’t bring himself to look Bruce in the eye. He loses track of whose heartbeat is thundering in his ears. He feels like he’s back in high school and fumbling his way through practicing in the mirror. 

“What?” No going back now. 

“It would just be for a minute or two. It might be more effective than pretending. We could kiss a little. It doesn’t have to mean anything.” Clark shrugs. Yeah. Logic is good. This is strictly a business arrangement. Friends kiss sometimes. They’ve been through hell and high water together, this should be easy. 

Bruce stares at him for a long while, long enough to make him sweat, to make him sick. Years of friendship and trust suddenly hang in the balance and he’s not ready for that. He’s not ready to lose that. What the fuck has he done? 

“I—“

“Are you…reasoning your way through making out with me?” Bruce puts his hands on his hips, expression utterly unreadable. 

“Maybe?” Clark swallows. 

Silence envelops the bathroom. Clark starts running through ways to retcon the worst mistake of his life—passing it off as a joke? Yeah, that might work. He starts to fumble his way through the syllables of an apology, when—

Bruce laughs. Hand on the wall, shoulders shaking, laughs. He tips his head back as the last snickers float and echo. He looks at Clark down the length of his nose, still beaming. It’s the rarest thing he’ll ever see and he commits every detail to memory. 

“I don’t think anyone’s asked so nicely before. Is this how they do it in Kansas?” Bruce unravels Clark’s tie in seconds. He wraps both ends around his knuckles idly, hanging his wrists off of Clark’s shoulders. 

Clark grabs both sides of Bruce’s head and kisses him deeply to shut him up. Bruce tilts his head and pulls Clark roughly forward, slamming them both into the wall. He lets out a beautiful little noise as his hands slide beneath Clark’s jacket and absolutely ruin the clean press of his shirt. Clark has half a mind to hoist Bruce onto one of the sinks, but he resists. 

He’s beautiful. It’s the only clear thought that runs through Clark’s head as he starts unbuttoning the buttons of Bruce’s shirt. He tilts Bruce’s jaw up and presses tender, lingering kisses down the column of his throat. Bruce pulls at Clark’s hair, forcing his head up, and catches his lips with a growl. 

“That’s how we do it in Kansas.” Clark breathes, hovering in Bruce’s personal space. His glasses are fogged and smudged but he can still see the tantalizing tilt of Bruce’s lips. 

“Again, I have a few pointers—“

This time Clark does pick him up. Bruce’s eyes go wide. 

“Nevermind.” Bruce pulls him back in with a forearm around the neck. Clark surges forward and mouths beneath Bruce’s jaw. He can feel Bruce’s heartbeat nearby and he hunts for it, spurred on by the storm of his own want. When he finds it, he sucks slow and steady against his warm, soft skin until he’s sure it’ll bruise. Bruce lets out a keening whine that stutters into a gasp, gripping Clark’s shoulders. His thighs clench around Clark’s waist. 

Clark’s better judgment grabs him and he breaks them apart. Bruce doesn’t move away and that lights his brain up like a Christmas tree. He hovers there for far too long, fighting tooth and nail against the urge to chase the adrenaline. Bruce looks utterly sinful in his grip, flushed in a way Clark hasn’t ever seen. 

The concept of self-control comes to him in a whisper like it’s foreign. He remembers himself. 

“Are we…good?” Clark vaguely realizes he’s still holding Bruce and sets him down. He’s buzzing from head-to-toe, like he’s just taken a full day’s nap in the sunlight. He’s not entirely certain he can feel his face. He touches his own lips reverently. 

“What? Oh. Yeah, c’mon.” Bruce grabs him and leads them through the venue. 

When Bruce pulls him through the party and towards the front doors, he doesn’t even process the prying eyes and whispers. All that matters is Bruce’s hand gripping his own. 

Clark’s determined to catch this shooting star in his hand, even if it doesn’t last. Even if it burns him down the line. 

[marchiveeee]

HSL episode 12 is so unhinged/chaotic (?) [a long post with many screenshots yayyy]

As you guys might know, we can get up to 6 illustrations on episode 12, so A LOT happens. Some of those things are very laughable, but others are not so much... I'll talk about everything in order of occurrence.

!!!: I'm sorry if "unhinged" or "chaotic" is not the right word for what I'm trying to say. although I'm confident enough in English, it's still not my 1st language. btw, i tried to post this 3 times and something always goes wrong, I'm stressed, so I'll be really happy with an interaction

btw again, if you're brazilian and would like to see this in Portuguese on Twitter or here, please let me know!!!

Mrs. Shermansky being toxic af and the exact opposite of how a good educator should act [in my opinion]

So... I get that she was worried about Candy and Castiel getting lost. But if you really think telling a teenager that the only thing they have ever done is to cause trouble is a good way to advert/encourage them to do the right thing next time is the best approach, please rethink your ways.

2. Mr. Faraize being a sweetheart, he is such a nice teacher

I'm not saying that to be a nice teacher you have to sugarcoat everything all the time and just not scold your students at all. But Mr. Faraize was so nice about it all, he just seemed happy/relieved to know his students were well and safe.

Side [angry] comment about episode 11: Bro, that race was so unorganized!!!! The least the school should have done was provide extra maps in case of accidents like the one that happened with Candy and the LI. Mr. Faraize was wrong too, he shouldn't have let Candy and the LI [in my case, Castiel] proceed after hearing that we had been fkn lost bc we lost the map and we were just wandering until we found the right track. UGH... If that happened irl with my little brother or idk any kid that happens to be in my life, I'd be so furious... ANYWAYS!

3. Born to be a star

He is loving the attention!

4. Violet, as always, being the most precious being in that school. [I'm sorry about the screenshot I used, I forgot to take others]

She's just so sweet and adorable, I want to hug her. YOU'RE NOT DUMB, BABYYYY.

4. Armin's reaction to Alexy's secret admirer

before the declaration:

after the declaration:

Honestly, I was just so happy to see that Armin didn't out his brother when he heard that a girl was interested on him. I didn't remember the details of this scene bc I was probably 12 y/o when i first played it.

5. Candy being paranoid that half of the boys at SA will turn out to be gay/not straight

This girl cracks me up istg... and why the fuck

she was just so worried to ask Castiel bc she thought he would get angry. Girl, we don't do fragile masculinity here.

6. Candy goes completely sidetracked on her CasLys fanfic just to check Lys's tattoo and witnessing one of the biggest bombs of MCL

I didn't get many screenshots from this part, because it's just sad when you know what it's all about in the end... but yeah instead of spying on Lys, Candy ends up seeing Nath's bruised body and is also caught by him.

Someone has probably done this already idrk, but I'm gathering some screenshots of moments that foreshadowed that something was just not right at Nath's and Amber's house... It'll probably take a while for me to post, but I'll try.

7. Nath being for real

He was so right for calling her dumb!!!! I think I was ranting about this on Twitter recently when I replayed the beach episode…

8. Lys’s reaction to the whole story [an icon]

I regret not taking screenshots sooner, but I was just too distracted laughing my ass off! There literally was about 2/3 scenes of just: 

Lys: 🤨[...] Candy: [Doesn’t know what to say/says something stupid] Lys: 🤨[...] Candy: [Doesn’t know what to say/says something stupid

Again, she doesn’t say anything [to get the image you need to go for this choice]

And then he shoes you his tattoo! Bro, he was SO COOL about it! If Candy had just asked nicely… But no, she has to complicate everything omg istg 

I still laughed a lot tho, I think at some point in this episode Cas said that this trait of Candy and her need to know and talk about everything is what makes her fun. I agree with him. She is annoying sometimes but definitely entertaining for the gossipers.

9. May the fanfic continue

Insert some dialogues here: Basically Cas sees Candy near them listening to their conversation and he asks what’s up. Candy approaches them and is like “uhhh…. Are you……….?” Then Castiel says:

For my mind’s sake let’s just imagine that the “offended” was not for “I’m offended you thought I was gay”, but for “I’m offended that you thought I’m dating Castiel when he’s not on my level of gentlemanliness and when I deserve so much more than this grumpy angsty tomato head” (don’t get me wrong, I love Castiel and I’d die for him, but it’s either that or think of a homophobic Lys, which I don’t think it’s the case for him)

10. Castiel shoots his 29482904 shot with Candy, but she’s stupid

Actually, one thing that I like about this scene is that it leaves open the interpretation of Castiel’s sexuality. Saying that he likes girls doesn’t necessarily mean that he is straight. I love to see that. And disclaimer: if you prefer to think that Cas is, in fact, straight, go ahead. That’s not a problem. He is not a real person and we’re allowed to imagine and speculate things, so this is just a headcanon of mine that he might be bi/pan or just simply not straight.

11. Amber and Kentin kiss

That alone is just unhinged and chaotic. I don’t need to say much. 

BUT I’M SO GLAD HE IS BACK!!! He’s gonna be a little shit for a while, because I think my Candy lost some points with him bc of a wrong choice after he left, but that’s fine! I MISSED HIM!!!

----

I hope you had fun with this little throwback!

[tillthelandslide]

Insufferable Arsehole - Part 6: Inside Your Mind

A/n: Hi everyone :) just want to say thank you to everyone has read this series so far, the support means so much to me and its mad to think some of my fave writers on here think this series is good! crazy to me but thank you thank you thank you!

Hope you like this chapter :)

warnings: smut, mentions of drug abuse, addiction and rehab

over 5k words

Series Masterlist

Part 5

Their lips were on each other's again the moment they were in the hotel room, the drive to this particular hotel had been torture. She had been teasing him from the moment they got in the car, allowing her thighs to spread, dangerously close to flashing all of the boys in the back of the car. The usual tour bus wasn't needed for this seemingly short journey (one which felt far too long with how badly he wanted her)

Her lip was being abused by her teeth and he could see her nipples pressed against the "I hate Matty Healy" shirt she was wearing.

The boys kept teasing him too, commenting on the fact he seemed distracted by something. He was very much distracted: by the tanned flesh of her thighs, by the visible bruises scattered across her neck (of which he just needed to attach his mouth and maybe teeth too, darkening them further), by the fact that her underwear was stuffed into his back pocket, by her lips which were just begging to be kissed and sucked; by everything that was her.

But now they didn't have to hold back, they could simply show one another how badly they wanted each other.

"We should probably have those drinks with the boys like we said" she said as his lips drifted along her neck, down to her chest, pressing against her collar bones. The t-shirt she had been wearing had been thrown across the room as soon as they entered the threshold, as were his trousers, shirt and her skirt. She knew she didn't really mean her words but wanted to see what he said.

"They can wait, let me have you to myself for a bit" he says, lips not moving from her chest. He pulls against her bra, revealing the swell of her right breast.

"Fuck how are you so perfect. God I don't deserve you" he says, lips wrapping around her nipple, her hands fly to his hair as her head snaps back and she moans loudly.

"Can't believe I haven't seen all of you yet. Doesn't seem fair does it love?" He asks and she doesn't even know what he's saying, not really, but she's nodding against him. Now she thinks about it, whenever they've done stuff before, either one of them had been partly clothed, the thought of being completely bare in front of him has her feeling a bit nervous.

As if he could read her mind, his lips stop their ministrations as he looks her deeply in the eyes.

"You're so beautiful love. Unbelievably so. I'm the luckiest, you know that right?" He asks as he takes her hands in his, pressing kisses along each of her knuckles, it was sweet, a clear change from how they were acting earlier.

"And we don't have to do anything okay? Not if you don't want to. I'm just happy to have you here with me. But if you want to go join the guys that's fine" he explains as she pulls him into her for a soft kiss. She was growing to like this side of him, a side she was just learning about, one in which they had barely scratched the surface of.

"I want to, I want you" she says against his mouth, he doesn't speed up his movements, he simply holds her against him, his grasp firm but not harsh. His lips move softly against hers, tongue making languid movements against her own.

He slowly moves them to the bed, hands supporting her back as she fell against it with a soft thump. She knows now this was going to be different from before. And she felt anxious at the thought but was also excited to see a different side to Matty .

"Matty" she says, her voice hesitant.

"Tell me what's on your mind" he says softly, lips wandering to her neck where more soft kisses were placed. Her own hands ran down his bare back, over the muscles, sketching him out like a map, trying to memorise every curve, every bump and vein.

"I'm scared" she admits, her voice quiet. She didn't struggle to be sincere quite as much as Matty, but she always worried that her words (no matter how sincere) would be rejected, or laughed at, or worse denied.

"What are you scared of my love?" He asked. Her heart fluttered at the words "my" and she pulled him away from her neck to look at him. She didn't know whether to tell him the truth: tell him she was scared of all the feelings she was feeling, how quickly she was falling for him, how he didn't even have to say he was sorry anymore because she forgave him the minute he told her his true feelings. She didn't speak and he simply pressed another gentle kiss to her lips, trying to draw the words out of her.

"Nevermind, I'm being silly" she says and his eyebrows furrow.

"Don't do that love, don't push me away. Wish I could be in your mind right now, hear what you hear, all your thoughts and feelings" he says, lips pressing against her cheek.

"That's what scares me" she whispers, fingertips drifting along his skin, not managing to find his eyes, afraid she'll spill every single thought that was bouncing around her mind.

"What love?" His fingers find her chin, slowly lifting it so they're looking at each other again.

"Think you already know all that.... You seem to know what I'm thinking without me telling you" she says and he nods, because he felt like it was true.

"Truth is love. I hardly know you, not in the way I want to. Want to know everything there is to know, all your secrets, all the things you've never told anyone before.... Not G, not Ross... No one" he admits and her heart swells at the idea.

"I'd like that" she smiles up at him and he places another kiss on her lips.

The moment where they so desperately wanted each other seems to have passed, now replaced by one which was more special. One where they wanted to talk, about everything, and so they did, some things he already knew, things he had memorised during the time in which they 'hated each other'.

Like her coffee order, her favourite colour, her favourite flowers, her birthday, all sorts. She was surprised he remembered half of it, but the fact he had made her realise how much he truly did like her.

Matty told her everything she wanted to know too, like his favourite books, his favourite songs, stories about his childhood that she didn't get to witness. Some things he struggled to say but wanted to, like his experience with drugs and addiction.

"What's your favorite song?" He asked, something he was uncertain whether he knew.

"Hmm... Good question, what genre?" She asks making him laugh.

"Probably... Something by Fleetwood Mac. Hard to pick which, maybe Storms, Silver Springs, or Landslide" she explains and he smiles down at her. He notes in his head that they're pretty sad songs, songs about unrequited love. He wonders if that's the only love she knows, a question for another day he thinks.

"Wanna know my favourite song of yours?" She asks, hands pressing against his chest to properly look at him.

His nodding down at her, fingertips drifting along her back, the skin was warm under his touch. She had never spoken about their music to him and he was excited to know what she thought, having spent years writing songs and wanting nothing more than to pick her mind about them.

"Inside Your Mind" she asks and he smiles, a hidden meaning behind his smile.

"Oh yeah? Why's that?" He asks, he couldn't wait to tell her the true meaning of the song.

"Think it's a beautiful song... Remember the day G showed it to me... Couldn't believe how beautiful it was... Remember thinking I wish someone wrote such beautiful things about me" she admits and his smile stretches wider.

"What?" She asks, wondering why he's smiling at her the way he is.

"I wrote it about you" he admits. Her breath catches and she pauses, eyes drifting over his features to see if he was taking the piss.

"What do you mean you wrote it about me?" She asks, shoving him slightly, testing whether he was being earnest.

"I wrote it about you... Remember the summer before the album was released? We spent most of the summer together... Well you with the boys more than me" he says and her mind flicks back to the memory.

George had begged her to go on holiday with them, it was one of the only times their busy schedules lined up. She remembers agreeing despite knowing Matty was going to be there. She was having a difficult time with a relationship and she wanted nothing more than to be with her best friends.

"We seemed to avoid each other the whole holiday though" she says and he smiles at the memory.

"You avoided me... I was watching your every move love. I remember it was one of the first times I really got to see you... Without all the arguing because we hardly spoke..." He admits, she allows him to just speak, not interrupting him.

"There was this one night... Don't know if you'd remember, you were quite drunk... To be fair I was high as a kite too... I remember all of it though" he laughs at the memory. She listens intently wanting to know what he's about to say.

"We were all sitting out on the patio of that house, remember the huge pool? You had your feet in the water and I remember wanting nothing more than to just go up to you and just talk, without all the arguing" she nods at this, she thinks she would've liked that.

"Anyway... You came and sat with us and we were drinking and we were all talking, it was the first time we actually properly spoke without being mean to each other. Remember you like... Squeezed in-between George and me and I was shocked I had you that close" she remembers it now and she can't help but smile at the huge smile that rests on his lips as he tells the story.

"think I remember you were particularly bearable that day so I was nice to you... Also I was high too" she smirks and he chuckles at her, pressing a kiss to her head.

"We all drank way too much and Hann forced G and Ross to go to bed, you didn't want to so you stayed" he says, she doesn't remember any of this and she feels bad.

"I thought you were going to leave because it was just us... But we spoke for quite a while" he says.

"About what?" She asks, genuinely curious as to what they would've spoken about back then.

"About all sorts: your tour, our tour, you told me about this coffee place you had found in New York, told me to visit it, you told me about some douche you were seeing at the time" she groans at the last part making him chuckle

"... And then you fell asleep on me... And I didn't wake you up because I just wanted to have you there forever" he admits and her eyes soften as she looks into them.

"I eventually took you up to your room and then wrote that song... That whole holiday I was trying to memorise everything about you, just in case I never got to see it again" he admits.

"It was the November after that holiday you-?" She goes to ask, stopping her words completely worried she was pressing on something he didn't want to talk about.

He knows what she's saying even though she doesn't say it and he nods, grasping her hand, placing a gentle kiss to the back of it, letting her know it was okay to talk about.

"Can I admit something to you? Without you... Despising me for it.." he asks and she nods.

"That summer... It made me realise how much I had fucked up... I knew I could've had you the way that the guys had you, if I was honest with you from the start... The idea of never having you kind of broke me" he admits, she frowns and she feels her heart hurt at his words.

"I always hoped that one day it would all fall into place. But you went on tour after that and I dunno... I missed you even though... Even though I didn't have you. And I kind of just... Broke" he admits, she frowns up at him. She felt like it was her fault and he's quickly pressing a firm kiss to her lips as he sees her features fall.

"Baby you had nothing to do with it. It was me... Me being stupid and selfish and getting myself into this fucking pit of misery... There was other stuff too, don't want you thinking it was all about you because it wasn't. I got to this point in my life where... I didn't like the person I saw in the mirror, the douche that had fucked up his life... And using, it just made all that go away" he says and she nods, still feeling awful for his confession. She appreciates him being honest and that overshadows his confession.

"In rehab... I kind of realised that I can either pine over you for the rest of my life... Or I can do something about it. Kind of had that realisation about a lot of things in my life. I just knew I had to fix my life and myself otherwise I risked losing all of you"

"Matty" she says softly, leaning forward to press her lips to his. Her eyes were tearing up now, and he felt a tear drop to his cheek making him pull away.

"Why are you crying love?" He asks, pulling her tightly into her chest. She knew now she didn't need to be scared about anything, he was her person. He always had been.

"I just know now. I know how you feel about me. You don't need to prove anything Matty... That- that song, that story, it's everything I need to know" she says, pushing herself away from his embrace to look at him.

"Would you be mad if I said I wanted to prove it?" He says making her laugh.

"Of course not" she says, pulling him into a hug now. In fact she loves that he still does, he could easily settle now, accept the fact that she had forgiven him but he still wanted to prove how much he cared and that was the sweetest thing.

"Thank you" she murmurs against his neck.

"Thank you for what sweetheart?" He says.

"For telling me all that" she says, she knows it isn't easy for him to be like this with people and she's so thankful she is the one he's choosing to be like this with.

"One sec" he says, going to his bag to get something, whatever is, is being clutched in a tight grip in his hand and he hesitates as he puts it into hers, clasping his hands around hers, not letting her see it yet.

"I bought you something on that holiday... I knew... Well no: I hoped, that one day I'd be giving it to you, and have carried it everywhere with me since then... Just in case I needed it" he says, removing his hand, allowing her to open her hands, revealing a gold necklace, attached to the chain was a pendant, a small letter "M".

"Matty..." she says, voice trailing off as she looked at the piece of jewelery. "It's beautiful"

"You don't have to wear it... Not yet. Not if you don't want to" he says and her eyes find his.

"just promise me something yeah?" He says.

"Anything" she nods.

"Promise me you'll wear that when you're mine. When I've proven to you how sorry I am, how I truly feel" he says and she thinks he's already proven all of that, not that she lets him know that just yet.

"I promise" she says, pulling him into another tight hug.

"Let's go join the boys yeah?" He asks and she nods, not before pressing a firm kiss to his lips. He watches her as he leaves the bed, begging her to stay there for a second whilst he grabs his phone, snapping a quick photo of her, she looked so cool, clad only in her underwear, tattoos on display, tanned skin almost tempting him again.

"You're so beautiful love, could look at you all day" he says, palms flat against the bed as he lowers his mouth to hers quickly before they finally dress and join the boys.

----------------------------------------------------------

Two weeks later the band are all sitting around this huge room at one of the venues. The past two weeks have been absolute bliss, it somehow felt that they had all grown closer, they all spent every waking movement with each other, never tiring of each other. You'd think spending 5 weeks with each other, 35 whole days, would make them sick of each other, but she loved the time she spent with every single one of them.

Matty and Lou had almost been in their own little love bubble, every day Matty did something to prove how sorry he was for treating her so badly for so many years. He made her a coffee every morning, sung songs to her when they were alone, scattered loving kisses to every inch of her body he could find. Sometimes in the middle of the night when they should've been sleeping, he would tell her a story, a small fact about the old days, that just proved that he really didn't hate her after all.

The band were now scattered about the room on various sofas. Matty sits on a round leather chair, it almost swallows him, makes him look tiny in comparison.

Ross is sprawled out on the ground next to him, his legs extending in front of him as one arm rests under his head. Matty laughs at how ridiculous he looks, his head resting near Matty's calves as the two spoke, Ross's voice slightly distorted from lying upside down.

The sound catches the attention of Lou, they share a look briefly before she continues talking to George , the two laughing with each other, G's arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders, the two spending some much needed time with each other (especially considering Charli had left to do her own shows) but the sight made Matty's heart swell.

"I've never seen you so happy mate" Ross says from below him, making Matty turn his attention to the lanky lad laid beneath him. The tall man turns on his stomach, looking up at him the right way round now.

"It's good mate" he then says. Matty nods, his eye wandering over to her again. He almost draws her in his mind: laughing uncontrollably with his best mate, tears coating her cheeks, a huge smile resting against her lips, those lips that he can never get enough of. Her hair is up in a ponytail, carelessly showing the bruises scattered around her neck.

"She's just the best" Matty says and Ross nods.

"She is. Thanks for that, glad you plucked your ideas up, glad we didn't lose her in the end " Ross says and Matty smiles at him "one of us forever now".

Matty nods "yeah" he has half a mind to ask her to get the 1975 box tattooed, she was part of the band after all, but she was also so much more than that.

A little while later, Ross has moved from the floor, now mucking around with Hann and George.

Matty remains in the huge chair, too comfortable to move. His phone rests in his hand, scrolling carelessly through Instagram, coming across a photo Lou had posted, the one he took, he smiles before commenting, reading his mates comments too, smiling down at his phone.

His phone pings, notifying him of a text. He smiles when he clicks on it, a selfie of the two of them set as her picture, "Room for one more?".

His eyes leave the screen, when he sees her, her own phone resting in her hands as she leans against a wall on the other side of the room. He nods and she walks over. He holds his arms out as she climbs onto the chair, he adjusts her so her legs are hung over his, holding onto her side as she rests against him. She smells faintly of cigarettes and he thinks that must have been where she was previously, but its her scent that is so overwhelming her; sweet and addictive that evades his senses.

"Hi" he says quietly, a wide smile breaking out on his face.

"Hi" she smiles.

"Missed you" he says simply, she nuzzles into his side, not saying anything for a beat, her lips press against his cheek, feeling the rough stubble he had let grow against her mouth.

"Missed you too" she pulls back to look at him, his red lips call her name and she can't help but push hers against his. His hand flies to her jaw, controlling the kiss quickly. His mouth opens on instinct and her tongue quickly meets his, moving against each other passionately. She pulls away slowly, making him groan in protest against her, only making her giggle. Oh that laugh, he fucking loves it man. He loves her.

"What was that for?" He asks, not complaining in the slightest, just curious.

"You guys are adorable" George says sighing deeply. They break away to look at him. A frown on his face.

"Fuck I miss charli' he says and they both frown.

They share a look, nod and both open their arms up, inviting him to join on the huge chair. He practically throws himself onto the pair, the both of them wrapping him up in a warm hug.

----------------------------------------------------------

They were both acting absolutely feral before the show, they were annoying the shit out of everyone with the amount of sexual tension that was in the room.

The moment he walked out in his suit she felt her eyes darken, her breath pick up and her heart beat faster in her chest (and core). Her eyes raked down his form, how the shirt clung to his chest in just the right way, how his slacks fit his slender legs perfectly. He looked godly and she found herself swallowing at the sight.

He knew that look all too well and he smirked at the sight. She looked fit too: black leather skirt clinging to her delicious thighs as she sat on a high chair, her booted legs swinging, the top she was wearing wasn't particularly low cut but he could see the "M" necklace he bought her resting in between the swell of her breasts.

"Fuck" he muttered to himself, it didn't take her long to wear the necklace at all and the thought had him falling deeper by the minute.

He felt a hand clasp his back making him have to peel his eyes of her.

"Mate, we've got 5 minutes before we have to be on that stage, I know she looks fit but don't start something you know both of you can't finish" Ross says and George nods next to him. He sighs but nods agreeing with the sound advise.

His legs take him to her anyway. The boys flee just in case, getting ready to go on stage and leaving the pair be.

"Wow Healy" she says and a groan grumbles in his chest at the sultry tone she uses.

"Right?" He says, giving her a twirl, trying to ease the tension for his sake only. His eyes find hers again and he almost loses it.

He runs a hand through his curls which aren't tamed by the usual hair gel tonight and she almost pounces on him. His feet betray him and take him the rest of the way to her. His eyes land on her delicious thighs, hands finding them without a single thought. They're spread not a second later and oh how well they welcome him. His eyes catch a glimpse of her black lace underwear and his eyes snap shut.

"You're killing me here" he says as her neck strains to find his Adams apple.

"Baby" he groans eyes snapping open, their dark eyes finding each other.

"You look so good" he says, the vowels drawn out.

"You don't look so bad yourself Healy" she says, fingers playing with his curls, he didn't even see how they got there but they're curling around the strands gently, she knows she can't mess up his hair too much.

He breathes in deeply as he looks at her, breath bated and sharp.

"You look so good baby" she sighs out, repeating his words back to him, her breath hitting his lips.

"Oh fuck it" he says, smashing his lips against hers. Their tongues quickly find each other, meeting messily. He presses his core forward, his hands finding her hips and pulling her tight against him, she almost falls off the chair, but his tight grasp has her held against him, flushed.

Their make out session is quickly cut short, bells ringing to let the band know they're due to be on soon.

"Fuck" he murmurs against her lips, he sighs against her before they both pull away to go on stage.

He had clearly decided to make this show more painful for her. Particularly when he did the 'bit' on the sofa. It felt all to real when his fingers grasped the buttons of his shirt. Usually he would look up, away from the audience but this time he turned to where she was standing on the stage.

His eyes found hers, he took a puff of his cigarette, lips pursing as he blew out, he winked at her making her gasp. His hand smoothed down his chest, he only looked away when his palm lay flat against his trouser covered cock, that's when he decided to throw his head back, he purposely let out a deep sigh.

She swore she heard her name and the fans in front of her looked to her and screamed. Oh shit he said her name.

"You little shit Healy" she murmured to herself.

During the final bows, she made her way backstage and waited for him there. She sat anxiously for a while before she left, deciding to wait in his changing room. When she heard the crowd screaming loudly she knew they had left the stage.

She knew he'd rush to find her so she had to be quick. Her fingers found the zip of her skirt, discarding it. She took off her top, revealing a black lace bodysuit, something Matty hadn't seen her in before. She found one of Matty's white shirts and threw that over her frame. She heard the door slam against the wall behind her and she whipped around to seem him. His shirt was nowhere to be seen and he had already started on the buckle of his belt. He shut the door behind him and turned the lock until it clicked.

"There she is" he said, his voice deep as his eyes found hers.

"That wasn't fair now was it Matty?" She says, stepping slowly towards him. He froze in his tracks as she approached him, finally taking in her attire. A groan rumbled from his chest and his cock twitched in his pants.

"Fuck me you look hot' he says as her hands are placed on his bare shoulders. She lowers herself until she's on her knees, her lips finding his abdomen as he throws his head back.

"Don't get me wrong, you looked so fit. Running your hand down your chest like that" she said, mimicking his earlier actions.

"And the way your head was thrown back when you..." She says, her hand moving down more until flush against his core.

"But it wasn't fair Matty. Saying my name as if no one would hear" she says.

"Lou" he sighs again. She looks up at him through her eyelashes, her fingers find the zipper of his trousers and they make light work of undoing them. He helps her remove them, he knows she's the devil when her lips press against his clothed core.

"Fuck me" he says. Looking down at the beautiful woman on her knees for him, trying to commit the view to memory.

"oh I will, don't you worry baby" she says and he groans. Her hands find the hem of his boxers, pulling at them until his member is free and snaps against his abs.

This is completely uncharted territory but he's thriving off it.

"You're so hard for me" she says and he nods bashfully. She's too turned on and needs him too much to tease him, so her lips quickly find their place around his tip. The red and leaking tip disappearing against her red lips, her lipstick marking his member.

He groans and his hands wrap around her hair, making a makeshift ponytail .

"oh fuck you're good at this ' he groans. Her lips move down his shaft, all the way to the base and she moans against him, the vibrations nearly killing him. She begins bobbing up and down on him, the head of his cock hitting the back of her throat perfectly. She doesn't gag, she moans and it has Matty's stomach clenching.

"Oh fuck you're the best" he says and she looks up at him, continuing her work and making him writhe against her. All that can be heard is his deep grunts and the wet sounds coming from below him and it's like music to his ears.

"Baby I can't, I need to be inside you" he groans, she moans against him and his hands are quickly placed against her shoulders, pushing her off him until a pop sounds. His hand finds her and he pulls her to her feet, he grabs her hips and pulls her flush against him, he quickly picks her up, leading her to the countertop to the left of them. He pops open the lace bodysuit, she grasps him in her hand and leads him to her core. His tip brushes against her clit before dipping into her cunt, coating just the head of him with her juices. He gives her a look and she nods at him, letting him know she wanted this.

"Fuck you're so wet, who made you this wet huh?" He says, lips pushing against hers, tongues fighting.

"You, it's always you" she says against him.

"Please fuck me Matty" she sighs.

"oh I will' he says, a smirk resting against his lips before he thrusts harshly into her. She takes all of him and they both moan loudly.

"Oh god Matty' she moans, hands grasping at his back, trying to get him closer although not possible.

"You were made for me darling' he looks down at where they meet, nearly coming undone at the site.

He pulls back before his hips snap forward again, sending his cock deep into her. Her head snaps upwards as she screams. They moan, groan and scream in unison, his cock driving to and from her at an unforgiving pace, curving upwards slightly and hitting her gspot perfectly. His eyes are trained on where they met, the sight filthy, turning him on even more. He felt unbelievably lucky that he got to have her like this. He had never felt this good with anyone before, but he also couldn't believe how connected it made them feel.

Her mouth opens and forms a "o" as the tip of him rubs against her soft spot.

"That it baby?" He groans and she nods vigorously. He continues driving himself into that spot, the spot that has her convulsing around him. His own head shoots back now, her lips sucking against his Adams apple. His fingertips find her clit and he circles it.

"Cum with me" he says, his words sending her over the edge, he cums not a second later joining her in the white hot pleasure.

It was a hard and fast fuck, what both of them needed to shake off the tension that had started to become unbearable mixed with adrenaline of the show.

He holds her tightly against him, pressing soft kisses to her lips. He pulls back to look at her and finds her smiling up at him.

"Never going to get used to that" he says and she nods in agreement. His pulls out of her, making the both of them groan. His fingertips find the "M" of the necklace as he smiles down at her. He doesn't ask if this means she's his, because the both of them already knew that and neither of them needed or wanted to confirm it just yet. They were enjoying just figuring it out for now.

"Look pretty with my initial on you" he says and she smirks.

"Marked your territory real good" she says and he all but groans at that. His territory. Her words had basically confirmed she was his anyway.

"Spoke to the boys earlier.... We think... If you want. That you should get the box tattoo" he says and she smiles up at him. If anyone asked her about this moment, she knew she wouldn't be able to do it justice, or explain how it made her feel. It was the best thing that had ever happened to her, it let her know that she was where she was supposed to be with the people who loved her most: she was home.

"I think that's a wonderful idea" she says, fighting back the urge to cry at the sentiment.

"Now what are we going to do about the fact you moaned my name in front of thousands of people?" She asks and he laughs loudly, leaving her to get a cloth to clean her up. He's gentle with the process knowing she would be easily overstimulated. She appreciates the softness of it all, especially when he places a soft kiss on her forehead when she winces.

"That's up to you love. We can let them speculate, or we can tell them" he says and she nods, thinking through the possible options.

"Tell them what though?" She asks and he agrees, at this moment in time, nothing was confirmed, they both knew how they felt but nothing was set in stone yet, they were going with the flow.

"I don't know... But I do know I don't want to have to hide. Want to love on you whenever I want... Flirt with you on that stage and over Instagram" he says making her laugh.

"How post-modern of you" and they both laugh loudly at that.

"Well then... Guess we just let them speculate" she says and he nods at her. His lips press against hers before they both get changed, returning to the boys.

"You guys are gross" George says making everyone laugh.

"Oh shut up, we've heard much worse from you" Matty says.

"Oh Charli... Just like that" Ross says, in a high pitch voice, completely taking the piss out of G. She's thankful he's taking some of the heat off of Matty and her.

"I do not sound like that thank you very much!" He says, defensive as ever. They join the group, Lou talking with Hann about various things as Matty messes around with the other lads.

She couldn't see how this could get any better.

Part 7

[pensat-i-fet]

Don’t forget, Part 2 (Rúben Dias x Reader)

Part 1

**Hi! So originally this imagine wasn’t going to have a part 2, but @faye01mcfc suggested this idea and it actually felt like I could very naturally incorporate it as a continuation. I’m happy with any ideas to maybe expand the little imagines I write but because part 1 is already posted, continuity can be a bit harder to achieve and you know me, those things matter a lot to me. But I can always try to make it work. Anyways, I’ll shut up now 😅 Enjoy!! ❤️**

Word count: 1782

Masterlist

Wattpad

A week and a half had passed since your argument with Rúben and it seemed like it had all been forgotten. Everyone can have a bad day and he apologized multiple times. Besides, he looked after you for the few days it took for your cold to go away. He was back in the good books again. Others couldn’t say the same.

When you woke up on Saturday morning, you saw Rúben wasn’t in bed with you. And the alarm hadn’t gone off yet so that was odd. Then you found him in the kitchen, a plate of cold food in front of him while he stared at nothing.

“You ok?”

“Yes”, he said, finally realizing you were approaching him. “Good morning”.

“Good morning to you too. Which time do we need to leave? I have to do a bit of work and I don’t want us to be late”.

Rúben didn’t answer and you looked up to see his jaw clenched. “Leaving by 3 should be fine. I guess”.

His attitude made you frown. “Rúben, you can talk to me. What’s bothering you?”

He sighed and got up to make your morning cup of tea and you walked to him so you could hug him.

“I didn’t do anything wrong so tell me who did and I’ll beat them up”.

“It’s just that I hate not being able to help the team”.

Of course. You should have guessed.

“Just one more match and you’ll be back”.

“I was so stupid getting sent off for that. And then for leaving…”.

Rúben had been fined for leaving the stadium before he was allowed but thankfully the press didn’t find out. He was beating himself up for it enough. And that was also the reason for your fight, which didn’t help.

The first match he couldn’t play was an away match so you could distract him by taking him away for the weekend. But that didn’t work for home matches. He had to go support the team.

“What’s done is done. Besides, it wasn’t even your fault”.

When you finally spoke after your little fight, he told you what happened. How he was sent off because of Jack. Well, Rúben didn’t explain it like that but you put the pieces together. You never really liked Jack and because of some work stuff, your opinion of him had gotten even worse. Jack, of course, was oblivious to all of it.

“Well, I’m the one who spoke to the referee like that”.

“Because you were in pain. You couldn’t control it”.

He laughed, putting the mug with your tea on the kitchen island and hugging you.

“I appreciate you defending me but I know when I mess up and this time I messed up. A lot. But as you say, what’s done is done so whatever”.

You had breakfast together and then you focused on getting your work done before leaving for the match. Working in PR could be exhausting sometimes. Especially when you managed football players who got in trouble so often.

That’s how you met Rúben. And now you didn’t work with him anymore because that could get too messy too quickly.

“Take a break”, said Rúben, offering his hand to help you get up and lead you to the kitchen where some lunch was waiting for you.

“Thanks, babe. I’ll eat this and shower. Then we can leave”.

“I’ll go shower now and then you can help me pick my outfit”.

By the time Rúben was out of the shower, you were making your way to the room.

“Wear that”.

“What?”, he asked, confused.

“What you are wearing now”.

“Ha ha”.

Well, you thought he looked great just having a towel around his waist. But it was probably a bit cold for that so you picked up some nice clothes and left them on the bed for him to wear before heading to the shower yourself.

Once you were both ready, you headed to the car so Rúben could drive you to the stadium. Before getting inside the parking, he stopped to take some photos with the fans who always talked to you too. You loved seeing him be so appreciated by them.

“Where is the fooooood?”, you chanted when you got inside the hospitality area.

“You know better than me”.

And he wasn’t wrong. You managed to get Rúben to eat a little bit of food from your plate but he wasn’t in the right mood to eat either. It didn’t matter how much he pretended to be fine not to worry you, you could tell how not playing affected him. And hated it. And hated who you thought was at fault.

“I think I’ll have another glass”, you said, pointing at your glass of white wine. Maybe that will calm your nerves.

When the warm-up was over, Rúben took your hand so you could walk to his box and watch the match. You usually liked to mingle with other people but today was different. Rúben needed you there and he clearly wasn’t in the mood to talk to strangers.

Only 5 minutes into the match, Jack was already on the floor and you could only roll your eyes. A bit later, you could tell he was whispering something to one of the players defending him and that made you even madder. Gündogan, who was the captain, grabbed him by the arm to take him away.

“Always the same”, you muttered.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. Just thinking out loud”.

Right before half-time, City finally scored. Rúben jumped to celebrate but you stayed in your seat barely reacting to what happened. It was Jack who scored.

“That was a great goal”, said Rúben, smiling at you and then noticing your expression. “Don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I guess”.

“You really don’t like Jack, do you?”, he laughed.

“Not when he’s the reason you’re here”.

“Let’s not go back to that again”.

“Ok”.

Rúben kept looking at you and he didn’t like the frown on your face so he moved you so you could sit between his legs. That way he could hug you and leave little kisses on your head and face. It calmed him down as much as it calmed you.

But Jack really didn’t help himself. During the second half, there were two fights that started because of his actions and it was other players who got yellow cards for it. But never Jack. Pep even took him off because of the trouble he was causing but you kept how you felt to yourself since you knew Rúben wasn’t going to agree with you and what was the point in arguing again?

“2-0, great. Should we go say hi to the boys?”

“Of course, I have to congratulate Bernardo on his goal”.

“I’ll give him a little congratulatory slap”, laughed Rúben, knowing your worry about his affection towards poor Bernardo.

“No, you won’t, you bully”.

That only made him laugh harder, putting his arms around your shoulders to bring you closer so he could kiss your head. It was nice to see he was feeling better.

You almost lost Rúben a few times on the way to the dressing room. Too many people and they all wanted to talk to him. Thankfully, he had a good grip on your hand.

“He didn’t forget about you today. Great job, Rúben”.

You laughed at Rodri’s words, hugging him and congratulating him on the win.

Everyone was making some small talk before leaving when your favourite person, mister Jack Grealish, joined the group. His first mistake was to put his arm around your shoulders but you tried to reason that it was just how he was. He got in the middle of you and Rúben because he was just good old friendly Jack.

“We missed you on the pitch today, Rubes”.

“Yeah, will be there soon”, said Rúben, and you could see him looking at you and trying to gather your reaction.

“I won’t be”, said Rodri.

“Why?”

“Suspended. That was my 5th yellow”.

His response made you scoff and Jack asked what was wrong. Your stare should have been enough to let him know something was wrong but you also removed his arm from around you.

“What’s wrong, Grealish? You getting away with your behaviour on the pitch while all your teammates are missing matches because of you”.

Rúben moved to stand next to you and you could tell everyone was staring at you. Jack was still oblivious.

“What did I do?”

“Let’s just go…”, Rúben’s attempt to take you away was pointless.

“You get the team to fight for you almost every match just because you are being fouled and then have to call the other players names. One day you’ll find one player who’ll punch you and then you’ll have a reason to moan”.

“I don’t…”.

“Oh shut up! I’m not your teammate, I don’t have to put up with this”.

“I am”, whispered Rúben in your ear, making you feel terrible about the whole situation. You didn’t want to make him the bad guy in the dressing room just because of your dislike for Jack.

“I just don’t get what I’m doing wrong”, said Jack again.

“Please Jack stop talking”, begged Rodri.

You were taking deep breaths, trying to calm yourself down.

“Let’s go home, yeah?”, said John, grabbing Jack’s arm.

“But why does she hate me? I thought we were friends”.

“Because you’re a…”, but your words were muffled by Rúben putting his hand on your mouth.

“Go, now. She bites”.

Jack finally left and you turned to look at Rúben, annoyed by his interruption but also kind of thankful for it.

“I should have bitten you”.

“I know you are angry because of what happened to me but I know how to handle having someone like Jack on the team”.

“Me too”, added Rodri. “But you aren’t wrong. Just saying”.

“Oh, I know I’m right”.

You all said your goodbyes and walked to the parking so you could drive home. The match had actually exhausted you.

“I’m thinking about something”, said Rúben while he was driving home.

“About what?”

“You telling me I acted like a kid for getting into a fight on the pitch”.

You knew where this was heading…

“Thank God you aren’t a player because you’d get sent off every match”.

“I wouldn’t”.

“Keep telling yourself that, my love”.

“Do you want to sleep in the guest room again today?”

“No”, he laughed. And he continued to drive home, chatting about what you were going to do for the next away match he wouldn’t play. And those plans didn’t involve fighting any of his teammates.